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In the direction of the hogback he could see nothing. Nor could he see the horsemen already on the trail below him and on the ridge trail to eastward. The little mine village was directly below him. The few buildings huddled together below the big mine dump were dark. The mine buildings, too, were dark. A faint glow showed in the east harbinger of the dawn.
In Stratford, there were six places where it was lawful to dump rubbish, right in the street! Just fancy! Sometimes these dumps prevented a man from making his way about the town.
And when the boat would roll down and, rolling, threaten to dump them all on the floor, they would grab the table and yell "Whoa!" or "Wait a second!" with just a suggestion of hysteria in their throats; and somebody would call out, "Go on with the story, Joe!" and the story-teller would hasten to resume.
Sometimes more rock would be loosed than at others, and the native laborers, now seemingly perfectly contented, would be kept busy. Again, when a heavy blast would be set off hardly a dozen dump cars could be filled. But the work must go on.
Across the river was Old Paloma, where dust from the cannery chimneys and soot from the railway sheds powdered an ugly shabby settlement of shanties and cheap lodging-houses. Old Paloma was peppered thick with saloons, and flavored by them, and by the odor of frying grease, and by an ashy waste known as the "dump."
They got up, put on their rain-coats, rubber boots, steel helmets, took their gas masks and went out in the fields where they could see. Soon the barrage was started. Darkness took on a rosy hue from shells bursting. First a shell fell on Montsec. Then one landed in the ammunition dump just back of it and blew it up, making it look like a huge crater of a volcano.
"Tell me," she commanded. He told her, beginning at the moment of his meeting with the outlaws at the Dalriada dump and continuing to the last scene of the tragedy. It touched her so nearly that she could not hear him through dry-eyed. "And he spoke of me?" She said it in a low voice, to herself rather than to him. "It was just before his mind began to wander almost his last conscious thought.
"Yes, but who is it?" "Bob Hampton, and and he never did it at all." Before Brant could either move or speak, Naida swept past him, down the steep bank, and her voice rang out clear, insistent. "Bob Hampton attacked by a mob? Is that true, Phoebe? They are fighting at the Shasta dump, you say? Lieutenant Brant, you must act you must act now, for my sake!"
"Of course," replied I uncivilly. Did he think he would visit Doe and I wouldn't I who had known him ten years? The man was presuming on his six-months' acquaintance with my friend. "Well, come down to the dump, and we'll find you a horse." "How is he?" asked I, not choosing to be told what to do. "Bad. Come along. There's no time to lose."
I asked him if the big guns were lashed down, fearing that if one got loose in the lower hold it would go through the side of the ship like paper. He assured me that the big gun lashings held, and I ordered him to get a fatigue party and get baled hay and dump it among the waggons to stop the riot, then to lash the waggons. He departed on his errand.
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