It was one of those dark and fretful nights when the mountains, clad in terror, seem so close and angry that one longs to be near some living creature, and, if he is a railroad man, does not care to leave the train.

It had rained just enough to loosen pebbles and rocks from their positions on the mountain sides and let them slip toward the valleys, roll into the stream or lodge on the track. Such nights as these, men in mountain service dread; it is at such times that they are on the alert for accidents, for rails are slippery and brakes uncertain.

At the station of Boulder stood two massive mountain climbers, from which came and went, in sleepy cadence, the heavy breathing of the air pumps. These engines had been taking coal and water and were now coupled to an unusually long and heavy freight train.. The 52 on the head end was in charge of “Sheriff” Al, a typical western man, "raised and made" in the mountains and who had at one time served his county as sheriff. The 50-in charge of Sandy Mitch-was ahead of the caboose and behind the last freight car; for an engine so powerful, pushing on the empty caboose, might, when least expected, crush into it as though it were but an egg shell. Neither could the 50 work coupled ahead of the 52; because, as both were of the then most modern and powerful type, and the numerous culverts and bridges had not been strengthened to accommodate the heavy power, any attempt to run two hundred tons of working steel and iron over such places would mean dire dis

aster.

Under protest had Conductor Collinson picked up three preference loads at Boulder. His train, a solid "air" train-something then unusual with these additions, would be longer than any side track could hold, for as yet not all of the sidings had been extended to equal in length the strings of cars

these massive engines were hauling over even the worst mountain grades. But up in the general office orders had gone forth that no train was to be run light of the tonnage specified for the class of engines hauling it. Despatchers, to hold their positions, often had trains going over the divisions with more cars than safety to life and property would allow, while train and engine men were told that to let their trains get away from them would mean, if they lived through the ordeal, immediate dismissal from the service. Thus it was left for the men on the road to lift the heaviest end of the burden, while others sat in the office to criticise. All trains do not handle alike, neither do all brakes hold the same, and often it happens that with every man Jack of the crew doing his best, the train will start sneaking, gaining, falling to seeming destruction.

A run-away is one of the worst propositions with which mountain men have to deal. The very thought chills the blood-makes strong men weak. It is one thing to be wheeling alongfifty, sixty or even seventy miles an hour over road conditions that will permit of this speed, and feel, yes, know, that unless some unforeseen danger should instantly arise the train can be brought to a safe and easy stop at any desired place. This knowledge and assurance is sufficient to inspire confi

dence.

But it is quite another thing when the air pump is not able to furnish the supply of air to the air-brake cars; when retainers have lost their usefulness and the combined strength of two or three strong and determined men is not sufficient to club up the brakes and thus help to reduce the speed; when all the wonderful inventions of Man to insure safety on trains have been applied; when the iron horse has taken the bit in its teeth, so to speak, and the train, instead of being under control, becomes a twisting, howling monster, hurling

itself into curves, onto créaking trestles, out over rushing torrents! Then the mountains seem rushing skyward and the valleys are deep wells, down which you drop only to land at the bottom in a crashing mass of wreckage. Then it is that hair turns white and strong men break down and cry like children. Then knowledge and assurance, instead of inspiring confidence, bring utter consternation and helplessness as one waits for the end, positive that no human agency can save!

Therefore Collinson and his engineers, knowing all these things, had rebelled at picking up the extra cars. They were told that they could do that or quit." Well, they picked them up; for all had worked long and hard for the positions they now held.

Collinson brought this order from the office;

"Extra 52 west, helper 50 will meet extra 57 east at Berenice. A. O. X." After "Sheriff" Al read it, his conductor said,

"Say, don't be afraid to put the nose of the 52 as close the Main stem at Berenice as you can, for we might get into clear. If we don't and the 57 should be coming like blazes;- well, the stuff would be all off for some poor devil," and Collinson started to the rear to deliver a copy of the order to Mitch.

Now Mitch is what is called in mountain service a "prairie sailor;" that is, one who has always, worked in a level or simply a hilly country. But when Mitch was sent to the mountains for the rush, he brought with him a record of good judgment. He soon showed that he had the nerviest kind of nerve and a disposition like a saint.

After Mitch had read and properly understood the order, Collinson said;

"Sandy, old boy, wev'e got a pretty bunch tonight, and it may be an almighty close squeeze at Berenice, but if you're Johnny-on-the-spot we'll come out O. K.", and he gave a signal to go.

Two blasts of the deep toned whistle of the 52 echoed and re-echoed along the dark valley to be immediately answered by the 50. Gradually and without any jerks and with but little slipping,

Al got the slack out of the long train until the 50 moved, when Sandy gave her steam. After making the stop at the Branch railroad crossing a quarter of a mile from Boulder, they went swinging up the water grade toward Basin, while Mitch and fireman chewed the smoke and cinders of the 52. The cars ahead of the 50 were beginning to roll and rock from side to side, and the coupling between the car and engine could be heard groaning and grinding under the mighty pressure behind.

"Sheriff" Al's fireman was as busy as "The Kid" who handled the scoop for Mitch, and at regular intervals the night and the haunted valley would be lighted in a flooding blaze-then darkness; then another quivering flash and the night would be left darker than before. In the glow shed from the open fire door the clouds of steam and smoke and the foamy mountain torrent along which they were running, flushed and shimmered in the red flash, while the trees and brush on the mountain sides stood out strong and bold-all to be instantly lost in the lonesome night when the door was closed. Often both firemen would be putting in fires at the same time and the lightning effect would be doubled-the darkness deepened.

And so, playing the intense brightness, then the blackest shadows, they began to leave the grade at Basin for the steeper one that winds toward Berenice there to rise to the steepest of all-a grade of four per cent.

Off across the half circle the line makes here, Mitch could see up ahead, and at a height above him, the dim light shed by the gauge lamps in the 52's cab, and the objects the head light showed; and with every fire that was fed could see in its flash the "Sheriff" in his cab-the steady playing rods of the driversthe lurching cars, and as well the working rods of his own engine.

After rounding a curve to the right, east of Basin, Mitch dropped the reverse lever a few notches forward; at almost the same instant Al responded with the Where there had been an angry muffled growl from the iron-throated

52.

monsters, now came a steady deafening roar with the fire flying far into the clouds.

Soon Basin was lost in the valley and the night, and the firey, panting creepers, after a hard climb, dragged into Berenice Siding to clear the main line for the extra. Just as was expected it was found that the siding was too short for their train-the caboose, the 50 and one car were sticking out on the main line, while the second car only partly cleared.

Collinson at once had Mitch whistle out the head brakeman to go up the mountain as fast and far as possible to flag Extra 57. The question in every one's mind was, "Will the Extra come down the heavy grade under control so they can stop on being flagged— or will the air give out and a run-away come into town to find the main line blocked?"

*

Extra 57, with a heavy train of ore, had a long, slow climb up from Butte; and even with a helper had nearly stalled in curved tunnel 10, but finally reached Woodville where the helper returned to Butte. From Woodville to Elk Park, the station at the summit of Berenice mountain, the grade is easy and one engine can handle with but little effort a train two can scarcely lug up from Butte.

On either side of the valley, which is a natural park, are two great ranges of mountains with the heavens resting on their shoulders. In the sunshine or in the moonlight, a ride across this park is a pleasure long to be remembered. But, when the night is black and threatening and the headlight is of no service, seeming to shine onto but never penetrating the wall of night that lies but a few feet ahead of the "pilot"it is then, no matter how sleepy a train or engine man be, that he is all eyes and ears; for before he is aware a mile has slipped by, and the only thing to give evidence of this is the grinding sound of wheels and the rocking car or engine. He sees not an object, or familiar landmark; and even those made visible by the headlight come and go in such rapid succession, that soon the feeling prevails that

it is his train which is standing still, while the earth is galloping, racing by, underneath. And so the crew of the57 was wide awake, watching for Elk Park to appear and wishing for daylight.

They had received their orders at Butte to meet Extra 52 and helper 50 at Berenice and while the fireman was taking water at Elk Park, Dad Wolner, the engineer-an easy-going man, small of stature, with squinty eyes and stubby beard, and who had a queer habit of pronouncing certain words in his conversation with more force than others— gave the air a final test.

In making this stop here he had not used much air. So, after the brakes had been released, and the air-pump had again re-charged the train-line, the two brakemen and the conductor took their station on the ground. Conductor Rabb, a large man with a large fiery, non-whisky nose, swung his lantern in signal to "stop" and dad applied the air severely. Then all the brakes were examined while set. When this test was over a signal was given and the air released so that the "re-charge" could again take place. The crew

now climbed to the tops of the cars, and began to "club" up the brakes on the "Jacks" or non-air cars, and to turn up the "retainers" on the "air"

cars.

Dad had dropped to the ground, and was pounding the sand pipes open, when Rabb walked up, stuck his lantern close to the stooping engineer's face and said,

"Hang to 'em like a sucker, old man! They're heavier than the devil's hind wings. We don't want to mix up in any mountain real estate a night like this."

"No. Neither do we want to become

Spirits or Carpet Figures. Bet your neck I'll hang to 'em! Those fellows at Berenice may not be able to get in to clear an' we certainly don't want to pile in to 'em!" Dad drawled, in his quaint way.

"You're the doctor. Give me a light." "Shouldn't think you'd need one with a nose like you have, not at all.

Saw you coming twenty cars away," replied Dad, as he held up the torch.

Owing to all the brakes being partly set it was all the 57 could do to get the train to move. Every man, realizing what might befall if the train ran away, had done the best to "set things" so that full control could be kept. From the start the men were out on top, each lantern seeming like a small candle in the intense darkness, yet sufficient to mark the position of each. During the

first two miles the speed had increased, but not enough to make any one feel unsafe, for Dad and every member of the crew had done and were doing their best. The old engineer had just glanced up to the air gauge to see how the air was holding out, when suddenly, he noticed that the air-pump had stopped; -he missed its incessant coughing. This was serious. If no more air could be pumped, the whole air-brake equipment would of necessity be inoperative. He grabbed the soft hammer, ripped open the front cab window, reached out and struck the pump head a blow. No response. The speed had been slowly gaining. With wild yanks of the whistle cord he sounded the "defective airbrake" signal. Every man of the crew was startled.

Each almost stopped breathing, but all rushed at the hand brakes of the air-brake cars like mad.

The train had sneaked away from them was now beyond their control. The trainmen "doubled up" on every brake as fast as they could. Dad stood up and looked back over the train; he could see the lights, at a height above him, rapidly changing; now those in the center would be far to the right and the caboose lights far to the left; now they would shift to the opposite direction; now all would be in a straight line. These changes were made more quickly than can be told, as the train shot around curves or down straight stretches of track. Faster! and still faster! As a stone drops down a well did they gather in speed and shoot through the night.

Now in such fierce pinches as these it often happens that the train crew will crawl to the caboose, cut it from the train and thus save themselves. But

Rabb, being a man of great nerve, never countenanced such proceedings, believing that when a man entered the service, he should be ready to take things as they came, runaway or no runaway. Then, too, he did not like the idea of deserting the "head end" at such times. He said it looked "gosh danged cowardly." Therefore he and his crew, when they realized what they were up against, lay face down on the cars and held hard, expecting every lurch to be the last.

Dad and his fireman felt that something would be wrong at Berenice, yet they spoke not a word. If they could only let the extra down there know they were running away! If there was only some way to flash a message to them. And what if Extra 52 had not yet reached Berenice? With a jump Dad grabbed the whistle cord stretched it out over the head of the lubricator where it held the whistle open, and out on the night air wailed the voice of the 57 like some terrified animal in its death cry - the only warning that could be given!

"Sheriff" Al, with a burning torch in his hand, was on the ground at Berenice Siding, looking anxiously back at the blocked main line. Collinson was running to the telegraph office to find out if the 57 had left Elk Park. If not he was going to ask that they be held there for his train. Mitch was on the ground -listening, listening-for the first faint sound of the approaching train. Beside him was the rear man. The valley was silent except for the cough of the air pump or the echo of an occasional falling stone. Instead of the distant rumble, Mitch expected to hear, the rumble that for a second would sound, then die away, again to sound nearer and stronger, he heard coming from afar off and echoing from among the crags, a low wailing whistle. It grew faint, again to sound stronger and closer; the same steady note of warning.

At the first sound of the whistle, “Sheriff” Al turned quickly about; Collinson stood stock still; but Mitch, the one man who had been listening so intently, the man who had just one chance to save the lives of the crew of the run

away, grasped the situation at once. Jumping to the cab, he called to the rear brakeman:

"Hey, Doc! cut 'er off to clear! For God's sake hump yourself!-quick, they're running away!" Then, to the fire

man

"Get a load in her, Kid! Get a load in 'er!" and he slacked ahead.

To close the angle cock in the trainline with one hand and raise the pin in the "janny" with the other, was but the work of an instant. With a yell "let 'er go!" from Doc, Mitch reversed, the hose parted with a sharp “pish," and with the caboose behind him, and the two loaded box-cars ahead, they started at a break-neck speed down the grade up which they had so slowly labored.

On came the steady cry of the runaway! Long and sickening, freezing the blood in the veins. The distant thunder of the rushing monster could be plainly heard at Berenice; the "To! To!" in answer to the flag sent out by Mitch, sounded sharp and clear. But an army of flagmen with swinging lights, fuses burning and torpedoes set, could not check the wildly rushing train. Might as well flag a comet, expecting it to stop!

"Sheriff" Al and his fireman, Collinson, and the operator, ran up the mountain side back of the depot to be safe should the 57 jump the track in their immediate vicinity, for here the line makes a sharp curve to the south-a regular "elbow" and a wicked place for a derailment to occur.

Mitch had hardly got a good start when, mid a deafening roar and a screeching whistle, there was a quick silvering of the rails at the curve, then the headlight, like a ball of fire swinging right and left, and the huge hulk of the mountain creeper, with the crew hanging on either side the gangway, rocked thundering by! There was one long, black streak of swaying, leaping cars, on the tops of which lay the trainmen beside their flickering lights.

From the wheels angry streams of fire, bands of it, were shooting and sputtering! There was a wink of the green

markers; a flash and a shimmer of the red lights of the rear, a volley of stones and rocks, and the howling Extra 57 fell by Berenice with a power that shook the sleeping mountains, jarring boulders from their beds-then was lost in the distance, chasing Mitch with the reeling caboose behind and the rolling cars in front, while the 50 rocked worse than a dismantled schooner in a choppy sea.

Now, at such times as these, there is little inclination for conversation. All Mitch had to say had been said at Berenice; neither he nor his fireman had spoken since. At the start, Mitch, his back to front of the cab, had stood upright alongside his seat box, placing his left knee on it, grasping the throttle lever with his right hand and the side of the cab with his left. The first "clickety-clicks" had grown to a loud and rapid clatter which merged into a roar. As they plunged from Tunnel 7 into the wind on the other side of the mountain, he lost his cap. Bare-headed, his hair blowing back, his "bandanna" snapping behind his neck, and his jacket, like a big bag puffing out over his arms, back and shoulders, pulling the band tight at the waist, he hung on with might and main.

Up to this time the Kid had never had an experience on a runaway. This was the nearest to it, and was a runaway sure enough, but a voluntary one on their part. Often had he wondered what one would be like, or what the sensation would be to be mixed up in a bad wreck. He was to realize the former. Possibly the latter. Just now all he could do was to watch, through the dim light cast by the steam gauge and waterglass lights, the shadowy outlines of Sandy's face; the eyes partly squinted, the lips drawn so tightly that the closely cut mustache completely covered the lines of the mouth, the chin protruding sharply, the jaws working the cheeks in and out. Amid all the heaving, the rolling, the pitching and tumbling, he could not but help think of some of the experiences told him by this particular engineer.

They slammed around a curve and then into No. 6; a reverse curve tunnel