For the next hour Brainard sat with his nerves on edge, his mind keenly alert to some impending danger. Suddenly the train drew up with a forcible application of the emergency brakes that brought the passengers to their feet. All the men in the car streamed out to the vestibules, and Brainard among them, to see what had happened.
X
“Only a bridge gone,” was the word disgustedly handed back from mouth to mouth. There had been an unusual fall of rain in the arid country to the north, and for a few hours one of the arroyos had become a boiling flood, which had swept away a substantial new bridge. The passengers straggled forward to the scene of trouble.
In the curious half light of the sun sinking into the desert behind and illuminating all the vast high plain with a brilliant reddish light, the huddle of passengers along the right of way and the stalled cars seemed singularly out of place, accentuating the desolate loneliness of the country, where for miles and miles as far as the eye could reach nothing was to be seen rising above the sagebrush and cactus except a range of misty, purple mountains a few miles to the south and a huge water tank a mile or two in the rear. On either side of the petty stream that had already subsided to its normal shallow condition several trains had been caught and held by the loss of the bridge, the Eastern Limited being the last to join the confusion. The passengers on these various trains had mingled along the right of way and were watching the efforts of a large gang of laborers to build a temporary track across the gully, which was almost completed. Some of the passengers had been there since early morning, and these greeted the newcomers from the Limited with joking inquiries about the state of the larder on their train. It was a good hundred miles in either direction to any station possessing a lunch counter, and the question of supper was becoming of serious importance to the less fortunate travelers. As Brainard talked with some of these passengers from the East, he was given a newspaper brought on the last train. It was the Sunday morning Albuquerque Star. Brainard drew to one side and scanned its pages by the fading light. It did not take long for him to find what he was seeking. On the front page of the first section, in the place of honor, there was an associated press dispatch from San Francisco, describing the sensational robbery in the office of a prominent business man. It told without material exaggeration the events of the afternoon before; there was no hint that the affair was more than a daring, but common burglary by a reckless and experienced hand. Brainard rather resented this aspect of the story. In conclusion it said that the authorities had strong clews and expected to lay their hands on the robber before he would have any chance to dispose of the more valuable part of his haul. Brainard handed the paper back to its owner, chatted for a few moments longer about their common predicament, then strolled thoughtfully back the way he had come.
His was almost the last car of the three trains on the westerly side of the arroyo, and as he picked his way beside the track he could hear the few elderly ladies that had not left their seats talking about the delay. It amused him to think what they would say, if they knew that their quiet, well-dressed fellow traveler was the hero of the tale he had just read in the Albuquerque Star. There was a peaceful calm here in the rear, for even the porters and the train hands had gone forward to watch the operations of the laborers. The engines puffed slumberously; there was an intense stillness in the air; the sun had just disappeared, leaving a dull red glow in its place.
It was perfectly evident to Brainard that he could not hope to reach Albuquerque without arrest; he must leave the train at the next station of any size, but even that was extremely risky. With searching eyes he examined the country, which was now sinking imperceptibly into the vagueness of dusk. There was nothing for miles in any direction for the eye to rest upon but cactus and forlorn sagebrush, except that lonely water tank in the rear. There were the mountains, to be sure, but they were many miles away, and he knew that he could never reach them alone with his bag, even if he were sure that he could find a refuge in them. No, it would be suicidal to attempt an escape in this desert! Whatever came, he must run the risk of waiting until the train stopped at some more favorable place. He had come to this conclusion, standing beside the rear platform of the last car, where he could get an uninterrupted view of the vast landscape and was about to seek the seclusion of his own little room, when his eye caught sight of an object in the cactus not far from the track. He soon made out the moving figure of a small horse and a rider, and waited with curiosity to see what sort of person would appear in this desolate country.
The horse dropped to a walk, then halted altogether, as if timid, but soon approached at a slow walk. As far as Brainard could see, the figure was that of a young girl, riding astride a rough yellow pony. The pony crawled within a few yards of the cars, then refused to go farther in spite of its rider’s efforts with a quirt to overcome his fear. Brainard walked down the track nearer them.
“Good evenin’, stranger,” the girl called out. “What’s all the trouble he-ar?”
“Bridge gone,” Brainard replied succinctly. “Live around here?”
“A ways back, up yonder!” The girl hitched a shoulder in the direction of the south.