“Do you see anything ahead, Canby?” said Colonel Newcomb to the engineer.
“Nothing. That’s the trouble, sir. If it were a clear night I shouldn’t be worried. Then we wouldn’t be likely to steam into danger with our eyes shut. This is a wild country. The mountaineers in the main are for us, but we are not far north of the Southern line, and if they know we are crossing they may undertake to raid in here.”
“And they may know it,” said the colonel. “Washington is full of Southern sympathizers. Stop the train, Canby, when we come to the first open and level space, and we’ll do some scouting ahead.”
The engineer felt great relief. He was devoutly glad that the colonel was going to take such a precaution. At that moment he, more than Colonel Newcomb, was responsible for the lives of the seven hundred human beings aboard the train, and his patriotism and sense of responsibility were both strong.
The train, with much jolting and clanging, stopped fifteen minutes later. Both Dick and Warner, awakened by the shock, sat up and rubbed their eyes. Then they left the train at once to join Colonel Newcomb, who might want them immediately. Wary Sergeant Whitley followed them in silence.
The boys found Colonel Newcomb and the remaining members of his staff standing near, and seeking anxiously to discover the nature of the country about them. The colonel nodded when they arrived, and gave them an approving glance. The two stood by, awaiting the colonel’s orders, but they did not neglect to use their eyes.
Dick saw by the engineer’s lantern that they were in a valley, and he learned from his words that this valley was about three miles long with a width of perhaps half a mile. A little mountain river rushed down its center, and the train would cross the stream about a mile further on. It was still raining and the cold wind whistled down from the mountains. Dick could see the somber ridges showing dimly through the loom of darkness and rain. He was instantly aware, too, of a tense and uneasy feeling among the officers. All of them carried glasses, but in the darkness they could not use them. Lights began to appear in the train and many heads were thrust out at the windows.
“Go through the coaches, Mr. Mason and Mr. Warner,” said Colonel Newcomb, “and have every light put out immediately. Tell them, too, that my orders are for absolute silence.”
Dick and the Vermonter did their work rapidly, receiving many curious inquiries, as they went from coach to coach, all of which they were honestly unable to answer. They knew no more than the other boys about the situation. But when they left the last coach and returned to the officers near the engine, the train was in total darkness, and no sound came from it. Colonel Newcomb again gave them an approving nod. Dick noticed that the fires in the engine were now well covered, and that no sparks came from the smokestack. Standing by it he could see the long shape of the train running back in the darkness, but it would have been invisible to any one a hundred yards away.
“You think we’re thoroughly hidden now, Canby?” said the colonel.
“Yes, sir. Unless they’ve located us precisely on advance information. I don’t see how they could find us among the mountains in all this darkness and rain.”
“But they’ve had the advance information! Look there!” exclaimed Major Hertford, pointing toward the high ridge that lay on their right.
A beam of light had appeared on the loftiest spur, standing out at first like a red star in the darkness, then growing intensely brighter, and burning with a steady, vivid light. The effect was weird and powerful. The mountain beneath it was invisible, and it seemed to burn there like a real eye, wrathful and menacing. The older men, as well as the boys, were held as if by a spell. It was something monstrous and eastern, like the appearance of a genie out of the Arabian Nights.
The light, after remaining fixed for at least a minute, began to move slowly from side to side and then faster.