The Hunted Woman | Page 3

heavy train, and a train that was helping to make history--a
combination of freight, passenger, and "cattle." It had averaged eight
miles an hour on its climb toward Yellowhead Pass and the end of steel.
The "cattle" had already surged from their stifling and foul-smelling
cars in a noisy inundation of curiously mixed humanity. They were of a
dozen different nationalities, and as the girl looked at them it was not
with revulsion or scorn but with a sudden quickening of heartbeat and a
little laugh that had in it something both of wonder and of pride. This

was the Horde, that crude, monstrous thing of primitive strength and
passions that was overturning mountains in its fight to link the new
Grand Trunk Pacific with the seaport on the Pacific. In that Horde,
gathered in little groups, shifting, sweeping slowly toward her and past
her, she saw something as omnipotent as the mountains themselves.
They could not know defeat. She sensed it without ever having seen
them before. For her the Horde now had a heart and a soul. These were
the builders of empire--the man-beasts who made it possible for
Civilization to creep warily and without peril into new places and new
worlds. With a curious shock she thought of the half-dozen lonely little
wooden crosses she had seen through the car window at odd places
along the line of rail.
And now she sought her way toward the Flats. To do this she had to
climb over a track that was waiting for ballast. A car shunted past her,
and on its side she saw the big, warning red placards--Dynamite. That
one word seemed to breathe to her the spirit of the wonderful energy
that was expending itself all about her. From farther on in the
mountains came the deep, sullen detonations of the "little black giant"
that had been rumbling past her in the car. It came again and again, like
the thunderous voice of the mountains themselves calling out in protest
and defiance. And each time she felt a curious thrill under her feet and
the palpitant touch of something that was like a gentle breath in her
ears. She found another track on her way, and other cars slipped past
her crunchingly. Beyond this second track she came to a beaten road
that led down into the Flats, and she began to descend.
[Illustration: A tall, slim, exquisitely poised figure.... "Another o' them
Dotty Dimples come out to save the world. I thought I'd help eggicate
her a little, an' so I sent her to Bill's place. Oh, my Lord, I told her it
was respectable!"]
Tents shone through the trees on the bottom. The rattle of the cars grew
more distant, and she heard the hum and laughter of voices and the
jargon of a phonograph. At the bottom of the slope she stepped aside to
allow a team and wagon to pass. The wagon was loaded with boxes that
rattled and crashed about as the wheels bumped over stones and roots.

The driver of the team did not look at her. He was holding back with
his whole weight; his eyes bulged a little; he was sweating, in his face
was a comedy of expression that made the girl smile in spite of herself.
Then she saw one of the bobbing boxes and the smile froze into a look
of horror. On it was painted that ominous word--DYNAMITE!
Two men were coming behind her.
"Six horses, a wagon an' old Fritz--blown to hell an' not a splinter left
to tell the story," one of them was saying. "I was there three minutes
after the explosion and there wasn't even a ravelling or a horsehair left.
This dynamite's a dam' funny thing. I wouldn't be a rock-hog for a
million!"
"I'd rather be a rock-hog than Joe--drivin' down this hill a dozen times a
day," replied the other.
The girl had paused again, and the two men stared at her as they were
about to pass. The explosion of Joe's dynamite could not have startled
them more than the beauty of the face that was turned to them in a
quietly appealing inquiry.
"I am looking for a place called--Bill's Shack," she said, speaking the
Little Sister's words hesitatingly. "Can you direct me to it, please?"
The younger of the two men looked at his companion without speaking.
The other, old enough to regard feminine beauty as a trap and an
illusion, turned aside to empty his mouth of a quid of tobacco, bent
over, and pointed under the trees.
"Can't miss it--third tent-house on your right, with canvas striped like a
barber-pole. That phonnygraff you hear is at Bill's."
"Thank you."
She went on.
Behind her, the two men stood where she had left them.