The pause was so long that Gallagher took his chance of filling it.

"Don't be tellin' me the big boss has promised us a rotary for next
winter, Misther Foord. That'd be too good to be thrue, I'm thinking."

"No; but next winter you'll be doing one of two things, Michael. You
will be pulling your train through steel snow-sheds on Plug Mountain--or
you'll be working for another boss. Break her loose, and let's get to
camp as soon as we can. Those poor devils back in the box-car are about
dead for sleep and a square meal."




II

A SPIKED SWITCH


Ford's hopeful prophecy that the snow battles were over for the season
proved true. A few weeks later a warm wind blew up from the west, the
mountain foot-trails became first packed ice-paths and then slippery
ridges to trap the unwary; the great drifts began to settle and melt,
and the spring music of the swollen mountain torrents was abroad in the
land.

At the blowing of the warm wind Ford aimed the opening gun in his
campaign against fate--the fate which seemed to be bent upon adding his
name to the list of failures on the Plug Mountain branch. The gun-aiming