The match went out. Laird’s head was facing forward, looking straight back along the dropping tracks that stretched to the coast.
The train rattled as it bumped over a switch point and onto the double-tracked roadbed that indicated a bypass. A signal post appeared.
It carried a single green light. Laird’s eyes focused on that glare. His body shook with an irresistible shudder. That single disk of brilliant green had awakened some horrible memory in his mind!
He mumbled: “Green! Green! Like those other lights — like those awful eyes!”
The words were not loud enough for the man who had stolen the speaker’s letter to distinguish. His side of the platform was wrapped in a blanket of clickings and grumblings as a long line of darkened sleepers passed by, bound west.
Brakes ground as the eastbound limited slowed. A crying gasp sounded on the observation platform. It rose to a crescendo that was completely obscured by the noise of the brakes and the passing train. Finally it sank to a gasping moan.
The observation platform was dark. The brakeman who climbed over the rear railing noticed nothing as he swung his lantern over the right side of the platform for an increase in speed.
The limited picked up speed on the easy down grade to Truckee. The brakeman, his work done, turned to go into the car. His red lantern swung within a foot of the chair that Laird had been occupying. The light showed the huddled, motionless form of a man. His head was forward on his chest. His breath was coming in short, audible gasps.
The brakeman set down the lantern and shook the huddled body. There was no response. Quickly the train hand swung the helpless man into the closed part of the car, and dropped him on a long couch.
The light in the car showed a horrible sight. Stephen Laird’s chest was covered with blood. His coat and vest were ripped to shreds. He had been brutally stabbed!