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Updated: May 19, 2025
Whirling, foaming waters rushed down the mountain-side to join the dark river far below. Then on into a dark snowshed where the hurrying beat of the revolving wheels resounded shrilly and produced a meaningless rhythm in his thoughts. Kat ter feld, Kat ter feld, Kat ter feld, came the echo from the black beams of the shed.
The two men were close beside him now. "Number one-eleven's kicked over the hill!" "One-eleven kicked over?" "Yes. Snowplow. They're wiring Denver, from Crestline. The second plow's up there in the snowshed with the crew. One of 'em's dead. The other's wait a minute, I have to piece it together."
Houston followed the figure toward the snowshed on the hill. Ten minutes later he stood beside a great Mallet engine, a sleek, glistening grayhound of the mountains, taking from the superintendent the instructions that would enable him to assist, at least, in the propulsion of the motive power.
A dim figure made its appearance, running along the box cars, at last to sight Houston and come toward him. "Which car does the engine crews sleep in?" came sharply. Houston shook his head. "I don't know. Has something gone wrong?" "Plenty. Both the firemen on Number Six have went out from gas in the snowshed.
"Won't harm us; shack's on top of the ridge and we're safer here than anywhere else." He stopped and listened to the swelling roar and then resumed: "I'm glad we got that frame braced. It's a big slide and will probably come down the gully near the bridge. They're going to snowshed that piece of track and we'll haul out the posts if we can't get on with the other job."
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