It was raining when the construction train rolled noisily through a mountain gorge, and he stood at the door of the caboose, looking out.

Three or four hundred feet below, a green river, streaked with muddy foam, brawled among the rocks, for the track had been dug out of a steep hillside.

Festing knew this was difficult work; one could deal with rock, although it cost much to cut, but it was another matter to bed the rails in treacherous gravel, and the fan-shaped mounds of shale and soil that ran down to the water's edge showed how loose the ground was and the abruptness of the slope.

Above, the silver mist drifted about the black firs that clung to the side of the mountain, and in the distance there was a gleam of snow.
Some of the trees had fallen, and it was significant that, for the most part, they did not lie where they fell.

They had slipped down hill, and the channels in the ground indicated that the shock had been enough to start a miniature avalanche which had carried them away.