But Kales managed to grasp Bowen by the arm and yell into his ear:
“The train, you —— fool! It’ll go into the river; don’t yuh understand? Nothin’ can stop it!”
Kales sprang to his feet and staggered on to the track just as two indistinct figures appeared out of the murk, coming from toward the bridge. They had discovered their shattered lantern and had come to investigate.
One of them fired at Kales, and the report of the gun sounded like the weak pop of a toy pistol. Kales staggered back as he swung up his carbine and fired. More men were coming out of the gloom, and Kales’ men began shooting blindly.
Kales had been hit through the shoulder. After firing one shot his heel caught in the rail and he fell backward off the road-bed. Another whirl of rain blotted out the world, except for short, orange-colored flashes which seemed to dart here and there.
Kales got back to his feet, dizzy and sick, fighting to stay upright. He was a gunman, an outlaw, a man without a conscience; but the thought of that train running off the rail-ends of that ruined bridge, plunging into the swollen torrent, was as a nightmare to him.
Blindly he started down the track toward town, stumbling, weaving in the wind, which tore at his slicker with the tenacity of a bulldog. His left arm was useless, but with his right hand he clutched his six-shooter, while his lips repeated continually, as if he was afraid he might forget—
“One shot—close to trucks.”
It was as a dream to Skeeter Bill—this looking into the eyes of Mary Leeds; and the awakening came when Freel yanked sharply on the handcuff. It was then that Mary Leeds shifted her eyes and saw that Skeeter Bill was linked to this other man. His eyes shifted to the other occupant of the seat and looked into the face of Mrs. Porter, erstwhile washer of shirts for Sunbeam town.