Mahomet need not go to the mountain when, with
but a mustard seed of faith in the proven potency of mail-order miracles
he could move mountains to come to him. Leaning to his telegraph
instrument, he wired to the agent at Stanwood, twenty-six miles
down-line, his formal announcement.
"O. S.--G. I. No. 3 by at 10.46."
"O. K.--D. S.," came the response.
Banneker returned to the sunlight. In seven minutes or perhaps less, as
the Transcontinental would be straining to make up lost time, the train
would enter Rock Cut three miles and more west, and he would recapture
the powerful throbbing of the locomotive as she emerged on the farther
side, having conquered the worst of the grade.
Banneker waited. He drew out his watch. Seven. Seven and a half. Eight.
No sound from westward. He frowned. Like most of the road's employees,
he took a special and almost personal interest in having the regal train
on time, as if, in dispatching it through, he had given it a friendly
push on its swift and mighty mission. Was she steaming badly? There had
been no sign of it as she passed. Perhaps something had gone wrong with
the brakes. Or could the track have--
The agent tilted sharply forward, his lithe frame tense. A long drawn,
quivering shriek came down-wind to him.
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