“Dropped—my—gun.”
Kales spaced his words widely, and frowned heavily as if in deep thought.
“I knowed that it took one torpedo to stop the train.”
He stopped and took a deep breath.
“Women and children—men—the—bridge—gone. No—gun—so—I——”
Kales tried to smile but only succeeded in contorting his homely face.
“The wind was too strong—blew—the—cartridge—off—the—rail—so—I——”
He licked his lips and tried to lift his injured hand, but the effort was too great. “I—I held it on the rail.”
“God!” cried the engineer wonderingly. “He lost his hand from holding a cartridge on the track.”
“A hired gunman,” said Skeeter Bill softly. “A paid killer.”