CHAPTER IX. - THE GANTLET OF FIRE.

" Ready. Warson?"

" All ready."

" Good; these delays make me nervous. Hilloa, Butman, tell the boys we are off."

It is the same hour of the return of the Wizard Scout to Sherman's encampment, but the scene is several miles up the railroad to the Etowah valley.

The southern-bound train loaded with supplies for the northern army has stopped for wood and water, unconscious of a foe ambushed near at hand.

Sherman with his usual forethought had attempted to keep open the road behind him, thus enabling him to keep his army in proper supplies.

Johnston busy with his plans of retreat and protection to himself has found no leisure to dispute the undertaking, until now, a detachment of Folk's division has been sent to capture the incoming train.
Knowing that it must stop at Etowah Crossing, a squad of Confederate soldiers lay in ambush for the expected train. It was the plan to attack the train-force, and overpower them before they could rally from the surprise. Then enough of their number were to take charge of the engine and run the train through to Marietta.

In case those at the crossing should fail, a body of soldiers were lying in wait below, to fire upon the cars as they swept on; and lower down where the road crossed the river the bridge was to be fired, in case the assailants above failed to give the signal of success.

Altogether it was a bold venture likely to be successful in case the surprise was complete.

As we have seen the Wizard Scout had learned of the intended attack, but owing to a change in the programme it was carried into effect twenty-four hours sooner than at first arranged.

Thus his information came too late, or rather was of no value owing to this change, and the surprise was effected.

"Hark! what was that?" exclaimed Engineer Warson, as the sound of some one moving in the thicket reached his ears just as he turned to enter the cab.

There were only three houses at Etowah crossing and these were deserted. The woods on one side reached nearly down to the track. The night was starless, so that a form was not distinguishable any great distance away.

Scarcely had the words left Warson's lips when a sharp voice cried out: " Fire, boys!"

An instant later a volley of bullets whistled about their heads and several of the boys in blue fell where they were standing.

"Up and take them!" thundered the Confederate leader. "Show the Yanks no quarter!"

"Quick! to the train!" cried Warson. " The enemy are upon us!"

Even he was not quick enough to reach the cab.

With cries that would have done credit to a war party of Sioux Indians, the assailants leaped from their coverts, sending another volley of shot into the midst of the startled trainmen.

Cut off from retreat the handful that were left of the latter, unarmed, were at their mercy.

Some fled; others caught up whatever they could to defend themselves with and fought valiantly.

Warson, the engineer, seized a club to defend himself as best he could.

His fireman had fallen at the first volley.

Swinging the club over his head, the engineer dealt his Herculean blows, mowing a path through the surging mob until he reached the engine.

" Don't let him escape!" cried the Confederate chief.

But Warson was too quick for him, and in spite of them sprang upon the cab.

At the same moment, however, three or four of the enemy gained the place.

" Out of this!" exclaimed Warson, and with almost superhuman effort he began to hurl them from the train.

The fighting had now come into such close quarters that the firing had ceased, while the position was such that but few of the assailants could act at once.

Thus in less time than it takes us to describe it, Warson had cleared the cab.

At the same moment he felt a stinging sensation in his left arm and the limb dropped by his side—useless.
Without giving a second thought to this, however, he sprang to the lever and throw open the valve.

Rapid puffs from the wide-mouthed smoke-stack quickly answered his efforts and the iron wheels began to move!

Scarcely knowing whether it was some of their own number or not who was at the lever the Confederates attempted to board the moving train.

Grasping the throttle with his right hand Warson threw it wide open, when with a bound the iron horse obeyed the will of its master.

Wild shouts from the baffled soldiers were heard above the shrieks of the engine, as the long train like a huge serpent crept along its iron track gaining greater impetus at every revolution of the wheels.

Unmindful of the pain from his injured arm Warson stood at his post, while the mad, excited soldiers sent shot after shot hurtling about his head, some of them coming uncomfortably near.

Faster and faster sped the train, the thunder of its iron carriages drowning the yells and firing of the foes. On and on rushed the iron horse with its faithful master at his post goading it on to greater speed, into the very jaws of the trap set for it.

The train had not gone far—more than a couple of miles—when Warson heard some one behind him.

Turning, expecting to meet an enemy, his joy may be imagined when he saw one of the brakeman, who had been upon one of the cars before they had started and come to the engineer's assistance as soon as possible.

"Jim, I'm glad to see you!" exclaimed the engineer. "Did any of the rest escape?"

" I think not."

" Look after the fire-box, Jim. We are good for the gray hounds now."

"But you are wounded," cried the other, seeing for the first time the shattered arm dangling by his side.

" 'Tis nothing to speak of," replied Warson, calmly. " My other arm is all right."

" Let me stop that flow of blood."

" Look to the fire-box first. It must be burning low and it won't do for us to lose any speed."

Jim turned to replenish the fire while they were whirled on through the night with startling velocity, the engine sending out long lines of sparks making their course look like a trail of fire.

Down the descending track they rushed, around sharp curves where the train threatened to leap from the rails, the sullen roar of their lightning-like passage sounding far and clear in the stillness of the night.

Warson stood firmly at his post, his face looking ghastly white in the glare of the engine.

It was a handsome countenance, but the lines around the mouth were closely drawn, and a fierce, haggard expression marked the good looks of his features. It may have come from the pain of his
wounded arm. Quite a pool of blood had formed upon the floor.

It was twenty miles to the Union lines. Could he keep up until the journey was performed?

Warson was peering into the darkness ahead, as if anticipating the coming danger when the brakeman joined him.

"What means that light spot against the sky, Jim?"

"A fire!" was the quick reply, as his companion saw that a broad light had appeared in the space ahead.

"Perhaps——''

In the midst of his speech poor Jim staggered back and pressing his hand to his temple fell at the other's feet.

A lurid glare lit the forest on the right, and the reports of a volley of rifle-shots rang above the confusion of the train.

Going at such headlong speed, however, the ambushed foes were almost instantly passed.

But one shot had seemed to enter the cab, though that was paid for at a dear price.

Jim did not move after he fell.

Warson glanced down upon his motionless figure with an exclamation of pity.

The next moment a sharper and louder cry was wrung from his white lips.

Sweeping around a sharp curve he came suddenly upon the Etowah where it wound sluggishly on its course.

The mystery of the flame-lit sky was solved.

The bridge was on fire!