“All right. But be careful.”
The train-hand ran off over the cars, while Bob, pistol in hand, sat down to watch for any movement Casco might make.
It was a novel situation, but it cannot be said that Bob enjoyed it.
Five minutes passed. Bob wondered how long the train-hand expected to be gone. Every second seemed ten to the young photographer.
Suddenly with a shriek of the whistle the freight train slowed up, and came very nearly to a stop. The train-hand appeared, but, instead of helping Bob, began to put on brakes as fast as possible.
“Better watch your man,” he cried. “I’ve got to obey the whistle.”
Bob did watch, and almost instantly saw Casco spring from the open car into a patch of brushwood. The scar-faced man tumbled over, but at once arose, and ran off through the darkness.
The young photographer’s first impulse was to follow. But then he reasoned that the darkness was against him, and the district was one entirely unknown to him.
“He’s gone,” he said to the train-hand as the whistle came to loosen brakes again.
“Skipped, did he?”