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." "I'm mighty glad, Tom, that General Manager Ellsworth isn't out here to see how many dozens of steel piles we're feeding hopelessly to the Man-killer." "Not one of those piles is going down hopelessly," Tom retorted.

"Some of the piles may disappear, and never be seen again, but each one will help hold the drift at some point, near the surface, or perhaps a thousand feet below the surface." "Only a thousand feet below the surface!" Harry grunted.

"Tom, I often feel certain that the Man-killer extends away down to the center of the earth and up again on the other side.