The hapless laborer was now engulfed to his neck in the quicksand.

"Save me! In Heaven's name get me out of this!" begged the poor fellow,
frenzied by dread of his seemingly sure fate.

"I'm doing the best I can, friend!" Tom called, as he made a fresh cast.

This time the noose of the raw-hide lariat dropped over the laborer's
head.

"Fight your hands free, man!" Tom called encouragingly. "Fight your
hands and chest free, so that you can slip the noose down under your
armpits. Keep cool and work fast, and we'll have you out. Don't let
yourself get excited."

In the meantime Tom was wholly unaware that the engulfing quicksand was
reaching up gradually toward his hips.

Foreman Payson had ceased to try to attract Tom's attention. Whatever
was to be done to save the chief engineer must be done swiftly. There
was not another lariat, or any kind of rope at hand.

Behind was a cloud of alkali dust. Harry Hazelton was riding as fast as
he could urge a spirited horse.

In another moment Hazelton had reined up at the edge of the group,
dismounting and tossing the reins to one of the workmen.

"My man, you get on that horse and fly for a rope!" ordered Harry.