“I’ve seen train wrecks,” Andrew answered, “press photographers see more than the rail companies would like, but usually railcars hold up better than that. Those look flattened, with pieces like wheels trailing behind them.  Okay, I’ll get my photographs. I don’t see anyone who survived the crash waving.”

“We should be good on fuel, shouldn’t we?” Charles asked. “Not that you wouldn’t of spoken up, Cornelius, if we were wasting too much of it.”

“There’s not much wind,” Cornelius answered. “We can do 500 miles, easy, especially if we go up a few thousand feet.  But I’d like to reach Prescott to tell people what happened.”

“Let’s keep heading there,” Charles said emphatically. “we still have three missing trains, one of which was carrying passengers.”

A few minutes flight brought them to the remains of the mortal vessel of the passenger train. 

“This time they stayed on the tracks,” Cornelius announced. “But those cars.  They’re burned down to the floorboards.  And the locomotive looks half-melted.”

“Old cars,” Andrew said. “I’ve ridden on them.  Bottom is steel or cast iron, top is mostly wood.  The wood is gone.”

“Where are the survivors?” Andrew asked.  “Or at least the bodies.  Surely someone managed to jump from a burning car?”

“For that matter,” Andrew said, “that’s a signal, a new one of steel, looks half bent over, but there should be a signal tower. Let’s circle around again, though I think I see the tower’s foundation.  Tower is gone, no sign of the signalmen.  What could’ve happened?”

“Could we do a couple of passes, so I can get enough pictures?” Charles shook his head. These were going to be unbelievable photographs, he thought, for the Rising Sun, in fact for the national press. I  might even get a Pulitzer Prize out of it.  It was certainly a pretty medal if I win one.