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Updated: June 7, 2025
"They's a train runs from Denver, over Crestline. Look up there jest to the right of Mount Taluchen. See that there little puff o' smoke? That's it." "But that'd mean ." "For you t' turn around, go back to Denver, leave that there chariot o' your'n in some garage and take the train to-morrow mornin'. It'd get you t' Tabernacle some time in the afternoon."
In speaking of the American form of government, I will endeavor to explain more clearly the ideas which I have come to hold on this matter. I survived my delay at Seymour, after which I passed again through Cincinnati, and then survived my subsequent delay at Crestline.
It's even drifting in the snowsheds. They've got two plows working in 'em keeping 'em open, and another down at Crystal Lake. If things let up, they're all right. If not they'll run out of coal by to-morrow morning and be worse than useless. There's only about a hundred tons at Crestline and it takes fuel to feed them babies. But so far " "Yes?" "They're keeping things halfway open.
But there was at least the consolation about it that within a short time the uncertainty of his life would be ended; the hopes either crushed forever, or realized, that "Ba'tiste!" They were in the snowsheds at Crestline, and Houston had pointed excitedly toward a window of the west-bound train, just pulling past them on the way down the slope.
Some of them got in amongst the Royal Naval Division, who brought up their own supports and killed 300, driving out the rest. Ninety dead Turks are laid out on their parapet. Another, later, enemy effort against the right of the 29th Division was clean wiped out. 150 Turks are dead there. But it is on the far crestline they lie thick. Every one of these attacking Turks were fresh from Adrianople!
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."
Still the whistles screamed; all through the night they screamed, as drift after drift yielded, as the eight-foot bite of the first giant auger gnawed and tore at the packed contents of the last shed atop Crestline; then roared and sang, while the hills sent back their outbursts with echoes that rolled, one into another, until at last the whole world was one terrific out-pouring of explosive sounds and shrill, shrieking blasts, as though the mountains were bellowing their anger, their remonstrance at defeat.
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