“Don’t point that damn thing at my stomach.”
“Ha, ha!” laughed the fireman, with unnatural loudness. “Have your joke, boys.”
“This ain’t no joke,” said the foremost figure, its breath bellying out the mask at its mouth.
“Sure it is,” insisted the shoeless one. “Must be—we ain’t got anything worth stealing.”
“Get into your clothes and come along. We won’t hurt you.” The two obeyed and were taken to the sleeping engine and there instructed to produce a full head of steam in thirty minutes or suffer a premature taking off and a prompt elision from the realms of applied mechanics. As stimulus to their efforts two of the men stood over them till the engine began to sob and sigh reluctantly. Through the gloom that curtained the cab they saw other dim forms materializing and climbing silently on to the cars behind; then, as the steam-gauge touched the mark, the word was given and the train rumbled out from its shelter, its shrill plaint at curb and crossing whipped away and drowned in the storm.
Slapjack remained in the cab, gun in lap, while Dextry climbed back to Glenister. He found the young man in good spirits, despite the discomfort of his exposed position, and striving to light his pipe behind the shelter of his coat.
“Is the dynamite aboard?” the old man questioned.
“Sure. Enough to ballast a battle-ship.”
As the train crept out of the camp and across the river bridge, its only light or glimmer the sparks that were snatched and harried by the blast, the partners seated themselves on the powder cases and conversed guardedly, while about them sounded the low murmur of the men who risked their all upon this cry to duty, who staked their lives and futures upon this hazard of the hills, because they thought it right.
“We’ve made a good fight, whether we win or lose to-night,” said Dextry.