They had been going nearly an hour when a thin humming undertone in the air or on the rails made Bond stiffen. Again he looked back over his shoulder. Was there a tiny glow-worm glimmer between them and the false red dawn of the burning ghost town?
Bond’s scalp tingled. «D’you see anything back there?»
She turned her head. Then, without replying, she slowed the engine down so that they were coasting quietly.
They both listened. Yes. It was in the rails. A soft quivering, not more than a distant sigh.
«It’s The Cannonball,» said Tiffany flatly. She gave a sharp twist to the accelerator and the handcar sped on again.
«What can she do?» asked Bond.
«Maybe sixty.»
«How far to Rhyolite?»
«Around thirty.»
Bond worked on the figures for a moment in silence. «It’s going to be a near thing. Can’t tell how far away he is. Can you get anything more out of this?»
«Not a scrap,» she said grimly. «Even if my name was Casey Jones instead of Case.»
«We’ll be all right,» said Bond. «You keep her rolling. Maybe he’ll blow up or something.»
«Oh, sure,» she said. «Or maybe the spring’ll run down and he’s left the key of his engine at home in his pants pocket.»
For fifteen minutes they sped along in silence and now Bond could clearly see the great pilot-light of the engine cutting through the night, not more than five miles away, and an angry fountain above it from the woodsparks flaming out of the great dome of the smoke-stack. The rails were trembling beneath them and what had been a distant sigh was a low threatening murmur.
Perhaps he’ll run out of wood, thought Bond. On an impulse he said casually to the girl, «I suppose we’re all right for gas?»
«Oh, sure,» said Tiffany. «Put in a whole can. There’s no indicator, but these things’ll run for ever on a gallon of gas.»
Almost before the words were out of her mouth, and as if to comment on them, the little engine gave a deprecating cough. ‘Put. Put-put.’ Then it ran merrily on.
«Christ,» said Tiffany. «D’you hear that?»
Bond said nothing. He felt the palms of his hands go wet.
And again. ‘Put. Put-put.’
Tiffany Case gingerly nursed the accelerator.
«Oh, dear little engine,» she said plaintively. «Beautiful, clever little engine. Please be kind.»
‘Put-put. Put-put. Hiss. Put. Hiss…’ And suddenly they were free-wheeling along in silence. Twenty-five, said the speedometer. Twenty… fifteen… ten… five. A last savage twist at the accelerator and a kick from Tiffany Case at the engine-housing and they had stopped.
«——» said Bond, once. He got painfully out on to the side of the track and limped to the petrol tank at the rear, pulling his bloodstained handkerchief out of his trouser pocket. He unscrewed the filler cap and lowered the handkerchief down so that it must reach the bottom of the tank. He pulled it out and felt it and sniffed it. Dry as a bone.
«That’s that,» he said to the girl. «Now just let’s think hard.» He looked all round. No cover to the left, and two miles at least to the road. On the right the mountains, perhaps a quarter of a mile away. They might get there and hide up. But for how long? It looked the best chance. The ground beneath his feet was shaking. He looked down the line at the glaring, implacable eye. How far? Two miles? Would Spang see the handcar in time? Would he be able to stop? Might he be derailed? But then Bond remembered the great jutting cow-catcher that would sweep the light car out of the way like a bale of straw.
«Come on, Tiffany,» he called. «We’ve got to take to the hills.»
Where was she? He limped round the car. She was running back down the track in front. She came up panting. «There’s a branch line just ahead,» she gasped. «If we can push the thing there and you can work the old points, he might miss us.»
«My God,» said Bond slowly. Then, with awe in his voice. «There’s something better than that. Give me a hand,» and he bent down and gritted his teeth against the pain and started pushing.
Once started, the car moved easily and they only had to follow behind it and keep it rolling. They came to the points and Bond went on pushing until they were twenty yards past.
«What the hell?» panted Tiffany.
«Come on,» said Bond, half stumbling, half running back to where the rusty switch stuck up beside the rails. «We’re going to put The Cannonball on to the branch line.»
«Oh, boy!» said Tiffany Case reverently. And then they were both at the switch and Bond’s bruised muscles were cracking as he heaved.
Slowly the rusty metal shifted in the bed where it had lain unmoved for fifty years, and millimetre by millimetre the rails showed a crack and then a widening gap as Bond strained and jerked at the lever.
And then it was done and Bond knelt on the ground with his head down, fighting the dizziness that threatened to drown him.
But then there was a glare of light on the ground and Tiffany tugged at him and he was on his feet again and stumbling back to the car and the whole air was full of thunder and the doleful clanging of the warning bell as the great flaming iron beast came roaring towards them.
«Get down and don’t move,» shouted Bond above the noise, and he thrust her to the ground behind the flimsy shelter of the handcar. Then he limped quickly to the side of the track and drew his gun and stood sideways on with his pistol arm up like a duellist and squinted back up the track into the great on-rushing eye below the volcano of swirling fire and smoke.
God, what a monster. Could it possibly take the curve? Wouldn’t it just hurtle on into them and smash them to pulp?
On it came.
‘Phut.’ Something whipped into the ground beside him and there was a pinpoint flash from the cabin.
‘B-o-i-n-g-g-g.’ There was another flash and the bullet hit the rail and whined off into the night.
‘Crack. Crack. Crack.’ Now he could hear the gun above the rear of the engine. Something sang sharply in his ear.
Bond held his fire. Only four bullets and he knew when they would go.
And then, twenty yards away, the flying engine thundered into the curve and took the siding with a lurch that sent logs hurtling towards Bond off the top of the tender.
There was a shrill scream of metal as the flanges on the six-feet-tall driving wheels ground into the bend, a swift impression of smoke and flame and pounding machinery, and then a glimpse into the cabin and of the black-and-silver figure of Spang, spreadeagled, clinging to the side of the cabin with one hand and with the other hand outflung to the long iron handle of the throttle lever.
Bond’s gun shouted its four words. There was a lightning impression of a white face jerked up towards the sky and then the great black-and-gold engine was past and hurtling towards the shadowy wall of the Spectre Mountains, the beam of its pilot-light scything at the darkness ahead and its automatic warning-bell clanging sadly on, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Bond slowly tucked the Beretta into his trousers and stood looking after the coffin of Mr Spang, and the trail of smoke drifted over his head and for a moment put out the moon.
Tiffany Case came running to him and they stood side by side and watched the flaming banner from the tall smoke-stack and listened to the mountains throw back the echo of the charging locomotive. The girl clutched his arm as the engine gave a sudden swerve and vanished behind a spur of rock. And now there was only a faraway drumming in the mountains and a red glow that flickered off the crags as The Cannonball tore on down the cutting into the belly of the rock.