including Ferrell stood with arms raised.

The electro gun came around slowly toward Blake.

"Up on your corns," the bandit spat at him. His eyes were black, diamond slits in the silver mask.

Blake's gaze never wavered. Silver Mask came toward him slowly.

"You heard me."

A scorching flame seared Blake's cheek as the electro gun exploded and part of its force burned his skin. Blake's face whitened with rage and he dove desperately forward. Smashing a hard fist into Silver Mask's face, he watched the fellow's body go limp. Two swift reflex actions, one savage and murderously threatening, the other desperately defensive, had brought lightning developments.

Blake heard Dauna scream in terror and turned like a flash. But the heavy butt of a new electro gun swept down on his head. There was a sudden sickening jolt and bright flashes of light went tearing into his brain. He pitched forward across the first bandit's limp body, and the car, spinning before his eyes, went blank.

When Blake came around, he was stretched out full length on the floor, a pillow under his head. He looked up into Dauna's eyes.

"If you're wondering about the silver masked man who struck you," she said, "There are dozens of them on the train. They have us all under guard."

He sat up a little weakly, felt his head clear. Ferrell and O'Toole sat across from his make shift bed.

"They won't let me make a dash for the door, Jeff," O'Toole said in an unhappy voice. "Once in the hall, I could clean up on a snag of those black devils."

"And get your head bashed in, like Jeff did," Ferrell added. "You're sitting right here with me, Mr. O'Toole until we find out what this is all about."

Ferrell turned to Blake.

"You asked for trouble, Jeff," he said tersely. "You've got it. These are the same Silver Masks that have practically ruined my business. Looks as though this might do it. Wade was told to clean out this tribe of black devils six months ago. I detailed fifty men to work with him. I'll bet you a ten spot that at this moment Wade Blake is at South Station watering his flower bed, or some equally insane occupation."

Dauna was on her feet, arms akimbo, cheeks blazing.

"That's not fair, Dad," she flared. "He just isn't the type of boy to handle this problem. You saw what happened to Jeff...."

"Wait a minute," Blake begged. "O'Toole is all for knocking Wade's head against his garden wall. Ferrell, you want him to keep us out of trouble when he's eight thousand miles away, and Dauna is protecting him when I'm not altogether sure he deserves it. For the time being let's worry about what is to become of us. Later, there'll be time to fight over Wade."

Ferrell looked abashed.

"You're right," he admitted more quietly. "But you're a better man than I am if you can make sense out of this. Why don't they take what they want, kill us and be on their way?"

Blake looked out of the window. The sky was clear now. The rain had stopped and the moon and stars were visible.

"I think I can answer that," he said. "From my following the stars, we are now heading directly east, into the heart of the mountain country. If I'm correct on directions, the monoline runs directly north and south. Right?"

O'Toole pushed past him and strained his face to the glass. He turned, face shining.

"By golly," he said. "Jeff's right. We must be flying or something. There isn't any track that's laid in this direction!"

Ferrell stood at O'Toole's shoulder, looking out into the blackness. He turned toward them, face stark with terror.

"It—can't—be!" he spoke slowly. "Vancouver is south of us, and yet...."

"And yet you're going east." The strange voice cut in on them harshly.

Blake wheeled about to face the third Silver Mask he had seen tonight. The man towered above them, a full seven feet tall. His thick lips, visible below the mask, were curved in a cruel, delighted smile.

"You've bought one way tickets," he said gruffly. "Tickets that will take you—nowhere."

Continuing, he turned to Ferrell.

"Walter Ferrell, and his daughter, Dauna Ferrell. Am I right? We are fortunate in picking our company tonight."

"As owner of this rail line," Ferrell demanded in an even voice. "I want to know what this is all about. Where are we going?"

Outside the sounds of the wheels had faded. The train wasn't moving. It seemed to tip at a slight angle, as though leaning on some support.

"My name is Harror," Silver Mask said. "You're not going anywhere for the time being, and while you are here I'll thank you to call me Mr. Harror. Don't try to leave this car. My men are stationed all around the train with orders to shoot and look afterward. Take a look outside in a few minutes. You may be surprised."

He turned and stooped to go through the door.

Blake turned to Ferrell and O'Toole.

"I haven't got the drift of all this yet," he admitted. "But we're in for trouble and plenty of it."

Blake was sitting quietly in the smoker, head reclining on the window ledge, eyes half closed in a cloud of smoke. The girl and her father were asleep. O'Toole pretended to be, but Blake wasn't sure of the Irishman. O'Toole slept with one eye open most of the time.

The deep silence and blackness outside of the window could indicate only one thing. They were in some sort of a cave. The giant Harror had said if they looked out, they might be surprised. Yet, hours had passed, and the place was quiet and black as a tomb.

The door opened and a newspaper flopped on the floor. Blake went forward and picked it up.

"Thought you'd like to see the big news." It was Harror's heavy voice rumbling from the doorway. "Flown in from South Station. We've been waiting to see what reaction the kidnaping of a train might have."

Blake listened quietly, and without a word turned on his heel and returned to his chair. The door closed on them again.

Blake glanced at the headline. Then the full significance of Silver Mask's latest move hit him between the eyes. The headline of the South Station Star was in letters six inches high:

MONO FLYER MISSING

Entire Train Lost Without Trace

Mono 6, crack flyer of the "Hope to Horn" mono line disappeared from the face of the earth tonight. On board were Walter Ferrell, the company's owner, and Dauna, his daughter. At an emergency meeting of the board of directors, it was admitted that not the slightest clue to the train's whereabouts has been discovered.

Soon after midnight, Mono 6 of the west coast's crack Mono Line left Hope, Alaska. No further reports came after it passed the first five-hundred-mile zone. Reports of a wreck are unconfirmed. A complete search of the track failed to bring to light the slightest hint of the flyer's final resting place.

In the past few hours the company has faced the problem of handling thousands of tour cancellations. Officials of the line are attempting vainly to allay the fears of both would-be passengers and stockholders. Wade Blake, Vice President of the company had previously ordered an investigation in an attempt to track to earth the series of strange accidents that have followed the Hope to Horn mono line for some months, but cannot be located at present for a statement.

Blake threw the paper on the floor. There was more to the story. Much more. Here in a few columns he had read the final exit of a great railroad line and its owner. Unless Walter Ferrell and Mono 6 could arrive at South Station, unharmed and within a few hours, the world would refuse to accept further service from the Hope to Horn and Ferrell's business would be ruined.

The article said that Wade could not be located. Blake hoped that he had been close when the train failed to arrive at Vancouver. A momentary frown turned down the corners of his lips. Perhaps Wade