CHAPTER I
THE MARK OF DEATH
THE MOUNTAIN LIMITED was clicking slowly over the rails that trail through the highest and wildest land in America — the western slope of the Rockies. Speed was cut down as the big special labored toward the highest point on its line — nearly seven thousand feet above sea level.
Midnight had struck.
Outside, the gloomy mountains hung over the track; seemed about to close in on it, and wipe out the train and all its passengers.
Within the club car of the train, only a handful of men remained in the comfortable chairs.
All of these were dozing away, with the exception of one who sat at the end of the car, puffing furiously at a pipe that was no longer alight. His lips twitched, his eyes blinked furiously, and every time one of his dozing companions stirred, he whirled around quickly, as though the sound had some hideous portent.
Pulling a watch from his pocket, he gave it a hurried glance, then allowed his eyes to wander around the car. Satisfied that no one was observing him, he crossed quickly to the writing desk.
His hand shook, partly from nervousness and partly from the swaying of the train. Making no effort to control the blotching of the pen, he pushed it rapidly across the paper. There was something furtive in his haste.
Finally he signed his name — Stephen Laird — and blotted the letter. Just then one of the other men in the car mumbled something drowsily, and Laird thrust the letter into his pocket. He leaned back and assumed an air of nonchalance that was obviously false.