ACT I: INCIDENT OF THE STOLEN TRAIN
Protected by every safety device know, the Central Chieftain flashed through the night, racing against time between Pittsburgh and Chicago.
"Care to sign these letters now, Mr. Howell? They're urgent."
Harrison Howell glanced up from the plush luxury of his custom-built sleeping car. Accompanied by two male secretaries, a French chef, and a guard supplied by Protection, Inc., Howell waved the secretary aside. "I'll get to them before we reach Chicago."
Stout, in his fifties, accustomed to being obeyed unquestionably, Howell smiled. "Got involved in this geology book written by Dr. Leonard Finnish before he disappeared. A man I'd liked to have known, since geology was my first interest—"
"But your letters, sir—"
"Later."
At this instant all train lights flared out, throwing the entire streamliner into total darkness.
In the Chicago dispatch office bored operators checked the progress of the Chieftain on the brightly illumined computer, a complex of multi-colored lights, each bulb a vital message in itself.
An operator shouted, "The computer's flipped! Get a technician in here!"
Other operators crowded around the suddenly dark, silent computer.
The awed operator stammered, "Lights out on the Pittsburgh-Chicago run. Three hundred miles southeast of Chicago. The computer clicked off as if the trip was completed."
"Try to contact the Chieftain by phone."
And it wasn't too many hours later when the nation's afternoon newspapers carried the incredible story: The impossible had happened. A streamliner disappeared off its tracks, vanishing from the face of the earth, with all passengers and crew.
TWO
Hundreds of miles west, in the Sawtooth Mountain ranges of Wyoming, a rail-thin cowpuncher in battered Stetson, dusty levis and boots rode dazedly downslope toward the ranch yard of the Maynard Cattle company.
At the ranch house people spilled into the yard. They'd spent two days searching for him. They shouted at him as he approached.
He sat straight in his saddle, but when he came near they saw he was dazed. He almost fell. Three men grabbed him
"Take him inside," Carlos Maynard said. A heavy-set man in his forties, his florid face was troubled. "Get a doctor."
Ranch hands carried the rider into the house and laid him down on a bed.
Four hours later, a doctor from Cripple Bend settlement shook his head over the rider. "Can't find anything physically wrong with Pete. Looks like exhaustion and exposure."
Carlos Maynard stared at the doctor. "That all you can tell me?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
Maynard scowled. "This is the second man I've sent out looking for my cattle. They come back like this—dazed. Out of their heads. Don't know where they've been. You find nothing wrong. Only they can't tell me where they were, or what's happened to more than one thousand head of Santa Gertrudis cattle."
The doctor shook his head. "Let Pete sleep. Maybe when he wakes up he can remember what happened."
Awaking after ten hours of sleep, Pete Wasson found Maynard sitting beside the bed. "What happened up there, Pete?"
Pete stared around the roughly furnished room. "How did I get here?"
"Come on, Pete! Three days ago I sent you looking for Marty Nichelson and my cattle—"
"Three days?" Pete's eyes clouded. "I been gone three days?"
Maynard managed to control his indignation and puzzlement. "Right. My cattle have been missing a week now. Did you find even a trace?"
Pete drew his hand across his eyes. "Nothing, boss. They just vanished like clouds, not leaving a track! I remember I kept thinking it was like that song about the ghost riders—"
"That's enough senseless talk, Pete! I want to know where my cattle are!"
"That's all I can tell you. There was a clear trail just like Marty said, up into the Sawtooth ranges. Then the trail just stopped."
"You loco? A thousand head of cattle have got to leave some kind of trail!"
"These didn't, boss. That's all I know."
"All right.
Protected by every safety device know, the Central Chieftain flashed through the night, racing against time between Pittsburgh and Chicago.
"Care to sign these letters now, Mr. Howell? They're urgent."
Harrison Howell glanced up from the plush luxury of his custom-built sleeping car. Accompanied by two male secretaries, a French chef, and a guard supplied by Protection, Inc., Howell waved the secretary aside. "I'll get to them before we reach Chicago."
Stout, in his fifties, accustomed to being obeyed unquestionably, Howell smiled. "Got involved in this geology book written by Dr. Leonard Finnish before he disappeared. A man I'd liked to have known, since geology was my first interest—"
"But your letters, sir—"
"Later."
At this instant all train lights flared out, throwing the entire streamliner into total darkness.
In the Chicago dispatch office bored operators checked the progress of the Chieftain on the brightly illumined computer, a complex of multi-colored lights, each bulb a vital message in itself.
An operator shouted, "The computer's flipped! Get a technician in here!"
Other operators crowded around the suddenly dark, silent computer.
The awed operator stammered, "Lights out on the Pittsburgh-Chicago run. Three hundred miles southeast of Chicago. The computer clicked off as if the trip was completed."
"Try to contact the Chieftain by phone."
And it wasn't too many hours later when the nation's afternoon newspapers carried the incredible story: The impossible had happened. A streamliner disappeared off its tracks, vanishing from the face of the earth, with all passengers and crew.
TWO
Hundreds of miles west, in the Sawtooth Mountain ranges of Wyoming, a rail-thin cowpuncher in battered Stetson, dusty levis and boots rode dazedly downslope toward the ranch yard of the Maynard Cattle company.
At the ranch house people spilled into the yard. They'd spent two days searching for him. They shouted at him as he approached.
He sat straight in his saddle, but when he came near they saw he was dazed. He almost fell. Three men grabbed him
"Take him inside," Carlos Maynard said. A heavy-set man in his forties, his florid face was troubled. "Get a doctor."
Ranch hands carried the rider into the house and laid him down on a bed.
Four hours later, a doctor from Cripple Bend settlement shook his head over the rider. "Can't find anything physically wrong with Pete. Looks like exhaustion and exposure."
Carlos Maynard stared at the doctor. "That all you can tell me?"
"What else do you want me to say?"
Maynard scowled. "This is the second man I've sent out looking for my cattle. They come back like this—dazed. Out of their heads. Don't know where they've been. You find nothing wrong. Only they can't tell me where they were, or what's happened to more than one thousand head of Santa Gertrudis cattle."
The doctor shook his head. "Let Pete sleep. Maybe when he wakes up he can remember what happened."
Awaking after ten hours of sleep, Pete Wasson found Maynard sitting beside the bed. "What happened up there, Pete?"
Pete stared around the roughly furnished room. "How did I get here?"
"Come on, Pete! Three days ago I sent you looking for Marty Nichelson and my cattle—"
"Three days?" Pete's eyes clouded. "I been gone three days?"
Maynard managed to control his indignation and puzzlement. "Right. My cattle have been missing a week now. Did you find even a trace?"
Pete drew his hand across his eyes. "Nothing, boss. They just vanished like clouds, not leaving a track! I remember I kept thinking it was like that song about the ghost riders—"
"That's enough senseless talk, Pete! I want to know where my cattle are!"
"That's all I can tell you. There was a clear trail just like Marty said, up into the Sawtooth ranges. Then the trail just stopped."
"You loco? A thousand head of cattle have got to leave some kind of trail!"
"These didn't, boss. That's all I know."
"All right.
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