Not a sound came from the house; now the rails trembled; now he heard the hissing of the steam and the rattle of the rods; he saw the little curls of steam playing above the dome of the boiler. Like a black wall, the express came nearer, rushing, rumbling, hammering along the tracks. Yes, he would jump now—now that the engine was almost in front of him! The rush of air almost took his breath away. Now!
The engineer popped his head out of the little cab-window. Now! Tom bent double, and, with one tremendous leap he was across the narrow platform in front of his shanty, and flew like a ball against the line of rushing cars, of railings and steps and wheels. He felt his hand touching something—nothing but flat, smooth surfaces. At last! He had caught hold of something! With a tremendous swing, Tom's body was torn to the left, and his back banged against something. Something in his body seemed to give way. As in a dream, he heard two shots ring out above the fearful noise of the roaring train.
Too late! Tom was clinging to a railing between two cars and being dragged relentlessly along. He was almost unconscious, but could hear the wheels squeaking under the pressure of the brakes as he was hurled to and fro. But his hand held fast as in a vise. The wheels scraped, squeaked, and groaned. The train began to slow down! He had won! The train stood still.
Tom's body fell on the rail between two cars, almost lifeless; he heard a lot of steps all about him; people spoke to him and asked him questions. But his jaws were shut as if paralyzed; he couldn't speak a word. He felt the neck of a bottle being pushed between his lips, and the liquid running down his throat. It was something strong and invigorating, and he drank greedily. And then he suddenly shouted out loud, so that all the people stepped back horrified: "The station has been attacked by Japs."
Excited questions poured in from all sides. "Where from? What for?" Tom only cried: "Save the two others; they're shut up in the station!" More people collected round him. "Quick, quick!" he cried. "Run the train back and try to save them!"
Tom was lifted into a car and stretched out on a soft end-seat. Some of the passengers stood round him with their revolvers: "Tell us where it is! Tell us where they are!" Slowly the train moved back, slowly the telegraph poles slipped past the windows in the opposite direction.
Now they were there, and Tom heard wild cries on the platform. Then a door was pulled open and some one asked: "Where are the robbers?" Tom was lifted out, for his right shin-bone had been smashed and he couldn't stand. A stretcher was improvised, and he was carried out. Dozens of people were standing round the station. The wagon was gone, and so were the horses. Where to? The wide, deserted prairie gave no answer. A great many footprints in the sand showed at least that Tom had spoken the truth. He pointed out the holes made in the shutters by the bandits, and told the whole story a dozen times, until at last he fainted away again. When he came to half an hour later it all seemed like a horrible dream—like a scene from a robber's tale. He found himself in a comfortable Pullman car on the way to Umatilla, where he had to tell his story all over again, in order that the fairly hopeless pursuit of the highwaymen might be begun from there.