The cottage was a mass of ruins, burnt and water-soaked, and beside it lay the tree the lightning had split, the top charred and blackened.
“Thank Heaven for that escape!” murmured Bob. “My! what a close shave!”
He was still bound, but by working steadily at the rope he, after an hour’s labor, managed to free himself.
He ached in every joint, but to this he scarcely gave attention. His one thought was of the gang and what they intended to do.
Approaching the cottage, he examined the ruins, but could see nothing of Horning’s remains. Whether or not the gang had buried the man the youth could not tell.
Bob knew that the express of which the men had spoken would leave Stampton at eight o’clock and would arrive in Dartinville at eight-thirty, making no stop excepting on flag.
It must now be seven or half-past. He must hurry. If the train and its passengers were to be saved, there was no time to lose.
Bob knew it was at least a mile and a half to the railroad track, and two miles to the nearest way station. Could he cover that distance in time?
“I’ll do it or die in the attempt!” muttered the brave youth. “If I only had a horse!”
But there was no horse in sight, nor, indeed, any farm-house where one might be procured. All was dark and lonely.