At the Time Appointed | Page 7

conclusion, his
boyish tones growing strangely deep and tender. "My fondest hope of
all I hardly dare admit even to myself, and I don't know why I am
speaking of it to you, except that I already like you and trust you as I
never did any other man; but you will understand what I mean when
you see my cousin, Kate Underwood."
He paused, but his silence was more eloquent to Darrell than words; the
latter grasped his hand warmly in token that he understood.
"I wish you all that you hope for," he said.
A few moments later Whitcomb spoke with his usual impetuosity.
"What am I thinking of, keeping you up in this way when you are sick
and dead tired! You had better turn in and get all the rest you can, and
when we reach Ophir to-morrow, just remember, my dear fellow, that
no hotels 'go.' You'll go directly home with me, where you'll find
yourself in such good hands you'll think sure you're in your own home,
and we'll soon have you all right."
For hours Darrell tossed wearily, unable to sleep. His head throbbed
wildly, the racking pain throughout his frame increased, while a raging
fire seemed creeping through his veins. Not until long past midnight
did he fall into a fitful sleep. Strange fancies surged through his fevered
brain, torturing him with their endless repetition, their seeming reality.
Suddenly he awoke, bewildered, exhausted, oppressed by a vague sense
of impending evil.

Chapter II
A NIGHT'S WORK
For a few seconds Darrell tried vainly to recall what had awakened him.
Low, confused sounds occasionally reached his ears, but they seemed
part of his own troubled dreams. The heat was intolerable; he raised
himself to the open window that he might get a breath of cooler air; his
head whirled, but the half-sitting posture seemed to clear his brain, and

he recalled his surroundings. At once he became conscious that the
train was not in motion, yet no sound of trainmen's voices came
through the open window; all was dead silence, and the vague,
haunting sense of impending danger quickened.
Suddenly he heard a muttered oath in one of the sections, followed by
an order, low, but peremptory,--
"No noise! Hand over, and be quick about it!"
Instantly Darrell comprehended the situation. Peering cautiously
between the curtains, he saw, at the forward end of the sleeper, a
masked man with a revolver in each hand, while the mirror behind him
revealed another figure at the rear, masked and armed in like manner.
He heard another order; the man was doing his work swiftly. He
thought at once of young Whitcomb, but no sound came from the
opposite section, and he sank quietly back upon his pillow.
A moment later the curtains were quickly thrust aside, the muzzle of a
revolver confronted Darrell, and the same low voice demanded,--
"Hand out your valuables!"
A man of medium height, wearing a mask and full beard, stood over
him. Darrell quietly handed over his watch and purse, noting as he did
so the man's hands, white, well formed, well kept. He half expected a
further demand, as the purse contained only a few small bills and some
change, the bulk of his money being secreted about the mattress, as was
his habit; but the man turned with peculiar abruptness to the opposite
section, as one who had a definite object in view and was in haste to
accomplish it. Darrell, his faculties alert, observed that the section in
front of Whitcomb's was empty; he recalled the actions of its occupant
on the preceding afternoon, his business later at the telegraph office,
and the whole scheme flashed vividly before his mind. The man had
been a spy sent out by the band now holding the train, and Whitcomb's
money was without doubt the particular object of the hold-up.
Whitcomb was asleep at the farther side of his berth. Leaning slightly

towards him, the man shook him, and his first words confirmed
Darrell's intuitions,--
"Hand over that money, young man, and no fuss about it, either!"
Whitcomb, instantly awake, gazed at the masked face without a word
or movement. Darrell, powerless to aid his friend, watched intently,
dreading some rash act on his part to which his impetuous nature might
prompt him.
Again he heard the low tones, this time a note of danger in them,--
"No fooling! Hand that money over, lively!"
With a spring, as sudden and noiseless as a panther's, Whitcomb
grappled with the man, knocking the revolver from his hand upon the
bed. A quick, desperate, silent struggle followed. Whitcomb suddenly
reached for the revolver; as he did so Darrell saw a flash of steel in the
dim light, and the next instant his friend sank,