with the gathering dusk, a large roan horse, droopy and disconsolate in
the downpour. He jumped up and threw open his retreat. A tall woman,
slipping out of a streaming poncho, entered. The simplicity, verging
upon coarseness, of her dress detracted nothing from her distinction of
bearing.

"Is there trouble on the line?" she asked in a voice of peculiar
clarity.

"Bad trouble, Miss Camilla," answered Banneker. He pushed forward a
chair, but she shook her head. "A loosened rock smashed into Number
Three in the Cut. Eight dead, and a lot more in bad shape. They've got
doctors and nurses from Stanwood. But the track's out below. And from
what I get on the wire"--he nodded toward the east--"it'll be out above
before long."

"I'd better go up there," said she. Her lips grew bloodless as she spoke
and there was a look of effort and pain in her face.

"No; I don't think so. But if you'll go over to the town and see that
Torrey gets his place cleaned up a bit, I suppose some of the passengers
will be coming in pretty soon."

She made a quick gesture of repulsion. "Women can't go to Torrey's," she
said. "It's too filthy. Besides--I'll take in the women, if there aren't
too many and I can pick up a buckboard in Manzanita."

He nodded. "That'll be better, if any come in. Give me their names,
won't you? I have to keep track of them, you know."