a dozen in the extended hand

  "Any spare cartridges? I'm about cleaned out. Jes' two left. Gotta save them."   Mahon dropped a dozen in the extended hand. The Indian worked with them in the darkness for a moment and slammed them on the table with a curse.   "Shud 'a' knowed they wudn't fit. Where's Torrance's?"   But Torrance's likewise were the wrong size, and the Indian disappeared into Tressa's room. The brakesman entrusted with a rifle in that room paid no attention until a strong hand wrenched it from him.   "Yuh'll hurt yerself, sonny, playin' with a real gun. Yuh can have all I shoot to eat."   When he returned to the living room, Mahon laid a hand on his shoulder.   "My God, who are you?"   A moment of silence, then: "Me Indian; no pale-face name."   Torrance rushed from the bedroom.   "Is that the Indian? Good Heavens! The trestle--the trestle!"   He had thrown wide the front door and gone before they could interfere. A hail of bullets came through. Keener eyes among the trees picked out Torrance's running bulk, but their eyes were keener than their aim. The contractor reached the grade and threw himself between the rails, and with head overhanging the abyss below stared through the sleepers into the thinning darkness about the feet of his beloved trestle.