Winston shook his head.  He hadn’t ridden through here more than twice or thrice, and didn’t remember the landscape, but his companions were certain.  Something was wrong.

“The rails up ahead.  Before they just stop.  They look wide,” Winston said.  “Like they melted.”

“I don’t like this,” Gordon announced.   “I’m going to back us over the hill.  Then we can go ahead on foot.  Steve, you stay in the cab, keep the fire burning.  Winston, you and a deputy come with me.  Steve, something happens to me, Indians, whatever, just back the train slowly out of here.”

“Me? Back? Union rules?” Steve asked.

“There’s some emergency rule.  Besides, you’re the only one here who knows how to drive a locomotive.”

“Yes, Sir,” Steve answered.  “Might want a couple of linemen to look at the rails.”

Some time later, five men walked down the rail bed. 

“Jameson Ranch should be about there.” Gordon pointed.  “I see no buildings.  No horses.  No nothing.  Mister Associate Sheriff, somebody maybe got themselves killed.”

“Let’s follow the tracks downhill until we’re about even, and I’ll go look.”  Winston shook his head.  What had happened? he wondered. Something had to change the terrain. A  volcanic eruption?

“Look at the rails,” Wilbur Parker said.  “I’ve been installing them for half my life, but that steel just looks funny.  Let’s see how it rings.” He stopped, pulled a hammer from his belt, and whacked the side of a rail.  The steel shattered, sending a spray of large, sharp fragments across the rail bed’s gravel.

“The devil! I ain’t never seen that happen,” Wilbur announced.  “Smashed like glass.  Good thing you stopped when you did, Mister Gordon.  We hit that and we’d’ve derailed for sure.”

“The Lord God protected us,” Gordon said.  “From back there, this rail looked fine.  I could’ve tried to stop here, and didn’t.”

“Amen,” Wilbur added.