but the Indian chose the moment when

  Mottled clouds were dimming the moon. Mahon, peering from the window, could make out only the slight bulk above the rails that marked the place where the contractor lay. A moment later a spot of light sank from beneath him--lower and lower, until it dropped beyond the edge of the bank.   "Me go too," muttered the Indian.   A volley greeted the opening of the door, but the Indian chose the moment when it had dropped away and crawled out.   Torrance was lying on his face, an electric flash dropping at the end of a long cord. As it fell, the bones of the trestle came into view stage after stage and passed upward.   The Indian chuckled. "Durn good!"   "Somebody's got to do something durn good," Torrance returned sulkily.   "Somebody looks as if he'll do some dyin' durn good. Yuh're a bit thick in the breadbasket fer them rails, ain't yuh?"   Torrance flattened himself until he grunted, for bullets were splattering about the dropping light. In a few moments the bohunks understood. They turned their attention then to the top of the trestle.