Blindly homing, a jack-rabbit ran almost beneath the horse's
hooves, causing him to shy again, this time into a bulky vizcaya, as big
as a full-grown man, and inflicting upon Ban a new species of
scarification. It did not matter. Nothing mattered. He rode on, knees
tight, lines loose, elate, shouting, singing, acclaiming the storm which
was setting its irrefragable limits to the world wherein he and Io would
still live close, a few golden days longer.
What he picked from the wire when he reached it confirmed his hopes. The
track was threatened in a dozen places. Repair crews were gathering.
Already the trains were staggering along, far behind their schedule.
They would, of course, operate as far as possible, but no reliance was
to be placed upon their movements until further notice. Through the
night traffic continued, but with the coming of the morning and the
settling down of a soft, seeping, unintermittent pour of gray rain, the
situation had clarified. Nothing came through. Complete stoppage, east
and west. Between Manzanita and Stanwood the track was out, and in the
other direction Dry Bed Arroyo was threatening. Banneker reported
progress to the lodge and got back, soaked and happy. Io was thoughtful
and content.
Late that afternoon the station-agent had a shock which jarred him quite
out of his complacent security.
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