From the time the last rail was spiked5 home and bridging the Rockies was a reality, not a dream—from then to the present day, there isn’t any very much better way of describing the Hill Division than to call it rough and ready. Coming right down to cases, the history of that piece of track, the history of the men who gave the last that was in them to make it, and the history of those who have operated it since isn’t far from being a pretty typical and comprehensive example of the pulsing, dominating, dogged, go-forward spirit of a continent whose strides and progress are the marvel6 of the world; and, withal, it is an example so compact and concrete that through it one may see and view the larger picture in all its angles and in all its shades. Heroism7 and fame and death and failure—it has known them all—but ever, and above all else, it has known the indomitable patience, the indomitable perseverance8, the indomitable determination against which no times, nor conditions, nor manners, nor customs, nor obstacles can stand—the spirit of the New Race and the Great New Land, the essence and the germ of it.
Building a road through the Rockies and tapping the Sierras to give zest9 to the finish wasn’t an infant’s performance; and operating it, single-track, on crazy-wild cuts and fills and tangents and curves and tunnels and trestles with nature to battle and fight against, isn’t any infant’s performance, either. The Hill Division was rough and ready. It always was, and it is now—just naturally so. And Big Cloud, the divisional point, snuggling amongst the buttes in the eastern foothills, is even more so. It boasts about every nationality classified in certain erudite editions of small books with big names, and, to top that, has an extra anomaly or two left over and up its sleeve for good measure; but, mostly, it is, or rather was—it has changed some with the years—composed of Indians, bad Americans, a scattering10 of Chinese, and an indescribable medley11 of humans from the four quarters of Europe, the Cockney, the Polack, the Swede, the Russian and the Italian—laborers on the construction gangs. Big Cloud was a little more than rough and ready—it wasn’t exactly what you’d call a health resort for finnicky nerves.
So, take it by and large, the Hill Division, from one end to the other, wasn’t the quietest or most peaceful locality on the map even before the trouble came. After that—well, mention the Big Strike to any of the old-timers and they’ll talk fast enough and hard enough and say enough in a minute to set you wondering if the biographers hadn’t got mixed on dates and if Dante hadn’t got his material for that little hair-stiffener of his no further away than the Rockies, and no longer back than a few years ago. But no matter——
The story opens on the strike—not the ethics of it. There’s some hard feeling yet—too much of it to take sides one way or the other. But then, apart from that, this is not the story of a strike, it is the story of men—a story that the boys tell at night in the darkened roundhouses in the shadow of the big ten-wheelers on the pits, while the steam purrs softly at the gauges12 and sometimes a pop-valve lifts with a catchy13 sob14. They tell it, too, across the tracks at headquarters, or on the road and in construction camps; but they tell it better, somehow, in the roundhouse, though it is not an engineer’s tale—and Clarihue, the night turner, tells it best of all. Set forth15 as it is here it takes no rank with him,—but all are not so fortunate as to have listened while Clarihue talked.
Just one word more to make sure that the red isn’t against us anywhere and we’ll get to Keating and Spirlaw—just a word to say that Carleton, “Royal” Carle-ton, was superintendent16 then, and Regan was master mechanic, Harvey was division engineer, Spence was chief dispatcher, and Riley was trainmaster. Pretty good men that little group, pretty good railroaders—there have never been better. Some of them are bigger now in the world’s eyes, heads of systems instead of departments—and some of them will never railroad any more. However———
If you haven’t forgotten Shanley you will recall the Glacier17 Canon, and, most of all, you will recall the Glacier River with its treacherous18 sandy bed that snuggled close to the right of way and forced the track hard against the rocky walls of the mountain’s base. The havoc19 the Glacier played with the operating department on the night of Shanley’s memorable20 heroism was not the first time it had misbehaved itself, nor was it the last—that was the trouble. It washed out the road-bed with such consistent persistency21, on so little provocation22, and did it so effectually as to stir at last to resentment23 even the torpid24 blood of the directors down East. So they voted the sum, though it hurt, and solaced25 themselves with the thought that after all it was economy—which was true.
There was only one thing to do against that overhospitable and affectionate little stream, and that was to get away from it; but, before proceeding26 to do so—in order to get elbow room to work so that the flyers and the fast mails and the traffic generally wouldn’t be hung up every time a Polack swung a pick—they pushed the track out over the chattering27 river on a long, temporary, hybrid28 trestle of wood and steel. That done, the rest was up to Spirlaw—up to Spirlaw and Keating.
The plans called for the shaving down of the mountain-side, the barbering, mostly, to be done with dynamite29, for the beard of the Rockies is not the down of a youth. So, when the trestle was finished, Spirlaw with a gang of some thirty Polacks moved into construction camp, promptly30 tore up the old track, and set themselves to the task in hand. A little later, Keating joined them.
Spirlaw was a road boss, and the roughest of his kind. Physically31 he was a giant; and which of the three was the hardest, his face, his fist, or his tongue, would afford the sporting element a most excellent opportunity to indulge in a little book-making with the odds32 about even all round. His hair was a coarse mop of tawny33 brown that straggled over his eyes; and his eyes were all black, every bit of them—there didn’t seem to be any pupil at all, which gave them a glint that was harder than a cold chisel34. Take him summed up, Spirlaw looked a pretty tough proposition, and in some ways, most ways perhaps, he was—he never denied it.
“What the blue blinding blazes, d’ye think, h’m?” he would remark, reaching into his hip35 pocket for his “chewing,” as he swept the other arm comprehensively over the particular crowd of sweating foreigners that happened to be under his particular jurisdiction36 at the time. “What d’ye think! You can’t run cuts an’ fills with an outfit37 like this on soft soap an’ candy sticks, can you? Well then—h’m?”
That last “h’m” was more or less conclusive—very few cared to pursue the argument any further. At a safe distance, the Big Fellows on the division, as a salve to their consciences when humanitarian38 ideas were in the ascendancy39, would bombard Spirlaw with telegrams which were forceful in tone and direful in threat—but that’s all it ever amounted to. Spirlaw’s work report for a day on anything, from bridging a canon to punching a hole in the bitter hard rock of the mountain-side, was a report that no one else on the division had ever approached, let alone duplicated—and figures count perhaps just a little bit more in the operating department of a railroad than they do anywhere else in the world. Spirlaw used the telegrams as spills to light a pipe as hard-looking as himself, whose bowl was down at the heels on one side from much scraping, and on such occasions it was more than ordinarily unfortunate for the sour-visaged Polack who should chance to arouse his ire.
Some men possess the love of a fight and their natures are tempestuous40 by virtue41 of their nationality, because some nationalities are addicted42 that way. This may have been the case with Spirlaw—or it may not. There’s no saying, for Spirlaw’s nationality was a question mark. He never delivered himself on the subject, and, certainly, there was no figuring it out from the derivation of his name—that could have been most anything, and could have come from most anywhere.
To say that “opposites attract” isn’t any more original, any less gray-bearded, than the words at the head of these pages. Generally, that sort of thing is figured in the worn-out, stale, familiarity-breeds-con-tempt realm of platitude43, and at its unctuous44 repetition one comes to turn up his nose; but, once in a while, life has a habit of getting in a kink or a twist that gives you a jolt45 and a different side-light, and then, somehow, a thing like that rings as fresh and virile46 as though you had just heard it for the first time. As far as any one ever knew, Keating was the only one that ever got inside of Spirlaw’s shell, the only one that the road boss ever showed the slightest symptoms of caring a hang about—and yet, on the surface, between the two there was nothing in common. Where one was polished the other was rough; where one was weak the other was strong. Keating was small, thin, pale-faced, and he had a cough—a cough that had sent him West in a hurry without waiting for the other year that would have given him his engineer’s diploma from the college in the East.
When the boy, he wasn’t much more than a boy, dropped off at Big Cloud, and Carleton read the letter he brought from one of the big Eastern operators, the super raised his eyebrows47 a little, looked him over and sent him out to Spirlaw. Afterwards, he spoke48 to Regan about him.
“I didn’t know what to do with him, Tommy; but I had to do something, what? Any one with half an eye could tell that he had to be kept out of doors. Thought he might be able to help Spirlaw out a little as assistant, h’m? Guess he’ll pick up the work quick enough. He don’t look strong.”
“Mabbe it’s just as well,” grinned the master mechanic. “He won’t be able to batter49 the gang any. One man doing that is enough—when it’s Spirlaw.”
Spirlaw heard about it before he saw Keating, and he swore fervently50.
“What the hell!” he growled51. “Think I’m runnin’ a nursery or an outdoor sanatorium? I guess I’ve got enough to do without lookin’ after sick kids, I guess I have. Fat lot of help he’ll be—help my eye! I don’t need no help.”
But for all that, somehow, from the first minute when Keating got off the local freight, that stopped for him at the camp, and shoved out his hand to Spirlaw it was different—after that it was all Keating as far as the road boss was concerned.
Queer the way things go. Keating looked about the last man on earth you would expect to find rubbing elbows with an iron-fisted foreman whose tongue was rougher than a barbed-wire fence; the last man to hold his own with a slave-driven gang of ugly Polacks. He seemed too quiet, too shy, too utterly53 unfit, physically, for that sort of thing. The blood was all out of the boy—he got rid of it faster than he could make it. But his training stood him in good stead, and, within his limitations, he took hold like an old hand. That was what caught Spirlaw. He did what he was told, and he did what he could—did a little more than he could at times, which would lay him up for a bad two or three days of it.
“Good man,” Spirlaw scribbled54 across the bottom of a report one day—a day that was about equally divided between barking his knuckles55 on a Polack’s head and feeding cracked ice to Keating in his bunk56. Cracked ice? No, it wasn’t on the regular camp bill of fare—but the company supplied it for all that. Spirlaw, with supreme57 contempt for the dispatchers and their schedules and their train sheets, held up Number Twelve and the porter of the Pullman for a goodly share of the commodity possessed58 by that colored gentleman. That’s what Spirlaw thought of Keating.
For the first few weeks after he struck the camp Keating didn’t have very much to say about himself, or anything else for that matter; but after he got a little nearer to Spirlaw and the mutual59 liking60 grew stronger, he began to open up at nights when he and the road boss sat outside the door of the construction shanty61 and watched the sun lose itself behind the mighty62 peaks, creep again with a wondrous63 golden-tinted glow between a rift64 in the range, and finally sink with ensuing twilight65 out of sight. Keating could talk then.
“Don’t see what you ever took up engineerin’ for,” remarked Spirlaw one evening. “It’s about the roughest kind of a life I know of, an’ you———”
“I know, I know,” Keating smiled. “You think I’m not strong enough for it. Why, another year out here in the West and I’ll be like a horse.”
“Sure, you will,” agreed Spirlaw, hastily. “I didn’t mean just that.” Then he sucked his briar hard.
Spirlaw wasn’t much up on therapeutics, he knew more about blasting rock, but down in his heart there wasn’t much doubt about another year in the West for the boy, and another and another, all of them—only they would be over the Great Divide that one only crosses once when it is crossed forever. Six months, four, three,—just months, not years, was what he read in Keating’s face. “What I meant,” he amended66, “was that you don’t have to. From what you’ve said, I figur’ your folks back there would be willin’ to stake you in most any line you picked out, h’m?”
“No, I don’t have to,” Keating answered, and his face lighted up as he leaned over and touched the road boss on the sleeve. “But, Spirlaw, it’s the greatest thing in all the world. Don’t you see? A man does something. He builds. I’m going to be a builder—a builder of bridges and roads and things like that. I want to do something some day—something that will be worth while. That’s why I’m going to be an engineer; because, all over the world from the beginning, the engineers have led the way and—and they’ve left something behind them. I think that’s the biggest thing they can say of any man when he dies—that he was a builder, that he left something behind him. I’d like to have them say that about me. Well, after I put in another year out here—I’m a heap better even now than when I came—I’m going back to finish my course, and then—well, you understand what I want to do, don’t you?”
There were lots of talks like that, evening after evening, and they all of them ended in the same way—-
Spirlaw would knock out his pipe against a stone or his boot heel, and “figur’ he’d stroll up the camp a bit an’ make sure all was right for the night.”
A pretty hard man Spirlaw was, but under the rough and the brutal67, the horny, thick-shelled exterior68 was another self, a strange side of self that he had never known until he had known Keating. It got into him pretty deep and pretty hard, the boy and his ambitions; and the irony69 of it, grim and bitter, deepened his pity and roused, too, a sense of fierce, hot resentment against the fate that mocked in its pitiless might so defenseless and puny70 a victim. To himself he came to call Keating “The Builder,” and one day when Harvey came down on an inspection71 trip, he told the division engineer about it—that’s how it got around.
Carleton, when he heard it, didn’t say anything—just crammed72 the dottle in his pipe down with his forefinger74 and stared out at the switches in the yards. They were used to seeing the surface of things plowed75 up and the corners turned back in the mountains, there weren’t many days went by when something that showed the raw didn’t happen in one way or another, but it never brought callousness76 or indifference77, only, perhaps, a truer sense of values.
They had been blasting in the Canon for a matter of two months when the first signs of trouble began to show themselves, and the beginning was when the shop hands at Big Cloud went out—the boiler-makers and the blacksmiths, the painters, the carpenters and the fitters. The construction camp, that is Spirlaw, didn’t worry very much about this for the very simple reason that there didn’t appear to be any reason why it, or he, should—that was Regan’s hunt. But when the train crews followed suit and stray rumors78 of a fight or two at Big Cloud began to come in, with the likelihood of more hard on the heels of the first, it put a different complexion79 on things; for the rioting, what there had been of it, lay, not at the door of the railroad boys, but with the town’s loafers and hangers-on, these and the foreign element—particularly the foreign element—the brothers and the cousins of the Polacks who were swinging the picks and the shovels80 under the iron hand of Spirlaw, their temporary lord and master—the Polacks, gently ungentle, when amuck81, as starved pumas82.
Then the Brotherhood83 said “quit,” and the engine crews followed the trainmen. Things began to look black, and headquarters began to find it pretty hard to move anything. The train schedule past the Canon was cut better than in half, and the faces of the men in the cabs and the cabooses were new faces to those in camp—the faces of the men the company were bringing in on hurry calls from wherever they could get them, from the plains East or the coast West.
Every day brought reports of trouble from one end of the line to the other, more rioting, more disorder84 at Big Cloud; and, in an effort to nip as much of it in the bud as possible, Carleton issued orders to stop all construction work—all except the work in Glacier Canon, for there the temporary trestle lay uneasy on his mind.
The day the stop orders went out elsewhere a letter went out to Spirlaw. Spirlaw read it and his face set like a thunder cloud. He handed it to Keating.
Keating read it—and looked serious.
“I guess things aren’t any too rosy85 down there,” he commented; then slowly: “I’ve noticed our men seemed a bit sullen86 lately. They don’t care anything much about the strike, it must be a sort of sympathetic movement with the rest of their crowd that’s running wild at Big Cloud—only I don’t just figure how they can know very much about what’s going on. We don’t ourselves, for that matter.”
Spirlaw smiled grimly.
“I’ll tell you how,” he said. “I caught a Polack in the camp last night that didn’t belong here—and I broke his head for the second time, see? He used to work’ for me about a year ago—that’s when I broke it the first time. He’s one of their influential87 citizens—name’s Kuryla. Sneaked88 in here to stir up trouble—guess he’s sorry for it, I guess he is.”
“That’s the first I’ve heard of it,” said Keating, his eyes opening a little wider in surprise.
“You was asleep,” explained Spirlaw tersely89.
Keating stared curiously90 at the road boss for a minute, then he glanced again at the super’s letter which he still held in his hand.
“Carleton says he is depending on you to put this work through if it’s a possible thing. You don’t really think we’ll have any serious trouble here though, do you?”
Spirlaw bit deeply into his plug before he answered.
“Yes, son; I do,” he said at last, “And there’s a good many reasons why we will, too. Once start ‘em goin’ an’ there’s no worse hellions on earth than the breed we’re livin’ next door to. Furthermore they don’t love me—they’re just afraid of me as, by the holy razoo, I mean ‘em to be. Let ‘em once get a smell of the upper hand an’ it would be all day an’ good-by. Let ‘em get goin’ good at Big Cloud an’ they’ll get goin’ good here—they’ll kind of figur’ then that there ain’t any law to bother ‘em—an’, unless I miss my guess, Big Cloud’s in for the hottest celebration in its history, which will be goin’ some for it’s had a few before that weren’t tame by a damn sight.”
“Well,” inquired Keating, “what do you intend to do?”
“H’m-m,” drawled Spirlaw reflectively, and there was a speculative91 look in his eyes as they roved over his assistant. “That’s what I’ve been chewin’ over since I caught that skunk92 Kuryla last night. As far as I can figur’ it the chance of trouble here depends on how far those cusses go at Big Cloud. If I knew that, I’d know what to expect, h’m? I thought I’d send you up to headquarters for a day. You could have a talk with the super, tell him just where we stand here, an’ size things up there generally. What do you say?”
“Why, of course. All right, if you want me to,” agreed Keating readily.
“That’s the boy,” said Spirlaw, heartily93. “Number Twelve will be along in half an hour. I’ll flag her, an’ you can go an’ get ready now. I’ll give you a letter to take along to Carleton.”
As Keating, with a nod of assent94, turned briskly away, Spirlaw watched him out of sight—and the hint of a smile played over the lips of the road boss. He pulled a report sheet from his pocket, and on the back of it scrawled95 laboriously96 a letter to the superintendent of the Hill Division. It wasn’t a very long letter even with the P. S. included. His smile hardened as he read it over.
“Supt., Big Cloud,” it ran. “Dear Sir:—Replying to yours 8th inst., please send a couple of good.45s, and plenty of stuffing. (‘Plenty of stuffing’ was heavily underscored.) Yrs. Resp., H. Spirlaw. P.S. Keep the boy up there out of this.” (The P. S. was even more heavily underscored than the other.)
Wise and learned in the ways of men—and Polacks—was Spirlaw. Spirlaw was not dealing97 with the possibility of trouble—it was simply a question of how long it would be before it started. He folded the letter, sealed it in one of the company’s manilas, and, as he watched Number Twelve disappear around the bend steaming east for Big Cloud with Keating aboard her and the epistle reposing98 in Keating’s pocket, he stretched out his arms that were big as derrick booms and drew in a long breath like a man from whose shoulders has dropped a heavy load.
That day Spirlaw talked from his heart to the men, and they listened in sullen, stupid silence, leaning on their picks and shovels.
“You know me,” he snapped, and his eyes starting at the right of the group rested for a bare second on each individual face as they swept down the line. “You know me. You’ve been actin’ like sulky dogs lately—don’t think I haven’t spotted99 it. You saw what happened to that coyote friend of yours that sneaked in here last night. I meant it as a lesson for the bunch of you as well as him. The yarns100 he was fillin’ you full of are mostly lies, an’ if they ain’t it’s none of your business, anyhow. It won’t pay you to look for trouble, I promise you that. You can take it from me that I’ll bash the first man to powder that tries it. Get that? Well then, wiggle them picks a bit an’ get busy!”
“The man that hits first,” said Spirlaw to himself, as he walked away, “is the man that usually comes out on top. I guess them there few kind words of mine ‘ll give ‘em a little something to chew on till Carle-ton sends that hardware down, I guess they will, h’m?”
The camp was pretty quiet that night—quieter than usual. The cook-house and the three bunk-houses, that lay a few hundred yards east of the trestle, might have been occupied by dead men for all the sounds that came from them. Occasionally, Spirlaw, sitting out as usual in front of his own shanty, that was between the trestle and the gang’s quarters, saw a Polack or two skulk101 from one of the bunk-houses to the other—and he scowled102 savagely103 as he divided his glances between them and the sky. It looked like a storm in the mountains, and a storm in the mountains is never by any possibility to be desired—least of all was it to be desired just then. The men at work was one thing; the men cooped up for a day, or two days, of enforced idleness with the temper they were in was another—
Spirlaw turned in that night with the low, ominous104 roll of distant thunder for a lullaby.
Once in the night he woke suddenly at the sound of a splitting crash, and once, twice, and again, like a fierce, winking105 stream of flame, the lightning filled the shack106 bright as day, while on the roof the rain beat steadily107 like the tattoo108 of a corps109 of snare110 drums. Spirlaw smiled grimly as the darkness shut down on him again.
“Got the little builder out just about the right time, h’m?” he remarked to himself; and, turning over in his bunk, went to sleep again—but even in his sleep the grim smile lingered on his lips.
The morning broke with the steady downpour unabated. Everything ran water, and the rock cut was filled with it. Work was out of the question. Spirlaw ate his breakfast, that the dripping camp cook brought him, and then, putting on his rubber boots and coat, started over for the track. Number Eleven was due at the Canon at seven-thirty, and she would have the package of “hardware” he had asked Carleton for.
But though seven-thirty came, Number Eleven did not—neither did any other train, east or west. The hours passed from a long morning to drag through a longer afternoon. Something was wrong somewhere—and badly wrong at that. Spirlaw’s face was blacker than the storm. Twice, once in the morning and once in the afternoon, he started down the track in the direction of Keefer’s Siding, which was just what its name proclaimed it to be—a siding, no more, no less, only there was an operator there. Each time, however, he changed his mind after getting no further than a few yards. The Polacks could be no less alive to the fact than himself that something out of the ordinary was in the air, and second considerations swung strongly to the advisability of sticking close to the camp, so that his presence might have the effect of dampening the ardor111 of any mischief112 that might be brewing113.
It was not until well on toward eight o’clock in the evening and the last of the twilight that the hoarse114 screech115 of a whistle sounded down the canon grade—a long blast and three short ones. It was belated Number Eleven whistling for the camp—she wouldn’t stop, just slow down to transact116 her business. Spirlaw, who was in his shanty at the time, snatched up his hat, dashed out of the door, and headed for the bend of the track. As he did so, out of the tail of his eye, he caught sight of the Polacks clustered with out-poked heads from the open doors of the bunk-houses.
As he reached the line, Number Eleven came round the curve, and the door of the express car swung back. The messenger dropped a package into his hand that the road boss received with a grim smile, and a word into his ear that caused Spirlaw’s jaw117 to drop—nor was that all that dropped, for, from the rear end, as the train rolled by—dropped Keating.
White-faced and shaky the boy looked—more so than usual. Spirlaw stared as though he had seen an apparition118, stared for a minute in silence before he could lay tongue to words—then they came like the out-spout of a volcano.
“What the hell’s the meanin’ of this?” he roared.
“Who in the double-blanked blazes let you out of Big Cloud, h’m? I’ll have some——”
“Let’s get in out of the wet,” broke in Keating, smiling through a spell of coughing that racked him at that moment. “You can growl52 your head off then, if you like”—and he started on a run for the shack.
Once inside, Spirlaw rounded on the boy again, and he stopped only when he was out of breath.
“Didn’t Carleton tell you to stay where you was?” he finished bitterly.
“Oh yes,” said Keating, “that’s about the first thing he did say after he had read your letter, when I gave it to him yesterday. Then I tumbled to why you had sent me out of camp. You’re about as square as they make them, Spirlaw. You needn’t blame Carle-ton, he had about all he could do without paying any attention to me or any one else. Had any wires or news in here?”
Spirlaw shook his head.
“No; but I knew something was up, because Number Eleven is the first train in or out to-day. The express messenger just said they’d cut loose in Big Cloud and wrecked119 about everything in sight, but I guess he was puttin’ it on a bit.”
“He didn’t put on anything,” said Keating slowly. “My God, Spirlaw, it was an awful night! The freight-house and the shops and the roundhouse, what’s left of them, are ashes. They cut all the wires and then they cut loose themselves—the Polacks and that crowd, you know. Yes, they wrecked everything in sight, and there’s a dozen lives gone to pay for it.” Keating stopped suddenly, and again began to cough.
Spirlaw looked at the boy uneasily, and mechanically fumbled121 with the cords of the package he had laid upon the table. By the time he had removed the wrappers and disclosed two ugly, businesslike looking.45s and a half-dozen boxes of cartridges122, Keating’s paroxysm had passed.
“I guess it was exciting enough for me, anyhow”—Keating tried hard to make his laugh ring true. “I’m a little weak from it yet.”
“If you weren’t sick,” Spirlaw burst out, “I’d make you sick for comin’ back here. You know well enough we’ll get it next—you knew so well you came back to help——”
“I told Carleton he ought to send some help down here,” Keating interrupted hastily; “and he just looked at me like a crazy man—he was half mad anyhow with the ruin of things. ‘Help!’ he flung out at me. ‘Where’s it coming from? Let Spirlaw yank up his stakes and pull out if things get looking bad!’”
“Pull out!” shouted Spirlaw, in a sudden roar. “Pull out! Me! Not for all the cross-eyed, hamstrung Polacks on the system!”
“I think you’d better,” said Keating quietly. “After what I saw last night, I think you’d better. There was no holding them—they were like savages123, and the further they went the worse they got. They were backed up by whisky and the worst element in town. I was in the station with Carleton, Regan, Harvey, Riley and Spence and some of the other dispatchers. It was a regular pitched battle, and in spite of their revolvers the station would have gone with the rest if, along toward morning, the striking trainmen and the Brotherhood hadn’t taken a hand and helped us out. I don’t know that it’s over yet, that it won’t break out again to-night; though I heard Carleton say there’d be a detachment of the police in town by four o’clock. I wish you would pull out, Spirlaw. You said yourself that all these fellows here needed to start them sticking their claws into you was a little encouragement from the other end. They’ve been afraid of you, but they hate you like poison. Once started, they’ll be worse than the crowd at Big Cloud for hate is a harder driver than whisky. Then besides, I really think you’d be of more use in Big Cloud. You could do some good there no matter what the end was, while here you’re alone and you stand to lose everything and gain nothing. I wish you would pull out, Spirlaw, won’t you?”
Spirlaw reached out his hand and laid it on Keating’s shoulder, as he shook his head.
“I’ve got a whole lot to lose,” he answered, his hard face softening124 a little. “A whole lot. I can’t say things the way you do, but I guess you’ll understand. You got something that means a whole lot to you, that you’d risk anything for—what you want to do and what you want to leave behind you when it comes along time to cash in. Well, I guess most of us have in one way or another, though mabbe it don’t rank anywheres up to that. I reckon, too, a whole lot of us don’t never think to put it in words, an’ a whole lot of us couldn’t if we tried to, but it’s there with any man that’s any good. I’d rather go out for keeps than pull out—I’d rather they’d plant me. D’ye think I’d want to live an’ have to cross the street because I couldn’t look even a Polack in the eyes—a man would be better dead, what?”
For a moment Keating did not answer, he seemed to be weighing the possibility of still shaking the determination of the road boss before accepting it as irrevocable: then, evidently coming to the conclusion that it was useless to argue further, he pointed125 to the revolvers.
“Then the sooner you load those the better,” he jerked out.
Spirlaw looked at him curiously, questioningly.
“Because,” went on Keating, answering the unspoken interrogation, “when I dropped off the train I saw that fellow Kuryla—he was pointed out to me in Big Cloud yesterday—and three or four more drop off on the other side. I didn’t know they were on the train until then, of course, or I would have had them put off. There isn’t much doubt about what they are here for, is there?”
“So that’s it, is it?” Spirlaw ripped out with an oath. “No, there ain’t much doubt!”
He snatched up a cartridge-box, slit126 the paper band with his thumb nail, and, breaking the revolvers, began to cram73 the cartridges into the cylinders127. His face was twitching128 and the red that flushed it shaded to a deep purple. Not another word came from him—just a deadly quiet. He thrust the weapons into his pockets, strode to the door, opened it, stepped over the threshold—and stopped. An instant he hung there in indecision, then he came back, shut the door behind him, sat down on the edge of his bunk, and looked at Keating grimly.
“There’s been one train along, there’ll be another,” he snapped. “An’ the first one that comes you’ll get aboard of. I hate to keep those whinin’ coyotes waitin’, but——”
“I’ll take no train,” Keating cut in coolly; “but I’ll take a revolver.”
Spirlaw growled and shook his head.
“Why didn’t you tell me about Kuryla at first?” he demanded abruptly129.
“You know why as well as I do,” smiled Keating. “I wanted to get you away from here if I could. There wouldn’t have been any use trying at all if I’d begun by telling you that. Wild horses wouldn’t have budged130 you then. As for a train, what’s the use of talking about it, there probably won’t be another one along under an hour. In the meantime, give me one of the guns.”
“Not m——”
Spirlaw’s refusal died half uttered on his lips, as he sprang suddenly to his feet; then he whipped out the revolvers and shoved one quickly into Keating’s hand.
Carried down with the sweep of the wind came the sound of many voices raised in shouts and discordant131 song. It grew louder, swelled132, and broke into a high-pitched, defiant133 yell.
“Whisky!” gritted134 Spirlaw between his teeth.
“That devil Kuryla and the coyotes that came with him knew the best an’ quickest way to start the ball rollin’. Well, son, I reckon we’re in for it. The only thing I’m sorry about is that you’re here; but that can’t be helped now. You were white clean through to come—Holy Mother, listen to that!”—another yell broke louder, fiercer than before over the roar of the storm.
Spirlaw stepped to the door and peered out. It was already getting dark. The rain still poured in sheets, and the wind howled down the gorge135 in wild, furious, spasmodic gusts136. Thin streaks137 of light strayed out from the doors of the bunk-houses, and around the doors were gathered shadowy groups. A moment more and the shadowy groups welded into a single dark mass. Came a mad, exultant138 yell from a single throat. It was caught up, flung back, echoed and reechoed by a score of voices—and the dark mass began to move.
“Guess you’d better put out that light, son,” said Spirlaw coolly. “There’s no use makin’ targets of our——”
Before he ended, before Keating had more than taken a step forward, a lump of rock shivered the little window and crashed into the lamp—it was out for keeps. A howl followed this exhibition of marksmanship, and, following that, a volley of stones smashed against the side of the shack thick and fast as hail—then the onrush of feet.
Spirlaw’s revolver cut the black with a long, blinding flash, then another, and another. Screams and shrieks139 answered him, but it did not halt the Polacks. In a mob they rushed the door. Spirlaw sprang back, trying to close it after him; instead, a dozen hands grasped and half wrenched140 it from its hinges.
“Lie down on the floor, Spirlaw, quick!”—it was Keating’s voice, punctuated141 with a cough. The next instant his gun barked, playing through the doorway142 like a gatling.
From the floor the road boss joined in. The mob wavered, pitched swaying this way and that, then broke and ran, struggling with each other to get out of the line of fire.
“Hurrah!” cried Keating. “I guess that will hold them.”
“‘Tain’t begun,” was Spirlaw’s grim response. “Where’s them cartridges?”
“On the table—got them?”
“Yes,” said Spirlaw, after a minute’s groping. “Here, put a box in your pocket.”
“What are they up to now?” asked Keating as, in the silence that had fallen, they reloaded and listened.
“God knows,” growled Spirlaw; “but I guess we’ll find out quick enough.”
As he spoke, from a little distance away, came the splintering crash of woodwork—then silence again.
“That’s the storehouse,” Spirlaw snarled143. “They’re after the bars an’ anything else they can lay their hands on. Guess they weren’t countin’ on our havin’ anything more than our fists to fight with, guess they weren’t.”
Keating’s only reply was a cough.
The minutes passed, two, three, five of them. Once outside sounded what might have been the stealthy scuffle of feet or only a storm-sound so construed144 by the imagination. Then, from the direction of the riverbed, sudden, sharp, came a terrific roar.
“My God!” yelled Spirlaw. “There’s the trestle gone—they’ve blown it up! They’re sure to have laid a fuse here, too. Get out of here quick! Fool that I was, I might have known it was the dynamite they were after.”
Both men were scrambling145 for the door as he spoke. They reached it not an instant too soon. The ground behind them lifted, heaved; the walls, the roof of the shack rose, cracked like eggshells, and scattered146 in flying pieces—and the mighty, deafening147 detonation148 of the explosion echoed up and down the gorge, echoed again—and died away.
The mob caught sight of them as they ran and, foiled for the moment, sent up a yell of rage—then started in pursuit.
“Make for the cut,” shouted Spirlaw. “We can hold them off there behind the rocks.”
Keating had no breath for words. Panting, sick, his head swimming, a fleck149 of blood upon his lips, he struggled after the giant form of the road boss; while, behind, coming ever closer, ringing in his ears, were the wild cries of the maddened Polacks. The splash of water revived him a little as they plunged150 along the old right of way where the river, flooded by the storm, had again claimed its own. The worst of it was up to his armpits. A grip on his shoulder and a pull from Spirlaw helped him over. They gained the other side with a bare two yards separating them from the mob behind, went on again—and then Spirlaw caught his foot, tripped and pitched headlong, causing Keating, at his heels, to stumble and fall over him.
Like wild beasts the Polacks surged upon them. Keating tried to regain151 his feet—but he got no further than his knees as a swinging blow from a pick-handle caught him on his head. Half-stunned, he sank back and, as consciousness left him, he heard Spirlaw’s great voice roar out like the maddened bellow152 of a bull, saw the giant form rise with, it seemed, a dozen Polacks clinging to neck and shoulders, legs and body, saw him shake them off and the massive arms rise and fall—and all was a blur153, all darkness.
The road boss lay stretched out a yard away from him when he opened his eyes. He was very weak. He raised himself on his elbow. From the camp down the line he could see the lights in the bunk-houses, hear drunken, chorused shouts. He crept to Spirlaw, called him, shook him—the big road boss never moved. The Polacks had evidently left both of them for dead—and one, it seemed, was. He slid his hand inside the other’s vest for the heart beat. So faint it was at first he could not feel it, then he got it, and, realizing that Spirlaw was still alive he straightened up and looked helplessly around—and, in a flash, like the knell154 of doom155, Spirlaw’s words came back to him: “There’s the trestle gone!”
Sick the boy was with his clotting156 lungs, deathly sick, weak from the blow on his head, dizzy, and his brain swam. There’s the trestle gone!”—he coughed it out between blue lips.
“There’s the trestle gone!”
Keefer’s Siding was a mile away. Somehow he must reach it, must get the word along the line that the trestle was out, get the word along before the stalled traffic moved, before the first train east or west crashed through to death, before more wreck120 and ruin was added to the tale that had gone before. He bent157 to Spirlaw’s ear and three times called him frantically158: “Spirlaw! Spirlaw! Spirlaw!” There was no response. He tried to lift him, tried to drag him—the great bulk was far beyond his strength. And the minutes were flying by, each marking the one perhaps when it would be too late, too late to warn any one that the trestle was out.
Just up past the rock cut, a bare twenty yards away where the leads to the temporary track swung into the straight of the main line, was the platform handcar they had used for carrying tools and the odds and ends of supplies between the storehouse and the work—if he could only get Spirlaw there!
He called him again, shook him, breathing a prayer for help. The road boss stirred, raised himself a little, and sank down again with a moan.
“Spirlaw, Spirlaw, for God’s sake, man, try to get up! I’ll help you. You must, do you hear, you must!”—he was dragging at the road boss’s collar.
Keating’s voice seemed to reach the other’s consciousness, for, weakly, dazed, without sense, blindly, Spirlaw got upon his knees, then to his feet, and, staggering, reeling like a drunken man, his arm around Keating’s neck, his weight almost crushing to the ground the one sicker than himself, the two stumbled, pitched, and, at the end, crawled those twenty yards.
“The handcar, Spirlaw, the handcar!” gasped159 Keating. “Get on it. You must! Try! Try!”
Spirlaw straightened, lurched forward, and fell half across the car with out-flung arms—unconscious again.
The rest Keating managed somehow, enough so that the dangling160 legs freed the ground by a few inches; then, with bursting lungs, far spent, he unblocked the wheels, pushed the car down the little spur, swung the switch, dragged himself aboard, and began to pump his way west toward Keefer’s Siding.
No man may tell the details of that mile, every inch of which was wrung161 from blood that oozed162 from parted, quivering lips; no man may question from Whom came the strength to the frail163 body, where strength was not; the reprieve164 to the broken lungs, that long since should have done their worst—only Keating knew that the years were ended forever, that with every stroke of the pump-handle the time was shorter. The few minutes to win through—that was the last stake!
At the end he choked—fighting for his consciousness, as, like dancing points, switch lights swam before him. He checked with the brake, reeled from the car, fell, tried to rise and fell back again. Then, on his hands and knees, he crept toward the station door. It had come at last. The hemorrhage that he had fought back with all his strength was upon him. He beat upon the door. It opened, a lantern was flashed upon him, and he fell inside.
“The trestle’s out at the Glacier—hold trains both ways—Polacks—Spirlaw on—handcar—I———”
That was all. Keating never spoke again.
“I dunno as you’d call him a builder,” says Clarihue, the night turner, when he tells the story in the darkened roundhouse in the shadow of the big ten-wheelers on the pits, while the steam purrs softly at the gauges and sometimes a pop-valve lifts with a catchy sob, “I dunno as you would. It depends on the way you look at it. Accordin’ to him, he was. He left something behind him, what?”
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1
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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2
owls
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| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
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3
arbitration
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| n.调停，仲裁 | |
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4
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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5
spiked
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| adj.有穗的；成锥形的；有尖顶的 | |
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6
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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7
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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8
perseverance
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| n.坚持不懈，不屈不挠 | |
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9
zest
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| n.乐趣；滋味，风味；兴趣 | |
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10
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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11
medley
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| n.混合 | |
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12
gauges
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| n.规格( gauge的名词复数 )；厚度；宽度；标准尺寸v.（用仪器）测量( gauge的第三人称单数 )；估计；计量；划分 | |
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13
catchy
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| adj.易记住的，诡诈的，易使人上当的 | |
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14
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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15
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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16
superintendent
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| n.监督人，主管，总监；(英国)警务长 | |
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17
glacier
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| n.冰川，冰河 | |
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18
treacherous
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| adj.不可靠的，有暗藏的危险的；adj.背叛的，背信弃义的 | |
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19
havoc
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| n.大破坏，浩劫，大混乱，大杂乱 | |
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20
memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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21
persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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22
provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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23
resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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24
torpid
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| adj.麻痹的，麻木的，迟钝的 | |
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25
solaced
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| v.安慰，慰藉( solace的过去分词 ) | |
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26
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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27
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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28
hybrid
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| n.(动，植）杂种，混合物 | |
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29
dynamite
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| n./vt.(用)炸药(爆破) | |
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30
promptly
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| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
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31
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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32
odds
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| n.让步，机率，可能性，比率；胜败优劣之别 | |
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33
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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34
chisel
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| n.凿子；v.用凿子刻，雕，凿 | |
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35
hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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jurisdiction
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| n.司法权，审判权，管辖权，控制权 | |
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37
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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38
humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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39
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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40
tempestuous
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| adj.狂暴的 | |
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41
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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42
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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43
platitude
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| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
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44
unctuous
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| adj.油腔滑调的，大胆的 | |
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45
jolt
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| v.（使）摇动，（使）震动，（使）颠簸 | |
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46
virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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47
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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48
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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49
batter
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| v.接连重击；磨损；n.牛奶面糊；击球员 | |
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50
fervently
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| adv.热烈地，热情地，强烈地 | |
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51
growled
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| v.（动物）发狺狺声， （雷）作隆隆声( growl的过去式和过去分词 )；低声咆哮着说 | |
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52
growl
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| v.（狗等）嗥叫，（炮等）轰鸣；n.嗥叫，轰鸣 | |
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53
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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54
scribbled
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| v.潦草的书写( scribble的过去式和过去分词 )；乱画；草草地写；匆匆记下 | |
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55
knuckles
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| n.（指人）指关节( knuckle的名词复数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝v.（指人）指关节( knuckle的第三人称单数 )；（指动物）膝关节，踝 | |
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56
bunk
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| n.(车、船等倚壁而设的)铺位；废话 | |
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57
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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58
possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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59
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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60
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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61
shanty
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| n.小屋，棚屋；船工号子 | |
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62
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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63
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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64
rift
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| n.裂口，隙缝，切口；v.裂开，割开，渗入 | |
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65
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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66
Amended
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| adj. 修正的 动词amend的过去式和过去分词 | |
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67
brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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68
exterior
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| adj.外部的，外在的；表面的 | |
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69
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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70
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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71
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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72
crammed
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| adj.塞满的，挤满的；大口地吃；快速贪婪地吃v.把…塞满；填入；临时抱佛脚( cram的过去式) | |
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73
cram
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| v.填塞，塞满，临时抱佛脚，为考试而学习 | |
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74
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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75
plowed
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| v.耕( plow的过去式和过去分词 )；犁耕；费力穿过 | |
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76
callousness
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77
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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78
rumors
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| n.传闻( rumor的名词复数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷v.传闻( rumor的第三人称单数 )；[古]名誉；咕哝；[古]喧嚷 | |
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79
complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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80
shovels
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| n.铲子( shovel的名词复数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份v.铲子( shovel的第三人称单数 )；锹；推土机、挖土机等的)铲；铲形部份 | |
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81
amuck
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| ad.狂乱地 | |
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82
pumas
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| n.美洲狮( puma的名词复数 )；彪马；于1948年成立于德国荷索金劳勒(Herzogenaurach)的国际运动品牌；创始人：鲁道夫及达斯勒。 | |
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83
brotherhood
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| n.兄弟般的关系，手中情谊 | |
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84
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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85
rosy
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| adj.美好的，乐观的，玫瑰色的 | |
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86
sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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87
influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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88
sneaked
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| v.潜行( sneak的过去式和过去分词 )；偷偷溜走；（儿童向成人）打小报告；告状 | |
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89
tersely
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| adv. 简捷地, 简要地 | |
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90
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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91
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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92
skunk
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| n.臭鼬，黄鼠狼；v.使惨败，使得零分；烂醉如泥 | |
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93
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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94
assent
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| v.批准，认可；n.批准，认可 | |
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95
scrawled
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| 乱涂，潦草地写( scrawl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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96
laboriously
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| adv.艰苦地；费力地；辛勤地；（文体等）佶屈聱牙地 | |
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97
dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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98
reposing
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| v.将（手臂等）靠在某人（某物）上( repose的现在分词 ) | |
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99
spotted
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| adj.有斑点的，斑纹的，弄污了的 | |
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100
yarns
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| n.纱( yarn的名词复数 )；纱线；奇闻漫谈；旅行轶事 | |
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101
skulk
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| v.藏匿；潜行 | |
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102
scowled
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| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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103
savagely
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| adv. 野蛮地，残酷地 | |
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104
ominous
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| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
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105
winking
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| n.瞬眼，目语v.使眼色( wink的现在分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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106
shack
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| adj.简陋的小屋，窝棚 | |
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107
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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108
tattoo
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| n.纹身，(皮肤上的)刺花纹；vt.刺花纹于 | |
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109
corps
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| n.(通信等兵种的)部队；(同类作的)一组 | |
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110
snare
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| n.陷阱，诱惑，圈套；（去除息肉或者肿瘤的）勒除器；响弦，小军鼓；vt.以陷阱捕获，诱惑 | |
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111
ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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112
mischief
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| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
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113
brewing
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| n. 酿造, 一次酿造的量 动词brew的现在分词形式 | |
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114
hoarse
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| adj.嘶哑的，沙哑的 | |
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115
screech
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| n./v.尖叫；(发出)刺耳的声音 | |
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116
transact
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| v.处理；做交易；谈判 | |
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117
jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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118
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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119
wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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120
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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121
fumbled
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| （笨拙地）摸索或处理（某事物）( fumble的过去式和过去分词 )； 乱摸，笨拙地弄； 使落下 | |
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122
cartridges
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| 子弹( cartridge的名词复数 )； （打印机的）墨盒； 录音带盒； （唱机的）唱头 | |
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123
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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124
softening
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| 变软，软化 | |
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125
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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126
slit
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| n.狭长的切口；裂缝；vt.切开，撕裂 | |
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127
cylinders
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| n.圆筒( cylinder的名词复数 )；圆柱；汽缸；（尤指用作容器的）圆筒状物 | |
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128
twitching
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| n.颤搐 | |
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129
abruptly
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| adv.突然地，出其不意地 | |
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130
budged
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| v.（使）稍微移动( budge的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）改变主意，（使）让步 | |
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131
discordant
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| adj.不调和的 | |
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132
swelled
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| 增强( swell的过去式和过去分词 )； 肿胀； （使）凸出； 充满（激情） | |
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133
defiant
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| adj.无礼的，挑战的 | |
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134
gritted
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| v.以沙砾覆盖（某物），撒沙砾于( grit的过去式和过去分词 )；咬紧牙关 | |
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135
gorge
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| n.咽喉，胃，暴食，山峡；v.塞饱，狼吞虎咽地吃 | |
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136
gusts
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| 一阵强风( gust的名词复数 )； （怒、笑等的）爆发； （感情的）迸发； 发作 | |
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137
streaks
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| n.（与周围有所不同的）条纹( streak的名词复数 )；（通常指不好的）特征（倾向）；（不断经历成功或失败的）一段时期v.快速移动( streak的第三人称单数 )；使布满条纹 | |
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138
exultant
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| adj.欢腾的，狂欢的，大喜的 | |
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139
shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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140
wrenched
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| v.（猛力地）扭( wrench的过去式和过去分词 )；扭伤；使感到痛苦；使悲痛 | |
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141
punctuated
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| v.（在文字中）加标点符号，加标点( punctuate的过去式和过去分词 )；不时打断某事物 | |
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142
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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143
snarled
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| v.（指狗）吠，嗥叫， （人）咆哮( snarl的过去式和过去分词 )；咆哮着说，厉声地说 | |
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144
construed
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| v.解释（陈述、行为等）( construe的过去式和过去分词 )；翻译，作句法分析 | |
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145
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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146
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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147
deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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148
detonation
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| n.爆炸；巨响 | |
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149
fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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150
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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151
regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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152
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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153
blur
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| n.模糊不清的事物；vt.使模糊，使看不清楚 | |
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154
knell
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| n.丧钟声；v.敲丧钟 | |
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155
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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156
clotting
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| v.凝固( clot的现在分词 )；烧结 | |
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157
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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158
frantically
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| ad.发狂地, 发疯地 | |
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159
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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160
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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161
wrung
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| 绞( wring的过去式和过去分词 )； 握紧（尤指别人的手）； 把（湿衣服）拧干； 绞掉（水） | |
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162
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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163
frail
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| adj.身体虚弱的；易损坏的 | |
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164
reprieve
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| n.暂缓执行（死刑）；v.缓期执行；给…带来缓解 | |
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