that is working on them.  That Irishman, Shane, think of him.  He fought while his brains oozed from a hole in his head; I saw, but I didn’t know then.  I wanted to take his place.  He said, no, he wasn’t hurt, and Casey would laugh at him.  Aye, Casey would have laughed! ....  They are men.  There are thousands of them.  The U. P. R. goes on.  It can’t be stopped.  It has the momentum of a great nation pushing it on from behind....  And I, who have lost all I cared for, and you, who are a drone among the bees, and Ruby and Stanton with their kind, poor creatures sucked into the vortex; yes, and that mob of leeches, why we all are so stung by that nameless spirit that we are stirred beyond ourselves and dare both height and depth of impossible things.”

“You must be drunk,” said Place, gravely, “and yet what you say hits me hard.  I’m a gambler.  But sometimes—­there are moments when I might be less or more.  There’s mystery in the air.  This Benton is a chaos.  Those hairy toilers of the rails!  I’ve watched them hammer and lift and dig and fight.  By day they sweat and they bleed, they sing and joke and quarrel—­and go on with the work.  By night they are seized by the furies.  They fight among themselves while being plundered and murdered by Benton’s wolves.  Heroic by day—­hellish by night....  And so, spirit or what—­they set the pace.”

Next afternoon, when parasitic Benton awoke, it found the girl Ruby dead in her bed.

Her door had to be forced.  She had not been murdered.  She had destroyed much of the contents of a trunk.  She had dressed herself in simple garments that no one in Benton had ever seen.  It did not appear what means she had employed to take her life.  She was only one of many.  More than one girl of Benton’s throng had sought the same short road and cheated life of further pain.

When Neale heard about it, upon his return to Benton, late that afternoon, Ruby was in her grave.  It suited him to walk out in the twilight and stand awhile in the silence beside the bare sandy mound.  No stone—­no mark.  Another nameless grave!  She had been a child once, with dancing eyes and smiles, loved by some one, surely, and perhaps mourned by some one living.  The low hum of Benton’s awakening night life was borne faintly on the wind.  The sand seeped; the coyotes wailed; and yet there was silence.  Twilight lingered.  Out on the desert the shadows deepened.

By some chance the grave of the scarlet woman adjoined that of a laborer who had been killed by a blast.  Neale remembered the spot.  He had walked out there before.  A morbid fascination often drew him to view that ever-increasing row of nameless graves.  As the workman had given his life to the road, so had the woman.  Neale saw a significance in the parallel.

Neale returned to the town troubled in mind.  He remembered the last look Ruby had given him.  Had he awakened conscience in her?  Upon questioning Hough, he learned that Ruby had absented herself from the dancing-hall and had denied herself to all on that last night of her life.