During the next two weeks Tom and Harry directed all their energies, as
well as the labor of all of their men, to bridging over that bad spot in
the Man-killer that had so nearly claimed two lives. One after another
six different layers of log network were put down. The open box cars
brought up thousands of tons of good soil, which was dumped down into
the layers of interlaced logs.
"The old Man-killer must feel tremendously flattered at finding himself
so persistently manicured," laughed Tom as he sat in saddle watching the
men putting down the sixth layer.
Steel piles, hollow and filled with cement, were being driven here, the
cement not going in until the top of the pile was but four feet above
the level of the desert.
"Look out yonder," nodded Harry, handing his field glass to his chum.
"You can just make out a glint on the sand. That's one of our steel
piles being sucked under."
"The explorer of a few centuries hence may find a lot of these piles,"
laughed Tom. "If he does, he'll most likely attribute them to the
Pueblo Indians or the Aztecs, and he'll write a learned volume about the
high state of civilization that existed among the savages here before
the white man came.
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