five o'clock
Not once but a dozen times McGraw and Glover , pawning their lives , left the cab with their lanterns in a vain endeavor to locate a station , a siding , a rock . Numbed and bitten at last with useless exposure they cast effort to the wind , gave the engine like a lost horse her head , and ran through everything for headquarters and life . Consultation was abandoned , worry put away , one good chance set against every other chance and taken in silence . At five o'clock that morning despatchers and night men under the Wickiup gables , sitting moodily around the big stove , sprang to their feet together . From up the distant gorge , dying far on the gale , came the long chime blast of an engine whistle ; it was the lost Special . They crowded to the windows to dispute and listen . Again the heavy chime was sprung and a second blast , lasting and defiant , reached the Wickiup -- McGraw was whistling for the upper yard and the long night of anxiety was ended .