Francis Lynde

Empire Builders Francis Lynde

Engine Number 206, narrow gauge, was pushing, or rather failing to push, the oldfashioned box-plow through the crusted drifts on the uptilted shoulder of Plug Mountain, ataltitude ten thousand feet, with the mercury at twelve below zero. There was a wind-thewinter day above timber-line without its wind is as rare as a thawing Christmas-and it cutlike knives through any garmenting lighter than fur or leather. The cab of the 206 was oldand weather-shaken, and Ford pulled the collar of his buffalo coat about his ears when thegrunting of the exhaust and the shrilling of the wheels on the snow-shod rails stoppedabruptly."Gar-r-r!" snarled Gallagher, the red-headed Irish engineer, shutting off the steam inimpotent rage. "The power is not in this dommed ould camp-kittle sewin' machine! 'Tisheaven's pity they wouldn't be givin' us wan man-sized, fightin' lokimotive on this ind ofthe line, Misther Foord."