Taps sounded and the lights were lowered in the barracks and the sentries called off half-past ten o'clock, and still there had come no sign of the westbound Flyer, far over the southward waves of prairie, slowly breasting the long upgrade to the Pass. The big compound engine of the Midland Pacific had a deep-toned, melodious, flute-like signal, utterly different to the ear-piercing shriek of the old-fashioned railway whistle, and on still evenings the sharp, rhythmical beat of the exhaust, the steady rumble of the heavy Pullmans, and the occasional blast, rich and mellow, of the misnamed whistle could be followed westward for many a mile, until at last the echoes of the signal died away among the cliffs and cañons of the frowning Sagamore.
Some distance out across the rolling prairie, a mile or more beyond the Minneconjou, was the siding of a deserted station, once built there by the quartermaster's department with the idea of making a much shorter haul for supplies than that afforded by the broad and fairly level road from town. The wear and tear on mules, harness and running gear consequent upon the up-hill and down-dale character of the road, and the unprecedented volume of blasphemy supposedly necessary to successful fording of the Minneconjou, within earshot of the pious-minded at the post, led to eventual abandonment of that route in favor of the far longer but undeniably safer line to Silver Hill. It was a fine sight on clear evenings to see the long trail of electric lights gleaming white against the darkness, come rounding a distant bluff to the east, and then, skirting for a mile or so the south bank of the Minneconjou, go alternately burrowing and bridging the prairie divides and hollows until finally lost behind the sharp spur known as Two-Mile Ridge. The Flyer had a way of waiting at Omaha for the last of the express trains of five great railways bringing their loads from Chicago and St. Louis, all scheduled to reach Council Bluffs about the same hour, and some one or more of them being frequently behind. The Midland could make up no time between the Missouri and the Minneconjou, so light was the roadbed, so heavy the traffic, so many the stops. It was not until beyond the Sagamore the Flyer began to deserve its name. Due at Silver Hill this year of which we write as early as 5:30, the Flyer not infrequently stopped for supper as late as eleven, and not until eleven this night did the sentry on the southward front hear the big compound tooting for the crossings at Bonner's Bluff, and see the long line of electrics come gleaming into view far down the eastward valley.