BOB ON THE FREIGHT TRAIN
The young photographer did not have the chance to look back at his
pursuers. He had one foot on the iron step of the car, and, though the
train was going at a slow rate of speed, he found it no easy task to
draw himself up on the narrow platform.
“Come back!” he heard Barker cry.
He paid no attention to the order, satisfied that anything would be
preferable to falling again into the hands of the villainous crowd who
were pursuing him.
At last, with a mighty effort, the youth drew himself up. The ladder
leading to the top of the car was close at hand and to this he clung
while the train swung around a curve and out of sight of those left on
the embankment.
“By jinks! but that was a narrow escape!” muttered Bob to himself as he
drew a long breath.
Bob remained where he was for five minutes or more, trying to regain
his breath and collect his thoughts at the same time.
“I would like to know what those men are doing out here,” he
soliloquized. “Maybe they are planning to rob a house in the vicinity.
They are certainly up to no good.”
The freight train made a strong rumble as it moved along, but presently
Bob fancied he heard footsteps on the top of the car behind him.
He was not mistaken, for in a moment the form of a man appeared
overhead. The man looked down, as if searching for something.
“One of the train-hands most likely,” thought Bob. “Maybe he saw what
took place, and wants to know what it is all about.”
Bob was about to call out, when he made a discovery that filled him
with surprise.
The man above was James Casco.
Casco had jumped aboard the sixth car behind the one boarded by the
young photographer.
That he was bent on searching out Bob the youth felt certain, and
he crouched low as the man bent down to get a better view in the
semi-darkness.
“Must be the next platform,” Bob heard Casco mutter. “Although I was
almost certain it was this one.”
He was about to pass on, when just then the train rolled past a
farm-house, from the upper windows of which streamed a strong light.
The light fell directly upon Bob, and Casco caught a full view of him.
“So I have found you, eh?” muttered the scar-faced man, with a gleam of
satisfaction in his eyes.
“What do you want here?” demanded Bob.
“You know well enough, Alden.”
“I must confess I do not.”
“You think, now you have discovered our plans, you will inform the
authorities and have us all bagged.”
“What makes you think that?” asked Bob, with interest, for he did not
know the men had any plans.
“I can put two and two together. You were in that neighborhood tracking
us.”
“You seem to know all about it.”
“I have watched you on the sly. Do you deny that you also called on
Gregory Maverick?”
“What has that got to do with it?”
“You know as well as I, Alden. But it won’t do you any good. You might
as well give up trying to hunt down this crowd. It can’t be done.”
Bob was much mystified by this speech. Evidently Casco took it for
granted that he knew much more than was a fact.
“Perhaps I can do more than you think, Casco,” he said, on a venture.
“You can, if I allow you to get away, maybe, but I don’t intend any
such thing shall happen.”
“What do you mean?”
“Simply this: You imagine you can ride through to Stampton on this
train, don’t you?”
“Perhaps so.”
“And when you arrive there, you will call on Maverick and the chief of
police and send word all along the line to search for us. You will do
nothing of the sort.”
“Who will prevent me?” questioned Bob, as calmly as he could, even
though he knew what to expect by way of an answer.
“Who will prevent you? I will.”
“I don’t see how.”
“I’ll show you. Do you see this?”
As Casco spoke, he shoved the muzzle of a pistol down in the
neighborhood of the young photographer’s head.
“Do you intend to kill me in cold blood?”
“I intend to make you mind me, Alden. When I give the command, you will
jump from the train.”
Bob shrank back in horror. The freight train was now moving at the rate
of twenty miles an hour, and a jump would be full of peril.
He looked around for some means by which to protect himself. But the
narrow platform was bare, and he was without weapon of any kind.
“What if I do some firing on my own account?” Bob asked, more to gain
time than anything else.
“Have you a pistol?”
Instead of replying, Bob made a leap upward, and before Casco could
draw back the youth had hold of the pistol and had wrenched it from his
hand.
“Stop!” cried the scar-faced man. “Give me that pistol!”
“I’ll give you one of the bullets. Stay where you are.”
With the pistol in one hand, Bob turned and ran up the iron ladder to
the top of the adjoining car.
As he did this, Casco, instead of complying with Bob’s command, arose
and hurried along the top plank of the freight car.
“Stop!” cried Bob, jumping across the opening and making after the
rascal.
But it was too dark to see the planking clearly, and afraid of missing
his footing, the young photographer was compelled to go slow.
Casco, on the other hand, had once been a brakeman, and he ran over the
planking of several cars at a lively rate, and then disappeared from
view.
With the pistol ready for use, Bob made his way along, until he came
face to face with one of the train-hands.
“Hullo, Jack, is that you?” called out the man.
“No,” replied Bob, and added: “I am after a thief who is aboard this
train. Did he just pass you?”
“Nobody passed me. You are sure he is on board?”
“He was a minute ago.”
And, as briefly as possible, Bob related what had occurred.
“He must be a desperate fellow,” said the train-hand, with a shake of
his head.
“He is, and I want to catch him the worst way.”
“Humph! Well, let us take a look with the lantern. We don’t want any
such fellows on this train.”
The man got his lantern from the caboose, and the two began a rapid
search around each car.
“He might have dropped down on one of the platforms and swung himself
into one of the empty cars,” suggested the train-hand. “Or he might
have jumped off.”
“I don’t think he jumped off,” replied Bob. “Let us look into those
cars just ahead.”
The train-hand went ahead, and not without difficulty swung himself
into one of the empty cars.
Seeing how the thing was done, Bob started to do the same upon the car
ahead.
He reached the guide upon which the door hung, and was making his way
along it toward the opening when Casco’s head suddenly appeared from
out of the empty car.
“Now I have you!” cried the scar-faced man. He reached out, and,
catching Bob by the arm, attempted to throw the young photographer from
the train.