He ducked low as he heard the sound, and brought his carbine into play. Throwing the old-fashioned magazine-lever down and back, he took quick but careful aim at the moving lanterns, light by light. It was not until his magazine was empty that he dropped the weapon and caught up his revolver. His shots were going wild, he knew, but he did not stop. He saw the moving lights come to a halt, almost beside the track-edge. He saw one of them go down and scatter, and the oil break into flames. He saw the remaining lights waver, draw back, and disperse. And the girder fell as the men wavered and retreated. But it did not fall on the rails.
He swept past where it lay beside the burning oil, six good feet from the track. He heard the hasty volley they tried to pour in on him, broadside, as he went. But they had nothing more than a racing shadow for a target, and the car had thundered past before they could make a second move. He felt the girl clasping his knee; whether from fright or weakness or gratitude at their deliverance he could not tell. Nor did he care to ask as he helped her up into the seat.
They were clear of the town now, and in the open country. A long level stretch of swampland, musky-smelling, miasmal, blanketed with
