Opening the iron trail

Sometime in the night he knew that they were in motion—the engine was pushing them along, over the track. But when he really woke up, they were standing still, in daylight. North Platte, as like as not; or maybe Kearney. No, it couldn’t be Kearney, could it, for Kearney was 100 miles and more, and that seemed a long way to go, in just one night. At any rate, they were standing in some town; there was a lot of noise outside, of shouting and engine-puffing and feet-scuffling. So he put on his clothes in a jiffy and jumped down through the curtains.

By the rattle of dishes and the smell of bacon the cook was getting breakfast, but the main part of the car was empty. Everybody had left. Seemed as though General Dodge didn’t take time to sleep, himself, for no other bunk was open. Here came old Shep, yawning, from his night’s quarters. Terry hastened to the platform, to find where they were.

North Platte, sure. They’d come only sixty or seventy miles, and must have been lying here quite a while. Yes, it was North Platte, on the south bank of the North Platte River just above where the North Platte joined the South Platte to help make the big Platte.

North Platte was the end of the road, for traffic; the terminal point, that is. The freight and passenger trains from Omaha, 293 miles, stopped here and went back; only the construction-trains went on, with supplies for end o’ track. But North Platte was considerable of a place—and an awful tough place, too, plumb full of gambling joints and saloons.

It had started up in a hurry, last December, when the road had reached it and had made a terminal point and supply depot of it, for the winter. There hadn’t been a thing here, except a prairie-dog town—and in three weeks there had been a brick round-house to hold forty engines, and a station-house, and a water tank heated by a stove so it wouldn’t freeze, and a big hotel to cost $18,000, and a knock-down warehouse (the kind that could be taken apart and fitted together again) almost as large, for the Casement Brothers, and fifteen or sixteen other business buildings, and over a thousand people, including gamblers and saloon keepers, living in all kinds of board and sheet-iron and canvas shacks.

When Terry had joined the road, at the close of winter, North Platte boasted 2,000 people, counting the graders and track-layers, and was a “roaring” town. There was some talk of making it the headquarters of the Union Pacific, instead of Omaha.

It used to be livelier at night than in the day-time, even; but it certainly was lively enough this morning. A long freight-train was unloading ties and iron, to be added to the great collection of ties and iron already waiting for the haul onward to the next supply dump, toward end o’ track. A passenger train had pulled in from Omaha. The passengers were trooping to the Railroad House (which was the name of the $18,000 hotel) or to the eating-room in the Casement Brothers’ portable warehouse, or bargaining to be taken by wagons across the South Platte ford, where the Overland Stage for Denver connected with the railroad.

As fast as the Union Pacific, on the north side of the Platte River, lengthened its passenger haul from Omaha, on the south side of the Platte River the Overland Stage shortened its haul to Denver and Salt Lake.

After a while there would be no stage haul needed, through this country. The stages would run only between Denver and wherever the railroad passed by, north of it; and people would go through from the Missouri River in two days instead of in six.

An engine and tender backed up and hooked on to the Dodge car; a fine-looking car, which must be the Lincoln car for the Government commissioners, had been coupled on, behind. While Terry gazed about, from his platform, trying to take in all the sights, here came General Dodge and Superintendent Reed, as if in a hurry.

“All aboard!” The general waved his arm at the engineer, as he sprang up the steps. To ring of bell and hiss of exhaust the little train started. There was no time lost.

“Hello, young man,” the general greeted, to Terry. “Ready for the day?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect you’d like to begin with breakfast. So would Mr. Reed and I. We’ve made one beginning but we’ll make another. We all can eat and watch things go past at the same time.”

Decidedly, it was fun to sit at a table and eat while whirled along across country at a tremendous pace, with the landscape flitting by in plain sight just outside the windows.

“How fast are we going now, please?” Terry ventured.

The general looked at his watch a minute, and seemed to be listening.

“About twenty-five miles an hour, I should judge. Is that right, Sam?”

“Pretty nearly right,” agreed Superintendent Reed.

Whew! And when Ben Holladay, the King of the Overland Stage, had made fourteen miles in an hour with his special coach and a special team of fours, that had seemed like a lightning trip.

They had thundered over the long bridge above the North Platte River, and were scooting eastward, parallel with the main Platte. From across the river the emigrants who still stuck to their slow prairie schooners or covered wagons, waved at the train. At a safe distance some antelope fled, flashing their white rumps. Prairie-dogs sat up at the mouth of their burrows, to gaze.

Once in a while a ranch, with low adobe buildings, might be seen, south of the river; and an old stage station there, before or behind, was almost always in sight. The Overland had quit running, east of Cottonwood station, near North Platte.

On this side of the river there was not much to see, except the railroad telegraph poles, and the prairie-dogs, and the line of rails that stretched clear to Omaha on the Missouri River, and a side-station of one little building which slipped by so quickly that Terry could not read the sign.

The general and Superintendent Reed went back into the Lincoln car, to talk with the commissioners there. They left the headquarters car to Terry, Shep and the black cook.

“How you like this sort o’ travel, boy?” queried the cook, as he tidied the car with a dust-rag.

“We’re sure moving,” Terry grinned. “It beats staging. How fast are we going now, do you think?”

“Oh, mebbe thirty miles an houah. Reckon we gotto meet ’nother train. This heah road is shy on meetin’ places yet. But, sho’, thirty miles ain’t nothin’, boy. When the gin’ral heahs somethin’ callin’ him, he jest tells this old cah to step on the injine’s tail, an’—woof! ’Way we go, fifty, mebbe fifty-five miles an houah! Yessuh. Sometimes the gin’ral he likes to show off a bit, too, when there’s gover’ment folks abohd. He shuah gives ’em a ride, so they’ll know this ain’t any play road, down today an’ up tomorrow. Where you from?”

“End o’ track,” answered Terry.

“What you do there?”

“Haul rails.”

“Was you up there yestuhday, when they fit the Injuns?”

“You bet. They found we were bad medicine, too. They almost set the boarding-train on fire, though. That was a right smart fight, till the general and the Pawnees came and drove ’em off in a jiffy.”

“Hi yi!” the cook chuckled. “We-all had jest got into Nohth Platte when the gin’ral, he heard about it. He’s a powerful fightin’ man, the gin’ral is. He’s fit Injuns a lot o’ times befoh. An’ those commishners, they’re fightin’ men, too; they done fit in the wah. An’ there was a passel o’ seemed like white trash here, who was quittin’ work on the road because they’d got paid off. But the gin’ral, he calls out: ‘You boys, the Injuns are ’tackin’ our camps up the road. Pile in, if you want to go with me.’ An’ they shuah piled in, every last one of ’em, same as though they hadn’t quit the road at all. Yessuh! An’ when they piled in, this chile he piled out, t’other end. He guessed like he wasn’t needed. Hi yi! No, suh! He’s got too much scalp. His hair ain’t like white man’s hair; it’s same length all ovuh his haid.”

“Indians don’t scalp negroes. They can’t. And they think it’s bad medicine,” said Terry. “They call you buffalo soldiers.”

“I ain’t no buff’lo soldiers. I’m a cook, an’ I knowed they didn’t want no cook up yonduh,” the darky retorted. “Yessuh. An’ in case it come on night, Injuns might not make any diff’rence ’tween a white man an’ a black man. No, suh.”

“Not unless they felt your hair,” laughed Terry.

The cook seemed to turn a shade pale.

“No Injun’s gwine to feel my hair. No, suh! Not unless he can outrun this heah train; an’ then when he reaches in he’s got to catch me, foh if I once get out the othuh end—oh, boy! I’d jest hit the ground twice between the train an’ Omaha. The Injuns’d be sayin’ ‘There he goes’ the same time Omaha was sayin’ ‘Heah he comes!’ Yessuh! I’m powerful scared o’ Injuns. It’s gwine to be a mighty bad yeah, foh Injuns, too.”

“How do you know?”

“’Cause I heard the gin’ral sayin’ so. I heard him say he’d asked foh moh soldiers, to guard the line cl’ar to the mountings. Yessuh. He’s asked Gin’ral Sherman. How far you gwine?”

“I dunno. To Omaha, maybe. Why?”

“Got some kin there?”

“No. I’m riding for fun.”

“You ridin’ foh fun?”

“Yes.”

“When you get to Omaha, then you gwine back where you come from?”

“Sure thing. I’ve got a job, at end o’ track.”

“Don’t you do it; don’t you do it, boy,” advised the cook, as darkly as his face. “Don’t you ride ’round these pahts foh fun. No, suh! An’ don’t you staht back from Omaha till Gin’ral Sherman’s soldiers have killed ev’ry one o’ them Injuns. Yessuh! You let Gin’ral Sherman an’ Gin’ral Dodge ’tend to one end o’ track, an’ you get a job at t’other end.”

Terry had to laugh, but the cook’s words struck home. Matters looked bad. The Indians had started in, that was certain; and everybody appeared to think that this was an “Injun” year. Somehow, he felt that he was deserting his post. He was leaving Paddy Miles and the gang to their troubles, and was making for safety, himself.

“When do we stop next?” he asked.

“I dunno. Mebbe we’ll stop at Willow Island, foh ohduhs; an’ mebbe we’ll stop at Kearney. Jest depends on the gin’ral. We stop whenever we please, or whenever the injineer needs wood an’ watuh, or whenever we got to meet ’nothuh train.”

“How far is Kearney?”

“Hundred miles from Nohth Platte. We’ll get there befoh noon, an’ we’ll get to Omaha befoh dark. Yessuh, we’ll travel right along.”

The cook went on about his business, and Terry stared out at the flying country, which danced a reel in tune with the roaring wheels. This was great fun, of course, to be speeding over the new Union Pacific Railroad, in a private car, but——! And he wondered how Jenny and Jimmie Muldoon’s brother were holding down the job at end o’ track.

With a swoop and a whistle they rushed past a long freight-train, waiting on a siding. At every siding there was one of these long freights, plumb loaded and headed west, or partly empty and headed east.

They might get a glimpse of Fort McPherson, at Cottonwood Springs on the stage road along the other side of the river. Then they whirled right through Brady Island station of the railroad. But stop they did at Willow Island, which bore the same name as the old Overland station, across from it.

The station buildings, except the station-house itself, were of sod, and loop-holed so as to fight off the Indians. They looked like a fort. A lot of cedar bridge-piles and telegraph poles and cottonwood ties were stacked here, brought in by ranchers’ wagons from the places where they had been cut. The road didn’t get much of such stuff, on these bare plains, but once in a while there was a valley or some bottom-land with a little timber growing. Cedar ties and cottonwood ties were no good, though, until they were soaked in zinc, to make them hard and lasting. The best ties came from Missouri, Iowa and Wisconsin.

The next stop was at Plum Creek, also named for the old stage station, opposite; then there was a pause on a side-track, to let another train by; and they were off again. It certainly was fast work.

General Dodge entered his headquarters car.

“How do you like railroading, now?” he asked.

“Fine, sir. We go some, don’t we!”

“Rather beat the stages, or your old yellow mule, that’s a fact,” the general admitted. “But if it wasn’t for you fellows that lay the track in such good shape, we couldn’t go at all.”

“And the men who discover the trail—they count a heap, too, I guess,” Terry added.

“Yes, siree. The surveyors’ job is the most ticklish job, especially out on the desert and in the mountains. Track-layers, graders, and surveyors—they’re all heroes. They do the hard work, but the people who never see them don’t think of them. Well, will you stay aboard into Omaha?”

“Would I be a long time getting back?” Terry queried.

“No, sir; not unless the road is tied up by Indian trouble. I’ll put you on a train and send you right through to North Platte; then you can jump a construction-train, and keep going to end of track again. You’ll have your pass.”

“Where do we stop next, please?” Terry asked.

“At Kearney. We’ll be there in about an hour. You can get off and stretch your legs, and so can the dog.”

“Could I go back from Kearney?” Terry blurted.

“Oh, pshaw!” And the general’s eyes twinkled. “You aren’t homesick already, are you? You might have to wait there until two o’clock in the morning, for the passenger train. You could catch the same train farther down the line. No; you’d better ride on to Omaha, and see the whole system that you’ve helped build.”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Terry—but somehow he felt a little doubtful. If he should be kept at Omaha, on account of Indian trouble—oh, that wouldn’t do at all. His place was at the front.

Kearney had been named for old Fort Kearney, across the river. It wasn’t much of a place, yet: just the station and a store and scattering of small houses. There were several soldiers from the fort standing around. General Dodge and Superintendent Reed had jumped off and seemed to be having business with an officer, while the engine took on water; so Terry and Shep jumped off, too. Then a man came running from the station door, with a piece of yellow paper—a telegram—for the engineer.

He was a lively young man, with a limp. Staring, Terry scarcely could believe his eyes. Now he, too, ran, yelling, and Shep bolted ahead, barking, and they caught the young man, who turned, astonished.

Yes, it was Harry Revere, all right—good old Harry, ex-school teacher, ex-Pike’s Peaker, ex-prospector, ex-Pony Express rider, ex-Overland Stage station-keeper, and a dandy partner.

“For heaven’s sake, what you doing here?” he demanded, as they shook hands.

“Oh, I’m traveling special, inspecting the U. P.,” grinned Terry. “What you doing?”

“I’m the boss lightning-shooter at this shebang,” proclaimed Harry. “You couldn’t travel at all, if it wasn’t for me. See? Wait till I deliver this dispatch.”

In a moment he came back.

“Thought you were somewhere down the line farther; thought you were in Omaha, maybe,” said Terry.

“So I was, but I’m getting promoted out toward the front. That’s where I want to be. I won’t stop till I’m clear through to Salt Lake. But where you going? Thought you had a job at the front, yourself? How’s Jenny? [Jenny really was Harry’s mule, but she was working for the company.] How are your folks?”

“They’re all right. So’s Jenny. Jimmie Muldoon’s brother is riding her and spelling me. I’m going to Omaha. General Dodge invited me.”

“You haven’t quit?”

“No. I’m just on a little trip.”

“What do you want to go on to Omaha for?” scolded Harry. “Shucks! This is no time to take it easy, when we’re trying to make a big year. I want to be at the front, myself. There’s nothing between here and Omaha. Where’s George?”

“He’s on survey, ’way out.”

“Wish I was with him,” asserted Harry. “But I’m getting along, by hops and skips. I don’t savvy why you want to go to Omaha, when you were at the front, yourself, with Jenny.”

“I don’t want to go, Harry,” Terry confessed. “Gee, I’d like to be back already. General Dodge has asked me, though; I guess he thinks it’s a treat for me to ride to Omaha. I’m sick of loafing—I’ve been gone a night and half a day, now, and I ought to be back, in case they need me.”

“Bully for you,” Harry praised. “I’ll tell you: You stop off here with me, for a couple of hours. You can explain to the general that you’d rather stay and visit me than go on to Omaha. You won’t have to wait for the passenger train. No, sir! I’ll fix you out.”

“I’ll ask him,” answered Terry, on the run again.

The general seemed to understand perfectly.

“You see, sir,” Terry finished, “I’d like to be on the job till you come through next time, and then maybe I can get off to go out on that survey trip, if you have room for me. I’d rather find George Stanton than go to Omaha. I like the front, and I’ve seen a whole lot of the road, now.”

“That’s all right,” General Dodge approved. “The front’s the best place. You stay there, and keep your share of the rails moving up. We can’t run trains without rails, and unless we have the rails we can’t get to Salt Lake and beat the Central. So good-by and good luck. I’ll have a wire sent to your father that you’ve turned back.”

“Please tell him to tell Pat Miles that I’ll be there tomorrow morning sure, and I’ll want my mule and truck,” Terry begged.

The general laughed. He and Mr. Reed boarded their train and it pulled out. Terry and Shep found Harry Revere in the operator’s room of the passenger station—which also was the station-agent’s room.

“What do you have to do, Harry?”

“Nothing much. I only sell tickets and check up freight and bill express and send dispatches and read the wire and wrestle baggage and sweep out and answer questions and once in a while tend some woman’s baby while she goes home after something she’s forgotten. When there’s nothing more important, I eat or sleep. But I’m hoping to push on up front, where it’s lively. I aim to get to Salt Lake as soon as the rails and poles do. Were you in that Injun fracas at end o’ track, yesterday?”

“I shore was. How’d you hear?”

“I picked it off the wire. I just sat here and made medicine while you-all fought. Nobody scalped, was there? Did they hurt Jenny? I asked the North Platte operator and he laughed at me. ‘Ha, ha!’ was all he said.”

“Nope; nobody scalped, except a couple of the Sioux. They put a hole through Jenny’s ear, though.”

“The low-down villains!” grumbled Harry. “Abused the beautiful ear of my Jenny, did they? When I come along I’ll bring her an earring. Reckon a little bale of hay would please her most: an earring to represent a little bale of hay. And a cob of corn for the other ear, if she gets a hole through that too. Say,” he asked, “you didn’t see Sol Judy in those parts, did you?”

“No. Is Sol around there?”

“Yep. He’s a scout at Fort McPherson, helping guard the line.” That was good news. Sol Judy was another old friend. He dated away back to the Kansas ranch, where he’d appeared on his way from California. And he’d been with them in the Colorado gold diggin’s, and had driven stage and scouted along the Overland; and now here he was again, still doing his share of work while the country grew.

“Our whole family’s joining in with the U. P., looks like,” Harry added.

“All except my mother and George’s mother and Virgie.” Virgie was George Stanton’s sister. “And I bet you they’ll be on the job some way, before we get done with it.”

“You win,” Harry chuckled. “That’s their style—right up and coming. Well, let’s go to dinner. How’d you like fried ham and saleratus biscuits?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Yesterday I had saleratus biscuits and fried ham, today we’ll have fried ham and saleratus biscuits; tomorrow there’ll be just biscuits and ham. It’s a great system.”

They ate in the section house, at a board table covered with oilcloth. After dinner they swapped yarns and visited, while Harry busied himself dispatching or attending to the people who dropped in. A passenger train from the west came through, and a freight.

About three o’clock Harry took another message, and reported on it.

“Now you can get out of here. There’ll be a freight along in about half an hour.” That was welcome news.

“From the east, you mean?”

“Yep.”

“Hooray,” Terry cheered. “I’ll be on the job again in the morning.”

But Harry scowled as he jiggled his telegraph key.

“Dead once more,” he complained.

“Who?”

“The line west.”

“Maybe the operator up there’s asleep.”

“No. It’s lack of juice. I can tell. Something’s busted.”

“Injuns did it, huh?”

“Naw, don’t think so. Ever since that buck tore a wire out and tried to ride off with it, and lightning struck the line a mile or so beyond and killed him and his pony both, the Injuns have let the Talking Spirit alone. ’Cept of course they shoot the insulators off, now and then. And the Overlanders chop the poles for firewood and use a piece of wire when they want to fix their wagons. At least, they do that on the other side the river, and I reckon they reach over and do it on this side. And the poles make mighty fine scratch sticks for the buffalo to rub against.”

The Overland Telegraph Company’s line across continent followed the stage road, south of the Platte; the Union Pacific Railroad line followed the rails on this side of the river. But when the railroad was finished, there would likely be only the one line.

“What are you going to do?” Terry asked.

“Find Bill Thompson. The break’s between here and Willow.”

“Who’s Bill Thompson?”

“Head lineman. He’ll have to get out and fix it. You stay here and keep shop while I hunt Bill.”

“Supposing the freight comes along,” queried Terry. “Do I jump it?”

“Nary a jump,” Harry answered, from the door. “Let her come. She dassn’t run through without orders from the boss, and that’s Harry Revere, chief lightning-shooter, station-agent, ticket-seller, express-toter, freight-slinger, baggage-wrecker and baby-tender. I’ll be back and tell ’em what to do.”

He was gone about twenty minutes, and returned considerably flustered.

“Bill’s fishing. Dog-gone him! He never catches anything, either. He went up the Platte or down the Platte; left word he was going down, so probably he’s up. Now traffic on the Union Pacific Railroad will have to wait on Bill. I’ve got people hunting him.”

The freight pulled in. The engine stood fuming; the crew lolled about; yes, everything and everybody waited on Bill Thompson. Terry felt that he was losing valuable time. This was pretty tough. He wanted to be on his way.

Bill appeared, breathless, at half-past four—and he hadn’t caught a single fish, either. Now he had to get his men together and his handcar out.

“How far’s he going?” Terry demanded, struck with an idea.

“As far as Willow, anyway. North Platte, maybe, if he takes the notion,” said Harry. “There’s better fishing at North Platte—and better eating, too. Besides, he’s got a girl up there, at an all-night hash counter.”

“Gee, then! Why can’t Shep and I go too?” Terry proposed.

“Sure thing. There’s nothing like a handcar, for seeing the country from. Climb aboard. Tell Bill I sent you.”

“But won’t the freight pass us?”

“Not till you get to Willow. It’ll have to wait till Bill gives the O. K. These freights are mighty uncertain—they’re strictly limited. When they don’t happen to be moving they’re standing still, waiting for something. The main business of a freight crew on this line seems to be hunting a side-track. So if you’re really in a hurry you’d better take the handcar.”

“All right. Good-by.” And Terry ran for the handcar.

“I’ll see you at Salt Lake,” called Harry, after.

The handcar crew were about ready. They numbered four, in broad-brimmed slouch hats, flannel shirts, and trousers tucked into heavy boots. They were just stowing their climbing irons and other tools on the car, and a couple of rifles, also.

Bill Thompson, the red-faced head lineman, with whiskers on his chin, granted Terry a sharp look.

“What’s the matter, bub?”

“Harry said I could go up track with you, if you don’t mind.”

“An’ the dawg too?”

“Yes, please.”

“An’ ’ow fur might you be goin’?” By his speech Bill was English.

“Clear to North Platte, if I can. I’ve got a job with the track-laying gang at end o’ track.”

“You ’ave, ’ave you? H’all right. H’aint afraid o’ h’Injuns, h’are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Needn’t be scared of Injuns, boy,” remarked one of the other men, as Terry and Shep hopped aboard together. “They don’t bother the track. These here guns are for antelope. You sit at one end, out of the way, and hold your dog where he won’t be stepped on.”

With a running start they were off. Harry waved from the station door.

Shep lay braced, considerably astonished; but he was a wise old dog, and put his trust in his master. Terry sat with his legs hanging over the rear end of the car; the men, two to a bar, pumped regularly; the car gathered way, and moved clanking over the rails. This assuredly beat riding upon a train, because a fellow was right outdoors and could see everywhere.

It was sort of go-as-you-please, too. The men kept close watch of the telegraph line; now and then they stopped the car, and one of them put on his climbing irons and shinned up a pole, to inspect. But they didn’t find the break, yet. Meanwhile the sun sank lower and lower, and presently entered a bank of clouds in the west. Dusk began to gather; the plains seemed very quiet and lonely, and the handcar small and lost.

What with the frequent stops, to investigate, darkness was making everything dim when they rolled into Plum Creek station. Plum Creek was as lonely as the country around; the station was locked and the agent evidently had gone for the night.

“’E wouldn’t know h’anything, any’ow,” remarked Bill Thompson. “’E h’ain’t a h’operator.”

They bowled on, through Plum Creek, and into the darkness.

“’Ow’s a man expected to see a broken wire this time o’ day?” Bill grumbled.

“’Tisn’t day; it’s night.”

“Right you h’are,” he answered. “We’ll go h’on to Willow an’ find out if h’anybody there knows h’anything. An’ when we’re at Willow we’re ’alf way to North Platte, aye? Might as well go on to North Platte, aye? H’are you game? North Platte’s a proper kind o’ place. ’Bout time this line was inspected clear through, h’anyway. Climb a pole, one o’ you, an’ test out. We’re liable to pass that break unbeknown.”

With a torch, one of the men climbed a pole.

“I can raise ’em east, but I can’t get ’em, west,” he called down. “The break’s on ahead still. I see a light, ’way up track.”

“What kind o’ light?”

“First I thought it was a train a-comin’. Doesn’t seem to move, though. It’s ’round a curve. You fellers on the ground can’t see it.”

“Trampers, maybe.”

“Or the h’operator from Willow is tryin’ to fix that break ’imself,” added Bill. “Come down an’ we’ll go h’up.”

So the man came down from the pole, and the handcar moved on, pump-pump, clank-clank, with everybody peering ahead.

Yes, after a time they could glimpse the light, before, where the track led. It flickered ruddily, but did not move. Looked to be a bonfire.

“I don’t see any figgers at it,” said one of the men.

“They must be workin’ on the wire,” said Bill. “Or else layin’ an’ toastin’ their shins.”

“You don’t reckon it’s Injuns, do you?”

“What’d h’Injuns be doin’ with a big fire to show their whereabouts?” Bill reproved. “H’anyway, ’ere we come.”

The distance lessened, and the bonfire grew plainer. It was a hundred yards before, on the curve—it was seventy-five yards—it was fifty yards; the handcar had slackened, while everybody gazed curiously; and suddenly, as if out of the very ground, there had sprung into ruddy view on both sides of the track a dozen figures, ahorse and afoot.

Bill yelped alarmed.

“H’Injuns, boys! Don’t stop. Give it to her! We’ll run right through ’em!”

The men bowed their backs. The handcar fairly jumped as it charged the fire and the figures. Hanging hard and squirming flat, Terry held his breath. A moment more, and ’midst a chorus of yells they were there, running the gauntlet. Then, to a violent crash, they and the car were hurtling together, high in the air.