About the time they tipped over the hill the night yard master came from the telegraph office, down at the junction, and twirled a white light at a switch engine that stood on a spur with her nose against an empty express car. "Back up," he shouted: "and kick that car in on the house track."
"The Limited's due in a minute," said the switch engineer, turning the gauge lamp upon his watch.
"Well, you're runnin' the engine—I'm runnin' the yard," said the official, giving his lamp another whirl, and the engine with the express car backed away. The yard master unbent sufficiently to say to the switchman on the engine that the Limited was ten minutes late, adding, that she would probably be fifteen at the junction, for it was storming all along the line. The snow had packed in about the switch-bridle and made it hard to move, but finally, with the help of the fireman, the switch was turned, and the yard engine stood on the main track. The engineer glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing behind him save the storm-swept night. Suddenly he felt the earth tremble, and, filled with indescribable horror, he pulled the whistle open and leaped through the window. The cry of the yard engine was answered by a wild shriek from Blackwings. Guerin closed the throttle, put on the air and opened the sand-valves. The sound of that whistle, blown back over the train, fell upon the ears of Patsy and the two dead-heads, and filled them with fear. A second later they felt the clamp of brake-shoes applied with full force; felt the grinding of sand beneath the wheels, and knew that something was wrong. The old engineer tore the curtains back from "lower six," and spread out his arms, placing one foot against the foot of the berth, and threw himself on top of the two sleepers. Patsy and the Philosopher braced themselves against the seat in front of them, and waited the shock. Bennie heard the whistle, too, and went out into the night, not knowing where or how he would light. Young Guerin had no time to jump. He had work to do. His left hand fell from the whistle-rope to the air-brake, and it was applied even while his right hand shoved the throttle home, and opened the sand-valves—and then the crash came. Being higher built, Blackwings shot right over the top of the yard engine, turned end for end, and lay with her pilot under the mail car, which was telescoped into the express car. The balance of the train, surging, straining, and trembling, came to a stop, with all wheels on the rail, thanks to the faithful driver, and the open sand-pipes. The train had scarcely stopped when the conductor and the two dead-heads were at the engine, searching, amid the roar of escaping steam, for the engine crew. A moment later Bennie came limping in from a neighboring field where he had been wallowing in a snow-drift. The operator, rushing from the station, stumbled over the body of a man. It was Guerin. When the engine turned over he had been hurled from the cab and slammed up against the depot, fifty feet away. The rescuers, searching about the wreck, shouted and called to the occupants of the mail car, but the wail of the wounded engine drowned their voices. In a little while both men were rescued almost unhurt. Now all the employees and many passengers gathered about the engineer. The station master held Guerin's head upon his knee, while Moran made a hasty examination of his hurt. There was scarcely a bone in his body that was not broken, but he was still alive. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked about. "I'm cold!" he said distinctly. Patsy held his white light close to the face of the wounded man. His eyes seemed now to be fixed upon something far away. "Mercy, but I'm cold!" he said pathetically. Now all the women were weeping, and there were tears in the eyes of most of the men. "Raise him up a little," said Moran. "It's getting dark," said the dying man, "Oh, so dark! It must be the snow—" and he closed his eyes again—"snow—on—the headlight."