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"Go forward,"
shouted the conductor to the rear brakeman, "and get 'em out
of here,—tell McNally we've got the ghost."
The detective
released his hold on his captive, and the man sank limp in the
corner seat.
The company's
surgeon, who happened to be on the car, came over and examined
the prisoner. The man had collapsed completely.
When the
doctor had revived the handcuffed passenger and got him to sit
up and speak, the porter, wild-eyed, burst in and shouted: "De
bridge is gone."
A death-like
hush held the occupants of the car.
"De hangin'
bridge is sho' gone," repeated the panting porter, "an' de
engine, wi' McNally in de cab's crouchin' on de bank, like a
black cat on a well-cu'b. De watah's roahin' in de deep gorge,
and if she drap she gwine drag—"
The doctor
clapped his hand over the frightened darky's mouth, and the
detective butted him out to the smoking-room.
The conductor
explained that the porter was crazy, and so averted a panic.
The detective
came back and faced the doctor. "Take off the irons," said the
surgeon, and the detective unlocked the handcuffs.
Now the
doctor, in his suave, sympathetic way, began to question
Bradish; and Bradish began to unravel the mystery, pausing now
and again to rest, for the ordeal through which he had just
passed had been a great mental and nervous strain.
He began by
relating the Ashtabula accident that had left him wifeless and
childless, and, as the story progressed, seemed to find
infinite relief in relating the sad tale of his lonely life.
It was like a confession. Moreover, he had kept the secret so
long locked in his troubled breast that it was good to pour it
out.
The doctor
sat directly in front of the narrator, the detective beside
him, while interested passengers hung over the backs of seats
and blocked the narrow aisle. Women, with faces still
blanched, sat up in bed listening breathlessly to the strange
story of John Bradish.
Shortly after
returning to their old home, he related, he was awakened one
night by the voice of his wife calling in agonized tones,
"John! John!" precisely as she had cried to him through the
smoke and steam and twisted débris at Ashtabula. He leaped
from his bed, heard a mighty roar, saw a great light flash on
his window, and the midnight express crashed by.
To be sure it
was only a dream, he said to himself, intensified by the roar
of the approaching train; and yet he could sleep no more that
night. Try as he would, he could not forget it; and soon he
realized that a growing desire to travel was coming upon him.
In two or three days' time this desire had become
irresistible. He boarded the midnight train and took a ride.
But this did not cure him. In fact, the more he travelled the
more he wanted to travel. Soon after this he discovered that
he had acquired another habit. He wanted to stop the train.
Against these inclinations he had struggled, but to no
purpose. Once, when he felt that he must take a trip, he
undressed and went to bed. He fell asleep, and slept soundly
until he heard the whistle of the midnight train. Instantly he
was out of bed, and by the time they had changed engines he
was at the station ready to go.
The mania for
stopping trains had been equally irresistible. He would bite
his lips, his fingers, but he would also stop the train.
The moment
the mischief (for such it was, in nearly every instance) was
done, he would suffer greatly in dread of being found out. But
to-night, as on the occasion of the daylight stop in the cañon,
he had no warning, no opportunity to check himself, nor any
desire to do so. In each instance he had heard, dozing in the
day-coach and sleeping soundly in his berth, the voice cry:
"John! John!" and instantly his brain was ablaze with the
light of burning wreckage. In the cañon he had only felt,
indefinitely, the danger ahead; but to-night he saw the bridge
swept away, and the dark gorge that yawned in front of them.
Instantly upon hearing the cry that woke him, he saw it all.
"When I
realized that the train was still moving, that my first effort
to stop had failed, I flung these strong men from me with the
greatest ease. I'm sure I should have burst those steel bands
that bound my wrists if it had been necessary.
"Thank God
it's all over. I feel now that I am cured,—that I can settle
down contented."
The man drew
a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, keeping
his face to the window for a long time.
When the
conductor went forward, he found that it was as the porter had
pictured. The high bridge had been carried away by a
water-spout; and on the edge of the opening the engine
trembled, her pilot pointing out over the black abyss.
McNally,
having driven his fireman from the deck, stood in the cab
gripping the air-lever and watching the pump. At that time we
used what is technically known as "straight air"; so that if
the pump stopped the air played out.
The conductor
ordered the passengers to leave the train.
The rain had
ceased, but the lightning was still playing about the summit
of the range, and when it flashed, those who had gone forward
saw McNally standing at his open window, looking as grand and
heroic as the captain on the bridge of his sinking ship.
A nervous and
somewhat thoughtless person came close under the cab to ask
the engineer why he didn't back up.
There was no
answer. McNally thought it must be obvious to a man with the
intelligence of an oyster, that to release the brakes would be
to let the heavy train shove him over the bank, even if his
engine had the power to back up, which she had not.
The trainmen
were working quietly, but very effectively, unloading. The day
coaches had been emptied, the hand-brakes set, and all the
wheels blocked with links and pins and stones, when the link
between the engine and the mail-car snapped and the engine
moved forward.
McNally heard
the snap and felt her going, leaped from the window, caught
and held a scrub cedar that grew in a rock crevice, and saw
his black steed plunge down the dark cañon, a sheer two
thousand feet.
McNally had been holding her in the back motion with steam in
her cylinders; and now, when she leaped out into space, her
throttle flew wide, a knot in the whistle-rope caught in the
throttle, opening the whistle-valve as well. Down, down she
plunged,—her wheels whirling in mid-air, a solid stream of
fire escaping from her quivering stack, and from her throat a
shriek that almost froze the blood in the veins of the
onlookers. Fainter and farther came the cry, until at last the
wild waters caught her, held her, hushed her, and smothered
out her life.
Added January, 2008
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