There were no identifying marks on the containers and Tim and Ralph were careful not to disturb more than the one they had pulled into view.
The whistle of the special from Vinton sounded and when they climbed back to the level floor of the valley, they saw the stubby three car train grinding to a halt.
Behind the engine were two cars loaded with construction material, new rails and ties and fresh ballast. The last car was a passenger coach which was disgorging half a hundred workmen. A doctor, nurse and several railroad officials also got off the rear car and hastened toward the injured fireman.
“Benson will soon be out of his agony,” said Tim. “What a night he must have had, lying there with the flames all around and practically helpless because of his broken leg.”
A telegraph operator who had come down on the special was busy shinning up a telegraph pole to cut in his instrument and place the scene of the fire in communication with the dispatcher and other points on the division.
“I’m going to have that fellow telegraph for our fingerprint expert to meet you at Atkinson,” said the colonel. “You boys fly back home, write your stories, and bring him back. It will save hours over the best train connections he could make, and he may be able to read a surprising story if there are any fingerprints on these empty oil cans.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tim and Ralph left the colonel and started for the Good News. On their way they passed over a small, level piece of ground. Two strange looking marks, about six feet apart and from thirty to forty feet long, attracted Tim’s attention and he stopped to examine them.
“Trying to read 'footprints in the sands of time’?” asked Ralph.
“Not exactly footprints,” grinned Tim, “but these marks didn’t just get here. Someone made them and I’d like to know what for.”