Part 22 (1/2)

”You see,” said P. Walton to himself, as though summing up an argument dispa.s.sionately, ”ditching a train travelling pretty near a mile a minute is apt to result in a few casualties, and Nulty might get hurt, and if he didn't, the first thing they'd do would be to pa.s.s him out for keeps, anyway, on Spud's account. They're not a very gentle lot--I remember the night back at Joliet that Larry and the Butcher walked out with the guards' clothes on, after cracking the guards' skulls.

They're not a very gentle lot, and I guess they've been to some little trouble fixing up for to-night--enough so's they won't feel pleasant at having it spoiled. I guess”--P. Walton coughed--”I won't need that ticket for the _heat_ of Northern Queensland. I guess”--he ended gravely--”I guess I'm going to h.e.l.l.”

P. Walton put his head out through the window and listened--and nodded his head.

”Sound carries a long way out here in the foothills,” he observed.

”They ought to hear it on the mail train as soon as we get close--and I guess we're close enough now to start it.”

P. Walton got down, and, clutching at the cab-frame for support, lifted up the cover of the engineer's seat--there was sure to be something there among the tools that would do. P. Walton's hand came out with a heavy piece of cord. He turned then, pulled the whistle lever down, tied it down--and, screaming now like a lost soul, the 229 reeled on through the night.

The minutes pa.s.sed--and then the pace began to slacken. Dalheen was always rated a good fireman, and a wizard with the shovel, but even Dalheen had his limitations--and P. Walton hadn't helped him out any.

The steam was dropping pretty fast as the 229 started to climb a grade.

P. Walton stared anxiously about him. It must be eleven minutes now since he had started from the Big Cloud yards, but how far had he come?

Was he going to stop too soon after all? What was the matter? P.

Walton's eyes on the track ahead dilated suddenly, and, as suddenly, he reached for the throttle and slammed it shut--he was not going to stop too soon--perhaps not soon enough.

Larry, the Butcher, Big Tom, and Dago Pete had chosen their position well. A hundred yards ahead, the headlight played on a dismantled roadbed and torn-up rails, then shot off into nothingness over the embankment as the right of way swerved sharply to the right they had left no single loophole for Extra No. 34, not even a fighting chance--the mail train would swing the curve and be into the muck before the men in her cab would be able to touch a lever.

Screaming hoa.r.s.ely, the 229 slowed, b.u.mped her pony truck on the ties where there were no longer any rails jarred, bounced, and thumped along another half dozen yards--and brought up with a shock that sent P.

Walton reeling back on the coal in the tender.

A dark form, springing forward, bulked in the left-hand gangway--and P.

Walton recognized the Butcher.

”Keep out, Butch!” he coughed over the scream of the whistle--and the Butcher in his surprise sort of sagged mechanically back to the ground.

”It's de Dook!” he yelled, with a gasp; and then, as other forms joined him, he burst into a torrent of oaths. ”What de blazes are you doin'!”

he bawled. ”De train 'll be along in a minute, if you ain't queered it already--cut out that cursed whistle! Cut it out, d'ye hear, or we'll come in there an' do it for you in a way you won't like--have you gone nutty?”

”Try it,” invited P. Walton--and coughed again. ”You won't have far to come, but I'll drop you if you do. I've changed my mind--there isn't going to be any wreck to-night. You'd better use what time is left in making your getaway.”

”So that's it, is it!” roared another voice. ”You dirty pup, you'd squeal on your pals, would you, you white-livered snitch, you! Well, take that!”

There was a flash, a lane of light cut streaming through the darkness, and a bullet lodged with an angry spat on the coal behind P. Walton's head. Another and another followed. P. Walton smiled, and flattened himself down on the coal. A form leaped for the gangway--and P. Walton fired. There was a yell of pain and the man dropped back. Then P.

Walton heard some of them running around behind the tender, and they came at him from both sides, firing at an angle through both gangways.

Yells, oaths, revolver shots and the screech of the whistle filled the air--and again P. Walton smiled--he was. .h.i.t now, quite badly, somewhere in his side.

His brain grew sick and giddy. He fired once, twice more unsteadily--then the revolver slipped from his fingers. From somewhere came another whistle--they weren't firing at him any more, they were running away, and--P. Walton tried to rise--and pitched back unconscious.

Nulty, the first man out from the mail train, found him there, and, wondering, his face set and grim, carried P. Walton to the express car.

They made a mattress for him out of chair cus.h.i.+ons, and laid him on the floor--and there, a few minutes later, Regan and Carleton, from the wrecker, after a look at the 229 and the wrecked track that spoke eloquently for itself, joined the group.

Carleton knelt and looked at P. Walton--then looked into Nulty's face.

Nulty, bending over P. Walton on the other side, shook his head.

”He's past all hope,” he said gruffly.