her.

"Keep out, Butch!" he coughed over the scream of the whistle--and the
Butcher in his surprise sort of sagged mechanically back to the ground.

"It's de Dook!" he yelled, with a gasp; and then, as other forms joined
him, he burst into a torrent of oaths. "What de blazes are you doin'!"
he bawled. "De train 'll be along in a minute, if you ain't queered it
already--cut out that cursed whistle! Cut it out, d'ye hear, or we'll
come in there an' do it for you in a way you won't like--have you gone
nutty?"

"Try it," invited P. Walton--and coughed again. "You won't have far to
come, but I'll drop you if you do. I've changed my mind--there isn't
going to be any wreck to-night. You'd better use what time is left in
making your getaway."

"So that's it, is it!" roared another voice. "You dirty pup, you'd
squeal on your pals, would you, you white-livered snitch, you! Well,
take that!"

There was a flash, a lane of light cut streaming through the darkness,
and a bullet lodged with an angry spat on the coal behind P. Walton's
head. Another and another followed. P. Walton smiled, and flattened
himself down on the coal. A form leaped for the gangway--and P. Walton
fired. There was a yell of pain and the man dropped back. Then P.
Walton heard some of them running around behind the tender, and they
came at him from both sides, firing at an angle through both gangways.
Yells, oaths, revolver shots and the screech of the whistle filled the
air--and again P. Walton smiled--he was hit now, quite badly, somewhere
in his side.

His brain grew sick and giddy. He fired once, twice more
unsteadily--then the revolver slipped from his fingers. From somewhere
came another whistle--they weren't firing at him any more, they were
running away, and--P. Walton tried to rise--and pitched back
unconscious.

Nulty, the first man out from the mail train, found him there, and,
wondering, his face set and grim, carried P. Walton to the express car.
They made a mattress for him out of chair cushions, and laid him on the
floor--and there, a few minutes later, Regan and Carleton, from the
wrecker, after a look at the 229 and the wrecked track that spoke
eloquently for itself, joined the group.

Carleton knelt and looked at P. Walton--then looked into Nulty's face.

Nulty, bending over P. Walton on the other side, shook his head.

"He's past all hope," he said gruffly.

P. Walton stirred, and his lips moved--he was talking to h