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.