the last horse on earth will not feel more completely alone than Jerky and I did at that moment. As I was about to dismount and tie him to a tree, a thought struck me. I knew every regular train on the road, and there was none due for hours from either direction. I had a time-table in my pocket, and I took it out and examined it carefully by the moonlight. The track was clear; why might I not venture to save my strength and that of my horse, and, by saving time, perhaps save a valuable human life as well? Why not, indeed? The more I thought of it, the more satisfied I became that it was a safe thing to do.
The moon, now unobscured, was high in the heavens as I entered the snow-shed, and it was not very difficult to keep the way, as the light came scintillating through a thousand cracks and crevices in the rough timber structure. Three or four culverts, to allow the passage of mountain streams when the snow is melting, checked my progress for a brief time, but there was a plank across one or two, for the convenience of "foot-passengers," and as the water was hard frozen, I got old Jerky around the others in safety.
The worst was over, and I was already beginning to chuckle over the adventure, and pride myself on my forethought and pluck in making the venture. I had, undoubtedly, saved at least an hour of hard work wading through the snow, and possibly—not improbably, in fact, saved a life. Just then I heard a low, tremulous, humming noise running along the frost-laden rails, and instinctively checked my horse to listen. It had subsided for the moment, and I went on in silence.
