order to make the grade on the other side. The bridge
there is hidden in summer by a grove of hackberrys. I had just pulled
open to cool her a bit when I noticed how high the backwater was on each
side of the track. Suddenly I felt the fill going soft under the
drivers--felt the 44 wobble and slew. Bartholomew shut off hard and
threw the air as I sprang to the window. The peaceful little creek ahead
looked as angry as the Platte in April water, and the bottoms were a
lake.

Somewhere up the valley there had been a cloudburst, for overhead the
sun was bright. The Beaver was roaring over its banks and the bridge was
out. Bartholomew screamed for brakes; it looked as we were against
it--and hard.

A soft track to stop on, a torrent of storm water ahead, and ten
hundred thousand dollars' worth of silk behind--not to mention
equipment.

I yelled at Bartholomew and motioned for him to jump; my conscience is
clear on that point. The 44 was stumbling along, trying, like a drunken
man, to hang to the rotten track.

"Bartholomew!" I yelled; but he was head out and looking back at his
train, while he jerked frantically at the air lever. I understood: the
air wouldn't work; it never will on those old tubs when you need it. The
sweat pushed out on me. I was thinking of how much the silk would bring
us after a bath in the Beaver. Bartholomew stuck to his levers like a
man in a signal-tower, but every second brought us closer to open water.
Watching him, intent only on saving his first train--heedless of saving
his life--I was really a bit ashamed to jump. While I hesitated, he
somehow got the brakes to set; the old 44 bucked like a bronco.

It wasn't too soon. She checked her train nobly at the last, but I saw
nothing could keep her from the drink. I caught Bartholomew a terrific
slap and again I yelled; then, turning to the gangway, I dropped into
the soft mud on my side. The 44 hung low, and it was easy lighting.

Bartholomew sprang from his seat a second later, but his blouse caught
in the teeth of the quadrant. He stooped quick as thought, and peeled
the thing over his head. But then he was caught with his hands in the
wristbands, and the ponies of 44 tipped over the broken abutment.

Pull as he would, he couldn't get free. The pilot dipped into the
torrent slowly; but, losing her balance, the 44 kicked her heels into
the air like lightning, and shot with a frightened wheeze plump into the
creek, dragging her engineer af