-y?

It was the Jackson operator calling; Callahan jumped to the key. "What's
that?" he asked, quick as lightning could dash it.

"Twelve or fourteen cars coal passed here, fully forty miles an hour,
headed east, driven by the wi--"

That was all J could send, for Ogalalla broke in. Ogalalla is the
station just west of Jackson. And with Callahan's copper hair raising
higher at every letter, this came from Ogalalla: "Heavy gust caught
twelve coal cars on side track, sent them out on main line off down the
grade."

They were already past Jackson, eight miles away, headed east, and
running down hill. Callahan's eyes turned like hares to the train sheet.
59, going west, was due _that minute_ to leave Callendar. From Callendar
to Griffin is a twenty-miles' run. There is a station between, but in
those days no night operator. The runaway coal-train was then less than
thirty miles west of Griffin, coming down a forty-mile grade like a
cannon ball. If 59 could be stopped at Callendar, she could be laid by
in five minutes, out of the way of the certain destruction ahead of her
on the main line. Callahan seized the key, and began calling "Cn." He
pounded until the call burned into his fingers. It was an age before
Callendar answered; then Callahan's order flew:

"Hold 59. Answer quick."

And Callendar answered: "59 just pulling out of upper yard. Too late to
stop her. What's the matter?"

Callahan struck the table with his clinched fist, looked wildly about
him, then sprang from the chair, ran to the window, and threw up the
sash. The moon shone a bit through the storm of sand, but there was not
a soul in sight. There were lights in the round-house a hundred yards
across the track. He pulled a revolver--every railroad man out there
carried one those days--and, covering one of the round-house windows,
began firing. It was a risk. There was one chance, maybe, to a thousand
of his killing a night man. But there were a thousand chances to one
that a whole train-load of men and women would be killed inside of
thirty minutes if he couldn't get help. He chose a window in the
machinists' section, where he knew no one usually went at night. He
poured bullets into the unlucky casement as fast as powder could carry
them. Reloading rapidly, he watched the round-house door; and, sure
enough, almost at once, it was cautiously opened. Then he fired into
the air--one, two, three, four, five, six--and he saw a man start for
the station o