"I'm agent at Manzanita."
The conductor set down his pail. "O God!" he said. "Did you bring any
help?"
"No, I'm alone. Any one in there?" He pointed to the flaming debris.
"One that we know of. He's dead."
"Sure?" cried Banneker sharply.
"Look for yourself. Go the other side."
Banneker looked and returned, white and set of face. "How many others?"
"Seven, so far."
"Is that all?" asked the agent with a sense of relief. It seemed as if
no occupant could have come forth of that ghastly and absurd
rubbish-heap, which had been two luxurious Pullmans, alive.
"There's a dozen that's hurt bad."
"No use watering that mess," said Banneker. "It won't burn much further.
Wind's against it. Anybody left in the other smashed cars?"
"Don't think so."
"Got the names of the dead?"
"Now, how would I have the time!" demanded the conductor resentfully.
Banneker turned to the far side of the track where the seven bodies lay.
They were not disposed decorously. The faces were uncovered. The
postures were crumpled and grotesque. A forgotten corner of a
battle-field might look like that, the young agent thought, bloody and
disordered and casual.
Nearest him was the body of a woman badly crushed, and, crouching beside
it, a man who fondled one of its hands, weeping quietly.
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