“Yes,” we answered in concert.
“Then jump—all together!”
And away we went, leaving the rude steps of the freight cars with an impetus that took each several yards from the tracks. I made a straight leap and landed on my feet, but as quickly rolled over on my shoulder in the wet grass. Burnham came close to me, but took a header, which filled his nose and one ear with black mud. Alano and his father were on the opposite side of the track.
A pistol shot rang out, followed by half a dozen more, but the bullets did not reach any of us. In a moment the long train had rolled out of sight. We watched its rear light for fully an eighth of a mile, when it disappeared around a bend behind a bit of upland.
“Hullo, Mark, how are you?” It was the voice of Alano, who came up on the tracks directly the freight had passed. He was not hurt in the least. Captain Guerez had scratched one arm on a bit of low brush, but outside of this the entire party was uninjured.
“Come now, follow me; there is no time to be lost,” said the captain. “Those soldiers may take it into their heads to have the train run back in search of us.”
“Yes, that’s true,” said Burnham. “Which way now?”
“We’ll walk back on the tracks until we reach dry ground.”