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"About a hundred and seventy-five years." As Scott spoke, the two heard footsteps behind them. Baggs and Delaroo, who had slept at the section-house, were coming down the track. "Baggs," said Scott ironically, as the sleepy-looking engineman approached, "you were right about the Indians being in the cotton-woods last night." "I knew I was right," exclaimed Baggs, nodding rapidly and brusquely.
The wrecking-train had pulled up near at hand and the greater part of the men, congregated in curious groups on the bridge, were talking excitedly and watching several men down on the sand, who with spades were digging vigorously about the spot which Baggs and Delaroo indicated as the place where the engine had fallen.
Delaroo, the fireman, a quiet but prudent fellow, was already standing in the gangway prepared for an emergency. He sprang, not a minute too soon, from the engine and lighted in the sand. But Dan Baggs's fixed habit of being behind time chained him to his seat an instant too long.
"Delaroo," demanded Dan Baggs, pointing dramatically at his taciturn fireman, who had now overtaken him, "how fast was I running?" Peter Delaroo, an Indian half-blood himself, returned a disconcerting answer. "As fast as you could, I reckon."
But his amazement grew rather than lessened when he saw Delaroo and Baggs running for their lives toward him. He awaited them uneasily. "What's the matter?" demanded Bucks, as Baggs, well in the lead, came within hailing distance. "Matter!" panted Baggs, not slackening his pace. "Matter! Look at my engine! Indians!" "Indians, your grandmother!" retorted Bob Scott mildly.
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