This was at ten-forty, while the night was still young.  And for seven other hours the one-car special inched its way cautiously toward the goal, with Ford scanning every mile of the hazardous way as it swung into the beam of the headlight arc, with Hector’s left hand stiffening on the brake-cock, and with a weary fireman dropping from his gangway at every curve approach to flag for safety.

It was not until three o’clock in the morning that they met and passed the second section of empties, and the dawn of a new day was fully come when the shacks and storehouses of the MacMorroghs’ headquarters at the mouth of Horse Creek came in sight.  Ford got down from his seat on the fireman’s side and stretched himself as one relaxing after a mighty strain.

“That’s the end of it for a little while, Billy,” he said, addressing the big engineer as a man and a brother.  “Crawl in on the first siding you come to, and go hunt you a bed.  I don’t think the president will be perniciously active to-day—­after such a night as we’ve had.”

But in this, as in other instances when Mr. Colbrith’s activities had figured as a factor, he reckoned without his host.

XVIII

THE MORNING AFTER

Ford was awake for all day, and was colloguing with Frisbie about the carrying out of the sumptuary order for the forcible camp-cleaning, when Penfield came with the request that the chief report at once to the president in the Nadia.

“Tell him I’ll be there presently,” was the answer; and when Penfield went to do it, the interrupted colloquy was resumed.

“You say the camp has already gone dry?” said Ford incredulously.

Frisbie nodded.  “Everybody’s on the water-wagon; here and at all the camps above and below—­bars not only closed, but apparently wiped out of existence.  I went for old Brian last night as soon as I reached here.  He looked at me reproachfully, and said:  ‘It’s you to be always naggin’ me about thim whisky dives that I’m forever thryin’ to run out, and can’t.  Go and thry it yourself, Misther Frisbie, an’ I’ll stand at your back till you’re black in the face.’  But when I went through the camp, everything was quiet and orderly, and Jack Batters’ bar was not only closed—­it was gone; vanished without leaving so much as a bad smell behind it.”

“And then?” said Ford.

“Then I got out my horse and rode up the creek and through some of the camps on the Copah detour.  The star-eyed goddess of reform had evidently landed on that coast, too.  Donahue’s Hungarians were singing war-songs around their camp-fire, as usual, and Contadini’s Tuscans were out in full force, guying the night-shift track-layers.  But there was no bad blood, and no whisky to breed it.  You’re done up again, Stuart.”

“I don’t see that,” said Ford, who, besides being short on sleep, was rejoicing in the thought that Alicia and the other women of the private-car party would not have to be blind and deaf.