The water had now reached within five feet of the top: the rise was slower, showing that the volume had lessened; the soakage, too, was helping, but the water still gained.

The bottom of the trench, cut transversely across the road bed of the "fill," out of which the dirt was still flying from scores of willing shovels, had reached the height of the flood line.

It was wide enough and deep enough to take care of the slowly rising overflow and would relieve the pressure on the whole structure; but the danger was not there.

What was to be feared was the scour on the down-stream--far side--slope of the "fill." This also, was of loose earth: too great a gulch might mean total collapse.
To lessen this scour MacFarlane had looted a carload of plank switched on to a siding, and a gang of men in charge of Jack,--who had now reached his Chief's side,--were dragging them along the downstream slope to form sluices with which to break the force of the scour.
The top of the flood now poured into the mouth of the newly dug trench, biting huge mouthfuls of earth from its sides in its rush; spreading the reddish water fan-like over the down-stream slope: first into gullies; then a broad sluiceway that sunk out of sight in the soft earth; then crumblings, slidings of tons of sand and gravel, with here and there a bowlder washed clean; the men working like beavers,--here to free a rock, there to drive home a plank, the trench all the while deepening, widening--now a gulch ten feet across and as deep, now a canon through which surged a solid mass of frenzied water.
With the completion of the first row of planking MacFarlane took up a position where he could overlook all parts of the work.

Every now and then his eyes would rest on a water-gauge which he had improvised from the handle of a pick; the rise and fall of the wet mark showing him both the danger and the safety lines.