THE SIGNAL IN THE NIGHT
That blow had all the weight of Allan’s muscular young body behind
it, for he had realized that this was no moment to hold his hand,
however he might wish to do so, and Reddy tumbled in a limp heap
upon the track.
The tears were gushing from the boy’s eyes as he bent over the body
and drew it to one side to the shelter of the rock. That he should
have struck Reddy—perhaps even killed him! But he could not linger;
with a last glance at the prostrate figure, he turned back to the
task before him.
Plainly he could not hope to cross the trestle with half a dozen men
working on it—to try to do so would mean certain failure. Yet he
must cross the ravine,—there was only one other way, and that not an
easy one.
He threw off Jack’s waterproof, which would only impede him now that
he needed the utmost freedom of movement, and, holding his lantern
tight, he jumped from the track and half-scrambled, half-fell down
the steep descent below him, disregarding mud and brambles, torn
clothes, and bruises, thinking only of one thing—that he must reach
the other side and save the train. In a moment he was at the bottom,
bruised and breathless, but luckily with no bones broken. Then for
an instant he paused. Through the bottom of the ravine ran a stream,
usually a gentle, shallow brook, but now swollen to an angry torrent
by the pouring rain. There was no time for hesitation—no time to
seek a better place—indeed, that was impossible in the darkness—and,
holding his lantern high above his head, the boy dashed into the
water.
For a moment it seemed that he must be swept away, so fierce was the
rush of the torrent; but he got his feet, braced himself against it,
and inch by inch fought his way across. The water tore at him and
raged around him, hissing and sputtering, determined that he should
not escape. Well for him that he had had those months of work on
section, which had strengthened muscle and steadied nerve—which had
taught him how to fight!
So, at last, he won through to the farther bank, breathless,
exhausted, triumphant. And here a new difficulty met him. He had
shut himself into a trap from which there seemed no escaping. Again
and again he tried to climb the steep side of the ravine, but as
many times slipped down to the bottom, bringing with him an
avalanche of earth and loose stones.
Dry sobs rose in his throat and choked him as he lay for a moment
against the bank, weak and trembling. Was he to be defeated here,
with the end almost in sight? Was he to fail, after all? Must he
stay here to witness the train take that awful plunge from the
trestle down into the torrent beneath? He looked up with a shudder.
High above him, he could see the trestle dimly outlined against the
sky, and he knew that the work of tearing up the rail must be almost
done.
He shook the weakness from him—he must be a man!—and he shut his
eyes as he tried to picture to himself how the place looked by
daylight. He had crossed the trestle a hundred times and gazed down
into the ravine, admiring its rugged beauty. For centuries that
little stream, which started in a spring high up on the hillside,
had been labouring patiently digging this channel for itself, eating
its way through earth and rock and slate, fashioning for itself a
little narrow valley, just as the great streams make for themselves
broad and fertile ones. It had eaten its way down and down, leaving
on either side, extending to a height of nearly a hundred feet,
rocky and precipitous banks. Allan remembered how in summer those
banks were clothed in green; how he had looked down at them from the
trestle. One day he had descried a brilliant patch of wild flowers
near the bottom, where they had grown and spread, safe from man’s
intrusion. He had never thought how much would one day depend upon
his knowledge of the place, or he would have examined the banks more
closely.
Something swished through the air above him, and fell with a mighty
splash into the torrent—it was the rail—it had been torn loose—the
wreckers’ work was done. Now, they had only to wait until the train
came dashing past! Perhaps even at this moment it was nearing the
destruction which threatened it! The boy shuddered at the thought,
and made another vain and desperate effort to scramble up the bank.
This time he managed to get hold of a little bush high above his
head, but, as he was pulling himself up, the bush gave way and he
fell again to the bottom. He realized that he could never hope to
climb that treacherous bank, that he must follow the ravine until it
grew wider and shallower. Yet how could he do that and still be in
time to save the train? There must be some way out near at hand! The
robbers must have provided some path by which to get down to the
wrecked train and get up again with their booty. But no doubt the
path, if there was one, was on the other side of the ravine, where
it would be of no use to him; very probably there was no path at
all. The robbers had merely to let down a rope to provide a means of
entrance and exit. He would have to go around, and he started
blindly forward down the stream, holding his lantern tight,
trembling to think of the precious moments he had wasted,—of the
ones that he must yet waste before he could gain the track above and
warn the engineer of the peril which lay before him. It was a
desperate chance, but it seemed the only one.
He groped his way stumblingly along, walking in the edge of the
water, making such progress as he could; slipping, falling full
length once or twice, but rising again and pressing forward. His
teeth were chattering, for the icy water had chilled him to the
bone, but he seemed not to be conscious of the cold; his hands and
face were cut and bleeding, scratched by brambles and by the sharp
edges of rocks and slate, but he did not feel the sting of the
wounds. He was thinking only of one thing—he must get out of this
trap—he must flag the train! There must be some way out! He could
not fail now!
Then, suddenly, he remembered. Just below the trestle, a little
stream, rushing down the hillside to join the torrent below, had cut
for itself a miniature ravine in the side of the larger one. He had
noticed it one day not long before—had noticed its rocky bed, which
rose steeply to the fields above, but not so steeply as the sides of
the ravine itself. Here was a way up which he might escape, if he
could only find it. It must be somewhere near,—and he groped his way
along, faltering, stumbling,—and at last he found the cut.
Yet it was not so easy of ascent as he had thought it would be; for
the water was rushing headlong down it, threatening to sweep him
back at every moment. Still he clambered on, digging knees and
elbows into the mud, holding with desperate strength to the bushes
that grew by the way, using every rock for foothold, up and up,
until, at last, wet to the skin, with clothing torn and body cut,
covered with mud, bruised and aching, but glowing with triumphant
excitement, he reached the top.
He knew the railroad was somewhere to the right, and he stumbled
forward as fast as his trembling legs would carry him. More than
once he tripped and fell heavily over a log or stone, but always he
held tight his precious lantern, not minding his own bruises so that
it was safe. And at last, with a great joy at his heart, he saw,
stretching dimly ahead of him, the high embankment upon which rested
the track.
He sat down for a moment to take breath, then reached into his
trousers pocket and drew out his match-safe. It was a company safe,
and waterproof, for often the fate of a train depended on whether a
watchman’s matches were wet or dry, and for this, at least, the
company had the foresight to provide. Crouching in the shelter of
the embankment, he found a little rock, and, holding it under his
coat, struck a match against it. A gust of wind caught it instantly
and blew it out. With trembling fingers, he struck another match,
which sputtered feebly for a second, flared up and was extinguished;
but the third match burned for a moment, and he applied it quickly
to the wick of the lantern. How the red glare warmed and cheered him
as he snapped the globe back into place! He was in time to save the
train!
Then he sprang to his feet. For away down the track before him came
the sudden glare of a headlight, as the engine swung around a curve,
and the hum of the wheels told that the engineer was speeding
through the night, with throttle wide open, anxious, no doubt, to
get safely into the haven of the yards at Wadsworth.
Up the bank scrambled the boy and down the track he ran, as fast as
his feet would carry him, swinging his lantern in great circles over
his head. He knew that the engineer must see it; he knew that on
such a night as this his eyes would be turned not an instant from
the track.
Then, suddenly, from behind him, there came the sharp crack of a
revolver, and his lantern was smashed to pieces in his hand. He
wheeled to see a flash of flame, as the revolver spoke again; the
world reeled before him, turned black, and a great blow seemed to
strike him in the chest and bear him down.