ck on the run with red lights and torpedoes to warn the
second section well up the hill. Then walking across from his caboose,
he got under the lee of the hind Pullman sleeper to watch for the
expected headlight.

The storm increased in violence. It was not the rain driving in
torrents, not the lightning blazing, nor the deafening crashes of
thunder, that worried him, but the wind--it blew a gale. In the blare of
the lightning he could see the oaks which crowned the bluffs whip like
willows in the storm. It swept quartering down the Beverly cut as if it
would tear the ties from under the steel. Suddenly he saw, far up in the
black sky, a star blazing; it was the headlight of Second Seventy-Seven.

A whistle cut the wind; then another. It was the signal for brakes; the
second section was coming down the steep grade. He wondered how far back
his man had got with the bombs. Even as he wondered he saw a yellow
flash below the headlight; it was the first torpedo. The second section
was already well down the top of the hill. Could they hold it to the
bottom?

Like an answer came shorter and sharper the whistle for brakes. Ben
thought he knew who was on that engine; thought he knew that
whistle--for engineers whistle as differently as they talk. He still
hoped and believed--knowing who was on the engine--that the brakes would
hold the heavy load; but he feared--

A man running up in the rain passed him. Ben shouted and held up his
lantern; it was his head brakeman.

"Who's pulling Second Seventy-Seven?" he cried.

"Andy Cameron."

"How many air cars has he got?"

"Six or eight," shouted Ben. "It's the wind, Daley--the wind. Andy can
hold her if anybody can. But the wind; did you ever see such a blow?"

Even while he spoke the cry for brakes came a third time on the storm.

A frightened Pullman porter opened the rear door of the sleeper. Five
hundred people lay in the excursion train, unconscious of this avalanche
rolling down upon them.

The conductor of the flyer ran up to Ben in a panic.

"Buckley, they'll telescope us."

"Can you pull ahead any?"

"The bridge is out."

"Get out your passengers," said Ben's brakeman.

"There's no time," cried the passenger conductor, wildly, running off.
He was panic-stricken. The porter tried to speak. He took hold of the
brakeman's arm, but his voice died in his throat; fear paralyzed him.
Down the wind came Cameron's whistle clamoring now in alarm. It meant
the worst,