"He's rather a bad lot, I guess," wrote Bucks to Callahan, "but I am satisfied of one thing--you can't run that yard with a Sunday-school superintendent. He won't make you any trouble unless he gets to drinking. If that happens, _don't have any words with him_." Bucks underscored three times. "Simply crawl into a cyclone cellar and wire me. Sending you eighteen loads of steel to-night, and six cars of ties. Blair reports section 10 ready for track layers and Mear's outfit moving into the Palisade Cañon. Push the stuff to the front." It was getting dark, and Callahan sat in that part of the Benkleton depot he called the office, pulling at a muddy root that went unaccountably hot in sudden fl…
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