They slid into a straight stretch of road beyond the Junction, and the track shone yellow far ahead, where the engine looked down upon it with its single eye. Each minute their speed increased. A steady jarring and pounding had begun that grew into a dull and ponderous roar as the engine rushed forward. Dan kept a sharp watch for the freight.
As Durks had said, it might be on the siding at Parker's Rim, and it might not. In the latter event, his and his father's troubles would soon be at an end.
He rose from his seat and went to the door of the cab.
“We'll take it easy for the first ten miles or so, then we'll be in the fire, and that will be our time to hit her up.”
Roger Oakley nodded his acquiescence. In what he conceived to be worldly matters he was quite willing to abide by Dan's judgment, for which he had profound respect.
“How fast are we going?” he asked. Dan steadied himself and listened, with a finger on his pulse, until he caught the rhythmic swing of the engine, as it jarred from one rail to another. Then he said: “Twenty-five miles an hour.”
“It ain't very fast, is it, Dannie?”
He was evidently disappointed.
“We'll do twice that presently.”
The old convict looked relieved. They were running now with a strip of forest on one side of the track and cultivated fields on the other, but with each rod they covered they were edging in nearer the flames. At Parker's Rim the road crossed a little stream which doubled back in the direction of Buckhorn Junction. There was nothing after that to stay the progress of the fire, and the rest of their way lay through the blazing pine-woods.