Now the fourth car appeared, nosing forward on his flank, yet he dared not take his eye from the trail. Must he leave it and make the dash across the rough uneven space? He would wait just a few strides more. Then once again he found the narrow path converging towards the tracks. Already Tomas was racing beside the car, ten feet in advance. Would the black horse be equal to the effort? With a wild yell the boy dug the spurs into the flanks of the steed, and with a gasp of surprise the horse bounded forward as never before. For a second the painted side of the clattering coach was like a dull smear on Dick’s blurred vision--then he leaned far out in his saddle to his left, his clutching fingers slid along the beveled edges of the car’s wooden frame, they gripped the iron hand-rail at the rear end of the platform, the next moment he was pulled from his saddle, his feet struck the steps and with a last, final effort he fell breathless on the floor, held in safety by the strong hands of two astonished train guards. "Well, I’ll be jiggered, if it ain’t Dick Comstock," exclaimed Private Jones, late of the _Denver’s_ guard. "I ain’t seen you since we separated at Colon. Say, Dick, what in the dickens are you doing here, and where did you come from? I sure am some glad to see you." "Wait a minute; let him get his breath before you take it all away again by making him answer your questions," said the other marine, assisting Dick to his feet, and looking at this sudden arrival with unfeigned admiration. "My word, Bo, but you beat any movie picture hero I ever seen. By the way, your friend back there doesn’t seem to know what’s become of you." "I’m thinking he must believe the Angel Gabriel come along and took you up in his chariot," said Jones, whose knowledge of Biblical characters and their history was fragmentary. Far down the track Tomas could be seen halted in the middle of the rails scratching his head while he gazed after the train in evident perplexity. "I guess he’ll figure it out. He’s a wise old Indian," said Dick; then the reason for his being on the train struck him with its full significance, and, "Who’s in charge of the train?" he asked. "Why, Dick, our old friend, Sergeant Bruckner. He’s up forward on the engine. Why? What’s up?" But Dick did not stop to answer. Roughly pushing his way through the crowd of natives gathered at the end of the car to see what manner of man it was who rode hair-breadth races with railroad trains, he ran through the remaining coaches to the front end of the train, climbed over the tender, now nearly empty of wood, and finding the sergeant, he told him what he had done and what there was still to do. "You say the artillery train left the vood station about tventy minutes ago?" asked Bruckner, reverting to his v-habit in his excitement. "Yes, and they will necessarily have to go slowly. It is getting dark, and I believe we can catch them before too late."