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Updated: June 27, 2025
"It left Denver on Number 312 at five o'clock this morning behind Number Eight. That's no sign that it's going to get here. Eight isn't past Tollifer yet." "Not past Tollifer?" Houston stared anxiously. "Why, it should be at the top of the range by now. It hasn't even begun to climb." "Good reason. They're getting this over there too." "The snow?" "Worse than here, if anything.
Already, according to the telegram, snow-fighting machinery and men were being assembled in Denver for the first spurt toward Tollifer, and from there through the drifts and slides of the hills toward Crestline. Ba'tiste and Houston were running now, as fast as their snowshoes would allow, oblivious for once of the cut of the wind and the icy particles of its frigid breath.
Words came from the swollen lips of Houston, but the voice was hoarse, strained, unnatural: "They've started the fight! They've " "It's on the second grade, up from Tollifer. It's fairly easy there, you know, for ten or twelve miles. They're making that without difficulty their work won't come until they strike the snowsheds at Crystal Lake.
Crestline had fled; there was no life, no sound, only the angry, wailing cry of the wind through half-frozen roof spouts, the slap of clattering boards, loosened by the storm. Gloomily Houston surveyed the desolate picture, at last to turn to the girl. "I must go on. I gave my promise." She nodded. "It means Tollifer now. The descent is more dangerous." "Do you know it?"
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