The caboose was foggy with dust, and the oil lamps hardly made light enough for them to see the spots on the worn dice.
Suddenly the draw-bars clanked together and the caboose began stopping by jerks. Sleepy swore painfully, when it jerked him upright. The engine whistled shrilly, and the train ground to a stop. The conductor peered out, swore softly and picked up his lantern.
“Must be just about to the Tumbling River bridge,” he said.
“How far is it from town?” asked Sleepy.
“Couple of miles,” said the brakeman.
He too had picked up his lantern, and they went outside. A moment later the brakeman sprang back onto the steps.
“Bridge on fire,” he said. “Lightnin’ must have struck it.”
He lifted the top off a seat and took out several fuses which he tucked under his arm, picked up a red lantern and hurried out to flag down the track. Hashknife put on his sombrero and climbed off the caboose. It was a long way to the front end of the train, and the wind threatened to blow him off the side of the fill at any time.
The Tumbling River bridge was about a hundred and fifty feet across, built high above the stream. It was mostly of timber construction and one span of it was burning merrily.
Hashknife found the conductor and engineer looking over, both decided that it would be folly to try to run it. It had evidently been burning for quite a while.