"Six or eight," shouted Ben. "It's the wind, Daley—the wind. Andy can hold her if anybody can. But the wind; did you ever see such a blow?"
Even while he spoke the cry for brakes came a third time on the storm.
A frightened Pullman porter opened the rear door of the sleeper. Five hundred people lay in the excursion train, unconscious of this avalanche rolling down upon them.
The conductor of the flyer ran up to Ben in a panic.
"Buckley, they'll telescope us."
"Can you pull ahead any?"
"The bridge is out."
"Get out your passengers," said Ben's brakeman.
"There's no time," cried the passenger conductor, wildly, running off. He was panic-stricken. The porter tried to speak. He took hold of the brakeman's arm, but his voice died in his throat; fear paralyzed him. Down the wind came Cameron's whistle clamoring now in alarm. It meant the worst, and Ben knew it. The stock-train was running away.
There were plenty of things to do if there was only time; but there was hardly time to think. The passenger crew were running about like men distracted, trying to get the sleeping travellers out. Ben knew they could not possibly reach a tenth of them. In the thought of what it meant, an inspiration came like a flash.