TRAPPED
Hervey started north along the tracks in the darkness. Walking railroad
tracks is not so easy. The ties are not placed for the convenience of
the hiker and somehow he can never get into a good steady pace. Hervey
tried walking outside the tracks, but the ground was uneven and he could
not make good time. He was a little sorry he had not gone by the road.
Besides, he had to keep glancing behind him for the train which would
soon come thundering along.
After a little while he passed the switch tower and noted the cheery
light up in its little surmounting enclosure. He would have liked to
climb up that narrow ladder and make friends with the towerman. That
would have been right in his line. But even he was impressed with the
necessity of not losing time now. He wondered if anything (he did not
know exactly what) had happened in Farrelton since morning. They might
possibly have caught the originator of the hot tamale stunt and he might
have involved Hervey in a confession. But Hervey had faith in that
worthy’s ability not to be caught. It was very dark and lonesome in the
woods, but the shiny steel tracks somehow kept him cheery company as he
trudged along through the silent night.
Pretty soon he noticed there were four rails beneath him instead of two.
Two of these came into the main line in a sweeping curve from the
southeast, and Hervey reflected with satisfaction that he had reached
the convergence of the Wainboro branch with the main line. Well, he had
already hiked about three miles. The rails of the branch line had passed
the point of curvature and ran even with those of the main line; that
is, the left rail of the main line and the left rail of the branch line
ran parallel three or four inches apart. You may see this by glancing at
the sketch. A few yards ahead, as you will see, was Red Hill switch.
[Illustration]
Hervey was amusing himself by walking these two rails, one foot on
either rail, when suddenly the piercing scream of the locomotive caused
him to jump aside. The flaring headlight of the northbound train
illuminated a little area of woodland as it moved swiftly toward him; it
seemed to carry along a patch of glimmering forest. On, on it came,
invincible, resistless, utterly heedless of the poor little hiker as it
thundered by. What a clang and clamor in the solemn night. What a mere
trifle, its rush to Farrelton! What a wearisome journey to poor Hervey!
He resumed his rather interesting exploit of walking on the two rails.
At least, the train was off his mind. Suddenly, the right hand rail
moved, his foot slipped, he felt a pinching then a twinge of pain; he
tried to pull his foot free, lost his balance and fell. This strained
his ankle and caused excruciating pain. He scrambled to his feet,
pulling, jerking, squirming his foot while instinctively he cast a
terrified look north and south along the track. Then he stood
panic-stricken, listening. There was no sound except the steady hum of a
locust and the all but inaudible clang of the rushing train. Spent by
the increasing distance, this seemed to have merged into the lesser
voices of the night, low, far away, steady. Hervey’s right foot was held
as in a vise. Red Hill switch had caught him in its iron grip. Like a
great, lurking crocodile, it held his poor foot fast in its cruel,
locked jaws.
Hervey would perform any stunt conceivable, requiring only the incentive
of a dare, and not always that. He was not afraid of peril. But now he
was struck dumb with terror. With trembling hands he tried hurriedly to
unlace his imprisoned shoe, but he only succeeded in getting the
shoe-string in a hopeless knot. He tore at it and broke it by main
strength and tried to pull his foot free of the shoe. He looked,
listened. Was that an oncoming train? No, just the faint distant
clanking of the train that had passed. There was reassurance in the
far-off whistle. It was a receding whistle, not an approaching one. He
wished that he had a time-table and a flashlight or a few matches. What
was the new sound? He listened. Nothing.
He tugged and wrenched and wriggled his squeezed foot. The pain was
intense, but it was nothing to his frantic fear. If he only had time; if
he could only be sure that he would have a little time. _And could know
how much time he would have to_--what? Act? Plow? But the knowledge that
he would have half an hour, twenty minutes, would give him time to
think. Now every distant sound was conjured into the sound of a distant
train; the rustle of branches startled him.
The wild thought occurred to him that a fox caught in a snap-trap will
sometimes gnaw its own leg off to get free. But he had not the courage
nor the ability of a fox. If he only had a few matches he might reach
about and collect enough dry grass to start a blaze. There was an old
dried tie lying near; he might get that afire and thus warn an
approaching train. But he had no matches. He had told Corby Lindman up
at Temple Camp that he didn’t bother with matches, that all the farmers
knew him and he could always get food and didn’t want to cook. As for
signal fires, he never got lost. Well, here he was without matches. And
he could not think of any other means of escape from horrible death;
death which might be rushing toward him then and would overtake him any
minute. He listened, his face twinging with agony. What--what was that?
Why, it was only a hawk crying as when startled into flight. What had
startled the hawk into flight? He would go insane and scream in a
minute....
But no one would hear; the signal station was about a mile distant. It
took care of the Wainboro Branch and the lumber camp siding. What a
cruel thing it would have been to _dare_ Hervey to get free! Would that,
perhaps, have given him an inspiration? The only inspiration he had was
to scream so that it pained his chest and made his head swim. The only
answer was the soft, mocking echo of his own voice in the dark woodland.