The Shadow Riders

Excerpt from The Shadow Riders
Three short warning blasts of a locomotive whistle floated out of the Eastward darkness like an echo from the unseen hills; a pinprick of light appeared, grew to the size of a candle flame and then to a great white hot moon. With a clamour of bells and thunderous iron wheels the Imperial Limited - the Canadian Transcontinental Express - drew in, and lay alongside the long wooden platform puffing vaingloriously and glaring ahead at a switchman who crossed a black waste of cinders netted with shining rails to throw the semaphore, swinging his red lantern.
The Pullman windows were mostly dark; through travellers had already gone to their berths. The small crowd of people who had been waiting in disgusted patience moved forward with a sigh of relief, questing among the disembarking passengers, each for his own.
Whittemore, emerging leisurely from the smoker and avoiding a hurrying baggage truck still leisurely, saw no one he knew. He dismissed the porter who followed him with suitcase and greatcoat, dropped both by a lamp pillar, and lit a cigarette to consider. He had expected to be met, and decided to wait for five minutes grace before going on his unattended way.
The pale harsh light revealed him as a man near forty, yet not middle-aged in the stodgy, prosy sense the term has come to connote.
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