he
movement of the rails. To go forward was certain destruction. Dyke
reversed. There was nothing for it but to go back. With a wrench and a
spasm of all its metal fibres, the great compound braced itself, sliding
with rigid wheels along the rails. Then, as Dyke applied the reverse,
it drew back from the greater danger, returning towards the less.
Inevitably now the two engines, one on the up, the other on the down
line, must meet and pass each other.

Dyke released the levers, reaching for his revolver. The engineer once
more became the highwayman, in peril of his life. Now, beyond all doubt,
the time for fighting was at hand.

The party in the heavy freight engine, that lumbered after in pursuit,
their eyes fixed on the smudge of smoke on ahead that marked the path of
the fugitive, suddenly raised a shout.

"He's stopped. He's broke down. Watch, now, and see if he jumps off."

"Broke NOTHING. HE'S COMING BACK. Ready, now, he's got to pass us."

The engineer applied the brakes, but the heavy freight locomotive, far
less mobile than Dyke's flyer, was slow to obey. The smudge on the rails
ahead grew swiftly larger.

"He's coming. He's coming--look out, there's a shot. He's shooting
already."

A bright, white sliver of wood leaped into the air from the sooty window
sill of the cab.

"Fire on him! Fire on him!"

While the engines were yet two hundred yards apart, the duel began, shot
answering shot, the sharp staccato reports punctuating the thunder of
wheels and the clamour of steam.

Then the ground trembled and rocked; a roar as of heavy ordnance
developed with the abruptness of an explosion. The two engines passed
each other, the men firing the while, emptying their revolvers,
shattering wood, shivering glass, the bullets clanging against the metal
work as they struck and struck and struck. The men leaned from the
cabs towards each other, frantic with excitement, shouting curses, the
engines rocking, the steam roaring; confusion whirling in the scene
like the whirl of a witch's dance, the white clouds of steam, the black
eddies from the smokestack, the blue wreaths from the hot mouths of
revolvers, swirling together in a blinding maze of vapour, spinning
around them, dazing them, dizzying them, while the head rang with
hideous clamour and the body twitched and trembled with the leap and jar
of the tumult of machinery.

Roaring, clamouring, reeking with the smell of powder and hot oil,
spitting death, res