ming rails ahead, and
almost at the same instant the same thought sprang to the lips of
each--Big Ben, with his left hand at the throttle, hunched up on his
shelf, his cap pulled down over the bushy brows, and Geordie, across
the cab on the fireman's seat, clinging to the window-frame to
withstand the lurching of the throbbing monster, while between them, on
the coal-blackened floor, Toomey, with his big shovel flinging open the
iron gate to the blazing furnace for every new mouthful he fed it, and
snapping it shut when he turned away for another, for not a whiff of
the draught could be wasted. Once past the deserted station at the Fort
there would come eight miles of twisting and turning and struggling
up-grade, and every pound of steam would be needed to pull even this
baker's dozen of heavily laden cars now thundering merrily along
behind.

[Illustration: "NOT A WHIFF OF THE DRAUGHT COULD BE WASTED"]

Only two short, smooth miles ahead lay the low ridge that formed the
eastern boundary of the old reservation. Beyond it, on the broad
_mesa_, stood the buildings of the frontier garrison, once Geordie's
home and refuge. The tall flag-staff came suddenly into view, and in
less than four minutes they would be rushing by. Over forty miles to
the hour were they flying now. Big Ben had just let out another notch
as they swung into the two-mile tangent, when at the same instant he
and Geordie caught sight of three or four black dots dimly bobbing in
the midst of a little dust-cloud on the roadway far ahead, and almost
at the same instant came from each the low cry, "There they are!"

Toomey dropped his shovel and glanced forward over Ben's burly
shoulder, then, grabbing the vertical handrails on cab and tender,
leaned out and gazed astern. The wagon road twisted over the bleak
"divide" the train had just rounded, and, barring a team or two jogging
slowly into town, was bare of traffic. "No chasers so far," he shouted,
as he again stooped to his tools.

"No chasers but us could catch 'em," growled Ben. "We'll give 'em a
toot of the whistle!" he shouted across to Geordie, and the steam blast
shrieked through the keen morning air in obedience to the quick pull at
the cord.

And now 705 was fairly flying, the green flags at the rear flattened
like shingles in the whistling wind, and a cloud of mingled dust and
smoke rolling furiously after the caboose. Big Ben had "pulled her wide
open," and under full head of steam the