As he slipped from his shoulder the startled child, Nor even forgot in his haste to place A good-bye kiss on the upturned face; Then he sprang to the street with a bound and gazed Intent, at the spot where the fire blazed. Barely a glance was enough to tell It was a car which he knew full well-- Shipped in bond by a fast freight line, Bound for a great Sonora mine-- Filled to the roof and loaded tight With closed-tiered boxes of dynamite; Enough, if its deadly strength found vent, To rock the land like a billowed tent, Sweeping the town from the desert sand Clean as the palm of an opened hand. What did he do, the engineer, Face to face with this mortal fear? Turn, as the rest, to the desert wide, Mad with dread, for a place to hide, Leaving the town and its helpless folk Doomed to death at a single stroke? No! Though only a peon born Heart like his might a king adorn! Waving his arms to his frightened crew, Such as remained, a scattered few, Garcia uttered a warning shout-- "Undile! Vamos!" ("Run! Get out!") Leaped to his engine waiting there, Opened the throttle, released the air, And started the jets for the sand to run On the glassy rails where the drivers spun, Till, biting the steel with a spurt of fire Sputtering back from each grinding tire, The monster conquered its straining load And, gathering speed on the curveless road, It rolled from the town and left it whole. Like death torn loose from a stricken soul. But looking backward with stern-set face, Throttle gripped in a firm embrace, Garcia goaded his panting steed Ever and ever to faster speed. Knowing still if the blow should fall It would shatter the village wall from wall. Now from the sides of the car behind, Fanned by its flight through the rushing wind, Burst the flames in a lashing sheet Peeling the paint with its fervid heat, Vomiting sparks like a fiery hail On the cars that rocked in its lurid trail. Still the mogul, in giant flight, Swaying drunkenly left and right, Strained to the race, while the rails it trod Thundered behind it, rod by rod; Still in its cab, foredoomed, alone. Waiting death like a man of stone, Stood Garcia, his feet braced wide To the pitch and plunge of the engine's stride, With never a frown to show he knew Regret for the task he was there to do. Hardly a mile had his wild train fled Into the desert straight ahead, When a flare of light to his vision came As if the world were engulfed in flame. Perhaps it fell on his closing eyes Like the great, white light of Paradise; Perhaps, in the roar which smote him there, Too deep for a mortal ear to bear, He heard but the Heavenly trumpet-roll Blown clear to welcome a hero's soul. At least, if any have won to rest In the fair, green land of the ever blest By earning their right therein to dwell, Jesus Garcia deserved it well, For in the blast that strewed his train, Torn in fragments, along the plain.