Chapter XIII

GOING ON
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Bob turned and stared at the conductor with unbelieving eyes.

“He’s gone!” said Bob mechanically.

But it couldn’t be possible for only a few minutes before he had looked in at Tully when he had examined the contents of his bag in the search for a weapon. Tully had been sleeping deeply but peacefully then.

“Maybe he walked up ahead to get a drink,” suggested the conductor. But there was little actual hope in his voice that this had happened.

“Get ahead and see if he’s there,” ordered Bob and the conductor hurried away.

Bob threw back the curtains in the berth and looked for some evidence of a struggle for he was convinced in his own mind that Tully had never left the berth of his own free will. For one thing Tully had been too ill to get up and do any walking on the train.

The conductor returned promptly. There was no sign of Tully in the head end of the Pullman.

Bob rummaged through the sheets and blankets on the bed and his hands suddenly came on something firm. He drew the object out of the bedding and gazed at it under the rays of the berth light which he had turned on. It was a leather covered blackjack.

“This spells trouble in capital letters,” said Bob as he drew out a clean handkerchief and turned the blackjack over. “Some one slugged Tully and then carried him out of his berth. This train is haunted.”

“I’m beginning to believe so myself,” agreed the conductor. “Who could have carried him away?”

“There’s only one answer to that—Hamsa,” asserted Bob. “What I want to know is what happened to Tully?”

The conductor shook his head in glum perplexity. Events were happening too swiftly for him to comprehend. First valuable papers had been stolen, then a gun, and a federal agent had disappeared from his berth. The trainman would welcome the end of the division and his run.

The brakeman, coming back from the head end on his rounds, stopped in the Pullman.

“One of you fellows leave the vestibule door up ahead open?” he asked.

“No,” replied Bob sharply.

“Well, some one did. I closed it when I came along.”

A look of apprehension flitted across Bob’s face.

“Which vestibule was open?” he demanded.

“Left hand one on the car just ahead,” replied the brakeman.

Without further questioning, Bob dashed ahead, a mounting fear tugging at his heart.

The conductor and brakeman followed him through the car and out into the vestibule where the steady clacking of the trucks beneath the Pullmans filled the air.

Bob stepped across the gap into the car ahead. There was a splotch of water on the steel floor of the vestibule where the wind had lashed the rain in while the door was open.

“This the door that was open?” asked Bob.

“Right. I closed it less than a minute ago,” replied the brakeman.

Bob dropped down to his knees and examined the floor of the vestibule. At first there appeared to be nothing unusual there, but his sharp eyes finally caught sight of a small, dark spot. It was soft and fresh and he touched it with his fingers.

Bob drew his hand back where the light was better and examined the dark marks on the tips of his fingers. From behind came an involuntary gasp from the brakeman.

The dark spots on Bob’s fingers were blood and the young federal agent looked up at the trainmen with eyes that were hard and piercing.

“Stop this train!” he ordered. “Tully Ross has been thrown from the train. We’ve got to go back.”

The conductor was silent for a moment, staring at the dark stains on Bob’s fingers. Then he shook his head.

“We can’t stop and go back. There’s a fast freight following right behind us and they might ram us. We’ll have to run to the nearest station with a night operator. Then we can get word back to division headquarters.”

“But we’ve got to stop. He may be seriously injured.”

The conductor looked at his watch. Just then the air brakes went on and streams of sparks flew from the wet trucks underneath.

“We’re slowing down now for Robertson where we take on water. There’s a night operator there. We can send a message back and get new orders.”

The brakeman threw open the vestibule door on the right side and almost before the train came to a stop Bob and the conductor were running forward.

When they reached the small station Bob dictated the message and the conductor told the operator to rush it through.

“That freight’s only ten miles up the line. It’s at Quasqueton now. Maybe we can catch it,” said the operator.

Bob nodded and the operator pounded his key hard with a desperate call for the night man at Quasqueton. It seemed ages before there was an answer. Actually the Quesqueton operator answered in less than a minute.

“Hold the freight,” snapped back the operator beside Bob, and just then the dispatcher at division headquarters chimed in and wanted to know what it was all about.

The story was snapped over the wires as the bent fingers of the operator at Robertson tapped out the facts. The answer from the dispatcher came sharply, first a message to the freight.

“To enginemen and trainmen of extra X703 South. Use all precautions in moving from Quasqueton to Robertson to find federal agent believed thrown from Southern Limited. Report immediately upon arrival at Robertson.”

That message was followed by one to the Limited to proceed. The night operator copied this quickly and handed the thin tissues to the conductor, who was buttoning up his coat before going back into the desolation of that wild night.

“Going on with us, or will you stay here and wait for the freight to come through and report?”

Bob hesitated. If he remained at the lonely station he would have first hand information if Tully was found by the freight crew. On the other hand, he was convinced that Joe Hamsa was still aboard the Southern Limited and that he had on his person the confidential documents on the smuggling ring which had been stolen from Tully and Bob.

The decision was made quickly.

“I’m going on the Limited. What’s our next stop?”

The conductor named a junction thirty miles down the line.

“Will the freight be in here by the time we reach the junction?” Bob asked the night operator.

“It will at the rate the Limited is running tonight,” replied the operator. “Quasqueton is reporting the freight out right now.”

“Let’s go,” called the conductor.

The trainman hurried outside and Bob banged the door after him. The federal agent went back to the Pullmans while the conductor ran forward with the orders for the engineer. A minute later the Limited hooted shrilly and once more started southward.