Ralph made no stop for either inspection or repairs. A few minutes later an incident occurred which made the occasion fairly bristle with new animation and excitement.

Mr. Grant had sat quietly in the fireman's seat. Now he leaned over towards Ralph, pointing eagerly through the side window.

"I see," said Ralph above the deafening roar of the wind and the grinding wheels, "the Night Express."

They could see the lights of the train ever and anon across an open s.p.a.ce where, about a mile distant, the tracks of the Midland Central paralleled those of the Shelby division of the Great Northern. The young engineer again glanced at the clock. His eye brightened, into his face came the most extravagant soul of hope. It was dashed somewhat as Fogg, feeding the furnace and closing the door, leaned towards him with the words:

"The last shovel full."

"You don't mean it!" exclaimed Ralph.

The fireman swept his hand towards the empty tender.

"Eight miles," said Ralph in an anxious tone. "With full steam we could have reached the Junction ten minutes ahead of the Express. Will the fire last out?"

"I'll mend it some," declared the fireman. "Fairbanks, we might lighten the load," he added.

"You mean----"

"The tender."

"Yes," said Ralph, "cut it loose," and a minute later the railroad president uttered a sudden cry as the tender shot into the distance, uncoupled. Then he understood, and smiled excitedly. And then, as Fogg reached under his seat, pulled out a great bundle of waste and two oil cans, and flung them into the furnace, he realized the desperate straits at which they had arrived and their forlorn plight.

Conserving every ounce of steam, all of his nerves on edge, the young engineer drove No. 999 forward like some trained steed. As they rounded a hill just outside of Shelby Junction, they could see the Night Express steaming down its tracks, one mile away.

"We've made it!" declared Ralph, as they came within whistling distance of the tower at the interlocking rails where the two lines crossed.

"Say," yelled Fogg suddenly, "they've given the Express the right of way."

This was true. Out flashed the stop signal for No. 999, and the white gave the "come on" to the Night Express. There was no time to get to the tower and try to influence the towerman to cancel system at the behest of a railroad president.

"You must stop that train!" rang out the tones of the official sharply.

"I'm going to," replied Fairbanks grimly.

He never eased up on No. 999. Past the tower she slid. Then a glowing let up, and then, disregarding the lowered gates, she crashed straight through them, reducing them to kindling wood.

Squarely across the tracks of the incoming train the giant engine, battered, ice-coated, the semblance of a brave wreck, was halted.

There she stood, a barrier to the oncoming Express.

Ralph jumped from his seat, reached under it, pulled out a whole bunch of red fuses, lit them, and leaning out from the cab flared them towards the oncoming train, Roman-candle fashion.

The astonished towerman quickly changed the semaph.o.r.e signals. Her nose almost touching No. 999, the Express locomotive panted down to a halt.

"You shall hear from me, my men," spoke the railroad president simply, but with a great quiver in his voice, as he leaped from the cab, ran to the first car of the halted express and climbed to its platform.

Ralph drove No. 999 across the switches. The Express started on its way again. In what was the proudest moment of his young life, the loyal engineer of staunch, faithful No. 999 saw the president of the Great Northern take off his hat and wave it towards himself and Fogg, as if with an enthusiastic cheer.

CHAPTER XXIX

ZEPH DALLAS AGAIN

"Say--Engineer Ralph--Mr. Fairbanks!"

A spluttering, breathless voice halted Ralph on his way from the depot to the roundhouse. It was the call boy, Torchy, the young engineer ascertained, as he waited till the excited juvenile came up to him.

"What's the trouble, Torchy?" he inquired.

Torchy caught his breath, but the excited flare in his eyes did not diminish.

"Say!" he spluttered out; "I was looking for you. That car, the one they use out west in Calfrancisco, Francifornia, no, I mean Calfris--rot! out west, anyway--tourist car."

"I know, yes," nodded Ralph.

"Well, you remember the queer old fossil's special to Fordham spur?

That fellow Zeph Dallas was on it."

"I remember distinctly; go ahead."

"There's another car just like that one in the yards now, right this minute."

"You don't say so? I didn't suppose that more than one antiquated relic of that kind was in existence," said Ralph.

"Come on and see," invited Torchy. "This last car must have come from the north this morning, just like the other one did. It's bunched up with a lot more of the blockade runners, delayed freight, you know, and they've made up a train of it and others for the Mountain Division."

Besides being intensely interested, Ralph had time to spare. It was nearly a week after the Shelby Junction incident. The great storm had crippled some of the lines of the great Northern to a fairly alarming extent. The Mountain Division had felt the full force of the blizzard and had suffered the most extensively. There were parts of the division where it took several days to repair culverts, strengthen trestles and replace weakened patches of track. The Overland Express missed several runs, but had got back on fair schedule two days before. A new storm had set in that very morning, and as Ralph followed Torchy there were places where the drifts were up to their knees.

"There you are," announced his companion, pausing and pointing over at a train on a siding. "Isn't that last car the very picture of the one that Dallas was on?"

"Remarkably so," a.s.sented Ralph.

"I've got to get to the roundhouse," explained the little fellow, turning back in his tracks. "Thought you'd want to know about that car, though."

"I do, most emphatically," declared Ralph, "and greatly obliged to you for thinking of it."

Ralph approached the train on the siding. It was one of the queerest he had ever seen. There was a motley gathering of every cla.s.s of freight cars on the line. As he pa.s.sed along he noted the destination of some of the cars. No two were marked for the same point of delivery. It was easy to surmise that they were victims of the recent blockade.

Ralph came up to the rear car of the incongruous train with a good deal of curiosity. It was not the car that had made that mysterious run to Fordham Spur with Zeph Dallas, although it looked exactly like it. The present car was newer and more staunch. A fresh discovery made Ralph think hard. The car was cla.s.sified as "fast freight," and across one end was chalked its presumable destination.

"Fordham Spur," read the young engineer. "Queer--the same as the other car. I wonder what's aboard?"

Just like the other car, the curtains were closely drawn in this one.

There was no sign of life about the present car, however. Smoke curled from a pipe coming up through its roof. No one was visible in the immediate vicinity except a flagman and some loiterers about a near switch shanty. Ralph stepped to the rear platform of the car. He placed his hand on the door k.n.o.b, turned it, and to his surprise and satisfaction the door opened unresistingly.