n the rescuers arrive at the track they realize that in their haste
they have neglected to bring a lantern, the one thing that may be needed
to signal the train, for now a dilemma confronts them. If they place a
pile of rocks on the track, the train may reach that point before the
car of destruction, and in this event the obstruction will cause the
wrecking of the train.

The roadway is along the side of the mountain.

On one side of the tracks the rocks rise in a sheer wall; on the other
is a steep embankment that in places is almost as precipitous as the
crags above.

"We will have to separate," Martha advises. "You go up the track. No, I
will go up and you down. If it is possible, you must stop the train. I
will wait till the last moment and then put rocks on the track. When you
see Mr. Trueman, tell him to hasten to the Purdy house, for Ethel is in
great danger. Tell him I will be there to aid him in pacifying the
miners."

"But you can never pile rocks enough on the track to stop the car,"
Widow Braun says compassionately, glancing at the frail form before her.

"Have no fear. I can do my part of the work. God will give me strength.
And you, He will guide you, as well. Come, let us set about our work."

With a parting blessing from Sister Martha, the widow hurries down the
track. She can discern the station five miles below at the beginning of
the ten-mile grade. This station is her objective. If she can reach it
before the arrival of the express, the life of Harvey Trueman and those
of all the passengers will be saved.

The nature of her mission gives her strength to travel over the rough
roadbed with incredible speed. Her eyes are upon the station, which
momentarily becomes more and more indistinct; she knows that if the
train starts up the grade she can see the headlight. Her lips move in an
articulate prayer that she may not see the light. So absorbed is she in
the thought of how to stop the train in the event of its passing the
station that she fails to see a culvert bridge. At the bridge the
roadbed terminates and a trestle carries the tracks for a distance of
fifteen yards. The culvert is dry nine mouths in the year, and is a
raging mountain torrent only in the spring.

Widow Braun rushes upon the trestle. Her steps are not regulated by the
ties, and almost instantly she falls between them. Her hands grasp the
rails on either side; but she has not sufficient strength to support
herself. With an agon