Chapter XXIII: Locomotive Versus Aeroplane

DACRES had overestimated the advantage caused by the escort being barefooted. The men, unslinging their rifles, scaled the sun-dried bank with considerable agility and prepared to pour a volley into the fugitive locomotive. One thing only deterred them: they feared the presence of the dangerous contents of the trucks.

Still gathering speed the engine dashed across the bridge, greeted by an irregular and futile volley from the Valderian soldiers. Every shot either flew high above the cab or went wide.

The oscillation of the engine now began to be greatly in evidence. The speed soon mounted up to fifty miles an hour, practically a record for the La Paz railway. Dacres, still holding his revolver in readiness, was glad to lean back against a pile of coal and grasp a rail with his left hand; while his companion, standing behind the trembling fireman, kept looking anxiously through the square window in front of the cab.

The line, badly laid and maintained, caused the engine to swerve and jolt till at almost every instant it seemed as if it would leave the metals. Without a load the pace was exceedingly dangerous, till at Dacres' suggestion Henri gave orders for speed to be materially reduced.

Mile after mile sped by. Although the driver assured his captors that no other train was on the line between them and La Paz, Dacres had his doubts. He knew that the telegraph would soon be working, and utterly regardless of the lives of the engineer and driver, the railway authorities at La Paz would not hesitate to send a number of empty trucks down the long, gradual incline, or possibly tear up and portion off the track and derail the captured engine.

"Stop her!" ordered Dacres, an inspiration flashing across his mind, and his companion communicated the order to the driver, who seemed only too glad to obey.

With a heavy grinding of brakes the engine was brought to a standstill. The two Valderians, wondering what was going to happen, cowered in front of their resolute kidnappers.

During the run Dacres' sharp eyes had caught sight of a magazine-rifle of an American pattern stowed away inside the cab. Evidently the lot of an engineer on the republic of Valderia government railways was not a happy one, since he had to be provided with a rifle to defend the train from robbers and "express agents."

Seizing the weapon Dacres jerked back the bolt. A loaded cartridge falling out and another appearing ready to be thrust into the breech, told him that the magazine was charged.

"Keep an eye on both men for half a minute," he cautioned, then resting the barrel of the rifle on a ledge of the cab he took deliberate aim at one of the two insulators of the nearest telegraph post.

Simultaneously with the sharp crack of the rifle the insulator flew into pieces, while the copper wire dropped to the ground, cut completely through.

With a hideous yell of fright the engineer, imagining that his comrade had been deliberately shot from behind, leapt from the cab.

"Don't fire," shouted Dacres, as Henri was about to blaze away with his revolver. "Mark time on the fireman."

So saying Dacres jumped from the engine and started in pursuit of the fugitive. Ere the latter had covered fifty yards the Englishman overhauled him. The moment the Valderian felt himself gripped by the shoulder he stopped short, whipped out a formidable-looking knife which he had hitherto kept concealed, and made a savage lunge at his pursuer.

Dacres felt the keen blade pass between the right arm and his ribs. Adroitly springing backwards he raised his revolver and fired--not at the half-frantic engineer but at the glittering blade.

The knife was wrenched from the Valderian's grasp. He fell on his knees, begging for mercy. "Get up, you silly idiot," roared Dacres. "We are not going to hurt you. Get back to the engine."

Although the fellow knew not a word of English, the gestures that Dacres used were sufficiently emphatic to be understood. Like a lamb he allowed himself to be taken back towards the post he had but recently deserted.

Henri was alone on the engine. The fireman, profiting by the diversion caused by Dacres' revolver shot, had made a bolt for liberty. Forbearing to fire on the fugitive, the Frenchman watched the fellow running for dear life through the long grass of the plain that stretched on either hand as far as the eye could see.

"Can't be helped," said Dacres cheerfully. "We'll have to do our own stoking--putting the coals on the furnace, you know. Tell that engineer he's in no danger so long as he sticks to his post and obeys orders. After all, it doesn't very much matter. In fact, it's a good job, since we've only one man to keep in order. Now for the remaining telegraph wire. Tell the fellow to turn round and see what I am going to do, in case he gets another jumpy fit."

With the second shot the wire was severed. Telegraph communication between Naocuanha and La Paz was, for the time being, totally interrupted.

"Hope we're not too late," muttered Dacres.

"They may have wired through already. If they have there's ten precious minutes thrown away. Tell the fellow to start her up again, Henri."

As the engine gathered speed Dacres glanced back. The single track was visible for nearly four miles. There were no signs of pursuit from that direction.

Ejecting the cartridge from the magazine of the rifle, the Englishman found that there were still eleven rounds. Having made this reassuring discovery he reloaded, set the weapon carefully in a corner, and devoted his attention to keeping a sharp look-out.

The engine had now gained the foot of the forty-five mile incline up to La Paz. Along this section the danger of being derailed by a loaded truck was not only possible but probable, provided the authorities at La Paz had already been warned. So long as the rail ran in a fairly straight direction there would be ample time to slow down and jump off before the impact occurred; but the fugitives knew that before long the railway would make several sharp and awkward turns.

Soon it became evident that more coal was required. Ordering the engineer to step back and face aft, Dacres plied the shovel while Henri still kept the prisoner covered.

As the vile Lota coal was shovelled into the furnace, clouds of black smoke poured from the squat inverted triangle-shaped funnel, and eddying downwards momentarily obscured the out-look.

The amateur fireman was in the act of throwing on another shovelful when Henri shouted into his ear and with his disengaged arm pointed obliquely in the direction of Naocuanha.

A rift in the pungent cloud of smoke revealed a very unpleasant sight. Overhauling the fugitives, hand over fist, were two large biplanes.

The engineer saw them also, and a wave of ashy grey passed over his sallow olive features.

"Madre!" he gasped. "They will blow us all up."

He realized that the danger was greatest from his compatriots. Without the least compunction the Valderian airmen would sacrifice the luckless engineer if by so doing they would involve the fugitives in the destruction of the engine.

"Tell that fellow to get back upon the foot-plate," ordered Dacres, at the same time picking up the rifle. "Keep a bright look out ahead, Henri. We'll stop their little game."

The young Frenchman was now entirely carried away by the excitement of the wild ride. What little fear he had at the commencement of the adventure had completely left him. Although he lacked the cool, calculating manner of his Anglo-Saxon companion, and manifested all the vivacity of the Gaul, he was not deficient in courage.

There could be no doubt as to the intentions of the two aeroplanes. Flying low--less than three hundred feet from the ground--they followed the line of rails. In front and slightly the pilot in each was a light automatic gun. The airman-gunner, however, was busy not with this weapon but with a number of cylindrical objects that Dacres recognized as bombs. The idea of the airman was to overtake the fugitive engine and drop a charge of high explosive on or immediately in front of it. This manoeuvre must be frustrated at all costs.

Setting the sliding bar of the back-sight to a hundred yards, the Englishman waited. He realized that he was at a disadvantage owing to the jarring and swinging of the engine, but the targets were fairly large ones and moving at less than ten miles an hour more than the object of their pursuit.

Soon the whirr of the aerial propeller of the leading biplane was audible above the rush of the wind and the rattle of the locomotive. The bomb-thrower poised one of his missiles.

"Idiot!" muttered Dacres. "He'd make a better show of it with that automatic gun--well, here goes."

Gently pressing the trigger, the Englishman let fly. The bullet passed close enough to the pilot to make him duck, but without cutting any of the wire stays and struts it zipped through the upper plane and whistled away into space.

"Lower, Basil, my boy," quoth Dacres reprovingly.

The pilot, realizing the danger to which he was exposed, tilted the elevating planes.

As the biplane darted upwards the Englishman's rifle spoke again. The brilliant sunshine seemed out-classed by the vivid flash that followed. Fragments of the aeroplane flew in all directions, falling with widely varying velocities to the ground, while only a trailing cloud of smoke marked the position of the unfortunate Valderian biplane a second before it was blown out of existence.

Struck by the furious eddy that followed the detonation the second aeroplane rocked violently. The gunner grasped one of the struts as if expecting the frail craft to plunge headlong to the ground. It lurched through the still falling debris of its disintegrated consort, then, gradually recovering its equilibrium it followed grimly in the wake of the fleeing locomotive.

"There's pluck for you," said Dacres under his breath. "I should have thought it was enough to knock the stuffing out of those fellows. Ah! they're going to tickle us up with that gun."

Three shots from Dacres' rifle in quick succession had no apparent effect. The biplane, soaring upwards, was momentarily presenting a smaller target against the dazzling light of the afternoon sky.

"_Phit, phit, phit!_" The automatic gun began spitting out bullets. Most of the shot went wide. One perforated the funnel, another ricochetted from the huge bell that takes the place of a steam whistle on American locomotives; the rest kicked up the dust.

Crack went the Englishmen's rifle: this time a bad miss.

"_Phit, phit, phit!_" The Valderian bullets were finding billets now. One, penetrating the boiler plate, let loose a fierce blast of hissing steam; another, piercing the roof of the cab, struck a pressure gauge, sending fragments of glass in all directions. The speed of the locomotive began to decrease appreciably.

This was more than the driver could stand. He threw himself flat upon the foot-plate, holding his hands to his ears as if to shut out the din of the unique engagement.

"Take cover!" shouted Dacres to his comrade. "Don't worry about the engine: she's stopping, worse luck."

The comparatively rapid diminution of speed on the part of the locomotive resulted in the aeroplane overshooting the limit at which it could use the automatic gun. The respite from the missiles was welcome until Dacres noticed the observer making ready to drop a bomb.

Three cartridges only remained in the Englishman's rifle; after that he would have to trust to his revolver. Beyond a range of fifty yards that weapon was practically useless for deliberate aiming.

Once again Dacres raised his repeater. He lingered over the sights till the biplane was almost overhead, then pressed the trigger.

"Missed, by Jove!" he ejaculated disgustedly. "Try it with your revolver, Henri."

Before Dacres could reload the Frenchman emptied four of the chambers of his revolver. The Valderian aeroplane, swinging like a wounded bird, began to fall towards the earth. The left aileron, bending upwards, threw the tottering fabric more and more on one side. The pilot, still grasping the wheel, was wedged against the padded rim of the chassis. His companion, hurled from his seat, fell to the ground with a dull thud thirty seconds before the biplane crashed upon the track.

Then with a detonation that shook earth and sky the six dynamite bombs exploded, blowing the wrecked aircraft to atoms and leaving a hole six feet in depth where the railway lines had been.

Almost at that identical moment the locomotive came to a standstill a hundred yards from the scene of the disaster. Fortunate it was that Dacres and his companion were sheltered from the blast of the explosives by the riddled hood of the cab, for stones and fragments of metal flew all around them.

Well-nigh deafened and with their senses dulled by the awfulness of the termination of the encounter the two men rose to their feet. The engineer was still lying face downwards upon the foot-plate.

"Now what's to be done?" asked Dacres, more of himself than with the idea of asking Henri's opinion. "Here we are stranded fifty miles from the 'Meteor' and with that rotten town of La Paz between us and our friends."

"We must walk," said the Frenchman. "See, there is our guide: the peaks of the Sierras. But this poltroon?" and he pointed to the motionless Valderian.

"Let him stop," replied Dacres. "He'll buck up when he finds he's alone. It will be all the better for us if he doesn't see in which direction we go."

Removing the breech-action from the rifle, Dacres began to make preparations for the long tramp. A bottle half-full of wine, a couple of small cakes made of Indian corn, and a piece of sun-dried meat comprised their stock of provisions after a careful search of the lockers of the cab had been made.

Presently Henri astonished his companion by shouting "_Prenez garde!_" and pointing through the forward window, which was partly obscured by the steam that was still escaping from the boiler.

Whipping out his revolver in anticipation of another attack, Dacres looked in the direction indicated.

Travelling swiftly down the long incline was a number of trucks. In another two or three minutes they would be crashing into the stationary engine.