Again the low, seeking call among the hills. Then silence and the black river slipping by.
The fireman sprang to his place.
Tomlinson’s hand upon the lever quickened its hold, drawing it tense. “We take no chances,” he said. The engine trembled beneath and leaped to swifter stride. It swayed through the night. The furnace door flew open and heaven blazed with roar and glow and swift heat. The faces of the two men, lurid in the white glare, confronted each other. Then darkness, and the swift rush of steel on steel—crunching, heavy beats of sound—and the thrusting roar and smoke.... They were swinging the bend of the curve now, where the road leaves the river under the mountain to track across country. Tomlinson, his body half thrown from the cab, strained back, his peering eyes searching the distant curve. He drew his hand across them.
“She ’s there, Jim!.... Look!” The shaking hand flung the words.
The fireman leaped to his side. A glimmer—a flash—twinkled gleams on the far curve.
“It ’s Her!” muttered Tomlinson.
“86,” said the fireman.
“The heaviest on the road.” Tomlinson’s hand reached Up....
She was running at frightful speed. His quick eye gaged her flight as he sounded the high, shrill call of warning.... She had not slowed for the curve.... She was not slowing now! Again the whistle sounded its savage cry.
And the note came back—echoing among the hills in little peals that laughed.