Roger Oakley, on the narrow iron shelf between the engine and the tender, was already throwing coal into the furnace. His face wore a satisfied expression. Apparently he was utterly unmoved by the excitement of the moment, for he bent to his work as if it were the most usual of tasks, and the occasion the most commonplace. He had taken off his coat and vest and had tossed them up on the tender out of his way. Dan, looking over the boiler's end, could see his broad shoulders and the top of his head. He leaned back with his hand on the throttle. “Father!” he called. The old convict straightened up instantly. “Yes, Dannie?” “You are going with me? You are determined?” “I thought we settled that, Dannie, before we started,” he said, pleasantly, but there was a shrewd, kindly droop to the corners of his mouth, for he appreciated his victory. “I want to know, because if I am to slow up for you I'll have to do it soon, or I'll be leaving you in worse shape than I found you.” To this his father made no direct reply. Instead he asked, “Do you think we'll reach Antioch in time to do them any good?” Dan faced about. They slid into a straight stretch of road beyond the Junction, and the track shone yellow far ahead, where the engine looked down upon it with its single eye. Each minute their speed increased. A steady jarring and pounding had begun that grew into a dull and ponderous roar as the engine rushed forward. Dan kept a sharp watch for the freight. As Durks had said, it might be on the siding at Parker's Rim, and it might not. In the latter event, his and his father's troubles would soon be at an end. He rose from his seat and went to the door of the cab. “We'll take it easy for the first ten miles or so, then we'll be in the fire, and that will be our time to hit her up.” Roger Oakley nodded his acquiescence. In what he conceived to be worldly matters he was quite willing to abide by Dan's judgment, for which he had profound respect. “How fast are we going?” he asked. Dan steadied himself and listened, with a finger on his pulse, until he caught the rhythmic swing of the engine, as it jarred from one rail to another. Then he said: “Twenty-five miles an hour.” “It ain't very fast, is it, Dannie?” He was evidently disappointed. “We'll do twice that presently.” The old convict looked relieved. They were running now with a strip of forest on one side of the track and cultivated fields on the other, but with each rod they covered they were edging in nearer the flames. At Parker's Rim the road crossed a little stream which doubled back in the direction of Buckhorn Junction. There was nothing after that to stay the progress of the fire, and the rest of their way lay through the blazing pine-woods. Just before they reached the ten-mile fill they came to the strip of burned timber that had sent Baker back to Buckhorn earlier in the day. Here and there a tree was still blazing, but for the most part the fire had spent its strength.