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.