Furred with snow, and bearded fearfully with ice; creeping like a
mountain-cat on her prey; quivering under the last pound of steam she
could carry, and hissing wildly as McGraw stung her heels again and
again from the throttle, the great engine moved down on the blocked cut.
Unable to reckon distance or resistance but by instinct, and forced to
risk everything for headway, McGraw pricked the cylinders till the
smarting engine roared. Then, crouching like a jockey for a final
cruel spur he goaded the monster for the last time and rose in his
stirrups for the crash.
With never a slip or a stumble, hardly reeling in her ponderous frame,
the straining engine plunged headlong into the curve. Only once, she
staggered and rolled; once only, three reckless men rose to answer
death as it knocked at their hearts; but their hour was not come, and
the engine struggled, righted, and parted the living drift from end to
end.