presence known
to outsiders. Rod could reach the door with his foot. A quick push, the
welcome click of the latch as it sprang sharply into place, and the plan
was carried out.

It took Bill, the young tramp, several minutes to find out what had
happened, and that the door could not be opened from the inside. When he
finally realized his position he broke out with a torrent of yells and
threats against his recent companions. It never occurred to him that Rod
had closed the door. He imagined that it must have been done from the
outside, by one of his fellow thieves, and his rage against them knew no
bounds. If he had for a moment suspected the captive, whom he regarded as
helplessly bound, he would undoubtedly have directed his fury towards him,
and Rod might have suffered severely at his hands. As it was, he only
yelled and kicked against the door until the train began to slow up at the
top of the grade. Then, fearful of attracting undesirable attention, he
subsided into a sullen silence.

While these things were happening to Rod, Brakeman Joe was suffering even
greater misfortunes. His left arm had been broken by the pistol shot, that
was one of the first sounds of the fight by which the young stockman was
awakened; and when he started in pursuit of the flying tramp, he was
weaker than he realized, from loss of blood. The tramp quickly discovered
that he could easily keep out of his pursuer's way. Judging from this that
the Brakeman must be either wounded or exhausted, he gradually slackened
his pace, until Joe was close upon him. Then springing to one side, and
whirling around, the tramp dealt the poor fellow a blow on the head with
the butt of a revolver, that stretched him senseless across the rails of
the west-bound track. After satisfying himself that his victim was not in
a condition to molest him again for some time to come, and brutally
leaving him where he had fallen, directly in the path of the next
west-bound train, the tramp began leisurely to retrace his steps toward
Freight Number 73, in the plunder of which he now hoped to take a part.

CHAPTER XIII.

HOW BRAKEMAN JOE WAS SAVED.

For ten minutes Brakeman Joe lies insensible and motionless, just as
he fell. His own train has gone on without him, and now another is
approaching. Its shrill whistle sounds near at hand, and the rails, across
which the helpless form is stretched, are already quivering with the
thrill of its coming. There seems no