When the early-morning mail train stopped at Yellow Creek Junction on Tuesday, Alex was at the little box-car station to greet Jack Orr and Wilson Jennings. Jack, who had not met Wilson before the latter boarded the train at Bonepile, had taken a liking to the easterner at once, and confided to Alex that he was “the real goods,” despite the “streak of dude.”

“We ought to have some good times together,” Jack predicted, as, with lively interest, he and Wilson accompanied Alex back toward the nondescript but businesslike-looking boarding-train.

Jack’s hope, as far as it concerned the three boys being together, was soon shattered. As they reached the telegraph-car, Superintendent Finnan appeared, and having cordially shaken hands with Jack and Wilson, turned to Alex. “Ward,” he said, “I have just decided to send you on to the Antelope viaduct. A courier has brought word from Norton, the engineer in charge, that trouble appears to be brewing amongst his Italian laborers, and I would like to get in direct touch with him. The telegraph line was strung within two miles of the bridge yesterday, and should reach Norton’s camp to-day. How soon could you start?”

“As soon as I have breakfast, sir,” responded Alex, stifling his disappointment. “It’s twenty miles there, isn’t it, Mr. Finnan? How am I to go?”

“You can ride a horse?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Elder will have a pony here for you by the time you are ready. And you had better take an extra blanket with you,” advised the superintendent as he turned away. “You will be living in a tent, you know.”

Half an hour later Alex, mounted on a spirited little cow-pony, with a few necessities in a sweater, strapped to the saddle, and a blanket over his shoulder, army fashion, waved a good-by to Jack and Wilson, and was off over the prairie at a lope, following the telegraph poles.

It was a beautiful morning, and with the sun shining and the sparkling air brushing his cheeks and tingling in his nostrils, Alex quickly forgot his disappointment at being so quickly separated from Jack and Wilson, and soon was enjoying every minute of his ride. Keeping on steadily at a hand-gallop, before he realized he had covered half the distance, he came upon the wire-stringing and pole-erecting gangs. A half mile farther, a long, dark break appeared in the plain, and a muffled din of pounding began to reach him. And pushing ahead, Alex drew up on the brink of a wide, deep gully, from either side of which reached out a great wooden frame, dotted with busy men.

It was the bed of the old Antelope river, which years before had changed its course, and which the railroad finally proposed crossing with a permanent fill.

Directly below, in a group of shrubby trees on the border of the stony creek which alone remained of the river, was a village of white tents. From Alex’s feet a rough trail slanted downward toward it. Giving his pony free rein, he descended.

“Where is Mr. Norton?” he asked of a water-boy at the foot of the path.

“That’s him at the table in front of the middle tent,” the boy directed. Thanking him, Alex urged the pony forward, and leaped to the ground beside a dark-haired, energetic young man bending over a sheet of figures.

“I am the operator Mr. Finnan sent on,” Alex announced as the engineer looked up.

“Glad to meet you,” said the engineer, cordially rising and extending his hand. “You are a trifle young for this rough work, though, are you not?” he ventured, noting Alex’s youthful face. “You are not the operator who caught that K. & Z. man Sunday?”

“I helped catch him,” Alex corrected.

“You’ll do, then,” said Norton. “And I’ll give you a place here in my own tent,” he added, turning and entering a small marquee, followed by Alex.

“This corner will be yours, and the box your ‘office.’ It will do for the instruments?”

“Fine,” responded Alex.

As the wire-stringing gang was not due to reach the viaduct before mid-afternoon, on completing his arrangements in the tent, Alex set out for a tour of his new surroundings. Climbing up the western slope of the gully, he found a large gang of foreigners, mostly Italians, working in a cutting. Judging that this was the gang which was causing the anxiety, Alex paused some moments to watch them.

Scattered over a system of miniature track, the men were shovelling earth into strings of small dump-cars, which when filled were run out over the completed western end of the viaduct, and dumped. As Alex stood regarding the active scene, a string of cars rumbled toward him from one of the more distant sidings. Others had been pushed by several men. This was being driven by a single burly giant. With admiration Alex watched. Suddenly a sense of something familiar about the figure stirred within him. The man came opposite, and Alex uttered an involuntary ejaculation. It was Big Tony, the Italian who had led the trouble amongst the trackmen at Bixton two years back, and with whom he had had the thrilling encounter at the old brick-yard.

When the Italian glanced toward him, Alex started back. But the foreigner did not recognize the young operator, with his two years of rapid growth, and passed on. Breathing a sigh of relief, Alex turned and made his way to the foreman in charge of the gang.

“How do you do,” he said, introducing himself. “Who is that big Italian pushing the string of cars alone?”

“Tony Martino. The best man in the gang,” responded the foreman. “Why? Do you know him?”

“He was on a surfacing-gang near my father’s station two years ago,” said Alex, “and caused no end of trouble. He was discharged finally.”

“He must have reformed, then,” the foreman declared. “He’s certainly the best man we have—more than willing, and strong as an ox.”

“He had nothing to do with the trouble you have had here, then?”

“He helped me put it down,” said the foreman. “No; I only wish we had a few more like him.”

Alex passed on, thoughtful. At Bixton Big Tony had been no more remarkable for his willingness to work than for his peaceableness. Had he really changed for the better? Or was it possible he was “playing possum,” to cover the carrying-out of some plan of revenge against the road?

Three evenings later, a beautiful, moonlit night, Alex left the camp for a stroll. To obtain a look up and down the old river-bed by the moonlight, he made his way out on the now nearly completed viaduct.

As he stood gazing down the ravine to the south, a half-mile distant a dark figure passed over a bright patch of sand. It was quickly lost in the dark background beyond. But not before Alex had recognized the unmistakable figure and walk of the Italian, Big Tony. His suspicions at once awakened, Alex was but a moment in deciding to follow the foreigner, and returning to the eastern bank, he scrambled down to the gully bottom, and hastily followed, keeping well in the shadows on the eastern side of the ravine.

Reaching the spot at which he had seen the Italian, he went on more cautiously. A quarter-mile farther the ravine swung abruptly to the west. As Alex arrived at the bend, subdued voices reached him. Continuing cautiously, and keeping to the deepest shadows, Alex reached a clump of willow bushes.

He glanced beyond, and in a patch of moonlight discovered Big Tony in conversation with an almost equally tall stranger, apparently a cowboy. The latter’s back was toward him.

The stranger turned, and Alex drew back with a start, and then a smile.

It was the second man of the two who on the previous Sunday had attempted to wreck the track-machine—the one who had made his escape.

As the man turned more fully, and he caught his words, Alex’s jubilant smile vanished.

“... enough to blow the whole thing to matchwood, if you place it right,” he was saying.

There was no doubt what this meant. They were planning to blow up the viaduct.

“Oh, I fixa it alla right, alla right,” declared Big Tony confidently. “No fear. I usa da dynamite all-aready. I blow up da beega da house once.”

“A house and a big wooden bridge are quite different propositions. And a wooden bridge isn’t to be blown up like a stone or iron affair, you know.”

“Suppose you come, taka da look, see my plan all-aright, den,” the Italian suggested. “No one on disa side da bridge, to see, disa time night.”

The cowman hesitated. “Well, all right. It would be best to make sure.

“We don’t want to carry this, though. Where’ll we put it?”

As he spoke the man leaned over and picked up a good-sized parcel done up in brown paper. From the careful way he handled it there could be no doubt of its contents. It was the dynamite they proposed using.

“Here, I fin’ da place.”

Alex caught his breath at the display of carelessness with which the foreigner took the deadly package. Backing into a nearby clump of bushes, Big Tony stooped and placed the dynamite on the ground, well beneath the branches.

“Dere. No one see dat. Come!”

As the two conspirators strode toward him, Alex crept closer into the shadows of the willows. Passing almost within touch of him, they continued up the gully, and soon were out of sight.

Before the footsteps of the two men had died away Alex was sitting upright, debating a suggestion that caused him to smile. With decision he arose, approached the bush under which the dynamite was concealed, and reaching beneath with both hands, very carefully brought the package forth and placed it on the ground in the moonlight. With great caution he then undid the twine securing the parcel, and opened it. On discovering a second wrapping of paper within, he uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Lifting out the inner parcel intact, he glanced about, and choosing a group of bushes some distance away, carried the dynamite there and concealed it. Returning, he secured the piece of outer wrapping paper, and proceeded to carry out his idea.

Where the moonlight struck the western wall of the gully was a bed of cracked, sun-baked clay. Making his way thither, Alex found a fragment a little larger than the package of dynamite, and with his knife proceeded to trim it into a square. Carefully then he wrapped this in the brown paper, and wound it about with the cord just as the original parcel was secured. And with a smile Alex placed this under the bush from which he had taken the genuine package.

“Dynamite with that as much as you please, Mr. Tony,” he laughed as he turned away.

When Alex had covered half the distance in returning to the viaduct he began keeping a sharp lookout ahead for the returning of the Italian and his companion. He was within a hundred yards of the great white structure when he discovered them. Turning aside, he concealed himself behind a small spruce.

With no apprehension of danger Alex waited, and the two men came opposite. Suddenly, without a motion of warning, the two turned and darted toward him, one on either side of the tree. Before Alex had recovered from his astonishment he found himself seized on either side, and threateningly ordered to be silent.

They dragged him on some distance, then into the moonlight. “Why, it’s one of the fellows who captured Bucks on Sunday!” declared the cowboy. “What are you doing here, boy?” he demanded angrily.

“I was out for a moonlight stroll,” Alex responded, stifling his apprehension.

“Why did you hide behind that tree, then?”

“Well—perhaps I was afraid,” said Alex vaguely. “There are some rough people here among the foreign laborers.”

As he spoke Alex noted with new alarm that the Italian was regarding him sharply. He turned his back more fully to the moonlight. Immediately he chided himself for his stupidity. The move emphasized the struggling sense of recognition in the Italian’s mind, he smartly turned Alex’s face full to the moon, and uttered a cry in Italian.

“Now I know! I know!” he cried exultingly. “I know heem before! And he a spy! A boy spy!”

Rapidly he gave the stranger a distorted account of the strike at Bixton, and Alex’s part in his final discomfiture.

The cowman listened closely. “Is that so, boy?” he demanded.

“Partly. But it was not a strike. It was a simple piece of murderous revenge against one man, the section-foreman. And I helped spoil it.”

“Good. That’s all I want to know,” said the cowboy with decision. “Not that I care one way or the other about the affair itself. It shows you are a dangerous man to leave around loose. I’ll just take you along with me. Come on!”

“Come? Where?” said Alex, holding back in alarm.

“Never mind! Just come!” Securing a new hold on Alex’s arms, the speaker and the Italian dragged him with them back down the gorge.

As they neared the spot at which the dynamite was supposed to be safely hidden, the stranger halted abruptly, studied Alex intently a moment, then sent Big Tony on ahead, after a whispered word in his ear.

Alex knew the foreigner had gone to learn whether the dynamite had been touched. In suspense he awaited the result. Would the Italian be deceived? Would he notice the new footprints about the bush?

Big Tony returned. “All-aright,” he announced. Alex breathed a sigh of relief, and continued forward with his captors.

They proceeded some distance in silence, and presently Alex had sufficiently plucked up courage to again ask what they proposed doing with him.

“I’m going to take you where you will be out of mischief, that’s all,” replied the unknown cowman. As he spoke he halted, looked about, and resigning Alex to the guardianship of the Italian, disappeared in the shadow of an over-hang of the ravine. A moment later there was a clatter of hoofs, and he reappeared leading a horse.

“Make heem rida too?” questioned Big Tony.

“Hardly,” responded the cowman, at the same time freeing and swinging a lariat from the saddle-horn. “He’s going to trot along behind me like the blame little coyote he is.

“Hold out your hands, kid!” he ordered. Seeing resistance was useless, Alex reluctantly complied. Running the noose of the lassoo about the boy’s wrists, the cowman tightened it, and secured it with several knots. Swinging into the saddle, he fixed the other end to the saddle-horn.

“You may go now, Tony,” he said to the foreigner as he caught up the reins and headed the pony toward a path to the surface which Alex had not noticed.

“Gooda night, Meester Munson. And gooda-by, smart boy,” said the Italian. “Lucky for you I havanta my way. ‘Scrugk!’ That’s what you get,” he declared, drawing his hand across his throat.

“Munson, eh?” murmured Alex as the lassoo tightened, and he stumbled up the path behind the pony. “That’s another good thing learned.”

Arrived at the surface, his captor halted to look about, then set off across the plains due south, at a walk, Alex trailing after at the end of the rope.

The situation was not without its humorous side, it occurred to Alex after his first apprehension had worn off. When a few minutes later the pony broke into a slow canter, and he was forced into an awkward dog-trot, a chuckle broke from him.

The man ahead turned in surprise. “Well, you’re sure a game one,” he observed. “Imagine it’s funny, eh?”

“I was thinking how I would look to some of my friends, if they could see me here,” explained Alex good-naturedly. “Trotting along like a little dog on a string.”

The cowman pulled up and laughed. “Youngster, you’re all right,” he said heartily. “I’m sorry you’re—that is—”

“On the wrong side?” suggested Alex, smiling.

“Very well. Let it go at that. Look here! If I take that thing off, will you promise to come along, and not play any tricks?”

“Yes, I will,” agreed Alex readily. For he saw there was little chance of making his escape from the horseman on an open plain.

“Hold up your hands, then,” directed the cowboy. Alex complied, and quickly he was free.

“How far are we going?” he asked as they moved on, Alex walking abreast.

“About twenty miles,” replied the cowman.