Christmas came.  Bryant had ordered that labour cease for twenty-four hours, as the gruelling fight of weeks had worn down the spirit of the men.  A holiday would rest them, while a big turkey dinner and unlimited cigars and pails of candy would put them in a good humour.  At dark on the afternoon before the day shift at both camps ceased work, the horses were stabled, the torches left unlighted, the fires along the ditch allowed to die down, and the project was idle.  A light skift of snow had fallen during the morning, whitening the earth, but the clouds had passed away, so that the still air and clear sky gave promise of a fine morrow.

Christmas Eve, however, did not lapse without a disturbing incident.  About supper time Dave came running to Bryant and Pat Carrigan in Lee’s shack.  He had seen workmen going furtively into a tent in numbers that aroused his curiosity, and had crept unseen under the lee of the canvas shelter, where, lifting the flap, he beheld in the interior a keg on the ground and a Mexican, by light of a candle, serving labourers whisky in tin cups.

“Whisky in camp!” Lee roared.  “Come with me, Pat.”  The two men, guided by Dave, strode down the street.  Before the tent indicated they halted to listen.  The shelter glowed dimly; formless shadows stirred on its canvas walls; and from within came low, guarded voices and once a muffled laugh.

Jerking the flaps apart Bryant entered, followed by the contractor.  He forced an opening through the group of workmen by a savage sweep of his arms and came to the keg, where the Mexican at the moment was bending down and holding a cup under the spigot.  When the man perceived the engineer, he leaped up.  The fellow’s short, squat figure and stony expression had for Bryant a vague familiarity—­that face especially, brown, stolid, brutal, with a fixed, snake-like gaze.

But Lee had no time to speculate on the Mexican’s identity.  The liquor was the important thing.  The man stood motionless, holding in his left hand the half-filled cup that gave off a pungent, sickening smell of whisky; his eyes were intent on the engineer.  Behind Lee, Carrigan was already herding the others from the tent.

“Where did you get that stuff?” Bryant demanded.  But as the Mexican only shook his head, he changed to Spanish.  “Trying to start a big drunk here?”

“To-morrow is a fete day, senor,” was the reply.  “A friend made me a present; I share it with the others.  Besides, in cold weather it keeps one warm.”

“How long have you worked here?”

“Three days.”

“There’s a camp order:  ‘No liquor allowed in camp.’  You can’t say that you don’t know it, for it’s posted everywhere on placards in English and in Spanish.”

He received no response.  A faint shrug of the shoulders, perhaps.  The Mexican’s glistening, sinister eyes, on the other hand, continued as rigid as orbs of polished agate, and his face as expressionless.