note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustration. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) the white desert by courtney ryley cooper author of the cross-cut, etc. frontispiece by anton otto fischer [frontispiece: it was easier to accept the more precipitous journey, straight downward.] grosset & dunlap publishers ---------- new york copyright, , by little, brown, and company all rights reserved published february, reprinted march, to a certain little gray lady who seems to like everything i write, the main reason being the fact that she is my mother the white desert chapter i it was early afternoon. near by, the smaller hills shimmered in the radiant warmth of late spring, the brownness of their foliage and boulders merging gradually upward to the green of the spruces and pines of the higher mountains, which in turn gave way before the somber blacks and whites of the main range, where yet the snow lingered from the clutch of winter, where the streams ran brown with the down-flow of the continental divide, where every cluster of mountain foliage sheltered a mound of white, in jealous conflict with the sun. the mountains are tenacious of their vicious traits; they cling to the snow and cold and ice long after the seasons have denoted a time of warmth and summer's splendor; the columbine often blooms beside a ten-foot drift. but down in the hollow which shielded the scrambling little town of dominion, the air was warm and lazy with the friendliness of may. far off, along the course of the tumbling stream, turbulently striving to care for far more than its share of the melt-water of the hills, a jaybird called raucously as though in an effort to drown the sweeter, softer notes of a robin nesting in the new-green of a quaking aspen. at the hitching post before the one tiny store, an old horse nodded and blinked,--as did the sprawled figure beside the ramshackle motor-filling station, just opened after the snow-bound months of winter. then five minutes of absolute peace ensued, except for the buzzing of an investigative bottle-fly before the figure shuffled, stretched, and raising his head, looked down the road. from the distance had come the whirring sound of a motor, the forerunner of a possible customer. in the hills, an automobile speaks before it is seen. long moments of throbbing echoes; then the car appeared, a mile or so down the cañon, twisting along the rocky walls which rose sheer from the road, threading the innumerable bridges which spanned the little stream, at last to break forth into the open country and roar on toward dominion. the drowsy gasoline tender rose. a moment more and a long, sleek, yellow racer had come to a stop beside the gas tank, chortled with greater reverberation than ever as the throttle was thrown open, then wheezed into silence with the cutting off of the ignition. a young man rose from his almost flat position in the low-slung driver's seat and crawling over the side, stretched himself, meanwhile staring upward toward the glaring white of mount taluchen, the highest peak of the continental backbone, frowning in the coldness of snows that never departed. the villager moved closer. "gas?" "yep." the young man stretched again. "fill up the tank--and better give me half a gallon of oil." then he turned away once more, to stare again at the great, tumbled stretches of granite, the long spaces of green-black pines, showing in the distance like so many upright fronds of some strange, mossy fern; at the blank spaces, where cold stone and shifting shale had made jagged marks of bareness in the masses of evergreen, then on to the last gnarled bulwarks of foliage, struggling bravely, almost desperately, to hold on to life where life was impossible, the dividing line, as sharp as a knife-thrust, between the region where trees may grow and snows may hide beneath their protecting boughs and the desolate, barren, rocky, forbidding waste of "timber line." young he was, almost boyish; yet counterbalancing this was a seriousness of expression that almost approached somberness as he stood waiting until his machine should be made ready for the continuance of his journey. the eyes were dark and lustrous with something that closely approached sorrow, the lips had a tightness about them which gave evidence of the pressure of suffering, all forming an expression which seemed to come upon him unaware, a hidden thing ever waiting for the chance to rise uppermost and assume command. but in a flash it was gone, and boyish again, he had turned, laughing, to survey the gas tender. "did you speak?" he asked, the dark eyes twinkling. the villager was in front of the machine, staring at the plate of the radiator and scratching his head. "i was just sayin' i never seed that kind o' car before. barry houston, huh? must be a new make. i--" "camouflage," laughed the young man again. "that's my name." "oh, is it?" and the villager chuckled with him. "it shore had me guessin' fer a minute. you've got th' plate right where th' name o' a car is plastered usually, and it plum fooled me. that's your name, huh? live hereabouts--?" the owner of the name did not answer. the thought suddenly had come to him that once out of the village, that plate must be removed and tossed to the bottom of the nearest stream. his mission, for a time at least, would require secrecy. but the villager had repeated his question: "don't belong around here?" "i? no, i'm--" then he hesitated. "thought maybe you did. seein' you've got a colorado license on." houston parried, with a smile. "well, this isn't all of colorado, you know." "guess that's right. only it seems in th' summer thet it's most o' it, th' way th' machines pile through, goin' over th' pass. where you headed for?" "the same place." "over hazard?" the villager squinted. "over hazard pass? ain't daft, are you?" "i hope not. why?" "ever made it before?" "no." "and you're tacklin' it for the first time at this season o' th' year?" "yes. why not? it's may, isn't it?" the villager moved closer, as though to gain a better sight of barry houston's features. he surveyed him carefully, from the tight-drawn reversed cap with the motor goggles resting above the young, smooth forehead, to the quiet elegance of the outing clothing and well-shod feet. he spat, reflectively, and drew the back of a hand across tobacco-stained lips. "and you say you live in colorado." "i didn't say--" "well, it don't make no difference whether you did or not. i know--you don't. nobody thet lives out here'd try to make hazard pass for th' first time in th' middle o' may." "i don't see--" "look up there." the old man pointed to the splotches of white, thousands of feet above, the swirling clouds which drifted from the icy breast of mount taluchen, the mists and fogs which caressed the precipices and rolled through the valleys created by the lesser peaks. "it may be spring down here, boy, but it's january up there. they's only been two cars over hazard since november and they come through last week. both of 'em was old stagers; they've been crossin' th' range for th' last ten year. both of 'em came through here lookin' like icicles 'an' swearing t' beat four o' a kind. they's mountains an' mountains, kid. them up there's th' professional kind." a slight, puzzled frown crossed the face of barry houston. "but how am i going to get to the other side of the range? i'm going to tabernacle." "they's a train runs from denver, over crestline. look up there--jest to the right of mount taluchen. see that there little puff o' smoke? that's it." "but that'd mean--." "for you t' turn around, go back to denver, leave that there chariot o' your'n in some garage and take the train to-morrow mornin'. it'd get you t' tabernacle some time in the afternoon." "when would i get there--if i could make the pass all right?" "in about five hours. it's only fourteen mile from th' top. but--" "and you say two other cars have gone through?" "yep. but they knowed every crook an' turn!" for a long moment, the young man made no reply. his eyes were again on the hills and gleaming with a sudden fascination. from far above, they seemed to call to him, to taunt him with their imperiousness, to challenge him and the low-slung high-powered car to the combat of gravitation and the elements. the bleak walls of granite appeared to glower at him, as though daring him to attempt their conquest; the smooth stretches of pines were alluring things, promising peace and quiet and contentment,--will-o-the-wisps, which spoke only their beauty, and which said nothing of the long stretches of gravelly mire and puddles, resultant from the slowly melting snows. the swirling clouds, the mists, the drifting fogs all appeared to await him, like the gathered hosts of some mighty army, suddenly peaceful until the call of combat. a thrill shot through barry houston. his life had been that of the smooth spaces, of the easy ascent of well-paved grades, of streets and comforts and of luxuries. the very raggedness of the thing before him lured him and drew him on. he turned, he smiled, with a quiet, determined expression of anticipation, yet of grimness. "they've got me," came quietly. "i'm--i'm going to make the try!" the villager grunted. his lips parted as though to issue a final warning. then, with a disgruntled shake of the head, he turned away. "ain't no use arguin' with you easterners," came at last. "you come out here an' take one look at these here hills an' think you can beat ole lady nature when she's sittin' pat with a royal flush. but go on--i ain't tryin' t' stop you. 'twouldn't be nothin' but a waste o' breath. you've got this here conquerin' spirit in your blood--won't be satisfied till you get it out. you're all th' same--i 've seen fellows with flivvers loaded down till th' springs was flat, look up at them hills an' figure t' get over an' back in time for supper. so go on--only jis' remember this: once you get outside of dominion an' start up th' grade, there ain't no way stations, an' there ain't no telephones, ner diner service, ner somebody t' bring y' th' evenin' paper. you're buckin' a brace game when y' go against hazard pass at a time when she ain't in a mood f'r comp'ny. she holds all th' cards, jis' remember that--an' a few thet ain't in th' deck. but jis' th' same," he backed away as barry stepped into the racer and pressed a foot on the starter, "i'm wishin' you luck. you'll need it." "thanks!" houston laughed with a new exhilaration, a new spirit of desire. "it can't do any more than kill me." "nope." the villager was shouting now above the exhaust of the powerful engine, "but it shore can take a delight in doin' that! s' long!" "so long!" the gears meshed. a stream of smoke from the new oil spat out for a second. then, roaring and chortling with the beginning of battle, the machine swept away toward the slight turn that indicated the scraggly end of the little town of dominion, and the beginning of the first grade. the exhilaration still was upon barry houston. he whistled and sang, turning now and then to view the bright greenness of the new-leafed aspens, to watch the circling sallies of the jaybirds, or to stare ahead to where the blues and greens and purples of the foliage and rocks merged in the distance. the grade was yet easy and there was no evidence of strain upon the engine; the tiny rivulets which ran along the slight ruts at each side of the road betokened nothing to him save the slight possibility of chains, should a muddy stretch of straightaway road appear later on. but as yet, that had not occurred, and barry was living for the moment. the road began to twist slightly, with short raises and shorter level stretches winding among the aspens and spruces, with sudden, jagged turns about heavy, frowning boulders whose jutting noses seemed to scrape the fenders of the car, only to miss them by the barest part of an inch. suddenly barry found himself bending forward, eyes still on the road in spite of his half-turned head, ears straining to catch the slightest variation of the motor. it seemed to be straining,--yet the long, suddenly straight stretch of road ahead of him seemed perfectly level; downhill if anything. more and more labored became the engine. barry stopped, and lifting the hood, examined the carbureter. with the motor idling, it seemed perfect. once more he started,--only to stop again and anxiously survey the ignition, test the spark plugs and again inquire into the activities of the carbureter. at last, reassured, he walked to the front of the machine, and with the screwdriver pried the name plate from its position on the radiator and tossed it into the tumbling, yellow stream beside the road. then he turned back to the machine,--only to stop suddenly and blink with surprise. the road was not level! the illusion which comes to one at the first effort to conquer a mountain grade had faded now. a few feet away was a deserted cabin, built upon a level plot of ground and giving to barry a chance for comparison, and he could see that his motor had not been at fault. now the road, to his suddenly comprehending eyes, rose before him in a long, steady sweep of difficult grades, upward, steadily upward, with never a varying downfall, with never a rest for the motor which must climb it. and this was just the beginning! for barry could see beyond. far in the distance he could make it out, a twisting, turning, almost writhing thing, cutting into the side of the mountain, a jagged scar, searing its way up the range in flights that seemed at times to run almost perpendicular and which faded, only to reappear again, like the trail of some gigantic cut-worm, mark above mark, as it circled the smaller hills, cut into the higher ones, was lost at the edge of some great beetling rock, only to reappear once more, hundreds of feet overhead. the eyes of barry houston grew suddenly serious. he reached into the toolbox, and bringing forth the jack, affixed the chains, forgetting his usually cheery whistle, forgetting even to take notice when an investigative jay scrambled out upon a dead aspen branch and chattered at him. the true meaning of the villager's words had come at last. the mountains were frowning now, instead of beckoning, glowering instead of promising, threatening instead of luring. one by one he locked the chains into place, and tossing the jack once more into the tool-box, resumed his place at the wheel. "a six per cent. grade if it's an inch!" he murmured. "and this is only the beginning. wonder what i'm stepping into?" the answer came almost before the machine had warmed into action. once more the engine labored; nor was it until barry had answered its gasping plea by a shift to second gear that it strengthened again. the grade was growing heavier; once barry turned his head and stared with the knowledge that far beneath him a few tiny buildings dotted what seemed to be a space of ground as level as a floor. dominion! and he had barely passed outside its environs! he settled more firmly in his seat and gripped hard at the steering wheel. the turns had become shorter; more, barry found himself righting the machine with sudden jerks as the car rounded the short curves where the front wheels seemed to hang momentarily above oblivion, as the chasms stretched away to seemingly bottomless depths beneath. gradually, the severity of the grade had increased to ten, to twelve and in short pitches to even eighteen and twenty per cent! for a time the machine sang along in second, bucking the raises with almost human persistence, finally, however, to gasp and break in the smooth monotony of the exhaust, to miss, to strain and struggle vainly, then to thunder on once more, as houston pressed the gears into low and began to watch the motormeter with anxious eyes. the mercury was rising; another half-hour and the swish of steam told of a boiling radiator. a stop, while the red, hissing water splattered from the radiator cock, and the lifted hood gave the machine a chance to cool before replenishment came from the murky, discolored stream of melted snow water which churned beneath a sapling bridge. panting and light-headed from the altitude, barry leaned against the machine for a moment, then suddenly straightened to draw his coat tighter about him and to raise the collar about his neck. the wind, whistling down from above, was cold: something touched his face and melted there,--snow! the engine was cool now. barry leaped to the wheel and once more began his struggle upward, a new seriousness upon him, a new grimness apparent in the tightness of his lips. the tiny rivulets of the road had given place to gushing streams; here and there a patch of snow appeared in the highway; farther above, barry could see that the white was unbroken, save for the half-erased marks of the two cars which had made the journey before him. the motor, like some refreshed animal, roared with a new power and new energy, vibrant, confident, but the spirit was not echoed by the man at the wheel. he was in the midst of a fight that was new to him, a struggle against one of the mightiest things that nature can know, the backbone of the rocky mountains,--a backbone which leered above him in threatening, vicious coldness, which nowhere held surcease; it must be a battle to the end! up--up--up--the grades growing steadily heavier, the shifting clouds enveloping him and causing him to stop at intervals and wait in shivering impatience until they should clear and allow him once more to continue the struggle. grayness and sunshine flitted about him; one moment his head was bowed against the sweep of a snow flurry, driving straight against him from the higher peaks, the next the brilliance of mountain sunshine radiated about him, cheering him, exhilarating him, only to give way to the dimness of damp, drifting mists, which closed in upon him like some great, gray garment of distress and held him in its gloomy clutch until the grade should carry him above it and into the sun or snow again. higher! the machine was roaring like a desperate, cornered thing now; its crawling pace slackening with the steeper inclines, gaining with the lesser raises, then settling once more to the lagging pace as steepness followed steepness, or the abruptness of the curve caused the great, slow-moving vehicle to lose the momentum gained after hundreds of feet of struggle. again the engine boiled, and barry stood beside it in shivering gratitude for its warmth. the hills about him were white now; the pines had lost their greenness to become black silhouettes against the blank, colorless background barry houston had left may and warmth and springtime behind, to give way to the clutch of winter and the white desert of altitude. but withal it was beautiful. cold, harassed by dangers that he never before knew could exist, disheartened by the even more precipitous trail which lay ahead, fighting a battle for which he was unfitted by experience, houston could not help but feel repaid for it all as he flattened his back against the hot radiator and, comforted by the warmth, looked about him. the world was his--his to look upon, to dissect, to survey with the all-seeing eyes of tremendous heights, to view in the perspective of the eagle and the hawk, to look down upon from the pinnacles and see, even as a god might see it. far below lay a tiny, discolored ribbon,--the road which he had traversed, but now only a scratch upon the expanse of the great country which tumbled away beneath him. hills had become hummocks, towering pines but blades of grass, streams only a variegated line in the vast display of nature's artistry. and above-- barry houston looked upon it with dazzled eyes. the sun had broken forth again, to stream upon the great, rounded head of mount taluchen, and there to turn the serried snows to a mass of shell-pink pearl, to smooth away the glaring whiteness and paint instead a down-like coverlet of beauty. here and there the great granite precipices stood forth in old rose and royal purple; farther the shadows melted into mantles, not of black, but of softest lavender; mound upon mound of color swung before him as he glanced from peak to peak,--the colors that only an artist knows, tintings instead of solid grounds, suggestions rather than actualities. even the gnarled pines of timber line, where the world of vegetation was sliced off short to give way to the barrenness of the white desert, seemed softened and freed from their appearance of constant suffering in the pursuit of life. a lake gleamed, set, it seemed, at an upright angle upon the very side of a mountain; an ice gorge glistened with the scintillation of a million jewels, a cloud rolled through a great crevice like the billowing of some soft-colored crepe and then-- barry crouched and shivered, then turned with sudden activity. it all had faded, faded in the blast of a shrilling wind, bringing upon its breast the cutting assault of sleet and the softer, yet no less vicious swirl of snow. quickly the radiator was drained and refilled. once more, huddled in the driver's seat, barry houston gripped the wheel and felt the crunching of the chain-clad wheels in the snow of the roadway. the mountains had lured again, only that they might clutch him in a tighter embrace of danger than ever. now the snow was whirling about him in almost blinding swiftness; the small windshield counted for nothing; it was only by leaning far outside the car that he could see to drive and then there were moments that seemed to presage the end. chasms lurked at the corners, the car skidded and lurched from one side of the narrow roadway to the other; once the embankment crumbled for an instant as a rear wheel raced for a foothold and gained it just in time. thundering below, barry could hear the descent of the dirt and small boulders as they struck against protruding rocks and echoed forth to a constantly growing sound that seemed to travel for miles that it might return with the strength of thunder. then for a moment the sun came again and he stared toward it with set, anxious eyes. it no longer was dazzling; it was large and yellow and free from glare. he swerved his gaze swiftly to the dashboard clock, then back to the sun again. four o'clock! yet the great yellow ball was hovering on the brim of mount taluchen; dusk was coming. a frightened glance showed him the black shadows of the valleys, the deeper tones of coloring, the vagueness of the distance which comes with the end of day. anxiously he studied his speedometer as the road stretched out for a space of a few hundred feet for safety. five miles--only five miles in a space of time that on level country could have accounted for a hundred. five miles and the route book told plainly that there were four more to go before the summit was reached. anxiously--with a sudden hope--he watched the instrument, with the thought that perhaps it had broken, but the slow progress of the mile-tenths took away that possibility. he veered his gaze along the dashboard, suddenly to center it upon the oil gauge. his jaw sagged. he pressed harder upon the accelerator in a vain effort. but the gauge showed no indication that the change of speed had been felt. "the oil pump!" came with a half gasp. "it's broken--i'll have to--" the sentence was not finished. a sudden, clattering roar had come from beneath the hood, a clanking jangle which told him that his eyes had sought the oil gauge too late,--the shattering, agonizing cacophony of a broken connecting rod, the inevitable result of a missing oil supply and its consequent burnt bearing. hopelessly, dejectedly barry shut off the engine and pulled to one side of the road,--through sheer force of habit. in his heart he knew that there could be no remedy for the clattering remonstrance of the broken rod, that the road was his without question, that it was beyond hope to look for aid up here where all the world was pines and precipices and driven snow, that he must go on, fighting against heavier odds than ever. and as he realized the inevitable, his dull, tired eyes saw from the distance another, a greater enemy creeping toward him over the hills and ice gorges, through the valleys and along the sheer walls of granite. the last, ruddy rim of a dying sun was just disappearing over mount taluchen. chapter ii hazard pass had held true to its name. there were yet nearly four miles to go before the summit of nearly twelve thousand feet elevation could be reached and the downward trip of fourteen miles to the nearest settlement made. and that meant-- houston steadied himself and sought to figure just what it did mean. the sun was gone now, leaving grayness and blackness behind, accentuated by the single strip of gleaming scarlet which flashed across the sky above the brim of mount taluchen, the last vestige of daylight. the wind was growing shriller and sharper, as though it had waited only for the sinking of the sun to loose the ferocity which too long had been imprisoned. darkness came, suddenly, seeming to sweep up from the valleys toward the peaks, and with it more snow. barry accepted the inevitable. he must go on--and that as swiftly as his crippled machine, the darkness and the twisting, snow-laden, treacherous road would permit. once more at the wheel, he snapped on the lights and huddled low, to avail himself of every possible bit of warmth from the clanking, discordant engine. slowly the journey began, the machine laboring and thundering with its added handicap of a broken rod and the consequent lost power of one cylinder. literally inch by inch it dragged itself up the heavier grades, puffing and gasping and clanking, the rattling rod threatening at every moment to tear out its very vitals. the heavy smell of burnt oil drifted back to the nostrils of barry houston; but there was nothing that he could do but grip the steering wheel a bit tighter with his numbed hands,--and go on. slowly, ever so slowly, the indicator of the speedometer measured off a mile in dragging decimals. the engine boiled and barry stopped, once more to huddle against the radiator, and to avail himself of its warmth, but not to renew the water. no stream was near; besides, the cold blast of the wind, shrilling through the open hood, accomplished the purpose more easily. again a sally and again a stop. and barry was thankful, as, huddled and shivering in his light clothing, he once more sought the radiator. vaguely there came to him the thought that he might spend the night somewhere on the pass and go on with the flush of morning. but the thought vanished as quickly as it came; there was no shelter, no blankets, nothing but the meager warmth of what fire he might be able to gather, and that would fade the minute he nodded. already the temperature had sunk far beneath the freezing point; the crackling of the ice in the gulleys of the road fairly shouted the fact as he edged back once more from the radiator to his seat. an hour--and three more after that--with the consequent stops and pauses, the slow turns, the dragging process up the steeper inclines of the road. a last final, clattering journey, and barry leaped from the seat with something akin to enthusiasm. through the swirling snow which sifted past the glare of his headlights, he could discern a sign which told him he had reached the summit, that he now stood at the literal top of the world. but it was a silent world, a black world, in which the hills about him were shapeless, dim hulks, where the wind whined, where the snow swept against his face and drifted down the open space of his collar; a world of coldness, of malice, of icy venom, where everything was a threatening thing, and never a cheering aspect except the fact that the grades had been accomplished, and that from now on he could progress with the knowledge that his engine at least need labor no longer. but the dangers! barry knew that they had only begun. the descent would be as steep as the climb he had just made. the progress must be slower, if anything, and with the compression working as a brake. but it was at least progress, and once more he started. the engine clanked less now, the air seemed a bit warmer with the down grade, and barry, in spite of his fatigue, in spite of the disappointment of a disabled car, felt at least the joy of having conquered the thing which had sought to hold him back, the happiness of having fought against obstacles, of having beaten them, and of knowing that he now was on the down trail. the grade lessened for a few hundred feet, and the machine slowed. houston pressed on the clutch pedal, allowing the car to coast slowly until the hill became steeper again. then he sought once more to shift into gear,--and stopped short! those few moments of coasting had been enough. overheated, distended, the bearings had cooled too suddenly about the crank shaft and frozen there with a tightness that neither the grinding pull of the starter nor the heavy tug of the down grade could loosen. once more barry houston felt his heart sink in the realization of a newer, a greater foreboding than ever. a frozen crank shaft meant that from now on the gears would be useless. fourteen miles of down grade faced him. if he were to make them, it must be done with the aid of brakes alone. that was dangerous! he cupped his hands and called,--in the vain hope that the stories of hazard pass and its loneliness might not be true, after all. but the only answer was the churning of the bank-full stream a hundred yards away, the thunder of the wind through the pines below, and the eerie echo of his own voice coming back to him through the snows. laboriously he left the machine and climbed back to the summit, there to seek out the little tent house he had seen far at one side and which he instinctively knew to be the rest room and refreshment stand of the summer season. but he found it, as he had feared he would find it, a deserted, cold, napping thing, without a human, without a single comfort, or the possibility of fire or warmth through the night. summer, for hazard pass, at least, still was a full month away. for a moment he shivered within it, staring about its bleak interior by the aid of a flickering match. then he went outside again. it was only a shell, only a hope that could not be realized. it would be less of a hardship to make the fight to reach the bottom of the pass than to attempt to spend the night in this flimsy contraption. in travel there would be at least action, and barry clambered down the hill to his machine. again he started, the brake bands squeaking and protesting, the machine sloughing dangerously as now and again its sheer weight forced it forward at dangerous speeds until lesser levels could be reached and the hold of the brake bands accomplish their purpose again. down and down, the miles slipping away with far greater speed than even barry realized, until at last-- he grasped desperately for the emergency brake and gripped tight upon it, steering with one hand. for five minutes there had come the strong odor of burning rubber; the strain had been too great, the foot-brake linings were gone; everything depended upon the emergency now! and almost with the first strain-- careening, the car seemed to leap beneath him, a maddened, crazed thing, tired of the hills, tired of the turmoil and strain of hours of fighting, racing with all the speed that gravity could thrust upon it for the bottom of the pass. the brakes were gone, the emergency had not even lasted through the first hill. barry houston was now a prisoner of speed,--cramped in the seat of a runaway car, clutching tight at the wheel, leaning, white, tense-faced, out into the snow, as he struggled to negotiate the turns, to hold the great piece of runaway machinery to the crusted road and check its speed from time to time in the snowbanks. a mile more--halted at intervals by the very thing which an hour or so before barry houston had come almost to hate, the tight-packed banks of snow--then came a new emergency. one chance was left, and barry took it,--the "burring" of the gears in lieu of a brake. the snow was fading now, the air was warmer; a mile or so more and he would be safe from that threat which had driven him down from the mountain peaks,--the possibility of death from exposure, had he, in his light clothing, attempted to spend the night in the open. if the burred gears could only hold the car for a mile or so more-- but a sudden, snapping crackle ended his hope. the gears had meshed, and meshing, had broken. again a wild, careening thing, with no snow banks to break the rush, the car was speeding down the steepest of the grades like a human thing determined upon self-destruction. a skidding curve, then a straightaway, while barry clung to the wheel with fingers that were white with the tightness of their grip. a second turn, while a wheel hung over the edge, a third and-- the awful, suspended agony of space. a cry. a crash and a dull, twisting moment of deadened suffering. after that--blackness. fifty feet below the road lay a broken, crushed piece of mechanism, its wheels still spinning, the odor of gasoline heavy about it from the broken tank, one light still gleaming, like a blazing eye, one light that centered upon the huddled, crumpled figure of a man who groaned once and strove vaguely, dizzily, to rise, only to sink at last into unconsciousness. barry houston had lost his fight. how long he remained there, barry did not know. he remembered only the falling, dizzy moment, the second or so of horrible, racking suspense, when, breathless, unable to move, he watched the twisting rebound of the machine from which he had been thrown and sought to evade it as it settled, metal crunching against metal, for the last time. after that had come agonized hours in which he knew neither wakefulness nor the quiet of total unconsciousness. then-- vaguely, as from far away, he heard a voice,--the sort of a voice that spelled softness and gentleness. something touched his forehead and stroked it, with the caress that only a woman's hand can give. he moved slightly, with the knowledge that he lay no longer upon the rocky roughness of a mountain side, but upon the softness of a bed. a pillow was beneath his head. warm blankets covered him. the hand again lingered on his forehead and was drawn away. a moment more and slowly, wearily, barry houston opened his eyes. it was the room of a mountain cabin, with its skiis and snowshoes; with its rough chinkings in the interstices of the logs which formed the mainstay of the house, with its four-paned windows, with its uncouthness, yet with its comfort. barry noticed none of this. his eyes had centered upon the form of a girl standing beside the little window, where evidently she had gone from his bedside. fair-haired she was, though barry did not notice it. small of build and slight, yet vibrant with the health and vigor that is typical of those who live in the open places. and there was a piquant something about her too; just enough of an upturned little nose to denote the fact that there was spirit and independence in her being; dark blue eyes that snapped even as darker eyes snapped, as she stood, half turned, looking out the window, watching with evident eagerness the approach of some one barry could not see. the lips carried a half-smile of anticipation. barry felt the instinctive urge to call to her, to raise himself-- he winced with a sudden pain, a sharp, yet aching throb of agony which involuntarily closed his eyes and clenched tight his teeth until it should pass. when he looked again, she was gone, and the opening of a door in the next room told him where. almost wondering, he turned his eyes then toward the blankets and sought to move an arm,--only again to desist in pain. he tried the other, and it responded. the covers were lowered, and barry's eyes stared down upon a bandaged, splinted left arm. broken. he grunted with surprise, then somewhat doggedly began an inspection of the rest of his human machine. gingerly he wiggled one toe beneath the blankets. it seemed to be in working order. he tried the others, with the same result. then followed his legs--and the glorious knowledge that they still were intact. his one free hand reached for his head and felt it. it was there, plus a few bandages, which however, from their size, gave barry little concern. the inventory completed, he turned his head at the sound of a voice--hers--calling from the doorway to some one without. "he's getting along fine, ba'tiste." barry liked the tone and the enthusiastic manner of speaking. "his fever's gone down. i should think--" "ah, _oui_!" had come the answer in booming bass. "and has he, what you say, come to?" "not yet. but i think he ought to, soon." "_oui_! heem no ver' bad. he be all right tomorrow." "that's good. it frightened me, for him to be unconscious so long. it's been five or six hours now, hasn't it?" "lemme see. i fin' heem six o'clock. now--eet is the noon. six hour." "that's long enough. besides, i think he's sleeping now. come inside and see--" "wait, _m' enfant_. m'sieu thayer he come in the minute. he say he think he know heem." the eyes of barry houston suddenly lost their curiosity. thayer? that could mean only one thayer! barry had taken particular pains to keep from him the information that he was anywhere except the east. for it had been fred thayer who had caused barry to travel across country in his yellow speedster, thayer who had formed the reason for the displacement of that name plate at the beginning of hazard pass, thayer who-- "know him? is he a friend?" "_oui_. so thayer say. he say he think eet is the m'sieu houston, who own the mill." "probably coming out to look over things, then?" "_oui_. thayer, he say the young man write heem about coming. that is how he know when i tell heem about picking heem up from the machine. he say he know m'sieu houston is coming by the automobile." in the other room, barry houston blinked rapidly and frowned. he had written thayer nothing of the sort. he had-- suddenly he stared toward the ceiling in swift-centered thought. some one else must have sent the information, some one who wanted thayer to know that barry was on the way, so that there would be no surprise in his coming, some one who realized that his mission was that of investigation! the names of two persons flashed across his mind, one to be dismissed immediately, the other-- "i'll fire jenkins the minute i get back!" came vindictively. "i'll--." he choked his words. a query had come from the next room. "was that heem talking?" "no, i don't think so. he groans every once in a while. wait--i'll look." the injured man closed his eyes quickly, as he heard the girl approach the door, not to open them until she had departed. barry was thinking and thinking hard. a moment later-- "how's the patient?" it was a new voice, one which barry houston remembered from years agone, when he, a wide-eyed boy in his father's care, first had viewed the intricacies of a mountain sawmill, had wandered about the bunk houses, and ridden the great, skidding bobsleds with the lumberjacks in the spruce forests, on a never-forgotten trip of inspection. it was thayer, the same thayer that he once had looked upon with all the enthusiasm and pride of boyhood, but whom he now viewed with suspicion and distrust. thayer had brought him out here, without realizing it. yet thayer had known that he was on the way. and thayer must be combatted--but how? the voice went on, "gained consciousness yet?" "no." the girl had answered. "that is--" "of course, then, he hasn't been able to talk. pretty sure it's houston, though. went over and took a look at the machine. colorado license on it, but the plates look pretty new, and there are fresh marks on the license holders where others have been taken off recently. evidently just bought a colorado tag, figuring that he'd be out here for some time. how'd you find him?" the bass voice of the man referred to as ba'tiste gave the answer, and barry listened with interest. evidently he had struggled to his feet at some time during the night--though he could not remember it--and striven to find his way down the mountain side in the darkness, for the story of ba'tiste told barry that he had found him just at dawn, a full five hundred yards from the machine. "i see heem move," the big voice was saying, "jus' as i go to look at my trap. then golemar come beside me and raise his hair along his neck and growl--r-r-r-r-r-u-u-f-f-f--like that. i look again--it is jus' at the dawn. i cannot see clearly. i raise my gun to shoot, and golemar, he growl again. then i think eet strange that the bear or whatever he is do not move. i say to golemar, 'we will closer go, _ne c'est pas_?' a step or two--then three--but he do not move--then pretty soon i look again, close. eet is a man, i pick heem up, like this--and i bring heem home. _ne c'est pas_, medaine?" her name was medaine then. not bad, barry thought. it rather matched her hair and the tilt of her nose and the tone of her laugh as she answered: "i would say you carried him more like a sack of meal, ba'tiste. i'm glad i happened along when i did; you might have thrown him over your shoulder!" a booming laugh answered her and the sound of a light scuffle, as though the man were striving to catch the girl in his big embrace. but the cold voice of thayer cut in: "and he hasn't regained consciousness?" "not yet. that is, i think he's recovered his senses, all right, and fallen immediately into a heavy sleep." "guess i'll go in and stay with him until he wakes up. he's my boss, you know--since the old man died. we've got a lot of important things to discuss. so if you don't mind--" "certainly not." it was the girl again. "we'll go in with you." "no, thanks. i want to see him alone." within the bedroom, barry houston gritted his teeth. then, with a sudden resolve, he rested his head again on the pillow and closed his eyes as the sound of steps approached. closer they came to the bed, and closer. barry could feel that the man was bending over him, studying him. there came a murmur, almost whispered: "wonder what the damn fool came out here about? wonder if he's wise?" chapter iii it was with an effort that houston gave no indication that he had heard. before, there had been only suspicions, one flimsy clue leading to another, a building-block process, which, in its culmination, had determined barry to take a trip into the west to see for himself. he had believed that it would be a long process, the finding of a certain telegram and the possibilities which might ensue if this bit of evidence should turn out to be the thing he had suspected. he had not, however, hoped to have from the lips of the man himself a confession that conditions were not right at the lumber mill of which barry houston now formed the executive head; to receive the certain statement that somewhere, somehow, something was wrong, something which was working against the best interests of himself and the stern necessities of the future. but now-- thayer had turned away and evidently sought a chair at the other side of the room. barry remained perfectly still. five minutes passed. ten. there came no sound from the chair; instinctively the man on the bed knew that thayer was watching him, waiting for the first flicker of an eyelid, the first evidence of returning consciousness. five minutes more and barry rewarded the vigil. he drew his breath in a shivering sigh. he turned and groaned,--quite naturally with the pain from his splintered arm. his eyes opened slowly, and he stared about him, as though in non-understanding wonderment, finally to center upon the window ahead and retain his gaze there, oblivious of the sudden tensity of the thin-faced thayer. barry houston was playing for time, playing a game of identities. in the same room was a man he felt sure to be an enemy, a man who had in his care everything barry houston possessed in the world, every hope, every dream, every chance for the wiping out of a thing that had formed a black blot in the life of the young man for two grim years, and a man who, barry houston now felt certain, had not held true to his trust. still steadily staring, he pretended not to notice the tall, angular form of fred thayer as that person crossed the brightness of the window and turned toward the bed. and when at last he did look up into the narrow, sunken face, it was with eyes which carried in them no light of friendship, nor even the faintest air of recognition. thayer put forth a gnarled, frost-twisted hand. "hello, kid," he announced, his thin lips twisting into a cynical smile that in days gone by had passed as an affectation. barry looked blankly at him. "hello." "how'd you get hurt?" "i don't know." "old man renaud here says you fell over the side of two mile hill. he picked you up about six o'clock this morning. don't you remember?" "remember what?" the blank look still remained. thayer moved closer to the bed and bending, stared at him. "why, the accident. i'm thayer, you know--thayer, your manager at the empire lake mill." "have i a manager?" the thin man drew back at this and stood for a moment staring down at houston. then he laughed and rubbed his gnarled hands. "i hope you've got a manager. you--you haven't fired me, have you?" barry turned his head wearily, as though the conversation were ended. "i don't know what you are talking about." "you--don't--say, you're barry houston, aren't you?" "i? am i?" "well, then, who are you?" the man on the bed smiled. "i'd like to have you tell me. i don't know myself." "don't you know your name?" "have i one?" thayer, wondering now, drew a hand across his forehead and stood for a moment in disconcerted silence. again he started to frame a question, only to desist. then, hesitatingly, he turned and walked to the door. "ba'tiste." "ah, _oui_!" "come in here, will you? i'm up against a funny proposition. mr. houston doesn't seem to be able to remember who he is." "ah!" then came the sound of heavy steps, and barry glanced toward the door, to see framed there the gigantic form of a grinning, bearded man, his long arms hanging with the looseness of tremendous strength, his gray eyes gleaming with twinkling interest, his whole being and build that of a great, good-humored, eccentric giant. his beard was splotched with gray, as was the hair which hung in short, unbarbered strands about his ears. but the hint of age was nullified by the cocky angle of the blue-knit cap upon his head, the blazing red of his double-breasted pearl-buttoned shirt, the flexible freedom of his muscles as he strode within. beside him trotted a great gray cross-breed dog, which betokened collie and timber wolf, and which progressed step by step at his master's knee. close to the bed they came, the great form bending, the twinkling, sharp eyes boring into those of houston, until the younger man gave up the contest and turned his head,--to look once more upon the form of the girl, waiting wonderingly in the doorway. then the voice came, rumbling, yet pleasant: "he no remember, eh?" "no. i know him all right. it's barry houston--i've been expecting him to drop in most any day. of course, i haven't seen him since he was a kid out here with his father--but that doesn't make any difference. the family resemblance is there--he's got his father's eyes and mouth and nose, and his voice. but i can't get him to remember it. he can't recall anything about his fall, or his name or business. i guess the accident--" "eet is the--" ba'tiste was waving one hand vaguely, then placing a finger to his forehead, in a vain struggle for a word. "eet is the--what-you-say--" "amnesia." the answer had come quietly from the girl. ba'tiste turned excitedly. "ah, _oui_! eet is the amnesia. many time i have seen it--" he waved a hand--"across the way, _ne c'est pas_? eet is when the mind he will no work--what you say--he will not stick on the job. see--" he gesticulated now with both hands--"eet is like a wall. i see eet with the shell shock. eet is all the same. the wall is knock down--eet will not hold together. blooey--" he waved his hands--"the man he no longer remember!" this time the stare in barry houston's eyes was genuine. to hear a girl of the mountains name a particular form of mental ailment, and then to further listen to that ailment described in its symptoms by a grinning, bearded giant of the woods was a bit past the comprehension of the injured man. he had half expected the girl to say "them" and "that there", though the trimness of her dress, the smoothness of her small, well-shod feet, the air of refinement which spoke even before her lips had uttered a word should have told him differently. as for the giant, ba'tiste, with his outlandish clothing, his corduroy trousers and high-laced, hob-nailed boots, his fawning, half-breed dog, his blazing shirt and kippy little knit cap, the surprise was all the greater. but that surprise, it seemed, did not extend to the other listener. thayer had bobbed his head as though in deference to an authority. when he spoke, barry thought that he discerned a tone of enthusiasm, of hope: "do they ever get over it?" "sometime, yes. sometime--no. eet all depend." "then there isn't any time limit on a thing like this." "no. sometime a year--sometime a week--sometime never. it all depend. sometime he get a shock--something happen quick, sudden--blooey--he come back, he say 'where am i', and he be back again, same like he was before!" ba'tiste gesticulated vigorously. thayer moved toward the door. "then i guess there's nothing more for me to do, except to drop in every few days and see how he's getting along. you'll take good care of him?" "ah, _oui_." "good. want to walk a piece down the road--with me, medaine?" "of course. it's too bad, isn't it--" then they faded through the doorway, and barry could hear no more. but he found himself looking after them, wondering about many things,--about the girl and her interest in fred thayer, and whether she too might be a part of the machinery which he felt had been set up against him; about the big, grinning ba'tiste, who still remained in the room; who now was fumbling about with the bedclothes at the foot of the bed and-- "ouch! don't--don't do that!" barry suddenly had ceased his thoughts to jerk his feet far up under the covers, laughing and choking and striving to talk at the same time. at the foot of the bed, ba'tiste, his eyes twinkling more than ever, had calmly rolled back the covering and just as calmly tickled the injured man's feet. more, one long arm had outstretched again, as the giant once more reached for the sole of a foot, to tickle it, then to stand back and boom with laughter as barry involuntarily sought to jerk the point of attack out of the way. for a fourth time he repeated the performance, followed by a fourth outburst of mirth at the recoil from the injured man. barry frowned. "pardon me," he said rather caustically. "but i don't get the joke." "ho, ho!" and ba'tiste turned to talk to the shaggy dog at his side. "_l'enfant_ feels it! _l'enfant_ feels it!" "feel it," grunted houston. "of course i feel it! i'm ticklish." "you hear, golemar?" ba'tiste, contorted with merriment, pointed vaguely in the direction of the bed, "m'sieu l' nobody, heem is ticklish!" "of course i'm ticklish. who isn't, on the bottom of his feet?" the statement only brought a new outburst from the giant. it nettled houston; further, it caused him pain to be jerking constantly about the bed in an effort to evade the tickling touch of the trapper's big fingers. once more ba'tiste leaned forward and wiggled his fingers as if in preparation for a new assault, and once more barry withdrew his pedal extremities to a place of safety. "please don't," he begged. "i--i don't know what kind of a game you're playing--and i'm perfectly willing to join in on it when i feel better--but now it hurts my arm to be bouncing around this way. maybe this afternoon--if you've got to play these fool games--i'll feel better--" the thunder of the other man's laugh cut him off. ba'tiste was now, it seemed, in a perfect orgy of merriment. as though weakened by his laughter, he reeled to the wall and leaned there, his big arms hanging loosely, the tears rolling down his cheeks and disappearing in the gray beard, his face reddened, his whole form shaking with series after series of chuckles. "you hear heem?" he gasped at the wolf-dog. "m'sieu l' nobody, he will play with us this afternoon! m'sieu l' ticklefoot! that is heem, my golemar, m'sieu l' ticklefoot! oh, ho--m'sieu l' ticklefoot!" "what in thunder is the big idea?" barry houston had lost his reserve now. "i want to be a good fellow--but for the love of mike let me in on the joke. i can't get it. i don't see anything funny in lying here with a broken arm and having my feet tickled. of course, i'm grateful to you for picking me up and all that sort of thing, but--" choking back the laughter, ba'tiste returned to the foot of the bed and stood wiping the tears from his eyes. "pardon, _mon ami_," came seriously at last. "old ba'teese must have his joke. listen, ba'teese tell you something. you see people here today, _oui_, yes? you see, the petite medaine? ah, _oui_!" he clustered his fingers to his lips and blew a kiss toward the ceiling. "she is the, what-you-say, fine li'l keed. she is the--_bon bébé_! you no nev' see her before?" barry shook his head. ba'tiste went on. "you see m'sieu thayer? _oui_? you know heem?" "no." "you sure?" "never saw him before." "so?" batiste grinned and wagged a finger, "ba'teese he like the truth, yes, _oui_. ba'teese he don't get the truth, he tickle m'sieu's feet." "now listen! please--" "no--no!" the giant waved a hand in dismissal of threat. "old ba'teese, he still joke. ba'teese say he tell you something. eet is this. you see those people? all right. _bon_--good. you don' know one. you know the other. yes? _oui_? ba'teese not know why you do it. ba'teese not care. ba'teese is right--in here." he patted his heart with a big hand. "but you--you not tell the truth. i know. i tickle your feet." "you're crazy!" "so, mebbe. ba'teese have his trouble. sometime ba'teese wish he go crazy--like you say." the face suddenly aged. the twinkling light left the eyes. the big hands knitted, and the man was silent for a long moment. then, "but ba'-teese he know--see?" he pointed to his head, then twisting, ran his finger down his spine. "when eet is the--what-you-say, amnesia--the nerve eet no work in the foot. i could tickle, tickle, tickle, and you would not know. but with you--blooey--right away, you feel. so, for some reason, you are, what-you-say?--shamming. but you are ba'teese' gues'. you sleep in ba'teese' bed. you eat ba'teese' food. so long as that, you are ba'teese' friend. ba'teese--" he looked with quiet, fatherly eyes toward the young man on the bed--"shall ask no question--and ba'teese shall tell no tales!" chapter iv the simple statement of the gigantic trapper swept the confidence from houston and left him at a disadvantage. his decision had been a hasty one,--a thing to gain time, a scheme by which he had felt he could, at the proper time, take thayer off his guard and cause him to come into the open with his plans, whatever they might be. fate had played a strange game with barry houston. it had taken a care-free, happy-go-lucky youth and turned him into a suspicious, distrustful person with a constantly morbid strain which struggled everlastingly for supremacy over his usually cheery grin and his naturally optimistic outlook upon life. for fate had allowed houston to live the youth of his life in ease and brightness and lack of worry, only that it might descend upon him with the greatest cloud that man can know. and two years of memories, two years of bitterness, two years of ugly recollections had made its mark. in all his dealings with thayer, conducted though they might have been at a distance, barry houston could not place his finger upon one tangible thing that would reveal his crookedness. but he had suspected; had come to investigate, and to learn, even before he was ready to receive the information, that his suspicions had been, in some wise at least, correct. to follow those suspicions to their stopping place barry had feigned amnesia. and it had lasted just long enough for this grinning man who stood at the foot of the bed to tickle his feet! and how should that grotesque giant with his blazing red shirt and queer little cap know of such things as amnesia and the tracing of a deadened nerve? how should he,--then barry suddenly tensed. had it been a ruse? was this man a friend, a companion--even an accomplice of the thin-faced, frost-gnarled thayer--and had his simple statement been an effort to take barry off his guard? if so, it had not succeeded, for barry had made no admissions. but it all affected him curiously; it nettled him and puzzled him. for a long time he was silent, merely staring at the grinning features of ba'tiste. at last: "i should think you would wait until you could consult a doctor before you'd say a thing like that." "so? it has been done." "and he told you--" "nothing. he does not need to even speak to ba'teese." a great chuckle shook the big frame "ba'teese know as soon as _l' m'sieu doctaire_." "on good terms, aren't you? when's he coming again?" "_parbleu_!" the big man snapped his fingers. "peuff! like that. ba'teese call heem, and he is here." houston blinked. then, in spite of his aching head, and the pain of the swollen, splint-laced arm he sat up in bed. "what kind of--" "old ba'teese, he mus' joke," came quickly and seriously from the other man. "ba'teese--he is heem." "a doctor?" slowly the big man nodded. barry went on "i--i--didn't know. i thought you were just a trapper. i wondered--" "so! that is all--jus' a trapper." quietly, slowly, the big man turned away from the bed and stood looking out the window, the wolf-dog edging close to him as though in companionship and some strange form of sympathy. there was silence for a long time, then the voice of ba'tiste came again, but now it was soft and low, addressed, it seemed, not to the man on the bed, but to vacancy. "so! ba'teese, he is only a trapper now. ba'teese, he had swear he never again stand beside a sick bed. but you--" and he turned swiftly, a broken smile playing about his lips--"you, _mon ami_, you, when i foun' you this morning, with your head twisted under your arm, with the blood on your face, and the dust and dirt upon you--then you--you look like my pierre! and i pick you up--so!" he fashioned his arms as though he were holding a baby, "and i look at you and i say--'pierre! pierre!' but you do not answer--just like he did not answer. then i start back with you, and the way was rough. i take you under one arm--so. it was steep. i must have one arm free. then i meet medaine, and she laugh at me for the way i carry you. and i was glad. eet made ba'teese forget." "what?" barry said it with the curiosity of a boy. the older man stared hard at the crazy design of the covers. "my pierre," came at last. "and my julienne. ba'teese, he is all alone now. are you all alone?" the question came quickly. barry answered before he thought. "yes." "then you know--you know how eet feel. you know how ba'teese think when he look out the window. see?" he pointed, and barry raised himself slightly that he might follow the direction of the gesture. faintly, through the glass, he could see something white, rearing itself in the shadows of the heavy pines which fringed the cabin,--a cross. and it stood as the guardian of a mound of earth where pine boughs had been placed in smooth precision, while a small vase, half implanted in the earth, told of flowers in the summer season. ba'tiste stared at his palms. "julienne," came at last. "my wife." then, with a sudden impulse, he swerved about the bed and sat down beside the sick man. "ba'teese--" he smiled plaintively--"like to talk about pierre--and julienne. even though eet hurt." barry could think only in terms of triteness. "have they been gone long?" the big man counted on his fingers. "one--two--t'ree year. before that--_bon_!" he kissed his fingers airily. "old ba'teese, he break the way--long time ago. he come down from montreal, with his julienne and his pierre--in his arm, so. he like to feel big and strong--to help other people. so, down here where there were few he came, and built his cabin, with his pierre and his julienne. and, so happy! then, by'm'by, jacques robinette come too, with his petite medaine--" "that's the girl who was here?" "ah, _oui_. i am _l' m'sieu doctaire_. i look after the sick for ten--twenty--thirty mile. jacques he have more head. he buy land." a great sweep of the arm seemed to indicate all outdoors. "ev'where--the pine and spruce, it was jacques! by'm'by, he go on and leave medaine alone. then she go 'way to school, but ev' summer she come back and live in the big house. and ba'teese glad--because he believe some day she love pierre and pierre love her and--" another silence. at last: "and then war came. my pierre, he is but eighteen. but he go. ba'teese want him to go. julienne, she say nothing--she cry at night. but she want him to go too. medaine, she tell funny stories about her age and she go too. it was lonely. ba'teese was big. ba'teese was strong. and julienne say to him, 'you too--you go. you may save a life.' and ba'teese went." "to france?" ba'tiste bowed his head. "long time ba'teese look for his pierre. long time he look for medaine. but no. then--" his face suddenly contorted "--one night--in the cathedral at st. menehould, i find heem. but pierre not know his _père_. he not answer ba'teese when he call 'pierre! pierre!' here, and here, and here--" the big man pointed to his breast and face and arms--"was the shrapnel. he sigh in my arms--then he is gone. ba'teese ask that night for duty on the line. he swear never again to be _l' m'sieu doctaire_. all his life he help--help--help--but when the time come, he cannot help his own. and by'm'by, ba'teese come home--and find that." he pointed out into the shadows beneath the pines. "she had died?" "died!" the man's face had gone suddenly purple. his eyes were glaring, his hands upraised and clutched. "no! murder! murder, mon ami! murder! lost wing--he medaine's indian--he find her--so! in a heap on the floor--and a bullet through her brain. and the money we save, the ten thousan' dollar--eet is gone! murder!" a shudder went over the young man on the bed. his face blanched. his lips lost their color. for a moment, as the big french-canadian bent over him, he stared with glazed, unseeing eyes, at last to turn dully at the sharp, questioning voice of the trapper: "murder--you know murder?" there was a long moment of silence. then, as though with an effort which took his every atom of strength, houston shook himself, as if to throw some hateful, vicious thing from him, and turned, with a parrying question: "did you ever find who did it?" "no. but sometime--ba'teese not forget. ba'teese always wait. ba'teese always look for certain things--that were in the deed-box. there was jewelry--ba'teese remember. sometime--" then he switched again. "why you look so funny? huh? why you get pale--?" "please--" barry houston put forth a hand. "please--" then he straightened. "ba'tiste, i'm in your hands. you can help me, or you can harm me. you know i was shamming when i acted as though i had lost my identity. now--now you know there's something else. will you--" he ceased suddenly and sank back. from without there had come the sound of steps. a moment later, the door opened, and shadows of a man and a girl showed on the floor. thayer and medaine had returned. soon they were in the room, the girl once more standing in the doorway, regarding barry with a quizzical, half-wondering gaze, the man coming forward and placing one gnarled hand on the canadian's shoulder, staring over his head down into the eyes of the injured man on the bed. "i couldn't go back to the mill without making one more try," he explained. "has he shown any signs yet?" barry watched ba'teese closely. but the old man's face was a blank. "signs? of what?" "coming to--remembering who he is." "oh." ba'tiste shrugged his shoulders. "i have give eet up." "then--" "so far ba'teese is concern'," and he looked down on the bed with a glance which told barry far more than words, "he is already name. he is m'sieu nobody. i can get no more." thayer scratched his head. he turned. "anyway, i'm going to make one more attempt at it. see what you can do, medaine." the girl came forward then, half smiling, and seated herself beside the bed. she took barry's hand in hers, then with a laugh turned to thayer. "what shall i do? make love to him?" "why not?" it was old ba'tiste edging forward, the twinkle once more in his eyes. "bon--good! make love to him." "do you suppose it would help?" the girl was truly serious now. "why not?" "i don't think--" thayer had edged forward, nervously. ba'tiste pushed him gently. "peuff! and when did m'sieu thayer become _l' m'sieu doctaire_? ba'teese say ask him if he like you." medaine laughed. "do you like me?" brown eyes met blue eyes. a smile passed between them. it was with an effort that houston remembered that he was only playing a part. "i certainly do!" "ask him, 'do you like me better than anybody you ever--'" "what sense is there to all this?" "blooey! and why should you ask? why should you stand with a frown on your face? peuff! it is ugly enough already!" to barry, it was quite evident that there was some purpose behind the actions of old ba'tiste, and certainly more than mere pleasantry in his words. "you ask medaine to help ba'teese, and then _facher vous_! enough. ask him, medaine." "but--" the girl was laughing now, her eyes beaming, a slight flush apparent in her cheeks--"maybe he doesn't want me to--" "oh, but i do!" there was something in the tone of barry houston which made the color deepen. "i--i like it." "that's enough!" thayer, black-featured, his gnarled hands clenched into ugly knots, came abruptly forward. "i thought this was a serious thing; i didn't know you were going to turn it into a burlesque!" "perhaps m'sieu thayer has studied the practice of medicine?" "no. but--" "nor, pardon, the practice of politeness. ba'teese will not need your help." "whether you need it or not, i'll come back when you're through with this infernal horseplay. i--" "ba'teese choose his guests." "you mean--" "ba'teese mean what he say." "very well, then. come on, medaine." the girl, apparently without a thought of the air of proprietorship in the man's tone, rose, only to face ba'tiste. the canadian glowered at her. "and are you chattel?" he stormed. "do you stand in the cup of his hand that he shall tell you when to rise and when to sit, when to walk and where to go?" she turned. "you were abrupt, fred. i'm glad ba'tiste reminded me. personally, i don't see why i should have been drawn into this at all, or why i should be made the butt of a quarrel over some one i never saw before." "i'm sorry--terribly sorry." barry was speaking earnestly and holding forth his hand. "i shouldn't have answered you that way--i'm--" "we'll forget it all." a flashing smile had crossed the girl's lips. "fred never knows how to take ba'tiste. they're always quarreling this way. the only trouble is that fred--" and she turned to face him piquantly--"always takes in the whole world when he gets mad. and that includes me. i think," and the little nose took a more upward turn than ever, "that ba'tiste is entirely right, fred. you talked to me as though i were a sack of potatoes. i won't go with you, and i won't see you until you can apologize." "there's nothing to apologize for!" thayer jammed on his hat and stamped angrily out the door. medaine watched him with laughing eyes. "he'll write me a letter to-night," came quietly. then, "lost wing!" "ugh!" it was a grunt from outside. "i just wanted to be sure you were there. call me when mr. thayer has passed the ridge." "ugh!" medaine turned again to ba'tiste, a childish appearance of confidence in her eyes, her hand lingering on the chair by the bed. "were you really fooling, ba'tiste--or shall we continue?" "perhaps--" the twinkle still shone in the old man's eyes--"but not now. perhaps--sometime. so mebbe sometime you--" "wah--hah--hai-i-e-e-e!" the sioux had called from without. medaine turned. "when you need me, ba'tiste," she answered, with a smile that took in also the eager face on the bed, "i'll be glad to help you. good-by." that too included barry, and he answered it with alacrity. then for a moment after she had gone, he lay scowling at ba'tiste, who once more, in a weakened state of merriment, had reeled to the wall, followed as usual by his dog, and leaned there, hugging his sides. barry growled: "you're a fine doctor! just when you had me cured, you quit! i'd forgotten i even had a broken arm." "so?" ba'tiste straightened. "you like her, eh? you like the petite medaine?" "how can i help it?" "_bon_! good! i like you to like medaine. you no like thayer?" "less every minute." "bon! i no like heem. he try to take pierre's place with medaine. and pierre, he was strong and tall and straight. pierre, he could smile--_bon_! like you can smile. you look like my pierre!" came frankly. "thanks, ba'tiste." barry said it in wholehearted manner. "you don't know how grateful i am for a little true friendliness." "grateful? peuff! you? bah, you shall go back, and they will ask who helped you when you were hurt, and you--you will not even remember what is the name." "hardly that." barry pulled thoughtfully at the covers. "in the first place, i'm not going back, and in the second, i haven't enough true friends to forget so easily. i--i--" then his jaw dropped and he lay staring ahead, out to the shadows beneath the pines and the stalwart cross which kept watch there. "i--" "you act funny again. you act like you act when i talk about my julienne. why you do eet?" barry houston did not answer at once. old scenes were flooding through his brain, old agonies that reflected themselves upon his features, old sorrows, old horrors. his eyes grew cold and lifeless, his hands white and drawn, his features haggard. the chuckle left the lips of ba'tiste renaud. he moved swiftly, almost sinuously to the bed, and gripped the younger man by his uninjured arm. his eyes came close to barry houston, his voice was sharp, tense, commanding: "you! why you act like that when i talk about murder? why you get pale, huh? why you get pale?" chapter v the gaze of ba'tiste renaud was strained as he asked the question, his manner tense, excited. through sheer determination, barry forced a smile and pulled himself back to at least a semblance of composure. "maybe you know the reason already--through thayer. but if you don't--ba'tiste, how much of it do you mean when you say you are a man's friend?" "ba'teese may joke," came quietly, "but ba'teese no lie. you look like my pierre--you help where it has been lonesome. you are my frien'." "then i know you are not going to ask me for something that hurts in telling. and at least, i can give you my word of honor that it isn't because of my conscience!" ba'tiste was silent after that, walking slowly about the room, shaggy head bent, hands clasped behind his back, studious, as though striving to fathom what had been on the man's mind. as for barry, he stared disconsolately at vacancy, living again a thing which he had striven to forget. it had been forced upon him, this partial admission of a cloud in the past; the geniality, the utter honesty, the friendliness of the old french-canadian, the evident dislike for a man whom he, barry, also thoroughly distrusted, had lowered the younger man's guard. the tragic story of pierre and julienne had furthered the merest chance acquaintance into what seemed the beginning, at least, of closest friendship. houston had known ba'tiste for only a matter of a few hours,--yet it seemed months since he first had looked upon the funny little blue cap and screaming red shirt of the canadian; and it was evident that renaud had felt the same reaction. barry houston, to this great, lonely man of the hills, looked like a son who was gone, a son who had grown tall and straight and good to look upon a son upon whom the old man had looked as a companion, and a chum for whom he had searched in every battle-scarred area of a war-stricken nation, only to find him,--too late. and with this viewpoint, there was no shamming about the old man's expressions of friendship. more, he took barry's admission of a cloud in the past as a father would take it from a son; he paced the floor minute after minute, head bowed, gray eyes half closed, only to turn at last with an expression which told barry houston that a friend was his for weal or woe, for fair weather or foul, good or evil. "eet is enough!" came abruptly. "there is something you do not want to tell. i like you--i not ask. you look like my pierre--who could do no wrong. so! _bon_--good! ba'teese is your frien'. you have trouble? ba'teese help." "i've had plenty of that, in the last two years," came quietly. "i think i've got plenty ahead of me. what do you know about thayer?" "he no good." "why?" "ba'teese don' know. on'y he have narrow eyes too close together. he have a quirk to his mouth ba'teese no like. he have habit nev' talkin' about himself--he ask you question an' tell you nothing. he have hatchet-face; ba'teese no like a man with a hatchet-face. beside, he make love to medaine!" barry laughed. "evidently that's a sore spot with you, ba'tiste." "no. ba'teese no care. but if my pierre had live, he would have make love to her. she would have marry him. and to have m'sieu thayer take his place? no! mebbe--" he said it hopefully, "mebbe you like medaine, huh?" "i do! she's pretty, ba'tiste." "mebbe you make love?" but the man on the bed shook his head. "i can't make love to anybody, ba'tiste. not until i've--i've found something i'm looking for. i'm afraid that's a long way off. i haven't the privileges of most young fellows. i'm a little--what would you call it--hampered by circumstance. i've--besides, if i ever do marry, it won't be for love. there's a girl back east who says she cares for me, and who simply has taken it for granted that i think the same way about her. she stood by me--in some trouble. out of every one, she didn't believe what they said about me. that means a lot. some way, she isn't my kind; she just doesn't awaken affection on my part, and i spend most of my time calling myself a cad over it. but she stood by me--and--i guess that's all that's necessary, after all. when i've fulfilled my contract with myself--if i ever do--i'll do the square thing and ask her to marry me." ba'tiste scowled. "you dam' fool," he said. "buy 'em present. thank 'em, _merci beaucoup_. but don' marry 'em unless 'you love 'em. ba'teese, he know. ba'teese, he been in too many home where there is no love." "true. but you don't know the story behind it all, ba'tiste. and i can't tell you except this: i got in some trouble. i'd rather not tell you what it was. it broke my father's heart--and his confidence in me. he--he died shortly afterward." "and you--was it your fault?" "if you never believe anything else about me, ba'tiste, believe this: that it wasn't. and in a way, it was proven to him, before he went. but he had been embittered then. he left a will--with stipulations. i was to have the land he owned out here at empire lake; and the flume site leading down the right side of hawk creek to the mill. some one else owns the other side of the lake and the land on the opposite bank of the stream." "_oui_. medaine robinette." "honestly? is it hers?" "when she is twenty-one. but go on." "father wouldn't leave me the mill. he seemed to have a notion that i'd sell it all off--and he tied everything up in a way to keep me from doing anything like that. the mill is rented to me. the land is mine, and i can do everything but actually dispose of it. but on top of that comes another twist: if i haven't developed the business within five years into double what it was at the peak of its best development, back goes everything into a trust fund, out of which i am to have a hundred dollars a month, nothing more. that's what i'm out here for, ba'tiste, to find out why, in spite of the fact that i've worked day and night now for a year and a half, in spite of the fact that i've gone out and struggled and fought for contracts, and even beaten down the barriers of dislike and distrust and suspicion to get business--why i can't get it! something or some one is blocking me, and i'm going to find out what and who it is! i think i know one man--thayer. but there may be more. that's why i'm playing this game of lost identity. i thought i could get out here and nose around without him knowing it. when he found out at once who i was, and seemed to have had a previous tip that i was coming out here, i had to think fast and take the first scheme that popped into my head. maybe if i can play the game long enough, it will take him off his guard and cause him to work more in the open. they may give me a chance to know where i stand. and i've got to know that, ba'tiste. because--" and his voice was vibrant with determination, "i don't care what happens to me personally. i don't care whether five minutes after i have made it, i lose every cent of what i have worked for. but i do care about this; i'm going to make good to my father's memory. i'm going to be able to stand before a mirror and look myself straight in the eye, knowing that i bucked up against trouble, that it nearly whipped me, that it took the unfairest advantage that fate can take of a man in allowing my father to die before i could fully right myself in his eyes, but that if there is a justice, if there is anything fair and decent in this universe, some way he'll know, some way he'll rest in peace, with the understanding that his son took up the gauntlet that death laid down for him, that he made the fight, and that he won!" "_bon_--good!" old ba'tiste leaned over the foot of the bed. "my pierre--he would talk like that. _bon_? now--what is it you look for?" "in the first place, i want to know how so many accidents can happen in a single plant, just at the wrong time. i want to know why it is that i can go out and fight for a contract, and then lose it because a saw has broken, or an off-bearer, lugging slabs away from the big wheel, can allow one to strike at just the wrong moment and let the saw pick it up and drive it through the boiler, laying up the whole plant for three weeks. i want to know why it is that only about one out of three contracts i land are ever filled. thayer's got something to do with it, i know. why? that's another question. but there must be others. i want to know who they are and weed them out. i've only got three and a half years left, and things are going backward instead of forward." "how you intend to fin' this out?" "i don't know. i've got one lead--as soon as i'm able to get into town. that may give me a good deal of information; i came out here, at least, in the hope that it would. after that, i'm hazy. how big a telegraph office is there at tabernacle?" "how big?" ba'tiste laughed. "how _petite_! eet is about the size of the--what-you-say--the peanut." "is there ever a time when the operator isn't there?" "at noon. he go out to dinner, and he leave open the door. if eet is something you want, walk in." "thanks." a strange eagerness was in houston's eyes. "i think i'll be able to get up to-morrow. maybe i can walk over there; it's only a mile or two, isn't it?" but when to-morrow, came, it found a white, bandaged figure sitting weakly in front of ba'tiste's cabin, nothing more. strength of purpose and strength of being had proved two different things, and now he was quite content to rest there in the may sunshine, to watch the chattering magpies as they went about the work of spring house-building, to study the colors of the hills, the mergings of the tintings and deeper hues as the scale ran from brown to green to blue, and finally to the stark red granite and snow whites of mount taluchen. ba'tiste and his constant companion, golemar, were making the round of the traps and had been gone for hours. barry was alone--alone with the beauties of spring in the hills, with the soft call of the meadow lark in the bit of greenery which fringed the still purling stream in the little valley, the song of the breeze through the pines, the sunshine, the warmth--and his problems. of these, there were plenty. in the first place, how had thayer known that he was on the way from the east? he had spoken to only two persons,--jenkins, his bookkeeper, and one other. to these two persons he merely had given the information that he was going west on a bit of a vacation. he had deliberately chosen to come in his car, so that there might be every indication, should there be such a thing as a spy in his rather diminutive office, that he merely intended a jaunt through a few states, certainly not a journey half across the country. but just the same, the news had leaked; thayer had been informed, and his arrival had been no surprise. that there had been need for his coming, barry felt sure. at the least, there was mismanagement at the mill; contract after contract lost just when it should have been gained told him this, if nothing more. but--and he drew a sheet of yellow paper from his pocket and stared hard at it--there was something else, something which had aroused his curiosity to an extent of suspicion, something which might mean an open book of information to him if only he could reach tabernacle at the right moment and gain access to the telegraph files without the interference of the agent. then suddenly he ceased his study of the message and returned it to his pocket. two persons were approaching the cabin from the opposite hill,--a girl whom he was glad to see, and a man who walked, or rather rolled, in the background: medaine robinette and a sort of rear guard who, twenty or thirty feet behind her, followed her every step, trotted when she ran down the steep side of an embankment, then slowed as she came to a walk again. a bow-legged creature he was, with ill-fitting clothing and a broad "two-gallon" hat which evidently had been bequeathed to him by some cow-puncher, long hair which straggled over his shoulders, and a beaded vest which shone out beneath the scraggly outer coat like a candle on a dark night. instinctively barry knew him to be the grunting individual who had waited outside the door the night before,--lost wing, medaine's sioux servant: evidently a self-constituted bodyguard who traveled more as a shadow than as a human being. certainly the girl in the foreground gave no indication that she was aware of his presence; nor did she seem to care. closer she came, and barry watched her, taking a strange sort of delight in the skipping grace with which she negotiated the stepping stones of the swollen little stream which intervened between her and the cabin of ba'tiste renaud, then clambered over the straggling pile of massed logs and dead timber which strewed the small stretch of flat before the rise began, leading to where he rested. more like some graceful, agile boy was she than a girl. her clothing was of that type which has all too soon taken the place of the buckskin in the west,--a riding habit, with stout little shoes and leather puttees; her hair was drawn tight upon her head and encased in the shielding confines of a cap, worn low over her forehead, the visor pulled aside by a jutting twig and now slanting out at a rakish angle; her arms full of something pink and soft and pretty. barry wondered what it could be,--then brightened with sudden hope. "wonder if she's bringing them to me?" the answer came a moment later as she faced him, panting slightly from the exertion of the climb, the natural flush of exercise heightened by her evident embarrassment. "oh, you're up!" came in an almost disappointed manner. then with a glance toward the great cluster of wild roses in her arms, "i don't know what to do with these things now." "why?" barry's embarrassment was as great as hers. "if--if it'll do any good, i'll climb back into bed again." "no--don't. only i thought you were really, terribly ill and--" "i am--i was--i will be. that is--gosh, it's a shame for you to go out and pick all those and then have me sitting up here as strong as an ox. i--" "oh, don't worry about that." she smiled at him with that sweetness which only a woman can know when she has the advantage. "i didn't pick them. lost wing"--she pointed to the skulking, outlandishly dressed indian in the background--"attended to that. i was going to send them over by him. but i didn't have anything to do, so i just thought i'd bring them myself." "thanks for that, anyway. can't i keep them just the same--to put on the table or something?" "oh, if you care to." barry felt that she was truly disappointed that he wasn't at the point of death, or at least somewhere near it. "where's ba'tiste." "out looking after his traps, picking them up i think, for the summer. he'll be back soon. is there--" "no. i usually come over every day to see him, you know." then the blue eyes lost their diffidence to become serious. "do you remember yet who you are?" "less right at this minute than at any other time!" spoke barry truthfully. "i'm out of my head entirely!" he reached for the flowers. "please don't joke that way. it's really serious. when i was across--army nursing--i saw a lot of just such cases as yours. shell shock, you know. one has to be awfully careful with it." "i know. but i'm getting the best of care. i--ouch!" his interest had exceeded his caution. the unbandaged hand had waved the flowers for emphasis and absently gripped the stems. the wild roses fluttered to the ground. "gosh!" came dolefully, "i'm all full of thorns. guess i'll have to pick 'em out with my teeth." "oh!" then she picked up the roses and laid them gingerly aside. "you can't use your other hand, can you?" "no. arm's broken." "then--" she looked back toward lost wing, hunched on a stump, and barry's heart sank. she debated a moment, at last to shake her head. "no--he'd want to dig them out with a knife. if you don't mind." she moved toward houston and barry thrust forth his hand. "if you don't mind," he countered and she sat beside him. a moment later: "i must look like a fortune teller." "see anything in my palm besides thorns?" "yes. a little dirt. ba'tiste evidently isn't a very good nurse." "i did the best i could with one hand. but i was pretty grimy. i--i didn't know," and barry grinned cheerfully, "i was going to be this lucky." she pretended not to hear the sally. and in some way barry was glad. he much rather would have her silent than making some flippant remark, much rather would he prefer to lean comfortably back on the old bench and watch the quiet, almost childish determination of her features as she sought for a grip on the tiny protuberances of the thorns, the soft brownness of the few strands of hair which strayed from beneath the boyish cap, the healthy glow of her complexion, the smallness of the clear-skinned hands, the daintiness of the trim little figure. much rather would he be silent with the picture than striving for answers to questions that in their very naïveness were an accusation. quite suddenly barry felt cheap and mean and dishonest. he felt that he would like to talk about himself,--about home and his reasons for being out here; his hopes for the mill which now was a shambling, unprofitable thing; about the future and--a great many things. it was with an effort, when she queried him again concerning his memory, that he still remained mr. nobody. then he shifted the conversation from himself to her. "do you live out here?" "yes. didn't ba'tiste tell you? my house is just over the hill--you can just see one edge of the roof through that bent aspen." barry stared. "i'd noticed that. thought it was a house, but couldn't be sure. i thought i understood ba'tiste to say you only came out here in the summer." "i did that when i was going to school. now i stay here all the year 'round." "isn't it lonely?" "out here? with a hundred kinds of birds to keep things going? with the trout leaping in the streams in the summer time, and a good gun in the hollow of your arm in the winter? besides, there's old lost wing and his squaw, you know. i get a lot of enjoyment out of them when we're snowed in--in the winter. he's told me fully fifty versions of how the battle of wounded knee was fought, and as for custer's last battle--it's wonderful!" "he knows all about it?" "i'd hardly say that." medaine reached under her cap for a hairpin, looked quickly at barry as though to ask him whether he could stand pain, then pressed a recalcitrant thorn into a position where it could be extracted. "i think the best description of lost wing is that he's an admirable fiction writer. ba'tiste says he has more lies than a dog has fleas." "then it isn't history?" "of course not. just imagination. but it's well done, with plenty of gestures. he stands in front of the fire and acts it all out while his squaw sits on the floor and grunts and nods and wails at the right time, and it's really entertaining. they're about a million years old, both of them. my father got them when he first came down here from montreal. he wanted lost wing as a sort of bodyguard. it was a good deal wilder in this region then than it is now, and father owned a good deal of land." "so ba'tiste tells me. he says that practically all of the forests around here are yours." "they will be, next year," came simply, "when i'm--" she stopped and laughed. "ba'tiste told me. twenty-one." "he never could keep anything to himself." "what's wrong about that? i'm twenty-seven myself." "honestly? you don't look it." "don't i? i ought to. i've got a beard and everything. see?" he pulled his hand away for a moment to rub the two-days' growth on his face. "i tried to shave this morning. couldn't make it. ba'tiste said he'd play barber for me this afternoon. next time you come over i'll be all slicked up." again she laughed, and once more pursued the remaining thorns. "how do you know there'll be a next time?" "if there isn't, i'll drive nails in myself, so you'll have to pull 'em out." then seriously. "you do come over here often, don't you?" "of course--" then, the last thorn disposed of, she rose--"to see ba'tiste. i look on him as a sort of a guardian. he knew my father. but let's talk about yourself. you seem remarkably clear in your mind to be afflicted with amnesia. are you sure you don't remember anything--?" "no--not now. but," and barry hedged painfully, "i think i will. it acts to me like a momentary thing. every once in a while i get a flash as though it were all coming back; it was just the fall, i'm sure of that. my head's all right." "you mean your brain?" "yes. i don't act crazy, or anything like that, do i?" "well," and she smiled quizzically, "of course, i don't know you, so i have nothing to go by. but i must admit that you say terribly foolish things." leaving him to think over that, she turned, laughed a good-by, and with the rolling, bow-legged old lost wing in her wake, retraced the path to the top of the hill, there to hesitate a moment, wave her hand quickly, and then, as though hurrying away from her action, disappeared. barry houston sat for a long time, visualizing her there on the brow of the hill, her head with its long-visored cap tilted, her hand upraised, her trimness and her beauty silhouetted against the opalesque sky, dreaming,--and with a bit of heartache in it. for this sort of thing had been his hope in younger, fairer days. this sort of a being had been his make-believe companion of a castle in spain. this sort of a joking, whimsical girl had been the one who had come to him in the smoke wreaths and tantalized him and promised him-- but now, his life was gray. his heart was not his own. his life was at best only a grim, drab thing of ugly memories and angered determinations. if a home should ever come to him, it must be in company with some one to whom he owed the gratitude of friendship in time of need; not love not affection, but the paying of a debt of deepest honor. which barry would do, and faithfully and honestly and truthfully. as for the other-- he leaned against the bark slabs of the cabin. he closed his eyes. he grinned cheerily. "well," came at last, "there's no harm in thinking about it!" chapter vi it was thus that ba'tiste found him, still dreaming. the big voice of the canadian boomed, and he reached forward to nudge barry on his injured shoulder. "and who has been bringing you flowers?" he asked. "medaine. that is--miss robinette." "medaine? oh, ho! you hear, golemar?" he turned to the fawning wolf-dog. "he calls her medaine! oh, ho! and he say he will marry, not for love. peuff! we shall see, by gar, we shall see! eh, golemar?" then to barry, "you have sit out here too long." "i? nothing of the kind. where's the axe? i'll do some fancy one-handed woodchopping." and while ba'tiste watched, grinning, barry went about his task, swinging the axe awkwardly, but whistling with the joy of work. nor did he pause to diagnose his light-heartedness. he only knew that he was in the hills; that the streets and offices and people of the cities, and the memories that they carried, had been left behind for him that he was in a new world to make a new fight and that he was strangely, inordinately happy time after time the axe glinted, to descend upon the chopping block, until at last the pile of stovewood had reached its proper dimensions, and old ba'tiste came from the doorway to carry it in. then, half an hour later, they sat down to their meal of sizzling bacon and steaming coffee,--a great, bearded giant and the younger man whom he, in a moment of impulsiveness, had all but adopted. ba'tiste was still joking about the visit of medaine, houston parrying his thrusts. the meal finished, ba'tiste went forth once more, to the hunt of a bear trap and its deadfall, dragged away by a mountain lion during the last snow. barry sought again the bench outside the cabin, to sit there waiting and hoping,--in vain. at last came evening, and he undressed laboriously for a long rest. something awaited him in tabernacle,--either the opening of a book of schemes, or at least the explanation of a mystery, and that meant a walk of quite two miles, the exercise of muscles which still ached, the straining of tendons drawn by injury and pain. but when the time came, he was ready. "_bon_--good!" came from ba'tiste, as they turned into the little village of tabernacle the next day, skirted the two clapboarded stores forming the "main business district," and edged toward the converted box car that passed as a station. "_bon_--the agent he is leaving." barry looked ahead, to see a man crossing an expanse of flat country toward what was evidently a boarding house. ba'tiste nudged him. "you will walk slowly, as though going into the station to loaf. ba'tiste will come behind--and keep watch." barry obeyed. a moment more and he was within the converted box car, to find it deserted and silent, except for the constant clackle of the telegraph key, rattling off the business of a mountain railroad system, like some garrulous old woman, to any one who would listen. there was no private office, only a railing and a counter, which barry crossed easily. a slight crunching of gravel sounded without. it was ba'tiste, now lounging in the doorway, ready at a moment to give the alarm. houston turned hastily toward the file hook and began to turn the pages of the original copy which hung there. a moment of searching and he leaned suddenly forward. messages were few from tabernacle; it had been an easy matter for him to come upon the originals of the telegrams he sought, in spite of the fact that they had been sent more than two weeks before. already he was reading the first of the night letters: barry houston, empire lake mill and lumber co., grand building, boston, mass. please order six-foot saw as before. present one broken to-day through crystallization. f. b. thayer. "that's one of 'em." houston grunted the words, rather than spoke them. "that was meant for me all right--humph!" the second one was before him now, longer and far more interesting to the man who bent over the telegraph file, while ba'tiste kept watch at the door. hastily he pulled a crumpled message from his pocket and compared them,--and grunted again. "the same thing. identically the same thing, except for the addresses! ba'tiste," he called softly, "what kind of an operator is this fellow?" "no good. a boy. just out of school. hasn't been here long." "that explains it." houston was talking to himself again. "he got the two messages and--" suddenly he bent forward and examined a notation in a strange hand: "missent houston. resent blackburn." it explained much to barry houston, that scribble of four words. it told him why he had received a telegram which meant nothing to him, yet caused suspicion enough for a two-thousand-mile trip. it explained that the operator, in sending two messages, had, through absent-mindedness, put them both on the wire to the same person, when they were addressed separately, that he later had seen his mistake and corrected it. barry smiled grimly. "thanks very much, operator," he murmured. "it isn't every mistake that turns out this lucky." then slowly, studiously, he compared the messages again, the one he had received, and the one on the hook which read: j. c. blackburn, deal building, chicago, ill. our friend reports boston deal put over o. k. everything safe. suggest start preparations for operations in time compete boston for the big thing. have boston where we want him and will keep him there. thayer. it was the same telegram that barry houston had received and puzzled over in boston, except for the address. he had been right then; the message had not been for him; instead it had been intended decidedly _not_ for him and it meant--what? hastily houston crawled over the railing, and motioning to ba'tiste, led him away from the station. around the corner of the last store he brought forth his telegram and placed it in the big man's hands. "that's addressed to me,--but it should have gone to some one else. who's j. c. blackburn of chicago?" "ba'teese don't know. try fin' out. why?" "have you read that message?" the giant traced out the words, almost indecipherable in places from creasing and handling. he looked up sharply. "boston? you came from boston?" "yes. that must refer to me. it must mean what i've been suspecting all along,--that thayer's been running my mill down, to help along some competitor. you'll notice that he says he has me where he wants me." "_oui_--yes. but has he? what was the deal?" "i don't know. i haven't been in any deal that i know of, yet he must refer to me. i haven't any idea what he means by the reference to starting operations, or that sentence about the 'big thing.' there isn't another mill around here?" "none nearer than the moscript place at echo lake." "then what can it be?" suddenly houston frowned with presentiment. "thayer's been going with medaine a good deal, hasn't he?" "_oui_--yes. when ba'teese can think of no way to keep him from it." "it couldn't be that he's made some arrangement with her--about her forest lands?" "they are not hers yet. she does not come into them until she is twenty-one." "but they are available then?" "_oui_. and they are as good as yours." "practically the same thing, aren't they? how much of the lake does she own?" "the east quarter, and the forests that front on eet, and the east bank of hawk creek." "then there would be opportunity for everything, for skidways into the lake, a flume on her side and a mill. that must be--" "ba'teese would have hear of eet." "surely. but thayer might have--" "ba'teese would have hear of eet," came the repetition. "no, eet is something else. she would have ask ba'teese and ba'teese would have said, 'no. take nothing and give nothing. _m'sieu_ thayer, he is no good.' so eet is not that. you know the way back? _bon_--good. go to the cabin. ba'teese will try to learn who eet is, this blackburn." they parted, ba'teese to lounge back into the tiny town, houston to take the winding road which led back to the cabin. a pretty road it was, too, one which trailed along beside the stream, now clear with that sharp brilliancy which is characteristic of the mountain creek, a road fringed with whispering aspens, bright green in their new foliage, with small spruce and pine. here and there a few flowers showed; by the side of the road the wild roses peeped up from the denser growths of foliage, and a vagrant butterfly or so made the round of blossom after blossom. it was spring-summer down here, sharp contrast indeed to the winter which lurked above and which would not fade until june had far progressed. but with it all, its beauty, its serenity, its peace and soft moistness, houston noticed it but slightly. his thoughts were on other things: on thayer and his duplicity, on the possibilities of the future, and the methods of combating a business enemy he felt sure was lurking in the background. it meant more to houston than the mere monetary value of a loss,--should a loss come. back in the family burying ground in boston was a mound that was fresher than others, a mound which shielded the form of a man who had died in disappointment, leaving behind an edict which his son had sworn to carry through to its fulfillment. now there were obstacles, and ones which were shielded by the darkness of connivance and scheming. the outlook was not promising. yet even in its foreboding, there was consolation. "i at least know thayer's a crook. i can fire him and run the mill myself," barry was murmuring to himself, as he plodded along. "there may be others; i can weed them out. at least saws won't be breaking every two weeks and lumber won't warp for lack of proper handling. maybe i can get somebody back east to look after the office there and--" he ceased his soliloquy as he glanced ahead and noticed the trim figure of medaine robinette swinging along the road, old lost wing, as usual, trailing in her rear, astride a calico pony and leading the saddle horse which she evidently had become tired of riding. a small switch was in one hand, and she flipped it at the new leaves of the aspens and the broad-leafed mullens beside the road. as yet, she had not seen him, and barry hurried toward her, jamming his cap into a pocket that his hand might be free to greet her. he waved airily as they came closer and called. but if she heard him, she gave no indication. instead, she turned--swiftly, houston thought--and mounted her horse. a moment later, she trotted past him, and again he greeted her, to be answered by a nod and a slight movement of the lips. but the eyes had been averted. barry could see that the thinnest veneer of politeness had shielded something else as she spoke to him,--an expression of distaste, of dislike, almost loathing! chapter vii "why?" barry houston could not answer the self-imposed question. he could only stand and stare after her and the trotting, rolling indian, as they moved down the road and disappeared in the shadow of the aspens at the next curve. she had seen him; there could be no doubt of that. she had recognized him; more, houston felt sure that she had mounted her horse that she might better be able to pass him and greet him with a formal nod instead of a more friendly acknowledgment. and this was the girl who, an afternoon before, had sat beside him on the worn old bench at the side of ba'tiste's cabin and picked thorns from the palm of his hand,--thorns from the stems of wild roses which she had brought him! the enigma was too great for houston. he could only gasp with the suddenness of it and sink back into a dullness of outlook and viewpoint which he had lost momentarily. it was thus that old friends had passed him by in boston; it was thus that men who had been glad to borrow money from him in other days had looked the other way when the clouds had come. a strange chill went over him. "thayer's told her!" he spoke the sentence like a man repeating the words of an execution. his features suddenly had grown haggard. he stumbled slightly as he made the next rise in the road and went on slowly, silently, toward the cabin. there ba'tiste found him, slumped on the bench, staring out at the white and rose pinks of mount taluchen, yet seeing none of it. the big man boomed a greeting, and barry, striving for a smile, answered him. the canadian turned to his wolf-dog. "_peuff_! golemar! loneliness sits badly upon our friend. he is homesick. trot over the hill and bring to him the petite medaine! ah _oui_," he laughed in immense enjoyment at his raillery, "bring to him the petite medaine to make him laugh and be happy." then, seeing that the man was struggling vainly for a semblance of cheeriness, he slid beside him on the bench and tousled his hair with one big hand. "nev' min' old ba'teese," he said hurriedly; "he joke when eet is no time. you worry, huh? so, mebbe, ba'teese help. there are men at the boarding house." "the blackburn crowd?" "so. seven carpenters, and others. they work for blackburn, who is in chicago. they are here to build a mill." "a mill?" barry looked up now with new interest. "where?" "near the lake. the mill, eet will be sawing in a month. the rest, the big plant, eet will take time for that." "on medaine's land then!" but ba'tiste shook his head. "no. eet is on the five acres own' by jerry martin. he has been try' to sell eet for five year. eet is no good--rocks and rocks--and rocks. they build eet there." "but what can they do on five acres? where will they get their lumber?" the trapper shrugged his shoulders. "ba'teese on'y know what they tell heem." "but surely, there must be some mistake about it. you say they are going to start sawing in a month, and that a bigger plant is going up. do you mean a complete outfit,--planers and all that sort of thing?" "so!" houston shook his head. "for the life of me, i can't see it. in the first place, i have the only timber around here with the exception of medaine's land, and you say that she doesn't come into that until next year. but they're going to start sawing at this new mill within a month. my timber stretches back from the lake for eight miles; they either will have to go beyond that and truck in the logs for that distance, which would be ruinous as far as profits are concerned, or content themselves with scrub pine and sapling spruce. i don't see what they can make out of that. isn't that right? all i know about it is from what i've heard. i've never made a cruise of the territory around here. but it's always been my belief that with the exception of the land on the other quarter of the lake--" "that is all." "then where--" but again ba'tiste shrugged his shoulders. then he pulled long at his grizzled beard, regarding the wolf-dog which sat between his legs, staring up at him. "golemar," came at last. "there is something strange. peuff! we shall fin' out, you and me and _mon ami_." suddenly he turned. "m'sieu thayer, he gone." "gone? you mean he's run away?" "by gar, no. but he leave hurried. he get a telephone from long distance. chicago." "then--" "ba'teese not know. m'sieu shuler in the telephone office, he tell me. eet is a long call, m'sieu shuler is curious, and he listen in while they, what-you-say, chew up the rag. eet is a woman. she say to meet her in denver. this morning m'sieu thayer take the train. _bon_--good!" "good? why?" "what you know about lumber?" houston shook his head. "a lot less than i should. it wasn't my business, you know. my father started this mill out here during boom times, when it looked as though the railroad over crestline would make the distance between denver and salt lake so short that the country would build up like wild fire. he got them to put in a switch from above tabernacle to the mill and figured on making a lot of money out of it all. but it didn't pan out, ba'tiste. first of all, the railroad didn't go to salt lake and in the second--" "the new road will," said the french-canadian. "peuff! when they start to build eet, blooey! eet will be no time." "the new road? i didn't know there was to be one." "_ah, oui, oui, oui_!" ba'tiste became enthusiastic. "they shall make eet a road! eet will not wind over the range like this one. eet shall come through the mountains with a six-mile tunnel, at carrow peak where they have work already one, two, t'ree year. then eet will start out straight, and peuff! eet will cut off a hundred mile to salt lake. then we will see!" "when is all this going to happen?" the giant shrugged his shoulders. "when the railroad, eet is ready, and the tunnel, eet is done. when that shall be? no one know. but the survey, eet is made. the land, eet is condem'. so it must be soon. but you say you no know lumber?" "not more than any office man could learn in a year and a half. it wasn't my business, ba'tiste. father thought less and less of the mill every year. once or twice, he was all but ready to sell it to thayer, and would have done it, i guess, if thayer could have raised the money. he was sick of the thing and wanted to get rid of it. i had gone into the real estate business, never dreaming but that some day the mill would be sold and off our hands. then--then my trouble came along, and my father--left this will. since then, i've been busy trying to stir up business. oh, i guess i could tell a weathered scantling from a green one, and a long time ago, when i was out here, my father taught me how to scale a log. that's about all." "could you tell if a man cut a tree to get the greatest footage? if you should say to a lumberjack to fell a tree at the spring of the root, would you know whether he did it or not? heh? could you know if the sawyer robbed you of fifty feet on ever' log? no? then we shall learn. to-morrow, we shall go to the mill. m'sieu thayer shall not be there. perhaps ba'tiste can tell you much. _bien_! we shall take medaine, _oui_? yes?" "i--i don't think she'd go." "why not?" "i'd rather--" houston was thinking of a curt nod and averted eyes. "maybe we'd better just go alone, ba'tiste." "_tres bien_. we shall go into the forest. we shall learn much." and the next morning the old french-canadian lived true to his promise. behind a plodding pair of horses hitched to a jolting wagon, they made the journey, far out across the hills and plateau flats from tabernacle, gradually winding into a shallow cañon which led to places which houston remembered from years long gone. beside the road ran the rickety track which served as a spur from the main line of the railroad, five miles from camp,--the ties rotten, the plates loosened and the rails but faintly free from rust; silent testimony of the fact that cars traveled but seldom toward the market, that the hopes of distant years had not been fulfilled. ahead of them, a white-faced peak reared itself against the sky, as though a sentinel against further progress,--bear mountain, three miles beyond the farthest stretch of empire lake. nearer, a slight trail of smoke curled upward, and ba'tiste pointed. "the mill," he said. "two mile yet." "yes, i remember in a hazy sort of way." then he laughed shortly. "things will have to happen and happen fast if i ever live up to my contract, ba'tiste." "so?" "yes, i put too much confidence in thayer. i thought he was honest. when my father died, he came back to boston, of course, and we had a long talk. i agreed that i was not to interfere out here any more than was necessary, spending my time, instead, in rounding up business. he had been my father's manager, and i naturally felt that he would give every bit of his attention to my business. i didn't know that he had other schemes, and i didn't begin to get on to the fact until i started losing contracts. that wasn't so long ago. now i'm out here, and if necessary, i'll stay here and be everything from manager to lumberjack, to pull through." "_bon_! my pierre, he would talk like that." then the old man was silent for a moment. "old ba'tiste, he has notice some things. he will show you. golemar! whee!" in answer to the whining call of the giant, the wolf-dog, trotting beside the lazy team, swerved and nipped at the horses' heels. the pace became a jogging trot. soon they were in view of the long, smooth mound of sawdust leading to the squat, rambling saw shed. a moment more and the bunk house, its unpainted clapboards blackened by the rain and sun and snows, showed ahead. a half-mile, then ba'tiste left the wagon and, barry following him, walked toward the mill and its whining, groaning saws. "watch close!" he ordered. "see ever'thing they do. then remember. ba'tiste tell you about it when we come out." within they went, where hulking, strong-shouldered men were turning the logs from the piles without, along the skidways and to the carriage of the mill, their cant hooks working in smooth precision, their muscles bulging as they rolled the great cylinders of wood into place, steadied them, then stood aside until the carriages should shunt them toward the sawyer and the tremendous, revolving wheel which was to convert them into "board feet" of lumber. hurrying "off-bearers", or slab-carriers, white with sawdust, scampered away from the consuming saw, dragging the bark and slab-sides to a smaller blade, there to be converted into boiler fuel and to be fed to the crackling fire of the stationary engine, far at one end of the mill. leather belts whirred and slapped; there was noise everywhere, except from the lips of men. for they, these men of the forest, were silent, almost taciturn. to barry, it all seemed a smooth-working, perfectly aligned thing: the big sixteen-foot logs went forward, rough, uncouth things, to be dragged into the consuming teeth of the saw; then, through the sheer force of the blade, pulled on until brownness became whiteness, the cylindrical shape a lopsided thing with one long, glaring, white mark; to be shunted back upon the automatic carriage, notched over for a second incision, and started forward again, while the newly sawn boards traveled on to the trimmers and edgers, and thence to the drying racks. log after log skidded upon the carriage and was brought forward, while houston, fascinated, watched the kerf mark of the blade as it tore away a slab-side. then a touch on the arm and he followed ba'tiste without. the canadian wandered thoughtfully about a moment, at last to approach a newly stacked pile of lumber and lean against it. a second more and he drew something to his side and stared at it. "oh, ho!" came at last. "m'sieu houston, he will, what-you-say, fix the can on the sawyer." "why?" "first," said ba'tiste quietly, "he waste a six-inch board on each slab-side he take off. un'stand? the first cut--when the bark, eet is sliced off. he take too much. eet is so easy. and then--look." he drew his hand from its place of concealment, displaying a big thumb measuring upon a small ruler. "see? eet is an inch and a quarter. too thick." "i know that much at least. lumber should be cut at the mill an inch and an eighth thick to allow for shrinkage to an inch--but not an inch and a quarter." "bon!" ba'tiste grinned. "eet make a difference on a big log. eight cuts of the saw and a good board, eet is gone." "no wonder i don't make money." "there is much more. the trimmer and the edger, they take off too much. they make eight-inch boards where there should be ten, and ten where there should be twelve. you shall have a new crew." "and a new manager," houston said it quietly. the necessity for his masquerade was fading swiftly now. "and new men on the kilns. see!" far to one side, a great mass of lumber reared itself against the sky, twisted and warped, the offal of the drying kilns. ba'tiste shrugged his shoulders. "so! when the heat, eet is made too quick, the lumber twist. eet is so easy--when one wants some one to be tired and quit!" to quit! it was all plain to barry houston now. thayer had tried to buy the mill when the elder houston was alive. he had failed. now, he was striving for something else to make houston the newcomer, houston, who was striving to succeed without the fundamentals of actual logging experience, disgusted with the business and his contract with the dead. the first year and a half of the fight had passed,--a losing proposition; barry could see why now, in warped lumber and thick-cut boards, in broken machinery and unfulfilled contracts. thayer wanted him to quit; his father's death had tied up the mill proper to such an extent that it could neither be leased nor sold for a long time. but the timber could be bought on a stumpage basis, the lake and flume leased, and with a new mill-- "i understand the whole thing now!" there was excitement in the tone. "they can't get this mill--on account of the way the will reads. i can't dispose of it. but they know that with the mill out of the way, and the whole thing a disappointment, that i should be willing to contract my timber to them and lease the flume. then they can go ahead with their own plans and their own schemes. it's the lake and flume and timber that counts, anyway; this mill's the cheapest part of it all." "ah, _oui_!" the big man wagged his head in sage approval. "but it shall not be, eh?" houston's lips went into a line, "not until the last dog dies!" chapter viii "ah, _oui_!" evidently ba'tiste liked the expression. "eet shall not be until--what-you-say--the last dog, eet is dead. come! we will go into the forest. ba'tiste will show you things you should know." and to the old wagon again they went, to trail their way up the narrow road along the bubbling, wooden flume which led from the lake, to swerve off at the dam and turn into the hills again. below them, the great expanse of water ruffled and shimmered in the may sun; away off at the far end, a log slid down a skidway, and with a booming splash struck the water, to bury itself for a hundred feet, only to rise at last, and bobbing, go to join others of its kind, drifting toward the dam with the current of the stream which formed the lake. in the smoother spaces, trout splashed; the reflections of the hills showed in the great expanse as the light wind lessened, allowing the surface to become glass-like, revealing also the twisted roots and dead branches of trees long inundated in forming the big basin of water. evidently only a few men were working in the hills; the descent of the logs was a thing spaced by many minutes, and the booming of the splash struck forth into the hills to be echoed and re-echoed. houston stared gloomily at the skid, at the lake and the small parcel of logs drifting there. "all for nothing," came at last. "it takes about three logs to make one--the way they're working." "_oui_! but m'sieu houston shall learn." barry did not answer. he had learned a great deal already. he knew enough to realize that his new effort must be a clean sweep,--from the manager down. distrust had enveloped him completely; even to the last lumberjack must the camp be cleaned, and the start made anew with a crew upon whom he could depend for honesty, at least. how the rest of the system was to work out, he did not know. how he was to sell the lumber which he intended milling, how he was to look after both the manufacturing and the disposing of his product was something beyond him, just at this moment. but there would be a way; there must be. besides, there was ba'tiste, heavy-shouldered, giant ba'tiste, leaning over the side of the wagon, whistling and chiding the faithful old golemar, and some way houston felt that he would be an ally always. the wagon had turned into the deeper forest now redolent with the heavy odor of the coniferous woods, and ba'tiste straightened. soon he was talking and pointing,--now to describe the spruce and its short, stubby, upturned needles; the lodgepole pines with their straighter, longer leaves and more brownish, scaly bark; the englemann spruce; the red fir and limber pine; each had its characteristic, to be pointed out in the simple words of the big canadian, and to be catalogued by the man at his side. a moment before, they had been only pines, only so many trees. now each was different, each had its place in the mind of the man who studied them with a new interest and a new enthusiasm, even though they might fall, one after another, into the maw of the saw for the same purpose. "they are like people, _oui_!" old ba'tiste was gesticulating. "they have their, what-you-say, make-ups. the lodgepole, he is like the man who runs up and looks on when the crowd, eet gathers about some one who has been hurt. he waits until there had been a fire, and then he comes in and grows first, along with the aspens, so he can get all the room he wants. the spruce, he is like a woman, yes, _oui_. he looks better than the rest--but he is not. sometime, he is not so good. whoa!" the road had narrowed to a mere trail; ba'tiste tugged on the reins, and motioning to barry, left the wagon, pulling forth an axe and heavy, cross-cut saw as he did so. a half-hour later, golemar preceding them, they were deep in the forest. ba'tiste stopped and motioned toward a tall spruce. "see?" he ordered, as he nicked it with his axe, "you cut heem as far above the ground as he is thick through. now, first, the undercut." "looks like an overcut to me." "oh, ho! ah, _oui_, so eet is! but eet is called the undercut. eet makes the tree fall the way you want heem!" the axe gleamed in blow after blow. a deep incision appeared in the trunk of the tree, and at the base of it ba'tiste started the saw, barry working on the other end with his good arm. ten minutes of work and they switched to the other side. here no "undercut" was made; the saw bit into the bark and deep toward the heart of the tree in a smooth, sharp line that progressed farther, farther-- "_look out_!" a crackling sound had come from above. ba'tiste abandoned the saw, and with one great leap caught houston and pulled him far to one side, as with a roar, the spruce seemed to veritably disintegrate, its trunk spreading in great, splintered slabs, and the tree proper crashing to the ground in the opposite direction to which it should have fallen, breaking as it came. a moment ba'tiste stood, with his arm still about the younger man, waiting for the dead branches, severed from other trees, to cease falling, and the disturbed needles and dust of the forest to settle. then, pulling his funny little knit cap far down over his straggly hair, he came forth, to stand in meditation upon the largest portion of the shattered tree. "eet break up like an ice jam!" came at last. "that tree, he is not made of wood. peuff! he is of glass!" barry joined him, studying the splintered fragments of the spruce, suddenly to bend forward in wonderment. "that's queer. here's a railroad spike driven clear into the heart." "huh? what's that?" ba'tiste bent beside him to examine the rusty spike, then hurried to a minute examination of the rest of the tree. "and another," came at last. "and more!" four heavy spikes had revealed themselves now, each jutting forth at a place where the tree had split. ba'tiste straightened. "ah, _oui_! eet is no wonder! see? the spike, they have been in the tree for mebbe one, two, t'ree year. and the tree, he is not strong. when the winter come, last year, he split inside, from the frost, where the spike, he spread the grain. but the split, he does not show. when we try to cut heem down and the strain come, blooey, he, what-you-say, bust!" "but why the spikes?" "wait!" ba'tiste, suddenly serious, turned away into the woods, to go slowly from tree to tree, to dig at them with his knife, to squint and stare, to shin a few feet up a trunk now and then, examining every protuberance, every round, bulbous scar. at last he shouted, and houston hurried to him, to find the giant digging excitedly at a lodgepole. "i have foun' another!" the knife, deep in the tree, had scratched on metal. five minutes more and they had discovered a third one, farther away. then a fourth, a fifth; soon the number had run to a score, all within a small radius. ba'tiste, more excited than ever, ranged off into the woods, leaving barry to dig at the trees about him and to discover even more metal buried in the hearts of the standing lumber. for an hour he was gone, to return at last and stand staring about him. "the spike, they are all in this little section," he said finally. "i have cruise' all about here--there are no more." "but why should trees grow spikes?" "ah, why? so that saws will break at the right time! eet is easy for the iron hunter at the mill to look the other way--eef he knows what the boss want. eet is easy for the sawyer to step out of the way while the blade, he hit a spike!" a long whistle traveled over houston's lips. this was the explanation of broken saws, just at the crucial moment! "simple, isn't it?" he asked caustically. "whenever it's necessary for an 'accident' to happen, merely send out into the woods for a load of timber from a certain place." "then the iron hunter--the man who look for metal in the wood--he look some other place. beside," and ba'tiste looked almost admiringly at a spike-filled tree. "eet is a good job. the spike, they are driven deep in the wood, they are punched away in, so the bark, eet will close over them. if the iron hunter is not, what-you-say, full of pepper, and if he is lazy, then he not find heem, whether he want to or not. m'sieu thayer, he have a head on him." "then thayer--" "why not?" "but why? he was the only man on the job out here. he didn't have to fill a whole section of a forest full of spikes when he wanted to break a saw or cause me trouble." "ah, no. but m'sieu--that is, whoever did eet--maybe he figure on the time when you yourself try to run the mill. eh?" "well, if he did," came sharply, "he's figured on this exact moment. i've seen enough, ba'tiste. i'm going to denver and contract myself an entirely new crew. then i'm coming back to drop this masquerade i've been carrying on--and if you'll help me--run this place myself. thayer's out--from the minute i can get a new outfit. i'm not going to take any chances. when he goes, the whole bunch here goes with him!" "ah, _oui_!" ba'tiste grinned with enthusiasm. "you said a what-you-say--large bite! now," he walked toward the saw, "we shall fell a tree that shall not split." "if you don't mind, i'd rather go back and look around the place. i want to get lined up on everything before i start to denver." "ah, _oui_." together, led by the wolf-dog, they made their way to the wagon again, once more to skirt the lake and to start down the narrow roadway leading beside the flume. a half-hour more and there came the sound of hammers and of saws. they stopped, and staring through the scraggly trees, made out the figures of half a dozen men busily at work upon the erection of a low, rambling building. all about them were vast piles of lumber, two-by-fours, scantlings, boardings, shingles,--everything that possibly could be needed in the building of not one, but many structures. ba'tiste nodded. "the new mill." "yes. probably being built out of my lumber. it's a cinch they didn't transport it all the way from tabernacle." "nor pay m'sieu houston. many things can happen when one is the manager." barry made no answer. for another mile they drove in silence, at last to come into the clearing of barry's mill, with its bunk house, its cook house, its diminutive commissary, its mill and kilns and sheds. houston leaped from the wagon to start a census and to begin his preparations for a cleaning-out of the whole establishment. but at the door of the commissary he whirled, staring. a buggy was just coming over the brow of the little hill which led to the mill property. some one had called to him,---a woman whose voice had caused him to start, then, a second later, to go running forward. she was beside thayer in the buggy, leaning forth, one hand extended as barry hurried toward her, her black eyes flashing eagerness, her full, yet cold lips parted, her olive-skinned cheeks enlivened by a flush of excitement as houston came to her, forgetful of the sneer of the man at her side, forgetful of the staring ba'tiste in the background, forgetful of his masquerade, of everything. "agnes!" he gasped. "why did you--" "i thought--" and the drawling voice of fred thayer had a suddenly sobering effect on houston, "that you weren't hurt very bad. your memory came back awful quick, didn't it? i thought she'd bring you to your senses!" chapter ix houston pretended not to hear the remark. the woman in the buggy was holding forth her hands to him and he assisted her to the ground. "well," she asked, in a sudden fawning manner, "aren't you glad to see me, barry? aren't you going to kiss me?" "of course." he took her in his arms. "i--i was so surprised, agnes. i never thought of you--" "naturally you didn't." it was thayer again. "that's why i sent for her. thought you'd get your memory back when--" "i've had my memory for long enough--" houston had turned upon him coldly--"to know that from now on i'll run this place. you're through!" "barry!" the woman had grasped his arm. "don't talk like that. you don't know what you're saying!" "please, agnes--" "let him rave, if that's the way he wants to repay faithfulness." "wait until i've talked to you, barry. you haven't had time to think. you've jumped at conclusions. fred just thought that i could--" "this hasn't anything to do with you, agnes. there hasn't been anything wrong with me. my brain's been all right; i've known every minute what i've been doing. this man's crooked, and i know he's crooked. i needed time, and i shammed forgetfulness. i've gotten the information i need now--and i'm repeating that he's through! and every one else in this camp goes with him!" "i'm not in the habit of taking insults! i--" thayer moved forward belligerently, one hand reaching toward a cant hook near by. but suddenly he ceased. ba'tiste, quite naturally, had strolled between them. "m'sieu houston have a broke' arm," had come very quietly. thayer grunted. "maybe that's the reason he thinks he can insult every one around here." ba'tiste looked down upon him, as a newfoundland would look upon a snapping terrier. "m'sieu houston insult nobody." "but--" the voice of the big man rose to a roar. "ba'teese say, m'sieu houston insult nobody. un'stan'? ba'teese say that! ba'teese got no broke' arm!" "who is this man?" the woman had turned angrily toward barry; "what right has he to talk this way? the whole thing's silly, as far as i can see, barry. this man, whoever he is, has been stuffing you full of stories. there--" "this man, agnes," and barry houston's voice carried a quality he never before had used with agnes jierdon, "is the best friend i ever had. you'll realize it before long. he not only has saved my life, but he's going to help me save my business. i want you to know him and to like him." a quick smile flashed over the full lips. "i didn't know, barry. pardon me." houston turned to the introduction, while agnes jierdon held forth a rather limp hand and while ba'tiste, knit cap suddenly pulled from straggly gray hair, bent low in acknowledgment. thayer, grumbling under his breath, started away. houston went quickly toward him. "you understood me?" "perfectly. i'm fired. i was good enough for your father, but you know more than he did. i was--" "we won't go into that." "there's nothing about it that i'm ashamed of." still the sneer was there, causing barry's bandaged arm to ache for freedom and strength. "i don't have to go around hiding my past." houston bit down a retort and forced himself to the question: "how long will it take you to get out of here?" "i'll be out to-night. i don't stay where i'm not wanted. needn't think i'll hang around begging you for a job. there are plenty of 'em, for men like me." "one that i know of, in particular. i asked you when you could get out." "an hour, if you're so impatient about it. but i want my check first." "you'll get it, and everybody else connected with you. so you might as well give the word." for a moment, thayer stared at him in malignant hate, his gnarled hands twisting and knotting. then, with a sudden impulse, he turned away toward the mill. a moment later the whistle blew and the saws ceased to snarl. barry turned back to agnes and ba'tiste. the woman caught impulsively at his arm. "where on earth am i going to live, barry?" she questioned. "i don't want to go back to town. and i can't stay in this deserted place, if every one is leaving it." "i'll keep the cook. she can fix you a room in one of the cottages and stay there with you. however, it would be best to go back." "but i won't." she shook her head with an attempt at levity. "i've come all this distance, worried to death every moment over you, and now i'm going to stay until i'm sure that everything's all right. besides, barry," she moved close to him, "you'll need me. won't you? haven't i always been near you when you've needed me? and aren't you taking on the biggest sort of job now?" houston smiled at her. true, she had always been near in time of trouble and it was only natural that now-- "of course," came his answer. "come, i'll have you made comfortable in the cottage." then, as he started away, "may i see you, ba'tiste, sometime to-night?" "ah, _oui_." the canadian was moving toward his wagon and the waiting dog. "in the cabin." three hours later, the last of the men paid off, agnes installed in the best of three little cottages in care of the motherly old cook, barry houston approached the door of ba'tiste's cabin, the wolf-dog, who had picked him up a hundred yards away, trotting beside him. there was a light within; in the shadows by the grave, a form moved,--old lost wing. medaine was there, then. barry raised his hand to knock,--and halted. his name had been mentioned angrily; then again,--followed by the voice of the girl: "i don't know what it is, ba'tiste. fred wouldn't tell me, except that it was something too horrible for me to know. and i simply can't do what you say. i can't be pleasant to him when i feel this way." "but--" "oh, i know. i want to be fair, and i try to be. i speak to him when i meet him; isn't that enough? we're not old friends; we're hardly even acquaintances. and if there is something in his past to be ashamed of, isn't it best that we simply remain that way? i--" then she ceased. houston had knocked on the door. a second later, he entered the cabin, to return medaine robinette's cool but polite greeting in kind, and to look apprehensively toward ba'tiste renaud. but the old man's smile was genuine. "we have been talk' about you, _oui_, yes!" he said. "eh, medaine?" it was one of his thrusts. the girl colored, then turned toward the door. "i'm afraid i've stayed longer than i intended," she apologized. "it's late. good night." then she was gone. houston looked at ba'tiste, but the old french-canadian merely waved a big hand. "woman," he said airily, "peuff! she is strange. eet is nothing. eet will pass. now," as though the subject had been dismissed, "what mus' ba'teese do?" "at the mill? i wish, if you don't mind, that you'd guard it for me. i'm going to denver on the morning train to hire a new crew. i don't want thayer to do anything to the mill in my absence." "ah, _oui_. it shall be. you will sleep here?" "if you don't mind? it's nearer tabernacle." "bon--good! golemar!" and the dog scratched at the door. "come, we shall go to the mill. we are the watchmen, yes?" "but i didn't mean for you to start to-night. i just thought--" "there is no time like the minute," answered the canadian quietly. "to-night, you shall be ba'teese, _oui_, yes. ba'teese shall be you." pulling his knit cap on his head, he went out into the darkness and to the guardianship of the mill that belonged--to a man who looked like his pierre. as for houston, the next morning found him on the uncomfortable red cushions of the smoking car as the puffing train pulled its weary, way through the snowsheds of crestline mountain, on the way over the range. evening brought him to denver, and the three days which followed carried with them the sweaty smell of the employment offices and the gathering of a new crew. then, tired, anxious with an eagerness that he never before had known, he turned back to the hills. before, in the days agone, they had been only mountains, reminders of an eruptive time in the cooling of the earth,--so many bumpy places upon a topographical railroad map. but now,--now they were different. they seemed like home. they were the future. they were the housing place of the wide spaces where the streams ran through green valleys, where the sagebrush dotted the plateau plains, and where the world was a thing with a rim about it; hills soft blue and brown and gray and burning red in the sunlight, black, crumpled velvet beneath the moon and stars; hills where the pines grew, where his life awaited him, a new thing to be remolded nearer to his own desires, and where lived ba'tiste, agnes--and medaine. houston thought of her with a sudden cringing. in that moment as he stood outside the door of ba'tiste's cabin, he had heard himself sealed and delivered to oblivion as far as she was concerned. he was only an acquaintance--one with a grisly shadow in his past--and it was best that he remain such. grudgingly, barry admitted the fact to himself, as he sat once more in the red-plush smoking car, surrounded by heavy-shouldered, sodden-faced men, his new crew, en route to empire lake. it was best. there was agnes, with her debt of gratitude to be paid and with her affection for him, which in its blindness could not discern the fact that it was repaid only as a sense of duty. there was the fight to be made,--and the past. houston shuddered with the thought of it. things were only as they should be; grimly he told himself that he had erred in even thinking of happiness such as comes to other men. his life had been drab and gray; it must remain so. past the gleaming lakes and eternal banks of snow the train crawled to the top of the world at crestline, puffed and clattered through the snowsheds, then clambered down the mountain side to tabernacle. with his dough-faced men about him, houston sought transportation, at last to obtain it, then started the journey to the mill. into the cañon and to the last rise. then a figure showed before him, a gigantic form, running and tumbling through the underbrush at one side of the road, a dog bounding beside him. it was ba'tiste, excited, red-faced, his arms waving like windmills, his voice booming even from a distance: "m'sieu houston! m'sieu houston! ba'teese have fail! ba'teese no good! he watch for you--he is glad you come! ba'teese ashame'! ashame'!" he had reached the wagon now, panting, still striving to talk and failing for lack of breath, his big hands seeking to fill in the spaces where words had departed. houston leaned toward him, gripping him by a massive shoulder. "what's happened? what's--" "ba'teese ashame'!" came again between puffs of the big lungs. "ba'teese watch one, two, t'ree night. nothin' happen. ba'teese think about his lost trap. he think mebbe there is one place where he have not look'. he say to golemar he will go for jus' one, two hour. nobody see, he think. so he go. and he come back. blooey! eet is done! ba'teese have fail!" "but what, ba'tiste? it wasn't your fault. don't feel that way about it? has anything happened to agnes?" "no. the mill." "they've--?" "look!" they had reached the top of the rise. below them lay something which caused barry houston to leap to his feet unmindful of the jolting wagon, to stand weaving with white-gripped hands, to stare with suddenly deadened eyes-- upon a blackened, smoldering mass of charred timbers and twisted machinery. the remainder of all that once had been his mill! chapter x words would not come for a moment. houston could only stare and realize that his burden had become greater than ever. in the wagons behind him were twenty men, guaranteed at least a month of labor, and now there was nothing to provide it. the mill was gone; the blade was still hanging in its sockets, a useless, distempered thing; the boiler was bent and blackened, the belting burned; the carriages and muley saws and edgers and trimmers were only so much junk. he turned at last to ba'tiste, to ask tritely what he knew could not be answered: "but how did it happen, ba'tiste? didn't any one see?" the canadian shrugged his shoulders. "ba'teese come back. eet is done." "let's see agnes. maybe she can tell us something." but the woman, her arms about houston's neck, could only announce hysterically that she had seen the mill burning, that she had sought help and had failed to find it. "then you noticed no one around the place?" "only ba'tiste." "but that was an hour or so before." the big french-canadian had moved away, to stand in doleful contemplation of the charred mass. the voice of agnes jierdon sank low: "i don't know, barry. i don't want to accuse--" "you don't mean--" "all i know is that i saw him leave the place and go over the hill. fifteen minutes later, i saw the mill burning and ran down there. all about the place rags were burning and i could smell kerosene. that's all i saw. but in the absence of any one else, what should a person think?" houston's lips pressed tight. he turned angrily, the old grip of suspicion upon him,--suspicion that would point in time of stress to every one about him, suspicion engendered by black days of hopelessness, of despair. but in an instant, it all was gone; the picture of ba'tiste renaud, standing there by the embers, the honesty of his expression of sorrow, the slump of his shoulders, while the dog, unnoticed, nuzzled its cold nose in a limp hand, was enough to wipe it all out forever. houston's eyes went straight to those of agnes jierdon and centered there. "agnes," came slowly, "i want to ask a favor. no matter what may happen, no matter what you may think personally, there is one man who trusts me as much as you have trusted me, and whom i shall trust in return. that man is ba'tiste renaud, my friend. i hope you can find a friend in him too; but if you can't, please, for me, never mention it." "why, of course not, barry." she laughed in an embarrassed manner and drew away from him. "i just thought i'd tell you what i knew. i didn't have any idea you were such warm comrades. we'll forget the whole incident." "thank you." then to ba'tiste he went, to bang him on the shoulder, and with an effort to whirl him about. "well!" he demanded, in an echo of ba'tiste's own thundering manner, "shall we stand here and weep? or--" "eet was my fault!" the french-canadian still stared at the ruins. "eet is all ba'teese' fault--" "i thought you were my friend, ba'tiste." "_sacre_! i am." "then show it! we'll not be able to make a case against the firebugs--even though you and i may be fairly sure who did it. anyway, it isn't going to break us. i've got about fifteen thousand in the bank. there's enough lumber around here to build a new saw-shed of a sort, and money to buy a few saws, even if we can't have as good a place as we had before. we can manage. and i need help--i won't be able to move without you. but--" "_oui_?" "but," and barry smiled at him, "if you ever mention any responsibility for this thing again--you're fired. do we understand each other?" very slowly the big trapper turned and looked down into the frank, friendly eyes of the younger man. he blinked slightly, and then one tremendous arm encircled houston's shoulder for just a moment. at last a smile came, to grow stronger. the grip about the shoulders tightened, suddenly to give way to a whanging blow, as batiste, jovial now, drew away, pulled back his shoulders and squared himself as though for some physical encounter. "ah, _oui_!" he bellowed. "_oui, oui, oui_! _bon_--good! ba'teese, he un'stan'. now what you want me to do?" "take this bunch of men and turn to at clearing away this wreckage. then," and he smiled his confidence at renaud, "make your plans for the building of a saw-shed. that is--if you really want to go through with it?" "ah, _oui--oui_!" the canadian waved his arms excitedly and summoned his men. for a moment, barry stood watching, then returning to agnes, escorted her toward her cottage. "don't you think," he asked, as they walked along, "that you'd better be going back? this isn't just the place for a woman, agnes." "why not?" "because--well for one thing, this is a man's life out here, not a woman's. there's no place for you--nothing to interest you or hold you. i can't guarantee you any company except that of a cook--or some one like that." "but mr. thayer--" and houston detected a strange tone in the voice--"spoke of a very dear friend of yours, in whom i might be greatly interested." "a friend of mine?" "yes--a miss robinette. fred said that she was quite interested in you." houston laughed. "she is--by the inverse ratio. so much, in fact, that she doesn't care to be anywhere near me. she knows--" and he sobered, "that there's something--back there." "indeed?" they had reached the cottage and the subject was discontinued. agnes lingered a moment on the veranda. "i suppose i'm never to see anything of you?" "that's just it, agnes. it makes me feel like a cad to have you out here--and then not to be able to provide any entertainment for you. and, really, there's no need to worry about me. i'm all right--with the exception of this broken arm. and it'll be all right in a couple of weeks. besides, there's no telling what may happen. you can see from the burning of this mill that there isn't any love lost between thayer and myself." "why, barry! you don't think he had anything to do with it?" "i know he did. directly or indirectly, he was back of it. i haven't had much of a chance to talk to you, agnes, but this much is a certainty: thayer is my enemy, for business reasons. i know of no other. he believes that if he can make the going rough enough for me that i'll quit, lease him my stumpage, and let him go into business for himself. so far, he hasn't had much luck--except to tie me up. he may beat me; i don't know. then again, he may not. but in the meanwhile, you can see, agnes, that the battlefield is going to be no place for a woman." "but, barry, you're wrong. i think you've done an injustice to--" "please don't tell me that, agnes. i put so much faith in your beliefs. but in this case, i've heard it from his own lips--i've seen his telegrams. i know!" the woman turned quickly. for a moment she examined, in an absent sort of way, the blossoms of a climbing rose, growing, quite uninvited, up the porch pillar of the cottage. then: "maybe you're right, barry. probably i will go away. but i want to be sure that you're all right first." "would you care to go to the village to-night? there's a picture show there--and we could at least get a dish of ice cream and some candy." "i think not," came the answer in a tired voice. "it's so far; besides, all this excitement has given me a headache. go back to your work and forget about me. i think that i'll go to bed immediately i've had something to eat." "you're not ill?" "only a headache--and with me, bed is always the best place for that. i suppose you'll go to denver in the morning for new saws?" "yes." "then i'll wait until you return before i make up my mind. good-by." she bent forward to be kissed, and barry obeyed the command of her lips with less of alacrity than ever before. nor could he tell the reason. five minutes more and he was back at the mill, giving what aid he could with his uninjured arm. night, and he traveled with ba'tiste to his cabin, only to fret nervously about the place and at last to strike out once more, on foot, for the lumber camp. he was worried, nervous; in a vague way he realized that he had been curt, almost brusque, with a woman for whom he felt every possible gratitude and consideration. nor had he inquired about her when work had ended for the day. had the excuse of a headache been made only to cover feelings that had been deeply injured? or had it meant a blind to veil real, serious illness? for three years, barry houston had known agnes jierdon in day-to-day association. but never had he remembered her in exactly the light that he had seen her to-day. there had been a strangeness about her, a sharpness that he could not understand. he stopped just at the entrance to the mill clearing and looked toward the cottage. it was darkened. barry felt that without at least the beckoning of a light to denote the wakefulness of the cook, he could not in propriety go there, even for an inquiry regarding the condition of the woman whom he felt that some day he would marry. aimlessly he wandered about, staring in the moonlight at the piled-up remains of his mill, then at last he seated himself on a stack of lumber, to rest a moment before the return journey to ba'tiste's cabin. but suddenly he tensed. a low whistle had come from the edge of the woods, a hundred yards away, and barry listened attentively for its repetition, but it did not come. fifteen minutes he waited, then rose, the better to watch two figures that had appeared for just a moment silhouetted in the moonlight at the bald top of a small hill. a man and a woman were walking close together,--the woman, it seemed, with her head against the man's shoulder; the man evidently with his arm about her. there was no time for identities. a second more and they had faded into the shadows. barry rose and started toward the darkened cottage, only to turn again into the road. "foolishness!" he chided himself as he plodded along. "she doesn't know any one but thayer--and what if she does? it's none of my business. she's the one who has the claim on me; i have none on her!" and with this decision he walked on. a mile--two. then a figure came out of the woods just ahead of him, cut across the road and detoured into the scraggly hills on the other side, without noticing the approaching houston in the shadows. but barry had been more fortunate. the moonlight had shown full on the man's lean face and gangling form; it was undoubtedly fred thayer. he was still in the neighborhood, then. had he been the man in the woods,--the one who had stood silhouetted on the hill top? barry could only guess. again he chided himself for his inquisitiveness and walked on. almost to ba'tiste's cabin he went; at last to turn from the road at the sound of hoofbeats, then to stare as medaine robinette, on horseback, passed him at a trot, headed toward her home, the shadowy lost wing, on his calico pony, straggling along in the rear. the next morning he went to denver, still wondering, as he sought to make himself comfortable on the old red plush seats, wondering whether the girl he had seen in the forest with the man he now felt sure was fred thayer had been agnes jierdon or medaine robinette, whom, in spite of her coldness to him, in spite of her evident distaste and revulsion that was so apparent in their meetings, had awakened within him a thing he had believed, in the drabness of his gray, harassed life, could never exist,--the thrill and the yearnings of love. it was a question which haunted him during the days in which he cut into his bank account with the purchase of the bare necessities of a sawmill. it was a question which followed him back to tabernacle, thence across country to camp. but it was one that was not to be answered. things had happened again. ba'tiste was not at the mill, where new foundations had appeared in houston's absence. a workman pointed vaguely upward, and barry hurried on toward the lake, clambering up the hill nearest the clearing, that he might take the higher and shorter road. he found no ba'tiste but there was something else which held houston's interest for a moment and which stopped him, staring wonderingly into the distance. a new skidway had made its appearance on the side of the jutting mountain nearest the dam. logs were tumbling downward in slow, but steady succession, to disappear, then to show themselves, bobbing jerkily outward toward the center of the lake. that skidway had not been there before. certainly, work at the mill had not progressed to such an extent that ba'tiste could afford to start cutting timber already. houston turned back toward the lower camp road, wondering vaguely what it all could mean, striving to figure why ba'tiste should have turned to logging operations instead of continuing to stress every workman's ability on the rebuilding of the burned structure. a mile he went--two--then halted. a thunderous voice was booming belligerently from the distance: "you lie--un'stan'? ba'teese say you lie--if you no like eet, jus'--what-you-say--climb up me! un'stan'? climb up me!" houston broke into a run, racing along the flume with constantly increasing speed as he heard outburst after outburst from the giant trapper, interjected by the lesser sounds of argumentative voices in reply. faintly he heard a woman's voice, then ba'tiste's in sudden command: "go on--you no belong here. ba'tiste, he handle this. go 'long!" faster than ever went barry houston, at last to make the turn of the road as it followed the flume, and to stop, breathless, just in time to escape colliding with the broad back of the gigantic canadian, squared as he was, half across the road. facing him were five men with shovels and hammers, workmen of the blackburn camp, interrupted evidently in the building of some sort of contraption which led away into the woods. houston looked more closely, then gasped. it was another flume; they were making a connection with his own; already water had been diverted from the main flume and was flowing down the newly boarded conduit which led to the blackburn mill. a lunge and he had taken his place beside renaud. "what's this mean?" he demanded angrily, to hear his words echoed by the booming voice of his big companion: "ah, _oui_! yes--what this mean? huh?" the foreman looked up caustically. "i've told you about ten times," he answered, addressing himself to ba'tiste. "we're building a connection on our flume." "our flume?" houston gasped the words. "where do you get that 'our' idea? i own this flume and this lake and this flume site--" "if your name's houston, i guess you do," came the answer. "but if you can read and write, you ought to know that while you may own it, you don't use it. that's our privilege from now on, in cold black and white. as far as the law is concerned, this is our flume, and our water, and our lake, and our woods back there. and we're going to use all of 'em, as much as we please--and it's your business to stay out of our way!" chapter xi the statement took houston off his feet for a moment; but recovery came just as quickly, a recoil with the red splotches of anger blazing before his eyes, the surge of hot blood sweeping through his veins, the heat of conflict in his brain. his good hand clenched. a leap and he had struck the foreman on the point of the chin, sending him reeling backward, while the other men rushed to his assistance. "that's my answer to you!" shouted houston. "this is my flume and--" "run tell thayer!" shouted the foreman, and then with recovering strength, he turned for a cant hook. but ba'tiste seized it first, and with a great wrench, threw it far out of the way. then, like some great, human trip hammer, he swung into action, spinning houston out of the way as he went forward, his big fists churning, his voice bellowing his call of battle: "climb up me! climb up me!" the foreman stooped for a club,--and rose just in time to be lifted even higher, at the point of ba'tiste's right fist then to drop in a lump. then they were all about him, seeking for an opening, fists pounding, heavy shoes kicking at shins, while in the rear, houston, scrambling around with his one arm, almost happy with the enthusiasm of battle, swung hard and often at every opportunity, then swerved and covered until he could bring his fist into action again. the fight grew more intense with a last spurt, then died out, as ba'tiste, seizing the smallest of the men, lifted him bodily and swinging him much after the fashion of a sack of meal, literally used him as a battering ram against the rest of the attacking forces. for a last time, houston hit a skirmisher and was hit in return. then ba'tiste threw his human weapon from him, straight into the mass of men whom he had driven back for a second, tumbling them all in a scrambling, writhing heap at the edge of the flume. "climb up me!" he bellowed, as they struggled to their feet. "ah, _oui_?" and the big arms moved threateningly. "climb up me!" but the invitation was not accepted. bloody, eyes discolored, mouth and nose steadily swelling, the foreman moved away with his battered crew, finally to disappear in the forest. ba'tiste reached for the cant hook, and balancing it lightly in one hand, sought a resting place on the edge of the flume. houston sat beside him. "what on earth can it all mean?" he asked, after a moment of thought. "they go back--get more men. mebbe they think they whip us, _oui_? yes? ba'teese use this, nex' time." he balanced the cant hook, examining it carefully as though for flaws which might cause it to break in contact with a human target. barry went on: "i was talking about the flume. you heard what that fellow said--that they had the woods, the lake and the flume to use as they pleased? how--" "mebbe they think they jus' take it." "which they can't. i'm going back to the camp and get more men." "no." ba'tiste grinned. "we got enough--you an' ba'teese. i catch 'em with this. you take that club. if they get 'round me, you, what-you-say, pickle 'em off." but the expected attack did not come. an hour they waited, and a hour after that. still no crowd of burly men came surging toward them from the blackburn camp, still no attempt was made to wrest from their possession the waterway which they had taken over as their rightful property. houston studied the flume. "we'll have to get some men up here and rip out this connection," came at last. "they've broken off our end entirely." "ah, _oui_! but we will stay here. by'm'by, medaine come. we will send her for men." "medaine? that was she i heard talking?" "_oui_. she had come to ask me if she should bring me food. she was riding. ba'teese sen' her away. but she say she come back to see if ba'teese is all right." houston shook his head. "that's good. but i'm afraid that you won't find her doing anything to help me out." "she will help ba'teese," came simply from the big man, as the iron-bound cant hook was examined for the fiftieth time. "why they no come, huh?" "search me. do you suppose they've given it up? it's a bluff on their part, you know, ba'tiste. they haven't any legal right to this land or flume or anything else; they just figured that my mill was burned and that i wouldn't be in a position to fight them. so they decided to take over the flume and try to force us into letting them have it." "here comes somebody!" ba'tiste's grip tightened about the cant hook and he rose, squaring himself. houston seized the club and stood waiting a few feet in the rear, in readiness for any one who might evade the bulwark of blows which ba'tiste evidently intended to set up. far in the woods showed the shadowy forms of three men, approaching steadily and apparently without any desire for battle. ba'tiste turned sharply. "your eye, keep heem open. eet may be a blind." but houston searched the woods in vain. there were no supporters following the three men, no deploying groups seeking to flank them. a moment more, and ba'tiste, with a sudden exclamation, allowed his cant hook to drop to the ground. "wade!" "who?" houston came closer. "eet is thayer and wade, the sheriff from montview, and his deputy. peuff! have he fool heem too?" closer they came, and the sheriff waved a hand in friendly greeting. ba'tiste returned the gesture. thayer, scowling, black-faced, dropped slightly to the rear, allowing the two officials to take the lead--and evidently do the talking. the sheriff grinned as he noticed the cant hook on the ground. then he looked up at ba'tiste renaud. "what's been going on here?" "this man," ba'tiste nodded grudgingly toward the angular form of fred thayer, "heem a what-you-say a big bomb. this my frien', m'sieu houston. he own this flume. this thayer's men, they try to jump it." "from the looks of them," chuckled the sheriff, "you jumped them. they've got a young hospital over at camp. but seriously, ba'tiste, i think you're on the wrong track. thayer and blackburn have a perfect right to this flume and to the use of the lake and what stumpage they want from the houston woods." "a right?" barry went forward. "what right? i haven't given them--" "you're the owner of the land, aren't you?" "yes, in a way. it was left to me conditionally." "you can let it out and sell the stumpage if you want to?" "of course." "then, what are you kicking about?" "i--simply on account of the fact that these men have no right to be on the land, or to use it in any way. i haven't given them permission." "that's funny," the sheriff scratched his head; "they've just proved in court that you have." "in court? i--?" "yeh. i've got an injunction in my pocket to prevent you from interfering with them. judge bardley gave it in montview about an hour ago, and we came over by automobile." "but why?" "why?" the sheriff stared at him. "when you give a man a lease, you have to live up to it in this country." "but i've given no one--" "oh, show it to him, sheriff." thayer came angrily forward. "no use to let him stand there and lie." "that's what i want to see!" houston squared himself grimly. "if you've got a lease, or anything else, i want to look at it." "you know your own writing, don't you?" the sheriff was fishing in his pockets. "of course." "you'd admit it if you saw it?" "i'm not trying to hide anything. but i know that i've not given any lease, and i've not sold any stumpage and--" "then, what's this?" the sheriff had pulled two legal documents from his pocket, and unfolding them, had shown houston the bottom of each. barry's eyes opened wide. "that's--that's my signature," came at last. "this one's the same, isn't it?" the second paper was shoved forward. "yes." "then i don't see what you're kicking about. do you know any one named jenkins, who is a notary public?" "he works in my office in boston." "that's his writing, isn't it?" "yes." "and his seal." "i suppose so." bewildered, houston was looking at the papers with glazed eyes. "it looks like it." "then," and the sheriff's voice went brusque, "what right have you to try to run these men off of property for which you've given them a bona-fide lease, and to which you've just admitted your signature as genuine?" "i've--i've given no lease. i--" "then look 'em over. if that isn't a lease to the lake and flume and flume site, and if the second one isn't a contract for stumpage at a dollar and a half a thousand feet,--well, then, i can't read." "but i'm telling you that i didn't give it to them." houston had reached for the papers with a trembling hand. "there's a fraud about it somewhere!" "i don't see where there can be any fraud when you admit your signature, and there's a notary's seal attached." "but there is! i can't tell you why--but--" "statements like that don't count in law. there are the papers and they're duly signed and you've admitted your signature. if there's any fraud about it, you've got the right to prove it. but in the meanwhile, the court's injunction stands. you've leased this land to these men, and you can't interfere with them. understand?" "all right." houston moved hazily back, away from the flume site. ba'tiste stood staring glumly, wondering, at the papers which had been returned to the sheriff. "but i know this, that it's a fakery--somehow--and i'll prove it. i have absolutely no memory of ever signing any such papers as that, or of even talking to any one about selling stumpage at a figure that you should know is ridiculous. why, you can't even buy the worst kind of timber from the government at that price! i don't remember--" "didn't i tell you?" thayer had turned to the sheriff. "there he goes pulling that loss of memory stunt again. that's one of his best little bets," he added sneering, "to lose his memory." "i've never lost it yet!" "no--then you can forget things awfully easy. such as coming out here and pretending not to know who you were. guess you forgot your identity for a minute, didn't you? just like you forgot signing this lease and stumpage contract! yeh, you're good at that--losing your memory. you never remember anything that happens. you can't even remember the night you murdered your own cousin, can you?" "that's a--" "see, sheriff? his memory's bad." all the malice and hate of pent-up enmity was in fred thayer's voice now. one gnarled hand went forward in accusation. "he can't even remember how he killed his own cousin. but if he can't, i can. ask him about the time when he slipped that mallet in his pocket at a prize fight and then went on out with his cousin. ask him what became of tom langdon after they left that prize fight. he won't be able to tell you, of course. he loses his memory; all he will be able to remember is that his father spent a lot of money and hired some good lawyers and got him out of it. he won't be able to tell you a thing about how his own cousin was found with his skull crushed in, and the bloody wooden mallet lying beside him--the mallet that this fellow had stolen the night before at a prize fight! he won't--" white-hot with anger, barry houston lurched forward, to find himself caught in the arms of the sheriff and thrown back. he whirled,--and stopped, looking with glazed, deadened eyes into the blanched, horrified features of a girl who evidently had heard the accusation, a girl who stood poised in revulsion a moment before she turned, and, almost running, hurried to mount her horse and ride away. and the strength of anger left the muscles of barry houston. the red flame of indignation turned to a sodden, dead thing. he could only realize that medaine robinette now knew the story. that medaine robinette had heard him accused without a single statement given in his own behalf; that medaine, the girl of his smoke-wreathed dreams, now fully and thoroughly believed him--a murderer! chapter xii dully houston turned back to the sheriff and to the goggle-eyed ba'tiste, trying to fathom it all. weakly he motioned toward thayer, and his words, when they came, were hollow and expressionless: "that's a lie, sheriff. i'll admit that i have been accused of murder. i was acquitted. you say that nothing counts but the court action--and that's all i have to say in my behalf. the jury found me not guilty. in regard--to this, i'll obey the court order until i can prove to the judge's satisfaction that this whole thing is a fraud and a fake. in the meanwhile--" he turned anxiously, almost piteously, "do you care to go with me, ba'tiste?" heavily, silently, the french-canadian joined him, and together they walked down the narrow road to the camp. neither spoke for a long time. ba'tiste walked with his head deep between his shoulders, and houston knew that memories were heavy upon him, memories of his julienne and the day that he came home to find, instead of a waiting wife, only a mound beneath the sighing pines and a stalwart cross above it. as for houston, his own life had gone gray with the sudden recurrence of the past. he lived again the first days of it all, when life had been one constant repetition of questions, then solitude, questions and solitude, as the homicide squad brought him up from his cell to inquire about some new angle that they had come upon, to question him regarding his actions on the night of the death of tom langdon, then to send him back to "think it over" in the hope that the constant tangle of questions might cause him to change his story and give them an opening wedge through which they could force him to a confession. he lived again the black hours in the dingy courtroom, with its shadows and soot spots brushing against the window, the twelve blank-faced men in the jury box, and the witnesses, one after another, who went to the box in an effort to swear his life away. he went again through the agony of the new freedom--the freedom of a man imprisoned by stronger things than mere bars and cells of steel--when first he had gone into the world to strive to fight back to the position he had occupied before the pall of accusation had descended upon him, and to fight seemingly in vain. friends had vanished, a father had gone to his grave, believing almost to the last that it had been his money and the astuteness of his lawyers that had obtained freedom for a guilty son, certainly not a self-evidence of innocence that had caused the twelve men to report back to the judge that they had been unable to force their convictions "beyond the shadow of a doubt." a nightmare had it been and a nightmare it was again, as drawn-featured, stoop-shouldered, suddenly old and haggard, barry houston walked down the logging road beside a man whose mind also had been recalled to thoughts of murder. a sudden fear went over the younger man; he wondered whether this great being who walked at his side had believed, and at last in desperation, he faced him. "well, ba'tiste," came in strained tones, "i might as well hear it now as at any other time. they've about got me whipped, anyway, so you'll only be leaving a sinking ship." "what you mean?" the french-canadian stopped. "just the plain facts. i'm about at the end of my rope; my mill's all but gone, my flume is in the hands of some one else, my lake is leased, and thayer can make as many inroads on my timber as he cares to, as long as he appeases the court by paying me the magnificent sum of a dollar and a half a thousand for it. so, you see, there isn't much left for me." "what you do?" "that depends entirely on you--and what effect that accusation made. if you're with me, i fight. if not--well frankly--i don't know." "'member the mill, when he burn down?" "yes." "you no believe ba'teese did heem. _oui_, yes? well, now i no believe either!" "honestly, ba'tiste?" houston had gripped the other man's arm. "you don't believe it? you don't--" "ba'teese believe m'sieu houston. you look like my pierre. my pierre, he could do no wrong. ba'teese satisfy." it sent a new flow of blood through the veins of barry houston,--that simple, quiet statement of the old trapper. he felt again a surge of the fighting instinct, the desire to keep on and on, to struggle until the end, and to accept nothing except the bitterest, most absolute defeat. he quickened his pace, the french-canadian falling in with him. his voice bore a vibrant tone, almost of excitement: "i'm going back to boston to-night. i'm going to find out about this. i can get a machine at tabernacle to take me over the range; it may save me time in catching a train at denver. there's some fraud, ba'tiste. i know it.--and i'll prove it if i can get back to boston. we'll stop by the cottage down here and see miss jierdon; then i'm gone!" "she no there. she, what-you-say, smash up 'quaintance with medaine. she ask to go there and stay day or two." "then she'll straighten things out, ba'tiste. i'm glad of it. she knows the truth about this whole thing--every step of the way. will you tell her?" "_oui_. ba'teese tell her--about the flume and m'sieu thayer, what he say. but ba'teese--" "what?" the trapper was silent a moment. at last: "you like her, eh?" "medaine?" "no--the other." "a great deal, ba'teese. she has meant everything to me; she was my one friend when i was in trouble. she even went on the stand and testified for me. what were you going to say?" "nothing," came the enigmatical reply. "ba'teese will wait here. you go boston to-night?" "yes." and that night, in the moonlight, behind the rushing engine of a motor car, barry houston once more rode the heights where mount taluchen frowned down from its snowy pinnacles, where the road was narrow and the turns sharp, and where the world beneath was built upon a scale of miniature. but this time, the drifts had faded from beside the highway; nodding flowers showed in the moonlight; the snow flurries were gone. soon the downward grade had come and after that the straggling little town of dominion. early morning found houston in denver, searching the train schedules. that night he was far from the mountains, hurrying half across the continent in search of the thing that would give him back his birthright. weazened, wrinkle-faced little jenkins met him at the office, to stare in apparent surprise, then to rush forward with well-simulated enthusiasm. "you're back, mr. houston! i'm so glad. i didn't know whether to send the notice out to you in colorado, or wire you. it just came yesterday." "the notice? of what?" "the m. p. & s. l. call for bids. you've heard about it." but houston shook his head. jenkins stared. "i thought you had. the mountain, plains and salt lake railroad. i thought you knew all about it." "the one that's tunneling carrow peak? i've heard about the road, but i didn't know they were ready for bids for the western side of the mountain yet. where's the notice?" "right on your desk, sir." abstractedly, houston picked it up and glanced at the specifications,--for railroad ties by the million, for lumber, lathes, station-house material, bridge timbers, and the thousands of other lumber items that go into the making of a road. hastily he scanned the printed lines, only at last to place it despondently in a pocket. "millions of dollars," he murmured. "millions--for somebody!" and houston could not help feeling that it was for the one man he hated, fred thayer. the specifications called for freight on board at the spurs at tabernacle, evidently soon to have competition in the way of railroad lines. and tabernacle meant just one thing, the output of a mill which could afford to put that lumber at the given point cheaper then any other. the nearest other camp was either a hundred miles away, on the western side, or so far removed over the range in the matter of altitude that the freight rates would be prohibitive to a cheaper bid. thayer, with his ill-gotten flume, with his lake, with his right to denude barry houston's forests at an insignificant cost, could out-bid the others. he would land the contract, unless-- "jenkins!" houston's voice was sharp, insistent. the weazened man entered, rubbing his hands. "yes, sir. right here, sir." "what contracts have we in the files?" "several, sir. one for mining timber stulls, logs, and that sort of thing, for the machol mine at idaho springs; one for the tramway company in denver for two thousand ties to be delivered in june; one for--" "i don't mean that sort. are there any stumpage contracts?" "only one, sir." "one? what!" "the one you signed, sir, to thayer and blackburn, just a week or so before you started out west. don't you remember, sir; you signed it, together with a lease for the flume site and lake?" "i signed nothing of the sort!" "but you did, sir. i attested it. i'll show it to you in just a moment, sir. i have the copy right here." a minute later, barry houston was staring down at the printed lines of a copy of the contract and lease which had been shown him, days before, out in the mountains of colorado. blankly he looked toward the servile jenkins, awaiting the return of the documents, then toward the papers again. "and i signed these, did i?" "you certainly did, sir. it was about five o'clock in the afternoon. i remember it perfectly." "you're lying!" "i don't lie, sir. i attested the signature and saw you read both contracts. pardon, sir, but if any one's lying, sir--it's yourself!" chapter xiii ten minutes after that, barry houston was alone in his office. jenkins was gone, discharged; and houston felt a sort of relief in the knowledge that he had departed. the last of the thayer clan, he believed, had been cleaned out of his organization--and it was like lightening a burden to realize it. that the lease and stumpage contract were fraudulent, barry houston was certain. surely he had seen neither of them; and the signing must have been through some sort of trickery of which he was unaware. but would such a statement hold in court? houston learned, a half-hour later, that it wouldn't, as he faced the family attorney, in his big, bleak, old-fashioned office. "it's all right, barry, for you to tell me that you didn't sign it," came the edict. "i'd believe you--because i feel sure you wouldn't lie to me. but it would be pretty thin stuff to tell to a jury. there is the contract and the lease in black and white. both bear your signature which, you have declared in the presence of witnesses, to be genuine. even when a man signs a paper while insane, it's a hard job to pull it back; and we certainly wouldn't have any witnesses who could swear that you had lost your reason." "nope," he concluded, giving the papers a flip, as though disposing of the whole matter, "somebody has just worked the old sewing-machine racket on you--with trimmings. this is an adaptation of a game that is as old as the hills--the one where the solicitors would go up to a farmhouse, sell a man a sewing-machine or a cream separator at a ridiculous figure, let him sign what he thought was a contract to pay a certain amount a month for twelve months--and then take the promissory note which he really had signed down to the bank and discount it. instead of a promissory note, they made this a contract and a lease. and just to make it good, they had their confederate, a legalized notary public, put his seal upon it as a witness. you can't remember when all this happened?" "according to jenkins--who put the notary seal on there--the whole thing was put over about a week or so before i left for the west. that's the date on them too. about that time, i remember, i had a good many papers to sign. a lot of legal stuff, if you'll remember, came up about father's estate, in which my signature was more of a form than anything else. i naturally suspected nothing, and in one or two instances signed without reading." "and signed away your birthright--to this contract and lease. you did it with no intention of giving your land and flume and flume site away, that's true. if one of the men would be willing to confess to a conspiracy, it would hold water in court. otherwise not. you've been bunked, and your signature is as legal and as binding as though you had read that contract and lease-form a hundred times over. so i don't see anything to do but to swallow your medicine with as little of a wry face as possible." it was with this ultimatum that houston turned again for the west, glad to be out of boston, glad to be headed back once more for the mountains, in spite of the fact that the shadows of his life had followed him even there, that the ill luck which seemed to have been perched continuously on his shoulders for the past two years still hovered, like a vulture, above him. what he was going to do, how he could hope to combat the obstacles which had arisen was more than he could tell. he had gone into the west, believing, at worst, that he would be forced to become the general factotum of his own business. now he found there was not even a business; his very foundations had been swept from beneath him, leaving only the determination, the grim, earnest resolution to succeed where all was failure and to fight to victory--but how? personally, he could not answer the question, and he longed for the sight of the shambling little station at tabernacle, with ba'tiste, in answer to the telegram he had sent from chicago, awaiting him with the buggy from camp. and ba'tiste was there, to boom at him, to call golemar's attention to the fact that a visit to a physician in boston had relieved the bandaged arm of all except the slightest form of a splint, and to literally lift houston into the buggy, tossing his baggage in after him, then plump in beside him with excited happiness. "_bon_!" he rumbled. "it is good you are back. ba'teese, he was lonely. ba'teese, he was so excite' when he hear you come. he have good news!" "about what?" "the railroad. they are near' through with the tunnel. now they shall start upon the main road to salt lake. and they shall need timbers--_beaucoup_! ties and beams and materials! they have ask for bids. ah, _oui_. eet is, what-you-say, the swollen chance! m'sieu houston shall bid lower than--" "how, ba'tiste?" houston asked the question with a dullness that caused the aged trapper to turn almost angrily upon him. "how? is eet putty that you are made of? is eet--but no, ba'teese, he, what-you-say, misplace his head. you think there is no chance, eh? mebbe not. me'bbe--" "i found a copy of that contract in our files. the clerk i had in the office was in the conspiracy. i fired him and closed everything up there; as far as a boston end to the business is concerned, there is none. but the damage is done. my lawyer says that there is not a chance to fight this thing in court." "ah, _oui_. i expec' that much. but ba'teese, he think, mebbe, of another way. eh, golemar?" he shouted to the dog, trotting, as usual, beside the buggy. "mebbe we have a, what-you-say, punch of luck." then, silent, he leaned over the reins. houston too was quiet, striving in vain to find a way out of the difficulties that beset him. at the end of half an hour he looked up in surprise. they no longer were on the way to the mill. the road had become rougher, hillier, and houston recognized the stream and the aspen groves which fringed the highway leading to ba'tiste's cabin. but the buggy skirted the cabin, at last to bring into sight a snug, well-built, pretty little cottage which houston knew, instinctively, to be the home of medaine robinette. at the veranda, ba'tiste pulled on the reins and alighted. "come," he ordered quietly. "but--" "she have land, and she have a part of the lake and a flume site." houston hung back. "isn't it a bad bet, ba'tiste? have you talked to her?" "no--i have not seen her since the day--at the flume. she is here--lost wing is at the back of the cabin. we will talk to her, you and i. mebbe, when the spring come, she will lease to you the lake and the flume site. mebbe--" "very well." but houston said it against his will. he felt, in the first place, that he would be presuming to ask it of her,--himself a stranger against whom had come the accusation of murder, hardly denied. yet, withal, in a way, he welcomed the chance to see her and to seek to explain to her the deadly thrusts which fred thayer had sent against him. then too a sudden hope came; ba'tiste had said that agnes jierdon had become friendly with her; certainly she had told the truth and righted the wrongs of malicious treachery. he joined ba'tiste with a bound. a moment more and the door had opened, to reveal medaine, repressed excitement in her eyes, her features a trifle pale, her hand trembling slightly as she extended it to ba'tiste. houston she received with a bow,--forced, he thought. they went within, and ba'tiste pulled his queer little cap from his head, to crush it in the grasp of his massive hands. "we have come for business, medaine," he announced, with a slight show of embarrassment. "m'sieu houston, he have need for a flume site." "but i don't see where i could be of any assistance. i have no right--" "ah! but eet is not for the moment present. eet is for the springtime." she seemed to hesitate then and houston took a sudden resolve. it might as well be now as later. "miss robinette," he began, coming forward, "i realize that all this needs some explanation. especially," and he halted, "about myself." "but is that any of my affair?" her old pertness was gone. she seemed white and frightened, as though about to listen to something she would rather not hear. houston answered her as best he could: "that depends upon yourself, miss robinette. naturally, you wouldn't want to have any business dealings with a man who really was all that you must believe me to be. it isn't a pleasant thing for me to talk about--i would like to forget it. but in this case, it has been brought up against my will. you were present a week ago when thayer accused me of murder." "yes." "eet was a big lie!" "wait just a minute, ba'tiste." cold sweat had made its appearance on barry houston's forehead. "i--i--am forced to admit that a part of what he said was true. when i first met ba'tiste here, i told him there was a shadow in my life that i did not like to talk about. he was good enough to say that he didn't want to hear it. i felt that out here, perhaps i would not be harassed by certain memories that have been rather hard for me to bear in the last couple of years. i was wrong. the thing has come up again, in worse form than ever and without giving me a chance to make a denial. but perhaps you know the whole story?" "your story?" medaine robinette looked at him queerly. "no--i never have heard it." "then you've heard--" "only accusations." "is it fair to believe only one side of a thing?" "please, mr. houston," and she looked at him with a certain note of pleading, "you must remember that i--well, i didn't feel that it was any of my business. i didn't know that circumstances would throw you at all in my path." "but they have, miss robinette. the land on my side of the creek has been taken from me by fraud. it is absolutely vital that i use every resource to try to make my mill what it should be. it still is possible for me to obtain lumber, but to get it to the mill necessitates a flume and rights in the lake. i've lost that. we've been hoping, ba'tiste and myself, that we would be able to induce you to lease us your portion of the lake and a flume site. otherwise, i'm afraid there isn't much hope." "as i said, that doesn't become my property until late spring, nearly summer, in fact." "that is time enough. we are hoping to be able to bid for the railroad contract. i believe it calls for the first shipment of ties about june first. that would give us plenty of time. if we had your word, we could go ahead, assemble the necessary machinery, snake a certain amount of logs down through the snow this winter and be in readiness when the right moment came. without it, however, we can hardly hope for a sufficient supply to carry us through. and so--" "you want to know--about heem. you have ba'teese's word----" "really--" she seemed to be fencing again. houston, with a hard pull at his breath, came directly to the question. "it's simply this, miss robinette. if i am guilty of those things, you don't want to have anything to do with me, and i don't want you to. but i am here to tell you that i am not guilty, and that it all has been a horrible blunder of circumstance. it is very true in one sense--" and his voice lowered--"that about two years ago in boston, i was arrested and tried for murder." "so mr. thayer said." "i was acquitted--but not for the reason thayer gave. they couldn't make a case, they failed absolutely to prove a thing which, had i really been guilty, should have been a simple matter. a worthless cousin, tom langdon, was the man who was murdered. they said i did it with a wooden mallet which i had taken from a prize fight, and which had been used to hammer on the gong for the beginning and the end of the rounds. i had been seen to take it from the fight, and it was found the next morning beside langdon. there was human blood on it. i had been the last person seen with langdon. they put two and two together--and tried to convict me on circumstantial evidence. but they couldn't convince the jury; i went free, as i should have done. i was innocent!" houston, white now with the memories and with the necessity of retailing again in the presence of a girl who, to him, stood for all that could mean happiness, gritted his teeth for the determination to go on with the grisly thing, to hide nothing in the answers to the questions which she might ask. but medaine robinette, standing beside the window, the color gone from her cheeks, one hand lingering the curtains, eyes turned without, gave no evidence that she had heard. ba'tiste, staring at her, waited a moment for her question. it did not come. he turned to houston. "you tell eet!" he ordered. there was something of the father about him,--the father with a wayward boy, fearful of the story that might come, yet determined to do everything within his power to aid a person he loved. houston straightened. "i'll try not to shield myself in any way," came at last. the words were directed to ba'tiste, but meant for medaine robinette. "there are some things about it that i'd rather not tell--i wish i could leave them out. but--it all goes. my word of honor--if that counts for anything--goes with it. it's the truth, nothing else. "i had come home from france--invalided back. the records of the twenty-sixth will prove that. gas. i was slated for out here--the recuperation hospital at denver. but we managed to persuade the army authorities that i could get better treatment at home, and they gave me a disability discharge in about ten months--honorable, of course. after a while, i went back to work, still weak, but rather eager to get at it, in an effort to gather up the strands which had become tangled by the war. i was in the real-estate business then, for myself. then, one afternoon," his breath pulled sharp, "tom langdon came into my office." "he was your cousin?" ba'tiste's voice was that of a friendly cross-examiner. "yes. i hadn't seen him in five years. we had never had much to do with him; we," and houston smiled coldly with the turn that fate had given to conditions in the houston family, "always had looked on him as a sort of a black sheep. he had been a runaway from home; about the only letters my uncle ever had received from him had asked for money to get him out of trouble. where he had been this time, i don't know. he asked for my father and appeared anxious to see him. i told him that father was out of town. then he said he would stay in boston until he came back, that he had information for him that was of the greatest importance, and that when he told father what it was, that he, langdon, could have anything my father possessed in the way of a job and a competence for life. it sounded like blackmail--i could think of nothing else coming from tom langdon--and i told him so. that was unfortunate. there were several persons in my office at the time. he resented the statement and we quarreled. they heard it and later testified." houston halted, tongue licking at dry lips. medaine still gave no indication that she had heard. ba'tiste, his knit cap still crushed in his big hands, moved forward. "go on." "gradually, the quarrel wore off and tom became more than friendly, still harping, however, on the fact that he had tremendous news for my father. i tried to get rid of him. it was impossible. he suggested that we go to dinner together and insisted upon it. there was nothing to do but acquiesce; especially as i now was trying to draw from him something of what had brought him there. we had wine. i was weak physically. it went to my head, and tom seemed to take a delight in keeping my glass full. oh," and he swerved suddenly toward the woman at the window, "i'm not trying to make any excuses for myself. i wanted if--after that first glass or two, it seemed there wasn't enough in the world. he didn't force it on me--he didn't play the part of a tempter or pour it down my throat. i took it readily enough. but i couldn't stand it. we left the cafe, he fairly intoxicated, myself greatly so. we saw the advertisement of a prize fight and went, getting seats near the ring-side. they weren't close enough for me. i bribed a fellow to let me sit at the press stand, next to the timekeeper, and worried him until he let me have the mallet that he was using to strike the gong. "the fight was exciting--especially to me in my condition. i was standing most of the time, even leaning on the ring. once, while in this position, one of the men, who was bleeding, was knocked down. he struck the mallet. it became covered with blood. no one seemed to notice that, except myself--every one was too excited. a moment more and the fight was over, through a knock-out. then i stuck the mallet in my pocket, telling every one who cared to hear that i was carrying away a souvenir. langdon and i went out together. "we started home--for he had announced that he was going to spend the night with me. persons about us heard him. it was not far to the house and we decided to walk. on the way, he demanded the mallet for himself and pulled it out of my pocket. i struggled with him for it, finally however, to be bested, and started away. he followed me a block or so, taunting me with his superior strength and cursing me as the son of a man whom he intended to make bow to his every wish. i ran then and, evading him, went home and to bed. about four o'clock in the morning, i was awakened by the police. they had found tom langdon dead, with his skull crushed, evidently by the blow of a club or a hammer. they said i did it." a slight gasp traveled over the lips of medaine, still by the window. ba'tiste, his features old and lined, reached out with one big hand and patted the man on the shoulder. then for a long time, there was silence. "eet is the lie, eh?" "ba'tiste," houston turned appealingly to him "as i live, that's all i know. i never saw langdon after he took that mallet from me. some one killed him, evidently while he was wandering around, looking for me. the mallet dropped by his side. it had blood on it--and they accused me. it looked right--there was every form of circumstantial evidence against me. and," the breath pulled hard, "what was worse, everybody believed that i killed him. even my best friends--even my father." "ba'teese no believe it." "why?" houston turned to him in hope,--in the glimmering chance that perhaps there was something in the train of circumstances that would have prevented the actuality of guilt. but the answer, while it cheered him, was rather disconcerting. "you look like my pierre. pierre, he could do no wrong. you look like heem." it was sufficient for the old french-canadian. but houston knew it could carry but little weight with the girl by the window. he went on: "only one shred of evidence was presented in my behalf. it was by a woman who had worked for about six months for my father,--miss jierdon. she testified to having passed in a taxicab just at the end of our quarrel, and that, while it was true that there was evidence of a struggle, langdon had the mallet. she was my only witness, besides the experts. but it may help here, miss robinette." it was the first time he had addressed her directly and she turned, half in surprise. "how," she asked the question as though with an effort, "how were you cleared?" "through expert medical testimony that the blow which killed langdon could not have been struck with that mallet. the whole trial hinged on the experts. the jury didn't believe much of either side. they couldn't decide absolutely that i had killed langdon. and so they acquitted me. i'm trying to tell you the truth, without any veneer to my advantage." "_bon_! good! eet is best." "miss jierdon is the same one who is out here?" "yes." "she testified in your behalf?" "yes. and miss robinette, if you'll only talk to her--if you'll only ask her about it, she'll tell you the story exactly as i've told it. she trusted me; she was the only bright spot in all the blackness. i may not be able to convince you--but she could, miss robinette. if you'll only--" "would you guarantee the truth of anything she should tell me?" "absolutely." "even if she told hidden things?" "hidden? i don't know what you mean. there's nothing to be hidden. what she tells you will be the truth, the whole truth, the absolute truth." "i'm--i'm sorry." she turned again to the window. houston went forward. "sorry? why? there's nothing--" "miss jierdon has told me," came in a strained voice, "things that perhaps you did not mean for her to tell." "i? why, i--" "that she did pass as you were struggling. that she saw the blow struck--and that it was you who struck it." "miss robinette!" "that further, you confessed to her and told her why you had killed langdon--because he had discovered something in your own father's life that would serve as blackmail. that she loved you. and that because she loved you, she went on the stand and perjured herself to save you from a conviction of murder--when she knew in her heart that you were guilty!" chapter xiv it was a blow greater, far greater than one that could have been struck in mere physical contact. houston reeled with the effect of it; he gasped, he struggled aimlessly, futilely, for words to answer it. vaguely, dizzily, knowing nothing except a dim, hazy desire to rid himself of the loathsomeness of it, houston started to the door, only to be pulled back in the gigantic grip of ba'tiste renaud. the old canadian was glaring now, his voice was thunderous. "no! no! you shall not go! you hear ba'teese, huh? you tell medaine that is a lie! un'stan'? that is a lie!" "it is," houston heard his voice as though coming from far away, "but i don't know how to answer it. i--i--can't answer it. where is miss jierdon? is she here? may i see her?" "miss jierdon," medaine robinette answered him as though with an effort, "went back to camp last night." "may i bring her here, to repeat that before me? there's been some sort of a horrible mistake--she didn't know what she was saying. she--" "i'm afraid, mr. houston, that i would need stronger evidence--now. oh, i want to be fair about this," she burst out suddenly. "i--i shouldn't ever have been drawn into it. it's nothing of my concern; certainly, i shouldn't be the one to be called upon to judge the innocence or guilt of some one i hardly know! i--" "i realize that, miss robinette. i withdraw my request for anything you can give me." again he started toward the door, and this time ba'tiste did not detain him. but abruptly he halted, a sudden thought searing its way through his brain. "just one moment more, miss robinette. then i'll go. but this question means a great deal. you passed me one night on the road. would it be impertinent to ask where you had been?" "certainly not. to tabernacle. lost wing went with me, as usual. you may ask him." "your word is enough. may i inquire if on that night you saw fred thayer?" "i did not." "thank you." dully he reached for the knob. the woman who had appeared that night in the clearing, her head upon a man's shoulder, had been agnes jierdon! he stepped to the veranda, waiting for ba'tiste, who was making a last effort in his behalf. then he called: "i'd rather you'd not say anything more, ba'tiste. words aren't much use--without something to back them up." and he knew that this possibility was all but gone. tricked! for now he realized that agnes jierdon had stood by him at a time when her supposed confidence and trust could do no more for him than cheer him and cause him to trust her to the end that,--what? had it been she who had slipped the necessary papers of the contract and the lease into the mass of formalities which he had signed without even looking at the contents of more than the first page or two of the pile? they had been so many technical details, merely there for signature; he had signed dozens before. it would have been easy. but houston forced back the thought. he himself knew what it meant to be unjustly accused. time was but of little moment now; his theories could wait until he had seen agnes jierdon, until he had talked to her and questioned her regarding the statements made to medaine robinette. besides, ba'tiste already was in the buggy, striving to cover his feelings by a stream of badinage directed toward golemar, the wolf-dog, and waiting for houston to take his place beside him. a moment more and they were driving away, ba'tiste humped over the reins as usual, houston striving to put from him the agony of the new accusation. finally, the trapper cocked his head and spoke, rather to the horse and golemar than to houston. "eet is the one, big lie!" "yes, but there's not much way of proving it, ba'tiste." "proof? bah! and does ba'teese need proof? ba'teese no like this woman, jierdon. she say ba'teese burn the mill." "i didn't know you heard that." "she have a bad mouth. she have a bad eye. she have a bad tongue. yes, _oui_! she have a bad tongue!" "let's wait, ba'tiste. there may be some mistake about it. of course, it's possible. she had worked for my father for six months at the time--she could have been placed there for a purpose. her testimony was of the sort that the jury could take either as for me or against me; she established, as an eyewitness, that we had quarreled and that the mallet played a part in it. naturally, though, i looked to her as my friend. i thought that her testimony helped me." "and the taxi-driver? what did he say? eh?" "we never were able to find him." "oh, ho! golemar! you hear?" the old trapper's voice was stinging with sarcasm. "they nev' fin' heem. but the woman she was in a taxi. ah, _oui_. she could pass, just at the moment. she could put in the mind of the jury the fact that there was a quarrel, while she preten' to help m'sieu houston. but the taxi-driver--no, they nev' fin' heem!" "let's wait, ba'tiste." "oh--ah, _oui_." on they drove in silence, talking of trivial things, each fencing away from the subject that was on their minds and from mention of the unfortunate interview with medaine robinette. the miles faded slowly, at last to bring the camp into view. ten minutes later, houston leaped from the buggy and knocked at the door of the cottage. "i want to see miss jierdon," he told the cook who had opened the door. that person shook her head. "she's gone." "gone? where?" "to town, i guess. she came back here from miss robinette's last night and packed her things and left. she didn't say where she was going. she left a note for you." "let me have it!" there was anxiety in the command. the cook bustled back into the house, to return with a sealed envelope addressed to houston. he slit it with a trembling finger. "what she say?" ba'tiste was leaning from the buggy. houston took his place beside him, and as the horse was turned back toward the trapper's cabin, read aloud: "dearest barry: "hate awfully to run away like this without seeing you, but it can't be helped. have an offer of a position in st. louis that i can't very well refuse. will write you from there. "love and kisses. "agnes." ba'tiste slapped the reins on the horse's back. "she is like the judas, eh?" he asked quietly, and houston cringed with the realization that he had spoken the truth. judas! a feminine judas, who had come to him when his guard had been lowered, who had pretended that she believed in him, that she even loved him, that she might wreck his every plan and hope in life. a judas, a-- "let's don't talk about it, ba'tiste!" houston's voice was hoarse, weary. "it's a little too much to take, all in one day." "_tres bien_," answered the old french-canadian, not to speak again until they had reached his cabin and, red-faced, he had turned from the stove to place the evening meal on the table. then, his mouth full of crisply fried bacon, he waved a hand and spluttered with a sudden inspiration: "what you do, now?" "queer question, isn't it?" the grim humor of it brought a smile, in spite of the lead in houston's heart. "what is there to do?" "what?" ba'tiste gulped his food, rose and waved a hand with a sudden flash of emphasis. "peuff! and there is ever'thin'. you have a mill." "such as it is." "but eet is a mill. and eet can saw timber--enough to keep the wolf from the door. you have yourself. your arm, he is near' well. and there is alway'--" he gestured profoundly--"the future. he is like a woman, the future," he added, with a little smile. "he always look good when he is in the far away." the enthusiasm of the trapper found a faint echo in houston's heart. "i'm not whipped yet, ba'tiste. but i'm near it. i've had some pretty hard knocks." "ah, _oui_! but so have ba'teese!" the shadows were falling, and the old french-canadian walked to the window. "_oui, oui, oui_! look." and he pointed to the white cross, still faintly visible, like a luminous thing, beneath the pines. "ev' day, ba'teese, he see that. ev' day, ba'teese remember--how he work for others, how he is _l' m'sieu doctaire_, how he help and help and help--but how he cannot help his own. ev' day, ba'teese, he live again that night in the cathedral when he call, so, 'pierre! pierre!' but pierre does not answer. ev' day, he remind how he come home, and how his heart, eet is cold, but how he hope that his julienne, she will warm eet again--to fin' that. but does ba'teese stop? does ba'teese fol' his hands? no! no!" he thundered the words and beat his heavy chest. "some day, ba'teese will fin' what he look for! when the cloud, he get heavy, ba'teese, he go out there--out to his julienne--and he kneel down and he pray that she give to heem the strength to go on--to look and look and look until he find eet--the thing he is want'! ba'teese, he too have had his trouble. ba'teese, he too would like to quit! but no, he shall not! and you shall not! by the cross of my julienne, you shall not! eet is to the end--and not before! you look like my pierre! my pierre had in heem the blood of ba'teese--ba'teese, who had broke' the way. and pierre would not quit, and you will not quit. and--" "i will not quit!" barry houston said the words slowly, in a voice heightened by feeling and by a new strength, a sudden flooding of a reserve power that he did not know he possessed. "that is my absolute promise to you, ba'tiste. i will not quit!" "_bon_! good! golemar, you hear, eh? _mon ami_, he come to the barrier, and he look at the trouble, but he say he will not quit. _veritas_! _bon_! he is my pierre! he speak like my pierre would speak! he will not quit!" "no," and then houston repeated it, a strange light shining in his eyes, his hands clenched, breath pulling deep into his lungs. "i will not quit." "ah, _oui_! eet is now the, what-you-say, the swing-around point. to-night ba'teese go out. where? ah, you shall wait an' see. ba'teese go--ba'teese come back. then you shall see. ah, _oui_! then you shall see." for an hour or so after that he boomed about the cabin, singing queer old songs in a _patois_, rumbling to the faithful golemar, washing the dishes while houston wiped them, joking, talking of everything but the troubles of the day and the plans of the night. outside the shadows grew heavier, finally to turn to pitch darkness. the bull bats began to circle about the cabin. ba'tiste walked to the door. "_bon_! good!" he exclaimed. "the sky, he is full of cloud'. the star, he do not shine. _bon_! ba'teese shall go." and with a final wave of the hand, still keeping his journey a mystery, he went forth into the night. long houston waited for his return, but he did not come. the old, creaking clock on the rustic ledge ticked away the minutes and the hours until midnight, but still no crunching of gravel relieved his anxious ears, still no gigantic form of the grizzled, bearded trapper showed in the doorway. one o'clock came and went. two--three. houston still waited. four--and a scratch on the door. it was golemar, followed a moment later by a grinning, twinkling-eyed ba'tiste. "_bon_! good!" he exclaimed. "see, golemar? what i say to you? he wait up for ba'teese. _bon_! now--_alert, mon ami_! the pencil and the paper!" he slumped into a chair and dived into a pocket of his red shirt, to bring forth a mass of scribbled sheets, to stare at them, striving studiously to make out the writing. "ba'teese, he put eet down by a match in the shelter of a lumber pile," came at last. "eet is all, what-you-say, scramble up. but we shall see--ah, _oui_--we shall see. now," he looked toward houston, waiting anxiously with paper and pencil, "we shall put eet in the list. so. one million ties, seven by eight by eight feet, at the one dollar and the forty cents. put that down." "i have it. but what--" "wait! five thousan' bridge timber, ten by ten by sixteen feet, at the three dollar and ninety cents." "yes--" "ten thousand feet of the four by four, at--" "ba'tiste!" houston had risen suddenly. "what have you got there?" the trapper grinned and pulled at his gray-splotched beard. "oh, ho! golemar! he wan' to know. shall we tell heem, eh? ah, _oui_--" he shook his big shoulders and spread his hands. "eet is--the copy of the bid!" "the copy? the bid?" "from the blackburn mill. there is no one aroun'. ba'teese, he go through a window. ba'teese, he find heem--in a file. and he bring back the copy." "then--" "m'sieu houston, he too will bid. but he will make it lower. and this," he tapped the scribbled scraps of paper, "is cheaper than any one else. eet is because of the location. m'sieu houston--he know what they bid. he will make eet cheaper." "but what with, ba'tiste? we haven't a mill to saw the stuff, in the first place. this ramshackle thing we're setting up now couldn't even begin to turn out the ties alone. the bid calls for ten thousand laid down at tabernacle, the first of june. we might do that, but how on earth would we ever keep up with the rest? the boxings, the rough lumber, the two by fourteen's finished, the dropped sidings and groved roofing, and lath and ceiling and rough fencings and all the rest? what on earth will we do it with?" "what with?" ba'tiste waved an arm grandiloquently. "with the future!" "it's taking the longest kind of a chance--" "ah, _oui_! but the man who is drowning, he will, what-you-say, grab at a haystack." "true enough. go ahead. i'll mark our figures down too, as you read." and together they settled to the making of a bid that ran into the millions, an overture for a contract for which they had neither mill, nor timber, nor flume, nor resources to complete! chapter xv time dragged after that. once the bid was on its way to chicago, there was nothing to do but wait. it was a delay which lengthened from june until july, thence into late summer and early autumn, while the hills turned brown with the colorings of the aspens, while mount taluchen and its surrounding mountains once more became grim and forbidding with the early fall of snow. the time for the opening of the bids had passed, far in the distance, but there had come no word. ba'tiste, long since taken into as much of a partnership agreement as was possible, went day after day to the post office, only to return empty-handed, while houston watched with more intensity than ever the commercial columns of the lumber journals in the fear that the contract, after all, had gone somewhere else. but no notice appeared. nothing but blankness as concerned the plans of the mountain plains and salt lake railroad. medaine he saw but seldom,--then only to avoid her as she strove to avoid him. houston's work was now in the hills and at the camp, doing exactly what the blackburn mill was doing, storing up a reasonable supply of timber and sawing at what might or might not be the first consignment of ties for the fulfillment of the contract. but day after day he realized that he was all but beaten. his arm had healed now and returned to the strength that had existed before the fracture. far greater in strength, in fact, for houston had taken his place in the woods side by side with the few lumberjacks whom he could afford to carry on his pay roll. there, at least, he had right of way. he had sold only stumpage, which meant that the blackburn camp had the right to take out as much timber as it cared to, as long as it was paid for at the insignificant rate of one dollar and fifty cents a thousand feet. thayer and the men in his employ could not keep him out of his own woods, or prevent him from cutting his own timber. but they could prevent him from getting it to the mill by an inexpensive process. from dawn until dusk he labored, sometimes with ba'tiste singing lustily beside him, sometimes alone. the task was a hard one; the snaking of timber through the forest to the high-line roadway, there to be loaded upon two-wheeled carts and dragged, by a slow, laborious, costly process, to the mill. for every log that he sent to the saw in this wise, he knew that thayer was sending ten,--and at a tenth of the cost. but houston was fighting the last fight,--a fight that could not end until absolute, utter failure stood stark before him at the end of the road. september became october with its rains, and its last flash of brilliant coloring from the lower hills, and then whiteness. november had arrived, bringing with it the first snow and turning the whole, great, already desolate country into a desert of white. it was cold now; the cook took on a new duty of the maintenance of hot pails of bran mash and salt water for the relief of frozen hands. heavy gum-shoes, worn over lighter footgear and reaching with felt-padded thickness far toward the knee, encased the feet. hands numbed, in spite of thick mittens; each week saw a new snowfall, bringing with it the consequent thaws and the hardening of the surface. the snowshoe rabbit made its appearance, tracking the shadowy, silent woods with great, outlandish marks. the coyotes howled o' nights; now and then houston, as he worked, saw the tracks of a bear, or the bloody imprints of a mountain lion, its paws cut by the icy crust of the snow as it trailed the elk or deer. the world was a quiet thing, a white thing, a cold, unrelenting thing, to be fought only by thick garments and snowshoes. but with it all, it gave houston and ba'tiste a new enthusiasm. they at least could get their logs to the mill now swiftly and with comparative ease. short, awkward-appearing sleds creaked and sang along the icy, hard-packed road of snow, to approach the piles of logs snaked out of the timber, to be loaded high beyond all seeming regard for gravitation or consideration for the broad-backed, patient horses, to be secured at one end by heavy chains leading to a patent binder which cinched them to the sled, and started down the precipitous road toward the mill. once in a while houston rode the sleds, merely for the thrill of it; for the singing and crunching of the logs against the snow, the grinding of bark against bark, the quick surge as the horses struck a sharp decline and galloped down it, the driver shouting, the logs kicking up the snow behind the sled in a swirling, feathery wake. at times he stayed at the bunk house with the lumberjacks, silent as they were silent, or talking of trivial things which were mighty to them,--the quality of the food, the depth of the snow, the fact that the little gray squirrels were more plentiful in one part of the woods than another, or that they chattered more in the morning than in the afternoon. hours he spent in watching old bill, a lumberjack who, in his few moments of leisure between the supper table and bed, whittled laboriously upon a wooden chain, which with dogged persistence he had lugged with him for months. or perhaps staring over the shoulder of jade hains, striving to copy the picture of a motion-picture star from a worn, dirty, months-old magazine; as excited as they over the tiny things in life, as eager to seek a bunk when eight o'clock came, as grudging to hear the clatter of alarm clocks in the black coldness before dawn and to creak forth to the watering and harnessing of the horses for the work of the day. some way, it all seemed to be natural to barry houston, natural that he should accept this sort of dogged, humdrum, eventless life and strive to think of nothing more. the other existence, for him, had ended in a blackened waste; even the one person in whom he had trusted, the woman he would have been glad to marry, if that could have repaid her in any way for what he thought she had done for him, had proved traitorous. his letters, written to her at general delivery, st. louis, had been returned, uncalled for. from the moment that he had received that light, taunting note, he had heard nothing more. she had done her work; she was gone. december came. christmas, and with it ba'tiste, with flour in his hair and beard, his red shirt pulled out over his trousers, distributing the presents which houston had bought for the few men in his employ. january wore on, bringing with it more snow. february and then-- "eet is come! eet is come!" ba'tiste, waving his arms wildly, in spite of the stuffiness of his heavy mackinaw, and the broad belt which sank into layer after layer of clothing at his waist, came over the brow of the raise into camp, to seize houston in his arms and dance him about, to lift him and literally throw him high upon his chest as one would toss a child, to roar at golemar, then to stand back, brandishing an opened letter above his head. "eet is come! i have open eet--i can not wait. eet say we shall have the contract! ah, _oui! oui! oui! oui_! we shall have the contract!" houston, suddenly awake to what the message meant, reached for the letter. it was there in black and white. the bid had been accepted. there need now be but the conference in chicago, the posting of the forfeit money, and the deal was made. "eet say five thousand dollars cash, and the rest in a bond!" came enthusiastically from ba'tiste. "eet is simple. you have the mill, you have the timber. ba'teese, he have the friend in denver who will make the bond." "but how about the machinery; we'll need a hundred-thousand-dollar plant before we're through, ba'tiste." "ah!" the old french-canadian's jaw dropped. "ba'teese, he is like the child. he have not think of that. he have figure he can borrow ten thousand dollar in his own name. but he have not think about the machinery." "but we must think about it, ba'tiste. we've got to get it. with the equipment that's here, we never could hope to keep up with the contract. and if we can't do that, we lose everything. understand me, i'm not thinking of quitting; i merely want to look over the battlefield first. shall we take the chance?" big ba'tiste shrugged his shoulders. "ba'teese, he always try to break the way," came at last. "ba'teese, he have trouble--but he have nev' been beat. you ask ba'teese--ba'teese say go ahead. somehow we make it." "then to-morrow morning we take the train to denver, and from there i'll go on to boston. i'll raise the money some way. i don't know how. if i don't, we're only beaten in the beginning instead of at the end. we'll simply have to trust to the future--on everything, ba'tiste. there are so many things that can whip us, that--" houston laughed shortly--"we might as well be gamblers all the way through. we'll never fulfill the contract, even with the machinery, unless we can get the use of the lake and a flume to the mill. we may be able to keep it up for a month or two, but that will be all. the expense will eat us up. but one chance is no greater than the other, and personally, i'm at the point where i don't care." "_oui_! ba'teese, he have nothing. ba'teese he only fight for the excitement. so, to-morrow we go!" and on the next day they went, again to go over all the details of their mad, foundationless escapade with chance, to talk it all over in the old smoking car, to weigh the balance against them from every angle, and to see failure on every side. but they had become gamblers with fate; for one, it was his final opportunity, to take or disregard, with a faint glimmer of success at one end of the vista, with the wiping out of every hope at the other. they tried not to look at the gloomy side, but that was impossible. as the train ground its way up the circuitous grades, houston felt that he was headed finally for the dissolution. but there was at least the consolation about it that within a short time the uncertainty of his life would be ended; the hopes either crushed forever, or realized, that-- "ba'tiste!" they were in the snowsheds at crestline, and houston had pointed excitedly toward a window of the west-bound train, just pulling past them on the way down the slope. a woman was there, a woman who had turned her head sharply, but with not enough speed to prevent a sight of her by the french-canadian who glanced quickly and gasped: "the judas!" houston leaped from his seat and ran to the vestibule of the car, but in vain. it was closed; already the other last coach of the other train was pulling past and gaining headway with the easier grade. wondering, he returned to his seat beside his partner. "it was she, ba'tiste," came with conviction. "i got a good look at her before she noticed me. then, when i pointed--she turned her head away." "but ba'teese, he see her." "she's going back. what do you suppose it can mean? can she be--" "ba'teese catch the nex' train to tabernacle so soon as we have finish our business. eet is for no good." "i wonder--" it was a hope, but a faint one--"if she could be coming back to make amends, ba'tiste? that--that other thing seemed so unlike the person who had been so good to me, so apart from the side of her nature that i knew--" "she have a bad mouth," ba'tiste repeated grimly. "she have a bad eye, she have a bad tongue. a woman with a bad tongue, she is a devil. you--you no see it, because she come to you with a smile, when every one else, he frown. you think she is the angel, yes, _oui_? but she come to ba'teese different. she talk to you sof' and she try to turn you against your frien'. yes. _oui_? _ne c'est pas_? ba'teese see her with the selfish mouth. peuff! he see her when she look to heem out from the corner of her eye--so. ba'teese know. ba'teese come back quick, to keep watch!" "i guess you're right, ba'tiste. it won't do any harm. if she's returned for a good purpose, very well. if not, we're at least prepared for her." with that resolution they went on to denver, there to seek out the few friends ba'tiste possessed, to argue one of them into a loan of ten thousand dollars on the land and trustworthy qualities which formed the total of ba'tiste's resources, to gain from the other the necessary bond to cover the contract,--a contract which barry houston knew only too well might never be fulfilled. but against this fear was the booming enthusiasm of ba'tiste renaud: "nev' min'. somehow we do eet. ah, _oui_! somehow. if we make the failure, then it shall be ba'teese who will fin' the way to pay the bond. now, ba'teese, he go back." "yes, and keep watch on that woman. she's out here for something'--i feel sure of it--something that has to do with thayer. before you go, however, make the rounds of the employment agencies and tell them to send you every man they can spare, up to a hundred. we'll give them work to the extent of five thousand dollars. they ought to be able to get enough timber down to keep us going for a while anyway--especially with the roads iced." "ah. _oui_. it is the three o'clock. _bon voyage, mon_ baree!" it was the first time ba'tiste renaud ever had dropped the conventional "m'sieu" in addressing houston, and barry knew, without the telling, without the glowing light in the old man's eyes, that at least a part of the great loneliness in the trapper's heart had departed, that he had found a place there in a portion of the aching spot left void by a shrapnel-shattered son to whom a father had called that night in the ruined cathedral,--and called in vain. it caused a queer pang of exquisite pain in houston's heart, a joy too great to be expressed by the reflexes of mere pleasure. long after the train had left denver, he still thought of it, he still heard the old man's words, he still sat quiet and peaceful in a new enthusiasm of hope. the world was not so blank, after all. one man, at least, believed in him fully. came chicago and the technicalities of ironing out the final details of the contract. then, dealer in millions and the possessor of nothing, houston went onward toward boston. and ba'tiste was not there to boom enthusiastically regarding the chances of the future, to enlarge upon the opportunities which might arise for the fulfillment of a thing which seemed impossible. coldly, dispassionately, now that it was done, that the word of the empire lake mill and lumber company had been given to deliver the materials for the making of a great railroad, had guaranteed its resources and furnished the necessary bond for the fulfillment of a promise, barry houston could not help but feel that it all had been rash, to say the least. where was the machinery to be obtained? where the money to keep things going? true, there would be spot cash awaiting the delivery of every installment of the huge order, enough, in fact, to furnish the necessary running expenses of a mill under ordinary circumstances. but the circumstances which surrounded the workings of the empire lake project were far from ordinary. no easy skidways to a lake, no flume, no aerials; there was nothing to cut expenses. unless a miracle should happen, and houston reflected that miracles were few and far between, that timber must be brought to the mill by a system that would be disastrous as far as costs were concerned. yet, the contract had been made! he wandered the aisle of the sleeper, fidgeting from one end to the other, as neither magazines, nor the spinning scenery without held a counter-attraction for his gloomy thoughts. when night at last came, he entered the smoking compartment and slumped into a seat in a far corner, smoking in a detached manner, often pulling on his cigar long after lengthy minutes of reflection had allowed its ashes to cool. about him the usual conversation raged, the settling of a nation's problems, the discussion of crime waves, bolshevism and the whatnot that goes with an hour of smoking on a tiresome journey. from washington and governmental affairs, it veered to the west and dry farming, thence to the cattle business; to anecdotes, and finally to ghost stories. and then, with a sudden interest, houston forgot his own problems to listen attentively, tensely, almost fearfully. a man whom he never before had seen, and whom he probably never would see again, was talking,--about something which might be as remote to houston as the poles. yet it held him, it fascinated, it gripped him! "speaking of gruesome things," the talker had said, "reminds me. i'm a doctor--not quite full fledged, i'll admit, but with the right to put m. d. after my name. spent a couple of years as an interne in bellstrand hospital in new york. big place. any of you ever been there?" no one had. the young doctor went on. "quite a place for experiments. they've got a big room on the fifth floor where somebody is always dissecting, or carrying out some kind of investigations into this bodily thing we call a home. my work led me past there a good deal, and i'd gotten so i hardly noticed it. but one sunday night, i guess it was along toward midnight, i saw something that brought me up short. i happened to look in and saw a man in there, murdering another one with a wooden mallet." "murdering him?" the statement had caused a rise from the rest of the auditors. the doctor laughed. "well, perhaps i used too sentimental a phrase. i should have said, acting out a murder. you can't very well murder a dead man. the fellow he was killing already was a corpse. "you mean--" "just what i'm saying. there were two or three assistants. pretty big doctors, i learned later, all of them from boston. they had taken a cadaver from the refrigerator and stood it in a certain position. then the one man had struck it on the head with the mallet with all the force he could summon. of course it knocked the corpse down--i'm telling you, it was gruesome, even to an interne! the last i saw of them, the doctors were working with their microscopes--evidently to see what effect the blow had produced." "what was the idea?" "never found out. they're pretty close-mouthed about that sort of thing. you see, opposite sides in a trial are always carrying out experiments and trying their level best to keep the other fellow from knowing what's going on. i found out later that the door was supposed to have been locked. i passed through about ten minutes later and saw them working on another human body--evidently one of a number that they had been trying the tests on. about that time some one heard me and came out like a bullet. the next thing i knew, everything was closed. how long the experiments had been going on, i couldn't say. i do know, however, that they didn't leave there until about three o'clock in the morning." "you--you don't know who the men were?" houston, forcing himself to be casual, had asked the question. the young doctor shook his head. "no--except that they were from boston. at least, the doctors were. one of the nurses knew them. i suppose the other man was a district attorney--they usually are around somewhere during an experiment." "you never learned with what murder case it was connected?" "no--the fact is, it passed pretty much out of my mind, as far as the details were concerned. although i'll never forget the picture." "pardon me for asking questions. i--i--just happen to come from boston and was trying to recall such a case. you don't remember what time of the year it was, or how long ago?" "yes, i do. it was in the summer, along about two or two and a half years ago." houston slumped back into his corner. ten minutes later, he found an opportunity to exchange cards with the young physician and sought his berth. to himself, he could give no reason for establishing the identity of the smoking-compartment informant. he had acted from some sort of subconscious compulsion, without reasoning, without knowing why he had catalogued the information or of what possible use it could be to him. but once in his berth, the picture continued to rise before him; of a big room in a hospital, of doctors gathered about, and of a man "killing" another with a mallet. had it been worthington? worthington, the tired-eyed, determined, over-zealous district attorney, who, day after day, had struggled and fought to send him to the penitentiary for life? had it been worthington, striving to reproduce the murder of tom langdon as he evidently had reconstructed it, experimenting with his experts in the safety of a different city, for points of evidence that would clinch the case against the accused man beyond all shadow of a doubt? instinctively houston felt that he just had heard an unwritten, unmentioned phase of his own murder case. yet--if that had been worthington, if those experts had found evidence against him, if the theories of the district attorney had been verified on that gruesome night in the "dead ward" of bellstrand hospital-- why had this damning evidence been allowed to sink into oblivion? why had it not been used against him? chapter xvi it was a problem which barry houston, in spite of wakefulness, failed to solve. next morning, eager for a repetition of the recital, in the hope of some forgotten detail, some clue which might lead him to an absolute decision, he sought the young doctor, only to find that he had left the train at dawn. a doorway of the past had been opened to houston, only to be closed again before he could clearly discern beyond. he went on to boston, still struggling to reconstruct it all, striving to figure what connection it might have had, but in vain. and with his departure from the train, new thoughts, new problems, arose to take the place of memories. his purposes now were of the future, not of the past. and naturally, he turned first to the office of his father's attorney,--the bleak place where he had conferred so many times in the black days. old judge mason, accustomed to seeing barry in time of stress, tried his best to be jovial. "well, boy, what is it this time?" "money." houston came directly to the point. "i've come back to boston to find out if any one will trust me." "with or without security." "with it--the best in the world." then he brought forward a copy of the contract. mason studied it at length, then, with a slow gesture, raised his glasses to a resting place on his forehead. "i--i don't know, boy," he said at last. "it's a rather hard problem to crack. i wish there was some one in the family we could go to for the money." "but there isn't." "no. your uncle walt might have it. but i'm afraid that he wouldn't feel like lending it to you. he still believes--well, you know how fathers are about their boys. he's forgotten most of tom's bad points by now." "we'll drop him from the list. how about the bankers." "we'll have to see. i'm a little afraid there. i know you'll pardon me for saying it, barry, but they like to have a man come to them with clean hands. not that you haven't got them," he interjected, "but--well, you know bankers. what's the money for; running expenses?" "no. machinery. the other mill burned down, you know--and as usual, without insurance. we have a makeshift thing set up there now--but it's nothing to what will be needed. i've got to have a good, smooth-working plant--otherwise i won't be able to live up to specifications." "you're not," and the old lawyer smiled quizzically, "going to favor your dearly beloved friend with the order, are you?" "who?" "worthington." "the district attorney?" "that was. plutocrat now, and member of society, you know. he came into his father's money, just after he went out of office, and bought into the east coast machinery company when it was on its last legs. his money was like new blood. they've got a good big plant. he's president," again the smile, "and i know he'd be glad to have your order." houston continued the sarcasm. "i'd be overjoyed to give it to him. in fact, i think i'd refuse to buy any machinery if i couldn't get it from such a dear friend as worthington was. it wasn't his fault that i wasn't sent to the penitentiary." "no, that's right, boy." old lawyer mason was quietly reminiscent. "he tried his best. it seemed to me in those days he was more of a persecutor than prosecutor." "let's forget it." houston laughed uneasily. "now, to go back to the bankers--" "there isn't much for us to do but to try them, one after another. i guess we might as well start now as any time." late that afternoon they were again in the office, the features of mason wrinkled with thought, those of barry houston plainly discouraged. they had failed. the refusals had been courteous, fraught with many apologies for a tight market, and effusive regrets that it would be impossible to loan money on such a gilt-edged proposition as the contract seemed to hold forth, but-- there had always been that one word, that stumbling-block against which they had run time after time, shielded and padded by courtesy, but present nevertheless. nor were houston and mason unaware of the real fact which lay behind it all; that the bankers did not care to trust their money in the hands of a man who had been accused of murder and who had escaped the penalty of such a charge by a margin, which to boston, at least, had seemed exceedingly slight. one after another, there in the office, mason went over the list of his business acquaintances, seeking for some name that might mean magic to them. but no such inspiration came. "drop back to-morrow, boy," he said at last. "i'll think over the thing to-night, and i may be able to get a bright idea. it's going to be tough sledding--too tough, i'm afraid. if only we didn't have to buck up against that trial, and the ideas people seem to have gotten of it, we'd be all right. but--" there it was again, that one word, that immutable obstacle which seemed to arise always. houston reached for his hat. "i'm going to keep on trying, anyway, mr. mason. i'll be back to-morrow. i'm going to get that money if i have to make a canvass of boston, if i have to go out and sell shares at a dollar apiece and if i go broke paying dividends. i've made my promise to go through--and i'm going!" "good. i'll be looking for you." but half an hour later, following a wandering, aimless journey through the crooked streets, barry houston suddenly straightened with an inspiration. he whirled, he dived for a cigar store and for a telephone. "hello!" he called, after the long wait for connections. "mr. mason? don't look for me tomorrow--i believe i'll not be there." "but you haven't given it up?" "given up?" houston laughed with sudden enthusiasm. "no--i've just started. put the date off a day or two until i can try something that's buzzing around in my head. it's a wild idea--but it may work. if it doesn't, i'll see you thursday." then he turned from the telephone and toward the railroad station. "one, to new york," he ordered hurriedly through the ticket window. "i've got time to make that seven-forty, if you rush it." and the next morning, barry houston was in new york, swirling along seventh avenue toward bellstrand hospital. there he sought the executive offices and told his story. "five minutes later he was looking at the books of the institution, searching, searching,--at last to stifle a cry of excitement and bend closer to a closely written page. "august second," he read. "kilbane worthington, district attorney, boston, mass. acc by drs. horton, mayer and brensteam. investigations into effect of blows on skull. eight cadavers." with fingers that were almost frenzied, houston copied the notation, closed the book, and hurried again for a taxicab. it yet was only nine o'clock. it the traffic were not too thick, if the driver were skilful-- he raced through the gate at grand central just as it was closing. he made the train in unison with the last drawling cry of the conductor. then for hours, in the pullman chair car, he fidgeted, counting the telegraph posts, checking off the stations as they flipped past the windows, through a day of eagerness, of excited, racking anticipation. it was night when he reached boston, but houston did not hesitate. a glance at a telephone book, another rocking ride in a taxicab, and barry stood on the veranda of a large house, awaiting the answer to his ring at the bell. finally it came. "mr. worthington," he demanded. the butler arched his eyebrows. "sorry, but mr. worthington has left orders not to be--" "tell him that it is a matter of urgent business. that it is something of the utmost importance to him." a wait. the butler returned. "sorry, sir. but mr. worthington is just ready to retire." "you tell mr. worthington," answered houston in a crisp voice, "that he either will see me or regret it. tell him that i am very sorry, but that just now, i am forced to use his own methods--and that if he doesn't see me within five minutes, there will be something in the morning papers that will be, to say the least, extremely distasteful to him." "the name, please?" "it doesn't matter." "are you from a newspaper?" "i'm not saying. whether i go to one directly from here, depends entirely upon mr. worthington. will you please take my message?" "i'm afraid--" "take my message!" "directly, sir!" another wait. then: "mr. worthington will see you in the library, sir." "thanks." houston almost bounded into the hall. a moment later, in the dimness of the heavily furnished, somewhat mysterious appearing library, barry houston again faced the man whom, at one time, he had hoped never again to see. kilbane worthington was seated at the large table, much in the manner which he had affected in court, elbows on the surface, chin cupped in his thin, nervous hands. the light was not good for recognizing faces; without realizing it, the former district attorney had placed himself at a disadvantage. squinting, he sought to make out the features of the man who had hurried into the room, and failing, rose. "well," he asked somewhat brusquely, "may i inquire--" "certainly. my name's houston." "houston--houston--it seems to me--" "maybe your memory needs refreshing. such little things as i figured in probably slipped your mind the minute you were through with them. to be explicit, my name is barry houston, son of the late william k. houston. you and i met--in the courtroom. you once did me the very high honor to accuse me of murder and then tried your level best to send me to the penitentiary for life when you knew, absolutely and thoroughly, that i was an innocent man!" chapter xvii the former district attorney started slightly. then, coming still closer, he peered into the tense, angry features of barry houston. "a bit melodramatic, aren't you?" he asked in a sneering tone. "perhaps so. but then murder is always melodramatic." "murder? you don't intend--" "no. i simply referred to the past. i should have said 'reference to murder.' i hope you will pardon me if any inelegance of language should offend you." "sarcastic, aren't you?" "i have a right to be. knowing what i know--i should use more than sarcasm." "if i'm not mistaken, you have. the butler spoke of some threat." "hardly a threat, mr. worthington." houston was speaking coldly, incisively. "merely what i have heard you often call in court a statement of fact. in case it wasn't repeated to you correctly, i'll bore you with it again. i said that if you didn't see me immediately, there would be something extremely distasteful to you in the morning papers." "well? i've seen you. now--" "wait just a moment, mr. worthington. i thought it was only civil lawyers who indulged in technicalities. i didn't know that criminal," and he put emphasis on the word, then repeated it, "that criminal lawyers had the habit also." "if you'll cease this insulting--" "oh, i think i have a right to that. to tell the truth, i've only begun to insult you. that is--if you call this sort of a thing an insult. to get at the point of the matter, mr. worthington, i want to be fair with you. i've come here to ask something--i'll admit that--but it is something that should benefit you in a number of ways. but we'll speak of that later. the main point is this: i am thinking very seriously of suing the city of boston for a million dollars." "well? what's that to me?" worthington sighed, with a bit of relief, houston thought, and walked back to the table for a cigarette. "i haven't anything to do with the city. go as far as you like. i'm out of politics; in case you don't know, i'm in business for myself and haven't the least interest in what the city does, or what any one does to it." "even though you should happen to be the bone of contention--and the butt of what may be a good deal of unpleasant newspaper notoriety?" "you're talking blackmail!" "i beg your pardon. blackmail is something by which one extorts money. i'm here to try to give you money--or at least the promise of it--and at the same time allow you to make up for something that should, whether it does or not, weigh rather heavily on your conscience." "if you'll come to the point." "exactly. do you remember my case?" "in a way. i had a good many of them." "which, i hope, you did not handle in the same way that you did mine. but to recall it all to your recollection, i was accused of having killed my own cousin, tom langdon, with a mallet." "yes--i remember now. you two had some kind of a drunken fight." "and you, at the time, if i remember correctly, had a fight of your own. it was nearing election time." "correct. i remember now." then, with a little smile, "quite luckily, i was beaten." "i agree with you there. but to return to the original statement. am i right, or am i wrong, when i say that you were striving very hard, for a record that would aid you in the election?" "every official tries to make the best possible record. especially at election time." "no matter whom it injures." "i didn't say that." "but i did--and i repeat it. no matter whom it injures! now, to be plain and frank and brutal with you to-night as you were with me in the courtroom, mr. worthington, i have pretty convincing evidence that you knew i was innocent. further, that you knew it almost at the beginning of the trial. but that in spite of this knowledge, you continued to persecute me--notice, i don't say prosecute--to persecute me in a hope of gaining a conviction, simply that you might go before the voters and point to me in prison as a recommendation of your efficiency as a district attorney." "oh!" worthington threw away his cigarette with an angry gesture, and came forward. "you fellows are all the same. you're always squealing about your innocence. i never saw a man yet who wasn't innocent in one way or another. even when they confess, they've got some kind of an alibi for their act. they didn't know the gun was loaded, or the other fellow hit them first or--" "in my case i have no alibis. and this isn't simply my own statement. i have sufficient witnesses." "then why didn't you produce them at the trial?" "i couldn't. you had them." "i?" "yes. i don't mind giving you the names. one of them was doctor horton. another was doctor mayer. a third was doctor brensteam, all physicians of the highest reputation. i would like, mr. worthington, to know why you did not make use of them in the trial instead of the expert hamon, and that other one, jaggerston, who, as every one knows, are professional expert witnesses, ready at all times to testify upon anything from handwriting to the velocity of a rifle bullet, providing they are sufficiently paid." "why? simply because i figured they would make the best witnesses." "it couldn't have been," and houston's voice was more coldly caustic than ever, "that it was because they would be willing to perjure themselves, while the real doctors wouldn't?" "of course not! this whole thing is silly. besides, i'm out of it entirely. i'm--" "mr. worthington," and houston's tone changed. "your manner and your words indicate very plainly that you're not out of it--that you merely wish you were. isn't that the truth? don't you?" "well," and the man lit a fresh cigarette, "i feel that way about every murder case." "but especially about this one. you're not naturally a persecutor. you don't naturally want to railroad men to the penitentiary. and i believe that, as a general thing, you didn't do it. you tried it in my case; election was coming on, you had just run up against two or three acquittals, and you had made up your mind that in my case you were going to run the gauntlet to get a conviction. i don't believe you wanted to send me up simply for the joy of seeing an innocent man confined in prison. you wanted a conviction--wasn't that it?" "every prosecutor works for that." "not when he knows the man is innocent, mr. worthington. you knew that--i have proof. i have evidence that you found it out almost at the beginning of my trial--august second, to be exact--and that you used this information to your own ends. in other words, it told you what the defense would testify; and you built up, with your professional experts, a wall to combat it. now, isn't that the truth?" "why--" the former district attorney took more time than usual to knock the ashes from his cigarette, then suddenly changed the subject. "you spoke of a suit you might bring when you came in here?" "yes. against the city. i have a perfect one. i was persecuted when the official in charge of the case knew that i was not guilty. to that end i can call the three doctors i've mentioned and put them on the stand and ask them why they did not testify in the case. i also can call the officials of bellstrand hospital in new york where you conducted certain experiments on cadavers on the night of august second; also a doctor who saw you working in there and who watched you personally strike the blows with a mallet; further, i can produce the records of the hospital which state that you were there, give the names of the entire party, together with the number of corpses experimented upon. is that sufficient evidence that i know what i'm talking about?" worthington examined his cigarette again. "i suppose it's on the books down there. but there's nothing to state of what the experiments consisted." "i have just told you that i have an eye-witness. further, there are the three doctors." "have you seen them?" houston thought quickly. it was his only chance. "i know exactly what their testimony will be." "you've made arrangements for your suit then." worthington's color had changed. houston noticed that the hand which held the cigarette trembled slightly. "no, i haven't. i'm not here to browbeat you, mr. worthington, or lie to you. it came to me simply as a ruse to get in to see you. but the more i think of it, the more i know that i could go through with it and possibly win it. i might get my million. i might not. i don't want money gained in that way. the taxpayers would have to foot the bill, not yourself." "oh, i guess i'd pay enough," worthington had assumed an entirely different attitude now. "it would hurt me worse in business than it would if i were still in office. whether it's true or not." "you know in your heart that there's no doubt of that." worthington did not answer. houston waited a moment, then went on. "but personally, i don't want to file the suit. i don't want any money--that way. i don't want any bribes, or exculpations, or statements from you that you know me to be innocent. some might believe it; others would only ask how much i paid to have that statement given out. the damage has been done and is next to irreparable. you could have cleared me easily enough by dropping the case, or making your investigations before ever an indictment was issued. you didn't, and i remain guilty in the minds of most of boston, in spite of what the jury said. a man is not guilty until convicted--under the law. he is guilty as soon as accused, with the lay mind. so you can't help me much there; my only chance for freedom lies in finding the man who actually committed that murder. but that's something else. we won't talk about it. you owe me something. and i'm here to-night to ask you for it." "i thought you said you didn't want any bribes." "i don't. may i ask you what your margin of profit is at your machinery company?" "my margin of profit? what's that? well, i suppose it runs around twelve per cent." "then will you please allow me to give you twelve thousand dollars in profits? i'm in the lumber business. i have a contract that runs into the millions; surely that is good enough security to a man"--he couldn't resist the temptation--"who knows my absolute innocence. it isn't good enough for the bankers, who still believe me guilty, so i've come directly to you. i need one hundred thousand dollars' worth of lumber-mill machinery, blade saws, crosscuts, jackers, planers, kickers, chain belting, leather belting, and everything else that goes to make up a first-class plant. i can pay for it--in installments. i guarantee to give you every cent above my current running expenses until the bill is disposed of. my contract with the mountain, plains and salt lake railroad is my bond. i don't even ask a discount, or for you to lose any of your profits. i don't even ask any public statement by you regarding my innocence. all i want is to have you do what you would do to any reputable business man who came to you with a contract running into the millions of dollars--to give me credit for that machinery. it's a fair proposition. come in with me on it, and we'll forget the rest. stay out--and i fight!" for a long moment, kilbane worthington paced the floor, his hands clasped behind him, his rather thin head low upon his chest. then, at last, he looked up. "how long are you going to be in town?" "until this matter's settled." "where are you staying?" "the touraine." "very well. i'll have a machine there to pick you up at ten o'clock to-morrow morning and take you to my office. in the meanwhile--i'll think it over." chapter xviii it was a grinning barry houston who leaped from the train at tabernacle a week later and ran open-armed through the snow toward the waiting ba'tiste. "you got my telegram?" he asked it almost breathlessly. "ah, _oui! oui, oui, oui_! _sacre_, and you are the wizard!" "hardly that." they were climbing into the bobsled. "i just had enough sense to put two and two together. on the train to boston i got a tip about my case, something that led me to believe that the district attorney knew all the time that i was innocent. he had conducted experiments at the bellstrand hospital of which nothing had been said in the trial. three famous doctors had been with him. as soon as i saw their names, i instinctively knew that if the experiments had turned out the way the district attorney had wanted them, he would have used them in the trial against me, but that their silence meant the testimony was favorable to me." "_bon_!" ba'tiste grinned happily. "and he?" "it just happened that he is now in the mill machinery business. i," and houston smiled with the memory of his victory, "i convinced him that he should give me credit." "eet is good. in the woods, there are many men. the log, he is pile all about the mill. three thousand tie, already they are stack up." "and the woman--she has caused no trouble?" "no. peuff! i have no see her. mebbe so, eet was a mistake." "maybe, ba'tiste, but i was sure i recognized her. the blackburn crowd hasn't given up the ghost yet?" "ah, no. but eet will. still they think that we cannot fill the contract. they think that after the first shipment or so, then we will have to quit." "they may be right, ba'tiste. it would require nearly two thousand men to keep that mill supplied with logs, once we get into production, outside of the regular mill force, under conditions such as they are now. it would be ruinous. we've got to find some other way, ba'tiste, of getting our product to the mill. that's all there is to it." "ba'teese, he have think of a way--that he have keep secret. ba'teese, he have a, what-you-say, hump." "hunch, you mean?" "ah, _oui_. eet is this. we will not bring the log to the mill. we will bring the mill to the log. we have to build the new plant, yes, _oui_? then, _bon_, we shall build eet in the forest, where there is the lumber." "quite so. and then who will build a railroad switch that can negotiate the hills to the mill?" "ah!" ba'tiste clapped a hand to his forehead. "_veritas_? i am the prize, what-you-say, squash! ba'teese, he never think of eet!" a moment he sat glum, only to surge with another idea. "but, now, ba'teese have eet! he shall go to medaine! he shall tell her to write to the district attorney of boston--that he will tell her--" "it was part of my agreement, ba'tiste, that he be forced to make no statements regarding my innocence." "ah, but--" "it was either that, or lose the machinery. he's in business. he's afraid of notoriety. the plain, cold truth is that he tried to railroad me, and only my knowledge of that fact led him into doing a decent and honorable thing. but i sealed any chance of his moral aid when i made my bargain. it was my only chance." slowly ba'tiste nodded and slapped the reins on the back of the horse. "ba'teese will not see medaine," came at last, and they went on. again the waiting game, but a busy game however, one which kept the ice roads polished and slippery; which resulted, day by day, in a constantly growing mountain of logs about the diminutive sawmill. one in which plans were drawn, and shell-like buildings of mere slats and slab sidings erected, while heavy, stone foundations were laid in the firm, rocky soil to support the machinery, when it arrived. a game in which houston hurried from the forests to the mill and back again, now riding the log sheds as a matter of swifter locomotion, instead of for the thrill, as he once had done. another month went by, to bring with it the bill of lading which told that the saws, the beltings, the planers and edgers and trimmers, and the half hundred other items of machinery were at last on their way, a month of activities and--of hopes. for to ba'tiste renaud and barry houston there yet remained one faint chance. the blackburn crowd had taken on a gamble, one which, at the time, had seemed safe enough; the investment of thousands of dollars for a plant which they had believed firmly would be free of competition. that plant could not hope for sufficient business to keep it alive, with the railroad contract gone, and the bigger mill of houston and renaud in successful operation. there would come the time when they must forfeit that lease and contract through non-payment, or agree to re-lease them to the original owner. but would that time arrive soon enough? it was a grim possibility,--a gambling wager that held forth hope, and at the same time threatened them with extinction. for the same thing applied to houston and ba'tiste that applied to blackburn and thayer. if they could not make good on their contract, the other mill was ever ready to step in. "eet all depen'," said ba'tiste more than once during the snowy, frost-caked days in which they watched every freight train that pulled, white-coated, over the range into tabernacle. "eet all depen' on the future. mebbe so, we make eet. mebbe so, we do not. but we gamble, eh, _mon_ baree?" "with our last cent," came the answer of the other man, and in the voice was grimness and enthusiasm. it was a game of life or extinction now. march, and a few warm days, which melted the snows only that they might crust again. back and forth traveled the bobsled to tabernacle, only to meet with disappointment. "i've wired the agent at denver three times about that stuff," came the announcement of the combined telegrapher and general supervisor of freight at the little station. "he's told me that he'd let me know as soon as it got in. but nothing's come yet." a week more, and another week after that, in which spring taunted the hills, causing the streams to run bank-full with the melting waters of the snow, in which a lone robin made his appearance about the camp,--only to fade as quickly as he had come. for winter, tenacious, grim, hateful winter, had returned for a last fling, a final outburst of frigid viciousness that was destined to wrap the whole range country in a grip of terror. they tried the bobsled, ba'tiste and houston, only to give it up. all night had the snow fallen, in a thick, curtain-like shield which blotted out even the silhouettes of the heaviest pines at the brow of the hill, which piled high upon the ridges, and with great sweeps of the wind drifted every cut of the road to almost unfathomable depths. the horses floundered and plowed about in vain efforts at locomotion, at last to plunge in the terror of a bottomless road. they whinnied and snorted, as though in appeal to the men on the sled behind,--a sled that worked on its runners no longer, but that sunk with every fresh drift to the main-boards themselves. wadded with clothing, shouting in a mixture of french and english and his own peculiar form of slang, ba'tiste tried in vain to force the laboring animals onward. but they only churned uselessly in the drift; their hoofs could find no footing, save the yielding masses of snow. puffing, as though the exertion had been his own, the trapper turned and stared down at his companion. "eet is no use," came finally. "the horse, he can not pull. we must make the trip on the snowshoe." they turned back for the bunk house, to emerge a few moments later,--bent, padded forms, fighting clumsily against the sweep of the storm. ghosts they became almost immediately, snow-covered things that hardly could be discerned a few feet away, one hand of each holding tight to the stout cord which led from waist-belt to waist-belt, their only insurance against being parted from each other in the blinding swirl of winter. hours, stopping at short intervals to seek for some landmark--for the road long ago had become obliterated--at last to see faintly before them the little box-car station house, and to hurry toward it in a fear that neither of them dared to express to the other. snow in the mountains is not a gentle thing, nor one that comes by fits and gusts. the blizzard does not sweep away its vengeful enthusiasm in a day or a night. it comes and it stays--departing for a time, it seems--that it may gather new strength and fury for an even fiercer attack. and the features of the agent, as he stared up from the rattling telegraph key, were not conducive to relief. "your stuff's on the way, if that's any news to you," came with a worried laugh. "it left denver on number at five o'clock this morning behind number eight. that's no sign that it's going to get here. eight isn't past tollifer yet." "not past tollifer?" houston stared anxiously. "why, it should be at the top of the range by now. it hasn't even begun to climb." "good reason. they're getting this over there too." "the snow?" "worse than here, if anything. denver reported ten inches at eleven o'clock--and it's fifteen miles from the range. there was three inches when the train started. lord knows where that freight is--i can't get any word from it." "but--" "gone out again!" the telegrapher hammered disgustedly on the key. "the darned line grounds on me about every five minutes. i--" "do you hear anything from crestline--about conditions up there?" "bad. it's even drifting in the snowsheds. they've got two plows working in 'em keeping 'em open, and another down at crystal lake. if things let up, they're all right. if not--they'll run out of coal by to-morrow morning and be worse than useless. there's only about a hundred tons at crestline--and it takes fuel to feed them babies. but so far--" "yes?" "they're keeping things halfway open. wait a minute--" he bent over the key again--"it's opened up. number eight's left tollifer. the freight's behind it, and three more following that. i guess they're going to try to run them through in a bunch. they'll be all right--if they can only get past crestline. but if they don't--" he rattled and banged at the key for a long moment, cursing softly. only the dead "cluck" of a grounded line answered him. houston turned to ba'tiste. "it looks bad." "_oui_! but eet depen'--on the storm. eet come this way, near' ev' spring. las' year the road tie up--and the year before. oh," he shrugged his shoulders, "that is what one get for living in a country where the railroad eet chase eetself all over the mountain before eet get here." "there wouldn't be any chance at the tunnel either, would there? they haven't cut through yet." "no--and they won' finish until june. that is when they figure--" "that's a long way off." "too long," agreed ba'tiste, and turned again toward the telegrapher, once more alert over a speaking key. but before it could carry anything but a fragmentary message, life was gone again, and the operator turned to the snow-caked window, with its dreary exterior of whirling snow that seemed to come ever faster. "things are going to get bad in this country if this keeps up," came at last. "there ain't any too great a stock of food." "how about hay for the cattle?" "all right. i guess. if the ranchers can get to it. but that's the trouble about this snow. it ain't like the usual spring blizzard. it's dry as a january fall, and it's sure drifting. keeps up for four or five days; they'll be lucky to find the haystacks." for a long time then, the three stood looking out the window, striving--merely for the sake of passing time--to identify the almost hidden buildings of the little town, scarcely more than a hundred yards away. at last the wire opened again, and the operator went once more to his desk. ba'tiste and houston waited for him to give some report. but there was none. at last: "what is it?" houston was at his side. the operator looked up. "denver asking marionville if it can put its snowplow through and try to buck the drifts from this side. no answer yet." a long wait. then: "well, that's done. only got one mallett engine at marionville. other two are in the shop. one engine couldn't--" he stopped. he bent over the key. his face went white--tense. "god!" "what's wrong?" the two men were close beside him now. "number one-eleven's kicked over the hill!" "one-eleven--kicked over?" "yes. snowplow. they're wiring denver, from crestline. the second plow's up there in the snowshed with the crew. one of 'em's dead. the other's--wait a minute, i have to piece it together." a silence, except for the rattling of the key, broken, jagged, a clattering voice of the distance, faint in the roar and whine of the storm, yet penetrating as it carried the news of a far-away world,--a world where the three waiting men knew that all had turned to a white hell of wintry fury; where the grim, forbidding mountains were now the abiding place of the snow-ledge and the avalanche; where even steel and the highest product of invention counted for nothing against the blast of the wind and the swirl of the tempest. then finally, as from far away, a strained voice came, the operator's: "ice had gotten packed on the rails already. one-eleven tried to keep on without a pick and shovel gang. got derailed on a curve just below crestline and went over. one-twelve's crew got the men up. the plow's smashed to nothing. fifty-three thousand dollars' worth of junk now. wait a minute--here's denver." again one of those agonizing waits, racking to the two men whose future depended largely upon the happenings atop the range. far on the other side, fighting slowly upward, was a freight train containing flatcar after flatcar loaded with the necessary materials of a large sawmill. true, june was yet two months away. but months are short when there is work to do, when machinery must be installed, and when contracts are waiting. every day, every hour, every minute counted now. and as if in answer to their thoughts, the operator straightened, with a little gesture of hopelessness. "guess it's all off," came at last. "the general superintendent in denver's on the wire. says to back up everything to tollifer, including the plows, and give up the ghost." "give it up?" houston stared blankly at the telegrapher. "but that's not railroading!" "it is when you're with a concern that's all but broke," answered the operator. "it's cheaper for this old wooden-axle outfit to quit than to go on fighting--" "that mean six weeks eef this storm keep up two days longer!" ba'tiste broke in excitedly. "by to-morrow morning, ever' snowshed, he will be bank-full of snow. the track, he will be four inches in ice. six week--this country, he can not stand it! tell him so on the telegraph! tell him the cattle, he will starve! peuff! no longer do i think of our machinery! eef it is los'--we are los'. but let eet go. say to heem nothing of that. say to heem that there are the cattle that will starve, that in the stores there is not enough provision. that--" "i know. i'll call denver. but i don't know what chance there is--the road's been waiting for a chance to go into bankruptcy, anyway--since this new carrow point deal is about through. they haven't got any money--you know that, ba'tiste. it's cheaper for them to shut down for six weeks than to try to keep running. that fifty thousand they lost on that snowplow just about put the crimp in 'em. it might cost a couple of hundred thousand more to keep the road open. what's the result? it's easier to quit. but i'll try 'em--" he turned to the key and hammered doggedly. only soggy deadness answered. he tested his plugs and tried again. in vain. an hour later, he still was there, fighting for the impossible, striving to gain an answer from vacancy, struggling to instil life into a thing deadened by ice, and drifts, and wind, and broken, sagging telegraph poles. the line was gone! chapter xix until dusk they remained in the boxlike station, hoping against hope. but the whine and snarl of the wind were the only sounds that came to them, the steady banking of the snow against the windows the only evidence of life. the telegraph line, somewhere between tabernacle and the country which lay over the bleak, now deadly range, was a shattered thing, with poles buried in drifts, with loose strands of wire swinging in the gusts of the blizzard, with ice coated upon the insulations, and repair--until the sun should come and the snows melt--an almost impossible task. "it'd take a guy with a diving suit to find some of them wires, i guess," the operator hazarded, as he finally ceased his efforts and reached for his coat and hat and snowshoes. "there ain't no use staying here. you fellows are going to sleep in town to-night, ain't you?" there was little else to do. they fought their way to the rambling boarding house, there to join the loafing group in what passed for a lobby and to watch with them the lingering death of day in a shroud of white. night brought no cessation of the wind, no lessening of the banks of snow which now were drifting high against the first-story windows; the door was only kept in working order through constant sallies of the bent old boarding-house keeper, with his snow shovel. windows banged and rattled, with a muffled, eerie sound; snow sifted through the tiniest cracks, spraying upon those who sat near them. the old cannon-ball stove, crammed with coal, reached the point where dull red spots enlivened its bulging belly; yet the big room was cold with non-detectable drafts, the men shivered in spite of their heavy clothing, and the region outside the immediate radius of the heater was barn-like with frigidity. midnight came, and the group about the stove slept in their chairs, rather than undergo the discomfort and coldness of bed. morning brought no relief. the storm was worse, if anything, and the boarding-house keeper faced drifts waist high at the doorway with his first shoveling expedition of the day. the telegrapher, at the frost-caked window, rubbed a spot with his hand and stared into the dimness of the flying snow, toward his station. "guess i'll have t' call for volunteers if i get in there to-day. we'll have to tunnel." ba'tiste and houston joined him. the box car that served as a station house--always an object of the heaviest drifts--was buried! the big french-canadian pulled at his beard. "peuff! eet is like the ground hog," he announced. "eet is underground already." "yeh. but i've got to get in there. the wire might be working." "so? we will help, baree and ba'teese. come--we get the shovels." even that was work. the town simply had ceased to be; the stores were closed, solitude was everywhere. they forced a window and climbed into the little general merchandise establishment, simply because it was easier than striving to get in through the door. then, armed with their shovels, they began the work of tunneling to the station. two hours later, the agent once more at his dead key, ba'tiste turned to houston. "eet is the no use here," he announced. "we must get to camp and assemble the men that are strong and willing to help. then--" "yes?" "then, eet will be the battle to help those who are not fortunate. there is death in this storm." again with their waist-belt guide lines, they started forth, to bend against the storm in a struggle that was to last for hours; to lose their trail, to find it again, through the straggling poles that in the old days had carried telephone wires, and at last to reach the squat, snowed-in buildings of camp. there, ba'tiste assembled the workmen in the bunk house. "there are greater things than this now," he announced. "we want the strong men--who will go back with us to tabernacle, and who will be willing to take the risk to help the countryside. ah, _oui_, eet is the danger that is ahead. how many of you will go?" one after another they readied for their snowshoes, silent men who acted, rather than spoke. a few were left behind, to care for the camp in case of emergencies, to keep the roofs as free from snow as possible and to avoid cave-ins. the rest filed outside, one by one, awkwardly testing the bindings of their snowshoes, and awaiting the command. at the doorway, ba'tiste, his big hands fumbling, caught the paws of golemar, his wolf-dog, and raised the great, shaggy creature against his breast. "no," he said in kindly, indulgent fashion. "eet is not for golemar to go with us. the drift, they are deep. there is no crust on the snow. golemar, he would sink above his head. then blooey! there would be no golemar!" guide lines were affixed. once more, huddled, clumsy figures of white, one following the other, they made the gruelling trip back to tabernacle and the duties which they knew lay before them. for already the reports were beginning to come in, brought by storm-weakened, blizzard-battered men, of houses where the roofs had crashed beneath the weight of snow, of lost ranchmen, of bawling cattle, drifting before the storm,--to death. it was the beginning of a two-weeks' siege of a white inferno. little time did barry houston have for thought in those weeks. there were too many other things to crowd upon him; too many cold, horrible hours in blinding snow, or in the faint glare of a ruddy sun which only broke through the clouds that it might jeer at the stricken country beneath it, then fade again in the whipping gusts of wind and its attendant clouds, giving way once more to the surging sweep of white and the howl of a freshened blizzard. telegraph poles reared only their cross-arms above the mammoth drifts. haystacks became buried, lost things. the trees of the forest, literally harnessed with snow, dropped their branches like tired arms too weary to longer bear their burdens. the whole world, it seemed, was one great, bleak thing of dreary white,--a desert in which there was life only that there might be death, where the battle for existence continued only as a matter of instinct. and through--or rather over--this bleak desert went the men of the west country, silent, frost-burned men, their lips cracked from the cut of wind, their eyes blood-red with inflammation, struggling here and there with a pack of food upon their back that they might reach some desolate home where there were women and children; or stopping to pull and tug at a snow-trapped steer and by main effort, drag him into a barren spot where the sweep of the gale had kept the ground fairly clear of snow; at times also, they halted to dig into a haystack, and through long hours scattered the welcome food about for the bawling cattle; or gathered wood, where such a thing was possible, and lighting great fires, left them, that they might melt the snows about a spot near a supply of feed, where the famished cattle could gather and await the next trip of the rescuers, bearing them sustenance. oftimes they stopped in vain--the beast which they sought to succor was beyond aid--and a revolver shot sounded, muffled in the thickness of the storm. then, with knives and axes, the attack came, and struggling forms bore to a ranch house the smoking portions of a newly butchered beef; food at least for one family until the relief of sun and warmth would come. it was a never-ending agony of long hours and muscle-straining work. but the men who partook--were men. and side by side with the others, with giant ba'tiste, with the silent woodsmen, with the angular, wiry ranchmen, was barry houston. his muscles ached. his head was ablaze with the eye-strain of constant white; his body numbed with cold from the time that he left the old cannon-ball stove of the boarding house in the early morning until he returned to it at night. long ago had he lost hope,--so far as personal aims and desires were concerned. the crestline road was tied up; it had quit completely; barry houston knew that the fury of the storm in this basin country below the hills was as nothing compared to the terror of those crag tops where altitude added to the frigidity, and where from mountain peak to mountain peak the blizzard leaped with ever-increasing ferocity. far out on the level stretches leading up to the plains of wyoming, other men were working, struggling doggedly from telegraph pole to telegraph pole, in an effort to repair the lines so that connection might be made to rawlins, and thence to cheyenne and denver,--to apprise the world that a great section of the country had been cut off from aid, that women and children were suffering from lack of food, that every day brought the news of a black splotch in the snow,--the form of a man, arms outstretched, face buried in the drift, who had fought and lost. but so far, there had been only failure. it was a struggle that made men grim and dogged; barry houston no less than the rest. he had ceased to think of the simpler things of life, of the ordinary problems, the usual worries or likes and dislikes. his path led once by the home of medaine robinette, and he clambered toward the little house with little more of feeling than of approaching that of the most unfamiliar ranchman. smoke was coming from the chimney. there were the marks of snowshoes. but they might mean nothing in the battle for existence. houston scrambled up to the veranda and banged on the door. a moment more, and he faced medaine robinette. "just wanted to see if you're all right," came almost curtly. "yes--thank you." "need any food?" "i have plenty." "anybody sick?" "no. lost wing has found wood. we're keeping warm. tell me--" and there was the politeness of emergency in her tones--"is there any need for women in tabernacle? i am willing to go if--" "not yet. besides, a woman couldn't get in there alone." "i could. i'm strong enough. besides, i've been out--i went to the hurd ranch yesterday. mrs. hurd's sick--lost wing brought me the word." "then keep on with that. there's nothing in tabernacle--and no place for any one who isn't destitute. stay here. have you food enough for hurd's?" "yes. that is--" "i'll leave my pack. take that over as you need it. there's enough for a week there. if things don't let up by that time, i'll be by again." "thank you." then the door was closed, and houston went his way again, back to tabernacle and a fresh supply for his pack--hardly realizing the fact that he had talked to the woman he could not help wishing for--the woman he would have liked to have loved. the world was almost too gray, too grim, too horrible for houston even to remember that there was an estrangement between them. dully, his intellect numbed as his body was numbed, he went back to his tasks,--tasks that were seemingly endless. day after day, the struggle remained the same, the wind, the snow, the drifts, the white fleece flying on the breast of the gale even when there were no storm clouds above, blotting out the light of the sun and causing the great ball to be only a red, ugly, menacing thing in a field of dismal gray. night after night the drifts swept, changing, deepening in spots where the ground had been clear before, smoothing over the hummocks, weaving across the country like the vagaries of shifting sands before they finally packed into hard, compressed mounds, to form bulwarks for newer drifts when the next storm came. day after day,--and then quiet, for forty-eight hours. it caused men to shout,--men who had cursed the sun in the blazing noonday hours of summer, but men who now extended their arms to it, who slapped one another on the back, who watched the snow with blood-red eyes for the first sign of a melting particle, and who became hysterically jubilant when they saw it. forty-eight hours! deeper and deeper went the imprints of milder weather upon the high-piled serrations of white, at last to cease. the sun had faded on the afternoon of the second day. the thaw stopped. the snowshoes soon carried a new crunching sound that gradually became softer, more muffled. for the clouds had come again, the wind had risen with a fiercer bite than ever in it; again the snow was falling. but the grim little army of rescuers, plodding from one ranchhouse to another, had less of worriment in their features now,--even though the situation was no less tense, no less dangerous. at least the meager stores of the small merchandise establishment in tabernacle could be distributed with more ease; a two-inch crust of snow had formed over the main snowfall, permitting small sleds to be pulled behind struggling men; the world beneath had been frozen in, to give place to a new one above. and with that: "it's open! it's open!" the shout came from the lips of the telegrapher, waving his arms as he ran from the tunnel that led to the stationhouse. "it's open! i've had rawlins on the wire!" men crowded about him and thumped into the little box car to listen, like children, to the rattling of the telegraph key,--as though they never had heard one before. so soon does civilization feel the need of its inventions, once they are taken away; so soon does the mind become primitive, once the rest of the world has been shut away from it. eagerly they clustered there, staring with anxious eyes toward the operator as he hammered at the key, talking in whispers lest they disturb him, waiting for his interpretation of the message, like worshippers waiting for the word of an oracle. "i'm putting it all on the wire!" he announced at last, with feverish intensity. "i'm telling 'em just how it is over here. maybe they can do something--from rawlins." "rawlins?" houston had edged forward. "there's not a chance. it's hundreds of miles away; they can't use horses, and they certainly can't walk. wait--will you give me a chance at something?" a gleam had come into his eyes. his hands twisted nervously. voices mumbled about him; suddenly the great hands of ba'tiste grasped him by the shoulders and literally tossed him toward the telegrapher. "ah, _oui_! if eet is the idea--then speak it." "go on--" the telegrapher had stopped his key for a moment--"i'll put it through, if it'll help." "all right. get denver on the wire. then take this message to every newspaper in the city: "'can't you help us? please try to start campaign to force crestline road to open the pass. women and children are starving here. we have been cut off from the rest of the world for two weeks. we need food--and coal. road will not be open for four or five weeks more under ordinary circumstances. this will mean death to many of us here, the wiping out of a great timber and agricultural country, and a blot on the history of colorado. help us--and we will not forget it." "'the citizens of the west country.'" "ah, _oui_!" old ba'tiste was addressing the rest of the crowd. "the newspapers, they can help, better than any one else. eet is our chance. _bon_--good! _mon_ baree, he have the big, what-you-say, sentiment." "sounds good." the telegrapher was busily putting it on the wire. then a wait of hours,--hours in which the operator varied his routine by sending the word of the stricken country to cheyenne, to colorado springs, to pueblo, and thence, through the news agencies, to the rest of the world. "might as well get everybody in on it," he mused, as he pounded the telegraph instrument; "can't tell--some of those higher-ups might be in new york and think there wasn't anything to it unless they could see it in the new york papers. i--" then he stopped as the wire cut under his finger and clattered forth a message. he jumped. he grasped ba'tiste in his lank arms, then turned beaming to the rest of the gaping crowd. "it's from the papers in denver!" he shouted. "a joint message. they've taken up the fight!" a fight which had its echoes in the little railroad box car, the center of the deadened, shrouded west country, the news of which must travel to cheyenne, to rawlins, thence far down through the northern country over illy patched telegraph wires before it reached the place for which it was intended, the box car and its men who came and went, eager for the slightest word from the far-away, yet grudging of their time, lest darkness still find them in the snows, and night come upon them struggling to reach the little town and send them into wandering, aimless journeys that might end in death. for the snows still swirled, the storms still came and went, the red ball of the sun still refused to come forth in its beaming strength. and it was during this period of uncertainty that houston met ba'tiste renaud, returning from a cruising expedition far in the lake region, to find him raging, his fists clenched, his eyes blazing. "is eet that the world is all unjust?" he roared, as he faced houston. "is eet that some of us do our part, while others store up for emergency? eh? bah! i am the mad enough to tear them apart!" "who? what's gone wrong?" "i am the mad! you have no seen the m'sieu thayer during all the storm?" "no." "nor the m'sieu blackburn? nor the men who work for them. eh? you have no seen them?" "no, not once." "ah! i pass to-day the blackburn mill. they have shovel out about the sawshed. they have the saw going,--they keep at work, when there are the women and the babies who starve, when there are the cattle who are dying, when there is the country that is like a broken thing. but they work--for themself! they saw the log into the tie--they work from the piles of timber which they have about the sawmill, to store up the supply. they know that we do not get our machinery! they have think they have a chance--for the contract!" it brought houston to a sharp knowledge of conditions. they had given, that the rest of the country might not suffer. their enemies had worked on, fired with the new hope that the road over the mountains would not be opened; that the machinery so necessary to the carrying out of houston's contract would not arrive in time to be of aid. for without the ability to carry out the first necessities of that agreement, the rest must surely and certainly fail. long before, houston had realized the danger that the storm meant; there had been no emergency clause in the contract. now his hands clenched, his teeth gritted. "it almost seems that there's a premium on being crooked, ba'tiste," came at last. "it--" then he ceased. a shout had come from the distance. faintly through the sifting snow they could see figures running. then the words came,--faint, far-away, shrill shouts forcing their way through the veil of the storm. "they're going to open the road! they're going to open the road!" here, there and back again it came, men calling to men, the few women of the little settlement braving the storm that they too might add to the gladful cry. already, according to the telegram, snow-fighting machinery and men were being assembled in denver for the first spurt toward tollifer, and from there through the drifts and slides of the hills toward crestline. ba'tiste and houston were running now, as fast as their snowshoes would allow, oblivious for once of the cut of the wind and the icy particles of its frigid breath. "they open the road!" boomed ba'tiste in chorus with the rest of the little town. "ah, _oui_! they open the road. the crestline railroad, he have a heart after all, he have a--" "any old time!" it was a message bearer coming from the shack of a station. "they're not going to do it--it's the m. p. & s. l." "through the tunnel?" "no. over the hill. according to the message, the papers hammered the stuffing out of the crestline road. but you've got to admit that they haven't got either the motive power or the money. the other road saw a great chance to step in and make itself solid with this country over here. it's lending the men and the rolling stock. they're going to open another fellow's road, for the publicity and the good will that's in it." a grin came to houston's lips,--the first one in weeks. he banged ba'tiste on his heavily wadded shoulder. "that's the kind of railroad to work for!" "ah, _oui_! and when eet come through--ah, we shall help to build it." two pictures flashed across houston's brain; one of a snowy sawmill with the force working day and night, when all the surrounding country cried for help, working toward its selfish ends that it might have a supply of necessary lumber in case a more humane organization should fail; another of carload after carload of necessary machinery, snow-covered, ice-bound, on a sidetrack at tollifer, with the whole, horrible, snow-clutched fierceness of the continental divide between it and its goal. "i hope so!" he exclaimed fervently. "i hope so!" then, swept along by hurrying forms, they went on toward the station house, there to receive the confirmation of the glad news, to shout until their throats were raw, and then, still with their duties before them, radiate once more on their missions of mercy. for the announcement of intention was no accomplishment. it was one thing for the snowplows and the gangs and tremendous engines of the m. p. & s. l. to attempt to open the road over the divide. but it was quite another thing to do it! all that day houston thought of it, dreamed of it, tried to visualize it,--the fight of a railroad against the snows of the hills. he wondered how the snowplows would work, how they would break through the long, black snowsheds, now crammed with the thing which they had been built to resist. he thought of the laborers; and his breath pulled sharply. would they have enough men? it would be grueling work up there, terrific work; would there be sufficient laborers who would be willing to undergo the hardships for the money they received? would-- in the night he awoke, again thinking of it. every possible hand that could swing a pick or jam a crowbar against grudging ice would be needed up there. every pair of shoulders willing to assume the burdens of a horrible existence that others might live would be welcomed. a mad desire began to come over him; a strange, impelling scheme took hold of his brain. they would need men,--men who would not be afraid, men who would be willing to slave day and night if necessary to the success of the adventure. and who should be more willing than he? his future, his life, his chance of success, where now was failure, lay at tollifer. his hands would be more than eager! his muscles more than glad to ache with the fatigue of manual labor! long before dawn he rose and scribbled a note in the dim light of the old kerosene lamp in the makeshift lobby, a note to ba'tiste renaud: "i'm going over the range. i can't wait. they may need me. i'm writing this, because you would try to dissuade me if i told you personally. don't be afraid for me--i'll make it somehow. i've got to go. it's easier than standing by. "houston." then, his snowshoes affixed, he went out into the night. the stars were shining dimly, and houston noticed them with an air of thankfulness as he took the trail of the telephone poles and started toward the faint outline of the mountains in the distance. it would make things easier; but an hour later, as he looked for a dawn that did not come, he realized that it had been only a jest of the night. the storm clouds were thick on the sky again, the snow was dashing about him once more; half-blindly, gropingly, he sought to force his way from one pole to another,--in vain. he measured his steps, and stopping, looked about him. he had traveled the distance from one pole to another, yet in the sweep of the darting sheet of white he could discern no landmark, nothing to guide him farther on his journey. he floundered aimlessly, striving by short sallies to recover the path from which the storm had taken him, but all to no purpose. if dawn would only come! again and again, hardly realizing the dangers to which he was subjecting himself, houston sought to regain his lost sense of direction. once faintly, in the far-away, as the storm lifted for a moment, he thought that he glimpsed a pole and hurried toward it with new hope, only to find it a stalwart trunk of a dead tree, rearing itself above the mound-like drifts. discouraged, half-beaten, he tried again, only to wander farther than ever from the trail. dawn found him at last, floundering hopelessly in snow-screened woods, going on toward he knew not where. a half-hour, then he stopped. fifty feet away, almost covered by the changing snows, a small cabin showed faintly, as though struggling to free itself from the bonds of white, and houston turned toward it eagerly. his numbed hands banged at the door, but there came no answer. he shouted; still no sound came from within, and he turned the creaking, protesting knob. the door yielded, and climbing over the pile of snow at the step, houston guided his snowshoes through the narrow door, blinking in the half-light in an effort to see about him. there was a stove, but the fire was dead. at the one little window, the curtain was drawn tight and pinned at the sides to the sash. there was a bed--and the form of some one beneath the covers. houston called again, but still there came no answer. he turned to the window, and ripping the shade from its fastenings, once more sought the bed, to bend over and to stare in dazed, bewildered fashion, as though in a dream. he was looking into the drawn, haggard features of an unconscious woman, the eyes half-open, yet unseeing, one emaciated hand grasped about something that was shielded by the covers. houston forced himself even closer. he touched the hand. he called: "agnes!" the eyelids moved slightly; it was the only evidence of life, save the labored, irregular breathing. then the hand moved, clutchingly. slowly, tremblingly, houston turned back an edge of the blankets,--and stood aghast. on her breast was a baby--dead! chapter xx there was no time for conjectures. the woman meant a human life,--in deadly need of resuscitation, and barry leaped to his task. warmth was the first consideration, and he hurried to the sheet-iron stove, with its pile of wood stacked behind, noticing, as he built the fire, cans and packages of provisions upon the shelf over the small wooden table, evidence that some one other than the woman herself had looked after the details of stocking the cabin with food and of providing against emergencies. at least a portion of the wood as he shoved it into the stove crackled and spit with the wetness of snow; the box had been replenished, evidently within the last few days. soon water was boiling. hot cloths went to the woman's head; quietly, reverently, barry had taken the still, small child from the tightly clenched arm and covered it, on the little table. and with the touch of the small, lifeless form, the resentment which had smoldered in houston's heart for months seemed to disappear. instinctively he knew what a baby means to a mother,--and she must be its mother. he understood that the agony of loss which was hers was far greater even than the agony which her faithlessness had meant for him. gently, almost tenderly, he went again to the bed, to chafe the cold, thin wrists, to watch anxiously the eyes, then at last to bend forward. the woman was looking at him, staring with fright in her gaze, almost terror. "barry--" the word was more of a mumble. "barry--" then the eyes turned, searching for the form that no longer was beside her. "my--my--" then, with a spasm of realization, she was silent. houston strove dully for words. "i'm sorry--agnes. don't be afraid of me. i'll get help for you." "don't." the voice was a monotone, minus expression, almost minus life. the face had become blank, so much parchment drawn over bone. "i've been sick--my baby--where's my baby?" "don't you know?" "yes," came at last. there was the dullness that comes when grief has reached the breaking point. "dead. it died--yesterday morning." houston could say nothing in answer. the simple statement was too tragic, too full of meaning, too fraught with the agony of that long day and night of suffering, for any reply in words that would not jar, or cause even a greater pang. quietly he turned to the stove, red-hot now, and with snow water began the making of gruel from the supplies on the shelf. once he turned, suddenly aware that the eyes of the woman were centered in his direction. but they were not upon him; their gaze was for one thing, one alone,--that tiny, covered form on the table. an hour passed silently, except for the trivialities of speech accompanying the proffered food. then, at last, forcing himself to the subject, houston asked a question: "where is he?" "who?" sudden fright had come into the woman's eyes. a name formed on houston's lips, only to be forced back into the more general query: "your husband." she smiled faintly. "you've got me, haven't you, barry?" a half-hysterical tone came now. "you know a lot--and you want the rest, so you can pay me back, don't you? oh," and the thin fingers plucked at the bedclothes, "i expected it! i expected it! i knew sooner or later--" "if you're talking about me, agnes--and what i've been led to believe, we'll save that for a future time. i think i'm enough of a man not to harass a person in time of grief." "coals of fire, eh?" a tinge of her old expression had come back, with returning strength. "nothing of the kind. i simply wanted to help you--because you're a woman in trouble. you're sick. your baby's--gone. if i can get your husband for you, i--" but she shook her head, suddenly weak and broken, suddenly only what barry was trying to make of her in his mind, a grieving woman, in need. "we're--not married. you'll know it sooner or later. i--i don't know where he is. he was here three days ago and was coming back that night. but he didn't. maybe he's gone--he'd threatened it." "he? you mean--" she pressed her lips tight. "i'm not going to tell--yet. you've got to do something for me first. i'm in trouble--" she was speaking rapidly now, the words flooding over her lips between gasps, her eyes set, her hands knitting. "my baby's dead. you know that, don't you?" she asked suddenly, in apparent forgetfulness of any previous conversation. "my baby's dead. it died yesterday morning--all day long i held it in my arms and cried. then i slept, didn't i?" "you were unconscious." "maybe i'm going to die." there was childishness in the voice. "like my baby. i baptized her before she went. maybe i'm going to die too." "i hope not, agnes." "you'd like to see me die!" the frail bonds of an illness-ridden brain were straining at their leash. "i can see it in your eyes. you'd like to see me die!" "why?" he could think of nothing else. "because--" and then she stopped. "no--you're trying to get me to tell--but i won't; i'll tell when you come back--i'll tell what i said and did when you bring me the note from the priest. you want me to tell, don't you? don't you? that's what you came here for. you found out i was here. i--did he tell?" she asked sharply. barry shook his head. "i don't know who you mean, agnes." "no? i think you're--" "i was on my way over the range. i got lost in the storm and stumbled in here." he looked out. "it's let up some now. maybe i could find my way back to town--you must have a doctor." "i don't want a doctor! i want to go--with my baby. and i don't want him to know--understand that--" with a struggle she raised to one elbow, eyes suddenly blazing with the flashes of her disordered brain, features strained and excited. "i don't want him to know! he ran away and left me for three days. the fire went out--my baby--" hysterical laughter broke from her dry lips--"my baby died, and still he didn't come. he--" "agnes!" houston grasped her hands. "try to control yourself! maybe he couldn't get back. the storm--" "yes, the storm! it's always the storm! we would have been married--but there was the storm. he couldn't marry me months ago--when i found out--and when i came back out here! he couldn't marry me then. 'wait'; that's what he always said--'wait--' and i waited. now--" then the voice trailed off--"it's been three days. he promised to be back. but--" houston sought to end the repetition. "perhaps i could find him and bring him here." but it was useless. the woman drifted back to her rambling statements. laughter and tears followed one another in quick succession; the breaking of restraint had come at last. at last she turned, and staring with glazed eyes into those of houston, burst forth. "you hate me, don't you?" "i--" "don't deny it!" querulous imperiousness was in the voice. "you hate me--you'll go back to boston and tell my mother about this. i know--you've got the upper hand now. you'll tell her why i came out here--you'll tell her about the baby, won't you? yes, you'll--" "i'll tell nothing of the sort, agnes. i don't fight that way. you ought to know that. you've been my enemy, i'll admit. i've felt bitter, terribly so, against you. i believed that you used my trust to betray me. but i believe i know the reason now. besides, the harm's done. it's in the past. i fight men, not women." "do you want help?" a thin hand stretched out. "will you give me a promise--if i give you one?" "about what, agnes?" "my baby. you--you're not going to let it stay there? you're--" "i hardly know what to do. i thought after you were better, i'd--" "i'm better now." she tried to rise. "i'm better--see? i've more strength. you could leave me alone. i--i want you to take my baby." "where?" "where she can sleep in peace--in hallowed ground. i--i want a priest for her. tell him that i baptized her helena." "yes. and the other name?" a weird laugh came from the colorless lips. "she hasn't one." "but--" "then use mine--so you'll have evidence that i'm not married. use mine, if that's the kind of a man you are--so you can go back and tell them--back home--that i--i--" the last bond had snapped. she caught at him with clawing hands, her eyes wild, her teeth showing from behind tightly drawn lips. "torture me--that's it--torture me! at least, i didn't do that to you! i told you that i believed in you--at least that cheered you up when you needed it--i didn't tell you that i believed you guilty. did i? i didn't continually ask you for the name of the man you'd killed? oh, there were other things--i know there were other things--" the lips seemed to fairly stream words, "but at least, i didn't torture you. i--i--" then she halted, for the briefest part of a moment, to become suddenly madly cajoling, crazily cunning: "listen, barry, listen to me. you want to know things. i can tell them to you--oh, so many of them. i'll tell them too--if you'll only do this for me. it's my baby--my baby. don't you know what that means? won't you promise for me? take her to a priest--please, barry--for what you once thought i was? won't you, barry? haven't i had punishment enough? did you ever lie all day and listen to the wind shriek, waiting for somebody who didn't come--with your dead baby in your arms? do you want to punish me more? do you want me to die too--or do you want me to live and tell you why i did the things i did? do you? do you want to know who was back of everything? i didn't do it for myself, barry. it was some one else--i'll help you, barry, honestly i'll help you." "about the murder?" houston was leaning forward now, tense, hopeful. but the woman shook her head. "no--i don't know about that. maybe you did it--i can't say. it's about other things--the lease, and the contract. i'll help you about that--if you'll help me. take my baby--" "and keep your secret, agnes? is that it?" "will you?" the woman's eyes were gleaming strangely. "my mother doesn't know. she's old--you know her, barry. she thinks i'm--what i should have been. that's why i came back out here. i--i--" the man rose. he walked to the window and stood for a long time looking out, trying to close his ears to the ramblings of the woman on the bed, striving to find a way to keep the promise she sought. for just a moment the old hatred flooded through him, the resentment toward this being who had been an integral factor in all the troubles which had pursued him in his efforts to beat back to a new life. but as swift as they came, they faded. no longer was she an enemy; only a broken, beaten woman, her empty arms aching as her heart ached; harassed by fears of exposure to the one woman in whom she still desired to be held in honor, of the whereabouts of the man who had led her on through the byways of love into a dismal maze of chicanery. only a woman, ill, perhaps dying. a woman crying out for the one boon that she could ask of a person she knew to distrust and despise her, seeking the thing that now was her greatest desire in the world, and willing to promise--whether truthfully or not, barry had no way of telling--to reveal to him secrets of the past, if he would but comply. was she honest? as he stood there looking out at the snow, it seemed to make little difference. was she sincere? he would strive to aid a dumb brute if he found it in distress. at last he turned and walked to the bed. "i'll promise, agnes. if you want to help me afterward, well and good. if not--you are free to do as you please. i suppose you want her dressed before--" "yes." the woman had raised eagerly. "there are clothes--she's never had on--in the bottom drawer of that old bureau. take them with you. then look in a box in the top drawer. you'll find a crucifix. they--they might want to put it on her." she sank back in the bed, and barry went to his task of searching the drawers of the rickety old bureau. in a mass of tangled, old-fashioned jewelry, he found the crucifix, its chain broken and twisted, and placed it in a pocket. then he turned to the grimmer task,--and the good-by. a half-hour later, white-featured, his arms cupped gently about a blanket-wrapped form, he stepped forth into the storm, and bending against the wind, turned toward the railroad in obedience to the hazy directions of the sobbing woman he had left behind. the snowfall was lighter now; he could find his way more easily. a half-hour passed, and he stopped, kneeling and resting the tiny, still bundle upon his knees to relieve his aching arms. then on again in plodding perseverance,--fulfilling a promise to a woman who had done her best to wreck his existence. a mile farther, and the railroad telegraph poles appeared. houston saw them with grateful eyes, though with concern. he knew to a certainty that there was no priest in tabernacle, and what his story would be when he got there was a little more than he could hazard. to ba'tiste, he would tell the truth; to others, there must simply be some fabrication that would hold for the moment and that would allow him to go on--while ba'tiste-- but suddenly he ceased his plans. black splotches against the snow, two figures suddenly had come out of the sweeping veil,--a girl and a man. something akin to panic seized houston. the man was lost wing, faithfully in the background as usual. the girl was medaine robinette. for once houston hoped that she would pass him as usual,--with averted eyes. he did not care to make explanations, to be forced to lie to her. but fate was against him. a moment more and the storm closed in again, with one of its fitful gusts, only to clear at last and to leave them face to face. medaine's eyes went with womanly instinct to the bundle in his arms. and even though she could see nothing but the roundness of the blankets, the tender manner in which barry houston held the poor, inanimate little parcel was enough. "a baby!" there was surprise in her tone. forgetting for the moment her aversion to the man himself, she came forward, touching the blankets, then lifting one edge ever so slightly that she might peer beneath. "where did you find it? whose is it?" houston sought vainly for words. he stammered,--a promise made to an enemy struggling for supremacy. and the words seem to come unbidden: "does it matter?" "of course not." she looked at him queerly. "i merely thought i could be of assistance." "you can. tell me where i can find a priest." "a priest?" "yes, i need him--the baby is dead." "oh." she touched the bundle ever so softly. "i didn't know." then with a sudden thought; "but her mother. she must need--" "only a doctor. i will try to get ba'tiste to come out." "but couldn't i--" "i'm sorry." barry tried in vain for the words that would tell her the truth, yet tell her nothing. he felt that he was miring himself hopelessly, that his denials and his efforts at secrecy could cause only one idea to form in her brain. he wanted to tell her the truth, to ask her aid, to send her back into the woods to the assistance of the stricken woman there. but he could not frame the request. instead, "i--i can't tell you. i've given a woman my word. she wouldn't understand--if you went there. with ba'tiste, it is different. he is a doctor. he has a right. i--i--" "i understand," came quietly, and in those two words houston felt that her opinion had been formed; that to her, he was the father; the quiet form in his arms his own child! it was like a blow to him; yet it was only what he had expected from the moment that he had recognized her. and after all, he felt that it did not matter; it was only one more false accusation to be added to the total, only one more height to be added to the barrier which already existed between them. he accepted her attitude--in spite of the pain it brought--and faced her. "you were willing to help--before you--knew. you would have been glad to help in the case of a stranger. are you still willing--now?" she hesitated a moment, her eyes downcast, at last to force a smile. "of course. but you are asking something almost impossible. the nearest priest is at crestline." "crestline?" houston instinctively turned toward the hills, a bleak, forbidding wall against the sky. "i--" "rather, a mile below there at the croatian settlement on mount harris. i am afraid you couldn't find it." "i can try. will you lend me lost wing to run an errand? i want to get ba'tiste--for her." "certainly." "may i talk to him privately? he understands english?" she nodded. then: "i will tell lost wing that anything you have to say to him shall be a secret even from me. i--do not want to know it." she spoke to the indian in sioux then and drew away, her eyes on the tracings of a snowshoe. houston, pointing with his head, gave the indian his directions. "a woman is sick in a cabin, two miles straight west from here. get ba'tiste renaud and take him there. turn away from the stream at a tall, dead lodgepole and go to the left. you will see the cabin. i would rather that you would not go in and that you know nothing about the woman. tell ba'tiste that her name must stay a secret until she herself is willing that it be otherwise. do you understand?" "a'ri." the indian went then toward his mistress, waiting her sanction to the mission. she looked at barry houston. "have you given him his directions?" "yes." "then, lost wing, do as he has told you." the sioux started on, soon to be engulfed in the swirling veil of the storm. barry turned again to the girl. "just one more request: i can't carry the child up there--this way. will you help strap her to my pack?" silently she assisted him in the grim task of mercy. then: "do you know the pass?" "i can find my way." "do you know it?" he shook his head. she tapped one glove against the other. "it is impossible then. you--" "i'll make it some way. thank you--for helping me." he started on. but she called him back. "it's dangerous--too dangerous," and there was a note of pity in her voice. "it's bad enough on foot when there's no snow--if you're not familiar with it. i--" "tell me the way. perhaps i could find it. it's not for myself. i made a promise to the child's mother. i'm afraid she's dying." a new light came into the girl's eyes, a light of compassion, of utmost pity,--the pity that one can feel for some one who has transgressed, some one who faces the penalty, who feels the lash of the whip, yet does not cry out. slowly she came toward houston, then bent to tighten the fastenings of her snowshoes. "i know the way," came quietly. "i have been over it--in summer and winter. i will show you." "you! medaine! i--i--beg pardon." the outburst had passed his lips almost before he realized it. "miss robinette, you don't know what you're saying. it's all a man could do to make that climb. i--" "i know the way," she answered, without indicating that she had heard his remonstrance. "i am glad to go--for the sake of--" she nodded slightly toward the tenderly wrapped bundle on the pack. "i would not feel right otherwise." "but--" then she faced him. "i am not afraid," came with a quiet assurance that spoke more than words. it told barry houston that this little woman of the hills was willing to help him, although she loathed him; that she was willing to undergo hardships, to quell her own dislike for the man she aided that she might give him assistance in a time of death. and he thrilled with it, in spite of the false beliefs that he knew existed in the mind of medaine robinette. it gave him a pride in her,--even though he knew this pride to be gained at the loss of his own prestige. and more than all, it made him glad that he had played the man back there in the little, lonely cabin, where lay a sorrow-crazed woman, grieving for a child who was gone; that he too had been big enough and strong enough to forget the past in the exigencies of the moment; that he had aided where he might have hindered; that he had soothed where a lesser nature might have stormed. he bowed his head in acknowledgment of her announcement. then, side by side, affixing the stout cord that was to form a bond of safety between two alien souls, they started forth, a man who had been accused, but who was strong enough to rise above it, and a woman whose woman-heart had dictated that dislike, distrust, even physical fear be subjugated to the greater, nobler purpose of human charity. chapter xxi silence was their portion as they turned toward the mountains. there was little to say. now and then as houston, in the lead, got off the trail, medaine jerked on the cord to draw his attention, then pointed, and barry obeyed. thus their pilgrimage progressed. an hour found them in the hills, plodding steadily upward, following the smoother mounds of snow which indicated heavy, secure drifts, at times progressing easily, almost swiftly, at others veering and tacking, making the precipitous ascent by digging their shoes into the snow and literally pulling themselves up, step by step. here, where the crags rose about them, where sheer granite walls, too steep, too barren to form a resting place even for the driven snow, rose brown and gaunt above them, where the wind seemed to shriek at them from a hundred places at once, houston dropped slowly back to watch the effect that it all was having upon the girl, to study her strength and her ability to go on. but there was no weakening in the sturdy little step, no evidence of fatigue. as they went higher, and the wind beat against them with its hail of splintered ice particles, houston saw her heavily gloved hands go to her face in sudden pain and remain there. the man went to her side, and grasping her by the shoulder, stopped her. then, without explanation, he brought forth a heavy bandanna handkerchief and tied it about her features, as high as possible without shutting off the sight. her eyes thanked him. they went on. higher--higher! the old cracks of houston's lips, formed in his days of wandering, opened and began to bleed, the tiny, red drops falling on his clothing and congealing there. the flying ice cut his skin; he knew that his eyeballs were becoming red again, the blood-red where never a speck of white showed, only black pupils staring forth from a sea of carmine. harder and swifter the wind swept about them; its force greater than the slight form of the woman could resist. close went houston to her; his arm encircled her--and she did not resist--she who, down there in the west country in the days that had gone, would have rebelled at the touch of his hand! but now they were in a strange land where personalities had vanished; two beings equipped with human intelligence and the power of locomotion, little more. all else in their natures had become subjugated to the greater tasks which faced them; the primitive had come to life; they were fighting against every vengeful weapon which an outraged nature could hurl,--fighting at cross-purposes, he to fulfill a promise to a woman who might even now be dead, she to assuage the promptings of a merciful nature, even to the extent of the companionship of a man she had been led to revile. afternoon came, and the welcome shelter of a ledge where the snow had drifted far outward, leaving a small space of dry rock,--to them like an island to a drifting victim of shipwreck. there they stopped, to bring food from the small provision pack which had been shifted to medaine's shoulders, to eat silently, then, without a word, to rise and go onward. miles and miles,--rods in fact. aeons of space after that, in which huddled, bent figures in the grip of stormdom, climbed, veering, swinging about the easier stretches, crawling at painfully slow pace up the steeper inclines. upward through the stinging blast of the tempest they went, toward the top of a stricken world. late afternoon; then medaine turned toward the bleeding man beside her. "a mile more." she said no more. he nodded in answer and extended a hand to aid her over a slippery stretch of ice-coated granite. timber line came and went. the snowfall ceased, to give way to the grayness of heavy, scudding clouds and the spasmodic flurries of driving white, as the gusty wind caught up the loose fall of the drifts and whirled it on, like harassed, lost souls seeking in vain a place they could abide. and it was in one of the moments of quiet that medaine pointed above. five splotches showed on the mountain side,--the roofs of as many cabins; the rest of them were buried in snow. no smoke came from the slanting chimneys; no avenues were shoveled to the doorways; the drifts were unbroken. "gone!" houston voiced the monosyllable. "yes. probably on to crestline. i was afraid of it." "night's coming." "it's too late to turn back now." and in spite of the pain of bleeding, snow-burned lips, houston smiled at her,--the smile that a man might give a sister of whom he was inordinately proud. "are you afraid?" "of what?" "me." she did not answer for a moment. then: "are you afraid--of yourself?" "no. only men with something on their conscience are afraid." she looked at him queerly, then turned away. houston again took the lead, rounding the stretches, then waiting for her, halting at the dangerous gulleys and guiding her safely across, but silently. he had said enough; more would require explanations. and there was a pack upon his back which contained a tiny form with tight-curled hands, with eyes that were closed,--a poor, nameless little thing he had sworn to carry to grace and to protection. at last they reached the cabins. houston untied the bond which connected them and loosened his snowshoes, that he might plunge into the smallest drift before a door and force his way within. there was no wood; he tore the clapboards from a near-by cabin and the tar paper from the wind-swept roof. five minutes later a fire was booming; a girl tired, bent-shouldered, her eyes drooping from a sudden desire for sleep, huddled near it. houston walked to the pack and took food. "you would rather eat alone?" "yes." "i shall be in the next cabin--awake." "awake?" "yes. i'd rather--keep watch." "but there is nothing--" "illness--a snowslide--a fresh drift. i would feel easier in mind. good night." then with his snowshoes and his pack of death, he went out the door, to plunge through another drift, to force his way into a cabin, and there, a plodding, dumb figure, go soddenly about the duties of comfort. and more than once in the howling, blustery night which followed, houston shivered, shook himself into action and rose to rebuild a fire that had died while he had sat hunched in the hard, uncomfortable chair beside it, trying to fathom what the day had meant, striving to hope for the keeping of the promises that an hysterical woman had made, struggling for the strength to go on,--on with this cheery, brave little bit of humanity in the next cabin, without a word in self-extenuation, without a hint to break the lack of estimation in which she held him, without a plea in his own defense. and some way, houston felt that such a plea now would be cheap and tawdry; they were in a world where there were bigger things than human aims and human frailties. besides, he had locked his lips at the command of a grief-ridden woman. to open them in self-extenuation would mean that she must be brought into it; for she had been the one who had clinched the points of suspicion in the mind of medaine robinette. were he now to speak of proof that she had lied-- it was impossible. the wind-swept night became wind-swept dawn, to find him still huddled there, still thinking, still grim and drawn and haggard with sleeplessness and fatigue. then he rose at a call from without: "are you ready?" he affixed the pack. together they went on again, graceless figures in frozen clothing, she pointing the way, he aiding her with his strength, in the final battle toward the summit of the range,--and crestline. hours they plodded and climbed, climbed and plodded, the blood again dripping from his lips, her features again shielded by the heavy folds of the bandanna; the moisture of their breath at times swirling about them like angry steam, at others invisible in the areas of sudden dryness, where the atmosphere lapped up even the vapors of laboring lungs before it could visualize. snow and cloud and rising walls of granite: this was their world, and they crawling pigmies within it. once she brushed against the pack on his back and drew away with a sudden recoil. houston dully realized the reason. the selfish, gripping hands of winter, holding nothing sacred, had invaded even there. noon. and a half-cry from both of them, a burst of energy which soon faded. for above was crestline--even as the little croatian settlement had been--smokeless, lifeless. they had gone from here also, hurrying humans fleeing with the last snowplow before the tempest, beings afraid to remain, once the lines of communication were broken. but there was nothing to do but go on. roofless houses met them, stacks of crumpled snow, where the beams had cracked beneath the weight of high piled drifts; staring, glassless windows and rooms filled with white; stoves that no longer fought the clasp of winter but huddled instead amid piles of snow; that was all. crestline had fled; there was no life, no sound, only the angry, wailing cry of the wind through half-frozen roof spouts, the slap of clattering boards, loosened by the storm. gloomily houston surveyed the desolate picture, at last to turn to the girl. "i must go on. i gave my promise." she nodded. "it means tollifer now. the descent is more dangerous." "do you know it?" "not as well as the other. if i only had something to guide me." and as if in answer, the storm lifted for a moment. gradually the wind stilled, in one of those stretches of calm which seem to be only the breeding spots of more terror, more bitterness. but they gave no heed to that, nor to the red ball of the sun, faintly visible through the clouds. far below, miles in reality, straight jets of steam rose high above black, curling smoke; faintly, distantly, whistles sounded. the snowplows! he gripped her arm with the sight of it, nor did she resist. thrilled, enthralled, they watched it: the whirling smoke, the shooting steam, the white spray which indicated the grinding, churning progress of the plows, propelled by the heavy engines behind. words came from the swollen lips of houston, but the voice was hoarse, strained, unnatural: "they've started the fight! they've--" "it's on the second grade, up from tollifer. it's fairly easy there, you know, for ten or twelve miles. they're making that without difficulty--their work won't come until they strike the snowsheds at crystal lake. oh--" and there was in the voice all the yearning, the anxiety that a pent-up soul could know--"i wish i were a man now! i wish i were a man--to help!" "i hope--" and houston said it without thought of bravado--"that i may have the strength for both of us. i'm a man--after a sort. i'm going to work with them." "but--" he knew what she meant and shook his head. "no--she does not need me. my presence would mean nothing to her. i can't tell you why. my place--is down there." for an instant medaine robinette looked at him with frankly questioning eyes, eyes which told that a thought was beginning to form somewhere back in her brain, a question arising as to his guilt in at least one of the things which circumstances had arrayed against him. some way barry felt that she knew that a man willing to encounter the dangers of a snowy range would hurry again to the side of the woman for whom he had dared them, unless-- but suddenly she was speaking, as though to divert her thoughts. "we'll have about three hours--from the looks of the sky. unless conditions change quickly, there'll not be another blow before night. it's our chance. we'd better cut this cord--the one in the lead may fall and pull the other one over. we had better make haste." houston stepped before her. a moment later they were edging their way down the declivity of what once had been a railroad track, at last to veer. the drifts from the mountain side had become too sharp; it was easier to accept the more precipitous and shorter journey, straight downward, the nearest cut toward those welcome spires of smoke. gradually the snow shook or was melted from their clothing, through sheer bodily warmth. black dots they became,--dots which appeared late in the afternoon to the laboring crews of the snow-fighters far below; dots which appeared and disappeared, edging their way about beetling precipices, plunging forward, then stopping; pulling themselves out of the heavier drifts, where drops of ten and even twenty feet had thrown them; swinging and tacking; scrambling downward in long, almost running descents, then crawling slowly along the ice walls, while the jutting peaks about them seemed to close them in, seemed to threaten and seek to engulf them in their pitfalls, only to break from them at last and allow them once more to resume their journey. breaks and stops, falls and plunges into drift after drift; through the glasses the workers below could see that a man was in the lead, with something strapped to his back, which the woman in the rear adjusted now and then, when it became partially displaced by the plunging journey. banks of snow cut them off; snowshoes sank in air pockets--holes made by protruding limbs of the short, gnarled trees of timber line,--and through these the man fought in short, spasmodic lunges, breaking the way for the woman who came behind, never stopping except to gather strength for a fresh attack, never ceasing for obstacle or for danger. once, at the edge of an overhanging ledge, he scrambled furiously, failed and fell,--to drop in a drift far below, to crawl painfully back to the waiting dot above, and to guide her, by safer paths, on downward. hours! the dots grew larger. the glasses no longer were needed. on they came, stumbling, reeling, at last to stagger across the frozen, wind-swept surface of a small lake and toward the bunk cars of the snow crews. the woman wavered and fell; he caught her. then double-weighted, a pack on his back, a form in his arms, he came on, his blood-red eyes searching almost sightlessly the faces of the waiting, stolid, grease-smeared men, his thick voice drooling over bloody lips: "somebody take her--get her into the bunk cars. she's given out. i'm-- i'm all right. take care of her. i've got to go on--to tollifer!" chapter xxii it was night when barry houston limped, muscles cramped and frost-numbed, into the little undertaking shop at tollifer and deposited his tiny burden. medaine robinette had remained behind in the rough care of the snow crews, while he, revived by steaming coffee and hot food, had been brought down on a smaller snowplow, running constantly, and without extra power, between tollifer and "the front", that the lines of communication be kept open. "nameless," he said with an effort, when the lengthy details of certification were asked. "the mother--" and a necessary lie came to his lips--"became unconscious before she could tell me anything except that the baby had been baptized and called helena. she wanted a priest." "i'll look after it. there's clothing?" "yes. in the pack. but wait--where does the father live?" the man pointed the way. houston went on--to a repetition of his story and a fulfillment of his duties. then, from far up the mountain side, there came the churning, grinding sound of the snowplow, and he hurried toward the station house to greet it. there on a spur, in the faint glow of an electric light, a short train was side-tracked, engineless, waiting until the time should come when the road again would be open, and the way over the pass free. one glance told him what it was: the tarpaulin-covered, snow-shielded, bulky forms of his machinery,--machinery that he now felt he could personally aid to its destination. for there was work ahead. midnight found him in a shack buried in snow and reached only by a circuitous tunnel, a shack where men--no longer americans, but black-smeared, red-eyed, doddering, stumbling human machines--came and went, their frost-caked mackinaws steaming as they clustered about the red-hot stove, their faces smudged with engine grease to form a coating against the stinging blast of the ice-laden wind, their cheeks raw and bleeding, their mouths swollen orifices which parted only for mumblings; vikings of another age, the fighters of the ice gangs, of which houston had become a part. the floor was their bed; silently, speaking only for the purpose of curses, they gulped the food that was passed out to them, taking the steaming coffee straight down in spite of its burning clutch at tender membranes, gnawing and tearing at their meal like beasts at the kill, then, still wadded in their clothing, sinking to the floor--and to sleep. the air was rancid with the odor of wet, steaming clothing. men crawled over one another, then dropped to the first open spot, to flounder there a moment, then roar in snoring sleep. against the wall a bearded giant half leaned, half lay, one tooth touching the ragged lips and breaking the filmy skin, while the blood dripped, slow drop after slow drop, upon his black, tousled beard. but he did not wake. of them all, only houston, tired even as they were tired, yet with something that they had forgotten, a brain, remained open-eyed. what had become of medaine? had she recovered? had she too gone to tollifer, perhaps on a later trip of the plow? the thoughts ran through his head like the repetition of some weird refrain. he sought sleep in vain. from far away came the whistles of locomotives, answering the signals of the snowplows ahead. outside some one shouted, as though calling to him; again he remembered the bulky cars of machinery at tollifer. it was partially, at least, his battle they were fighting out there, while he remained inactive. he rose and sought the door, fumbling aimlessly in his pockets for his gloves. something tinkled on the floor as he brought them forth, and he bent to pick up the little crucifix with its twisted, tangled chain, forgotten at tollifer. dully, hazily, he stared at it with his red eyes, with the faint feeling of a duty neglected. then: "she only said they might want it," he mumbled. "i'm sorry--i should have remembered. i'm always failing--at something." then, dully anxious to do his part, to take his place in the fighting line, he replaced the tiny bit of gold in his pocket, and threading his way through the circuitous tunnel of snow, stepped forth into the night. it was one of those brief spaces of starlight between storms, and the crews were making the most of it. the wind had ceased temporarily, allowing every possible workman to be pulled from the ordinary task of keeping the tracks clear of the "pick-ups" of the wind, blowing the snow down from the drifts of the hill, and to be concentrated upon the primary task of many,--the clearing of the packed sittings which filled the first snowshed. atop the oblong shed, swept clear by the wind, a light was signalling, telling the progress of the plow, and its consequent engines, within. even from the distance, barry could hear the surge of the terrific impact, as the rotary, pushed by the four tremendous "compounds" and malletts which formed its additional motive power, smashed against the tight-jammed contents of the shed, snarled and tore at its enemy, then, beaten at last by the crusted ice of the rails, came grudgingly back, that the ice crews, with their axes and bars, might break the crystallization from the rails and give traction for another assault. houston started forward, only to stop. a figure in the dim light of the cook car had caught his eye. medaine robinette. she was helping with the preparation of the midnight meal for the laborers, hurrying from the steaming cauldrons to the benches and baskets, filling the big pots with coffee, arranging the tin cups in their stacks for the various crews, and doing something that houston knew was of more value than anything else,--bringing a smile to the tired men who labored beside her. and this in spite of the fact that the black rings of fatigue were about her eyes, that the pretty, smoothly rounded features had the suggestion of drawnness, that the lips, when they ceased to move, settled into the slightest bit of a droop. now and then she stopped by one of the tables and clung to it, as though for support,--only to perk her head with a sudden little motion of determination, to turn, and then with a laugh go on with her work. presently he heard her singing above the clatter of kitchenware and the scuffling of the men with their heavy, hobnailed shoes. and he knew that it was a song of the lips, not of the heart, that she might lighten the burden of others in forgetfulness of self. and as he watched her, houston knew for all time that he loved her, that he wanted her above all things, in spite of what she had been led to believe of him, in spite of everything. his hands extended, as though to reach toward her,--the aching appeal of a lonely, harassed man, striving for a thing he could not touch. then hope surged in his heart. if the woman back there in the west country only would tell! if she would only keep the promise which she had given him in her half-delirium! it meant the world to barry houston now,--something far greater even than the success for which he had struggled; she could tell so much! for houston felt that agnes jierdon knew the details of practically every conspiracy that had been fashioned against him; the substitution of the lease and contract in the pile of technical papers which he had signed, the false story which she had told to medaine,--suddenly barry wondered if she really had passed the scene of his struggle with tom langdon, if she had seen anything at all; if her whole testimony had not been a manufactured thing, built merely for the purpose of obtaining his utmost confidence. if she only would tell! if she only would stay by her promise to a man who had kept his promise to her! if-- but a call had come from up the line. the whistles no longer were tooting; instead, they were blowing with long foghorn blasts, an eerie sound in the cold, crisp night,--a sound of foreboding, of danger. a dim figure made its appearance, running along the box cars, at last to sight houston and come toward him. "which car does the engine crews sleep in?" came sharply. houston shook his head. "i don't know. has something gone wrong?" "plenty. both the firemen on number six have went out from gas--in the snowshed. we've picked up a guy out of an ice gang that's willin' to stand th' gaff, but we need another one. guess there ain't nothin' to do but wake up one of th' day crew. hate t' do it, though--they're all in." "don't, then. i'll make a try at it." "know anything about firin' an engine?" "i know enough to shovel coal--and i've got a strong pair of shoulders." "come on, then." houston followed the figure toward the snowshed on the hill. ten minutes later he stood beside a great mallet engine, a sleek, glistening grayhound of the mountains, taking from the superintendent the instructions that would enable him to assist, at least, in the propulsion of the motive power. at the narrow areaway between the track and the high wall of the straightaway drifts through which the plow had cut, four men were lifting a limp figure, to carry it to the cars. the superintendent growled. "you payin' attention to me--or that guy they're cartin' off? when you get in them gas pockets, stick your nose in the hollow of your elbow and keep it there 'till you've got your breath again. there ain't no fresh air in that there shed; the minute these engines get inside and start throwin' on the juice, it fills up with smoke. that's what gets you. hold your nose in your arm while you take your breath. then, if you've got to shovel, keep your mouth and your lungs shut. got me?" "yes, sir." "then go to it. hey, andy!" "yeh." a voice had come from the engine cab. "here's a guy that'll swing a shovel. i've told him about the gas." barry climbed to his place on the engine. a whistle sounded, to be echoed and reëchoed by the answering blasts of the snowplow train--four engines and the big auger itself--ready now for a fresh sally into the shed. headlights, extinguished momentarily, were thrown on again, lighting up the dirty, ragged edges of the snow walls, with their black marks of engine soot; throwing into sharp relief the smudge-faced figures of the pick-and-axe crews just emerging from the black maw of the tunnel; playing upon the smooth, white outlines of the forbidding mountains yet beyond, mountains which still must be conquered ere the top of the world was reached. ahead came the "high-ball" signal from the plow; two sharp blasts, to be repeated by the first, the second, the third and fourth of the engines. then, throttles open, fire boxes throwing their red, spluttering glare against the black sky as firemen leaped to their task, the great mass of machinery moved forward. faster--faster--then the impact, like crashing into a stone wall. they were within the snowshed now, the auger boring and tearing and snarling like some savage, vengeful thing against the solid mass of frigidity which faced it. inch by inch for eight feet it progressed; the offal of the big blades flying past in the glare of the headlights like swirling rainbows; then progress ceased, while the plow ahead, answered by the engines which backed it, shrilled the triple signal to back up, out into the air again, that the ice crews might hurry to their tasks. the engineer opened the cab window and gratefully sucked in the fresh, clean air. "eight feet--that's all," he mused. "eight feet at a time." then, noticing houston's attention, he went on: "it's all the big screw can make. got a hood on the front, you know, protecting the blades. it's eight feet from the front of that hood to the first trucks. when it's scooped that out, it's the finish. the wheels hit ice, and it's either back out or get derailed. so we back. huh! there she goes again. keep your nose in your elbow, youngster, this time. we're goin' back pretty sudden. we'll get gas." the screaming of the whistles faded, giving way to the lurching of steel monsters as they once more crawled within the blackness of the smoke-filled, snow-choked shed. deeper they went and deeper, the shouts from without fading away, the hot, penetrating sulphur smoke seeping in even through the closed cab, blackening it until the electric lights were nothing more than faint pinpoints, sending the faces of the men to their arms, while the two crouched, waiting anxiously until the signal should come from ahead. a long, long moment, while the smoke cut deeper into protesting lungs, in spite of every effort to evade it, while old andy on the engine seat twisted and writhed with the agony of fading breath, at last to reel from his position and stumble about in the throes of suffocation. at last, from ahead, came the welcome signal, the three long-drawn-out blasts, and the engineer waved an arm. "pull that rope!" he gasped toward the first fireman. "for god's sake, pull that rope! i'm about gone." a fumbling hand reached up and missed; the light was nearly gone now, in a swirling cloud of venomous smoke. again the old engineer stumbled, and houston, leaping to his side, supported him. "find that rope--" "i can't see! the smoke--" desperately houston released the engineer and climbed upward, groping. something touched his hand, and he jerked at it. a blast sounded--repeated twice more. in the rear the signal was answered. out ground the train to freedom again. it was the beginning of a night of an arctic hell. back and forth--back and forth--fresh air and foul air--gleaming lights, then dense blackness--so the hours passed. sally after sally the snowplow made, only to withdraw to give way to the pick crews, and they in turn, gasping and reeling, hurried out for the attack of the plow again. men fell grovelling, only to be dragged into the open air and resuscitated, then sent once more into the cruelty of the fight. the hours dragged by like stricken things. then--with dawn--the plow churned with lesser impact. it surged forward. gray light broke through at the end of the tunnel. the grip of at least one snowshed was broken; but there remained twenty more--and the death trail--beyond! "that's the baby i'm afraid of!" old andy was talking as they went toward the cars, the relief day crew passing them on the way. "we can whip these sheds. but that there death trail--there's a million tons of snow above it! once that there vibration loosens it up--we'd better not be underneath it." houston did not answer. the clutch of forty-eight hours of wakeful activity was upon him. the words of old andy were only so much of a meaningless jumble to him. into the car he stumbled, a doddering, red-eyed thing, to drink his coffee as the rest drank it, to shamble to the stove, forgetful of the steaming, rancid air, then like some tired beast, sink to the floor in exhausted, dreamless sleep. hours he remained there, while the day crew carried the fight on upward, through three of the smaller snowsheds, at last to halt at the long, curved affair which shielded the jutting edge of mount taluchen. then houston stirred; some one had caught him by the shoulder and was shaking him gently. a voice was calling, and houston stirred, dazedly obedient to its command. "i hate to awaken you--" it was a woman; her tones compassionate, gentle. "but they're whistling for the night crew. they've still got you on the list for firing." houston opened his eyes and forced a smile. "that's all right. thanks--thanks for waking me." then he rose and went forth into the agonies of the night,--willing, eager, almost happy. a few words from a woman had given him strength, had wiped out fatigue and aching muscles, and cramped, lifeless limbs,--a few words from a woman he loved, medaine robinette. chapter xxiii it was a repetition of the first night,--the same churning of the plows, the same smaller machines working along the right of way to keep the rails clear of drifting snow and ice particles, the wind howling again and carrying the offal of the plows in gigantic spouts of dirty white high into the air, to lash and pulverize it, then swish it away to the icy valleys beneath, where drifts could do no harm, where there were no struggling crews and dogged, half-dead men. a repetition of the foul-smelling wooden tunnels, the sulphur fumes, the gasping of stricken men. the same long, horrible hours, the same staggering release from labor and the welcome hardness of a sleeping spot on a wooden floor. night after night it was the same--starlight and snow, fair weather and storm. barry houston had become a rough-bearded, tattered piece of human machinery like all the rest. then, at last-- the sun! shining faintly through the windows of the bunk car, it caused him to stir in his sleep. dropping in a flood of ruby red, it still reflected faint streaks of color across the sky, when at last he started forth to what men had mentioned but seldom, and then with fear. for to-night was the last night, the last either in the struggle or in the lives of those who had fought their way upward to the final barricade which yet separated them from the top of the world,--the death trail. smooth and sleek it showed before houston in the early moonlight, an icy niagara, the snow piled high above the railroad tracks, extending upward against an almost sheer wall of granite, in stacks and drifts, banked in places to a depth of a hundred feet. already the plows were assembled,--four heavy steel monsters, with tremendous beams lashed in place and jutting upward, that they might break the overcasts and knock down the snow roofings that otherwise might form tunnels, breaking the way above as the tremendous fan of the plow would break it below. this was to be the fight of fights, there in the moonlight. houston could see the engines breathing lazily behind their plows, sixteen great, steel contrivances, their burdens graduated in size from the tremendous auger at the fore to the lesser, almost diminutive one, by comparison, at the rear, designed to take the last of the offal from the track. for there would be no ice here; the drippings of the snowsheds, with their accompanying stalactites and stalagmites, were absent. a quick shoot and a lucky one. otherwise,--the men who went forward to their engines would not speak of it. but there was one who did. she was standing beside the cook car as houston passed, and she looked toward him with a glance that caused barry to stop and to wait, as though she had called to him. hesitatingly she came forward, and houston's dulled mentality at last took cognizance that a hand was extended slightly. "you're still working on the engine?" "yes." "then you'll be with them?" "on the death trail? i expect to." "they talk of it as something terrible. why?" houston pointed to the forbidding wall of snow. his thick, broken lips mumbled in the longest speech he had known in days. "it's all granite up there. the cut of the roadbed forms a base for the remainder of the snow. it's practically all resting on the tracks; above, there's nothing for the snow to cling to. when we cut out the foundation--they're afraid that the vibration will loosen the rest and start an avalanche. it all depends whether it comes before--or after we've passed through." "and you are not afraid?" she asked it almost childishly. he shook his head. "i--don't know. i guess every one is--a bit afraid, when they're going into trouble. i know what i'm doing, if that's what you mean." she was silent for a long moment, looking up at the packed drifts, at the ragged outlines of the mountains against the moonlit sky, then into the valleys and the shimmering form of the round, icy lake, far below. her lips moved, and barry went closer. "beg pardon?" "nothing--only there are some things i can't understand. it doesn't seem quite natural--" "what?" "that things could--" then she straightened and looked at him with clear, frank eyes. "mr. houston," came quietly, "i've been thinking about something all day. i have felt that i haven't been quite fair--that a man who has acted as you have acted since--since i met you this last time--that he deserves more of a chance than i have given him. that--" "i'm asking nothing of you, miss robinette." "i know. i am asking something of you. i want to tell you that i have been hoping that you can some day furnish me the proof--that you spoke of once. i--that's what i wanted to tell you," she ended quickly and extended her hand. "good-by. i'll be praying for all of you up there." houston answered only with a pressure of his hand. his throat had closed suddenly. his breath jerked into his lungs; his burning, wind-torn lips ached to touch the hand that had lingered for a moment in his. he looked at her with eyes that spoke what his tongue could not say, then he went on,--a shambling, dead-tired man, even on awaking from sleep, but a man whose heart was beating with a new fervor. she would be praying for all of them up there at the trail. and all of them included him. at the cab of the engine, he listened to the final instructions of the cursing, anxious superintendent, then went to his black work of the shovel. higher and higher mounted the steam on the gauge; theirs was the first plow, theirs the greatest task. for if they did not go through, the others could not follow; if their attack were not swift enough, staunch enough, the slide that was sure to come sooner or later would carry with it mangled machinery and the torn forms of men into a chasm of death. one by one the final orders came,--crisp, shouted, cursing commands, answered in kind. then the last query: "if there's a damn man of you who's a coward, step out! hear that? if you're afraid--come on--there's no stopping once you start!" engine after engine answered, in jeering, sarcastic tones, the belligerent cries of men hiding what pounded in their hearts, driving down by sheer will-power the primitive desires of self-preservation. again was the call repeated. again was it answered by men who snarled, men who cursed that they might not pray. and with it: "a-w-w-w-w--right! let 'er go!" the whistles screamed. up the grade, four engines to a plow, the jets of steam shrilling upward, coughing columns of smoke leaping blackly up the mountain side, the start was made, as the great, roaring mass of machinery gathered speed for the impact. a jarring crash that all but threw the men of the first crews from their feet, and the death trail had been met. then churning, snarling, roaring, the snow flying in cloud-like masses past them, the first plow bit its way deep into the tremendous mass, while sweating men, barry houston among them, crammed coal into the open, angry fire boxes, the sand streamed on greasy tracks,--and the cavalcade went on. a hundred yards,--the beams knocking down the snow above and all but covering the engines which forced their way through, only to leave as high a mass behind; while the whole mountain seemed to tremble; while the peaks above sent back roar for roar, and grim, determined men pulled harder than ever at the throttles and waited,--for the breath of night again, or the crash of the avalanche. a shout from old andy. a pull at the whistle, screeching forth its note of victory. from in front was it answered, then from the rear, and on and on, seemingly through an interminable distance, as moonlit night came again, as the lesser plows in the rear swept their way clear of the death trail and ground onward and upward. but only for a moment. then, the blare of the whistles was drowned in a greater sound, a roar that reverberated through the hills like the bellow of a thousand thunders, the cracking and crashing of trees, the splintering of great rocks as the snows of the granite spires above the death trail loosed at last and crashed downward in an all-consuming rush of destruction. trees gave way before the constantly gathering mass of white, and joined in the downfall. great boulders, abutting rocks, slides of shale! on it went, thundering toward the valley and the gleaming lake, at last to crash there; to send the ten-foot thicknesses of ice splintering like broken glass; to pyramid, to spray the whole nether world with ice and snow and scattering rock; then to settle, a jumbled conglomerate mass of destructiveness, robbed of its prey. and the men shouted, and screamed and beat at one another in their frenzy of happiness, in spite of the fact that the track had been torn away from behind them as though it never had existed, and that they now were cut off entirely from the rest of the world. only one snowshed remained, with but a feeble bulwark of drifts before it. already lights were gleaming down the back-stretch, engines were puffing upward, bearing ties and rails and ballast and abuttment materials, on toward the expected, with men ready to repair the damage as soon as it was done. there were cries also from there below, the shouts of men who were glad even as the crews of the engines and plows were glad, and the engineers and firemen leaned from their cabs to answer. still the whistles screamed; all through the night they screamed, as drift after drift yielded, as the eight-foot bite of the first giant auger gnawed and tore at the packed contents of the last shed atop crestline; then roared and sang, while the hills sent back their outbursts with echoes that rolled, one into another, until at last the whole world was one terrific out-pouring of explosive sounds and shrill, shrieking blasts, as though the mountains were bellowing their anger, their remonstrance at defeat. eight feet, then eight feet more; steadily eight feet onward. nor did the men curse at the sulphur fumes, nor rail at the steel-blue ice. it was the final fight; on the downgrade were lesser drifts, puny in comparison to what they had gone through, simple, easily defeated obstacles to the giant machinery, which would work then with gravity instead of against it. eight feet more--eight feet after that; they marked it off on the windows of the engine cabs with greasy fingers and counted the hours until success. night faded. dawn came and then,--the sun! clear and brilliant with the promise of spring again and of melting snows. the fight was the same as over. sleep,--and men who laughed, even as they snored, laughed with the subconscious knowledge of success, while the bunk cars which sheltered them moved onward, up to the peak, then started down the range. night again,--and houston once more in the engine cab. but this time, the red glare of the fire-box did not show as often against the sky; the stops were less frequent for the ice packs; once the men even sang! morning of the second day,--and again the sunshine, causing dripping streams from the long, laden branches of the pines and spruce, filling the streams bank-full, here and there cutting through the blanket of white to the dun-brown earth again. work over, houston leaned out the door of the bunk car, drinking in the sunshine, warm for the first time in weeks, it seemed,--and warm in heart and spirit. if she would only keep her promise! if she would allow medaine to see her! if she would tell her the truth,--about the contract, the lease, and most of all that accusation. if-- the whistles again,--and crowded forms at the doors of the cars. tabernacle was in the distance, while men and women waded through the soggy snows to be the first to reach the train. happiness gleamed on the features of the inhabitants of a beleagured land shut away from the world for weeks, men and women who saw no shame in the tears which streamed down their cheeks, and who sought not to hide them. eagerly barry searched the thronging crowd, at last to catch sight of a gigantic figure, his wolf-dog beside him. he leaped from the car even before it had ceased to move. "ba'tiste!" he called. "ba'tiste!" great arms opened wide. a sob came from the throat of a giant. "_mon_ baree! _mon_ baree!" it was all he could say for a moment. then, "_mon_ baree, he have come back to ba'teese. ah, golemar! _mon_ baree, he have come back, he have come back!" "we've won, ba'tiste! the line's open--they'll be running trains through before night. and if she keeps her promise--" "she?" ba'tiste stared down at him. they had drawn away from the rest of the excited, noisy throng. "she? you mean--" "agnes. you've been taking care of her, haven't you? i found her--she promised that she would tell the truth for me when i got back, that she would explain the lease and contract and tell medaine that it was all a lie. she--" but ba'tiste renaud shook his head. "no, baree. eet is the too late. i have jus' come--from there. i have close her eyes." chapter xxiv dead! houston saw medaine robinette pass in the distance, and his eyes followed her until she had rounded the curve by the dead aspens,--the eyes of lost hope. for it was upon life that he had planned and dreamed; that the woman of the lonely cabin would stand by her promise made in a time of stress and right at least some of the wrongs which had been his burden. but now-- "she--she didn't tell you anything before she went?" ba'tiste shook his head. "she would not speak to me. nothing would, she tell me. at first i go alone--then yesterday, when the snow, he pack, i take golemar. then she is unconscious. all day and night i stay beside the bed, but she do not open her eye. then, with the morning, she sigh, and peuff! she is gone." "without a word." it spelled blackness for houston where there had been light. "i--i--suppose you've taken charge of everything." "_oui_! but i have look at nothing--if that is what you mean." "no--i just had something here that you ought to have," houston fumbled in his pockets. "she would want it around her neck, i feel sure, i when she is----." but the sudden glare in ba'tiste's eyes stopped him as he brought forth the crucifix and its tangled chain. the giant's hands raised. his big lips twisted. a lunge and he had come forward, savage, almost beast-like. "you!" he bellowed. "where you get that? hear me, where you get that?" "from her. she--" "then come! come--quick with me!" he almost dragged the younger man away, hurrying him toward the sled and its broad-backed old horses. "we must go to the cabin, _oui_--yes! hurry--" houston saw that he was trembling. "eet is the thing i look for--the thing i look for!" "ba'tiste! what do you mean?" "my julienne," came hoarsely. "eet is my julienne's!" already they were in the sled, the wolf-dog perched between them, and hurrying along the mushy road, which followed the lesser raises of snow, taking advantage of every windbreak and avoiding the greater drifts of the highway itself. two miles they went, the horses urged to their greatest speed. then, with a leap, ba'tiste cleared the runners and motioned to the man behind him. "come with me! golemar! you shall stay behind. you shall fall in the drift--" the old man was talking excitedly, almost childishly. "no? then come--eet is your own self that must be careful. ba'teese, he cannot watch you. come!" at a run, he went forward, to thread his way through the pines, to flounder where the snow had not melted, to go waist-deep at times, but still to rush onward at a speed which taxed even houston's younger strength to keep him in sight. the wolf-dog buried itself in the snow, houston pulling it forth time after time, and lugging it at long intervals. then at last came the little clearing,--and the cabin. ba'tiste already was within. houston avoided the figure on the bed as he entered and dropped beside the older man, already dragging forth the drawers of the bureau and pawing excitedly among the trinkets there. he gasped and pulled forth a string of beads, holding them trembling to the light, and veering from his jumbled english to a stream of french. then a watch, a ring, and a locket with a curly strand of baby hair. the giant sobbed. "my pierre--eet was my pierre!" "what's that?" houston had raised suddenly, was staring in the direction of an old commode in the corner. at the door the wolf-dog sniffed and snarled. ba'tiste, bending among the lost trinkets that once had been his wife's, did not hear. houston grasped him by the shoulder and shook him excitedly. "ba'tiste! ba'tiste! there's some one hiding--over there in the corner. i heard sounds--look at golemar!" "hiding? no. there is no one here--no one but ba'tiste and his memories. no one--" "i tell you i heard some one. the commode moved. i know!" he rose, only to suddenly veer and flatten himself against the wall. the yellow blaze of aimless revolver fire had spurted from the corner; then the plunging form of a gnarled, gangling, limping man, who rushed past houston to the door, swerved there, and once more raised the revolver. but he did not fire. a furry, snarling thing had leaped at him, knocking the revolver from his hand in its plunging ascent. then a cry,--a gurgling growl. teeth had clenched at the throat of the man; together they rolled through the door to the snow without, golemar, his hold broken by the fall, striving again for the death clutch, the man screaming in sudden frantic fear. "take him off!" the voice of the thin-visaged fred thayer was shrill now. "take him off--i'll tell you about it--she did it--she did it! take him off!" "golemar!" ba'tiste had appeared in the doorway. below the dog whirled in obedience to his command and edged back, teeth still bared, eyes vigilant, waiting for the first movement of the man on the ground. houston went forward and stood peering down at the frightened, huddled form of thayer, wiping the blood from the fang wound in his neck. "you'll tell about what?" came with sudden incisiveness. the man stared, suddenly aware that he had spoken of a thing that had been mentioned by neither ba'tiste nor houston. his lips worked crookedly. he tried to smile, but it ended only in a misshapen snarl. "i thought you fellows were looking for something. i--i--wanted to get the dog off." "we were. we've found it. ba'tiste," and houston forced back the tigerish form of the big french-canadian. "you walk in front of us. i'm--i'm afraid to trust you right now. and don't turn back. do you promise?" the big hands worked convulsively. the eyes took on a newer, fiercer glare. "he is the man, eh? his conscience, eet speak when there is no one to ask the question. he--" "go on, ba'tiste. please." houston's voice was that of a pleading son. once more the big muscles knotted, the arms churned; the giant's teeth showed between furled lips in a sudden beast-like expression. "ba'tiste! do you want to add murder to murder? this is out of our hands now; it's a matter of law. now, go ahead--for me." with an effort the canadian obeyed, the wolf-dog trotting beside him, houston following, one hand locked about the buckle of the thinner man's belt, the other half supporting him as he limped and reeled through the snow. "it's my hip--" the man's mind had gone to trivial things. "i sprained it--about ten days ago. i'd been living over here with her up till the storm. then i had to be at camp. i--" "that was your child, then?" fred thayer was silent. barry houston repeated the question commandingly. there could be no secrecy now; events had gone too far. for a third time the accusation came and the man beside him turned angrily. "whose would you think it was?" houston did not answer. they stumbled on through the snow-drifted woods, finally to reach the open space leading to the sleigh. thayer drew back. "what's the use of taking me into town?" he begged. "she's dead and gone; you can't harm her now." "we're not inquiring about her." "but she's the one that did it. she told me--when she first got sick. those are her things in there. they're--" "have i asked you about anything?" houston bit the words at him. again the man was silent. they reached the sled, and ba'tiste pointed to the seat. "in there," he ordered. "ba'teese will walk. ba'teese afraid--too close." and then, in silence, the trip to town was made, at last to draw up in front of the boarding house. houston called to a bystander. "is the 'phone working--to montview?" "yeh. think it is. got it opened up yesterday." "then call up over there and tell the sheriff we want him. it has to do with the renaud murder." the loafer sprang to the street and veered across, shouting the news as he went, while ba'tiste made hurried arrangements regarding the silent form of the lonely cabin. a few moments later, the makeshift boarding-house lobby was crowded, while barry houston, reverting to the bitter lessons he had learned during the days of his own cross-examinations, took his place in front of the accused man. "in the first place, thayer," he commanded. "you might as well know one thing. you're caught. the goods are on you. you're going up if for nothing else than an attempt to murder ba'tiste renaud and myself." "i--i thought you were robbers." "you know that's a lie. but that's a matter for the court room. there are greater things. in the first place--" "about that other--" still he clung to his one shred of a story, his only possibility of hope. conscience had prompted the first outcry; now there was nothing to do but follow the lead. "i don't know anything. she told me--that's all. and she's dead now." "ah, _oui_!" ba'tiste had edged forward. "she is dead. and because she is dead--because she have suffer and die, you would lay to her door murder! eet is the lie! where then is the ten thousand dollar she took--if she kill my julienne? eh? where is the gun with which she shot her? ah, you cringe! for why you do that--for why do you not look at ba'teese when he talk about his julienne! eh? is eet that you are afraid? is eet that your teeth are on your tongue, to keep eet from the truth? _oui_! you are the man--you are the man!" "i don't know anything about it. she told me she did it--that those were mrs. renaud's things." "ah! then you have nev' see that ring, which my julienne, she wore on her finger. ah, no? you have nev' see, in all the time that you come to ba'teese house, the string of bead about her neck. _oui_! eet is the lie, you tell. you have see them--eet is the lie!" and thus the battle progressed, the old man storming, the frowning, sullen captive in the chair replying in monosyllables, or refusing to answer at all. an hour passed, while tabernacle crowded the little lobby and overflowed to the street. one by one ba'tiste brought forth the trinkets and laid them before the thin-faced man. he forced them into his hands. he demanded that he explain why he had said nothing of their presence in the lonely cabin, when he had known them, every one, from having seen them time after time in the home of renaud. the afternoon grew old. the sheriff arrived,--and still the contest went on. then, with a sudden shifting of the head, a sudden break of reserve, thayer leaned forward and rubbed his gnarled hands, one against the other. "all right!" he snapped. "have it your way. no use in trying to lay it on the woman--you could prove an alibi for her. you're right. i killed them both." "both?" they stared at him. thayer nodded, still looking at the floor, his tongue licking suddenly dry lips. "yeh, both of 'em. one brought on the other. mrs. renaud and john corbin--they called him tom langdon back east." chapter xxv it was staggering in its unexpectedness. a gasp came from the lips of barry houston. he felt himself reeling,--only to suddenly straighten, as though a crushing weight had been lifted from his shoulders. he whirled excitedly and grasped the nearest onlooker. "go get medaine robinette. hurry! tell her that it is of the utmost importance--that i have found the proof. she'll understand." then, struggling to reassure himself, he turned again to the prisoner. two hours later, in the last glint of day, the door opened, and a woman came to his side, where he was finishing the last of many closely written sheets of paper. he looked up at her, boyishly, happily. without waiting for her permission, he grasped her hand, and then, as though eager for her to hear, he turned to the worn-faced man, now slumped dejectedly in his chair. "you understand, thayer, that this is your written confession?" the man nodded. "given in the presence of the sheriff, of ba'tiste renaud, of myself, and the various citizens of tabernacle that you see here?" "yes." "of your own free will, without threats or violence?" "i guess so." "and you are willing to sign it?" the man hesitated. then: "i'd want to know what i was signing." "certainly. i intend to read it to you--so that all witnesses may hear it. it is then to be filed with the district attorney. you can signify its correctness or incorrectness after every paragraph. is that agreeable?" "i guess so." a pause. at last: "'my name is fred thayer. i am forty-four years of age. prior to about a year ago, i was employed by the empire lake mill and lumber company as superintendent. i had occupied this position for some fifteen or twenty years, beginning with it when it was first started by mr. houston of boston.' is that right?" a nod from the accused. houston went on: "'i figured from the first that i was going to be taken in partnership with mr. houston, although nothing ever was said about it. i just took it for granted. however, when years passed and, nothing was done about it, i began to force matters, by letting the mill run down, knowing that mr. houston was getting old, and that he might be willing to sell out to me if things got bad enough. at that time, i didn't know where i was going to get the money, but hoped that mr. houston would let me have the mill and acreage on some sort of a payment basis. i went back to see him about it a couple of times, but he wouldn't listen to me. he said that he wanted to either close the thing out for cash or keep on running it in the hope of making something of it.' that's all right, isn't it, thayer?" "yes." "'i tried two or three times to get him to sell out to me, but we couldn't get together on the terms. he always wanted cash, and i couldn't furnish it--although i pretended that i had the money all right, but that i simply did not want to tie it all up at once. about this time--i think it was three or four years ago; i am not exactly clear on the dates--a nephew of his named thomas langdon came out here, under the name of john corbin. he had been a black sheep and was now wandering about the country, doing anything that he could set his hand to for a living. i had known him since boyhood and gave him a job under his assumed name. he pretended that he was very close to mr. houston, and i thought maybe he could help me get the plant. but his word was not worth as much as mine.' have i taken that down correctly, thayer?" "yes. except about langdon. he told me when he came here that his uncle had sent him out to straighten him up. but i don't guess it makes much difference." houston, nevertheless, made the changes, glancing up once to assure himself that medaine still was there. she had not left his side. he went on with the reading: "'by this time, the mill had gotten to be a sort of mania with me, and i almost had myself believing that houston had promised me more than he had given me. then, a woman came out here, an agnes jierdon, a stenographer, on her vacation. i met her and learned that she was from boston.'" a slight pressure exerted itself on houston's arm. he glanced down to see medaine robinette's hand, clasped tight. "'she spent nearly the whole summer here, and i made love to her. i asked her to marry me, and she told me that she would. she was really very much in love with me. i didn't care about her--i was working for a purpose. i wanted to use her--to get her in houston's office. i wanted to find out what was going on, so that i would know in advance, and so that i could prepare for it by having breakage at the mill, to stop contracts and run things farther down than ever, so the old man would get disgusted and sell out at my terms. i knew there would be a mint of money for me if i could get hold of that mill. at the end of her vacation, she went back to boston and got a job with houston, as an office clerk. almost the first thing that she wrote me was that the old man was thinking about selling out to some concern back east.'" houston looked toward the accused man for his confirmation, then continued. "'while she had been out here, i had told her that houston had promised to take me into partnership and that he had gone back on his word. i put it up to her pretty strong about how i had been tricked into working for him for years, and she was sympathetic with me, of course, inasmuch as she was in love with me. naturally, when she heard this, she wrote me right away. it made me desperate. then i thought of ba'tiste renaud.'" "ah!" the word was accompanied by a sharp intake of breath as the big french-canadian moved closer to hear again the story of a murder. but the sheriff motioned him back. the emotions of the old trapper were not to be trusted. the recital went on: "'everybody around this country had always talked about how rich he was. there was a saying that he didn't believe in banks and that he kept more than a hundred thousand dollars in his little cabin. at this time, both he and his son were away at war, and i thought i could steal this money, place it in other hands, and then work things so that if i did get hold of the mill, people around here would merely think i had borrowed the money and bought the mill with it. by this time, a cousin of miss jierdon's, a fellow named jenkins, had gotten a job with houston and was working with her, and of course, i was hearing everything that went on. it looked like the deal was going through, and it forced me to action. one night i watched mrs. renaud and saw her leave the house. i thought she was going to town. instead, after i'd gotten into the cabin, she came back, surprising me. there wasn't anything else to do. i killed her, with a revolver.'" "_diable_!" "easy, ba'tiste. that's the way you gave it to me, isn't it, thayer?" "yes. i shot twice at her. the first bullet missed." again the door of the tiny lobby opened and closed, and a form edged forward,--blackburn, summoned from his mill. thayer glanced at him, then lowered his eyes. houston made the additional notation on the confession and went back to his reading: "'when i found the deed box, there was only ten thousand dollars in it instead of the fortune that i had supposed was there. i was about to take it out and stuff it into my pocket, when i heard a noise outside the window. thinking it was renaud's wolf-dog, and that he might give the alarm, i pushed the box under my coat and ran out the back door. the next day, corbin--or langdon--came to me and demanded his share of what i had stolen. he said that he had seen me at the deed box after i had killed the woman, that he had made the noise outside the window. i put him off--denying it all. but it wasn't any use. at first he threatened that he would go to the sheriff at montview, and for several days he came to me, telling me that this was the last chance that he would give me if i didn't let him have his share. i played him for time. then he began to beg small amounts of money from me, promising to keep still if i gave them to him. i guess this kept up for two or three months, the amounts getting larger all the time. at last, i wouldn't stand it any longer. he threatened me again,--and then, suddenly, one day disappeared. i hurried to montview, thinking of course that he had gone there, hoping to catch him on the way. but no one had seen him. then i went to tabernacle and learned that he had bought a ticket for boston, and that he had left on a morning train. i knew what was up then; he was going back to tell old man houston and try to step into my shoes when i was arrested. but i beat him there by going over the range in an automobile, and taking an earlier train for boston. i picked him up when he arrived and trailed him to young houston's office. after that i saw them go to a cafe, and from there to a prize fight. i bought a ticket and watched them from the rear of the hall. i had my gun with me--i had made up my mind to kill them both. i thought langdon had told. after the fight, they started out, myself in the rear. young houston had gotten a mallet from the timekeeper. on the way home, i could hear them talking, and heard houston asking langdon why he wanted to see the old man. by that i knew that it hadn't been told yet--and i felt safer. then they got in a quarrel, and my chance came. it was over the mallet--langdon took it away from his cousin and started to fight him. houston ran. when he was well out of sight, i went forward. no one was near. langdon still had the mallet in his hand. i crept up behind him and clubbed my revolver, hitting him on the head with it. he fell--dead--and i knew i was safe, that houston would be accused.'" barry looked earnestly at the man before him. "that's all true, isn't it, thayer?" "i haven't made any objection, have i?" came surlily. "i merely wanted to be sure. but to go on: 'then i thought of a way to get what i wanted from miss jierdon. this was several months afterward, just before the trial. i argued that i was sure young houston hadn't committed the murder, and that if some woman could testify to the fact that langdon had that mallet, it might free houston, and make a hit with the old man and that maybe he would make good on his promises. i did it pretty skilfully and she listened to me, largely, i guess, because she was in love with me. anyway, it ended with her testifying at the trial in a sort of negative way. i didn't care about that--it was something else i wanted. later after the old man had died, i used it. i wanted her to switch some papers on young mr. houston for me, and she bucked against it. then i told her that she had done worse things, that she had perjured herself, and that unless she stayed by me, she could be sent to the penitentiary. of course, i didn't tell her in those exact words--i did it more in the way of making a criminal out of her already, so that the thing she was going to do wouldn't seem as bad to her. i wasn't foolish enough to threaten her. besides, i told her that the mill should have been rightfully mine, that the old man had lied to me and gotten me to work for him for years at starvation wages, on promises that it would be mine some time, and that he had neither taken me in partnership, nor left it to me in the will. she got her cousin to help her in the transfer of the papers; it was a lease and stumpage contract. he affixed a notary seal to it. the thing was illegitimate, of course. shortly after that, young houston came out here again, and i got her to come too. i wanted to see what he was up to. he fired me, and while he was in denver, and renaud away from the mill, i got miss jierdon and took her for a walk, while one of the other men kept watch for the cook who was asleep. but she didn't wake up. on the way back, miss jierdon saw that the mill was burning, and i directed her suspicion toward renaud. she accused him, and it brought about a little quarrel between miss jierdon and young houston. i had forced her, by devious ways, to pretend that she was in love with him--keeping that perjury thing hanging over her all the time and constantly harping on how, even though he was a nice young fellow, he was robbing us both of something that was rightfully ours. all this time, i had dodged marrying her, promising that i would do it when the mill was mine. in the meantime, with the lease and contract in my hands, i had hooked up with this man here, blackburn, and he had started a mill for me. i guess miss jierdon had gotten to thinking a little of houston, after all, because when i forced her to the final thing of telling some lies about him to a young woman, she did it, but went away mad at me and threatening never to see me again. but a little while later, she came back. our relations, while she had been at the houston camp, hadn't been exactly what they should have been. miss jierdon is dead--she had stayed in a little cabin in the woods. i had lived with her there. about ten days ago, the baby died, while i was laid up at camp with a sprained hip. to-day i went there to find her dead, and while i was there, renaud and young houston caught me. this is all i know. i make this statement of my own free will, without coercion, and i swear it to be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help me god.'" the little lobby milled and buzzed, drowning the scratching of the pen as a trembling man signed the confession, page by page. then came the clink of handcuffs. a moment later two figures had departed in the dusk,--the sheriff and fred thayer, bound for the jail at montview. houston straightened, to find a short, bulky form before him, henry blackburn. "well?" questioned that person. "i guess it's up to me. i--i haven't got much chance against that." "what do you mean?" "simply this," and the bulky blackburn drew a nervous, sweating hand across his brow. "i ain't above dealing with crooks, i'll admit that. i've done a few things in my life that haven't been any too straight, or any too noble, and when thayer came to me with this contract and lease, i didn't ask any questions. my lawyer said it was o. k. that was enough for me. but somehow or other, i kind of draw the line at murder. i'm in your hands, houston. i've got a mill up there that i've put a lot of money in. it ain't worth the powder to blow it up now--to me, anyway. but with you, it's different. if you want to make me a fair offer, say the word, and i'll go more than half-way. what say?" "is to-morrow time enough?" "to-morrow--or the next day--or the next week. suits me. i'm in your hands." then he went on, leaving only three figures in the lobby,--the bent, silent form of ba'tiste renaud, grave, but rewarded at last in his faithful search; the radiant-eyed houston, free with a freedom that he hardly believed could exist; and a girl who walked to the window and stood looking out a moment before she turned to him. then impetuously she faced him, her eyes searching his, her hands tight clasped, her whole being one of supplication. "i'm sorry," she begged. "can you--will you forgive me?" boyishly barry houston reached forward and drew away a strand of hair that had strayed from place, a spirit of venture in his manner, a buoyant tone in his voice. "say it again. i like it!" "but i am--don't you believe me?" "of course. but then--i--i--" then he caught her hands. "will you go with me while i telegraph?" he asked in sudden earnestness. "i want to wire--to the papers back in boston and tell them that i've been vindicated. will you--?" "i'd be glad to." they went out the door together, houston beaming happily downward, the girl close beside him, her arm in his. and it was then that the features of ba'tiste renaud lost their gravity and sorrow. he looked after them, his eyes soft and contented. then his big hands parted slowly. his lips broke into a smile of radiant happiness. and it was with the same glad light in his eyes that three months later ba'tiste renaud stood on the shores of empire lake, his wolf-dog beside him, looking out over the rippling sheen of the water. the snow was gone from the hills now; the colors were again radiant, the blues and purples and greens and reds vying, it seemed, with one another, in a constantly recurring contest of beauty. afar off, logs were sliding in swift succession down the skidways, to lose themselves in the waters, then to bob along toward the current that would carry them to the flume. the jays cried and quarreled in the aspens; in a little bay, an old beaver made his first sally of the evening, and by angry slaps of his tail warned the rest of the colony that humans were near. distantly, from down the bubbling stream which led from the lake, there sounded the snarl of giant saws and the hum of machinery, where, in two great mills, the logs traveled into a manufactured state through a smooth-working process that led from "jacker" to "kicker", thence to the platforms and the shotgun carriages; into the mad rush of the bank saws, while the rumbling rolls caught the offal to cart it away; then surging on, to the edgers and trimmers and kilns. great trucks rumbled along the roadways. faintly a locomotive whistled, as the switch engine from tabernacle clanked to the mills for the make-up of its daily stub-train of lumber cars. but the attention of ba'tiste renaud was on none of these. out in a safe portion of the lake was a boat, and within it sat two persons, a man and a woman, their rods flashing as they made their casts, now drawing slowly backward for another whip of the fly, now bending with the swift leap of a captive trout. and he watched them with the eyes of a father looking upon children who have fulfilled his every hope, children deeply, greatly beloved. as for the man and the woman, they laughed and glanced at each other as they cast, or shouted and shrilled with the excitement of the leaping trout as the fly caught fair and the struggle of the rod and reel began, to end with another flopping form in the creel, another delicacy for the table at camp. but at last the girl leaned back, and her fly trailed disregarded in the water. "barry," she asked, "what day's to-morrow?" "wednesday," he said, and cast again in the direction of a dead, jutting tree, the home of more than one three-pounder. she pouted. "of course it's wednesday. but what else?" "i don't know. let me see. twentieth, isn't it?" this time her rod flipped in mock anger. "barry," she commanded. "what day is tomorrow?" he looked at her blankly. "i give it up," came after deep thought. "what day is to-morrow?" she pressed tight her lips, striving bravely for sternness. but in vain. an upward curve made its appearance at the corners. the blue eyes twinkled. she laughed. "foolish!" she chided. "i might have expected you to forget. it's our first monthiversary!" the nerve of foley and other railroad stories by frank h. spearman illustrated new york and london harper & brothers publishers copyright, , by frank h. spearman. _all rights reserved._ to my brother [illustration: "foley dropped down on the steam-chest and swung far out"] contents the nerve of foley second seventy-seven the kid engineer the sky-scraper soda-water sal the mcwilliams special the million-dollar freight-train bucks sankey's double header siclone clark illustrations "foley dropped down on the steam-chest and swung far out" "the cab for a passing instant rose in the air "that was burns's firing that night" "sinclair was whistling sharply for orders" the nerve of foley there had been rumors all winter that the engineers were going to strike. certainly we of the operating department had warning enough. yet in the railroad life there is always friction in some quarter; the railroad man sleeps like the soldier, with an ear alert--but just the same he sleeps, for with waking comes duty. our engineers were good fellows. if they had faults, they were american faults--rashness, a liberality bordering on extravagance, and a headstrong, violent way of reaching conclusions--traits born of ability and self-confidence and developed by prosperity. one of the best men we had on a locomotive was andrew cameron; at the same time he was one of the hardest to manage, because he was young and headstrong. andy, a big, powerful fellow, ran opposite felix kennedy on the flyer. the fast runs require young men. if you will notice, you will rarely see an old engineer on a fast passenger run; even a young man can stand only a few years of that kind of work. high speed on a locomotive is a question of nerve and endurance--to put it bluntly, a question of flesh and blood. * * * * * "you don't think much of this strike, do you, mr. reed?" said andy to me one night. "don't think there's going to be any, andy." he laughed knowingly. "what actual grievance have the boys?" i asked. "the trouble's on the east end," he replied, evasively. "is that any reason for calling a thousand men out on this end?" "if one goes out, they all go." "would you go out?" "would i? you bet!" "a man with a home and a wife and a baby boy like yours ought to have more sense." getting up to leave, he laughed again confidently. "that's all right. we'll bring you fellows to terms." "maybe," i retorted, as he closed the door. but i hadn't the slightest idea they would begin the attempt that night. i was at home and sound asleep when the caller tapped on my window. i threw up the sash; it was pouring rain and dark as a pocket. "what is it, barney? a wreck?" i exclaimed. "worse than that. everything's tied up." "what do you mean?" "the engineers have struck." "struck? what time is it?" "half-past three. they went out at three o'clock." throwing on my clothes, i floundered behind barney's lantern to the depot. the superintendent was already in his office talking to the master-mechanic. bulletins came in every few minutes from various points announcing trains tied up. before long we began to hear from the east end. chicago reported all engineers out; omaha wired, no trains moving. when the sun rose that morning our entire system, extending through seven states and territories, was absolutely paralyzed. it was an astounding situation, but one that must be met. it meant either an ignominious surrender to the engineers or a fight to the death. for our part, we had only to wait for orders. it was just six o'clock when the chief train-dispatcher who was tapping at a key, said: "here's something from headquarters." we crowded close around him. his pen flew across the clip; the message was addressed to all division superintendents. it was short; but at the end of it he wrote a name we rarely saw in our office. it was that of the railroad magnate we knew as "the old man," the president of the system, and his words were few: "move the trains." "move the trains!" repeated the superintendent. "yes; but trains can't be moved by pinch-bars nor by main force." we spent the day arguing with the strikers. they were friendly, but firm. persuasion, entreaties, threats, we exhausted, and ended just where we began, except that we had lost our tempers. the sun set without the turn of a wheel. the victory of the first day was certainly with the strikers. next day it looked pretty blue around the depot. not a car was moved; the engineers and firemen were a unit. but the wires sung hard all that day and all that night. just before midnight chicago wired that no. --our big passenger-train, the denver flyer--had started out on time, with the superintendent of motive power as engineer and a wiper for fireman. the message came from the second vice-president. he promised to deliver the train to our division on time the next evening, and he asked, "can you get it through to denver?" we looked at each other. at last all eyes gravitated towards neighbor, our master-mechanic. the train-dispatcher was waiting. "what shall i say?" he asked. the division chief of the motive power was a tremendously big irishman, with a voice like a fog-horn. without an instant's hesitation the answer came clear, "say 'yes'!" every one of us started. it was throwing the gage of battle. our word had gone out; the division was pledged; the fight was on. next evening the strikers, through some mysterious channel, got word that the flyer was expected. about nine o'clock a crowd of them began to gather round the depot. it was after one o'clock when no. pulled in and the foreman of the omaha round-house swung down from the locomotive cab. the strikers clustered around the engine like a swarm of angry bees; but that night, though there was plenty of jeering, there was no actual violence. when they saw neighbor climb into the cab to take the run west there was a sullen silence. next day a committee of strikers, with andy cameron, very cavalier, at their head, called on me. "mr. reed," said he, officiously, "we've come to notify you not to run any more trains through here till this strike's settled. the boys won't stand it; that's all." with that he turned on his heel to leave with his following. "hold on, cameron," i replied, raising my hand as i spoke; "that's not quite all. i suppose you men represent your grievance committee?" "yes, sir." "i happen to represent, in the superintendent's absence, the management of this road. i simply want to say to you, and to your committee, that i take my orders from the president and the general manager--not from you nor anybody you represent. that's all." every hour the bitterness increased. we got a few trains through, but we were terribly crippled. as for freight, we made no pretence of moving it. trainloads of fruit and meat rotted in the yards. the strikers grew more turbulent daily. they beat our new men and crippled our locomotives. then our troubles with the new men were almost as bad. they burned out our crown sheets; they got mixed up on orders all the time. they ran into open switches and into each other continually, and had us very nearly crazy. i kept tab on one of the new engineers for a week. he began by backing into a diner so hard that he smashed every dish in the car, and ended by running into a siding a few days later and setting two tanks of oil on fire, that burned up a freight depot. i figured he cost us forty thousand dollars the week he ran. then he went back to selling windmills. after this experience i was sitting in my office one evening, when a youngish fellow in a slouch-hat opened the door and stuck his head in. "what do you want?" i growled. "are you mr. reed?" "what do you want?" "i want to speak to mr. reed." "well, what is it?" "are you mr. reed?" "confound you, yes! what do you want?" "me? i don't want anything. i'm just asking, that's all." his impudence staggered me so that i took my feet off the desk. "heard you were looking for men," he added. "no," i snapped. "i don't want any men." "wouldn't be any show to get on an engine, would there?" a week earlier i should have risen and fallen on his neck. but there had been others. "there's a show to get your head broke," i suggested. "i don't mind that, if i get my time." "what do you know about running an engine?" "run one three years." "on a threshing-machine?" "on the philadelphia and reading." "who sent you in here?" "just dropped in." "sit down." i eyed him sharply as he dropped into a chair. "when did you quit the philadelphia and reading?" "about six months ago." "fired?" "strike." i began to get interested. after a few more questions i took him into the superintendent's office. but at the door i thought it well to drop a hint. "look here, my friend, if you're a spy you'd better keep out of this. this man would wring your neck as quick as he'd suck an orange. see?" "let's tackle him, anyhow," replied the fellow, eying me coolly. i introduced him to mr. lancaster, and left them together. pretty soon the superintendent came into my office. "what do you make of him, reed?" said he. "what do you make of him?" lancaster studied a minute. "take him over to the round-house and see what he knows." i walked over with the new find, chatting warily. when we reached a live engine i told him to look it over. he threw off his coat, picked up a piece of waste, and swung into the cab. "run her out to the switch," said i, stepping up myself. he pinched the throttle, and we steamed slowly out of the house. a minute showed he was at home on an engine. "can you handle it?" i asked, as he shut off after backing down to the round-house. "you use soft coal," he replied, trying the injector. "i'm used to hard. this injector is new to me. guess i can work it, though." "what did you say your name was?" "i didn't say." "what is it?" i asked, curtly. "foley." "well, foley, if you have as much sense as you have gall you ought to get along. if you act straight, you'll never want a job again as long as you live. if you don't, you won't want to live very long." "got any tobacco?" "here, baxter," said i, turning to the round-house foreman, "this is foley. give him a chew, and mark him up to go out on to-night. if he monkeys with anything around the house kill him." baxter looked at foley, and foley looked at baxter; and baxter not getting the tobacco out quick enough, foley reminded him he was waiting. we didn't pretend to run freights, but i concluded to try the fellow on one, feeling sure that if he was crooked he would ditch it and skip. so foley ran a long string of empties and a car or two of rotten oranges down to harvard junction that night, with one of the dispatchers for pilot. under my orders they had a train made up at the junction for him to bring back to mccloud. they had picked up all the strays in the yards, including half a dozen cars of meat that the local board of health had condemned after it had laid out in the sun for two weeks, and a car of butter we had been shifting around ever since the beginning of the strike. when the strikers saw the stuff coming in next morning behind foley they concluded i had gone crazy. "what do you think of the track, foley?" said i. "fair," he replied, sitting down on my desk. "stiff hill down there by zanesville." "any trouble to climb it?" i asked, for i had purposely given him a heavy train. "not with that car of butter. if you hold that butter another week it will climb a hill without any engine." "can you handle a passenger-train?" "i guess so." "i'm going to send you west on no. to-night." "then you'll have to give me a fireman. that guy you sent out last night is a lightning-rod-peddler. the dispatcher threw most of the coal." "i'll go with you myself, foley. i can give you steam. can you stand it to double back to-night?" "i can stand it if you can." when i walked into the round-house in the evening, with a pair of overalls on, foley was in the cab getting ready for the run. neighbor brought the flyer in from the east. as soon as he had uncoupled and got out of the way we backed down with the . it was the best engine we had left, and, luckily for my back, an easy steamer. just as we coupled to the mail-car a crowd of strikers swarmed out of the dusk. they were in an ugly mood, and when andy cameron and bat nicholson sprang up into the cab i saw we were in for trouble. "look here, partner," exclaimed cameron, laying a heavy hand on foley's shoulder; "you don't want to take this train out, do you? you wouldn't beat honest working-men out of a job?" "i'm not beating anybody out of a job. if you want to take out this train, take it out. if you don't, get out of this cab." cameron was nonplussed. nicholson, a surly brute, raised his fist menacingly. "see here, boss," he growled, "we won't stand no scabs on this line." "get out of this cab." "i'll promise you you'll never get out of it alive, my buck, if you ever get into it again," cried cameron, swinging down. nicholson followed, muttering angrily. i hoped we were out of the scrape, but, to my consternation, foley, picking up his oil-can, got right down behind them, and began filling his cups without the least attention to anybody. nicholson sprang on him like a tiger. the onslaught was so sudden that they had him under their feet in a minute. i jumped down, and ben buckley, the conductor, came running up. between us we gave the little fellow a life. he squirmed out like a cat, and backed instantly up against the tender. "one at a time, and come on," he cried, hotly. "if it's ten to one, and on a man's back at that, we'll do it different." with a quick, peculiar movement of his arm he drew a pistol, and, pointing it squarely at cameron, cried, "get back!" i caught a flash of his eye through the blood that streamed down his face. i wouldn't have given a switch-key for the life of the man who crowded him at that minute. but just then lancaster came up, and before the crowd realized it we had foley, protesting angrily, back in the cab again. "for heaven's sake, pull out of this before there's bloodshed, foley," i cried; and, nodding to buckley, foley opened the choker. it was a night run and a new track to him. i tried to fire and pilot both, but after foley suggested once or twice that if i would tend to the coal he would tend to the curves i let him find them--and he found them all, i thought, before we got to athens. he took big chances in his running, but there was a superb confidence in his bursts of speed which marked the fast runner and the experienced one. at athens we had barely two hours to rest before doubling back. i was never tired in my life till i struck the pillow that night, but before i got it warm the caller routed me out again. the east-bound flyer was on time, or nearly so, and when i got into the cab for the run back, foley was just coupling on. "did you get a nap?" i asked, as we pulled out. "no; we slipped an eccentric coming up, and i've been under the engine ever since. say, she's a bird, isn't she? she's all right. i couldn't run her coming up; but i've touched up her valve motion a bit, and i'll get action on her as soon as it's daylight." "don't mind getting action on my account, foley; i'm shy on life insurance." he laughed. "you're safe with me. i never killed man, woman, or child in my life. when i do, i quit the cab. give her plenty of diamonds, if you please," he added, letting her out full. he gave me the ride of my life; but i hated to show scare, he was so coolly audacious himself. we had but one stop--for water--and after that all down grade. we bowled along as easy as ninepins, but the pace was a hair-raiser. after we passed arickaree we never touched a thing but the high joints. the long, heavy train behind us flew round the bluffs once in a while like the tail of a very capricious kite; yet somehow--and that's an engineer's magic--she always lit on the steel. day broke ahead, and between breaths i caught the glory of a sunrise on the plains from a locomotive-cab window. when the smoke of the mccloud shops stained the horizon, remembering the ugly threats of the strikers, i left my seat to speak to foley. "i think you'd better swing off when you slow up for the yards and cut across to the round-house," i cried, getting close to his ear, for we were on terrific speed. he looked at me inquiringly. "in that way you won't run into cameron and his crowd at the depot," i added. "i can stop her all right." he didn't take his eyes off the track. "i'll take the train to the platform," said he. "isn't that a crossing cut ahead?" he added, suddenly, as we swung round a fill west of town. "yes; and a bad one." he reached for the whistle and gave the long, warning screams. i set the bell-ringer and stooped to open the furnace door to cool the fire, when--chug! i flew up against the water-gauges like a coupling-pin. the monster engine reared right up on her head. scrambling to my feet, i saw the new man clutching the air-lever with both hands, and every wheel on the train was screeching. i jumped to his side and looked over his shoulder. on the crossing just ahead a big white horse, dragging a buggy, plunged and reared frantically. standing on the buggy seat a baby boy clung bewildered to the lazyback; not another soul in sight. all at once the horse swerved sharply back; the buggy lurched half over; the lines seemed to be caught around one wheel. the little fellow clung on; but the crazy horse, instead of running, began a hornpipe right between the deadly rails. i looked at foley in despair. from the monstrous quivering leaps of the great engine i knew the drivers were in the clutch of the mighty air-brake; but the resistless momentum of the train was none the less sweeping us down at deadly speed on the baby. between the two tremendous forces the locomotive shivered like a gigantic beast. i shrank back in horror; but the little man at the throttle, throwing the last ounce of air on the burning wheels, leaped from his box with a face transfigured. "take her!" he cried, and, never shifting his eyes from the cut, he shot through his open window and darted like a cat along the running-board to the front. not a hundred feet separated us from the crossing. i could see the baby's curls blowing in the wind. the horse suddenly leaped from across the track to the side of it; that left the buggy quartering with the rails, but not twelve inches clear. the way the wheels were cramped a single step ahead would throw the hind wheels into the train; a step backward would shove the front wheels into it. it was appalling. foley, clinging with one hand to a headlight bracket, dropped down on the steam-chest and swung far out. as the cow-catcher shot past, foley's long arm dipped into the buggy like the sweep of a connecting-rod, and caught the boy by the breeches. the impetus of our speed threw the child high in the air, but foley's grip was on the little overalls, and as the youngster bounded back he caught it close. i saw the horse give a leap. it sent the hind wheels into the corner of the baggage-car. there was a crash like the report of a hundred rifles, and the buggy flew in the air. the big horse was thrown fifty feet; but foley, with a great light in his eyes and the baby boy in his arm, crawled laughing into the cab. thinking he would take the engine again, i tried to take the baby. take it? well, i think not! "hi! there, buster!" shouted the little engineer, wildly; "that's a corking pair of breeches on you, son. i caught the kid right by the seat of the pants," he called over to me, laughing hysterically. "heavens! little man, i wouldn't 've struck you for all the gold in alaska. i've got a chunk of a boy in reading as much like him as a twin brother. what were you doing all alone in that buggy? whose kid do you suppose it is? what's your name, son?" at his question i looked at the child again--and i started. i had certainly seen him before; and, had i not, his father's features were too well stamped on the childish face for me to be mistaken. "foley," i cried, all amaze, "that's cameron's boy--little andy!" he tossed the baby the higher; he looked the happier; he shouted the louder. "the deuce it is! well, son, i'm mighty glad of it." and i certainly was glad. in fact, mighty glad, as foley expressed it, when we pulled up at the depot, and i saw andy cameron with a wicked look pushing to the front through the threatening crowd. with an ugly growl he made for foley. "i've got business with you--you--" "i've got a little with you, son," retorted foley, stepping leisurely down from the cab. "i struck a buggy back here at the first cut, and i hear it was yours." cameron's eyes began to bulge. "i guess the outfit's damaged some--all but the boy. here, kid," he added, turning for me to hand him the child, "here's your dad." the instant the youngster caught sight of his parent he set up a yell. foley, laughing, passed him into his astonished father's arms before the latter could say a word. just then a boy, running and squeezing through the crowd, cried to cameron that his horse had run away from the house with the baby in the buggy, and that mrs. cameron was having a fit. cameron stood like one daft--and the boy catching sight of the baby that instant panted and stared in an idiotic state. "andy," said i, getting down and laying a hand on his shoulder, "if these fellows want to kill this man, let them do it alone--you'd better keep out. only this minute he has saved your boy's life." the sweat stood out on the big engineer's forehead like dew. i told the story. cameron tried to speak; but he tried again and again before he could find his voice. "mate," he stammered, "you've been through a strike yourself--you know what it means, don't you? but if you've got a baby--" he gripped the boy tighter to his shoulder. "i have, partner; three of 'em." "then you know what this means," said andy, huskily, putting out his hand to foley. he gripped the little man's fist hard, and, turning, walked away through the crowd. somehow it put a damper on the boys. bat nicholson was about the only man left who looked as if he wanted to eat somebody; and foley, slinging his blouse over his shoulder, walked up to bat and tapped him on the shoulder. "stranger," said he, gently, "could you oblige me with a chew of tobacco?" bat glared at him an instant; but foley's nerve won. flushing a bit, bat stuck his hand into his pocket; took it out; felt hurriedly in the other pocket, and, with some confusion, acknowledged he was short. felix kennedy intervened with a slab, and the three men fell at once to talking about the accident. a long time afterwards some of the striking engineers were taken back, but none of those who had been guilty of actual violence. this barred andy cameron, who, though not worse than many others, had been less prudent; and while we all felt sorry for him after the other boys had gone to work, lancaster repeatedly and positively refused to reinstate him. several times, though, i saw foley and cameron in confab, and one day up came foley to the superintendent's office, leading little andy, in his overalls, by the hand. they went into lancaster's office together, and the door was shut a long time. when they came out little andy had a piece of paper in his hand. "hang on to it, son," cautioned foley; "but you can show it to mr. reed if you want to." the youngster handed me the paper. it was an order directing andrew cameron to report to the master-mechanic for service in the morning. * * * * * i happened over at the round-house one day nearly a year later, when foley was showing cameron a new engine, just in from the east. the two men were become great cronies; that day they fell to talking over the strike. "there was never but one thing i really laid up against this man," said cameron to me. "what's that?" asked foley. "why, the way you shoved that pistol into my face the first night you took out no. ." "i never shoved any pistol into your face." so saying, he stuck his hand into his pocket with the identical motion he used that night of the strike, and levelled at andy, just as he had done then--a plug of tobacco. "that's all i ever pulled on you, son; i never carried a pistol in my life." cameron looked at him, then he turned to me, with a tired expression: "i've seen a good many men, with a good many kinds of nerve, but i'll be splintered if i ever saw any one man with all kinds of nerve till i struck foley." second seventy-seven it is a bad grade yet. but before the new work was done on the river division, beverly hill was a terror to trainmen. on rainy sundays old switchmen in the zanesville yards still tell in their shanties of the night the blackwood bridge went out and cameron's stock-train got away on the hill, with the denver flyer caught at the foot like a rat in a trap. ben buckley was only a big boy then, braking on freights; i was dispatching under alex campbell on the west end. ben was a tall, loose-jointed fellow, but gentle as a kitten; legs as long as pinch-bars, yet none too long, running for the beverly switch that night. his great chum in those days was andy cameron. andy was the youngest engineer on the line. the first time i ever saw them together, andy, short and chubby as a duck, was dancing around, half dressed, on the roof of the bath-house, trying to get away from ben, who had the fire-hose below, playing on him with a two-inch stream of ice-water. they were up to some sort of a prank all the time. * * * * * june was usually a rush month with us. from the coast we caught the new crop japan teas and the fall importations of china silks. california still sent her fruits, and colorado was beginning cattle shipments. from wyoming came sheep, and from oregon steers; and all these not merely in car-loads, but in solid trains. at times we were swamped. the overland traffic alone was enough to keep us busy; on top of it came a great movement of grain from nebraska that summer, and to crown our troubles a rate war sprang up. every man, woman, and child east of the mississippi appeared to have but one object in life--that was to get to california, and to go over our road. the passenger traffic burdened our resources to the last degree. i was putting on new men every day then. we start them at braking on freights; usually they work for years at that before they get a train. but when a train-dispatcher is short on crews he must have them, and can only press the best material within reach. ben buckley had not been braking three months when i called him up one day and asked him if he wanted a train. "yes, sir, i'd like one first rate. but you know i haven't been braking very long, mr. reed," said he, frankly. "how long have you been in the train service?" i spoke brusquely, though i knew, without even looking at my service-card just how long it was. "three months, mr. reed." it was right to a day. "i'll probably have to send you out on this afternoon." i saw him stiffen like a ramrod. "you know we're pretty short," i continued. "yes, sir." "but do you know enough to keep your head on your shoulders and your train on your orders?" ben laughed a little. "i think i do. will there be two sections to-day?" "they're loading eighteen cars of stock at ogalalla; if we get any hogs off the beaver there will be two big sections. i shall mark you up for the first one, anyway, and send you out right behind the flyer. get your badge and your punch from carpenter--and whatever you do, buckley, don't get rattled." "no, sir; thank you, mr. reed." but his "thank you" was so pleasant i couldn't altogether ignore it; i compromised with a cough. perfect courtesy, even in the hands of the awkwardest boy that ever wore his trousers short, is a surprisingly handy thing to disarm gruff people with. ben was undeniably awkward; his legs were too long, and his trousers decidedly out of touch with his feet; but i turned away with the conviction that in spite of his gawkiness there was something to the boy. that night proved it. when the flyer pulled in from the west in the afternoon it carried two extra sleepers. in all, eight pullmans, and every one of them loaded to the ventilators. while the train was changing engines and crews, the excursionists swarmed out of the hot cars to walk up and down the platform. they were from new york, and had a band with them--as jolly a crowd as we ever hauled--and i noticed many boys and girls sprinkled among the grown folks. as the heavy train pulled slowly out the band played, the women waved handkerchiefs, and the boys shouted themselves hoarse--it was like a holiday, everybody seemed so happy. all i hoped, as i saw the smoke of the engine turn to dust on the horizon, was that i could get them over my division and their lives safely off my hands. for a week we had had heavy rains, and the bridges and track gave us worry. half an hour after the flyer left, , the fast stock-freight, wound like a great snake around the bluff, after it. ben buckley, tall and straight as a pine, stood on the caboose. it was his first train, and he looked as if he felt it. in the evening i got reports of heavy rains east of us, and after reported "out" of turner junction and pulled over the divide towards beverly, it was storming hard all along the line. by the time they reached the hill ben had his men out setting brakes--tough work on that kind of a night; but when the big engine struck the bluff the heavy train was well in hand, and it rolled down the long grade as gently as a curtain. ben was none too careful, for half-way down the hill they exploded torpedoes. through the driving storm the tail-lights of the flyer were presently seen. as they pulled carefully ahead, ben made his way through the mud and rain to the head end and found the passenger-train stalled. just before them was blackwood creek, bank full, and the bridge swinging over the swollen stream like a grape-vine. at the foot of beverly hill there is a siding--a long siding, once used as a sort of cut-off to the upper zanesville yards. this side track parallels the main track for half a mile, and on this siding ben, as soon as he saw the situation, drew in with his train so that it lay beside the passenger-train and left the main line clear behind. it then became his duty to guard the track to the rear, where the second section of the stock-train would soon be due. it was pouring rain and as dark as a pocket. he started his hind-end brakeman back on the run with red lights and torpedoes to warn the second section well up the hill. then walking across from his caboose, he got under the lee of the hind pullman sleeper to watch for the expected headlight. the storm increased in violence. it was not the rain driving in torrents, not the lightning blazing, nor the deafening crashes of thunder, that worried him, but the wind--it blew a gale. in the blare of the lightning he could see the oaks which crowned the bluffs whip like willows in the storm. it swept quartering down the beverly cut as if it would tear the ties from under the steel. suddenly he saw, far up in the black sky, a star blazing; it was the headlight of second seventy-seven. a whistle cut the wind; then another. it was the signal for brakes; the second section was coming down the steep grade. he wondered how far back his man had got with the bombs. even as he wondered he saw a yellow flash below the headlight; it was the first torpedo. the second section was already well down the top of the hill. could they hold it to the bottom? like an answer came shorter and sharper the whistle for brakes. ben thought he knew who was on that engine; thought he knew that whistle--for engineers whistle as differently as they talk. he still hoped and believed--knowing who was on the engine--that the brakes would hold the heavy load; but he feared-- a man running up in the rain passed him. ben shouted and held up his lantern; it was his head brakeman. "who's pulling second seventy-seven?" he cried. "andy cameron." "how many air cars has he got?" "six or eight," shouted ben. "it's the wind, daley--the wind. andy can hold her if anybody can. but the wind; did you ever see such a blow?" even while he spoke the cry for brakes came a third time on the storm. a frightened pullman porter opened the rear door of the sleeper. five hundred people lay in the excursion train, unconscious of this avalanche rolling down upon them. the conductor of the flyer ran up to ben in a panic. "buckley, they'll telescope us." "can you pull ahead any?" "the bridge is out." "get out your passengers," said ben's brakeman. "there's no time," cried the passenger conductor, wildly, running off. he was panic-stricken. the porter tried to speak. he took hold of the brakeman's arm, but his voice died in his throat; fear paralyzed him. down the wind came cameron's whistle clamoring now in alarm. it meant the worst, and ben knew it. the stock-train was running away. there were plenty of things to do if there was only time; but there was hardly time to think. the passenger crew were running about like men distracted, trying to get the sleeping travellers out. ben knew they could not possibly reach a tenth of them. in the thought of what it meant, an inspiration came like a flash. he seized his brakeman by the shoulder. for two weeks the man carried the marks of his hand. "daley!" he cried, in a voice like a pistol crack, "get those two stockmen out of our caboose. quick, man! i'm going to throw cameron into the cattle." it was a chance--single, desperate, but yet a chance--the only chance that offered to save the helpless passengers in his charge. if he could reach the siding switch ahead of the runaway train, he could throw the deadly catapult on the siding and into his own train, and so save the unconscious travellers. before the words were out of his mouth he started up the track at topmost speed. the angry wind staggered him. it blew out his lantern, but he flung it away, for he could throw the switch in the dark. a sharp gust tore half his rain-coat from his back; ripping off the rest, he ran on. when the wind took his breath he turned his back and fought for another. blinding sheets of rain poured on him; water streaming down the track caught his feet; a slivered tie tripped him, and, falling headlong, the sharp ballast cut his wrists and knees like broken glass. in desperate haste he dashed ahead again; the headlight loomed before him like a mountain of flame. there was light enough now through the sheets of rain that swept down on him, and there ahead, the train almost on it, was the switch. could he make it? a cry from the sleeping children rose in his heart. another breath, an instant floundering, a slipping leap, and he had it. he pushed the key into the lock, threw the switch and snapped it, and, to make deadly sure, braced himself against the target-rod. then he looked. no whistling now; it was past that. he knew the fireman would have jumped. cameron too? no, not andy, not if the pit yawned in front of his pilot. he saw streams of fire flying from many wheels--he felt the glare of a dazzling light--and with a rattling crash the ponies shot into the switch. the bar in his hands rattled as if it would jump from the socket, and, lurching frightfully, the monster took the siding. a flare of lightning lit the cab as it shot past, and he saw cameron leaning from the cab window, with face of stone, his eyes riveted on the gigantic drivers that threw a sheet of fire from the sanded rails. "jump!" screamed ben, useless as he knew it was. what voice could live in that hell of noise? what man escape from that cab now? one, two, three, four cars pounded over the split rails in half as many seconds. ben, running dizzily for life to the right, heard above the roar of the storm and screech of the sliding wheels a ripping, tearing crash, the harsh scrape of escaping steam, the hoarse cries of the wounded cattle. and through the dreadful dark and the fury of the babel the wind howled in a gale and the heavens poured a flood. trembling from excitement and exhaustion, ben staggered down the main track. a man with a lantern ran against him; it was the brakeman who had been back with the torpedoes; he was crying hysterically. they stumbled over a body. seizing the lantern, ben turned the prostrate man over and wiped the mud from his face. then he held the lantern close, and gave a great cry. it was andy cameron--unconscious, true, but soon very much alive, and no worse than badly bruised. how the good god who watches over plucky engineers had thrown him out from the horrible wreckage only he knew. but there andy lay; and with a lighter heart ben headed a wrecking crew to begin the task of searching for any who might by fatal chance have been caught in the crash. and while the trainmen of the freights worked at the wreck the passenger-train was backed slowly--so slowly and so smoothly--up over the switch and past, over the hill and past, and so to turner junction, and around by oxford to zanesville. when the sun rose the earth glowed in the freshness of its june shower-bath. the flyer, now many miles from beverly hill, was speeding in towards omaha, and mothers waking their little ones in the berths told them how close death had passed while they slept. the little girls did not quite understand it, though they tried very hard, and were very grateful to that man, whom they never saw and whom they would never see. but the little boys--never mind the little boys--they understood it, to the youngest urchin on the train, and fifty times their papas had to tell them how far ben ran and how fast to save their lives. and one little boy--i wish i knew his name--went with his papa to the depot-master at omaha when the flyer stopped, and gave him his toy watch, and asked him please to give it to that man who had saved his mamma's life by running so far in the rain, and please to tell him how much obliged he was--if he would be so kind. so the little toy watch came to our superintendent, and so to me; and i, sitting at cameron's bedside, talking the wreck over with ben, gave it to him; and the big fellow looked as pleased as if it had been a jewelled chronometer; indeed, that was the only medal ben got. the truth is we had no gold medals to distribute out on the west end in those days. we gave ben the best we had, and that was a passenger run. but he is a great fellow among the railroad men. and on stormy nights switchmen in the zanesville yards, smoking in their shanties, still tell of that night, that storm, and how ben buckley threw second seventy-seven at the foot of beverly hill. the kid engineer when the big strike caught us at zanesville we had one hundred and eighty engineers and firemen on the pay-roll. one hundred and seventy-nine of these men walked out. one fireman--just one--stayed with the company; that was dad hamilton. "yes," growled dad, combating the protests of the strikers' committee, "i know it. i belong to your lodge. but i'll tell you now--an' i've told you afore--i ain't goin' to strike on the company so long as neighbor is master-mechanic on this division. ain't a-goin' to do it, an' you might as well quit. 'f you jaw here from now till christmas 'twon't change my mind nar a bit." and they didn't change it. through the calm and through the storm--and it stormed hard for a while--dad hamilton, whenever we could supply him with an engineer, fired religiously. no other man in the service could have done it without getting killed; but dad was old enough to father any man among the strikers. moreover, he was a giant physically, and eccentric enough to move along through the heat of the crisis indifferent to the abuse of the other men. his gray hairs and his tremendous physical strength saved him from personal violence. our master-mechanic, "neighbor," was another big man--six feet an inch in his stockings, and strong as a draw-bar. between neighbor and the old fireman there existed some sort of a bond--a liking, an affinity. dad hamilton had fired on our division ten years. there was no promotion for dad; he could never be an engineer, though only neighbor knew why. but his job of firing on the river division was sure as long as neighbor signed the pay-rolls at the round-house. hence there was no surprise when the superintendent offered him an engine, just after the strike, that dad refused to take it. "i'm a fireman, and neighbor knows it. i ain't no engineer. i'll make steam for any man you put in the cab with me, but i won't touch a throttle for no man. i laid it down, and i'll never pinch it again--an' no offence t' you, neighbor, neither." thus ended negotiations with dad on that subject; threats and entreaties were useless. then, too, in spite of his professed willingness to throw coal for any man we put on his engine, he was continually rowing about the green runners we gave him. from the standpoint of a railroad man they were a tough assortment; for a fellow may be a good painter, or a handy man with a jack-plane, or an expert machinist, even, and yet a failure as an engine-runner. after we got hold of foley, neighbor put him on awhile with dad, and the grizzled fireman quickly declared that foley was the only man on the pay-roll who knew how to move a train. the little chap proved such a remarkable find that i tried hard to get some of his eastern chums to come out and join him. after a good bit of hustling we did get half a dozen more reading boys for our new corps of engine-men, but the east-end officials kept all but one of them on their own divisions. that one we got because nobody on the east end wanted him. "they've crimped the whole bunch, foley," said i, answering his inquiries. "there's just one fellow reported here--he came in on this morning. neighbor's had a little talk with him; but he doesn't think much of him. i guess we're out the transportation on that fellow." "what's his name?" asked foley. "is he off the reading?" "claims he is; his name is mcneal--" "mcneal?" echoed foley, surprised. "not georgie mcneal?" "i don't know what his first name is; he's nothing but a boy." "dark-complexioned fellow?" "perhaps you'd call him that; sort of soft-spoken." "georgie mcneal, sure's you're born. if you've got him you've got a bird. he ran opposite me between new york and philadelphia on the limited. i want to see him, right off. if it's georgie, you're all right." foley's talk went a good ways with me any time. when i told neighbor about it he pricked up his ears. while we were debating, in rushed foley with the young fellow--the kid--as he called him. neighbor made another survey of the ground in short order: run a new line, as foley would have said. the upshot of it was that mcneal was assigned to an engine straightway. as luck would have it, neighbor put the boy on the with dad hamilton; and dad proceeded at once to make what foley termed "a great roar." "what's the matter?" demanded neighbor, roughly, when the old fireman complained. "if you're goin' to pull these trains with boys i guess it's time for me to quit; i'm gettin' pretty old, anyhow." "what's the matter?" growled neighbor, still surlier, knowing full well that if the old fellow had a good reason he would have blurted it out at the start. "nothin's the matter; only i'd like my time." "you won't get it," said neighbor, roughly. "go back on your run. if mcneal don't behave, report him to me, and he'll get his time." it was a favorite trick of neighbor's. whenever the old fireman got to "bucking" about his engineer, the master-mechanic threatened to discharge the engineer. that settled it; dad hamilton wouldn't for the world be the cause of throwing another man out of a job, no matter how little he liked him. the old fellow went back to work mollified; but it was evident that he and mcneal didn't half get on together. the boy was not much of a talker; yet he did his work well; and neighbor said, next to foley, he was the best man we had. "what's the reason hamilton and mcneal can't hit it off, foley?" i asked one night. "they'll get along all right after a while," predicted foley. "you know the old man's stubborn as a dun mule, ain't he? the injectors bother georgie some; they did me. he'll get used to things. but dad thinks he's green--that's what's the matter. the kid is high-spirited, and seeing the old man's kind of got it in for him he won't ask him anything. dad's sore about that, too. georgie won't knuckle to anybody that don't treat him right." "you'd better tell mcneal to humor the old crank," i suggested; and i believe foley did so, but it didn't do any good. sometimes those things have to work themselves out without outside help. in the end this thing did, but in a way none of us looked for. about a week later foley came into the office one morning very much excited. "did you hear about the boy's getting pounded last night--georgie mcneal? it's a shame the way these fellows act. three of the strikers piled on him while he was going into the post-office, and thumped the life out of him. the cowardly hounds, to jump on a man's back that way!" "foley," said i, "that's the first time they've tackled one of dad hamilton's engineers." "they'd never have done it if they thought there was any danger of dad's getting after them. they know he doesn't like the boy." "it's an outrage; but we can't do anything. you know that. tell mcneal to keep away from the post-office. we'll get his mail for him." "i told him that this morning. he's in bed, and looks pretty hard. but he won't dodge those fellows. he claims it's a free country," grinned foley. "but i told him he'd get over that idea if he stuck out this trouble." it was three days before mcneal was able to report for work, though he received full time just the same. even then he wasn't fit for duty, but he begged neighbor for his run until he got it. the strikers were jubilant while the boy was laid up; but just what dad thought no one could find out. i wanted to tell the old growler what i thought of him, but foley said it wouldn't do any good, and might do harm, so i held my peace. one might have thought that the injustice and brutality of the thing would have roused him; but men who have repressed themselves till they are gray-headed don't rise in a hurry to resent a wrong. dad kept as mute as the sphinx. when mcneal was ready to go out the old fireman had the shining; but if the pale face of his engineer had any effect on him, he kept it to himself. as they rattled down the line with a long stock-train that night neither of them referred to the break in their run. coming back next night the same silence hung over the cab. the only words that passed over the boiler-head were "strickly business," as dad would say. at oxford they were laid out by a pullman special. it was three o'clock in the morning and raining hard. under such circumstances an hour seems all night. at last dad himself broke the unsupportable silence. "he'd have waited a good bit longer if he had waited for me to talk," said the boy, telling foley afterwards. "heard you got licked," growled dad, after tinkering with the fire for the twentieth time. "i didn't get licked," retorted georgie; "i got clubbed. i never had a chance to fight." "these fellows hate to see a boy come out and take a man's job. can't blame 'em much, neither." "whose job did i take?" demanded georgie, angrily. "was any one of those cowards that jumped on me in the dark looking for work on this engine?" there was nothing to say to that. dad kept still. "you talk about men," continued the young fellow. "if i am not more of a man than to slug a fellow from behind, the way they slugged me, i'll get off this engine and stay off. if that's what you call men out here i don't want to be a man. i'll go back to pennsylvania." "why didn't you stay there?" growled dad. "why didn't you?" without attempting to return the shot, dad pulled nervously at the chain. "if i hadn't been fool enough to go out on a strike i might have been running there yet," continued georgie. "ought to have kept away from the post-office," grumbled dad, after a pause. "i get a letter twice a week that i think more of than i do of this whole road, and i propose to go to the post-office and get it without asking anybody's permission." "they'll pound you again." georgie looked out into the storm. "well, why shouldn't they? i've got no friends." "got a girl back in pennsylvania?" "yes, i've got a girl there," replied the boy, as the rain tore at the cab window. "i've had a girl there a good while. she's gray-headed and sixty years old--that's my girl--and if she can write letters to me, i can get them out of the post-office without a guardian." "there she comes," said dad, as the headlight of the pullman special shone faint ahead through the mist. "i'm mighty glad of it," said georgie, looking at his watch. "give me steam now, dad, and i'll get you home in time for a nap before breakfast." a minute later the special shot over the switch, and the young runner, crowding the pistons a bit, started off the siding. when dad, looking back for the hind-end brakeman to lock the switch and swing on, called all clear, georgie pulled her out another notch, and the long train slowly gathered headway up the slippery track. as the speed increased the young man and the old relapsed into their usual silence. the was always a free steamer, but georgie put her through her paces without any apology, and it took lots of coal to square the account. in a few minutes they were pounding along up through the narrows. the track there follows the high bench between the bluffs, which sheer up on one side, and the river-bed, thirty feet below the grade, on the other. it is not an inviting stretch at any time with a big string of gondolas behind. but on a wet night it is the last place on the division where an engineer would want a side-rod to go wrong; and just there and then georgie's rod went very wrong indeed. half-way between centres the big steel bar on his side, dipping then so fast you couldn't have seen it even in daylight, snapped like a stick of licorice. the hind-end ripped up into the cab like the nose of a sword-fish, tearing and smashing with appalling force and fury. georgie mcneal's seat burst under him as if a stick of giant-powder had exploded. he was jammed against the cab roof like a link-pin and fell sprawling, while the monster steel flail threshed and tore through the cab with every lightning revolution of the great driver from which it swung. it was a frightful moment. anything thought or done must be thought and done at once. it was either to stop that train--and quickly--or to pound along until the jumped the track, and lit in the river, with thirty cars of coal to cover it. instantly--so dad hamilton afterwards told me--instantly the boy, scrambling to his feet, reached for his throttle--reached for it through a rain of iron blows, and staggered back with his right arm hanging like a broken wing from his shoulder. and back again after it--after the throttle with his left; slipping and creeping carefully this time up the throttle lever until, straining and twisting and dodging, he caught the latch and pushed it tightly home, dad whistling vigorously the while for brakes. relieved of the tremendous head on the cylinder the old engine calmed down enough to let the two men collect themselves. rapidly as the brakes could do it, the long train was brought up standing, and georgie, helped by his fireman, dropped out of the cab, and they set about disconnecting--the engineer with his one arm--the formidable ends of the broken rod. it was a slow, difficult piece of work to do. in spite of their most active efforts the rain chilled them to the marrow. the train-crew gave them as much help as willing hands could, which wasn't much; but by every man doing something they got things fixed, called in their flagmen just before daybreak, and started home. when the sun rose, georgie, grim and silent, the throttle in his left hand, was urging the old engine along on a dog-trot across the blackwood flats; and so, limping in on one side, the kid brought his train into the zanesville yards, with dad hamilton unable to make himself helpful enough, unable to show his appreciation of the skill and the grit that the night had disclosed in the kid engineer. the hostler waiting in the yard sprang into the cab with amazement on his face, and was just in time to lift a limp boy out of the old fireman's arms and help dad get him to the ground--for georgie had fainted. when the reached the shops a few minutes later they photographed that cab. it was the worst case of rod-smashing we had ever seen; and the west-end shops have caught some pretty tough-looking cabs in their day. the boy who stopped the cyclone and saved his train and crew lay stretched on the lounge in my office waiting for the company surgeon. and old dad hamilton--crabbed, irascible old dad hamilton--flew around that boy exactly like an excited old rooster: first bringing ice, and then water, and then hot coffee, and then fanning him with a time-table. it was worth a small smash-up to see it. the one sweep of the rod which caught georgie's arm had broken it in two places, and he was off duty three months. but it was a novelty to see that boy walk down to the post-office, and hear the strikers step up and ask how his arm was; and to see old dad hamilton tag around zanesville after him was refreshing. the kid engineer had won his spurs. the sky-scraper we stood one sunday morning in a group watching for her to speed around the narrows. many locomotives as i have seen and ridden, a new one is always a wonder to me; chokes me up, even, it means so much. i hear men rave over horses, and marvel at it when i think of the iron horse. i hear them chatter of distance, and my mind turns to the annihilator. i hear them brag of ships, and i think of the ship that ploughs the mountains and rivers and plains. and when they talk of speed--what can i think of but her? as the new engine rolled into the yards my heart beat quicker. her lines were too imposing to call strong; they were massive, yet so simple you could draw them, like the needle snout of a collie, to a very point. every bearing looked precise, every joint looked supple, as she swept magnificently up and checked herself, panting, in front of us. foley was in the cab. he had been east on a lay-off, and so happened to bring in the new monster, wild, from the river shops. she was built in pennsylvania, but the fellows on the missouri end of our line thought nothing could ever safely be put into our hands until they had stopped it _en route_ and looked it over. "how does she run, foley?" asked neighbor, gloating silently over the toy. "cool as an ice-box," said foley, swinging down. "she's a regular summer resort. little stiff on the hills yet." "we'll take that out of her," mused neighbor, climbing into the cab to look her over. "boys, this is up in a balloon," he added, pushing his big head through the cab-window and peering down at the ninety-inch drivers under him. "i grew dizzy once or twice looking for the ponies," declared foley, biting off a piece of tobacco as he hitched at his overalls. "she looms like a sky-scraper. say, neighbor, i'm to get her myself, ain't i?" asked foley, with his usual nerve. "when mcneal gets through with her, yes," returned neighbor, gruffly, giving her a thimble of steam and trying the air. "what!" cried foley, affecting surprise. "you going to give her to the kid?" "i am," returned the master-mechanic unfeelingly, and he kept his word. georgie mcneal, just reporting for work after the session in his cab with the loose end of a connecting-rod, was invited to take out the sky-scraper-- , class h--as she was listed, and dad hamilton of course took the scoop to fire her. "they get everything good that's going," grumbled foley. "they are good people," retorted neighbor. he also assigned a helper to the old fireman. it was a new thing with us then, a fellow with a slice-bar to tickle the grate, and dad, of course, kicked. he always kicked. if they had raised his salary he would have kicked. neighbor wasted no words. he simply sent the helper back to wiping until the old fireman should cry enough. very likely you know that a new engine must be regularly broken, as a horse is broken, before it is ready for steady hard work. and as georgie mcneal was not very strong yet, he was appointed to do the breaking. for two months it was a picnic. light runs and easy lay-overs. after the smash at the narrows, hamilton had sort of taken the kid engineer under his wing; and it was pretty generally understood that any one who elbowed georgie mcneal must reckon with his doughty old fireman. so the two used to march up and down street together, as much like chums as a very young engineer and a very old fireman possibly could be. they talked together, walked together, and ate together. foley was as jealous as a cat of hamilton, because he had brought georgie out west, and felt a sort of guardian interest in that quarter himself. really, anybody would love georgie mcneal; old dad hamilton was proof enough of that. one evening, just after pay-day, i saw the pair in the post-office lobby getting their checks cashed. presently the two stepped over to the money-order window; a moment later each came away with a money-order. "is that where you leave your wealth, georgie?" i asked, as he came up to speak to me. "part of it goes there every month, mr. reed," he smiled. "checks are running light, too, now--eh, dad?" "a young fellow like you ought to be putting money away in the bank," said i. "well, you see i have a bank back in pennsylvania--a bank that is now sixty years old, and getting gray-headed. i haven't sent her much since i've been on the relief, so i'm trying to make up a little now for my old mammie." "where does yours go, dad?" i asked. "me?" answered the old man, evasively, "i've got a boy back east; getting to be a big one, too. he's in school. when are you going to give us a passenger run with the sky-scraper, neighbor?" asked hamilton, turning to the master-mechanic. "soon as we get this wheat, up on the high line, out of the way," replied neighbor. "we haven't half engines enough to move it, and i get a wire about every six hours to move it faster. every siding's blocked, clear to belgrade. how many of those sixty-thousand-pound cars can you take over beverly hill with your sky-scraper?" he was asking both men. the engineer looked at his chum. "i reckon maybe thirty-five or forty," said mcneal. "eh, dad?" "maybe, son," growled hamilton; "and break my back doing it?" "i gave you a helper once and you kicked him off the tender," retorted neighbor. "don't want anybody raking ashes for me--not while i'm drawing full time," dad frowned. but the upshot of it was that we put the sky-scraper at hauling wheat, and within a week she was doing the work of a double-header. it was may, and a thousand miles east of us, in chicago, there was trouble in the wheat-pit on the board of trade. you would hardly suspect what queer things that wheat scramble gave rise to, affecting georgie mcneal and old man hamilton and a lot of other fellows away out on a railroad division on the western plains; but this was the way of it: a man sitting in a little office on la salle street wrote a few words on a very ordinary-looking sheet of paper, and touched a button. that brought a colored boy, and he took the paper out to a young man who sat at the eastern end of a private wire. the next thing we knew, orders began to come in hot from the president's office--the president of the road, if you please--to get that wheat on the high line into chicago, and to get it there quickly. trainmen, elevator-men, superintendents of motive power, were spurred with special orders and special bulletins. farmers, startled by the great prices offering, hauled night and day. every old tub we had in the shops and on the scrap was overhauled and hustled into the service. the division danced with excitement. every bushel of wheat on it must be in chicago by the morning of may st. for two weeks we worked everything to the limit; the sky-scraper led any two engines on the line. even dad hamilton was glad to cry enough, and take a helper. we doubled them every day, and the way the wheat flew over the line towards the lower end of lake michigan was appalling to speculators. it was a battle between two commercial giants--and a battle to the death. it shook not alone the country, it shook the world; but that was nothing to us; our orders were simply to move the wheat. and the wheat moved. the last week found us pretty well cleaned up; but the high price brought grain out of cellars and wells, the buyers said--at least, it brought all the hoarded wheat, and much of the seed wheat, and the th day of the month found fifty cars of wheat still in the zanesville yards. i was at harvard working on a time-card when the word came, and behind it a special from the general manager, stating there was a thousand dollars premium in it for the company, besides tariff, if we got that wheat into chicago by saturday morning. the train end of it didn't bother me any; it was the motive power that kept us studying. however, we figured that by running mcneal with the sky-scraper back wild we could put all the wheat behind her in one train. as it happened, neighbor was at harvard, too. "can they ever get over beverly with fifty, neighbor?" i asked, doubtfully. "we'll never know till they try it," growled neighbor. "there's a thousand for the company if they do, that's all. how'll you run them? give them plenty of sea-room; they'll have to gallop to make it." cool and reckless planning, taking the daring chances, straining the flesh and blood, driving the steel loaded to the snapping-point; that was what it meant. but the company wanted results; wanted the prestige, and the premium, too. to gain them we were expected to stretch our little resources to the uttermost. i studied a minute, then turned to the dispatcher. "tell norman to send them out as second ; that gives the right of way over every wheel against them. if they can't make it on that kind of schedule, it isn't in the track." it was extraordinary business, rather, sending a train of wheat through on a passenger schedule, practically, as the second section of our east-bound flyer; but we took hair-lifting chances on the plains. it was noon when the orders were flashed. at three o'clock no. was due to leave zanesville. for three hours i kept the wires busy warning all operators and trainmen, even switch-engines and yard-masters, of the wheat special--second . the flyer, the first section and regular passenger-train, was checked out of zanesville on time. second , which meant georgie mcneal, dad, the sky-scraper, and fifty loads of wheat, reported out at . . while we worked on our time-card, neighbor, in the dispatcher's office across the hall, figured out that the wheat-train would enrich the company just eleven thousand dollars, tolls and premium. "if it doesn't break in two on beverly hill," growled neighbor, with a qualm. on the dispatcher's sheet, which is a sort of panorama, i watched the big train whirl past station after station, drawing steadily nearer to us, and doing it, the marvel, on full passenger time. it was a great feat, and georgie mcneal, whose nerve and brain were guiding the tremendous load, was breaking records with every mile-stone. they were due in harvard at nine o'clock. the first , our flyer, pulled in and out on time, meeting , the west-bound overland freight, at the second station east of harvard--redbud. neighbor and i sat with the dispatchers, up in their office, smoking. the wheat-train was now due from the west, and, looking at my watch, i stepped to the western window. almost immediately i heard the long peculiarly hollow blast of the sky-scraper whistling for the upper yard. "she's coming," i exclaimed. the boys crowded to the window; but neighbor happened to glance to the east. "what's that coming in from the junction, bailey?" he exclaimed, turning to the local dispatcher. we looked and saw a headlight in the east. "that's ." "where do they meet?" " takes the long siding in from the junction"--which was two miles east--"and she ought to be on it right now," added the dispatcher, anxiously, looking over the master-mechanic's shoulder. neighbor jumped as if a bullet had struck him. "she'll never take a siding to-night. she's coming down the main track. what's her orders?" he demanded, furiously. "meeting orders for first at redbud, second here, at glencoe. great jupiter!" cried the dispatcher, and his face went sick and scared, "they've forgotten second ." "they'll think of her a long time dead," roared the master-mechanic, savagely, jumping to the west window. "throw your red lights! there's the sky-scraper now!" her head shot that instant around the coal chutes, less than a mile away, and going dead against her. i stood like one palsied, my eyes glued on the burning eye of the big engine. as she whipped past a street arc-light i caught a glimpse of georgie mcneal's head out of the cab window. he always rode bare-headed if the night was warm, and i knew it was he; but suddenly, like a flash, his head went in. i knew why as well as if my eyes were his eyes and my thoughts his thoughts. he had seen red signals where he had every right to look for white. but red signals now--to stop _her_--to pull her flat on her haunches like a bronco? shake a weather flag at a cyclone! i saw the fire stream from her drivers; i knew they were churning in the sand; i knew he had twenty air cars behind him sliding. what of it? two thousand tons were sweeping forward like an avalanche. what did brains or pluck count for now with dancing along like a school-girl right into the teeth of it? i don't know how the other men felt. as for me, my breath choked in my throat, my knees shook, and a deadly nausea seized me. unable to avert the horrible blunder, i saw its hideous results. darkness hid the worst of the sight; it was the sound that appalled. children asleep in sod shanties miles from where the two engines reared in awful shock jumped in their cribs at that crash. 's little engine barely checked the sky-scraper. she split it like a banana. she bucked like a frantic horse, and leaped fearfully ahead. there was a blinding explosion, a sudden awful burst of steam; the windows crashed about our ears, and we were dashed to the wall and floor like lead-pencils. a baggage-truck, whipped up from the platform below, came through the heavy sash and down on the dispatcher's table like a brickbat, and as we scrambled to our feet a shower of wheat suffocated us. the floor heaved; freight-cars slid into the depot like battering-rams. in the height of the confusion an oil-tank in the yard took fire and threw a yellow glare on the ghastly scene. i saw men get up and fall again to their knees; i was shivering, and wet with sweat. the stairway was crushed into kindling-wood. i climbed out a back window, down on the roof of the freight platform, and so to the ground. there was a running to and fro, useless and aimless; men were beside themselves. they plunged through wheat up to their knees at every step. all at once, above the frantic hissing of the buried sky-scraper and the wild calling of the car tinks, i heard the stentorian tones of neighbor, mounted on a twisted truck, organizing the men at hand into a wrecking-gang. soon people began running up the yard to where the sky-scraper lay, like another samson, prostrate in the midst of the destruction it had wrought. foremost among the excited men, covered with dirt and blood, staggered dad hamilton. "where's mcneal?" cried neighbor. hamilton pointed to the wreck. "why didn't he jump?" yelled neighbor. hamilton pointed at the twisted signal-tower; the red light still burned in it. "you changed the signals on him," he cried, savagely. "what does it mean? we had rights against everything. what does it mean?" he raved, in a frenzy. neighbor answered him never a word; he only put his hand on dad's shoulder. "find him first! find him!" he repeated, with a strain in his voice i never heard till then; and the two giants hurried away together. when i reached the sky-scraper, buried in the thick of the smash, roaring like a volcano, the pair were already into the jam like a brace of ferrets, hunting for the engine crews. it seemed an hour, though it was much less, before they found any one; then they brought out 's fireman. neighbor found him. but his back was broken. back again they wormed through twisted trucks, under splintered beams--in and around and over--choked with heat, blinded by steam, shouting as they groped, listening for word or cry or gasp. soon we heard dad's voice in a different cry--one that meant everything; and the wreckers, turning like beavers through a dozen blind trails, gathered all close to the big fireman. he was under a great piece of the cab where none could follow, and he was crying for a bar. they passed him a bar; other men, careless of life and limb, tried to crawl under and in to him, but he warned them back. who but a man baked twenty years in an engine cab could stand the steam that poured on him where he lay? neighbor, just outside, flashing a light, heard the labored strain of his breathing, saw him getting half up, bend to the bar, and saw the iron give like lead in his hands as he pried mightily. neighbor heard, and told me long afterwards, how the old man flung the bar away with an imprecation, and cried for one to help him; for a minute meant a life now--the boy lying pinned under the shattered cab was roasting in a jet of live steam. the master-mechanic crept in. by signs dad told him what to do, and then, getting on his knees, crawled straight into the dash of the white jet--crawled into it, and got the cab on his shoulders. crouching an instant, the giant muscles of his back set in a tremendous effort. the wreckage snapped and groaned, the knotted legs slowly and painfully straightened, the cab for a passing instant rose in the air, and in that instant neighbor dragged georgie mcneal from out the vise of death, and passed him, like a pinch-bar, to the men waiting next behind. then neighbor pulled dad back, blind now and senseless. when they got the old fireman out he made a pitiful struggle to pull himself together. he tried to stand up, but the sweat broke over him and he sank in a heap at neighbor's feet. [illustration: "the cab for a passing instant rose in the air"] that was the saving of georgie mcneal, and out there they will still tell you about that lift of dad hamilton's. we put him on the cot at the hospital next to his engineer. georgie, dreadfully bruised and scalded, came on fast in spite of his hurts. but the doctor said dad had wrenched a tendon in that frightful effort, and he lay there a very sick and very old man long after the young engineer was up and around telling of his experience. "when we cleared the chutes i saw white signals, i thought," he said to me at dad's bedside. "i knew we had the right of way over everything. it was a hustle, anyway, on that schedule, mr. reed; you know that; an awful hustle, with our load. i never choked her a notch to run the yards; didn't mean to do it with the junction grade to climb just ahead of us. but i looked out again, and, by hokey! i thought i'd gone crazy, got color-blind--red signals! of course i thought i must have been wrong the first time i looked. i choked her, i threw the air, i dumped the gravel. heavens! she never felt it! i couldn't figure how we were wrong, but there was the red light. i yelled, 'jump, dad!' and he yelled, 'jump, son!' didn't you, dad? "he jumped; but i wasn't ever going to jump and my engine going full against a red lamp. not much. "i kind of dodged down behind the head; when she struck it was biff, and she jumped about twenty feet up straight. she didn't? well, it seemed like it. then it was biff, biff, biff, one after another. with that train behind her she'd have gone through beverly hill. did you ever buck snow with a rotary, mr. reed? well, that was about it, even to the rolling and heaving. dad, want to lie down? le' me get another pillow behind you. isn't that better? poor musgrave!" he added, speaking of the engineer of , who was instantly killed. "he and the fireman both. hard lines; but i'd rather have it that way, i guess, if i was wrong. eh, dad?" even after georgie went to work, dad lay in the hospital. we knew he would never shovel coal again. it cost him his good back to lift georgie loose, so the surgeon told us; and i could believe it, for when they got the jacks under the cab next morning, and neighbor told the wrecking-gang that hamilton alone had lifted it six inches the night before, on his back, the wrecking-boss fairly snorted at the statement; but hamilton did, just the same. "son," muttered dad, one night to georgie, sitting with him, "i want you to write a letter for me." "sure." "i've been sending money to my boy back east," explained dad, feebly. "i told you he's in school." "i know, dad." "i haven't been able to send any since i've been by, but i'm going to send some when i get my relief. not so much as i used to send. i want you to kind of explain why." "what's his first name, dad, and where does he live?" "it's a lawyer that looks after him--a man that 'tends to my business back there." "well, what's his name?" "scaylor--ephraim scaylor." "scaylor?" echoed georgie, in amazement. "yes. why, do you know him?" "why, that's the man mother and i had so much trouble with. i wouldn't write to that man. he's a rascal, dad." "what did he ever do to you and your mother?" "i'll tell you, dad; though it's a matter i don't talk about much. my father had trouble back there fifteen or sixteen years ago. he was running an engine, and had a wreck; there were some passengers killed. the dispatcher managed to throw the blame on father, and they indicted him for man-slaughter. he pretty near went crazy, and all of a sudden he disappeared, and we never heard of him from that day to this. but this man scaylor, mother stuck to it, knew something about where father was; only he always denied it." trembling like a leaf, dad raised up on his elbow. "what's your mother's name, son? what's your name?" georgie looked confused. "i'll tell you, dad; there's nothing to be ashamed of. i was foolish enough, i told you once, to go out on a strike with the engineers down there. i was only a kid, and we were all black-listed. so i used my middle name, mcneal; my full name is george mcneal sinclair." the old fireman made a painful effort to sit up, to speak, but he choked. his face contracted, and georgie rose frightened. with a herculean effort the old man raised himself up and grasped georgie's hands. "son," he gasped to the astonished boy, "don't you know me?" "of course i know you, dad. what's the matter with you? lie down." "boy, i'm your own father. my name is david hamilton sinclair. i had the trouble--georgie." he choked up like a child, and georgie mcneal went white and scared; then he grasped the gray-haired man in his arms. when i dropped in an hour later they were talking hysterically. dad was explaining how he had been sending money to scaylor every month, and georgie was contending that neither he nor his mother had ever seen a cent of it. but one great fact overshadowed all the villany that night: father and son were united and happy, and a message had already gone back to the old home from georgie to his mother, telling her the good news. "and that indictment was wiped out long ago against father," said georgie to me; "but that rascal scaylor kept writing him for money to fight it with and to pay for my schooling--and this was the kind of schooling i was getting all the time. wouldn't that kill you?" i couldn't sleep till i had hunted up neighbor and told him about it; and next morning we wired transportation back for mrs. sinclair to come out on. less than a week afterwards a gentle little old woman stepped off the flyer at zanesville, and into the arms of georgie sinclair. a smart rig was in waiting, to which her son hurried her, and they were driven rapidly to the hospital. when they entered the old fireman's room together the nurse softly closed the door behind them. but when they sent for neighbor and me, i suppose we were the two biggest fools in the hospital, trying to look unconscious of all we saw in the faces of the group at dad's bed. he never got his old strength back, yet neighbor fixed him out, for all that. the sky-scraper, once our pride, was so badly stove that we gave up hope of restoring her for a passenger run. so neighbor built her over into a sort of a dub engine for short runs, stubs, and so on; and though dad had vowed long ago, when unjustly condemned, that he would never more touch a throttle, we got him to take the sky-scraper and the acton run. and when georgie, who takes the flyer every other day, is off duty, he climbs into dad's cab, shoves the old gentleman aside, and shoots around the yard in the rejuvenated sky-scraper at a hair-raising rate of speed. after a while the old engine got so full of alkali that georgie gave her a new name--soda-water sal--and it hangs to her yet. we thought the best of her had gone in the harvard wreck; but there came a time when dad and soda-water sal showed us we were very much mistaken. soda-water sal when the great engine which we called the sky-scraper came out of the zanesville shops, she was rebuilt from pilot to tender. our master-mechanic, neighbor, had an idea, after her terrific collision, that she could not stand heavy main-line passenger runs, so he put her on the acton cut-off. it was what railroad men call a jerk-water run, whatever that may be; a little jaunt of ten miles across the divide connecting the northern division with the denver stem. it was just about like running a trolley, and the run was given to dad sinclair, for after that lift at oxford his back was never strong enough to shovel coal, and he had to take an engine or quit railroading. thus it happened that after many years he took the throttle once more and ran over, twice a day, as he does yet, from acton to willow creek. his boy, georgie sinclair, the kid engineer, took the run on the flyer opposite foley, just as soon as he got well. georgie, who was never happy unless he had eight or ten pullmans behind him, and the right of way over everything between omaha and denver, made great sport of his father's little smoking-car and day-coach behind the big engine. foley made sport of the remodelled engine. he used to stand by while the old engineer was oiling and ask him whether he thought she could catch a jack-rabbit. "i mean," foley would say, "if the rabbit was feeling well." dad sinclair took it all grimly and quietly; he had railroaded too long to care for anybody's chaff. but one day, after the sky-scraper had gotten her flues pretty well chalked up with alkali, foley insisted that she must be renamed. "i have the only genuine sky-scraper on the west end now myself," declared foley. he did have a new class h engine, and she was awe-inspiring, in truth. "i don't propose," he continued, "to have her confused with your old tub any longer, dad." dad, oiling his old tub affectionately, answered never a word. "she's full of soda, isn't she, father?" asked georgie, standing by. "reckon she is, son." "full of water, i suppose?" "try to keep her that way, son." "sal-soda, isn't it, dad?" "now i can't say. as to that--i can't say." "we'll call her sal soda, georgie," suggested foley. "no," interposed georgie; "stop a bit. i have it. not sal soda, at all--make it soda-water sal." then they laughed uproariously; and in the teeth of dad sinclair's protests--for he objected at once and vigorously--the queer name stuck to the engine, and sticks yet. to have seen the great hulking machine you would never have suspected there could be another story left in her. yet one there was; a story of the wind. as she stood, too, when old man sinclair took her on the acton run, she was the best illustration i have ever seen of the adage that one can never tell from the looks of a frog how far it will jump. have you ever felt the wind? not, i think, unless you have lived on the seas or on the plains. people everywhere think the wind blows; but it really blows only on the ocean and on the prairies. the summer that dad took the acton run, it blew for a month steadily. all of one august--hot, dry, merciless; the despair of the farmer and the terror of trainmen. it was on an august evening, with the gale still sweeping up from the southwest, that dad came lumbering into acton with his little trolley train. he had barely pulled up at the platform to unload his passengers when the station-agent, morris reynolds, coatless and hatless, rushed up to the engine ahead of the hostler and sprang into the cab. reynolds was one of the quietest fellows in the service. to see him without coat or hat didn't count for much in such weather; but to see him sallow with fright and almost speechless was enough to stir even old dad sinclair. it was not dad's habit to ask questions, but he looked at the man in questioning amazement. reynolds choked and caught at his breath, as he seized the engineer's arm and pointed down the line. "dad," he gasped, "three cars of coal standing over there on the second spur blew loose a few minutes ago." "where are they?" "where are they? blown through the switch and down the line, forty miles an hour." the old man grasped the frightened man by the shoulder. "what do you mean? how long ago? when is due? talk quick, man! what's the matter with you?" "not five minutes ago. no. is due here in less than thirty minutes; they'll go into her sure. dad," cried reynolds, all in a fright, "what'll i do? for heaven's sake do something. i called up riverton and tried to catch , but she'd passed. i was too late. there'll be a wreck, and i'm booked for the penitentiary. what can i do?" all the while the station-agent, panic-stricken, rattled on sinclair was looking at his watch--casting it up--charting it all under his thick, gray, grizzled wool, fast as thought could compass. no. headed for acton, and her pace was a hustle every mile of the way; three cars of coal blowing down on her, how fast he dared not think; and through it all he was asking himself what day it was. thursday? up! yes, georgie, his boy, was on the flyer no. . it was his day up. if they met on a curve-- "uncouple her!" roared dad sinclair, in a giant tone. "what are you going to do?" "burns," thundered dad to his fireman, "give her steam, and quick, boy! dump in grease, waste, oil, everything! are you clear there?" he cried, opening the throttle as he looked back. the old engine, pulling clear of her coaches, quivered as she gathered herself under the steam. she leaped ahead with a swish. the drivers churned in the sand, bit into it with gritting tires, and forged ahead with a suck and a hiss and a roar. before reynolds had fairly gathered his wits, sinclair, leaving his train on the main track in front of the depot, was clattering over the switch after the runaways. the wind was a terror, and they had too good a start. but the way soda-water sal took the gait when she once felt her feet under her made the wrinkled engineer at her throttle set his mouth with the grimness of a gamester. it meant the runaways--and catch them--or the ditch for soda-water sal; and the throbbing old machine seemed to know it, for her nose hung to the steel like the snout of a pointer. he was a man of a hundred even then--burns; but nobody knew it, then. we hadn't thought much about burns before. he was a tall, lank irish boy, with an open face and a morning smile. dad sinclair took him on because nobody else would have him. burns was so green that foley said you couldn't set his name afire. he would, so foley said, put out a hot box just by blinking at it. but every man's turn comes once, and it had come for burns. it was dick burns's chance now to show what manner of stuff was bred in his long irish bones. it was his task to make the steam--if he could--faster than dad sinclair could burn it. what use to grip the throttle and scheme if burns didn't furnish the power, put the life into her heels as she raced the wind--the merciless, restless gale sweeping over the prairie faster than horse could fly before it? working smoothly and swiftly into a dizzy whirl, the monstrous drivers took the steel in leaps and bounds. dad sinclair, leaning from the cab window, gloatingly watched their gathering speed, pulled the bar up notch after notch, and fed burns's fire into the old engine's arteries fast and faster than she could throw it into her steel hoofs. that was the night the west end knew that a greenhorn had cast his chrysalis and stood out a man. knew that the honor-roll of our frontier division wanted one more name, and that it was big dick burns's. sinclair hung silently desperate to the throttle, his eyes straining into the night ahead, and the face of the long irish boy, streaked with smut and channelled with sweat, lit every minute with the glare of the furnace as he fed the white-hot blast that leaped and curled and foamed under the crown-sheet of soda-water sal. there he stooped and sweat and swung, as she slewed and lurched and jerked across the fish-plates. carefully, nursingly, ceaselessly he pushed the steam-pointer higher, higher, higher on the dial--and that despite the tremendous draughts of dad's throttle. never a glance to the right or the left, to the track or the engineer. from the coal to the fire, the fire to the water, the water to the gauge, the gauge to the stack, and back again to the coal--that was burns. neither eyes nor ears nor muscles for anything but steam. such a firing as the west end never saw till that night; such a firing as the old engine never felt in her choking flues till that night; such a firing as dad sinclair, king of all west and east end firemen, lifted his hat to--that was burns's firing that night on soda-water sal; the night she chased the acton runaways down the line to save georgie sinclair and no. . [illustration: "that was burns's firing that night"] it was a frightful pace--how frightful no one ever knew; neither old man sinclair nor dick burns ever cared. only, the crew of a freight, side-tracked for the approaching flyer, saw an engine flying light; knew the hunter and the quarry, for they had seen the runaways shoot by--saw then, a minute after, a star and a streak and a trail of rotten smoke fly down the wind, and she had come and passed and gone. it was just east of that siding, so burns and sinclair always maintained--but it measured ten thousand feet east--that they caught them. a shout from dad brought the dripping fireman up standing, and looking ahead he saw in the blaze of their own headlight the string of coalers standing still ahead of them. so it seemed to him, their own speed was so great, and the runaways were almost equalling it. they were making forty miles an hour when they dashed past the paralyzed freight crew. without waiting for orders--what orders did such a man need?--without a word, burns crawled out of his window with a pin, and ran forward on the foot-board, clinging the best he could, as the engine dipped and lurched, climbed down on the cow-catcher, and lifted the pilot-bar to couple. it was a crazy thing to attempt; he was much likelier to get under the pilot than to succeed; yet he tried it. then it was that the fine hand of dad sinclair came into play. to temper the speed enough, and just enough; to push her nose just enough, and far enough for burns to make the draw-bar of the runaway--that was the nicety of the big seamed hands on the throttle and on the air; the very magic of touch which, on a slender bar of steel, could push a hundred tons of flying metal up, and hold it steady in a play of six inches on the teeth of the gale that tore down behind him. again and again burns tried to couple and failed. sinclair, straining anxiously ahead, caught sight of the headlight of no. rounding o'fallon's bluffs. he cried to burns, and, incredible though it seems, the fireman heard. above all the infernal din, the tearing of the flanges and the roaring of the wind, burns heard the cry; it nerved him to a supreme effort. he slipped the eye once more into the draw, and managed to drop his pin. up went his hand in signal. choking the steam, sinclair threw the brake-shoes flaming against the big drivers. the sand poured on the rails, and with burns up on the coalers setting brakes, the three great runaways were brought to with a jerk that would have astounded the most reckless scapegraces in the world. while the plucky fireman crept along the top of the freight-cars to keep from being blown bodily through the air, sinclair, with every resource that brain and nerve and power could exert, was struggling to overcome the terrible headway of pursuer and pursued, driving now frightfully into the beaming head of no. . with the johnson bar over and the drivers dancing a gallop backward; with the sand striking fire, and the rails burning under it; with the old sky-scraper shivering again in a terrific struggle, and burns twisting the heads off the brake-rods; with every trick of old sinclair's cunning, and his boy duplicating every one of them in the cab of no. --still they came together. it was too fearful a momentum to overcome, when minutes mean miles and tons are reckoned by thousands. they came together; but instead of an appalling wreck--destruction and death--it was only a bump. no. had the speed when they met; and it was a car of coal dumped a bit sudden and a nose on georgie's engine like a full-back's after a centre rush. the pilot doubled back into the ponies, and the headlight was scoured with nut, pea, and slack; but the stack was hardly bruised. the minute they struck, georgie sinclair, making fast, and, leaping from his cab, ran forward in the dark, panting with rage and excitement. burns, torch in hand, was himself just jumping down to get forward. his face wore its usual grin, even when georgie assailed him with a torrent of abuse. "what do you mean, you red-headed lubber?" he shouted, with much the lungs of his father. "what are you doing switching coal here on the main line?" in fact, georgie called the astonished fireman everything he could think of, until his father, who was blundering forward on his side of the engine, hearing the voice, turned, and ran around behind the tender to take a hand himself. "mean?" he roared above the blow of his safety. "mean?" he bellowed in the teeth of the wind. "mean? why, you impudent, empty-headed, ungrateful rapscallion, what do you mean coming around here to abuse a man that's saved you and your train from the scrap?" and big dick burns, standing by with his torch, burst into an irish laugh, fairly doubled up before the nonplussed boy, and listened with great relish to the excited father and excited son. it was not hard to understand georgie's amazement and anger at finding soda-water sal behind three cars of coal half-way between stations on the main line and on his time--and that the fastest time on the division. but what amused burns most was to see the imperturbable old dad pitching into his boy with as much spirit as the young man himself showed. it was because both men were scared out of their wits; scared over their narrow escape from a frightful wreck; from having each killed the other, maybe--the son the father, and the father the son. for brave men do get scared; don't believe anything else. but between the fright of a coward and the fright of a brave man there is this difference: the coward's scare is apparent before the danger, that of the brave man after it has passed; and burns laughed with a tremendous mirth, "at th' two o' thim a-jawin'," as he expressed it. no man on the west end could turn on his pins quicker than georgie sinclair, though, if his hastiness misled him. when it all came clear he climbed into the old cab--the cab he himself had once gone against death in--and with stumbling words tried to thank the tall irishman, who still laughed in the excitement of having won. and when neighbor next day, thoughtful and taciturn, heard it all, he very carefully looked soda-water sal all over again. "dad," said he, when the boys got through telling it for the last time, "she's a better machine than i thought she was." "there isn't a better pulling your coaches," maintained dad sinclair, stoutly. "i'll put her on the main line, dad, and give you the for the cut-off. hm?" "the will suit me, neighbor; any old tub--eh, foley?" said dad, turning to the cheeky engineer, who had come up in time to hear most of the talk. the old fellow had not forgotten foley's sneer at soda-water sal when he rechristened her. but foley, too, had changed his mind, and was ready to give in. "that's quite right, dad," he acknowledged. "you can get more out of any old tub on the division than the rest of us fellows can get out of a baldwin consolidated. i mean it, too. it's the best thing i ever heard of. what are you going to do for burns, neighbor?" asked foley, with his usual assurance. "i was thinking i would give him soda-water sal, and put him on the right side of the cab for a freight run. i reckon he earned it last night." in a few minutes foley started off to hunt up burns. "see here, irish," said he, in his off-hand way, "next time you catch a string of runaways just remember to climb up the ladder and set your brakes before you couple; it will save a good deal of wear and tear on the pilot-bar--see? i hear you're going to get a run; don't fall out the window when you get over on the right." and that's how burns was made an engineer, and how soda-water sal was rescued from the disgrace of running on the trolley. the mcwilliams special it belongs to the stories that never were told, this of the mcwilliams special. but it happened years ago, and for that matter mcwilliams is dead. it wasn't grief that killed him, either; though at one time his grief came uncommonly near killing us. it is an odd sort of a yarn, too; because one part of it never got to headquarters, and another part of it never got from headquarters. how, for instance, the mysterious car was ever started from chicago on such a delirious schedule, how many men in the service know that even yet? how, for another instance, sinclair and francis took the ratty old car reeling into denver with the glass shrivelled, the paint blistered, the hose burned, and a tire sprung on one of the five-nine's drivers--how many headquarters slaves know that? our end of the story never went in at all. never went in because it was not deemed--well, essential to the getting up of the annual report. we could have raised their hair; they could have raised our salaries; but they didn't; we didn't. in telling this story i would not be misunderstood; ours is not the only line between chicago and denver: there are others, i admit it. but there is only one line (all the same) that could have taken the mcwilliams special, as we did, out of chicago at four in the evening and put it in denver long before noon the next day. a communication came from a great la salle street banker to the president of our road. next, the second vice-president heard of it; but in this way: "why have you turned down peter mcwilliams's request for a special to denver this afternoon?" asked the president. "he wants too much," came back over the private wire. "we can't do it." after satisfying himself on this point the president called up la salle street. "our folks say, mr. mcwilliams, we simply can't do it." "you must do it." "when will the car be ready?" "at three o'clock." "when must it be in denver?" "ten o'clock to-morrow morning." the president nearly jumped the wire. "mcwilliams, you're crazy. what on earth do you mean?" the talk came back so low that the wires hardly caught it. there were occasional outbursts such as, "situation is extremely critical," "grave danger," "acute distress," "must help me out." but none of this would ever have moved the president had not peter mcwilliams been a bigger man than most corporations; and a personal request from peter, if he stuck for it, could hardly be refused; and for this he most decidedly stuck. "i tell you it will turn us upside-down," stormed the president. "do you recollect," asked peter mcwilliams, "when your infernal old pot of a road was busted eight years ago--you were turned inside out then, weren't you? and hung up to dry, weren't you?" the president did recollect; he could not decently help recollecting. and he recollected how, about that same time, peter mcwilliams had one week taken up for him a matter of two millions floating, with a personal check; and carried it eighteen months without security, when money could not be had in wall street on government bonds. do you--that is, have you heretofore supposed that a railroad belongs to the stockholders? not so; it belongs to men like mr. mcwilliams, who own it when they need it. at other times they let the stockholders carry it--until they want it again. "we'll do what we can, peter," replied the president, desperately amiable. "good-bye." i am giving you only an inkling of how it started. not a word as to how countless orders were issued, and countless schedules were cancelled. not a paragraph about numberless trains abandoned _in toto_, and numberless others pulled and hauled and held and annulled. the mcwilliams special in a twinkle tore a great system into great splinters. it set master-mechanics by the ears and made reckless falsifiers of previously conservative trainmen. it made undying enemies of rival superintendents, and incipient paretics of jolly train-dispatchers. it shivered us from end to end and stem to stern, but it covered miles of the best steel in the world in rather better than twenty hours and a blaze of glory. "my word is out," said the president in his message to all superintendents, thirty minutes later. "you will get your division schedule in a few moments. send no reasons for inability to make it; simply deliver the goods. with your time-report, which comes by ry. m. s., i want the names and records of every member of every train-crew and every engine-crew that haul the mcwilliams car." then followed particular injunctions of secrecy; above all, the newspapers must not get it. but where newspapers are, secrecy can only be hoped for--never attained. in spite of the most elaborate precautions to preserve peter mcwilliams's secret--would you believe it?--the evening papers had half a column--practically the whole thing. of course they had to guess at some of it, but for a newspaper-story it was pretty correct, just the same. they had, to a minute, the time of the start from chicago, and hinted broadly that the schedule was a hair-raiser; something to make previous very fast records previous very slow records. and--here in a scoop was the secret--the train was to convey a prominent chicago capitalist to the bedside of his dying son, philip mcwilliams, in denver. further, that hourly bulletins were being wired to the distressed father, and that every effort of science would be put forth to keep the unhappy boy alive until his father could reach denver on the special. lastly, it was hoped by all the evening papers (to fill out the half first column scare) that sunrise would see the anxious parent well on towards the gateway of the rockies. of course the morning papers from the atlantic to the pacific had the story repeated--scare-headed, in fact--and the public were laughing at our people's dogged refusal to confirm the report or to be interviewed at all on the subject. the papers had the story, anyway. what did they care for our efforts to screen a private distress which insisted on so paralyzing a time-card for miles? when our own, the west end of the schedule, came over the wires there was a universal, a vociferous, kick. dispatchers, superintendent of motive-power, train-master, everybody, protested. we were given about seven hours to cover miles--the fastest percentage, by-the-way, on the whole run. "this may be grief for young mcwilliams, and for his dad," grumbled the chief dispatcher that evening, as he cribbed the press dispatches going over the wires about the special, "but the grief is not theirs alone." then he made a protest to chicago. what the answer was none but himself ever knew. it came personal, and he took it personally; but the manner in which he went to work clearing track and making a card for the mcwilliams special showed better speed than the train itself ever attempted--and he kicked no more. after all the row, it seems incredible, but they never got ready to leave chicago till four o'clock; and when the mcwilliams special lit into our train system, it was like dropping a mountain-lion into a bunch of steers. freights and extras, local passenger-trains even, were used to being side-tracked; but when it came to laying out the flyers and (i whisper this) the white mail, and the manila express, the oil began to sizzle in the journal-boxes. the freight business, the passenger traffic--the mail-schedules of a whole railway system were actually knocked by the mcwilliams special into a cocked hat. from the minute it cleared western avenue it was the only thing talked of. divisional headquarters and car tink shanties alike were bursting with excitement. on the west end we had all night to prepare, and at five o'clock next morning every man in the operating department was on edge. at precisely . a.m. the mcwilliams special stuck its nose into our division, and foley--pulled off no. with the --was heading her dizzy for mccloud. already the mcwilliams had made up thirty-one minutes on the one hour delay in chicago, and lincoln threw her into our hands with a sort of "there, now! you fellows--are you any good at all on the west end?" and we thought we were. sitting in the dispatcher's office, we tagged her down the line like a swallow. harvard, oxford, zanesville, ashton--and a thousand people at the mccloud station waited for six o'clock and for foley's muddy cap to pop through the blackwood bluffs; watched him stain the valley maples with a stream of white and black, scream at the junction switches, tear and crash through the yards, and slide hissing and panting up under our nose, swing out of his cab, and look at nobody at all but his watch. we made it . a.m. central time. the miles, ; the minutes, . the schedule was beaten--and that with the miles the fastest on the whole . everybody in town yelled except foley; he asked for a chew of tobacco, and not getting one handily, bit into his own piece. while foley melted his weed george sinclair stepped out of the superintendent's office--he was done in a black silk shirt, with a blue four-in-hand streaming over his front--stepped out to shake hands with foley, as one hostler got the out of the way, and another backed down with a new sky-scraper, the . but nobody paid much attention to all this. the mob had swarmed around the ratty, old, blind-eyed baggage-car which, with an ordinary way-car, constituted the mcwilliams special. "now what does a man with mcwilliams's money want to travel special in an old photograph-gallery like that for?" asked andy cameron, who was the least bit huffed because he hadn't been marked up for the run himself. "you better take him in a cup of hot coffee, sinkers," suggested andy to the lunch-counter boy. "you might get a ten-dollar bill if the old man isn't feeling too badly. what do you hear from denver, neighbor?" he asked, turning to the superintendent of motive power. "is the boy holding out?" "i'm not worrying about the boy holding out; it's whether the five-nine will hold out." "aren't you going to change engines and crews at arickaree?" "not to-day," said neighbor, grimly; "we haven't time." just then sinkers rushed at the baggage-car with a cup of hot coffee for mr. mcwilliams. everybody, hoping to get a peep at the capitalist, made way. sinkers climbed over the train chests which were lashed to the platforms and pounded on the door. he pounded hard, for he hoped and believed that there was something in it. but he might have pounded till his coffee froze for all the impression it made on the sleepy mcwilliams. "hasn't the man trouble enough without tackling your chiccory?" sang out felix kennedy, and the laugh so discouraged sinkers that he gave over and sneaked away. at that moment the editor of the local paper came around the depot corner on the run. he was out for an interview, and, as usual, just a trifle late. however, he insisted on boarding the baggage-car to tender his sympathy to mcwilliams. the barricades bothered him, but he mounted them all, and began an emergency pound on the forbidding blind door. imagine his feelings when the door was gently opened by a sad-eyed man, who opened the ball by shoving a rifle as big as a pinch-bar under the editorial nose. "my grief, mr. mcwilliams," protested the interviewer, in a trembling voice, "don't imagine i want to hold you up. our citizens are all peaceable--" "get out!" "why, man, i'm not even asking for a subscription; i simply want to ten--" "get out!" snapped the man with the gun; and in a foam the newsman climbed down. a curious crowd gathered close to hear an editorial version of the ten commandments revised on the spur of the moment. felix kennedy said it was worth going miles to hear. "that's the coldest deal i ever struck on the plains, boys," declared the editor. "talk about your bereaved parents. if the boy doesn't have a chill when that man reaches him, i miss my guess. he acts to me as if he was afraid his grief would get away before he got to denver." meantime georgie sinclair was tying a silk handkerchief around his neck, while neighbor gave him parting injunctions. as he put up his foot to swing into the cab the boy looked for all the world like a jockey toe in stirrup. neighbor glanced at his watch. "can you make it by eleven o'clock?" he growled. "make what?" "denver." "denver or the ditch, neighbor," laughed georgie, testing the air. "are you right back there, pat?" he called, as conductor francis strode forward to compare the mountain time. "right and tight, and i call it five-two-thirty now. what have you, georgie?" "five-two-thirty-two," answered sinclair, leaning from the cab window. "and we're ready." "then go!" cried pat francis, raising two fingers. "go!" echoed sinclair, and waved a backward smile to the crowd, as the pistons took the push and the escapes wheezed. a roar went up. the little engineer shook his cap, and with a flirting, snaking slide, the mcwilliams special drew slipping away between the shining rails for the rockies. just how mcwilliams felt we had no means of knowing; but we knew our hearts would not beat freely until his infernal special should slide safely over the last of the miles which still lay between the distressed man and his unfortunate child. from mccloud to ogalalla there is a good bit of twisting and slewing; but looking east from athens a marble dropped between the rails might roll clear into the ogalalla yards. it is a sixty-mile grade, the ballast of slag, and the sweetest, springiest bed under steel. to cover those sixty miles in better than fifty minutes was like picking them off the ponies; and the five-nine breasted the morgan divide, fretting for more hills to climb. the five-nine--for that matter any of the sky-scrapers are built to balance ten or a dozen sleepers, and when you run them light they have a fashion of rooting their noses into the track. a modest up-grade just about counters this tendency; but on a slump and a stiff clip and no tail to speak of, you feel as if the drivers were going to buck up on the ponies every once in a while. however, they never do, and georgie whistled for scarboro' junction, and miles and two waters, in minutes out of mccloud; and, looking happy, cussed mr. mcwilliams a little, and gave her another hatful of steam. it is getting down a hill, like the hills of the mattaback valley, at such a pace that pounds the track out of shape. the five-nine lurched at the curves like a mad woman, shook free with very fury, and if the baggage-car had not been fairly loaded down with the grief of mcwilliams, it must have jumped the rails a dozen times in as many minutes. indeed, the fireman--it was jerry macelroy--twisting and shifting between the tender and the furnace, looked for the first time grave, and stole a questioning glance from the steam-gauge towards georgie. but yet he didn't expect to see the boy, his face set ahead and down the track, straighten so suddenly up, sink in the lever, and close at the instant on the air. jerry felt her stumble under his feet--caught up like a girl in a skipping-rope--and grabbing a brace looked, like a wise stoker, for his answer out of his window. there far ahead it rose in hot curling clouds of smoke down among the alfalfa meadows and over the sweep of willows along the mattaback river. the mattaback bridge was on fire, with the mcwilliams special on one side and denver on the other. jerry macelroy yelled--the engineer didn't even look around; only whistled an alarm back to pat francis, eased her down the grade a bit, like a man reflecting, and watched the smoke and flames that rose to bar the mcwilliams special out of denver. the five-nine skimmed across the meadows without a break, and pulled up a hundred feet from the burning bridge. it was an old howe truss, and snapped like popcorn as the flames bit into the rotten shed. pat francis and his brakeman ran forward. across the river they could see half a dozen section-men chasing wildly about throwing impotent buckets of water on the burning truss. "we're up against it, georgie," cried francis. "not if we can get across before the bridge tumbles into the river," returned sinclair. "you don't mean you'd try it?" "would i? wouldn't i? you know the orders. that bridge is good for an hour yet. pat, if you're game, i'll run it." "holy smoke," mused pat francis, who would have run the river without any bridge at all if so ordered. "they told us to deliver the goods, didn't they?" "we might as well be starting, pat," suggested jerry macelroy, who deprecated losing good time. "there'll be plenty of time to talk after we get into denver, or the mattaback." "think quick, pat," urged sinclair; his safety was popping murder. "back her up, then, and let her go," cried francis; "i'd just as lief have that baggage-car at the bottom of the river as on my hands any longer." there was some sharp tooting, then the mcwilliams special backed; backed away across the meadow, halted, and screamed hard enough to wake the dead. georgie was trying to warn the section-men. at that instant the door of the baggage-car opened and a sharp-featured young man peered out. "what's the row--what's all this screeching about, conductor?" he asked, as francis passed. "bridge burning ahead there." "bridge burning!" he cried, looking nervously forward. "well, that's a deal. what you going to do about it?" "run it. are you mcwilliams?" "mcwilliams? i wish i was for just one minute. i'm one of his clerks." "where is he?" "i left him on la salle street yesterday afternoon." "what's your name?" "just plain ferguson." "well, ferguson, it's none of my business, but as long as we're going to put you into denver or into the river in about a minute, i'm curious to know what the blazes you're hustling along this way for." "me? i've got twelve hundred thousand dollars in gold coin in this car for the sierra leone national bank--that's all. didn't you know that five big banks there closed their doors yesterday? worst panic in the united states. that's what i'm here for, and five huskies with me eating and sleeping in this car," continued ferguson, looking ahead. "you're not going to tackle that bridge, are you?" "we are, and right off. if there's any of your huskies want to drop out, now's their chance," said pat francis, as sinclair slowed up for his run. ferguson called his men. the five with their rifles came cautiously forward. "boys," said ferguson, briefly. "there's a bridge afire ahead. these guys are going to try to run it. it's not in your contract, that kind of a chance. do you want to get off? i stay with the specie, myself. you can do exactly as you please. murray, what do you say?" he asked, addressing the leader of the force, who appeared to weigh about two hundred and sixty. "what do i say?" echoed murray, with decision, as he looked for a soft place to alight alongside the track. "i say i'll drop out right here. i don't mind train robbers, but i don't tackle a burning bridge--not if i know it," and he jumped off. "well, peaters," asked ferguson, of the second man, coolly, "do you want to stay?" "me?" echoed peaters, looking ahead at the mass of flame leaping upward--"me stay? well, not in a thousand years. you can have my gun, mr. ferguson, and send my check to milwaukee avenue, if you please. gentlemen, good-day." and off went peaters. and off went every last man of the valorous detectives except one lame fellow, who said he would just as lief be dead as alive anyway, and declared he would stay with ferguson and die rich! sinclair, thinking he might never get another chance, was whistling sharply for orders. francis, breathless with the news, ran forward. [illustration: "sinclair was whistling sharply for orders"] "coin? how much? twelve hundred thousand. whew!" cried sinclair. "swing up, pat. we're off." the five-nine gathered herself with a spring. even the engineer's heart quailed as they got headway. he knew his business, and he knew that if only the rails hadn't buckled they were perfectly safe, for the heavy truss would stand a lot of burning before giving way under a swiftly moving train. only, as they flew nearer, the blaze rolling up in dense volume looked horribly threatening. after all it was foolhardy, and he felt it; but he was past the stopping now, and he pulled the choker to the limit. it seemed as if she never covered steel so fast. under the head she now had the crackling bridge was less than five hundred--four hundred--three hundred--two hundred feet, and there was no longer time to think. with a stare, sinclair shut off. he wanted no push or pull on the track. the mcwilliams special was just a tremendous arrow, shooting through a truss of fire, and half a dozen speechless men on either side of the river waiting for the catastrophe. jerry macelroy crouched low under the gauges. sinclair jumped from his box and stood with a hand on the throttle and a hand on the air, the glass crashing around his head like hail. a blast of fiery air and flying cinders burned and choked him. the engine, alive with danger, flew like a great monkey along the writhing steel. so quick, so black, so hot the blast, and so terrific the leap, she stuck her nose into clean air before the men in the cab could rise to it. there was a heave in the middle like the lurch of a sea-sick steamer, and with it the five-nine got her paws on cool iron and solid ground, and the mattaback and the blaze--all except a dozen tongues which licked the cab and the roof of the baggage-car a minute--were behind. georgie sinclair, shaking the hot glass out of his hair, looked ahead through his frizzled eyelids and gave her a full head for the western bluffs of the valley; then looked at his watch. it was the hundred and ninetieth mile-post just at her nose, and the dial read eight o'clock and fifty-five minutes to a second. there was an hour to the good and seventy-six miles and a water to cover; but they were seventy-six of the prettiest miles under ballast anywhere, and the five-nine reeled them off like a cylinder-press. seventy-nine minutes later sinclair whistled for the denver yards. there was a tremendous commotion among the waiting engines. if there was one there were fifty big locomotives waiting to charivari the mcwilliams special. the wires had told the story in denver long before, and as the five-nine sailed ponderously up the gridiron every mogul, every consolidated, every ten-wheeler, every hog, every switch-bumper, every air-hose screamed an uproarious welcome to georgie sinclair and the sky-scraper. they had broken every record from mccloud to denver, and all knew it; but as the mcwilliams special drew swiftly past, every last man in the yards stared at her cracked, peeled, blistered, haggard looks. "what the deuce have you bit into?" cried the depot-master, as the five-nine swept splendidly up and stopped with her battered eye hard on the depot clock. "mattaback bridge is burned; had to crawl over on the stringers," answered sinclair, coughing up a cinder. "where's mcwilliams?" "back there sitting on his grief, i reckon." while the crew went up to register, two big four-horse trucks backed up to the baggage-car, and in a minute a dozen men were rolling specie-kegs out of the door, which was smashed in, as being quicker than to tear open the barricades. sinclair, macelroy, and francis with his brakeman were surrounded by a crowd of railroad men. as they stood answering questions, a big prosperous-looking banker, with black rings under his eyes, pushed in towards them, accompanied by the lame fellow, who had missed the chance of a lifetime to die rich, and by ferguson, who had told the story. the banker shook hands with each one of the crews. "you've saved us, boys. we needed it. there's a mob of five thousand of the worst-scared people in america clamoring at the doors; and, by the eternal, now we're fixed for every one of them. come up to the bank. i want you to ride right up with the coin, all of you." it was an uncommonly queer occasion, but an uncommonly enthusiastic one. fifty policemen made the escort and cleared the way for the trucks to pull up across the sidewalk, so the porters could lug the kegs of gold into the bank before the very eyes of the rattled depositors. in an hour the run was broken. but when the four railroad men left the bank, after all sorts of hugging by excited directors, they carried not only the blessings of the officials, but each in his vest pocket a check, every one of which discounted the biggest voucher ever drawn on the west end for a month's pay; though i violate no confidence in stating that georgie sinclair's was bigger than any two of the others. and this is how it happens that there hangs in the directors' room of the sierra leone national a very creditable portrait of the kid engineer. besides paying tariff on the specie, the bank paid for a new coat of paint for the mcwilliams special from caboose to pilot. she was the last train across the mattaback for two weeks. the million-dollar freight-train it was the second month of the strike, and not a pound of freight had been moved; things looked smoky on the west end. the general superintendent happened to be with us when the news came. "you can't handle it, boys," said he, nervously. "what you'd better do is to turn it over to the columbian pacific." our contracting freight agent on the coast at that time was a fellow so erratic that he was nicknamed crazyhorse. right in the midst of the strike crazyhorse wired that he had secured a big silk shipment for new york. we were paralyzed. we had no engineers, no firemen, and no motive power to speak of. the strikers were pounding our men, wrecking our trains, and giving us the worst of it generally; that is, when we couldn't give it to them. why the fellow displayed his activity at that particular juncture still remains a mystery. perhaps he had a grudge against the road; if so, he took an artful revenge. everybody on the system with ordinary railroad sense knew that our struggle was to keep clear of freight business until we got rid of our strike. anything valuable or perishable was especially unwelcome. but the stuff was docked and loaded and consigned in our care before we knew it. after that, a refusal to carry it would be like hoisting the white flag; and that is something which never yet flew on the west end. "turn it over to the columbian," said the general superintendent; but the general superintendent was not looked up to on our division. he hadn't enough sand. our head was a fighter, and he gave tone to every man under him. "no," he thundered, bringing down his fist, "not in a thousand years! we'll move it ourselves. wire montgomery, the general manager, that we will take care of it. and wire him to fire crazyhorse--and to do it right off." and before the silk was turned over to us crazyhorse was looking for another job. it is the only case on record where a freight hustler was discharged for getting business. there were twelve car-loads; it was insured for eighty-five thousand dollars a car; you can figure how far the title is wrong, but you never can estimate the worry that stuff gave us. it looked as big as twelve million dollars' worth. in fact, one scrub-car tink, with the glory of the west end at heart, had a fight over the amount with a sceptical hostler. he maintained that the actual money value was a hundred and twenty millions; but i give you the figures just as they went over the wire, and they are right. what bothered us most was that the strikers had the tip almost as soon as we had it. having friends on every road in the country, they knew as much about our business as we ourselves. the minute it was announced that we should move the silk they were after us. it was a defiance; a last one. if we could move freight--for we were already moving passengers after a fashion--the strike might be well accounted beaten. stewart, the leader of the local contingent, together with his followers, got after me at once. "you don't show much sense, reed," said he. "you fellows here are breaking your necks to get things moving, and when this strike's over if our boys ask for your discharge they'll get it. this road can't run without our engineers. we're going to beat you. if you dare try to move this stuff we'll have your scalp when it's over. you'll never get your silk to zanesville, i'll promise you that. and if you ditch it and make a million dollar loss, you'll get let out anyway, my buck." "i'm here to obey orders, stewart," i retorted. what was the use of more? i felt uncomfortable; but we had determined to move the silk: there was nothing more to be said. when i went over to the round-house and told neighbor the decision he said never a word, but he looked a great deal. neighbor's task was to supply the motive power. all that we had, uncrippled, was in the passenger service, because passengers must be moved--must be taken care of first of all. in order to win a strike you must have public opinion on your side. "nevertheless, neighbor," said i, after we had talked a while, "we must move the silk also." neighbor studied; then he roared at his foreman. "send bartholomew mullen here." he spoke with a decision that made me think the business was done. i had never happened, it is true, to hear of bartholomew mullen in the department of motive power; but the impression the name gave me was of a monstrous fellow; big as neighbor, or old man sankey, or dad hamilton. "i'll put bartholomew ahead of it," muttered neighbor, tightly. a boy walked into the office. "mr. garten said you wanted to see me, sir," said he, addressing the master mechanic. "i do, bartholomew," responded neighbor. the figure in my mind's eye shrunk in a twinkling. then it occurred to me that it must be this boy's father who was wanted. "you have been begging for a chance to take out an engine, bartholomew," began neighbor, coldly; and i knew it was on. "yes, sir." "you want to get killed, bartholomew." bartholomew smiled, as if the idea was not altogether displeasing. "how would you like to go pilot to-morrow for mccurdy? you to take the and run as first seventy-eight. mccurdy will run as second seventy-eight." "i know i could run an engine all right," ventured bartholomew, as if neighbor were the only one taking the chances in giving him an engine. "i know the track from here to zanesville. i helped mcneff fire one week." "then go home, and go to bed, and be over here at six o'clock to-morrow morning. and sleep sound; for it may be your last chance." it was plain that the master-mechanic hated to do it; it was simply sheer necessity. "he's a wiper," mused neighbor, as bartholomew walked springily away. "i took him in here sweeping two years ago. he ought to be firing now, but the union held him back; that's why he hates them. he knows more about an engine now than half the lodge. they'd better have let him in," said the master-mechanic, grimly. "he may be the means of breaking their backs yet. if i give him an engine and he runs it, i'll never take him off, union or no union, strike or no strike." "how old is that boy?" i asked. "eighteen; and never a kith or a kin that i know of. bartholomew mullen," mused neighbor, as the slight figure moved across the flat, "big name--small boy. well, bartholomew, you'll know something more by to-morrow night about running an engine, or a whole lot less; that's as it happens. if he gets killed, it's your fault, reed." he meant that i was calling on him for men when he absolutely couldn't produce them. "i heard once," he went on, "about a fellow named bartholomew being mixed up in a massacree. but i take it he must have been an older man than our bartholomew--nor his other name wasn't mullen, neither. i disremember just what it was; but it wasn't mullen." "well, don't say i want to get the boy killed, neighbor," i protested. "i've plenty to answer for. i'm here to run trains--when there are any to run; that's murder enough for me. you needn't send bartholomew out on my account." "give him a slow schedule and i'll give him orders to jump early; that's all we can do. if the strikers don't ditch him, he'll get through, somehow." it stuck in my crop--the idea of putting the boy on a pilot engine to take all the dangers ahead of that particular train; but i had a good deal else to think of besides. from the minute the silk got into the mccloud yards we posted double guards around. about twelve o'clock that night we held a council of war, which ended in our running the train into the out freight-house. the result was that by morning we had a new train made up. it consisted of fourteen refrigerator-cars loaded with oranges, which had come in mysteriously the night before. it was announced that the silk would be held for the present and the oranges rushed through. bright and early the refrigerator-train was run down to the ice-houses and twenty men were put to work icing the oranges. at seven o'clock mccurdy pulled in the local passenger with engine . our plan was to cancel the local and run him right out with the oranges. when he got in he reported the had sprung a tire; it knocked our scheme into a cocked hat. there was a lantern-jawed conference in the round-house. "what can you do?" asked the superintendent, in desperation. "there's only one thing i can do. put bartholomew mullen on it with the , and put mccurdy to bed for no. to-night," responded neighbor. we were running first in, first out; but we took care to always have somebody for and who at least knew an injector from an air-pump. it was eight o'clock. i looked into the locomotive stalls. the first--the only--man in sight was bartholomew mullen. he was very busy polishing the . he had good steam on her, and the old tub was wheezing as if she had the asthma. the was old; she was homely; she was rickety; but bartholomew mullen wiped her battered nose as deferentially as if she had been a spick-span, spider-driver, tail-truck mail-racer. she wasn't much--the . but in those days bartholomew wasn't much; and the was bartholomew's. "how is she steaming, bartholomew?" i sung out; he was right in the middle of her. looking up, he fingered his waste modestly and blushed through a dab of crude petroleum over his eye. "hundred and thirty, sir. she's a terrible free steamer, the old ; i'm all ready to run her out." "who's marked up to fire for you, bartholomew?" bartholomew mullen looked at me fraternally. "neighbor couldn't give me anybody but a wiper," said bartholomew, in a sort of a wouldn't-that-kill-you tone. the unconscious arrogance of the boy quite knocked me, so soon had honors changed his point of view. last night a despised wiper; at daybreak, an engineer; and his nose in the air at the idea of taking on a wiper for fireman. and all so innocent. "would you object, bartholomew," i suggested, gently, "to a train-master for fireman?" "i don't--think so, sir." "thank you; because i am going down to zanesville this morning myself and i thought i'd ride with you. is it all right?" "oh yes, sir--if neighbor doesn't care." i smiled. he didn't know who neighbor took orders from; but he thought, evidently, not from me. "then run her down to the oranges, bartholomew, and couple on, and we'll order ourselves out. see?" the really looked like a baby-carriage when we got her in front of the refrigerators. however, after the necessary preliminaries, we gave a very sporty toot and pulled out; in a few minutes we were sailing down the valley. for fifty miles we bobbed along with our cargo of iced silk as easy as old shoes; for i need hardly explain that we had packed the silk into the refrigerators to confuse the strikers. the great risk was that they would try to ditch us. i was watching the track as a mouse would a cat, looking every minute for trouble. we cleared the gumbo cut west of the beaver at a pretty good clip, in order to make the grade on the other side. the bridge there is hidden in summer by a grove of hackberrys. i had just pulled open to cool her a bit when i noticed how high the backwater was on each side of the track. suddenly i felt the fill going soft under the drivers--felt the wobble and slew. bartholomew shut off hard and threw the air as i sprang to the window. the peaceful little creek ahead looked as angry as the platte in april water, and the bottoms were a lake. somewhere up the valley there had been a cloudburst, for overhead the sun was bright. the beaver was roaring over its banks and the bridge was out. bartholomew screamed for brakes; it looked as we were against it--and hard. a soft track to stop on, a torrent of storm water ahead, and ten hundred thousand dollars' worth of silk behind--not to mention equipment. i yelled at bartholomew and motioned for him to jump; my conscience is clear on that point. the was stumbling along, trying, like a drunken man, to hang to the rotten track. "bartholomew!" i yelled; but he was head out and looking back at his train, while he jerked frantically at the air lever. i understood: the air wouldn't work; it never will on those old tubs when you need it. the sweat pushed out on me. i was thinking of how much the silk would bring us after a bath in the beaver. bartholomew stuck to his levers like a man in a signal-tower, but every second brought us closer to open water. watching him, intent only on saving his first train--heedless of saving his life--i was really a bit ashamed to jump. while i hesitated, he somehow got the brakes to set; the old bucked like a bronco. it wasn't too soon. she checked her train nobly at the last, but i saw nothing could keep her from the drink. i caught bartholomew a terrific slap and again i yelled; then, turning to the gangway, i dropped into the soft mud on my side. the hung low, and it was easy lighting. bartholomew sprang from his seat a second later, but his blouse caught in the teeth of the quadrant. he stooped quick as thought, and peeled the thing over his head. but then he was caught with his hands in the wristbands, and the ponies of tipped over the broken abutment. pull as he would, he couldn't get free. the pilot dipped into the torrent slowly; but, losing her balance, the kicked her heels into the air like lightning, and shot with a frightened wheeze plump into the creek, dragging her engineer after her. the head car stopped on the brink. running across the track, i looked for bartholomew. he wasn't there; i knew he must have gone down with his engine. throwing off my gloves, i dove just as i stood, close to the tender, which hung half submerged. i am a good bit of a fish under water, but no self-respecting fish would be caught in that yellow mud. i realized, too, the instant i struck the water that i should have dived on the up-stream side. the current took me away whirling; when i came up for air i was fifty feet below the pier. i felt it was all up with bartholomew as i scrambled out; but to my amazement, as i shook my eyes open, the train crew were running forward, and there stood bartholomew on the track above me looking at the refrigerators. when i got to him he explained to me how he was dragged in and had to tear the sleeves out of his blouse under water to get free. the surprise is, how little fuss men make about such things when they are busy. it took only five minutes for the conductor to hunt up a coil of wire and a sounder for me, and by the time he got forward with it bartholomew was half-way up a telegraph-pole to help me cut in on a live wire. fast as i could i rigged a pony, and began calling the mccloud dispatcher. it was a rocky send, but after no end of pounding i got him, and gave orders for the wrecking-gang and for one more of neighbor's rapidly decreasing supply of locomotives. bartholomew, sitting on a strip of fence which still rose above water, looked forlorn. to lose the first engine he ever handled, in the beaver, was tough, and he was evidently speculating on his chances of ever getting another. if there weren't tears in his eyes, there was storm water certainly. but after the relief-engine had pulled what was left of us back six miles to a siding, i made it my first business to explain to neighbor, nearly beside himself, that bartholomew was not only not at fault, but that he had actually saved the train by his nerve. "i'll tell you, neighbor," i suggested, when we got straightened around, "give us the to go ahead as pilot, and run the stuff around the river division with foley and the ." "what'll you do with no. ?" growled neighbor. six was the local passenger, west. "annul it west of mccloud," said i, instantly. "we've got this silk on our hands now, and i'd move it if it tied up every passenger-train on the division. if we can get the infernal stuff through, it will practically beat the strike. if we fail, it will beat the company." by the time we backed to newhall junction, neighbor had made up his mind my way. mullen and i climbed into the , and foley with the , and none too good a grace, coupled on to the silk, and, flying red signals, we started again for zanesville over the river division. foley was always full of mischief. he had a better engine than ours, anyway, and he took satisfaction the rest of the afternoon in crowding us. every mile of the way he was on our heels. i was throwing the coal and distinctly remember. it was after dark when we reached the beverly hill, and we took it at a lively pace. the strikers were not on our minds then; it was foley who bothered. when the long parallel steel lines of the upper yards spread before us, flashing under the arc-lights, we were away above yard speed. running a locomotive into one of those big yards is like shooting a rapid in a canoe. there is a bewildering maze of tracks lighted by red and green lamps to be watched the closest. the hazards are multiplied the minute you pass the throat, and a yard wreck is a dreadful tangle: it makes everybody from road-master to flagmen furious, and not even bartholomew wanted to face an inquiry on a yard wreck. on the other hand, he couldn't afford to be caught by foley, who was chasing him out of pure caprice. i saw the boy holding the throttle at a half and fingering the air anxiously as we jumped through the frogs; but the roughest riding on track so far beats the ties as a cushion that when the suddenly stuck her paws through an open switch we bounced against the roof of the cab like footballs. i grabbed a brace with one hand and with the other reached instinctively across to bartholomew's side to seize the throttle he held. but as i tried to shut him off he jerked it wide open in spite of me, and turned with lightning in his eye. "no!" he cried, and his voice rang hard. the took the tremendous shove at her back and leaped like a frightened horse. away we went across the yard, through the cinders, and over the ties. my teeth have never been the same since. i don't belong on an engine, anyway, and since then i have kept off. at the moment i was convinced that the strain had been too much--that bartholomew was stark crazy. he sat bouncing clear to the roof and clinging to his levers like a lobster. but his strategy was dawning on me; in fact, he was pounding it into me. even the shock and scare of leaving the track and tearing up the yard had not driven from bartholomew's noddle the most important feature of our situation, which was, above everything, to _keep out of the way of the silk-train_. i felt every moment more mortified at my attempt to shut him off. i had done the trick of the woman who grabs the reins. it was even better to tear up the yard than to stop for foley to smash into and scatter the silk over the coal-chutes. bartholomew's decision was one of the traits which make the runner: instant perception coupled to instant resolve. the ordinary dub thinks what he should have done to avoid disaster after it is all over; bartholomew thought before. on we bumped, across frogs, through switches, over splits, and into target rods, when--and this is the miracle of it all--the got her fore-feet on a split switch, made a contact, and, after a slew or two like a bogged horse, she swung up sweet on the rails again, tender and all. bartholomew shut off with an under cut that brought us up double and nailed her feet, with the air, right where she stood. we had left the track, ploughed a hundred feet across the yards, and jumped on to another track. it is the only time i ever heard of its happening anywhere, but i was on the engine with bartholomew mullen when it was done. foley choked his train the instant he saw our hind lights bobbing. we climbed down and ran back. he had stopped just where we should have stood if i had shut off. bartholomew ran to the switch to examine it. the contact light, green, still burned like a false beacon; and lucky it did, for it showed the switch had been tampered with and exonerated bartholomew mullen completely. the attempt of the strikers to spill the silk right in the yards had only made the reputation of a new engineer. thirty minutes later the million-dollar train was turned over to the eastern division to wrestle with, and we breathed, all of us, a good bit easier. bartholomew mullen, now a passenger runner, who ranks with kennedy and jack moore and foley and george sinclair himself, got a personal letter from the general manager complimenting him on his pretty wit; and he was good enough to say nothing whatever about mine. we registered that night and went to supper together--foley, jackson, bartholomew, and i. afterwards we dropped into the dispatcher's office. something was coming from mccloud, but the operators, to save their lives, couldn't catch it. i listened a minute; it was neighbor. now neighbor isn't great on dispatching trains. he can make himself understood over the poles, but his sending is like a boy's sawing wood--sort of uneven. however, though i am not much on running yards, i claim to be able to take the wildest ball that was ever thrown along the wire, and the chair was tendered me at once to catch neighbor's extraordinary passes at the mccloud key. they came something like this: _to opr._: tell massacree [_that was the word that stuck them all, and i could perceive neighbor was talking emphatically; he had apparently forgotten bartholomew's last name and was trying to connect with the one he had disremembered the night before_]--tell massacree [_repeated neighbor_] that he is al-l-l right. tell hi-m i give 'im double mileage for to-day all the way through. and to-morrow he gets the to keep. neighb-b-or. bucks "i see a good deal of stuff in print about the engineer," said callahan, dejectedly. "what's the matter with the dispatcher? what's the matter with the man who tells the engineer what to do--and just what to do? how to do it--and exactly how to do it? with the man who sits shut in brick walls and hung in chinese puzzles, his ear glued to a receiver, and his finger fast to a key, and his eye riveted on a train chart? the man who orders and annuls and stops and starts everything within five hundred miles of him, and holds under his thumb more lives every minute than a brigadier does in a lifetime? for instance," asked callahan, in his tired way, "what's the matter with bucks?" * * * * * now, i myself never knew bucks. he left the west end before i went on. bucks is second vice-president--which means the boss--of a transcontinental line now, and a very great swell. but no man from the west end who calls on bucks has to wait for an audience, though bigger men do. they talk of him out there yet. not of general superintendent bucks, which he came to be, nor of general manager bucks. on the west end he is just plain bucks; but bucks on the west end means a whole lot. "he saved the company $ , that night the ogalalla train ran away," mused callahan. callahan himself is assistant superintendent now. "three hundred thousand dollars is a good deal of money, callahan," i objected. "figure it out yourself. to begin with, fifty passengers' lives--that's $ apiece, isn't it?" callahan had a cold-blooded way of figuring a passenger's life from the company standpoint. "it would have killed over fifty passengers if the runaway had ever struck . there wouldn't have been enough left of to make a decent funeral. then the equipment, at least $ , . but there was a whole lot more than $ , in it for bucks." "how so?" "he told me once that if he hadn't saved that night he would never have signed another order anywhere on any road." "why?" "why? because, after it was all over, he found out that his own mother was aboard . didn't you ever hear that? well, sir, it was christmas eve, and the year was ." * * * * * christmas eve everywhere; but on the west end it was just plain december th. "high winds will prevail for ensuing twenty-four hours. station agents will use extra care to secure cars on sidings; brakemen must use care to avoid being blown from moving trains." that is about all bucks said in his bulletins that evening; not a word about christmas or merry christmas. in fact, if christmas had come to mccloud that night they couldn't have held it twenty-four minutes, much less twenty-four hours; the wind was too high. all the week, all the day, all the night it had blown--a december wind; dry as an august noon, bitter as powdered ice. it was in the early days of our western railroading, when we had only one fast train on the schedule--the st. louis-california express; and only one fast engine on the division--the ; and only one man on the whole west end--bucks. bucks was assistant superintendent and master-mechanic and train-master and chief dispatcher and storekeeper--and a bully good fellow. there were some boys in the service; among them, callahan. callahan was seventeen, with hair like a sunset, and a mind quick as an air-brake. it was his first year at the key, and he had a night trick under bucks. callahan claims it blew so hard that night that it blew most of the color out of his hair. sod houses had sprung up like dog-towns in the buffalo grass during the fall. but that day homesteaders crept into dugouts and smothered over buffalo chip fires. horses and cattle huddled into friendly pockets a little out of the worst of it, or froze mutely in pitiless fence corners on the divides. sand drove gritting down from the cheyenne hills like a storm of snow. streets of the raw prairie towns stared deserted at the sky. even cowboys kept their ranches, and through the gloom of noon the sun cast a coward shadow. it was a wretched day, and the sun went down with the wind tuning into a gale, and all the boys in bad humor--except bucks. not that bucks couldn't get mad; but it took more than a cyclone to start him. no. , the california express, was late that night. all the way up the valley the wind caught her quartering. really the marvel is that out there on the plains such storms didn't blow our toy engines clear off the rails; for that matter they might as well have taken the rails, too, for none of them went over sixty pounds. was due at eleven o'clock; it was half-past twelve when she pulled in and on callahan's trick. but bucks hung around the office until she staggered up under the streaked moonlight, as frowsy a looking train as ever choked on alkali. there was always a crowd down at the station to meet ; she was the big arrival of the day at mccloud, even if she didn't get in until eleven o'clock at night. she brought the mail and the express and the landseekers and the travelling men and the strangers generally; so the mccloud livery men and hotel runners and prominent citizens and prominent loafers and the city marshal usually came down to meet her. but it was not so that night. the platform was bare. not even the hardy chief of police, who was town watch and city marshal all combined, ventured out. the engineer swung out of his cab with the silence of an abused man. his eyes were full of soda, his ears full of sand, his mustache full of burrs, and his whiskers full of tumble-weeds. the conductor and the brakemen climbed sullenly down, and the baggage-man shoved open his door and slammed a trunk out on the platform without a pretence of sympathy. then the outgoing crew climbed aboard, and in a hurry. the conductor-elect ran down-stairs from the register, and pulled his cap down hard before he pushed ahead against the wind to give the engineer his copy of the orders as the new engine was coupled up. the fireman pulled the canvas jealously around the cab end. the brakeman ran hurriedly back to examine the air connections, and gave his signal to the conductor; the conductor gave his to the engineer. there were two short, choppy snorts from the , and moved out stealthily, evenly, resistlessly into the teeth of the night. in another minute, only her red lamps gleamed up the yard. one man still on the platform watched them recede; it was bucks. he came up to the dispatcher's office and sat down. callahan wondered why he didn't go home and to bed; but callahan was too good a railroad man to ask questions of a superior. bucks might have stood on his head on the stove, and it red-hot, without being pursued with inquiries from callahan. if bucks chose to sit up out there on the frozen prairies, in a flimsy barn of a station, and with the wind howling murder at twelve o'clock past, and that on chri--the twenty-fourth of december, it was bucks's own business. "i kind of looked for my mother to-night," said he, after callahan got his orders out of the way for a minute. "wrote she was coming out pretty soon for a little visit." "where does your mother live?" "chicago. i sent her transportation two weeks ago. reckon she thought she'd better stay home for christmas. back in god's country they have christmas just about this time of year. watch out to-night, jim. i'm going home. it's a wind for your life." callahan was making a meeting-point for two freights when the door closed behind bucks; he didn't even sing out "good-night." and as for merry chri--well, that had no place on the west end anyhow. "d-i, d-i, d-i, d-i," came clicking into the room. callahan wasn't asleep. once he did sleep over the key. when he told bucks, he made sure of his time; only he thought bucks ought to know. bucks shook his head pretty hard that time. "it's awful business, jim. it's murder, you know. it's the penitentiary, if they should convict you. but it's worse than that. if anything happened because you went to sleep over the key, you'd have them on your mind all your life, don't you know--forever. men--and--and children. that's what i always think about--the children. maimed and scalded and burned. jim, if it ever happens again, quit dispatching; get into commercial work; mistakes don't cost life there; don't try to handle trains. if it ever happens with you, you'll kill yourself." that was all he said; it was enough. and no wonder callahan loved him. the wind tore frantically around the station; but everything else was so still. it was one o'clock now, and not a soul about but callahan. d-i, d-i, j, clicked sharp and fast. "twelve or fourteen cars passed here--just--now east--running a-a-a-" callahan sprang up like a flash--listened. what? r-u-n-n-i-n-g a-w-a-y? it was the jackson operator calling; callahan jumped to the key. "what's that?" he asked, quick as lightning could dash it. "twelve or fourteen cars coal passed here, fully forty miles an hour, headed east, driven by the wi--" that was all j could send, for ogalalla broke in. ogalalla is the station just west of jackson. and with callahan's copper hair raising higher at every letter, this came from ogalalla: "heavy gust caught twelve coal cars on side track, sent them out on main line off down the grade." they were already past jackson, eight miles away, headed east, and running down hill. callahan's eyes turned like hares to the train sheet. , going west, was due _that minute_ to leave callendar. from callendar to griffin is a twenty-miles' run. there is a station between, but in those days no night operator. the runaway coal-train was then less than thirty miles west of griffin, coming down a forty-mile grade like a cannon ball. if could be stopped at callendar, she could be laid by in five minutes, out of the way of the certain destruction ahead of her on the main line. callahan seized the key, and began calling "cn." he pounded until the call burned into his fingers. it was an age before callendar answered; then callahan's order flew: "hold . answer quick." and callendar answered: " just pulling out of upper yard. too late to stop her. what's the matter?" callahan struck the table with his clinched fist, looked wildly about him, then sprang from the chair, ran to the window, and threw up the sash. the moon shone a bit through the storm of sand, but there was not a soul in sight. there were lights in the round-house a hundred yards across the track. he pulled a revolver--every railroad man out there carried one those days--and, covering one of the round-house windows, began firing. it was a risk. there was one chance, maybe, to a thousand of his killing a night man. but there were a thousand chances to one that a whole train-load of men and women would be killed inside of thirty minutes if he couldn't get help. he chose a window in the machinists' section, where he knew no one usually went at night. he poured bullets into the unlucky casement as fast as powder could carry them. reloading rapidly, he watched the round-house door; and, sure enough, almost at once, it was cautiously opened. then he fired into the air--one, two, three, four, five, six--and he saw a man start for the station on the dead run. he knew, too, by the tremendous sweep of his legs that it was ole anderson, the night foreman, the man of all others he wanted. "ole," cried the dispatcher, waving his arms frantically as the giant swede leaped across the track and looked up from the platform below, "go get bucks. i've got a runaway train going against . for your life, ole, run!" the big fellow was into the wind with the word. bucks boarded four blocks away. callahan, slamming down the window, took the key, and began calling rowe. rowe is the first station east of jackson; it was now the first point at which the runaway coal-train could be headed. "r-o r-o," he rattled. the operator must have been sitting on the wire, for he answered at once. as fast as callahan's fingers could talk, he told rowe the story and gave him orders to get the night agent, who, he knew, must be down to sell tickets for , and pile all the ties they could gather across the track to derail the runaway train. then he began thumping for kolar, the next station east of rowe, and the second ahead of the runaways. he pounded and he pounded, and when the man at kolar answered, callahan could have sworn he had been asleep--just from the way he talked. does it seem strange? there are many strange things about a dispatcher's senses. "send your night man to west switch house-track, and open for runaway train. set brakes hard on your empties on siding, to spill runaways if possible. do anything and everything to keep them from getting by you. work quick." behind kolar's o.k. came a frantic call from rowe. "runaways passed here like a streak. knocked the ties into toothpicks. couldn't head them." callahan didn't wait to hear any more. he only wiped the sweat from his face. it seemed forever before kolar spoke again. then it was only to say: "runaways went by here before night man could get to switch and open it." would bucks never come? and if he did come, what on earth could stop the runaway train now? they were heading into the worst grade on the west end. it averages one per cent. from kolar to griffin, and there we get down off the cheyenne hills with a long reverse curve, and drop into the cañon of the blackwood with a three per cent. grade. callahan, almost beside himself, threw open a north window to look for bucks. two men were flying down main street towards the station. he knew them; it was ole and bucks. but bucks! never before or since was seen on a street of mccloud such a figure as bucks, in his trousers and slippers, with his night-shirt free as he sailed down the wind. in another instant he was bounding up the stairs. callahan told him. "what have you done?" he panted, throwing himself into the chair. callahan told him. bucks held his head in his hands while the boy talked. he turned to the sheet--asked quick for . "she's out of callendar. i tried hard to stop her. i didn't lose a second; she was gone." barely an instant bucks studied the sheet. routed out of a sound sleep after an eight-hour trick, and on such a night, by such a message--the marvel was he could think at all, much less set a trap which should save . in twenty minutes from the time bucks took the key the two trains would be together--could he save the passenger? callahan didn't believe it. a sharp, quick call brought griffin. we had one of the brightest lads on the whole division at griffin. callahan, listening, heard griffin answer. bucks rattled a question. how the heart hangs on the faint, uncertain tick of a sounder when human lives hang on it! "where are your section men?" asked bucks. "in bed at the section house." "who's with you?" "night agent. sheriff with two cowboy prisoners waiting to take ." before the last word came, bucks was back at him: _to opr._: ask sheriff release his prisoners to save passenger-train. go together to west switch house-track, open, and set it. smash in section tool-house, get tools. go to point of house-track curve, cut the rails, and point them to send runaway train from ogalalla over the bluff into the river. bucks. the words flew off his fingers like sparks, and another message crowded the wire behind it: _to agt._: go to east switch, open, and set for passing-track. flag , and run her on siding. if can't get into the clear, ditch the runaways. bucks. they look old now. the ink is faded, and the paper is smoked with the fire of fifteen winters and bleached with the sun of fifteen summers. but to this day they hang there in their walnut frames, the original orders, just as bucks scratched them off. they hang there in the dispatchers' offices in the new depot. but in their present swell surroundings bucks wouldn't know them. it was harvey reynolds who took them off the other end of the wire--a boy in a thousand for that night and that minute. the instant the words flashed into the room he instructed the agent, grabbed an axe, and dashed out into the waiting-room, where the sheriff, ed banks, sat with his prisoners, the cowboys. "ed," cried harvey, "there's a runaway train from ogalalla coming down the line in the wind. if we can't trap it here, it'll knock into kindling-wood. turn the boys loose, ed, and save the passenger-train. boys, show the man and square yourselves right now. i don't know what you're here for; but i believe it's to save . will you help?" the three men sprang to their feet; ed banks slipped the handcuffs off in a trice. "never mind the rest of it. save the passenger-train first," he roared. everybody from ogalalla to omaha knew ed banks. "which way? how?" cried the cowboys, in a lather of excitement. harvey reynolds, beckoning as he ran, rushed out the door and up the track, his posse at his heels, stumbling into the gale like lunatics. "smash in the tool-house door," panted harvey as they neared it. ed banks seized the axe from his hands and took command as naturally as dewey. "pick up that tie and ram her," he cried, pointing to the door. "all together--now." harvey and the cowboys splintered the panel in a twinkling, and banks, with a few clean strokes, cut an opening. the cowboys, jumping together, ran in and began fishing for tools in the dark. one got hold of a wrench; the other, a pick. harvey caught up a clawbar, and banks grabbed a spike-maul. in a bunch they ran for the point of the curve on the house-track. it lies there close to the verge of a limestone bluff that looms up fifty feet above the river. but it is one thing to order a contact opened, and another and very different thing to open it, at two in the morning on december twenty-fifth, by men who know no more about track-cutting than about logarithms. side by side and shoulder to shoulder the man of the law and the men out of the law, the rough-riders and the railroad boy, pried and wrenched and clawed and struggled with the steel. while harvey and banks clawed at the spikes the cowboys wrestled with the nuts on the bolts of the fish-plates. it was a baffle. the nuts wouldn't twist, the spikes stuck like piles, sweat covered the assailants, harvey went into a frenzy. "boys, we must work faster," he cried, tugging at the frosty spikes; but flesh and blood could do no more. "there they come--there's the runaway train--do you hear it? i'm going to open the switch, anyhow," harvey shouted, starting up the track. "save yourselves." heedless of the warning, banks struggled with the plate-bolts in a silent fury. suddenly he sprang to his feet. "give me the maul!" he cried. raising the heavy tool like a tack-hammer he landed heavily on the bolt nuts; once, and again; and they flew in a stream like bullets over the bluff. the taller cowboy, bending close on his knees, raised a yell. the plates had given. springing to the other rail, banks stripped the bolts even after the mad train had shot into the gorge above them. they drove the pick under the loosened steel, and with a pry that bent the clawbar and a yell that reached harvey, trembling at the switch, they tore away the stubborn contact, and pointed the rails over the precipice. the shriek of a locomotive whistle cut the wind. looking east, harvey had been watching 's headlight. she was pulling in on the siding. he still held the switch open to send the runaways into the trap bucks had set, if the passenger-train failed to get into the clear; but there was a minute yet--a bare sixty seconds--and harvey had no idea of dumping ten thousand dollars' worth of equipment into the river unless he had to. suddenly, up went the safety signals from the east end. the was coughing noisily up the passing-track--the line was clear. banks and the cowboys, waiting breathless, saw harvey with a determined lurch close the main-line contact. in the next breath the coalers, with the sweep of the gale in their frightful velocity, smashed over the switch and on. a rattling whirl of ballast and a dizzy clatter of noise, and before the frightened crew of could see what was against them, the runaway train was passed--gone! "i wasn't going to stop here to-night," muttered the engineer, as he stood with the conductor over harvey's shoulder at the operator's desk a minute later and wiped the chill from his forehead with a piece of waste. "we'd have met them in the cañon." harvey was reporting to bucks. callahan heard it coming: "rails cut, but safe. runaways went by here fully seventy miles an hour." it was easy after that. griffin is the foot of the grade; from there on, the runaway train had a hill to climb. bucks had held , the local passenger, side-tracked at davis, thirty miles farther east. sped by the wind, the runaways passed davis, though not at half their highest speed. an instant later, 's engine was cut loose, and started after them like a scared collie. three miles east of davis they were overhauled by the light engine. the fireman, donahue, crawled out of the cab window, along the foot-rail, and down on the pilot, caught the ladder of the first car, and, running up, crept along to the leader and began setting brakes. ten minutes later they were brought back in triumph to davis. when the multitude of orders was out of the way, bucks wired ed banks to bring his cowboys down to mccloud on . was the east-bound passenger due at mccloud at . a.m. it turned out that the cowboys had been arrested for lassoing a norwegian homesteader who had cut their wire. it was not a heinous offence, and after it was straightened out by the intervention of bucks--who was the whole thing then--they were given jobs lassoing sugar barrels in the train service. one of them, the tall fellow, is a passenger conductor on the high line yet. it was three o'clock that morning--the twenty-fifth of december in small letters, on the west end--before they got things decently straightened out: there was so much to do--orders to make and reports to take. bucks, still on the key in his flowing robes and tumbling hair, sent and took them all. then he turned the seat over to callahan, and getting up for the first time in two hours, dropped into another chair. the very first thing callahan received was a personal from pat francis, at ogalalla, conductor of . it was for bucks: your mother is aboard . she was carried by mccloud in the denver sleeper. sending her back to you on . merry christmas. it came off the wire fast. callahan, taking it, didn't think bucks heard; though it's probable he did hear. anyway, callahan threw the clip over towards him with a laugh. "look there, old man. there's your mother coming, after all your kicking--carried by on ." as the boy turned he saw the big dispatcher's head sink between his arms on the table. callahan sprang to his side; but bucks had fainted. sankey's double header the oldest man in the train service didn't pretend to say how long sankey had worked for the company. pat francis was a very old conductor; but old man sankey was a veteran when pat francis began braking. sankey ran a passenger-train when jimmie brady was running--and jimmie afterwards enlisted and was killed in the custer fight. there was an odd tradition about sankey's name. he was a tall, swarthy fellow, and carried the blood of a sioux chief in his veins. it was in the time of the black hills excitement, when railroad men struck by the gold fever were abandoning their trains, even at way-stations, and striking across the divide for clark's crossing. men to run the trains were hard to get, and tom porter, train-master, was putting in every man he could pick up, without reference to age or color. porter--he died at julesburg afterwards--was a great jollier, and he wasn't afraid of anybody on earth. one day a war-party of sioux clattered into town. they tore around like a storm, and threatened to scalp everything, even to the local tickets. the head braves dashed in on tom porter, sitting in the dispatcher's office up-stairs. the dispatcher was hiding under a loose plank in the baggage-room floor; tom, being bald as a sand-hill, considered himself exempt from scalping-parties. he was working a game of solitaire when they bore down on him, and interested them at once. that led to a parley, which ended in porter's hiring the whole band to brake on freight-trains. old man sankey is said to have been one of that original war-party. now this is merely a caboose story--told on winter nights when trainmen get stalled in the snow drifting down from the sioux country. but what follows is better attested. sankey, to start with, had a peculiar name. an unpronounceable, unspellable, unmanageable name. i never heard it; so i can't give it. it was as hard to catch as an indian cur, and that name made more trouble on the pay-rolls than all the other names put together. nobody at headquarters could handle it; it was never turned in twice alike, and they were always writing tom porter about the thing. tom explained several times that it was sitting bull's ambassador who was drawing that money, and that he usually signed the pay-roll with a tomahawk. but nobody at omaha ever knew how to take a joke. the first time tom went down he was called in very solemnly to explain again about the name; and being in a hurry, and very tired of the whole business, tom spluttered: "hang it, don't bother me any more about that name. if you can't read it, make it sankey, and be done with it." they took tom at his word. they actually did make it sankey; and that's how our oldest conductor came to bear the name of the famous singer. and more i may say: good name as it was--and is--the sioux never disgraced it. probably every old traveller on the system knew sankey. he was not only always ready to answer questions, but, what is much more, always ready to answer the same question twice: it is that which makes conductors gray-headed and spoils their chances for heaven--answering the same questions over and over again. children were apt to be a bit startled at first sight of sankey--he was so dark. but he had a very quiet smile, that always made them friends after the second trip through the sleepers, and they sometimes ran about asking for him after he had left the train. of late years--and it is this that hurts--these very same children, grown ever so much bigger, and riding again to or from california or japan or australia, will ask when they reach the west end about the indian conductor. but the conductors who now run the overland trains pause at the question, checking over the date limits on the margins of the coupon tickets, and, handing the envelopes back, will look at the children and say, slowly, "he isn't running any more." * * * * * if you have ever gone over our line to the mountains or to the coast you may remember at mccloud, where they change engines and set the diner in or out, the pretty little green park to the east of the depot with a row of catalpa-trees along the platform line. it looks like a glass of spring water. if it happened to be sankey's run and a regular west end day, sunny and delightful, you would be sure to see standing under the catalpas a shy, dark-skinned girl of fourteen or fifteen years, silently watching the preparations for the departure of the overland. and after the new engine had been backed, champing down, and harnessed to its long string of vestibuled sleepers; after the air hose had been connected and the air valves examined; after the engineer had swung out of his cab, filled his cups, and swung in again; after the fireman and his helper had disposed of their slice-bar and shovel, and given the tender a final sprinkle, and the conductor had walked leisurely forward, compared time with the engineer, and cried, "all abo-o-o-ard!" then, as your coach moved slowly ahead, you might notice under the receding catalpas the little girl waving a parasol, or a handkerchief, at the outgoing train--that is, at conductor sankey; for she was his daughter, neeta sankey. her mother was spanish, and died when neeta was a wee bit. neeta and the limited were sankey's whole world. when georgie sinclair began pulling the limited, running west opposite foley, he struck up a great friendship with sankey. sankey, though he was hard to start, was full of early-day stories. georgie, it seemed, had the faculty of getting him to talk; perhaps because when he was pulling sankey's train he made extraordinary efforts to keep on time--time was a hobby with sankey. foley said he was so careful of it that when he was off duty he let his watch stop just to save time. sankey loved to breast the winds and the floods and the snows, and if he could get home pretty near on schedule, with everybody else late, he was happy; and in respect of that, as sankey used to say, georgie sinclair could come nearer gratifying sankey's ambition than any runner we had. even the firemen used to observe that the young engineer, always neat, looked still neater the days that he took out sankey's train. by-and-by there was an introduction under the catalpas; after that it was noticed that georgie began wearing gloves on the engine--not kid gloves, but yellow dogskin--and black silk shirts; he bought them in denver. then--an odd way engineers have of paying compliments--when georgie pulled into town on no. , if it was sankey's train, the big sky-scraper would give a short, hoarse scream, a most peculiar note, just as they drew past sankey's house, which stood on the brow of the hill west of the yards. then neeta would know that no. and her father, and naturally mr. sinclair, were in again, and all safe and sound. when the railway trainmen held their division fair at mccloud, there was a lantern to be voted to the most popular conductor--a gold-plated lantern with a green curtain in the globe. cal stewart and ben doton, who were very swell conductors, and great rivals, were the favorites, and had the town divided over their chances for winning it. but during the last moments georgia sinclair stepped up to the booth and cast a storm of votes for old man sankey. doton's friends and stewart's laughed at first, but sankey's votes kept pouring in amazingly. the favorites grew frightened; they pooled their issues by throwing stewart's vote to doton; but it wouldn't do. georgie sinclair, with a crowd of engineers--cameron, moore, foley, bat mullen, and burns--came back at them with such a swing that in the final round up they fairly swamped doton. sankey took the lantern by a thousand votes, but i understood it cost georgie and his friends a pot of money. sankey said all the time he didn't want the lantern, but, just the same, he always carried that particular lantern, with his full name, sylvester sankey, ground into the glass just below the green mantle. pretty soon--neeta being then eighteen--it was rumored that sinclair was engaged to miss sankey--was going to marry her. and marry her he did; though that was not until after the wreck in the blackwood gorge, the time of the big snow. it goes yet by just that name on the west end; for never was such a winter and such a snow known on the plains and in the mountains. one train on the northern division was stalled six weeks that winter, and one whole coach was chopped up for kindling-wood. but the great and desperate effort of the company was to hold open the main line, the artery which connected the two coasts. it was a hard winter on trainmen. week after week the snow kept falling and blowing. the trick was not to clear the line; it was to keep it clear. every day we sent out trains with the fear we should not see them again for a week. freight we didn't pretend to move; local passenger business had to be abandoned. coal, to keep our engines and our towns supplied, we were obliged to carry, and after that all the brains and the muscle and the motive-power were centred on keeping and , our through passenger-trains, running. our trainmen worked like americans; there were no cowards on our rolls. but after too long a strain men become exhausted, benumbed, indifferent--reckless even. the nerves give out, and will power seems to halt on indecision--but decision is the life of the fast train. none of our conductors stood the hopeless fight like sankey. sankey was patient, taciturn, untiring, and, in a conflict with the elements, ferocious. all the fighting-blood of his ancestors seemed to course again in that struggle with the winter king. i can see him yet, on bitter days, standing alongside the track, in a heavy pea-jacket and napoleon boots, a sealskin cap drawn snugly over his straight, black hair, watching, ordering, signalling, while no. , with its frost-bitten sleepers behind a rotary, struggled to buck through the ten and twenty foot cuts, which lay bankful of snow west of mccloud. not until april did it begin to look as if we should win out. a dozen times the line was all but choked on us. and then, when snow-ploughs were disabled and train crews desperate, there came a storm that discounted the worst blizzard of the winter. as the reports rolled in on the morning of the th, growing worse as they grew thicker, neighbor, dragged out, played out, mentally and physically, threw up his hands. the th it snowed all day, and on saturday morning the section men reported thirty feet in the blackwood cañon. it was six o'clock when we got the word, and daylight before we got the rotary against it. they bucked away till noon with discouraging results, and came in with their gear smashed and a driving-rod fractured. it looked as if we were beaten. no. got into mccloud eighteen hours late; it was sankey's and sinclair's run west. there was a long council in the round-house. the rotary was knocked out; coal was running low in the chutes. if the line wasn't kept open for the coal from the mountains it was plain we should be tied until we could ship it from iowa or missouri. west of medicine pole there was another big rotary working east, with plenty of coal behind her, but she was reported stuck fast in the cheyenne hills. foley made suggestions and dad sinclair made suggestions. everybody had a suggestion left; the trouble was, neighbor said, they didn't amount to anything, or were impossible. "it's a dead block, boys," announced neighbor, sullenly, after everybody had done. "we are beaten unless we can get no. through to-day. look there; by the holy poker it's snowing again!" the air was dark in a minute with whirling clouds. men turned to the windows and quit talking; every fellow felt the same--at least, all but one. sankey, sitting back of the stove, was making tracings on his overalls with a piece of chalk. "you might as well unload your passengers, sankey," said neighbor. "you'll never get 'em through this winter." and it was then that sankey proposed his double header. he devised a snow-plough which combined in one monster ram about all the good material we had left, and submitted the scheme to neighbor. neighbor studied it and hacked at it all he could, and brought it over to the office. it was like staking everything on the last cast of the dice, but we were in the state of mind which precedes a desperate venture. it was talked over for an hour, and orders were finally given by the superintendent to rig up the double header and get against the snow as quick as it could be made ready. all that day and most of the night neighbor worked twenty men on sankey's device. by sunday morning it was in such shape that we began to take heart. "if she don't get through she'll get back again, and that's what most of 'em don't do," growled neighbor, as he and sankey showed the new ram to the engineers. they had taken the , george sinclair's engine, for one head, and burns's for the other. behind these were kennedy with the and cameron with the . the engines were set in pairs, headed each way, and buckled up like pack-mules. over the pilots and stacks of the head engines rose the tremendous ploughs which were to tackle the toughest drifts ever recorded, before or since, on the west end. the ram was designed to work both ways. under the coal each tender was loaded with pig-iron. the beleaguered passengers on no. , side-tracked in the yards, watched the preparations sankey was making to clear the line. every amateur on the train had his camera snapping at the ram. the town, gathered in a single great mob, looked silently on, and listened to the frosty notes of the sky-scrapers as they went through their preliminary manoeuvres. just as the final word was given by sankey, in charge, the sun burst through the fleecy clouds, and a wild cheer followed the ram out of the western yard--it was good-luck to see the sun again. little neeta, up on the hill, must have seen them as they pulled out; surely she heard the choppy, ice-bitten screech of the ; that was never forgotten whether the service was special or regular. besides, the head cab of the ram carried this time not only georgie sinclair but her father as well. sankey could handle a slice-bar as well as a punch, and rode on the head engine, where, if anywhere, the big chances hovered. what he was not capable of in the train service we never knew, because he was stronger than any emergency that ever confronted him. bucking snow is principally brute force; there is little coaxing. just west of the bluffs, like code signals between a fleet of cruisers, there was a volley of sharp tooting, and in a minute the four ponderous engines, two of them in the back motion, fires white and throats bursting, steamed wildly into the cañon. six hundred feet from the first cut sinclair's whistle signalled again; burns and cameron and kennedy answered, and then, literally turning the monster ram loose against the dazzling mountain, the crews settled themselves for the shock. at such a moment there is nothing to be done. if anything goes wrong eternity is too close to consider. there comes a muffled drumming on the steam-chests--a stagger and a terrific impact--and then the recoil like the stroke of a trip-hammer. the snow shoots into the air fifty feet, and the wind carries a cloud of fleecy confusion over the ram and out of the cut. the cabs were buried in white, and the great steel frames of the engines sprung like knitting-needles under the frightful blow. pausing for hardly a breath, the signalling again began. then the backing; up and up and up the line; and again the massive machines were hurled screaming into the cut. "you're getting there, georgie," exclaimed sankey, when the rolling and lurching had stopped. no one else could tell a thing about it, for it was snow and snow and snow; above and behind, and ahead and beneath. sinclair coughed the flakes out of his eyes and nose and mouth like a baffled collie. he looked doubtful of the claim until the mist had blown clear and the quivering monsters were again recalled for a dash. then it was plain that sankey's instinct was right; they were gaining. again they went in, lifting a very avalanche over the stacks, packing the banks of the cut with walls hard as ice. again as the drivers stuck they raced in a frenzy, and into the shriek of the wind went the unearthly scrape of the overloaded safeties. slowly and sullenly the machines were backed again. "she's doing the work, georgie," cried sankey. "for that kind of a cut she's as good as a rotary. look everything over now while i go back and see how the boys are standing it. then we'll give her one more, and give it the hardest kind." and they did give her one more--and another. men at santiago put up no stouter fight than they made that sunday morning in the cañon of the blackwood. once and twice more they went in. and the second time the bumping drummed more deeply; the drivers held, pushed, panted, and gained against the white wall--heaved and stumbled ahead--and with a yell from sinclair and sankey and the fireman, the double header shot her nose into the clear over the blackwood gorge. as engine after engine flew past the divided walls, each cab took up the cry--it was the wildest shout that ever crowned victory. through they went and half-way across the bridge before they could check their monster catapult. then at a half-full they shot it back at the cut--it worked as well one way as the other. "the thing is done," declared sankey. then they got into position up the line for a final shoot to clean the eastern cut and to get the head for a dash across the bridge into the west end of the cañon, where lay another mountain of snow to split. "look the machines over close, boys," said sankey to the engineers. "if nothing's sprung we'll take a full head across the gorge--the bridge will carry anything--and buck the west cut. then after we get no. through this afternoon neighbor can get his baby cabs in here and keep 'em chasing all night; but it's done snowing," he added, looking into the leaden sky. he had everything figured out for the master-mechanic--the shrewd, kindly old man. there's no man on earth like a good indian; and for that matter none like a bad one. sankey knew by a military instinct just what had to be done and how to do it. if he had lived he was to have been assistant superintendent. that was the word which leaked from headquarters after he got killed. and with a volley of jokes between the cabs, and a laughing and a yelling between toots, down went sankey's double header again into the blackwood gorge. at the same moment, by an awful misunderstanding of orders, down came the big rotary from the west end with a dozen cars of coal behind it. mile after mile it had wormed east towards sankey's ram, burrowed through the western cut of the blackwood, crashed through the drift sankey was aiming for, and whirled then out into the open, dead against him, at forty miles an hour. each train, in order to make the grade and the blockade, was straining the cylinders. through the swirling snow which half hid the bridge and swept between the rushing ploughs sinclair saw them coming--he yelled. sankey saw them a fraction of a second later, and while sinclair struggled with the throttle and the air, sankey gave the alarm through the whistle to the poor fellows in the blind pockets behind. but the track was at the worst. where there was no snow there were whiskers; oil itself couldn't have been worse to stop on. it was the old and deadly peril of fighting blockades from both ends on a single track. the great rams of steel and fire had done their work, and with their common enemy overcome they dashed at each other frenzied across the blackwood gorge. the fireman at the first cry shot out the side. sankey yelled at sinclair to jump. but george shook his head: he never would jump. without hesitating an instant, sankey caught him in his arms, tore him from the levers, planted a mighty foot, and hurled sinclair like a block of coal through the gangway out into the gorge. the other cabs were already emptied; but the instant's delay in front cost sankey's life. before he could turn the rotary crashed into the . they reared like mountain lions, and pitched headlong into the gorge; sankey went under them. he could have saved himself; he chose to save george. there wasn't time to do both; he had to choose and he chose instinctively. did he, maybe, think in that flash of neeta and of whom she needed most--of a young and a stalwart protector better than an old and a failing one? i do not know; i know only what he did. every one who jumped got clear. sinclair lit in twenty feet of snow, and they pulled him out with a rope; he wasn't scratched; even the bridge was not badly strained. no. pulled over it next day. sankey was right: there was no more snow; not enough to hide the dead engines on the rocks: the line was open. there never was a funeral in mccloud like sankey's. george sinclair and neeta followed together; and of mourners there were as many as there were people. every engine on the division carried black for thirty days. his contrivance for fighting snow has never yet been beaten on the high line. it is perilous to go against a drift behind it--something has to give. but it gets there--as sankey got there--always; and in time of blockade and desperation on the west end they still send out sankey's double header; though sankey--so the conductors tell the children, travelling east or travelling west--sankey isn't running any more. siclone clark "there goes a fellow that walks like siclone clark," exclaimed duck middleton. duck was sitting in the train-master's office with a group of engineers. he was one of the black-listed strikers, and runs an engine now down on the santa fé. but at long intervals duck gets back to revisit the scenes of his early triumphs. the men who surrounded him were once at deadly odds with duck and his chums, though now the ancient enmities seem forgotten, and duck--the once ferocious duck--sits occasionally among the new men and gossips about early days on the west end. "do you remember siclone, reed?" asked duck, calling to me in the private office. "remember him?" i echoed. "did anybody who ever knew siclone forget him?" "i fired passenger for siclone twenty years ago," resumed duck. "he walked just like that fellow; only he was quicker. i reckon you fellows don't know what a snap you have here now," he continued, addressing the men around him. "track fenced; ninety-pound rails; steel bridges; stone culverts; slag ballast; sky-scrapers. no wonder you get chances to haul such nobs as lilioukalani and schley and dewey, and cut out ninety miles an hour on tangents. "when i was firing for siclone the road-bed was just off the scrapers; the dumps were soft; pile bridges; paper culverts; fifty-six-pound rails; not a fence west of buffalo gap, and the plains black with texas steers. we never closed our cylinder cocks; the hiss of the steam frightened the cattle worse than the whistle, and we never knew when we were going to find a bunch of critters on the track. "the first winter i came out was great for snow, and i was a tenderfoot. the cuts made good wind-breaks, and whenever there was a norther they were chuck full of cattle. every time a train ploughed through the snow it made a path on the track. whenever the steers wanted to move they would take the middle of the track single file, and string out mile after mile. talk about fast schedules and ninety miles an hour. you had to poke along with your cylinders spitting, and just whistle and yell--sort of blow them off into the snow-drifts. "one day siclone and i were going west on , and we were late; for that matter we were always late. simpson coming against us on had caught a bunch of cattle in the rock-cut, just west of the sappie, and killed a couple. when we got there there must have been a thousand head of steers mousing around the dead ones. siclone--he used to be a cowboy, you know--siclone said they were holding a wake. at any rate, they were still coming from every direction and as far as you could see. "'hold on, siclone, and i'll chase them out,' i said. "'that's the stuff, duck,' says he. 'get after them and see what you can do.' he looked kind of queer, but i never thought anything. i picked up a jack-bar and started up the track. "the first fellow i tackled looked lazy, but he started full quick when i hit him. then he turned around to inspect me, and i noticed his horns were the broad-gauge variety. while i whacked another the first one put his head down and began to snort and paw the ties; then they all began to bellow at once; it looked smoky. i dropped the jack-bar and started for the engine, and about fifty of them started for me. "i never had an idea steers could run so; you could have played checkers on my heels all the way back. if siclone hadn't come out and jollied them, i'd never have got back in the world. i just jumped the pilot and went clear over against the boiler-head. siclone claimed i tried to climb the smoke-stack; but he was excited. anyway, he stood out there with a shovel and kept the whole bunch off me. i thought they would kill him; but i never tried to chase range steers on foot again. "in the spring we got the rains; not like you get now, but cloud-bursts. the section men were good fellows, only sometimes we would get into a storm miles from a section gang and strike a place where we couldn't see a thing. "then siclone would stop the train, take a bar, and get down ahead and sound the road-bed. many and many a wash-out he struck that way which would have wrecked our train and wound up our ball of yarn in a minute. often and often siclone would go into his division without a dry thread on him. "those were different days," mused the grizzled striker. "the old boys are scattered now all over this broad land. the strike did it; and you fellows have the snap. but what i wonder, often and often, is whether siclone is really alive or not." i siclone clark was one of the two cowboys who helped harvey reynolds and ed banks save at griffin the night the coal-train ran down from ogalalla. they were both taken into the service; siclone, after a while, went to wiping. when bucks asked his name, siclone answered, "s. clark." "what's your full name?" asked bucks. "s. clark." "but what does s. stand for?" persisted bucks. "stands for cyclone, i reckon; don't it?" retorted the cowboy, with some annoyance. it was not usual in those days on the plains to press a man too closely about his name. there might be reasons why it would not be esteemed courteous. "i reckon it do," replied bucks, dropping into siclone's grammar; and without a quiver he registered the new man as siclone clark; and his checks always read that way. the name seemed to fit; he adopted it without any objection; and, after everybody came to know him, it fitted so well that bucks was believed to have second sight when he named the hair-brained fireman. he could get up a storm quicker than any man on the division, and, if he felt so disposed, stop one quicker. in spite of his eccentricities, which were many, and his headstrong way of doing some things, siclone clark was a good engineer, and deserved a better fate than the one that befell him. though--who can tell?--it may have been just to his liking. the strike was the worst thing that ever happened to siclone. he was one of those big-hearted, violent fellows who went into it loaded with enthusiasm. he had nothing to gain by it; at least, nothing to speak of. but the idea that somebody on the east end needed their help led men like siclone in; and they thought it a cinch that the company would have to take them all back. the consequence was that, when we staggered along without them, men like siclone, easily aroused, naturally of violent passions, and with no self-restraint, stopped at nothing to cripple the service. and they looked on the men who took their places as entitled neither to liberty nor life. when our new men began coming from the reading to replace the strikers, every one wondered who would get siclone clark's engine, the . siclone had gently sworn to kill the first man who took out the --and bar nobody. whatever others thought of siclone's vaporings, they counted for a good deal on the west end; nobody wanted trouble with him. even neighbor, who feared no man, sort of let the lay in her stall as long as possible, after the trouble began. nothing was said about it. threats cannot be taken cognizance of officially; we were bombarded with threats all the time; they had long since ceased to move us. yet siclone's engine stayed in the round-house. then, after foley and mcterza and sinclair, came fitzpatrick from the east. mcterza was put on the mails, and, coming down one day on the white flyer, he blew a cylinder-head out of the . fitzpatrick was waiting to take her out when she came stumping in on one pair of drivers--for we were using engines worse than horseflesh then. but of course the was put out. the only gig left in the house was the . i imagine neighbor felt the finger of fate in it. the mail had to go. the time had come for the ; he ordered her fired. "the man that ran this engine swore he would kill the man that took her out," said neighbor, sort of incidentally, as fitz stood by waiting for her to steam. "i suppose that means me," said fitzpatrick. "i suppose it does." "whose engine is it?" "siclone clark's." fitzpatrick shifted to the other leg. "did he say what i would be doing while this was going on?" something in fitzpatrick's manner made neighbor laugh. other things crowded in and no more was said. no more was thought in fact. the rolled as kindly for fitzpatrick as for siclone, and the new engineer, a quiet fellow like foley, only a good bit heavier, went on and off her with never a word for anybody. one day fitzpatrick dropped into a barber shop to get shaved. in the next chair lay siclone clark. siclone got through first, and, stepping over to the table to get his hat, picked up fitzpatrick's, by mistake, and walked out with it. he discovered his change just as fitz got out of his chair. siclone came back, replaced the hat on the table--it had fitzpatrick's name pasted in the crown--took up his own hat, and, as fitz reached for his, looked at him. everyone in the shop caught their breaths. "is your name fitzpatrick?" "yes, sir." "mine is clark." fitzpatrick put on his hat. "you're running the , i believe?" continued siclone. "yes, sir." "that's my engine." "i thought it belonged to the company." "maybe it does; but i've agreed to kill the man that takes her out before this trouble is settled," said siclone, amiably. fitzpatrick met him steadily. "if you'll let me know when it takes place, i'll try and be there." "i don't jump on any man without fair warning; any of the boys will tell you that," continued siclone. "maybe you didn't know my word was out?" fitzpatrick hesitated. "i'm not looking for trouble with any man," he replied, guardedly. "but since you're disposed to be fair about notice, it's only fair to you to say that i did know your word was out." "still you took her?" "it was my orders." "my word is out; the boys know it is good. i don't jump any man without fair warning. i know you now, fitzpatrick, and the next time i see you, look out," and without more ado siclone walked out of the shop greatly to the relief of the barber, if not of fitz. fitzpatrick may have wiped a little sweat from his face; but he said nothing--only walked down to the round-house and took out the as usual for his run. a week passed before the two men met again. one night siclone with a crowd of the strikers ran into half a dozen of the new men, fitzpatrick among them, and there was a riot. it was siclone's time to carry out his intention, for fitzpatrick would have scorned to try to get away. no tree ever breasted a tornado more sturdily than the irish engineer withstood siclone; but when ed banks got there with his wrecking crew and straightened things out, fitzpatrick was picked up for dead. that night siclone disappeared. warrants were gotten out and searchers put after him; yet nobody could or would apprehend him. it was generally understood that the sudden disappearance was one of siclone's freaks. if the ex-cowboy had so determined he would not have hidden to keep out of anybody's way. i have sometimes pondered whether shame hadn't something to do with it. his tremendous physical strength was fit for so much better things than beating other men that maybe he, himself, sort of realized it after the storm had passed. down east of the depot grounds at mccloud stands, or stood, a great barnlike hotel, built in boom days, and long a favorite resting-place for invalids and travellers en route to california by easy stages. it was nicknamed the barracks. many railroad men boarded there, and the new engineers liked it because it was close to the round-house and away from the strikers. fitzpatrick, without a whine or a complaint, was put to bed in the barracks, and holmes kay, one of our staff surgeons, was given charge of the case; a trained nurse was provided besides. nobody thought the injured man would live. but after every care was given him, we turned our attention to the troublesome task of operating the road. the , whether it happened so, or whether neighbor thought it well to drop the disputed machine temporarily, was not taken out again for three weeks. she was looked on as a hoodoo, and nobody wanted her. foley refused point-blank one day to take her, claiming that he had troubles of his own. then, one day, something happened to mcterza's engine; we were stranded for a locomotive, and the was brought out for mcterza; he didn't like it a bit. meantime nothing had been seen or heard of siclone. that, in fact, was the reason neighbor urged for using his engine; but it seemed as if every time the went out it brought out siclone, not to speak of worse things. that morning about three o'clock the unlucky engine was coupled on to the white flyer. the night boy at the barracks always got up a hot lunch for the incoming and outgoing crews on the mail run, and that morning when he was through he forgot to turn off the lamp under his coffee-tank. it overheated the counter, and in a few minutes the wood-work was ablaze. if the frightened boy had emptied the coffee on the counter he could have put the fire out; but instead he ran out to give the alarm, and started up-stairs to arouse the guests. there were at least fifty people asleep in the house, travelling and railway men. being a wooden building it was a quick prey, and in an incredibly short time the flames were leaping through the second-story windows. when i got down men were jumping in every direction from the burning hotel. railroaders swarmed around, busy with schemes for getting the people out, for none are more quick-witted in time of panic. short as the opportunity was there were many pretty rescues, until the flames, shooting up, cut off the stairs, and left the helpers nothing for it but to stand and watch the destruction of the long, rambling building. half a dozen of us looked from the dispatchers' offices in the second story of the depot. we had agreed that the people were all out, when foley below gave a cry and pointed to the south gable. away up under the eaves at the third-story window we saw a face--it was fitzpatrick. everybody had forgotten fitzpatrick and his nurse. behind, as the flames lighted the opening, we could see the nurse struggling to get him to the window. it was plain that the engineer was in no condition to help himself; the two men were in deadly peril; a great cry went up. the crowd swarmed like ants around to the south end; a dozen men called for ladders; but there were no ladders. they called for volunteers to go in after the two men; but the stairs were long since a furnace. there were men in plenty to take any kind of chance, however slight, but no chance offered. the nurse ran to and from the window, seeking a loop-hole for escape. fitzpatrick dragged himself higher on the casement to get out of the smoke which rolled over him in choking bursts, and looked down on the crowd. they begged him to jump--held out their arms frantically. the two men again side by side waved a hand; it looked like a farewell. there was no calling from them, no appeal. the nurse would not desert his charge, and we saw it all. suddenly there was a cry below, keener than the confused shouting of the crowd, and one running forward parted the men at the front and, clearing the fence, jumped into the yard under the burning gable. before people recognized him a lariat was swinging over his head--it was siclone clark. the rope left his arm like a slung-shot and flew straight at fitzpatrick. not seeing, or confused, he missed it, and the rope, with a groan from the crowd, settled back. the agile cowboy caught it again into a loop and shot it upward, that time fairly over fitzpatrick's head. "make fast!" roared siclone. fitzpatrick shouted back, and the two men above drew taut. hand over hand siclone clark crept up, like a monkey, bracing his feet against the smoking clapboards, edging away from the vomiting windows, swinging on the single strand of horse-hair, and followed by a hundred prayers unsaid. men who didn't know what tears were tried to cry out to keep the choking from their throats. it seemed an age before he covered the last five feet, and the men above caught frantically at his hands. drawing himself over the casement, he was lost with them a moment; then, from behind a burst of smoke, they saw him rigging a maverick saddle on fitzpatrick; saw fitzpatrick lifted by clark and the nurse over the sill, lowered like a wooden tie, whirling and swinging, down into twenty arms below. before the trainmen had got the engineer loose, the nurse, following, slid like a cat down the incline; but not an instant too soon. a tongue of flame lit the gable from below and licked the horse-hair up into a curling, frizzling thread; and siclone stood alone in the upper casement. it seemed for the moment he stood there the crowd would go mad. the shock and the shouting seemed to confuse him; it may have been the hot air took his breath. they yelled to him to jump; but he swayed uncertainly. once, an instant after that, he was seen to look down; then he drew back from the casement. i never saw him again. the flames wrapped the building in a yellow fury; by daylight the big barracks were a smouldering pile of ruins. so little water was thrown that it was nearly nightfall before we could get into the wreck. the tragedy had blotted out the feud between the strikers and the new men. side by side they worked, as side by side siclone and fitzpatrick had stood in the morning, striving to uncover the mystery of the missing man. next day twice as many men were in the ruins. fitzpatrick, while we were searching, called continually for siclone clark. we didn't tell him the truth; indeed, we didn't know it; nor do we yet know it. every brace, every beam, every brick was taken from the charred pile. every foot of cinders, every handful of ashes sifted; but of a human being the searchers found never a trace. not a bone, not a key, not a knife, not a button which could be identified as his. like the smoke which swallowed him up, he had disappeared completely and forever. * * * * * is he alive? i cannot tell. but this i know. years afterwards sidney blair, head of our engineering department, was running a line, looking then, as we are looking yet, for a coast outlet. he took only a flying camp with him, travelling in the lightest kind of order, camping often with the cattlemen he ran across. one night, away down in the panhandle, they fell in with an outfit driving a bunch of steers up the yellow grass trail. blair noted that the foreman was a character. a man of few words, but of great muscular strength; and, moreover, frightfully scarred. he was silent and inclined to be morose at first, but after he learned blair was from mccloud he unbent a bit, and after a time began asking questions which indicated a surprising familiarity with the northern country and with our road. in particular, this man asked what had become of bucks, and, when told what a big railroad man he had grown, asserted, with a sudden bitterness and without in any way leading up to it, that with bucks on the west end there never would have been a strike. sitting at their camp-fire while their crews mingled, blair noticed in the flicker of the blaze how seamed the throat and breast of the cattleman were; even his sinewy forearms were drawn out of shape. he asked, too, whether blair recollected the night the barracks burned; but blair at that time was east of the river, and so explained, though he related to the cowboy incidents of the fire which he had heard, among others the story of fitzpatrick and siclone clark. "and fitzpatrick is alive and siclone is dead," said blair, in conclusion. but the cowboy disputed him. "you mean clark is alive and fitzpatrick is dead," said he. "no," contended sidney, "fitzpatrick is running an engine up there now. i saw him within three months." but the cowboy was loath to conviction. next morning their trails forked. the foreman seemed disinclined to part from the surveyors, and while the bunch was starting he rode a long way with blair, talking in a random way. then, suddenly wheeling, he waved a good-bye with his heavy stetson and, galloping hard, was soon lost to the north in the ruts of the yellow grass. when blair came in he told neighbor and me about it. blair had never seen siclone clark, and so was no judge as to his identity; but neighbor believes yet that blair camped that night way down in the panhandle with no other than the cowboy engineer. once again, that only two years ago, something came back to us. holmes kay, one of our staff of surgeons, the man, in fact, who took care of fitzpatrick, enlisted in illinois and went with the first to cuba. they got in front of santiago just after the hard fighting of july st, and holmes was detailed for hospital work among roosevelt's men, who had suffered severely the day before. one of the wounded, a sergeant, had sustained a gunshot wound in the jaw, and in the confusion had received scant attention. kay took hold of him. he was a cowboy, like most of the rough-riders, and after his jaw was dressed kay made some remark about the hot fire they had been through before the block-house. "i've been through a hotter before i ever saw cuba," answered the rough-rider, as well as he could through his bandages. the remark directed kay's attention to the condition of his breast and neck, which were a mass of scars. "where are you from?" asked holmes. "everywhere." "where did you get burned that way?" "out on the plains." "how?" but the poor fellow went off into a delirium, and to the surgeon's amazement began repeating train orders. kay was paralyzed at the way he talked our lingo--and a cowboy. when he left the wounded man for the night he resolved to question him more closely the next day; but the next day orders came to rejoin his regiment at the trenches. the surrender shifted things about, and kay, though he made repeated inquiry, never saw the man again. neighbor, when he heard the story, was only confirmed in his belief that the rough-rider was siclone clark. i give you the tales as they came to me, and for what you may make of them. i myself believe that if siclone clark is still alive he will one day yet come back to where he was best known and, in spite of his faults, best liked. they talk of him out there as they do of old man sankey. i say i believe if he lives he will one day come back. the day he does will be a great day in mccloud. on that day fitzpatrick will have to take down the little tablet which he placed in the brick façade of the hotel which now stands on the site of the old barracks. for, as that tablet now stands, it is sacred to the memory of siclone clark. the end by frederic remington sundown leflare. short stories. illustrations by the author. sundown leflare is not idealized in mr. remington's handling of him. he is presented just as he is, with his good-humor and shrewdness and indomitable pluck, and also with all his superstition and his knavery. but he is a very realistic, very human character, and one whom we would see and read more of hereafter.--_boston journal._ crooked trails. illustrated by the author. mr. remington as author and artist presents a perfect combination.--_philadelphia telegraph._ picture and text go to form a whole which the reader could not well grasp were it not for the supplementary quality of each in its bearing upon the other.--_albany journal._ pony tracks. illustrated by the author. this is a spicy account of real experiences among indians and cowboys on the plains and in the mountains, and will be read with a great deal of interest by all who are fond of an adventurous life. no better illustrated book of frontier adventure has been published.--_boston journal._ by richard harding davis a year from a reporter's note-book. illustrated by r. caton woodville, t. de thulstrup, and frederic remington, and from photographs taken by the author. three gringos in venezuela and central america. illustrated. about paris. illustrated by c. d. gibson. the princess aline. illustrated by c. d. gibson. the exiles, and other stories. illustrated. van bibber, and others. illustrated by c. d. gibson the west from a car-window. illustrated by frederic remington. our english cousins. illustrated. the rulers of the mediterranean. illustrated. mr. davis has eyes to see, is not a bit afraid to tell what he sees, and is essentially good natured.... mr. davis's faculty of appreciation and enjoyment is fresh and strong: he makes vivid pictures.--_outlook_, n. y. richard harding davis never writes a short story that he does not prove himself a master of the art.--_chicago times._ by john fox, jr. a mountain europa. with portrait. the story is well worth careful reading for its literary art and its truth to a phase of little-known american life.--_omaha bee_. the kentuckians. a novel. illustrated by w. t. smedley. this, mr. fox's first long story, sets him well in view, and distinguishes him as at once original and sound. he takes the right view of the story-writer's function and the wholesale view of what the art of fiction can rightfully attempt.--_independent_, n. y. "hell fer sartain," and other stories. mr. fox has made a great success of his pictures of the rude life and primitive passions of the people of the mountains of west virginia and kentucky. his sketches are short but graphic; he paints his scenes and his hill people in terse and simple phrases and makes them genuinely picturesque, giving us glimpses of life that are distinctively american.--_detroit free press_. a cumberland vendetta, and other stories. illustrated. these stories are tempestuously alive, and sweep the heart-strings with a master-hand.--_watchman_, boston. by frank r. stockton the associate hermits. a novel. illustrated by a. b. frost. if there is a more droll or more delightful writer now living than mr. frank r. stockton we should be slow to make his acquaintance, on the ground that the limit of safety might be passed.... mr. stockton's humor asserts itself admirably, and the story is altogether enjoyable.--_independent_, n. y. the interest never flags, and there is nothing intermittent about the sparkling humor.--_philadelphia press_. the great stone of sardis. a novel. illustrated by peter newell. the scene of mr. stockton's novel is laid in the twentieth century, which is imagined as the culmination of our era of science and invention. the main episodes are a journey to the centre of the earth by means of a pit bored by an automatic cartridge, and a journey to the north pole beneath the ice of the polar seas. these adventures mr. stockton describes with such simplicity and conviction that the reader is apt to take the story in all seriousness until he suddenly runs into some gigantic pleasantry of the kind that was unknown before mr. stockton began writing, and realizes that the novel is a grave and elaborate bit of fooling, based upon the scientific fads of the day. the book is richly illustrated by peter newell, the one artist of modern times who is suited to interpret mr. stockton's characters and situations. dyke darrel the railroad detective or the crime of the midnight express by frank pinkerton contents i. a startling crime. ii. dyke darrel's trick. iii. professor darlington ruggles. iv. scalped. v. elliston's rebuff. vi. dyke darrel's danger. vii. what a handkerchief revealed. viii. a plunge to death. ix. words that startle. x. black hollow. xi. poor sibyl! xii. a burning trap. xiii. a sad fate. xiv. dyke darrel astounded. xv. a baffled villain. xvi. nell missing. xvii nell in the toils. xviii. beaten back. xix. the detective fooled. xx. overmatched by a girl. xxi. a bout in the cellar. xxii. the empty seat. xxiii. dyke darrel on the trail. xxiv. a race for life. xxv. saved! xxvi. the mysterious wart. xxvii. the story of a wart. xxviii. the revelations of a satchel. xxix. retribution. won by crime chapter i. a startling crime. "the most audacious crime of my remembrance." dyke darrel flung down the morning paper, damp from the press, and began pacing the floor. "what is it, dyke?" questioned the detective's sister nell, who at that moment thrust her head into the room. nell was a pretty girl of twenty, with midnight hair and eyes, almost in direct contrast with her brother, the famous detective, whose deeds of cunning and daring were the theme of press and people the wide west over. "an express robbery," returned dyke, pausing in front of nell and holding up the paper. "i am sorry," uttered the girl, with a pout. "i shan't have you with me for the week that i promised myself. i am always afraid something will happen every time you go out on the trail of a criminal, dyke." "and something usually does happen," returned the detective, grimly. "my last detective work did not pan out as i expected, but i do not consider that entirely off yet. it may be that the one who murdered captain osborne had a hand in this latest crime." "an express robbery, you say?" "and murder." "and murder!" the young girl's cheek blanched. "yes. the express messenger on the central road was murdered last night, and booty to the amount of thirty thousand dollars secured." "terrible!" "yes, it is a bold piece of work, and will set the detectives on the trail." "did you know the murdered messenger, dyke?" "it was arnold nicholson." "no?" the girl reeled, and clutched the table at her side for support. the name uttered by her brother was that of a friend of the barrels, a man of family, and one who had been in the employ of the express company for many years. no wonder nell darrel was shocked at learning the name of the victim. "you see how it is, nell?" "yes," returned the girl, recovering her self-possession. "i meant to ask you to forego this man-hunt, but i see that it would be of no use." "not the least, nell," returned dyke, with a compression of the lips. "i would hunt these scoundrels down without one cent reward. nicholson was my friend, and a good one. he helped me once, when to do so was of great inconvenience to himself. it is my duty to see that his cowardly assassins are brought to justice." even as dyke darrel uttered the last words a man ran up to the steps and opened the front door. "i hope i don't intrude," he said, as he put his face into the room. "no; you are always welcome, elliston," cried dyke, extending his hand. the new-comer accepted the proffered hand, then turned and smiled on nell. he was a tall man, with smoothly-cut beard and a tinge of gray in his curling black hair. harper elliston was past thirty, and on the best of terms with dyke darrel and his sister, who considered him a very good friend. "you have read the news?" elliston said, as his keen, black eyes rested on the paper that lay on the table. "yes," returned the detective. "it's a most villainous affair." "one of the worst." "i was never so shocked," said nell. "do you imagine the robbers will be captured, mr. elliston?" "certainly, if your brother takes the trail, although i hope he will not." "why do you hope so?" questioned dyke. "my dear boy, it's dangerous---" a low laugh cut short the further speech of mr. elliston. "i supposed you knew me too well, harper, to imagine that danger ever deterred dyke darrel from doing his duty." "of course; but this is a different case. 'tis said that four men were engaged in the foul work, and that they belong to a league of desperate ruffians, as hard to deal with as ever the james and younger brothers. better leave it to the chicago and st. louis force, dyke. i should hate to see you made the victim of these scoundrels." mr. elliston laid his hand on the detective's arm in a friendly way, and seemed deeply anxious. "harper, are you aware that the murdered messenger was my friend?" "was he?" "certainly. i would be less than human did i refuse to take the trail of his vile assassins. you make me blush when you insinuate that danger should deter me from doing my duty." "i am not aware that i said such a thing," answered elliston. "i did not mean it if i did. it would please me to have you remain off this trail, however, dyke. i will see to it that the best chicago detectives are set to work; that ought to satisfy you." "and i sit with my hands folded meantime?" a look of questioning surprise filled the eyes of dyke darrel, as he regarded mr. elliston. "no. but you promised nell to take her east this spring, to new york-" "he did, but i forego that pleasure," cried the girl, quickly. "i realize that dyke has a duty to perform in illinois." "and so you, too, side with your brother," cried mr. elliston, forcing a laugh. "in that case, i surrender at discretion." dyke picked up and examined the paper once more. "died for duty. bold and bloody crime at night on the central railroad." that was the heading to the article announcing the assassination of the express messenger. the train on which the deed had been committed, had left chicago at ten in the evening, and at one o'clock, when the train was halted at a station, the deed was discovered. arnold nicholson was found with his skull crushed and his body terribly beaten, while, in the bloody hands of the dead, was clutched a tuft of red hair. this went to show that one of the messenger's assailants was a man with florid locks. leaving nell and mr. elliston together, dyke darrel hastened to the station. he was aware that a train would pass in ten minutes, and he wished to enter chicago and make an examination for himself. the detective's home was on one of the many roads crossing illinois, and entering the garden city--about an hour's ride from the gotham of the west. in less than two hours after reading the notice of the crime on the midnight express. dyke darrel was in chicago. he visited the body of the murdered messenger, and made a brief examination. it was at once evident to darrel, that nicholson had made a desperate fight for life, but that he had been overpowered by a superior force. a reward of ten thousand dollars was already offered for the detection and punishment of the outlaws. "poor arnold!" murmured dyke darrel, as he gazed at the bruised and battered corpse. "i will not rest until the wicked demons who compassed this foul work meet with punishment!" there were still several shreds of hair between the fingers of the dead, when dyke darrel made his examination, since the body had just arrived from the scene of the murder. the detective secured several of the hairs, believing they might help him in his future movements. darrel made one discovery that he did not care to communicate to others; it was a secret that he hoped might lead to results in the future. what the discovery was, will be disclosed in the progress of our story. soon after the body of the murdered a messenger was removed to his home, from which the funeral was to take place. as dyke darrel was passing from the rooms of the undertaker, a hand fell on his shoulder. "you are a detective?" dyke darrel looked into a smooth, boyish face, from which a pair of brown eyes glowed. "what is it you wish?" darrel demanded, bluntly. "i wish to make a confidant of somebody." "well, go on." "first tell me if you are a detective." "you may call me one." "it's about that poor fellow you've just been interviewing," said the young stranger. "i am watson wilkes, and i was on the train, in the next car, when poor nicholson was murdered. i was acting as brakeman at the time. do you wish to hear what i can tell?" chapter ii. dyke darrel's trick. "certainly i do," cried the detective. "come with me, and we will find a place where we can talk without danger of interruption." the two men moved swiftly down the street. at length dyke darrel entered a well-known restaurant on randolph street, secured a private stall, and then bade mr. wilks proceed. both men were seated at a small table. "shan't i order the wine?" "no," answered dyke, with a frown. "we need clear brains for the work in hand. if you know aught of this monstrous crime, tell it at once." "i do know a considerable," said mr. wilks. "i was the first man who discovered arnold nicholson after he'd been shot. the safe was in the very car that i occupied. i saw the men get the swag. there were three of them." "go on." "they all wore mask, so of course i could not tell who they were; but i've an idea that they were from chicago." "why have you such an idea?" "because i saw three suspicious chaps get on at twenty-second street. i think they are the chaps who killed poor arnold, and got away with the money in the safe." "did you recognize them?" "no--that is, i'm not positive; but i think one of 'm was a chap that is called skinny joe, a hard pet, who used to work in a saloon on clark street." "indeed." "yes. it might be well to keep your eye out in that quarter." "it might," admitted dyke darrel. "this is all you know regarding the midnight tragedy?" "oh, no; i can give you more particulars." "let's have them, then." "but see here, how am i to know that you are a detective? i might get sold, you know," replied mr. wilks in a suspicious tone. dyke darrel lifted the lapel of his coat, exposing a silver star. "all right," returned mr. wilks, with a nod. "i'm of the opinion that skinny joe's about the customer you need to look after, captain. i'll go down with you to the fellow's old haunts, and we'll see what we can find." mr. wilks seemed tremendously interested. dyke darrel was naturally suspicious, and he was not ready to swallow everything his companion said as law and gospel. of course the large reward was a stimulant for men to be on the lookout for the midnight train robbers; and mr. wilks' interest must be attributable to this. "you see, i was arnold nicholson's friend, and i'd go a long ways to see the scoundrels get their deserts who killed him, even if there was no reward in the case," explained the brakeman suddenly. "certainly," answered dyke darrel. "i can understand how one employed on the same train could take the deepest interest in such a sad affair." "will you go down on clark street with me?" "not just now." "when?" "i will meet you here this evening, and consult on that point." "very well. better take something." "no; not now." dyke barrel rose to his feet and turned to leave the stall. "don't fail me now, sir." "i will not." the detective walked out. the moment he was gone a change came over the countenance of the young brakeman. the pleasant look vanished, and one dark and wicked took its place. "go, dyke darrel; i am sharp enough to understand you. you distrust me; but you're fooled all the same. it's strange you've forgotten the boy you sent to prison from st. louis five years ago for passing counterfeit coin. i haven't forgotten it; and, what is more, i mean to get even." then, with a grating of even white teeth, watson wilks passed out. at the bar he paused long enough to toss off a glass of brandy, and then he went out upon the street. it was a raw april day, and the air cut like a knife. after glancing up and down the street mr. wilks moved away. on reaching clark street he hurried along that thoroughfare toward the south. arriving in a disreputable neighborhood, he entered the side door of a dingy brick building, and stood in the presence of a woman, who sat mending a pair of old slippers by the light afforded by a narrow window. "madge scarlet, i've found you alone, it seems." "i'm generally alone," said the female, not offering to move. she was past the prime of life, and there were many crow's feet on a face that had once been beautiful. her dress was plain, and not the neatest. the room was small, and there were few articles of furniture on the uncarpeted floor. "madge, where are nick and sam?" "i can't tell you." "haven't they been here to-day?" "no, not in three days." "that seems strange." "it doesn't to me. they are out working the tramp dodge, in the country, or into some worse iniquity, watson. i do wish you would quit such company, and try and behave yourself." at this the young man gave vent to a sarcastic laugh. "now, aunt madge, what an idea! do you suppose your dear nephew could do anything wrong? aren't i a pattern of perfection?" watson wilks drew himself up and looked as solemn as an owl. this did not serve to bring a pleased expression to the woman's face, however. as she said nothing, the young man proceeded: "i'm working on the railroad now, madge, and haven't turned a dishonest penny in a long time. of course you heard of the robbery of the midnight express down in the central part of the state last night? some of the morning papers have an account of it." "i hadn't heard." "well, then, i will tell you about it;" and mr. wilks gave a brief account of the terrible tragedy that had shocked the land. "it's a regular jesse james affair, and there's a big reward offered for the outlaws." the woman seemed interested then, and looked hard at her nephew. "watson, i hope you know nothing of this work?" "of course i know something of it," he answered quickly. "i returned in charge of the dead body of the messenger. i was in the next car when he was killed, and one of the robbers put his pistol to my head and threatened to blow my brains out if i said or did anything. you can just bet i kept mighty still." "i should think so. this'll make a tremendous stir," returned the woman. "the country'll be full of man-trackers and it'll go hard with the outlaws if they're captured." "you bet; but they won't be captured." "you are confident?" "i've a right to be. i---" then the young man ceased to speak suddenly, and his face became deeply suffused. the woman sprang up then and went to the young man's side, laying her hand on his shoulder. "watson, tell me truly that you don't know who committed this crime." "bother!" and he flung her hand from his shoulder with an impatient movement. "i hope you ain't going to turn good all to once, madge scarlet. i tell you, thirty thousand dollars ain't to be sneezed at, and i do need money--but of course _i_ don't know a thing about who did it, of course not; but i can tell you one thing, old lady, dyke barrel is on the trail, and he is even now in chicago." "dyke darrel!" "that's who, madam." for some moments a silence fell over the two that was absolutely painful. at length the woman found her voice. "dyke barrel! ah! fiend of missouri, i have good cause to remember you and your work. do you know, watson, the fate of your poor uncle?" "well, i should smile if i didn't," answered the young man. "he died in a missouri dungeon, sent there by this same dyke darrel, the railroad man-tracker. hate him? of course you do, but not as i do. i have sworn to have revenge for the five years i laid in a dungeon for shoving the queer." "and dyke darrel is now in chicago?" "yes. i parted from him not an hour since." "what is he here for?" "the crime on the midnight express brings him here." "and you saw and talked with him?" "i did." "he recognized you of course?" "no, he did not; that is the best of it. i am to meet him again to-night. it won't be long before the man who sent uncle dan to a missouri dungeon is in your presence, and you shall do with him as you like, madge scarlet." "as i like?" "i have said it." "then dyke darrel shall die!" "that's the talk," madge. "that sounds like your old self; i am glad you have come to your senses. if nick and sam come in, tell them to be in readiness to receive a visitor." then the young man turned on his heel and abruptly left the room. just as the shades of night were falling watson wilks peered into the saloon and restaurant where he had parted from dyke darrel earlier in the day. he saw nothing of the detective. "it is time he was here," muttered the young man. "dyke darrel is generally prompt in filling engagements." "always prompt, martin skidway!" the young villain staggered back against the iron railing near, as though stricken a blow in the face. unconsciously he had uttered his thoughts aloud, and the voice that uttered the reply was hissed almost in his ear. dyke darrel stood before him. the detective's face wore a stern look, which was suddenly discarded for a smile. "i am prompt in filling engagements," said darrel, after a moment. "you see i have at last recognized you, and the walls of the prison from which you escaped shall again envelop you." and then a sharp click was heard. the fraudulent brakeman held up his arms helplessly--they were safely secured with handcuffs! chapter iii. professor darlington ruggles. it would be hard to find a more completely astounded person than the one calling himself watson wilks at that moment. the noted detective had outwitted him completely. it was humiliating, to say the least. "this is an outrage!" at length the young villain found voice to utter. "i will call on the police for assistance if you do not at once remove these bracelets." "do so if you like," answered dyke darrel, coolly; so icily in fact as to deter the young man from carrying out his threat. it might be that the detective would delight in turning him over to the chicago police, a consummation that the fellow dreaded more than aught else. "come with me, and make no trouble. you will do so, if you know when you are well off," said dyke darrel significantly. and wilks walked along peacefully, allowing the sleeves of his coat to hide the handcuffs. after going a few blocks, the detective hailed a hack, and pushing his prisoner before him, entered and ordered the driver to make all speed for the union depot. "what does this mean?" demanded the prisoner, with assumed indignation. "it means that you will take a trip south for your health, my friend." "to st. louis?" "you have guessed it, skidway." a troubled look touched the face of the escaped prisoner. "why do you call me by that name, dyke darrel?" "because that is your name. you have five years unexpired term yet to serve in the missouri penitentiary, and i conceive it my duty to see that you keep the contract." "a contract necessarily requires two parties. i never agreed to serve the state." "well, we won't argue the point." "but i am in the employ of the railroad company, and will lose my place---" "you gain another one, so it doesn't matter," retorted the detective. "no use making a fuss, mr. skidway; you cannot evade the punishment which awaits you. any confession you choose to make i am willing to hear. the late tragedy, for instance?" "you'll get nothing out of me." "i am sorry," "of course you are. did you recognize me when we first met?" "no. it was an afterthought." "i thought so. you shall suffer for this. you've got the wrong man, mr. darrel." "you seem to know me." "everybody does." "you flatter me." "my name isn't skidway, but wilks, and i can prove it." "do so." "release me and i will." "i'm not that green." the prisoner muttered angrily. he realized that he was fairly caught, and that it was too late now to think of deceiving the famous detective. dyke darrel had recognized in the young man calling himself watson wilks an old offender, who had made his escape from the missouri state prison three months before, and he at once surmised that the young counterfeiter, who was a hard case, might have had a hand in the murder and robbery of the express messenger. reasoning thus, the detective decided upon promptly arresting the fellow before proceeding to search further. it would be safer to have skidway in prison than at large in any event. more than one pair of eyes had watched the departure of dyke darrel and his prisoner from chicago, and a little later a bearded man, with deep-set, twinkling eyes, and the general look of a hard pet, thrust his head into madge scarlet's little room, and said: "it are all up with the kid, mrs. scarlet." "what's that you say?" the woman came to her feet and confronted the new-comer with an interested look. "it's all up with the kid." "come in, nick brower, and let me have a look at your face. i want no lies now," cried the woman sharply; and the man drew himself into a little room, and stood regarding the female with a grin. "now let me hear what you've got to tell," demanded mrs. scarlet. "it's ther kid--" "watson?" "yesum." "well, what has happened to him, man? can't you speak?" "he's took." "took?" "nabbed. got the darbies on and gone south a wisitin'." "do you mean to say that watson has been arrested?" "i do, mam," grunted brower. "he's well out of town, goin' south, and i reckin he'll be in jeffe'son city before we hear from him agin. i seed him a-goin' with my own eyes." "how did it happen?" the man explained how young skidway had been seized and taken on board the train by dyke darrel. "you are sure his captor was dyke darrel?" "i ain't blind, i reckon," growled the man. "i heard sufficient to tell me that the detective was takin' the kid back to missoury, and that was enough for me." "why did you permit it?" a laugh answered the woman. "you might have saved the boy," pursued mrs. scarlet, angrily. "now he will spend another five years in the dungeon where my poor man died of a broken heart. watson told me that the infamous dyke darrel was in chicago; but i had no thought of his recognizing the boy. can you lend me some money, nick?" "a purty question, madge. don't you know i'm always dead-broke?" growled brower. "what in the nation do you want with money any how?" "i'm going to st. louis." "no?" "i am. if dyke darrel puts my boy behind prison bars again, i will have no mercy. it's life for life. i am tired of living, and am willing to die to revenge myself on that miserable detective." mrs. scarlet began pacing the room. she was deeply moved, and tears of anger and sorrow glittered in her eyes. she was about to utter a fierce tirade against the detective, when a step sounded without, followed immediately by three raps on the door. "whist!" exclaimed brower. "it is the professor." madge scarlet crossed the floor and admitted a visitor, a tall man with fire-red hair and beard, who was well clad and wore blue glasses. a plug hat, rather the worse for wear, was lifted and caressed tenderly with one arm as the gentleman bowed before mrs. scarlet. "i am pleased to find you at home, mrs. scarlet." "i seldom go out, mr. ruggles, or professor darlington ruggles, i suppose." "never mind the handle, madam. i see you have company." the professor turned a keen glance on nick brower as he spoke. chapter iv. scalped. "the gentleman is a friend," said mrs. scarlet. "you need not fear to speak before him." "i hain't no wish to hear any private talk," said nick brower, and with that he cast a keen, knowing look into the visitor's face, and passed from the room. "we're alone, professor." "so it seems." "what news do you bring?" "have you heard of the midnight express robbery?" "i have." "and that dyke darrel is on the trail?" "i have heard all that, and more," said the woman. "my nephew has been arrested and taken to missouri by this same infamous dyke darrel. it was an awful blow to me; it leaves me entirely alone in the world. i am ready to do anything to compass the ruin of the detective who brought me to this." "i am glad to hear you say it, madam. i came here for advice and help. i assure you that it is highly necessary for all of us that dyke darrel be removed." "well?" "he might be enticed here, and quietly disposed of." "will you entice him?" "i might; but---" "well?" as the man hesitated. "you see, i've got a place to fill in the world, and don't want to mix with anything that's unlawful," and the professor stroked his red beard in a solemn manner. "yet you would be glad to see dyke darrel dead?" "hush, woman! walls have ears. you are imprudent. i have nothing against mr. darrel in particular, only he has injured my friends, and may be up to more of his tricks. now, as regards watson wilks, you say dyke darrel has gone to missouri with the boy in charge?" "yes. the last friend i had in the world has been torn from me, to languish in prison. i will have the detective's heart's blood for this," cried the woman, with passionate vehemence. "of course," agreed the professor. "but of what crime was the young man accused? not the one on the midnight express, i hope?" the tall visitor bent eagerly forward then, and penetrated the woman with a keen gaze. "no, no," was the quick reply. "i know that martin had no hand in that." "martin?" "watson, i mean," corrected mrs. scarlet. "i sometimes call the boy martin, which is his middle name, so he has a right to it." "exactly. you know that the boy had nothing to do with the robbery last night. i don't wish to argue or dispute with a lady, but i shall be compelled to question how you know so much. will you answer?" "because--because martin is incapable of such work. i have read all about it in the papers, and am confident that it was the work of an organized band." the professor laughed until his white teeth gleamed in the lamplight. "so sure!" he said. "you consider that nephew of yours a pattern of propriety. is this the only reason you have for believing that watson wilks had no hand in the murder of arnold nicholson, and the rifling of the express company's safe?" "i have another!" "well?" "he was in chicago at the time the deed was done." "can you prove this?" professor ruggles seemed extremely eager, as he bent forward and touched the arm of madge scarlet with a white forefinger. "i can prove it." "very good. it may never be necessary, but if the worst comes, you may be called on. i suppose you're not in the best of circumstances, mrs. scarlet?" the professor drew forth his wallet. "i shall suffer, now that my boy is gone." "don't fear that, madam," returned darlington ruggles, as he laid a bank note for a large amount in her hand. "providence and your friends will take care of you. you have rendered me more than one good service, and i may call on you for more, soon, much sooner than you imagine." "anything i can do, professor, will be gladly performed;" was the woman's answer, as she clutched the bank note eagerly, and thrust it from sight. then professor ruggles turned to the door. here he paused and faced the woman once more. "madge, what charge was your nephew arrested under?" "an old one." "that is not an answer," and the man frowned. "the charge is for uttering counterfeit coin. i believe the boy was innocent, but there was money on the other side, and martin was sent up for ten years; my husband for fifteen. my man died of a broken heart, being innocent, and martin served five years and then escaped." "i understand. i don't think the boy will ever serve out his time." "i hope he may not, but---" "keep a stout heart, mrs. scarlet. influences are at work to free the boy. it will not do to permit him to languish in prison. i tell you providence is on your side." then mr. darlington ruggles passed from the room. "strange man," muttered the woman, after he had gone. "he is a mystery. sometimes i imagine he is not what he seems, but a detective. i hope i have given nothing away, for i find it won't do to trust anybody these days." in the meantime professor darlington ruggles made his way to another part of the city, not far from the river, and met a man in a dingy basement room at the rear of a low doggery. strange place for a learned professor, was it not? "you've kept me waiting awhile, boss." the speaker was the man we have seen at madge scarlet's--nick brower by name. "i couldn't get away sooner," returned the professor. "how does the land lay, nat?" "in an ugly quarter." "i feared so myself. the young chap that dyke darrel took to missouri knows enough to hang you---" "and you, too, pard; don't forget that," retorted the grizzled villain grimly. "i forget nothing," said mr. ruggles, giving his plug hat a rub across his left arm. "it isn't pleasant, to say the least, having matters turn out in this way. i wish to see you in regard to this dyke darrel." "i'm all ears, pard." "he must never see chicago again." "wal?" "i want you to see to it, nick." "i don't know about that," muttered the grosser villain. "i've shed 'bout enough blood, i reckin." "it is for your own safety that i speak, nick. no trace of that last work can ever reach me." "don't be too sure, darl ruggles. with dyke darrel on the trail, there's no knowing where it'll end. he's unearthed some o' the darkest work ever did in chicago an' st. louis. i would breathe a durn sight more comfortable like if dyke darrel was under the sod." "so would others." "yourself, fur instance." "i won't deny it, nick. i don't feel very comfortable with the young detective free. between you and me, nick, i believe we can make this the last trail dyke darrel ever follows. a thousand dollars to the man who takes the detective's scalp. that is worth winning, nick." "put 'er thar, pard." nick brower held out his huge hand and clasped the small white one of the professor. "i'll win that thousan' or go beggin' the rest o' my days, darl ruggles." "i hope you may. you'd best take the next train for the southwest. i won't be far behind." and then the two separated. a little later professor darlington ruggles stood on the dock overlooking the river and the shipping. although yet early in the season the big lake was open, and several vessels laden with lumber had entered the river from various ports on the eastern shore during the day. a tug lay on the further side, and a schooner with bare spars loomed up in the moonlight. "this open sewer has witnessed more thar one crime," mused the professor. "i would like it if that infernal dyke darrel was at the bottom of the river. he has taken into his head to hunt down the men who killed arnold nicholson, and if there's a man east of the mississippi who can ferret out this crime, dyke darrel is the one. but i don't mean to permit him to do anything of the kind if i know myself. it's a fight between the detective and as sharp a man as any detective that ever lived. i imagine--hello! who is this?" the last exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance of a dark form coming up over the dock as if from the water. a moment later a man paused within six feet of professor ruggles, and penetrated him with a pair of glittering eyes. "what do you want?" it was the professor who uttered the word, at the same time receding a step or two, for the stranger's glance startled him considerably. "who are you?" demanded the stranger, shortly. "it does not concern you." "don't it? we'll see about that." an arm shot forward. the professor's plug fell to the ground, and the next instant a red wig was swung aloft in the moonlight. "ha! i thought so. you are the man i seek--" the speaker's words were cut off suddenly. chapter v. elliston's rebuff. a mad cry fell from the lips of the professor when he felt himself unceremoniously scalped. the next instant his right hand drew forth a gleaming knife. "oh! ah! murder!" a dark form went backward over the dock; a splash followed, and the professor stood alone. he peered into the muddy water to note the fact that it flowed on calmly as before. then ruggles picked up his hat and wig, and readjusted them on his head. "my soul! that was a narrow escape." at this moment another form was seen approaching, and the professor, deeming it prudent to move away, was soon striding from the spot, his tall form disappearing in the shadows before the third person reached the edge of the dock. * * * * * on the day following the events last narrated, a man ran up the steps at the darrel cottage in woodburg, and rang the bell. nell answered, and met the gentlemanly mr. elliston. she led the way at once to a room opening from the hall, where preparations had been made for a lunch. "where is dyke?" questioned the gentleman the moment he was seated. "i haven't seen him since he left for chicago to look into the express robbery," returned nell. "haven't you met him?" "no. strange he did not write if he meant to be gone long," remarked elliston. "you were about to dine, i see." "yes; will you keep me company?" "with pleasure." "i thought dyke would be with me ere this," proceeded nell, as they discussed the edibles. "when he goes for a long stay she usually drops me a line." after the lunch, mr. elliston left his chair and crossed the room to glance from the window, at the same time plucking at his short beard in an apparently nervous manner. nell was on the point of removing the ware from the table, when mr. elliston turned suddenly, and resumed his seat at the table. "sit down, nell, i wish a word with you." the girl sank once more into a chair, wondering what was coming. laying both hands on her shoulders, harper elliston looked her in the eyes and said: "you must have guessed the object of my visit to-day, nellie darrel." she blushed under his gaze, and looked away nervously. "n--oo, i can't say that i do. i suppose you came to see my brother." "not so. it is you i wished to see, nell. why have i come here so often? i know you must have guessed before this. i love you, dear girl, and want you to be mine--" he could say no more then, for nell darrel started sharply to her feet, pressing her hands to her burning face. "no, no, not that." she murmured. "i never suspected that, mr. elliston." "but listen to me, nell," he pleaded, reaching up and attempting to draw her hands aside. "i can give you a handsome home in new york. if you will be my wife, i will return there at once." she tore herself from his hands, and her confusion vanished, a feeling of indignation taking its place. "mr. elliston, i tell you i do not love you, and never can. i was never more surprised in my life than now. you are old enough to be my father, sir." he came to his feet also, and leaned with his hands clinching the top of a chair. there was a frown on his brow and a glitter in his black eyes unpleasant to see. "must i call you coquette?" he said, in an undertone of concentrated feeling. "you certainly have encouraged me." "never, sir," was the indignant response. "then our paths must lie apart hereafter, i suppose, miss darrel?" "that is as you shall determine," she answered. "as my brother's friend, i have tolerated you, and can do so in the future." "ah! it was only toleration then. i did not think this of you, nell darrel. do you know that many of the wealthiest, most beautiful maidens of gotham would jump at the offer you have just spurned so lightly?" "i will not deny it." "i could have long ago taken a partner to share my life in my elegant home on fifth avenue, but do you know the reason of my not doing so? i can tell you. i had not seen a girl to my taste. until i came west i believed i should never marry. from the moment of meeting you, however, i changed my mind. to see was to love, and--" "please cease, mr. elliston," pleaded nell darrel, putting out her hand deprecatingly. "this is a most painful subject to me." "very well." with a sigh he crossed the floor and stood by the window once more. he seemed struggling to keep down his emotions. at that moment the detective's sister pitied the man, and felt really sorry that she had unintentionally been the means of making him miserable. "mr. elliston, please do not feel so badly. i respect you, and hope we may ever be friends." she approached him and held out her hand. he turned and regarded her with a queer glow in his eyes. "i accept your proffer of continued friendship," he said with a forced smile. "it is better so than open war between us." "it would avail nothing to make war on a friend," she said simply. "i respect you very highly, mr. elliston, and as dyke's friend, shall always hope to retain your good opinion." "whatever may happen, you will have that," he returned. soon after the gentleman departed. the moment he was gone nell darrel sank to a chair, and, bowing her head on the table, began to cry. strange proceeding, was it not, after what had taken place? women are enigmas that man, after ages of study, has been unable to solve. another face came before the girl's mind at that moment, the face of one to whom her heart had been given in the past, and who, for some unaccountable reason, had failed to put in an appearance or write during the past six months. "if harry were only here," murmured the girl, as she raised her head and wiped the tears from her pretty eyes. "i know something has happened to him--something terrible." at this moment aunt jule, the colored housekeeper, the only other resident of the cottage, aside from nell barrel and her brother, entered the room, and her appearance at once put an end to nell's weeping. "marse elliston done gone. what did he want, honey?" "to see dyke," answered nell, with a slight twinge at uttering such a monstrous falsehood. "marse dyke don't come yet. 'deed but he's full of business dese times. marse dyke a great man, honey." if the old negress noticed traces of tears on the face of her young mistress, she was sharp enough to keep the discovery to herself. in the meantime, mr. elliston made his way to the principal hotel in the little city and sought his room. he was a regular boarder, but, like other men of leisure, he was not regular at meals or room. nevertheless, he paid his board promptly, and that was the desideratum with the landlord. the man's teeth gleamed above his short, gray-streaked beard, as he sat down and meditated on the situation. "so, i can be her friend still. well, that is something. i don't mean to give up so. dark clouds are gathering over your life, nell darrel, and when the blackest shadow of the storm bends above and howls about you, in that hour you may conclude that even an elderly gentleman like myself will do." again the man's teeth gleamed and the black eyes glittered. "i have set my heart on winning that girl. a mock marriage will do as well as anything, and such beauty and freshness will bring money in new york." harper elliston remained in his room until a late lour. after the shades of evening fell he left the room and hotel with a small grip in his hand. he turned his steps in the direction of the railway station. arrived at the depot, he purchased a ticket for st. louis. then he sauntered outside and stood leaning against the depot in a shaded spot. it would be five minutes only until the departure of the train. there were troubled thoughts in the brain of harper elliston that night. a touch on his hand caused him to start. at thin fold of paper was passed into his palm. turning quickly, elliston saw a shadowy form disappear in the gloom. "confound it, who are you?" growled the tall man, angrily. then, remembering the paper, he went to a light, and opening it, held it up to his gaze. "harper elliston: go slow in your plot against nell darrel. she has a friend who will see that her enemies are punished. beware! the volcano on which you tread is about to burst." no name was signed to the paper. at this moment the express came thundering in; the conductor's "all aboard" sounded, and, crunching the paper in his hands, elliston had hardly time to spring on board ere the train went rushing away into the darkness. chapter vi. dyke darrel's danger. martin skidway was an old offender, and through the efforts of dyke darrel he and his uncle had been detected in crime and sent to the missouri state prison for a term of years. it was a mere accident that the detective came upon the escaped young counterfeiter, or rather it was through the young villain's own foolhardiness that he was again in durance vile. "i will not serve my time out, you can bet high on that," asserted the young prisoner in a confident tone. dyke darrel more than half suspected that the young counterfeiter knew something of the late crime on the midnight express, and during the ride to st. louis he did all that he could to worm a confession from the prisoner. "it is possible that you may get your freedom at an early day," said the detective. "i have heard of men turning state's evidence, and profiting by it." "i suppose so." "i would advise you to think on this, martin skidway." "why should i think on it? do you think i'm a fool, dyke darrel?" "not quite," and the detective smiled. "i know you have been pretty sharp, young man, but not keen enough to escape punishment. you have five years yet to serve, at the end of which time you may be arrested and hung for another crime." "you are giving me wind now." "i am not. a terrible crime was committed four and twenty hours since, and on this road; a midnight crime that the whole country will work to punish. it will we impossible for the express robbers to escape." "you are a braggart!" "i do not say that _i_ will be the one to bring these villains to justice, but i do say that justice will be done, and i expect to see the murderers of arnold nicholson hung." the keen eyes of dyke darrel fixed themselves on the face of his prisoner, with a penetrating sharpness that fairly made the fellow squirm in his seat. on more than one occasion had the railroad detective brought confession from the lips of guilt, through the magnetism of his terrible glance. he tried his powers on the man at his side, and found him yielding to the pressure, when skidway suddenly turned his face to the window, and refused to encounter the gaze of his captor. by this means he was able to defy the magnetic powers of the detective. "martin skidway, you may as well admit that you know something of this latest villainy. even if you were not connected with it, you know who was?" the prisoner remained silent. dyke darrel proceeded: "you said that you were a brakeman on the train on which poor nicholson found his death. was that the truth?" "it was." "it is now for your own good that you make confession, martin skidway!" "i've nothing to confess." "be careful!" "you can't scare me into telling a lie," said the prisoner, with an assumption of bravado that he did not feel. "i don't know anything about the express robbers, only what i've told you; you can make the most of that." "i mean to do so," assured dyke darrel. "i shall not leave the trail until the perpetrators of that crime are secured and punished. in that day you may wish that you had not been so obstinate." "i have told all i know." "i hope you have!" "you believe i am lying, dyke darrel?" "it doesn't matter what i believe," retorted the detective. "of course, you are not of the sort who believe in telling facts when a falsehood will serve you better. i did not expect anything different." arrived at the southwestern metropolis, dyke darrel turned his prisoner over to the proper officers, warning them of the dangerous nature of young skidway, and then he turned his thoughts and feet in another channel. dyke darrel went to the office of the railroad company on whose road the midnight crime had been committed, and consulted with one of the officers in regard to the same. "it is a terrible affair," said mr. holden, the officer in question. "i telegraphed our folks in chicago to employ detectives in that city, and expect to have the best talent in the country look into this." "of course. any clew discovered?" "none." "i believe the villains covered their tracks well," said dyke darrel. "the express messenger who was murdered was a personal friend." "your friend?" "yes; one i had known for years, which explains my interest in the case. i suppose i have your good wishes in hunting down the outlaws?" "well, of course; but it is a task that may tax the coolness and ingenuity of skilled detectives. amateurs have no place on this case, i assure you." "admitted," returned the young detective, with a smile. "you have heard of dyke darrel?" "i should think i had. he is the best detective in the west, now that pinkerton is gone; he was a trusted friend of allan pinkerton, too." "he was." "i've telegraphed for our people to see about employing dyke darrel. i shan't be content without." again a smile swept the face of the young detective. "it seems that you never met dyke darrel, mr. holden." "never; but---" "you see him now at any rate." "what?" "_i_ am dyke darrel." "you?" "the same." "dyke darrel, the railroad detective; the fellow who captured the brute crogan, and broke up the counterfeiters' nest near iron mountain; the man who has sent more criminals over the road than any other detective in the wide west--you?" "the same, at your service," and darrel bowed and smiled again. "well, i am astonished." nevertheless the incredulous railway official seemed pleased at the last, and shook the young detective warmly by the hand. "i am glad to meet you, mr. darrel, and hope we can induce you to take up this case. a great many suspects have been reported, but i take stock in none of them. i trust the whole affair (the management of it, i mean) to you. will you go into it, mr. darrel?" "certainly." some time longer the detective and official talked, and the lamps in the streets were lit when dyke darrel left the presence of mr. holden, and turned his steps toward a hotel. "i must send a line to nell," mused the detective, as he moved along. "i shall remain a short time in st. louis, as i may pick up some points here that will be of use to me. i am of the opinion that either this city or chicago holds the perpetrators of this latest railroad crime." the detective did not see the shadowy form flitting along not far behind. a man had shadowed the detective since his departure from the railway office. dyke darrel, in order to make a short cut, had entered a narrow street, where the lights were few and the buildings dingy and of a mean order. moving on, deeply wrapped in thought, the detective permitted his "shadow" to steal upon him, and just as dyke darrel came opposite a narrow alley, the shadow sprang forward and dealt him a stunning blow on the head. the detective reeled, but did not fall. partially stunned, he turned upon his assailant, only to meet the gleam of cold steel as a knife descended into his bosom! chapter vii. what a handkerchief revealed. dyke darrel was so dazed from the blow he had received as to be unable to ward off the dirk that was thrust at his bosom by the vile assassin, and had not a third party appeared on the scene at this critical moment the story we are now writing would never have been told. a kind providence had on more than one occasion favored the daring railroad detective. before the point of the knife touched the breast of dyke darrel, a swift-flying object sent the deadly weapon out into the middle of the street. the next instant a man bounded from the shadow of a building upon the would-be assassin. there was a short struggle, when the last comer found, that instead of the detective's assailant, he held a coat in his hands. the villain had made good his escape. "confound you!" greeted the new comer. "who was it?" "i saw him following you, sir, and made up my mind that some villainy was in the wind. i do not know who the villain was. are you hurt?" "not in the least." then the two men walked on until a lamp-post was gained. here the features of each were plainly revealed. a low exclamation fell from the lips of dyke darrel. "good thunder, harry bernard! how are you? where in the world did you spring from?" the detective grasped and wrung the man's hand warmly--a rather slender young fellow, with brown hair and eyes, a mustache being the only sign of beard on his face. "one question at a time, dyke," returned the young man with a laugh. "i mistrusted it was you all the time. it strikes me that you are becoming careless in your old age. hope you're not in love--that makes a fool of a man sometimes?" "does it? no, i'm not in any such predicament; fact is, i am wedded to my profession and shall never marry. but, harry, you haven't answered my questions yet." "you asked me how i get on; i can answer that by saying that i was never better in my life. i have been across the plains, among cowboys and indians, and it's given me strong muscles and good health. i arrived in st. louis this morning. it was the merest chance that placed me in a position to do you a service, dyke. as i said before, it seems to me that you are getting careless. just imagine what the result would have been had i not put in an appearance. i have the fellow's coat to show for the adventure." "true enough. i admit that i was careless," returned the detective, "and my adventure will serve to put me on my guard hereafter. come with me to my room, harry, and we will talk over matters in general. i must take the midnight express north, and may not see you again soon, unless you conclude to go on with me." "i shall remain in st. louis for the present," returned young bernard. he went with his friend to the hotel, however, and soon the two were in the privacy of dyke darrel's room. "now, then, let us look at that coat." harry bernard laid the garment down on the bed, and darrel began a close examination of the same. it was an ordinary sack coat, with two inside pockets. the detective was not long in going through the pockets. "ah!" the ejaculation was significant. it fell from the lips of dyke darrel, the detective. "now what?" questioned bernard. "look at that." dyke darrel held aloft a handkerchief that had once been white, but which was now dingy with dirt. but this was not the only discoloration. there was a stain on the square bit of linen that was significant. "what is it?" "blood!" answered dyke darrel. then the detective made a close examination, and made still another discovery--a name in one corner of the rumpled handkerchief. the keen eyes of the detective gleamed with a satisfied light. "what have you discovered, dyke?" "a clew." "to what?" "to the most infamous crime of the century. this handkerchief has the name of its owner stamped plainly in the corner." "well?" "arnold nicholson." "what?" "that is the name on this bit of linen, which shows that it was once the property of the murdered express messenger. of course you have heard of the crime on the central?" "yes. it gave me a shock, too. arnold was a good fellow." harry bernard's face wore a serious look as he took the blood-stained handkerchief from the hand of the detective, and examined it with mournful interest. "it must be that you were assaulted by one of the train robbers, dyke," said the youth, as he returned the relic of that midnight crime. "i imagine so. the scoundrels have discovered that i am on the trail, and they mean to put me out on the first base, if possible. did you see the man's face who assaulted me, harry?" "imperfectly. i know, however, that he had red hair." "ah!" "you suspected as much?" "yes. in the dead man's fingers was a bit of red hair. it seems conclusive that the villain who assaulted me to-night was the one who engaged in the death struggle with poor nicholson. the trail is becoming plain, and before the national holiday rolls round i hope to have the perpetrator of this crime behind prison bars." "i hope you are not over-sanguine, dyke." "i have ever been successful." "how about the osborne case?" "ah, yes; but that isn't off yet. i expect that the murderers of the old captain will come to light about the time the railway criminals are brought to justice." "indeed." "there are several hands engaged in these bloody crimes, and when i do make a haul, it will be a wholesale one." "i should think you would need help in a work of this kind." "i do." "can i be of any service? you may command me, dyke." "thanks. you were of inestimable service to-night, and i believe you can do more. it would please me to have you remain in this city and keep an eye out, while i go up the road to the spot where the crime was committed." "you know the place?" "certainly. it was near black hollow, a wild spot, where the woods along the creek afforded chance for hiding. some of the rascals are yet in that vicinity, i believe. the one who assaulted me to-night may not remain in the city long. you will do as i wish?" "certainly; glad to do it, dyke." "that settles one point, then. if i need any more help i know where i can find it." "where?" "elliston. he is something of a detective, you know." harry bernard frowned at mention of that name. the pleasant look vanished from his face, and he relapsed into silence. holding up the handkerchief, dyke darrel said: "this was used by the assassin to wipe his bloody hands after the murder. he was a fool to keep the tell-tale linen by him; but these fellows are always leaving some loophole open. i have made one discovery that may have escaped your notice, harry." "what is that?" "look." laying the bloody handkerchief over the young man's knee, dyke darrel pointed to a spot near the center, where the imprint of fingers was plainly visible. "you see that?" "certainly; the marks of human fingers, but i can't see that you will be able to make anything out of that, so many hands are alike, you know." then harry laid his own hand against the spot stained with blood. "my hand fits exactly." the eyes of dyke darrel began to dilate. his usually immobile features began to twitch, and a deadly pallor overspread all. what was it that had caught the eye of dyke darrel, to cause such terrible emotion? he had indeed made a discovery. a close examination of the finger-marks showed a white circle, centered with a ragged dot of blood near the knuckle; this had undoubtedly been caused by a wart on the hand of the assassin. it was this fact that had attracted and interested dyke darrel, and what he intended showing his friend harry bernard. the moment harry laid his hand against the print on the handkerchief the detective made a startling discovery. not only did the hand of harry bernard fit the bloody stain exactly, but a large wart near the knuckle of the little finger fell exactly against the spot that dotted the center of the white circle. a feeling of unutterable horror filled the mind of dyke darrel at that moment. harry bernard had been his friend for years, and he had always found him upright and true. but what meant this horrible revelation of the handkerchief? could it be possible that another had the same-sized hand and a wart near the knuckle of the little finger? it was not likely. dyke darrel came to his feet, with cold perspiration oozing out upon his brow. before him sat harry bernard, smiling gently, and yet he had a devil in his heart--the devil of assassination! chapter viii. a plunge to death. for some moments neither man spoke. harry bernard noticed that his friend was deeply moved, and he seemed to wonder at the cause. at length he said: "dyke, what is it?" "nothing, only---" "well, speak out," as the detective hesitated. "it is strange that your hand should so exactly fit the marks on the handkerchief, harry." "well, yes," admitted the youth; "i hope you didn't imagine, however, that _i_ had a hand in this railway robbery and murder?" at the last harry bernard laughed lightly. dyke darrel did not seem to relish the young fellow's lightness, and only frowned. "this is not a laughing matter, harry bernard," said the detective, sternly. "well i should say not. if you have a serious thought that i could do such a deed, dyke, place me under arrest at once." there was an expression of rebuke on the face of bernard as he uttered the last words. he did not look like a criminal, that was certain, and after a moment dyke darrel felt ashamed of his suspicions. "never mind, harry, i could not help feeling shocked. let it pass; i will not wrong you by suspicion. but you will admit that it was a strange thing, your hand fitting so perfectly." "not at all. put your own hand here," returned bernard. dyke darrel did so, but it was not so near a fit as harry's. it was not the size of the hand, but the imprint of the wart that had so startled the detective. harry had not discovered the true cause of his friend's excitement, and the detective concluded to say nothing about it then. time was flying. the midnight express would soon leave the city. "i cannot remain with you longer," said dyke darrel, at length. "i shall leave the case at this end of the route in your hands, harry, and if at any time you wish to communicate with me, address me at woodburg." "all right. what shall we do with this?" harry indicated the coat that still lay on the bed. "you may retain that, but i will keep the handkerchief. both may be of use in the future." soon after the two men separated. dyke darrel went at once to the depot, and soon after nine that evening he was speeding northward at the rate of forty miles an hour. at the first stop outside of the city three passengers boarded the train. one was a short, thick-set man, with beard and hair of a dark color; the others were women. the man entered the smoking car and thrust himself into an unoccupied seat, and glanced keenly about him. the man had no ticket, but paid the conductor to a station a hundred miles from the city. while sitting with his back to the aisle, a touch on the shoulder roused him. "eh, it's you, ruggles?" "ahem--seat occupied?" "no." the man we have met on a previous occasion, professor darlington ruggles, settled himself beside the late comer. "ahem--fine evening." a grunt answered the professor's attempt to be sociable. at length, after casting a keen glance about the car, to find that but few passengers were present, and those of but little consequence, professor ruggles said: "he's in the next car." "yes. i'd like to get my clutches onto him agin." "you had him once?" "yes, but he had help, and escaped. do you imagine he's on the trail?" "certainly," answered professor ruggles. "then he'll get off to-night." "i hope so; but you must be cautious." "trust me for that." "have you formulated a plan?" "none." "then let me help you." "i'll be glad to do so." "if we can get the fellow onto the platform the work will be easy. you understand, sam?" "i reckon." "once he goes over nothing can save him." "true, but how will we git the cuss outside?" "easy's preaching. i'll go and introduce myself and get him to wait this car to try an excellent brand of cigars--see?" and the professor chuckled audibly. "i expect it's easier said than done," returned the thickset villain. "twixt you 'n me, ruggles, dyke darrel's cut his eye teeth, an' he don't walk into no traps with his eyes open, i can tell you that." "well, we'll see about it. i flatter myself that i'm sharper than any detective that ever lived." then, adjusting his glasses, the sunset-haired professor left his seat and walked down the aisle to the door. he came hurrying back with an interested, perhaps anxious look on his countenance. "now's your time, sam," whispered professor ruggles; "the fellow's on the platform smoking!" this was fully two hours after the thickset man first stepped upon the train. he at once came to his feet, and sauntered in a careless manner to the door. the night was not dark, and the man could plainly see a dark form leaning against the end of the opposite car, a bright red gleam showing the end of his cigar. it was indeed dyke darrel, who had come out upon the platform to cool his heated brow and reflect on the situation, while he smoked a cigar for its soothing influence. he could not drive the thought of harry bernard and the train robbery from his mind. he remembered that the young man had left woodburg suddenly the fall before, and nothing had been seen or heard from him by his friends since, until dyke's meeting him so strangely in st. louis. it was barely possible that the assault and the rescue by young bernard were part of a deep-laid plot. dyke darrel possessed a suspicious mind, and he could not reconcile appearances with the innocence of young harry bernard. deeply meditating, the detective scarcely noticed the opening of the car door opposite his position. his gaze, however, soon met the form of a man as he stepped across the narrow opening between the coaches. the detective was instantly on the alert. he was not to be caught napping, as he had been once before that night. the moment the stranger passed to his platform, dyke darrel faced him with a drawn revolver in his hand. "mr., i want a word with you." thus uttered the thick-set passenger, and then dyke darrel recognized the man who had boarded the train at the first station outside of st. louis. "what is it you want?" demanded the detective shortly. "this!" with the word, the man lunged forward. divining his movement, dyke darrel sank suddenly to the steps, and his assailant plunged headlong from the train! chapter ix. words that startle. it seemed a terrible plunge into eternity. not for one moment did the detective lose his presence of mind, however. straightening, he reached up and grasped the bell-cord. ere many seconds the train came to a stop. "man on the track," said dyke darrel when the conductor came hurrying to see what was the trouble. lanterns were at once brought into requisition, and men went back to look for the body of the detective's assailant. no one imagined that he could possibly plunge from the speeding train and escape death. dyke darrel moved along confidently expecting to look upon the bruised corpse of the outlaw who had attempted his destruction. he met with disappointment. no man was found. "he must have been a tough one to have jumped the train without receiving a scratch," said a voice in the ear of the detective, as he flashed the rays of a lantern down on the track. dyke darrel glanced at the speaker, a gentleman with enormous red beard, and rather worn silk hat. this was the detective's first introduction to professor ruggles. "i've no doubt of his being tough," answered dyke darrel. "how did it happen?" "i think the fellow intended to throw me off the train." "goodness! is that so? what was the trouble about?" "no trouble that i am aware of. i did not know the man." "then it's likely he mistook you for some one else." dyke darrel eyed the speaker keenly. there seemed to be nothing suspicious about the professor, however, and soon after the detective dismissed him from his mind. "all aboard!" shouted the conductor, a little later, and soon the train was speeding northward at a rapid rate. dyke darrel went into the rear car, and sat down to meditate on his adventure. he realized that his death had been planned by enemies to law and order, and he believed by the ones who were anxious to throw him off the trail of the outlaws who perpetrated the crime on the midnight express a few nights before. it did not seem possible that the man who had attempted to throw him from the train, and had gone over himself, had escaped unharmed. doubtless, though badly hurt, he had managed to drag himself away from the immediate vicinity of the track, where he had remained secreted until the brief search was over. since his fall was unexpected, it was not likely that any of the villain's friends were in the vicinity, and so it might be an easy matter to trace the outlaw. dyke darrel formed a plan of operation at once, and rose to leave the train at the next stop. "do you get off here?" dyke darrel was somewhat surprised to see harper elliston on the platform of the little station. "i stop here," said dyke. "and you?" "i thought of going to chicago." "postpone your trip then. i wish to consult with you on a matter of importance." the tall gentleman hesitated. the train began to move. "you must decide quickly," cried the detective. elliston walked the length of the narrow platform, with his hand on the car rail, his satchel in the other hand. his hand fell from the rail, and the express swept swiftly away in the darkness. "anything to accommodate, dyke. i had some business of importance to transact in chicago, but it can wait." "i am sorry if i put you to extra expense, harper, but i wish to consult with one whom i can trust. i've got a devilish mean work on hand," said dyke darrel in an explanatory tone. "you know i am always ready to assist you, dyke. is it a criminal case?" "yes; the last on record." "the express crime?" "yes." "i mistrusted as much. you have been down the road?" "to st. louis!" "exactly." "i took a young offender down who escaped from prison last winter. i think the officers will look after him more closely in the future." "who was it?" "martin skidway." "i don't call to mind the name, now." lights in the distance showed that the village contained one public-house at least. so there the two men repaired. mr. elliston quaffed a glass of wine, while the detective would take nothing but a cigar. repairing to a room, the two men sat and conversed for some time in the most confidential way. dyke darrel gave his friend an account of his adventure on the train, which had induced him to stop off and investigate. the reader may imagine that it was extremely indiscreet for the detective to give away his plans to elliston, but dyke darrel had known this man for more than a year, had visited him in new york, and found him to be well thought of there, and he had more than once confided in him, to find him as true as steel. at this time the detective believed elliston to be the best friend he had in the world. he knew the new yorker to be a man of great ability and thoroughly acquainted with the world, and more than once he had done a good turn for darrel. why then should he not trust him? in fact, dyke darrel had noticed the growing interest mr. elliston took in his sister, and it pleased him. looking upon him as almost a brother, it is little wonder that dyke darrel took the man from gotham into his confidence to a considerable extent. "i think you did the right thing in leaving the train to look after this villain," said elliston, when he had heard the detective's story; "but you must be aware that you run a great risk in going about the country without disguise, avowedly in search of the perpetrators of the express robbery. of course, this man has friends, and they will not hesitate to shoot or stab, as they did in the case of the express messenger." "certainly--" "but, my dear dyke, had i not happened at the station you might have run into a trap. i have reason to believe there are many lawless characters in this neighborhood. it strikes me that the man knew what he was about when he assaulted you at this point on the road." to this, however, dyke darrel did not agree. he believed that the villain who attempted his murder sought the first favorable opportunity for his fell work, regardless of time and place. early the next morning the detective and his friend hired a horse and buggy of the hotel proprietor, and set off down the road to the scene of the "accident." dyke darrel was confident that he could find the spot, and, sure enough, he was not far out in his reckoning. when in the vicinity of where he believed the man had left the train, darrel's quick eye caught sight of a group of men standing under a shed, on the further side of a distant field. "there is some cause of excitement over yonder," remarked dyke darrel, as he drew rein, and pointed with his whip. "it seems to mean something," admitted elliston. "i propose to investigate." securing his horse, dyke darrel vaulted the fence, and, closely followed by elliston, made his way across the field. a dozen men and boys stood about, regarding some object with commiserating glances. dyke darrel pushed his way into the crowd, and was not disappointed in what he saw--a man lying prostrate on some blankets, with white face and blood-stained garments. "we found him jest off the railroad, in a fence-corner," said one of the countrymen. "he'll never git up an' walk agin." "has he said anything?" this last question was put by harper elliston. "nary word. he fell off 'n ther train last night, i reckon." elliston knelt and felt the man's pulse. "he lives," said the new yorker, "but there isn't much life; he cannot last long." "a little brandy might revive him," said dyke darrel. "i would like to have him speak; it is of the utmost importance." "indeed it is," cried elliston. "where is the flask of brandy you brought from the train, dyke?" "in the buggy." "send a man for it." "i will go myself;" and dyke darrel set off at a rapid walk across the field. at the same moment the man on the blanket groaned and opened his eyes. "how do you feel, my man?" questioned elliston. "i--i'm used up." "it looks so." elliston bent lower. "you're going to die, sam, sure's shooting," he said in a whisper at the ear of the prostrate wretch. a groan was the only reply. "do you hear me, sam?" "yes, i--i hear," was the faint answer. placing his lips to the ear of the man, elliston continued to whisper for some seconds. soon the detective returned with a flask of brandy, which he at once placed to the lips of the bruised and helpless wreck. a few sips seemed to revive the man wonderfully. "tell me your name, my man," questioned the detective, eagerly. "sam swart." "do you realize your condition? you have but a few hours to live, and if you wish to free your mind, we will listen." elliston stood at the man's feet, facing him with folded arms, while the kneeling detective addressed himself to the apparently dying man. "i haven't nothing to tell." "see here, mr. swart, it is better that you tell what you know. do justice for once, and it may be better with you in the hereafter. you attempted to murder me last night, and i believe you had a hand in the death of arnold nicholson and the robbery of the express." "i--i did, but he coaxed me into it," articulated the poor wretch in a husky voice. elliston caught the words, and his cheek suddenly blanched. he was outwardly calm, however. dyke darrel bent low to catch the faint words of swart. it was evident that the man was rapidly sinking, and the detective was terribly anxious to get at the truth. "speak!" he cried, hoarsely, "who coaxed you to commit this crime?" "he did. the boy and--and nick was with--with me." "but who was the leader--the instigator of the foul deed?" close to the swollen lips of the dying man bent the ear of dyke darrel, every nerve on the alert to catch the faint reply. a name was uttered that caused dyke darrel to spring to his feet with a great cry. chapter x. black hollow. "what was it?--who was it?" cried harper elliston, seizing the arm of dyke darrel, and penetrating him with a keen glance. "it does not matter." "it does. i have had a suspicion." "well?" "he uttered the name of harry bernard." "how could you guess that?" "because i have felt it in my bones," answered the tall new yorker. "harry bernard acted queerly before he left woodburg the last time, and i have since arrived at the conclusion that he was engaged in some unlawful work." "well, i never entertained such a suspicion," was all the detective vouchsafed in reply. then he glanced at the man on the ground. "see, the fellow is dying." it was true. sam swart, the miserable outlaw, was swiftly passing away. half an hour later, when elliston and the detective returned to their buggy, the would-be murderer of dyke darrel lay cold in death under the farmer's shed. a serious expression pervaded the face of dyke darrel, and he scarcely spoke during the drive back to town. "did you find your man?" queried the landlord, when our friends returned. "yes." elliston entered into an explanation, while dyke darrel went up to his room and threw himself into a chair in a thoughtful attitude. his brow became corrugated, and it was evident that the detective was enjoying a spell of the deepest perplexity. "it must be that the fellow's mind wandered," mused dyke darrel. "of course i cannot accept as evidence the ragged, half-conscious utterances of a dying man. he spoke of nick and the boy. there may be something in that. the boy? who could that be but martin skidway? i've suspected him; he is capable of anything in the criminal line. it may be well for me to go to chicago and visit martin's aunt scarlet. how that woman hates me, simply because i was the means of breaking up a gang of spurious money makers, of whom old dan scarlet was the chief. well, well, the ways of the world are curious enough. by the way, i haven't sent that line to nell yet. the girl will feel worried if i don't write." then, drawing several postals from his pocket, dyke darrel wrote a few lines on one with a pencil, and addressed it to "miss nell darrel, woodburg." just then elliston entered. "when does the next train pass, harper?" "in twenty minutes. will you go on it to chicago?" "not to chicago. i shall stop half a hundred miles this side, or more. i wish to do a little more investigating." "don't you accept what the dying swart said as true?" "not wholly." "would a dying man be likely to utter a falsehood?" "i can't say. what is your opinion?" there was a peculiar look in the eyes of dyke darrel, as he put the question. "i should think there could be no doubt on the subject." "indeed; then you consider that the last name that fell from the lips of sam swart was that of the man who instigated the wicked crime on the midnight express?" "certainly, that is my opinion." dyke darrel drew out a cigar and lit it, his friend refusing to take one. "i can't feel so sanguine as you seem to, harper. will you go on?" "i shall go to chicago." "you do not care to remain with me longer?" dyke darrel regarded his friend closely through a cloud of smoke. "you forget that i left urgent business to keep you company last night," answered mr. elliston, a tinge of rebuke in his voice. "i do not. you have my hearty thanks for your disinterested kindness, harper," returned dyke darrel. "if the delay has cost you anything---" "see here, old chum, don't insult me," cried elliston, as the detective drew out a well-filled wallet. "i am able and willing to pay my own bills, i hope." "certainly. i meant no offense." "it is time we were on the move, dyke, if we do not wish to miss the up train." dyke darrel realized the force of his friend's words, and at once made preparations for departure. a little later the two were on board the morning express, speeding northward. dyke darrel informed the conductor of the fate of sam swart, the outlaw, but did not intimate that the fellow was a member of the gang of train robbers, whose deed of blood had sent a shudder of horror and indignation throughout the nation. when the train halted at black hollow, the station at which the terrible crime of a few days previous had been discovered, dyke darrel arose to go. "when shall i see you again, dyke?" questioned mr. elliston. "i am not sure. i shall be in woodburg next week." "i will see you there, then." "very well." the detective left the train, and stood alone on the platform of the little station. there were not a dozen houses in sight, and it was not often that the express halted at this place. here the daring deed of robbers had been discovered. it could not be far from here that the outlaws left the express car, doubtless springing off and escaping in the darkness as the train slowed up to the station. not a soul in sight. dyke darrel entered the depot, to see a man standing at the window who had been watching the moving train as it rushed away on its northern course. "no public house here, sir," said the man, who proved to be the railway agent, in answer to an inquiry from the detective. "then i must find some one who will keep me for a short time," returned dyke darrel. "i am looking for a location in which to open a gun-shop." "guns would sell here, i reckon," said mr. bragg. "i guess maybe i can accommodate you with a stopping-place for a day or two." "thanks. i will pay you well." "i'm not a shark," answered the agent. "you see that brown house up yonder, in the edge of that grove?" "yes." "that's my place. i can't go up just now; but you may tell my wife that i sent you, and it will be all right." dyke darrel sauntered down past several dingy-looking dwellings until he came to the house of mr. bragg. it was really the most respectable dwelling in the place, which could not have been famous for its fine residences. the aspect about was not calculated to prepossess one in favor of the country. somehow, it seemed to the detective that black hollow was half a century behind the age. mrs. bragg was a shy, ungainly female, and not at all communicative. darrel occupied the remainder of the day in exploring the country in the vicinity. a creek crossed the railroad and entered a deep gulch, the sides of which were lined with a dense growth of bushes. an ill-defined path led down the steep side of the gulch, and was lost to sight in the dense growth at the bottom. dyke darrel followed this path, and soon found himself in a dense wood that seemed to cover a strip of bottom land. moving on, the deep shadows soon encompassed him on every side. a solemn stillness seemed to pervade the place, and a feeling of loneliness came over the detective. "what a splendid place for secreting plunder, or hiding from officers of the law." it was almost dark ere the detective turned to retrace his steps. the narrow path grew indistinct, and it was only with the utmost difficulty that dyke darrel kept his course. the snapping of a dry twig suddenly startled him. this sound was followed almost instantly by the whip-like crack of a rifle. a stinging sensation on the cheek, together with the whistle of a deadly bullet, warned dyke darrel of a narrow escape. chapter xi. poor sibyl! instantly the detective drew his revolver and sought shelter behind a tree. then he gazed sharply in the direction from whence the sound of the rifle had come. a faint line of smoke in the distance alone met the gaze of dyke darrel. it was evident that some one had fired upon him with murderous intent. this was the belief of the detective. "somebody has dogged my steps; there can be no doubt about that," answered dyke darrel. "i was not wrong in my supposition that black hollow is the rendezvous of a gang of outlaws. i wish i had one good man with me to help hunt these scoundrels down." the darkness deepened, but no one appeared, and fearing that he would not be able to follow the path if he tarried, dyke darrel, with his revolver in hand, ready for use, moved from his shelter, and attempted to make his way out of the labyrinth in which he found himself. the detective soon lost the path, however, and found himself in a desperate tangle, with the blackness of a dismal night settling down upon the place. "i'm in a pickle, now, for a fact," muttered dyke darrel. "i was a little indiscreet in coming here so late in the day. it does seem as though i must come out somewhere if i continue to strive." nevertheless, an hour's walk in the dense undergrowth failed to bring the detective to the bank of black hollow, or to any opening. "a veritable trap for the unwary," growled dyke, as he halted with his back against a tree, with the perspiration oozing from every pore. even his wiry limbs and muscles were not proof against the tangled nature of the wood into which he had so coolly entered. dyke darrel was not in a pleasant mood as he stood meditating on the situation. "it looks now as though i was destined to remain in the wood all night." it was not a pleasing prospect. the detective was on the point of making one more effort to break through the tangle that encompassed him, when something caught his eye that sent a thrill to his heart. it was the glimmer of a light. it did not seem to be far away, and dyke darrel resumed his fight with the thickets with renewed courage. in a little time he entered a glade in the woods, to find himself standing in near proximity to a low log cabin, through a narrow window of which a light glimmered. "some one lives here, it seems." dyke darrel moved forward cautiously, for he still believed that the wood was the haunt of outlaws, and this very house might be the den where the plunder of many raids was secreted. soon the detective stood on a little rise of ground, in such a position that he could peer into the window. the interior of a small, poorly-furnished apartment met his gaze. beside the glowing embers of a wood fire in a box stove crouched a human figure, seemingly the only occupant of the lone log cabin. there was a wealth of golden hair flashing in the firelight, and the black robe covered the form of what seemed to be a beautiful woman. as may be supposed, the detective was surprised at the sight. after a moment of reflection he resolved to enter the cabin. striding to the door, he rapped gently. no answer came, and the detective rapped again. this time the door was cautiously opened, and a white face peered out. "who's there?" "a traveler who has lost his way." "you cannot come in. sibyl isn't afraid, but she wishes to be alone." nevertheless, the woman stood aside and held the door wide. this seemed invitation enough, and the detective at once crossed the floor, and pushed to the door at his back. the female receded before him, and stood at the far side of the room, with both hands extended, waving them gently up and down. "come no nearer, sir; sibyl would view you from afar. there, stand where you are, and do not move. it may be that you are the one i have been looking for all these years." the speaker was evidently young, and possessed a weirdly beautiful face, that strangely attracted dyke darrel. he stood still and watched her singular movements curiously. she drew a morocco case from her bosom, opened it, and gazed at something, evidently a picture, long and earnestly. she seemed to be comparing the face of the picture with that of her visitor. dyke darrel was puzzled, and somewhat pleased. "no, you are not my hubert; he was a nobler looking gentleman by far." "will you permit me to look at the picture, miss--" "no, no; i dare not trust it out of my hands. i promised him, you know, and i must not disappoint hubert, for he is very exacting. hark!" the girl secreted her prize, and lifted a warning hand. "don't you hear his step? it is hubert--dear, dear hubert--come back to comfort his poor sybil after these long, weary years." a low, startling laugh fell from her lips at the last. she darted across the floor, and flung the door wide, peering out into the darkness. a solemn, awful silence followed, then the door was sharply closed, and the queerly acting girl faced dyke darrel once more. she looked weirdly beautiful, with a mass of golden hair falling below her taper waist, her face white as the winter's snow, almost too white for the living. so she stood now; the dancing light from the fire fell full on her countenance, revealing it for the first time plainly to the gaze of the detective. a low, stunned cry escaped from his lips. "my god! it is sibyl osborne, the burlington captain's daughter." a low laugh fell from the girl's lips. she began humming a gay tune, and danced across the room with arms outstretched, as though attempting to fly. the truth came with stunning force--the poor girl was crazy! her father, a wealthy burlington real estate broker, had mysteriously disappeared some months before, and it was supposed that he had met with foul play. despite the efforts of dyke darrel and other detectives, no clew had yet been found of the missing man. the detective had met sibyl at her father's house, and had regarded her as one both beautiful and accomplished. to meet her as now was a terrible revelation indeed. no wonder dyke darrel was stunned. for some moments he stood in pained silence, watching the antics of the poor unfortunate. "hubert will come, hubert will come," she sung, as she glided back and forth across the floor. what had caused this awful calamity? dyke darrel asked this question in saddened thoughtfulness, as he gazed upon the beautiful wreck before him. "tell me that hubert will come, sir, and then i won't believe that he wrote that cruel letter," cried sibyl, in a mournful voice, pausing in front of the detective. "i cannot tell you unless you show me the letter," returned dyke darrel, resolving to humor her. quickly she drew from her bosom a letter and placed it in the detective's hand. he drew it from the wrapper, hoping to learn something that might give him a clew to the situation. this is what he read: "miss sibyl osborne: i am sorry to inform you that i cannot see you again. i am off for europe on my wedding tour. forget me as soon as possible. "h. vander." "do you think my hubert could write anything so cruel?" she questioned, as he handed the missive back to her. "it doesn't seem possible," answered dyke darrel. it was evident to his mind that the girl had become crazed on account of her father's disappearance and the treachery of her lover. the detective's heart beat sympathetically for the poor wronged girl. it was his duty to see the girl safely on her way to the burlington ere he continued his search for the assassins of arnold nicholson. one had already given up his account, but there were others yet to punish. while dyke darrel stood debating what course to pursue, under the remarkable change in circumstances, the mad girl uttered a sudden, sharp cry. "see! it is hubert, my hubert! come at last!" a look of mad joy sped across the white face, as one slender arm was extended, pointing toward the window. dyke barrel followed with his eyes, and then he, too, uttered an involuntary cry. glued to the narrow pane was a face that was startling in the intensity of its ghastly pallor, but it was not this that sent an involuntary exclamation to the lips of the railroad detective. the face at the window was that of his friend, harper elliston! his presence here was one of the mysteries of that eventful night. chapter xii. a burning trap. for some moments dyke darrel stared at the face in the window without moving. how came harper elliston in the woods at black hollow, when he ought to have been in chicago, according to his expressed intentions of the previous day? with a sudden, wild scream the crazed sibyl darted across the floor, and thrust her hands against the window with such violence as to burst the glass, cutting her hands severely in the operation. "hubert! hubert! come at last!" the girl staggered back and sank in a paroxysm to the floor. it was indeed a startling affair, yet dyke darrel did not lose his presence of mind. he hurried to the door and opened it, springing outside quickly. "elliston, i want you." dyke darrel stood by the broken window now, but the man he had expected to find was not there. the apparition had vanished as though fleeing into the upper air. again the detective called the name of his friend, but without receiving a reply. here was a mystery indeed. had that face at the window been an optical delusion, after all? dyke darrel was not superstitious, yet in the present case a queer feeling oppressed him, and an awful misgiving entered his mind. "i cannot believe that the face at the window was other than that of elliston's; and yet she called him hubert. it must be that there is a mistake somewhere, and it seems to me that the mad girl is more apt to be deceived than i." once more dyke darrel returned to the house. sibyl osborne lay in a dead faint on the floor. the detective began chafing her hands at once, and loosened her corsage. a morocco case fell to the floor. it was the one containing the alleged picture of hubert vander. under the circumstances dyke darrel believed he was justified in examining it. he opened the case, and was soon gazing at the face of a handsome man. although smoothly shaved, the face of the photograph was that of harper elliston! a horrid suspicion now took possession of the detective's brain. securing case and photograph on his own person, dyke darrel proceeded in his efforts to bring the girl back to life. he was soon rewarded. "it was hubert." these were the first words uttered by the girl when she opened her eyes. her hands were stained with blood from cuts made by the glass. she gazed at the blood, and grew suddenly deathly pale. "my god! he has tried to murder me!" then she came to her feet, flinging her tangled golden hair about wildly, and shrank to the far corner of the room. "you have nothing to fear from me, miss osborne," said dyke. "i am your friend." "and hubert's friend?" "yes, hubert's friend, too." "who did this, then?" she held up her bleeding hands. he tried to explain, and she seemed to understand partially, so much so as to lose her fear of the detective. she began to laugh soon, and the late adventure seemed to pass entirely from her mind. dyke was glad to have it so. "will you not lie down and rest?" he said presently. "we have a long journey to go in the morning." "where? to hubert?" "yes, to hubert." her great blue eyes regarded him wistfully, and a throb of pain entered his heart at thought of the beautiful girl's misfortune. there was growing in his heart a dangerous feeling, one that boded no good to harper elliston, should that man prove to be as he now believed, the hubert vander of the mad girl's dreams. "take me to hubert now, kind sir. i know you can do so, and i shall die if he does not keep his word with me. he will never betray a poor girl--such a gentleman, and so good? yes, i will do anything to please you, for it will bring dear hubert back." she went up and laid both hands on the shoulders of the detective, and looked so mournfully into his face as to touch the tenderness in his nature deeply. his heart bled for the girl who had been the victim of a villain's wiles. "sit down and rest, miss osborne; we will try and find hubert in the morning." "you are very kind." she seemed gentle and subdued now. it was the calm after the storm. dyke saw that he was not recognized, however, and the madness was not gone from the poor girl's brain. it was a very sad case, indeed. several stools were in the room, and some blankets hung against the further wall, proving that some one had lately occupied the cabin. undoubtedly it had been used as a hiding-place for outlaws, and it was a question in the mind of the detective as to how soon the cabin would be revisited. the presence of the insane girl necessarily altered his plans somewhat. he could not leave her to perish in the woods. removing the blankets from the wall, dyke darrel improvised a bed for the poor girl, and induced her to lie thereon. he then replenished the fire with some dry sticks that lay beside the stove, since the night air was chill, and sat himself upon the floor, with his head reclining against the logs. before doing this, however, he had taken the precaution to secure the only door with a wooden latch that had been made for the purpose. the window, of course, he was unable to secure. it did not seem hardly safe to sleep under the circumstances, but dyke darrel was very tired, having been without much rest for several nights, and he was on the present occasion extremely drowsy. resolving not to fall into a deep slumber, the detective sat with his revolver at his side, and went off into the land of dreams before he was aware of it. dyke darrel slept heavily. a crackling sound outside did not reach his ear with sufficient force to waken him. a face peered in at the window, dark and sinister, but the sleeping detective heeded it not. another face, girded about with bristling red hair, appeared for a moment, and then receded. dark forms moved about the cabin without, and engaged in a whispered conversation. presently the trees and bushes became visible, and there was a smell of burning wood in the air. "it is well," uttered a voice. "they will both perish like rats in a trap. dyke darrel, the famous detective, will never be heard of more, and that girl--well, she will be better dead than living. come, nick, let us go!" "you're sure the door's tightly fastened?" "i fixed it so satan himself could not open it." "good." "let us go!" "wait. i'd like to see the curse roast." "no, no; that won't do. we'll come in the day time and look at the bones. this old log hut has had its day, and we could not put it to a better use than to make a mausoleum for the man-tracker of the west." there was no hesitating after this. the two men moved swiftly away in the gloom that surrounded the burning cabin. a choking sensation caused the reclining man in the cabin to stir uneasily. presently he opened his eyes. the room was full of smoke, and red tongues of flame were licking at the logs from every side. quickly dyke darrel came to his feet. a smell of burning garments filled his nostrils. the bed on which sibyl osborne rested was on fire! "my soul! this is unfortunate," cried the detective. he was equal to the emergency, however. springing to the side of the still sleeping girl, dyke lifted her in his arms and strode to the door. quickly he slipped the rude bolt and grasped the latch. it refused to yield. the door was firmly secured on the outside. chapter xiii. a sad fate. for one instant, dyke darrel was paralyzed. it was for a moment only, however. he shook the door furiously, blinded by smoke, and almost strangled by hot air. the door would not yield. at this moment, the girl awoke and began to scream. bits of burning wood fell all about them. soon the roof would tumble in with a crash. when that moment came, every living thing must perish within the house. dyke darrel moved to the window, leading sibyl. she staggered and seemed ready to fall. "courage!" he cried, "we will soon be out of this." reaching the narrow window, the detective dashed out sash and glass with a stool, and the air from outside seemed like a breath from fairy land. "you must go first?" dyke darrel assisted his fair companion to the opening. an instant later she had passed outside. then something occurred that quite startled the detective and filled him with intense alarm. a burning log fell from the side of the cabin with a thud that was sickening. a horrible fear at once took possession of darrel. with a quick bound he gained the opening, and leaped clear of the burning logs to the ground without. turning about he uttered a cry of horror. sibyl osborne lay crushed beneath a black log that was yet smoking with heat. with a herculean effort the detective lifted and flung the log from the poor girl's breast, and then he lifted and carried her beyond the reach of flame and heat, and laid her on a little mound beneath a giant tree. one glance into the mad girl's face satisfied him of the mournful truth. the falling log had done fatal work, and with his hand clasping hers, dyke darrel watched the gasps that grew fainter each moment, until the silence and quietude of eternity rested on all. "dead!" with that one word dyke darrel started to his feet and gazed about him. there was a flinty gleam in his keen eyes and a fierce grating of white teeth. it had been a long time since the railroad detective was moved as at that hour, with the work of human fiends before him. from the burning cabin his gaze returned to the upturned white face of the dead girl. pure and lovely as a lily looked the face of the wronged and dead. "it is better so, perhaps," muttered the detective. had the girl lived she might never have enjoyed an hour of reason. with that dethroned, what could death be but a welcome messenger. and yet the manner of the mad girl's taking off was shocking in the extreme. had dyke darrel known the way out, he would have taken the corpse in his arms and hurried from the scene at once. as it was, the detective deemed it wise to remain in the vicinity until morning, when it was likely he would have little trouble in making his way out of the woods! the remaining hours of the night passed slowly. dyke darrel dared not sleep, and so he kept his lonely vigil beside the dead, seated in the shadows, with revolver ready to use at a moment's notice. no interruption came, however, and when the gray streaks of morning dawned the detective breathed easier. he at once went in search of a road that would lead out of the wood. he met with better success than he had dared hope. he found a path that must have been used by the owner of the cabin, and which it was evident the mad girl had followed in her wanderings. how long she had been in the cabin the detective had no means of knowing, but it seemed to him evident that she could have been there but a few hours when discovered by him. the way out of the black hollow woods was long and tedious, but dyke darrel proved equal to the task, and when he broke cover and entered upon the open ground above, he was glad to see a team approaching, driven by a farmer. "hello! what hev' you got there?" cried the man, in open-eyed amazement, when he halted beside the detective and his burden. "a lady. she was accidentally killed last night." "it's awful!" "i quite agree with you," returned dyke darrel; "but if you will take the woman aboard and drive to the house of mr. bragg, i will pay you for it." "of course i will." the farmer was garrulous on the way, and it required all the detective's ingenuity to answer his questions promptly, so as not to excite the fellow's suspicions. the body of the beautiful dead girl was laid in one of agent bragg's rooms, and the latter telegraphed to the nearest town of importance for a casket, which arrived at black hollow shortly after noon. "i will attend to shipping it," said mr. bragg. "this is a sad case. it is a wonder to me that somebody did not see the girl yesterday." "possibly she got off at another station." "do you think she came to this vicinity on the cars?" "most certainly," answered the detective. "will you go to chicago now?" "i am not fully decided," returned dyke darrel. "at what hour does the train pass?" "six-fifty to-night." "but the down train goes earlier?" "at four." "and at bloomington i can take the cars for burlington?" "if you so desire." "i will think about it." sauntering along in the afternoon, just in the outskirts of the village, dyke darrel came suddenly upon a man standing with his back against a telegraph pole. "hello!" ejaculated the detective, as the man turned and faced him. it was harper elliston. "i thought you were in chicago," pursued the mystified dyke. and then he remembered the face he had seen at the window of the cabin in black hollow the previous night. the memory brought a harsh expression to his countenance. "ah, you are still here, dyke." mr. elliston smiled and held out his hand. "i don't understand this," said dyke darrel. "you have deceived me in some way, harper. you were in black hollow last night." "there you are mistaken," assured mr. elliston; "i stopped off here on the noon train." "you did not go to chicago, then?" "yes, i did; but only remained an hour. you see the man i was looking for was not there, but had gone to burlington, iowa, and so, remembering that you stopped off here yesterday, i thought i would run down and learn if you had made any discovery." "you came at noon?" "yes." "why did not you call for me at bragg's?" "are you stopping there?" "certainly. if you had inquired for me of the agent here, you would have certainly found me." "that's exactly what i did do, and i did not find you; so now," and mr. elliston laughed at the perplexed look on the detective's face. the actions and words of this man were indeed a puzzle to dyke darrel. "harper, i want to ask you a plain question----" "and you want a categorical answer, mr. darrel," interrupted the new yorker with a laugh. "i do." "go ahead." "weren't you in black hollow last night?" "certainly not. i was with a friend at least sixty miles away, near chicago." "can you prove this?" "if necessary, of course; but what in the world is the matter, dyke? i hope you wouldn't accuse me of deception." "no. will you come with me to bragg's?" "certainly." and then the two men walked away together. there was a solemn expression pervading the face of dyke darrel. he had experienced many strange things during his detective life, but this latest phase puzzled him the most. he could swear that he saw the face of elliston at the window of the house in the gulch on the previous night, yet the assertion from his friend that he was fifty miles away at the time seemed honest enough. having been long in the detective work, dyke darrel had grown to be suspicious, and so he was fast losing faith in the good intentions of his new york friend. he had suddenly resolved on a test that he believed would prove effectual in setting all doubts at rest. arrived at the bragg dwelling, the detective conducted harper elliston at once to the room where the remains of the beautiful, dead girl lay encoffined. chapter xiv dyke darrel astounded. dyke darrel lifted a cloth from the face of the dead, and harper elliston stood gazing down upon the features of wronged and murdered sibyl osborne. the detective watched the expression of his companion's countenance closely. with bated breath the man-hunter glued his gaze upon the face of the man bending over the casket. "what a sad face, and yet most wonderful in its beauty. who is she? a daughter of the house?" harper turned and regarded dyke darrel questioningly, a sympathetic look in his black eyes. "do you not know her?" "_i_ know her? you forget that i am a stranger in this part of the west, dyke." "she, too, was a stranger here, elliston. her home was in burlington, and she has been brought to this by a villain who ought to pass the remainder of his days behind prison bars, if not conclude them at a rope's end. do you know hubert vander?" there was a stern ring in the detective's voice, and a look of deep, indignant feeling pervading his face. all the time he kept his gaze riveted on elliston. that gentleman stood the ordeal without flinching, however. "hubert vander? the name is a new one to me, dyke." "indeed!" a sneer curled the lip of the detective. "what do you mean by that?" questioned mr. elliston. "am i to understand that you connect me in any way with this girl's death, or that i am a friend to this hubert vander of whom you speak?" "your pretended indignation will not deceive, harper elliston. look at this, and tell me what you think of it," said dyke darrel, with the sternness of steel. the detective laid the photograph he had obtained in the black hollow cabin in the hand of mr. elliston. the new yorker did start then. he gazed long and constantly at the pictured face. "what have you to say now, harper elliston?" demanded dyke darrel, in an awful voice. "it is a mighty close resemblance," returned the gentleman. "where did you obtain this, dyke?" "from sibyl osborne." "sibyl osborne?" "she who lies before you. if that is not your portrait, and if you are not the man who murdered captain osborne and ruined his daughter, then i am out of my senses." with the words dyke darrel presented a cocked revolver at the heart of the cool, smiling villain before him. the smile left the new yorker's face, and a serious expression followed it. "what? you draw a pistol on me, dyke darrel? i am surprised," cried mr. elliston in an injured tone. "i did not imagine that you could lose confidence in me, let what would happen. can it be that our friendship was but a brittle cord, after all?" "i cannot remain friendly when my confidence has been betrayed." "and you deem me a most hardened scoundrel? of course you will give me a hearing. you are an upholder of law, and do not approve of lynching. here, put on the handcuffs, dyke, and take me to prison. you will be sorry for this some time, but now that circumstances are against me your friendship falls to the ground. i did not expect such treatment. however, i can live through it; but i shall never feel toward you as i have in times past. put on the irons, dyke. why do you hesitate?" "there is a chance for a mistake, of course," said the detective, "i am glad you admit that much." "is that your photograph?" "you said it belonged to a young lady!" "but is it a photograph of your face?" "it is not." "you swear it?" "i do." "and you were not in black hollow, last night?" "i was not." "swear it? "i swear it." "you did not know this dead girl?" dyke darrel pointed toward the face in the coffin. "i did not." "will you swear to this also?" "with my hand on my heart i swear." the white hand of mr. elliston was laid impressively against his bosom. there was such a look of honest earnestness on the man's face it was impossible to doubt, and dyke darrel was forced to forego arresting the new yorker then and there. if he was not fully satisfied, he did not permit elliston to note the fact. "i did but try you, harper," dyke darrel said with a smile, extending his hand. "you are true as steel and i am glad to find it so. i have endured misery since last night, because i feared, and came to believe otherwise." "you will trust me as of old?" "yes." "thanks. now tell me all about the facts regarding this poor girl." dyke darrel did as requested, although he kept back some things that he did not deem it necessary for mr. elliston to know. "and you saw this hubert vander peering into the cabin window--the man who looks like me!" "i did." "well, it's pretty tough, and no mistake, to have a fellow of such villainous character circulating about in this region. i hope i won't be hung for his crime by indignant citizens. i agree with you that this hubert vander is a sleek villain, and that hanging is too good for him. it does seem that you made an important discovery last night, however." "explain." "this man vander no doubt murdered captain osborne." "i am led to think so myself," said dyke darrel. "he also jilted the captain's daughter, if no worse, and the two sorrows turned the poor girl's brain. it is a sad and terrible case. i feel deeply interested, and hope to see the scoundrel who looks like me brought to justice." "i am glad to hear you say so." "furthermore i have another idea." "proceed." "it is undoubtedly this vander who planned the robbery of the midnight express. a man who could deceive one so beautiful as this girl, would not hesitate to do anything to feather his own nest." "again i agree with you." "evidently it was either this man, or friends of his, who fastened the door of the cabin, and fired it with the hope of destroying the detective who was dogging them so closely." "true, i had thought of that." "and here's another thing." "well?" "may not this vander and his friends conclude that the man-hunter perished in the flames, if they fail to see him again? a disguise would fix that easily, you know." "no, that will not go down." "why not?" "my enemies will visit the ruins of the cabin, and failing to discover skeletons, will learn the truth." "that does not necessarily follow." "i think it does. i may act on your suggestion, however," returned dyke darrel. "and put on a disguise?" "yes." "what will it be?" the detective laughed. "don't ask me, harper," he said. "of what use a disguise that my friends all understood?" "is this because you fear to trust me, after what has happened, dyke?" "no; but i prefer to keep my own counsel!" "and you are right." "i am glad you admit it." the friends then left the room. at the last moment, dyke darrel decided on accompanying the remains of captain osborne's daughter to burlington. he realized that it was the proper thing to do. elliston parted with the detective, telling him that he meant to return to woodburg for the present, and would meet him there on his return from the iowa city. it was a sad duty that led the railroad detective to revisit burlington, which he had last looked upon in the fall, shortly after captain osborne's disappearance. arrived in the bustling western city, dyke darrel was met at the depot by a surprise. an officer laid his hand on the detective's shoulder, and said: "you are my prisoner, young man." "eh? well, now, what is this for?" demanded dyke darrel angrily. "for the murder of captain osborne and his daughter!" dyke darrel felt the cold muzzle of a revolver touch his temple at the last. chapter xv. a baffled villain. in the meantime harper elliston, true to his word for once at least, left the train at the woodburg depot on the same morning that his young detective friend arrived in burlington. repairing to his room at the hotel, the new yorker remained until the dinner hour. after this he turned his steps in the direction of the darrel cottage. "i suppose nell darrel will be delighted to see me," chuckled elliston, as he walked up the steps and rang the bell. aunt jule opened the door. "marse dyke ain't home." "but miss nell is, i suppose." "yes, and deed, sir; she's got company, and can't see no one fur de present," cried the grinning negress, quickly. "company? a lot of chattering girls, i suppose?" "no; a young gemmen----" "a gentleman?" the frown that blackened the brows of harper elliston was not pleasant to see. he was not pleased that nell should receive other male company than himself. "i will enter. i think she will see me when she knows who has come," said he, pushing past the negress, and entering the front room. he seated himself in an armchair, and proceeded to coolly await the coming of the mistress of the house. soon nell darrel came in. her face was suffused with smiles, which evidenced that she had heard good news. elliston, however, flattered himself that it was his coming that caused the pleased look on the face of the detective's sister. "a pleasant day, mr. elliston." "rather." he rose and held out his hand. she did not accept it, much to his chagrin. "aren't you glad to see me, nell?" he queried. "i've been absent almost a week, and i thought you would be longing for my company by this time." a smile of self-assurance crossed his dark face. "i have no reason to regard you with any more consideration than on your former visit," she said. "have you seen my brother?" "yes." "where is he now?" "in iowa, i presume." "he is well?" "he was when i parted with him, a short time since. you haven't heard from him?" "yes. he was then in a small town in the south or west, i believe." thus they chatted for some time. during the past few days a desperate resolve had taken possession of elliston's brain. he admired the pretty nell now more than ever, and he was determined to make one more effort to win her regard before going to extremes. that morning he had braced his nerves with several draughts of brandy, and the fumes yet affected him, thus rendering him extremely imprudent, to say the least. "nell, jule tells me you had company when i came. who was it?" "a gentleman." "aye, but his name?" the man's eyes glittered, and seemed to pierce with their keenness to the soul of the girl who sat in front of him. she could smell his breath, too, and the fact that he had been drinking made her a little nervous. she was anxious for him to depart. "he is not one of your acquaintances," replied nell, evasively. "but one of yours, it seems," sneered the man, in a tone that was the least bit disrespectful. "mr. elliston, did you come here to insult me?" "certainly not," he answered in a gentler tone. "forgive me, nellie; i can't abide having another win the affections of one i so much covet. if you only knew, nell----" "mr. elliston, don't." both came to their feet. he advanced and seized her hands once more; nay, he suddenly flung one arm about her slender waist and drew her closely, at the same time imprinting a kiss on her cheek. "i love you, nell, and will not give you up. fly with me, darling, where no odious friends may come between us!" "villain, release me!" nell struggled with desperate energy, but she was as a child in the hands of the tall scoundrel. "no, no, little girl, i will not permit you to escape. i mean to make it impossible for you to wed another," grated the man, in a meaning voice, that sent a shudder of horror to the heart of pure nell darrel. lucky was it for the girl that her visitor had not yet left the house. nell screamed aloud, and then the hand of elliston was pressed over her pretty mouth. had the man been in his sober senses, he would never have attempted such bold work; but when in liquor harper elliston was far from prudent. "no nonsense now," he sneered. and then a door opened; a slender form crossed the floor, and as elliston turned to confront the new-comer he received a straight left-hander in the chest that sent him back reeling. gasping, and very red, nell started aside, and held out her hand with a low cry of alarm. the stalwart elliston soon regained his equilibrium, and faced the one who had dealt him such a furious blow--a slender youth not yet out of his teens, yet in whose blue eyes flashed a determined spirit. "scoundrel!" ejaculated elliston. he stood glaring at the boy with the venom of a mad serpent in his black eyes. "get from this house, or i will call the police and have you put in the cooler," said the boy, quickly, standing with clenched hands in front of nell, and returning the tall man's scowls with interest. "i'll smash every bone in your body, you insignificant little snipe," roared elliston. instead, however, of making the attempt, the man drew a small derringer from his pocket, and lifting the hammer, leveled it at the head of his youthful assaulter. "gentlemen, please, please desist," pleaded nell in a shaky voice. "this is no place for a quarrel." "it isn't, i admit," returned the boy, "but this sneak brought it about, and now the odds are so much against him, he has recourse to a deadly weapon. there is just that difference between us, harper elliston." the new yorker started as the youth pronounced his name. he imagined that he was not known to the boy. "you see, i know you," proceeded the boy, noticing the man start. "i have had the villain elliston pretty well described to me, and know that your act just now justifies me in calling you by that name. shoot, coward, if you dare." there was a cool defiance in the blue eyes of the boy, that won the admiration of elliston in spite of his anger. "no, the game is too small," retorted elliston, lowering his weapon. "i cannot afford to tarnish an honorable reputation by shedding the blood of a child. i shall, nevertheless, remember you, young man, and on the proper occasion give you the thrashing you so richly deserve." a look from nell darrel cut short the words that trembled on the lips of the youth. "i bid you good afternoon, miss darrel," and elliston bowed and walked to the door. "i will see you again and explain matters." the door opened and closed, and the smooth villain was gone. "thank heaven!" murmured nell. "it might have been worse," said the boy. "i did not miss my guess when i called him elliston?" "no." "i thought not. you can see now that harry bernard had good reason for warning you to beware of harper elliston!" "i can see it plainly enough," returned the girl. "when will harry come to woodburg?" "i understand how anxious you are," said the boy, with a smile. "harry is assisting dyke to ferret out the railroad express crime, and it may be some weeks before he comes to this part of the state. i think he will be satisfied to know that you are true to him. it was his knowledge of elliston's villainy that induced him to send me to see you with a note of warning." "i am thankful for his kindness, mr. ender." "everybody calls me paul, miss darrel." "and everybody (that is my friends), all call me nell," returned the girl, with a pleasant little laugh. "let it be nell and paul then," and the boy joined in her laugh, thus aiding in banishing the shadows of the day. harry bernard's youthful messenger soon after departed, promising to call again on the following day, when he might have another message from young bernard, who was still supposed to be in st. louis. in the meantime the angry and discomfited elliston repaired to the hotel and made hasty preparations for departure. he left on the first train for chicago. it was late in the evening that mrs. scarlet, in her den on clark street, was roused from a nap she was indulging in, with her head against the wall, by a sharp rap at the door. rousing up, she went to see who had come. she admitted a man with a plug hat and red whiskers. professor darlington ruggles. "aren't you glad to see me, madam?" he held out a white set of digits. "no--why should i be glad?" she accepted the proffer of friendship, however, and shoved a rickety old chair for her visitor's use. "i'll tell you why. because i am the best friend you've got in chicago." "that wouldn't be saying much," and mrs. scarlet laughed harshly. "wouldn't it?" "didn't i say so? nobody comes to see me now since poor nephew martin was taken from me. i feel about ready to die but for one thing." "and that?" "revenge!" her eyes snapped in their hollow sockets and the withered bosom heaved with inward emotion. mr. ruggles emitted a laugh. he was evidently pleased at the condition of the woman's feelings. "i am glad to find you in this condition, madam," he said, after a brief pause. "i am here to tell you how you can be revenged, if i mistake not the object on whom your hatred rests. "it's that infernal dyke darrel." "i knew it. you would smile and feel happy to see him suffer?" "it would be as beefsteak to a starving man," said the woman, savagely. "then listen. he has a most charming sister living in one of the interior towns of the state. she is the only relative he has in the wide world. you can strike the railroad detective through nell darrel." "yes, yes--go on." "he is away most of his time, as you doubtless know----" "and the girl is alone?" "save for an old negress. don't interrupt me, please, until i tell you the exact situation. one of my acquaintances, a gentleman of means, and a mean gentleman, for that matter, wishes to get this girl into his possession. what object he may have does not matter, so long as he is willing to pay big for the work. all that is required of you, mrs. scarlet, is to furnish a room, and see that when once inside, miss darrel does not escape nor communicate with the outside world. do you understand?" "i do." "and you will consent to act as this girl's keeper for a time?" "yes, yes," cried the woman, with eager emphasis, and then a low, half-suppressed sneeze startled them both. professor darlington ruggles sprang up and looked toward the door. it stood ajar, and through the opening peered a masked face, centered with a pair of glittering eyes. uttering a mad cry, ruggles drew a concealed revolver and, leveling at the head, fired. chapter xvi. nell missing. the reader can imagine the indignation of the railroad detective when he found himself arrested by the burlington officer. "i beg your pardon, sir," said dyke darrel, "but you are making a foolish mistake. i am a detective----" "that won't go down. if you attempt to escape i will blow out your brains," returned the officer, still holding his cocked weapon to the head of dyke darrel. the detective was deeply annoyed at this. on board the train were the remains of the daughter of one of burlington's most prominent citizens, and dyke was extremely anxious to meet the friends and explain the situation. "you may take me at once to the chief of police," said dyke darrel, at length. "i can explain to him, since he knows me." another officer approached, and the first one requested him to handcuff his prisoner. a hot flush of anger shot to the cheek of the detective. "this is going too far," he said in a vexed tone. "if you attempt to put the irons on me, i'll make you trouble. i tell you i am acquainted with your chief, and demand that you take me to him." "that's fair enough," said the second officer. "but he's a dangerous character," persisted the first. "whom do you take me for," dyke demanded indignantly. "slim steve, the train robber." "where did you get your information?" "it doesn't matter." "you'd better go slow, officer. look at that, and tell me what you think of it?" turning back the lap of his coat dyke darrel revealed a glittering silver star, and below this a flaming eye on a dark background. "a pinkerton detective!" exclaimed the second officer. "i am a detective, and know my business without receiving instructions from the police of a one-horse town," retorted dyke darrel in anger. "i am willing, however, to visit your chief, who will confirm my words." "we had orders from him to arrest you." "very good. i demand that you take me before him." after a short consultation the two officers concluded to gratify their prisoner, and, without attempting to handcuff him, they conducted him from the depot to the police station. as luck would have it, the chief was in, and at once recognized and greeted dyke darrel. explanations soon followed. "you must not blame my men," said the chief, "for word was sent from an interior town in illinois stating that a notorious crook was on the train, and would stop at burlington. a description was given that tallied with yours, and so the mistake was made." "do you know who sent the dispatch?" "a sheriff, i think." "just accommodate me with the name of the town, please." dyke darrel was deeply excited at this last attempt to deprive him of his liberty. the officer referred to the dispatch and read the name of the place from whence it originated. "woodburg!" dyke darrel uttered the name in wonder. "i don't understand it," he said; "that is my own home, and i am too well known there to merit suspicion. it must have been meant for a practical joke," and the detective's thoughts were turned to harper elliston. "it might be, of course," admitted the chief of burlington police, "but it is a joke that i shouldn't relish, and you might make it warm for the perpetrator. i can telegraph and inquire into it if you wish, mr. darrel." "not now. i shall be in woodburg within a few days, and then i will find out all about it." dyke darrel repaired at once to the home of captain osborne, which was occupied by relatives of the captain, and informed them of the sad fate that had overtaken sibyl osborne. an aunt and cousin, the latter a young man of prominence, were the relatives mentioned. the cousin promised to attend the remains, after listening to the strange story dyke darrel had to tell. sibyl had left home ten days before, pretending to go on a visit to friends. when she left it was not suspected that she was out of her mind, consequently the news was all the more sad. from burlington the railroad detective returned to black hollow, and from there he went to st. louis to consult with harry bernard. here he was met with the announcement that his young friend had taken the train for chicago some days before. this was an annoying state of affairs indeed. remaining a few days in st. louis, dyke darrel at length left the city en route for woodburg. he was anxious to meet nell, from whom he had been absent now about a fortnight. on reaching woodburg the detective found a telegram awaiting him from chicago: "come at once. i have made an important discovery. "h." of course this must be from harry. it was dated some days before, however, which annoyed dyke. harry bernard might have changed his base of operations by this time. "i will call at the house," mused dyke darrel. "i have an hour's time before the next chicago train." aunt jule was extremely glad to meet "marse dyke." "why didn't you bring the young missus wid yo?" questioned the negress. "what's that? hope you didn't think i'd committed matrimony?" and the detective laughed lightly, at the same time chucking aunt jule under her fat chin. "lor-a-massy, no, marse dyke. i meant missy nell," explained the black woman. "miss nell? isn't she at home?" "wal, now, what a question. in coorse she ain't. didn' yo' send fur her yo' very self? how den yo' 'spec she's goin' to be home ef yo' didn' done brung her, eh?" all this was greek to dyke darrel. "what in the name of caution are you driving at, aunt jule? i haven't seen my sister since i left home, and if she's gone to look for me she's done a very foolish thing, for i'm not long in one place--she ought to have known better." aunt jule flounced out of the room, to return soon with a yellow envelope in her hand. "dere, look a-dat now. ef yo' didn' done writ dat, den i'd like to know who did." the detective opened the letter his housekeeper placed in his hand, and read: "chicago, april , -. nell:--come on the next train, as i wish to see you in this city. aunt jule will look after the house until your return. don't disappoint me. "dyke." the detective glanced at the negress after reading this note, the writing of which very much resembled his hand. "this came when?" "yesterday." "through the mail?" "yes, marse." a frown darkened the brow of the detective. he crumpled the letter in his hand and began pacing the floor with nervous strides. "somefin must be wrong ef yo' didn' write that letter." suddenly dyke darrel turned on the speaker and touched her huge arm with a clinging hand. "jule, when did my sister answer this letter?" he demanded, fiercely. "jest the next train." "last night?" "yes, marse dyke." dropping his hand from aunt jule's huge arm, the detective rushed from the room and the house. he was laboring under great excitement, as well he might be, for nell was as the apple of his eye, and she had been enticed to the great city for a fell purpose, he believed. chapter xvii. nell in the toils. the instant after professor ruggles fired, the masked face in the doorway disappeared, and the sound of swift-moving feet was heard. still clutching his weapon, the professor strode to the door and flung it open, gazing into the alley, which framed no reply to the question that trembled unspoken on his lips. "did you hit him, professor?" "i fear i didn't." professor ruggles then made an examination of the alley that assured him that his bullet had not been stopped by flesh and bone--instead, it lay on the ground where it had fallen, flattened, from the brick wall above. "so much for being a poor shot," sneered the woman. "so much for your condemned carelessness in not locking the door," he retorted with equal severity. "well, maybe you'd better see that it is fastened now." professor darlington ruggles turned the key in the lock, and then assumed a seat once more. "let me see. where did we leave off?" "in a mighty important place," answered the woman. "if that sneak had been at the door long, he must have heard something of our plans." "and it makes you feel uneasy?" "don't it you?" "a trifle. i can't imagine who the sneak was." "nor i." "it might have been one of the boys playing a joke," said ruggles. "i hope it's nothing more serious." "i shall dismiss the sneak from my mind at any rate," returned mr. ruggles. "to-morrow night you may look for your guest, mrs. scarlet. remember, whatever plans for vengeance you may have formed will be more than gratified in placing this detective's sister completely in the power of a man who knows how to use it." the professor's eyes snapped at the last, and he lifted and smoothed his hat rapidly with one long arm. "i understand. nothing can be too harsh and awful for one of the breed," hissed madge scarlet, in a way that made even professor ruggles' flesh creep. then he rose to go. "i will see you again ere long." mrs. scarlet locked the door after the retreating form of the tall professor, and then, going to the little table, she sat down, and resting her thin cheeks between her hands, she cried: "it is coming, it is coming! at last i am to avenge the insults heaped upon me and mine by that scoundrel, who sends men to prison for money, for pay doled out to him by the minions of the law. dan'l, if you can look down on your old widow to-night, from your home among the stars, you will see her with tears of joy in her old eyes at thought of how she will avenge herself on your enemies. when once that girl comes into my hands, i will execute vengeance to suit myself, without regard to professor ruggles, or any other man." so it would seem that even the professor did not fully comprehend the depth of mrs. scarlet's vindictiveness toward dyke darrel. it was professor darlington ruggles who penned the letter to nell darrel that sent the unsuspecting girl to chicago to meet her brother. she was not a little surprised at not finding dyke at the depot to meet her, and consequently felt a thrill of alarm at seeing so many strange faces. why had he not come? while standing meditating on what course to pursue, a gentleman in rather seedy garments, yet withal not bad looking, stepped up and touched the girl's arm. "is this miss darrel?" "yes, sir," answered the girl, promptly, at the same time regarding the tall, sunset-haired gentleman, who bowed and lifted his tall hat, with no little curiosity. "i am oscar sims, a friend to the great detective, and ever ready to serve his handsome sister." "but, sir, i do not think that it will be at all necessary. i expect my brother at any minute, now," returned nell, with a cool hauteur, meant to be freezing. nell had heard of the villainous sharks of the great city, who lie in wait for unsuspecting maidens, and she did not mean to be taken in by one of them. mr. sims, however, seemed to be a kind gentleman, and when he looked hurt at her remark she hastened to apologize for seeming rudeness. "it is not at all necessary," said mr. sims, with a bland smile. "mr. darrel requested me to visit the depot, and look after a young lady whom he expected on the evening train from woodburg. i hope you will not distrust one who has the best interests of the great detective at heart." again the red-haired gentleman bowed, and looked smilingly into the face of the young girl. for the time, nell was thrown off her guard. "i--i expected to meet my brother," she articulated. "he said nothing about you--a stranger--meeting me at the depot." "no; and good reason why. he did not know when he wrote that it would be impossible for him to get to the depot. a slight accident----" "accident! dyke injured? then let me go to him at once," cried the impulsive girl, before the man could complete his sentence. "it is not so very bad," said mr. sims, as he led the way to the walk without, and placed his fair charge on the cushions of a hack. giving low instructions to the driver, he vaulted to the side of nell darrel, and the hack rattled away. nell sat flushed and silent for some minutes, her heart throbbing painfully. "tell me about it," she finally said to her companion. "how did it happen?" "i can't give you the particulars, since they were not given to me," answered he. "i only know that dyke met with a fall on the stone pavement, and dr. boneset says that his leg is broken. he is in considerable pain, but cheerful withal, and will be mighty glad to see nell, as he calls you." again the man smiled in the face of the girl at his side, and up to this time no suspicion of the truth flashed upon her brain. although the hack moved rapidly, it seemed to the anxious girl a long time in reaching its destination. "mr. darrel is at my house," said the gentleman, "and i live at least two miles from the depot." this was said to silence the growing uneasiness manifested by miss darrel. when at length the hack came to a halt, mr. sims quickly alighted and lifted nell darrel to the curb; then the hack sped swiftly into the night. nell gazed about her with a shudder. the low, dingy buildings and bad smell pervading the place startled her. "it cannot be that this is the place," she cried, standing firm, as he attempted to lead her toward a door, over which glimmered a faint light. "oh, yes it is." "but i will not go in there." "we'll see about that," he growled, suddenly lifting her in his arms and striding forward. chapter xviii. beaten back. the moment nell darrel felt herself lifted from her feet she uttered a wild cry, which was smothered in its inception by the hand of her captor. "quiet, child; nobody's going to hurt you if you behave yourself." nell was young and vigorous, and she made a desperate struggle for liberty. it was with the utmost difficulty that the man made his way to the room occupied by mrs. scarlet. "bring the chloroform," said the villain. "we can't do anything with the girl without it." "i'll fix her!" answered the woman, in a voice that sent a shudder to the heart of poor nell. then a subtle fume filled the girl's nostrils, and soon her senses faded out upon a sea of nothingness--her troubles were over for the time. then the man, who was none other than professor ruggles, bore his insensible burden after the steps of mrs. scarlet, to a room in a gloomy basement beneath the building. as we have before remarked, it was in a disreputable part of the city, and it was not likely that the friends of the fair nell would look in such a quarter for her. "now, then," said professor ruggles, when the twain were once more in the room above, "i shall hold you responsible for the girl's safe keeping, mrs. scarlet." "i'm ready to do my part," answered the woman. "how long will you keep her here?" "as long as suits my purpose. i am not sure. i may conclude to wait until dyke darrel is put off the trail before i take the girl to gotham; that city will be my ultimate destination. i must leave you now, my dear, but i shall call to-morrow and see how my girl is getting on." he turned then as if about to depart. "see here professor!" "eh?" he faced about once more. "haven't you forgotten something?" "i think not." "the girl must eat!" "certainly." "and do you imagine _i_ am going to pay the bill?" demanded the woman, tartly. "well, i had forgotten that a little of the root of evil was necessary in your case." a smile, deepening into a disagreeable laugh, followed, as professor ruggles laid a greenback in the hand of his tool. a moment later he was gone. as the door closed on his retreating form, the countenance of madge scarlet underwent a change. the wrinkled face flushed with wrath, and the skinny hands were raised on high. "professor ruggles, you may have successfully duped the girl, but you cannot make one of me. i can read you like a book, and it maybe that i shall conclude not to permit you to have your way in this matter. through this girl i shall be able to wring the heart of the man i hate, and i mean to do it. ah! dyke darrel, venomous scoundrel! the hour of my revenge draws nigh! i shall willingly cast my soul into hades for this one drop of satisfaction." there was an awful glitter in the woman's eyes at the last, and her fierce emotions caused her frame to tremble visibly. in the meantime, how fared it with poor nell darrel, who had gone thus blindly to her doom? she did not awake from the stupor caused by the chloroform, until another day had dawned upon the world, although but little light was permitted to find its way into this underground apartment, whose stone walls were damp with ooze, and from whence no voice could penetrate to the busy world above. a faint light entered the place from between iron bars that spanned a narrow window, far above the head of little nell darrel. the only furniture in this cellar was a straw cot, on which nell had been laid, and a low stool. the girl felt terribly sick and weak when she came to realize her condition. she could understand now the truth, when too late, that she had been enticed from home by a villain, and naturally enough her thoughts reverted to harper elliston. yet, why should she think of that man? surely he was not wicked enough to stoop to anything of this kind. nell was not to be left long in suspense, however. the door to her prison creaked on its hinges, and a man entered and stood confronting her in the gray light. it was harper elliston. there was a smile on his sinister countenance, and he stroked his beard with the coolest insolence imaginable. "how do you find yourself this morning, my dear?" questioned elliston in a low voice. "this is your work, villain!" "hush; don't speak in such a harsh tone, nell," answered mr. elliston, with a deprecatory wave of the hand. "i cannot permit you to impugn my motive, miss darrel. i claim that all is fair in love and war. you know from repeated assurances on my part that i love you; once i wished to make you my wife. blame me not if i have changed my mind on that score; it is you who have driven me to it. nevertheless, i am constrained to deal justly and kindly with you, my girl, and again offer to share my new york palace with you. could anything be more generous?" the infamy of his proposition roused all the fire in the nature of nell darrel. "harper elliston, how dare you insult me in this way? do you imagine that i would for one moment countenance anything so base? you have missed your mark if you imagine you can frighten me into consenting to my own ruin." "it may be accomplished without your consent." such a look as swept his face startled the girl. the hideous nature of the man was now revealed in all its naked deformity. she shrank from him as she would have shrunk from a venomous serpent. he continued to smile and stroke his glossy beard. "you see how it is, my dear," he proceeded. "the wisest thing you can do is to submit to the inevitable." he advanced as lie spoke. she recoiled with a shudder of wild alarm. "back, scoundrel! do not touch me!" she cried, warningly, an indignant, perhaps dangerous, fire blazing in her eye. again the demon laughed. "you seem to take my love-making hard, miss darrel." "not another step," warned nell. "ho! ho! ho! would you try to frighten me? you can't do that, i've tamed more than one such as you. come, be sensible, and let me have one kiss at least." again he advanced. click! harper elliston uttered a low yet startled cry and shrank back in alarm. a cocked derringer gleamed in the hand of nell darrel, and the open muzzle was pointed at his breast. this was as disagreeable as it was unexpected. a low-muttered oath fell from the lips of the baffled villain. "girl, have a care, that weapon may go off," he cried, in a voice husky with disappointment and rage. "it will go off if you do not depart at once," she answered, with all the sternness she was able to muster. "hand that pistol to me." "never! its contents you will get if you dare advance another step." harper elliston realized that he was baffled for the present. he had never suspected the presence of a weapon on the person of nell darrel, else he would have disarmed her at the outset. after a moment of hesitancy the villain turned and strode from the place. when nell attempted to follow she was confronted by a solid oak door that elliston had quickly closed and locked behind him. with a low moan nell retreated and sank weak and trembling on the miserable cot, and for the next few minutes gave free rein to her alarm in tears. in the meantime elliston hurried above, and confronted madge scarlet with a terrible frown on his brow. "you and that red-headed professor have played a smart trick on me, old woman, a mighty smart trick; but let me tell you it won't go down for a cent. i don't like it much, neither." "eh? i don't understand," said mrs. scarlet. "i'll make you understand," and elliston advanced angrily upon the woman, and raised his hand. "strike if you dare!" she looked ugly at that moment. "you're just capable of strikin' a woman," sneered madge scarlet. "i've seen such critters before. god never meant them for men, however." mr. elliston held his hand. he saw that he had come near making a mistake. "forgive me, mrs. scarlet," he said in a subdued voice. "i was beside myself, but i had reason to be. do you know that nell darrel is armed?" "no." "she is, nevertheless, with a pistol. she's a perfect tigress, and would as soon shoot me as not. i shall leave it for you to get the weapon from her." "i can do it easy enough." "i hope so. to-night i will have more definite plans. i may conclude to take the girl away then." mr. elliston passed from the room. he had been gone but a few minutes when another person entered--nick brower, the tool and friend of mrs. scarlet and the professor. "well, what's the news, nick. my nephew is still in durance vile?" "yes," answered the low ruffian, "and what's more, dyke darrel, the detective, is in chicago!" chapter xix. the detective fooled. two men met unexpectedly in one of the hotel corridors of the great city; two hands went out, and "how are you, harry?" "how are you, dyke, old boy?" "when did you leave st. louis?" this from the detective. "not long since. i am confident that our game is in this vicinity. i meant to come down to woodburg soon, and consult with you. i sent a telegram, but it brought no answer from you." "i wasn't at home. it was placed in my hands yesterday." "and that is why you are here?" "not wholly." there was a gloomy look on the face of the detective, not natural to it, and young bernard knew that something had gone decidedly wrong with his detective friend. "it is about nell," said dyke darrel, when questioned. "she came to the city last evening, in answer to a letter purporting to come from me. the letter was a decoy from some villain, and i fear that nell has met with a terrible fate." a groan came at the last. harry bernard's face blanched, and he, too, seemed excited and deeply moved. the keen eyes of dyke darrel noticed the young man's emotion, and he felt a suspicion growing stronger each moment. "nell in the city--decoyed!" exclaimed harry at length. "great heaven! dyke, this is awful!" "it is." then the detective laid his hand on the young man's shoulder, and piercing him with a stern look, said in an awful voice: "harry bernard, on your honor as a man, what do you know of this enticing of nell to the city?" "what do i know?" "yes; what do you know?" there was a stern ring in the detective's voice, not to be mistaken. "i know only what you have just told me, dyke." "this is the truth?" "good heaven! dyke darrel, do you imagine that _i_ had aught to do with enticing your sister to this wicked city? my soul! you do not understand the feeling that animates my heart for nell darrel. i hope you will not insult me again with a suspicion so haggard and awful." the hurt look resting on the face of the young amateur detective was sufficient to convince dyke darrel that harry bernard spoke the truth, and this knowledge only increased his uneasiness. "i am fearful some terrible ill has befallen nell," groaned dyke. "my friend," said harry, "we must let all other matters rest until we find the girl. i have a suspicion that may lead to something definite. let me tell you now, that during the past year you have warmed a serpent in your bosom in the person of harper elliston. i have never, until now, dared make this assertion in your presence, knowing as i did the great respect you had for the oily-tongued fellow. the time for plain speaking has come, however." "i shall take no offense." "no! i am glad to hear you say that. come to my room, dyke, and i will tell you something that may open your eyes a little." the detective complied, and when they were seated harry poured out his confidence. "i am glad you have been thus frank with me, harry," said the detective when his friend had finished. "i have heard enough of late to convince me that elliston is a wolf in sheep's clothing!" "and that is one point gained." "it is." "and i believe that it was elliston who penned the decoy letter." "i am more than half convinced that such is the case," admitted dyke darrel. "have you investigated?" "thoroughly, since i came into town. i learned that nell got off at the depot, and that she met a red-haired man, and entered a hack with him. after that all is blank." "that confirms my suspicions, dyke." "what is that?" "this man with the florid looks meeting nell, and going away from the depot in her company, professor ruggles, is a friend of elliston's." "indeed!" "it is true. i believe before another day passes, the place of the girl's seclusion can be found. down on clark street is mother scarlet's place, a played-out old hag, and she has been hand and glove with this red-haired man for some time." "mother scarlet!" exclaimed the detective. "i have met her; she is the aunt of the martin skidway who is now serving out the remainder of his term for counterfeiting." "the same, i suppose. i move that we visit her den, and see what we can find." "agreed. let us go at once." dyke darrel came to his feet. "one moment, dyke." "well." "you are too well known by the crooks of this city to move about without disguise." "i will fix that. i will meet you again in an hour." and then dyke darrel hurried away. it was almost dark when two men, one old and gray, with a hump on his shoulder, called at a dingy old brick on clark street and rapped on a narrow door that opened into an alley. no answer was vouchsafed. then the old man turned the knob, but the door refused to yield. "what's wanted, you fellers?" the voice came from behind the two men. turning, they saw a stout, ill-looking fellow, with unkempt hair and beard, peering in at them from the street. "ain't this the house where mrs. scarlet stops," questioned the elderly man. "mebbe 'tis." "where's the woman now?" "bless your soul, old man, i don't know. better call agin; she's allus in evenings," suggested the man at the edge of the street. "mebbe we had," grunted the old man at the door. then he and his companion moved out of the alley. they went but a little way when they came to a full stop, and entered into a low confab. a pair of keen eyes was watching them during the time, however, and a little later the man who had addressed the two strangers walked away. he passed to the rear of the block, and made his way by a back stairs to a room on the first floor. here he found the one he was seeking-- mrs. scarlet--who was engaged in discussing a supper of bread and beer. she was alone. "eh? so you're here again, nick? did he send ye?" "the professor?" "who else should i mean?" "wall, he didn't, then. i seed a couple of blokes in the alley jist now, and they 'quired for you." "why didn't you send 'em up?" and the woman laughed in a way that revealed her ragged teeth and unwholesome gums. "they'll be back soon 'nough," answered the man. "i've an idee they mean mischief. better you go below and see 'em when they do come." "all right." about an hour after darkness had settled, while madge scarlet sat in the lower room, the one in which we have so many times met her, the door was unceremoniously opened, and a man crossed the threshold. an old man he was, with bent form and white hair, a hump disfiguring his shoulder, his trembling right hand resting on the top of a cane. "good evening, mistress." the old man, who had closed the door sharply to behind him, sank to a rickety chair as he uttered the greeting. "i don't know you," retorted madge scarlet sharply. "haven't you got into the wrong house?" "well, i dunno," whined the man in a sharp falsetto voice. "i reckon if you're mistress scarlet, you're the one i'm to see." "i'm not ashamed to own to the name, old man. let's have your business at once." "i'm pretty much broke up since i came out of the bastile," said the old man. "'taint jest the place for a gentleman, i can tell you that. it's mighty down-settin' on one's pride, which i had a heap of afore i was sent to abide there." "who are you and what are you driving at?" mrs. scarlet asked the question with a puzzled stare. she was possessed of a very suspicious nature, and she was not ready to accept a person on outward appearance alone. "i'm william sugg, from missoury," the old man answered promptly. "i came all the way to shecargo to see the aunt of a friend. mebbe you'll understand when i tell you, that martin skidway was one of the best friends an old man like me had in the bastile." the name of her nephew opened the way to madge scarlet's heart at once. she questioned mr. sugg about the young man, and he answered her with the assurance that they had been inmates of the same prison, and that martin was losing flesh rapidly from melancholy. "it's the doings of that devil, dyke darrel," cried mrs. scarlet, losing her temper at thought of her troubles. "i've kind o' thought, bein' as i was in shecargy, i'd look up a boardin' place and stay a spell. i've heerd that you have rooms to rent?" "i have, to the right ones." "will you show me some?" "certainly." mrs. scarlet rose and lifted a lamp from the table. "come this way." as the woman led the way through a back door, into another apartment, a pair of strong hands suddenly seized and held her fast, while a voice hissed in her ear: "not a sound or you die!" it was a startling situation. "i am here for a purpose," said the old man, a sudden change in his voice. "i want you to lead me to the room in which nell darrel is confined." the man's hands fell from the woman's shoulders, and when she turned about, she found that he had her covered with a revolver. his voice sounded familiar. "you're the detective, dyke darrel?" "it matters not. show me the way to the room where you have nell darrel imprisoned," uttered the man in a stern voice. the menacing revolver decided the woman. the old building had been arranged for emergencies of this kind, as the sequel will show. a strange glitter came to the eyes of mrs. scarlet as she said: "who told you that nell darrel was in this house?" "it matters not. lead the way at once, or it will be the worse for you." "you dare not harm me." "i'll show you, if you attempt to play me false. a dozen policemen have their eyes on this building at this moment." "come on." the woman turned and walked forward. she passed into a hall, and halting at a side door, unlocked it and pushed it open. "in there." "go on. you shall keep me company." mrs. scarlet advanced, closely followed by the detective. the moment he crossed the threshold the door closed behind him, and the lamp was extinguished, leaving everything in total darkness. then the detective felt the floor give way, and he was precipitated to his doom, the last sound reaching his ears being a mocking laugh from aunt scarlet. chapter xx. overmatched by a girl. a low chuckle fell from the lips of madge scarlet. "i reckon you've met your match this time, dyke darrel. i will now enjoy the sweetest revenge; it will be like honey to my blistered tongue. you've done your last shadowing of your betters. dan'l, husband, you shall be avenged before to-morrow's sun rises over chicago." lighting her lamp, the woman fiend bent down and peered through a square opening in the floor to the depths below. it was too far down for the rays of light to penetrate, but she could well imagine that a mangled form lay directly below on the stone floor. a faint groan reached her ears. "ha! he's coming to his senses. i must see that he don't outwit aunt madge yet." then replacing the trap, the woman left the place, and a little later descended a narrow stairs and entered the room beneath the trap. there on the stone floor lay the pretended old man, gasping in pain, yet not able to help himself. quickly madge scarlet bent over the prostrate and helpless victim of her cunning, and began binding his limbs with a stout cord that she had brought with her for the purpose. in a little time the work was completed, and mrs. scarlet stood up with her arms akimbo viewing her work, a satisfied smile playing about the toothless lips. "i'll peel you, so't there'll be no deception hereafter," muttered the she fiend; and suiting actions to words, she tore the disguise from the detective's head and face and flung it aside. "thought to fool the old woman, eh?" a curdling laugh followed. after gloating over the detective for some time, madge scarlet picked up her lamp and turned away, a feeling of intense satisfaction in her heart at the knowledge that she had her enemies so completely at her mercy. it was satisfaction for one day at least. the woman passed through two basement rooms, unlocking and locking doors, until she at length stood in the presence of nell darrel. "i ain't here with supper, madam," sneered the woman, as nell started up and approached her. "you're not to have a mouthful to eat jest at present; that's the compliments your husband sends." but nell did not seem to appreciate the gross wit of her keeper. "i am not hungry, woman, but i appeal to you to permit me to go from this place. i shall die here in a short time." "die then! nothing would please me better than to witness your last struggles," and mrs. scarlet emitted a laugh that was horrible to hear. nell had much of the determined spirit of her daring brother in her composition. she was not yet ready to give up all hope and fall crushed in despair. her right hand grasped the butt of the little derringer she had been thoughtful enough to provide herself with before leaving home. "will nothing move you, woman?" "nothing," sneered mrs. scarlet. "your brother sent my husband to a dungeon, and to his death, and for that and other wicked work of his, i mean to be avenged. i shall cause him to suffer through his sister. you imagine the handsome elliston a monster, i reckon, but _i_ will show you that he is but a child compared to madge scarlet." "stop; i do not care to listen to you. please hand over the keys to this den of demons." a cocked pistol was brought forward to emphasize the fair prisoner's demand. a sneering laugh answered the girl's demand. madge scarlet did not seem to look upon the weapon as a dangerous one. "quick! i have no time to parley. fling down the keys--toss them to the door yonder, then take your place in yonder corner. do you hear me?" so stern was the girl's voice, so full of intense meaning, as to amaze the infamous woman who confronted her. "this is all a joke----." "it will prove a dear joke to you if you don't obey. stop. one step toward me and i fire! i am in deadly earnest." and the sneering madge scarlet realized that she was. it was a most humiliating position. once the woman thought of making a quick spring, but a pressure of the trigger was all that was necessary to send a bullet on an errand of death. with reluctance the woman drew a bundle of keys from her pocket and flung them to the floor behind her, and close to the door that stood ajar. "don't be so spiteful. now, then, go to that corner. move quickly!" the girl still threatened her keeper with the cocked derringer, and she crossed the floor with a growl that was not pleasant to hear. "there, that is about right." then nell darrel backed to the door, snatched up the bunch of keys and lamp, passed into the next room, securing the door just as the hag from within came against it with tremendous force, at the same time uttering a series of the most ear-splitting yells. the door failed to yield, and nell now hastened to improve her opportunity for escape that the carelessness of mrs. scarlet had given her. chapter xxi. a bout in the cellar. it was a stout tin lamp that the fleeing girl held in her hand, and the blaze filled the subterranean apartment but dimly. she found herself in a square room, larger than the one she had just left. advancing to a door she tried it, to find it locked. this was made to yield, however, by one of the bunch of keys, and she proceeded to another door that stood ajar. "help!" it was a smothered cry that reached the girl's ears, and quite startled her. the sound came from the next apartment. for a minute nell darrel hesitated. she reasoned that she had nothing to fear from the hag who kept the place, and one who was in need of help certainly could not be a friend to mrs. scarlet, or those who profited by the old woman's villainy. "help!" again came that cry, and nell moved forward, pushed open the door and flashed her light over the scene--a room much smaller than the one she had just quitted. a dark object writhing on the floor startled her vision. "old woman, do you mean to murder me here?" the man seemed to imagine that the new comer was the hag who kept the place. with trembling step nell darrel advanced and flashed her light into the face of a bound and helpless prisoner. "mercy! it is dyke!" stunned at the discovery, nell was completely overcome for the time, and stood with arms extended like one petrified. "nell, is it you?" cried the yet stunned detective. "where is the old hag who rules this den of iniquity?" "back yonder, safely locked in a room," said nell, when she could find voice. "and you did it?" "yes." "cut these cords, brave girl, and we will soon be out of this." placing her lamp on a box near, nell darrel proceeded to comply with the request of her brother. she had with her a small open knife, and this came into play neatly enough. soon the detective's limbs were free. he found when he attempted to rise, that he was unable to do so. "i received a bad fall," he said, with a groan. "lend me a hand, nell, and we will get out of this before friends of that woman come to her rescue." nell assisted her brother to his feet. he groaned with pain, for it seemed to him as though every bone in his body was broken. "i was a fool to run into such a trap," he muttered. "can you walk, brother?" "i can make a desperate try at any rate," uttered the detective, grimly. then, assisted by nell's arm, he hobbled across the floor toward a narrow stairs that promised them passage to rooms above. the beard and wig were left in the cellar. the sound of steps on the floor overhead brought brother and sister to a sudden halt. "hark!" "some one is coming," uttered nell. "it seems so." then the sound of an opening door startled them. "it's strange that madge has left everything in such a careless way," said a masculine voice. "ho! madge, where are you?" "hold up thar," uttered another voice. "i reckin the old gal know'd what she was doin'. thar's some skulduggery goin' on down here, or my name ain't nick brower. i seed an old bloke come in, and 'twixt me an you, professor, it was the man you'n me would give more to see out of the world than in it." "you mean dyke darrel, the detective?" "i couldn't mean anybody else." "come on, then, let's investigate." "extinguish your light, nell," cried dyke darrel, in a thrilling whisper. the girl did so at once, but the men above flashed a light into the basement room, and soon steps were heard descending the stairs. dyke felt over his person to discover that mother scarlet had been prudent enough to deprive him of arms. nell, white as death, yet with a determined look in her eyes, clinched her derringer firmly, and with close-shut teeth waited the denouement. "if we could only get under the stairs," said the detective, in a low voice. they made a move to carry out his suggestion, but it was too late. "ha!" this exclamation fell from the lips of the foremost man of three who were descending the narrow stairs. the outcry was caused at seeing two forms gliding across the stone floor toward the stairs. "quick! hold up there, or we fire!" cried a sharp voice. then the three men rapidly descended to the floor and confronted nell and the detective. three revolvers were leveled, and death literally stared brother and sister in the face. "caught, by the powers," sneered lips above a massive red beard, and professor darlington ruggles' eyes glittered with intense satisfaction as they peered into the face of the famous railroad detective. had dyke darrel been in the full vigor of his manly strength, and nell not by to unnerve him, his chances for escape would have been tenfold greater. as it was, a terrible weakness oppressed him. his fall into the basement had jarred him terribly, and it was with difficulty that he could stand alone. the walls seemed to whirl about in a mad waltz, and the faces of the three villains seemed one mass of grinning demons. "halt!" nell darrel, white as death, yet with the fires of a resolute purpose blazing in her eyes, thrust forward her pistol. "it's pretty nell on a lark!" exclaimed professor ruggles. "it will be better for you not to make any resistance, for the moment you attempt it, that moment death will come to both of you. be wise in time." the professor advanced a step. "stop there," sternly ordered the girl. "aye! stop there," repeated dyke, in a voice husky from very weakness. "we will not be taken alive. do you know on what dangerous grounds you are treading? this block is surrounded by members of the force, and any harm offered to nell or myself speedily avenged." a jeering laugh answered the detective. "it is wrong to tell such a whopper, mr. darrel, especially when one is on the verge of eternity," said ruggles, showing his teeth. the situation was interesting. "will you permit us to depart from here?" questioned the detective, suddenly. this speech brought a laugh to the lips of darlington ruggles. "you do not seem to know me!" he said. "i know that you pretend to be a professor of some sort, but i believe that you are in disguise. i think, if you would cast aside that red hirsute covering, we should see----" "zounds! go for him, boys," cried professor ruggles in a loud voice, completely drowning the faint accents of dyke darrel. the two men who kept the professor company, made a quick move to seize the twain in front of them. on the instant came a flash and sharp report. one of the villains staggered and sank with a groan against the stairs. "i--i'm shot!" he gasped. "the she jade!" it was nick brower who uttered the hissing cry of rage, and the next instant the villain's revolver flashed. "my god! you have killed nell!" it was a cry expressive of the deepest agony, as the weak and reeling detective caught the form of his sister in his arms, as she fell backward, with the blood streaming down her face. poor nell! she hung a dead weight in the arms of dyke darrel--murdered by the hand of a brutal assassin. no wonder the bruised and almost helpless man-hunter groaned with inward anguish at the sight. he fell no easy prey into the hands of his enemies, however. staggering backward, and easing his bleeding relative to the ground, he turned with a mad cry and dashed at the throat of professor darlington ruggles. both men staggered across the floor against the stairs. "i will strangle you for this," hissed the enraged detective. "help!" gasped ruggles. brower came to his assistance with a vengeance, and rained terrific blows upon the head of dyke darrel with the butt of his revolver. soon the mad grip relaxed from the throat of ruggles, and dyke darrel sank a bleeding and insensible mass to the floor. panting and gasping, professor ruggles leaned against the stairs and gazed about him in the gloom. the lamp had been overturned in the struggle, and at the last, darkness reigned supreme. "i've fixed him, professor," growled nick brower, in a savage undertone. "i hope so, the devil. he went for me with the venom of a tiger. have you a match?" "yes." "let's have a light. i'm afraid you have done a miserable job, nick." inside of five minutes the overturned lamp was recovered and burning once more. its rays revealed a ghastly scene. two forms lay on the floor, dyke darrel and nell, both apparently dead. nick's companion, who had screamed so lustily at the fire from nell darrel's derringer, still leaned against the stairs seeming little the worse for wear. "mike, where are you hit?" "don't know. i felt the bullet goin' through my brains." a brief examination showed that the man had only been grazed by the shot from the girl's pistol. when this discovery was made professor ruggles became very angry. "you made more fuss than a man shot through the neck ought to. the girl has been killed in consequence. hades! this has been a bad evening's work. i would rather have lost a thousand dollars than had nell darrel slain." "she wan't wuth no sich money," growled brower. "how do you know what she was worth, you miserable brute?" snarled the professor, in an angry voice. "i take it, that i know more about it than you do." "see here, boss, aren't you goin' on a bin run for nothin'? whar'd you be now if i hadn't gin dyke darrel his quietus? mebbe you'd better thank instead of curse your friend." there was a deal of homely sense in the words of burly nick brower, and the prince of villains realized it. "i wanted the girl unharmed, nick. if she's dead i don't suppose it can be helped, however; she brought her fate upon herself." "that she did, prof." professor ruggles then proceeded to make an examination of the wound in nell darrel's head. he was gratified to discover that the bullet had merely glanced across the girl's skull without making a necessarily dangerous wound. "i will take the girl out of this while you dispose of the detective," said ruggles. "be sure and fix him so that he will give no trouble in the future." "trust me fur thet," answered the villain brower. then professor ruggles passed up the stairs with nell darrel in his arms, just as four men halted at the side door in the alley. chapter xxii. the empty seat. a hand shook the door as professor ruggles entered the room. he at once suspected something wrong, but cared only for his own safety, and so did not attempt to warn the inmates of mrs. scarlet's den of their danger. he hurried to the rear of the block, down an upper hall, and as he was passing into an alley down the back stairs, the four men had burst in the side door and rushed into madge scarlet's dingy sitting-room. "the beaks are out in force, it seems," muttered ruggles, as he halted for a moment on the ground to rest from his exertion. "i hope nick and that fool pard of his will finish dyke darrel before the cops get onto them. as for me, i shall turn my back on this accursed town the moment i am assured that nell is out of danger. i will be quite secure in new york, i imagine." and the red-haired villain made his escape from that building and, leaving his charge in an out-of-the-way alley, went forth to find a conveyance to take the wounded girl to a more safe retreat. he succeeded in finding a hack that suited his purpose, and with his insensible companion he was driven to another part of the city, on the west side. ruggles had more than one resort in the great western metropolis, and after he had placed nell in a cozy room, with an old negress to watch over her, he breathed easy once more. nell darrel was badly injured, and for several days she raved in delirium. when she came to her senses she was weak and almost helpless. during all this time the black tool of darlington ruggles cared for her in a most kindly manner. the negress had been instructed to do all in her power for the girl, who, the professor assured her, was a near relative who was not wholly sound in mind, and this fact, combined with an accident, had brought on the trouble from which she was now suffering. "poor little lily," murmured the negress, in a sympathetic tone, when the girl was able to sit up and look about her. "where am i?" demanded nell. "youse in good hands, chile," answered the black woman. "your cousin says he'll take you outen dis soon's you can trabbel." "my cousin?" nell stared at the black, seemingly honest face in wonder. of a sudden the memory of the adventure in the basement on clark street came to the girl as a light from a clouded sky. she had indeed been under a cloud for a long time, and had no means of judging of the passage of time. what had happened during all this while? what fate had been her brother's? a feeling of deepest anxiety filled the girl's breast. ere she could find voice for more words, however, the door opened and a man entered the room. a low, alarmed cry fell from the lips of nell darrel. before her stood harper elliston, smiling and plucking at his beard, which was but a mere stubble now, he having shaved since she had met him last. "ah, nell, you are looking bright; i trust that you feel better. you have been very sick. how does your head feel?" for the first time the girl realized that there was a sore spot under her hair at the side of her head. she touched it with her hand, and seemed surprised. "you have forgotten, doubtless," he said. "you were rescued from a band of villains nearly a fortnight since. it seems that one of them must have fired at you, since there was a slight wound where you just put your hand, that was doubtless made by a bullet." nell darrel was beginning to remember the scene in the cellar. "i was rescued, you say? who were the rescuers?" "myself among others. i think you may safely acknowledge that you owe your life to me," said the new yorker coolly. "and dyke?" questioned nell with intense eagerness. "was saved also, but he is badly hurt, and will be laid up for a month or more. he is in one of the city hospitals." "oh, sir, i am thankful it is no worse. what have they done with the villains, that sleek one with the red hair and beard?" "they are all in prison, and will be brought to court as soon as the witnesses are in a condition to appear against them." "the witnesses?" "dyke darrel and yourself." "can i go to dyke?" "hardly," he answered with a smile. "you could not walk, that is certain, and i am sure to attempt to ride would prove a dangerous experiment. i am too deeply interested in your welfare to permit the attempt." "but i am quite strong, i assure you," returned nell, rising to her feet only to sink back again with a cry of piteous weakness. "you see, it would not do to attempt leaving your room at present," said the villain, still smiling. besides, there is no need of it. your brother is doing as well as could be expected, and he has the assurance that you are out of danger, which has proved a great comfort to him, i assure you. "well, i suppose i ought to be thankful," sighed nell, with tears in her dark eyes. "i cannot understand it all just now. it seems strange that i should be subject to such treatment. do you know the man sims?" "sims?" "the one with the red beard and hair. he met me at the depot." "exactly. i cannot say that i know the fellow, but i suspect he is a scoundrel of the first water. don't bother your head about these things now, nell. try and get rested and strong, so that you can get from here and back to your own home as soon as possible. i hope you do not fear to trust me?" he eyed her keenly at the last. she was too weak to fully realize the enormity of this man's offense. she knew nothing of his connection with, the ruffians who made of mrs. scarlet's building a rendezvous; she only knew that he had been indiscreet and insulting once, when in liquor, but of this he might have repented long since. at any rate, he seemed to be doing her a good turn now, and she could do no other way than trust him. "i am still puzzled about one thing," she said, seeming to forget the question he had propounded. "what is that?" asked elliston. "why was i brought here?" "simply because you were not able to be taken home." "but the hospital----" "was no place for a lady. i realized that you needed the best of care, and knowing aunt venus was a kind, motherly soul, an excellent nurse, even though she had a black skin, i brought you here." "and here i've been--how long?" "about fourteen days." "so long?' "you are surprised?" "it doesn't seem a day." "i suppose not. you haven't been in your right mind any of the time. have you any word to send to dyke?" "are you going to him soon?" "immediately. i call at the hospital every day to inquire after the dear boy, and i haven't been there this morning." his voice was gentle, and there was a moist light in his dark eyes. it was barely possible that she had wronged the new yorker, and the thought caused a pang. in the time to come she would confess her obligations, but now she was not in a mood for it. "if i could write a line it would do him more good than aught else," said nell. "can you control your hand?" "oh, yes, easily." "then you shall write the dear boy. as you say, it will be of immense benefit to him." mr. elliston drew forth from an inner pocket a book. opening it he tore out a leaf and placed it, with pencil, in the lap of the invalid girl. it was not without difficulty that she controlled her hand sufficiently to write. taking the folded note elliston bade her good morning and passed from the room. the moment he gained the street he tore the bit of paper to fragments, a smile glinting over his face meantime. "so much for that," he muttered. "nell is about in the right trim for removal, and i must not delay another day. simple little thing! she believed every word that i told her regarding the outcome of that racket on clark street. what an opinion she would have of me if she knew the exact truth. i must get me to gotham immediately. my funds are running low, and she must replenish them. i haven't seen aunt scarlet since the racket. i hope she got her quietus. i believe i have had quite enough of her disinterested assistance; quite enough of it." and yet the scheming gentleman was to receive more of the clark street hag's assistance in the future, and in a way that was not just exactly pleasant, than he imagined. * * * * * night hung its sable mantle over the earth. a silver moon rode in a clear sky, and the lightning express rattled down through the night with a hiss and screech that rent the silence with an uncanny sound. the train was speeding through the empire state, and when morning dawned, with no accident happening, it would come thundering into the great city by the sea. two persons occupying a seat in the car next the sleeper merit our attention. one is a heavily-veiled lady, apparently sleeping, since her head reclines against the back of the seat, and a low breathing is heard, or might be but for the noise made by the train rattling over the steel rails. who is the woman? no need to ask when we note the fact that the man sitting there possesses red hair and beard--the irrepressible professor darlington ruggles, of chicago. he has been eminently successful thus far in his plot for the safe abduction of nell darrel. under the influence of a powerful drug he conveyed her to the station, and set out on the previous day for the east. his companion was an invalid sister, who was in a comatose state a portion of the time as the result of her ill health. this was the story told by the professor to inquisitive people, and the truth did not come to the surface. travelers, who become accustomed to seeing all sorts of people, are not often suspicious. the villain was more successful than he could have hoped. within a few hours he would be in new york, and then he felt that he could bid defiance to pursuit. it was now past midnight. the man from chicago felt a deep drowsiness stealing over him. he wished to shake it off, and so, rising and seeing only people in an unconscious state about him, he concluded to go into the smoking-car and enjoy a cigar. he began to feel nervous, and such a stimulant seemed absolutely necessary. the train drew into a station, paused less than a minute, and then went swiftly on its way. calmly the scheming villain sat and puffed at his cigar until it was more than half consumed, then he tossed the stump through the open window, and once more he passed into the other car. when he gained the seat he had lately occupied, he could not suppress a cry of startled wonder. the seat was empty! he had left nell darrel there not more than twenty minutes since, drugged into complete insensibility. she could not have gone from the seat of her own volition. an indefinable thrill of fear stole over the stalwart frame of professor darlington ruggles. he glanced up and down the car; the girl was not in sight. but one person was awake, an old man, who said: "lookin' fur the young lady?" the professor nodded. "she got off't last station." "got off? how--" "she had help, of course," explained the old passenger, quickly. "who helped her?" cried ruggles, in a husky voice. "an old woman, who got on and off at the last station quick's wink." chapter xxiii. dyke darrel on the trail. the men who burst into aunt scarlet's room on the night that professor ruggles departed from the block with nell darrel in his arms, were men of determination and friends of the detective, who had gone into the building in the disguise of an old man, for the purpose of investigating. how the investigation came out the reader has been already informed. the report of pistols had warned harry bernard, the boy paul ender, and two officers in their company, that something of an interesting nature was going on in the basement of the scarlet block. "dyke is in difficulty, that is sure," cried harry, in an excited voice. "we must get inside at once." they tried the side door, to find it locked. it was through this door that they had seen the bold detective disappear, and it was in the same direction that the four men proposed to go in search of their daring friend. the room was in darkness, but paul soon had the rays of a dark lantern flashing about the place. "let us move with caution," said harry, taking the lead, and entering the hall through the doorway which ruggles, in his hasty flight, had left open. soon voices greeted them from the basement, and a light glimmered through a half-open door at the head of the stairs. "if we could only put him under down here," said a voice, which the reader will recognize as that of nick brower, the villainous accomplice of professor ruggles from the opening of our story. "wal, i reckin we kin," said the villainous companion of brower. as he spoke, he went to the side of the fallen man-hunter, and placed the point of a knife against his throat. "what now, pard? "dead men tell no tales, nick." "true. send it home---" spang! the sharp report of a revolver wake the echoes once more. the knife dropped from the nerveless grasp of the would-be assassin, and with a howl of pain he began dancing an irish jig on the stone floor of the cellar. nick brower whirled instantly, snatched a revolver from his hip, to find that four glittering bulldogs confronted him from the stairs. "drop that weapon, or we will drop you!" thundered harry bernard in a stern voice. "trapped!" cried brower, in a despairing voice. then the four men moved down into the cellar and secured brower and his companion. "we have made a good haul," said one of the police officers who accompanied bernard and paul, who recognized in brower an old offender. harry bernard bent quickly and anxiously over the prostrate detective. "my soul!" uttered the young man, "the villains have killed poor darrel, i do believe." but the young man's belief was unfounded, since some time later dyke darrel came to his senses. he was in a bad condition, however, and those who saw him predicted that the detective had followed his last trail. a search of the building brought to light madge scarlet, who was fuming angrily over her imprisonment. "how did this happen?" demanded bernard, sternly, when he came to question the hag. she was sullen, however, and refused to answer. "i imagine there is a way to bring your tongue into working order," said bernard, in a stern voice. "i keep a respectable house, sir; you can't harm me." "we'll see about that." "did you find any one?" questioned the jezabel in an apparently careless tone. "we have two of your friends in limbo," returned harry. "you will find it no holiday affair to keep a house for the purpose of murder and robbery. never mind, you need say nothing, for it will not better matters in the least. come;" and harry bernard led the old woman from the cellar. a patrol wagon bore the prisoners to the lock-up, and bernard had dyke darrel taken to a private hospital, where he could have the best of care. it was some days, however, before the badly battered detective came to his senses sufficiently to converse on the subject of the racket in the building on clark street. "my soul! harry, has nothing been discovered of poor nell?--was she killed?" questioned the wounded man in a voice wrung with anguish. "i don't think nell was mortally hurt," returned bernard in a reassuring tone, although he hardly felt hopeful himself. "if she was, why should the villains have taken her away, or the villain rather, since, from your account, i judge that but one of them escaped, and he the man with the red hair." "yes, he seemed the chief scoundrel among them. i heard him called professor ruggles." "he is about as much a professor as i am," answered bernard. "he is the man we want for that midnight crime on the express train. i have evidence enough now, dyke, to prove that this man is the guilty principal, and i also believe that one of his accomplices is now in prison." "indeed!" and then the detective groaned in anguish of spirit and of body. it was hard to lay here, helpless as a child, while the fate of nell was uncertain, and there was so much need for a keen detective to be afloat. harry realized how his friend suffered, and soothed him as best he could. "leave no stone unturned to find her, harry," urged the detective. "if you do find and save her, great shall be your reward. if she is dead, then i will see about avenging the deed." "and in that you will not be alone," assured harry bernard, a moist light glittering in his eye. even dyke darrel did not suspect how deeply his young friend was interested in the fate of nell. the days dragged into weeks ere dyke darrel was able to be on his feet again. he was not very strong when he once more took it upon himself to hunt down the scoundrels who had wrecked his happy home. even the railroad crime was forgotten for the time, so intense was his interest centered in the fate of his sister. if not dead, dyke darrel believed she had met with a far worse fate, and it was this thought that nerved him to think of doing desperate work should the cruel abductor ever come before him. madge scarlet was dismissed after an examination, but nick brower and his companion were held to await the action of a higher court. one morning the pallid man in brown suit who had haunted the various depots of the city for several days made a discovery. on one of the early morning trains a man and veiled female had taken passage east. dyke darrel trembled with intense excitement when the depot policeman told him of this. "only this morning, you say?" "it was on one of the earliest trains, i believe, this morning. "a new york train?" "i am not sure. i see so many people, you know. you might inquire at the ticket office." dyke darrel did so. no ticket for new york had been sold that morning. then the policeman said that it was possible he might have been mistaken as to the time. it might have been on the previous day he saw the man and his invalid sister. "do you know that they took the new york train?" questioned dyke. "no; i'm not positive about that, either. you might telegraph ahead and find if such a couple is on the train." this was a wise suggestion. dyke acted upon it, but failed to derive any satisfaction. and there was good reason for this, since when leaving chicago a dark man, with smooth face and gray-tinged hair, accompanied nell darrel; whereas, before reaching the borders of new york state, the place of this man had been taken by a man with red beard and hair, blue glasses, and a well-worn silk plug. this change disturbed identities completely. the change had been made at a way station, without causing remark among the passengers, the most of whom were not through for the great city. once new york whelmed them, the scheming villain and poor nell would be lost forever to the man-tracker of the west. there was a suspicion in the brain of dyke darrel that he scarcely dared whisper to his own consciousness. it was that harper elliston had a hand in the late villainy. the detective's eyes were open at last, and he realized that his new york friend was not what he seemed. it was this fact that induced dyke darrel to believe that the abductor of nell had turned his face toward the american metropolis. at once he made search for harry bernard and paul ender. neither of them was he able to find, and he had not seen them for two days previous. it did not matter, however. leaving word at the hotel that he had gone to new york, dyke darrel once more hastened to the depot, arriving just in time to leap aboard the express headed for the atlantic seaboard. the train that had left four hours earlier was almost as fast as the one taken by the detective, so that if no accident happened to the earlier train, there could be little hope of running down his prey before new york was reached. nevertheless, dyke darrel preserved a hopeful heart, in spite of the terrible anxiety that oppressed him. the woman who had but a few days before been released from prison was destined to complicate matters and bring about startling and unexpected meetings, as the future will reveal. when night fell dyke darrel found himself yet hundreds of miles from the goal of his hopes and fears. chapter xxiv. a race for life. as may be supposed, professor ruggles was deeply stunned at the coup de main that had deprived him of his fair charge. who had robbed him? this was the question that at once suggested itself to his mind, and he found it not difficult to frame an answer, although, until this moment, he had supposed that madge scarlet was still in prison. "it must be her," he muttered, as he gazed madly at the vacant seat. "i'm sure it was her," said the old man who had first spoken. "a queer, wrinkled old woman, too, she was." "did she say anything?" "not a word." mr. ruggles passed into the next car, hoping to find nell and the strange old woman there. he went the whole length of the swift-moving train, only to learn that his fair captive had been spirited away completely. at first rage consumed the man's senses, and he scarcely realized the dangers of his position. "i will not give up to such a sneak game," he muttered at length. "madge scarlet has shadowed me for this very purpose, it seems. can it be possible that the friends of nell darrel have employed this hag to rob me of my prize? i will not believe it, for it isn't in the nature of madge scarlet to do a good action, not even for pay. no; it is to gratify her own petty scheme of vengeance that she has stolen a march on me; but she will not succeed. i will get on her track and wrest the girl from her hands." a minute later professor ruggles stood before the conductor. "when does the next train pass going west?" "it passes galien in an hour." "galien? do you stop there?" "yes." "soon?" "within five minutes." when the train slowed in at the station, professor ruggles left the car and entered the depot. here he would have to wait nearly an hour before the new york train west would pass. it was a tedious wait; but he could do no better. with his hand satchel clutched tightly he paced up and down like a ghost of the night. he was glad indeed when the train came at length thundering up to the station, he had purchased a ticket for the station from which the abductress had boarded the cars and stolen nell. with feverish blood the scheming villain sat by the window and watched the fleeting landscape by the light of the moon. the score of miles that intervened between the station seemed like a hundred to the anxious man who sat and glared at the trees and hills without. he was in extreme doubt as to his ability to cope with the cunning hag who had ventured so many miles to thwart him, and indulge her own morbid desire for revenge. at length the whistle sounded announcing the station. as the train bolted beside another train, bound in the opposite direction, ruggles glanced into the car not ten feet distant, to make a startling discovery. he looked squarely into the face of dyke darrel, the railroad detective! turning his head, the professor sat quiet. the other train was moving, and ruggles felt paralyzed at his discovery. perhaps the detective had not noticed him. he could not understand how the detective had escaped death from the beating he had received in the basement of that building of sin on clark street. his own train was moving now, and if he would get off he must be quick about it. springing from his seat, he hastened down the aisle. at the open door he met dyke darrel face to face! the recognition was mutual. the train was moving rapidly out of the station. soon it would be going at full speed. professor ruggles had two incentives for leaving the train now--one to escape the detective, the other to find nell and madge scarlet. at first he thought of dashing upon dyke darrel and risking all in a swift rush. second thought, induced by the gleam of a six-shooter in the hand of his enemy, concluded the professor to seek another course. turning, he dashed down the length of the car, with darrel in hot pursuit. "halt, or i fire!" but the detective's cry had no effect. the half-sleeping passengers were roused by the wonderful movements of the two men. "madmen!" "what is the trouble?" such were the exclamations, as doors slammed, and the two men swept into the next car. from coach to coach sped the pursued and the pursuer. it was a flight for life, on the part of professor ruggles. his plug hat flew off in the chase, and a brakeman who confronted him in the aisle was knocked flat with terrific force. "murder!" and then both men disappeared from the rear platform. dyke darrel believed he had his man in a corner, when he saw him dash through the door at the rear of the long train. not so, however. the desperate ruggles was ready to do anything rather than come in contact with his relentless foe. he bounded clear of the train, landing in a soft bit of sand, sinking almost to his knees, without harming him in the least. the detective did not hesitate to follow, but he made a miscalculation, owing to his bodily weakness, and instead of landing on his feet, he came down with stunning force across one of the rails. dyke darrel lay insensible, like one dead. had his enemy come upon him then he might have finished the career of the daring man-hunter, without the least danger to himself. for once, professor ruggles missed it woefully. as the detective was ten yards behind the professor, and the car was going at good speed, there was quite twenty rods difference between the two men when they landed. dyke darrel was completely hidden from the sight of ruggles by a clump of trees. ruggles gazed up the track, but saw nothing of his pursuer. he surmised that dyke darrel did not leap from the train, but it was likely he would ring the bell and stop the cars at once, so that it would not do to for him to remain in the vicinity unless he wished to collide with the detective. another supposition also came to the brain of the villain, preventing his search along the track. if dyke darrel had leaped after him, what more natural than his hiding in the clump of timber for the purpose of pouncing upon him when he came up the road. "i'll not risk it," muttered ruggles. "i've other fish to fry just now than looking after detectives. i must find that hag, madge scarlet, and get my hands once more on nell darrel." then mr. ruggles turned his steps in the direction of the station. already daylight was dawning, and professor ruggles was almost beside himself with anxiety. he cursed the woman who had made it necessary for him to leave the train so many miles outside of gotham. such a change in the programme might result fatally to himself. dyke darrel was hot on the trail now, and it would require the best efforts of a desperate man to throw him off the scent. the man with the sunset hair was desperate enough. with hurried steps he made his way to the depot. the agent was just shutting up. "no train, save a way-freight, will be along till night," he said, in answer to a question from the gentleman with the red locks. ruggles had taken the precaution to provide himself with a cap from his satchel before presenting himself to the man on duty at the depot. "one question," said ruggles, as the man was about to walk away. "well?" "did any passengers get off here some hours since from the new york train east?" "no." "are you sure?" "none came into the depot, at any rate," said the man. "any passengers get on?" "several." "among them an old woman?" "i saw no woman." "you are sure?" "of course i am." ruggles was disappointed. could it be possible that he had been led on a fool's errand after all, and that madge scarlet, with her prize, had been concealed on the train, and continued on to new york? the thought was intolerable. in the meantime, how fared it with dyke darrel, who lay stunned and bleeding across the railroad track. it was almost sun-up before he opened his eyes and groaned. his bed was a hard one, and it seemed as though every bone in his body was broken. the fact was, he was yet sore from his serious fall through the trap into the basement on clark street, consequently it is little wonder he was badly demoralized, both in mind and body, at his last mishap. presently a strange rumbling jar filled his ears. a bend in the road to the west hid the track, but the dazed brain of dyke darrel took in the situation nevertheless--a train was thundering down upon him. a minute more and he would be doomed! he tried to move--to roll from the track. he could not. his limbs seemed paralyzed. another second and the train would be upon him! chapter xxv. saved! professor ruggles had not been remiss in his judgment. it was madge scarlet who stole his victim from his arms almost in the hour of his devilish triumph. she did not get on the train from the little way station, however. she was on the train when it drew out of the great city by the lake, but the scheming ruggles knew it not. she, too, wore a veil, and was otherwise disguised, and managed not to show herself to the man she had once called friend. immediately on her release from jail she began to watch ruggles, who kept himself out of the way, or walked the streets only in disguise. she haunted the depots of the city, and was lucky enough to see him when he took passage. quietly boarding the same train, she bided her time, intent on gaining possession of the detective's sister for purposes of her own. the fires of insanity were already burning in the brain of the convict's wife. revenge for past wrongs seemed the sole object of her life now, and this was the incentive that placed her on the track of a fleeing villain and his intended victim. madge saw ruggles when he left the car. she watched her opportunity, and lifting the partially insensible girl, bore her swiftly to the outside, as the train halted for a minute. she gave vent to a chuckle as the train went thundering on its course. she had passed from the cars on the opposite side from the depot, and consequently was able to elude the gaze of the depot agent. along the track she went, pausing at times to rest, until she was fully a mile from the station. in the shadow of a clump of trees the hag came to a halt and deposited her burden on the ground. a moan from the drugged and helpless nell reached her ears. and then mrs. scarlet chuckled the louder. "good; she's coming out of her bad spell. i want her to realize her fate, else there wouldn't be the least bit of pleasure in my revenge." removing veil and light cloak, mrs. scarlet gazed down into the pallid face of poor nell, with only hatred gleaming from her sunken, beady eyes. "ho! i've outwitted the master devil himself, and now i will have you all to myself, to deal with in a way that will cut to the quick when dyke darrel hears of it." nell had on only a light summer robe under the shawl. she looked very innocent and beautiful as she lay there under the gaze of that human hyena. "pretty's a picture," hissed the wicked madge. "i'll all the more delight in seeing you suffer. ah! she is coming out of her stupor. how do you feel, dear?" nell had opened her eyes and gazed at the wicked face above her, in a dazed semi-consciousness. no answer was vouchsafed. then, in looking about, the gleam of steel lines under the moon's rays seemed to attract the notice of mrs. scarlet for the first time--the straight lines that marked the course of the erie road. their glitter seemed to offer a diabolical suggestion to madge scarlet. "ha! i have it." springing to her feet, she laid her arms about the slender form of the helpless girl, and, lifting her, walked swiftly to the railway track. in the centre, between the rails, she deposited her burden. "revenge! sweet revenge!" cackled the hag in a blood-curdling voice. again the girl moved and moaned; yet she seemed unable to change her position. "rest yourself comfortably, my girl; you won't be in trouble long," muttered the demon woman, with a grin that was absolutely sickening. poor nell! she lay quite still after that, between the fatal rails, only giving sign of life by a faint moan occasionally. mrs. scarlet retired to her leafy covert to wait the outcome. she could see far beyond the track a farm-house, and near her a heap of ties, and a rude fence--the moonlight revealed everything plainly. chuckling with hideous satisfaction, the she demon waited the coming of the express that could not be far distant. morning was already brightening the east. far away was the sound of a moving train. the sullen, distant roar sent a thrill to the heart of the demon woman, who crouched in the bushes to await the completion of her unhallowed revenge. the sullen jar seemed to act like a shock of electricity on the nerves of nell darrel. she felt a strange and awful numbness. with a mighty effort the girl roused herself to a consciousness of her awful position. louder and louder roared the train. it was but a mile distant now, and the road was straight. nell raised her head, and resting on her hands gazed down the track where, in the distance, gleamed the light of the locomotive. "god help me!" moaned the poor girl. then she tried to throw herself from the track, but she could not. her limbs were numb, and refused to obey her will. a wild laugh rang out on the moonlit air. madge scarlet sprang up and glared through the bushes at her victim with maniacal delight. "ha' ha! you cannot escape! them pretty limbs'll be crushed and torn asunder! the white flesh cut and gashed, and that delicate body made a horrid mass of blood and mangled fragments! then i will present them to you, dyke darrel. ho! ho!" her voice was raised to a high pitch now, and even reached the ears of the startled nell. no help, no hope! on thundered the iron monster. on and on till the eye of the engineer catches sight of something on the track--something! quickly the engine is reversed and the air brakes come into play. too late! a moan of agonized terror falls from the lips of the half dead girl, and then she sank helplessly to the ground. at the same instant help came from an unexpected source. a man dashed swiftly through the moonlight and flung a heavy oak tie in front of the slackened engine. a rumble and a jar, and then the train came to a dead stop, within three feet of the prostrate girl! it was a narrow escape. the man who had come so unexpectedly out of the shadows dragged nell from her dangerous position. the engineer and fireman came down and congratulated the young man on his presence. "the brakes couldn't quite do it," said the engineer. "that tie saved the girl, with no damage to the train." "it seems to be a lucky accident all round," said the young man, who had laid nell on a safe spot, and now turned his attention to assisting in removing the obstruction from the rails. "yes. who is she?" "i can't say." "well, i must be on the way," uttered the engineer, "we are behind time now." by this time the conductor was on the ground, but the train was running again, and he received a full explanation from the engineer afterward. when the young man made a closer inspection of the girl he had rescued, a cry of surprise fell from his lips. "as i live, it is nell darrel!" but she could not speak to thank him for his act, since she had fainted. lifting her tenderly the young man turned his steps in the direction of the farm-house, where he had been stopping during the past two days. "curse you! curse you!" were the venomous words flung after the man by madge scarlet. but she dared not interfere to prevent the rescue. when nell darrel again opened her eyes, it was to find herself calmly resting on a couch in a little room, whose cozy appearance was like home indeed. and the face that bent over her was not that of a stranger. could it be that she was dreaming? "thank heaven!" murmured a manly voice, and then a mustached lip bent and pressed a clinging kiss to the cheek of poor nell. "harry, dear harry!" thus had the lovers met after many long months of separation. a smile rested on the face of the fair girl as she held harry's hand while he talked of the past. she explained as best she could the strangeness of her situation; but everything was so much like a dream, it was a hard matter to reconcile some of the events of the past few weeks. "the end draws nigh," assured young bernard, after a time. "if the notorious man calling himself ruggles was on the train, he will, on discovering his loss, turn back, and then i will capture him." chapter xxvi. the mysterious wart. we left dyke darrel, the detective, in a critical position on the railroad track, with the roar of a freight engine in his ears. the rays of the rising sun touched the glittering rails as the long train swept around the bend upon doomed dyke darrel. one more tremendous effort on the part of the detective, and he succeeded in throwing his body squarely across one of the rails. in this position he hung a helpless weight, with the hoarse roar of the engine making anything but sweet music to his fainting soul. ha! look! a hand is outstretched to save at the last moment, and dyke darrel is jerked from under the smoking wheels, even as their breath fans his fevered cheek. the train swept on. a cheer greeted the man who had come opportunely to the rescue as the engine swept on its course. and a little later a man, young, yet whose boyish face bore marks of dissipation, stood beside the detective and gazed into his face now for the first time. "great caesar!" the young man started as though cut by a knife, and bent low over the fallen detective, who was now struggling to a sitting posture. when he looked into the face of his rescuer he uttered a great cry. "my soul! how came you here, martin skidway?" "i am a fugitive," answered the young convict. "it wasn't through your good will that i got out of prison, i can tell you that. had i known who it was on the track, i might not have put out my hand to save." the detective regarded the speaker in no little amazement. this was the second time he had escaped from the missouri prison, which argued well for the man's keenness and capability, or else ill for the official management of the prison. "it was from the st. louis prison that i escaped," explained martin skidway a little later. "i never got inside the state institution a second time. i've had a sweet time of it thus far." "tell me how you made your escape," said dyke darrel, who sat with his back against a tree, and regarded the young counterfeiter in wonder. "there isn't much to tell," returned skidway. "i had no assistance, but it seems that a pair of burglars had broken out by filing off the grating to one of the corridor windows, and the opening had not been repaired when i was taken to the jail. i was left in the corridor a minute while the jailor was attending some other prisoners, and that minute gave me the opportunity. i mounted a chair, climbed through the window, and made my escape by the light of the moon. of course there was a big search, but i remained hidden in an old cellar under a deserted house in a grove within the city limits, for several days, and finally made good my escape from the state." "and now?" "i am going to put the ocean between me and the beaks of american law." dyke darrel regarded the speaker with mingled emotions. he saw in this daring young fellow much talent, that had it been rightly directed, might have made an honorable place in the world for martin skidway. "i am helpless to arrest your steps just at present," groaned the detective. "would you do it after what has happened, if you were in a condition to do so?" demanded the convict, bending over the man on the ground, regarding him with a menacing look. "duty often calls one to do that which is disagreeable," answered dyke darrel. a deep frown mantled the brows of the convict. "i see that my mercy was misdirected," he said. "it seems that i have saved your life only to give you a chance to dog me to doom. think you i am fool enough to permit this?" there was a menace in the man's voice that dyke darrel did not like. "i am at present helpless," he said. "i don't imagine you will harm a man who is in no condition to injure you if he would." "but you can talk. the first man who comes along will hear from you that an escaped convict is in the rural districts of new york, and a telegram will set ten thousand officers on the lookout for me. without such information i would not be recognized in this community. i am a desperate man, dyke darrel, and do not propose to sacrifice myself for your benefit." "what will you do?" "one of two things." "well?" "you must solemnly swear that you will never reveal to another that i am in this region, and swear also to make no effort to capture me under a month, or else i shall have a painful duty to perform." "go on!" "will you take the required oath?' "certainly not." "then the other alternative is alone left me, dyke darrel." "and that?" "death to you!" straightening to his full height after uttering the three terrible words, martin skidway snatched a heavy iron bolt from the ground, that had lain long beside the track, and raised it above the head of helpless dyke darrel. "martin skidway, hold!" the words of the detective came forth in a thrilling cry. an instant the would be assassin stayed his hand. "you agree to my terms?" "no; but--" "then you must die. it will be considered an accident, and no one will suspect my hand in the affair." again the young convict poised his weapon for deadly work. on the instant the rumble of wheels met the ears of martin skidway. a wagon containing two men was in sight, moving down a road that ran parallel with the railway at this point. it was evident that the occupants of the vehicle had seen skidway, and to strike now would but add to the vengeance of pursuit and punishment. with a curse, he dropped the iron bolt and turned to flee. "dyke darrel, if you inform on me, i will kill you at another time!" hissed the convict. then he rushed from the spot and disappeared. as the wagon came opposite it halted, and the cries of dyke darrel brought both men to his side. "hello! is this you?" cried a cheery voice, and the next instant dyke darrel was lifted to his feet by the strong hand of harry bernard. it was a happy and unexpected meeting. harry had good news to tell, and when dyke darrel, assisted by his friend, reached the farmhouse where nell had found safety and shelter, the detective was strong enough to stand, and assist himself in no small degree. mutual explanations were entered into, and, as may be supposed, the meeting between brother and sister was a happy one indeed. harry was the hero of the hour. when dyke darrel spoke of martin skidway, and the part he had acted in saving his life, a word of admiration fell from the lips of nell. but when dyke proceeded to the conclusion, the girl's face blanched, and she had no word of commendation left for the miserable convict, who, after all, possessed but little honor. "so aunt scarlet is in the neighborhood; and also your abductor," mused the detective. "the trail is becoming hot, indeed." "it is, for a fact," admitted harry. "i believe, if the truth was known, this man ruggles will prove to be the man we want. have you that handkerchief with you, dyke, that we found in the coat of the rascal who attempted your murder in st. louis?" this was several hours after the events of the morning, and nell was now resting in a large wooden rocker, very weak, yet feeling remarkably well, considering the siege she had passed through during the past two weeks and more. dyke darrel and harry were the only occupants of the room, the farmer being at his work in the field, and his good wife attending preparations for supper in the kitchen. "i have kept the tell-tale handkerchief through it all," answered the detective, at the same time producing the article from a receptacle beneath, his shirt. "it's a wonder this was not discovered when you were in the hands of the thugs of chicago." "i wasn't closely searched, i suppose. you and the boys were too close after them." "you give me too much credit, dyke," returned harry bernard, modestly. "i've a question to ask." "ask as many as you like." "was it the fact of my hand fitting this bloody imprint that so startled you in the st. louis hotel?" "did i not so claim at the time?" "perhaps; but wasn't there another coincidence that gave you reason to suspect me? "there might have been." "i thought so. it was the imprint of a large wart, such as this on the handkerchief, that made you look with suspicion upon me. is it not so?" harry held up his hand, so that a wart on the little finger was plainly revealed, and which, when he placed his hand against the tell-tale handkerchief, fitted the marks perfectly. "forgive me, harry," cried the detective, quickly. "i know now that it was only a remarkable duplicate; the wart belonged to another hand than yours. the print of the wart was also on the bosom of arnold nicholson's white shirt bosom, where a bloody hand had fallen. i made this discovery when i examined the body of my dead friend. circumstantial evidence pointed to you, and yet i doubted--" "i understand," interrupted harry. "my hand is indeed a duplicate of the assassin's. it is a wonder that i have not been arrested ere this by some of the detectives who are engaged in working up this case." "why so?" "because you are not the only one who made the discovery of the wart that adorned the hand of the assassin. a reporter got hold of the story and published it. don't you remember?" "i haven't read the papers closely since the murder." "but i have, and so has the man who killed nicholson." "indeed?" "he soon learned that officers of the law were all looking for a man with a large wart on the second joint of the little finger of the right hand. this fact made him nervous, and one night he severed the wart, and flung it from him, since which time he has breathed easier." a low exclamation from the lips of nell startled both men. chapter xxvii. the story of a wart. "nell, what is it?" questioned the surprised detective. harry regarded the girl with a queer smile. perhaps he knew what had brought the exclamation to the lips of miss darrel. "i know a man who has lost a wart," she said, slowly, a deepening pallor coming to her cheeks. "his name?" questioned dyke darrel, eagerly. but the girl did not immediately answer. it seemed that something moved her deeply. "was it professor ruggles?" questioned harry, in order to help the young girl out. "no," she said. "who then?" "harper elliston!" a grave look chased the smile from the face of harry bernard. the girl's announcement seemed to prove a revelation to him, even as it did to dyke darrel. "i did not know the man who severed the wart from his hand," said harry bernard, after a brief silence, "but suspected that it was darlington ruggles. it seems now that i was correct." "how is that?" "have you not guessed the truth," queried harry bernard. "i made the discovery some time since that the red-haired man and harper elliston were one and the same." this came as a revelation to both the detective and his sister. "i have had suspicions," said dyke darrel, "but never anything definite regarding the villainy of this man elliston. he has played his cards well, but i became undeceived not long after this great railroad crime. that he was not my friend i discovered, and then i resolved to watch him. i have reason to believe that it was to him i owe my arrest in burlington, iowa. i now see the truth, that under the assumed name of hubert vander, elliston ruined a young girl of burlington, and, it may be, murdered her father, wealthy captain osborne. it would be strange indeed, should the trail that ends with the capture of the express robber also bring to punishment the assassin of the burlington captain." "it seems likely to end in that way," returned harry. "let us hear what nell has to say with regard to the wart," said the detective, turning to his sister. "it will require but a few words to do that," said nell darrel. "i always noticed a peculiarly shaped wart on the finger of mr. elliston's shapely right hand, and once he remarked upon it to me, saying that it was a disfigurement, and that he meant to have it removed sometime. i think it was the first time i met mr. elliston after the terrible news of the mid night express tragedy that i noticed the absence of the wart, and a bit of surgeon's plaster covering the spot. i laughed over his having undergone such a severe surgical operation, and he seemed to take it in good part, assuring me that he was the surgeon who amputated the excrescence with a razor. of course i thought nothing strange of it at the time." "you said the wart had a peculiar shape? how is that?" questioned harry bernard. "it was large, and was composed of two crowns. i think, perhaps two warts had grown together at the roots." "exactly. would you know the wart if you should see it again?" "i think i should." "so would i," cried the detective. then harry bernard drew a small vial from his pocket and held it up to view. a small object, submerged in alcohol, was visible. when placed in the hand of nell, the girl at once exclaimed: "that is certainly the wart that once disfigured the hand of harper elliston!" "where did you get it?" questioned dyke darrel, now deeply interested at the links that were being rapidly forged in the chain of evidence. "dyke, you know that when i left woodburg some months ago, i went from among you under a cloud?" "i will not dispute you--" "no explanation is necessary on your part, dyke. i imagine i was as much to blame as anybody. nell and i quarreled, and i imagined that the handsome, elderly new yorker had stepped into my shoes, so far as she was concerned. i did not like the man, and so i resolved to investigate for myself, and if i found that he was not worthy of nell, whom i loved and should always love while life lasted, i determined to expose him, and save your sister. during the past few months i have been making this investigation, to find that the supposed immaculate harper elliston is known in gotham in certain circles as a gambler and villain of the deepest dye. he has committed some crimes that are worse than murder. now, as to the wart: it was soon after i had heard of the murder on the express train, that while riding in the smoking car of an emigrant train in iowa, i saw an old man deliberately slice a huge wart from his little finger with a keen-edged knife. the wart fell under the seat and rolled at my feet. the old man made no effort to recover it, but wrapped his bleeding hand in a handkerchief and muttered: 'that witness will never come up to trouble me.' there was something in the man's voice that sounded familiar, and the strange whiteness of his hands aroused my suspicions, for in dress and appearance the man was a laborer of the lower class. curiosity, if nothing stronger, prompted me to take possession of the severed wart that had rolled at my feet. soon after that i read the notice in a newspaper, to the effect that the assassin of the express train had left the imprint of a wart on the bosom of the dead man's shirt. since that time i have regarded hands with no little interest, and have looked for the old man of the emigrant car in vain." "an interesting recital," said the detective, when harry bernard came to a pause. "knowing all this, you kept it from me at st. louis." "my reason for that was, that i did not care to arouse any foolish theories. of course, the reporter's story might have been false. the wart on my own hand, somewhat similar to this, led me to keep my own council as a matter of personal safety. although i suspected elliston, i had no proof, since i had forgotten the fact of his ever having a wart on the little finger of his right hand. my principal hope has been in finding the old man of the emigrant train." "you have not found him?" "not unless elliston is the man." "did you suspect this before now?" "i did; now i am convinced." just then harry bernard chanced to raise his eyes and gaze out of the open window. he came suddenly to his feet with a startled exclamation. dyke darrel glanced out of the window to notice a bent old man, with white hair and beard, moving away from the vicinity of the house. evidently he had been looking into the room, if not listening to the conversation of the trio. "saints of rome! there is the old man of the emigrant train now!" dyke darrel staggered to the window, while harry bernard rushed swiftly from the farm-house. chapter xxviii. the revelations of a satchel. "hello, old man!" "eh?" the man stopped, stared at harry bernard as if puzzled, and then began to grin. "i want to speak with you, sir." "sortin, sortin you can." "who are you?" "sam wiggs o' yonkers. wat can i do for ye, mister?" the old fellow seemed honest enough, and as harry glanced at the dirty hands, he saw nothing to excite his suspicions. "are you a relative of mr.---?" naming the farmer who owned the place on which they stood. "wal, not as i knows on," drawled the old fellow, laughing until his old head seemed ready to topple from his shoulders. "no blood relation, any how, sir. you see, my wife's cousin's aunt's husband's brother jerry was a cousin to nicodemus dunce, who, if i don't disremember, was related in some way to isacker pete's wife's sister, and she was this ere man's niece, or somethin' o' that sort, but we ain't blood related nohow." "i should think not," answered harry, and then he returned to the house, while the old man wiggs proceeded unmolested on his way. "at a first glance, he did resemble the man of the emigrant train strongly," muttered bernard, "but i see now that i was mistaken." "well, how did you make out, harry?" "this was from dyke darrel, who had been watching proceedings from the window. "a case of mistaken identity," answered the young man, with a laugh. "i was sure i had found the right man when i saw that old chap crossing the yard, but it seems that i was mistaken." "are you sure of it?" "i suppose i am." dyke darrel watched the retreating form of the old man with no little curiosity, however, until his bent form was lost to view down the winding road. naturally suspicious, the detective more than half believed that the seemingly aged man had not come to the farm-house for any good purpose. "i can't help thinking that wiggs, as he called himself, is destined to give us trouble, harry," the detective said, at length. "an inoffensive old man," asserted bernard. at the same time, however, he was not fully content to let the matter rest as it was. "it might be well enough to watch the old fellow, at any rate," said dyke barrel, rising and walking twice across the room, peering nervously out of the window in the direction in which old wiggs had gone. "keep quiet, dyke," said bernard. "i will shadow the old fellow, and see if he is other than he seems." bernard was on the point of leaving the room, when a youth appeared, walking swiftly toward the farm-house from the direction of the station. one glance sufficed to show both men the genial face of the boy paul ender. "so you have paul with you, harry?" said the detective with a pleased smile. "he is my shadow, and i have found him true and brave," answered harry, at the same time glancing toward nell, who had told him of the lad's defense of her against the villain elliston. "i can testify to his bravery," said the girl. "paul and i are great friends." a minute later, young ender entered the presence of the trio, and deposited a black satchel in the middle of the floor. "i have committed a theft," said the boy, with a queer look on his face, "and am here to throw myself on the mercy of the court." "you speak in riddles," said bernard. "i've been on a bully lay, as the peelers say, and i believe have made a discovery, although it may amount to nothing after all." "go on." "i've seen the man with the red hair and beard." "when?" "where?" "over by the depot. i saw him go into an old out-house with this satchel in his hand." "indeed!" "go on." "i was on the watch, and when he came out i saw, not brother ruggles, but a lean old man, with white locks and beard, who seemed to walk with great difficulty." "ah!" "indeed!" "he hobbled away, and failed to take the satchel with him. at first i could not believe that the sorrel gent and the old chap were the same. i learned this by investigation. when, after waiting a spell, and no sunset-haired gent came forth, i proceeded to investigate, and found this satchel, which, under the law of military necessity, i proceeded to confiscate, that the ends of justice might be furthered. if i have done wrong, i am ready to throw myself on the mercy of the court, and be forgiven." "you have done right," cried dyke barrel. "have you opened the satchel?" "no. it is locked, and i haven't a key that will fit." harry bernard produced several keys, none of which fitted the lock to the satchel. "what are we to do?" cried bernard. "the satchel is securely locked, and its owner has the key." "this is no time for ceremony or undue squeamishness!" uttered dyke darrel. "we are on the eve of an important discovery, and i propose to make no delays." then, drawing a knife from his pocket, the detective bent over the satchel and slit the sides at one stroke. "that will open it if a key won't," he remarked, with grim satisfaction. the contents of the satchel were a revelation. red wigs and a complete suit of clothes, besides paints and powders. harry uttered an exclamation. "just as i suspected," uttered dyke darrel. "you made no, mistake when you suspected that old man who just now left this vicinity. doubtless he forgot his satchel, or else thought it safe until his return. paul, my boy, you have done a good thing, and shall be promoted. we must now make it a point to intercept old wiggs." "doubtless he has gone to the depot." "how far is that from here?" "two miles." "when does the train pass?" questioned dyke darrel. "i cannot say." "nor i." "ask the farmer's wife." paul sped from the room. "the new york express goes in ten minutes," said the boy, on his return. "in ten minutes? then we have no time to lose," cried dyke, turning to the door. "dyke, what would you do?" demanded nell at this moment. "capture your enemy and mine---" "but you are not strong enough to take the trail. stay with me." he interrupted her with: "nell, i never felt stronger in my life. i mean to put the bracelets on the villain's wrists with my own hands." "dyke, leave it to me," urged harry bernard. but the detective's blood was up, and he would listen to no one. he was determined to be in at the death, and for the time his old strength seemed coursing in his veins. he hastened from the house, and ascertaining that a horse was in the barn, he at once sprang to the animal's back. "you are unarmed?" said bernard. "yes, but--" "take this; i will quickly follow," and the young man thrust a revolver into the hand of dyke darrel. "do nothing rash until help arrives, dyke. our game is desperate, and will fight hard if cornered." "i am aware of that, but i do not fear him. ha! what is that?" "the roar of the train." "then time is short." the horse and rider shot away down the country road like an arrow, or a bird. on and on, with the speed of the wind, and yet the lightning express made even greater speed than did the detective's horse. with a roar and a rush the train swept past. too late! dyke darrel drew rein at the depot just as the train swept madly away on its course to the great city, and on the rear platform stood the old man who had peered into the farm-house window but a short time before. it was an aggravating situation. "you can use the telegraph," suggested the depot agent, when darrel unbosomed himself to him. "quick! send word to the next station, and have the man detained." the ticket agent went to his instrument and ticked off the desired information. a little later came the reply: "no such person on the train." a malediction fell from the detective's lips. was his enemy to thus outwit him always? chapter xxix. retribution. a tall, handsome man of middle-age stood picking his teeth with a jaunty air beside the desk of a down-town boarding-house, when his occupation, if such we may call it, was interrupted by a touch on his arm. looking down, the gentleman saw a small, ragged urchin standing near. "it is yourn-- cents, please." the boy held out a yellow envelope, on which was scrawled the name "harper elliston." the gentleman dropped the required bit of silver into the boy's hand with the air of a king, and then tore open the envelope. "mr. elliston: meet me at room , number blank street, at seven this evening, sharp. business of importance. "b." the contents of the envelope puzzled mr. elliston, who had been but ten days in new york since his return from the west. he had several acquaintances whose names might with appropriateness be signed b. "i don't think there'll be any harm in meeting mr. b. at the place mentioned. it may be of importance, as he says. if it should be a trap set by dyke darrel--but, pshaw! that man is dead. i had it from the lips of martin skidway, and he knew whereof he spoke. i will call at , let the consequences be what they may." thus decided a cunning villain, and in so doing went to his own doom. ten days had dyke darrel and his friend bernard searched the city of new york ere they found their prey. once found, the detective resolved upon a novel manner of procedure for his capture. the sending of the letter was part of the scheme. had this failed, then a bolder move would have been made. but it did not fail. when mr. elliston rapped at room , number blank street, the door was opened, admitting the visitor to a small room containing a bed, a few necessary articles of furniture, and a curtained alcove. the door was suddenly closed and locked behind elliston, light was turned on fully, and then the visitor found himself confronted by harry bernard, whom he had met once or twice in woodburg, many months before. "eh!" ejaculated elliston. "so you are the man who wrote that note requesting an interview? well, i am glad to see you, mr. bernard," and elliston held out his hand, with a smile wreathing his thin lips. "i imagined you would be," returned the youth. "i am glad to see you so well. fact is, you are badly wanted out in illinois at the present time." "i am sorry that i cannot accommodate my friends out there," returned elliston, with a frown; "but it is wholly out of the question. i think i will bid you good evening, mr. bernard. i cannot waste precious time here." he turned and grasped the door-knob. it did not yield to his touch. "not just yet, mr. elliston," said harry. "i wish to ask you a few questions." "well?" "what do you know of the murder of arnold nicholson on the midnight express, south of chicago, some weeks ago?" "i read of it, of course." mr. elliston pulled nervously at his glove as he answered. "what do you know of the disappearance of captain osborne and the death of his daughter?" persisted bernard. "do you suppose i have nothing to do but answer such nonsensical questions?" demanded elliston, angrily. "open this door and let me pass out." "not yet. i wish to tell you a little story, mr. elliston." "i haven't time to listen." "nevertheless, you must take the time," said harry bernard, sternly. "don't attempt to make trouble, sir; you will get the worst of it if you do." there was a glitter in the eyes of the speaker that was not pleasant to see. mr. elliston sank to a chair, and with an air of resignation said: "well, well, this is impudent, but i will listen if it will gratify you." "it certainly will. i wish to start out with the assertion that you do know something about the crime on the midnight express, and i will try and convince you that _i_ know what part you acted in the murder of one of the best men in the service of the express company. don't lose your temper, sir, but listen?" "i am listening." there was a sullen echo in the man's voice that boded an outburst soon. "a gentleman of your build and complexion boarded the train at a station just south of chicago one night in april. at another station two companions joined this man, according to previous agreement. one was almost a boy in years, an escaped convict; and these three men during the night entered the express car, murdered the agent, and went through the safe. just before reaching black hollow the three men left the car. one of the three was tall and had red hair and beard. this man, after the slaughter, left a trace behind that has led to his identity. he left the imprint of a bloody hand on a white handkerchief that he took from the pocket of his victim. that handkerchief was afterward found, and the bloody mark compared with the hand of the assassin." "that could hardly be possible. hands are many of them alike," articulated mr. elliston, nervously. "true, but in this case a wart, of peculiar shape, gave the man away. the mark of his bloody hand, leaving the wart's impress, was not only on the handkerchief, but left against the white shirt-front of the murdered man as well. the man who committed the murder read of the clew in a chicago paper, and, to obliterate the tell-tale evidence, he cut the wart from his hand and dropped it under the seat while journeying through iowa in disguise, on an emigrant train." the face of elliston had become white as death, and he trembled from head to foot. if bernard had doubted before, he doubted now no longer. "a nice story," finally sneered bernard's visitor. "when did you learn so much?" "weeks ago--" "and you have permitted this villain to run at large so long!" "well, i propose to see that he does not flaunt his crimes in the face of the world longer." then, with a quick movement, the youth drew a vial from his pocket and held it up to view, exhibiting to the dilating eyes of the new yorker a large wart with a double top. "just remove the glove from your right hand, mr. elliston. i think we will find a scar there that this wart will fit--" "furies! this is too much," cried elliston, coming to his feet, white with rage and fear. "stop. keep your temper," warned bernard. "i wish to bring a witness; one that has been your companion in crime." the curtain over the alcove was brushed aside, and a man stepped forth, a man with red whiskers and hair, the latter surmounted with a glossy plug hat. elliston stared like one bereft of sense and life. "allow me to introduce professor darlington ruggles, mr. elliston," uttered harry bernard in a mocking voice. "hades! what does this mean?" and the trapped villain staggered, clutching the back of a chair for support. "it means that your race of crime and diabolism is run, harper elliston!" red hair and beard were suddenly swept aside, a revolver was thrust into the startled countenance of elliston; he looked, and could only utter: "dyke darrel, the detective!" "do you deny your guilt, scoundrel?" but harper elliston sank to a seat, and bowed his head, while drops of cold sweat covered his forehead. the touch of cold steel and click of closing bracelets roused him. he was helpless now, for his wrists were encircled by handcuffs. black despair confronted the villain. dyke darrel went through the pockets of his prisoner and found a revolver, an ugly looking clasp knife, and other articles of a nature that served to show that the owner was not pursuing an honest calling. "do you remember that night on the dock beside the river, elliston?" questioned bernard, bending suddenly over the prisoner. but no answer came from the bloodless lips of the cornered villain. "it was i who tore your mask of red hair from your head that night. i had mistrusted you for a villain, and i meant to unmask you to save nell darrel, whom i loved, from your wiles. you struck me with a knife and pushed me into the river. i, however, was not harmed. the point of your knife glanced on a small book that i carried in an inner pocket. i escaped from the river, and resolved to follow you to your doom. i overheard your plans of abducting nell darrel, when you fired at my masked face that night as i peered into mother scarlet's room. i then knew you to be a villain of the deepest dye. since, i learned that you were the man in disguise on the emigrant train in iowa, and this wart will, with other evidence, condemn you before an honest jury of your peers." a groan alone answered the denouement made by harry bernard. dyke darrel removed the glove from his prisoner's right hand, and exposed a scarcely-healed scar near the joint of the little finger. the chain of evidence was complete. the red hair in the clutches of the murdered nicholson had evidently been torn from the false beard of the disguised assassin. the new yorker was removed from the house and taken at once to prison. from thence, on the following morning, dyke darrel set out on his return to the garden city with elliston in charge. harry bernard remained over at the farm-house in new york state to see nell, who had been left in the care of paul ender. nell had almost entirely recovered from the shock of her recent treatment, and was overjoyed at the outcome of her friends' visit to new york. "elliston will be convicted and hanged," was bernard's verdict. on the very day of harry's arrival at the farm-house, he, with the old farmer, was summoned to visit one who had met with a fatal accident and was about to die. it proved to be martin skidway, who lay on a barn floor with his head in his mother's lap, gasping his life away, an ugly wound in his side. he had accidentally shot himself and was rapidly sinking. a fugitive in hiding for weeks, his life had been an intolerable one. now that he was dying, he made a full confession, admitting his own hand in the awful railroad crime, and implicating two others, elliston and nick brower. sam swart had been one of them, but he was known to be dead. "without his urging i would never have stained my hands; in fact, it was elliston who struck the blow that killed the express messenger." without this confession, there was evidence enough to convict the new yorker; with it, both brower and the principal were found guilty of murder in the first degree and sentenced to the gallows. nick brower was the only one of the four who expiated his crime on the gallows. harper elliston died in prison by his own hand. he left a note admitting the express crime, and also confessing to the murder of captain osborne and the ruin of his daughter sibyl. his was a fitting end to a career of unparalleled crime. * * * * * we now draw a veil over the scene. harry bernard and nell darrel were, soon after the arrest and death of elliston, happily married. dyke darrel considers the events leading up to the capture and punishment of those engaged in the crime of the midnight express as among the most thrilling and wonderful of his detective experience. to harry bernard and paul ender he gives a large share of the credit, and with them shared the reward. bernard has of late worked in conjunction with dyke darrel on other cases, and is fast winning a reputation second only to that of the great railroad detective himself. the end. won by crime chapter i a young girl, about eighteen, with a slender, elegant form, beautiful straight features, and eyes of softest darkness, sitting before a large table covered with maps and drawings, which she was trying vainly to study. "it is no use!" she cried, at last, pushing back the mass of thick black hair falling over her white brow; "i shall never be able to get india by heart, unless i can see the places. i wish papa would let us go reconnoitering amongst the ruined temples and other mysterious buildings; it is so annoying staying here day after day, never seeing anything outside the palace." "my dear lianor," said her companion, a young man scarcely older than herself, and wonderfully like her, "what new idea, have you got now?" "an idea of seeing more of the curious places i have read so much about. fancy living a lifetime in a country and never going beyond one town! if i do not get some excitement, i shall die of ennui, so i warn you." "i quite agree with you, and if uncle would only let us, it would be delightful, seeking out the temples so long deserted. but you know he would not," shrugging his shoulders. "i'm not so sure of that. papa never refuses me anything, and when he sees it is necessary to my happiness i should go, he will consent. anyhow, i will try," jumping eagerly to her feet. "come, leone." her cousin rose, and took the white, outstretched hand; then like two children they crossed the beautiful marble hall, until, arriving before a door draped with rich curtains, lianor paused and softly knocked. "come in!" rather impatiently. with a smile lianor opened the door, and entered, followed by pantaleone. in the room, handsomely fitted up as a study, sat a fine-looking, middle-aged man, busily wilting; his dark face wore an expression of severity as he glanced toward the intruders. it quickly faded, however, on seeing the pretty figure standing there; instead, a gentle smile wreathed his lips. "well, lianor, dearest, what is it?" "papa," and the girl stole noiselessly behind his chair, winding her arms around his neck. "i am so miserable, i have nothing to amuse me, and unless you do something to make me happier, i shall go melancholy mad!" "my dearest child, what is the matter? are you ill?" anxiously turning to peer into the lovely face. "no, papa; but i am so tired of this life." "that is not like my little girl. and i have tried hard to make you happy. nothing in reason have i refused you--jewels, such as a queen might envy; priceless stuffs to deck your pretty form, and other things which no girl of your age ever possessed," reproachfully. lianor bent down, and kissed his brow, lovingly--repentingly. "you have been a great deal too good to me. but there is something more i wish to ask; it will make me happy if you will grant my request." "we shall see. tell me first what it is." lianor briefly related her wish to visit the old temple which lay beyond goa, to search with panteleone the curious old ruins she had so often read of in her studies. don gracia looked grave; evidently this project did not find much favor in his eyes. a portuguese by birth, but sent to goa as viceroy, don garcia de sa had lived there long enough to know the treacherous natures of the brahmins who dwelt near, and feared to let his child run the risk of being found and captured. but as lianor had truly remarked, he loved his daughter so passionately that he very rarely refused her anything, even though he doubted the wisdom of complying with her wishes. "papa"--the sweet voice was very coaxing, and the red lips close to his cheek--"say yes, darling; it will make me so happy." "but suppose any danger should threaten you?" "i should be there to defend my cousin with my life!" leone cried, fervently. don gracia smiled. "you speak bravely, my boy; but as yet you are very young. however, as lianor has set her heart upon this expedition, i suppose i must say yes. in case of danger, i will send some soldiers to escort you." "oh, thank you, papa! i am so glad! come, leone, we will make haste, so as to set off ere the day gets more advanced." and warmly embracing her father, the girl sped swiftly away, followed by her cousin. in half an hour the cortege was ready, and, after some little hesitation on don garcia's part, they started. lianor, with her two favorite maids, lalli and tolla, were cosily seated in a palanquin carried by four strong men. before, clearing her path from all difficulties, went a body of twenty-five soldiers. beside her, panteleone kept up a cheerful conversation, pointing out the beauties of the palaces through which they passed. some twenty natives, armed with poignards, brought up the rear. toki, a native who had grown old in the viceroy's palace, led the way toward one of the ruined temples--that erected to siva, the god of destruction. lianor gazed with awed eyes at the magnificent palace, still bearing traces of former beauty. "how wonderful! i must stay here, leone, and sketch those old statues. we need go no farther." the day was beginning to get intensely hot, so the men were nothing loth to seek shelter in the cool temple, to sleep away the sunny hours. sketch-book in hand, the girl chose a shady retreat outside, and was soon lost in her work. presently the dreamy silence was broken; faint cries from afar reached her; and looking hastily up, lianor saw a sight which made her stand rooted to the spot in speechless horror. in the distance, pouring from out the mountains, were a multitude of indians clad in divers costumes, carrying in their hands fantastic idols, and followed by a train of brahmins, singing a low, monotonous chant, which had warned the girl of their approach. recovering her self-possession, and calling to the startled servants, lianor entered the temple, where panteleone and the men were quietly dozing. "leone, awake! the indians are coming!" the youth sprang to his feet, and, flinging one arm round his cousin, he drew a sharp poignard from his sash, and clutched it firmly. "do not be afraid, lianor. i will guard you with my life!" he said bravely. "but is there no way to escape?" lianor asked wildly, frightened at the peril into which her folly had brought them all. "we might have gone; but it is too late. they are here," toki said gravely. "the only thing we can do is to hide amongst these broken statues, and perhaps we may be safe from their view." scarcely had this been done than the procession arrived, stopped before the temple, and the men commenced building a huge square pile of wood; on this they placed a bier, on which lay the corpse of an old man, decked with silks and costly jewels. lianor and panteleone, watching from their hiding-place the strange preparations, now saw a girl, very young and beautiful, but weeping bitterly, being dragged toward the pile by a tall, hard-looking woman. "come!" she cried, in loud, ringing tones, "now is the time to uphold the honor of your family, and show your courage!" with a shudder the girl drew back, and clasping her hands piteously together, said: "why should i thus sacrifice my young life to the cruelty of your customs? i cannot endure the thought of being burnt alive--it is too horrible!" "it is your duty! a widow must follow her husband in death," coldly. the youthful widow burst into passionate weeping, and gave an agonized glance around at the vindictive faces; not one among that multitude, she thought, felt pity for the girl who was condemned to so horrible a fate. she was mistaken, and a second gaze revealed a young boy, not more than fifteen, who was quietly sobbing, an expression of deep anguish on his face. "satzavan, my poor brother, you also have come to witness my painful end!" the boy went toward her, and wound his arms around her slim waist, drawing the dark head onto his shoulder. "i would that i could help you," he whispered. "but what can i do among all these fiends?" "it is hard to die thus--so hard." "savitre, i am more compassionate than you think, and i have here a draught which will send you into a deep sleep. the pain of death will thus be saved you," konmia broke in severely, holding a vessel toward the girl. "no, no!" savitre shrieked, pushing the potent drink away. "i cannot! think how awful to awaken with the cruel flames wreathing round my body, and my cries for help useless, deadened by the yells of those people. i cannot--i will not die!" satzavan, deathly white, and with quivering features, drew her shuddering frame closer to him, and led her into the temple. "leave us for a moment, i implore you," he said, turning to his aunt. "she loves me, and i may perhaps reconcile her to her fate." "you are the head of your family; i trust to you to bring her to reason--to save the honor of a name until now without blemish," konmia replied, and placing the poisonous flask in satzavan's hand, she left them alone in the temple. "quick, savitre; we will drink this draught together, and when they seek you, they will find us both cold in death." "you also, my brother, speak of death! i must escape--i cannot sacrifice my life!" "nor shall you," a gentle voice broke in passionately, and lianor, her face full of tender compassion, stood before the victim, panteleone beside her. "follow me," the latter said briefly, drawing the girl's arm through his. "trust us, and you will yet be saved." with joyful hearts the two indians accompanied their kind protectors, climbing among the broken gods, higher and higher, until they at last arrived without the temple, the other side from where the indians were assembled. there they were rejoined by the soldiers and attendants, and the little party commenced their homeward journey, hoping the wild group would not discover their presence. but their hopes were not to be realized; ere they had gone many yards, the flight of the rajah's widow had been discovered, and with hideous cries they sought eagerly to find her. it was not long ere they espied the small party, and full of triumph dashed toward them. "lianor, keep back--leave me to deal with these barbarians!" panteleone said hurriedly, and in a minute a deadly fight began between the indians and the soldiers. but what was their strength against more than five hundred strong warriors? ere long the brave party was captured, and while konmia dragged the terrified girl towards the funereal-pile, the indians shrieked aloud in triumphant gladness. "to-morrow siva will receive a sacrifice that will remain forever in the memory of those now living. to-day, our chief's widow; to-morrow, the portuguese prisoners!" * * * * * after his daughter had gone, don garcia was filled with deep regret at having succumbed so readily to her wishes. a presentiment of evil he could not control made him walk restlessly up and down the room. a timid knock at the door roused him from his painful musings. "come in!" he cried quickly. the door opened, and a tall, remarkably handsome man, dressed in the garb of a sea-captain, entered. "what, falcam, is it you, my boy?" the don cried gladly, wringing the young man's hand. "yes, senor. i have some papers from tonza. there has been a slight rising at diu, but, fortunately, we were able to suppress it in time," handing the don a sealed packet. after casting his eyes rapidly over the contents, don garcia smiled and turned with a pleased look towards the captain. "manuel tells me of your bravery in saving diu, and asks me to promote you. i will do all i can. i am proud to call you friend." luiz flushed, and a bashful light filled his eyes; but, ere he could answer, the don continued: "however, you have come in time to be of service to me. my daughter, much against my wishes, has gone on an expedition to the temple of siva. from what i have since heard, i am afraid danger threatens my lianor. will you help me to rescue her?" "will i lay down my life to keep her from harm! oh, senor, how can you ask? let me start immediately, and ere long i will bring your child back in safety," fervently. don garcia was surprised at the young man's eagerness, but refrained from speaking, only to thank him for his kind offer. five minutes later luiz falcam, accompanied by a troop of brave sailors, started off towards the temple of siva. as he neared, sounds of strife, mingled with heartrending shrieks, broke upon his ears. urging his trusty band, he dashed onward until he arrived at the scene of terror. startled by the sudden apparition, the indians lost, for a time, their self-control, and the sailors found it easy to subdue them. luiz had flown at once to lianor's side, clasping her frail form tightly in his arms, while panteleone wrenched savitre from her aunt, as she was about to fling her on the now burning pile. even at the same moment, satzavan, a smile of revengeful triumph on his face, wound a thick scarf over konmia's head, and threw her with remorseless force into the flames, leaving her to meet the fate destined for his sister. those indians who had not been taken had fled; so the band was free to wend its way homeward, though nearly half had been killed in the strife. still holding lianor, now weeping quietly, in his arms, luiz led the way towards the road, where the palanquin stood, and placing the girl gently in, raised her white hands passionately to his lips. "lianor, lianor, my own darling!" he murmured, gazing into her pallid face with lovelit eyes. "if i had been too late, and found you gone!" lianor smiled tremulously through her tears, and a blush mantled to her cheeks. "you have saved my life. i can never repay you," earnestly. panteleone, still pale and anxious, now appeared leading the little widow, who seemed overjoyed at her release. she sank down gladly beside lianor, and then the palanquin was borne away, guarded by luiz and panteleone, satzavan walking behind. don garcia's delight knew no bounds when he saw the procession entering the palace gates, and he ran eagerly to receive his daughter. "my loved child! how unwise i was to let you go, to send you into danger," he cried, carrying her in his arms from the palanquin to the marble hall. "if it had not been for our young friend, falcam, i should never have seen you again." "but, papa, think! if we had not gone, this poor girl would have been burnt to death," lianor said, shudderingly, drawing savitre towards her. "ah, yes. poor child!" stroking the young widow's glossy black hair. "now tell me all about it." "not yet, papa. let us go and arrange our dresses; mine is torn completely to pieces," laughingly holding up a fragment of cashmere, which in the struggle had become torn. holding savitre's hand in hers, lianor went swiftly to her rooms, where they could bathe their weary limbs in cool water, and change their tattered robes. chapter ii. don garcia was sitting in his study, regarding with some anxiety luiz falcam, who, tall and handsome, stood before him. "you wish to ask me something, is it not so? well, speak out, and be sure if it is in my power i will grant it." "i hardly like to ask. it is, i know, daring. i am but a captain, and you are one of the wealthiest men in india; yet i love your daughter, and that is what i wished to tell you," earnestly. don garcia smiled indulgently, and he gazed kindly at the young fellow's flushed face. "i told you i would give you what you wished, and i will not break my word. i could safely trust lianor to you. no other man i know has won so large a place in my esteem. but i dare not speak until i know what my daughter thinks. she will answer for herself touching so delicate a subject. tell donna lianor to come here," he said to toki. after what seemed an anxious age to poor luiz, lianor entered, leaning lightly on savitre, somewhat astonished. "lianor, may i speak before savitre?" the don asked gravely. "of course, papa. i have no secrets from her." "my child," drawing her nearer to him, "luiz falcam has asked your hand in marriage; what answer shall i give him?" lianor blushed divinely, and her dark eyes shyly drooped before the eager glance from those loving blue ones fixed upon her. "he saved my life, father. i will give it gladly to him," she murmured. "you love him, child?" "dearly. i shall be proud and happy to become the wife of luiz," gaining courage. "you have my answer, falcam. may you be content always. i give her to you with pleasure." in spite of the don's presence and savitre's, luiz could not refrain from drawing the girl into his arms and pressing fervent kisses on her smooth brow, and soft cheeks. "you shall never repent your choice, darling," he said tenderly. "i cannot give you wealth, but a true heart and a brave hand are solely yours, now and till death!" "i know, luiz dear, and to me that gift is more precious than the costliest jewels," the girl whispered fondly. their happiness was not without its clouds; luiz was compelled to leave his betrothed to guard a fort some distance away. "i will return soon, dearest," he said lovingly, holding the trembling girl in his strong arms, "and then your father has promised our marriage shall take place." "and you will not run into danger, for my sake?" lianor pleaded, winding her white arms round his neck. "think how desolate i should be without you!" don garcia, having a great liking for the young man, saw him go with some regret. "don't stay away longer than you can help," he said kindly. "god keep you, my boy." so luiz parted from his love, and returned to diu, carrying in his heart a cherished memory of lianor, and a tiny miniature of her in his breast-pocket. when he arrived at the governor's palace, he went directly to manuel tonza, to inform him of his departure. the governor, a tall, dark-looking man of more than thirty, bore on his fine features a look of haughty sternness, mingled with some cruelty. he glanced coldly at the young captain, and listened in silence to his explanations; but, as luiz drew from his breast a sealed packet, given him by don garcia, lianor's miniature fell with a crash to the ground, the jeweled case flying open. manuel picked it up from the floor with sudden swiftness, and gazed admiringly at the pictured face. "who is this?" he asked abruptly. "lianor de sa, don garcia's daughter. "lianor de sa, and so beautiful as this!" the governor muttered inaudibly. "i forgot she had grown from a child to a woman; i must see her. how comes 'it, though, her miniature is in his hands? surely they could not have betrothed her to a captain!" with a gesture of disdain he flung the miniature on the table, and told luiz his presence was no longer needed. once alone, and a singular smile crossed the governor's face. "i must pay don garcia a visit. it is long since i saw him. i never dreamt his little daughter had grown up so lovely. thank heaven, i am rich! my jewels and wealth might tempt a queen! i need not fear refusal from a viceroy's daughter." full of complacent contentment, tonza made hasty preparations for leaving diu, and that same evening saw him a welcome guest of don garcia. he was charmed with lianor. in spite of himself, a deep passionate love wakened in his heart for her, and he determined to win her for his wife. first he wished to gain don garcia over to his side, so took an early opportunity of speaking to him on the subject. the viceroy listened in grave silence, and a look of regret stole into his eyes. "i am sorry," he said gently. "why have you come too late? my child is already betrothed." "to whom?" hoarsely. "luiz falcam." "but he is only a captain, and poor! surely you would not sacrifice your child to him? think what riches i could lay at her feet! as my wife, lianor would be one of the most envied of women." "i know, and i wish now i had not been so hasty; but luiz saved her life, won my gratitude; then, as the price of his act, asked lianor's hand. i was forced to consent, as i had said i would give him whatever he asked," with a sigh. "a promise gained like that is not binding. it was taking an unfair advantage of your gratitude." "i do not like to break my promise, but i will do what i can for you; i will ask lianor, and if she cares for you more than for luiz, she shall wed you." "thank you; and i will try hard to gain her love," manuel answered hopefully. when lianor heard the subject of the conference between her father and tonza, her indignation was unbounded. "how can you act so dishonorably, papa?" she cried angrily, "after betrothing me to luiz; now, because tonza is rich and wishes to marry me, you would break your word." "but, my dear, think how different manuel is to falcam! he can give you a beautiful home, and jewels such as a queen might envy, while the captain can give you nothing." "he can give me a brave, loving heart, which is worth all the world to me! no; while luiz lives i will be true to him. no other shall steal my love from him," firmly. "is that the answer i am to give tonza?" "yes. thank him for the great honor he has done me; but, as i cannot marry two men, i choose the one i love--who first won my hand and saved my life." when manuel heard her answer he was filled with rage and hate. "so--so," he muttered, a sinister look creeping over his face, "she will not wed me while falcam lives. but should he die--what then?" to lianor he was always gentle, trying by soft words and many little attentions to win her regard; a very difficult task. since her father's conversation, she shrank as much as possible from him, hoping he would understand her studied coldness. "savitre," she said one evening, as they were dressing for a ball, given in her honor, "that horrid man's attentions are becoming intolerable! he will not see how i detest him, and am bound by love and promise to another. i wish luiz was here; he has been away so long. i am tired of tonza's persistence and papa's reproaches." "never mind, dearest; all will be well when your brave lover returns. perhaps he may be even now on the way. i am sure if he knew how terribly you were persecuted he would fly to you at once," savitre whispered softly. "i feel miserable--unhappy. lalli, put away those robes and give me a plain black dress. during luiz's absence i will put on mourning, so tonza can read the sorrow i feel in my heart." "but, dear, what will your father say?" savitre asked anxiously. "he will be angry, i know. but it is partly his fault i am obliged to act thus." in a few minutes lalli and tolla had silently arrayed their young mistress in trailing black robes, which clung softly to her beautiful form. no jewelry relieved the somberness of her dress; her dark hair, thick and long, fell like a veil over her shoulders, adding to the mournfulness of her garb by its dusky waves. below, in the handsome marble hall, stood don garcia and tonza, both watching with suppressed impatience the richly-hung staircase leading to lianor's apartments. "it is late. i hope nothing has occurred," manuel said anxiously, drawing the velvet curtain aside to gaze across the hall. even as he did so, lianor, leaning lightly on satzavan's shoulder, appeared, her graceful head held proudly erect, an expression of supreme indifference on her face. both men started with an exclamation of alarm--rage on manuel's part. "what! in mourning, and for a ball?" manuel gasped with rising passion. "lianor, what does this farce mean? why have you disguised yourself? how dare you disobey me when i said so particularly i wished you to appear at your best? i have been too weakly indulgent with you, and now you take advantage of my tenderness to disgrace me by showing my guests your foolish infatuation for a man to whom i now wish i had never promised your hand." lianor lifted her reproachful eyes to his, her pale face, even whiter in contrast with her somber dress, full of resolute rebellion. "i am not ungrateful, papa, for your kindness, but i will never forget the promise i gave luiz. my love is not to be bought for gold; i gave it willingly to the man to whom you betrothed me, and, father, none of our family have ever acted dishonorably; so i am sure you will not be the first to break your word." "do not be too sure of that, lianor. i am more than half inclined to make you accept tonza, and forget your vows were ever plighted to that pauper captain." "you could not be so hard, knowing how my happiness is bound up in him. i will never, while luiz lives, give my hand to another." "thank you, lianor; nor will falcam let you," a deep voice broke in suddenly, and luiz, his face flushed with mingled pleasure and disgust, came toward her, followed by his bosom friend, diniz sampayo, a young and rich noble. lianor threw herself into his arms with a glad cry, while don garcia and manuel, full of rage, stole away, leaving the lovers alone. "my darling, then i heard truly when they said my own dear love was being forced to wed another. thank heaven, i left diu at once, and came to you, as your father seems inclined to listen to manuel's suit," luiz said tenderly, bending to kiss the pale face. "i am so glad you have come, luiz! i felt so lonely without you near me, to give me hope and courage." "my poor little love! but why these robes, lianor? i thought it was a day of festival at the palace?" "i know; but i was determined, during your absence, to keep tonza from paying me his odious attentions by putting on mourning. he could not fail to see where my thoughts were. now you have returned, i will throw them aside, and show them it is a time of rejoicing with me. wait, luiz." with a tender smile the young lover unclasped her slender form and let her glide swiftly away. but not long did he wait; soon the curtains were again lifted, and lianor, radiant as a bright star, in trailing robes of white and gold, diamonds flashing on her bare arms and round her delicate throat, came towards him. "my queen, my own dear love! what should i do if they took you from me?" passionately pressing her hands to his lips. "they will never do that, luiz. i am determined not to allow tonza to win my father over to his way of thinking." manuel tonza watched the happy lovers with bitterest hate gnawing at his heart, deadly schemes against his fortunate rival flitting through his subtle brain. late that night, when the weary guests were parting, tonza stole noiselessly from the palace; and when he returned, in less than half an hour, his face wore an expression of fiendish triumph and delight. he was even polite to luiz, much to that young man's surprise, though he doubted the sincerity of manuel's words. happy and content, after a tender adieu to lianor, the captain left the viceroy's palace, to seek his own apartments. not far had he gone, however, when a shadow stole silently behind him, and the next moment he felt himself suddenly grasped by powerful hands and flung to the ground. almost stunned by the fall, he was yet able to see the dark face bending over him. from the shadows came another form, one he recognized. a gleaming poignard was placed in the assassin's hand, which descended ere he could break from that strong hold, and was buried deep in his heart. guiltily two forms glided away in opposite directions, leaving luiz, pale and cold, lying in a stream of blood--dead! * * * * * it was still early when lianor awoke; but in spite of the drowsiness overpowering her, she hastily rose, and calling her maids, bade them quickly arrange her toilet. "i am restless, and cannot stay longer indoors; i wish to be out in the fresh air," she explained to savitre, who entered soon after. scarcely, however, had they arrived without the palace gates, than diniz sampayo, his face pale and haggard, eyes full of fear and anguish, came hastily to her side. "donna lianor, return to your father's house; i have something to tell you which i dare not breathe here--it is too horrible! prepare yourself for a great shock, my poor child! i wish some one else had brought the awful tidings," he cried hoarsely. lianor stood perfectly still, and her eyes grew wide and her face blanched with awakened fear. clasping her hands piteously together, she said: "tell me now. i am brave--can bear anything! is it luiz? is he ill--in danger? oh, diniz, for pity's sake tell me!" diniz took the trembling hands in his, and quietly bidding the others follow, led her silently through the town, until they arrived at the house where luiz had taken rooms with his friend. "perhaps it is best you should see him. poor luiz! how can i break the awful truth to you? your betrothed--the man you loved--is dead-- murdered by a cowardly hand on his way home from your father's palace!" lianor grew deathly pale. "dead!" she repeated, clasping her hands despairingly to her throbbing brow. "it cannot be true! my darling dead--murdered!" "my poor child, it is only too true! this morning he was found, and brought home, stabbed through the heart!" "but who could have done it?" savitre asked in a low, hushed whisper. "i wish i knew. but, alas! that is a mystery!" lianor gazed helplessly from one to the other, then, breaking from her friend's gentle hold, staggered forward. "where are you going, lianor?" diniz asked, anxiously. "to him. i must see for myself the terrible truth." "can you bear it?" "yes--oh, yes!" very tenderly diniz took one of the trembling hands in his, and led her toward a darkened chamber, where, on the blue-draped bed, lay the still form of his young friend. a convulsive shudder shook lianor's slender frame as she gazed on those handsome features set in death's awful calm; the closed eyes, which would never look into her own again; the cold lips which would never breathe loving words into her ear, or press her brow in fond affection. she could not weep, as savitre wept; tears refused to ease the burning pain at her heart. only a low moan broke from her as she threw herself suddenly over that loved body. "my love--my darling! why did i ever let you leave me? how can i live without you?" "hush, lianor! come, you can do nothing here. but one thing i promise you, i will avenge his death at any cost! the murderer will be found and punished--no matter who it is!" diniz cried, earnestly. "thank you; and if i can aid, rely on my help," lianor murmured, bravely. then, bending reverently to press a last kiss on the pallid brow, she allowed diniz to lead her from the room to her own home. in the hall they were met by don garcia, in a terrible state of anxiety for his daughter. "where have you been, lianor? what is the matter? you look ill! and what is that?" pointing to a vivid red stain which marred the white purity of her dress. a low, delirious laugh broke from the girl's pale lips, and, stretching out her arms, she waved don garcia back. "do not touch me!" she cried, hoarsely. "he--my love, my darling--is dead! see, his life-blood stains my hands--my robe! oh, heavens, that i should have lived to know such agony!" she stopped; the outstretched arms fell inertly down, the graceful head drooped, and without one cry or moan, lianor fell heavily to the ground--unconscious. "explain, savitre--sampayo, what means this strange raving? who is dead?" don garcia said, fearfully. "it means that luiz falcam was found murdered this morning! your daughter went to see him for the last time, and returns, overcome with grief and sorrow." without a word, but very white, the viceroy carried his child to her room, and left her in the care of savitre and her two attendants, while he went to find the particulars of falcam's tragic end. for days and weeks lianor kept to her rooms, seeing no one except her father and sampayo, whom she looked upon as the avenger of luiz. long and tenderly was her lover's memory sorrowed over, until the once beautiful girl was but a mere wraith. a few weeks later don garcia himself was taken ill, and one day, feeling slightly better, he sent for his daughter, to whom he wished to speak on important business. he was not kept long waiting. lianor soon appeared, looking like a crushed flower in her somber robes. "you wished to see me, papa?" "yes, lianor; but you can almost guess for what. you know how much i desire to see you wedded to my friend; a man who loves you and will make you happy. i shall not live long, of that i feel sure. manuel tonza has waited patiently, and i think it is only right you give him hope. to-day you will accept his hand, and in another week, with my consent, you will become his wife." lianor reeled against the bed, and held firmly to the silken curtains to prevent herself falling. "do you mean this, father? his wife--when he murdered luiz?" "what nonsense are you saying, child? do not let me hear you speak like this again. what motive could a wealthy man like tonza have in getting rid of one of his own employes? grief has turned your brain. cast aside those weird garments, and in three hours be ready to receive your future husband." a low, gasping cry fell on his ears as he finished speaking, and he turned in time to see the slight figure sway to and fro, then fall heavily to the ground. but what use was her feeble strength against the powerful wills of two determined men? ere the day was over, lianor, with a heart full of bitter, despairing grief for luiz, was bound by a sacred promise to a man whom she knew to be both bad and selfish--whom she hated! chapter iii. in one of the many straggling streets, almost hidden behind a few large shops of curious build, stood a small boutique full of ancient relics and jeweled bric-a-brac. inside, seated by the counter, writing in a large ledger, was an old man, whose hooked nose and piercing eyes proclaimed him at once to be from the tribe of israel. this jew, phenee, was not alone. flitting about the shop, arranging the antique curiosities, was a young and very beautiful girl, with delicate features and lustrous, black eyes. "can i help you, grandfather?" the girl asked, suddenly stopping before the desk, and leaning both dimpled arms on the dusty book. "no, no, miriam; i have almost finished. leave me for a few moments' quiet." miriam sank gently on a high chair, and drooping her head pensively on her hand, sat for some time in unbroken silence, gazing out through the open door at the motley crowds passing by. suddenly a dusky form, clad in the garb of a fisherman, entered, and drawing near phenee, glanced nervously around. "i wish to sell that. how much will you give me for it?" laying a jeweled poignard, with a golden chain attached, on the desk. phenee took it up and examined it attentively, then looked searchingly at the man. satisfied at his scrutiny, the jew named a very low price, one which his customer had some hesitation in accepting; but at last, seeing phenee was obdurate, he took the offered money, and glided off like a spectre. "what a curious poignard, and how pretty!" miriam said, lifting it from the scales, where phenee had placed it. "i am surprised he took so little for it." "i'm not. one can't offer too little for stolen goods." "do you think this is stolen?" "i am sure it is. that man never came honestly by it." scarcely had the poignard been put on one side, when two young men, handsomely dressed, entered the shop, and asked for some emeralds. "while you are choosing, i will have a look round at all these curiosities, miguel," the youngest of the men remarked. "as you like; i shan't be long, diniz." sampayo nodded, and commenced his search, turning over every object that took his fancy, aided by miriam. "i will show you something very curious--a poignard strangely fashioned," the girl said, drawing the weapon her grandfather had just bought from its hiding place. diniz took it up and examined it attentively, then a low cry broke from his lips, and his face grew pale. "where did you get this?" "i have just bought it. it is a very pretty toy for a gentleman," phenee broke in persuasively. with almost eager haste diniz bargained for the poignard, and at last managed to bring the jew down to ten times the sum he had given the fisherman. after his friend, miguel reale, had chosen the jewels he wanted, diniz hurried him away. not many hours later, as the young jewess sat alone, her grandfather having gone some distance off on business, she was startled by sampayo suddenly reappearing, a look of intense anxiety on his face. "senora," he said politely, drawing from his breast the poignard, "can you tell me from whom your father bought this?" "i do not know his name, but i believe he is a fisherman and lives in yonder village," miriam answered simply. "should you know him again? pardon my asking, but it is very important i should discover the owner of this weapon. by doing so i may be able to bring a murderer to meet his doom, and avenge the death of my best friend!" miriam gazed at him compassionately, a serious light in her dark eyes. "i will help you," she said suddenly, moved as it were by a strange impulse; "i have long wished for occupation--some useful work, though i should have liked something less terrible than helping to trace a murderer; still, i will aid you if i can." "thank you. but if he never came here again?" "i shall not wait for that. to-morrow i will visit those huts in which the fishermen dwell; i may then find the man who sold the poignard, or at least a clew to the mystery." diniz took one of the small hands in his, and pressed it reverently to his lips. "you will not go alone; i will be your companion. together we shall work better. but your father will he consent to your accompanying me?" "my grandfather loves me too dearly, and trusts me too fully, to refuse me anything. he need not know the errand upon which i am bent," a faint blush rising to her cheeks. after making all necessary arrangements for the next day, sampayo left the jewess, to wait impatiently until the hour arrived for him to start on his melancholy errand. it was still early when he left the crowed streets, to walk quickly in the direction of a small fishing village, some distance off. half way he saw the tall, graceful figure of a young girl, whose long veil of soft silky gauze hid her face from passers-by. he recognized her at once--it was the beautiful jewess. so, hastening his steps, he soon stood before her. "senora," he said gently. the girl started, turned, then smiled through the screening folds of gray. "it is you? i was afraid you would not come," in a relieved tone. "i am too anxious to find that man, to lose the chance you have so kindly given me. i only hope i am not putting you to any inconvenience," diniz said, gallantly. "not at all. i am only too happy to be of some use," earnestly. for many hours they wandered about from house to house, miriam having armed herself with a large sum of money, hoping by acts of charity to gain access into the poor dwellings. they were almost despairing of finding a clew to the whereabouts of the fisherman, when three little children, poor and hungry-looking, playing outside a tiny hut, attracted miriam's attention. stooping, she spoke gently to the little things, and won from them the tale of their excessive poverty, which she promised to relieve if they would take her to their mother. this they willingly did, and miriam found a pale, delicate-looking woman, who, notwithstanding the raggedness of her dress, still bore traces of having been at one time different to a poor fisherman's wife. encouraged by the soft tones of her mysterious visitor, the woman gradually unburdened her troubled heart by telling her the history of her wretched life; how she had been doomed to follow her husband, an indian chief, to death; but, loving life better, she escaped with her little children, but would have died of hunger on the seashore if jarima, her second husband, had not rescued her and offered her his name and home. "he is very good to me and my children; the past seems but a dream now. if only we had money, all would be well." miriam, with a few gentle, consoling words, slipped a few bright coins into the tiny brown hands of the astonished babies; then, with a sigh, she bade the grateful mother adieu and went out to where diniz was waiting. he read by her face that she had no better tidings, and, drawing her hand through his arm, he turned away. "will it never come--the proof i want?" he said, half bitterly. scarcely had the words left his lips when a glad cry of "father!" rent the air, and three small forms bounded over the white shingle towards a tall man, dressed in white linen. almost convulsively miriam pressed sampayo's arm to arrest his hasty steps. "we need go no farther," she whispered. "that is the man you want; and if he is that woman's husband, his name is jarima." "thank heaven! to-morrow he will be arrested and the truth discovered," diniz muttered. silently they watched the man walk towards his humble home, the children clinging lovingly to his hands. the woman came forward with a bright smile, holding up her face to receive his caress. "there can be no doubt. it is jarima, and the man who sold the poignard." "luiz's murderer," diniz added between his set teeth. almost feverishly sampayo hurried miriam away. he was anxious to tell lianor of his success, and bring the assassin to justice. some distance from the jew's shop he bade miriam adieu, promising to call and let her know the result. on reaching don garcia's palace diniz was surprised at the sounds of bright music, mingled with happy voices, that floated on the air. satzavan was the first to meet him, and he went forward with a welcoming smile. "where is lianor?" diniz asked anxiously, glancing round the deserted halls. "in the grounds. don garcia has his home full of guests in honor of his daughter's betrothal with manuel tonza." "lianor betrothed, and to him!" in consternation. "yes," sadly; "her father has commanded her to accept him, and, since she lost poor falcam, she is indifferent whom she weds." "but tonza above all other men!" bitterly. with a dark shadow on his brow, diniz followed the young indian into the spacious grounds, where lianor, surrounded by many richly-dressed ladies, was sitting. "i cannot speak to her before all those people. go, satzavan, and bring her to me." the youth darted off obediently, and presently returned to the tree where diniz stood almost hidden by its shady branches, leading lianor, whose face wore a look of some wonder. "diniz, is it really you? have you brought me any news?" she asked eagerly. sampayo took her outstretched hand and kissed it reverently. "yes," he said softly; "good news." "what is it? tell me!" "i have discovered the man who, i think, struck the blow by instigation of the real murderer. until he is taken i can do nothing further." "but who is he? how did you find him?" "he is a poor fisherman, named jarima, and it was through a young jewess, phenee's grandchild, to whom the poignard was sold, i found him." "that was very good of her to help you." "it was, indeed. the whole morning she has searched with me for the man, and at last our labor was rewarded. to-morrow jarima will be under arrest." as the words left his lips, a sudden movement amongst the trees startled them. "i am sure that was some one," lianor cried, turning pale, and clasping diniz's arm. satzavan glided noiselessly away, but soon returned to say no one had passed by. possibly the noise was occasioned by the wind rustling through the leaves. "very likely," lianor said quietly, "though it made me nervous. suppose any one overheard us?" "rest assured, dear, that nothing now can come between me and my revenge. but, lianor, is it true you are betrothed to tonza?" "yes, diniz, it is true. papa has commanded me to accept him. i hate him; but now poor luiz is dead, i care not who becomes my husband," hopelessly. "i wish it were other than tonza, lianor. i cannot trust him; nor will i believe but what he had a hand in luiz's death." "that is what i think, but papa says it is only fancy; manuel is too upright to do such a treacherous thing." a silvery laugh broke suddenly on the silence which had fallen between them, and savitre, leaning lightly on panteleone's arm, stood before them. the rajah's young widow made a strange contrast to lianor, gay with rich colors. judging from panteleone's ardent gaze, he, at least, saw some beauty in the dusky, changing face. "what, sampayo! i did not know you were here," the young man cried gladly, seizing diniz's hand in a warm grip. "have you brought good news?" "yes, better than i expected," diniz answered; and briefly recounted the success which had attended his morning's search. "i do not wish to meet your father to-night, lianor; until this business is settled, i could not enter into any amusement. first, i will go to henrique ferriera, the magistrate, and arrange with him about jarima's capture." "but you will come to-morrow, will you not--to tell me the result?" lianor asked anxiously. "assuredly; unless anything serious prevents me." "thank you," she murmured gratefully. a kind hand-pressure from all, and sampayo walked quickly away; while lianor, her heart somewhat lightened by this news, returned to her father's guests with satzavan. savitre would have followed, but panteleone held her back with a few whispered words, and, nothing loth, the little widow sauntered with him through the shady grounds, apart from the rest. "savitre," leone said suddenly, "would you be willing to leave your country--to go with me to portugal?" savitre gazed at him in some wonderment. "surely you are not thinking of leaving india?" she cried, a sudden anxiety dawning in her dark eyes. "yes; my father wishes me to return, and as soon as lianor is married we are going." the girl remained silent; only a few pearly tears rolled down her cheeks. "savitre, dearest one, do not weep! would it be so dreadful for you to quit the country?" "it is not that," with a stifled sob; "but i had not thought of your leaving us, or the friendship between us being broken." "nor will it, my darling! don't you understand? i love you too dearly to give you up; i want you to be my wife, so that none can part us. say my hopes are not all in vain!" a vivid flush mantled the clear, dark skin, and the lustrous eyes drooped in confusion. "you really mean that? you love me, a girl who is not even of your own kind?" "i love you with all my heart and soul. ever since the day when it drew you half-fainting from off the already lighted pile, i have felt my affection growing deeper and deeper, until it has absorbed my whole being. my happiness is never complete unless i am near you. tell me, darling, that you return my love!" "how could i help but love you--you who saved my life? oh, leone, you cannot think how proud i am at being chosen by you before all others!" with a joyous exclamation, panteleone drew her to his breast, pressing passionate kisses on her brow, cheeks, and lips, his heart thrilling with rapture at the realization of his dreams. chapter iv. the next morning a small band of soldiers, headed by henrique ferriera, wound their way toward the humble home of jarima. on arriving, they found to their astonishment the door fastened close, and no one to answer their knock. "never mind, break it down," henrique said, roughly. in obedience a few heavy blows fell on the woodwork, which soon gave way beneath their force. stepping over the scattered splinters, henrique saw a sight which filled him with horror. crouching on the bare floor, her hands twined convulsively in her long hair, was a woman, with three sleeping children leaning against her. on a hard straw mattress, almost in shadow, lay jarima, his face covered with blood, which oozed in streams from his mouth. henrique gazed for an instant on the awful sight, then turned towards his men. "we have arrived a little too late; blind men cannot see, or dumb ones tell tales. some horrible wretch has done this deed, fearful of his betraying them. i wonder who?" the woman, when questioned, could tell them nothing. she only knew her husband had been brought home in his present condition at daybreak, and remained unconscious since. "i regret to say it is our painful duty to take him; every care will be given him. he is suspected of having murdered luiz falcam." "no, no; you are mistaken! it is some one else, not he. jarima was much too gentle to kill any one!" the woman cried, passionately. her prayers and supplications were unavailing. henrique was obliged to do his duty, and bade his men take the suffering man to prison. some hours later, as diniz stood in his room, just before setting out in search of henrique, that man entered the house, followed by several soldiers. "diniz sampayo, i arrest you on the charge of having stolen a poignard, set with jewels, from manuel tonza de sepulveda." diniz started, and flushed angrily. "i steal? when you know it is the weapon i bought from phenee, the jew, as proof against the murderer." "so you said; but we have heard another tale to that. anyhow, if you are innocent, you will be set free as soon as you are tried." "but the man jarima? have you not been for him?" "yes, but he is useless; when we arrived, some one had been before us, and not only blinded him, but cut out his tongue, so that he could not speak." "how horrible! how could any one have been so cold-blooded?" diniz gasped, turning pale. "evidently it was done for some purpose. but come, sampayo, i cannot wait here." "will nothing i say convince you i am innocent? if innocence gives strength, i shall soon be at liberty." henrique smiled scornfully, and hurried the young man away. "you will not be alone; your prison-cell is shared by another--phenee, the jew. an old friend of yours, is he not?" henrique asked. "friend--no! i have only spoken to him once in my life. what is he arrested for?" "being a receiver of stolen goods," grimly. diniz thought suddenly of miriam, and wondered how she would bear this blow. her only relative and dearly-loved parent torn from her side, to linger in a damp cell. how bitterly he blamed himself for having been the cause of phenee's capture! if he had not disclosed the secret of phenee having bought the poignard from jarima, no one would have suspected him. "poor girl! she will regret now having helped a stranger, who, in return, has brought her only grief and desolation," he murmured, sorrowfully. miriam passed nearly three days in sad thought, when her solitary mourning was broken by the visit of a thickly-veiled woman, whose low, sweet tones fell like softest music on miriam's ear. "are you alone?" she asked, glancing questioningly round the room. "yes. did you want me?" "i do, very badly. i remembered only to-day that you once proved a true friend to diniz sampayo, and i came to know if you would again aid him?" throwing back her veil, and disclosing a pale, sweet face, stamped by deepest grief. "diniz sampayo! but is he, then, in need of help--in danger?" a sudden fear lighting up her face. "yes, he is in prison," sadly. "you are sure? how can it be possible? what has he done?" in amazed wonder. "he has done nothing. only his enemies have thrown the suspicion of his having stolen a poignard from manuel tonza--a poignard which i know he bought here. it is my fault this has happened. it was to avenge the death of the man i loved--his dearest friend--that he placed his life in peril!" "i remember well. it is quite true he bought it here, soon after jarima, the fisherman, had sold it to my grandfather. he, poor dear, is also in sorrow, imprisoned for having received stolen goods, as if he could tell when things are stolen!" indignantly. "i am very sorry, miriam; but if you help me, you will help your grandfather also," lianor urged gently. "i will!" miriam cried firmly; "i will never give up until i have them both safely outside that odious prison!" lianor gazed with grateful affection at the girl's expressive face, which now wore such a look of determined courage. "if i can do anything, let me know directly," lianor said, gently. "gold may perhaps be useful, and i have much." "thank you, but i am rich; and i know grandfather would lose all, rather than his liberty. you are don garcia's daughter, are you not?" "yes," somewhat sadly. "you know me?" "by sight, yes." "i shall see you again, i hope," lianor said, as miriam followed her to the door. "you will tell me of your success or failure?" "yes; i will come or write." when her charming visitor had gone, miriam returned to her seat, a pained expression on her bright face. "he also there. poor diniz! but i will save him yet," determinedly. hastily opening a heavy iron box, she drew out a handful of gold. placing this in her pocket, she softly left the house, and scarcely knowing what instinct prompted her, she hurried towards a small hotel not far from the sea. "can you tell me," she began breathlessly to a sunburnt man standing near, "if there are any ships leaving here to-morrow?" "i don't know, senora. i will inquire," he answered politely, and after an absence of about ten minutes, he returned to say "that captain moriz, of the eagle, was even then preparing for departure on the morrow." "where does he live?" miriam said, eagerly. "he is staying at this hotel at present." "do you think i could see him? it is very important." "i dare say. you can at least try," smilingly. the jewess thanked her good-natured commissioner, and lightly ascended the steps. "i wish to see captain moriz. is he in?" "i think so," the man answered after one quick glance at miriam; "i will inquire." miriam waited with growing impatience until the man returned, and was relieved when she heard that the captain was not only there, but would see her. with wildly beating heart the girl followed her conductor to a large, darkly-furnished room, where, by a table scattered with papers, sat a tall, bronzed seaman. "i believe you are leaving india to-morrow? would you mind telling me where you are going?" "to africa," a look of surprise crossing his face. "are you going to take passengers?" "that was not my intention." "but if any one asked you, would you refuse?" "i don't know. i did not want any one on board," moriz answered uneasily. "if you knew it would do some one a great service? i am rich, and would pay you well; so do not hesitate on that account." "is it you who wish to go?" miriam blushed, and bit her lip angrily. she had not intended to betray her secret so soon. "yes, it is i, and two other people. will you take us, and set us down on one of those small islands on the coast, where no one would find us?" moriz hesitated; but he could not withstand the eager pleading in the slumbrous eyes, the intense pathos in the sweet voice. "yes," he said at last, very slowly, "i will take you on board; but you must be ready by to-morrow night. i cannot wait for stragglers," trying to force much severity into his tones. "oh, thank you! i am content now. do not fear; we shall be in time. until then adieu," she said softly. and, with a graceful bow, she departed. her next step was in the direction where phenee was confined. she found no difficulty in finding the jailer, a hard-looking man enough, though miriam thought she could see a gentle expression in his eyes when they rested on two young children, whose pale, wasted features gave evidence of close confinement in that dreary place. "i may win him yet by those little ones," she murmured; "gold will have power to touch his heart for their sakes." "you wished to see me, senora?" "yes. i want you to answer a few questions. first, have you not got phenee, the jew, and diniz sampayo here?" "yes, senora." "are they together?" "no, senora." "could it be possible for you to set them free, without fear of detection?" eagerly. "yes, senora; but i am not a traitor." "but think, vincent: my poor grandfather has done no harm, and he will perish in that horrible place, though innocent. and the senor sampayo, as i have proof, bought the poignard himself from my grandfather. why, then, should you say he stole it?" indignantly. "it is not i who accused him; my duty here is to guard the prisoners-- not to try them." "vincent," miriam continued, in a low, pleading voice, "you are poor; your little children are pining for want of fresh, pure air. i am rich, and can give you enough money to live in comfort away from this close den. release my friends, and the power of saving your children shall be yours. look!" drawing one of the wondering girls to her side, "see how pale and thin she is! can you refuse my offer when the lives of those you love depend upon it?" vincent felt the truth of her words, and knew the only things he cherished on earth, those innocent children, were slowly fading and pining away for want of fresh air. the man raised his head, and glanced earnestly at the moved expressive face, then in a low, hoarse voice he muttered: "be it so. i will help the prisoners to escape. i cannot see my little ones dying before my eyes, when an opportunity is given me to save them." "then to-morrow at sunset you will bring them to the golden lion, i will be there, ready with the money." "i will not fail, senora. may heaven forgive me if i am doing wrong!" after a few instructions, the happy girl went swiftly away, but ere she had moved far, she returned, and paused before vincent. "i forgot to ask you about that poor man, jarima," she said, gravely. "he did not live long, senora, after he was brought here." "and his wife--children?" "of them i know nothing," he answered quietly. ere she continued her homeward way, miriam sped swiftly toward jarima's poor home, and knocked gently at the door. it was opened by the eldest of the three children, and forcing a purse of money into his brown hand, the girl whispered sweetly: "for your mother, little one; from a friend," then moved silently away, hurrying homeward to await patiently for the long hours to pass, ere her grandfather would be released. vincent, true to his word, gathered his few belongings together, and when the evening came, went softly to the cells in which his prisoners lay, and, setting them free, told them to follow him. wondering, yet glad, phenee, leaning on diniz's arm for support, slowly obeyed the jailer, who, accompanied by his two children, led them toward the hotel miriam had named. there, sure enough, the young jewess was waiting, and after tenderly embracing phenee, and smiling softly at diniz, she turned to vincent and placed a bag of gold in his hand. "this is your reward. may you and your little ones live in happiness!" she said earnestly. "we leave goa to-night, senora. my life would be worth nothing if i stayed here after this. good-by, and thank you for your generosity." miriam hastened her grandfather to the ship, shocked at his feebleness; but for sampayo he would scarcely have been able to get there. only once he spoke to the girl ere he retired to his cabin for the night. "the money and jewels, miriam--what have you done with them?" "they are here, grandfather. i brought everything of value away with me." "that is right, child. you are a good girl!" miriam stood rather sadly beside the bulwarks, gazing at the land in which she had been born, and which she was now leaving forever. a low sigh broke from her lips. "why do you sigh? are you sorry to quit your native land?" a voice whispered in her ear. "yes; though for my grandfather's sake i cannot deeply regret it," miriam answered, gazing at diniz with tear-dimmed eyes. "i have not thanked you yet for having released me from that dreadful place, or even a worse doom. i am still scarcely able to realize my good fortune. what made you, a stranger, think of one whom all others had forgotten?" "not all. it was donna lianor who told me where you were, and asked me to help you," miriam said, blushing beneath his tender, grateful gaze. "besides, i looked upon you as a friend," almost inaudibly. "that is what i want to be--your friend. and lianor--how is she?-- well?" "as well as it is possible to be under the heavy trial she went through this morning. she was married to manuel tonza," sadly. "poor girl! poor lianor! hers is indeed an unhappy lot!" diniz murmured pityingly. chapter v. in a large, handsome room, overlooking a shining river, now ablaze with sunshine, sat a beautiful woman, wearing on her face unmistakable signs of sadness. she scarcely heeded the opening door, until two pretty children came bounding to her side, clambering onto her chair and lap. then her face changed, and a sweet, tender smile chased away all gloom; the idle hands were busy now stroking the curly heads pressed so close against her. "i would have brought them to you before, but their father wished to keep them; he is always so happy when they are near," a little, dark-eyed woman, clad in picturesque robes of brilliant crimson and gold, said rapidly, as she threw herself down on a pile of soft cushions opposite the sweet, pale mother. lianor sighed, but she could not look sad long with those loved children clasped in her arms. "i cannot understand manuel," she said, with a puzzled expression in her eyes; "he is so strange, sometimes gay--almost too gay; then he relapses into a gloomy, brooding apathy, from which even the children have no power to rouse him." "but you have. he is never too morose to have a smile for you. i think, sometimes, he feels lonely. you are bound to him, yet your heart is as unresponsive to his passionate love as if you were strangers," savitre said, thoughtfully. "do you think so, savitre? i am indeed sorry; but you know how impossible it is to forget my first love. i like manuel, but beyond that, affection--except for my darlings--is dead; buried in luiz's grave." "hush! here comes manuel," savitre whispered, warningly. it was indeed manuel, older and graver-looking than of yore, with a deep melancholy in his eyes, brought there only by intense suffering. savitre, on his entrance, softly glided from the room, leaving husband and wife alone. "lianor," he began, a bright smile lighting up his face as he bent to kiss her fair brow, "i have been thinking, and am resolved to quit india and return to portugal. i have been here long enough. don't you think that will be pleasant, dearest?" "nothing would please me more," lianor cried, delightedly. "the greatest wish of my life is to see portugal once more, to show our country to our children," bending to kiss her tiny daughter's face. "then it will be granted. prepare to start as soon as possible. now, i am determined to leave here. something seems to urge me to go at once." only too anxious, lianor began her arrangements. savitre, who had never cared to leave her friend before, even to become panteleone's bride, entered into the preparations with unconcealed eagerness. she had faithfully promised her lover that, once in portugal, she would, with his father's approval, marry him. lianor felt no regret at leaving india, except for a loved grave--her father's--which she had so carefully tended. not many days after, manuel tonza, his wife, children, panteleone, and savitre, accompanied by several faithful servants, including lalli and tolla, embarked in a fine stately ship, which was to bear them in safety to their home. tonza seemed full of joy as he saw the last lines of the indian coast disappear. he had rarely appeared so happy since his marriage with lianor five years before. for several days the good ship went steadily on her way, until one night a terrific storm arose, and the vessel, heedless of the human cargo it was bearing, drifted onward at the mercy of the tempest. tonza, holding lianor and his children closely to him, stood silently dismayed, scarcely able to realize the awful danger which lay before him and those he loved. still onward, through the almost impenetrable darkness, went the doomed ship, until, as the dense shadows began to clear and the storm to cease, a sudden shock was felt by all--she had struck against some rocks and was slowly sinking! "we must be somewhere near land," the captain cried, his voice sounding above the roaring waters. by aid of the fast-breaking dawn, they could see the line of high, dark rocks, upon which the ship had met her fate. with much difficulty and peril, under the captain's cool directions, the crew managed at last to leave the sinking vessel, not without much loss of life. out of nearly five hundred only a few arrived in safety, amongst whom were tonza, his wife, children, savitre, and panteleone. when the day broke in calm splendor, the sun shown upon a mournful sight--a group of shipwrecked men and women. no sign of habitation met their view; only a weary waste of bare land, sheltered by a few trees, from whose branches hung a goodly supply of fruit. "if we go farther inland, we are sure to find some natives, if only savages," tonza remarked gravely; and followed by the men, he commenced the long, weary way. lianor, pale but firm, holding in her arms her little daughter, walked beside him, heedless of the fatigue which oppressed her and made her long to sink upon the sandy ground to rest. onward they went, never pausing to rest their tired feet until, as the day was about to decline, they came to a deep waterfall, over which they had to cross. no easy task, as the only means of doing so was by an uneven path, made from a line of rocks, on either side of which the boiling waters poured in terrific fury. tonza--who, now the captain had perished, placed himself at the head of the crew--was the first to put his foot upon the crossing; then, turning to the people, he said: "be careful, and not glance behind or down, or you will lose your balance and fall." lianor, who, by her husband's wish, had given her child to one of the men, followed closely behind manuel, who held his boy in his arms. silently, without daring to murmur one word, the men walked bravely onward. they were nearly half way across. manuel had indeed touched firm ground, when a sudden cry from her little girl made lianor turn in affright to see what ailed her. that move was fatal; the next instant she had lost her footing and fallen into the dashing torrent. with a despairing shriek manuel stopped, and had not some one held him back, would have dashed in after his wife. panteleone, who saw a chance of saving her, quickly slipped over the side, caught her in his aims as she was about to sink, then bore her to land. forgetful of all others, manuel threw himself beside her still form, from which all life seemed to have fled, calling wildly on her name, pressing passionate kisses on her cold face, hoping by the warmth of his caresses to bring back the color to her cheeks. but it was useless; lianor was dead; her head having struck against a rock, caused instant unconsciousness, from which they could not rouse her. when tonza realized the awful truth he rose to his feet, pale and haggard, his eyes full of despairing anguish. "it is just; my sin is punished. my wife, the only thing i loved on earth, for whose sake i committed crime, is taken from me! she alone had power to make me happy; without her i cannot live. it is time i confessed all, and you shall be my judges. it was i who caused the death of luiz falcam, that i might win his betrothed; and when i heard that diniz sampayo had discovered partly the truth, i had him thrown into prison on suspicion of having stolen the very poignard with which luiz had met his death--one that i myself had placed in the assassin's hand! you all know how he escaped, but he is an exile for my fault. if ever you should see him, tell him his innocence is established; he can return to india in peace. you have heard my story, now judge me;" and with arms crossed over his breast, his head bowed in deepest grief and humility, he waited his sentence. a dead hush fell over the group, broken only by the suppressed sobs of savitre, who was crouching beside lianor, and the pitiful moans of the little girl dying in one of the rough seamen's arms. at last pantaleone, a look of compassion on his face, went towards his friend, and, laying his head on tonza's shoulder, said gently: "my cousin, you have sinned, but god has sent your punishment; that is sufficient. live to devote your life to bringing up the little motherless children left to you. restore sampayo to his own again; then try, by true repentance, to atone for the wrong you did him." tonza raised his head, and glanced gratefully at panteleone; but his eyes were full of firm resolution none could understand. "you are good, but my life is worth nothing, now she has gone. see, this poor babe will soon follow her mother. garcia i leave to you; he is too young to realize his loss; but never let him know his father's sin!" he exclaimed hoarsely; and, after pressing his boy tightly to his breast, kissed the dying child; then softly lifting lianor in his arms, he first pressed his lips reverently on her pale brow, and, before any one could prevent him, or realize what he was about to do, he had sprang from the rock into the deep torrent, and disappeared with his precious burden from their view. a cry of horror burst from the lips of all present, and many efforts were made to find their bodies; but in vain. with saddened hearts the people turned away, and continued their journey, praying they might ere long find help and shelter. before the day had closed another soul had winged its flight to heaven, and the tiny waxen form of lianor's baby-girl left in its last resting-place in the golden sand. a small wooden house, surrounded by sweet-scented flowers of brightest hue, amongst which a beautiful, dark-eyed woman was softly gliding, culling large clusters of the delicate blossoms. as she stopped to gather a few rich carnations, singing in a low, musical voice, a man, young and handsome, slipped from beneath the pretty porch, and walking noiselessly behind her, suddenly lifted her in his strong arms, pressing the slight form tenderly to his breast. "take care, diniz," she cried, warningly, a ring of deepest joy thrilling her clear voice. "you will spoil all my flowers!" "except the fairest of all--yourself. ah, miriam, my darling! how happy we have been since that day when you so generously saved me from a felon's doom!" rapturously kissing the beautiful, dark face so near his own. their bliss was broken by a crowd of brown-skinned people, moving toward the cottage, seemingly acting under some emotion. "what has happened? what is it?" husband and wife cried simultaneously. "we have seen a party of white men, doubtlessly shipwrecked on the coast, coming in this direction. they are even now in sight," one man said quickly. diniz flushed, and his eyes grew bright with suppressed joy. "perhaps some of our countrymen, miriam. let us hasten forward to welcome them," he cried eagerly; and leading his wife, while the crowd followed curiously behind, sampayo hurried in the direction from whence the strangers were coming. it was not long before they met the tired crew, now dwindled to about twenty, many having perished on the way. as diniz stepped towards the first stranger, on whose arm leaned a young and beautiful woman, a low cry burst from his lips. "panteleone!" he gasped, "is it really you?" "what, diniz!" and the two friends, separated for so long a time, warmly clasped hands. "but how comes it that you are like this?" panteleone briefly related their voyage from india, and the disastrous end. tears shone in his eyes when he recounted the sad death of lianor and her husband. "poor, poor girl! how sorry i am!" diniz said mournfully, while miriam, scarcely able to repress her sobs, drew lianor's orphan boy in her arms, and bore him to their pretty home. "you are welcome--all!" sampayo said gently, turning to the haggard-looking seamen. "come." a few days later a grand old ship, bound for portugal, started from that coast, bearing the wrecked crew to their former destination. amongst those on board were diniz and his wife (phenee had long since joined his forefathers), who, now his innocence was made known, had no longer the fear of being imprisoned, and could return in safety to his native land. panteleone's father received savitre with almost paternal love, and some months after their arrival, when their mourning for poor lianor was lessened, the two faithful hearts became one. little garcia, tonza's son, was tenderly nurtured in their tranquil home, and the aunt he loved so dearly became a second mother, replacing the one he had lost. no shadow of his father's sin darkened his young life; he lived unconscious of the sad fate of his mother, who, won by crime, by her death avenged luiz falcam, for, through her, manuel tonza had atoned for all. the end. the latest works of the most popular authors. her fatal sin; a woman's love; the tragedy of redmount. by mrs. m.e. holmes. bound by a spell, by hugh conway forced apart, or exiled by fate, by morris redwing. dyke darrel, the railroad detective; a life for a life, or the detective's triumph; $ reward; or cornered at last, by frank pinkerton. honor bright, and twenty crusoes, by dwight weldon. a golden heart, by charlotte m. braeme. a house party, by ouida. lady valworth's diamonds; mildred trevanion, by the duchess. for sale everywhere. [illustration: "and whom may i say the message is from?"] whispering smith by frank h. spearman illustrated by n. c. wyeth and with scenes from the photo-play produced by the signal film corporation new york grosset & dunlap publishers published by arrangement with charles scribner's sons copyright, , by charles scribner's sons published, september, to my son thomas clark spearman in memory of a piedmont winter contents chapter page i. the wrecking boss ii. at smoky creek iii. dicksie iv. george mccloud v. the crawling stone vi. the final appeal vii. in marion's shop viii. smoky creek bridge ix. the misunderstanding x. sweeping orders xi. at the three horses xii. parley xiii. the turn in the storm xiv. the quarrel xv. the shot in the pass xvi. at the wickiup xvii. a test xviii. new plans xix. the crawling stone rise xx. at the dike xxi. supper in camp xxii. a talk with whispering smith xxiii. at the river xxiv. between girlhood and womanhood xxv. the man on the frenchman xxvi. tower w xxvii. pursuit xxviii. the sunday murder xxix. williams cache xxx. the fight in the cache xxxi. the death of du sang xxxii. mcloud and dicksie xxxiii. the laugh of a woman xxxiv. a midnight visit xxxv. the call xxxvi. duty xxxvii. wickwire xxxviii. into the north xxxix. among the coyotes xl. a sympathetic ear xli. dicksie's ride xlii. at the door xliii. closing in xliv. crawling stone wash xlv. back to the mountains whispering smith chapter i the wrecking boss news of the wreck at smoky creek reached medicine bend from point of rocks at five o'clock. sinclair, in person, was overseeing the making up of his wrecking train, and the yard, usually quiet at that hour of the morning, was alive with the hurry of men and engines. in the trainmaster's room of the weather-beaten headquarters building, nicknamed by railroad men "the wickiup," early comers--sleepy-faced, keen-eyed trainmen--lounged on the tables and in chairs discussing the reports from point of rocks, and among them crew-callers and messengers moved in and out. from the door of the big operators' room, pushed at intervals abruptly open, burst a blaze of light and the current crash of many keys; within, behind glass screens, alert, smooth-faced boys in shirt sleeves rained calls over the wires or bent with flying pens above clips, taking incoming messages. at one end of the room, heedless of the strain on the division, press despatches and cablegrams clicked in monotonous relay over commercial wires; while at the other, operators were taking from the despatchers' room the train orders and the hurried dispositions made for the wreck emergency by anderson, the assistant superintendent. at a table in the alcove the chief operator was trying to reach the division superintendent, mccloud, at sleepy cat; at his elbow, his best man was ringing the insistent calls of the despatcher and clearing the line for sinclair and the wrecking gang. two minutes after the wrecking train reported ready they had their orders and were pulling out of the upper yard, with right of way over everything to point of rocks. the wreck had occurred just west of the creek. a fast east-bound freight train, double-headed, had left the track on the long curve around the hill, and when the wrecking train backed through ten shed cut the sun streamed over the heaps of jammed and twisted cars strung all the way from the point of the curve to the foot of smoky hill. the crew of the train that lay in the ditch walked slowly up the track to where the wreckers had pulled up, and the freight conductor asked for sinclair. men rigging the derrick pointed to the hind car. the conductor, swinging up the caboose steps, made his way inside among the men that were passing out tools. the air within was bluish-thick with tobacco smoke, but through the haze the freightman saw facing him, in the far corner of the den-like interior, a man seated behind an old dining-car table, finishing his breakfast; one glimpse was enough to identify the dark beard of sinclair, foreman of the bridges and boss of the wrecking gang. beside him stood a steaming coffee-tank, and in his right hand he held an enormous tin cup that he was about to raise to his mouth when he saw the freight conductor. with a laugh, sinclair threw up his left hand and beckoned him over. then he shook his hair just a little, tossed back his head, opened an unusual mouth, drained the cup at a gulp, and cursing the freightman fraternally, exclaimed, "how many cars have you ditched this time?" the trainman, a sober-faced fellow, answered dryly, "all i had." "running too fast, eh?" glared sinclair. with the box cars piled forty feet high on the track, the conductor was too old a hand to begin a controversy. "our time's fast," was all he said. sinclair rose and exclaimed, "come on!" and the two, leaving the car, started up the track. the wrecking boss paid no attention to his companion as they forged ahead, but where the train had hit the curve he scanned the track as he would a blue print. "they'll have your scalp for this," he declared abruptly. "i reckon they will." "what's your name?" "stevens." "looks like all day for you, doesn't it? no matter; i guess i can help you out." where the merchandise cars lay, below the switch, the train crew knew that a tramp had been caught. at intervals they heard groans under the wreckage, which was piled high there. sinclair stopped at the derrick, and the freight conductor went on to where his brakeman had enlisted two of sinclair's giants to help get out the tramp. a brake beam had crushed the man's legs, and the pallor of his face showed that he was hurt internally, but he was conscious and moaned softly. the men had started to carry him to the way car when sinclair came up, asked what they were doing, and ordered them back to the wreck. they hastily laid the tramp down. "but he wants water," protested a brakeman who was walking behind, carrying his arm in a sling. "water!" bawled sinclair. "have my men got nothing to do but carry a tramp to water? get ahead there and help unload those refrigerators. he'll find water fast enough. let the damned hobo crawl down to the creek after it." the tramp was too far gone for resentment; he had fainted when they laid him down, and his half-glazed eyes, staring at the sky, gave no evidence that he heard anything. the sun rose hot, for in the red desert sky there is rarely a cloud. sinclair took the little hill nearest the switch to bellow his orders from, running down among the men whenever necessary to help carry them out. within thirty minutes, though apparently no impression had been made on the great heaps of wrenched and splintered equipment, sinclair had the job in hand. work such as this was the man's genius. in handling a wreck sinclair was a marvel among mountain men. he was tall but not stout, with flashing brown eyes and a strength always equal to that of the best man in his crew. but his inspiration lay in destruction, and the more complete the better. there were no futile moves under sinclair's quick eyes, no useless pulling and hauling, no false grappling; but like a raven at a feast, every time his derrick-beak plucked at the wreck he brought something worth while away. whether he was righting a tender, rerailing an engine, tearing out a car-body, or swinging a set of trucks into the clear, sinclair, men said, had luck, and no confusion in day or night was great enough to drown his heavy tones or blur his rapid thinking. just below where the wrecking boss stood lay the tramp. the sun scorched his drawn face, but he made no effort to turn from it. sometimes he opened his eyes, but sinclair was not a promising source of help, and no one that might have helped dared venture within speaking distance of the injured man. when the heat and the pain at last extorted a groan and an appeal, sinclair turned. "damn you, ain't you dead yet? what? water?" he pointed to a butt standing in the shade of a car that had been thrown out near the switch. "there's water; go get it!" the cracking of a box car as the derrick wrenched it from the wreck was engaging the attention of the boss, and as he saw the grapple slip he yelled to his men and pointed to the chains. the tramp lay still a long time. at last he began to drag himself toward the butt. in the glare of the sun timbers strained and snapped, and men with bars and axes chopped and wrenched at the massive frames and twisted iron on the track. the wrecking gang moved like ants in and out of the shapeless débris, and at intervals, as the sun rose higher, the tramp dragged himself nearer the butt. he lay on the burning sand like a crippled insect, crawling, and waiting for strength to crawl. to him there was no railroad and no wreck, but only the blinding sun, the hot sand, the torture of thirst, and somewhere water, if he could reach it. the freight conductor, stevens, afraid of no man, had come up to speak to sinclair, and sinclair, with a smile, laid a cordial hand on his shoulder. "stevens, it's all right. i'll get you out of this. come here." he led the conductor down the track where they had walked in the morning. he pointed to flange-marks on the ties. "see there--there's where the first wheels left the track, and they left on the inside of the curve; a thin flange under the first refrigerator broke. i've got the wheel itself back there for evidence. they can't talk fast running against that. damn a private car-line, anyway! give me a cigar--haven't got any? great guns, man, there's a case of key wests open up ahead; go fill your pockets and your grip. don't be bashful; you've got friends on the division if you are irish, eh?" "sure, only i don't smoke," said stevens, with diplomacy. "well, you drink, don't you? there's a barrel of brandy open at the switch." the brandy-cask stood up-ended near the water-butt, and the men dipped out of both with cups. they were working now half naked at the wreck. the sun hung in a cloudless sky, the air was still, and along the right of way huge wrecking fires added to the scorching heat. ten feet from the water-butt lay a flattened mass of rags. crusted in smoke and blood and dirt, crushed by a vise of beams and wheels out of human semblance, and left now an aimless, twitching thing, the tramp clutched at stevens's foot as he passed. "water!" "hello, old boy, how the devil did you get here?" exclaimed stevens, retreating in alarm. "water!" stevens stepped to the butt and filled a cup. the tramp's eyes were closed. stevens poured the water over his face; then he lifted the man's head and put a cupful to his lips. "is that hobo alive yet?" asked sinclair, coming back smoking a cigar. "what does he want now? water? don't waste any time on him." "it's bad luck refusing water," muttered stevens, holding the cup. "he'll be dead in a minute," growled sinclair. the sound of his voice roused the failing man to a fury. he opened his bloodshot eyes, and with the dregs of an ebbing vitality cursed sinclair with a frenzy that made stevens draw back. if sinclair was startled he gave no sign. "go to hell!" he exclaimed harshly. with a ghastly effort the man made his retort. he held up his blood-soaked fingers. "i'm going all right--i know that," he gasped, with a curse, "but i'll come back for you!" sinclair, unshaken, stood his ground. he repeated his imprecation more violently; but stevens, swallowing, stole out of hearing. as he disappeared, a train whistled in the west. chapter ii at smoky creek karg, sinclair's crew foreman, came running over to him from a pile of merchandise that had been set off the right of way on the wagon-road for loot. "that's the superintendent's car coming, ain't it, murray?" he cried, looking across the creek at the approaching train. "what of it?" returned sinclair. "why, we're just loading the team." the incoming train, an engine with a way car, two flats, and the bear dance derrick, slowed up at one end of the wreck while sinclair and his foreman talked. three men could be seen getting out of the way car--mccloud and reed young, the scotch roadmaster, and bill dancing. a gang of trackmen filed slowly out after them. the leaders of the party made their way down the curve, and sinclair, with karg, met them at the point. mccloud asked questions about the wreck and the chances of getting the track clear, and while they talked sinclair sent karg to get the new derrick into action. sinclair then asked mccloud to walk with him up the track to see where the cars had left the rail. the two men showed in contrast as they stepped along the ties. mccloud was not alone younger and below sinclair's height: his broad stetson hat flattened him somewhat. his movement was deliberate beside sinclair's litheness, and his face, though burned by sun and wind, was boyish, while sinclair's was strongly lined. "just a moment," suggested mccloud mildly, as sinclair hastened past the goods piled in the wagon-road. "whose team is that, sinclair?" the road followed the right of way where they stood, and a four-horse team of heavy mules was pulling a loaded ranch-wagon up the grade when mccloud spoke. sinclair answered cordially. "that's my team from over on the frenchman. i picked them up at denver. nice mules, mccloud, ain't they? give me mules every time for heavy work. if i had just a hundred more of 'em the company could have my job--what?" "yes. what's that stuff they are hauling?" "that's a little stuff mashed up in the merchandise car; there's some tobacco there and a little wine, i guess. the cases are all smashed." "let's look at it." "oh, there's nothing there that's any good, mccloud." "let's look at it." as bill dancing and young walked behind the two men toward the wagon, dancing made extraordinary efforts to wink at the roadmaster. "that's a good story about the mules coming from denver, ain't it?" he muttered. young, unwilling to commit himself, stopped to light his pipe. when he and dancing joined sinclair and mccloud the talk between the superintendent and the wrecking boss had become animated. "i always do something for my men out of a wreck when i can; that's the way i get the work out of them," sinclair was saying. "a little stuff like this," he added, nodding toward the wagon, "comes handy for presents, and the company wouldn't get any salvage out of it, anyway. i get the value a dozen times over in quick work. look there!" sinclair pointed to where the naked men heaved and wrenched in the sun. "where could you get white men to work like that if you didn't jolly them along once in a while? what? you haven't been here long, mccloud," smiled sinclair, laying a hand with heavy affection on the young man's shoulder. "ask any man on the division who gets the work out of his men--who gets the wrecks cleaned up and the track cleared. ain't that what you want?" "certainly, sinclair; no man that ever saw you handle a wreck would undertake to do it better." "then what's all this fuss about?" "we've been over all this matter before, as you know. the claim department won't stand for this looting; that's the whole story. here are ten or twelve cases of champagne on your wagon--soiled a little, but worth a lot of money." "that was a mistake loading that up; i admit it; it was karg's carelessness." "here is one whole case of cigars and part of another," continued mccloud, climbing from one wheel to another of the wagon. "there is a thousand dollars in this load! i know you've got good men, sinclair. if they are not getting paid as they should be, give them time and a half or double time, but put it in the pay checks. the freight loss and damage account increased two hundred per cent. last year. no railroad company can keep that rate up and last, sinclair." "hang the company! the claim agents are a pack of thieves," cried sinclair. "look here, mccloud, what's a pay check to a man that's sick, compared with a bottle of good wine?" "when one of your men is sick and needs wine, let me know," returned mccloud; "i'll see that he gets it. your men don't wear silk dresses, do they?" he asked, pointing to another case of goods under the driver's seat. "have that stuff all hauled back and loaded into a box car on track." "not by a damned sight!" exclaimed sinclair. he turned to his ranch driver, barney rebstock. "you haul that stuff where you were told to haul it, barney." then, "you and i may as well have an understanding right here," he said, as mccloud walked to the head of the mules. "by all means, and i'll begin by countermanding that order right now. take your load straight back to that car," directed mccloud, pointing up the track. barney, a ranch hand with a cigarette face looked surlily at mccloud. sinclair raised a finger at the boy. "you drive straight ahead where i told you to drive. i don't propose to have my affairs interfered with by you or anybody else, mr. mccloud. you and i can settle this thing ourselves," he added, walking straight toward the superintendent. "get away from those mules!" yelled barney at the same moment, cracking his whip. mccloud's dull eyes hardly lightened as he looked at the driver. "don't swing your whip this way, my boy," he said, laying hold quietly of the near bridle. "drop that bridle!" roared sinclair. "i'll drop your mules in their tracks if they move one foot forward. dancing, unhook those traces," said mccloud peremptorily. "dump the wine out of that wagon-box, young." then he turned to sinclair and pointed to the wreck. "get back to your work." the sun marked the five men rooted for an instant on the hillside. dancing jumped at the traces, reed young clambered over the wheel, and sinclair, livid, faced mccloud. with a bitter denunciation of interlopers, claim agents, and "fresh" railroad men generally, sinclair swore he would not go back to work, and a case of wine crashing to the ground infuriated him. he turned on his heel and started for the wreck. "call off the men!" he yelled to karg at the derrick. the foreman passed the word. the derrickmen, dropping their hooks and chains in some surprise, moved out of the wreckage. the axemen and laborers gathered around the foreman and followed him toward sinclair. "boys," cried sinclair, "we've got a new superintendent, a college guy. you know what they are; the company has tried 'em before. they draw the salaries and we do the work. this one down here now is making his little kick about the few pickings we get out of our jobs. you can go back to your work or you can stand right here with me till we get our rights. what?" half a dozen men began talking at once. the derrickman from below, a hatchet-faced wiper, with the visor of a greasy cap cocked over his ear, stuck his head between the uprights and called out shrilly, "what's er matter, murray?" and a few men laughed. barney had deserted the mules. dancing and young, with small regard for loss or damage, were emptying the wagon like deckhands, for in a fight such as now appeared imminent, possession of the goods even on the ground seemed vital to prestige. mccloud waited only long enough to assure the emptying of the wagon, and then followed sinclair to where he had assembled his men. "sinclair, put your men back to work." "not till we know just how we stand," sinclair answered insolently. he continued to speak, but mccloud turned to the men. "boys, go back to your work. your boss and i can settle our own differences. i'll see that you lose nothing by working hard." "and you'll see we make nothing, won't you?" suggested karg. "i'll see that every man in the crew gets twice what is coming to him--all except you, karg. i discharge you now. sinclair, will you go back to work?" "no!" "then take your time. any men that want to go back to work may step over to the switch," added mccloud. not a man moved. sinclair and karg smiled at each other, and with no apparent embarrassment mccloud himself smiled. "i like to see men loyal to their bosses," he said good-naturedly. "i wouldn't give much for a man that wouldn't stick to his boss if he thought him right. but a question has come up here, boys, that must be settled once for all. this wreck-looting on the mountain division is going to stop--right here--at this particular wreck. on that point there is no room for discussion. now, any man that agrees with me on that matter may step over here and i'll discuss with him any other grievance. if what i say about looting is a grievance, it can't be discussed. is there any man that wants to come over?" no man stirred. "sinclair, you've got good men," continued mccloud, unmoved. "you are leading them into pretty deep water. there's a chance yet for you to get them out of serious trouble if you think as much of them as they do of you. will you advise them to go back to work--all except karg?" sinclair glared in high humor. "oh, i couldn't do that! i'm discharged!" he protested, bowing low. "i don't want to be over-hasty," returned mccloud. "this is a serious business, as you know better than they do, and there will never be as good a time to fix it up as now. there is a chance for you, i say, sinclair, to take hold if you want to now." "why, i'll take hold if you'll take your nose out of my business and agree to keep it out." "is there _any_ man here that wants to go back to work for the company?" continued mccloud evenly. it was one man against thirty; mccloud saw there was not the shadow of a chance to win the strikers over. "this lets all of you out, you understand, boys," he added; "and you can never work again for the company on this division if you don't take hold now." "boys," exclaimed sinclair, better-humored every moment, "i'll guarantee you work on this division when all the fresh superintendents are run out of the country, and i'll lay this matter before bucks himself, and don't you forget it!" "you will have a chilly job of it," interposed mccloud. "so will you, my hearty, before you get trains running past here," retorted the wrecking boss. "come on, boys." the disaffected men drew off. the emptied wagon, its load scattered on the ground, stood deserted on the hillside, and the mules drooped in the heat. bill dancing, a giant and a dangerous one, stood lone guard over the loot, and young had been called over by mccloud. "how many men have you got with you, reed?" "eleven." "how long will it take them to clean up this mess with what help we can run in this afternoon?" young studied the prospect before replying. "they're green at this sort of thing, of course; they might be fussing here till to-morrow noon, i'm afraid; perhaps till to-morrow night, mr. mccloud." "that won't do!" the two men stood for a moment in a study. "the merchandise is all unloaded, isn't it?" said mccloud reflectively. "get your men here and bring a water-bucket with you." mccloud walked down to the engine of the wrecking train and gave orders to the train and engine crews. the best of the refrigerator cars had been rerailed, and they were pulled to a safe distance from the wreck. young brought the bucket, and mccloud pointed to the caskful of brandy. "throw that brandy over the wreckage, reed." the roadmaster started. "burn the whole thing up, eh?" "everything on the track." "bully! it's a shame to waste the liquor, but it's sinclair's fault. here, boys, scatter this stuff where it will catch good, and touch her off. everything goes--the whole pile. burn up everything; that's orders. if you can get a few rails here, now, i'll give you a track by sundown, mr. mccloud, in spite of sinclair and the devil." the remains of many cars lay in heaps along the curve, and the trackmen like firebugs ran in and out of them. a tongue of flame leaped from the middle of a pile of stock cars. in five minutes the wreck was burning; in ten minutes the flames were crackling fiercely; then in another instant the wreck burst into a conflagration that rose hissing and seething a hundred feet straight up in the air. from where they stood, sinclair's men looked on. they were nonplussed, but their boss had not lost his nerve. he walked back to mccloud. "you're going to send us back to medicine bend with the car, i suppose?" mccloud spoke amiably. "not on your life. take your personal stuff out of the car and tell your men to take theirs; then get off the train and off the right of way." "going to turn us loose on red desert, are you?" asked sinclair steadily. "you've turned yourselves loose." "wouldn't give a man a tie-pass, would you?" "come to my office in medicine bend and i'll talk to you about it," returned mccloud impassively. "well, boys," roared sinclair, going back to his followers, "we can't ride on this road now! but i want to tell you there's something to eat for every one of you over at my place on the crawling stone, and a place to sleep--and something to drink," he added, cursing mccloud once more. the superintendent eyed him, but made no response. sinclair led his men to the wagon, and they piled into it till the box was filled. barney rebstock had the reins again, and the mules groaned as the whip cracked. those that could not climb into the wagon as it moved off straggled along behind, and the air was filled with cheers and curses. the wreck burned furiously, and the column of black smoke shot straight up. sinclair, as his cavalcade moved over the hill, followed on foot, grimly. he was the last to cross the divide that shut the scene on the track away from the striking wreckers, and as he reached the crest he paused and looked back, standing for a moment like a statue outlined in the vivid sunshine. for all his bravado, something told him he should never handle another wreck on the mountain division--that he stood a king dethroned. uninviting enough to many men, this had been his kingdom, and he loved the power it gave him. he had run it like many a reckless potentate, but no one could say he had not been royal in his work as well as in his looting. it was impossible not to admire the man, his tremendous capacity, his extraordinary power as a leader; and no one liked his better traits more than mccloud himself. but sinclair never loved mccloud. long afterward he told whispering smith that he made his first mistake in a long and desperate game in not killing mccloud when he laid his hand that morning on the bridle of the mules; it would have been easy then. sinclair might have been thinking of it even as he stood looking back. but he stood only for a moment, then turned and passed over the hill. chapter iii dicksie the wreckers, drifting in the blaze of the sun across the broad alkali valley, saw the smoke of the wreck-fire behind them. no breath of wind stirred it. with the stillness of a signal column it rose, thin and black, and high in the air spread motionless, like a huge umbrella, above smoky creek. reed young had gone with an engine to wire reënforcements, and mccloud, active among the trackmen until the conflagration spent itself, had retired to the shade of the hill. reclining against a rock with his legs crossed, he had clasped his hands behind his head and sat looking at the iron writhing in the dying heat of the fire. the sound of hoofs aroused him, and looking below he saw a horsewoman reining up near his men at the wreck. she rode an american horse, thin and rangy, and the experienced way in which she checked him drew him back almost to his haunches. but mccloud's eyes were fixed on the slender figure of the rider. he was wholly at a loss to account, at such a time and in such a place, for a visitor in gauntleted gloves and a banded panama hat. he studied her with growing amazement. her hair coiled low on her neck supported the very free roll of the hat-brim. her black riding-skirt clung to her waist to form its own girdle, and her white stock, rolled high on her neck, rose above a heavy shirtwaist of white linen, and gave her an air of confident erectness. the trackmen stopped work to look, but her attitude in their gaze was one of impatience rather than of embarrassment. her boot flashed in the stirrup while she spoke to the nearest man, and her horse stretched his neck and nosed the brown alkali-grass that spread thinly along the road. to mccloud she was something like an apparition. he sat spellbound until the trackman indiscreetly pointed him out, and the eyes of the visitor, turning his way, caught him with his hands on the rock in an attitude openly curious. she turned immediately away, but mccloud rose and started down the hill. the horse's head was pulled up, and there were signs of departure. he quickened his steps. once he saw, or thought he saw, the rider's head so turned that her eyes might have commanded one approaching from his quarter; yet he could catch no further glimpse of her face. a second surprise awaited him. just as she seemed about to ride away, she dropped lightly from the horse to the ground, and he saw how confident in figure she was. as she began to try her saddle-girths, mccloud attempted a greeting. she could not ignore his hat, held rather high above his head as he approached, but she gave him the slightest nod in return--one that made no attempt to explain why she was there or where she had come from. "pardon me," ventured mccloud, "have you lost your way?" he was immediately conscious that he had said the wrong thing. the expression of her eyes implied that it was foolish to suppose she was lost but she only answered, "i saw the smoke and feared the bridge was on fire." something in her voice made him almost sorry he had intervened; if she stood in need of help of any sort it was not apparent, and her gaze was confusing. he became conscious that he was at the worst for an inspection; his face felt streaky with smoke, his hat and shirt had suffered severely in directing the fire, and his hands were black. he said to himself in revenge that she was not pretty, despite the fact that she seemed completely to take away his consequence. he felt, while she inspected him, like a brakeman. "i presume mr. sinclair is here?" she said presently. "i am sorry to say he is not." "he usually has charge of the wrecks, i think. what a dreadful fire!" she murmured, looking down the track. she stood beside the horse with one hand resting on her girdle. around the hand that held the bridle her quirt lay coiled in the folds of her glove, and, though seemingly undecided as to what to do, her composure did not lessen. as she looked at the wreckage, a breath of wind lifted the hair that curled around her ear. the mountain wind playing on her neck had left it brown, and above, the pulse of her ride rose red in her cheek. "was it a passenger wreck?" she turned abruptly on mccloud to ask the question. her eyes were brown, too, he saw, and a doubt assailed him. was she pretty? "only a freight wreck," he answered. "i thought if there were passengers hurt i could send help from the ranch. were you the conductor?" "fortunately not." "and no one was hurt?" "only a tramp. we are burning the wreck to clear the track." "from the divide it looked like a mountain on fire. i'm sorry mr. sinclair is not here." "why, indeed, yes, so am i." "because i know him. you are one of his men, i presume." "not exactly; but is there anything i can do----" "oh, thank you, nothing, except that you might tell him the pretty bay colt he sent over to us has sprung his shoulder." "he will be sorry to hear it, i'm sure." "but we are doing everything possible for him. he is going to make a perfectly lovely horse." "and whom may i say the message is from?" though disconcerted, mccloud was regaining his wits. he felt perfectly certain there was no danger, if she knew sinclair and lived in the mountains, but that she would sometime find out he was not a conductor. when he asked his question she appeared slightly surprised and answered easily, "mr. sinclair will know it is from dicksie dunning." mccloud knew her then. every one knew dicksie dunning in the high country. this was dicksie dunning of the great crawling stone ranch, most widely known of all the mountain ranches. while his stupidity in not guessing her identity before overwhelmed him, he resolved to exhaust the last effort to win her interest. "i don't know just when i shall see mr. sinclair," he answered gravely, "but he shall certainly have your message." a doubt seemed to steal over dicksie at the change in mccloud's manner. "oh, pardon me--i thought you were working for the company." "you are quite right, i am; but mr. sinclair is not." her eyebrows rose a little. "i think you are mistaken, aren't you?" "it is possible i am; but if he is working for the company, it is pretty certain that i am not," he continued, heaping mystification on her. "however, that will not prevent my delivering the message. by the way, may i ask which shoulder?" "shoulder!" "which shoulder is sprung." "oh, of course! the right shoulder, and it is sprung pretty badly, too, cousin lance says. how very stupid of me to ride over here for a freight wreck!" mccloud felt humiliated at having nothing better worth while to offer. "it was a very bad one," he ventured. "but not of the kind i can be of any help at, i fear." mccloud smiled. "we are certainly short of help." dicksie brought her horse's head around. she felt again of the girth as she replied, "not such as i can supply, i'm afraid." and with the words she stepped away, as if preparing to mount. mccloud intervened. "i hope you won't go away without resting your horse. the sun is so hot. mayn't i offer you some sort of refreshment?" dicksie dunning thought not. "the sun is very warm," persisted mccloud. dicksie smoothed her gauntlet in the assured manner natural to her. "i am pretty well used to it." but mccloud held on. "several cars of fruit were destroyed in the wreck. i can offer you any quantity of grapes--crates of them are spoiling over there--and pears." "thank you, i am just from luncheon." "and i have cooled water in the car. i hope you won't refuse that, so far out in the desert." dicksie laughed a little. "do you call this far? i don't; and i don't call this desert by any means. thank you ever so much for the water, but i'm not in the least thirsty." "it was kind of you even to think of extending help. i wish you would let me send some fruit over to your ranch. it is only spoiling here." dicksie stroked the neck of her horse. "it is about eighteen miles to the ranch house." "i don't call that far." "oh, it isn't," she returned hastily, professing not to notice the look that went with the words, "except for perishable things!" then, as if acknowledging her disadvantage, she added, swinging her bridle-rein around, "i am under obligations for the offer, just the same." "at least, won't you let your horse drink?" mccloud threw the force of an appeal into his words, and dicksie stopped her preparations and appeared to waver. "jim is pretty thirsty, i suppose. have you plenty of water?" "a tender full. had i better lead him down while you wait up on the hill in the shade?" "can't i ride him down?" "it would be pretty rough riding." "oh, jim goes anywhere," she said, with her attractive indifference to situations. "if you don't mind helping me mount." "with pleasure." she stood waiting for his hand, and mccloud stood, not knowing just what to do. she glanced at him expectantly. the sun grew intensely hot. "you will have to show me how," he stammered at last. "don't you know?" he mentally cursed the technical education that left him helpless at such a moment, but it was useless to pretend. "frankly, i don't!" "just give me your hand. oh, not in that way! but never mind, i'll walk," she suggested, catching up her skirt. "the rocks will cut your boots all to pieces. suppose you tell me what to do this once," he said, assuming some confidence. "i'll never forget." "why, if you will just give me your hand for my foot, i can manage, you know." he did not know, but she lifted her skirt graciously, and her crushed boot rested easily for a moment in his hand. she rose in the air above him before he could well comprehend. he felt the quick spring from his supporting hand, and it was an instant of exhilaration. then she balanced herself with a flushed laugh in the saddle, and he guided her ahead among the loose rocks, the horse nosing at his elbow as they picked their way. crossing the track, they gained better ground. as they reached the switch and passed a box car, jim shied, and dicksie spoke sharply to him. mccloud turned. in the shade of the car lay the tramp. "that man lying there frightened him," explained dicksie. "oh," she exclaimed suddenly, "he has been hurt!" she turned away her head. "is that the man who was in the wreck?" "yes." "do something for him. he must be suffering terribly." "the men gave him some water awhile ago, and when we moved him into the shade we thought he was dead." "he isn't dead yet!" dicksie's face, still averted, had grown white. "i saw him move. can't you do something for him?" she reined up at a little distance. mccloud bent over the man a moment and spoke to him. when he rose he called to the men on the track. "you are right," he said, rejoining dicksie; "he is very much alive. his name is wickwire; he is a cowboy." "a cowboy!" "a tramp cowboy." "what can you do with him?" "i'll have the men put him in the caboose and send him to barnhardt's hospital at medicine bend when the engine comes back. he may live yet. if he does, he can thank you for it." [illustration: j. p. mcgowan in the title role of the photo-play production of "whispering smith." © _american mutual studio_.] chapter iv george mccloud mccloud was an exception to every tradition that goes to make up a mountain railroad man. he was from new england, with a mild voice and a hand that roughened very slowly. mccloud was a classmate of morris blood's at the boston "tech," and the acquaintance begun there continued after the two left school, with a scattering fire of letters between the mountains and new england, as few and as far between as men's letters usually scatter after an ardent school acquaintance. there were just two boys in the mccloud family--john and george. one had always been intended for the church, the other for science. somehow the boys got mixed in their cradles, or, what is the same matter, in their assignments, and john got into the church. for george, who ought to have been a clergyman, nothing was left but a long engineering course for which, after he got it, he appeared to have no use. however, it seemed a little late to shift the life alignments. john had the pulpit and appeared disposed to keep it, and george was left, like a new england farm, to wonder what had become of himself. it is, nevertheless, odd how matters come about. john mccloud, a prosperous young clergyman, stopped on a california trip at medicine bend to see brother george's classmate and something of a real western town. he saw nothing sensational--it was there, but he did not see it--but he found both hospitality and gentlemen, and, if surprised, was too well-bred to admit it. his one-day stop ran on to several days. he was a guest at the medicine bend club, where he found men who had not forgotten the harvard greek plays. he rode in private cars and ate antelope steak grilled by glover's own darky boy, who had roasted buffalo hump for the grand duke alexis as far back as , and still hashed his browned potatoes in ragtime; and with the sun breaking clear over the frosty table-lands, a ravenous appetite, and a day's shooting in prospect, the rhythm had a particularly cheerful sound. john was asked to occupy a medicine bend pulpit, and before sunday the fame of his laugh and his marksmanship had spread so far that henry markover, the yale cowboy, rode in thirty-two miles to hear him preach. in leaving, john mccloud, in a seventh heaven of enthusiasm over the high country, asked morris blood why he could not find something for george out there; and blood, not even knowing the boy wanted to come, wrote for him, and asked bucks to give him a job. possibly, being over-solicitous, george was nervous when he talked to bucks; possibly the impression left by his big, strong, bluff brother john made against the boy; at all events, bucks, after he talked with george, shook his head. "i could make a first-class railroad man out of the preacher, morris, but not out of the brother. yes, i've talked with him. he can't do anything but figure elevations, and, by heaven, we can't feed our own engineers here now." so george found himself stranded in the mountains. morris blood was cut up over it, but george mccloud took it quietly. "i'm no worse off here than i was back there, morris." blood, at that, plucked up courage to ask george to take a job in the cold springs mines, and george jumped at it. it was impossible to get a white man to live at cold springs after he could save money enough to get away, so george was welcomed as assistant superintendent at the number eight mine, with no salary to speak of and all the work. in one year everybody had forgotten him. western men, on the average, show a higher heart temperature than eastern men, but they are tolerably busy people and have their own troubles. "be patient," morris blood had said to him. "sometime there will be more railroad work in these mountains; then, perhaps, your darned engineering may come into play. i wish you knew how to sell cigars." meantime, mccloud stuck to the mine, and insensibly replaced his eastern tissue with western. in new england he had been carefully moulded by several generations of gentlemen, but never baked hard. the mountains put the crust on him. for one thing, the sun and wind, best of all hemlocks, tanned his white skin into a tough all-american leather, seasoned his muscles into rawhide sinews, and, without burdening him with an extra ounce of flesh, sprinkled the red through his blood till, though thin, he looked apoplectic. insensibly, too, something else came about. george mccloud developed the rarest of all gifts of temperament, even among men of action--the ability to handle men. in cold springs, indeed, it was a case either of handling or of being handled. mccloud got along with his men and, with the tough element among them, usually through persuasion; but he proved, too, that he could inspire confidence even with a club. one day, coming down "special" from bear dance, gordon smith, who bore the nickname whispering smith, rode with president bucks in the privacy of his car. the day had been long, and the alkali lay light on the desert. the business in hand had been canvassed, and the troubles put aside for chicken, coffee, and cigars, when smith, who did not smoke, told the story of something he had seen the day before at cold springs that pleased him. the men in the number eight mine had determined to get rid of some italians, and after a good deal of rowing had started in to catch one of them and hang him. they had chosen a time when mccloud, the assistant superintendent of the mine, was down with mountain fever. it was he who had put the italians into the mine. he had already defended them from injury, and would be likely, it was known, to do so again if he were able. on this day a mob had been chasing the dagos, and had at length captured one. they were running him down street to a telegraph pole when the assistant superintendent appeared in scant attire and stopped them. taking advantage of the momentary confusion, he hustled their victim into the only place of refuge at hand, a billiard hall. the mob rushed the hall. in the farthest corner the unlucky italian, bleeding like a bullock and insane with fright, knelt, clinging to mccloud's shaky knees. in trying to make the back door the two had been cut off, and the sick boss had got into a corner behind a pool-table to make his stand. in his pocket he had a pistol, knowing that to use it meant death to him as well as to the wretch he was trying to save. fifty men were yelling in the room. they had rope, hatchets, a sprinkling of guns, and whiskey enough to burn the town, and in the corner behind a pool-table stood the mining boss with mountain fever, the dago, and a broken billiard-cue. bucks took the cigar from his mouth, leaned forward in his chair, and stretched his heavy chin out of his neck as if the situation now promised a story. the leader, smith continued, was the mine blacksmith, a strapping welshman, from whom mccloud had taken the italian in the street. the blacksmith had a revolver, and was crazy with liquor. mccloud singled him out in the crowd, pointed a finger at him, got the attention of the men, and lashed him across the table with his tongue until the blacksmith opened fire on him with his revolver, mccloud all the while shaking his finger at him and abusing him like a pickpocket. "the crowd couldn't believe its eyes," gordon smith concluded, "and mccloud was pushing for the blacksmith with his cue when kennedy and i squirmed through to the front and relieved the tension. mccloud wasn't hit." "what is that mining man's name?" asked bucks, reaching for a message clip. "mccloud." "first name?" continued bucks mechanically. "george." bucks looked at his companion in surprise. then he spoke, and a feeling of self-abasement was reflected in his words. "george mccloud," he echoed. "did you say george? why, i must know that man. i turned him down once for a job. he looked so peaceable i thought he was too soft for us." the president laid down his cigar with a gesture of disgust. "and yet there really are people along this line that think i'm clever. i haven't judgment enough to operate a trolley car. it's a shame to take the money they give me for running this system, gordon. hanged if i didn't think that fellow was too soft." he called the flagman over. "tell whitmyer we will stay at cold springs to-night." "i thought you were going through to medicine bend," suggested smith as the trainman disappeared. "mccloud," repeated bucks, taking up his cigar and throwing back his head in a cloud of smoke. "yes," assented his companion; "but i am going through to medicine bend, mr. bucks." "do." "how am i to do it?" "take the car and send it back to-morrow on number three." "thank you, if you won't need it to-night." "i sha'n't. i am going to stay at cold springs to-night and hunt up mccloud." "but that man is in bed in a very bad way; you can't see him. he is going to die." "no, he isn't. i am going to hunt him up and have him taken care of." that night bucks, in the twilight, was sitting by mccloud's bed, smoking and looking him over. "don't mind me," he said when he entered the room, lifted the ill-smelling lamp from the table, and, without taking time to blow it out, pitched it through the open window. "i heard you were sick, and just looked in to see how they were taking care of you. wilcox," he added, turning to the nurse he had brought in--a barber who wanted to be a railroad man, and had agreed to step into the breach and nurse mccloud--"have a box of miner's candles sent up from the roundhouse. we have some down there; if not, buy a box and send me the bill." mccloud, who after the rioting had crawled back to bed with a temperature of degrees, knew the barber, but felt sure that a lunatic had wandered in with him, and immediately bent his feeble mental energies on plans for getting rid of a dangerous man. when bucks sat down by him and continued talking at the nurse, mccloud caught nothing of what was said until bucks turned quietly toward him. "they tell me, mccloud, you have the fever." the sick man, staring with sunken eyes, rose half on his elbow in astonishment to look again at his visitor, but bucks eased him back with an admonition to guard his strength. mccloud's temperature had already risen with the excitement of seeing a man throw his lamp out of the window. bucks, meantime, working carefully to seem unconcerned and incensing mccloud with great clouds of smoke, tried to discuss his case with him as he had already done with the mine surgeon. mccloud, thinking it best to humor a crazy man, responded quietly. "the doctor said yesterday," he explained, "it was mountain fever, and he wants to put me into an ice-pack." bucks objected vigorously to the ice-pack. "the doctor tells me that it is the latest treatment for that class of fevers in the prussian army," answered mccloud feebly, but getting interested in spite of himself. "that's a good thing, no doubt, for the prussian army," replied bucks, "but, mccloud, in the first place, you are not a dutchman; in the second, you have not got mountain fever--not in my judgment." mccloud, confident now that he had an insane man on his hands, held his peace. "not a symptom of mountain fever," continued bucks calmly; "you have what looks to me like gastritis, but the homeopaths," he added, "have a better name for it. is it stomatitis, mccloud? i forget." the sick man, confounded by such learning, determined to try one question, and, if he was at fault, to drag his gun from under his pillow and sell his life as dearly as possible. summoning his waning strength, he looked hard at bucks. "just let me ask you one question. i never saw you before. are you a doctor?" "no, i'm a railroad man; my name is bucks." mccloud rose half up in bed with amazement. "they'll kill you if you lie here a week," continued bucks. "in just a week. now i'll tell you my plan. i'll take you down in the morning in my car to medicine bend; this barber will go with us. there in the hospital you can get everything you need, and i can make you comfortable. what do you say?" mccloud looked at his benefactor solemnly, but if hope flickered for an instant in his eyes it soon died. bucks said afterward that he looked like a cold-storage squab, just pinfeathers and legs. "shave him clean," said he, "and you could have counted his teeth through his cheeks." the sick man turned his face to the wall. "it's kind enough," he muttered, "but i guess it's too late." bucks did not speak for some time. twilight had faded above the hills, and only the candle lighted the room. then the master of mountain men, grizzled and brown, turned his eyes again to the bed. mccloud was staring at the ceiling. "we have a town of your name down on the plains, mccloud," said bucks, blowing away the cigar smoke after the long silence. "it is one of our division points, and a good one." "i know the town," responded mccloud. "it was named after one of our family." "i guess not." "it was, though," said mccloud wearily. "i think," returned bucks, "you must be mistaken. the man that town was named after belonged to the fighting mcclouds." "that is my family." "then where is your fight? when i propose to put you into my car and pull you out of this, why do you say it is too late? it is never too late." mccloud made no answer, and bucks ran on: "for a man that worked out as well as you did yesterday in a trial heat with a billiard-cue, i should say you could turn a handspring or two yet if you had to. for that matter, if you don't want to be moved, i can run a spur in here to your door in three hours in the morning. by taking out the side-wall we can back the car right up to the bed. why not? or we can stick a few hydraulic jacks under the sills, raise the house, and push your bed right on the observation platform." he got mccloud to laughing, and lighted a fresh cigar. a framed photograph hung on one of the bare walls of the room, and it caught the eye of the railroad man. he walked close to it, disinfected it with smoke, brushed the dust from the glass, and examined the print. "that looks like old van dyne college campus, hanged if it doesn't!" mccloud was watching him. "it is a photograph of the campus." "mccloud, are you a van dyne man?" "i did my college work there before i went to boston." bucks stood motionless. "poor little old van dyne! why, my brother sam taught at van dyne. no, you would not have known him; he's dead. never before west of the missouri river have i seen a van dyne man. you are the first." he shook his head as he sat down again. "it is crowded out now: no money, no prestige, half-starved professors with their elbows out, the president working like a dog all the week and preaching somewhere every sunday to earn five dollars. but, by heaven, they turned out men! did you know bug robinson?" he asked suddenly. "he gave me my degree." "old bug! he was sam's closest friend, mccloud. it's good to see him getting the recognition he deserves, isn't it? do you know, i send him an annual every year? yes, sir! and one year i had the whole blooming faculty out here on a fossil expedition; but, by heaven, mccloud, some of them looked more like megatheriums than what they dug up did." "i heard about that expedition." "i never got to college. i had to hustle. i'll get out of here before i tire you. wilcox will be here all night, and my china boy is making some broth for you now. you'll feel better in the morning." ten weeks later mccloud was sent from medicine bend up on the short line as trainmaster, and on the short line he learned railroading. "that's how i came here," said george mccloud to farrell kennedy a long time afterward, at medicine bend. "i had shrivelled and starved three years out there in the desert. i lived with those cattle underground till i had forgotten my own people, my own name, my own face--and bucks came along one day with whispering smith and dragged me out of my coffin. they had it ordered, and it being a small size and 'onhandy,' as the undertaker said, i paid for it and told him to store it for me. well, do you think i ever could forget either of those men, farrell?" mccloud's fortunes thus threw him first into the operating department of the mountain lines, but his heart was in the grades and the curves. to him the interest in the trainwork was the work of the locomotives toiling with the heavy loads up the canyons and across the uneven plateaus and through the deep gorges of the inner range, where the panting exhaust, choked between sheer granite walls, roared in a mighty protest against the burden put by the steep grades on the patient machines. in all the group of young men then on the mountain division, obscure and unknown at the time, but destined within so few years to be scattered far and wide as constructionists with records made in the rebuilding operations through the rocky mountains, none was less likely to attract attention than mccloud. bucks, who, indeed, could hardly be reckoned so much of the company as its head, was a man of commanding proportions physically. like glover, bucks was a giant in stature, and the two men, when together, could nowhere escape notice; they looked, in a word, their part, fitted to cope with the tremendous undertakings that had fallen to their lot. callahan, the chess-player on the overland lines, the man who could hold large combinations of traffic movement constantly in his head and by intuition reach the result of a given problem before other men could work it out, was, like morris blood, the master of tonnage, of middle age. but mccloud, when he went to the mountain division, in youthfulness of features was boyish, and when he left he was still a boy, bronzed, but young of face in spite of a lifetime's pressure and worry crowded into three years. he himself counted this physical make-up as a disadvantage. "it has embroiled me in no end of trouble, because i couldn't convince men i was in earnest until i made good in some hard way," he complained once to whispering smith. "i never could acquire even a successful habit of swearing, so i had to learn to fight." when, one day in boney street in medicine bend, he threw open the door of marion sinclair's shop, flung his hat sailing along the showcase with his war-cry, and called to her in the back rooms, she thought he had merely run in to say he was in town. "how do you do? what do you think? you're going to have an old boarder back," he cried. "i'm coming to medicine bend, superintendent of the division!" "mr. mccloud!" marion sinclair clasped her hands and dropped into a chair. "have they made you superintendent already?" "well, i like that! do you want them to wait till i'm gray-headed?" marion threw her hands to her own head. "oh, don't say anything about gray hairs. my head won't bear inspection. but i can't get over this promotion coming so soon--this whole big division! well, i congratulate you very sincerely----" "oh, but that isn't it! i suppose anybody will congratulate me. but where am i to board? have you a cook? you know how i went from bad to worse after you left cold springs. may i have my meals here with you as i used to there?" "why, i suppose you can, yes, if you can stand the cooking. i have an apprentice, mr. dancing's daughter, who does pretty well. she lives here with me, and is learning the business. but i sha'n't take as much as you used to pay me, for i'm doing so much better down here." "let me run that end of it, will you? i shall be doing better down here myself." they laughed as they bantered. marion sinclair wore gold spectacles, but they did not hide the delightful good-nature in her eyes. on the third finger of her slender left hand she wore, too, a gold band that explained the gray in her hair at twenty-six. this was the wife of murray sinclair, whom he had brought to the mountains from her far-away wisconsin home. within a year he had broken her heart so far as it lay in him to do it, but he could not break her charm nor her spirit. she was too proud to go back, when forced to leave him, and had set about earning her own living in the country to which she had come as a bride. she put on spectacles, she mutilated her heavy brown hair and to escape notice and secure the obscurity that she craved, her name, marion, became, over the door of her millinery shop and in her business, only "m. sinclair." cold springs, where sinclair had first brought her when he had headquarters there as foreman of bridges, had proved a hopeless place for the millinery business--at least, in the way that marion ran it. the women that had husbands had no money to buy hats with, and the women without husbands wore gaudy headgear, and were of the kind that made marion's heart creep when they opened the shop door. what was worse, they were inclined to joke with her, as if there must be a community of interest between a deserted woman and women who had deserted womanhood. to this business marion would not cater, and in consequence her millinery affairs sometimes approached collapse. she could, however, cook extraordinarily well, and, with the aid of a servant-maid, could always provide for a boarder or two--perhaps a railroad man or a mine superintendent to whom she could serve meals, and who, like all mountain men, were more than generous in their accounting with women. among these standbys of hers was mccloud. mccloud had always been her friend, and when she left cold springs and moved to medicine bend to set up her little shop in boney street near fort, she had lost him. yet somehow, to compensate marion for other cruel things in the mountains, providence seemed to raise up a new friend for her wherever she went. in medicine bend she did not know a soul, but almost the first customer that walked into her shop--and she was a customer worth while--was dicksie dunning of the crawling stone. chapter v the crawling stone where the mountain chains of north america have been flung up into a continental divide, the country in many of its aspects is still terrible. in extent alone this mountain empire is grandiose. the swiftest transcontinental trains approaching its boundaries at night find night falling again before they have fairly penetrated it. geologically severe, this region in geological store is the richest of the continent; physically forbidding beyond all other stretches of north america, the barren land alone excepted, in this region lie its gentlest valleys. here the desert is most grotesque, and here are pastoral retreats the most secluded. it is the home of the archean granite, and its basins are of a fathomless dust. under its sagebrush wastes the skeletons of earth's hugest mammals lie beside behemoth and the monsters of the deep. the eternal snow, the granite peak, the sandstone butte, the lava-bed, the gray desert, the far horizon are familiar here. with the sunniest and bluest of skies, this is the range of the deadliest storms, and its delightful summers contrast with the dreadest cold. here the desert of death simulates a field of cooling snow, green hills lie black in the dazzling light of day, limpid waters run green over arsenic stone, and sunset betricks the fantastic rock with column and capital and dome. clouds burst here above arid wastes, and where dew is precious the skies are most prodigal in their downpour. if the torrent bed is dry, distrust it. this vast mountain shed parts rivers whose waters find two oceans, and their valleys are the natural highways up which railroads wind to the crest of the continent. to the mountain engineer the waterway is the sphinx that holds in its silence the riddle of his success; with him lies the problem of providing a railway across ranges which often defy the hoofs of a horse. the construction engineer studies the course of the mountain water. the water is both his ally and his enemy--ally because it alone has made possible his undertakings; enemy because it fights to destroy his puny work, just as it fights to level the barriers that oppose him. like acid spread on copperplate, water etches the canyons in the mountain slopes and spreads wide the valleys through the plains. among these scarcely known ranges of the rocky mountain chain the western rivers have their beginnings. when white men crowded the indian from the plains he retreated to the mountains, and in their valleys made his final stand against the aggressor. the scroll of this invasion of the mountain west by the white man has been unrolled, read, and put away within a hundred years, and of the agencies that made possible the swiftness of the story transportation overshadows all others. the first railroad put across those mountains cost twenty-five thousand miles of reconnaissances and fifteen thousand miles of instrument surveys. since the day of that undertaking a generation of men has passed, and in the interval the wilderness that those men penetrated has been transformed. the indian no longer extorts terms from his foe: he is not. where the tepee stood the rodman drives his stakes, and the country of the great indian rivers, save one, has been opened for years to the railroad. that one is the crawling stone. the valley of crawling stone river marked for more than a decade the dead line between the overland route of the white man and the last country of the sioux. it was long after the building of the first line before even an engineer's reconnaissance was made in the crawling stone country. then, within ten years, three surveys were made, two on the north side of the river and one on the south side, by interests seeking a coast outlet. three reports made in this way gave varying estimates of the expense of putting a line up the valley, but the three coincided in this, that the cost would be prohibitive. engineers of reputation had in this respect agreed, but glover, who looked after such work for bucks, remained unconvinced, and before mccloud was put into the operating department on the short line he was asked by glover to run a preliminary up crawling stone valley. before the date of his report the conclusions reached by other engineers had stood unchallenged. the valley was not unknown to mccloud. his first year in the mountains, in which, fitted as thoroughly as he could fit himself for his profession, he had come west and found himself unable to get work, had been spent hunting, fishing, and wandering, often cold and often hungry, in the upper crawling stone country. the valley in itself offers to a constructionist no insuperable obstacles; the difficulty is presented in the canyon where the river bursts through the elbow mountains. south of this canyon, mccloud, one day on a hunting trip, found himself with two indians pocketed in the rough country, and was planning how to escape passing a night away from camp when his companions led him past a vertical wall of rock a thousand feet high, split into a narrow defile down which they rode, as it broadened out, for miles. they emerged upon an open country that led without a break into the valley of the crawling stone below the canyon. afterward, when he had become a railroad man, mccloud, sitting at a camp-fire with glover and morris blood, heard them discussing the coveted and impossible line up the valley. he had been taken into the circle of constructionists and was told of the earlier reports against the line. he thought he knew something about the elbow mountains, and disputed the findings, offering in two days' ride to take the men before him to the pass called by the indians the box, and to take them through it. glover called it a find, and a big one, and though more immediate matters in the strategy of territorial control then came before him, the preliminary was ordered and mccloud's findings were approved. mccloud himself was soon afterward engrossed in the problems of operating the mountain division; but the dream of his life was to build the crawling stone line with a maximum grade of eight tenths through the box. the prettiest stretch of crawling stone valley lies within twenty miles of medicine bend. there it lies widest, and has the pick of water and grass between medicine bend and the mission mountains. cattlemen went into the crawling stone country before the indians had wholly left it. the first house in the valley was the stone ranch, built by richard dunning, and it still stands overlooking the town of dunning at the junction of the frenchman creek with the crawling stone. the frenchman is fed by unfailing springs, and when by summer sun and wind every smaller stream in the middle basin has been licked dry, the frenchman runs cold and swift between its russet hills. richard dunning, being on the border of the indian country, built for his ranch-house a rambling stone fortress. he had chosen, it afterward proved, the choice spot in the valley, and he stocked it with cattle when yearlings could be picked up in medicine bend at ten dollars a head. he got together a great body of valley land when it could be had for the asking, and became the rich man of the long range. the dunnings were kentuckians. richard was a bridge engineer and builder, and under brodie built some of the first bridges on the mountain division, notably the great wooden bridge at smoky creek. richard brought out his nephew, lance dunning. he taught lance bridge-building, and murray sinclair, who began as a cowboy on the stone ranch, learned bridge-building from richard dunning. the dunnings both came west, though at different times, as young men and unmarried, and, as far as western women were concerned, might always have remained so. but a kentucky cousin, betty, one of the fairfield dunnings, related to richard within the sixth or eighth degree, came to the mountains for her health. betty's mother had brought richard up as a boy, and betty, when he left fairfield, was a baby. but dick--as they knew him at home--and the mother wrote back and forth, and he persuaded her to send betty out for a trip, promising he would send her back in a year a well woman. betty came with only her colored maid, old puss dunning, who had taken her from the nurse's arms when she was born and taken care of her ever since. the two--the tall kentucky girl and the bent mammy--arrived at the stone ranch one day in june, and richard, done then with bridges and looking after his ranch interests, had already fallen violently in love with betty. she was delicate, but, if those in medicine bend who remembered her said true, a lovely creature. remaining in the mountains was the last thing betty had ever thought of, but no one, man or woman, could withstand dick dunning. she fell quite in love with him the first time she set eyes on him in medicine bend, for he was very handsome in the saddle, and betty was fairly wild about horses. so dick dunning wooed a fond mistress and married her and buried her, and all within hardly more than a year. but in that year they were very happy, never two happier, and when she slept away her suffering she left him, as a legacy, a tiny baby girl. puss brought the mite of a creature in its swaddling-clothes to the sick mother,--very, very sick then,--and poor betty turned her dark eyes on it, kissed it, looked at her husband and whispered "dicksie," and died. dicksie had been betty's pet name for her mountain lover, so the father said the child's name should be dicksie and nothing else; and his heart broke and soon he died. nothing else, storm or flood, death or disaster, had ever moved dick dunning; then a single blow killed him. he rode once in a while over the ranch, a great tract by that time of twenty thousand acres, all in one body, all under fence, up and down both sides of the big river, in part irrigated, swarming with cattle--none of it stirred dick! and with little dicksie in his arms he slept away his suffering. so dicksie was left, as her mother had been, to puss, while lance looked after the ranch, swore at the price of cattle, and played cards at medicine bend. at ten, dicksie, as thoroughly spoiled as a pet baby could be by a fool mammy, a fond cousin, and a galaxy of devoted cowboys, was sent, in spite of crying and flinging, to a far-away convent--her father had planned everything--where in many tears she learned that there were other things in the world besides cattle and mountains and sunshine and tall, broad-hatted horsemen to swing from their stirrups and pick her hat from the ground--just to see little dicksie laugh--when they swooped past the house to the corrals. when she came back from kentucky, her grandmother dead and her schooldays finished, all the land she could see in the valley was hers, and all the living creatures in the fields. it seemed perfectly natural, because since childhood even the distant mountains and their snows had been dicksie's. chapter vi the final appeal sinclair's discharge was a matter of comment for the whole country, from the ranch-houses to the ranges. for a time sinclair himself refused utterly to believe that mccloud could keep him off the division. his determination to get back led him to carry his appeal to the highest quarters, to glover and to bucks himself. but sinclair, able as he was, had passed the limit of endurance and had long been marked for an accounting. he had been a railroad man to whom the west spelled license, and, while a valuable man, had long been a source of demoralization to the forces of the division. in the railroad life clearly defined plans are often too deeply laid to fathom, and it was impossible for even so acute a man as sinclair to realize that he was not the victim of an accident, but that he must look to his own record for the real explanation of his undoing. he was not the only man to suffer in the shake-out that took place under the new superintendent; but he seemed the only one unable to realize that bucks, patient and long-suffering, had put mccloud into the mountain saddle expressly to deal with cases such as his. in the west sympathy is quick but not always discerning. medicine bend took sinclair's grievance as its own. no other man in the service had sinclair's following, and within a week petitions were being circulated through the town not asking merely but calling for his reinstatement. the sporting element of the community to a man were behind sinclair because he was a sport; the range men were with him because his growing ranch on the frenchman made him one of them; his own men were with him because he was a far-seeing pirate and divided liberally. among the railroad men, too, he had much sympathy. sinclair had always been lavish with presents; brides were remembered by sinclair, and babies were not forgotten. he could sit up all night with a railroad man that had been hurt, and he could play poker all night with one that was not afraid of getting hurt. in his way, he was a division autocrat, whose vices were varnished by virtues such as these. his hold on the people was so strong that they could not believe the company would not reinstate him. in spite of the appointment of his successor, phil hailey, a mountain boy and the son of an old-time bridge foreman, rumor assigned again and again definite dates for sinclair's return to work; but the dates never materialized. the bridge machinery of the big division moved on in even rhythm. a final and determined appeal from the deposed autocrat for a hearing at last brought glover and morris blood, the general manager, to medicine bend for a final conference. callahan too was there with his pipe, and they talked quietly with sinclair--reminded him of how often he had been warned, showed him how complete a record they had of his plundering, and glover gave to him bucks's final word that he could never again work on the mountain division. a pride grown monstrous with prestige long undisputed broke under the final blow. the big fellow put his face in his hands and burst into tears, and the men before him sat confused and uncomfortable at his outburst of feeling. it was only for a moment. sinclair raised his hand, shook his long hair, and swore an oath against the company and the men that curled the very smoke in callahan's pipe, callahan, outraged at the insolence, sprang to his feet, resenting sinclair's fury. choking with anger he warned him not to go too far. the two were ready to spring at each other's throat when farrell kennedy stepped between them. sinclair, drunk with rage, called for mccloud; but he submitted quietly to kennedy's reproof, and with a semblance of self-control begged that mccloud be sent for. kennedy, without complying, gradually pushed sinclair out of the room and, without seeming officious, walked with him down the hall and quite out of the building. chapter vii in marion's shop in boney street, medicine bend, stands an early-day row of one-story buildings; they once made up a prosperous block, which has long since fallen into the decay of paintless days. there is in boney street a livery stable, a second-hand store, a laundry, a bakery, a moribund grocery, and a bicycle shop, and at the time of this story there was also marion sinclair's millinery shop; but the better class of medicine bend business, such as the gambling houses, saloons, pawnshops, restaurants, barber shops, and those sensitive, clean-shaven, and alert establishments known as "gents' stores," had deserted boney street for many years. bats fly in the dark of boney street while front street at the same hour is a blaze of electricity and frontier hilarity. the millinery store stood next to the corner of fort street. the lot lay in an "l," and at the rear of the store the first owner had built a small connecting cottage to live in. this faced on fort street, so that marion had her shop and living-rooms communicating, and yet apart. the store building is still pointed out as the former shop of marion sinclair, where george mccloud boarded when the crawling stone line was built, where whispering smith might often have been seen, where sinclair himself was last seen alive in medicine bend, where dicksie dunning's horse dragged her senseless one wild mountain night, and where, indeed, for a time the affairs of the whole mountain division seemed to tangle in very hard knots. as to the millinery business, it was never, after marion bought the shop, more than moderately successful. the demand that existed in medicine bend for red hats of the picture sort marion declined to recognize. for customers who sought these she turned out hats of sombre coloring calculated to inspire gloom rather than revelry, and she naturally failed to hold what might be termed the miscellaneous business. but after dicksie dunning of the stone ranch, fresh from the convent, rode into the shop, or if not into it nearly so, and, gliding through the door, ordered a hat out of hand, marion always had some business. all medicine bend knew dicksie dunning, who dressed stunningly, rode famously, and was so winningly democratic that half the town never called her anything, at a distance, but dicksie. the first hat was a small affair but haughty. the materials were unheard of in marion's stock and had to be sent for. marion's arrangements with the jobbing houses always had a c. o. d. complexion; the jobbers maintained that this saved book-keeping, and marion, who of course never knew any better, paid the double express charges like a lamb. she acted, too, as banker for the other impecunious tradespeople in the block, and as this included nearly all of them she was often pressed for funds herself. mccloud undertook sometimes to intervene and straighten out her millinery affairs. one evening he went so far as to attempt an inventory of her stock and some schedule of her accounts; but marion, with the front-shop curtains closely drawn and mccloud perspiring on a step-ladder, inspecting boxes of feathers and asking stern questions, would look so pathetically sweet and helpless when she tried to recall what things cost that mccloud could not be angry with her; indeed, the pretty eyes behind the patient spectacles would disarm any one. in the end he took inventory on the basis of the retail prices, dividing it afterward by five, as marion estimated the average profit in the business at five hundred per cent.--this being what the woman she bought out had told her. how then, mccloud asked himself, could marion be normally hard pressed for money? he talked to her learnedly about fixed charges, but even these seemed difficult to arrive at. there was no rent, because the building belonged to the railroad company, and when the real-estate and tax man came around and talked to mccloud about rent for the boney street property, mccloud told him to chase himself. there was no insurance, because no one would dream of insuring marion's stock boxes; there were no bills payable, because no travelling man would advise a line of credit to an inexperienced and, what was worse, an unpractical milliner. marion did her own trimming, so there were no salaries except to katie dancing. it puzzled mccloud to find the leak. how could he know that marion was keeping nearly all the block supplied with funds? so mccloud continued to raise the price of his table-board, and, though marion insisted he was paying her too much, held that he must be eating her out of house and home. in her dining-room, which connected through a curtained door with the shop, mccloud sat one day alone eating his dinner. marion was in front serving a customer. mccloud heard voices in the shop, but gave no heed till a man walked through the curtained doorway and he saw murray sinclair standing before him. the stormy interview with callahan and blood at the wickiup had taken place just a week before, and mccloud, after what sinclair had then threatened, though not prepared, felt as he saw him that anything might occur. mccloud being in possession of the little room, however, the initiative fell on sinclair, who, looking his best, snatched his hat from his head and bowed ironically. "my mistake," he said blandly. "come right in," returned mccloud, not knowing whether marion had a possible hand in her husband's unexpected appearance. "do you want to see me?" "i don't," smiled sinclair; "and to be perfectly frank," he added with studied consideration, "i wish to god i never had seen you. well--you've thrown me, mccloud." "you've thrown yourself, haven't you, murray?" "from your point of view, of course. but, mccloud, this is a small country for two points of view. do you want to get out of it, or do you want me to?" "the country suits me, sinclair." "no man that has ever played me dirt can stay here while i stay." sinclair, with a hand on the portière, was moving from the doorway into the room. mccloud in a leisurely way rose, though with a slightly flushed face, and at that juncture marion ran into the room and spoke abruptly. "here is the silk, mr. sinclair," she exclaimed, handing to him a package she had not finished wrapping. "i meant you to wait in the other room." "it was an accidental intrusion," returned sinclair, maintaining his irony. "i have apologized, and mr. mccloud and i understand one another better than ever." "please say to miss dunning," continued marion, nervous and insistent, "that the band for her riding-hat hasn't come yet, but it should be here to-morrow." as she spoke mccloud leaned across the table, resolved to take advantage of the opening, if it cost him his life. "and by the way, mr. sinclair, miss dunning wished me to say to you that the lovely bay colt you sent her had sprung his shoulder badly, the hind shoulder, i think, but they are doing everything possible for it and they think it will make a great horse." sinclair's snort at the information was a marvel of indecision. was he being made fun of? should he draw and end it? but marion faced him resolutely as he stood, and talking in the most business-like way she backed him out of the room and to the shop door. balked of his opportunity, he retreated stubbornly but with the utmost politeness, and left with a grin, lashing his tail, so to speak. coming back, marion tried to hide her uneasiness under even tones to mccloud. "i'm sorry he disturbed you. i was attending to a customer and had to ask him to wait a moment." "don't apologize for having a customer." "he lives over beyond the stone ranch, you know, and is taking some things out for the dunnings to-day. he likes an excuse to come in here because it annoys me. finish your dinner, mr. mccloud." "thank you, i'm done." "but you haven't eaten anything. isn't your steak right?" "it's fine, but that man--well, you know how i like him and how he likes me. i'll content myself with digesting my temper." chapter viii smoky creek bridge it was not alone that a defiance makes a bad dinner sauce: there was more than this for mccloud to feed on. he was forced to confess to himself as he walked back to the wickiup that the most annoying feature of the incident was the least important, namely, that his only enemy in the country should be intrusted with commissions from the stone ranch and be carrying packages for dicksie dunning. it was sinclair's trick to do things for people, and to make himself so useful that they must like first his obligingness and afterward himself. sinclair, mccloud knew, was close in many ways to lance dunning. it was said to have been his influence that won dunning's consent to sell a right of way across the ranch for the new crawling stone line. but mccloud felt it useless to disguise the fact to himself that he now had a second keen interest in the crawling stone country--not alone a dream of a line, but a dream of a girl. sitting moodily in his office, with his feet on the desk, a few nights after his encounter with sinclair, he recalled her nod as she said good-by. it had seemed the least bit encouraging, and he meditated anew on the only twenty minutes of real pleasurable excitement he had ever felt in his life, the twenty minutes with dicksie dunning at smoky creek. her intimates, he had heard, called her dicksie, and he was vaguely envying her intimates when the night despatcher, rooney lee, opened the door and disturbed his reflections. "how is number one, rooney?" called mccloud, as if nothing but the thought of a train movement ever entered his head. rooney lee paused. in his hand he held a message. rooney's cheeks were hollow and his sunken eyes were large. his face, which was singularly a night face, would shock a stranger, but any man on the division would have given his life for rooney. the simple fellow had but two living interests--his train-sheets and his chewing tobacco. sometimes i think that every railroad man earns his salary--even the president. but rooney was a past worthy master in that unnumbered lodge of railroad slaves who do killing work and have left, when they die, only a little tobacco to show for it. it was on rooney's account that mccloud's order banishing cuspidors from his office had been rescinded. a few evenings of agony on the despatcher's part when in consultation with his chief, the mournful wandering of his uncomplaining eyes, his struggle to raise an obstinate window before he could answer a question, would have moved a heart harder than mccloud's. the cuspidor had been restored to one corner of the large room, and to this corner rooney, like a man with a jaw full of birdshot, always walked first. when he turned back to face his chief his face had lost its haunted expression, and he answered with solemn cheer, "on time," or "fourteen minutes late," as the case might be. this night his face showed something out of the ordinary, and he faced mccloud with evident uneasiness. "holy smoke, mr. mccloud, here's a ripper! we've lost smoky creek bridge." "lost smoky creek bridge?" echoed mccloud, rising in amazement. "burned to-night. seventy-seven was flagged by the man at the pump station." "that's a tie-up for your life!" exclaimed mccloud, reaching for the message. "how could it catch fire? is it burned up?" "i can't get anything on that yet; this came from canby. i'll have a good wire in a few minutes and get it all for you." "have phil hailey and hyde notified, rooney, and reed and brill young, and get up a train. smoky creek bridge! by heavens, we are ripped up the back now! what can we do there, rooney?" he was talking to himself. "there isn't a thing for it on god's earth but switchbacks and five-per-cent. grades down to the bottom of the creek and cribbing across it till the new line is ready. wire callahan and morris blood, and get everything you can for me before we start." ten hours later and many hundreds of miles from the mountain division, president bucks and a companion were riding in the peace of a june morning down the beautiful mohawk valley with an earlier and illustrious railroad man, william c. brown. the three men were at breakfast in brown's car. a message was brought in for bucks. he read it and passed it to his companion, whispering smith, who sat at brown's left hand. the message was from callahan with the news of the burning of smoky creek bridge. details were few, because no one on the west end could suggest a plausible cause for the fire. "what do you think of it, gordon?" demanded bucks bluntly. whispering smith seemed at all times bordering on good-natured surprise, and in that normal condition he read callahan's message. everything surprised whispering smith, even his salary; but an important consequence was that nothing excited him. he seemed to accommodate himself to the unexpected through habitual surprise. it showed markedly in his eyes, which were bright and quite wide open, and, save for his eyes, no feature about him would fix itself in the memory. his round, pleasant face, his heavy brown mustache, the medium build that concealed under its commonplace symmetry an unusual strength, his slightly rounding shoulders bespeaking a not too serious estimate of himself--every characteristic, even to his unobtrusive suit and black hat, made him distinctly an ordinary man--one to be met in the street to-day and passed, and forgotten to-morrow. he was laughing under bucks's scrutiny when he handed the message back. "why, i don't know a thing about it, not a thing; but taking a long shot and speaking by and far, i should say it looks something like first blood for sinclair," he suggested, and to change the subject lifted his cup of coffee. "then it looks like you for the mountains to-night instead of for weber and fields's," retorted bucks, reaching for a cigar. "brown, why have you never learned to smoke?" chapter ix the misunderstanding no attempt was made to minimize the truth that the blow to the division was a staggering one. the loss of smoky creek bridge put almost a thousand miles of the mountain division out of business. perishable freight and time freight were diverted to other lines. passengers were transferred; lunches were served to them in the deep valley, and they were supplied by an ingenuous advertising department with pictures of the historic bridge as it had long stood, and their addresses were taken with the promise of a picture of the ruins. smoky creek bridge had long been famous in mountain song and story. for one generation of western railroad men it had stood as a monument to the earliest effort to conquer the rockies with a railroad. built long before the days of steel, this high and slender link in the first transcontinental line had for thirty years served faithfully at its danger-post, only to fall in the end at the hands of a bridge assassin; nor has the mystery of its fate ever completely been solved, though it is believed to lie with murray sinclair in the frenchman hills. the engineering department and the operating department united in a tremendous effort to bring about a resumption of traffic. glover's men, pulled off construction, were sent forward in trainloads. dancing's linemen strung arc-lights along the creek until the canyon twinkled at night like a mountain village, and men in three shifts worked elbow to elbow unceasingly to run the switchbacks down to the creek-bed. there, by cribbing across the bottom, they got in a temporary line. train movement was thrown into a spectacle of confusion. upon the incessant and well-ordered activities of the road the burning of the bridge fell like the heel of a heavy boot on an ant-hill; but the railroad men like ants rose to the emergency, and, where the possible failed, achieved the impossible. mccloud spent his days at the creek and his nights at medicine bend with his assistant and his chief despatcher, advising, counselling, studying out trouble reports, and steadying wherever he could the weakened lines of his operating forces. he was getting his first taste of the trials of the hardest-worked and poorest-paid man in the operating department of a railroad--the division superintendent. to these were added personal annoyances. a trainload of duck bar steers, shipped by lance dunning from the crawling stone ranch, had been caught west of the bridge the very night of the fire. they had been loaded at tipton and shipped to catch a good market, and under extravagant promises from the live-stock agent of a quick run to chicago. when lance dunning learned that his cattle had been caught west of the break and would have to be unloaded, he swore up a horse in hot haste and started for medicine bend. mccloud, who had not closed his eyes for sixty hours, had just got into medicine bend from smoky creek and was sitting at his desk buried in a mass of papers, but he ordered the cattleman admitted. he was, in fact, eager to meet the manager of the big ranch and the cousin of dicksie. lance dunning stood above six feet in height, and was a handsome man, in spite of the hard lines around his eyes, as he walked in; but neither his manner nor his expression was amiable. "are you mr. mccloud? i've been here three times this afternoon to see you," said he, ignoring mccloud's answer and a proffered chair. "this is your office, isn't it?" mccloud, a little surprised, answered again and civilly: "it certainly is; but i have been at smoky creek for two or three days." "what have you done with my cattle?" "the duck bar train was run back to point of rocks and the cattle were unloaded at the yard." lance dunning spoke with increasing harshness: "by whose order was that done? why wasn't i notified? have they had feed or water?" "all the stock caught west of the bridge was sent back for feed and water by my orders. it has all been taken care of. you should have been notified, certainly; it is the business of the stock agent to see to that. let me inquire about it while you are here, mr. dunning," suggested mccloud, ringing for his clerk. dunning lost no time in expressing himself. "i don't want my cattle held at point of rocks!" he said angrily. "your point of rocks yards are infected. my cattle shouldn't have been sent there." "oh, no! the old yards where they had a touch of fever were burned off the face of the earth a year ago. the new yards are perfectly sanitary. the loss of the bridge has crippled us, you know. your cattle are being well cared for, mr. dunning, and if you doubt it you may go up and give our men any orders you like in the matter at our expense." "you're taking altogether too much on yourself when you run my stock over the country in this way," exclaimed dunning, refusing to be placated. "how am i to get to point of rocks--walk there?" "not at all," returned mccloud, ringing up his clerk and asking for a pass, which was brought back in a moment and handed to dunning. "the cattle," continued mccloud, "can be run down, unloaded, and driven around the break to-morrow--with the loss of only two days." "and in the meantime i lose my market." "it is too bad, certainly, but i suppose it will be several days before we can get a line across smoky creek." "why weren't the cattle sent through that way yesterday? what have they been held at point of rocks for? i call the thing badly managed." "we couldn't get the empty cars up from piedmont for the transfer until to-day; empties are very scarce everywhere now." "there always have been empties here when they were wanted until lately. there's been no head or tail to anything on this division for six months." "i'm sorry that you have that impression." "that impression is very general," declared the stockman, with an oath, "and if you keep on discharging the only men on this division that are competent to handle a break like this, it is likely to continue!" "just a moment!" mccloud's finger rose pointedly. "my failure to please you in caring for your stock in an emergency may be properly a matter for comment; your opinion as to the way i am running this division is, of course, your own: but don't attempt to criticise the retention or discharge of any man on my payroll!" dunning strode toward him. "i'm a shipper on this line; when it suits me to criticise you or your methods, or anybody else's, i expect to do so," he retorted in high tones. "but you cannot tell me how to run my business!" thundered mccloud, leaning over the table in front of him. as the two men glared at each other rooney lee opened the door. his surprise at the situation amounted to consternation. he shuffled to the corner of the room, and while mccloud and dunning engaged hotly again, rooney, from the corner, threw a shot of his own into the quarrel. "on time!" he roared. the angry men turned. "what's on time?" asked mccloud curtly. "number one; she's in and changing engines. i told them you were going west," declared rooney in so deep tones that his fiction would never have been suspected. if his cue had been, "my lord, the conductor waits," it could not have been rung in more opportunely. dunning, to emphasize, without a further word, his disgust for the situation and his contempt for the management, tore into scraps the pass that had been given him, threw the scraps on the floor, took a cigar from his pocket and lighted it; insolence could do no more. mccloud looked over at the despatcher. "no, i am not going west, rooney. but if you will be good enough to stay here and find out from this man just how this railroad ought to be run, i will go to bed. he can tell you; the microbe seems to be working in his mind right now," said mccloud, slamming down the roll-top of his desk. and with lance dunning glaring at him, somewhat speechless, he put on his hat and walked out of the room. it was but one of many disagreeable incidents due to the loss of the bridge. complications arising from the tie-up followed him at every turn. it seemed as if he could not get away from trouble following trouble. after forty hours further of toil, relieved by four hours of sleep, mccloud found himself, rather dead than alive, back at medicine bend and in the little dining-room at marion's. coming in at the cottage door on fort street, he dropped into a chair. the cottage rooms were empty. he heard marion's voice in the front shop; she was engaged with a customer. putting his head on the table to wait a moment, nature asserted itself and mccloud fell asleep. he woke hearing a voice that he had heard in dreams. perhaps no other voice could have wakened him, for he slept for a few minutes a death-like sleep. at all events, dicksie dunning was in the front room and mccloud heard her. she was talking with marion about the burning of smoky creek bridge. "every one is talking about it yet," dicksie was saying. "if i had lost my best friend i couldn't have felt worse; you know, my father built it. i rode over there the day of the fire, and down into the creek, so i could look up where it stood. i never realized before how high and how long it was; and when i remembered how proud father always was of his work there--cousin lance has often told me--i sat down right on the ground and cried. really, the ruins were the most pathetic thing you ever saw, marion, with great clouds of smoke rolling up from the canyon that day; the place looked so lonely when i rode away that every time i turned to look back my eyes filled with tears. poor daddy! i am almost glad he didn't live to see it. how times have changed in railroading, haven't they? mr. sinclair was over just the other night, and he said if they kept using this new coal in the engines they would burn up everything on the division. do you know, i have been waiting in town three or four hours now for cousin lance? i feel almost like a tramp. he is coming from the west with the stock train. it was due here hours ago, but they never seem to know when anything is to get here the way things are run on the railroad now. i want to give cousin lance some mail before he goes through." "the passenger trains crossed the creek over the switchbacks hours ago, and they say the emergency grades are first-rate," said marion sinclair, on the defensive. "the stock trains must have followed right along. your cousin is sure to be here pretty soon. probably mr. mccloud will know which train he is on, and mr. lee telephoned that mr. mccloud would be over here at three o'clock for his dinner. he ought to be here now." "oh, dear, then i must go!" "but he can probably tell you just when your cousin will be in." "i wouldn't meet him for worlds!" "you wouldn't? why, mr. mccloud is delightful." "oh, not for worlds, marion! you know he is discharging all the best of the older men, the men that have made the road everything it is, and of course we can't help sympathizing with them over our way. for my part, i think it is terrible, after a man has given all of his life to building up a railroad, that he should be thrown out to starve in that way by new managers, marion." mccloud felt himself shrinking within his weary clothes. resentment seemed to have died. he felt too exhausted to undertake controversy, even if it were to be thought of, and it was not. nothing further was needed to complete his humiliation. he picked up his hat and with the thought of getting out as quietly as he had come in. in rising he swept a tumbler at his elbow from the table. the glass broke on the floor, and marion exclaimed, "what is that?" and started for the dining-room. it was too late to get away. mccloud stepped to the portières of the trimming-room door and pushed them aside. marion stood with a hat in her hand, and dicksie, sitting at the table, was looking directly at the intruder as he appeared in the doorway. she saw in him her pleasant acquaintance of the wreck at smoky creek, whose name she had not learned. in her surprise she rose to her feet, and marion spoke quickly: "oh, mr. mccloud, is it you? i did not hear you come in." dicksie's face, which had lighted, became a spectacle of confusion after she heard the name. mccloud, conscious of the awkwardness of his position and the disorder of his garb, said the worst thing at once: "i fear i am inadvertently overhearing your conversation." he looked at dicksie as he spoke, chiefly because he could not help it, and this made matters hopeless. she flushed more deeply. "i cannot conceive why our conversation should invite a listener." her words did not, of course, help to steady him. "i tried to get away," he stammered, "when i realized i was a part of it." "in any event," she exclaimed hastily, "if you are mr. mccloud i think it unpardonable to do anything like that!" "i am mr. mccloud, though i should rather be anybody else; and i am sorry that i was unable to help hearing what was said; i----" "marion, will you be kind enough to give me my gloves?" said dicksie, holding out her hand. marion, having tried once or twice to intervene, stood between the firing-lines in helpless amazement. her exclamations were lost; the two before her gave no heed to ordinary intervention. mccloud flushed at being cut off, but he bowed. "of course," he said, "if you will listen to no explanation i can only withdraw." [illustration: helen holmes as marion sinclair in the photo-play production of "whispering smith." © _american mutual studio_.] he went back, dinnerless, to work all night; but the switchbacks were doing capitally, and all night long, trains were rolling through medicine bend from the west in an endless string. in the morning the yard was nearly cleared of westbound tonnage. moreover, the mail in the morning brought compensation. a letter came from glover telling him not to worry himself to death over the tie-up, and one came from bucks telling him to make ready for the building of the crawling stone line. mccloud told rooney lee that if anybody asked for him to report him dead, and going to bed slept twenty-four hours. chapter x sweeping orders the burning of smoky creek bridge was hardly off the minds of the mountain men when a disaster of a different sort befell the division. in the rat valley east of sleepy cat the main line springs between two ranges of hills with a dip and a long supported grade in each direction. at the point of the dip there is a switch from which a spur runs to a granite quarry. the track for two miles is straight and the switch-target and lights are seen easily from either direction save at one particular moment of the day--a moment which is in the valley neither quite day nor quite night. even this disadvantage occurs to trains east-bound only, because due to unusual circumstances. when the sun in a burst of dawning glory shows itself above the crest of the eastern range an engineman, east-bound, may be so blinded by the rays streaming from the rising sun that he cannot see the switch at the foot of the grade. for these few moments he is helpless should anything be wrong with the quarry switch. down this grade, a few weeks after the smoky creek fire, came a double-headed stock train from the short line with forty cars of steers. the switch stood open; this much was afterward abundantly proved. the train came down the grade very fast to gain speed for the hill ahead of it. the head engineman, too late, saw the open target. he applied the emergency air, threw his engine over, and whistled the alarm. the mightiest efforts of a dozen engines would have been powerless to check the heavy train. on the quarry track stood three flat cars loaded with granite blocks for the abutment of the new smoky creek bridge. on a sanded track, rolling at thirty miles an hour and screaming in the clutches of the burning brakes, the heavy engines struck the switch like an avalanche, reared upon the granite-laden flats, and with forty loads of cattle plunged into the canyon below; not a car remained on the rails. the head brakeman, riding in the second cab, was instantly killed, and the engine crews, who jumped, were badly hurt. the whole operating department of the road was stirred. what made the affair more dreadful was that it had occurred on the time of number six, the east-bound passenger train, held that morning at sleepy cat by an engine failure. glover came to look into the matter. the testimony of all tended to one conclusion--that the quarry switch had been thrown at some time between four-thirty and five o'clock that morning. inferences were many: tramps during the early summer had been unusually troublesome and many of them had been rigorously handled by trainmen; robbery might have been a motive, as the express cars on train number six carried heavy specie shipments from the coast. yet a means so horrible as well as so awkward and ineffective seemed unlike mountain outlaws. strange men from headquarters were on the ground as soon as they could reach the wreck, men from the special-service department, and a stock inspector who greatly resembled whispering smith was on the ground looking into the brands of the wrecked cattle. glover was much in consultation with him, and there were two or three of the division men, such as anderson, young, mccloud, and lee, who knew him but could answer no inquiries concerning his long stay at the wreck. a third and more exciting event soon put the quarry wreck into the background. ten days afterward an east-bound passenger train was flagged in the night at sugar buttes, twelve miles west of sleepy cat. when the heavy train slowed up, two men boarded the engine and with pistols compelled the engineman to cut off the express cars and pull them to the water-tank a mile east of the station. three men there in waiting forced the express car, blew open the safe, and the gang rode away half an hour later loaded with gold coin and currency. had a stick of dynamite been exploded under the wickiup there could not have been more excitement at medicine bend. within three hours after the news reached the town a posse under sheriff van horn, with a carload of horseflesh and fourteen guns, was started for sugar buttes. the trail led north and the pursuers rode until nearly nightfall. they crossed dutch flat and rode single file into a wooded canyon, where they came upon traces of a camp-fire. van horn, leading, jumped from his horse and thrust his hand into the ashes; they were still warm, and he shouted to his men to ride up. as he called out, a rifle cracked from the box-elder trees ahead of him. the sheriff fell, shot through the head, and a deputy springing from his saddle to pick him up was shot in precisely the same way, through the head. the riderless horses bolted; the posse, thrown into a panic, did not fire a shot, and for an hour dared not ride back for the bodies. after dark they got the two dead men and at midnight rode with them into sleepy cat. when the news reached mccloud he was talking with bucks over the wires. bucks had got into headquarters at the river late that night, and was getting details from mccloud of the sugar buttes robbery when the superintendent sent him the news of the killing of van horn and the deputy. in the answer that bucks sent came a name new to the wires of the mountain division and rarely seen even in special correspondence, but hughie morrison, who took the message, never forgot that name; indeed, it was soon to be thrown sharply into the spotlight of the mountain railroad stage. hughie repeated the message to get it letter-perfect; to handle stuff at the wickiup signed "j. s. b." was like handling diamonds on a jeweller's tongs or arteries on a surgeon's hook; and, in truth, bucks's words were the arteries and pulse-beat of the mountain division. hughie handed the message to mccloud and stood by while the superintendent read: whispering smith is due in cheyenne to-morrow. meet him at the wickiup sunday morning; he has full authority. i have told him to get these fellows, if it takes all the money in the treasury, and not to stop till he cleans them out of the rocky mountains. j. s. b. chapter xi at the three horses "clean them out of the rocky mountains; that is a pretty good contract," mused the man in mccloud's office on sunday morning. he sat opposite mccloud in bucks's old easy chair and held in his hand bucks's telegram. as he spoke he raised his eyebrows and settled back, but the unusual depth of the chair and the shortness of his legs left his chin helpless in his black tie, so that he was really no better off except that he had changed one position of discomfort for another. "i wonder, now," he mused, sitting forward again as mccloud watched him, "i wonder--you know, george, the andes are, strictly speaking, a part of the great north american chain--whether bucks meant to include the south american ranges in that message?" and a look of mildly good-natured anticipation overspread his face. "suppose you wire him and find out," suggested mccloud. "no, george, no! bucks never was accurate in geographical expressions. besides, he is shifty and would probably cover his tracks by telling me to report progress when i got to panama." a clerk opened the outer office door. "mr. dancing asks if he can see you, mr. mccloud." "tell him i am busy." bill dancing, close on the clerk's heels, spoke for himself. "i know it, mr. mccloud, i know it!" he interposed urgently, "but let me speak to you just a moment." hat in hand, bill, because no one would knock him down to keep him out, pushed into the room. "i've got a plan," he urged, "in regards to getting these hold-ups." "how are you, bill?" exclaimed the man in the easy chair, jumping hastily to his feet and shaking dancing's hand. then quite as hastily he sat down, crossed his knees violently, stared at the giant lineman, and exclaimed, "let's have it!" dancing looked at him in silence and with some contempt. the trainmaster had broken in on the superintendent for a moment and the two were conferring in an undertone. "what might your name be, mister?" growled dancing, addressing with some condescension the man in the easy chair. the man waved his hand as if it were immaterial and answered with a single word: "forgotten!" "how's that?" "forgotten!" "that's a blamed queer name----" "on the contrary, it's a very common name and that is just the trouble: it's forgotten." "what do you want, bill?" demanded mccloud, turning to the lineman. "is this man all right?" asked dancing, jerking his thumb toward the easy chair. "i can't say; you'll have to ask him." "i'll save you that trouble, bill, by saying that if it's for the good of the division i am all right. death to its enemies, damme, say i. now go on, william, and give us your plan in regards to getting these hold-ups--yes." dancing looked from one man to the other, but mccloud appeared preoccupied and his visitor seemed wholly serious. "i don't want to take too much on myself--" bill began, speaking to mccloud. "you look as if you could carry a fair-sized load, william, provided it bore the right label," suggested the visitor, entirely amiable. "--but nobody has felt worse over this thing and recent things----" "recent things," echoed the easy chair. "--happening to the division that i have. now i know there's been trouble on the division----" "i think you are putting it too strong there, bill, but let it pass." "--there's been differences; misunderstandings and differences. so i says to myself maybe something might be done to get everybody together and bury the differences, like this: murray sinclair is in town; he feels bad over this thing, like any railroad man would. he's a mountain man, quick as the quickest with a gun, a good trailer, rides like a fiend, and can catch a streak of sunshine travelling on a pass. why not put him at the head of a party to run 'em down?" "run 'em down," nodded the stranger. "differences such as be or may be----" "may be----" "being discussed when he brings 'em in dead or alive, and not before. that's what i said to murray sinclair, and murray sinclair is ready for to take hold this minute and do what he can if he's asked. i told him plain i could promise no promises; that, i says, lays with george mccloud. was i right, was i wrong? if i was wrong, right me; if i was right, say so. all i want is harmony." the new man nodded approval. "bully, bill!" he exclaimed heartily. "mister," protested the lineman, with simple dignity, "i'd just a little rather you wouldn't bully me nor bill me." "all in good part, bill, as you shall see; all in good part. now before mr. mccloud gives you his decision i want to be allowed a word. your idea looks good to me. at first i may say it didn't. i am candid; i say it didn't. it looked like setting a dog to catch his own tail. mind you, i don't say it can't be done. a dog _can_ catch his own tail; _they do do it_," proclaimed the stranger in a low and emphatic undertone. "but," he added, moderating his utterance, "when they succeed--who gets anything out of it but the dog?" bill dancing, somewhat clouded and not deeming it well to be drawn into any damaging admissions, looked around for a cigar, and not seeing one, looked solemnly at the new solomon and stroked his beard. "that is how it looked to me at first," concluded the orator; "_but_, i say now it looks good to me, and as a stranger i may say i favor it." dancing tried to look unconcerned and seemed disposed to be friendly. "what might be your line of business?" "real estate. i am from chicago. i sold everything that was for sale in chicago and came out here to stake out the spanish sinks and the great salt lake--yes. it's drying up and there's an immense opportunity for claims along the shore. i've been looking into it." "into the claims or into the lake?" asked mccloud. "into both; and, mr. mccloud, i want to say i favor mr. dancing's idea, that's all. right wrongs no man. let bill see sinclair and see what they can figure out." and having spoken, the stranger sank back and tried to look comfortable. "i'll talk with you later about it, bill," said mccloud briefly. "meantime, bill, see sinclair and report," suggested the stranger. "it's as good as done," announced dancing, taking up his hat, "and, mr. mccloud, might i have a little advance for cigars and things?" "cigars and ammunition--of course. see sykes, william, see sykes; if the office is closed go to his house--and see what will happen to you--" added the visitor in an aside, "and tell him to telephone up to mr. mccloud for instruction," he concluded unceremoniously. "now why do you want to start bill on a fool business like that?" asked mccloud, as bill dancing took long steps from the room toward the office of sykes, the cashier. "he didn't know me to-day, but he will to-morrow," said the stranger reflectively. "gods, what i've seen that man go through in the days of the giants! why, george, this will keep the boys talking, and they have to do something. spend the money; the company is making it too fast anyway; they moved twenty-two thousand cars one day last week. personally i'm glad to have a little fun out of it; it will be hell pure and undefiled long before we get through. this will be an easy way of letting sinclair know i am here. bill will report me confidentially to him as a suspicious personage." to the astonishment of sykes, the superintendent confirmed over the telephone dancing's statement that he was to draw some expense money. bill asked for twenty-five dollars. sykes offered him two, and bill with some indignation accepted five. he spent all of this in trying to find sinclair, and on the strength of his story to the boys borrowed five dollars more to prosecute the search. at ten o'clock that night he ran into sinclair playing cards in the big room above the three horses. the three horses still rears its hospitable two-story front in fort street, the only one of the medicine bend gambling houses that goes back to the days of ' ; and it is the boast of its owners that since the key was thrown away, thirty-nine years ago, its doors have never been closed, night or day, except once for two hours during the funeral of dave hawk. bill dancing drew sinclair from his game and told him of the talk with mccloud, touching it up with natural enthusiasm. the bridgeman took the news in high good humor and slapped dancing on the back. "did you see him alone, bill?" asked sinclair, with interest. "come over here, come along. i want you to meet a good friend. here, harvey, shake hands with bill dancing. bill, this is old harvey du sang, meanest man in the mountains to his enemies and the whitest to his friends--eh, harvey?" harvey seemed uncommunicative. studying his hand, he asked in a sour way whether it was a jackpot, and upon being told that it was not, pushed forward some chips and looked stupidly up--though harvey was by no means stupid. "proud to know you, sir," said bill, bending frankly as he put out his hand. "proud to know any friend of murray sinclair's. what might be your business?" again du sang appeared abstracted. he looked up at the giant lineman, who, in spite of his own size and strength, could have crushed him between his fingers, and hitched his chair a little, but got no further toward an answer and paid no attention whatever to bill's extended hand. "cow business, bill," interposed sinclair. "where? why, up near the park, bill, up near the park. bill is an old friend of mine, harvey. shake hands with george seagrue, bill, and you know henry karg--and old stormy gorman--well, i guess you know him too," exclaimed sinclair, introducing the other players. "look here a minute, harvey." harvey, much against his inclination, was drawn from the table and retired with sinclair and dancing to an empty corner, where dancing told his story again. at the conclusion of it harvey rather snorted. sinclair asked questions. "was anybody else there when you saw mccloud, bill?" "one man," answered bill impressively. "who?" "a stranger to me." "a stranger? what did he look like?" "slender man and kind of odd talking, with a sandy mustache." "hear his name?" "he told me his name, but it's skipped me, i declare. he's kind of dark-complected like." "stranger, eh?" mused du sang; his eyes were wandering over the room. "slender man," repeated bill, "but i didn't take much notice of him. said he was in the real-estate business." "in the real-estate business? and did he sit there while you talked this over with the college guy?" muttered du sang. "he is all right, boys, and he said you'd know his name if i could speak it," declared bill. "look anything like that man standing with his hands in his pockets over there by the wheel?" asked du sang, turning his back carefully on a new-comer as he made the suggestion. "where--there? no! yes, hold on, that's the man there now! hold on, now!" urged bill, struggling with the excitement of ten hours and ten dollars all in one day. "his name sounded like fogarty." as dancing spoke, sinclair's eyes riveted on the new face at the other side of the gambling-room. "fogarty, hell!" he exclaimed, starting. "stand right still, du sang; don't look around. that man is whispering smith." chapter xii parley it was recalled one evening not long ago at the wickiup that the affair with sinclair had all taken place within a period of two years, and that practically all of the actors in the event had been together and in friendly relation on a thanksgiving day at the dunning ranch not so very long before the trouble began. dicksie dunning was away at school at the time, and lance dunning was celebrating with a riding and shooting fest and a barbecue. the whole country had been invited. bucks was in the mountains on an inspection trip, and bill dancing drove him with a party of railroad men over from medicine bend. the mountain men for a hundred and fifty miles around were out. gene and bob johnson, from oroville and the peace river, had come with their friends. from williams cache there was not only a big delegation--more of one than was really desirable--but it was led by old john rebstock himself. when the invitation is general, lines cannot be too closely drawn. not only was lance dunning something of a sport himself, but on the long range it is part of a stockman's creed to be on good terms with his neighbors. at a thanksgiving day barbecue not even a mountain sheriff would ask questions, and ed banks, though present, respected the holiday truce. cowboys rode that day in the roping contest who were from mission creek and from two feather river. among the railroad people were george mccloud, anderson, the assistant superintendent, farrell kennedy, chief of the special service, and his right-hand man, bob scott. in especial, sinclair's presence at the barbecue was recalled. he had some cronies with him from among his up-country following, and was introducing his new bridge foreman, karg, afterward known as flat nose, and george seagrue, the montana cowboy. sinclair fraternized that day with the williams cache men, and it was remarked even then that though a railroad man he appeared somewhat outside the railroad circle. when the shooting matches were announced a brown-eyed railroad man was asked to enter. he had been out of the mountains for some time and was a comparative stranger in the gathering, but the williams cache men had not forgotten him; rebstock, especially, wanted to see him shoot. while much of the time out of the mountains on railroad business, he was known to be closely in bucks's counsels, and as to the mountains themselves, he was reputed to know them better than bucks or glover himself knew them. this was whispering smith; but, beyond a low-voiced greeting or an expression of surprise at meeting an old acquaintance, he avoided talk. when urged to shoot he resisted all persuasion and backed up his refusal by showing a bruise on his trigger finger. he declined even to act as judge in the contest, suggesting the sheriff, ed banks, for that office. the rifle matches were held in the hills above the ranch-house, and in the contest between the ranches, for which a sweepstakes had been arranged, sinclair entered seagrue, who was then working for him. seagrue shot all the morning and steadily held up the credit of the frenchman valley ranch against the field. neither continued shooting nor severe tests availed to upset sinclair's entry, and riding back after the matches with the prize purse in his pocket, seagrue, who was tall, light-haired, and perfectly built, made a new honor for himself on a dare from stormy gorman, the foreman of the dunning ranch. gorman, who had ridden a race back with sinclair, was at the foot of the long hill, down which the crowd was riding, when he stopped, yelled back at seagrue, and, swinging his hat from his head, laid it on a sloping rock beside the trail. "you'd better not do that, stormy," said sinclair. "seagrue will put a hole through it." gorman laughed jealously. "if he can hit it, let him hit it." at the top of the hill seagrue had dismounted and was making ready to shoot. whispering smith, at his side, had halted with the party, and the cowboy knelt to adjust his sights. on his knee he turned to whispering smith, whom he seemed to know, with an abrupt question: "how far do you call it?" the answer was made without hesitation: "give it seven hundred and fifty yards, seagrue." the cowboy made ready, brought his rifle to his shoulder, and fired. the slug passed through the crown of the hat, and a shower of splinters flying back from the rock blew the felt into a sieve. gorman's curiosity, as well as that of everybody else, seemed satisfied, and, gaining the level ground, the party broke into a helter-skelter race for the revolver-shooting. in this sinclair himself had entered, and after the early matches found only one troublesome contestant--du sang from the cache, who was present under rebstock's wing. after sinclair and du sang had tied in test after test at shooting out of the saddle, whispering smith, who lost sight of nothing in the gun-play, called for a pack of cards, stripped the aces from the deck, and had a little conference with the judge. the two contestants, sinclair and du sang, were ordered back thirty-five paces on their horses, and the railroad man, walking over to the targets, held out between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand the ace of clubs. the man that should first spot the pip out of the card was to take the prize, a cheyenne saddle. sinclair shot, and his horse, perfectly trained, stood like a statue. the card flew from smith's hand, but the bullet had struck the ace almost an inch above the pip, and a second ace was held out for du sang. as he raised his gun his horse moved. he spurred angrily, circled quickly about, halted, and instantly fired. it was not alone that his bullet cut the shoulder of the club pip on the card: the whole movement, beginning with the circling dash of the horse under the spur, the sudden halt, and the instantly accurate aim, raised a quick, approving yell for the new-comer. the signal was given for sinclair, and a third ace went up. in the silence sinclair, with deliberate care, brought his gun down on the card, fired, and cut the pip cleanly from the white field. du sang was urged to shoot again, but his horse annoyed him and he would not. with a little speech the prize was given by ed banks to sinclair. "here's hoping your gun will never be trained on me, murray," smiled the modest sheriff. sinclair responded in high humor. he had every reason to feel good. his horses had won the running races, and his crowd had the honors with the guns. he turned on du sang, who sat close by in the circle of horsemen, and, holding the big prize out toward him on his knee, asked him to accept it. "it's yours by rights anyway, du sang," declared sinclair. "you're a whole lot better shot than i am, every turn of the road. you've shot all day from a nervous horse." not only would sinclair not allow a refusal of his gift, but, to make his generosity worth while, he dispatched flat nose to the corral, and the foreman rode back leading the pony that had won the half-mile dash. sinclair cinched the prize saddle on the colt with his own hands, led the beast to du sang, placed the bridle in his hand, and bowed. "from a jay to a marksman," he said, saluting. du sang, greatly embarrassed by the affair--he had curious pink eyes--blinked and got away to the stables. when rebstock joined him the williams cache party were saddling to go home. du sang made no reference to his gift horse and saddle, but spoke of the man that had held the target aces. "he must be a sucker!" declared du sang, with an oath. "i wouldn't do that for any man on top of ground. who is he?" "that man?" wheezed rebstock. "never have no dealings with him. he plays 'most any kind of a game. he's always ready to play, and holds aces most of the time. don't you remember my telling about the man that got chuck williams and hauled him out of the cache on a buckboard? that's the man. here, he give me this for you; it's your card." rebstock handed du sang the target ace of clubs. "why didn't you thank murray sinclair, you mule?" du sang, whose eyelashes were white, blinked at the hole through the card, and looked around as he rode back across the field for the man that had held it; but whispering smith had disappeared. he was at that moment walking past the barbecue pit with george mccloud. "rebstock talks a great deal about your shooting, gordon," said mccloud to his companion. "he and i once had a little private match of our own. it was on the peace river, over a bunch of steers. since then we have got along very well, though he has an exaggerated opinion of my ability. rebstock's worst failing is his eyesight. it bothers him in seeing brands. he's liable to brand a critter half a dozen times. that albino, du sang, is a queer duck. sinclair gave him a fine horse. there they go." the cache riders were running their horses and whooping across the creek. "what a hand a state's prison warden at fort city could draw out of that crowd, george!" continued mccloud's companion. "if the right man should get busy with that bunch of horses sinclair has got together, and organize those up-country fellows for mischief, wouldn't it make things hum on the mountain division for a while?" mccloud did not meet the host, lance dunning, that day, nor since the day of the barbecue had du sang or sinclair seen whispering smith until the night du sang spotted him near the wheel in the three horses. du sang at once drew out of his game and left the room. sinclair in the meantime had undertaken a quarrelsome interview with whispering smith. "i supposed you knew i was here," said smith to him amiably. "of course i don't travel in a private car or carry a bill-board on my back, but i haven't been hiding." "the last time we talked," returned sinclair, measuring words carefully, "you were going to stay out of the mountains." "i should have been glad to, murray. affairs are in such shape on the division now that somebody had to come, so they sent for me." the two men were sitting at a table. whispering smith was cutting and leisurely mixing a pack of cards. "well, so far as i'm concerned, i'm out of it," sinclair went on after a pause, "but, however that may be, if you're back here looking for trouble there's no reason, i guess, why you can't find it." "that's not it. i'm not here looking for trouble; i'm here to fix this thing up. what do you want?" "not a thing." "i'm willing to do anything fair and right," declared whispering smith, raising his voice a little above the hum of the rooms. "fair and right is an old song." "and a good one to sing in this country just now. i'll do anything i can to adjust any grievance, murray. what do you want?" sinclair for a moment was silent, and his answer made plain his unwillingness to speak at all. "there never would have been a grievance if i'd been treated like a white man." his eyes burned sullenly. "i've been treated like a dog." "that is not it." "that is it," declared sinclair savagely, "and they'll find it's it." "murray, i want to say only this--only this to make things clear. bucks feels that he's been treated worse than a dog." "then let him put me back where i belong." "it's a little late for that, murray; a _little_ late," said smith gently. "shouldn't you rather take good money and get off the division? mind you, i say good money, murray--and peace." sinclair answered without the slightest hesitation: "not while that man mccloud is here." whispering smith smiled. "i've got no authority to kill mccloud." "there are plenty of men in the mountains that don't need any." "but let's start fair," urged whispering smith softly. he leaned forward with one finger extended in confidence. "don't let us have any misunderstanding on the start. let mccloud alone. if he is killed--now i'm speaking fair and open and making no threats, but i know how it will come out--there will be nothing but killing here for six months. we will make just that memorandum on mccloud. now about the main question. every sensible man in the world wants something." "i know men that have been going a long time without what they wanted." smith flushed and nodded. "you needn't have said that, but no matter. every sensible man wants something murray. this is a big country. there's a world's fair running somewhere all the time in it. why not travel a little? what do you want?" "i want my job, or i want a new superintendent here." "just exactly the two things, and, by heavens! the only two, i can't manage. come once more and i'll meet you." "no!" sinclair rose to his feet. "no--damn your money! this is my home. the high country is my country; it's where my friends are." "it's filled with your friends; i know that. but don't put your trust in your friends. they will stay by you, i know; but once in a long while there will be a false friend, murray, one that will sell you--remember that." "i stay." whispering smith looked up in admiration. "i know you're game. it isn't necessary for me to say that to you. but think of the fight you are going into against this company. you can worry them; you've done it. but a bronco might as well try to buck a locomotive as for one man or six or six hundred to win out in the way you are playing." "i will look out for my friends; others--" sinclair hitched his belt and paused, but whispering smith, cutting and running the cards, gave no heed. his eyes were fixed on the green cloth under his fingers. "others--" repeated sinclair. "others?" echoed whispering smith good-naturedly. "may look out for themselves." "of course, of course! well, if this is the end of it, i'm sorry." "you will be sorry if you mix in a quarrel that is none of yours." "why, murray, i never had a quarrel with a man in my life." "you are pretty smooth, but you can't drive me out of this country. i know how well you'd like to do it; and, take notice, there's one trail you can't cross even if you stay here. i suppose you understand that." smith felt his heart leap. he sat in his chair turning the pack slowly, but with only one hand now; the other hand was free. sinclair eyed him sidewise. smith moistened his lips and when he replied spoke slowly: "there is no need of dragging any allusion to her into it. for that matter, i told bucks he should have sent any man but me. if i'm in the way, sinclair, if my presence here is all that stands in the way, i'll go back and stay back as before, and send any one else you like or bucks likes. are you willing to say that i stand in the way of a settlement?" sinclair sat down and put his hands on the table. "no; your matter and mine is another affair. all i want between you and me is fair and right." whispering smith's eyes were on the cards. "you've always had it." "then keep away from _her_." "don't tell me what to do." "then don't tell me." "i'm not telling you. you will do as you please; so will i. i left here because marion asked me to. i am here now because i have been sent here. it is in the course of my business. i have my living to earn and my friends to protect. don't dictate to me, because it would be of no use." "well, you know now how to get into trouble." "every one knows that; few know how to keep out." "you can't lay your finger on me at any turn of the road." "not if you behave yourself." "and you can't bully me." "surely not. no hard feelings, murray. i came for a friendly talk, and if it's all the same to you i'll watch this wheel awhile and then go over to the wickiup. i leave first--that's understood, i hope--and if your pink-eyed friend is waiting outside tell him there is nothing doing, will you, murray? who is the albino, by the way? you don't know him? i think i do. fort city, if i remember. well, good-night, murray." it was after twelve o'clock and the room had filled up. roulette-balls were dropping, and above the faro-table the extra lights were on. the dealers, fresh from supper, were putting things in order for the long trick. at the wickiup whispering smith found mccloud in the office signing letters. "i can do nothing with him," said smith, drawing down a window-shade before he seated himself to detail his talk with sinclair. "he wants a fight." mccloud put down his pen. "if i am the disturber it would be better for me to get out." "that would be hauling down the flag across the whole division. it is too late for that. if he didn't centre the fight on you he would centre it somewhere else. the whole question is, who is going to run this division, sinclair and his gang or the company? and it is as easy to meet them on one point as another. i know of no way of making this kind of an affair pleasant. i am going to do some riding, as i told you. kennedy is working up through the deep creek country, and has three men with him. i shall ride toward the cache and meet him somewhere near south mission pass." "gordon, would it do any good to ask a few questions?" "ask as many as you like, my dear boy, but don't be disappointed if i can't answer them. i can look wise, but i don't know anything. you know what we are up against. this fellow has grown a tiger among the wolves, and he has turned the pack loose on us. one thing i ask you to do. don't expose yourself at night. your life isn't worth a coupling-pin if you do." mccloud raised his hand. "take care of _your_self. if you are murdered in this fight i shall know i got you in and that i am to blame." "and suppose you were?" smith had risen from his chair. he had few mannerisms, and recalling the man the few times i have seen him, the only impression he has left on me is that of quiet and gentleness. "suppose you were?" he was resting one arm on top of mccloud's desk. "what of it? you have done for me up here what i couldn't do, george. you have been kind to marion when she hadn't a friend near. you have stood between him and her when i couldn't be here to do it, and when she didn't want me to--helped her when i hadn't the privilege of doing it." mccloud put up his hand in protest, but it was unheeded. "how many times it has been in my heart to kill that man. she knows it; she prays it may never happen. that is why she stays here and has kept me out of the mountains. she says they would talk about her if i lived in the same town, and i have stayed away." he threw himself back into the chair. "it's going beyond both of us now. i've kept the promise i made to her to-day to do all in my power to settle this thing without bloodshed. it will not be settled in that way, george." "was he at sugar buttes?" "if not, his gang was there. the quick get-away, the short turn on van horn, killing two men to rattle the _posse_--it all bears sinclair's ear-marks. he has gone too far. he has piled up plunder till he is reckless. he is crazy with greed and insane with revenge. he thinks he can gallop over this division and scare bucks till he gets down on his knees to him. bucks will never do it. i know him, and i tell you bucks will never do it. he is like that man in washington: he will fight it to the death. he would fight sinclair if he had to come up here and meet him single-handed, but, he will never have to do it. he put you here, george, to round that man up. this is the price for your advancement, and you must pay it." "it is all right for me to pay it, but i don't want you to pay it. will you have a care for yourself, gordon?" "will you?" "yes." "you need never ask me to be careful," smith went on. "that is my business. i asked you to watch your window-shades at night, and when i came in just now i found one up. it is you who are likely to forget, and in this kind of a game a man never forgets but once. i'll lie down on the lincoln lounge, george." "get into the bed." "no; i like the lounge, and i'm off early." in the private room of the superintendent, provided as a sleeping apartment in the old headquarters building many years before hotel facilities reached medicine bend, stood the only curio the wickiup possessed--the lincoln lounge. when the car that carried the remains of abraham lincoln from washington to springfield was dismantled, the wickiup fell heir to one piece of its elaborate furnishings, the lounge, and the lounge still remains as an early-day relic. whispering smith walked into the bedroom and disposed himself in an incredibly short time. "i've borrowed one of your pillows, george," he called out presently. "take both." "one's enough. i hope," he went on, rolling himself like a hen into the double blanket, "the horse kennedy has left me will be all right; he got three from bill dancing. bill dancing," he snorted, driving his nose into the pillow as if in final memorandum for the night, "he will get himself killed if he fools around sinclair too much now." mccloud, under a light shaded above his desk, opened a roll of blue-prints. he was going to follow a construction gang up the crawling stone in the morning and wanted to look over the surveys. whispering smith, breathing regularly, lay not far away. it was late when mccloud put away his maps, entered the inner room, and looked at his friend. he lay like a boy asleep. on the chair beside his head he had placed his old-fashioned hunting-case watch, as big as an alarm-clock, the kind a railroad man would wind up with a spike-maul. beside the watch he had laid his huge revolver in its worn leather scabbard. breathing peacefully, he lay quite at his companion's mercy, and mccloud, looking down on this man who never made a mistake, never forgot a danger, and never took an unnecessary chance, thought of what between men confidence may sometimes mean. he sat a moment with folded arms on the side of his bed, studying the tired face, defenceless in the slumber of fatigue. when he turned out the light and lay down, he wondered whether, somewhere in the valley of the great river to which he was to take his men in the morning, he should encounter the slight and reckless horsewoman who had blazed so in anger when he stood before her at marion's. he had struggled against her charm too long. she had become, how or when he could not tell, not alone a pretty woman but a fascinating one--the creature of his constant thought. already she meant more to him than all else in the world. he well knew that if called on to choose between dicksie and all else he could only choose her. but as he drew together the curtains of thought and sleep stole in upon him, he was resolved first to have dicksie; to have all else if he could, but, in any case, dicksie dunning. when he awoke day was breaking in the mountains. the huge silver watch, the low-voiced man, and the formidable six-shooter had disappeared. it was time to get up, and marion sinclair had promised an early breakfast. chapter xiii the turn in the storm the beginning of the crawling stone line marked the first determined effort under president bucks, while undertaking the reconstruction of the system for through traffic, to develop the rich local territory tributary to the mountain division. new policies in construction dated from the same period. glover, with an enormous capital staked for the new undertakings, gave orders to push the building every month in the year, and for the first time in mountain railroad-building winter was to be ignored. the older mountain men met the innovation as they met any departure from their traditions, with curiosity and distrust. on the other hand, the new and younger blood took hold with confidence, and when glover called, "yo, heave ho!" at headquarters, they bent themselves clear across the system for a hard pull together. mccloud, resting the operating on the shoulders of his assistant anderson, devoted himself wholly to forwarding the construction plans, and his first clash over winter road-building in the rockies came with his own right-hand man, mears. mccloud put in a switch below piedmont, opened a material-yard, and began track-laying toward the lower crawling stone valley, when mears said it was time to stop work till spring. when mccloud told him he wanted track across the divide and into the lower valley by spring, mears threw up his hands. but there was metal in the old man, and he was for orders all the time. he kept up a running fire of protests and forebodings about the danger of exposing men during the winter season, but stuck to his post. glover sent along the men, and although two out of every three deserted the day after they arrived, mears kept a force in hand, and crowded the track up the new grade as fast as the ties and steel came in, working day in and day out with one eye on the clouds and one on the tie-line and hoping every day for orders to stop. december slipped away to christmas with the steel still going down and the disaffected element among the railroad men at medicine bend waiting for disaster. the spectacle of mccloud handling a flying column on the crawling stone work in the face of the most treacherous weather in the mountain year was one that brought out constant criticism of him among sinclair's sympathizers and friends, and while mccloud laughed and pushed ahead on the work, they waited only for his discomfiture. christmas day found mccloud at the front, with men still very scarce, but mears's gang at work and laying steel. the work train was in charge of stevens, the freight conductor, who had been set back after the smoky creek wreck and was slowly climbing back to position. they were working in the usual way, with the flat cars ahead pushed by the engine, the caboose coupled to the tender being on the extreme hind end of the train. at two o'clock on christmas afternoon, when there was not a cloud in the sky, the horizon thickened in the east. within thirty minutes the mountains from end to end of the sky-line were lost in the sweep of a coming wind, and at three o'clock snow struck the valley like a pall. mears, greatly disturbed, ordered the men off the grade and into the caboose. mccloud had been inspecting culverts ahead, and had started for the train when the snow drove across the valley. it blotted the landscape from sight so fast that he was glad after an anxious five minutes to regain the ties and find himself safely with his men. but when mccloud came in the men were bordering on a panic. mears, with his two foremen, had gone ahead to hunt mccloud up, and had passed him in the storm; it was already impossible to see, or to hear an ordinary sound ten yards away. mccloud ordered the flat cars cut off the train and the engine whistle sounded at short intervals, and, taking stevens, buttoned his reefer and started up the grade after the three trackmen. they fired their revolvers as they went on, but the storm tossed their signals on the ears of mears and his companions from every quarter of the compass. mccloud was standing on the last tie and planning with his companion how best to keep the grade as the two advanced, when the engine signals suddenly changed. "now that sounds like one of bill dancing's games," said mccloud to his companion. "what the deuce is it, stevens?" stevens, who knew a little of everything, recognized the signals in an instant and threw up his hands. "it's morse code, mr. mccloud, and they are in--mears and the foremen--and us for the train as quick as the lord will let us; that's what they're whistling." "so much for an education, stevens. bully for you! come on!" they regained the flat cars and made their way back to the caboose and engine, which stood uncoupled. mccloud got into the cab with dancing and stevens. mears, from the caboose ahead, signalled all in, and, with a whistling scream, the engine started to back the caboose to piedmont. they had hardly more than got under full headway when a difficulty became apparent to the little group around the superintendent. they were riding an unballasted track and using such speed as they dared to escape from a situation that had become perilous. but the light caboose, packed like a sardine-box with men, was dancing a hornpipe on the rail-joints. mccloud felt the peril, and the lurching of the car could be seen in the jerk of the engine tender to which it was coupled. apprehensive, he crawled back on the coal to watch the caboose himself, and stayed long enough to see that the rapidly drifting snow threatened to derail the outfit any minute. he got back to the cab and ordered a stop. "this won't do!" said he to stevens and the engineman. "we can't back that caboose loaded with men through this storm. we shall be off the track in five minutes." "try it slow," suggested stevens. "if we had the time," returned mccloud; "but the snow is drifting on us. we've got to make a run for it if we ever get back, and we must have the engine in front of that way car with her pilot headed for the drifts. let's look at things." dancing and stevens, followed by mccloud, dropped out of the gangway. mears opened the caboose door and the four men went forward to inspect the track and the trucks. in the lee of the caboose a council was held. the roar of the wind was like the surge of many waters, and the snow had whitened into storm. they were ten miles from a habitation, and, but for the single track they were travelling, might as well have been a hundred miles so far as reaching a place of safety was concerned. they were without food, with a caboose packed with men on their hands, and they realized that their supply of fuel for either engine or caboose was perilously slender. "get your men ready with their tools, pat," said mccloud to mears. "what are you going to do?" "i'm going to turn the train around and put the nose of the engine into it." "turn the train around--why, yes, that would make it easy. i'd be glad to see it turned around. but where's your turntable, mr. mccloud?" asked mears. "how are you going to turn your train around on a single track?" asked stevens darkly. "i'm going to turn the track around. i know about where we are, i think. there's a little stretch just beyond this curve where the grade is flush with the ground. ask your engineman to run back very slowly and watch for the bell-rope. i'll ride on the front platform of the caboose till we get to where we want to go to work. lose no time, pat; tell your men it's now or never. if we are caught here we may stay till they carry us home, and the success of this little game depends on having everything ready and working quick." stevens, who stayed close to mccloud, pulled the cord within five minutes, and before the caboose had stopped the men were tumbling out of it. mccloud led mears and his foreman up the track. they tramped a hundred yards back and forth, and, with steel tapes for safety lines, swung a hundred feet out on each side of the track to make sure of the ground. "this will do," announced mccloud; "you waited here half a day for steel a week ago; i know the ground. break that joint, pat." he pointed to the rail under his foot. "pass ahead with the engine and car about a thousand feet," he said to the conductor, "and when i give you a signal back up slow and look out for a thirty-degree curve--without any elevation, either. get out all your men with lining-bars." the engine and caboose faded in the blur of the blizzard as the break was made in the track. "take those bars and divide your men into batches of ten with foremen that can make signs, if they can't talk english," directed mccloud. "work lively now, and throw this track to the south!" pretty much everybody--japs, italians, and greeks--understood the game they were playing. mccloud said afterward he would match his piedmont hundred in making a movable y against any two hundred experts glover could pick; they had had the experience, he added, when the move meant their last counter in the game of mountain life or death. the piedmont "hundred," to mccloud's mind, were after that day past masters in the art of track-shifting. working in a driving cloud of grit and snow, the ignorant, the dull, and the slow rose to the occasion. bill dancing, pat mears and his foreman, and stevens moved about in the driving snow like giants. the howling storm rang with the shouting of the foremen, the guttural cries of the japs, and the clank of the lining-bars as rail-length after rail-length of the heavy track was slued bodily from the grade alignment and swung around in a short curve to a right angle out on the open ground. mccloud at last gave the awaited signal, and, with keen-eyed, anxious men watching every revolution of the cautious driving-wheels, the engine, hissing and pausing as the air-brakes went off and on, pushed the light caboose slowly out on the rough spur to its extreme end and stopped with the pilot facing the main track at right angles; but before it had reached its halting-place spike-mauls were ringing at the fish-plates where a moment before it had left the line on the curve. the track at that point was cut again, and under a long line of bars and a renewed shouting it was thrown gradually quite across the long gap in the main line, and the new joints in a very rough curve were made fast just as the engine, running now with its pilot ahead, steamed slowly around the new curve and without accident regained the regular grade. it was greeted by a screeching yell as the men climbed into the caboose, for the engine stood safely headed into the teeth of the storm for piedmont. the ten miles to cover were now a matter of less than thirty minutes, and the construction train drew into the piedmont yards just as the telegraph wires were heating from headquarters with orders annulling freights, ordering ploughs on outgoing engines, and battening the division hatches for a grapple with a christmas blizzard. no man came back better pleased than stevens. "that man is all right," said he to mears, nodding his head toward mccloud, as they walked up from the caboose. "that's all i want to say. some of these fellows have been a little shy about going out with him; they've hounded me for months about stepping over his way when sinclair and his mugs struck. i reckon i played my hand about right." chapter xiv the quarrel spring found the construction of the valley line well advanced, and the grades nearing the lands of the dunning ranch. right-of-way men had been working for months with lance dunning, over the line, and mccloud had been called frequently into consultation to adjust the surveys to objections raised by dicksie's cousin to the crossing of the ranch lands. even when the proceedings had been closed, a strong current of discontent set from the managing head of the stone ranch. rumors of lance dunning's dissatisfaction often reached the railroad people. vague talk of an extensive irrigation scheme planned by sinclair for the crawling stone valley crept into the newspapers, and it was generally understood that lance dunning had expressed himself favorably to the enterprise. dicksie gave slight heed to matters as weighty as these. she spent much of her time on horseback, with jim under the saddle; and in medicine bend, where she rode with frequency, marion's shop became her favorite abiding-place. dicksie ordered hats until marion's conscience rose and she practically refused to supply any more. but the spirited controversy on this point, as on many others--dicksie's haughtiness and marion's restraint, quite unmoved by any show of displeasure--ended always in drawing the two closer to each other. at home dicksie's fancies at that time ran to chickens, and crate after crate of thoroughbreds and clutch after clutch of eggs were brought over the pass from far-away countries. but the coyotes stole the chickens and kept the hens in such a state of excitement that they could not be got to sit effectively. nest after nest dicksie had the mortification of seeing deserted at critical moments and left to furred prowlers of the foothills and canyons. once she had managed to shoot a particularly bold coyote, only to be overcome with remorse at seeing its death-struggle. she gained reputation with her cousin and the men, but was ever afterward assailed with the reflection that the poor fellow might have been providing for a hungry family. housekeeping cares rested lightly on dicksie. puss had charge of the house, and her mistress concerned herself more with the setting of jim's shoes than with the dust on the elk heads over the fireplace in the dining-room. her medicine bend horseshoer stood in much greater awe of her than puss did, because if he ever left a mistake on jim's heels dicksie could, and would, point it coldly out. one march afternoon, coming home from medicine bend, she saw at some distance before her a party of men on horseback. she was riding a trail leading from the pass road that followed the hills, and the party was coming up the bridge road from the lower ranch. dicksie had good eyes, and something unusual in the riding of the men was soon apparent to her. losing and regaining sight of them at different turns in the trail, she made out, as she rode among the trees, that they were cowboys of her own ranch, and riding, under evident excitement, about a strange horseman. she recognized in the escort stormy gorman, the ferocious foreman of the ranch, and denison and jim baugh, two of the most reckless of the men. these three carried rifles slung across their pommels, and in front of them rode the stranger. fragments of the breakfast-table talk of the morning came back to dicksie's mind. the railroad graders were in the valley below the ranch, and she had heard her cousin say a good deal on a point she cared little about, as to where the railroad should cross the stone ranch. approaching the fork of the two roads toward which she and the cowboys were riding, she checked her horse in the shade of a cottonwood tree, and as the party rode up the draw she saw the horseman under surveillance. it was george mccloud. unluckily, as she caught a glimpse of him she was conscious that he was looking at her. she bent forward to hide a momentary confusion, spoke briskly to her horse, and rode out of sight. at marion's she had carefully avoided him. her precipitancy at their last meeting had seemed, on reflection, unfortunate. she felt that she must have appeared to him shockingly rude, and there was in her recalling of the scene an unconfessed impression that she had been to blame. often when marion spoke of him, which she did without the slightest reserve and with no reference as to whether dicksie liked it or not, it had been in dicksie's mind to bring up the subject of the disagreeable scene, hoping that marion would suggest a way for making some kind of unembarrassing amends. but such opportunities had slipped away unimproved, and here was the new railroad superintendent, whom their bluff neighbor sinclair never referred to other than as the college guy, being brought apparently as a prisoner to the stone ranch. busied with her thoughts, dicksie rode slowly along the upper trails until a long _détour_ brought her around the corrals and in at the back of the house. throwing her lines to the ground, she alighted and through the back porch door made her way unobserved to her room. from the office across the big hall she heard men's voices in dispute, and she slipped into the dining-room, where she could hear and might see without being seen. the office was filled with cowboys. lance dunning, standing with a cigar in his hand and one leg thrown over a corner of the table, was facing mccloud, who stood before him with his hand on a chair. lance was speaking as dicksie looked into the room, and in curt tones: "my men were acting under my orders." "you have no right to give such orders," mccloud said distinctly, "nor to detain me, nor to obstruct our free passage along the right of way you have agreed to convey to us under our survey." "damn your survey! i never had a plat of any such survey. i don't recognize any such survey. and if your right-of-way men had ever said a word about crossing the creek above the flume i never would have given you a right of way at all." "there were never but two lines run below the creek; after you raised objection i ran them both, and both were above the flume." "well, you can't put a grade there. i and some of my neighbors are going to dam up that basin, and the irrigation laws will protect our rights." "i certainly can't put a grade in below the flume, and you refuse to talk about our crossing above it." "i certainly do." "why not let us cross where we are, and run a new level for your ditch that will put the flume higher up?" "you will have to cross below the flume where it stands, or you won't cross the ranch at all." mccloud was silent for a moment. "i am using a supported grade there for eight miles to get over the hill within a three-tenths limit. i can't drop back there. we might as well not build at all if we can't hold our grade, whereas it would be very simple to run a new line for your ditch, and my engineers will do it for you without a dollar of expense to you, mr. dunning." lance dunning waved his hand as an ultimatum. "cross where i tell you to cross, or keep off the stone ranch. is that english?" "it certainly is. but in matter of fact we must cross on the survey agreed on in the contract for a right-of-way deed." "i don't recognize any contract obtained under false representations." "do you accuse me of false representations?" lance dunning flipped the ash from his cigar. "who are you?" "i am just a plain, every-day civil engineer, but you must not talk false representations in any contract drawn under my hand." "i am talking facts. whispering smith may have rigged the joker--i don't know. whoever rigged it, it has been rigged all right." "any charge against whispering smith is a charge against me. he is not here to defend himself, but he needs no defence. you have charged me already with misleading surveys. i was telephoned for this morning to come over to see why you had held up our work, and your men cover me with rifles while i am riding on a public road." "you have been warned, or your men have, to keep off this ranch. your man stevens cut our wires this morning----" "as he had a perfect right to do on our right of way." "if you think so, stranger, go ahead again!" "oh, no! we won't have civil war--not right away, at least. and if you and your men have threatened and browbeaten me enough for to-day, i will go." "don't set foot on the stone ranch again, and don't send any men here to trespass, mark you!" "i mark you perfectly. i did not set foot willingly on your ranch to-day. i was dragged on it. where the men are grading now, they will finish their work." "no, they won't." "what, would you drive us off land you have already deeded?" "the first man that cuts our wires or orders them cut where they were strung yesterday will get into trouble." "then don't string any wires on land that belongs to us, for they will certainly come down if you do." lance dunning turned in a passion. "i'll put a bullet through you if you touch a barb of stone ranch wire!" stormy gorman jumped forward with his hand covering the grip of his six-shooter. "yes, damn you, and i'll put another!" "cousin lance!" dicksie dunning advanced swiftly into the room. "you are under our own roof, and you are wrong to talk in that way." her cousin stared at her. "dicksie, this is no place for you!" "it is when my cousin is in danger of forgetting he is a gentleman." "you are interfering with what you know nothing about!" exclaimed lance angrily. "i know what is due to every one under this roof." "will you be good enough to leave this room?" "not if there is to be any shooting or threats of shooting that involve my cousin." "dicksie, leave the room!" there was a hush. the cowboys dropped back. dicksie stood motionless. she gave no sign in her manner that she heard the words, but she looked very steadily at her cousin. "you forget yourself!" was all she said. "i am master here!" "also my cousin," murmured dicksie evenly. "you don't understand this matter at all!" declared lance dunning vehemently. "nothing could justify your language." "do you think i am going to allow this railroad company to ruin this ranch while i am responsible here? you have no business interfering, i say!" "i think i have." "these matters are not of your affair!" "not of my affair?" the listeners stood riveted. mccloud felt himself swallowing, and took a step backward with an effort as dicksie advanced. her hair, loosened by her ride, spread low upon her head. she stood in her saddle habit, with her quirt still in hand. "any affair that may lead my cousin into shooting is my affair. i make it mine. this is my father's roof. i neither know nor care anything about what led to this quarrel, but the quarrel is mine now. i will not allow my cousin to plunge into anything that may cost him his life or ruin it." she turned suddenly, and her eyes fell on mccloud. "i am not willing to leave either myself or my cousin in a false position. i regret especially that mr. mccloud should be brought into so unpleasant a scene, because he has already suffered rudeness at my own hands----" mccloud flushed. he raised his hand slightly. "and i am very sorry for it," added dicksie, before he could speak. then, turning, she withdrew from the room. "i am sure," said mccloud slowly, as he spoke again to her cousin, "there need be no serious controversy over the right-of-way matter, mr. dunning. i certainly shall not precipitate any. suppose you give me a chance to ride over the ground with you again and let us see whether we can't arrive at some conclusion?" but lance was angry, and nursed his wrath a long time. chapter xv the shot in the pass dicksie walked hurriedly through the dining-room and out upon the rear porch. her horse was standing where she had left him. her heart beat furiously as she caught up the reins, but she sprang into the saddle and rode rapidly away. the flood of her temper had brought a disregard of consequence: it was in the glow of her eyes, the lines of her lips, and the tremor of her nostrils as she breathed long and deeply on her flying horse. when she checked jim she had ridden miles, but not without a course nor without a purpose. where the roads ahead of her parted to lead down the river and over the elbow pass to medicine bend, she halted within a clump of trees almost where she had first seen mccloud. beyond the mission mountains the sun was setting in a fire like that which glowed under her eyes. she could have counted her heart-beats as the crimson ball sank below the verge of the horizon and the shadows threw up the silver thread of the big river and deepened across the heavy green of the alfalfa fields. where dicksie sat, struggling with her bounding pulse and holding jim tightly in, no one from the ranch or, indeed, from the up-country could pass her unseen. she was waiting for a horseman, and the sun had set but a few minutes when she heard a sharp gallop coming down the upper road from the hills. all her brave plans, terror-stricken at the sound of the hoof-beats, fled from her utterly. she was stunned by the suddenness of the crisis. she had meant to stop mccloud and speak to him, but before she could summon her courage a tall, slender man on horseback dashed past within a few feet of her. she could almost have touched him as he flew by, and a horse less steady than jim would have shied under her. dicksie caught her breath. she did not know this man--she had seen only his eyes, oddly bright in the twilight as he passed--but he was not of the ranch. he must have come from the hill road, she concluded, down which she herself had just ridden. he was somewhere from the north, for he sat his horse like a statue and rode like the wind. but the encounter nerved her to her resolve. some leaden moments passed, and mccloud, galloping at a far milder pace toward the fork of the roads, checked his speed as he approached. he saw a woman on horseback waiting in his path. "mr. mccloud!" "miss dunning!" "i could not forgive myself if i waited too long to warn you that threats have been made against your life. not of the kind you heard to-day. my cousin is not a murderer, and never could be, i am sure, in spite of his talk; but i was frightened at the thought that if anything dreadful should happen his name would be brought into it. there are enemies of yours in this country to be feared, and it is against these that i warn you. good-night!" "surely you won't ride away without giving me a chance to thank you!" exclaimed mccloud. dicksie checked her horse. "i owe you a double debt of gratitude," he added, "and i am anxious to assure you that we desire nothing that will injure your interests in any way in crossing your lands." "i know nothing about those matters, because my cousin manages everything. it is growing late and you have a good way to go, so good-night." "but you will allow me to ride back to the house with you?" "oh, no, indeed, thank you!" "it will soon be dark and you are alone." "no, no! i am quite safe and i have only a short ride. it is you who have far to go," and she spoke again to jim, who started briskly. "miss dunning, won't you listen just a moment? please don't run away!" mccloud was trying to come up with her. "won't you hear me a moment? i have suffered some little humiliation to-day; i should really rather be shot up than have more put on me. i am a man and you are a woman, and it is already dark. isn't it for me to see you safely to the house? won't you at least pretend i can act as an escort and let me go with you? i should make a poor figure trying to catch you on horseback----" dicksie nodded naïvely. "with that horse." "with any horse--i know that," said mccloud, keeping at her side. "but i _can't_ let you ride back with me," declared dicksie, urging jim and looking directly at mccloud for the first time. "how could i explain?" "let me explain. i am famous for explaining," urged mccloud, spurring too. "and will you tell me what _i_ should be doing while you were explaining?" she asked. "perhaps getting ready a first aid for the injured." "i feel as if i ought to run away," declared dicksie, since she had clearly decided not to. "it will have to be a compromise, i suppose. you must not ride farther than the first gate, and let us take this trail instead of the road. now make your horse go as fast as you can and i'll keep up." but mccloud's horse, though not a wonder, went too fast to suit his rider, who divided his efforts between checking him and keeping up the conversation. when mccloud dismounted to open dicksie's gate, and stood in the twilight with his hat in his hand and his bridle over his arm, he was telling a story about marion sinclair, and dicksie in the saddle, tapping her knee with her bridle-rein, was looking down and past him as if the light upon his face were too bright. before she would start away she made him remount, and he said good-by only after half a promise from her that she would show him sometime a trail to the top of bridger's peak, with a view of the peace river on the east and the whole mission range and the park country on the north. then she rode away at an amazing run, nodding back as he sat still holding his hat above his head. mccloud galloped toward the pass with one determination--that he would have a horse, and a good one, one that could travel with jim, if it cost him his salary. he exulted as he rode, for the day had brought him everything he wished, and humiliation had been swallowed up in triumph. it was nearly dark when he reached the crest between the hills. at this point the southern grade of the pass winds sharply, whence its name, the elbow; but from the head of the pass the grade may be commanded at intervals for half a mile. trotting down this road with his head in a whirl of excitement, mccloud heard the crack of a rifle; at the same instant he felt a sharp slap at his hat. instinct works on all brave men very much alike. mccloud dropped forward in his saddle, and, seeking no explanation, laid his head low and spurred bill dancing's horse for life or death. the horse, quite amazed, bolted and swerved down the grade like a snipe, with his rider crouching close for a second shot. but no second shot came, and after another mile mccloud ventured to take off his hat and put his finger through the holes in it, though he did not stop his horse to make the examination. when they reached the open country the horse had settled into a fast, long stride that not only redeemed his reputation but relieved his rider's nerves. when mccloud entered his office it was half-past nine o'clock, and the first thing he did before turning on the lights was to draw the window-shades. he examined the hat again, with sensations that were new to him--fear, resentment, and a hearty hatred of his enemies. but all the while the picture of dicksie remained. he thought of her nodding to him as they parted in the saddle, and her picture blotted out all that had followed. chapter xvi at the wickiup two nights later whispering smith rode into medicine bend. "i've been up around williams cache," he said, answering mccloud's greeting as he entered the upstairs office. "how goes it?" he was in his riding rig, just as he had come from a late supper. when he asked for news mccloud told him the story of the trouble with lance dunning over the survey, and added that he had referred the matter to glover. he told then of his unpleasant surprise when riding home afterward. "yes," assented smith, looking with feverish interest at mccloud's head; "i heard about it." "that's odd, for i haven't said a word about the matter to anybody but marion sinclair, and you haven't seen her." "i heard up the country. it is great luck that he missed you." "who missed me?" "the man that was after you." "the bullet went through my hat." "let me see the hat." mccloud produced it. it was a heavy, broad-brimmed stetson, with a bullet-hole cut cleanly through the front and the back of the crown. smith made mccloud put the hat on and describe his position when the shot was fired. mccloud stood up, and whispering smith eyed him and put questions. "what do you think of it?" asked mccloud when he had done. smith leaned forward on the table and pushed mccloud's hat toward him as if the incident were closed. "there is no question in my mind, and there never has been, but that stetson puts up the best hat worn on the range." mccloud raised his eyebrows. "why, thank you! your conclusion clears things so. after you speak a man has nothing to do but guess." "but, by heaven, george," exclaimed smith, speaking with unaccustomed fervor, "miss dicksie dunning is a hummer, _isn't_ she? that child will have the whole range going in another year. to think of her standing up and lashing her cousin in that way when he was browbeating a railroad man!" "where did you hear about that?" "the whole crawling stone country is talking about it. you never told me you had a misunderstanding with dicksie dunning at marion's. loosen up!" "i will loosen up in the way you do. what scared me most, gordon, was waiting for the second shot. why didn't he fire again?" "doubtless he thought he had you the first time. any man big enough to start after you is not used to shooting twice at two hundred and fifty yards. he probably thought you were falling out of the saddle; and it was dark. i can account for everything but your reaching the pass so late. how did you spend all your time between the ranch and the foothills?" mccloud saw there was no escape from telling of his meeting with dicksie dunning, of her warning, and of his ride to the gate with her. every point brought a suppressed exclamation from whispering smith. "so she gave you your life," he mused. "good for her! if you had got into the pass on time you could not have got away--the cards were stacked for you. he overestimated you a little, george; just a little. good men make mistakes. the sport of circumstances that we are! the sport of circumstances!" "now tell me how _you_ heard so much about it, gordon, and where?" "through a friend, but forget it." "do you know who shot at me?" "yes." "i think i do, too. i think it was the fellow that shot so well with the rifle at the barbecue--what was his name? he was working for sinclair, and perhaps is yet." "you mean seagrue, the montana cowboy? no, you are wrong. seagrue is a man-killer, but a square one." "how do you know?" "i will tell you sometime--but this was not seagrue." "one of dunning's men, was it? stormy gorman?" "no, no, a very different sort! stormy is a wind-bag. the man that is after you is in town at this minute, and he has come to stay until he finishes his job." "the devil! that's what makes your eyes so bright, is it? do you know him?" "i have seen him. you may see him yourself if you want to." "i'd like nothing better. when?" "to-night--in thirty minutes." mccloud closed his desk. there was a rap at the door. "that must be kennedy," said smith. "i haven't seen him, but i sent word for him to meet me here." the door opened and kennedy entered the room. "sit down, farrell," said whispering smith easily. "_ve gates?_" "how's that?" "_wie geht es?_ don't pretend you can't make out my german. he is trying to let on he is not a dutchman," observed whispering smith to mccloud. "you wouldn't believe it, but i can remember when farrell wore wooden shoes and lighted his pipe with a candle. he sleeps under a feather-bed yet. du sang is in town, farrell." "du sang!" echoed the tall man with mild interest as he picked up a ruler and, throwing his leg on the edge of the table, looked cheerful. "how long has du sang been in town? visiting friends or doing business?" "he is after your superintendent. he has been here since four o'clock, i reckon, and i've ridden a hard road to-day to get in in time to talk it over with him. want to go?" kennedy slapped his leg with the ruler. "i always want to go, don't i?" "farrell, if you hadn't been a railroad man you would have made a great undertaker, do you know that?" kennedy, slapping his leg, showed his ivory teeth. "you have such an instinct for funerals," added whispering smith. "now, mr. smith! well, who are we waiting for? i'm ready," said kennedy, taking out his revolver and examining it. mccloud put on his new hat and asked if he should take a gun. "you are really accompanying me as my guest, george," explained whispering smith reproachfully. "won't it be fun to shove this man right under du sang's nose and make him bat his eyes?" he added to kennedy. "well, put one in your pocket if you like, george, provided you have one that will go off when sufficiently urged." mccloud opened the drawer of the table and took from it a revolver. whispering smith reached out his hand for the gun, examined it, and handed it back. "you don't like it." smith smiled a sickly approbation. "a forty-five gun with a thirty-eight bore, george? a little light for shock; a _little_ light. a bullet is intended to knock a man down; not necessarily to kill him, but, if possible, to keep him from killing you. never mind, we all have our fads. come on!" at the foot of the stairs whispering smith stopped. "now i don't know where we shall find this man, but we'll try the three horses." as they started down the street mccloud took the inside of the sidewalk, but smith dropped behind and brought mccloud into the middle. they failed to find du sang at the three horses, and leaving started to round up the street. they visited many places, but each was entered in the same way. kennedy sauntered in first and moved slowly ahead. he was to step aside only in case he saw du sang. mccloud in every instance followed him, with whispering smith just behind, amiably surprised. they spent an hour in and out of the front street resorts, but their search was fruitless. "you are sure he is in town?" asked kennedy. the three men stood deliberating in the shadow of a side street. "sure!" answered whispering smith. "of course, if he turns the trick he wants to get away quietly. he is lying low. who is that, farrell?" a man passing out of the shadow of a shade tree was crossing fort street a hundred feet away. "it looks like our party," whispered kennedy. "no, stop a bit!" they drew back into the shadow. "that is du sang," said kennedy; "i know his hobble." chapter xvii a test du sang had the sidewise gait of a wolf, and crossed the street with the choppy walk of the man out of a long saddle. being both uncertain and quick, he was a man to slip a trail easily. he travelled around the block and disappeared among the many open doors that blazed along hill street. less alert trailers than the two behind him would have been at fault; but when he entered the place he was looking for, kennedy was so close that du sang could have spoken to him had he turned around. kennedy passed directly ahead. a moment later whispering smith put his head inside the door of the joint du sang had entered, withdrew it, and, rejoining his companions, spoke in an undertone: "a negro dive; he's lying low. now we will keep our regular order. it's a half-basement, with a bar on the left; crap games at the table behind the screen on the right. kennedy, will you take the rear end of the bar? it covers the whole room and the back door. george, pass in ahead of me and step just to the left of the slot machine; you've got the front door there and everything behind the screen, and i can get close to du sang. look for a thinnish, yellow-faced man with a brown hat and a brown shirt--and pink eyes--shooting craps under this window. i'll shoot craps with him. is your heart pumping, george? never mind, this is easy! farrell, you're first!" the dive, badly lighted and ventilated, was counted tough among tough places. white men and colored mixed before the bar and about the tables. when smith stepped around the screen and into the flare of the hanging lamps, du sang stood in the small corner below the screened street window. mccloud, though vitally interested in looking at the man that had come to town to kill him, felt his attention continually wandering back to whispering smith. the clatter of the rolling dice, the guttural jargon of the negro gamblers, the drift of men to and from the bar, and the clouds of tobacco smoke made a hazy background for the stoop-shouldered man with his gray hat and shabby coat, dust-covered and travel-stained. industriously licking the broken wrapper of a cheap cigar and rolling it fondly under his forefinger, he was making his way unostentatiously toward du sang. thirty-odd men were in the saloon, but only two knew what the storm centre moving slowly across the room might develop. kennedy, seeing everything and talking pleasantly with one of the barkeepers, his close-set teeth gleaming twenty feet away, stood at the end of the bar sliding an empty glass between his hands. whispering smith pushed past the on-lookers to get to the end of the table where du sang was shooting. he made no effort to attract du sang's attention, and when the latter looked up he could have pulled the gray hat from the head of the man whose brown eyes were mildly fixed on du sang's dice; they were lying just in front of smith. looking indifferently at the intruder, du sang reached for the dice: just ahead of his right hand, whispering smith's right hand, the finger-tips extended on the table, rested in front of them; it might have been through accident or it might have been through design. in his left hand smith held the broken cigar, and without looking at du sang he passed the wrapper again over the tip of his tongue and slowly across his lips. du sang now looked sharply at him, and smith looked at his cigar. others were playing around the semicircular table--it might mean nothing. du sang waited. smith lifted his right hand from the table and felt in his waistcoat for a match. du sang, however, made no effort to take up the dice. he watched whispering smith scratch a match on the table, and, either because it failed to light or through design, it was scratched the second time on the table, marking a cross between the two dice. the meanest negro in the joint would not have stood that, yet du sang hesitated. whispering smith, mildly surprised, looked up. "hello, pearline! you shooting here?" he pushed the dice back toward the outlaw. "shoot again!" du sang, scowling, snapped the dice and threw badly. "up jump the devil, is it? shoot again!" and, pushing back the dice, smith moved closer to du sang. the two men touched arms. du sang, threatened in a way wholly new to him, waited like a snake braved by a mysterious enemy. his eyes blinked like a badger's. he caught up the dice and threw. "is that the best you can do?" asked smith. "see here!" he took up the dice. "shoot with me!" smith threw the dice up the table toward du sang. once he threw craps, but, reaching directly in front of du sang, he picked the dice up and threw eleven. "shoot with me, du sang." "what's your game?" snapped du sang, with an oath. "what do you care, if i've got the coin? i'll throw you for twenty-dollar gold pieces." du sang's eyes glittered. unable to understand the reason for the affront, he stood like a cat waiting to spring. "this is my game!" he snarled. "then play it." "look here, what do you want?" he demanded angrily. smith stepped closer. "any game you've got. i'll throw you left-handed, du sang." with his right hand he snapped the dice under du sang's nose and looked squarely into his eyes. "got any sugar buttes money?" du sang for an instant looked keenly back; his eyes contracted in that time to a mere narrow slit; then, sudden as thought, he sprang back into the corner. he knew now. this was the man who held the aces at the barbecue, the railroad man--whispering smith. kennedy, directly across the table, watched the lightning-like move. for the first time the crap-dealer looked impatiently up. it was a showdown. no one watching the two men under the window breathed for a moment. whispering smith, motionless, only watched the half-closed eyes. "you can't shoot craps," he said coldly. "what can you shoot, pearline? you can't stop a man on horseback." du sang knew he must try for a quick kill or make a retreat. he took in the field at a glance. kennedy's teeth gleamed only ten feet away, and with his right hand half under his coat lapel he toyed with his watch-chain. mccloud had moved in from the slot machine and stood at the point of the table, looking at du sang and laughing at him. whispering smith threw off all pretence. "take your hand away from your gun, you albino! i'll blow your head off left-handed if you pull! will you get out of this town to-night? if you can't drop a man in the saddle at two hundred and fifty yards, what do you think you'd look like after a break with me? go back to the whelp that hired you, and tell him when he wants a friend of mine to send a man that can shoot. if you are within twenty miles of medicine bend at daylight i'll rope you like a fat cow and drag you down front street!" du sang, with burning eyes, shrank narrower and smaller into his corner, ready to shoot if he had to, but not liking the chances. no man in williams cache could pull or shoot with du sang, but no man in the mountains had ever drawn successfully against the man that faced him. whispering smith saw that he would not draw. he taunted him again in low tones, and, backing away, spoke laughingly to mccloud. while kennedy covered the corner, smith backed to the door and waited for the two to join him. they halted a moment at the door, then they backed slowly up the steps and out into the street. there was no talk till they reached the wickiup office. "now, will some of you tell me who du sang is?" asked mccloud, after kennedy and whispering smith with banter and laughing had gone over the scene. kennedy picked up the ruler. "the wickedest, cruelest man in the bunch--and the best shot." "where is your hat, george--the one he put the bullet through?" asked whispering smith, limp in the big chair. "burn it up; he thinks he missed you. burn it up now. never let him find out what a close call you had. du sang! yes, he is cold-blooded as a wild-cat and cruel as a soft bullet. du sang would shoot a dying man, george, just to keep him squirming in the dirt. did you ever see such eyes in a human being, set like that and blinking so in the light? it's bad enough to watch a man when you can see his eyes. here's hoping we're done with him!" chapter xviii new plans callahan crushed the tobacco under his thumb in the palm of his right hand. "so i am sorry to add," he concluded, speaking to mccloud, "that you are now out of a job." the two men were facing each other across the table in mccloud's office. "personally, i am not sorry to say it, either," added callahan, slowly filling the bowl of his pipe. mccloud said nothing to the point, as there seemed to be nothing to say until he had heard more. "i never knew before that you were left-handed," he returned evasively. "it's a lucky thing, because it won't do for a freight-traffic man, nowadays, to let his right hand know what his left hand does," observed callahan, feeling for a match. "i am the only left-handed man in the traffic department, but the man that handles the rebates, jimmie black, is cross-eyed. bucks offered to send him to chicago to have bryson straighten his eyes, but jimmie thinks it is better to have them as they are for the present, so he can look at a thing in two different ways--one for the interstate commerce commission and one for himself. you haven't heard, then?" continued callahan, returning to his riddle about mccloud's job. "why, lance dunning has gone into the united states court and got an injunction against us on the crawling stone line--tied us up tighter than zero. no more construction there for a year at least. dunning comes in for himself and for a cousin who is his ward, and three or four little ranchers have filed bills--so it's up to the lawyers for eighty per cent. of the gate receipts and peace. personally, i'm glad of it. it gives you a chance to look after this operating for a year yourself. we are going to be swamped with freight traffic this year, and i want it moved through the mountains like checkers for the next six months. you know what i mean, george." to mccloud the news came, in spite of himself, as a blow. the results he had attained in building through the lower valley had given him a name among the engineers of the whole line. the splendid showing of the winter construction, on which he had depended to enable him to finish the whole work within the year, was by this news brought to naught. those of the railroad men who said he could not deliver a completed line within the year could never be answered now. and there was some slight bitterness in the reflection that the very stumbling-block to hold him back, to rob him of his chance for a reputation with men like glover and bucks, should be the lands of dicksie dunning. he made no complaint. on the division he took hold with new energy and bent his faculties on the operating problems. at marion's he saw dicksie at intervals, and only to fall more hopelessly under her spell each time. she could be serious and she could be volatile and she could be something between which he could never quite make out. she could be serious with him when he was serious, and totally irresponsible the next minute with marion. on the other hand, when mccloud attempted to be flippant, dicksie could be confusingly grave. once when he was bantering with her at marion's she tried to say something about her regret that complications over the right of way should have arisen; but mccloud made light of it, and waved the matter aside as if he were a cavalier. dicksie did not like it, but it was only that he was afraid she would realize he was a mere railroad superintendent with hopes of a record for promotion quite blasted. and as if this obstacle to a greater reputation were not enough, a wilier enemy threatened in the spring to leave only shreds and patches of what he had already earned. the crawling stone river is said to embody, historically, all of the deceits known to mountain streams. below the box canyon it ploughs through a great bed of yielding silt, its own deposit between the two imposing lines of bluffs that resist its wanderings from side to side of the wide valley. this fertile soil makes up the rich lands that are the envy of less fortunate regions in the great basin; but the crawling stone is not a river to give quiet title to one acre of its own making. the toil of its centuries spreads beautifully green under the june skies, and the unsuspecting settler, lulled into security by many years of the river's repose, settles on its level bench lands and lays out his long lines of possession; but the sioux will tell you in their own talk that this man is but a tenant at will; that in another time and at another place the stranger will inherit his fields; and that the crawling stone always comes back for its own. this was the peril that glover and mccloud essayed when they ran a three-tenths grade and laid an eighty-pound rail up two hundred and fifty miles of the valley. it was in local and exclusive territory a rich prize, and they brought to their undertaking not, perhaps, greater abilities than other men, but incomparably greater material resources than earlier american engineers had possessed. success such as theirs is cumulative: when the work is done one man stands for it, but it represents the work of a thousand men in every walk of american industry. where the credit must lie with the engineer who achieves is in the application of these enormous reserves of industrial triumphs to the particular conditions he faces in the problem before him; in the application lies the genius called success, and this is always new. moreover, men like glover and mccloud were fitted for a fight with a mountain river because trained in the western school, where poverty or resource had sharpened the wits. the building of the crawling stone line came with the dawn of a new day in american capital, when figures that had slept in fairies' dreams woke into every-day use, and when enlarged calculation among men controlling hitherto unheard-of sums of money demanded the best and most permanent methods of construction to insure enduring economies in operating. thus the constructing of the crawling stone line opened in itself new chapters in rocky mountain railroad-building. an equipment of machinery, much of which had never before been applied to such building, had been assembled by the engineers. steam-shovels had been sent in battalions, grading-machines and dump-wagons had gone forward in trainloads, and an army of men were operating in the valley. a huge steel bridge three thousand feet long was now being thrown across the river below the dunning ranch. the winter had been an unusual one even in a land of winters. the season's fall of snow had not been above an average, but it had fallen in the spring and had been followed by excessively low temperatures throughout the mountains. june came again, but a strange june. the first rise of the crawling stone had not moved out the winter frost, and the stream lay bound from bank to bank, and for hundreds of miles, under three feet of ice. when june opened, backward and cold, there had been no spring. heavy frosts lasting until the middle of the month gave sudden way to summer heat, and the indians on the upper-valley reservation began moving back into the hills. then came the rise. creek after creek in the higher mountains, ice-bound for six months, burst without warning into flood. soft winds struck with the sun and stripped the mountain walls of their snow. rains set in on the desert, and far in the high northwest the crawling stone lifting its four-foot cap of ice like a bed of feathers began rolling it end over end down the valley. in the box, forty feet of water struck the canyon walls and ice-floes were hurled like torpedoes against the granite spurs: the crawling stone was starting after its own. when the river rose, the earlier talk of dunning's men had been that the crawling stone would put an end to the railroad pretensions by washing the two hundred and fifty miles of track back to the peace river, where it had started. this much in the beginning was easy to predict; but the railroad men had turned out in force to fight for their holdings, and while the ranchers were laughing, the river was flowing over the bench lands in the upper valley. at the dunning ranch the confidence of the men in their own security gave way to confusion as the river, spreading behind the ice-jams into broad lakes and bursting in torrents through its barriers, continued to rise. treacherous in its broad and yellow quiet, lifting its muddy head in the stillness of the night, moving unheard over broad sandy bottoms, backing noiselessly into forgotten channels, stealing through heavy alfalfa pastures, eating a channel down a slender furrow--then, with the soil melting from the root, the plant has toppled at the head, the rivulet has grown a stream; night falls, and in the morning where yesterday smiling miles of green fields looked up to the sun rolls a mad flood of waters: this is the crawling stone. chapter xix the crawling stone rise so sudden was the onset of the river that the trained riders of the big ranch were taken completely aback, and hundreds of head of dunning cattle were swept away before they could be removed to points of safety. fresh alarms came with every hour of the day and night, and the telephones up and down the valley rang incessantly with appeals from neighbor to neighbor. lance dunning, calling out the reserves of his vocabulary, swore tremendously and directed the operations against the river. these seemed, indeed, to consist mainly of hard riding and hard language on the part of everybody. murray sinclair, although he had sold his ranch on the crawling stone and was concentrating his holdings on the frenchman, was everywhere in evidence. he was the first at a point of danger and the last to ride away from the slipping acres where the muddy flood undercut; but no defiance seemed to disturb the crawling stone, which kept alarmingly at work. above the alfalfa lands on the long bench north of the house the river, in changing its course many years earlier, had left a depression known as mud lake. it had become separated from the main channel of the crawling stone by a high, narrow barrier in the form of a bench deposited by the receding waters of some earlier flood, and added to by sand-storms sweeping among the willows that overspread it. without an effective head or definite system of work the efforts of the men at the stone ranch were of no more consequence than if they had spent their time in waving blankets at the river. twenty men riding in together to tell lance dunning that the river was washing out the tree claims above mud lake made no perceptible difference in the event. dicksie, though an inexperienced girl, saw with helpless clearness the futility of it all. the alarms and the continual failures of the army of able-bodied men directed by sinclair and her cousin wore on her spirit. the river rose until each succeeding inch became a menace to the life and property of the ranch, and in the midst of it came the word that the river was cutting into the willows and heading for mud lake. all knew what that meant. if the crawling stone should take its old channel, not alone were the two square miles of alfalfa doomed: it would sweep away every vestige of the long stacks below the corrals, take the barns, and lap the slope in front of the ranch-house itself. terror seized dicksie. she telephoned in her distress for marion, begging her to come up before they should all be swept away; and marion, turning the shop over to katie dancing, got into the ranch-wagon that dicksie had sent and started for the crawling stone. the confusion along the river road as the wagon approached the ranch showed marion the seriousness of the situation. settlers driven from their homes in the upper valley formed almost a procession of misery-stricken people, making their way on horseback, on foot, and in wagons toward medicine bend. with them they were bringing all they had saved from the flood--the little bunch of cows, the wagonload of hogs, the household effects, the ponies--as if war or pestilence had struck the valley. at noon marion arrived. the ranch-house was deserted, and the men were all at the river. puss stuck her head out of the kitchen window, and dicksie ran out and threw herself into marion's arms. late news from the front had been the worst: the cutting above mud lake had weakened the last barrier that held off the river, and every available man was fighting the current at that point. marion heard it all while eating a luncheon. dicksie, beset with anxiety, could not stay in the house. the man that had driven marion over, saddled horses in the afternoon and the two women rode up above mud lake, now become through rainfall and seepage from the river a long, shallow lagoon. for an hour they watched the shovelling and carrying of sandbags, and rode toward the river to the very edge of the disappearing willows, where the bank was melting away before the undercut of the resistless current. they rode away with a common feeling--a conviction that the fight was a losing one, and that another day would see the ruin complete. "dicksie," exclaimed marion--they were riding to the house as she spoke--"i'll tell you what we _can_ do!" she hesitated a moment. "i will tell you what we _can_ do! are you plucky?" dicksie looked at marion pathetically. "if you are plucky enough to do it, we can keep the river off yet. i have an idea. i will go, but you must come along." "marion, what do you mean? don't you think i would go anywhere to save the ranch? i should like to know where you dare go in this country that i dare not!" "then ride with me over to the railroad camp by the new bridge. we will ask mr. mccloud to bring some of his men over. he can stop the river; he knows how." dicksie caught her breath. "oh, marion! that would do no good, even if i could do it. why, the railroad has been all swept away in the lower valley." "how do you know?" "so every one says." "who is every one?" "cousin lance, mr. sinclair--all the men. i heard that a week ago." "dicksie, don't believe it. you don't know these railroad men. they understand this kind of thing; cattlemen, you know, don't. if you will go with me we can get help. i feel just as sure that those men can control the river as i do that i am looking at you--that is, if anybody can. the question is, do you want to make the effort?" they talked until they left the horses and entered the house. when they sat down, dicksie put her hands to her face. "oh, i wish you had said nothing about it! how _can_ i go to him and ask for help now--after cousin lance has gone into court about the line and everything? and of course my name is in it all." "dicksie, don't raise spectres that have nothing to do with the case. if we go to him and ask him for help he will give it to us if he can; if he can't, what harm is done? he has been up and down the river for three weeks, and he has an army of men camped over by the bridge. i know that, because mr. smith rode in from there a few days ago." "what, whispering smith? oh, if he is there i would not go for worlds!" "pray, why not?" "why, he is such an awful man!" "that is absurd, dicksie." dicksie looked grave. "marion, no man in this part of the country has a good word to say for whispering smith." "perhaps you have forgotten, dicksie, that you live in a very rough part of the country," returned marion coolly. "no man that he has ever hunted down would have anything pleasant to say about him; nor would the friends of such a man be likely to say a good word of him. there are many on the range, dicksie, that have no respect for life or law or anything else, and they naturally hate a man like whispering smith----" "but, marion, he killed----" "i know. he killed a man named williams a few years ago, while you were at school--one of the worst men that ever infested this country. williams cache is named after that man; he made the most beautiful spot in all these mountains a nest of thieves and murderers. but did you know that williams shot down gordon smith's only brother, a trainmaster, in cold blood in front of the wickiup at medicine bend? no, you never heard that in this part of the country, did you? they had a cow-thief for sheriff then, and no officer in medicine bend would go after the murderer. he rode in and out of town as if he owned it, and no one dared say a word, and, mind you, gordon smith's brother had never seen the man in his life until he walked up and shot him dead. oh, this was a peaceful country a few years ago! gordon smith was right-of-way man in the mountains then. he buried his brother, and asked the officers what they were going to do about getting the murderer. they laughed at him. he made no protest, except to ask for a deputy united states marshal's commission. when he got it he started for williams cache after williams in a buckboard--think of it, dicksie--and didn't they laugh at him! he did not even know the trails, and imagine riding two hundred miles in a buckboard to arrest a man in the mountains! he was gone six weeks, and came back with williams's body strapped to the buckboard behind him. he never told the story; all he said when he handed in his commission and went back to his work was that the man was killed in a fair fight. hate him! no wonder they hate him--the williams cache gang and all their friends on the range! your cousin thinks it policy to placate that element, hoping that they won't steal your cattle if you are friendly with them. i know nothing about that, but i do know something about whispering smith. it will be a bad day for williams cache when they start him up again. but what has that to do with your trouble? he will not eat you up if you go to the camp, dicksie. you are just raising bogies." they had moved to the front porch and marion was sitting in the rocking-chair. dicksie stood with her back against one of the pillars and looked at her. as marion finished dicksie turned and, with her hand on her forehead, looked in wretchedness of mind out on the valley. as far, in many directions, as the eye could reach the waters spread yellow in the flood of sunshine across the lowlands. there was a moment of silence. dicksie turned her back on the alarming sight. "marion, i can't do it!" "oh, yes, you can if you want to, dicksie!" dicksie looked at her with tearless eyes. "it is only a question of being plucky enough," insisted marion. "pluck has nothing to do with it!" exclaimed dicksie in fiery tones. "i should like to know why you are always talking about my not having courage! this isn't a question of courage. how can i go to a man that i talked to as i talked to him in your house and ask for help? how can i go to him after my cousin has threatened to kill him, and gone into court to prevent his coming on our land? shouldn't i look beautiful asking help from him?" marion rocked with perfect composure. "no, dear, you would not look beautiful asking help, but you would look sensible. it is so easy to be beautiful and so hard to be sensible." "you are just as horrid as you can be, marion sinclair!" "i know that, too, dear. all i wanted to say is that you would look very sensible just now in asking help from mr. mccloud." "i don't care--i won't do it. i will never do it, not if every foot of the ranch tumbles into the river. i hope it will! nobody cares anything about me. i have no friends but thieves and outlaws." "dicksie!" marion rose. "that is what you said." "i did not. i am your friend. how dare you call me names?" demanded marion, taking the petulant girl in her arms. "don't you think i care anything about you? there are people in this country that you have never seen who know you and love you almost as much as i do. don't let any silly pride prevent your being sensible, dear." dicksie burst into tears. marion drew her over to the settee, and she had her cry out. when it was over they changed the subject. dicksie went to her room. it was a long time before she came down again, but marion rocked in patience: she was resolved to let dicksie fight it out herself. when dicksie came down, marion stood at the foot of the stairs. the young mistress of crawling stone ranch descended step by step very slowly. "marion," she said simply, "i will go with you." chapter xx at the dike marion caught her closely to her heart. "i knew you would go if i got you angry, dear. but you are so slow to anger. mr. mccloud is just the same way. mr. smith says when he does get angry he can do anything. he is very like you in so many ways." dicksie was wiping her eyes. "is he, marion? well, what shall i wear?" "just your riding-clothes, dear, and a smile. he won't know what you have on. it is you he will want to see. but i've been thinking of something else. what will your cousin lance say? suppose he should object?" "object! i should like to see _him_ object after losing the fight himself." marion laughed. "well, do you think you can find the way down there for us?" "i can find any way anywhere within a hundred miles of here." on the th of june mccloud did have something of an army of men in the crawling stone valley. of these, two hundred and fifty were in the vicinity of the bridge, the abutments and piers of which were being put in just below the dunning ranch. near at hand bill dancing, with a big gang, had been for some time watching the ice and dynamiting the jams. mccloud brought in more men as the river continued to rise. the danger line on the gauges was at length submerged, and for three days the main-line construction camps had been robbed of men to guard the soft grades above and below the bridge. the new track up and down the valley had become a highway of escape from the flood, and the track patrols were met at every curve by cattle, horses, deer, wolves, and coyotes fleeing from the waste of waters that spread over the bottoms. through the dunning ranch the crawling stone river makes a far bend across the valley to the north and east. the extraordinary volume of water now pouring through the box canyon exposed ten thousand acres of the ranch to the caprice of the river, and if at the point of its tremendous sweep to the north it should cut back into its old channel the change would wipe the entire body of ranch alfalfa lands off the face of the valley. with the heat of the lengthening june days a vast steam rose from the chill waters of the river, marking in ominous windings the channel of the main stream through a yellow sea which, ignoring the usual landmarks of trees and dunes, flanked the current broadly on either side. late in the afternoon of the day that dicksie with marion sought mccloud, a storm drifted down the topah topah hills, and heavy showers broke across the valley. at nightfall the rain had passed and the mist lifted from the river. above the bluffs rolling patches of cloud obscured the face of the moon, but the distant thunder had ceased, and at midnight the valley near the bridge lay in a stillness broken only by the hoarse calls of the patrols and far-off megaphones. from the bridge camp, which lay on high ground near the grade, the distant lamps of the track-walkers could be seen moving dimly. before the camp-fire in front of mccloud's tent a group of men, smoking and talking, sat or lay sprawled on tarpaulins, drying themselves after the long day. among them were the weather-beaten remnants of the old guard of the mountain-river workers, men who had ridden in the caboose the night that hailey went to his death, and had fought the spider water with glover. bill dancing, huge, lumbering, awkward as a bear and as shifty, was talking, because with no apparent effort he could talk all night, and was a valuable man at keeping the camp awake. bill dancing talked and, after sinclair's name had been dropped from the roll, ate and drank more than any two men on the division. a little apart, mccloud lay on a leather caboose cushion trying to get a nap. "it was the day george mccloud came," continued dancing, spinning a continuous story. "nobody was drinking--murray sinclair started that yarn. i was getting fixed up a little for to meet george mccloud, so i asked the barber for some tonic, and he understood me for to say dye for my whiskers, and he gets out the dye and begins to dye my whiskers. my cigar went out whilst he was shampooing me, and my whiskers was wet up with the dye. he turned around to put down th' bottle, and i started for to light my cigar with a parlor-match, and, by gum! away went my whiskers on fire--burnt jus' like a tumbleweed. there was the barbers all running around at once trying for to choke me with towels, and running for water, and me sitting there blazing like a tar-barrel. that's all there was to that story. i went over to doc torpy's and got bandaged up, and he wanted me for to go to the hospit'l--but i was going for to meet george mccloud." bill raised his voice a little and threw his tones carelessly over toward the caboose cushion: "and i was the on'y man on the platform when his train pulled in. his car was on the hind end. i walked back and waited for some one to come out. it was about seven o'clock in the evening and they was eating dinner inside, so i set up on the fence for a minute, and who do you think got out of the car? that boy laying right over there. 'where's your dad?' says i; that's exactly what i said. 'dead,' says he. 'dead!' says i, surprised-like. 'dead,' says he, 'for many years.' 'where's the new superintendent?' says i. 'i'm the new superintendent,' says he. well, sir, you could have blowed me over with a air-hose. 'go 'way,' i says. 'what's the matter with your face, bill?' he says, while i was looking at him; now that's straight. that was george mccloud, right over there, the first time i ever set eyes on him or him on me. the assertion was met with silence such as might be termed marked. [illustration: scene from the photo-play production of "whispering smith." © _american mutual studio_.] "bucks told him," continued bill dancing, in corroborative detail, "that when he got to medicine bend one man would be waiting for to meet him. 'he met me,' says bucks; 'he's met every superintendent since my time; he'll meet you. go right up and speak to him,' bucks says; 'it'll be all right.'" "oh, hell, bill!" protested an indignant chorus. "well, what's er matter with you fellows? didn't you ask me to tell the story?" demanded dancing angrily. "if you know it better than i do, tell it! give me some tobacco, chris," said bill, honoring with the request the only man in the circle who had shown no scepticism, because he spoke english with difficulty. "and say, chris, go down and read the bridge gauge, will you? it's close on twelve o'clock, and he's to be called when it reaches twenty-eight feet. i said the boy could never run the division without help from every man on it, and that's what i'm giving him, and i don't care who knows it," said bill dancing, raising his voice not too much. "bucks says that any man that c'n run this division c'n run any railroad on earth. shoo! now who's this coming here on horseback? clouding up again, too, by gum!" the man sent to the bridge had turned back, and behind his lantern dancing heard the tread of horses. he stood at one side of the camp-fire while two visitors rode up; they were women. dancing stood dumb as they advanced into the firelight. the one ahead spoke: "mr. dancing, don't you know me?" as she stopped her horse the light of the fire struck her face. "why, mis' sinclair!" "yes, and miss dunning is with me," returned marion. bill staggered. "this is an awful place to get to; we have been nearly drowned, and we want to see mr. mccloud." mccloud, roused by marion's voice, came forward. "you were asleep," said she as he greeted her. "i am so sorry we have disturbed you!" she looked careworn and a little forlorn, yet but a little considering the struggle she and dicksie had made to reach the camp. light blazed from the camp-fire, where dicksie stood talking with dancing about horses. "they are in desperate straits up at the ranch," marion went on, when mccloud had assured her of her welcome. "i don't see how they can save it. the river is starting to flow into the old channel and there's a big pond right in the alfalfa fields." "it will play the deuce with things if it gets through there," mused mccloud. "i wonder how the river is? i've been asleep. o bill!" he called to dancing, "what water have you got?" "twenty-eight six just now, sir. she's a-raising very, very slow, mr. mccloud." "so i am responsible for this invasion," continued marion calmly. "i've been up with dicksie at the ranch; she sent for me. just think of it--no woman but old puss within ten miles of the poor child! and they have been trying everywhere to get bags, and you have all the bags, and the men have been buzzing around over there for a week like bumblebees and doing just about as much good. she and i talked it all over this afternoon, and i told her i was coming over here to see you, and we started out together--and merciful goodness, such a time as we have had!" "but you started out together; where did you leave her?" "there she stands the other side of the fire. o dicksie!" "why did you not tell me she was here!" exclaimed mccloud. dicksie came into the light as he hastened over. if she was uncertain in manner, he was not. he met her, laughing just enough to relieve the tension of which both for an instant were conscious. she gave him her hand when he put his out, though he felt that it trembled a little. "such a ride as you have had! why did you not send me word? i would have come to you!" he exclaimed, throwing reproach into the words. dicksie raised her eyes. "i wanted to ask you whether you would sell us some grain-sacks, mr. mccloud, to use at the river, if you could spare them?" "sacks? why, of course, all you want! but how did you _ever_ get here? in all this water, and two lone women! you have been in danger to-night. indeed you have--don't tell me! and you are both wet; i know it. your feet must be wet. come to the fire. o bill!" he called to dancing, "what's the matter with your wood? let us have a fire, won't you?--one worth while; and build another in front of my tent. i can't believe you have ridden here all the way from the ranch, two of you alone!" exclaimed mccloud, hastening boxes up to the fire for seats. marion laughed. "dicksie can go anywhere! i couldn't have ridden from the house to the barns alone." "then tell me how _you_ could do it?" demanded mccloud, devouring dicksie with his eyes. dicksie looked at the fire. "i know all the roads pretty well. we did get lost once," she confessed in a low voice, "but we got out again." "the roads are all underwater, though." "what time is it, please?" mccloud looked at his watch. "two minutes past twelve." dicksie started. "past twelve? oh, this is dreadful! we must start right back, marion. i had no idea we had been five hours coming five miles." mccloud looked at her, as if still unable to comprehend what she had accomplished in crossing the flooded bottoms. her eyes fell back to the fire. "what a blaze!" she murmured as the driftwood snapped and roared. "it's fine for to-night, isn't it?" "i know you both must have been in the water," he insisted, leaning forward in front of dicksie to feel marion's skirt. "i'm not wet!" declared marion, drawing back. "nonsense, you are wet as a rat! tell me," he asked, looking at dicksie, "about your trouble up at the bend. i know something about it. are the men there to-night? given up, have they? too bad! do open your jackets and try to dry yourselves, both of you, and i'll take a look at the river." "suppose--i only say suppose--you first take a look at me." the voice came from behind the group at the fire, and the three turned together. "by heaven, gordon smith!" exclaimed mccloud. "where did you come from?" whispering smith stood in the gloom in patience. "where do i look as if i had come from? why don't you ask me whether i'm wet? and won't you introduce me--but this is miss dicksie dunning, i am sure." marion with laughter hastened the introduction. "and you are wet, of course," said mccloud, feeling smith's shoulder. "no, only soaked. i have fallen into the river two or three times, and the last time a big rhinoceros of yours down the grade, a section foreman named klein, was obliging enough to pull me out. oh, no! i was not looking for you," he ran on, answering mccloud's question; "not when he pulled me out. i was just looking for a farm or a ladder or something. klein, for a man named small, is the biggest dutchman i ever saw. 'tell me, klein,' i asked, after he had quit dragging me out--he's a hanoverian--'where did you get your pull? and how about your height? did your grandfather serve as a grenadier under old frederick william and was he kidnapped?' bill, don't feed my horse for a while. and klein tried to light a cigar i had just taken from my pocket and given him--fancy! the germans are a remarkable people--and sat down to tell me his history, when some friend down the line began bawling through a megaphone, and all that poor klein had time to say was that he had had no supper, nor dinner, nor yet breakfast, and would be obliged for some by the boat he forwarded me in." and, in closing, whispering smith looked cheerfully around at marion, at mccloud, and last and longest of all at dicksie dunning. "did you come from across the river?" asked dicksie, adjusting her wet skirt meekly over her knees. "you are soaking wet," observed whispering smith. "across the river?" he echoed. "well, hardly, my dear miss dunning! every bridge is out down the valley except the railroad bridge and there are a few things i don't tackle; one is the crawling stone on a tear. no, this was across a little break in this man mccloud's track. i came, to be frank, from the dunning ranch to look up two women who rode away from there at seven o'clock to-night, and i want to say that they gave me the ride of my life," and whispering smith looked all around the circle and back again and smiled. dicksie spoke in amazement. "how did you know we rode away? you were not at the ranch when we left." "oh, don't ask him!" cried marion. "he knows everything," explained mccloud. whispering smith turned to dicksie. "i was interested in knowing that they got safely to their destination--whatever it might be, which was none of my business. i happened to see a man that had seen them start, that was all. you don't understand? well, if you want it in plain english, i made it my business to see a man who made it _his_ business to see them. it's all very simple, but these people like to make a mystery of it. good women are scarcer than riches, and more to be prized than fine gold--in my judgment--so i rode after them." marion put her hand for a moment on his coat sleeve; he looked at dicksie with another laugh and spoke to her because he dared not look toward marion. "going back to-night, do you say? you never are." dicksie answered quite in earnest: "oh, but we are. we must!" "why did you come, then? it's taken half the night to get here, and will take a night and a half at least to get back." "we came to ask mr. mccloud for some grain-sacks--you know, they have nothing to work with at the ranch," said marion; "and he said we might have some and we are to send for them in the morning." "i see. but we may as well talk plainly." smith looked at dicksie. "you are as brave and as game as a girl can be, i know, or you couldn't have done this. sacks full of sand, with the boys at the ranch to handle them, would do no more good to-morrow at the bend than bladders. the river is flowing into squaw lake above there now. a hundred men that know the game might check things yet if they're there by daylight. nobody else, and nothing else on god's earth, can." there was silence before the fire. mccloud broke it: "i can put the hundred men there at daylight, gordon, if miss dunning and her cousin want them," said mccloud. marion sprang to her feet. "oh, will you do that, mr. mccloud?" mccloud looked at dicksie. "if they are wanted." dicksie tried to look at the fire. "we have hardly deserved help from mr. mccloud at the ranch," she said at last. he put out his hand. "i must object. the first wreck i ever had on this division miss dunning rode twenty miles to offer help. isn't that true? why, i would walk a hundred miles to return the offer to her. perhaps your cousin would object," he suggested, turning to dicksie; "but no, i think we can manage that. now what are we going to do? you two can't go back to-night, that is certain." "we must." "then you will have to go in boats," said whispering smith. "but the hill road?" "there is five feet of water across it in half a dozen places. i swam my horse through, so i ought to know." "it is all back-water, of course, miss dunning," explained mccloud. "not dangerous." "but moist," suggested whispering smith, "especially in the dark." mccloud looked at marion. "then let's be sensible," he said. "you and miss dunning can have my tent as soon as we have supper." "supper!" "supper is served to all on duty at twelve o'clock, and we're on duty, aren't we? they're about ready to serve now; we eat in the tent," he added, holding out his hand as he heard the patter of raindrops. "rain again! no matter, we shall be dry under canvas." dicksie had never seen an engineers' field headquarters. lanterns lighted the interior, and the folding-table in the middle was strewn with papers which mccloud swept off into a camp-chest. two double cots with an aisle between them stood at the head of the tent, and, spread with bright hudson bay blankets, looked fresh and undisturbed. a box-table near the head-pole held an alarm-clock, a telegraph key, and a telephone, and the wires ran up the pole behind it. leather jackets and sweaters lay on boxes under the tent-walls, and heavy boots stood in disorderly array along the foot of the cots. these mccloud, with apologies, kicked into the corners. "is this where you stay?" asked dicksie. "four of us sleep in the cots, when we can, and an indefinite number lie on the ground when it rains." marion looked around her. "what do you do when it thunders?" the two men were pulling boxes out for seats; mccloud did not stop to look up. "i crawl under the bed--the others don't seem to mind it." "which is your bed?" "whichever i can crawl under quickest. i usually sleep there." he pointed to the one on the right. "i thought so. it has the blanket folded back so neatly, just as if there were sheets under it. i'll bet there aren't any." "do you think this is a summer resort? knisely, my assistant, sleeps there, but of course we are never both in bed at the same time; he's down the river to-night. it's a sort of continuous performance, you know." mccloud looked at dicksie. "take off your coat, won't you, please?" whispering smith was trying to drag a chest from the foot of the cot, and marion stood watching. "what are you trying to do?" "get this over to the table for a seat." "silly man! why don't you move the table?" dicksie was taking off her coat. "how inviting it all is!" she smiled. "and this is where you stay?" "when it rains," answered mccloud. "let me have your hat, too." "my hair is a sight, i know. we rode over rocks and up gullies into the brush----" "and through lakes--oh, i know! i can't conceive how you ever got here at all. your hair is all right. this is camp, anyway. but if you want a glass you can have one. knisely is a great swell; he's just from school, and has no end of things. i'll rob his bag." "don't disturb mr. knisely's bag for the world!" "but you are not taking off your hat. you seem to have something on your mind." "help me to get it off my mind, will you, please?" "if you will let me." "tell me how to thank you for your generosity. i came all the way over here to-night to ask you for just the help you have offered, and i could not--it stuck in my throat. but that wasn't what was on my mind. tell me what you thought when i acted so dreadfully at marion's." "i didn't deserve anything better after placing myself in such a fool position. why don't you ask me what i thought the day you acted so beautifully at crawling stone ranch? i thought that the finest thing i ever saw." "you were not to blame at marion's." "i seemed to be, which is just as bad. i am going to start the 'phones going. it's up to me to make good, you know, in about four hours with a lot of men and material. aren't you going to take off your hat?--and your gloves are soaking wet." mccloud took down the receiver, and dicksie put her hands slowly to her head to unpin her hat. it was a broad hat of scarlet felt rolled high above her forehead, and an eagle's quill caught in the black rosette swept across the front. as she stood in her clinging riding-skirt and her severely plain scarlet waist with only a black ascot falling over it, whispering smith looked at her. his eyes did not rest on the picture too long, but his glance was searching. he spoke in an aside to marion. marion laughed as she turned her head from where dicksie was talking again with mccloud. "the best of it is," murmured marion, "she hasn't a suspicion of how lovely she really is." chapter xxi supper in camp "will you never be done with your telephoning?" asked marion. mccloud was still planning the assembling of the men and teams for the morning. breakfast and transportation were to be arranged for, and the men and teams and material were to be selected from where they could best be spared. dicksie, with the fingers of one hand moving softly over the telegraph key, sat on a box listening to mccloud's conferences and orders. "cherry says everything is served. isn't it, cherry?" marion called to the japanese boy. cherry laughed with a guttural joy. "we are ready for it," announced mccloud, rising. "how are we to sit?" "you are to sit at the head of your own table," said marion. "i serve the coffee, so i sit at the foot; and mr. smith may pass the beans over there, and dicksie, you are to pour the condensed milk into the cups." "or into the river, just as you like," suggested whispering smith. mccloud looked at marion sinclair. "really," he exclaimed, "wherever you are it's fair weather! when i see you, no matter how tangled up things are, i feel right away they are coming out. and this man is another." "another what?" demanded whispering smith. "another care-killer." mccloud, speaking to dicksie, nodded toward his companion. "troubles slip from your shoulders when he swaggers in, though he's not of the slightest use in the world. i have only one thing against him. it is a physical peculiarity, but an indefensible one. you may not have noticed it, but he is bowlegged." "from riding your scrub railroad horses. i feel like a sailor ashore when i get off one. are you going to eat all the bacon, mr. mccloud, or do we draw a portion of it? i didn't start out with supper to-night." "take it all. i suppose it would be useless to ask where you have been to-day?" "not in the least, but it would be useless to tell. i am violating no confidence, though, in saying i'm hungry. i certainly shouldn't eat this stuff if i weren't, should you, miss dunning? and i don't believe you are eating, by the way. where is your appetite? your ride ought to have sharpened it. i'm afraid you are downcast. oh, don't deny it; it is very plain: but your worry is unnecessary." "if the rain would only stop," said marion, "everybody would cheer up. they haven't seen the sun at the ranch for ten days." "this rain doesn't count so far as the high water is concerned," said mccloud. "it is the weather two hundred and fifty miles above here that is of more consequence to us, and there it is clear to-night. as long as the tent doesn't leak i rather like it. sing your song about fair weather, gordon." "but can the men work in such a downpour?" ventured dicksie. the two men looked serious and marion laughed. "in the morning you will see a hundred of them marching forward with umbrellas, mr. mccloud leading. the japs carry fans, of course." "i wish i could forget we are in trouble at home," said dicksie, taking the badinage gracefully. "worrying people are such a nuisance. don't protest, for every one knows they are." "but we are all in trouble," insisted whispering smith. "trouble! why, bless you, it really is a blessing; pretty successfully disguised, i admit, sometimes, but still a blessing. i'm in trouble all the time, right now, up to my neck in trouble, and the water rising this minute. look at this man," he nodded toward mccloud. "he is in trouble, and the five hundred under him, they are in all kinds of trouble. i shouldn't know how to sleep without trouble," continued whispering smith, warming to the contention. "without trouble i lose my appetite. mccloud, don't be tight; pass the bread." "never heard him do so well," declared mccloud, looking at marion. "seriously, now," whispering smith went on, "don't you know people who, if they were thoroughly prosperous, would be intolerable--simply intolerable? i know several such. all thoroughly prosperous people are a nuisance. that is a general proposition, and i stand by it. go over your list of acquaintances and you will admit it is true. here's to trouble! may it always chasten and never overwhelm us: our greatest bugbear and our best friend! it sifts our friends and unmasks our enemies. like a lovely woman, it woos us----" "oh, never!" exclaimed marion. "a lovely woman doesn't woo, she is wooed!" "what are you looking for, perfection in rhetorical figure? this is extemporaneous." "but it won't do!" "and asks to be conquered," suggested whispering smith. "asks! oh, scandalous, mr. smith!" "it is easy to see why _he_ never could get any one to marry him," declared mccloud over the bacon. "hold on, then! like lovely woman, it does not seek us, we seek it," persisted the orator, "_that_ at least is so, isn't it?" "it is better," assented marion. "and it waits to be conquered. how is that?" marion turned to dicksie. "you are not helping a bit. what do you think?" "i don't think woman and trouble ought to be associated even in figure; and i think 'waits' is horrid," and dicksie looked gravely at whispering smith. mccloud, too, looked at him. "you're in trouble now yourself." "and i brought it on myself. so we do seek it, don't we? and trouble, i must hold, _is_ like woman. 'waits' i strike out as unpleasantly suggestive; let it go. so, then, trouble is like a lovely woman, loveliest _when_ conquered. now, miss dunning, if you have a spark of human kindness you won't turn me down on that proposition. by the way, i have something put down about trouble." he was laughing. dicksie asked herself if this could be the man about whom floated so many accusations of coldness and cruelty and death. he drew a note-book from a waistcoat pocket. "oh, it's in the note-book! there comes the black note-book," exclaimed mccloud. "don't make fun of my note-book!" "i shouldn't dare." mccloud pointed to it as he spoke to dicksie. "you should see what is in that note-book: the record, i suppose, of every man in the mountains and of a great many outside." "and countless other things," added marion. "such as what?" asked dicksie. "such as you, for example," said marion. "am i a thing?" "a sweet thing, of course," said marion ironically. "yes, you; with color of eyes, hair, length of index finger of the right hand, curvature of thumb, disposition--whether peaceable or otherwise, and prison record, if any." "and number of your watch," added mccloud. "how dreadful!" whispering smith eyed dicksie benignly. "they are talking this nonsense to distract us, of course, but i am bound to read you what i have here, if you will graciously submit." "submit? i _wait_ to hear it," laughed dicksie. "my training in prosody is the slightest, as will appear," he continued, "and _synecdoche_ and _schenectady_ were always on the verge of getting mixed when i went to school. my sentiment may be termed obvious, but i want to offer a slight apology on behalf of trouble; it is abused too much. i submit this "song to trouble "here's to the measure of every man's worth, though when men are wanting it grieves us. hearts that are hollow we're better without, hearts that are loyal it leaves us. "trouble's the dowry of every man's birth, a nettle adversity flings us; it yields to the grip of the masterful hand, when we play coward it stings us. "chorus." "don't say chorus; that's common." "i have to say chorus. my verses don't speak for themselves, and no one would know it was a chorus if i didn't explain. besides, i'm short a line in the chorus, and that is what i'm waiting for to finish the song. "chorus: "then here's to the bumper that proves every friend! and though in the drinking it wrings us, here's to the cup that we drain to the end, and here's to-- there i stick. i can't work out the last line." "and here's to the hearts that it brings us!" exclaimed dicksie. "fine!" cried mccloud. "'here's to the hearts that it brings us!'" dicksie threw back her head and laughed with the others. then whispering smith looked grave. "there is a difficulty," said he, knitting his brows. "you have spoiled my song." "oh, mr. smith, i hope not! have i?" "your line is so much better than what i have that it makes my stuff sound cheap." "oh, no, gordon!" interposed mccloud. "you don't see that one reason why miss dunning's line sounds better than yours is owing to the differences in your voices. if she will repeat the chorus, finishing with her line, you will see the difference." "miss dunning, take the note-book," begged whispering smith. "and rise, of course," suggested mccloud. "oh, the note-book! i shall be afraid to hold it. where are the verses, mr. smith? is this fine handwriting yours? then here's to the bumper that proves every friend! isn't that true? and though when we drink it it wrings us, --and it does sometimes! here's to the cup that we drain to the end, even women have to be plucky, don't they, marion? and here's to the hearts that it brings us!" whispering smith rose before the applause subsided. "i ask you to drink this, standing, in condensed milk." "have we enough to stand in?" interposed dicksie. "if we stand together in trouble, that ought to be enough," observed mccloud. "we're doing that without rising, aren't we?" asked marion. "if we hadn't been in trouble we shouldn't have ventured to this camp to-night." "and if you had not put me to the trouble of following you--and it was a lot of trouble!--_i_ shouldn't have been in camp to-night," said whispering smith. "and if _i_ had not been in trouble this camp wouldn't have been here to-night," declared mccloud. "what have we to thank for it all but trouble?" a voice called the superintendent's name through the tent door. "mr. mccloud?" "and there is more trouble," added mccloud. "what is it, bill?" "twenty-eight and nine tenths on the gauge, sir." mccloud looked at his companions. "i told you so. up three-tenths. thank you, bill; i'll be with you in a minute. tell cherry to come and take away the supper things, will you? that is about all the water we shall get to-night, i think. it's all we want," added mccloud, glancing at his watch. "i'm going to take a look at the river. we shall be quiet now around here until half-past three, and if you, marion, and miss dunning will take the tent, you can have two hours' rest before we start. bill dancing will guard you against intrusion, and if you want ice-water ring twice." chapter xxii a talk with whispering smith when whispering smith had followed mccloud from the tent, dicksie turned to marion and caught her hand. "is this the terrible man i have heard about?" she murmured. "and i thought him ferocious! but is he as pitiless as they say, marion?" marion laughed--a troubled little laugh of surprise and sadness. "dear, he isn't pitiless at all. he has unpleasant things to do, and does them. he is the man on whom the railroad relies to repress the lawlessness that breaks out in the mountains at times and interferes with the operating of the road. it frightens people away, and prevents others from coming in to settle. railroads want law and order. robbery and murders don't make business for railroads. they depend on settlers for developing a country, don't you know; otherwise they would have no traffic, not to speak of wanting their trains and men let alone. when mr. bucks undertook to open up this country to settlers, he needed a man of patience and endurance and with courage and skill in dealing with lawless men, and no man has ever succeeded so well as this terrible man you have heard about. he is terrible, my dear, to lawless men, not to any one else. he is terrible in resource and in daring, but not in anything else i know of, and i knew him when he was a boy and wore a big pink worsted scarf when he went skating." "i should like to have seen that scarf," said dicksie reflectively. she rose and looked around the tent. in a few minutes she made marion lie down on one of the cots. then she walked to the front of the tent, opened the flap, and looked out. whispering smith was sitting before the fire. rain was falling, but dicksie put on her close-fitting black coat, raised the door-flap, and walked noiselessly from the tent and up behind him. "alone in the rain?" she asked. she had expected to see him start at her voice, but he did not, though he rose and turned around. "not now," he answered as he offered her his box with a smile. "are you taking your hat off for me in the rain? put it on again!" she insisted with a little tone of command, and she was conscious of gratification when he obeyed amiably. "i won't take your box unless you can find another!" she said. "oh, you have another! i came out to tell you what a dreadful man i thought you were, and to apologize." "never mind apologizing. lots of people think worse than that of me and don't apologize. i'm sorry i have no shelter to offer you, except to sit on this side and take the rain." "why should you take the rain for me?" "you are a woman." "but a stranger to you." "only in a way." dicksie gazed for a moment at the fire. "you won't think me abrupt, will you?" she said, turning to him, "but, as truly as i live, i cannot account for you, mr. smith. i guess at the ranch we don't know what goes on in the world. everything i see of you contradicts everything i have heard of you." "you haven't seen much of me yet, you know, and you may have heard much better accounts of me than i deserve. still, it isn't surprising you can't account for me; in fact, it would be surprising if you could. nobody pretends to do that. you must not be shocked if i can't even account for myself. do you know what a derelict is? a ship that has been abandoned but never wholly sinks." "please don't make fun of me! how did you happen to come into the mountains? i do want to understand things better." "why, you are in real earnest, aren't you? but i am not making fun of you. do you know president bucks? no? too bad! he's a very handsome old bachelor. and he is one of those men who get all sorts of men to do all sorts of things for them. you know, building and operating railroads in this part of the country is no joke. the mountains are filled with men that don't care for god, man, or the devil. sometimes they furnish their own ammunition to fight with and don't bother the railroad for years; at such times the railroad leaves them alone. for my part, i never quarrel with a man that doesn't quarrel with the road. then comes a time when they get after us, shooting our men or robbing our agents or stopping our trains. of course we have to get busy then. a few years ago they worried bucks till they nearly turned his hair gray. at that unfortunate time i happened into his office with a letter of introduction from his closest chicago friend, willis howard, prince of good men, the man that made the palmer house famous--yes. now i had come out here, miss dunning--i almost said miss dicksie, because i hear it so much----" "i should be greatly set up to hear you call me dicksie. and i have wondered a thousand times about your name. dare i ask--_why_ do they call you whispering smith? you don't whisper." he laughed with abundance of good-humor. "that is a ridiculous accident, and it all came about when i lived in chicago. do you know anything about the infernal climate there? well, in chicago i used to lose my voice whenever i caught a cold--sometimes for weeks together. so they began calling me whispering smith, and i've never been able to shake the name. odd, isn't it? but i came out to go into the real-estate business. i was looking for some gold-bearing farm lands where i could raise quartz, don't you know, and such things--yes. i don't mind telling you this, though i wouldn't tell it to everybody----" "certainly not," assented dicksie, drawing her skirt around to sit in closer confidence. "i wanted to get rich quick," murmured whispering smith, confidentially. "almost criminal, wasn't it?" "i wanted to have evening clothes." "yes." "and for once in my life two pairs of suspenders--a modest ambition, but a gnawing one. would you believe it? before i left bucks's office he had hired me for a railroad man. when he asked me what i could do, and i admitted a little experience in handling real estate, he brought his fist down on the table and swore i should be his right-of-way man." "how about the mining?" whispering smith waved his hand in something of the proud manner in which bucks could wave his presidential hand. "my business, bucks said, need not interfere with that, not in the least; he said that i could do all the mining i wanted to, and i _have_ done all the mining i wanted to. but here is the singular thing that happened: i opened up my office and had nothing to do; they didn't seem to want any right of way just then. i kept getting my check every month, and wasn't doing a hand's turn but riding over the country and shooting jack-rabbits. but, lord, i love this country! did you know i used to be a cowboy in the mountains years ago? indeed i did. i know it almost as well as you do. i mined more or less in the meantime. occasionally i would go to bucks--you say you don't know him?--too bad!--and tell him candidly i wasn't doing a thing to earn my salary. at such times he would only ask me how i liked the job," and whispering smith's heavy eyebrows rose in mild surprise at the recollection. "one day when i was talking with him he handed me a telegram from the desert saying that a night operator at a lonely station had been shot and a switch misplaced and a train nearly wrecked. he asked me what i thought of it. i discovered that the poor fellow had shot himself, and in the end we had to put him in the insane asylum to save him from the penitentiary--but that was where my trouble began. "it ended in my having to organize the special service on the whole road to look after a thousand and one things that nobody else had--well, let us say time or inclination to look after: fraud and theft and violence and all that sort of disagreeable thing. then one day the cat crawled out of the bag. what do you think? that man who is now president of this road had somewhere seen a highly colored story about me in a magazine, a ten-cent magazine, you know. he had spotted me the first time i walked into his office, and told me a long time afterward it was just like seeing a man walk out of a book, and that he had hard work to keep from falling on my neck. he knew what he wanted me for; it was just this thing. i left chicago to get away from it, and this is the result. it is not all that kind of thing, oh, no! when they want to cross a reservation i have a winter in washington with our attorneys and dine with old friends in the white house, and the next winter i may be on snowshoes chasing a band of rustlers. i swore long ago i would do no more of it--that i couldn't and wouldn't. but it is bucks. i can't go back on him. he is amiable and i am soft. he says he is going to have a crown and harp for me some day, but i fancy--that is, i have an intimation--that there will be a red-hot protest at the bar of heaven," he lowered his tone, "from a certain unmentionable quarter when i undertake to put the vestments on. by the way, i hear you are interested in chickens. oh, yes, i've heard a lot about you! bob johnson, over at oroville, has some pretty bantams i want to tell you about." whether he talked railroad or chickens, it was all one: dicksie sat spellbound; and when he announced it was half-past three o'clock and time to rouse marion, she was amazed. [illustration: scene from the photo-play production of "whispering smith." © _american mutual studio_.] dawn showed in the east. the men eating breakfast in tents were to be sent on a work-train up a piece of y-track that led as near as they could be taken to where they were needed. the train had pulled out when dicksie, marion, mccloud, and whispering smith took horses to get across to the hills and through to the ranch-house. they had ridden slowly for some distance when mccloud was called back. the party returned and rode together into the mists that hung below the bridge. they came out upon a little party of men standing with lanterns on a piece of track where the river had taken the entire grade and raced furiously through the gap. fog shrouded the light of the lanterns and lent gloom to the silence, but the women could see the group that mccloud had joined. standing above his companions on a pile of ties, a tall young man holding a megaphone waited. out of the darkness there came presently a loud calling. the tall young man at intervals bawled vigorously into the fog in answer. far away could be heard, in the intervals of silence, the faint clang of the work-train engine-bell. again the voice came out of the fog. mccloud took the megaphone and called repeatedly. two men rowed a boat out of the back-water behind the grade, and when mccloud stepped into it, it was released on a line while the oarsmen guided it across the flood until it disappeared. the two megaphone voices could still be heard. after a time the boat was pulled back again, and mccloud stepped out of it. he spoke a moment with the men, rejoined his party, and climbed into the saddle. "now we are off," said he. "what was it all about?" asked whispering smith. "your friend klein is over there. nobody could understand what he said except that he wanted me. when i got here i couldn't make out what he was talking about, so they let us out in the boat on a line. half-way across the break i made out what was troubling him. he said he was going to lose three hundred feet of track, and wanted to know what to do." "and you told him, of course?" "yes." "what did you tell him?" "i told him to lose it." "i could have done that myself." "why didn't you?" chapter xxiii at the river they found the ranch-house as marion and dicksie had left it, deserted. puss told them every one was at the river. mccloud did not approve dicksie's plan of going down to see her cousin first. "why not let me ride down and manage it without bringing you into it at all?" he suggested. "it can be done." and after further discussion it was so arranged. mccloud and smith had been joined by dancing on horseback, and they made their way around squaw lake and across the fields. the fog was rolling up from the willows at the bend. men were chopping in the brush, and mccloud and his companion soon met lance dunning riding up the narrow strip of sand that held the river off the ranch. mccloud greeted dunning, regardless of his amazement, as if he had parted from him the day before. "how are you making it over here?" he asked. "we are in pretty good shape at the moment down below, and i thought i would ride over to see if we could do anything for you. this is what you call pretty fair water for this part of the valley, isn't it?" lance swallowed his astonishment. "this isn't water, mccloud; this is hell." he took off his hat and wiped his forehead. "well, i call this white, anyway, and no mistake--i do indeed, sir! this is whispering smith, isn't it? glad to see you at crawling stone, sir." which served not only to surprise but to please whispering smith. "some of my men were free," continued mccloud; "i switched some mattresses and sacks around the y, thinking they might come in play here for you at the bend. they are at your service if you think you need them." "need them!" lance swore fiercely and from the bottom of his heart. he was glad to get help from any quarter and made no bones about it. moreover, mccloud lessened the embarrassment by explaining that he had a personal interest in holding the channel where it ran, lest a change above might threaten the approaches already built to the bridge; and whispering smith, who would have been on terms with the catfish if he had been flung into the middle of the crawling stone, contributed at once, like a reënforced spring, to the ease of the situation. lance again took off his hat and wiped the sweat of anxiety from his dripping forehead. "whatever differences of opinion i may have with your damned company, i have no lack of esteem personally, mccloud, for you, sir, by heaven! how many men did you bring?" "and whatever wheels you crawling stone ranchers may have in your heads on the subject of irrigation," returned mccloud evenly, "i have no lack of esteem personally, mr. dunning, for you. i brought a hundred." "do you want to take charge here? i'm frank, sir; you understand this game and i don't." "suppose we look the situation over; meantime, all our supplies have to be brought across from the y. what should you think, mr. dunning, of putting all the teams you can at that end of the work?" "every man that can be spared from the river shall go at it. come over here and look at our work and judge for yourself." they rode to where the forces assembled by lance were throwing up embankments and riprapping. there was hurried running to and fro, a violent dragging about of willows, and a good deal of shouting. dunning, with some excitement, watched mccloud's face to note the effect of the activity on him, but mccloud's expression, naturally reserved, reflected nothing of his views on the subject. dunning waved his hand at the lively scene. "they've been at it all night. how many would you take away, sir?" "you might take them all away, as far as the river is concerned," said mccloud after a moment. "what? hell! all?" "they are not doing anything, are they, but running around in a circle? and those fellows over there might as well be making mud pies as riprapping at that point. what we need there is a mattress and sandbags--and plenty of them. bill," directed mccloud in an even tone of business as he turned to dancing, "see how quick you can get your gangs over here with what sacks they can carry and walk fast. if you will put your men on horses, mr. dunning, they can help like everything. that bank won't last a great while the way the river is getting under it now." dancing wheeled like an elephant on his bronco and clattered away through the mud. lance dunning, recovering from his surprise, started his men back for the wagons, and mccloud, dismounting, walked with him to the water's edge to plan the fight for what was left of the strip in front of the alfalfa fields. when whispering smith got back to the house he was in good-humor. he joined dicksie and marion in the dining-room, where they were drinking coffee. afterward dicksie ordered horses saddled and the three rode to the river. up and down the bank as far as they could see in the misty rain, men were moving slowly about--more men, it seemed to dicksie, than she had ever seen together in her life. the confusion and the noise had disappeared. no one appeared to hurry, but every one had something to do, and, from the gangs who with sledges were sinking "dead-men" among the trees to hold the cables of the mattress that was about to be sunk, and the japs who were diligently preparing to float and load it, to the men that were filling and wheeling the sandbags, no one appeared excited. mccloud joined the visitors for a few moments and then went back to where dancing and his men on life-lines were guiding the mattress to its resting-place. in spite of the gloom of the rain, which whispering smith said was breaking, dicksie rode back to the house in much better spirits with her two guests; and when they came from luncheon the sun, as smith had predicted, was shining. "oh, come out!" cried dicksie, at the door. marion had a letter to write and went upstairs, but whispering smith followed dicksie. "does everything you say come true?" she demanded as she stood in the sunshine. she was demure with light-heartedness and he looked at her approvingly. "i hope nothing i may say ever will come true unless it makes you happy," he answered lightly. "it would be a shame if it did anything else." she pointed two accusing fingers at him. "do you know what you promised last night? you have forgotten already! you said you would tell me why my leghorns are eating their feathers off." "let me talk with them." "just what i should like. come on!" said dicksie, leading the way to the chicken-yard. "i want you to see my bantams too. i have three of the dearest little things. one is setting. they are over the way. come see them first. and, oh, you must see my new game chickens. truly, you never saw anything as handsome as cæsar--he's the rooster; and i have six pullets. cæsar is perfectly superb." when the two reached the chicken-houses dicksie examined the nest where she was setting the bantam hen. "this miserable hen will not set," she exclaimed in despair. "see here, mr. smith, she has left her nest again and is scratching around on the ground. isn't it a shame? i've tied a cord around her leg so she couldn't run away, and she is hobbling around like a scrub pony." "perhaps the eggs are too warm," suggested her companion. "i have had great success in cases like this with powdered ice--not using too much, of course; just shave the ice gently and rub it over the eggs one at a time; it will often result in refreshing the attention of the hen." dicksie looked grave. "aren't you ashamed to make fun of me?" whispering smith seemed taken aback. "is it really serious business?" "of course." "very good. let me watch this hen for a few minutes and diagnose her. you go on to your other chickens. i'll stay here and think." dicksie went down through the yards. when she came back, whispering smith was sitting on a cracker-box watching the bantam. the chicken was making desperate efforts to get off dicksie's cord and join its companions in the runway. smith was eying the bantam critically when dicksie rejoined him. "do you usually," he asked, looking suddenly up, "have success in setting roosters?" "now you are having fun with me again." "no, by heaven! i am not." "have you diagnosed the case?" "i have, and i have diagnosed it as a case of mistaken identity." "identity?" "and misapplied energy. miss dicksie, you have tied up the wrong bird. this is not a bantam hen at all; this is a bantam rooster. now that is _my_ judgment. compare him with the others. notice how much darker his plumage is--it's the rooster," declared whispering smith, wiping the perplexity from his brow. "don't feel bad, not at all. cut him loose, miss dicksie--don't hesitate; do it on my responsibility. now let's look at the cannibal leghorns--and great cæsar." chapter xxiv between girlhood and womanhood about nine o'clock that night puss ushered mccloud in from the river. dicksie came running downstairs to meet him. "your cousin insisted i should come up to the house for some supper," said mccloud dryly. "i could have taken camp fare with the men. gordon stayed there with him." dicksie held his hat in her hand, and her eyes were bright in the firelight. puss must have thought the two made a handsome couple, for she lingered, as she started for the kitchen, to look back. "puss," exclaimed her mistress, "fry a chicken right away! a big one, puss! mr. mccloud is very hungry, i know. and be quick, do! oh, how is the river, mr. mccloud?" "behaving like a lamb. it hasn't fallen much, but the pressure seems to be off the bank, if you know what that means?" "you must be a magician! things changed the minute you came!" "the last doctor usually gets credit for the cure, you know." "oh, i know all about that. don't you want to freshen up? should you mind coming right to my room? marion is in hers," explained dicksie, "and i am never sure of cousin lance's,--he has so many boots." when she had disposed of mccloud she flew to the kitchen. puss was starting after a chicken. "take a lantern, puss!" whispered dicksie vehemently. "no, indeed; dis nigger don' need no lantern fo' chickens, miss dicksie." "but get a good one, puss, and make haste, do! mr. mccloud must be starved! where is the baking powder? i'll get the biscuits started." puss turned fiercely. "now look-a heah, yo' can't make biscuits! yo' jes' go se' down wif dat young gen'm'n! jes' lemme lone, ef yo' please! dis ain't de firs' time i killed chickens, miss dicksie, an' made biscuits. jes' clair out an' se' down! place f'r young ladies is in de parlor! ol' puss can cook supper f'r one man yet--ef she _has_ to!" "oh, yes, puss, certainly, i know, of course; only, get a nice chicken!" and with the parting admonition dicksie, smoothing her hair wildly, hastened back to the living-room. but the harm was done. puss, more excited than her mistress, lost her head when she got to the chicken-yard, and with sufficiently bad results. when dicksie ran out a few moments afterward for a glass of water for mccloud, puss was calmly wiping her hands, and in the sink lay the quivering form of young cæsar. dicksie caught her favorite up by the legs and suppressed a cry. there could be no mistake. she cast a burning look on puss. it would do no good to storm now. dicksie only wrung her hands and returned to mccloud. he rose in the happiest mood. he could not see what a torment dicksie was in, and took the water without asking himself why it trembled in her hand. her restrained manner did not worry him, for he felt that his fight at the river was won, and the prospect of fried chicken composed him. even the long hour before puss, calm and inviting in a white cap and apron, appeared to announce supper, passed like a dream. when dicksie rose to lead the way to the dining-room, mccloud walked on air; the high color about her eyes intoxicated him. not till half the fried chicken, with many compliments from mccloud, had disappeared, and the plate had gone out for the second dozen biscuits, did he notice dicksie's abstraction. "i'm sure you need worry no longer about the water," he observed reassuringly. "i think the worst of the danger is past." dicksie looked at the table-cloth with wide-open eyes. "i feel sure that it is. i am no longer worrying about that." "it's nothing i can do or leave undone, is it?" asked mccloud, laughing a little as he implied in his tone that she must be worrying about something. dicksie made a gesture of alarm. "oh, no, no; nothing!" "it's a pretty good plan not to worry about anything." "do you think so?" "why, we all thought so last night. heavens!" mccloud drew back in his chair. "i never offered you a piece of chicken! what have i been thinking of?" "oh, i wouldn't eat it anyway!" cried dicksie. "you wouldn't? it is delicious. do have a plate and a wing at least." "really, i could not bear to think of it," she said pathetically. he spoke lower. "something is troubling you. i have no right to a confidence, i know," he added, taking a biscuit. her eyes fell to the floor. "it is nothing. pray, don't mind me. may i fill your cup?" she asked, looking up. "i am afraid i worry too much over what has happened and can't be helped. do you never do that?" mccloud, laughing wretchedly, tore cæsar's last leg from his body. "no indeed. i never worry over what can't be helped." they left the dining-room. marion came down. but they had hardly seated themselves before the living-room fire when a messenger arrived with word that mccloud was wanted at the river. his chagrin at being dragged away was so apparent that marion and dicksie sympathized with him and laughed at him. "'i never worry about what can't be helped,'" dicksie murmured. he looked at marion. "that's a shot at me. you don't want to go down, do you?" he asked ironically, looking from one to the other. "why, of course i'll go down," responded dicksie promptly. "marion caught cold last night, i guess, so you will excuse her, i know. i will be back in an hour, marion, and you can toast your cold while i'm gone." "but you mustn't go alone!" protested mccloud. dicksie lifted her chin the least bit. "i shall be going with you, shall i not? and if the messenger has gone back i shall have to guide you. you never could find your way alone." "but i can go," interposed marion, rising. "not at all; you can _not_ go!" announced dicksie. "i can protect both mr. mccloud and myself. if he should arrive down there under the wing of two women he would never hear the last of it. i am mistress here still, i think; and i sha'n't be leaving home, you know, to make the trip!" mccloud looked at marion. "i never worry over what can't be helped--though it is dollars to cents that those fellows don't need me down there any more than a cat needs two tails. and how will you get back?" he asked, turning to dicksie. "i will ride back!" returned dicksie loftily. "but you may, if you like, help me get my horse up." "are you sure you can find your way back?" persisted mccloud. dicksie looked at him in surprise. "find my way back?" she echoed softly. "i could not lose it. i can ride over any part of this country at noon or at midnight, asleep or awake, with a saddle or without, with a bridle or without, with a trail or without. i've ridden every horse that has ever come on the crawling stone ranch. i could ride when i was three years old. find my way back?" the messenger had gone when the two rode from the house. the sky was heavily overcast, and the wind blew such a gale from the south and west that one could hardly hear what the other said. mccloud could not have ridden from the house to the barn in the utter darkness, but his horse followed dicksie's. she halted frequently on the trail for him to come up with her, and after they had crossed the alfalfa fields mccloud did not care whether they ever found the path again or not. "it's great, isn't it?" he exclaimed, coming up to her after opening a gate in the dark. "where are you?" "this way," laughed dicksie. "look out for the trail here. give me your hand and let your horse have his head. if he slips, drop off quick on this side." mccloud caught her hand. they rode for a moment in silence, the horses stepping cautiously. "all right now," said dicksie; "you may let go." but mccloud kept his horse up close and clung to the warm hand. "the camp is just around the hill," murmured dicksie, trying to pull away. "but of course if you would like to ride in holding my hand you may!" "no," said mccloud, "of course not--not for worlds! but, miss dicksie, couldn't we ride back to the house and ride around the other way into camp? i think the other way into the camp--say, around by the railroad bridge--would be prettier, don't you?" for answer she touched jim lightly with her lines and his spring released her hand very effectively. as she did so the trail turned, and the camp-fire, whipped in the high wind, blazed before them. whispering smith and lance dunning were sitting together as the two galloped up. smith helped dicksie to alight. she was conscious of her color and that her eyes were now unduly bright. moreover, whispering smith's glance rested so calmly on both mccloud's face and her own that dicksie felt as if he saw quite through her and knew everything that had happened since they left the house. lance was talking to mccloud. "don't abuse the wind," mccloud was saying. "it's our best friend to-night, mr. dunning. it is blowing the water off-shore. where is the trouble?" for answer dunning led mccloud off toward the bend, and dicksie was left alone with whispering smith. he made a seat for her on the windward side of the big fire. when she had seated herself she looked up in great contentment to ask if he was not going to sit down beside her. the brown coat, the high black hat, and the big eyes of whispering smith had already become a part of her mental store. she saw that he seemed preoccupied, and sought to draw him out of his abstraction. "i am so glad you and mr. mccloud are getting acquainted with cousin lance," she said. "and do you mind my giving you a confidence, mr. smith? lance has been so unreasonable about this matter of the railroad's coming up the valley and powwowing so much with lawyers and ranchers that he has been forgetting about everything at home. he is so much older than i am that he ought to be the sensible one of the family, don't you think so? it frightens me to have him losing at cards and drinking. i am afraid he will get into some shooting affair. i don't understand what has come over him, and i worry about it. i believe you could influence him if you knew him." "what makes you think that?" asked whispering smith, but his eyes were on the fire. "because these men he spends his time with in town--the men who fight and shoot so much--are afraid of you. don't laugh at me. i know it is quite true in spite of their talk. i was afraid of you myself until----" "until we made verse together." "until you made verse and i spoiled it. but i think it is because i don't understand things that i am so afraid. i am not naturally a coward. i'm sure i could not be afraid of you if i understood things better. and there is marion. she puzzles me. she will never speak of her husband--i don't know why. and i don't know why mr. mccloud is so hard on mr. sinclair--mr. sinclair seems so kind and good-natured." whispering smith looked from the fire into dicksie's eyes. "what should you say if i gave you a confidence?" she opened her heart to his searching gaze. "would you trust me with a confidence?" he answered without hesitation. "you shall see. now, i have many things i can't talk about, you understand. but if i had to give you a secret this instant that carried my life, i shouldn't fear to do it--so much for trusting you. only this, too, as to what i say: don't ever quote me or let it appear that you any more than know me. can you manage that? really? very good; you will understand why in a minute. the man that is stirring up all this trouble with your cousin lance and in this whole country is your kind and good-natured neighbor, mr. sinclair. i am prejudiced against him; let us admit that on the start, and remember it in estimating what i say. but sinclair is the man who has turned your cousin's head, as well as made things in other ways unpleasant for several of us. sinclair--i tell you so you will understand everything, more than your cousin, mr. mccloud, or marion sinclair understand--sinclair is a train-wrecker and a murderer. that makes you breathe hard, doesn't it? but it is so. sinclair is fairly educated and highly intelligent, capable in every way, daring to the limit, and, in a way, fascinating; it is no wonder he has a following. but his following is divided into two classes: the men that know all the secrets, and the men that don't--men like rebstock and du sang, and men like your cousin and a hundred or so sports in medicine bend, who see only the glamour of sinclair's pace. your cousin sympathizes with sinclair when he doesn't actually side with him. all this has helped to turn sinclair's head, and this is exactly the situation you and mccloud and i and a lot of others are up against. they don't know all this, but i know it, and now you know it. let me tell you something that comes close to home. you have a cowboy on the ranch named karg--he is called flat nose. karg was a railroad man. he is a cattle-thief, a train-robber, a murderer, and a spy. i should not tell you this if you were not game to the last drop of your blood. but i think i know you better than you know yourself, though you never saw me until last night. karg is sinclair's spy at your ranch, and you must never feel it or know it; but he is there to keep your cousin's sympathy with sinclair, and to lure your cousin his way. and karg will try to kill george mccloud every time he sets foot on this ranch, remember that." "then mr. mccloud ought not to be here. i don't want him to stay if he is in danger!" exclaimed dicksie. "but i do want him to come here as if it mattered nothing, and i shall try to take care of him. i have a man among your own men, a cowboy named wickwire, who will be watching karg, and who is just as quick, and karg, not knowing he was watched, would be taken unawares. if wickwire goes elsewhere to work some one else will take his place here. karg is not on the ranch now; he is up north, hunting up some of your steers that were run off last month by his own cronies. now do you think i am giving you confidence?" she looked at him steadily. "if i can only deserve it all." in the distance she heard the calling of the men at the river borne on the wind. the shock of what had been told her, the strangeness of the night and of the scene, left her calm. fear had given way to responsibility and dicksie seemed to know herself. "you have nothing whatever to do to deserve it but keep your own counsel. but listen a moment longer--for this is what i have been leading up to," he said. "marion will get a message to-morrow, a message from sinclair, asking her to come to see him at his ranch-house before she goes back. i don't know what he wants--but she is his wife. he has treated her infamously; that is why she will not live with him and does not speak of him. but you know how strange a woman is--or perhaps you don't: she doesn't always cease to care for a man when she ceases to trust him. i am not in marion's confidence, miss dicksie. she is another man's wife. i cannot tell how she feels toward him; i know she has often tried to reclaim him from his deviltry. she may try again, that is, she may, for one reason or another, go to him as he asks. i could not interfere, if i would. i have no right to if i could, and i will not. now this is what i'm trying to get up the courage to ask you. should you dare to go with her to sinclair's ranch if she decides to go to him?" "certainly i should dare." "after all you know?" "after all i know--why not?" "then in case she does go and you go with her, you will know nothing whatever about anything, of course, unless you get the story from her. what i fear is that which possibly may come of their interview. he may try to kill her--don't be frightened. he will not succeed if you can only make sure he doesn't lead her away on horseback from the ranch-house or get her alone in a room. she has few friends. i respect and honor her because she and i grew up as children together in the same little town in wisconsin. i know her folks, all of them, and i've promised them--you know--to have a kind of care of her." "i think i know." he looked self-conscious even at her tone of understanding. "i need not try to deceive you; your instinct would be poor if it did not tell you more than i ought to. he came along and turned her head. you need fear nothing for yourself in going with her, and nothing for her if you can cover just those two points--can you remember? not to let her go away with him on horseback, and not to leave her where she will be alone with him in the house?" "i can and will. i think as much of marion as you do. i am proud to be able to do something for you. how little i have known you! i thought you were everything i didn't want to know." "it's nothing," he returned easily, "except that sinclair has stirred up your cousin and the ranchers as well as the williams cache gang, and that makes talk about me. i have to do what i can to make this a peaceable country to live in. the railroad wants decent people here and doesn't want the other kind, and it falls on me, unfortunately, to keep the other kind moving. i don't like it, but we can none of us do quite what we please in making a living. let me tell you this"--he turned to fix his eyes seriously on hers: "believe anything you hear of me except that i have ever taken human life willingly or save in discharge of my duty. but this kind of work makes my own life an uncertainty, as you can see. i do almost literally carry my life in my hand, for if my hand is not quicker every time than a man's eye, i am done for then and there." "it is dreadful to think of." "not exactly that, but it is something i can't afford to forget." "what would become of the lives of the friends you protect if you were killed?" "you say you care for marion sinclair. i should like to think if anything should happen to me you wouldn't forget her?" "i never will." he smiled. "then i put her in charge of the man closest to me, george mccloud, and the woman she thinks the most of in the world--except her mother. what is this, are they back? yonder they come." "we found nothing serious," mccloud said, answering their questions as he approached with lance dunning. "the current is really swinging away, but the bank is caving in where it was undermined last night." he stopped before dicksie. "i am trying to get your cousin to go to the house and go to bed. i am going to stay all night, but there is no necessity for his staying." "damn it, mccloud, it's not right," protested lance, taking off his hat and wiping his forehead. "you need the sleep more than i do. i say he is the one to go to bed to-night," continued lance, putting it up to whispering smith. "and i insist, by the almighty, that you two take him back to the house with you now!" whispering smith raised his hand. "if this is merely a family quarrel about who shall go to bed, let us compromise. you two stay up all night and let me go to bed." lance, however, was obdurate. "it seems to be a family characteristic of the dunnings to have their own way," ventured mccloud, after some further dispute. "if you will have it so, mr. dunning, you may stand watch to-night and i will go to the house." riding back with mccloud, dicksie and whispering smith discussed the flood. mccloud disclaimed credit for the improvement in the situation. "if the current had held against us as it did yesterday, nothing i could have done would have turned it," he said. "honesty is the best policy, of course," observed whispering smith. "i like to see a modest man--and you want to remind him of all this when he sends in his bill," he suggested, speaking to dicksie in the dark. "but," he added, turning to mccloud, "admitting that you are right, don't take the trouble to advertise your view of it around here. it would be only decent strategy for us in the valley just now to take a little of the credit due to the wind." chapter xxv the man on the frenchman sinclair's place on the frenchman backed up on a sharp rise against the foothills of the bridger range, and the ranch buildings were strung along the creek. the ranch-house stood on ground high enough to command the country for miles up and down the valley. only two roads lead from medicine bend and the south into the frenchman country: one a wagon-road following smoky creek and running through dale canyon; the other a pack-road, known as the gridley trail, crossing the topah topah hills and making a short cut from the dunning ranch on the crawling stone to the frenchman. the entire valley is, in fact, so difficult of access, save by the long and roundabout wagon-road, that the sight of a complete outfit of buildings such as that put up by sinclair always came as a surprise to the traveller who, reaching the crest of the hills, looked suddenly down a thousand feet on his well-ordered sheds and barns and corrals. the rider who reaches the topah topah crest on the gridley trail now sees in the valley below only traces of what was so laboriously planned and perfectly maintained a few years ago. but even the ruins left on the frenchman show the herculean labor undertaken by the man in setting up a comfortable and even an elaborate establishment in so inaccessible a spot. his defiance of all ordinary means of doing things was shown in his preference for bringing much of his building-material over the trail instead of around by the smoky creek road. a good part of the lumber that went into his house was packed over the gridley trail. his piano was brought through the canyon on a wagon, but the mechanical player for the piano and his wagons themselves were packed over the trail on the backs of mules. a heavy steel range for the kitchen had been brought over the same way. for sinclair no work was hard enough, none went fast enough, and revelry never rose high enough. during the time of his activity in the frenchman valley sinclair had the best-appointed place between williams cache and the crawling stone, and in the crawling stone only the dunning ranch would bear comparison with his own. on the frenchman sinclair kept an establishment the fame of which is still foremost in mountain story. here his cows ranged the canyons and the hills for miles, and his horses were known from medicine bend to fort tracy. here he rallied his men, laid snares for his enemies, dispensed a reckless hospitality, ruled his men with an oath and a blow, and carried a six-shooter to explain orders and answer questions with. over the gridley trail from the crawling stone marion and dicksie dunning rode early in the morning the day after mccloud and his men left the stone ranch with their work done. the trail is a good three hours long, and they reached sinclair's place at about ten o'clock. he was waiting for marion--she had sent word she should come--and he came out of the front door into the sunshine with a smile of welcome when he saw dicksie with her. dicksie, long an admirer of sinclair's, as women usually were, had recast somewhat violently her opinions of him. she faced him now with a criminal consciousness that she knew too much. the weight of the dreadful secret weighed on her, and her responsibility in the issue of the day ahead did not help to make her greeting an easy one. one thing only was fixed in her mind and reflected in the tension of her lips and her eyes: the resolve to keep at every cost the promise she had given. for dicksie had fallen under the spell of a man even more compelling than sinclair, and felt strangely bounden to what she had said. sinclair, however, had spirit enough to smooth quite away every embarrassment. "bachelor's quarters," he explained roughly and pleasantly, as he led the two women toward the house. "cowmen make poor housekeepers, but you must feel at home." and when dicksie, looking at his indian rugs on the floors, the walls, and the couches, said she thought he had little to apologize for, sinclair looked gratified and took off his hat again. "just a moment," he said, standing at the side of the door. "i've never been able to get marion over here before, so it happens that a woman's foot has never entered the new house. i want to watch one of you cross the threshold for the first time." dicksie, moving ahead, retreated with a laugh. "you first, then, marion." "no, dicksie, you." "never! you first." so marion, quite red and wretchedly ill at ease, walked into the ranch-house first. sinclair shone nowhere better than as a host. when he had placed his guests comfortably in the living-room he told them the story of the building of the house. then he made a cicerone of himself, and explained, with running comments, each feature of his plan as he showed how it had been carried out through the various rooms. surprised at the attractiveness of things, dicksie found herself making mental notes for her own use, and began asking questions. sinclair was superb in answering, but the danger of admiring things became at once apparent, for when dicksie exclaimed over a handsome bearskin, a rich dark brown grizzly-skin of unusual size, sinclair told the story of the killing, bared his tremendous forearm to show where the polished claws had ripped him, and, disregarding dicksie's protests, insisted on sending the skin over to crawling stone ranch as a souvenir of her visit. "i live a great deal alone over here," he said, waving dicksie's continued refusal magnificently aside as he moved into the next room. "i've got a few good dogs, and i hunt just enough to keep my hand in with a rifle." dicksie quailed a little at the smile that went with the words. "the men, at least the kind i mix with, don't care for grizzly-skins, and to enjoy anything you've got to have sympathetic company--don't you know that?" he asked, looking admiringly at dicksie. "i've got another skin for you--a silver-tip," he added in deep, gentle tones, addressing marion. "it has a fine head, as fine as i ever saw in the smithsonian. it is down at medicine bend now, being dressed and mounted. by the way, i've forgotten to ask you, miss dicksie, about the high water. how did you get through at the ranch?" dicksie, sitting on the piano-bench, looked up with resolution. "bravely!" she exclaimed. "mr. mccloud came to our rescue with bags and mattresses and a hundred men, and he has put in a revetement a thousand feet long. oh, we are regular river experts at our house now! had you any trouble here, mr. sinclair?" "no, the frenchman behaves pretty well in the rock. we had forty feet of water here one day, though; forty feet, that's right. mccloud, yes; able fellow, i guess, too, though he and i don't hit it off." sinclair sat back in his chair, and as he spoke he spoke magnanimously. "he doesn't like me, but that is no fault of his; railroad men, and good ones, too, sometimes get started wrong with one another. well, i'm glad he took care of you. try that piano, miss dicksie, will you? i don't know much about pianos, but that ought to be a good one. i would wheel the player over for you, but any one that plays as beautifully as you do ought not to be allowed to use a player. marion, i want to talk a few minutes with you, may i? do you mind going out under the cottonwood?" dicksie's heart jumped. "don't be gone long, marion," she exclaimed impulsively, "for you know, mr. sinclair, we _must_ get back by two o'clock." and dicksie, pale with apprehension, looked at them both. marion, quite composed, nodded reassuringly and followed sinclair out of doors into the sunshine. for a few minutes dicksie fingered wildly on the piano at some half-forgotten air, and in a fever of excitement walked out on the porch to see where they were. to her relief, she saw marion sitting near sinclair under the big tree in front of the house, where the horses stood. dicksie, with her hands on her girdle, walked forlornly back and forth, hummed a tune, sat down in a rocking-chair, fanned herself, rose, walked back and forth again, and reflected that she was perfectly helpless, and that sinclair might kill marion a hundred times before she could reach her. and the thought that marion was perhaps wholly unconscious of danger increased her anxiety. she sat down in despair. how could whispering smith have allowed any one he had a care for to be exposed in this dreadful way? trying to think what to do, dicksie hurried back into the living-room, walked to the piano, took the pile of sheet-music from the top, and sat down to thumb it over. she threw song after song on the chair beside her. they were sheets of gaudy coon songs and ragtime with flaring covers, and they seemed to give off odors of cheap perfume. dicksie hardly saw the titles as she passed them over, but of a sudden she stopped. between two sheets of the music lay a small handkerchief. it was mussed, and in the corner of it "nellie" was written conspicuously in a laundry mark. the odor of musk became in an instant sickening. dicksie threw the music disdainfully aside, and sprang up with a flushed face to leave the room. sinclair's remark about the first woman to cross his threshold came back to her. from that moment dicksie hated him. but no sooner had she seated herself on the porch than she remembered she had left her hat in the house, and rose to go in after it. she was resolved not to leave it under the roof another moment, and she had resolved to go over and wait where her horse was tied. as she reëntered the doorway she stopped. in the room she had just left a cowboy sat at the table, taking apart a revolver to clean it. the revolver was spread in its parts before him, but across the table lay a rifle. the man had not been in the room when she left it a moment before. dicksie passed behind him. he paid no attention to her; he had not looked up when she entered the room. passing behind him once more to go out, dicksie looked through the open window before which he sat. sinclair and marion sitting under the cottonwood tree were in plain sight, and the muzzle of the rifle where it lay covered them. dicksie thrilled, but the man was busy with his work. breathing deeply, she walked out on the porch again. sinclair, she thought, was looking straight at her, and in her anxiety to appear unconscious she turned, walked to the end of the house, and at the corner almost ran into a man sitting out of doors in the shade mending a saddle. he had removed his belt to work, and his revolver lay in the holster on the bench, its grip just within reach of his hand. dicksie walked in front of him, but he did not look up. she turned as if changing her mind, and with a little flirt of her riding-skirt sat down in the porch chair, feeling a faint moisture upon her forehead. * * * * * "i am going to leave this country, marion," sinclair was saying. "there's nothing here for me; i can see that. what's the use of my eating my heart out over the way i've been treated? i've given the best years of my life to this railroad, and now they turn me down with a kick and a curse. it's the old story of the indian and his dog, only i don't propose to let them make soup of me. i'm going to the coast, marion. i'm going to california, where i wanted to go when we were married, and i wish to god we had gone there then. all our troubles might never have been if i had got in with a different crowd from these cow-boozers on the start. and, marion, i want to know whether you'll give me another chance and go with me." sinclair, on the bench and leaning against the tree, sat with folded arms looking at his wife. marion in a hickory chair faced him. "no one would like to see you be all you ought to be more than i, murray; but you are the only one in the world that can ever give yourself another chance to be that." "the fellows in the saddle here now have denied me every chance to make a man of myself again on the railroad--you know that, marion. in fact, they never did give me the show i was entitled to. i ought to have had hailey's place. bucks never treated me right in that; he never pushed me in the way he pushed other men that were just as bad as i ever was. it discouraged me; that's the reason i went to pieces." "it could be no reason for treating me as you treated me: for bringing drunken men and drunken women into our house, and driving me out of it unless i would be what you were and what they were." "i know i haven't treated you right; i've treated you shamefully. i will do anything on earth you say to square it. i will! recollect, i had lived among men and in the same country with women like that for years before i knew you. i didn't know how to treat you; i admit it. give me another chance, marion." "i gave you all that i had when i married you, murray. i haven't anything more to give to any man. you would be disappointed in me if i could ever live with you again, and i could not do that without living a lie every day." he bent forward, looking at the ground. he talked of their first meeting in wisconsin; of the happiness of their little courtship; he brought up california again, and the northwest coast, where, he told her, a great railroad was to be built and he should find the chance he needed to make a record for himself--it had been promised him--a chance to be the man his abilities entitled him to be in railroading. "and i've got a customer for the ranch and the cows, marion. i don't care for this business--damn the cows! let somebody else chase after 'em through the sleet. i've done well; i've made money--a lot of money--the last two years in my cattle deals, and i've got it put away, marion; you need never lift your hand to work in our house again. we can live in california, and live well, under our own orange trees, whether i work or not. all i want to know is, will you go with me?" "no! i will not go with you, murray." he moved in his seat and threw his head up appealingly. "why not?" "i will never be dishonest with you; i never have been and i never will be. i have nothing in my heart to give you, and i will not live upon your money. i am earning my own living. i am as content as i ever can be, and i shall stay where i am and do what i am doing till i die, probably. and this is why i came when you asked me to; to tell you the exact truth. i am not a girl any longer--i never can be again. i am a woman. what i was before i married you i never can be again, and you have no right to ask me to be a hypocrite and say i can love you--for that is what it all comes to--when i have no such thing in my heart or life for you. it is dead and gone, and i cannot help it." "that sounds pretty hard, marion." "it is only the truth. it sounded fearfully hard to me when you told me that woman was your friend--that you knew her before you knew me and would know her after i was dead; that she was as good as i, and that if i didn't entertain her you would. but it was the truth; you told me the truth, and it was better that you told it--as it is better now that i tell it to you." "i was drunk. i didn't tell you the truth. a man is a pretty tough animal sometimes, but you are a woman and a pure one, and i care more for you than for all the other women in the world, and it is not your nature to be unforgiving." "it is to be honest." he looked suddenly up at her and spoke sharply: "marion, i know why you won't go." "i have honestly told you." "no; you have not honestly told me. the real reason is gordon smith." "if he were i should not hesitate to tell you, murray, but he is not," she said coldly. sinclair spoke harshly: "do you think you can fool me? don't you suppose i know he spends his time loafing around your shop?" marion flushed indignantly. "it is not true!" "don't you suppose i know he writes letters back to wisconsin to your folks?" "what have i to do with that? why shouldn't he write to my mother? who has a better right?" "don't drive me too far. by god! if i go away alone i'll never leave you here to run off with whispering smith--remember that!" she sat in silence. his rage left her perfectly quiet, and her unmoved expression shamed and in part silenced him. "don't drive me too far," he muttered sullenly. "if you do you will be responsible, marion." she did not move her eyes from the blue hills on the horizon. "i expect you to kill me sometime; i feel sure you will. and that you may do." then she bent her look on him. "you may do it now if you want to." his face turned heavy with rage. "marion," he cried, with an oath, "do you know how close you are to death at this moment?" "you may do it now." he clinched the bench-rail and rose slowly to his feet. marion sat motionless in the hickory chair; the sun was shining in her face and her hands were folded in her lap. dicksie rocked on the porch. in the shadow of the house the man was mending the saddle. chapter xxvi tower w at the end of a long and neglected hall on the second floor of the old bank block in hill street, whispering smith had a room in which he made headquarters at medicine bend; it was in effect whispering smith's home. a man's room is usually a forlorn affair in spite of any effort to make it home-like. if he neglects his room it looks barren, and if he ornaments it it looks fussy. boys can do something with a den because they are not yet men, and some tincture of woman's nature still clings to a boy. girls are born to the deftness that is to become all theirs in the touch of a woman's hand; but men, if they walk alone, pay the penalty of loneliness. whispering smith, being logical, made no effort to decorate his domestic poverty. all his belongings were of a simple sort and his room was as bare as a jesuit's. moreover, his affairs, being at times highly particular, did not admit of the presence of a janitor in his quarters, and he was of necessity his own janitor. his iron bed was spread with a pair of pullman blankets, his toilet arrangements included nothing more elaborate than a shaving outfit, and the mirror above his washstand was only large enough to make a hurried shave, with much neck-stretching, possible. the table was littered with letters, but it filled up one corner of the room, and a rocking-chair and a trunk filled up another. the floor was spread with a navajo blanket, and near the head of the bed stood an old-fashioned wardrobe. this served not to ward whispering smith's robes, which hung for the most part on his back, but to accommodate his rifles, of which it contained an array that only a practised man could understand. the wardrobe was more, however, than an armory. beside the guns that stood racked in precision along the inner wall, mccloud had once, to his surprise, seen a violin. it appeared out of keeping in such an atmosphere and rather the antithesis of force and violence than a complement for it. and again, though the rifles were disquietingly bright and effective-looking, the violin was old and shabby, hanging obscurely in its corner, as if, whatever it might have in common with its master, it had nothing in common with its surroundings. the door of the room in the course of many years had been mutilated with keyholes and reënforced with locks until it appeared difficult to choose an opening that would really afford entrance; but two men besides whispering smith carried keys to the room--kennedy and george mccloud. they had right of way into it at all hours, and knew how to get in. mccloud had left the bridge camp on the river for medicine bend on the saturday that marion sinclair--whose husband had finally told her he would give her one more chance to think it over--returned with dicksie safely from their trip to the frenchman ranch. whispering smith, who had been with bucks and morris blood, got back to town the same day. the president and general manager were at the wickiup during the afternoon, and left for the east at nine o'clock in the evening, when their car was attached to an east-bound passenger train. mccloud took supper afterward with whispering smith at a front street chop-house, and the two men separated at eleven o'clock. it was three hours later when mccloud tapped on the door of smith's room, and in a moment opened it. "awake, gordon?" "sure: come in. what is it?" "the second section of the passenger train--number three, with the express cars--was stopped at tower w to-night. oliver sollers was pulling; he is badly shot up, and one of the messengers was shot all to pieces. they cracked the through safe, emptied it, and made a clean get-away." "tower w--two hundred and seventy-six miles. have you ordered up an engine?" "yes." "where's kennedy?" a second voice answered: "right here." "strike a light, farrell. what about the horses?" "they're being loaded." "is the line clear?" "rooney lee is clearing it." "spike it, george, and leave every westbound train in siding, with the engine cut loose and plenty of steam, till we get by. it's now or never this time. two hundred and seventy-six miles; they're giving us our money's worth. who's going with us, farrell?" "bob scott, reed young, and brill, if reed can get him at sleepy cat. dancing is loading the horses." "i want ed banks to lead a _posse_ straight from here for williams cache; dancing can go with him. and telephone gene and bob johnson to sit down in canadian pass till they grow to the rocks, but not to let anybody through if they want to live after i see them. they've got all the instructions; all they need is the word. it's a long chance, but i think these are our friends. you can head banks off by telephone somewhere if we change our minds when we get a trail. start brill young and a good man from sleepy cat ahead of us, george, if you can, in a baggage car with any horses that they can get there. they can be at tower w by daybreak and perhaps pick up a trail before we reach there, and we shall have fresh horses for them. i'm ready, i guess; let's go. slam the door, george!" in the hall whispering smith threw a pocket-light on his watch. "i want you to put us there by seven o'clock." "charlie sollers is going to pull you," answered mccloud. "have you got everything? then we're off." the three men tiptoed down the dark hall, down the stairs, and across the street on a noiseless run for the railroad yard. the air was chill and the sky clear, with a moon more than half to the full. "lord, what a night to ride!" exclaimed whispering smith, looking mournfully at the stars. "well planned, well planned, i must admit." the men hastened toward the yard, where lanterns were moving about the car of the train-guards near the blue front stables. the loading board had been lowered, and the horses were being carefully led into the car. from a switch engine behind the car a shrill cloud of steam billowed into the air. across the yard a great passenger engine, its huge white side-rod rising and falling slowly in the still light of the moon--one of the mountain racers, thick-necked like an athlete and deep-chested--was backing down for the run with the single car almost across the west end of the division. trainmen were running to and from the wickiup platform. by the time the horses were loaded the conductor had orders. until the last minute, whispering smith was in consultation with mccloud, and giving dancing precise instructions for the _posse_ into the cache country. they were still talking at the side door of the car, mccloud and dancing on the ground and whispering smith squatting on his haunches inside the moving car, when the engine signalled and the special drew away from the chute, pounded up the long run of the ladder switch, and moved with gathering speed into the canyon. in the cab charlie sollers, crushing in his hand the tissue that had brought the news of his brother's death, sat at the throttle. he had no speed orders. they had only told him he had a clear track. chapter xxvii pursuit brill young picked up a trail sunday morning at tower w before the special from medicine bend reached there. the wrecked express car, which had been set out, had no story to tell. "the only story," said whispering smith, as the men climbed into their saddles, "is in the one from the hoofs, and the sooner we get after it the better." the country around tower w, which is itself an operating point on the western end of the division, a mere speck on the desert, lies high and rolling. to the south, sixty miles away, rise the grosse terre mountains, and to the north and west lie the solitudes of the heart range, while in the northeast are seen the three white saddle peaks of the missions. the cool, bright sunshine of a far and lonely horizon greets the traveller here, and ten miles away from the railroad, in any direction, a man on horseback and unacquainted with the country would wish himself--mountain men will tell you--in hell, because it would be easier to ride out of. to the railroad men the country offered no unusual difficulties. the youngs were as much at home on a horse as on a hand car. kennedy, though a large and powerful man, was inured to hard riding, and bob scott and whispering smith in the saddle were merely a part--though an important part--of their horses; without killing their mounts, they could get out of them every mile in their legs. the five men covered twenty miles on a trail that read like print. one after another of the railroad party commented on the carelessness with which it had been left. but twenty miles south of the railroad, in an open and comparatively easy country, it was swallowed completely up in the tracks of a hundred horses. the railroad men circled far and wide, only to find the herd tracks everywhere ahead of them. "this is a beautiful job," murmured whispering smith as the party rode together along the edge of a creek-bottom. "now who is their friend down in this country? what man would get out a bunch of horses like this and work them this hard so early in the morning? let's hunt that man up. i like to meet a man that is a friend in need." bob scott spoke: "i saw a man with some horses in a canyon across the creek a few minutes ago, and i saw a ranch-house behind those buttes when i rode around them." "stop! here's a man riding right into our jaws," muttered kennedy. "divide up among the rocks." a horseman from the south came galloping up the creek, and kennedy rode out with an ivory smile to meet him. the two men parleyed for a moment, disputed each other sharply, and rode together back to the railroad party. "haven't seen any men looking for horses this morning, have you?" asked whispering smith, eying the stranger, a squat, square-jawed fellow with a cataract eye. "i'm looking for horses myself. i ain't seen anybody else. what are you looking for?" "is this your bunch of horses that got loose here?" asked smith. "no." "i thought," said kennedy, smiling, "you said a minute ago they were." the stranger fixed his cataract on him like a flash-light. "i changed my mind." whispering smith's brows rose protestingly, but he spoke with perfect amiability as he raised his finger to bring the good eye his way. "you ought to change your hat when you change your mind. i saw you driving a bunch of horses up that canyon a few minutes ago. now, rockstro, do you still drag your left leg?" the rancher looked steadily at his new inquisitor, but blinked like a gopher at the sudden onslaught. "which of you fellows is whispering smith?" he demanded. "the man with the dough is whispering smith every time," was the answer from smith himself. "you have about seven years to serve, rockstro, haven't you? seven, i think. now what have i ever done to you that you should turn a trick like this on me? i knew you were here, and you knew i knew you were here, and i call this a pretty country; a little smooth right around here, like the people, but pretty. have i ever bothered you? now tell me one thing--what did you get for covering this trail? i stand to give you two dollars for every one you got last night for the job, if you'll put us right on the game. which way did they go?" "what are you talking about?" "get off your horse a minute," suggested whispering smith, dismounting, "and step over here toward the creek." the man, afraid to refuse and unwilling to go, walked haltingly after smith. "what is it, rockstro?" asked his tormentor. "don't you like this country? what do you want to go back to the penitentiary for? aren't you happy here? now tell me one thing--will you give up the trail?" "i don't know the trail." "i believe you; we shouldn't follow it anyway. were you paid last night or this morning?" "i ain't seen a man hereabouts for a week." "then you can't tell me whether there were five men or six?" "you've got one eye as good as mine, and one a whole lot better." "so it was fixed up for cash a week ago?" "everything is cash in this country." "well, rockstro, i'm sorry, but we'll have to take you back with us." the rancher whipped out a revolver. whispering smith caught his wrist. the struggle lasted only an instant. rockstro writhed, and the pistol fell to the ground. "now, shall i break your arm?" asked smith, as the man cursed and resisted. "or will you behave? we are going right back and you'll have to come with us. we'll send some one down to round up your horses and sell them, and you can serve out your time--with allowances, of course, for good conduct, which will cut it down. if i had ever done you a mean turn i would not say a word. if you could name a friend of yours i had ever done a mean turn to i would not say a word. can you name one? i guess not. i have left you as free as the wind here, making only the rule i make for everybody--to let the railroad alone. this is my thanks. now, i'll ask you just one question. i haven't killed you, as i had a perfect right to when you pulled; i haven't broken your arm, as i would have done if there had been a doctor within twenty-five miles; and i haven't started you for the pen--not yet. now i ask you one fair question only: did you need the money?" "yes, i did need it." whispering smith dropped the man's wrist. "then i don't say a word. if you needed the money, i'm not going to send you back--not for mine." "how can a man make a living in this country," asked the rancher, with a bitter oath, "unless he picks up everything that's going?" "pick up your gun, man! i'm not saying anything, am i?" "but i'm damned if i can give a double-cross to any man," added rockstro, stooping for his revolver. "i should think less of you, rockstro, if you did. you don't need money anyway now, but sometime you may need a friend. i'm going to leave you here. you'll hear no more of this, and i'm going to ask you a question: why did you go against this when you knew you'd have to square yourself with me?" "they told me you'd be taken care of before it was pulled off." "they lied to you, didn't they? no matter, you've got their stuff. now i am going to ask you one question that i don't know the answer to; it's a fair question, too. was du sang in the penitentiary with you at fort city? answer fair." "yes." "thank you. behave yourself and keep your mouth shut. i say nothing this time. hereafter leave railroad matters alone, and if the woman should fall sick or you have to have a little money, come and see me." smith led the way back to the horses. "look here!" muttered rockstro, following, with his good eye glued on his companion. "i pulled on you too quick, i guess--quicker'n i'd ought to." "don't mention it. you didn't pull quick enough; it is humiliating to have a man that's as slow as you are pull on me. people that pull on me usually pull and shoot at the same time. two distinct movements, rockstro, should be avoided; they are fatal to success. come down to the bend sometime, and i'll get you a decent gun and give you a few lessons." whispering smith drew his handkerchief as the one-eyed man rode away and he rejoined his companions. he was resigned, after a sickly fashion. "i like to play blind-man's-buff," he said, wiping his forehead, "but not so far from good water. they have pulled us half-way to the grosse terre mountains on a beautiful trail, too beautiful to be true, farrell--too beautiful to be true. they have been having fun with us, and they've doubled back, through the topah topahs toward the mission mountains and williams cache--that is my judgment. and aren't we five able-bodied jays, gentlemen? five strong-arm suckers? it is an inelegant word; it is an inelegant feeling. no matter, we know a few things. there are five good men and a led horse; we can get out of here by goose river, find out when we cross the railroad how much they got, and pick them up somewhere around the saddle peaks, _if_ they've gone north. that's only a guess, and every man's guess is good now. what do you think, all of you?" "if it's the crowd we think it is, would they go straight home? that doesn't look reasonable, does it?" asked brill young. "if they could put one day between them and pursuit, wouldn't they be safer at home than anywhere else? and haven't they laid out one day's work for us, good and plenty? farrell, remember one thing: there is sometimes a disadvantage in knowing too much about the men you are after. we'll try goose river." it was noon when they struck the railroad. they halted long enough to stop a freight train, send some telegrams, and ask for news. they got orders from rooney lee, had an empty box car set behind the engine for a special, and, loading their horses at the chute, made a helter-skelter run for sleepy cat. at three o'clock they struck north for the mission mountains. chapter xxviii the sunday murder banks's _posse_, leaving medicine bend before daybreak, headed northwest. their instructions were explicit: to scatter after crossing the frenchman, watch the trails from the goose river country and through the mission mountains, and intercept everybody riding north until the _posse_ from sleepy cat or whispering smith should communicate with them from the southwest. nine men rode in the party that crossed the crawling stone sunday morning at sunrise with ed banks. after leaving the river the three white-capped saddles of the mission range afford a landmark for more than a hundred miles, and toward these the party pressed steadily all day. the southern pass of the missions opens on the north slope of the range into a pretty valley known as mission springs valley, and the springs are the head-waters of deep creek. the _posse_ did not quite obey the instructions, and following a natural instinct of safety five of them, after banks and his three deputies had scattered, bunched again, and at dark crossed deep creek at some distance below the springs. it was afterward known that these five men had been seen entering the valley from the east at sundown just as four of the men they wanted rode down south mission pass toward the springs. that they knew they would soon be cut off, or must cut their way through the line which ed banks, ahead of them, was posting at every gateway to williams cache, was probably clear to them. four men rode that evening from tower w through the south pass; the fifth man had already left the party. the four men were headed for williams cache and had reason to believe, until they sighted banks's men, that their path was open. they halted to take counsel on the suspicious-looking _posse_ far below them, and while their cruelly exhausted horses rested, du sang, always in sinclair's absence the brains of the gang, planned the escape over deep creek at baggs's crossing. at dusk they divided: two men lurking in the brush along the creek rode as close as they could, unobserved, toward the crossing, while du sang and the cowboy karg, known as flat nose, rode down to baggs's ranch at the foot of the pass. at that point dan baggs, an old locomotive engineer, had taken a homestead, got together a little bunch of cattle, and was living alone with his son, a boy of ten years. it was a hard country and too close to williams cache for comfort, but dan got on with everybody because the toughest man in the cache country could get a meal, a feed for his horse, and a place to sleep at baggs's, without charge, when he needed it. ed banks, by hard riding, got to the crossing at five o'clock, and told baggs of the hold-up and the shooting of oliver sollers. the news stirred the old engineman, and his excitement threw him off his guard. banks rode straight on for the middle pass, leaving word that two of his men would be along within half an hour to watch the pass and the ranch crossing, and asking baggs to put up some kind of a fight for the crossing until more of the _posse_ came up--at the least, to make sure that nobody got any fresh horses. the boy was cooking supper in the kitchen, and baggs had done his milking and gone back to the corral, when two men rode around the corner of the barn and asked if they could get something to eat. poor baggs sold his life in six words: "why, yes; be you banks's men?" du sang answered: "no; we're from sheriff coon's office at oroville, looking up a bunch of duck bar steers that's been run somewhere up deep creek. can we stay here all night?" they dismounted and disarmed baggs's suspicions, though the condition of their horses might have warned him had he had his senses. the unfortunate man had probably fixed it in his mind that a ride from tower w to deep creek in sixteen hours was a physical impossibility. "stay here? sure! i want you to stay," said baggs bluffly. "looks to me like i seen you down at crawling stone, ain't i?" he asked of karg. karg was lighting a cigarette. "i used to mark at the dunning ranch," he answered, throwing away his match. "that's hit. good! the boy's cooking supper. step up to the kitchen and tell him to cut ham for four more." "four?" "two of ed banks's men will be here by six o'clock. heard about the hold-up? they stopped number three at tower w last night and shot ollie sollers, as white a boy as ever pulled a throttle. boys, a man that'll kill a locomotive engineer is worse'n an indian; i'd help skin him." "the hell you would!" cried du sang. "well, don't you want to start in on me? i killed sollers. look at me; ain't i handsome? what you going to do about it?" before baggs could think du sang was shooting him down. it was wanton. du sang stood in no need of the butchery; the escape could have been made without it. his victim had pulled an engine throttle too long to show the white feather, but he was dying by the time he had dragged a revolver from his pocket. du sang did the killing alone. at least, flat nose, who alone saw all of the murder, afterward maintained that he did not draw because he had no occasion to, and that baggs was dead before he, karg, had finished his cigarette. with his right arm broken and two bullets through his chest, baggs fell on his face. that, however, did not check his murderer. rising to his knees, baggs begged for his life. "for god's sake! i'm helpless, gentlemen! i'm helpless. don't kill me like a dog!" but du sang, emptying his pistol, threw his rifle to his shoulder and sent bullet after bullet crashing through the shapeless form writhing and twitching before him until he had beaten it in the dust soft and flat and still. banks's men came up within an hour to find the ranch-house deserted. they saw a lantern in the yard below, and near the corral gate they found the little boy in the darkness, screaming beside his father's body. the sheriff's men carried the old engineman to the house; others of the _posse_ crossed the creek during the evening, and at eleven o'clock whispering smith rode down from the south pass to find that four of the men they were after had taken fresh horses, after killing baggs, and passed safely through the cordon banks had drawn around the pass and along deep creek. bill dancing, who had ridden with banks's men, was at the house when whispering smith arrived. he found some supper in the kitchen, and the tired man and the giant ate together. whispering smith was too experienced a campaigner to complain. his party had struck a trail fifty miles north of sleepy cat and followed it to the missions. he knew now who he was after, and knew that they were bottled up in the cache for the night. the sheriff's men were sleeping on the floor of the living-room when smith came in from the kitchen. he sat down before the fire. at intervals sobs came from the bedroom where the body lay, and after listening a moment, whispering smith got stiffly up, and, tiptoeing to still the jingle of his spurs, took the candle from the table, pushed aside the curtain, and entered the bedroom. the little boy was lying on his face, with his arm around his father's neck, talking to him. whispering smith bent a moment over the bed, and, setting the candle on the table, put his hand on the boy's shoulder. he disengaged the hand from the cold neck, and sitting down took it in his own. talking low to the little fellow, he got his attention after much patient effort and got him to speak. he made him, though struggling with terror, to understand that he had come to be his friend, and after the child had sobbed his grief into a strange heart he ceased to tremble, and told his name and his story, and described the two horsemen and the horses they had left. smith listened quietly. "have you had any supper, dannie? no? you must have something to eat. can't you eat anything? but there is a nice pan of fresh milk in the kitchen." a burst of tears interrupted him. "daddie just brought in the milk, and i was frying the ham, and i heard them shooting." "see how he took care of you till the last minute, and left something for you after he was gone. suppose he could speak now, don't you think he would want you to do as i say? i am your next friend now, for you are going to be a railroad man and have a big engine." dannie looked up. "dad wasn't afraid of those men." "wasn't he, dannie?" "he said we would be all right and not to be afraid." "did he?" "he said whispering smith was coming." "my poor boy." "he is coming, don't be afraid. do you know whispering smith? he is coming. the men to-night all said he was coming." the little fellow for a long time could not be coaxed away from his father, but his companion at length got him to the kitchen. when they came back to the bedroom the strange man was talking to him once more about his father. "we must try to think how he would like things done now, mustn't we? all of us felt so bad when we rode in and had so much to do we couldn't attend to taking care of your father. did you know there are two men out at the crossing now, guarding it with rifles? but if you and i keep real quiet we can do something for him while the men are asleep; they have to ride all day to-morrow. we must wash his face and hands, don't you think so? and brush his hair and his beard. if you could just find the basin and some water and a towel--you couldn't find a brush, could you? could you, honestly? well! i call that a good boy--we shall have to have you on the railroad, sure. we must try to find some fresh clothes--these are cut and stained; then i will change his clothes, and we shall all feel better. don't disturb the men; they are tired." they worked together by the candle-light. when they had done, the boy had a violent crying spell, but whispering smith got him to lie down beside him on a blanket spread on the floor, where smith got his back against the sod wall and took the boy's head in his arm. he waited patiently for the boy to go to sleep, but dan was afraid the murderers would come back. once he lifted his head in a confidence. "did you know my daddy used to run an engine?" "no, i did not; but in the morning you must tell me all about it." whenever there was a noise in the next room the child roused. after some time a new voice was heard; kennedy had come and was asking questions. "wake up here, somebody! where is whispering smith?" dancing answered: "he's right there in the bedroom, farrell, staying with the boy." there was some stirring. kennedy talked a little and at length stretched himself on the floor. when all was still again, dannie's hand crept slowly from the breast of his companion up to his chin, and the little hand, feeling softly every feature, stole over the strange face. "what is it, dannie?" "are you whispering smith?" "yes, dannie. shut your eyes." at three o'clock, when kennedy lighted a candle and looked in, smith was sitting with his back against the wall. the boy lay on his arm. both were fast asleep. on the bed the dead man lay with a handkerchief over his face. chapter xxix williams cache ed banks had been recalled before daybreak from the middle pass. two of the men wanted were now known to have crossed the creek, which meant they must work out of the country through williams cache. "if you will take your best two men, ed," said whispering smith, sitting down with banks at breakfast, "and strike straight for canadian pass to help gene and bob johnson, i'll undertake to ride in and talk to rebstock while kennedy and bob scott watch deep creek. the boy gives a good description, and the two men that did the job here are du sang and flat nose. did i tell you how we picked up the trail yesterday? magpies. they shot a scrub horse that gave out on them and skinned the brand. it hastened the banquet, but we got there before the birds were all seated. great luck, wasn't it? and it gave us a beautiful trail. one of the party crossed the goose river at american fork, and brill young and reed followed him. four came through the mission mountains; that is a cinch and they are in the cache--and if they get out it is our fault personally, ed, and not the lord's." williams cache lies in the form of a great horn, with a narrow entrance at the lower end known as the door, and a rock fissure at the upper end leading into canadian pass; but this fissure is so narrow that a man with a rifle could withstand a regiment. for a hundred miles east and west rise the granite walls of the mission range, broken nowhere save by the formation known as the cache. even this does not penetrate the range; it is a pocket, and runs not over half-way into it and out again. but no man really knows the cache; the most that may be said is that the main valley is known, and it is known as the roughest mountain fissure between the spanish sinks and the mantrap country. williams cache lies between walls two thousand feet high, and within it is a small labyrinth of canyons. a generation ago, when medicine bend for one winter was the terminus of the overland railroad, vigilantes mercilessly cleaned out the town, and the few outlaws that escaped the shotgun and the noose at medicine bend found refuge in a far-away and unknown mountain gorge once named by french trappers the cache. years after these outcasts had come to infest it came one desperado more ferocious than all that had gone before. he made a frontier retreat of the cache, and left to it the legacy of his evil name, williams. since his day it has served, as it served before, for the haunt of outlawed men. no honest man lives in williams cache, and few men of any sort live there long, since their lives are lives of violence; neither the law nor a woman crosses deep creek. but from the day of williams to this day the cache has had its ruler, and when whispering smith rode with a little party through the door into the cache the morning after the murder in mission valley he sent an envoy to rebstock, whose success as a cattle-thief had brought its inevitable penalty. it had made rebstock a man of consequence and of property and a man subject to the anxieties and annoyances of such responsibility. sitting once in the three horses at medicine bend, rebstock had talked with whispering smith. "i used to have a good time," he growled. "when i was rustling a little bunch of steers, just a small bunch all by myself, and hadn't a cent in the world, no place to sleep and nothing to eat, i had a good time. now i have to keep my money in the bank; that ain't pleasant--you know that. every man that brings a bunch of cattle across deep creek has stole 'em, and expects me to buy 'em or lend him money. i'm busy with inspecters all the time, deviling with brands, standing off the stock association and all kinds of trouble. i've got too many cows, too much money. i'm afraid somebody will shoot me if i go to sleep, or poison me if i take a drink. whispering smith, i'd like to give you a half-interest in my business. that's on the square. you're a young man, and handy; it wouldn't cost you a cent, and you can have half of the whole shooting-match if you'll cross deep creek and help me run the gang." such was rebstock free from anxiety and in a confidential moment. under pressure he was, like all men, different. whispering smith had acquaintance even in the cache, and after a little careful reconnoitring he found a crippled-up thief, driving a milch cow down the cache, who was willing to take a message to the boss. whispering smith gave his instructions explicitly, facing the messenger, as the two sat in their saddles, with an importunate eye. "say to rebstock exactly these words," he insisted. "this is from whispering smith: i want du sang. he killed a friend of mine last night at mission springs. i happened to be near there and know he rode in last night. he can't get out; the canadian is plugged. i won't stand for the killing, and it is du sang or a clean-up in the cache all around, and then i'll get du sang anyway. regards." riding circumspectly in and about the entrance to the cache, the party waited an hour for an answer. when the answer came, it was unsatisfactory. rebstock declined to appear upon so trivial a matter, and whispering smith refused to specify a further grievance. more parley and stronger messages were necessary to stir the deep creek monarch, but at last he sent word asking whispering smith to come to his cabin accompanied only by kennedy. the two railroad men rode up the canyon together. "and now i will show you a lean and hungry thief grown monstrous and miserly, farrell," said whispering smith. at the head of a short pocket between two sheer granite walls they saw rebstock's weather-beaten cabin, and he stood in front of it smoking. he looked moodily at his visitors out of eyes buried between rolls of fat. whispering smith was a little harsh as the two shook hands, but he dismounted and followed rebstock into the house. "what are you so high and mighty about?" he demanded, throwing his hat on the table near which rebstock had seated himself. "why don't you come out when i send a man to you, or send word what you will do? what have you got to kick about? haven't you been treated right?" being in no position to complain, but shrewdly aware that much unpleasantness was in the wind, rebstock beat about the bush. he had had rheumatism; he couldn't ride; he had been in bed three weeks and hadn't seen du sang for three months. "you ain't chasing up here after du sang because he killed a man at mission springs. i know better than that. that ain't the first man he's killed, and it ain't a' goin' to be the last." whispering smith lifted his finger and for the first time smiled. "now there you err, rebstock--it is 'a goin' to be' the last. so you think i'm after you, do you? well, if i were, what are you going to do about it? rebstock, do you think, if i wanted _you_, i would send a message for you to come out and meet me? not on your life! when i want you i'll come to your shack and drag you out by the hair of the head. sit down!" roared whispering smith. rebstock, who weighed at least two hundred and seventy-five pounds, had lifted himself up to glare and swear freely. now he dropped angrily back into his chair. "well, who do you want?" he bellowed in kind. a smile softened the asperity of the railroad man's face. "that's a fair question and i give you a straight answer. i'm not bluffing: i want du sang." rebstock squirmed. he swore with shortened breath that he knew nothing about du sang; that du sang had stolen his cattle; that hanging was too good for him; that he would join any _posse_ in searching for him; and that he had not seen him for three months. "likely enough," assented whispering smith, "but this is wasting time. he rode in here last night after killing old dan baggs. your estimable nephew barney is with him, and karg is with him, and i want them; but, in especial and particular, i want du sang." rebstock denied, protested, wheezed, and stormed, but whispering smith was immovable. he would not stir from the cache upon any promises. rebstock offered to surrender any one else in the cache--hinted strongly at two different men for whom handsome rewards were out; but every compromise suggested was met with the same good-natured words: "i want du sang." at last the smile changed on whispering smith's face. it lighted his eyes still, but with a different expression. "see here, rebstock, you and i have always got along, haven't we? i've no desire to crowd any man to the wall that is a man. now i am going to tell you the simple truth. du sang has got you scared to death. that man is a faker, rebstock. because he kills men right and left without any provocation, you think he is dangerous. he isn't; there are a dozen men in the cache just as good with a gun as du sang is. don't shake your head. i know what i'm talking about. he is a jay with a gun, and you may tell him i said so; do you hear? tell him to come out if he wants me to demonstrate it. he has got everybody, including you, scared to death. now, i say, don't be silly. i want du sang." rebstock rose to his feet solemnly and pointed his finger at whispering smith. "whispering smith, you know me--" "i know you for a fat rascal." "that's all right. you know me, and, just as you say, we always get along because we both got sense." "you're hiding yours to-day, rebstock." "no matter; i'll tell you what i'll do. i'll give you all the horseflesh you can kill and all the men you can hire to go after him, and i'll bury your dead myself. you think he can't shoot? i give you a tip on the square." whispering smith snorted. "he'll shoot the four buttons off your coat in four shots." smith kicked rebstock's dog contemptuously. "and do it while you are falling down. i've seen him do it," persisted rebstock, moist with perspiration. "i'm not looking for a chance to go against a sure thing; i wash my hands of the job." whispering smith rose. "it was no trick to see he had you scared to death. you are losing your wits, old man. the albino is a faker, and i tell you i am going to run him out of the country." whispering smith reached for his hat. "our treaty ends right here. you promised to harbor no man in your sink that ever went against our road. you know as well as i do that this man, with four others, held up our train night before last at tower w, shot our engineman to death for mere delight, killed a messenger, took sixty-five thousand dollars out of the through safe, and made his good get-away. now, don't lie; you know every word of it, and you thought you could pull it out of me by a bluff. i track him to your door. he is inside the cache this minute. you know every curve and canyon and pocket and washout in it, and every cut-throat and jail-bird in it, and they pay you blood-money and hush-money every month; and when i ask you not to give up a dozen men the company is entitled to, but merely to send this pink-eyed lobster out with his guns to talk with me, you wash your hands of the job, do you? now listen. if you don't send du sang into the open before noon to-morrow, i'll run every living steer and every living man out of williams cache before i cross the crawling stone again, so help me god! and i'll send for cowboys within thirty minutes to begin the job. i'll scrape your deep creek canyons till the rattlesnakes squeal. i'll make williams cache so wild that a timber-wolf can't follow his own trail through it. you'll break with me, will you, rebstock? then wind up your bank account; before i finish with you i'll put you in stripes and feed buzzards off your table." rebstock's face was apoplectic. he choked with a torrent of oaths. whispering smith, paying no attention, walked out to where kennedy was waiting. he swung into the saddle, ignoring rebstock's abjurations, and with kennedy rode away. "it is hard to do anything with a man that is scared to death," said smith to his companion. "then, too, rebstock's nephew is probably in this. in any case, when du sang has got rebstock scared, he is a dangerous man to be abroad. we have got to smoke him out, farrell. lance dunning insisted the other day he wanted to do me a favor. i'll see if he'll lend me stormy gorman and some of his cowpunchers for a round-up. we've got to smoke du sang out. a round-up is the thing. but, by heaven, if that round-up is actually pulled off it will be a classic when you and i are gone." thirty minutes afterward, messengers had taken the frenchman trail for lance dunning's cowboys. chapter xxx the fight in the cache a clear night and a good moon made a long ride possible, and the crawling stone contingent, headed by stormy gorman, began coming into the railroad camp by three o'clock the next morning. with them rode the two youngs, who had lost the trail they followed across goose river and joined the cowboys on the road to the north. the party divided under kennedy and smith, who rode through the door into the cache just before daybreak. "i don't know what i am steering you against this morning, farrell," said whispering smith. "certainly i should hate to run you into du sang, but we can't tell where we shall strike him. if we have laid out the work right i ought to see him as soon as anybody does. accidents do happen, but remember he will never be any more dangerous than he is at the first moment. get him to talk. he gets nervous if he can't shoot right away. when you pull, get a bullet into his stomach at the start, if you possibly can, to spoil his aim. we mustn't make the mistake of underestimating him. rebstock is right: he is a fright with a revolver, and sinclair and seagrue are the only men in the mountains that can handle a rifle with him. now we split here; and good luck!" "don't you want to take brill young with you?" "you take both the youngs, farrell. we shall be among rocks, and if he tries to rush us there is cover." stormy gorman with four crawling stone cowboys followed whispering smith. every rider on the range had a grievance against williams cache, and any of them would have been glad to undertake reprisals against the rustlers under the wing of whispering smith. just how in the mountains--without telegraph, newspapers, and all ordinary means of publicity--news travels so fast may not certainly be said. the scattered lines of telephone wires help, but news outstrips the wires. moreover, there are no telephones in the mission mountains. but on the morning that the round-up party rode into the cache it was known in the streets of medicine bend that the tower w men had been tracked into the north country; that some, if not all, of them were in williams cache; that an ultimatum had been given, and that whispering smith and kennedy had already ridden in with their men to make it good. whispering smith, with the cowboys, took the rough country to the left, and kennedy and his party took the south prong of the cache creek. the instructions were to make a clean sweep as the line advanced. behind the centre rode three men to take stock driven in from the wings. word that was brief but reasonable had been sent everywhere ahead. every man, it was promised, that could prove property should have a chance to do so at the door that day and the next; but any brands that showed stolen cattle, or that had been skinned or tampered with in any way, were to be turned over to the stock association for the benefit of owners. the very first pocket raided started a row and uncovered eighty head of five-year-old steers bearing a mutilated duck bar brand. it was like poking at rattlesnakes to undertake to clean out the grassy retreats of the cache, but the work was pushed on in spite of protests, threats, and resistance. every man that rode out openly to make a protest was referred calmly to rebstock, and before very long rebstock's cabin had more men around it than had been seen together in the cache for years. the impression that the whole jig was up, and that the refugees had been sold out by their own boss, was one that no railroad man undertook to discourage. the cowboys insisted on the cattle, with the assurance that rebstock could explain everything. by noon the cache was in an uproar. the cowboys were riding carefully, and their guards, rifles in hand, were watching the corners. ahead of the slowly moving line with the growing bunch of cattle behind it, flourished as it were rather conspicuously, fugitive riders dashed back and forth with curses and yells across the narrow valley. if it had been whispering smith's intention to raise a large-sized row it was apparent that he had been successful. rebstock, driven to desperation, held council after council to determine what to do. sorties were discussed, ambushes considered, and a pitched battle was planned. but, while ideas were plentiful, no one aspired to lead an attack on whispering smith. moreover, williams cache, it was conceded, would in the end be worsted if the company and the cowmen together seriously undertook with men and unlimited money to clean it out. whispering smith's party had no explanation to offer for the round-up, but when rebstock made it known that the fight was over sending out du sang, the rage of the rustlers turned on du sang. again, however, no man wanted to take up personally with du sang the question of the reasonableness of whispering smith's demand. instead of doing so, they fell on rebstock and demanded that if he were boss he make good and send du sang out. of all this commotion the railroad men saw only the outward indications. as the excitement grew on both sides there was perhaps a little more of display in the way the cattle were run in, especially when some long-lost bunch was brought to light and welcomed with yells from the centre. a steer was killed at noon, everybody fed, and the line moved forward. the wind, which had slept in the sunshine of the morning, rose in the afternoon, and the dust whirled in little clouds where men or animals moved. from the centre two men had gone back with the cattle gathered up to that time, and bill dancing, with smith, stormy gorman, and two of the cowboys, were heading a draw to cross to the north side of the cache, when three men rode out into the road five hundred yards ahead, and halted. whispering smith spoke: "there come our men; stop here. this ground in front of us looks good to me; they may have chosen something over there that suits them better. feel your guns and we'll start forward slowly; don't take your eyes off the bunch, whatever you do. bill, you go back and help the men with the cattle; there will be four of us against three then." "not for mine!" said bill dancing bluntly. "you may need help from an old fool yet. i'll see you through this and look after the cattle afterward." "then, stormy, one or two of you go back," urged whispering smith, speaking to the cowboy foreman without turning his eyes. "there's no need of five of us in this." but stormy swore violently. "you go back yourself," exclaimed stormy, when he could control his feelings. "we'll bring them fellows in for you in ten minutes with their hands in the air." "i know you would; i know it. but i'm paid for this sort of thing and you are not, and i advise no man to take unnecessary chances. if you all want to stay, why, stay; but don't ride ahead of the line, and let me do all the talking. see that your guns are loose--you'll never have but one chance to pull, and don't pull till you're ready. the albino is riding in the middle now, isn't he? and a little back, playing for a quick drop. watch him. who is that on the right? can it be george seagrue? well, this is a bunch. and i guess karg is with them." holding their horses to a slow walk, the two parties gingerly approached each other. when the cache riders halted the railroad riders halted; and when the three rode the five rode: but the three rode with absolute alignment and acted as one, while whispering smith had trouble in holding his men back until the two lines were fifty feet apart. by this time the youngest of the cowboys had steadied and was thinking hard. whispering smith halted. in perfect order and sitting their horses as if they were riding parade, the horses ambling at a snail's pace, the cache riders advanced in the sunshine like one man. when du sang and his companions reined up, less than twelve feet separated the two lines. in his tan shirt, du sang, with his yellow hair, his white eyelashes, and his narrow face, was the least impressive of the three men. the norwegian, seagrue, rode on the right, his florid blood showing under the tan on his neck and arms. he spoke to the cowboys from the ranch, and on the left the young fellow karg, with the broken nose, black-eyed and alert, looked the men over in front of him and nodded to dancing. du sang and his companions wore short-armed shirts; rifles were slung at their pommels, and revolvers stuck in their hip-scabbards. whispering smith, in his dusty suit of khaki, was the only man in either line who showed no revolver, but a hammerless or muley savage rifle hung beside his pommel. du sang, blinking, spoke first: "which of you fellows is heading this round-up?" "i am heading the round-up," said whispering smith. "why? have we got some of your cattle?" the two men spoke as quietly as school-teachers. whispering smith's expression in no way changed, except that as he spoke he lifted his eyebrows a little more than usual. du sang looked at him closely as he went on: "what kind of a way is this to treat anybody? to ride into a valley like this and drive a man's cows away from his door without notice or papers? is your name smith?" "my name is smith; yours is du sang. yes, i'll tell you, du sang. i carry an inspector's card from the mountain stock association--do you want to see it? when we get these cattle to the door, any man in the cache may come forward and prove his property. i shall leave instructions to that effect when we go, for i want you to go to medicine bend with me, du sang, as soon as convenient, and the men that are with me will finish the round-up." "what do you want me for? there's no papers out against me, is there?" "no, but i'm an officer, du sang. i'll see to the papers; i want you for murder." "so they tell me. well, you're after the wrong man. but i'll go with you; i don't care about that." "neither do i, du sang; and as you have some friends along, i won't break up the party. they may come, too." "what for?" "for stopping a train at tower w saturday night." the three men looked at one another and laughed. du sang with an oath spoke again: "the men you want are in canada by this time. i can't speak for my friends; i don't know whether they want to go or not. as far as i am concerned, i haven't killed anybody that i know of. i suppose you'll pay my expenses back?" "why, yes, du sang, if you were coming back i would pay your expenses; but you are not coming back. you are riding down williams cache for the last time; you've ridden down it too many times already. this round-up is especially for you. don't deceive yourself; when you ride with me this time out of the cache, you won't come back." du sang laughed, but his blinking eyes were as steady as a cat's. it did not escape whispering smith's notice that the mettlesome horses ridden by the outlaws were continually working around to the right of his party. he spoke amiably to karg: "if you can't manage that horse, karg, i can. play fair. it looks to me as if you and du sang were getting ready to run for it, and leave george seagrue to shoot his way through alone." du sang, with some annoyance, intervened: "that's all right; i'll go with you. i'd rather see your papers, but if you're whispering smith it's all right. i'm due to shoot out a little game sometime with you at medicine bend, anyway." "any time, du sang; only don't let your hand wabble next time. it's too close to your gun now to pull right." "well, i told you i was going to come, didn't i? and i'm coming--now!" with the last word he whipped out his gun. there was a crash of bullets. questioned once by mccloud and reproached for taking chances, whispering smith answered simply. "i have to take chances," he said. "all i ask is an even break." but kennedy had said there was no such thing as an even break with whispering smith. a few men in a generation amuse, baffle, and mystify other men with an art based on the principle that the action of the hand is quicker than the action of the eye. with whispering smith the drawing of a revolver and the art of throwing his shots instantly from wherever his hand rested was pure sleight-of-hand. to a dexterity so fatal he added a judgment that had not failed when confronted with deceit. from the moment that du sang first spoke, smith, convinced that he meant to shoot his way through the line, waited only for the moment to come. when du sang's hand moved like a flash of light, whispering smith, who was holding his coat lapels in his hands, struck his pistol from the scabbard over his heart and threw a bullet at him before he could fire, as a conjurer throws a vanishing coin into the air. spurring his horse fearfully as he did so, he dashed at du sang and karg, leaped his horse through their line and, wheeling at arm's length, shot again. bill dancing jumped in his saddle, swayed, and toppled to the ground. stormy gorman gave a single whoop at the spectacle and, with his two cowboys at his heels, fled for life. [illustration: wheeling at arm's length, shot again.] more serious than all, smith found himself among three fast revolvers, working from an unmanageable horse. the beast tried to follow the fleeing cowboys, and when faced sharply about showed temper. the trained horses of the outlaws stood like statues, but smith had to fight with his horse bucking at every shot. he threw his bullets as best he could first over one shoulder and then over the other, and used the last cartridge in his revolver with du sang, seagrue, and karg shooting at him every time they could fire without hitting one another. it was not the first time the williams cache gang had sworn to get him and had worked together to do it, but for the first time it looked as if they might do it. a single chance was left to whispering smith for his life, and with his coat slashed with bullets, he took it. for an instant his life hung on the success of a trick so appallingly awkward that a cleverer man might have failed in turning it. if his rifle should play free in the scabbard as he reached for it, he could fall to the ground, releasing it as he plunged from the saddle, and make a fight on his feet. if the rifle failed to release he was a dead man. to so narrow an issue are the cleverest combinations sometimes brought by chance. he dropped his empty revolver, ducked like a mud-hen on his horse's neck, threw back his leg, and, with all the precision he could summon, caught the grip of his muley in both hands. he made his fall heavily to the ground, landing on his shoulder. but as he keeled from the saddle the last thing that rolled over the saddle, like the flash of a porpoise fin, was the barrel of the rifle, secure in his hands. karg, on horseback, was already bending over him, revolver in hand, but the shot was never fired. a thirty-thirty bullet from the ground knocked the gun into the air and tore every knuckle from karg's hand. du sang spurred in from the right. a rifle-slug like an axe at the root caught him through the middle. his fingers stiffened. his six-shooter fell to the ground and he clutched his side. seagrue, ducking low, put spurs to his horse, and whispering smith, covered with dust, rose on the battle-field alone. hats, revolvers, and coats lay about him. face downward, the huge bulk of bill dancing was stretched motionless in the road. karg, crouching beside his fallen horse, held up the bloody stump of his gun hand, and du sang, fifty yards away, reeling like a drunken man in his saddle, spurred his horse in an aimless circle. whispering smith, running softly to the side of his own trembling animal, threw himself into the saddle, and, adjusting his rifle sights as the beast plunged down the draw, gave chase to seagrue. chapter xxxi the death of du sang whispering smith, with his horse in a lather, rode slowly back twenty minutes later with seagrue disarmed ahead of him. the deserted battle-ground was alive with men. stormy gorman, hot for blood, had come back, captured karg, and begun swearing all over again, and smith listened with amiable surprise while he explained that seeing dancing killed, and not being able to tell from whispering smith's peculiar tactics which side he was shooting at, gorman and his companions had gone for help. while they angrily surrounded karg and seagrue, smith slipped from his horse where bill dancing lay, lifted the huge head from the dust, and tried to turn the giant over. a groan greeted the attempt. "bill, open your eyes! why would you not do as i wanted you to?" he murmured bitterly to himself. a second groan answered him. smith called for water, and from a canteen drenched the pallid forehead, talking softly meanwhile; but his efforts to restore consciousness were unavailing. he turned to where two of the cowboys had dragged karg to the ground and three others had their old companion seagrue in hand. while two held huge revolvers within six inches of his head, the third was adjusting a rope-knot under his ear. whispering smith became interested. "hold on!" said he mildly, "what is loose? what are you going to do?" "we're going to hang these fellows," answered stormy, with a volley of hair-raising imprecations. "oh, no! just put them on horses under guard." "that's what we're going to do," exclaimed the foreman. "only we're going to run 'em over to those cottonwoods and drive the horses out from under 'em. stand still, you tow-headed cow-thief!" he cried, slipping the noose up tight on george seagrue's neck. "see here," returned whispering smith, showing some annoyance, "you may be joking, but i am not. either do as i tell you or release those men." "well, i guess we are not joking very much. you heard me, didn't you?" demanded stormy angrily. "we are going to string these damned critters up right here in the draw on the first tree." whispering smith drew a pocket-knife and walked to flat nose, slit the rope around his neck, pushed him out of the circle, and stood in front of him. "you can't play horse with my prisoners," he said curtly. "get over here, karg. come, now, who is going to walk in first? you act like a school-boy, gorman." hard words and a wrangle followed, but smith did not change expression, and there was a backdown. "have you fellows let du sang get away while you were playing fool here?" he asked. "du sang's over the hill there on his horse, and full of fight yet," exclaimed one. "then we will look him up," suggested smith. "come, seagrue." "don't go over there. he'll get you if you do," cried gorman. "let us see about that. seagrue, you and karg walk ahead. don't duck or run, either of you. go on." just over the brow of the hill near which the fight had taken place, a man lay below a ledge of granite. the horse from which he had fallen was grazing close by, but the man had dragged himself out of the blinding sun to the shade of the sagebrush above the rock--the trail of it all lay very plain on the hard ground. watching him narrowly, smith, with his prisoners ahead and the cowboys riding in a circle behind, approached. "du sang?" the man in the sagebrush turned his head. smith walked to him and bent down. "are you suffering much, du sang?" the wounded man, sinking with shock and internal hemorrhage, uttered a string of oaths. smith listened quietly till he had done; then he knelt beside him and put his hand on du sang's hand. "tell me where you are hit, du sang. put your hand to it. is it the stomach? let me turn you on your side. easy. does your belt hurt? just a minute, now; i can loosen that." "i know you," muttered du sang thickly. then his eyes--terrible, rolling, pink eyes--brightened and he swore violently. "du sang, you are not bleeding much, but i'm afraid you are badly hit," said whispering smith. "is there anything i can do for you?" "get me some water." a creek flowed at no great distance below the hill, but the cowboys refused to go for water. whispering smith would have gone with seagrue and karg, but du sang begged him not to leave him alone lest gorman should kill him. smith canvassed the situation a moment. "i'll put you on my horse," said he at length, "and take you down to the creek." he turned to the cowboys and asked them to help, but they refused to touch du sang. whispering smith kept his patience. "karg, take that horse's head," said he. "come here, seagrue; help me lift du sang on the horse. the boys seem to be afraid of getting blood on their hands." with whispering smith and seagrue supporting du sang in the saddle and karg leading the horse, the cavalcade moved slowly down to the creek, where a tiny stream purled among the rocks. the water revived the injured man for a moment; he had even strength enough, with some help, to ride again; and, moving in the same halting order, they took him to rebstock's cabin. rebstock, at the door, refused to let the sinking man be brought into the house. he cursed du sang as the cause of all the trouble. but du sang cursed him with usury, and, while whispering smith listened, told rebstock with bitter oaths that if he had given the boy barney anything but a scrub horse they never would have been trailed. more than this concerning the affair du sang would not say, and never said. the procession turned from the door. seagrue led the way to rebstock's stable, and they laid du sang on some hay. afterward they got a cot under him. with surprising vitality he talked a long time to whispering smith, but at last fell into a stupor. at nine o'clock that night he sat up. ed banks and kennedy were standing beside the cot. du sang became delirious, and in his delirium called the name of whispering smith; but smith was at baggs's cabin with bill dancing. in a spasm of pain, du sang, opening his eyes, suddenly threw himself back. the cot broke, and the dying man rolled under the feet of the frightened horses. in the light of the lanterns they lifted him back, but he was bleeding slowly at the mouth, quite dead. the surgeon, afterward, found two fatal wounds upon him. the first shot, passing through the stomach, explained du sang's failure to kill at a distance in which, uninjured, he could have placed five shots within the compass of a silver dollar. firing for whispering smith's heart, he had, despite the fearful shock, put four bullets through his coat before the rifle-ball from the ground, tearing at right angles across the path of the first bullet, had cut down his life to a question of hours. bill dancing, who had been hit in the head and stunned, had been moved back to the cabin at mission spring, and lay in the little bedroom. a doctor at oroville had been sent for, but had not come. at midnight of the second day, smith, who was beside his bed, saw him rouse up, and noted the brightness of his eyes as he looked around. "bill," he declared hopefully, as he sat beside the bed, "you are better, hang it! i know you are. how do you feel?" "ain't that blamed doctor here yet? then give me my boots. i'm going back to medicine bend to doc torpy." in the morning whispering smith, who had cleansed and dressed the wound and felt sure the bullet had not penetrated the skull, offered no objection to the proposal beyond cautioning him to ride slowly. "you can go down part way with the prisoners, bill," suggested whispering smith. "brill young is going to take them to oroville, and you can act as chairman of the guard." before the party started, smith called seagrue to him. "george, you saved my life once. do you remember--in the pan handle? well, i gave you yours twice in the cache day before yesterday. i don't know how badly you are into this thing. if you kept clear of the killing at tower w i will do what i can for you. don't talk to anybody." chapter xxxii mcloud and dicksie news of the fight in williams cache reached medicine bend in the night. horsemen, filling in the gaps between telephones leading to the north country, made the circuit complete, but the accounts, confused and colored in the repeating, came in a cloud of conflicting rumors. in the streets, little groups of men discussed the fragmentary reports as they came from the railroad offices. toward morning, sleepy cat, nearer the scene of the fight, began sending in telegraphic reports in which truth and rumor were strangely mixed. mccloud waited at the wires all night, hoping for trustworthy advices as to the result, but received none. even during the morning nothing came, and the silence seemed more ominous than the bad news of the early night. routine business was almost suspended and mccloud and rooney lee kept the wires warm with inquiries, but neither the telephone nor the telegraph would yield any definite word as to what had actually happened in the williams cache fight. it was easy to fear the worst. at the noon hour mccloud was signing letters when dicksie dunning walked hurriedly up the hall and hesitated in the passageway before the open door of his office. he gave an exclamation as he pushed back his chair. she was in her riding-suit just as she had slipped from her saddle. "oh, mr. mccloud, have you heard the awful news? whispering smith was killed yesterday in williams cache by du sang." mccloud stiffened a little. "i hope that can't be true. we have had nothing here but rumors; perhaps it is these that you have heard." "no, no! blake, one of our men, was in the fight and got back at the ranch at nine o'clock this morning. i heard the story myself, and i rode right in to--to see marion, and my courage failed me--i came here first. does she know, do you think? blake saw him fall from the saddle after he was shot, and everybody ran away, and du sang and two other men were firing at him as he lay on the ground. he could not possibly have escaped with his life, blake said; he must have been riddled with bullets. isn't it terrible?" she sobbed suddenly, and mccloud, stunned at her words, led her to his chair and bent over her. "if his death means this to you, think of what it means to me!" a flood of sympathy bore them together. the moment was hardly one for interruption, but the despatcher's door opened and rooney lee halted, thunderstruck, on the threshold. dicksie's hand disappeared in her handkerchief. mccloud had been in wrecks before, and gathered himself together unmoved. "what is it, rooney?" the very calmness of the two at the table disconcerted the despatcher. he held the message in his hand and shuffled his feet. "give me your despatch," said mccloud impatiently. quite unable to take his hollow eyes off dicksie, poor rooney advanced, handed the telegram to mccloud, and beat an awkward retreat. mccloud devoured the words of the message at a glance. "ah!" he cried, "this is from gordon himself, sent from sleepy cat. he must be safe and unhurt! listen: "three of the tower w men trailed into williams cache. in resisting arrest this morning, du sang was wounded and is dying to-night. two prisoners, karg and seagrue. g. s. "those are gordon's initials; it is the signature over which he telegraphs me. you see, this was sent last night long after blake left. he is safe; i will stake my life on it." dicksie sank back while mccloud re-read the message. "oh, isn't that a relief?" she exclaimed. "but how can it be? i can't understand it at all; but he _is_ safe, isn't he? i was heartbroken when i heard he was killed. marion ought to know of this," she said, rising. "i am going to tell her." "and may i come over after i tell rooney lee to repeat this to headquarters?" "why, of course, if you want to." when mccloud reached the cottage dicksie met him. "katie dancing's mother is sick, and she has gone home. poor marion is all alone this morning, and half dead with a sick headache," said dicksie. "but i told her, and she said she shouldn't mind the headache now at all." "but what are you going to do?" "i am going to get dinner; do you want to help?" "i'm going to help." "oh, you are? that would be very funny." "funny or not, i'm going to help." "you would only be in the way." "you don't know whether i should or not." "i know _i_ should do much better if you would go back and run the railroad a few minutes." "the railroad be hanged. i am for dinner." "but i will get dinner for you." "you need not. i can get it for myself." "you are perfectly absurd, and if we stand here disputing, marion won't have anything to eat." they went into the kitchen disputing about what should be cooked. at the end of an hour they had two fires going--one in the stove and one in dicksie's cheeks. by that time it had been decided to have a luncheon instead of a dinner. dicksie attempted some soup, and mccloud found a strip of bacon, and after he had cooked it, dicksie, with her riding-skirt pinned up and her sleeves delightfully rolled back, began frying eggs. when marion, unable longer to withstand the excitement, appeared, the engineer, flushed with endeavor, was making toast. the three sat down at table together. they found they had forgotten the coffee, but marion was not allowed to move from her chair. when the coffee was made ready the bacon had been eaten and more had to be fried. mccloud proved able for any part of the programme, and when they rose it was four o'clock and too late, mccloud declared, to go back to the office that afternoon. marion and dicksie, after a time, attempted jointly to get rid of him, but they found they could not, so the three talked about whispering smith. when the women tried to discourage mccloud by talking hats he played the wheezy piano, and when dicksie spoke about going home he declared he would ride home with her. but dicksie had no mind that he should, and when he asked to know why, without realizing what a flush lingered in his face, she said only, no; if she had reasons she would give none. mccloud persisted, because under the flush about his eyes was the resolve that he would take one long ride that evening, in any event. he had made up his mind for that ride--a longer one than he had ever taken before or expected ever to take again--and would not be balked. dicksie, insisting upon going home, went so far as to have her horse brought from the stable. to her surprise, a horse for mccloud came over with it. quiet to the verge of solemnity, but with mccloud following, dicksie walked with admirable firmness out of the shop to the curb. mccloud gave her rein to her, and with a smile stood waiting to help her mount. she was drawing on her second glove. "you are not going with me." "you'll let me ride the same road, won't you--even if i can't keep up?" dicksie looked at his mount. "it would be difficult to keep up, with that horse." "would you ride away from me just because you have a better horse?" "no, not _just_ because i have a better horse." he looked steadily at her without speaking. "why must you ride home with me when i don't want you to?" she asked reproachfully. fear had come upon her and she did not know what she was saying. she saw only the expression of his eyes and looked away, but she knew that his eyes followed her. the sun had set. the deserted street lay in the white half-light of a mountain evening, and the day's radiance was dying in the sky. in lower tones he spoke again, and she turned deadly white. "i've wanted so long to say this, dicksie, that i might as well be dead as to try to keep it back any longer. that's why i want to ride home with you if you are going to let me." he turned to stroke her horse's head. dicksie stood seemingly helpless. mccloud slipped his finger into his waistcoat pocket and held something out in his hand. "this shell pin fell from your hair that night you were at camp by the bridge--do you remember? i couldn't bear to give it back." dicksie's eyes opened wide. "let me see it. i don't think that is mine." "great heaven! have i been carrying marion sinclair's pin for a month?" exclaimed mccloud. "well, i won't lose any time in returning it to her, at any rate." "where are you going?" dicksie's voice was faint. "i'm going to give marion her pin." "do nothing of the sort! come here! give it to me." "dicksie, dare you tell me, after a shock like that, it really _is_ your pin?" "oh, i don't know whose pin it is!" "why, what is the matter?" "give me the pin!" she put her hands unsteadily up under her hat. "here, for heaven's sake, if you must have something, take this comb!" she slipped from her head the shell that held her knotted hair. he caught her hand and kissed it, and she could not get it away. "you are dear," murmured dicksie, "if you are silly. the reason i wouldn't let you ride home with me is because i was afraid you might get shot. how do you suppose i should feel if you were killed? or don't you think i have any feeling?" "but, dicksie, is it all right?" "how do i know? what do you mean? i will not let you ride home with me, and you _will_ not let me ride home alone. tie jim again. i am going to stay with marion all night." chapter xxxiii the laugh of a woman within an hour, marion, working over a hat in the trimming-room, was startled to hear the cottage door open, and to see dicksie quite unconcernedly walk in. to marion's exclamation of surprise she returned only a laugh. "i have changed my mind, dear. i am going to stay all night." marion kissed her approvingly. "really, you are getting so sensible i shan't know you, dicksie. in fact, i believe this is the most sensible thing you were ever guilty of." "glad you think so," returned dicksie dryly, unpinning her hat. "i certainly hope it is. mr. mccloud persuaded me it wasn't right for me to ride home alone, and i knew better than he what danger there was for him in riding home with me--so here i am. he is coming over for supper, too, in a few minutes." when mccloud arrived he brought with him a porterhouse steak, and marion was again driven from the kitchen. at the end of an hour, dicksie, engrossed over the broiler, was putting the finishing touches to the steak, and mccloud, more engrossed, was watching her, when a diffident and surprised-looking person appeared in the kitchen doorway and put his hand undecidedly on the casing. while he stood, dicksie turned abruptly to mccloud. "oh, by the way, i have forgotten something! will you do me a favor?" "certainly! do you want money or a pass?" "no, not money," said dicksie, lifting the steak on her forks, "though you might give me a pass." "but i should hate to have you go away anywhere----" "i don't want to go anywhere, but i never had a pass, and i think it would be kind of nice to have one just to keep. don't you?" "why, yes; you might put it in the bank and have it drawing interest." "this steak is. do they give interest on passes?" "well, a good deal of interest is felt in them--on this division at least. what is the favor?" "yes, what is it? how can i think? oh, i know! if they don't put jim in a box stall to-night he will kill some of the horses over there. will you telephone the stables?" "won't you give me the number and let me telephone?" asked a voice behind them. they turned in astonishment and saw whispering smith. "i am surprised," he added calmly, "to see a man of your intelligence, george, trying to broil a steak with the lower door of your stove wide open. close the lower door and cut out the draft through the fire. don't stare, george; put back the broiler. and haven't you made a radical mistake to start with?" he asked, stepping between the confused couple. "are you not trying to broil a roast of beef?" "where did you come from?" demanded mccloud, as marion came in from the dining-room. "don't search me the very first thing," protested whispering smith. "but we've been frightened to death here for twenty-four hours. are you really alive and unhurt? this young lady rode in twenty miles this morning and came to the office in tears to get news of you." smith looked mildly at dicksie. "did you shed a tear for me? i should like to have seen just one! where did i come from? i reported in wild over the telephone ten minutes ago. didn't marion tell you? she is so forgetful. that is what causes wrecks, marion. i have been in the saddle since three o'clock this morning, thank you, and have had nothing for five days but raw steer garnished with sunshine." the four sat down to supper, and whispering smith began to talk. he told the story of the chase to the cache, the defiance from rebstock, and the tardy appearance of the men he wanted. "du sang meant to shoot his way through us and make a dash for it. there really was nothing else for him to do. banks and kennedy were up above, even if he could have ridden out through the upper canyon, which is very doubtful with all the water now. after a little talk back and forth, du sang drew, and of course then it was every man for himself. he was hit twice and he died sunday night, but the other two were not seriously hurt. what can you do? it is either kill or get killed with those fellows, and, of course, i talked plainly to du sang. he had butchered a man at mission springs just the night before, and deserved hanging a dozen times over. he meant from the start, he told me afterward, to get me. oh, miss dunning, may i have some more coffee? haven't i an agreeable part of the railroad business, don't you think? i shouldn't have pushed in here to-night, but i saw the lights when i rode by awhile ago; they looked so good i couldn't resist." mccloud leaned forward. "you call it pushing in, do you, gordon? do you know what this young lady did this morning? one of her cowboys came down from the cache early with the word that you had been killed in the fight by du sang. he said he saw you drop from your saddle to the ground with du sang shooting at you. she ordered up her horse, without a word, and rode twenty miles in an hour and a half to find out here what we had heard. she 'pushed in' at the wickiup, where she never had been before in her life, and wandered through it alone looking for my office, to find out from me whether i hadn't something to contradict the bad news. while we talked, in came your despatch from sleepy cat. never was one better timed! and when she knew you were safe her eyes filled again." whispering smith looked at dicksie quizzically. her confusion was delightful. he rose, lifted her hand in his own, and, bending, kissed it. they talked till late, and when dicksie walked out on the porch mccloud followed to smoke. whispering smith still sat at the table talking to marion, and the two heard the sound of the low voices outside. at intervals dicksie's laugh came in through the open door. whispering smith, listening, said nothing for some time, but once she laughed peculiarly. he pricked up his ears. "what has been happening since i left town?" "what do you mean?" asked marion sinclair. he nodded toward the porch. "mccloud and dicksie out there. they have been fixing things up." "nonsense! what do you mean?" "i mean they are engaged." "never in the world!" "i may be slow in reading a trail," said smith modestly, "but when a woman laughs like that i think there's something doing. don't you believe it? call them in and ask them. you won't? well, i will. take them in separate rooms. you ask her and i'll ask him." in spite of marion's protests the two were brought in. "i am required by mr. smith to ask you a very silly question, dicksie," said marion, taking her into the living-room. "answer yes or no. are you engaged to anybody?" "what a question! why, no!" "marion sinclair wants to know just one thing, george," said whispering smith to mccloud after he had taken him into the dark shop. "she feels she ought to know because she is in a way dicksie's chaperone, you know, and she feels that you are willing she should know. i don't want to be too serious, but answer yes or no. are you engaged to dicksie?" "why, yes. i----" "that's all; go back to the porch," directed whispering smith. mccloud obeyed orders. marion, alone in the living-room, was waiting for the inquisitor, and her face wore a look of triumph. "you are not such a mind-reader after all, are you? i told you they weren't." "i told you they were," contended whispering smith. "she says they are _not_," insisted marion. "he says they are," returned whispering smith, "and, what's more, i'll bet my saddle against the shop they are. i could be mistaken in anything but that laugh." chapter xxxiv a midnight visit the lights, but one, were out. mccloud and whispering smith had gone, and marion was locking up the house for the night, when she was halted by a knock at the shop door. it was a summons that she thought she knew, but the last in the world that she wanted to hear or to answer. dicksie had gone to the bedroom, and standing between the portières that curtained the work-room from the shop, marion in the half-light listened, hesitating whether to ignore or to answer the midnight intruder. but experience, and bitter experience, had taught her there was only one way to meet that particular summons, and that was to act, whether at noon or at midnight, without fear. she waited until the knocking had been twice repeated, turned up the light, and going to the door drew the bolt; sinclair stood before her, and she drew back for him to enter. "dicksie dunning is with me to-night," said marion, with her hand on the latch, "and we shall have to talk here." sinclair took off his hat. "i knew you had company," he returned in the low, gentle tone that marion knew very well, "so i came late. and i heard to-night, for the first time, that this railroad crowd is after me--god knows why; but they have to earn their salary somehow. i want to keep out of trouble if i can. i won't kill anybody if they don't force me to it. they've scared nearly all my men away from the ranch already; one crippled-up cowboy is all i have got to help me look after the cattle. but i won't quarrel with them, marion, if i can get away from here peaceably, so i've come to talk it over once more with you. i'm going away and i want you to go with me; i've got enough to keep us as well as the best of them and as long as we live. you've given me a good lesson. i needed it, girlie----" "don't call me that!" he laughed kindly. "why, that's what it used to be; that's what i want it to be again. i don't blame you. you're worth all the women i ever knew, marion. i've learned to appreciate some few things in the lonely months i've spent up on the frenchman; but i've felt while i was there as if i were working for both of us. i've got a buyer in sight now for the cattle and the land. i'm ready to clean up and say good-by to trouble--all i want is for you to give me the one chance i've asked for and go along." they stood facing each other under the dim light. she listened intently to every word, though in her terror she might not have heard or understood all of them. one thing she did very clearly understand, and that was why he had come and what he wanted. to that she held her mind tenaciously, and for that she shaped her answer. "i cannot go with you--now or ever." he waited a moment. "we always got along, marion, when i behaved myself." "i hope you always will behave yourself; but i could no more go with you than i could make myself again what i was years ago, murray. i wish you nothing but good; but our ways parted long ago." "stop and think a minute, marion. i offer you more and offer it more honestly than i ever offered it before, because i know myself better. i am alone in the world--strong, and better able to care for you than i was when i undertook to----" "i have never complained." "that's what makes me more anxious to show you now that i can and will do what's right." "oh, you multiply words! it is too late for you to be here. you are in danger, you say; for the love of heaven, leave me and go away!" "you know me, marion, when my mind is made up. i won't leave without you." he leaned with one hand against the ribbon showcase. "if you don't want to go i will stay right here and pay off the scores i owe. two men here have stirred this country up too long, anyway. i don't care much how soon anybody gets me after i round them up. but to-night i felt like this: you and i started out in life together, and we ought to live it out or die together, whether it's to-night, marion, or twenty years from to-night." "if you want to kill me to-night, i have no resistance to make." sinclair sat down on a low counter-stool, and, bending forward, held his head between his hands. "it oughtn't all to end here. i know you, and i know you want to do what's right. i couldn't kill you without killing myself; you know that." he straightened up slowly. "here!" he slipped his revolver from his hip-holster and held the grip of the gun toward her. "use it on me if you want to. it is your chance to end everything; it may save several lives if you do. i won't leave mccloud here to crow over me, and, by god, i won't leave you here for whispering smith! i'll settle with him anyhow. take the pistol! what are you afraid of? take it! use it! i don't want to live without you. if you make me do it, you're to blame for the consequences." she stood with wide-open eyes, but uttered no word. "you won't touch it--then you care a little for me yet," he murmured. "no! do not say so. but i will not do murder." "think about the other, then. go with me and everything will be all right. i will come back some evening soon for my answer. and until then, if those two men have any use for life, let them keep in the clear. i heard to-night that du sang is killed. do you know whether it is true?" "it is true." an oath half escaping showed how the confirmation cut him. "and whispering smith got away! it is du sang's own fault; i told him to keep out of that trap. i stay in the open; and i'm not du sang. i'll choose my own ground for the finish when they want it with me, and when i go i'll take company--i'll promise you that. good-night, marion. will you shake hands?" "no." "damn it, i like your grit, girl! well, good-night, anyway." she closed the door. she had even strength enough to bolt it before his footsteps died away. she put out the light and felt her way blindly back to the work-room. she staggered through it, clutching at the curtains, and fell in the darkness into dicksie's arms. "marion dear, don't speak," dicksie whispered. "i heard everything. oh, marion!" she cried, suddenly conscious of the inertness of the burden in her arms. "oh, what shall i do?" moved by fright to her utmost strength, dicksie drew the unconscious woman back to her room and managed to lay her on the bed. marion opened her eyes a few minutes later to see the lights burning, to hear the telephone bell ringing, and to find dicksie on the edge of the bed beside her. "oh, marion, thank heaven, you are reviving! i have been frightened to death. don't mind the telephone; it is mr. mccloud. i didn't know what to do, so i telephoned him." "but you had better answer him," said marion faintly. the telephone bell was ringing wildly. "oh, no! he can wait. how are you, dear? i don't wonder you were frightened to death. marion, he means to kill us--every one!" "no, dicksie. he will kill me and kill himself; that is where it will end. dicksie, do answer the telephone. what are you thinking of? mr. mccloud will be at the door in five minutes. do you want him in the street to-night?" dicksie fled to the telephone, and an excited conference over the wire closed in seeming reassurance at both ends. by that time marion had regained her steadiness, but she could not talk of what had passed. at times, as the two lay together in the darkness, marion spoke, but it was not to be answered. "i do not know," she murmured once wearily. "perhaps i am doing wrong; perhaps i ought to go with him. i wish, oh, i wish i knew what i ought to do!" chapter xxxv the call beyond receiving reports from kennedy and banks, who in the interval rode into town and rode out again on their separate and silent ways, whispering smith for two days seemed to do nothing. yet instinct keener than silence kept the people of medicine bend on edge during those two days, and when president bucks's car came in on the evening of the second day, the town knew from current rumors that banks had gone to the frenchman ranch with a warrant on a serious charge for sinclair. in the president's car bucks and mccloud, after a late dinner, were joined by whispering smith, and the president heard the first connected story of the events of the fortnight that had passed. bucks made no comment until he had heard everything. "and they rode sinclair's horses," he said in conclusion. "sinclair's horses," returned whispering smith, "and they are all accounted for. one horse supplied by rebstock was shot where they crossed stampede creek. it had given out and they had a fresh horse in the willows, for they shot the scrub half a mile up one of the canyons near the crossing. the magpies attracted my attention to it. a piece of skin a foot square had been cut out of the flank." "you got there before the birds." "it was about an even thing," said smith. "anyway, we were there in time to see the horse." "and sinclair was away from the ranch from saturday noon till sunday night?" "a rancher living over on stampede creek saw the five men when they crossed saturday afternoon. the fellow was scared and lied to me about it, but he told wickwire who they were." "now, who is wickwire?" asked bucks. "you ought to remember wickwire, george," remarked whispering smith, turning to mccloud. "you haven't forgotten the smoky creek wreck? do you remember the tramp who had his legs crushed and lay in the sun all morning? you put him in your car and sent him down here to the railroad hospital and barnhardt took care of him. that was wickwire. not a bad fellow, either; he can talk pretty straight and shoot pretty straight. how do i know? because he has told me the story and i've seen him shoot. there, you see, is one friend that you never reckoned on. he used to be a cowboy, and i got him a job working for sinclair on the frenchman; he has worked at dunning's and other places on the crawling stone. he hates sinclair with a deadly hatred for some reason. just lately wickwire set up for himself on little crawling stone." "i have noticed that fellow's ranch," remarked mccloud. "i couldn't leave him at sinclair's," continued whispering smith frankly. "the fellow was on my mind all the time. i felt certain he would kill sinclair or get killed if he stayed there. and then, when i took him away they sprang tower w on me! that is the price, not of having a conscience, for i haven't any, but of listening to the voice that echoes where my conscience used to be," said the railroad man, moving uneasily in his chair. bucks broke the ash from his cigar into the tray on the table. "you are restless to-night, gordon--and it isn't like you, either." "it is in the air. there has been a dead calm for two days. something is due to happen to-night. i wish i could hear from banks; he started with the papers for sinclair's yesterday while i went to oroville to sweat karg. blood-poisoning has set in and it is rather important to us to get a confession. there's a horse!" he stepped to the window. "coming fast, too. now, i wonder--no, he's gone by." five minutes later a messenger came to the car from the wickiup with word that kennedy was looking for whispering smith. bucks, mccloud, and smith left the car together and walked up to mccloud's office. kennedy, sitting on the edge of the table, was tapping his leg nervously with a ruler. "bad news, gordon." "not from ed banks?" "sinclair got him this morning." whispering smith sat down. "go on." "banks and i picked up wickwire on the crawling stone early, and we rode over to the frenchman. wickwire said sinclair had been up at williams cache the day before, and he didn't think he was home. of course i knew the cache was watched and he wouldn't be there long, so ed asked me to stay in the cottonwoods and watch the creek for him. he and wickwire couldn't find anybody home when they got to the ranch-house and they rode down the corral together to look over the horses." whispering smith's hand fell helplessly on the table. "rode down together! for god's sake, why didn't _one_ of them stay at the house?" "sinclair rode out from behind the barn and hit wickwire in the arm before they saw him. banks turned and opened on him, and wickwire ducked for the creek. sinclair put a soft bullet through banks's shoulder--tore it pretty bad, gordon--and made his get-away before wickwire and i could reach the barn again. i got ed on his horse and back to wickwire's, and we sent one of the boys to oroville for a doctor. after banks fell out of the saddle and was helpless sinclair talked to him before i came up. 'you ought to have kept out of this, ed,' he said. 'this is a railroad fight. why didn't they send the head of their own gang after me?'--naming you." kennedy nodded toward whispering smith. "naming me." "banks says, 'i'm sheriff of this county, and will be a long time yet!' i took the papers from his breast pocket," continued kennedy. "you can see where he was hit." kennedy laid the sheriff's packet on the table. bucks drew his chair forward and, with his cigar between his fingers, picked the packet up and opened it. kennedy went on: "ed told sinclair if he couldn't land him himself that he knew a man who could and would before he was a week older. he meant you, gordon, and the last thing ed told me was that he wanted you to serve the papers on sinclair." a silence fell on the company. one of the documents passing under bucks's hand caught his eye and he opened it. it was the warrant for sinclair. he read it without comment, folded it, and, looking at whispering smith, pushed it toward him. "then this, i guess, gordon, belongs to you." starting from a revery, whispering smith reached for the warrant. he looked for a moment at the blood-stained caption. "yes," he said, "this, i guess, belongs to me." chapter xxxvi duty the stir of the town over the shooting of banks seemed to marion, in her distress, to point an accusing finger at her. the disgrace of what she had felt herself powerless to prevent now weighed on her mind, and she asked herself whether, after all, the responsibility of this murder was not upon her. even putting aside this painful doubt, she bore the name of the man who had savagely defied accountability and now, it seemed to her, was dragging her with him through the slough of blood and dishonor into which he had plunged. the wretched thought would return that had she listened to him, had she consented to go away, this outbreak might have been prevented. and what horror might not another day bring--what lives still closer to her life be taken? for herself she cared less; but she knew that sinclair, now that he had begun, would not stop. in whichever way her thoughts turned, wretchedness was upon them, and the day went in one of those despairing and indecisive battles that each one within his own heart must fight at times with heaviness and doubt. mccloud called her over the telephone in the afternoon to say that he was going west on the evening train and would not be over for supper. she wished he could have come, for her loneliness began to be insupportable. toward sunset she put on her hat and started for the post-office. in the meantime, dicksie, at home, had called mccloud up and told him she was coming down for the night. he immediately cancelled his plans for going west, and when marion returned at dusk she found him with dicksie at the cottage. the three had supper. afterward dicksie and mccloud went out for a walk, and marion was alone in the house when the shop door opened and whispering smith walked in. it was dusk. "don't light the lamps, marion," he said, sitting down on a counter-stool as he took off his hat. "i want to talk to you just a minute, if you don't mind. you know what has happened. i am called on now to go after sinclair. i have tried to avoid it, but my hand has been forced. to-day i've been placing horses. i am going to ride to-night with the warrant. i have given him a start of twenty-four hours, hoping he may get out of the country. to stay here means only death to him in the end, and, what is worse, the killing of more and innocent men. but he won't leave the country; do you think he will?" "oh, i do not know! i am afraid he will not." "i do not think i have ever hesitated before at any call of this kind; nor at what such a call will probably sometime mean; but this man i have known since we were boys." "if i had never seen him!" "that brings up another point that has been worrying me all day. i could not help knowing what you have had to go through in this country. it is a tough country for any woman. your people and mine were always close together and i have felt bound to do what i could to----" "don't be afraid to say it--make my path easier." "something like that, though there's been little real doing. what this situation in which sinclair is now placed may still mean to you i do not know, but i would not add a straw to the weight of your troubles. i came to-night to ask a plain question. if he doesn't leave the country i have got to meet him. you know what, in all human probability, that will mean. from such a meeting only one of us can come back. which shall it be?" "i'm afraid i don't understand you--do you ask me this question? how can i know which it shall be? what is it you mean?" "i mean i will not take his life in a fight--if it comes to that--if you would rather he should come back." a sob almost refused an answer to him. "how can you ask me so terrible a question?" "it is a question that means a good deal to me, of course, and i don't know just what it means to you: that is the point i am up against. i may have no choice in the matter, but i must decide what to try to do if i have one. am i to remember first that he is your husband?" there was a silence. "what shall i say--what can i say? god help me, how am i to answer a question like that?" "how am i to answer it?" her voice was low and pitiful when her answer came: "you must do your duty." "what is my duty then? to serve the paper that has been given to me, i know--but not necessarily to defend my life at the price of his. the play of a chance lies in deciding that; i can keep the chance or give it away; that is for you to say. or take the question of duty again. you are alone and your friends are few. haven't i any duty toward you, perhaps? i don't know a woman's heart. i used to think i did, but i don't. my duty to this company that i work for is only the duty of a servant. if i go, another takes my place; it means nothing except taking one name off the payroll and putting another on. whatever he may have done, this man is your husband; if his death would cause you a pang, it shall not be laid at my door. we ought to understand each other on that point fairly before i start to-night." "can you ask me whether you ought not to take every means to defend your own life? or whether any consideration ought to come before that? i think not. i should be a wicked woman if i were to wish evil to him, wretched as he has made me. i am a wretched woman, whichever way i turn. but i should be less than human if i could say that to me your death would not be a cruel, cruel blow." there was a moment of silence. "dicksie understood you to say that you were in doubt as to whether you ought to go away with him when he asked you to go. that is why i was unsettled in my mind." "the only reason why i doubted was that i thought by going i might save better lives than mine. i could willingly give up my life to do that. but to stain it by going back to such a man--god help me!" "i think i understand. if the unfortunate should happen before i come back i hope only this: that you will not hate me because i am the man on whom the responsibility has fallen. i haven't sought it. and if i should not come back at all, it is only--good-by." he saw her clasp her hands convulsively. "i will not say it! i will pray on my knees that you do come back." "good-night, marion. some one is at the cottage door." "it is probably mr. mccloud and dicksie. i will let them in." chapter xxxvii wickwire mccloud and dicksie met them at the porch door. marion, unnerved, went directly to her room. whispering smith stopped to speak to dicksie and mccloud interposed. "bob scott telephoned the office just now he had a man from oroville who wanted to see you right away, gordon," said he. "i told him to send him over here. it is wickwire." "wickwire," repeated whispering smith. "wickwire has no business here that i know of; no doubt it is something i ought to know of. and, by the way, you ought to see this man," he said, turning again to dicksie. "if mccloud tells the story right, wickwire is a sort of protégé of yours, miss dicksie, though neither of you seems to have known it. he is the tramp cowboy who was smashed up in the wreck at smoky creek. he is not a bad man, but whiskey, you know, beats some decent men." a footstep fell on the porch. "there he comes now, i reckon. shall i let him in a minute?" "oh, i should like to see him! he has been at the ranch at different times, you know." smith opened the door and stepping out on the porch, talked with the new-comer. in a moment he brought him in. dicksie had seated herself on the sofa, mccloud stood in the doorway of the dining-room, and whispering smith laid one arm on the table as he sat down beside it with his face above the dark shade of the lamp. before him stood wickwire. the half-light threw him up tall and dark, but it showed the heavy shock of black hair falling over his forehead, and the broad, thin face of a mountain man. "he has just been telling me that seagrue is loose," whispering smith explained pleasantly. "who turned the trick, wickwire?" "sheriff coon and a deputy jailer started with seagrue for medicine bend this morning. coming through horse eye canyon, murray sinclair and barney rebstock got a clean drop on them, took seagrue, and they all rode off together. they didn't make any bones about it, either. their gang has got lots of friends over there, you know. they rode into atlantic city and stayed over an hour. coon tracked them there and got up a _posse_ of six men. the three were standing in front of the bank when the sheriff rode into town. sinclair and seagrue got on their horses and started off. rebstock went back to get another drink. when he came out of the saloon he gave the _posse_ a gun-fight all by himself, and wounded two men and made his get-away." whispering smith shook his head, and his hand fell on the table with a tired laugh. "barney rebstock," he murmured, "of all men! coward, skate, filler-in! barney rebstock--stale-beer man, sneak, barn-yard thief! hit two men!" he turned to mccloud. "what kind of a wizard is murray sinclair? what sort of red-blood toxin does he throw into his gang to draw out a spirit like that? murray sinclair belongs to the race of empire-builders. by heaven, it is pitiful a man like that should be out of a job! england, mccloud, needs him. and here he is holding up trains on the mountain division!" "they are all up at oroville with the williams cache gang, celebrating," continued wickwire. whispering smith looked at the cowboy. "wickwire, you made a good ride and i thank you. you are all right. this is the young lady and this is the man who had you sent to the hospital from smoky creek," he added, rising. "you can thank them for picking you up. when you leave here tell bob scott to meet me at the wickiup with the horses at eleven o'clock, will you?" he turned to dicksie in a gentle aside. "i am riding north to-night--i wish you were going part way." dicksie looked at him intently. "you are worried over something," she murmured; "i can see it in your face." "nothing more than usual. i thrive, you know, on trouble--and i'm sorry to say good-night so early, but i have a long ride ahead." he stepped quietly past mccloud and out of the door. wickwire was thanking dicksie when unwillingly she let whispering smith's hand slip out of her own. "i shore wouldn't have been here to-night if you two hadn't picked me up," laughed wickwire, speaking softly to dicksie when she turned to him. "i've knowed my friends a long time, but i reckon they all didn't know me." "i've known you longer than you think," returned dicksie with a smile. "i've seen you at the ranch-house. but now that we really do know each other, please remember you are always sure of a home at the ranch--whenever you want one, mr. wickwire, and just as long as you want one. we never forget our friends on the crawling stone." "if i may make so bold, i thank you kindly. and if you all will let me run away now, i want to catch mr. whispering smith for just one minute." wickwire overtook smith in fort street. "talk quick, wickwire," he said; "i'm in a hurry. what do you want?" "partner, i've always played fair with you." "so far as i know, wickwire, yes. why?" "i've got a favor to ask." "what is it--money?" "no, partner, not money this time. you've always been more than liberal with me. but so far i've had to keep under cover; you asked me to. i want to ask the privilege now of coming out into the open. the jig is up so far as watching anybody goes." "yes." "there's nobody to watch any more--they're all to chase, i reckon, now. the open is my kind of a fight, anyway. i want to ride out this manhunt with you." "how is your arm?" "my arm is all right, and there ought to be a place for me in the chase now that ed banks is out of it. i want to cut loose up on the range, anyhow; if i'm a man i want to know it, and if i ain't i want to know it. i want to ride with you after seagrue and sinclair and barney rebstock." whispering smith spoke coldly: "you mean, wickwire, you want to get killed." "why, partner, if it's coming to me, i don't mind--yes." "what's the use, wickwire?" "if i'm a man i want to know it; if i ain't, it's time my friends knowed it. anyhow, i'm man enough to work out with some of that gang. most of them have put it over me one time or another; sinclair pasted me like a blackbird only the other day. they all say i'm nothing but a damned tramp. you say i have done you service--give me a show." whispering smith stopped a minute in the shadow of a tree and looked keenly at him. "i'm too busy to-night to say much, wickwire," he said after a moment. "you go over to the barn and report to bob scott. if you want to take the chances, it is up to you; and if bob scott is agreeable, i'll use you where i can--that's all i can promise. you will probably have more than one chance to get killed." chapter xxxviii into the north the moon had not yet risen, and in the darkness of boney street smith walked slowly toward his room. the answer to his question had come. the rescue of seagrue made it clear that sinclair would not leave the country. he well knew that sinclair cared no more for seagrue than for a prairie-dog. it was only that he felt strong enough, with his friends and sympathizers, to defy the railroad force and whispering smith, and planned now, probably, to kill off his pursuers or wear them out. there was a second incentive for remaining: nearly all the tower w money had been hidden at rebstock's cabin by du sang. that kennedy had already got hold of it sinclair could not know, but it was certain that he would not leave the country without an effort to recover the booty from rebstock. whispering smith turned the key in the door of his room as he revolved the situation in his mind. within, the dark was cheerless, but he made no effort to light a lamp. groping his way to the side of the low bed, he sat down and put his head between his hands to think. there was no help for it that he could see: he must meet sinclair. the situation he had dreaded most, from the moment bucks asked him to come back to the mountains, had come. he thought of every phase of the outcome. if sinclair should kill him the difficulties were less. it would be unpleasant, certainly, but something that might happen any time and at any man's hands. he had cut into the game too long ago and with his eyes too wide open to complain at this time of the possibility of an accident. they might kill each other; but if, escaping himself, he should kill sinclair---- he came back in the silence always to that if. it rose dark between him and the woman he loved--whom he had loved since she was a child with school-girl eyes and braided hair. after he had lost her, only to find years afterward that she was hardly less wretched in her life than he in his, he had dreamed of the day when she might again be free and he free to win a love long hoped for. but to slay this man--her husband--in his inmost heart he felt it would mean the raising of a bar as impalpable as fate, and as undying, to all his dreams. deserved or not, whatever she should say or not say, what would she feel? how could her husband's death in that encounter, if it ever came, be other than a stain that must shock and wound her, no matter how much she should try not to see. could either of them ever quite forget it? * * * * * kennedy and his men were guarding the cache. could they be sent against sinclair? that would be only a baser sort of murder--the murder of his friends. he himself was leader, and so looked upon; the post of danger was his. he raised his head. through the window came a faint light. the moon was rising, and against the inner wall of the room the straight, hard lines of the old wardrobe rose dimly. the rifles were within. he must choose. he walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. it was dark everywhere across the upper town, but in the distance one light burned. it was in marion's cottage. he had chosen this room because from the window he could see her home. he stood for a few moments with his hands in his pockets, looking. when he turned away he drew the shade closely, lighted a lamp, and unlocked the wardrobe door. * * * * * scott left the barn at half-past ten with a led horse for whispering smith. he rode past smith's room in fort street, but the room was dark, and he jogged down to the wickiup square, where he had been told to meet him. after waiting and riding about for an hour, he tied the horses and went up to mccloud's office. mccloud was at his desk, but knew nothing of whispering smith except that he was to come in before he started. "he's a punctual man," murmured bob scott, who had the low voice of the indian. "usually he is ahead of time." "is he in his room, do you think?" asked mccloud. "i rode around that way about fifteen minutes ago; there was no light." "he must be there," declared mccloud. "have you the horses below? we will ride over and try the room again." fort street back of front is so quiet after eleven o'clock at night that a footfall echoes in it. mccloud dismounted in front of the bank building and, throwing the reins to bob scott, walked upstairs and back toward smith's room. in the hallway he paused. he heard faint strains of music. they came from within the room--fragments of old airs played on a violin, and subdued by a mute, in the darkness. instinct stayed mccloud's hand at the door. he stood until the music ceased and footsteps moved about in the room; then he knocked, and a light appeared within. whispering smith opened the door. he stood in his trousers and shirt, with his cartridge-belt in his hand. "come in, george. i'm just getting hooked up." "which way are you going to-night, gordon?" asked mccloud, sitting down on the chair. "i am going to oroville. the crowd is celebrating there. it is a défi, you know." "who are you going to take with you?" "nobody." mccloud moved uneasily. "i don't like that." "there will be nothing doing. sinclair may be gone by the time i arrive, but i want to see bob and gene johnson, and scare the williams cache coyotes, just to keep their tails between their legs." "i'd like to kill off half a dozen of that gang." whispering smith said nothing for a moment. "did you ever have to kill a man, george?" he asked buckling his cartridge-belt. "no. why?" there was no reply. smith had taken a rifle from the rack and was examining the firing mechanism. he worked the lever for a moment with lightning-like speed, laid the gun on the bed, and sat down beside it. "you would hardly believe, george, how i hate to go after murray sinclair. i've known him all my life. his folks and mine lived across the street from one another for twenty years. which is the older? murray is five years older than i am; he was always a big, strong, good-looking fellow." whispering smith put his hands on the side of the bed. "it is curious how you remember things that happened when you were a boy, isn't it? i thought of something to-night i hadn't thought of for twenty years. a little circus came to town. while they were setting up the tent the lines for the gasolene tank got fouled in the block at the top of the centre pole. the head canvasman offered a quarter to any boy that would climb the pole and free the block. one boy after another tried it, but they couldn't climb half-way up. then murray sailed in. i was seven years old and murray was twelve, and he wore a vest. he gave me the vest to hold while he went up. i felt like a king. there was a lead-pencil in one pocket, beautifully sharpened, and i showed it to the other boys. did he make good? he always made good," said whispering smith gloomily. "the canvasman gave him the quarter and two tickets, and he gave one of the tickets to me. i got to thinking about that to-night. as boys, murray and i never had a quarrel." he stopped. mccloud said nothing, and, after an interval, smith spoke again: "he was an oracle for all the small boys in town, and could advise us on any subject on earth--whether he knew anything about it or nothing about it made no difference. i told him once i wanted to be a california stage-robber, and he replied without an instant's hesitation that i ought to begin to practise running. i was so upset at his grasp of the subject that i hadn't the nerve to ask him why i needed to practise running to be a stage-robber. i was ashamed of appearing green and to this day i've never understood what he meant. whether it was to run after the stage or to run away from it i couldn't figure out. perhaps my being too proud to ask the question changed my career. he went away for a long time, and we heard he was in the black hills. when he came back, my god! what a hero he was." bob scott knocked at the door and whispering smith opened it. "tired of waiting, bob? well, i guess i'm ready. is the moon up? this is the rifle i'm going to take, bob. did wickwire have a talk with you? he's all right. suppose you send him to the mouth of little crawling stone to watch things a day or two. they may try to work north that way or hide in the wash." walking down to the street, whispering smith continued his suggestions. "and by the way, bob, i want you to pass this word for me up and down front street. sinclair has his friends in town and it's all right--i know them and expect them to stay by him. i expect murray's friends to do what they can for him. i've got my friends and expect them to stay by me. but there is one thing that i will not stand for on any man's part, and that is hiding sinclair anywhere in medicine bend. you keep him out of medicine bend, bob; will you do it? and remember, i will never let up on the man who hides him in town while this fight is on. there are good reasons for drawing the line on that point, and there i draw it hard and fast. now bob and gene johnson were at oroville when you left, were they, bob?" he was fastening his rifle in the scabbard. "which is deputy sheriff this year, bob or gene? gene--very good." he swung into the saddle. "have you got everything?" murmured scott. "i think so. stop! i'm riding away without my salt-bag. that would be a pretty piece of business, wouldn't it? take the key, bob. it's hanging between the rifles and the clock. here's the wardrobe key, too." there was some further talk when scott came back with the salt, chiefly about horses and directions as to telephoning. whispering smith took up a notch again in his belt, pulled down his hat, and bent over the neck of his horse to lay his hand a moment in mccloud's. it was one o'clock. across the foothills the moon was rising, and whispering smith straightening up in the saddle wheeled his horse and trotted swiftly up the street into the silent north. chapter xxxix among the coyotes oroville once marked farthest north for the peace river gold camps, but with mining long ago abandoned it now marks farthest south for a rustler's camp, being a favorite resort for the people of the williams cache country. oroville boasts that it has never surrendered and that it has never been cleaned out. it has moved, and been moved, up stream and down, and from bank to bank; it has been burned out and blown away and lived on wheels: but it has never suffered the loss of its identity. oroville is said to have given to its river the name of peace river--either wholly in irony or because in oroville there was for many years no peace save in the river. however, that day, too, is past, and peace county has its sheriff and a few people who are not habitually "wanted." whispering smith, well dusted with alkali, rode up to the johnson ranch, eight miles southwest of oroville, in the afternoon of the day after he left medicine bend. the ranch lies in a valley watered by the rainbow, and makes a pretty little oasis of green in a limitless waste of sagebrush. gene and bob johnson were cutting alfalfa when whispering smith rode into the field, and, stopping the mowers, the three men talked while the seven horses nibbled the clover. "i may need a little help, gene, to get him out of town," remarked smith, after he had told his story; "that is, if there are too many cache men there for me." bob johnson was stripping a stalk of alfalfa in his fingers. "them fellows are pretty sore." "that comes of half doing a job, bob. i was in too much of a hurry with the round-up. they haven't had dose enough yet," returned whispering smith. "if you and gene will join me sometime when i have a week to spare, we will go in there, clean up the gang and burn the hair off the roots of the chapparal--what? i've hinted to rebstock he could get ready for something like that." "tell us about that fight, gordon." "i will if you will give me something to eat and have this horse taken care of. then, bob, i want you to ride into oroville and reconnoitre. this is mail day and i understand some of the boys are buying postage stamps to put on my coffin." they went to the house, where whispering smith talked as he ate. bob took a horse and rode away, and gene, with his guest, went back to the alfalfa, where smith took bob's place on the mower. when they saw bob riding up the valley, whispering smith, bringing in the machine, mounted his horse. "your man is there all right," said bob, as he approached. "he and john rebstock were in the blackbird saloon. seagrue isn't there, but barney rebstock and a lot of others are. i talked a few minutes with john and murray. sinclair didn't say much; only that the railroad gang was trying to run him out of the country, and he wanted to meet a few of them before he went. i just imagined he held up a little before me; maybe not. there's a dozen williams cache men in town." "but those fellows are not really dangerous, bob, though they may be troublesome," observed smith reflectively. "well, what's your plan?" blurted gene johnson. "i haven't any, gene," returned smith, with perfect simplicity. "my only plan is to ride into town and serve my papers, if i can. i've got a deputyship--and that i'm going to do right away. if you, bob, or both of you, will happen in about thirty minutes later you'll get the news and perhaps see the fun. much obliged for your feed, gene; come down to medicine bend any time and i'll fill you up. i want you both for the elk hunt next fall, remember that. bucks is coming, and is going to bring brown and henson and perhaps atterbury and gibbs and some new yorkers; and mccloud's brother, the preacher, is coming out and they are all right--all of them." the only street in oroville faces the river, and the buildings string for two or three blocks along modest bluffs. not a soul was anywhere in sight when whispering smith rode into town, save that across the street from where he dismounted and tied his horse three men stood in front of the blackbird. they watched the new arrival with languid interest. smith walked stiffly over toward the saloon to size up the men before he should enter it. the middle man of the group, with a thin red face and very blue eyes, was chewing tobacco in an unpromising way. before smith was half-way across the street he saw the hands of the three men falling to their hips. taking care, however, only to keep the men between him and the saloon door, smith walked directly toward them. "boys, have you happened to see gene or bob johnson to-day, any of you?" he threw back the brim of his stetson as he spoke. "hold your hand right there--right where it is," said the blue-eyed man sharply. whispering smith smiled, but held his hand rather awkwardly upon his hat-brim. "no," continued the spokesman, "we ain't none of us happened to see bob or gene johnson to-day; but we happen to seen whispering smith, and we'll blow your face off if you move it an inch." smith laughed. "i never quarrel with a man that's got the drop on me, boys. now, this is sudden but unexpected. do i know any of you?" he looked from one face to another before him, with a wide reach in his field of vision for the three hands that were fast on three pistol-butts. "hold on! i've met you somewhere," he said with easy confidence to the blue-eyed man with the weather-split lip. "williams cache, wasn't it? all right, we're placed. now what have you got in for me?" "i've got forty head of steers in for you," answered the man in the middle, with a splitting oath. "you stole forty head of my steers in that round-up, and i'm going to fill you so full of lead you'll never run off no more stock for nobody. don't look over there to your horse or your rifle. hold your hands right where they are." "certainly, certainly!" "when i pull, i shoot!" "i don't always do it, but it is business, i acknowledge. when a man pulls he ought to shoot--very often it's the only chance he ever gets to shoot. well, it isn't every man gets the drop on me that easy, but you boys have got it," continued whispering smith in frank admiration. "only i want to say you're after the wrong man. that round-up was all rebstock's fault, and rebstock is bound to make good all loss and damage." "you'll make good my share of it right now and here," said the man with the wash-blue eyes. "why, of course," assented whispering smith, "if i must, i must. i suppose i may light a cigarette, boys, before you turn loose the fireworks?" "light it quick!" laughing at the humor of the situation, whispering smith, his eyes beaming with good-nature, put the finger and thumb of his right hand into his waistcoat pocket, drew out a package of cigarette paper, and, bantering his captors innocently the while, tore out a sheet and put the packet back. folding the paper in his two hands, he declared he believed his tobacco was in his saddle-pocket, and asked leave to step across the street to get it. the trick was too transparent, and leave was refused with scorn and some hard words. whispering smith begged the men in front of him in turn for tobacco. they cursed him and shook their heads. for an instant he looked troubled. still appealing to them with his eyes, he tapped lightly the lower outside pockets of his coat with his fingers, shifting the cigarette paper from hand to hand as he hunted. the outside pockets seemed empty. but as he tapped the inside breast pocket on the left side of the coat--the three men, lynx-eyed, watching--his face brightened. "stop!" said he, his voice sinking to a relieved whisper as his hand rested lightly on the treasure. "there's the tobacco. i suppose one of you will give me a match?" all that the three before him could ever afterward recollect--and for several years afterward they cudgelled their brains pretty thoroughly about that moment--was that whispering smith took hold of the left lapel of his coat to take the tobacco out of the breast pocket. an excuse to take that lapel in his left hand was, in fact, all that whispering smith needed to put not alone the three men before him but all oroville at his mercy. the play of his right hand in crossing the corduroy waistcoat to pull his revolver from its scabbard and throw it into their faces was all too quick for better eyes than theirs. they saw only the muzzle of the heavy colt's playing like a snake's tongue under their surprised noses, with the good-natured smile still behind it. "or will one of you roll a cigarette?" asked whispering smith, without a break between the two questions. "i don't smoke. now don't make faces; go right ahead. do anything you want to with your hands. i wouldn't ask a man to keep his hands or feet still on a hot day like this," he insisted, the revolver playing all the time. "you won't draw? you won't fight? pshaw! then disengage your hands gently from your guns. you fellows really ought not to attempt to pull a gun in oroville, and i will tell you why--there's a reason for it." he looked confidential as he put his head forward to whisper among the crestfallen faces. "at this altitude it is too fast work. i know you now," he went on as they continued to wilt. "you are fatty filber," he said to the thin chap. "don't work your mouth like that at me; don't do it. you seem surprised. really, have you the asthma? get over it, because you are wanted in pound county for horse-stealing. why, hang it, fatty, you're good for ten years, and of course, since you have reminded me of it, i'll see that you get it. and you, baxter," said he to the man on the right, "i know i spoke to you once when i was inspector about altering brands; that's five years, you know. you," he added, scrutinizing the third man to scare him to death--"i think you were at tower w. no? no matter; you two boys may go, anyway. fatty, you stay; we'll put some state cow on your ribs. by the way, are you a detective, fatty? aren't you? see here! i can get you into an association. for ten dollars, they give you a german-silver star, and teach the japanese method of pulling, by correspondence. or you might get an electric battery to handle your gun with. you can get pocket dynamos from the mail-order houses. sure! read the big book!" when gene and bob johnson rode into town, whispering smith was sitting in a chair outside the blackbird, still chatting with filber, who stood with his arms around a hitching-post, holding fast a mail-order house catalogue. a modest crowd of hangers-on had gathered. "here we are, gene," exclaimed smith to the deputy sheriff. "i was looking for steers, but some calves got into the drive. take him away." while the johnsons were laughing, smith walked into the blackbird. he had lost thirty minutes, and in losing them had lost his quarry. sinclair had disappeared, and whispering smith made a virtue of necessity by taking the upsetting of his plans with an unruffled face. there was but one thing more, indeed, to do, and that was to eat his supper and ride away. the street encounter had made so much talk in oroville that smith declined gene johnson's invitation to go back to the house. it seemed a convenient time to let any other ambitious rustlers make good if they were disposed to try, and whispering smith went for his supper to the hotel where the williams cache men made their headquarters. there was a rise in the atmospheric pressure the moment he entered the hotel office door, and when he walked into the dining-room, some minutes later, the silence was oppressive. smith looked for a seat. the only vacant place chanced to be at a table where nine men from the cache sat busy with ham and eggs. it was a trifle awkward, but the only thing to do was to take the vacant chair. the nine men were actively engaged with knives and forks and spoons when whispering smith drew out the empty chair at the head of the table; but nine pairs of hands dropped modestly under the table when he sat down. coughing slightly to hide his embarrassment and to keep his right hand in touch with his necktie, whispering smith looked around the table with the restrained air of a man who has bowed his head and resolved to ask the blessing, but wants to make reasonably sure that the family is listening. a movement at the other tables, among the regular boarders of the hostelry, was apparent almost at once. appetites began to fail all over the dining-room. whispering smith gave his order genially to the confused waitress: "bring me two eggs--one fried on one side and one on the other--and coffee." there was a general scraping of chairs on the floor as they were pushed back and guests not at the moment interested in the bill of fare started, modestly but firmly, to leave the dining-room. at whispering smith's table there were no second calls for coffee. to stimulate the eating he turned the conversation into channels as reassuring as possible. unfortunately for his endeavor, the man at the far end of the table reached for a toothpick. it seemed a pleasant way out of the difficulty, and when the run on toothpicks had once begun, all whispering smith's cordiality could not check it. every man appeared to want a toothpick, and one after another of whispering smith's company deserted him. he was finally left alone with a physician known as "doc," a forger and a bigamist from denver. smith tried to engage doc in medical topics. the doctor was not alone frightened but tipsy, and when smith went so far as to ask him, as a medical man, whether in his opinion the high water in the mountains had any direct connection with the prevalence of falling of the spine among old "residenters" in williams cache, the doctor felt of his head as if his brain were turning turtle. when whispering smith raised his knife ostentatiously to bring out a feature of his theory, the doctor raised his knife higher to admit the force of it; and when whispering smith leaned his head forward impressively to drive home a point in his assertion, the doctor stretched his neck till his face grew apoplectic. releasing him at length from the strain, whispering smith begged of the staring maid-servant the recipe for the biscuit. when she came back with it he sat all alone, pouring catsup over his griddle-cakes in an abstracted manner, and it so flurried her that she had to go out again to ask whether the gasolene went into the dough or under it. he played out the play to the end, but when he rode away in the dusk his face was careworn. john rebstock had told him why sinclair dodged: there were others whom sinclair wanted to meet first; and whispering smith was again heading on a long, hard ride, and after a man on a better horse, back to the crawling stone and medicine bend. "there's others he wants to see first or you'd have no trouble in talking business to-day. you nor no other man will ever get him alive." but whispering smith knew that. "see that he doesn't get you alive, rebstock," was his parting retort. "if he finds out kennedy has got the tower w money, the first thing he does will be to put the doxology all over you." chapter xl a sympathetic ear when whispering smith rode after sinclair, crawling stone ranch, in common with the whole countryside, had but one interest in life, and that was to hear of the meeting. riders across the mountain valleys met with but one question; mail-carriers brought nothing in their pouches of interest equal to the last word concerning sinclair or his pursuer. it was commonly agreed through the mountains that it would be a difficult matter to overhaul any good man riding sinclair's steel-dust horses, but with sinclair himself in the saddle, unless it pleased him to pull up, the chase was sure to be a stern one. against this to feed speculation stood one man's record--that of the man who had ridden alone across deep creek and brought chuck williams out on a buckboard. business in medicine bend, meantime, was practically suspended. as the centre of all telephone lines the big railroad town was likewise the centre of all rumors. officers and soldiers to and from the fort, stage-drivers and cowmen, homesteaders and rustlers, discussed the apprehension of sinclair. moreover, behind this effort to arrest one man who had savagely defied the law were ranged all of the prejudices, sympathies, and hatreds of the high country, and practically the whole population tributary to medicine bend and the crawling stone valley were friends either to sinclair or to his pursuer. behind sinclair were nearly all the cattlemen, not alone because he was on good terms with the rustlers and protected his friends, but because he warred openly on the sheepmen. the big range interests, as a rule, were openly or covertly friendly to sinclair, while against him were the homesteaders, the railroad men, the common people, and the men who everywhere hate cruelty and outrage and the making of a lie. lance dunning had never concealed his friendliness for sinclair, even after hard stories about him were known to be true, and it was this confidence of fellowship that made sinclair, twenty-four hours after he had left oroville, ride down the hill trail to crawling stone ranch-house. the morning had been cold, with a heavy wind and a dull sky. in the afternoon the clouds lowered over the valley and a misting rain set in. dicksie had gone into medicine bend on the stage in the morning, and, after a stolen half-hour with mccloud at marion's, had ridden home to escape the storm. not less, but much more, than those about her she was alive to the situation in which sinclair stood and its danger to those closest to her. in the morning her one prayer to mccloud had been to have a care of himself, and to marion to have a care of herself; but even when dicksie left them it seemed as if neither quite felt the peril as she felt it. in the afternoon the rain, falling steadily, kept her in the house, and she sat in her room sewing until the light failed. she went downstairs. puss had lighted the grate in the living-room, and dicksie threw herself into a chair. the sound of hoofs aroused her and she went to a window. to her horror, she saw sinclair walking with her cousin up to the front door. she ran into the dining-room, and the two men entered the hall and walked into the office. choking with excitement, dicksie ran through the kitchen and upstairs to master her agitation. in the office sinclair was sitting down before the hot stove with a tumbler of whiskey. "lance"--he shook his head as he spoke hoarsely--"i want to say my friends have stood by me to a man, but there's none of them treated me squarer through thick and thin than you have. well, i've had some bad luck. it can't be helped. regards!" he drank, and shook his wet hair again. four days of hard riding had left no trace on his iron features. wet to the bone, his eyes flashed with fire. he held the glassful of whiskey in a hand as steady as a spirit-level and tossed it down a throat as cool as dew. "i want to say another thing, lance: i had no more intention than a child of hurting ed banks. i warned ed months ago to keep out of this fight; and i never knew he was in it till it was too late. but i'm hoping he will pull through yet, if they don't kill him in the hospital to spite me. i never recognized the men at all till it was too late. why, one of them used to work for me! a man with the whole railroad gang in these mountains after him has got to look out for himself or his life ain't worth a glass of beer. thank you, lance, not any more. i saw two men, with their rifles in their hands, looking for me. i hollered at them; but, lance, i'm rough and ready, as all my friends know, and i will let no man put a drop on me--that i will never do. ed, before i ever recognized him, raised his rifle; that's the only reason i fired. not so full, lance, not so full, if you please. well," he shook his black hair as he threw back his head, "here's to better luck in worse countries!" he paused as he swallowed, and set the tumbler down. "lance, i'm saying good-by to the mountains." "you're not going away for good, murray?" "i'm going away for good. what's the use? for two years these railroad cutthroats have been trying to put something on me; you know that. they've been trying to mix me up with that bridge-burning at smoky creek; sugar buttes, they had me there; tower w--nothing would do but i was there, and they've got one of the men in jail down there now, lance, trying to sweat enough perjury out of him to send me up. what show has a poor man got against all the money there is in the country? i wouldn't be afraid of a jury of my own neighbors--the men that know me, lance--any time. what show would i have with a packed jury in medicine bend? i could explain anything i've done to the satisfaction of any reasonable man. i'm human, lance; that's all i say. i've been mistreated and i don't forget it. they've even turned my wife against me--as fine a woman as ever lived." lance swore sympathetically. "there's good stuff in you yet, murray." "i'm going to say good-by to the mountains," sinclair went on grimly, "but i'm going to medicine bend to-night and tell the man that has hounded me what i think of him before i leave. i'm going to give my wife a chance to do what is right and go with me. she's been poisoned against me--i know that; but if she does what's fair and square there'll be no trouble--no trouble at all. all i want, lance, is a square deal. what?" dicksie with her pulses throbbing at fever-heat heard the words. she stood half-way down the stairs, trembling as she listened. anger, hatred, the spirit of vengeance, choked in her throat at the sinister words. she longed to stride into the room and confront the murderer and call down retribution on his head. it was no fear of him that restrained her, for the crawling stone girl never knew fear. she would have confronted him and denounced him, but prudence checked her angry impulse. she knew what he meant to do--to ride into medicine bend under cover of the storm, murder the two he hated, and escape in the night; and she resolved he should never succeed. if she could only get to the telephone! but the telephone was in the room where he sat. he was saying good-by. her cousin was trying to dissuade him from riding out into the storm, but he was going. the door opened; the men went out on the porch, and it closed. dicksie, lightly as a shadow, ran into the office and began ringing medicine bend on the telephone. chapter xli dicksie's ride when lance dunning entered the room ten minutes later, dicksie stood at the telephone; but the ten minutes of that interval had made quite another creature of his cousin. the wires were down and no one from any quarter gave a response to her frantic ringing. through the receiver she could hear only the sweep of the rain and the harsh crackle of the wind. sometimes praying, sometimes fainting, and sometimes despairing, she stood clinging to the instrument, ringing and pounding upon it like one frenzied. lance looked at her in amazement. "why, god a'mighty, dicksie, what's the matter?" he called twice to her before she turned, and her words almost stunned him: "why did you not detain sinclair here to-night? why did you not arrest him?" lance's sombrero raked heavily to one side of his face, and one end of his mustache running up much higher on the other did not begin to express his astonishment. "arrest him? arrest sinclair? dicksie, are you crazy? why the devil should i arrest sinclair? do you suppose i am going to mix up in a fight like this? do you think _i_ want to get killed? the level-headed man in this country, just at present, is the man who can keep out of trouble, and the man who succeeds, let me tell you, has got more than plenty to do." lance, getting no answer but a fierce, searching gaze from dicksie's wild eyes, laid his hand on a chair, lighted a cigar, and sat down before the fire. dicksie dropped the telephone receiver, put her hand to her girdle, and looked at him. when she spoke her tone was stinging. "you know that man is going to medicine bend to kill his wife!" lance took the cigar from his mouth and returned her look. "i know no such thing," he growled curtly. "and to kill george mccloud, if he can." he stared without reply. "you heard him say so," persisted dicksie vehemently. lance crossed his legs and threw back the brim of his hat. "mccloud is nobody's fool. he will look out for himself." "these fiendish wires to medicine bend are down. why hasn't this line been repaired?" she cried, wringing her hands. "there is no way to give warning to any one that he is coming, and you have let him go!" lance whirled in his chair. "damnation! could i keep him from going?" "you did not want to; you are keeping out of trouble. what do you care whom he kills to-night!" "you've gone crazy, dicksie. your imagination has upset your reason. whether he kills anybody to-night or not, it's too late now to make a row about it," exclaimed lance, throwing his cigar angrily away. "he won't kill us." "and you expect me to sit by and fold my hands while that wretch sheds more blood, do you?" "it can't be helped." "i say it can be helped! i can help it--i will help it--as you could have done if you had wanted to. i will ride to medicine bend to-night and help it." lance jumped to his feet, with a string of oaths. "well this is the limit!" he pointed his finger at her. "dicksie dunning, you won't stir out of this house to-night." her face hardened. "how dare you speak in that way to me? who are you, that you order me what to do, where to stay? am i your cowboy, to be defiled with your curses?" he looked at her in amazement. she was only eighteen; he would still face her down. "i'll tell you who i am. i am master here, and you will do as i tell you. you will ride to medicine bend to-night, will you?" he struck the table with his clinched fist. "do you hear me? i say, by god, not a horse shall leave this ranch in this storm to-night to go anywhere for anybody or with anybody!" "then i say to you this ranch is my ranch, and these horses are my horses! from this hour forth i will order them to go and come when and where i please!" she stepped toward him. "henceforward i am mistress here. do you hear me? henceforward _i_ give orders in crawling stone house, and every one under this roof takes orders from me!" "dicksie, what do you mean? for god's sake, you're not going to try to ride----" she swept from the room. what happened afterward she could never recall. who got jim for her or whether she got the horse up herself, what was said to her in low, kindly words of warning by the man at jim's neck when she sprang into the saddle, who the man was, she could not have told. all she felt at last was that she was free and out under the black sky, with the rain beating her burning face and her horse leaping fearfully into the wind. no man could have kept the trail to the pass that night. the horse took it as if the path flashed in sunshine, and swung into the familiar stride that had carried her so many times over the twenty miles ahead of them. the storm driving into dicksie's face cooled her. every moment she recollected herself better, and before her mind all the aspects of her venture ranged themselves. she had set herself to a race, and against her rode the hardest rider in the mountains. she had set herself to what few men on the range would have dared and what no other woman on the range could do. "why have i learned to ride," went the question through her mind, "if not for this--for those i love and for those who love me?" sinclair had a start, she well knew, but not so much for a night like this night. he would ride to kill those he hated; she would ride to save those she loved. her horse already was on the elbow grade; she knew it from his shorter spring--a lithe, creeping spring that had carried her out of deep canyons and up long draws where other horses walked. the wind lessened and the rain drove less angrily in her face. she patted jim's neck with her wet glove, and checked him as tenderly as a lover, to give him courage and breath. she wanted to be part of him as he strove, for the horror of the night began to steal on the edge of her thoughts. a gust drove into her face. they were already at the head of the pass, and the horse, with level ground underfoot, was falling into the long reach; but the wind was colder. dicksie lowered her head and gave jim the rein. she realized how wet she was; her feet and her knees were wet. she had no protection but her skirt, though the meanest rider on all her countless acres would not have braved a mile on such a night without leather and fur. the great lapels of her riding-jacket, reversed, were buttoned tight across her shoulders, and the double fold of fur lay warm and dry against her heart and lungs; but her hands were cold, and her skirt dragged leaden and cold from her waist, and water soaked in upon her chilled feet. she knew she ought to have thought of these things. she planned, as thought swept in a moving picture across her brain, how she would prepare again for such a ride--with her cowboy costume that she had once masqueraded in for marion, with leggings of buckskin and "chaps" of long white silken wool. it was no masquerade now--she was riding in deadly earnest; and her lips closed to shut away a creepy feeling that started from her heart and left her shivering. she became conscious of how fast she was going. instinct, made keen by thousands of saddle miles, told dicksie of her terrific pace. she was riding faster than she would have dared go at noonday and without thought or fear of accident. in spite of the sliding and the plunging down the long hill, the storm and the darkness brought no thought of fear for herself; her only fear was for those ahead. in supreme moments a horse, like a man when human efforts become superhuman, puts the lesser dangers out of reckoning, and the faculties, set on a single purpose, though strained to the breaking-point, never break. low in her saddle, dicksie tried to reckon how far they had come and how much lay ahead. she could feel her skirt stiffening about her knees, and the rain beating at her face was sharper; she knew the sleet as it stung her cheeks, and knew what next was coming--the snow. there was no need to urge jim. he had the rein and dicksie bent down to speak to him, as she often spoke when they were alone on the road, when jim, bolting, almost threw her. recovering instantly, she knew they were no longer alone. she rose alert in her seat. her straining eyes could see nothing. was there a sound in the wind? she held her breath to listen, but before she could apprehend jim leaped violently ahead. dicksie screamed in an agony of terror. she knew then that she had passed another rider, and so close she might have touched him. fear froze her to the saddle; it lent wings to her horse. the speed became wild. dicksie knit herself to her dumb companion and a prayer choked in her throat. she crouched lest a bullet tear her from her horse; but through the darkness no bullet came, only the sleet, stinging her face, stiffening her gloves, freezing her hair, chilling her limbs, and weighting her like lead on her struggling horse. she knew not even sinclair could overtake her now--that no living man could lay a hand on her bridle-rein--and she pulled jim in down the winding hills to save him for the long flat. when they struck it they had but four miles to go. across the flat the wind drove in fury. reflection, thought, and reason were beginning to leave her. she was crying to herself quietly as she used to cry when she lost herself, a mere child, riding among the hills. she was praying meaningless words. snow purred softly on her cheeks. the cold was soothing her senses. unable at last to keep her seat on the horse, she stopped him, slipped stiffly to the ground, and, struggling through the wind as she held fast to the bridle and the horn, half walked and half ran to start the blood through her benumbed veins. she struggled until she could drag her mired feet no farther, and tried to draw herself back into the saddle. it was almost beyond her. she sobbed and screamed at her helplessness. at last she managed to climb flounderingly back into her seat, and, bending her stiffened arms to jim's neck, she moaned and cried to him. when again she could hold her seat no longer, she fell to the horse's side, dragged herself along in the frozen slush, and, screaming with the pain of her freezing hands, drew herself up into the saddle. she knew that she dare not venture this again--that if she did so she could never remount. she felt now that she should never live to reach medicine bend. she rode on and on and on--would it never end? she begged god to send a painless death to those she rode to save, and when the prayer passed her failing senses a new terror awakened her, for she found herself falling out of the saddle. with excruciating torment she recovered her poise. reeling from side to side, she fought the torpor away. her mind grew clearer and her tears had ceased. she prayed for a light. the word caught between her stiffened lips and she mumbled it till she could open them wide and scream it out. then came a sound like the beating of great drums in her ears. it was the crash of jim's hoofs on the river bridge, and she was in medicine bend. a horse, galloping low and heavily, slued through the snow from fort street into boney, and, where it had so often stopped before, dashed up on the sidewalk in front of the little shop. the shock was too much for its unconscious rider, and, shot headlong from her saddle, dicksie was flung bruised and senseless against marion's door. chapter xlii at the door she woke in a dream of hoofs beating at her brain. distracted words fell from her lips, and when she opened her swollen eyes and saw those about her she could only scream. marion had called up the stable, but the stablemen could only tell her that dicksie's horse, in terrible condition, had come in riderless. while barnhardt, the railway surgeon, at the bedside administered restoratives, marion talked with him of dicksie's sudden and mysterious coming. dicksie, lying in pain and quite conscious, heard all, but, unable to explain, moaned in her helplessness. she heard marion at length tell the doctor that mccloud was out of town, and the news seemed to bring back her senses. then, rising in the bed, while the surgeon and marion coaxed her to lie down, she clutched at their arms and, looking from one to the other, told her story. when it was done she swooned, but she woke to hear voices at the door of the shop. she heard as if she dreamed, but at the door the words were dread reality. sinclair had made good his word, and had come out of the storm with a summons upon marion and it was the surgeon who threw open the door and saw sinclair standing in the snow. no man in medicine bend knew sinclair more thoroughly or feared him less than barnhardt. no man could better meet him or speak to him with less of hesitation. sinclair, as he faced barnhardt, was not easy in spite of his dogged self-control; and he was standing, much to his annoyance, in the glare of an arc-light that swung across the street in front of the shop. he was well aware that no such light had ever swung within a block of the shop before and in it he saw the hand of whispering smith. the light was unexpected, barnhardt was a surprise, and even the falling snow, which protected him from being seen twenty feet away, angered him. he asked curtly who was ill, and without awaiting an answer asked for his wife. the surgeon eyed him coldly. "sinclair, what are you doing in medicine bend? have you come to surrender yourself?" "surrender myself? yes, i'm ready any time to surrender myself. take me along yourself, barnhardt, if you think i've done worse than any man would that has been hounded as i've been hounded. i want to see my wife." "sinclair, you can't see your wife." "what's the matter--is she sick?" "no, but you can't see her." "who says i can't see her?" "i say so." sinclair swept the ice furiously from his beard and his right hand fell to his hip as he stepped back. "you've turned against me too, have you, you gray-haired wolf? can't see her! get out of that door." the surgeon pointed his finger at the murderer. "no, i won't get out of this door. shoot, you coward! shoot an unarmed man. you will not live to get a hundred feet away. this place is watched for you; you could not have got within a hundred yards of it to-night except for this snow." barnhardt pointed through the storm. "sinclair, you will hang in the court-house square, and i will take the last beat of your pulse with these fingers, and when i pronounce you dead they will cut you down. you want to see your wife. you want to kill her. don't lie; you want to kill her. you were heard to say as much to-night at the dunning ranch. you were watched and tracked, and you are expected and looked for here. your best friends have gone back on you. ay, curse again and over again, but that will not put ed banks on his feet." sinclair stamped with frenzied oaths. "you're too hard on me," he cried, clenching his hands. "i say you're too hard. you've heard one side of it. is that the way you put judgment on a man that's got no friends left because they start a new lie on him every day? who is it that's watching me? let them stand out like men in the open. if they want me, let them come like men and take me!" "sinclair, this storm gives you a chance to get away; take it. bad as you are, there are men in medicine bend who knew you when you were a man. don't stay here for some of them to sit on the jury that hangs you. if you can get away, get away. if i were your friend--and god knows whom you can call friend in medicine bend to-night--i couldn't say more. get away before it is too late." he was never again seen alive in medicine bend. they tracked him next day over every foot of ground he had covered. they found where he had left his spent horse and where afterward he had got the fresh one. they learned how he had eluded all the picketing planned for precisely such a contingency, got into the wickiup, got upstairs and burst open the very door of mccloud's room. but dicksie had on her side that night one greater than her invincible will or her faithful horse. mccloud was two hundred miles away. barnhardt lost no time in telephoning the wickiup that sinclair was in town, but within an hour, while the two women were still under the surgeon's protection, a knock at the cottage door gave them a second fright. barnhardt answered the summons. he opened the door and, as the man outside paused to shake the snow off his hat, the surgeon caught him by the shoulder and dragged into the house whispering smith. picking the icicles from his hair, smith listened to all that barnhardt said, his eyes roving meantime over everything within the room and mentally over many things outside it. he congratulated barnhardt, and when marion came into the room he apologized for the snow he had brought in. dicksie heard his voice and cried out from the bedroom. they could not keep her away, and she ran out to catch his hands and plead with him not to go away. he tried to assure her that the danger was over; that guards were now outside everywhere, and would be until morning. but dicksie clung to him and would take no refusal. whispering smith looked at her in amazement and in admiration. "you are captain to-night, miss dicksie, by heaven. if you say the word i'll lie here on a rug till morning. but that man will not be back to-night. you are a queen. if i had a mountain girl that would do as much as that for me i would----" "what would you do?" asked marion. "say good-by to this accursed country forever." chapter xliii closing in in the morning the sun rose with a mountain smile. the storm had swept the air till the ranges shone blue and the plain sparkled under a cloudless sky. bob scott and wickwire, riding at daybreak, picked up a trail on the fence river road. a consultation was held at the bridge, and within half an hour whispering smith, with unshaken patience, was in the saddle and following it. with him were kennedy and bob scott. sinclair had ridden into the lines, and whispering smith, with his best two men, meant to put it up to him to ride out. they meant now to get him, with a trail or without, and were putting horseflesh against horseflesh and craft against craft. at the forks of the fence they picked up wickwire, kennedy taking him on the up road, while scott with whispering smith crossed to the crawling stone. when smith and scott reached the frenchman they parted to cover in turn each of the trails by which it is possible to get out of the river country toward the park and williams cache. by four o'clock in the afternoon they had all covered the ground so well that the four were able to make their rendezvous on the big fence divide, south of crawling stone valley. they then found, to their disappointment, that, widely separated as they had been, both parties were following trails they believed to be good. they shot a steer, tagged it, ate dinner and supper in one, and separated under whispering smith's counsel that both the trails be followed into the next morning--in the belief that one of them would run out or that the two would run together. at noon the next day scott rode through the hills from the fence, and kennedy with wickwire came through two feather pass from the frenchman with the report that the game had left their valleys. without rest they pushed on. at the foot of the mission mountains they picked up the tracks of a party of three horsemen. twice within ten miles afterward the men they were following crossed the river. each time their trail, with some little difficulty, was found again. at a little ranch in the mission foothills, kennedy and scott, leaving wickwire with whispering smith, took fresh horses and pushed ahead as far as they could ride before dark, but they brought back news. the trail had split again, with one man riding alone to the left, while two had taken the hills to the right, heading for mission pass and the cache. with gene johnson and bob at the mouth of the cache there was little fear for that outlet. the turn to the left was the unexpected. over the little fire in the ranch kitchen where they ate supper, the four men were in conference twenty minutes. it was decided that scott and kennedy should head for the mission pass, while whispering smith, with wickwire to trail with him, should undertake to cut off, somewhere between fence river and the railroad, the man who had gone south, the man believed to be sinclair. it was a late moon, and when scott and kennedy saddled their horses whispering smith and wickwire were asleep. with the cowboy, whispering smith started at daybreak. no one saw them again for two days. during those two days and nights they were in the saddle almost continuously. for every mile the man ahead of them rode they were forced to ride two miles and often three. late in the second night they crossed the railroad, and the first word from them came in long despatches sent by whispering smith to medicine bend and instructions to kennedy and scott in the north, which were carried by hard riders straight to deep creek. on the morning of the third day dicksie dunning, who had gone home from medicine bend and who had been telephoning marion and george mccloud two days for news, was trying to get medicine bend again on the telephone when puss came in to say that a man at the kitchen door wanted to see her. "who is it, puss?" "i d'no, miss dicksie; 'deed, i never seen him b'fore." dicksie walked around on the porch to the kitchen. a dust-covered man sitting on a limp horse threw back the brim of his hat as he touched it, lifted himself stiffly out of the saddle, and dropped to the ground. he laughed at dicksie's startled expression. "don't you know me?" he asked, putting out his hand. it was whispering smith. he was a fearful sight. stained from head to foot with alkali, saddle-cramped and bent, his face scratched and stained, he stood with a smiling appeal in his bloodshot eyes. dicksie gave a little uncertain cry, clasped her hands, and, with a scream, threw her arms impulsively around his neck. "oh, i did not know you! what has happened? i am so glad to see you! tell me what has happened. are you hurt?" he stammered like a school-boy. "nothing has happened. what's this? don't cry; nothing at all has happened. i didn't realize what a tramp i look or i shouldn't have come. but i was only a mile away and i had heard nothing for four days from medicine bend. and how are you? did your ride make you ill? no? by heaven, you are a game girl. that was a ride! how are they all? where's your cousin? in town, is he? i thought i might get some news if i rode up, and oh, miss dicksie--jiminy! some coffee. but i've got only two minutes for it all, only two minutes; do you think puss has any on the stove?" dicksie with coaxing and pulling got him into the kitchen, and puss tumbled over herself to set out coffee and rolls. he showed himself ravenously hungry, and ate with a simple directness that speedily accounted for everything in sight. "you have saved my life. now i am going, and thank you a thousand times. there, by heaven, i've forgotten wickwire! he is with me--waiting down in the cottonwoods at the fork. could puss put up a lunch i could take to him? he hasn't had a scrap for twenty-four hours. but, dicksie, your tramp is a hummer! i've tried to ride him down and wear him out and lose him, and, by heaven, he turns up every time and has been of more use to me than two men." she put her hand on whispering smith's arm. "i told him if he would stop drinking he could be foreman here next season." puss was putting up the lunch. "why need you hurry away?" persisted dicksie. "i've a thousand things to say." he looked at her amiably. "this is really a case of must." "then, tell me, what favor may i do for you?" she looked appealingly into his tired eyes. "i want to do something for you. i must! don't deny me. only, what shall it be?" "something for me? what can i say? you'll be kind to marion--i shouldn't have to ask that. what can i ask? stop! there is one thing. i've got a poor little devil of an orphan up in the deep creek country. du sang murdered his father. you are rich and generous, dicksie; do something for him, will you? kennedy or bob scott will know all about him. bring him down here, will you, and see he doesn't go to the dogs? you're a good girl. what's this, crying? now you are frightened. things are not so bad as that. you want to know everything--i see it in your eyes. very well, let's trade. you tell me everything and i'll tell you everything. now then: are you engaged?" they were standing under the low porch with the sunshine breaking through the trees. she turned away her face and threw all of her happiness into a laugh. "i won't tell." "oh, that's enough. you have told!" declared whispering smith. "i knew--why, of course i knew--but i wanted to make you own up. well, here's the way things are. sinclair has run us all over god's creation for two days to give his pals a chance to break into williams cache to get the tower w money they left with rebstock. for a fact, we have ridden completely around sleepy cat and been down in the spanish sinks since i saw you. he doesn't want to leave without the money, and doesn't know it is in kennedy's hands, and can't get into the cache to find out. now the three--whoever the other two are--and sinclair--are trying to join forces somewhere up this valley, and kennedy, scott, wickwire, and i are after them; and every outlet is watched, and it must all be over, my dear, before sunset to-night. isn't that fine? i mean to have the thing wound up somehow. don't look worried." "do not--do not let him kill you," she cried with a sob. "he will not kill me; don't be afraid." "i _am_ afraid. remember what your life is to all of us!" "then, of course, i've got to think of what it is to myself--being the only one i've got. sometimes i don't think much of it; but when i get a welcome like this it sets me up. if i can once get out of this accursed man-slaughtering business, dicksie--how old are you? nineteen? well, you've got the finest chap in all these mountains, and george mccloud has the finest----" with a bubbling laugh she shook her finger at him. "_now_ you are caught. say the finest woman in these mountains if you dare! say the finest woman!" "the finest woman of nineteen in all creation!" he swung with a laugh into the saddle and waved his hat. she watched him ride down the road and around the hill. when he reappeared she was still looking and he was galloping along the lower road. a man rode out at the fork to meet him and trotted with him over the bridge. riding leisurely across the creek, their broad hats bobbing unevenly in the sunshine, they spurred swiftly past the grove of quaking asps, and in a moment were lost beyond the trees. chapter xliv crawling stone wash where the little crawling stone river tears out of the mission mountains it has left a grayish-white gap that may be seen for many miles. this is the head of the north crawling stone valley. twenty miles to the right the big river itself bursts through the mission hills in the canyon known as the box. between the confluence of big and little crawling stone, and on the east side of little crawling stone, lies a vast waste. standing in the midst of this frightful eruption from the heart of the mountains, one sees, as far as the eye can reach, a landscape utterly forbidding. north for sixty miles lie the high chains of the mission range, and a cuplike configuration of the mountains close to the valley affords a resting-place for the deepest snows of winter and a precipitous escape for the torrents of june. here, when the sun reaches its summer height or a sweet-grass wind blows soft or a cloudburst above the peaks strikes the southerly face of the range, winter unfrocks in a single night. a glacier of snow melts within twenty-four hours into a torrent of lava and bursts with incredible fury from a thousand gorges. when this happens nothing withstands. whatever lies in the path of the flood is swept from the face of the earth. the mountains, assailed in a moment with the ferocity of a hundred storms, are ripped and torn like hills of clay. the frosted scale of the granite, the desperate root of the cedar, the poised nest of the eagle, the clutch of the crannied vine, the split and start of the mountainside, are all as one before the june thaw. at its height little crawling stone, with a head of forty feet, is a choking flood of rock. mountains, torn and bleeding, vomit bowlders of thirty, sixty, a hundred tons like pebbles upon the valley. even there they find no permanent resting-place. each succeeding year sees them torn groaning from their beds in the wash. new masses of rock are hurled upon them, new waters lift them in fresh caprice, and the crash and the grinding echo in the hills like a roar of mountain thunder. where the wash covers the valley nothing lives; the fertile earth has long been buried under the mountain _débris_. it supports no plant life beyond the scantiest deposit of weed-plant seed, and the rocky scurf, spreading like a leprosy over many miles, scars the face of the green earth. this is the crawling stone wash. exhausted by the fury of its few yearly weeks of activity, little crawling stone runs for the greater part of the year a winding, shallow stream through a bed of whitened bowlders where lizards sun themselves and trout lurk in shaded pools. when whispering smith and his companions were fairly started on the last day of their ride, it was toward this rift in the mission range that the trail led them. sinclair, with consummate cleverness, had rejoined his companions; but the attempt to get into the cache, and his reckless ride into medicine bend, had reduced their chances of escape to a single outlet, and that they must find up crawling stone valley. the necessity of it was spelled in every move the pursued men had made for twenty-four hours. they were riding the pick of mountain horseflesh and covering their tracks by every device known to the high country. behind them, made prudent by unusual danger, rode the best men the mountain division could muster for the final effort to bring them to account. the fast riding of the early week had given way to the pace of caution. no trail sign was overlooked, no point of concealment directly approached, no hiding-place left unsearched. the tension of a long day of this work was drawing to a close when the sun set and left the big wash in the shadow of the mountains. on the higher ground to the right, kennedy and scott were riding where they could command the gullies of the precipitous left bank of the river. high on the left bank itself, worming his way like a snake from point to point of concealment through the scanty brush of the mountainside, crawled wickwire, commanding the pockets in the right bank. closer to the river on the right and following the trail itself over shale and rock and between scattered bowlders, whispering smith, low on his horse's neck, rode slowly. it was almost too dark to catch the slight discolorations where pebbles had been disturbed on a flat surface or the calk of a horseshoe had slipped on the uneven face of a ledge, and he had halted under an uplift to wait for wickwire on the distant left to advance, when, half a mile below him, a horseman crossing the river rode slowly past a gap in the rocks and disappeared below the next bend. he was followed in a moment by a second rider and a third. whispering smith knew he had not been seen. he had flushed the game, and, wheeling his horse, rode straight up the river-bank to high ground, where he could circle around widely below them. they had slipped between his line and wickwire's, and were doubling back, following the dry bed of the stream. it was impossible to recall kennedy and scott without giving an alarm, but by a quick _détour_ he could at least hold the quarry back for twenty minutes with his rifle, and in that time kennedy and scott could come up. less than half an hour of daylight remained. if the outlaws could slip down the wash and out into the crawling stone valley they had every chance of getting away in the night; and if the third man should be barney rebstock, whispering smith knew that sinclair thought only of escape. smith alone, of their pursuers, could now intercept them, but a second hope remained: on the left, wickwire was high enough to command every turn in the bed of the river. he might see them and could force them to cover with his rifle even at long range. casting up the chances, whispering smith, riding faster over the uneven ground than anything but sheer recklessness would have prompted, hastened across the waste. his rifle lay in his hand, and he had pushed his horse to a run. a single fearful instinct crowded now upon the long strain of the week. a savage fascination burned like a fever in his veins, and he meant that they should not get away. taking chances that would have shamed him in cooler moments, he forced his horse at the end of the long ride to within a hundred paces of the river, threw his lines, slipped like a lizard from the saddle, and, darting with incredible swiftness from rock to rock, gained the water's edge. from up the long shadows of the wash there came the wail of an owl. from it he knew that wickwire had seen them and was warning him, but he had anticipated the warning and stood below where the hunted men must ride. he strained his eyes over the waste of rock above. for one half-hour of daylight he would have sold, in that moment, ten years of his life. what could he do if they should be able to secrete themselves until dark between him and wickwire? gliding under cover of huge rocks up the dry watercourse, he reached a spot where the floods had scooped a long, hollow curve out of a soft ledge in the bank, leaving a stretch of smooth sand on the bed of the stream. at the upper point great bowlders pushed out in the river. he could not inspect the curve from the spot he had gained without reckless exposure, but he must force the little daylight left to him. climbing completely over the lower point, he advanced cautiously, and from behind a sheltering spur stepped out upon an overhanging table of rock and looked across the river-bottom. three men had halted on the sand within the curve. two lay on their rifles under the upper point, a hundred and twenty paces from whispering smith. the third man, seagrue, less than fifty yards away, had got off his horse and was laying down his rifle, when the hoot-owl screeched again and he looked uneasily back. they had chosen for their halt a spot easily defended, and needed only darkness to make them safe, when smith, stepping out into plain sight, threw forward his hand. they heard his sharp call to pitch up, and the men under the point jumped. seagrue had not yet taken his hand from his rifle. he threw it to his shoulder. as closely together as two fingers of the right hand can be struck twice in the palm of the left, two rifle-shots cracked across the wash. two bullets passed so close in flight they might have struck. one cut the dusty hair from smith's temple and slit the brim of his hat above his ear; the other struck seagrue under the left eye, ploughed through the roof of his mouth, and, coming out below his ear, splintered the rock at his back. the shock alone would have staggered a bullock, but seagrue, laughing, came forward pumping his gun. sinclair, at a hundred and twenty yards, cut instantly into the fight, and the ball from his rifle creased the alkali that crusted whispering smith's unshaven cheek. as he fired he sprang to cover. for seagrue and smith there was no cover: for one or both it was death in the open and seagrue, with his rifle at his cheek, walked straight into it. taking for a moment the fire of the three guns, whispering smith stood, a perfect target, outlined against the sky. they whipped the dust from his coat, tore the sleeve from his wrist, and ripped the blouse collar from his neck; but he felt no bullet shock. he saw before him only the buckle of seagrue's belt forty paces away, and sent bullet after bullet at the gleam of brass between the sights. both men were using high-pressure guns, and the deadly shock of the slugs made seagrue twitch and stagger. the man was dying as he walked. smith's hand was racing with the lever, and had a cartridge jammed, the steel would have snapped like a match. it was beyond human endurance to support the leaden death. the little square of brass between the sights wavered. seagrue stumbled, doubled on his knees, and staggering plunged loosely forward on the sand. whispering smith threw his fire toward the bowlder behind which sinclair and barney rebstock had disappeared. suddenly he realized that the bullets from the point were not coming his way. he was aware of a second rifle-duel above the bend. wickwire, worming his way down the stream, had uncovered sinclair and young rebstock from behind. a yell between the shots rang across the wash, and the cringing figure of a man ran out toward whispering smith with his hands high in the air, and pitched headlong on the ground. it was the skulker, barney rebstock, driven out by wickwire's fire. the, shooting ceased. silence fell upon the gloom of the dusk. then came a calling between smith and wickwire, and a signalling of pistol-shots for their companions. kennedy and bob scott dashed down toward the river-bed on their horses. seagrue lay on his face. young rebstock sat with his hands around his knees on the sand. above him at some distance, wickwire and smith stood before a man who leaned against the sharp cheek of the bowlder at the point. in his hands his rifle was held across his lap just as he had dropped on his knee to fire. he had never moved after he was struck. his head, drooping a little, rested against the rock, and his hat lay on the sand; his heavy beard had sunk into his chest and he kneeled in the shadow, asleep. scott and kennedy knew him. in the mountains there was no double for murray sinclair. when he jumped behind the point to pick whispering smith off the ledge he had laid himself directly under wickwire's fire across the wash. the first shot of the cowboy at two hundred yards had passed, as he knelt, through both temples. they laid him at seagrue's side. the camp was made beside the dead men in the wash. "you had better not take him to medicine bend," said whispering smith, sitting late with kennedy before the dying fire. "it would only mean that much more unpleasant talk and notoriety for her. the inquest can be held on the frenchman. take him to his own ranch and telegraph the folks in wisconsin--god knows whether they will want to hear. but his mother is there yet. but if half what barney has told to-night is true it would be better if no one ever heard." chapter xlv back to the mountains in the cottage in boney street, one year later, two women were waiting. it was ten o'clock at night. "isn't it a shame to be disappointed like this?" complained dicksie, pushing her hair impatiently back. "really, poor george is worked to death. he was to be in at six o'clock, mr. lee said, and here it is ten, and all your beautiful dinner spoiled. marion, are you keeping something from me? look me in the eye. have you heard from gordon smith?" "no, dicksie." "not since he left the mountains a year ago?" "not since he left the mountains a year ago." dicksie, sitting forward in her chair, bent her eyes upon the fire. "it is so strange. i wonder where he is to-night. how he loves you, marion! he told me everything when he said good-by. he made me promise not to tell then; but i didn't promise to keep it forever." marion smiled. "a year isn't forever, dicksie." "well, it's pretty near forever when you are in love," declared dicksie energetically. "i know just how he felt," she went on in a quieter tone. "he felt that all the disagreeable excitement and talk we had here then bore heaviest on you. he said if he stayed in medicine bend the newspapers never would cease talking and people never would stop annoying you--and you know george did say they were asking to have passenger trains held here just so people could see whispering smith. and, marion, think of it, he actually doesn't know yet that george and i are married! how could we notify him without knowing where he was? and he doesn't know that trains are running up the crawling stone valley. mercy! a year goes like an hour when you're in love, doesn't it? george said he _knew_ we should hear from him within six months--and george has never yet been mistaken excepting when he said i should grow to like the railroad business--and now it is a year and no news from him." dicksie sprang from her chair. "i am going to call up mr. rooney lee and just demand my husband! i think mr. lee handles trains shockingly every time george tries to get home like this on saturday nights--now don't you? and passenger trains ought to get out of the way, anyway, when a division superintendent is trying to get home. what difference does it make to a passenger, i'd like to know, whether he is a few hours less or longer in getting to california or japan or manila or hongkong or buzzard's gulch, provided he is safe--and you know there has not been an accident on the division for a year, marion. there's a step now. i'll bet that's george!" the door opened and it was george. "oh, honey!" cried dicksie softly, waving her arms as she stood an instant before she ran to him. "but haven't i been a-waitin' for you!" "too bad! and, marion," he exclaimed, turning without releasing his wife from his arms, "how can i ever make good for all this delay? oh, yes, i've had dinner. never, for heaven's sake, wait dinner for me! but wait, both of you, till you hear the news!" dicksie kept her hands on his shoulders. "you have heard from whispering smith!" "i have." "i knew it!" "wait till i get it straight. mr. bucks is here--i came in with him in his car. he has news of whispering smith. one of our freight-traffic men in the puget sound country, who has been in a hospital in victoria, learned by the merest accident that gordon smith was lying in the same hospital with typhoid fever." marion rose swiftly. "then the time has come, thank god, when i can do something for him; and i am going to him to-night!" "fine!" cried mccloud. "so am i, and that is why i'm late." "then i am going, too," exclaimed dicksie solemnly. "do you mean it?" asked her husband. "shall we let her, marion? mr. bucks says i am to take his car and take barnhardt, and keep the car there till i can bring gordon back. mr. bucks and his secretary will ride to-night as far as bear dance with us, and in the morning they join mr. glover there." mccloud looked at his watch. "if you are both going, can you be ready by twelve o'clock for the china mail?" "we can be ready in an hour," declared dicksie, throwing her arm half around marion's neck, "can't we, marion?" "i can be ready in thirty minutes." "then, by heaven--" mccloud studied his watch. "what is it, george?" "we won't wait for the midnight train. we will take an engine, run special to green river, overhaul the coast limited, and save a whole day." "george, pack your suit-case--quick, dear; and you, too, marion; suit-cases are all we can take," cried dicksie, pushing her husband toward the bedroom. "i'll telephone rooney lee for an engine myself right away. dear me, it is kind of nice, to be able to order up a train when you want one in a hurry, isn't it, marion? perhaps i _shall_ come to like it if they ever make george a vice-president." in half an hour they had joined bucks in his car, and bill dancing was piling the baggage into the vestibule. bucks was sitting down to coffee. chairs had been provided at the table, and after the greetings, bucks, seating marion sinclair at his right and barnhardt and mccloud at his left, asked dicksie to sit opposite and pour the coffee. "you are a railroad man's wife now and you must learn to assume responsibility." mccloud looked apprehensive. "i am afraid she will be assuming the whole division if you encourage her too much, mr. bucks." "marrying a railroad man," continued bucks, pursuing his own thought, "is as bad as marrying into the army; if you have your husband half the time you are lucky. then, too, in the railroad business your husband may have to be set back when the traffic falls off. it's a little light at this moment, too. how should you take it if we had to put him on a freight train for a while, mrs. mccloud?" "oh, mr. bucks!" "or suppose he should be promoted and should have to go to headquarters--some of us are getting old, you know." "really," dicksie looked most demure as she filled the president's cup, "really, i often say to mr. mccloud that i can not believe mr. bucks is president of this great road. he always looks to me to be the youngest man on the whole executive staff. two lumps of sugar, mr. bucks?" the bachelor president rolled his eyes as he reached for his cup. "thank you, mrs. mccloud, only one after that." he looked toward marion. "all i can say is that if mrs. mccloud's husband had married her two years earlier he might have been general manager by this time. nothing could hold a man back, even a man of his modesty, whose wife can say as nice things as that. by the way, mrs. sinclair, does this man keep you supplied with transportation?" "oh, i have my annual, mr. bucks!" marion opened her bag to find it. bucks held out his hand. "let me see it a moment." he adjusted his eye-glasses, looked at the pass, and called for a pen; bucks had never lost his gracious way of doing very little things. he laid the card on the table and wrote across the back of it over his name: "good on all passenger trains." when he handed the card back to marion he turned to dicksie. "i understand you are laying out two or three towns on the ranch, mrs. mccloud?" "two or three! oh, no, only one as yet, mr. bucks! they are laying out, oh, such a pretty town! cousin lance is superintending the street work--and whom do you think i am going to name it after? you! i think 'bucks' makes a dandy name for a town, don't you? and i am going to have one town named dunning; there will be two stations on the ranch, you know, and i think, really, there _ought_ to be three." "as many as that?" "i don't believe you can operate a line that long, mr. bucks, with stations fourteen miles apart." bucks opened his eyes in benevolent surprise. dicksie, unabashed, kept right on: "well, do you know how traffic is increasing over there, with the trains running only two months now? why, the settlers are fairly pouring into the country." "will you give me a corner lot if we put another station on the ranch?" "i will give you two if you will give us excursions and run some of the overland passenger trains through the valley." bucks threw back his head and laughed in his tremendous way. "i don't know about that; i daren't promise offhand, mrs. mccloud. but if you can get whispering smith to come back you might lay the matter before him. he is to take charge of all the colonist business when he returns; he promised to do that before he went away for his vacation. whispering smith is really the man you will have to stand in with." * * * * * whispering smith, lying on his iron bed in the hospital, professed not to be able quite to understand why they had made such a fuss about it. he underwent the excitement of the appearance of barnhardt and the first talk with mccloud and dicksie with hardly a rise in his temperature, and, lying in the sunshine of the afternoon, he was waiting for marion. when she opened the door his face was turned wistfully toward it. he held out his hands with the old smile. she ran half blinded across the room and dropped on her knee beside him. "my dear marion, why did they drag you away out here?" "they did not drag me away out here. did you expect me to sit with folded hands when i heard you were ill anywhere in the wide world?" he looked hungrily at her. "i didn't suppose any one in the wide world would take it very seriously." "mr. mccloud is crushed this afternoon to think you have said you would not go back with him. you would not believe how he misses you." "it has been pretty lonesome for the last year. i didn't think it _could_ be so lonesome anywhere." "nor did i." "have you noticed it? i shouldn't think you could in the mountains. was there much water last spring? heavens, i'd like to see the crawling stone again!" "why don't you come back?" he folded her hands in his own. "marion, it is you. i've been afraid i couldn't stand it to be near you and not tell you----" "what need you be afraid to tell me?" "that i have loved you so long." her head sunk close to his. "don't you know you have said it to me many times without words? i've only been waiting for a chance to tell you how happy it makes me to think it is true." zane grey's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list the light of western stars a new york society girl buys a ranch which becomes the center of frontier warfare. her loyal superintendent rescues her when she is captured by bandits. a surprising climax brings the story to a delightful close. the rainbow trail the story of a young clergyman who becomes a wanderer in the great western uplands--until at last love and faith awake. desert gold the story describes the recent uprising along the border, and ends with the finding of the gold which two prospectors had willed to the girl who is the story's heroine. riders of the purple sage a picturesque romance of utah of some forty years ago when mormon authority ruled. the prosecution of jane withersteen is the theme of the story. the last of the plainsmen this is the record of a trip which the author took with buffalo jones, known as the preserver of the american bison, across the arizona desert and of a hunt in "that wonderful country of deep canons and giant pines." the heritage of the desert a lovely girl, who has been reared among mormons, learns to love a young new englander. the mormon religion, however, demands that the girl shall become the second wife of one of the mormons--well, that's the problem of this great story. the short stop the young hero, tiring of his factory grind, starts out to win fame and fortune as a professional ball player. his hard knocks at the start are followed by such success as clean sportsmanship, courage and honesty ought to win. betty zane this story tells of the bravery and heroism of betty, the beautiful young sister of old colonel zane, one of the bravest pioneers. the lone star ranger after killing a man in self defense, buck duane becomes an outlaw along the texas border. in a camp on the mexican side of the river, he finds a young girl held prisoner, and in attempting to rescue her, brings down upon himself the wrath of her captors and henceforth is hunted on one side by honest men, on the other by outlaws. the border legion joan randle, in a spirit of anger, sent jim cleve out to a lawless western mining camp, to prove his mettle. then realizing that she loved him--she followed him out. on her way, she is captured by a bandit band, and trouble begins when she shoots kells, the leader--and nurses him to health again. here enters another romance--when joan, disguised as an outlaw, observes jim, in the throes of dissipation. a gold strike, a thrilling robbery--gambling and gun-play carry you along breathlessly. the last of the great scouts, by helen cody wetmore and zane grey the life story of colonel william f. cody, "buffalo bill," as told by his sister and zane grey. it begins with his boyhood in iowa and his first encounter with an indian. we see "bill" as a pony express rider, then near fort sumter as chief of the scouts, and later engaged in the most dangerous indian campaigns. there is also a very interesting account of the travels of "the wild west" show. no character in public life makes a stronger appeal to the imagination of america than "buffalo bill," whose daring and bravery made him famous. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the novels of george barr mccutcheon may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. graustark. illustrated with scenes from the play. with the appearance of this novel, the author introduced a new type of story and won for himself a perpetual reading public. it is the story of love behind a throne in a new and strange country. beverly of graustark. illustrations by harrison fisher. this is a sequel to "graustark." a bewitching american girl visits the little principality and there has a romantic love affair. prince of graustark. illustrations by a. i. keller. the prince of graustark is none other than the son of the heroine of "graustark." beverly's daughter, and an american multimillionaire with a brilliant and lovely daughter also figure in the story. brewster's millions. illustrated with scenes from the photo-play. a young man, required to spend one million dollars in one year, in order to inherit seven, accomplishes the task in this lively story. cowardice court. illus. by harrison fisher and decorations by theodore hapgood. a romance of love and adventure, the plot forming around a social feud in the adirondacks in which an english girl is tempted into being a traitor by a romantic young american. the hollow of her hand. illustrated by a. i. keller. a story of modern new york, built around an ancient enmity, born of the scorn of the aristocrat for one of inferior birth. what's-his-name. illustrations by harrison fisher. "what's-his-name" is the husband of a beautiful and popular actress who is billboarded on broadway under an assumed name. the very opposite manner in which these two live their lives brings a dramatic climax to the story. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the novels of mary roberts rinehart may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. "k." illustrated. k. lemoyne, famous surgeon, drops out of the world that has known him, and goes to live in a little town where beautiful sidney page lives. she is in training to become a nurse. the joys and troubles of their young love are told with that keen and sympathetic appreciation which has made the author famous. the man in lower ten. illustrated by howard chandler christy. an absorbing detective story woven around the mysterious death of the "man in lower ten." the strongest elements of mrs. rinehart's success are found in this book. when a man marries. illustrated by harrison fisher and mayo bunker. a young artist, whose wife had recently divorced him, finds that his aunt is soon to visit him. the aunt, who contributes to the family income and who has never seen the wife, knows nothing of the domestic upheaval. how the young man met the situation is humorously and most entertainingly told. the circular staircase. illus. by lester ralph. the summer occupants of "sunnyside" find the dead body of arnold armstrong, the son of the owner, on the circular staircase. following the murder a bank failure is announced. around these two events is woven a plot of absorbing interest. the street of seven stars. illustrated (photo play edition.) harmony wells, studying in vienna to be a great violinist, suddenly realizes that her money is almost gone. she meets a young ambitious doctor who offers her chivalry and sympathy, and together with world-worn dr. anna and jimmie, the waif, they share their love and slender means. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york myrtle reed's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. lavender and old lace. a charming story of a quaint corner of new england, where bygone romance finds a modern parallel. the story centers round the coming of love to the young people on the staff of a newspaper--and it is one of the prettiest, sweetest and quaintest of old-fashioned love stories. master of the vineyard. a pathetic love story of a young girl, rosemary. the teacher of the country school, who is also master of the vineyard, comes to know her through her desire for books. she is happy in his love till another woman comes into his life. but happiness and emancipation from her many trials come to rosemary at last. the book has a touch of humor and pathos that will appeal to every reader. old rose and silver. a love story,--sentimental and humorous,--with the plot subordinate to the character delineation of its quaint people and to the exquisite descriptions of picturesque spots and of lovely, old, rare treasures. a weaver of dreams. this story tells of the love-affairs of three young people, with an old-fashioned romance in the background. a tiny dog plays an important role in serving as a foil for the heroine's talking ingeniousness. there is poetry, as well as tenderness and charm, in this tale of a weaver of dreams. a spinner in the sun. an old-fashioned love story, of a veiled lady who lives in solitude and whose features her neighbors have never seen. there is a mystery at the heart of the book that throws over it the glamour of romance. the master's violin. a love story in a musical atmosphere. a picturesque, old german virtuoso consents to take for his pupil a handsome youth who proves to have an aptitude for technique, but not the soul of an artist. the youth cannot express the love, the passion and the tragedies of life as can the master. but a girl comes into his life, and through his passionate love for her, he learns the lessons that life has to give--and his soul awakes. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york stories of rare charm by gene stratton-porter may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. michael o'halloran, illustrated by frances rogers. michael is a quick-witted little irish newsboy, living in northern indiana. he adopts a deserted little girl, a cripple. he also assumes the responsibility of leading the entire rural community upward and onward. laddie. illustrated by herman pfeifer. this is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in indiana. the story is told by little sister, the youngest member of a large family, but it is concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairs of older members of the family. chief among them is that of laddie and the princess, an english girl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose family there hangs a mystery. the harvester. illustrated by w. l. jacobs. "the harvester," is a man of the woods and fields, and if the book had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would be notable. but when the girl comes to his "medicine woods," there begins a romance of the rarest idyllic quality. freckles. illustrated. freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which he takes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the great limberlost swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs to the charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "the angel" are full of real sentiment. a girl of the limberlost. illustrated. the story of a girl of the michigan woods; a buoyant, loveable type of the self-reliant american. her philosophy is one of love and kindness towards all things; her hope is never dimmed. and by the sheer beauty of her soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren and unpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage. at the foot of the rainbow. illustrations in colors. the scene of this charming love story is laid in central indiana. the story is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love. the novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, and its pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all. the song of the cardinal. profusely illustrated. a love ideal of the cardinal bird and his mate, told with delicacy and humor. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york b. m. bower's novels thrilling western romances large mos. handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated chip, of the flying u a breezy wholesome tale, wherein the love affairs of chip and della whitman are charmingly and humorously told. chip's jealousy of dr. cecil grantham, who turns out to be a big, blue eyed young woman is very amusing. a clever, realistic story of the american cow-puncher. the happy family a lively and amusing story, dealing with the adventures of eighteen jovial, big hearted montana cowboys. foremost amongst them, we find ananias green, known as andy, whose imaginative powers cause many lively and exciting adventures. her prairie knight a realistic story of the plains, describing a gay party of easterners who exchange a cottage at newport for the rough homeliness of a montana ranch-house. the merry-hearted cowboys, the fascinating beatrice, and the effusive sir redmond, become living, breathing personalities. the range dwellers here are every-day, genuine cowboys, just as they really exist. spirited action, a range feud between two families, and a romeo and juliet courtship make this a bright, jolly, entertaining story, without a dull page. the lure of dim trails a vivid portrayal of the experience of an eastern author, among the cowboys of the west, in search of "local color" for a new novel. "bud" thurston learns many a lesson while following "the lure of the dim trails" but the hardest, and probably the most welcome, is that of love. the lonesome trail "weary" davidson leaves the ranch for portland, where conventional city life palls on him. a little branch of sage brush, pungent with the atmosphere of the prairie, and the recollection of a pair of large brown eyes soon compel his return. a wholesome love story. the long shadow a vigorous western story, sparkling with the free, outdoor, life of a mountain ranch. its scenes shift rapidly and its actors play the game of life fearlessly and like men. it is a fine love story from start to finish. ask for a complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction. grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york the novels of steward edward white may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. the blazed trail. illustrated by thomas fogarty. a wholesome story with gleams of humor, telling of a young man who blazed his way to fortune through the heart of the michigan pines. the call of the north. ills. with scenes from the play. the story centers about a hudson bay trading post, known as "the conjuror's house" (the original title of the book.) the riverman. ills. by n. c. wyeth and c. f. underwood. the story of a man's fight against a river and of a struggle between honesty and grit on the one side, and dishonesty and shrewdness on the other. rules of the game. illustrated by lejaren a. hiller. the romance of the son of "the riverman." the young college hero goes into the lumber camp, is antagonized by "graft," and comes into the romance of his life. gold. illustrated by thomas fogarty. the gold fever of ' is pictured with vividness. a part of the story is laid in panama, the route taken by the gold-seekers. the forest. illustrated by thomas fogarty. the book tells of the canoe trip of the author and his companion into the great woods. much information about camping and outdoor life. a splendid treatise on woodcraft. the mountains. illustrated by fernand lungren. an account of the adventures of a five months' camping trip in the sierras of california. the author has followed a true sequence of events. the cabin. illustrated with photographs by the author. a chronicle of the building of a cabin home in a forest-girdled meadow of the sierras. full of nature and woodcraft, and the shrewd philosophy of "california john." the gray dawn. illustrated by thomas fogarty. this book tells of the period shortly after the first mad rush for gold in california. a young lawyer and his wife, initiated into the gay life of san francisco, find their ways parted through his downward course, but succeeding events bring the "gray dawn of better things" for both of them. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york novels of frontier life by william macleod raine handsomely bound in cloth. illustrated. may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list mavericks. a tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredations are so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. one of the sweetest love stories ever told. a texas ranger. how a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law into the mesquit, saved the life of an innocent man after a series of thrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to wyoming, and then passed through deadly peril to ultimate happiness. wyoming. in this vivid story of the outdoor west the author has captured the breezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of the frontier with all its engaging dash and vigor. ridgway of montana. the scene is laid in the mining centers of montana, where politics and mining industries are the religion of the country. the political contest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this story great strength and charm. bucky o'connor. every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete with the dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbing fascination of style and plot. crooked trails and straight. a story of arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitter feud between cattlemen and sheep-herders. the heroine is a most unusual woman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittingly characteristic of the great free west. brand blotters. a story of the cattle range. this story brings out the turbid life of the frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming love interest running through its pages. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york jack london's novels may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. john barleycorn. illustrated by h. t. dunn. this remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazing experiences. this big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted with alcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against john barleycorn. it is a string of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgettable idea and makes a typical jack london book. the valley of the moon. frontispiece by george harper. the story opens in the city slums where billy roberts, teamster and ex-prize fighter, and saxon brown, laundry worker, meet and love and marry. they tramp from one end of california to the other, and in the valley of the moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation. burning daylight. four illustrations. the story of an adventurer who went to alaska and laid the foundations of his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. bringing his fortunes to the states he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, and recovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. he then starts out as a merciless exploiter on his own account. finally he takes to drinking and becomes a picture of degeneration. about this time he falls in love with his stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but read the story! a son of the sun. illustrated by a. o. fischer and c. w. ashley. david grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came from england to the south seas in search of adventure. tanned like a native and as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. the life appealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy. the call of the wild. illustrations by philip r. goodwin and charles livingston bull. decorations by charles e. hooper. a book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be. here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color to transport the reader to primitive scenes. the sea wolf. illustrated by w. j. aylward. told by a man whom fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life into the power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. a novel of adventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hail with delight. white fang. illustrated by charles livingston bull. "white fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozen north; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, and surrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. thereafter he is man's loving slave. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the novels of clara louise burnham may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. jewel: a chapter in her life. illustrated by maude and genevieve cowles. a story breathing the doctrine of love and patience as exemplified in the life of a child. jewel will never grow old because of the immortality of her love. jewel's story book. illustrated by albert schmitt. a sequel to "jewel," in which the same characteristics of love and cheerfulness touch and uplift the reader. the inner flame. frontispiece in color. a young mining engineer, whose chief ambition is to become an artist, but who has no friends with whom to realize his hopes, has a way opened to him to try his powers, and, of course, he is successful. the right princess. at a fashionable long island resort, a stately english woman employs a forcible new england housekeeper to serve in her interesting home. many humorous situations result. a delightful love affair runs through it all. the opened shutters. illustrated with scenes from the photo play. a beautiful woman, at discord with life, is brought to realize, by her new friends, that she may open the shutters of her soul to the blessed sunlight of joy by casting aside self love. the right track. frontispiece in color by greene blumenschien. a story of a young girl who marries for money so that she can enjoy things intellectual. neglect of her husband and of her two step children makes an unhappy home till a friend brings a new philosophy of happiness into the household. clever betsy. illustrated by rose o' neill. the "clever betsy" was a boat--named for the unyielding spinster whom the captain hoped to marry. through the two betsy's a delightful group of people are introduced. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york charming books for girls may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list when patty went to college, by jean webster. illustrated by c. d. williams. one of the best stories of life in a girl's college that has ever been written. it is bright, whimsical and entertaining, lifelike, laughable and thoroughly human. just patty, by jean webster. illustrated by c. m. relyea. patty is full of the joy of living, fun-loving, given to ingenious mischief for its own sake, with a disregard for pretty convention which is an unfailing source of joy to her fellows. the poor little rich girl, by eleanor gates. with four full page illustrations. this story relates the experience of one of those unfortunate children whose early days are passed in the companionship of a governess, seldom seeing either parent, and famishing for natural love and tenderness. a charming play as dramatized by the author. rebecca of sunnybrook farm, by kate douglas wiggin. one of the most beautiful studies of childhood--rebecca's artistic, unusual and quaintly charming qualities stand out midst a circle of austere new englanders. the stage version is making a phenomenal dramatic record. new chronicles of rebecca, by kate douglas wiggin. illustrated by f. c. yohn. additional episodes in the girlhood of this delightful heroine that carry rebecca through various stages to her eighteenth birthday. rebecca mary, by annis hamilton donnell. illustrated by elizabeth shippen green. this author possesses the rare gift of portraying all the grotesque little joys and sorrows and scruples of this very small girl with a pathos that is peculiarly genuine and appealing. emmy lou: her book and heart, by george madden martin. illustrated by charles louis hinton. emmy lou is irresistibly lovable, because she is so absolutely real. she is just a bewitchingly innocent, hugable little maid. the book is wonderfully human. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york sewell ford's stories may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. shorty mccabe. illustrated by francis vaux wilson. a very humorous story. the hero, an independent and vigorous thinker, sees life, and tells about it in a very unconventional way. side-stepping with shorty. illustrated by francis vaux wilson. twenty skits, presenting people with their foibles. sympathy with human nature and an abounding sense of humor are the requisites for "side-stepping with shorty." shorty mccabe on the job. illustrated by francis vaux wilson. shorty mccabe reappears with his figures of speech revamped right up to the minute. he aids in the right distribution of a "conscience fund," and gives joy to all concerned. shorty mccabe's odd numbers, illustrated by francis vaux wilson. these further chronicles of shorty mccabe tell of his studio for physical culture, and of his experiences both on the east side and at swell yachting parties. torchy. illus, by geo. biehm and jas. montgomery flagg. a red-headed office boy, overflowing with wit and wisdom peculiar to the youths reared on the sidewalks of new york, tells the story of his experiences. trying out torchy. illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy is just as deliriously funny in these stories as he was in the previous book. on with torchy. illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy falls desperately in love with "the only girl that ever was," but that young society woman's aunt tries to keep the young people apart, which brings about many hilariously funny situations. torchy, private sec. illustrated by f. foster lincoln. torchy rises from the position of office boy to that of secretary for the corrugated iron company. the story is full of humor and infectious american slang. wilt thou torchy. illus. by f. snapp and a. w. brown. torchy goes on a treasure search expedition to the florida west coast, in company with a group of friends of the corrugated trust and with his friend's aunt, on which trip torchy wins the aunt's permission to place an engagement ring on vee's finger. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york kathleen norris' stories may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list. mother. illustrated by f. c. yohn. this book has a fairy-story touch, counterbalanced by the sturdy reality of struggle, sacrifice, and resulting peace and power of a mother's experiences. saturday's child. frontispiece by f. graham cootes. out on the pacific coast a normal girl, obscure and lovely, makes a quest for happiness. she passes through three stages--poverty, wealth and service--and works out a creditable salvation. the rich mrs. burgoyne. illustrated by lucius h. hitchcock. the story of a sensible woman who keeps within her means, refuses to be swamped by social engagements, lives a normal human life of varied interests, and has her own romance. the story of julia page. frontispiece by allan gilbert. how julia page, reared in rather unpromising surroundings, lifted herself through sheer determination to a higher plane of life. the heart of rachael. frontispiece by charles e. chambers. rachael is called upon to solve many problems, and in working out these, there is shown the beauty and strength of soul of one of fiction's most appealing characters. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york john fox, jr's. stories of the kentucky mountains may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset and dunlap's list. the trail of the lonesome pine. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall tree that stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. the fame of the pine lured a young engineer through kentucky to catch the trail, and when he finally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the foot-prints of a girl. and the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, and the trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madder chase than "the trail of the lonesome pine." the little shepherd of kingdom come illustrated by f. c. yohn. this is a story of kentucky, in a settlement known as "kingdom come." it is a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which often springs the flower of civilization. "chad," the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence he came--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood, seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered and mothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif, by the way, who could play the banjo better than anyone else in the mountains. a knight of the cumberland. illustrated by f. c. yohn. the scenes are laid along the waters of the cumberland, the lair of moonshiner and feudsman. the knight is a moonshiner's son, and the heroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "the blight." two impetuous young southerners' fall under the spell of "the blight's" charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in the love making of the mountaineers. included in this volume is "hell fer-sartain" and other stories, some of mr. fox's most entertaining cumberland valley narratives. ask for complete free list of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york the novels of winston churchill the inside of the cup. illustrated by howard giles. the reverend john hodder is called to a fashionable church in a middle-western city. he knows little of modern problems and in his theology is as orthodox as the rich men who control his church could desire. but the facts of modern life are thrust upon him; an awakening follows and in the end he works out a solution. a far country. illustrated by herman pfeifer. this novel is concerned with big problems of the day. as the inside of the cup gets down to the essentials in its discussion of religion, so a far country deals in a story that is intense and dramatic, with other vital issues confronting the twentieth century. a modern chronicle. illustrated by j. h. gardner soper. this, mr. churchill's first great presentation of the eternal feminine, is throughout a profound study of a fascinating young american woman. it is frankly a modern love story. mr. crewe's career. illus. by a. i. keller and kinneys. a new england state is under the political domination of a railway and mr. crewe, a millionaire, seizes a moment when the cause of the people is being espoused by an ardent young attorney, to further his own interest in a political way. the daughter of the railway president plays no small part in the situation. the crossing. illustrated by s. adamson and l. baylis. describing the battle of fort moultrie, the blazing of the kentucky wilderness, the expedition of clark and his handful of followers in illinois, the beginning of civilization along the ohio and mississippi, and the treasonable schemes against washington. coniston. illustrated by florence scovel shinn. a deft blending of love and politics. a new englander is the hero, a crude man who rose to political prominence by his own powers, and then surrendered all for the love of a woman. the celebrity. an episode. an inimitable bit of comedy describing an interchange of personalities between a celebrated author and a bicycle salesman. it is the purest, keenest fun--and is american to the core. the crisis. illustrated with scenes from the photo-play. a book that presents the great crisis in our national life with splendid power and with a sympathy, a sincerity, and a patriotism that are inspiring. richard carvel. illustrated by malcolm frazer. an historical novel which gives a real and vivid picture of colonial times, and is good, clean, spirited reading in all its phases and interesting throughout. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york grosset & dunlap's dramatized novels the kind that are making theatrical history may be had wherever books are sold. ask for grosset & dunlap's list within the law. by bayard veiller & marvin dana. illustrated by wm. charles cooke. this is a novelization of the immensely successful play which ran for two years in new york and chicago. the plot of this powerful novel is of a young woman's revenge directed against her employer who allowed her to be sent to prison for three years on a charge of theft, of which she was innocent. what happened to mary. by robert carlton brown. illustrated with scenes from the play. this is a narrative of a young and innocent country girl who is suddenly thrown into the very heart of new york, "the land of her dreams," where she is exposed to all sorts of temptations and dangers. the story of mary is being told in moving pictures and played in theatres all over the world. the return of peter grimm. by david belasco. illustrated by john rae. this is a novelization of the popular play in which david warfield as old peter grimm, scored such a remarkable success. the story is spectacular and extremely pathetic but withal, powerful, both as a book and as a play. the garden of allah. by robert hichens. this novel is an intense, glowing epic of the great desert, sunlit barbaric, with its marvelous atmosphere of vastness and loneliness. it is a book of rapturous beauty, vivid in word painting. the play has been staged with magnificent cast and gorgeous properties. ben hur. a tale of the christ. by general lew wallace. the whole world has placed this famous religious-historical romance on a height of pre-eminence which no other novel of its time has reached. the clashing of rivalry and the deepest human passions, the perfect reproduction of brilliant roman life, and the tense, fierce atmosphere of the arena have kept their deep fascination. a tremendous dramatic success. bought and paid for. by george broadhurst and arthur hornblow. illustrated with scenes from the play. a stupendous arraignment of modern marriage which has created an interest on the stage that is almost unparalleled. the scenes are laid in new york, and deal with conditions among both the rich and poor. the interest of the story turns on the day-by-day developments which show the young wife the price she has paid. ask for complete free fist of g. & d. popular copyrighted fiction grosset & dunlap, west th st., new york note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) empire builders by francis lynde author of the quickening, the grafters a fool for love, etc. with illustrations by jay hambidge indianapolis the bobbs-merrill company publishers press of braunworth & co. bookbinders and printers brooklyn, n.y. [illustration: "i won't attempt to apologize--it's beyond all that"] contents chapter page i a master of men ii a spiked switch iii loss and damage iv cold storage v wanted: thirty-five millions vi the awakening of charles edward vii hammer and tongs viii the automatic air ix the race to the slow x the sinews of war xi hurry orders xii the entering wedge xiii the barbarians xiv the draw-bar pull xv an unwilling host xvi the truthful altitudes xvii a night of alarms xviii the morning after xix the reluctant wheels xx the conspirators xxi the mills of the gods xxii the man on horseback xxiii the deadlock xxiv ruiz gregorio xxv the siege of the nadia xxvi the star of empire empire builders i a master of men engine number , narrow gauge, was pushing, or rather failing to push, the old-fashioned box-plow through the crusted drifts on the uptilted shoulder of plug mountain, at altitude ten thousand feet, with the mercury at twelve below zero. there was a wind--the winter day above timber-line without its wind is as rare as a thawing christmas--and it cut like knives through any garmenting lighter than fur or leather. the cab of the was old and weather-shaken, and ford pulled the collar of his buffalo coat about his ears when the grunting of the exhaust and the shrilling of the wheels on the snow-shod rails stopped abruptly. "gar-r-r!" snarled gallagher, the red-headed irish engineer, shutting off the steam in impotent rage. "the power is not in this dommed ould camp-kittle sewin' machine! 'tis heaven's pity they wouldn't be givin' us wan man-sized, fightin' lokimotive on this ind of the line, misther foord." ford, superintendent and general autocrat of the plug mountain branch of the pacific southwestern, climbed down from his cramped seat on the fireman's box and stood scowling at the retracting index of the steam-gauge. when he was on his feet beside the little irishman, you saw that he was a young man, well-built, square-shouldered and athletic under the muffling of the shapeless fur greatcoat; also, that in spite of the scowl, his clean-shaven face was strong and manly and good to look upon. "power!" he retorted. "that's only one of the hundred things they don't give us, mike. look at that steam-gauge--freezing right where she stands!" "'tis so," assented gallagher. "she'd be dead and shtiff in tin minutes be the clock if we'd lave her be in this drift." ford motioned the engineer aside and took the throttle himself. it was the third day out from cherubusco, the station at the foot of the mountain; and in the eight-and-forty hours the engine, plow and crew of twenty shovelers had, by labor of the cruelest, opened eleven of the thirteen blockaded miles isolating saint's rest, the mining-camp end-of-track in the high basin at the head of the pass. the throttle opened with a jerk under the superintendent's hand. there was a snow-choked drumming of the exhaust, and the driving-wheels spun wildly in the flurry beneath. but there was no inch of forward motion, and ford gave it up. "we're against it," he admitted. "back her down and we'll put the shovelers at it again while you're nursing her up and getting more steam. we're going to make it to saint's rest to-day if the two-six has to go in on three legs." gallagher pulled the reversing lever into the back gear and sent the failing steam whistling into the chilled cylinders with cautious little jerks at the throttle. the box-plow came out of the clutch of its snow vise with shrillings as of a soul in torment, and the bucking outfit screeched coldly down over the snowy rails to the "let-up," where the shovelers' box-car had been uncoupled. ford swung off to turn out the shoveling squad; and presently the laborers, muffled to the eyes, were filing past the to break a path for the plow. gallagher was on the running-board with his flare torch, thawing out an injector. he marked the cheerful swing of the men and gave credit where it was due. "'tis a full-grown man, that," he commented, meaning ford. "manny's the wan would be huggin' the warm boiler-head these times, and shtickin' his head out of the windy to holler, 'g'wan, boys; pitch it out lively now, and be dommed to yez!' but misther foord ain't built the like o' that. he'll be as deep in that freezin' purgatory up yander in th' drift as the foremist wan of thim." the irishman's praise was not unmerited. whatever his failings, and he groaned under his fair human share of them, stuart ford had the gift of leadership. before he had been a month on the branch as its "old man" and autocrat, he had won the good-will and loyalty of the rank and file, from the office men in the headquarters to the pick-and-shovel contingent on the sections. even the blockade-breaking laborers--temporary helpers as they were--stood by him manfully in the sustained battle with the snow. ford spared them when he could, and they knew it. "warm it up, boys!" he called cheerily, climbing to the top of the frozen drift to direct the attack. "it's been a long fight, but we're in sight of home now. come up here with your shovels, olsen, and break it down from the top. it's the crust that plugs mike's wedge." he looked the fighting leader, standing at the top of the wind-swept drift and crying on his shovelers. it was the part he had chosen for himself in the game of life, and he quarreled only when the stake was small, as in this present man-killing struggle with the snowdrifts. the plug mountain branch was the sore spot in the pacific southwestern system; the bad investment at which the directors shook their heads, and upon which the management turned the coldest of shoulders. it barely paid its own operating expenses in summer, and the costly snow blockades in winter went to the wrong side of the profit and loss account. this was why ford had been scheming and planning for a year and more to find a way of escape; not for himself, but for the discredited plug mountain line. it was proving a knotty problem, not to say an insoluble one. ford had attacked it with his eyes open, as he did most things; and he was not without a suspicion that president colbrith, of the pacific southwestern, had known to the full the hopelessness of the mountain line when he dictated the letter which had cost one of the great granger roads its assistant engineer in charge of construction, transferring an energetic young man with ambitions from the bald plains of the dakotas to the snow-capped shoulders of the rockies. originally the narrow gauge had been projected and partly built by a syndicate of denver capitalists, who were under the hallucination, then prevalent, that any railroad penetrating the mountains in any direction, and having denver for its starting point, must necessarily become at once a dividend-paying carrier for the mines, actual or to be discovered. failing to tap their bonanza freight-producer on the route up blue canyon, the projectors--small fish in the great money-pool--had talked vaguely of future extensions to salt lake, to san francisco, to puget sound, or to some other of the far-beyonds, and had even gone the length of surveying a line over plug pass and down the valley of the pannikin, on the pacific slope of the range. but they had prudently stopped building; and the pause continued until the day of the great silver strike at saint's rest. the new carbonate beds chanced to lie within easy rifle-shot of the summit of plug pass; in other words, they were precisely on the line of the extension survey of the narrow gauge. the discovery was a piece of sheer luck for the amateur railroad builders. for a time, as all the world knows, saint's rest headed the mining news column in all the dailies, and the rush for the new camp fairly swamped the meager carrying facilities of the incomplete line and the stages connecting its track-end with the high-mountain mecca of the treasure-seekers. then, indeed, the denver syndicate saw its long deferred opportunity and grasped it. long purses might be lacking, but not shrewd heads. the unfinished plug mountain was immediately bonded for more than it ever promised to be worth, and in the hottest heat of the forwarding strife it was extended at the rate of a mile a day until the welcome screech of its locomotive whistles was added to the perfervid clamor of the new camp in the plug pass basin. the goal reached, the denver folk took a fresh leaf out of the book of shrewdness. holding the completed line only long enough to skim the cream of the rush earnings, they sold their stock at a sound premium to the pacific southwestern, pocketed their winnings cannily, and escaped a short half-year before the slump in silver, and the consequent collapse of saint's rest, came to establish the future waterloo for napoleonic young superintendents in the southwestern's service. this was all ancient history when ford left the granger road to climb, at president colbrith's behest, into the plug mountain saddle; and a round half-dozen of the young napoleons had been broken before he put foot in stirrup for the mounting. while his attacking of the problem had been open-eyed, he had not stopped to specialize in the ancient history of the plug mountain branch. when he did specialize, his point of view was pretty clearly defined in a letter to mr. richard frisbie, of st. paul, written after he had been for six months the master of the plug mountain destinies. "i'm up against it, good and solid," was the way he phrased it to frisbie. "my hundred and fifty miles of 'two streaks of rust and a right-of-way' has never paid a net dollar since the boom broke at saint's rest, and under present conditions it never will. if i had known the history of the road when president colbrith went fishing for me--as i didn't--i wouldn't have touched the job with a ten-foot pole. "but now i'm here, i'm going to do something with my two streaks of rust to make them pay--make a spoon or spoil a horn. just what shall be done i haven't decided fully, but i have a notion in the back part of my head, and if it works out, i shall need you first of all. will you come? "have i told you in any of my earlier letters that i have personally earned the ill-will of general manager north? i have, and it is distinct from and in addition to his hostility for the unearning branch for which i am responsible. i'm sorry for it, because i may need his good word for my inchoate scheme later on. it came up over some maintenance-of-way charges. he is as shrewd as he is unscrupulous, and he knows well how to pile the sins of the congregation on the back of the poor scapegoat. to make a better showing for the main line, and at the same time to show what a swilling pig the plug mountain is, he had the branch charged up with a lot of material we didn't get. naturally, i protested--and was curtly told to mind my own business, which had no ramifications reaching into the accounting department. then i threatened to carry it over his head to president colbrith; whereupon i gained my point temporarily, and lost a possible stepping-stone to success. "none the less, i am going to win out if it costs me the best year of my life. i'm going to swing to this thing till i make something out of it, if i have to put in some more winters like the one i have just come through--which was sheol, with ice and snow in the place of the traditional fire and brimstone. if i have one good quality--as i sometimes doubt--it's the inability to know when i am satisfactorily and permanently licked." stuart ford was shivering through the second of the winters on the gray, needle-winded day when he stood on the crusted drift, heartening his men who were breaking the way for further rammings of the scrap-heap and her box-plow. during the summer which lay behind the pitiless storms and the blockading snows he had explored and planned, studied and schemed; and now a month of good weather would put the finishing touches preparatory upon the "notion" hinted at in the letter to frisbie. "that'll do, boys; we'll let gallagher hit it a few times now," he sang out, when he saw that the weaker ones among the shovelers were stumbling numbly and throwing wild. "get back to the car and thaw yourselves out." the safety-valve of the was stuttering under a gratifying increase of steam pressure when the superintendent climbed to the canvas-shrouded cab. "ha! two hundred and fifty pounds! that looks a little more like it, michael. now get all the run you can and hit her straight from the shoulder," he ordered, mounting to his seat on the fireman's box, and bracing himself for what should come. gallagher released the driver-brakes and let the and the plow drift down the grade until his tender drawhead touched the laborers' car. then the reversing lever went forward with a clang, and the steam squealed shrilly in the dry-pipe. for a thunderous second or two the driving-wheels slipped and whirled futilely on the snowy rails. gallagher pounced upon the sand lever, whereat the tires suddenly bit and held and a long-drawn, fire-tearing exhaust sobbed from the stack. "you've got her!" shouted ford. "now hit it--hit it hard!" swiftly the huge mass of engine and plow gathered headway, the pounding exhausts quickening until they blended in a continuous roar. the little irishman stayed himself with a foot against the boiler brace; the fireman ducked under the canvas curtain and clung to the coal bulkhead; and ford held on as he could. the shock came like the crashing blow of a collision. the box-plow buckled and groaned with fine cracklings as of hard-strained timbers, and an avalanche of snow thrown up from its inclined plane buried engine and cab and tender in a smothering drift. ford slid his window and looked out. "good work, michael; good work! you gained a full car-length that time. try it again." gallagher backed the plow carefully out of the cutting, and the fireman opened the blower and nursed his fire. again and again the wheeled projectile was hurled into the obstruction, and ford watched the steadily retrograding finger of the steam-gauge anxiously. would the pressure suffice for the final dash which should clear the cutting? or would they have to stop and turn out the wretched shovelmen again? the answer came with the fourth drive into the stubborn barrier. there was the same nerve-racking shock of impact; but now the recoil was followed by a second forward plunge, and gallagher yelled his triumph when the burst through the remaining lesser drifts and shot away on the clear track beyond. ford drew a long breath of relief, and the engineer checked the speed of the runaway, stopped, and started back to couple on the car-load of laborers. ford swung around and put his back to the open window. "let's hope that is the worst of it and the last of it for this winter, mike," he said, speaking as man to man. "i believe the weather will break before we have any more snow; and next year--" the pause was so long that gallagher took his chance of filling it. "don't be tellin' me the big boss has promised us a rotary for next winter, misther foord. that'd be too good to be thrue, i'm thinking." "no; but next winter you'll be doing one of two things, michael. you will be pulling your train through steel snow-sheds on plug mountain--or you'll be working for another boss. break her loose, and let's get to camp as soon as we can. those poor devils back in the box-car are about dead for sleep and a square meal." ii a spiked switch ford's hopeful prophecy that the snow battles were over for the season proved true. a few weeks later a warm wind blew up from the west, the mountain foot-trails became first packed ice-paths and then slippery ridges to trap the unwary; the great drifts began to settle and melt, and the spring music of the swollen mountain torrents was abroad in the land. at the blowing of the warm wind ford aimed the opening gun in his campaign against fate--the fate which seemed to be bent upon adding his name to the list of failures on the plug mountain branch. the gun-aiming was a summons to frisbie, at the moment a draftsman in the engineering office of the great northern at st. paul, and pining, like the plug mountain superintendent, for something bigger. "i have been waiting until i could offer you something with a bread-and-meat attachment in the way of day pay," wrote ford, "and the chance has come. kennedy, my track supervisor, has quit, and the place is yours if you will take it. if you are willing to tie up to the most harebrained scheme you ever heard of, with about one chance in a thousand of coming out on top and of growing up with a brand new country of unlimited possibilities, just gather up your dunnage and come." this letter was written on a friday. frisbie got it out of the carriers' delivery on the sunday morning; and sunday night saw him racing westward, with the high mountains of colorado as his goal. not that the destination made any difference, for frisbie would have gone quite as willingly to the ends of the earth at the crooking of ford's finger. it was the brightest of may days when the new supervisor of track debarked from the mountain-climbing train at saint's rest, stretched his legs gratefully on _terra firma_, had his first deep lungful of the ozonic air of the high peaks, and found his welcome awaiting him. ford would have no talk of business until he had taken frisbie across to the little shack "hotel," and had filled him up on a dinner fresh from the tin; nor, indeed, afterward, until they were smoking comfortably in the boxed-off den in the station building which served as the superintendent's office. "i've been counting on you, dick, as you know, ever since this thing threatened to take shape in my head," ford began. "first, let me ask you: do you happen to know where you could lay hands on three or four good constructing engineers--men you could turn loose absolutely and trust implicitly? i'm putting this up to you because the plug mountain exile has taken me a bit out of touch." "why--yes," said frisbie, taking time to call the mental roll. "there are major benson and his son jack--you know 'em both--just in off their job in the selkirks. then there is roy brissac; he'd be a pretty good man in the field; and chauncey leckhard, of my class,--he's got a job in winnipeg, but he'll come if i ask him to, and he is the best office man i know. but what on top of earth are you driving at, stuart?" ford cleared his pipe of the ash and refilled it. "i'll go into the details with you a little later. we shall have plenty of time during the next month or six weeks, and, incidentally, a good bit more privacy. the thing i'm trying to figure out will burst like a bubble if it gets itself made public too soon, and"--lowering his voice--"i can't trust my office force here. _savez?_" "i _savez_ nothing as yet," laughed the new supervisor, "but perhaps i shall if you'll tell me what is going to happen in the next month or six weeks." "i'm coming to that, right now. how would you like to take a hunting trip over on the wilderness side of the range? there are big woods and big game." frisbie grinned. he was a little man, with sharp black eyes shaded by the heaviest of black brows, and it was his notion to trim his mustaches and beard after the fashion set by the third napoleon and imitated faithfully by those who sing the part of mephistopheles in _faust_. hence, his grin was handsomely diabolic. "you needn't ask me what i'd like; you just tell me what you want me to do," he rejoined, with clansman loyalty. "so i will," said ford, taking the reins of authority. "we leave here to-morrow morning for a trip over the pass and down the pannikin on the other side, and if anybody asks you why, you can say that we expect to kill a deer or two, and possibly a bear. your part of the outsetting, however, is to pack your surveying instruments on the burro saddles so they'll pass for grub-boxes, tent-poles, and the like." "call it done," said frisbie. "but why all this stage play? can't you anticipate that much without endangering your bubble?" ford lowered his voice again. "i gave you the hint. penfield, my chief clerk--his desk is just on the other side of that partition--is an ex-main-line man, shoved upon me when i didn't want him. he was general manager north's stenographer. for reasons which will be apparent to you a little later on, i want to blow my bubble in my own way; or, to change the figure, i'd like to fire the first volley myself." frisbie's grin was rather more than less diabolic. "then i'd begin by firing mr. penfield, himself," he remarked. "no, you wouldn't," said ford. "there are going to be obstacles enough in the way without slapping mr. north in the face as a preliminary. under the circumstances, he'd take it that way; penfield would make sure that he took it that way." it was at this point in the low-toned conference that the ingenious young man in the outer office put down the desk telephone ear-piece long enough to smite with his fist at some air-drawn antagonist. curiosity was this young man's capital weakness, and he had tinkered the wires of the private telephone system so that the flicking of a switch made him an auditor at any conversation carried on in the private office. he was listening intently and eagerly again when ford said, still in the same guarded tone: "no, i can't fire penfield, and i don't particularly want to. he is a good office man, and loyal to his salt: it's my misfortune that it is mr. north's salt-cellar, and not mine, that he dips into. besides, i'd have trouble in replacing him. saint's rest isn't exactly the paradise its name implies--for a clean-cut, well-mannered young fellow with social leanings." "now, what in the mischief does all that mean?" mused the chief clerk, when ford and his new track man had gone out. "a month's hunting trip over the range, with the surveying instruments taken along. and last summer mr. ford spent a good part of his time over there--also hunting, so he said. confound it all! i wish i could get into that private drawer of his in the safe. that would tell the story. i wonder if pacheco couldn't make himself an errand over the pass in the morning? by george!" slapping his thigh and apostrophizing the superintendent, "i'll just go you once, mr. ford, if i lose!" now the fruit, of which this little soliloquy was the opening blossom, matured on the second day after ford and frisbie had started out on the mysterious hunting trip across the range. pacheco, the half-breed mexican who freighted provisions by jack train to the mining-camps on the head waters of the pannikin, came in to report to the chief clerk. "well, 'checo, what did you find out?" was the curt inquiry. the half-breed spread his palms. "w'at i see, i know. dey'll not gone for hunt much. one day out, dey'll make-a da camp and go for squint t'rough spy-glass, so"--making an imaginary transit telescope of his hands. "den dey'll measure h-on da groun' and squint some more, so." penfield nodded and a gold piece changed hands silently. "that's all, 'checo; much obliged. don't say anything about this over in the camp. mr. ford said he was going hunting, and that's what we'll say, if anybody asks us." that night the chief clerk sent a brief cipher telegram to the general manager at denver. ford and his new track supervisor, who is really a high-priced constructing engineer, gone over the range for a month's absence. gave it out here that they were going after big game, but they took a transit and are picking up the line of the old s. l. & w. extension in the upper pannikin. it was late in the month of june when ford and frisbie, tanned, weathered and as gaunt as pioneers, returned to saint's rest; and for those who were curious enough to be interested, there were a couple of bear-skins and one of a mountain lion to make good the ostensible object of the absence. but the most important trophies of the excursion were two engineers' note-books, well filled with memoranda; and these they did not exhibit. on the contrary, they became a part of the collection of maps, statistics, estimates and private correspondence which chief clerk penfield was so anxious to examine, and which ford kept under lock and key when he and frisbie were not poring over some portion of it in the seclusion of the private office. none the less, penfield kept his eyes and ears open, and before long he had another detail to report by cipher telegram to the general manager. ford was evidently preparing for another absence, and from what the chief clerk could overhear, he was led to believe that the pseudo supervisor of track would be left in charge of plug mountain affairs. it was on the day before ford's departure for denver that a letter came from general manager north. ford read it with a scowl of disapproval and tossed it across the double desk to frisbie. "a polite invitation for me to stay at home and to attend to my business," he commented. "had you written him that you were going away?" inquired frisbie. "no; but evidently somebody else has." frisbie read the letter again. "'so that all heads of departments may be on duty when the president makes his annual inspection trip over the lines,'" he quoted. "is mr. colbrith coming out this early in the summer?" "no, of course not. he never comes before august." "then this is only a trumped-up excuse to make you stay here?" "that's all," ford replied laconically. mr. richard frisbie got up and walked twice the length of the little room before he said: "this denver gentleman is going to knock your little scheme into a cocked hat, if he can, stuart." "i am very much afraid we'll have to reckon upon that. as a matter of fact, i've been reckoning upon it, all along." "how much of a pull has he with the new york money-people?" "i don't know that: i wish i did. it would simplify matters somewhat." frisbie took another turn up and down the room, with his head down and his hands in his pockets. "stuart, i believe, if i were in your place, i'd enlist mr. north, if i had to make it an object for him," he said, at length. "certainly, i mean to go to him first," said ford. "that is his due. but i am counting upon opposition rather than help. wait a minute"--he jerked the door open suddenly and made sure that the chief clerk's chair was unoccupied. "the worst of it is that i don't trust north," he went on. "he is a grafter in small ways, and he'd sell me out in a minute if he felt like it and could see any chance of making capital for himself." "then don't go to him with your scheme," urged frisbie. "if you enlist him, you won't be sure of him; and if you don't, you'll merely leave an active opponent behind you instead of a passive one." "i guess you're right, dick; but i'll have to be governed by conditions as i find them. aside from north's influence with mr. colbrith, which is considerable, i believe, he can't do much to help. but he can do a tremendous lot to hinder. i think i shall try to choke him with butter, if i can." notwithstanding the general manager's letter, ford took the train for denver the following morning, and the chief clerk remarked that he checked a small steamer trunk in addition to his hand baggage. "going to be gone some time, mr. ford?" he asked, when he brought the night mail down for the superintendent to look over. "yes," said ford absently. "you'll let me know where to reach you from time to time, i suppose?" ventured penfield. ford looked up quickly. "it won't be necessary. you can handle the office work, as you have heretofore, and mr. frisbie will have full charge out of doors." penfield looked a little crestfallen. "am i to take orders from mr. frisbie?" he asked, as one determined to know the worst. "just the same as you would from me," said the superintendent, swinging up to the step of the moving car. and the chief clerk went back to his office busily concocting another cipher message to the general manager. on the way down the canyon ford was saying to himself that he was now fairly committed to the scheme over which he had spent so many toilful days and sleepless nights, and that he would have it out with mr. north to a fighting conclusion before he slept. but a freight wreck got in the way while the down passenger train was measuring the final third of the distance, and it was long after office hours in the pacific southwestern headquarters when ford reached denver. by consequence, the crucial interview with the general manager had to be postponed; and the enthusiast was chafing at his ill luck when he went to his hotel--chafing and saying hard words, for the waiting had been long, and now that the psychologic moment had arrived, delays were intolerable. now it sometimes happens that seeming misfortunes are only blessings in disguise. when ford entered the hotel café to eat his belated dinner, he saw evans, the p. s-w. auditor, sitting alone at a table-for-two. he crossed the room quickly and shook hands with the man he had meant to interview either before or after the meeting with north. it was after they had chatted comfortably through to the coffee that the auditor said, blandly: "what are you down for, ford?--anything special?" "yes. i am down to get leave of absence to go east," said ford warily. "but that isn't all," was the quiet rejoinder. "in fact, it's only the non-committal item that you'd give to a _rocky mountain news_ reporter." ford was impatient of diplomatic methods when there was no occasion for them. "give it a name," he said bluntly. "what do you think you know, evans?" the auditor smiled. "there is a leak in your office up at saint's rest, i'm afraid. what sort of a bombshell are you fixing to fire at mr. north?" ford grew interested at once. "tell me what you know, and perhaps i can piece it out for you." "i'll tell you what mr. north knows--which will be more to the purpose, perhaps. for a year or more you have been figuring on some kind of a scheme to pull the company's financial leg in behalf of your good-for-nothing narrow gauge. a month ago, for example, you went all over the old survey on the other side of the mountains and verified the original s. l & w. preliminaries and rights-of-way on its proposed extension." ford's eyes narrowed. he was thinking of the warning letter he would have to write to frisbie. but what he said was: "i'd like to know how the dickens you guessed all that. but no matter; supposing i did?" "it's no good," said the auditor, shaking his head. "i'm talking as a friend. north doesn't like you, personally; and if he did, you couldn't persuade him to recommend anything in the way of an experiment on the plug mountain. so far from extending your two-by-four branch--if that is what you have in mind--he'd be much more likely to counsel its abandonment, if the charter didn't require us to keep it going." ford found a cigar for the auditor, and lighted one for himself. "from all of which i infer that the semiannual report of the pacific southwestern is going to be a pretty bad one," he said, with carefully assumed indifference. evans regarded him shrewdly. "are you guessing at that? or is there a leak at our end of the line as well as at yours?" "oh, it's a guess," laughed ford. "call it that, anyhow. at least, i haven't any of your confidential clerks in my pay. but just how bad is the report going to be?" the auditor shook his head. "worse than the last one. perhaps you have noticed that the stock has dropped six points in the past week. you're one of the official family: i don't mind telling you that we are in the nine-hole, ford." "of course we are," said ford, with calm conviction. "that much is pretty evident to a man who merely reads the wall street news bulletins. what is the matter with us--specifically, i mean?" evans shrugged. "are you a division superintendent on the system and don't know?" he demanded. "we are too short at both ends. with our eastern terminal only half-way to chicago, we can't control the east-bound grain which grows on our own line; and with the other end stopping short here at denver, we can't bid for west-bound transcontinental business. it's as simple as twice two. our competitors catch us going and coming." "precisely. and if we don't get relief?" the auditor smiled grimly. "as i've said, you're one of us, ford, and i don't mind speaking freely to you. a receivership is looming in the distance, and the not very dim distance, for the p. s-w." "i thought so. how near is it?" "i don't know--nobody knows definitely. if we had a man of resources at the head of things--as we have not--it might be stood off for another six months." "i'm on the way to stand it off permanently, if i can get any backing," said ford quietly. "you!" was the astonished reply. "yes, i. listen, evans. for two years i have been buried up yonder in the hills, with not enough to do in the summer season to keep me out of mischief. i am rather fond of mathematics, and i am telling you i have this thing figured out to the fourth decimal. if president colbrith and his associates can be made to see that the multiplication of two by two gives an invariable resultant of four, there will be no receivership for the p. s-w. this year, or next." "show me," said the auditor. ford hesitated for a moment. then he took a packet of papers, estimates, exhibits and fine-lined engineer's maps from his pocket and tossed it across the table. "that is for you, personally--for david evans; not the p. s-w. auditor. you've got to keep it to yourself." the auditor went through the papers carefully, shifting his cigar slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other as he read and examined. when he handed them back he was shaking his head, almost mournfully. "it's a big thing, ford; the biggest kind of a thing. and it is beautifully worked out. but i know our people, here and in new york. they will simply give you the cold stare and say that you are crazy." "because it can't be financed?" "because it doesn't come from hill or harriman or morgan, or some other one of the big captains. you'll never be able to stand it upon its feet by your single-handed lonesome." ford set his teeth, and his clean-cut face seemed to grow suddenly older and harder as the man in him came to the fore. "by heavens! if i put my back under it, it's got to stand upon its feet! i'm not going into it with the idea that there is any such thing in the book as failure." the auditor looked darkly into the cool gray eyes of the man facing him. "then let me give you a word of advice before you start in. skip north, absolutely; don't breathe a word of it to him. don't ask me why; but do as i say. and another thing: drop into my office to-morrow before you leave. i'll show you some figures that may help you to stir things up properly at the new york end. do you go direct from here?" "no; i shall have to stop over a few days in chicago. i know pretty well where to put my hands on what i need; i have laid the foundations from the bottom up by correspondence. but i want to go over the situation on the ground before i make my grand-stand play before mr. colbrith and the board of directors." "well, come in and get the figures, anyway: come to the private door of my office and rap three times. it will be just as well if it isn't generally known that you are confabbing with me. our semiannual report will probably be in new york ahead of you, but it won't hurt if you have the information to work with." evans was pushing his chair from the table when he added: "by the way, you happened upon the exact psychological moment to make your raid; the report coming out, and things going to the dogs generally." ford's laugh was genially shrewd. "perhaps it wasn't so much of a happening as it appears. didn't i tell you that i had figured this thing out to the fourth decimal place? psychological moments are bigger arguments than dollars and cents, sometimes." the auditor had taken his hat from the waiter and was shaking hands with his dinner companion. "i'd like to believe you're a winner, ford; you deserve to be. come and see me--and make your call upon mr. north as brief as possible. he'll probe you if you don't." this was how it came about that the next morning, when ford went to call upon the sallow, heavy-faced, big-bodied man who sat behind the glass door lettered "general manager, private,"--this after half an hour spent in auditor evans' private office,--it was only to ask for leave of absence to go east--on business of a personal nature, he explained, when mr. north was curious enough to ask his object. iii loss and damage at this period of his existence, stuart ford troubled himself as little as any anchorite of the desert about the eternal feminine. it was not that he was more or less than a man, or in any sense that anomalous and impossible thing called a woman-hater. on the contrary, his attitude toward women in the mass was distinctly and at times boyishly sentimental. but when a young man is honestly in love with his calling, and is fully convinced of its importance to himself and to a restlessly progressive world, single-heartedness becomes his watchword, and what sentiment there is in him will be apt to lie comfortably dormant. for six full working-days ford had been immersed to the eyes in the intricacies of his railway problem, acquiring in chicago a valiseful of documentary data that demanded to be classified and thoroughly digested before he reached new york and the battle-field actual. this was why he was able to ride all day in studious abstraction in his section of the chicago-new york pullman, without so much as a glance for the young woman in the modest gray traveling coat directly across the aisle. she was well worth the glance, as he admitted willingly enough afterward. she was the dainty type, with fluffy bright brown hair, eyes the color of wood violets, a nose tilted to the precise angle of bewitching piquancy, and the adorable mouth and chin familiarized to two continents by the artistic pen of the apostle of the american girl. how he could have ridden within arm's reach of her through all the daylight hours of a long summer day remained as one of ford's unanswered enigmas; but it required an accident and a most embarrassing _contretemps_ to make him aware of her existence. the accident was one of the absurd sort. the call for dinner in the dining-car had been given, and ford was just behind the young woman in the rear of the procession which filed forward out of the pullman. the train had at that moment left a way station, and the right-hand vestibule door was still open and swinging disjointedly across the narrow passage. ford reached an arm past the young woman to fold the two-leaved door out of her way. as he did it, the door-knob hooked itself mischievously in the loop of her belt chatelaine, snatched it loose, and flung it out into the backward-rushing night. whereupon: "oh!--my purse!" with a little gasp of sudden bereavement, and a quick turning to face the would-be helper. ford was honestly aghast when the situation fully enveloped him. "heavens and earth! did you ever see such idiotic clumsiness!" he ejaculated. and then, in deepest contrition: "i won't attempt to apologize--it's beyond all that. but you must let me make your loss good." in all the pin-pricking embarrassment of the moment, he did not fail to remark that she quickly recovered the serenity which belongs to the well-bred. she was even smiling, rather ruefully, when she said: "fortunately, the conductor has my passes. but really"--and now she laughed outright--"i am afraid i shall have to go hungry if i can't borrow enough to pay for my dinner." another man, a man less purposefully lost in the purely practical labyrinth of professional work, would have found something fitting to say. but ford, having discovered a thing to do, did it painstakingly and in solemn silence. there was an unoccupied table for two in the dining-car; he seated her, gave her his purse, called a waiter, and would have betaken himself forthwith to another table if she had not detained him. "no," she said decisively, with a charming little uptilt of the adorable chin. "i do not forget that you were trying to do me a kindness. please sit down here and take your purse. i'm sure i don't want it." he obeyed, still in somber silence, gave his dinner order after she had given hers, and was wondering if he might venture to bury himself in a bundle of the data papers, when she spoke again. "are you provoked with yourself, or with me?" she asked--rather mockingly, he thought. "neither," he said promptly. "i was merely saying to myself that my wretched awkwardness didn't give me an excuse for boring you." "it was an accident--nothing more or less," she rejoined, with an air of dismissing finally the purse-snatching episode. then she added: "i am the one who ought to be embarrassed." "but you are not," he returned quickly. "you are quite the mistress of yourself--which is more than most women would be, under the circumstances." "is that a compliment?" she asked, with latent mockery in the violet eyes. "because if it is, i think you must be out of the west; the--the unfettered west: isn't that what it is called?" "i am," ford acknowledged. "but why do you say that? was i rude? i beg you to believe that i didn't mean to be." "oh, no; not rude--merely sincere. we are not sincere any more, i think; except on the frontier edges of us. are we?" ford took exceptions to the charge for the sheer pleasure of hearing her talk. "i'd be sorry to believe that," he protested. "the conventions account for something, of course; and i suppose the polite lie which deceives no one has to have standing-room. but every now and then one is surprised into telling the truth, don't you think?" "if i can't fully agree with you, i can at least admire your point of view," she said amiably. "is it western--or merely human?" he laughed. "shall we assume that the one implies the other? that would be in accordance with your point of view, wouldn't it?" "yes; but it would be a distinct reversal of yours. truth belongs to another and simpler time than ours. we are conventional first and everything else afterward." "are we?" he queried. "some few hundreds or thousands of us may be; but for the remainder of our eighty-odd millions the conventions are things to be put on and off like sunday garments. and even the chosen few of us brush them aside upon occasion; ignore them utterly, as we two are ignoring them at this moment." she proved his assertion by continuing to talk to him, and the dining-car was emptying itself when they realized that there is an end even to a most leisurely dinner. ford paid the steward as they left the car, but in the pullman he went back to first principles and insisted upon some kind of a definite accounting for the lost purse. "now you will tell me now much i threw away for you, and i'll pay my debt," he said, when she had hospitably made room for him in the opposing seat of her section. "indeed, you will do nothing of the kind!" she asserted. "you will give me your card--we're going back to the conventions now--and when we reach the city you may lend me enough money to take me up-town. and to-morrow morning my brother will pay you back." he gave in because he had to. "you are much more lenient than i deserve. really, you ought to stick me good and hard for my awkwardness. it would serve me right." "i am considering the motive," she said almost wistfully, he fancied. "we have drifted very far from all those quiet anchorages of courtesy and helpfulness. if we lived simpler lives--" he smiled at the turn she was giving it. "are you, too, bitten with the fad of the moment, 'the simple life'?" he asked. "let me assure you that it is beautiful only when you can look down upon it from the safe altitude of a comfortable income. i know, because i've been living it for the past two years." she looked as if she were sorry for him. "that is rank heresy!" she declared. "our forefathers had the better of us in many ways, and their simpler manner of living was one of them. they had time for all the little courtesies and kindnesses that make life truly worth living." ford's laugh was boyishly derisive. "yes; they certainly had plenty of time; but they didn't have much else. why, just think, for a moment, of what our own america would be if merely one of the modern civilizers, the railroads, had never existed. there simply wouldn't be any america, as we know it now." "how can you say that?" "because it is so. for nearly two centuries we stood still, because there were no means of locomotion--which is another word for progress and civilization. but in less than fifty years after the first railroad was built we had become a great nation." she was silenced, if not wholly convinced; and a few minutes later the train drew into the forty-second street station. when the parting time came, ford dutifully gathered her belongings, said good-by, and put her on a north-bound subway; all this without remembering that he did not know her name. the recollection came, however, when the subway train shot away into the tunnel. "of all the blockheads!" he growled, apostrophizing his own unreadiness. "but i'll find her again. she said she'd send her brother to the hotel with the dinner money, and when i get hold of him it will go hard with me if i don't manage some way to get an introduction." this was what was in his mind when he sought the down-town hotel whose name he had written on his card for her; it was his latest waking thought when he went to sleep that night, and his earliest when he awoke the following morning. but when he went to the clerk's desk, after a leisurely breakfast, to get his mail, he found that the sure thread of identification had broken in his fingers. there was a square envelope among the other letters in his key-box containing the exact amount of the young woman's indebtedness to him; this, with a brief note of thanks--unsigned. iv cold storage if courage, of the kind fitted to lead forlorn hopes, or marchings undaunted up to the muzzles of loaded cannon, be a matter of gifts and temperament, it is also in some degree a matter of environment. stuart ford was western born and bred; a product of the wider breathing spaces. given his proper battle-field, where the obstacles were elemental and the foes to be overcome were mere men of flesh and blood fighting freely in the open, he was a match for the lustiest. but new york, with its submerging, jostling multitudes, its thickly crowding human vastness, and, more than all, its atmosphere of dollar-chasing, apparent and oppressive even to the transient passer-by, disheartened him curiously. it was not that he was more provincial than he had to be; for that matter, there is no provincialism so rampant as that of the thronging, striving, self-sufficient city. but isolation in any sort is a thing to be reckoned with. the two pioneering years in the rockies had done their work,--of narrowing, as well as of broadening,--and the plunge into the chilling sea of the money-mad metropolis made him shiver and wish he were out. this feeling was really at the bottom of the late rising and the leisurely breakfast, making him temporize where he had meant to be prompt, energetic and vigorously aggressive. having pocketed the young woman's unsigned note, he glanced at his watch and decided that it was still too early to go in search of president colbrith. "i don't suppose he'll be in his office for an hour yet," he mused reflectively; "and anyway, i guess i'd better go over the papers again, so i can be sure to speak my piece right end to. by jove! i didn't suppose a couple of thousand miles of easting would take the heart out of things the way it does. if i didn't know better, i should think i'd come here to float the biggest kind of a fake, instead of a life-boat for the shipwrecked people in the pacific southwestern. it is beginning to look that way in spite of all i can do." going once again over his carefully tabulated argument did not help matters greatly. he was beginning to realize now how vastly, antipodally different the new york point of view might be from his own. it came to him with the benumbing effect of a blow that his own ambitions had persistently looked beyond the mere money-making results of his scheme. also, that president colbrith and his fellow-investors might very easily refuse to consider any other phase of the revolutionary proposition he was about to lay before them. by ten o'clock postponement was no longer a tenable city of refuge: the plunge had to be taken. accordingly, he fared forth to present himself at the broadway address given in the pacific southwestern printed matter as the new york headquarters of the company. the number proved to be a ground floor, with the business office of the eastern traffic representative in front, and three or four private desk-rooms in the rear, one of them labeled "president" in inconspicuous gilt lettering. entering, with less assurance than if he had been the humblest of place-seekers out of a job, ford was almost relieved to find only a closed desk, and a young man absently scanning a morning paper. inquiry developed a few facts, tersely stated but none the less enlightening. mr. colbrith was not in: the office was merely his nominal headquarters in the city and he occupied it only occasionally. his residence? it was in the borough of the bronx, pretty well up toward yonkers--locality and means of access obligingly written out on a card for the caller by the clerk. was mr. ford's business of a routine nature? if so, perhaps, mr. ten eyck, the general agent, could attend to it. ford said it was not of a routine nature, and made his escape to inquire his way to the nearest subway station. to pause now was to lose the precious impetus of the start. it was worth something to be whirled away blindly out of the stifling human vortex of the lower city; but ford's first glimpse of the colbrith mansion depressed him again. the huge, formal house had once been the country residence of a retired dry-goods merchant. it fronted the river brazenly, and the fine old trees of a ten-acre park shamed its architectural stiffness. ford knew the president a little by family repute and more particularly as a young subordinate knows the general in command. it struck him forcibly that the aspect of the house fitted the man. with the broad river and the distant palisades to be dwelt upon, its outlook windows were narrow. with the sloping park and the great trees to give it dignity, it seemed to assume an artificial, plumb-line dignity of its own, impressive only as the product of rigid measurements and mechanical uprightness. from the boulevard there was a gravelled driveway with a stone portal. the iron gates were thrown wide, and at his entrance ford stood aside to let an outgoing auto-car have the right of way. being full of his errand, and of the abstraction of a depressed soul, ford merely remarked that there were two persons in the car; a young man driving, and a young woman, veiled and dust-coated, in the mechanician's seat beside him. none the less, there floated out of the mist of abstraction an instantly vanishing phantom of half-recognition for the westerner. something in the pose of the young woman, the way she leaned forward and held her hat with the tips of her gloved fingers, was, for the fleeting moment, almost reminiscent. if ford had wished to speculate upon abstruse problems of identity, there was neither time nor the mental aptitude. a little later he had given his card to the servant at the door and was waiting in a darkened and most depressive library for the coming of the master of the house. the five minutes of waiting nearly finished him. as the absurdly formal clock between the book-cases ticked off the leaden-winged seconds, his plan for the rescue of pacific southwestern took the form of a crass impertinence, and only the grim determination to see a lost cause decently coffined and buried kept the enthusiast with his face to the front. after all, the beginning of the interview with the tall, thin, gray-haired and hatchet-faced old man, who presently stalked into the library and gave his hand with carefully adjusted cordiality to the son of one of his college classmates, was only a little more depressing: it was not mortal. ford had been born in illinois; and so, something better than a third of a century earlier, had the president. moreover, mr. colbrith had, in the hey-day of his youth, shared rooms with the elder ford in the fresh-water university which had later numbered the younger ford among its alumni. these things count for somewhat, even when the gap to be bridged is that between the president of a railroad and one of his minor officials. but when the revolutionary project was introduced, the president's guarded cordiality faded like a photographic proof-print in the sunlight, and the air of the darkened library grew coldly inclement. "so you came to talk business, did you?" said the high, rasping voice out of the depths of the easy-chair opposite; and ford raged inwardly at the thought that he had clearly placed himself at a disadvantage by becoming even constructively the guest of the president. "as a rule, i positively refuse to discuss such matters outside of their proper environment; but i'll make an exception for douglas ford's son. your plan is simply impossible. i can understand how it may appear possible, and even attractive, to a young man, and especially to the young man who has invented it. but as an investment for capital--my dear young sir, go back to your division, and strive by faithful service to rise in the accepted and time-honored way. you are wasting your time in new york." curiously enough, ford found his evaporated courage recrystallizing under opposition. "i can not believe that i have made the plan, and the present condition of the system, sufficiently clear to you," he insisted; whereupon he went patiently and good-naturedly over the argument again, emphasizing the desperate straits to which the pacific southwestern was reduced. "we know all that, mr. ford," was the unyielding reply. "but granting it to be the fact, don't you see the absolute futility of asking for thirty-five millions additional capital at such a crisis?" "no, i don't," said ford stubbornly. "i know--as i can not explain to you in detail in a half-hour interview--that this plan of mine can be made successful. for two years, mr. colbrith, i have been the man on the ground: no word that i am saying to you is speculative. every clause of the proposition has a carefully established fact behind it." "no doubt it seems so to you," came the rasping voice from the chair-depths. "but thirty-five millions!"--with a quavering gasp. "and at a time when our earnings are falling off steadily and the stock is going down day by day. it's--it's simply preposterous! i must really decline to discuss it any further." ford had his packet of data in hand. "i have all the exhibits here, carefully tabulated and condensed. won't you reconsider far enough to examine them, mr. colbrith?" a thin white hand of negation and protest waved out of the depths of the engulfing easy-chair. "i am sorry to disappoint you, mr. ford. i knew your father, and we were great friends. you are like him," he added reminiscently. "he might have died rich if he had gone into corn-buying with me when we were graduated, as i wanted him to. but he was too enthusiastic. he wanted to turn the world upside down--just as you do, my dear young man; just as you do." ford got upon his feet. the time had arrived for the firing of the shot of last resort, and he aimed it deliberately. "i came first to you, mr. colbrith, because it was my duty as a subordinate, and your own appointee, and because you were my father's friend so many years ago. i may say, frankly, that i did it against good advice. men who profess to know you have counseled me to appeal directly to the board. what i wish to know now is if you are willing to take the entire responsibility of turning this plan of mine down. will it not relieve you of all responsibility if you will call a meeting of the directors, and let me lay this absurd proposal of mine before it? you can surely have no fears for the result." the shot told. the president struggled to his feet and took a nervous turn up and down the long room. when he replied, it was with the indecisive man's reluctance to commitment of any sort. "if i call the meeting, i shall be ridiculed; and if i don't call it, i suppose you'll go to brewster and magnus and tell them i've muzzled you. have it your own way. i'll issue the call for ten o'clock, the day after to-morrow, in mcveigh and mackie's offices in broad street. but i warn you in advance, mr. ford, i shall not be able to help you in the least. and i may add this: that when you reach that part of your proposal where you call for thirty-five millions additional capital, you may as well put on your hat and go home. that will be the end of it." "and of me," laughed the enthusiast. but in spite of the cold comfort, and of the still colder promise of opposition, he took his leave with a lighter heart, refusing mr. colbrith's rather perfunctory invitation to stay to luncheon. and on the gravelled drive, where he again had to make way for the auto-car purring in on its return, he did not so much as look up at the pair in the driving-seat. v wanted: thirty-five millions the offices of mcveigh and mackie, brokers and financial agents, are in broad street, and the windows of the room used for board meetings look down upon the angle where beats the money pulse of the nation. ford had successfully resisted the temptation to lobby for his scheme during the one-day interval between his conference with mr. colbrith and the date of the called meeting of the directors. it was not any mistaken sense of loyalty to the president that restrained him; on the contrary, he decided that mr. colbrith's declaration of war left him free to fight as he would. but upon due consideration he concluded to set the advantage of an assault _en masse_ over against the dubious gain of an advanced skirmish line, and when he turned out of broadway into wall street on the morning of destiny the men whom he was to meet and convince were still no more to him than a list of names in the _poor's manual_, consulted within the hour for the purpose. he was early on the battle-ground; much too early, he thought, when a clerk ushered him into the board room in the rear of the brokers' offices. as yet there was only one person present--a young man who was lounging in the easiest of the leather-covered chairs and yawning dismally. at the first glance the face seemed oddly and strikingly familiar; but when the young man marked the new-comer's entrance, the small hand-bag in which the amateur promoter carried his papers, and got up to shake hands, ford found the suggestive gropings baffled. "my name is adair," said the lounger genially; "and i suppose you are the mr. ford uncle sidney has been telling us about. pull up a chair and sit by the window. it's the only amusement you'll have until the clan gathers." ford looked at his watch. "i seem to be ahead of time," he remarked. "i understood mr. colbrith to say that the meeting would be called for ten o'clock." "oh, that's all right; and so he did," rejoined the other cheerfully. "but that means anything up to noon for a directors' meeting in new york." then, after a pause: "do you know any of us personally, mr. ford?" ford was rummaging in his memory again. "i ought to know you, mr. adair. it isn't very decent to drag in resemblances, but--" "the resemblance is the real thing, this time," said adair. "you saw me day before yesterday, driving out of the overlook grounds as you were going in." ford shook his head. "no; it goes back of that; sometime i'll remember how and where. but to answer your question: i know mr. colbrith slightly, but i've never met any of the directors." "well, you are meeting one at this moment," laughed the young man, crossing his legs comfortably. "but i am the easiest mark of the lot," he added. "i inherited my holdings in pacific southwestern." ford was crucially anxious to find out how the battle was likely to go, and his companion seemed amiably communicative. "since you call mr. colbrith 'uncle sidney,' i infer that you know what i am here for, mr. adair. how do you think my proposition is likely to strike the board?" again the young man laughed. "fancy your asking me!" he said. "i haven't talked with any one but uncle sidney; and the most i could get out of him was that you wanted thirty-five million dollars to spend." "well," said the westerner anxiously, "am i going to get it?" "you can search me," was the good-natured rejoinder. "but from my knowledge of the men you are going presently to wrestle with, i should say 'no' and italicize it." "perhaps it might help me a little if i could know in advance the particular reason for the italics," ford suggested. "oh, sure. the principal reason is that your name isn't hill or harriman or morgan or gates. money is ridiculously sheepish. it will follow a known leader blindly, idiotically. but if it doesn't hear the familiar tinkle of the leader's bell, it is mighty apt to huddle and run back." ford's smile was grim. "i don't mind saying to you, mr. adair, that this is one of the times when it will be much safer to huddle and run forward. have you seen the half-yearly report?" "i? heaven forbid! i have never seen anything out of the pacific southwestern--not even a dividend." ford would very willingly have tried to share his enthusiasm with the care-free young man, whose face was still vaguely but persistently remindful of some impression antedating the automobile passing; but now the other members of the board were dropping in by twos and threes, and privacy was at an end. just before president colbrith took his place at the head of the long table to call the meeting to order, adair leaned forward to say in low tones: "i couldn't give you the tip you wanted, mr. ford, but i can give you another which may serve as well. if your good word doesn't win out, scare 'em--scare 'em stiff! i don't know but you could frighten half a million or so out of me if you should try." "thank you," said ford. "i may take you at your word,"--and just then mr. colbrith rose in his place, fingering his thin white beard rather nervously, ford thought, and rapping on the table for silence. it was admitted on all hands that the president of the pacific southwestern was a careful man and a thrifty. it was these qualities which had first determined his election. there were many small stock-holders in the company, and it is the foible of small stock-holders to believe that rigid economy counts for more than adventurous outreachings in the larger field. "gentlemen," he began, his high, raucous voice rasping the silence like the filing of a saw, "this meeting is called, as you have probably been informed, for the purpose of considering a plan for betterments submitted by mr. stuart ford, who is at the present time superintendent of our plug mountain division. "in making this unusual innovation, and in introducing mr. ford, i desire to say that i have been actuated by that motive of prudence which, while it stands firmly upon its own feet, is willing to consider suggestions from without, even when these suggestions appear to be totally at variance with a policy of careful and judicious financiering. "in presenting mr. ford as the son of an old friend, long since gone to his reward, i wish it distinctly understood that i am in no sense committed to his plan. the policy of this company under the present administration has been uniformly cautious and prudent: mr. ford would throw caution and prudence to the winds. our best efforts have been directed toward the saving of the ultimate dollar of expense: mr. ford urges us to spend millions. we have been trying to dispose of some of our non-paying branches: mr. ford would have us acquire others and build new lines." while mr. colbrith was speaking, adair was rapidly characterizing the members for ford, checking them off upon his fingers. "the little man at uncle sidney's right is mackie, and the miserly looking one next to him is mcveigh," he whispered. "one of them will furnish your coffin, and the other will drive the nails into it. the big man with the beard is brewster--a multimillionaire; and the one who looks like senator bailey is magnus, president of the mohican national. connolly, the fat irishman, is a politician--wads of money, but not much interest in the game. the other three--" but now the president had made an end and was beckoning to ford. the young engineer rose, feeling much as if a bucket of ice-water had been suddenly emptied down the back of his neck. but one of his saving qualities was the spring-like resilience which responds instantly to a shock. spreading his papers on the table, he began with a little apology. "i didn't come here this morning prepared to make a promoter's speech; and perhaps it is just as well, since my gift, if i have one, lies in doing things rather than in talking about them. but i can lay a few facts before you which you may deem worthy of consideration." from this as a beginning he went on swiftly and incisively. the pacific southwestern, in its present condition, was a failure. it was an incomplete line, trying vainly to hold its own against great and powerful systems overlapping it at either end. the remedy lay in extension. the acquisition of a controlling interest in three short roads, which, pieced together, would bridge the gap between the missouri river and chicago, would place the pacific southwestern upon an equal footing with its competitors as a grain carrier. by standardizing the plug mountain narrow gauge and extending it to salt lake and beyond, the line would secure a western outlet, and would be in a position to demand its share of transcontinental business. to finance these two extensions a capital of thirty-five million dollars would be needed; five million dollars for the purchase of the majority stock in the three short roads, and the remainder for the western outlet. these assertions were not guesses: by referring to exhibits marked "a" "b" and "f," his hearers would find accurate estimates of cost, not only of construction, but also of stock purchases. as to the manner of providing the capital, he had only a suggestion to offer. the five million dollars necessary for the acquirement of a controlling interest in the three short roads would be a fair investment. it could be covered immediately by a reissue--share for share--of the reorganization stock of the p. s-w., which would amply secure the investors, since the stock of the most prosperous of the three local roads was listed at twenty-eight, ten points lower than the present market quotation of p. s-w. the thirty million dollar extension fund might be raised by issuing second mortgage bonds upon the entire system, or the new line itself could be bonded mile for mile under a separate charter. ford modestly disclaimed any intention of dictating the financial policy; this was not in his line. but again he would submit facts. the grain crop in the west was phenomenally large in prospect. with its own eastern terminal in chicago, the pacific southwestern could control the grain shipments in its own territory. with the moving of the grain, the depressed p. s-w. stock would inevitably recover, and on a rising market the new issue of bonds could doubtless be floated. the enthusiast closed his argument with a hasty summing-up of the benefits which must, in the nature of things, accrue. from being an alien link in the great transcontinental chain, the pacific southwestern would rise at a bound to the dignity of a great railway system; a power to be reckoned with among the other great systems gridironing the west. its earnings would be enhanced at every point; cross lines which now fed its competitors would become its allies; the local lines to be welded into the eastern end of the system would share at once in the prosperity of a strong through line. for the western extension he could speak from personal knowledge of the region to be penetrated. apart from the new line's prime object--that of providing an outlet for the system--there was a goodly heritage of local business awaiting the first railroad to reach the untapped territory. mines, valueless now for the lack of transportation facilities, would become abundant producers; and there were many fertile valleys and mesas to attract the ranchman, who would find on the western slopes of the mountains an unfailing water supply for his reservoirs and ditches. ford did not hesitate to predict that within a short time the extension would earn more, mile for mile, than the grain-belt portion of the system. when he sat down he felt that his cause was lost. there was no enthusiasm, no approval, in the faces of his auditors. after a short and informal discussion, in which the engineer was called on to explain his plans and estimates in detail to one and another of the members, magnus, the bank president, sufficiently summed up the sense of the meeting when he said: "there is no question about the ingenuity of your plan, mr. ford. you must have given a great deal of time and thought to it. but it is rather too large for us, i'm afraid, and there are too many contingencies. your province, i understand, is the building and operating of railroads, and it is nothing to your discredit that you are unfamiliar with the difficulties of financing an undertaking as vast as this proposal of yours." "i don't deny the difficulties," said ford. "but they wouldn't seem to be insuperable." "not from your point of view," rejoined the banker suavely. "but you will admit that they are very considerable. the opposition on the part of the competing systems would be something tremendous. no stone would be left unturned in the effort to dismount us. to go no further into the matter than the proposed purchase of the majority stocks in the three short roads: at the first signal in that field you would find those stocks flying skyward in ten-point advances, and your five millions wouldn't be a drop in the bucket. in view of the difficulties, i think i voice the conviction of the board when i say that the plan is too hazardous." the nods of assent were too numerous to leave ford any hope of turning the tide in his favor. he rose, gathered up his papers, and reached for his hat. "it is very pointedly your own funeral, gentlemen," he said curtly. "'nothing venture, nothing have' is an old proverb, but it is as true now as it was when it was coined. with p. s-w. stock at thirty-eight and steadily declining; with another dividend about to be passed; and with the certainty that the july interest on the bonds will have to be defaulted unless some compromise can be effected with the bondholders--" "what's that you're saying?" broke in mackie, whose p. s-w. holdings were large. ford drew a folded paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. "i was merely quoting from the auditor's semiannual report, of which that is a summary," he said, indicating the folded paper. "the report itself will doubtless reach you in a day or two. it would seem to an unprejudiced observer that the present condition spells something like a receivership, unless you have the bondholders with you." "one moment, mr. ford," interposed the banker member; but ford was working up to his climax and refused to be side-tracked. "of course, as an officer of the company, i have felt in duty bound to bring my grist first to the company's mill. but if you gentlemen don't wish to grind it, it will be ground, notwithstanding. i could very easily have found a market for my proposal without coming to new york." with which parting shot, and a word of apology for having taken the time of the board to no good purpose, he bowed himself out, closing the door upon a second attempt on the part of the banker member to renew the argument. vi the awakening of charles edward ford went directly to his hotel from the meeting in the broad street board room, paid his bill, and had himself shot up to the fifth floor to prepare for a swift retreat from the scene of his humiliating defeat. it was hardly in keeping with his boast of persistence that he should suffer himself to be thus routed by a single reverse, however crushing. but in a world where every problem contains its human factor, red wrath accounts for much that is otherwise unaccountable. ford was thoroughly and unreasoningly angry and disgusted when he began to fling his belongings into the small steamer trunk, and it was only natural that he should turn with a little brow-wrinkling of resentment when, a little later, mr. charles edward adair, following his card up to the fifth floor front, lounged good-naturedly into the room. "beg pardon, i'm sure," said the intruder easily. "didn't know you were busy. i thought maybe you'd like to know the effect of your little double-headed bombshell, and i couldn't be sure uncle sidney would take the trouble to tell you." ford made no effort to conceal his contempt for the financial gods. "i don't imagine it will take you very long to tell it," he retorted. "nothing short of a combined earthquake and volcanic eruption would have any effect upon that crowd." "oh, but you're wrong!" protested adair. "that shot of yours with the semiannual summary for a projectile stirred 'em up good. it seems that uncle sidney and hertford and morelock--they're the executive committee, you know--have had the auditor's figures for some days, but they hadn't thought it necessary to harrow the feelings of the other members of the board with the cataclysmic details. so there was a jolly row. magnus wanted to know, top-loftily, why a small official from the farther end of the system should be the first to bring the news; and mackie was so wrathy that he inadvertently put the hot end of his cigar in his mouth. even connolly woke up enough to say that it was blanked bad politics." "but nothing came of it?" said ford, hope rising in spite of the negative query. "no; nothing but a general hand-out of pretty sharp talk. what was needed right then was a unifier--somebody who could take command and coax or bully the scrapping factions into line. magnus tried it, but he's too smooth. brewster was the man, but he has too many other and bigger irons in the fire to care much about p. s-w. connolly could have done it if the scrap had been a political split, but he was out of his element." "humph!" growled ford. "it didn't occur to me that there were any differences of opinion to be reconciled. the entire board sat on my proposition--as a unit." adair laughed with imperturbable good-humor. "the factions were there, just the same. you see, it's like this: brewster and magnus and two or three more are pretty well-to-do, and their holdings in p. s-w. don't cut much of a figure with them, one way or another. the others have more stock in the company, and fewer millions. when the jangle came, brewster and the heavy men said, 'oh, let it go; it isn't worth bothering with.' naturally, the little fellows, with more to lose and less money-nerve, said, 'no.'" "it spells the same word for me, in any event," ford commented, and went on pitching things into his steamer trunk. adair got upon his feet and strolled away to the window. when he turned again to face the beaten one he said: "if i wasn't so infernally lazy, mr. ford, i more than half believe that i could pull this thing off for you, myself. but that is the curse of being born with too much money. i can take a plunge into business now and then--i've done it. but my best friend couldn't bet on me two days in succession." ford looked up quickly. "then don't put your hand to this plow, mr. adair. i'll be frank with you. i can fit the mechanical parts of this scheme of mine together, so that they will run true and do business. but i, or any man in my place, would have to have solid backing here in new york; a board that would be as aggressive as a handful of rebels fighting for life, and every man of it determined to win out or smash something. mr. magnus spoke of the opposition we should encounter from our competitors. he might have said more. what the transcontinental, for example, wouldn't do to obliterate us needn't be catalogued. how do you suppose the present p. s-w. board would fare in such a fight?" the youngest member of the flouted board laughed again. "you mustn't say in your wrath that all men are liars--or cowards. there is plenty of fight in our crowd; and plenty of money, too, if you could only get it sufficiently scared." "i've done my best," said ford, slamming the lid of the trunk and buckling the straps vigorously. "the next time i'll find my market first and build my scheme afterward." "well, if i can say it without offense, i'm honestly sorry for you, mr. ford; you've been butchered to make a broad street holiday," said adair, lounging toward the door. "you are going back to the west, i suppose?" "yes." "what line?" "pennsylvania; five-ten this afternoon." "that is a long time between drinks. suppose you come up to the club and have luncheon with me?" ford hesitated, watch in hand. "i was about to lie to you, mr. adair, and plead business; but i shan't. i'll tell you the plain truth. i'm too sore just now to be any good fellow's good company." "which is precisely the reason why i asked you," laughed the golden youth. "come on; let's go now. you can take it out on me as much as you like, you know. i shan't mind." but the club luncheon ignored the business affair completely, as adair intended it should. ford came out of the shell of disappointment with the salad course, and by way of reparation for his former attitude talked rather more freely of himself than he was wont to do on such short acquaintance with any one. the young millionaire met him quite half-way on this road to a better understanding, contrasting with mild envy ford's well-filled, busy life with his own erratic efforts at time-killing. "you make me half sorry for myself," he said, when they went to the smoking-room to light their cigars. "it's no less than a piteous misfortune when a fellow's father has beaten all the covers of accomplishment for him." ford could laugh now without being bitter. "the game isn't all corralled, even for you, mr. adair. there was excellent good shooting for you in that directors' meeting this morning, but you wouldn't take the trouble." "that's the fact," was the easy-going rejoinder. "that is just what my sister is always telling me--that i won't take the trouble. and yet i do take the trouble to begin a lot of things; only they never seem worth while after a few days' dip into them." "pick out bigger ones," suggested ford. "my trouble is just the other way about; i am always tackling things that are worlds too big for me--just as i have this time." "it isn't too big for you, mr. ford. it was too big for colbrith, magnus, _et al_. and, besides, you're not going to give it up. you'll drop off in chicago, hunt up some meat-packer or other croesus, and land your new railroad independently of the p. s-w." it was a measure of the sincerity of ford's liking for his host when he said: "that little shot of mine at your colleagues was merely a long bluff. if my scheme can't be worked with the p. s-w., it can't well be worked without it. we are lacking the two end-links in the chain--which i could forge. but my two end-links without the middle one wouldn't attract anybody." it was quite late in the afternoon when they left the club, and ford had no more than time to check his luggage and get to his train. he wondered a little when adair went with him to the ferry, and was not ungrateful for the hospitality which seemed to be directed toward a lightening of the burden of failure. but adair's word of leave-taking, flung across the barrier when the chains of the landing-stage were rattling to their rise, was singularly irrelevant. "by the way, mr. ford; what time did you say your train would reach chicago?" "at eight forty-five to-morrow evening," replied the beaten one; and then the boat swung out of its slip and the retreat without honor was begun. vii hammer and tongs it was raining dismally the evening of the following day when ford saw from his pullman window the dull sky-glow of the metropolis of the middle west. it had been a dispiriting day throughout. when a man has flung himself at his best into a long battle which ends finally in unqualified loss, the heavens are as brass, and the future is apt to reflect only the pale light of the past failure. it was after the train had entered the suburbs of chicago that a blue-coated messenger boy came through the pullman, with the car conductor for his guide. ford saw himself pointed out, and a moment later was reading a telegram, with a tumult, not of the drumming car wheels, roaring in his ears. had a talk with my sister and made up my mind to see you through--if i don't get tired and quit, as usual. secure options on that short-road stock quick, and wire me care mcv. & m. funds to your credit in algonquin national, chicago. another directors' meeting to-day, and things look a little less chaotic. answer. adair. for some time ford could only read and re-read the exciting telegram, scarcely trusting the evidence of his senses. that the coldly indifferent members of the p. s-w. board, with a man like president colbrith at their head, could be swung into line in the short space of a single day by a young fellow who seemed to be little more than a spoiled son of fortune, was blankly incredible. but he was not long in realizing that the cherished scheme for which he had studied and struggled was actually beginning to stagger to its feet; or in reaching the equally stirring conclusion that his part in the suddenly reopened game called instantly for shrewd blows and the swiftest possible action. the stock-holders in the three local roads which were to be united to bridge the chicago-missouri river gap were scattered all over the middle west. to secure the necessary options on working majorities of the stock would be a task for a financial diplomat, and one who could break the haste-making record by being in a dozen different places at one and the same moment. moreover, secrecy became a prime factor in the problem. if the opposition, and particularly the transcontinental people, should get wind of the move, it would take fifteen millions to do the work of five, as banker magnus had intimated. notwithstanding the thickly marshaled obstacles, ford had his plan of campaign pretty well thought out by the time his train was slowing into the union station. before going to new york he had painstakingly "located" the required holdings of the three stocks. some of them were in chicago, but the greater number of the men to be bargained with were local capitalists living in the smaller cities along the lines of the three short railroads. in his bag was a carefully compiled list of these stock-holders, with their addresses and the amounts of their respective holdings. at the worst, he concluded, it should mean nothing more formidable than a deal of quick traveling, some anxious bargaining, perhaps, and a little finesse to keep his object in securing the options safely in the background. this was how it appeared in the prospect; and the young engineer had yet to learn that the securing of options is a trade by itself--a trade by no means to be caught up in passing, even by the most gifted of tyros. hence, it was extremely fortunate for this particular tyro--more fortunate than he could possibly know at the moment--that his telephone message sent from the first telephone he could reach after his train stopped in the union station, caught kenneth at the green bag club. it was a mere chance that he knew that kenneth, the senior member of the firm of attorneys having general oversight of the pacific southwestern's legal department, was at the moment in chicago; a chance hanging upon the fact that he had met kenneth as he was passing through on his way eastward. but it was not by chance that the first familiar face he saw on entering the rotunda of the grand pacific hotel was that of kenneth. the sight was merely the logical result of ford's urgent request telephoned to the lawyer's club. "by jove, kenneth; this comes within two inches of being a miracle!--my catching you here before you had started west," ford ejaculated. and then: "when are you going back?" "i am supposed to be on the way now," was the lawyer's reply. "i had made all my arrangements to start back to-night on the slow train, but i dined with some friends on the north side and made a miss. where have you been?" "i'm just in from new york. let me register and get a room; and you put away any lingering notion you may have of heading westward to-night. i've got to have your ear for a few hours to begin with, and the whole of you for the next few days. no; don't probe me here. wait, and i'll unload on you gradually. you won't be sorry you missed your train." fifteen minutes later ford had his adviser safely behind a closed door, and had put him succinctly in possession of the world-subverting facts, as far as they went. when he concluded, the lawyer was shaking his head dubiously, just as auditor evans had done. "ford, have you any adequate idea of what a tremendous proposition you are up against?" he asked quietly, helping himself to a cigar out of the engineer's freshly opened box. "i don't believe i have underrated the difficulties, any of them," said ford, matching the attorney's gravity. "there are bones all the way along, but i think i have struck the biggest of them just here. i ought to be in a dozen places at once, and not later than to-morrow noon. that's something i can't quite compass." "getting these options, you mean? that is very true; but it isn't all of it, by long odds. there are the thousand and one mechanical details to be worked out: the coupling up of these three local lines at their connecting points, the securing of proper trackage or trackage rights at these junctions, the general ordering of things so that a through line may be opened immediately when the stock is secured. if there were ten of you, you couldn't get things licked into shape in time to get in on the grain carrying this season." ford had relighted his cigar, which had gone out in the explanatory interval, and was blowing smoke-rings toward the ceiling. "i may be the biggest ass this side of the jack trails, and the most conceited, kenneth; but you're over on my side of the ring when you talk about the mechanical obstacles. what i'm worrying about now is the fact that i can't do two things at once. the options must be secured before we can make the fifth part of a move in the other field; and the lord only knows how long that will take. to hurry is to lose out." the lawyer nodded. "and not to hurry is to lose out, too," he qualified. then he smoked in thoughtful silence for five full minutes before he said, abruptly: "give me your list of stock-holders and turn the option business over to the legal department, where it properly belongs. that will leave you foot-loose to go after the mechanical matter. how does that suit you?" ford sprang to his feet. "by jove, kenneth, you're a man and a brother; i'm not forgetting that you are taking this entire fairy tale on my personal say-so; and i shan't forget it, either. it's what i wanted to ask--and was afraid to ask, after i got you safely jailed up here." the attorney's smile was grim but friendly. "i'm not forgetting how you took a sick man over into the pannikin wilderness on a two-months hunting trip last fall and made a well man of him, ford," he said. "any man who can shoot as straight as you do wouldn't be sitting here telling me lies about a trifling little matter involving the expenditure of a beggarly thirty-five millions. but to come down to earth again: you haven't shifted any considerable part of the burden, you know. i can do this bit of routine work; but the main thing is up to you, just as it was before i said yes." ford rose, stretching himself like a man who has just been relieved of a burden whose true weight was appreciable only in its lifting. "i know," he said cheerfully. "it has been up to me, all along. in the morning we'll go around to the algonquin national, and i'll put you into the financial saddle. then i'll get out on the line, and by the time you have the stock corralled, we'll be practically ready to pull through freight--if not passengers--from denver to chicago. oh, i know what i am talking about," he added, when the general counsel smiled his incredulity. "this is no affair of yesterday with me. i have every mile of these three short roads mapped and cross-sectioned; i have copies of all their terminal and junction-point contracts. i know exactly what we can do, and what we can't do." the lawyer's comment was frankly praiseful, not to say flattering. "you're a wonder, ford--and that's no figure of speech. how on earth did you manage to do it all at such long range?" ford's smile was reminiscent of the obstacles. "it would take me all night to tell you in detail, kenneth. but i did it. it's no mere brag to say that i could walk into the chicago, peoria & davenport general offices here to-morrow morning and organize a through service over the p. s-w. and the three stub lines within twenty-four hours, if i had to." "well, that part of it is far enough beyond me," said the attorney. "the stock-chasing is more in my line. i hope we can keep quiet enough about it so that the opposition won't guess what we are trying to do. you're sure it won't be given away from the new york end?" it was the engineer's turn to shake his head and to look dubious. "now you are shouting, kenneth. i can't tell anything about it. you'll remember that when i left new york the board had turned the plan down, definitely and permanently, as i supposed. i should say that our only safety lies in lightning speed. when you get the options on those controlling stock majorities snugly on deposit in the algonquin national, we can draw our first long breath. isn't that about the way it strikes you?" "it is, precisely," agreed the general counsel, rising and finding his hat. "and because it does strike me that way, i think i'll go down and do a little telegraphing to-night." "hold on a minute," said ford, "and i'll give you a message to take down, if you don't mind. i must answer adair, and it won't do any harm to prod him a little--on the secrecy side." kenneth waited, with his hand on the door-knob, as it chanced. hence the opening of the door a minute or two later was quite without any preliminary stir of warning in the room of conference. that was possibly the reason why the lawyer almost fell over a man crouching in the corridor. "hello, there!" said kenneth; "i beg your pardon." the man got upon his feet, exhibiting all the signs of intoxication. "beg yoursh, i'm sure," he mumbled, and was lurching crookedly away when the lawyer suddenly came to his senses and grabbed at him. the clutching hand fell short, and there was an agile foot-race down the corridor, fruitless for kenneth, since the fugitive suddenly developed sobriety enough to run like a deer. beaten in the foot-race, kenneth went back for a word with ford. "the battle is on," was the form the word took. "there was a man here, listening at the key-hole, when i opened the door. how much he overheard we'll be likely to find out to-morrow when we begin to pull the strings. thought i'd give you the pointer. good night, again." viii the automatic air set out in cold type, ford's itinerary for the four days following his conference with kenneth would read like the abbreviated diary of a man dodging the sheriff. his "ticker" memorandum for that period is still in existence, but the notes are the hurried strokes of the pen of haste, intelligible, we may say, only to the man who made them. to quote: "thursday, nine a.m., peoria--see sedgwick; ten--make trackage contract with t.p. & w.; eleven a.m., davenport--inventory motive power--see chief despatcher--get profiles and maps--get copies of yard contracts--get crossing rights--get total tonnage of grain cars. three p.m., hannibal--see berdan and whip him into line--inspect shops--get contracts--get--" but the string of "gets" fills the page, and is vital now to no living soul of man, least of all to us who are interested only in finding out if our young captain of industry actually did make good his boast of flogging the three short roads into some semblance of a through line in the brief interval at his disposal; and this without advertising to the railroad world at large who he represented and what he was doing. he did it, and without a slip for which he could be held responsible. it was a wire from the chief office of the transcontinental in new york, a telegram inspired by sundry leakages from pacific southwestern sources, that gave him a silent and observant follower in all of his dodgings. of this, however, he was in blissful ignorance. twice, indeed, he sat in the same pullman section with his "shadow," quite without suspecting it; and once he was saved from disaster--also without suspecting it. it was at a way station in missouri, and the section-sharing traveling companion, who had paid only for an hour's ride in the pullman, was leaving the train. his hand-bag chanced to be the exact counterpart of ford's: what more natural than that he should make the mistake of taking the wrong one? ford caught him in the vestibule, and there was a reëxchange, accompanied by grateful acknowledgments and profuse apologies from the debarking one. ford, immersed fathoms deep in his problems, thought nothing of it; but a moment lost would have been a cause lost, if he had guessed it. for the mistake was no mistake, and the hand-bag rescued contained documents for which the transcontinental company would have paid a month's salary of its board of vice-presidents, charging the amount, not to profit and loss, but rather to salvage. it was on the fourth day of the campaign, while ford was working his way on an inspection trip over the third link in the short-lines chain, that two telegrams overtook him. one was from adair, announcing the tardy, but now certain triumph of the expansionist faction in the board of p. s-w. directors, and begging pathetically for news of the option-getting. the other was signed "k," and ford had a sharp attack of joy when he read it. the attorney had been successful at all points. the necessary stock majorities were secured and the certificates were safely on deposit in the algonquin national bank, in chicago. what remained was only a matter of routine, provided the p. s-w. bidders would furnish the capital for the purchases. ford swamped the local operator at the next way station with a thick sheaf of "rush" telegrams, left the west-bound train at the first cross-road junction, and caught a night express on a fast line for chicago. kenneth was waiting for him at the hotel; and after breakfast there was another telegram from adair. matters were still progressing favorably, and president colbrith, traveling in his private car, "nadia," _via_ the lake shore, would be in chicago the following morning to take final action in the stock purchases. ford gave the message to kenneth, and the attorney drummed softly on the table with his finger-tips when he read the announcement. "we are in for it now," he said with a grimace of dismay. "if mr. colbrith doesn't manage to queer the whole deal, it will be because he has suffered a complete change of heart." ford answered the grimace with a scowl, and the masterful side of him came uppermost. "what in the name of common sense were they thinking of to send him out here?" he gritted. the general counsel laughed. "you don't know mr. colbrith as well as i do, i fancy," he suggested. "he is rather hard to suppress. he'll be president until his successor is elected--or he'll know all the reasons why." "well, i hope you've got everything straight in the option business," said ford. "if there is so much as a hair displaced, he will be sure to find it." "it is all straight enough," was the confident rejoinder. "only i had to bid five points over the market on odd lots of the stock. i'm not sure, but i think the transcontinental people got wind of us during the last day or two and bid against us." "but you have safe majorities?" "oh, yes; we are all in." "good," said ford. "that puts it up to mr. colbrith, at all events. and now, while we have a clear day before us, i want to go over these c. p. & d. terminal contracts with you. right here in chicago is where the transcontinental will try hardest to balk us. the c. p. & d. has trackage rights to the elevators; but i want to be sure that the contracts will hold water under a transfer of ownership." subjected to legal scrutiny, the contracts promised to be defensible, and ford came through the day with his apprehensive burdens considerably lightened. after dinner he took his papers to kenneth's room, and together they went carefully over all the legal points involved in the welding of the three local lines into the pacific southwestern system, ford furnishing the data gathered by him during the four days. kenneth was shrewdly inquisitive, as his responsibilities constrained him to be, and it was deep in the small hours when ford made his escape and went to bed. by consequence, he was scarcely more than half awake the next morning, when he dressed hurriedly and hastened over to the van buren street station to see if the president's car had arrived. the nadia was in and side-tracked, with a sleepy porter on guard. ford climbed to the platform and asked for the president. "yas, suh; dis is mr. colbrith's cyar; but he don't see no newspapuh men--no, suh. besides, dey's just gettin' up," was the rebuff; but ford ignored it. "'they?' then mr. colbrith isn't alone?" "no, suh; got a pahty 'long with him--a young gentleman and two ladies; yes, suh. mr. colbrith nebber goes nowhah's 'dout he teks a pahty in de cyar." "heavens!" groaned ford, under his breath; "as if the thing wasn't complicated enough without making a picnic of it!" then aloud. "i wish to go in. my name is ford, and mr. colbrith is expecting me." "sho' you isn't a newspapuh man?" "of course not," said ford shortly. "all right, suh," said the negro; and he made way and opened the door. the nadia was a commodious hotel on wheels, with a kitchen and buffet forward, four state-rooms opening upon a narrow side vestibule, and a large dining and lounging room looking out through full-length windows upon a deep, "umbrella-roofed" platform at the rear. there was no one in the large compartment when ford reached it; but a moment later a door opened and closed in the vestibule, and adair made his appearance. ford drew a breath of relief and shook hands with his backer. "i'm glad it's you, mr. adair. i've been scenting all sorts of hindrances since the porter told me there was a party aboard." the young man without an avocation dropped into the easiest of the wicker chairs and felt in his pockets for his cigarette case. "your prophetic soul didn't deceive you any," he laughed. "the hindrances are here in full force. it is one of uncle sidney's notions never to travel without a tail like a highland chieftain's. i had a foreboding that he'd ask somebody, so i took it upon myself to fill up his passenger list with aunt hetty, my sister, and my uncle's nephew." "i understand," said ford, and would have plunged forthwith into the business pool; but adair stopped him with a gesture of dismay. "not before breakfast, if you love me, my dear fellow!" he protested, with a little grimace that instantly set the reminiscent part of ford's brain at work. "after i've had something to eat--" the interruption was the noiseless entrance of a motherly little lady in gray, with kindly eyes and a touch of silver in the fair hair drawn smoothly back from her forehead. "this is mr. stuart ford, i am sure," she said, giving her hand to the young engineer before adair could introduce him. "you look enough like your father to make me recognize you at once." ford was a little embarrassed by the gratefully informal greeting. "ought i to remember you, mrs. adair?" he asked ingenuously. "oh, no, indeed. i knew your father as a young man before he married and went to the farther west. the fords and the colbriths and the stanbrooks are all from the same little town in central illinois, you know." "i didn't know it," said ford, "though now i recall it, i used often to hear my father speak of miss hester stanbrook." then he was going on to say that trite thing about the smallness of the world when adair broke in. "i'd like to know what is keeping uncle sidney and alicia. _i_ haven't had breakfast yet." as if his protest had evoked her, a young woman drew the portière of the vestibule--a young woman with bright brown hair, eyes like dewy wood violets, and an adorable chin. ford stared helplessly, and adair laughed. "shocked, aren't you?" he jested. "but you needn't be alarmed. i have persuaded my sister not to prosecute in the case of the snatched purse. alicia, this is mr. stuart ford, and he desires me to say that he is not often reduced to the necessity of robbing unprotected young women for the sake of scraping an acquaintance." ford lost sight of the pacific southwestern exigencies for the moment, and surely the lapse was pardonable. if the truth must be told, this young woman, who had been discovered and lost in the same unforgetable evening, had stirred the neglected pool of sentiment in him to its profoundest depths, and thoughts of her had been dividing time pretty evenly with some parts of the strenuous business affair. indeed, the hopelessness of any effort toward rediscovering her had been one of his reasons for hurrying away from new york. he knew himself--a little--and that quality of unreasoning persistence which other people called his strong point. the search he had been half-minded to make once begun-- "i hope you haven't forgotten me so soon, mr. ford," she was saying; and he recovered himself with a start. "forgotten you? no, indeed!"--this with almost lover-like emphasis. "i--i think i am just a trifle aghast at my good luck in finding you again. it seemed so utterly hopeless, you know. don't you think--" but now the president had stalked in, and his high querulous voice was marshaling the party breakfastward. ford manoeuvered skilfully in the pairing off, and so succeeded in securing miss adair for a companion on the short walk across to the grand pacific. "you were about to ask me something when uncle sidney interrupted you," she prompted, when they were clear of the throng in the station vestibule. "yes; i was going to ask if you don't think it was unnecessarily cruel to send me that note of thanks unsigned." "cruel?" she echoed, and her laugh was so exactly a replica of her brother's that ford wondered why the reminiscent arrow had not gone at once to its mark. "how absurd! what possible difference could it make?" "it made a lot of difference to me," said ford, refusing to be brushed aside. "how did you expect i was ever going to be able to find you again, without even your name as a clue?" she glanced up at him with unfeigned interest. the men of her world were not altogether unappreciative; neither were they so primitively straightforward as this young industry captain out of the west. "it is not impossible that i never thought of your finding me again," she said, and only the tone saved it from being a small slap in the face. ford took the rebuff as a part of the day's work. "perhaps you didn't," he admitted. "but i mean to go on hoping that you did." "the idea!" she scoffed; but this time she blunted the keen edge of the rebuke by adding: "i thought, perhaps, we might meet again, sometime. you see, we are all stock-holders in the pacific southwestern; my brother, aunt hetty and i; and uncle sidney had shown us a letter--it was from mr. north, i think--saying that you were likely to come to new york with some kind of a plan of reorganization. so when you gave me your card, i knew at once who you were." ford made an immediate mental note of the bit of information implicating mr. north, but did not allow himself to be diverted by the business affair. "yes, i know; but that didn't help me a little bit," he protested, wishing that the distance to the hotel were twice as far. "that was just because it happened so; you ran away before my brother had a chance to offer you any hospitality," she explained. then, before he could say any more straightforward things: "tell me, mr. ford; are you really going to find something to interest brother?--something that will keep him actually and enthusiastically busy for more than a few days at a time?" ford laughed. "i fancy he hasn't been bored for the lack of work since i left new york, has he?" "no; and it has made such a difference! won't you please try and keep him going?" "you may rest assured that i shall do what i can. but you see he has quit already." "by coming to chicago with us? oh, no, indeed; you are quite mistaken. he is here to help you to--to 'minimize' uncle sidney; i think that is the word he used. he was afraid you had been finding uncle sidney rather difficult. have you?" "i have, for a fact," said ford, out of the depths of sincerity. and, again out of a full heart: "your brother is a brick, miss adair." "isn't he?" and she laughed in sheer good comradeship. "if you can only manage to make him rise to his capabilities--" "he'll never be able to live the simple life for a single waking hour," said the engineer, finishing the sentence for her. "oh, but that is a mistake!" she objected. "the very first requirement is work; plenty of work of the kind one can do best." the short walk to the hotel, where kenneth was waiting to go to breakfast with the president's party, came to an end, and the social amenities died of inanition. for one thing, president colbrith insisted upon learning the minutest ins and outs of the business matter, making the table-talk his vehicle; and for another, miss adair's place was on the opposite side of the table, and two removes from ford's. time and again the young engineer tried to side-track business in the interests of something a little less banal to the two women; but the president was implacable and refused to be pulled out of the narrow rut of details; was still running monotonously and raspingly in it when kenneth glanced at his watch and suggested that the time for action was come. after breakfast the party separated. mrs. adair and miss alicia were to spend the day with friends in south chicago, and mr. colbrith carried the attorney off to his room to dig still deeper into the possible legal complications which might arise out of the proposed transfer of the three short roads. ford and adair sat in the lobby and smoked while they were waiting for the president and the general counsel to conclude their conference, and the young millionaire gave his companion the story of the fight in the directory. "we have brewster to thank for the lift which finally pulled our wheel out of the mud," said the young man, modestly effacing himself in the summing up. "or rather i should say that we have the enemy to thank for stirring brewster into action. brewster's got some copper mines out in utah that he nurses like a sick child. just at the critical moment some of the people who control the transcontinental began to worry his copper stock. in the hot part of it he came to me and said, 'adair, will that western extension of yours be able to fry any fat out of transcontinental?' i told him it would, most assuredly; that next to making money for ourselves, and, incidentally, saving the pacific southwestern from going smash, our chief object was to give the transcontinental a wholesome drubbing." "you are progressing rapidly," said ford, with a grin of appreciation. "did that fetch him?" "it did, for a fact. he looked like one of those old bushy-bearded vikings when he said, 'by thunder, i'm with you, young man! and i'll answer for scott and magnus and harding. get your board together, and we'll settle it to-day." ford looked up quickly. "if mr. colbrith wasn't the chief of your family clan, adair, i could wish that we had this mr. brewster at the head of things." the rejoinder was heartily prompt. "you don't wish it any more fervently than i do, ford. that is why i am here to-day. the board, in spite of all that our handful of revolutionaries could do, has armed uncle sidney with almost dictatorial powers in this stock-purchasing deal; and if he doesn't contrive to strangle things by the slow process, it will be simply and solely because you and kenneth and i are here to see that he does not. do you know what the men call him out on the main line? when they see the nadia trundling in, they say, 'here comes old automatic air-brakes.' and it fits him." "but i don't quite understand why he should want to put the brakes on here and now," ford interposed. "i know he is against the scheme, personally; but he is here as the representative of a majority which has committed itself to the expansion measure, isn't he?" "oh, yes; and he has no thought of playing the traitor--you mustn't think that of him. but it isn't in his nature to facilitate things. in the present crisis he will feel that he is personally responsible for the expenditure of five million dollars. he will examine and investigate, and probe and pry, and will want to worry through every pen-scratch which has been made up to date." "well, there is one comfort; he can't take much time for his worrying," said ford. "some of the options expire to-morrow noon." adair sat up as one who suddenly takes notice. "what?--to-morrow? land of glory! but you two fellows took short chances! why, any little hitch--" "i know," said the engineer evenly. "but we took what we could get--and were thankful. somebody was bidding against us, and prices began to jump. incidentally, i may say that kenneth deserves to be made a vice-president of the new company, at the very least. he has done ten men's work in the last three or four days." "i don't doubt it. neither do i suspect you of loafing. for that matter, i've been hustling a few lines, myself, since i sent you that first telegram." "do you find it exciting enough to keep you interested, as far as you've gone?" inquired ford, mindful of miss alicia's longings. "it's the best yet," declared the idler. "only, you mustn't lean too heavily on me, you know. i'm the most uncertain quantity you ever experienced. but here comes uncle sidney, with a cowed and brow-beaten kenneth in tow--say your prayers, and get ready for the battle royal." ix the race to the slow adair's prophecy that president colbrith would prove himself an obstructor of the stubbornest was amply fulfilled during the short interval which remained for decisive action. truly, in the battle for business celerity the odds were three to one against mr. colbrith; yet the three were as those who buffet the wind. the president must see and feel, know and fully understand; and at the very last moment, when the shortest of the options had no more than an hour to live, he was proposing to summon general manager north from denver to make a fifth in the council of discord. it was adair who took the bull by the horns when the president's caution was about to turn victory into defeat. what was said or done after the young man drew mr. colbrith into the private committee-room at the bank and shut the door, ford and kenneth, who were excluded, could only surmise. but whatever was done was well done. when the two, uncle and nephew, came out of the room of privacy, the old man was shaking his head and the young one was smiling serenely. so it came about that between eleven and twelve o'clock, when ford, grimly battling to the last, fought as one without hope, a few strokes of the pen opened the doors upon the new creation; five million dollars, more or less, changed hands, and the pacific southwestern took the long leap eastward from the missouri river to its new base in chicago. "it's you for the hustle now, ford," said adair, linking arms with the engineer when the quartet left the bank. "how soon do you think you can get that first train-load of grain in transit?" "i wish i could tell you," said ford. "why can't you?" "because it will depend very largely upon the authority mr. colbrith or the board sees fit to give me. at present, you will remember, i am still only a division superintendent--mr. north's subordinate, in fact, and--" "say it out loud," encouraged adair. "i don't like to, but i suppose it can't be helped. up to now i have been acting under special orders, as you may say, in a purely financial transaction. but my commission expired five minutes ago when the stock deal went through. when it comes to issuing orders in the operating and transportation department, i have no authority whatever. mr. north is general manager, and i suppose his jurisdiction will now be extended to cover the new line, won't it?" "not much!" retorted the amateur promoter. "you are going to be given a free hand in this from the word go. from what i can learn, north has been an obstructor, all along, hasn't he?" "i can't say that," said ford, just, even to an enemy. "to be right honest about it, i shall have to confess that i slurred him entirely--went over his head." "for good reasons, no doubt, only you are too charitable to give them. never mind: as i say, you are going to have a free hand. this is your pie and nobody else is going to cut it for you." and when the party reached the hotel there was another conference of two behind closed doors, in which ford and the general counsel did not participate. an hour later, when adair came down from the president's room, he thrust a sheaf of penciled printers' copy into ford's hands. "there you are," he said. "i've done the best i could for you on such short notice--with uncle sidney trying his level best to get a cross reference to the board before taking action. get these circulars through a print shop and into the mails. you'll see that one of them announces your appointment, effective to-day, as assistant to the president. that was as far as uncle sidney could be dragged. it doesn't give you a straight flush; but your hand will beat north's if it comes to a show-down between you. just the same, i shouldn't quarrel with north, if i were you. uncle sidney thinks the sun rises and sets in him." ford nodded, and while he was reading hastily through the sheaf of pencilings a boy brought him a telegram. when he opened the envelope, kenneth had turned away. but adair was looking on, and he did not fail to remark the startling effect of the few typewritten words upon the engineer. "whereabouts does it hit us this time?" he inquired, lighting a fresh cigarette. "in the neck," said ford curtly. "the possibility occurred to me yesterday--pacific southwestern stock being so badly scattered among small holders. i wired a broker, a good friend of mine, to pick up a few shares on my account. here is what he says: 'market bone dry. no offerings of p. s-w. at any price.'" adair whistled softly. "that's getting next to us with a vengeance!" he commented. "and it can be done, too. half a dozen of the small stock-holders have been to me since the fire was lighted, trying to get me to take their stock at market." "how much do we control--that we are sure of?" ford asked. "i don't know--in figures. not more than two-fifths, i should say. at the last board meeting i proposed that we make a safe majority pool among ourselves, but uncle sidney sat on me. said his own personal constituency among the little people was big enough amply to secure us." ford swore pathetically. "the one single instance when his caution might have steered him straight--and it went to sleep!" he raged. "exactly," laughed adair. "and now the transcontinental moguls are buying up a majority of their own, meaning to capture the main-line dog and leaving us to wag the extension tail which we have just acquired. say, ford; doesn't that appeal to your sense of humor?" "no, it doesn't," said ford savagely. to see one's air-castles crumbling at the very moment when they were to be transmuted into solid realities is apt to provoke a reversion to type; and ford's type was gothic. "that's a pity," said adair, absently rolling his cigarette between his thumb and finger. "also, it's another pity that i am such a hopeless quitter. i believe i could pull this thing out yet, if i could only get up sufficient steam." "for heaven's sake, tell me what you burn, and i'll furnish the fuel," said ford desperately. "will you? i guess i need something pretty inflammatory." "lord of love! haven't you good and plenty, without calling upon me? are you going to let these stock-jobbing land-pirates on 'change gibbet you as a solemn warning to aspiring young promoters?" adair paused with the cigarette half way to his lips. "ah," he said, after a thoughtful moment. "perhaps that was what i needed. no; they will not gibbet any of us to-day; and possibly not to-morrow." then, with a sudden dropping of the mask of easy-going indifference: "give me the key to your room, and find me a swift stenographer. then go over to the lake shore headquarters and ask to have the nadia coupled to the evening train for new york." "but the president?" ford began. "didn't he say something about going over these new lines on an inspection trip?" "never mind uncle sidney: on this one occasion he will change his plans and go back to new york with us," said adair curtly. "good," said ford approvingly. "and how about opening the new through line for business? do we go on? or do we hang it up until we find out where we are 'at'?" "don't hold it up a single minute. drive it for all the power you can get behind it. if we have to collide with things, let's do it with the throttle wide open. now find me that shorthand person quickly, will you?" by what means the president was persuaded or coerced into doing the thing he had not planned to do, ford was not to know. but for that matter, after carrying out adair's instructions the engineer plunged at once into his own herculean task of reorganization, emerging only when he made a tardy sixth at the president's dinner table in the hotel café in the evening. the dinner, which the young engineer had been fondly counting upon as a momentary relaxation from the heart-breaking business strain, was a dismal failure on its social side. president colbrith, as yet, it appeared, in blissful ignorance of the latest news from new york, had reserved the seat of honor for his new assistant, and the half-hour was filled to overflowing with minute and cautionary definitions of the assistant's powers and duties. ford listened with a blank ear on that side. there was work to do, and one man to do it. he did not care particularly to hear instructions which he would probably have to disregard at the first experimental dash into the new field. he meant to hold himself rigidly to account for results; more than this he thought not even mr. colbrith had a right to require. after dinner he indemnified himself for the kindergarten lecture by boldly taking possession of miss adair for the short walk over to the private car. the entire world of work was still ahead, and a corps of expert stenographers was at the moment awaiting his return to the c. p. & d. offices, where he had established temporary headquarters; but he shut the door upon the exigencies and listened to miss alicia. "i am so sorry we are not going to be here to see your triumph," she was saying; adding: "it is a triumph, isn't it?"' "only a beginning," he amended. "and it won't be spectacular, if we can help it. besides, this east-end affair is only a preliminary. a little later on, if our tackle doesn't break, we shall land the really big fish for which this is only the bait." "shall you never be satisfied?" she asked jestingly. and then, more seriously: "what is your ambition? to be able to buy what your neighbor can not afford?" "big money, you mean? no, i think not. but i like to win, as well as other men." "to win what?" "whatever seems worth winning--this fight, in the present instance, and the consequent larger field. later, enough money to enable me to think of money only as a stepping-stone to better things. later still, perhaps--" he stopped abruptly, as though willing to leave the third desideratum in the air, but she would not let him. "go on," she said. "last of all?" "last of all, the love of a true woman." "oh!" she scoffed, with a little uptilt of the admirable chin. "then love must come trailing along at the very end, after we have skimmed the cream from all the other milk pans in orderly succession." "no," he rejoined gravely. "i put it clumsily--as i snatch purses. as a matter of sober fact, love sets the mile-stones along any human road that is worth traversing." she glanced up at him and the blue eyes were dancing. miss alicia adair knew no joy to compare with that of teasing, and it was not often that the fates gave her such a pliable subject. "tell me, mr. ford; is--is she pretty?" "she is beautiful; the most beautiful woman in the world, miss adair." "how fine! and, of course, she is a paragon of all the virtues?--an angel without the extremely inconvenient wings?" "you have said it: and i have never doubted it from the moment i first laid eyes on her." "better and better," she murmured. then: "she has money?" "i suppose she has; yes, she certainly has money. but that doesn't make any difference--to her or to me." "it is simply idyllic!" was the ecstatic comment. "after all this there remains but one other possible contingency. has she a willing mind, mr. ford?" they had reached the steps of the nadia, and the others had gone within. ford looked soberly into the depths of the laughing eyes and said: "i would give all my chances of success in this pacific southwestern affair to be able to say 'yes' to that." the station gong was clanging the departure signal for the new york train, and he swung her lightly up to the step of the car. "good-by," she said, turning to smile down upon him. and then, "i don't believe you, you know; not the least bit in the world." "why don't you?" he demanded. "because the woman doesn't live who would be worth such a sacrifice as that would be--to mr. stuart ford." and this was her leave-taking. x the sinews of war the general offices of the c. p. & d. railway were crowded into a half-dozen utilitarian rooms on the second floor of the company's freight station building in the chicago yards. in two of these rooms, with a window outlook upon a tangle of switching tracks with their shifting panorama of cars and locomotives, ford set up his standard as chief executive of the three "annexed" roads, becoming, in the eyes of three separate republics of minor officials and employees, the arbiter of destiny. naturally, the announcement that their railroads had been swallowed whole by the pacific southwestern had fallen as a thunderclap upon the rank and file of the three local companies; and since, in railway practice, a change of owners usually carries with it a sweeping change in department heads, the service was instantly demoralized. during the first few hours of ford's administration, therefore, the wires were buzzing with hasty resignations; and those whose courage was not whetted to the quitting point took a loose hold upon their duties and waited to see what would happen. under such chaotic conditions ford took his seat in the mean little office over the freight station, and flung himself ardently into the task of bringing order out of the sudden confusion. effectively to support adair and the reconstructionists on the board it was critically necessary that there be immediate and cheering news from the front. it was in the preliminary wrestle with disintegration that the young engineer's gift of insight and his faculty of handling men as men stood him in good stead. he was fresh from his trip over the new extension, on which he had met and shrewdly appraised the men who were now his subordinates. with the human field thus mentally mapped and cross-sectioned he was enabled to make swift and sure selections, cutting out the dead timber remorselessly, encouraging the doubtful, reassuring the timid, assorting and combining and ordering until, at the close of the second day of fierce toil, he was ready to make his first report to adair. track connections at junction points completed to-day. general and division operating and traffic departments in the saddle and effectively organized. with proper coöperation on part of general manager north, grain should begin to move eastward to-morrow. can get no satisfactory replies from north. have him disciplined from your end. answer. ford. to this telegram there was a prompt and voluminous reply from the seat of war in the east. in a free fight on the stock exchange, a battle royal generaled by brewster and magnus in which every inch of ground had been sharply contested by brokers buying up p. s-w. in the interest of principals unnamed, a majority of the southwestern stock--safe but exceedingly narrow--had been secured by the reconstructionists. in accordance with ford's suggestion, north had been "called down" by wire, and ford was instructed to report instantly any failure of effort on the part of the denver headquarters to set the grain trains in motion. otherwise, and from the new york point of view, the situation remained most hopeful. the fight in the street had unified the factions in the board of directors, and even the timid ones were beginning to clamor for an advance into the territory of the enemy. ford read adair's letter-length and most unbusiness-like telegram with the zest of the fine wine of triumph tingling in his blood. with the chicago outlet fairly open and in working order, and a huge tributary grain crop to be moved, it should be only a matter of days until the depressed pacific southwestern stock would begin to climb toward the bonding figure. this was the first triumphant conclusion, but afterward came reaction and a depressive doubt. would the stock go up? or would the enemy devise some assault that would keep it down in spite of the money-earning, dividend-promising facts? upon the expected rise hung the fate of ford's cherished ambition--the building of the western extension. without a dividend-paying chicago-denver main line, there could be no bond issue, no thirty millions for the forging of the third and most important link in the great traffic chain. ford walked the floor of his office, called by courtesy, "private," for an anxious hour, balancing the probabilities, and finally determined to take the desperate chance. there was a vast mountain of preliminary work to be leveled, huge purchasing expenses to be incurred, before the first step could be taken in the actual building of the western extension; and the summer was advancing day by day. he did not hope to get the extension completed in a single season. but to get it over into the promising mining field on the lower pannikin before snow-flying meant work of the keenest, without the loss of a single day. could he afford to play the safe game and wait until the building capital should be cannily in mr. magnus' bank vaults? he decided that he could not; and when he reached a decision, ford was not the man to hesitate before taking the plunge. on the morning of the third day he called truitt, sometime superintendent of the c. p. & d., and now acting manager of the chicago extension, and gave him his instructions. "you say there are three grain trains moving on the line now, mr. truitt: there will be three more before night. keep them coming, and give them the right of way over everything but the united states mails. can you handle this without help from me?" "we'll give it a pretty stiff try," was the prompt rejoinder. "but you are not going to leave us, are you, mr. ford?" "no; but for the next forty-eight hours i am going to lock my door, and i don't want to be disturbed for anything less than a disaster or a wire from new york. please give orders accordingly, will you?" the orders were given; and, left with his force of stenographers, ford began to walk the floor, dictating right and left. letters and telegrams to steel mills, to contractors, to bridge builders, to the owners of grading outfits, and to labor agencies, clicked out of the typewriters in a steady and unbroken stream, and the din was like that of a main-line telegraph office on a hot piece of track. all day long, and far into the night, the office force wrought unceasingly, digging away at the mountain of preliminary correspondence; and by the next morning the wire replies were beginning to come in. then came the crux. to insure prompt delivery of material, definite orders must be placed immediately. a delay of a single day might entail a delay of weeks in the shipments. yet the risk of plunging the company into debts it might never be able to pay was appalling. what if the stock should not go up as prefigured?--if the bonds could not be floated? it was with the feeling that he might well be signing his own death-warrant that ford put his name to the first order for two hundred thousand dollars' worth of steel rails for immediate delivery to the company's line in chicago. but after the first cold submergence it came more easily, and when he left the office an hour before midnight, a cool million would not have covered the obligations he had assumed during the strenuous day. kenneth was sitting up for him when he reached his hotel, and the usually impassive face of the general counsel reflected trouble. "out with it," said ford wearily; and suddenly the new million of indebtedness became a mountain weight to grind him to powder. "we're blocked," was the brief announcement. "two of the grain trains are in, and the transcontinental lawyers have won the toss. we're enjoined by the court from using the service tracks to the elevators. didn't your local people tell you?" "no," said ford. "i had given orders that i was not to be disturbed. but what of it? you expected something of the sort, didn't you?" "yes; and i provided for it. the injunction will be dissolved when we have our final hearing; but long before that time the mischief will be irreparable, i'm afraid." "how?" "it will be blazoned far and wide that we can't deliver the goods--that the opposition has done us up. i've tried to keep it out of the newspapers, or, rather, to persuade them not to make too much of it. but it wouldn't go. the transcontinental has all the pull in this town, it appears." "and you think it will affect the price of the stock?" "it is bound to, temporarily, at least. and coming upon the heels of to-day's sudden tumble--" "what's that?" demanded ford, dry-lipped, adding: "i haven't seen a paper since morning." kenneth wagged his head gloomily. "it's pretty bad. p. s-w. closed at thirty-three--five points off yesterday's market." "good lord!" ford's groan was that of a man smitten down in the heat of the fight. "say, kenneth, within a single sweep of the clock-hands i have contracted for more than a million dollars' worth of material for the western extension--more than a million dollars' worth!" "well, i'm afraid you have sinned in haste to repent at leisure," said the lawyer, with a weary man's disregard for the amenities. then he added: "i'm going to bed. i've had about all i can stand for one day." ford went to the room clerk for his key; reeled would be the better word, since his brain was whirling. there was a telegram in his box, and he tore it open with fresh and sharper misgivings. it was from adair. the sick man's getting sicker. what is the matter with your prescription? stock gone off five points, and the bears are squeezing us to beat the band. stories flying on the street that we are a kite without an effective tail; that the courts will keep us out of the elevators. what do you say? ford consulted his watch. there was barely time to catch the midnight train for new york, and his determination was taken on the spur of the moment. it was all or nothing, now. hastily writing a wire to the cashier of the denver bank where he kept his personal account, and another to adair, and leaving brief notes for kenneth and truitt, he took a cab and had himself driven at a gallop to the union station. he was the last man through the platform gates, but he made his train, and was settling himself in the sleeper when another telegram was thrust into his hand. this was from frisbie, at saint's rest; and that it brought more bad news might be argued from the way in which he crushed it slowly in his hand and jammed it into his pocket. on this day, if never before, he was proving the truth of the old adage that misfortunes do not come singly. upon arriving in new york late the following evening, he had himself driven to the waldorf, where he found adair waiting for him. a few words sufficed to outline the situation, which the lapse of another day had made still more desperate. so far from recovering, the falling stock had dropped to twenty-nine and a half, and there was every indication that the bottom was not yet reached. "how do you account for it?" asked ford, when the dismal tale had been told. "oh, it's easy enough, when you know how," was the light-hearted rejoinder. "as i wired you, there was something of a scramble on the floor of the exchange last week when we were fighting to find out whether we should control our own majority or let the transcontinental have it. our pool got its fifty-one per cent. all right, but in the nature of things the enemy stood as the next largest stock-holder in p. s-w., since they'd been buying right and left against us. now, since we don't need any more, and nobody else wants it, all the transcontinental people have to do is to unload on the market, and down she goes." ford looked incredulous, and then wrathful. "adair, tell me: did i have to stop my work when my time is worth fifty dollars a minute, and come all the way to new york to tell you folks what to do?" he demanded. adair's laugh was utterly and absolutely care-free. "it looks that way, doesn't it? have you got the compelling club up your sleeve, as usual?" "a boy might carry it--and swing it, too," was the disgusted answer. "when does the board meet again? or has it concluded to lie down in the harness?" "oh, it gets together every morning--got the meeting habit, you know. everybody's in a blue funk, but we still have the daily round-up to swap funeral statistics." "all right. meet me here in the morning, and we'll go and join the procession. can you make it nine o'clock?" "sure. it's too late to go home, and i'll stay here. then you'll be measurably certain that i can't escape. may i see the tip end of the club?" "no," said ford grumpily. "you don't deserve it. go to bed and store up a head of steam that will carry you through the hardest day's work you ever hoped to do. good night." they met again at the breakfast-table the following morning, and ford talked pointedly of everything save the p. s-w. predicament. one of adair's past fads had been the collecting of odd weapons; ford discovered this and drew the young man skilfully into a discussion of the medieval secrets of sword-tempering. "i've a bit of the old damascus, myself," said the engineer. "tybee--he was on the joppa-jerusalem road in the building--picked it up for me. curious piece of old steel; figured and flowered and etched and inlaid with silver. there were jewels in the pommel once, i take it; the settings are still there to show where some practical-turned vandal dug them out." adair was quite at a loss to guess how old swords and their histories could bear upon the financial situation, but he was coming to know ford better. some one has said that it is only the small men who are careful and troubled on the eve of a great battle. so the talk was of ancient weapons until the time for action arrived; and a smooth-faced gentleman sitting at a near-by table and marked down by ford--though not by ford's companion--listened for some word of enlightenment on the railroad situation, and was cruelly disappointed. "why wouldn't you talk?" asked adair, when they were driving down-town in the young millionaire's auto. "or rather, why did you persist in keeping me to the old swords?" ford laughed. "for one reason, i enjoy the old swords--as a relaxation. for another, mr. jeffers hawley, who was once one of the transcontinental lawyers in denver, was sitting just behind you, with eager ears. you didn't know that. hold on a minute; tell your man to stop at the chemical bank. i want you to introduce me to the cashier." "now, what the deuce are you starting a new york bank account for?" queried adair, as they came out of the bank together and climbed into the tonneau of the waiting touring car. "couldn't you draw on the treasurer? what's the use of your being the assistant to the president, i'd like to know?" "wait," was the answer; and the questioner waited, perforce. the board was already in session when the two young men were admitted to the private room in the rear of the broad street offices, and ford was welcomed as a man who has recklessly steered the ship upon the rocks. there were even some open recriminations, notably on the part of the president; but ford sat quietly under them, making no defense, and folding and refolding a slip of paper in his fingers as he listened. when they gave him leave to speak, he still made no attempt to explain. instead, he rose, walked to the other end of the table, and tossed the bit of folded paper across to mackie, the broker. "i inherited a little money, and i have made and saved enough more to make it an even twenty thousand dollars," he said. "i don't know of any more promising investment just now than pacific southwestern at twenty-nine and a half. will you be good enough to buy for my account, mr. mackie?" the effect was electrical. president colbrith sat up very straight in his chair; two or three of the anxious ones opened on ford with a rapid fire of questions; and brewster, the copper magnate, sat back and chuckled softly in his beard. "no, gentlemen; there is no change in the situation, so far as i know. of course, you are not so foolish as to let the newspaper talk of the tie-up at the chicago elevators influence you," ford was saying to the anxious inquirers. "and, apart from that, everything is going our way. as i have remarked, our stock at the present figure is good enough for me, and i only wish i had two hundred thousand, instead of twenty thousand, to put into it." brewster stopped chuckling long enough to hold up a finger to the broker. "you may buy for my account, too, mackie, while you are at it--and keep on buying till i tell you to quit." this broke the deadlock instantly, and for a few minutes the board room was as noisy as the wheat pit with a corner threatening. brewster, still laughing in his beard, pulled ford out of the press at the broker's end of the table. "i'm going to ask only one thing of you, young man," he began, his shrewd little eyes twinkling. "just let me know when you are going to get out, so i can pull through without having to take the bankruptcy." [illustration: "will you be good enough to buy for my account, mr. mackie"] "i'll do it, mr. brewster," laughed ford. "only i'm not going to get out--unless you folks freeze me out." "then it isn't a long bluff on your part?" "it is, and it isn't. we still stand to win if we have the nerve to hold on--in which event p. s-w. at twenty-nine and a fraction is a gold mine. that's one view of it, and the other is this: we've simply _got_ to corner our own stock if we expect to sell thirty millions additional bonds." "well, i guess you've gone the right way about it. but are you sure about these chicago terminals? a legal friend of mine here says you'll never get in." "he was possibly paid to say it," said ford hotly. "there has never been a shadow of doubt touching our trackage rights on the c. p. & d. contracts, or upon our ability to maintain them. all the transcontinental people hoped to do was to make a newspaper stir to help keep our stock down. they know what we are going to do to them over in their western territory, and they won't stop at anything to block us." "of course; i think we were all inclined to be a little short-sighted and pessimistic here, mr. ford. when do you go back to your fighting ground?" "to-night." "you won't wait to see what happens here?" "i don't need to, i am sure. and the minutes--my minutes--are worth dollars to the company just now." "well, go in and win--only don't forget to give me that tip. you wouldn't want to see a man of my age going to the poorhouse." "one other word, mr. brewster," ford begged, as the copper magnate was pointing for the door of escape. "please don't let any of these timid gentlemen sell till we get our bonds floated. you mark my word: the temptation to make a big killing is going to be very great, within a week." the copper king laughed; openly, this time. "you overrate my influence, mr. ford; but i'll do what i can--by word of mouth and by example. you can count on me--as long as you let me stay on your side of the market." ford had three several invitations to luncheon after the meeting adjourned, but he accepted none of them. to adair he made the declination courteous while they were trundling back to the waldorf in the big touring car. "i have lost an entire day because i could not take the time to secure a stenographer before leaving chicago night before last. i must find one now and go to work." "all right; if you must. but i was hoping i could take you out to overlook to dinner this evening. can't you come anyhow, and take a later train west?" "don't tempt me," said ford. and then: "the ladies are quite well, i hope?" "oh, yes; they are in town to-day, and we are all going to luncheon together--though i shan't know just where until i go to the club. failing the dinner, won't you make a knife and fork with us at one o'clock?" "i should like to--more than anything else in the world," ford protested, meaning it. "but you'll make my excuses to mrs. adair, won't you? we've simply got to get a three-cornered hustle on now, if we want to save the day in the west." "why? is there anything new in that quarter?" "there is: something that i didn't dare to mention back yonder in the board meeting. you may remember that i told you i had left a man in my place on the plug mountain--frisbie? i had a wire from him, night before last, just as i was leaving chicago. as you know, the pacific southwestern inherits, from the old narrow-gauge purchase, the right-of-way over plug pass and down the valley of the pannikin. frisbie wires that the transcontinental people have begun massing building material at the terminus of their saguache branch, only twenty miles from the pass." "and that means?--i'm lame on geography." "it means that they'll cut in ahead of us, if they can. plug pass is the only available unoccupied outlet through the mountains for thirty or forty miles north or south; and if we don't get our building force on the ground mighty suddenly, we'll find it fortified and held by the enemy." the touring car had turned into broadway, and the traffic roar precluded further talk. but when ford was dismounting from the tonneau at the entrance to his hotel, adair said: "there appears to be no rest for the wicked. you ought to have some of that thirty million dollars to spend right now." ford's smile was little more than a sardonic grin. "adair," he said, "i'm going to tell you something else that i didn't dare tell those money-tremulous people in mcveigh and mackie's private office. i have been signing contracts and buying material by the train-load ever since the first grain shipment was started eastward on our main line. also, i've got my engineering corps mobilized, and it will take the field under frisbie as its chief not later than to-morrow. putting one thing with another, i should say that we are something over a fresh million of dollars on the wrong side of solvency for these little antics of mine, and i'm adding to the deficit by the hundred thousand every time i can get a chance to dictate a letter." adair lighted a cigarette and made a fair show of taking it easily. but a moment later he was lifting his hat to wipe the perspiration from his forehead. "lord! but you have the confidence of your convictions!" he said, breathing hard. "if we shouldn't happen to be able to float the bonds--" "we are in too deep to admit the 'if.' the bonds must be floated, and at the earliest possible moment that magnus will move in it. you wanted something big enough to keep you interested. i have been trying my best to accommodate you." adair leaned forward and spoke to his chauffeur. the man watched his chances for room to turn in the crowded street. "where are you going?" asked ford. "back to mcveigh and mackie's--where i can watch a ticker and go broke buying more pacific southwestern," was the reply, and just then the chauffeur found his opening and the big car whirled and plunged into the down-town stream. in the financial news the next morning there was a half-column or more devoted to the sudden and unaccountable flurry in pacific southwestern. ford got it in the pittsburg papers and read it while the picked-up stenographer was wrestling with his notes. after the drop in the stock, caused, in the estimation of the writer, by the company's sudden plunge into railroad buying at wholesale, p. s-w. had recovered with a bound, advancing rapidly in the closing hours of the day from the lower thirties to forty-two, with a strong demand. the utmost secrecy was maintained, but it was shrewdly suspected that one of the great companies, of which the pacific southwestern was now a competitor on an equal footing for the grain-carrying trade, had gone in to absorb the new factor in trans-missouri traffic. other and more sensational developments might be expected if the battle should be fought to a finish. then followed a brief history of the pacific southwestern, with a somewhat garbled account of the late dash for a chicago terminal, but lacking--as ford remarked gratefully--any hint of the company's designs in the farther west. "if adair and brewster and the others only have the nerve to keep it up!" said ford to himself. then he tossed the paper aside and dived once more into the deep sea of extension building, working the picked-up stenographer until the young man was ready with his resignation the moment the final letter was filed for mailing in the chicago station. five days the young engineer waited for news from new york--waited and worked like a high-pressure motor while he waited. each day's financial news showed the continued and growing success of the home-made "corner," and now the reporters were predicting that the stock would go to par before the price should break. ford trembled for the good faith of his backers on the board. when one has bought at twenty-nine and a half and can sell within the week for eighty-seven, the temptation is something tremendous. but at the closing hour of the fifth day the demand was still good; and when ford reached the hotel that night there was a telegram from adair awaiting him. he tore it open and read it, with the blood pounding through his veins and a roar which was not of the street traffic drumming in his ears. p. s-w. closed at ninety-two to-day, and a dutch syndicate will take the bonds. success to you in the western wilderness. brewster wants to know how soon you'll reach his utah copper mines. adair. xi hurry orders "i'm no cold-water thrower, ford, as you know. but if i were a contractor, and you were trying to get me to commit myself to any such steeplechase, i should say no, and confirm it with a cuss-word." it was a week after the successful placing of the western extension building-fund bonds with the dutch syndicate, and ford, having ordered things to his liking on the newly opened chicago line, had taken the long step westward to denver to begin the forging of the third link in the great railway chain. frisbie, now first assistant engineer in charge of construction, had come down from saint's rest for a conference with his chief, and the place of conferrings was a quiet corner in one of the balconies overlooking the vast rotunda of the brown palace hotel; this because the carpenters were still busy in the suite of rooms set apart for the offices of the assistant to the president in the pacific southwestern headquarters down-town. "you mean that the time is too short?" said ford, speaking to frisbie's emphatic objection. "too short at both ends," contended the little man with the devilish mustaches and chin beard. "the copah mining district is one hundred and twenty miles, as the crow flies, from the summit of plug pass--say one hundred and forty by the line of our survey down the pannikin, through the canyon and up to the town. giving you full credit for more getting-ready than i supposed any man could compass in the three weeks you've been at it, i still think it is impossible for us to reach copah this season." "you must change your belief, dick," was the curt rejoinder. "this is to be a campaign, not only of possibilities, but of things done. we go into copah with the steel gangs before snow flies." "i know; that's what you've been saying all along. but you're looking at the thing by and large, and i'm figuring on the flinty details. for example: you'll admit that we can't work to any advantage west of the mountains until we have made a standard gauge out of the plug mountain branch. how much time have you been allowing for that?" "no time at all for the delay: about three weeks, maybe, for the actual changing of the gauge," said ford coolly. "all right," laughed frisbie. "only you'll show us how. it doesn't lie in the back of my head--or in crapsey's, unless he's a better man than i hired him for." "who is crapsey?" "he is a purdue man that i picked up and started out on the branch to make figures on the change of gauge. the other three parties, under major benson, jack benson and roy brissac, are setting the grade stakes down the pannikin, and leckhard is wrestling with the construction material you've been dumping in upon us at saint's rest. that left me short, and i hired crapsey." "good. if he is capable, he may do the broadening. call him in and set him at it." "but, man! don't you want the figures first?" "my dear dick! i've had those figures for two years, and there's nothing very complicated about that part of our problem. call your man in and let him attack the thing itself." "everything goes: you may consider him recalled. but broadening the plug mountain to standard gauge doesn't put us into copah this summer, does it?" "no; our necessities will do that for us. see here; let me show you." ford took out his note-book and on a blank page of it outlined a rough map, talking as he sketched. "three weeks ago you wired me that the transcontinental people were massing building material at the terminus of their saguache branch." "so i did," said frisbie. "and the day before yesterday you wired again to say that it was apparently a false alarm. what made you change your mind?" "they are hauling the stuff away--over to their green butte line, i'm told." "why are they hauling it away?" "the bluff--their bluff--was called. we had got busy on plug pass, and they saw there was no hope of cutting in ahead of us at that point." "exactly. now look at this map for a minute. here is saint's rest; here is the copah district; and here is green butte, the junction of their narrow gauge with the standard-gauge salt lake and eastern. if you were on the transcontinental executive committee and saw an active competing line about to build a standard-gauge railroad through the copah district and on to a connection with your narrow gauge's outlet at green butte, what would you advise?" frisbie nodded. "it's easy, when you know how, isn't it they'll standardize their narrow gauge to green butte, make an iron-clad traffic contract with the s. l & e. to exclude us, and build a branch from jack's canyon, say, up into the copah country." and then in loyal admiration: "that's what i call the sure word of prophecy--your specialty, stuart. how many nights' sleep did you lose figuring that out?" "not any, as it happens," laughed ford. "it was a straight tip out of the east. the plan, just about as you've outlined it, was adopted by the transcontinental powers that be, sitting in new york last week. by some means unknown to me, mr. adair got wind of it, and made a flying trip to chicago to put me on--wouldn't even trust the wire with it. now you understand why we've got to wake the copah echoes with a locomotive whistle this season." "copah--yes," said frisbie doubtfully. "but that is only a way station. what we need is green butte and the pacific coast outlet over the s. l & e.; and they stand to euchre us out of that, hands down. what's to prevent their making that traffic contract with the mormon people right now?" "nothing; if the s. l & e. management were willing. but just here the political situation in mormondom fights for us. last year the transcontinental folk turned heaven and earth over to defeat the mormon candidate for the united states senate. the quarrel wasn't quite mortal enough to stand in the way of a profitable business deal; but all things being equal, the salt lake line will favor us as against its political enemy." "you're sure of that?" queried frisbie. "as sure as one can be of anything that isn't cash down on the nail--with the money locked up in a safety deposit vault. by the sheerest good luck, the mormon president of the s. l & e. happened to be in new york at the time when adair had his ear to the transcontinental keyhole. adair hunted him up and made a hypothetical case of a sure thing: if our western extension and the transcontinental, standard-gauged, should be knocking at the green butte door at the same time, what would the s. l & e. do? the mormon answer was a bid for speed; first come, first served. but adair was given to understand, indirectly, that on an equal footing, our line would be given the preference as a friendly ally." "bully for the mormon! but you say copah--this summer. when we reach copah we are still one hundred and forty miles short of green butte. and if you can broaden the plug mountain in three weeks--which you'll still allow me to doubt--the transcontinental ought to be able to broaden its green butte narrow gauge in three months." "if you had cross-sectioned both lines as i have, you wouldn't stumble over that," said ford, falling back, as he commonly did, upon the things he knew. "we shall broaden the plug mountain without straightening a curve or throwing a shovelful of earth on the embankment, from beginning to end. on the other hand, the green butte narrow gauge runs for seventy miles through the crookedest canyon a rocky mountain river ever got lost in. there is more heavy rock work to be done in that canyon than on our entire pannikin division from start to finish." "that's bully for us," quoth the first assistant. "but, all the same, we shouldn't stop at copah, this fall." "we shall not stop at copah," was the decisive rejoinder. "the winters on the western side of the range are much milder than they are here, and not to be spoken of in the same day with your minnesota and dakota stamping-ground. if we can get well out of the mountains before the heavy snows come--" frisbie wagged his head. "i guess i've got it all, now--after so long a time. we merely break the record for fast railroad building--all the records--for the next six months or so. is that about it?" "you've surrounded it," said ford tersely. "good enough: we're ready to make the break when you give the word. what are we waiting for?" "just at this present moment, for the contractors." "why, i understood you had closed with the macmorrogh brothers," said frisbie. "no. at the last moment--to relieve me of a responsibility which might give rise to charges of favoritism, as he put it--mr. colbrith took the bids out of my hands and carried the decision up to the executive committee. hence, we wait; and keep a growing army of laborers here under pay while we wait," said ford, with disgust thinly masked. then he added: "with all due respect to mr. colbrith, he is simply a senile frost!" frisbie chuckled. "been cooling your fingers, has he? but i understood from the headquarters people down-town, that the macmorroghs had a sure thing on the grading and rock work. their bid was the lowest, wasn't it?" "yes; but not the cheapest for the company, dick. i've been keeping tab on the macmorroghs for a good while: they are grafters; the kind of men who take it out of the company and out of their labor in a thousand petty little steals--three profits on the commissary, piece-work for subs where they know a man's got to lose out, steals on the working hours, fines and drawbacks and discounts on the pay-rolls, and all that. you know how it's done." "sure," agreed frisbie, with his most diabolical grin. "also, i know how it keeps the engineering department on the hottest borders of hades, trying to hold them down. the good lord deliver us!" "i wanted to throw their bid out without consideration," ford went on. "but again mr. colbrith said 'no,' adding that the macmorroghs were old contractors on the line, and that mr. north had always spoken very highly of them." "ah; the fine italian hand of mr. north again," said frisbie. "and that reminds me: are we going to be at war with the main line operating department?" ford shook his head. "not openly, at least. north was down to meet my train when i came in last night, and you would never have suspected that i left denver six weeks ago without his blessing. and now i'm reminded. i have a luncheon appointment with him at twelve, and a lot of letters to dictate before i can keep it. go down and do your wiring for crapsey, and if we lose each other this afternoon, i'll meet you here at dinner this evening." it was while ford was working on his mail, with one of the hotel stenographers for a helper, that a thick-set, bull-necked man with irish-blue eyes and a face two-thirds hidden in a curly tangle of iron-gray beard, stubbed through the corridor on the pacific southwestern floor of the guaranty building, and let himself cautiously into the general manager's outer office. the private secretary, a faultlessly groomed young fellow with a suggestion of the latin races in his features, looked up and nodded. "how are you, mr. macmorrogh?" he said; and without waiting for a reply: "go on in. mr. north is expecting you." the burly one returned the nod and passed on to the inner room. the general manager, a sallow, heavy-visaged man who might have passed in a platform gathering for a retired manufacturer or a senator from the middle west, swung in his pivot-chair to welcome the incomer. "glad to see you, macmorrogh. sit down. what's the news from new york?" the contractor found a chair; drew it close to the general manager's desk, and filled it. "i'm thinking you'll know more about that than i will, misther north," he replied, in a voice that accorded perfectly with the burly figure and piratical beard. "ford's fighting us with his fishtes." "why?" asked the general manager, holding his chin in his hand--a gesture known the entire length of the pacific southwestern as a signal of trouble brewing, for somebody. "god knows, then; i don't," said the macmorrogh. "i wint to chicago to see him when the bid was in, and d'ye think he would lave me talk it over with him? not him! wan day he'd be too busy; and the next, i'd have to call again. 'twas good for him i was not me brother dan. dan would've kicked the dure in and t'rown him out av the windy." the wan ghost of a smile flitted across the impassive face of the big man at the desk. "let me tell you something, macmorrogh. if you, or your brother dan, ever find it necessary to go after ford, don't give him notice by battering down doors. you won't, i know. but about the contract: you haven't heard from the executive committee?" "not the half of wan wor-rd." "have you any idea of what is causing the delay?" "'tis dommed well i know, misther north. ford is keeping the wires hot against us. if i could have misther colbrith here with you for wan five minutes--" the general manager broke in, following his own line of thought. "ford is in denver; he came in from chicago last night. why don't you go up to the brown and have it out with him?" "fight it out, d'ye mean?" "certainly not. make friends with him." the contractor sat back in his chair and plunged his stubby hands deep into his pockets. "give me the sthraight tip, misther north." "it ought to suggest itself to you. this is a big job, with a great deal of money passing. your profits, over and above what you will make out of the company, will be quite large. ford is an ambitious young man, and he is not building railroads for his health." the macmorrogh was nodding slowly. nevertheless, he made difficulties. "me hand's not light enough for that, misther north." again the general manager smiled. "you require a deal of prompting, sometimes, brian. what's the matter with a trusty go-between?" "h'm, that's it, now. but where to lay me finger on the right man. 'tis a risk to run--with a yooung fire-brand like ford holding the other end iv the string." "still i think the man can be found. but first we must make sure of your contract, with or without ford. your suggestion about taking the matter up with mr. colbrith in person strikes me favorably. can you spare the time to go to new york?" "sure i can." "at once?" "the wan minute for sthriking is whin the iron's hot, misther north." the general manager put aside the thick file of papers he had been examining when macmorrogh entered, and began to set his desk in order. "i have been thinking i might make it convenient to go with you. i presume you have no objection to going as my guest in the naught-seven?" "'tis an honor you're doing me, misther north, and i'll not be forgetting it." "not at all. there are some matters connected with this contract that i'd like to talk over with you privately, and if we can agree upon them, i may be able to help you with mr. colbrith and the executive committee." the general manager pressed one of the electric buttons on the side of the desk, and to the clerk who answered gave a brief order: "have the naught-seven provisioned and made up to go east as a special at twelve-ten to-day. tell despatcher darby to make the schedule fast--nineteen hours or less to the river." the clerk nodded and disappeared, and north turned again to macmorrogh. "now about that other matter: i'll find you a go-between to approach ford; but to be quite frank with you, you'll have to be liberal with the young man for his services. when you go into the diplomatic field, you have to spend money." he was pressing another of the electric buttons as he spoke, and to the office boy who put his face in at the door, he said: "ask mr. eckstein to step in here a minute." it was the private secretary, the well-groomed young man with the alien eyes and nose who answered the summons. north gave him his instructions in a curt sentence. "mr. macmorrogh would like to have a little talk with you, eckstein: take him into the other room where you can be undisturbed." it was half an hour later when the door of the library opened to readmit the private secretary and the contractor, and in the interval the division superintendent's clerk had returned to say that the special train schedule was made up, and that the naught-seven would be waiting at the union station at twelve-ten. "well?" said the general manager, lifting a slow eyebrow at macmorrogh and compressing into the single word his wish to know what had been done in the conference of two. "'tis all right, misther north," said the contractor, rubbing his hands. "'tis a crown jewel ye have in this yooung--" north cut the eulogy short in a word to his secretary. "i go east, special, at twelve-ten, eckstein, as mr. macmorrogh has probably told you. i have a luncheon appointment at twelve with mr. ford. meet him when he comes, and make my excuses--without telling him anything he ought not to know. if you can take my place as his host, do so; but in any event, keep him from finding out where we have gone until we are well on the way. that's all." this was why ford, walking the few blocks from his hotel at noon to keep his engagement with north, found the general manager's private office closed, and a suave, soft-spoken young man with a foreign east of countenance waiting to make his superior's excuses. "mr. north was called out of town quite unexpectedly on a wire," was the private secretary's explanation. "he tried to telephone you at the brown, but the operator couldn't find you. he left me to explain, and i've been wondering if you'd let me take his place as your host, mr. ford." now ford's attitude toward his opponents was, by reason of his gifts, openly belligerent; wherefore he fought against it and tried to be as other men are. "i am sure mr. north is quite excusable, and it is good-natured in you to stand in the breach, mr. eckstein," he said. "of course, i'll be glad to go with you." they went to tortoni's, and to a private room; and the luncheon was an epicurean triumph. eckstein talked well, and was evidently a young man of parts. not until the cigars were lighted did he suffer the table-talk to come down to the railroad practicalities; and even then he merely followed ford's lead. "oh, yes; we have made arrangements to give you a clear deck in the denver yards for your material and supplies," he said, in answer to a question of ford's about side-track room and yard facilities at the point which would have to serve as his base. "following your orders, we have been forwarding all that your plug mountain rolling stock could handle, but there is considerable more of it side-tracked here. after the macmorrogh grading outfit has gone to the front, we shall have more room, however." "the macmorrogh outfit?" queried ford. "do they store it in our yards?" "oh, no. they have a pretty complete railroad yard of their own at their headquarters in pueblo. but they have three train-loads of tools and machinery here now, waiting for your orders to send them to the front." ford weighed the possibilities thoughtfully and concluded that nothing could be lost by a frank declaration of principles. "they have given you folks a wrong impression, mr. eckstein," he said mildly. "the contract for the grading on the western extension is not yet awarded; and if i can compass it, the macmorrogh brothers' bid will be thrown out." the private secretary tried to look mystified, with just the proper touch of a subordinate's embarrassment. "i'm only a clerk, mr. ford," he said, "and, of course, i'm not supposed to know more than i see and hear in the regular way of business. but i understood that the macmorroghs were in the saddle; that they were only waiting for you to provide track-room at saint's rest for their tool cars and outfit." "no," said ford. "it hasn't got that far along yet." eckstein looked at his watch. "don't let me keep you, if there is anything else you want to do, mr. ford; but i'll confess you've aroused my curiosity. what is the matter with the macmorroghs?" ford answered the question by asking another. "do you know them, mr. eckstein?" "why--yes; as mr. north's chief clerk would be likely to know the firm of contractors which has been given a good share of the pacific southwestern work for a number of years." "do you know any good of them?" "bless me! yes: i don't know anything else of them. three hearty, bluff, rough-tongued irishmen; lacking diplomacy and all the finer touches, if you like, but good fellows and hustlers of the keenest." ford fastened his companion in a steady eye-grip. "one question, mr. eckstein; do they play fair with all concerned?" "they are more than fair; they are generous--with the company, and with the company's representatives with whom they have to do business. on two contracts with us they have lost money; but i happen to know that in both instances they kept their promises to the engineering department to the letter." ford had cast off the eye-grip and he appeared to be studying the fresco design of the ceiling over the private secretary's head. "and those promises were--?" eckstein laughed boyishly. "you needn't make a mystery of it with me, mr. ford. i'm one of the family, if i haven't any initials after my name. i know--we all know--that there are certain profits--not made out of the company, of course--that a contractor is always willing to share with his good friends, the engineers." ford's attitude instantly became that of a freshman wishing to learn the ropes. "consider me, mr. eckstein," he said. "i'm new to the construction business--or at least, i've never been at the head of it before. what are these--er--perquisites?" the private secretary thought he had entered the thin edge of the wedge and he drove it heartily. "they are perfectly legitimate, of course. the contractors run a commissary to supply the workmen--nobody suspects them of doing it at cost. then there are the fines imposed to secure faithful work, the _per capita_ commission paid on the labor sent in by the engineers, the discounts on time-checks, the weekly hospital and insurance dues collected from the men. all those things amount to a good round profit on a contract like ours." "to about how much, in figures, should you say?" queried ford, with an air of the deepest interest. "to enough to make your share, as head of the construction department, touch ten thousand a year, on a job as big as ours--with a liberal provision for mr. frisbie, besides." ford blew reflective smoke rings toward the ceiling for a full minute or more before he said quietly: "do i understand that you are authorized to guarantee me ten thousand a year in commissions from the macmorrogh brothers, mr. eckstein?" eckstein laughed. "you forget that i'm only a clerk, and an onlooker, as you may say. but if you accept macmorrogh's bid, and he doesn't do the square thing by you and mr. frisbie, you may call me in as a witness, mr. ford. does that clear up the doubt?" "perfectly," was the quiet rejoinder. "under these conditions, i suppose it is up to me to wire the executive committee, withdrawing my objections to the macmorroghs, isn't it?" "that is the one thing mr. macmorrogh asks." the secretary whipped out a note-book and pencil. "shall i take your message? i can send it when i go back to the office." "thank you," said ford; then he began to dictate, slowly and methodically: "to s.j. colbrith, care mcveigh and mackie, new york. this is to recall my objections to macmorrogh brothers, as stated in letter of the twenty-fifth from chicago. further investigation develops the fact that they are quite honest and capable, and that they will pay me ten thousand dollars a year for withdrawing my opposition." eckstein's pencil had stopped and he was gasping for breath. "great scott!" he ejaculated. "that won't do, mr. ford! you can't put a thing like that into a telegram to the president!" [illustration: eckstein's pencil had stopped and he was gasping for breath] "why not?" was the cool inquiry. "you said it was perfectly legitimate, didn't you?" "yes, but--" the entrance of a waiter to clear the table provided a merciful stop-gap, and eckstein, hurriedly consulting his watch, switched abruptly. "by jove! i'm due at the office this minute to meet a lot of cattlemen," he stammered, and escaped like a man hastening for first aid to the mistaken. ford laughed long and silently when he found himself alone in the private dining-room; and he was still chuckling by fits and starts when, after an afternoon spent with auditor evans, he recounted his adventure to frisbie over the brown café dinner table that evening. but frisbie took all the humor out of the luncheon episode when he said soberly: "he laughs best who laughs last, stuart. eckstein took a fall out of you one way, even if he did fail in the other; he kept you safely shut up at tortoni's while mr. north and the chief of the macmorroghs got away on a special train for new york. beard, the union station operator, told me. which means that they'll have a full day with mr. colbrith and the executive committee before you can possibly get there to butt in." "no, it doesn't; necessarily," ford contradicted, rising suddenly and signaling a waiter. "what are you going to do?" queried frisbie, dropping his knife and fork and preparing to second his chief. "come and see. i'm going to get out another special train and give mr. north a run for his money," was the incisive answer. "hike down to the despatcher's office with me and help cut out the minutes." xii the entering wedge has civilized humanity, in the plenitude of twentieth century sophistication, fully determined that there is no such thing as luck?--that all things are ordered, if not by providence, at least by an unchangeable sequence of cause and effect? stuart ford was a firm believer in the luck of the energetic; which is to say that he regarded obstacles only as things to be beaten down and abolished. but in the dash to overtake and pass the general manager's one-car special, the belief was shaken almost to its reversal. he knew the pacific southwestern locomotives--and something of the men who ran them. the was one of the fast eight-wheelers; and olson, the engineer, who had once pulled passenger on the plug mountain, was loyal and efficient. happily, both the man and the machine were available; and while frisbie was calling up the division superintendent at his house to ask the loan of his private car for the assistant to the president, ford was figuring the schedule with the despatcher, and insisting upon speed--more speed. "what's come over you big bosses, all at once?" said darby, to whom ford's promotion was no bar to fellowship or free speech. "first mr. north wants me to schedule a special that will break the record; and now you want to string one that will beat his record." "never mind my troubles, julius," was the evasive reply. "just you figure to keep things out of my way and give me a clear track. let's see--where were we? cheyenne crossing at a.m., water at riddle creek, coal at brockton--" the schedule was completed when frisbie came back to say that the , with the superintendent's car attached, was waiting on track six. ford went down, looked the gift horse in the mouth, and had the running gear of the car overhauled under his own supervision before he would give olson the word to go, pressing the night car inspectors into service and making them repack the truck journals while he waited. "i'm taking no chances," he said to frisbie; and truly it seemed that all the hindrances had been carefully forestalled when he finally boarded the " " and ordered his flagman to give olson the signal. yet before the one-car train was well out of the denver yards there was a jolting stop, and the flagman came in to report that the engine had dropped from the end of an open switch, blocking the main line. ford got out and directed the reënrailment of the , carefully refraining from bullying the big swede, whose carelessness must have been accountable. it was the simplest of accidents, with nothing broken or disabled. under ordinary conditions, fifteen minutes should have covered the loss of time. but the very haste with which the men wrought was fatal. enrailing frogs have a way of turning over at the critical instant when the wheels are climbing, and jack-screws bottomed on the tie-ends do not always hold. eight several times were the jack-screws adjusted and the frogs clamped into position; but not until the ninth trial could the perverse wheels be induced to roll workmanlike up the inclined planes and into place on the rails. ford looked at his watch when his special was free of the switches and olson was speeding up on the first long tangent. with the chase still in its opening mile, mr. north's lead had been increased from seven hours to eight. leaving denver on the spur of the moment, ford had necessarily left many things at a standstill; and his first care, after he had assured himself that the race was fairly begun, was to write out a handful of telegrams designed to keep the battle alive during his enforced absence from the firing line. the superintendent's desk was hospitably unlocked, and for a busy half-hour ford filled blank after blank, steadying himself against the pounding swing of the heavily ballasted car with a left-handed grip on the desk end. when there remained no one else to remind, he wrote out a message to adair, forecasting the threatened disaster, and urging the necessity of rallying the reconstructionists on the board of directors. "that ought to stir him up," he said to himself, bunching adair's telegram with the others to be sent from the first stop where the western union wires could be tapped. then he whirled around in the swing chair and scowled up at the little dial in the end of the car; scowled at the speed-recorder, and went to the door to summon the flagman. "what's the matter with olson?" he demanded. "has he forgotten how to run since he left the plug mountain? climb up over the coal and tell him that forty miles an hour won't do for me to-night." the flagman picked up his lantern and went forward; and in a minute or two later the index finger of the speed-recorder began to mount slowly toward the fifties. at fifty-two miles to the hour, ford, sitting in the observation end of the car where he could see the ghostly lines of the rails reeling backward into the night, smelled smoke--the unmistakable odor of burning oil. in three strides he had reached the rear platform, and a fourth to the right-hand railing showed him one of the car-boxes blazing to heaven. he pulled the cord of the air-whistle, and after the stop stood by in sour silence while the crew repacked the hot box. since he had made the car inspectors carefully overhaul the truck gear in the denver station, there was no one to swear at. olson bossed the job, did it neatly and in silence, and no one said anything when the fireman, in his haste to be useful, upset the dope-kettle and got its contents well sanded before he had overtaken it in its rolling flight down the embankment. ford turned away and climbed into his car at the dope-kettle incident. there are times when retreat is the only recipe for self-restraint; and in imagination he could see the general manager's special ticking off the miles to the eastward while his own men were sweating over the thrice-accursed journal-bearing under the " ." now, as every one knows, hot boxes, besides being perversely incurable, are the sworn enemies of high speed. at forty miles to the hour the journal was smoking again. at forty-five it burst into flames. once more it was patiently cooled by bucketings of water drawn from the engine tank; after which necessary preliminary olson spoke his mind. "ay tank ve never get someveres vit dat hal-fer-damn brass, meester ford. ay yust see if ay can't find 'noder wone." and he rummaged in the car lockers till he did find another. unfortunately, however, the spare brass proved to be of the wrong pattern; a pullman, instead of a p. s-w. standard. olson was a trained mechanic and a man of resources, and he chipped and filed and scraped at the misfit brass until he made it serve. but when he climbed again to the cab of his engine, and ford swung up to the steps of the car, the white headlight eye of an east-bound freight, left at a siding a full hour's run to the rear, came in sight from the observation platform of the laboring special. these were the inauspicious beginnings of the pursuit; and the middle part and the ending varied only in degree. all the way up to midnight, at which hour a station of a bigness to supply a standard brass was reached, the tinkered journal-bearing gave trouble and killed speed. set once more in running order upon its full quota of sixteen practicable wheels, the special had fallen so far behind its denver-planned schedule as not only to be in the way of everything else on the division, but to find everything else in its way. ford held on stubbornly until the lead of the train he was trying to outrun had increased to twelve hours. then he gave it up, directing his crew to turn the train on the nearest "y," and to ask for retracing orders to denver. after which he went to bed in the state-room of the borrowed car, and for the first time in his experience was a man handsomely beaten by the perversity of insensate things. the request for the retracing orders was sent from coquina; and when it came clicking into the despatcher's office at denver, a sleep-sodden young man with an extinct cigar between his teeth rose up out of his chair, stretched, yawned, and pointed for the door. "going to leave us, mr. eckstein?" said the trick despatcher who was sitting at the train table. "yes. if mr. ford has changed his mind, i may as well go home and go to bed." "reckon he forgot something, and has to come back after it?" laughed the operator. "maybe," said the private secretary, and he went out, shutting the door behind him with the bat-like softness and precision that was his distinguishing characteristic. the sounders were clicking monotonously when the trick man turned to the relief operator who was checking darby's transfer sheet. "what do you suppose eckstein was up to, sitting here all night, jim?" "give it up," said the relief man. "ask me something easy." "i'll bet a hen worth fifty dollars i can guess. he didn't want mr. ford to make time." the relief man looked up from his checking. "why? he didn't do anything. he was asleep more'n half the time." "don't you fool yourself," said the other. "he heard every word that came in about that hot box. and if the hot box hadn't got in the way, i'll bet a cockerel worth seventy-five dollars, to go with that fifty-dollar hen, that he would have tangled me up somehow till i had shuffled a freight train or something in mr. ford's way. he's mr. north's man, body and soul; and mr. north doesn't love mr. ford." "oh, rats, billy!" scoffed the relief man, getting up to fill his corn-cob pipe from the common tobacco bag. "you're always finding a nigger in the wood-pile, when there isn't any. say; that's asking for orders from calotte. why don't you come to life and answer 'em?" frisbie, breakfasting early at the brown palace on the morning following the night of hinderings, was more than astonished when ford came in and took the unoccupied seat at the table-for-two. "let me eat first," said the beaten one, when frisbie would have whelmed him with curious questions; and with the passing of the cutlets and the coffee he told the tale of the hindrances. "i guess it was foreordained not to be," he admitted, in conclusion. "we tried mighty hard to bully it through, but the fates were too many and too busy for us." "tricks?" suggested frisbie, suspecting north of covering his flight with special instructions to delay a possible pursuit. "oh, no; nothing of that sort: just the cursed depravity of inanimate things. every man concerned worked hard and in good faith. it was luck. no one of us happened to have a rabbit's foot in his pocket." "you don't believe in luck," laughed the assistant. "don't i? i know i used to say that i didn't. but after last night i can't be so sure of it." "well, what's the cost to us?" inquired frisbie, coming down out of the high atmosphere of the superstitious to stand upon the solid earth of railway-building fact. "i don't know: possibly failure. there is no guessing what sort of a scheme north will cook up when he and macmorrogh get mr. colbrith _cornered_." "oh, it can't be as bad as that. take it at the worst--admitting that we may have to struggle along with the macmorroghs for our general contractors; they can't addle the egg entirely, can they?" ford tabulated it by length and breadth. "with the macmorroghs in the forefront of things to steal and cheat and make trouble with the labor, and mr. north in the rear to back them up and to retard matters generally, we are in for a siege to which purgatory, if we ever go there, will seem restful, richard my son. our one weapon is my present ranking authority over the general manager. if he ever succeeds in breaking that, you fellows in the field would better hunt you another railroad to build." "it's a comfort to know that you _are_ the big boss, stuart. north can't knock you out of that when it comes to a show-down." "i don't know," said ford, whose night ride had made him pessimistic. "i am mr. colbrith's appointee, you know--not an elected officer. and what mr. colbrith has done, he may be induced to undo. adair has been my backer in everything; but while he is the best fellow in the world, he is continually warning me that he may lose interest in the game at any minute and drop it. he doesn't care a rap for the money-making part of it--doesn't have to." "wouldn't adair be a good safety-switch to throw in front of mr. north and macmorrogh in new york?" ford nodded. "i thought of that last night, and sent a wire. we'll hear from it to-day." frisbie ate through the remainder of the breakfast in silence. afterward, at the pipe-lighting, he asked if ford's wire instructions of the night before still held good. "they do," was the emphatic reply. "we go on just as if nothing had happened, or was due to happen. you say your man crapsey will be in this morning: gather up your laborers and turn the plug mountain into a standard-gauge railroad while we wait. that's all, dick; all but one word--hustle." "hustle it is. but say: you were going to give me a pointer on that broad-gauging. i've been stewing over it for a day and a night, and i don't think of any scheme that won't stop the traffic." "don't you? that is because you haven't mulled over it as long as i have. in the first place, you have no curves to straighten and no cross-ties to relay--our predecessors having set the good example of using standard length ties for their three-foot road. string your men out in gangs as far as they'll go, and swing the three-foot track, as a whole, ten inches out of center to the left. you can do that without stopping trains, can't you?" "sure." "all right. when you swing, spike the right-hand rail lightly. then string your gangs again and set a line of spikes for the outside of the standard-gauge right-hand rail straight through to saint's rest. got that?" "yes; i guess i've got it all. but go on." "now you are ready for the grand-stand play. call in all your narrow-gauge rolling stock, mass your men at this end of the branch, shove the right-hand rail over to the line of gauge spikes in sections as long as your force will cover, and follow up with a standard-gauge construction train to pick up the men and carry them forward as fast as a section is completed. if you work it systematically, a freight train could leave denver two hours behind your track-gangs and find a practical standard gauge all the way to saint's rest." "of course!" said frisbie, in workmanlike disgust for his own obtuseness. "i'm going back to the tech when your railroad is finished and learn a few things. i couldn't think of anything but the old erie railroad scheme, when it was narrowed down from the six-foot gauge. they did it in one night; but they had a man to every second cross-tie over the whole four hundred miles from new york to buffalo." ford nodded, adding: "and we're not that rich in labor. by the way, how are the men coming?" "a car-load or two, every little while. say, stuart, you must have had a rabbit's foot with you when you touched up the eastern labor agencies. every other railroad in this neck of woods is skinned, and m'grath is having the time of his life trying to hold our levies together. there is a small army of them under canvas at saint's rest, waiting for the contractors, and another with between two and three hundred hands camped at the mouth of the canyon." ford knocked the ashes from his pipe so hard that the pipestem fell in two. "yes! all waiting on mr. colbrith's leisurely motions! well, jump in on the plug mountain. that will utilize some of the waste for a few days." frisbie went down to the plug mountain yard office, and to a wire-end, to begin the marshaling of his forces; and ford, with three picked-up stenographers to madden him, took up the broken threads of his correspondence with a world which seemed to have become suddenly peopled to suffocation with eager sellers of railroad material and supplies. late in the afternoon, when he was tired enough to feel the full force of the blow, a new york telegram came. it was from miss alicia adair, and ford groaned in spirit when he read it. brother left here yesterday in the vanderdecken yacht for nova scotia. can not reach him by telegraph until next friday or saturday. aunt hester wants to know if there is anything she can do. one way to save a man's life at a crisis is to appeal to his sense of humor. miss alicia's closing sentence did that for ford, and he was smiling grimly when he put the telegram away, not in the business file, but in his pocket. three days later, however, when frisbie was half-way to saint's rest with his preliminary track-swinging, another new york telegram found ford in his newly established quarters in the guaranty building. this was from some one acting as president colbrith's secretary, and its wording was concisely mandatory. contract has been awarded macmorrogh brothers. president directs that you afford contractors every facility, and that you confer with mr. north in all cases of doubt. xiii the barbarians it was some little time after the rock had begun to fly from the cuttings on the western slopes of the mountains that kenneth, summoned by ford, made the run from denver to saint's rest over the standardized plug mountain branch and found the engineer-manager living in a twenty-foot caboose car fitted as a hotel and an office-on-wheels. the occasion of kenneth's calling was a right-of-way dispute on the borders of the distant copah mining district; some half-dozen mining claims having been staked off across the old s. l & w. survey. the owners, keen to make a killing out of the railroad company, threatened injunctions if the p. s-w. persisted in trespassing upon private property; and ford, suspecting shrewdly that the mine men were set on by the transcontinental people to delay the work on the new line, made haste to shift his responsibility to the legal shoulders. "if i hadn't known you for a pretty good mountaineer, kenneth, you would have missed this," he said, making his guest free of the limited hospitality of the caboose-hotel. "are you good for a two-hundred-and-eighty-mile cayuse ride, there and back, on the same trail we tramped over a year ago last spring?" "i'm good for everything on the bill of fare," was the heartening reply. "how are things going?" ford's rejoinder began with a non-committal shrug. "we're building a railroad, after a fashion." "after a good fashion, i hope?" another shrug. "we're doing as well as we can with the help we have. but about this right-of-way tangle--" and he plunged his guest into a discussion of the copah situation which ran on unbroken until bedtime. they took the westward trail together in the morning, mounted upon wiry little mountain-bred ponies furnished by one pacheco, the half-breed mexican who had once earned an easy double-eagle by spying upon two men who were out hunting with an engineer's transit. for seven weeks frisbie had been pushing things, and the grade from saint's rest to the summit of the pass was already a practicable wagon road, deserted by the leveling squads and ready for the ties and the steel. from the summit of the pass westward, down the mountain and through the high-lying upper valley of the pannikin, the grade work was in full swing. the horse trail, sometimes a rough cart-road, but oftener a mere bridle-path, followed the railroad in its loopings and doublings; and on the mountain sections where the work was heaviest the two riders were never out of sight of the heavily manned grading gangs. "to a man up a tree you appear to be doing a whole lot, and doing it quickly, ford," commented the lawyer, when they had passed camp after camp of the workers. then he added: "you are not having any trouble with the macmorroghs, are you?" "not what the legal department would call trouble," answered ford evasively; and for ten other miles the narrowness of the bridle-path discouraged conversation. farther down in the valley of the pannikin the activities were less thickly sown. on many sections the work was light; no more than the throwing up of an embankment in the park-like intervales, with now and then a rock-or earth-cutting through some jutting spur of the inclosing mountains. here the men were bunched on the rock work and the fills, though the camp sites were commonly in the park-like interspaces where wood and water, the two sole commodities for which the contractors could make no deductions on the pay-roll, lay conveniently at the doors of the rude sleeping shacks. since he was not required to talk, kenneth had time to be curiously observant of many things in passing. each camp was the fellow of its neighbor; a chaotic collection of hastily built bunk shanties, a mess tent for those who, shunning the pay-devouring scylla of the contractors' "commissary," fell into the charybdis of the common table, and always, kenneth remarked, the camp groggery, with its slab-built bar, its array of ready-filled pocket bottles, and its sad-faced, slouch-hatted, pistol-carrying keeper. "what is that bible-saying about the shadow of a great rock in a thirsty land?" said kenneth, as they were passing one of the wilderness bar-rooms buttressing a huge boulder by the trail side. "i should think you'd rule those fellows emphatically and peremptorily out of the game, ford. they must make a lot of trouble for you, first and last." "they do," was the sober response. "but how would you go about it to rule them out?" the lawyer laughed. "my writs don't run this far. but i thought yours did. why don't you fire 'em bodily; tell 'em their number is --skiddoo! aren't you the sublime porte--the court of last resort--the big boss--over here?" ford pulled his horse down to a walk. "kenneth, let me tell you: behind those barkeepers are the contractors; behind the contractors is mr. north; behind mr. north, the president. my little lever isn't long enough to turn the world over." "pshaw!" said kenneth. "mr. colbrith wouldn't stand for anything like that! why, he's a perfect fanatic on the whisky question." "that's all right," said ford acidly. "it doesn't go as far as mr. colbrith in the matter of the debauching particulars. it stops in denver; and mr. colbrith approves denver in the lump--signs the vouchers without looking at them, as evans would say. i tell you what i believe--what i am compelled to believe. these individual saloon-keepers are supposed to be in here on their own hook, on sufferance. they are not; they are merely the employees of a close corporation. among the profit sharers you'll find the macmorroghs at the top, and mr. north's little ring of denver officials close seconds." "do you honestly believe that, ford?" "i do. i can't prove it, of course. if i could, i'd go to new york and fight it out. and the whisky isn't all of it, or even the worst: there are women in some of these camps, and there would be more if leckhard didn't stand guard at saint's rest and turn them back." "heavens--what a cesspool!" said the attorney. "does a laboring man ever get out of here with any of his earnings?" "not if the macmorroghs can help it. and you can figure for yourself what the moral atmosphere must be. we are less than two months old on the work, but already the western extension is a streak of crime; crime unpunished, and at times tacitly encouraged. you may say that my department isn't responsible--that this is the contractors' day and game. if that is true now--which it isn't--it will no longer be true when we come in with our own employees, the track-layers." but now kenneth was shaking his head. "i can't believe it, ford. you're blue because mr. colbrith has thrown mr. north into your boat as ballast. i don't blame you: but you mustn't let it make you color-blind." ford said nothing. the day was yet young, and the long journey was still younger. it was at the noon halt, made at a subcontractor's camp near a great earth-cutting and a huge fill, that kenneth had his object lesson. they were standing at the door of the timekeeper's shanty--they had been the timekeeper's guests for the noon meal--and the big gang of italians, with its inevitable irish foreman, was already at work. out at the head of the great fill a dozen men were dumping the carts as they came in an endless stream from the cutting. suddenly there was a casting down of shovels, a shrill altercation, a clinch, a flash of steel in the august sunlight, and one of the disputants was down, his heels drumming on the soft earth in the death agony. "good god!" said kenneth. "it's a murder!" and he would have rushed in if ford and the timekeeper had not held him back. the object lesson was sufficiently shocking, but its sequel was still more revolting. without one to kneel beside the dying man; indeed, without waiting until the drumming heels were still; the men callously put their shovels under the body, slid it over the lip of the dump and left it to be covered by the tumbling cataract of earth pouring from the tip-carts whose orderly procession had scarcely been interrupted by the tragedy. kenneth was silent for many minutes after they had left the camp of the italians. he was a western man only by adoption; of anglo-saxon blood, and so unable to condone the latin's disregard for the sacredness of human life. "that was simply terrible, ford," he said finally, and his voice was still in sympathy with the shaking hand that held the bridle-reins. "will nothing be done?" "nothing; unless the murdered man chances to have relatives or clansmen in one of the near-by camps--in which case there'll be another killing." "but the law," said kenneth. "there is no law here higher than the caprice of brian macmorrogh. besides, it's too common--a mere episode; one of those which you said you couldn't believe, a little while back." "but can't you make the macmorroghs do a little police work, for common decency's sake?" ford shook his head. "they are quite on the other side of the fence, as i told you in the beginning. by winking at lawlessness of all kinds, their own particular brands of lawlessness, by which they and their backers make money, go unquestioned. so far from helping, they'd make it exceedingly difficult for any sheriff who should have the temerity to come in here in the discharge of his duty." "you foresaw all this before the contract was awarded?" "not all--though i had been told that the macmorroghs ran 'open camps' where the work was far enough from civilization to take the curse off. what you've seen, and what i've been telling you, is bad enough, god knows; but it will be worse before it is better. after we've had a few pay-days, and the men begin to realize that they are here to toil and to be robbed ... kenneth, it will be hell on earth; and the company will pay for it--the company always pays in the end." "i've got a notion," said the attorney, after another plodding mile of reflection; but what it was he did not say. ford and his companion reached copah in the afternoon of the third day out from saint's rest, and, singularly enough, the mine owners who were disputing the extension right-of-way were found amenable to reason. what kenneth did to secure the p. s-w. right-of-way across the mining claims, ford did not know, or seek to know; though a word or two let fall by the attorney led him to believe that the transcontinental encouragement was not quite specific enough in dollars and cents to warrant the obstructors in holding out. ford was for starting back the next morning: he had missed brissac and both of the bensons on the way over. but kenneth confessed to being saddle-sore, and begged for another day's respite. ford agreed without giving the matter a second thought. upon such unconsidered trifles--an indifferent "yes" or "no"--turn the poised scales of life. for one other day the two southwestern representatives put up at the grand union, copah's tar-paper-covered simulacrum of a hotel; and during that day ford contrived to sell his birthright for what he, himself, valued at the moment as a mess of pottage. it was in this wise. at this period of its existence copah, the future great, was merely a promise; a camp of magnificent prospects. isolated by one hundred and fifty miles of wagon-road and pack-trail from one railroad base, and by forty miles of mountains from the other, its future turned upon the hope of cheaper transportation. as a gold camp it was an anomaly. with a single exception its ores were low grade, and the wagon-road and pack-trail freightage made them practically profitless to the miners. the single exception was the "little alicia," and it was the coincidence of the name, rather than the eloquence of its impoverished owner, that first attracted ford. from first to last he did not know the exact location of the mine. it was somewhere in the hills back of copah, and grigsby, the prospector who had discovered and opened it, had an office in the camp. it was in grigsby's town office that ford saw the ore specimens and the certified assays, and listened not too credulously to grigsby's enthusiastic description of the little alicia. to be a half-owner in this mine of mines was to be rich beyond the dreams of avarice--when the railroad should come: if one might take grigsby's word for it. it is a curious fever, that which seizes upon the new-comer in an unexploited mining field. ford was far from being money-mad; but there were times when he could not help contrasting a railroad salary with miss adair's millions. true, he had once said to her, in the fulness of confident belief, that the money of the woman he loved would make no difference--to her or to him. but the point of view, wise or foolish, is not always the same. there were moments when the adair millions loomed large, and the salary of an assistant to the president--who was in fact little more than a glorified chief of construction--shrank in proportion. he was free of obligation and foot-loose. his twenty thousand dollars invested in p. s-w. stock at twenty-nine and a half had grown with the rising market to sixty-odd. what did it matter to any one if he chose to put ten thousand of the sixty-odd on a turn of the little alicia card? while it was gambling, pure and simple, he did not bet with his eyes shut. inquiry at the bank of copah established grigsby's reputation for truth-telling. the specimens and the assay certificates were beyond doubt genuine. more than this, grigsby had made a number of ore shipments by freighters' wagon and jack train over the range, and the returns had enabled him to keep a small force of men at work in the mine. ford made his bet through the bank. the cashier was willing to take a p. s-w. official's note of hand, to be canceled when ford could deposit to the bank's credit in denver, and to give grigsby an open account for his immediate needs. grigsby accepted joyfully, and the thing was done. ford's mess of pottage was a deed of half-ownership in the little alicia, executed and recorded in the afternoon of the day of stop-overs, and he was far enough from suspecting that he had exchanged for it all that a man of honor holds dearest. but, as a matter of fact, the birthright had not yet been handed over: that came later. xiv the draw-bar pull attorney kenneth had many more object-lessons in the study of "open camps" on the three-day return ride to saint's rest. the day of stop-over in copah chanced to be the macmorrogh brothers' monthly pay-day, and until the men's money was spent pandemonium reigned along the line of the extension. some of it they dodged, riding wide to pass the larger camps, and hearing from afar the noise of carousal, the fierce drinking songs of the magyars, the fusillades of pistol-shots. so far as they could see, all work appeared to be suspended; and major benson, whose camp of engineers they picked up in one of the detours around a gulch head, confirmed that conclusion. "it was the same way last month," raged the major, twisting his fierce white mustaches and looking as if he would like to blot the name of macmorrogh from the roster of humanity. "it'll take a full week to get them into the swing again, and macmorrogh will be up with his estimates just the same as if he had been working full time. i'll cut 'em; by the gods, i'll cut 'em! and you must stand by me, mr. ford." there was the same story to be listened to at brissac's tie camp; and again at young benson's headquarters, which were on the mountain section. this last was on the third day, however, when the madness was dying down. some of the rock men were back on the job, but many of the gangs were still grievously short-handed. ford said little to kenneth. the pandemonium spoke for itself. but on the third night, when the long ride was ended, and pietro, ford's cook and man-of-all-work, was serving supper in the caboose office-on-wheels, some of the bitterness in ford's heart slipped into speech. "can you see now how it takes the very marrow out of a man's bones, kenneth? you may think of an engineer as a man of purely bull-headed purposes, merely trying, in a crass, materialistic way, to get a material thing done. i want to do a big thing, and i'd like to do it in a big way. it _is_ a big thing--the building of this extension. if it doesn't add another star to the flag, it will at least make one state twice as populous, twice as prosperous. it will add its quota to the habitable surfaces; and it's a good quota--a land that some future generation will love, and swear by, and fight for, if need be. and to think that for one man's narrow-mindedness and another's greed we've got to christen it in blood and muck and filth and dishonesty--it makes me sore, kenneth; sore and disheartened." "i don't blame you," said the lawyer, reveling, though he would never have admitted it, in the comfort of the caboose headquarters journey's end. "but you'll pull through; you'll build your railroad, and the mistakes that are made won't be your mistakes. it's a horrible state of affairs, that in the macmorrogh camps; a blot on our boasted civilization. but you can't help it. or rather you will help it if, and when, you can." ford was shaking his head dejectedly. "i don't know, kenneth. it's getting next to me, even at this early stage of the game. have you ever stood on the front car platform of a train nearest to the engine and watched the jiggling draw-bar? it is apparently loose; its hold on the engine seems to be no more than that of the touch of clasped hands in a gipsy dance. yet it never lets go, and the drag of it is always there. by and by, when the coal is all burned, and the fire is out, and the water is drained from the tank, those gentle little multiplied jerks will pull the big engine down--kill it--make it a mere mass of inert metal blocking the way of progress." "well?" said the attorney. "it's an allegory. i'm beginning to feel the draw-bar pull. sooner or later, north and his clique will drag me down. i can't fight as the under dog--i never learned how; and they've fixed it so that i can't fight any other way." kenneth had lighted his cigar and was lying back against the cushion of the car-seat. after a little, he said: "just after we saw the italian killed last week i told you i had a notion, ford. i've got it yet, and i've been turning it over in my mind and wondering if i'd better explode it on you. on the whole, i think i'd better not. it's a case of surgery. if the patient lives, you'll know about it. if the patient dies, you'll be no worse off than you are now. shall we let it rest at that?" ford acquiesced. he was too utterly disheartened to be curious. but if he could have foreseen the results of kenneth's notion it is conceivable that he would have been aroused to some effort of protest, as even in deep waters one prays sometimes to be delivered from his friends. it was a week after this farewell supper in the caboose hotel at saint's rest when ford went down to denver to borrow, on his p. s-w. stock, the ten thousand dollars to be deposited to the credit of the bank of copah. following him, and only one train behind, came frisbie, new from a confirmatory survey of the extension beyond the copah district. on his return from the green butte end of the proposed line, the little man with the diabolical fashion of beard trimming had spent a week in and around copah, picking up yard rights-of-way, surveying approaches, and setting grade stakes for the outlying macmorrogh gangs. during that week he had made a discovery, and since he believed it to be all his own, he journeyed eastward to share it quickly with his chief. ford was dining alone at the brown palace when frisbie, coming straight from the plug mountain train, found him. there was an entire western desert to be talked over during the courses, and frisbie held his discovery in reserve until they had gone to smoke in a quiet corner of the great rotunda. even then he approached it indirectly. "in taking up the line down the pannikin we have followed the old s. l & w. survey pretty closely all the way from start to finish. what were your reasons, stuart?" he asked. "there didn't seem to be any good reason for not following it. brandreth made the s. l & w. preliminary, and there isn't a better locating engineer in this country." "i know," said frisbie. "but the best of us make mistakes, now and then. brandreth made a pretty sizable one, i think." "how is that?" "you know where the big rock-cutting is to be made in the lower canyon, about ten miles this side of the point where we begin to swing south for the run to copah--a mile and a half of heavy work that will cost away up into the pictures?" "yes; i've estimated that rock work at not a cent less than two hundred thousand dollars." "you're shy, rather than over, at that. and two hundred thousand would build a number of miles of ordinary railroad, wouldn't it? but that isn't all. the cliffs along that canyon are shale-topped and shale-undermined, the shale alternating with loose rock about fifty feet above our line of grade in quarter-mile stretches all along. that means incessant track-walking day and night through the mile and a half of cutting, and afterward--for all time afterward--a construction train kept handy under steam to clear away débris that will never quit sliding down on the embankment." "i'm afraid you are right," said ford. "it's the worst bit on the entire extension; the most costly to build, as it will be the most expensive to maintain. but i guess brandreth knew what he was about when he surveyed it." "brandreth is a short-line man. he wouldn't lengthen his line ten miles to dodge an earthquake. ford, we can save a hundred thousand dollars on that piece of track in first cost--to say nothing of the future." "how? i'm always open to conviction." "by leaving the s. l & w. survey at horse creek, following up to the low divide at emory's mine, and crossing to enter copah from the southeast instead of from the northeast. i came out that way from copah five days ago. it's perfectly feasible; straight-away, easy earth work for the greater part, and the only objection is that it adds about twelve running miles to the length of the extension. it's for you to say whether or not the added distance will be warranted by the lessened cost and the assurance of safety in operating. if we cut through that lower canyon cliff it will be only a question of time until we bury somebody, no matter how closely it is watched." ford took time to consider the proposal. there were objections, and he named one of them. "the macmorroghs have based their bid on the present survey: they will not want to let that piece of rock work drop out of sight." "they'll have to, if you say so. and you can afford to be pretty liberal with them on the substituted twelve miles." "i'll have to think about it over night," was ford's final answer. "arrange to give me an hour to-morrow morning and we'll go over the maps and your notes together." frisbie slept soundly on the gained inch, hoping to make it the coveted ell in the morning. he knew the chief objection, which was that ford, too, was a "short-line" engineer; a man who would lay down his railroad as the czar of russia did the st. petersburg-moscow line--by placing a ruler on the map and drawing a straight mark beside it between the two cities--if that were an american possibility. but he knew, too, that the safety clause would weigh heavily with ford, and there was no minimizing the danger to future traffic if the canyon route should be retained. it turned out finally as the first assistant had hoped and believed it would. ford spent a thoughtful hour at his office in the guaranty building before frisbie came down--the little man being trail-weary enough to sleep late in the comfortable room at the brown palace. the slight change of route was hardly a matter to be carried up to the executive committee, and ford's decision turned upon quite another pivot--the addition of twelve miles of distance. as against this, safety and economy won the day; and when frisbie came in the talk was merely of ways and means. "fix up the change with the macmorroghs the best way you can," was ford's concluding instruction to his lieutenant. "they will kick, of course; merely to be kicking at anything i suggest. but you can bring them to terms, i guess." "by my lonesome?" said frisbie. "aren't you going over to see the new route with your own eyes?" "no. i'm perfectly willing to trust your judgment, dick. besides, i've got other fish to fry. i'm going east to-night to have one more tussle with the steel mills. we must have quicker deliveries and more of them. when i get back, we'll organize the track-layers and begin to make us a railroad." "good," said frisbie, gathering up his maps and sketches of the detour country; and so, in the wording of a brief sentence or two it came to pass that ford delivered himself bound and unarmed into the hands of his enemies. a little light was thrown upon this dark passage that night in the office of the general manager, after ford's train had gone eastward, and frisbie was on his way back to the macmorrogh headquarters on the lower pannikin. north was waiting when eckstein came in, flushed as from a rapid walk. "it's all settled?" asked the general manager, with a slow lift of the eyebrow to betray his anxiety. "to the queen's taste, i should say," was the secretary's not too deferential reply. "ford's out of the way, to be gone ten days or a fortnight, and frisbie has gone back to dicker with macmorrogh, and to survey the new route up horse creek. ford doesn't know; i doubt if he will ever know until we spring the trap on him. the one thing i was most afraid of was that he would insist upon going over the new line himself. then, of course, he would have found out--he couldn't help finding out." the general manager squared his huge shoulders against the back of the chair. "you think he would call it off if he knew?" he queried. "you give him credit for too much virtue, eckstein. but i think we have him now. by the time he returns it will be too late for him to hedge. macmorrogh will see to that." eckstein nodded. "i made a point of that with brian," he said. "the minute the word is given he is to throw a little army of graders upon the new roundabout. but ford won't find out. he'll be too busy on this end of the line with the track-layers. i'm a little nervous about merriam, though." "he's the man who talked frisbie into championing the new route?" "yes. he did it pretty skilfully: made frisbie think he was finding it out himself, and never let the little man out of his sight while they were in copah. but i am afraid merriam himself knows too much." "get him out of the country--before ford gets back," was the crisp order. "if he isn't here when the gun goes off, he can't tell anybody how it was loaded." "an appointment--" eckstein began. "that is what i mean," said the general manager, turning back to his desk. "we need a traffic agency up in the oregon country. see merriam--to-night. find out if he'd like to have the general agency at, say, twenty-five hundred a year; and if he agrees, get out the circular appointing him." "he'll agree, fast enough," laughed the secretary. "but i'll nail him--to-night." ford spent rather more than two weeks in his round-up of the eastern steel mills, and there was a terrific accumulation of correspondence awaiting him when he reached denver. at the top of the pile was an official circular appointing one george z. merriam, a man whom ford remembered, or seemed vaguely to remember, as one of the macmorrogh bookkeepers, general agent of the p. s-w., with headquarters at portland, oregon. and at the bottom of the accumulation was a second official printing, bearing the approval of the president, this; and ford's eyes gloomed angrily when he read it. pacific southwestern railway co. office of the president. new york, august . to all officials and employees: at a called meeting of the stock-holders of this company, held in new york, august , mr. john c. north was elected first vice-president and general manager of all lines of this company, operative and under construction. all officers and employees will govern themselves accordingly. by order of the executive committee. approved: sidney j. colbrith, president. xv an unwilling host standing in the pacific portal of plug pass, on the old snow-crust which, even in midsummer, never entirely disappears at altitude ten thousand feet, they could look away westward over a billowing sea of mountain and mesa and valley breaking in far-distant, crystalline space against the mighty rampart of the wasatch range, two hundred and other miles nearer the sunset. it was an outlook both inspiring and chastening; with the scenic grandeurs to give the exalted uplift, and the still, gray-green face of the vast mountainous desert to shrink the beholder to microscopic littleness in the face of its stupendous heights and depths, its immeasurable bulks and interspaces. miss alicia said something like this to ford, in broken exclamations, when she had taken her first quailing eye-plunge from the lofty view-point. "yes; quite so," ford acquiesced, in the unresponsive tone of one who says what he must, rather than what he would like to say. "it is all the things you have been saying, and more--when one has the time and the mind to be enthusiastic about it." miss adair stood up very straight, and her chin was a protest in praxitelean harmonies. she knew very well how reluctantly her companion was doing the honors of the mountain vastnesses; how full of wrath he was because president colbrith had seen fit to precipitate the nadia and a private-car party into the midst of the strenuous building battle on the western extension. but she argued that this was no reason why he should be crustily impossible with her. wherefore she said, merely to see him boil over: "i should think you would come up here often for this glorious view, mr. ford. you do, don't you?" "come up here for the view? oh, yes; i presume i have climbed up here a hundred times, first and last, and always for the sake of the view. i began it the first winter i spent in saint's rest, when the snow-shoeing was at its best. really to appreciate the scenery, you should take three hours for the approach from the basin down yonder, dragging a pair of canadian raquettes by the toe-straps." the young woman laughed inwardly at the broadsword slash of his sarcasm. it was so like the man; big and vigorous and energetic, and quite without regard for consequences or for the insignificance of the thing to be obliterated. but she would not spare him. "how enthusiastic you are!" she commented. "i don't believe i should be equal to 'a hundred times, first and last,' or to the snow-shoes. but i can admire such zeal in other people immensely." "do you really think so small of a man's work in the world, miss adair?" he demanded, not very coherently. "i'm not saying that the scenery doesn't move me. it does; and the first time i stood here on this summit, i presume i felt just as you do now. but my comings and goings have been chiefly concerned with this"--kicking the rail of the new track which threaded the shallow valley of the pass. "i am trying to build a railroad; to build it quickly, and as well as i can. when i get it finished, i may have time to admire the scenery." it was a little appeal for sympathy, apparent enough in spite of its indirectness; but miss adair was still mindful of ford's too evident willingness to leave her behind at the deserted grading-camp half-way down to saint's rest where the nadia was temporarily side-tracked. "another ideal gone," she lamented, in mock despair. "all those trampings and toilings up this magnificent mountain merely to prepare for the laying of some logs of wood in a row, with two strands of iron to fasten them together!" he smiled at her definition of his railroad, and the keen edge of his annoyance was a little blunted. he had been telling himself that she might be twenty-four, or possibly twenty-five; but evidently she was only a child, with a child's appreciation of a very considerable industrial triumph. old engineers, one of them an assistant on his own staff, had shaken their heads and declared that the running of a standard gauge railroad over plug pass was a sheer impossibility. yet he had done it. "i suspect i owe you an apology," he said, yielding a little to the love which was fighting with discouragement and righteous anger for the first place in his heart. "i'm afraid i have been taking you too seriously, all along." her laugh was a delicious little ripple of exultation. she had succeeded in avenging herself. "i can forgive you now," she said, and the blue eyes were dancing. "but you must admit that you were the aggressor. i have _never_ been made so pointedly unwelcome in all my life. i believe you were going to refuse to let me walk up here with you if uncle sidney had not commanded you to." this time his smile was a grin, but it was not ill-natured. "i should, indeed," he confessed quite frankly. "to be brutally candid, i had a decided attack of the 'unwelcomes' when i received mr. colbrith's wire announcing his intention of bringing his picnic party out here into the midst of things. we have little time, and none of the civilized conveniences, for entertaining company." "i think we all understand that," she made haste to say. "aunt hetty tried to dissuade uncle sidney, but he was bent on showing us how modern railroad building is rushed at the 'front'--is that the right word?--and so here we are." a small frown gathered between ford's eyes. he was far enough from suspecting that this was the outworking of kenneth's "notion"; that mr. colbrith's annual inspection tour over the pacific southwestern had been extended to cover the new line at kenneth's suggestion--a suggestion arising out of purely reformatory motives. nor would it have helped matters much if he had known kenneth's genuine distress when it transpired that the suggestion bade fair to result in precipitating a private car-load of pleasurers into the pandemonium of the grading-camps. but the pleasurers were as yet only upon the borders of the pandemonium, and ford was torturing his ingenuity to devise some argument strong enough to turn back the threatened invasion. there were reasons enough why a party with women among its members should not be projected into the grading and track-laying field. it was no place for women, ford was telling himself wrathfully; especially for the women of the president's own household. in the little interval of silence miss adair was focusing her field-glass and trying to trace the line of the descending grade into the headwater valley of the pannikin. ford did not mean to be ungracious to her--what lover ever means to be curt to the one woman in all the world? but it is not easy to be angry in nine parts and loving-kind in the tenth--anger being one of the inclusive emotions. nevertheless, he made the effort, for her sake. however inconsiderate mr. colbrith was, she was blameless. "let me show you," he said, taking the field-glass and adjusting it for her. "now hold it steadily and pick up the line in the great loop.... have you found it?... now follow it slowly until you come to the point where it turns into the valley, and you can trace it for miles by the cuts and fills." she followed his directions until the line of the extension became a vanishing thread in the distance, and then was content to let the glass sweep the vastnesses beyond. when she spoke it was of the topographic immensities. "i heard you telling brother at the dinner-table in chicago that you were able to see more in this wilderness than you have ever been able to make any one else see. can i see it with the glass?" "hardly," he smiled. "i was trying to tell your brother of the magnificent possibilities of the country lying between this and that farthest mountain range; the country we are going to open up. it was a gospel i had been trying to preach to the directors, but none of them believed--not even your uncle." "i see nothing but vastness and cold gray grandeurs," she said, adding: "and the very bigness of it makes me feel like a mere atom, or a molecule--whichever is the smaller." "yet it is a new empire in the rough," he rejoined, with a touch of the old enthusiasm, "waiting only for the coming of this"--putting his foot again upon the steel of the new railroad line. "what you are looking at has been called a part of the great american desert--the most forbidding part, in the stories of the early explorers. notwithstanding, there will come a time when you can focus your glass here on this mountain and look out over what the promoters will then be advertising as a 'peopled paradise,' and these 'logs of wood in a row, with two strands of iron to fasten them together' will bring it to pass." there was a flash of the enthusiast's fire in the cool gray eyes to go with the words, and miss adair wondered at it. he had stood for her as an embodiment of things practical and prosaic; as one too keenly watchful and alert on the purely industrial side to be in any sense a dreamer of dreams. some part of her thought slipped into speech. "no, i am not an enthusiast," he denied, in reply to her charge. "at bottom, i'm only an engineer, with an ambition to build railroads. but i should have learned no more than half of my trade if i couldn't tell where it would be profitable to build them." "never mind: you seem to have convinced uncle sidney and the directors finally," she commented. "no; your uncle and the directors are not empire builders--meaning to be," he objected. "they are after the present visible dollar in a western outlet for the pacific southwestern. if we reach green butte before our competitors can broaden their narrow gauge to that point, we shall have a practicable line from chicago to the pacific coast." "i understand," she said. "but yours is the higher ideal--the true american ideal." "it's business," he asserted. "well, isn't business the very heart and soul of the american ideal?" she laughed. this time he laughed with her, forgetting his troubles for the moment. "i guess it is, in the last analysis," he said. and then: "i'm sorry to keep you waiting so long, if you are anxious to get back to the nadia. but i warned you beforehand. i must keep my appointment with frisbie. do you see anything of him?" this because she was again sweeping the western wilderness with the field-glass. "what am i to look for?" "the smoke of an engine." she focused the glass on the gorge at the foot of the pass. "i see it!" she cried. "a little black beetle of a thing just barely crawling. now it is turning into the first curve of the great loop." "then we shan't have very much longer to wait. do you find the ten-thousand-foot breeze chilly? turn up the collar of your coat and we'll walk a bit." it was his first appreciable concern for her comfort, and she gave him full credit. coquetry was no part of miss alicia's equipment, but no woman likes to be utterly neglected on the care-taking side, or to be transformed ruthlessly into a man-companion whose well-being may be brusquely ignored. and this young athlete in brown duck shooting-coat and service leggings, who was patiently doing a sentry-go beside her up and down the newly-laid track at the summit of plug pass, was quite a different person from the abashed apologist who had paid for her dinner in the dining-car on the night of purse-snatchings. xvi the truthful altitudes a low, tremulous shudder was beginning to lift itself, like the distant growling of thunder, upon the tinnient air of the high summit. a moment later a heavy construction engine shot around the final curve in the westward climb, with michael gallagher hanging out of the cab window on the engineer's side. the two at the summit faced about to watch the approach. the big engine came lumbering and lurching dangerously over the unsurfaced track in a fierce spurt for the mountain-top, its stack vomiting fire, its cylinder-cocks hissing shrilly, and its exhaust ripping the spheral silences like the barking detonations of a machine-gun. ford glanced aside at his companion; her expressive face was a study in delighted animation and he decided that he had again misjudged the president's niece. she was beating time softly with her gloved hands and singing the song of the locomotive: "'with a michnai--ghignai--shtingal! yah! yah! yah! ein--zwei--drei--mutter! yah! yah! yah! she climb upon der shteeple, und she frighten all der people, singin' michnai--ghignai--shtingal! yah! yah!'" she quoted; and ford's heart went out to her in new and comradely outreachings. "you read _naught-naught-seven_?" he said: "you are one woman in a thousand." "_merci!_" she countered. "small favors thankfully received. brother thinks there is only one person writing, nowadays, and the name of that person is kipling. i get a little of it by mere attrition." the brakes of the big engine were still gripping the wheels when a small man with wicked mustaches and goatee dropped from the gangway. his khaki suit was weather-faded to a dirty green, and he was grimy and perspiring and altogether unpresentable; but he pulled himself together and tried to look pleasant when he saw that his chief had a companion, and that the companion was a lady. "i'm sorry if i have kept you waiting," he began. "gallagher was shifting steel for the track-layers when your wire found me, and the engine couldn't be spared,"--this, of course, to ford. then, with an apologetic side glance for the lady: "riley's in hot water again--up to his chin." "what's the matter now?" gritted ford; and alicia marked the instant change to masterful command. "same old score. the italians are kicking again at the macmorrogh brothers' commissary--because they have to pay two prices and get chuck that a self-respecting dog wouldn't eat; and, besides, they say they are quarrying rock--which is true--and getting paid by the macmorroghs for moving earth. they struck at noon to-day." the chief frowned gloomily, and the president's niece felt intuitively that her presence was a bar to free speech. "it's straight enough about the rotten commissary and the graft on the pay-rolls," said ford wrathfully. "is the trouble likely to spread to the camps farther down?" "i hope not; i don't think it will--without whisky to help it along," said frisbie, with another apologetic side glance for miss adair. "yes; but the whisky isn't lacking--there's pete garcia and his stock of battle, murder and sudden death at paint rock, a short half-mile from riley's," ford broke in. frisbie's smile, helped out by the grime and the coal dust, was triumphantly demoniacal. "not now there isn't," he amended; adding: "any fire-water at paint rock, i mean. when riley told me what was doing, i made a bee line for garcia's wickiup and notified him officially that he'd have to go out of business for the present." "oh, you did?" said ford. "of course he was quite willing to oblige you? how much time did he give you to get out of pistol range?" [illustration: "miss adair, you must let me introduce my friend, mr. richard frisbie"] frisbie actually blushed--in deference to the lady. "why--er--it was the other way round. he double-quicked a little side-trip down the gulch while i knocked in the heads of his whisky barrels and wrecked his bar with a striking hammer i had brought along." for the first time in the interview the chief's frown melted and he laughed approvingly. "miss adair, you must let me introduce my friend and first assistant, mr. richard frisbie. he is vastly more picturesque than anything else we have to show you at this end of the pacific southwestern. dick--miss alicia adair, president colbrith's niece." frisbie took off his hat, and miss alicia gave him her most gracious smile. "please go on," she said. "i'm immensely interested. what became of mr. garcia afterward?" "i don't know that," said frisbie ingenuously. "only, i guess i shall find out when i go back. he is likely to be a little irritated, i'm afraid. but there are compensations, even in pete: like most mexicans, he can neither tell the truth nor shoot straight." then again to ford: "what is to be done about the riley mix-up?" "oh, the same old thing. go down and tell the italians that the company will stand between them and the macmorroghs, and they shall have justice--provided always that every man of them is back on the job again to-morrow morning. who is riley's interpreter now?" "lanciotto." "well, look out for him: he is getting a side-cut from the macmorroghs and is likely to translate you crooked, if it suits his purposes. check him by having our man luigi present when he does the talking act. any word from major benson?" "he was at the tie-camp on ute creek, yesterday. jack benson and brissac are lining the grade for the steel on m'grath's section, and the bridge men are well up to the last crossing of horse creek." "that's encouraging. how about the grade work on the detour--your new line into copah?" it was the assistant's turn to frown, but the brow-wrinkling was of puzzlement. "there's something a bit curious about that--you don't mind our talking shop like a pair of floor-walkers, do you, miss adair? you know we expected the macmorroghs would kick on the change of route and the loss of the big rock-cut in the canyon. there wasn't a word of protest. if i hadn't known better, i should have said that old brian macmorrogh knew all about it in advance. all he said was: 'sure, 'tis your railroad, and we'll be buildin' it anywheres you say, misther frisbie.' and the very next day he had a little army of men on that detour, throwing dirt to beat the band. it'll be ready for the steel by the time we can get to it with the track-layers." ford nodded approvingly. "speed is what we are paying for, and we're thankful to get it whenever, and wherever, we can. is the bridge timber coming down all right now?" "yes; and we are getting plenty of ties since the major put on his war-paint and went after the macmorrogh subs in the tie-camps. it is the rock work that is holding us back." ford nodded again. then he tried a little shot in the dark. "the president's car is just below--at the basin switch. he wants to have it taken to the front, and i have been trying to dissuade him. is the track safe for it?" frisbie guessed what kind of answer was desired, and stretched the truth a little. "i should say not. it's something fierce, even for the construction trains." miss alicia's smile was seraphic. "you two gentlemen needn't tell fibs for the possible effect on me," she said, with charming frankness. "nothing i could say would carry any weight with uncle sidney." "stung!" said frisbie, half to himself; and the two men laughed shamefacedly. "will it disarrange things so very much if the nadia is taken to the 'front'?" asked miss adair. "well, rather," said frisbie bluntly. then he tried to excuse himself and made a mess of it. "just why?" she persisted. "forget the conventions, mr. frisbie, and talk to me as you have been talking to mr. ford. is there any good reason, apart from the inconvenience, why our little pleasure party shouldn't see your new railroad? i am appealing to you because mr. ford won't tell me the truth." ford stood aloof and let frisbie worry with it alone. "there are a dozen reasons, miss adair; the track is fearfully rough--really, you know, it isn't safe for a big car like the nadia. there are only a few sidings, and what there are, are filled up with construction stuff and camp cars, and--" she was shaking her head and laughing at his strivings. "never mind," she said; "you can't tell the truth, either, with mr. ford looking on. but i shall find it out." frisbie looked horrified. "you--you certainly will, miss adair; if mr. colbrith insists upon having his car dragged over the range." then, being quite willing to make his escape, he turned to his chief. "is there anything else? if not, i'll be getting back to the riley mix-up before the trouble has time to grow any bigger." ford shook his head, and frisbie lifted his hat to miss adair and turned to climb to his engine cab. but at the moment of brake-releasings ford halted him. "one minute," he said; and turning to his charge: "i'll borrow dick's engine and take you down to the nadia's siding, if you'd rather ride than walk." "oh, will you? that would be fine! but oughtn't mr. frisbie to get back to his work?" "y-yes," ford admitted. "time is rather important, just now." "then we'll walk," she said with great decision. "that's all, dick," ford called. "keep an eye open for garcia. he might make a fluke and shoot straight, for once in a way." they stood in silence on the wind-swept summit until the curving down-rush of the western grade had swallowed the retreating engine. miss alicia was the first to speak when the iron clamor was distance-drowned. "i like your mr. frisbie," she said reflectively. "isn't he the kind of man who would have taken the message to the other garcia?" "he is the kind of man who would stop a bullet for his friend, and think nothing of it--if the bullet should happen to leave him anything to think with," he returned warmly. and then he added, half absently: "he saved my life four years ago last summer." there was genuine human interest in her voice when she said gently: "would you mind telling me about it?" "it was up in the minnesota pineries, where we were building a branch railroad through the corner of an indian reservation. a half-breed pot-hunter for the game companies had a right-of-way quarrel with the railroad people, and he pitched upon me as the proper person to kill. it was a knife rush in the moonlight; and dick might have shot him, only he was too tender-hearted. so he got between us." "well?" she prompted, when it became evident that ford thought he had finished. "that was all; except that it was touch and go with poor dick for the next six weeks, with no surgeon worthy of the name nearer than st. paul." miss alicia was more deeply impressed by the little story than she cared to have her companion suspect. her world was a world of the commonplace conventions, with new york as its starting point and homing place; and she thought she knew something of humankind. but it came to her suddenly that the men she knew best were not at all like these two. "shall we go back now?" she asked; and they were half-way down to the siding and the private car before she spoke again. it took some little time to compass sufficient humility to make amends, and even then the admission came to no more than four words. "i'm sorry, mr. ford." "what for?" he asked, knowing only that he was coming to love her more blindly with every added minute of their companionship. "for--for trying to be hateful." it was a humbler thing than any she had ever said to a man, but the raw sincerity of time and place and association was beginning to get into her blood. "if it comes to that, there were two of us," he rejoined, matching her frankness. "and, as you remarked a while back, i was certainly the aggressor. shall we call it a truce for the present?" "if you will be generous enough." "oh, i am generosity itself, under ordinary conditions; but just now i'll admit that i am fearfully and wonderfully inhospitable. i can't help wishing most fervently that something had happened to prevent your uncle's coming." "is it uncle who is in the way?--or the pleasure party?" "both." "we are negligible," she said, meaning the pleasurers. "no, you are not; and neither is your uncle sidney." "is he still formidable to you?" she laughed. "he is, indeed. but, worse than that, he is likely to prove a very considerable disturbing element if i can't keep him from plunging in upon us." she let half of the remaining distance to the end of the steep grade go underfoot before she said: "i like to help people, sometimes; but i don't like to do it in the dark." he would have explained instantly to a man for the sake of gaining an ally. but he could not bring himself to the point of telling her the story of graft and misrule in which the macmorroghs were the principals, and north--and her uncle, by implication--the backers. so he said: "it is rather a long story, and you would scarcely understand it. we have been having constant trouble with the macmorroghs, the contractors, and there is a bad state of affairs in the grading camps. it has come to a point where i shall have to fight the macmorroghs to some sort of a finish, and--well, to put it very baldly, i don't want to have to fight the macmorroghs and the president in the same round." "why should uncle sidney take the part of these men, if they are bad men, mr. ford?" "because he has always distrusted my judgment, and because he is loyal to mr. north, whom he has made my superior. mr. north tells him that i am to blame." "but it must be a very dreadful condition of things, if what mr. frisbie said is all true." "frisbie spoke of only one little incident. trouble like this we're having to-day is constantly arising. no money-making graft is too petty or too immoral for the macmorroghs to connive at. they rob and starve their laborers, and cheat the company with bad work. i've got to have a free hand in dealing with them, or--" he stopped abruptly, realizing that he was talking to her as he might have talked to a specialist in his own profession. hence he was not disappointed when she said: "you go too fast for me. but i think i understand now why our coming is inopportune. and it's comforting to know that the reason is a business reason." he put shame to the wall and blurted out suddenly: "it is only one of the reasons, miss adair. the--the camps are no fit place for a party with women. you--you'll have to be blind and deaf if your uncle persists in taking you with him." it was said, and he was glad of it, though he was wiping the perspiration from his face when the thing was done. she was silent until they were standing at the steps of the side-tracked private car. "thank you," she said simply. "of course, i'll do what i can to keep uncle sidney from going--and taking us. what shall you say to him?" "i am going to tell him that our track isn't safe for the nadia--which is true enough." "very well. i'll tell aunt hetty and mrs. van bruce--which may be more to the point. but don't be encouraged by that. i have reason to believe that uncle sidney will have his way in spite of any or all of us." xvii a night of alarms ford put miss alicia up the steps of the nadia and followed her into the vestibule, meaning to fight it out with mr. colbrith on the spot, and hoping he might have a private audience with the president for the doing of it. the hope was not denied. penfield, who was acting as private secretary to mr. colbrith, _en route_, appeared in the passageway to say that ford was wanted in the president's state-room. "well, mr. ford, what are we waiting for?" was the querulous demand which served as mr. colbrith's greeting when ford presented himself at the door of the private compartment. ford's reply lacked the deferential note. he had reached a point at which his job was not worth as much as it had been. "i have just brought miss adair back from the top of the pass, where we met mr. frisbie, my chief of construction. i wished to ask him if he thought the track was safe for your car, and he says, most emphatically, that it is not. i can not take the responsibility of sending the nadia to the end-of-track." the president's thin face was working irritably. "i haven't asked you to assume any responsibility, mr. ford. if the track is safe for your material trains, it is safe enough for my car. but i didn't send for you to argue the point. i desire to have the nadia taken to the front. be good enough to give the necessary orders." ford tried again. in addition to the precarious track there were few or no unoccupied sidings, especially near the front. moreover, there was no telegraph service which might suffice for the safe despatching of the special train. there might be entire sections over which the nadia would have to be flagged by a man on foot, and-- the president cut him off with almost childish impatience. "i don't know what your object is in putting so many stumbling-blocks in the way, mr. ford," he rasped. "a suspicious person might say that you have been doing something which you do not wish to have found out." ford was a fair-skinned man, and the blood burned hotly in his face. but, as once before under the president's nagging, he found his self-control rising with the provocation. "my work is open to inspection or investigation, now or at any time, and i think we need not discuss that point," he said, when he could force himself to say it calmly. "we were speaking of the advisability of taking the nadia and a pleasure party over a piece of raw construction line, and into an environment which, to put it mildly, could hardly be congenial to--to the ladies of the party. you know, or ought to know, the macmorroghs: their camps are not exactly models of propriety, mr. colbrith." this was merely waving a red flag at an already exasperated bull. the president got upon his feet, and his shrill falsetto cut the air like a knife. "mr. ford, when i wish to be told what is or is not proper for me to do, i'll ask you for an opinion, sir. but this is quite beside the mark. will you order this car out, or shall i?" ford looked at his watch imperturbably. now that the president was thoroughly angry, he could afford to be cool. "it is now five o'clock; and our end-of-track is fully one hundred and ten miles beyond the summit of the pass. do i understand that you wish to take the added risk of a night run, mr. colbrith? if so, i'll give the order and we'll pull out." "i desire to go _now_!" was the irascible reply. "is that sufficiently explicit?" "it is," said ford; and he left the presence to go forward to the cab of the waiting engine. "you are to take the car over the mountain, hector," he said briefly, to the beetle-browed giant in blue denim, when he had climbed to the foot-plate. "i'll pilot for you." "how far?" inquired the engineer. "something like a hundred and ten miles." "holy smoke! over a construction track--in the night?" "it's the president's order--none of mine. let's get a move." the big man got down from his box and made room for ford. "i'll be pilin' 'em in the ditch somewhere, as sure as my name's bill hector," he said. "but we'll go, all the same, if he says so. i've pulled mr. colbrith before. down with you, jimmy shovel, and set the switch for us." the fireman swung off and stood by the switch, and hector backed his one-car train from the siding. when he had picked up the fireman and was ready to assault the mountain, ford thrust a query in between. "hold on a minute; how is the water?" he asked. jimmy shovel climbed over the coal to see, and reported less than half a tankful. "that settles it," said the chief to hector. "you'll have to back down to saint's rest and fill up. you'll get no more this side of pannikin upper canyon. we haven't had time to build tanks yet." hector put his valve-motion in the reverse gear and began to drop the train down the grade on the air. a dozen wheel-turns brought a shrill shriek from the air-signal whistle. mr. colbrith evidently wished to know why his train was going in the wrong direction. hector applied the brakes and stopped in obedience to the signal. "do we send back?" he asked. "no," said ford sourly. "let him send forward." penfield was the bearer of the president's question. would it be necessary to discharge somebody in order to have his commands obeyed? ford answered the petulant demand as one bears with a spoiled child. they were returning to saint's rest for water. let the president be assured that his orders would be obeyed in due course. "he's a piker, the old man is," said the big engineer, once more giving the the needful inch of release to send it grinding down the hill. "i'd ruther pull freight thirty-six hours on end than run his car for a hundred miles." there was trouble getting at the water-tank in the saint's rest yard. leckhard, acting as division engineer, telegraph superintendent, material forwarder and yardmaster, found it difficult at limes to bring order out of chaos in the forwarding yard. it was a full hour before the jumble of material trains could be shunted and switched and juggled to permit the to drop down to the water tank; and four times during the hour penfield climbed dutifully over the coal to tell ford and the engineer what the president thought of them. "durn me! but you can take punishment like a man, mr. ford!" said hector, on the heels of the fourth sending, sinking rank distinctions in his admiration for a cool fighter. "these here polite cussin's-out are what i can't stand. reckon we'll get away from here before the old man throws a sure-enough fit?" "that's entirely with the yard crew," said ford, calmly making himself comfortable on the fireman's box. "we'll go when we can get water; and we'll get water when the tank track is cleared. that's all there is to it." whereupon he found his cigar case, passed it to hector, lighted up, and waited patiently for another second-hand wigging from the nadia. as it chanced the tank track was cleared a few minutes later; the was backed down and supplied, and ford instructed leckhard to do what he could with the single, poorly manned construction wire toward giving the president's special a clear track. "that won't be much," said the hard-worked base-of-supplies man. "we've got our own operator at ten mile, and brissac and frisbie have each a set of instruments which they cut in on the line with wherever they happen to be. i don't know where brissac is, but frisbie is down about riley's to-night, i think. after you pass him you'll have no help from the wires." "i'll have what i can get," asserted ford. "now tell me what we're likely to meet." leckhard laughed. "anything on top of earth, from brissac or jack benson or frisbie chasing somewhere on a light engine, to gallagher or folsom coming out with a string of empties. oh, you're not likely to find much dead track anywhere after you get over the mountain." ford swung up beside hector, who had been listening. "you see what we're in for, hector. start your headlight dynamo and let's go," he said; and five minutes farther on, just as penfield was about to make his fifth scramble over the coal in the tender, the took the upward road with a deafening whistle shriek as its farewell to saint's rest. it was pocket-dark by the time the switch-stand at the basin siding swung into the broad beam of the electric headlight. ford got down from the fireman's box and crossed over to the engineer's side to pilot hector. "how's your track from this on?" inquired the big engineman gruffly. "it is about as rough as it can be, and not ditch the steel trains. you'll have to hold her down or we'll have results." "what in the name o' thunder is the old man's notion of goin' to the front with a picnic party and makin' a night run of it, at that, d'ye reckon?" "the lord only knows. easy around this curve you're coming to; it isn't set up yet." the was a fast eight-wheeler from the main line, and though the grade was a rising four per cent, the big flyer was making light work of her one-car train. ford sat gloomily watching the track ahead as the great engine stormed around the curves and up the grades. the struggle against odds was beginning to tell on him. the building of this new line, the opening of the new country, was the real end for which all the planning and scheming in the financial field had been only the necessary preliminaries. for himself he had craved nothing but the privilege of building the extension; of rejoicing in his own handiwork and in the new triumph of progress and civilization which it would bring to pass. but little by little the fine fire of workmanlike enthusiasm was burning itself out against the iron barriers of petty spite and malice thrown up at every turn by north and the denver junta of obstructionists. he was at no loss to account for north's motive. it was no longer the contemptuous disregard of a general manager for one of his subordinates who had shown signs of outgrowing his job. it was a fight between rivals--equals--and ford knew that it must go on until one or the other should be driven to the wall. thus far, his antagonist had scored every point. the macmorroghs had been helped into the saddle and held there. mr. colbrith had been won over; the authority given ford by his appointment as assistant to the president had been annulled by making north the first vice-president with still higher authority. with a firm ally in the president, and a legion of others in the macmorroghs' camps, north could discredit the best engineering corps that ever took the field; and he was doing it--successfully, as ford had reason to know. more than once ford had been on the point of leaving his plow in the furrow while he should go to new york for one more battle with the directory--a battle which should definitely abolish north and mr. colbrith--or himself. again and again he had weighed the chances of winning such a battle. with brewster for a leader it might be done. the time for the annual stock-holders' meeting was approaching, and an election which should put the burly copper magnate into the presidency would be an unmixed blessing, not only for a struggling young chief of construction, but for the pacific southwestern stock-holders, who were sure to pay in the end for the present policy of rule or ruin. part of the time it seemed to ford that it was clearly his duty to make this fight against the grafters in the denver management. north deserved no consideration, and while mr. colbrith was honest enough, his blind prejudice and narrow mentality made him north's unwitting accessory. three months earlier ford would not have hesitated; but in the interval a woman had come between to obscure all the points of view. a fight to the death against the colbrith administration meant the antagonizing of the adairs--of alicia, at least. true, she had spoken lightly of her uncle's peculiarities; but ford made sure she would stand by him in the conflict, if only for kinship's sake. all this he was turning over in his mind for the hundredth time while the big hammered up the plug mountain grade under the guiding hand of the giant in blue denim. ford, glooming out upon the lighted stretch ahead, was once more finding the crucial question answerless. should he draw out of the losing battle with north and his fellow grafters, and thereby save his chance of winning alicia adair? or should he sacrifice his love upon the altar of ambition, abolish mr. colbrith and the crew of buccaneers his mistaken policy was sheltering, and win the industrial success and a quieted conscience? his decision was reached by the time hector was easing the throttle lever at the summit of plug pass. what must be done should be done quickly. "right here is where you begin to run on your nerves," he said to the big engineer, as the heavy engine and car lunged over the summit of the pass and began to gather gravity momentum on the downward rush. hector nodded, and twitched the handle of the air-brake cock at shorter intervals. ford glanced back at the following car framed in the red glow from the opened fire-box door. it was surging and bounding alarmingly over the uneven track, not without threatenings of derailment. ford was willing to give the president the full benefit of his unreasonable pertinacity; but there were others to be considered--and one above all the others. "easy, man; easy!" he cautioned. "if you leave the steel on this goat-track there won't be anybody left to tell the story. it's a thousand feet sheer in some places along here. suppose you let me take her to the bottom of the hill." the engineer stood aside with a good-tempered grin. he had seen the chief of construction walking the one young lady of the party to the top of plug pass and back, and it was not difficult to account for his anxiety. throughout the ten long miles of the mountain descent ford crouched on the driver's seat and put his mind into the business of getting down the slides and around the sagging curves without having a wreck. the 's brake equipment was modern, and the nadia's gear was in perfect order. now and then on a tangent the big engine would straighten herself for a race or a runaway, but always the steady hand on the air-cock brought her down just before the critical moment beyond which neither brakes nor the steadiest nerve could avail. thrice in the long downward rush ford checked the speed to a foot-pace. this was in the rock cuttings where the jagged faces of the cliffs thrust themselves out into the white cone of the headlight, scanting the narrow shelf of the right-of-way to a mere groove in the rock. he was afraid of the cuttings. one of the many tricks of the macmorroghs was to keep barely within the contract limits on clearance widths, and once the nadia, sagging mountainward on the roughly leveled track at the wrong moment, touched one of the out-hanging rocks in passing. hector heard the touch, and so did ford; but it was the engineman who made a grim jest upon it, saying: "if she does that more'n once or twice, there'll be a job for the car painters, don't you reckon, mr. ford? and for the carpenters." just below the doubling bend in the great loop they came in sight of the first of the macmorrogh camps. since the night was frosty a huge bonfire was burning beside the track; and when hector blew his whistle, some one flagged the train with a brand snatched from the fire. ford stopped because he dared not do otherwise. "well, what's wanted?" he snapped, when the train came to a stand, and the brand-swinger, backed by a dozen others, made as if he would climb to the cab of the . "some of us fellies want to go down to ten mile--the liquor's out," said the man, trying to get a fair sight of the strange engineman. "get off!" said ford; and hector made the order effective by shoving the intruder from the step. that was easy; but before the train had measured twice its length, a pistol barked thrice and the glass in the cab window on ford's side fell in splinters. "holy smoke!" said hector. "is them the kind of plug-uglies you've got over here, mr. ford?" ford nodded. his eyes were on the track again, and he was hoping fervently that the three shots had all been aimed at the engine. a mile farther on, penfield came sliding over the coal to say that the president wanted to know what the shooting was about. ford turned the over to hector. the track hazards of the mountain grade were safely passed. "did any of the shots hit the car?" he asked of penfield. "no." "well, if you have to say anything before the ladies it might be advisable to make a joke of it. signal torpedoes sound very much like pistol-shots, you know." penfield nodded. "but to mr. colbrith?" "to mr. colbrith you may say that a gang of drunken macmorrogh surfacers flagged us down, and when we wouldn't let them have the train, made a little gun play." "heavens!" said the clerk, whose curiosity stopped short at the farthest confines of any battle-field. "is that sort of thing likely to happen again, mr. ford?" "your guess is as good as anybody's," said ford curtly. "better get back to the car as quickly as you can, before mr. colbrith whistles us down to find out what has become of you." below the camp of the surfacers there were a few miles of better track, and hector made fair time until the train circled the mountain shoulder at the lower end of the great loop. beyond this the roughnesses began again, and there were more of the skimped rock cuttings. at ten mile, which was a relay station in the upper canyon for the halting of supplies and material for which there was no room at the ever-advancing "front," they stopped to try for track-clearings. as leckhard had foretold, the operator could give them little help. two hours earlier, a train of empties in two sections had left the end-of-track, coming eastward. whether it was hung up at one of the intervening side-tracks, or was still coming, the operator could not say; and there were no means of finding out. also, mr. frisbie, who had reached riley's camp late in the afternoon, had left there after supper and was somewhere on the line with his light engine--probably on his way to the front, the operator thought. hector removed his great weight from the telegraph counter and the woodwork creaked its relief. what he said was indicative of his frame of mind. "humph!" he growled. "if we don't get tangled up with mr. frisbie's light engine, it's us for a head-ender with the string of empties. isn't that about it, mr. ford?" "that's it, precisely." "which means that jimmy shovel trots ahead of us for a hundred mile 'r so, carryin' a lantern like a blame' dio-geenes huntin' for an honest man." "that is the size of it," said ford; but just then the sounder on the table began to click and the operator held up his hand for silence. "hold on a minute," he interrupted, "here's a piece of luck--it's mr. frisbie, cutting in with his field set from camp frierson. he is asking saint's rest about you." "break in and tell him we're here," said ford; and when it was done: "ask him about that string of empties." the reply was apparently another piece of luck. frisbie, going westward, had passed the first section of the freight train at siding number twelve. it was hung up with a broken draw-head on the engine, and was safe to stay there, frisbie thought, until somebody came along with a repair kit, which, it might be assumed, would not be before morning. at this point ford went around the counter and took the wire for a little personal talk with the first assistant. it ignored the stalled freight train, and ford's rapid clickings spelled out an order. frisbie was to drop everything else, and constitute himself the president's _avant-courrier_ to the end-of-track camp, which, at the moment, happened to be the macmorroghs' headquarters at the mouth of horse creek. all liquor-selling was to be stopped, the saloons closed, and the strictest order maintained during the president's stay--this if it should take the entire field force of the engineering department to bring it to pass. "don't," clicked frisbie, from the other end of the long wire. and then at the risk of giving it away to every operator on the line: "you're doing yourself up. let the president see for himself what he has let us in for." ford's reply was short and to the point. "the order stands. there are others besides the president to be considered. good night." "well, we go to this here siding number twelve, do we?" said hector, when they were clambering once more to the foot-plate of the . "safely, i think," said the chief, adding: "you can't run fast enough over this track to get into trouble anyway." that was the way it appealed to hector for the succeeding twenty miles. when the track was not too rough to forbid speed, the cuts were too numerous, and the big flyer had to be bitted and held down until some of hector's impatience began to get into the machinery. this shall account as it may for what happened. a mile or two below riley's, where the lights were all out and the turmoil of the day of strikes had apparently subsided, the canyon opened out into a winding valley, and when ford called across to hector: "there are no rock cuts on this section, and we are partly surfaced. you can let her out a little for a few miles," the engineer took the permission for all it was worth and sent the eight-wheeler flying down the newly-ballasted stretch. two long curves were rounded in safety, and the special was approaching a third, when to ford, track-watching even more anxiously than hector, a dull red spot appeared in the exact center of the white field of the electric. for a moment it puzzled him, but the explanation came with a vigorous shock an instant later. it was the oil-lamp headlight of the freight! hector was huge enough to be slow, if bigness were a bar to celerity. but no drill-master of the foot-plates could have brought the flying train to a stand with the loss of fewer seconds. happily, too, the 's electric headlight served as a danger signal seen from afar by the engineer of the freight. so it chanced that the two great engines merely put their noses together; and by the time penfield came scrambling over the coal with the inevitable query from the president, the jolting stop was a thing of the past, and the train was in motion again, following the freight, which was backing, at ford's order, to the nearest siding. "no more hurry for us to-night, hector," was the boss's dictum, when the obstructing string of empties was safely passed. "we take it slow and sure from this on, with your fireman to flag us around the curves and through the cuts. this was only the first section of the train that left horse creek at eight o'clock--the section that was broken down at siding twelve. we're due to pick up the second section anywhere between here and the end-of-track." "slow it is," said hector. "i'm no hog, if i do take a little swill now and then: i know when i've got enough." this was at ten-forty, while the night was still young. and for seven other hours the one-car special inched its way cautiously toward the goal, with ford scanning every mile of the hazardous way as it swung into the beam of the headlight arc, with hector's left hand stiffening on the brake-cock, and with a weary fireman dropping from his gangway at every curve approach to flag for safety. it was not until three o'clock in the morning that they met and passed the second section of empties, and the dawn of a new day was fully come when the shacks and storehouses of the macmorroghs' headquarters at the mouth of horse creek came in sight. ford got down from his seat on the fireman's side and stretched himself as one relaxing after a mighty strain. "that's the end of it for a little while, billy," he said, addressing the big engineer as a man and a brother. "crawl in on the first siding you come to, and go hunt you a bed. i don't think the president will be perniciously active to-day--after such a night as we've had." but in this, as in other instances when mr. colbrith's activities had figured as a factor, he reckoned without his host. xviii the morning after ford was awake for all day, and was colloguing with frisbie about the carrying out of the sumptuary order for the forcible camp-cleaning, when penfield came with the request that the chief report at once to the president in the nadia. "tell him i'll be there presently," was the answer; and when penfield went to do it, the interrupted colloquy was resumed. "you say the camp has already gone dry?" said ford incredulously. frisbie nodded. "everybody's on the water-wagon; here and at all the camps above and below--bars not only closed, but apparently wiped out of existence. i went for old brian last night as soon as i reached here. he looked at me reproachfully, and said: 'it's you to be always naggin' me about thim whisky dives that i'm forever thryin' to run out, and can't. go and thry it yourself, misther frisbie, an' i'll stand at your back till you're black in the face.' but when i went through the camp, everything was quiet and orderly, and jack batters' bar was not only closed--it was gone; vanished without leaving so much as a bad smell behind it." "and then?" said ford. "then i got out my horse and rode up the creek and through some of the camps on the copah detour. the star-eyed goddess of reform had evidently landed on that coast, too. donahue's hungarians were singing war-songs around their camp-fire, as usual, and contadini's tuscans were out in full force, guying the night-shift track-layers. but there was no bad blood, and no whisky to breed it. you're done up again, stuart." "i don't see that," said ford, who, besides being short on sleep, was rejoicing in the thought that alicia and the other women of the private-car party would not have to be blind and deaf. "don't you? you've been protesting to beat the band about the lawlessness and dissipation of the macmorrogh camps. accordingly, mr. colbrith comes over here to see for himself: and what will he see? decency on a monument smiling reproachfully at her unprincipled traducer. macmorrogh will rub it into you good and hard. can't you feel the sunday-school atmosphere right here in the headquarters this morning? look down yonder at the nadia--wouldn't that soothe you, now?" ford looked and the scowl which was coming to be a habit transformed itself into a cynical smile. a hundred or more of the macmorrogh laborers, hats off and standing at respectful attention, were clustered about the rear platform of the private car, and mr. colbrith was addressing them; giving them the presidential benediction, as frisbie put it irreverently. "don't you see how you are going to be hoisted with your own ammunition?" the little man went on spitefully. "what becomes of all your complaints of drunkenness and crime, when mr. colbrith can see with his own eyes what truly good people the macmorroghs are? and what conclusion will he arrive at? there's only one, and it's a long-armed one so far as your reputation is concerned: you are so desperately bent on having your own way that you haven't scrupled to tell lies about these angelic contractors." "let up, dick," said ford gruffly. "i've got about all i can carry till i catch up on sleep a little. but you're right: this is the place where the fireworks come in. i think i'll go and light the fuses while i'm keyed up to it." the crowd of laborers had dispersed by the time ford reached the nadia, and the president, benign from the reactionary effect of his own early-morning eloquence, was waiting for him. "ah; we did reach the front safely, after all, didn't we, mr. ford?" was mr. colbrith's mildly sarcastic greeting. and then: "come aboard, sir; we are waiting breakfast for you." ford would have declined promptly, if the invitation had been anything less than a command. he had met none of the members of the private-car party save miss alicia, and he did not want to meet them, having the true captain-of-industry's horror of mixing business with the social diversions. but with one example of the president's obstinacy fresh in mind, he yielded and climbed obediently to the railed platform. whatever happened, he should see alicia again, a privilege never to be too lightly esteemed, whatever it cost. the social ordeal was not so formidable. the private-car party was made up of the president and his sister-in-law, the president's family physician, doctor van bruce, the doctor's wife, his sister, a maiden lady of no uncertain age, and alicia. these, with penfield and ford, made the eight at table in the open compartment in the nadia; and ford, in the seating, was lucky enough to find his place between miss van bruce, who was hard of hearing, and miss alicia, who was not. luckily again, mr. colbrith omitted all talk of business, drawing his end of the table into a discussion of the effects of the dry altitudes in advanced stages of tuberculosis. "what a dreadful night you must have had, mr. ford," said alicia, when the tuberculotic subject was well launched at the other end of the table. "were you on the engine all the time?" "most of the time," he confessed. "but that was nothing. it wasn't my first night in the cab, as it won't be the last, by many, i hope." "why? do you like it?" "not particularly. but i hope to live a while longer; and while i live i shall doubtless have to ride with the enginemen now and then." "was it very bad--last night?" she asked. "i am afraid you know it was. could you sleep at all?" "oh, yes; i slept very well--after that terrible shaking up we had just before bedtime. what was happening then?" "nothing much. we were about to try the old experiment of passing two trains on a single track." "mercy!" she exclaimed. it was safely retrospective now, and ford could smile at her belated shock. "were the others alarmed?" he asked. "mrs. van bruce and aunt hetty were. but uncle sidney fairly coruscated. he said that an engineer who would make such a stop as that ought to be discharged." "hector was willing to quit," laughed ford. "he grumbled for a full hour afterward about the wrenching he had given the . you see he might have taken about six feet more for the stop, if he'd only known it." miss alicia said "mercy!" again. "were we as near as that to a collision?" she asked, in a hushed whisper. "we were, indeed. the freight was supposed to be on a siding--broken down. the crew tinkered things up some way, and the train proceeded. luckily, the freight engineer saw our electric headlight farther than we could see his oil lamp, and the track happened to be measurably straight." miss adair was silent for a little time, waiting for the lapsed tuberculotic discussion to revive. when it was once more in full swing, she asked quickly: "what is the programme for to-day? must we all stay in the car as you intimated yesterday?" ford glanced across the table to make sure that penfield was not eavesdropping. "it will not be necessary. your coming--or the president's--has reformed things wonderfully. frisbie says--but never mind what he says: the miracle has been wrought." he said it with such an evident air of dejection that she wondered. and with miss alicia adair the step from wonderment to investigation was always short. "you say it as if you were sorry," she said. "are you?" "oh, no; i'm glad--for your sake. but i wonder if you could understand if i say that it will make it a thousand times harder for me?" "i can understand when i'm told," she retorted. the table-for-eight was no place for confidences; and ford knew penfield's weakness for soaking up information. yet he took the risk. "you remember what i hinted at, yesterday," he said in low tones; "about the rough-house we have been having in the camps. it hasn't stopped short of murder. i objected to the macmorroghs before the contract was given to them; and since, i have fought the lawlessness as i could. now your uncle comes over here and doesn't find any lawlessness. what is the inference?" "that you have been--" she took him up quickly, and there was swift indignation in the blue eyes. "--lying to gain a personal end," he finished for her. penfield had been apparently listening avidly to the president's praise of the dry altitudes as a sure cure for consumption, but now he had his face in his plate. ford devoted himself for the moment to the deaf miss van bruce, and when he turned back to alicia he was telegraphing with his eyes for discretion. she understood, and the low-toned tête-à-tête was not resumed. later, when they had a moment together in the dispersion from the breakfast-table, he tried to apologize for what he was pleased to call his "playing of the baby act." but she reassured him in a low-spoken word. "brother told me--i know more than you give me credit for, mr. ford. mr. north doesn't like you--he would be glad if you would resign. _you must not resign!_" the others, personally-conducted by mr. colbrith, were crowding to the rear platform for an after-breakfast view of the headquarters camp. ford and alicia followed, but without haste. "you have chanced upon the word, miss adair," ford was saying. "i decided last night that i should resign." "no," she objected. "yes; i must. sometime i may tell you why." "i say you must not. that was the last word in brother's letter; and he wished me to repeat it to you," she insisted. "where is your brother?" he asked. "he was in london when he wrote." "he has thrown up his hand." ford was pessimistic again. miss adair looked about her despairingly for some means of prolonging the whispered confidence. penfield, deferentially in the rear of the platform group, was never safely out of earshot. "i want to see the engine that so nearly plunged us into a collision last night," she said aloud; and penfield's visible ear betrayed the listening mind. ford took his cue promptly. "we can go out the other way," he said; and the secretary _pro tempore_ had no excuse for following. they found the cab of the deserted, with the steam in the huge boiler singing softly at the behest of the banked fire. miss adair lost her curiosity as soon as ford had lifted her to the foot-plate. "now you are to tell me all about it--quickly," she commanded. "uncle sidney will be calling for you as soon as he misses you. why are you so foolish as to talk about resigning? don't you see what they will say then?--that you were afraid?" ford was leaning against the centered reversing-lever, and his face was gloomy again. "possibly i am afraid," he suggested. "you should be more afraid of dishonor than of--of the other things. do you suppose mr. north will be content with your resignation now?" ford looked up quickly. here was a new revelation--an unsuspected facet of the precious gem. he could hardly believe that this steady-voiced, far-seeing young woman was the insouciant, school-girlish--though none the less lovable--young person with whom he had tramped to the wind-swept summit of plug pass in the golden heart of the yesterday. "you mean--?" he began. "i mean that you will be discredited; disgraced if possible. are you sure you haven't been doing anything over here that you wouldn't want uncle sidney to find out?" "not consciously, you may be sure," he asserted unhesitatingly. "think; think hard," she urged. "is there nothing at all?" he could not help smiling lovingly at her scarce-concealed anxiety--though it was merely the anxiety of a noble soul unwilling to stand by and see injustice done. "my methods never get very far underground," he averred. "not far enough for my own safety, frisbie says. if i had been keeping a diary, i think i should be quite willing to let mr. colbrith read it--or print it, if he cared to." "and yet there _is_ something," she asserted, and the straight brows went together in a little frown of perplexity. "you don't ask me how i know: i'm going to tell you, mr. ford--though it's rather shameful. three days ago, while we were in denver, mr. north came down to the car to see uncle sidney." "yes?" he encouraged. "they were closeted in uncle sidney's state-room for a long time," she went on. "i--i was walking with miss van bruce, up and down on the station platform beside the nadia, uncle sidney had told me not to go very far away because we were likely to start at any moment. the--the car windows were open--" her embarrassment was growing painfully apparent, and ford came to the rescue. "you were not even constructively to blame," he hastened to say. "they must surely have seen you passing and repassing, and if they wished for privacy they might have closed the windows." "i didn't hear much: only a word or two, now and then. they were talking about you and brother; and--" she stopped short and laid her hand on the throttle-lever of the big engine: "what did you say this was for?" she asked ingenuously. ford's up-glance of surprise was answered by a glimpse of penfield sauntering past on the other side of the track. she could not have seen, but she had doubtless heard his footsteps on the gravel. "it's the throttle," said ford, answering her question. and then: "please go on: he is out of hearing." "they were speaking of you and brother; and--and of _me_. i can't repeat a single sentence entire, but i know mr. north was accusing you in some way, and apparently implicating me. perhaps i listened in self-defense. do you think i did, mr. ford?" "you certainly had a good right to," said ford, who would have sworn in her behalf that the morally black was spotlessly white. "but how could you be implicated?" "that was what puzzled me then--and it is puzzling me still. they said--or rather mr. north said--that you--that you had _bought_ me!" ford did not say that he would like to buy, beg, borrow or steal any kind of right to call her his own, but if his lips did not form the words they were lying at the bottom of the steady gray eyes for her to take or leave as she chose. "i am sure you couldn't have heard that part of it quite straight," he said, almost regretfully. "but i did, because it was repeated. mr. north insisted that you had bought me; and i didn't like the way in which he said it, either. he called me 'the little alicia'." "what!" said ford; and then a flood of light burst in upon at least one of the dark places. "it's only a mine," he said sheepishly. "and i did buy it, or half of it." she was regarding him accusingly now. "did you--did you name it?" she asked, and there was the merest breath of frost in the air. he was glad to be able to tell the truth without flinching. "no; it is one of the earliest of the copah prospects, and i suppose the discoverer named it. i am willing to defend his choice, though. he couldn't have found a prettier name." she went back to the matter in hand with womanly swiftness. "but the mine: you had a right to buy it, didn't you?" "i should suppose so. i paid for it with my own money, anyway." "then why should mr. north use it as an argument against you in speaking to uncle sidney? he did that--i am sure he did that." "now the water has grown too deep for me," said ford. "why, north, himself, is interested in copah, openly. he owns half a dozen claims." "near yours?" she queried. ford stopped to consider. "to tell the truth, i don't know where mine is," he confessed. "i bought it as the school-boys trade pocket-knives--sight unseen. you wouldn't believe it of a grown man, would you?" "what made you buy it at all?" again he told the simple truth--and tried not to flinch. "you won't mind if i say that the name attracted me? i thought a mine, or anything, that bore your name, ought to be good and--and desirable. and it is a good mine; or it will be, by and by. some morning i shall wake up and find myself rich. at least that is what my partner, grigsby, assures me; and i believe him when i happen to remember it." she neither approved nor disapproved. when she spoke, it was of the present necessity. "we must go back to the others now," she said. "or at least i must. do you know what is to be done to-day?" ford spread his hands. "your uncle will set the pace. i wouldn't venture a guess, after last night." he was handing her down from the engine step and she went back in a word to the former contention. "you haven't promised me yet that you will not resign under fire--you are under fire, you know." "am i?" "brother thinks you are." once more he took the pessimistic view. "your brother isn't losing any sleep over the pacific southwestern situation. you said he was in england, didn't you?" "i said he was in london when he wrote." "london is a long way off: and what i do must be done to-day or to-morrow. mr. north will force the fighting, now that your uncle is on the ground, and your brother safely on the opposite side of the earth. and i can't afford to fight this time, miss alicia." "why can't you?" they were walking slowly back toward the nadia when he said: "because a victory would cost me more than i am willing to pay. there is no longer room in this service for mr. north and me. if we come to blows one of us will have to go." "i can understand that," she said quietly. "and to obliterate mr. north, i shall be obliged to efface--your uncle." she caught her breath. "mr. ford, you have intimated that mr. north isn't an honest man. do you ask me to believe that uncle sidney is his accomplice?" "he is not, knowingly. but he will stand or fall with the man he has made. i should have to ride him down before i could get at north." her lip curled and the straight-browed little frown came again. "there is no such thing as mercy in business, is there, mr. ford? my uncle is an old man and his presidency means more to him--" "i understand that perfectly," said ford soberly. "that is why i prefer to step down and out and let some other man have the glory of finishing the extension." she looked up quickly. "would you do that for uncle sidney? he hasn't been very lenient with you, has he?" ford ignored the query. "he is your uncle, miss alicia; and i'd do it for your sake or not at all." they had reached the steps of the private car, and frisbie was waiting with evident impatience for a word with ford. miss adair's eyes signaled emotion, and ford thought it was resentment. but her parting word was not resentful; it was merely a repetition. "go to mr. frisbie," she said from the car step; "he is waiting for you." and then: "remember; whatever happens, _you must not resign_--not even if uncle sidney asks you to." frisbie's information, given after miss adair had gone in, was rather mystifying. young benson, who was just in from the grade work beyond copah, brought word of a party of strange engineers running lines on the opposite side of the river from the rejected s. l & w. short-cut through the canyon of shale slides. questioned by benson, they had told what frisbie believed to be a fairy tale. the chief of the party claimed to be the newly-elected county surveyor from copah, running the lines for some mining property recently filed for entry. benson had not been over curious; but he was observant enough to note that the tale was a misfit in three important particulars. he saw no locating stakes, such as a prospector always sets up conspicuously to mark his claim; and there were no signs of the precious metal, and no holes to indicate an attempt to find it. "what's your guess, dick?" said ford tersely. the assistant shook his head. "i haven't any coming to me. but i don't like mysteries." "where was this party?" "about a mile and a half below here. it was going out toward copah when jack met it--its work, whatever it was, all done, apparently." it was one of frisbie's gifts to be suspicious; but ford was lacking on that side. "it's barely possible that the man was telling the truth, in spite of benson's failure to find any prospect holes," he remarked. "we'll let it go at that until we know something different. it couldn't be a transcontinental party, this far from home, and we haven't anybody else to fear." frisbie dropped the subject as one of the abstractions and took up the concrete. "what are the orders for to-day?" he asked. "i don't know. i'm waiting for mr. colbrith to say." "there are two buckboard teams here, in the macmorrogh stables--came over from copah last night. what are they for?" "i don't know. another of the president's little surprises, i suppose. we'll know when he sends for me." the expected summons came at that precise moment, transmitted by penfield. mr. colbrith would like to see mr. ford in his private state-room in the nadia. the secretary had a sheaf of telegrams in his hand, and wished to be directed to the wire office. frisbie took him in charge, and ford went to obey the summons. the president was sitting very erect in his swing chair when the young engineer let himself into the box-like compartment, and his voice was at its thinnest when he said: "be seated, mr. ford." ford sat down on the divan-couch, and the president plunged at once into business. "some time ago, you advised me, as chairman of the executive committee, that you had decided upon a change of route, mr. ford," he began raspingly. "what were your reasons for making the change?" "i stated them in my letter of advice," said ford; "economy in construction and greater safety in operating, as against a slight increase in the length of the line." "twelve miles, i believe you said: that is a very considerable increase, i should say. the great eastern companies are spending millions of dollars, mr. ford, to shorten their lines by half-mile cut-offs." ford had his reply ready. "the conditions are entirely different. it will be many years before a fast through service is either practicable or profitable over the extension; and when it comes to that, we shall still have the short line from denver to green butte by forty-two miles. but i explained all this at the time, mr. colbrith, and i understood that i had the executive committee's approval of the changed route." "qualifiedly, mr. ford; only qualifiedly. yet you have gone ahead in your usual impetuous way, abandoning the short line through the canyon and building the detour. your motive for haste must have been a very strong one--very strong." "it was. i am not here to kill time." "so it appears. but i am here, mr. ford, to consider carefully, and to investigate. we shall go first over this route you have abandoned. i wish to see for myself the difficulties you have so painstakingly described." ford shrugged. "i'm quite at your service, of course. but you will find it a hard trip. indeed, if we drive, we shall have to cross the river and take the other side. the canyon on this side is impassable in places for a man on foot." "i provided for that," said the president, letting his ferrety eyes rest for a moment upon the reluctant one. "you will find two buckboards with their drivers at the macmorrogh headquarters. be good enough to order them around, and we'll start at once. no; no protests, mr. ford. my responsibilities are not to be shirked. penfield will drive with me, and you may take mr. frisbie with you, if you see fit. i understand he is implicated with you in this matter." ford bridled angrily at the word. "there is no implication about it, mr. colbrith. you continually refer to it as if it were a crime." "ah! the word is yours, mr. ford. we shall see--we shall see. that is all, for the present." ford was raging when he found frisbie and gave the order for the vehicles. "he turned me out of his office state-room as if i had been a messenger boy or tramp! get those teams out, dick, and give me a chance to cool down. if my job is to last through this day--" frisbie laughed. "go and dip your head in the pannikin while you wait. or, better still, chew on this. it's a cipher message that durgin has just been sending for penfield to vice-president north. wouldn't that make you weep and howl?" ford was still puzzling over the meaningless code words when he took his seat in the second of the two buckboards with frisbie. the first assistant waited until the horses had splashed through the shallows of the river crossing; waited further until the president's vehicle had gained a little start. then he said: "is it possible that you had penfield for a spy on you as long as you did without working out his cipher code? good lord! i got that down before i did anything else--last spring when you left me to run the plug mountain. here's what he says to north"--taking the code message and translating: "ford suspects something. don't know how much. he and miss adair are putting their heads together. she has authority of some kind from her brother. president goes with ford to examine abandoned route, as arranged. will wire result later.'" "'as arranged,'" was ford's wrathful comment. "apparently, everything is arranged for us. some day, dick, i'll lose my temper, tie penfield in a hard knot and throw him into the river! it's like a chapter out of lucretia borgia!" xix the reluctant wheels it was possibly an hour after penfield's cipher message reached the southwestern pacific headquarters in the colorado capital, when a fair-haired young man in london-cut clothes, and with a tourist's quota of hand-luggage, crossed the denver union station platform from the pullman of a belated chicago train. ascertaining from a gateman that the plug mountain day train had long since gone on its way up the canyon, the young man left his many belongings at the check-stand and had himself driven up-town to the guaranty building. it was eckstein who took his card in mr. north's outer office. the private secretary was dictating to a stenographer, and was impatient of the interruption. but the name on the card wrought a miracle. "mr. north? why, surely, mr. adair. he is always at liberty for you. right through this way"--holding the gate in the counter railing at its widest--"we're mighty glad to see you in denver, always." adair had acquired the monocle habit on his latest run across the atlantic, and to keep in practice he gave the secretary the coldest of stares through the disconcerting glass. "really! i'm quite delighted. who is the other member of the 'we,' mr.--er--er--" "eckstein," prompted the secretary; but he said no more, being prudently anxious to be quit of the transfixing stare before a worse thing should befall. in the inner room the vice-president was less effusive, but no less cordial. it was a rare thing to see one of the company's directors in the denver business offices. mr. north was of the opinion that it would be a good investment of time and effort for all concerned if the members of the board used their privilege oftener. so on through half a dozen polite time-killers to the reluctant query: what could the general manager do for mr. adair? given leave to speak, adair stated his needs succinctly. he wanted a special train to saint's rest; he wanted it suddenly, and he asked that it be given the right of the road. "my dear sir!" protested the vice-president, "you mustn't ask impossibilities! you shall have the train at once, of course: you shall have my private car. but when it comes to the right of way, you'll have to appeal to mr. ford. why, he doesn't scruple to lay out the united states mails for his material trains!" "um," said adair. "where can i reach ford?" mr. north did not equivocate; he never lied when the truth would answer the purpose equally well. "he is out on the extension; or more correctly speaking, somewhere beyond the present end of the construction telegraph line. i'm afraid you couldn't reach him by wire." "and the president?" queried the visitor. "mr. colbrith's car is at the end-of-track. you wished to join the party in the nadia?" "that is what i had in mind," said adair, not too anxiously. mr. north shook his head. "i don't think you'd enjoy the run over the construction track. mr. colbrith went over it last night because--well, because he believes it to be a presidential duty to inspect everything. if you leave to-day, you will probably meet the nadia coming out--possibly at saint's rest." adair suddenly became wary. "perhaps that would be the easy thing to do," he said. "i suppose the engineers at saint's rest could put me up if i have to stay over night?" "you needn't ask them. you will have my car--with the best cook this side of louisiana. keep it, live in it, till mr. colbrith picks you up on his return." "all right. but you'll give me the special. and let it make as good time as it can, mr. north; i'm fierce when i have to ride a slow train." the vice-president's promise was freely given; and to expedite matters, the division superintendent's chief clerk went down to the station with adair to see the special train properly equipped and started on the mountain-climbing run. adair left the details to this orderly from the general offices; not knowing how to compass them himself, he had to. if he could have seen the broad grins on the faces of his train crew when dobson, the clerk, gave them the despatcher's order--but at that moment he was lounging in mr. north's easiest chair in the central compartment of the " ," reading for the twentieth time a crease-worn telegram. the telegram was from alicia, and it was dated at denver, three days gone. it was not very explicit; on the contrary, it was rather incoherent. "you would better come on as fast as you can if you want to save your friend's life. he has been tried and found guilty--of just what, i don't know--and will be hanged pretty soon--within a few days, i think." "now that's a nice way to stir a fellow up, isn't it?" soliloquized the pleasure-lover. "just as i was getting ready to go up to mount ptarmigan for the shooting. she knew that, too. i'll bet a picayune it's just a girl's scare. ford's plenty good and able to take care of himself." that was mr. charles edward adair's care-free phrasing of it; but three hours later, when the cook of the " " served him the most appetizing of luncheons in the big open compartment, and the steeply pitched walls of the lower blue canyon were still stinting the outlook from the car windows, he began to grow impatient. "whereabouts are we now, johnson?" he asked of the cook's second man. "between cutcliff and no-horse; yes, sah. 'bout forty mile from denver." "great scott! fifteen miles an hour? say, johnson, what do you do when you want 'em to run faster--pull this string?" "yes, sah; dat's it," grinned the negro. adair pulled the air-cord, and it brought results--of a kind. only the train came to a sudden stop, instead of going ahead faster; and conductor barclay, who had been riding on the engine, came back to see what had happened. "did you stop us, mr. adair?" he asked pleasantly. "not meaning to, you may be sure," said adair. "but now you're here, i'll ask if there is any objection to my getting off and walking. i could stop and rest and let you overtake me now and then, you know." the conductor tweaked the air-cord and the train moved on again. "i've been expecting you'd shout at us," he said good-naturedly. "but we're doing the best we can. there's a freight wreck on ahead, and we've been dallying along, hoping they'd get it picked up by the time we reach it. i thought you'd rather keep moving than to be hung up for three or four hours at the wreck." adair saw his helplessness and made the best of it. he was in mr. north's hands, and if mr. north was playing for delay, the delay would be forthcoming. none the less, he contrived to make barclay uncomfortable. "i'm only a director in the pacific southwestern, and i suppose directors don't count," he said nonchalantly. "yet, i presume, if i should ask it as a personal favor, i might get a conductor's or an engineer's head to take home with me for a souvenir. how would that be? do you think i could make it win?" "you could do it, hands down, mr. adair. but i hope you won't feel as if you'd got to go into the head-hunting business. it's like the boy throwing stones into the pond; it's fun for the kid, but sort o' hard on the toad-frogs." adair laughed. he was not one of those who find it easy to bear malice. "you don't talk half as bad as you act," he said genially. "down at bottom i dare say you're a pretty good kind of a fellow. had anything to eat?" barclay shook his head. "no; we was laying off to get coffee and sinkers at clapp's mine, if we ever get there." "'coffee and sinkers'," said adair. "that doesn't sound very uplifting. sit down here and help me out with my contract." barclay did it, rather unwillingly. he was not accustomed to eating at the vice-president's table, but there was no resisting the curly-headed young man when he chose to make himself companionable. barclay sat on the edge of his chair, ate with his knife or fork indifferently, and had small use for the extra spoons and cutlery. but he made a meal to be remembered. afterward, the young man found a cigar-case, and his own box of turkish cigarettes; and still the special was going at the same slow cow-gallop up the canyon. "how many are there of you up ahead?" asked adair, when barclay's cigar was going like a factory chimney. "only williams and his fireman." "dinner-buckets?" "no; neither one of 'em, as it happens. hurry call to go out with you, and both of 'em live too far to go home after the grub-cans." "johnson," said the dispenser of hospitality, calling the second man. "think you could climb over the coal with some dinner for the enginemen? no? let me make it possible"--flipping a dollar into the ready palm. "tell the cook it's an order, and if he stints it there'll be consequences." barclay grinned his appreciation. the curly-headed young man was far enough removed from any species of railway official hitherto known to the conductor. but adair was only paving the way. "do you know," he said, after a little interval of tobacco-charmed silence, "one of the things i am most anxious to see is a real railroad wreck. suppose you quicken up a little and let us have our dead time at the scene of this disaster you speak of." barclay was tilting uneasily in his chair. "i reckon they've about got it picked up and cleaned out o' the way by this time, mr. adair. i shouldn't be surprised if we could hardly find the place when we get there." "nor i," said adair; and he sat back and chuckled. "it's considerably difficult to sit up and pull your imagination on a man who has been decently good to you, isn't it, barclay? let me ask you: are you mr. north's man?" "mr. north is the big boss." "but this plug mountain division is a part of mr. ford's line, isn't it?" "it used to be all his. there's a white man for you, mr. adair." adair saw his opportunity and used it. "now see here, barclay; i'm only a director, and i don't cut much ice out this way. but back in new york i'm one of three or four people who can tell mr. north what he can do, and what he can't. you wouldn't want to see mr. ford getting it in the neck, would you?" "by jacks! there ain't a man in the service that wouldn't fight for him. i tell you, he's _white_." "well, mr. ford is in trouble: i don't know but he is likely to lose his job, if i don't see the president before the big ax comes down. that is between us two." the conductor sprang out of his chair. "by gravy! why didn't you say that at first? say, mr. adair, you stand between us and mr. north--tell him you gave the orders yourself--and you'll have the ride of your life from here to saint's rest!" "go it," said adair; and two minutes after barclay had let himself out of the forward door of the " ," the train took a sudden start and darted ahead at full speed. this bit of diplomacy on the part of adair saved two full hours in the run to saint's rest. nevertheless, it was after dark when the " " pulled into the crowded material yard in the high mountain basin and leckhard came aboard to find out what had brought this second private-car visitation. he was relieved not to meet north--to be confronted only by a pleasant-faced young man who seemed to have the car all to himself. "my name is leckhard," announced the man-of-all-work, "and i represent the engineering department. i saw it was mr. north's car, and--" "and you came to see what you could do for the vice-president and general manager," adair finished for him. "mighty sorry to disappoint you, mr. leckhard, but my name isn't north; it's adair, and i'm only a director. how much authority is a director allowed--at this altitude and distance from new york?" leckhard laughed. "i reckon you might call yourself the ranking officer in the field, mr. adair. what you say, goes." "then i say 'go'; which means that i'd like to go--on to the end of the extension." but now the engineer was shaking his head. "ask me anything but that, mr. adair. none of our enginemen is at this end of the line, and your man williams, who brought you up from denver, doesn't know the way. more than that, if we had a man and an engine, i'd be afraid to send you out for a night run. mr. ford made it last night with mr. colbrith's car, and they used up ten hours in covering less than a hundred and twenty miles, and came within six feet of killing everybody." adair had lighted a cigarette, and he did not reply until the match flare had gone out. then he said, in a way that made leckhard his friend for life: "i'm entirely in your hands, mr. leckhard; can't turn a wheel unless you say so. and i believe you're telling me the truth, as man to man. can you reach ford or mr. colbrith by wire?" "i'm sorry to say i can't. we have only the one wire, and it's on temporary poles most of the way. it broke down on us this morning, and i can't raise the end-of-track." "block number two," said adair cheerfully. "we seem to be out of luck this evening." then, with searching abruptness: "do you call yourself ford's friend, mr. leckhard?" "rather," said the saint's rest pooh bah. "he hired me; and when he goes, i go." "ah! now we are warming ourselves at the same fire. let me invite your confidence in one word, mr. leckhard. i dislike mr. north." the burly engineer laughed again. "you have a geniusful way of putting your finger on the sore spot without fumbling. we all dislike mr. north at this end of things--with reason." "and that reason is?" "that he'd fire the entire engineering department if he could find half an excuse. i'm afraid he's going to do it, too, in the most effectual way--by forcing mr. ford out. if ford goes, every man in the department will quit with him. i'm afraid it's coming to that." johnson, the porter, had lighted the pintsch globes and was laying the covers for dinner. "make it two, johnson," said adair; and, then to leckhard: "you dine with me--don't say no; i couldn't stand it alone." and when that point was settled: "now, sit down till we thresh, this out a bit finer. how far has this forcing business gone? you're talking to the man who has backed ford from the first." "it has gone pretty far. north has obstructed, quietly but persistently, ever since the first blow was struck on the extension. he has delayed material, when he could do it unofficially, he scants us for rolling stock and motive power, he stands in with the macmorroghs and backs them against ford every time there is a dispute. ford is a patient man, mr. adair, but i think he has about reached the limit." "h'm. do you attach any particular importance to the president's trip over the extension?" leckhard shook his head. "i'm only a passenger--i see what goes by the car-windows. mr. colbrith was dead set on pushing over to the end-of-track--wouldn't even wait for daylight. you probably know him better than i do--" "he is my uncle," adair cut in. "oh; then i can't tell you anything about him. he was hot at ford last night; what for i don't know, unless it was because ford opposed a night run over a raw construction track with the nadia. he was right about that, though. if i had been in his place i would have thrown up my job before i would have taken the risk." adair appeared to be considering something, and when he had thought it out, the porter had announced dinner and they had taken their places at the table. "i have told you i am ford's friend, mr. leckhard; i have ridden a couple of thousand miles out of my way to give him a lift. tell me frankly; have you any reason to believe it will come to blows between him and the president while they are together at the front?--try this celery; it's as good as you'd get at sherry's." leckhard helped himself to the relish, and waited until the negro, johnson, had gone back to the cook's galley. "the little i know comes in a roundabout way," he replied slowly. "penfield, who is known all over the southwestern as mr. north's private detective and spy, is with mr. colbrith acting as the president's secretary. yesterday, while the nadia was side-tracked here, penfield had a lot of telegraphing to do for mr. colbrith. he did it himself--he's a lightning operator, among other things--and i happened into the office just as he was finishing. his final message was a cipher, to mr. north, and he signed it with his own name." "well?" said adair. again the engineer waited until the negro was out of hearing. "a little later, just as the nadia was about to pull out, there came a rush call from denver for penfield. i answered and said the car was on the point of leaving, but that i'd take the message and try to catch penfield if i could. it came, on the run, and it was signed by eckstein, north's chief clerk. it wasn't ciphered--lack of time, i reckon--and eckstein took the chance that i wouldn't catch on." "you kept a copy?" suggested adair. "i did. i wasn't able to deliver the original until the nadia came back from the foot of the pass in the evening to fill the engine tank. but i couldn't make anything out of it. it was an order to penfield not to let anything interfere with the president's buckboard trip--whatever that might be--with authority to incur any expense that might be necessary, using the telegram as his credential with the macmorrogh brothers if more money were needed." "to pay for the buckboards?" asked adair. "you may search me," said leckhard. "only it could hardly be that--we have an open account at the bank of copah for legitimate expenses. no; there's a nigger in the woodpile, somewhere. penfield is only a clerk; but for some purpose he is given _carte blanche_ to spend money." adair was absently stirring his black coffee. "all of which points to one conclusion, mr. leckhard. they are plotting against ford--without the president's connivance. but the president is going to be made to swing the club. i know rather more than you do about it--which isn't saying very much. my--a relative of mine who is with the party in the nadia wired me three days ago from denver that ford had been tried and condemned, and was only waiting to be hanged. that's why i am here to-night. you've got to get me to the end-of-track before it comes to blows between mr. colbrith and stuart ford. i know both men, mr. leckhard. if the iron comes to a certain heat, the past master of all the peacemakers won't be able to patch things together." "ford will resign," said the engineer. "that is what i'm afraid of; and we can't let him resign. that would mean mr. north for everything in sight, and the ultimate ruin of the pacific southwestern. on the other hand, i can't have ford fighting the family--or my uncle--which is just what he will do if he gets his blood up--and doesn't quit in a huff. it's up to you to trundle this car over to the seat of war, mr. leckhard." the division engineer was thinking hard. "i can't see how it's to be done, right now, mr. adair. but i'll tell you what i will do. our empty material trains come back from the front in the night, as a rule. when they get in, and i can be sure that the track's clear, i'll double one of the construction engines out with you. it will be along toward morning, i'm afraid; but, with nothing in the way, you ought to make the run in four or five hours--say by late breakfast time." that was the way it was left when leckhard went back to his telegraph den at ten o'clock; and some six hours later, adair, sleepily conscious of disturbances, wakened sufficiently to hear the wheels once more trundling monotonously under the " ." xx the conspirators "how far do we go, and what do we do when we get there?" asked frisbie of his chief, when the two buckboards, heaving and lurching over the rock-strewn talus at the foot of the canyon cliff, had passed beyond sight and sound of the headquarters camp at the mouth of horse creek. "i'm not guessing any more," said ford crustily. he was finding that his temper deteriorated as the square of his distance from alicia adair increased. "the president said he wanted to drive over this short-cut, and he's doing it." "humph!" growled frisbie. "if he wanted to rub salt into your bruises, why didn't he take you in the cart with him? and where do _i_ come in?" "you are 'implicated' with me; that was his word." another mile passed in discomforting plungings. the trail had become all but impassable for the staggering horses; yet the leading buckboard held on doggedly. there were places where both drivers had to get out and lead; bad bits where all save the president descended to walk. but through the worst as well as the best, mr. colbrith clung to his seat like a man determined to ride. it was well past noon when the two vehicles reached the western portal of the canyon, and the dottings of the copah mine workings came in sight on the hillsides to the southward. ford's driver had fallen a little behind in the final half-mile, and when the gap was closed up, the president was waiting. "well, mr. ford," he began, somewhat breathless but triumphant, "are you fully satisfied?" "i have learned nothing that i did not know before we began to build the extension," was the non-committal rejoinder. "oh, you haven't? you reported that canyon impracticable for a railroad, and yet i have just driven through it without once dismounting from this buckboard. moreover, we shall find in copah to-morrow a re-survey of the line showing its entire practicability, mr. ford--a report not made by your engineers." ford and frisbie exchanged swift glances of intelligence. the presence of the strange engineering party in the canyon was sufficiently explained. at first sight the president's expedient seemed childishly puerile to ford. then suddenly in a flash of revealment he saw beyond the puerilities--beyond the stubborn old man who, with all his narrow self-will and obstinacy was merely playing the game for others. "we can discuss these matters later, if you wish," he said placably. "i think you will find our ground well taken. do you want to drive back as we came? or will you let me find you an easier road to the mouth of horse creek?" but mr. colbrith was not to be balked or turned aside. "mr. ford, i wish to be fair and impartial. i desired to satisfy myself, personally, that this route we have driven over is practicable, and it was also my desire that the investigation should be conducted in your presence. you will admit now that you made a mistake--a very costly mistake for the company--in abandoning this short cut." "i admit nothing of the kind. the difficulties remain as they were, quite unchanged by our pleasure trip from the end-of-track, mr. colbrith. assuming that the re-survey will report that the north bank of the river is practicable, while the south bank is not, i have only to say that the cost of the two bridges would offset the easier grading conditions, while the danger to future traffic would remain the same. but that is neither here nor there. you must either give us credit for knowing our business, or you must discredit us entirely." frisbie was grinding his heel into the hard soil of the mesa. the argument was growing rather acrid; and penfield and the two drivers were interested listeners. it was high time for a diversion to be made, and the assistant made it. "we have used five hours getting down here, and we'll need as many going back," he put in. "unless there is something more to be done on the spot, i think we'd better take the road over the hills. it's with you, mr. colbrith." the president signified his assent by climbing into his buckboard, and the return journey was begun with the two engineers in the lead for pathfinding purposes. once safely out of earshot, frisbie voiced his disgust. "a wild goose-chase, pure and simple! stuart, that old man is in his second childhood." "not at all," said ford. "he is merely following out north's suggestions. dick, my name is dennis." "nonsense! things are no worse than they have been all along." "my time with the pacific southwestern is shorter by just the number of hours it has taken us to drive down here. mr. colbrith has convinced himself that i was wrong in abandoning the canyon. to-morrow he will convince himself that i was doubly wrong in approving the detour. i shall hand in my resignation to-night." "so be it," said frisbie shortly. "that means good-by to the extension. i'm predicting that it will never get to green butte--never get beyond copah. and your name will go out to the railroad world as that of a man who bit off a number of large things that he couldn't chew." "confound you!" said ford; and after that, frisbie could get no more than single-syllabled replies to his monologue of job's comfortings. the returning route was a detour, winding, through the greater part of it, among and over the swelling heights north of the pannikin. on each hilltop the vast sweep of the inter-mountain wilderness came into view, and from the highest point in the trail, reached when the sun was dipping toward the western horizon, the eye-sweep took in the broken country lying between the pannikin and the path of the transcontinental narrow gauge forty miles away. jack's canyon, the transcontinental station nearest copah, was the beginning of a combined pack trail and stage road connecting the copah district with what had been, before the advent of the southwestern extension, its nearest railroad outlet. along this trail, visible to the buckboarders as a black speck tittuping against the reddening background of the west, galloped a solitary horseman, urging his mount in a way to make frisbie, getting his glimpse from the hilltop of extended views, call ford's attention. "look at that brute, pushing his horse like that at the end of the day! he ought to be--" but the hastening rider was getting his deserts, whatever they should be, as he went along. for three hours, with three relays of fresh horses picked up at the stage stations in passing, he had been galloping southward, and to whatever other urging he might confess was added the new one of fear, the fear that in the approaching day's-end he would lose his way. seen from the nearer point of view, the tittuping horseman seemed curiously out of harmony with his environment. instead of the cow-boy "shaps," or overalls, he wore the trousers of civilization, which the rapid night had hitched half-way to his knees. in place of the open-breasted shirt with the rolled-up sleeves there were tailor-made upper clothes, with the collar and cravat also of civilization, and the hat--it was perhaps fortunate for the rider that he had not met any true denizens of the unfettered highlands on the lonely trail from jack's canyon. his hat was a derby of the newest shape; and the cow-men beyond the range are impatient of such head-gear. recognition, after one has ridden hard for three hours over a dusty road, is not easy; but there are faces one never forgets, and the features, dust-grimed and sweat-streaked though they were, had still the south-of-europe outline, the slightly aquiline nose, and the piercing black eyes of mr. julius eckstein, whom we saw, on the morning of this same road-wearying day, welcoming adair over the counter railing in the denver office. how does it come that a few short hours later we find him galloping tantivy over the dusty hills, no less than two hundred miles, as the birds fly, from the counter railing of welcomings? that is the story of another, and a more successful special train than adair's. no sooner was the care-free young director safely on his way to meet the delays so painstakingly prearranged for him than the wires began to buzz with a cipher message of warning to penfield. a precious half-hour was lost in ascertaining that the wire connection to the end-of-track was temporarily out of commission; but during that half-hour mr. north had held his chin in his hand to some good purpose. with the fresh complications promised by adair's projection into the field, a stronger man than penfield should be in command on the firing line. the vice-president decided swiftly that eckstein was the man; but how to get him to the macmorrogh headquarters before adair should arrive? it proved to be simpler in the outcarrying than in the planning. a special light engine over the transcontinental to jack's canyon--an exchange of courtesies which even fighting railroads make in war as well as in peace--a wire request on the stage company for relays of saddle horses, and the thing was done. and eckstein, pushing his jaded beast down the final hill in the dusk of the evening, and welcoming, as only the saddle-tormented can welcome, the lights of the headquarters camp, confessed in cursings quite barbaric in their phrasings that he, too, was done. the conference held that night behind locked doors in the macmorroghs' commissary office was a council of five, with eckstein, as the mouthpiece of the vice-president, in the chair. penfield was present, with no vote, and the three macmorroghs voted as one; but as to that, there were no divisions. a crisis was imminent, and it must be met. "as i have said, i am here with power to act," said eckstein, gripping the chair with wincings after the day of torment. "the plan outlined at first by mr. north must go through as it was outlined. part of it has already been carried out, you say: ford and the president have been over the short-cut together. to-morrow the entire private-car party goes to copah over the detour. are the buckboards here for that?" "they're here wid the drivers. i saw to that part of it myself." it was the youngest of the three macmorroghs who gave the assurance. "so far so good," commented the chairman. "the other thing we have to provide for, or rather, to prevent, is the possibility of mr. adair's reaching here in time to join the party. the last definite information we had of mr. adair he was crawling up blue canyon, with a train crew which was under orders to give him ample time to study the scenery. he has probably reached saint's rest before this, however, and once there, leckhard will give him anything in sight. the question is, will he attempt to run the extension to-night?" the middle macmorrogh thought not, and his younger brother agreed with him. but the senior partner voted aye, and stuck to it. thereupon ensued a conflict of opinion. dan macmorrogh pointed out that the construction motive power was all at the west end, or in transit eastward; it would be daylight of another day before an engineer familiar with the hazards could be obtained for adair's special over the construction line. but brian macmorrogh argued with equal emphasis that this was a mere begging of chances. without a telegraph wire to verify the guess, no man could say at what hour one of the trains of empties would pull through to saint's rest; and whatever the hour, leckhard would doubtless turn the engine and crew to double back with adair's car. eckstein was gripping the arms of his chair and setting his teeth deep into his cigar while the probabilities were getting themselves threshed out. at the end of the dispute he said quietly: "it's a hell of a pity we can't have the use of the wire for this one night. but, gentlemen, we can't stop for trifles. there are five of us here in this room who know how much is at stake. one of two things is due to happen. if we can keep adair out of it for another twelve hours, ford will be disgraced and asked to resign. if he gets to that point, we're safe. i know ford's temper. if mr. colbrith puts it as he is likely to put it, ford will say and do things that will make it impossible for adair or any one else to get him back into the service." "thrue for you, misther eckstein; ye have 'im down to the crossin' of a 't'," agreed the eldest of the brothers macmorrogh. "that is one of the due things," eckstein went on smoothly. "the other isn't pretty to look at. if adair gets here in time, it will be another story. he can handle ford; and he has proved once or twice that he can handle mr. colbrith. if he hadn't been out of the way when you went to new york with mr. north, you'd never have seen the thin edge of this contract, brian. well, then what happens? with adair on the ground to back him, ford wins out. do you know what that means? investigations, muck-rakings, and worse. there are two or three of us here, and some more on the other side of the range, who won't get off with less than ten years apiece. i'm willing to take the chance of a few more years for another play on the red. how is it with the rest of you?" the elder macmorrogh spread his hands. "it's all in the same boat we are. you've a notion in the back par-rt of your head, misther eckstein; lave us have it." "as i've said, we can't stick at trifles. if adair's train is on the extension, it mustn't get here. somebody goes up the line on a hand-car to-night and stops it." "is it to ditch it, ye mane?" asked the youngest of the brothers in a hoarse whisper. eckstein laughed cynically. "what a lot of crude cutthroats you are!" he jeered. "now if it were ford, instead of adair--but pshaw! a rail or two taken up and flung into the river well beyond walking distance from this camp does the business. only the man who does it wants to make sure he has gone far enough back to cover all the possible chances." "that's me," said dan macmorrogh; and he rose and let himself out, with the younger brother to lock the door behind him. the door-keeping attended to, the younger brother drew closer into the circle. "there's wan thing," he said, looking furtively at eckstein. "i was in copah this day: i got the buckboards for misther colbrith. goin' past the bank, who would i see but our old bookkeeper, merriam, chinnin' wid the bank president. i thought he was out o' the way entirely." stiff and saddle-sore as he was, eckstein leaped out of his chair with an oath. "merriam? what the devil is he back here for? it's a put-up job!" it was the chief of the macmorroghs who flung in the calming word. "'tis only a happen-so, misther eckstein. merriam owns a mine or two in the copah, and ye know the fever: a man can't keep away from thim." "that may be; but it's a cursed unlucky combination, just the same. i tell you, brian, he knows too much--this fellow merriam. he knew what was up when he was steering frisbie. you told him too much. and afterward, when we gave him the oregon job, he knew why he was being bribed to go away. you let us in for this: you've got to muzzle him, some way." the macmorrogh looked at his remaining brother meaningly. "'tis up to you, this time, mickey, b'y. find your way over to the minin' camp this night, and make a clane job av it.'" penfield was moving uneasily in his chair. the plotting waters were deepening swiftly, much too swiftly for him. loyalty to his superior officer, the unquestioning loyalty that disregards motives entirely and does not look too closely at methods, was his fetish. but these men were not merely loyal to mr. north. they were criminals--he stuck at the word, but there was no other--fighting for their own hand. "i guess--i guess i'd better go back to the nadia," he stammered, trying to keep his voice steady. "mr. colbrith may need me." eckstein turned on him like a snarling animal. "no you don't, arthur, my boy. i know you like a book. you stay here till you're in as deep as the rest of us. like merriam, you know too damned much." penfield sat still, with the cold chills running up and down his spine, while eckstein went on talking to the two macmorroghs. "this merriam business complicates things like hell"--he was growing coarsely profane in the grinding mill of events. "but it shows us where we stand. this thing has got to go through, and if it doesn't work out the way we've planned it, it's for us to find another way." "there's always the wan other way," said the elder macmorrogh slowly. "'tis but a drunken fight in wan o' the camps, and ford tryin' to stop it, as he always does: a bit of a shindy among the b'ys, and this--" crooking his forefinger suggestively. "bah!" said eckstein. "you fellows ought to have lived in the stone age, when a man pulled his enemy to pieces with his bare hands. if it comes to that, there are easier ways--and safer. a premature blast in a rock cut; a weak coupling-pin when he happens to be standing in the way of a pulling engine: they tell me he is always indifferent to his personal safety. but never mind the fashion of it; the point i'm making is that if everything else fails, ford mustn't live to be the head-foreman of the outfit." penfield's face was ashen, and he was cravenly thankful that the lamplight was dim, and that his chair was in the shadow. this was more than he had bargained for; more by the price of a man's life. eckstein was lifting himself by painful inches from his chair. a silence as of the grave had fallen upon the two macmorroghs. it was the senior partner who broke it. "'tis as ye say, misther eckstein. a man--a safe man, that'll do what he's told to do--will be at ford's heels till this thing do be settled. and now for yourself: 'tis betther that ye kape dark. four of us know that you're in the camp--no wan else need know. i've a room and a bed, and ye'll be nadin' the lasht, i'm thinking." the two macmorroghs were bestirring themselves, and penfield was slipping through the door into the commissary when eckstein's fingers closed upon his arm. "your part is to keep tab on the programme," he whispered "get word instantly to brian if there is any change. and if you weaken, arthur, i'll promise you just one thing: i'll pull you in with the rest of us if i have to swear to a string of lies a mile long. remember that." penfield escaped at length, and stumbled through the littered end-of-track yard to where the lighted windows of the nadia marked the berth of the president's car. out of the shadow of the car a man rose up and confronted him. it was frisbie, and he asked a single question: "say, penfield, who was that fellow who rode around to the macmorroghs' back door just after dark?" "it was eckstein." the secretary let slip the name before he could lay hold of his discretion. "oh: all right that's all," said the engineer; and he vanished. climbing to the observation platform, penfield let himself into the cheerful central compartment of the nadia quietly enough to surprise two people who were sitting together on one of the broad divans. the two were ford and miss alicia adair, with aunt hester adair, reading under the drop-light at the table, for the only other occupant of the compartment. it was miss alicia who told the secretary that he was not needed. "mr. colbrith was very tired, and he has gone to bed," she said; and penfield, still pallid and curiously unready of speech, said he believed he'd go, too. ford got up when penfield had disappeared in the curtained vestibule leading to the state-rooms. "i shall wait one more day, because you want me to," he said, resuming the conversation which had been broken off by penfield's incoming. "but i'll tell the truth: i came here to-night to have it over with. we were as near quarreling to-day as i want to come, and if frisbie hadn't got between--" "good mr. frisbie!" she said. "some day i hope to get a chance to be very nice to him." ford laughed. the evening had healed many of the woundings of the day. "if you don't get the chance it won't be dick's fault--or mine. meantime, i'll be delighted to pose as his substitute." she had gone with him to the door, and his last word was a reminder. "don't forget," he said. "i'm to drive your buckboard to-morrow, whatever happens." "you are the one who will forget," she retorted. "when uncle sidney crooks his finger at you, you'll climb up obediently beside him and let him scold you all the way over to copah." "wait and see," said ford; and then he said good night, not as he wanted to, but as he must, with aunt hester sitting within arm's reach. frisbie was sitting up for him when he reached the white tents of the engineers' camp pitched a little apart from the macmorrogh conglomeration of shacks and storehouses. "just one question," said the first assistant, "and i've been staying awake to ask it. are you still my boss?" "for one more day," said ford shortly. "well, we can't live more than a day at a time, if we try. that will do to sleep on." "all right; sleep on it, then." "in a minute; after i've freed my mind of one little news item. do you remember that fellow we saw riding in on the jack's canyon trail as we were coming back this afternoon?" "yes." "have you any notion who it was?" "no." "it was mr. julius eckstein; and he is at present lying doggo in the macmorrogh quarters. that's all. now you can turn in and sleep a few lines on _that_." xxi the mills of the gods it was merely by chance that adair had michael gallagher for his engineer when the " " was made up for the after-midnight run from saint's rest to the macmorrogh headquarters. but it was a chance which was duly gratifying to leckhard. the little irishman was ford's most loyal liegeman, and a word was all that was needed to put him on his mettle. the word was spoken while he was oiling around for the man-killing extra service. "pretty well knocked out, michael?" asked leckhard, by way of preface. "i am thot, misther leckhard. 'tis the good half of lasht night, all day yestherday, and thin some." "it's tough. but if any of the other men were in, i should still ask you to go. mr. ford is in a pinch, and mr. adair, your passenger, is going to help him out. he can do it if you get him to horse creek in time; and i know you'll get him there if the and the ' ' will stay on the steel." "to help misther foord out? thot's me," said gallagher simply. "not having a wire, i can't boost you any from this end. you'll meet folsom and graham with the other two sections of empties where you can: you'll run as fast as the lord'll let you on such a track as you have: but above all, you'll stay on the rails. if you ditch yourself, it'll go hard with mr. ford." "i'll do all thim things and wan more--and thot wan is the shtiffest av thim all: the saints aidin' me, misther leckhard, i'll shtay awake." there was a short siding at the summit of the pass, and by good hap, gallagher met folsom with the first string of empties at that point: or rather, giving the bit of good luck full credit, he heard the roaring of folsom's exhaust as the first of the opposing trains pounded up the dangerous western grade, and hastily backed up and took the summit siding. pitching over the hill with the " " the moment folsom's tail-lights had passed the outlet switch, gallagher had a sharp attack of memory. the day before, in the horse creek yard, he had seen and remarked a jagged scratch on the side of the nadia. hence, he was watching for the narrow rock cuttings, and the three passages perilous on the cliff face were made in safety. once off the mountain, however, the greater peril began to assert itself. for a time the irishman kept himself fully awake and alert by pushing the to the ragged edge of hazard, scurrying over the short tangents and lifting her around the curves in breath-taking spurts. later this expedient began to lose its fillip. since the train was running wholly on the air-brakes there was nothing for the fireman to do, and jackson, the loyalest understudy gallagher had ever known, tumbled from his box in a doze, staggered across the gang-way into the half-filled tender, and fell like a man anæsthetized full length on the coal. gallagher did not try to arouse him. "'tis hell for wan, an' twice hell for two," he muttered; and then he shifted his right hand to the brake-cock and grasped the hot throttle lever with the ungloved left. and for a time the pain of the burn sufficed. it was another piece of luck, good or bad, that made ten mile station the special train's meeting point with the second train of empties. this time it was graham, the other engineer, who heard. he had stopped at ten mile on the bare chance that the wire between that point and saint's rest had been repaired; public opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, an engineer does not run "wild" when he can help it. the engineer of the third section had come out of the night operator's office disappointed, and was climbing to his engine to pull out, when he heard, or thought he heard, the dull rumble of a train racing down the canyon. it came in sight while he listened, and the yellow flare told him that it was either gallagher or folsom doubling back on one of the construction engines. what startled him was the fact that the coming train appeared to be running itself; there was no warning whistle shriek and no slackening of speed. graham was a scotchman, slow of speech, slow to anger, methodical to the thirty-third degree. but in an emergency his brain leveled itself like a ship's compass gimballed to hang plumb in the suddenest typhoon. three shrill whistle calls sent a sleepy flagman racing to set the switch of the siding. with a clang the reversing lever came over and the steam roared into the cylinders. the scotchman had the grade to help him, which was fortunate. when he had the string of empties fairly in retreat, the beam of gallagher's headlight was shining full in his face and blinding him. for a heart-breaking second he feared that the opposing train would follow him in on the siding; there was but an instant for the flicking of the switch. but by this time the sleepy flagman was wide awake, and he jerked the switch lever for his life the moment graham's engine had cleared the points. it was the closest possible shave. gallagher's cab ticked the forward end of the other engine's running board in passing, and if graham had not been still shoving backward with the throttle wide open, the " ," being wider than its piloting engine, would have had its side ripped out. graham had a glimpse into the cab of the as it passed and saw gallagher, sitting erect on his box with wide-staring eyes. he knew the symptoms, and feared that he had only postponed the catastrophe. the siding was a short one, and he knew that in backing down he must inevitably have shoved the rear end of his train out upon the main line at the lower switch. once again the level brain righted itself to the emergency. four sharp shrieks of the whistle for switches, a jamming of the whistle lever to set the canyon echoes yelling in the hope of arousing gallagher, and graham slammed his engine into the forward motion without pausing to close the throttle. there was a grinding of fire from the wheels, a running jangle of slack-taking down the long line of empties, and the freight train shot ahead, snatching its rear end out of harm's way just as gallagher, dreaming that his boiler had burst and that all the fiends of the pit were screeching the news of it, came to life and snapped on the air. when the stop was made, the little irishman roused his fireman, got off and footed it up the line to see what he had done. graham had stopped his engine when he was sure his train was clearing the lower switch, and was on his way back to find out what had happened to gallagher. the two men met in the shadow of the halted material empties, and it was the irishman who began it. "paste me wan, scotchie," he said. "'tis owin' to me." without a word the scotchman gave the blow, catching the little man full in the chest and knocking him half a car-length. that was enough. gallagher picked himself up out of the gravel, the lust of battle hot upon him. "wan more like thot, ye divvle, and i cajo lick ye if ye wor fin-mac-coul himself," he panted; and graham gave it judiciously, this time on the point of the jaw. for five bloody minutes it went on, give and take, down and up; methodically on graham's part, fiery hot on gallagher's. and in the end the irishman had the heavier man backed against the string of empties and yelling for quarter. "are you full awake now, ye red-hot blastoderm?" gasped graham, struggling to free himself when gallagher gave him leave. "i am thot, thanks to you, sandy, lad. 'twas a foine bit av a scrimmage, an' i'm owin' ye wan. good night to ye." "ye've got a clear track from this," called graham, swabbing his battered face with a piece of cotton waste drawn from one of the pockets of method. "but ye'd better not take any more cat-naps. go on with ye, ye wild irishman; ye're obstructin' the traffic." for twenty miles below ten mile gallagher sat on his box like a man refreshed. then the devil of sleep postponed beset him again. once more the fireman was asleep on the coal, and to the little irishman's bombardment of wrenches and other missiles he returned only sodden groans. gallagher nerved himself to fight it through alone. mile after mile of the time-killing track swung slowly to the rear, and there was not even the flick of speed to help in the grim battle. dawn came when the end-of-track camp was still forty miles away, but the breaking day brought no surcease of strugglings. when it came to the bitter end, when his eyelids would close involuntarily and he would wake with a start to wonder dumbly how far the had come masterless, gallagher took a chew of tobacco and began to rub the spittle into his eyes--the last resort of the sleep-tormented engineman. like all the other expedients it sufficed for the time; but before long he was nodding again, and dreaming that a thousand devils were burning his eyes out with the points of their red-hot pitchforks. out of one of these nightmares he came with a yell of pain to see what figured for the moment as another nightmare. three hundred feet ahead the track seemed to vanish for three or four rail-lengths. it was second nature to jam on the brakes and to make the sudden stop. then he sat still and rubbed his smarting eyes and stared again. the curious hallucination persisted strangely. fifty feet ahead of the stopped engine the glistening lines of the steel ended abruptly, beginning again a car-length or two beyond. without disturbing the sleeping jackson, gallagher got down and crept cautiously out to the break. it was a break. he stooped and felt the rail ends with his hands. when he straightened up his passenger was standing beside him. "what is it?" asked adair. "have we lost something?" gallagher waved a grimy hand at the gap. "the thrack," he said. "'twas there whin i pulled me sthring av empties out over ut lasht night. 'tis gone now, else i'm thot near dead for sleep i can nayther see nor feel sthraight." adair was calmly lighting a cigarette. "your senses are still in commission," he said; "there is a good-sized piece of track missing. who sniped it, do you suppose?" the engineer was shaking his fiery head. "'tis beyond me, misther adair." "that's the deuce of it," smiled the young man. "it's beyond the train. how is your engine--pretty good on the broad jump?" gallagher was not past laughing. "she'll not lep thot, this day. but who'd be doin' this job betune dark an' mornin', d'ye think?" "you will have to ask me something easy, i'm not up in all the little practical jokes of the country. but if i should venture a guess, i should say it was some one who didn't want me to answer the first call for breakfast at your end-of-track camp this morning. what do we do?" gallagher was thinking. "we passed a camp av surfacers tin mile back, and there'd be rails at arroyo siding, tin mile back o' thot," he said reflectively. adair had passed over to the river side of the line and was looking at a fresh plowing of the embankment. "the rails have been dragged down here and they are probably in the river," he announced. "if we had men and tools we might fish them out and repair damages." "come on, thin," cried the little irishman, and when he ran back to climb to the footboard of the , adair climbed with him. jackson, refreshed by his cat-naps on the coal, was sent to the rear end of the " " to flag back, and in due time the special picked up the gang of surfacers just turning out to the day's work. an irish foreman was in command, and to him gallagher appealed, lucidly but not too gently. the reply was a volley of abuse and a caustic refusal to lend his men to the track-laying department. gallagher turned to adair with his red-apple face wrinkling dismayfully. "'tis up to me to push thot felly's face in, misther adair; and what wid two nights and a day, shtandin', and wan fight wid a bully twice me size, i'm not man enough." adair tossed away the stump of his cigarette. "you're quite sure that is what is needed?" he queried. "to knock a grain av sinse into thot wicklow man?" queried gallagher. "sure, it is." and then whispering: "but not for you, misther adair; he'd ate you in two bites. l'ave me have a thry wid him." but adair was off and fronting the surly macmorrogh foreman. "we need a dozen of your men and some tools," he said quietly. "do we get them?" "not by a fistful!" retorted the surly one. "maybe you think you're enough of a ---- ---- ---- to take 'em." "i am a better man than you are," was the even-toned rejoinder. "prove it, then." gallagher, leaning from his cab window, fully awake now, and chuckling and rubbing his hands together softly, saw the blow. it was clean-cut, swift as the lightning's flash, true to a finger's breadth, and the sound of it was as bone upon bone. at its impact the wicklow man bounded into the air, arched his back like a bow, and pitched on his head in the ditch. when he rose up, roaring blasphemies and doubling his huge fists for the fray, the quiet voice was assailing him again. "do we get the men and tools?" "not--" again the lightning-like passes of the hands, and the wicklow man sat down forcibly and gasped. the italian surfacers threw aside their picks and shovels and made a ring, dancing excitedly and jeering. the big foreman, whose scepter of authority was commonly a pick-handle for the belaboring of offenders, was not loved. "kick-a da shin--kick-a da shin--he like-a da nigger-mans," suggested one of the italians, but there was no need. being safely out of range of the catapult fists, the foreman stayed there. "take your track gang and be damned to you!" he snarled. adair made a forward step and stood over him. "are you quite convinced that i am the better man?" he asked very gently. "it's a trick!" growled the wicklow man savagely. "i could get onto it in another whirl or two." "get up," said the gentle voice. "you'll never have a better chance to learn the trick." but the foreman had the saving grace to shun anti-climaxes. "g'wan! take the men, i say; all of 'em, if you like." "thanks," said adair pleasantly. "we'll do it, and we'll take you, as well--to answer for their good behavior. let me help you up," and he stooped and snapped the big one to his feet as a man would collar a reluctant boy. "great judgment!" gasped the foreman. "say, mister cock-o'-the-walk--where do you hide all that muscle?" and without waiting for an answer he piled a dozen of his men upon the engine and followed them, still muttering. it was a partly surfaced ten miles over which the special train thundered for the third time since dawn-breaking, and gallagher took the last wheel-turn out of the . none the less, the sun was reddening the western mountains when the italians took ground at the mysterious gap. the rails were found in the stream, as adair had predicted, and it was a work of minutes only to snake them up the embankment and to spike them lightly into place. but when adair, for the healing of wounds, had thrust a bank-note into the hand of the wicklow man, and the special was once more on its unhindered way westward, the sun had fairly topped the eastern range, and johnson, the porter of the " ," was shouting across the rocketing tender that breakfast was served. the young man in the london-cut clothes might have climbed back to the car over the coal; or gallagher would have stopped for him. but he elected to stay in the cab, and he was still there, hanging from the open window on jackson's side, when the one-car special woke the echoes with its whistle, clattered in over the switches at horse creek, and came to a stand opposite the macmorroghs' commissary. it was brian macmorrogh who came across the tracks to greet adair, and, since this was their first meeting, he made the mistake of his life in calling the young director by name. "the top of the morning to you, misther adair. is it misther colbrith you'd be looking for?" "it is," said adair shortly, not failing to remark that the barrel-bodied, black-bearded man seemed to recognize and to be expecting him. "'tis two hours gone they all are," was the oily-voiced explanation. "up the grade and over to copah. but they'll be back to-morrow, heaven savin' thim, and we'll make you comfortable here--as comfortable as we can." "that will be quickly done," said adair, swinging down from the engine step. "just give me a horse and tell me which way they have gone, and i'll overtake them." but here the barrel-bodied one spread his hands helplessly. "'tis just our luck!" he protested, in the keenest self-reproach. "there isn't a horse or a mule in camp that you could get a mile an hour out of. in fact, i'm thinking there isn't anny horses at all!" xxii the man on horseback since the weather was rather threatening, and the promise of october in the inter-mountain region is not to be lightly trifled with, mr. colbrith pressed for an early start on the seventeen-mile buckboard jaunt to copah over the detour survey. it was by his express command that the private-car party was called at daybreak, and that breakfast was served in the nadia at six o'clock. and at seven sharp, which chanced to be the precise time of day when adair's commandeered italians were spiking the last of the displaced rails into position at the gap in the track thirty-three miles away, the buckboards were drawn up at the steps of the president's car. for reasons charitable, as well as practical, ford had planned to leave frisbie out of this second dance of attendance upon the president. the track-layers were well up toward the head of horse creek gulch, with brissac to drive; but during the night the louisianian had reported in with a touch of mountain fever, and ford had asked frisbie to go up and take his place. this was one of ford's peg-drivings for the day; and another was timed for the moment of outsetting. for conveyances for the party there were the two double-seated buckboards used on the canyon trip the previous day, and one other with a single seat; but there were only two drivers, the third man, who had brought the single-seated rig from copah, having been prevailed upon by ford to disappear. ford directed the distribution of the trippers arbitrarily, and was amazed when the president acquiesced without protest. mr. colbrith, the doctor's wife, and penfield, were to go in the leading vehicle; aunt hester adair, miss van bruce, and the doctor, in the second; and ford drove the single-seated third, with miss alicia for his companion. "i think you must have taken uncle sidney unawares," said alicia, when the caravan was toiling at a slow footpace along the rough wagon road paralleling the horse creek grade. "you mean that he might have objected to your driver? you are a whole lot safer with me than you would be with one of those livery-stable helpers up ahead." "oh, no; i didn't mean just that. but you know he usually plans all the little details himself, and--" "and the fact that somebody else plans them is sufficient excuse for a rearrangement. that is one of the penalties he pays for being the big boss," laughed ford. since the yesterday was now safely yesterday, and to-day was his own, there was no room for anything but pure joy. "you are a 'big boss,' too, aren't you?" she said, matching his light-hearted mood. "i was, in a way, until your uncle came over and eclipsed me." "and you will be again when uncle sidney moves a little farther along in his orbit." "that remains to be seen. there is yet plenty of time for him to abolish me, permanently, before he goes on his way rejoicing." "but you are not going to resign, you know," she reminded him. "am i not?" then he took his courage by the proper grip and went on with sudden gravity: "that rests entirely with you." "mr. ford! aren't you a little unfair?" she did not pretend to misunderstand him. "i am open to convincement," he affirmed. "it is making me uncle sidney's executioner, on one hand; or yours, on the other." he pressed the point relentlessly. "there are only two horns to the dilemma: either mr. colbrith, or a man named stuart ford, will have to walk the official plank. because mr. colbrith is your relative, i'm willing to be the victim. but you must say that it is what you wish. that is my price." "i say it is unfair," she repeated. "why should you put the burden of the decision upon poor me?" "because, if you were not concerned, there would be, to put it in good hibernian, only one horn to the dilemma--and your uncle would be impaled upon that one." "mercy!" she shuddered, in mock dismay. "that sounds almost vindictive. are you vindictive, mr. ford?" "terribly," he laughed. "the black-hearted villain of melodrama isn't a patch on me when i'm stirred." and then, more seriously: "but it isn't altogether a joke. there is another side to the thing--what you might call the ethical, i suppose. there are a score or so of men in the company's service--frisbie and his subordinates--whose jobs hang upon mine. a worse man than i ever aspired to be might be loyal to his friends." "i wouldn't think of questioning your loyalty to your friends," she admitted. "also," he went on determinately, "there is the larger question of right and wrong involved. is it right for me to step aside and let an organized system of graft and thievery go on unchecked? i know it exists; i have evidence enough to go before a grand jury. i'm not posing as a saint, or even as a muck-raker; but isn't something due to the people who are paying the bills?" "now you are involving uncle sidney again; and i can't listen to that." "he is innocent; as innocent as some hundreds of other narrow-minded, short-sighted old men whom chance, or the duplicity of the real rascals, puts at the head of corporations." "yet you would make him suffer with the guilty." "not willingly, you may be sure. not at all, if he would listen to reason. but he won't. he'll stand by north till the last gun is fired; and while north stays, there'll be graft, big or little, as the opportunities warrant." alicia held her peace while the caravan was measuring another half-mile of the boulder-strewn road. then she said: "i feel so wretchedly inadequate to help you, mr. ford. i wish you could wait until you have talked it over with brother." "so do i. but i am afraid postponement doesn't lie with me, now. from your uncle's manner and from what he said to me yesterday, i can't help feeling that the crisis is right here. for two days mr. colbrith has been very plainly leading up to some sort of dramatic climax. i can't remotely guess what it is going to be; though i can guess that the plot isn't his." again she took time to consider, and when she spoke they were nearing the scene of strenuous activities at the moving track-end. "you don't think you could postpone it?" she asked, almost wistfully, he thought. "i think--i hope--my brother will become interested again. it is your fault that he lost interest, mr. ford." "my fault?" reproachfully. "certainly. you didn't give him enough to do. he was happy and contented while you kept him hard at work. but after the bonds were placed and the money raised--" "i'm a miserable sinner!" ford confessed. "and i had promised you, too! but the battle has been so fierce at this end of the line; and i couldn't be in two places at one time. your brother should have been made first vice-president, instead of north. perhaps we can bring it about yet--if you don't call it all off." "there it is again," she retorted. "you are dragging me in--and trying to bribe me, too!" "god forbid!" he said, so earnestly that she forgave him. and then: "i wish your brother were here--now." "so do i," she admitted. then she told him of the wire summons sent from denver, and of the shadowy hope she had based upon it. "where was your brother then?" he asked. "i don't know, positively. i hope he was in new york. he was to come over in the _campania_, in time for the shooting at mount ptarmigan." "you've had no word from him?" "none." they were up with the track-layers, now, in a country of huge bare hills and high-lying, waterless valleys; and the president had halted the caravan to give his guests a chance to see a modern railroad in the actual throes of evolution. in a specialist in the trade, ford's genius might have invoked enthusiasm. speed was the end to which all of the young engineer's inventive powers had been directed; and the pace was furious. on the leveled grade ahead of the track-laying train an army of sweating laborers marched and counter-marched like trained soldiers, placing the cross-ties in position. on a train of specially constructed flat-cars another army was bolting together a long section of track, clamping the double line of rails at intervals to hold them to gauge. at the word, "ready!" a hauling chain, passing through an anchored pulley-block far up the grade and back to the freed engine of the construction train, was made fast to the forward end of the bolted section; a second word of command, and the engine backed swiftly, dragging the prepared section off over the rollers of the flat-cars and into place on the ties. with the clanging fall of the final pair of rails, a third army, spike-drivers these, fell upon the newly placed steel, shouting their chantey as they swung the great pointed hammers; and in the midst of this fresh turmoil the train, with its brigade of bolters deftly preparing another section, was slowly pushed to the new front for another advance. "it is like clockwork," was miss alicia's enthusiastic comment. "did you invent it, mr. ford?" now the combination of flat-car bolting-table, and the shifting and laying by sections, was ford's invention, but he modestly stood from under. "frisbie gets the medal," he said. "it's all in the drill--every man knowing what he has to do, and doing it at the proper moment. i'd give something if i had dick's knack in detail organizing." she looked up, laughing. "you have the funniest way of ducking to cover if you think a bit of honest appreciation is coming your way, mr. ford. you know you told mr. frisbie how to do it." "did i? i suppose it wouldn't be polite to contradict you." "or any use. is mr. frisbie here now?--oh, yes; there he is." and then, in a half-awed whisper: "who is that dreadful, grand-opera-villain looking man he is talking to?" ford's eyes sought and found frisbie. he was standing a little apart from the turmoil, talking to a man on horseback; a man with half-closed, beady, black eyes, drooping mustaches, and a face reptilian in its repulsiveness. "that is 'mexican george'; the macmorrogh brothers' 'killer'," said ford evenly. "have you ever heard of a professional man-killer, miss adair; a man whose calling is that of a hired assassin?" she shuddered. "you are jesting, i know. but the word fits his face so accurately. i saw him lounging about the store at the camp yesterday, and it gave me the creeping shivers every time i looked at him. do you ever have such instantaneous and unreasoning hatreds at first sight?" "now and then; yes. but i was not jesting about mexican george. he is precisely what the word implies; is hired for it and paid for it. nominally, he guards the commissary and stores, and is the paymaster's armed escort. really, it is his duty to shoot down any desperate laborer who, in the macmorroghs' judgment, needs to be killed out of the way." "mercy!" miss alicia was shuddering again. "what hideously primitive conditions! what is this terrible man doing out here?" "oh, he is a free lance; comes and goes as he pleases. no, he's not quarreling with dick"--answering her look of anxiety. "how do you know he isn't?" ford laughed. "because dick wouldn't let him get that near. he knows--hello; i wonder what your good uncle wants of us." mr. colbrith was standing up in his place in the leading buckboard and making signals to the rear guard of two. ford shook the reins over his broncos and drove around. the president was fingering his thin beard and waving an arm toward the track-layers. "mr.--ah--ford," he began critically, "is it necessary to have such a vast army of men as that to lay the track?" "i don't think we are over-manned," said ford good-naturedly. it was comparatively easy to be patient with alicia looking on and listening. but it was against mr. colbrith's principles to let a man off with a single rebuttal. "i am not at all convinced of the worth of these new-fangled ideas, mr. ford; not at all. we built the pacific southwestern main line in the old, approved way--a rail at a time--with less than one-quarter of the men you have over there." "i don't question it: and you were three years building some six hundred miles in a prairie country. we are to-day just six weeks out of saint's rest with the track gang, and in six more, if the weather holds, we shall be laying the switches in the green butte yards. that is the difference between the old way and the new." the president was turned aside but not stopped. "i understand," he objected raucously. "but your expense bills are something tremendous; tre-_men_dous, mr. ford! you have spent more money in three months than we spent in a full year on the main line." "quite likely," agreed ford, losing interest in the pointless discussion. "but with us, time is an object; and we have the results to show for the expenditure." at this, mr. colbrith took refuge in innuendo, as seemed to be his lately acquired habit. "you are very ready with your answers, mr. ford; very ready, indeed. let us see if you can continue as you have begun." it was miss alicia who resented this final speech of the president's when the buckboards were once more in motion, following the unrailed grade around the swelling shoulders of the huge hills. "i think that last remark of uncle sidney's was rather uncalled for," she said, after ford had driven in grim silence at the tail of the procession for a full mile. "it is one of a good many uncalled for things he has been saying to me since the day before yesterday," was ford's rejoinder. "yet you can still assure me that you are not vindictive." "i am not--at the mere actors in the play. but i confess to an unholy desire to get back at the prompter--the stage manager of the little comedy. i am only waiting for your decision." "please!" she said; and he saw that the blue eyes were growing wistful again. "i'm done," he said quickly. "i shan't put it up to you any more. i'll do what i think i ought to do, on my own responsibility." but now, woman-like, she crossed quickly to the other side. "no; you mustn't deprive me of my chance," she protested soberly. "after a little while i shall tell you what i think--what i think you ought to do. only you must give me time." his smile came from the depths of a lover's heart. "you shall have all the time there is--and then some, if i can compass it. now let's talk about something else. i've been boring you with this despicable business affair ever since you gave me leave on that foot-race down plug mountain tuesday afternoon." "what shall it be?" she inquired gaily. and then: "oh, i know. one day last summer--just as we were leaving chicago in the nadia--you had begun to tell me about a certain young woman who had money, and who was--who was--" "--who was without her peer in all this world," he finished for her. "yes; i remember." "do you still remember her, as you do the conversation?" she went on teasingly. "i have never lost a day since i first met her." "good sir galahad!" she mocked. "and is she still worth all those sacrifices you said you would be willing to make for her?" "all, and several more." silence for a little time, while the hoof-beats of a horse fox-trotting behind them drew nearer. it was the sinister-faced mexican who ambled into view, and when he overtook the rearmost of the buckboards he was a long time in passing. "that dreadful man!" murmured alicia; and she did not go back to the suspended subject until he had trotted on past the caravan. then she said slowly, taking her companion's complete understanding for granted: "it must be delicious to be away out over one's depth, like that!" "it is," said ford solemnly. "it's like--well, i've never been sick a day in my life since i can remember, but i should think it might be like a--a sort of beneficent fever, you know. haven't you ever had a touch of it?" "possibly--without recognizing it. can you describe the symptoms?" "accurately. one day i awoke suddenly to the realization that there was one woman, in the world: before that, you know, there had always been a good many, but never just one. then i began to discover that this one woman was the embodiment of an ideal--my ideal. she said and did and looked all the things i'd been missing in the others. i wanted to drop everything and run after her." "how absolutely idyllic!" she murmured. "and then?" "then i had to come down to earth with a dull, stunning swat, of course. there were a lot of commonplace, material things waiting to be done, and it was up to me to do them. before i saw her, i used to think that nothing could divide time with a man's work: that there wouldn't be any time to divide. afterward, i found out my mistake. sleeping or waking, every day and all day, she was there: and the work went on just the same, or rather a whole lot better." the long drive was in its final third, and the wagon track, which had transferred itself to the top of the level railroad grade, admitted speed. by degrees the caravan became elongated, with the president still in the lead, the man on horseback indifferently ahead or behind, and the other two vehicles wide apart and well to the rear. their isolation was complete when she said: "do you want me to say that i don't recognize any of the symptoms, mr. ford?" "do i--no! yes!--that is, i--heavens! that is a terrible way to put it! of course i hope--i hope you are in love--with the right person. if you're not, i--" she was weeping silently; weeping because it would have been a sin to laugh. "you--called it a comedy a little while--ago," she faltered. "in another minute it will be a tragedy. don't you think we are getting too far behind the others?" he whipped up obediently, but the horses were in no hurry. at the rounding of the next shouldering hill the railroad grade entered a high, broad valley, the swelling hills on either side dotted with the dumps and tunnel-openings of the copah gold-diggers. ford had not been through the upper part of the district since the previous summer of pathfindings, and at that time it was like a dozen other outlying and hardly accessible fields, scantily manned and languishing under the dry rot of isolation. but now-- he was looking curiously across at the opposing hillsides. black dots, dozens of them, were moving from ledge to ledge, pausing here and there to ply pick and shovel. now and then from some one of the dry arroyos came the echoes of a surface shot; dynamite cartridges thrust into the earth to clear away the drift to bed-rock. ford called his companion's attention to the activities. "see what it does to a mining country when a railroad comes within shouting distance," he said. "the last time i was over here, this valley was like a graveyard. now you'd think the entire population of copah was up here prospecting for gold." "is that what they are doing?" she asked. then suddenly: "where is your mine?--the mine with my name?" he laughed. "i told you the simple truth. i don't know where it is; though i suppose it is up this way somewhere. yes, i remember, grigsby said it was on cow mountain." the hill on their side of the valley threw out a long, low spur and the railroad-grade driving track swept in a long curve around the spur and crossed over to the foot of a slope dotted with the digging manikins. "by jove!" said ford, still wondering. "there are twice as many prospectors out here as there were inhabitants in copah the last time i was over. the camp ought to vote bonds and give the railroad company a bonus." farther along, the grade hugged the hillside, skirting the acclivity where the shaft-houses of some of the older mines of the district were perched on little hillocks formed by their own dumps, within easy tramming distance of the railroad. opposite and directly below the nearest of these shaft-houses the two leading buckboards had stopped; and the president was once more standing up and beckoning vigorously to the laggards in the single-seated vehicle. ford spoke to his horses and grimaced as one who swallows bitter herbs. "i wonder what i've been doing now--or leaving undone?" he queried. he was not kept long in suspense. when they drove up, the president was still standing, balancing himself with a hand on the driver's seat in front. his thin face was working nervously and the aggressive chin whiskers moved up and down like an accusing finger. "dear me!" said alicia, under her breath; "uncle sidney is really angry, this time! what could have hap--" she glanced up at the mine buildings perched above the roadway and smothered a little cry. ford's eyes followed hers. all across the slab-built shaft-house and the lean-to ore sheds was stretched a huge canvas sign. and in letters of bright blue, freshly painted and two feet high, ran the boastful legend: the little alicia mine the only paying produces in the district stuart ford & john grigsby, props. the white-haired old man standing in the leading buckboard was trembling with righteous indignation. pointing a shaking finger at the incriminating sign, he broke out in a storm of accusation. "so, mr. ford! this is why you changed the route of the extension and added twelve miles to its length!" he raved. "this explains why you suddenly found the shorter route impracticable! answer me sir: when did you become interested in this mine?" there was a little stir of consternation among the listeners; and it did not help matters that the man on horseback ambled up at the moment and drew rein behind the doctor's vehicle. ford's hands were gripping the reins until the stiff leathers were crumpled into strings; but it was alicia's touch on his arm that enabled him to reply coldly: "it was something over two months ago, i believe. i can give you the exact date when we reach copah, though you will permit me to say that it is none of your business." mr. colbrith exploded like a hastily fired bomb. "i propose to make it some of my business! was it before or after your purchase here that you decided upon the change of route? answer me that, mr. ford!" ford wheeled his bronchos and closed the shouting gap. "sit down, mr. colbrith," he said half-menacingly. "if it is your purpose to humiliate me before your guests, i shall drive on and leave you." "you don't answer my question; you can not answer it! you instructed your assistant to change the line of this railroad _after_ you had bought this mine!" [illustration: "answer me, sir! when did you become interested in this mine?"] "and if i did?" "you did. and by so doing, mr. ford, you diverted the company's money to your own personal ends as wrongfully as if you had put your hands into the treasurer's strong-box. in other words, you became what you have accused others of being--a common grafter!" ford's face was very white, and his lips were drawn into thin lines when he opened them to reply. but the restraining hand was on his arm again, and he obeyed it. "i don't care to talk with you, about this matter or any other, here and now. later on, perhaps, when you can speak without being abusive, i shall take the liberty of telling you what i think of you." and at that, he gave his horses the rein and drove on, swiftly, abruptly, leaving the president and his guests to follow as they would. for some minutes neither of the two in the flying buckboard could find words wherewith to bridge the miserable chasm so suddenly opened between them. miss alicia's eyes were tear-brightened and unfathomable; ford's were hard, and there was a steely light in them. it was alicia who spoke first. "i know it is not true, of course--what uncle sidney accused you of," she offered. "but tell me how it happened?" "i don't know--unless the devil planned it," said ford bitterly. "i bought the mine one day last summer when i was in copah, without premeditation, without seeing it--without knowing where it was situated, just as i have told you. some little time afterward, frisbie came to me with the plan for the change of route. i had considered it before, but had made no estimates. frisbie had made the estimates, and we decided upon it at once. i haven't been over here since: it wasn't necessary, and i had other things to do." "did mr. frisbie know about your purchase of the mine?" "no. i don't think he knows of it yet. to tell the truth, i was a little ashamed: it was a touch of the mining fever that everybody gets now and then in a mining country. dick would have guyed me." "but mr. frisbie must have been over the line a great many times: how could he miss seeing that enormous sign?" she persisted. ford shook his head. "i venture to say that the paint isn't yet dry on that sign. it was put there for a purpose, and your uncle was told to look for it. grigsby is just the sort of fool to jump at the chance to advertise the mine, and somebody suggested it and gave him the tip that the president of the railroad was coming in this way. mr. north is a very careful man. he doesn't neglect any of the little details." the high valley was falling away into a broken gulch, and the railway-grade driving-path clung closer to the hillsides. at the next turn the town of copah came into view, and the road became a shelf on the slope two hundred feet above the main street and paralleling it. alicia was looking down upon the town when she said: "what shall you do?" ford's laugh was not mirthful. "i have already done it. i shall perhaps be permitted to see you all safely back to the nadia, and over the rough track to saint's rest. more than that i fancy mr. colbrith will not allow--and possibly not that much." miss adair was still looking down upon the town; and now ford looked. instantly he saw that something unusual was going on. notwithstanding the number of men afield on the hills, the main street of the camp was restlessly alive. horsemen were galloping back and forth; in front of the outfitting stores freighters were hastily loading their pack animals; at every gathering place there were knots of excited men talking and gesticulating. ford was puzzled. at another time he would quickly have put the obvious two and two together to make the equally obvious four. but now he merely said: "that's curious; mighty curious. where do you suppose all those people came from?" alicia's rejoinder was not an answer to the half-mechanical query. "mr. ford, a little while ago i told you i must have time to consider: i--i have considered. you must fight for your life and your good name. you must make uncle sidney see things as they are--that they are not as he thinks they are." "i can't," he said stubbornly. "your condition reverses your decision. if i am to fight with any hope of winning, after what has transpired to-day, mr. colbrith will have to be eliminated." he had pulled the broncos down to a walk. there was a soft thudding of hoofs on the yielding earth of the grade behind, but neither of them heard. "you are disappointing me," she protested, and now the hesitation was all gone. "a few minutes ago, before this miserable thing happened, you were telling me of your ideal ... a woman may have an ideal, too, mr. ford." "yes?" he said eagerly. "my ideal is the knight without fear and without reproach--and also without limitations. he will never say, 'i can not.' he will say, 'i will,' and not for my sake, but because his own sense of justice and mercy and loving-kindness will go hand in hand with his ambition." "one word," he broke in passionately; and now the soft thudding of hoofs had drawn so near that the presence of the overtaking horseman might have been felt. "my little allegory didn't deceive you; you are the one woman, alicia, dear. i didn't mean to tell you yet, though i think you have known it all along: i had an idea that i wanted to do something worthy--something big enough to be worth while--before i spoke. but you have given me leave; don't say you haven't given me leave!" "you have taken it," she said softly, adding: "and that is what a woman likes, i think. but you mustn't spoil my ideal, stuart--indeed, you mustn't. you are young, strong, invincible, as my knight should be. but when you strike you must also spare. you say there is no way save the one you have indicated; you must find a way." he smiled ruefully. "you give the cup of water only to take it away again. i'd rather build ten railroads than to attempt to smash north and his confederates through your uncle. you see, i'm frightfully handicapped right at the start--with this mine business hanging over me. but if you say it has to be done, it shall be. i'll win mr. colbrith over, in spite of all that has happened; and he shall fire north and the macmorroghs first and prosecute them afterward. i've said it." it was just here that the broncos shied--inward, toward the hill. ford gathered the slack reins, and miss adair looked up and gave a little shriek. noiselessly, and so close upon the buckboard that he might have touched either of its occupants with his rawhide quirt, rode the mexican. when they discovered him he was leaning forward, his half-closed eyes mere slits with pin-points of black fire to mark them, and his repulsive face a stolid mask. ford's hand went instinctively to the whip: it was the only available weapon. but the mexican merely touched his flapping sombrero and rode on at the shuffling fox-trot. "that man, again!" shivered alicia, when the portent of evil had passed out of sight around the next curve in the grade. but ford's concern was deeper than her passing thrill of repulsion. "did you notice his horse's hoofs as he went by?" he asked soberly. "no," she said. "i did. he dismounted somewhere behind us and covered them with sacking." "what for?" she asked, shivering again with the nameless dread. "you recall what i was saying when the broncos shied: his object was to creep up behind us and listen. he has done it more than once since we left the end-of-track, and this time--" "yes?" "this time he heard what he wanted to hear." beyond the curve which had hidden the mexican, the wagon-road left the grade, descending abruptly upon the town. ford looked back from the turn and saw that the other two vehicles were not yet in sight. "shall we wait for your aunt and the others?" he asked. her smile was a sufficient reward for the bit of tactful forethought. "i'm sure we have left the conventions far enough behind not to be unduly terrified by them. i am not afraid to go in unchaperoned. besides, i heard uncle sidney telling doctor van bruce that our rooms at the hotel had been engaged for us." ford drove carefully down the steep side street which was the approach to the hotel. an excited throng blocked the sidewalk, and the lobby seemed to be a miniature stock exchange. single-eyed, ford fought a passage through the crowd with alicia on his arm, heeding nothing until he had seen her safely above stairs and in the sitting-room of the president's reservation, with a cheerful fire in the big sheet-iron stove for her comforting. then he went down and elbowed his way through the clamorous lobby to the clerk's desk. "suppose you take a minute or two off and tell me what this town has gone crazy about, hildreth," he said, with a backward nod toward the lobby pandemonium. "why, great scott! mr. ford--have you got this far into it without finding out?" was the astounded rejoinder. "it's a gold strike on cow mountain--the biggest since cripple creek! we've doubled our population since seven o'clock this morning; and by this time to-morrow.... say, mr. ford; for heaven's sake, get your railroad in here! we'll all go hungry within another twenty-four hours--can't get supplies for love or money!" ford turned away and looked out upon the stock-selling pandemonium with unseeing eyes. the chance--the heaven-sent hour that strikes only once in a life-time for the builders of empire--had come: and he was only waiting for the arrival of the president to find himself rudely thrust aside from the helm of events. xxiii the deadlock "no, mr. ford; there is no explanation that will explain away the incriminating fact. this is a matter which involves the good name of the pacific southwestern company, through its officials, and i must insist upon your resignation." the battle was on, with the two combatants facing each other in the privacy of the president's room in the copah hotel. since alicia had made him exchange the sword of extermination for the olive branch, ford was fighting on the defensive, striving good-naturedly and persistently to keep his official head on his shoulders. "i've admitted that it looks pretty bad, mr. colbrith; but you will concede the one chance in a hundred that no wrong was intended. i merely did, on the ground, what thousands of investors in mining chances do the world over--bought an interest in a mine without knowing or caring greatly into what particular mountain the mine tunnel was driven." mr. colbrith frowned. he was of that elder generation of masters which looked with cold disapproval upon any side ventures on the part of the subordinate. "the company has paid you liberally for your time and your undivided attention, mr. ford. no man can serve two masters. your appointment as assistant to the president did not contemplate your engaging in other business." ford carefully suppressed the smile which the bit of industrial martinetry provoked. "as to that," he said placably, "i can assure you that the gold-digging has been purely an investment on my part." "but an investment which you should not have made," insisted the president judicially. "if it had not tempted you to the breach of trust, it was still inexpedient--most undeniably inexpedient. an official high in the counsels of a great corporation should be like cæsar's wife--above suspicion." this time ford's smile could not be wholly repressed. "i grant you it was foolhardy, in the economic point of view," he confessed. "i took a long chance of going ten thousand dollars to the bad. but mine-buying is a disease--as contagious as the measles. everybody in a mining country takes a flyer, at least once. the experienced ones will tell you that nobody is immune. take your own case, now: if you don't keep a pretty tight hold on your check-book, mr. colbrith, cow mountain will--" the president frowned again; more portentously, this time. "this levity is most reprehensible, mr. ford," he said stiffly. "i trust i know my duty as the head of a great railway company too well to be carried away on every baseless wave of excitement that fires the imagination of the mining-camp i chance to be visiting." mr. colbrith was not above mixing metaphor when the provocation was sufficiently great. "baseless?" echoed ford. "surely you don't doubt ... why, mr. colbrith, this strike is the biggest thing that has happened in the mining world since the discovery of the wedge-veins in cripple creek!" the president shrugged his thin shoulders as one whose mission in life is to be sturdily conservative after all the remainder of mankind has struck hands with frenzied optimism. "nonsense!" he rasped contemptuously. "what happens? two men come to town with certain rich specimens which they claim to have taken out of their prospect hole on cow mountain. that was at seven o'clock last night, less than twenty-four hours ago, and some two or three thousand lunatics have already rushed here in the belief--founded upon a mere boast, it may be--that a great gold reef underlies cow mountain. by this time to-morrow--" ford took him up promptly. "yes; and by this time to-morrow the denver mining exchange will be howling itself hoarse over copah mining shares, like those curb-stone fellows down-stairs; the hunt will be up, and every feeder the pacific southwestern system has will be sending its quota of gold-seekers to the new field. that isn't what you were going to say, i know; but it is what is going to happen. mr. colbrith, it's the chance of a century for the pacific southwestern company, and you are deliberately trying to fire the one man who can make the most of it." the president's lack of sense of humor made it hard for him at times. he was sitting very erect in the straight-backed hotel chair when he said: "mr. ford, there are occasions when your conceit is insufferable. do you imagine for a moment that you are the only engineer in the united states who can build railroads, sir?" "oh, no." "then perhaps you will be good enough to explain your meaning?" "it was a poor attempt at a jest," said the young man, rather lamely. "yet it had the truth behind it, in a way. i predict that this is the beginning of one of the biggest mining rushes the world ever saw. we are within one hundred and forty miles of copah with a practicable railroad; we are within twelve miles with a track which must be made practicable while the band plays. if you discharge your entire engineering corps at this crisis--" "i beg your pardon," interrupted the president crustily. "i have not asked your force to resign." "not meaning to, perhaps," countered the young man, maliciously rejoicing in the hope that he had found one vulnerable link in the president's coat of mail. "but if i go, the entire department will go. every man in it is my friend, as well as my subordinate; and they know very well that if they shouldn't go, your new chief would fire them and put in his own men." "ha!" said the president, straightening up again. "am i to understand that you are threatening me, mr. ford." "no, indeed; i am only stating a fact. but it is a pretty serious fact. let us suppose, for the sake of the argument, that my prediction comes true; that within thirty-six or forty-eight hours saint's rest is packed with people trying to get to copah. your new chief, if you shall have found him, will hardly be in the saddle. when he comes he will have to reorganize the department, break in new men, learn by hard knocks what i have been learning in detail--" mr. colbrith thrust out a thin lip of obstinate determination. "and if he does, your hypothetical rush will simply have to wait, mr. ford. we have the key to the copah door." "don't you fool yourself!" snapped ford, forgetting his rôle of the humble one for the moment. "the transcontinental is only forty miles away at jack's canyon, with a pretty decent stage road. long before you can get the extension in shape to carry passengers, or even freight, the other line will be known from maine to california as the keyholder to this district!" that shot told. the president was not yet convinced that the copah boom was real; but there was the chance that it might be--always the chance. and to the over-cautious the taking of chances, however remote, is like the handling of a snake: a thing to inspire creeping horrors. "if you could convince me, mr. ford, that your interest in that mine did not influence you in changing the route of the extension," he began; but ford took him up sharply. "i can't; and i can say no more than i have said." mr. colbrith got up and went to the window to look down upon the excited throng in the street. it did look real. "perhaps we might leave matters as they are, pending a future investigation, mr. ford," he said, turning back to his victim, who was methodically clipping the end from a cigar. "no," was the brittle rejoinder. again the president took time to look down into the crowded street. his next attack was from the rear. "but i have understood that you do not wish to resign. let us be magnanimous, mr. ford, and agree to hang this matter up until this supposed crisis is past." "no," was the curt reply. "i have changed my mind. i don't think i want to work for you any longer, mr. colbrith." "not if i withdrew my--ah--objections?" "no." silence again. the packed lobby of the hotel had overflowed upon the plank sidewalk, and the din of the buyers and sellers rose like the noise of a frantic street fight. ford's half jesting remark about the possibility of the microbe finding its way into the blood of the president was not so pointless as the old man's retort sought to make it appear. it was the wheat pit which had given mr. colbrith his first half-million; and as he listened to the hoarse cries, the thing which he hoped was safely caution-killed began to stir within him. suddenly he picked a word of two out of the sidewalk clamor that made him turn swiftly upon the silent young man. "they are selling 'little alicia'--your stock--down there!" he gasped. "have you--have you--" "no; i haven't put mine on the market. it's some of my partner's, grigsby's, stock. i suppose he couldn't stand the push." once more the president listened. only an ex-wrestler in the wheat pit could have picked intelligence out of the babel of puts and calls. "it's up to a hundred and fifty!" he exploded. "what did you pay for your shares, mr. ford?" "twenty," said ford coolly. "good heavens! i--i hope you hold a safe majority?" "no; we broke even, grigsby and i. i have fifty per cent." the president groaned. "i--i'll excuse you, mr. ford. get down there at once and buy that other necessary share!" ford shook his head with predetermined gloom. "no, mr. colbrith, i'm not buying any more mining stock. what i did buy seems to have cost me my job." "but, my dear young man! this is a crisis. you are likely to lose control of your property! or, at least, it is soaring to a point at which you will never be able to secure the control." ford came up smiling. "you forget that this is mere mad excitement, mr. colbrith," he said, handing back the president's own phrase. "to-morrow, i dare say, i shall be able to buy at twenty again." the president came away from the window and sat down. his face was twitching and the thin white hands were tremulous. "there may be more in this gold discovery than i have been willing to admit," he said abstractedly, "and in that case ... mr. ford, upon what terms will you consent to go on and whip this line of ours into shape?" ford came out of the fog of discouragement with a bound. "a complete change in the management of the pacific southwestern, mr. colbrith. north and his grafters must go." the president did not fly into wrathful shards, as ford fully expected. on the contrary, he was fingering the white goat's-beard with one nervous hand, and apparently listening half-absently to the clamor in the street. "don't be unreasonable, mr. ford," he said quite mildly. "you know we can't consider anything like that at the present moment." "it must be considered," ford persisted. "ever since i quit being a division superintendent, north has obstructed, lied about me, fought me. the time has come when, if i stay, i must have a free hand. i can't have it while he is out of jail." "that is strong language to apply to our first vice-president, mr. ford. and i can only believe that you are prejudiced--unduly prejudiced. but all this may be taken up later. as you suggest, we may be losing very precious time." ford got to his feet. "promise me that you will give the denver management as thorough an investigation as you have given me, mr. colbrith; do that, and give me absolute authority over the macmorroghs and their men for one week; and before the week's end we'll be hauling passengers and freight into copah over our own rails." for a moment the president seemed to be on the point of yielding. then his habitual caution thrust out its foot and tripped him. "i can't be pushed, mr. ford," he complained, with a return of the irritated tone. "let the matter rest for the present. and--and you may consider yourself relieved from duty until i have gone a little deeper into these charges against you. mr. north accuses you, and you accuse mr. north. i must have time to approach those matters deliberately. i don't know which of you to trust." it was a deadlock. ford bowed and laid his hand on the door. "you are still the president of the pacific southwestern, mr. colbrith, and while you remain president--" the old man's pride of office took fire like tow in a furnace. "what do you mean by that, mr. ford? make yourself clear, sir!" he quavered. "i mean just this: if your niece, miss alicia adair, hadn't been good enough to say that she will be my wife, i'd carry this thing up to the board of directors and do my level best to have you put where you could do the least harm." "you? alicia?" the old man shrilled. and then, in an access of senile rage that shook him like a leaf in the wind: "i said you were suspended--you are discharged, sir--here and now! if you give another order as an official of the pacific southwestern company, i'll--i'll put you through the courts for it!" ford opened the door and went out, leaving the president clutching his chair with one hand and balling the other into a shaking fist. the die was cast, and he had thrown a blank at the very moment when the game seemed to be turning his way. what would alicia say? as if the unspoken query had evoked her, the door of her room opened silently and she stood before him in the corridor. "tell me," she commanded. "we have fought it out, and i've had my beating," he said soberly. "when i thought i had him fairly down,--he was actually begging me to stay on with the company,--we got tangled up again over north, and he fired me bodily." "did you--did you tell him about our--" "yes; and that was what set off the final fireworks." she put her hands on his shoulders and made him face her squarely. "stuart, did you lose your temper?" "i--i'm afraid i did--just at the last, you know. it's simply an unspeakable state of affairs, alicia, dear! at a moment when we should be setting the whole world afire in a superhuman effort to flog this piece of construction track into shape, your uncle paralyzes everything!" the constraining touch of her hands became almost a caress. "what shall you do, stuart? is there nothing to be done?" he took his resolution on the spur of the moment. "yes, thank heaven! your uncle has got to find a printing press, or at least a telegraph wire, before he can make my discharge effective. before he can do that, or until he does it, i'm going to pull the throttle wide open and race that discharge circular, if i go to jail for it, afterward! who knows but i shall have time to save the day for the company after all? good-by, dearest. in twenty minutes i shall be riding for the macmorroghs' camp, and when i get there--" "you are going to ride back?--alone? oh, no, no!" she protested; and the clinging arms held him. "why, alicia, girl--see here: what do you imagine could happen to me? why, bless your loving heart, i've been tramping and riding this desert more or less for two years! what has come over you?" "i don't know; but--but--oh, me! you will think i am miserably weak and foolish: but just as you said that, i seemed to see you lying in the road with your horse standing over you--and you were--dead!" "nonsense!" he comforted. "i'll be back here to-morrow, alive and well; but i mustn't lose a minute now. it's up to me to reach horse creek before the news of the gold strike gets there. there'll be a stampede, with every laborer on the line hoofing it for copah. good-by, sweetheart, and--may i?" he took her face between his hands and did it anyhow. five minutes later he was bargaining for a saddle horse at the one livery stable in the camp, offering and paying the selling price of the animal for the two days' hire. it was a rather sorry mount at that, and when he was dragging it out into the street, jack benson, the youngest member of his staff, rode up, that moment in from the tie-camp above cow mountain. "don't dismount, jack," he ordered curtly. "you're just in time to save me eight or ten miles, when the inches are worth dollars. ride for the end-of-track and frisbie on a dead run. tell dick to hold his men, if he has to do it at the muzzle of a gun, and to come on with the track, night and day. he'll have to raise the pay, and keep on raising it--but that's all right. it's an order. rush it!" benson nodded, set his horse at the path leading up to the railroad grade, and spurred up the hill. ford gave a final tug at his saddle cinches, put up a leg and began to pick his way down the thronged street in the opposite direction. thirty seconds afterward a man wearing the laced trousers and broad bullion-corded sombrero of a mexican dandy came out of his hiding-place behind the door of the livery stable office, thoughtfully twirling the cylinder of a drawn revolver. "i take-a da mustang," he said to the boy who had held ford's horse during the short interview with benson. and when the bronco was brought out, the mexican, like ford, looked to the cinches, mounted, and rode down the street leading to the lower mesa and the river. xxiv ruiz gregorio he rode easily, as one born to the saddle, the leathers creaking musically under him to keep time to the shuffling fox-trot of the wiry little range pony. once free of the mining-camp and out upon the mesa, he found a corn-husk wrapper and his bag of dry tobacco and deftly rolled a cigarette, doing it with one hand, cow-boy fashion. when the cigarette was lighted, the horseman ahead was a mere khaki-colored dot, rising and falling in the mellowing distance. with the eye of a plainsman he measured the trail's length to the broken hill range where the pannikin emerges from its final wrestle with the gorges. then he glanced up at the dull crimson spot in the murky sky that marked the sun's altitude. there was time sufficient--and the trail was long enough. he did not push his horse out of the shuffling trot. at the portal hills the horseman now disappearing over the rim of the high mesa would slacken speed. in the canyon itself a dog could not go faster than a walk. on the lower mesa the mexican picked up the galloping dot again, holding it in view until it halted on the river bank a hundred yards below the entrance to the canyon. since the water was low in the ford, the river bank hid the crossing, and the mexican drew rein and waited for the dot to reappear on the opposite shore. a slow minute was lost; then a second and a third. the man in the corded sombrero and laced buckskins touched his horse's flank with a spur and crept forward at a walk, keeping his eyes fixed upon the point where the quarry ought to come in sight again. when three more minutes passed and the farther shore was still a deserted blank, the mexican dug both rowels into his mustang and galloped down to the river, muttering curses in the _patois_ of his native sonora. apparently the closing in had been delayed too long. there were fresh hoof-prints in the marl of the hither approach to the shallow ford, but none to match them on the farther side. the mexican crossed hastily and searched for the outcoming hoof-marks. the rocky bar which formed the northern bank of the stream told him nothing. now it is only in the imagination of the word-smith that the villain in the play is gifted with supernatural powers of discernment. ruiz gregorio maria y alvarez mattacheco, familiarly and less cumbrously known as "mexican george," was a mere murderer, with a quick eye for gun-sights and a ready and itching trigger finger. but he was no vidoeq, to know by instinct which of the two trails, the canyon passage or the longer route over the hills, ford had chosen. having two guesses he made the wrong one first, urging his mustang toward the canyon trail. a stumbling half-mile up the narrow cleft of the river's path revealing nothing, he began to reconsider. drawing a second blank of the same dimensions, he turned back to the ford and tried the hill trail. at the end of the first hundred yards on the new scent he came again upon the fresh hoof-prints, and took off the brow-cramping hat to swear the easier. two courses were now open to him; to press hard upon the roundabout hill trail in the hope of overtaking the engineer before he could reach the horse creek camp, or to pass by the shorter route to the upper ford to head him off at the river crossing. the mexican gave another glance at the dull red spot in the western sky and played for safety. the waylaying alternative commended itself on several counts. the canyon trail was the shorter and it could be traversed leisurely and in daylight. pressing his livery hack as he could, ford would scarcely reach the crossing at the mouth of horse creek before dusk. moreover, it would be easier to wait and to smoke than to chase the quarry over the hills, wearing one's pinto to the bone. ruiz gregorio maria set his horse once more at the task of picking a path among the canyon boulders, riding loosely in the saddle, first in one stirrup and then in the other, and smoking an unbroken succession of the corn-husk cigarettes. one small cloud flecked the sky of satisfaction. his instructions had been explicit. if ford should resign, quit, wash his hands of the pacific southwestern, he might be suffered to escape. if not--there was only one condition attached to the alternative: what was done must be done neatly, with despatch, and at a sufficient distance from any of the macmorrogh camps to avert even the shadow of suspicion. now the upper crossing of waylayings was within a stone's throw of the end-of-track yards; nay, within an amateur's pistol-shot of the commissary buildings. but ruiz gregorio, weighing all the possibilities, found them elastic enough to serve the purpose. a well-calculated shot from behind a sheltering boulder, the heaving of the body into the swift torrent of the pannikin, and the thing was done. what damning evidence might afterward come to the light of day, if, indeed, it should ever come to light, would be fished out of the stream far enough from any of the macmorrogh camps. thus ruiz gregorio maria y alvarez, lolling lazily in his saddle while the hard-breathing mustang picked a toilsome path among the strewn boulders and through the sliding shale beds. he went even further: an alibi might not be needful, but it would be easy to provide one. young jack benson, if no other, would know that ford had taken one of the shorter trails from copah to the camp at horse creek. _bueno!_ he, ruiz gregorio, could slip across the river in the dusk when the thing was done, skirt the headquarters camp unseen, and present himself a little later at señor frisbie's camp of the track-layers, coming, as it were, direct from copah, almost upon the heels of señor benson. after that, who could connect him with the dead body of a man fished out of a river twenty, fifty, a hundred miles away? there was a weak link in the chain. ruiz gregorio's child-like plot turned upon one pivot of hazard--hazard most likely to be ignored by so good a marksman as the "man-killer." one shot he might permit himself, with little danger of drawing a crowd from the mess tent and the sleeping shanties in the horse creek camp. two would bring the men to their doors. any greater number would be taken as the signal of a free fight needing spectators. hence the first shot must suffice. the mexican bore this in mind when, arriving at his post opposite the camp in the early dusk, he chose his ambushing boulder so near the descending hill trail that a stout club might have been substituted for the pistol. the weather promise was for a starless night, but the electric arc-lights were already scintillating at their mastheads in the headquarters railroad yard across the pannikin. later, when the daylight was quite gone and the electrics were hollowing out a bowl of stark whiteness in the night, ruiz gregorio wished he had chosen otherwise. the camp lights shone full upon him and on the mustang standing with drooped head at his elbow, and the trail on the other side of the boulder was in shadow. he was about to take the risk of moving farther up the hill-path to a less exposed lurking place, was hesitating only because his indolent soul rebelled at the thought of having to drag ford's body so many added steps to its burial in the river, when the clink of shod hoofs upon stone warned him that the time for scene-shifting had passed. pushing the mustang out of the line of sight from the trail, he flattened himself against the great rock and waited. ford rode down the last declivity cautiously, for his horse's sake. the trail came out of the hills abruptly, dropping into the rock-strewn river valley within hailing distance of the camp. well within the sweep of the masthead lights across the stream, the boulder-strewn flat was as light as day, save where the sentinel rocks flung their shadows; and promptly at the first facing of the bright electrics, ford's horse stumbled aside from the path and began to take short cuts between the thick-standing boulders for the river. this was how the mexican, instead of having his victim at a complete disadvantage, found himself suddenly uncovered by the flank, exposed, recognized, and hailed in no uncertain tones. "hello, mattacheco! what are you doing here?" ford had a flash-light picture of the horse standing with his muzzle to the ground; of the man flattened against the rock. then he saw the dull gleam of the lights upon blued metal. "you devil!" he shouted; and unarmed as he was, spurred his tired beast at the assassin. here, then, was the weak link in ruiz gregorio's chain twisted to the breaking point at the very outset. instead of taking a deliberate pot-shot at an unsuspecting victim, he was obliged to face about, to fire hastily at a charging enemy, and to spring nimbly aside to save himself from being ridden down. the saving jump was an awkward one: it brought him into breath-taking collision with the upjerking head of the mustang. when he had recovered his feet and his presence of mind, the charging whirlwind had dashed through the shallows of the pannikin, and a riderless horse was clattering across the tracks in the railroad yard. the mexican waited prudently to see what the camp would say to the single shot. it said nothing; it might have been deserted for all the indications there were of life in it. ruiz gregorio snapped the empty shell from his weapon, replacing it with a loaded one, and mounted and rode slowly through the ford. the riderless horse disappearing across the tracks gave him good hope that the hasty shot had accomplished all that a deliberate one might have. there was no dead man tumbled in a heap in the railroad yard, as he had hoped to find. silence, the silence of desertion, brooded over the masthead arcs. painfully the mexican searched, at the verge of the river, in the black shadows cast by the crowding material cars. finally he crossed over to the straggling street of the camp, walking now and leading the spent mustang. silence here, too, broken only by the sputtering sizzle of the electrics. the huge mess tent was dark; there were no lights, save in the closed commissary and in the president's car: no lights, and not a man of the camp's crowding labor army to be seen. at a less strenuous moment the man-killer would have been puzzled by the unusual stillness and the air of desertion. as it was, he was alertly probing the far-flung shadows. the engineer, if only wounded, would doubtless try to hide in the shadows in the railroad yard. the mexican left his horse in the camp street and made an instant search between and under the material cars, coming out now and again to stare suspiciously at the president's private car, standing alone on the siding directly opposite the commissary. the nadia was occupied. it was lighted within, and the window shades were drawn down. ruiz gregorio could never get far from the lighted car without being irresistibly drawn back to it, and finally he darted back in time to see a man rise up out of the shadow of the nearest box-car, spring to the platform of the nadia and kick lustily at the locked door. the door was opened immediately by some one within, and the fugitive plunged to cover--but not before the mexican's revolver had barked five times with the rapid staccato of a machine gun. when ruiz gregorio, dropping the smoking weapon into its holster, would have mounted to put into instant action the plan of the well-considered alibi, a barrel-bodied figure launched itself from the commissary porch, and a vigorous hand dragged horse and man into the shadow of the stables. "off wid you now, you blunderin' dago divvle!" gritted the macmorrogh savagely. "it's all av our necks ye've put into a rope, this time, damn you!" the mexican had dismounted and was calmly reloading his pistol. "you t'ink-a he's not-a sufficiently kill? i go over to da car and bring-a you da proof, _si_?" "you'll come wid me," raved the big contractor. "'tis out av your clumsy hands, now, ye black-hearted blunderin' cross betune a digger indian and a mexican naygur! come on, i say!" the back room of the commissary to which the macmorrogh led the way held three men; eckstein, and the two younger members of the contracting firm. they had heard the fusillade in the camp street and were waiting for news. brian macmorrogh gave it, garnished with many oaths. "the pin-brained omadhaun av a mexican has twishted a rope for all av us! he's let ford come back, alive; let him get to the very dure av the prisident's car! then, begorra! he must mades show himself under the electhrics and open fire on the man who was kicking at the dure and looking sthraight at him!" eckstein asked a single question. "did he get him? if he's dead he can't very well tell who shot him." "that's the hell av it!" raged the big man. "who's to know?" eckstein spat out the extinct cigar stump he was chewing. "we are to know--beyond a question of doubt, this time. who is in the nadia, besides ford?" "the two naygurs." "no one else?" macmorrogh shook his head. "no wan." "you are sure mr. adair and brissac are out of the way?" "they got gallagher to push them up to frisbie's track camp in misther north's car an hour before dark." "none of your men are likely to drift in from the other way up the line?" "not unless somebody carries the news av the gold sthrike--and there's nobody going that way to carry it. the camp's empty but for us." eckstein rose and buttoned his coat. "you have held your own strikers--the men you can depend upon: how many do we count, all told?" "thirteen, counting the five av us here, and the felly that runs the electhric light plant." "h'm; it's a hell of a risk: thirteen men knowing what only one should know--and what that one should hurry to forget. but your butter-fingered mexican has left us no choice. ford knows enough now to send some of us over the road for life. if he got into that car alive, he must never come out of it alive." brian macmorrogh had unlocked a cupboard in the corner of the room. it was a well-filled gun-rack, and he was passing the winchesters out to his brothers. "'tis so," he said briefly. then: "there's the two naygurs in the car: what av thim, misther eckstein?" eckstein took one of the guns and emptied the magazine to make sure of the loading. "we are thirteen to one; the negroes don't count," he replied coldly. "call in your men and we'll go and do what's got to be done." xxv the siege of the nadia with a horse that could have been handled ford would not have run away when the charge upon the mexican failed of its purpose. so far from it, he tried to wheel and charge again while the man was reeling from his collision with the rearing mustang. but the bronco from the copah stable, with the flash and crash of the pistol-shot to madden it, took the bit between its teeth and bolted--safely through the shallows of the stream crossing and up to the level of the railroad yard beyond, but swerving aside at the first of the car shadows to fling its rider out of the saddle. ford gathered himself quickly and rolled under a car. his right arm had no feeling in it, whether from the shot or the fall he could not determine. the numbness had become a prickling agony when he heard the mexican splashing through the river to begin his search. ford's field of vision was limited by the car trucks, but he kept the man in sight as he could. it filled him with sudden and fiery rage to be hunted thus like a defenseless animal, and more than once he was tempted to make a dash for the engineers' quarters on the hillside above the commissary--a rifle being the thing for which he hungered and thirsted. but to show himself under the lights was to invite the fate he had so narrowly escaped. he knew mattacheco's skill as a marksman: the mexican would not be rattled twice in the same half-hour. ford gripped the benumbed arm in impotent writhings. "now, by recognizing him, i've fixed it so that he is obliged to kill me," he muttered. "it's my life, or his neck for a halter, and he knows it. the blood-thirsty devil! if i could only get to brissac's bunk-shanty and lay my hands on a gun ..." there seemed to be no chance of doing that most desirable thing. the mexican was now afoot and coursing the railroad yard like a baffled hound. ford saw that it was only a question of minutes until his impromptu hiding-place would be discovered, and he began to look for another. the nadia was but a short distance away, and the lighted deck transoms beckoned him. it was instinct rather than intention that made him duck and plunge headlong through the suddenly opened door of the private car at the glimpse of his pursuer standing beside his horse in the open camp street. this was why the pistol barked harmlessly. springing to his feet, and leaving the frightened negro who had admitted him trying to barricade the door with cushions from the smoking-room seats, ford burst into the lighted central compartment. it was not empty, as he had expected to find it. two men, startled by the shots and the crash of breaking glass, were prepared to grapple him. it was brissac, the invalided assistant, who cried, "hold on, mr. adair--it's ford, and he's hurt!" ford met the involuntary rush, gathered the two in his uncrippled arm and dragged them to the floor. "that's in case my assassin takes a notion to turn loose on the windows," he panted. then he gasped out his story while brissac got the aching right arm out of its sleeve and looked for the injury. adair listened to the story of the attempted murder awe-struck, as one from the civilized east had a right to be. "by jove!" he commented; "i thought i had bumped into all the different varieties of deviltry since i left denver yesterday morning, but this tops 'em. actually tried to kill you in cold blood? but what for, stuart?--for heaven's sake, what for?" "because he was hired to: because his masters, the macmorroghs, and their master, north, have staked their roll on this last turn of the cards. i know too much, adair. the president was sent over here to get rid of me. that failing, word was passed down the line that i was to be effaced. a few hours ago this mexican overheard me telling your sister what i proposed to do to north and the macmorroghs. that's why he--ouch! roy; that is my arm you're trying to twist out of joint, man!" "it's all right," laughed the louisianian; "it is only a crazy-bone bump that you got when the bronc' threw you. say, ford; i thought you claimed to know how to ride a horse!" adair was feeling in his pockets for the inevitable cigarette case. "what he overheard you telling alicia?" he mused. "i'm evidently two or three chapters behind. but no matter; this is the now; the very immediate now. will your assassin keep on feeling for you?" ford shook his head. "not any more just at present, i guess. he has waited too long. that fusillade of his will have turned the entire camp out by this time, and the macs don't want any inconvenient witnesses." "witnesses?" echoed adair. "then you don't know--say, stuart; there isn't a white man in this camp besides us three--unless you count the macmorroghs and their commissary garrison as white men. news of the great gold strike got here about three o'clock, and every laborer within hearing of it shouldered pick and shovel and lined out up the new track for copah." "what!" shouted ford. "and these dash-_dashed_ macmorroghs didn't try to hold them?" "i don't know about that. i had mr. brissac, here, over in the ' '--i came across the mountain in north's car, you know--dosing him with things out of doctor van bruce's traveling case, and trying to get him in shape to show me the way to copah. after the stampede, which took all the four-legged horses as well as the two-legged asses, i persuaded your man gallagher to hitch his engine to our car to drag us up to frisbie's camp at the front. i thought frisbie would probably be in communication with you. gallagher's intentions were good, but about three miles up horse creek he ditched the car so thoroughly that we couldn't inhabit it; so we got out and walked back." "all of which brings on more talk," said ford gravely. "from what you say, i gather that the macmorroghs are still here. did any one see you come back?" "i don't know. it was after dark when we straggled in, and we didn't ring any bells or blow any whistles." ford stood up. "does either one of you happen to have anything bigger than a pocket-knife in the way of a weapon?" he asked. "why? what are you going to do?" adair demanded. "i am going to separate you two from my highly dangerous presence," said ford definitely. "the macmorroghs' outfit of a dozen or fifteen cutthroat scoundrels, captained, for the moment, by eckstein, north's right-hand man, are doubtless just across the way in the back room of the commissary. you say the camp is otherwise deserted: the macmorroghs don't know that you are here; and they do know that i am, dead or alive. moreover, mattacheco has doubtless told them by this time that i saw and recognized him. wherefore, it's up to them to see that i never get a chance to go before a grand jury." "you sit down on the floor," said adair. he had found a cigarette and was crimping the end of it. "have you a fraction of an idea that we are going to allow you to make a jonah of yourself for us? sit down, i say! who's got a gun?" brissac had crept to a window and was reconnoitering the deserted camp street and the commissary through a peephole in the drawn shade. as adair spoke, he sprang back, tripped ford and fell with him, crying: "down! both of you!" at the cry there was a shot from without, and a window on the exposed side of the nadia fell in shivers. there were yells of terror from the cook's pantry, and the two negroes came crawling through the side vestibule, their eyes like saucers and their teeth chattering. ford jumped up and turned off the pintsch lights; and he was barely down again when another shot broke a second window. "wouldn't that jolt you?" said adair. "they are feeling for you with both hands. what a heaven's pity it is that we haven't so much as a potato popgun among us to talk back with. what did you see, mr. brissac?" "a crowd of them bunched on the commissary porch. one of them was sighting a winchester at the car when i got busy." adair was again lamenting the lack of arms when the negro porter produced a pocket bulldog pistol of the cheap and uncertain sort. "y-y-y-yah you is, mistuh charles," he stuttered. "ah, williams--concealed weapons? that is fifty dollars fine in your native tennessee, isn't it?" then to brissac: "please go to the farther window and mark down for me, mr. brissac. i don't like to have those fellows do all the bluffing." while the assistant was complying, a third bullet from the commissary porch tore high through the car, smashing one of the gas globes. adair crawled to a broken window and the cheap revolver roared like an overloaded musket. "good shot!" said brissac, from his marking post. "you got one of them: he's down and they're dragging him inside. now they have all ducked to cover." "that settles any notion of a palaver and the pipe of peace, i guess," said adair, as indifferently as if he had just brought down a clay pigeon. "prophesy, stuart: what comes next?" ford shook his head. "they can't quit now till they are sure i am permanently obliterated; they have gone too far. they'll credit me with that shot of yours, and they will take it as a pretty emphatic proof that i still live. hence, more war." "well, what do we do? you are the captain." "picket the car and keep a sharp lookout for the next move. brissac, you take the forward end, and i'll take the rear platform. adair, post your africans in here where they'll do the most good, and see that they don't go to sleep on their jobs." the disposition of forces was quickly made, after which suspense set in. silence and the solitude of the deserted camp reigned unbroken; yet the watchers knew that the shadows held determined enemies, alertly besieging the private car. to prove it, adair pulled down a portière, gave it bulk with a stuffing of berth pillows, and dropped the bundle from one of the shattered windows. three jets of fire belched from the nearest shadow, and the dummy was riddled. adair fired at one of the flashes, resting the short-barreled pistol across the window ledge, and the retaliatory shot brought ford hurrying in from his post. "for heaven's sake, don't waste your ammunition!" he whispered. "one of them has gone up to the powder-house after dynamite. i heard the creaking of the iron door." adair whistled softly. "dynamite! that will bring things to a focus beautifully, won't it? when they have blown us up, i wonder how they will account to uncle sidney for the loss of his car?" brissac had come running in at the sound of the firing. he missed the grim humor in adair's query. "car, nothing!" he retorted. "better say the entire camp and everything in it! there's a whole box-car load of dynamite and caps out here in the yard--sub-contractors' supplies waiting for the freighters' teams from the west end. if they smash us, the chances are ten to one that there'll be a sympathetic explosion out yonder in the yard somewhere that will leave nothing but a hole in the ground!" "no," said ford. "i gave orders myself to have that car set down below the junction when the nadia came in." "so you did; and so it was," brissac cut in. "but afterward it got mixed in the shifting, and it's back in the yard--i don't know just where." adair turned to the cowering porter. "have you any more cartridges for this cannon of yours, williams?" he asked. "n-n-no, sah." "then we have three more chances in the hat. much obliged for the dynamite hint, stuart. i'll herd these three cartridges pretty carefully. back to your sentry-boxes, you two, and make a noise if you need the artillery." another interval of suspense followed, thickly scored with pricklings of anxiety for the besieged. then an attempt was made from the rear. ford saw a dodging shadow working its way from car to car in the yard and signaled softly to adair. "hold low on him," he cautioned, when the new yorker was at his elbow, "those cheap guns jump like a scared cow-pony." then he added: "and pray god you don't hit what he's carrying." adair held low and bided his time. there was another musket-like roar, and an instant though harmless reply from two rifles on the other side of the nadia. but the dodging shadow was no longer advancing. "i've stopped him for the time being, anyhow," said adair, exulting like a boy. "if we only had a decent weapon we could get them all, one at a time." "this was crude," ford commented. "eckstein will think up something better for the next attempt." it was a prophecy which found its fulfilment after another sweating interval of watchfulness. this time it was brissac who made the discovery, from the forward end of the nadia. the nearest of the material cars was a box, lying broadside to the private car on the next side-track but one. from behind the trucks of the box-car a slender pole, headed with what appeared to be an empty oyster tin, and trailing a black line of fuse, was projecting itself along the ground by slow inchings, creeping across the lighted space between the two cars. brissac promptly gave the alarm. "this is where we lose out, pointedly and definitely," predicted adair, still cheerful. "anybody want to try a run for it?" it was ford who thought of the two negroes. "tell them, roy," he said to brissac. "perhaps they would rather risk the rifles." brissac crept back to the central compartment, and the two watchers marked the progress of the inching pole, with its dynamite head and the ominous black thread of communication trailing like a grotesque horn behind it. at the crossing of the intervening track it paused, moving back and forth along the steel like a living thing seeking a passage. finally the metallic head of it appeared above the rail, hesitated, and came on slowly. at that moment there was a shout, and the two negroes, hands held high, tumbled from the opposite step of the nadia and ran toward the commissary stables. three shots bit into the silence, and the fat cook ran on, stumbling and shrieking. but the man williams stopped short and fell on his face, rolling over a moment later to lie with arms and legs outspread. "god!" said ford, between his set teeth; "they saw who they were--they couldn't help seeing! and there was no excuse for killing those poor devils!" but there was no time for reprisals, if any could have been made. when brissac rejoined the two in the forward vestibule, the stiff-bodied snake with its tin head and trailing horn was crossing the second rail of the intervening siding. "we've got to think pretty swiftly," suggested adair, still cool and unruffled. "i might be able to hit that tin thing at this short distance, but i suppose that would only precipitate matters. what do you say?" ford could not say, and brissac seemed to have become suddenly petrified with horror. he was staring at the lettering on the box-car opposite--the one under whose trucks the dynamiters were hiding. "look!" he gasped; "it's the car of explosives, and they don't know it!" then he darted back into the nadia's kitchen, returning quickly with a huge carving-knife rummaged from the pantry shelves. "stand back and give me room," he begged; and they saw him lean out to send the carving-knife whistling through the air: saw it sever the head from the stiff-bodied snake--the head and the trailing horn as well. "good man!" applauded adair, dragging the assistant engineer back to safety before any of the sharpshooters had marked him down. "where did you learn that trick?" "it is my one little accomplishment," confessed the louisianian. "an old chickasaw chief taught me when i was a boy in the bayou country." the peril was over for the moment. the severed pole was withdrawn, and for what seemed like an endless interval the attack paused. the three besieged men kept watch as they might, creeping from window to window. out under the blue glare of the commissary arc-light the body of the negro porter lay as it had fallen. once, ford thought he heard groans from the black shadow where the fat cook had disappeared, but he could not be sure. on the other side of the private car, and half-way between it and the forty-thousand-pound load of high explosives, the petard oyster-tin lay undisturbed, with the carving-knife sticking in the sand beside it. "what will they try next?" queried adair, when the suspense was again growing intolerable. "it is simple enough, if they happen to think of it," was ford's rejoinder. "a few sticks of dynamite in a plugged gas-pipe: cut your fuse long enough, light it, and throw the thing under the car. that would settle it." adair yawned sleepily. "well, they've got all night for the inventive part of it. there's no rescue for us unless somebody--a good husky army of somebodies--just happens along." "the army is less than eight miles away--over at frisbie's camp," said ford. "with dick to lead them, the track-layers would sack this place in about five minutes. if i could only get to the wire!" brissac heard the "if." "let me try to run their picket line, ford," he said eagerly. "if i can get around to our quarters and into the telegraph tent--" "you couldn't do it, roy. there is the proof of it," pointing to the body of the slain negro. "but i have been thinking of another scheme. the track-camp wire is bracketed across the yard on the light-poles. i have my pocket relay. i wonder if we could manage to cut in on that wire?" "wait a minute," brissac interrupted. he was gone but a moment, and when he returned he brought hope with him. "the wire is down and lying across the front vestibule," he announced excitedly. "they must have cut it up yonder by the telegraph tent and the slack has sagged down this way." "which gives us a dead wire without any batteries," said ford gloomily; and then: "hold on--aren't there electric call-bells in this car, adair?" "yes, several of them; one in each state-room." "good! that means batteries of some sort," said ford. "rummage for them, brissac, while i get that wire in here." the wire was successfully pulled in through the front vestibule without giving the alarm. ford twisted it in two when he had enough of it to reach the central compartment. adair did sentry duty while the two technicians wrought swiftly. the bell battery was found, the ground connection made with a bit of copper wire stripped from one of the state-rooms, and ford quickly adjusted the delicate spring of the tiny field relay. what he feared most was that the few dry-cells of the bell battery would not supply the current for the eight miles of line up horse creek. for a time, which lengthened to dragging minutes, the anxious experimenters hung over the tiny field instrument. the sensitive magnet seemed wholly dead. then, suddenly, it began to tick hesitantly in response to ford's tapping of the key. "thank god, the battery is strong enough," he exclaimed. "now, if there is somebody within hearing at frisbie's end of the line ..." he was clicking persistently and patiently, "e-t," "e-t," "e-t," alternating now and then with the horse creek call and his own private code letter, when adair came up from his post at one of the rear windows. the golden youth was the bearer of tidings, but ford held up his hand for silence: some one was breaking in to reply from frisbie's--frisbie, himself, as the minimized tickings speedily announced. ford snipped out his call for help in the fewest possible words: arm m'grath's gang and bring it by train to horse creek, quick. macmorroghs are trying to dynamite us in the nadia. ford. almost without a break in the insect-like tickings the reply came: stand them off; help coming. the thing done, the master workman in ford snatched at the helm. did you catch and hold the pick-and-shovel men from this camp? he clicked anxiously. got them all herded here and ready to go back to work--for more pay, answered frisbie; and ford ticked one more word, "hurry," and closed the key with a sigh of relief. then, and not until then, adair said: "is that all, for the present? if it is, i'm sorry to have to report that the beggars outside have hit upon your gas-pipe scheme. they are rolling a round, black thing with a string attached down upon us from the commissary. the slant of the hill is just enough to keep it coming where the ground is smooth." from sheer force of habit, ford disconnected his field telegraph, cased and pocketed it. then there was an instant adjournment to the rear windows on the camp side. happily, the rolling bomb was as yet only on the way. pebbles and roughnesses intervened here and there to stop or to turn it aside, and since it was out of reach of their longest pole, the dynamiters would start it on again by throwing stones at it. hereupon ensued a struggle which, under other conditions, would have figured as horse-play. one after another the three men in the car heaved cushions, pillows, obstructions of any sort, in the path of the rolling menace. and behind the commissary barricade the dynamiters patiently twitched the bomb by the firmly fastened fuse this way and that to avoid the obstacles, or sent it forward under the impact of well-directed missiles. ford was the first of the three to recognize the futility of the cushion barricades. "they'll beat us--they'll drop it in the ditch right here under us in spite of fate!" he juried. "brissac: go and break the glass in the accident tool-case and bring me the ax, quickly!" and when he had it; "now get me a piece of that telegraph wire and bend a hook on the end of it--jump for it; you'll have to twist it off with your fingers!" with an energy that made no account of the lamed arm, ford tore up the carpet and fell to work fiercely, cutting a hole through the car floor; while brissac broke a piece from the wire and bent a finger-shaped hook on the end of it. adair, with his eye at a hole in a window shade, gave his attention to the attack. "they are getting it here, slowly but surely," he reported. "it is going to roll under us just about where you are.... now it has gone past my line of sight." and a moment later, in the same drawling monotone: "they have lighted the fuse, but there is a good long string of it to burn through. take your time--" then, with a sudden failure in the monotone: "no, by jove! you can't take your time! the fire is jumping across the road to beat the band!" the hole was opened through the floor, and ford was on his stomach with his face and an arm in the aperture, fishing desperately for the loop in the fuse. it was his success, his sudden drawing of the loop up into the car, that had shocked adair out of his pose. brissac was ready with the ax, and the instant the loop appeared it was severed, the burning end cast off, and the other end, with the bomb attached, was safely drawn up into the car. the perspiration was running from ford's face in streams when he had the engine of death securely in his hands. "take it, roy," he gasped. "drop it into the water-cooler. that will be the safest place for it if they fall back on the gun-play." as if his word had evoked it, a storm of rifle bullets swept through the car, smashing windows, breaking the remaining gas globes and splintering the wood-work. again and again the flashes leaped out of the surrounding shadows and the air was sibilant with whining missiles. brissac had the infernal machine: at first he fell upon it and covered it with his body; afterward he crawled with it into the nearest state-room and muffled it in a roll of berth mattresses. when the storm ceased, as suddenly as it had begun, they crept together in the vestibule farthest from the commissary lead-hurling volcano to count the casualties. there was none; not even a bullet score or a splinter-wound to show for the hot bombardment, though the side of the nadia facing the commissary was riddled. "i'm believing all i've ever read about its taking a hundred pounds of lead to kill one man in a war battle," said the new yorker, grimly humorous to the last. "how do you two c. e.'s account for it?" "we don't," said ford shortly. "we're merely thankful that all humankind habitually shoots high when it's excited or in a hurry." [illustration: brissac hurled the skillet like a clumsy discus] then he sprang afoot, secured his ax, and sent brissac to the pantry to rummage for other weapons. "a rush is the next thing in order," he suggested; and they prepared as they could to meet it. but the rush did not come. instead of it, one man, carrying what appeared to be a bundle of dripping rags, came cautiously into the open and approached the shattered car. the night wind sweeping down from the upper valley was with him, and the pungent odor of kerosene was wafted to and through the broken windows. "oho!" said adair. "having safely shot you dead or disabled, they are now going to give you christian burial, ford. also, they will comfortably obliterate all the marks and scars of this pleasant evening's diversion. how near shall i let him come before i squander one of the two remaining cartridges on him?" "wait," said brissac in a half-whisper. in his second pantry rummaging he had found nothing more promising than a cast-iron skillet--promising because it had weight and a handle to wield it by. the intending incendiary was no more than a few yards from his goal when brissac rose up opposite the nearest shattered window and hurled the skillet like a clumsy discus. his aim was true to a hand's-breadth: a bullet from adair's pistol could have done no more. with a cry that was fairly shogged out of him by the impact of the iron missile, the man flung away his burden, dropped in his tracks and lay groaning. they looked for another storm of lead to follow this, and hugged the floor in readiness for it. when it did not come, ford crept to the hole in the car floor and listened long and intently. half an hour he had given frisbie to get his track-layers together, and to cover the eight miles of rough-laid rails with the construction train. what was delaying him? "you said gallagher ditched your car: did it block the track?" he asked of adair. "it did, didn't it, brissac?" was the answer, and the assistant confirmed it. "then that is why frisbie can't get to us. was gallagher's engine still on the rails?" "it was." ford sat up and nursed his knees. "dick will make a way if he can't find one ready made. but it may take hours. meanwhile, if these devils have scouts out--" "yes?" said adair. "they'll bring the warning, and there won't be much more time wasted in experiments. they can do us up, if they get right down to business." "what are they doing now?" adair asked of brissac, who was on watch on the commissary side. "i'll be hanged if i know. it looks like a young cannon, and it's pointed this way. by george! it's coming--coming by its all alone, too!" by this time they were all watching the new menace. brissac's description fitted it accurately; a cylindrical object mounted upon a pair of small wheels taken from the commissary store-room truck. it came toward the nadia by curious surges--a rush forward and a pause--trailing what appeared to be a long iron rod behind it. ford hit upon the explanation. the cylindrical thing was another gas-pipe bomb; the iron tail was a smaller pipe containing and armoring the fuse, and serving also as the means of propulsion. they were coupling on additional lengths of the fuse-carrying pipe as they were needed; hence the jerking advances and pauses. adair's low laugh was as care-free as ever. "a practical illustration of the tail wagging the dog," he remarked. "but the dog will wag us good and plenty when they get him where they want him. you can't fish that thing up through the hole with your wire--or crop the tail." "no; it's a run for it, this time," said ford, rising and stripping his coat. but brissac was pointing to three or four men dodging from shadow to shadow under the masthead lights and circling wide to tighten the line of circumvallation. "we shan't run very far," he commented. it seemed a hair-graying age to the watchers at the nadia's windows before the men behind the commissary barricade got their infernal machine placed to their liking. they stared at it, all three of them, fascinated, deaf and blind to all else. a minimized shudder as of drumming wheels or escaping steam was in the air when they saw the flare of the match that betokened the firing of the fuse, but no one of the three heard it. it was when the sputtering line of fire had buried itself in its tube that they became suddenly alive to the unbelievable fact that a locomotive was thundering down the yard on the nadia's track. a rifle cracked; then another and a third; but the engine came on as if its driver bore a charmed life. surely michael gallagher must have prayed to the saints that night. he did not know that the very seconds had become priceless: he knew only that frisbie had sent him on ahead to snake the president's car out of the horse creek yard as quickly as possible. yet if he could have seen the bomb and the sputtering fuse, he could not have slowed more deftly to let the automatic couplers clutch each other, nor, at the touch and clamp, could he have reversed and gathered headway with greater skill. the three occupants of the nadia staggered to their feet as the private car lunged ahead in the grasp of the big engine, increasing speed with every wheel-turn. mechanically, and as one man, they rushed to the rear platform. the mock cannon stood where it had been thrust; but in the camp street a handful of men were wrestling madly with the pipe fuse-carrier, breaking it, wrenching it in pieces, and stamping futilely upon the snake-like thing hissing and spitting under their feet. "look!" sobbed adair. "they know--they've discovered that box-car! oh, why in the name of the pitiful christ don't they drop it and run?" this from the man who had laughed, and aimed and fired and laughed again, in the heat of battle. but ford's rejoinder was the bitter malediction of the defeated industry captain. "damn their worthless lives!" he stormed. "in the next half-minute the pacific southwestern stands to lose a quarter of a million dollars!" it was but a vanishing glimpse that they had of the handful of madmen stamping and dancing under the masthead light in front of the commissary; a glimpse withdrawing swiftly into a dim perspective as the nadia was whisked around the curve and up the horse creek grade. it was after gallagher had picked up the lights of the waiting train of armed track-layers, and was whistling to announce his success, that the end came. for the three watchers on the rear platform of the president's car the little constellation of arc-stars in the valley below was suddenly blotted out in a skyward belching of gray flame; a huge volcano-burst of momentarily illuminated dust. instinctively they braced themselves for the concussion that followed,--a bellowing thunderclap and a rending of earth and air that shook the surrounding hills and drowned the shriek of gallagher's whistle. a blast of air, down-drawn from the heights to fill the dreadful vacuum, was still rocking the stopped car when frisbie climbed nimbly to the railed rear platform and swung his lantern to light the faces of the three men braced in the doorway. "a close call, gentlemen," was his only comment; and then he appealed briefly to ford for orders. "back us down slowly," said ford shortly, "and follow with your train. we may need the men." frisbie went forward through the wrecked private car, returning presently to flag gallagher along with the lantern swung over the railing. down in the valley of the pannikin the heavy, sickening fumes of the burned explosives hung in the air, and when the car swung in on the straight line the red glare of a wrecked and burning oil tank lighted the scene. the camp site was blankly unrecognizable. where the ten-tracked yard had been there was a vast depression, half-filled with distorted steel and débris indescribable, twisted iron and splintered wood, with the water from the river pouring into it. the commissary buildings and the surrounding bunk-shanties were gone, swept away as with the stroke of a mighty broom; and the trees on the hill-sides above were scorched and shriveled as if a forest fire had blasted them. frisbie was the first to speak after he had flagged gallagher to a stand on the farthermost edge of the devastation. "any use to turn out the crew and hunt for them?" he asked. ford shook his head. "no. leave m'grath and a few others to stand guard and to flag the incoming steel trains, and let's get out of this. i'm sick; and so is mr. adair." xxvi the star of empire a week, the most strenuous week in copah's history, had passed, and still the president's party delayed its return to what miss priscilla van bruce constantly referred to as "civilization"; though the farthest west has always been slow to admit the derogatory comparison which the word implies. during the strenuous week much had happened, and much more was scheduled to happen. for one twenty-four-hour day the ex-speculator in mr. colbrith held out against the sharp attacks of the reawakened lust of conquest. then, from jack's canyon on the transcontinental, from men-clustered construction trains on the extension, over the passes from summit lakes, and across the brown plains from green butte, poured the army of gold-seekers, and the president was swept away and into the very vortex of the stock-jobbing whirlpool. it was not until the third day of the week that adair came ambling into copah, riding a cart mule from frisbie's camp. to his sister and his aunt the young man told everything; to his uncle nothing. between gasps in the speculative frenzy mr. colbrith found time to complain bitterly to his nephew of ford's defection. "it was dastardly!" he shrilled. "we had some words; i don't deny that we had some words. but he was most unreasonable. he should have gone about his business and let me have time to consider. here are thousands of people pouring into this place, everything at famine prices, no supplies for our miners, no railroad to bring them. what's this i hear about an accident at horse creek? why isn't ford on the ground attending to his railroad building and straightening things out? have i got to forfeit the money-making chance of a lifetime and go and drag that track into copah with my own hands?" adair seemed suddenly to have lost his tongue, which was certainly glib enough ordinarily. all he would say was that the engineering department was still at work, he believed; that the track was approaching copah, slowly, perhaps, but pretty surely. "but without a head!" snapped the irate president. "ford is a traitor to the company. tell him so from me, sir, if you know where he is skulking." adair did tell ford, circumstantially, when he rode the cart mule out of town the next morning and met the young engineer at the head of a tremendously augmented track force, rushing the rails around the swelling hills on the approach to the mining-camp-city. "oh, he's still up in the air," laughed the director, when he had repeated the president's wrathful outburst. "frantic because the road isn't finished; frantic because he can't get in on all the ground-floors in all the mining deals; frantic some more because he has to live in a shack hotel while he has a private car and a good cook, as he thinks, only a few miles away. which reminds me: the ' ' has a pretty good cook, and the incomparible johnson,--don't let them escape. have you sent the nadia back to denver for repairs?" "yes; frisbie went over in it this morning." "frisbie?" "yes, i had to let him go. word came from leckhard as soon as we got the wire reestablished, which was late last night. north was taken suddenly ill the day after the explosion. he resigned at once by wire to the executive committee in new york, and two days later he took a steamer from galveston for nobody knows where; health trip--doctor's orders--leckhard said. i sent frisbie over to be acting manager of the system, pending the president's--er--recovery from _his_ sudden illness. leckhard says the new york people are burning the wires trying to get word to mr. colbrith." "they may go on burning them," said adair calmly. "uncle sidney isn't going to quit until he owns a good half of the copah district--or gets his armature burned out. and if he were ready to quit, we shouldn't let him. but how are things working out on the extension?--that is what interests me." "bully!" was the enthusiastic reply. "we're spending money like water; paying anything that's asked; and even then the men come and go like a torchlight procession. but we are keeping the surfacing gangs neck-full the entire length of the line, and leckhard has already organized his regular train service over the first hundred miles. that puts us on an even footing with the transcontinental at jack's canyon, and the tide is fairly turned our way. when we lay the rails into copah,--which will be the day after to-morrow, if nothing pulls in two,--the first through passenger train, with the ' ' in tow, will be right behind us. does the report satisfy you?" "your word fits it: it's bully." "then i want my reward. when am i to be allowed to chase in and pay my respects to your--er--aunt, and--and miss alicia?" adair laughed. "my--er--aunt!" he mocked. "much you care about aunt hetty. and i've a thing or two to say about alicia. who gave you leave to fall in love with my little sister, i'd like to know?" "she did," retorted ford brazenly. "don't tell me you are going to try to kick it over at this late day. you can't, you know." adair tilted his hat to the back of his head and thrust his hands into his pockets. "i'm no such wild ass of the prairies," he declared. "but, my good friend, you don't come into town till you bring your railroad with you. i know how it will be: you'd linger for just one more last fond farewell, and about that time uncle sidney would drop in on you unexpectedly. then there'd be a family row, after which my pacific southwestern stock wouldn't be worth a whoop. no; you wait till i get uncle sidney safely where i want him--properly in the nine-hole, and then i'll flag you in." the chance for which the golden youth was waiting and working climaxed on the day the extension rails came down the hill-side grade above the town--a town now spreading into a wilderness of hastily built and crowding structures. it was a simple pit he had digged for an old man suddenly gone mad with the fever of mine-buying. from picking up stock in a score of prospects, mr. colbrith had hedged by concentrating his heavy investments in six or seven of the most promising of the partly developed properties. then, to make assurance reasonably sure, he had sprung the modern method of combination upon his fellow stock-holders in the producing mines. the promising group was to be merged in one giant holding corporation, strong enough to control the entire copah situation. but there were obstacles in the way; obstructions carefully placed, if the truth must be told, by an unscrupulous young manipulator in the president's own household. the little alicia was in the group, was the keystone in the combination arch, as it chanced, and unhappily grigsby had parted with a grievous block of his share of the stock--a block which could neither be recovered nor traced to its present holder. not to make a mystery of the matter, the certificates were safely locked in a safety-deposit box in the vault of the bank of copah, and the key to the box rattled in adair's pocket. and because the little alicia could not be included, three other necessary votes were withheld when the president tried to get action. mr. colbrith was in despair. a good many of his investments were palpably bad; and they could be recouped only by the backing of the combination. and the combination obstinately refused to combine unless the little alicia could be gathered in. at the end of the ends mr. colbrith appealed to his nephew. "you know where ford is," he began accusingly. "you needn't deny it. i was in hopes we wouldn't have to ask him to sell us more than one share of his stock, which he couldn't decently refuse to do if we let him set his own price. but since we can't trace that block that grigsby let go, we must have nearly all of ford's. find him: get his stock if you have to pay twice par for it. if you don't, i--i shall be the heaviest loser in this camp, charles edward." it was gall and wormwood to the old man, but it had to be swallowed. "so you are coming around to ask a favor of ford?" said the young man unfeelingly. "he won't help you out. you mustn't forget that you kicked him out of the family; or rather you kicked him to prevent his getting into it." "but think of the profit to him!" protested the president. "he paid only twenty cents for his half of the alicia; he told me so himself. at two hundred he'd clear ninety thousand; a magnificent amount for so young a man!" "ford doesn't care anything about money. you can't move him that way." "well, then, find him for me and i'll--i'll apologize," said mr. colbrith, pressed now to the last extremity. "he doesn't want your apologies, uncle sidney. your little tiff was between man and man, and he'd never think of holding you accountable for anything you were foolish enough to say." "then what in heaven's name does he want?"--irascibly. "oh, a lot of things: reinstatement; your order to investigate the denver management; a chance to build his railroad unmolested; and, as a side issue, a chance to whitewash your administration of pacific southwestern by conducting the house-cleaning in your name--this last because he thinks something of the family honor. he doesn't have to consider us, you know. at the next annual meeting he can elect brewster president over your head: then you will have to stand for all the grafting and deviltry that will be unearthed." the ground for this duel between president colbrith and the determined young pace-setter was the lobby of the tar-paper-covered hotel, cleared now of the impromptu mining-stock exchange, which had moved into permanent quarters. the old man rose stiffly and stood grasping the chair-back. "the same reckless charges against mr. north and his subordinates--and now _you_ are making them!" he rasped. "they are groundless; groundless, i tell you!" adair looked at his watch, listened a moment as for some expected sound from out-of-doors, and motioned toward the vacated chair. "sit down, uncle sidney, and let me tell you what happened at horse creek camp a week ago last night," he said evenly; and then he told the story of the attempt upon ford's life, of the siege of the nadia, of the terrible catastrophe which had involved all three of the macmorroghs, the commissary staff, eckstein, and the headquarters camp. when he finished, the president was shaking as if from a chill. yet one thread of the strong strand of loyalty still held. "it was horrible--fiendish!" he shuddered. "but it was the macmorroghs' fight. it does not necessarily incriminate north." "it does," said adair, in the same even tone. "i told you that we left a few men at the wrecked camp to warn the incoming material trains. they found a single survivor of the thirteen men who tried to destroy us and the nadia. it was eckstein, north's secretary, and before he died he amply confirmed all of our guesses. they had plotted to have you quarrel with ford. ford had bought his half of the little alicia without any prompting, but from that as a starting point the entire scheme was worked up. the macmorroghs' bookkeeper, a man named merriam--who is at present in copah, and whose deposition i have had taken before a justice of the peace--was detailed to win frisbie over to the change of route--no difficult thing, since the change was for the better. but merriam's part was chiefly to keep frisbie from finding out anything about ford's mine; which he did. am i making it clear?" the president bowed his head. "then, when you came west on your inspection trip, the trap was sprung. you were told that ford had been doing a dishonorable thing, and you were urged to come over here and see for yourself. to make sure that there should be no slips, penfield was sent with you, ostensibly as your acting secretary, but really as a spy--" "oh, no; i can't think that of young penfield," protested the president. "i say yes; and the proof is that penfield has confessed. he was scared into it when i told him what had happened at horse creek and gave him his choice of telling me what he knew, or going to jail. then i came on the scene at the inopportune moment, and after north had carefully issued instructions intended to delay me as much as possible, he sent eckstein in post-haste by way of jack's canyon and the stage trail to get ahead of me. you see, he was afraid to trust matters to penfield, who would most certainly have stopped short of the desperate measures eckstein and the macmorroghs finally took. it was decided at a council in which penfield was present, that ford's elimination must go through. if you didn't quarrel with him and drop him, he was to be murdered." mr. colbrith was silent for a long minute after adair ceased speaking. then he looked up to say: "what was ford doing at horse creek that night? he had left me only a few hours before; and, as i have said, we had--we had some words." adair smiled. "he was about to begin doing what he has been doing ever since: flogging the extension into shape night and day to get it ready to carry passengers and freight. he conceived it to be his duty--to you as well as to the other stock-holders. and he _has_ flogged it into shape. look out of that window, uncle sidney!" a long passenger train, crowded to the platforms, and with the private car " " in tow, was winding down the grade of the opposite hillside, and as they stepped to the windows the engineer woke the echoes with the engine whistle. "the first one of many, let us hope," said the young man, standing at his uncle's elbow. then, with quite a different note in his voice: "it's stuart's work, all of it. he has scarcely stopped to eat or sleep since that horrible night in the pannikin valley. and that night, uncle sidney, i fought shoulder to shoulder with him--as a brother should; he is a man, and--there are not many more--like him." the president's thin lips were drawn into straight lines, and the thin goat's-beard stood out at the argumentative angle. mr. colbrith was chary of his emotions. "will he sell us that stock in the little alicia, charles edward?" adair smiled at the determined return to the practical. "no," he said; "i don't think he will--i shouldn't, if i were in his place. but he will do the next best thing: he will marry alicia and so bring it into the family. and on the railroad conditions i have named, i am quite sure he will make you his voting proxy if you want to use it in forcing the combine." the president took a turn as far as the clerk's counter and back. the lobby was deserted, everybody having gone to welcome the first train into copah. "you seem to have north against the wall," he said when he came back. "yet, for the sake of--of, well of his wife and children, he must have even-handed justice. i must insist upon that." it was the most lovable thing in the irascible old man--his undying loyalty to a man in whom he had once believed. adair slew the last hope with reluctance. drawing a thick packet of undelivered telegrams from his pocket, he handed it to his uncle. "justice is the one thing mr. north is most anxious to dodge," he said gravely. "when the news of the catastrophe reached him, he resigned by wire--to new york; not to you--got his physician to order him out of the country, and left denver between two days. ford has sent frisbie to denver to hold things together, and there has been a number of removals--subject, of course, to your approval. you will find the history of all these minor happenings in those telegrams, which i have been collecting--and holding--until you had leisure to look them over." "where is mr. ford now?" asked the president crisply. "he is not very far away; in fact, he is up-stairs in the sitting-room of our suite with aunt hetty and the two van bruce ladies and alicia. incidentally,--quite incidentally, you understand,--he is waiting to be asked to help you out in that mining deal." "fetch him," was the curt command; and mr. colbrith sat down to wade resignedly through the mass of delayed wire correspondence. * * * * * what remains of the story of the pacific southwestern is a chapter, as yet unfinished, in the commercial history of the great and growing empire of the west. of the rush to the copah gold field; of the almost incredible celerity with which a stretch of one hundred and forty-odd miles of construction track was opened for the enormous traffic which was instantly poured in upon it; of the rapid extension of the line to a far western outlet; of the steady advance of p. s-w. shares to a goodly premium: these are matters which are recorded in the newspaper files of the period. for the typically american success of the southwestern's dramatic upward leap to the rank of a great railway system, president colbrith has the name and the fame. yet here and there in the newspaper record there is mention of one stuart ford, "our rising young railroad magnate," in the unashamed phrase of the _copah megaphone_, first as the president's assistant; later, as first vice-president and general manager of the system, in the chicago headquarters, with mr. richard frisbie as his second in command on the western lines, and mr. charles edward adair as comptroller and chief of finances on the executive committee in new york. ford's prophecies predicting the development of the new empire first traversed by the western extension have long since found ample fulfilment, as all the world knows. copah gave the region its first and largest advertisement; but other mining districts, with their imperative beckonings to a food-producing population, have followed in due course. it was early in june of the year marking the opening of the completed western extension for through pacific coast traffic that a one-car train, drawn by the smartest of passenger engines in charge of a diminutive, red-headed irishman, stormed bravely up the glistening steel on the eastern approach to plug pass. the car was the rebuilt nadia; and in obedience to a shrill blast of the cab air-whistle, gallagher brought it to a stand on the summit of the mountain. alicia looked more than ever the artist's ideal of the american womanly felicities when ford lifted her from the step of the nadia. "you are quite sure mr. gallagher won't mind?" she was saying, as they walked forward together. "mind? wait till you hear what he says. michael is an irish diamond in the rough, and he knows when he is honored." they discovered the red-headed little man industriously "oiling around" for the swift glide down the western declivities. "michael," said the first vice-president, "mrs. ford thinks she would like to take the pannikin loop in the cab of the six-eighty-eight. can you make room for us?" gallagher snatched his cap from his fiery head. "could we make room? 'tis by the blessing av the saints that i'm a little man, meself, missis foord, and don't take up much room in the c-yab. and as f'r johnny shovel, he'll be riding on the coal f'r the pure playsure av ut. my duty to ye, ma'am; and 'tis a pity ut isn't a black night, whin the swate face av ye would be lighting the thrack f'r us." ford lifted alicia to the gangway and made her comfortable on the fireman's box, fixing a footbrace for her, and giving her his arm for a shoulder rest when gallagher sent the steam whistling through the cylinder-cocks for the impulse needful to start the downward rush. "'with a michnai--ghignai--'" she began; but when the engine plunged over the summit and the matchless view to the westward came suddenly into, being, the quotation lapsed in a long-drawn, ecstatic "o-o-oh!" "you are not afraid, are you?" said the bridegroom, man-like, letting her feel the support of his arm. "afraid? no, indeed; i am just happy--happy! there lies the world before us, stuart; _our_ world, because, more than any other man's, yours were the brain that conceived it and the hands that brought it to pass. let us go down quickly and possess it. tell mr. gallagher that he may run as fast as ever he dares." then with a sigh of contentment and a comfortable nestling into the hollow of the strong arm of protection: "was there ever another wedding journey just like ours, stuart, dear?" the last spike and other railroad stories by cy warman new york charles scribner's sons _copyright, _, by charles scribner's sons published february, the university press, cambridge, u.s.a. contents page the last spike the belle of athabasca pathfinding in the northwest the curÉ's christmas gift the mysterious signal chasing the white mail oppressing the oppressor the iron horse and the trolley in the black caÑon jack ramsey's reason the great wreck on the pÈre marquette the story of an englishman on the limited the conquest of alaska number three the stuff that stands the milwaukee run the last spike "then there is nothing against him but his poverty?" "and general appearance." "he's the handsomest man in america." "yes, that is against him, and the fact that he is always _in_ america. he appears to be afraid to get out." "he's the bravest boy in the world," she replied, her face still to the window. "he risked his life to drag me from under the ice," she added, with a girl's loyalty to her hero and a woman's pride in the man she loves. "well, i must own he has nerve," her father added, "or he never would have accepted my conditions." "and what where these conditions, pray?" the young woman asked, turning and facing her father, who sat watching her every move and gesture. "first of all, he must do something; and do it off his own bat. his old father spent his last dollar to educate this young rascal, to equip him for the battle of life, and his sole achievement is a curve that nobody can find. now i insist he shall do something, and i have given him five years for the work." "five years!" she gasped, as she lost herself in a big chair. "he is to have time to forget you, and you are to have ample opportunity to forget him, which you will doubtless do, for you are not to meet or communicate with each other during this period of probation." "did he promise this?" "upon his honor." "and if he break that promise?" "ah, then he would be without honor, and you would not marry him." a moment's silence followed, broken by a long, deep sigh that ended in little quivering waves, like the faint ripples that reach the shore,--the whispered echoes of the sobbing sea. "o father, it is cruel! _cruel! cruel!_" she cried, raising a tearful face to him. "it is justice, stern justice; to you, my dear, to myself, and this fine young fellow who has stolen your heart. let him show himself worthy of you, and you have my blessing and my fortune." "is he going soon?" "he is gone." the young woman knelt by her father's chair and bowed her head upon his knee, quivering with grief. this stern man, who had humped himself and made a million, put a hand on her head and said: "ma-mary"--and then choked up. ii the tent boy put a small white card down on general dodge's desk one morning, upon which was printed: j. bradford, c.e. the general, who was at that time chief engineer in charge of the construction of the first pacific railroad, turned the bit of pasteboard over. it seemed so short and simple. he ran his eyes over a printed list, alphabetically arranged, of directors, promoters, statesmen, capitalists, and others who were in the habit of signing "letters of recommendation" for young men who wanted to do something and begin well up the ladder. there were no bradfords. burgess and blodgett were the only b's, and the general was glad. his desk was constantly littered with the "letters" of tenderfeet, and his office-tent filled with their portmanteaus, holding dress suits and fine linen. here was a curiosity--a man with no press notices, no character, only one initial and two chasers. "show him in," said the general, addressing the one luxury his hogan held. a few moments later the chief engineer was looking into the eye of a young man, who returned the look and asked frankly, and without embarrassment, for work with the engineers. "impossible, young man--full up," was the brief answer. "now," thought the general, "he'll begin to beat his breast and haul out his 'pull.'" the young man only smiled sadly, and said, "i'm sorry. i saw an 'ad' for men in the _bee_ yesterday, and hoped to be in time," he added, rising. "men! yes, we want men to drive mules and stakes, to grade, lay track, and fight indians--but engineers? we've got 'em to use for cross-ties." "i am able and willing to do any of these things--except the indians--and i'll tackle that if nothing else offers." "there's a man for you," said the general to his assistant as bradford went out with a note to jack casement, who was handling the graders, teamsters, and indian fighters. "no influential friends, no baggage, no character, just a man, able to stand alone--a real man in corduroys and flannels." coming up to the gang, bradford singled out the man who was swearing loudest and delivered the note. "fall in," said the straw boss, and bradford got busy. he could handle one end of a thirty-foot rail with ease, and before night, without exciting the other workmen or making any show of superiority, he had quietly, almost unconsciously, become the leader of the track-laying gang. the foreman called casement's attention to the new man, and casement watched him for five minutes. two days later a big teamster, having found a bottle of fire-water, became separated from his reasoning faculties, crowded under an old dump-cart, and fell asleep. "say, young fellow," said the foreman, panting up the grade to where bradford was placing a rail, "can you skin mules?" "i can drive a team, if that's what you mean," was the reply. "how many?" "well," said bradford, with his quiet smile, "when i was a boy i used to drive six on the montpelier stage." so he took the eight-mule team and amazed the multitude by hauling heavier loads than any other team, because he knew how to handle his whip and lines, and because he was careful and determined to succeed. whatever he did he did it with both hands, backed up by all the enthusiasm of youth and the unconscious strength of an absolutely faultless physique, and directed by a remarkably clear brain. when the timekeeper got killed, bradford took his place, for he could "read writin'," an accomplishment rare among the laborers. when the bookkeeper got drunk he kept the books, working overtime at night. in the rush and roar of the fight general dodge had forgotten the young man in corduroys until general casement called his attention to the young man's work. the engineers wanted bradford, and casement had kicked, and, fearing defeat, had appealed to the chief. they sent for bradford. yes, he was an engineer, he said, and when he said it they knew it was true. he was quite willing to remain in the store department until he could be relieved, but, naturally, he would prefer field work. he got it, and at once. also, he got some indian fighting. in less than a year he was assigned to the task of locating a section of the line west of the platte. coming in on a construction train to make his first report, the train was held up, robbed, and burned by a band of sioux. bradford and the train crew were rescued by general dodge himself, who happened to be following them with his "arsenal" car, and who heard at plumb creek of the fight and of the last stand that bradford and his handful of men were making in the way car, which they had detached and pushed back from the burning train. such cool heroism as bradford displayed here could not escape the notice of so trained an indian fighter as general dodge. bradford was not only complimented, but was invited into the general's private car. the general's admiration for the young pathfinder grew as he received a detailed and comprehensive report of the work being done out on the pathless plains. he knew the worth of this work, because he knew the country, for he had spent whole months together exploring it while in command of that territory, where he had been purposely placed by general sherman, without whose encouragement the west could not have been known at that time, and without whose help as commander-in-chief of the united states army the road could not have been built. as the pathfinders neared the rockies the troops had to guard them constantly. the engineers reconnoitered, surveyed, located, and built inside the picket lines. the men marched to work to the tap of the drum, stacked arms on the dump, and were ready at a moment's notice to fall in and fight. many of the graders were old soldiers, and a little fight only rested them. indeed there was more military air about this work than had been or has since been about the building of a railroad in this country. it was one big battle, from the first stake west of omaha to the last spike at promontory--a battle that lasted five long years; and if the men had marked the graves of those who fell in that fierce fight their monuments, properly distributed, might have served as mile-posts on the great overland route to-day. but the mounds were unmarked, most of them, and many there were who had no mounds, and whose home names were never known even to their comrades. if this thing had been done on british soil, and all the heroic deeds had been recorded and rewarded, a small foundry could have been kept busy beating out v.c.'s. they could not know, these silent heroes fighting far out in the wilderness, what a glorious country they were conquering--what an empire they were opening for all the people of the land. occasionally there came to the men at the front old, worn newspapers, telling wild stories of the failure of the enterprise. at other times they heard of changes in the board of directors, the election of a new president, tales of jobs and looting, but they concerned themselves only with the work in hand. no breath of scandal ever reached these pioneer trail-makers, or, if it did, it failed to find a lodging-place, but blew by. ample opportunity they had to plunder, to sell supplies to the indians or the mormons, but no one of the men who did the actual work of bridging the continent has ever been accused of a selfish or dishonest act. during his second winter of service bradford slept away out in the rockies, studying the snowslides and drifts. for three winters they did this, and in summer they set stakes, keeping one eye out for indians and the other for wash-outs, and when, after untold hardships, privation, and youth-destroying labor, they had located a piece of road, out of the path of the slide and the washout, a well-groomed son of a politician would come up from the capital, and, in the capacity of government expert, condemn it all. then strong men would eat their whiskers and the weaker ones would grow blasphemous and curse the country that afforded no facilities for sorrow-drowning. once, at the end of a long, hard winter, when spring and the sioux came, they found bradford and a handful of helpers just breaking camp in a sheltered hollow in the hills. hiding in the crags, the warriors waited until bradford went out alone to try to shoot a deer, and incidentally to sound a drift, and then they surrounded him. he fought until his gun was unloaded, and then emptied his revolver; but ever dodging and crouching from tree to rock, the red men, whose country he and his companions had invaded, came nearer and nearer. in a little while the fight was hand to hand. there was not the faintest show for escape; to be taken alive was to be tortured to death, so he fought on, clubbing his revolver until a well-directed blow from a war club caught the gun, sent it whirling through the top of a nearby cedar, and left the pathfinder empty-handed. the chief sprang forward and lifted his hatchet that had caused more than one paleface to bite the dust. for the faintest fraction of a second it stood poised above bradford's head, then out shot the engineer's strong right arm, and the indian lay flat six feet away. for a moment the warriors seemed helpless with mingled awe and admiration, but when bradford stooped to grab his empty rifle they came out of their trance. a dull blow, a sense of whirling round swiftly, a sudden sunset, stars--darkness, and all pain had gone! iii when bradford came to they were fixing him for the fun. his back was against a tree, his feet pinioned, and his elbows held secure by a rawhide rope. he knew what it meant. he knew by the look of joy on the freshly smeared faces at his waking, by the pitch-pine wood that had been brought up, and by the fagots at his feet. the big chief who had felt his fist came up, grinning, and jabbed a buckhorn cactus against the engineer's thigh, and when the latter tried to move out of reach they all grunted and danced with delight. they had been uneasy lest the white man might not wake. the sun, sailing westward in a burnished sea of blue, seemed to stand still for a moment and then dropped down behind the range, as if to escape from the hellish scene. the shadows served only to increase the gloom in the heart of the captive. glancing over his shoulder toward the east, he observed that his captors had brought him down near to the edge of the plain. having satisfied themselves that their victim had plenty of life left in him, the indians began to arrange the fuel. with the return of consciousness came an inexpressible longing to live. suddenly his iron will asserted itself, and appealing to his great strength, surged until the rawhide ropes were buried in his flesh. not for a moment while he stood on his feet and fought them on the morning of that day had hope entirely deserted him. four years of hardship, of privation, and adventure had so strengthened his courage that to give up was to die. presently, when he had exhausted his strength and sat quietly, the indians went on with the preliminaries. the gold in the west grew deeper, the shadows in the foothills darker, as the moments sped. swiftly the captive's mind ran over the events of the past four years. this was his first failure, and this was the end of it all--of the years of working and waiting. clenching his fists, he lifted his hot face to the dumb sky, but no sound escaped from his parched and parted lips. suddenly a light shone on the semicircle of feather-framed faces in front of him, and he heard the familiar crackling of burning boughs. glancing toward the ground he saw that the fagots were on fire. he felt the hot breath of flame, and then for the first time realized what torture meant. again he surged, and surged again, the cedars crackled, the red fiends danced. another effort, the rawhide parted and he stood erect. with both hands freed he felt new strength, new hope. he tried to free himself from the pyre, but his feet were fettered, and he fell among his captors. two or three of them seized him, but he shook them off and stood up again. but it was useless. from every side the indians rushed upon him and bore him to the ground. still he fought and struggled, and as he fought the air seemed full of strange, wild sounds, of shouts and shots and hoof-beating on the dry, hard earth. he seemed to see, as through a veil, scores of indians, indians afoot and on horseback, naked indians and indians in soldier clothes. once he thought he saw a white face gleam just as he got to his feet, but at that moment the big chief stood before him, his battle-axe uplifted. the engineer's head was whirling. instinctively he tried to use the strong right arm, but it had lost its cunning. the roar of battle grew apace, the axe descended, the left arm went up and took the blow of the handle, but the edge of the weapon reached over and split the white man's chin. as he fell heavily to the earth the light went out again. * * * * * save for the stars that stood above him it was still dark when bradford woke. he felt blankets beneath him, and asked in a whisper: "who's here?" "major north, me call him," said the pawnee scout, who was watching over the wounded man. a moment later the gallant major was leaning over bradford, encouraging him, assuring him that he was all right, but warning him of the danger of making the least bit of noise. iv with all his strength and pluck, it took time for bradford to recuperate. his next work was in washington, where, with notes and maps, his strong personality and logical arguments, he caused the government to overrule an expert who wanted to change an important piece of road, and who had arbitrarily fixed the meeting of the mountains and plains far up in the foothills.[ ] when bradford returned to the west he found that the whole country had suddenly taken a great and growing interest in the transcontinental line. many of the leading newspapers had dug up their old war correspondents and sent them out to the front. these gifted prevaricators found the plain, unvarnished story of each day's work as much as they cared to send in at night, for the builders were now putting down four and five miles of road every working day. such road building the world had never seen, and news of it now ran round the earth. at night these tireless story-tellers listened to the strange tales told by the trail-makers, then stole away to their tents and wrote them out for the people at home, while the heroes of the stories slept. the track-layers were now climbing up over the crest of the continent, the locaters were dropping down the pacific slope, with the prowling pathfinders peeping over into the utah valley. before the road reached salt lake city the builders were made aware of the presence, power, and opposition of brigham young. the head of the church had decreed that the road must pass to the south of the lake, and as the central pacific had surveyed a line that way, and general dodge had declared in favor of the northern route, the mormons threw their powerful influence to the southern. the union pacific was boycotted, and all good mormons forbidden to aid the road in any way. here, again, the chief engineer brought bradford's diplomacy to bear on brigham and won him over. while the union pacific was building west, the central pacific had been building east, and here, in the salt lake basin, the advance forces of the two companies met. the united states congress directed that the rails should be joined wherever the two came together, but the bonus ($ , to the mile) left a good margin to the builders in the valley, so, instead of joining the rails, the pathfinders only said "howdy do!" and then "good-bye!" and kept going. the graders followed close upon the heels of the engineers, so that by the time the track-layers met the two grades paralleled each other for a distance of two hundred miles. when the rails actually met, the government compelled the two roads to couple up. it had been a friendly contest that left no bad blood. indeed they were all willing to stop, for the iron trail was open from the atlantic to the pacific. v the tenth day of may, , was the date fixed for the driving of the last spike and the official opening of the line. special trains, carrying prominent railway and government officials, were hurrying out from the east, while up from the golden gate came another train bringing the flower of 'frisco to witness, and some of them to take an active part in, the celebration. the day was like twenty-nine other may days that month in the salt lake valley, fair and warm, but with a cool breeze blowing over the sagebrush. the dusty army of trail-makers had been resting for two days, waiting for the people to come in clean store clothes, to make speeches, to eat and drink, and drive the golden spike. some chinese laborers had opened a temporary laundry near the camp, and were coining money washing faded blue overalls for their white comrades. many of the engineers and foremen had dressed up that morning, and a few had fished out a white shirt. judah and strawbridge, of the central, had little chips of straw hats that had been harvested in the summer of ' . here and there you saw a sombrero, the wide hat of the cowboy, and the big, soft, shapeless head cover of the mormon, with a little bunch of whiskers on his chin. general dodge came from his arsenal car, that stood on an improvised spur, in a bright, new uniform. of the special trains, that of governor stanford was first to arrive, with its straight-stacked locomotive and celestial servants. then the u.p. engine panted up, with its burnished bands and balloon stack, that reminded you of the skirts the women wore, save that it funnelled down. when the ladies began to jump down, the cayuses of the cowboys began to snort and side-step, for they had seen nothing like these tents the women stood up in. elaborate arrangements had been made for transmitting the news of the celebration to the world. all the important telegraph offices of the country were connected with promontory, utah, that day, so that the blow of the hammer driving the last spike was communicated by the click of the instrument to every office reached by the wires. from the atlantic to the pacific the people were rejoicing and celebrating the event, but the worn heroes who had dreamed it over and over for five years, while they lay in their blankets with only the dry, hard earth beneath them, seemed unable to realize that the work was really done and that they could now go home, those who had homes to go to, eat soft bread, and sleep between sheets. out under an awning, made by stretching a blanket between a couple of dump-carts, bradford lay, reading a 'frisco paper that had come by governor stanford's special; but even that failed to hold his thoughts. his heart was away out on the atlantic coast, and he would be hurrying that way on the morrow, the guest of the chief engineer. he had lost his mother when a boy, and his father just a year previous to his banishment, but he had never lost faith in the one woman he had loved, and he had loved her all his life, for they had been playmates. now all this fuss about driving the last spike was of no importance to him. the one thing he longed for, lived for, was to get back to "god's country." he heard the speeches by governor stanford for the central, and general dodge for the union pacific; heard the prayer offered up by the rev. dr. todd, of pittsfield; heard the general dictate to the operator: "all ready," and presently the operator sang out the reply from the far east: "all ready here!" and then the silver hammer began beating the golden spike into the laurel tie, which bore a silver plate, upon which was engraved: "the last tie laid in the completion of the pacific railroads. may , ." after the ceremony there was handshaking among the men and some kissing among the women, as the two parties--one from either coast--mingled, and then the general's tent boy came under the blanket to call bradford, for the general wanted him at once. somehow bradford's mind flew back to his first meeting with this boy. he caught the boy by the arms, held him off, and looked at him. "say, boy," he asked, "have i changed as much as you have? why, only the other day you were a freckled beauty in high-water trousers. you're a man now, with whiskers and a busted lip. say, have i changed, too?" "naw; you're just the same," said the boy. "come now, the gen's waitin'." "judge manning," said general dodge, in his strong, clear voice, "you have been calling us 'heroes'; now i want to introduce the one hero of all this heroic band--the man who has given of muscle and brain all that a magnificent and brilliant young man could give, and who deserves the first place on the roll of honor among the great engineers of our time." as the general pronounced the judge's name bradford involuntarily clenched his fists and stepped back. the judge turned slowly, looking all the while at the general, thrilled by his eloquent earnestness, and catching something of the general's admiration for so eminent a man. "mr. bradford," the general concluded, "this is judge manning, of boston, who came to our rescue financially and helped us to complete this great work to which you have so bravely and loyally contributed." "mr. _bradford_, did you say?" "well, yes. he's only jim bradford out here, where we are in a hurry, but he'll be mr. bradford in boston, and the biggest man in town when he gets back." all nervousness had gone from bradford, and he looked steadily into the strong face before him. "jim bradford," the millionnaire repeated, still holding the engineer's hand. "yes, judge manning, i'm jim bradford," said the bearded pathfinder, trying to smile and appear natural. suddenly realizing that some explanation was due the general, the judge turned and said, but without releasing the engineer's hand: "why, i know this young man--knew his father. we were friends from boyhood." slowly he returned his glance to bradford. "will you come into my car in an hour from now?" he asked. "thank you," said bradford, nodding, and with a quick, simultaneous pressure of hands, the two men parted. vi bradford has often since felt grateful to the judge for that five years' sentence, but never has he forgotten the happy thought that prompted the capitalist to give him this last hour, in which to get into a fresh suit and have his beard trimmed. bradford wore a beard always now, not because a handsome beard makes a handsome man handsomer, but because it covered and hid the hideous scar in his chin that had been carved there by the sioux chief. when the black porter bowed and showed bradford into mr. manning's private car, the pleasure of their late meeting and the judge's kindly greeting vanished instantly. it was all submerged and swept away, obliterated and forgotten in the great wave of inexpressible joy that now filled and thrilled his throbbing heart, for it was mary manning who came forward to greet him. for nearly an hour she and her father had been listening to the wonderful story of the last five years of the engineer's life. when the wily general caught the drift of the young lady's mind, and had been informed of the conditional engagement of the young people, he left nothing unsaid that would add to the fame and glory of the trail-maker. with radiant face she heard of his heroism, tireless industry, and wonderful engineering feats; but when the narrator came to tell how he had been captured and held and tortured by the indians, she slipped her trembling hand into the hand of her father, and when he saw her hot tears falling he lifted the hand and kissed it, leaving upon it tears of his own. the judge now produced his cigar case, and the general, bowing to the young lady, followed the great financier to the other end of the car, leaving mary alone, for they had seen bradford coming up the track. the dew of her sweet sorrow was still upon her face when bradford entered, but the sunshine of her smile soon dried it up. the hands he reached for escaped him. they were about his face; then their great joy and the tears it brought blinded them, and the wild beating of their happy hearts drowned their voices so that they could neither see nor hear, and neither has ever been able to say just what happened. on the day following this happy meeting, when the consolidated special was rolling east-ward, while the judge and the general smoked in the latter's car, the tent boy brought a telegram back to the happy pair. it was delivered to miss manning, and she read it aloud: "washington, may , . "general g.m. dodge: "in common with millions i sat yesterday and heard the mystic taps of the telegraph battery announce the nailing of the last spike in the great pacific road. all honor to you, to durant, to jack and dan casement, to reed and the thousands of brave followers who have wrought out this glorious problem, spite of changes, storms, and even doubts of the incredulous, and all the obstacles you have now happily surmounted! "w.t. sherman, "_general_." "well!" she exclaimed, letting her hands and the telegram fall in her lap, "he doesn't even mention my hero." "oh, yes, he does, my dear," said bradford, laughing. "i'm one of the 'thousands of brave followers.'" then they both laughed and forgot it, for they were too happy to bother with trifles. footnotes: [footnote : the subsidy from the government was $ , a mile on the plains, and $ , a mile in the mountains.] the belle of athabasca athabasca belle did not burst upon smith the silent all at once, like a rainbow or a sunrise in the desert. he would never say she had been thrust upon him. she was acquired, he said, in an unguarded moment. the trouble began when smith was pathfinding on the upper athabasca for the new transcontinental. among his other assets smith had two camp kettles. one was marked with the three initials of the new line, which, at that time, existed only on writing material, empty pots, and equally empty parliamentary perorations. the other was not marked at all. it was the personal property of jaquis, who cooked for smith and his outfit. the belle was a fine looking cree--tall, strong, _magnifique_. jaquis warmed to her from the start, but the belle was not for jaquis, himself a siwash three to one. she scarcely looked at him, and answered him only when he asked if she'd _encore_ the pork and beans. but she looked at smith. she would sit by the hour, her elbow on her knee and her chin in her hand, watching him wistfully, while he drew crazy, crooked lines or pictured mountains with rivers running between them--all of which, from the belle's point of view, was not only a waste of time, but had absolutely nothing to do with the case. the belle and her brown mother came to the camp of the silent first one glorious morn in the moon of august, with a basket of wild berries and a pair of beaded moccasins. smith bought both--the berries for jaquis, out of which he built strange pies, and the moccasins for himself. he called them his night slippers, but as a matter of fact there was no night on the athabasca at that time. the day was divided into three shifts, one long and two short ones,--daylight, dusk, and dawn. so it was daylight when the belle first fixed her large dark eyes upon the strong, handsome face of smith the silent, as he sat on his camp stool, bent above a map he was making. belle's mother, being old in years and unafraid, came close, looked at the picture for a moment, and exclaimed: "him jasper lake," pointing up the athabasca. "you know jasper lake?" asked the engineer, glancing up for the first time. "_oui_," said the old woman (belle's step-father was half french); "know 'im ver' well." smith looked her over as a matter of habit, for he allowed no man or woman to get by him with the least bit of information concerning the country through which his imaginary line lay. then he glanced at belle for fully five seconds, then back to his blue print. nobody but a he-nun, or a man already wedded to the woods, could do that, but to the credit of the camp it will go down that the chief was the only man in the outfit who failed to feel her presence. as for jaquis, the alloyed siwash, he carried the scar of that first meeting for six months, and may, for aught i know, take it with him to his little swinging grave. even smith remembers to this day how she looked, standing there on her two trim ankles, that disappeared into her hand-turned sandals or faded in the flute and fringe of her fawn skin skirt. her full bosom rose and fell, and you could count the beat of her wild heart in the throb of her throat. her cheeks showed a faint flush of red through the dark olive,--the flush of health and youth,--her nostrils dilated, like those of an ontario high-jumper, as she drank life from the dewy morn, while her eye danced with the joy of being alive. jaquis sized and summed her up in the one word "magnific." but in that moment, when she caught the keen, piercing eye of the engineer, the belle had a stroke that comes sooner or later to all these wild creatures of the wilderness, but comes to most people but once in a lifetime. she never forgot the gleam of that one glance, though the silent one was innocent enough. it was during the days that followed, when she sat and watched him at his work, or followed him for hours in the mountain fastnesses, that the belle of athabasca lost her heart. when he came upon a bit of wild scenery and stopped to photograph it, the belle stood back of him, watching his every movement, and when he passed on she followed, keeping always out of sight. the belle's mother haunted him. as often as he broke camp and climbed a little higher upstream, the brown mother moved also, and with her the belle. "what does this old woman want?" asked the engineer of jaquis one evening when, returning to his tent, he found the fat cree and her daughter camping on his trail. "she want that pot," said jaquis. "then for the love of we-sec-e-gea, god of the crees," said smith, "give it into her hands and bid her begone." jaquis did as directed, and the old indian went away, but she left the girl. the next day smith started on a reconnoissance that would occupy three or four days. as he never knew himself when he would return, he never took the trouble to inform jaquis, the tail of the family. after breakfast the belle went over to her mother's. she would have lunched with her mother from the much coveted kettle, but the belle's mother told her that she should return to the camp of the white man, who was now her lord and master. so the belle went back and lunched with jaquis, who otherwise must have lunched alone. jaquis tried to keep her, and wooed her in his half-wild way; but to her sensitive soul he was repulsive. moreover, she felt that in some mysterious manner her mother had transferred her, together with her love and allegiance, to smith the silent, and to him she must be true. therefore she returned to the cree camp. as the sinking sun neared the crest of the rockies, the young indian walked back to the engineer's camp. as she strode along the new trail she plucked wildflowers by the wayside and gathered leaves and wove them into vari-colored wreaths, swinging along with the easy grace of a wild deer. now some women would say she had not much to make her happy, but she was happy nevertheless. she loved a man--to her the noblest, most god-like creature of his kind,--and she was happy in abandoning herself to him. she had lived in this love so long, had felt and seen it grow from nothing to something formidable, then to something fine, until now it filled her and thrilled her; it overspread everything, outran her thoughts, brought the far-off mountains nearer, shortened the trail between her camp and his, gave a new glow to the sunset, a new glory to the dawn and a fresher fragrance to the wildflowers; the leaves whispered to her, the birds came, nearer and sang sweeter; in short it was her life--the sunshine of her soul. and that's the way a wild woman loves. and she was to see him soon. perhaps he would speak to her, or smile on her. if only he gave a passing glance she would be glad and content to know that he was near. alas, he came not at all. she watched with the stars through the short night, slept at dawn, and woke to find jaquis preparing the morning meal. she thought to question jaquis, but her interest in the engineer, and the growing conviction that his own star sank as his master's rose, rendered him unsafe as a companion to a young bride whose husband was in the hills and unconscious of the fact that he was wedded to anything save the wilderness and his work. jaquis not only refused to tell her where the engineer was operating, but promised to strangle her if she mentioned his master's name again. at last the long day died, the sunset was less golden, and the stars sang sadder than they sang the day before. she watched the west, into which he had gone and out of which she hoped he might return to her. another round of dusk and dawn and there came another day, with its hours that hung like ages. when she sighed her mother scolded and jaquis swore. when at last night came to curtain the hills, she stole out under the stars and walked and walked until the next day dawned. a lone wolf howled to his kith, but they were not hungry and refused to answer his call. often, in the dark, she fancied she heard faint, feline footsteps behind her. once a big black bear blocked her trail, staring at her with lifted muzzle wet with dew and stained with berry juice. she did not faint nor scream nor stay her steps, but strode on. now nearer and nearer came the muffled footsteps behind her. the black bear backed from the trail and kept backing, pivoting slowly, like a locomotive on a turntable, and as she passed on, stood staring after her, his small eyes blinking in babylike bewilderment. and so through the dusk and dark and dawn this love-mad maiden walked the wilderness, innocent of arms, and with no one near to protect her save the little barefooted bowman whom the white man calls the god of love. meanwhile away to the west, high in the hills, where the findlay flowing into the pine makes the peace, then cutting through the crest of the continent makes a path for the peace, smith and his little army, isolated, remote, with no cable connecting them with the great cities of civilization, out of touch with the telegraph, away from the war correspondent, with only the music of god's rills for a regimental band, were battling bravely in a war that can end only with the conquest of a wilderness. ah, these be the great generals--these unheralded heroes who, while the smoke of slaughter smudges the skies and shadows the sun, wage a war in which they kill only time and space, and in the end, without despoiling the rest of the world, win homes for the homeless. these are the heroes of the anglo-saxon race. * * * * * finding no trace of the trail-makers, the belle faced the rising sun and sought the camp of the crees. the mysterious shadow with the muffled tread, that had followed her from the engineer's camp, shrank back into the bush as she passed down the trail. that was jaquis. he watched her as she strode by him, uncertain as to whether he loved or hated her, for well he knew why she walked the wilderness all night alone. now the gitche in his unhappy heart made him long to lift her in his arms and carry her to camp, and then the bad god, mitche, would assert himself and say to the savage that was in him, "go, kill her. she despises her race and flings herself at the white man's feet." and so, impelled by passion and stayed by love, he followed her. the white man within him made him ashamed of his skulking, and the indian that was in him guided him around her and home by a shorter trail. that night the engineers returned, and when smith saw the cree in the camp he jumped on jaquis furiously. "why do you keep this woman here?" he demanded. "i--keep? me?" quoth jaquis, blinking as bewildered as the black bear had blinked at the belle. "who but you?--you heathen!" hissed the engineer. now jaquis, calling up the ghosts of his dead sires, asserted that it was the engineer himself who was "keeping" the cree. "you bought her--she's yours," said jaquis, in the presence of the company. "you ill-bred ----" smith choked, and reached for a tent prop. the next moment his hand was at the indian's throat. with a quick twist of his collar band he shut off the siwash's wind, choking him to the earth. "what do you mean?" he demanded, and jaquis, coughing, put up his hands. "i meant no lie," said he. "did you not give to her mother the camp kettle? she has it, marked g.t.p." "and what of that?" "_voilà_," said jaquis, "because of that she gave to you the belle of athabasca." smith dropped his stick, releasing the indian. "i did not mean she is sold to you. she is trade--trade for the empty pot, the belle--the beautiful. from yesterday to this day she followed you, far, very far, to the foot of the grande côte, and nothing harmed her. the mountain lion looked on her in terror, the timber wolf took to the hills, the black bear backed from the trail and let her pass in peace," said jaquis, with glowing enthusiasm. it was the first time he had talked of her, save to the stars and to we-sec-e-gea, and he glowed and grew eloquent in praise of her. "you take her," said smith, with one finger levelled at the head of the cook, "to the camp of the crees. say to her mother that your master is much obliged for the beautiful gift, but he's too busy to get married and too poor to support a wife." * * * * * from the uttermost rim of the ring of light that came from the flickering fire la belle the beautiful heard and saw all that had passed between the two men. she did not throw herself at the feet of the white man. being a wild woman she did not weep nor cry out with the pain of his words, that cut like cold steel into her heart. she leaned against an aspen tree, stroking her throat with her left hand, swallowing with difficulty. slowly from her girdle she drew a tiny hunting-knife, her one weapon, and toyed with it. she put the hilt to the tree, the point to her bare breast, and breathed a prayer to we-sec-e-gea, god of the crees. she had only to throw the weight of her beautiful body on the blade, sink without a moan to the moss, and pass, leaving the camp undisturbed. smith marked the faintest hint of sarcasm in the half smile of the indian as he turned away. "come here," he cried. jaquis approached cautiously. "now, you skulking son of a siwash, this is to be skin for skin. if any harm comes to that young cree you go to your little hammock in the hemlocks--you understand?" "_oui, monsieur_," said jaquis. "very well, then; remember--skin for skin." now to the belle, watching from her shelter in the darkness, there was something splendid in this. to hear her praises sung by the siwash, then to have the fair god, who had heard that story, champion her, to take the place of her protector, was all new to her. "ah, good god," she sighed; "it is better, a thousand times better, to love and lose him than to waste one's life, never knowing this sweet agony." she felt in a vague way that she was soaring above the world and its woes. at times, in the wild tumult of her tempestuous soul, she seemed to be borne beyond it all, through beautiful worlds. love, for her, had taken on great white wings, and as he wafted her out of the wilderness and into her heaven, his talons tore into her heart and hurt like hell, yet she could rejoice because of the exquisite pleasure that surpassed the pain. "sweet we-sec-e-gea," she sighed, "good god of my dead, i thank thee for the gift of this great love that stays the steel when my aching heart yearns for it. i shall not destroy myself and distress him, disturbing him in his great work, whatever it is; but live--live and love him, even though he send me away." she kissed the burnished blade and returned it to her belt. when jaquis, circling the camp, failed to find her, he guessed that she was gone, and hurried after her along the dim, starlit trail. when he had overtaken her, they walked on together. jaquis tried now to renew his acquaintance with the handsome cree and to make love to her. she heard him in absolute silence. finally, as they were nearing the cree camp, he taunted her with having been rejected by the white man. "and my shame is yours," said she softly. "i love him; he sends me away. you love me; i send you from me--it is the same." jaquis, quieted by this simple statement, said good-night and returned to the tents, where the pathfinders were sleeping peacefully under the stars. and over in the cree camp the belle of athabasca, upon her bed of boughs, slept the sleep of the innocent, dreaming sweet dreams of her fair god, and through them ran a low, weird song of love, and in her dream love came down like a beautiful bird and bore her out of this life and its littleness, and though his talons tore at her heart and hurt, yet was she happy because of the exquisite pleasure that surpassed all pain. pathfinding in the northwest it was summer when my friend smith, whose real name is jones, heard that the new transcontinental line would build by the way of peace river pass to the pacific. he immediately applied, counting something, no doubt, on his ten years of field work in washington, oregon, and other western states, and five years pathfinding in canada. the summer died; the hills and rills and the rivers slept, but while they slept word came to my friend smith the silent, and he hurriedly packed his sleds and set out. his orders were, like the orders of admiral dewey, to do certain things--not merely to try. he was to go out into the northern night called winter, feel his way up the athabasca, over the smoky, follow the peace river, and find the pass through the rockies. if the simple story of that winter campaign could be written out it would be finer than fiction. but it will never be. only smith the silent knows, and he won't tell. sometimes, over the pipe, he forgets and gives me glimpses into the winter camp, with the sun going out like a candle: the hastily made camp with the half-breed spotting the dry wood against the coming moment when night would drop over the forest like a curtain over a stage; the "lean-to" between the burning logs, where he dozes or dreams, barely beyond the reach of the flames; the silence all about, jaquis pulling at his pipe, and the huskies sleeping in the snow like german babies under the eiderdown. sometimes, out of the love of bygone days, he tells of long toilsome journeys with the sun hiding behind clouds out of which an avalanche of snow falls, with nothing but the needle to tell where he hides; of hungry dogs and half starved horses, and lakes and rivers fifty and a hundred miles out of the way. once, he told me, he sent an engineer over a low range to spy out a pass. by the maps and other data they figured that he would be gone three days, but a week went by and no word from the pathfinder. ten days and no news. on the thirteenth day, when smith was preparing to go in search of the wanderer, the running gear of the man and the framework of the dogs came into camp. he was able to smile and say to smith that he had been ten days without food, save a little tea. for the dogs he had had nothing. a few days rest and they were on the trail again, or on the "go" rather; and you might know that disciple of smith the silent six months or six years before he would, unless you worked him, refer to that ten days' fast. they think no more of that than a jap does of dying. it's all in the day's work. suddenly, smith said, the sun swung north, the days grew longer. the sun grew hot and the snow melted on the south hills; the hushed rivers, rending their icy bonds, went roaring down to the lakes and out towards the arctic ocean. and lo, suddenly, like the falling of an arctic night, the momentary spring passed and it was summer time. then it was that smith came into edmonton to make his first report, and here we met for the first time for many snows. joyously, as a boy kicks the cover off on circus morning, this northland flings aside her winter wraps and stands forth in her glorious garb of summer. the brooklets murmur, the rivers sing, and by their banks and along the lakes waterfowl frolic, and overhead glad birds, that seem to have dropped from the sky, sing joyfully the almost endless song of summer. at the end of the long day, when the sun, as if to make up for its absence, lingers, loath to leave us in the twilight, beneath their wings the song-birds hide their heads, then wake and sing, for the sun is swinging up over the horizon where the pink sky, for an hour, has shown the narrow door through which the day is dawning. the dogs and sleds have been left behind and now, with jaquis the half-breed "boy" leading, followed closely by smith the silent, we go deeper and deeper each day into the pathless wilderness. to be sure it is not all bush, all forest. at times we cross wide reaches of wild prairie lands. sometimes great lakes lie immediately in front of us, compelling us to change our course. now we come to a wide river and raft our outfit over, swimming our horses. weeks go by and we begin to get glimpses of the rockies rising above the forest, and we push on. the streams become narrower as we ascend, but swifter and more dangerous. we do not travel constantly now, as we have been doing. sometimes we keep our camp for two or three days. the climbing is hard, for smith must get to the top of every peak in sight, and so i find it "good hunting" about the camp. jaquis is a fairly good cook, and what he lacks we make up with good appetites, for we live almost constantly out under the sun and stars. pathfinders always lay up on sunday, and sometimes, the day being long, smith steals out to the river and comes back with a mountain trout as long as a yardstick. the scenery is beyond description. now we pass over the shoulder of a mountain with a river a thousand feet below. sometimes we trail for hours along the shore of a limpid lake that seems to run away to the foot of the rockies. far away we get glimpses of the crest of the continent, where the peace river gashes it as if it had been cleft by the sword of the almighty; and near the rockies, on either bank, grand battlements rise that seem to guard the pass as the sultan's fortresses frown down on the dardanelles. now we follow a narrow trail that was not a trail until we passed. a careless pack-horse, carrying our blankets, slips from the path and goes rolling and tumbling down the mountain side. a thousand feet below lies an arm of the athabasca. down, down, and over and over the pack-horse goes, and finally fetches up on a ledge five hundred feet below the trail. "by damn," says jaquis, "dere is won bronco bust, eh?" smith and jaquis go down to cut the cinches and save the pack, and lo, up jumps our cayuse, and when he is repacked he takes the trail as good as new. the pack and the low bush save his life. in any other country, to other men, this would be exciting, but it's all in the day's work with smith and jaquis. the pack-pony that had been down the mountain is put in the lead now--that is, in the lead of the pack animals; for he has learned his lesson, he will be careful. and yet we are to have other experiences along this same river. suddenly, down a side cañon, a mountain stream rushes, plunging into the athabasca, joyfully, like a sea-bather into the surf. jaquis calls this side-stream "the mill-tail o' hell." smith the silent prepares to cross. it's all very simple. all you need is a stout pole, a steady nerve, and an utter disregard for the hereafter. when smith is safe on the other shore we drive the horses into the stream. they shudder and shrink from the ice-cold water, but jaquis and i urge them, and in they plunge. my, what a struggle! their wet feet on the slippery boulders in the bottom of the stream, the swift current constantly tripping them--it was thrilling to see and must have been agony for the animals. midway, where the current was strongest, a mouse-colored cayuse carrying a tent lost his feet. the turbulent tide slammed him up on top of a great rock, barely hidden beneath the water, and he got to his feet like a cat that has fallen upon the edge of an eave-trough. trembling, the cayuse called to smith, and smith, running downstream, called back, urging the animal to leave the refuge and swim for it. the pack-horse perched on the rock gazes wistfully at the shore. the waters, breaking against his resting-place, wash up to his trembling knees. about him the wild river roars, and just below leaps over a ten-foot fall into the athabasca. all the other horses, having crossed safely, shake the water from their dripping sides and begin cropping the tender grass. we could have heard that horse's heart beat if we could have hushed the river's roar. smith called again, the cayuse turned slightly, and whether he leaped deliberately or his feet slipped on the slippery stones, forcing him to leap, we could not say, but he plunged suddenly into the stream, uttering a cry that echoed up the cañon and over the river like the cry of a lost soul. the cruel current caught him, lifted him, and plunged him over the drop, and he was lost instantly in the froth and foam of the falls. far down, at a bend of the athabasca, something white could be seen drifting towards the shore. that night smith the silent made an entry in his little red book marked "grand trunk pacific," and tented under the stars. the curÉ's christmas gift "a country that is bad or good, precisely as your claim pans out; a land that's much misunderstood, misjudged, maligned and lied about." when the pathfinders for the new national highway pushed open the side door and peeped through to the pacific they not only discovered a short cut to yokohama, but opened to the world a new country, revealing the last remnant of the last west. edmonton is the outfiling point, of course, but little slave lake is the real gateway to the wilderness. here we were to make our first stop (we were merely exploring), and from this point our first portage was to the peace river, at chinook, where we would get into touch once more with the hudson's bay company. jim cromwell, the free trader who was in command of little slave, made us welcome, introducing us _ensemble_ to his friend, a former h.b. factor, to the yankee who was looking for a timber limit, to the "literary cuss," as he called the young man in corduroys and a wide white hat, who was endeavoring to get past "tradition," that has damned this dominion both in fiction and in fact for two hundred years, and do something that had in it the real color of the country. at this point the free trader paused to assemble the missourian. this iron-gray individual shook himself out, came forward, and gripped our hands, one after another. the free trader would not allow us to make camp that night. we were sentenced to sup and lodge with him, furnishing our own bedding, of course, but baking his bread. the smell of cooking coffee and the odor of frying fish came to us from the kitchen, and floating over from somewhere the low, musical, well modulated voice of cromwell, conversing in cree, as he moved about among his mute and apparently inoffensive camp servants. the day died hard. the sun was still shining at p.m. at ten it was twilight, and in the dusk we sat listening to tales of the far north, totally unlike the tales we read in the story-books. smith the silent, who was in charge of our party, was interested in the country, of course, its physical condition, its timber, its coal, and its mineral possibilities. he asked about its mountains and streams, its possible and impossible passes; but the "literary cuss" and i were drinking deeply of weird stories that were being told quite incautiously by the free trader, the old factor, and by the missourian. we were like children, this young author and i, sitting for the first time in a theatre. the flickering camp fire that we had kindled in the open served as a footlight, while the gitch lamp, still gleaming in the west, glanced through the trees and lit up the faces of the three great actors who were entertaining us without money and without price. the missourian was the star. he had been reared in the lap of luxury, had run away from college where he had been installed by a rich uncle, his guardian, and jumped down to south america. he had ridden with the texas rangers and with president diaz's regulators, had served as a scout on the plains and worked with the mounted police, but was now "retired." all of which we learned not from him directly, but from the stories he told and from his bosom friend, the free trader, whose guests we were, and whose word, for the moment at least, we respected. the camp fire burned down to a bed of coals, the gitch lamp went out. in the west, now, there was only a glow of gold, but no man moved. smith the pathfinder and our host the free trader bent over a map. "but isn't this map correct?" smith would ask, and when in doubt jim would call the missourian. "no," said the latter, "you can't float down that river because it flows the other way, and that range of mountains is two hundred miles out." gradually we became aware that all this vast wilderness, to the world unknown, was an open book to this quiet man who had followed the buffalo from the rio grande to the athabasca where he turned, made a last stand, and then went down. when the rest had retired the free trader and i sat talking of the last west, of the new trail my friends were blazing, and of the wonderfully interesting individual whom we called the missourian. "he had a prospecting pard," said jim, "whom he idolized. this man, whose name was ramsey, jack ramsey, went out in ' between the coast range and the rockies, and now this sentimental old pioneer says he will never leave the peace river until he finds ramsey's bones. "you see," cromwell continued, "friendship here and what goes for friendship outside are vastly different. the matter of devoting one's life to a friend or to a duty, real or fancied, is only a trifle to these men who abide in the wilderness. i know of a chinaman and a cree who lived and died the most devoted friends. you see the missourian hovering about the last camping-place of his companion. behold the factor! he has left the hudson bay company after thirty years because he has lost his life's best friend, a man who spoke another language, whose religion was not the brand upon which the factor had been brought up in england; yet they were friends." the camp fire had gone out. in the south we saw the first faint flush of dawn as cromwell, knocking the ashes from his pipe, advised me to go to bed. "you get the old factor to tell you the story of his friend the curé, and of the curé's christmas gift," cromwell called back, and i made a point of getting the story, bit by bit, from the florid factor himself, and you shall read it as it has lingered in my memory. when the new curé came to chinook on the upper peace river, he carried a small hand-satchel, his blankets, and a crucifix. his face was drawn, his eyes hungry, his frame wasted, but his smile was the smile of a man at peace with the world. the west--the vast, undiscovered canadian west--jarred on the sensitive nerves of this paris-bred priest. and yet, when he crossed the line that marks what we are pleased to call "civilization," and had reached the heart of the real northwest, where the people were unspoiled, natural, and honest, where a handful of royal northwest mounted police kept order in an empire that covers a quarter of a continent, he became deeply interested in this new world, in the people, in the imperial prairies, the mountains, and the great wide rivers that were racing down to the northern sea. the factor at the hudson's bay post, whose whole life since he had left college in england had been passed on the peace river, at york factory, and other far northern stations over which waved the hudson's bay banner, warmed to the new curé from their first meeting, and the curé warmed to him. each seemed to find in the other a companion that neither had been able to find among the few friends of his own faith. and so, through the long evenings of the northern winter, they sat in the curé's cabin study or by the factor's fire, and talked of the things which they found interesting, including politics, literature, art, and indians. despite the great gulf that rolled between the two creeds in which they had been cradled, they found that they were in accord three times in five--a fair average for men of strong minds and inherent prejudices. at first the curé was anxious to get at the real work of "civilizing" the natives. "yes," the factor would say, blowing the smoke upward, "the indian should be civilized--slowly--the slower the better." the curé would pretend to look surprised as he relit his pipe. once the curé asked the factor why he was so indifferent to the welfare of the crees, who were the real producers, without whose furs there would be no trade, no post, no job for the ruddy-faced factor. the priest was surprised that the factor should appear to fail to appreciate the importance of the trapper. "i do," said the factor. "then why do you not help us to lift him to the light?" "i like him," was the laconic reply. "then why don't you talk to him of his soul?" "haven't the nerve," said the factor, shaking his head and blowing more smoke. the curé shrugged his shoulders. "i say," said the florid factor, facing the pale priest. "did you see me decorating the old chief, dunraven, yesterday?" "yes, i presume you were giving him a _pour boire_ in advance to secure the greater catch of furs next season," said the priest, with his usual sad yet always pleasant smile. "a very poor guess for one so wise," said the factor. "_attendez_," he continued. "this post used to be closed always in winter. the tent doors were tied fast on the inside, after which the man who tied them would crawl out under the edge of the canvas. when winter came, the snow, banked about, held the tent tightly down, and the hudson's bay business was bottled at this point until the springless summer came to wake the sleeping world. "last winter was a hard winter. the snow was deep and game scarce. one day a cree indian found himself in need of tea and tobacco, and more in need of a new pair of trousers. passing the main tent one day, he was sorely tempted. dimly, through the parchment pane, he could see great stacks of english tweeds, piles of tobacco, and boxes of tea, but the tent was closed. he was sorely tried. he was hungry--hungry for a horn of tea and a twist of the weed, and cold, too. ah, _bon père_, it is hard to withstand cold and hunger with only a canvas between one and the comforts of life!" "_oui, monsieur!_" said the curé, warmly, touched by the pathos of the tale. "the indian walked away (we know that by his footprints), but returned to the tent. the hunger and the cold had conquered. he took his hunting-knife and slit the deerskin window and stepped inside. then he approached the pile of tweed trousers and selected a large pair, putting down from the bunch of furs he had on his arms to the value of eight skins--the price his father and grandfather had paid. he visited the tobacco pile and helped himself, leaving four skins on the tobacco. when he had taken tea he had all his heart desired, and having still a number of skins left, he hung them upon a hook overhead and went away. "when summer dawned and a clerk came to open the post, he saw the slit in the window, and upon entering the tent saw the eight skins on the stack of tweeds, the four skins on the tobacco, and the others on the chest, and understood. "presently he saw the skins which the indian had hung upon the hook, took them down, counted them carefully, appraised them, and made an entry in the receiving book, in which he credited 'indian-cut-the-window, skins.' "yesterday dunraven came to the post and confessed. "it was to reward him for his honesty that i gave him the fur coat and looped the big brass baggage check in his buttonhole. _voilà!_" the curé crossed his legs and then recrossed them, tossed his head from side to side, drummed upon the closed book which lay in his lap, and showed in any number of ways, peculiar to nervous people, his amazement at the story and his admiration for the indian. "little things like that," said the factor, filling his pipe, "make me timid when talking to a cree about 'being good.'" * * * * * when summer came, and with it the smell of flowers and the music of running streams, the factor and his friend the curé used to take long tramps up into the highlands, but the curé's state of health was a handicap to him. the factor saw the telltale flush in the priest's face and knew that the "white plague" had marked him; yet he never allowed the curé to know that he knew. that summer a little river steamer was sent up from athabasca lake by the chief commissioner who sat in the big office at winnipeg, and upon this the factor and his friend took many an excursion up and down the peace. the friendship that had grown up between the factor and the new curé formed the one slender bridge that connected the anglican and the catholic camps. even the "heathen crees" marvelled that these white men, praying to the same god, should dwell so far apart. wing you, who had wandered over from ramsay's camp on the pine river, explained it all to dunraven: "flenchman and englishman," said wing. "no ketchem same glod. you--clee," continued the wise oriental, "an' englishman good flend--ketchem same josh; you call 'im we-sec-e-gea, white man call 'im god." and so, having the same god, only called by different names, the crees trusted the factor, and the factor trusted the crees. their business intercourse was on the basis of skin for skin, furs being the recognized coin of the country. "why do you not pay them in cash, take cash in turn, and let them have something to rattle?" asked the curé one day. "they won't have it," said the factor. "silver skin, brother to dunraven, followed a party of prospectors out to edmonton last fall and tried it. he bought a pair of gloves, a red handkerchief, and a pound of tobacco, and emptied his pockets on the counter, so that the clerk in the shop might take out the price of the goods. according to his own statement, the indian put down $ . . he took up just six-thirty-five. when the cree came back to god's country he showed me what he had left and asked me to check him up. when i had told him the truth, he walked to the edge of the river and sowed the six-thirty-five broadcast on the broad bosom of the peace." and so, little by little, the patient priest got the factor's view-point, and learned the great secret of the centuries of success that has attended the hudson's bay company in the far north. and little by little the two men, without preaching, revealed to the indians and the oriental the mystery of life--vegetable life at first--of death and life beyond. they showed them the miracle of the wheat. on the first day of june they put into a tiny grave a grain of wheat. they told the blind ones that the berry would suffer death, decay, but out of that grave would spring fresh new flags that would grow and blow, fanned by the balmy chinook winds, and wet by the dews of heaven. on the first day of september they harvested seventy-two stalks and threshed from the seventy-two stalks seven thousand two hundred grains of wheat. they showed all this to the blind ones and they saw. the curé explained that we, too, would go down and die, but live again in another life, in a fairer world. the cree accepted it all in absolute silence, but the oriental, with his large imagination, exclaimed, pointing to the tiny heap of golden grain: "me ketchem die, me sleep, byme by me wake up in china--seven thousand--heap good." the curé was about to explain when the factor put up a warning finger. "don't cut it too fine, father," said he. "they're getting on very well." that was a happy summer for the two men, working together in the garden in the cool dawn and chatting in the long twilight that lingers on the peace until p.m. alas! as the summer waned the factor saw that his friend was failing fast. he could walk but a short distance now without resting, and when the red rose of the upper athabasca caught the first cold kiss of jack frost, the good priest took to his bed. wing you, the accomplished cook, did all he could to tempt him to eat and grow strong again. dunraven watched from day to day for an opportunity to "do something"; but in vain. the faithful factor made daily visits to the bedside of his sick friend. as the priest, who was still in the springtime of his life, drew nearer to the door of death, he talked constantly of his beloved mother in far-off france--a thing unusual for a priest, who is supposed to burn his bridges when he leaves the world for the church. often when he talked thus, the factor wanted to ask his mother's name and learn where she lived, but always refrained. late in the autumn the factor was called to edmonton for a general conference of all the factors in the employ of the honorable company of gentlemen adventurers trading into hudson's bay. with a heavy heart he said good-bye to the failing priest. when he had come within fifty miles of chinook, on the return trip, he was wakened at midnight by dunraven, who had come out to ask him to hurry up as the curé was dying, but wanted to speak to the factor first. without a word the englishman got up and started forward, dunraven leading on the second lap of his "century." it was past midnight again when the _voyageurs_ arrived at the river. there was a dim light in the curé's cabin, to which dunraven led them, and where the catholic bishop and an irish priest were on watch. "so glad to see you," said the bishop. "there is something he wants from your place, but he will not tell wing. speak to him, please." "ah, _monsieur_, i'm glad that you are come--i'm weary and want to be off." "the long _traverse_, eh?" "_oui, monsieur_--_le grand voyage_." "is there anything i can do for you?" asked the englishman. the dying priest made a movement as if hunting for something. the bishop, to assist, stepped quickly to his side. the patient gave up the quest of whatever he was after and looked languidly at the factor. "what is it, my son?" asked the bishop, bending low. "what would you have the factor fetch from his house?" "just a small bit of cheese," said the sick man, sighing wearily. "now, that's odd," mused the factor, as he went off on his strange errand. when the englishman returned to the cabin, the bishop and the priest stepped outside for a breath of fresh air. upon a bench on the narrow veranda dunraven sat, resting after his hundred-mile tramp, and on the opposite side of the threshold wing you lay sleeping in his blankets, so as to be in easy call if he were wanted. when the two friends were alone, the sick man signalled, and the factor drew near. "i have a great favor--a very great favor to ask of you," the priest began, "and then i'm off. ah, _mon dieu!_" he panted. "it has been hard to hold out. jesus has been kind." "it's damned tough at your time, old fellow," said the factor, huskily. "it's not my time, but his." "yes--well i shall be over by and by." "and those faithful dogs--dunraven and wing--thank them for--" "sure! if _i_ can pass," the factor broke in, a little confused. "thank them for me--for their kindnesses--and care. tell them to remember the sermon of the wheat. and now, good friend," said the priest, summoning all his strength, "_attendez_!" he drew a thin, white hand from beneath the cover, carrying a tiny crucifix. "i want you to send this to my beloved mother by registered post; send it yourself, please, so that she may have it before the end of the year. this will be my last christmas gift to her. and the one that comes from her to me--that is for you, to keep in remembrance of me. and write to her--oh, so gently tell her--jesus--help me," he gasped, sitting upright. "she lives in rue ---- o mary, mother of jesus," he cried, clutching at the collar of his gown; and then he fell back upon his bed, and his soul swept skyward like a toy balloon when the thin thread snaps. when the autumn sun smiled down on chinook and the autumn wind sighed in by the door and out by the open window where the dead priest lay, wing and dunraven sat on the rude bench in the little veranda, going over it all, each in his own tongue, but uttering never a word, yet each to the other expressing the silence of his soul. the factor, in the seclusion of his bachelor home, held the little cross up and examined it critically. "to be sent to his mother, she lives in rue ---- ah, if i could have been but a day sooner; yet the bishop must know," he added, putting the crucifix carefully away. the good people in the other world, beyond the high wall that separated the two christian tribes, had been having shivers over the factor and his fondness for the romans; but when he volunteered to assist at the funeral of his dead friend, _his_ people were shocked. in that scant settlement there were not nearly enough priests to perform, properly, the funeral services, so the factor fell in, mingling his deep full voice with the voices of the bishop and the irish brother, and grieving even as they grieved. and the blind ones, wing and dunraven, came also, paying a last tearless tribute to the noble dead. when it was all over and the post had settled down to routine, the factor found in his mail, one morning, a long letter from the chief commissioner at winnipeg. it told the factor that he was in bad repute, that the english church bishop had been grieved, shocked, and scandalized through seeing the hitherto respectable factor going over to the catholics. not only had he fraternized with them, but had actually taken part in their religious ceremonies. and to crown it all, he had carried, a respectable cree and the chinese cook along with him. the factor's placid face took on a deep hue, but only for a moment. he filled his pipe, poking the tobacco down hard with his thumb. then he took the commissioner's letter, twisted it up, touched it to the tiny fire that blazed in the grate, and lighted his pipe. he smoked in silence for a few moments and then said to himself, being alone, "huh!" "ah, that from the bishop reminds me," said the factor. "i must run over and see the other one." when the factor had related to the french-canadian bishop what had passed between the dead curé and himself, the bishop seemed greatly annoyed. "why, man, he had no mother!" "the devil he didn't--i beg pardon--i say he asked me to send this to his mother. he started to tell me where she lived and then the call came. it was the dying request of a dear friend. i beg of you tell me his mother's name, that i may keep my word." "it is impossible, my son. when he came into the church he left the world. he was bound by the law of the church to give up father, mother, sister, brother--all." "the church be--do you mean to say--" "peace, my son, you do not understand," said the bishop, lifting the little cross which he had taken gently from the factor at the beginning of the interview. now the factor was not in the habit of having his requests ignored and his judgment questioned. "do you mean to say you will _not_ give me the name and address of the dead man's mother?" "it's absolutely impossible. moreover, i am shocked to learn that our late brother could so far forget his duty at the very door of death. no, son, a thousand times no," said the bishop. "then give me the crucifix!" demanded the factor, fiercely. "that, too, is impossible; that is the property of the church." "well," said the factor, filling his pipe again and gazing into the flickering fire, "they're all about the same. and they're all right, too, i presume--all but wing and dunraven and me." the mysterious signal as waterloo lingered in the memory of the conquered corsican, so ashtabula was burned into the brain of bradish. out of that awful wreck he crawled, widowed and childless. for a long time he did not realize, for his head was hurt in that frightful crash. by the time he was fit to leave the hospital they had told him, little by little, that all his people had perished. he made his way to the west, where he had a good home and houses to rent and a hole in the hillside that was just then being changed from a prospect to a mine. the townspeople, who had heard of the disaster, waited for him to speak of it--but he never did. the neighbors nodded, and he nodded to them and passed on about his business. the old servant came and asked if she should open the house, and he nodded. the man-servant--the woman's husband--came also, and to him bradish nodded; and at noon he had luncheon alone in the fine new house that had just been completed a year before the catastrophe. about once a week bradish would board the midnight express, ride down the line for a few hundred miles, and double back. when he went away they knew he had gone, and when he came back they knew he had returned and that was as much as his house-keeper, his agent, or the foreman at the mines could tell you. one would have thought that the haunting memory of ashtabula would have kept him at home for the rest of his life; but he seemed to travel for the sake of the ride only, or for no reason, as a deaf man walks on the railroad-track. gradually he extended his trips, taking the midland over into utah; and once or twice he had been seen on the rear end of the california limited as it dropped down the western water-shed of raton range. one night, when the limited was lapping up the landscape and the desert was rushing in under her pilot and streaking out below the last sleeper like tape from a ticker, the danger signal sounded in the engine cab, the air went on full, the passengers braced themselves against the seats in front of them, or held their breath in their berths as the train came to a dead stop. the conductor and the head man hurried forward shouting, "what's the matter?" to the engineer. the driver, leaning from his lofty window, asked angrily, "what in thunder's the matter with you? i got a stop signal from behind." "you'd better lay off and have a good sleep," said the conductor. "i'll put you to sleep for a minute if you ever hint that i was not awake coming down cañon diablo," shouted the engineer, releasing his brakes. as the long, heavy train glided by, the trainmen swung up like sailors, and away went the limited over the long bridge, five minutes to the bad. a month later the same thing happened on the east end. the engineer was signalled and stopped on a curve with the point of his pilot on a high bridge. this time the captain and the engineer were not so brittle of temper. they discussed the matter, calling on the fireman, who had heard nothing, being busy in the coal-tank. the head brakeman, crossing himself, said it was the "unseen hand" that had been stopping the limited on the desert. it might be a warning, he said, and walked briskly out on the bridge looking for dynamite, ghosts, and things. when he had reached the other end of the bridge, he gave the go-ahead signal and the train pulled out. as they had lost seven minutes, it was necessary for the conductor to report "cause of delay;" and that was the first hint the officials of any of the western lines had of the "unseen hand." presently trainmen, swapping yarns at division stations, heard of the mysterious signal on other roads. the columbia limited, over on the short line, was choked with her head over snake river, at the very edge of pendleton. when they had pulled in and a fresh crew had taken the train on, the in-coming captain and his daring driver argued over the incident and they each got ten days,--not for the delay, but because they could not see to sign the call-book next morning and were not fit to be seen by other people. the next train stopped was the international limited on the grand trunk, then the sunset by the south coast. the strange phenomenon became so general that officials lost patience. one road issued an order to the effect that any engineer who heard signals when there were no signals should get thirty days for the first and his time for the second offence. within a week from the appearance of the unusual and unusually offensive bulletin, "baldy" hooten heard the stop signal as he neared a little junction town where his line crossed another on an overhead bridge. when the signal sounded, the fireman glanced over at the driver, who dived through the window up to his hip pockets. when the engine had crashed over the bridge, the driver pulled himself into the cab again, and once more the signal. the fireman, amazed, stared at the engineer. the latter jerked the throttle wide open; seeing which, the stoker dropped to the deck and began feeding the hungry furnace. ten minutes later the limited screamed for a regular stop, ten miles down the line. as the driver dropped to the ground and began touching the pins and links with the back of his bare hand, to see if they were all cool, the head brakeman trotted forward whispering hoarsely, "the ol' man's aboard." the driver waved him aside with his flaring torch, and up trotted the blue-and-gold conductor with his little silver white-light with a frosted flue. "why didn't you stop at pee-wee junction?" he hissed. "is pee-wee a stop station?" "on signal." "i didn't see no sign." "_i_ pulled the bell." "go on now, you ghost-dancer," said the engineer. "you idiot!" gasped the exasperated conductor. "don't you know the old man's on, that he wanted to stop at pee-wee to meet the g.m. this morning, that a whole engineering outfit will be idle there for half a day, and you'll get the guillotine?" "whew, you have _shore_ got 'em." "isn't your bell working?" asked a big man who had joined the group under the cab window. "i think so, sir," said the driver, as he recognized the superintendent. "johnny, try that cab bell," he shouted, and the fire-boy sounded the big brass gong. "why didn't you take it at pee-wee?" asked the old man, holding his temper beautifully. the driver lifted his torch and stared almost rudely into the face of the official in front of him. "why, mr. skidum," said he slowly, "i didn't hear no signal." the superintendent was blocked. as he turned and followed the conductor into the telegraph office, the driver, gloating in his high tower of a cab, watched him. "he's an old darling," said he to the fire-boy, "and i'm ready to die for him any day; but i can't stop for him in the face of bulletin . thirty days for the first offence, and then fire," he quoted, as he opened the throttle and steamed away, four minutes late. the old man drummed on the counter-top in the telegraph office, and then picked up a pad and wrote a wire to his assistant:-- "cancel general order no. ." the night man slipped out in the dawn and called the day man who was the station master, explaining that the old man was at the station and evidently unhappy. the agent came on unusually early and endeavored to arrange for a light engine to carry the superintendent back to the junction. at the end of three hours they had a freight engine that had left its train on a siding thirty miles away and rolled up to rescue the stranded superintendent. now, every railway man knows that when one thing goes wrong on a railroad, two more mishaps are sure to follow; so, when the rescuing crew heard over the wire that the train they had left on a siding, having been butted by another train heading in, had started back down grade, spilled over at the lower switch, and blocked the main line, they began to expect something to happen at home. however, the driver had to go when the old man was in the cab and the g.m. with a whole army of engineers and workmen waiting for him at pee-wee; so he rattled over the switches and swung out on the main line like a man who was not afraid. two miles up the road the light engine, screaming through a cut, encountered a flock of sheep, wallowed through them, left the track, and slammed the four men on board up against the side of the cut. not a bone was broken, though all of them were sore shaken, the engineer being unconscious when picked up. "go back and report," said the old man to the conductor. "you look after the engineer," to the fireman. "will you flag west, sir?" asked the conductor. "yes,--i'll flag into pee-wee," said the old man, limping down the line. to be sure, the superintendent was an intelligent man and not the least bit superstitious; but he couldn't help, as he limped along, connecting these disasters, remotely at least, with general order no. . in time the "unseen signal" came to be talked of by the officials as well as by train and enginemen. it came up finally at the annual convention of general passenger agents at chicago and was discussed by the engineers at atlanta, but was always ridiculed by the eastern element. "i helped build the u.p.," said a buffalo man, "and i want to tell you high-liners you can't drink squirrel-whiskey at timber-line without seein' things nights." that ended the discussion. probably no road in the country suffered from the evil effects of the mysterious signal as did the inter-mountain air line. the regular spotters failed to find out, and the management sent to chicago for a real live detective who would not be predisposed to accept the "mystery" as such, but would do his utmost to find the cause of a phenomenon that was not only interrupting traffic but demoralizing the whole service. as the express trains were almost invariably stopped at night, the expert travelled at night and slept by day. months passed with only two or three "signals." these happened to be on the train opposed to the one in which the detective was travelling at that moment. they brought out another man, and on his first trip, taken merely to "learn the road," the train was stopped in broad daylight. this time the stop proved to be a lucky one; for, as the engineer let off the air and slipped round a curve in a cañon, he found a rock as big as a box car resting on the track. the detective was unable to say who sounded the signal. the train crew were overawed. they would not even discuss the matter. with a watchman, unknown to the trainmen, on every train, the officials hoped now to solve the mystery in a very short time. the old engineer, mcnally, who had found the rock in the cañon, had boasted in the lodge-room, in the round-house and out, that if ever he got the "ghost-sign," he'd let her go. of course he was off his guard this time. he had not expected the "spook-stop" in open day. and right glad he was, too, that he stopped _that_ day. a fortnight later mcnally, on the night run, was going down crooked creek cañon watching the fireworks in the heavens. a black cloud hung on a high peak, and where its sable skirts trailed along the range the lightning leaped and flashed in sheets and chains. above the roar of wheels he could hear the splash, and once in a while he could feel the spray, of new-made cataracts as the water rushed down the mountain side, choking the culverts. at crag view there was, at that time, a high wooden trestle stilted up on spliced spruce piles with the bark on. it used to creak and crack under the engine when it was new. mcnally was nearing it now. it lay, however, just below a deep rock cut that had been made in a mountain crag and beyond a sharp curve. mcnally leaned from his cab window, and when the lightning flashed, saw that the cut was clear of rock and released the brakes slightly to allow the long train to slip through the reverse curve at the bridge. curves cramp a train, and a smooth runner likes to feel them glide smoothly. as the black locomotive poked her nose through the cut, the engineer leaned out again; but the after-effect of the flash of lightning left the world in inky blackness. back in a darkened corner of the drawing-room of the rearmost sleeper the sleuth snored with both eyes and ears open. suddenly he saw a man, fully dressed, leap from a lower berth in the last section and make a grab for the bell-rope. the man missed the rope; and before he could leap again the detective landed on the back of his neck, bearing him down. at that moment the conductor came through; and when he saw the detective pull a pair of bracelets from his hip-pocket, he guessed that the man underneath must be wanted, and joined in the scuffle. in a moment the man was handcuffed, for he really offered no resistance. as they released him he rose, and they squashed him into a seat opposite the section from which he had leaped a moment before. the man looked not at his captors, who still held him, but pressed his face against the window. he saw the posts of the snow-shed passing, sprang up, flung the two men from him as a newfoundland would free himself from a couple of kittens, lifted his manacled hands, leaped toward the ceiling, and bore down on the signal-rope. the conductor, in the excitement, yelled at the man, bringing the rear brakeman from the smoking-room, followed by the black boy bearing a shoe-brush. once more they bore the bad man down, and then the conductor grabbed the rope and signalled the engineer ahead. men leaped from their berths, and women showed white faces between the closely drawn curtains. once more the conductor pulled the bell, but the train stood still. one of the passengers picked up the man's hand-grip that had fallen from his berth, and found that the card held in the leather tag read: "john bradish." "go forward," shouted the conductor to the rear brakeman, "and get 'em out of here,--tell mcnally we've got the ghost." the detective released his hold on his captive, and the man sank limp in the corner seat. the company's surgeon, who happened to be on the car, came over and examined the prisoner. the man had collapsed completely. when the doctor had revived the handcuffed passenger and got him to sit up and speak, the porter, wild-eyed, burst in and shouted: "de bridge is gone." a death-like hush held the occupants of the car. "de hangin' bridge is sho' gone," repeated the panting porter, "an' de engine, wi' mcnally in de cab's crouchin' on de bank, like a black cat on a well-cu'b. de watah's roahin' in de deep gorge, and if she drap she gwine drag--" the doctor clapped his hand over the frightened darky's mouth, and the detective butted him out to the smoking-room. the conductor explained that the porter was crazy, and so averted a panic. the detective came back and faced the doctor. "take off the irons," said the surgeon, and the detective unlocked the handcuffs. now the doctor, in his suave, sympathetic way, began to question bradish; and bradish began to unravel the mystery, pausing now and again to rest, for the ordeal through which he had just passed had been a great mental and nervous strain. he began by relating the ashtabula accident that had left him wifeless and childless, and, as the story progressed, seemed to find infinite relief in relating the sad tale of his lonely life. it was like a confession. moreover, he had kept the secret so long locked in his troubled breast that it was good to pour it out. the doctor sat directly in front of the narrator, the detective beside him, while interested passengers hung over the backs of seats and blocked the narrow aisle. women, with faces still blanched, sat up in bed listening breathlessly to the strange story of john bradish. shortly after returning to their old home, he related, he was awakened one night by the voice of his wife calling in agonized tones, "john! john!" precisely as she had cried to him through the smoke and steam and twisted débris at ashtabula. he leaped from his bed, heard a mighty roar, saw a great light flash on his window, and the midnight express crashed by. to be sure it was only a dream, he said to himself, intensified by the roar of the approaching train; and yet he could sleep no more that night. try as he would, he could not forget it; and soon he realized that a growing desire to travel was coming upon him. in two or three days' time this desire had become irresistible. he boarded the midnight train and took a ride. but this did not cure him. in fact, the more he travelled the more he wanted to travel. soon after this he discovered that he had acquired another habit. he wanted to stop the train. against these inclinations he had struggled, but to no purpose. once, when he felt that he must take a trip, he undressed and went to bed. he fell asleep, and slept soundly until he heard the whistle of the midnight train. instantly he was out of bed, and by the time they had changed engines he was at the station ready to go. the mania for stopping trains had been equally irresistible. he would bite his lips, his fingers, but he would also stop the train. the moment the mischief (for such it was, in nearly every instance) was done, he would suffer greatly in dread of being found out. but to-night, as on the occasion of the daylight stop in the cañon, he had no warning, no opportunity to check himself, nor any desire to do so. in each instance he had heard, dozing in the day-coach and sleeping soundly in his berth, the voice cry: "john! john!" and instantly his brain was ablaze with the light of burning wreckage. in the cañon he had only felt, indefinitely, the danger ahead; but to-night he saw the bridge swept away, and the dark gorge that yawned in front of them. instantly upon hearing the cry that woke him, he saw it all. "when i realized that the train was still moving, that my first effort to stop had failed, i flung these strong men from me with the greatest ease. i'm sure i should have burst those steel bands that bound my wrists if it had been necessary. "thank god it's all over. i feel now that i am cured,--that i can settle down contented." the man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his forehead, keeping his face to the window for a long time. * * * * * when the conductor went forward, he found that it was as the porter had pictured. the high bridge had been carried away by a water-spout; and on the edge of the opening the engine trembled, her pilot pointing out over the black abyss. mcnally, having driven his fireman from the deck, stood in the cab gripping the air-lever and watching the pump. at that time we used what is technically known as "straight air"; so that if the pump stopped the air played out. the conductor ordered the passengers to leave the train. the rain had ceased, but the lightning was still playing about the summit of the range, and when it flashed, those who had gone forward saw mcnally standing at his open window, looking as grand and heroic as the captain on the bridge of his sinking ship. a nervous and somewhat thoughtless person came close under the cab to ask the engineer why he didn't back up. there was no answer. mcnally thought it must be obvious to a man with the intelligence of an oyster, that to release the brakes would be to let the heavy train shove him over the bank, even if his engine had the power to back up, which she had not. the trainmen were working quietly, but very effectively, unloading. the day coaches had been emptied, the hand-brakes set, and all the wheels blocked with links and pins and stones, when the link between the engine and the mail-car snapped and the engine moved forward. mcnally heard the snap and felt her going, leaped from the window, caught and held a scrub cedar that grew in a rock crevice, and saw his black steed plunge down the dark cañon, a sheer two thousand feet. mcnally had been holding her in the back motion with steam in her cylinders; and now, when she leaped out into space, her throttle flew wide, a knot in the whistle-rope caught in the throttle, opening the whistle-valve as well. down, down she plunged,--her wheels whirling in mid-air, a solid stream of fire escaping from her quivering stack, and from her throat a shriek that almost froze the blood in the veins of the onlookers. fainter and farther came the cry, until at last the wild waters caught her, held her, hushed her, and smothered out her life. chasing the white mail over the walnuts and wine, as they say in fifth avenue, the gray-haired gentleman and i lingered long after the last of the diners had left the café car. one by one the lights were lowered. some of the table-stewards had removed their duck and donned their street clothes. the shades were closely drawn, so that people could not peep in when the train was standing. the chief steward was swinging his punch on his finger and yawning. my venerable friend, who was a veritable author's angel, was a retired railway president with plenty of time to talk. "we had, on the vandalia," he began after lighting a fresh cigar, "a dare-devil driver named hubbard--'yank' hubbard they called him. he was a first-class mechanic, sober and industrious, but notoriously reckless, though he had never had a wreck. the superintendent of motive power had selected him for the post of master-mechanic at effingham, but i had held him up on account of his bad reputation as a wild rider. "we had been having a lot of trouble with california fruit trains,--delays, wrecks, cars looted while in the ditch,--and i had made the delay of a fruit train almost a capital offence. the bulletin was, i presume, rather severe, and the enginemen and conductors were not taking it very well. "one night the white mail was standing at the station at east st. louis (that was before the first bridge was built) loading to leave. my car was on behind, and i was walking up and down having a good smoke. as i turned near the engine, i stopped to watch the driver of the white mail pour oil in the shallow holes on the link-lifters without wasting a drop. he was on the opposite side of the engine, and i could see only his flitting, flickering torch and the dipping, bobbing spout of his oiler. "a man, manifestly another engineer, came up. the mail driver lifted his torch and said, 'hello, yank,' to which the new-comer made no direct response. he seemed to have something on his mind. 'what are you out on?' asked the engineer, glancing at the other's overalls. 'fast freight--perishable--must make time--no excuse will be taken,' he snapped, quoting and misquoting from my severe circular. 'who's in that kaskaskia?' he asked, stepping up close to the man with the torch. "'the ol' man,' said the engineer. "'no! ol' man, eh? well! i'll give him a canter for his currency this trip,' said yank, gloating. 'i'll follow him like a scandal; i'll stay with him this night like the odor of a hot box. say, jimmie,' he laughed, 'when that tintype of yours begins to lay down on you, just bear in mind that my pilot is under the ol' man's rear brake-beam, and that the headlight of the is haunting him.' "'don't get gay, now,' said the engineer of the white mail. "'oh, i'll make him think california fruit is not all that's perishable on the road to-night,' said yank, hurrying away to the round-house. "just as we were about to pull out, our engineer, who was brother to yank, found a broken frame and was obliged to go to the house for another locomotive. we were an hour late when we left that night, carrying signals for the fast freight. as we left the limits of the yard, hubbard's headlight swung out on the main line, picked up two slender shafts of silver, and shot them under our rear end. the first eight or ten miles were nearly level. i sat and watched the headlight of the fast freight. he seemed to be keeping his interval until we hit the hill at collinsville. there was hard pounding then for him for five or six miles. just as the kaskaskia dropped from the ridge between the east and west silver creek, the haunting light swept round the curve at hagler's tank. i thought he must surely take water here; but he plunged on down the hill, coming to the surface a few minutes later on the high prairie east of saint jacobs. "highland, thirty miles out, was our first stop. we took water there; and before we could get away from the tank, hubbard had his twin shafts of silver under my car. we got a good start here, but our catch engine proved to be badly coaled and a poor steamer. up to this time she had done fairly well, but after the first two hours she began to lose. seeing no more of the freight train, i turned in, not a little pleased to think that mr. yank's headlight would not haunt me again that trip. i fell asleep, but woke again when the train stopped, probably at vandalia. i had just begun to doze again when our engine let out a frightful scream for brakes. i knew what that meant,--hubbard was behind us. i let my shade go up, and saw the light of the freight train shining past me and lighting up the water-tank. i was getting a bit nervous, when i felt our train pulling out. "of course hubbard had to water again; but as he had only fifteen loads, and a bigger tank, he could go as far as the mail could without stopping. moreover, we were bound to stop at county seats; and as often as we did so we had the life scared out of us, for there was not an air-brake freight car on the system at that time. what a night that must have been for the freight crew! they were on top constantly, but i believe the beggars enjoyed it all. any conductor but jim lawn would have stopped and reported the engineer at the first telegraph station. still, i have always had an idea that the train-master was tacitly in the conspiracy, for his bulletin had been a hot one delivered orally by the superintendent, whom i had seen personally. "well, along about midnight hubbard's headlight got so close, and kept so close, that i could not sleep. his brother, who was pulling the mail, avoided whistling him down; for when he did he only showed that there _was_ danger, and published his bad brother's recklessness. the result was that when the mail screamed i invariably braced myself. i don't believe i should have stood it, only i felt it would all be over in another hour; for we should lose yank at effingham, the end of the freight's division. it happened, however, that there was no one to relieve him, or no engine rather; and yank went through to terre haute. i was sorry, but i hated to show the white feather. i knew our fresh engine would lose him, with his tired fireman and dirty fire. once or twice i saw his lamp, but at longpoint we lost him for good. i went to bed again, but i could not sleep. i used to boast that i could sleep in a boiler-maker's shop; but the long dread of that fellow's pilot had unnerved me. i had wild, distressing dreams. * * * * * "the next morning, when i got to my office, i found a column of news cut from a morning paper. it had the usual scare-head, and began by announcing that the white mail, with general manager blank's car kaskaskia, came in on time, carrying signals for a freight train. the second section had not arrived, 'as we go to press.' i think i swore softly at that point. then i read on, for there was a lot more. it seemed, the paper stated, that a gang of highwaymen had planned to rob the mail at longpoint, which had come to be regarded as a regular robber station. one of the robbers, being familiar with train rules, saw the signal lights on the mail and mistook it for a special, which is often run as first section of a fast train, and they let it pass. they flagged the freight train, and one of the robbers, who was doubtless new at the business, caught the passing engine and climbed into the cab. the engineer, seeing the man's masked face at his elbow, struck it a fearful blow with his great fist. the amateur desperado sank to the floor, his big, murderous gun rattling on the iron plate of the coal-deck. yank, the engineer, grabbed the gun, whistled off-brakes, and opened the throttle. the sudden lurch forward proved too much for a weak link, and the train parted, leaving the rest of the robbers and the train crew to fight it out. as soon as the engineer discovered that the train had parted, he slowed down and stopped. "when he had picketed the highwayman out on the tank-deck with a piece of bell-cord, one end of which was fixed to the fellow's left foot and the other to the whistle lever, yank set his fireman, with a white light and the robber's gun, on the rear car and flagged back to the rescue. the robbers, seeing the blunder they had made, took a few parting shots at the trainmen on the top of the train, mounted their horses, and rode away. "when the train had coupled up again, they pulled on up to the next station, where the conductor reported the cause of delay, and from which station the account of the attempted robbery had been wired. "i put the paper down and walked over to a window that overlooked the yards. the second section of the white mail was coming in. as the engine rolled past, yank looked up; and there was a devilish grin on his black face. the fireman was sitting on the fireman's seat, the gun across his lap. a young fellow, wearing a long black coat, a bell-rope, and a scared look, was sweeping up the deck. "when i returned to my desk, the superintendent of motive power was standing near it. when i sat down, he spread a paper before me. i glanced at it and recognized yank hubbard's appointment to the post of master-mechanic at effingham. "i dipped a pen in the ink-well and wrote across it in red, 'o--k.'" oppressing the oppressor "is this the president's office?" "yes, sir." "can i see the president?" "yes,--i'm the president." the visitor placed one big boot in a chair, hung his soft hat on his knee, dropped his elbow on the hat, let his chin fall in the hollow of his hand, and waited. the president of the santa fé, leaning over a flat-topped table, wrote leisurely. when he had finished, he turned a kindly face to the visitor and asked what could be done. "my name's jones." "yes?" "i presume you know about me,--buffalo jones, of garden city." "well," began the president, "i know a lot of joneses, but where is garden city?" "down the road a piece, 'bout half-way between wakefield and turner's tank. i want you folks to put in a switch there,--that's what i've come about. i'd like to have it in this week." "anybody living at garden city?" "yes, all that's there's livin'." "about how many?" "one and a half when i'm away,--swede and injin." the president of the santa fé smiled and rolled his lead pencil between the palms of his hands. mr. jones watched him and pitied him, as one watches and pities a child who is fooling with firearms. "he don't know i'm loaded," thought jones. "well," said the president, "when you get your town started so that there will be some prospect of getting a little business, we shall be only too glad to put in a spur for you." jones had been looking out through an open window, watching the law-makers of kansas going up the wide steps of the state house. the fellows from the farm climbed, the town fellows ran up the steps. "spur!" said jones, wheeling around from the window and walking toward the president's desk, "i don't want no spur; i want a side track that'll hold fifty cars, and i want it this week,--see?" "now look here, mr. jones, this is sheer nonsense. we get wind at wakefield and water at turner's tank; now, what excuse is there for putting in a siding half-way between these places?" again mr. jones, rubbing the point of his chin with the ball of his thumb, gave the president a pitying glance. "say!" said jones, resting the points of his long fingers on the table, "i'm goin' to build a town. you're goin' to build a side track. i've already set aside ten acres of land for you, for depot and yards. this land will cost you fifty dollars per, _now_. if i have to come back about this side track, it'll cost you a hundred. now, mr. president, i wish you good-mornin'." at the door jones paused and looked back. "any time this week will do; good-mornin'." the president smiled and turned to his desk. presently he smiled again; then he forgot all about mr. jones and the new town, and went on with his work. mr. jones went down and out and over to the house to watch the men make laws. * * * * * in nearly every community, about every capital, state or national, you will find men who are capable of being influenced. this is especially true of new communities through which a railway is being built. it has always been so, and will be, so long as time expires. i mean the time of an annual pass. it is not surprising, then, that in kansas at that time, the grasshopper period,--before prohibition, mrs. nation, and religious dailies,--the company had its friends, and that mr. jones, an honest farmer with money to spend, had his. two or three days after the interview with mr. jones, the president's "friend" came over to the railroad building. he came in quietly and seated himself near the president, as a doctor enters a sick-room or a lawyer a prison cell. "i know you don't want me," he seemed to say, "but you need me." when his victim had put down his pen, the politician asked, "have you seen buffalo jones?" the president said he had seen the gentleman. "i think it would be a good scheme to give him what he wants," said the honorable member of the state legislature. but the president could not agree with his friend; and at the end of half an hour, the honorable member went away not altogether satisfied. he did not relish the idea of the president trying to run the road without his assistance. one of the chief excuses for his presence on earth and in the state legislature was "to take care of the road." now, he had gotten up early in order to see the president without being seen, and the president had waved him aside. "well," he said, "i'll let jones have the field to-day." * * * * * two days later, when the president opened his desk, he found a brief note from his confidential assistant,--not the honorable one, but an ordinary man who worked for the company for a stated salary. the note read:-- "if buffalo jones calls to-day please see him.--i am leaving town. g.o.m." but buffalo did not call. presently the general manager came in, and when he was leaving the room he turned and asked, "have you seen jones?" "yes," said the president of the santa fé, "i've seen jones." the general manager was glad, for that took the matter from his hands and took the responsibility from his drooping shoulders. about the time the president got his mind fixed upon the affairs of the road again, colonel holiday came in. like the honorable gentleman, he too entered by the private door unannounced; for he was the father of the santa fé. placing his high hat top side down on the table, the colonel folded his hands over the golden head of his cane and inquired of the president if he had seen jones. the president assured the colonel, who in addition to being the father of the road was a director. the colonel picked up his hat and went out, feeling considerable relief: for _his_ friend in the state senate had informed him at the ananias club on the previous evening, that jones was going to make trouble for the road. the colonel knew that a good, virtuous man with money to spend could make trouble for anything or anybody, working quietly and unobtrusively among the equally virtuous members of the state legislature. the colonel had been a member of that august body. in a little while the general manager came back; and with him came o'marity, the road-master. "i thought you said you had seen jones," the general manager began. now the president, who was never known to be really angry, wheeled on his revolving chair. "i--_have_--seen jones." "well, o'marity says jones has not been 'seen.' his friend, who comes down from atchison every sunday night on o'marity's hand-car, has been good enough to tell o'marity just what has been going on in the house. there must be some mistake. it seems to me that if this man jones had been seen properly, he would subside. what's the matter with your friend--ah, here comes the honorable gentleman now." the president beckoned with his index finger and his friend came in. looking him in the eye, the president asked in a stage whisper: "have you--seen--jones?" "no, sir," said the honorable gentleman. "i had no authority to see him." "it's damphunny," said o'marity, "if the president 'ave seen 'im, 'e don't quit." "i certainly saw a man called jones,--buffalo jones of garden city. he wanted a side track put in half-way between wakefield and turner's tank." "and you told him, 'certainly, we'll do it at once,'" said the general manager. "no," the president replied, "i told him we would not do it at once, because there was no business or prospect of business to justify the expense." "ah--h," said the manager. o'marity whistled softly. the honorable gentleman smiled, and looked out through the open window to where the members of the state legislature were going up the broad steps to the state house. "mr. rong," the manager began, "it is all a horrible mistake. you have never 'seen' jones. not in the sense that we mean. when you see a politician or a man who herds with politicians, he is supposed to be yours,--you are supposed to have acquired a sort of interest in him,--an interest that is valued so long as the individual is in sight. you are entitled to his support and influence, up to, and including the date on which your influence expires." all the time the manager kept jerking his thumb toward the window that held the honorable gentleman, using the president's friend as a living example of what he was trying to explain. "is jones a member?" "no, mr. rong, but he controls a few members. it is easier, you understand, to acquire a drove of steers by buying a bunch than by picking them up here and there, one at a time." "i protest," said the honorable member, "against the reference to members of the legislature as 'cattle.'" neither of the railway men appeared to hear the protest. "i think i understand now," said the president. "and i wish, robson, you would take this matter in hand. i confess that i have no stomach for such work." "very well," said the manager. "please instruct your--your--" and he jerked his thumb toward the honorable gentleman--"your _friend_ to send jones to my office." the honorable gentleman went white and then flushed red, but he waited for no further orders. as he strode towards the door, robson, with a smooth, unruffled brow, but with a cold smile playing over his handsome face, with mock courtesy and a wide sweep of his open hand, waved the visitor through the open door. * * * * * "mr. jones wishes to see you," said the chief clerk. "oh, certainly--show mr. jones--ah, good-morning, mr. jones, glad to see you. how's garden city? going to let us in on the ground floor, mr. rong tells me. here, now, fire up; take this big chair and tell me all about your new town." jones took a cigar cautiously from the box. when the manager offered him a match he lighted up gingerly, as though he expected the thing to blow up. "now, mr. jones, as i understand it, you want a side track put in at once. the matter of depot and other buildings will wait, but i want you to promise to let us have at least ten acres of ground. perhaps it would be better to transfer that to us at once. i'll see" (the manager pressed a button). "send the chief engineer to me, george," as the chief clerk looked in. all this time jones smoked little short puffs, eyeing the manager and his own cigar. when the chief engineer came in he was introduced to mr. jones, the man who was going to give kansas the highest boom she had ever had. while jones stood in open-mouthed amazement, the manager instructed the engineer to go to garden city when it would suit mr. jones, lay out a siding that would hold fifty loads, and complete the job at the earliest possible moment. "by the way, mr. jones, have you got transportation over our line?" mr. jones managed to gasp the one word, "no." "buz-z-zz," went the bell. "george, make out an annual for mr. jones,--comp. g.m." jones steadied himself by resting an elbow on the top of the manager's desk. the chief engineer was writing in a little note-book. "now, mr. jones--ah, your cigar's out!--how much is this ten acres to cost us?--a thousand dollars, i believe you told mr. rong." "yes, i did tell him that; but if this is straight and no jolly, it ain't goin' to cost you a cent." "well, that's a _great_ deal better than most towns treat us," said the manager. "now, mr. jones, you will have to excuse me; i have some business with the president. don't fail to look in on me when you come to town; and rest assured that the santa fé will leave nothing undone that might help your enterprise." with a hearty handshake the manager, usually a little frigid and remote, passed out, leaving mr. jones to the tender mercies of the chief engineer. up to this point there is nothing unusual in this story. the remarkable part is the fact that the building of a side track in an open plain turned out to be good business. in a year's time there was a neat station and more sidings. the town boomed with a rapidity that amazed even the boomers. to be sure, it had its relapses; but still, if you look from the window as the california limited crashes by, you will see a pretty little town when you reach the point on the time-table called "garden city." the iron horse and the trolley i two prospectors had three claims in a new camp in british columbia, but they had not the $ . to pay for having them recorded. they told their story to colonel topping, author of "the yellowstone park," and the colonel advanced the necessary amount. in time the prospectors returned $ . of the loan, and gave the colonel one of the claims for the balance, but more for his kindness to them; for they reckoned it a bully good prospect. because they considered it the best claim in the camp, they called it le roi. subsequently the colonel sold this "king," that had cost him $ . , for $ , . . the new owners of le roi stocked the claim; and for the following two or three years, when a man owed a debt that he was unwilling to pay, he paid it in le roi stock. if he felt like backing a doubtful horse, he put up a handful of mining stock to punish the winner. there is in the history of this interesting mine a story of a man swapping a lot of le roi stock for a burro. the former owner of the donkey took the stock and the man it came from into court, declaring that the paper was worthless, and that he had been buncoed. as late as , a man who ran a restaurant offered , shares of le roi stock for four barrels of canadian whiskey; but the whiskey man would not trade that way. in the meantime, however, men were working in the mine; and now they began to ship ore. it was worth $ . a ton, and the stock became valuable. scattered over the northwest were , shares that were worth $ , . . nearly all the men who had put money into the enterprise were yankees,--mining men from spokane, just over the border. these men began now to pick up all the stray shares that could be found; and in a little while eight-tenths of the shares were held by men living south of the line. at northport, in washington, they built one of the finest smelters in the northwest, hauled their ore over there, and smelted it. the ore was rich in gold and copper. they put in a horse-power hoisting-engine and a -drill air-compressor,--the largest in canada,--taking all the money for these improvements out of the mine. the thing was a success, and news of it ran down to chicago. a party of men with money started for the new gold fields, but as they were buying tickets three men rushed in and took tickets for seattle. these were mining men; and those who had bought only to british columbia cashed in, asked for transportation to the coast, and followed the crowd to the klondike. in that way le roi for the moment was forgotten. ii the lieutenant-governor of the northwest territories, who had been a journalist and had a nose for news, heard of the new camp. all the while men were rushing to the klondike, for it is the nature of man to go from home for a thing that he might secure under his own vine. the governor visited the new camp. a man named ross thompson had staked out a town at the foot of le roi dump and called it rossland. the governor put men to work quietly in the mine and then went back to his plank palace at regina, capital of the northwest territories,--to a capital that looked for all the world like a kansas frontier town that had just ceased to be the county seat. here for months he waited, watching the "imperial limited" cross the prairie, receiving delegations of half-breeds and an occasional report from one of the common miners in le roi. if a capitalist came seeking a soft place to invest, the governor pointed to the west-bound limited and whispered in the stranger's ear. to all letters of inquiry coming from ottawa or england,--letters from men who wanted to be told where to dig for gold,--he answered, "klondike." by and by the governor went to rossland again. the mine, of which he owned not a single share of stock, was still producing. when he left rossland he knew all about the lower workings, the value and extent of the ore body. by this time nearly all the le roi shares were held by spokane people. the governor, having arranged with a wealthy english syndicate, was in a position to buy the mine; but the owners did not seem anxious to sell. eventually, however, when he was able to offer them an average of $ . for shares that had cost the holders but from ten to sixty cents a share, about half of them were willing to sell; the balance were not. now the governor cared nothing for this "balance" so long as he could secure a majority,--a controlling interest in the mine,--for the english would have it in no other way. a few thousand scattering shares he had already picked up, and now, from the faction who were willing to sell, he secured an option on , shares, which, together with the odd shares already secured, would put his friends in control of the property. as news of the proposed sale got out, the gorge that was yawning between the two factions grew wider. finally, when the day arrived for the transfer to be made, the faction opposed to the sale prepared to make trouble for those who were selling, to prevent the moving of the seal of the company to canada--in short, to stop the sale. they did not go with guns to the secretary and keeper of the seal and say, "bide where ye be"; but they went into court and swore out warrants for the arrest of the secretary and those of the directors who favored the sale, charging them with conspiracy. it was midnight in spokane. a black locomotive, hitched to a dark day-coach, stood in front of the great northern station. the dim light of the gauge lamp showed two nodding figures in the cab. out on the platform a man walked up and down, keeping an eye on the engine, that was to cost him a cool $ . for a hundred-mile run. presently a man with his coat-collar about his ears stepped up into the gangway, shook the driver, and asked him where he was going. "goin' to sleep." the man would not be denied, however, and when he became too pressing, the driver got up and explained that the cab of his engine was his castle, and made a move with his right foot. "hold," cried his tormentor, "do you know that you are about to lay violent hands upon an officer o' the law?" "no," said the engineer, "but i'll lay a violent foot up agin the crown-sheet o' your trousers if you don't jump." the man jumped. now the chief despatcher came from the station, stole along the shadow side of the car, and spoke to the man who had ordered the train. a deputy sheriff climbed up on the rear end of the special, tried the door, shaded his eyes, and endeavored to look into the car. "have you the running orders?" asked the man who was paying for the entertainment. "yes." "let her go, then." all this was in a low whisper; and now the despatcher climbed up on the fireman's side and pressed a bit of crumpled tissue-paper into the driver's hand. "pull out over the switches slowly, and when you are clear of the yards read your orders an' fly." the driver opened the throttle gently, the big wheels began to revolve, and the next moment the sheriff and one of his deputies boarded the engine. they demanded to know where that train was bound for. "the train," said the driver, tugging at the throttle, "is back there at the station. i'm goin' to the round-house." when the sheriff, glancing back, saw that the coach had been cut off, he swung himself down. "they've gi'n it up," said the deputy. "i reckon--what's that?" said the sheriff. it was the wild, long whistle of the lone black engine just leaving the yards. the two officers faced each other and stood listening to the flutter of the straight stack of the black racer as she responded to the touch of the erstwhile drowsy driver, who was at that moment laughing at the high sheriff, and who would return to tell of it, and gloat in the streets of spokane. the sheriff knew that three of the men for whom he held warrants were at hillier, seven miles on the way to canada. this engine, then, had been sent to pick them up and bear them away over the border. an electric line paralleled the steam way to hillier, and now the sheriff boarded a trolley and set sail to capture the engine, leaving one deputy to guard the special car. by the time the engineer got the water worked out of his cylinders, the trolley was creeping up beside his tank. he saw the flash from the wire above as the car, nodding and dipping like a light boat in the wake of a ferry, shot beneath the cross-wires, and knew instantly that she was after him. an electric car would not be ploughing through the gloom at that rate, without a ray of light, merely for the fun of the thing. a smile of contempt curled the lip of the driver as he cut the reverse-lever back to the first notch, put on the injector, and opened the throttle yet a little wider. the two machines were running almost neck and neck now. the trolley cried, hissed, and spat fire in her mad effort to pass the locomotive. a few stray sparks went out of the engine-stack, and fell upon the roof of the racing car. at intervals of half a minute the fireman opened the furnace door; and by the flare of light from the white-hot fire-box the engine-driver could see the men on the teetering trolley,--the motor-man, the conductor, the sheriff, and his deputy. slowly now the black flier began to slip away from the electric machine. the driver, smiling across the glare of the furnace door at his silent, sooty companion, touched the throttle again; and the great engine drew away from the trolley, as a jack-rabbit who has been fooling with a yellow dog passes swiftly out of reach of his silly yelp. now the men on the trolley heard the wild, triumphant scream of the iron horse whistling for hillier. the three directors of le roi had been warned by wire, and were waiting, ready to board the engine. the big wheels had scarcely stopped revolving when the men began to get on. they had barely begun to turn again when the trolley dashed into hillier. the sheriff leaped to the ground and came running for the engine. the wheels slipped; and each passing second brought the mighty hand of the law, now outstretched, still nearer to the tail of the tank. she was moving now, but the sheriff was doing better. ten feet separated the pursued and the pursuer. she slipped again, and the sheriff caught the corner of the engine-tank. by this time the driver had got the sand running; and now, as the wheels held the rail, the big engine bounded forward, almost shaking the sheriff loose. with each turn of the wheels the speed was increasing. the sheriff held on; and in three or four seconds he was taking only about two steps between telegraph poles, and then--he let go. iii while the locomotive and the trolley were racing across the country the governor, who was engineering it all, invested another thousand. he ordered another engine, and when she backed onto the coach the deputy sheriff told the driver that he must not leave the station. the engineer held his torch high above his head, looked the deputy over, and then went on oiling his engine. in the meantime the governor had stored his friends away in the dark coach, including the secretary with the company's great seal. now the deputy became uneasy. he dared not leave the train to send a wire to his chief at hillier, for the sheriff had said, "keep your eye on the car." the despatcher, whose only interest in the matter was to run the trains and earn money for his employer, having given written and verbal orders to the engineer, watched his chance and, when the sheriff was pounding on the rear door, dodged in at the front, signalling with the bell-rope to the driver to go. frantically now the deputy beat upon the rear door of the car, but the men within only laughed as the wheels rattled over the last switch and left the lights of spokane far behind. away they went over a new and crooked track, the sand and cinders sucking in round the tail of the train to torment the luckless deputy. away over hills and rills, past hillier, where the sheriff still stood staring down the darkness after the vanishing engine; over switches and through the seven devils, while the unhappy deputy hung to the rear railing with one hand and crossed himself. each passing moment brought the racing train still nearer the border,--to that invisible line that marks the end of yankeeland and the beginning of the british possessions. the sheriff knew this and beat loudly upon the car door with an iron gun. the governor let the sash fall at the top of the door and spoke, or rather yelled, to the deputy. to the governor's amazement, the sheriff pushed the bottle aside. dry and dusty as he was, he would not drink. he was too mad to swallow. he poked his head into the dark coach and ordered the whole party to surrender. "just say what you want," said a voice in the gloom, "and we'll pass it out to you." the sheriff became busy with some curves and reverse curves now, and made no reply. presently the governor came to the window in the rear door again and called up the sheriff. "we are now nearing the border," he said to the man on the platform. "they won't know you over there. here you stand for law and order, and i respect you, though i don't care to meet you personally; but over the border you'll only stand for your sentence,--two years for carrying a cannon on your hip,--and then they'll take you away to prison." the sheriff made no answer. "now we're going to slow down at the line to about twenty miles an hour, more or less; and if you'll take a little friendly advice, you'll fall off." the train was still running at a furious pace. the whistle sounded,--one long, wild scream,--and the speed of the train slackened. "here you are," the governor called, and the sheriff stood on the lower step. the door opened and the governor stepped out on the platform, followed by his companions. "i arrest you," the sheriff shouted, "all of you." "but you can't,--you're in british columbia," the men laughed. "let go, now," said the governor, and a moment later the deputy picked himself up and limped back over the border. in the black caÑon one christmas, at least, will live long in the memory of the men and women who hung up their stockings at la veta hotel in gunnison in --. ah, those were the best days of colorado. then folks were brave and true to the traditions of red hoss mountain, when "money flowed like liquor," and coal strikes didn't matter, for the people all had something to burn. the yankee proprietor of the dining-stations on this mountain line had made them as famous almost as the harvey houses on the santa fé were; which praise is pardonable, since the limited train with its café car has closed them all. but the best of the bunch was la veta, and the presiding genius was nora o'neal, the lady manager. many an r. & w. excursionist reading this story will recall her smile, her great gray eyes, her heaps of dark brown hair, and the mountain trout that her tables held. it will be remembered that at that time the main lines of the rio grande lay by the banks of the gunnison, through the black cañon, over cerro summit, and down the uncompaghre and the grande to grand junction, the gate of the utah desert. john cassidy was an express messenger whose run was over this route and whose heart and its secret were in the keeping of nora o'neal. from day to day, from week to week, he had waited her answer, which was to come to him "by christmas." and now, as only two days remained, he dreaded it, as he had hoped and prayed for it since the aspen leaves began to gather their gold. he knew by the troubled look she wore when off her guard that nora was thinking. * * * * * most of the men who were gunning in gunnison in the early 's were fearless men, who, when a difference of opinion arose, faced each other and fought it out; but there had come to live at la veta a thin, quiet, handsome fellow, who moved mysteriously in and out of the camp, slept a lot by day, and showed a fondness for faro by night. when a name was needed he signed "buckingham." his icy hand was soft and white, and his clothes fitted him faultlessly. he was handsome, and when he paid his bill at the end of the fourth week he proposed to nora o'neal. he was so fairer, physically, than cassidy and so darker, morally, that nora could not make up her mind at all, at all. in the shadow time, between sunset and gas-light, on the afternoon of the last day but one before christmas, buck, as he came to be called, leaned over the office counter and put a folded bit of white paper in nora's hand, saying, as he closed her fingers over it: "put this powder in cassidy's cup." he knew cassidy merely as the messenger whose freight he coveted, and not as a contestant for nora's heart and hand,--a hand he prized, however, as he would a bob-tailed flush, but no more. as for cassidy, he would be glad, waking, to find himself alive; and if this plan miscarried, buck should be able to side-step the gallows. anyway, dope was preferable to death. nora opened her hand, and in utter amazement looked at the paper. some one interrupted them. buck turned away, and nora shoved the powder down deep into her jacket pocket, feeling vaguely guilty. no. , the salt lake limited, was an hour late that night. the regular dinner (we called it supper then) was over when shanley whistled in. * * * * * as the headlight of the rockaway engine gleamed along the hotel windows, nora went back to see that everything was ready. in the narrow passage between the kitchen and the dining-room she met buckingham. "what are you doing here?" she demanded. "now, my beauty," said buck, laying a cold hand on her arm, "don't be excited." she turned her honest eyes to him and he almost visibly shrank from them, as she had shuddered at the strange, cold touch of his hand. "put that powder in cassidy's cup," he said, and in the half-light of the little hallway she saw his cruel smile. "and kill cassidy, the best friend i have on earth?" "it will not kill him, but it may save his life. i shall be in his car to-night. sabe? do as i tell you. he will only fall asleep for a little while, otherwise--well, he may oversleep himself." she would have passed on, but he stayed her. "where is it?" he demanded, with a meaning glance. she touched her jacket pocket, and he released his hold on her arm. the shuffle and scuffle of the feet of hungry travellers who were piling into the dining-room had disturbed them. nora passed on to the rear, buck out to sit down and dine with the passengers, who always had a shade the best of the bill. from his favorite seat, facing the audience, he watched the trainmen tumbling into the alcove off the west wing, in one corner of which a couple of pullman porters in blue and gold sat at a small table, feeding with their forks and behaving better than some of their white comrades behaved. * * * * * cassidy came in a moment later, sat down, and looked over to see if his rival was in his accustomed place. the big messenger looked steadily at the other man, who had never guessed the messenger's secret, and the other man looked down. already his supper, steaming hot, stood before him, while the table-girl danced attendance for the tip she was always sure of at the finish. she studied his tastes and knew his wants, from rare roast down to the small, black coffee with which he invariably concluded his meal. when buck looked up again he saw nora approach the table, smile at cassidy, and put a cup of coffee down by his plate. the trainmen were soon through with their supper, being notoriously rapid feeders,--which disastrous habit they acquire while on freight, when they are expected to eat dinner and do an hour's switching in twenty minutes. unusually early for him, buck passed out. nora purposely avoided him, but watched him from the unlighted little private office. she saw him light a cigar and stroll down the long platform. at the rear of the last pullman he threw his cigar away and crossed quickly to the shadow side of the train. she saw him pass along, for there were no vestibules then, and made no doubt he was climbing into cassidy's car. as the messenger reached for his change, the cashier-manager caught his hand, drew it across the counter, leaned toward him, saying excitedly: "be careful to-night, john; don't fall asleep or nod for a moment. oh, be careful!" she repeated, with ever-increasing intensity, her hot hand trembling on his great wrist; "be careful, come back safe, and you shall have your answer." when cassidy came back to earth he was surrounded by half a dozen good-natured passengers, men and women, who had come out of the dining-room during the ten or fifteen seconds he had spent in paradise. a swift glance at the faces about told him that they had seen, another at nora that she was embarrassed; but in two ticks of the office clock he protected her, as he would his safe; for his work and time had trained him to be ready instantly for any emergency. "good-night, sister," he called cheerily, as he hurried toward the door. "good-night, john," said nora, glancing up from the till, radiant with the excitement of her "sweet distress." "oh, by jove!" said a man. "huh!" said a woman, and they looked like people who had just missed a boat. with her face against the window, nora watched the red lights on the rear of no. swing out to the main line. * * * * * closing the desk, she climbed to her room on the third floor and knelt by the window. away out on the shrouded vale she saw the dark train creeping, a solid stream of fire flowing from the short stack of the "shotgun"; for peasley was pounding her for all she was worth in an honest effort to make up the hour that shanley had lost in the snowdrifts of marshall pass. presently she heard the muffled roar of the train on a trestle, and a moment later saw the salt lake limited swallowed by the black cañon, in whose sunless gorges many a driver died before the scenery settled after having been disturbed by the builders of the road. over ahead in his quiet car cassidy sat musing, smoking, and wondering why nora should seem so anxious about him. turning, he glanced about. everything looked right, but the girl's anxiety bothered him. picking up a bundle of way-bills, he began checking up. the engine screamed for sapinero, and a moment later he felt the list as they rounded dead man's curve. unless they were flagged, the next stop would be at cimarron, at the other end of the cañon. his work done, the messenger lighted his pipe, settled himself in his high-backed canvas camp-chair, and put his feet up on his box for a good smoke. he tried to think of a number of things that had nothing whatever to do with nora, but somehow she invariably elbowed into his thoughts. he leaned over and opened his box--not the strong-box, but the wooden, trunk-like box that holds the messenger's street-coat when he's on duty and his jumper when he's off. on the under side of the lifted lid he had fixed a large panel picture of nora o'neal. * * * * * buckingham, peering over a piano-box, behind which he had hidden at gunnison, saw and recognized the photograph; for the messenger's white light stood on the little safe near the picture. for half an hour he had been watching cassidy, wondering why he did not fall asleep. he had seen nora put the cup down with her own hand, to guard, as he thought, against the possibility of a mistake. what will a woman not dare and do for the man she loves? he sighed softly. he recalled now that he had always exercised a powerful influence over women,--that is, the few he had known,--but he was surprised that this consistent catholic girl should be so "dead easy." "and now look at this one hundred and ninety-eight pounds of egotism sitting here smiling on the likeness of the lady who has just dropped bug-dust in his coffee. it's positively funny." such were the half-whispered musings of the would-be robber. he actually grew drowsy waiting for cassidy to go to sleep. the car lurched on a sharp curve, dislodging some boxes. buck felt a strange, tingling sensation in his fingers and toes. presently he nodded. cassidy sat gazing on the pictured face that had hovered over him in all his dreams for months, and as he gazed, seemed to feel her living presence. he rose as if to greet her, but kept his eyes upon the picture. suddenly realizing that something was wrong in his end of the car, buck stood up, gripping the top of the piano-box. the scream of the engine startled him. the car crashed over the switch-frog at curecanti, and curecanti's needle stabbed the starry vault above. the car swayed strangely and the lights grew dim. suddenly the awful truth flashed through his bewildered brain. "o-o-o-oh, the wench!" he hissed, pulling his guns. * * * * * cassidy, absorbed in the photo, heard a door slam; and it came to him instantly that nora had boarded the train at gunnison, and that some one was showing her over to the head end. as he turned to meet her, he saw buck staggering toward him, holding a murderous gun in each hand. instantly he reached for his revolver, but a double flash from the guns of the enemy blinded him and put out the bracket-lamps. as the messenger sprang forward to find his foe, the desperado lunged against him. cassidy grabbed him, lifted him bodily, and smashed him to the floor of the car; but with the amazing tenacity and wonderful agility of the trained gun-fighter, buck managed to fire as he fell. the big bullet grazed the top of cassidy's head, and he fell unconscious across the half-dead desperado. buck felt about for his gun, which had fallen from his hand; but already the "bug-dust" was getting in its work. sighing heavily, he joined the messenger in a quiet sleep. at cimarron they broke the car open, revived the sleepers, restored the outlaw to the ohio state prison, from which he had escaped, and the messenger to nora o'neal. jack ramsey's reason when bill ross romped up over the range and blew into edmonton in the wake of a warm chinook, bought tobacco at the hudson's bay store, and began to regale the gang with weird tales of true fissures, paying placers, and rich loads lying "virgin," as he said, in northern british columbia, the gang accepted his tobacco and stories for what they were worth; for it is a tradition up there that all men who come in with the mudjekeewis are liars. that was thirty years ago. the same chinook winds that wafted bill ross and his rose-hued romances into town have winged them, and the memory of them, away. in the meantime ross reformed, forgot, the people forgave and made him mayor of edmonton. * * * * * when jack ramsey called at the capital of british columbia and told of a territory in that great province where the winter winds blew warm, where snow fell only once in a while and was gone again with the first peep of the sun; of a mountain-walled wonderland between the coast range and the rockies, where flowers bloomed nine months in the year and gold could be panned on almost any of the countless rivers, men said he had come down from alaska, and that he lied. to be sure, they did not say that to jack,--they only telegraphed it one to another over their cigars in the club. some of them actually believed it, and one man who had made money in california and later in leadville said he _knew_ it was so; for, said he, "jack ramsey never says or does a thing without a 'reason.'" at the end of a week this english-bred yankee had organized the "chinook mining and milling company, limited." this man was at the head of the scheme, with jack ramsey as managing director. ramsey was a prospector by nature made proficient by practice. he had prospected in every mining camp from mexico to moose factory. if he were to find a real bonanza, his english-american friend used to say, he would be miserable for the balance of his days, or rather his to-morrows. he lived in his to-morrows,--in these and in dreams. he loved women, wine, and music, and the laughter of little children; but better than all these he loved the wilderness and the wildflowers and the soft, low singing of mountain rills. he loved the flowers of the north, for they were all sweet and innocent. on all the two thousand five hundred miles of the yukon, he used to say, there is not one poisonous plant; and he reasoned that the plants of the peace and the pine and the red roses of the upper athabasca would be the same. and so, one march morning, he sailed up the sound to enter his mountain-walled wonderland by the portal of port simpson, which opens on the pacific. his english-american friend went up as far as simpson, and when the little coast steamer poked her prow into work channel he touched the president of the chinook mining and milling company and said, "the gateway to god's world." * * * * * the head of the c.m. & m. company was not surprised when christmas came ahead of jack ramsey's preliminary report. jack was a careful, conservative prospector, and would not send a report unless there was a good and substantial reason for writing it out. in the following summer a letter came,--an extremely short one, considering what it contained; for it told, tersely, of great prospects in the wonderland. it closed with a request for a new rifle, some garden-seeds, and an h.b. letter of credit for five hundred dollars. after a warm debate among the directors it was agreed the goods should go. the following summer--that is, the second summer in the life of the chinook company--dawson dawned on the world. that year about half the floating population of the republic went to cuba and the other half to the klondike. as the stream swelled and the channel between vancouver island and the mainland grew black with boats, the president of the c.m. & m. company began to pant for ramsey, that he might join the rush to the north. that exciting summer died and another dawned, with no news from ramsey. when the adventurous english-american could withstand the strain no longer, he shipped for skagway himself. he dropped off at port simpson and inquired about ramsey. yes, the hudson people said, it was quite probable that ramsey had passed in that way. some hundreds of prospectors had gone in during the past three years, but the current created by the klondike rush had drawn most of them out and up the sound. one man declared that he had seen ramsey ship for skagway on the "dirigo," and, after a little help and a few more drinks, gave a minute description of a famous nugget pin which the passing pilgrim said the prospector wore. and so the capitalist took the next boat for skagway. by the time he reached dawson the death-rattle had begun to assert itself in the bosom of the boom. the most diligent inquiry failed to reveal the presence of the noted prospector. on the contrary, many old-timers from colorado and california declared that ramsey had never reached the dike--that is, not since the boom. in a walled tent on a shimmering sand-bar at the mouth of the crystal klondike, captain jack crawford, the "poet scout," severely sober in that land of large thirsts, wearing his old-time halo of lady-like behavior and hair, was conducting an "ice cream emporium and soft-drink saloon." "no," said the scout, with the tips of his tapered fingers trembling on an empty table, straining forward and staring into the stranger's face; "no, jack ramsey has not been here; and if what you say be true--he sleeps alone in yonder fastness. alas, poor ramsey!--ah knew 'im well"; and he sank on a seat, shaking with sobs. * * * * * the english-american, on his way out, stopped at simpson again. from a half-breed trapper he heard of a white man who had crossed the coast range three grasses ago. this white man had three or four head of cattle, a cree servant, and a queer-looking cayuse with long ears and a mournful, melancholy cry. this latter member of the gang carried the outfit. taking this half-caste cree to guide him, the mining man set out in search of the long-lost ramsey. they crossed the first range and searched the streams north of the peace river pass, almost to the crest of the continent, but found no trace of the prospector. when the summer died and the wilderness was darkened by the northern night, the search was abandoned. the years drifted into the past, and finally the chinook mining and milling company went to the wall. the english-american promoter, smarting under criticism, reimbursed each of his associates and took over the office, empty ink-stands and blotting paper, and so blotted out all records of the one business failure of his life. but he could not blot out jack ramsey from his memory. there was a "reason," he would say, for ramsey's silence. one day, when in edmonton, he met mayor ross, who had come into the country by the back door some thirty years ago. the tales coaxed from the mayor's memory corresponded with ramsey's report; and having nothing but time and money, the ex-president of the c.m. & m. company determined to go in _via_ the peace river pass and see for himself. he made the acquaintance of smith "the silent," as he was called, who was at that time pathfinding for the grand trunk pacific, and secured permission to go in with the engineers. at little slave lake he picked up jim cromwell, a free-trader, who engaged to guide the mining man into the wonderland he had described. the story of ramsey and his rambles appealed to cromwell, who talked tirelessly, and to the engineer, who listened long; and in time the habitants of cromwell's domains, which covered a country some seven hundred miles square, all knew the story and all joined in the search. beyond the pass of the peace an old cree caught up with them and made signs, for he was deaf and dumb. but strange as it may seem, somehow, somewhere, he had heard the story of the lost miner and knew that this strange white man was the miner's friend. long he sat by the camp fire, when the camp was asleep, trying, by counting on his fingers and with sticks, to make cromwell understand what was on his mind. when day dawned, he plucked cromwells' sleeve, then walked away fifteen or twenty steps, stopped, unrolled his blankets, and lay down, closing his eyes as if asleep. presently he got up, rubbed his eyes, lighted his pipe, smoked for awhile, then knocked the fire out on a stone. then he got up, stamped the fire out as though it had been a camp fire, rolled up his blankets, and travelled on down the slope some twenty feet and repeated the performance. on the next march he made but ten feet. he stopped, put his pack down, seated himself on the trunk of a fallen tree and, with his back to cromwell, began gesticulating, as if talking to some one, nodding and shaking his head. then he got a pick and began digging. at the end of an hour cromwell and the engineer had agreed that these stations were day's marches and the rests camping places. in short, it was two and a half "sleeps" to what he wanted to show them,--a prospect, a gold mine maybe,--and so cromwell and the english-american detached themselves and set out at the heels of the mute cree in search of something. on the morning of the third day the old indian could scarcely control himself, so eager was he to be off. all through the morning the white men followed him in silence. noon came, and still the indian pushed on. at two in the afternoon, rounding the shoulder of a bit of highland overlooking a beautiful valley, they came suddenly upon a half-breed boy playing with a wild goose that had been tamed. down in the valley a cabin stood, and over the valley a small drove of cattle were grazing. suddenly from behind the hogan came the weird wail of a colorado canary, who would have been an ass in absalom's time. they asked the half-breed boy his name, and he shook his head. they asked for his father, and he frowned. the mute old indian took up a pick, and they followed him up the slope. presently he stopped at a stake upon which they could still read the faint pencil-marks:-- c.m. m. co. l't'd the old indian pointed to the ground with an expression which looked to the white men like an interrogation. cromwell nodded, and the indian began to dig. cromwell brought a shovel, and they began sinking a shaft. the english-american, with a sickening, sinking sensation, turned toward the cabin. the boy preceded him and stood in the door. the man put his hand on the boy's head and was about to enter when he caught sight of a nugget at the boy's neck. he stooped and lifted it. the boy shrank back, but the man, going deadly pale, clutched the child, dragging the nugget from his neck. now all the indian in the boy's savage soul asserted itself, and he fought like a little demon. pitying the child in its impotent rage, the man gave him the nugget and turned away. across the valley an indian woman came walking rapidly, her arms full of turnips and onions and other garden-truck. the white man looked and loathed her; for he felt confident that ramsey had been murdered, his trinkets distributed, and his carcass cast to the wolves. when the boy ran to meet the woman, the white man knew by his behavior that he was her child. when the boy had told his mother how the white man had behaved, she flew into a rage, dropped her vegetables, dived into the cabin, and came out with a rifle in her hands. to her evident surprise the man seemed not to dread death, but stood staring at the rifle, which he recognized as the rifle he had sent to ramsey. to his surprise she did not shoot, but uttering a strange cry, started up the slope, taking the gun with her. with rifle raised and flashing eyes she ordered the two men out of the prospect hole. warlike as she seemed, she was more than welcome, for she was a woman and could talk. she talked cree, of course, but it sounded good to cromwell. side by side the handsome young athlete and the cree woman sat and exchanged stories. half an hour later the englishman came up and asked what the prospect promised. "ah," said cromwell, sadly, "this is another story. there is no gold in this vale, though from what this woman tells me the hills are full of it. however," he added, "i believe we have found your friend." "yes?" queried the capitalist. "yes," echoed cromwell, "here are his wife and his child; and here, where we're grubbing, his grave." "quite so, quite so," said the big, warm-hearted english-american, glaring at the ground; "and that was ramsey's 'reason' for not writing." the great wreck on the pÈre marquette the reader is not expected to believe this red tale; but if he will take the trouble to write the general manager of the père marquette railroad, state of michigan, u.s.a. enclosing stamped envelope for answer, i make no doubt that good man, having by this time recovered from the dreadful shock occasioned by the wreck, will cheerfully verify the story even to the minutest detail. * * * * * of course kelly, being irish, should have been a democrat; but he was not. he was not boisterously or offensively republican, but he was going to vote the prosperity ticket. he had tried it four years ago, and business had never been better on the père marquette. moreover, he had a new hand-car. the management had issued orders to the effect that there must be no coercion of employees. it was pretty well understood among the men that the higher officials would vote the republican ticket and leave the little fellows free to do the same. so kelly, being boss of the gang, could not, with "ju" respect to the order of the superintendent, enter into the argument going on constantly between burke and shea on one side and lucien boseaux, the french-canadian-anglo-saxon-foreign-american citizen, on the other. this argument always reached its height at noon-time, and had never been more heated than now, it being the day before election. "here is prosper tee," laughed lucien, holding up a half-pint bottle of _vin rouge_. "yes," burke retorted, "an' ye have four pound of cotton waste in the bottom o' that bucket to trow the grub t' the top. begad, i'd vote for o'bryan wid an empty pail--er none at all--before i'd be humbugged." "un i," said lucien, "would pour messieur rousveau vote if my baskett shall all the way up be cotton." "sure ye would," said shea, "and ate the cotton too, ef your masther told ye to. 'tis the likes of ye, ye bloomin' furreighner, that kapes the thrust alive in this country." when they were like to come to blows, kelly, with a mild show of superiority, which is second nature to a section boss, would interfere and restore order. all day they worked and argued, lifting low joints and lowering high centres; and when the red sun sank in the tree-tops, filtering its gold through the golden leaves, they lifted the car onto the rails and started home. when the men had mounted, lucien at the forward handle and burke and shea side by side on the rear bar, they waited impatiently for kelly to light his pipe and seat himself comfortably on the front of the car, his heels hanging near to the ties. there was no more talk now. the men were busy pumping, the "management" inspecting the fish-plates, the culverts, and, incidentally, watching the red sun slide down behind the trees. at the foot of a long slope, down which the men had been pumping with all their might, there was a short bridge. the forest was heavy here, and already the shadow of the woods lay over the right-of-way. as the car reached the farther end of the culvert, the men were startled by a great explosion. the hand-car was lifted bodily and thrown from the track. the next thing lucien remembers is that he woke from a fevered sleep, fraught with bad dreams, and felt warm water running over his chest. he put his hand to his shirt-collar, removed it, and found it red with blood. thoroughly alarmed, he got to his feet and looked, or rather felt, himself over. his fingers found an ugly ragged gash in the side of his neck, and the fear and horror of it all dazed him. * * * * * he reeled and fell again, but this time did not lose consciousness. finally, when he was able to drag himself up the embankment to where the car hung crosswise on the track, the sight he saw was so appalling he forgot his own wounds. on the side opposite to where he had fallen, burke and shea lay side by side, just as they had walked and worked and fought for years, and just as they would have voted on the morrow had they been spared. immediately in front of the car, his feet over one rail and his neck across the other, lay the mortal remains of kelly the boss, the stub of his black pipe still sticking between his teeth. as lucien stooped to lift the helpless head his own blood, spurting from the wound in his neck, flooded the face and covered the clothes of the limp foreman. finding no signs of life in the section boss, the wounded, and by this time thoroughly frightened, french-canadian turned his attention to the other two victims. swiftly now the realization of the awful tragedy came over the wounded man. his first thought was of the express now nearly due. with a great effort he succeeded in placing the car on the rails, and then began the work of loading the dead. out of respect for the office so lately filled by kelly, he was lifted first and placed on the front of the car, his head pillowed on lucien's coat. next he put burke aboard, bleeding profusely the while; and then began the greater task of loading shea. shea was a heavy man, and by the time lucien had him aboard he was ready to faint from exhaustion and the loss of blood. now he must pump up over the little hill; for if the express should come round the curve and fall down the grade, the hand-car would be in greater danger than ever. after much hard work he gained the top of the hill, the hot blood spurting from his neck at each fall of the handle-bar, and went hurrying down the long easy grade to charlevoix. to show how the trifles of life will intrude at the end, it is interesting to hear lucien declare that one of the first thoughts that came to him on seeing the three prostrate figures was, that up to that moment the wreck had worked a republican gain of one vote, with his own in doubt. but now he had more serious work for his brain, already reeling from exhaustion. at the end of fifteen minutes he found himself hanging onto the handle, more to keep from falling than for any help he was giving the car. the evening breeze blowing down the slope helped him, so that the car was really losing nothing in speed. he dared not relax his hold; for if his strength should give out and the car stop, the express would come racing down through the twilight and scoop him into eternity. so he toiled on, dazed, stupefied, fighting for life, surrounded by the dead. presently above the singing of the wheels he heard a low sound, like a single, smothered cough of a yard engine suddenly reversed. now he had the feeling of a man flooded with ice-water, so chilled was his blood. turning his head to learn the cause of delay (he had fancied the pilot of an engine under his car), he saw burke, one of the dead men, leap up and glare into his face. that was too much for lucien, weak as he was, and twisting slightly, he sank to the floor of the car. slowly burke's wandering reason returned. seeing shea at his feet, bloodless and apparently unhurt, he kicked him, gently at first, and then harder, and shea stood up. mechanically the waking man took his place by burke's side and began pumping, lucien lying limp between them. kelly, they reasoned, must have been dead some time, by the way he was pillowed. when shea was reasonably sure that he was alive, he looked at his mate. "phat way ar're ye feelin'?" asked burke. "purty good fur a corpse. how's yourself?" "oh, so-so!" "th' lord is good to the irish." "but luck ut poor kelly." "'tis too bad," said shea, "an' him dyin' a republican." "'tis the way a man lives he must die." "yes," said shea, thoughtfully, "thim that lives be the sword must go be the board." when they had pumped on silently for awhile, shea asked, "how did ye load thim, burke?" "why--i--i suppose i lifted them aboard. i had no derrick." "did ye lift me, burke?" "i'm damned if i know, shea," said burke, staring ahead, for kelly had moved. "keep her goin'," he added, and then he bent over the prostrate foreman. he lifted kelly's head, and the eyes opened. he raised the head a little higher, and kelly saw the blood upon his beard, on his coat, on his hands. "are yez hurted, kelly?" he asked. "hurted! man, i'm dyin'. can't you see me heart's blood ebbin' over me?" and then burke, crossing himself, laid the wounded head gently down again. by this time they were nearing their destination. burke, seeing lucien beyond human aid, took hold again and helped pump, hoping to reach charlevoix in time to secure medical aid, or a priest at least, for kelly. when the hand-car stopped in front of the station at charlevoix, the employees watching, and the prospective passengers waiting, for the express train gathered about the car. "get a docther!" shouted burke, as the crowd closed in on them. in a few moments a man with black whiskers, a small hand-grip, and bicycle trousers panted up to the crowd and pushed his way to the car. "what's up?" he asked; for he was the company's surgeon. "well, there's wan dead, wan dying, and we're all more or less kilt," said shea, pushing the mob back to give the doctor room. lifting lucien's head, the doctor held a small bottle under his nose, and the wounded man came out. strong, and the reporter would say "willing hands," now lifted the car bodily from the track and put it down on the platform near the baggage-room. when the doctor had revived the french-canadian and stopped the flow of blood, he took the boss in hand. opening the man's clothes, he searched for the wound, but found none. they literally stripped kelly to the waist; but there was not a scratch to be found upon his body. when the doctor declared it to be his opinion that kelly was not hurt at all, but had merely fainted, kelly was indignant. of course the whole accident (lucien being seriously hurt) had to be investigated, and this was the finding of the experts:-- a tin torpedo left on the rail by a flagman was exploded by the wheel of the hand-car. a piece of tin flew up, caught lucien in the neck, making a nasty wound. lucien was thrown from the car, when it jumped the track, so violently as to render him unconscious. kelly and burke and shea, picking themselves up, one after the other, each fainted dead away at the sight of so much blood. lucien revived first, took in the situation, loaded the limp bodies, and pulled for home, and that is the true story of the awful wreck on the père marquette. the story of an englishman a young englishman stood watching a freight train pulling out of a new town, over a new track. a pinch-bar, left carelessly by a section gang, caught in the cylinder-cock rigging and tore it off. swearing softly, the driver climbed down and began the nasty work of disconnecting the disabled machinery. he was not a machinist. not all engine-drivers can put a locomotive together. in fact the best runners are just runners. the englishman stood by and, when he saw the man fumble his wrench, offered a hand. the driver, with some hesitation, gave him the tools, and in a few minutes the crippled rigging was taken down, nuts replaced, and the rigging passed by the englishman to the fireman, who threw it up on the rear of the tank. "are you a mechanic?" asked the driver. "yes, sir," said the englishman, standing at least a foot above the engineer. "there's a job for me up the road, if i can get there." "and you're out of tallow?" the englishman was not quite sure; but he guessed "tallow" was united states for "money," and said he was short. "all right," said the engine-driver; "climb on." the fireman was a dutchman named martin, and he made the englishman comfortable; but the englishman wanted to work. he wanted to help fire the engine, and martin showed him how to do it, taking her himself on the hills. when they pulled into the town of e., the englishman went over to the round-house and the foreman asked him if he had ever "railroaded." he said no, but he was a machinist. "well, i don't want you," said the foreman, and the englishman went across to the little eating-stand where the trainmen were having dinner. martin moved over and made room for the stranger between himself and his engineer. "what luck?" asked the latter. "hard luck," was the answer, and without more talk the men hurried on through the meal. they had to eat dinner and do an hour's switching in twenty minutes. that is an easy trick when nobody is looking. you arrive, eat dinner, then register in. that is the first the despatcher hears of you at e. you switch twenty minutes and register out. that is the last the despatcher hears of you at e. you switch another twenty minutes and go. that is called stealing time; and may the manager have mercy on you if you're caught at it, for you've got to make up that last twenty minutes before you hit the next station. as the engineer dropped a little oil here and there for another dash, the englishman came up to the engine. he could not bring himself to ask the driver for another ride, and he didn't need to. "you don't get de jobs?" asked martin. "no." "vell, dat's all right; you run his railroad some day." "i don't like the agent here," said the driver; "but if you were up at the other end of the yard, over on the left-hand side, he couldn't see you, and i couldn't see you for the steam from that broken cylinder-cock." now they say an englishman is slow to catch on, but this one was not; and as the engine rattled over the last switch, he climbed into the cab in a cloud of steam. martin made him welcome again, pointing to a seat on the waste-box. the dead-head took off his coat, folded it carefully, laid it on the box, and reached for the shovel. "not yet," said martin, "dare is holes already in de fire; i must get dose yello smoke from de shtack off." the dead-head leaned from the window, watching the stack burn clear, then martin gave him the shovel. half-way up a long, hard hill the pointer on the steam-gauge began to go back. the driver glanced over at martin, and martin took the shovel. the dead-head climbed up on the tank and shovelled the coal down into the pit, that was now nearly empty. in a little while they pulled into the town of m.c., iowa, at the crossing of the chicago, milwaukee, and st. paul. here the englishman had to change cars. his destination was on the cross-road, still one hundred and eighteen miles away. the engine-driver took the joint agent to one side, the agent wrote on a small piece of paper, folded it carefully, and gave it to the englishman. "this may help you," said he; "be quick--they're just pulling out--run!" panting, the englishman threw himself into a way-car that was already making ten miles an hour. the train official unfolded the paper, read it, looked the englishman over, and said, "all right." it was nearly night when the train arrived at w., and the dead-head followed the train crew into an unpainted pine hotel, where all hands fell eagerly to work. a man stood behind a little high desk at the door taking money; but when the englishman offered to pay he said, "yours is paid fer." "not mine; nobody knows me here." "then, 'f the devil don't know you better than i do you're lost, young man," said the landlord. "but some one p'inted to you and said, 'i pay fer him.' it ain't a thing to make a noise about. it don't make no difference to me whether it's tom or jerry that pays, so long as everybody represents." "well, this is a funny country," mused the englishman, as he strolled over to the shop. now when he heard the voice of the foreman, with its musical burr, which stamped the man as a briton from the highlands, his heart grew glad. the scotchman listened to the stranger's story without any sign of emotion or even interest; and when he learned that the man had "never railroaded," but had been all his life in the british government service, he said he could do nothing for him, and walked away. the young man sat and thought it over, and concluded he would see the master-mechanic. on the following morning he found that official at his desk and told his story. he had just arrived from england with a wife and three children and a few dollars. "that's all right," said the master-mechanic; "i'll give you a job on monday morning." this was saturday, and during the day the first foreman with whom the englishman had talked wired that if he would return to e. he could find work. the young man showed this wire to the master-mechanic. "i should like to work for you," said he; "you have been very kind to give me employment after the foreman had refused, but my family is near this place. they are two hundred miles or more from here." "i understand," said the kind-hearted official, "and you'd better go back to e." the englishman rubbed his chin and looked out of the window. the train standing at the station and about to pull out would carry him back to the junction, but he made no effort to catch it, and the master-mechanic, seeing this, caught the drift of the young man's mind. "have you transportation?" he asked. the stranger, smiling, shook his head. turning to his desk, the master-mechanic wrote a pass to the junction and a telegram requesting transportation over the iowa central from the junction to the town of e. that sunday the young man told his young wife that the new country was "all right." everybody trusted everybody else. an official would give a stranger free transportation; a station agent could give you a pass, and even an engine-driver could carry a man without asking permission. he didn't know that all these men save the master-mechanic had violated the rules of the road and endangered their own positions and the chance of promotion by helping him; but he felt he was among good, kind people, and thanked them just the same. on monday morning he went to work in the little shop. in a little while he was one of the trustworthy men employed in the place. "how do you square a locomotive?" he asked the foreman. "here," said the foreman; "from this point to that." that was all the englishman asked. he stretched a line between the given points and went to work. two years from this the town of m. offered to donate to the railroad company $ , if the new machine shop could be located there, steam up and machinery running, on the first day of january of the following year. the general master-mechanic entrusted the work of putting in the machinery, after the walls had been built and the place roofed over, to the division master-mechanic, who looked to the local foreman to finish the job in time to win the subsidy. the best months of the year went by before work was begun. frost came, and the few men tinkering about were chilled by the autumn winds that were wailing through the shutterless doors and glassless windows. finally the foreman sent the englishman to m. to help put up the machinery. he was a new man, and therefore was expected to take signals from the oldest man on the job,--a sort of straw-boss. the bridge boss--the local head of the wood-workers--found the englishman gazing about, and the two men talked together. there was no foreman there, but the englishman thought he ought to work anyway; so he and the wood boss stretched a line for a line-shaft, and while the carpenter's gang put up braces and brackets the englishman coupled the shaft together, and in a few days it was ready to go up. as the young man worked and whistled away one morning, the boss carpenter came in with a military-looking gentleman, who seemed to own the place. "where did you come from?" asked the new-comer of the machinist. "from england, sir." "well, anybody could tell that. where did you come from when you came here?" "from e." "well, sir, can you finish this job and have steam up here on the first of january?" the englishman blushed, for he was embarrassed, and glanced at the wood boss. then, sweeping the almost empty shop with his eye, he said something about a foreman who was in charge of the work. "damn the foreman," said the stranger; "i'm talking to you." the young man blushed again, and said he could work twelve or fourteen hours a day for a time if it were necessary, but he didn't like to make any rash promises about the general result. "now look here," said the well-dressed man, "i want you to take charge of this job and finish it; employ as many men as you can handle, and blow a whistle here on new year's morning--do you understand?" the englishman thought he did, but he could hardly believe it. he glanced at the wood boss, and the wood boss nodded his head. "i shall do my best," said the englishman, taking courage, "but i should like to know who gives these orders." "i'm the general manager," said the man; "now get a move on you," and he turned and walked out. it is not to be supposed that the general manager saw anything remarkable about the young man, save that he was six feet and had a good face. the fact is, the wood foreman had boomed the englishman's stock before the manager saw him. the path of the englishman was not strewn with flowers for the next few months. any number of men who had been on the road when he was in the english navy-yards felt that they ought to have had this little promotion. the local foremen along the line saw in the young englishman the future foreman of the new shops, and no man went out of his way to help the stranger. but in spite of all obstacles, the shop grew from day to day, from week to week; so that as the old year drew to a close the machinery was getting into place. the young foreman, while a hard worker, was always pleasant in his intercourse with the employees, and in a little while he had hosts of friends. there is always a lot of extra work at the end of a big job, and now when christmas came there was still much to do. the men worked night and day. the boiler that was to come from chicago had been expected for some time. everything was in readiness, and it could be set up in a day; but it did not come. tracer-letters that had gone after it were followed by telegrams; finally it was located in a wreck out in a cornfield in illinois on the last day of the year. a great many of the officials were away, and the service was generally demoralized during the holidays, so that the appropriation for which the englishman was working at m. had for the moment been forgotten; the shops were completed, the machinery was in, but there was no boiler to boil water to make steam. that night, when the people of m. were watching the old year out and the new year in, the young englishman with a force of men was wrecking the pump-house down by the station. the little upright boiler was torn out and placed in the machine shops, and with it a little engine was driven that turned the long line-shaft. at dawn they ran a long pipe through the roof, screwed a locomotive whistle on the top of it, and at six o'clock on new year's morning the new whistle on the new shops at m. in iowa, blew in the new year. incidentally, it blew the town in for $ , . this would be a good place to end this story, but the temptation is great to tell the rest. when the shops were opened, the young englishman was foreman. this was only about twenty-five years ago. in a little while they promoted him. in he went to the wisconsin central. in he was made superintendent of machinery of the santa fé route,--one of the longest roads on earth. it begins at chicago, strong like a man's wrist, with a finger each on sacramento, san francisco, san diego, and el paso, and a thumb touching the gulf at galveston. the mileage of the system, at that time, was equal to one-half that of great britain; and upon the companies' payrolls were ten thousand more men than were then in the army of the united states. fifteen hundred men and boys walk into the main shops at topeka every morning. they work four hours, eat luncheon, listen to a lecture or short sermon in the meeting-place above the shops, work another four hours, and walk out three thousand dollars better off than they would have been if they had not worked. these shops make a little city of themselves. there is a perfect water system, fire-brigade with fire stations where the firemen sleep, police, and a dog-catcher. here they build anything of wood, iron, brass, or steel that the company needs, from a ninety-ton locomotive to a single-barrelled mouse-trap, all under the eye of the englishman who came to america with a good wife and three babies, a good head and two hands. this man's name is john player. he is the inventor of the player truck, the player hand-car, the player frog, and many other useful appliances. this simple story of an unpretentious man came out in broken sections as the special sped along the smooth track, while the general manager talked with the resident director and the general superintendent talked with his assistant, who, not long ago, was the conductor of a work-train upon which the g.s. was employed as brakeman. i was two days stealing this story, between the blushes of the mechanical superintendent. he related, also, that a man wearing high-cut trousers and milk on his boot had entered his office when he had got to his first position as master-mechanic and held out a hand, smiling, "vell, you don't know me yet, ain't it? i'm martin the fireman; i quit ranchin' already, an' i want a jobs." martin got a job at once. he got killed, also, in a little while; but that is part of the business on a new road. near the shops at topeka stands the railroad young men's christian association building. they were enlarging it when i was there. there are no "saloons" in kansas, so player and his company help the men to provide other amusements. on the limited one sabbath evening, not long ago, i went down to the depot in an ontario town to take the international limited for montreal. she was on the blackboard five minutes in disgrace. "huh!" grunted a commercial traveller. it was sunday in the aforesaid ontario town, and would be sunday in toronto, toward which he was travelling. even if we were on time we should not arrive until . --too late for church, too early to go to bed, and the saloons all closed and barred. and yet this restless traveller fretted and grieved because we promised to get into toronto five minutes late. alas for the calculation of the train despatchers, she was seven minutes overdue when she swept in and stood for us to mount. the get-away was good, but at the eastern yard limits we lost again. the people from the pullmans piled into the café car and overflowed into the library and parlor cars. the restless traveller snapped his watch again, caught the sleeve of a passing trainman, and asked "'s matter?" and the conductor answered, "waiting for no. ." five minutes passed and not a wheel turned; six, eight, ten minutes, and no sound of the coming west-bound express. up ahead we could hear the flutter and flap of the blow-off; for the black flier was as restless as the fat drummer who was snapping his watch, grunting "huh," and washing suppressed profanity down with _café noir_. eighteen minutes and no. passed. when the great black steed of steam got them swinging again we were twenty-five minutes to the bad. and how that driver did hit the curves! the impatient traveller snapped his watch again and said, refusing to be comforted, "she'll never make it." mayhap the fat and fretful drummer managed to communicate with the engine-driver, or maybe the latter was unhappily married or had an insurance policy; and it is also possible that he is just the devil to drive. anyway, he whipped that fine train of pullmans, café, and parlor cars through those peaceful, lamplighted, sabbath-keeping ontario towns as though the whole show had cost not more than seven dollars, and his own life less. on a long lounge in the library car a well-nourished lawyer lay sleeping in a way that i had not dreamed a political lawyer could sleep. one gamey m.p.--double p, i was told--had been robbing this same lawyer of a good deal of rest recently, and he was trying at a mile a minute to catch up with his sleep. i could feel the sleeper slam her flanges against the ball of the rail as we rounded the perfectly pitched curves, and the little semi-quaver that tells the trained traveller that the man up ahead is moving the mile-posts, at least one every minute. at the first stop, twenty-five miles out, the fat drummer snapped his watch again, but he did not say, "huh." we had made up five minutes. a few passengers swung down here, and a few others swung up; and off we dashed, drilling the darkness. i looked in on the lawyer again, for i would have speech with him; but he was still sleeping the sleep of the virtuous, with the electric light full on his upturned baby face, that reminds me constantly of the late tom reed. a woman i know was putting one of her babies to bed in lower , when we wiggled through a reverse curve that was like shooting white horse rapids in a peterboro. the child intended for lower went over into . "never mind," said its mother, "we have enough to go around;" and so she left that one in and put the next one in , and so on. at the next stop where you "y" and back into the town, the people, impatient, were lined up, ready to board the limited. when we swung over the switches again, we were only ten minutes late. as often as the daring driver eased off for a down grade i could hear the hiss of steam through the safety-valve above the back of the black flier, and i could feel the flanges against the ball of the rail, and the little tell-tale semi-quaver of the car. by now the babies were all abed; and from bunk to bunk she tucked them in, kissed them good-night, and then cuddled down beside the last one, a fair-haired girl who seemed to have caught and kept, in her hair and in her eyes, the sunshine of the three short summers through which she had passed. once more i went and stood by the lounge where the lawyer lay, but i had not the nerve to wake him. the silver moon rose and lit the ripples on the lake that lay below my window as the last of the diners came from the café car. along the shore of the sleeping lake our engine swept like a great, black, wingless bird of night. presently i felt the frogs of south parkdale; and when, from her hot throat she called "toronto," the fat and fretful traveller opened his great gold watch. he did not snap it now, but looked into its open face and almost smiled; for we were touching toronto on the tick of time. i stepped from the car, for i was interested in the fat drummer. i wanted to see him meet her, and hold her hand, and tell her what a really, truly, good husband he had been, and how he had hurried home. as he came down the short stair a friend faced him and said "good-night," where we say "good-evening." "hello, bill," said the fat drummer. they shook hands languidly. the fat man yawned and asked, "anything doing?" "not the littlest," said bill. "then," said jim (the fat man), "let us go up to the king edward, sit down, and have a good, quiet smoke." the conquest of alaska immediately under the man with the money, who lived in london, there was the president in chicago; then came the chief engineer in seattle, the locating engineer in skagway, the contractor in the grading camp, and hugh foy, the "boss" of the builders. yet in spite of all this overhanging stratification, foy was a big man. to be sure, none of these men had happened to get their positions by mere chance. they were men of character and fortitude, capable of great sacrifice. mr. close, in london, knew that his partner, mr. graves, in chicago, would be a good man at the head of so cold and hopeless an enterprise as a klondike railway; and mr. graves knew that erastus corning hawkins, who had put through some of the biggest engineering schemes in the west, was the man to build the road. the latter selected, as locating engineer, john hislop, the hero, one of the few survivors of that wild and daring expedition that undertook, some twenty years ago, to survey a route for a railroad whose trains were to traverse the grand cañon of colorado, where, save for the song of the cataract, there is only shade and silence and perpetual starlight. heney, a wiry, compact, plucky canadian contractor, made oral agreement with the chief engineer and, with hugh foy as his superintendent of construction, began to grade what they called the white pass and yukon railway. beginning where the bone-washing skagway tells her troubles to the tide-waters at the elbow of that beautiful arm of the pacific ocean called lynn canal, they graded out through the scattered settlement where a city stands to-day, cut through a dense forest of spruce, and began to climb the hill. when the news of ground-breaking had gone out to seattle and chicago, and thence to london, conservative capitalists, who had suspected close brothers and company and all their associates in this wild scheme of temporary insanity, concluded that the sore affliction had come to stay. but the dauntless builders on the busy field where the grading camp was in action kept grubbing and grading, climbing and staking, blasting and building, undiscouraged and undismayed. under the eaves of a dripping glacier, hawkins, hislop, and heney crept; and, as they measured off the miles and fixed the grade by blue chalk-marks where stakes could not be driven, foy followed with his army of blasters and builders. when the pathfinders came to a deep side cañon, they tumbled down, clambered up on the opposite side, found their bearings, and began again. at one place the main wall was so steep that the engineer was compelled to climb to the top, let a man down by a rope, so that he could mark the face of the cliff for the blasters, and then haul him up again. it was springtime when they began, and through the long days of that short summer the engineers explored and mapped and located; and ever, close behind them, they could hear the steady roar of foy's fireworks as the skilled blasters burst big boulders or shattered the shoulders of great crags that blocked the trail of the iron horse. ever and anon, when the climbers and builders peered down into the ragged cañon, they saw a long line of pack-animals, bipeds and quadrupeds,--some hoofed and some horned, some bleeding, some blind,--stumbling and staggering, fainting and falling, the fittest fighting for the trail and gaining the summit, whence the clear, green waters of the mighty yukon would carry them down to dawson,--the mecca of all these gold-mad men. as often as the road-makers glanced at the pack-trains, they saw hundreds of thousands of dollars' worth of traffic going past or waiting transportation at skagway, and each strained every nerve to complete the work while the sun shone. by midsummer they began to appreciate the fact that this was to be a hard job. when the flowers faded on the southern slopes, they were not more than half-way up the hill. each day the sun swung lower across the canals, all the to-morrows were shorter than the yesterdays, and there was not a man among them with a shade of sentiment, or a sense of the beautiful, but sighed when the flowers died. yes, they had learned to love this maiden, summer, that had tripped up from the south, smiled on them, sung for a season, sighed, smiled once more, and then danced down the lynn again. "i'll come back," she seemed to say, peeping over the shoulder of a glacier that stood at the stage entrance; "i'll come back, but ere i come again there'll be strange scenes and sounds on this rude stage so new to you. first, you will have a short season of melodrama by a melancholy chap called autumn, gloriously garbed in green and gold, with splashes and dashes of lavender and lace, but sad, sweetly sad, and sighing always, for life is such a little while." with a sadder smile, she kissed her rosy fingers and was gone,--gone with her gorgeous garments, her ferns and flowers, her low, soft sighs and sunny skies, and there was not a man that was a man but missed her when she was gone. the autumn scene, though sombre and sad, was far from depressing, but they all felt the change. john hislop seemed to feel it more than all the rest; for besides being deeply religious, he was deeply in love. his nearest and dearest friend, heney--happy, hilarious heney--knew, and he swore softly whenever a steamer landed without a message from minneapolis,--the long-looked-for letter that would make hislop better or worse. it came at length, and hislop was happy. with his horse, his dog, and a sandwich,--but never a gun,--he would make long excursions down toward lake linderman, to bennett, or over atlin way. when the country became too rough for the horse, he would be left picketed near a stream with a faithful dog to look after him while the pathfinder climbed up among the eagles. in the meantime foy kept pounding away. occasionally a soiled pedestrian would slide down the slope, tell a wild tale of rich strikes, and a hundred men would quit work and head for the highlands. foy would storm and swear and coax by turns, but to no purpose; for they were like so many steers, and as easily stampeded. when the atlin boom struck the camp, foy lost five hundred men in as many minutes. scores of graders dropped their tools and started off on a trot. the prospector who had told the fable had thrown his thumb over his shoulder to indicate the general direction. nobody had thought to ask how far. many forgot to let go; and heney's picks and shovels, worth over a dollar apiece, went away with the stampeders. as the wild mob swept on, the tethered blasters cut the cables that guyed them to the hills, and each loped away with a piece of rope around one ankle. panting, they passed over the range, these gold-crazed coxeys, without a bun or a blanket, a crust or a crumb, many without a cent or even a sweat-mark where a cent had slept in their soiled overalls. when foy had exhausted the english, irish, and alaskan languages in wishing the men luck in various degrees, he rounded up the remnant of his army and began again. in a day or two the stampeders began to limp back hungry and weary, and every one who brought a pick or a shovel was re-employed. but hundreds kept on toward lake bennett, and thence by water up windy arm to the atlin country, and many of them have not yet returned to claim their time-checks. the autumn waned. the happy wives of young engineers, who had been tented along the line during the summer, watched the wildflowers fade with a feeling of loneliness and deep longing for their stout-hearted, strong-limbed husbands, who were away up in the cloud-veiled hills; and they longed, too, for other loved ones in the lowlands of their childhood. foy's blasters and builders buttoned their coats and buckled down to keep warm. below, they could hear loud peals of profanity as the trailers, packers, and pilgrims pounded their dumb slaves over the trail. above, the wind cried and moaned among the crags, constantly reminding them that winter was near at hand. the nights were longer than the days. the working day was cut from ten to eight hours, but the pay of the men had been raised from thirty to thirty-five cents an hour. one day a black cloud curtained the cañon, and the workmen looked up from their picks and drills to find that it was november and night. the whole theatre, stage and all, had grown suddenly dark; but they knew, by the strange, weird noise in the wings, that the great tragedy of winter was on. hislop's horse and dog went down the trail. hawkins and hislop and heney walked up and down among the men, as commanding officers show themselves on the eve of battle. foy chaffed the laborers and gave them more rope; but no amount of levity could prevail against the universal feeling of dread that seemed to settle upon the whole army. this weird alaska, so wild and grand, so cool and sweet and sunny in summer, so strangely sad in autumn,--this many-mooded, little known alaska that seemed doomed ever to be misunderstood, either over-lauded or lied about,--what would she do to them? how cruel, how cold, how weird, how wickedly wild her winters must be! most men are brave, and an army of brave men will breast great peril when god's lamp lights the field; but the stoutest heart dreads the darkness. these men were sore afraid, all of them; and yet no one was willing to be the first to fall out, so they stood their ground. they worked with a will born of desperation. the wind moaned hoarsely. the temperature dropped to thirty-five degrees below zero, but the men, in sheltered places, kept pounding. sometimes they would work all day cleaning the snow from the grade made the day before, and the next day it would probably be drifted full again. at times the task seemed hopeless; but heney had promised to build to the summit of white pass without a stop, and foy had given heney his hand across a table at the fifth avenue hotel in skagway. at times the wind blew so frightfully that the men had to hold hands; but they kept pegging away between blasts, and in a little while were ready to begin bridging the gulches and deep side-cañons. one day--or one night, rather, for there were no days then--a camp cook, crazed by the cold and the endless night, wandered off to die. hislop and heney found him, but he refused to be comforted. he wanted to quit, but heney said he could not be spared. he begged to be left alone to sleep in the warm, soft snow, but heney brought him back to consciousness and to camp. a premature blast blew a man into eternity. the wind moaned still more drearily. the snow drifted deeper and deeper, and one day they found that, for days and days, they had been blasting ice and snow when they thought they were drilling the rock. heney and foy faced each other in the dim light of a tent lamp that night. "must we give up?" asked the contractor. "no," said foy, slowly, speaking in a whisper; "we'll build on snow, for it's hard and safe; and in the spring we'll ease it down and make a road-bed." they did so. they built and bedded the cross-ties on the snow, ballasted with snow, and ran over that track until spring without an accident. they were making mileage slowly, but the awful strain was telling on the men and on the bank account. the president of the company was almost constantly travelling between washington and ottawa, pausing now and again to reach over to london for another bag of gold, for they were melting it up there in the arctic night--literally burning it up, were these dynamiters of foy's. to conceive this great project, to put it into shape, present it in london, secure the funds and the necessary concessions from two governments, survey and build, and have a locomotive running in alaska a year from the first whoop of the happy klondiker, had been a mighty achievement; but it was what heney would call "dead easy" compared with the work that confronted the president at this time. on july , , the first pick was driven into the ground at white pass; just a year later the pioneer locomotive was run over the road. more than once had the financial backers allowed their faith in the enterprise and in the future of the country beyond to slip away; but the president of the company had always succeeded in building it up again, for they had never lost faith in him, or in his ability to see things that were to most men invisible. in summer, when the weekly reports showed a mile or more or less of track laid, it was not so hard; but when days were spent in placing a single bent in a bridge, and weeks were consumed on a switch back in a pinched-out cañon, it was hard to persuade sane men that business sense demanded that they pile on more fuel. but they did it; and, as the work went on, it became apparent to those interested in such undertakings that all the heroes of the white pass were not in the hills. in addition to the elements, ever at war with the builders, they had other worries that winter. hawkins had a fire that burned all the company's offices and all his maps and notes and records of surveys. foy had a strike, incited largely by jealous packers and freighters; and there was hand-to-hand fighting between the strikers and their abettors and the real builders, who sympathized with the company. brydone-jack, a fine young fellow, who had been sent out as consulting engineer to look after the interests of the shareholders, clapped his hands to his forehead and fell, face down, in the snow. his comrades carried him to his tent. he had been silent, had suffered, perhaps for a day or two, but had said nothing. the next night he passed away. his wife was waiting at vancouver until he could finish his work in alaska and go home to her. with sad and heavy hearts hawkins and hislop and heney climbed back to where foy and his men were keeping up the fight. like so many big lightning-bugs they seemed, with their dim white lamps rattling around in the storm. it was nearly all night then. god and his sunlight seemed to have forsaken alaska. once every twenty-four hours a little ball of fire, red, round, and remote, swung across the cañon, dimly lighted their lunch-tables, and then disappeared behind the great glacier that guards the gateway to the klondike. as the road neared the summit, heney observed that foy was growing nervous, and that he coughed a great deal. he watched the old fellow, and found that he was not eating well, and that he slept very little. heney asked foy to rest, but the latter shook his head. hawkins and hislop and heney talked the matter over in hislop's tent, called foy in, and demanded that he go down and out. foy was coughing constantly, but he choked it back long enough to tell the three men what he thought of them. he had worked hard and faithfully to complete the job, and now that only one level mile remained to be railed, would they send the old man down the hill? "i will not budge," said foy, facing his friends; "an' when you gentlemen ar-re silibratin' th' vict'ry at the top o' the hill ahn chuesday nixt, hugh foy'll be wood ye. do you moind that, now?" foy steadied himself by a tent-pole and coughed violently. his eyes were glassy, and his face flushed with the purplish flush that fever gives. "enough of this!" said the chief engineer, trying to look severe. "take this message, sign it, and send it at once." foy caught the bit of white clip and read:-- "captain o'brien, skagway. "save a berth for me on the 'rosalie.'" they thought, as they watched him, that the old road-maker was about to crush the paper in his rough right hand; but suddenly his face brightened, he reached for a pencil, saying, "i'll do it," and when he had added "next trip" to the message, he signed it, folded it, and took it over to the operator. so it happened that, when the last spike was driven at the summit, on february , , the old foreman, who had driven the first, drove the last, and it was _his_ last spike as well. doctor whiting guessed it was pneumonia. when the road had been completed to lake bennett, the owners came over to see it; and when they saw what had been done, despite the prediction that dawson was dead and that the cape nome boom would equal that of the klondike, they authorized the construction of another hundred miles of road which would connect with the yukon below the dreaded white horse rapids. jack and foy and hislop are gone; and when john hislop passed away, the west lost one of the most modest and unpretentious, yet one of the best and bravest, one of the purest minded men that ever saw the sun go down behind a snowy range. number three one winter night, as the west-bound express was pulling out of omaha, a drunken man climbed aboard. the young superintendent, who stood on the rear platform, caught the man by the collar and hauled him up the steps. the train, from the tank to the tail-lights, was crammed full of passenger-people going home or away to spend christmas. over in front the express and baggage cars were piled full of baggage, bundles, boxes, trinkets, and toys, each intended to make some heart happier on the morrow, for it was christmas eve. it was to see that these passengers and their precious freight, already a day late, got through that the superintendent was leaving his own fireside to go over the road. the snow came swirling across the plain, cold and wet, pasting the window and blurring the headlight on the black locomotive that was climbing laboriously over the kinks and curves of a new track. here and there, in sheltered wimples, bands of buffalo were bunched to shield them from the storm. now and then an antelope left the rail or a lone coyote crouched in the shadow of a telegraph-pole as the dim headlight swept the right of way. at each stop the superintendent would jump down, look about, and swing onto the rear car as the train pulled out again. at one time he found that his seat had been taken, also his overcoat, which had been left hanging over the back. the thief was discovered on the blind baggage and turned over to the "city marshal" at the next stop. upon entering the train again, the superintendent went forward to find a seat in the express car. it was near midnight now. they were coming into a settlement and passing through prosperous new towns that were building up near the end of the division. near the door the messenger had set a little green christmas tree, and grouped about it were a red sled, a doll-carriage, some toys, and a few parcels. if the blond doll in the little toy carriage toppled over, the messenger would set it up again; and when passing freight out he was careful not to knock a twig from the tree. so intent was he upon the task of taking care of this particular shipment that he had forgotten the superintendent, and started and almost stared at him when he shouted the observation that the messenger was a little late with his tree. "'tain't mine," he said sadly, shaking his head. "b'longs to the fellow 't swiped your coat." "no!" exclaimed the superintendent, as he went over to look at the toys. "if he'd only asked me," said the messenger, more to himself than to the superintendent, "he could 'a' had mine and welcome." "do you know the man?" "oh, yes--he lives next door to me, and i'll have to face his wife and lie to her, and then face my own; but i can't lie to her. i'll tell her the truth and get roasted for letting downs get away. i'll go to sleep by the sound of her sobs and wake to find her crying in her coffee--that's the kind of a christmas i'll have. when he's drunk he's disgusting, of course; but when he's sober he's sorry. and charley downs is honest." "honest!" shouted the superintendent. "yes, i know he took your coat, but that wasn't charley downs; it was the tarantula-juice he'd been imbibing in omaha. left alone he's as honest as i am; and here's a run that would trip up a missionary. for instance, leaving loneville the other night, a man came running alongside the car and threw in a bundle of bills that looked like a bale of hay. not a scrap of paper or pencil-mark, just a wad o' winnings with a wang around the middle. 'a christmas gift for my wife,' he yelled. 'how much?' i shouted. 'oh, i dunno--whole lot, but it's tied good'; and then a cloud of steam from the cylinder-cocks came between us, and i haven't seen him since. "for the past six months downs has tried hard to be decent, and has succeeded some; and this was to be the supreme test. for six months his wife has been saving up to send him to omaha to buy things for christmas. if he could do that, she argued, and come back sober, he'd be stronger to begin the new year. of course they looked to me to keep him on the rail, and i did. i shadowed him from shop to shop until he bought all the toys and some little trinkets for his wife. always i found he had paid and ordered the things to be sent to the express office marked to me. "well, finally i followed him to a clothing store, where, according to a promise made to his wife, he bought an overcoat, the first he had felt on his back for years. this he put on, of course, for it is cold in omaha to-day; and i left him and slipped away to grab a few hours' sleep. "when i woke i went out to look for him, but could not find him, though i tried hard, and came to my car without supper. i found his coat, however, hung up in a saloon, and redeemed it, hoping still to find charley before train time. i watched for him until we were signalled out, and then went back and looked through the train, but failed to find him. "of course i am sorry for charley," the messenger went on after a pause, "but more so for the poor little woman. she's worked and worked, and saved and saved, and hoped and dreamed, until she actually believed he'd been cured and that the sun would shine in her life again. why, the neighbors have been talking across the back fence about how well mrs. downs was looking. my wife declared she heard her laugh the other day clear over to our house. half the town knew about her dream. the women folks have been carrying work to her and then going over and helping her do it as a sort of surprise party. and now it's all off. to-morrow will be christmas; and he'll be in jail, his wife in despair, and i in disgrace. charley downs a thief--in jail! it'll just break her heart!" the whistle proclaimed a stop, and the superintendent swung out with a lump in his throat. this was an important station, and the last one before loneville. without looking to the right or left, the superintendent walked straight to the telegraph office and sent the following message to the agent at the place where downs had been ditched:-- "turn that fellow loose and send him to loneville on three--all a joke. "w.c.v., superintendent." in a little while the train was rattling over the road again; and when the engine screamed for loneville, the superintendent stood up and looked at the messenger. "what'll i tell her?" the latter asked. "well, he got left at cactus sure enough, didn't he? if that doesn't satisfy her, tell her that he may get over on no. ." when the messenger had turned his freight over to the driver of the fargo wagon, he gathered up the christmas tree and the toys and trudged homeward, looking like santa claus, so completely hidden was he by the tree and the trinkets. as he neared the downs' home, the door swung open, the lamplight shone out upon him, and he saw two women smiling from the open door. it took but one glance at the messenger's face to show them that something was wrong, and the smiles faded. mrs. downs received the shock without a murmur, leaning on her friend and leaving the marks of her fingers on her friend's arm. the messenger put the toys down suddenly, silently; and feeling that the unhappy woman would be better alone, the neighbors departed, leaving her seated by the window, peering into the night, the lamp turned very low. the little clock on the shelf above the stove ticked off the seconds, measured the minutes, and marked the melancholy hours. the storm ceased, the stars came out and showed the quiet town asleep beneath its robe of white. the clock was now striking four, and she had scarcely stirred. she was thinking of the watchers of bethlehem, when suddenly a great light shone on the eastern horizon. at last the freight was coming. she had scarcely noticed the messenger's suggestion that charley might come in on three. now she waited, with just the faintest ray of hope; and after a long while the deep voice of the locomotive came to her, the long black train crept past and stopped. now her heart beat wildly. somebody was coming up the road. a moment later she recognized her erring husband, dressed exactly as he had been when he left home, his short coat buttoned close up under his chin. when she saw him approaching slowly but steadily, she knew he was sober and doubtless cold. she was about to fling the door open to admit him when he stopped and stood still. she watched him. he seemed to be wringing his hands. an awful thought chilled her,--the thought that the cold and exposure had unbalanced his mind. suddenly he knelt in the snow and turned his sad face up to the quiet sky. he was praying, and with a sudden impulse she fell upon her knees and they prayed together with only the window-glass between them. when the prodigal got to his feet, the door stood open and his wife was waiting to receive him. at sight of her, dressed as she had been when he left her, a sudden flame of guilt and shame burned through him; but it served only to clear his brain and strengthen his will-power, which all his life had been so weak, and lately made weaker for want of exercise. he walked almost hurriedly to the chair she set for him near the stove, and sank into it with the weary air of one who has been long in bed. she felt of his hands and they were not cold. she touched his face and found it warm. she pushed the dark hair from his pale forehead and kissed it. she knelt and prayed again, her head upon his knee. he bowed above her while she prayed, and stroked her hair. she felt his tears falling upon her head. she stood up, and when he lifted his face to hers, looked into his wide weeping eyes,--aye, into his very soul. she liked to see the tears and the look of agony on his face, for she knew by these signs how he suffered, and she knew why. when he had grown calm she brought a cup of coffee to him. he drank it, and then she led him to the little dining-room, where a midnight supper had been set for four, but, because of his absence, had not been touched. he saw the tree and the toys that the messenger had left, and spoke for the first time. "oh, wife dear, have they all come? are they all here? the toys and all?" and then, seeing the overcoat that the messenger had left on a chair near by, and which his wife had not yet seen, he cried excitedly, "take that away--it isn't mine!" "why, yes, dear," said his wife, "it must be yours." "no, no," he said; "i bought a coat like that, but i sold it. i drank a lot and only climbed on the train as it was pulling out of omaha. in the warm car i fell asleep and dreamed the sweetest dream i ever knew. i had come home sober with all the things, you had kissed me, we had a great dinner here, and there stood the christmas tree, the children were here, the messenger and his wife, and their children. we were all so happy! i saw the shadow fade from your face, saw you smile and heard you laugh; saw the old love-light in your eyes and the rose coming into your cheek. and then--'oh, bitterness of things too sweet!'--i woke to find my own old trembling self again. it was all a dream. looking across the aisle, i saw that coat on the back of an empty seat. i knew it was not mine, for i had sold mine for two miserable dollars. i knew, too, that the man who gave them to me got them back again before they were warm in my pocket. this thought embittered me, and, picking up the coat, i walked out and stood on the platform of the baggage car. at the next stop they took me off and turned me over to the city marshal,--for the coat belonged to the superintendent. "it is like mine, except that it is real, and mine, of course, was only a good imitation. take it away, wife--do take it away--it haunts me!" pitying him, the wife put the coat out of his sight; and immediately he grew calm, drank freely of the strong coffee, but he could not eat. presently he went over and began to arrange the little christmas tree in the box his wife had prepared for it during his absence. she began opening the parcels, and when she could trust herself, began to talk about the surprise they would have for the children, and now and again to express her appreciation of some dainty trifle he had selected for her. she watched him closely, noting that his hand was unsteady, and that he was inclined to stagger after stooping for a little while. finally, when the tree had been trimmed, and the sled for the boy and the doll-carriage for the girl were placed beneath it, she got him to lie down. when she had made him comfortable she kissed him again, knelt by his bed and prayed, or rather offered thanks, and he was asleep. two hours later the subdued shouts of her babies, the exclamations of glad surprise that came in stage whispers from the dining-room, woke her, and she rose from the little couch where she had fallen asleep, already dressed to begin the day. it was four o'clock in the afternoon when she called the prodigal. when he had bathed his feverish face and put on the fresh clothes she had brought in for him and come into the dining-room, he saw his rosy dreams of the previous night fulfilled. the messenger and his wife shook hands with him and wished him a merry christmas. his children, all the children, came and kissed him. his wife was smiling, and the warm blood leaping from her happy heart actually put color in her cheeks. as downs took the chair at the head of the table he bowed his head, the rest did likewise, and he gave thanks, fervently and without embarrassment. the stuff that stands it was very late in the fifties, and lincoln and douglas were engaged in animated discussion of the burning questions of the time, when melvin jewett journeyed to bloomington, illinois, to learn telegraphy. it was then a new, weird business, and his father advised him not to fool with it. his college chum said to him, as they chatted together for the last time before leaving school, that it would be grewsomely lonely to sit in a dimly lighted flag-station and have that inanimate machine tick off its talk to him in the sable hush of night; but jewett was ambitious. being earnest, brave, and industrious, he learned rapidly, and in a few months found himself in charge of a little wooden way-station as agent, operator, yard-master, and everything else. it was lonely, but there was no night work. when the shadows came and hung on the bare walls of his office the spook pictures that had been painted by his school chum, the young operator went over to the little tavern for the night. true, springdale at that time was not much of a town; but the telegraph boy had the satisfaction of feeling that he was, by common consent, the biggest man in the place. out in a hayfield, he could see from his window a farmer gazing up at the humming wire, and the farmer's boy holding his ear to the pole, trying to understand. all this business that so blinded and bewildered with its mystery, not only the farmer, but the village folks as well, was to him as simple as sunshine. in a little while he had learned to read a newspaper with one eye and keep the other on the narrow window that looked out along the line; to mark with one ear the "down brakes" signal of the north-bound freight, clear in the siding, and with the other to catch the whistle of the oncoming "cannon ball," faint and far away. when jewett had been at springdale some six or eight months, another young man dropped from the local one morning, and said, "_wie gehts_," and handed him a letter. the letter was from the superintendent, calling him back to bloomington to despatch trains. being the youngest of the despatchers, he had to take the "death trick." the day man used to work from eight o'clock in the morning until four o'clock in the afternoon, the "split trick" man from four until midnight, and the "death trick" man from midnight until morning. we called it the "death trick" because, in the early days of railroading, we had a lot of wrecks about four o'clock in the morning. that was before double tracks and safety inventions had made travelling by rail safer than sleeping at home, and before trainmen off duty had learned to look not on liquor that was red. jewett, however, was not long on the night shift. he was a good despatcher,--a bit risky at times, the chief thought, but that was only when he knew his man. he was a rusher and ran trains close, but he was ever watchful and wide awake. in two years' time he had become chief despatcher. during these years the country, so quiet when he first went to bloomington, had been torn by the tumult of civil strife. with war news passing under his eye every day, trains going south with soldiers, and cars coming north with the wounded, it is not remarkable that the fever should get into the young despatcher's blood. he read of the great, sad lincoln, whom he had seen and heard and known, calling for volunteers, and his blood rushed red and hot through his veins. he talked to the trainmen who came in to register, to enginemen waiting for orders, to yardmen in the yards, and to shopmen after hours; and many of them, catching the contagion, urged him to organize a company, and he did. he continued to work days and to drill his men in the twilight. he would have been up and drilling at dawn if he could have gotten them together. he inspired them with his quiet enthusiasm, held them by personal magnetism, and by unselfish patriotism kindled in the breast of each of his fifty followers a desire to do something for his country. gradually the railroad, so dear to him, slipped back to second place in the affairs of the earth. his country was first. to be sure, there was no shirking of responsibility at the office, but the business of the company was never allowed to overshadow the cause in which he had silently but heartily enlisted. "abe" lincoln was, to his way of reasoning, a bigger man than the president of the chicago and alton railroad--which was something to concede. the country must be cared for first, he argued; for what good would a road be with no country to run through? all day he would work at the despatcher's office, flagging fast freights and "laying out" local passenger trains, to the end that the soldiers might be hurried south. he would pocket the "cannon ball" and order the "thunderbolt" held at alton for the soldiers' special. "take siding at sundance for troop train, south-bound," he would flash out, and glory in his power to help the government. all day he would work and scheme for the company (and the union), and at night, when the silver moonlight lay on the lot back of the machine shops, he would drill and drill as long as he could hold the men together. they were all stout and fearless young fellows, trained and accustomed to danger by the hazard of their daily toil. they knew something of discipline, were used to obeying orders, and to reading and remembering regulations made for their guidance; and jewett reasoned that they would become, in time, a crack company, and a credit to the state. by the time he had his company properly drilled, young jewett was so perfectly saturated with the subject of war that he was almost unfit for duty as a despatcher. only his anxiety about south-bound troop trains held his mind to the matter and his hand to the wheel. at night, after a long evening in the drill field, he would dream of great battles, and hear in his dreams the ceaseless tramp, tramp of soldiers marching down from the north to re-enforce the fellows in the fight. finally, when he felt that they were fit, he called his company together for the election of officers. jewett was the unanimous choice for captain, other officers were chosen, and the captain at once applied for a commission. the jewetts were an influential family, and no one doubted the result of the young despatcher's request. he waited anxiously for some time, wrote a second letter, and waited again. "any news from springfield?" the conductor would ask, leaving the register, and the chief despatcher would shake his head. one morning, on entering his office, jewett found a letter on his desk. it was from the superintendent, and it stated bluntly that the resignation of the chief despatcher would be accepted, and named his successor. jewett read it over a second time, then turned and carried it into the office of his chief. "why?" echoed the superintendent; "you ought to know why. for months you have neglected your office, and have worked and schemed and conspired to get trainmen and enginemen to quit work and go to war. every day women who are not ready to be widowed come here and cry on the carpet because their husbands are going away with 'captain' jewett's company. only yesterday a schoolgirl came running after me, begging me not to let her little brother, the red-headed peanut on the local, go as drummer-boy in 'captain' jewett's company. "and now, after demoralizing the service and almost breaking up a half a hundred homes, you ask, 'why?' is that all you have to say?" "no," said the despatcher, lifting his head; "i have to say to you, sir, that i have never knowingly neglected my duty. i have not conspired. i have been misjudged and misunderstood; and in conclusion, i would say that my resignation shall be written at once." returning to his desk, jewett found the long-looked-for letter from springfield. how his heart beat as he broke the seal! how timely--just as things come out in a play. he would not interrupt traffic on the alton, but with a commission in his pocket would go elsewhere and organize a new company. these things flashed through his mind as he unfolded the letter. his eye fell immediately on the signature at the end. it was not the name of the governor, who had been a close friend of his father, but of the lieutenant-governor. it was a short letter, but plain; and it left no hope. his request had been denied. this time he did not ask why. he knew why, and knew that the influence of a great railway company, with the best of the argument on its side, would outweigh the influence of a train despatcher and his friends. reluctantly jewett took leave of his old associates in the office, went to his room in the hotel, and sat for hours crushed and discouraged. presently he rose, kicked the kinks out of his trousers, and walked out into the clear sunlight. at the end of the street he stepped from the side-walk to the sod path and kept walking. he passed an orchard and plucked a ripe peach from an overhanging bough. a yellow-breasted lark stood in a stubble-field, chirped two or three times, and soared, singing, toward the far blue sky. a bare-armed man, with a muley cradle, was cradling grain, and, far away, he heard the hum of a horse-power threshing machine. it had been months, it seemed years, since he had been in the country, felt its cooling breeze, smelled the fresh breath of the fields, or heard the song of a lark; and it rested and refreshed him. when young jewett returned to the town he was himself again. he had been guilty of no wrong, but had been about what seemed to him his duty to his country. still, he remembered with sadness the sharp rebuke of the superintendent, a feeling intensified by the recollection that it was the same official who had brought him in from springdale, made a train despatcher out of him, and promoted him as often as he had earned promotion. if he had seemed to be acting in bad faith with the officials of the road, he would make amends. that night he called his company together, told them that he had been unable to secure a commission, stated that he had resigned and was going away, and advised them to disband. the company forming at lexington was called "the farmers," just as the bloomington company was known as the "car-hands." "the farmers" was full, the captain said, when jewett offered his services. at the last moment one of the boys had "heart failure," and jewett was taken in his place. his experience with the disbanded "car-hands" helped him and his company immeasurably. it was only a few days after his departure from bloomington that he again passed through, a private in "the farmers." once in the south, the lexington company became a part of the th illinois infantry, and almost immediately engaged in fighting. jewett panted to be on the firing-line, but that was not to be. the regiment had just captured an important railway which had to be manned and operated at once. it was the only means of supplying a whole army corps with bacon and beans. the colonel of his company was casting about for railroaders, when he heard of private jewett. he was surprised to find, in "the farmers," a man of such wide experience as a railway official, so well posted on the general situation, and so keenly alive to the importance of the railroad and the necessity of keeping it open. within a week jewett had made a reputation. if there had been time to name him, he would doubtless have been called superintendent of transportation; but there was no time to classify those who were working on the road. they called him jewett. in some way the story of the one-time captain's experience at bloomington came to the colonel's ears, and he sent for jewett. as a result of the interview, the young private was taken from the ranks, made a captain, and "assigned to special duty." his special duty was that of general manager of the m. & l. railroad, with headquarters in a car. jewett called upon the colonel again, uninvited this time, and protested. he wanted to get into the fighting. "don't worry, my boy," said the good-natured colonel, "i'll take the fight out of you later on; for the present, captain jewett, you will continue to run this railroad." the captain saluted and went about his business. there had been some fierce fighting at the front, and the yankees had gotten decidedly the worst of it. several attempts had been made to rush re-enforcements forward by rail, but with poor success. the pilot engines had all been ditched. as a last desperate chance, jewett determined to try a "black" train. two engines were attached to a troop-train, and jewett seated himself on the pilot of the forward locomotive. the lights were all put out. they were to have no pilot engine, but were to slip past the ambuscade, if possible, and take chances on lifted rails and absent bridges. it was near the end of a dark, rainy night. the train was rolling along at a good freight clip, the engines working as full as might be without throwing fire, when suddenly, from either side of the track, a yellow flame flared out, followed immediately by the awful roar of the muskets from whose black mouths the murderous fire had rushed. the bullets fairly rained on the jackets of the engines, and crashed through the cab windows. the engineer on the head engine was shot from his seat. jewett, in a hail of lead, climbed over the running-board, pulled wide the throttle, and whistled "off brakes." the driver of the second engine, following his example, opened also, and the train was thus whirled out of range, but not until jewett had been badly wounded. a second volley rained upon the rearmost cars, but did little damage. the enemy had been completely outwitted. they had mistaken the train for a pilot engine, which they had planned to let pass; after which they were to turn a switch, ditch, and capture the train. there was great rejoicing in the hungry army at the front that dawn, when the long train laden with soldiers and sandwiches arrived. the colonel was complimented by the corps commander, but he was too big and brave to accept promotion for an achievement in which he had had no part or even faith. he told the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth; and, when it was all over, there was no more "captain" jewett. when he came out of the hospital he had the rank of a major, but was still "assigned to special duty." major jewett's work became more important as the great struggle went on. other lines of railway fell into the hands of the yankees, and all of them in that division of the army came under his control. they were good for him, for they made him a very busy man and kept him from panting for the firing-line. in conjunction with general d., the famous army engineer, who has since become a noted railroad-builder, he rebuilt and re-equipped wrecked railways, bridged wide rivers, and kept a way open for men and supplies to get to the front. when at last the little, ragged, but ever-heroic remnant of the confederate army surrendered, and the worn and weary soldiers set their faces to the north again, major jewett's name was known throughout the country. at the close of the war, in recognition of his ability and great service to the union, major jewett was made a brevet colonel, by which title he is known to almost every railway man in america. * * * * * many opportunities came to colonel jewett to enter once more the field in which, since his school days, he had been employed. one by one these offers were put aside. they were too easy. he had been so long in the wreck of things that he felt out of place on a prosperous, well-regulated line. he knew of a little struggling road that ran east from galena, illinois. it was called the galena and something, for galena was at that time the most prosperous and promising town in the wide, wild west. he sought and secured service on the galena line and began anew. the road was one of the oldest and poorest in the state, and one of the very first chartered to build west from chicago. it was sorely in need of a young, vigorous, and experienced man, and colonel jewett's ability was not long in finding recognition. step by step he climbed the ladder until he reached the general managership. here his real work began. here he had some say, and could talk directly to the president, who was one of the chief owners. he soon convinced the company that to succeed they must have more money, build more, and make business by encouraging settlers to go out and plough and plant and reap and ship. the united states government was aiding in the construction of a railway across the "desert," as the west beyond the missouri river was then called. jewett urged his company to push out to the missouri river and connect with the line to the pacific, and they pushed. ten years from the close of the war colonel jewett was at the head of one of the most promising railroads in the country. prosperity followed peace, the west began to build up, the pacific railroad was completed, and the little galena line, with a new charter and a new name, had become an important link connecting the atlantic and the pacific. for nearly half a century jewett has been at the front, and has never been defeated. the discredited captain of that promising company of car-boys has become one of our great "captains of industry." he is to-day president of one of the most important railroads in the world, whose black fliers race out nightly over twin paths of steel, threading their way in and out of not less than nine states, with nearly nine thousand miles of main line. he has succeeded beyond his wildest dreams; and his success is due largely to the fact that when, in his youth, he mounted to ride to fame and fortune, he did not allow the first jolt to jar him from the saddle. he is made of the stuff that stands. the milwaukee run henry hautman was born old. he had the face and figure of a voter at fifteen. his skin did not fit his face,--it wrinkled and resembled a piece of rawhide that had been left out in the rain and sun. henry's father was a freighter on the santa fé trail when independence was the back door of civilization, opening on a wilderness. little henry used to ride on the high seat with his father, close up to the tail of a missouri mule, the seventh of a series of eight, including the trailer which his father drove in front of the big wagon. it was the wind of the west that tanned the hide on henry's face and made him look old before his time. at night they used to arrange the wagons in a ring, in which the freighters slept. one night henry was wakened by the yells of indians, and saw men fighting. presently he was swung to the back of a cayuse behind a painted warrior, and as they rode away the boy, looking back, saw the wagons burning and guessed the rest. later the lad escaped and made his way to chicago, where he began his career on the rail, and where this story really begins. it was extremely difficult, in the early days, to find sober, reliable young men to man the few locomotives in america and run the trains. a large part of the population seemed to be floating, drifting west, west, always west. so when this stout-shouldered, strong-faced youth asked for work, the round-house foreman took him on gladly. henry's boyhood had been so full of peril that he was absolutely indifferent to danger and a stranger to fear. he was not even afraid of work, and at the end of eighteen months he was marked up for a run. he had passed from the wiping gang to the deck of a passenger engine, and was now ready for the road. henry was proud of his rapid promotion, especially this last lift, that would enable him to race in the moonlight along the steel trail, though he recalled that it had cost him his first little white lie. one of the rules of the road said a man must be twenty-one years old before he could handle a locomotive. henry knew his book well, but he knew also that the railroad needed his service and that he needed the job; so when the clerk had taken his "personal record,"--which was only a mild way of asking where he would have his body sent in case he met the fate so common at that time on a new line in a new country,--he gave his age as twenty, hoping the master-mechanic would allow him a year for good behavior. years passed. so did the indian and the buffalo. the railway reached out across the great american desert. the border became blurred and was rubbed out. the desert was dotted with homes. towns began to grow up about the water-tanks and to bud and blow on the treeless plain. henry hautman became known as the coolest and most daring driver on the road. he was a good engineer and a good citizen. he owned his home; and while his pay was not what an engineer draws to-day for the same run made in half the time, it was sufficient unto the day, his requirements, and his wife's taste. only one thing troubled him. he had bought a big farm not far from chicago, for which he was paying out of his savings. if he kept well, as he had done all his life, three years more on the limited would let him out. then he could retire a year ahead of time, and settle down in comfort on the farm and watch the trains go by. it would be his salvation, this farm by the roadside; for the very thought of surrendering the "la salle" to another was wormwood and gall to henry. it never occurred to him to quit and go over to the n.w. or the p.d. & q., where they had no age limit for engineers. no man ever thought of leaving the service of the chicago, milwaukee & wildwood. the road was one of the finest, and as for the run,--well, they used to say, "drive the wildwood limited and die." henry had driven it for a decade and had not died. when he looked himself over he declared he was the best man, physically, on the line. but there was the law in the book of rules,--the bible of the c.m. & w.,--and no man might go beyond the limit set for the retirement of engine-drivers; and henry hautman, the favorite of the "old man," would take his medicine. they were a loyal lot on the milwaukee in those days. superintendent van law declared them clannish. "kick a man," said he, "in st. paul, and his friends will feel the shock in the lower mississippi." time winged on, and as often as christmas came it reminded the old engineer that he was one year nearer his last trip; for his mother, now sleeping in the far west, had taught him to believe that he had come to her on christmas eve. how the world had aged in threescore years! sometimes at night he had wild dreams of his last day on the freight wagon, of the endless reaches of waving wild grass, of bands of buffalo racing away toward the setting sun, a wild deer drinking at a running stream, and one lone indian on the crest of a distant dune, dark, ominous, awful. sometimes, from his high seat at the front of the limited, he caught the flash of a field fire and remembered the burning wagons in the wilderness. but the wilderness was no more, and henry knew that the world's greatest civilizer, the locomotive, had been the pioneer in all this great work of peopling the plains. the pathfinders, the real heroes of the anglo-saxon race, had fought their way from the missouri river to the sundown sea. he recalled how they used to watch for the one opposing passenger train. now they flashed by his window as the mile-posts flashed in the early days, for the line had been double-tracked so that the electric-lighted hotels on wheels passed up and down regardless of opposing trains. all these changes had been wrought in a single generation; and henry felt that he had contributed, according to his light, to the great work. but the more he pondered the perfection of the service, the comfort of travel, the magnificence of the wildwood limited, the more he dreaded the day when he must take his little personal effects from the cab of the la salle and say good-bye to her, to the road, and hardest of all, to the "old man," as they called the master-mechanic. one day when henry was registering in the round-house, he saw a letter in the rack for him, and carried it home to read after supper. when he read it, he jumped out of his chair. "why, henry!" said his wife, putting down her knitting, "what ever's the matter,--open switch or red light?" "worse, mary; it's the end of the track." the old engineer tossed the letter over to his wife, sat down, stretched his legs out, locked his fingers, and began rolling his thumbs one over the other, staring at the stove. when mrs. hautman had finished the letter she stamped her foot and declared it an outrage. she suggested that somebody wanted the la salle. "well," she said, resigning herself to her fate, "i bet i have that coach-seat out of the cab,--it'll make a nice tête-à-tête for the front room. superannuated!" she went on with growing disgust. "i bet you can put any man on the first division down three times in five." "it's me that's down, mary,--down and out." "henry hautman, i'm ashamed of you! you know you've got four years come christmas--why don't you fight? where's your brotherhood you've been paying money to for twenty years? i bet a 'q' striker comes and takes your engine." "no, mary, we're beaten. i see how it all happened now. you see i began at twenty when i was really but sixteen; that's where i lose. i lied to the 'old man' when we were both boys; now that lie comes back to me, as a chicken comes home to roost." "but can't you explain that now?" "well, not easy. it's down in the records--it's scripture now, as the 'old man' would say. no, the best i can do is to take my medicine like a man; i've got a month yet to think it over." after that they sat in silence, this childless couple, trying to fashion to themselves how it would seem to be superannuated. the short december days were all too short for henry. he counted the hours, marked the movements of the minute-hand on the face of his cab clock, and measured the miles he would have, not to "do" but to enjoy, before christmas. as the weeks went by the old engineer became a changed man. he had always been cheerful, happy, and good-natured. now he became thoughtful, silent, melancholy. there was not a man on the first division but grieved because he was going, but no man would dare say so to henry. sympathy is about the hardest thing a stout heart ever has to endure. while henry was out on his last trip his wife waited upon the master-mechanic and asked him to bring his wife over and spend christmas eve with henry and help her to cheer him up; and the "old man" promised to call that evening. although there were half-a-dozen palms itching for the throttle of the la salle, no man had yet been assigned to the run. and the same kindly feeling of sympathy that prompted this delay prevented the aspirants from pressing their claims. once, in the lodge room, a young member eager for a regular run opened the question, but saw his mistake when the older members began to hiss like geese, while the worthy master smote the table with his maul. henry saw the la salle cross the turn-table and back into the round-house, and while he "looked her over," examining every link and pin, each lever and link-lifter, the others hurried away; for it was christmas eve, and nobody cared to say good-bye to the old engineer. when he had walked around her half-a-dozen times, touching her burnished mainpins with the back of his hand, he climbed into the cab and began to gather up his trinkets, his comb and tooth-brush, a small steel monkey-wrench, and a slender brass torch that had been given to him by a friend. then he sat upon the soft cushioned coach-seat that his wife had coveted, and looked along the hand-railing. he leaned from the cab window and glanced along the twin stubs of steel that passed through the open door and stopped short at the pit, symbolizing the end of his run on the rail. the old boss wiper came with his crew to clean the la salle, but when he saw the driver there in the cab he passed him by. long he sat in silence, having a last visit with la salle, her brass bands gleaming in the twilight. for years she had carried him safely through snow and sleet and rain, often from dawn till dusk, and sometimes from dusk till dawn again. she had been his life's companion while on the road, who now, "like some familiar face at parting, gained a graver grace." presently the lamp-lighters came and began lighting the oil lamps that stood in brackets along the wall; but before their gleam reached his face the old engineer slid down and hurried away home with never a backward glance. * * * * * that night when mrs. hautman had passed the popcorn and red apples, and they had all eaten and the men had lighted cigars, the engineer's wife brought a worn bible out and drew a chair near the master-mechanic. the "old man," as he was called, looked at the book, then at the woman, who held it open on her lap. "do you believe this book?" she asked earnestly. "absolutely," he answered. "all that is written here?" "all," said the man. then she turned to the fly-leaf and read the record of henry's birth,--the day, the month, and the year. henry came and looked at the book and the faded handwriting, trying to remember; but it was too far away. the old bible had been discovered that day deep down in a trunk of old trinkets that had been sent to henry when his mother died, years ago. the old engineer took the book and held it on his knees, turned its limp leaves, and dropped upon them the tribute of a strong man's tear. the "old man" called for the letter he had written, erased the date, set it forward four years, and handed it back to henry. "here, hank," said he, "here's a christmas gift for you." so when the wildwood limited was limbered up that christmas morning, henry leaned from the window, leaned back, tugged at the throttle again, smiled over at the fireman, and said, "now, billy, watch her swallow that cold, stiff steel at about a mile a minute." books by cy warman short rails mo. $ . * * * * * opinions of the press n.y. times review. it is good for the soul that we should look into other worlds than our own, and mr. warman knows how to put us beside fireman and engineer and how to make us feel the poetry as well as the power of the tireless giants that fulfil for us moderns the ancient dream of the fire-breathing brazen bulls yoked for the service of man. the outlook. a dozen or more spirited tales, tersely told, and with that surety of touch which comes only from intimate knowledge.... the romance, danger, bravery, plottings, and nobility of action incident to life on the rail are all realistically depicted, and the reader feels the charm which attaches to the new or strange. boston advertiser. the reader will find much pleasure, and no disappointment, in reading these pages. the white mail mo. $ . * * * * * opinions of the press the nation. cy warman can always impart a living interest to a story through his close intimacy with locomotives, yard-masters, signals, switches, with all that pertains to railroading, in a word--from a managers' meeting to a frog. the tender enthusiasm he feels for the denizens of his iron jungle is contagious. the outlook mr. cy warman, by long personal experience, acquired a close and exact knowledge of the life of railroad men. "the white mail" brings out realistically the actual life of the engineer, the brakeman, and the freight handler. the congregationalist cy warman writes excellent railroad stories, of course, and his new one, "the white mail," is short, lively, and eminently readable. st. louis globe-democrat in "the white mail," cy warman, in the pleasant, witty style for which this poet of the rockies has become noted, has presented a tender, touching picture. tales of an engineer _with rhymes of the rail_ mo. $ . * * * * * opinions of the press the congregationalist there is true power in cy warman's "tales of an engineer," and the reader yields willingly to the attraction of its blended novelty, spirit, and occasional pathos. it does not lack humor, and every page is worth reading. the churchman a new departure in literature should be interesting even if lacking in the brilliant off-hand sketchiness of these pages. one steps into a new life. there is not a dull page in this book, and much of it is of more than ordinary interest. new york commercial advertiser there is a rugged directness about the description of rushing runs on the rail, through which one can hear the thump-thump of the machinery as the engine dashes over the rails, and which seems to be illumined by the glow of the headlights and the colored signals. the express messenger _and other tales of the rail_ mo. $ . * * * * * opinions of the press boston transcript the author's work is familiarly and pleasantly known to magazine readers for the realistic details of western railroad life, which give them a dashing, vital movement, though they are often highly romantic. the romantic in them, however, seems very human--indeed, there is a ring of true feeling in these little tales. brooklyn daily eagle mr. warman's work has about it the merit of a genuine realism, and it is as full of romance and adventure as the most exacting reader could desire. it is a volume of sketches that is well worth reading, not only because they are well written and full of action, but for the pictures they give of a life that the world really knows very little about. philadelphia press the poet appears in the descriptive passages, and there is a melodious rhythm to his prose style that is pleasurable in a high degree. mr. warman has a field of his own, and he is master of it. frontier stories mo. $ . * * * * * opinions of the press review of reviews nobody knows his frontier life better than mr. warman, and his yarns of indians, striking miners, cowboys, half-breeds, and railroad men, are full of vivid reality. there is plenty of romance and excitement in this score of stories. the churchman eighteen tales which certainly are excellent in their kind, quick, breezy, full of the local color, yet with delightful touches of universal humanity. cincinnati commercial tribune they are honest little chapters of life simply written, an effective word of slang stuck in here and there where it does not seem at all out of place; honest, open-hearted, steady-eyed narratives all, with the breeze of the western prairies in every line, as well as the brotherhood of man, and his triumphs and his failures impressing themselves upon you at every turn. charles scribner's sons - fifth avenue, new york [illustration: "the next moment was a blank"] chasing an iron horse or a boy's adventures in the civil war by edward robins author of "with washington in braddock's campaign," "a boy in early virginia," etc. [illustration: qui non proficit deficit] philadelphia george w. jacobs & co. publishers copyright, , by george w. jacobs & co. published august, . preface the locomotive chase in georgia, which forms what may be called the background of this story, was an actual occurrence of the great civil war. but i wish to emphasize the fact that the following pages belong to the realm of fiction. some of the incidents, and the character of andrews, are historic, whilst other incidents and characters are imaginary. the reader who would like to procure an account of the chase as it really happened should consult the narrative of the reverend william pittenger. mr. pittenger took part in the expedition organized by andrews, and his record of it is a graphic contribution to the annals of the conflict between north and south. edward robins. contents chapter page i. hazardous plans ii. nearing the goal iii. mingling with the enemy iv. plot and plotters v. on the rail vi. an unpleasant surprise vii. energetic pursuit viii. two weary wanderers ix. in greatest peril x. final trials illustrations "the next moment was a blank" frontispiece the major merely changed the position of his legs fuller was steaming to the northward with "the yonah" none too soon had he executed this manoeuvre watson placed his hand over the man's mouth chasing an iron horse chapter i hazardous plans the lightning flashes, the mutterings of thunder, like the low growls of some angry animal, and the shrieking of the wind through swaying branches, gave a weird, uncanny effect to a scene which was being enacted, on a certain april night of the year , in a secluded piece of woodland a mile or more east of the village of shelbyville, tennessee. in the centre of a small clearing hemmed in by trees stood a tall, full-bearded man of distinguished bearing. around him were grouped twenty sturdy fellows who listened intently, despite the stir of the elements, to something that he was saying in a low, serious tone of voice. none of them, strangely enough, wore a uniform, although they were all loyal union soldiers belonging to the division of troops commanded by general o. m. mitchell, then encamped on the banks of duck river, only a couple of miles away. for the country was now engaged in the life-and-death struggle of the civil war, when northerner fought against southerner--sometimes brother against brother--and no one could predict whether the result would be a divided or a reunited nation. "my friends," the speaker was solemnly saying, as a new flash from the darkened heavens lit up the landscape for a second, and showed how resolute were the lines of his face; "my friends, if you go into this scheme with me, you are taking your lives into your hands. it's only fair that i should impress this upon you, and give any and all of you a chance to drop out." there was a quick, sharp clap of thunder, which was not loud enough, however, to drown the earnest protest of every listener. "we're not cowards, andrews!" "we'll stick to you through thick and thin!" "nobody's going to draw back!" these were among the fervent answers which greeted the leader addressed as andrews. the latter was evidently pleased, though by no means surprised. he was dealing with brave men, and he knew his audience. "all the better, boys," he went on, with a complacent ring in his soft but penetrating voice. "you see, this is the situation. the confederates are concentrating at corinth, mississippi, and generals grant and buell are advancing by different routes against them. now, our own general mitchell finds himself in a position to press into east tennessee as far as possible, and he hopes soon to seize chattanooga, after he has taken huntsville, alabama. but to do this he must cut off chattanooga from all railroad communication to the south and east, and therefore all aid. in other words, we men are to enter the enemy's country in disguise, capture a train on the georgia state railroad, steam off with it, and burn the bridges leading in the direction of chattanooga, on the northern end of the road. it is one of the most daring ideas ever conceived, and its execution will be full of difficulties. if we fail we shall be hanged as spies! if we succeed, there will be promotion and glory for all of us, and our names will go down into history." there was a murmur of encouragement from the men, as one said: "we must succeed, if only to save our necks." the next moment the barking of a dog could be heard above the whistling of the wind. "be careful," cried andrews, warningly; "some one may be listening." hardly had he spoken before two figures bounded from the encircling trees into the open space wherein stood the startled conspirators. while flashes of lightning played through the branches, and gave fitful illumination to the scene, the men saw revealed a lad of about fifteen or sixteen years of age, flushed and breathless, and at his heels a tiny yorkshire terrier, bright of face, and with an inquiring glance that seemed to say: "what is all this fuss about?" as the animal danced around the boy it was evident that the latter was by no means frightened, or even surprised, by the strangeness of this meeting in the forest. his regular, handsome features and intelligent, sparkling gray eyes denoted excitement rather than fear. he sprang forward, and, pulling a letter from an inner pocket of his blue jacket, made straight for andrews. "why, if it isn't george knight," muttered one soldier, "and his chum, waggie." the dog, hearing his own name, came up and fawned upon the man who had spoken, while the boy thrust into the hands of the leader the letter which he had so carefully guarded. "this is from general mitchell," explained young knight. "he said it was most urgent--and i was to fetch it to you as soon as possible." andrews opened the letter, as he replied kindly to the lad: "you look out of breath, george. did you have a hard time reaching here?" "as waggie and i were hurrying up the shelbyville road in the darkness," returned george knight, "we ran into a company of confederate guerrillas. they paid us the compliment of firing at us--and we had to run for our lives. but we gave the fellows the slip." thereupon waggie gave a growl. andrews, who was about to read the letter from general mitchell, assumed a listening attitude. so did every one else. out on the highroad, not a hundred yards away, could be heard the tramping of horses. involuntarily the men put their hands towards the pockets which contained their revolvers. "the guerrillas!" muttered the boy, as andrews gave him a questioning look. "how many are there of them?" asked the leader. "hard to tell in the dark," answered george. "i think there were a dozen or so." "oh, if that's all, let's give 'em a scare, boys!" laughed andrews. suiting the action to his words, he pulled out a pistol from his hip pocket, and fired it in the direction of the highroad. his companions, nothing loath, quickly followed his example. george and his canine chum looked on expectantly, as if regretting that neither of them possessed a weapon. now there came the clatter of hoofs, like a stampede, and the guerrillas seemed to be engaged in a wild scramble to get away. they were an intrepid party, without doubt, but the sudden volley from the mysterious and darkened recesses of the woods (which might come, for all the southerners knew, from a whole regiment of troops) demoralized them. in another instant they were scampering off, and the sound of the horses on the road was soon lost in the distance. andrews replaced his revolver, with a little chuckle of amusement. "they are a daring lot to venture so near our army," he said. then he began to read the letter, with the aid of a dark lantern provided by one of his companions. while he is engaged in this occupation let us ask two questions. who is andrews, and who is george knight? james andrews, though a virginian by birth, has lived in the mountains of kentucky for many years, and is now a spy of the union army, in the employ of general buell. the war is only fairly begun, but already more than once has the spy courted death by penetrating into the lines of the confederacy, in the guise of a merchant, and bringing back to the northern forces much valuable information. he is a man of fine education and polished manners, despite his life in the wilds, and is tall, aristocratic-looking, and full of a quiet courage which, in his own dangerous profession, answers far better than the greatest impetuosity. he has plenty of daring, but it is a daring tempered with prudence. although he has masqueraded among the enemy at times when the slightest slip of the tongue might have betrayed him, he has thus far returned to the union lines in safety. how long, some of his friends ask anxiously, will he be able to continue in so perilous an enterprise? yet here he is, planning, with the consent of general mitchell, a scheme bolder than anything yet dreamed of in the annals of the war. and what of george knight? he is an active, healthy-minded drummer boy belonging to one of the ohio regiments in general mitchell's division. his mother had died in his infancy. at the outbreak of the war, a year before the opening of our story, he was living in cincinnati with his father. the latter suddenly gave up a prosperous law practice to go to the help of the north, secured a commission as a captain of volunteers, went to the front, and was either captured or killed by the confederates. since the preceding christmas nothing had been heard of him. george, with an aching heart, stayed at home with an uncle, and chafed grievously as he saw company after company of militia pass through his native town on the way to the south. where was his father? this he asked himself twenty times a day. and must he, the son, stand idly by whilst thousands of the flower of the land were rushing forward to fight on one side or the other in the great conflict? "i must enlist!" george had cried, more than once. "pshaw!" replied his uncle; "you are too young--a mere child." but one fine day george knight had himself enrolled as a drummer boy in a regiment then being recruited in cincinnati, and, as his uncle had a large family of his own, with no very strong affection to spare for his nephew, there was not as much objection as might have been expected. so the lad went to the war. he had now become a particular _protégé_ of general mitchell, who had taken him into his own service as an assistant secretary--a position in which george had already shown much natural cleverness. after reading the letter just brought to him, andrews tears it into a hundred little pieces which he scatters to the winds. "what's the matter?" ask several of the men, as they crowd around him. "hurry's the matter," laughs the leader, as unconcernedly as if he were speaking of nothing more dangerous than a picnic. "the general tells me we must start at once, if we want to accomplish anything. to-morrow [tuesday] morning he takes his army straight south to huntsville. if he captures the town by friday, as he expects to do, he can move eastwards, to chattanooga. so we will do our bridge-burning and our train-stealing on friday, before the railroad is obstructed with trains bringing confederate reinforcements to the latter city." even in the darkness one could detect the gleam in the eyes of the men as they saw before them, with pleasure rather than fear, the risky part they were to play in the drama of warfare. the eyes of george sparkled, likewise. "if i could only go with them," he thought. what was camp life compared to the delight of such an adventure? waggie gave a bark. even he seemed to scent something interesting. "you soldiers," continued andrews, "must break into detachments, make your way eastward into the cumberland mountains, and then southward, well into the confederate lines. there you can take the cars, and by next thursday night you must all meet me down at marietta, georgia. the next morning according to a plan which you will learn at marietta, (which is on the georgia state railroad) we will put our little ruse into effect--and may providence smile on it." "but what will the men pretend to be while on their way down to marietta?" asked george, who could scarce contain either his curiosity or his enthusiasm. "look here, my boy," said andrews, in a quick though not in an unkindly way. "i don't know that you should be hearing all this." had the scene been less dark one might have seen the flush on the boy's face. "i didn't think i was playing eavesdropper," he retorted. andrews put his right hand on george's shoulder. "come," he said, in a spirit of friendliness; "i didn't exactly mean that. i know you're to be trusted, from what general mitchell has said of you. but you must keep a tight rein on your tongue, and not say a syllable, even in camp, of this expedition. there's no reason why the whole army should be discussing it--until the thing's done. then you can talk about it as much as you want." george no longer felt offended. "you can depend on me," he said manfully. "i won't even tell the general." at this there was a peal of laughter from the men, which seemed to be answered, the next instant, by a blinding fork of lightning, and then a fresh outburst of thunder. andrews lifted up his hand warningly. he was very grave, as befitted a man on the verge of a mighty responsibility. "not so loud," he protested. "you boys must impersonate kentuckians who are trying to get down south to join the confederate army. a great many fellows have gone from kentucky to throw in their lot with the confederacy, and if you are prudent you will have no trouble in making people believe you. if any of you fall under suspicion on the way, and are arrested, you can enlist in the confederate army, and then escape from it at the first opportunity. the southerners are glad to get all the recruits they can, suspicious or otherwise. but i hope you will all reach marietta in safety. pray be careful of one thing. if you meet me as we are traveling, don't recognize me unless you are sure no one is watching us. at marietta we will contrive to meet in the hotel near the railroad station, where i will tell you all that is to be done the next morning." "we have no money for the journey," interposed a young volunteer. "uncle sam doesn't pay us privates very large salaries, you know, mr. andrews." andrews produced a large wallet from the inner pocket of his overcoat. it was fairly bulging with paper money. "i've seen to that," he explained. "here's a whole wad of confederate currency which will pay your expenses through the southern lines." and with that he began to deal out the bills to the men, who hastily stowed away the money in their own pockets. "now, boys," went on the leader, "i want you to divide yourselves into parties of three or four, so that you may travel in separate groups, and thus avoid the suspicion which might be aroused if you all went in a body. and remember! one party must have nothing to do with another." thereupon, in the gloomy woods, the future spies formed themselves, as their inclinations directed, into six parties or detachments, four containing three men each, and two containing four. andrews was to proceed southward alone, without an escort. poor george knight and waggie appeared to be left out in the cold. george was burning to join the expedition. even the rain which suddenly began to fall could not quench his ardor. "mr. andrews," he said, coming up close to the leader, and speaking in a whisper, "can't i go to marietta, too?" andrews peered at the boy in admiring surprise. "by jove," he answered, "you're not afraid of danger, even if you are little more than a child. it's bad enough for grown men to risk their lives--and bad enough for me to drag them into such a position,--without getting a plucky boy into the scrape also. no! don't ask me to do that." "but i won't be in any more danger in the south than i am here," pleaded george. "if i stay here i may be shot in battle, while if i go to marietta i----" "if you go to marietta, and are found out, you may be hanged as a spy," interrupted andrews. "i'd rather see you shot than strung up with a rope." "the confederates would never hang me if i am little more than a child, as you call me," urged the lad. andrews was evidently impressed by george's persistence, but he hastened to say: "anyway, i have no authority to send you off on this chase. you are a member of general mitchell's military household, and he alone could give you the permission." "then promise me that if i get his permission you will let me go." the spy hesitated. he could just discern the earnest, pleading expression in the upturned face of the boy, upon which the rain-drops were pouring almost unnoticed. "well," he said, at last, "i am going back to camp now, and i start out before daylight. if you can induce the general to let you accompany us before that time i'll make no objection." george gave a little exclamation of delight. "come," he said, snapping his fingers at waggie, "let us see what we can do to talk the old general into it." the rain was now coming down in torrents, while the sharp, almost deafening cracks of thunder sounded as if the whole artillery of the union army were engaged in practice. soon all the conspirators were hurrying back to camp. andrews was the very last to leave the woods where he had divulged his plans. "heaven forgive me," he mused, half sadly, "if i am leading these boys into a death trap." but as a sudden flash of lightning illuminated the wet landscape, as with the brightness of day, there came into the leader's strong face a look of calm resolution. "it's worth all the danger," he added. * * * * * an hour later george knight came running into the tent which andrews occupied in the camp on duck river. the leader was enveloped in a woolen overcoat, and on his well-shaped head was a slouch hat of the kind generally worn by southerners. by the dim, sickly light of the candle which sputtered on a camp stool it could be seen that he had been writing, for pen, ink and a sealed letter were spread out upon the top of a leathern army trunk. "well," cried andrews, picking up the candle from its tin socket and flashing it in the radiant face of the boy. "ah! no need to ask you! i see by your dancing eyes that you have wheedled old mitchell into allowing you to do a foolish thing." the smile on the lad's face vanished. "don't you want me to go along with you?" he asked, in an injured tone. the leader replaced the candle in the socket and then took one of george's hands between his own strong palms. "george," he said cordially, "you're a boy after my own heart, and i'd like nothing better than to have you for a companion; but it's because i do like you that i'm sorry you are about to run such a risk--and that's the truth. how did you contrive to persuade the general?" george seated himself on andrews' bed, and laughed. "it was hard work at first," he explained, "but after he had refused me twice i said to him: 'general, if you were a boy in my place, and had heard of this expedition, what would you do?' 'by all the stars,' he said, 'i would run away to it rather than miss it--and get shot afterwards as a deserter, i suppose.' 'then don't put me under the temptation of running away,' said i. at this the general laughed. then he said: 'well, tell andrews you can go--and that i'll never forgive him if he lets anything happen to you. after all, the confederates would never hang a child like you.'" "so he too calls you a child!" laughed andrews. "of course i'm not a child," cried george proudly, as he jumped from the bed and stood up very straight, to make himself look as tall as possible; "but the general may call me a six-weeks' old baby if he only lets me go along with you." "there is no time to waste," announced andrews. "in the third tent from mine, to the right, you will find privates macgreggor and watson, of the second ohio volunteers. they have just offered to go with us, and i have accepted them in addition to the rest. go to them, ask them to get you a suit of plain clothes, put it on instead of your uniform, and stick to them closely from the moment you leave camp until you meet me, as i hope you will, at marietta. and be particularly careful to have nothing about you which could in any way lead to your identification as a union soldier in case you should be arrested and searched." "hurrah!" said george, half under his breath. "may we all be hurrahing this time next week," returned andrews. "here, george, as you go out give this letter to the sentry outside, to be sent off to-morrow in the camp mail." as he spoke he took the sealed note from the army trunk, and handed it to the boy. "it is written to the young woman i am engaged to marry," he explained, "and if we all get out of this bridge-burning business with our heads on our shoulders you can come dance at my wedding, and be my best man." "i'd dance at twenty weddings for you," enthusiastically cried george, who was beginning to have a great admiration for his new friend. "you don't want me to be married twenty times, do you, my boy?" protested andrews, smiling. "i would do a great deal to oblige you," retorted george. then, after warmly grasping his leader by the hand, he bounded out of the tent. the night was black, and the rain was still descending in a veritable torrent, but to the lad everything seemed clear and rosy. he only saw before him a mighty adventure--and that, to his ardent, youthful spirit, made the whole world appear charming. chapter ii nearing the goal it was the thursday afternoon succeeding the monday night described in the former chapter. on the north bank of the tennessee river, not far from the town of jasper, three drenched figures might be discerned. they were looking somewhat longingly in the direction of a white frame house not fifty yards away from the stream, which, swollen by the recent storms, was in a particularly turbulent mood. there was nothing very attractive about the building save that it suggested shelter from the rain without, and that the smoke curling up from its large chimney held forth vague hopes of a palatable supper. certainly there was little in the landscape itself to tempt any one to remain outdoors. the three wanderers seemed to be of this opinion, for they suddenly made a move towards the house. they were roughly dressed, their clothes were soaking, and their high boots bore the evidence of a long, muddy tramp across country. "well," grumbled one of them, a thick-set, middle-aged man, with a good-humored expression and a four-days' growth of iron-gray beard on his face; "why did i leave home and home cooking to enlist in the army and then wander over the earth like this?" "mr. watson!" exclaimed the person next to him, in a tone of boyish surprise; "how can you talk like that? why, _i_ am having the time of my life." the speaker was george knight. there was mud on his face, and the natty drummer boy in blue uniform had given place to a young fellow who outwardly resembled an ordinary farm hand. but there could be no doubt, from the light which shone in his bright eyes, that he was enjoying himself to the full. "humph!" returned watson. "when you get as old as i am, my boy, you won't take such keen delight in walking through mire." the boy laughed, and turned to the third member of the party. "are you tired, too, macgreggor?" he asked. macgreggor, a compactly built, athletic young man of twenty-seven or thereabouts, with a light-brown beard and mustache which made him look older than he really was, shook the rain from his hat and said cheerily, "i've done a good deal of mountain climbing since tuesday morning, but i'm not too tired to eat a good supper, if we are lucky enough to find one in this place." it need hardly be repeated that watson and macgreggor were the two men in whose care andrews had placed george knight. they were both brave, resourceful men. during their long trudge across the mountainous country between shelbyville and the tennessee, watson had uttered many a grumble, but his complaints meant nothing more than a desire to hear himself talk. when it came to fording a stream, climbing a precipice, or fairly wading through the slush, he was quite as willing and energetic as the other two members of his party. george knocked loudly at the door of the house, as he and his companions hastily sheltered themselves under the little piazza which ran along the front of the place. "be on your guard, boys," whispered watson. "stick to your story about our being kentuckians, and say nothing imprudent that may arouse suspicion. remember! we _must_ be in marietta by to-morrow night." the meeting at marietta had, at the very last moment, been postponed by andrews from thursday night to friday night. "it is well he did postpone it," thought macgreggor; "we are far enough from marietta as it is." the door was suddenly thrown open by an old negro "aunty" behind whom stood a neat, bustling little white woman. the latter was evidently engaged in the business of preparing supper, if one might judge from the fact that her bare arms were almost encaked in flour. "we are three kentuckians from fleming county on our way to enlist in chattanooga," spoke out macgreggor, in a voice which seemed to have the ring of truth in it. "can we spend the night here, so that we can cross the river in the morning?" the expression of the woman, which had at first been one of surprise and irritation at being stopped in her work, softened immediately. "come in," she said, quickly; "my husband's only a farmer, and we can't give you anything very fine, but it was never said of mandy hare that she turned away from her house any loyal friend of the south." with that she led her gratified visitors through a scantily-furnished parlor into a kitchen which seemed to them like a paradise. over the roaring fire in the great hearth several vessels were simmering and emitting the most delightful odors, while a table near by was already set for the coming meal. on a chair facing the fire a fat, white cat was purring blissfully. the room was delightfully warm; the whole scene had an irresistible attraction and air of domesticity. "make yourselves at home," commanded mrs. hare, cheerfully. "my husband will be home from jasper in a few minutes, and then you'll have something to eat--such as 'tis." at this instant there was a querulous little bark, which appeared to come from the region of george knight's heart. mrs. hare looked around in surprise; the white cat stirred uneasily. the next second the boy had shaken his overcoat, and from out of a large side pocket jumped the diminutive waggie. the cat, with one bound, took a flying leap to the kitchen stairs, and brushing past the half-opened door at the bottom of the flight, fairly tore up to the second story, where she disappeared. waggie gave a shrill yelp of emotion, but evidently concluded that it was safer not to chase a strange and muscular cat in a strange house. "gracious me," cried mrs. hare; "did you bring that little fellow all the way from kentucky?" "when i came away he followed me," replied george. he spoke the truth, although he did not add that he "came away" from a union camp rather than from kentucky. waggie had been consigned to a member of general mitchell's staff, to remain with him during his owner's absence, but george had not proceeded five miles on his journey before he heard a joyous bark behind him--and there frisked and capered waggie. "you'll have to turn spy now," george said. it was too late to send him back. thus the dog joined the party, much to the pleasure of all concerned. hardly had waggie made his theatrical entrance into the kitchen before a lean, prematurely shriveled man of fifty, whose long shaggy beard proclaimed him a veritable countryman, came shambling into the room. at sight of the three strangers a curious look came into his restless eyes. it was almost as if the look was one of triumph. george, observing it, shivered, although he could hardly say why he did so. "this is my husband," explained mrs. hare, with an awkward attempt at courtesy. "these men," she continued, addressing her lord and master, "have the good of the southern cause at heart, and are on their way to chattanooga, to enlist in the confederate army." she cast such an approving glance upon the wanderers as she spoke, and was so good-natured, that george's heart smote him at the deception which was being practised upon her. he was a frank, honest boy, who hated the very idea of appearing anywhere under false pretences. but he realized that he was playing a part for the good of his general, and his general's cause, and he resolved to maintain, as well as he could, his new character of a southern sympathizer. farmer hare gave to each of the visitors a surly recognition. waggie walked up to him, sniffed about his boots, and uttered a low growl. it was plain that the dog did not approve of the master of the house. "you fellows are taking a pretty long journey to serve the south," remarked mr. hare at last, in a nasal tone sadly at variance with the customary soft southern cadence. "can he suspect us?" thought watson. the same thought went through the mind of macgreggor, but he merely said: "we are nearly at our journey's end now. by to-morrow we will be in chattanooga." "sit down and make yourselves comfortable," snarled hare, with the air of an unwilling host. the visitors took the chairs which mrs. hare had placed for them at the supper-table. they were joined by husband and wife, and the negro "aunty" was soon serving a delicious meal of corn bread, irish stew, and other good things. they all ate with a will, including waggie, who was given a private lot of bones by the fireside. when the supper was over the farmer arose abruptly. "i s'pose you fellows have had a pretty long tramp, and want to go to bed," he said. "we keep good hours in this house, anyway, and turn in early at night--so that we may turn out early in the morning." "give them a chance to dry themselves before the fire," urged mrs. hare. "let 'em dry themselves in bed," muttered the farmer. whereupon he lighted a candle, and turned towards the door leading to the second story. he was evidently in a great hurry to get his guests up-stairs. watson, macgreggor and george looked at one another, as if trying to fathom the cause of their peculiar reception at the hands of farmer hare. but each one silently decided that their only cue was to be as polite as possible, and refrain from any altercation with their host. "after all," thought watson, "if we can spend the night here we will be off again at dawn--and then let our surly host take himself to kamchatka, for all we care." half an hour later watson and macgreggor, thoroughly tired out, were sound asleep, in one of the small rooms in the second-story of the house. george, however, lay tossing from side to side on a bed in the adjoining room, directly over the kitchen, with waggie curled up on the floor close by. the more he thought of the strange behavior of hare the more uneasy he became. why had the farmer regarded him and his two companions with such a suspicious glance? then george suddenly recollected where he had seen that face before. yes! there could be no mistake. while he, macgreggor and watson were dining that day at the village tavern in jasper, hare was loitering on the porch of the place. but what of that? the three pretended kentuckians had told their usual story, and professed their love for the confederacy, and no one there had seemed to doubt their truthfulness for a moment. in vain the boy tried to fall asleep. at last, hearing voices in the kitchen, he rose quietly from his bed, stole out of his room, and stealthily walked to the little hallway that led to the kitchen stairway. at the head of the staircase he halted. it was clear that farmer hare was saying something emphatic, while his wife was entering a feeble protest. an intuition told the listener that his own party was the subject of discussion. slowly, cautiously, he crept down the stairway, until he almost touched the closed door which led from it to the kitchen. "i tell you, woman," hare was saying, "these three fellows are spies of some sort, and the sooner we have them under arrest the better." "i can't believe it," murmured the wife. "i don't care whether you believe it or not," rejoined the husband, in a harsh tone. "don't i tell you that when these two men, and the boy, were at the tavern in jasper to-day, one of the men was recognized by john henderson. henderson is a spy in the service of general beauregard, and was in the camp of general mitchell only a few days ago, disguised as a trader. there he saw this fellow--the one with the brown beard--and he swears there's no mistake. but he didn't tell us in time--the three disappeared. no; there's mischief of some sort brewing here, and i intend to stop it, if my name's hare. we don't want any spies around here." "spies!" exclaimed the woman. "then if they are caught within our lines they will be shot!" it seemed as if she shuddered as she spoke. "or hanged," added the farmer, with an unpleasant laugh. "let them go," whispered mrs. hare, pleadingly. "i'm just as good a confederate as you are, jake, but don't let us have the blood of these fellows on our hands. that nice little chap with the dog--i would as soon see my own son get into trouble, if i was lucky enough to have one, as that bright-eyed boy. turn 'em out of the house, jake, if you suspect them--tell them to go about their business--but don't set a trap for them." her voice became almost plaintive. it was evident that the strangers had made a favorable impression upon mrs. hare, and that her woman's feelings revolted at the idea of betraying them, even though they were the secret enemies of her cause. "i hate war, anyway," she added. "it sets friend against friend, brother against brother, father against son, state against state. all this trouble between the north and south might have been fixed up without fighting, if there'd been a little more patience on both sides." "don't preach," muttered hare. "there ain't time for it. where's uncle daniel?" the listening george did not know that "uncle daniel" was the black farm-hand who helped hare, but, from the name, he felt sure that a slave was meant. "uncle daniel is out in the barn, i reckon," answered the wife. "what do you want him for?" "wait and see," rejoined her husband, gruffly. with that enigmatical reply he opened a door leading to the barn, stalked out, and disappeared. there was a half-stifled cry from mrs. hare, but she apparently made no effort to detain him. "the vigilants! oh! the vigilants!" she repeated, in accents of distress. "the sooner we get out of this the better for our necks," thought george. he had no sense of fear; he was only filled with one consuming idea. he must get word to his two companions, and at once. just what hare contemplated in the way of a trap he could not tell, yet it was evident that the sooner watson and macgreggor were awakened the more chance would all three have for escaping from whatever fate the farmer had in store for them. cautiously george crept back until he was at the door of the room where the two men were heavily sleeping. his first impulse was to rattle at the knob; but he recollected in time that this would make a noise that might bring mrs. hare to the scene. he stood still and reflected. it would be foolish to invite the attention of her husband or herself before a plan of action could be decided upon. for nearly five minutes he stood in the hallway, wondering how he could awaken his tired fellows without making a disturbance. "i wonder if i'm very stupid," thought the boy. he could hear the kitchen door open, as hare came back into the house, and began talking to his wife in low tones. he could distinguish but one word. it was "vigilants!" at last he gave a faint exclamation of satisfaction, and stole back to his own room. waggie, who was now lying on the bed, moved uneasily. george lighted a candle and examined the plastered wall which ran between his room and the one where the unconscious watson and macgreggor were gently snoring. he knew that the bed on which they slept was directly on the other side of this wall, and he judged that the partition itself was very thin. in this theory he was correct: the laths and their plaster covering formed a mere shell, which was not much thicker than an ordinary wooden partition. taking a large jack knife from his waistcoat he began to cut into the wall, about four feet from the floor. before long he had made a small hole, not bigger than the dimensions of a five-dollar gold piece, straight through the plaster. looking through it, with the aid of his candle, he saw that watson and macgreggor were stretched out in bed on the other side, each half-dressed and each sleeping as if there were no such thing in the world as war or danger. "they deserve a good sleep," said the boy to himself; "but it can't be helped, so here goes!" at the same moment he extinguished his candle, pulled it out of the candlestick, and poked it through the hole. he directed it in such a way that it fell squarely on the face of macgreggor. the man suddenly stopped snoring, turned his body from one side to the other, and then started up in the bed, in a half-sitting posture. "macgreggor! mac!" whispered george; "it's i, george knight. don't speak loud." "where on earth are you?" asked the newly-awakened sleeper, in a startled voice. "never mind where i am," answered george. "only don't make a noise. but get up, light your candle, and open your door for me without letting them hear you down-stairs." by this time watson was awake too, and had jumped to the floor. when macgreggor lighted his candle, and saw the little hole in the wall, at which appeared one of george's eyes, he almost gave a cry of surprise; but prudence restrained him, and he merely touched watson's arm, pointed to the hole, and then quietly unlocked the door of their room. george soon crept carefully in, and proceeded, in as low a voice as he could command, to tell the two men what he had heard from the kitchen. "the vigilants!" whispered watson. "why, don't you know what that means? when we were in jasper to-day i saw some of them standing around the village grocery store, and even talked with them. they thought i was a good 'confed,' and i found out that they are organized into a band to arrest suspicious characters, keep things in order in this section of the county and even turn guerrillas when they are wanted." "i see the whole thing," said macgreggor. "this hare has sent his negro over to jasper to bring the vigilants here to take charge of us, and to string us up, no doubt, to the first convenient tree. the sooner we get away from here the better for our lives. jasper is only two miles off, and the vigilants will be riding over here before we have time to say jack robinson." "there's still time," said george, "and as there's only one man here against us now--i mean hare--we can seize him, tie him to something, and then escape into the darkness." "so we can, my boy," replied watson, who was thinking as deeply and as calmly as if a game of chess, rather than a matter of life and death, were the issue. "there's no trouble as to our escaping. but remember this. it's pitch dark and raining again like cats and dogs; we don't know our way; we are sure to get lost before we have run fifty yards from the house, and these vigilants, who understand every foot of the country, will divide into small parties, and hunt us down, as sure as fate. and if they can't, they will put hounds on our track--and then we'll be beautifully carved up into beefsteaks. i have seen hounds, and i know how they appreciate a nice little man hunt." watson smiled grimly. macgreggor walked silently to one of the windows, opened the sash just a crack, and listened. he could hear nothing but the downpour of the rain. yet it would not be long before the vigilants dashed up to the house. no doubt they had all been telling anecdotes in the corner grocery store, and they would take but a short time for the mounting of their horses. cautiously closing the window he returned to the centre of the room. "it's a dark night," he said, "and all the better for a plan i have to propose. we are each secretly armed with pistols, are we not? well, then, let us put out this candle, and open the window to the left, looking out towards the highroad to jasper. when the vigilants come riding up the road and get in front of the house we will suddenly fire on them. this may cause a panic, as the fellows will not be able to tell just where the enemy are, and then----" "pshaw!" interrupted watson. "you don't know whom you're dealing with. these vigilants are as brave as they are reckless, and there are at least twenty-five or thirty of them. three men can't frighten them. they would only get us in the end, even if we did succeed in disabling one or two of them in the first surprise." "then what are we to do?" asked george eagerly. watson was so composed that the boy felt sure he must have some better plan for escape. "i have a scheme," said watson, quite simply. "i have been hatching it in my brain while we were talking. but the quicker it's put to the test, the quicker will we save our necks. are you willing to trust me blindly?" there was a whispered "yes" from both the other conspirators. watson inspired confidence by his assurance. "then let us get all our clothes, shoes, everything on at once, and walk boldly down-stairs." three minutes later the trio were marching down-stairs into the kitchen. hare and his wife were standing at the fireplace, looking the picture of surprise, as their guests burst into the room, with the irrepressible waggie at their heels. the old negro "aunty," who had been dozing on a stool near the hearth, jumped to her rheumatic feet in consternation. "hallelujah! hallelujah!" she cried, throwing her withered arms above her turbaned head. for the guests held revolvers in their hands, and the "aunty's" heart always sank at the thought of gunpowder. the farmer took a step forward, as if uncertain what to do or say. at last he said, trying to smile, yet only succeeding in looking hypocritical: "you ain't going to leave us this time of night, are you? wait till morning, and get some breakfast." "it's a nice breakfast you'd give us in the morning," laughed watson, with a significant look at their host. "a halter stew, or some roast bullets, i guess!" hare jumped backward with such suddenness that he almost knocked into the fire his frightened wife who had been standing directly behind him. "what do you mean?" he hissed. "you know perfectly well what i mean, mr. hare," said watson, looking him straight in the face, whilst the other spectators listened in breathless interest. "you have sent word to the jasper vigilants to ride over here and arrest us, on the suspicion of being spies." had the heavens suddenly fallen, the countenances of the hares could not have shown more dismay. "how did you find that out?" asked the farmer, quite forgetting to play his part of amiable host. "never mind how," cried george, who was burning to play his part. "only it's a pity you haven't as much mercy in you as your wife has." "listen," said watson, as he motioned the others in the room to be silent. "george, you will watch this old negress, and if she attempts to make a sound, or to leave the room before we are ready, give her a hint from your revolver." with a scream of fright, comical in its intensity, the "aunty" sank back on her stool near the hearth, and covered her dark face with her hands. there she sat, as if she expected to be murdered at any moment. "and you, macgreggor," continued watson impressively, "will keep the same sort of watch over mrs. hare. happen what may, there is not to be a sound from either woman." mrs. hare started in confusion. her husband made a bound for the kitchen door. with another bound no less quick watson darted forward, caught the farmer, pushed him back at the point of the pistol, and bolted the door. "what do you want to do?" demanded hare. "are we to be murdered?" "no," cried watson, "but----" then there came the sound of horses' hoofs in the distance. every one listened eagerly, and none more so than the farmer. "you're done for," he said slowly, casting a half-malevolent, half-triumphant glance at the three northerners. "not by a great deal," said watson. "march with me to the parlor, open the front door just a crack, and, when the vigilants come up, say to them that we three men have escaped from the house, stolen a flatboat, and started to row across the tennessee river. send them away and shut the door. i will be standing near you, behind the door, with my pistol leveled at your head. make one movement to escape, or say anything but what i have told you to say, and you are a dead man!" the patter of the horses was becoming more and more distinct. "will you do as i tell you?" asked watson, very coolly, as he toyed with his revolver. "if i won't?" asked hare. his face was now convulsed by a variety of emotions--fear, rage, craftiness, and disappointment. "i give you three seconds to choose," said watson. "if you refuse, you will be stretched out on that floor." mrs. hare, with white cheeks, leaned forward, and whispered to her husband: "do as he tells you, jake. better let these yankees go, and save your own life." "one--two----" counted watson. hare held up his right hand, and then dropped it listlessly by his side. "i give in," he said sullenly. "you've got the better of me." he looked, for all the world, like a whipped cur. there was not a second to lose. the horsemen were riding up to the house. watson motioned to the farmer, who walked into the parlor, which was unlighted, closely followed by the soldier. there were sounds without, as of horses being reined in, and of men's gruff voices. hare opened the parlor door a few inches, while watson, safe from observation, stationed himself within a few feet of him, with cocked revolver. "remember!" he whispered, significantly. "is that you, boys?" shouted hare. "those three spies i sent word about escaped from here ten minutes ago, stole a boat on the bank, down by the landing, and started to row across the river." "they will never reach the other side a night like this," called out some one. "what did you let 'em get away from you for?" asked another of the vigilants. "how could i help it?" growled the farmer. "they were well armed--and 'twas three men against one." "pah! you've brought us out on a wild-goose chase, and on a durned bad night," came a voice from the wet and darkness. "perhaps they'll drift back to this side of the river, and can be caught," one vigilant suggested. but this idea evidently met with little approval. it was plain, from what watson could hear of the discussion which ensued, that the vigilants were disgusted. they were ready, indeed, to give up the chase, on the supposition that the three fugitives would either drift down in midstream, or else be capsized and find a watery grave. "come, we'll get home again," commanded a horseman, who appeared to be the leader. "and no thanks to you, jake hare, for making us waste our time." "say jake, won't you ask us in to have something warm to drink?" cried another vigilant. watson edged a trifle nearer to hare, and whispered: "send 'em away at once, or else----" once bring the vigilants into the house, as the soldier knew, and capture or death would be the result. hare could almost feel the cold muzzle of the revolver near his head. "go away, fellows," he called, "you know i ain't got nothing for you." a jeer, and a few sarcastic groans greeted this remark. "i always reckoned you was a skinflint," yelled one of the party. there was a derisive cheer at this sally. then, at a word of command, the vigilants turned their horses and cantered back towards jasper. the sound of hoofs became fainter and fainter. "shut the door," ordered watson, "and go back to the kitchen." sullenly the farmer obeyed. when the two were once more by the blazing hearth, george and macgreggor, who had been guarding mrs. hare and the negress, rushed forward to grasp the hands of their deliverer. they were about to congratulate him upon his successful nerve and diplomacy when he interrupted them. "don't bother about that," he said; "let us get away from here as soon as possible, before our kind host has a chance to play us any more tricks." "i suppose you think yourself pretty smart, don't you?" snapped hare, casting a spiteful glance at watson. "so smart," put in george, "that if you don't want to be laughed at from now until the day of your death you'd better not tell the citizens of jasper about to-night's occurrences." "come, boys, let us be going," exclaimed watson impatiently, as he offered his hand to mrs. hare, and said to that lady: "thank you for the best supper we've had since we left--home." mrs. hare refused to shake hands, but she regarded watson with an admiring expression. "i won't shake hands with you," she replied, half smiling, "for you may be an enemy of the south, but i'm glad you've escaped hanging. you've too much grit for that. as for you, jake, don't ever pretend to us again that you're the brainiest man in the county." "hold your tongue, woman," cried the amiable farmer. in a couple of minutes the three travelers were striking out from the back of the house into the slush, and rain, and blackness of the night. waggie was occupying his usual place inside a pocket of george's overcoat. he had supped regally at the hares on bacon and bones, and he felt warm and at peace with the world. before the party had more than emerged from the garden (a task by no means easy in itself, on account of the darkness), something whistled by them, to the accompaniment of a sharp report. looking behind them they saw the meagre form of hare standing in the kitchen doorway. he held a rifle in his right hand. the kitchen fire made him plainly visible. "pretty good aim, old boy," shouted macgreggor, "considering you could hardly see us. but i can see you plainly enough." as he spoke he drew his revolver. hare was already putting the rifle to his shoulder, preparing for another shot. he had hardly had a chance to adjust the gun, however, before he dropped it with a cry of pain and ran into the house. a bullet had come whizzing from macgreggor, and struck the farmer in his right arm. "just a little souvenir to remember me by," laughed the lucky marksman. "hurry up!" cried watson. "to-morrow night we must be in marietta. we are still many miles away, and in a hostile, unknown country." so the three pushed on into the gloom. the prospect of meeting james andrews at the appointed place was not reassuring. their only hope was to keep on along the bank of the tennessee river until they reached chattanooga. from there they could take a train for marietta. "shall we make it?" thought george. waggie gave a muffled bark which seemed to say: "courage!" chapter iii mingling with the enemy it was weary work, this tramping along the tennessee shore, through mud, or fields of stubble, over rocks, or amid dripping trees; but the three kept on towards chattanooga for a couple of hours, until all the good effects of their warming at farmer hare's were quite vanished. watson, having showed by his mother-wit and presence of mind that he was a man to be relied upon, had now resumed his privilege of growling, and gave vent to many angry words at the roughness and unutterable dreariness of the way. "why was america ever discovered by that inquisitive, prying old christopher columbus?" he grunted, after he had tripped over the stump of a cottonwood-tree, and fallen flat with his face in the slime. "if he had never discovered america there would never have been any united states; had there never been any united states there would never have been any war between north and south; had there never been any war between north and south i wouldn't be making a fool of myself by being down here. i wish that fellow columbus had never been born--or, if he was born, that he had never been allowed to sail off for america. ugh!" in a few minutes they reached a log cabin situated on an angle of land where a little stream emptied itself into the now stormy waters of the tennessee river. there was no light nor sign of life about the mean abode, and the travelers were almost upon it before they saw its low outline in the dense gloom. "look here," said watson, calling a halt. "there's no use in our trying to go further to-night. it's too dark to make any sort of time. and we are far enough away now from jasper to avoid any danger of pursuit--even if our amiable friend mr. hare should inform the vigilants." "don't be afraid of that," said macgreggor and george in the same breath. hare was not likely to relate a joke so much at his own expense as their clever escape had proved. even if he did, they reasoned, the chances of capture were now rather slim, whatever they might have been when the three fugitives were nearer jasper. "then let us get a few hours' sleep in this cabin," urged watson. "some negro probably lives here--and we can tell him our usual kentucky story. give the door a pound, george, and wake him up." george used first his hands and then his boots on the door, in a vain effort to make some one hear. he took waggie out of his pocket, and the shrill little barks of the dog added to the noise as he jumped around his master's feet. "let's break the door down," urged macgreggor. "the seven sleepers must live here. we might pound all night and not get in." with one accord the three threw themselves vigorously against the door. they expected to meet with some resistance, due to a bolt or two; but, instead of that, the door flew open so suddenly that they were precipitated into the cabin, and lay sprawling on the ground. it had been latched but neither locked nor bolted. "we were too smart that time," growled watson, as the three picked themselves up, to the great excitement of waggie. "the place must be deserted. so much the better for us. we can get a little sleep without having to go into explanations." he drew from inside his greatcoat, with much care, three or four matches. by lighting, first one and then the others, he was able to grope around until he found the hearth of the cabin. cold ashes marked the remains of a fire long since extinguished. his foot struck against something which proved to be a small piece of dry pine-wood. with the flame from his last match watson succeeded in lighting this remnant of kindling. he carefully nursed the new flame until the stick blazed forth like a torch. then the travelers had a chance to examine the one room which formed the whole interior of the lonely place. the cabin was deserted. it contained not a bit of furniture; nothing, indeed, save bare walls of logs, and rude mortar, and a clean pine floor. "this palace can't be renting at a very high price," remarked macgreggor, sarcastically. "it will do us well enough for a few hours' sleep," said george. watson nodded his head in assent. "it's a shelter from the rain, at least," he said, "and that's something on such a pesky night." while he was speaking the rush of the rain without confirmed the truth of his words, and suggested that any roof was better than none. ere long the pine stick burned itself out; the intruders were left in absolute darkness. but they quickly disposed themselves on the floor, where, worn out by the fatigues of the day and the stirring adventure of the evening, they were soon fast asleep. they had closed the door, near which waggie had settled his little body in the capacity of a sentinel. george dreamed of his father. he saw him standing at the window of a prison, as he stretched his hands through the bars and cried out: "george, i am here--here! help me!" then the boy's dream changed. he was back in the dark woods near shelbyville, listening to andrews as the leader outlined the expedition in which they were now engaged. in the middle of the conference some one cried: "the confederates are on us!" george tried to run, but something pinned him to the ground--a wild animal was at his throat. he awoke with a start, to find that waggie was leaping upon his chest, barking furiously. "hush up, you little rascal!" ordered george. he felt very sleepy, and he was angry at being aroused. but waggie went on barking until he had succeeded in awakening macgreggor and watson, and convincing his master that something was wrong. "what's the trouble?" demanded watson. "listen," said george, softly. he was on his feet in an instant, as he ran first to one and then to the other of the two windows which graced the cabin. these windows, however, were barricaded with shutters. he hurried to the door, which he opened a few inches. the rain had now stopped, and he could hear, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, the sound of horses moving cautiously through the mud, along the river bank. in a twinkling watson and macgreggor were at his side, straining their ears. "can it be cavalry?" asked macgreggor. "mounted men at least," whispered watson. "perhaps the vigilants are on our track, bad luck to them!" "can hare have told them, after all?" queried george. "don't know about that," muttered watson, "but i think we have the gentlemen from jasper to deal with once again." "let's decamp into the darkness before it's too late," said macgreggor. "come, come," whispered watson impatiently. "if they are on the scent, and we leave this hut, they will only run us to earth like hounds after a fox." the baying of dogs which were evidently accompanying the party gave a sudden and terrible effect to the force of watson's argument. and now the vigilants, if such they were, came nearer and nearer. the three northerners who listened so anxiously at the doorway could already detect the sound of voices. "there's but one thing for us to do," quickly murmured watson. "we must stay in this cabin." "but they won't pass the place by," urged macgreggor. "if they know it to be deserted by a tenant this is the very reason for their looking in to see if we are hiding here. and when it comes to defending ourselves, how can we put up any sort of barricade?" "when you can't use force, or hide yourself, try a little strategy," answered the soldier. "can either of you fellows talk like a darky?" "not i," said macgreggor. had he been asked if he could speak hebrew, he would not have been more surprised. "can you, george?" asked watson, as he shut the door. "i might," whispered george. "when i was up in cincinnati we boys used----" "never mind what you boys did--only do as i tell you, and if you can give a good imitation you may save us from arrest, and worse!" the horsemen now seemed to be within a few yards of the cabin. they had evidently halted for consultation. meanwhile watson was whispering some instructions to george. after he had finished he leaned against the door with his whole weight, and indicated to macgreggor that he was to do the same thing. the latter obeyed in silence. the horsemen without made a great deal of clatter. if they were pursuing the fugitives they did not seem to think secrecy of movement very necessary. "whose cabin is this?" demanded one of them. "it did belong to old sam curtis, but he's moved away, down to alabama," some one answered. "some darky may live in it now, eh?" said the first voice. "perhaps it's empty, and these tarnation spies are in it," was the rejoinder in a lower tone. the men moved their horses closer to the house, which they quickly surrounded. no chance now for any one to escape; it seemed as if the three men in the cabin must inevitably be caught like rats in a trap. yet they waited courageously, breathlessly. it was a tense moment. another minute would decide their fate. would they remain free men, or would they fall into the hands of their pursuers, with all the consequences that such a capture implied? already one of the vigilants, evidently the leader, had dismounted. approaching the door of the cabin, he gave it a push as if he expected it would open at once. but there was no yielding; watson and macgreggor were still leaning firmly against the other side. the leader began to knock on the door with a revolver. "here, here," he shouted; "if there's any one in this cabin, come out--or we'll have you out!" at first there was no response, save a bark from waggie. the leader rattled savagely at the door. "let's break in," he cried to his companions, "and see if the place has any one in it!" the vigilants were about to follow the example of their leader, and dismount when there came a wheedling voice--apparently the voice of a negress--from within the cabin. "what you gemmen want dis time o' night wid poor aunty dinah?" "a nigger's living here," muttered the leader, in surprise. "what for you gwyne to disturb an ole niggah at dis hour?" asked the voice from within. "it's all right, aunty," called out the leader. "we only want some information. come to the door." "in one minute i be with you," was the answer. "i'se a nursin' my old man here--he done gone and took the smallpox--and----" the smallpox! had the voice announced that a million union troops were descending upon the party the consternation would not have been half as great. the smallpox! at the mention of that dreaded name, and at the thought that they were so close to contagion, the vigilants, with one accord, put spurs into their horses and rushed madly away. the leader, dropping his revolver in his excitement, and not even stopping to pick it up, leaped upon his horse and joined in the inglorious retreat. on, on, dashed the men until they reached the town of jasper, tired and provoked. like many other men, north or south, they were brave enough when it came to gunpowder, but were quickly vanquished at the idea of pestilential disease. "bah!" cried the leader, as they all reined up in front of the village tavern, which now looked dark and uninviting; "those three spies, if spies they are, can go to guinea for all i care. i shall hunt them no more." there was a general murmur of assent to this fervent remark. one of the vigilants said, in an injured tone: "i wish jake hare was at the bottom of the ocean!" in explanation of which charitable sentiment it may be explained that farmer hare, on the departure of watson, macgreggor and george knight, had run all the way to jasper. here he told the vigilants that the three men had returned in the boat (which he had previously declared they had taken) and landed on the bank of the river. they could be easily caught, he said. he carefully suppressed any account of the way in which he had been outwitted by watson. the fact was that hare made up his mind, logically enough, that the fugitives would keep along the tennessee until morning came, and as he had seen the direction they had taken he determined to set the vigilants on their track. his scheme, as we have seen, was nearly crowned with success. * * * * * "a miss is as good as a mile," laughed watson, as he stood with his two companions in the pitch black interior of the cabin, listening to the last faint sounds of the retreating vigilants. "there's nothing like smallpox, eh?" said george. "or nothing like a boy who can imitate a darky's voice," put in macgreggor. "where did you learn the art, george?" "we boys in cincinnati had a minstrel company of our own," the boy explained, "and i used to play negro parts." "i'll never call the minstrels stupid again," said watson. "they have been instrumental in saving our lives." "rather say it was your own brains that did it," interposed george. so they talked until daybreak, for they found it impossible to sleep. meanwhile the weather had changed. when the sun came peeping over the horizon, between tearful clouds, as if afraid that it was almost too damp for him to be out, the trio were pushing cautiously along the bank of the tennessee, in the direction of chattanooga. "i don't know who brought the vigilants out for us the second time, unless it was our dear friend hare, and i don't know whether they will give us another chase this morning," said watson, as they were laboriously ascending one of the mountain spurs which led down to the river shore, "but we must go steadily on, and trust to luck. to delay would be fatal. this is friday--and we must be in marietta by this evening." on they trudged, over rocks and paths that would have taxed the ability of a nimble-footed chamois, as they wondered how the rest of their friends were faring, and where might be the intrepid andrews. sometimes waggie scampered joyously on; sometimes he reposed in his master's overcoat. the clouds had now cleared away; the sun was shining serenely over the swollen and boisterous waters of the crooked tennessee. nature was once more preparing to smile. "i'm getting frightfully hungry," cried george, about noon-time. "i wouldn't mind a bit of breakfast." "there's where we may get some," said macgreggor. he pointed to an old-fashioned colonial house of brick, with a white portico, which they could see in the centre of a large open tract about a quarter of a mile back of the river. the smoke was curling peacefully from one of the two great chimneys, as if offering a mute invitation to a stranger to enter the house and partake of what was being cooked within. in a field in front of the mansion cattle were grazing, and the jingle of their bells sounded sweetly in the distance. no one would dream, to look at such an attractive picture, that the grim spectre of war stalked in the land. "shall we go up to the house, and ask for something?" suggested macgreggor, who was blessed with a healthy appetite. watson looked a little doubtful. "there's no use in our showing ourselves any more than is necessary," he said. "rather than risk our necks, we had better go on empty stomachs till we reach chattanooga." but such a look of disappointment crept over the faces of george and macgreggor, and even seemed to be reflected in the shaggy countenance of waggie, that watson relented. "after all," he said, "there's no reason why there should be any more danger here than in chattanooga or marietta. let's make a break for the house, and ask for a meal." hardly had he spoken before they were all three hurrying towards the mansion. when at last they stood under the portico, george seized the quaint brass knocker of the front door, and gave it a brisk rap. after some delay a very fat negress opened the door, and eyed the strangers rather suspiciously. their tramp over the country had not improved their appearance, and her supercilious, inquisitive look was not strange, under the circumstances. "what you folks want?" she asked, putting her big arms akimbo in an uncompromising attitude. watson was about to reply when an attractive voice, with the soft accent so characteristic of the southerners, called: "what is it, ethiopia? any one to see me?" the next instant a kindly-faced gentlewoman of about fifty stood in the doorway. "is there anything i can do for you?" she asked pleasantly. macgreggor proceeded to tell the customary story about their being on their way from kentucky to join the confederate army further south. his heart smote him as he did so, for she was so gentle and sympathetic in her manner that he loathed to practice any deception, however necessary; but there was no help for it. so he ended by asking for something to eat. "come in," said the mistress of the mansion, for such she proved to be, "and take any poor hospitality i can offer you. my husband, mr. page, and both my children are away, fighting under general lee, and i am only too glad to do anything i can for others who are helping the great cause." she smiled sweetly at george, and patted his dog. the boy regarded her almost sheepishly; he, too, hated the idea of imposing on so cordial a hostess. mrs. page led the party into a great colonial hallway, embellished with family portraits. "by-the-way," she added, "there is a confederate officer in the house now--major lightfoot, of the --th virginia regiment. he reached here this morning from richmond and goes to chattanooga this afternoon on a special mission." watson bit his lip. "we're coming to too close quarters with the enemy," he thought, and he felt like retreating from the mansion with his companions. but it was too late. such a move would only excite suspicion, or, worse still, lead to pursuit. "we must face the thing through," he muttered, "and trust to our wits." mrs. page ushered the strangers, including the delighted waggie, into a large, handsomely paneled dining-room on the left of the hallway. she made them gather around an unset table. "sit here for a few minutes," she said, "and the servants will bring you the best that page manor can offer you. in the meantime, i'll send major lightfoot to see you. he may be able to help you in some way." she closed the door and was gone. "i wish this major lightfoot, whoever he is, was in patagonia at the present moment," whispered watson. "it's easy enough to deceive the southern country bumpkins, and make them think you are confederates, but when you get among people with more intelligence, like officers----" "what difference does it make?" interrupted macgreggor, looking longingly at a mahogany sideboard. "didn't you hear mrs. page say the major was a virginian? he doesn't know anything about kentucky." "that's lucky," laughed watson, "for we don't either." "hush!" came the warning from george. the door opened, and several negro servants began to bring in a cold dinner. what a meal it was too, when the time came to partake of it, and how grateful the three hungry travelers felt to the mistress of the house. when it had been disposed of, and the servants had left the dining-room, george said, almost under his breath: "hadn't we better be off? we have a good number of miles yet, between here and marietta." watson was about to rise from the table when the door opened to admit a tall, stalwart man of about thirty, whose cold, gray-blue eyes and resolute mouth denoted one who was not to be trifled with. he was dressed in the gray uniform of a confederate officer, but he had, presumably, left his sword and pistols in another room. the visitors stood up as he entered. "glad to see you, my men," he said, shaking hands with each one. "is this major lightfoot?" asked watson, trying to look delighted, but not making a brilliant success of it. "yes," returned the major. "i hear you boys are kentuckians." "we are," said macgreggor stoutly; "we are ready to die for our country, and so we are journeying southward to enlist." "you're a pretty young chap to take up arms," observed the major, eyeing george keenly. "one is never too young to do that," answered the boy. he was determined to put a bold face on the affair, and he saw no reason why the confederate officer should suspect him if he spoke up unhesitatingly. "the south has need of all her loyal sons," remarked watson, who felt no compunction in deceiving the major, whatever might have been his sentiments as to hoodwinking mrs. page. "so you all come from kentucky?" went on the officer. "that interests me, for i come from kentucky myself!" the jaws of the three strangers dropped simultaneously. had a bomb fallen at their feet they could not have been more disconcerted. what did they know about kentucky, if they had to be put through a series of cross-questions by a native! but there was no reason, after all, why the major should dwell on the subject. "i thought mrs. page said you belonged to a virginia regiment," exclaimed macgreggor, almost involuntarily. "so i do," replied the major, "but i only settled in virginia two years ago. i was born and bred in kentucky, and there's no state like it--now is there?" "no!" cried the trio, with a well-feigned attempt at enthusiasm. they felt that they were treading on dangerous ground, and resolved to play their parts as well as they could. "do you all come from the same part of kentucky?" queried the major, as he sat down on a chair, evidently prepared for a pleasant chat. "from fleming county," said watson carelessly, quite as if he knew every other county in the state. "i fear, sir, we must be moving on towards chattanooga. we are in a hurry to enlist, and we have already been delayed too long." the major completely ignored the latter part of this sentence. "from fleming county," he said. "well, that's pleasant news. i know fleming county like a book. there is where my father lived and died. what part of the county do you come from?" had the major asked them to tell the area of the united states in square inches he could not have propounded a more puzzling question. "dunder and blitzen;" thought watson. "if i only knew more of kentucky geography i might get myself out of this scrape." "we come from the southeastern part of the county," said macgreggor, after an awkward pause. "near what town?" another pause. oh, for the name of a town in the southeastern part of fleming county, kentucky. the major was looking at the visitors curiously. why this sudden reticence on their part? at last watson spoke up, although evasively. "we were a long distance from any town; we worked on adjoining farms, and when the call to arms came we determined to rush to the rescue of our beloved southland." the major gave watson one searching look. "humph!" said he, "that's all very pretty, and i'm glad you are so patriotic--but that won't do. what is the nearest town to the places you live in?" the name of carlisle flashed through watson's mind. he recalled that it was somewhere in the part of kentucky in which fleming county was situated. a man he knew had once lived there. he would risk it. "the nearest town is carlisle," he said shortly. "and now, major, we really must be off! good-bye!" he started for the door, followed by george and macgreggor, who were both devoutly wishing that such a state as kentucky had never existed. "wait a second," suddenly commanded the southerner, stepping in front of the door to bar the way. "you seem to be strangely ignorant of your own county. carlisle happens to be in the adjoining county." "here, sir, we're not here to be examined by you, as if we were in the witness box," cried watson, who hoped to carry the situation through with a strong hand. he would try a little bluster. a sarcastic smile crossed the firm face of major lightfoot. "don't try to bluff me," he said quietly but sternly; "for it won't work. i see very clearly that you fellows have never been in fleming county, nor do i think you have ever been in kentucky at all, for the matter of that. you certainly talk more like yankees than kentuckians." "then you don't believe us?" asked macgreggor, trying to assume an air of injured innocence. "certainly not," answered the major. he folded his arms, and regarded the visitors as if he were trying to read their inmost thoughts. "you are lying to me! and as you've lied to me about coming from kentucky, it's quite as likely you've lied to me about your being on your way to enlist in the confederate army. for all i know you may be union spies. in short, my friends, you are acting in the most suspicious way, and i put you under arrest!" george's heart sank within him. he was not afraid of being arrested, but to think that he might never take part in the bridge-burning expedition. lightfoot turned the key in the door. watson walked up to the major, and tapped him on the shoulder. "look here," he said, in the tone of a man who is quite sure of his position. "you talk about putting us under arrest, but you're only playing a game of bluff yourself. we are three to your one--and i'd like to know what is to prevent our walking out of this house, and knocking you down, too--or, if you prefer, shooting you--if you attempt to stop us?" lightfoot laughed, in a superior sort of way. "go, if you want," he said curtly; "but i don't think you'll go very far." his eyes glistened, as if he thought the whole scene rather a good joke. "half a mile back of this mansion there's a squadron of confederate cavalry picketed. if i give them the alarm they'll scour the whole countryside for you, and you'll all be in their hands within an hour." watson turned pale. it was the paleness of vexation rather than of fear. "why were we fools enough to come to this house," he thought. he knew how quickly they could be caught by cavalrymen. the major smiled in a tantalizing manner. "i think you will take my advice and surrender," he said, sitting down carelessly in a chair and swinging one of his long legs over the other. "if, on investigation, it proves that you are not spies, you will be allowed to go on your way. if there's any doubt about it, however, you will be sent to richmond." macgreggor, with a bound, leaped in front of the confederate, and, pulling out a revolver, pointed it at lightfoot's head. "unless you promise not to have us followed, you shan't leave this room alive!" he cried with the tone of a man daring everything for liberty. george fully expected to see the officer falter, for he had seen that the major was unarmed. but lightfoot did nothing of the kind. on the contrary, he gave one of his provoking laughs. "don't go into heroics," he said, pushing macgreggor away as though he were "shoohing" off a cat. "you know i would promise anything, and the second your backs were turned i'd give the alarm. you don't think i would be fool enough to see you fellows walking away without making a trial to get you back?" macgreggor hesitated, as he looked at george and watson. then he answered fiercely, handling his pistol ominously the meanwhile: "we've but one chance--and we'll take it! we will never let you leave this room alive, promise or no promise. you are unarmed, and there are _three_ of us, armed." the major did not seem to be at all startled. he merely changed the position of his legs, as he answered: "killing me wouldn't do you any good, my boy! if you do shoot me before i can escape from the room the shooting would only alarm the house--the cavalry would be summoned by mrs. page, and you would find yourself worse off even than you are now." watson touched macgreggor on the shoulder. "the major's right," he said; "we would only be shooting down a man in cold blood, and gaining nothing by it. he has trapped us--and, so long as those plagued cavalrymen are so near, we had better submit. i think i've got as much courage as the next man, but i don't believe in butting one's head against a stone wall." macgreggor sullenly replaced his pistol. he could not but see the force of watson's reasoning. the major rose to his feet. he was smiling away again, as if he were enjoying himself. "we surrender!" announced watson with a woebegone expression on his strong face. "you'll admit," said lightfoot, "that i was too clever for you?" there was no answer. george picked up waggie. "can i take my dog along with us, wherever we go?" he asked. [illustration: the major merely changed the position of his legs] the major suddenly advanced towards george, and patted the tiny animal. "hello! waggie, how are you, old man?" he cried. george gasped. "how on earth did you know waggie's name?" he asked. for waggie had been chewing at a bone on the floor ever since the entrance of the confederate, and his master had not addressed a word to him during that time. "i know his name almost as well as i do yours, george knight," said lightfoot. in his excitement george dropped waggie on a chair. the three northerners heard this last announcement with open-mouthed astonishment. lightfoot burst into a great laugh that made the mystery the more intense. "why, comrades," he cried, "i ought to go on the stage; i had no idea i was such a good actor. don't you know your friend, walter jenks?" the southern accent of the speaker had suddenly disappeared. the listeners stood dumfounded. then the whole situation dawned upon them. they had been most gloriously and successfully duped. this major lightfoot was none other than walter jenks, a sergeant from general mitchell's camp, whom andrews had sent out on the bridge-burning party. he had shaved off his beard, and assumed a southern accent (something he was able to do because he was a marylander), so that the guests at the page mansion had failed to recognize him. jenks shook the three warmly by the hand. "it was a mean trick to play on you fellows," he explained, lowering his voice, "but for the life of me i couldn't resist the temptation." "how on earth did you turn up here in the guise of a confederate officer?" asked watson, who now felt a sense of exhilaration in knowing that he might yet join andrews at marietta. "it is too long a story to tell," whispered jenks. "i'll only say here that i got lost from the other two fellows i was traveling with--was suspected of being a spy in one of the villages i passed through--and, to avoid pursuit, had to shave off my beard and disguise myself in this confederate uniform, which i was lucky enough to 'appropriate.' i was nearly starved--stumbled across this place or my way down--told a plausible story (heaven forgive me for deceiving so delightful a lady as mrs. page)--and here i am! and the sooner we set off from here, the sooner we will meet at the appointed town." "when the war's over," remarked macgreggor, "you can earn a fortune on the stage." half an hour later the four northerners had taken a grateful farewell of the unsuspecting mrs. page, and were hurrying along the bank of the tennessee. by four o'clock in the afternoon they had reached a point directly opposite chattanooga. here they found a ferryman, just as they had been given to expect, with his flat "horse-boat" moored to the shore. he was a fat, comfortable-looking fellow, as he sat in tailor-fashion on the little wharf, smoking a corncob pipe as unconcernedly as though he had nothing to do all day but enjoy tobacco. watson approached the man. "we want to get across the river as soon as possible," he explained, pointing to his companions. "this officer (indicating walter jenks, who retained his confederate uniform) and the rest of us must be in chattanooga within half an hour." the ferryman took his pipe from his mouth and regarded the party quizzically. "you may want to be in chattanooga in half an hour," he said, in a drawling, lazy fashion, "but i reckon the river's got somethin' to say as to that!" he waved one hand slowly in the direction of the stream, which was, without a shadow of doubt, an angry picture to gaze upon. its waters were turbulent enough to suggest that a passage across them at this moment would be attended by great risk. but to the anxious travelers any risk, however great, seemed preferable to waiting. if they missed the evening train from chattanooga to marietta their usefulness was ended. no bridge-burning adventure for them! "i tell you we _must_ get over to-night," urged jenks, who hoped that his uniform would give him a certain prestige in the eyes of the ferryman. "i am major lightfoot, of the --th virginia, and i'm on an important mission. every minute is precious!" "that may be true enough, colonel," replied the man, ignoring the title of "major," and taking a whiff from his pipe. "that may be true enough, but i calculate nature's got somethin' to say in this world. and i calculate i ain't a-going to risk my life, and the happiness of my wife and five children, by tryin' to stem the tennessee in this turmoil." george's heart sank within him. to be so near the realization of his dream of adventure, and to be stopped at the eleventh hour by this stupid, cautious boatman! waggie, who had been frisking near him, suddenly became solemn. watson pulled from his coat a large pack of confederate money. "there's money for you," he cried, "if you'll take us over!" the ferryman eyed him in a sleepy way, and took another pull at that provoking pipe. "money!" he said, after a long pause, during which the northerners gazed at him as if their very lives depended on his decision. "money! what's the use to me of money, if we all get drowned crossing over?" as he spoke the river roared and rushed downwards on its course with a heedlessness that quite justified him in his hesitation. "wait till to-morrow morning, and the tennessee will be quieter. then i'll help you out." "wait till doomsday, why don't you say?" thundered jenks. "we must take the risk--and i order you to take us over, at once!" "you may be a very big man in the army," answered the ferryman, "but your orders don't go here!" he produced a small tin box from the tail of his coat, leisurely poured from it into his pipe some strong tobacco, and slowly lighted the stuff. then he arose, walked to the edge of the wharf, and beckoned to a lad of nine or ten years old who was half asleep in the boat. the boy jumped up, leaped upon the wharf, and ran off along the river's bank in the opposite direction from which the four strangers had come. he had received a mysterious order from the ferryman. "what's the matter now?" asked macgreggor, who had a strong desire to knock down this imperturbable fellow who refused to be impressed even by a confederate uniform. "nothing," replied the man, stolidly. he sat down again, crossed his legs, and took a long pull at the pipe. "for the last time," shouted jenks, shaking his fist in the smoker's face, "i order you to take out that boat, and ferry us across the river!" "for the last time," said the man, very calmly, "i tell you i'm not going to risk my life for four fools!" george walked up closer to watson, and whispered: "let's seize the boat, and try to cross over ourselves!" watson beckoned to his two companions, and told them what the boy suggested. "we will be taking our lives in our hands," said jenks, "but anything is better than being delayed here." "besides," added macgreggor, "although the river _is_ pretty mischievous-looking, i don't think it's any more dangerous than waiting here." jenks took out his watch, and looked at it. "i'll give you just five minutes," he said, addressing the ferryman, "and if by that time you haven't made up your mind to take us over the river, we'll take the law into our own hands, seize your boat, and try the journey ourselves." waggie began to bark violently, as if he sympathized with this speech. the man smiled. "that will be a fool trick," he answered. "if it's dangerous for me, it'll be death for you uns. better say your prayers, partner!" "only four minutes left!" cried jenks, resolutely, keeping an eye on the watch. the ferryman closed his eyes and resumed his smoking. the others watched him intently. meanwhile george was thinking. two minutes more passed. the boy was recalling a saying of his father's: "sometimes you can taunt an obstinate man into doing things, where you can't reason with him." "time is up!" said jenks, at last. "come, boys, let's make a break for the boat!" the ferryman placed his pipe on the ground with the greatest composure. "take the boat if you want," he observed, rising to his feet, "but you fellows won't get very far in it! look there!" he pointed up the river's bank. the boy who had been sent away a few minutes before was coming back to the wharf; he was now, perhaps, a quarter of a mile away, but he was not alone. he was bringing with him five confederate soldiers, who were walking briskly along with muskets at right shoulder. "you fellows looked kind o' troublesome," explained the ferryman, "so as there's a picket up yonder i thought i'd send my son up for 'em!" watson made a move towards the boat. "better stay here," cried the ferryman; "for before you can get a hundred feet away from the bank in this contrary stream those soldiers will pick you off with their muskets. d'ye want to end up as food for fishes?" the men groaned in spirit. "it's too late," muttered jenks. he could picture the arrival at marietta of all the members of the expedition save his own party, and the triumphal railroad escapade the next day. and when the northern newspapers would ring with the account of the affair, his own name would not appear in the list of the brave adventurers. suddenly george went up to the ferryman, and said, with much distinctness: "i see we have to do with a coward! there's not a boatman in kentucky who wouldn't take us across this river. even a yankee wouldn't fear it. but you are so afraid you'll have to get your feet wet that you actually send for soldiers to protect you!" george's companions looked at him in astonishment. the boatman, losing his placidity, turned a deep red. "take care, young fellow," he said, in a voice of anger; "there's not a man in tennessee who dares to call ned jackson a coward!" "i dare to call you a coward unless you take us over to chattanooga!" answered the boy, sturdily. "you're afraid--and that's the whole truth!" jackson's face now underwent a kaleidoscopic transformation ranging all the way from red to purple, and then to white. all his stolidity had vanished; he was no longer the slow countryman; he had become the courageous, impetuous southerner. "if you weren't a boy," he shouted, "i'd knock you down!" "that wouldn't prove your bravery," returned george, regarding him with an expression of well-feigned contempt. "that would only show you to be a bully. if you have any courage in your veins--the kind of courage that most southerners have--prove it by taking us across the river." the soldiers were gradually drawing near the wharf. meanwhile george's companions had caught his cue. he was trying to goad jackson into ferrying them over the riotous stream. "humph!" said macgreggor; "a good boatman is never afraid of the water; but our friend here seems to have a consuming fear of it!" "he ought to live on a farm, where there is nothing but a duck pond in the shape of water," added jenks. jackson was actually trembling with rage; his hands were twisting nervously. watson eyed him with seeming pity, as he said: "it's a lucky thing for you that you didn't enlist in the confederate army. you would have run at the first smell of gunpowder!" jackson could contain his wrath no longer. "so you fellows think i'm a coward," he cried. "very well! i'll prove that i'm not! get into my boat, and i'll take you across--or drown you all and myself--i don't care which. but no man shall ever say that ned jackson is a coward!" he ran to the boat, leaped into it and beckoned to the northerners. "come on!" he shouted. within a minute george, macgreggor, watson and jenks were in the little craft, and the ferryman had unmoored it from the wharf. "never mind," he cried, waving his hand to the soldiers, who had now reached the wharf. "i don't want you. i'm going to ferry 'em over the river--or go to the bottom! it's all right." already were the voyagers in midstream, almost before they knew it. it looked as if jackson, in his attempt to prove his courage, might only end by sending them all to the bottom. waggie, who was now reposing in a pocket of george's coat, suddenly gave a low growl. george produced from another pocket a bone which he had brought from mrs. page's house, and gave it to the dog. "well," laughed watson, in unconcern, "if wag's to be drowned, he'll be drowned on a full stomach--and that's one consolation." "he's the only critter among you as has got any sense," snarled the ferryman; "for he's the only one who didn't ask to be taken across this infarnal river!" chapter iv plot and plotters in after years george could never quite understand how he and his companions reached the chattanooga shore. he retained a vivid recollection of tempestuous waves, of a boat buffeted here and there, and of ned jackson muttering all manner of unkind things at his passengers and the turbulent stream. they did at last reach their destination, and bade farewell to the ferryman, whom they loaded down with confederate notes. no sooner was the latter embarked on the return voyage than watson said: "that was a clever ruse of yours, george. that jackson was a brave man at heart, and you put him on his mettle. he wanted to show us that he wasn't afraid of the water--and he succeeded." george laughed. he explained that it was a remark of his father's which had put the idea into his own head, and then he wondered where that same father could be. was he dead or was he still living, perhaps in some prison? it was not long before the party reached the railroad station at chattanooga. here they purchased their tickets for marietta, and were soon in the train bound southward for the latter place. the sun had nearly set as the engine pulled slowly out of the depot. the car in which they sat was filled with men on their way down south, some of them being soldiers in uniform and the rest civilians. macgreggor, watson and jenks were at the rear end of the car, while george had to find a seat at the other end, next to a very thin man who wore the uniform of a confederate captain. "isn't it strange?" thought the boy. "to-morrow morning we will be reversing our journey on this railroad, and burning bridges on our way back to chattanooga. but how are we to steal a train? i wonder if andrews and the rest of the party will be on hand to-night at marietta." then, as he realized that he was in a car filled with men who would treat him as a spy, if they knew the nature of his errand to the south, there came over him a great wave of homesickness. he had lived all his life among friends; it was for him a new sensation to feel that he was secretly opposed to his fellow-travelers. the thin captain who sat next to him turned and curiously regarded waggie, who was lying on his master's lap. he had shrewd gray eyes, had this captain, and there was a week's growth of beard upon his weazened face. "where did you get your dog from, lad?" he asked, giving waggie a pat with one of his skeleton-like hands. it was a pat to which the little animal paid no attention. "from home--cincinnati." george had answered on the spur of the moment, thoughtlessly, carelessly, before he had a chance to detect what a blunder he was making. the next second he could have bitten out his tongue in very vexation; he felt that his face was burning a bright red; he had a choking sensation at the throat. the emaciated captain was staring at him in a curiously surprised fashion. "from cincinnati? cincinnati, ohio?" he asked, fixing his lynx-like eyes attentively upon his companion. poor george! every idea seemed to have left him in his sudden confusion; he was only conscious that the confederate officer continued to regard him in the same intent manner. "i say," repeated the latter, "is your home in ohio?" "yes, cincinnati, ohio," said the boy boldly. "after all," as he thought, "i had better put a frank face on this stupidity of mine; a stammering answer will only make this fellow the more suspicious." "so then you're a northerner, are you, my son?" observed the captain. "i thought you spoke with a bit of a yankee accent!" "yes, i'm a northerner," answered george. as he felt himself plunging deeper and deeper into hot water he was trying to devise some plausible story to tell the officer. but how to invent one while he was being subjected to that close scrutiny. one thing, at least, was certain. once he had admitted that his home was in ohio he could not make any use of the oft repeated kentucky yarn. "and what are you doing down here?" asked the captain. he spoke very quietly, but there was an inflection in his voice which seemed to say: "give a good account of yourself--for your presence in this part of the country is curious, if nothing more." george understood that he must think quickly, and decide on some plan of action to cover up, if he could, any bad results from his blunder. he was once more cool, and he returned the piercing look of the officer with steadfast eyes. his mind was clear as to one thing. there was no need of his trying to invent a story, on the spur of the moment, with a man like the captain quite ready to pick it to pieces. for it was plain that this confederate was shrewd--and a trifle suspicious. the boy must pursue a different course. "my being down south is my own concern," he said, pretending to be virtuously offended at the curiosity of his inquisitor. the captain drew himself up with an injured air. "heigh ho!" he muttered; "my young infant wants me to mind my own business, eh?" george flushed; he considered himself very much of a man, and he did not relish being called an "infant." but he kept his temper; he foresaw that everything depended upon his remaining cool. he treated the remark with contemptuous silence. the officer turned away from him, to look out of the window of the car. yet it was evident that he paid little or no attention to the rapidly moving landscape. he was thinking hard. not a word was spoken between the two for ten minutes. most of the other passengers were talking excitedly among themselves. occasionally a remark could be understood above the rattle of the train. george heard enough to know they were discussing the battle of shiloh, which had been fought so recently. "i tell you," cried a soldier, "the battle was a great confederate victory." "that may be," answered some one, "but if we have many more such victories we southerners will have a lost cause on our hands, and abe lincoln will be eating his supper in richmond before many months are gone." at this there was a chorus of angry dissent, and several cries of "traitor!" george listened eagerly. he would dearly have liked to look behind him, to see what his three companions were doing, or hear what they were saying, at the other end of the car. but he was not supposed to know them. he could only surmise (correctly enough, as it happened) that they were acting their part of southerners, although doing as little as possible to attract attention. one thing worried the young adventurer. he distrusted the continued silence of the captain. it was a silence that the officer finally broke, by looking squarely into george's face, and saying, in a low tone: "when a northerner travels down south these times he must give an account of himself. if you won't tell me who you are, my friend, i may find means of making you!" as he spoke the train was slowing up, and in another minute it had stopped at a little station. "now or never," thought george. he arose, stuffed waggie into his pocket, and said to the captain: "if you want to find out about me, write me. this is my station. good-bye!" the next instant he had stepped out of the car, and was on the platform. he and an elderly lady were the only two passengers who alighted. no sooner had they touched the platform than the train moved on its way, leaving the captain in a state of angry surprise, as he wondered whether he should not have made some effort to detain the boy. it was too late to do anything now, and the officer, as he is carried away on the train, is likewise carried out of our story. what were the feelings of watson, and jenks, and macgreggor as they saw george leave the car, and the train rattled away? they were afraid to make any sign; and even if they had thought it prudent to call out to the lad, or seek to detain him, they would not have found time to put their purpose into execution, so quickly had the whole thing happened. not daring to utter a sound, they could only look at one another in blank amazement. "what was the boy up to," thought watson, "and what's to become of him?" he was already devotedly attached to george, so that he felt sick at heart when he pictured him alone and unprotected at a little wayside village in the heart of an enemy's country. nor were the other two men less solicitous. had george suddenly put on wings, and flown up through the roof of the car, they could not have been more horrified than they were at this moment. meanwhile the train went rumbling on, as it got farther and farther away from the little station. it was now almost dark; the brakeman came into the car and lighted two sickly lamps. some of the passengers leaned back in their seats and prepared to doze, while others, in heated, angry tones, kept up the discussion as to the battle of shiloh. the civilian who had hinted that the engagement was not a signal victory for the confederates got up and walked into a forward car, to rid himself of the abuse and arguments of several of his companions. watson was sorely tempted to pull the check rope of the train, jump out, and walk back on the track until he found the missing boy; but when he reflected on the possible consequences of such a proceeding he unwillingly admitted to himself that to attempt it would be the part of madness. he would only bring the notice of every one in the train upon himself; suspicion would be aroused; he and his companions might be arrested; the whole plot for burning the bridges might be upset. "what can have gotten into george's head?" he said to himself a hundred times. jenks and macgreggor were asking themselves the same question. steadily the train went on, while the sky grew darker and darker. in time most of the passengers fell asleep. occasionally a stop would be made at some station. marietta, in georgia, would not be reached until nearly midnight. * * * * * "where had george gone?" the reader will ask. the question is not so hard to answer as it may seem. the moment that the captain had become inquisitive the boy had made up his mind that the sooner he could get away from that gentleman the better it would be for the success of andrews' expedition. he saw that the train stopped at different stations along the road, and he began to map out a scheme for escape. thus, when the cars came to the place already spoken of, he jumped out, as we have described, and stood on the platform with the elderly lady who had alighted almost at the same instant. the latter passed on into the station, and left the platform deserted, except for george. hardly had she disappeared before the conductor pulled the check-rope, and the train began to move. as it slowly passed by him the boy quickly jumped upon the track, caught hold of the coupling of the last car, and hung there, with his knees lifted up almost to his chin. in another second he had grasped the iron railing above him; within a minute he had raised himself and clambered upon the platform. the train was now speeding along at the customary rate. as george sat down on the platform, he gave a sigh of relief. no one had seen him board the car. for all that the inquisitive captain knew he might still be standing in front of the station. and what were watson, jenks and macgreggor thinking about his sudden exit from the scene? george laughed, in spite of himself, as he pictured their amazement. he would give them a pleasant surprise later on, when they reached marietta. in the meantime he would stay just where he was, if he were not disturbed, until they arrived at that town. then it would be late at night, when he could evade the lynx-eyed confederate officer. having settled his plans comfortably in his mind george was about to put his hand in his coat pocket to give a reassuring pat to waggie (who had been sadly shaken up by his master's scramble) when the door of the car opened. a man put out his head, and stared at the boy. "what are you doing here, youngster?" asked the man. george recognized him as the conductor of the train. "only trying to get a breath of fresh air," replied the lad, at the same time producing his railroad ticket and showing it in the dusk. the conductor flashed the lantern he was holding in george's face, and then glanced at the ticket. "well, don't fall off," he observed, evidently satisfied by the scrutiny. "you were in one of the forward cars, weren't you? where's your dog? in your pocket, eh?" he turned around, shut the door, and went back into the car without waiting for an answer. "one danger is over," whispered george to himself. then he began to pat waggie. "you and i are having an exciting time of it, aren't we?" he laughed. "well, there's one consolation; they can't hang you for a spy, anyway, even if they should hang me!" so the night passed on, as george clung to the railing of the platform, while the train rumbled along in the darkness to the southward. the conductor did not appear again; he had evidently forgotten all about the boy. at last, when waggie and his master were both feeling cold, and hungry, and forlorn, there came a welcome cry from the brakeman: "marietta! all out for marietta!" in a short time the passengers for marietta had left the train. watson, jenks and macgreggor were soon in a little hotel near the station, which was to be the rendezvous for andrews and his party. as they entered the office of the hostelry all their enthusiasm for the coming escapade seemed to have vanished. the mysterious disappearance of george had dampened their ardor; they feared to think where he could be, or what might have become of him. the office was brilliantly lighted in spite of the lateness of the hour. in it were lounging eight or nine men. the pulses of the three newcomers beat the quicker as they recognized in them members of the proposed bridge-burning expedition. among them was andrews. "yes," he was saying, in a perfectly natural manner, to the hotel clerk, who stood behind a desk; "we kentuckians must push on early tomorrow morning. the south has need of all the men she can muster." "that's true," answered the clerk; "abe lincoln and jefferson davis have both found out by this time that this war won't be any child's play. it'll last a couple of years yet, or my name's not dan sanderson." macgreggor and jenks walked up to the register on the desk, without showing any sign of recognition, and put down their names respectively as "henry fielding, memphis, tennessee," and "major thomas brown, chattanooga." the latter, it will be remembered, wore a confederate uniform. watson wrote his real name, in a bold, round hand, and added: "fleming county, kentucky." then he turned towards andrews. "well, stranger," he said, "did i hear you say you were from kentucky? i'm a kentuckian myself. what's your county?" he extended his right hand and greeted andrews with the air of a man who would like to cultivate a new acquaintance. andrews rose, of course, to the occasion, by answering: "i'm always glad to meet a man from my own state. i'm from fleming county." "well, i'll be struck!" cried watson. "that's my county, too! what part of it do you live in?" after a little more of this conversation, which was given in loud tones, the two men withdrew to a corner and sat down. "we are all here now except two of our men," said andrews, in a low voice. "half of the fellows have gone to bed, thoroughly tired out. but where's george? isn't he with you?" "it makes me sick to think where he is," whispered watson, "for----" before he could finish his sentence george entered the office, followed by waggie. he had lingered about the marietta station, after leaving the platform of the car, until he was safe from meeting the captain, in case that gentleman should have alighted at this place. then he had cautiously made his way to the hotel. watson rose as quietly as if the appearance of george was just what he had been expecting. "what did you lag behind at the station for, george?" he asked. then, turning to andrews, he said: "here's another kentuckian, sir--a nephew of mine. he wants to join the confederate army, too." george, as he shook hands with andrews quite as if they had never met each other before, could not help admiring the presence of mind of watson. "you young rascal," whispered the latter, "you have given me some miserable minutes." "hush!" commanded andrews, in the same tone of voice. "we must not talk together any more. as soon as you go up-stairs to bed you must come to my room--number , on the second floor, and get your instructions for to-morrow. everything has gone very smoothly so far, and we are all here excepting two of us, although some of us have had a pretty ticklish time in getting through to this town. remember--room number ." andrews moved away. soon all the members of the party assembled at the hotel were in their rooms up-stairs, presumably asleep, with the exception of george and his three companions. they were able, after considerable coaxing, to get admittance into the dining-room. thereby they secured a nocturnal meal of tough ham, better eggs, and some muddy "coffee." the latter was in reality a concoction consisting of about seven-eights of chickory, and the other eighth,--but what the remaining eighth was only the cook could have told. the meal tasted like a delmonico feast to the famished wanderers, nor was it the less acceptable because they saw it nearly consumed before their hungry eyes; for waggie, who had a power of observation that would have done credit to a detective, and a scent of which a hound might well have been proud, made his way into the dining-room in advance of the party, and jumped upon the table while the negro waiter's back was turned. as george entered, the dog was about to pounce upon the large plate of ham. mr. wag cast one sheepish look upon his master, and then retired under the table, where he had his supper later on. after they had finished their meal, the four conspirators were taken up-stairs by a sleepy bell-boy, and shown into a large room containing two double beds. the servant lighted a kerosene lamp that stood on a centre table, and then shuffled down to the office. macgreggor lifted the lamp to take a survey of the room. "take a good look at those beds, fellows," he said, with a grim chuckle; "it may be a long time before you sleep on such comfortable ones again. for if we come to grief in this expedition----" "pshaw!" interrupted jenks impatiently, but in subdued tones. "don't borrow trouble. we are bound to succeed." macgreggor placed the lamp on the centre table, and began to take off his shoes. "i'm just as ready as any of you for this scheme," he answered, "but i can't shut my eyes to the risks we are running. did you notice on your way down that the railroad sidings between chattanooga and marietta were filled with freight cars? that means, to begin with, that we won't have a clear track for our operations to the northward." watson smiled rather grimly. "the more we appreciate the breakers ahead of us," he whispered, "the less likely are we to get stranded on the beach. but we really can't judge anything about the outlook for to-morrow until we get our detailed instructions from andrews." as he spoke there was a very faint tap at the door. the next moment andrews had cautiously entered the room. he was in stocking feet, and wore neither coat nor waistcoat. "i thought it better to hunt you fellows up," he explained, in a voice that they could just hear, "instead of letting you try to find me. i was listening when the boy showed you up to this room." he proceeded to sit upon one of the beds, while his companions gathered silently around him. "listen," he continued, "and get your instructions for to-morrow--for after we separate to-night there will be no time for plotting. "to-morrow we must reverse our journey and take the early morning train to the northward, on this georgia state railroad. in order to avoid suspicion, we must not all buy tickets for the same station. in point of fact we are only to go as far as big shanty station, near the foot of kenesaw mountain, a distance of eight miles. here passengers and railroad employees get off for breakfast, and this is why i have selected the place for the seizure of the train. furthermore, there is no telegraph station there from which our robbery could be reported. when we board the train at marietta we must get in by different doors, but contrive to come together in one car--the passenger car nearest the engine. after all, or nearly all but ourselves have left the cars at big shanty for breakfast, i will give the signal, when the coast is clear, and we will begin the great work of the day--that of stealing the locomotive." here andrews went into a detailed description of what each man in the expedition (he had now twenty-one men, including himself, and not counting george) would do when the fateful moment arrived. george, who sat listening with open mouth, felt as if he were drinking in a romantic tale from the "arabian nights," or, at least, from a modern version of the "nights," where federal soldiers and steam engines would not be out of place. he thrilled with admiration at the nicety with which andrews had made all his arrangements. it was like a general entering into elaborate preparations for a battle. the two soldiers who were to act as engineers, those who were to play brakemen, and the man who was to be fireman, had their work carefully mapped out for them. the other men were to form a guard who would stand near the cars that were to be seized; they were to have their revolvers ready and must shoot down any one who attempted to interfere. "we must get off as quickly as possible," went on the intrepid andrews. "from what i hear to-night it is evident that general mitchell captured huntsville to-day, which is one day sooner than we expected him to do it. we must cut all telegraph wires and then run the train northward to chattanooga, and from there westward until we meet mitchell advancing towards chattanooga on his way from huntsville. i have obtained a copy of the time-table showing the movement of trains on the georgia state railroad, and i find we have only two to meet on our race. these two won't trouble us, for i know just where to look for them. there is also a local freight-train which can be passed if we are careful to run according to the schedule of the captured train until we come up to it. having gotten by this local freight we can put on full steam, and speed on to the oostenaula and chickamauga bridges, burn them, and run on through chattanooga to mitchell. there's a glorious plan for you fellows. what do you think of it?" there was a ring of pride in his lowered voice as he concluded. "admirable!" whispered walter jenks, "it's a sure thing, and the man who invented the scheme has more brains than half the generals in the war!" as george pictured to himself the stolen train flying along the tracks, in the very heart of the enemy's country, he could hardly restrain his enthusiasm. "it's grand!" he murmured. had he dared he would have given a great cheer. the leader smiled as he saw, in the dim lamplight, the radiant face of the boy. "you have lots of grit, my lad," he said, in a kindly fashion, "and god grant you may come out of this business in safety." then, turning to watson, he asked: "how does my plan, as now arranged, impress you, watson?" after a minute's silence, during which the others in the room gazed intently at watson, that soldier said: "i have as great an admiration for james andrews as any one of our party, and i am ready to follow wherever he leads. whatever my faults may be, i'm not a coward. but we should look carefully on each side of a question--and i can't help thinking that owing to circumstances which we have not taken into account our expedition stands a very decided chance of failure." "what are those circumstances?" asked andrews. "in the first place," was the reply, "i find that there is a large encampment of confederate troops at big shanty. escape in a captured train would have been very easy while those soldiers were elsewhere; but, being there, do you suppose that the sentries of the camp will stand idly by when we seize cars and locomotive and attempt to steam away to the northward? in the second place--and this is no less important--the railroad seems to be obstructed by numerous freight trains, probably not on the schedule, and flying along the track towards chattanooga will not be as plain sailing as you believe. one unlooked-for delay might be fatal. we are in the midst of enemies, and should there be one hitch, one change in our program, the result will be failure, and perhaps death, for all of us." there was a painful silence. at last andrews said, very quietly, but with an air of strong conviction: "i think the very objections you urge, my dear watson, are advantages in disguise. i know, as well as you, that there's a big encampment at big shanty, but what of it? no one dreams for one second that there is any plot to capture a train, and no one, therefore, will be on the lookout. the thing will be done so suddenly that there will be no chance for an alarm until we are steaming off from the station--and then we can laugh. if we strike any unscheduled trains, they too will be to our advantage; for they will make such confusion on the road that they will detract attention from the rather suspicious appearance of our own train." "perhaps you are right," answered watson, rather dubiously. andrews arose from the bed, and solemnly shook hands with each of his four companions. then he said, very impressively: "i am confident of the success of our enterprise, and i will either go through with it or leave my bones to bleach in 'dixieland.' but i don't want to persuade any one against his own judgment. if any one of you thinks the scheme too dangerous--if you are convinced beforehand of its failure--you are at perfect liberty to take the train in any direction, and work your way home to the union camp as best you can. nor shall i have one word of reproach, either in my mind or on my lips, for a man whose prudence, or whose want of confidence in his leader, induces him to draw back." andrews was an adroit student of men. no speech could have better served his purpose of inducing his followers to remain with him. it was as if he declared: "you may all desert me, but _i_ will remain true to my flag." "you can count on me to the very last," said watson stoutly. he was always ready to face danger, but he liked to have the privilege of grumbling at times. in his heart, too, was a conviction that his leader was about to play a very desperate game. the chances were all against them. "thank you, watson," answered andrews, gratefully. "i never could doubt your bravery. and are the rest of you willing?" there were hearty murmurs of assent from jenks, george and macgreggor. jenks and the boy were very sanguine; macgreggor was rather skeptical as to future success, but he sternly resolved to banish all doubts from his mind. "well, george," said andrews, as he was about to leave the room, "if you get through this railroad ride in safety you will have something interesting to remember all your life." in another moment he had gone. the time for action had almost arrived. chapter v on the rail at an early hour the next morning, just before daylight, the conspirators were standing on the platform of the marietta station, awaiting the arrival of their train--the train which they hoped soon to call theirs in reality. they were all in civilian dress; even walter jenks had contrived to discard his uniform of a confederate officer, regarding it as too conspicuous, and he was habited in an ill-fitting suit which made him look like an honest, industrious mechanic. andrews was pacing up and down with an anxious, resolute face. he realized that the success of the manoeuvre which they were about to execute rested upon his own shoulders, but he had no idea of flinching. "before night has come," he was thinking confidently, "we shall be within the lines of general mitchell, and soon all america will be ringing with the story of our dash." george, no less sanguine, was standing near watson and macgreggor, and occasionally slipping a lump of sugar into the overcoat pocket which served as a sort of kennel for the tiny waggie. there was nothing about the party to attract undue attention. they pretended, for the most part, to be strangers one to another, and, to aid in the deception, they had bought railroad tickets for different places--for kingston, adairsville, calhoun and other stations to the northward, between marietta and chattanooga. soon the train was sweeping up to the platform. it was a long one, with locomotive, tender, three baggage cars and a number of passenger cars. the adventurers clambered on it through various doors, but at last reached the passenger car nearest to the engine. here they seated themselves quite as if each man had no knowledge of any one else. in another minute the train, which was well filled, went rolling away from marietta and along the bend around the foot of kenesaw mountain. "only eight miles," thought george, "and then----" the conductor of the train, a young man with a very intelligent face, looked searchingly at the boy as he examined his ticket. "too young," george heard him mutter under his breath, as he passed on to the other passengers. a thrill of feverish excitement stirred the lad. "what did he mean by too young?" he asked himself. "can he possibly have gotten wind of our expedition?" but the conductor did not return, and it was not until long afterwards that george was able to understand what was meant by the expression, "too young." the man had been warned by the confederate authorities that a number of young southerners who had been conscripted into the army were trying to escape from service, and might use the cars for that purpose. he was ordered, therefore, to arrest any such runaways that he might find. when he looked at george it is probable that he thought: "this boy is too young to be a conscript," and he evidently gave unconscious voice to what was passing through his mind. fortunately enough, he saw nothing suspicious in any of the northerners. the train ran rather slowly, so that it was bright daylight before it reached big shanty. "big shanty; twenty minutes for breakfast!" shouted the conductor and the brakemen. george's heart beat so fast that he almost feared some one would hear it, and ask him what was the matter. the hoarse cries of the employees as they announced the name of the station made him realize that now, after all these hours of preparation and preliminary danger, the first act of his drama of war had begun. every one of his companions experienced the same feeling, but, like him, none had any desire to draw back. no sooner had the cars come to a standstill than nearly all the passengers, excepting the northerners, quickly left their seats, to repair to the long, low shanty or eating-room from which the station took its unpoetic name. then the train hands, including the engineer and fireman, followed the example of the hungry passengers, and hurried off to breakfast. the engine was deserted. this was even better than the adventurers could have hoped, for they had feared that it might be necessary to overpower the engineer before they could get away on their race. the twenty-one men and the one boy left in the forward passenger car looked anxiously, guardedly, at one another. more than one felt in his clothes to make sure that he had his revolver. andrews left the car for half a minute, dropped to the ground, and glanced rapidly up and down the track. there was no obstruction visible. within a stone's throw of him, however, sentries were posted on the outskirts of the confederate camp. he scanned the station, which was directly across the track from the encampment, and was glad to see, exactly as he had expected, that it had no telegraph office from which a dispatch concerning the coming escapade might be sent. having thus satisfied himself that the coast was clear, and the time propitious, he reentered the car. "all right, boys," he said, very calmly (as calmly, indeed, as if he were merely inviting the men to breakfast), "let us go now!" the men arose, quietly, as if nothing startling were about to happen, left the car, and walked hurriedly to the head of the train. "each man to his post," ordered andrews. "ready!" in less time than it takes to write this account the seizure of the train was accomplished, in plain view of the puzzled sentries. the two men who were to act as engineer and assistant engineer clambered into the empty cab of the locomotive, as did also andrews and jenks. the latter was to be the fireman. one of the men uncoupled the passenger cars, so that the stolen train would consist only of the engine, tender, and the three baggage cars. into one of these baggage cars the majority of the party climbed, shutting the doors at either end after them, while the two men who were to serve as brakemen stationed themselves upon the roof. watson and macgreggor were in this car, while george, with waggie in his pocket, was standing in the tender, his handsome face aglow with excitement, and his eyes sparkling like stars. "all ready! go!" cried andrews. the engineer opened the valve of the locomotive; the wheels began to revolve; in another second the train was moving off towards chattanooga. the next instant big shanty was in an uproar. as he peered over the ledge of the tender, and looked back, george saw the sentries running here and there, as the passengers in the breakfast-room came swarming out on the platform. there were shouts from many voices; he even heard the report of several rifles. but shouts or shots from rifles could not avail now. the engine was dancing along the track on the road to chattanooga; big shanty was soon many yards behind. george took waggie out of his pocket, and held him up in the air by the little fellow's forepaws. "say good-bye to the confeds," he shouted, "for by to-night, wag, you'll be in the union lines!" the dog barked gleefully; and jumped about on the platform of the tender, glad enough to have a little freedom again. then waggie was replaced in his master's pocket. andrews, who was sitting on the right-hand seat of the cab, looked the picture of delight. "how was that for a starter?" he cried. "it's a good joke on watson: he was so sure the sentries would stop us, and the soldiers didn't realize what we were doing until it was too late--for them! hurrah!" it was all that the four men in the cab, and that george in the tender, could possibly do to keep their balance. the road-bed was very rough and full of curves; the country was mountainous, and the track itself was in wretched condition. yet it was a magnificent sight as "the general," which was the name of the engine, careered along through the picturesque country like some faithful horse which tries, with all its superb powers of muscle, to take its master farther and farther away from a dangerous enemy. but suddenly the engine began to slacken its speed, and at last came to a complete standstill. andrews, who had made his way into the tender, with considerable difficulty, in order to speak to george, turned a trifle pale. "what's the matter, brown?" he shouted to the engineer. "the fire's nearly out, and there's no steam," was the rejoinder. at the same moment the men in the baggage car opened the door nearest the tender, and demanded to know what had happened. andrews called back to them that there would only be a short delay. "it's only the fire that's out," he added; "and i'm thankful it is nothing worse. when i saw the train slowing up i was afraid some of the machinery had broken." no one understood better than he how a broken engine would have stranded all his men in the enemy's country, only a short distance away, comparatively, from big shanty and the confederate camp. george worked with a will in assisting the men in the cab to convey wood from the tender into the engine furnace. in three minutes "the general" had resumed its way. "i wonder," thought george, as the train twisted around a curve and then sped across a narrow embankment, "if any attempt will be made to follow us." but the very idea of such pursuit seemed absurd. andrews turned to jenks with a smiling countenance. "the most difficult part of our journey is already over," he said triumphantly. "there's only one unscheduled train to meet, in addition to the two regulars. after i meet it, probably at kingston, twenty-five miles or more farther on, we can put the old 'general' to full speed, and begin our work! we have got the upper hand at last." "don't forget your telegraph wire is to be cut," said jenks, as he jammed his shabby cap over his head, to prevent it from sailing off into space. "wait a couple of minutes," answered the leader. "we'll cut it." he knew that although there was no telegraph station at big shanty, yet the enemy might tap the wire, if it were not cut, and thus send word along the line that a train manned by northern spies was to be watched for and peremptorily stopped. the simplest obstruction on the track would be sufficient to bring this journey to an untimely end. "brown, we'll stop here," commanded the leader, a minute or two later, as the engine was running over a comparatively level section. "the general" was soon motionless, whereupon watson, peering out from the baggage car, called out: "anything wrong?" "only a little wire-cutting to be done," shouted andrews. then coming to george, he said: "look here, my boy, how are you on climbing?" "never had a tree beat me yet," said the lad. "then try your skill at that pole yonder, and see if you can get to the top of it." without waiting to make answer george handed waggie to jenks, jumped from the tender to the ashy road-bed, and started towards the nearest telegraph pole, only a few feet away from the engine. it was a far more difficult task to coax one's way up a smooth pole than up the rough bark of a tree, as george soon learned. twice he managed to clamber half way up the pole, and twice he slid ignominiously to the ground. but he was determined to succeed, and none the less so because the men in the baggage car were looking on as intently as if they were at the circus. upon making the third attempt he conquered, and reached the top of the pole amid the cheering of the spectators. "now hold on there for a minute, george," called andrews. he produced from one of his pockets a ball of very thick twine, or cord, to one end of which he tied a small stick of kindling-wood, brought from the tender. next he leaned out from the cab and threw the stick into the air. it flew over the telegraph wire, and then to the ground, so that the cord, the other end of which he held in his left hand, passed up across the wire, and so down again. to the end which he held andrews tied a good-sized axe. "do you see what i want?" he asked the boy, who was resting himself on the cross-bar supporting the wire. george needed no prompting. the cord was eight or nine feet away from him; to reach it he must move out on the telegraph wire, hand over hand, with his feet dangling in the air. slowly he swung himself from the cross-bar to the wire, and began to finger his way towards the cord. but this was an experience new to the expert tree-climber; ere he had proceeded more than three feet his hands slipped and he fell to the ground. the distance was thirty-five feet or more, and the lookers-on cried out in alarm. the boy would surely break his legs--perhaps his neck! but while master george might not be an adept in handling a wire he had learned a few things about falling from trees. as he came tumbling down he gracefully turned a somersault and landed, quite unhurt, upon his feet. "i'll do it yet," he maintained pluckily, running back to the telegraph pole. "wait, george," shouted andrews. he leaped from the cab, and taking a new piece of the cord, tied it around the lad's waist. "if i had the sense i was born with i might have done that first," he muttered. george began his second ascent of the pole, and this time reached the top without hindrance or mishap. andrews now fastened the axe to the cord, of which george had one end; in a few seconds the axe had been drawn up by the boy. then, with his left hand holding on to the cross-bar, and his legs firmly wound around the pole, he took the axe in his right hand and hit the wire. three times did he thus strike; at the third blow the wire snapped asunder, and the longer of the two pieces fell to the ground. he let the tool fall, and slid down the pole as the men cheered him lustily. andrews now took the axe, cut the dangling wire in another place, and threw the piece thus secured into the tender. "they can't connect that line in a hurry," he said, as he turned to george with the remark: "well, my son, you're earning your salt!" george, blushing like a peony, felt a thrill of pride. "and now, fellows," added andrews, addressing the men in the baggage car, "it will be best to take up a rail, so that if we are pursued, by any chance, the enemy will have some trouble in getting on any further." the occupants of the car, headed by watson, sprang to the ground. andrews handed him a smooth iron bar, about four feet in length. "we have no track-raising instruments," explained the leader, "but i guess this will answer." watson managed to loosen some of the spikes on the track, in the rear of the train, by means of this bar; later several of his companions succeeded in placing a log under the rail and prying it up so that at last the piece of iron had been entirely separated from the track. the perspiration was dripping from watson's brow. "great guns!" he growled, "we are acting as if we had a whole eternity of time before us." "don't worry about that," said andrews, reassuringly, as he leaped into the cab; "we have been running ahead of schedule time. but hurry up; there's lots of work before us!" in the next minute the northerners were once more on their way. after the train had run a distance of five miles, andrews signaled to the engineer, and it was brought slowly to a stop. the chief jumped from the engine, walked along the track to the end car, and gazed intently to the southward. "no sign of pursuit thus far," he said to himself. then, turning back and speaking to the men in the baggage car who had once more opened the door, he cried: "there's time, boys, for another wrestle with the telegraph--only this time we will try a new plan." this time, indeed, a pole was chopped down, and placed (after the wire had been cut) upon the track directly behind the last baggage car. "there," said andrews, "that will have to be lifted off before our friends the enemy can steam by--even if they have an engine good for seventy miles an hour." walter jenks came walking back to the cab. he looked pale and tired. "what's the matter?" asked andrews. "i strained my back a bit in helping the fellows to put that pole on the track," was the answer. "go back into the car and take a rest," urged the leader. "george can take your place as fireman. eh, george?" the boy, coming up at that moment, and hearing the suggestion, smiled almost as broadly as the famous cheshire cat. he longed to know that he was of some real use in the expedition. so jenks retired to the baggage car, carrying with him, for a temporary companion, the struggling waggie, who might be very much in george's way under the new arrangement of duties. off once more rattled "the general," and george, in his capacity of fireman, felt about three inches taller than he had five minutes before. the spirits of andrews seemed to be rising higher and higher. thus far everything had gone so successfully that he began to believe that the happy ending of this piece of daring was already assured. "now, my boys, for a bit of diplomacy," he said, at last, as the occupants of the cab saw that they were approaching a small station flanked by half a dozen houses. "stop 'the general' here, brown, for i think there's a tank at the place." as the train reached the platform and slowly stopped, the station-master, a rustic-looking individual with a white beard three feet long, shambled up to the cab. "ain't this fuller's train?" he drawled, gazing curiously at the four northerners, as he gave a hitch to his shabby trousers. he could not understand the presence of the strangers in the engine, nor the disappearance of the passenger cars. andrews leaned out of the cab window. he knew that fuller was the conductor of the stolen train, whom they had left behind at big shanty. "no," he said, in a tone of authority, "this is not fuller's train. he'll be along later; we have the right of way all along the line. i'm running a special right through to general beauregard at corinth. he is badly in need of powder." "be the powder there?" asked the station-master, pointing to the three baggage cars. the men hiding in one of them had received their instructions; they were as silent as the grave, and their doors were closed. the brakemen sat mute on top of the cars. "yes, there's enough powder in there to blow up the whole state of georgia," returned andrews. "wall, i'd give my shirt and my shoes to beauregard if he wanted 'em," said the man of the long beard. "he's the best general we have in the confederate service;--yes, better even than robert lee." "well, then help beauregard by helping me. i want more water--i see you have a tank here--and more wood." "you can have all you can hold," cried the station-master, enthusiastically. he was only too glad to be of use. thus it happened that ten minutes later "the general" was speeding away from the station with a fresh supply of water and a huge pile of wood in the tender. "that yarn worked admirably, didn't it?" asked andrews. the engineer and his assistant laughed. george shut the heavy door of the furnace, into which he had been throwing wood, and stood up, very red in the face, albeit smiling. "but even if the story was true," he suggested, "you couldn't get through to corinth." "exactly," laughed the leader, "but our goat-bearded friend at the station didn't think of that fact. corinth is away off in the state of mississippi, near its northern border, nearly three hundred miles away from here; besides, if i were a southerner, i couldn't possibly reach there without running afoul of general mitchell and his forces, either around huntsville, or chattanooga. however, i knew more about mitchell's movements than the station man did--and that's where i had the advantage." "we may not have such plain sailing at kingston," said the engineer, as "the general" just grazed an inquisitive cow which showed signs of loitering on the track. "we'll have more people to deal with there," admitted andrews, "and we must be all the more on our guard." both the men spoke wisely. it was just two hours after leaving big shanty, and about thirty miles had been covered, when the alleged powder-train rolled into the station at the town of kingston. "i hope we meet that irregular freight train here," muttered andrews. there were certainly plenty of cars in evidence on the sidings; indeed, the station, which was the junction for a branch line running to rome, georgia, presented a bustling appearance. no sooner was "the general" motionless than a train-dispatcher emerged from a gathering of idlers on the platform and walked up to the locomotive. he held in his hand a telegraphic blank. as he saw andrews, who was leaning out of the cab with an air of impatience that was partly real and partly assumed, the dispatcher drew back in surprise. he recognized "the general," but there were strange men in the cab. "i thought this was fuller's train," he said. "it's fuller's engine." "yes, it is fuller's engine, but he's to follow me with his regular train and another engine. this is a special carrying ammunition for general beauregard, and i must have the right of way clear along the line!" the dispatcher scanned the train. he saw nothing to excite his suspicions. the baggage cars were closed, and might easily be filled with powder and shot; the men in the engine, and the two brakemen on the top of one car had a perfectly natural appearance. "well, you can't move on yet," he announced. "here's a telegram saying a local freight from the north will soon be here, and you must wait till she comes up." andrews bit his lip in sheer vexation. he had reasoned that this irregular freight train would already be at kingston on his arrival, and he hated the idea of a delay. the loiterers on the platform were listening eagerly to the conversation; he felt that he was attracting too much attention. but there was no help for it. he could not go forward on this single-track railroad until the exasperating freight had reached the station. "all right," he answered, endeavoring to look unconcerned, "shunt us off." within three minutes the train had been shifted from the main track to a side track, and a curious crowd had gathered around "the general." it was a critical situation. the idlers began to ply the occupants of the cab with a hundred questions which must be answered in some shape unless suspicion was to be aroused--and suspicion, under such circumstances, would mean the holding back of the train, and the failure of the expedition. "where did you come from?" "how much powder have you got on board?" "why did you take fuller's engine?" "why is beauregard in such a hurry for ammunition?" were among the queries hurled at the defenceless heads of the four conspirators. george, as he gazed out upon the kingstonians, began to feel rather nervous. he realized that one contradictory answer, one slip of the tongue, might spoil everything. and in this case to spoil was a verb meaning imprisonment and ultimate death. a dapper young man, with small, piercing eyes and a head that suggested a large bump of self-conceit, called out: "you chaps can't reach beauregard. you'll run right into the yankee forces." "i've got my orders and i'm going to try it," doggedly answered andrews. "and run your ammunition right into the hands of the yankees?" sneered the dapper young man. "i don't see the sense in that." an angry flush came into andrews' cheeks. "when you have been in the confederate army a little while, young man, as i have," he said, "you'll learn to obey orders and ask no questions. why don't you go serve your country, as other young men are doing, instead of idling around at a safe distance from the bullets?" at this sally a shout of laughter went up from the crowd. it was evident that the dapper young man was not popular. he made no answer, but went away. "will that freight never turn up?" thought andrews. suddenly there came a barking from the baggage car nearest the tender, wherein were confined the majority of the party. george's heart beat the faster as he listened; he knew that the querulous little cries were uttered by waggie. an old man, with snow-white hair and beard, cried out: "is that dog in the car part of your ammunition?" his companions laughed at the witticism. for once andrews was nonplused. george came bravely to the rescue. "it's a dog in a box," he said, "and it's a present to general beauregard." "well, i hopes the purp won't be blown up," remarked the old man. there was another titter, but the story was believed. "things are getting a little too warm here," andrews whispered to george. as the words left his lips he heard the screeching of a locomotive. "it's the freight!" he cried. it was, indeed, the longed-for freight train; puffing laboriously, it came up to the station and was quickly switched off to a siding. "now we can get rid of these inquisitive hayseeds," said andrews. "look," cried george; "i see a red flag!" he pointed to the rear platform of the end freight car, from which was suspended a piece of red bunting. andrews stamped his foot and indulged in some forcible language. he knew that the flag indicated the presence of another train back of the freight. andrews was out of the cab like a flash. "what does this red flag mean?" he demanded of the conductor of the freight train, who was about to cross the tracks to enter the station. "what does _what_ mean?" asked the conductor, in a tone of mild surprise. "why is the road blocked up behind you?" asked the leader. had he been the president of the southern confederacy he could not have spoken more imperiously. "i have a special train with orders to take a load of powder to general beauregard without delay! and here i find my way stopped by miserable freight trains which are not a quarter as important as my three cars of ammunition." "i'm sorry, sir," explained the conductor, "but it ain't my fault. fact is, mitchell, the yankee general, has captured huntsville, and we're moving everything we can out of chattanooga, because it's said he is marching for there. we have had to split this freight up into two sections--and t'other section is a few miles behind. don't worry. it'll be here soon. but, look here, sir! you'll never be able to reach beauregard. general mitchell will get you long before you are near corinth." "pooh!" replied andrews. "mitchell may have taken huntsville, but he can't stay there. beauregard has, no doubt, sent him flying by this time. and, anyway, i'm bound to obey orders from richmond, come what may." "i wish you luck, sir," said the freight conductor, who was impressed by the authoritative bearing of andrews, and believed the spy to be some confederate officer of high rank. the leader returned to the cab. it was still surrounded by the curious idlers. "this is what i call pretty bad railroad management," he grumbled, loud enough to be heard by the kingstonians. "this line should be kept clear when it's necessary to get army supplies quickly from place to place. what are fifty freight trains compared to powder for the troops?" the minutes passed slowly; it seemed as if that second freight train would never come. at last a dull, rumbling sound on the track gave warning of the approach of the second section. in a few moments the heavily-laden cars, drawn by a large engine, had glided by "the general," down the main track. the men in the cab gave unconscious sighs of relief. now they could move onward. but what was it that the sharp eyes of george detected? yes, there could be no mistake. at the end of the second freight train was another red flag. "look!" he whispered. andrews saw the flag, and turned white. "how many more trains are we to wait for?" he said. after regaining his composure he left the engine, to seek the conductor of the new train. he was back again in five minutes. "well?" asked george. "i find from the conductor that there's still another section behind him," explained andrews. "the confederate commander at chattanooga fears the approach of general mitchell and has ordered all the rolling stock of the railroad to be sent south to atlanta. the new train should be here in ten minutes." in the meantime the people around the station had all heard of the danger which threatened chattanooga from the union army. the train-dispatcher came running over to the engine, and doffed his cap to andrews. "it ain't none of my business," he said, with supreme indifference to any rules of grammar, "but they say mitchell is almost at chattanooga--and you'll never get through to corinth." andrews assumed an air of contemptuous superiority. "i happen to know more of general mitchell's movements than you do," he said, "and, what's more, no confederate officer takes orders from a railroad employee." "i didn't mean any offense," answered the train-dispatcher. "then go back and see that the switches are ready for me to move on the instant the next freight gets here," ordered the leader. the young man walked away, with a nod of assent. "he talks proud enough," he thought; "he must be a relation of jefferson davis, from his airs." after the dispatcher had gone, andrews whispered to george: "we ought to let the boys in the car know the cause of our detention--and warn them that in case of anything going wrong in our plans they must be prepared to fight for their lives. could you manage to get word to them without attracting suspicion?" the boy made no verbal answer. but as he left the cab and vaulted to the ground, his looks showed that he understood what was wanted, and proposed to execute the commission. after sauntering among the men who stood near the engine, he crossed the track of the siding, directly in front of "the general's" headlight, and soon leaned, in a careless attitude, against the car in which so many of his companions were waiting. he was now on the opposite side of the track from the kingstonians, but directly alongside the main track, and in full view from the station. george began, in a very low tone, to whistle a few bars from "the blue bells of scotland." it was a tune he had often indulged in during his travels from the union camp. as he finished there came a bark of recognition from waggie, and a slight stir in the car. "are you there, watson?" asked the boy, under his breath. "can you hear me? if you can, scratch on the wall." there was a moment's pause, and the faint sound of footsteps was heard within the car. then came an answering scratch. george went on, in the same tone, as he leaned against the car, and apparently gazed into space: "andrews wants you--to know--that we're waiting--till some freight trains--get in--from chattanooga. but if anything--should happen--before we--can get away--be ready to fight. keep waggie from barking--if you can." another scratching showed that watson had heard and understood. but waggie began to bark again. george was filled with vexation. "why did i let waggie go in the car?" he asked himself. just then a welcome whistle proclaimed that the third freight train was approaching. it was time; the delay at kingston must have occupied nearly an hour--it seemed like a whole day--and the men about the railroad station were becoming skeptical. they could not understand why the mysterious commander of the powder-train should persist in wanting to go on after hearing that mitchell was so near. when george returned to the engine the new freight went by on the main track directly in the wake of the second freight, which had been sent half a mile down the line, to the southward. the main track was now clear for andrews. but the intrepid leader seemed to be facing fresh trouble. he was standing on the step of the cab, addressing the old man who had charge of the switches. "switch me off to the main track at once," thundered andrews. "don't you see, fool, that the last local freight is in, and i have a clear road!" there was a provokingly obstinate twist about the switch-tender's mouth. "switch yourself off," he snarled. "i shan't take the responsibility for doing it. you may be what you say you are, but i haven't anything to prove it. you're a fool, anyway, to run right into the arms of the yankee general." his fellow-townsmen indulged in a murmur of approval. the men in the cab saw that another minute would decide their fate, adversely or otherwise. "i order you to switch me off--in the name of the confederate government!" shouted the leader. more citizens were running over from the station to find out the cause of the disturbance. "i don't know you, and i won't take any orders from you!" said the switch-tender, more doggedly than ever. he walked over to the station, where he hung up the keys of the switch in the room of the ticket-seller. in a twinkling andrews had followed him, and was already in the ticket room. "you'll be sorry for this," he cried; "for i'll report your rascally conduct to general beauregard!" he seized the keys as he spoke, and shook them in the old man's face. the latter looked puzzled. he had begun to think that this business of sending powder to beauregard was a trick of some kind, yet the confident bearing of the leader impressed him at this crisis. perhaps he had made a mistake in refusing to obey the orders; but ere he could decide the knotty problem andrews took the keys, hurried from the station, and unlocked the switch. then he jumped into the cab, as he shouted to the men near the engine: "tell your switch-tender that he will hear from general beauregard for this!" he gave a signal, and the engineer grasped the lever and opened the steam valve. "the general" slowly left the siding and turned into the main track. as the train passed the station, heading towards the north, the switch-tender was standing on the platform, with a dazed expression in his eyes. andrews tossed the keys to him, as he cried: "forgive me for being in such a hurry, but the confederacy can't wait for you!" soon kingston was left behind. "keep 'the general' going at forty miles an hour," said the leader. "we have only the two trains to meet now--a passenger and a freight--which won't give us any trouble. i tell you, we had a narrow escape at kingston. more than once i thought we were all done for." "i was pretty well scared when that rascal of a waggie barked," observed george. the train was now gliding swiftly on past hills and woods and quiet pasture-lands. after the long delay the sensation of rapid motion was delightful. "by jove!" cried andrews, with a tinge of humor. "you must bring that rogue back with you into the engine. when he barks in a place where there's supposed to be nothing but powder the thing doesn't seem quite logical. it throws discredit on an otherwise plausible story. let us stop a couple of miles from here, near adairsville, do some wire-cutting, release waggie, and see how the fellows are getting along in the baggage car." when the stop was made the men in the car quickly opened the door and came tumbling to the ground. they were glad to stretch their legs and get a breath of fresh air. waggie bounded and frisked with delight when he espied george. "i've had a time with that dog," said jenks. "i had a flask of water with me, and he insisted on my pouring every bit of it out on the palm of my hand, and letting him lap it." the other occupants of the car were crowding around andrews, as they discussed with him the fortunate escape from kingston. watson, who seemed to be fired with a sudden enthusiasm, addressed the party. "boys," he said, "when i heard that switch-tender refuse to put us on the main track i thought our hour had come. but the coolness and the presence of mind of our friend andrews have saved the day. let us give him three cheers! hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" the cheers were given with a will. "thank you, comrades," said andrews, modestly. "but don't waste any time on me; i only did what any other man would have done in my place. let's get to work again--time's precious." at a hint from him george clambered up a telegraph pole, taking with him a piece of cord by which he afterwards drew up an axe. then he cut the wire, while others in the party were removing three rails from the track in the rear of the train. the rails were afterwards deposited in the baggage car occupied by the men, as were also some wooden cross-ties which were found near the road-bed. "all this may be a waste of time," said andrews. "we shall probably be in chattanooga before any one has a chance to chase us." "yet i have a presentiment that we shall be chased," cried macgreggor. "i believe there will be a hot pursuit." his hearers, including andrews, laughed, almost scornfully. "just wait and see," returned macgreggor. "a southerner is as brave, and has as much brains as a northerner." we shall see who was right in the matter. chapter vi an unpleasant surprise on sped the fugitive train once more, and in a few minutes it had stopped, with much bumping and rattle of brakes at the station called adairsville. hardly had the wheels of the faithful old "general" ceased revolving before a whistle was heard from the northward. andrews peered through the cab up the track. "it's the regular freight," he said, and calling to the station hands who were gaping at "fuller's train," as they supposed it must be, he told them the customary story about the powder designed for general beauregard. they believed the leader, who spoke with his old air of authority, and they quickly shunted his "special" on to the side track. no sooner had this been accomplished than the freight made its appearance. as the engine of the latter passed slowly by "the general" andrews shouted to the men in the cab: "where's the passenger train that is on the schedule?" "it ought to be right behind us," came the answer. "that's good," whispered andrews. "once let us pass that passenger, and we'll have a clear road to the very end of the line." in the meantime the freight was moved past the station and switched on to the siding, directly behind the "special," there to wait the arrival of the passenger train. george began to grow restless, as the minutes passed and no train appeared. at last, with the permission of andrews, he jumped from the cab, and walked over to the platform, waggie following close at his heels. he looked anxiously up the track, but he could see nothing, hear nothing. two young men, one of them a civilian and the other evidently a soldier who was home on furlough (to judge by his gray uniform and right arm in a sling), were promenading up and down, and smoking clay pipes. "i don't understand it," the soldier was saying. "they talk about sending powder through to general beauregard, but it's an utter impossibility to do it." "you're right," said his friend. "the thing looks fishy. if these fellows are really what they----" "hush," whispered the soldier. he pointed to george as he spoke. "well, you're beginning railroading pretty young," he added aloud, scrutinizing the boy as if he would like to read his inmost thoughts. "it's never too young to begin," answered the boy, carelessly. "what is this powder train of yours, anyway?" asked the soldier, in a wheedling voice which was meant to be plausible and friendly. george had heard enough of the conversation between the two young southerners to know that they were more than curious about the supposed powder train. and now, he thought, they would try to entrap him into some damaging admission. he must be on his guard. he put on as stupid a look as he could assume (which was no easy task in the case of a boy with such intelligent features), as he replied stolidly: "dunno. i've nothing to do with it. i'm only fireman on the engine." "but you know where you're going?" demanded the soldier, with a gesture of impatience. "dunno." "who is the tall chap with the beard who has charge of the train?" "dunno." "how much powder have you got on board?" "dunno." "i don't suppose you even know your own name, you little idiot!" cried the soldier. "the boy hasn't got good sense," he said, turning to his friend. "you were never more mistaken in your life," answered his friend. "he's only playing a game. i know something about faces--and this boy here has lots of sense." george called waggie, put the animal in his pocket, and walked to the door of the little station without taking any notice of this compliment to his sagacity. under the circumstances he should have preferred the deepest insult. he felt that a long detention at adairsville would be dangerous, perhaps fatal. opening the door, the boy entered the station. it comprised a cheerless waiting-room, with a stove, bench and water-cooler for furniture, and a little ticket office at one end. the ticket office was occupied by the station-agent, who was near the keyboard of the telegraph wire; otherwise the interior of the building was empty. "heard anything from the passenger yet?" asked george, as he walked unconcernedly into the ticket office. "just wait a second," said the man, his right hand playing on the board; "i'm telegraphing up the line to calhoun to find out where she is. the wires aren't working to the south, somehow, but they're all right to the north." click, click, went the instrument. george returned leisurely to the doorway of the waiting-room. he was just in time to hear the young soldier say to his friend: "if these fellows try to get away from here, just let 'em go. i'll send a telegram up the road giving warning that they are coming, and should be stopped as a suspicious party. if they don't find themselves in hot water by the time they get to dalton i'm a bigger fool than i think i am." george stood stock still. here was danger indeed! he knew that to send a telegram up the road would be but the work of a minute; it could go over the wires to the north before the "special" had pulled away from adairsville. at this moment the station-agent came out of his office. "the passenger is behind time," he said, and he ran quickly across the tracks to speak to andrews, who was looking anxiously out from the cab of "the general." "it's now or never," thought george. he turned back into the deserted waiting-room, entered the ticket-office, and pulled from the belt under his inner coat a large revolver--the weapon which he carried in case self-defense became necessary. taking the barrel of the revolver, he tried to pry up the telegraphic keyboard from the table to which it was attached. but he found this impossible to accomplish; he could secure no leverage on the instrument. he was not to be thwarted, however; so changing his tactics, he took the barrel in his hand and began to rain heavy blows upon the keys, with the butt end. in less time than it takes to describe the episode, the instrument had been rendered totally useless. "there," he said to himself, with the air of a conqueror, "it will take time to repair that damage, or to send a telegram." he was about to leave the office when he discovered a portable battery under the table. it was an instrument that could be attached to a wire, in case of emergency. george hastily picked it up, and hurried into the waiting-room. it would never do to leave this battery behind in the office; but how could he take it away without being caught in the act? his eyes wandered here and there, until they rested upon the stove. there was no fire in it. an inspiration came to him. he opened the iron door, which was large, and threw the battery into the stove. then he closed the door, and sauntered carelessly out to the platform. the soldier and his friend were now standing at some distance from the station, on a sidewalk in front of a grocery store. they were engaged in earnest conversation. over on the side-track, where "the general" stood, the station-agent was talking to andrews. george joined his leader, and sprang into the cab. "from what i hear," said andrews, "the passenger train is so much behind time that if i make fast time i can get to calhoun before it arrives there, and wait on a siding for it to pass us." "then why don't you move on," urged george, who happened to know how desirable it was to get away, but dared not drop any hint to his leader in the presence of the station-agent. "you're taking a risk," said the station-agent. "you may strike the train before you reach calhoun." he was evidently not suspicious, but he feared an accident. "if i meet the train before we reach calhoun," cried andrews, striking his fist against the window-ledge of the cab, "why then she must back till she gets a side-track, and then we will pass her." he turned and looked at his engineer and the assistant. "are you ready to go, boys?" he asked. they quickly nodded assent; they longed to be off again. "then go ahead!" ordered andrews. "a government special must not be detained by any other train on the road!" "the general" was away once more. george began to explain to andrews what he had heard at the station, and how he had disabled the telegraph. "you're a brick!" cried the leader, patting the boy approvingly on the shoulder; "and you have saved us from another scrape. but 'tis better to provide against any repairing of the telegraph--and the sooner we cut a wire and obstruct the track, the better for us." thus it happened that before the train had gone more than three miles "the general" was stopped, more wires were cut, and several cross-ties were thrown on the track in the rear. then the train dashed on, this time at a terrific speed. andrews hoped to reach calhoun, seven miles away, before the passenger should arrive there. it was all that george could do to keep his balance, particularly when he was called upon to feed the engine fire with wood from the tender. once waggie, who showed a sudden disposition to see what was going on around him, and tried to crawl out from his master's pocket, came very near being hurled out of the engine. curves and up grades seemed all alike to "the general"; the noble steed never slackened its pace for an instant. the engineer was keeping his eyes on a point way up the line, so that he might slow up if he saw any sign of the passenger; the assistant sounded the whistle so incessantly that george thought his head would split from the noise. once, at a road crossing, they whirled by a farm wagon containing four men. the boy had a vision of four mouths opened very wide. in a second wagon and occupants were left far behind. in a space of time which seemed incredibly short calhoun was reached. down went the brakes and "the general" slid into the station to find directly in front, on the same track, the long-expected passenger train. "there she is!" cried andrews; "and not before it's time!" it was only by the most strenuous efforts that the engineer could keep "the general" from colliding with the locomotive of the opposing train. when he brought his obedient iron-horse to a standstill there was only the distance of a foot between the cowcatchers of the two engines. the engineer of the passenger train leaned from his cab and began to indulge in impolite language. "what d'ye mean," he shouted, "by trying to run me down?" and he added some expressions which would not have passed muster in cultivated society. "clear the road! clear the road!" roared andrews. "this powder train must go through to general beauregard at once! we can't stay here a minute!" these words acted like a charm. the passenger train was backed to a siding, and "the general" and its burden were soon running out of calhoun. "no more trains!" said andrews. his voice was husky; the perspiration was streaming from his face. "now for a little bridge burning. there's a bridge a short distance up the road, across the oostenaula river, where we can begin the real business of the day. but before we get to it let us stop 'the general' and see what condition he is in." "he has behaved like a gentleman, so far," said the engineer. "he must be in sympathy with us northerners." "slow up!" ordered andrews. "the old fellow is beginning to wheeze a little bit; i can tell that he needs oiling." obedient to the command, the engineer brought "the general" to a halt. as the men came running from the baggage car, andrews ordered them to take up another rail. "it's good exercise, boys," he laughed, "even if it may not be actually necessary." then he helped his engineers to inspect "the general." the engine was still in excellent condition, although the wood and water were running a little low. it received a quick oiling, while george climbed up a telegraph pole and severed a wire in the manner heretofore described. eight of the party were pulling at a rail, one end of which was loose and the other still fastened to the cross-ties by spikes. suddenly, away to the southward, came the whistle of an engine. had a thunderbolt descended upon the men, the effect could not have been more startling. the workers at the rail tore it away from the track, in their wild excitement, and, losing their balance, fell headlong down the side of the embankment on which they had been standing. they were up again the next instant, unhurt, but eager to know the meaning of the whistle. was there an engine in pursuit? andrews looked down the track. "see!" he cried. there _was_ something to gaze at. less than a mile away a large locomotive, which was reversed so that the tender came first, was running rapidly up the line, each instant approaching nearer and nearer to the fugitives. in the tender stood men who seemed to be armed with muskets. "they are after us," said andrews. "there's no doubt about it." he was very calm now; he spoke as if he were discussing the most commonplace matter in the world. his companions crowded around him. "let us stand and fight them!" cried watson. "yes," urged jenks, who had forgotten all about his sore back; "we can make a stand here!" andrews shook his head. "better go on, boys," he answered. "we have taken out this rail, and that will delay them. in the meantime we can go on to the oostenaula bridge and burn it." there was no time for discussion. the men yielded their usual assent to the orders of their chief. they quickly scrambled back into the train, to their respective posts, and andrews gave the signal for departure. "push the engine for all it's worth!" he commanded; "we must make the bridge before the enemy are on us." the engineer set "the general" going at a rattling pace. "how on earth could we be pursued, after the way we cut the wires along the line," muttered the leader. "can the enemy have telegraphed from big shanty to kingston by some circuitous route? i don't understand." "are you making full speed?" he asked the engineer, a second later. "the old horse is doing his best," answered the man, "but the wood is getting precious low." "george, pour some engine oil into the furnace." the boy seized the oil can, and obeyed the order. the speed of "the general" increased; the engine seemed to spring forward like a horse to which the spur has been applied. "that's better," said andrews. "now if we can only burn that bridge before the enemy are up to us, there is still a chance for success--and life!" his voice sank almost to a whisper as he uttered the last word. with a strange, indescribable sensation, george suddenly realized how near they all were to disaster, even to death. he thought of his father, and then he thought of waggie, and wondered what was to become of the little dog. the boy was cool; he had no sense of fear; it seemed as if he were figuring in some curious dream. suddenly andrews left the engine, lurched into the tender, and began to climb out of it, and thence to the platform of the first baggage car. george looked back at him in dread; surely the leader would be hurled from the flying train and killed. but he reached the car in safety and opened the door. he shouted out an order which george could not hear, so great was the rattle of the train; then he made his way, with the ease of a sure-footed chamois, back to "the general." he had ordered the men in the car to split up part of its sides for kindling-wood. by the use of the cross-ties, which they had picked up along the road, they battered down some of the planking of the walls, and quickly reduced it to smaller pieces. it was a thrilling sight. the men worked as they had never worked before. it was at the imminent risk of falling out, however, and as the train swung along over the track it seemed a miracle that none of them went flying through the open sides of the now devastated car. on rushed "the general." as it turned a curve george, who was now in the tender, glanced back to his right and saw--the pursuing engine less than a mile behind. "they are after us again!" he shouted. "they have gotten past the broken rail somehow," he said. "they must have track repairing instruments on board." andrews set his lips firmly together like a man who determines to fight to the last. george made his way back to the cab. "will we have time to burn the bridge?" he asked. "we must wait and see," answered the leader, as he once more left the engine and finally reached the despoiled baggage car. he said something to jenks; then he returned to the cab. "what are you going to do?" anxiously asked the boy. he could hear the shrill whistle of the pursuing locomotive. "com-ing! com-ing!" it seemed to say to his overwrought imagination. andrews made no answer to george; instead he shouted a command to the engineer: "reverse your engine, and move backwards at full speed!" the engineer, without asking any questions, did as he was told. jenks ran through to the second car and contrived, after some delay caused by the roughness of the motion, to uncouple it from the third. this last car was now entirely loose from the train, and would have been left behind had it not been that the engine had already begun to go back. faster and faster moved "the general" to the rear. "go forward again," finally ordered andrews. the engine slowly came to a standstill, and then plunged forward once more. now george could see the meaning of this manoeuvre. the third car, being uncoupled, went running back towards the enemy's tender. andrews hoped to effect a collision. but the engineer of the pursuing locomotive was evidently ready for such an emergency. he reversed his engine, and was soon running backwards. when the baggage car struck the tender no harm was done; the shock must have been very slight. in another minute the enemy's engine was puffing onward again in the wake of the fugitives, while the car was being pushed along in front of the tender. "that didn't work very well," said andrews, placidly. "let's try them again." once more "the general" was reversed. this time the second car was uncoupled and sent flying back. "the general" was now hauling only the tender and the one baggage car in which the majority of the members of the party were confined. the second attempt, however, met with no better result than the first: the enemy pursued the same tactics as before; reversing the locomotive, and avoiding a serious collision. it now started anew on the pursuit, pushing the two unattached cars ahead of it, apparently little hampered as to speed by the incumbrance. and now, unfortunately enough, the bridge was in plain view, only a few hundred yards ahead. as the enemy turned a new curve george caught a view of the tender. a dozen men, armed with rifles, were standing up in it; he could see the gleam of the rifle barrels. "more oil," ordered andrews. the boy seized the can, and poured some more of the greasy liquid into the fiery furnace. he knew that the wood was almost exhausted, and that it would soon be impossible to hold the present rate of progress. oh, if there only would be time to burn the bridge, and thus check the pursuers! but he saw that he was hoping for the impracticable. "shall we stop on the bridge?" asked the engineer, in a hoarse voice. "it's too late," answered andrews. "keep her flying." over the bridge went the engine, with the pursuers only a short distance behind. "let us have some of that kindling-wood for the furnace," shouted andrews to the men in the baggage car. the men began to pitch wood from the door of the car into the tender, and george transferred some of it to the furnace. "that's better," cried the engineer. "we need wood more than we need a kingdom!" "throw out some of those cross-ties," thundered the leader. the men dropped a tie here and there on the track, so that a temporary obstruction might be presented to the pursuing locomotive. "that's some help," said andrews, as he craned his neck out of the cab window and looked back along the line. "those ties will make them stop a while, any way." in fact the enemy had already stopped upon encountering the first log; two men from the tender were moving it from the track. "we've a good fighting chance yet," cried andrews, whose enthusiasm had suddenly returned. "if we can burn another bridge, and block these fellows, the day is ours!" "the water in the boiler is almost gone!" announced the engineer. george's heart sank. what meant all the wood in the world without a good supply of water? but andrews was equal to the emergency. "can you hold out for another mile or so?" he asked. "just about that, and no more," came the answer. "all right. we are about to run by tilton station. a little beyond that, if i remember rightly, is a water tank." andrews, in his capacity as a spy within the southern lines, knew georgia well, and had frequently traveled over this particular railroad. it was his acquaintance with the line, indeed, that had enabled him to get through thus far without failure. past tilton ran "the general," as it nearly swept two frightened rustics from the platform. then the engine began to slow up, until it finally rested at the water tank. "i was right," said andrews. he leaped from the cab, and gazed down the line. "the enemy is not in sight now," he cried. "those ties are giving them trouble. put some more on the track, boys. george, try some more wire-cutting. brown, get your boiler filled." in an incredibly short space of time the telegraph wire had been cut, the engine was provided with water, and some more ties had been placed upon the track in the rear. what a curious scene the party presented; how tired, and dirty, yet how courageous they all looked. "shall we take up a rail?" demanded macgreggor. scarcely had the words left his lips before the whistle of the enemy was again heard. "no time," shouted the leader. "let's be off!" off went the train--the grimy, panting engine, the tender, and the one baggage car, which was now literally torn to pieces in the frantic endeavor to provide kindling-wood. "we want more wood," george shouted back to the men after they had proceeded a couple of miles. some wood was thrown into the tender from the baggage car, with the gloomy news: "this is all we have left!" "no more wood after this," explained george. "all right," answered andrews, very cheerfully. "tell them to throw out a few more ties on the track--as long as they're too big to burn in our furnace." the order was shouted back to the car. it was instantly obeyed. there was now another obstruction for the enemy; but george wondered how andrews, full of resources though he might be, would find more wood for the engine. but andrews was equal even to this. "stop!" cried the leader, after they had passed up the line about a mile from where the ties had been last thrown out. "the general" was soon motionless, breathing and quivering like some blooded horse which had been suddenly reined in during a race. "here's more work for you, boys," cried andrews. he was already on the ground, pointing to the wooden fences which encompassed the fields on both sides of the track. the men needed no further prompting. in less than three minutes a large number of rails were reposing in the tender. george regarded them with an expression of professional pride, as befitted the fireman of the train. "no trouble about wood or water now," he said, as "the general" tore onward again. "no," replied the leader. "we will beat those southerners yet!" he positively refused to think of failure at this late stage of the game. yet it was a game that did not seem to promise certain success. thus the race continued, with "the general" sometimes rocking and reeling like a drunken man. on they rushed, past small stations, swinging around curves with the men in the car sitting on the floor and clinging to one another for fear they would be knocked out by the roughness of the motion. as george thought of this terrible journey in after years he wondered why it was that engine, car and passengers were not hurled headlong from the track. "we are coming to dalton," suddenly announced andrews. dalton was a good-sized town twenty-two miles above calhoun, and formed a junction with the line running to cleveland, tennessee. "we must be careful here," said andrews, "for we don't know who may be waiting to receive us. if a telegram was sent via the coast up to richmond, and then down to dalton, our real character may be known. brown, be ready to reverse your engine if i give the signal--then we'll back out of the town, abandon the train, and take to the open fields." george wondered if, by doing this, they would not fall into the hands of their pursuers. but there was no chance for argument. the speed of "the general" was now slackened, so that the engine approached the station at a rate of not more than fifteen miles an hour. andrews saw nothing unusual on the platform; no soldiers; no preparations for arrest. "go ahead," he said, "and stop at the platform. the coast's clear so far." it was necessary that a stop should be made at dalton for the reason that there were switches at this point, owing to the junction of the cleveland line, and it would be impossible to run by the station without risking a bad accident. it was necessary, furthermore, that this stop should be as brief as possible, for the dilapidated looks of the broken baggage car and the general appearance of the party were such as to invite suspicion upon too close a scrutiny. then, worse still, the enemy might arrive at any moment. andrews was again equal to the occasion. as the forlorn train drew up at the station he assumed the air and bearing of a major-general, told some plausible story about being on his way with dispatches for beauregard, and ordered that the switches should be immediately changed so that he could continue on to chattanooga. once again did his confident manner hoodwink the railroad officials. the switch was changed, and "the general" was quickly steaming out of dalton. the citizens on the platform looked after the party as if they could not quite understand what the whole thing meant. "shall we cut a wire?" asked george. "what is the good?" returned andrews. "the enemy's engine will reach dalton in a minute or two--perhaps they are there now--and they can telegraph on to chattanooga by way of the wires on the cleveland line. it's a roundabout way, but it will answer their purpose just as well." "then we dare not keep on to chattanooga?" asked george, in a tone of keen regret. he had fondly pictured a triumphant run through chattanooga, and an ultimate meeting with the forces of mitchell somewhere to the westward, accompanied by the applause of the troops and many kind words from the general. "not now," answered the leader. "we may yet burn a bridge or two, and then take to the woods. it would be folly to enter chattanooga only to be caught." at last andrews saw that he must change his plans. he had hoped, by burning a bridge, to head off the pursuing engine before now; his failure to do this, and the complication caused by the telegraph line to cleveland, told him that he must come to a halt before reaching chattanooga. to run into that city would be to jump deliberately into the lion's mouth. "let us see if there's time to break a rail," suddenly said the leader. the train was stopped, within sight of a small camp of confederate troops, and the men started to loosen one of the rails. but hardly had they begun their work when there came the hated whistling from the pursuing engine. the adventurers abandoned their attempt, leaped to their places in cab and car, and "the general" again sped onward. there were no cross-ties remaining; this form of obstruction could no longer be used. it was now raining hard; all the fates seemed to be combining against the plucky little band of northerners. andrews began at last to see that the situation was growing desperate. "there's still one chance," he muttered. he knew that he would soon pass a bridge, and he went on to elaborate in his mind an ingenious plan by which the structure might be burned without making delay necessary, or risking a meeting with the pursuers. he scrambled his way carefully back to the baggage car. "boys," he said, "i want you to set fire to this car, and then all of you crawl into the tender." there was a bustle in the car at once, although no one asked a question. the men made a valiant effort to ignite what was left of the splintered walls and roof of the car. but it was hard work. the rain, combined with the wind produced by the rapid motion of the train, made it impossible to set anything on fire even by a very plentiful use of matches. "we'll have to get something better than matches," growled watson. he had just been saved from pitching out upon the roadside by the quick efforts of one of his companions, who had seized him around the waist in the nick of time. andrews went to the forward platform of the car. "can't you get us a piece of burning wood over here," he called to george. the lad took a fence rail from the tender, placed it in the furnace, until one end was blazing, and then contrived to hand it to the leader from the rear of the tender. andrews seized it, and applied the firebrand to several places in the car. but it was no easy task to make a conflagration; it seemed as if the rail would merely smoulder. "stop the engine," he ordered. "the general" was brought to a halt, and then, when the artificial wind had ceased, the rail flared up. soon the torn walls and roof of the car burst into flames. "into the tender, boys," cried andrews. the men needed no second bidding. the fire was already burning fiercely enough, despite the rain, to make their surroundings anything but comfortable. they scrambled into the tender. the engineer put his hand to the lever, pulled the throttle, and the party were again on the wing although at a slow and constantly lessening rate of speed. at last they scarcely moved. "the general" was now passing over the bridge--a covered structure of wood. andrews uncoupled the blazing car, and climbed back into the tender. the engine again sped on, leaving the burning car in the middle of the bridge. the scheme of the leader was apparent; he hoped that the flames would be communicated to the roof of the bridge, and so to the entire wood-work, including the railroad ties and lower beams. "at last!" thought andrews. he would have the satisfaction of destroying one bridge at least--and he would put an impassable barrier between the enemy and himself. his joy was, however, only too short lived. the confederates boldly ran towards the bridge. "they won't dare to tackle that car," said george, as "the general" kept moving onward. yet the pursuing engine, instead of putting on brakes, glided through the bridge, pushing the burning car in front of it. when it reached the other side of the stream the car was switched off on a siding, and the enemy prepared to sweep onwards. the bridge was saved; andrews' plan had failed. the northerners gave groans of disappointment as they fled along in front. finally it was resolved to make a last stop, and to attempt to pull up a rail. the enemy was now some distance behind, having been delayed by the time necessarily consumed in switching off the car, so that there seemed a reasonable chance of executing this piece of strategy. when the men had again alighted on firm ground several of them felt actually seasick from the jolting of the engine and tender. it was now that one of the party made a novel proposition to andrews. the plan seemed to have a good deal to recommend it, considering how desperate was the present situation. "let us run the engine on," he said, "until we are out of sight of the enemy, and are near some of the bushes which dot the track. then we can tear up a rail, or obstruct the track in some way, and quickly hide ourselves in the bushes. the engineer will stay in 'the general,' and, as soon as the enemy comes in sight, can continue up the road, just as if we were all on board. when the confederates reach the broken rail, and prepare to fix it, we can all rush out at them and fire our revolvers. they will be taken by surprise--we will have the advantage." "that sounds logical enough," observed andrews; "it's worth trying, if----" again the enemy's whistle sounded ominously near. there was no chance to argue about anything now. the men leaped to their places, and "the general" was quickly gotten under way. watson looked at jenks, next to whom he was huddled in the tender. "how long is this sort of thing to be kept up?" he asked. "i'd far rather get out and fight the fellows than run along this way!" jenks brushed the rain from his grimy face but made no answer. "this all comes from that fatal delay at kingston," announced macgreggor. "we would be just an hour ahead if it hadn't been for those wretched freight trains." the enemy's engine gave an exultant whistle. "vic-to-ry! vic-to-ry!" it seemed to shriek. chapter vii energetic pursuit who were pursuing the northern adventurers, and how did they learn the story of the stolen engine? to answer these questions let us go back to big shanty at the moment when the train having the conspirators on board reached that station from marietta. the conductor, william fuller, the engineer, jefferson cain,--and anthony murphy, a railroad official from atlanta, were among those who went into the "shanty" to enjoy breakfast. they were naturally unsuspicious of any plot; the deserted engine seemed absolutely secure as it stood within very sight of an encampment of the confederate army. suddenly murphy heard something that sounded like escaping steam. "why, some one is at your engine," he cried to fuller, as he jumped from his seat. quick as a flash fuller ran to the door of the dining-room. "some one's stealing our train!" he shouted. "come on, cain!" the passengers rushed from their half-tasted meal to the platform. the conductor began to run up the track, followed by his two companions, as the train moved rapidly away. "jerusha!" laughed one of the passengers, a gouty-looking old gentleman; "do those fellows expect to beat an engine that way?" the crowd joined in the fun of the thing, and wondered what the whole scene could mean. perhaps it was but the prank of mischievous boys who were intent on taking an exciting ride. "what's up, anyway?" asked murphy, as the three went skimming along on the railroad ties, and the train drew farther and farther away from them. "i'll bet some conscripts have deserted from camp," cried fuller. "they'll run up the line a mile or two, then leave the engine and escape into the woods." he did not imagine, as yet, that his train was in the hands of northern soldiers. on, on, went the trio until they reached the point where george had cut the wire. "look here," said cain; "they've cut the wire! and look at the broken rail!" one glance was sufficient to show that the engine thieves, whoever they might be, knew their business pretty well. there was something more in this affair than a mere escape of conscripts. "look up the road," said murphy. he pointed to some workmen who had a hand-car near the track, not far above him. hurrying on, the trio soon reached these men, explained to them what had happened, and impressed them into the service of pursuit. in two or three minutes the whole party were flying up the line on the hand-car. "kingston is nearly thirty miles away," explained fuller, as they bowled along. "i don't know who the fellows are, but they'll be blocked by freight when they get there, and we may manage to reach them somehow." even if the unknown enemy got beyond kingston, he thought he might yet reach them if he could only find an engine. the whole escapade was a puzzle, but the three men were determined to bring back "the general." thus they swept anxiously but smoothly on until--presto! the whole party suddenly leaped into the air, and then descended into a ditch, with the hand-car falling after them. they had reached the place where the telegraph pole obstructed the track. they had turned a sharp curve, and were on it, before they realized the danger. "no one hurt, boys?" asked murphy. no one was hurt, strange to say. "up with the car," cried fuller. the hand-car was lifted to the track, beyond the telegraph pole, and the journey was resumed. "shall we find an engine here?" thought fuller, as the car approached etowah station. "there are iron furnaces near here," said murphy, "and i know that an engine named 'the yonah' has been built to drag material from the station to the furnaces. it's one of the finest locomotives in the south." "i hope that hasn't been stolen too," said cain. now they were at the station. they knew that it would be impossible to make the necessary speed with a hand-car. if they were to reach the runaways they _must_ obtain an engine, and quickly at that. "by all that's lucky," shouted murphy; "there's 'the yonah'!" there, right alongside the platform, was the welcome engine. it was about to start on a trip to the iron furnaces. the steam was up; the fire was burning brightly. etowah was ablaze with excitement as soon as the pursuers explained what had happened. "i must have 'the yonah,'" cried fuller, "and i want some armed men to go along with me!" no question now about seizing the engine; no question as to the armed men. with hardly any delay fuller was steaming to the northward with "the yonah," and the tender was crowded with plucky southerners carrying loaded rifles. the speed of the engine was at the rate of a mile a minute, and how it did fly, to be sure. yet it seemed as if kingston would never be reached. when, at last, they did glide up to the station, fuller learned that the alleged confederate train bearing powder to general beauregard had left but a few minutes before. great was the amazement when he announced that the story of the leader was all a blind, invented to cover up one of the boldest escapades of the war. [illustration: fuller was steaming to the northward with "the yonah"] but now fuller was obliged to leave the faithful "yonah." the blockade of trains at kingston was such that it would have required some time before the engine could get through any farther on the main track. he seized another engine, which could quickly be given the right of way, and rushed forward. two cars were attached to the tender; in it were more armed men, hastily recruited at kingston. they were ready for desperate work. "'the yonah' was a better engine than this one," said murphy, regretfully, before they had run more than two or three miles. he spoke the truth; the new engine had not the speed of "the yonah." the difference was quite apparent. "we must do the best we can with her," said fuller. "put a little engine oil into the furnace. we'll give her a gentle stimulant." his order was promptly obeyed, but the locomotive could not be made to go faster than at the rate of forty miles an hour. murphy and cain were both at the lever, keeping their eyes fixed as far up the line as possible, so that they might stop the train in good time should they see any obstruction on the track. thus they jogged along for some miles until the two men made a simultaneous exclamation, and reversed the engine. in front of them, not more than a hundred yards away, was a large gap in the track. it marked the place where the northerners had taken up the rails south of adairsville. "jupiter! that was a close shave!" cried murphy. for the train had been halted within less than five feet of the break. out jumped the whole party, fuller, cain and murphy from the cab, and the armed men from the cars. the delay, it was supposed, would be only temporary; there were track-laying instruments in the car; the rails could soon be reset. but when it was seen that each of the rails had disappeared (for our adventurers had carried them off with them) there was a murmur of disgust and disappointment. "why not tear up some rails in the rear of the train, and lay them in the break," suggested one of the southerners. "that will take too long," cried fuller, and to this statement murphy readily assented. as it was, the stolen "general" was far enough ahead of them; too far ahead, indeed. if the pursuers waited here for such a complicated piece of work as this tearing up and re-laying of the track, they might lose the race altogether. the conductor and murphy started once more to run up the road-bed (just as they had footed it earlier in the morning at big shanty), and left the rest of the party to mend the track. were they merely running on in an aimless way? not by any means. they had not gone very far before the freight train which andrews had encountered at adairsville came groaning down the track. the two men made violent gesticulations as signals to the engineer, and the train was slowly stopped. "did you meet 'the general'?" cried fuller. the freight engineer told the story of the impressed powder-train that was hurrying on to beauregard, and of the fine-looking, imperious confederate who was in command. "well, that confederate is a _yankee_," came the explanation. the freight engineer made use of some expressions which were rather uncomplimentary to andrews. to think that the supposed confederate, who had acted as if he owned the whole state of georgia, was an enemy--a spy! why, the thought was provoking enough to ruffle the most placid temper. and the engineer's natural temper was by no means placid. "i must have your engine to catch these fellows!" said fuller. naturally there was no dissent to this command. he quickly backed the train to adairsville, where the freight cars were dropped. then fuller, with engine and tender still reversed (for there was no turn-table available), hurried northward on the way to calhoun station. "this engine is a great sight better than the last one i had," said the conductor, in a tone of exultation, to bracken, his new engineer. "ah, 'the texas' is the finest engine in the whole state," answered bracken, with the air of a proud father speaking of a child. they were tearing along at a terrific speed when bracken suddenly reversed "the texas" and brought her to a halt with a shock that would have thrown less experienced men out of the cab. on the track in front of them were some of the cross-ties which the fugitives had thrown out of their car. fortunately fuller had just taken his position on the tender in front and gave the signal the instant he saw the ties. as "the texas" stood there, all quivering and panting, the conductor jumped to the ground and threw the ties from the track; then he mounted the tender again, and the engine kept on to the northward with its smoke-stack and headlight pointed in the opposite direction. the same program was repeated later on, where more ties were encountered. when "the texas" dashed into calhoun it had run a distance of ten miles, including the time spent in removing cross-ties, in exactly twelve minutes. "i'm after the yankees who're in my stolen engine," cried fuller to the idlers on the platform. "i want armed volunteers!" he wasted no words; the story was complete as he thus told it; the effect was magical. men with rifles were soon clambering into the tender. as "the texas" glided away from the platform fuller stretched out his sturdy right arm to a boy standing thereon and pulled him, with a vigorous jerk, into the cab. the next minute the engine was gone. the lad was a young telegraph operator whom the conductor had recognized. there was no employment for him as yet, because the wires were cut along the line, but there might be need for him later. fuller was now aglow with hope. he was brave, energetic and full of expedients, as we have seen, and he was warming up more and more as the possibility of overtaking "the general" became the greater. from what he had learned at calhoun he knew that the northerners were only a short distance ahead. his promptness seemed about to be crowned with a glorious reward. he might even make prisoners of the reckless train-robbers. and there, not more than a mile in front of him, was "the general"! he saw the engine and the three baggage cars, and his heart bounded at the welcome sight. then he espied the men working on the track, and saw them, later, as they rapidly boarded their train. the southerners in the tender of "the texas" cheered, and held firmly to their rifles. at any second now might their weapons be needed in a fight at close quarters. of the chase from this point to dalton we already know. before fuller reached that station he knew that it would be possible to send a telegram to chattanooga, by way of cleveland, even if the northerners should cut the wires on the main line. "here," he said to the young telegraph operator, "i want you to send a telegram to general leadbetter, commanding general at chattanooga, as soon as we get to dalton. put it through both ways if you can, but by the cleveland line at any rate." the conductor took a paper from his wallet and wrote a few words of warning to general leadbetter, telling him not to let "the general" and its crew get past chattanooga. "my train was captured this morning at big shanty, evidently by federal soldiers in disguise," he penciled. on the arrival at dalton this telegram was sent, exactly as the shrewd andrews had prophesied. then "the texas" fled away from dalton and the chase continued, as we have seen in the previous chapter, until a point of the railroad about thirteen miles from chattanooga was reached. in the cab of "the general" andrews was standing with his head bowed down; his stock of hopefulness had suddenly vanished. at last he saw that the expedition, of which he had cherished such high expectations, was a complete failure. a few miles in front was chattanooga, where capture awaited them, while a mile in the rear were well-armed men. "there's only one thing left to do," he said mournfully to george, who was regarding his chief with anxious interest. "we must abandon the engine, scatter, and get back to general mitchell's lines as best we can, each in his own way!" then the leader put his hand on the engineer's shoulder. "stop the engine," he said; "the game is up; the dance is over!" the engineer knew only too well what andrews meant. he obeyed the order, and the tired "general," which had faithfully carried the party for about a hundred miles, panted and palpitated like a dying horse. the great locomotive was, indeed, in a pitiable condition. the brass of the journals and boxes was melted by the heat; the steel tires were actually red-hot, and the steam issued from all the loosened joints. andrews turned to the men who were huddled together in the tender. "every man for himself, boys," he cried. "you must scatter and do the best you can to steal into the federal lines. i've led you as well as i could--but the fates were against us. god bless you, boys, and may we all meet again!" as he spoke the leader--now a leader no longer--threw some papers into the furnace of the locomotive. in a twinkling they were reduced to ashes. they were federal documents. one of them was a letter from general mitchell which, had it been found upon andrews by the confederates, would in itself have proved evidence enough to convict him as a spy. the men in the tender jumped to the ground. so, likewise, did george, the engineer and his assistant. andrews remained standing in the cab. he looked like some sea captain who was waiting to sink beneath the waves in his deserted ship. he worked at the lever and touched the valve, and then leaped from his post to the roadbed. the next moment "the general" was moving backwards towards the oncoming "texas." "we'll give them a little taste of collision!" he cried. his companions turned their eyes towards the departing "general." if the engine would only run with sufficient force into the enemy, the latter might--well, it was hard to predict what might not happen. much depended on the next minute. there was a whistle from "the texas." "the general" kept on to the rear, but at a slow pace. no longer did the staunch machine respond to the throttle. the fire in the furnace was burning low; there was little or no steam; the iron horse was spent and lame. the adventurers looked on, first expectantly, then gloomily. they saw that "the general" was incapacitated; they saw, too, that the enemy reversed their own engine, and ran backwards until the poor "general" came to a complete standstill. pursuit was thus delayed, but by no means checked. "that's no good," sighed andrews. "come, comrades, while there is still time, and off with us in different parties. push to the westward, and we may come up to mitchell's forces on the other side of chattanooga." soon the men were running to the shelter of a neighboring wood. george seemed glued to the sight of the departing "general." he felt as if an old friend was leaving him, and so he was one of the last to move. as he, too, finally ran off, waggie, who had been released from his master's pocket, bounded by his side as if the whole proceeding were an enjoyable picnic. when george reached the wood many of the men were already invisible. he found watson leaning against a tree, pale and breathless. "what's the matter?" asked the boy anxiously. "nothing," said watson. "this rough journey over this crooked railroad has shaken me up a bit. i'll be all right in a minute. just wait and we'll go along together. i wouldn't like to see any harm happen to you, youngster, while i have an arm to protect you. "come on," he continued, when he had regained his breath; "we can't stay here. i wonder why mitchell didn't push on and capture chattanooga. then we would not have had to desert the old engine." the fact was that general mitchell, after capturing huntsville on april the th, had moved into the country to the northeastward until he came within thirty miles of chattanooga. at this point he waited, hoping to hear that andrews and his companions had destroyed the railroad communications from chattanooga. no such news reached him, however; he feared that the party had failed, and he was unable to advance farther, under the circumstances, without receiving reinforcements. but of all this watson was ignorant. the man and boy stole out of the wet woods, and thence a short distance to the westward until they reached the bottom of a steep hill which was surmounted by some straggling oaks. they started to walk briskly up the incline, followed by waggie. suddenly they heard a sound that instinctively sent a chill running up and down george's spine. "what's that?" he asked. "some animal?" watson gave a grim, unpleasant laugh. "it's a hound," he answered. "come on; we don't want that sort of gentleman after us. he'd be a rougher animal to handle than waggie." george redoubled his pace. but his steps began to lag; his brain was in a whirl; he began to feel as if he was acting a part in some horrible dream. nothing about him seemed real; it was as if his sensations were those of another person. "anything wrong?" asked watson, as he saw that the lad was falling behind him. "nothing; i'm coming," was the plucky answer. but fatigue and hunger, and exposure to the rain, had done their work. george tottered, clutched at the air, and then sank on the hillside, inert and unconscious. in a moment waggie was licking his face, with a pathetic expression of inquiry in his little brown eyes, and watson was bending over him. again came the bay from the hound and the distant cry from a human voice. chapter viii two weary wanderers "poor boy," muttered watson. "he is done out." he saw that george's collapse was due to a fainting spell, which in itself was nothing dangerous. but when he heard the distant baying of the dog, and heard, too, the voices of men--no doubt some of the armed southerners from the pursuing train--he saw the peril that encompassed both himself and the boy. here they were almost on top of a hill, near the enemy, and with no means of escape should they be unfortunate enough to be seen by the southerners or tracked by the hound. if george could be gotten at once to the other side of the hill he would be screened from view--otherwise he and watson would soon----but the soldier did not stop to think what might happen. he jumped quickly to his feet, seized the unconscious george, and ran with him, as one might have run with some helpless infant, to the top of the hill, and then down on the other side. waggie came barking after them; he seemed to ask why it was that his master had gone to sleep in this sudden fashion. watson paused for a few seconds at the bottom of the hill, and placed his burden on the wet grass. there was as yet no sign of returning life. once more came that uncanny bay. the man again took george in his arms. "we can't stay here," he said. he himself was ready to drop from the fatigue and excitement of the day, but hope of escape gave him strength, and he ran on through an open field until he reached some bottom-land covered by a few unhealthy-looking pine-trees. here he paused, panting almost as hard as the poor vanished "general" had done in the last stages of its journey. he next deposited his charge on the sodden earth. they were both still in imminent danger of pursuit, but for the time being they were screened from view. watson bent tenderly over the boy, whilst waggie pulled at his sleeve as he had been accustomed to do far away at home when he wanted to wake up his master. george finally opened his eyes and looked around him, first dreamily, then with a startled air. "it's all right, my lad," whispered watson cheerily. "you only fainted away, just for variety, but now you are chipper enough again." george stretched his arms, raised himself to a sitting posture, and then sank back wearily on the ground. "i'm so tired," he said. "can't i go to sleep?" he was utterly weary; he cared not if a whole army of men and dogs was after him; his one idea was rest--rest. "this won't do," said watson firmly. "we can't stay here." he produced from his pocket a little flask, poured some of the contents down the boy's throat, and then took a liberal drink himself. george began to revive, as he asked how he had been brought to his present resting-place. "in my arms," exclaimed watson. "but i can't keep that sort of thing up forever. we must get away from here. every moment is precious." as if to emphasize the truth of this warning, the baying of the dog and the cries of men began to sound nearer. watson sprang to his feet. the increase of the danger gave him new nerve; he no longer looked the tired, haggard man of five minutes ago. "we can't stay here," he said, calmly but impressively; "it would be certain capture!" george was up in an instant. the draught from the flask had invested him with new vigor. "where shall we go?" he asked. "i'm all right again." "to the river," answered watson. he pointed eagerly to the right of the pines, where they could see, in the darkening light of the afternoon, a swollen stream rushing madly past. it might originally have been a small river, but now, owing to the spring rains and freshets, it looked turbulent and dangerous. it was difficult to cross, yet for that very reason it would make a barrier between pursued and pursuers. should the former try the experiment? "can you swim?" asked watson. "yes." "then we'll risk it. after all, the water's safer for us than the land." out through the pines they ran until they were at the water's edge. the sight was not encouraging. the river foamed like an angry ocean, and a strong current was sweeping down to the northward. the soldier looked at the boy in kindly anxiety. "the water is a little treacherous, george," he said. "do you think you're strong enough to venture across?" "of course i am!" answered george, proudly. he felt more like himself now; he even betrayed a mild indignation at the doubts of his friend. "well," began watson, "we had--but listen! by jove, those rascals have discovered us! they're making this way!" it was true; the barking of the dog and the sound of many voices came nearer and nearer. waggie began to growl fiercely, quite as if he were large enough to try a bout with a whole confederate regiment. "take off your shoes, george," cried watson. "your coat and vest, too." both the fugitives divested themselves of boots, coats and vests; their hats they had already lost in their flight from "the general." in their trousers pockets they stuffed their watches and some confederate money. a sudden thought crossed george's mind. it was a painful thought. "what's to become of waggie?" he asked. "i can't leave him here." he would as soon have left a dear relative stranded on the bank of the river. "i'm afraid you'll have to leave him," said watson. "i can't," replied george. there was a second's pause--but it seemed like the suspense of an hour. then the lad had a lucky inspiration. he leaned down and drew from a side pocket of his discarded coat a roll of strong cord which had been used when he climbed the telegraph poles. pulling a knife from a pocket in his trousers he cut a piece of the cord about two yards in length, tied one end around his waist and attached the other end to waggie's collar. the next instant he had plunged into the icy water, dragging the dog in after him. watson followed, and struck out into the torrent with the vigor of an athlete. george found at once that his work meant something more than keeping himself afloat. the current was rapid, and it required all his power to keep from being carried down the river like a helpless log. waggie was sputtering and pawing the water in his master's wake. "keep going," shouted watson. "this current's no joke!" even he was having no child's play. just then george had his mouth full of water; he could only go on battling manfully. but he began to feel a great weakness. was he about to faint again? he dared not think of it. there was a loosening of the cord around his waist. he looked to his left and there was waggie floating down the stream like a tiny piece of wood. his head had slipped from his collar. watson tried to grab the dog as he floated by, but it was too late. he might as well have tried to change the tide. "go on, george, go on!" he urged, breathlessly. the boy struggled onward, but he had already overtaxed his strength. he became dizzy; his arms and legs refused to work. "what's the matter?" sputtered his companion, who was now alongside of him. "go on; don't mind me," said george, in a choking voice. "put your hand on my belt," sternly commanded watson. the young swimmer obeyed, scarcely knowing what he did. watson kept on like a giant fish, sometimes in danger of being swept away, and sometimes drawing a few feet nearer to the opposite bank. * * * * * the next thing that george knew was when he found himself lying on the river's edge. watson was peering at him anxiously. "that's right; open your eyes," he said. "we had a narrow escape, but we're over the river at last. i just got you over in time, for when we neared shore you let go of me, and i had to pull you in by the hair of your head." "how can i ever thank you," said george, feebly but gratefully. "by not trying," answered watson. "come, there's not a second to lose. don't you hear our enemies?" there was no doubt as to the answer to that question. across the river sounded the baying and the harsh human voices. almost before george realized what had happened watson had pulled him a dozen yards away to a spot behind a large boulder. "keep on your back!" he ordered. "the men are on the other bank." none too soon had he executed this manoeuvre. he and george could hear, above the noise of the rushing stream, the tones of their pursuers. they had just reached the river, and must be searching for the two northerners. more than once the hound gave a loud whine, as if he were baffled or disappointed. "they can't be here," came a voice from across the river. "we had better go back; they may be down the railroad track." "perhaps they swam across the stream," urged some one else. "that would be certain death!" answered the first voice. there was a whining from the dog, as if he had discovered a scent. then a simultaneous cry from several sturdy lungs. "look at these coats and boots!" "they did try to cross, after all." "well, they never got over in this current!" "they must have been carried down the chickamauga and been drowned!" such were the exclamations which were wafted to the ears of the two fugitives behind the rock. [illustration: none too soon had he executed this manoeuvre] "the chickamauga," said watson, under his breath. "so that's the name of the river, eh?" there was evidently some heated discussion going on among the unseen pursuers. at length one of them cried: "well, comrades, as there's not one of us who wants to swim over the river in its present state, and as the fools may even be drowned by this time, i move we go home. the whole countryside will be on the lookout for the rest of the engine thieves by to-morrow--and they won't escape us before then." "nonsense," interrupted a voice, "don't you know night's just the time which they will take for escape?" "are you ready, then, to swim across the chickamauga?" "no." "then go home, and don't talk nonsense! to-morrow, when the river is less angry, we will be up by dawn--and then for a good hunt!" apparently the advice of the last speaker was considered wise, for the men left the river bank. at last their voices could be no longer heard in the distance. the shades of twilight began to fall, and the rain ceased. then watson and his companion crawled cautiously from behind the boulder. they were two as dilapidated creatures as ever drew breath under a southern sky. with soaking shirts and trousers, and without coats, vests, or shoes, they looked the picture of destitution. and their feelings! they were hungry, dispirited, exhausted. all the pleasure seemed to have gone out of life. "we can't stay in this charming spot all night," said watson, sarcastically. "i suppose a rock is as good as anything else we can find," answered the boy gloomily. "poor waggie! why did i try to drag him across the river?" "poor little midget," said watson. "i'll never forget the appealing look in his eyes as he went sailing past me." "do you hear that?" cried george. "hear what? some one after us again?" "no; it's a dog barking!" "why, it sounds like waggie, but it can't be he. he's gone to another world." "no, he hasn't," answered george. he forgot his weakness, and started to run down the bank, in the direction whence the sound proceeded. watson remained behind; he could not believe that it was the dog. in the course of several minutes george came running back. he was holding in his hands a little animal that resembled a drowned rat. it was waggie--very wet, very bedraggled, but still alive. "well, if that isn't a miracle!" cried watson. he stroked the dripping back of the rescued dog, whereupon waggie looked up at him with a grateful gleam in his eyes. "i found him just below here, lying on a bit of rock out in the water a few feet away from the bank," enthusiastically explained george. "he must have been hurled there, by the current." watson laughed. "well, waggie," he said, "we make three wet looking tramps, don't we? and i guess you are just as hungry as the rest." waggie wagged his tail with great violence. "think of a warm, comfortable bed," observed the boy, with a sort of grim humor; "and a nice supper beforehand of meat--and eggs----" "and hot coffee--and biscuits--and a pipe of tobacco for me, after the supper," went on watson. he turned from the river and peered into the rapidly increasing gloom. about a mile inland, almost directly in front of him, there shone a cheerful light. george, who also saw the gleam, rubbed his hands across his empty stomach, in a comical fashion. "there must be supper there," he said, pointing to the house. "but we don't dare eat it," replied his friend. "the people within fifty miles of here will be on the lookout for any of andrews' party--and the mere appearance of us will be enough to arouse suspicion--and yet----" watson hesitated; he was in a quandary. he was not a bit frightened, but he felt that the chances of escape for george and himself were at the ratio of one to a thousand. he knew actually nothing of the geography of the surrounding country, and he felt that as soon as morning arrived the neighborhood would be searched far and wide. had he been alone he might have tried to walk throughout the night until he had placed fifteen or twenty miles between himself and his pursuers. but when he thought of george's condition he realized that it would be a physical impossibility to drag the tired lad very far. finally watson started away towards the distant light. "stay here till i get back," he said to george; "i'm going to explore." in less than an hour he had returned to the river's bank. "we're in luck," he said joyously. "i stole across to where that light is, and found it came from a little stone house. i crept into the garden on my hands and knees--there was no dog there, thank heaven--and managed to get a glimpse into the parlor through a half-closed blind. there sat a sweet-faced, white-haired old gentleman, evidently a minister of the gospel, reading a chapter from the scriptures to an elderly lady and two girls--his wife and children i suppose. he can't have heard anything about our business yet--for i heard him ask one of the girls, after he stopped reading, what all the blowing of locomotive whistles meant this afternoon--and she didn't know. so we can drop in on them to-night, ask for supper and a bed, and be off at daybreak to-morrow before the old fellow has gotten wind of anything." soon they were off, watson, george and waggie, and covered the fields leading to the house in unusually quick time for such tired wanderers. when they reached the gate of the little garden in front of the place george asked: "what story are we to tell?" "the usual yarn, i suppose," answered watson. "fleming county, kentucky--anxious to join the confederate forces--_et cetera_. bah! i loathe all this subterfuge and deceit. i wish i were back fighting the enemy in the open day!" they walked boldly up to the door of the house and knocked. the old gentleman whom watson had seen soon stood before them. the lamp which he held above him shone upon a face full of benignity and peacefulness. his features were handsome; his eyes twinkled genially, as if he loved all his fellow-men. watson told his kentucky story, and asked food and lodgings for george and himself until the early morning. "come in," said the old man, simply but cordially, "any friend of the south is a friend of mine." the minister (for he proved to be a country preacher who rode from church to church "on circuit"), ushered the two northerners and the dog into his cozy sitting-room and introduced them to his wife and two daughters. the wife seemed as kindly as her husband; the daughters were pretty girls just growing into womanhood. "here, children," said the old man, "get these poor fellows some supper. they're on a journey to atlanta, all the way from kentucky, to enlist. and i'll see if i can't rake you up a couple of coats and some old shoes." he disappeared up-stairs, and soon returned with two half-worn coats and two pairs of old shoes, which he insisted upon presenting to the fugitives. "they belong to my son, who has gone to the war," he said, "but he'd be glad to have such patriots as you use them. how did you both get so bare of clothes?" "we had to swim across a stream, and leave some of our things behind," explained watson. he spoke but the simple truth. he was glad that he did, for he hated to deceive a man who stood gazing upon him with such gentle, unsuspecting eyes. it was not long before watson and george had gone into the kitchen, where they found a table laden with a profusion of plain but welcome food. waggie, who had been given some milk, was lying fast asleep by the hearth. george looked about him, when he had finished his supper, and asked himself why he could not have a week of such quiet, peaceful life as this? yet he knew that he was, figuratively, on the brink of a precipice. at any moment he might be shown in his true light. but how much better he felt since he had eaten. he was comfortable and drowsy. the minister and his family, who had been bustling around attending to the wants of their guests, began to grow dim in his weary eyes. watson, who was sitting opposite to him, looked blurred, indistinct. he was vaguely conscious that the old gentleman was saying: "these are times that try our souls." then the boy sank back in his chair, sound asleep. he began to dream. he was on the cowcatcher of an engine. andrews was tearing along in front on a horse, beckoning to him to come on. the engine sped on faster and faster, but it could not catch up to the horseman. at last andrews and the horse faded away altogether; and the boy was swimming across the chickamauga river. he heard a great shout from the opposite bank--and awoke. watson had risen from the table; the pipe of tobacco which the minister had given him as a sort of dessert was lying broken on the hearth. there was a despairing look on his face. it was the look that one might expect to see in a hunted animal at bay. near him stood the old man, who seemed to be the incarnation of mournful perplexity, his wife, who was no less disturbed, and the two daughters. one of the latter, a girl with dark hair and snapping black eyes, was regarding watson with an expression of anger. on the table was an opened letter. "i am in your power," watson was saying to the minister. what had been happening during the half hour which george had devoted to a nap? "poor, dear boy, he's dropped off to sleep," murmured the minister's wife, when she saw george sink back in his chair. she went into the sitting-room and returned with a cushion which she proceeded to place under his head. "he is much too young to go to the war," she said, turning towards watson. "there was no keeping him from going south," answered his companion. "he would go." which was quite true. the minister handed a pipe filled with virginia tobacco to watson, and lighted one for himself. "it's my only vice," he laughed pleasantly. "i can well believe you," rejoined the northerner, as he gratefully glanced at the spiritual countenance of his host. "why should this old gentleman and i be enemies?" he thought. "i wish the war was over, and that north and south were once more firm friends." he proceeded to light his pipe. they began to talk agreeably, and the minister told several quaint stories of plantation life, while they smoked on, and the women cleared off the food from the table. at last there came a knocking at the front door. the host left the kitchen, went into the hallway, and opened the door. he had a brief parley with some one; then the door closed, and he reentered the room. watson thought he could distinguish the sound of a horse's hoofs as an unseen person rode away. "who's coming to see you this kind of night?" asked the wife. it was a natural question. it had once more begun to rain; there were flashes of lightning and occasional rumbles of thunder. "a note of some kind from farmer jason," explained the clergyman. "i hope his daughter is not sick again." "perhaps the horse has the colic," suggested one of the girls, who had gentle blue eyes like her father's, "and he wants some of your 'equine pills.'" "who brought the letter?" enquired the wife. "jason's hired man--he said he hadn't time to wait--had to be off with another letter to farmer lovejoy--said this letter would explain everything." "then why don't you open it, pa, instead of standing there looking at the outside; you act as if you were afraid of it," spoke up the dark-eyed girl, who was evidently a damsel of some spirit. "here, you may read it yourself, cynthia," said her father, quite meekly, as if he had committed some grave offense. he handed the envelope to the dark-eyed girl. she tore it open, and glanced over the single sheet of paper inside. then she gave a sharp cry of surprise, and darted a quick, penetrating glance at watson. he felt uneasy, although he could not explain why he did. "what's the matter?" asked the minister. "anything wrong at the jasons'?" "anything wrong at the jasons'," miss cynthia repeated, contemptuously. "no; there's something wrong, but it isn't over at jasons'. listen to this!" she held out the paper at arm's length, as if she feared it, and read these lines: "pastor buckley, "dear sir: "this is to notify you as how i just have had news that a party of yankee spies is at large, right in our neighborhood. they stole a train to-day at big shanty, but they were obleeged to jump off only a few miles from here. so you must keep on the lookout--they are around--leastwise a boy and grown man have been seen, although most of the others seem to have gotten away. one of my sons--esau--caught sight of this man and boy on the edge of the river late this afternoon. he says the boy had a dog. "yours, "charles jason." after miss cynthia finished the reading of this letter there was a silence in the room almost tragic in its intensity. watson sprang to his feet, as he threw his pipe on the hearth. waggie woke up with a whine. the reverend mr. buckley looked at watson, and then at the sleeping boy in a dazed way--not angrily, but simply like one who is grievously disappointed. so, too, did mrs. buckley and her blue-eyed daughter. finally miss cynthia broke the silence. "so you are northern spies, are you?" she hissed. "and you come here telling us a story about your being so fond of the south that you must travel all the way from kentucky to fight for her." she threw the letter on the supper-table, while her eyes flashed. watson saw that the time of concealment had passed. his identity was apparent; he was in the very centre of the enemy's country; his life hung in the balance. he could not even defend himself save by his hands, for the pistol which he carried in his hip-pocket had been rendered temporarily useless by his passage across the river. even if he had possessed a whole brace of pistols, he would not have harmed one hair of this kindly minister's head. "i _am_ a northerner," said watson, "and i _am_ one of the men who stole a train at big shanty this morning. we got within a few miles of chattanooga, and then had to abandon our engine, because we were trapped. we tried to burn bridges, but we failed. we did no more than any southerners would have done in the north under the same circumstances." it was at this point that george awoke. he saw at once that something was wrong but he prudently held his tongue, and listened. "you are a spy," reiterated miss cynthia, "and you know what the punishment for that must be--north or south!" "of course i know the punishment," said watson, with deliberation. "a scaffold--and a piece of rope." the minister shuddered. "they wouldn't hang the boy, would they?" asked his wife anxiously. mr. buckley was about to answer, when miss cynthia suddenly cried, "listen!" her sharp ears had detected some noise outside the house. she left the room, ran to the front door, and was back again in a minute. "some of the neighbors are out with dogs and lanterns, looking, i'm sure, for the spies," she announced excitedly, "and they are coming up the lane!" the first impulse of watson was to seize george, and run from the house. but he realized, the next instant, how useless this would be; he could even picture the boy being shot down by an overwhelming force of pursuers. "they are coming this way," said mr. buckley, almost mournfully, as the sound of voices could now be plainly heard from the cozy kitchen. "we are in your hands," said watson, calmly. he turned to the minister. "you are fighting against my country, which i love more dearly than life itself," answered mr. buckley. "i can have no sympathy for you!" his face was very white; there was a troubled look in his kindly eyes. "but they will be hung, father!" cried the blue-eyed daughter. "i'm ashamed of you, rachel," said miss cynthia. mrs. buckley said nothing. she seemed to be struggling with a hundred conflicting emotions. waggie ran to her, as if he considered her a friend, and put his forepaws on her dress. "are you going to give us up?" asked watson. "i am a loyal southerner," returned the minister, very slowly, "and i know what my duty is. why should i shield you?" watson turned to george. "it was bound to come," he said. "it might as well be to-night as to-morrow, or the next day." the pursuers were almost at the door. "all right," said george, pluckily. "father," said miss cynthia, "the men are at the door! shall i let them in?" mrs. buckley turned away her head, for there were tears in her eyes. chapter ix in greatest peril "wait!" commanded the minister. there was a new look, one of decision, upon his face. "heaven forgive me," he said, "if i am not doing right--but i cannot send a man to the gallows!" he took a step towards the door leading to the entry. "not a word, cynthia," he ordered. he opened a large closet, filled with groceries and preserving jars, quickly pushed george and watson into it, and closed the door. "now, rachel," he said, "let the men in." the girl departed. within the space of a minute nearly a dozen neighbors, all of them carrying muskets, trooped into the kitchen. they were sturdy planters, and they looked wet and out of humor. "well, dominie," exclaimed one of them, walking up to the fire and warming his hands, "you can thank your stars you're not out a mean night like this. have you heard about the big engine steal?" "friend jason has written me about it," replied mr. buckley. "why, it was the most daring thing i ever heard tell on," cried another of the party. "a lot of yankees actually seized fuller's train when he was eating his breakfast at big shanty, and ran it almost to chattanooga. they had pluck, that's certain!" "we're not here to praise their pluck," interrupted another man. "we are here to find out if any of 'em have been seen around your place. we've been scouring the country for two hours, but there's no trace of any of 'em so far--not even of the man with the boy and the dog, as jason's son said he saw." "why didn't jason's son tackle the fellows?" asked a voice. "pooh," said the man at the fireplace; "jason's son ain't no 'count. all he's fit for is to dance with the girls. it's well our army doesn't depend on such milksops as him. he would run away from a mosquito--and cry about it afterwards!" "you haven't seen any one suspicious about here, have you, parson?" asked a farmer. the minister hesitated. he had never told a deliberate falsehood in his life. was he to begin now? "seen no suspicious characters?" echoed the man at the fireplace. "no boy with a dog?" the tongue of the good clergyman seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth. he could see the eagle glance of miss cynthia fixed upon him. just then waggie, who had been sniffing at the closet door, returned to the fireplace. "why, since when have you started to keep dogs, parson?" asked the last speaker. the minister had an inspiration. "that dog walked in here this evening," he said. "i believe him to be the dog of the boy you speak of." he spoke truth, but he had evaded answering the leading question. "great george!" cried the man at the fireplace. "then some of the spies are in the neighborhood yet!" there were shouts of assent from his companions. "when did the dog stray in?" was asked. "more than an hour ago," said mr. buckley. "come, let's try another hunt!" called out a young planter. the men were out of the house the next minute, separating into groups of two and three to scour the countryside. the lights of their lanterns, which had shone out in the rain like will-o'-the-wisps, grew dimmer and dimmer, and finally disappeared. as the front door closed the minister sat down near the table, and buried his face in his hands. "i wonder if i did wrong," he said, almost to himself. "but i could not take a life--and that is what it would have been if i had given them up." "pa, you're too soft-hearted for this world," snapped miss cynthia. mrs. buckley looked at her daughter reprovingly. "your father is a minister of the gospel," she said solemnly, "and he has shown that he can do good even to his enemies." mr. buckley arose, and listened to the sound of the retreating neighbors. then he opened the door of the closet. watson and george jumped out joyfully, half smothered though they were, and began to overwhelm the old man with thanks for their deliverance. he drew himself up, however, and refused their proffered hand shakes. there was a stern look on his usually gentle face. "i may have saved your necks," he said, "because i would sacrifice no human life voluntarily, but i do not forget that you are enemies who have entered the south to do us all the harm you can." "come," said watson, "it's a mere difference of opinion. i don't care what happens, george and i will never be anything else than your best friends!" "that is true," cried george; "you can't call us enemies!" the manner of the minister softened visibly; even miss cynthia looked less aggressive than before. "well, we won't discuss politics," answered mr. buckley. "you have as much right to your opinions as i have to mine. but i think i have done all i could be expected to do for you. here, take this key, which unlocks the door of my barn, and crawl up into the hayloft where you can spend the night. if you are there, however, when i come to feed the horse, at seven o'clock to-morrow morning, i will not consider it necessary to keep silent to my neighbors." "never fear," said watson, in genial tones; "we'll be away by daylight. good-bye, and god bless you. you have done something to-night that will earn our everlasting gratitude, little as that means. some day this wretched war will be over--and then i hope to have the honor of shaking you by the hand, and calling you my friend." watson and george were soon safely ensconced for the night in the minister's hayloft, with waggie slumbering peacefully on top of a mound of straw. "i think we are more comfortable than our pursuers who are running around the country," said george. he was stretched out next to watson on the hay, and over him was an old horse-blanket. "thanks to dear old buckley," answered watson. "he is a real southerner--generous and kind of heart. ah, george, it's a shame that the americans of one section can't be friends with the americans of the other section." then they went to sleep, and passed as dreamless and refreshing a night as if there were no dangers for the morrow. at the break of day they were up again, and out of the barn, after leaving the key in the door. "i feel like a general who has no plan of campaign whatever," observed watson, as he gazed at the minister's residence, in the uncanny morning light, and saw that no one had as yet arisen. "i guess the campaign will have to develop itself," answered george. the night's rest, and the good supper before it, had made a new boy of him. twelve hours previously he had been exhausted; now he felt in the mood to undergo anything. the two walked out of the garden, accompanied by waggie, and so on until they reached an open field. here they sat down, on the limb of a dead and stricken tree, and discussed what they were to do. "we don't know," mused watson, "whether any of our party have been caught or not. but one thing is as certain as sunrise. just as soon as the morning is well advanced the pursuers will begin their work again, and they will have all the advantage--you and i all the disadvantage." "the men will be on horseback, too," added george, "while we will be on foot. we must remember that." "jove," cried watson, giving his knee a vigorous slap. "i've got an idea." "out with it," said george. "listen," went on his friend. "here is the situation. if we try to push to the westward, to join mitchell's forces, in broad daylight, or even at night, we are pretty sure to be captured if we try to palm ourselves off as kentucky southerners. if we hide in the woods, and keep away from people, we will simply starve to death--and that won't be much of an improvement. that kentucky story won't work now; it has been used too much as it is. therefore, if we are to escape arrest, we must change our characters." "change our characters?" repeated george, in wonderment. "exactly. suppose that we boldly move through the country as two professional beggars, and thus gradually edge our way to the westward, without appearing to do so. you can sing negro songs, can't you?" "yes; and other songs, too." "that's good. and waggie has some tricks, hasn't he?" "he can play dead dog--and say his prayers--and howl when i sing--and do some other tricks." "then i've got the whole scheme in my mind," said watson, with enthusiasm. "let me play a blind man, with you as my leader. i think i can fix my eyes in the right way. we can go from farm to farm, from house to house, begging a meal, and you can sing, and put the dog through his tricks. people are not apt to ask the previous history of beggars--nor do i think any one will be likely to connect us with the train-robbers." george clapped his hands. "that's fine!" he said. there was a novelty about the proposed plan that strongly appealed to his spirit of adventure. watson's face suddenly clouded. "come to think of it," he observed, "the combination of a man, a boy and a dog will be rather suspicious, even under our new disguise. remember farmer jason's letter last night." "that's all very well," retorted george, who had fallen in love with the beggar scheme, "but if we get away from this particular neighborhood the people won't have heard anything about a dog or a boy. they will only know that some northern spies are at large--and they won't be suspicious of a blind man and his friends." "i reckon you're right," said watson, after a little thought. "let us get away from here, before it grows lighter, and put the neighbors behind us." the man and boy, and the telltale dog, jumped to their feet. "good-bye, mr. buckley," murmured watson, as he took a last look at the minister's house, "and heaven bless you for one of the best men that ever lived!" they were hurrying on the next moment, nor did they stop until they had put six or seven miles between themselves and the buckley home. the sun, directly away from which they had been moving, was now shining brightly in the heavens, as it looked down benevolently upon the well-soaked earth. they had now reached a plantation of some two hundred acres or more, in the centre of which was a low, long brick house with a white portico in front. they quickly passed from the roadway into the place, and moved up an avenue of magnolia trees. when they reached the portico a lazy looking negro came shuffling out of the front door. he gazed, in a supercilious fashion, at the two whites and the dog. "wha' foah you fellows gwine come heh foah?" he demanded, in a rich, pleasant voice, but with an unwelcome scowl upon his face. "we just want a little breakfast," answered watson. he was holding the boy's arm, and looked the picture of a blind mendicant. the darky gave them a scornful glance. "git away from heh, yoh white trash," he commanded. "we doan want no beggars 'round heh!" watson was about to flare up angrily, at the impudent tone of this order, but when he thought of the wretched appearance which he and george presented he was not surprised at the coolness of their reception. for not only were their clothes remarkable to look upon, but they were without hats. even waggie seemed a bedraggled little vagabond. but george rose valiantly to the occasion. he began to sing "old folks at home," in a clear sweet voice, and, when he had finished, he gave a spirited rendition of "dixie." when "dixie" was over he made a signal to waggie, who walked up and down the pathway on his hind legs with a comical air of pride. the expression of the pompous negro had undergone a great change. his black face was wreathed in smiles; his eyes glistened with delight; his large white teeth shone in the morning light like so many miniature tombstones. "ya! ya! ya!" he laughed. "doan go way. ya! ya! look at de dog! ho! ho!" he reentered the house, but was soon back on the portico. with him came a handsome middle-aged man, evidently the master of the house, and a troop of children. they were seven in all, four girls and three boys, and they ranged in ages all the way from five to seventeen years. no sooner did he see them than george began another song--"nicodemus, the slave." this he followed by "massa's in the cold, cold ground." as he ended the second number the children clapped their hands, and the master of the house shouted "bravo!" then the boy proceeded to put waggie through his tricks. the dog rolled over and lay flat on the ground, with his paws in the air as if he were quite dead; then at a signal from his master he sprang to his feet and began to dance. he also performed many other clever tricks that sent the children into an ecstasy of delight. watson nearly forgot his rôle of blind man, more than once, in his desire to see the accomplishments of the terrier. but he saved himself just in time, and contrived to impart to his usually keen eyes a dull, staring expression. by the time waggie had given his last trick the young people had left the portico and were crowding around him with many terms of endearment. one of them, seizing the tiny animal in her arms, ran with him into the house, where he must have been given a most generous meal, for he could eat nothing more for the next twenty-four hours. the handsome man came off the portico and looked at the two supposed beggars with an expression of sympathy. "you have a nice voice, my boy," he said, turning to george. "can't you make better use of it than this? why don't you join the army, and sing to the soldiers?" george might have answered that he already belonged to one army, and did not feel like joining another, but he naturally thought he had better not mention this. he evaded the question, and asked if he and the "blind man" might have some breakfast. "that you can!" said the master, very cordially. "here, pompey, take these fellows around to the kitchen and tell black dinah to give them a _good_ meal. and when they are through bring them into my study. i want the boy to sing some more." the black man with the white teeth escorted the strangers to the kitchen of the mansion, where an ebony cook treated them to a typical southern feast. it was well that black dinah had no unusual powers of reasoning or perception, for the beggars forgot, more than once, to keep up their assumed rôles. watson found no difficulty in eating, despite his supposed infirmity, and george came within an inch of presenting a confederate bill to madame dinah. but he suddenly reflected that paupers were not supposed to "tip" servants, and he stuffed the money back into his trousers pocket. when they had finished pompey escorted them to the study of the master of the house. it was a large room, filled with books and family portraits, and in it were assembled the host (mr. carter peyton) and his children. the latter were still engaged in petting waggie, who began to look a trifle bored. from the manner in which they ruled the house it was plain that their father was a widower. at the request of mr. peyton, george sang his whole repertoire of melodies, and the dog once more repeated his tricks. watson was given a seat in one corner of the study. "it's time we were off," he thought. as waggie finished his performance watson rose, and stretched out his hand towards george. "let's be going," he said. "all right," answered george. he was about to say good-bye, and lead his companion to the door, when a turbaned negress entered the room. "massa peyton, massa charles jason done ride oveh heh ta see you." "is he here now?" asked mr. peyton. "then show him in. i wonder what's the matter? it is not often that jason gets this far away from home." the girl retired. charles jason! where had the two northerners heard that name? then it flashed upon them almost at the same instant. charles jason was the name of the farmer who had warned mr. buckley about them. if he saw them both, and in company with the dog, they would be under suspicion at once. george drew nearer to watson and whispered one word: "danger!" he picked up waggie and put him in his pocket. "we must be going," reiterated watson, moving towards the door with unusual celerity for a blind man who had found himself in an unfamiliar apartment. "don't go yet," urged mr. peyton, seeking to detain the supposed vagabonds; "i want mr. jason to hear some of these plantation songs. i'll pay you well for your trouble, my boy--and you can take away all the food you want." "i'm sorry," began george, "but----" as the last word was uttered farmer charles jason was ushered into the study. he was a chubby little man of fifty or fifty-five, with red hair, red face and a body which suggested the figure of a plump sparrow--a kindly man, no doubt, in the ordinary course of events, but the last person on earth that the two fugitives wanted to see. "well, this _is_ a surprise," said the master of the house, very cordially. "it's not often you favor us with a visit as far down the highway as this." "when a fellow has gout as much as i have nowadays," returned jason, "he doesn't get away from home a great deal. but something important made me come out to-day." "nothing wrong, i hope?" asked mr. peyton. george took hold of watson's left hand, and edged towards the open door. but mr. peyton, not waiting for jason to answer his question, leaped forward and barred the way. "you fellows must not go until mr. jason has heard those negro melodies." owing to the number of people in the room (for all the children were there), jason had not singled out the northerners for any attention. but now he naturally looked at them. there was nothing suspicious in his glance; it was merely good-natured and patronizing. "yes, don't go," cried one of the children, a pretty little girl of ten or eleven. "show mr. jason how the doggie can say his prayers." she hauled waggie from george's coat, and held him in front of the farmer. george seized waggie and returned him to his pocket. there was an angry flush on the boy's face. he had no kind feelings for pretty miss peyton. jason's expression underwent a complete transformation when he saw the dog. an idea seemed to strike him with an unexpected but irresistible force. the sight of the dog had changed the whole current of his thoughts. he stared first at watson, and then at george, with a frown that grew deeper and deeper. then he turned to mr. peyton. "i came over to tell you about the yankee spies who are loose in the county," he cried quickly, in excited tones. "one of them was a boy with a dog. my son saw them--and i believe this to be the lad. i----" the farmer got no further. "come, george!" suddenly shouted watson. at the back of the study there was a large glass door leading out to the rear porch of the house. he ran to this, found that it would not open, and so deliberately hit some of the panes a great blow with his foot. crash! the glass flew here and there in a hundred pieces. the next moment the ex-blind man had pushed through the ragged edges of the remaining glass, and was scurrying across a garden at the back of the house. after him tore george. in going through the door he had cut his cheek on one of the projecting splinters, but in the excitement he was quite unconscious of the fact. the children and their father stood looking at jason in a dazed, enquiring way. they had not heard of the locomotive chase; they knew nothing of northern spies; they did not understand that the farmer had suddenly jumped at a very correct but startling conclusion. "after them!" shouted jason. "they are spies!" by this time the whole house was in an uproar. most of the children were in tears (being frightened out of their wits at the mention of terrible spies), and the servants were running to and fro wringing their hands helplessly, without understanding exactly what had happened. jason tore to the broken door, broke off some more glass with the end of the riding whip he held in his hand, and was quickly past this bristling barrier and out on the back porch. mr. peyton was behind him. at the end of the garden, nearly a hundred yards away, was an old-fashioned hedge of box, which had reached, in the course of many years, a height of twelve feet or more. a little distance beyond this box was a wood of pine-trees. as jason reached the porch he could see the two northerners fairly squeeze their way through the hedge, and disappear on the other side. he leaped from the porch, and started to run down the garden. but his enemy, the gout, gave him a warning twinge, and he was quickly outdistanced by mr. peyton, who sped onward, with several negroes at his heels. the party continued down the garden until they reached the hedge; then they ran to the right for a short distance, scurried through an arched opening in the green box, and thus reached the outskirts of the pine woods. next they began to search through the trees. but not a sight of the fugitives could they obtain. after they had tramped over the whole woods, which covered about forty acres, they emerged into open fields. not a trace of the runaways! they went back and made a fresh search among the pines; they sent negroes in every direction; yet the result was the same. when mr. peyton returned, very hot and disgusted, to his usually quiet study he found charles jason lying on the sofa in an agony of gout. several of the children were near him. "oh, papa, i hope you did _not_ catch them," cried one of the latter. she was the little girl who had pulled waggie from george's pocket. mr. peyton laughed, in spite of himself. "have you fallen in love with the boy who sang, laura?" he asked, with a twinkle in his eye. "no," said miss laura, indignantly, "but mr. jason says they were spies--and spies are always hung--and i wouldn't like to see that nice dog hung." the father burst into a peal of merriment. "don't worry," he said; "i reckon the dog would be pardoned--on the ground that he was led astray by others older than himself. anyway, the rascals have gotten away as completely as if they had disappeared from the face of the earth." jason groaned. whether the sound was caused by pain, or disappointment at the escape of the spies, or both, it would have been hard to tell. when he was taken to his home, not until the next day, he vowed he would never more chase anything, be it even a chicken. and where were the missing man, boy, and dog? much nearer to the peyton house than any of its inmates fancied. when watson and george ran down the garden their only idea was to get as far off from the house as possible, although they believed that they were pretty sure to be captured in the end. their pistols were still useless; they did not know the geography of the neighborhood; there were enemies everywhere. but after they squeezed through the hedge, they found in front of them, between the box and the edge of the woods, a little patch of muddy, uncultivated land, devoted to the refuse of a farm. a trash heap, a broken plough, empty boxes, barrels, broken china, and other useless things betokened a sort of rustic junk-shop--a receptacle for objects which had seen their best days. among this collection, the quick eye of watson caught sight of a large molasses hogshead, now empty and with its open end turned upwards. he pulled george by the sleeve, pointed to the hogshead, and then looked at the hedge, as he said, breathlessly: "this is big enough to hold us both; jump in--the hedge is so high they can't see us from the house!" there was no chance to say more. in a twinkling the two had vaulted into the huge barrel, and were fairly squatting at the bottom. above them was the open sky and the warm sun. any pursuer who chose to stand on tiptoe and look in would have been rewarded for his pains. but watson calculated that no one would think of the hogshead for the very reason that it stood out so prominently amid all the trash of this dumping ground. no one, in fact, gave a thought to the spot; it suggested nothing in the way of a hiding-place. once a negro who had joined the hunt brushed by the hogshead, much to the terror of its occupants, but he gave it no heed. a few minutes later mr. peyton stopped within a few feet of it, to speak to his white overseer. "we have searched the wood thoroughly," said the overseer, "but they are gone--that's sure." "well, they have gotten out of the place," observed the master. "but they won't get many miles away. i want you to take the sorrel mare and spread the alarm through the neighborhood." "yes, sir." hardly had mr. peyton and his overseer hurried away before waggie indulged in a little yelp, to ease his own feelings. he found things rather cramped at the bottom of the hogshead, to which he had been transferred from george's pocket; he longed to have more leeway for his tiny legs. "if you had given that bark a minute ago," muttered george, "you would have betrayed us, master waggie." "oh! oh! oh!" whispered watson; "i am so cramped and stiff i don't know what will become of me. this is the most painful experience of the war." there would have been something amusing in the position of the hiders if it had seemed less dangerous. watson was now sitting with legs crossed, in tailor fashion; on his lap was george; and upon george's knee jumped waggie. "you're getting tired too soon," said george. "we will be here some time yet." he was quite right, for it was not until dusk that they dared leave their curious refuge. sometimes they stood up, when they got absolutely desperate, and had it not been that the tall hedge protected him, the head of watson would assuredly have been seen from the peyton mansion. at last they cautiously abandoned the hogshead, and crept into the pines in front of them. when it was pitch dark the fugitives pushed forward in a northwestwardly direction, until they reached a log cabin, at a distance of about four miles from their point of departure. within the place a light was cheerily burning. "shall we knock at the door?" asked watson, in some doubt. "i'm very hungry," laughed george. "i think i could risk knocking anywhere--if i could only get something to eat." "well, we might as well be hung for sheep as lambs," observed watson. "let us try it." he had begun to think that it was only the question of a few hours before he and george would be in the hands of the enemy. they knocked at the door. it was half opened by a long, lanky man, with a scraggy chin-beard, who looked like the customary pictures of "uncle sam." "what is it?" he asked the travelers. there was a sound of voices within. was it prudent to play the blind man once again? or had this fellow heard of the excitement at the peyton mansion? watson bethought himself of a method of finding out whether or not he should be endowed with sight. "are we anywhere near squire peyton's?" he demanded. "'bout four miles off, or five miles by the road along the creek," said this southern "uncle sam." "do you know if he's living at his place now?" "he was there three days ago, whan i driv over ta sell him some shotes," returned "uncle sam." "reckon he must be there still." "humph!" thought watson; "this fellow hasn't heard anything about the peyton _fracas_. i'll lose my sight once again." he clutched george's hand in a helpless fashion, and poured forth a tale of woe. he was blind and poor, he said; he and his nephew (meaning george) were in need of food and shelter. "i'll sing for you," said george. "tarnation pumpkins," cried uncle sam; "i hate squalin'. but come in. i never shut my door on anybody." he opened the door the whole way. the two northerners and the dog walked into the dazzling light made by a great wood-fire--and confronted five confederate soldiers and an officer who were toasting their feet at the hearth! they all glanced at the newcomers, who dearly regretted, when too late, that they had entered. the officer stared first at watson and then at george with the air of a man who is searching for some one. uncle sam introduced them to the party in a manner more vigorous than polite. "here's a couple o' beggars," he said. "ma, get 'em somethin' to eat!" "ma," who was his wife, came bustling out of the second room, or kitchen, of the cabin. she was red in the face, and of generous proportions. "look here, pop," she cried, "do you expect me to cook for a hotel? i've just been feedin' these soldiers, and now you want me to get victuals for beggars." when the plump hostess saw the blind man, the boy and the dog, her face softened. she went back to the kitchen, and soon returned with some coarse but highly acceptable food, which was gratefully eaten by george and watson. "do you two tramp through the country together?" asked the officer. he was addressed by his men as captain harris. every line and feature of his clean-shaven face denoted shrewdness. "yes," answered watson. "my nephew sings--the dog has some tricks--we make a little money--even in war time." he would put the best face possible on this trying situation. "you have no home?" went on the officer, in a sympathetic voice. "none." "where did you come from before you took to begging?" watson hesitated for a second. then he said: "lynchburg, virginia." it was the only place he could think of at that moment, and it seemed far enough off to be safe. "i spent three weeks in lynchburg last year," said captain harris. "what part of the town did you live in?" this time george came to the rescue. "on main street," he answered. he had known a boy in cincinnati whose mother had once resided in lynchburg, and he had heard the lad speak of a main street in that town. "on main street," repeated the captain. was the look that passed quickly across his face one of surprise or disappointment? "yes, on main street," asserted george. he felt very sure of himself now. "how near were you to the sorrel horse hotel?" asked the captain, after a brief pause. "about two streets away, eh george?" said watson. he had, very naturally, never heard of the sorrel horse, and he knew nothing of lynchburg, but it would be fatal to show any ignorance on the subject. "yes, just about two streets away," agreed the boy. the men were all sitting near the blazing fire. suddenly captain harris, without saying a word, lifted his right arm and sent his fist flying towards the face of watson, who sat near him. with an exclamation of anger watson jumped to his feet, just in time to avoid the blow. "what do you mean?" he cried, as he glared at his antagonist. the captain smiled. he did not seem at all pugnacious now. "i mean," he answered, "that i have proved my suspicions to be true. i thought you were not blind--and i find that you still have enough sight left to see a blow when it is coming to you!" watson could cheerfully have whipped himself for his blunder. "further," went on the officer, in a politely taunting tone that was very provoking, "i find that neither you nor the boy ever lived in lynchburg, for the simple reason that there is no sorrel horse hotel in that place, and there never was!" how nicely had he planned this little trap! and how foolish the two fugitives felt. "and now, my dear beggars," went on the captain, in the same ironical vein, "allow me to say that i don't believe you are beggars at all. i strongly suspect that you are members of this engine-stealing expedition which has come to grief. this afternoon i was sent out from chattanooga, among others, to scour the country, and it will be my duty to march you there to-morrow morning." there was a pause painful in its intensity. "have either of you got anything to say?" demanded the captain. "we admit nothing!" said watson. "i'm not surprised," answered the captain. "your offense is a hanging one. but you were a plucky lot--that's certain." chapter x final trials the next morning watson and george knight, with the faithful waggie (who was destined to remain with his master throughout all these adventures, in which he had played his own little part), were taken by the detachment of confederates to chattanooga. here they were placed in the jail, and here also, in the course of a few days, were brought andrews and the other members of the ill-fated expedition. for they were all captured, sooner or later, as might have been expected. the whole south rang with the story of the engine chase, and every effort was made to track and capture the courageous northerners. after a stay of several weeks in chattanooga the party were taken by railroad to madison, in georgia, for it was feared that general mitchell was about to take possession of the former place. in a few days, however, when the danger had passed, they were returned to chattanooga. it was not until september of that this city fell into the hands of a union force. of the movements and separation of the prisoners after their return to chattanooga, or of the experiences of some of them in knoxville, it is not necessary to make detailed mention. andrews, after a trial, was executed in atlanta as a spy, dying like a brave man, and seven of his companions, condemned by a court-martial, shared the same fate. it was the fortune of war. george could never dance, as he had promised, at his leader's wedding. let us change the scene to the city prison of atlanta, where the remaining fourteen members of the expedition were to be found in the following october. among them were watson, george knight, jenks and macgreggor. waggie, too, was still in evidence, but he would have found life rather dreary had not the kind-hearted jailer allowed one of his family to take the dog many a scamper around the city. "poor andrews," said watson, one afternoon, "it is hard to realize that he and seven others of us have gone." the party were occupying a well-barred room on the second floor of the prison. this second floor comprised four rooms for prisoners, two on each side of a hallway. in the hallway was a staircase which led to the first story, where the jailer and his family had their quarters. outside the building was a yard surrounded by a fence about nine feet high, and here and there a soldier, fully armed, was on guard. "i don't want to be doleful, boys," said macgreggor, "but i think we will soon follow andrews. as the days rolled on and we heard no more of any trial or execution i began to hope that the confederate government had forgotten the rest of us. i even thought it possible we might be exchanged for the same number of confederates in northern prisons, and thus allowed to go back to our army. but i've kept my eyes and ears open--and i have now become anxious." "why so?" asked george. the boy looked thin and very pale, after his long confinement. "i heard some one--i think it was the provost-marshal--talking to the jailer this morning, at the front door of the prison. i was looking out of the window; you fellows were all playing games. 'keep a very strict eye on those engine-stealers,' the marshal said; 'a court is going to try them--and you know what that means--death! a trial will be nothing more than a formality, for the whole fourteen of them are spies, under the rules of war. they were soldiers who entered the enemy's line in civilian disguise. so don't let them get away.'" macgreggor's listeners stirred uneasily. this was not what might be called pleasant news. "why didn't you tell us before?" asked jenks. "i hadn't the heart to," returned macgreggor. "you boys were all so cheerful." watson cleared his voice. "i tell you what it is, boys," he whispered, as he gave waggie a mournful pat; "if we don't want to be buried in an atlanta graveyard we must escape!" george's white face flushed at the thought. the idea of liberty was dazzling, after so many weary days. "well," said one of the men, in the same low tone, "it's better to escape, and run the risk of failing or of being re-captured, than to rot here until we are led out to be hanged." "let's invent a plan that will enable us not only to get out, but to _stay_ out," laughed jenks. there was dead silence for nearly ten minutes. the men, who had been sitting on the floor watching two of their number at a game of checkers, were deep in thought. at last watson opened his lips. "i have a plan," he whispered. "tell me what you think of it. you know that about sunset the darkies come into the rooms to leave us our supper. the jailer stands outside. then, later, the jailer comes and takes away the dishes. he is then alone. suppose we seize him, gag him, take his keys, unlock all the doors on this floor, and release all the prisoners. as you know, there are a number besides our own party--whites and negroes. all this must be quietly done, however, if it is to prove successful. then we can go down-stairs, without making any noise, overpower the seven sentinels, take their guns, and make off, after locking up these gentlemen." watson went further into details, to show the probable workings of his scheme. it was finally agreed that the dash was well worth the trial. as jenks remarked: "it's either that or a few feet of cold rope, and a coffin!" the late afternoon of the next day was fixed upon for the escape. in addition to the fourteen remaining adventurers, a union captain from east tennessee, who shared the room with them, was to be associated in this daring enterprise. it seemed to george as if the hour would never come; but as the sun began to sink gradually towards the horizon on the following afternoon he realized, from the feverish restlessness of the whole party, that there was not much longer to wait. "keep up your nerve, fellows," said watson, who had become the leader of the party, "and remember that all depends upon the quietness with which we conduct things on this floor, so that the guard below won't take the alarm." as he spoke there was a rattling of keys and a creaking of locks. the heavy door of the room opened, and in walked waggie. he had been having a walk, with a daughter of the jailer, and one of the negro servants had taken him up-stairs and unlocked the door. the next moment the key was turned; the prisoners were again shut in from the world. "poor little waggie," said macgreggor. "is he going too?" "i've taken him through too much to leave him behind now," said george fondly. "look. this is as good as a kennel." he pointed to an overcoat, which the east tennessee captain had given him, and showed on one side a large pocket. the side of the latter was buttoned up closely to the coat. the minutes dragged along. finally watson said, with a sort of mournful impressiveness: "boys, let us all bid each other good-bye. for some of us may never meet again!" the men clasped one another by the hand. in the eyes of most of them were tears--not timid tears, but the tears of soldiers who had become attached to one another through suffering and hoping together. it was a solemn scene which the rays of the dying sun illumined, and george would never forget it. watson brushed a drop from his cheek. "i feel better, now," he said cheerfully; "i'm ready for anything. remember one thing. treat the jailer as gently as possible. he has been a kind fellow where some would have been the reverse." "aye," murmured his companions. it was an order which had their hearty sympathy. in a little while there was the long-expected creaking at the door. it was supper time! two negroes entered and placed some pans containing food upon the table. then they retired, and the door was locked. "eat, boys," whispered watson; "we don't know when we may get our next square meal." the men soon disposed of the food. hardly had they finished before the door was thrown open, and the jailer, an elderly, bearded man, appeared. "good-evening, men," he said, in a pleasant, unsuspicious voice. he halted at the doorway with the keys in his right hand. it was a terrible moment. george felt as if he were living ten years in that one instant. [illustration: watson placed his hand over the man's mouth] "good-evening, sir," said watson, approaching the jailer. "it's such a very pleasant evening that we intend to take a little walk." he threw back the door as he spoke. the jailer was unprepared for this move. he did not even divine what was intended. "how--what do you mean----" he faltered. "we've had enough of prison life," said macgreggor, in a calm, even voice, "and we are going to leave you. now give up the keys, and keep very quiet, or you'll find----" "keep off!" cried the jailer, as he tightened his hold on the bunch of keys. he was about to call for help, but watson placed his left hand over the man's mouth, and with his right clutched the unfortunate's throat. then macgreggor seized the keys, after a sharp but decisive struggle, and hurried into the hallway, where he began to release the general prisoners. he quickly unlocked in succession the doors of the three other rooms on the second floor. the men thus freed did not understand the significance of it all, but they saw unexpected liberty staring them in the face, and they ran out of their quarters like so many sheep. meanwhile the members of the engine expedition, with the exception of watson and macgreggor, had run almost noiselessly down the staircase, through the jailer's quarters on the first floor, and thus out into the prison yard. some of them threw themselves upon the three soldiers in the rear of the yard, wrenched from them their muskets, crying out at the same time: "make a movement or a cry and we'll shoot you down!" the rest of the party, among whom were george knight and jenks, tore into the front part of the yard, where four guards were patroling near the main door of the jail. two of these guards were quickly disarmed. but the other two, seeing the oncoming of the prisoners, ran out of the gate of the picket fence, uttering loud cries as they went. their escape was entirely unexpected. the general prisoners now came tumbling into the yard, headed by watson and macgreggor. watson, warned that there was no time to lose, had released his hold upon the astonished jailer. he did not know that two of the sentinels had escaped, but he arrived down-stairs just in time to see the result of their disappearance. a large reserve guard of confederates, warned of the jail delivery by these two soldiers, came rushing madly into the yard. "look out, boys!" cried watson. other members of the engine party, seeing the arrival of the troops, released the five remaining sentinels, threw down their newly acquired muskets, and began to scale the prison fence. there came the sharp crack of rifles from the reserve guard. whiz! the bullets rattled all around the heads of the fence-climbers, the whistling noise having for accompaniment the cries of the angry confederates. whiz! another volley! yet no one was hit. on the fugitives went, as they descended on the other side of the fence, and made for some woods at a distance of nearly a mile from the prison. "after 'em, men," came the word of command to the confederates. soldiers were running hither and thither, while the general prisoners, who had been released by macgreggor, were soon safely housed in their old rooms. the bullets were flying thick and fast within and without the prison yard; the scene was one of pandemonium. ere long five of the engine party had been captured, three inside of the yard and two immediately outside. among these were jenks and macgreggor who were both uninjured, but both very much disheartened. soon there was the clatter of hoofs, and a troop of cavalry dashed up to the front of the jail. "no more chance of escape!" said jenks bitterly, as he looked out of the barred window. he could hear the cavalry colonel excitedly crying: "hunt down the fellows till you have every one of them!" "i hope some of the boys will get off," remarked macgreggor. "any one who is captured is sure to be hung now." afterwards another prisoner was captured. there were now six of the party back in jail. where were watson and george during this escapade? no sooner had the former cried out his warning, on the approach of the reserve guard, than he made directly for george, who was in the back part of the yard. "come on," he said, in tones of suppressed excitement, "over the fence with us. it's our only chance--now!" imitating the example of others the man and boy were soon balanced on top of the wooden fence. whirr! george was conscious of a whistling sound, and a bullet flew by him as it just grazed the tip of one ear. "hurry up!" urged watson. in another second the two had dropped from the fence and were running like mad over a large field. "halt!" cried some voices behind them. looking back they could see that about a dozen soldiers were in hot pursuit. a ball sped by george, dangerously near the capacious pocket in which waggie was ensconced; a second bullet would have ended the life of watson had it come an inch nearer the crown of his head. "look here," said watson. "these men are fresh--we are weakened by imprisonment--they will get up to us in the end. let's try a trick. the next time the bullets come we'll drop as if we were dead." at that moment another volley rattled around and over them. watson threw up his arms, as if in agony, and sank on the grass. george uttered a loud cry, and went down within a few feet of his companion. all but one of the confederates halted, upon seeing the apparent success of their aim, and turned to pursue in a new direction. the remaining soldier came running up to the two prisoners, and after taking one look which convinced him that they were either dead or dying he scurried back to rejoin his detachment. there was no use in wasting time over corpses when living enemies remained to be caught. the "corpses" waited until all was quiet around them. then they arose, and kept on towards the woods. these they reached when darkness had fallen upon the trees--a circumstance which aided them in one way, as it lessened the danger of pursuit. but in another way the night impeded their progress for they could not get their bearings. they groped from tree to tree, and from bush to bush, like blind men. once they heard a great rustling, and were convinced that it was caused by some of their companions, but they dared not speak, for fear of a mistake. at last they stumbled out upon a deserted highroad. "where are we?" whispered george. "i don't know," returned watson. "hark! do you hear anything?" a sound, at first very faint, became more and more distinct as they listened. galloping horsemen and the rattle of sabres proclaimed the approach of cavalry. "back into the woods," urged watson. "we may be putting ourselves in a trap--but for the life of me i don't know where else to go!" they hurried into the wood, where they crawled under a scrubby pine bush, and anxiously awaited the outcome. on rushed the horsemen until they reached the outskirts of the wood. here they halted. the hiders under the pine bush could hear one of the officers say: "the infantry will soon be here to relieve us." "we've had a great time to-night," growled another officer. "these yankees, not content with troubling us on the battle-field, must even stir things up when they are prisoners." "i don't wonder those locomotive-stealers wanted to escape," laughed the first officer. "they know what the punishment of a spy always is." in a few minutes a company of infantry marched to the scene. after a short conference between their officers and those of the cavalry the horsemen galloped away. the infantry were now formed into squads, and sent to keep guard in the woods. "things are getting rather warm!" whispered watson. george murmured an assent. well might he do so, for a sentry had soon been posted within fifty feet of the two fugitives. the situation was fraught with the greatest danger. watson and george realized that the soldiers would patrol the woods until morning, when discovery would be inevitable. watson sank his voice so low that it could just be heard by his companion. "we can't afford to stay here until daylight," he whispered. "we must wriggle out of here until we come to the edge of the road. then we must make a break and run." "run where?" asked george. "providence alone knows," answered watson. "we must trust to chance. but anything is better than remaining here, to be caught like rabbits by dogs." "i'm ready," replied george. he already saw himself back in the atlanta prison, and he even pictured himself with a rope around his neck; but he was prepared for any adventure, whatever might be the result. "the sooner the better," whispered watson. without any more words the two began to wriggle along the ground and kept up this snake-like motion until they reached the edge of the wood. it was slow work and very tiresome, but it was their one chance of escape. then they stood up, and bounded across the highroad. "there they go!" shouted one of the soldiers in the wood. at once there was an uproar, as the sentries ran out into the road, and began to fire their guns in wild confusion. it was pitch dark, and they could see nothing. over the road and into an open field tore the two fugitives. they felt like blind men, for they could hardly distinguish any object before them; moreover they were wholly ignorant of their surroundings. they ran on, however, and finally reached another field in which were several large trees. watson made straight for one of them. "up we go," he said, and, suiting the action to the order, he had soon clambered up the tree, and seated himself across one of its branches. george was quick to follow; he climbed up with even more celerity than watson, and settled himself on a neighboring branch. they could hear the cries of the sentries, mingled with an occasional shot. two of the soldiers passed directly under the tree occupied by the northerners. "they have gotten off," one of them was saying. "i'm not surprised," rejoined the other sentry. "any fellows who could do what they did at big shanty are not easy customers to deal with." in a little while the two sentries returned, and, again passing under the tree, evidently went back to the woods. the uproar had ceased; there was no more firing; it was plain that the chase had been abandoned. after the lapse of half an hour watson and george descended from their uncomfortable perches. once upon the ground the boy released waggie from his pocket, and the little party pushed on in the darkness for about a mile. here they found a hayrick in a field, alongside of which they laid their weary bones and slept the sleep of exhaustion. when daylight came they had awakened, feeling much refreshed and ready for more adventures. "i'll tell you what i think," said watson. "there's a chance for us yet, provided we try a new means of getting away from the south." "what do you mean?" asked george. "if we try to move northward," continued watson, "we are sure to be caught. every countryman between atlanta and chattanooga will be on the lookout for us. instead of that, let us strike out towards the gulf of mexico, where we should reach one of the ships of the union blockading squadron. new orleans is in the hands of the north, and many of our vessels must be patroling the gulf. once we reach the coast we are practically free." "the very thing!" cried the boy. "you're a genius!" watson smiled. "not a genius," he said, "but i have what they call horse-sense up our way--and i'm not anxious to return to the delights of the atlanta prison." acting upon this new theory the wanderers began their long journey. this they pursued amid many hardships, not the least of which was hunger. even poor waggie grew emaciated. first they reached the banks of the chattahoochee river, after which they secured a boat and rowed their way down via the apalachicola river, to apalachicola, florida, on the gulf of mexico. here they found, to their great delight, that a federal blockading squadron was patroling on the gulf, near the mouth of apalachicola bay. the two fugitives now pushed their little boat out into the open sea. they were a sorry looking couple, with their old clothes fairly dropping from them, and their thin, gaunt figures showing the consequences of many days of privation. watson was feverish, with an unnatural glitter in his eyes, while george's face was a sickly white. waggie reposed at the bottom of the rickety craft, as if he cared not whether he lived or died. "look!" cried watson, who was at the oars. he pointed out towards the south, where were to be seen a collection of masts and smoke-stacks, rising above long black hulls. "it's the federal fleet," said george. he was glad to have a look at it--glad to know that deliverance was at hand--but he felt too exhausted to put any enthusiasm into his voice. "can you see any flag?" he asked, wearily. "perhaps we have been fooled after all. the ships may belong to the confederate navy." soon they could detect, as they drew nearer, a flutter of bunting from the vessel nearest to them. "it's the old flag!" cried george, jumping from his seat in the stern with a precipitancy that threatened to upset the boat. "see the blue--and the red and white stripes! hurrah!" but he was too weak for much enthusiasm even now and he soon had to sit down once more. watson uttered a cry which was meant to be triumphant, although it came like a hoarse croak from his parched throat. then the tears gushed into his eyes as he gazed again upon the flag. it almost seemed as if he were home again. nearer and nearer they rowed to the squadron. there were four ships of war, and now they could see the sailors walking the decks and the guns in the portholes. "we'll be there in ten minutes now," said watson, "and i think i can eat a----" he gasped and failed to finish the sentence. he half rose from his seat, relinquished the oars, with a despairing cry, and then, losing all consciousness, pitched over the gunwale into the sunlit waters of the gulf. george jumped up from the stern and stretched out his arm to seize the inanimate body of his friend. but the movement was too much for the equilibrium of the frail boat and for the balance of the boy. out into the water shot george, overturning the craft until its keel was in the air. george struck out for watson and succeeded in grabbing him by the hair of his head just as he was about to disappear beneath the waves. then he changed his hold upon the man, and with his left hand clutching the neck of watson's coat he pulled to the side of the upturned boat. to this he held with his right hand like grim death, as he put his left arm around watson's waist. the boy was panting for breath, and as weak as if he had been swimming for miles. not until now had he thoroughly realized how hunger, exposure and privation had done their work. the next instant he felt a gentle paddling near him; he looked down and there was waggie's wet but plucky little face. "hello! old boy," said george. "i would rather drown myself than see you go under. so here goes!" he released his hold of watson and by a quick movement swung waggie to the upturned bottom of the boat, near the keel. the tiny animal gave a bark that said "thank you," as plainly as if he had spelled out every letter of the two words. george again seized watson and clung to the boat more tightly than before. the soldier gradually came back to consciousness. "what have i done?" he asked, staring wildly at the hot sun above him. "nothing!" answered george. "only try to hold on to the boat. for i'm so worn out that it's all i can do to keep myself up." watson clawed frantically at the gunwale. at last he managed to grasp it with his tired, bony fingers. "i can't hold on much longer!" suddenly said george, in a faint voice. his hands were numb; he felt as if he had not one particle of strength left in his emaciated body. his mind began to wander. he forgot that he was in the gulf of mexico; he thought he was holding on to a horse. by and by the horse began to move. could he keep his grasp on the animal? no; not much longer. the horse started to canter, and the boy felt himself slipping backward. in reality he had let go his hold upon the boat. so, too, had watson. the next moment was a blank. the sun came burning down on poor waggie, perched on top of the craft, as he growled piteously at the sight of master and friend drifting helplessly away. * * * * * when george recovered his senses he was lying on the deck of one of the war-vessels, and waggie was barking in an effort to awaken him. near him sat watson, with a happy smile on his wan face. around him was a group of officers. "by jove," one of the latter was saying. "those poor fellows had a narrow escape. it was well we saw their plight and sent a boat after them. it got there just in time." "well, my boys," asked an older officer (who was evidently the captain of the vessel), in a gruff but not unkindly tone, "what on earth _are_ you, and where did you come from? you don't appear to have been gorging yourselves lately." when george and watson were a little stronger they told the story of their adventures, in brief but graphic terms, to the interested group of officers. when they had finished the captain came up to them, and put a hand upon the shoulder of each. "you fellows want a good round meal!" he said emphatically. "and after that some clothes will not come amiss, i guess." to this they readily assented. how delicious the food tasted when it was served to them at the officers' mess; and how comfortable but strange they felt when, an hour later, they were arrayed in all the glory of clean underclothes, shoes, nice suits and naval caps. when they came on deck again, how the sailors did cheer. and waggie! how fine and cheerful he looked, to be sure, all decked out in ribbons provided by the tars; and how pleased he felt with the whole world since he had eaten--but it would take too long to detail the _menu_ with which the dog had been regaled. the wonder was that he survived the spoiling that he received during the next four days. at the end of that time he accompanied his master and watson, who were sent on a government vessel to new york. from new york they traveled by rail to washington, where they were to relate their experiences, and the result of the railroad chase, to president lincoln. first they saw mr. stanton, the secretary of war, who made them dine and spend the night as his guests, and who the next morning took them to the white house. george trembled when he was ushered into the private office of mr. lincoln. he felt nervous at the thought of encountering the man who, more than any one else, held in his hand the destiny of the nation. but, when a tall, gaunt person, with wonderful, thoughtful eyes and a homely face, illumined by a melancholy but attractive smile, walked up to him and asked: "is this george knight?" all the boy's timidity vanished. as he answered, "yes, i am george knight," he felt as if he had known the president for years. mr. lincoln listened to the narrative of the two fugitives--now fugitives no longer--and put to them many questions. when the recital was over the president asked: "do you know that poor general mitchell has died from yellow fever?" they answered in the affirmative, for mr. stanton had given them this unwelcome information upon their arrival in washington. mr. lincoln pulled a paper from one of the pockets of his ill-fitting black coat and handed it to watson. "here is a commission for you as a captain in the regular army," he explained. "i know of no one who could deserve it more than captain watson." "how can i ever thank you, mr. president?" cried watson. "the thanks are all on my side," answered the president, smiling. "that reminds me of a little story. when----" mr. stanton, who was standing immediately behind his chief, began to cough in a curious, unnatural way. a gleam of humor came into the unfathomable eyes of the president. "mr. stanton never appreciates my stories," he said, quizzically, "and when he coughs that way i know what he means." then, turning to george, he continued: "my lad, you are one of the heroes of the war! i had intended giving you, too, a commission, but i find you are too young. but i suppose you want to see more of the war?" "indeed i do, mr. lincoln!" cried george. "well, since poor mitchell is dead, how would you like to go as a volunteer aid on the staff of one of our generals?" "the very thing!" said the boy, with ardor. mr. lincoln faced his secretary of war. "you don't always let me have my own way, mr. secretary," he observed, dryly, "but i think you must oblige me in this." "the boy's pretty young," answered the secretary, "but i fancy it can be arranged." "very good," said the president. "and now, george, if you behave with half the pluck in the future that you have shown in the past, i'll have no fear for you. do your duty, and some day you may live to see--as i may not live to see--a perfect reunion between north and south; for god surely does not intend that one great people shall divide into two separate nations." george left the white house in a perfect glow of enthusiasm. the very next day he was ordered to join the staff of general george h. thomas, and he joyfully obeyed the summons to leave washington. his only regret was in parting from waggie, whom he was obliged to entrust to the care of a friend of secretary stanton's. the boy saw plenty of army life throughout the rest of the war. when the conflict was over he hurried back to washington, found waggie alive and well, and then went home with him to cincinnati. here he had a startling but delightful reunion with his father, whose mysterious disappearance had been due to his capture by the confederates, and an incarceration for many months in an out-of-the-way southern prison. there were many things of interest which george did not learn until after the last gun of the war had been fired. one was that watson had made a brilliant record for himself as a regular army officer, and had come out of the war with a sound skin and the rank of colonel. another piece of news concerned the fortunes of the soldiers who escaped from the atlanta jail. eight of the engine party and the east tennessee captain (this number including watson and george), managed to escape, and finally reached the northern lines in safety. the six prisoners who were recaptured, among them macgreggor and jenks, escaped hanging, and were exchanged for the same number of southern prisoners. jenks was killed at the battle of gettysburg; macgreggor served through the war, was honorably discharged as a major of volunteers, and finally developed into a successful physician in the growing city of chicago. waggie has been gathered to his canine forefathers these many years. but it is comforting to reflect that he lived to a fine old age, and died full of honors. he was known far and wide as the "civil war dog"--a title which caused him to receive much attention, and a good many dainty bits of food in addition to his regular meals. let it be added, however, that his digestion and his bright disposition remained unimpaired until the end. george knight is now a prosperous merchant, happily married, and living in st. louis. he is proud in the possession of a son who saw active service in the spanish-american war as an officer in the navy. before we say good-bye to our hero let us record that he never forgot the kindness of the rev. mr. buckley, who had saved his life as a boy. many a christmas-time gift testified to the gratitude of the northerner. in the desk in george knight's office is a bundle of letters from the old clergyman. the last of these to be received reads as follows: "dear friend george: "this is christmas day--the last, i am sure, that i will ever see. i am too feeble to write you more than my best wishes for the holiday season, and to say--thank god, the war has been over these twenty years and we are once more a united nation. no north, no south, no east, no west--but simply america. i have been spared to see this--and i am grateful. "cordially yours, "amos buckley." the end [illustration: for a beginner that's the best schedule i ever saw.] ralph, the train dispatcher or the mystery of the pay car by allen chapman author of "ralph of the roundhouse," "ralph in the switch tower," "ralph on the engine," etc. illustrated new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america the railroad series by allen chapman cloth. mo. illustrated ralph of the roundhouse or, bound to become a railroad man ralph in the switch tower or, clearing the track ralph on the engine or, the young fireman of the limited mail ralph on the overland express or, the trials and triumphs of a young engineer ralph, the train dispatcher or, the mystery of the pay car grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york copyright, by grosset & dunlap ralph, the train dispatcher contents chapter i--the overland express chapter ii--the wreck chapter iii--trouble brewing chapter iv--the wire tappers chapter v--ike slump chapter vi--in the tunnel chapter vii--danger signals chapter viii--the old switch shanty chapter ix--a suspicious discovery chapter x--the train dispatcher chapter xi--making a schedule chapter xii--at the relay station chapter xiii--"hold the limited mail!" chapter xiv--old chapter xv--chasing a runaway chapter xvi--the wreck chapter xvii--a strange message chapter xviii--the slump "secret" chapter xix--on the lookout chapter xx--a trusty friend chapter xxi--a dastardly plot chapter xxii--holding the fort chapter xxiii--one minute after twelve chapter xxiv--the battle of wits chapter xxv--a wild night chapter xxvi--an amazing announcement chapter xxvii--the stolen pay car chapter xxviii--the "test" special chapter xxix--"crack the whip!" chapter xxx--the pay car robber chapter xxxi--quick work chapter xxxii--conclusion chapter i the overland express "those men will bear watching--they are up to some mischief, fairbanks." "i thought so myself, mr. fogg. i have been watching them for some time." "i thought you would notice them--you generally do notice things." the speaker with these words bestowed a glance of genuine pride and approbation upon his companion, ralph fairbanks. they were a great pair, these two, a friendly, loyal pair, the grizzled old veteran fireman, lemuel fogg, and the clear-eyed, steady-handed young fellow who had risen from roundhouse wiper to switchtower service, then to fireman, then to engineer, and who now pulled the lever on the crack racer of the great northern railroad, the overland express. ralph sat with his hand on the throttle waiting for the signal to pull out of boydsville tracks. ahead were clear, as he well knew, and his eyes were fixed on three men who had just passed down the platform with a scrutinizing glance at the locomotive and its crew. fogg had watched them for some few minutes with an ominous eye. he had snorted in his characteristic, suspicious way, as the trio lounged around the end of the little depot. "good day," he now said with fine sarcasm in his tone, "hope i see you again--know i'll see you again. they're up to tricks, fairbanks, and don't you forget it." "gone, have they?" piped in a new voice, and a brakeman craned his neck from his position on the reverse step of the locomotive. "say, who are they, anyway?" "do you know?" inquired the fireman, facing the intruder sharply. "i'd like to. they got on three stations back. the conductor spotted them as odd fish from the start. two of them are disguised, that's sure--the mustache of one of them went sideways. the old man, the mild-looking, placid old gentleman they had in tow, is a telegrapher." "how do you know that?" asked ralph, becoming interested. "that's easy. i caught him strumming on the car window sill, and i have had an apprenticeship in the wire line long enough to guess what he was tapping out. on his mind, see--force of habit and all that. the two with him, though, looked like jail birds." "what struck me," interposed fogg, "was the way they snooked around the train at the two last stops. they looked us over as if they were planning a holdup." "yes, and they pumped the train hands dry all about your schedule," declared the brakeman. "cottoned to me, but i cut them short. seemed mightily interested in the pay car routine, by the way." "did, eh," bristled up fogg. "say, tell us about that." "why, you see--there goes the starting signal. see you again." the brakeman dropped back to duty, and the depot and the three men who had caused a brief ripple in the monotony of a routine run were lost in the distance. for a few minutes the fireman had his hands full feeding the fire, and ralph, eyes, ears and all his senses on the alert, got in perfect touch with throttle, air gauge and exhaust valve. ralph glanced at the clock and took an easy position on his cushioned seat. everything was in order for a smooth run to twenty miles away. the overland express was on time, as she usually was, and everything was in trim for a safe delivery at terminus. fogg hustled about. he was a restless, ambitious being, always finding lots to do about cab and tender. his brows were knitted, however, and every once in a while he indulged in a fit of undertoned grumbling. ralph watched him furtively with a slight smile. he knew that his companion railroader was stirred up about something. the young engineer had come to understand the quirks and turns and moods of his eccentric helper, just as fully as those of his beloved engine. "i say," broke out fogg finally, slamming down into his seat. "it's about time for something to happen, fairbanks." "think so?" queried ralph lightly. "been pretty smooth sailing lately, you see." "that's the way it ought to be in a well-regulated family, isn't it, mr. fogg?" "humph--maybe. all the same, i'm an old bird and know the signs." "what signs are you talking about, mr. fogg?" "our machine balked this morning when she took the turntable, didn't she?" "that was because the wiper was half asleep." "thirteen blew out a cylinder head as we passed her-- , an unlucky number, see?" "that's an every-day occurrence since the high pressure system came in." "white cow crossed the track just back a bit." "nonsense," railed ralph. "i thought you'd got rid of all those old superstitions since your promotion to the best job on the road." "that's it, that's just it," declared the fireman with serious vehemence--"and i don't want to lose it. just as i say, since we knocked out the sorehead crew of strikers and made the big record on that famous snowstorm run on the mountain division, we've been like ducks in clear water, smooth sailing and the best on earth none too good for us. it isn't natural. why, old john griscom, thirty years at the furnace, used to get scared to death if he ran two weeks without a broken driving wheel or a derail." "well, you see we're on a new order of things, mr. fogg," suggested ralph brightly. "they've put us at the top-notch with a top-notch machine and a top-notch crew. we must stay there, and we'll do it if we keep our heads clear, eyes open and attend strictly to business." the fireman shook his head fretfully and looked unconvinced. ralph knew his stubborn ways and said nothing. the young engineer of the overland express was in the heyday of satisfaction and contentment. he was proud of his present position, and was prouder still because he felt that he had earned it through sheer energy and merit. as fogg had declared, the appearance of the three men noted had something sinister about it, but the fireman was always getting rattled about something or other, fussy as an old woman when the locomotive was balky. ralph insisted upon enjoying to the limit the full measure of prosperity that had come to him. both had fought hard to secure the positions they now held, however, and the mere hint of a break in the pleasant programme set them up in arms instanter. they had chummed together and had learned to love the staunch, magnificent locomotive that pulled the overland express as if it was a fellow comrade, and would have had a pitched battle any time with the meddler or enemy who plotted injury to the prize train of the great northern. all this had not been accomplished without some pretty hard knocks. looking back in retrospect now, ralph could fancy his progress to date as veritable steps in the ladder of fortune. it had all rounded out so beautifully that it seemed like a dream. now the thought of trouble or disaster reminded him gravely of the foes he had known in the past, and the difficult places he had battled through in his steadfast march to the front rank. ralph fairbanks had taken to railroading as naturally as does a duck to water. his father had been one of the pioneer builders of the great northern. in the first volume of the present series, entitled "ralph of the roundhouse," the unworthy scheme of gasper farrington, a village magnate, to rob ralph's widowed mother of her little home was depicted. that book, too, tells of how ralph left school to work for a living and win laurels as the best engine wiper in the service. ralph's next step up the ladder, as told in the second volume of this series, called "ralph in the switch tower," led to his promotion to the post of fireman. the third volume of the series, "ralph on the engine," showed the routine and adventures of an ambitious boy bound to reach the top notch in railroad service. the proudest moment in the life of the young engineer, however, seemed to have arrived when ralph was awarded the crack run of the road, as told in the fourth volume of this series entitled "ralph on the overland express." the reader who has followed the upward and onward course of the railroad boy through these volumes will remember how he made friends everywhere. they were all the better for his bright ways and good example. it was ralph's great forbearance and patience that overcame the grumpiness and suspicion of the cross-grained lemuel fogg and made of him a first-class fireman. it was ralph's kindly encouragement that brought out the inventive genius of a capital young fellow named archie graham, and helped limpy joe, a railroad cripple, to acquire a living as an eating house proprietor. a poor waif named van sherwin owed his rise in life to the influence of the good-hearted young engineer, and zeph dallas, a would-be boy detective, was toned down and instructed by ralph until his wild ideas had some practical coherency to them. ralph had his enemies. from time to time along his brisk railroad career they had bobbed up at inopportune junctures, but never to his final disaster, for they were in the wrong and right always prevails in the end. they had tried to upset his plans on many an occasion, they had tried to disgrace and discredit him, but vainly. in "ralph on the overland express" the young engineer did some pretty big things for a new man at the throttle. he carried a train load of passengers through a snowstorm experience that made old veterans on the road take notice in an astonished way, and he made some record runs over the mountain division that established the service of the great northern as a standard model. all this success not only ranked in the minds of his enemies, but roused the envy and dissatisfaction of rival roads. for some time vague hints had been rife that these rivals were forming a combination "to put the great northern out of business," if the feat were possible, so both ralph and his loyal fireman kept their eyes wide open and felt that they were on their mettle all of the time. ralph's last exploit had won him a high place in the estimation of his superiors. with every train out of rockton stalled, he and fogg had made a terrifying hairbreadth special run to shelby junction, defying floods, drifts and washouts, landing the president of the road just in the nick of time to catch a train on a parallel rival line. the event had enabled that official to close an advantageous arrangement, in which time was the essence of a contract which gave the great northern the supremacy over every line in the district having transcontinental connections. the great northern had won the upper hand through this timely but not tricky operation. naturally, baffled, rival roads had been upset by the same. a revengeful feeling had extended to the employees of those lines, and the warning had been spread broadcast to look out for squalls, as the other roads had given the quiet tip to its men, it was understood, to take down the great northern a peg or two whenever occasion offered. of all this ralph was thinking as they passed the flag station at luce, and shot around the long curve guarded by a line of bluffs just beyond. the young engineer was thinking of home, and so was fogg, for they were due in twenty-three minutes now. suddenly ralph reached out for the lever lightning quick, and then his hand swept sand and air valves with the rapidity of an expert playing some instrument. crack! under the wheels of the big locomotive a detonating clamor rang out--always a vivid warning to the nerves of every wide-awake railroad man. "a torpedo--something ahead," spoke ralph quickly. "what did i tell you?" jerked out his fireman excitedly. "i felt it in my bones, i told you it was about time for something to happen." the young engineer steadied the locomotive down to a sliding halt like a trained jockey stopping a horse on the race track. the halt brought the nose of the locomotive just beyond the bluff line so that ralph could sweep the tracks ahead with a clear glance. "it's a wreck," announced the young engineer of the overland express. chapter ii the wreck "a wreck, eh,--sure, i know it! our turn next--you'll see," fumed fogg, as the locomotive came to a stop. "it's a freight on the out track," said ralph, peering ahead. "two cars over the embankment and--" "for land's sake!" interrupted the fireman, "whiff! whoo! what have we run into, anyway?" a flying object came slam bang against the lookout window not two inches from fogg's nose. a dozen more sailed over the cab roof. with a great flutter half of these dropped down into the cab direct. "chickens!" roared fogg in excitement and astonishment. "say, did you ever see so many at one time? where do they ever come from?" "from the wreck. look ahead," directed ralph. it was hard to do this, for a second flock of fowls thronged down upon them. of a sudden there seemed to be chickens everywhere. they scampered down the rails, crouched to the pilot, roosted on the steam chests, lined up on the coal of the tender, while three fat hens clucked and skirmished under the very feet of the fireman, who was hopping about to evade the bewildering inrush. "i declare!" he ejaculated breathlessly. far as ralph could see ahead, stray fowls were in evidence. feathers were flying, and a tremendous clatter and bustle was going on. they came limping, flying, rolling along the roadbed from the direction of a train standing stationary on the out track. in its center there was a gap. thirty feet down the embankment, split in two, and a mere pile of kindling wood now, were two cars. the trucks of one of these and some minor wreckage littered the in track. freight hands were clearing it away, and it was this temporary obstruction that had been the cause of the warning torpedo. a brakeman from the freight came to the passenger train to report what was doing. "palace chicken car and a gondola loaded with boxes in the ditch beyond," he said. "we'll be cleaned up for you in a few minutes." "that's how the chickens come to be in evidence so numerously, it seems," remarked ralph. "say, see them among the wrecked wire netting, and putting for the timber!" exclaimed fogg. "fairbanks, there's enough poultry running loose to stock an eating house for a year. i say, they're nobody's property now. suppose--here's two fat ones. i reckon i'll take that much of the spoil while it's going." with a vast chuckle the fireman grabbed two of the fowls under his feet and dumped them into his waste box, shutting down the cover. the conductor of the freight came up penciling a brief report. he handed it to the conductor of the overland. "we'll wire from luce," he explained, "but we may be delayed reaching there and you may get this to headquarters at the junction first. tell the claim agent there won't be salvage enough to fill a waybill. she's clear," with a glance down the track. the overland proceeded slowly past the wreck, affording the crew and the curious passengers a view of the demolished freight lying at the bottom of the embankment. once past this, ralph set full steam to make up for lost time. it put fogg in better humor to arrive on schedule. the thought of home comforts close by and the captured chickens occupied his mind and dissipated his superstitious forebodings. when they reached the roundhouse the fireman started straight for home. ralph lingered a few minutes to chat with the foreman, and was about to leave when fry, the claim agent of the road, came into the doghouse in great haste. "just the man i want to see, fairbanks," he said animatedly. "that so?" smiled ralph. "yes. your conductor just notified me of the smashup beyond the limits. it looks clean cut enough, with the tracks cleared, but he says some of the stuff is perishable." "if you list chickens in that class," responded ralph, "i guess that's right." "that's the bother of it," observed fry. "dead salvage could wait, and the wrecking crew could take care of it at their leisure, but--live stock!" "it looked to me as if most of the chickens had got away," exclaimed ralph. "the car was split and twisted from end to end." "i reckon i had better get on the job instanter," said the claim agent. "how about getting down to the bluff switch, forgan?" "nothing moving but the regulars," reported the roundhouse foreman. "you don't need a special?" "no, any dinky old machine will do." "gravel pit dummy just came in." "can't you rig her up and give me clear tracks for an hour, till i make investigations?" "crew gone home." "no extras on hand?" the foreman consulted his schedule and shook his head negatively. ralph thought of his home and mother, but a certain appealing glance from the claim agent and a natural disposition to be useful and accommodating influenced him to a kindly impulse. "see here, mr. fry, i'll be glad to help you out, if i can," he said. "you certainly can, fairbanks, and i won't forget the favor," declared the claim agent warmly. "you see, i'm booked for a week's vacation and a visit to my old invalid father down at danley, beginning tomorrow. if i can untie all the red tape from this wreck affair, i'm free to get out, and my substitute can take up any fresh tangles that come up tomorrow." "can you fire?" inquired ralph. "i can make a try at it." "then i'll see to the rest," promised the young engineer briskly. with the aid of wiper ralph soon got the dummy ready for action. it was a long time since the young engineer had done roundhouse duty. he did it well now, and thanked the strict training of his early apprentice experience. the jerky spiteful little engine rolled over the turntable in a few minutes time, and the claim agent pulled off his coat and looked to ralph for orders. they took a switch and headed down the clear out track. at a crossing a man came tearing towards them, arms waving, long beard flying, and his face showing the greatest urgency and excitement. "mishter fry! mishter fry!" he panted out, "i haf just heard--" "nothing for you, cohen," shouted the claim agent. "i hear dere vas some boxes. sthop! sthop! i've got the retty gash." "ready-cash cohen," exclaimed fry to ralph. "always on hand when there's any cheap wreck salvage lying around loose. that fellow seems to scent a wreck like a vulture." "i've heard of him," remarked ralph with a smile. they had free swing on the out track until they neared the scene of the wreck. here they took a siding and left the dummy, to walk to the spot where the two freight cars had gone over the embankment. "hello!" suddenly ejaculated the claim agent with tremendous surprise and emphasis. "excuse me, mishter fry, but that salvage--" ralph burst out into a hearty peal of laughter. clinging to the little bobtail tender of the dummy was ready-cash cohen. "well, you're a good one, cohen." "if i vas'nt, vould i be chonny-on-de-spot, mishter fry?" chuckled cohen cunningly. he followed them as they walked down the tracks. when they reached the point where the two freights had gone over the embankment, fry clambered down its slant and for some time poked about the tangled mass of wreckage below. "vill dere haf to be an appraisal, my tear friend?" anxiously inquired cohen, pressing forward as the claim agent reappeared. "no," responded fry shortly. "there's a chicken car with live and dead mixed up in the tangle. come, cohen, how much for the lot?" "schickens?" repeated cohen disgustedly--"not in my line, mishter fry. schickens are an expense. dey need feeding." "won't bid, eh?" "don't vant dem at any price. but de boxes, mishter fry--vot's in dose boxes?" "see here," observed fry, "i'm not giving information to the enemy. there they are, badly shaken up but they look meaty, don't they? if you want to bid unsight unseen, name your figure." "fifty tollars." "take them." the salvage dealer toppled down the embankment with a greedy promptness. the claim agent winked blandly after him. "i expected it," said fry, as a minute later cohen came toiling up the embankment his face a void of disappointed misery. "mishter fry, mishter fry," he gasped, "dey are looking glasses!" "found that out, did you?" grinned the freight agent. "dey vos smashed, dey vas proken, every last one of dem. dey are not even junk. my tear friend, i cannot take dem." "a bargain's a bargain, cohen," voiced fry smoothly. "you've made enough out of your deals with the road to stand by your bid. if you don't, we're no longer your customer." "i von't have dem. it was a trick," and the man went down the track tearing at his beard. "there's kindling wood there for somebody free for the taking," remarked fry. "the chicken smashup isn't so easy." "many down there?" inquired ralph. "yes, most of them are crushed, but a good many alive are shut in the wire tangle. the best i can do is to send a section man to pry them free. it's heartless to leave them to suffer and to die." "a lot of them got free," observed ralph. "they're somewhere around the diggings. it wouldn't be a bad speculation for some bright genius to round them up. why, say, fairbanks, you're an ambitious kind of a fellow. i'll offer you an investment." "what's that, mr. fry?" inquired the young engineer. "i'll sell you the whole kit and caboodle in the car and out of it for twenty-five dollars." ralph shook his head with a smile. "if i had time to spare i'd jump at your offer, mr. fry," he said. "as it is, what could i do with the proposition?" "do?" retorted the claim agent. "hire some boys to gather in the bunch. there may be five hundred chicks in the round up." "really, i couldn't bother with it, mr. fry," began ralph, and then he turned abruptly. some one had pulled at his sleeve, and with a start the young engineer stared strangely at a boy about his own age. chapter iii trouble brewing the strange boy appeared upon the scene so suddenly that ralph decided he must have reached the roadbed from the other side of the embankment. the young engineer faced him with a slight start. to his certain knowledge he had never seen the lad before. however, his face so strongly resembled that of some one he had met recently it puzzled ralph. whom did those features suggest? ralph thought hard, but gave it up. "did you wish to see me?" he inquired. the boy had a striking face. it was pale and thin, his clothes were neat but shabby. there was a sort of scared look in his eyes that appealed to ralph, who was strongly sympathetic. "i know you," spoke the boy in a hesitating, embarrassed way. "you don't know me, but i've had you pointed out to me." "that so?" and ralph smiled. "you are ralph fairbanks, the engineer of the overland express," continued the lad in a hushed tone, as if the distinction awed him. "that's right," nodded ralph. "well, i've heard of you, and you've been a friend to a good many people. i hope i'm not over bold, but if you would be a friend to me--" here the strange boy paused in a pitiful, longing way that appealed to ralph. "go ahead," he said. "i heard this gentleman," indicating mr. fry, "offer to sell the chickens down the embankment. i'm a poor boy, mr. fairbanks--dreadfully poor. there's reasons why i can't work in the towns like other boys. you can give me work, though--you can just set me on my feet." "how can i do that?" inquired ralph, getting interested. "by buying me those chickens. i've got the place for them, i've got the time to attend to them, and i know just how to handle them. why," continued the speaker excitedly, "there's nearly two hundred in prime trim gathered in a little thicket over yonder, and there's double that number among the wreckage, besides those that are hurt that i can nurse and mend up. if you will buy them for me, i'll solemnly promise to return you the money in a week and double the amount of interest in two." "you talk clear and straight and earnest, my lad," here broke in the claim agent. "what's your name?" "glen palmer." "do you live near here?" "yes, sir--in an old abandoned farmhouse, rent free, about a mile north of here." "with your folks?" "no, sir, i have no folks, only an old grandfather. he's past working, and, well, a--a little queer at times, and i have to keep close watch of him. that's what's the trouble." the claim agent took out his note book. "look here," he spoke, "if fairbanks will vouch for you, i'll tab off the chickens to you at fifteen dollars, due in thirty days." "o--oh!" gasped the lad, clasping his hands in an ecstacy of hope and happiness. "i'll be sure to pay you-- why, with what i know i can do with those chickens, i could pay you ten times over inside of a month." "mr. fry," said ralph, studying the boy's face for a moment or two, "i'll go security for my friend here." "say--excuse me, but say, mr. fairbanks, i--i--" the boy broke down, tears chocking his utterance. he could only clasp and cling to ralph's hand. the latter patted him on the shoulder with the encouraging words: "you go ahead with your chicken farm, glen, and if it needs more capital come to me." "if you only knew what you've done for me--for me and my old grandfather!" faltered glen palmer, the deepest gratitude and feeling manifested in tone and manner. ralph felt sure that the lad had a history. he did not, however, embarrass him with any questioning. he liked the way that young palmer talked and bustled about as soon as the word was given that his proposition was accepted. with an eager face he announced that he had a plan for getting the chickens to his home, and darted off at breakneck speed, waving his hand gratefully back at ralph a dozen times. ralph and the claim agent reached the dummy to find cohen hanging around it in great mental distress. fry invited him to ride in the cab, and tormented him by talking about his bargain clear back to the roundhouse. then he relieved cohen's distress, which bordered on positive distraction, by releasing him from his contract. mrs. fairbanks greeted ralph with her usual loving, kindly welcome when he reached home. the old family cottage was a veritable nest of comfort, and the young engineer enjoyed it to the utmost. there was always some special favorite dainty awaiting ralph on his return from a trip, and he had a fine appetizing meal. "we had a visitor today, ralph," said mrs. fairbanks, as they sat chatting in the cozy sitting room a little later. "who was that, mother?" mrs. fairbanks with a smile handed her son a card that had been lying on the mantle. ralph smiled, too, as he looked it over. "h'm," he said. "quite dignified, 'mr. dallas,' our old friend zeph, eh? what's this mysterious monogram, cryptogram, or whatever it is, way down in the corner of the card?" "it looks like two s's," suggested mrs. fairbanks. "oh, i can solve the enigma now," said ralph with a broader smile than ever. "it is 's. s.,' by which zeph means and wants mystified others to half guess means 'secret service.' there's one thing about zeph, with all his wild imaginings and ambition along the railroad line, he sticks to his idea of breaking in somewhere as an active young sleuth." "we think a lot of zeph, ralph, and we mustn't forget that he did some bright things in helping that poor little orphan, ernest gregg, to health and happiness." "yes, zeph deserves great credit for his patience and cleverness in that affair," admitted ralph warmly, "only the line he is so fascinated with doesn't strike me as a regular business." "how about mr. adair, ralph?" insinuated his mother. "that's so, bob adair is the finest railroad detective in the world. if zeph could line up under his guidance, he might make something practical of himself." "i think he has really done just that." "i am delighted to hear it," said ralph, and watching the glowing embers in the grate in a dreamy fashion he mused pleasantly over his experience with the redoubtable zeph, while his mother was busy tidying up the dining room. it was a good deal of satisfaction for ralph to recall zeph dallas to mind. zeph, a raw country youth, had come to stanley junction in a whole peck of trouble. ralph had always a helping hand for the unlucky or unfortunate. he became a good friend to zeph and got him a place in the roundhouse. zeph made a miserable failure of the job. the height of his ambition was to be a detective--like fellows he had read about. zeph finally landed, as he expressed it, with both feet. the son of a prominent railroad official became interested in hunting up the relatives of a forlorn little fellow named gregg. he had plenty of money, and he hired zeph to assist him. the latter showed that he had something in him, for his wit and energy not only located the wealthy relative of the orphan outcast, but upset the plots of a wicked schemer who was planning to rob the friendless lad of his rights. "what did zeph say about mr. adair, mother?" inquired ralph, as mrs. fairbanks again entered the sitting room. "nothing clear," she explained. "you know how zeph delights in cuddling up his ideas to himself and looking and acting mysterious. he was very important as he hinted that mr. adair depended on him to 'save the day in a big case,' and he said a great deal about a 'rival railroad.'" "oh, did he, indeed?" murmured ralph thoughtfully. "zeph told me to advise you, very secretly he put it, to look out for trouble." "what kind of trouble?" "particularly, he said, in the train dispatcher's department." "hm!" commented the young engineer simply, but his brow became furrowed with thought, and he reflected by spells quite seriously over the subject during the evening. fogg had forgotten all about his fears of the day previous when he reported at the roundhouse the next morning. he grinned at his young comrade with a particularly satisfied smirk on his face, and made the remark: "you see before you, young man, a person full of the best chicken stew ever cooked in stanley junction. i say, fairbanks, if you'd kind of slow up going past bluff point we might grab off enough more of those chickens to do for sunday dinner." "we? don't include me in your disreputable pilferings, mr. fogg," declared ralph, "you may get a bill for the two fowls you so boastingly allude to." "hey." "yes, indeed. in fact," continued ralph with mock seriousness, "i don't know but what i may have a certain interest in enforcing its collection." the young engineer recited the episode of the salvage sale of the chickens to glen palmer. "quite a windfall, that," commented fogg. "another fellow to thank his lucky stars that he ran up against ralph fairbanks. sort of interested in this proposition myself. i can hardly imagine a finer prospect than running a chicken farm. some day--" the rhapsody of fireman fogg was cut short by the arrival of the schedule minute for getting up steam on the overland racer. the bustle and energy of starting out on their regular trip made engineer and helper forget everything except the duties of the occasion. as they cleared the limits, however, and approached bluff point, ralph watched out with natural curiosity, and fogg remarked: "hope a few more chickens drop into the cab this morning." ralph slowed up slightly, they struck the bluff curve, and as they neared the scene of the freight wreck of the previous day he had a good view of the embankment where the two abandoned cars lay. "some one there," commented fogg, his keen glance fixed on the spot. "yes, our young friend glen palmer and an old man. that must be the grandfather he talked about. they are very industriously at work." the two persons whom ralph designated were in the midst of the wreckage. the old man was prying apart the netted compartment of the car and into this the boy was reaching. near at hand was an old hand cart. it carried a great coop made of laths, and was half filled with fowls. as the train circled the spot the boy below suspended his work and looked up. he seemed to recognize ralph--or at least he knew his locomotive. ralph nodded and smiled and sounded three quick low toots from the whistle. this attracted the attention of the old man, who, standing upright, stared up at the train, posed like some heroic figure in plain view. "i say!" ejaculated fogg with a great start. the young engineer was similarly moved. in a flash he now traced the source of the puzzling suggestiveness of something familiar in the face of glen palmer the day before. "did you see him?" demanded fogg. "yes," nodded ralph. "the old man--he's the one we saw with those two suspicious jailbird-looking fellows down the line yesterday." chapter iv the wire tappers "i don't like it," spoke fogg with emphasis. "neither do i," concurred ralph, "but i fancy the sensible thing to do is to make the best of it." "while somebody else is making the worst of it!" grumbled the old fireman. "what brought up the confab with the old man at the terminus, anyway?" "he just called me into the office and gave me the warning i have told you about." "queer--and pestiferous," said fogg with vehemence. "i don't mind a fair and square fight with any man, but this stabbing in the back, tumbling into man traps in the dark and the like, roils me." the overland express was on its return trip to stanley junction. outside of the incident of the recognition of the old grandfather of glen palmer at the bluff curve, nothing had occurred to disturb a smooth, satisfactory run. ralph and fogg had discussed the first incident for quite some time after it had come up. "i don't like the lineup," fogg had asserted. "here one day you run across that old man in the company of two fellows we'd put in jail on mere suspicion. the next day we find the same old man cleaning up a wreck. is that part of some villanious programme? did some fine play send that chicken car down into the ditch, say?" "decidedly not," answered ralph. "it doesn't look that way at all. even if it did, i would vouch for young palmer. he had no hand in it. i'll look this business up, though, when we get back home." "h'm, you'd better," growled fogg, and the fireman was back in his old surly suspicious mood all of the rest of the run. now, on the return trip, fogg was brought up to a positive pitch of frenzy. it was just after their layover at rockton when a messenger had come from the assistant superintendent to the roundhouse. the waiting hands there knew him. he approached ralph, addressed him in a low confidential tone, and the two proceeded to headquarters together. it was the sentiment of the majority that the young engineer of the overland express was "on the carpet for a call down." ralph came back from the interview with the railway official with a serious but by no means downcast face. he parried the good natured raillery of his fellow workmen. it was not until he and his fireman were well out of rockton on their return trip that he told fogg what had taken place in the private office of the assistant superintendent. there was not much to tell, but there was lots left to surmise, and worry over, according to fogg's way of thinking. the railroad official had pledged ralph to treat the interview as strictly confidential, except so far as his fireman was concerned. there was trouble brewing unmistakably, he told ralph. the latter had weathered some pretty hard experiences with personal enemies and strikers in the past. the official wished to prepare him to battle some more of it in the future. bluntly he informed ralph that two rival roads were "after the scalp" of the great northern. they could not reach the overland schedule of the latter line by fair means, and they might try to break it by foul ones. the official gravely announced that he felt sure of this. he would have later specific information for ralph. in the meantime, he wished him to exercise unusual vigilance and efficiency in overcoming obstacles that might arise to delay or cripple the overland express. two things rather startled the young engineer, for they seemed to confirm hints and suspicions already in the wind. in a guarded way the official had referred to "harmony in the train dispatcher's office." he had next made an allusion to the fact that if competitive rivalry grew fierce, it might attract under cover a lot of disreputable criminals, and he spoke of extra precaution when the pay trips of the line were made, tallying precisely with suspicions already entertained by ralph. it was a very cold night when the train started out on its return trip. it was clear starlight, however, and once on the free swing down the glistening rails, the exhilarating swirl of progress drove away all shadows of care and fear. the magnificent locomotive did her duty well and puffed down to the regular stop beyond the barrens an hour after daylight fresh as a daisy, and just as pretty as one, fogg declared. "they're going to miss us this time, i reckon," spoke the fireman with hilarity and relief, as they later covered the first fifty miles beyond the mountain division. "if any one was laying for us, yes, it seems so," joined in ralph. "we are pretty well on our way, it's daytime, and likely we'll get through safe this trip." both were congratulating themselves on the outlook as they struck the first series of curves that led through the long stretch of bluffs at the end of which they had encountered the torpedo warning just seventy-two hours previous. there was no indication of any obstruction ahead, and the locomotive was going at good speed. it was almost a zigzag progress on a six per cent. grade for a stretch of over ten miles, and five of the distance it was a blind swift whiz, shut in by great towering bluffs without a break. suddenly at a sharp turn fogg uttered a shout and ralph grasped the lever with a quick clutch. "what was that?" gasped fogg. "maybe a flying rock," suggested ralph. he spoke calmly enough, but every nerve was on the jump. the crisis of the vigilance since the run commenced had reached its climax of excitement and strain. "something busted," added fogg a trifle hoarsely, "something struck the headlight and splintered it. see here," and he picked up and showed to ralph a splinter of glass that had blown in through the open window on his side of the cab. "whatever it was it's past now and no damage done," declared ralph. "there's something twisted around the steam chest, mr. fogg." "so there is," assented fogg, peering ahead. "guess i'll see what it means." ralph did not have to let down speed to accommodate his expert helper. fogg was as much at home on the running board with the train going a mile a minute pace as a house painter on a first-floor scaffold. he crept out through his window. ralph lost sight of him beyond the bulge of the boiler and while watching ahead from his own side of the cab. fogg was nearly three minutes on his tour of investigation. "there's something to think about," he declared emphatically as he dropped two objects on the floor of the cab. "what is it?" inquired ralph with a curious stare. "wait till i mend the fire and i'll show you something," said the fireman. then, this duty attended to, he took from the floor a long piece of wire wound around a part of a device that resembled a telegraph instrument. "see here," explained the fireman excitedly, "i've got it in a word." "and what is that, mr. fogg?" "wire tappers." "or line repairers," suggested ralph. "i said wire tappers," insisted fogg convincedly, "and i stick to it. they were at work back there in the cut. their line must have sagged where they strung it too low. our smokestack struck it, whipped the outfit free, stand and all, and that metal jigger there swung around and struck the headlight." "what stand--was there a stand, then?" inquired ralph. "must have been, for pieces of it are out on the pilot. say, something else, too! the whole business came that way. look at that." fogg lifted a small strap satchel from the floor of the cab as he spoke. this was pretty well riddled. in the general swing of the outfit its side must have come in contact with some sharp edged projection of the locomotive. then, one side torn open from which there protruded some article of wearing apparel, it had landed on the pilot where fogg had found it. "line repairers do not carry little dinky reticules like that," scornfully declaimed the fireman. "there's a dress shirt, a fancy vest and a pair of kid gloves in it. the old man at terminus was right. some one is trying to do up the great northern." "put these things away carefully," directed ralph, his face thoughtful, and as they ran on it grew anxious and serious. when they passed the scene of the freight wreck three days previous, they found the debris cleared away and no sign of the boy and old man who had interested them. a wrecking crew had men at work and only a litter of kindling wood marked the scene of the tumble down the embankment. when they reached their destination ralph made a package of the articles fogg had found on the pilot and proceeded to the office of the general superintendent. that functuary he found to be absent. he followed the promptings of his own mind and proceeded to the office of the road detective, bob adair. a bright young fellow named dayton, the stenographer of the road detective, announced that mr. adair was off duty away from stanley junction. "how soon can you reach him?" inquired ralph. "oh, that's easy," replied dayton. adair was a warm friend of ralph. the latter knew the official reposed a good deal of confidence in young dayton. he decided to tell him about the supposed discovery of the wire tapping outfit. "good for you," commended dayton. "you've hit a subject of big importance just at present, mr. fairbanks." "is that so." "very much so. i'll get word to mr. adair at once. he happens to be in call this side of the mountain division. this discovery of yours fits in--that is, mr. adair will be glad to get this bit of news." "i understand," returned ralph meaningly. he was a trifle surprised to see dayton begin a message in cypher to his chief. "it looks as if mr. adair doesn't even trust the wires just now," soliloquized ralph as he started for home. the first thing he did after supper was to undo the parcel containing the telegraphic device and the satchel. the latter, as fogg had stated, contained a shirt, a fancy vest and a pair of gloves. these bore no initial or other marks of identification. they were pretty badly riddled from their forcible collision with some sharp corner of the locomotive--so much so, that a pocket, ripped clear out of place, revealed a folded slip of paper. this had suffered in the mix-up, like the garments. ralph opened it carefully. it was tattered and torn, sections were gouged out of it here and there, but ralph devoted to its perusal a thorough inspection. his face was both startled and thoughtful as he looked up from his desk. for nearly five minutes the young railroader sat staring into space, his mind wrestling with a mighty problem. ralph arose from his chair at last, put on his cap and went to the kitchen where mrs. fairbanks was tidying up things. "i'm going away for an hour or two, mother," he announced. "nothing wrong, i hope, ralph," spoke mrs. fairbanks, the serious manner of her son arousing her mothering anxiety at once. "i don't know," answered ralph. "it's something pretty important. i've got to see the paymaster of the road." chapter v ike slump "things are narrowing down and closing in," said the young engineer to himself as he left the fairbanks cottage. ralph started away at a brisk pace. as he had told his mother, he was anxious to see the paymaster of the great northern. the general offices were now closed, and ralph had the home of the paymaster in view as his present destination. a vivid memory of what the torn sheet found in the riddled vest pocket revealed engrossed his mind. that sheet was a scrawl, a letter, or rather what was left of it. enough of it was there to cause the young railroader to believe that he had made a most important and startling discovery. the screed was from one scamp in the city to another scamp on the road. judging from the scrawl, a regular set of scamps had been hired to do some work for high-up, respectable fellows. this work was the securing of certain secret information, the private property of the great northern, nothing more--for the present at least. it seemed, however, that "jem," in the city, had advised "rivers," on the road, that now was the great opportunity to work personal graft on the side--as he designated it. he advised rivers to keep the regular job going, as five dollars a day was pretty good picking. he, however, added that he must keep close tab on the paymaster deal. it meant a big bag of game. it might not be according to orders, but the other railroad fellows wouldn't lose any sleep if the great northern turned up with an empty pay car some fine morning. the hint was given also that the way to do things right was to get close to the paymaster's system. such suggestive words as "watching," "papers," appeared in the last lines of the riddled sheet of paper. "the precious set of rascals," commented ralph indignantly. "the assistant superintendent knew what he was talking about, it seems. it's all as plain as day to me. our rivals have employed an irresponsible gang to spy on and cripple our service. their hirelings are plotting to make a great steal on their own account. hi, there--mind yourself, will you!" ralph was suddenly nearly knocked off his feet. at the moment he was passing along the side of a building used as a restaurant. it was a great lounging place for young loafers, and second class and discharged railroad men. its side door had opened forcibly and the big bouncing proprietor of the place was wrathfully chasing a lithe young fellow from the place. his foot barely grazed the latter, who pirouetted on the disturbed ralph and went sliding across the pavement to the gutter. "get out, i tell you, get out!" roared the irate restaurant man. "we don't want the likes of you about here." "i'm out, ain't i?" pertly demanded the intruder. "and stay out." "yah!" the man slammed the door, muttered something about stolen tableware and changed eating checks. ralph did not pause to challenge the ousted intruder further. one glance he had cast at the ugly, leering face of the lad. then, his lips puckered to an inaudible whistle of surprise and dislike, he hurried his steps. "ike slump!" uttered the young railroader under his breath. it only needed the presence of the detestable owner of that name to momentarily cause ralph to feel that the situation was working down to one of absolute peril and intense seriousness. ike slump had been a name to conjure by in the past--with the very worst juvenile element in stanley junction. way back in his first active railroad work, about the first repellant and obnoxious element ralph had come up against was ike slump. when ralph was given a job in the roundhouse, he had found ike slump in the harness. from the very start the latter had made trouble for the new hand. ike had tried to direct ralph wrong, to slight work, to aid him in pulling the wool over the eyes of their superiors in doing poor work. ralph had manfully refused to be a party to such deception. a pitched battle had ensued in which slump was worsted. later he was discharged, still later he was detected in stealing metal fittings from the roundhouse. after that ike slump joined a crowd of regular yard thieves. as ralph went up the ladder of fortune, ike went down. he was arrested, escaped, made many attempts to "get even," as he called it, with the boy who had never done him a wrong, and the last ralph had heard of him he was serving a term in some jail for train wrecking. how he had got free was a present mystery to ralph. that he had been pardoned or his sentence remitted through some influence or other was evident, for here was slump, back in stanley junction, where adair, the road detective, would pick him up in a jiffy, if he was a fugitive from justice. ralph had no wish to come in contact with the fellow. on the contrary, so distasteful was slump and his many ways and his low companions to ralph, that he was desirous of strictly evading him. ralph, however, could not help experiencing a new distrust at coming upon slump at a time when presumptive villainy was in the air. "hey!" ralph did not pause at the challenge. he realized that slump had seen and recognized him. he kept straight on, paying no attention to the hail, repeated, but at the corner of two streets, under a lamplight, he halted, for slump was at his side. "well, what do you want?" demanded ralph bluntly, and with no welcome in his voice. "i--want to speak to you," stammered slump, breathless from his run. "i suppose it tickled you nearly to death to see me kicked out of the restaurant back yonder, hey?" "why should it?" inquired ralph. "that's all right, fairbanks; natural, too, i suppose, for you never liked me." "did you ever give me a chance to try." "eh? well, let that pass. don't be huffy now. see here." as slump spoke, he extended his hands. they were coarse and grimy. with a smirk he inquired: "see them?" "see what?" demanded ralph. "clean hands." "are they--i didn't understand." "yes, sir," declared the young rowdy volubly. "they've worked out the sentence on the stoke pile, and i owe the state nothing. i'm as free in stanley junction as any goody-goody boy in the burg, and i want you to know it." "all right, ike," said ralph, pleasantly enough, "hope you'll improve the chance to make good, now you've got the opportunity." "you bet i will," retorted slump, with a strangely jubilant chuckle. "that's good." "don't go, i've got something else to say to you." "i'm pressed for time, slump--" "oh, you can spare me a minute. it may do you some good. say, you've managed to climb up some while i've been locked up, haven't you?" "i've had good steady work, yes." "i'd give an arm for just one run on that dandy overland express of yours," observed slump. "why don't you work for it, then," questioned ralph. "it's in any boy who will attend strictly to business." "oh, i don't want the glory," explained slump. "what, then?" "just one chance to spurt her up till she rattled her old boiler into smithereens and run the whole train into the ditch. that's how much i love the great northern!" ralph was disgusted. he started down the walk, but slump was persistent. the latter caught his arm. ralph allowed himself to be brought to a halt, but determined to break away very shortly. "just a word, fairbanks, before you go," said slump. "you're going to come across me once in a while, and i want a pleasant understanding, see? you won't see me getting into any more scrapes by holding the bags for others. i'm after the real velvet now, and i'm going to get it, see? i know a heap of what's going on, and something is. i'll give you one tip. i can get you a small fortune to resign your position on the great northern." the way ike slump pronounced these words, looking squarely into the eyes of ralph, could not fail to impress the latter with the conviction that there was some sinister meaning in the proposition. ralph, however, laughed lightly. "thinking of starting a railroad of your own, slump?" he asked. "no, i ain't," dissented slump. "all the same--you see, do you?" slump smartly put out one hand curved up like a cup. "yes, you told me before," nodded ralph--"clean hands this time." "now, this is a different deal." "well?" "hollow of my hand--see?" "i don't." "maybe it holds a big railroad system, maybe it don't. maybe i know a turn or two on the programme where the tap of a finger blows things up, maybe i don't. i only say this: i can fix you right with the right parties--for a consideration. think it over, see? when you see me again have a little chat with me. it will pay you--see?" ralph walked on more slowly after a long wondering stare at ike slump. he had never been afraid of the young knave either in a square fight or in a battle of wits. there was something ominous, however, in this new attitude of slump. he had told just enough to show that something antagonistic to the great northern was stirring, and that he was mixed up with it. the home of the paymaster was located over near the railroad, quite away from the business centre of the town. ralph reached it after a brisk walk. he found the place dark and apparently untenanted. it looked as if mr. little and his family were away, probably at some neighbor's house. then going around to the side of the house and glancing up at the windows, ralph discovered something that startled him. "hello!" he exclaimed involuntarily, and every sense was on the alert in an instant. two flashes inside the downstairs wing of the house, which ralph knew mr. little used as a library, had glinted across the panes of an uncurtained window. somebody inside the room had scratched a match which went out, then another which stayed lighted. its flickerings for a moment illuminated the apartment and revealed two men standing near a desk at one side of the room. "why," exclaimed the young railroader--"those mysterious men again!" chapter vi in the tunnel ralph pressed close to the window pane of mr. little's library room but he did not succeed in seeing much. the last match struck revealed to his sight the two men who had acted so suspiciously the day he had seen them hanging around the overland express train with glen palmer's grandfather. if all that he had surmised and discovered was true, it was quite natural that he should come upon them again. ralph was less startled than surprised. he wondered what their motive could be in visiting the paymaster's house. "they are not up to burglary," the idea ran through his mind. "it must be they are searching among the paymaster's papers to find out what they can about his system and methods. yes, that is it." ralph saw the man who had struck the matches draw from his pocket a tallow candle, evidently intending to light it. his companion had pulled up the sliding top of a desk and was reaching out toward some pigeon holes to inspect their contents. just then an unexpected climax came. the foot of the young railroader slipped on a patch of frozen grass as he pressed too close to the window. ralph fell up against this with a slight clatter. the man with the match turned very sharply and suddenly. he glared hard at the source of the commotion. he must have caught sight of ralph's face before the latter had time to draw back, for he uttered a startled ejaculation. with a bang the desk top fell back in place, the match went out, and the man with the candle fired it wildly at the form at the window with sufficient force to penetrate the pane with a slight crash. ralph drew back, some fine splinters of glass striking his face. it was totally dark now in the room into which he had peered. he could catch the heavy tramping of feet in flight and a door slammed somewhere in the house. "hey, there--what are you up to," challenged ralph, sharply, as he stood in a puzzled way debating what was best to do. he turned about, to face a powerfully-built man, cane in hand, storming down upon him from the front of the house. "it is you, mr. little?" inquired ralph quickly. "yes, it's me. who are you? oh, young fairbanks," spoke the paymaster, peering closely at ralph. "yes, sir." "i thought i heard a pane of glass smash--" "you did. hurry to the rear, mr. little." "what for?" "i'll cover the front." "why--" "two men are in your house. they were just at your desk when i discovered them." "two men in the house!" "i can't explain now, but it is very important that we prevent their escape." "burglars! we were all over to supper at wife's folks--" "spies, fits the case better, sir--some rival road spite work, maybe. it's serious, as i shall explain to you later." "there they are. hey, stop!" two figures had cut across the lawn from the rear of the house. "they are the same men," declared ralph, and both he and the paymaster put after them. the fugitives paid no attention to the repeated demands of the paymaster to halt. they crossed a vacant field and suddenly went clear out of sight. "they've dropped over the wall guarding the north tracks," said ralph. "and we'll follow!" declared mr. little dauntlessly. at this point the north branch of the road ran down a steep grade and was walled in for over a thousand feet. ralph dropped onto the cindered roadbed. mr. little more clumsily followed him. "where now?" he puffed, as he scrambled to his feet. "there they go," said ralph, pointing towards two forms quite plainly revealed in the night light. "i see them," spoke the paymaster. "they're caged in." "unless they take to the tunnel." "then we'll take to it, too," insisted mr. little. "i'm bound to get those men." ralph admired the pluck and persistency of his companion. the paymaster was a big man and a brave one. he had the reputation of generally putting through any job he started on. the young railroader did not entirely share the hopes of his companion, as he saw the two fugitives reach the mouth of the tunnel, and its gloom and darkness swallowed them up like a cloud. "the mischief!" roared the paymaster, going headlong, his cane hurtling through space as he stumbled over a tie brace. "i've sprained my ankle, i guess, fairbanks. don't stop for me. run those fellows down. there's bound to be a guard at the other end of the tunnel. call in his help." ralph grabbed up the cane where it had fallen and put sturdily after the fugitives. the tunnel slanted quite steeply at its start. it was about an eighth of a mile in length, and single tracked only. ralph was not entirely familiar with running details on this branch of the great northern, but he felt pretty sure that there were no regular trains for several hours after six o'clock. the men he was pursuing had quite some start of him, and unless he could overtake them before they reached the other end of the tunnel they were as good as lost for the time being. ralph's thought was that when he had passed the dip of the tunnel, he would be able to make out the forms of the fugitives against the glare of the numerous lights in the switchyards beyond the other entrance. the young railroader retained possession of the paymaster's cane as a weapon that might come in handy for attack or defense, as the occasion might arise. it was as black as night in the tunnel, once he got beyond the entrance, and he had to make a blind run of it. the roadbed was none too smooth, and he had to be careful how he picked his steps. the air was close and smoky, and he paused as he went down the sharp grade with no indication whatever through sight or sound of the proximity of the men he was after. it had occurred to him more than once that the men in advance, if they should happen to glance back, would be able to catch the outlines of his figure against the tunnel outlet. as they did not wish at all to be overhauled, however, ralph believed they would plan less to attack him than to strain every effort to get into hiding as speedily as possible. headed forward at quite a brisk pace, the young railroader came suddenly up against an obstruction. it was human, he felt that. in fact, as he ran into a yielding object he knew the same to be a barrier composed of joined hands of the two fugitives. they had noted or guessed his sharp pursuit of them, had joined each a hand, and spreading out the others practically barricaded the narrow tunnel roadbed so he could in no manner get past them. "got him!" spoke a harsh voice in the darkness. ralph receded and struck out with the cane. he felt that it landed with tremendous force on some one, for a sharp cry ensued. the next instant one of the fugitives pinioned one wrist and the other his remaining wrist. ralph swayed and swung to and fro, struggling actively to break away from his captors. "what now?" rang out at his ear. "run him forward." "he won't run." "then give him his quietus." ralph felt that a cowardly blow in the dark was pending. he had retained hold of the cane. he tried to use this as a weapon, but the clasp on either wrist was like that of steel. he could only sway the walking stick aimlessly. a hard fist blow grazed one ear, bringing the blood. ralph gave an old training ground twist to his supple body, at the same time deftly throwing out one foot. he had succeeded in tripping up his captor on the left, but though the fellow fell he preserved a tenacious grip on the wrist of the plucky young railroader. "keep your clutch!" panted the other man. "i'll have him fixed in a jiffy. thunder! what's coming?" "a train!" "break loose--we're lost!" ralph was released suddenly. the man on the right, however, had delivered the blow he had started to deal. it took ralph across the temple and for a moment dazed and stunned him. he fell directly between the rails. the two men had darted ahead. he heard one of them call out to hug the wall closely. then a sharp grinding roar assailed ralph's ears and he tried to trace out its cause. "something is coming," he murmured. his skilled hearing soon determined that it was no locomotive or train, but he was certain that some rail vehicle of light construction was bearing down upon him. ralph was so dazed that he could barely collect wit and strength in an endeavor to crawl out of the roadbed. with a swishing grind the approaching car, or whatever it was, tore down the sharp incline. his sheer helplessness of the instant appalled and amazed ralph. it seemed minutes instead of seconds before he rolled, crept, crawled over the outside rail. as he did so, with a whang stinging his nerves like needles of fire, one end of the descending object met his suspended foot full force, bending it up under him like a hinge. ralph was driven, lifted against the tunnel wall with harsh force. his head struck the wet slimy masonry, causing his brain to whirl anew. something swept by him on seeming wings of fleetness. there was a rush of wind that almost took his breath away. then there sounded out upon the clammy blackness of the tunnel an appalling, unearthly scream. chapter vii danger signals the danger seemed gone, with the passage of the whirling object on wheels that had so narrowly grazed the young railroader, but mystery and vagueness remained in its trail. "what was it?" ralph heard one of his late assailants ask. "a hand car," was the prompt reply. "she must have struck somebody. did you hear that yell?" "yes--run for it. we don't know what may have happened, and we don't want to be caught here if anybody comes to find out what is up." ralph was in no condition to follow the fugitives. for a moment he stood trying to rally his scattered senses. the situation was a puzzling and distrustful one. abruptly he crouched against the wall of the tunnel. "the hand car," he breathed--"it is coming back!" as if to emphasize this discovery, a second time and surely nearing him that alarming cry of fright rang out. again reversed, the hand car whizzed by him. then in less than twenty seconds it shot forward in the opposite direction once more. twice it thus passed him, and on each occasion more slowly, and ralph was able to reason out what was going on. the hand car was unguided. someone was aboard, however, but helpless or unable to operate it. unmistakable demonstrations of its occupancy were furnished in the repetition of the cries that had at first pierced the air, though less frenzied and vivid now than at the start. finally seeking and finding the dead level at the exact centre of the tunnel, the hand car appeared to have come to a stop. ralph shook himself together and proceeded for some little distance forward. he was guided by the sound of low wailings and sobs. he landed finally against the end of the hand car. "hello, there!" he challenged. "o--oh! who is it?" was blubbered out wildly. "o--oh, mister! i did not do it. teddy nolan gave it a shove, and away it went--boo-hoo!" ralph read the enigma promptly. mischievous boys at play beyond the north end of the tunnel had been responsible for the sensational descent of the hand car. he groped about it now and discovered a tiny form clinging to the boxed-up gearing in the centre of the car. "you stay right still where you are," ordered ralph, as he located the handles of the car and began pumping for speed. "oh, yes, sir, i will." "it's probably too late to think of heading off or overtaking those fellows," decided ralph, "but i've got to get this hand car out of harm's way." it was no easy work, single handed working the car up the slant, but ralph made it finally. he found a watchman dozing in the little shanty near the entrance to the tunnel. the man was oblivious to the fact of the hand car episode, and of course the same as to the two men who had doubtless long since escaped from the tunnel and were now safe from pursuit. ralph did not waste any time questioning him. as he was ditching the hand car the ragged urchin who had made a slide for life into the tunnel took to his heels and scampered away. the young railroader thought next of the paymaster. ralph made a sharp run of it on foot through the tunnel. he did not find mr. little where he had left him, but came across him sitting on a bench at the first flagman's crossing, evidently patiently waiting for his return. "well, what luck," challenged mr. little. "none at all," reported ralph, and recited the events of the past fifteen or twenty minutes. "that's pretty lively going," commented mr. little, looking ralph over with an approving and interested glance. "i managed to limp this far. i've wrenched my foot. i don't think it amounts to much, but it is quite painful. i'll rest here a bit and see if it doesn't mend." "shall i help you to the house, mr. little?" suggested ralph. "maybe--a little later. i want to know about this business first--the smashed window and those burglars. come, sit down here on the bench with me and tell me all about it, fairbanks." "they are not burglars," asserted ralph. "what are they, then?" "what i hurriedly hinted to you some time back--spies." "spies?" "yes." "what do you mean by that?" "i had better tell you the whole story, mr. little." "that's it, fairbanks." ralph began with the queer-acting trio who had first attracted his suspicions several days previous. he did not leave out the details of his interview with the assistant superintendent at rockton. "why, fairbanks," exclaimed the paymaster, arising to his feet in positive excitement, "this is a pretty serious business." "it strikes me that way, sir." "if these two men were not incidental burglars, and nothing is missing at the house, they were after information." "instead of booty, exactly," responded ralph, in a tone of conviction. "and if that is true," continued the paymaster, still more wrought up, "they show a system of operation that means some big design in their mind. give me the help of your shoulder, fairbanks. i've got to get to the house and to my telephone right away." a detour of the walled-in runway was necessary in order that they might reach mr. little's home. the paymaster limped painfully. ralph himself winced under the weight of his hand placed upon his shoulder, but he made no complaint. his right arm was growing stiff and the fingers of that hand he had noticed were covered with blood. by the time they reached the paymaster's home, his family had returned. mr. little led ralph at once to the library and sank into his armchair at the desk. "why," he exclaimed after a glance at ralph, "you are hurt, too." "oh, a mere trifle," declared the young engineer with apparent carelessness. "no, it's something serious--worth attending to right away," insisted the paymaster, and he called to his wife, introduced ralph, and mrs. little led him out to the kitchen. in true motherly fashion she seated him on a splint bottomed chair at the sink, got a basin of hot water and some towels, some lint and a bottle of liniment, and proceeded to attend to his needs like an expert surgeon. where ralph's hand had swept the steel rail when his assailant in the tunnel had knocked him off his footing, one arm had doubled up under him, his fingers sweeping a bunch of metal splinters. these had criss-crossed the entire back of his hand. once mended up, ralph was most solicitous, however, to work his arm freely, fearing a wrench or injury that might temporarily disable him from road duty. "i've got the superintendent over the 'phone," said mr. little, as ralph reëntered the library. "he's due at an important lodge meeting, and can't get here until after nine o'clock. see here, fairbanks," with a glance at the injured hand which ralph kept to his side in an awkward way, "you'd better get home and put that arm in a sling." "i think myself i'd better have a look at it," acknowledged ralph. "it feels pretty sore around the shoulder." "you have a telephone at your house?" inquired the paymaster. "yes, sir." "i may want to call you up. if i don't, i feel pretty sure the superintendent will, when we have talked over affairs." mr. little insisted on his hired man hitching up the family horse to drive ralph home. mrs. fairbanks at a glance read pain and discomfort in her son's face as he entered the sitting room. ralph set her fears at rest with a hasty explanation. then after resting a little he told her all about his adventures of the evening. "it seems as if a railroader must take a double risk all the time," she said in a somewhat regretful tone. "it's a part of the business to take things as they come, mother," observed ralph. "it's a fight nowadays in every line where there is progress. the great northern is in the right, and will win, and it is my duty to help in the battle." when he came to look over his injured arm ralph found a pretty bad bruise near the shoulder. his mother declared that it would need attention for some days to come. "by which you mean, i suppose," remarked ralph with a smile, "that you want to coddle me off duty. can't be done, mother. i must stay on deck as long as i can pull a lever. ouch!" ralph winced as he happened to give his arm a twist. "you may change your mind by morning, my son," observed mrs. fairbanks, with a slight motherly triumph in her tone. when ralph arose the next day he remembered those words. his arm was so stiff he could scarcely bend it at the elbow, and his hand was badly swollen. he had just finished breakfast when there came a ring at the telephone, which ralph answered. "that you, fairbanks?" sounded the voice of the paymaster. "yes, mr. little." "how is that arm of yours this morning?" "not quite as well as i would like it to be." "i called you up to tell you that you will probably hear from the general superintendent this forenoon," continued mr. little. "about last night's affair i suppose?" "in a line with that, yes. he was with me for over three hours last night, and he's pretty well stirred up. your injured arm will be a good excuse for canceling your run for a few days." "but i have no idea of canceling my run," declared ralph. "i'll have that arm in working shape when the overland pulls out today." "i'm giving you a hint, that's all," answered the paymaster. "i feel pretty sure the superintendent intends to schedule you for special duty." chapter viii the old switch shanty ralph came out of the house with a thoughtful look on his face. his arm was in a sling and he quite looked the invalid. his mother followed him to the door. "you see, i was the wisest," spoke mrs. fairbanks. "yes, mother, you predicted that i wouldn't feel quite so spry this morning as last night. all the same, if it wasn't for the word just sent me by the general superintendent, you would see me on the regular overland trip." "it wouldn't be right," dissented mrs. fairbanks. "suppose your arm gave out at a critical moment of your run?" "i shouldn't let it," declared ralph. "it puzzles me, though--the word from headquarters." "it was rather strange," assented his mother. "the superintendent simply 'phoned me that i was to remain on the invalid list for a day or two. he said he was going to rockton, and would be back tomorrow morning, and would expect me then at a conference at ten o'clock. in the meantime all i need to do, he said, was to hang around town, show myself about the yards and the general offices, but to be sure to wear my arm in a sling." "he has some purpose in view in that last direction, believe me, ralph," said mrs. fairbanks. "yes," replied the son thoughtfully, "i'm beginning to guess out a certain system in his methods. i shouldn't wonder if something lively were on the programme. well, i'll try and put on the enforced vacation as the superintendent suggests. hello, there's a fine hullaballoo!" ralph walked down the steps and to the street to trace the cause of a great outcry beyond the cottage grounds. as he passed through the gate he made out a haggard looking urchin standing on the planking of the crossing crying as if his heart would break. "why, it's ted rollins, our little neighbor who lives over near the flats," said ralph, recognizing the ragged and begrimed lad. the latter was half bent over as if squinting through the cracks in the sidewalk. then he would let out a yell of distress, dig his fingers into his eyes, resume his looking, and wind up with a kind of frenzied dance, bewailing some direful disaster at the top of his voice. ralph approached him unobserved. "hello, there," he hailed, "what's the trouble here?" "i've lost it!" wailed the little fellow, without looking up. "it slipped out of my ha-a-and." "what did?" "a nickel." "a nickel?" "yes, i earned it, and it rolled down one of those cracks in the sidewalk." "which one?" inquired ralph. "don't know which one--boo-hoo! and say--it was for you." for the first time the weeping lad, glancing up through his tears, recognized ralph. he instantly dug his hand down into a pocket and began groping there. "what was for me?" asked ralph, "the nickel?" "no, not the nickel, that was for me. the note was for you, though, that i got the nickel to fetch--that i don't get the nickel for fetching, though i fetched it," added ted rollins dolefully. "that's it." the lad brought out a folded creased slip of paper wet with his tears and grimed with contact with his fingers. he extended this to ralph. "for me, eh?" he inquired wonderingly. "yes, 'ralph fairbanks,' he said. he asked me if i knew ralph fairbanks, and i said you bet i did. 'why,' says i, 'he's a regular friend of mine.'" "that's right, ted," said ralph. "then he gave me the nickel and the note." "who did?" "the boy." "what boy?" "the one i'm telling you about. i never saw him before. he was down near the elevator tracks where the old switch tower shanty is, you know." "why, yes, i know," assented ralph, "but i can't imagine who the note can be from. oh, i understand now," added ralph, his eye brightening as he opened the note and caught a glimpse of the signature. "here, ted, there's a dime for your faithfulness, and maybe you can find a chum with a big axe who will pry up a few of those sidewalk spikes, and if you find the lost nickel you can have that, too." "you're a capital fellow, ralph fairbanks," cried the delighted little urchin. "if you ever run for president of the great northern, my sister says the whole town will vote for you." "thank you, ted," laughed the young railroader, "but they don't elect railroad presidents that way." "dad says you'll get there, anyway." "thank you again," said ralph, and as ted darted away he gave his full attention to the note. it ran: "ralph fairbanks: "will you please come to the place where the bearer of this note will direct you, and oblige. i have some money for you. --glen palmer." "well, well," said ralph in a pleased way, "this is pretty quick action on the part of our young chicken raiser. of course i'll go. glen palmer is straight, as i thought he would be. i'm curious to know how he came out with his investment, and doubly curious to learn something about that mysterious old grandfather of his." ralph did not need any guide to reach the elevated tracks and the old switch tower shanty alluded to by ted rollins. the spot had been a busy one before they straightened out a lot of useless curves and changed the main line a half mile farther south. the old main tracks, however, were still used for switching and standing freights, and there were several grain elevators in the vicinity. it was now a remote and isolated spot so far as general traffic was concerned. ralph crossed over a stretch of bleak prairie, leaped a drainage ditch, and started down a siding that was used as a repair track. just as he reached the end of a freight car he hastened his steps. not fifty yards distant two animated figures suddenly filled his range of vision. they were boys. one was glen palmer. the other ralph was amazed to recognize as ike slump. glen had a broken-off broom in one hand and a bag pretty well filled over his shoulder. he was warding off the approach of slump, who seemed bent on pestering him from malice or robbing him for profit. ralph ran forward to the rescue of his young protege, who was no match in strength or size for the bully. he was not in time to prevent a sharp climax to the scene. glen swung the heavy bag he carried around to deal his tormenter a blow. slump either drew a knife or had one concealed up his sleeve all along. at any rate he caught the circling bag on the fly. the knife blade met its bulging surface and slit it woefully, so that a stream of golden grain poured out. "you ought to be ashamed of yourself!" burst out glen palmer, indignantly. "strangers pay toll around here, or i know the reason," derided bad ike slump. "just drop that, slump," spoke ralph, stepping forward. "humph!" growled ike, retreating a step or two and looking rather embarrassed. "i didn't expect you." "i see you didn't," observed ralph. "this petty business doesn't seem to accord very well with your high pretentions of last evening." "he has wasted all my grain!" cried glen, tears starting to his eyes. "he said i'd have to pay toll to the gang, whatever that is, if i came around here gathering up chicken feed, and the flagman yonder has given me permission to sweep out all the cars after they have emptied at the elevators." "don't worry," said ralph, reassuringly. "i will see to it that you are not interfered with, that your rights are respected after this." "huh!" scoffed ike, and then with a great start and in a sharp change of voice he shouted out, "hello, i say, hello!" ike stood staring fixedly at glen at the moment. the latter in rearranging his disordered attire for the first time had removed the broad peaked cap he wore. the instant he caught ike's piercing glance fixed upon him, glen flushed and in great haste replaced the cap, quite screening his face and turned away. "aha!" resumed ike, continuing to stare at glen. "why, when, where--drat me!" and he struck his head with his hand, as if trying to drive out some puzzling idea. "say, i've seen you before. where? i never forget faces. wallop me! but i know you, and--" just then slump was walloped. the flagman at the shanty one hundred feet away had evidently witnessed the tussle between the two boys. that he was a friend to glen was indisputable, for coming upon the scene from between two lines of freight he pounced on slump, whacking him smartly about his legs with his flag stick. "you pestering loafer, out of here," he shouted, "or i'll break every bone in your body," and slump ran down the track precipitately. he paused only once, at a safe distance from pursuit. it was to shake his fist at the watchman, then to wave it in a kind of threatening triumph at ralph, and then to make a speaking trumpet of his hand and to yell through it. "i know that boy, don't you forget it, and i'll see you later." ralph wondered a good deal at this demonstration. then he turned to glen. "why," he exclaimed, noticing that the face of the latter was as white as chalk and that he was trembling all over. "what's the matter, glen?" "i--that--is that fellow upset me," stammered glen, failing to meet ralph's scrutinizing glance. "something more than that, glen," insisted ralph. "you act half scared to death. do you know ike slump?" "no." "did you ever meet him before?" "never," declared glen strenuously. ralph had to be satisfied with this. glen turned from him as if to hide some emotion or embarrassment. he began tying up his bag so as to cover the slit made in it by slump's knife and scooped up the scattered grain. "wait till i get this gathered up and i want to talk with you," he said. a new figure came lounging leisurely down the track as the watchman proceeded to his shanty. ralph recognized dan lacey, a ne'er-do-well who had tried about every department of railroad service inside of two years and had failed signally in every attempt. he was a good-natured, indolent fellow, perfectly harmless and generally popular. he halted in front of ralph with a speculative glance at glen palmer. "howdy, fairbanks," he hailed. "say, pet of yours yonder, i understand." "who--glen palmer?" "yes, that's his name." "he seems to be a fine young fellow i helped out a little." "always doing that. know him pretty well?" "hardly at all." "well," drawled lacey taking in glen with a continuous analyzing glance, "he's a cracker jack." "what do you mean, lacey?" "telegraphy. i've seen some pretty swell operators in my time, but that kid--say, believe me, fairbanks, he's got the last one of them backed clear off the board." chapter ix a suspicious discovery "explain yourself, lacey," directed the young railroader. "nothing to explain--it's exactly as i say. that lad's a wonder." "at telegraphing, you said." "at telegraphing, i mean." "how do you know?" "heard him, saw him." "when, where?" "just a little bit ago up at the old switch tower. you know they left one or two broken instruments there when they moved the general outfit. wires down, but one or two good sharp keys still in place. i was snoozing on the bench outside. suddenly--click! click! then the regular call. then the emergency--say, i thought i was back at dover with old joslyn drake, the crack operator of the midland central. you know i put in a year at the key. not much at it myself, but you bet your life i can tell fine work. why, that lad ran the roll like a veteran. then he began on speed. i crept closer. there he was, thinking no one saw him, rattling the key till it pounded like a piston on a sixty mile an hour run." ralph was a good deal astonished. glen was a pretty young fellow to line up in the way that dan lacey described. then a kind of vague disagreeable idea came into the mind of the young railroader. he recalled the old grandfather and his two villainous associates, for such they had proved themselves to be the evening previous. "things are dovetailing in a queer sort of way," reflected ralph. "perhaps a little investigation will give me a clew as to those fellows who slipped me in the tunnel." when he had gathered up the scattered grain glen palmer glanced uneasily all about him as if looking for ike slump. then he became his natural self. "i'm awfully glad to see you," he said to ralph, "although it seems as if there's a fight or a smashup, or some outlandish thing on the books every time i meet you." "well that doesn't matter so long as you come out of it all right, eh, glen?" propounded ralph brightly. "you're a good champion in the nick of time," declared glen. "i wanted to see you, so i took the liberty of sending for you." "why didn't you come up to the house?" "oh, no! no!----" began glen with a start. "that is--i don't go to town much. i've got some money for you. there are ten dollars. i'll have the balance saturday." ralph accepted the bank bills which glen extended. "i'll hand this to mr. fry," he said. "you don't need to pay it now, though, glen." "oh, yes, i want to get out of debt as fast as i can." "you're starting out the right way to do it. pretty quick action you got on your chicken deal, it seems to me." "oh, that was luck," explained glen, brightening up. "there was one special lot among the chickens, about twenty-four of them. they were in a tier of the car that wasn't battered in the smash up. we got them all out safe and sound. they are of a rare breed--they call them blue cochins." "valuable?" "i didn't know till after we got them down to the farm. a man driving by noticed them. they have black eyes instead of the usual red ones, and he said they were very scarce. the next day he came down and offered me five dollars each for two settings of their eggs. think of it--nearly a half a dollar an egg. i delivered them yesterday, and the man said there are any number of people who would buy the eggs if they knew i had them, and about the choice breed." "why, this is interesting," said ralph. "say, can't you come down and see my layout?" inquired glen eagerly. "i'd be dreadfully glad." "why, i might," replied ralph thoughtfully, consulting his watch. "there's our chance, if you will," said glen, grabbing the arm of his companion and indicating a short freight train just pulling off from a side switch. "it's three miles and a half to the farm, and that train goes within a short distance of it." they ran for the train. it was composed of empties with a caboose attached. aboard of this the boys clambered and sat down on the rear platform. "i come down here for the sweepings every morning," said glen. "to-day and one other day in the week there isn't much to get. one day i got over two bushels and a half, though." "that's pretty fine," commented ralph. "it's a big item in my feed bill, i can tell you," declared glen. "i've got a new arrangement in view, too--the grain inspector at stanley junction." "yes, i know him," nodded ralph. "well, my good friend the flagman here introduced him day before yesterday, and he told me that all those little bags containing samples are thrown into a big bin and dumped into the dust heap when they're past inspection. after this he's going to have them left in the bin, and i'm going to arrange to have a cartman call once a week and haul the stuff out to the farm." "friends everywhere, eh, glen," said ralph encouragingly. "i'm so glad!" murmured his companion in a low grateful tone. the young railroader calculated that he could visit the farm and get back to stanley junction by noon time. at the end of a three miles' jerky run the train slowed down at a crossing and ralph and glen left it. "there's the place," said the latter, as they reached the end of a grove, and he pointed to an old, low-built ruin of a house just ahead of them. "they call it desolation patch around here. it's in litigation somehow, and no one has lived in it until we came for several years, they tell me." "it does look rather ragged, for a fact," said ralph. "how did you come to pick it out, glen?" "oh, it was just the place i was looking for. you see," explained the boy in a slightly embarrassed way, "my grandfather is sort of--queer," and glen pointed soberly to his head. "yes, i understand," nodded ralph. "i didn't want to take him to a town where he might be noticed and mightn't feel at home. then there were reasons which--yes, some reasons." ralph did not ask what they were. the farm embraced some twenty acres. its improvements were mostly rickety, broken down barns and sheds. these seemed to be utilized in the chicken industry to the last foot of available space, the interested visitor noticed. an enclosure formed of sections of old wire netting held over a hundred of the feathery brood, and some of the boxes obtained from the wreck had been made into brooding pens. then ralph laughed outright as he noticed two, four, half a dozen chickens limping about cheerfully with a stick taking the place of one broken or missing foot, and at others with a wing in splints. "what do you think of it?" inquired glen eagerly. "i think you're a rare genius," declared ralph, slapping his companion heartily on the shoulder. "there are some neighbors beyond here who have been awfully kind to us," proceeded glen. "they gave us an old cooking stove and other kitchen things, and now that we have the chickens and eggs we can trade in the neighborhood for most everything we want. we have plenty to eat--oh, you did a big thing the day you went bail for me on this chicken deal." glen went into details about his business when they reached the house. he showed ralph a book in which he had enumerated his various belongings. then he made an estimate of what sixty days' chicken farming would result in. the exhibit made ralph dizzy. it was fowls and eggs and multiples of fowls and eggs in exact but bewildering profusion. "you're heading right, that's sure," applauded ralph. "what's that room for?" ralph was glancing into an adjoining apartment with a great deal of curiosity and interest. he had never seen such a room before. it held two rudely-constructed tables, and attached to these were some old telegraph instruments, just like the abandoned ones down at the old division tower shanty. pieces of wire ran to the ceiling of the room, but no farther. on the wall above one of the tables was a great sheet of paper covered with a skeleton outline system. somewhere ralph had seen a picture of a rude frontier train dispatcher's office. this was almost a perfect counterpart of it. he fixed his eyes in questioning wonderment on his companion. glen looked somewhat embarrassed and flushed up. then with an affected laugh he said: "this is my grandfather's den." "but--the telegraph instruments, the wires?" "why, grandfather was once a telegrapher, a famous----" he checked himself. "this is his hobby, and i fixed up things to please him." "how about yourself?" asked ralph, with a keen glance at his companion, recalling what dan lacey had told him back at the switch shanty. glen eyed him steadily for a moment. then his eyes faltered. "my grandfather has taught me a lot about telegraphy," he admitted. ralph walked over to the chart on the wall. the young engineer had learned his morse alphabet early in his railroad career, and knew something of the system in vogue along the line. as his eye studied the rude scrawl made with a red pencil, ralph at once discerned that its dotted lines denoted three divisions of a railway system. from separate dots he traced a line of towns. above each was a designation, an initial, a double initial, sometimes an additional numeral. "the mischief!" muttered the young railroad engineer under his breath, "this doesn't look much like a plaything outfit. why, that is a perfect transcript of the routing chart in the train dispatcher's office at stanley junction." chapter x the train dispatcher a great flood of dark suspicion crossed ralph's mind at the discovery of the road chart. a dozen quick questions arose to his lips. before he could speak, however, there was a hail from the outside. "hey, there, young fellow!" glen ran out to the road where a farm hand on horseback had halted. ralph followed him. "about your old man," spoke the visitor. "my grandfather, yes," said glen breathlessly. "you told us to sort of keep an eye on him. he came down to our place about an hour ago to get some butter. scruggins, who lives just beyond here was going to centerville. your old man said he wanted to go there, too, to see the new swinging signal bridge over the railroad." "oh, but you stopped him." "i was away when it happened, and he would not listen to ma. scruggins said he would bring him back all right." "oh, i must stop him! i must overtake him!" cried glen in such poignant distress that ralph was surprised. "grandfather was away nearly two days before, and pretty near got lost, and i was worried to death. i must go after him, indeed i must! excuse me, won't you," he pleaded of ralph. "i will see you again soon," answered ralph. "do--sure," said glen. "i have lots to tell you." the farm hand rode on his way and glen ran down the road on foot at great speed. ralph went back slowly to the open house. once more he inspected the telegraph room. then with a good deal of thoughtfulness he started homeward. "there's something queer about all this business," ruminated the young railroader. "that boy's grandfather was certainly in with the two men who escaped from me in the tunnel. he is an expert telegrapher. so is glen. ike slump had something up his sleeve about glen. that chart of the road has the regular telegraph signal on it. what does this all mean?" ralph could not believe that glen was a schemer or anything of that sort. for all that, there was a decided mystery about him. he seemed to be afraid of slump, appeared to shun the town and its people. why was he wandering all about the country with a helpless old man? why had he flushed up and acted embarrassed when ralph had asked him several pointed questions? "glen must certainly be questioned about the two men who had his grandfather in tow," decided ralph, "for those fellows must be located and watched. i wish bob adair was here. he would soon let light in on the whole affair. i'd rather he would do it, for i feel very friendly towards glen and i don't like hurting his feelings by seeming to pry into his private business." ralph rested a few minutes on the porch when he reached home and then started down town. he was in a certain state of suspense, for the orders of the general superintendent were vague and unsatisfactory. something was working, ralph felt, in which he was to take an active part. the paymaster had indicated that affairs were being stirred up. idleness and suspense worried the young railroader, however, and he anxiously awaited the coming interview with his superior officer. ralph went down to the roundhouse and met many of his friends. old forgan, the fireman, described the disgust and dejection of fogg at having a new running mate. everybody had heard that ralph had a layoff on account of a fall disabling him, and his arm in the sling won him a good deal of friendly sympathy. he made a tour of the general offices to learn that mr. little was laid up at home with a lame foot, and that the general superintendent was out of town. ralph had the free run of the general offices, as the saying went. he was ambitious, energetic and popular, and the busiest man in the service had a pleasant nod and a kindly word for him as he went around the different departments. when he arrived at the train dispatcher's office, the young railroader went in and sat down. ralph was in one of the most inviting places a man can get into, especially if he is interested in the workings of a big railway system. the thought came to him, as he sat watching the men who held in their keeping the lives of thousands of passengers, that not all the credit for a good swift run was due to the engineer and train crew. he smiled as he recalled how the newspapers told every day of the president or some big functionary out on a trip, and how at the end of the run he stopped beside the panting engine, and reaching up to shake the hand of the faithful, grimy engineer, would say: "thank you so much for giving us a good run. i don't know when i have ridden so fast before," or words to that effect. the reader of such items never thinks the engineer and crew are mere mechanical agents, small cogs in a huge machine. they do their part well, but the little office of the train dispatcher is a red-hot place where they have a red-hot time, where one tap of the sounder may cover the fate of numberless extras, specials and delayed trains. the young engineer took particular notice of the dispatcher's office on the present occasion. this was because so much of pending trouble seemed to involve the wire system of the great northern. the wire tapping episode, the prototype routing chart at the chicken farm, had aroused suspicion in his mind. then, too, ralph had often had a fondness and an admiration for this branch of the service. at one time, in fact, he had studied telegraphy with the purpose in view of following it up, and old john glidden, a fast friend of his, had invited him to the dispatcher's office and had taught him a great many useful things in his line. glidden was the first trick dispatcher and was not on duty just now. ralph nodded to two subordinates at their tables, and snuggled back into his comfortable seat with the time and interest to look over things. the interior of the dispatcher's office was not very sumptuous. there was a big counter at one side of the room. this contained the train register, car record books, message blanks and forms for various reports. against the wall on one of the other sides was a big blackboard known as the call board. ralph read here the record of the probable arrival and departure of trains and the names of their crews. also the time certain crews were to be called. about the middle of the room in the recess of a bay window was the dispatcher's table. ralph only casually knew the man in charge. his name was thorpe, a newcomer, and an expert in his line, but gruff and uncivil in the extreme, and he had few friends. in front of him was the train sheet containing information exact and absolute in its nature of each train on the division. on the sheet was also a space set apart for the expected arrival of trains from the other end and one for delays. glidden had once gone over one of these sheets with ralph with its loads, empties and miscellaneous details, and ralph knew that the grim, silent man at the table must know the precise location of every train at a given moment, how her engine was working, how she had done along the road, and all about her engineer and conductor. ralph spent nearly a half an hour in the dispatcher's room. then he went down to the depot. an extra was just leaving for the west. he paused to have a cheery word with the engineer and fireman, whom he knew quite well. they were getting ready for the orders to pull out, when the three of them stared hard at a flying form coming down the track. "hello," observed the engineer, "it's bates." "yes, the second trick man in the dispatcher's office," nodded the fireman. "wonder what's up with him?" "something is," declared ralph, "according to his looks and actions." bates came puffing up white and breathless. evidently he had just got out of bed, half dressed himself, put on a pair of slippers, no coat, no hat, and he seemed to ignore the cold and snow amid some frantic urgency of reaching the departing train. "say!" he panted, approaching the fireman who was giving no. the last touch of oil before they pulled out, "thank heaven you haven't gone!" "hey?" stared the engineer. "don't pull out for a minute." "why not?" "i think there's a mistake in your orders." "what's the matter with you?" snapped back the fireman with affected gruffness. "i hain't got no orders. come here, till i oil the wheels in your head." "you must come up to the dispatcher's office," insisted bates urgently, and the engineer followed him wonderingly. ralph, tracing something unusual in the episode of the moment, kept them company. the chief dispatcher was standing by the counter. he glanced sharply at bates with the words: "what's up, kid? seen a ghost? you look almost pale enough yourself to be one." "no," quavered bates in a shaky tone. "i haven't seen any ghosts, but i am afraid i forgot to notify that track gang just west of here about this extra." the chief went to the order book and glanced at the train sheet. "oh, bosh!" he said. "of course you notified them. here it is as big as life. look out for extra west engine leaving stanley junction at : p. m. what do you want to get a case of rattles and scare us all that way for. say, i'd ought to run down your spinal column with a rake. don't you know there are other dispatchers in this office besides yourself--men who know more in a minute about the business than you do in a month? don't you suppose that order book would be verified and the train sheet consulted before sending out the extra. say, don't you ever show up with such a case of rattles again." bates expressed an enormous sigh of relief. as he came down to the platform, however, ralph noticed that he was shaking from head to foot. "did you ever work up there?" inquired bates in a solemn tone. "no," answered ralph. "then don't. just wake up once after you've left the key, and get thinking you've forgotten something, and--nightmare? fairbanks, it's worse than the horrors!" chapter xi making a schedule "you understand me, fairbanks?" "perfectly, mr. drake." "you have helped us out of trouble before this and i believe you can be of inestimable service in the present instance. we are sorry to lose a first-class engineer, but we need you somewhere else, and need you badly." they were seated in the private office of the superintendent of the great northern, that august official and the young engineer of the overland express, and a long, earnest and serious colloquy had just ended. "from what i have told you and from what you have personally discovered, it is more than apparent that a plot is on foot among our train dispatchers to cripple the running time of the road for the benefit of the opposition." "there is little doubt of that, i think," said ralph. "there is a leak somewhere, and it must be stopped." "it is my opinion that investigations should begin at the fountain head," submitted ralph. "that is just where we shall begin. it may be a hard, even a dangerous task. we look to you, fairbanks, for results." it was the third day after ralph's adventure in the tunnel. not much had happened of active importance during that time. ralph had met the superintendent on three different occasions. the present one was a definite culmination of a series. the young railroader felt very much pleased at the confidence placed in him by the railroad head. it stirred his pride because it had all come about naturally. the superintendent had told him that after a little preliminary work he was to be made chief dispatcher of the western division of the road. it was a grand promotion, both in importance and salary, enough to satisfy the most ambitious person working for a rapid rise. ralph had been sent to the home of the paymaster by the superintendent, and there was a colloquy there. bob adair, the road detective, was called in from the other end of the line, and ralph told him the story of glen palmer and his grandfather, leaving the officer to work out himself whatever mystery might surround the two. in plain words, somebody was tampering with the train dispatching service of the road. some one on the inside was giving out important information. cross orders had gone over the wires in a mysterious way and could not be traced. there had been two bad freight wrecks, and twice the overland express had been caught in a tangle brought about by vague contradictory orders and had come in many hours late. as to those who were suspected of being responsible for this state of affairs ralph was apprized in his talks with the superintendent. the plans to trap them and fasten the proofs of conspiracy upon them were all outlined to the young railroader. ralph had blocked out just what he was expected to do, but that day as he was led to the office of the train dispatcher by the superintendent he knew that he had no easy task before him. glidden was in charge as they came into the place. the two trick men under him and the copy operators were busy at their tables. mounted on a roll in front of glidden was the current official time card of the division. from the information contained thereon he had evidently just finished his calculation for time orders, meeting points and work trains. "good morning, glidden," said the superintendent. "i spoke to you yesterday about our friend, fairbanks here." the gruff dispatcher nodded brusquely. he liked ralph and the latter knew it. ralph also knew that glidden was one of the "true blues" of the office. "his arm is not strong enough to pull a lever, but he's in shape to tackle a key, and knows how to do it." "glad," vouchsafed glidden tersely. "all right. set him at work." "come on," said glidden, and he opened the little office gate and ralph stood within the charmed precincts of the train dispatching circle. "you've had some experience, i understand," resumed glidden, after some bustling about. "i suppose you know what an o. s. report is?" "the one sent in by operators of the various stations as trains arrive and depart." "exactly, and the 'consists'?" "the conductors' messages giving the exact composition and destination of every car in the train." "you'll do," nodded glidden. "now, then, i have an inkling you and i are booked for something special at the relay station to-night, so you needn't work yourself out. just for practice, though, and to prove how smart you are, show the kind of stuff you are made of by tackling that." glidden threw down a train sheet before ralph, and following it a copied telegram. then he strode away, with the words: "make out a schedule for this special, giving her a clean sweep from end to end with the exception of no. ." "very well, mr. glidden," said ralph quietly. "how soon do you want it?" "take your time," was the short reply, while a chuckle sounded deep down in the throat of the dispatcher. ralph set his lips grimly. he realized that for a green hand he had been given an arduous task. he knew much about the service, however, and had not watched, studied and absorbed during the past two days for nothing. he was fully determined that this special should have "a run for her money." if she ran on his schedule, no train load was going away with the idea that the great northern was not the swiftest road of the bunch if he could help it, and ralph had a big idea that he could. glidden sent over a copy operator, a young fellow who agreed to do the copying while ralph made the schedule. there was a whimsical twinkle in his eye, but ralph dauntlessly started in at his work. the special in question was to be whooped through that afternoon, the run was one hundred and two miles, with plenty of sidings and passing tracks, and besides, old dan lacey, with engine no. , was on, so he could be sure of a run that was a hummer. the superintendent came into the office for a moment to see what ralph was at, and said carelessly: "tear things loose, fairbanks. there's a congressional railroad committee aboard of that special. make 'em all car sick." ralph took the train sheet and familiarized himself with its every detail. down its centre was printed the names of all the stations on the division and the distances between them. on either side of the main column were ruled smaller columns, each one of which represented a train. the number of each train was at the head of the appropriate column, and under it the names of the conductor and engineer and the number of loads and empties on the train. all trains on the division were arranged in three classes, and as ralph knew had certain rights. trains of the first class were passengers. the through freight and combination freight and passenger made up the second class. all other trains, such as local freights, work trains and construction trains, composed the third class. ralph began his calculating on the basis of the invariable rule in force on all railroads, that trains running one way have the exclusive right over trains of their own and inferior classes running in the opposite direction. ralph began his work by framing up the initial order: "order number to g. n. e.--all trains g. n. r. r. (western division) dispatcher's office d. s. special east engine no. will run from rockton to dover, having right of track over all trains except no. on the following schedule: leave rockton : p. m. there ralph paused. "stuck," insinuated his copy operator with a grin. "no, only thinking," declared ralph. here was where the figuring came in, along with the knowledge of the road, grades and the like, in which ralph was by no means lacking, for he knew familiarly nearly every foot of the way out of rockton. he studied and used up lots of gray matter and even chewed up a pencil or two. ralph read his schedule carefully and handed it to the second trick operator. the latter knitted his brows for a moment and then slowly said: "for a beginner that's the best schedule i ever saw." "thank you," bowed ralph modestly. "it's a hummer, without a doubt. to prevent the lives of the congressional committee being placed in peril, though, i think you had better make another." "think so?" questioned ralph blankly. "you see," went on the operator solemnly, "you have only allowed seven minutes between lisle and hull, while the time card shows the distance to be six miles. dan lacey and his engine are capable of great bursts of speed, but they can't fly. then there's the through. she's an hour late from the south today. what are you going to do about her. pass them on one track, i suppose?" "he's guying you, fairbanks," spoke a gruff but pleased voice at ralph's shoulder. "lacey can make the spurt without a quiver, and as you probably noticed the late through is cancelled for transfer at blakeville. you'll do." ralph picked up a good deal of general information that day. he perfected himself in the double-order system. this covered the giving of an order to all trains concerned at the same time. a case came up where the dispatcher desired to make a meeting point for two trains. the order was sent simultaneously to both of them. ralph had a case in point where a train was leaving his end of the division and wherein it was necessary to make a meeting point with a train coming in. before giving his order to his conductor and engineer he telegraphed to a station at which the incoming train would soon arrive. from there the operator repeated the message back word for word, giving a signal that his red board was turned. by this means both trains received the same order and there would be no doubt about the point at which they were to meet. time orders, slow orders, extra orders, annulment orders, clearance orders--ralph found that any one gifted with a reasonable amount of common sense and having practical knowledge of the rudiments of mathematics could do the work successfully. beneath all the simplicity of the system, however, the young railroader realized that there ran a deep undercurrent of complications that only long time and a cool head could master. all of a sudden sometimes some train out on the road that had been running all right would bob up with a hot box or a broken draw head, and then all the calculations for a new train would be knocked awry. about four o'clock in the afternoon the superintendent came into the office and made a gesture towards ralph which the latter understood perfectly. he nudged glidden as he passed him, who blinked up at him intelligently. then ralph went home. it was just after dusk that the young dispatcher left the cottage. it had set in a cold tempestuous night with blinding snow eddies, and ralph wore a protecting storm coat, and carried a good lunch in one of its capacious pockets. he walked about a mile across town until he came to the limits crossing, and stood in the shelter of a flagman's shanty for a few minutes. then a sharp whistle greeted his ears. he strained his vision and made out a dim form loitering near a big heap of ties. "mr. glidden?" spoke ralph, advancing to meet this man. "that's what," responded glidden, in his usually snappy way. "all ready?" "yes." "it's all arranged. the regular men have been called off for the night. you take the relay station, and i'll be on duty at the tower station beyond, catching the messages that fly over the wires, and see if we can't nail the people who are making the great northern all this trouble." chapter xii at the relay station the relay station was located just beyond the limits of stanley junction, and was practically the feeder through which ran all the railroad and commercial wires focussing at headquarters. it stood in a wide triangle formed by the tracks of the three divisions of the road, which here branched out north, south and west. the station was the top of a sort of wareroom for all kinds of railroad junk. stairs led up to it both inside and outside. over the tower roof, reached by a trap door, was the great enclosed network of wires covering all the lines of the great northern. ralph had talked affairs over so closely with the superintendent and later with glidden, that as he left the latter he knew just what he was expected to do and how he was to do it. his mission was one of great importance and of secrecy as well, for the relay station and the first switch tower on the southern branch less than a quarter of a mile beyond it, were suspected points in the train dispatching service just now. ralph left glidden after a brief whispered conversation. he gained the immediate vicinity of the relay station through slow, cautious progress. he had visited the place the day previous and had studied his ground well. when he at length entered the open doorway, he felt sure that he had reached his goal without attracting the attention of the two occupants of the operating room whom he had made out as he approached. ralph did not go up the stairs outside or inside. about twelve feet aloft and gained by a ladder of cleats nailed across two supports was a platform. it abutted the operating room, and it seemed to be a catch-all for half reels of wire, insulators and other material used in the telegraphic line. ralph reached this, and taking great care not to disturb anything that might make a racket, he crept directly up to a window looking into the operating room. this window was used for ventilation in summer. just now it was crusted with dust and cob-webbed so that while he could look beyond its grimy panes, there was little danger of his being seen from within. better than that, he noted that a broken upper pane had one corner gone, and he could distinctly hear every sound made in the operating room. there were two men in the place. one of them was the night operator. against this fellow ralph had been warned. he had a face that would naturally excite suspicion, and he was familiarly known as grizzly. he was seated at the operating table ready for duty. the man beside him had no business there, so far as ralph could figure out. he looked like a rough workman, but his easy bearing showed that he was on an equality with the operator. his companion addressed him as mason. this fellow, lounging lazily near the little stove that heated the place and smoking a short stump of a pipe, opened the conversation with the words: "cozy for the night, grizzly." "looks it. the split trick man gave his d. s. good night, and is gone." "who is he?" "new man." "isn't that suspicious--so many new men lately?" "oh, i'm posted and watching out for squalls. think he's a new one from another road. works like a ham factory hand. when he turned out his first message i asked which foot he did it with. the way he looked at the time cards where the calls are printed and kept the key open, i knew he was an innocent greenhorn. didn't know what meant when it came, got rattled when headquarters was on the quad, and stumbled over the pink almost scared to death." a week previous all this would have been greek to ralph. at present he quickly understood that was the end of a long message, the quad was where they sent four messages at a time, and a pink was a rush telegram. "then you think you're not being watched?" inquired mason. "sure of it," responded grizzly with confidence. "what's the cross orders from our friends?" "nothing on the general mix up plan," reported the operator. "they struck the right man when they hit me to help them. i've got a big hunch for the far west, and wouldn't have cared if the great northern had let me out, since, with the chance to carry a big wad of money away with me, why of course i'm in trim for whatever blows along." "what's special to-night?" "a side trick, and that's why i sent for you. we made a bad mix up two nights ago with cross orders and tappings. i think it aroused the suspicions of the superintendent, so we're going slow on that tack for a few days. the gang working for the rival road, though, have let me in on some of their side games. one of them is due to-night." "what is it?" "you'll know when the time comes. got your tools with you?" mason lazily touched a bag at his feet with his toe, and it jangled as he replied. "all of them." "good, enjoy yourself till about eleven o'clock. if anyone comes duck behind the box yonder, though i don't think there's any chance of a visit a night like this. the bosses are paying too much attention to the stock end of traffic deals to take a flight at a little disruption of the service. there's a nine--train orders, i've got to go at my routine." ralph settled down as comfortably as he could in his secure hiding place. what he had just heard confirmed forever suspicions that crooked work was being done by crooked operators, and that this fellow grizzly was one of them. he listened to the monotonous grind out of the operator: "o.s. o.s. x.n. no. a. : , d. : ," and knew that the limited mail had reached tipton, and had gone on. the night schedule for the mountain division west ran the wires, then miscellaneous messages. all this was like reading a book to ralph, while his mind formed a mental map, a picture of conditions all along the line. it grew dreadfully monotonous by nine o'clock, however. grizzly grumbled while getting a heap of work out of the way, mason went to sleep and snored in his chair by the stove. a sudden diversion, however, aroused him. there was the sound of the lower outside door slamming shut. ralph could look down at the stairway. someone had appeared ascending it. grizzly heard the footsteps, warning him of an intruder, and rushed at mason shaking him vigorously with the sharp mandate: "bolt!" a minute later, peering within the operating room, ralph saw the intruder enter. mason had got to cover and grizzly back to his instrument. the intruder suggested some half tipsy ranchman, who staggered into the room shaking the snow from his garments. "hi, there, young man," he hailed familiarly to grizzly. "i want to send a message to wayne." "sorry, but it's too late." "too late for what?" growled the intruder, looking skeptical and ugly. "all the instruments cut out that way and we won't have wayne till six o'clock in the morning." "won't, eh? well, you've got to, that's all," observed the man, coming nearer to the operating table. "come around in the morning and some of the day force will send the message for you." "no. i've got twenty-six cars of cattle out here that are going there tomorrow, and i want to notify my agents." grizzly shook his head and turned to his table. the stranger bolted up against him with a savage face. "say," he said, "you send this message or there is going to be trouble." "not much, i won't send your confounded old message; get out of this office." there was a swift movement on the part of the ranchman, then an ominous click, and grizzly was looking down the barrel of a revolver. "give me your blamed old message and i'll send it for you," growled the scared operator, though there was not a wire anywhere near wayne at the time, but grizzly had a scheme to stave the fellow off. he took the paper from the man, went over to the switchboard, fumbled at a local instrument, and, as ralph discerned, went through the form of sending a message. the stranger watched him furtively, pistol in hand, swaying to and fro like a reed in the wind and grinning like a monkey. "there, i hope you're satisfied now," muttered grizzly. "of course i am," chuckled the ranchman; "only i rushed a dodge on you, for the pistol isn't loaded. you bit like a fish." it was the turn of grizzly to chuckle, however. as the fellow disappeared mason came into sight again, and the twain chuckled over the deluded ranchman whose message would not go over the wires for many hours to come. towards ten o'clock things quieted down. few messages went over the wires. it was only occasionally that the clicking told off some important train report from big centers. grizzly looked and acted uneasy. he arose and strode about the room, looking out at the stormy night, stopping dead short in reflective halts, and glancing frequently at the clock, as though he was expecting somebody or something. "you act as if you was watching for something to happen," suggested mason, after a long spell of silence. "i am," replied the operator. "see here, mason; you know those wires overhead, i'm thinking?" "like a book." "on the tap of eleven i send the man on the north branch home for a good stop." "officially, eh?" grinned mason. "he'll think so, and that answers." "and then?" "get aloft and cut out." mason started and looked serious. "see here, grizzly," he objected. "did you think i sent for you at twenty dollars a night for fun?" "no, but----" "it's this serious: it's a wreck, and a bad one, but if it goes through it's a thousand dollars apiece for us." chapter xiii "hold the limited mail!" ralph pressed closer to his loophole of observation at the amazing announcement of grizzly, the traitorous train dispatcher. "a wreck, you say?" observed mason, in a dubious and faint-hearted tone of voice. "oh, nobody will get hurt," declared grizzly lightly. "what's the matter with you? haven't you got any nerve? i said there was a thousand apiece in this, didn't i?" "i know you did." "so, don't weaken about the knees when i give the word, but do just as i tell you. this affair to-night is a mere flyspeck to what's coming along in a week." "suppose--suppose we're found out?" suggested mason. "we get out, isn't that all? and we get out with good friends to take care of us, don't we?" "i suppose that's so," admitted mason, but he shifted about in his seat as if he was a good deal disturbed. grizzly glanced again at the clock. then he returned to his instrument. in a minute or two his fingers worked the key. ralph watched and listened with all his might. what the operator did was to notify the dispatcher at wellsville that he might go off duty, signing headquarters. before he did this he spoke a few quick words that ralph did not catch. mason had selected some tools from his bag, and at once went nimbly aloft among the cable wires. ralph heard mason fussing among the wires. he could only surmise what the two men were up to. the way he figured it out was that mason had cut the wires running from the north branch through the relay into headquarters. he had thus completely blocked all messages from or to the north branch. mason came back to the operating room looking flustered and nervous. "nothing open north?" inquired grizzly. "not on the preston branch." "that's right. we can splice 'em up again after two o'clock. things will do their happening between now and then, and we leave no trace." "see here, grizzly," pleaded mason in a spasmodic outburst of agitation; "what's the deal?" "what good will it do you to know?" "well, i want to." "all right; there's to be a runaway. there's an old junk engine down beyond wellsville doing some dredging work, with a construction crew. she's to be fired along." "what for?" inquired mason, his eyes as big as saucers. "for instance," jeered grizzly, with a disagreeable laugh. "where's she to run to?" the operator went to a map tacked to the wall. he ran his finger so rapidly over it that, the intent mason standing between, ralph could not clearly make out the route indicated. "nobody hurt, you see," remarked grizzly, in an offhanded way. "there isn't another wheel running on that branch this side of preston." "no, but the feeders and cut-ins? along near preston the limited mail runs twenty miles since they've been bridging the main at finley gap." "she must take her chances, then," observed grizzly coolly. "don't get worried, son. the men working this deal know their business, and don't want to get in jail." "what--what is there for me to do." inquired mason, acting like a man who had been persuaded to a course that had unnerved and distressed him. "set those wires back just as they were, when i give you the word." "say, if you don't mind, i'll go somewhere and get a bracer. i'm feeling sort of squeamish." grizzly regarded the speaker with a contemptuous look in his manifestation of weakness, but he made no remark, and mason left the room. ralph from his point of observation watched him descend the stairs and close the door after him as he went out into the storm, faced in the direction of the town. the young railroader started down the cleat ladder, when grizzly came out of the operating room. he looked thoughtful, as if he was uneasy at his comrade wandering off. as the lower door closed after him, ralph decided that he was bent on joining mason in his search for "a bracer," and that now was his chance. there flashed through the brain of ralph the situation complete. a wreck was to happen, why and exactly where he could only guess. clearly outlined in his mind, however, was the route ahead and beyond. by a rapid exertion of memory he could place every train on the road now making its way through the storm-laden night towards stanley junction. the great northern spread out in a quick mental picture like a map. ralph decided what to do, and he did not waste a second. he was down the cleat ladder and up the stairs and into the operating room in a jiffy. his thought was to give the double danger signal to headquarters and call for the immediate presence of the head operator or the chief dispatcher himself, if on duty. it took him a minute or two to get the exact bearings of the instruments. at headquarters he was entirely familiar with the rheostat, wheat-stone bridge, polarized relays, pole changers and ground switches, but the station outfit was not so elaborate, the in table being provided only with the old relay key and sounder. his finger on the key, tapping the double danger challenge for attention, ralph felt himself seized from behind. with a whirl he was sent spinning across the room and came to a halt, his back against the out table, facing grizzly. the latter had returned to the operating room suddenly and silently. his dark, scowling face was filled with suspicion. "what's this? aha, i know you!" spoke the operator. "how did you come here?" and he advanced to seize the intruder. ralph read that the fellow guessed that he was trapped. there was a dangerous gleam in his eyes, and the young railroader knew that he was in a dangerous fix. one hand of grizzly had gone to his side coat pocket, as if in search of a weapon. his shoulders egan to crouch. he was more than a match for ralph in strength, and the latter did not know how soon his comrade mason might return. ralph was standing with his back to the operating table. he put his hands behind him, quietly facing grizzly, and let his right hand rest on the key. carefully he opened the key and had clicked west twice when, quick as lightning, grizzly jumped at him. "stop monkeying with that instrument!" he yelled. "you spy!" there was a struggle, and ralph did his best to beat off his powerful and determined opponent, but he tripped across a stool and went flat on his back on the floor. the operator was upon him in a moment. his strong hands pinned ralph's arms outspread. "you keep quiet if you know what's healthy for you," warned grizzly. "you're fairbanks?" "yes, that is my name," acknowledged ralph. "and you've been watching us, and you was put up to it. say, how much do you know and how many have you told about it?" ralph was silent. just then there was a stamping up the stairs. mason came blustering in. "no lights ahead. i guess the stores are all shut up," he began, and intercepted himself with a stare at ralph and a vivid: "hello!" "don't move!" ordered the telegraph operator in an irascible tone of voice. "we're in it deep, it seems. hand over that bunch of rope near the stove, mason." "what are you going to do?" "cut for it. i know this fellow, and he isn't here for nothing. our game's blown, or it will be. you needn't squirm," he directed at ralph. "there's two of us now." ralph's hands were tied in front of him and his feet secured, as well. it was only half-heartedly, however, that mason assisted. he was pale and scared. "throw him across those blamed instruments, so they will keep quiet," ordered grizzly. ralph was roughly thrown upon the table, face downward, so that the relay was just under his waist. his weight against the armature stopped the clicking of the sounder. the two men grouped together in a corner, conversing rapidly and excitedly in undertones. as luck would have it, ralph's left hand was in such a position that it just touched the key. he opened the key and pretended to be struggling quite a little. grizzly came over and gave him a push in the ribs. "you keep quiet, or i'll find a way to make you," he said, with a fierce scowl. ralph became passive again. as the conspirators resumed their conversation, however, he began to telegraph softly on the west main line, which was clear. his objective point was tipton. it was here, within the next hour, that the limited mail would arrive and, farther on, take the preston cut-off for twenty miles, unless stopped. the relay being shut off by his weight, there was no noise from the sounder, and he sent so slowly that the key was noiseless. ralph did not know on whom he was breaking in, but he kept on. he told the exact state of affairs, repeated the message twice, and trusted to luck. then his last clickings went over the wire: "t.b.i. t.i.s.--hold the limited mail. answer quick." chapter xiv old the west wire was open, sure enough, and ralph had accomplished his purpose. he knew it, and he felt a thrill of satisfaction as he heard the sharp tic-tac that announced the receipt of his message. he had raised up off the sounder. "l. m. due at : . will hold-- ," and , ralph well knew, meant train orders. he had stirred up a hornet's nest for the conspirators, present and absent, and headquarters would soon get busy in running down the plot of the night. "he's done it!" almost shrieked grizzly, as the return message conveyed to his expert ear the sure token that ralph had shrewdly, secretly out-rivaled him. "did you send a message?" he yelled, jumping at ralph, both fists raised warningly, while his eyes glared with baffled fury. "that is what i am here for," replied the young railroader tranquilly. "you had better try and undo what you have already done." bang! seizing an iron bar, the maddened operator smashed into the open west wire, as if that did any good. then he grabbed at ralph and threw him brutally to the floor. his foot was raised, as if to wreak a cruel vengeance upon his defenseless victim, but his companion interposed. "see here, grizzly," he shouted, snatching up the tool bag and making for the door, "i'm shy!" the operator bent his head towards the instrument, now clicking away urgently and busily, growled out like a caged tiger, and ran to his desk and ripped open drawer after drawer. ralph watched him poke papers and other personal belongings into his pockets. with a final snarl at ralph, he made after mason. "it's a big jump, and a quick one," ralph heard him say to his hurrying companion, as they bolted down the stairs, "but a thousand dollars goes a long way." their footsteps faded away. ralph was now alone. he listened intently to the messages going over the wires. o.s. messages, consists, right of track orders began to fly in every direction, while ever and constantly from headquarters came the keen imperative hail: "r.s.--r.s.--sine." "i've got no 'sine' and nothing to say," replied ralph, half humorously, despite his forlorn situation. "it's wait for somebody now, and somebody will be along soon--sure enough!" it was old glidden who broke in upon the solitude first. he came up the outside stairs in big jumps and burst into the operating room breathless, his eyes agog. "hello! h'm! thought something wrong. up with you, fairbanks," he shouted, pulling at ralph and tearing him free from his bonds. "now, then, out with it, quick! what's up?" "foul play." "i guessed it. the double call enlightened me, and you've got headquarters and down lines wild. out with it, i say!" ralph talked about as fast as he had ever done. there was need for urgency, he felt that. the old operator knew his business. "i'll mend up this mess," he said promptly. "that smashup--get to the superintendent. do something anyway. be a live wire!" ralph ran down from the relay room. he could trust glidden to get at work and straighten out the tangle left behind by the fugitive conspirators. the north branch was cut out and the operator ordered off duty. ralph trusted to it that glidden would try some circuitous work to get word around to the other end of the branch. "anyhow, the limited is safe," ruminated ralph, as he reached the ground. his first thought was to get to headquarters. he looked for some stray freight or switch locomotive to help him on his way. he made out a live one on a side track. ralph ran over to it. "hello, roberts!" he hailed, recognizing the fireman, and a jolly-faced, indolent looking young fellow smiled a welcome. "going to the junction?" "exactly the other way." ralph, his foot on the step of the tender, drew back disappointedly. "waiting for bob evers. he's my engineer," explained roberts. "we're to run to acton, over the old dumping tracks--north branch." "what!" exclaimed ralph eagerly. "right away?" "no, any time; so we report at a. m. for a short haul on the north branch." "look here, roberts," said the young railroader eagerly, "you think i understand my business?" "know it, fairbanks," nodded the fireman. "when will evers be here?" "any time within two hours." "two hours?" retorted ralph. "that won't do at all. i'm going for a special order, and i want you to have steam up to the top notch by the time i get back." "that so," drawled the fireman in his usual indolent fashion, but he arose from his lounging attitude instantly, and his great paw of a hand grasped the coal scoop with zest. "all right." "good for you," said ralph, and he started back to the relay station. "mr. glidden," he spoke rapidly, as he came again into the operating room. "there is no time to lose. all we know is that a wild engine is to be sent down the north branch." "yes, that's all we know, and no way to stop it," replied glidden. "there may be a way. ninety-three is fired up for a fly down the dump to acton." "aha!" nodded the old operator, pricking up his ears with interest. "i don't say it, but it may be that we can get to the branch before the runaway does." "suppose so?" "we'll set the switch and ditch her." "good boy!" "i have no orders, though." "i'll give them to you--i'll fix it up with headquarters. fire away." ralph was out of the relay station and down the tracks in a hurry. roberts was bustling about and had fired up the old switch locomotive as if ordered for a mile-a-minute dash. "what's the programme?" he inquired simply. "to reach the north branch just as quick as we can." "all right. you'll run her?" "yes." "you know how." ralph was delighted with his helper. roberts made no delay, asked no questions. ralph was all nerved up with the exploit in view. their destination was a good forty miles to the northwest. the dump tracks comprised practically an abandoned line, and, as ralph knew, was free of either freight or passenger traffic at that hour. it was occasionally used as a cut-off in cases of emergency. the roadbed was somewhat neglected and uneven, but he had run over it twice within a few months, and as they started out roberts announced that their special orders had shown clear tracks. the route was a varied one, and there were some odd old-fashioned curves and a few hair-raising ten per cent. grades. no. buckled down to work right royally. there were two switches to unset, and then right again before they left the main line. at these points roberts ran ahead and did emergency duty. as they slid off onto the dump tracks, ralph consulted the clock in the cab, estimated distance and set his running pace. "she acts like a pet lamb," he observed approvingly to roberts after a five-mile spurt. "yes, she'll chase to terminus all right if the coal holds out," replied the fireman. "there's a bunch of sharp curves and steep grades ahead." "here's one of them, see," said ralph, and he pushed back the throttle and let the locomotive move on its own momentum. the sturdy little engine wheezed through cuts, grunted up grades and coughed down them. "she's only an old tub," submitted roberts, though fondly; "but how do you like her, anyway?" "famous!" declared ralph, warming to his work. the run for a good twenty miles was a series of jarring slides, the wheels pounding the rails and straining towards a half tip over a part of the time. there was not a signal light along the old, abandoned reach of tracks, and only one or two scattered settlements to pass. at length they came in sight of the signals of the north branch. no. paralleled it on a curving slant for nearly a mile. they were barely two hundred rods from the point where they would slide out onto the rails of the branch, and ralph had started to let down on speed, when his helper uttered a vivid shout. "fairbanks--something coming!" ralph cast his eyes to the other side of the cab. something, indeed, was coming--coming like a flash, going like a flash. it whizzed even with them, and ahead, like some phantom of the rail. its course was so swift that the cab lights were a flare, then a disappearing speck. "we are too late," said ralph. "that is the runaway." "so?" questioned roberts, who only half understood the situation. "we ran here in the hopes of ditching that engine." "did?" "we're too late." "are?" "roberts," added the young railroader determinedly, "we've got to catch that runaway." "then it's a race, is it?" asked roberts, grasping the fire rake. "yes." "i'm with you to the finish," announced the doughty fireman of no. . chapter xv chasing a runaway "what's the programme?" asked roberts, after filling the fire box with coal. "we must beat the speed of that runaway locomotive," replied ralph. the wild engine was going at a terrific rate of progress. ralph could only surmise where she had been started on her mad career. the motive, her intended destination, how long she would last out--all this he could only guess at. a drift of cinders struck his face as he shot no. across a switch and out upon the in track of the north branch. at the same time he bent his ear and listened critically to the chug-chug of the escape valves. "some one is aboard of that engine," he told roberts. "then it's a chase instead of a race," said the fireman. "all right. you boss and watch out ahead." pursued and pursuer were now on parallel tracks. ralph wondered if he could be mistaken, and the locomotive ahead a special or returning from duty. to test this he gave a familiar challenge call. from ignorance or defiance there was no response. ralph was sure that the locomotive was in charge of some one. its movements, the cinder drift, the wheeze of the safety valve, told that the machinery was being manipulated. ralph cast up in his mind all the facts and probabilities of the hairbreadth exploit in which he was participating. he acted on the belief that the locomotive he was chasing was wild, or soon to be put in action as one. it would be run to some intended point, abandoned, and sent full speed ahead on its errand of destruction. ralph did not know what might be ahead on either track. the schedule, he remembered, showed no moving rolling stock this side of the north main. he urged his fireman to fire up to the limit and did some rapid calculating as to the chances for the next twenty miles. the locomotive ahead was fully a mile away before roberts got old in the right trim, as he expressed it. he clucked audibly as his pet began to snort and quiver. pieces of the machinery rattled warningly, but that only amused him. "she's loose-jointed," he admitted to ralph; "but she'll hold together, i reckon, if you can only keep her to the rails. that fellow ahead is sprinting, but we're catching up fast. what's the ticket?" "our only hope is to beat the runaway and switch or bump her." "there'll be some damage." "there will probably be worse damage if we don't stop her." the paralleled tracks widened a few miles further on to get to the solid side of a boggy reach. it was here that no. came fairly abreast of the runaway. it was here, too, that the furnace door of the runaway was opened to admit coal, and the back flare of the hissing embers outlined the figure of a man in the cab. "she's spurting," observed roberts, watching all this, as the runaway started on a prodigious dash. "i see she is," nodded ralph, grimly trying to hold no. over, yet aware that she was already set at her highest possible point of tension. "and we're getting near." "yes, there are the station lights ahead." about four hundred yards to the left the runaway dashed past a deserted station. ralph never let up on speed. the chase had now led to the cut-off, a stretch of about twenty miles. where this ran into the main again there was an important station. this point ralph was sure had been advised of the situation from headquarters if glidden had done his duty, and the young railroader felt sure that he had. "hello; now it is a chase!" exclaimed roberts. in circling into the cut-off no. had passed a series of switches, finally sending her down the same rails taken by the runaway. "it's now or never, and pretty quick at that," said ralph to his fireman. "crowd her, roberts." "she's doing pretty nigh her best as it is," replied the fireman. "i don't know as she'll stand much more crowding." "that's better," said ralph in a satisfied tone, as, fired up to the limit, the old rattletrap made a few more pounds of steam. "going to scare or bump the fellow ahead?" grinned roberts, his grimed face dripping with perspiration. "we're after her close now. it's our chance to gain. they don't dare to coal up for fear of losing speed." a score of desperate ideas as to overtaking, crippling, wrecking or getting aboard of the runaway thronged the mind of the young railroader. they were gaining now in leaps and bounds. it was at a risk, however, ralph realized fully. no. was shaking and wobbling, at times her clattering arose to a grinding squeal of the wheels, as though she resented the terrific strain put upon her powers of speed and endurance. "whew! there was a tilt," whistled roberts, as no. scurried a curve where she threatened to dip clear over sideways into a swampy stretch which had undermined the solid roadbed. ralph gave a sudden gasp. he had watched every movement of the machinery. to his expert, careful ear every sound and quiver had conveyed a certain intelligent meaning. now, however, no. was emitting strange noises--there was a new sound, and it boded trouble. it came from the driving rod. roberts caught the grinding, snapping sound, stared hard from his window, craning his neck, his eyes goggling, and then drew back towards the tender with a shout: "go easy, fairbanks; something's tearing loose--look out!" the warning came none too soon. ralph slipped from his seat and dropped backwards into the tender just in time. a giant steel arm had shot through the front of the cab. it was the right driving rod. it came aloft and then down, tearing a great hole in the floor. it shattered the cab to pieces with half a dozen giant strokes. it smashed against the driving wheels with a force that threatened to wreck them. then it tried to pound off the cylinder. the flying arms next took the roof supports, snapping them like pipe stems, and buried the fireman in a heap of debris. "jump!" gasped roberts. "i stay," breathed ralph. and, stripped of everything except her cylinder, no. dashed on--a wreck. chapter xvi the wreck the battered locomotive continued its course for nearly half a mile, with engineer and fireman crouching back on the coal of the tender. there was a diversion of the circling driving rod as the pace slackened. then a violent hissing sound told of a leak somewhere in the machinery. the great steel locomotive slowed down like a crippled giant. "she's dead," said roberts, choking a queer sound way down in his throat. "old !" ralph jumped to the ground and the fireman after him. the latter went all around the stalled locomotive, shaking his head mournfully. ralph hastened ahead out of the glare of the headlight and peered down the rails. for nearly two minutes he stood, shading his eyes with one hand to bring the disappearing runaway within focus. the wild engine had sped on its way untrammeled. he made out that she had slowed up. in the distance he fancied he saw a brisk form spring from the cab. ralph figured it out that a switch had been set. then the runaway started again. he fancied that some one jumped from the cab after the engine had got in motion. he could catch the sharp clack-clack of the flying wheels ringing in the distance. "she is running wild now," murmured the intent young railroader, and then started with a shock. a horrid clamor extended out. it must have been a mile away, but the air was death-like, it was so still, and the merest sound seemed to vibrate clearly. crash, crash, crash! it sounded as if a building had collapsed against other tottering structures, tumbling them all into a mass of ruins. "they've done it, whatever it is," said ralph, and ran back speedily to no. and roberts. the latter stood with his ear bent in the direction of the runaway, and his usually jolly face was serious. "what's up, fairbanks?" he asked at once. "a smashup, i judge," answered ralph. "can you dig out any lanterns?" "red?" "yes." "those two on the end of the tender are all right. there's another under my seat, if it hasn't got smashed." "run back with the two and signal both tracks," ordered ralph. "i'm going ahead to see what has happened." ralph fished among the litter in the dismantled cab and found and lit the lantern referred to by roberts. then he started ahead down the tracks. when he arrived at the switch he could trace that it had recently been set for a siding. a little farther on footsteps in the snow showed where some one had jumped from the runaway locomotive. ralph paused at this spot for only a moment. he went down the siding, which curved in and out among a series of bluffs and gullies. as he remembered it, the siding was not of great length, and ended at the side of a granite pit. a last turn brought him in full view of this. ralph paused, a good deal wonderstruck. thirty feet down at the bottom of the gully lay a tangled wreckage of wood and iron. there had apparently stood two cars where the runaway had struck. one of them held a derrick outfit, the other some heavy excavating machine. the two cars had been forced headlong into the abyss. the runaway engine piling down upon them had completed the work of ruin. "i can't understand it," spoke ralph, after a long spell of inspection and thought. "what possible object could any one have in view in smashing up that machinery?" then it occurred to him that his pursuit of the runaway might have frightened its operator from his original purpose, and he had changed his plans and abandoned the locomotive to its later course. "a pretty bill for the great northern to settle, all the same," reflected ralph, as he started back the way he had come. at the switch he turned the target to open main, and made his way forward till he reached no. . roberts had set the danger signals behind them, and he stood on the side of the embankment dismally surveying the wreck of his pet locomotive. ralph told him of the situation ahead. "i can't understand it," confessed the puzzled fireman. "no more can i," said ralph. "i wish we could have caught the man who got away, though." "what are we going to do?" "wait for instructions, of course. there is nothing due out or in for some time to come, unless the limited comes on. the out track is clear for her, if she does. we must get word to preston, some way." "that isn't far away," suggested roberts. "too far to cover in any reasonable time. i want to get at your tool box, roberts." "all right." ralph secured a pair of pliers from the box in the cab, and went up the embankment to where the telegraph wires ran. he selected a rough pole, ascended it nimbly, and soon sat astride of the crosstrees. the young railroader located the main service wire and began to pry it apart where there had been a splice on the insulator. when he had it separated he knew from the contact that it was in live use. putting end to end, he began to tap off what he wanted to say. ralph did not know what business he might be breaking in upon. he was pretty sure that his message would be taken notice of somewhere along the line. when he had completed and repeated his message he put the end of one wire to his tongue. the vibrations were vague, but sensitive, and he knew that he had stirred up the service, and operators on the line towards headquarters were getting busy. he readjusted the wires and descended to the ground. "doing some stunts, aren't you?" observed roberts, with a commending smile. "i'm trying to get things in order," replied ralph. "it's you for it, every time," declared the friendly fireman. "wish i had brains." "some one will be sure to come to your relief before long," said ralph. "i have done all i can to open up the line, but i think i had better get to preston and in direct communication with headquarters." "it's a long trip," suggested roberts. "that can't be helped. i will set my red lantern half a mile ahead on the in track, for fear they don't quite understand the situation at preston." "so long; you're a good one," nodded roberts approvingly. ralph started on his way, set the lantern and accomplished a mile without meeting with any further adventures. it was when he was about two miles on his course when that whistling in the rear caused him to halt and watch and wait. in about five minutes the limited whisked by, making up time. ralph was pretty thoughtful as he followed in her trail after she had passed on. there were a good many angles to the exploit of the night to figure out. his independent course in trying to stop the runaway might result in some censure, though he fancied not. the identity of the wrecker and his motive were what puzzled the young railroader. ralph trudged on, thinking of all this, when, crossing a bridge, he peered closely over to where a light was flashed and then a second. some one was igniting matches, apparently to light a pipe. he made out one, then two vague forms a short distance down the shore of the creek. it was a pretty early hour of the morning for any one to be tramping around for fun. as ralph thought of the man who had abandoned the runaway locomotive, he determined on an investigation. he descended to the near shore, lined it, and, sharply turning a snow-laden brush heap, almost stumbled on two persons on its other side. ralph caught his breath and drew back just in time to escape discovery. peering cautiously, he made out a man seated on the ground. he was groaning with pain and rubbing one limb tenderly. in front of him was a boy. "you see, i sprained my foot crossing a broken culvert," the man said. "yes, yes, i see," responded his companion, and the voice thrilled ralph, for he recognized the accents as those of a tried and true boy friend of old--zeph dallas. chapter xvii a strange message ralph had known the time when a good many of the boys and railroad men at the junction had considered zeph dallas a joke. he himself, however, had tried to take zeph as seriously as he could, and now his erratic young friend rose still higher in his estimation. in every live town there are generally one or more lads with the detective fever. zeph had wandered to stanley junction all on fire with it. he had liked railroading, but he disdained its humdrum phases. step by step he had kept on the trail of "detecting something," until he had unraveled a real mystery, had been of signal aid to the road detective of the great northern, and had practically become a hired and loyal helper to that experienced officer. ralph recalled the flying visit of zeph to his mother at stanley junction less than ten days previous. on that occasion zeph had dropped some mysterious and significant hints to mrs. fairbanks that he was "working on a big case." he had even asked her to warn ralph "to look out for dispatching trouble." there was no doubt in the mind of ralph that zeph was on the present spot on duty pure and simple. inside of a very few minutes he was aware of the real situation of affairs. the crippled man in whose company he had found zeph was the man who had operated the runaway engine. as ralph peered closer he believed him to be one of the men with whom he had seen the grandfather of glen palmer, and whom he had later encountered in the railroad tunnel the night of the burglary of the paymaster's house. ralph listened attentively as the man seated on the ground began to dolefully recite a lying story of how he had got hurt. how much of this zeph took in ralph could not guess, for zeph was playing a part. the man pretended to be a member of a construction gang, with friends at a little settlement a few miles distant. acting to perfection a simple country bumpkin, zeph pulled the wool completely over the eyes of the fellow. "you've helped me this far," the man said, "and that makeshift crutch is a big help, but i don't think i can navigate ahead alone." "that's all right," declared zeph ingenuously. "if it isn't too far, i'll stay with you till you reach your friends, mister." "say, you're mighty obliging. i'll make it worth your while, too. i'll pay you well." "oh, i don't care so much for that," said zeph. "what i'd like to do is to get settled down to some steady job." "h'm," murmured the man reflectively, looking zeph over in a speculative way, "i don't know but i might steer you right up against a good thing." "i'm willing, i tell you," declared zeph, with a rural drawl that caused ralph to smile. "what doing, mister?" "just hanging around with a pleasant crowd and running some errands once in a while. there's jumps in the business pretty lively, but no real work." "why, i thought you was with a construction gang?" "um," observed the man in an embarrassed way--"yes, yes, just so. changing my job, that's it. on my way to join certain friends on a new deal when that confounded locomotive went too fast for me, and--" "eh," projected zeph. "you didn't say anything about a locomotive before, mister." "say, you're pretty keen, you are," chuckled the man. "and i guess you'll do. i was going to say till a locomotive loosened a log across a culvert and i stumbled over it." "oh, that explains it," said zeph with a frank relief that was most fetching. "all right. you get me a job with your friends and you'll find me a good worker." "don't doubt it. let's make a start." the man winced and groaned as zeph helped him to his feet. the latter had rigged up a forked stick so that it answered for a crutch on one side. zeph got on the other side of the man who, leaning on his shoulder with his hand, was able to hobble along. ralph could foresee no particular purpose gained in keeping on the trail. he felt certain that zeph knew his business. he had probably been watching or waiting for the conspirators right in this locality. "it looks that way," murmured ralph. "anyhow, zeph must be keeping bob adair advised; is perhaps acting under his direct orders. now he is figuring for a chance to get right in with the gang. i'll follow a little further, though, as it doesn't take me much out of my course to preston." after a bit of progress the train wrecker and zeph halted again. the former was getting pretty tired. zeph cleared away some snow from a heap of old ties. the man removed his overcoat and made a pillow of it. he rested for nearly half an hour. then he resumed his coat and they trudged along. "hello," exclaimed ralph--"and good!" he spoke the words with animation, as following up the pursuit he came to the heap of ties where the train wrecker had rested. a memorandum book lay on the snow where it had fallen from the pocket of the man's overcoat. the night light was not sufficiently strong to enable ralph to inspect its contents. he observed, however, that it contained letters and other documents. "i fancy it will tell something interesting when i have time to look it over," decided the young railroader. the train wrecker and his escort finally arrived at a stretch of single rails and here they paused. this was a cut off from the main track with which ralph was not familiar. he had an idea, however, that it connected with some coal pit or quarry in the neighborhood of preston. in less than ten minutes after their arrival at this spot ralph heard a rattle on the rails. a handcar propelled by two men came into view. there was quite a lengthy talk. they seemed discussing about zeph, for ralph saw the latter retire to a little distance. then he was beckoned back to the three men. the crippled one was helped aboard of the handcar, zeph joined them, and the handcar sped away. ralph realized that it was futile to think of following and keeping close track of them. zeph was in their midst, accepted as a new recruit, and the young railroader felt sanguine that he would accomplish some practical results. ralph proceeded on his way to preston. it must have been three o'clock in the morning when he found himself not on the north branch of the road, but on a spur considerably to the east. the light of a little station showed, and ralph was glad to think of rest and warmth. he reached a short platform and noticed the station agent seated between the two signal windows on duty. the man greeted the intruder with chary suspiciousness as ralph entered the waiting room, kicking the snow off his feet. when ralph had introduced himself, however, he stirred himself amiably, roused up the fire in the old stove, and placed a chair for him. "i've had a bad two hours," explained the man, "and was ready for train wreckers, smash ups, or what not. a tramp routed me out of bed at home telling me the old instrument here was raising mischief. knew something about telegraphing himself, he said, and scented trouble. i've been lively up to a few minutes ago, getting all kinds of mixed instructions about wild locomotives and trouble generally on the north cut off." "i can tell you something about that," said ralph, and explained a good deal that interested his companion. "can you get me preston?" "sure--want to wire?" "it will save me a long pull through the snow." the operator led ralph into his little office. as he did so ralph noticed that a piece of bagging was tacked over one of the upper sashes and the floor covered with splintered glass. he had already observed that the operator wore a bandage over one eye, but he did not just then connect affairs in his urgency to get in communication with preston. this he soon did. he found the operator there aware of conditions. the crude message ralph had sent astride the telegraph pole formed the basis for advising headquarters of what was going on. the limited was safely on her way, and a special from the junction was now starting to take no. in tow and investigate the wreck. ralph sent a message to glidden, more explicitly explaining affairs. he announced that he would return to the junction on the first train he could catch. he was pretty well satisfied with his work of the night, for he had done his level best and he felt sure there would be some further outcome when bob adair's assistant reported. "you seem to have had some trouble here," observed ralph, with a glance at the shattered window as he left the instrument. "yes, and this too," said the operator, indicating his bandaged eye. "nearly blinded." "how is that?" inquired ralph. "the west freight, about an hour ago. she passes on her usual whiz. about the middle of the train some one let fly a board--a box cover. it slashed through the window, took me in the face and keeled me clear over." "that is strange," commented ralph. "are you sure it was thrown?" "what could it blow off from?" "that's so." "there's the identical timber," continued the operator, touching with his foot a piece of wood as they came out to the stove again. "i used half of it to mend the fire." ralph picked up the piece of wood out of curiosity. as he did so he made a discovery. its smooth side, though blurred, bore some faint black marks like letters and words. it looked as if scratched with a blunt cinder on the ends of burned matches. in breaking the wood to mend the fire the operator had split the piece transversely removing a part of a written line, but to his amazement ralph could make out these words: "send word to ralph fairbanks, stanley junction, that glen palmer is--" the remainder of this queer message was missing--ashes in the depot stove. what had been the writing complete, and what did it mean? chapter xviii the slump "secret" "wake up, ralph." the young dispatcher of stanley junction jumped out of bed in a bound. he felt that he could have slept half a dozen hours longer, but to every railroad man the call "wake up" means duty waits, no delay, and ralph responded to the urgent call without hesitation. the echo of a series of light tappings on the door and of his mother's voice mingled with her departing footsteps. he called out: "what is it, mother?" "a telephone message from the superintendent." "good--something is stirring," reflected ralph, and hurried his dressing. "well, enough has happened since yesterday to interest the president of the road himself," he went on, musing. "they wanted some house cleaning done, and it has begun in a vigorous way." it was early in the afternoon. just after daybreak that morning ralph had reached stanley junction on top of a freight car. he had found glidden in charge of the situation at the relay station. "you've hit the mark, fairbanks," were his first commendatory words. "the assistant superintendent was here for an hour with me after we got that rough and tumble message from you down the line." "it was a cross tree experiment. wasn't it a jumble?" inquired ralph. "we pieced it out, got our bearings, and they're spreading the net to catch some pretty big fish." "what of grizzly and that fellow with him?" "sloped. adair is after them, though. see here, you get right home and into your cozy." "but i have something of possible importance to tell the superintendent." "he's gone down the line hot-footed. it will all keep till he calls you up. left instructions to that effect--' ,' now, and be quick about it!" " " it was, perforce. ralph had gone through a rough night of it. he was pretty well tired out and glad to get to bed. he went there, however, with some exciting thoughts in his mind. there had been no solution to the enigma of the piece of broken box cover flung from the passing freight train through the window of the little station. all ralph could do about that incident was to conjecture blindly. it was a queer happening, a suggestive one. ralph had a fertile imagination. there was a coincidence about the discovery of the queer message, and things hinged together in a way. contiguous to that section the chicken farm was located, and glen palmer, at least his grandfather, had seemingly linked up with the conspirators against the welfare of the great northern road once or twice before. ralph could not conceive why that message had been written. it was a new mystery, but it had come so secretly upon the heels of a bigger and more important one, that there was neither time nor opportunity to explore it just at present. mrs. fairbanks, like the true anxious mother that she was, greeted ralph on his arrival at home. she had not gone to bed all night, and she now insisted on his eating an early breakfast and taking a needed rest. tired out as he was, however, once alone in his own room ralph took this, the first quiet opportunity, to look over the memorandum book that had fallen from the coat pocket of the train wrecker. ralph's eyes expanded and he uttered one or two subdued whistles of astonishment as he delved among the contents of his find. some penciled notes and a letter in the memorandum book told a great deal--in fact, so much and so clearly and unmistakably, that ralph could hardly go to sleep thinking over the importance of his discoveries. they had to wait, however, till he could again see the superintendent. now, as ralph was roused up out of sleep by a telephone call from that very official, his active mind was again filled with the theme of the memorandum book and what it had revealed to him. when he got down stairs ralph found that word had come for him to report to the office of the road as promptly as possible. his mother had an appetizing lunch spread on the dining room table, and the lad did full justice to it. he was thoughtful and busy formulating in his mind just what he would report at headquarters, and had proceeded less than half a dozen squares from home when passing an alley his name was called. looking beyond the street ralph recognized ike slump. he wore a very mysterious face and he was urgently beckoning to ralph. the latter was about to proceed on his way with a gesture of annoyance, when slump shouted out: "you'll be sorry if you don't see me for a minute or two." "well, what is it?" inquired ralph, moving a few feet towards his challenger. "i need five dollars." "oh, you do?" "yes, bad. i want you to give it to me." "that's cool." "i've got to get out of town. you'd better let me go." "i don't see how i am preventing you," said ralph. "you will, when i explain." "then be quick about it. i have no time to waste." "neither have i," remarked slump, with an uneasy glance towards the street. "to be short and sweet, i know glen palmer." ralph started a trifle at this. slump spoke the name with a knowing look in his eyes and a sidelong leer that was sinister. "well, what of it?" demanded ralph. "i thought i'd seen him before the day i met him up at the yards. i racked my brain to recall him. this morning it all came to me." "what do you suppose i care about your knowing him?" inquired ralph. "just this: he's a friend of yours, a sort of pet. i understand you started him in the chicken farming business, so you must have some interest in him. all right, i can snip him out of his position of glory double quick," asserted ike, in a malevolent and threatening way. "go ahead, what are you driving at?" asked ralph as calmly as he could. "five dollars--that's what it will cost you to keep your friend from being exposed. five dollars, and i bury the secret fathoms deep." "in other words," said ralph, trying hard to suppress his feelings, "you want to blackmail me?" "oh, no," assented slump, "i simply want to sell this photograph," and he drew a card from his pocket. "i went to heaps of trouble to get it. it shows that i did see glen palmer before. it was where we were both locked up in jail," shamelessly confessed slump. ralph was a good deal taken aback. the words of slump and the photograph he extended rather took the young railroader's breath away. the portrait was that of a boy dressed in a convict suit, a number on his cap, and the background showed the surroundings of a prison room. "it's too bad," spoke ralph involuntarily. he was thinking of his misplaced trust in the palmer boy. all his dark suspicions concerning the old grandfather and the conspirators were instantly revived in the mind of ralph. "ain't it, though?" smirked slump. "is it worth the price?" "no!" suddenly shouted ralph, in a tone so stern and ringing that the discomfited slump fell back several feet. "you miserable jail bird and swindler, i wouldn't help you on your wretched career of crime for five cents let alone five dollars. furthermore, glen palmer may have been in jail, but i won't believe he belonged there till i have the proofs." "oh, won't you?" sneered ike. "all right. don't want to reform him, eh? won't give the downtrodden and oppressed a chance. you're a heavy philanthropist, you are, mr. ralph--let go!" slump took a sudden whirl. from behind a fence there suddenly pounced down upon him a towering form. ralph was as much surprised as slump to recognize bob adair, the road detective. the diligent officer gave slump one or two more whirls, holding on to his coat collar, that made him shriek with affright. then he threw him reeling ten feet away. "i gave you two hours to get out of town this morning," he observed. "now then it's two minutes to head straight for the limits, or i'll lock you up as a vagrant." ike picked up his fallen cap on the run. he darted down the alley in a flash. "i don't know but what i would have liked to find out something more from him," remarked ralph. "oh, i overheard the subject of your conversation," said adair--"about that missing boy, glen palmer, i suppose you mean?" "missing--is he missing, mr. adair?" "since the day after you told me about him, and his grandfather and the queer company he kept," replied adair. "i went down to the chicken farm to find that young palmer had sold it out to a neighbor for a song and had vanished." "why, that is queer," commented ralph. "i fancied he had got a new lease of life when i started him in business." "decidedly mysterious, the whole affair," added the road detective. "that will all come out when we see the superintendent. we're both due at his office." "i was just going there," said ralph. "and i was on my way to meet you," explained adair. they walked on together for a short distance. suddenly adair drew out a bulky pocket book well stuffed with papers. he selected a folded yellow sheet. "here's something that belongs to you," he said. "there's a good deal to go over, so get that off our minds. glidden handed it to me this noon." "what is it?" asked ralph. "a telegram." "so it is. why--" ralph paused there. if he had been astonished at the discovery of the board message back at the little station, the present scrap of paper doubly mystified him. it was the mere fragment of a telegram, no heading, no date, and it read: "advise ralph fairbanks, stanley junction. look out for the pacer." chapter xix on the lookout ten minutes later ralph and bob adair entered the office of the superintendent of the great northern. as they did so, a tall, well-dressed man left by another door. adair nudged ralph. "the president of the road," he spoke in a low quick tone. "yes, i see," nodded ralph. "eyes and ears wide open. we're going to see some lively doings, if i don't mistake my cue." ralph felt the dignity and force of the occasion. it was a good deal for a mere youth to realize that he was being called into an important conference on a footing with old and experienced railroaders. the serious yet pleasant greeting of the superintendent told that the situation was a distinct compliment to the fine record and ability of the young railroader. ralph modestly took a chair to one side of the big table at which the superintendent and his assistant were seated. adair produced that formidable memorandum book of his, stuffed with all kinds of secrets of the rail. "we had better get down to business without any preamble," spoke the head official briskly. "before we begin, however, i wish to commend you, fairbanks, for your diligence in our behalf." "thank you, sir," said ralph with a flush of pleasure. "yourself and glidden handled the situation at the relay just as we would have wished it done. what is your report, adair?" the road detective consulted his notes in a matter-of-fact way, and began detailing his information as if he was reading off a freight schedule, but ralph was immensely interested and so were his other auditors. part of what adair told was news to ralph. the most of adair's disclosures, however, linked to what he already suspected or knew. briefly narrated, the two queerly-acting men who had been noticed by ralph in the company of glen palmer's grandfather and during the trouble in the tunnel had been the starting clews in the case. "there is a man named rivers and half a dozen fellow conspirators who are making most of the trouble," said the road officer. "two of the men fairbanks spotted over two weeks ago. they were after the secrets of our paymaster, as we well know. from word i have received from an assistant, dallas, they and a group of helpers are hanging around the vicinity of scene of the smash up last night." "there's a mystery to explain, adair," here broke in the superintendent. "what was the motive for the collision?" "just malicious mischief, i presume--a part of the contract of the gang to hamper and cripple the great northern all they can," returned the assistant. "the work was done by the same group--the word i have received from young dallas assures me of that." "if i may be allowed to say a word," submitted ralph. "certainly," nodded the superintendent, and all eyes were instantly fixed on ralph. the latter took from his pocket the memorandum book and letters which had belonged to the injured train wrecker. he explained how he had found them. there was sharp attention, while the officers expressed approval in their looks. "from all i can gather from these," explained ralph, "the man who ran away with the old engine was rivers. this book bears his name. from it i would think he was receiving a goodly sum each week from some mysterious source for 'looking after' the great northern, as it is expressed." "this is the underhand work of our rivals in business," declared the assistant superintendent bitterly. "i think so, too," assented ralph. "outside of that, however, it is certain that rivers and his fellow conspirators are doing some business 'on the side,' as he again aptly expresses it in his notes. a letter will show you that a man named kingston hired him to wreck the two cars near the quarry." "kingston, the contractor? why, it was his own machinery. he had a large contract to do some extensive blasting work for the great northern," spoke adair. "yes," nodded ralph, "i guess that from what the memorandum book tells me. the contract, however, had to be done in a certain time or kingston forfeited a heavy bond, i believe." "that is true," said the superintendent. "he found out that his machinery would not do the work and that he would lose on his contract." "and wrecked his own plant!" exclaimed the assistant superintendent. "incredible!" murmured the head official at his side. "you deserve something for ferreting that out," declared adair approbatively. "there is your evidence, gentlemen, it seems," he added, pushing the documents over to the others. "this is getting pretty serious," observed the superintendent. "i will hunt up the contractor," said adair, making a note. "i have men looking for grizzly and mason. the other suspects in the service are being shadowed. i think, with the start this famous young friend of ours, fairbanks, has given us, there will be a general clearing up of the situation in a short time. dallas is in the company and confidence of the conspirators. there will be some arrests and confessions within a few days. i think i can safely promise that." ralph listened attentively while the others engaged in a general discussion of the situation. it was arranged that he should resume his position at headquarters in the office of the chief train dispatcher. adair was to go down the line for the avowed purpose of getting more closely in touch with his faithful young assistant, zeph dallas. the latter, through the exercise of a keen intelligence and perseverance, seemed to proudly hold the key to the entire situation, and ralph was glad of it. "there is one other subject of importance," remarked the road officer, as the superintendent arose and the conference seemed as on end. "what is that?" "the pay car affair." "i thought that was all arranged." "it is, so far as we are concerned, but shall i advise fairbanks of the arrangements?" "by all means," directed the superintendent promptly. "yes, he has proven his trustworthiness and ability," supplemented the assistant, "and it is our wish that he should be appraised of exactly what is going on." "very well," nodded adair, in his usual brusque manner, "i will attend to that. come on, fairbanks." ralph bowed courteously to his two official friends and left the room with the road officer. as they reached the street adair linked his arm in that of ralph in a confidential way. "see here, fairbanks," he remarked, "such tricks as that smash up and the pay car business any road may have to tackle from time to time. we shall attend to the fellows behind those schemes all right, but it's bigger game we are after. a plot has crippled our service, corrupted our operators, stolen our private wire information. bear this in view, and when new things come up along that line, which they are bound to do, dig out all you can under the surface that will give us a handle against the real plotter--the rival road that is trying to throw us down." "i understand, mr. adair," said ralph. "you are going up to the train dispatcher's office?" "yes." "i'll join you there in about half an hour, as i have some cypher messages i want you particularly to attend to. i'll tell you then about this pay car business." ralph had to be content with this. as he walked along he wondered what adair would have to tell him. the fifteenth of the month was only ten days ahead, and the pay car according to usual schedule should start on the regular trip three days earlier. ralph was glad to get back to duty pure and simple. seated at his desk he was soon absorbed in getting accumulated work out of the way. he was pretty busy when one of the second trick men came up to him. "mr. fairbanks," he said, "i thought i would speak to you about a message i took over the commercial wire early this morning." "is that it." inquired ralph, at once guessing the allusion, and producing the little yellow slip of paper that the road officer had given him. "'from glen palmer,'" read the operator over ralph's shoulder--"yes, that's the one: 'look out for the pacer.' it came in on a jumble of stuff like a quick cut in. there was more, but i couldn't catch it. i signaled 'repeat,' but lost the sine, and it was clicked so thunderingly fast i got mixed on the letters." "you don't know the point of sending, then?" asked ralph. "no. i didn't know what the other end was trying to give me: look out for the packer? faker, pacer?" "hello!" said ralph, so strangely and suddenly that the operator started at him agape. "what's the matter?" inquired the latter, wonderingly. ralph did not reply. he was thinking hard. a sudden light had illuminated his mind. "i've got it," he breathed in some mental triumph. "'look out for the pay car!'" chapter xx a trusty friend "understand, fairbanks?" "perfectly, mr. adair." "the pay car goes through on regular schedule out of stanley junction." "yes, sir." "with enough ammunition ahead to settle the hash of any possible meddlers. we'll make the test. then the other end. a split up at the end of each section, and if the gang get ahead of us on that arrangement, they are cleverer than i thought they were." all this would have been greek to a person not acquainted with the facts of the case. the colloquy terminated a whispered confidential talk between ralph and bob adair in the chief dispatcher's office. the road officer seemed to throw the pay car off his mind after a statement that ralph was one of six persons who knew what was about to happen, namely, the president and superintendent of the road, the assistant superintendent, the paymaster and adair himself. "there will be something to keep track of tuesday night," observed adair. "you've got your instructions for that occasion." "yes, well in mind," said ralph. "one moment before you go, mr. adair. i have told you about the 'pacer' message." "yes," nodded the road officer, "and your explanation looks plausible." "i don't want to judge from appearances. you see, i feel like giving glen palmer a show." "that's fair enough, fairbanks. i can't help thinking, though, that he or his grandfather have had some dealings with the crowd we are after." "it is only a theory," persisted ralph, "but i figure it out that the old man, glen's grandfather, is some veteran telegrapher. he isn't right in his mind, and perhaps, without glen knowing it, he was approached secretly by the conspirators. perhaps they have benefited from his knowledge of telegraphy in tapping the wires." "you say the boy, too, is an expert operator?" "from what i learn, yes," answered ralph. "his grandfather would naturally teach him." adair shrugged his shoulders. it was evident he considered circumstances against the palmers, for he said: "i don't like their sudden disappearance. i don't fancy, either, what slump remarked about young palmer being a jail bird." "that looks bad enough," admitted ralph, "but please consider that message on the piece of board thrown through the window of the station." "well?" "didn't that show that glen palmer was trying to get some word to me?" "maybe." "under difficulties, too. i believe that he was a prisoner, perhaps shut into some freight car, but managing to send adrift that word to me." "you're pretty loyal to anyone you like, fairbanks." "i want to do the poor fellow justice," responded ralph. "then later, that fragment of message 'look out for the pay car.' i can't help thinking that the boy is straight, and wants to warn and help us." "hope so," said adair brusquely. "a short time will tell. i shall soon round up the crowd, and if young palmer is in wrong with them i shall find it out." it seemed like getting down to a decidedly humdrum existence, routine duty at the dispatcher's desk after the exciting experience preceding. when glidden came on duty he merely smiled in his grim way, with the words to ralph: "in harness again, eh? i reckon things will smooth down now." ralph hoped so. he believed it, too, as a few days went by and in the keen zest and interest of his new work he partially forgot the active issues of the conspiracy, which seemed to have been checked or subdued. with the departure of grizzly and mason the suspicious and treacherous element seemed to be eliminated from the main office. the tricks of the enemy and their methods were now known to the dispatching force, and they were constantly on their guard. a new private code was adopted by ralph, and a system of checking up through repeats that pretty well safeguarded them against crooked messages. mrs. fairbanks was congratulating herself that affairs had quieted down permanently and was enjoying the days that brought ralph home for the evening each day, when a new ripple on the surface of affairs set things in vivid action again. ralph had come home to dinner and was spending a few minutes in casual conversation with his mother after the meal, when the door bell rang sharply. ralph answered the summons to find glidden standing outside, his face pale and anxious, and so nervous over something that he could not stand still in the same position for a single minute. "any trouble, mr. glidden?" inquired ralph quickly. "only of my own," responded the old operator. "see here, i want you to do something for me. it's a hurry business. just tell your mother not to worry if you are away to-night." "is there a probability that i will be?" inquired ralph. "if you consent to do me the favor of my life, yes," declared glidden quickly. "see here, i've fixed everything." the operator shoved a slip of paper towards ralph. it was a brief permission for ralph to go off for twenty-four hours. "i had to act quick," explained glidden, "so i got that end of it fixed directly." "i hardly understand, mr. glidden." the old operator glanced at his watch and grabbed the arm of his companion. "come on," he insisted. "there's no time to lose. we can talk as we walk along. i don't want to bother you with my family troubles, fairbanks, but i need a reliable friend." "i am certainly at your service." "thanks. it's your way, you can't help it," commented the erratic operator. "here's the situation: i have a brother in business at derby." "that's seventy-five miles down the line." "exactly. it seems that he owns a new mill. i don't know exactly what he does, but it's in the metal manufacturing line. he has invented a process for making a substitute for babbitt metal." "they use some of it at the shops, i remember," said ralph. "a man named dorsett, who was his partner, started in the same line after selling out and contracting not to do so. his process is no good, and he wants to get my brother to a point where he will treat with him." "i see," nodded ralph, much interested. "it seems that my brother in starting in for himself had to run in debt for his principal machinery. his old partner managed somehow to buy the debt from the machinery people. he has put the screws to my brother, got out an execution for four thousand dollars against him, and unless that amount and the costs of the judgment are paid by tomorrow, he takes possession, and my brother loses everything." "there's lots of mean work in the world, and this is one of the hard cases," observed ralph. "the worst of it is," continued glidden, "my brother never let me know about the tight fix he was in. i never should have heard of it if he had not got sick in bed. he could do no business and his lawyer wrote to me. i got the letter only an hour ago. you see how fast i must work. i've got to raise that four thousand dollars before court time tomorrow." "four thousand dollars?" repeated ralph seriously--"that's a big sum of money, mr. glidden." "yes, for a poor man like me, but brother john shall have it. i can't see a good twenty thousand dollar investment wrecked to satisfy the malice of an enemy. see here--take that," and glidden extended a package and ralph regarded it wonderingly. "what is it, mr. glidden?" he inquired. "one thousand dollars--five years' savings, i just drew it from the bank here. i want you to take the three o'clock train for derby. go to my brother's lawyer, whose address i will give you. pay him that one thousand dollars, and see if he can't use it to stave off proceedings until i get on hand bright and early tomorrow morning with the balance of the money." chapter xxi a dastardly plot ralph was greatly interested in the affairs of the gliddens. the old dispatcher was a good fellow all around; he had proven himself a loyal friend to the young railroader, and ralph could not resist the compliment implied in entrusting him with an important mission. "sure the leave of absence is all right?" he suggested. "saw the superintendent himself." "very well, i'm glad to go for you," said ralph, and he stowed the one thousand dollars in a safe inside pocket. "how are you going to raise the other three thousand dollars, though?" "i have a sister living at wilston, who i know has as much as i had in bank. i'm going to take the express for there, jump to myron, where a brother-in-law runs a small country bank, and i'm not afraid of results. my sister owns a two thousand dollar mortgage that i have an interest in, too. i'll take that on to the bank to put up as security, if it's needed." "you're a pretty good brother, mr. glidden," said ralph earnestly. the old operator mumbled in his throat and turned away to hide the emotion that lay under his gruff manner. by the time they reached the depot glidden had given ralph final detailed instructions. he did not know how his messenger might find affairs at derby, but he seemed to take a good deal of comfort in believing that if they were at all complicated, ralph's dexterity and intelligence would simplify the problem. "tell the lawyer i will be certain to reach derby on the first morning train with the money," declared glidden. "stay with him all night and watch things. keep your eye on the other crowd and guard the factory." "i shall try to do all you suggest," promised ralph. he telephoned to his mother at home. it was a three hours' ride to derby. ralph reached his destination about five o'clock in the afternoon. he went to the office of the lawyer, located above a store, but found its door locked. then he inquired in the place below as to his residence and received the necessary directions. as ralph left the store he noticed a crowd of four men lounging in front of a drinking place across the street. from their manner he judged that they had watched him go up to the office of the lawyer. why they were interested ralph did not know, but he kept a keen eye out, remembering that he carried a thousand dollars in an inner pocket of his coat. "two of those men are following me," ralph said to himself with conviction, a minute later. this he believed to be true, judging from their actions. they kept pace with him on the opposite side of the street. ralph gave no sign that he suspected their surveillance. suddenly as the two men were crossing the street, a lank, wretched looking fellow came towards them from the doorway of a saloon. it was apparent that he knew them and made some appeal to them. one of them brushed him carelessly aside. as the other passed him the mendicant caught his sleeve to detain him. the man turned, jerked away, shot out his fist, and striking the other brutally in the face sent him prostrate to the pavement and walked coolly on. "poor fellow!" commented ralph, as the man picked himself up, wiping the blood from his injured face with an old ragged handkerchief. "that's the way you treat an old friend after getting all you can out of him, is it?" shrieked the injured man, waving his fists wildly after his assailant. "i'll fix you for this. i'll get even with you." the incident passed out of ralph's mind as he sought for and found the home of the lawyer. as he entered its gate he glanced back down the street. the two men who had followed him stood at the next corner. soon they turned and retraced the way they had come. apparently they were satisfied in the proceedings, their mission having been to locate ralph's destination. ralph found the wife of the lawyer at home. it took only a few minutes for a bright businesslike boy and a woman who interested herself in her husband's professional duties to understand one another. ralph explained the object of his call. "i am very glad to welcome you," said the lady. "and i am glad of the good news you bring. my husband and i are deeply interested in mr. glidden's business affairs. my husband had an urgent professional call to the next town, but he will be back at eight o'clock this evening. he was preparing to arrange for some kind of a bond tomorrow morning, but it looked dubious. the money will settle everything." ralph noticed a small safe in the room where he sat, and turned the thousand dollars over to the lawyer's wife for safe keeping. "that is better so," said the lady. "dorsett, the man who is making all this trouble, has employed three or four rough loafers in his service, and they have been watching every move my husband has made." "i think two of them followed me here," explained ralph. "i hope you will watch out for yourself," warned the lawyer's wife anxiously. "perhaps you had better remain here until my husband returns." "oh, i am not a bit afraid," said ralph. "i want to look around town and perhaps go as far as the factory. is it in operation?" "no, it has been shut down since mr. glidden's illness, but it is in charge of a faithful, honest old fellow, his foreman, a man named bartlett." ralph left the lawyer's house and started in the direction of the factory as just indicated to him. it appeared to be located on the river, about half a mile from the center of the town. in order to reach it he had to go back a few blocks towards the village. he saw no trace of the men who had followed him. as he passed an alley opening, however, he slowed up to watch the maneuvers of a man who interested him. this was the man who had been knocked over in the street by the two men who had followed ralph. he was standing near a barrel which seemed to be used as a receptacle for the kitchen refuse of a house near by. he had reached into it and picked out a piece of stale bread and lifted it to his lips. "don't eat that," said ralph impulsively, slipping quickly to the side of the man. the latter flushed up, put the scrap of food behind him and looked rather annoyed and angry. he did not have a good face, and it looked the worse because of his recent beating. still, the man's forlorn wretchedness appealed to the whole-hearted young railroader in a forcible way. "what will i eat?" growled the man, scowling hard. "you seem to be hungry--go and get a good meal somewhere." ralph extended half a dollar. the man stared at it, then at ralph. "crackey!" he said breathlessly--"do you mean it?" "you had better go somewhere and wash the blood off your face first," continued ralph. "here," and he took out the little surgical case that all locomotive men carry with them. "put a piece of that sticking plaster on that cut across your cheekbone. it was a pretty bad blow that fellow gave you." "did you see him strike me?" inquired the man. "yes, and it appeared to be a brutal and uncalled for assault." "say, that's just what it was," declared the man, getting excited. "i trained with that crowd and did their dirty work, and because i got a drop too much and blowed about the things we were going to do up to the factory, they dropped me." "what factory?" pressed ralph. "glidden's." "i was just going up there," said ralph. "it's somewhere in this direction, isn't it?" "you'll see the smokestack when you turn the next corner. say," demanded the fellow with a stare of interest at ralph, "what you going there for? looking for a job?" "no," replied ralph, "i wanted to see it, that's all. i am a friend of the man who owns it." "oh, that's it?" observed the man thoughtfully. "well, he won't own it tomorrow." "why not?" "dorsett is going to get him, that's why." "you mean seize on the factory, don't you?" inquired ralph. the man stared at ralph fixedly. he was silent for nearly two minutes. he seemed to be turning something over in his mind. he gazed at the coin ralph had given him. then he glanced over his shoulder to see if any lurker was watching them. "see here," he asked in a low tone, "you're on glidden's side, of course?" "yes, strongly." "you've been good to me. saved me from starving. i'll do something for you. between twelve and one o'clock tomorrow morning, dorsett and his men are going to pull that factory up yonder to pieces." chapter xxii holding the fort ralph was a good deal startled at the statement of the man whom he had helped to some advantage, it seemed. he did not, however, show it. the man was grateful to him, and ralph counted on his relating something further. "i would be glad to have you tell me a little more about this business," he said. "as i told you, i am a good deal interested in the welfare of mr. glidden." "are, eh?" grinned the man. "so was i--in the wrong way. just now it doesn't matter one way or the other. the crowd dorsett was working with has set me adrift, and i've got nothing to expect from them. what is it you want to know, guv'nor?" "just this," answered ralph--"any tricks they are up to that aren't square." "lots of those, guv'nor. dorsett is bound to break up glidden, if he can." "i know that; i understand he has bought up a big claim against mr. glidden and will put it into execution tomorrow if it isn't paid." "that's right." "and it will put mr. glidden to a lot of costs to redeem his plant." "say, guv'nor," here interrupted the man--"there'll be no redeeming in the case." "why not?" "because the money isn't what dorsett is after. he's got lots of that. he simply wants to squeeze glidden so close that he'll holler and quit. he's bent on rooting out the plant entire. then when he's got glidden down in the mud, he expects he'll sell him his secret chemical process for a mere song." "the scoundrel!" exclaimed ralph hotly. "i knew that long ago," coolly chuckled the fellow. "if you're interested, let me give you a tip." "i shall be thankful." "get the lawyer to have some one stay all night at the plant." "there's the foreman, bartlett, i understand." "yes, day times. you do as i say." "i'll stay myself." "that might do. you are interested, aren't you, mightily? then so am i. say, inasmuch as i've blabbed a part of it, out with the whole, say i. there's going to be a raid on the factory, as i hinted to you, just after midnight." "a raid?" "exactly. to-morrow the time for glidden to put up a bond or pay the four thousand dollars expires." "yes," replied ralph, "and by ten o'clock, court time, it will be paid." "too late." "eh?" "hours too late--nigh on to half a day too late." "why do you say that?" "because it's a fact." "in what way?" the man screwed his eyes up shrewdly as if he enjoyed making a clever disclosure. then he said: "dorsett has made an arrangement with a drunken justice of the peace in the next township to open office at one minute after twelve, midnight. the justice will issue an execution. inside of an hour dorsett and his men will be at the factory. they don't have to wait for court time. they intend to levy on the machinery only. they won't put a custodian in charge nor wait for redemption nor anything else. they'll simply rip out all those valuable tank machines and piping that cost a fortune, bid the plunder in at old junk prices and gobble up everything else before glidden or his lawyer are awake and out of bed." "my man," spoke ralph rapidly, and moved to indignation and excitement almost beyond control, "are you sure of what you say?" "as i was, up to this morning, one of the men who was to help in wrecking the plant, i reckon i know what i'm talking about," answered the man. "i will pay you to take me up to the plant," said ralph, "as quickly as you can." "you'll pay me nothing," replied the other. "you needn't be afraid of any trouble until midnight. dorsett is too keen to overslip the law in any way. his men may hang around and dog your footsteps and spy about and all that, but they'll do no harm until dorsett has the power right in his hands. then--look out." "yes, indeed," said ralph reflectively. his guide went with him until they came to the factory. here he left ralph, saying he was almost starved and must get a good meal. the factory was a grim-looking, isolated, one-story stone building. one end was rounded with brick and had heavy iron shutters. the front was a kind of office. behind it was an iron partition and a windowless stretch of factory room fully fifty feet in length. ralph tried the front door and found it locked. in a minute or two, however, a big, stalwart man with a face of considerable character came from the inner room. he did not open the door, but stood at a window and called out: "what do you want?" "are you mr. bartlett?" inquired ralph. "that's me." "i am a friend to mr. glidden, and i come here from his lawyer." "where's the proof of it? i don't know you," said bartlett guardedly. "that's so," said ralph, "and i am glad to find you so particular. my name is fairbanks, and i come from the brother of mr. glidden, at stanley junction. i have a good deal to tell you, and wish you would come out and talk with me or let me in to talk to you." "you say the lawyer knows you?" inquired bartlett warily. "no, he doesn't, but his wife does." "we'll see about that--wait a minute." ralph was made aware of the fact that the factory connected with the town by telephone, as the foreman of the plant proceeded to an instrument and took down the receiver. he could not hear the conversation that ensued, but very shortly bartlett came to the door and invited him in. "you're all right, and you're bringing some mighty good news, i hear," he said heartily. "sit down. i fancy that blatherskite, dorsett, won't sail so high tomorrow." "i fancy not, if things are done straight," said ralph, "but i just learned something that worries me a good deal." "what is that?" ralph told his story in detail. he recited what his tramp acquaintance had imparted to him. the sturdy foreman knit his brows, but he did not scare a bit. he walked slowly over to a closet, took out a new winchester rifle, laid it across the top of the desk, and said quietly: "i've got orders to admit no one here without an order from the lawyer up to ten o'clock tomorrow morning. the man who gets in before that time on any other conditions will be a dandy, i can tell you that." ralph requested permission to use the telephone. he got in communication with the lawyer's wife and told her of his new discoveries. her husband had not yet returned, but as soon as he appeared she told ralph she would send him up to the plant. ralph informed her that he would not leave the factory until he heard from the lawyer. it was getting dusk when a small boy came to the office door. he carried a basket and a note, which, after due challenge, bartlett took into his possession. the lawyer's wife had sent them a steaming hot supper, and told ralph in the note to hold the fort, as she felt certain that her husband would arrive at derby on either the eight or ten o'clock train. half an hour later, after they had lighted up, the foreman approached the door cautiously as some one else knocked at it. "who's there?" he demanded. "no one you know. the young fellow in there knows me, though. tell him to look out of the window." ralph pulled aside the shade and peered out, recognizing his tramp acquaintance of the afternoon. "it's the man who told me about this plot of dorsett's," he said. "one of the same gang, eh? i dunno," remarked bartlett dubiously. "ain't he a dangerous customer to let inside here?" "he seems friendly, and he may have something more to tell us," responded ralph. "i hardly think we'll take much risk admitting him." "well, it's just as you say, then." "yes, let him in," directed ralph. he regarded his tramp friend with some surprise and curiosity as the foreman admitted him. the man had got a clean shave and his face patched up, and apparently had a very satisfactory meal inside of him, for he was blandly cheerful and complacent. "saw three of our friends on my way here," he said to ralph. "you mean dorsett's friends?" "yes. two of them were down by the turnpike, probably watching to see if the lawyer or others might come here. the other fellow i spied hanging around the furnace room. he was on the roof once, but he just sneaked away." "what did you come here for?" inquired bartlett bluntly. "oh, i took a kind of fancy to this young fellow. he did me a kind turn, and i'd like to return the compliment. thought maybe there might be a ruction later, and if there is, i'm on your side. so count on me." with a grin and chuckle the speaker bunched up a fist that resembled a huge knot of mahogany. "i think i had better 'phone the lawyer's wife again," suggested ralph after a moment of thought. "those fellows lurking around here might do the lawyer some harm." ralph went to the telephone. as he took down the receiver and applied it to his ear his expert knowledge of telegraphy gave him a quick intuition. "hello," he said, "we're off the circuit. worse than that--the instrument is dead." "is that so?" said the tramp. "then it explains what that sneaking fellow was doing on the roof. they've cut the telephone wires." chapter xxiii one minute after twelve the young railroader of stanley junction realized that he had assumed no ordinary risk or responsibility in acting the role of a trusted messenger in behalf of the old telegrapher in the train dispatcher's office at headquarters. the situation at derby had become an exciting and a critical one. here was ralph, the factory foreman and this tramp acquaintance cut off from the town, isolated in a lonely spot and surrounded by desperate and dangerous men who were bent on a mission of wreck and ruin. bartlett looked a little blank. the tramp grinned as was his wont. he looked as if he would not be sorry to engage in the "ruction" he had talked about, to get even with his treacherous enemies. ralph had grown a trifle uneasy. if the lawyer did not put in an appearance, it was difficult to foresee how affairs would turn out. he did not rely much on bartlett's winchester or the brawny fists of the tramp. the young train dispatcher had seen some pretty sharp and definite work done in the name of the law during a railroad strike, and from what he had heard of dorsett he did not believe he would make a raid on the plant until he was very certain of successfully carrying out his wicked plans. ralph paced the floor of the little office lost in deep thought. the foreman watched him grimly from the corner of one eye. the tramp, lounging amid the unusual luxury of a big swivel chair, seemed enjoying hugely the comfort of the well-heated room and ready for anything that came along, now that he was no longer cold or hungry. he, too, watched ralph, and as the latter with a kind of start: stopped in his walk and his face lightened up, the tramp drawled out: "something struck you, guv'nor--give it a voice." "you're pretty sharp," said ralph, with a smile at the speaker. then he walked over to the foreman. "mr. bartlett," he continued, "i'd like to take a look through your plant here, if you've no objection." "none at all, only i wonder why?" submitted bartlett, with a searching glance at ralph. "i was thinking of something," explained ralph--"how to beat those fellows who are coming here at midnight." "i hope you've hit it!" exclaimed the foreman eagerly. "we shall see." bartlett took a lantern, and leaving the tramp in the office he led ralph into the large room adjoining. it was filled with long flat vats filled with some dark liquid. there was a sulphurous smell to the place. the foreman made no explanations until he reached the furnace room. "you see those big tanks?" he spoke now. "those are the melters. mr. glidden spent a great deal of money to get them right. run up that ladder at the side and look over the rim." ralph did so. the tank he looked into was filled with bars that looked like lead, with smaller fragments of a darker metal and great chunks that resembled resin. when he came down to the floor he opened the door of the furnace underneath and peered in. his face took on a satisfied look. "see here," said bartlett, as they reëntered the big room on their way back to the office. "those pipes running from each furnace convey the molten metal into those vats. there is a great hissing and bubbling, i can tell you. it's a sort of red-hot cyaniding process. the fumes, though! no man could walk through this room when the pour is on and come out alive." "you don't say so?" murmured ralph. then he went up close to the foreman and took him by lapel of his coat. "mr. bartlett," he said, "i see you are all ready to fire up." "at a minute's notice," replied the foreman, with a gleam of pride in his eye. "i suppose within an hour, two hours, you could get those melters so hot they are red all through?" "pretty nigh, i tell you." "and you could fill this room here with fumes that would make a man hesitate about crossing the dead line, until you got ready to shut off the feeders?" "you couldn't hit it closer if you'd been brought up to the business," declared the foreman with unction. "good. now then--whisper." they were near the office door. ralph talked rapidly in a low tone into the ear of his companion. the latter gave a great start. then he grinned. then, alive with animation, he clapped ralph mightily on the back. "lad," he cried with enthusiasm, "you're better than the lawyer and the whole constable force of derby put together." "what do you say about my plan?" inquired ralph. "say--bully for you, that's what i say!" almost shouted the factory foreman. "if you start at eleven o'clock you'll be ready when that gang arrives?" "ready, and time to spare. say, but you've been thinking to some purpose." the foreman burst into a gay whistle as he reëntered the office. the tramp regarded him searchingly, and then looked at ralph as if he half guessed that they were up to something. he was too indolent, however, to delve for the facts. the lawyer did not put in an appearance, ralph knew by the whistles just what trains were arriving at derby. the p. m. came and passed on its way. then the : . by five minutes of eleven ralph decided that the lawyer must have missed connection in some way, for he did not arrive at the plant. just as the office clock struck eleven, ralph arose from his chair and walked up in front of the tramp. "do you want to earn a few dollars?" he inquired. "sure, that's me," answered the man--"what doing?" "helping mr. bartlett here. it will be hot work, but he'll do most of it, he tells me." "oh, in the factory here." "yes." "i'd rather stay here in the office and handle that winchester when the mob comes," observed the tramp. "you can do ten times as much good doing what i want you to do." "will it have anything to do with knocking out dorsett's plans?" "everything." the tramp arose to his feet like a jumping jack, his face wearing an eager grin. "guv'nor," he said, "i'd trust you in most anything. i'd like to have a front seat out here to see the fun when the show begins, but if my being behind the scenes helps, depend on me." "i do," said ralph. "you go with mr. bartlett." ralph sat down as the two men disappeared. he listened attentively to the sounds from the melting room. soon the big blast chimney began to roar, and glancing out of the window ralph could see fitful red gleams shoot out upon the snow. there was a speaking tube running from the office to bartlett's post of duty. soon it whistled, and the foreman announced: "all ready." "so am i," mused ralph, as he counted the minutes roll away. he tried to imagine just what was going to happen and how he would meet the crisis when it arrived. midnight came, and one minute after twelve. five, ten, fifteen minutes passed away. then ralph bent his ear. some kind of a conveyance was coming down the turnpike. he could hear the ring of a horse's hoofs and the hard wheels crunching the frozen snow. ralph picked up a newspaper and pretended to read it, looking as comfortable and unconcerned as possible. "whoa!" sounded a loud voice outside. then other voices mingled in confusion. some one came to the window and peered in. there was a muffled consultation outside. finally a thunderous knock sounded at the door, and a stentorian voice shouted out: "open--in the name of the law!" chapter xxiv the battle of wits ralph instantly arose to his feet and unlocked the office door. he was about to open it when it was forcibly burst inwards in his grasp. "we want to get in here," vociferated a strident voice, and a consequential-looking little fellow, wearing his coat open so that a constable's badge showed on his vest, swept over the threshold as if he was leading an army to an attack. "certainly," said ralph, with great politeness. "come in, gentlemen--there's a good fire and enough chairs, i guess." he was interested in quickly casting his eye over the marauding group. six men had followed the constable in hot haste. one of them, who kept close to the officer, seemed to be his assistant. four men, rough looking and with fiery breaths and faces, ralph recognized as the group he had seen in the town that afternoon, two of whom had followed him to the lawyer's house. the real leader of the party, however, was a man whom ralph had never seen before. he at once surmised that this was dorsett. the latter pushed the others aside and stepped up to ralph insolently. "who are you?" he demanded, with a scowl of suspicion and dislike. "i represent the brother of mr. glidden." "oh, you do?" sneered dorsett. "i thought you was the office boy." "representative, hey?" snapped out the constable quickly. "stand aside, mr. dorsett. this is the very person i wish to see." the official made a great ado getting a bundle of papers out of his pocket. he selected one, flopped it open and fixed an imperious eye on ralph. "as agent de facto, ex officio, essettery, i present a demand against henry william glidden in the penal sum of four thousand one hundred and twenty-seven dollars and ninety-eight cents. are you authorized to pay the same, deprosedendum, or forever hold your peace." "i have one thousand dollars at the home of the lawyer," explained ralph. "cash?" demanded the constable, licking his chops and blinking his eyes like a ravenous wolf at the mention of money. "yes, sir, and the balance will be here in derby before court sits in the morning." "court don't sit any more in this case," growled out dorsett, who all along had regarded ralph with a leery eye. "here's the court." "i say, dorsett, the lad talks business. one thousand dollars ain't to be sneezed at. so much on account, see? just an appetizer. we'll gobble the whole outfit finally. um-m-m--" and his voice died away into a drone into the ear of dorsett only, who shook his head with the forcible words: "no. i won't lose a minute. get at your job instantly." "ha-hum," observed the constable, flapping the document in his hand importantly and again approaching ralph. "ipse dixit de profundis--you refuse to pay this just claim?" "it will be paid within the legal limit of time," answered ralph. "the legal limit of time has elapsed," declared the constable, "as witness this document." "then i suppose you take possession?" said ralph. "that is all right. as soon as mr. glidden's brother arrives he will put up the cash or a bond and redeem the plant." "that can't be done," observed the constable. "practically we are already in possession. the plaintiff, however, has sued out a writ extraordinary. as assignee of the original seller of the melting tanks, which were purchased, not on open account but on contract, and the same held delinquent, he has here in this document a writ of replevin. we want those tanks. the balance will come later." "very well, gentlemen," said ralph coolly, "if you are sure you are within your legal rights, go ahead." the constable's assistant made a rush for the iron door. "only," continued ralph impressively, "don't try it through that room." "hey--why not?" demanded the constable, pricking up his ears. "because the corroding vats are in action, and one minute in that poisonous air would smother the last one of you." "hah!" ejaculated the constable, "we shall see." he advanced to the iron door and lifted its hasped bar. "whew!" he gurgled, slamming it shut again, one whiff sending him reeling back as though he had been hit with a club. "tricked us, have you," gritted dorsett, darting a malevolent look at ralph. "get around to the rear, you four. smash out those barred windows." "i submit," interposed ralph calmly, "that won't do any good. the tanks are red hot and will remain so for many hours." "baffled!" hissed the constable dramatically. "dorsett, they've got the drop on you. no, no," continued the official, lifting his hand as the infuriated dorsett seemed about to dash out of the office bent on any destruction, so long as he carried out his evil designs, "law is law." "and you've got a writ to execute it, haven't you?" yelled dorsett. "not with violence, my dear sir--not with violence," mildly intimated the constable. "i fear we have proceeded with undue haste. i assumed that the plant would be inactive." "it was, up to last evening." "on that hypothesis we took out a writ for immediate seizure of certain specified chattels. you may enter, seize, and distrain. you may stretch a point and force a door or smash a window, but you have no warrant to batter down a wall. if you did--red hot, see?" and with a rather sickly smile the speaker went through a pantomime of seizing and briskly dropping an overheated object. "then take possession," commanded dorsett stormily. "get this young marplot out of here and let no more of his ilk in again." "sorry," retorted the constable, "but there again we have checkmated ourselves. relying to your statements we took extreme measures to tear out the tanks and later put a custodian in charge. we cannot now legally enter here or remain here except on a new writ of possession." now was ralph's hour of triumph and he could not refrain from smiling to himself. dorsett noticed it and thrashed about like a madman. he did not assault the quiet unpretentious lad who held him and his scowling myrmidons at bay, but he looked as if he would like to have done so. finally dorsett quieted down. he drew the constable to one side of the room and they held a rapid consultation. then the constable's assistant was beckoned to join them, and later two of dorsett's allies. this trio left the office instructed by the constable to hasten to the magistrate in the next township who had issued the replevin writ, and secure a broader document for possession of the premises. calm fell over the place at their departure. meantime the furnaces at the rear of the plant roared on merrily, and ralph mentally calculated how long it would be before they cooled down and dorsett got his itching fingers in play to cripple and destroy. perhaps an hour went by. the marauding party was lounging and dozing. ralph bent his ear to listen as a locomotive whistle in the distance told of the passage of a train from the north. the young dispatcher knew the schedule like a book. no train was due till daybreak. a second outburst of tooting signals informed and electrified him. "a special!" he murmured, fired up magically. "can it be possible--" ralph paused there, checking the wild thoughts, or rather hopes, that thronged his mind. he was thinking of the belated lawyer as well as of the old telegraph operator. the office clock gave out three sharp strokes as there was a commotion. some one tried the door. it was not locked and opened at the touch. ralph jumped to his feet with an irrepressible cry of gladness. two men entered. one was the old headquarters dispatcher, glidden. his companion, a peaked faced, shrewd eyed man, ralph intuitively accepted as the derby lawyer. "hello!" shot out the latter spicily--"visitors, friends. how's this, dorsett?" "we've come to stay, that's how it is," growled out the man addressed. "i think not," spoke up ralph quickly. "they have stolen a march on you, mr. glidden. they came with a replevin writ, found it of no effect, and have now sent to some renegade justice outside of the township for a writ of possession." "have, eh?" said the lawyer. "well, i fancy they won't use it. here, you, constable--what's your authority?" "demand--four thousand one seventy-seven ninety-eight," pronounced the official, waving a document. "how is it, mr. glidden?" inquired the lawyer. the old dispatcher rammed his hand in his shirt and drew out a formidable roll of bank notes. "i've got thirty five hundred here," he said. "fairbanks has a thousand." "i left it in the safe up at your house," explained ralph to the lawyer. "all right, i guess my check is good for that balance, eh, constable?" "yes, surely," answered the officer obsequiously, thinking of further legal business. "cancel the judgment," ordered the lawyer. "now, then, dorsett, i reckon we can dispense with your company." the baffled conspirators sneaked away with dark mutterings. the lawyer hailed through the speaking tube. "i got so anxious i arranged for a special at hillsdale," explained glidden to ralph. "just by luck i ran across the lawyer, waiting for a train." it was after bartlett and the tramp had shut down the furnaces and appeared in the office room and the foreman explained ralph's clever plans of the night, that the lawyer approached the young train dispatcher and placed a friendly hand on his shoulder. "young man," he said, "did you ever study law?" "no, sir. somewhere along the line i would like to, but just now railroading takes up my time." "h'm. very good. well, if you ever want to, i'll give you a job." "thank you, sir." "yes," added the lawyer, with a bright admiring glance at ralph's face, "in fact, after your clever work to-night, i think i would be willing to take you into partnership." chapter xxv a wild night "tic-tac!"--"annul train --blockade at fox center"--" - - - stalled at morey gap." "fast freight derailed--switch outside of abingdon." "whew!" exploded the first trick man at dispatcher's headquarters. "did you get all that, fairbanks?" ralph nodded, but did not speak. he was too busy for that. his hand was constantly on the key of his instrument, and his ear was bent with almost painful tension to catch every faint vibration of the wires. his eyes jumped with magic swiftness from chart to note sheet and train schedule. ralph just now was a typical dispatcher in the midst of muddles, calls, cross-calls and piling up business enough to distract the average man. the young railroader confessed to himself that this was the busiest hour of his life. it was a wild, stormy night outside, cozy enough in the warm, well-lighted dispatcher's room. the wind without went howling by shrilly. great sweeps of snow deluged the window panes. whistles from the yards sounded hoarse and muffled. inside that room skilled intelligence and vigilance controlled the midnight workings of the important great northern. in a picture view ralph could see some belated locomotive breasting the drifts of lonely gully and curve. he could imagine a cumbersome freight feeling its way slowly past snow-clouded signals, marooned station men with their instruments knocked dead through fallen wires, and the venturesome repair crew wading through deep drifts to locate the break. and a finger on the key controlled all this mix-up, and intent eye and brain tried to keep the various trains moving. as early as eight o'clock messages had begun to come in fast and thick telling of the great storm of wind and snow, the third of the season, that was sweeping over the mountain division of the great northern road. at ten o'clock the commercial wires went out from rockton, and a special operator now sat over in a corner of the dispatcher's room at an extra instrument taking press news over a roundabout circuit. everything went by jerks and starts. the insulation was bad and sometimes the sounders moved without giving out any intelligible vibration. towards eleven o'clock the rush was over on regular business, but the delayed train list began to pile up alarmingly. everything was late. within the next half hour two blockades, four stalled freights and two telegraph lines down were reported. it was now that ralph was put distinctly on his mettle. glidden watched him anxiously but admiringly from under his deep set eyebrows, and so far did not have to check up an error in orders or a mistake in judgment. on either side of ralph was a card. that on the right hand side had the names of all the stations from stanley junction to rockton. the one on the left side had all the stations from rockton to stanley junction. on both cards some of the stations had been crossed off, particularly on the right hand card. in fact only one station this side of terminus remained. glidden went quickly over to ralph's table as a message ticked out that both had been waiting for. with a somewhat triumphant smile ralph checked off the last station with a dash of his pencil. "gone through, eh?" spoke glidden with a grin. "safe and snug," answered ralph. "you heard--one hour late on account of the snow, but no attack." "good thing for the conspirators," observed glidden. "either they found out it was a trap or saw the half dozen armed guards inside." "perhaps they fancied we knew too much and gave up the experiment of robbing the pay car." "well, she's through--now for the other one. how is it?" "heavy snow, but she's making time," reported ralph, glancing at the remaining card. " is a hundred miles out of rockton. just passed shoreham on the mountain division." "say, those fellows will never guess what they've missed till it's too late, hey?" "it seems so," nodded ralph. there was a lapse of messages now. only the ceaseless grind of press dispatches clicked from the instrument over in the corner. ralph sat back and took a breathing spell. the pay car had gone through--the dummy pay car rather--which had left the junction at eight o'clock that morning. it had been loaded up pretentiously with the apparent usual bags of coin and little safes that were used on regular trips. these, however, contained no money. the paymaster went aboard ostentatiously. the doors and windows were securely locked as usual. inside, however, were half a dozen men armed to the teeth. the dummy pay car was a bait for the robbers. they had not appeared. the cypher message to ralph just received told him that the train had reached terminus without hindrance or damage. "now for the other one," glidden had said. this meant a good deal. the "other one" was the real pay car, loaded with real treasure. to checkmate any possible attack, the railroad officials with great secrecy had loaded up an ordinary baggage car with the pay safes and bullion in transit for banks. it was proposed to distribute this in parcels at section centers out of the usual routine. so far it looked as if it would be smooth sailing except for the snow storm. no. was reported as having passed over one hundred miles on the route. there was a train hand on guard on the front platform of the car and two guards inside, according to the advices ralph had received. the impromptu pay car had been hitched to the rear of a long train of milk cars. this had been done because she was to be switched at four different points before she reached stanley junction. the pay safes had been boxed up and burlapped, giving the appearance of ordinary freight. there was some inconsequential messages during the ensuing half hour. then a chance to tally on the route card on ralph's table as no. was reported to have passed fletcher, one hundred and twenty-five miles out of rockton. then the commercial wire slowed down for a spell. the operator got up, stretching his cramped fingers. "snow two feet on the level at rockton," he reported, "and coming down like an avalanche. why don't they send me ? i've got the grist up to . hello, here she comes. no, she don't. another item." the operator jumped to his instrument and began to flimsy the message. ralph arose sharply from his chair. he had lost most of the message, but one part of it had caught his hearing. it startled him, for a name had tapped out clear and distinct, a familiar name--glen palmer. chapter xxvi an amazing announcement the press operator rapidly wrote out the message coming over the wire, took the finished sheet, folded it, and sent it down a chute. this led to the room below where messengers were waiting for the service. the duplicate sheet he slipped over a spindle. ralph hurriedly reached his side. "let me look at that last flimsy, will you?" "cert," bobbed the accommodating operator, handing it to ralph. the latter read the hurriedly traced lines with a falling face. "that's my ," announced the operator, shutting off his key and arising to drop work for the night. ralph paid no attention to him. the young railroader was conscious of a decidedly painful impression. he had heard nothing of glen palmer or his grandfather since the night the jumbled up "look out for the pay car" telegram had arrived. ralph, however, had frequently thought of the lad whom he had started in at the chicken farm. young palmer had been disappointing. all along the line ralph had to admit this. once in a while, however, when he realized the lonely bedouin-like existence of glen, certain pity and indulgence were evoked. now, however, a grave, hurt look came into ralph's eyes. "too bad," he said, softly and sorrowfully. "i fancy bob adair was right." the road detective had forcibly expressed the opinion that glen palmer had been a jail bird. more than that, adair believed him to be in league with the conspirators. ralph thought not. glen had sent him two warning messages under extraordinary circumstances. the press telegram just over the wires, however, certainly coincided with the charges of ike slump that glen was a criminal. it was one of a batch of items that had come over the commercial line that evening. the message was dated at a small interior city, fordham, and it read: "the system adopted by the bon ton department store here to discourage theft, bore practical results today, and their publicly offered reward of ten dollars was claimed by an amateur detective. the latter discovered a boy in the act of removing a valuable ring from a display tray, and informed on him. the thief was searched and the stolen article found secreted on his person. he unblushingly admitted his guilt. the thief gave the name of sam jones, but some papers found on him disclosed his correct name, which is glen palmer. he was brought before justice davis, who sentenced him promptly to sixty days in the county workhouse." "what's hitting you so glum, fairbanks?" inquired glidden, as ralph kept poring over the telegram in a depressed way. "a friend of mine gone wrong," replied ralph simply. he was glad that he was not called on for any further explanation. just then tipton broke in with a crisp short wire--no. had just passed, only fifteen minutes late. "she's getting in among the bad mountain cuts," observed glidden, as ralph crossed off the station on his check card. "if the pull isn't too hard, i reckon she'll make her first switch nearly on time." there was now in the dispatcher's room a dead calm of some duration. glidden sat figuring up some details from the business of the night. ralph rested back in his chair, thinking seriously of glen palmer, and wondering what mystery surrounded him and his grandfather. the silence was broken finally with a sharp tanging challenge, always stimulating and startling to the operator. it was the manager's call: " -- -- ." ralph swept his key in prompt response. "hello!" said the aroused glidden, listening keenly, "thought tipton was off for the night after had passed. what's--that!" ralph, deeply intent, took in the rapid tickings eagerly. the message was from the station which had reported no. passed in good shape three-quarters of an hour before. here was the hurry message that came over the wire: " something wrong. just found brakeman of train lying in snow at side of track. hurt or drugged. mumbled about foul play. catch maddox and advise conductor of ." "i say!" exclaimed glidden, jumping to his feet. "get maddox, fairbanks. is due or passed." "m-x m-x--stop ," tapped ralph quickly. "too late," muttered glidden in a sort of groan. "thunder! she can't be reached till she gets to fairview, forty miles ahead." maddox had wired back to headquarters the following message: " just passed after coaling. fairview reports four feet of snow in the cuts. no stop this side." then ralph did the only thing he could. he wired to the operator at fairview: "hold on arrival for special orders." the sleepy look left glidden's eyes and ralph was all nerved up. there had come a break in the progress of the substitute pay car, and both felt anxiously serious as to its significance. "there's something mighty wrong in this business," declared glidden. "it looks that way," assented ralph. "get tipton." ralph called over the wire and repeated. "something has shut out tipton," he reported. "wires down or cut," observed glidden. "try maddox." ralph did so. "maddox not open," he said. his mind ran over the situation. he recalled a night like this when he and fireman fogg had run alone a battered locomotive over the same stretch of road on a special for president grant of the great northern. it had been a hairbreadth experience, and he wondered if no. would get through. one o'clock--two o'clock. the young dispatcher and his first trick man found it hard to endure the irksome monotony of those two anxious hours. it was like a tensioned cord breaking when at last the welcome call from fairview came over the wires. " ," the message ticked out, "crippled; six feet of snow ahead, and will have to lay over. send orders." "she's got through safe, that's a consolation," said glidden, with a vast sigh of satisfaction. ralph simply clicked an "o. k." it had been arranged that at fairview the conductor would wire for instructions. these had been purposely withheld for secrecy's sake. a transfer of two pay safes was due at the next station and ralph waited, knowing that as soon as he could leave his train the conductor would send a personal message. suddenly the instrument began to click again. "from conductor : metaphor, resolve, adirondacks, typists." "what!" shouted glidden, jumping to his feet in a frenzy. ralph's hand shook and the color left his face. translated, the message from the conductor of train no. meant: "the substitute pay car has disappeared." chapter xxvii the stolen pay car long before the whistles blew for seven o'clock at stanley junction the news had spread like wildfire--train no. , carrying the substitute pay car, containing two hundred thousand dollars in cash and a king's ransom in bullion for the banks, had disappeared. somewhere between fairview and maddox, the time, and means unknown, the car containing all this treasure had been boldly stolen, disconnected from the train, had vanished. one minute after receiving the startling cypher message, ralph had telephoned to the superintendent of the road at his home in stanley junction. within an hour that official and two assistants in hastily donned garb and with perturbed faces were at headquarters trying to solve a situation enshrouded in the densest mystery. the wires were kept hot with messages to and from fairview. the conductor of no. could simply repeat his amazing story. when the train arrived at maddox they found the precious treasure car missing. their crippled engine could not be brought into service. the snow-clogged rails offered no chance for a hand car. had the car broken loose? was the question put. no, was the answer. the bumper of the last milk car showed no evidences of unusual strain or break. the coupling pin had simply been removed, how far back the line it was impossible to surmise, certainly between fairview and maddox. and then, linking in the discovery of the brakeman lying drugged or hurt at the side of the track by the station agent at tipton, the irresistible conclusion was arrived at by the anxious railroad officials that their careful plans to delude the conspirators and safely get the substitute pay car through had failed utterly. there was only one thing to do. this was to make an immediate search for the missing car. belleville, ten miles distant from fairview, was wired an urgency call. the snowplow service with one caboose was ordered out. the division superintendent at belleville was instructed concerning the situation, and at four a. m. the train started for fairview, to plow its way back over the route of no. to seek a trace of the missing car. it was before daylight when a report came in. nowhere along the sharp curves or deep gullies of the route was a single trace of the car discovered. it had disappeared as absolutely and completely as if the earth had opened and swallowed it up. the falling snow had obliterated all recent marks on its surface. by the merest chance, ten miles out of maddox, the division superintendent had noticed a small mound that was unfamiliar. stopping the train, an investigation disclosed the two guards who had been locked in the pay car when it left rockton. it had been hard work to arouse the men, but finally one of them was restored to consciousness sufficiently to relate a clear story. their instructions had been simple--to use their rifles if any stranger attempted to enter the car on its journey. between stations the brakeman on duty on the rear platform of the car was allowed to enter to get warm. he had always, however, given an agreed-on signal at the door of the car. it was just after leaving tipton that his familiar knock had called one of them to the door to let him in. taken completely off their guard, as four men one after the other jumped in among them, the guards had no opportunity to seize their firearms. they had been knocked down on the floor of the car, cloths drugged with some subtle acid had been held over their faces. they knew no more until they had been discovered by the division superintendent. "it's easy to guess it out," whispered glidden to ralph while the officials in the room were piecing all these bits of information together. "yes," responded ralph, "the conspirators in some way received advance information of every step we intended to make." "they must have got aboard secretly beyond tipton, or have been hidden in the last milk car," suggested glidden. "they jumped on and doped the brakeman, disposed of him, later of the two guards, and were in possession. the division superintendent reports that the wires were found cut just out of tipton. the crowd had planned out everything to a second, with conspirators posted all along the line." "but the missing car," said ralph thoughtfully; "what has become of it?" neither he nor glidden could figure out a solution of this difficult problem. even the experienced official after a long confab gave it up. the only thing they could do was to order a hasty search for bob adair, the road detective, to rush to the spot with all the force he needed. the superintendent spoke pleasantly to ralph and glidden as the day force relieved them. he even forgot his anxieties long enough to commend them for the hard work they had done and the close tab they had kept on all the occurrences of the night. "it's a bad mess for the great northern," he said with a worried face, "and it proves that our enemies are not as dull as we thought they were." ralph went home tired out. he found it hard, however, to get to sleep. the strain and excitement of the preceding twelve hours told severely on his nerves. all through the morning his vivid dreams were of snow blockades, cut wires, and stolen treasure cars. on account of their special service on behalf of the pay car affair, glidden and himself were relieved from duty for twenty-four hours. the old dispatcher dropped in at the fairbanks home shortly after noon. "have they found any trace of the missing pay car?" at once inquired ralph. "stolen, you mean," corrected glidden. "no. theories? lots of them. she was simply cut off from the train. she couldn't have derailed, for there's no trace of that unless she went up in the air. of course, whoever manipulated her sent her off on a siding among the mountains on a down grade." "and that is the last known of it. well, what later?" "adair will be over to find out soon, or else he won't," retorted glidden crisply. "you know that web of old abandoned sidings and spurs branching out the other side of maddox?" "near eagle pass, you mean?" "yes. the superintendent thinks the car will be found somewhere on the branches, looted, of course, for the robbers have had hours to handle the booty." nothing but theory, however, resulted from official investigations during the ensuing two days. the following monday morning the assistant superintendent met ralph on his way to work. the missing car problem was still unsolved, he told the young railroader. adair and his men had explored every spur and siding the entire length of eagle pass. not a trace of the stolen car had been discovered, and the road officer was working on a theory that it might have been run off on connecting private switches onto the midland central, and the collusion of important influences exercised. when ralph got home that evening he found an old time friend awaiting him. it was zeph dallas, just arrived. "why, hello!" hailed ralph heartily, walking into the sitting room where he had spied zeph. "i'm glad to see you, zeph--why, what's the matter?" zeph was indeed an object to excite wonderment and attention. his face was about the forlornest that ralph had ever seen. his eyes were like two holes burned in his head, his clothes were wrinkled as if he had slept in them for a week. in a limp, hopeless fashion the "boy detective," all his plumes of ambition sadly trailing in the dust of humiliation and defeat, allowed his hand to rest lifelessly in that of ralph. his throat choked up with a sob, and his eyes filled with tears. "ralph," he almost whispered, "they've fooled me, i'm beaten out." "you mean the men who stole the pay car?" "yes; oh, they put it over on me good. they pulled the wool over my eyes. i thought i had them, and they let me think so. i've got to find them, i've got to make good, or i'll never hold up my head in stanley junction again." "you did the best you could, i am sure, zeph," encouraged ralph soothingly. "the best won't do!" almost shouted out zeph. "there's got to be better. oh, ralph, it will break my heart if i fail. i've got to find that stolen pay car, and you've got to help me." chapter xxviii the "test" special "mr. fairbanks?" "yes, sir." "this is the office of the general superintendent. he wishes to see you immediately." "i will report at once." ralph put down the telephone receiver, exchanged his office coat for street wear, and within five minutes was admitted into the private office of his superior official. the superintendent looked bothered and his eyes were fixed on a great array of documents on the desk before him. ralph's brisk step and bright face seemed to rouse him, and with a word of welcome he said: "sit down, fairbanks." ralph wondered why he had been sent for. he hoped it was concerning the pay car mystery. there was not an hour in the day that in some shape or other this perplexing puzzle did not come up before him. more than one of his friends was vitally interested in the outcome of that baffling case. for the sake of bob adair and zeph dallas, he sincerely wished that the mists of secrecy and vagueness might be cleared away. "unfinished business," spoke the superintendent after a pause, almost irritably brushing aside a heap of papers directly before him. "will it ever be finished?" he added with a sigh. "fairbanks," and the official singled out a letter from among the heap of documents, "i am afraid i must ask you to go on special duty." "very well, sir," said ralph at once. "always ready, always willing," commended the superintendent with an approving glance at the young railroader. "i wish there were more like you, fairbanks. you know the bother and stress we are in. this pay car business has upset the whole official force, and we are still in the dark." "but mr. adair is on the case," submitted ralph. "it has been of no use. he has made an investigation along every inch of the road where the car might have disappeared. he has given up, discouraged. here is his last report. he mentions you." "mentions me?" repeated ralph. "yes. that is one reason why i have sent for you. he reports from fairview, and asks us to send you to him on wednesday." "that is day after tomorrow," said ralph. "exactly. what his plans are i cannot tell you, but he refers to some efficient work you have done in his line in the past, and requests us to detail you specially in his service. what do you say, fairbanks?" "i am at your orders, sir." "very good. that settles one part of the business. the other may not come so welcome to you, but you must be our man. glance over that, will you?" the official handed ralph a card covered with calculations. there were bewildering figures, so many cars, so many used per day, so much profit. the totals were enormous. "the overland fruit dispatch," explained the superintendent, "is out for bids on the transfer of their cars east from rockton." "i heard something of that." "we are out for the contract. it means a big thing for us. so is the midland central. that means war, or, rather, more war. their schedule beats ours by ten minutes. we must beat them by two hours. the test run began at ten o'clock this morning. porter and winston, both good men, run as far as portland. i am not afraid in broad daylight. nearly all the trouble has been east of that point--you understand?" "perfectly," assented ralph--"you are afraid of some trickery on the part of our rivals?" "yes. i want you to reach portland and catch the special at four p. m. if the new locomotive crew look good to you, just superintend. but rush that train into the yards by the stroke of eleven p. m., or we lose the contract." "i think i can do it," said ralph. "very well, we give you free rein. dismiss the crew and find a new one, as you like. you have orders for clear tracks over everything else. lay out your schedule, give glidden charge of the wires at headquarters, and get us that contract." "i will catch the first west through and report at eleven o'clock to-night," promised ralph confidently. "good for you, fairbanks," commended the superintendent, slapping ralph encouragingly on the shoulder. the next was a busy hour for ralph. he studied the schedules, posted glidden, took a hurry run for home and caught the train just as it was pulling out of the depot. ralph reached portland at half-past three in the afternoon. the special was on time and due in thirty minutes. she was to take water and coal at the yards, and ralph, making himself known to the operator there, loitered outside. he saw the relief engineer appear. he was a man he did not know, and something about his face and manner impressed the young railroader rather unfavorably. the man set his dinner pail near the steps of the switch tower and walked about with the air of a person looking for some one. then at a low whistle he started for a pile of ties some distance away. a man lurking there had beckoned to him. ralph watched closely but drew back out of view. his keenest wits were on the alert in a second. he had recognized the lurker as a former unreliable employe of the great northern, discharged at the time of the great strike. ralph feared this fellow might recognize him and dared not approach him any nearer. the twain conversed for only a moment. then the lurker handed the engineer a bag. it held apparently about a bushel of some kind of stuff. the engineer took it and returned to the tower, his companion disappearing. just then the special came down the tracks. the locomotive was disconnected and the tired and grimed crew drove for the dog house. in a minute or two the relief engine came down the tracks in charge of the fireman of the run. ralph looked over the man. he had all the appearances of an honest, plodding fellow. after he had hitched to the train he got down to oil some cylinders. the engineer piled aboard with his bag, chucked it under the seat, and alighted again and went back to meet the conductor from the caboose. of that bag ralph had been suspicious from the start. he now deftly took the engine step, hauled out the bag, thrust it under the fireman's seat, swung shut its swinging board, and sat down at the engineer's post. "hello!" exclaimed the fireman, stepping up into the cab--"who are you?" "your engineer this trip." "eh? where does bartley come in?" "he don't come in," replied ralph definitely. "your name bartley?" inquired ralph, as the engineer and the conductor came up to the locomotive. "that's me," smartly responded the man with a wondering look at ralph. "well, you are relieved from duty on this special trip," advised ralph. "hey--who says so?" "the general superintendent. is that right, operator?" the towerman nodded, beckoned bartley aside and made some explanations to him. his auditor looked sullen and ugly. ralph did not leave the post of duty he had assumed, meantime giving the conductor an idea of how affairs stood. "hold on, there," spoke bartley in a gruff tone, as the train got ready to start out. "i've got some personal property in that cab." "all right," nodded ralph in quite a friendly way--"get it out." "bag of apples for a mate down the line," mumbled the engineer, reaching under the seat. "bag of--thunder! they've gone." the conductor had run to the caboose. the engineer drew back from the empty void under the seat in a puzzled, baffled way. ralph beckoned to the operator. "watch that man," he ordered in a quick whisper. "if he tries to send any messages ahead advise the operator to report instantly to headquarters." then ralph opened the throttle and sent the test special on her dubious way, leaving the discomfited bartley glaring after him in baffled suspicion and distrust. chapter xxix "crack the whip!" "what's up--something?" declared the fireman of the special as the train cleared the yards at portland. "yes," replied ralph, watching out for signals and testing gauges and airbrakes. "this is up: what kind of a man is your engineer, bartley?" "he's not my engineer at all," retorted the fireman rather testily, "and i was sorry when i was listed with him. he's a bossing, quarrelsome sort of a fellow. he don't train with my crowd, and i'm glad you're on in his place. you're fairbanks, eh? well, i've heard of you." "nothing bad, i hope," challenged ralph with a smile. "almost too good to last." "oh, by the way, i want to say to you that this trip is going to give you a great chance." "for what?" inquired the fireman, big eyed and interested. "to make a record." "it isn't much of a run." "yes, it is, and a great deal depends on it. the general superintendent is watching this run. it means a record and money for the great northern. we may strike trouble. everything depends on landing these cars in the yards at stanley junction by eleven p. m. to-night." "i'm with you, mr. fairbanks," said the fireman earnestly. "i don't know all you do, but i'll follow orders to a t." "that's the ticket. look here." they were running easily over an air line, and ralph had an opportunity to reach under the fireman's seat and pull into view the bag he had stored there. "i say, who put that there?" demanded the fireman with a stare. "i did. it belonged to bartley. it's the 'personal property' he was so anxiously searching for." both looked into the bag. ralph reached in and drew out a white object about the size of an egg. there were a good many others of these in the bag. it crisped in his fingers, as he turned it over inspecting it. he smelled of it, tasted of it, and a queer looking smile hovered over his lips. "do you know what it is?" he inquired. the fireman fumbled it gingerly and then shook his head in the negative. "it's soda--caustic soda," said ralph. "there's enough more in there to start a laundry. this black stuff," and he drew out one of a hundred dark colored cubes--"it tastes like salt. ah, i think i guess it out. witness this," he continued to the fireman, "bartley sneaked that bag aboard. i wish to keep it for evidence." "evidence of what?" "trickery, conspiracy. to my way of thinking he intended using that soda to churn the water in the boiler, and half a dozen of those salt bricks would smother the best fire you ever built." "thunder!" ejaculated the fireman excitedly, "there is something up, indeed." "so much so, that we want to keep our eyes wide open every foot of the way," said ralph emphatically. "in my opinion bartley was bribed to cripple this locomotive so she couldn't pull through on time." "the villain!" commented the fireman. "now all we've got to do is to beat that game," resumed ralph, "and i'll guarantee you honorable mention and a raise if you help me." "anybody would help you," declared the fireman enthusiastically, gratified at the confidence reposed on him--"they don't raise such engineers as you every day." "i am a dispatcher at present," said ralph, "and a trifle rusty at the old trade, i find." rusty or not, ralph now entered heartily into the zest of pushing the special through. twenty miles on the main, to shorten the route a run was started over the itica branch, forty miles in length. the special had full swing for the east, as headquarters was keeping tab of the train every minute. there was a stop at laketon, thirty miles farther on. it came on signal, and ralph expected something had happened. he read twice the flimsy handed to him by the operator. it was from the dispatcher at portland, but via glidden at headquarters. it advised ralph that the treacherous engineer, bartley, had sent a cypher dispatch to some one at itica. itica was ten miles ahead. here the great northern branch tracks crossed those of the rival road on the signal interlocking system. "i will be glad when we get past itica," decided ralph mentally, after a sharp twenty minutes' run, as he came in sight of the crossing tower and got the stop signal; a glance ahead told him that it was doubtful if he got past itica at all. there was a single track at this point, and it crossed here the double track of the rival line. blocking the great northern completely, a double-header stood slantwise, sagging where it had torn up the ground ripping out a cross-section of the interlocking rails. the switchman came up to the special as ralph slowed down. "it's stalled, you are," he observed. "i see that," said ralph. "a thrick." "you think that, do you?" "i know it. 'twas done a-purpose. we've had no kind of throuble here before. they just pulled those two old wrecks to the crossing and derailed them a-purpose." ralph left his fireman in charge of the engine and ran up into the signal tower. he came down in a few minutes and consulted with the conductor. the fireman studied his set grave face intently as he resumed his place at the throttle. ralph pulled the whistle as a back up signal. then the train, composed of ten refrigerator fruit cars and the caboose, began retracing the course the special had just come. ten miles backing, and the special arrived at the station where ralph had received the message from headquarters. he had a brisk brief talk with the operator there, calling the conductor into the consultation. there was some switching, and the locomotive, headed right, started from the main in a southerly direction. "i say, mr. fairbanks," the fireman expressed himself in some wonderment, "of course you know where you are going." "i hope i do." "well, i don't," blankly confessed the fireman. "this is the old eagle pass cut off, isn't it?" "it was, once. i hope it is now." "why, it hasn't been used for years." "we're going to use it." the fireman looked blank. except for some old fashioned targets, there was nothing to show that they were traversing the rails, for the snow lay on a dead level. "i can't go back the main forty miles, make up forty more, and get to the junction anywhere near schedule," explained ralph. "we have already lost time from that blockade at itica our rivals fixed up for us. if we can get through to the mountain division tracks over this stretch, we save over two hours' time." "aha, i see your idea," exclaimed the fireman, aroused. "i'm with you." ralph was trying a dangerous experiment, and he knew it. time was the essential, however, and the risk must be taken. they felt their way cautiously. it was nearly dusk now, and he did not fancy getting caught after dark among those lonely mountain gullies. the pilot had to clear the way of snow. there was a tremendous rattling of the coaches as they sunk with the track and struck uneven reaches. at a trestle structure the train shook visibly. the fireman uttered a great sigh of relief as the last car passed safely over it. they were on a down slant on a sharp curve when a shock that was something terrific ran through the train. ralph threw on the air lightning quick and closed the throttle with a jerk. the young railroader was fairly lifted from his seat and the fireman went spinning to the bottom of the cab. "thunder!" he shouted, "what have we struck?" ralph got down to find out. the conductor came running up while he was making his inspection. they discovered a queer situation. chained to the track were three ties. they did not look as if they had been placed there for a bumper. but ralph did not waste time theorizing. with what tools the locomotive afforded they set to work and soon removed the obstruction. just an hour later they cleared the old rickety cut off. it was dark now. they ran down the main line ten miles, and at the barrens took coal and water, while ralph was busy with the station operator in communication with headquarters. he calculated closely as they started on the long home run. it would take some steam and the best of luck to reach the yards at stanley junction by eleven p. m. at nine o'clock they passed revere without stopping. at ten they switched at wayne, forty-five miles from terminus. it lacked just ten minutes of eleven o'clock when the special came in sight of the lights of the junction. to follow the main and risk a stoppage at the limits would never allow of an arrival on the time set. "i have got an idea," said ralph, slowing up as they neared the first siding of the yards in-tracks. "go to it, then--anything to pull through on time," responded the fireman with vigor. ralph jumped down from the cab, unset a switch, glanced ahead down the open track, and then glanced at his watch. "eight minutes," he said, quite excited now. "crowd on every pound of steam you can. we may make it by a bare scratch." ahead was the outline of the fence of the yards. the gate to its west special track outlet was shut after working hours, ralph knew well, but it was a flimsy affair used less for protection than to exclude intruders. "four minutes," he spoke, and the flying locomotive was rushing ahead with a grinding roar. "three." they took the gate, sending its frail boards flying up into the air in a cascade of riven splinters. "arrived!" shouted the fireman triumphantly. ralph started to let down speed. just then something happened. the brake beam of the truck under the tender dropped, causing the wheels to leave the rails. the locomotive played a veritable "crack the whip" with the cars behind, became separated from the train, and traveled fully four hundred feet before she stopped. the train broke in three sections. the wheels seemed to be smashing through logs, rails and stones. the noise was deafening. a yardman said later that as the train burst through the switches each car seemed to carry beneath it a huge ball of fire, caused by the wheels being dead-locked by the automatic brakes. not a car was smashed, and no two cars were left on the same tracks or pointing the same way. the caboose had its rear wheels on one track and its front wheels on the track south. the cars were standing in every direction, but not a person was hurt, not a car was invalided. ralph ran up to the yardmaster and held out his watch to him. "verify the arrival," he ordered hastily. "yes, : , two minutes ahead of time," said the man with a stare of wonderment. "we were expecting you, fairbanks, but--not in that way!" chapter xxx the pay car robber ralph fairbanks sat at work on the task apportioned him by the general superintendent six hours after he had delivered the california fruit special "on time." the young railroader went at the missing pay car case just as he started at anything he undertook--with ardor and intelligence. he lined up all the facts in order, he met adair down the line at maddox, and zeph dallas was with him. by three o'clock in the afternoon ralph knew all there was to gather up as to the details of the missing pay car. it was not much to know. no trace of it had been found. there were a dozen theories as to what had become of it. two of adair's helpers favored one looking to the bold running off of the car after being detached by a "borrowed" engine of the midland central, and were working along that line. adair told ralph that he was anxious to get after the five men with whom zeph dallas had been making friends for a week or more. their leader was rivers, and there was no doubt that this crowd had worked on the pay car robbery. as zeph had tearfully narrated to ralph when he had implored his aid, the crowd had fooled him completely. from the start they must have had an inkling as to his identity. working on that knowledge, as zeph expressed it, they had simply "had fun with him." the deceptive rivers had left false telegrams purposely in zeph's way. he had got up fictitious interviews with his confederates to which zeph had listened, believing himself a shrewd eavesdropper. they put up a plausible plan which diverted his investigations entirely from their real intentions, and this was how he never dreamed for a moment that they had the slightest hint as to the starting of the substitute pay car out of rockton. the day of that event they had sent zeph on a fool errand to pretended accomplices at a desolate spot thirty miles from any railroad. returning to the old camp of the conspirators the next morning foot sore and wearied, zeph had found it utterly abandoned. the crowd had deserted him for good, and he was left "to hold the bag," as he ruefully expressed it. there was "one great big thing" that zeph had done, however, and ralph encouragingly told him so. he had managed to get possession of papers and lists that gave the names and plans of the conspirators who were acting for the rival road, and also the cypher telegraphic code they used. so valuable did adair consider this information, that he declared it would not only result in proving where the real responsibility rested for the various loss and damage of late to the great northern, but he believed that when confronted with the proofs the midland central officials, rather than court legal proceedings would foot every dollar of the expensive bill run up by their spies, even to the pay car loss. so, after telling ralph that he should spend a day in consultation with the superintendent and others at stanley junction, and to advise him at once of any new discoveries of importance, the road officer left ralph and zeph hopefully to their own devices. at exactly ten o'clock the next morning as the general superintendent and adair sat in earnest consultation at headquarters. glidden arrived in great haste with a telegram. "a pink, sir," he reported to the head officer. "was in cypher. from fairbanks." "hello!" commented adair, rising from his chair interested. "that's good. he never wastes electricity unless he has something to tell." "why," almost shouted the superintendent, roused up to tremendous excitement, "he has found the missing pay car!" "he beats me, and that's fine, quick work!" declared adair. "i told you he was a genius, and i knew what i was about when i sent for him." "listen to this," continued the superintendent hastily: "pay car found--north eagle pass. smashed. empty. adair must come at once.'" "i guess so," nodded the road detective with animation. "what a record: roundhouse wiper, towerman, fireman, engineer, train dispatcher, and now beating the special road service right on its own grounds! chief, where are you going to put fairbanks next?" "something better and something soon," said the gratified superintendent. "he deserves the best." "there's nothing better than chief dispatcher," declared old john glidden, loyal to the core to the proud traditions of his calling. "you just keep fairbanks right at my side--we're both happy and useful right here." adair waited for no regular train. a special locomotive took him down to maddox, to find ralph and zeph awaiting him in a private room off the operator's office. "found the pay car, eh, fairbanks?" challenged the road detective briskly. "yes, mr. adair--what was left of it." "knew you would, if anyone did. so i bungled? well, i'm glad to learn what i don't know. give us the details." ralph was brief and explicit. the first investigating party under adair's direction had traversed all the southern cut offs. they had forgotten or neglected the one over which ralph had made his sensational run with the california fruit special. it was no wonder that the division superintendent had considered it impossible, for at places the fruit special had ploughed up dirt and dead leaves matted down over the rails two feet thick. at all events, recalling the obstruction of the chained ties, ralph and zeph had gone to the spot. "that obstruction," explained ralph, "had certainly been placed before the theft of the pay car, anticipatory of what was planned to happen." "yes, it looks that way," nodded adair thoughtfully. "the car must have run on strong gravity to the bumper, and went over the edge of the roadway at that point. she struck down over one hundred feet, breaking through the tops of trees. the snow later covered all traces of the descent. you will find the car lying near an old abandoned quarry house, a mere heap of kindling." "and the safes and the money parrels?" "not a trace. however, mr. adair, it is no easy way to get out of the ravine with those stout heavy bank safes, and i advise that a guard be left in the vicinity." "you have solved the mystery of the pay car, fairbanks," said the road officer in a gratified tone--"now to find out what has become of the plunder." "you will remain here, mr. adair?" inquired ralph. "until i have made a thorough investigation and placed my men, certainly," responded the detective. "i wish to put in a few hours at a side line investigation, if you please, and may not see you again until tomorrow, and i wish to take dallas with me." "all right," said adair. he looked as if he would like to know more of ralph's plans, but he had too much confidence in his young helper to question him. as to ralph, he had a decided reason for not explaining to the road officer. glen palmer was on his mind strongly, and a good many strange things that glen had told him had impressed him with the conviction that the grandfather of the unfortunate glen had been a pretty important element in the plots of the conspirators all along the line. zeph, while at the camp of the plotters, had heard considerable they did not intend him to hear. they had spoken of the palmers--grandfather and grandson, many times. "from what they said," declared zeph, "i could easily decide that they discovered old palmer, knowing him to be just the man they could use. without glen knowing it, they got him away from home several times. they played on his simple vanity, making him believe they would later get him a great job with a big railroad. glen was heart-broken when he discovered this. the crowd finally got his grandfather in captivity. glen tried to rescue him, and they caged him up, too." "i begin to understand the circumstances under which the poor fellow sent those two warning messages," murmured ralph. "thief or no thief, he was loyal to me." "i think it, too, and i think he could tell you lots," said zeph. "i know his grandfather could. both escaped finally, but where they went i don't know." ralph knew at least where glen was. he remembered the town at which his arrest had been reported. it was less than twenty miles distant, and they caught a fast freight. ralph went at once to the workhouse of the thriving little town. he inquired for glen palmer, but was informed that the following day was visitor's day, and that the rules were never broken except on special orders from the superintendent, who was absent at present. "i will call tomorrow, then," said ralph. "i wish, though, you would see glen palmer and tell him so. he may have some important message for me." "you guessed it, sure enough," reported the prison guard, returning with a folded fragment of a note. "young palmer was frantic to know you was here, and says please don't forget and come tomorrow." "i will certainly be here, or some one representing me," promised ralph, and then he read the note, which ran: "i am terribly anxious to know if my grandfather arrived safely at the home of my friend, gregory drum, at ironton, where i sent him a few days ago." ralph and his companion went on to ironton at once. they located the drum residence, but did not find its proprietor at home. his wife, a thin, nervous lady, told how a few days before an old man named palmer had come there, saying that his son was well known to her husband, which the lady believed to be true. "he acted so strange i was nearly frightened to death," narrated the lady. "the second day here i found him astride of the roof ordering some imaginary men to string it with wires. the next day a neighbor came running in to tell me that he was up on a telegraph pole with a little pocket clicker. my husband was away, i was frightened for the man's good as well as my own, and i had him taken in charge by the town marshal. he'll treat him kindly till my husband returns, and mr. palmer will be in safe hands." ralph followed up this explanation by going at once to the marshal's headquarters. there was a low, one-story building with an office, and a barred room comfortably furnished beyond. the marshal listened to ralph's story with interest. "i'll be glad if you can make head or tail out of the old fellow," he said, and led the way into the barred room. "hello!" exclaimed ralph, with a violent start as he entered the apartment. "thunder! i say, where did you get him?" ejaculated zeph dallas, with an amazed stare. across a cot lay a man asleep. he wore a stained bandage across his head and was haggard and wretched looking. "oh, that?" replied the marshal. "that's mystery no. . that's a bigger puzzle than the old telegrapher. he's the man we picked up mad as a march hare, with twenty thousand dollars in banknotes in his pockets." "zeph," spoke ralph in a quick whisper, "you know who it is?" "sure, i know who it is," responded zeph with alacrity. "it's rivers, the king bee of the pay car robbers." chapter xxxi quick work the young train dispatcher had made a momentous discovery. he beckoned zeph to follow him on tiptoe so they should not disturb nor be seen by rivers. they somewhat surprised the marshal by crowding out of the room. "there's the queer old fellow, palmer, you asked about," said the official, pointing to a form occupied at a table at the other end of the room. "don't you want to see him?" "no, not just now," replied ralph, drawing the man confidentially to one side. "we have not come here out of curiousity, but on a question of great importance. i represent the great northern railroad, and you can help us very greatly." "can i? good. i'll do it, then," instantly answered the marshal. "i'm not used to having such heavy cases as those two in there, and they pester me." "tell us about the man who seems hurt and sick." "why, he was brought in a few nights since by our man who watches the rivermen. they're a rough, bad lot. he found this man on a carouse in one of their haunts. showing all kinds of money. he watched them, and jumped in just as they attacked the man and were about to rob him. we found over twenty thousand dollars in bank notes on the man--think of that! only once since then has he entirely recovered from that cut on his head, and refused to give his name or say a word, except that his money came from a gold mine." "yes, a gold mine on wheels," observed zeph pointedly. "the man's mind is affected by the blow he got, and only a few minutes at a time has he been rational. he offered me all his money if i'd let him go. funny thing, though; in one of his spells early this morning i found him whispering to old palmer." "did you?" pressed zeph eagerly. "the old man ain't right, you know, but he sticks to that click-clack contrivance all the time. i watched the two, and the prisoner promised palmer all kinds of things if he'd get free and send a certain message to a certain party, or somehow get the telegram sent. well, since then the old man has been terribly busy with his play telegraph device, and excited, too. about an hour since he calls me to him, and says he will certainly get me a thousand dollars if i will take a message to the operator here. only ten words, he says--one hundred dollars a word. i told him i wouldn't do anything until the sheriff came back tomorrow. he said only ten words. i asked him what ten words, and he shot out a lot of gibberish i couldn't take in." "a cypher telegram," murmured zeph. "well, i left it that way." "let me lurk around a bit, will you?" inquired ralph. "certainly," assented the marshal. for the next ten minutes ralph, hidden in a corner of the detention room, posted himself and listened. when he came out his face was excited and eager. "don't let those prisoners send out a word or see a single person until i come back to you," he directed the marshal. "all right. found out something?" "i think i have. i'll know for sure inside of six hours." "and let me know, too. you see all this bothersome mystery is worrying me." "you first of all," declared ralph, "and you won't lose by coöperating with us." "i see you're smart boys," observed the inexperienced marshal, "and i trust in your word to straighten out this tangle." "what, ralph?" broke in zeph eagerly, as they left the place. "i think i've got the clew." "to what?" "the whole pay car business--at least the start of one." "tell me about it." "i simply listened to glen's grandfather at his dummy ticker. poor old man! he fancies he is being sought for by great railroad systems all over the world to take charge of their business. he ticked off all kinds of telegrams to important people. then i caught the thread of a message he seemed to have particularly on his mind. it is just ten words, and of course must be the one he wanted the marshal to send. there it is." ralph showed a card on the back of which he had penciled down the following words: "rajah sun and moon aeroplane spectacles exemplar. pardon star mudji." quick as a flash zeph hauled out the written screed he had acquired while in the company of the conspirators. it comprised the formula of their cypher code. "advise jem and parsons," he translated at once. "barn loft plunder. get me bail." "who to, ralph?" he inquired eagerly--"the telegram." "mrs. hannah clifton, dunbar station." "a relative, i'll bet. you're right, we've got the clew! 'barn loft plunder.' ralph, dunbar station, quick!" "yes," said the young dispatcher quietly, "that's our terminus, as quick as we can make it." ralph's special pass furnished him by the road officer came in good. it brought them a lift on an urgency locomotive and another on the tender of the daylight express. at three o'clock that afternoon after due inquiry the two friends approached a house in a lonely settlement at the edge of dunbar station. as they neared the house a woman knitting on its steps arose hurriedly, ran into the house and shut every door and window about the place. "acts sort of scared, eh?" suggested zeph, as they approached the front of the house. "or suspicious," remarked ralph. "stop right there. who are you, and what do you want?" the boys paused summarily, a bit taken off their balance. very suddenly the barrel of a long shotgun was thrust through the slats of one of the wooden shutters, and the voice which challenged them showed no timidity or nonsense. "we want to see mrs. hannah clifton," replied ralph politely, revealing himself. "what for?" demanded the uncompromising invisible challenger. "why--er--that is--" began the rattled zeph stammeringly. "shut up," whispered ralph unceremoniously. "in behalf of mr. rivers," added ralph ahead. "he sent you, did he?" "we just came from him." "on business, i suppose?" "yes, madam." "all right, then he gave you a word." "password!" whispered zeph desperately. "sun and moon," ventured ralph recklessly. "wrong!" cried the woman as quick as lightning. "i see your game. you're guessing. if you don't make yourselves scarce in two minutes, i'll fire." she did not wait the limit. the fowling piece scattered skithering bird shot with a flare just as the intruders got out of range. "she's too keen for us--get to the barn, ralph," suggested zeph breathlessly. "yes, run," ordered ralph. they reached it, ran to cover and peered out. the woman, gun in hand, dashed from the house in the direction of a nest of small huts in the vicinity. "she is going to rouse up some of her friends, i have not the least doubt," observed ralph. "quick action, zeph. that telegram said 'barn loft!'" "whoo-oop!" already the impetuous zeph had acted on the impulse of the moment. he was up in the loft already. mingled with his chucklings were the rustlings of hay, a dragging sound. down on ralph's head came a bulky object as he started up the cleated side of the barn. "bags--two of them! money! pay envelopes!" gasped the young road officer in a transport of wild excitement. "rivers hid them here. the woman don't know. hustle, get out. she may bring a mob after us. oh, i'm a--i'm a great detective at last!" "you are, and always were," cheered ralph with a happy smile. he felt well satisfied. the very feeling of the stuffed bags, a mere glance at their contents, told the young railroader that they were lugging to safety a fortune probably amounting to over two hundred thousand dollars. they lost no time in cutting across the fields towards the town, each bearing a share of the precious burden. at the local bank ralph amazed the proprietor by demanding that the bags be locked up in his strongest vaults as the property of the great northern railroad. then he hurried to the office of the company railroad operator at dunbar station. there was a brief explanation, a quick call for headquarters, the urgency signal, , and ralph could fancy loyal old john glidden at headquarters throwing open the entire lines for final orders in the great pay car mystery case. east, west, south the messages flew: to the general superintendent, to bob adair, to the marshal, to the paymaster at stanley junction. the unobtrusive station operator stared in bewilderment at the quick, natty stranger, who seemed to have no trouble in keeping track of a dozen different messages at once. it took ralph fully an hour, with details, repeats and clean up. he arose from the instrument with a satisfied face. "i've done my work, zeph," he said, "and i'm going back to headquarters. you are to wait here for instructions from mr. adair. they will come sharp and brisk, don't be afraid. we have started the ball rolling, the rest will be easy." chapter xxxii conclusion "what are you doing here, fairbanks?" ralph had just entered the train dispatcher's office after a good night's sleep and sat down at his usual post of duty. he felt pretty good, for he was rested up, and glidden had spared a minute from some rush business to tell him that adair had coralled the whole crowd of conspirators, bank bullion and all. the general superintendent of the great northern, however, seemed to feel even better than ralph himself. he had swung into the office with bright eyes and a beaming face, and while his challenge might sound to the uninitiated like a conventional call down, the head official looked as if he would like to grab the hand of his loyal, useful young assistant and hurrah at him. "getting back to routine, sir," said ralph with a pleasant laugh. "wrong box." "i'm afraid i don't quite understand," began ralph. "don't. then i'll show you," announced the official with a forcible chuckle. "can't have insubordination and men out of place in this service. there's your desk," and seizing ralph by the arm the superintendent led him past the counter into the little office rarely occupied, and marked on its door "chief dispatcher--private." "i will need your signature to get some autograph pads made," continued the official, picking up the stand containing the various rubber stamps in use. "what are you staring at, fairbanks?" "you don't mean--" "promotion? oh, yes, i do. that was settled on after the fruit special affair, but so many rushing things came along since we couldn't get around to you. just make out a list of your new office requirements and changes in men and routine, and i'll o. k. them." there was a suspicious sound in the open doorway. it was half between a sniffle and a chuckle. "here, you old rascal!" cried the superintendent, reaching out and grabbing the escaping glidden, "no hanging around here," and he dragged him into the room. "first official act, fairbanks, discharge this man. then make him assistant manager. he's too fine for a simple first trick man." "oh, but you're doing things!" commented the old operator, trying to disguise his aroused emotions. "for those who have done things for us, exactly," answered the superintendent briskly. "both of you come to my office at a. m. you will probably be interested in hearing the final wind-up of the pay car mystery." it was certainly a remarkable meeting, that which the two friends attended. bob adair was there with his report, brisk, animated and proud of his success. zeph dallas, excited and delighted, seemed to grow a foot when the superintendent gave him a personal word of praise for his efforts. the initial work of ralph fairbanks had started in action all the efficient machinery of the road. as zeph described it, once the first clew got to adair he just seemed to spread out a great net and caught everybody and everything in it. by midnight five of the principal conspirators had been run down and locked up. some confessions were the result. best of all, these brought out the secret connection of these men with the rival road. "there is a pretty heavy bill to pay, but certain officials of the midland central will be glad to pay it," declared adair. "what had the robbers done with the bank bullion?" inquired the superintendent. "they had no means of breaking open the strong safes quickly, and dropped them all down the well near the old deserted hut in eagle pass, intending to return later when the chase was over and rifle them at their leisure." "yes, that was the real gold mine rivers boasted about," submitted ralph. "we have secured a list of all the 'suspicious' men among the telegraphers," continued adair. "they will trouble us no further with delays, smash-ups and cut wires. chief dispatcher fairbanks has already cleared the service, and the great northern can go on its way smoothly." there was one favor ralph asked before the conference broke up. this was that the fireman who had helped him in the record run of the california fruit special be remembered. it was granted, and the honest fellow was given a promotion. "on the side, fairbanks," said the road officer, familiarly linking ralph's arm as they left the office of the general superintendent, "i wish to express a change of opinion on one subject." "what is that, mr. adair?" inquired ralph. "glen palmer." "you have seen him?" asked ralph with interest. "yes, and you will see him, too, as soon as he is pardoned, which will be within twenty-four hours, if the influence of the great northern counts for anything. he is a noble young fellow." "i thought that all along." "i didn't, and i am ashamed of myself for the sentiment. he is no thief, and never was a thief." "not even--" "the department store episode? no. he was trying to escape from the conspirators, who pressed him closely. he found himself stranded without a penny in an unfriendly town. in order to get the money to place his aged relative in a position of safety, he pretended to take the jewelry we know about so his grandfather could claim the ten dollars reward and carry out their plans." "i am truly glad to hear this," said ralph warmly. "and the convict portrait ike slump had?" "is really that of a cousin very much resembling glen. he was the cause of glen's wanderings and troubles. he was a sad scamp, but his health is broken. he escaped from jail, and glen was willing to shoulder his identity until he got safely out of the country, where he now is trying to redeem his broken past." "what of the old grandfather, mr. adair?" "glen wishes to repurchase the chicken farm. he loves the business. his grandfather is at heart a harmless old man, and glen believes would soon forget his vagaries and settle down to a happy life." "they shall have all the help i can give them," promised ralph heartily. adair accompanied ralph as far as the dispatcher's office. glidden had preceded them. he just sat down at the operating table when a click at his instrument caused first trick man, second trick man, copy operator and ralph himself to listen attentively. a call had come giving a "sine" or signature that never ran over the wire without making every man in the dispatcher's office sit up and take notice--the "sine" of the president of the great northern himself. "for you, mr. fairbanks," spoke the old operator with a vast chuckle and excessive politeness: "mr. fairbanks, chief dispatcher great northern: congratulations." "fairbanks," spoke the road officer, grasping the hand of the young railroader warmly, "i'm proud of you!" ralph flushed with pride and pleasure. but however warmly the generous words of commendation from the railroad men thrilled the young chief dispatcher, they paled into insignificance when the lad, on reaching home that night, heard his mother say: "ralph, my son, you have made me very proud!" and then, woman-like, she added: "but don't do it again, ralph. you--you might get hurt!" "all right, mother," he promised, as he kissed her. "only i don't believe those chaps will have a chance to make trouble for me or the railroad again--that is, not right away." the end this isn't all! would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book? would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author? on the reverse side of the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book. don't throw away the wrapper use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. but in case you do mislay it, write to the publishers for a complete catalog. the railroad series by allen chapman author of the "radio boys," etc. uniform style of binding. illustrated. every volume complete in itself. in this line of books there is revealed the whole workings of a great american railroad system. there are adventures in abundance--railroad wrecks, dashes through forest fires, the pursuit of a "wildcat" locomotive, the disappearance of a pay car with a large sum of money on board--but there is much more than this--the intense rivalry among railroads and railroad men, the working out of running schedules, the getting through "on time" in spite of all obstacles, and the manipulation of railroad securities by evil men who wish to rule or ruin. ralph of the round house; or, bound to become a railroad man. ralph in the switch tower; or, clearing the track. ralph on the engine; or, the young fireman of the limited mail. ralph on the overland express; or, the trials and triumphs of a young engineer. ralph, the train dispatcher; or, the mystery of the pay car. ralph on the army train; or, the young railroader's most daring exploit. ralph on the midnight flyer; or, the wreck at shadow valley. ralph and the missing mail pouch; or, the stolen government bonds. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the tom swift series by victor appleton uniform style of binding. individual colored wrappers. every volume complete in itself. every boy possesses some form of inventive genius. tom swift is a bright, ingenious boy and his inventions and adventures make the most interesting kind of reading. tom swift and his motor cycle tom swift and his motor boat tom swift and his airship tom swift and his submarine boat tom swift and his electric runabout tom swift and his wireless message tom swift among the diamond makers tom swift in the caves of ice tom swift and his sky racer tom swift and his electric rifle tom swift in the city of gold tom swift and his air glider tom swift in captivity tom swift and his wizard camera tom swift and his great searchlight tom swift and his giant cannon tom swift and his photo telephone tom swift and his aerial warship tom swift and his big tunnel tom swift in the land of wonders tom swift and his war tank tom swift and his air scout tom swift and his undersea search tom swift among the fire fighters tom swift and his electric locomotive tom swift and his flying boat tom swift and his great oil gusher tom swift and his chest of secrets tom swift and his airline express grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the don sturdy series by victor appleton individual colored wrappers and text illustrations by walter s. rogers every volume complete in itself in company with his uncles, one a mighty hunter and the other a noted scientist, don sturdy travels far and wide, gaining much useful knowledge and meeting many thrilling adventures. don sturdy on the desert of mystery; or, autoing in the land of the caravans. an engrossing tale of the sahara desert, of encounters with wild animals and crafty arabs. don sturdy with the big snake hunters; or, lost in the jungles of the amazon. don's uncle, the hunter, took an order for some of the biggest snakes to be found in south america--to be delivered alive! the filling of that order brought keen excitement to the boy. don sturdy in the tombs of gold; or, the old egyptian's great secret. a fascinating tale of exploration and adventure in the valley of kings in egypt. once the whole party became lost in the maze of cavelike tombs far underground. don sturdy across the north pole; or, cast away in the land of ice. don and his uncles joined an expedition bound by air across the north pole. a great polar blizzard nearly wrecks the airship. don sturdy in the land of volcanoes; or, the trail of the ten thousand smokes. an absorbing tale of adventures among the volcanoes of alaska in a territory but recently explored. a story that will make don dearer to his readers than ever. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the radio boys series (trademark registered) by allen chapman author of the "railroad series," etc. individual colored wrappers. illustrated. every volume complete in itself. a new series for boys giving full details of radio work, both in sending and receiving--telling how small and large amateur sets can be made and operated, and how some boys got a lot of fun and adventure out of what they did. each volume from first to last is so thoroughly fascinating, so strictly up-to-date and accurate, we feel sure all lads will peruse them with great delight. each volume has a foreword by jack binns, the well known radio expert. the radio boys' first wireless; or, winning the ferberton prize. the radio boys at ocean point; or, the message that saved the ship. the radio boys at the sending station; or, making good in the wireless room. the radio boys at mountain pass; or, the midnight call for assistance. the radio boys trailing a voice; or, solving a wireless mystery. the radio boys with the forest rangers; or, the great fire on spruce mountain. the radio boys with the iceberg patrol; or, making safe the ocean lanes. radio boys with the flood fighters; or, saving the city in the valley. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the riddle club books by alice dale hardy individual colored wrappers. attractively illustrated. every volume complete in itself. here is as ingenious a series of books for little folks as has ever appeared since "alice in wonderland." the idea of the riddle books is a little group of children--three girls and three boys--decide to form a riddle club. each book is full of the adventures and doings of these six youngsters, but as an added attraction each book is filled with a lot of the best riddles you ever heard. the riddle club at home an absorbing tale that all boys and girls will enjoy reading. how the members of the club fixed up a clubroom in the larue barn, and how they, later on, helped solve a most mysterious happening, and how one of the members won a valuable prize, is told in a manner to please every young reader. the riddle club in camp the club members went into camp on the edge of a beautiful lake. here they had rousing good times swimming, boating and around the campfire. they fell in with a mysterious old man known as the hermit of triangle island. nobody knew his real name or where he came from until the propounding of a riddle solved these perplexing questions. the riddle club through the holidays this volume takes in a great number of winter sports, including skating and sledding and the building of a huge snowman. it also gives the particulars of how the club treasurer lost the dues entrusted to his care and what the melting of the great snowman revealed. the riddle club at sunrise beach this volume tells how the club journeyed to the seashore and how they not only kept up their riddles but likewise had good times on the sand and on the water. once they got lost in a fog and are marooned on an island. here they made a discovery that greatly pleased the folks at home. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the bobbsey twins books for little men and women by laura lee hope author of "the bunny brown series," etc. durably bound. illustrated. uniform style of binding. every volume complete in itself. these books for boys and girls between the ages of three and ten stands among children and their parents of this generation where the books of louisa may alcott stood in former days. the haps and mishaps of this inimitable pair of twins, their many adventures and experiences are a source of keen delight to imaginative children everywhere. the bobbsey twins the bobbsey twins in the country the bobbsey twins at the seashore the bobbsey twins at school the bobbsey twins at snow lodge the bobbsey twins on a houseboat the bobbsey twins at meadow brook the bobbsey twins at home the bobbsey twins in a great city the bobbsey twins on blueberry island the bobbsey twins on the deep blue sea the bobbsey twins in the great west the bobbsey twins at cedar camp the bobbsey twins at the county fair the bobbsey twins camping out the bobbsey twins and baby may the bobbsey twins keeping house the bobbsey twins at cloverbank grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the bunny brown series by laura lee hope author of the popular "bobbsey twins" books, etc. durably bound. illustrated. uniform style of binding. every volume complete in itself. these stories by the author of the "bobbsey twins" books are eagerly welcomed by the little folks from about five to ten years of age. their eyes fairly dance with delight at the lively doings of inquisitive little bunny brown and his cunning, trustful sister sue. bunny brown and his sister sue bunny brown and his sister sue on grandpa's farm bunny brown and his sister sue playing circus bunny brown and his sister sue at camp rest-a-while bunny brown and his sister sue at aunt lu's city home bunny brown and his sister sue in the big woods bunny brown and his sister sue on an auto tour bunny brown and his sister sue and their shetland pony bunny brown and his sister sue giving a show bunny brown and his sister sue at christmas tree cove bunny brown and his sister sue in the sunny south bunny brown and his sister sue keeping store bunny brown and his sister sue and their trick dog bunny brown and his sister sue at a sugar camp grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york six little bunkers series by laura lee hope author of the bobbsey twins books, the bunny brown series, the blythe girls books, etc. durably bound. illustrated. uniform style of binding. every volume complete in itself. delightful stories for little boys and girls which sprung into immediate popularity. to know the six little bunkers is to take them at once to your heart, they are so intensely human, so full of fun and cute sayings. each story has a little plot of its own--one that can be easily followed--and all are written in miss hope's most entertaining manner. clean, wholesome volumes which ought to be on the book-shelf of every child in the land. six little bunkers at grandma bell's six little bunkers at aunt jo's six little bunkers at cousin tom's six little bunkers at grandpa ford's six little bunkers at uncle fred's six little bunkers at captain ben's six little bunkers at cowboy jack's six little bunkers at mammy june's six little bunkers at farmer joel's six little bunkers at miller ned's six little bunkers at indian john's grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the honey bunch books by helen louise thorndyke individual colored wrappers and text illustrations drawn by walter s. rogers a new line of fascinating tales for little girls. honey bunch is a dainty, thoughtful little girl, and to know her is to take her to your heart at once. honey bunch: just a little girl happy days at home, helping mamma and the washerlady. and honey bunch helped the house painters too--or thought she did. honey bunch: her first visit to the city what wonderful sights honey bunch saw when she went to visit her cousins in new york! and she got lost in a big hotel and wandered into a men's convention! honey bunch: her first days on the farm can you remember how the farm looked the first time you visited it? how big the cows and horses were, and what a roomy place to play in the barn proved to be? honey bunch: her first visit to the seashore honey bunch soon got used to the big waves and thought playing in the sand great fun. and she visited a merry-go-round, and took part in a seaside pageant. honey bunch: her first little garden it was great sport to dig and to plant with one's own little garden tools. but best of all was when honey bunch won a prize at the flower show. honey bunch: her first days in camp it was a great adventure for honey bunch when she journeyed to camp snapdragon. it was wonderful to watch the men erect the tent, and more wonderful to live in it and have good times on the shore and in the water. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the blythe girls books by laura lee hope individual colored wrappers and text illustrations by thelma gooch. every volume complete in itself. the blythe girls, three in number, were left alone in new york city. helen, who went in for art and music, kept the little flat uptown, while margy, just out of a business school, obtained a position as a private secretary and rose, plain-spoken and businesslike, took what she called a "job" in a department store. the blythe girls: helen, margy and rose; or, facing the great world. a fascinating tale of real happenings in the great metropolis. the blythe girls: margy's queer inheritance; or, the worth of a name. the girls had a peculiar old aunt and when she died she left an unusual inheritance. this tale continues the struggles of all the girls for existence. the blythe girls: rose's great problem; or, face to face with a crisis. rose, still at work in the big department store, is one day faced with the greatest problem of her life. a tale of mystery as well as exciting girlish happenings. the blythe girls: helen's strange boarder; or, the girl from bronx park. helen, out sketching, goes to the assistance of a strange girl, whose real identity is a puzzle to all the blythe girls. who the girl really was comes as a tremendous surprise. the blythe girls: three on a vacation; or, the mystery at peach farm. the girls close their flat and go to the country for two weeks--and fall in with all sorts of curious and exciting happenings. how they came to the assistance of joe morris, and solved a queer mystery, is well related. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york the flyaways stories by alice dale hardy author of the riddle club books individual colored jackets and colored illustrations by walter s. rogers a splendid new line of interesting tales for the little ones, introducing many of the well known characters of fairyland in a series of novel adventures. the flyaways are a happy family and every little girl and boy will want to know all about them. the flyaways and cinderella how the flyaways went to visit cinderella only to find that cinderella's prince had been carried off by the three robbers, rumbo, hibo and jobo. "i'll rescue him!" cried pa flyaway and then set out for the stronghold of the robbers. a splendid continuation of the original story of cinderella. the flyaways and little red riding hood on their way to visit little red riding hood the flyaways fell in with tommy tucker and the old woman who lived in a shoe. they told tommy about the magic button on red riding hood's cloak. how the wicked wolf stole the magic button and how the wolves plotted to eat up little red riding hood and all her family, and how the flyaways and king cole sent the wolves flying, makes a story no children will want to miss. the flyaways and goldilocks the flyaways wanted to see not only goldilocks but also the three bears and they took a remarkable journey through the air to do so. tommy even rode on a rocket and met the monstrous blue frog. when they arrived at goldilock's house they found that the three bears had been there before them and mussed everything up, much to goldilock's despair. "we must drive those bears out of the country!" said pa flyaway. then they journeyed underground to the yellow palace, and oh! so many things happened after that! grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york http://www.archive.org/details/romanceintransit lyndrich a romance in transit by francis lynde third edition charles scribner's sons new york copyright, , by charles scribner's sons trow directory printing and bookbinding company new york to the small person who unconsciously provided the _motif_ herein wrought upon, this transitory tale is affectionately attributed by the author contents i. p. p. c. ariadne ii. the "personally conducted" iii. the private car iv. the dinner station v. at the meeting-point vi. regardless orders vii. a dinner on wheels viii. the cab of the ten-wheeler ix. fifty miles an hour x. a confidence en route xi. an arrival in transit xii. the ancients and invalids xiii. between stations xiv. with denver in sight xv. yard-limits xvi. the madding crowd xvii. on the narrow-gauge xviii. flagged down xix. the foolish wires xx. chiefly scenic xxi. on the heights xxii. on the spur-track xxiii. the land of heart's delight xxiv. the end of a stop-over xxv. westward ho! xxvi. a blind siding xxvii. the drumming wheels a romance in transit i p. p. c. ariadne train number three, the "flying kestrel," vestibuled, had crossed the yellow rubicon of the west and was mounting toward the occident up the gentle acclivities of the great plain. the morning was perfect, as early autumn mornings are wont to be in the trans-missouri region; the train was on time; and the through passengers in the pullman sleeping-car "ariadne" had settled themselves, each according to his gifts, to enjoy or endure the day-long run. there was a sun-browned ranchman in lower eleven, homeward bound from the chicago stockyards; a pair of school-teachers, finishing their vacation journey, in ten; a mormon elder, smug in ready-made black and narrow-brimmed hat, _vis-à-vis_ in lower five with two hundred pounds of good-natured, comfort-loving catholic priesthood in lower six. two removes from the elder, a denver banker lounged corner-wise in his section, oblivious to everything save the figures in the financial column of the morning paper; and diagonally across from the banker were the inevitable newly married ones, advertising themselves as such with all the unconscious _naïveté_ of their kind. burton and his wife had lower three. they were homing from the passenger agents' meeting in chicago; and having gone breakfastless at the missouri river terminal by reason of a belated train, were waiting for the porter to serve them with eggs and coffee from the buffet. the narrow table was between them, and burton, who was an exact man with an eye to symmetrical detail, raised the spring clips and carefully smoothed the wrinkles out of the table-cloth as he talked. a private car had been attached to the train at the missouri river, and its freightage was of moment to the couple in section three. "are you sure it's the president?" asked the wife, leaning back to give the cloth-laying a fair field. "i thought the naught-fifty was general manager cadogan's car." "so it is; but president vennor always borrows it for his annual inspection trip. and i'm quite sure, because i saw miss vennor on the platform when the car was coupled on." "then we'll get home just in time to go on dress-parade," said the little lady, flippantly. "colorado and utah division, fall in! 'shun, company! eyes right! the president is upon you!" and she went through a minimized manual of arms with the table-knife. the general agent frowned and stroked his beard. "your anarchistic leanings will get us into trouble some time, emily. mr. vennor is not a man to be trifled with, and you mustn't forget that he is the president of the colorado and utah railway company, whose bread you eat." "whose bread i should like to eat, if that slow-poke in the buffet would ever bring it," retorted the wife. "and it is you who forget. you are a man, and mr. vennor is a man; these are the primal facts, and the business relation is merely incidental. he doesn't think any more of you for standing in awe of him." "i don't stand in awe of him," burton began; but the opportune arrival of the buffet porter with the breakfast saved him the trouble of elaborating his defence. half way through the frugal meal the swing-door of the farther vestibule gave back, and a young man came down the aisle with the sure step of an accustomed traveller. he stopped to chat a moment with the school-teachers, and the ranchman in section eleven, looking him over with an appreciative eye, pronounced him a "man's man," and the terse epithet fitted. he was a vigorous young fellow, clean-limbed and well put together, and good-looking enough to tolerate mirrors in their proper places. while he chatted with the two young women, he pushed his hat back with a quick gesture which was an index to his character. open-hearted frankness looked out of the brown eyes, and healthy optimism gave an upward tilt to the curling mustache. a young man with a record clean enough to permit him to look an accusative world in the face without abashment, one would say. when he reached the breakfasting pair in three, he stopped again and held out a hand to each. "well, well; you two!" he said. "i didn't see you when i went forward. where did you get on?" "at the river," replied mrs. burton, making room for him in the seat beside her. "won't you sit down and break bread with us? literally, you know; there isn't anything else to break unless you'll wait for the shell of an egg that is not yet cooked." "no, thank you; i had my breakfast a good two hours ago. where have you been? and where are you going?" "we have been at the passenger meeting in chicago, and we are on the way home," said the general agent. "yes, running a race with the president," cut in mrs. burton. "john is dreadfully afraid we sha'n't get to salt lake in time to be keel-hauled with the rest of the force." the young man sat back on the arm of the opposite seat with the light of inquiry in his eyes. "what president?" he asked. "vennor, of our company. didn't you know he was in the naught-fifty?" said burton. "no. they coupled it on just as we were leaving the river, and i thought--i took it for granted that our general manager was aboard. it's mr. cadogan's car." "i know; but president vennor always borrows it for his annual trip." "are you sure? have you seen him?" "quite sure. i saw miss vennor on the platform with some other young people whom i don't know. it's mr. vennor's party." the young man pushed his hat back, and the look of frankness became introspective. "do you know the vennors? personally, i mean." the little lady made answer: "yes. we met them at manitou last summer. do you know them?" the young man seemed unaccountably embarrassed. "i--i've met miss gertrude--that was last summer, too," he stammered. "did you--did you like her, mrs. burton?" "very much, indeed; she is as sweet and lovable as her father is odious. _do_ have a cup of coffee, won't you?" "no, thank you. then you didn't admire the president?" "indeed i didn't; no one could. he is one of the cool, contemptuous kind of people; always looking you over as if he had half a mind to buy you. he was barely civil to me, and he was positively rude to john." "oh, no; not quite that, emily," amended the husband. "i'm only one of a good many employees to him." "draws the money-line sharp and clear, does he?" said the young man, who appeared to be more deeply interested than a merely casual topic would account for. the little lady nodded vigorously. "that's it, exactly. you can fairly hear the double eagles clink when he speaks." the general agent deprecated disloyalty, and was fain to change the subject. "what are you doing so far away from your territory, fred?" he asked. "i'm in charge of the party of old people and invalids in the tadmor. they'd a mind to be 'personally conducted,' and they threaten to take me all the way across to the coast." "good!" exclaimed the small person. "then you can stop over and visit us in salt lake." the passenger agent shook his head. "i sha'n't get that far. i must break away at denver, by all means." "would nothing tempt you to go on?" "i'm afraid not; that is--i--er--" the young man's embarrassment suddenly returned, and he stopped helplessly. mrs. burton's curiosity was instantly on the alert. "then there _is_ something? do tell me what it is," she pleaded. "it's nothing; in fact, it's much less than nothing. i hesitated because i--because your way of putting it is very--that is, it covers a great deal of ground," he stammered. "don't make him quibble any more than he has to," said burton, with mock severity. "you see it's quite impossible for him to tell the truth." the young man laughed good-naturedly. "that's the fact. i've been in the passenger service so long that i can't always be sure of recognizing the verities when i meet them. but to get back to the original sheep; i mustn't go on--not beyond denver. it would have been better for all concerned if i had cut it short at the river." "for all concerned? for yourself and the invalids, you mean?" queried the curious one. "yes, and perhaps for some others. but speaking of the invalids, i'll have to be getting back to them; they'll think i've deserted them. i'll be in again later in the day." mrs. burton waited until the swing-door of the vestibule had winged itself to rest behind him. then she arched her eyebrows at her husband and said, "i wonder if fred isn't the least little bit _épris_ with gertrude vennor?" to which the general agent replied, with proper masculine contumely, "i believe you would infer a whole railroad from a single cross-tie. of course he isn't. brockway is a good fellow, and a rising young man, but he knows his place." none the less it was the arrow of the woman's intuition, and not that of the man's reason, that pierced the truth. in the vestibule the passenger agent suddenly changed his mind about rejoining his party in the tadmor, turning aside into the deserted smoking-room of the ariadne to burn a reflective cigar, and to piece out reminiscence with present fact. notwithstanding his expressed reluctance, he had intended going on to the pacific coast with the party in the tadmor; had, in effect, more than half promised so to do. it was the time of year when he could best be spared from his district; and the members of the party had made a point of it. but the knowledge that miss gertrude vennor was a passenger on the train opened up a new field wherein prudence and reawakened passion fought for the mastery, to the utter disregarding of the mere business point of view. they had met in colorado the previous summer--the passenger agent and the president's daughter--and brockway had lost his heart to the sweet-faced young woman from the farther east before he had so much as learned her name. he was convoying a train-load of school-teachers across the continent; and then, as now, she was a member of a party in her father's private car. their meeting was at silver plume, where she had become separated from her father's party, and had boarded the excursion train, mistaking it for the regular which was to follow brockway's special as second section. the obvious thing for brockway to have done was to put her off at georgetown, where the following section would have picked her up in a few minutes. but he did no such unselfish thing. before the excursion train had doubled the final curve of the loop he was ready to purchase her continued presence at a price. this he accomplished by omitting to mention the obvious expedient. leaving a message with the georgetown operator, notifying the president that his daughter was on the excursion train, brockway went on his way rejoicing; and, by a judicious conspiracy with his own conductor and engineer, managed to keep the special well ahead of the regular all the way to denver. that was the beginning of it, and fate, kindly or unkindly, had added yet other meetings; at manitou, at leadville, and again at salt lake city, where the president's daughter had voluntarily joined brockway's sight-seeing party on the strength of an acquaintance with two of the boston school-mistresses. the temporary chaperons were kind, and the friendship had burgeoned into something quite like intimacy before the "mormon day" was overpast. but there it had ended. since that day he had neither seen her nor heard from her; and when he had come to look the matter squarely in the face in the light of sober afterthought, he was minded to put his infatuation under foot, and to try honestly to be glad that their lives had gone apart. for he had learned that mr. francis vennor was a multi-millionnaire, and that his daughter was an heiress in her own right; and no poor gentleman was ever more fiercely jealous of his poverty rights than was this shrewd young soldier in the unnumbered army of the dispossessed. but the intervention of half a continent of space is one thing, and that of a mere car-length is another. now that he had to walk but the length of the tadmor to be with her again, the eager passion which he had fondly believed to be safely dead and buried rose up in its might and threatened to put poverty-pride, and all other calmly considered springs of action to the sword; did presently run them through, for when brockway left the smoking-room of the ariadne and crossed the jarring platforms to the door of the tadmor, he was flogging his wits to devise some pretext which would excuse an invasion of the private car. ii the "personally conducted" in view of the certain proximity of miss gertrude vennor, brockway wanted nothing so much as a quiet opportunity to think his mind clear in the matter of his love-affair, but time and place were both denied him. lying in wait for him at the very door of the tadmor was a thin old gentleman, with hock-bottle shoulders and penthoused eyes. his voice was high-pitched and rasping; and his speech was petulance grown old and unreasoning. "mr. ah--brockway, i protest! do you consider it fair to us, your patrons, to absent yourself for the ah--better part of the morning? here i've been waiting for you more than an hour, sir, and----" "i beg your pardon, mr. jordan; i'm sorry," brockway cut in. "what can i do for you?" "you can attend to your ah--business a little closer, for one thing, mr. ah--brockway," quavered the aggrieved one, taking a yard-long coupon ticket from his breast-pocket; "and for another, you can give me the sixty days going limit on this ticket that i ah--stipulated for when i bought it, sir." brockway glanced at the ticket and called attention to the conditions in the contract. "the going limit of thirty days is plainly stated here, mr. jordan. didn't you read the contract before signing it?" "don't make any difference, sir; i ah--stipulated for sixty days, and i require you to make the stipulation ah--good, sir." "but, my dear sir, i can't. no representative of any one of the lines interested is authorized to change these conditions." "very well, sir; v-e-r-y well." the irascible one folded the ticket with tremulous fingers and sought to replace it in his pocket-book. "i shall know what road to ah--patronize next time, and it won't be yours, mr. ah--brockway; you may depend upon that, sir." the passenger agent's forte was placability. "don't worry about your ticket, mr. jordan," he said. "we'll take good care of you, and if you should happen to be more than thirty days in reaching los angeles----" "thirty days!" gasped the objector. "great ah--heavens, sir, you told us you could put us there in ah--four days and a half!" "so i did, and so we shall, barring the stop-overs the party may wish to make; but in that case i don't see why you should require a sixty-day limit," said brockway, with an affable smile. by this time quite a little group had gathered around them, and anxious queries began to beat thick and fast upon brockway's ears. "what's that about our tickets?" "thirty days, did you say?" "can't have stop-overs?" brockway got upon his feet. "one moment, if you please," he protested. "there is nothing wrong--nothing different. mr. jordan and i were merely discussing the question of an extra limit on his own ticket; that was all." "oh." "ah." "where do we get dinner?" "what time do we reach denver?" "is there a dining-car on this train?" brockway answered the inquiries in sequence, and when the norm of quiet was restored, a soft-spoken little gentleman in a grass-cloth duster and a velvet skull-cap drew him away to the smoking-compartment. "let's go and smoke," he said; and brockway went willingly, inasmuch as the little gentleman with the womanish face and the ready cigar-case was the only person in the party who seemed to be capable of travelling without a guardian. "worry the life out of you, don't they, my boy," said the comforter, when his cigar was alight. "oh, no; i'm well used to it." "i presume you are, in a way. still, some of the complaints are so ridiculous. i suppose you've heard the latest?" "nothing later than mr. jordan's demand for sixty days in which to complete a week's journey." "oh, it isn't that; that's an individual grievance. the other involves the entire party. of course, you are aware that the tadmor is no longer the rear car in the train?" "oh, lord! are they going to fight about that?" "unquestionably. didn't you promise some of them that this particular chariot should be at the tail-end of the trans-continental procession?" "no. it was merely an answer to a question. i said that extra cars were usually put on behind. are they going to demand it as a right?" "yes; i believe the deputation is waiting for you now." "heavens--what a lot of cranks!" said brockway, despairingly. "the thing can't be done, but i may as well go and fight it out." the deputation was in section six, and one of the committee rose and gave him a seat. "there is a little matter we should like to have adjusted," began the courteous one; but brockway interrupted. "mr. somers was just telling me about it. i hope you are not going to insist----" there were two elderly ladies on the committee, and they protested as one person. "now, mr. brockway! you know we made it a positive condition--so we could go out on the platform and see the scenery." "but, my dear madam, let me explain----" "there is nothing to explain; it was an explicit promise, and we insist on its fulfilment." "just one word," brockway pleaded. "the car behind us is our general manager's private car, lent to president vennor, of the colorado and utah. if we should put it ahead of this, mr. vennor's party would be continually disturbed by the passengers and train-men going back and forth. don't you see----" the fourth member of the deputation put in his word at this. "how long has it been since the railway companies began to put the convenience of their guests before the rights of their patrons, mr. brockway? answer me that, if you please." "i should like to know!" declared one of the ladies. "_we_ have paid for our accommodations." the courteous one summed up the matter in set phrase. "it's no use, mr. brockway, as you see. if you don't carry out your part of the agreement, i'm afraid we shall have to telegraph to your superiors." for a moment brockway was tempted to answer four fools according to their folly. then he bethought him that he had but now been seeking a pretext which would open the door of the private car. here was a makeshift; a poor one, to be sure, but better than none. wherefore, instead of quarrelling with the deputation, he rose with placatory phrases in his mouth. "very well; i'll see what can be done. but you must give me a little time; the scenery--" pointing to the monotonous landscape circling slowly with the onward sweep of the train--"is not exactly of the rear-platform variety yet." after which he retreated to the rear vestibule of the tadmor and stood looking out through the glass panel in the door at the hamper-laden front platform of the naught-fifty, trying to muster courage to take the chilling plunge. for he knew that the year agone episode was not altogether pleasing to the father of miss gertrude vennor. iii the private car "yes, sah; mighty sorry, sah; but we cayn't cook you-all's dinner, no-how, sah. wateh-pipe's done bu'sted in de range." president vennor turned and regarded the big-bodied cook of the naught-fifty with the eye-sweep of appraisal which mrs. burton had found so annoying. "no dinner, you say? that's bad. why did you burst the pipe?" "i--i didn't bu'sted it, sah; hit des bu'sted hitse'f--'deed it did, sah!" "well, can't you serve us a cold lunch?" "might do dat--yes, sah; ef dat'll do." "what is that, papa; no luncheon to-day?" asked a young woman, coming down the compartment to stand beside the president's chair. there was a family resemblance, but in the daughter the magic of femineity had softened the severer characteristics until they became winsome and good to look upon. the cool gray eyes of the father were gertrude's inheritance, also; but in the eyes of the daughter the calculating stare became the steady gaze of clean-hearted guilelessness; and in her even-tinted complexion there was only a suggestion of the sallow olive of the father's clean-shaven face. for face and figure, gertrude owed much to birth and breeding, and it was small wonder that frederick brockway had lost his heart to her in time-honored and romantic fashion. the president answered his daughter's query without taking his eyes from the big-bodied cook. "no; there is something the matter with the range. ask the others if they would prefer a cold luncheon in the car to the _table d'hôte_ at the dinner station." gertrude went to the other end of the compartment and stated the case to mrs. dunham, the chaperon of the party; to priscilla and hannah beaswicke, two young women of the annex; to chester fleetwell, a.b., harvard, by the skin of his teeth, but the ablest oarsman of his class by a very safe majority; and to mr. harold quatremain, the president's secretary. the dinner station carried it unanimously, and gertrude announced the vote. "we're all agreed upon the _table d'hôte_," she said; and the falstaffian negro shook himself free and backed into the vestibule. "what is its name? and when do we arrive?" "i'll have to inquire," mr. vennor replied. "i'll go forward and have the conductor wire ahead for a separate table." but gertrude said: "please don't; let's go with the crowd for once. i'm so tired of being always specialized." the president's smile was suggestive of the metallic smirk on the face of a george-the-fourth penny. "just as you please," he rejoined; "but i'll go and find out when and where." now it chanced that at this precise moment brockway had laid his hand on the tadmor's door-knob preparatory to taking the plunge; and when he opened the door he found himself face to face with the president. whereupon he fell back and lost the power of speech, while the incomer appraised him with his eyes and tried to remember where he had seen him before. recognition brought with it a small frown of annoyance. "your name is brockway, i believe," the president said. "ye-yes," brockway stammered, being by no means so sure of it at the moment. "h-m; and, if i remember correctly, you are an employee of this line?" "i am." the passenger agent was beginning a little to recover his scattered store of self-possession. "very good. possibly you can tell me what i want to know. what is the dinner station, and when do we reach it?" "moreno--twelve-ten. shall i wire ahead for a private table?" brockway asked, eager to preface his unwelcome purpose with some small token of service. "by no means; we are no better than the patrons of your company. what is good enough for them ought to suffice for us." "of course, if you don't wish it," brockway began; and then the plunge: "i am in charge of the excursionists in this car, and they want it placed behind yours. if you will kindly consent to humor their whim----" he stopped in deference to the frown of displeasure which was gradually overspreading the president's brow. "and so make our private car a thoroughfare for everybody," said he, indignantly; then, with a sudden turn which confused brockway until he saw its drift, "but you are quite right; the patrons of your company should always be considered first. we are only guests. by all means, make the change at the first opportunity." "please don't misunderstand me," brockway said, courageously. "i didn't propose it. if you object, just say so, and i'll see them all hanged first." the president shook his head reprovingly, and brockway fancied he could feel the cold gray eyes pinning him against the partition. "certainly not; i am afraid you don't sufficiently consider your duty to your employers. i not only authorize the change--i desire it. i shall request it if you do not." brockway winced under the patronizing tone, but he was determined not to let pride stand in the way of better things. so he said, "thank you for helping me out. i'll have the change made at the dinner station, and we'll try not to annoy you any more than we can help." that ended it, and he was no nearer the penetralia of car naught-fifty than before. mr. vennor turned to go, but at the door he bethought him of the crippled range. "a water-pipe has burst in our kitchen range," said he. "can we get it repaired this side of denver?" brockway considered it for a moment. back of his passenger department service there was an apprenticeship in mechanics, and he was weighing the scanty furnishings of the engineer's tool-box against the probable askings of the undertaking. it was a chance to show his good-will, and he concluded to risk it. "hardly. we don't stop long enough at the division station. is it a very bad break?" "indeed, i know nothing about it. the cook tells me he can't use the range." "may i go in and look at it?" brockway asked. now president vennor, upon recognizing gertrude's acquaintance of the previous summer, had determined to prevent a renewal of the intimacy at whatever cost; but he abhorred _tables d'hôte_ and railway eating-stations, and was willing to make some concessions to avoid them. so he gave the coveted permission, and a minute later they were in the kitchen of the private car, inspecting the disabled range. "it isn't as bad as it might be," brockway announced, finally. "i think i can stop the leak with what tools i can find in the engineer's box." "you?" "yes; i'm a machinist by trade, you know. i earned my living at it awhile, before i went into the passenger department." brockway found a certain measure of satisfaction in running counter to the presumed anti-craftsman prejudice of the man of inherited wealth. "i'm sure it is very good of you to offer, but i couldn't think of troubling you," the president said, sparring to gain time in which to perfect a little plan which had just suggested itself. "oh, it's no trouble; i shall be glad enough to help you out." "very well, then--if you wish to try. i will make it worth your while." brockway straightened up and met the appraising eyes unflinchingly. "excuse me, mr. vennor, but you've mistaken your man this time," he said, steadily. "i'll gladly do it as a kindness--not otherwise." the president smiled. "i beg your pardon, mr. brockway," he apologized, with the faintest possible emphasis on the prefix; "we shall be most grateful if you will come to our rescue upon your own terms. i presume you won't have time before noon?" "n--no," said brockway, glancing at his watch and generously burying his pique with the provocation; "but i'll attack it as soon as we leave moreno. it won't take long." mr. vennor bowed, and saw his newly pledged servitor safely out upon the hamper-laden platform. he cherished a little theory of his own respecting the discouraging of youthful and sentimental intimacies, and it was based upon conditions which brockway's proposed undertaking might easily fulfil. gertrude had been distinctly pleased with the young man the preceding summer. other things had happened since, and, fortunately, fleetwell was along to look after his own interests. none the less, it might be well for them to meet under conditions which would make it impossible for the passenger agent to pose as gertrude's social equal. accordingly, the president sought out the porter and gave him his instructions. "william, that young man will come in this afternoon to repair the range. when he is well at work, i want you to come and tell me." iv the dinner station the railway company's hotel at moreno is a pretentious queen anne cockle-shell, confronted by a broad platform flowing in an unrippled tide of planking between the veranda and the track, with tributary wooden streams paralleling the rails. brockway knew this platform by length and by breadth; and when the "flying kestrel" ranged alongside he meant to project himself into the procession of dinner-seekers what time miss vennor should be passing the tadmor. but _l'homme propose, et la femme_---- "oh, mr. brockway; _will_ you help me find my satchel? the one with the monogram, you know. i can't find it anywhere." thus one of the unescorted ladies whose major weakness was a hopeless inability to keep in touch with her numerous belongings. the train was already at a stand, but brockway smothered his impatience and joined the search for the missing hand-bag, contenting himself with a glimpse of the president's daughter as she passed the windows of the tadmor. fleeting as it was, the glimpse fired his heart anew. the year had brought her added largesse of beauty and winsomeness. the wind was blowing free and riotous, caressing the soft brown hair under the dainty travelling hat, and twisting the modest gray gown into clinging draperies as she breasted it. brockway gazed and worshipped afresh, and prudence and poverty-pride vanished when he observed that she was leaning upon the arm of an athletic young man, whose attitude was sufficiently lover-like to make the passenger agent abjure wisdom and curse common sense. "that's what i get for playing the finical idiot!" he groaned. "a year ago i might have had it all my own way if i hadn't been a pride-ridden fool. confound the money, anyway; it's enough to make a man wish it were all at the bottom of the sea!" with which anarchistic reflection he went out to arrange for transferring the tadmor, and, incidentally, to get his own dinner. when the first was done there was scant time for the second, and he was at the lunch counter when the president's party went back to the naught-fifty. "why, they've taken on another car," said gertrude, noticing the change. "no," her father rejoined, shortly; "we have a passenger agent on board, and he has seen fit to put his excursionists' car in the rear." at the word, gertrude's thoughts went back to a certain afternoon filled with a swift rush down a precipitous canyon, with a brawling stream at the track-side, and a simple-hearted young man, knowing naught of the artificialities and much of the things that are, at her elbow. the train of reflection paused when they reached the sitting-room of the private car, but it went on again when the president's daughter had curled herself into the depths of a great wicker sleepy-hollow to watch the unending procession of stubble-fields slipping past the car window. how artlessly devoted he had been, this earnest young private in the great business army; so different from--well, from chester fleetwell, for example. chester's were the manners of a later day; a day in which the purely social distinctions of sex are much ignored. that, too, was pleasant, in its way. and yet there was something very charming in the elder fashion. and mr. brockway knew his rôle and played it well--if, indeed, it were a rôle, which she very much doubted. old school manners are not to be put on and off like a garment, nor is sincerity to be aped as a fad. just here reflection became speculative. what had become of mr. brockway since their "mormon day"? had he gone on with his school-mistresses and ended by marrying one of them? there was something repellent in the thought of his marrying any one, but when reason demanded a reason, gertrude's father had joined her. "i hope we shall be able to have dinner in the car," the president said, drawing up a chair. "i stumbled upon a young mechanic when i went forward to inquire about the eating-station, and he agreed to repair the range this afternoon." "how fortunate!" "yes," the president rejoined; and then he began to debate with himself as to the strict truth of the affirmative, and the conversation languished. meanwhile, brockway had hastened out to the engine at the cry of "all aboard!" the was sobbing for the start when he climbed to the foot-board, and the engineer, who knew him, grinned knavishly. "better get you some overclothes if you're goin' to ride up here," he suggested. "i'm not going to stay. lend me a pair of overalls, and a jumper, and a pair of pipe-tongs, and a hammer, and a few other things, will you?" "sure thing," said the man at the throttle. "what's up? one o' your tourists broke a side-rod?" brockway laughed and dropped easily into the technical figure of speech. "no; crown-sheet's down in the naught-fifty's cook-stove, and i'm going to jack it up." "good man," commented the engineer, who rejoiced in brockway's happy lack of departmental pride. "help yourself to anything you can find." brockway found a grimy suit of overclothes and took off his coat. "goin' to put 'em on here and go through the train in uniform?" laughed the engineer. "why not?" brockway demanded. "i'm not ashamed of the blue denim yet. wore it too long." he donned the craftsman's uniform. the garments were a trifle short at the extremities, but they more than made up for the lack equatorially. "how's that for a lightning change?" he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the din and clangor of the engine. "just hang on to my coat and hat till i get back, and i'll swap with you again." and gathering up the handful of tools, he climbed back over the coal and disappeared through the door of the mail car. v at the meeting-point brockway made his way unrecognized through the train, and found the falstaffian cook awaiting him in the kitchen of the naught-fifty. five minutes later, he was hard at work on the disabled stove, quite reckless of soot and grime, and intent only upon making a workmanlike job of the repairs. the narrow compartment was none too well ventilated, and he was soon working in an atmosphere rivalling that of the hot-room in a turkish bath. wherefore he wrought arduously, and in due time the leaky joint was made whole. after turning the water on and satisfying himself of the fact, brockway crawled out from behind the range and got upon his feet with a sigh of relief. just then the portway into the waiter's pantry filled with faces like the arch of a proscenium-box in a theatre. brockway wheeled quickly at the sound of voices and saw the president, one young woman with eye-glasses and another without, a clean-faced young man with uncut hair, and--miss vennor. "ha!" said the president, with the king george fourth smile and his coldest stare; "we caught you fairly in the midst of it, didn't we, mr. brockway? do you still assert that we shall dine at our own table this evening?" the effect of mr. vennor's dramatic little surprise was varied and not altogether as he had prefigured. as for the person most deeply concerned, no one was ever less ashamed of a craftsman's insignia than was brockway; but when he saw that the president had permitted him to do a service for the sole purpose of making him appear ridiculous, his heart was hot in just proportion to the magnitude of the affront. as for gertrude, she could have wept with pity and indignation. this was the "young mechanic" her father had found and used, only to make him a laughing-stock! the light of a sudden purpose flashed in the steady gray eyes, and she spoke quickly, before brockway could reply to her father's gibe. "why, mr. brockway! where did you come from? it really seems that you are fated to be our good angel. have you actually got it repaired?" the winsome face disappeared from the portway, and before brockway could open his lips she was standing beside him. "show me what was the matter with it," she said. he obeyed, with proper verbal circumstance, gaining a little self-possession with every added phrase. gertrude led him on, laughing and chatting and dragging the others into the rescue until brockway quite forgot that he was supposed to be a laughing-stock for gods and men. "i'm very glad to meet you, i'm sure," he said, bowing gravely to the misses beaswicke, when gertrude had actually gone the length of introducing him; "mr. fleetwell, i've heard of you--and that's probably more than you can say of me. mr. vennor, i think you may safely count upon having your dinner in the naught-fifty." "yes, thanks to you," said gertrude, quickly. "have you--will your other engagements let you join us?" brockway was of four different minds in as many seconds. here was a chance to defeat mr. vennor at his own game; and love added its word. but he could not consent to break unwelcome bread, and was about to excuse himself when the president, in answer to an imperative signal flying in gertrude's eyes, seconded the invitation. "yes, come in and join us, mr. brockway; we shall be glad to have you, i'm sure." the stony stare which accompanied the words was anything but hospitable, but the president felt that he had done his whole duty and something over and above. brockway hesitated a moment, glanced at gertrude, and accepted. then he began to gather up the tools. gertrude caught up her skirts and stepped into the vestibule to give him room. "you'll not disappoint us, will you?" she said, by way of leave-taking. "you may come as early as you please. i want you to meet cousin jeannette." the portway proscenium-box was empty by this time, and brockway dropped his tools and spoke his mind. "miss vennor, i know, and you know, that i ought not to come at all. it was awfully good of you to ask me, but----" "but what?" she said, encouragingly. "i think you must understand what i want to say and can't," he went on. "you saw that i was like to be overtaken by a fit of very foolish self-consciousness, and you were kind enough to come to my rescue. i appreciate it, but i don't want to take undue advantage of it." "i'm sure i don't know what you mean," she laughed. "we shall look for you between six and seven. and you'll come, because i'm going to run away now, before you have a chance to retract. good-by--till this evening." vi regardless orders ten hours' westing from the missouri river takes a moderately fast train well into the great grazing region whose name is length and breadth, and whose horizon is like that of the sea. since leaving antelope springs, however, the "flying kestrel" had been lagging a little. for this cause, the supper station was still more than an hour away when brockway deserted his ancients and invalids and crossed the platforms to the rear door of the private car. the admission that he dreaded the ordeal is not to be set down to his discredit. his life had been an arduous struggle, for an education and the necessities first, and for advancement afterward. in such a conflict, utility speedily becomes the watchword, and if the passenger agent were less of a workaday drudge than his fellows, he was modestly unaware of the fact. in the course of the afternoon all the reasons why he should manage to get himself left behind at some convenient station were given a hearing, but love finally triumphed, and half-past six o'clock found him at the door of the naught-fifty. fortunately for his introduction, the occupants of the sitting-room were well scattered; and gertrude came forward at once to welcome him. "thank you for coming," she said, putting her hand in his with the cordiality of an old friend; "i was afraid you might forget us, after all. let me introduce you to my cousin, mrs. dunham; cousin jeannette, this is mr. brockway." brockway bent low in the direction of an elderly lady with a motherly face; bowed to the misses beaswicke and to fleetwell, and acknowledged the president's nod. "i'm only too happy to be permitted to come," he said to gertrude, drawing up a chair to make a group of three with the chaperon. "the social side of a business man's life is so nearly a minus quantity that your thoughtfulness takes rank as an act of christian charity." gertrude laughed softly. "tell me how a business man finds time to acquire the art of turning compliments," she said; but mrs. dunham came to his rescue. "i suppose your occupation keeps you away from home a great deal, doesn't it?" she asked. "it certainly would if i had a home," brockway replied. "do you have to travel all the time?" "rather more than nine-tenths of it, i should say." "how dreadfully tiresome it must become! of course, when one is seeing things for the first time it is very interesting; but i should imagine the car-window point of view would become hackneyed in a very little while." "it does; and it is pathetically unsatisfying if one care for anything more than a glimpse of things. i have gone up and down in my district for four years, and yet i know nothing of the country or the people outside of a narrow ribbon here and there with a railway line in the centre." "that is a good thought," gertrude said. "i have often boasted of having seen the west, but i believe i have only threaded it back and forth a few times." "that is all any of us do," brockway asserted. "our knowledge of the people outside of the railway towns is very limited. i once made a horseback trip through the back counties of east tennessee, and it was a revelation to me. i never understood until then the truth of the assertion that people who live within sight of a railway all have the 'railway diathesis'." "meaning that they lose in originality what they gain in sophistication?" said gertrude. "just that. they become a part of the moving world; and as the railway civilizing process is much the same the country over, they lose their identity as sectional types." mrs. dunham leaned back in her chair and began to make mental notes with queries after them. mr. vennor had given her to understand that they were to have a _rara avis_, served underdone, for dinner; and, in the kindness of her heart, she had determined to see that the "young artisan," as her cousin had called him, was not led on to his own undoing. now, however, she began to suspect that some one had made a mistake. this young man seemed to be abundantly able to fight his own battles. "i presume you are very familiar with this part of the country--along your own line, mr. brockway," she said, when the waiter came in to lay the plates. "in the way that i have just indicated, yes. i know so much of its face as you can see from this window. but my knowledge doesn't go much beyond the visible horizon." "neither does mine, but i can imagine," gertrude said. "ah, yes; but imagination isn't knowledge." "no; it's often better." "pleasanter, you mean; i grant you that." "no, i meant more accurate." "for instance?" gertrude smiled. "you are quite merciless, aren't you? but if i must defend myself i should say that imagination paints a composite picture, out of drawing as to details, perhaps, but typically true." brockway objected. "being unimaginative, i can't quite accept that." "can't you? that is what priscilla beaswicke would call the disadvantage of being occidentalized." "i suppose i am that," brockway admitted cheerfully. "i can always breathe freer out here between these wide horizons; and the majesty of this great flatness appeals to me even more than that of the mountains." they followed his gesture. the sun was dipping to the western edge of the bare plain, and the air was filled with ambient gold. the tawny earth, naked and limitless, melted so remotely into the dusty glow of the sky as to leave no line of demarcation. the lack of shadows and the absence of landmarks confused the senses until the flying train seemed to stand with ungripping wheels in the midst of a slowly revolving disk of yellow flatness, through which the telegraph-poles and mile-posts darted with sentient and uncanny swiftness. "i can feel its sublimity," gertrude said, softly, answering his thought; "but its solemn unchangeableness depresses me. i love nature's moods and tenses, and it seems flippant to mention such things in the presence of so much fixity." brockway smiled. "the prairie has its moods, too. a little later in the year we should be running between lines of fire, and those big balls of tumbleweed would be racing ahead of the wind like small meteors. later still, when the snows come, it has its savage mood, when anything with blood in its veins may not go abroad and live." "i suppose you have been out here in a blizzard, haven't you?" said the chaperon; but when he would have replied there was a general stir, and the waiter announced: "dinner is served." vii a dinner on wheels when the president's party gathered about the table, mrs. dunham placed brockway at her right, with gertrude beside him. mr. vennor disapproved of the arrangement, but he hoped that priscilla beaswicke, who was brockway's _vis-à-vis_, might be depended upon to divert the passenger agent's attention. miss beaswicke confirmed the hope with her second spoonful of soup by asking brockway what he thought of tourguénief. now, to the passenger agent, the great russian novelist was as yet no more than a name, and he said so frankly and took no shame therefore. whereupon mr. vennor: "oh, come, priscilla; you mustn't begin on mr. brockway like that. i fancy he has had scant time to dabble in your little intellectual fads." gertrude looked up quickly, and the keen sense of justice began to assert itself. having escaped the pillory in his character of artisan, the passenger agent was to be held up to ridicule in his proper person. not if she could help it, gertrude promised herself; and she turned suddenly upon the collegian. "what do you think of tourguénief, cousin chester?" she asked, amiably. "a good bit less than nothing," answered the athlete, with his eyes in his plate. "what is there about him that we ought to know and don't?" "tell us, priscilla," said gertrude, passing the query along. but the elder miss beaswicke refused to enlighten anyone. "go and get his book and read it, as i did," she said. "i sha'n't for one," fleetwell declared. "i can't read the original, and i won't read a translation." "have you read him in the original, priscilla?" gertrude inquired, determined to push the subject so far afield that it could never get back. "oh, hush!" said the elder miss beaswicke. "what is the matter with you two. i refuse positively to be quarrelled with." that ended the russian divagation, and it had the effect of making the table-talk impersonal. this was precisely what mr. vennor desired. what he meant to do was to set a conversational pace which would show gertrude that brockway was hopelessly out of his element in her own social sphere. the plan succeeded admirably. so far as the social aspect of the meal was concerned, the passenger agent might as well have been dining at the table of the olympians. art, literature, daudet's latest book, and henriette ronner's latest group of cats, the decorative designs in the boston public library, and the renaissance of buddhism in the nineteenth century--before these topics brockway went hopelessly dumb. and not once during the hour was mrs. dunham or gertrude permitted to help him, though they both tried with charitable and praiseworthy perseverance, as thus: _mrs. dunham_, in a desperate effort to ignore the public library: "i'm afraid all this doesn't interest you very much, mr. brockway. it's so fatally easy----" _fleetwell_, whose opinion touching a portion of the design has been contravened by mr. vennor: "i say, cousin jeannette, isn't the sargent decoration for the staircase hall--" _et sequentia_, until brockway sinks back into oblivion to come to the surface ten minutes later at a summons from the other side. _gertrude_, purposely losing the thread of priscilla beaswicke's remarks on the claims of theosophy to an unprejudiced hearing: "what makes you so quiet, mr. brockway? tell me about your other adventures with the school-teachers--after you left salt lake city, you know." _brockway_, catching at the friendly straw with hope once more reviving: "then you haven't forgotten--excuse me; miss beaswicke is speaking to you." and the door shuts in his face and leaves him again in outer darkness. in the nature of things mundane, even the most leisurely dinner cannot last forever. brockway's ordeal came to an end with the black coffee, and when he was free he would have vanished quickly if gertrude had not detained him. "you are not going to leave us at once, are you?" she protested. "i--i think i'd better go back to my 'ancients and invalids,' if you'll excuse me." gertrude was conscience-stricken, and her hospitable angel upbraided her for having given her guest an unthankful meal. wherefore she sought to make amends. "don't go just yet unless you are obliged to," she pleaded. "sit down and tell me about the schoolma'ams. how far did you go with them?" "i had to make the whole blessed circuit," he said, tarrying willingly enough. "do you often have such deliciously irresponsible people to convoy?" "not often; but the regular people usually make up for it in--well, in cantankerousness; that's about the only word that will fit it." brockway was thinking of the exacting majority in the tadmor. "and yet it doesn't make you misanthropic? i should think it would. what place is this we are coming to?" "carvalho--the supper station." gertrude saw her father coming toward them; she guessed his purpose and resented it. if she chose to make kindly amends to the passenger agent for his sorry dinner, she would not be prevented. "we stop here a little while, don't we?" she asked of brockway. "yes; twenty minutes or more. would you like to go out for a breath of fresh air?" she had risen and caught up her wrap and hat. "i should; it is just what i was going to propose. cousin jeannette, i'm going to walk on the platform with mr. brockway. come," she said; and they escaped before mr. vennor could overtake them. once outside, they paced up and down under the windows of the train, chatting reminiscently of four bright days a year agone, and shunning the intervening period as two people will whose lives have met and touched and gone apart again. at the second turn, they met mrs. dunham and fleetwell; and at the third, the president, sandwiched between hannah and priscilla beaswicke. whereupon brockway, scenting espionage, drew gertrude away toward the engine. the great, black bulk of the heavy ten-wheeler loomed portentous, and the smoky flare of the engineer's torch, as he thrust it into the machinery to guide the snout of his oil-can, threw the overhanging mass of iron and steel into sombre relief. brockway shaded his eyes under his hand and peered up at the number beneath the cab window. "the new ," he said; "we'll get back some of our lost time behind her." "do you know them all by name?" gertrude queried. "oh, no; not all." "i suppose you've ridden on them many times?" brockway laughed. "i should say i had--on both sides, as the enginemen say." "what does that mean?" "it's slang for firing and driving; i've done a little of both, you know." "i didn't know it. isn't it terribly dangerous? when anything happens, the men on the engine are almost always killed, aren't they?" "when they are it's because they haven't time to save themselves. it's all nonsense--newspaper nonsense, mostly--about the engineer sticking to his post like the boy on the burning deck. a man can do whatever there is to be done toward stopping his train while you could count ten, and no amount of heroism could accomplish any more." "i have often thought i should like to ride on an engine," gertrude said. "i wish i had known it earlier in the day; your wish might have been gratified very easily." "might it? i suppose they never let any one ride on the night engines, do they?" brockway caught his breath. "do you mean--would you trust me to take you on the engine to-night?" he asked, wondering if he had heard aright. "why not?" she said, with sweet gravity. the engineer had oiled his way around to their side, and brockway spoke to him. "good-evening, mac," he said; and the man turned and held up his torch. "hello, fred," he began; and then, seeing gertrude: "excuse _me_, i didn't see the lady." at a sign from gertrude, brockway introduced the engineer. "miss vennor, this is mr. maclure--one of our oldest runners." "i'm very glad to know you, mr. maclure," said gertrude, sweetly; and the man of machinery scraped his feet and salaamed. "mac, miss vennor thinks she would like to take a night spin on the . may we ride a little way with you?" "well, i should say!" assented maclure. "just pile in and make yourselves at home; and excuse _me_--i hain't quite got through oilin' 'round yet." "thank you," said brockway; then to gertrude: "we must find your father or mrs. dunham quick; we haven't more than a minute or two." they ran back and fortunately came upon mrs. dunham and the collegian. "cousin jeannette, i'm going to ride on the engine with mr. brockway," gertrude explained, breathlessly. "don't say i sha'n't, for i will. it's the chance of a lifetime. good-by; and don't sit up for me." "i'll take good care of her," brockway put in; and before the astonished lady could expostulate or approve, they were scudding forward to the . viii the cab of the ten-wheeler engineer maclure was leaning out of the cab window, watching for the conductor's signal, when brockway and gertrude came up. "didn't know but you'd backed out," he said, jocosely, when they had climbed aboard. "oh, no, indeed; we had to get word to my father," said gertrude. the engineer waved them across the cab. "make yourselves at home; the belongs to you as long as you want to own her. just you pre-empt johnnie's box over there, fred, and make the young lady comfortable." brockway stuck a propitiatory cigar into the pocket of the fireman's jumper, and proceeded to carry out his instructions. before the tardy signal came, gertrude was perched upon the high seat, with her skirts gathered up out of harm's way, and brockway had fashioned a pad out of a bunch of waste and tied it upon the boiler-head brace at her feet. "it's hot," he explained. "when she begins to roll you can put your foot against that and steady yourself. are you quite comfortable?" "quite; and you?" she looked over her shoulder to ask the question, and the strong red glow from the open door of the fire-box glorified the sweet face. "comfortable? no, that is hardly the word for it"--he tried the window-fastening, that he might have an excuse for bending over her--"i'm happy; happy to my finger-tips. do you know why?" he sought to look up into her face, but at that moment the red glow of the fire-light went out suddenly with the crash of the closing door, and the clangor of the bell made her reply inaudible. none the less, by the dim, half light of the gauge-lamp he saw her eyelashes droop and her lips say no. for a passing instant the social barriers went down and became as though they never were. standing beside her and blessing the clamor that isolated them, he said: "because i am here with you; because, no matter what happens to either of us in the future, no one can ever rob me of this." he half expected a rebuke, and waited a moment with becoming humility. when it did not come, he swung himself into the seat behind her and held his peace until she spoke again. that was five full minutes afterward. for that length of time gertrude was crushed under an avalanche of new sensations. the last switch-light in the carvalho yards had flashed to the rear, and the was quickening her speed with sharp little forward lunges under maclure's skilful goading. the dizzying procession of grayish-white telegraph-poles hurling itself past the cab windows; the thousand clangorous voices of the great machine; the intermittent glare from the fire-box door, alternating with the fiery shower of sparks pouring from the smoke-stack--it was a bit of pandemonium detached and dashing through space, and she sat cowed and stunned by the rush and the uproar. but presently the warm wine of excitement began to quicken her heart-beats. "isn't it glorious!" she exclaimed, trying to look back at him. it is quite possible for two persons to converse in the cab of a flying locomotive, but the factor of distance must be eliminated. wherefore he bent over her till his mustache brushed the pink ear. "i am glad you like it. are you still quite comfortable?" "yes, indeed; thank you. how fast are we going now?" "about twenty-five miles an hour; but we'll double that when maclure gets her warmed up." "double it! why, we seem to be fairly flying now!" "wait," said brockway. maclure was sitting sphynx-like on his box, coming to life now and then to reduce the angle of the reversing-lever, or to increase that of the throttle. the fireman labored steadily, swaying back and forth between the coal-chute and the fire-box door, his close-fitting cap on the back of his head, and brockway's cigar,--unlighted, in deference to gertrude,--between his teeth. "what dreadfully hard work it must be to shovel coal that way all night," gertrude said, following the rhythmic swing of the fireman's sinewy figure with her eyes. "he's getting his fire into shape, now," brockway explained. "he'll have it easier after a bit." "why doesn't he smoke his cigar?" brockway smiled. "because, down under the grime and coal-dust and other disguises, there is a drop or two of gentle blood, i fancy." "you mean it's because i'm here? please tell him to light his cigar, if he wants to." brockway obeyed, and the fireman unbent and bobbed his head in gertrude's direction. "thank ye, ma'am," he shouted, with a good-natured grin on his boyish face; "but i'm thinkin' a dhry smoke's good enough for the lady's car"--and he bent to his work again, while the endless procession of telegraph-poles hurtled past with ever-increasing swiftness, and the sharp blasts of the exhaust lost their intermittence, and became blent in a continuous roar. presently, the laboring engine began to heave and roll like a storm-tossed vessel, and gertrude was fain to make use of the foot-rest. being but a novice, she made unskilful work of it; and when her foot slipped for the third time, brockway took his courage in both hands. "just lean back and brace yourself against my shoulder," he said; "i'm afraid you'll get a fall." she did it, and he held himself in watchful readiness to catch her if she should lose her balance. "is that better?" she nodded. "much better, thank you. have we doubled it yet?" brockway took out his watch and timed the revolutions of the flying drive-wheels. "not quite, but we're bettering the schedule by several miles. do you still enjoy it?" "yes, much; but it's very dreadful, isn't it? i don't see how he dares!" "who? maclure?" "yes; or anyone else. to me it seems braver than anything i ever read of--to drive a great thing like this with so many precious lives behind it. the responsibility must be terrible." "it would be if a fellow thought of it all the time; but one doesn't, you know. now i'll venture a guess that mac is just speculating as to how much of the 'kestrel's' lost time he can get back between this and the end of his run." but the shrewd old pioneer with the scottish name was thinking of no such prosaic thing. on the contrary, he was wondering who miss vennor was; if she would be a worthy helpmate for the passenger agent; and if so, how he could help matters along. the switch-lights of arriba were twinkling in the distance, and his hand was on the whistle-lever, when the engineer reached a conclusion. the next instant gertrude shrieked and would have tumbled ignominiously into the fireman's scoop if brockway had not caught her. "how silly of me!" she said, shame-facedly. "one would think i had never heard a locomotive whistle before. but it was so totally unexpected." "i should have warned you, but i didn't think. this is arriba; do you want to go back?" gertrude was enjoying herself keenly, after a certain barbaric and unfettered fashion hitherto undreamed of, and she was tempted to drink a little deeper from the cup of freedom before going back to the proprieties. moreover, there was doubtless a goodly measure of reproof awaiting her, and when she remembered this, she determined to get the full value of the castigation. "i'll go on, if you'll let me," she said. "let you!" brockway had been trembling for fear his little bubble of joy was about to burst, and would have multiplied words. but before he could say more, the thundered past the station and came to a stand. maclure released the air-brake, and clambering down from his box, dragged the passenger agent from his seat and so out to the gangway. "say, fred, is she goin' back?" he whispered. "no, not just yet." "bully for her; she's got sand, she has. reckon you could run a spell and talk to her at the same time?" brockway's nerves tingled at the bare suggestion. "try me and see," he said. "it's a go," said maclure. "get her over there on my side, and i'll smoke me a pipe out o' johnnie's window. swear to bob i won't look around once!" ix fifty miles an hour "let me promote you, miss vennor," brockway said, helping gertrude to the foot-board; "mr. maclure says you may have his seat for awhile." gertrude acquiesced unquestioningly. for some cause as yet unclassified, acquiescence seemed to be quite the proper thing when she was with brockway, though docility with others was not her most remarkable characteristic. when she was safely bestowed, maclure rang the bell and gave brockway his instructions. "next stop's red butte--twenty-seven miles--thirty-eight minutes o' card-time--no allowance for slowin' down at corral siding. and if you can twist 'em any quicker, do it. turn her loose." the engineer betook himself to the fireman's box, and brockway's resolution was taken on the spur of the moment. "do just as i tell you, miss vennor, and i'll give you a brand-new experience," he said, quickly. "take hold of this lever and pull--both hands--pull hard!" gertrude did it simply because she was told to, and it was not until the engine lunged forward that she understood what it was she was doing. "oh, mr. brockway--i can't!" she cried; "it won't mind me!" "yes, it will; i'll show you how. push it back a little; you mustn't tear your fire. there; let her make a few turns at that." gertrude clung to the throttle as if she were afraid it was alive and would escape, but her eyes sparkled and the flush of excitement mounted swiftly to cheek and brow. "now give her a little more--just a notch or two--that's enough. you needn't hold it; it won't run away," brockway said, laughing at her. "i shall go daft if i don't hold something! oh, _please_, mr. brockway! i know i shall smash everything into little bits!" "no, you won't; i sha'n't let you. a little more steam, if you please; that's right. now take hold of this lever with both hands, brace yourself and pull steadily." the reversing-lever of a big ten-wheeler is no child's plaything, and he stood ready to help her if she could not manage it. but miss vennor did manage it, though the first notch or two had to be fought for; and maclure, who had quite forgotten his promise not to look on, applauded enthusiastically. "good!" said brockway, approvingly; "you are doing famously. now a little more throttle; that's enough." the forged ahead obediently, and gertrude began to enter into the spirit of the thing. "this is simply titanic!" she exclaimed. "what shall i do next?" "cut her back a little more," brockway commanded; "two notches. now a little more steam--more yet; that will do." the great engine lunged forward like a goaded animal, and gertrude sat up very straight and clung to the reversing-lever when the cab began to lurch and sway. but she obeyed brockway's directions promptly and implicitly. "don't be afraid of her," he said. "you have a clear track and a heavy rail." "i'm not afraid," she asserted; "i'm miles beyond that, now. if anything should happen, we'd all be dead before we found it out, so i can be perfectly reckless." mile after mile of the level plain swept backward under the drumming wheels, and brockway's heart made music within him because it had some little fragment of its desire. in order to see the track through the front window of the cab, he had to lean his elbow on the cushion beside her, and it brought them very near--nearer, he thought, than they would ever be again. gertrude was much too full of the magnitude of things to care to talk, but she was finally moved to ask another question. "are we really running along on the rails just like any well-behaved train? it seems to me we must have left the track quite a while ago." brockway laughed. "you would know it, if we had. do you see those two little yellow lights away out ahead?" "yes; what are they?" "they are the switch-lights at corral siding. take hold of this lever and blow the whistle yourself; then it won't startle you so much." gertrude did that, also, although it was more trying to her nerves than all that had gone before. then brockway showed her how to reduce speed. "push the throttle in as far as it will go; that's right. now the reversing-lever--both hands, and brace yourself--that's it. now take hold of this handle and twist it that way--slowly--more yet--" the air whistled shrilly through the vent, and the song of the brake-shoes on the wheels of the train rose above the discordant clangor--"that will do--turn it back," he added, when the speed had slackened sufficiently; and he leaned forward with his hand on the brake-lever and scanned the approaching side-track with practised eyes. "all clear!" he announced, springing back quickly. "pull up this lever again, and give her steam." gertrude obeyed like an automaton, though she blenched a little when the small station building at the siding roared past, and in a few seconds the was again bettering the schedule. "how fast are we going now?" she asked, when the engine was once more pitching and rolling like a laboring ship. brockway consulted his watch. "a little over fifty miles an hour, i should say. you will be quite safe in calling it that, anyway, when you tell your friends that you have run a fast express train." "they'll never believe it," she said; "but i wouldn't have missed it for the world. what must i do now?--watch the track?" brockway said "yes," though, with all his interest in other things, he had not omitted that very important part of an engineer's duty from the moment of leaving arriba. after a roaring silence of some minutes, during which brockway gave himself once more to the divided business of scanning the rails and burning sweet incense on the altar of his love, she spoke again. "what is that we are coming to, away out there?" she asked, trying vainly to steady herself for a clearer view. "the lights of red butte," he answered, relaxing his vigilance for the moment at the thought that his little side-trip into the land of joy would so shortly come to an end. "no, i don't mean those!" she exclaimed, excitedly; "but this side of the lights. don't you see?--on the track!" brockway allowed himself but a single swift glance. half-way between the flying train and the station the line crossed a shallow sand creek on a low trestle. on both sides of the swale, crowding upon the track and filling the bed of the creek, was a mass of moving forms, against which the lines of glistening rails ended abruptly. at such a crisis, the engineer in a man, if any there be, asserts itself without reference to the volitional nerve-centres. in the turning of a leaf, brockway had thrown himself upon the throttle, dropped the reversing-lever, set the air-brake, and opened the sand-box; while maclure, seeing that his substitute was equal to the emergency, woke the echoes with the whistle. a hundred yards from the struggling mass of frightened cattle, brockway saw that the air-brake was not holding. "don't move!" he cried; and gertrude cowered in her corner as the heavy reversing-lever came over with a crash, and the great engine heaved and buckled in the effort to check its own momentum. it was all over before she could cry out or otherwise advertise her very natural terror. the moving mass had melted away before the measured approach of the train; the trestle had rumbled under the wheels; and the was steaming swiftly up to the station under brockway's guidance. "have you had more than enough?" he asked, when he had brought the train to a stand opposite the platform at red butte. "yes--no, not that, either," she added, quickly. "i'm glad to have had a taste of the real danger as well. but i think i'd better go back; it's getting late, isn't it?" "yes. mac, we resign. sorry i had to put your old tea-kettle in the back-gear; but the air wasn't holding, and we didn't want any chipped beef for supper. good-night, and many thanks. don't pull out till i give you the signal." they hurried down the platform arm-in-arm, and gertrude was the first to speak. "didn't you think we were all going to be killed?" "no; but i did think i should never forgive myself if anything happened to you." "it wouldn't have been your fault. and i've had a glorious bit of distraction; i shall remember it as long as i live." "yes; you have actually driven a train fifty miles an hour," laughed brockway, handing her up the steps of car naught-fifty. "i have; and now i shall go in and be scolded eighty miles an hour to pay for it. but i sha'n't mind that. good-night, and thank you ever so much. we shall see you in the morning?" "yes." brockway said it confidently, and gave a tug at the bell-cord, to let maclure know they were safely aboard; but when the door of the private car had yawned and swallowed miss vennor, he remembered the president's probable frame of mind, and thought it doubtful. x a confidence en route when brockway pulled the bell-cord, he meant to drop off and wait till the tadmor came along--a manoeuvre which would enable him to rejoin his party without intruding on the president's privacy. then that reflection about mr. vennor's probable frame of mind, and the thought that the late excursion into the fair country of joy would doubtless never be repeated, came to delay him, and he let the train get under way before he remembered what it was that he had intended doing. whereupon, he scoffed at his own infatuation, and went into the ariadne to chat with the burtons until another halt should give him a chance to get back to the tadmor. the route to the body of the car led past the smoking-room, and the passenger agent, having missed his after-dinner cigar, was minded to turn aside. but the place was crowded, and he hung hesitant upon the threshold. "come in," said burton, who was one of the smokers. "no, i believe not; there are too many of you. i'll go and talk to mrs. burton." "do; she's spoiling to quiz you." "to quiz me? what about?" "you wouldn't expect me to tell, if i knew. go on and find out." brockway went forward with languid curiosity. "i thought you had quite deserted us," said the little lady. "sit down and give an account of yourself. where have you been all afternoon?" "with my ancients and invalids," brockway replied. mrs. burton shook a warning finger at him. "don't begin by telling me fibs. miss vennor is neither old nor infirm." brockway reddened and made a shameless attempt to change the subject. "how did you like the supper at carvalho?" he asked. the general agent's wife laughed as one who refuses to be diverted. "neither better nor worse than you did. we had a buffet luncheon--baked beans and that exquisite tomato-catchup, you know--served in our section, and we saw one act of a charming little comedy playing itself on the platform at the supper station. be nice and tell me all about it. did the cold-blooded gentleman with the overseeing eyes succeed in overtaking you?" brockway saw it was no use, and laughed good-naturedly. "you are a born detective, mrs. burton; i wouldn't be in burton's shoes for a farm in the golden belt," he retorted. "how much did you really see, and how much did you take for granted?" "i saw a young man, who didn't take the trouble to keep his emotions out of his face, marching up and down the platform with miss vennor on his arm. then i saw an elderly gentleman pacing back and forth between two feminine chatterboxes, and trying to outgeneral the two happy people. naturally, i want to know more. did you really go without your supper to take a constitutional with miss gertrude? and did the unhappy father contrive to spoil your _tête-à-tête_?" there was triumph in brockway's grin. "no, he didn't--not that time; i out-witted him. and i didn't go without my supper, either. i had the honor of dining with the president's party in the naught-fifty." "you did! then i'm sure she must have invited you; _he'd_ never do it. how did it happen?" brockway told the story of the disabled cooking-stove, and mrs. burton laughed till the tears came. "how perfectly ridiculous!" she exclaimed, between gasps. "and she took your part and invited you to dinner, did she? then what happened?" "i was properly humiliated and sat upon," said brockway, in wrathful recollection. "they talked about everything under the sun that i'd never heard of, and i had to sit through it all like a confounded oyster!" "oh, nonsense!" said mrs. burton, sweetly; "you know a good many things that they never dreamed of. but how did you manage to get gertrude away from them all?" "i didn't; she managed it for me. when we got up from the table the train was just slowing into carvalho. i was going to run away, as befitted me, but she proposed a breath of fresh air on the platform." "then you had a chance to show her that you weren't born dumb, and i hope you improved it. but how did you dodge mr. vennor?" "we missed a turn and went forward to look at the engine. then ger--miss vennor thought she would like to take a ride in the cab, and----" "and, of course, you arranged it. you knew that was just the thing of all others that would reinstate you. it was perfectly machiavellian!" brockway opened his eyes very wide. "knew what?" he said, bluntly. "i only knew it was the thing she wanted to do, and that was enough. well, we skipped back and notified mrs. dunham--she's the chaperon, you know--and then we chased ahead again and got on the engine." "where i'll promise you she enjoyed more new sensations in a minute than you had all through their chilly dinner," put in mrs. burton, who had ridden on many locomotives. "she did, indeed," brockway rejoined, exultantly, living over again the pleasure of the brief hour in the retelling. "at arriba, the engineer turned the over to me, and i put miss vennor up on the box and let her run between arriba and red butte." "well--of all things! do you know, fred, i've had a silly idea all afternoon that i'd like to help you, but dear me! you don't need my help. of course, after that, it was all plain sailing for you." brockway shook his head. "you're taking entirely too much for granted," he protested. "it was only a pleasant bit of 'distraction,' as she called it, for her, and there was no word--that is i--oh, confound it all! i couldn't presume on a bit of good comradeship like that!" "you--couldn't--presume! why, you silly, _silly_ boy, it was the chance of a lifetime! so daringly original--so utterly unhackneyed! and you couldn't presume--i haven't a bit of patience with you." "i'm sorry for that; i need a little sympathy." "you don't deserve it; but perhaps you'd get it if you could show cause." "can't you see? don't you understand that nothing can ever come of it?" brockway demanded, relapsing fathoms deep into the abyss of hopelessness. "nothing ever will come of it if you go on squandering your chances as you have to-day. what is the matter with you? are you afraid of the elderly gentleman with the calculating eye?" "not exactly afraid of him; but he's a millionnaire, and miss vennor has a fortune in her own right. and i----" "don't finish it. i understand your objection; you are poor and proud--and that's as it should be; but tell me--you are in love with miss vennor, aren't you? when did it begin?" "a year ago." "you didn't permit yourself to fall in love with her until you knew all about her circumstances and prospects, of course?" "you know better than that. it was--it was what you'd call love at first sight," he confessed, rather shame-facedly; and then he told her how it began. "very good," said mrs. burton, approvingly. "then you did actually manage to fall in love with gertrude herself, and not with her money. but now, because you've found out she has money, you are going to spoil your chance of happiness, and possibly hers. is that it?" brockway tried to explain. "it's awfully good of you to try to put it in that light, but no one would ever believe that i wasn't mercenary--that i wasn't a shameless cad of a fortune-hunter. i couldn't stand that, you know." "no, of course not; not even for her sake. besides, she doubtless looks upon you as a fortune-hunter, and----" "what? indeed she doesn't anything of the kind." "well, then, if you are sure she doesn't misjudge you, what do you care for the opinion of the world at large?" "much; when you show me a man who doesn't care for public opinion, i'll show you one who ought to be in jail." "fudge! please don't try to hide behind platitudes. but about gertrude, and your little affair, which is no affair; what are you going to do about it?" "nothing; there is nothing at all to be done," brockway replied with gloomy emphasis. "i suppose nothing would ever induce you to forgive her for being rich?" "i can never quite forgive myself for being poor, since it's going to cost me so much." "you are too equivocal for any use. answer my question," snapped the small inquisitor. "how can i?" brockway inquired, with masculine density. "forgiveness implies an injury, and----" "oh, _oh_--how stupid you can be when you try! you know perfectly well what i mean." "i'm not sure that i do," said brockway, whose wit was easily confounded by a sharp tongue. "then i'll put it in words of one syllable. do you mean to ask miss vennor to be your wife?" "i couldn't, and keep my self-respect." "not if you knew she wanted you to?" persisted the small tormentor. "oh, i say--that couldn't be, you know," he protested. "i'm nothing more than a pleasant acquaintance to her, at the very most." "but if you knew she did?" "how could i know it?" "we are not discussing ways and means; answer the question." thereat the man, tempted beyond what he could bear, abdicated in favor of the lover. "if i could be certain of that, mrs. burton--if i could be sure she loves me, nothing on earth should stand in the way of our happiness. is that what you wanted me to say?" the little lady clapped her hands enthusiastically. "i thought i could find the joint in your armor, after awhile. now you may go; i want to be by myself and think. good-night." brockway took the summary dismissal good-naturedly, and, as the train was just then slowing into a station, he ran out to drop off and catch the upcoming hand-rail of the tadmor. xi an arrival in transit when gertrude bade brockway good-night, she changed places for the moment with a naughty child on its way to face the consequences of a misbehavior, entering the private car with a childish consciousness of wrong-doing fighting for place with a rather militant determination to meet reproof with womanly indifference. much to her relief, she found her father alone, and there was no distinguishable note of displeasure in his greeting. "well, gertrude, did you enjoy your little diversion? sit down and tell me about it. how does the cab compare with the sitting-room of a private car?" the greeting was misleading, but she saw fit to regard it as merely the handshaking which precedes a battle royal. "i enjoyed it much," she answered, quietly. "it was very exciting; and very interesting, too." "ah; i presume so. and your escort took good care of you--made you quite comfortable, i suppose." "yes." mr. vennor leaned back in his chair and regarded her gravely through the swirls of blue smoke curling upward from his cigar. "didn't it strike you as being rather--ah--a girlish thing for you to do? in the night, you know, and with a comparative stranger?" gertrude thought the battle was about to open, and began to throw up hasty fortifications. "mr. brockway is not a stranger; you may remember that we became quite well acquainted----" "pardon me," the president interrupted; "that is precisely the point at which i wished to arrive--your present estimate of this young man. i have nothing to say about your little diversion on the engine. you are old enough to settle these small questions of the proprieties for yourself. but touching this young mechanic, it might be as well for us to understand each other. have you fully considered the probable consequences of your most singular infatuation?" it was a ruthless question, and the hot blood of resentment set its signals flying in gertrude's cheeks. up to that evening, she had thought of the passenger agent only as an agreeable young man of a somewhat unfamiliar type, of whom she would like to know more; but brockway's moment of abandonment in the cab of the had planted a seed which threatened to germinate quickly in the warmth of the present discussion. "i'm not quite sure that i understand you," she said, picking and choosing among the phrases for the least incendiary. "would you mind telling me in so many words, just what you mean?" "not in the least. a year ago you met this young man in a most casual way, and--to put it rather brutally--fell in love with him. i haven't the slightest idea that he cares anything for you in your proper person, or that he would have thrust himself upon us to-day if he had known that your private fortune hangs upon the event of your marriage under certain conditions which you evidently purpose to ignore. if, after the object-lesson you had at the dinner-table this evening, you still prefer this young fortune-hunter to your cousin chester, i presume we shall all have to submit; but you ought at least to tell us what we are to expect." if he had spared the epithets, she could have laughed at the baseless fabric of supposition, but the contemptuous sentence passed upon brockway put her quickly upon his defence, and, incidentally, did more to further that young man's cause than any other happening of that eventful day. "i suppose you have a right to say and think what you please about me," she said, trying vainly to be dispassionate; "but you might spare mr. brockway. he didn't invite himself to dinner; and it was i who proposed the walk on the platform and the ride on the engine." "humph! you are nothing if not loyal. nevertheless, i wish you might look the facts squarely in the face." gertrude knew there were no facts, of the kind he meant, but his persistence brought forth fruit after its kind, and she stubbornly resolved to neither affirm nor deny. wherefore she said, a little stiffly: "i'm quite willing to listen to anything you wish to say." "then i should like to ask if you have counted the cost. assuming that this young man's intentions are unmercenary--and i doubt that very much--it isn't possible that there can be anything in common between you. the social world in which you move, and that to which he belongs, are as widely separated as the poles. i do not say yours is the higher plane, or his the lower--though i may have my own opinion as to that--but i do say they are vastly different; and the woman who knowingly marries out of her class has much to answer for. admitting that you will do no worse than this, how can you hope to find anything congenial in a man who has absolutely nothing to say for himself at an ordinary family dinner-table?" "i'm not at all sure that mr. brockway hadn't anything to say for himself, though he couldn't be expected to know or care much about the things we talked of. and it occurred to me at the time that it wasn't quite kind in us to talk intellectual shop from the soup to the dessert, as we did." the president smiled, but the cold eyes belied the outward manifestation of kindliness. "you may thank me for that, if you choose," he went on, in the same calm argumentative tone. "i wanted to point a moral, and if i didn't succeed, it wasn't the fault of the subject. but that is only the social side; a question of taste. unfortunately, there is a more serious matter to be considered. you know the terms of your granduncle's will; that your cousin fleetwell's half of the estate became his unconditionally on his coming of age, and that your portion is only a trust until your marriage with your cousin?" "i ought to know; it's been talked of enough." "and you know that if the marriage fail by your act, you will lose this legacy?" "yes." "and that it will go to certain charitable institutions, and so be lost, not only to you, but to the family?" "i know all about it." "you know it, and yet you would deliberately throw yourself away on a fortune-hunting mechanic--a man whom you have known only since yesterday? it's incredible!" "it is you who have said it--not i," she retorted; "but i'm not willing to admit that it would be all loss and no gain. there would at least be a brand-new set of sensations, and i'm very sure they wouldn't all be painful." it was rebellion, pure and simple, and for once in his life francis vennor gave place to wrath--plebeian wrath, vociferous and undignified. "shame on you!" he cried; "you are a disgrace to the name--it's the blood of that cursed socialist on your mother's side. sit still and listen to me--" gertrude, knowing her own temper, was about to run away--"if you marry that infernal upstart, you'll do it at your own expense, do you hear? you sha'n't finger a penny of my money as long as i can keep you out of it. do you understand?" "i should be very dull if i didn't understand," she replied, preparing to make good her retreat. "if you are quite through, perhaps you will let me say that you are tilting at a windmill of your own building. so far as i know, mr. brockway hasn't the slightest intention of asking me to marry him; and until you took the trouble to demonstrate the possibility, i don't think it ever occurred to me. but after what you've said, i don't think i can ever consent to be married to cousin chester--it would be too mercenary, you know;" and with this parting shot she vanished. in the privacy of her own stateroom she sat at the window to think it all out. it was all very undutiful, doubtless, and she was sorry for her part in the quarrel almost before the words were cold. she could scarcely forgive herself for having allowed her father to carry his assumption to such lengths, but the temptation had proved irresistible. it was such a delicious little farce, and if it might only have stopped short of the angry conclusion--but it had not, and therein lay the sting of it. whereupon, feeling the sting afresh, she set her face flintwise against the prearranged marriage. "i sha'n't do it," she said aloud, pressing her hot cheek against the cool glass of the window. "i don't love chester, and i never shall--not in the way i should. and if i marry him, i shall be just what papa called mr. brockway--only he isn't that, or anything of the kind. poor mr. brockway! if he knew what we have been talking about----" from that point reflection went adrift in pleasanter channels. how good-natured and forgiving mr. brockway had been! he must have known that he was purposely ignored at the dinner-table, where he was an invited guest, and yet he had not resented it; and what better proof of gentle breeding than this could he have given? then, in that crucial moment of danger, how surely his presence of mind and trained energies had forestalled the catastrophe. that was grand--heroic. it was well worth its cost in terror to look on and see him strive with and conquer the great straining monster of iron and steel. after that, one couldn't well listen calmly to such things as her father had said of him. and, admitting the truth of what had been said about his intellectual shortcomings, was a certain glib familiarity with the modern catch-words of book-talk and art criticism a fair test of intellectuality? gertrude, with her cheek still touching the cool window-pane, thought not. one might read the reviews and talk superficially of more books than the most painstaking student could ever know, even by sight. in like manner, one might walk through the picture galleries and come away freighted with great names wherewith to awe the untravelled lover of art. it was quite evident that mr. brockway had done neither of these things, and yet he was thoughtful and keenly observant; and if he were ignorant of art, he knew and understood nature, which is the mother of all art. from reinstating the passenger agent in his rights and privileges as a man, she came presently upon the little incident in the cab of the . how much or how little did he mean when he said he was happy to his finger-tips? on the lips of the men of her world, such sayings went for naught; they were but the tennis-balls of persiflage, served deftly, and with the intent that they should rebound harmless. but she felt sure that such a definition went wide of mr. brockway's meaning; of compliments as such, he seemed to know less than nothing. and then he had said that whatever came between them--no, that was not it--whatever happened to either of them.... ah, well, many things might happen--would doubtless happen; but she would not forget, either. the familiar sighing of the air-brake began again, and the low thunder of the patient wheels became the diapason beneath the shrill song of the brake-shoes. then the red eye of a switch-lamp glanced in at gertrude's window, and the train swung slowly up to the platform at another prairie hamlet. just before it stopped, she caught a swift glimpse of a man standing with outstretched arms, as if in mute appeal. it was brockway. he was merely standing in readiness to grasp the hand-rail of the tadmor when it should reach him; but gertrude knew it not, and if she had, it would have made no difference. it was the one fortuitous touch needed to open that inner chamber of her heart, closed, hitherto, even to her own consciousness. and when the door was opened she looked within and saw what no woman sees but once in her life, and having once seen, will die unwed in very truth if any man but one call her wife. once more the drumming wheels began the overture; the lighted bay-window of the station slipped backward into the night, and the bloodshot eye of another switch-lamp peered in at the window and was gone; but gertrude neither saw nor heard. the things of time and place were around and about her, but not within. a new song was in her heart, its words inarticulate as yet, but its harmonies singing with the music of the spheres. a little later, when the "flying kestrel" was again in mid-flitting, and the separate noises of the train had sunk into the soothing under-roar, she crept into her berth wet-eyed and thankful, and presently went to sleep too happy to harbor anxious thought for the morrow of uncertainties. xii the ancients and invalids brockway was up betimes the following morning, though not of his own free will. two hours before the "flying kestrel" was due in denver, the porter of the tadmor awakened him at the command of the irascible gentleman with the hock-bottle shoulders and diaphanous nose. while the passenger agent was sluicing his face in the wash-room some one prodded him from behind, and a thin, high-pitched voice wedged itself into the thunderous silence. "mr. ah--brockway; i understand that you are purposing to take the party to ah--feather plume or ah--silver feather, or some such place to-day, and i ah--protest! i have no desire to leave denver until my ticket is made to conform to my stipulations, sir." brockway had soap in his eyes, and the porter had carefully hidden the towels; for which cause his reply was brief and to the point. "please wait till i get washed and dressed before you begin on me, won't you?" "wait? do you say ah--wait? i have been doing nothing but wait, sir, ever since my ah--stipulations were ignored. it's an outrage, sir, i----" brockway had found a towel and was using it vigorously as a counter-irritant. "for heaven's sake, go away and let me alone until i can get my clothes on!" he exclaimed. "i promised you yesterday you should have the thirty days that you don't need." the aggrieved one had his ticket out, but he put it away again in tremulous indignation. "go away? did i ah--understand you to tell me to go away, sir? i ah-h-h----" but words failed him, and he shuffled out of the wash-room, cannoning against the little gentleman in the grass-cloth duster and velvet skull-cap in the angle of the vestibule. "good-morning, mr. brockway," said the comforter, cheerily. "been having a tilt with mr. ticket-limits to begin the day with?" "oh, as a matter of course," brockway replied, flinging the damp towel into a corner, and brushing his hair as one who transmutes wrath into vigorous action. "find him a bit trying, don't you? what particular form does his mania take this morning?" "it's the same old thing. i promised him, yesterday, i'd get the extension on his ticket, and now he says he won't leave denver till it's done. he 'ah-protests' that i sha'n't go to silver plume with the party; wants me to stay in denver and put in the day telegraphing." "of course, you'll do it; you do anything anybody asks you to." "oh, i suppose i'll have to--to keep the peace. and if i don't go and 'personally conduct' the others, there'll be the biggest kind of a row. isn't it enough to wear the patience of a good-natured angel to frazzles?" "it is, just that. have a cigar?" "no, thank you. i don't smoke before breakfast." "neither do i, normally; but like most other people, i leave all my good habits at home when i travel. but about jordan and the thirty-odd; how are you going to dodge the row?" "the best way i can. there is a good friend of mine on the train--mr. john burton, the general agent of the c. & u., in salt lake--and perhaps i can get him to go up the canyon for me." "think he will do it?" "i guess so; to oblige me. he'd lose only a day; and he'd make thirty-odd friends for the c. & u., don't you see." "i must confess that i don't see, from a purely business point of view," was the rejoinder. "we are all ticketed out and back, and we can't change our route if we want to." brockway laughed. "the business of passenger soliciting is far-reaching. some of you--perhaps most of you--will go again next year; and if the general agent of the c. & u. is particularly kind and obliging, you may remember his line." "dear me--why, of course! you say your friend is on the train?" "yes." "very well; you go and see him, and i'll help you out by breaking the news to the thirty-odd." brockway struggled into his coat and shook hands with the friendly one. "mr. somers, you're my good angel. you've undertaken a thankless task, though." the womanish face under the band of the skull-cap broke into a smile which was not altogether angelic. "i shall get my pay as i go along; our friend with the bad case of ticket dementia will be carrying the entire responsibility for your absence before i get through." "good! pile it on thick," said brockway, chuckling. "make 'em understand that i'd give all my old shoes to go--that i'm so angry with jordan for spoiling my day's pleasure that i can't see straight." "i'll do it," the little man agreed. "take a cigar to smoke after breakfast"--and the gray duster and velvet skull-cap disappeared forthwith around the angle in the vestibule. not until he was ready to seek burton did the passenger agent recollect that the naught-fifty was between the tadmor and the ariadne, and that it would be the part of prudence to go around rather than through the president's car. when he did remember it he stepped out into the vestibule of the tadmor to get a breath of fresh air while he waited for the train to come to a station. mrs. dunham was on the naught-fifty's rear platform, and she nodded, smiled, and beckoned him to come across. "i'm glad to know that somebody else besides a curious old woman cares enough for this grand scenery to get up early in the morning," she said, pleasantly. "you mustn't make me ashamed," brockway rejoined. "i'm afraid i should have been sound asleep this minute if i hadn't been routed out by one of my people." mrs. dunham smiled. "gertrude was telling me about some of your troubles. do they get you up early in the morning to ask you foolish questions?" "they do, indeed"--and brockway, glad enough to find a sympathetic listener, told the story of the pertinacious human gadfly masquerading under the name of jordan. "dear, dear! how unreasonable! will you have to give up the silver plume trip and stay in denver with him?" "i suppose so. i'm going forward presently to try to get mr. burton and his wife to take my place with the party for the day." "not mr. john burton, of the colorado & utah?" "yes; do you know him?" "only through gertrude; she met them when she was out here last year, and she likes mrs. burton very much indeed." "i'm glad of that," said brockway, with great _naïveté_; "they are very good friends of mine." in the pause that succeeded he was reminded that his way and gertrude's would shortly diverge again, and in the face of that thought he could not well help asking questions. "i suppose you are going straight on to utah," he said, not daring to hope for a negative reply. "not to-day. i believe it is mr. vennor's plan to go on to-morrow morning." when he realized what this meant for him, brockway forgave his evil genius in the tadmor. then he gasped to think how near he had come to missing his last chance of seeing gertrude. but he must know more of the movements of the president's party. "will you go to a hotel?" he inquired. "i think not. i heard mr. vennor order dinner in the car, so i presume we shall make it our headquarters during the day." brockway reflected that the private car would doubtless be side-tracked on the spur near the telegraph office in the union depot, and wrote it down that prearrangement itself could do no more. when the train drew up at bovalley a little later, he excused himself and ran quickly forward to board the ariadne. come what might, burton must be over-persuaded; the thirty-odd must be given no chance to defeat the heaven-born opportunity made possible by the pertinacity of the gadfly. so marched the intention, but the fates willed delay. bovalley is but a flag-station, and the passenger agent had barely time to swing up to the rear platform of the regular sleeper when the train moved on. then he found that he had circumvented one obstacle only to be hampered by another. the rear door of the ariadne was locked, and the electric bell was out of repair. wherefore it was forty minutes later, and denver was in sight, when the rear brakeman opened the door and admitted him. xiii between stations when mrs. dunham returned to the central compartment of the naught-fifty, the waiter was laying the table for breakfast, and the president was looking on with the steadfast gaze which disconcerts. "good-morning, cousin jeannette. up early to see the scenery, are you?" the genial greeting had no hint in it of inward disquietude, past or present. "yes, and i wish i had been earlier. i have been out on the platform watching the mountains grow." "grand, isn't it? you might have had a better view if our car had been left in its proper place in the rear; but our friend the passenger agent took good care to secure that for his own party." mrs. dunham was inclined to be charitable. "i fancy he couldn't help it. from what he tells me, his people must be very exacting." "have you seen him this morning?" the president inquired, with some small show of curiosity. "yes; out on the platform. he has been telling me some of his exasperating experiences." the president smiled indulgently. "i suspect our young friend has fallen into a habit of magnifying his difficulties," he said. "it's very easy to do, you know, when one's business makes a fine art of exaggeration." "why, he doesn't impress me that way, at all," said the good lady, who knew nothing of her cousin's very excellent reasons for disliking brockway. "he seems to be a very pleasant young man, and quite intelligent." mr. vennor shrugged his shoulders. "i don't question his intelligence--though it wasn't very remarkable at the dinner-table last night. did you happen to find out whether he is going all the way across with his party?" "he didn't say. his people are going up to silver plume to-day, but he can't go with them. he has to stay in denver with one of the exacting ones whose ticket is out of repair." "ha! that's a very sharp little trick," said the president; but inasmuch as he did not elucidate, the chaperon misunderstood. "to get him into trouble with the others? i fancy that is only incidental. mr. brockway is going to try to get mr. burton--our mr. burton, of salt lake city, you know--who is on the train, to take charge of the party on the silver plume trip." mr. vennor said, "oh," and then the young people began to appear, and the waiter announced breakfast. during the meal the president was too deeply engrossed in the working out of a small counterplot to hear or heed much of the desultory table-talk. it was quite evident that the passenger agent had learned of the proposed stop-over in denver, and was preparing to take advantage of it. his confidence with mrs. dunham was only a roundabout way of notifying gertrude. mr. vennor considered many little schemes of the frustrating sort, and finally choosing one which seemed to meet all the requirements, put it in train immediately after breakfast. "what are you going to do with yourself to-day?" he asked of fleetwell, when they had drawn apart and lighted their cigars. "don't know," replied the collegian, between whiffs; "whatever the others want to do." "i was just thinking," the president continued, carelessly. "the beaswicke girls want to call on some friends of theirs, and that eliminates them. i expect to be busy all day; and cousin jeannette says she doesn't care to go about. suppose you and gertrude take a run up into the mountains on one of the narrow-gauges. it'll fill in the day, and you can be back in time for dinner this evening." "i don't mind, if gertrude wants to go; but i don't believe she does," said fleetwell, with so little enthusiasm that the president looked at him sharply. "think not?" "i'm almost sure she doesn't," the collegian replied, placidly. mr. francis vennor was a conservative man, slow to admit even the contradiction of facts. while waiting for gertrude the previous evening, he had convinced himself that his daughter was about to sacrifice herself. to an impartial onlooker--and he prided himself on being no less--the evidence was logically conclusive; and, notwithstanding gertrude's tardy denial, he still believed that his major premise was correct, or, at most, only errant in time. having thus set his judgment a bad example, it easily broke bounds again in the same direction. how should fleetwell know that gertrude would not care to spend the day in his company? probably because they had found time before breakfast for another of their foolish disagreements. in that case, it would be the part of wisdom to separate them for the day; and a plan by which this might be accomplished, and the passenger agent checkmated at the same time, suggested itself at the instant. "we'll let it go at that, then," he said, answering fleetwell's assumption. "you can manage to wear out the day in town. perhaps the beaswicke girls will let you go calling with them." "think so? i'll go and ask them," fleetwell said, with more animation than he had yet exhibited; and he threw away his cigar and went about it. the president rose and crossed over to mrs. dunham's chair. "where is gertrude?" he inquired. "she complained of a headache and went to her room. shall i call her?" "oh, no; but if you haven't already done so, i wish you wouldn't mention what brockway told you, this morning--about his spending the day in denver, i mean." "certainly not, if you wish it," the chaperon agreed; but the expression of her face was so plainly interrogative that the president was constrained to go on. "there is nothing to be anxious about yet," he hastened to say; "but you know the old adage about the ounce of prevention. gertrude is very self-willed, and they were together rather more than i could wish, last summer." "i think you are altogether mistaken, cousin francis," said the good lady, in whom there was no drop of match-making blood. "she has talked very freely with me about him, and a young girl doesn't do that if there is any sentiment in the air." "i hope you are right. but it will do no harm to give ourselves the benefit of the doubt. i fancy chester didn't quite approve of the little diversion last evening--on the engine, you know." "pooh! i don't believe he gave it a second thought." "possibly not; but he had a very good right to object. it was a reckless bit of impropriety." "you sat up for gertrude last night; did you say as much to her?" the chaperon asked, shrewdly. "not quite that," said the president, who was unwilling to go into particulars. "because, if you did, it was injudicious, that's all. gertrude is your own daughter, and she is enough like you to resent anything of that kind in a way to make you regretful. that accounts for the headache this morning." gertrude's father smiled rather grimly. "i shall presently find a remedy for the headache, and you'll see that it will work like a charm. but its efficacy will depend upon your discretion. not a word about the passenger agent, if you please." mrs. dunham promised, rather reluctantly, and mr. vennor put on his hat and left the compartment. he had business in the ariadne; and a little later, mrs. burton, who was buttoning her shoe, looked up to find the calculating eyes of the president making a calm and leisurely valuation of her. xiv with denver in sight there was the usual early morning confusion in the aisle of the ariadne when brockway picked his way forward to section three over a litter of opened hand-bags, lately polished shoes, and unshod feet. he found the burton section empty, with the porter putting the finishing touches to his morning's work of scene-shifting. "yes, sah; de gemman's in de washroom, an' de lady----" "is right here," said a voice at brockway's elbow. "good-morning, mr. frederick; how do you find yourself--or aren't you lost?" the forty-minute lock-out had left scant time for preliminaries, and brockway left off the preamble. "i'm not lost, but i'm going to be if you and john don't help me out. will you do it?" "sight unseen." the little lady was eying her shoes wistfully and hoping that brockway would be brief. "i thought i could count on you. what is your programme for to-day?" "for john, business, i suppose; for myself, a carriage, a handy card-case, and any number of 'how do you dos' and 'good-byes.' why?" "i want you both to give me the day, out and out. listen, and don't say no till you've heard me through." "go on, but don't let it lap over into denver; we're 'most there." brockway stated his case briefly. "it's probably the last chance i'll ever have to see her," he concluded. "why should you want to see her when there is nothing to be done, as you say?" "i don't know that--but i do, and you must help me. will you?" "help you carry on a brazen flirtation with that poor, innocent girl? never! but if john says he'll go, i suppose i can't help myself"--resignedly. "thank you; i knew you wouldn't be cruel. and if john should happen to balk a little----" "why, i'll talk him over, of course; is that what you want?" "that's it exactly. thank you some more." "don't mention it. is that all?" "y--yes, all but one little trifle of detail. have you told john about my--my lunacy?" "no." "then don't; it's bad enough to be an idiot and know it myself." "i sha'n't--perhaps. is _that_ all?" "yes, i believe so." "then for mercy's sake do go and talk to john, and let me put on my shoes," said mrs. burton, impatiently. "i can't go to breakfast in my slippers." brockway vanished obediently, and presently found burton struggling into his outer garments in the smoking-room. "hello, fred; how are the invalids this morning? get you out bright and early?" "one of them did--that old fellow with the bad case of ticket-limits. i'm in trouble up to my neck, and you've got to help me out." "say the word and i'll do it if it costs me something," said burton, who was nothing if not helpful to his friends. "it's going to cost you something--a whole day, in fact. i promised to 'personally conduct' the crowd up to silver plume to-day, and the arrangements are all made. now this old fellow says he isn't going; says i've got to stay in denver with him and telegraph another thirty days to his ticket, or the heavens will fall. i'm going to do it, and i want you to take my place with the party." "same old maker of hard-and-fast promises, aren't you, fred," said the general agent, smiling. "i suppose i can do it, if you can square it with emily." "i've done that already; she's awfully good about it--says she'll go along and help you out. what's this place? overton? by jove! i'll have to be getting back to my car; we're only fifteen miles out. thank you much, old man--see you later"--and the passenger agent pushed through the group in the wash-room and dropped off to once more make the circuit of car naught-fifty. xv yard-limits it was while brockway was making his second circuit of the private car that mrs. burton looked up and encountered the calculating gaze of the president. "ah--good-morning, mrs. burton; you remember me, i see. on your way back to utah, are you?" "yes--" the "sir" was on the tip of her tongue, but she managed to suppress it. "we have been to chicago, to the passenger meeting." "so i inferred. do you enjoy chicago, mrs. burton?" she felt that five minutes of this would unhinge her reason, but she made shift to answer, intelligently: "yes, in a way; but i've never been about much. mr. burton is always so busy when we are there." "precisely; always busy; that is the whole history of civilized man in two words, isn't it? but where is your good husband?" "he is in the wash-room," she began; but at that moment burton appeared. "ha!" said the president; "good-morning, mr. burton. you didn't expect to find me here chatting with your wife, did you?" "well, no, not exactly--that is--" burton's one weakness lay in undue deference to his superior officers, and he stumbled helplessly. but his wife came promptly to the rescue. "it's such a distinction, mr. vennor, that we don't know how to properly acknowledge it," she retorted, laughing, "will you excuse me if i finish buttoning my shoe?" "certainly, certainly"--the president's tone was genially paternal; "i merely wanted to have a word with mr. burton;" and he rose and drew the general agent across to the opposite section. "sit down, sit down, burton; don't stand on ceremony with me," he said, patronizingly. "i came to ask a favor of you, and positively you embarrass me." burton sat down mechanically. "i learned a few minutes ago through young brockway that you were on the train," the president continued, lowering his voice, "and i understand that he wishes you to take charge of his party for the day on the trip up clear creek canyon. has he spoken to you about it?" "yes; he was here just now." burton answered as he had sat down--mechanically. "and you consented to do it, i presume?" "why, yes; he asked it as a personal favor, and i thought i might make a few new friends for our line. but if you don't approve----" "don't misunderstand me," interrupted the president, with well-feigned magnanimity; "as i said, i came to ask a favor. you met my daughter, gertrude, when we were out last summer, i believe?" "yes, at manitou." the general agent was far beyond soundings on the sea of mystery by this time. "well, you must know she took a great fancy to your wife, and when i heard of this arrangement, i determined to ask you to take her along with you for the day. may i count upon it?" "why, certainly; we shall be delighted," burton rejoined. "let me tell----" but the president stopped him. he had taken time to reflect that a little secrecy might be judicious at this point; and he was shrewd enough to distrust women in any affair bordering upon the romantic. so he said: "suppose we make it a little surprise for both of them. keep it to yourself, and when your train is ready to leave, i'll bring gertrude over to you. how will that do?" burton was in a fair way to lose his head at being asked to share a secret with his president, and he promised readily. "not a word. mrs. burton will be delighted. i'll be on the lookout for you." so it was arranged; and with a gracious word of leave-taking for the wife, mr. vennor went back to his car, rubbing his hands and smiling inscrutably. he found his daughter curled up in the great wicker chair in an otherwise unoccupied corner of the central compartment. "under the weather this morning, gertrude?" he asked, wisely setting aside the constraint which might naturally be supposed to be an unpleasant consequence of their latest interview. "yes, a little," she replied, absently. "i presume you haven't made any plans for the day," he went on; "i fancy you don't care to go visiting with the beaswicke girls." "no, indeed; i can do that at home." "how would you like to go up to silver plume with mr. brockway's party?" she knew well enough that her father's cold eyes had surprised the sudden flash of gladness in hers, but she was not minded to reopen the quarrel. "oh, that would be delightful," she said, annulling the significance of the words with the indifference of her tone; "quite as delightful as it is impossible." "but it isn't impossible," said the president, blandly; "on the contrary, i have taken the liberty of arranging it--subject to your approval, of course. i chanced upon two old friends of ours who are going with the party, and they will take care of you and bring you back this evening." "friends of ours?" she queried; "who are they?" "ah, i promised not to tell you beforehand. will you go?" "certainly, if you have arranged it," she rejoined, still speaking indifferently because she was unwilling to show him how glad she was. for she was frankly glad. the glamour of last night's revelation was over the recollection of those other days spent with brockway, and she was impatiently eager to put her impressions quickly to the test of repetition--to suffer loss, if need be, but by all means to make sure. and because of this eagerness, she quite overlooked the incongruity of such a proposal coming from her father--an oversight which mr. vennor had shrewdly anticipated and reckoned upon. it was . , and the train was clattering through the denver yards, measuring the final mile of the long westward run. gertrude rose to go and get ready. "you needn't hurry," said her father; "the narrow-gauge train doesn't leave for half an hour. i'll come for you when it is time to go." he watched her go down the compartment and enter her stateroom without stopping to speak to any of the others. then he held up his finger for the secretary. "harry, when the train stops, i want you should get off and see where brockway goes. you know him, and you might make an excuse to talk with him. when you have found out, come and tell me. do you understand?" "yes, sir," said quatremain; and when he had kicked his pride into a proper attitude of submission, he went about the errand. xvi the madding crowd twice a day, in the time whereof these things are written, the platform of the denver union depot gave the incoming migrant his first true glimpse of the untrammelled west. a broad sea of planking, open to the heavens--and likewise to the world at large--was the morning and evening arena of a moving spectacle the like of which is not to be witnessed in any well-ordered railway station of the self-contained east. trains headed north, east, south, and west, backed across the platform and drawn apart in the midst to leave a passageway for the crowds; other trains going and coming, with shouting yard-men for outriders to clear the tracks; huge shifting pyramids of baggage piled high on tilting trucks, dividing with the moving trains the attention of the dodging multitude; the hurrying throngs imbued for the moment with the strenuous travail-spirit of the new west; these were the persons and the properties. and the shrieking safety-valves, the clanging bells, the tinnient gong of the breakfast-room, the rumbling trucks, and the under-roar of matter in motion, were the pieces in the orchestra. it is all very different now, i am told. they have iron railings with wicket-gates and sentinels in uniform who ask to see your ticket, and a squad of policemen to keep order, and rain-sheds over the platforms (it used not to rain in the denver i knew), and all the other appurtenances and belongings of a well-conducted railway terminus. but the elder order of disorder obtained on the autumn morning when the "flying kestrel" came to rest opposite the gap in the bisected trains filling the other tracks. brockway was the first man out of the tadmor, but the gadfly was a close second. "no, sir; i don't intend to lose sight of you, mr. ah--brockway," he quavered; and he hung at the passenger agent's elbow while the latter was marshalling the party for the descent on the breakfast-room, a process which vocalized itself thus: _brockway_, handing the ladies in the debarking procession down the steps of the car: "breakfast is ready in the dining-room. special tables reserved for this party. wait, and we'll all go in together. leave your hand-baggage with the porter, unless it's something you will need during the day. take your time; you have thirty minutes before the train leaves for clear creek canyon and the loop." _chorus of the personally conducted:_ "how long did you say we'd have?" "what are they going to do with our car while we're gone?" "say, mr. passenger agent, are you sure the baggage will be safe if we leave it with the porter?" "what time have you now?" "how far is it over to those mountains?" "oh, mr. brockway; won't this be a good chance to see if my trunk was put on the train with the others?" "say; what time did you say that clear creek canyon train leaves?" _brockway_, answering the last question because the inquirer happens to be nearest at hand: "eight o'clock." _the querist_, with his watch (which he has omitted to set back to mountain time) in his hand: "eight o'clock? then it's gone--it's half-past eight now! look here." _brockway_, who is vainly endeavoring to persuade an elderly maiden lady to leave her canary in charge of the porter during the day: "that is central time you have, mr. tucker; mountain time is one hour slower. careful, mr. perkins; let me take your grip. you won't need it to-day." _the elderly maiden lady:_ "now, mr. brockway, are you _sure_ it'll be perfectly safe to leave dicky with the porter?" _mr. somers, sotto voce_ in brockway's ear: "hang dicky! let's go to breakfast." _the gadfly:_ "mr. ah--brockway, you will oblige me by sitting at my table. i don't ah--purpose to lose sight of you, sir." _brockway_, to the porter: "all out, john?" _the porter_, with the cavernous smile of his kind: "all out, sah." _brockway_, sandwiching himself between two of the unescorted ladies: "all aboard for the dining-room!" so much harry quatremain, standing aloof, saw and heard, and was minded to go back to president vennor and make his report accordingly. but the yard crew, already busily dismembering the "flying kestrel," whipped the tadmor and the private car out into the yard, and the secretary was left standing in the unquiet crowd. having nothing better to do, he sauntered across to the depot, not intending to spy further upon the passenger agent, but rather cudgelling his brain to devise some pretext upon which he could safely lie to the president and so appease his self-respect. the pretext did not suggest itself; and after looking into the dining-room, where he saw brockway and his thirty-odd in one corner, and the burtons, whom he knew by sight, in another, he strolled out to the end of the building where the yard-crew was switching the naught-fifty to its place on the short spur. the president was standing on the front platform; and quatremain, having no plausible falsehood ready, reported the simple fact. "very good," said his employer. "now go back and keep your eye on him; and, at precisely five minutes of eight, come and tell me where he is and what he is doing." quatremain turned on his heel and swore a clerkly oath, well smothered, to the effect that he would do nothing of the sort. it was not the first time the president had used him as a private detective, but, happily, use had not yet dulled his reluctance. none the less, he went back to the door of the dining-room and waited, and while he tarried curiosity came to keep wrath company. what was afoot that the president should be so anxious about the movements of the passenger agent? the secretary could not guess, but he determined to find out. three minutes before quatremain's time-limit expired, brockway, followed closely by a slope-shouldered old gentleman with close-set eyes, came out with burton. he nodded to the secretary and kept on talking to the general agent. quatremain could scarcely help overhearing. "you can introduce yourself," he was saying; "there isn't time for any formalities. you'll find them docile enough--they haven't any kick coming with you, you know--and i'll be here to take them off your hands when you get back. no, i'll not go over to the train, unless you want me to; i'm going to the telegraph office with mr. jordan here, and then up-town to see our general agent about his ticket. good-by, old man; and thank you again." quatremain looked at his watch. it was . , to the minute, and he walked leisurely around to the private car. "well?" said the president, and the steady gaze of the cold eye slew the falsehood which the secretary was about to utter. "he's in the telegraph office with one of his people," quatremain replied, angry enough to curse himself for being so weak as to tell the truth. "very good. go into my stateroom and get the mail ready. i'll come in and dictate to you presently." the secretary obeyed as one who may not do otherwise, and left the stateroom door ajar. a moment later, he heard a tap at the door of gertrude's room, and then the president and his daughter left the car together. quatremain slammed down the cover of his desk, snatched his hat, and followed them. he had paid the servile price, and he would at least gratify his curiosity. he caught sight of them in the crowd streaming out toward the colorado central train, and scored the first point when he observed that the president made a detour to avoid passing the open door of the telegraph office. then he kept them in view till he saw miss vennor give her hand to burton at the steps of one of the narrow-gauge cars. at that moment, mrs. burton, who was comfortably established in the midst of a carful of the tadmorians, chanced to look out of the window. she saw the president and his daughter come swiftly across the platform, saw her husband step out to meet them and shake hands with gertrude, remarked the quick flash of glad surprise on the young girl's face, and the nervous anxiety with which the president consulted his watch, and was immediately as well apprised of the inwardness of the little plot as if she had devised it herself. "oh! _oh!_" she said to herself, with indignant emphasis; "that venerable old tyrant is turning her over to us to get her out of fred's way! _and he hasn't told her that fred isn't going!_" now, to the emily burton type of woman-kind, the marring of a plot is only less precious than the making of one. the little lady had never been known to think deeply, but a grain of swift wit is sometimes worth an infinity of tardy logic. whatever intervened, the conclusion was clear and definite; brockway's chance must be rescued at all hazards--and there were only two minutes in which to do it. she scanned the throng on the platform eagerly, hoping to catch sight of him, but the faces were all strange save one. that was the face of the president's private secretary; and, without a moment's hesitation, she beckoned him. quatremain saw the signal, and made his way to her window, taking care to keep as many human screens as possible between himself and the group at the car steps. "mrs. burton, i believe," he said, lifting his hat. "yes"--hurriedly. "do you know mr. brockway?" quatremain bowed. "do you know where he is now?" "yes; he's over in the telegraph office." "will you take him a message from me, quickly?" "certainly, with pleasure." "then tell him i say he is going to be lost if he doesn't catch this train; he'll understand. and _please_ hurry--there isn't a second to spare!" quatremain nodded, and vanished in the crowd. he understood nothing of what was toward, but he suspected that what he was about to do would somehow interfere with the president's plans, and that was sufficient to make him run when he was well out of sight. he found brockway in the telegraph office, writing a message, with the slope-shouldered gentleman at his elbow, and delivered mrs. burton's message _verbatim_ and shorn of any introduction whatsoever. the effect on the passenger agent was surprising, if not explanatory. "says i'm going to be--not if i know it! i say, tom"--flinging the pad of blanks at the operator, to call his attention--"wire anything--everything--this gentleman wants you to; i'm off!" "but, mr. ah--brockway, i--i protest!" buzzed the gadfly, clutching at the passenger agent; but he was not quick enough, and when the protest was formulated, there was no one but the operator to listen to it. the engine-bell was ringing and the train had begun to move when brockway dashed out of the office, and the appreciative bystanders made way for him and cheered him as he sped away across the platform. it was neck-and-neck, and nothing to choose; but he was making it easily, when he collided squarely in mid career with the tall figure of the president. for a single passionate instant mr. francis vennor forgot his traditions, and struck out savagely at the passenger agent. the blow caught brockway full in the chest and made him gasp and stagger; but he gathered himself quickly, swerved aside, and ran on, catching the rear hand-rail of the last car as the train swept out of the station. xvii on the narrow-gauge for a certain breath-cutting minute after he had made good his grasp on the hand-rails of the rear car, brockway was too angry to congratulate himself. a blow, even though it be given by a senior, and that senior the father of the young woman with whom one chances to be in love, is not to be borne patiently save by a philosopher or a craven, and brockway was far enough from being either the one or the other. but, fortunately for his own peace of mind, the young man reckoned a quick temper among his compensations. by the time he had recovered his breath, some subtle essence of the clean, crisp morning air had gotten into his veins, and the insult dwindled in the perspective until it became less incendiary. nay, more; before the engineer whistled for argo, brockway was beginning to find excuses for the exasperated father. he assumed that gertrude was on the train with the burtons--mrs. burton's message could mean no less--and mr. francis vennor had doubtless been at some pains to arrange the little plan of separation. and to find it falling to pieces at the last moment was certainly very exasperating. brockway admitted it cheerfully, and when he had laughed aloud at the president's discomfiture until the sore spot under his right collar-bone ached again, he thought he was fit to venture among the tadmorians. accordingly, he made his way forward through the two observation-cars to the coach set apart for the thirty-odd. his appearance was the signal for a salvo of exclamatory inquiry from the members of the party, but brockway had his eyes on the occupants of a double seat in the middle of the coach, and he assured himself that explanations to the thirty-odd might well wait. a moment later he was shaking hands with mrs. burton and miss vennor. "dear me!" said the proxy chaperon, with shameless disingenuousness; "i was really beginning to be afraid you were left. where have you been all the time?" "out on the rear platform, taking in the scenery," brockway replied, calmly, sitting down beside gertrude. "didn't you see me when i got on?" mrs. burton had seen the little incident on the station platform out of the tail of her eye as the train was getting under way, so she was barely within truthful limits when she said "no." but she looked very hard at brockway and succeeded in making him understand that gertrude was not to know anything about the plot or its marring. the young man telegraphed acquiescence, though his leaning was rather toward straight forwardness. "did you rest well after your spin on the engine last night?" he asked of gertrude. "quite well, thank you. have you ever ridden on an engine, mrs. burton?" "many times," replied the marplot; and then she made small-talk desperately, while she tried to think of some way of warning her husband not to be surprised at the sudden change in brockway's itinerary for the day. nothing better suggesting, she struck hands with temerity when burton appeared at the forward door with the conductor, and ordered brockway to take gertrude back to the observation-car. "it's a shame that miss vennor should be missing the scenery," she said. "go along with her and make yourself useful. we will take care of your ancients." the small plotter breathed freer when they were gone. she knew she had a little duel to fight with her conservative husband, and she preferred to fight it without seconds. her premonition became a reality as soon as he reached her. "how is this?" he began; "did you know fred had changed his plans?" she shook her head. "he didn't take me into his confidence." "well, what did he say for himself?" "about changing his mind? nothing." "he didn't? that's pretty cool! what does he mean by running us off up here on a wild-goose chase?" "how should i know, when he didn't tell me?" "well, i'll just go and find out," burton declared, with growing displeasure. but his wife detained him. "sit down and think about it for a few minutes, first," she said, coolly. "you are angry now, and you mustn't forget that he's with miss vennor." "by jove! that is the very thing i'm not forgetting. i believe you were more than half-right in your guess, yesterday; but we mustn't let them make fools of themselves--anyway, not while we are responsible." "i don't quite _savez_ the responsibility," retorted the little lady, flippantly. "but what do you imagine?" "i don't imagine--i know. he found out, somehow, that she was going with us, and just dropped things and ran for it." "do you think he did that?" "of course he did. and if we're not careful the odium of the whole thing will fall on us." "well, what are you going to do about it?" "i don't know. i suppose we ought to go back from golden and take miss vennor along with us." "wouldn't that be assuming a great deal? you would hardly want to tell the president that you had brought his daughter back because you were afraid she might do something rash." "oh, pshaw!" said burton, who was rather out of his element in trying to pick his way among the social ploughshares. "but that is what you will have to tell him, if we go back," she insisted, with delicious effrontery. burton thought about it for a moment, and ended by accepting the fact merely because it was thrust upon him. "i couldn't very well do that, you know," he objected, and she nearly laughed in his face because he had fallen so readily into her small trap; "but if we don't break it off, what shall we do?" "do? why, nothing at all! mr. vennor asks us to take his daughter with us on a little pleasure-trip, and he doesn't tell us to bring her back instanter if we happen to find fred on the train." burton was silenced, but he was very far from being convinced, and he gave up the return project reluctantly, promising himself that he should have a very uncomfortable day of it. in the meantime, the two young people in the observation-car were making hard work of it. a good many undiscussable happenings had intervened between their parting and their meeting, and these interfered sadly with the march of a casual conversation. as usually befalls, it was the young woman who first rose superior to the embarrassments. "i'm glad of this day," she said, frankly, when they had exhausted the scenery, the matchless morning, the crisp air, and half a dozen other commonplaces. "i enjoyed our trip down from silver plume a year ago so much, and it seemed the height of improbability to imagine that we'd ever repeat it. did you think we ever should?" "no, indeed," replied brockway, truthfully; "but i have wished many times that we might. once in awhile, when i was a boy, i used to get a day that was all my own--a day in which i could go where i pleased and do as i liked. those days are all marked with white stones now, and i often envy the boy who had them." "i think i can understand that." "can you? i didn't know little girls ever had such days." "i've had a few, but i think they were never given me. they were usually stolen, and so were doubly precious." brockway laughed. "suppose we call this a stolen day, and try to make it as much like the others as we can. shall we?" "it's a bargain," she said, impulsively. "from this minute, i am any irresponsible age you please; and you--you are to do nothing whatever that you meant to do. will you agree to that?" "gladly," brockway assented, the more readily since his plans for the day had been so recently demolished and rebuilt. "we'll go where we please, and do as we like; and for this one day nobody shall say 'don't!'" she laughed with him, and then became suddenly grave. "it's no use; we can't do it," she said, with mock pathos; "the 'ancients and invalids' won't let us." "yes, they will," brockway asserted, cheerfully; "burton will take care of them--that's what he's here for. moreover, i shall take it upon myself to abolish the perversities, animate or inanimate." "please do. and if mrs. burton scold me----" "she'd better not," said brockway, with much severity. "if she does, i'll tell tales out of school and give her something else to think about." "could you?" "you would better believe it; she is trembling in her shoes this blessed minute for fear i may. but you would have to stand by me." "i? well, i've promised, you know. what place is this?" the train had entered the great gateway in table mountain, and was clattering past the golden smelting works. "it is golden--you remember, don't you?" and then brockway bethought him of something. "will you excuse me a minute, while i get off and speak to the agent?" "certainly," said gertrude; and when the train skirted the high platform, brockway sprang off and ran quickly to the telegraph office. the operator was just coming out with a freshly written message in his hand. "hello, fred," he said; "didn't know you were on. do you happen to know a miss gertrude vennor? she's with john burton's party." "yes," said brockway, tingling to get hold of the message before burton should come along. "all right; give her this, will you? i can't leave that blessed wire a minute." brockway thrust the telegram into his pocket, dodged around the throng of station loungers, and won back to the rear platform of the observation-car without seeing or being seen of the general agent. then he drew the crumpled paper from his pocket and read it shamelessly. "to miss gertrude vennor, "care john burton, "on colorado central train . "come back from golden on first train. have changed our plans, and shall leave denver at . p.m. "francis vennor." xviii flagged down brockway read the president's telegram twice, folded it very small, and tucked it into his waistcoat pocket. "that's just about what i expected he'd do, and it's a straight bluff," he muttered. "all the same, she's not going back. and i've got to block it without getting burton into trouble." there was no time for anything but the simplest expedient. he jumped off again and ran back to the telegraph office. "say, jim, that message to miss vennor is bulled. ask denver to repeat it to beaver brook, will you?" he said, interrupting the operator as he was repeating the train order. the man of dots and dashes finished the order. "can't do it, fred; get me into hot water up to my neck. think of something else." "will you help me if i do?" "sure; any way that won't cost me my job." the conductor and engineer had signed the order, but brockway begged for a respite. "just a minute, halsey, while i write a message," he said, snatching a pad of blanks and writing hastily, while the conductor waited. "to francis vennor, "private car , denver. "can't you reconsider and leave denver to-morrow morning, as previously arranged? am quite sure miss vennor prefers to go on. answer at beaver brook. "frederick brockway." he tossed the pad to the operator. "there you are, jim; don't break your neck to make a 'rush' of it; and when you hear the answer coming do what you can to make it limp a little--anything to change the sense a bit." "i'll do it," quoth the operator; and then the conductor gave the signal, and brockway boarded the train and rejoined gertrude. "did you think i had deserted you?" he asked. "oh, no; and mr. burton's been in to keep me company. he came to ask if i didn't want to go back to denver." "did he?" said brockway, wondering if burton had also had a message. "and you told him no?" "of course i did. haven't we made a compact?" "yes, but----" "but what?" "you said you were going to be irresponsible, you know, and i didn't know just where it might crop out." "not in that direction, you may be sure. you said we were to do as we pleased, and i don't please to go back to denver. but mr. burton seemed to be quite anxious about it, for some reason. i wonder why?" "so do i," rejoined brockway, innocently. gertrude stole a glance at him, and he tried to look inscrutable, and failed. then they both laughed. "you are keeping something back; tell me all about it," gertrude commanded. "i am afraid you will be very angry if i do." "i shall be quite furious if you don't. my! how close that rock was!" the train was storming up the canyon, dodging back and forth from wall to wall, roaring over diminutive bridges, and vying with the foaming torrent at the track-side in its twistings and turnings. the noise was deafening, but it was bearable, since it served to isolate them. "does the compact mean that we are to have no secrets from each other?" he asked, not daring to anticipate the answer; but gertrude parried the direct question. "what do two people who are trying to be very young and foolish and irresponsible know about secrets?" she demanded. "you are beating about the bush, and i won't have it. tell me!" for reply, he took the telegram from his pocket, opened it, smoothed it carefully on his knee, and handed it to her. she read it at a glance, and a faint flush came and went in her cheek, but whether of vexation or not he could not determine. "you are very daring," she said, passing the square of paper back to him, and her voice was so low that he barely caught the words. "you told me i wasn't to do anything that i meant to do: i certainly did not premeditate intercepting your telegrams--or answering them," he added. "then you have answered it? how?" he turned the paper over and wrote his reply on the back, word for word. "you dared to say that to my father!" she exclaimed. "how could you?" "under some circumstances, i think i could dare anything. but you are angry, as i said you'd be." "of course i am--very. i demand to be taken back to denver this minute." "do you mean that?" "didn't i say it?" brockway tried in vain to read a contradiction in her face, but the steady eyes were veiled, and it is the eyes that speak when the lips are silent. "i'm sorry," he began; "it meant a great deal to me, but i know it was inexcusable. i'll go and tell burton, and you can go back from the forks, where the trains meet." now gertrude had builded upon the supposition that she was safe beyond the reach of recall, and she made haste to retract. "yes, do!" she said, tragically; "make me go down on my knees and beg you not to--i'll do it, if you insist. how was i to know that you were only trying to humiliate me?" the swift little recantation gave brockway a glimpse into her personality which was exceedingly precious while it lasted. a man may fall in love with a sweet face on slight provocation and without preliminaries, but he knows little of the height and depth of passion until association has taught him. but love of the instantaneous variety has this to commend it, that its demands are modest and based upon things visible. wherefore, certain small excellences of character in the subject, brought to light by a better acquaintance, come in the nature of so many ecstatic little surprises. that is the man's point of view. the woman takes the excellences for granted, and if they are lacking, one of two things may happen: a great smashing of ideals, or an attack of heavenly blindness. gertrude was of the tribe of those who go blind; and deep down in her heart she rejoiced in brockway's audacity. hence it was only for form's sake that she said, "how was i to know that you were only trying to humiliate me?" "i humiliate you!" he repeated, quite aghast at the bare suggestion. "not knowingly, you may be very sure. but about the telegram; you are not angry with me because i was desperate enough to answer it without having first shown it to you?" "i said i was, and so i must be. but i don't see how you could have done otherwise--not after you had promised not to let anything interfere. do you think mr. burton had a telegram, too?" "i was just wondering," brockway rejoined, reflectively. "i think we are safe in assuming that he hadn't." "i don't care; i'm not going back," said gertrude, with fine determination. "papa gave me this day, early in the morning, and i'm going to keep it. what do you think of an irresponsible young person who says such an unfilial thing as that?" "you wouldn't believe me if i told you what i think." "try me and see." "that is one of the things i don't dare--not yet." "you'd better not abate any of your daring; you'll need it all when we get back," laughed gertrude, speaking far better than she knew. "to take the consequences of my impudence?" "yes. you don't know my father; he is steel and ice when he is angry." remembering the object-lesson on the station platform in denver, brockway ventured to dissent from this, though he was politic enough not to do so openly. "you think he will be very angry, then?" "indeed i don't--i know it." "i'm sorry; but i'm afraid he will be angrier yet, before long." "why?" "you read my message: i asked him to answer at beaver brook. he'll be pretty sure to send you a peremptory order to turn back from forks creek, won't he?" "why, of course he will; and i'll have to go back, after all--i sha'n't dare disobey. oh, why didn't you make it impossible, while you were doing it?" "i had to do what i could; and you, and burton, and the operator, had to be saved blameless. but i'll venture a prediction. as well as you know your father, you may prepare yourself to be surprised at what he will say. i am no mind-reader, but i'm going to prophesy that he doesn't recall you." "but why? i don't understand----" "we are due at beaver brook in five minutes; wait, and you will see." so they waited while the pygmy locomotive snorted and labored, and the yellow torrent roared and fled backward, and the gray cliffs on either hand flung back the clamorous echoes, and the cool damp air of the canyon, flushed now and then with a jet of spray, blew in at the car windows. for the first time since her father had suggested the trip with the burtons, gertrude began to understand that it could scarcely have been his intention to give her an uninterrupted day in the company of the passenger agent. but in that case, why had he proposed the trip, knowing that brockway's party would be on the train? the answer to this query did not tarry. she had caught the surprised exclamations of the tadmorians when brockway made his appearance, and they pointed to the supposition that his presence on the train was unexpected. and he had been evidently embarrassed; and mrs. burton was curiously distrait and unmistakably anxious to get them out of the way before her husband should return. these things were but straws, but they all pointed to one conclusion. her father knew, or thought he knew, that the passenger agent was to stay behind in denver, and he had deliberately sent her away for the day to preclude the possibility of another meeting. and when he had discovered that the little plan had miscarried, he had quite as deliberately ordered her return. speaking broadly, the president's daughter was not undutiful; but she was sufficiently like her father to be quickly resentful of coercive measures. wherefore, when she had cleared up the small mystery to her own satisfaction, she hardened her heart and promised herself that nothing short of a repetition of the peremptory order should make her return on the forenoon train. and the shriek of the engine, whistling for beaver brook, punctuated the resolve. xix the foolish wires when president vennor returned to his stateroom in the private car after the choleric little incident on the platform, he found his secretary waiting with open note-book and a sheaf of well-sharpened pencils. quatremain's hands were a trifle unsteady when he began to write at the president's dictation, but his employer did not observe it. as a matter of fact, mr. francis vennor was deep in the undercurrent of his private thoughts--thoughts which were quite separate and apart from the unbroken flow of words trickling out through quatremain's pencil-point upon the pages of the note-book. mere business was very much a matter of habit with the president, and the dictating of a few letters to be signed "francis vennor, president," did not interfere with a coincident search for some means of retrieving the morning's disaster. it was a disaster, and no less. he began by calling it a mistake, but mistakes which involve the possible loss of fortunes, small or great, are not to be lightly spoken of. by the time he reached the end of the fifth letter, he had run the gamut of expedients and concluded to try the effect of a little wholesome parental authority. "go out and get me a colorado central time-card," he said to quatremain; and when the secretary returned with a copy of the official time-table, mr. vennor traced out the schedule of the morning trains, east and west. number fifty-one was not yet due at golden, and a telegram to that station would doubtless reach gertrude. "take a message to miss gertrude, harry," he began; but while he was trying to formulate it in words which should be peremptory without being incendiary, he thought better of it and went out to send it himself. there was a querulous old gentleman in the telegraph office who was making life burdensome for the operator, and it was with no little difficulty that the president secured enough of the young man's time and attention to serve his purpose. "you are quite sure you can reach golden before the train gets there, are you?" he said, writing the number of his telegraph frank in the corner of the blank. "oh, yes," replied the operator, with an upward glance at the clock; "there's plenty of time. i'll send it right away." "but i ah--protest!" declared the querulous gentleman, and he failed not to do so most emphatically after the president left the office. the operator turned a deaf ear, and sent the message to miss vennor; and when, in due course of time, brockway's answer came, he sent it out to the private car. the president was still dictating and was in the midst of a letter when the yellow envelope was handed him, but he stopped short and opened the telegram. the reading of brockway's insolent question imposed a severe test upon mr. vennor's powers of self-control, and the outcome was not wholly a victory on the side of stoicism. "curse his impudence!" he broke out, wrathfully; "i'll make this cost him something before he's through with it!" and he sprang to his feet and hurried out with the inflammatory message in his hand. it is a trite saying that anger is an evil counsellor, and whoso hearkens thereto will have many things to repent of. no one knew the value of this aphorism better than francis vennor, but for once in a way he allowed himself to disregard it. he knew well enough that a delicately worded hint to burton would bring the general agent and his wife and gertrude back to denver on the next train, but wrath would not be satisfied with such a placable expedient. on the contrary, he resolved to communicate directly with gertrude herself, and to rebuke her openly, as her undutiful conduct deserved. in the telegraph office the operator was still having trouble with the querulous gentleman, but the president went to the desk to write his message, shutting his ears to the shrill voice of the gadfly. "but, sir, i must ah--protest. i distinctly heard mr. ah--brockway tell you to send anything i desired, and i demand that you send this; it was part of the ah--stipulation, sir!" "this" was a message of five hundred-odd words to the local railway agent in the small town where mr. jordan had purchased his ticket, setting forth his grievance at length; and the operator naturally demurred. while he was trying to persuade the pertinacious gentleman to cut the jeremiad down to a reasonable length, the president finished his telegram to his daughter. it was curt and incisive. "to miss gertrude vennor, "on train . "if you do not return this forenoon we shall not wait for you. "francis vennor." the operator took it, and the president glanced at his watch. "can you catch that train at beaver brook?" he inquired. "yes, just about." "do it, then, at once. excuse me--" to the gadfly--"this is very important, and you have all day for your business." the brusque interruption started the fountain of protests afresh, but the operator turned away and sat down to his instrument. beaver brook answered its call promptly, and the message to miss vennor clicked swiftly through the sounder. for a quarter of an hour or more, brockway's friend in the golden office had been neglecting his work and listening intently to the irrelevant chattering of his sounder. he heard denver call beaver brook, and when the station in the canyon answered, he promptly grounded the wire and caught up his pen. the effect of this manoeuvre was to short-circuit that particular wire at golden, cutting off all stations beyond; but this the denver operator could not know. as a result, the president's telegram got no farther than golden, and brockway's friend took it down as it was sent. at the final word he opened the wire again in time to hear beaver brook swear at the prolonged "break," and ask denver what was wanted. thereupon followed a smart quarrel in telegraphic shorthand, in which denver accused beaver brook of going to sleep over his instrument, and beaver brook intimated that denver was intoxicated. all of which gave the obstructionist at golden a clear minute in which to determine what to do. "if i only knew what fred wants to have happen," he mused, "i might be able to fix it up right for him. as i don't, i'll just have to make hash of it--no, i won't, either; i'll just trim it down a bit and make it talk backward--that's the idea! and three words dropped will do it, by jing! wonder if i can get the switchboard down fine enough to cut them out? here she comes again." the quarrel was concluded and denver began to repeat the message. brockway's friend bent over his table with his soul in his ears and his finger-tips. denver was impatient, and the preliminaries chattered through the sounder as one long word. at the final letter in the address, the golden man's switch-key flicked to the right and then back again; and at the tenth word in the message the movement was repeated. "o. k.," said beaver brook. "repeat," clicked denver. "no time; train's here," came back from the station in the canyon; and brockway's friend sat back and chuckled softly. xx chiefly scenic when the train drew up to the platform at beaver brook, brockway asked gertrude if he should go and see if there were a message for her. "no," she said, perversely; "let it find me, if it can." it came, a minute later, by the hand of conductor halsey. she read it with a little frown of perplexity gathering between the straight brows. "do we live or die?" brockway asked, crucially anxious to know what his friend had been able to do for him. "why, i don't understand it at all; it's simply greek, after the other one. papa says: 'do not return on forenoon train. we shall wait for you.'" "good; i am a true prophet, and our white day is assured." "y--yes, but i don't begin to understand how he came to change his mind so quickly." "perhaps it was the moral force of my impudence," ventured brockway. "don't make any such mistake as that," she said, quickly. "papa will not forgive or forget that, and i am sorry you did it." "you are a bundle of inconsistencies, as you promised to be," brockway retorted. "but i'm not sorry, and i don't pretend to be. if i had smothered my little inspiration and given you your telegram at golden, you wouldn't be enjoying this magnificent scenery now." "no; and it is grand beyond words, isn't it? if it wasn't for the name of it, i could rave over it like a veritable 'cooky.' can't we go out on the platform?" "yes; but you'll get your eyes full of cinders." "i don't care. let's go, anyway." they did it and, for a wonder, found the rear platform of the second observation-car unoccupied. gertrude wanted to sit on the step, but brockway objected, on the score of danger from the jutting rocks; so they stood together, bracing themselves and clinging to the hand-rails. "show me the 'old man of the mountain' when we come to it," she said; "of course, there _is_ an 'old man of the mountain'?" "there is, indeed, but we passed him long ago--at least, the one that is always pointed out to the 'cookies' as you call them. but if you will watch the outlines of the cliffs you can find one of your own in any half-mile of the canyon." "i don't want one if they are as cheap as that. i suppose you have made them at a pinch, haven't you? when you had forgotten to point out the real one?" "i'm afraid i have; just as i have been obliged to invent statistics. but that is the fault of the man with a note-book; he will have them, you know." "why don't you tell him the truth?" "because he is too numerous in my calling; and again, because i don't often know enough of the truth to satisfy him." "but it is wrong to invent things," she protested, dropping her irresponsible rôle to fight for the love of truth which was her puritan birthright. "i agree with you; but ciceronic lying is almost a disease. it's a paragrapher's proverb that railwaymen can't tell the truth, though i think a good many of us try to confine ourselves to the scenic lie. that seems to be almost necessary." gertrude did not reply. the bounding, swaying rear platform of a moving train which is reeling off miles and mountain heights of a stupendous natural panorama is not exactly the place for a dispassionate discussion of ethical principles. it hurt her to believe that her companion did not love truth in the abstract, and she meant to have it out with him later; but for the moment she put duty aside and opened the door to enthusiasm. "just think!" she exclaimed; "yesterday the horizon was so far away that it was actually invisible; and now you can almost reach out and touch it. please don't let me miss anything that i ought to see." "did anyone show you 'the mule' when you were up here last year?" "no." "it is just around the second curve ahead. look well up the mountain-side for a big bowlder facing the canyon; it's a picture, not a figure." she followed his directions, grasping the hand-rails and leaning far out to get a wider view. brockway wanted to put his arm around her and hold her, but not daring to, stood by to catch her if she should lose her balance. presently the great bowlder circled into view, and she got a very satisfactory sight of the pictured mule on its face before a sudden swerve of the train swept it out of range. "how wonderful!" she exclaimed. "how did anyone ever get up there to paint it?" "it is only a 'water-painting,' as the people up here call it; a natural discoloration on the face of the rock," he answered. "isn't it life-like, though?" "indeed, it is; it is almost incredible." then, suddenly: "that isn't a scenic fib, is it?" "no. if you'll agree not to flog me with my own whip, i'll promise to tell you the truth and nothing but the truth, all day." "isn't that a very large promise?" brockway had a fleeting glimpse into the book of prophecy and saw that it might easily become so. none the less, he would not go back. "large or small, i'll keep it to the letter. but now i want to show you something else. stand right here beside me and watch the outlines of those cliffs on the right; just the outline against the sky, i mean. follow it steadily and tell me what you see when i give the word." the train darted around a sharp curve and sped away up one of the few tangents in its tortuous path. "now!" said brockway, as the timbers of a culvert roared under the trucks of the observation-car. "it's the sphynx!" she said, with a little tremor of awe in her voice; "solemn, and majestic, and grander than anything i ever imagined! and i never even heard of it before. do people know about it?" "not many; and those who do are hardened by familiarity. i have seen it a great many times, but it always gets near to me, just as it did to you." "i shall never forget it. please don't show me any more wonders just now. i shall rave like the most foolish 'cooky' of them all if you do." "i can't," said brockway; "i don't know any more." a shrill whistle from the engine cut the sentence short, and gertrude asked if they were coming to a station. "yes, it's forks creek, famous for its pies. everybody eats pie at the forks. will you climb down from the heights of the sublime and go and eat pie with me?" "anything you say," she rejoined, laughing; and a few minutes later, john burton the canny was scandalized to see the president's daughter walking up and down the narrow platform with the passenger agent, eating her half of an apple turnover which brockway had bought and shared with her. xxi on the heights john burton was scandalized, and he said as much to his wife when the train was once more on its way up the canyon. "emily, there's going to be a fracas when we get back to-night. it's my opinion that the president sent his daughter with us to get her out of fred's reach." "then it serves him right," said mrs. burton, complacently. "she is not a child; she's old enough to know her own mind." "that may be, but it doesn't let us out. i wish you'd go back and sit with them awhile." "and get myself disliked? no, thank you. i may not shine as a star in the chaperonic firmament, but i'm a human being. think of it; put yourself in fred's place, if you haven't hopelessly outlived the possibility, and see how you'd like to be duennaed at such a time." "it isn't a question of likes and--" but at that moment the truants appeared to speak for themselves. "it's chilly out there in the open car, and we came in to talk and get warm," said gertrude. "did you get any pie, mrs. burton?" "no; mr. burton wasn't as thoughtful as fr--as mr. brockway." "mr. brockway was twice thoughtful," laughed gertrude, as the passenger agent drew a pie from under his coat and proceeded to cut it into quarters with his pocket-knife. burton said, "oh, pshaw!" with deprecatory emphasis, but he accepted his allotment and ate it with the others. afterward, when the talk took flight into the region of badinage, he went away and devoted himself dutifully to the tadmorians. when he was gone, the trio made merry with true holiday zest. for gertrude, the little plunge into the stream of unconventionality was refreshing and keenly exhilarating, and she bore her part joyously, forgetting the day of reckoning, and seeking only to make the most of the few hours of outlawry. brockway, too, drank of the cup of levity, but in his inmost parts he stood amazed with sheer joy in the presence of the real gertrude--of the woman he loved divested of the mask of conventionality. he had loved her well for what he thought she was, and had been content to set her upon a pedestal to be worshipped from afar as the apotheosis of adorable womanhood. but the light of this later revelation individualized her; ideals and abstractions vanished before her living, breathing personality, and brockway was made to know that she could never again be to him the mere archetype of lovable woman-kind. she was infinitely more. she was the one woman in all the world whose life might be the complement of his; the other half of the broken talisman; the major and truer portion of a mystic circle of which his being was the other segment. all of which was doubtless very romantic and unmodern in a sensible young man of brockway's practical and workaday upbringing; but there are more curious seeds lying dormant in the soil of human nature than the analyst has ever yet classified; and ideality and romanticism are but skin-masked in many a man whose outward presentment is merely the _abc_ of modern realism. so brockway beheld and rhapsodized in secret, and laughed and chatted openly, and sank deeper and deeper in the pit of perplexity as the train burrowed its way into the heart of the mountains. for, keeping even pace with the gallop of love, pride rode militant. life without gertrude would be but a barren waste, said one; and, better a desert and solitude therein than an eden envenomed by the serpent of inequality, retorted the other. which proves that class distinctions are buttressed from below no less securely than they are suspended from above; and that feudalism in the subject has become extinct in one form only to flourish quite vigorously in another. but these were under-thoughts. in his proper person, the passenger agent was doing his best to keep his promise to gertrude; to make the day a little oasis of care-free enjoyment in the humdrum desert of commonplace. at georgetown, burton proposed the transfer of the entire party to one of the observation-cars for the better viewing of the loop, and the thing was done forthwith. but at the last moment gertrude decided to remain in the coach, and brockway stayed with her, as a matter of course. "i've seen it twice, and i don't care to hang over the edge of it," she said. "besides, it's very comfortable in here; don't you think so?" "i'm not finding any fault," brockway rejoined. "i wish we might have the coach to ourselves for the rest of the day." "do you? i thought you had been enjoying yourself all along." "so i have, in a way; but i hate and abhor a crowd--i've had to be the nucleus of too many of them, i suppose." "what do you call a crowd?" she inquired, laughing at the outburst of vindictiveness. "three people--sometimes. half the pleasure of this forenoon has been slain by the knowledge that we'll have to fight for our dinners with the mob at that wretched little _table d'hôte_ at graymont." "can't we escape it?" "not without going hungry." "i think mr. and mrs. burton are going to escape it." "what makes you think that?" "this," said gertrude, pointing to a well-filled lunch-basket under the seat. "praised be allah!" brockway exclaimed, fervently. "you can trust burton to look out for the small personal comforts. and he never so much as hinted at this when i was grumbling about the dinner awhile ago. i've a mind to punish him." "how?" "by confiscating the basket. we could run away by ourselves and have a quiet little picnic dinner while they wrestle with the mob." but gertrude demurred. "that would be too callously villanous," she objected. "can't we divide with them?" "and go away by ourselves with the spoils?" "yes, if you like." "i do like. i know a place, and the way to get there. are you good for a climb?" brockway possessed himself of the basket, spread a newspaper on the opposite seat, and began to make a very fair and equitable division of the eatables. "i'm good for anything," she said; then she pulled off her gloves and helped him divide the luncheon. when the train stopped at graymont, burton went forward to get the luncheon. the coach was empty when he reached it, and the looted basket bore witness to the designs of the two young people. the general agent wagged his head dubiously, and when he had seen the last of the tadmorians securely wedged into his place at the crowded table in the hotel dining-room, he failed not to lay the burden of gloomy prophecy once more upon the shoulders of the small person who, as he more than half suspected, was responsible for brockway's presence. by that time the subjects of the prophecy were well out of sight and hearing in the narrow ravine in which the great canyon has its beginnings. they walked the ties to the end of the track, and beyond that point picked their way over the rough ground until they came to a trail leading up the northern acclivity. here brockway took gertrude's arm and together they began the ascent. "don't forget what i told you", he cautioned; "you are not to look back until i give the word." "should i turn into a pillar of salt if i did?" she asked. "possibly." "then i'll not do it; it would be rather awkward for both of us." a hundred feet or more above the level of the railway track they came to a small plateau, and in the midst of it, brockway stopped suddenly and spun her around with her face to the southward. no uninspired pen may set down in unmalleable phrase a description of what she saw; nor can any tide-gauge of language, spoken or written, measure the great wave of emotion which swept over her, choking the flood-gates of expression. from the moment the ascending train enters the canyon at golden until it pauses opposite the hotel at graymont, the scenery is rugged and inspiring, but it belittles itself by its very nearness. but from the plateau where they were standing, the vista expands as if by magic. the mighty mountain at whose foot the train pauses becomes but a foothill, and just beyond it, in indescribable grandeur and majesty, rises the huge, snow-clad bulk of gray's peak, stupendous, awe-inspiring, dazzling the eye with its unspotted mantle of shimmering white, and slaying the sense of proportion with its immeasurable vastness. gertrude caught her breath, and brockway stood uncovered beside her, silent and watchful. when her eyes began to fill with tears, he broke the spell. "forgive me," he said, quickly; "it was almost cruel not to prepare you, but i wanted to see if it would appeal to you as it does to me." "it is unspeakable," she said, softly. "shall we stop here?" "no." he took her arm again and together they climbed higher on the mountain-side; silently, as befitted time and place, but each with a heartful of thoughts too large for speech. xxii on the spur-track at the precise moment when gertrude and brockway, pausing in their breath-cutting scramble up the bowlder-strewn mountain-side, were casting about for a suitable place in which to eat their luncheon, president vennor and his guests were rising from the table after a rather early midday meal in car naught-fifty. when the ladies had gone to their staterooms, the president sent quatremain upon a wholly unnecessary errand to the post-office, and drew up a chair to smoke a cigar with fleetwell. it was not for nothing that he banished the secretary. the forenoon train from clear creek canyon had arrived without bringing gertrude; and the wires, which he had waited upon with increasing disquietude, still remained churlishly silent. a crisis in gertrude's affair seemed imminent, and, as a last resort, mr. vennor had resolved to admonish fleetwell, to the end that the collegian's wooing might be judiciously accelerated. "i am afraid you have been lukewarm with gertrude once too often, chester, my boy," he began, with studied bluntness. "you ought by all means to have gone up in the mountains with her to-day." fleetwell tried to look properly aggrieved, and succeeded fairly well. "that's rather hard on me, isn't it? when i didn't so much as know she was going?" "that is precisely the point i wished to arrive at," the president asserted, blandly. "you should have known. you can scarcely expect her to thrust her confidence upon you." in his way, fleetwell could be quite as plain-spoken as his hard-eyed cousin, and he answered the president's implication without pretending to misunderstand it. "you mean that i've been shirking; that i haven't been properly reading my lines in the little comedy planned by my grandfather; is that it?" "well, not exactly shirking, perhaps, but the most observant person would never suspect that you and gertrude were anything more than civilly tolerant cousins. i know her better than you do, my boy, and i can assure you that she's not to be so lightly won. ours is a fairly practical family. i think i may say, but there is a streak of romance in it which comes to the surface now and then in the women, and gertrude has her full share of it. moreover, she doesn't care a pin for the provisions of the will." "confound the will!" said the collegian. "i don't see why the old gentleman had to fall back on a medieval dodge that always defeats itself." "nor i; the matter would have been very much simplified if he had not. but, unfortunately, we have to do with the fact." "it strikes me that we've had to do with it all along. i used to think gertrude was rather fond of me, but since this money affair has come up, i'm not so sure of it." "have you ever asked her?" inquired the president, with an apparent lack of interest which was no index to his anxiety. "why--no; not in so many words, i believe. but how the deuce is a fellow to make love to a girl when his grandfather has done it for him?" "that, my dear chester, is a question you ought to be able to answer for yourself. you can hardly expect gertrude to beg you to save her little patrimony for her." it was an unfortunate way of putting it, and mr. vennor regretted his unwisdom when fleetwell carried the thought to its legitimate conclusion. "there it is again, you see. that cursed legacy tangles the thing every time you make a rush at it. i can understand just how she feels about it. if she refuses me it will cost her something; if she doesn't there will be plenty of the clan who will say that she had an eye to the money." "what difference will that make, so long as you know better?" the question was so deliberate and matter-of-fact that fleetwell forgot himself and let frankness run away with him. "that's just it; how the deuce is a fellow going to know----" but at this point the cold eyes checked him, and he suddenly remembered that he was speaking to gertrude's father. whereupon he stultified himself and made a promise. "perhaps you are right, after all," he added. "anyway, i'll have it out with her to-night, after she comes back." "'have it out with her' doesn't sound very lover-like," suggested the president, mildly. "i can assure you beforehand that you will have to take a different tone with her, whether you are sincere or not; otherwise you will waste your breath and enrich half a dozen charities we know of." "oh, i'll do it right," said fleetwell, nonchalantly; "but i'd give my share of the money twice over if it didn't have to be done at all--that is, if the money matter could be taken out of it entirely, i mean." they smoked on in reflective silence for five full minutes before the president saw fit to resume the conversation. then he said, slowly and in his levellest tone: "you are going to speak to her to-night; very good--you have my best wishes, as you know. but if anything should happen; if you should agree to disagree; it is you who must take the initiative. if you don't mean to marry her, you must tell her so plainly, and before you have given her a chance to refuse you. do you understand?" fleetwell sprang to his feet as if he had received a blow. he was a young giant in physique, and he looked uncomfortably belligerent as he towered above the president's chair. "by jove, i do understand you, cousin francis, and i'm ashamed to admit it!" he burst out, wrathfully. "the men on my side of the family have all been gentlemen, so far as i know, and i'll not be the first to break the record. i shall do what my grandfather expected me to do--what gertrude has a right to expect me to do--and in good faith; you may be very sure of that!" and having thus spoken his mind, he went out, leaving mr. francis vennor to his own reflections, which were not altogether gladsome. xxiii the land of heart's delight "here is the place i was looking for," said brockway, handing gertrude to a seat on a great fallen fir which had once been a sentinel on the farthest outpost of the timber-line. "it's three years since i was here, but i remember this log and the little stream of snow-water. isn't it clear and pure?" "everything ought to be that, up here in the face of that great shining mountain," she said; and then they spread their luncheon on the tree-trunk between them, and pitied the crowded tadmorians in the little hotel below. "i feel as if i could look down benignantly on the whole world," gertrude declared, searching for the paper of salt and finding it not. "the things of yesterday seem immeasurably far away; and as for to-morrow, i could almost persuade myself there isn't going to be any." "i wish there wasn't going to be any," said brockway; but the manner in which he attacked the cold chicken slew the pessimism in the remark. "do you? i could almost say amen to that," she rejoined, soberly. "you? i should have thought you would be the last person in the world to want to stop time's train." she laughed softly. "that is very human, isn't it? i was thinking precisely the same thing of you. tell me why you would like to abolish the to-morrows--or is it only the very next one that ever will be that you want to escape?" "it's all of them, i think: but you mustn't ask me to tell you why." "why mustn't i?" "because i can't do it and keep my promise to tell you the truth." "that is frank, at least," she retorted. "i hope you are not a conscience-stricken train-robber, or a murderer, or anything of that kind." "hardly," brockway replied, helping himself to another sandwich; "but you would be quite horrified if i should tell you what i have really done." "do you think so? you might try me and see," she said, half pleading and half jesting. brockway thought about it for a moment. "i'll do it--on one condition." "you ought to be ashamed to propose conditions to me. what is it?" "that you will tell me quite as truthfully why you agreed with me about the abolition of the to-morrows." it was gertrude's turn to consider, but she ended by accepting the proviso. "after you," she said, with a constrained little laugh. "but who would ever think of exchanging confidences at this altitude over a stolen luncheon!" "not many, perhaps; but it's quite in keeping with our compact; we were not to do ordinary things, you know. and i'm sure this confession i am going to make is unpremeditated." "is it so very dreadful?" "it is, i assure you, though i can make it in five words. i am hopelessly in love--don't laugh, please; there isn't the slightest element of levity in it for me." nevertheless, she did laugh, albeit there was pain at the catching of her breath. "forgive me," she said, quickly. "i don't mean to be silly if i can help it. tell me about it, and why it is hopeless." "it's the old story of jack and his master," brockway continued. "i have had the audacity to fall in love with the daughter of one of my betters." "one of your betters? i'm afraid i can't quite understand that. don't we live in a golden age when jack is as good as his master, if he choose to make himself so?" "by no manner of means," asserted this modern disciple of feudalism; "the line is drawn just as sharply now as it was when jack was a bond thrall and his master was a swashbuckling baron." "who draws it? the thrall or the baron?" the question opened up a new view of the matter, and brockway took time to think about it. "i'm not sure as to that," he said, doubtfully. "i've always taken it for granted it was the baron; but perhaps it's both of them." "you may be very sure there are two sides to that shield, as to all others," she asserted. "but tell me more about your own trouble. is it altogether impossible? does the--the young woman think as you do?" "it is; and i don't know what she thinks. i've never asked her, you know." "you haven't? and still you sit here on this log and eat cold chicken and tell me calmly that it's hopeless! i said awhile ago that you were very daring, but i'll retract in deference to that." "it's not exactly a lack of courage," brockway objected, moved to defend himself when he would much rather have done something else. "there is another obstacle, and it is insurmountable. she is rich--rich in her own right, i'm told; and i am a poor man." "how poor?" "pitifully so, from her point of view. so poor that if i gave her a five-room cottage and one servant, i could do no more." "many a woman has been happy with less." "doubtless, but they were not born in the purple." "some of them were, if by that you mean born with money to throw away. i suppose you might say that of me." brockway suddenly found the denver eating-house cake very dry, but he could not take his eyes from her long enough to go and get a drink from the rill at the log-end. "but you would never, marry a poor man," he ventured to say. "wouldn't i? that would depend very much upon circumstances," she rejoined, secure in the assurance that her secret was now double-locked in a dungeon of brockway's own building. "if it were the right thing to do i shouldn't hesitate, though in that case i should go to him as destitute as the beggar maid did to king cophetua." brockway's heart gave a great bound and then seemed to forget its office. "how is that? i--i don't understand," he stammered. gertrude gazed across at the shining mountain and took courage from its calm passivity. "i will tell you, because i promised to," she said. "i, too, have money in my own right, but it is only in trust, and it will be taken from me if i do not marry in accordance with the provisions of my granduncle's will. so you see, unless i accept my--the person named in the will, i shall be as dowerless as any proud poor man could ask." "but you will accept your cousin," said brockway, quickly putting fleetwell's name into the hesitant little pause. she looked steadfastly at the great peak and shook her head. "i shall not," she answered, and her voice was so low that brockway saw rather than heard the denial. "why?" he demanded. she turned to him with sudden reproach in her eyes. "you press me too hardly, but i suppose i have given you the right. the reason is because i--i don't think enough of him in the right way." "tell me one other thing, if you can--if you will. do you love someone else?" his voice was steadier now, and his eyes held her so that she could not turn back to the shining mountain, as she wanted to. none the less, she answered him truthfully, as she had promised. "i do." "is he a poor man?" "he says he is." "how poor?" "as poor as you said you were a moment ago." "and you will give up all that you have had--all that you could keep--and go out into the world with him to take up life at its beginnings?" "if he asks me to. but he will not ask me; he is too proud." "how do you know?" his gaze wavered for an instant, and she turned away quickly. "because he has told me so." brockway rose rather unsteadily and went to the rivulet to get a drink. the sweetly maddening truth was beginning to beat its way into his brain, and he stood dazed for a moment before he remembered that he had brought no drinking-cup. then he knelt by the stream, and, turning his silk travelling-cap inside out, filled it to the brim with the clear, cold water. his hands trembled a little, but he made shift to carry it to her without spilling much. "it is a type of all that i have to offer you, besides myself--not even so much as a cup to drink out of," he said, and his voice was steadier than his hands. "will you let me be your cup-bearer--always?" she was moved to smile at the touch of old-world chivalry, but she fell in with his mood and put his hands away gently. "no--after you; it is i who should serve." and when he had touched his lips to the water, she drank deeply and thanked him. brockway thrust the dripping cap absently into his pocket, and stood looking down on her like a man in a maze; stood so long that she glanced up with a quizzical little smile and said, "are you sorry?" he came to himself with a start and sat down on the tree-trunk beside her. "sorry? you know better than that. but i do believe i'm a bit idiotic with happiness. are you quite sure you know what you have done?" "quite. i think i made up my mind last night to do it--if you should ask me. it was after our ride on the engine; after my father had let me see what was in his mind." "ah, yes--your father. he will be very angry, won't he?" "yes"--reluctantly. "but you will not let him make you recant?" she laughed joyously. "you think you are in love with me, and yet that shows how little you really know of me, or of the family characteristics. we have plenty of unlovelinesses, but fickleness isn't one of them." "forgive me," he said, humbly; "but it seems to me there is so little to hold you, and so much to turn you aside. i----" a series of shrill shrieks from the locomotive in the valley below interrupted him, and he rose reluctantly. "they're calling us in; we'll have to go." she took his arm and they ran down the steep declivity, across the small plateau, and so on to the bottom of the railway cutting. just before they reached the train, brockway asked if he should tell the burtons. "as you please," she replied. "i shall tell my father and cousin jeannette as soon as we get back." they found the passengers all aboard and the train waiting for them, and mrs. burton scolded them roundly for their misdeeds. "we had a mind to go off and leave you," she said; "it would have served you right for running away. where ever have you been?" "up on the hill, taking in the scenery," brockway replied; and gertrude abetted him with an enthusiastic description of gray's peak as seen from the plateau--a description which ran on without a break until the train paused at silver plume, where the tadmorians debarked to burrow in a silver mine. burton burrowed with them, as a matter of course, but his wife declined to go. "i shall stay right here and keep an eye on these truants," she declared, with great severity. and brockway and gertrude exchanged comforting glances--as who should say, "what matters it now?"--and clasped hands under cover of the stir of debarkation. and mrs. burton saw all this without seeming to, and rejoiced gleefully at the bottom of her match-making heart. when the tadmorians had inspected the mine, and had come back muddy and besprinkled with water and besmirched with candle-drippings, the train went on its way down the canyon. having done what he might toward pumping the well of tourist curiosity dry on the outward journey, burton was given a little rest during the afternoon; and the quartette sat together in the coach and talked commonplace inanities when they talked at all. and the burden of even this desultory conversation fell mainly upon the general agent and his wife. the two young people were tranquilly happy, quite content to be going or staying, or what not, so long as they could be together. at golden, brockway ran out and secured a copy of the president's telegram as it stood when written; and when opportunity offered, he showed it to gertrude. "it was purposely garbled by a friend of mine," he confessed, shamelessly; "but how much or how little i didn't know till now. i have no excuse to offer but the one you know. i thought it was my last chance to ever spend a day with you, and i would have done a much worse thing rather than lose it. can you forgive me?" "forgive you for daring to make me happy? i should be something more or less than a woman if i didn't. but my father won't." "no, i suppose not. but you must not try to shield me. when you tell him, let it be clearly understood that i alone am to blame. is there any probability that he has carried out his threat of leaving you behind?" "not the least," she replied, confidently; "it was only what you of the west would call a--a little bluff, i think." "you still think it will be better for you to tell him first? that i'd better not go to him at once?" "i do; but you may speak to him afterward, if you think best." "it must be this evening. when shall i come?" "any time after dinner. if you will watch the window of my stateroom, i'll let you know when you can find him alone." the day was going out in a dusty twilight, and they were again standing on the rear platform of the second observation-car. when the train clattered in over the switches and stopped on the outer track of the denver station platform, this last car was screened by the dimly lighted hulk of the tadmor switched in to receive its lading. brockway ran down the steps and swung gertrude lightly to the platform; after which he put his arms about her and kissed her passionately. "god knows when the next time will be," he said, with a sudden foreboding of evil; and then he took her arm and led her swiftly across to the private car, leaving the burtons to go whither they would. xxiv the end of a stop-over the waiter was laying the plates for dinner when gertrude came out of her stateroom, and fleetwell rose and placed a chair for her where they would be out of earshot of the others. "had a comfortably good time to-day?" he inquired, stretching himself lazily on the lounge at her side. "yes. what have you been doing?" "'socializing,' as priscilla says; cantering about all over denver, looking up people we shouldn't nod to at home. where are your friends?" "the burtons? i think they went to a hotel. they are not going on till to-morrow night." "i wonder what became of the passenger agent; i haven't seen him since morning," said the collegian, with his eyes lying in wait to pounce upon her secret. "he was with us," she replied, calmly, and fleetwell sat up immediately. "oughtn't i to be jealous?" he demanded. "i don't know why you should be?" "i fancy the others would say i ought to be." "why?" "for obvious reasons; aren't we supposed to be as good as engaged?" "i don't know about the supposition; but we are not engaged." "no; and your father says it's my fault. will you set the day?" her smile was sweet and ineffable. "what an enthusiastic wooer you are, cousin chester. couldn't you rake up the embers and fan them into a tiny bit of a blaze? just for form's sake, you know." "that's nonsense," he answered, placidly. "we've known each other too long for anything of that sort. but you haven't answered my question." "about the day? that is nonsense, too. you know perfectly well there isn't going to be any day--not for us." fleetwell drew a long breath and ran his fingers through his hair. "don't let us make any mistake about this," he said, soberly. "i'm asking you in good faith to be my wife, you know." "and i am refusing you in equally good faith. i don't love you at all--not in that way." "you are quite sure of that?" "yes, surer now than ever before, though i've known it all along." "then you refuse me point blank?" "i do." he fetched another long breath and took her hand. "that's the kindest thing you ever did for me, gerty," he said, out of a full heart. "i--i'm ashamed to confess it, but i've been disloyal all along. it's----" "it's hannah beaswicke; i knew it," she said, smiling wisely. "but don't humiliate yourself; i, too, have been 'disloyal,' as you call it." "you?" "yes; i'll tell you about it some time--no, not now"--shaking her head--"dinner is ready." it was thus that fleetwell kept his promise to his cousin, and there had been never so much as a word about what mr. francis vennor considered the main question at issue, namely, the fate of gertrude's legacy. and when they came to the table together they were so evidently at peace that the president drew another false conclusion and wore his best king george smile throughout the entire dinner-hour. at the conclusion of the meal, fleetwell dodged the customary cigar with his cousin. under the circumstances he deemed it prudent to give the chapter of accidents a clear field. moreover, he conjectured that gertrude had somewhat to say to her father, and would be grateful for an undisturbed half-hour; wherefore he proposed a stroll up-town to mrs. dunham and the misses beaswicke, and presently left the car with the three of them in tow. the president was in his stateroom, refilling his cigar-case; and when he came out, gertrude and quatremain were alone in the large compartment. "where are the others?" he asked, pausing at her chair to light his cigar. "they have gone up-town for a walk." "h-m; and left you behind?" "i didn't care to go." she saw that her opportunity was come, and gave the secretary a look which should have made him vanish at once. it did not, but her father cut the knot of that difficulty. "it's a fine night; will you take a turn outside with me, while i smoke?" he said. she acquiesced, and they went out to pace up and down the long platform. two turns they made in silence while gertrude sought vainly for words confessional, and at the third her father helped her without intending to. "when is it to be?" he asked, abruptly. she supposed he meant her marriage to brockway, but she determined to make him speak plainly. so she said, "when is what to be?" "your marriage. didn't you and chester settle matters between you just before dinner?" she laid fresh hold of her courage and answered, truthfully. "yes, but not as you imagine. chester asked me, because, i fancy, you told him to; and i refused him." she expected nothing less than an outpouring of bitter words, but she was disappointed. once and again they measured the length of the great platform before he spoke. then he said, quite temperately, she thought, "so it is the passenger agent, after all, is it?" "yes." she said it resolutely, as one who may not be moved. "very good; you are your own mistress, and if you elect to be the wife of a wage-earning mechanic, i suppose it's your own affair." there was so little heat in the innuendo that it seemed scarcely worth while to resent it; nevertheless she ventured to say: "great-grandfather vennor was a carpenter, and i suppose he worked for wages." "doubtless; but there is the better part of a century between then and now. however, i presume you have counted the cost. you lose your money, and that's the end of it--unless chester happens to marry first." "what difference would that make? it was i who set the conditions of the will aside." "all the difference in the world. in this case, the law takes no cognizance of intention. if chester marries first, it would be taken as _prima facie_ evidence that he had prevented you from fulfilling your part of the conditions. but that is neither here nor there; chester is not exactly the kind of man to be caught in the rebound; and i presume you wouldn't be mercenary enough to wait for anything so indefinite as his marriage, anyway." "no." "then you lose your money." he could not forbear the repetition. "i know it." "does your--does the young man know it?" "yes; otherwise he would not have spoken." "no?" there was the mildest suggestion of incredulity in the upward inflection. "since you have made your decision, it is as well you should think so. you are quite willing to begin at the bottom with him, are you?" "i am." "because i meant what i said last night. you have made your bed, and you will have to lie on it; you will get nothing from me." "we ask nothing but--but your good will." gertrude was as undemonstrative as the daughter of francis vennor had a right to be, but his coldness went near to breaking down her fortitude. "my good will!" he turned upon her almost fiercely. "you have no right to expect it. what has come over you in the last twenty-four hours that you should override the traditions and training of your whole life? has this fellow but to crook his finger at you to make you turn your back upon everything that is decent and respectable?" "don't," she said, with a little sob in her voice; "i can't listen if you abuse him. i love him; do you understand what that means?" "no, i don't; you are daft, crazy, hypnotized." the gathering throng was beginning to make privacy impossible on the platform, and he led her back to the car. "you'll do as you please in the end, i suppose, but not here or now." he handed her up the steps of the private car and turned to go away. "papa--one word," she pleaded. "won't you see mr. brockway to-night?" "no; and if i do, it will be the worse for him." and when she had entered the car, he went away quickly and climbed the stairs to the train-despatcher's office on the second floor of the union depot. meanwhile, brockway had eaten his supper and posted himself where he could watch what he supposed to be the window of gertrude's stateroom for the promised signal. he saw the car empty itself, first of fleetwell and the ladies, and then of the president and his daughter, and while he was waiting for the latter to return, fleetwell came back, breathless. "by jove, mr. brockway, this is great luck!" he exclaimed. "you know denver pretty well, don't you?" "fairly well. i knew it better when i lived here." "do you happen to know this gentleman?" handing brockway a card with a name written across it. "yes; very well, indeed." "then i wish you'd come and help me find him. i've been out in a cab once, and the driver got lost. will you do it?" "with pleasure, if you'll get me back here quick. i have an engagement that can't be put off." they ran out through the building and took a carriage. "just get me to the house," said the collegian, "and you can come straight away back in the cab," but beyond this he offered no explanations, and brockway gave the order to the driver. when they reached the house in question, fleetwell rang the bell, and the answer from within seemed to be satisfactory. "all right," he called back from the doorway; and a few minutes later brockway was again on the station platform, watching the non-committal windows of the private car. it was while the passenger agent was up-town with fleetwell that president vennor went to the despatcher's room. the result of his visit may be told in the words of a terse order which presently clicked through the sounder in the yardmaster's office. "j. h. m., "denver yard. "send out car naught-fifty, president vennor and party, on number , ten-five this p.m. "a. f. v." of this brockway knew nothing, and he haunted the vicinity of the spur-track with great patience for the better part of two hours. at nine-forty-five, fleetwell and the ladies returned. they were all laughing and chatting gayly, and when they entered the car, brockway gave up his vigil. it was too late to hope for a private interview with mr. vennor, and he concluded to go over to the tadmor to see if his people were settled for the night. passing the telegraph office, he asked if there were any messages. there was one; the much requested extension of the gadfly's ticket; and thrusting it into his pocket, the passenger agent hurried across to the special sleeper. two minutes afterward, a switching-engine ran around on the spur-track, bumped gently against the naught-fifty, and presently backed out into the yard with the private car in tow. xxv westward ho! when brockway boarded the tadmor, most of the thirty-odd had gone to bed; but a committee of three was waiting in the smoking-room on the chance that the passenger agent would put in an appearance before the departure of the night train for the west. the little gentleman in the grass-cloth duster and velvet skull-cap was chairman of this committee, and he stated its object. "we've been trying to make you more trouble, mr. brockway," he said, pleasantly. "before the others went to bed, we discussed the advisability of leaving denver to-night, instead of in the morning. it would give us an extra day in salt lake city, and that is what most of us would like. can it be done?" brockway glanced at his watch and answered promptly. "it'll take sharp work; the train leaves in ten minutes. i'll try it, but if i make it, i can't go with you. my hand-baggage is at the hotel, and there's no time to send for it." ordinarily, the amendment would have killed the original proposition; but mr. somers saw that in brockway's eyes which made him hasten to forestall argument. "i was afraid of that," he said; "but it can't be helped. of course, we'd like to have you with us, but i believe the extra day is of greater importance." brockway made a dumb show expressive of his gratitude. "all right; then i'll bid you all good-by, and get you out to-night, if i can." "but i ah--protest!" came with shrill emphasis from the vestibule, and the night-capped head of the gadfly was thrust around the door-jamb. "i ah--stipulated----" brockway snatched the ticket-extending telegram from his pocket, thrust it into mr. somers's hand, and fled without another word. one minute later he was pleading eloquently with the train-despatcher. "oh, say, fred, let up!" protested the man of orders. "it's too late, i tell you. the train'll pull out in two minutes, and i couldn't raise the yard in that time." but the passenger agent would not be denied. he carried his point, as he usually did, and was shortly racing out across the platform, clothed with authority to hold the train until the tadmor could be coupled thereto. graffo, the conductor, was found just as he was about to give the signal, but he waited while the switching-engine whipped the tadmor around and coupled it to the rear of the train, grumbling meanwhile, as was his time-honored prerogative. "like to know how the blazes i'm going to make time to-night, with them two extras hooked on at the last minute!" he growled; but brockway corrected him. "there's only one," he began; and when graffo would have contradicted him, two belated passengers came in sight, hurrying across the platform to catch the waiting train. brockway considerately ran back to help them aboard. it was the general agent and his wife; and mrs. burton made breathless explanations. "changed our minds at the last minute," she gasped. "john was afraid the president might not find him with his nose in his desk when he gets there." then, with truly feminine irrelevance: "i've been dying to get a chance to ask you how you made out--to-day--with gertrude; quick--the train's going!" brockway grinned. "you're the best chaperon in the world, mrs. burton--after the fact." "oh, i'm _so_ glad. can't you come along and visit with us in salt lake?" "not for a king's ransom," retorted brockway, laughing. "you may be very sure i sha'n't leave denver while the naught-fifty stays over there on----" he turned to point out the president's car and went speechless in the midst of his declaration at sight of the empty spur-track. the glare of the masthead arc-lights left no room for uncertainty. the private car was gone. "why, fred! what is the matter?" queried mrs. burton anxiously from the step of the sleeping-car; but at that moment graffo swung his lantern and the train began to move. brockway stood staring across at the empty spur in witless amazement, but he sprang back out of the way when the step of the car next to the regular sleeper brushed him in passing. the touch broke the spell. as he started back, the sheen of the nearest electric lamp fell fairly upon the oval medallion on the side of the moving car, and he saw the gilt figures " " flash for a half-second before his eyes. in a twinkling he knew what had been done, and what he should do. when the tadmor came up, he caught the hand-rail and boarded the train without so much as a thought for his belongings left behind at the up-town hotel. the tadmor's smoking-room was deserted, and he went in to burn a reflective cigar, and to ponder over the probable outcome of this latest proof of the president's resentment. having failed to get speech with gertrude, he could only guess at the result of her interview with her father, but the sudden change in the itinerary spoke for itself, and thus far the guess was twin brother to the truth. but two hours had intervened between mr. vennor's hasty decision and the departure of train number , and many things may befall in two hours. xxvi a blind siding when the president went back to the naught-fifty after his visit to the despatcher, he meant to tell gertrude at once what he had done, and the reason therefore; but she had retreated to her stateroom, and in reply to his tap at the door had begged to be excused. after that, there was ample time for reflection, and the president walked the floor of the central compartment, smoking many cigars, and dividing the time impartially between wondering what had become of the other members of the party, and speculating as to the probable effect upon gertrude's hallucination of the sudden and unannounced flitting. almost at the last moment, when he had begun to fear they had gone to the theatre, mrs. dunham and the young people returned, full to the lips with suppressed excitement; and in the midst of the bustle of departure the two young women made a descent upon gertrude's room, while mrs. dunham took the president aside. what passed between them, quatremain, who was pretending to be asleep in the nearest chair, could not overhear; but that mrs. dunham's news was startling and not altogether unpleasant was plainly evident to the secretary. by this time the private car had been switched to its place in the train, and when the steady rumbling of the wheels betokened the beginning of the westward journey, gertrude appeared with the two young women, and there was a dramatic little scene in the central compartment, through which the secretary did not even pretend to sleep. the president's daughter demanded to know where they were going, and why she had not been told, ending by throwing herself into mrs. dunham's arms and crying as if her heart would break. and, for the first time in quatremain's knowledge of him, the president had nothing to say, while fleetwell spoke his mind freely, though in terms unintelligible to the secretary, and mrs. dunham bore the weeping young woman away to the privacy of her own stateroom. after which, mr. vennor, deserted of all of them, lighted another cigar and betook himself to the rear vestibule, to what meditative end quatremain could only guess. the train was well out of denver and speeding swiftly through the night on its flight over the swelling plain. the president stood at the rear door of his car, gazing abstractedly at the bobbing and swaying front end of the sleeper which had been coupled to the naught-fifty at the moment of departure. after a time the train paused at a station, and when it moved on again the light from the operator's bay-window flashed upon the name over the door of the following car. the president saw it and started back with an ejaculation which would have sounded very like an oath, had there been any one to hear it. then he came close to the glass-panelled door and scowled out at the tadmor as if it were a thing alive and perversely and personally responsible for this latest interference with his plans. he was fond of boasting that he had no creed, but, in his way, francis vennor was a better fatalist than many who assume the name. when the grim humor of the relentless pursuit began to appeal to him, the wrathful scowl relaxed by degrees and gave place to the metallic smile. it could scarcely be prearrangement this time, he decided; it was fate and no less; and having admitted so much, he crossed the platforms and let himself into the ante-room of the tadmor. brockway was still sitting in the smoking-room, and he was so taken aback that he returned the president's nod of recognition no less stiffly than it was given. whereupon mr. vennor entered the compartment, gathered up his coat-tails, and sat down beside the passenger agent to finish his cigar. now brockway inferred, naturally, that gertrude's father had come to have it out with him, and for the first five minutes he waited nervously for the president to begin. then it occurred to him that possibly mr. vennor had come to accord him the interview which gertrude had promised to procure for him; and he spent five other minutes of tongue-tied embarrassment trying to pull himself together sufficiently to state his case with becoming clarity and frankness. the upshot of all this was that they sat smoking solemnly and in phlegmatic silence for upwards of a quarter of an hour, at the end of which time the president rose and tossed his cigar-butt out of the window. "going on through with your people, are you?" he said, steadying himself by the door-jamb. "yes; as far as salt lake," brockway replied, wondering if he ought to apologize for the intention. "h-m; changed your plans rather suddenly, didn't you?" "the party changed them; i wasn't notified till ten minutes before train-time." "no? i suppose you didn't know we were going on to-night, either, did you? or did the despatcher tell you?" "no one told me. i knew nothing of it till i saw the naught-fifty in the train." "and that was?----" "just at the last moment--after the train had started, in fact." "ah. then i am to understand that our movements have nothing to do with your being here now?" brockway had begun by being studiously deferential and placable, but the questions were growing rather personal. "you are to understand nothing of the sort," he replied. "on the contrary, i am here solely because you saw fit to change your itinerary." president vennor was so wholly unused to anything like a retort from a junior and an inferior that he sat down in the opposite seat and felt mechanically in his pockets for a cigar. brockway promptly capped the climax of audacity by offering one of his own, and the president took it absently. "it is scarcely worth your while to be disrespectful, mr. brockway," he said, when the cigar was alight. "i don't mean to be." "but you intercepted my telegram this morning, and sent me a most impertinent reply." "i did; and a little while before that, you had tried to knock me down." "so i did, but the provocation was very considerable; you must admit that." "cheerfully," said brockway, who was coming to his own in the matter of self-possession with gratifying rapidity. "but i take no shame for the telegram. as i told miss gertrude, i would have done a much worse thing to compass the same end." the president frowned and coughed dryly. "the incentive was doubtless very strong, but i am told that you have since been made aware of the facts in the case--relative to my daughter's forfeiture of her patrimony, i mean." "the 'incentive,' as you call it, was the only obstacle. when i learned that it did not exist, i asked your daughter to be my wife." "knowing that my consent would be withheld?" "taking that for granted--yes." "very good; your frankness is commendable. before we go any farther, let me ask one question. would anything i could give you induce you to go about your business--to disappear, so to speak?" "yes." "name it," said the president, with ill-concealed satisfaction. "your daughter's hand in marriage." "ah;"--he lost his hold upon the hopeful alternative and made no sign--"nothing less?" "nothing less." "very good again; then we may go on to other matters. how do you expect to support a wife whose allowance of pin-money has probably exceeded your entire income?" "as many a better man has done before me, when the woman of his choice was willing to put love before luxury," quoth brockway, with more philosophy than he could properly lay claim to. "h-m; love in a cottage, and all that, i suppose. it's very romantic, but you'll pardon me if i confess i'm not able to take any such philosophical view of the matter." "oh, certainly; i didn't suppose you would be. but if you don't like it, the remedy is in your own hands," said brockway, with great composure. "ah; yesterday you told me i was mistaken in my man; this time it is you who are mistaken. gertrude will get nothing from me." brockway met the cool stare of the calculating eyes without flinching, and refused to be angry. "you know very well i didn't mean that," he said, calmly. "i wouldn't touch a penny of your money under any circumstances that i can imagine just now." "then what do you mean?" demanded the president. brockway thought he might as well die fighting, so he shrugged his shoulders and made shift to look indifferent and unconcerned. "i'm well enough satisfied with my present income and prospects, and gertrude is quite willing to share them with me; but if you think i'm not earning enough money, why, you are the president of a very considerable railway company, and i'll cheerfully attack anything you see fit to give me from the general passenger agency down." "ha!" said the president, and for once in a way he acknowledged himself fairly outdone in cold-blooded assurance; "you have the courage of your convictions to say that to me." "not at all," replied brockway, riding at a gallop along the newly discovered road to the president's favor; "i merely suggest it to help you out. i'm very well contented where i am." "oh, you are. and yet you would consent to take service under me, after what has passed between us? i say you have courage; i could break you in a year." "possibly; but you wouldn't, you know." the president rose and held out his hand with a smile which no man might analyze. "you refuse to be bullied, don't you? and you say you would attack anything. i believe you would, and i like that; you shall be given the opportunity, and under a harder master than you have ever had. you may even find yourself required to make bricks without straw. come, now, hadn't you better retract and go about your business?" "never a word; and where gertrude goes, i go," said brockway, taking the proffered hand with what show of indifference he could command. "very well, if you will have it so. if you are of the same mind in the morning, perhaps you'd better join us at breakfast and we can talk it over. will you come?" "yes, if you will tell the other members of your party why i am there." the president smiled again, sardonically this time. "i think the occasion for that has gone by," he said. "good-night." when the outer door closed behind his visitor, brockway collapsed as was his undoubted privilege. then he revived under the stimulus of an overwaxing and masterful desire to see gertrude again before he slept--to share the good news with her before the burden of it should crush him. and he was considering how it might be brought about when the engineer blew the whistle for bending bow. xxvii the drumming wheels bending bow is but an insignificant side-track on the mountain-buttressed plain some thirty miles from denver; and i would for the sake of the two young persons whose romance this is, that it might have been a meeting-point with a delayed train. when the first of the switch-lights flashed past the windows of the tadmor, brockway went out and stood on the step ready to drop off when the speed should slacken sufficiently to permit it. while hanging from the hand-rail he glanced ahead and saw that which made his heart glad. the signal-lamp at the station turned a crimson eye toward the train, and that meant orders, and a few more seconds of precious time. at the first shrill sigh of the air-brakes, he sprang off and ran beside the private car, trying to peer into the darkened windows, and taking all sorts of risks considering the hazard he ran of lighting upon the wrong one. but good fortune was with him. before the smoking wheels had quite ceased grinding fire out of the brake-shoes, he came to a window with a tiny corner of a handkerchief fluttering beneath it. it was gertrude's signal, and he understood then that he had been keeping tryst on the wrong side of the car as it stood on the spur-track in denver. the window was closed and curtained like the others, but it went up noiselessly when he tapped on the glass. now it was pitchy dark, both within and without, but love has sharpened senses and eyes which no night has ever yet been black enough to befool. "frederick!" said a soft voice from within, and there was joyful surprise in the single word. then a hand came out to him, and he possessed himself of it as one who will keep that which is his. "god bless you," he whispered; "i hardly dared hope to find you up." "i wasn't up," said the tender voice, with a touch of sweet shyness in it; "but i couldn't go to sleep for thinking how disappointed you must be. how did you find out we were going?" "by the merest chance; but it's all right now--your father has just been in to see me." "has he? oh, i hope you didn't quarrel!" "not at all," said brockway, reassuringly. "we sat together and smoked like two indians at a pow-wow, and neither of us said a word for nearly half an hour. after that, he got up to go away, and then he thought better of it and sat down again, and we had it out about the telegrams and other things. that cleared the air a bit, and before he left, he accepted the situation without saying so in so many words, and promised to graft me on the c. & u. in some place where i can earn more money. don't cry; it's too good to be true, but the fact remains." "i'm not crying, but i'm glad enough to do a much more foolish thing. you won't let my money make any difference now, will you?" "your money isn't in it, and i think i made your father understand that i'd never have spoken if i hadn't known you were going to lose it." "but i--i haven't lost it. didn't he tell you?" "tell me what?" "about cousin chester and hannah beaswicke; they were married this evening. i don't understand the legal part of it, but papa says that saves my money. you won't let it make any difference?" brockway gripped the small hand as if he were afraid it might escape him after all, and tried to flog himself around to the new point of view. it was a breath-taking process, but he compassed it more quickly since there was no time for the nice weighing of scruples. moreover, it was too late to give poverty-pride a second hearing. so he said: "i can't let it make a difference now, but i shall always be glad that i asked you when we both believed you were going to lose it. and i ought to have guessed about your cousin's marriage, but i didn't--i helped him find the county clerk, and wondered why he was so anxious about it. i'm glad you didn't have to break his heart." she laughed happily. "there was no question of hearts between us; he knew it, and i knew it; and when he spoke to me to-night, we settled it definitely. are you glad or sorry? about the money, i mean." "both, i think; glad for your sake, though." "i'll go and live in the five-roomed cottage with you, if you like, and we'll forget all about it." "i believe you'd do it"--brockway glanced up, and, seeing the red signal still displayed, blessed the tardy operator who was doubtless bungling the train-order--"but i shan't insist." then with a touch of graver earnestness: "we are properly engaged now, aren't we?" "i should hope so"--shyly. he took a ring from his pocket and slipped it over the finger of the captive hand. "it isn't every one who goes prepared," he said, with quiet humor; "it was a gift from a train-load of grand army people i took across last year; and i've carried it in my pocket ever since because i didn't think i had any right to wear diamonds. will you wear it for me?" "always." "will you wear it to-morrow--before all the others? i'm coming in to breakfast, you know. your father asked me." "i said always." _conductor graffo_, coming out of the telegraph office with a scrap of tissue paper in his hand: "all abo-o-ard!" "that parts us again," said brockway, sorrowfully. "good-night, dear; god keep you safe"--the air-brakes sighed sympathetically, and he kissed her hand and released it--"till to-morrow." his face was at the window, and two soft arms came out of the square of darkness and went about his neck, and two lips that he could not see brushed his cheek. "till to-morrow," she repeated; and then the train began to move and she let him go quickly that he might run no risk of stumbling. the engine groaned and strained, filling the air with a jarring as of nearby thunder; the steam hissed from the cylinders, and the great driving-wheels began once more to measure the rails. brockway swung lightly up to the step of the tadmor, and when the last switch-lamp had shot backward into the night, went to his berth to wrestle with his happiness until tardy sleep came, bringing in its train a beatific vision in which the song of the drumming wheels became the overture to a wedding march, and the mellow blasts of the whistle rang a merry peal of joy-bells. the ivory series amos judd. by j. a. mitchell, editor of "life" ia. a love story. by q. [arthur t. quiller-couch] the suicide club. by robert louis stevenson irralie's bushranger. by e. w. hornung a master spirit. by harriet prescott spofford madame delphine. by george w. cable one of the visconti. by eva wilder brodhead a book of martyrs. by cornelia atwood pratt a bride from the bush. by e. w. hornung the man who wins. by robert herrick an inheritance. by harriet prescott spofford the old gentleman of the black stock. by thomas nelson page literary love letters and other stories. by robert herrick a romance in transit. by francis lynde in old narragansett. by alice morse earle seven months a prisoner. by j. v. hadley "if i were a man." by harrison robertson sweethearts and wives. by anna a. rogers a civilian attachÉ. by helen dawes brown note: project gutenberg also has an html version of this file which includes the original illustrations. see -h.htm or -h.zip: (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h/ -h.htm) or (http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/ / / / / / -h.zip) cab and caboose the story of a railroad boy by kirk munroe officers of the national council honorary president, the hon. woodrow wilson honorary vice-president, hon. william h. taft honorary vice-president, colonel theodore roosevelt president, colin h. livingstone, washington, d. c. vice-president, b. l. dulaney, bristol, tenn. vice-president, milton a. mcrae, detroit. mich. vice-president, david starr jordan, stanford university, cal. vice-president, f. l. seely, asheville, n. c. vice-president, a. stamford white, chicago, ill. chief scout, ernest thompson seton, greenwich, connecticut national scout commissioner, daniel carter beard, flushing, n. y. national headquarters boy scouts of america the fifth avenue building, fifth avenue telephone gramercy new york city finance committee john sherman hoyt, chairman august belmont george d. pratt mortimer l. schiff h. rogers winthrop george d. pratt, treasurer james e. west, chief scout executive additional members of the executive board ernest p. bicknell robert garrett lee f. hanmer john sherman hoyt charles c. jackson prof. jeremiah w. jenks william d. murray dr. charles p. neill george d. porter frank presbrey edgar m. robinson mortimer l. schiff lorillard spencer seth sprague terry july st, . to the public:-- in the execution of its purpose to give educational value and moral worth to the recreational activities of the boyhood of america, the leaders of the boy scout movement quickly learned that to effectively carry out its program, the boy must be influenced not only in his out-of-door life but also in the diversions of his other leisure moments. it is at such times that the boy is captured by the tales of daring enterprises and adventurous good times. what now is needful is not that his taste should be thwarted but trained. there should constantly be presented to him the books the boy likes best, yet always the books that will be best for the boy. as a matter of fact, however, the boy's taste is being constantly vitiated and exploited by the great mass of cheap juvenile literature. to help anxiously concerned parents and educators to meet this grave peril, the library commission of the boy scouts of america has been organized. every boy's library is the result of their labors. all the books chosen have been approved by them. the commission is composed of the following members: george f. bowerman, librarian, public library of the district of columbia, washington, d. c.; harrison w. graver, librarian, carnegie library of pittsburgh, pa.; claude g. leland, superintendent, bureau of libraries, board of education, new york city; edward f. stevens, librarian, pratt institute free library, brooklyn, new york; together with the editorial board of our movement, william d. murray, george d. pratt and frank presbrey, with franklin k. mathiews, chief scout librarian, as secretary. "do a good turn daily." in selecting the books, the commission has chosen only such as are of interest to boys, the first twenty-five being either works of fiction or stirring stories of adventurous experiences. in later lists, books of a more serious sort will be included. it is hoped that as many as twenty-five may be added to the library each year. thanks are due the several publishers who have helped to inaugurate this new department of our work. without their co-operation in making available for popular priced editions some of the best books ever published for boys, the promotion of every boy's library would have been impossible. we wish, too, to express our heartiest gratitude to the library commission, who, without compensation, have placed their vast experience and immense resources at the service of our movement. the commission invites suggestions as to future books to be included in the library. librarians, teachers, parents, and all others interested in welfare work for boys, can render a unique service by forwarding to national headquarters lists of such books as in their judgment would be suitable for every boy's library. signed james e. west [handwritten] chief scout executive. [illustration: the pursuit of the train robber.--(_page ._) _frontispiece._] every boy's library--boy scout edition cab and caboose the story of a railroad boy by kirk munroe author of under orders, prince dusty, the coral ship, etc. illustrated new york grosset & dunlap publishers copyright, by kirk munroe this edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers g. p. putnam's sons, new york and london the knickerbocker press, new york contents. chapter. page. i.--"railroad blake" ii.--a race for the railroad cup iii.--a cruel accusation iv.--starting into the world v.--choosing a career vi.--smiler, the railroad dog vii.--rod, smiler, and the tramp viii.--earning a breakfast ix.--gaining a foothold x.--a thrilling experience xi.--a battle with tramps xii.--bound, gagged, and a prisoner xiii.--how brakeman joe was saved xiv.--the superintendent investigates xv.--smiler to the rescue xvi.--snyder appleby's jealousy xvii.--rod as a brakeman xviii.--working for a promotion xix.--the express special xx.--trouble in the money car xxi.--over the top of the train xxii.--stop thief! xxiii.--a race of locomotives xxiv.--arrested on suspicion xxv.--the train robber learns of rod's arrest xxvi.--a welcome visitor xxvii.--the sheriff is interviewed xxviii.--light dawns upon the situation xxix.--an arrival of friends and enemies xxx.--where are the diamonds? xxxi.--one hundred miles an hour! xxxii.--snatching victory from defeat xxxiii.--a wrecking train xxxiv.--rod accepts the legacy xxxv.--firing on number xxxvi.--the only chance of saving the special xxxvii.--independence or pride xxxviii.--a moral victory xxxix.--snyder is forgiven illustrations the pursuit of the train robber _frontispiece_ page rod blake wins by a length smiler drives off the tramp in the hands of the enemy rod assists the young man to the "limited" the sheriff hands rod the leather bag in the railroad wreck "he launched himself forward" cab and caboose: the story of a railroad boy. chapter i. "railroad blake." "go it, rod! you've got to go! one more spurt and you'll have him! there you are over the line! on time! on railroad time! three cheers for railroad blake, fellows! 'rah, 'rah, 'rah, and a tigah! good for you, rod blake! the cup is yours. it was the prettiest race ever seen on the euston track, and 'cider' got so badly left that he cut off and went to the dressing-room without finishing. billy bliss was a good second, though, and you only beat him by a length." amid a thousand such cries as these, from the throats of the excited boys and a furious waving of hats, handkerchiefs, and ribbon-decked parasols from the grand stand, the greatest bicycling event of the year so far as euston was concerned, was finished, and rodman blake was declared winner of the railroad cup. it was the handsomest thing of the kind ever seen in that part of the country, and had been presented to the steel wheel club of euston by president vanderveer of the great new york and western railroad, who made his summer home at that place. the race for this trophy was the principal event at the annual meet of the club, which always took place on the first wednesday of september. if any member won it three years in succession it was to be his to keep, and every winner was entitled to have his name engraved on it. snyder appleby or "cider apples" as the boys, with their love for nicknames, sometimes called him, had won it two years in succession, and was confident of doing the same thing this year. he had just obtained, through president vanderveer, a position in the office of the railroad company, and only waited to ride this last race for the "railroad cup," as it was called in honor of its donor, before going to the city and entering upon his new duties. now to be beaten so badly, and by that young upstart, for so he called rod blake, was a mortification almost too great to be borne. as snyder left the track without finishing the last race and made his way to the dressing-room under the grand stand, he ground his teeth, and vowed to get even with his victorious rival yet. the cheers and yells of delight with which the fellows were hailing the victor, made him feel his defeat all the more bitterly, and seek the more eagerly for some plan for that victor's humiliation. snyder appleby was generally considered by the boys as one of the meanest fellows in euston, and that is the reason why they called him "cider apples"; for those, as everybody knows, are most always the very poorest of the picking. so the name seemed to be appropriate, as well as a happy parody on that to which he was really entitled. he was the son, or rather the adopted son, of major arms appleby, who, next to president vanderveer, was the richest man in euston, and lived in the great, rambling stone mansion that had been in his family for generations. the major, who was a bachelor, was also one of the kindest-hearted, most generous, and most obstinate of men. he loved to do good deeds; but he loved to do them in his own way, and his way was certain to be the one that was contrary to the advice of everybody else. thus it happened that he determined to adopt the year-old baby boy who was left on his doorstep one stormy night, a little more than sixteen years before this story opens. he was not fond of babies, nor did he care to have children about him. simply because everybody advised him to send this one to the county house, where it might be cared for by the proper authorities, he declared he would do nothing of the kind; but would adopt the little waif and bring him up as his own son. as the boy grew, and developed many undesirable traits of character, major appleby was too kind-hearted to see them, and too obstinate to be warned against them. "don't tell me," he would say, "i know more about the boy than anybody else, and am fully capable of forming my opinion concerning him." thus snyder appleby, as he was called, because the name "snyder" was found marked on the basket in which he had been left at the major's door, grew up with the fixed idea that if he only pleased his adopted father he might act about as he chose with everybody else. now he was nearly eighteen years of age, big and strong, with a face that, but for its coarseness, would have been called handsome. he was fond of display, did everything for effect, was intolerably lazy, had no idea of the word punctuality, and never kept an engagement unless he felt inclined to do so. he always had plenty of pocket money which he spent lavishly, and was not without a certain degree of popularity among the other boys of euston. he had subscribed more largely than anybody else to the steel wheel club upon its formation, and had thus succeeded in having himself elected its captain. as he was older and stronger than any of the other members who took up racing, and as he always rode the lightest and best wheel that money could procure, he had, without much hard work, easily maintained a lead in the racing field, and had come to consider himself as invincible. he regarded himself as such a sure winner of this last race for the railroad cup, that he had not taken the trouble to go into training for it. he would not even give up his cigarette smoking, a habit that he had acquired because he considered it fashionable and manly. now he was beaten, disgracefully, and that by a boy nearly two years younger than himself. it was too much, and he determined to find some excuse for his defeat, that should at the same time remove the disgrace from him, and place it upon other shoulders. rodman ray blake, or r. r. blake as he signed his name, and "railroad blake" as the boys often called him, was major appleby's nephew, and the son of his only sister. she had married an impecunious young artist against her brother's wish, on which account he had declined ever to see her again. when she died, after two years of poverty-stricken widowhood, she left a loving, forgiving letter for her brother, and in it committed her darling boy to his charge. if she had not done this, but had trusted to his generous impulses, all would have gone well, and the events that serve to make up this story would never have taken place. as it was, the major, feeling that the boy was forced upon him, was greatly aggrieved. that the lad should bear a remarkable resemblance to his handsome artist father also irritated him. as a result, while he really became very fond of the boy, and was never unkind to him, he treated him with an assumed indifference that was keenly felt by the loving, high-spirited lad. as for snyder appleby, he was jealous of rodman from the very first; and when, only a short time before the race meeting of the steel wheel club, the latter was almost unanimously elected to his place as captain, this feeling was greatly increased. chapter ii. a race for the railroad cup. young blake had now been in euston two years, and was, among the boys, decidedly the most popular fellow in the place. he was a slightly-built chap; but with muscles like steel wires, and possessed of wonderful agility and powers of endurance. he excelled in all athletic sports, was a capital boxer, and at the same time found little difficulty in maintaining a good rank in his classes. he had taken to bicycling from the very first, and quickly became an expert rider, though he had never gone in for racing. it was therefore a great surprise, even to his friends, when, on the very day before the race meeting, he entered his name for the event that was to result in the winning or losing of the railroad cup. it would not have been so much of a surprise had anybody known of his conversation, a few weeks before, with eltje vanderveer, the railroad president's only daughter. she was a few months younger than rod, and ever since he had jumped into the river to save her pet kitten from drowning, they had been fast friends. so, when in talking of the approaching meeting, eltje had said, "how i wish you were a racer, and could win our cup, rod," the boy instantly made up his mind to try for it. he only answered, "do you? well, perhaps i may go in for that sort of thing some time." then he began training, so secretly that nobody but dan, a stable boy on his uncle's place and rod's most ardent admirer, was aware of it; but with such steady determination that on the eventful day of the great race his physical condition was very nearly perfect. he was on hand at the race track bright and early; for, as captain of the club, rod had a great deal to do in seeing that everything went smoothly, and in starting on time the dozen events that preceded the race for the railroad cup, which came last on the programme. while these earlier events were being run off snyder appleby, faultlessly attired, sat in the grand stand beside his adopted father, and directly behind president vanderveer and his pretty daughter, to whom he tried to render himself especially agreeable. he listened respectfully to the major's stories, made amusing comments on the racers for eltje's benefit, and laughed heartily at the puns that her father was given to making. "but how about your own race, mr. appleby?" asked eltje. "don't you feel any anxiety concerning it? it is to be the hardest one of all, isn't it?" immensely flattered at being addressed as mister appleby, snyder replied carelessly, "oh, yes! of course i am most anxious to win it, especially as you are here to see it run; but i don't anticipate much difficulty. bliss is a hard man to beat; but i have done it before, and i guess i can do it again." "then you don't think rodman has any chance of winning?" "well, hardly. you see this is his first race, and experience goes a long way in such affairs. still, he rides well, and it wouldn't surprise me to see him make a good third at the finish." eltje smiled as she answered, "perhaps he will finish third; but it would surprise me greatly to see him do so." this pretty girl, with the dutch name, had such faith in her friend rod, that she did not believe he would ever be third, or even second, where he had once made up his mind to be first. failing to catch her real meaning, snyder replied: "of course he may not do as well as that; but he ought to. as captain of the club he ought to sustain the honor of his position, you know. if he doesn't feel able to take at least third place in a five-starter race, he should either resign, or keep out of the racing field altogether. now i must leave you; for i see i am wanted. you'll wish me good luck, won't you?" "yes," answered eltje mischievously, "i wish you all the luck you deserve." forced to be content with this answer, but wondering if there was any hidden meaning in it, snyder left the grand stand, and strolled leisurely around to the dressing-room, lighting a cigarette as he went. "hurry up!" shouted rod, who was the soul of punctuality and was particularly anxious that all the events of this, his first race meeting, should be started on time. "hurry up. our race will be called in five minutes, and you've barely time to dress for it." "where's my wheel?" asked snyder, glancing over the dozen or more machines stacked at one side of the room, but without seeing his own. "i haven't seen it," answered rod, "but i supposed you had left it in some safe place." "so i did. i left it in the club house, where there would be no chance of anybody tampering with it; for i've heard of such things happening, but i ordered dan to have it down here in time for the race." "do you mean to insinuate--" began rod hotly; but controlling himself, he continued more calmly, "i didn't know that you had given dan any orders, and i sent him over to the house on an errand a few minutes ago. never mind, though, i'll go for your machine myself, and have it here by the time you are dressed." without waiting for a reply, the young captain started off on a run, while his adopted cousin began leisurely to undress, and get into his racing costume. by the time he was ready, rod had returned leading the beautiful machine, which he had not ridden for fear lest some accident might happen to it. then the race was called, and a pistol shot sent the five young athletes bending low over their handle-bars spinning down the course. they all wore the club colors of scarlet and white; but from rod's bicycle fluttered the bit of blue ribbon that dan had been sent to the young captain's room to get, and which he had hastily knotted to the handle-bar of his machine just before starting. eltje vanderveer smiled and flushed slightly as she noticed it, and then all her attention was concentrated upon the varying fortunes of the flying wheelmen. it was a five-mile race, and therefore a test of endurance rather than of strength or skill. there were two laps to the mile, and for seven of these snyder appleby held an easy lead. his name was heard above all others in the cheering that greeted each passing of the grand stand, though the others were encouraged to stick to him and not give it up yet. that two of them had no intention of giving it up, was shown at the end of the eighth lap, when the three leading wheels whirled past the grand stand so nearly abreast that no advantage could be claimed for either one. now the cheering was tremendous; but the names of rod blake and billy bliss were tossed from mouth to mouth equally with that of snyder appleby. at the end of nine laps the champion of two years had fallen hopelessly behind. his face wore a distressed look, and his breath came in painful gasps. cigarettes had done their work with him, and his wind was gone. the two leaders were still abreast; but rod had obtained the inside position, and if he could keep up the pace the race was his. eltje vanderveer's face was pale, and her hands were clinched with the intense excitement of the moment. was her champion to win after all? was her bit of blue ribbon to be borne triumphantly to the front? inch by inch it creeps into a lead. now they are coming down the home stretch. the speed of that last spurt is wonderful. nothing like it has ever been seen at the wind-up of a five-mile race on the euston track. looking at them, head on, it is for a few seconds hard to tell which is leading. then a solitary shout for rod blake is heard. in another moment it has swelled into a perfect roar of cheering, and there is a tempest of tossing hats, handkerchiefs, and parasols. [illustration: rod blake wins by a length.--(_page ._)] rod blake has won by a length, billy bliss is second, snyder appleby was such a bad third that he has gone to the dressing-room without finishing, and the others are nowhere. the speed of the winning wheels cannot be checked at once, and as they go shooting on past the stand, the exhausted riders are seen to reel in their saddles. they would have fallen but for the willing hands outstretched to receive them. dan is the first to reach the side of his adored young master, and as the boy drops into his arms, the faithful fellow says: "you've won it, mister rod! you've won it fair and square; but you want to look out for mister snyder. i heerd him a-saying bad things about you when he passed me on that last lap, and i'm afeard he means some kind of mischief." chapter iii. a cruel accusation. the attention of the spectators, including the club members, was so entirely given to the finish of the famous race for the railroad cup, that, for a few minutes snyder appleby was the sole occupant of the dressing-room. when a group of the fellows, forming a sort of triumphal escort to the victors, noisily entered it, they found him standing by his machine. it was supported by two rests placed under its handle bars, and he was gazing curiously at the big wheel, which he was slowly spinning with one hand. "hello, 'cider'!" cried the first of the new-comers, "what's up? anything the matter with your wheel?" "i believe there is," answered the ex-captain, in such a peculiar tone of voice that it at once arrested attention. "i don't know what is wrong, and i wouldn't make an examination until some of you fellows came in. in a case like this i believe in having plenty of witnesses and doing everything openly." "what do you mean?" asked one of the group, whose noisy entrance was now succeeded by a startled silence. "turn that wheel and you'll see what i mean," replied snyder. "why, it turns as hard as though it were running on plain bearing that had never been oiled!" exclaimed the member who had undertaken to turn the wheel as requested. "that's just it, and i don't think it's very surprising that i failed to win the race with a wheel in that condition, do you?" "indeed i do not. the only surprising thing is that you held the lead so long as you did, and managed to come in third. i know i couldn't have run a single lap if i'd been on that wheel. what's the matter with it? wasn't it all right when you started?" "i thought it was," replied snyder, "but i soon found that something was wrong, and before i left the track it was all i could do to move it. now, i want you fellows to find out what the matter is." a few moments of animated discussion followed, while several of the fellows made a careful examination of the bicycle. "great scott!" exclaimed one; "what's in this oil cup? it looks as though it were choked with black sand." "it's emery powder!" cried another, extracting a few grains of the black, oil-soaked stuff on the point of a knife blade. "no wonder your wheel won't turn. how on earth did it get there?" "that is what i would like to find out," answered the owner of the machine. "it certainly was not there when i left the club house; for i had just gone over every part and assured myself that it was in perfect order. since then but two persons have touched it, and i am one of them. i don't think it likely that anybody will charge me with having done this thing, seeing that my sole interest was to win the race, and that if i so nearly succeeded with my wheel in this condition, i could easily have done so had it been all right. nothing could be more painful to me than to bring a charge against one who lives under the same roof that i do; but you all know who had the greatest interest in having me lose this race. i think you all know, too, that he is the only person besides myself who handled my wheel immediately before it. the one whom i trusted to bring it here in safety was sent off by this person on some frivolous errand at the last moment. then, neglecting other and important duties, he volunteered to get the machine himself. he was gone before i had a chance to decline his offer. that is all i have to say upon this most unpleasant subject, and i should not have said so much had not my own reputation, both as a racing man and a gentleman, been at stake. now i place the whole affair in the hands of the club, satisfied that they will do me justice." rod blake, seated on a camp-stool, with a heavy "sweater" thrown over his shoulders, and slowly recovering from the exhaustion of the race, had observed and listened to all this with a pained curiosity. he could not believe any member of the club guilty of such a cowardly act. when snyder began to charge him with having committed it, his face became deadly pale, and he gazed at his adopted cousin with an expression akin to terror. as the latter finished, the young captain sprang to his feet, exclaiming: "snyder appleby, how dare you bring such an accusation against me? you know i am incapable of doing such a thing! your wheel was in perfect condition when i delivered it to you, and you know it was." "i can easily believe that the fellow who would perform the act would be equally ready to lie out of it," replied snyder. "do you mean that i lie?" "that is about the size of it." this was more than the hot-tempered young athlete could bear; and almost before the words were out of snyder's mouth, a blow delivered with all the nervous force of rodman's right arm sent him staggering back. it would have laid him on the floor, had not several of the fellows caught him in their arms. he was furious with rage, and would have sprung at rodman had he not been restrained. as it was, he hissed through his clinched teeth, "i'll make you suffer for this yet, see if i don't." immediately after delivering the blow, rod turned, without a word, and began putting on his clothes. the fellows watched him in silence. a minute later he was dressed, and stood in the doorway. here he turned and said: "i am going home, fellows, and i shall wait there just one hour for an assurance that you have faith in me, and do not believe a word of this horrible charge. if such a message, sent by the whole club, reaches me within that time, i will undertake to prove my innocence. if it does not come, then i cease, not only to be your captain, but a member of the club." chapter iv. starting into the world. as rod finished speaking he left the room and walked away. he had hardly disappeared, and the fellows were still looking at each other in a bewildered fashion, when a message was sent in. it was that president vanderveer, who was distributing the prizes for the several races out in front of the grand stand, was ready to present the railroad cup to rodman blake, and wanted him to come and receive it. then somebody went out and whispered to the president. excusing himself for a moment to the throng of spectators, he visited the dressing-room, where he heard the whole story. it was hurriedly told; but he comprehended enough of it to know that the cup could not, at that moment, be presented to anybody. so he went back, and with a very sober face, told the people that owing to circumstances which he was not at liberty to explain just then, it was impossible to award the railroad cup at that meeting. the crowd slowly melted away; but before they left, everybody had heard one version or another of the story told to president vanderveer in the dressing-room. some believed rod to be innocent of the charge brought against him, and some believed him guilty. almost all of them said it was a pity that such races could not be won and lost honestly, and there must be some fire where there was so much smoke; and they told each other how they had noticed from the very first that something was wrong with snyder appleby's wheel. major appleby heard the story, first from president vanderveer, and afterwards from his adopted son, who confirmed it by displaying the side of his face which was swollen and bruised from rodman's blow. fully believing what snyder told him, the major became very angry. he declared that no such disgrace had ever before been brought to his house, and that the boy who was the cause of it could no longer be sheltered by his roof. in vain did people talk to him, and urge him to reflect before he acted. he had decided upon his course, and the more they advised him, the more determined he became not to be moved from it. while he was thus storming and fuming outside the dressing-room, the members of the wheel club were holding a meeting behind its closed door. did they believe rodman blake guilty of the act charged against him or did they not? the debate was a long and exciting one; but the question was finally decided in his favor. they did not believe him capable of doing anything so mean. they would make a thorough investigation of the affair, and aid him by every means in their power to prove his innocence. this was the purport of the message sent to the young captain by the club secretary, billy bliss; but it was sent too late. the members had taken no note of time in the heat of their discussion, and the hour named by rodman had already elapsed before billy bliss started on his errand. the fellows did not think a few minutes more or less would make any difference, though they urged the secretary to hurry and deliver his message as quickly as possible. a few minutes however did make all the difference in the world to rod blake. with him an hour meant exactly sixty minutes; and when billy bliss reached major appleby's house the boy whom he sought was nowhere to be found. major appleby and his adopted son walked home together, the former full of wrath at what he believed to be the disgraceful action of his nephew, and the latter secretly rejoicing at it. on reaching the house, the major went at once to rodman's room where he found the boy gazing from the window, with a hard, defiant, expression on his face. he was longing for a single loving word; for a mother's sympathetic ear into which he might pour his griefs; but his pride was prepared to withstand any harshness, as well as to resent the faintest suspicion of injustice. "well, sir," began the major, "what have you to say for yourself? and how do you explain this disgraceful affair?" "i cannot explain it, uncle; but----" "that will do, sir. if you cannot explain it, i want to hear nothing further. what i do want, however, is that you shall so arrange your future plans that you may no longer be dependent on my roof for shelter. here is sufficient money for your immediate needs. as my sister's child you have a certain claim on me. this i shall be willing to honor to the extent of providing you against want, whenever you have settled upon your mode of life, and choose to favor me with your future address. the sooner you can decide upon your course of action the better." thus saying the kind-hearted, impetuous, and wrong-headed old major laid a roll of bills on the table, and left the room. fifteen minutes later, or five minutes before billy bliss reached the house, rod blake also left the room. the roll of bills lay untouched where his uncle had placed it, and he carried only his m. i. p. or bicycle travelling bag, containing the pictures of his parents, a change of underclothing, and a few trifles that were absolutely his own. he passed out of the house by a side door, and was seen but by one person as he plunged into the twilight shadows of the park. thus, through the gathering darkness, the poor boy, proud, high-spirited, and, as he thought, friendless, set forth alone, to fight his battle with the world. chapter v. choosing a career. as rod blake, heavy-hearted, and weary, both mentally and physically from his recent struggles, left his uncle's house, he felt utterly reckless, and paid no heed to the direction his footsteps were taking. his one idea was to get away as quickly, and as far as possible, from those who had treated him so cruelly. "if only the fellows had stood by me," he thought, "i might have stayed and fought it out. but to have them go back on me, and take snyder's word in preference to mine, is too much." had the poor boy but known that billy bliss was even then hastening to bear a message of good-will and confidence in him from the "fellows" how greatly his burden of trial would have been lightened. but he did not know, and so he pushed blindly on, suffering as much from his own hasty and ill-considered course of action, as from the more deliberate cruelty of his adopted cousin. at length he came to the brow of a steep slope leading down to the railroad, the very one of which eltje's father was president. the railroad had always possessed a fascination for him, and he had often sat on this bank watching the passing trains, wondering at their speed, and speculating as to their destinations. he had frequently thought he should like to lead the life of a railroad man, and had been pleased when the fellows called him "railroad blake" on account of his initials. now, this idea presented itself to him again more strongly than ever. an express train thundered by. the ruddy glow from the furnace door of its locomotive, which was opened at that moment, revealed the engineman seated in the cab, with one hand on the throttle lever, and peering steadily ahead through the gathering gloom. what a glorious life he led! so full of excitement and constant change. what a power he controlled. how easy it was for him to fly from whatever was unpleasant or trying. as these thoughts flashed through the boy's mind, the red lights at the rear of the train seemed to blink pleasantly at him, and invite him to follow them. "i will," he cried, springing to his feet. "i will follow wherever they may lead me. why should i not be a railroad man as well as another? they have all been boys and all had to begin some time." at this moment he was startled by a sound of a voice close beside him saying, "supper is ready, mister rod." it was dan the stable boy; and, as rodman asked him, almost angrily, how he dared follow him without orders, and what he was spying out his movements for, he replied humbly: "i ain't a-spying on you, mister rod, and i only followed you to tell you supper was ready, 'cause i thought maybe you didn't know it." "well, i didn't and it makes no difference whether i did or not," said rod. "i have left my uncle's house for good and all, dan, and there are no more suppers in it for me." "i was afeard so! i was afeard so, mister rod," exclaimed the boy with a real distress in his voice, "an' to tell the truth that's why i came after you. i couldn't a-bear to have you go without saying good-by, and i thought maybe, perhaps, you'd let me go along with you. please do, mister rod. i'll work for you and serve you faithfully, an' i'd a heap rather go on a tramp, or any place along with you, than stay here without you. please, mister rod." "no, dan, it would be impossible to take you with me," said rodman, who was deeply touched by this proof of his humble friend's loyalty. "it will be all i can do to find work for myself; but i'm grateful to you all the same for showing that you still think well of me. it's a great thing, i can tell you, for a fellow in my position to know that he leaves even one friend behind him when he is forced to go away from his only home." "you leaves a-plenty of them--a-plenty!" interrupted the stable boy eagerly. "i heerd miss eltje telling her father that it was right down cruel not to give you the cup, an' that you couldn't do a thing, such as they said, any more than she could, or he could himself. an' her father said no more did he believe you could, an' you'd come out of it all right yet. miss eltje was right up an' down mad about it, she was. oh, i tell you, mister rod, you've got a-plenty of friends; an' if you'll only stay you'll find 'em jest a-swarmin'." at this rodman laughed outright, and said: "dan, you are a fine fellow, and you have done me good already. now what i want you to do is just to stay here and discover some more friends for me. i will manage to let you know what i am doing; but you must not tell anybody a word about me, nor where i am, nor anything. now good-by, and mind, don't say a word about having seen me, unless miss eltje should happen to ask you. if she should, you might say that i shall always remember her, and be grateful to her for believing in me. good-by." with this rod plunged down the steep bank to the railroad track, and disappeared in the darkness. he went in the direction of the next station to euston, about five miles away, as he did not wish to be recognized when he made the attempt to secure a ride on some train to new york. it was to be an attempt only; for he had not a cent of money in his pockets, and had no idea of how he should obtain the coveted ride. in addition to being penniless, he was hungry, and his hunger was increased tenfold by the knowledge that he had no means of satisfying it. still he was a boy with unlimited confidence in himself. he always had fallen on his feet; and, though this was the worse fix in which he had ever found himself, he had faith that he would come out of it all right somehow. his heart was already so much lighter since he had learned from dan that some of his friends, and especially eltje vanderveer, still believed in him, that his situation did not seem half so desperate as it had an hour before. rod was already enough of a railroad man to know that, as he was going east, he must walk on the west bound track. by so doing he would be able to see trains bound west, while they were still at some distance from him, and would be in no danger from those bound east and overtaking him. when he was about half a mile from the little station, toward which he was walking, he heard the long-drawn, far-away whistle of a locomotive. was it ahead of him or behind? on account of the bewildering echoes he could not tell. to settle the question he kneeled down, and placed his ear against one of rails of the west bound track. it was cold and silent. then he tried the east bound track in the same way. this rail seemed to tingle with life, and a faint, humming sound came from it. it was a perfect railroad telephone, and it informed the listener as plainly as words could have told him, that a train was approaching from the west. he stopped to note its approach. in a few minutes the rails of the east bound track began to quiver with light from the powerful reflector in front of its locomotive. then they stretched away toward the oncoming train in gleaming bands of indefinite length, while the dazzling light seemed to cut a bright pathway between walls of solid blackness for the use of the advancing monster. as the bewildering glare passed him, rod saw that the train was a long, heavy-laden freight, and that some of its cars contained cattle. he stood motionless as it rushed past him, shaking the solid earth with its ponderous weight, and he drew a decided breath of relief at the sight of the blinking red eyes on the rear platform of its caboose. how he wished he was in that caboose, riding comfortably toward new york, instead of plodding wearily along on foot, with nothing but uncertainties ahead of him. chapter vi. smiler, the railroad dog. as rod stood gazing at the receding train he noticed a human figure step from the lighted interior of the caboose, through the open doorway, to the platform, apparently kick at something, and almost instantly return into the car. at the same time the boy fancied he heard a sharp cry of pain; but was not sure. as he resumed his tiresome walk, gazing longingly after the vanishing train lights, he saw another light, a white one that moved toward him with a swinging motion, close to the ground. while he was wondering what it was, he almost stumbled over a small animal that stood motionless on the track, directly in front of him. it was a dog. now rod dearly loved dogs, and seemed instinctively to know that this one was in some sort of trouble. as he stopped to pat it, the creature uttered a little whine, as though asking his sympathy and help. at the same time it licked his hand. while he was kneeling beside the dog and trying to discover what its trouble was, the swinging white light approached so closely that he saw it to be a lantern, borne by a man who, in his other hand, carried a long-handled iron wrench. he was the track-walker of that section, who was obliged to inspect every foot of the eight miles of track under his charge, at least twice a day; and the wrench was for the tightening of any loose rail joints that he might discover. "hello!" exclaimed this individual as he came before the little group, and held his lantern so as to get a good view of them. "what's the matter here?" "i have just found this dog," replied rod, "and he seems to be in pain. if you will please hold your light a little closer perhaps i can see what has happened to him." the man did as requested, and rod uttered an exclamation of pleasure as the light fell full upon the dog; for it was the finest specimen of a bull terrier he had ever seen. it was white and brindled, its chest was of unusual breadth, and its square jaws indicated a tenacity of purpose that nothing short of death itself could overcome. now one of its legs was evidently hurt, and it had an ugly cut under the left ear, from which blood was flowing. its eyes expressed an almost human intelligence; and, as it looked up at rod and tried to lick his face, it seemed to say, "i know you will be my friend, and i trust you to help me." about its neck was a leathern collar, bearing a silver plate, on which was inscribed: "be kind to me, for i am smiler the railroad dog." "i know this dog," exclaimed the track-walker, as he read these words, "and i reckon every railroad man in the country knows him; or at any rate has heard of him. he used to belong to andrew dean, who was killed when his engine went over the bank at hager's two years ago. he thought the world of the dog, and it used to travel with him most always; only once in a while it would go visiting on some of the other engines. it was off that way when andrew got killed, and since then it has travelled all over the country, like as though it was hunting for its old master. the dog lives on trains and engines, and railroad men are always glad to see him. some of them got up this collar for him a while ago. why, smiler, old dog, how did you come here in this fix? i never heard of you getting left or falling off a train before." "i think he must have come from the freight that just passed us," said rod, "and i shouldn't wonder," he added, suddenly recalling the strange movements of the figure he had seen appear for an instant at the caboose door, "if he was kicked off." then he described the scene of which he had caught a glimpse as the freight train passed him. "i'd like to meet the man who'd dare do such a thing," exclaimed the track-walker. "if i wouldn't kick him! he'd dance to a lively tune if any of us railroad chaps got hold of him, i can tell you. it must have been an accident, though; for nobody would hurt smiler. now i don't know exactly what to do. smiler can't be left here, and i'm afraid he isn't able to walk very far. if i had time i'd carry him back to the freight. she's side-tracked only a quarter of a mile from here, waiting for number to pass. i'm due at euston inside of an hour, and i don't dare waste any more time." "i'll take him if you say so," answered rod, who had been greatly interested in the dog's history. "i believe i can carry him that far." "all right," replied the track-walker. "i wish you would. you'll have to move lively though; for if number is on time, as she generally is, you haven't a moment to lose." "i'll do my best," said the boy, and a moment later he was hurrying down the track with his m. i. p. bag strapped to his shoulders, and with the dog so strangely committed to his care, clasped tightly in his arms. at the same time the track-walker, with his swinging lantern, was making equally good speed in the opposite direction. as rod rounded a curve, and sighted the lights of the waiting freight train, he heard the warning whistle of number behind him, and redoubled his exertions. he did not stop even as the fast express whirled past him, though he was nearly blinded by the eddying cloud of dust and cinders that trailed behind it. but, if number was on time, so was he. though smiler had grown heavy as lead in his aching arms, and though his breath was coming in panting gasps, he managed to climb on the rear platform of the caboose, just as the freight was pulling out. how glad he was at that moment of the three weeks training he had just gone through with. it had won him something, even if his name was not to be engraved on the railroad cup of the steel wheel club. as the boy stood in the rear doorway of the caboose, gazing doubtfully into its interior, a young fellow who looked like a tramp, and who had been lying on one of the cushioned lockers, or benches, that ran along the sides of the car, sprang to his feet with a startled exclamation. at the same moment smiler drew back his upper lip so as to display a glistening row of teeth, and, uttering a deep growl, tried to escape from rod's arms. "what are you doing in this car! and what do you mean by bringing that dog in here?" cried the fellow angrily, at the same time advancing with a threatening gesture. "come, clear out of here or i'll put you out," he added. the better to defend himself, if he should be attacked, the boy dropped the dog; and, with another fierce growl, forgetful of his hurts, smiler flew at the stranger's throat. chapter vii. rod, smiler, and the tramp. "help! murder! take off your dog!" yelled the young tramp, throwing up his arm to protect his face from smiler's attack, and springing backward. in so doing he tripped and fell heavily to the floor, with the dog on top of him, growling savagely, and tearing at the ragged coat-sleeve in which his teeth were fastened. fearful lest the dog might inflict some serious injury upon the fellow, rodman rushed to his assistance. he had just seized hold of smiler, when a kick from the struggling tramp sent his feet flying from under him, and he too pitched headlong. there ensued a scene which would have been comical enough to a spectator, but which was anything but funny to those who took part in it. over and over they rolled, striking, biting, kicking, and struggling. the tramp was the first to regain his feet; but almost at the same instant smiler escaped from rod's embrace, and again flew at him. they had rolled over the caboose floor until they were close to its rear door; and now, with a yell of terror, the tramp darted through it, sprang from the moving train, and disappeared in the darkness, leaving a large piece of his trousers in the dog's mouth. just then the forward door was opened, and two men with lanterns on their arms, entered the car. they were conductor tobin, and rear-brakeman joe, his right-hand man, who had just finished switching their train back on the main track, and getting it again started on its way toward new york. at the sight of rod, who was of course a perfect stranger to them, sitting on the floor, hatless, covered with dust, his clothing bearing many signs of the recent fray, and ruefully feeling of a lump on his forehead that was rapidly increasing in size, and of smiler whose head was bloody, and who was still worrying the last fragment of clothing that the tramp's rags had yielded him, they stood for a moment in silent bewilderment. "well, i'll be blowed!" said conductor tobin at length. "me too," said brakeman joe, who believed in following the lead of his superior officer. "may i inquire," asked conductor tobin, seating himself on a locker close to where rod still sat on the floor, "may i inquire who you are? and where you came from? and how you got here? and what's happened to smiler? and what's came of the fellow we left sleeping here a few minutes ago? and what's the meaning of all this business, anyway?" "yes, we'd like to know," said the brakeman, taking a seat on the opposite locker, and regarding the boy with a curiosity that was not unmixed with suspicion. owing to extensive dealings with tramps, brakeman joe was very apt to be suspicious of all persons who were dirty, and ragged, and had bumps on their foreheads. "the trouble is," replied rod, looking first at conductor tobin and then at brakeman joe, "that i don't know all about it myself. nobody does except the fellow who just left here in such a hurry, and smiler, who can't tell." here the dog, hearing his name mentioned, dragged himself rather stiffly to the boy's side; for now that the excitement was over, his hurts began to be painful again, and licked his face. [illustration: smiler drives off the tramp.--(_page ._)] "well, you must be one of the right sort, at any rate," said conductor tobin, noting this movement, "for smiler is a dog that doesn't make friends except with them as are." "he knows what's what, and who's who," added brakeman joe, nodding his head. "don't you, smiler, old dog?" "my name," continued the boy, "is r. r. blake." "railroad blake?" interrupted conductor tobin inquiringly. "or 'runaway blake'?" asked brakeman joe who, still somewhat suspicious, was studying the boy's face and the m. i. p. bag attached to his shoulders. "both," answered rod, with a smile. "the boys where i live, or rather where i did live, often call me 'railroad blake,' and i am a runaway. that is, i was turned away first, and ran away afterwards." then, as briefly as possible, he gave them the whole history of his adventures, beginning with the bicycle race, and ending with the disappearance of the young tramp through the rear door of the caboose in which they sat. both men listened with the deepest attention, and without interrupting him save by occasional ejaculations, expressive of wonder and sympathy. "well, i'll be blowed!" exclaimed conductor tobin, when he had finished; while brakeman joe, without a word, went to the rear door and examined the platform, with the hope, as he afterwards explained, of finding there the fellow who had kicked smiler off the train, and of having a chance to serve him in the same way. coming back with a disappointed air, he proceeded to light a fire in the little round caboose stove, and prepare a pot of coffee for supper, leaving rodman's case to be managed by conductor tobin as he thought best. the latter told the boy that the young tramp, as they called him, was billed through to new york, to look after some cattle that were on the train; but that he was a worthless, ugly fellow, who had not paid the slightest attention to them, and whose only object in accepting the job was evidently to obtain a free ride in the caboose. smiler, whom he had been delighted to find on the train when it was turned over to him, had taken a great dislike to the fellow from the first. he had growled and shown his teeth whenever the tramp moved about the car, and several times the latter had threatened to teach him better manners. when he and brakeman joe went to the forward end of the train, to make ready for side-tracking it, they left the dog sitting on the rear platform of the caboose, and the tramp apparently asleep, as rod had found him, on one of the lockers. he must have taken advantage of their absence to deal the dog the cruel kick that cut his ear, and landed him, stunned and bruised, on the track where he had been discovered. "i'm glad he's gone," concluded conductor tobin, "for if he hadn't left, we would have fired him for what he did to smiler. we won't have that dog hurt on this road, not if we know it. it won't hurt him to have to walk to new york, and i don't care if he never gets there. what worries me, though, is who'll look after those cattle, and go down to the stock-yard with them, now that he's gone." "why couldn't i do it?" asked rod eagerly. "i'd be glad to." "you!" said conductor tobin incredulously. "why, you look like too much of a gentleman to be handling cattle." "i hope i am a gentleman," answered the boy with a smile; "but i am a very poverty-stricken one just at present, and if i can earn a ride to the city, just by looking after some cattle, i don't know why i shouldn't do that as well as anything else. what i would like to do though, most of all things, is to live up to my nickname, and become a railroad man." "you would, would you?" said conductor tobin. then, as though he were propounding a conundrum, he asked: "do you know the difference between a railroad man and a chap who wants to be one?" "i don't know that i do," answered the boy. "well, the difference is, that the latter gets what he deserves, and the former deserves what he gets. what i mean is, that almost anybody who is willing to take whatever job is offered him can get a position on a railroad; but before he gets promoted he will have to deserve it several times over. in other words, it takes more honesty, steadiness, faithfulness, hard work, and brains to work your way up in railroad life than in any other business that i know of. however, at present, you are only going along with me as stockman, in which position i am glad to have you, so we won't stop now to discuss railroading. let's see what joe has got for supper, for i'm hungry and i shouldn't be surprised if you were." indeed rod was hungry, and just at that moment the word supper was the most welcome of the whole english language. first, though, he went to the wash-basin that he noticed at the forward end of the car. there he bathed his face and hands, brushed his hair, restored his clothing to something like order, and altogether made himself so presentable, that conductor tobin laughed when he saw him, and declared that he looked less like a stockman than ever. how good that supper, taken from the mammoth lunch pails of the train crew, tasted, and what delicious coffee came steaming out of the smoke-blackened pot that brakeman joe lifted so carefully from the stove! to be sure it had to be taken without milk, but there was plenty of sugar, and when rod passed his tin cup for a second helping, the coffee maker's face fairly beamed with gratified pride. after these three and smiler had finished their supper, conductor tobin lighted his pipe, and, climbing up into the cupola of the caboose, stretched himself comfortably on the cushioned seat arranged there for his especial accommodation. from here, through the windows ahead, behind, and on both sides of the cupola, he had an unobstructed view out into the night. brakeman joe went out over the tops of the cars to call in the other two brakeman of the train, and keep watch for them, while they went into the caboose and ate their supper. they looked curiously at rod as they entered the car; but were too well used to seeing strangers riding there to ask any questions. they both spoke to smiler though, and he wagged his tail as though recognizing old friends. the dog could not go to them and jump up to be petted because rod was attending to his wounds. he carefully bathed the cut under the left ear, from which considerable blood had flowed, and drew its edges together with some sticking plaster, of which he always carried a small quantity in his m. i. p. bag. then, finding one of the dog's fore shoulders strained and swollen, he soaked it for some time in water as hot as the animal could bear. after arranging a comfortable bed in one corner of the car, he finally persuaded smiler to lie there quietly, though not until he had submitted to a grateful licking of his face and hands. next the boy turned his attention to the supper dishes, and had them very nearly washed and wiped when brakeman joe returned, greatly to that stalwart fellow's surprise and delight; for joe hated to wash dishes. by this time rod had been nearly two hours on the train, and was so thoroughly tired that he concluded to lie down and rest until he should be wanted for something else. he did not mean to even close his eyes, but within three minutes he was fast asleep. all through the night he slept, while the long freight train, stopping only now and then for water, or to allow some faster train to pass it, rumbled heavily along toward the great city. he could not at first realize where he was, when, in the gray of the next morning, a hand was laid on his shoulder, and conductor tobin's voice said: "come, my young stockman, here we are at the end of our run, and it is time for you to be looking after your cattle." a quick dash of cold water on his head and face cleared the boy's faculties in an instant. then conductor tobin pointed out the two stock cars full of cattle that were being uncoupled from the rest of the train, and bade him go with them to the stock-yard. there he was to see that the cattle were well watered and safely secured in the pen that would be assigned to them. rod was also told that he might leave his bag in the caboose and come back, after he was through with his work, for a bit of breakfast with brakeman joe, who lived at the other end of the division, and always made the car his home when at this end. as for himself, conductor tobin said he must bid the boy good-by, as he lived a short distance out on the road, and must hurry to catch the train that would take him home. he would be back, ready to start out again with the through freight, that evening, and hoped rod would come and tell him what luck he had in obtaining a position. then rough but kind-hearted conductor tobin left the boy, never for a moment imagining that he was absolutely penniless and without friends in that part of the country, or in the great city across the river. for the next two hours rod worked hard and faithfully with the cattle committed to his charge, and then, anticipating with a keen appetite a share of brakeman joe's breakfast, he returned to where he had left the caboose. it was not there, nor could he find a trace of it. he saw plenty of other cabooses looking just like it, but none of them was the one he wanted. he inquired of a busy switch-tender where it could be found, and the man asked him its number. he had not noticed. what was the number of the train with which it came in? rod had no idea. the number of the locomotive that drew it then? the boy did not know that either. "well," said the man impatiently, "you don't seem to know much of anything, and i'd advise you to learn what it is you want to find out before you bother busy folks with questions." so the poor fellow was left standing alone and bewildered in the great, busy freight-yard, friendless and hungry. he had lost even the few treasures contained in his m. i. p. bag, and never had life seemed darker or more hopeless. for some moments he could not think what to do, or which way to turn. chapter viii. earning a breakfast. if rod blake had only known the number of the caboose for which he was searching, he could easily have learned what had happened to it. soon after he left it, while it was being switched on to a siding, one of its draw-bars became broken, and it had been sent to the repair shop, a mile or so away, to be put in condition for going out again that night. he had not thought of looking at its number, though; for he had yet to learn that on a railroad everything goes by numbers instead of by names. a few years ago all locomotives bore names, such as "flying cloud," "north wind," etc., or were called after prominent men; but now they are simply numbered. it is the same with cars, except sleepers, drawing-rooms, and a few mail cars. trains are also numbered, odd numbers being given to west or south bound, and even numbers to east or north bound trains. thus, while a passenger says he is going out by the chicago limited, the pacific express, or the fitchburg local, the railroad man would say that he was going on no. , , or , as the case might be. the sections, from three to eight miles long, into which every road is divided, are numbered, as are all its bridges. even the stations are numbered, and so are the tracks. all this rodman discovered afterwards; but he did not know it then, and so he was only bewildered by the switchman's questions. for a few minutes he stood irresolute, though keeping a sharp lookout for the hurrying switch engines, and moving cars that, singly or in trains, were flying in all directions about him, apparently without any reason or method. finally he decided to follow out his original plan of going to the superintendent's office and asking for employment. by inquiry he found that it was located over the passenger station, nearly a mile away from where he stood. when he reached the station, and inquired for the person of whom he was in search, he was laughed at, and told that the "super" never came to his office at that time of day, nor until two or three hours later. so, feeling faint for want of breakfast, as well as tired and somewhat discouraged, the boy sat down in the great bustling waiting-room of the station. at one side of the room was a lunch-counter, from which the odor of newly-made coffee was wafted to him in the most tantalizing manner. what wouldn't he give for a cup at that moment? but there was no use in thinking of such things; and so he resolutely turned his back upon the steaming urn, and the tempting pile of eatables by which it was surrounded. in watching the endless streams of passengers steadily ebbing and flowing past him, he almost forgot the emptiness of his stomach. where could they all be going to, or coming from? did people always travel in such overwhelming numbers, that it seemed as though the whole world were on the move, or was this some special occasion? he thought the latter must be the case, and wondered what the occasion was. then there were the babies and children! how they swarmed about him! he soon found that he could keep pretty busy, and win many a grateful smile from anxious mothers, by capturing and picking up little toddlers who would persist in running about and falling down right in the way of hurrying passengers. he also kept an eye on the old ladies, who were so flustered and bewildered, and asked such meaningless questions of everybody, that he wondered how they were ever to reach their destinations in safety. one of these deposited a perfect avalanche of little bags, packages, and umbrellas on the seat beside him. several of them fell to the floor, and rod was good-naturedly picking them up when he was startled by the sound of a clear, girlish voice that he knew as well as he knew his own, directly behind him. he turned, with a quickly beating heart, and saw eltje vanderveer. she was walking between her father and snyder appleby. they had already passed without seeing him, and had evidently just arrived by an early morning train from euston. rod's first impulse was to run after them; and, starting to do so, he was only a step behind them when he heard snyder say: "he must have money, because he refused a hundred dollars that the major offered him. at any rate we'll hear from him soon enough if he gets hard up or into trouble. he isn't the kind of a----" but rod had already turned away, and what he wasn't, in snyder's opinion, he never knew. he had hardly resumed his seat, when there was a merry jingle on the floor beside him, and a quantity of silver coins began to roll in all directions. the nervous old lady of the bags and bundles had dropped her purse, and now she stood gazing at her scattered wealth, the very image of despair. "never mind, ma'am," said rod, cheerily, as he began to capture the truant coins. "i'll have them all picked up in a moment." it took several minutes of searching here and there, under the seats, and in all sorts of out-of-the-way hiding places, before all the bits of silver were recovered, and handed to their owner. she drew a great sigh of relief as she counted her money and found that none was lost. then, beaming at the boy through her spectacles, she said: "well, thee is an honest lad; and, if thee'll look after my bags while i get my ticket, and then help me to the train, i'll give thee a quarter." rod was on the point of saying, politely: "i shall be most happy to do anything i can for you, ma'am; but i couldn't think of accepting pay for it," when the thought of his position flashed over him. a quarter would buy him a breakfast, and it would be honorably earned too. would it not be absolutely wrong to refuse it under the circumstances? thus thinking, he touched his cap, and said: "certainly i will do all i can to help you, ma'am, and will be glad of the chance to earn a quarter." when the old lady had procured her ticket, and rod had received the first bit of money he had ever earned in his life by helping her to a comfortable seat in the right car, she would have detained and questioned him, but for her fear that he might be carried off. so she bade him hurry from the car as quickly as possible, though it still lacked nearly ten minutes of the time of starting. the hungry boy knew well enough where he wanted to go, and what he wanted to do, now. in about three seconds after leaving the car he was seated at the railroad lunch-counter, with a cup of coffee, two hard-boiled eggs, and a big hot roll before him. he could easily have disposed of twice as much; but prudently determined to save some of his money for another meal, which he realized, with a sigh, would be demanded by his vigorous appetite before the day was over. to his dismay, when he asked the young woman behind the counter how much he owed for what he had eaten, she answered, "twenty-five cents, please." he thought there must be some mistake, and asked her if there was not; but she answered: "not at all. ten cents for coffee, ten for eggs, and five for the roll." with this she swept rod's solitary quarter into the money-drawer, and turned to wait on another customer. "well, it costs something to live," thought the boy, ruefully, as he walked away from the counter. "at that rate i could easily have eaten a dollar's worth of breakfast, and i certainly sha'n't choose this for my boarding place, whatever happens." chapter ix. gaining a foothold. though he could have eaten more, rod felt decidedly better for the meal so unexpectedly secured, and made up his mind that now was the time to see the superintendent and ask for employment. so he made his way to that gentleman's office, where he was met by a small boy, who told him that the superintendent had been there a few minutes before, but had gone away with president vanderveer. "when will he be back?" asked rod. "not till he gets ready," was the reply; "but the best time to catch him is about five o'clock." for the next six hours poor rod wandered about the station and the railroad yard, with nothing to do and nobody to speak to, feeling about as lonely and uncomfortable as it is possible for a healthy and naturally light-hearted boy to feel. he strolled into the station twenty times to study the slow moving hands of its big clock, and never had the hours appeared to drag along so wearily. when not thus engaged he haunted the freight yard, mounting the steps of every caboose he saw, in the hope of recognizing it. at length, to his great joy, shortly before five o'clock he saw, through a window set in the door of one of these, the well-remembered interior in which he had spent the preceding night. he could not be mistaken, for there lay his own m. i. p. bag on one of the lockers. but the car was empty, and its doors were locked. carefully observing its number, which was , and determined to return to it as quickly as possible, rod directed his steps once more in the direction of the superintendent's office. the same boy whom he had seen in the morning greeted him with an aggravating grin, and said: "you're too late. the 'super' was here half an hour ago; but he's left, and gone out over the road. perhaps he won't be back for a week." "oh!" exclaimed rod in such a hopeless tone that even the boy's stony young heart was touched by it. "is it r. r. b.?" he asked, meaning, "are you on railroad business?" "yes," answered rod, thinking his own initials were meant. "then perhaps the private secretary can attend to it," said the boy. "he's in there." here he pointed with his thumb towards an inner room, "and i'll go see." in a moment he returned, saying, "yes. he says he'll see you if it's r. r. b., and you can go right in." rodman did as directed, and found himself in a handsomely-furnished office, which, somewhat to his surprise, was filled with cigarette smoke. in it, with his back turned toward the door, and apparently busily engaged in writing, a young man sat at one of the two desks that it contained. "well, sir," said this individual, without looking up, in a voice intended to be severe and business-like, but which was somewhat disguised by a cigarette held between his teeth, "what can i do for you?" "i came," answered rod, hesitatingly, "to see if the superintendent of this road could give me any employment on it." the words were not out of his mouth, before the private secretary, wheeling abruptly about, disclosed the unwelcome face of snyder appleby. "well, if this isn't a pretty go!" he exclaimed, with a sneer. "so you've come here looking for work, have you? i'd like to know what you know about railroad business, anyhow? no, sir; you won't get a job on this road, not if i can help it, and i rather think i can. the best thing for you to do is to go back to euston, and make up with the old gentleman. he's soft enough to forgive anything, if you're only humble enough. as for the idea of you trying to be a railroad man, it's simply absurd. we want men, not boys, in this business." too surprised and indignant to reply at once to this cruel speech, and fearful lest he should be unable to control his temper if he remained a moment longer in the room, rodman turned, without a word, and hurried from it. he was choked with a bitter indignation, and could not breathe freely until he was once more outside the building, and in the busy railroad yard. as he walked mechanically forward, hardly noting, in the raging tumult of his thoughts, whither his steps were tending, a heavy hand was laid on his shoulder, and a hearty voice exclaimed: "hello, young fellow! where have you been, and where are you bound? i've been looking for you everywhere. here's your grip that i was just taking to the lost-parcel room." it was brakeman joe, with rod's m. i. p. bag in his hand, and his honest, friendly countenance seemed to the unhappy boy the very most welcome face he had ever seen. they walked together to caboose number , where rod poured into the sympathizing ears of his railroad friend the story of his day's experience. "well, i'll be blowed!" exclaimed brakeman joe, using conductor tobin's favorite expression, when the boy had finished. "if that isn't tough luck, then i don't know what is. but i'll tell you what we'll do. i can't get you a place on the road, of course; but i believe you are just on time for a job, such as it is, that will put a few dollars in your pocket, and keep you for a day or two, besides giving you a chance to pick up some experience of a trainman's life." "oh, if you only will!----" began the boy, gratefully. "better wait till you hear what it is, and we see if we can get it," interrupted joe. "you see the way of it is this, there was a gent around here awhile ago with a horse, that he wants to send out on our train, to some place in the western part of the state. i don't know just where it's going, but his brother is to meet it at the end of our run, and take charge of it from there. now the chap that the gent had engaged to look after the horse that far, has gone back on him, and didn't show up here as he promised, and the man's looking for somebody else. we'll just go down to the stock-yard, and if he hasn't found anybody yet, maybe you can get the job. see?" half an hour later it was all arranged. the gentleman was found, and had not yet engaged any one to take the place of his missing man. he was so pleased with rod's appearance, besides being so thoroughly satisfied by the flattering recommendations given him by brakeman joe, and the master of the stock-yard, who had noticed the boy in the morning, that he readily employed him, offering him five dollars for the trip. so rod's name was written on the way-bill, he helped get the horse, whose name was juniper, comfortably fixed in the car set apart for him, and then he gladly accepted the gentleman's invitation to dine with him in a restaurant near by. there he received his final instructions. chapter x. a thrilling experience. between the time that rod took charge of juniper, and the time of the train's starting, the young "stockman," as he was termed on the way-bill, had some pretty lively experiences. before the owner of the horse left, he handed the boy two dollars and fifty cents, which was half the amount he had agreed to pay him, and a note to his brother, requesting him to pay the bearer the same sum at the end of the trip. after spending fifty cents for a lunch, consisting of crackers, cheese, sandwiches, and a pie, for the boy had no idea of going hungry again if he could help it, nor of paying the extravagant prices charged at railroad lunch-counters, rod took his place, with juniper, in car number , which was the one assigned to them. here he proceeded to make the acquaintance of his charge; and, aided by a few lumps of sugar that he had obtained for this purpose, he soon succeeded in establishing the most friendly relations between them. suddenly, while he was patting and talking to the horse, car number received a heavy bump from a string of empties, that had just been sent flying down the track on which it stood, by a switch engine. juniper was very nearly flung off his feet, and was greatly frightened. before rod could quiet him, there came another bump from the opposite direction, followed by a jerk. then the car began to move, while juniper, quivering in every limb, snorted with terror. now came a period of "drilling," as it is called, that proved anything but pleasant either to the boy or to the frightened animal. the car was pushed and pulled from one track to another, sometimes alone and sometimes in company with other cars. the train of which it was to form a part was being made up, and the "drilling" was for the purpose of getting together the several cars bound to certain places, and of placing those that were to be dropped off first, behind those that were to make the longest runs. juniper's fears increased with each moment, until at length, when a passenger locomotive, with shrieking whistle, rushed past within a few feet, he gave a jump that broke the rope halter confining him, and bounded to the extreme end of the car. rod sprang to the open door--not with any idea of leaving the car, oh, no! his sense of duty was too strong for that, but for the purpose of closing it so that the horse should not leap out. then he approached the terrified animal with soothing words, and caught hold of the broken halter. at the same moment the car was again set in motion, and the horse, now wild with terror, flew to the other end, dragging rod after him. the only lantern in the car was overturned and its light extinguished, so that the struggle between boy and horse was continued in utter darkness. finally a tremendous bump of the car flung the horse to the floor; and, before he could regain his feet, rod was sitting on his head. the boy was panting from his exertions, as well as bruised from head to foot; but he was thankful to feel that no bones were broken, and hoped the horse had escaped serious injury as well as himself. after several minutes of quiet he became satisfied that that last bump was the end of the drilling, and that car number had at length reached its assigned position in the train. still he did not think it safe to let the horse up just yet, and so he waited until he heard voices outside. then he called for help. the next moment the car door was pushed open, and conductor tobin, followed by brakeman joe, entered it. "well, i'll be everlastingly blowed!" cried conductor tobin, using the very strongest form of his peculiar expression, as the light from his lantern fell on the strange tableau presented by the boy and horse. "if this doesn't beat all the stock-tending i ever heard of. joe here was just telling me you was going out with us to-night, in charge of a horse, and we were looking for your car. but what are you doing to him?" "sitting on his head," answered rod, gravely. "so i see," said conductor tobin, "and you look very comfortable; but how does he like it?" "i don't suppose he likes it at all," replied the boy; "but i couldn't think of anything else to do." then he told them of the terror inspired in the animal by the recent drilling; how it had broken loose and dragged him up and down the car, and how he came to occupy his present position. "well, you've got sand!" remarked conductor tobin admiringly when the story was finished. "more 'n i have," he added. "i wouldn't have stayed here in the dark, with a loose horse tearing round like mad. not for a month's pay i wouldn't." "no more would i," said brakeman joe; "a scared hoss is a terror." then they brought some stout ropes, and juniper was helped to his feet, securely fastened and soothed and petted until all his recent terror was forgotten. to rod's great delight he was found to be uninjured, except for some insignificant scratches; and by his recent experience he was so well broken to railroad riding that he endured the long trip that followed with the utmost composure. chapter xi. a battle with tramps. after quieting juniper, and having the satisfaction of seeing him begin to eat hay quite as though he were in his own stable, rod left the car and followed his railroad friends in order to learn something about getting a train ready for its run. he found them walking on opposite sides of it, examining each car by the light of their lanterns, and calling to each other the inscriptions on the little leaden seals by which the doors were fastened. these told where the cars came from, which information, together with the car numbers, and the initials showing to what road they belonged, conductor tobin jotted down in his train-book. he also compared it with similar information noted on certain brown cards, about as wide and twice as long as ordinary playing-cards, a package of which he carried in his hand. the destinations of the several cars could also be learned from these cards, which are called "running slips." each car in the train was represented by one of them, which would accompany it wherever it went, being handed from one conductor to another, until its final destination was reached. at length, about ten o'clock, through freight number , to which car number was attached, received its "clearance," or order to start, from the train-dispatcher, and began to move heavily out from the yard, on to the main west-bound track. juniper now did not seem to mind the motion of the car in the least; but continued quietly eating his hay as though he had been a railroad traveller all his life. so rod, who had watched him a little anxiously at first, had nothing to do but stand at the open door of his car and gaze at what scenery the darkness disclosed. now that he was beginning to comprehend their use, he was deeply interested in the bright red, green, and white lights of the semaphore signals that guarded every switch and siding. he knew that at night a white light displayed from the top of a post, or swung across the track in the form of a lantern, meant safety, a red light meant danger, and a green light meant caution. if it had been daytime he would have seen thin wooden blades, about four feet long by six inches wide, pivoted near the top of the same posts that now displayed the lights. he would have learned that when these stretched out horizontally over the track, their warning colors must be regarded by every engineman; while if they hung down at an angle, no attention need be paid to them. being a very observant boy, as well as keenly interested in everything to be seen on a railroad, rod soon discovered that the semaphore lights also appeared at intervals of a few miles along the track, at places where there were no switches, and that these always moved as soon as the train passed them. he afterwards discovered that these guarded the ends of the five-mile blocks, into which the road was divided along its entire length. each of the stations, at these points, is occupied by a telegraph operator who, as soon as the train enters his block, displays a red danger signal behind it. this forbids any other train to enter the block, on that track, until he receives word from the operator at the other end of the block that the first train has passed out of it. then he changes his signal from red to white, as a notice that the block is free for the admission of the next train. this "block system," as it is called, which is now in use on all principal railroad lines, renders travel over them very much safer than it used to be before the system was devised. after watching the semaphore lights for some time, and after assuring himself that juniper was riding comfortably, rod spread a blanket, that brakeman joe had loaned him, over a pile of loose hay, placed his m. i. p. bag for a pillow, and in a few minutes was sleeping on this rude bed as soundly as though he were at home. some hours later the long, heavily laden train stopped at the foot of the steep grade just east of euston, and was cut in two in order that half of it might be drawn to the top at a time. rear brakeman joe was left to guard the part of the train that remained behind, and he did this by walking back a few hundred yards along the track, and placing a torpedo on top of one of the rails. then he went back as much farther and placed two torpedoes, one a rail's length behind the other. these railroad torpedoes are small, round tin boxes, about the size of a silver dollar, filled with percussion powder. to each is attached two little straps of lead, which are bent under the upper part of the rail to hold the torpedo in position. when it is struck by the ponderous wheels of a locomotive, it explodes with the sound of a cannon cracker. the explosion of two torpedoes, one directly after the other, is the signal for caution, and bids the engineman proceed slowly, keeping a sharp lookout for danger. the explosion of a single torpedo is the signal of immediate danger, and bids him stop his train as quickly as possible. thus brakeman joe had protected his train by arranging a cautionary signal, which would be followed immediately by that of danger. before his train started again he intended to take up the single torpedo, leaving only those calling for caution, to show that the freight had been delayed. in the meantime he decided to walk back to the cars left in his charge and see that no one was meddling with them. rod was too soundly asleep to know anything of all this, nor did he know when an ugly-looking fellow peered cautiously into his car, and said, in a low tone: "this here ain't it. it must be the one ahead." the first thing of which he was conscious was hearing, as in a dream, the sound of blows, mingled with shouts, and a pistol shot, and then brakeman joe's voice calling: "rod! rod blake! help! quick!" an instant later the boy had leaped from the car, and was by his friend's side, engaged in a desperate struggle with four as villainous-looking tramps as could well be found; though, of course, he could not judge of their appearance in the darkness. joe was wielding the heavy oak stick that at other times he used as a lever to aid him in twisting the brake wheels; but rod was obliged to depend entirely on his fists. the skill with which he used these was evidently a surprise to the big fellow who rushed at him, only to receive a stinging blow in the face, which was followed by others delivered with equal promptness and effect. there were a few minutes of fierce but confused fighting. then, all at once, rod found himself standing alone beside a car the door of which was half-way open. two of the tramps had mysteriously disappeared; he himself had sent a third staggering backward down the bank into a clump of bushes, and he could hear brakeman joe chasing the fourth down the track. a few minutes later the locomotive came back, sounding four long blasts and one short one on its whistle, as a recall signal for the rear flagman. it was coupled on, and some one waved a lantern, with an up-and-down motion, from the rear of the train, as a signal to go ahead. the engineman opened the throttle, and the great driving wheels spun round furiously; but the train refused to move. he sounded two long whistle blasts as a signal to throw off brakes. then a lantern was seen moving over the tops of the cars, the brakes that had been holding them, were loosened, and the signal to go ahead was again waved. after this the lantern disappeared as though it had been taken into the caboose, and the train moved on. its severed parts were re-united at the top of the grade, and it passed on out of the block in which all these events had taken place, before conductor tobin, who had wondered somewhat at not seeing brakeman joe, discovered that the faithful fellow was missing. he was not on top of any of the cars, nor in the caboose, and must have been left behind. well, it was too late to stop for him now. freight number must side-track at the next station, to allow the night express to pass, and it had already been so delayed, that there was no time to lose. when the station was reached, and conductor tobin had seen his train safely side-tracked, he went to look for rod blake. he meant to ask the boy to take brakeman joe's place for the rest of the run, or until that individual should rejoin them by coming ahead on some faster train. to his surprise the young stockman was not in car number , nor could a trace of him be found. he, too, had disappeared and the conductor began to feel somewhat alarmed, as well as puzzled, by such a curious and unaccountable state of affairs. chapter xii. bound, gagged, and a prisoner. when rod blake was left standing alone beside the train, after the short but sharp encounter with tramps described in the preceding chapter, he was as bewildered by its sudden termination as he had been, on awaking from a sound sleep, to find himself engaged in it. he knew what had become of two of the tramps, for one of them he had sent staggering backward down the embankment, and brakeman joe was at that moment pursuing the second; but the disappearance of the others was a mystery. what could have become of them? they must have slipped away unnoticed, and taken advantage of the darkness to make good their escape. "yes, that must be it; for tramps are always cowards," thought the boy. "but four of them ought to have whipped two of us easy enough." then he wondered what the object of the attack could have been, and what the tramps were after. all at once it flashed into his mind that the m. s. and t. car number , beside which he was standing, was filled with costly silks and laces from france which were being sent west in bond. he had overheard conductor tobin say so; and, now, there was the door of that very car half-way open. the tramps must have learned of its valuable contents in some way, and been attempting to rob it when brakeman joe discovered them. what a plucky fellow joe was to tackle them single-handed. "i wonder if they got anything before he caught them?" thought the boy; and, to satisfy his curiosity on this point, he went to his own car for the lantern that was still hanging in it, and returned to car number , determined to have a look at its interior. as he could not see much of it from the ground, he set the lantern just within the open doorway, and began to climb in after it. he had hardly stepped inside, and was stooping to pick up his lantern, when he was knocked down by a heavy blow, and immediately seized by two men who sprang from out of the darkness on either side of him. without a word they bound his wrists with a stout bit of cord, and, thrusting his own handkerchief into his mouth, fastened it securely so that he could not utter a sound. then they allowed him to rise and sit on a box, where they took the precaution of passing a rope about his body and making it fast to an iron stanchion near the door. having thus secured him, one of the men, holding the lantern close to the boy's face, said in a threatening tone: "now, my chicken, perhaps this'll be a lesson to you never to interfere again in a business that doesn't concern you." "hello!" exclaimed the other, as he recognized rod's features, "if this ere hain't the same cove wot set the dog onto me last night. oh, you young willin, i'll get even with you now!" with this he made a motion as though to strike the helpless prisoner; but the other tramp restrained him, saying: "hold on, bill, we hain't got no time for fooling now. don't you hear the engine coming back? i'll take this lantern and give 'em the signal to go ahead, in case that fool of a brakeman doesn't turn up on time, which i don't believe he will." here the fellow chuckled meaningly. "you," he continued, "want to stay right here, and begin to pitch out the boxes as soon as she starts, and the rest of us'll be on hand to gather 'em in. you can easy jump out when she slows up at the top of the grade. you want to be sure, though, and shut the door behind you so as nothing won't be suspected, and so this chap'll have a good, long ride undisturbed by visitors; see?" if rod could not talk, he could still hear; and, by paying close attention to this conversation, he formed a very clear idea of the tramps' plans. they meant to rob car number of as many of its valuable packages as bill could throw from it while the train was on the grade. he felt satisfied that they had, in some way, disposed of brakeman joe. now, they intended to get rid of him by leaving him in the closed car, helplessly bound, and unable to call for assistance. what would become of him? that car might be going to san francisco for aught he knew, and its door might not be opened for days, or even weeks. it might not be opened until he was dead of thirst or starvation. what tortures might he not suffer in this moving prison? it seemed as though these thoughts would drive him crazy, and he realized that if he wished to retain his senses and think out a way of escape, he must not dwell upon them. [illustration: in the hands of the enemy.--(_page ._)] so he tried to think of plans for outwitting the tramps. the chances of so doing seemed slender enough; but he felt certain there must be some way. in the meantime one of his assailants had left the car, very nearly closing the door as he did so for fear lest somebody might come along and notice it if it were wide open. he had taken the lantern with him, the train was in motion, the young tramp called bill was already preparing to carry out his part of the programme and begin throwing out the boxes. suddenly, like a flash of lightning, a plan that would not only save the car from being robbed, but would ensure its door being opened before he could die of either thirst or hunger, darted into rod's mind. he knew that the car door closed with a spring latch that could only be opened from the outside. he knew that no one could board the train, now that it was in motion, to open the door. above all he knew that if the young tramp were shut in there with him he would not suffer long from hunger and thirst before raising his voice and making his presence known to outsiders. rod could reach the door with his foot. a quick push, the welcome click of the latch as it sprang sharply into place, and the plan was carried out. it took bill, the young tramp, several minutes to find out what had happened, and that the door could not be opened from the inside. when he finally realized his position he broke out with a torrent of yells and threats against his recent companions. it never occurred to him that rod had closed the door. he imagined that it must have been done from the outside, by one of his fellow thieves, and his rage against them knew no bounds. if he had for a moment suspected the captive, whom he regarded as helplessly bound, he would undoubtedly have directed his fury towards him, and rod might have suffered severely at his hands. as it was, he only yelled and kicked against the door until the train began to slow up at the top of the grade. then, fearful of attracting undesirable attention, he subsided into a sullen silence. while these things were happening to rod, brakeman joe was suffering even greater misfortunes. his left arm had been broken by the pistol shot, that was one of the first sounds of the fight by which the young stockman was awakened; and when he started in pursuit of the flying tramp, he was weaker than he realized, from loss of blood. the tramp quickly discovered that he could easily keep out of his pursuer's way. judging from this that the brakeman must be either wounded or exhausted, he gradually slackened his pace, until joe was close upon him. then springing to one side, and whirling around, the tramp dealt the poor fellow a blow on the head with the butt of a revolver, that stretched him senseless across the rails of the west-bound track. after satisfying himself that his victim was not in a condition to molest him again for some time to come, and brutally leaving him where he had fallen, directly in the path of the next west-bound train, the tramp began leisurely to retrace his steps toward freight number , in the plunder of which he now hoped to take a part. chapter xiii. how brakeman joe was saved. for ten minutes brakeman joe lies insensible and motionless, just as he fell. his own train has gone on without him, and now another is approaching. its shrill whistle sounds near at hand, and the rails, across which the helpless form is stretched, are already quivering with the thrill of its coming. there seems no earthly help for him; nothing to warn the controlling mind of that on-rushing mass of his presence. in a few seconds the tragedy will be over. suddenly, crack! crack! two loud reports ring out sharply above the roar and rattle of the train, one just after the other. the engineman is keenly alert on the instant; and, with one hand on the brake lever, the other on the throttle, he peers steadily ahead. the head-light, that seems so dazzling, and to cast its radiance so far, to those approaching it, in reality illumines but a short space to him who sits behind it, and the engineman sees no evidence of danger. there is no red beacon to stop him, nor any train on the track ahead. he is beginning to think the alarm a false one, when another report, loud and imperative, rings in his startled ear. in an instant the powerful air brakes are grinding against the wheels of every car in the night express, until the track is lighted with a blaze of streaming sparks. a moment later the rushing train is brought to a stop, inside half its own length. even now nobody knew why it had been stopped, nor what danger threatened it. it was not until the engineman left his cab, and discovered the senseless form of brakeman joe lying across the rails, less than a hundred feet away, that he knew why he had been signalled. the wounded man was recognized at once, as belonging to the train ahead of them; but how he came in that sad plight, and who had placed the warning torpedoes to which he owed his escape from death, were perplexing questions that none could answer. very tenderly they lifted him, and laid him in the baggage car. here conductor tobin found him a few minutes later, when, to his surprise, the night express, that generally whirled past him at full speed, slowed up and halted beside his own train, standing on the siding. "yes," this was his brakeman, one of the best and most faithful fellows in the service; but how he got where they found him, or what had happened, he could not explain. he had lost another man off his train that night, a young fellow named rodman blake. had they seen anything of him? "no! well, then he must have thrown up his job and gone into euston where he belonged. good-night." in another minute only a far-away murmur among the sleeping hills told of the passing of the night express. brakeman joe was placed on the station agent's little cot bed, and the doctor was sent for. that was all they could do, and so freight number also pulled out, leaving him behind. a minute later, and it too was gone, and the drowsy echoes answered its heavy rumblings faintly and more faintly, until they again fell asleep, and all was still. through the long hours of the night rod blake sat and silently suffered. the distress of the gag in his mouth became wellnigh intolerable, and his wrists swelled beneath the cords that bound them, until he could have cried out with the pain. he grew thirsty too. oh, so thirsty! and it seemed as though the daylight would never come. he had no idea what good, or even what change for the better, the daylight would bring him; but still he longed for it. nor was the young tramp who shared his imprisonment at all happy or comfortable. he too was thirsty, and hungry as well, and though he was not gagged nor bound, he suffered, in anticipation, the punishment he expected to receive when he and his wickedness should be discovered. thus, whenever the train stopped, a sense of his just deserts terrified him into silence; though while it was in motion his ravings were terrible to hear. at length the morning light began to show itself through chinks and crevices of the closed car. conductor tobin and his men reached the end of their run, and turned the train over to a new crew, who brought with them a fresh locomotive and their own caboose. still the young tramp would not give in. the morning was nearly gone, and rod was desperate with suffering, before he did, and, during a stop, began to shout to be let out. nobody heard him, apparently, and when the train again moved on, the situation of the prisoners was as bad as ever. now the fellow began to grow as much alarmed for fear he would not be discovered, as he had previously been for fear lest he should be. in this state of mind he decided that at the next stop the shouting for help should be undertaken by two voices instead of one. so he removed the gag from rod's mouth, and cut the cord by which his wrists were bound. the poor lad's throat was dry and husky; but he readily agreed to aid in raising a shout, as soon as the train should stop. in the meantime the arrival of freight number was awaited with a lively interest at the very station it was approaching, when this agreement between the prisoners was made. it was aroused by a despatch, just sent along the line by the agent in whose charge brakeman joe had been left. the despatch stated that he had recovered sufficiently to give a partial account of what had been done to him by a gang of thieves, whom he had discovered trying to rob car number . it requested the first agent who should see train number , to examine into the condition of car number , and discover if anything had been stolen from it. it also stated that brakeman joe was very anxious concerning the safety of a young stockman, who had been on the train, and assisted him to drive off the thieves; but who had not since been heard from. thus, while the imprisoned inmates of car number were waiting with feverish impatience for the train to reach a station at which it would stop, the railroad men belonging to this station, were waiting for it with a lively curiosity, that was wholly centered on car number . chapter xiv. the superintendent investigates. at length a long-drawn whistle from the locomotive attached to freight number , warned rod and his fellow-prisoner that the time for them to make a combined effort for liberty was at hand. it also notified the curious watchers at the station of the approach of the train for which they were waiting. the trainmen were surprised at the unusual number of people gathered about the station, and the evident interest with which their arrival was regarded. at the same time those composing the little throng of waiting spectators were amazed, as the train drew up and stopped, to hear loud cries for help proceeding from a car in its centre. "it's number !" exclaimed one, "the very car we are looking for." "so it is! break open the door! some one is being murdered in there!" shouted other voices, and a rush was made for the car. as its door was pushed open, by a dozen eager hands, a wretched-looked figure, who had evidently been pressing closely against it, and was unprepared for such a sudden movement, pitched out headlong into the crowd. as he staggered to his feet he tried to force his way through them, with the evident intention of running away; but he was seized and held. for a moment the whole attention of the spectators was directed toward him, and he was stupefied by the multitude of questions showered upon him at once. then some one cried "look out! there's another in there!" and immediately poor rod was roughly dragged to the ground. "take them into the waiting-room, and see that they don't escape while i examine the car. there may be more of the gang hidden in there," commanded the station agent. so to the waiting-room the prisoners were hustled with scant ceremony. as yet no one knew what they had done, nor even what they were charged with doing; but every one agreed that they were two of the toughest looking young villains ever seen in that part of the country. during the confusion, no one had paid any attention to the arrival, from the west, of a locomotive drawing a single car. nor did they notice a brisk, business-like appearing man who left this car, and walked, with a quick step, toward the waiting-room. every one therefore looked up in surprise when he entered it and demanded, in a tone of authority, "what's the trouble here?" instantly a murmur was heard of, "it's the superintendent. it's the 'super' himself"; and, as the crowd respectfully made way for him, a dozen of voices were raised in attempted explanation of what had happened. as no one really knew what had happened, no two of the voices told the same story; but the superintendent catching the words "murderers, thieves, tramps, brakeman killed, and car robbed," became convinced that he had a most serious case on his hands, and that the disreputable-looking young fellows before him must be exceedingly dangerous characters. in order to arrive at an understanding of the case more quickly, he ordered the room to be cleared of all except the prisoners, the station agent, and the trainmen of freight number , whom he told to guard the doors. he first examined the conductor, who was as surprised as any one else to find that he had been carrying two passengers of whom he knew nothing on his train. he had no information to give, excepting what conductor tobin had told him, and what the superintendent had already learned by telegraph, of brakeman joe's condition. the other trainmen knew nothing more. the station agent told of the despatch he had received, of the finding of the lads in car number , and that its contents were apparently untouched. here the superintendent dismissed the trainmen, and ordered freight number to go ahead. then, with new guards stationed at the doors, he proceeded to question the prisoners themselves. as bill, the tramp, seemed to be the elder of the two, he was the first examined. in answer to the questions who he was, where he came from, and what he had been doing in car number , bill said, with exactly the manner he would have used in addressing a police justice: "please yer honor we's pards, me an' him is, an' we's bin tendin' stock on de road. we was on de train last night when it was attackeded by a lot of fellers who was beatin' de brakeman. we went to help him, an' was chucked inter de car, an' de door locked on us. we's bin tryin' to get out even since, me an' him has, yer honor, but we couldn't make nobody hear us till we got here. we's nearly dead for food an' drink, yer honor, an' we's honest, hard-working boys, an' dat's de truth if i die for it, yer honor. he'd tell yer de same, but fer a bit of a difference me and him had when he swore to git even wid me. so maybe he'll lie now; but yer honor can depend on what i'm--" "that will do," interrupted the superintendent. then turning to rodman he asked, "what have you to say for yourself?" "if you'll please give me a drink of water i'll try to tell all i know of this affair," answered the boy huskily, now speaking for the first time since he had been taken from the car. when the water was brought, and bill had been given a drink as well as himself, rod continued, "i was a stockman on that train in charge of a horse"-- "jest as i was a-tellin' yer honor," murmured bill. "and there was a fight with tramps, who attempted to rob the car in which we were found." here bill nodded his head approvingly as much as to say "i told you so." "but this fellow was one of them, and he helped make a prisoner of me, and to bind and gag me. he would have thrown the freight out of the car to those who were waiting outside to receive it, if i hadn't succeeded in closing the door, and locking us both in--" "ooo! didn't i tell yer honor he'd maybe lie on me?" protested bill. "keep quiet!" commanded the superintendent sharply, and then to rod he said: "how can you prove your statements?" "i can prove that i was bound and gagged by these marks," replied the boy, pointing to the sides of his mouth which were red and chafed, and holding out his swollen wrists for the superintendent's inspection. "and i can prove that i was travelling in charge of a horse by this." here rod produced the note from juniper's owner, asking his brother to pay the bearer two dollars and a half upon the safe delivery of the horse. "i have a paper too," broke in bill, fumbling in his pockets. from one of them he finally produced a dirty note, signed by a western cattle dealer, and authorizing one bill miner to take charge of certain stock about to be shipped over the new york and western railroad. the superintendent read the two notes, and looked at the two young fellows. in general appearance one was very nearly as bad as the other; for, though rod did not realize the fact, his clothing and person were so torn and dirty from the fight of the preceding night and his subsequent rough experience, that he looked very nearly as much of a tramp as bill himself. "i wonder which of you i am to believe, or if either is telling me the truth?" said the superintendent dubiously, half aloud and half to himself. chapter xv. smiler to the rescue. at that moment a small dog walked into the room, wagging his tail with an air of being perfectly at home there. rod was the first to notice him, and his eye lighted with a gleam of genuine pleasure. "smiler? smiler, old dog!" he said. the next instant smiler was licking his face and testifying to his joy at again meeting this friend, in the most extravagant manner. suddenly he caught sight of bill, and drawing back his upper lip with an ominous growl, would have flown at the young tramp had not rodman restrained him. "that settles it, so far as i am concerned," exclaimed the superintendent, with a relieved air. "any one that smiler recognizes as a friend must be an honest fellow; while the person whom smiler calls an enemy, must have given him good cause for his enmity, and is to be regarded with distrust by all railroad men. now, i am going to carry you two chaps to the junction where conductor tobin and his crew are lying off to-day. there, i have no doubt, this whole matter will be explained satisfactorily to me and to one of you, as well as with perfect justice to you both." smiler, who had reached this station on a passenger locomotive, now attached himself resolutely to rod, and followed him into the superintendent's private car, here he was made as cordially welcome as he would have been in the humblest caboose on the road. some of his enthusiastic admirers declared that smiler owned the road; while all admitted that there was but one other individual connected with it, whose appearance was so uniformly welcome as his, and that was the paymaster. now, there was a marked difference shown between the treatment of smiler's friend, and that of his enemy. the former was invited to sit down with the superintendent and eat dinner, which was announced as ready soon after they left the station; but bill was consigned to the care of a brakeman who received strict orders not to give him a chance to escape. he was given a substantial meal of course; for mr. hill the superintendent was not a man who would permit anybody to suffer from hunger if he could help it. here the courtesy extended to him ended, and he was treated in all respects like a prisoner. most of the time he rode in sullen silence; but occasionally he broke forth with vehement protestations of his innocence, and of the truth of the story he had told. rodman, on the other hand, was treated with marked consideration; for, not only was he a friend of smiler's, but the more mr. hill talked with him the more he believed him to be a gentleman, as well as an honest, truth-telling lad, who had, by a brave and prompt action, saved the railroad company a large amount of property. he was confirmed in his belief that rod was a gentleman, by his having asked to be allowed to wash his face and hands before sitting down to dinner. the lad was shocked at his own appearance when he glanced into a mirror, and the superintendent smiled at the wonderful change made by the use of soap, water, and brushes, when he emerged from the well-appointed dressing-room of the car. while they sat at table mr. hill drew the lad's story from him, including the manner in which he had obtained smiler's friendship, and his desire to become a railroad man. rod did not however mention the name of president vanderveer; for he was desirous of winning success by himself, and on his own merits, nor did he give his reasons for leaving euston. when the locomotive, drawing the superintendent's private car, and displaying two white flags in front to denote that it was running as an "extra" train, drew up, a couple of hours later, at the junction, rod was asked to remain in the car for a few minutes, and bill was ordered to do so. then mr. hill walked over to caboose number , in which, as he expected, he found conductor tobin and his two brakemen fast asleep, with bits of mosquito netting spread over their faces to keep off the flies. conductor tobin was greatly confused when he discovered who was shaking him into wakefulness, and began to apologize for having been asleep. "no excuses are necessary, tobin," said the other kindly. "a man who works as faithfully as you do at night, has a perfect right to sleep in the daytime. i wouldn't have disturbed you, but that i wanted to ask if you were acquainted with a young fellow named rod blake." yes, indeed! conductor tobin not only knew the lad, but was, at that moment, quite anxious concerning him. he had learned by telegraph from brakeman joe, further particulars of the occurrences of the preceding night, including rod's splendid behavior during the fight with the would-be thieves. since then nothing had been heard from him, and the conductor greatly feared that the brave young fellow had met with some harm. "do you consider him a person whose word is to be trusted?" asked the superintendent. "well, sir," answered conductor tobin, "i haven't known him long, seeing that i first met him only night before last; but i've already seen enough of him to be willing to take his word as quick as that of any man living." "that is saying a good deal," laughed the superintendent, "but i believe you are right. if i am any judge of character, that lad is an honest fellow." then he explained how, and under what circumstances he had met rod, and ending by asking, "what sort of a railroad man do you think he would make?" "first-rate, sir! he seems to me to be one who knows when he is wanted, and who always turns up at the right time." "then you wouldn't mind having him on your train, while joe is laid by?" "i should be proud to have him, sir, and to be the one to start him on the right track as a railroader." "very well, we will consider it settled, then, and i will send him over to you. i want you to do the best you can by him, and remember that from this time on i take a personal interest in his welfare, though of course you needn't tell him so." rod was more than delighted when mr. hill returned to the car, and offered him the position of brakeman on conductor tobin's train. he promptly and gladly accepted it, and tried to thank the superintendent for giving it to him; but that gentleman said: "never mind expressing any thanks in words. express them by deeds instead, and remember, that you can win a certain success in railroad life, by keeping on as you have begun and by always being on time." thus rod secured a position; a humble one to be sure, but one that he had sought and won wholly by merit. when snyder appleby heard of it he was filled with jealous anger. he declared that there was not room for both of them on that road, even if one was only a brakeman, and vowed that if he could manage it, his adopted cousin should find it harder to keep his position than it had been to win it. chapter xvi. snyder appleby's jealousy. bill miner, the tramp, underwent some novel mental experiences on the day that rod obtained his position. in the first place the young fellow, whom he had treated so badly, came to him while the superintendent was interviewing conductor tobin, and said: "look here, bill, you and i suffered a good deal together last night, and you know it was mostly your fault that we did so; but i'll forgive you for my share of the suffering if you'll only confess the whole business to the superintendent. he is bound to find out all about it anyway; for he finds out everything; but he'll think a good deal more of you if you own up like a man. i would like to be your friend; but my friends must be honest fellows, who are willing to work for a living, not tramps and thieves. now shake hands, and make up your mind to do what i have asked you." mr. hill's return interrupted the conversation at this point; but it left bill in an unusually reflective state of mind. no gentleman, such as his late companion in captivity evidently was, had ever shaken hands with, or asked a favor of him before. in all his hard young life no one had ever proposed that he should try honesty and hard work. ever since he could remember anything, his associates had advised dishonesty, and the shirking of work in every possible way. yet, now that he thought of it, he had worked hard, all his life, at being dishonest. now what had he to show for it? nothing but rags, and poverty, and a bad reputation. he wondered how it would seem to be honest, and do honest work, and associate only with honest people. he had half a mind to try it, just out of curiosity. the idea of he, bill the tramp, being an honest workman, and perhaps, even getting to be called "honest bill," struck him as so odd that he chuckled hoarsely over it. "what are you laughing at?" demanded the brakeman who stood on the rear platform of the car to prevent his escape, and who looked suspiciously in at the door to discover the meaning of this novel sound from his prisoner. "nothing," replied bill. "well, i wish i could get so much fun out of nothing as you seem able to," said the brakeman, who was particularly down on tramps. "i reckon the super'll give you something to laugh about directly that won't seem so funny," he added significantly. but bill did not mind this. he was too busy with his own thoughts. besides he was used to such speeches, and was also listening to something else just at that moment. he was listening to the conversation between rod and the superintendent. it certainly was a fine thing for a boy to be talked to as the greatest man he had ever known was now talking to his one honest friend, and to be offered such a position too. how he would like to be a brakeman; and, if he were one, how well he would know how to deal with tramps. he wondered what mr. hill meant by being "on time." perhaps it meant being honest. then rod left the car, giving him a nod and a smile as he did so. a moment later it was again whirling away toward new york, and the superintendent, coming to where the young tramp was sitting, said: "now, sir, i'm ready to attend to your case. are you willing to tell me what you know about this business of robbing our freight trains? or do you prefer to stick to your lying story and go to prison for it?" "i'll tell you all i know, if you'll give me a job for it," answered bill, with a sudden resolution to try for rod blake's friendship, and at the same time to make a good bargain for himself if he could. regarding him keenly, the superintendent said: "so you want to be paid for being honest, do you? well, i don't know but what you are right. honesty is well worth paying for. so, if you will tell me, truthfully, all you know of this business i promise you a job that will earn you an honest living, and that you can keep just so long as you work faithfully at it." "honesty again. how often these gentlemen use the word, and how much they seem to think of it," thought bill. however, as it seemed to promise something different from anything he had ever known, he determined to try it, and see what it would do for him. so he told, in his awkward fashion, all that he knew of the gang of tramp thieves, who had been for some time systematically robbing freight trains at several points along the road, and mr. hill listened to him with the deepest interest. as a speedy result of this confession a freight clerk in the main office of the company, who had been giving secret information to the thieves, was discharged the very next day. brown, the chief of the company's detectives, learned where and how he could discover the places where the stolen goods were hidden, and was thus enabled to recover a large portion of them. and bill miner, no longer bill the tramp, found himself doing honest work, as a locomotive wiper and assistant hostler, in a round house, at a salary of one dollar and twenty-nine cents per day. certainly rod blake's influence was being felt on the new york and western railroad. after his conversation with bill, the busy superintendent found time to stop his flying car at the station where brakeman joe lay suffering from his wounds, to speak a few kindly words to the faithful fellow, praise his bravery, and assure him that his full pay should be continued until he had entirely recovered from his injuries and was able to resume duty. late that afternoon the private car finished its long journey in the station at the terminus of the road, and mr. hill hastened to his own office. the moment he opened the door of the inner room a cloud of cigarette smoke issued from it, and a frown settled on his face as he hesitated a moment on the threshold. his private secretary, who had been comfortably tilted back in the superintendent's own easy chair, puffing wreathes of smoke from a cigarette, started to his feet. "we did not expect you to return so soon, sir"--he began. "evidently not," interrupted mr. hill dryly; "you are the young man recommended to me by president vanderveer, i believe?" "yes, sir." "well, sir, you will please to remember for the future, that neither in this office, nor in any other belonging to the company, is cigarette smoking among the qualifications required of our employees. if you must smoke during business hours, i will endeavor to fill your position with somebody who is not under that necessity." for the next half hour snyder appleby sat at his own desk, for once in his life hard at work, and feeling that he had been decidedly snubbed if not actually insulted. he was even meditating the handing in of his resignation, when the superintendent again addressed him, but this time in a much more friendly tone. "you are from euston, i believe?" "yes, sir." "do you happen to know a young man from there named rodman blake?" "yes, sir. i have an acquaintance there of that name," replied snyder hesitatingly, and wondering what possible interest the "super" could have in rod blake. "the fact is," he added with an assumed air of frankness, "the young person in question is a sort of adopted cousin of my own; but circumstances have arisen that lead me to consider him an undesirable acquaintance." "what are they?" inquired the superintendent bluntly. "it would hardly be becoming in me to state them," replied snyder, wishing he knew why the other was making these inquiries. "i should be very sorry to say anything that might injure the young man's future prospects." "had they anything to do with his leaving euston, and seeking employment on this road?" "yes, sir; i think they had," admitted snyder with apparent reluctance. "then i consider it your duty to tell me what they are," said mr. hill; "for i have just given young blake the position of brakeman, and if there is any reason why he is unfit for it i should like to know it." this aroused all the jealousy in snyder's nature and he answered: "well, sir, if you put it in that light, i suppose i must tell you that blake's uncle, with whom he lived, turned him from the house without a penny in his pocket on account of his connection with a most infamous piece of rascality. but i beg that you will not question me any further on the subject. it is most painful to me to speak of even a distant connection in the terms i should be obliged to use in referring to rodman blake. president vanderveer knows the whole history of the affair, and can give you full information regarding it." "the president has gone west on a business trip that will occupy some weeks," replied mr. hill, "so i could not ask him even if i were inclined to trouble him with so trifling a matter. i shall certainly investigate it, however, and if i find this young blake to be a person of such a character as you intimate, i shall as certainly discharge him." chapter xvii. rod as a brakeman. in the meantime rod, who was happily ignorant of this conversation, had been warmly welcomed in caboose number . there conductor tobin and the two brakemen listened with intense interest to all he had to tell them of his recent experiences. they in turn informed him of brakeman joe's condition, and of how the torpedoes had saved him from being run over by the night express. he found his m. i. p. bag in the caboose where conductor tobin had been keeping it until he should hear from him. the conductor also handed rod a ten dollar bill, that had been left for him by the brother of juniper's owner, as a reward for his gallant struggle with the terrified horse in the closed car, and the subsequent care of him. feeling very rich and independent with this amount of money, of his own earning, at his disposal, rod at once bought for himself a blue checkered shirt and pair of overalls, a cap, a pair of buckskin gloves with which to handle brake wheels, one of the great tin lunch-pails such as railroad men carry, and a blanket. thus equipped he felt he was ready for any emergency. to these purchases he added a supply of provisions, and a basket of fruit that he intended to leave for brakeman joe when they should pass the station at which he was. the train that they were ordered to take came along shortly before sunset. when it again pulled out, drawing caboose number , and with rod blake, brake-stick in hand, standing on the "deck" of one of its rear cars, there was no happier nor prouder lad than he in the country. how he did enjoy the novelty of that first ride on top of a freight train, and what a fine thing it seemed, to be really a railroad man. the night was clear and cold; but the exercise of setting up brakes on down grades, and throwing them off for up grades or level stretches, kept him in a glow of warmth. then how bright and cosy the interior of the caboose, that was now his home, seemed during the occasional visits that he paid it. before the night grew dark, conductor tobin showed him how to place the two red lanterns on its rear platform, and the lights that showed red behind, green in front, and green at the side, on its upper rear corners. then he was asked to make a fire in the little round stove, and prepare a huge pot of coffee for the train crew to drink during the night. when there was nothing else to do he might sit up in the cupola, on the side opposite to that occupied by conductor tobin; but on this first night he preferred taking his own lantern, and going out on "deck," as the top of the cars is called. here he was too far from the locomotive to be annoyed by its smoke or cinders, and he loved to feel the cool night air rushing past him. he enjoyed rumbling through the depths of dark forests, and rattling over bridges or long trestles. it was strange to roll heavily through sleeping towns, where the only signs of life were the bright lights of the stations, and the twinkling red, green or white semaphore lights at the switches. some of the time he amused himself by holding his watch in hand, and counting the clicks of the car wheels over the rail joints; for he remembered having read that the number of rails passed in twenty seconds is almost exactly the number of miles run by a train in an hour. if it had been day time he might also have noted the number of telegraph poles passed in a minute, and calculated the speed of the train, by allowing thirty-five poles to the mile. all this time, however, he was under orders to keep a watch on the movements of the brakemen ahead of him, and to set up, or throw off, brakes on at least two of the six cars under his charge, whenever he noticed them doing so. he was surprised to learn that it was by no means necessary to put on all the brakes of a train to check its speed, or even to stop it, and that the application of those on a third, or even a quarter of its cars answered every purpose. he also soon learned to jump quickly whenever brakes were called for by a single short whistle blast from the locomotive, and to throw them off at the order of the two short blasts that called for brakes to be loosened. at first he thought it curious that the other brakemen should run along the tops of the cars, and wondered why they were always in such a hurry. he soon discovered though that it was much easier to keep his footing running than walking, and safer to jump from car to car than to step deliberately across the open spaces between them. once, during the night, when he and conductor tobin were seated in the caboose eating their midnight lunch, the latter began to sniff the air suspiciously, and even to rod's unaccustomed nostrils, there came a most unpleasant smell. "hot box!" said conductor tobin, and the next time they stopped, they found the packing in an iron box at the end of an axle, under one of the cars, blazing at a furious rate. the journals, or bearings, in which the axle turned, had become dry and so heated by friction as to set the oil-soaked cotton waste, or packing, with which the box was filled, on fire. the job of cooling the box with buckets of water, and repacking it with waste, and thick, black, evil-smelling oil was a dirty and disagreeable one, as rod quickly learned from experience. he also realized from what he saw, that if it were not done in time, the car itself might be set on fire, or the axle broken off. these, and many other valuable lessons in railroading, did rod blake learn that night; and when in the gray dawn, the train pulled into the home yard, with its run completed, he was wiser, more sleepy and tired, than he had ever been before in all his life. chapter xviii. working for a promotion. for several weeks rod blake continued to lead the life of a brakeman on conductor tobin's train. although it was a very humble position, and though the life was one of constant danger and hard work, he thoroughly enjoyed it. blessed with youth, health and a perfect physical condition, he even found pleasure in the stormy nights, when the running boards that formed his pathway over the roofs of the swaying cars were slippery with sleet, and fierce winds tried their best to hurl him from them. he experienced a wild joy in battling with, and conquering, gales that forced him to crawl along the storm-swept "deck" on hands and knees, clinging tightly to the running boards, often with lantern extinguished, and making the passage from car to car through pitchy darkness. on such nights how warm and cheerful was the interior of the caboose, when at rare intervals he found a chance to pay it dripping visits! how welcome were the cups of hot coffee from the steaming pot on the glowing stove, and how the appreciation of all its comforts was intensified by the wildness of the outside night! by his unfailing cheerfulness of disposition, his promptness to answer any call, and on account of his splendid athletic training, the lad rapidly extended his circle of friendships, until there was not a trainman on the division but had a word of greeting, or a friendly wave of the hand for him, as they met at stations or were whirled past each other on the road. during the leisure "lay-off" hours at either end of the run, he gave them boxing lessons in the caboose. these proved so popular as entertainments that on such occasions the car was always crowded with eager pupils and enthusiastic spectators. in fact, before he had been a month on the road, rod blake had attained a popularity among the rough, but honest and manly, fellows who shared his labors, only approached by that of smiler himself. with this wise animal he was also such a prime favorite that the dog was now more frequently to be seen on his train than on any other. after working as rear brakeman, under conductor tobin's especial care, long enough to become thoroughly acquainted with his duties, rod was, at his own request, transferred to the forward end of the train. here he had charge of the six or eight cars immediately following the locomotive. this was not nearly so pleasant a position as that at the rear end; for now, while running, he seldom had a chance to visit the caboose, and when on duty he was directly in the path of the very worst of the smoke and cinders. then too the work here was harder than anywhere else on the train; for, in addition to his regular duties as brakeman, he was expected to assist the fireman at water stations, and by shovelling coal down from the rear end of the tender so that it was more easily within his reach. it was for this very reason though that rod sought the place. he did not wish to remain a brakeman very long, nor even to become a conductor; but he did want to learn how to run a locomotive, and looked forward with longing anticipation to the day when he might fill the proud position of engineman. so he shovelled coal with a hearty good-will, and seized every opportunity for riding on the locomotive, and carefully watched the movements of the men who managed it. sometimes he asked questions, but not often; when he did they were of such a nature that the answers were of practical value to him. from many years of riding in a locomotive cab, where, with the constant rattle and roar, conversation is very difficult, the engineman, truman stump, had become a most reticent man, who rarely spoke unless it was necessary. he had thus gained the reputation of being ill-tempered and morose, which was exactly what he was not. everybody admitted, though, that he was a first-class engine-driver, and one who could always be relied upon to do exactly the thing in an emergency. this man took a liking to the bright-faced young brakeman from the very first; and, when rod began to appear in his cab, he watched him with a real, but concealed interest. one day when it was announced that milt sturgis, the fireman, was about to be promoted and get his engine, everybody wondered who would take his place, and how a new man would get along with old true stump. another bit of news received on the train at the the same time, was that brakeman joe had fully recovered from his injuries, and was ready to resume his place. while rod was glad, for joe's sake, that he was well enough to come back, he could not help feeling some anxiety on his own account, now that he would no longer be needed as brakeman. this anxiety was unexpectedly relieved by the engineman; who, while standing beside him at a water station, turned and said: "joe's coming back." "yes; to-morrow." "milt's going to leave." "so i hear." "how would you like to fire for me in his place?" "i," exclaimed rod in astonishment. "why, i should like it very much if you think i know enough for the job." "all right, i'll fix it." chapter xix. the express special. nothing further was said at the time concerning rod's most cherished scheme and as brakeman joe reported for duty that very day rod was at a loss to know what he should do next. he doubted if truman stump could command sufficient influence to secure his appointment as fireman before he had undergone a preliminary training as wiper and hostler in the round-house, though he felt that he already possessed experience as valuable as any to be gained in those positions. still it was a rule that firemen should be taken from the round-house and rod knew by this time that railroad rules are rarely broken. of course he could not retain joe's position now that the latter had returned to it, and he would not if he could. no indeed! joe's face still pale from his long confinement was too radiant with happiness at once more getting back among his old friends and associations for rod to dim it by the faintest suggestion that the honest fellow's return to duty was likely to throw him out of a job. so he congratulated joe upon his recovery, as heartily as any one, and retold the story of his plucky fight with the thieving tramps to the little group of railroad men gathered in caboose number to welcome him back. as they were all talking at once and making a hero of brakeman joe they were hushed into a sudden silence by the unexpected entrance of mr. hill the superintendent. merely nodding to the others this gentleman stepped up to brakeman joe with extended hand, saying cordially: "good evening, conductor. i am glad to see you back among us again. i hope you are all right and will be able to take your train out on time to-night." "sir! i----" stammered the astonished joe. "you must be mistaking me for conductor tobin, sir." "tobin? oh no! i know him too well ever to mistake any one else for him. i take you to be conductor joseph miller of the through freight, whose promotion has just been posted, to take effect immediately. i have also assigned two new men to your train, with orders to report at once. here they come now." this announcement fell like a bomb-shell; and the cheer of congratulation that joe's friends attempted to raise was checked, half-uttered, by the distressed look on conductor tobin's face. could it be that he had heard aright? was it possible that he was thus unceremoniously thrown out of work to make a place for his former brakeman? his expression was quite as bewildered as that of brakeman joe, and the superintendent, noticing it, allowed an amused smile to flit across his own face. "don't be alarmed, tobin," he said, reassuringly; "the company can't very well spare your services, and have no idea of doing so. if you can make it convenient i should like to have you take out number to-night, and, as you will need an extra hand, i have decided to send young blake on the same train; that is, if it will be agreeable to you to have him." number ! the continental express company's special! why, only passenger conductors had that train! what could mr. hill mean? "it's all right, tobin," continued that gentleman, noting the other's embarrassment; "your name has gone on to the passenger list, and if you do as well there as you have with your freights i shall be more than satisfied. i hope this change strikes you as being one for the better also?" he added, turning to rod. "yes, sir, only----" began rodman, who was about to say something concerning his desire to be made a fireman, when he suddenly remembered that truman stump had requested him not to speak of it just yet. "only what?" asked mr. hill, a little sharply. "i was afraid i hadn't experience enough," answered rod. "that is a matter of which i claim to be the best judge," replied the superintendent, with a smile. "and if i am satisfied of your fitness for the position you certainly ought to be. now, tobin, look lively. number must be ready to leave in half an hour. good-night and good luck to you." thus conductor tobin's long and faithful service, and brakeman joe's suffering, and rod blake's strict attention to duty were all rewarded at once, though in rodman's case the reward had not taken exactly the shape he desired. still, a promotion was a promotion, and where there were so many competitors for each upward step, as there always are on a railroad, it was not for him to grumble at the form in which it came. so as the young railroad man gathered up his few belongings, he gratefully accepted the congratulations of his friends. a few minutes later he bade freight conductor joe good-by, and in company with passenger conductor tobin he left caboose number with much the same feeling that a young scholar leaves his primary school for one a grade higher. number was a peculiar train, and one that rod had often watched rush past his side-tracked freight with feelings of deep interest, not unmixed with envy. it always followed the "limited," with all the latter's privileges of precedence and right of way. thus it was such a flyer that the contrast between it and the freight, which always had to get out of the way, was as great as that between a thoroughbred racer and a farm-horse. it was made up of express cars, loaded with money, jewelry, plate, and other valuable packages, which caused it to be known along the road as the "gold mine." in its money-car was carried specie and bank notes from the united states treasury, and from eastern banks to western cities. thus it was no unusual thing for this one car to carry a million dollars' worth of such express matter. each car was in charge of a trusted and well-armed messenger, who locked himself in from one end of his run to the other, and was prepared to defend the valuables entrusted to his care with his life. thus number was one of the most important as well as one of the very fastest trains on the road; while to run on it was considered such an honor that many envious glances were cast at rod as he stood on the platform beside it awaiting the starting-signal. there had been no time for him to procure the blue uniform suit, such as the crews of passenger trains, with whom he now ranked, are required to wear; and as the jumper and overalls of a freight brakeman would have been decidedly out of place on an express special, rod had hastily donned his best suit of every-day clothes. thus as he stood near the steps of the single passenger coach that was attached to the train in place of a caboose for the accommodation of its conductor and brakemen, he was not to be distinguished from the throng of passengers hastening aboard the "limited" on the opposite side of the platform. for this reason a young man, with a stout leather travelling bag slung on his shoulder, paid no attention to the young brakeman, as after a hurried glance up and down the platform, he sprang aboard and entered the coach. with a bound rod was after him. "hello, sir!" he cried; "you must have made a mistake. this is not a passenger train." "no?" said the other coolly, and rod now noticed that he wore a pair of smoked glasses. i thought it was the "limited." "that is the 'limited,' across the platform," explained rod politely. "are you sure of it?" "certainly i am." "what makes you think this is not it?" asked the other with a provoking slowness of speech as though time was no object to him, and he did not care whether the "limited" started without him or not. [illustration: rod assists the young man to the "limited."--(_page ._)] "because i belong on this train and it is my business to be sure of things connected with it," replied rod, still speaking pleasantly. "oh, you do, do you. are you its conductor?" "no, sir, but i am one of its brakemen." "are there any more like you?" "yes, sir, there is another like me. i sha'n't need his help though to put you off this train if you don't get off, and in a hurry too," answered rod hotly, for he began to suspect that the young man was making fun of him. "oh, come now!" said the passenger mildly, "don't get excited, i'm perfectly willing to go. it was a very natural mistake for a blind man to make. you may be blind yourself some day, and then you'll find out." "i didn't know you were blind, sir," exclaimed rod apologetically and instantly regretting his harshness toward one so cruelly afflicted. "i am very sorry, and if you will allow me, i will see you safely aboard the 'limited.'" the young man accepted this offer, explaining at the same time that while he was not totally blind, his sight was very dim. so rod helped him off one train and into the other, striving by every attention to atone for the abruptness with which he had spoken before learning of the other's infirmity. as he took the stranger's hand to guide him down the steps of the coach he noticed that the large diamond of a ring worn by the latter, had cut its way through the back of one of his kid gloves. a moment later the "limited" pulled out, and in a few minutes the express special, laden that night with a freight of unusual value, followed it. chapter xx. trouble in the money car. until after midnight the run of the express special was without interruption or incident. thus far it had made but two stops. the second of these was at the end of the freight division where conductor tobin had been accustomed to turn over his train to a relieving crew and spend the day. with such a flyer as the special, however, his run was now to be twice as long as formerly, so that he and rod looked forward to doing a hundred and fifty miles more before being relieved. there was but one other brakeman besides rod, and as there was little for either of them to do, save to see that the rear end lights burned brightly, and always to be prepared for emergencies, time hung rather heavily on their hands. thanks to automatic air brakes, the life of a passenger brakeman is now a very easy one as compared with the same life a few years ago. the brakeman of those days, almost as greasy and smoke begrimed as a fireman, spent most of his time on the swaying platforms between cars amid showers of cinders and clouds of blinding dust. at every call for brakes he was obliged to spring to the wheels of the two entrusted to his care and set them up by hand with the utmost exercise of his strength. he was not allowed to remain inside the cars between stations, and the only glimpses he got of their scant comfort was when he flung open their doors to call out the names of stations in his own undistinguishable jargon. he was invariably a well-grown powerfully built fellow, as rough in manner as in appearance. to-day, on all passenger trains and on many freights as well, the automatic brakes are operated by compressed air controlled by the engineman. by a single pull of a small brass lever within easy reach he can instantly apply every brake on his train with such force as to bring it to a standstill inside of a few seconds. the two small cylinders connected by a piston-rod on the right hand side of every locomotive just in front of the cab form the air-pump. it is always at work while a train is standing still, forcing air through lengths of rubber hose between the cars and into the reservoirs located beneath each one. as brakes are applied by the reduction of this air the engineman's lever merely opens a valve that allows the imprisoned force to escape with a sharp hissing sound. if a train should break in two the connecting lengths of rubber hose would be torn asunder, and the outrushing air would instantly apply brakes to the cars of both sections bringing them to a speedy standstill. thus the brakeman of to-day, instead of being the powerful, cinder-coated and rough-voiced fellow of a few years back, may be as slim and elegant as any of the passengers under his care provided he is polite, wide-awake, and attentive to his duty. clad in a natty uniform, he now spends his time inside the car instead of on its platform. he has reports to make out, lamps and flags to look after, and in cases of unexpected delay must run back to protect his train from any other that may be approaching it. formerly it was necessary to have as many brakemen on a passenger train as there were cars, while now it is rare to find more than two on each train. so rod had very little to do in his new position, and soon after leaving the second stopping-place of his train, was sitting near the forward end of the coach with his head resting on the back of a seat, gazing at the ceiling and buried in deep thought. conductor tobin and the other brakeman were seated some distance behind him engaged in conversation. rod was thinking of what an awful thing it was to be blind, and this chain of thought was suggested by a glimpse of the young man with smoked glasses, whom he had assisted on board the "limited" some hours before, standing on the platform of the station they had just left. he had evidently reached his journey's end and was patiently waiting for some one to come and lead him away--or at least this was what rod imagined the situation to be. in reality, that same young man, with unimpaired eyesight and no longer wearing smoked glasses, was on board the express special at that very moment. he had sprung on to the forward platform of the money car undetected in the darkness as the train left the circle of station lights and was now on its roof fastening a light rope ladder to a ledge just above one of the middle and half-glazed doors of the car. a red flannel mask concealed the lower half of his face, and as he swung himself down on his frail and fearfully swaying support he held a powerful navy revolver in his right hand. he was taking frightful risks to win a desperate game. failing in his effort to conceal himself aboard the very train he intended to rob, he had taken passage on the "limited" as far as its first stopping-place and had there awaited the coming of the express special. thus far his reckless venture had succeeded, and as rod sat in the coach thinking pityingly of him, he was covering the unsuspecting messenger in the money car with his revolver. "what would i do if i were blind?" thought rod. "i suppose uncle would take care of me; but how humiliating it would be to have to go back to him helpless and dependent. how thankful i should be that i can see besides being well and strong and able to care for myself. i will do it too without asking help from any one, and i'll win such a name for honesty and faithfulness on this road that even uncle arms will be compelled to believe whatever i may tell him. i wonder if snyder could have put that emery into the oil-cup himself? it doesn't seem as though any one could be so mean." just here a slight incident interrupted the lad's thoughts so suddenly that he sprang to his feet--unconsciously his eyes had been fixed on the bell-cord that ran through the entire train to the cab of the locomotive. it had hung a little slack, but all at once this slack was jerked up as though some one had pulled the cord. this would have been a signal to stop the train, and if the train were to be stopped at that point something must be wrong. a backward glance showed conductor tobin and the other brakeman to be still quietly engaged in conversation. neither of them could have pulled the cord. rod stepped to the door and looked out. the train was tearing along at a terrific speed, and the rush of air nearly took away his breath. there was no sign of slackening speed and everything appeared to be all right. the next car ahead of the coach was the money car. at least conductor tobin had thought so, though none of the trainmen was ever quite sure which one of the half dozen or more express cars it was. its rear door was of course closed and locked, but some impulse moved rod to clamber up on its platform railing and peer through the little hole by which the bell-cord entered. he could not see much, but that which was disclosed in a single glimpse almost caused his heart to cease its beating. within his range of vision came the heads of two men evidently engaged in a struggle and one of them wore a mask over the lower part of his face. the next instant rod had sprung down from his perilous perch and dashed back into the coach shouting breathlessly: "there's a masked man fighting the messenger in the money car!" chapter xxi. over the top of the train. at rodman's startling announcement conductor tobin sprang to his feet, reached for the bell-cord, and gave it two sharp pulls. a single whistle blast from the locomotive made instant reply that his signal was received and understood. so promptly was it obeyed that as the conductor and his two brakemen ran to the front platform to swing far out and look along the sides of the express cars ahead of them, the grinding brakes were already reducing the speed of the flying train. suddenly a pistol shot rang angrily out, and a bullet crashed into the woodwork close above rod blake's head. he and the conductor were leaning out on one side while the other brakeman occupied the opposite one. "give the signal to go ahead at once, or i'll come back there and blow your brains out!" came in a hoarse voice from a side door of the money car. "all right, i'll do it; only don't shoot," shouted conductor tobin in answer, giving the desired signal to the engineman, by raising and lowering his lantern vertically, as he spoke. at the same time he said hurriedly to the brakeman on the opposite side of the platform, and thus concealed from the robber's view: "drop off, tom, and run back to number . telegraph ahead to all stations, and we'll bag that fellow yet!" the man did as directed, swinging low and giving a forward spring that landed him safely beside the track, though the train was still moving fully twenty miles an hour. the engineman, though greatly puzzled at receiving the signal to go ahead immediately after being ordered to stop, had obeyed it, thrown off brakes, and the train was again gathering its usual headway. "now rod," said conductor tobin, as the other brakeman disappeared; "i want you to make your way over the top of the train to the engine, and tell eli what is taking place. tell him to keep her wide open till we reach millbank, and not to give her the "air" till we are well up with the station. it's a tough job for you, and one i hate to send you on. at the same time it's got to be done, and after your experience on the freight deck, i believe you are the lad to undertake it. anyway, you'll be safe from that pistol when once you reach the cab." "but i don't like to leave you here alone to be shot," remonstrated rod. "never mind me. i don't believe i'll get shot. at any rate, this is my place, and here i must stay. now move along, and god bless you." there was a strong hand-clasp between the conductor and brakeman, and then the latter started on the perilous journey he had been ordered to undertake. it was no easy task to maintain a footing on the rounded roofs of those express cars as they were hurled on through the night at the rate of nearly a mile a minute; while to leap from one to another seemed almost suicidal. not more than one brakeman in a thousand could have done it; but rod blake, with his light weight, athletic training, and recent experience combined with absolute fearlessness, was that one. his inclination was to get down on his hands and knees and crawl along the slippery roofs. if he had yielded to it he would never have accomplished the trip. he believed that the only way to make it was by running and clearing the spaces between cars with flying leaps, and, incredible as it may seem, that is the way he did it. he had kicked off his shoes before starting, and now ran with stockinged feet. the occupants of the cab were as startled by his appearance beside them as though he had been a ghost, and when his story was told the engineman wanted to stop the train at once and go back to the assistance of the imperilled messenger. rod however succeeded in persuading him that, as the messenger's fate was probably already decided, their only hope of capturing the robber lay in carrying out conductor tobin's plan of running at such speed that he would not dare jump from the train until a station prepared for his reception was reached. when the engineman finally agreed to this, and before he could utter the remonstrance that sprang to his lips, rodman clambered back over the heaped-up coal of the tender, swung himself to the roof of the forward car and began to retrace his perilous journey to the rear end of the train. he argued that if conductor tobin's place was back there exposed to the shots of a desperate man, his brakeman's place was beside him. even if rod had not been a railroad boy, or "man," as he now called himself, his natural bravery and sense of honor would have taken him back to that coach. ever since he had enlisted in the service that demands as strict obedience as that required of a soldier and an equal contempt of danger, this lad was doubly alert to the call of whatever he regarded as duty. there is no service in the world, outside of the army, so nearly resembling it in requirements and discipline as that of a railroad. it is no place for cowards nor weaklings; but to such a lad as rod blake it adds the stimulus of excitement and ever-present danger and the promise of certain promotion and ample reward for the conscientious performance of every-day duties. so rod, feeling in duty bound to do so, made his way back over the reeling roofs of that on-rushing train to the side of his superior officer. as he scrambled and slipped and leaped from car to car he fully realized the imminent peril of his situation, but was at the same time filled with a wild exhilaration and buoyance of spirits such as he had never before known. conductor tobin, standing just inside the coach door with pale face and set lips, was amazed to see him. for a moment he fancied the lad had been daunted by the task imposed upon him and had turned back without reaching the locomotive. when he realized that rod had not only made the perilous trip once, but twice, his admiration was unbounded, and though he tried to scold him for his foolhardiness the words refused to come. he shook the young brakeman's hand so heartily instead that the action conveyed a volume of praise and appreciation. now, as they watched together with an intense eagerness for the lights of millbank they became conscious of a yellow glare, like that of an open furnace, streaming from the side door of the money car. "the scoundrel has set the car on fire!" gasped conductor tobin. "don't you think we ought to break in the door with an axe and make a rush for him?" asked rod. before the other could reply, a long, ear-splitting whistle blast announcing their approach to a station sounded from the locomotive. chapter xxii. stop thief! as train number dashed up to the millbank station and was brought to a stop almost as suddenly as a spirited horse is reined back on his haunches by a curb bit, the many flashing lanterns guarding all approaches, and the confused throng of dark forms on its platform told that brakeman tom had performed his duty and that its arrival was anticipated. the abruptness of this unexpected stop caused the messengers in the several cars to open their doors and look out inquiringly. at the same time, and even before it was safe to do so, conductor tobin and rod dropped to the ground and ran to the door of the money car. the glare of firelight streaming from it attracted others to the same spot. there were loud cries for buckets and water, and almost before the car wheels ceased to slide on the polished rails a score of willing hands were drenching out the fire of way-bills, other papers, and a broken chair that was blazing merrily in the middle of its floor. the flames were already licking the interior woodwork, and but for this opportune stop would have gathered such headway inside of another minute as would not only have destroyed the car but probably the entire train. the moment the subsiding flames rendered such a thing possible, a rush was made for the inside of the car, but conductor tobin calling one of the express messengers and the engineman who had come running back, to aid him, and telling rod to guard the door, sternly ordered the crowd to keep out until he had made an examination. from his post at the doorway rod could look in at a sight that filled him with horror. the interior of the car was spattered with blood. on the floor, half hidden beneath a pile of packages, lay the messenger, still alive but unconscious and bleeding from half a dozen wounds. the brave right hand that had tried to pull the bell cord had been shattered by a pistol ball, and the messenger's own winchester lay on the floor beside him. broken packages that had contained money, jewelry, and other valuables were scattered in every direction, while the open safe from which they had come was as empty as the day it was made. the trainmen became furious as one after another of these mute witnesses told of the outrages so recently perpetrated, and swore vengeance on the robber when they should catch him. they ransacked every corner of the car, but search as they might they could discover no trace of his presence nor of the method of his flight. the man had left the car as he had entered it taking the precaution of removing his rope ladder as he went. the baffled searchers had just reached the conclusion that he must have leaped from the train in spite of its speed and of conductor tobin's watchfulness, when rod, who from his position in the doorway could look over the heads of the crowd surrounding the car called out: "stop that man! the one with a leather bag slung over his shoulder! stop him! stop thief! he is the robber!" in the glare of an electric light that happened to shine full upon him for a moment, rod had seen the man walk away from the forward end of the car next ahead of the one they were searching as though he had just left it. he was not noticed by the bystanders as all eyes were directed toward the door of the money car. to the young brakeman his figure and the stout leather bag that he carried seemed familiar. as he looked, the man raised a kid-gloved hand to shift the position of his satchel, and from it shot the momentary flash of a diamond. with rod this was enough to at once establish the man's identity. although he no longer wore smoked glasses rod knew him to be the man who, pretending partial blindness, had first boarded the express special, then taken passage on the "limited," and whom he had seen on the platform of the last station at which they had stopped. how could he have reached millbank? he must have come by the express special, and so must be connected with its robbery. all these thoughts darted through rod's head like a flash of lightning, and as he uttered his shouts of warning he sprang to the ground with a vague idea of preventing the stranger's escape. at the same moment the crowd surged back upon him, and when he finally cleared himself from it he saw the man backing down the platform, holding his would-be pursuers in check with a levelled pistol, and just disappearing from the circle of electric light. a minute later two frightened men were driven at the point of a revolver from the cab of a freight locomotive that, under a full head of steam, was standing on the outer one of the two west-bound tracks. they had hardly left it in sole charge of the robber, by whom it had already been uncoupled from its train, before it sprang forward and began to move away through the darkness. rod, who was now well in advance of all other pursuers, instantly comprehended the situation. his own train stood on the inner west-bound track and he was near its forward end. the robber with his blood-stained plunder was disappearing before his very eyes, and if lost to view might easily run on for a few miles and then make good his escape. he must not be allowed to do so! he must be kept in sight! this was rod's all-absorbing thought at the moment. moved by it, he jerked out the coupling-pin, by which the locomotive of the express special was attached to its train, leaped into the cab, threw over the lever, pulled open the throttle, and had started on one of the most thrilling races recorded in the annals of railroading, before the astonished fireman, who had been left in charge, found time to remonstrate. "look here, young fellow! what are you about?" he shouted, stepping threateningly toward rod. "we are about chasing the train robber, who has just gone off with that engine on number four track, and you want to keep up the best head of steam you know how," was the answer. "have we any orders to do so?" "you have, at any rate, for i give them to you." "and who are you? i never saw you before to-night." "i am rod blake, one of tobin's trainmen, and if you don't quit bothering me with your stupidity and go to work, i'll pitch you out of this cab!" shouted rod savagely, in a tone that betrayed the intensity of his nervous excitement. the man had heard of the young brakeman and of his skill as a boxer, though he had never met him before that night, and his half-formed intention of compelling the lad to turn back was decidedly weakened by the mention of his name. still he hesitated. he was a powerful fellow with whom in a struggle rod could not have held his own for a minute, but he was clearly lacking in what railroad men call "sand." suddenly rod made a movement as though to spring at him, at the same time shouting, "do as i tell you, sir, and get to work at once!" chapter xxiii. a race of locomotives. in any struggle between two human beings, the one possessed of the more powerful will is certain to win. in the present case, rod blake's will was so much stronger than that of the fireman that the burly fellow obeyed his order, turned sullenly away, and began to shovel coal into the roaring furnace. their speed was now tremendous, for though rod knew but little about the management of a locomotive engine, he did know that the wider the throttle was opened the faster it would go. so he pulled the handle as far back as he dared, and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the dark form of the fugitive locomotive disclosed by the glare of their own head-light. now if he could keep it in sight, and so force the speed, that it would be impossible for the robber to jump off until some large station was reached, rod felt that all would yet go well. suddenly the runaway seemed to stop. then it began to move back toward them. in another instant they had dashed past it, but not before two pistol bullets had come crashing through the cab windows. a bit of splintered glass cut rod's forehead and a little stream of blood began to trickle down his face. without heeding it, he shut off steam, reversed, opened again, and within half a minute the pursuers were rushing back over the ground they had just covered. again the train robber tried the same game, again the two locomotives flew by each other, and again pistol balls came singing past rod blake's ears. as for the fireman he had flung himself flat on the floor of the cab. rod could hardly believe that he had not been hit by one of those hissing bullets, but as he felt no wound he again reversed his engine and again dashed ahead. now they gained steadily on the fugitive. his steam was giving out, and he had neither the time to renew his supply nor the knowledge of how to do so. the pursuit was decidedly hotter than he had anticipated, and had not been checked in the least by his pistol shots, as he had hoped it would be. he must try some other plan of escape, and that quickly. he did not know how many men were on that fiercely pursuing locomotive, nor whether they were armed or not. he only knew that within another minute they would overtake him. he formed a desperate resolve, and a moment later rod blake thought he saw a dark form scrambling from a ditch beside the track as they flew past. when they reached the "dying" locomotive of which they were in pursuit and found it abandoned, he knew what had taken place. the train robber had leaped from its cab and was now making his way across country on foot. "we must follow him!" exclaimed rod. "you may if you are such a fool; but i'll be blowed if i will," answered the fireman. there was no time to be lost in argument, neither was rod sure that those locomotives ought to be left unguarded. so, without another word, he dropped to the ground and started on a run across the fields in the direction he was almost certain the fugitive had taken. the young brakeman soon came to a wagon road running parallel to the railway. here he was brought to a halt. which way should he go? to attempt to continue the pursuit in either direction without some definite knowledge to act upon seemed foolish. if he could only discover a house at which to make inquiries, or if some belated traveller would only come that way. "'belated traveller' is good," mused rod as his eye caught a faint glow in the eastern sky. "here it is almost to-morrow while i thought it was still to-day. what a wild-goose chase i have come on anyway, and what should i do if i overtook the robber? i'm sure i don't know. i won't give it up though now that i have started in on it. hello! here comes some one now. perhaps i can learn something from him. hi, there!" the sound that had attracted the lad's attention was that of a rapidly galloping horse, though it was so deadened by the sandy road that he did not hear it until the animal was close upon him. the light was very dim, and as rod stood in a shadow neither the horse nor its rider perceived him until he started forward and shouted to attract the latter's attention. in an instant the startled animal had sprung to one side so suddenly as to fling its rider violently to the ground, where he lay motionless. the horse ran a short distance, then stopped and stood trembling. horrified at the result of his hasty action, rod kneeled beside the motionless man. his head had struck the root of a tree and though the boy could not discover that he was seriously injured, he was unconscious. in vain did the distressed lad attempt to restore him. he had little idea of what to do, there was no water at hand, and to his ignorance it seemed as if the man must be dying. he lifted one of the limp hands to chafe it, and started with amazement at the sight of a diamond ring that had cut its way through the torn and blackened kid glove in which the hand was encased. could this be the very train robber of whom he was in pursuit? where, then, was his leather satchel? why, there it was, only a few feet away, lying where it had fallen as the man was flung to the ground. incredible as it seemed, this must be the very man, and now what was to be done? was ever a fellow placed in a more perplexing situation? he could not revive the unconscious form. neither could he remove it from that place. clearly he must have help. as he arrived at this conclusion rod started on a run down the road, determined to find a habitation and secure human aid. chapter xxiv. arrested on suspicion. as rod started on his quest for assistance the riderless horse, which had begun to nibble grass by the roadside, lifted his head with a snort that brought the lad to a sudden halt. why not make use of this animal if he could catch it? certainly his mission could be accomplished more quickly on horseback than on foot. he started gently toward it, holding out his hand and speaking soothingly; but the cautious animal tossed its head and began to move away. "how much he resembles juniper," thought rod. "here, juniper! here june, old fellow!" he called. at the sound of his name the horse wheeled about and faced the lad in whose company he had recently undergone such a thrilling experience. the next instant rod grasped the animal's halter, for it had neither saddle nor bridle, and juniper was evidently recognizing him. as the young brakeman was about to leap on the horse's back it occurred to him that the leather bag, which was undoubtedly filled with valuable plunder from the rifled express car ought not to be left lying in the road. no, it would be much better to carry it to a place of safety. with this thought came a recollection of the pistol shots so lately fired by the man at his feet. would it not be well to disarm him lest he should revive and again prove dangerous before assistance could be found and brought to the place. rod believed it would, and, acting upon the thought, transferred two revolvers from the train-robber's pockets to his own. then, after dragging the still unconscious man a little to one side beyond danger from any wagon that might happen along, the lad slung the heavy satchel over his shoulder, scrambled on to juniper's back and galloped away. the road was a lonely one, and he rode more than a mile before reaching a farm-house. here the excited lad rapped loudly on the front door and shouted. no one was yet astir, and several minutes passed before an upper window was cautiously opened and a woman's voice inquired who was there and what was wanted. rod began to explain his errand; but after a few words the woman called to him to wait until she could come down, and then slammed the window down. to the young brakeman's impatience the ensuing delay seemed an hour in length, though in reality not more than five minutes elapsed before the front door opened and the woman again appeared. "now, what were you trying to tell me about men dying in the road?" she asked sharply. as rod was about to reply there came a sound of galloping horses and a shout from the place where he had left juniper fastened to a fence post. "there he is!" "now we've got him!" "throw up your hands, you scoundrel!" "don't you dare draw a pistol or we'll fill you full of holes!" these and a score of similar cries came to the ears of the bewildered lad as half a dozen horsemen dashed up to the front gate, and four of them, leaping to the ground, ran towards him while the others held the horses. he was too astonished even to remonstrate, and as they seized him he submitted to the indignity as quietly as one who is dazed. the woman in the doorway regarded this startling scene with amazement. when in answer to her eager questions the new-comers told her that the young desperado whom she had so nearly admitted to her house was a horse-thief, who, but a short time before, had stolen the animal now tied to her front fence, at the point of a revolver from the man who was leading him to water, she said she wouldn't have believed that such a mere boy could be so great a villian. "it's the truth though," affirmed the man who acted as spokesman. "isn't it, al?" "yes, siree," replied al, a heavy-looking young farm hand. "an more 'n that, he fired at me too afore i'd give up the 'orse. oh, yes, he's a bad un, young as he looks, an hangin' wouldn't be none too good for him." "i did nothing of the kind!" cried rod, indignantly, now finding a chance to speak. "this is an outrage, and----" "is this the fellow, al?" asked the spokesman, interrupting the young brakeman's vehement protest. "of course it is. i'd know him anywhere by that bag slung over his shoulders, an he's got pistols in his pockets, too." "yes, here they are," replied the leader, thrusting his hands into rod's coat pockets and drawing forth the two revolvers. "oh, there's no use talking, young man. the proof against you is too strong. the only thing for you to do is to come along quietly and make the best of the situation. horse thieves have been getting altogether too plenty in this part of the country of late, and we've been laying for one to make an example of for more 'n a week now. its mighty lucky for you that you didn't tackle an armed man instead of al there, this morning. if you had you'd have got a bullet instead of a horse." "but i tell you," cried rod, "that i took those things from a man who was flung from that horse back here in the road about a mile. he is----" "i haven't any doubt that you took them," interrupted the man, grimly, "the same as you took the horse." "and i only made use of the horse to obtain assistance for him the more quickly," continued rod. "i left him stunned by his fall, and he may be dead by this time. he will be soon, anyway, if some one doesn't go to him, and then you'll be murderers, that's what you'll be." "let us examine this bag that you admit you took from somebody without his permission, and see what it contains," said the man quietly, paying no heed to the lad's statement. so saying, he opened the satchel that still hung from rod's shoulders. at the sight of its contents he uttered an exclamation of amazement. "well, if this don't beat anything i ever heard of!" the others crowded eagerly about him. "whew! look at the greenbacks!" cried one. "and gold!" shouted another. "he must have robbed a bank!" "there'll be a big reward offered for this chap." "he's a more desperate character than we thought." "a regular jail-bird!" "there's blood on some of these bills!" "he ought to be tied." this last sentiment met with such general approval that some one produced a bit of rope, and in another moment poor rod's hands were securely bound together behind him. chapter xxv. the train robber learns of rod's arrest. "i tell you the man who did it all is lying back there in the road!" screamed rod, furious with indignation at this outrage and almost sobbing with the bitterness of his distress. "he is a train robber, and i'm a passenger brakeman on the new york and western road. he made an escape and i was chasing him." "just listen to that now," said one of the men jeeringly. "it's more than likely you are the train robber yourself." "looks like a brakeman, doesn't he?" sneered another, "especially as they are all obliged to wear a uniform when on duty." "he's a nice big party of men, he is. just such a one as the railroad folks would collect and send in pursuit of a train robber," remarked the leader ironically. "oh, no, my lad, that's too thin. if you must tell lies i'd advise you to invent some that folks might have a living chance of believing." "it's not a lie!" declared rod earnestly and almost calmly; for though his face was quite pale with suppressed excitement, he was regaining control of his voice. "it's the solemn truth and i'm willing to swear to it." "oh, hush, sonny, don't swear. that would be naughty," remonstrated one of the men, mockingly. without noticing him, rod continued: "if you will only take me back about a mile on the road i will show you the real train robber, and so prove that part of my story. then at millbank i can prove the rest." "look here, young fellow," said the leader, harshly, "why will you persist in such nonsense? we have just came over that part of the road and we didn't see anything of any man lying in it." "because i dragged him to one side," explained rod. "oh, well, you'll have a chance to show us your man if you can find him, for we are going to take you back that way anyhow. come on, fellows, let's be moving. the sooner we get this young horse-thief behind bolts and bars the sooner we'll be rid of an awkward responsibility." so poor rod, still bound, was placed on juniper's back, and, with one man on each side of him, two in front and two behind, rode unhappily back over the road that he had traversed on an errand of mercy but a short time before. as the little group disappeared, the woman in whose front yard this exciting arrest had been made turned to hasten the preparations for her children's breakfast that she might the sooner visit her nearest neighbors and tell them of these wonderful happenings. she was filled with the belief that she had had a most remarkable escape, and was eager to have her theory confirmed. when she finally reached her neighbor's house and burst in upon them breathless and unannounced, she was somewhat taken aback to see a strange young man, wearing a pair of smoked glasses and having a very pale face, sitting at breakfast with them. the woman of the house informed her in a whisper, that he was a poor theological student making his way on foot back to college in order to save travelling expenses, and though he had only stopped to ask for a glass of water they had insisted upon his taking breakfast with them. then the visitor unburdened herself of her budget of startling news, ending up with: "an' i knew he was a desp'rate character the minit i set eyes onto him, for i'm a master-hand at reading faces, i am. why, sir," here she turned to the pale student by whose evident interest in her story she was greatly flattered, "i could no more take him for the honest lad he claimed to be than i would take you for a train robber. no, indeed. a face is like a printed page to me every time and i'm not likely to be fooled, i can tell you." "it is truly a wonderful gift," murmured the young man as he rose from the table and started to leave the house, excusing his haste on the plea of having a long distance still to travel. "what a saintly expression that young man has!" exclaimed the visitor, watching him out of sight, "and what a preacher he will make!" at the same moment he of the smoked glasses was saying to himself: "so that is what happened while i lay there like a log by the roadside, is it? well, it's hard luck; but certainly i ought to be able to turn the information furnished by that silly woman to some good account." in the meantime poor rod was far from enjoying a morning ride that under other circumstances would have proved delightful. the sun shone from an unclouded sky, the air was deliciously cool and bracing, and the crisp autumn leaves of the forest-road rustled pleasantly beneath the horses' feet. but the boy was thinking too intently, and his thoughts were of too unpleasant a nature for him to take note of these things. he was wondering what would happen in case the train robber should not be found where he had left him. he was not left long in suspense, for when they reached the place that he was certain was the right one there was no man, unconscious or otherwise, to be seen on either side or in any direction. he had simply regained his senses soon after rod left him, staggered to his feet, and, with ever increasing strength, walked slowly along the road. he finally discovered a side path through the woods that led him to the farm-house where, on account of his readily concocted tale, he received and accepted a cordial invitation to breakfast. as for rod, his disappointment at not finding the proof of which he had been so confident was so great that he hardly uttered a protest, when instead of carrying him to millbank or any other station on the line where he might have found friends, his captors turned into a cross-road from the left and journeyed directly away from the railroad. in about an hour they reached the village of center where the young brakeman, escorted by half the population of the place, was conducted through the main street to the county jail. here he was delivered to the custody of the sheriff with such an account of his terrible deeds, and strict injunctions as to his safe keeping, that the official locked him into the very strongest of all his cells. as the heavy door clanged in his face, and rod realized that he was actually a prisoner, he vaguely wondered if railroad men often got into such scrapes while attempting the faithful discharge of their duties. chapter xxvi. a welcome visitor. to be cast into jail and locked up in a cell is not a pleasant experience even for one who deserves such a fate; while to an honest lad like rodman blake who had only tried to perform what he considered his duty to the best of his ability, it was terrible. in vain did he assure himself that his friends would soon discover his predicament and release him from it. he could not shake off the depressing influence of that narrow room, of the forbidding white walls, and the grim grating of the massive door. he was too sensible to feel any sense of disgrace in being thus wrongfully imprisoned; but the horror of the situation remained, and it seemed as though he should suffocate behind those bars if not speedily released. in the meantime the sheriff, whose breakfast had been interrupted by the arrival of the self-appointed constables and their prisoner, returned to his own pleasant dining-room to finish that meal. he was a bachelor, and the only other occupant of the room was his mother, who kept house for him, and was one of the dearest old ladies in the world. she was a quakeress, and did not at all approve of her son's occupation. as she could not change it, however, she made the best use of the opportunities for doing good afforded by his position, and many a prisoner in that jail found occasion to bless the sheriff's mother. she visited them all, did what she could for their comfort, and talked with them so earnestly, at the same time so kindly and with such ready sympathy, that several cases of complete reformation could be traced directly to her influence. now her interest was quickly aroused by her son's account of the youthful prisoner just delivered into his keeping, and she sighed deeply over the story of his wickedness. "is it certain that he did all these things, robert?" she asked at length. "oh, i guess there is no doubt of it. he was caught almost in the very act," answered the sheriff, carelessly. "and thee says he is young?" "yes, hardly more than a boy." "does thee think he has had any breakfast?" "probably not; but i'll carry him some after i've been out and fed the cattle," answered her son, who was a farmer as well as a sheriff. "is thee willing i should take it to him?" "certainly, if you want to, only be very careful about locking everything securely after you," replied the sheriff, who was accustomed to requests of this kind. "i don't know why you should trouble yourself about him though, i'll feed him directly." "why should we ever trouble ourselves, robert, about those who are strangers, or sick, or in prison? besides, perhaps the poor lad has no mother, while just now he must sorely feel the need of one." thus it happened that a few minutes later rod blake was startled from his unhappy reverie by the appearance of an old lady in a dove-colored dress, a snowy cap and kerchief, in front of his door. as she unlocked it and stepped inside, he saw that she bore in her hands a tray on which a substantial breakfast was neatly arranged. the lad sprang to his feet, but faint from hunger and exhaustion as he was, he cast only one glance at the tempting tray. then he gazed earnestly into the face of his visitor. setting the tray down on a stool, for there was no table in the cell, the old lady said: "i thought thee might be hungry my poor lad, and so have brought thee a bit of breakfast." "oh, madam! don't you know me? don't you remember me?" cried rod eagerly. although startled by the boy's vehemence, the old lady adjusted her spectacles and regarded him carefully. "i can't say that i do," she said at length, in a troubled tone. "and yet thy face bears a certain look of familiarity. where have i ever seen thee before?" "don't you remember one morning a few weeks ago when you were in a railroad station, and dropped your purse, and i picked it up, and you gave me a quarter for seeing you safely on the train? don't you? i'm sure you must remember." the old lady was nervously wiping her spectacles. as she again adjusted them and gazed keenly at the boy, a flash of recognition lighted her face and she exclaimed, "of course i do! of course i do! thee is that same honest lad who restored every cent of the money that but for thee i might have lost! but what does it all mean? and how came thee here in this terrible place?" rod was only too thankful to have a listener at once so interested and sympathetic as this one. forgetful of his hunger and the waiting breakfast beside him, he at once began the relating of his adventures, from the time of first meeting with the dear old lady down to the present moment. it was a long story and was so frequently interrupted by questions that its telling occupied nearly an hour. at its conclusion the old lady, who was at once smiling and tearful, bent over and kissed the boy on his forehead, saying: "bless thee, lad! i believe every word of thy tale, for thee has an honest face, and an honest tongue, as well as a brave heart. thee has certainly been cruelly rewarded for doing thy duty. never mind, thy troubles are now ended, for my son shall quickly summons the friends who will not only prove thy innocence and release thee from this place, but must reward thy honest bravery. first, though, thee must eat thy breakfast and i must go to fetch a cup of hot coffee, for this has become cold while we talked." so saying the old lady bustled away with a reassuring little nod and a cheery smile that to poor rod was like a gleam of sunlight shining into a dark place. as she went, the old lady not only left his cell door unlocked but wide open for she had privately decided that the young prisoner should not be locked in again if she could prevent it. chapter xxvii. the sheriff is interviewed. while this pleasant recognition of old acquaintances was taking place in the jail, the sheriff was sitting in his office and submitting to be interviewed by a young man who had introduced himself as a reporter from one of the great new york dailies. he was a pleasant young man, very fluent of speech, and he treated the sheriff with a flattering deference. he explained that while in the village on other business he had incidentally heard of the important arrest made that morning and thought that if the sheriff would kindly give him a few particulars he might collect material for a good story. pleased with the idea of having his name appear in a new york paper the sheriff readily acceded to this request and gave his visitor all the information he possessed. the young man was so interested, and took such copious notes of everything the sheriff said, that the latter was finally induced to relax somewhat of his customary caution, and take from his safe the leather bag that had been captured on the person of the alleged horse-thief. the sheriff had opened this bag when he first received it, and had glanced at its contents, of which he intended to make a careful inventory at his first leisure moment. as this had not yet arrived, he was still ignorant of what the bag really contained. he knew, however, that its contents must be of great value and produced it to prove to the reporter that the young prisoner whom they were discussing was something more than a mere horse-thief. while the sheriff was still fumbling with the spring-catch of the bag, and before he had opened it, there came the sounds of a fall just outside the door, a crash of breaking china, and a cry in his mother's voice. forgetful of all else, the man dropped the bag, sprang to the door, and disappeared in the hall beyond, leaving his visitor alone. in less than two minutes he returned, saying that his mother had slipped and fallen on the lowest step of the stairway she was descending. she had broken a cup and saucer, but was herself unhurt, for which he was deeply grateful. as the sheriff made this brief explanation, he cast a relieved glance at the leather bag that still lay on the floor where he had dropped it, and at some distance from the chair in which the young man was sitting. again he took up the bag to open it, and again he was interrupted. this time the interruption came in the shape of a messenger from the telegraph office, bringing the startling news of the recent train robbery and the daring escape of its perpetrator. the sheriff first read this despatch through to himself, and then handed it to his visitor, who had watched his face with eager interest while he read it. the moment he had glanced through the despatch, the young man started to his feet, exclaiming that such an important bit of news as that would materially alter his plans. then he begged the sheriff to excuse him while he ran down to the telegraph office, and asked his paper for permission to remain there a few days longer. he said that he should like nothing better than a chance to assist in the capture of this desperate train robber, which he had no doubt would be speedily effected by the sheriff. he also promised to call again very shortly for further information, provided his paper gave him permission to remain. the sheriff was not at all sorry to have his visitor depart, as the despatch just received had given new direction to his thoughts, and he was wondering if there could be any connection between the train robber, the young horse-thief, and the bag of valuables that lay unopened on his desk. he glanced curiously at it, and determined to make a thorough examination of its contents as soon as he had written and sent off several despatches containing his suspicions, asking for further information and requesting the presence at the jail of such persons as would be able to identify the train robber. as he finished these, his mother, who had been preparing a fresh cup of coffee for rod, entered the office full of her discovery in connection with the young prisoner and of the startling information he had given her. she would have come sooner but for the presence of her son's visitor, before whom she did not care to divulge her news. although the sheriff listened with interest to all she had to say, he expressed a belief that the young prisoner had taken advantage of her kindly nature, to work upon her sympathies with a plausible but easily concocted story. "but i tell thee, robert, i recognize the lad as the same who helped me on the train the last time i went to york." "that may be, and still he may be a bad one." "never, with such a face! it is as honest as thine, robert. of that i am certain, and if thee will only talk with him, i am convinced thee will think as i do. nor will thee relock the door that i left open?" "what!" exclaimed the sheriff; "you haven't left his cell-door unlocked, mother, after the strict charges i gave you concerning that very thing?" "yes, i have, robert," answered the old lady, calmly; "and but for the others i would have left the corridor-door unlocked also. i was mindful of them, though, and of thy reputation." "i'm thankful you had that much common-sense," muttered her son; "and now, with your permission, i will take that cup of coffee, which i suppose you intend for your young _protegé_, up to him myself." "and thee'll speak gently with him?" "oh, yes. i'll talk to him like a dutch uncle." thus it happened that when the door at the end of the jail corridor was swung heavily back on its massive hinges, and rod blake, who had been gazing from one of the corridor windows, looked eagerly toward it, he was confronted by the stern face of the sheriff instead of the placidly sweet one of the old lady, whom he expected to see. "what are you doing out here, sir? get back into your cell at once!" commanded the sheriff in an angry tone. "oh, sir! please don't lock me in there again. it doesn't seem as though i could stand it," pleaded rod. the sheriff looked searchingly at the lad. his face was certainly a very honest one, and to one old lady at least he had been kindly considerate. at the thought of the ready help extended by this lad to his own dearly-loved mother in the time of her perplexity, the harsh words that the sheriff had meditated faded from his mind, and instead of uttering them he said: "very well; i will leave your cell-door open, if you will give me your promise not to attempt an escape." and rod promised. chapter xxviii. light dawns upon the situation. on leaving rodman the sheriff was decidedly perplexed. his prisoner's honest face had made a decided impression upon him, and he had great confidence in his mother's judgment concerning such cases, though he was careful never to admit this to her. at the same time all the circumstances pointed so strongly to the lad's guilt that, as he reviewed them there hardly seemed a doubt of it. it is a peculiarity of sheriffs and jailers to regard a prisoner as guilty until he has been proved innocent. nevertheless this sheriff gave his mother permission to visit rod as often as she liked; only charging her to lock the corridor-door both upon entering and leaving the jail. so the dear old lady again toiled up the steep stairway, this time laden with books and papers. she found the tired lad stretched on his hard pallet and fast asleep, so she tiptoed softly away again without wakening him. while the young prisoner was thus forgetting his troubles, and storing up new strength with which to meet them, the sheriff was scouring the village and its vicinity for traces of any stranger who might be the train robber. but strangers were scarce in center that day and the only one he could hear of was the reporter who had interviewed him that morning. he had gone directly to the telegraph office where he had sent off the despatch of which he had spoken, to the new york paper he claimed to represent. in it he had requested an answer to be sent to millbank, and he had subsequently engaged a livery team with which he declared his intention of driving to that place. center, though not on the new york and western railway, was on another that approached the former more closely at this point than at any other. to facilitate an exchange of freight a short connecting link had been built by both roads between center and millbank. over this no regular trains were run, but all the transfer business was conducted by specials controlled by operators at either end of the branch. consequently the few travellers between the two places waited until a train happened along or, if they were in a hurry, engaged a team as the reporter had done. soon after noon the owner of juniper, the stolen horse, accompanied by the thick-headed young farm hand from whom the animal had been taken, appeared at the jail in answer to the sheriff's request for his presence. these visitors were at once taken to rod's cell, where the young prisoner greatly refreshed by his nap, sat reading one of the books left by the dear old lady. his face lighted with a glad recognition at sight of juniper's owner, and at the same moment that gentleman exclaimed: "why, sheriff, this can't be the horse-thief! i know this lad. that is i engaged him not long since to bring that very horse up here to my brother's place where i am now visiting. you remember me, don't you, young man?" "of course i do so, sir, and i am ever so glad to see some one who knew me before all these horrid happenings. now if you will only make that fellow explain why he said i was the one who threatened to shoot him, and stole juniper from him, when he knows he never set eyes on me before i was arrested, i shall be ever so much obliged." "how is this, sir?" inquired the gentleman, turning sharply upon the young farm hand behind him. "didn't you tell me you were willing to take oath that the lad whom you caused to be arrested and the horse-thief were one and the same person?" "y-e-e-s, s-i-r," hesitated the thick head. "are you willing to swear to the same thing now?" "n-n-o, your honor,--that is, not hexactly. someway he don't look the same now as he did then." "then you don't think he is the person who took the horse from you?" "no, sir, i can't rightly say as i do now, seeing as the man with the pistols was bigger every way than this one. if 'e 'adn't been 'e wouldn't got the 'orse so heasy, i can tell you, sir. besides it was so hearly that the light was dim an' i didn't see 'is face good anyway. but when we caught him 'e 'ad the 'orse an' the bag an' the pistols." "when you caught who?" "the 'orse-thief. i mean this young man." "and you recognized him then?" "yes, sir, i knowed 'im by the bag, an' the 'orse." "but you say he was a much larger man than this one." "oh, yes, sir! he was more 'n six foot an' as big across the shoulders as two of 'im." rod could not help smiling at this, as he recalled the slight figure of the train robber who had appropriated juniper to his own use. "this is evidently a badly-mixed case of mistaken identity," said the gentleman, turning to the sheriff, "and i most certainly shall not prefer any charge against this lad. why, in connection with that same horse he recently performed one of the pluckiest actions i ever heard of." here the speaker narrated the story of rod's struggle with juniper in utter darkness and within the narrow limits of a closed box-car. at its conclusion, the sheriff who was a great admirer of personal bravery, extended his hand to rod, saying: "i believe you to be the honest lad you claim to be, and an almighty plucky one as well. as such i want to shake hands with you. i must also state that as this gentleman refuses to enter a complaint against you i can no longer hold you prisoner. in fact i am somewhat doubtful whether i have done right in detaining you as long as i have without a warrant. still, i want you to remain with us a few hours more, or until the arrival of certain parties for whom i have sent to come and identify the train robber." "meaning me?" asked rod, with a smile. he could afford to smile now. in fact he was inclined to laugh and shout for joy over the favorable turn his fortunes appeared to be taking. "yes, meaning you," replied the sheriff good-humoredly. "and to show how fully persuaded i am that you are the train robber, i hereby invite you to accompany us down-stairs in the full exercise of your freedom and become the honored guest of my dear mother for whom you recently performed so kindly a service. she told me of that at the time, and i am aware now, that i have not really doubted that you were what you claimed to be, since she recognized you as the one who then befriended her. i tell you, lad, it always pays in one way or another, to extend a helping hand to grandfathers and grandmothers, and to remember that we shall probably be in need of like assistance ourselves some day." chapter xxix. an arrival of friends and enemies. thus it happened that although rod had eaten his breakfast that morning in a prison cell he ate his dinner in the pleasant dining-room of the sheriff's house with that gentleman, the dear old lady, and juniper's owner, for company. it was a very happy meal, in spite of the fact that the real train robber was still at large, and as its conversation was mostly devoted to the recent occurrences in which rod had been so prominent an actor, his cheeks were kept in a steady glow by the praises bestowed upon him. directly after dinner juniper's owner took his departure and soon afterwards a special train arrived from millbank. it consisted of a locomotive and a single passenger coach in which were a number of new york and western railroad men. they came in answer to the sheriff's request for witnesses who might identify the train robber. among these new arrivals were snyder appleby who had been sent from new york by superintendent hill to investigate the affair, conductor tobin who, after taking the express special to the end of his run, had been ordered back to millbank for this purpose, his other brakeman who had hurried ahead at the first opportunity from the station at which he had been left, the fireman of the locomotive with which rod had chased the robber, and several others. as this party was ushered into the sheriff's private office its members started with amazement at the sight of rod blake sitting there as calmly, as though perfectly at home and waiting to receive them. upon their entrance he sprang to his feet filled with a surprise equal to their own, for the sheriff had not told him of their coming. "well, sir! what are you doing here?" demanded snyder appleby, who was the first to recover from his surprise, and who was filled with a sense of his own importance in this affair. "i am visiting my friend, the sheriff," answered rod, at once resenting the other's tone and air. "oh, you are! and may i ask by what right you, a mere brakeman in our employ, took it upon yourself to desert your post of duty, run off with one of our engines, endanger the traffic of the line and then unaccountably disappear as you did last night or rather early this morning?" "you may ask as much as you please," answered rod, "but i shall refuse to answer any of your questions until i know by what authority you ask them." the young brakeman spoke quietly, but the nature of his feelings was betrayed by the hot flush that sprang to his cheeks. "you'll find out before i'm through with you," cried snyder savagely. "mr. sheriff i order you to place this fellow under arrest." "upon what charge?" asked the sheriff. "is he the train robber?" "of course not," was the reply, "but he is a thief all the same. he is one of our brakemen and ran off with a locomotive." "what did he do with it?" asked the sheriff, with an air of interest. "left it standing on the track." "oh, i didn't know but what he carried it off with him. did he leave it alone and unguarded?" snyder was compelled to admit that the engine had been left in charge of its regular firemen; but still claimed that the young brakeman had committed a crime for which he ought to be arrested. "i suppose you want me to arrest that fireman too?" suggested the sheriff. "oh, no. it was his duty to accompany the engine." "but why didn't he refuse to allow it to move?" "he was forced to submit by threats of personal injury made by this brakeman fellow. isn't that so?" asked snyder, and the fireman nodded an assent. the sheriff smiled as he glanced first at the burly form of the fireman and then at rod's comparatively slight figure. "can any of these men identify this alleged locomotive thief?" he asked. "certainly they can. tobin, tell the sheriff what you know of him." blazing with indignation at the injustice and meanness of snyder's absurd charge against his favorite brakeman, conductor tobin answered promptly: "i know him to be one of the best brakemen on the road, although he is the youngest. he is one of the pluckiest too and as honest as he is plucky. i'll own he might have made a mistake in going off with that engine; but all the same it was a brave thing to do and i am certain he thought he was on the right track." "do you know him too?" asked the sheriff of the other brakeman. "yes, sir. i am proud to say i do and in regard to what i think of him conductor tobin's words exactly express my sentiments." "do you also know him?" was asked of the fireman. "yes, i know him to be the young rascal who ran me twice into such a storm of bullets from the train robber's pistols that it's a living wonder i'm not full of holes at this blessed minute." "what else did he do?" "what else? why, he jumped from the engine while she was running a good twenty mile an hour, and started off like the blamed young lunatic he is to chase after the train robber afoot. wanted me to go with him too, but i gave him to understand i wasn't such a fool as to go hunting any more interviews with them pistols. no, sir; i stuck where i belonged and if he'd done the same he wouldn't be in the fix he's in now." "and yet," said the sheriff, quietly, "this 'blamed young lunatic,' as you call him, succeeded in overtaking that train robber after all. he also managed to relieve him of his pistols you seem to have dreaded so greatly, recover the valuable property that had been stolen from the express car, and also a fine horse that the robber had just appropriated to his own use. on the whole gentleman, i don't think i'd better arrest him, do you?" chapter xxx. where are the diamonds? "yes, sir. i think he ought to be arrested," said snyder appleby in reply to the sheriff's question, "and if you refuse to perform that duty i shall take it upon myself to arrest him in the name of the new york and western railway company of which i am the representative here. i shall also take him back with me to the city where he will be dealt with according to his desserts by the proper authorities." then turning to the members of his own party the self-important young secretary added: "in the meantime i order you two men to guard this fellow and see that he does not escape, as you value your positions on the road." "you needn't trouble yourself, snyder, nor them either," said rod indignantly, "for i sha'n't require watching. i am perfectly willing to go to new york with you, and submit my case to the proper authorities. in fact i propose to do that at any rate. at the same time i want you to understand that i don't do this in obedience to any orders from you, nor will i be arrested by you." "oh, that's all right," replied snyder, carelessly. "so long as we get you there i don't care how it is done. now, mr. sheriff," he continued, "we have already wasted too much time and if you will take us to see the bold train robber whom you say this boy captured single-handed and alone, we will finish our business here and be off." "i didn't say that he captured the train robber," replied the sheriff. "i stated that he overtook him, relieved him of his pistols, and recovered the stolen property; but i am quite certain that i said nothing regarding the capture of the robber." "where is he now?" asked snyder. "i don't know. this lad left him lying senseless in the road, where he had been flung by a stolen horse, and went for assistance. being mistaken for the person who had appropriated the horse he was brought here. in the meantime the train robber recovered his senses and made good his escape. that is, i suppose he did." "then why did you telegraph that you had the train robber in custody, and bring us here to identify him?" demanded snyder sharply. "i didn't," answered the sheriff, with a provoking smile, for he was finding great pleasure in quizzing this pompously arbitrary young man. "i merely sent for a few persons who could identify the train robber to come and prove that this lad was not he. this you have kindly done to my entire satisfaction." "what!" exclaimed snyder. "did you suspect rod, i mean this brakeman, of being the train robber?" "i must confess that i did entertain such a suspicion, and for so doing i humbly beg mr. blake's pardon," replied the sheriff. "it wouldn't surprise me if he should prove to be connected with it, after all, for i believe him to be fully capable of such things," sneered snyder. at this cruel remark there arose such a general murmur of indignation, and the expression of rod's face became so ominous that the speaker hastened to create a diversion of interest by asking the sheriff what had been done with the valuables recovered from the robber. "they are in my safe." "you will please hand them over to me." "i shall do nothing of the kind," retorted the sheriff, as he drew the stout leather bag from its place of security. "i shall hand this bag, with all its contents, to the brave lad who recovered it, and entrust him with its safe delivery to those authorized to receive it." so saying, the sheriff handed the bag to rod. snyder turned pale with rage, and snatching an unsealed letter from his pocket, he flung it on the table, exclaiming angrily: "there is my authority for conducting this business and for receiving such of the stolen property as may be recovered. if you fail to honor it i will have you indicted for conspiracy." "indeed!" said the sheriff, contemptuously. "that would certainly be a most interesting proceeding--for you." then to rod, to whom he had already handed the bag, he said: "if you decide to deliver this property to that young man, mr. blake, i would advise you to examine carefully the contents of the bag in presence of these witnesses and demand an itemized receipt for them." "thank you, i will," replied rod, emptying the contents of the bag on the table as he spoke. there was a subdued exclamation from the railroad men at the sight of the wealth thus displayed in packages of bills and rolls of coin. rodman requested the sheriff to call off the amount contained in each of these while he made out the list. at the same time snyder drew from his pocket a similar list of the property reported to be missing from the express messenger's safe. when rod's list was completed, snyder, who had carefully checked off its items on his own, said: "that's all right so far as it goes, but where are the diamonds?" "what diamonds?" asked rod and the sheriff together. "the set of diamond jewelry valued at seven thousand five hundred dollars, in a morocco case, that has been missing ever since the robbery of the express car," was the answer. "i know nothing of it," said rod. "this is the first i have heard of any diamonds," remarked the sheriff. [illustration: the sheriff hands rod the leather bag.--(_page ._)] "has the bag been out of your possession since the arrest of this--person?" asked snyder, hesitating for a word that should express his feelings toward the lad who had once beaten him in a race, but who was now so completely in his power. "no, sir, it has not," promptly replied the sheriff. "you have opened it before this, of course?" "yes, i glanced at its contents when it was first placed in my keeping, but made no examination of them, as i should have done had not other important matters claimed my attention." "how long was the bag in your possession?" asked snyder, turning to rod. "about half an hour, but----" "was any one with you during that half hour?" interrupted the questioner. "no; but as i was going to say----" "that is sufficient. i don't care to hear what you were going to say. others may listen to that if they choose when the proper time comes. what i have to say regarding this business is, that in view of this new development i am more than ever desirous of delivering you into the hands of the proper authorities in new york. i would also suggest that your short and brilliant career as a railroader has come to a disgraceful end more quickly than even i suspected it would." "do you mean to say that you think i stole those diamonds?" demanded rod, hotly. "oh, no," answered snyder. "i don't say anything about it. the circumstances of the case speak so plainly for themselves that my testimony would be superfluous. now, mr. sheriff, as our business here seems to be concluded, i think we will bid you good-by and be moving along." "you needn't bid me good-by yet," responded the sheriff, "for i have decided to go with you." "i doubt if i shall be able to find room for you in my special car," said snyder, who for several reasons was not desirous of the sheriff's company. "very well. then you will be obliged to dispense with mr. blake's company also, for in view of the recent developments in this case i feel that i ought not to lose sight of him just yet." chapter xxxi. one hundred miles an hour! the sheriff's concluding argument at once prevailed. snyder was so eager to witness his rival's humiliation and to hear the superintendent pronounce his sentence of dismissal from the company's employ, that he would have sacrificed much of his own dignity rather than forego that triumph. as matters now stood he could not see how rod, even though he should not be convicted of stealing the missing diamonds, could clear himself from the suspicion of having done so. neither could poor rod see how it was to be accomplished. for mile after mile of that long ride back toward new york he sat in silence, puzzling over the situation. in spite of the attempts of the sheriff and conductor tobin to cheer him up, he grew more and more despondent at the prospect of having to go through life as one who is suspected. it was even worse than being locked into a prison cell, for he had known that could not last long, while this new trouble seemed interminable. the lad's sorrowful reflections were interrupted by an ejaculation from the sheriff who sat beside him. on that gentleman's knee lay an open watch, at which he had been staring intently and in silence for some time. he had also done some figuring on a pad of paper. finally he uttered a prolonged "wh-e-w!" both rod and conductor tobin looked at him inquiringly. "do you know," he said, "that we have just covered a mile in forty-two seconds, and that we are travelling at the rate of eighty-five miles an hour?" "i shouldn't be surprised," replied conductor tobin, quietly; "i heard mr. appleby tell the engineman at the last stop that if better time wasn't made pretty soon he'd go into the cab himself and show 'em how to do it. the idea of his talking that way to an old driver like newman. why, i don't believe he knows the difference between a throttle and an injector. a pretty figure he'd cut in a cab! newman didn't answer him a word, only gave him a queer kind of a look. now he's hitting her up for all she's worth, though, and, judging from appearances, mr. appleby wishes he'd held his tongue." snyder certainly was very pale, and was clutching the arms of his seat as though to keep himself from being flung to the floor during the frightful lurchings of the car as it spun around curves. "but isn't it middling dangerous to run so fast?" asked the sheriff, as the terrific speed seemed to increase. "not so very," answered the conductor. "i don't consider that there is any more danger at a high rate of speed than there is at forty or fifty miles an hour! if we were to strike a man, a cow, a wagon, or even a pile of ties while going at this rate we'd fling the obstacle to one side like a straw and pay no more attention to it. if we were only doing fifteen or twenty miles though, instead of between eighty and ninety, any one of these things would be apt to throw us off the track. i tell you, gentleman, old man newman is making things hum though! you see he has got number , one of the new compound engines. he claims that she can do one hundred miles an hour just as well as not, and that he is the man to get it out of her. he says he can stand it if she can. he made her do a mile in - / seconds on her trial trip, and claims that about a month ago when he was hauling the grease wagon[ ] she did - / miles in - / minutes, which is at the rate of . miles an hour.[ ] his fireman backs him up, and says he held the stop-watch between stations. the paymaster was so nearly scared to death that time that newman was warned never to try for his hundred-mile record again without special orders. now i suppose he considers that he has received them and is making the most of his chance." [ ] pay-car. [ ] this time has actually been made by an american locomotive on an american railroad.--k. m. "it's awful!" gasped snyder, who had drawn near enough to the group to overhear the last of conductor tobin's remarks. "the man must be crazy. isn't there some way of making him slow down?" "not if he is crazy, as you suggest, sir," replied conductor tobin, with a sly twinkle in his eyes. "it would only make matters worse to interfere with him now, and all we can do is to hope for the best." "it's glorious!" shouted rod, forgetting all his troubles in the exhilaration of this wild ride. "it's glorious! and i only hope he'll make it. do you really think a hundred miles an hour is within the possibilities, mr. tobin?" "certainly i do," answered the conductor. "it not only can be done, but will be, very soon. i haven't any doubt but what by the time the columbian exposition opens we shall have regular passenger trains running at that rate over some stretches of our best roads, such as the pennsylvania, the reading, the new york central and this one. moreover, when electricity comes into general use as a motive power i shall expect to travel at a greater speed even than that. why, they are building an electric road now on an air line between chicago and st. louis, on which they expect to make a hundred miles an hour as a regular thing." "i hope i shall have a chance to travel on it," said rod. "i have heard of another road," continued conductor tobin, "now being built somewhere in europe, austria i believe, over which they propose to run trains at the rate of one hundred and twenty-five miles an hour." here the conversation was interrupted by snyder appleby, who, in a frenzy of terror that he could no longer control, shouted "stop him! stop him! i order you to stop him at once!" "all right, sir, i'll try," answered conductor tobin, with a scornful smile on his face. just as he lifted his hand to the bell-cord there came a shriek from the locomotive whistle. it was instantly followed by such a powerful application of brakes that the car in which our friends were seated quivered in every joint and seemed as though about to be wrenched in pieces. as the special finally came to a halt, and its occupants rushed out to discover the cause of its violent stoppage, they found the hissing monster, that had drawn them with such fearful velocity, standing trembling and panting within a few feet of one of the most complete and terrible wrecks any of them had ever seen. chapter xxxii. snatching victory from defeat. the wreck by which the terrific speed of the special had been so suddenly checked was one of those that may happen at any time even on the best and most carefully-managed of railroads. the through freight, of which ex-brakeman joe was now conductor, had made its run safely and without incident to a point within twenty miles of new york. it was jogging along at its usual rate of speed when suddenly and without the slightest warning an axle under a "foreign" car, near the rear of the train, snapped in two. in an instant the car leaped from the rails and across the west-bound tracks, dragging the rear end of the freight, including the caboose, after it. before the dazed train-hands could realize what was happening, the heavy locomotive of a west-bound freight that was passing the east-bound train at that moment crashed into the wreck. it struck a tank-car filled with oil. like a flash of lightning a vast column of fire shot high in the air and billows of flame were roaring in every direction. these leaped from one to another of the derailed cars, until a dozen belonging to both trains, as well as the west-bound locomotive, were enveloped in their cruel embrace. conductor joe escaped somehow, but he was bruised, shaken, and stunned by the suddenness and awfulness of the catastrophe. in spite of his bewilderment, however, his years of training as a brakeman were not forgotten. casting but a single glance at the blazing wreck, he turned and ran back along the east-bound track. he was no coward running away from duty and responsibility, though almost any one who saw him just then might have deemed him one. no, indeed! he was doing what none but a faithful and experienced railroad man would have thought of doing under the circumstances; doing his best to avert further calamity by warning approaching trains from the west of the danger before them. he ran half a mile and then placed the torpedoes, which, with a brakeman's instinct, he still carried in his pocket. _bang-bang!_ bang! engineman newman, driving locomotive number at nearer one hundred miles an hour than it had ever gone before, heard the sharp reports above the rattling roar of his train, and realized their dread significance. it was a close call, and only cool-headed promptness could have checked the tremendous speed of that on-rushing train in the few seconds allowed for the purpose. as it was, 's paint was blistering in the intense heat from the oil flames as it came to a halt and then slowly backed to a place of safety. conductor joe had already returned to the scene of the wreck and was sending out other men with torpedoes and flags in both directions. then he joined the brave fellows who were fighting for the lives of those still imprisoned in the wrecked caboose. among these were rod blake, conductor tobin, and the sheriff. snyder appleby had turned sick at the heartrending sights and sounds to be seen and heard on all sides, and had gone back to his car to escape them. he did not believe a soul could be saved, and he had not the nerve to listen to the pitiful cries of those whom he considered doomed to a certain destruction. in thus accepting defeat without a struggle, snyder exhibited the worst form of cowardice, and if the world were made up of such as he, there would be no victories to record. but it is not. it not only contains those who will fight against overwhelming odds, but others who never know that they are beaten, and where indomitable wills often snatch victory from what appears to be defeat. general grant was one of these, and rod blake was made of the same stuff. again and again he and those with him plunged into the stifling smoke to battle with the fierce flames in their stronghold. they smothered them with clods of earth and buckets of sand. they cut away the blazing woodwork with keen-edged wrecking axes torn from their racks in the uninjured caboose and in snyder appleby's special car. one by one they released and dragged out the victims, of whom the fire had been so certain, until none was left, and a splendid victory had been snatched from what had promised to be a certain defeat. [illustration: in the railroad wreck.--(_page ._)] there was a farm-house not far away, to which the victims of the disaster were tenderly borne. here, too, came their rescuers, scorched, blackened, and exhausted; but forgetful of their own plight in their desire to further relieve the sufferings of those for whom they had done such brave battle. in one of the wounded men rod blake was especially interested, for the young brakeman had fought on with a stubborn determination to save him after the others had declared it to be impossible. the man had been a passenger in the caboose of the through freight, and was so crushed and held by the shattered timbers of the car that, though the rescuing party reached his side, they were unable to drag him out. a burst of flame drove them back and forced them to rush into the open air to save their own lives. above the roar of the fire they could distinguish his piteous cries, and this was more than rod could stand. with a wet cloth over his mouth and axe in hand he dashed back into the furnace. he was gone before the others knew what he was about to attempt, and now they listened with bated breath to the sound of rapid blows coming from behind the impenetrable veil of swirling smoke. as it eddied upward and was lifted for an instant they caught sight of him, and rushing to the spot, they dragged him out, with his arms tightly clasped about the helpless form he had succeeded in releasing from its fiery prison. at that moment the young brakeman presented a sorry picture, blackened beyond recognition by his dearest friends, scorched, and with clothing hanging in charred shreds. by some miracle he was so far uninjured that a few dashes of cold water gave him strength to walk, supported by conductor tobin, to the farm-house, whither the others bore the unconscious man whom he had saved. the lad wished to help minister to the needs of the sufferer, but those who had cheered his act of successful bravery now insisted upon his taking absolute rest. so they made him lie down in a dimly-lighted room, where the sheriff sat beside him, and, big rough man that he was, soothed the exhausted lad with such tender gentleness, that after awhile the latter fell asleep. when this happened and the sheriff stole quietly out to where the others were assembled, he said emphatically: "gentlemen, i am prouder to know that young fellow than i would be of the friendship of a president." chapter xxxiii. a wrecking train. while rod lay in a dreamless sleep, which is the best and safest of remedies for every ill, mental or physical, that human flesh is heir to, a wrecking train arrived from new york. with it came a doctor, who was at once taken to the farm-house. he first looked at the sleeping lad, but would not allow him to be wakened, then he turned his attention to the victims of the disaster, whose poor maimed bodies were so sadly in need of his soothing skill. during the long hours of the night, while the doctor was busy with his human wrecks, the gang of experienced workmen who had come by the same train, was rapidly clearing the wreck of cars from the tracks and putting them in order for a speedy resumption of traffic. the wrecking train to which they belonged was made up of a powerful locomotive and three cars. the first of these was an immensely strong and solid flat, supporting a small derrick, which was at the same time so powerful as to be capable of lifting enormous weights. besides the derrick and its belongings the flat carried only a few spare car trucks. next to it came a box-car, filled with timber ends for blocking, hawsers, chains, ropes, huge single-, double-, and treble-blocks, iron clamps, rods and bolts, frogs, sections of rail, heavy tarpaulins for the protection of valuable freight, and a multitude of other like supplies, all so neatly arranged as to be instantly available. last, and most interesting of all, came the tool-car, which was divided by partitions into three rooms. of these, the main one was used by the members of the wrecking gang as a living-room, and was provided with bunks, a cooking-stove and utensils, and a pantry, well stocked with flour, coffee, tea, and canned provisions. the smaller of the two end rooms contained a desk, table, chairs, stationery and electrical supplies. it was used by the foreman of the wrecking gang, as an office in which to write his reports, and by the telegraph operator, who always accompanies a train of this description. this operator's first duty is to connect an instrument in his movable office with the railroad wire, which is one of the many strung on poles beside the track. from the temporary station thus established he is in constant communication with headquarters, to which he sends all possible information concerning the wreck, and from which he receives orders. in the tool-room at the other end of this car was kept everything that experience could suggest or ingenuity devise for handling and removing wrecked cars, freight, or locomotives. along the sides were ranged a score or so of jack-screws, some of them powerful enough to lift a twenty-ton weight, though worked by but one man. there were also wrenches, axes, saws, hammers of all sizes, crowbars, torches, lanterns, drills, chisels, files, and, in fact, every conceivable tool that might be of use in an emergency. in less than three hours after the arrival of the wrecking train at the scene of the accident on the new york and western road, the disabled locomotive, which had lain on its side in the ditch, had been picked up and replaced on the track. such of the derailed cars as were not burned or crushed beyond hope of repair had also been restored to their original positions, scattered freight had been gathered up and reloaded, all inflammable _débris_ was being burned in a great heap at one side, the tracks were repaired, and so little remained to tell of the disaster, that passengers by the next day's trains looked in vain for its traces. the first train to go through after the accident was snyder appleby's special. the private secretary had visited the farm-house to insist that rod blake should accompany him to new york; but he was met at the door by the watchful sheriff, who sternly refused to allow his sleeping charge to be awakened or in any way disturbed. "you needn't worry yourself about him," said the sheriff. "he'll come to new york fast enough, and i'll come with him. we'll hunt the superintendent's office as quick as we get there, and maybe you won't be so glad to see us as you think you will. that's the best i can promise you, for that young fellow isn't going to be disturbed before he gets good and ready to wake up of his own accord. not if i can help it, and i rather think i can." "oh, well," replied snyder, who in the seclusion of his car had heard nothing of rod's brave fight. "if he is such a tender plant that his sleep can't be interrupted, i suppose i shall have to go on without him, for my time is too valuable to be wasted in waiting here any longer. but i warn you, sir, that if you don't produce the young man in our office at an early hour to-morrow morning the company will hold you personally responsible for the loss of those diamonds." so saying, and ordering conductor tobin with the other witnesses to accompany him, the self-important young secretary took his departure, filled with anger against rod blake, the sheriff who had constituted himself the lad's champion, the wreck by which he had been delayed, and pretty nearly everything else that happened to cross his mind at that moment. as for rod, he slept so peacefully and soundly until long after sunrise, that when he awoke and gazed inquiringly about him, he was but little the worse for his thrilling experiences of the previous night. his first question after collecting his scattered thoughts was concerning the welfare of the man for whom he had risked so much a few hours before. "the poor fellow died soon after midnight," replied the sheriff. "he did not suffer, for he was unconscious to the last, but in spite of that he left you a legacy, which i believe you will consider an ample reward for your brave struggle to save him. at any rate, i know it is one that you will value as long as you live." chapter xxxiv. rod accepts the legacy. "i sha'n't accept it," declared rod. "i couldn't take a reward for trying to save a man's life. you couldn't yourself, sir. you know that all the money in the world wouldn't have tempted you into those flames, while you were ready enough to go on the simple chance of saving a human being from an awful death. i'm sure you must feel that way, and so you know just how i feel about it. i only wish he could have known it too, and known how willingly we tried to save him. if he only had, he wouldn't have thought of offering us a reward. did you find out who he was?" "yes, i found out," answered the sheriff, with a queer little smile. "i found out, too, that he was some one whom you knew quite well and were deeply interested in." "some one i knew!" cried rod, in surprise, at the same time taking a rapid mental note of all his railroad friends who might have been connected with the accident. "who was he? was he a railroad man?" "no, he was not a railroad man, and i can't tell you his name, but if you feel strong enough, i should like to have you come and take a look at him." "of course i do," replied rod whose curiosity was now fully aroused. "i feel almost as well as ever i did, excepting a little shaky, and with a smart here and there in the burned places." as the two entered an adjoining room, rod's attention was instantly attracted by the motionless form, covered with a sheet, that lay on a bed. several persons were engaged in a low-voiced conversation at one end of the room; but at first the lad did not notice them. he was too anxious to discover which of all his friends lay there so silently, to heed aught else just then. as he and the sheriff stepped to the side of the bed, the latter gently withdrew the covering and disclosed a peaceful face, from which every trace of grime and smoke had been tenderly removed. rod instantly recognized it. it was the same that he had last seen only the morning before lying by the forest roadside more than a hundred miles away. in a tone of awed amazement he exclaimed, "the train robber!" "i think that settles it, gentlemen," said the sheriff quietly, and turning to the other occupants of the room who had gathered close behind rod. "we thought it must be the train robber," he continued, addressing the latter "because we found the missing diamonds in a breast pocket of his coat; but we wanted your evidence to establish the fact. i have also recognized him as the alleged reporter who interviewed me yesterday morning, and who was accidentally left alone for a minute with the leather bag in my office. the moment i discovered that the diamonds were missing i suspected that he must have taken them, but thought it best to keep my suspicions to myself until i could trace him. i learned that a man answering his description had boarded the east-bound freight somewhere this side of millbank and telegraphed conductor joe miller to keep him in sight. by making use of mr. appleby's special i hoped to overtake and pass him before he reached new york. i thus expected to be on hand to welcome and arrest him at his journey's end, and by so doing relieve you of all suspicion of being anything but the honest plucky lad you have proved yourself. at the same time i looked forward to taking some of the conceit out of that young sprig of a secretary. that all my calculations were not upset by last night's accident was largely owing to you, for i must confess that, but for the shame of being outdone in bravery by a mere slip of a boy, i should have given up the fight to save this man long before the victory was won. of course the evidence of his crime would have vanished with him, and we should never have known for a certainty what had become of the train robber or the diamonds. some persons might even have continued to suspect you of being connected with their disappearance, while now your record is one that any man may well envy. was i not right then, in saying that this poor fellow had left you a reward for your bravery that you will value so long as you live?" "indeed you were," answered rod, in a low tone, "and it is a legacy that i can most gratefully accept, i wish he might have lived, though. it is terrible to think that by following him as i did i drove him to his death." "you must not think of it in that way," said one of the other witnesses of the scene, taking the lad's hand as he spoke, and at the same time disclosing the well-known features of mr. hill, the superintendent, "you must only remember that you have done your duty faithfully and splendidly. although i should not have approved the course you took at the outset, the results fully justify all that you have done, and i am very proud to number you among the employees of our company. you have certainly graduated with honors from the ranks of brakemen, and have fairly won your promotion to any position that you feel competent to fill. it only rests with you to say what it shall be." "if the young man would accept a position with us," interrupted another gentleman, whom rod knew to be a superintendent of the express company, "we should be only too happy to offer him one, that carries with it a handsome salary and the promise of speedy promotion." "no, indeed! you can't have him!" exclaimed mr. hill. "a railroad company is said to be a soulless corporation, but it has at least soul enough to appreciate and desire to retain such services as this lad has shown himself capable of rendering. he has chosen to be a railroad man, and i don't believe he is ready to switch off on any other line just yet. how is it, blake? have you had enough of railroading?" "no, sir," replied rod, earnestly. "i certainly have not. i have only had enough of it to make me desirous of continuing in it, and if you think i could make a good enough fireman, i should be very glad to take milt sturgis' place on number , and learn to run a locomotive engine under mr. stump." "a fireman!" exclaimed mr. hill, in surprise. "is that the height of your ambition?" "i think it is at present, sir," replied rod, modestly. "but i thought you knew how to run an engine. it looked that way yesterday morning when you started off with the one belonging to the express special." "i thought i did too, sir; but by that very trial i found that i knew just nothing at all about it. i do want to learn though, and if you haven't anyone else in view----" "of course you shall have the place if you want it," interrupted mr. hill. "stump has already applied for you, and you should have had it even if all the events of yesterday had not happened. i must tell you though, that joe miller wants to resign his conductorship of the through freight to accept a position on a private car belonging to a young millionaire oil prince, and i was thinking of offering you his place." "thank you ever so much, sir; but if you don't mind, i would rather run on number ." "very well," replied the superintendent, "you have earned the right to do as you think best. now, as the track is again clear, we will all go back to the city in the wrecking train, which is ready to start." when mr. hill entered his office an hour later his secretary handed him a report of his investigations in the matter of the express robbery. this report cast grave suspicions upon rod blake as having been connected with the affair, and advised his arrest. snyder had spent some hours in preparing this document, and now awaited with entire self complaisance the praise which he was certain would reward his efforts. what then was his amazement when his superior, after glancing through the report, deliberately tore it into fragments, which he dropped into a waste-basket. at the same time he said: "i am pleased to be able to inform you, mr. appleby, that the property you describe as missing has been recovered through the agency of this very rodman blake. i must also warn you that the company has no employee of whose integrity and faithfulness in the performance of duty they are more assured than they are of his. as you have evidently failed to discover this in your dealings with mr. blake, and as you have blundered through this investigation from first to last, i shall hereafter have no use for your services outside of routine office work." thus saying, mr. hill closed the door of his private office behind him, leaving snyder overwhelmed with bewilderment and indignation. chapter xxxv. firing on number . in regard to rod blake's new appointment, nothing more was said that day; but, sure enough, he received an order the following morning to report to the master mechanic for duty as fireman on engine number . proud enough of his promotion, the lad promptly obeyed the order; and when that same evening he climbed into the cab of number , as the huge machine with a full head of steam on stood ready to start out with freight number , he felt that one of his chief ambitions was in a fair way of being realized. he tried to thank truman stump for getting him the job; but the old engineman only answered "nonsense, you won the place for yourself, and i'm glad enough to have such a chap as you. the only trouble is that you'll learn too quick, and be given an engine of your own, just as you are getting the hang of my ways. i won't teach you anything though, except how to fire properly, so you needn't expect it." that is what he said. what he did was to take every opportunity for showing the young fireman the different parts of the wonderful machine on which they rode, and of explaining them to him in the clearest possible manner. he encouraged him to ask questions, often allowed him to handle the throttle for short distances, and evidently took the greatest pride in the rapid progress made by his pupil. since first obtaining employment on the railroad, rod had, according to his promise, written several times to his faithful friend dan the stable boy on his uncle's place with requests that he would keep him informed of all that took place in the village. dan sent his answers through the station agent at euston, and rod had only been a fireman a few days when he received a note which read as follows: "dear mr. rod: "they is a man here, who i don't know, but who is asking all about you. he asked me many questions, and has talk with your uncle. he may mean good or he may mean bad, i don't know which. if i find out ennything more i will let you know. yours respectful, "dan." rod puzzled over this note a good deal, and wondered who on earth could be making inquiries about him. if he had known that it was brown the railroad detective, he would have wondered still more. he finally decided that, as he was not conscious of having done anything wrong, he had no cause for worry. so he dismissed the affair, and devoted his whole attention to learning to be a fireman. most people imagine it to be a very simple matter to shovel coal into a locomotive furnace, and so it is; but this is only a small part of a fireman's responsibility. he must know when to begin shovelling coal, and when to stop; when to open the blower and when to shut it off; when to keep the furnace door closed, and when to open it; how to regulate the dampers; when and how to admit water to the boiler; when to pour oil into the lubricating cups of the cylinder valves and a dozen other places; when to ring the bell, and when and how to do a multitude of other things, every one of which is important. he must keep a constant watch of the steam-gauge, and see that its pointer does not fall below a certain mark. the water-gauge also comes in for a share of his attention. above all, he must learn, as quickly as possible, how to start, stop, and reverse the engine, and how to apply, or throw off the air brakes, so that he can readily do any of these things in an emergency, if his engineman happens to be absent. in acquiring all this information, and at the same time attending to his back-breaking work of shovelling coal, rod found himself so fully and happily occupied that he could spare but few thoughts to the stranger who was inquiring about him in euston. after a few days of life in the cab of locomotive number , he became so accustomed to dashing through tunnels amid a blackness so intense that he could not see a foot beyond the cab windows, to whirling around sharp curves, to rattling over slender trestles a hundred feet or more up in the air, and to rushing with undiminished speed through the darkness of storm-swept nights, when the head-lights seemed of little more value than a tallow candle, that he ceased to think of the innumerable dangers connected with his position as completely as though they had not existed. there came a day, however, when they were recalled to his mind in a startling manner. it was late in the fall, and for a week there had been a steady down-pour of rain that filled the streams to overflowing, and soaked the earth until it seemed like a vast sponge. it made busy work for the section gangs, who had their hands more than full with landslides, undermined culverts, and overflowing ditches, and it caused enginemen to strain their eyes along the lines of wet track, with an unusual carefulness. at length the week of rain ended with a storm of terrific violence, accompanied by crashing thunder and vivid lightnings. while this storm was at its height, locomotive number , drawing a heavy freight, pulled in on the siding of a station to wait for the passing of a passenger special, and a regular express. truman stump sat on his side of the cab, calmly smoking a short, black pipe; and his fireman stood at the other side, looking out at the storm as the special, consisting of a locomotive and two cars, rushed by without stopping. as it was passing, a ball of fire, accompanied by a rending crash of thunder, illumined the whole scene with an awful, blinding glare. for an instant rod saw a white face pressed against one of the rear windows of the flying train. he was almost certain that it was the face of eltje vanderveer. a moment later the telegraph operator of that station came running toward them, bareheaded, and coatless, through the pitiless rain. the head-light showed his face to be bloodless and horror-stricken. "cut loose from the train, rod!" he cried in a voice husky and choked with a terrible dread. "true, word was just coming over the wire that the centre pier of minkskill bridge had gone out from under the track, and for me to stop all trains, when that last bolt struck the line, and cut me off. if you can't catch that special there's no hope for it. it's the only thing left to try." without waiting to hear all this rod had instantly obeyed the first order, sprung to the rear of the tender, drawn the coupling-pin, and was back in the cab in less time than it takes to write of it. truman stump did not utter a word; but, before the operator finished speaking, number was in motion. he had barely time to leap to the ground as she gathered headway and began to spring forward on the wildest race for life or death ever run on the new york and western road. chapter xxxvi. the only chance of saving the special. so well did truman stump and his young fireman understand each other, that, as locomotive number sprang away on her race after the special, there was no necessity for words between them. only after rod had done everything in his power to ensure a full head of steam and paused for a moment's breathing-spell, did he step up behind the engineman and ask, "what is it, true?" "minkskill bridge gone! we are trying to catch the special," answered the driver, briefly, without turning his head. it was enough; and rod instantly comprehended the situation. there was a choking sensation in his throat, as he remembered the face disclosed by the lightning a few moments before, and realized the awful danger that now threatened the sunny-haired girl who had been his playmate, and was still his friend. with a desperate energy he flung open the furnace-door, and toiled to feed the roaring flames behind it. they almost licked his face in their mad leapings, as their scorching breath mingled with his. he was bathed in perspiration; and, when the front windows of the cab were forced open by the fierce pressure of the gale, he welcomed the cold blast and hissing rain that swept through it. number had now attained a fearful speed, and rocked so violently from side to side that its occupants were obliged to brace themselves and cling to the solid framework. it was a miracle that she kept the track. at each curve, and there were many of them on this section, rod held his breath, fully expecting the mighty mass of iron to leap from the rails and plunge headlong into the yawning blackness. but she clung to them, and the steady hand at the throttle opened it wider, and still a little wider, until the handle had passed any limit that even the old engineman had ever seen. still the young fireman, with set teeth and nerves like steel, watched the dial on the steam-gauge, and flung coal to the raging flames behind the glowing furnace-door. mile after mile was passed in half the same number of minutes, and outside objects were whirled backward in one continuous, undistinguishable blur. the limb of a tree, flung to the track by the mighty wind, was caught up by the pilot and dashed against the head-light, instantly extinguishing it. so they rushed blindly on, through a blackness intensified by gleams of electric light, that every now and then ran like fiery serpents along the rails, or bathed the flying engine with its pallid flames. they were not more than two miles from the deadly bridge when they first saw the red lights on the rear of the special. the engineman's hand clutched the whistle lever; and, high above the shriek of the storm, sounded the quick, sharp blasts of the danger signal. a moment later they swept past a glare of red fire blazing beside the track. the enginemen of the special had not understood their signal, and had thrown out a fusee to warn them of his presence immediately in front of them. "i'll have to set you aboard, rod," shouted truman stump, and the young fireman knew what he meant. he did not answer; but crawling through the broken window and along the reeling foot-board, using his strength and agility as he had never used them before, the boy made his way to the pilot of the locomotive. crouching there, and clinging to its slippery braces, he made ready for the desperate spring that should save or lose everything. foot by foot, in reality very quickly, but seemingly at a laggard pace, he was borne closer and closer to the red lights, until they shone full in his face. then, with all his energies concentrated into one mighty effort, he launched himself forward, and caught, with outstretched hands, the iron railing of the platform on which were the lights. drawing himself up on it, he dashed into the astonished group standing in the glass-surrounded observation-room, that occupied the rear of the car, crying: "stop the train! stop it for your lives!" [illustration: "he launched himself forward."--(_page ._)] prompt obedience to orders, without pausing to question them, comes so naturally to a railroad man, that president vanderveer himself now obeyed this grimy-faced young fireman as readily as though their positions had been reversed. with a quick movement he touched a button at one side of the car, and instantly a clear-voiced electric bell, in the cab of the locomotive that was dragging his train toward destruction, rang out an imperative call for brakes. the engineman's right hand sought the little brass "air" lever as he heard the sound. with his left he shut off steam. ten seconds later the special stood motionless, with its pilot pointing out over the minkskill bridge. president vanderveer had not recognized the panting, coal-begrimed, oil-stained young fireman who had so mysteriously boarded his car while it was running at full speed; but eltje knew his voice. now, as her father turned from the electric button to demand an explanation, he saw the girl seize the stranger's hand. "it's rod, father! it's rodman blake!" she cried. "so it is!" exclaimed the president, grasping the lad's other hand, and scanning him closely. "but what is the matter, rodman? how came you here? why have you stopped us, and what is the meaning of this disguise?" a few words served to explain the situation. then the president, with rod and the conductor of the special, left the car, lanterns in hand, to go ahead and discover how far they were from the treacherous bridge. as they reached the ground they were joined by truman stump, who had slowed the terrific speed of his locomotive at the moment of his fireman's leap from its pilot, and brought it to a standstill close behind the special. in a voice trembling with emotion the old engineman said: "it was the finest thing i've seen done in thirty years of running, rod, and i thank god for your nerve." a minute later, when president vanderveer realized the full extent of the threatened danger, and the narrowness of their escape, he again held the young fireman's hand, as he said: "and i thank god, rodman, not only for your nerve, but that he permitted you to be on time. a few seconds later and our run on this line would have been ended forever." after a short consultation it was decided that the special should remain where it was, while locomotive number should run back to the station, where its train still waited, bearing a message to be telegraphed to the nearest gang of bridge carpenters. how different was that backward ride from the mad, breathless race, with all its dreadful uncertainties, that truman stump and rod blake had just made over the same track. how silent they had been then, and how they talked now. how cheerily their whistle sounded as they approached the station! how lustily rod pulled at the bell-rope, that the glad tidings of number 's glorious run might the sooner be guessed by the anxious watchers, who awaited their coming. what an eager throng gathered round the old locomotive as it rolled proudly up to the station. it almost seemed conscious of having performed a splendid deed. long afterwards, in cab and caboose, or wherever the men of the n. y. and w. road gathered, all fast time was compared with the great run made by number on that memorable night. the storm had passed and the moon was shining when the station was reached. already men were at work repairing the telegraph line, and an hour later a bridge gang, with a train of timber-laden flats, was on its way to the minkskill bridge. number drew this train, and rod was delighted to have this opportunity to learn something of bridge building. he was glad, too, to escape from the praises of the railroad men; for truman stump insisted on telling the story of his young fireman's brave deed to each new crew as it reached the station, and they were equally determined to make a hero of him. chapter xxxvii. independence or pride smiler, the railroad dog, appeared on the scene with the bridge gang, though no one knew where he came from; and, quickly discovering rod, he followed him into the cab of locomotive number . here he took possession of the cushion on the fireman's side of the cab, and sat on it with a wise expression on his honest face, that said as plainly as words: "this is an important bit of work, and it is clearly my duty to superintend it." rod was delighted to have this opportunity of introducing the dear dog to eltje, and they became friends immediately. as for the president, smiler not only condescended to recognize him, but treated him with quite as much cordiality as though he had been a fireman or a brakeman on a through freight. rod got a few hours' sleep that night after all, and in the morning he and engineman stump accepted an invitation to take breakfast with president vanderveer, his daughter, and smiler, in the president's private car. this car had just returned from the extended western trip on which it had started two months before, when rod was seeking employment on the road. as neither eltje nor her father had heard a word concerning him in all that time, they now plied him with questions. when he finished his story eltje exclaimed: "i think it is perfectly splendid, rod, and if i were only a boy i would do just as you have done! wouldn't you, papa?" "i am not quite sure that i would, my dear," answered her father, with a smile. "while i heartily approve of a boy who wishes to become a railroad man, beginning at the very bottom of the ladder and working his way up, i cannot approve of his leaving his home with the slightest suspicion of a stain resting on his honor if he can possibly help it. don't you think, rodman," he added kindly, turning to the lad, "that the more manly course would have been to have stayed in euston until you had solved the problem of who really did disable your cousin's bicycle?" "i don't know but what it would," replied the young man, thoughtfully; "but it would have been an awfully hard thing to do." "yes, i know it would. it would have been much harder than going hungry or fighting tramps or capturing express robbers; still it seems to me that it would have been more honorable." "but uncle turned me out of the house." "did he order you to leave that very night, or did he ask you to make arrangements to do so at some future time, and promise to provide for you when you did go?" "i believe he did say something of that kind," replied rod, hesitatingly. "do you believe he would have said even that the next morning!" "perhaps not, sir." "you know he wouldn't, rodman. you know, as well as i do, that major appleby says a great many things on the impulse of the moment that he sincerely regrets upon reflection. he told me himself the morning i left euston how badly he felt that you should have taken his hasty words so literally. he said that he should do everything in his power to cause you to forget them the moment you returned, as he hoped you would in a day or two. he gave snyder instructions to use every effort to discover you in the city, where it was supposed you had gone, and provided him liberally with money to be expended in searching for you. i am surprised that snyder has not found you out before this, especially as you are both in the employ of the same company. didn't you know that he was private secretary to our superintendent?" "yes, sir; i did," replied rod, "and----" he was about to add, "and he knows where i am"; but obeying a more generous impulse, he changed it to "and i have taken pains to avoid him." "i am sorry for that," said the president; "for if he had only met you and delivered your uncle's message you would have been reconciled to that most impetuous but most kindly-hearted of gentlemen long ago. now, however, you will go home with us and have a full explanation with him, will you not?" "i think not, sir," replied rod, with a smile. "in the first place, i can't leave mr. stump, here, to run number without a fireman, and in the second i would a great deal rather wait until i hear directly from my uncle that he wants me. besides, i don't want to give up being a railroad man; for, after the experience i have gained, i am more determined than ever to be one." "it would be a great pity, sir, to have so promising a young railroader lost to the business," said truman stump, earnestly, "and i do hope you won't think of taking him from us." "i should think, papa, that you would be glad to have anybody on the road who can do such splendid things as rod can," said eltje, warmly. "i'm sure if i were president, i'd promote him at once, and make him conductor, or master of something, instead of trying to get rid of him. why, it's a perfect shame!" "i've no doubt, dear, that if you were president, the road would be managed just as it should be. as you are not, and i am, i beg leave to say that i have no intention of letting rodman leave our employ, now that he has got into it, and proved himself such a valuable railroad man. he sha'n't go, even if i have to make him 'master of something,' as you suggest, in order to retain his services. all that i want him to do is to visit euston and become reconciled to his uncle. i am certain the dear old gentleman has forgotten by this time that he ever spoke an unkind word to his nephew, and is deeply grieved that he does not return to him. however, so long as rodman's pride will not permit him to make the first advances towards a reconciliation, i will do my best to act as mediator between them. then i shall expect our young fireman to appear in euston as quickly as possible after receiving major appleby's invitation, even if he has to leave his beloved number for a time to do so." "all right, sir, i will," laughed rod, "and i thank you ever so much for taking such an interest in me and my affairs." "my dear boy," replied the president, earnestly, "you need never thank me for anything i may do for you. i shall not do more than you deserve; and no matter what i may do, it can never cancel the obligation under which you and truman stump placed me last night." "it looks as though you and i were pretty solid on this road, doesn't it, rod?" remarked the engineman, after the bridge had been repaired, and they were once more seated in the cab of locomotive number , which was again on its way toward the city. "it does so," replied the young fireman. chapter xxxviii. a moral victory. the special was the first train to cross the minkskill bridge after it was repaired and pronounced safe, and as it was followed by all the delayed passenger trains, the through freight did not pull out for more than an hour later. as the special moved at the rate of nearly three miles to the freight's one, and as it made but one stop, which was at euston, where eltje was left, president vanderveer reached the terminus of the road in the evening; while rod blake did not get there until the following morning. after devoting some time to the discussion of important business matters with superintendent hill, the president suddenly asked: "by the way, hill, do you happen to have a personal acquaintance with a young fireman in our employ named rodman blake?" "yes, indeed i have," replied the superintendent, and he related the incidents connected with the first meeting between himself and rod. he also told of the imputation cast upon the lad's character by his private secretary. "in regard to this," he said, "i have been awaiting your return, before taking any action, because my secretary came to me with your recommendation. after brown finished with the matter of the freight thieves, i sent him to euston to make a thorough investigation of this charge against young blake, and here is his report." president vanderveer read the report carefully, and without comment, to the end; but a pained expression gradually settled on his face. as he handed it back, he said, "so brown thinks appleby did it himself?" "he has not a doubt of it," replied mr. hill. "well," said the president, "i am deeply grieved and disappointed; but justice is justice, and the innocent must not be allowed to suffer for the guilty, if it can be helped. i am going to euston to-night, and i wish that, without mentioning this affair to him, you would send appleby out there to see me in the morning." "very well, sir," replied the superintendent, and then they talked of other matters. in the meantime, during the long run in from the minkskill bridge, rod had plenty of time to think over his recent interview with president vanderveer. he recalled all the kindness shown him by his uncle, and realized now, what he had not allowed himself even to suspect before, that a selfish pride had been the motive of his whole course of action, ever since that unfortunate bicycle race. pride had driven him from his uncle's house. pride had restrained him from letting that uncle know where he was, or what he was doing. even now, though he knew that his dear mother's only brother was willing and anxious to receive him again, pride forbade him to go to him. should he continue to be the slave of pride, and submit to its dictates? or should he boldly throw off its yoke and declare himself free and independent? "yes, i will," he said aloud; "i won't give in to it any longer." "will what, and won't what?" asked the engineman, whose curiosity was aroused by these words. then rod told him of the struggle that had been going on in his mind, and of the decision he had just reached. when he finished, the other exclaimed: "right, you are, lad! and true stump thinks more of you for expressing those sentiments than he did when he saw you board the special last night, and that is saying a good deal. to fight with one's own pride and whip it, is a blamed sight harder thing to do than anything else that i know of in this world." they had already passed euston, and rod could not have left his post of duty then, even if they had not; but he determined to return on the very first train from the city, and seek a complete reconciliation with his uncle. the day express had already left when the freight got in, and so he was obliged to wait for an excursion train that was to go out an hour later. it was made up of several coaches and a baggage car; but rod did not care to ride in any of these. he already felt more at home on the locomotive than on any other part of the train, and so he swung himself into the cab, where he was cordially welcomed by the engineman and his assistant. they were glad of the chance to learn from him all the particulars of what had happened up the road during the great storm, and plied him with questions. in spite of their friendliness, and of his recent resolution, rod could not help feeling some uneasiness at the sight of snyder appleby sauntering down the platform and stepping aboard the train just as it started. he hoped his adopted cousin was not going to euston. that is just where snyder was going, though; and, having missed the express which he had been ordered to take, by his failure to be on time for it, he was obliged to proceed by the "excursion extra." he was feeling particularly self-important that morning, in consequence of having been sent for on business by the president, and he sauntered through the train with an offensive air of proprietorship and authority. not choosing to remain in one of the ordinary coaches, with ordinary excursionists, he walked into the empty baggage car, and stood looking through the window in its forward door. the moment he spied rod, comfortably seated in the cab of the locomotive, all his old feeling of jealousy was aroused. he had applied to the engineman for permission to ride there a few minutes before rod appeared, and it had been refused. now to see the person whom he had most deeply injured, and consequently most thoroughly disliked, riding where he could not, was particularly galling to his pride. during the first stop made by the train, he walked to the locomotive, and, in a most disagreeable tone, asked rod if he had a written order permitting him to ride there. "i have not," answered the young fireman. "then i shall consider it my duty to report both you and the engineman, for a violation of rule , which provides that no person, except those employed upon it, shall be permitted to ride on a locomotive without a written order from the proper authority," said snyder, as he turned away. this unwarranted assumption of authority made rod furious; and, as he looked back and saw snyder regarding him from the baggage car, he longed for an opportunity of giving the young man a piece of his mind. his feelings were fully shared by the other occupants of the cab. while they were still discussing the incident, the train plunged into a tunnel, just east of the euston grade. here, before it quite reached the other end, it became involved in one of the most curious and startling accidents known in the history of railroads. chapter xxxix. snyder is forgiven. as the locomotive was beginning to emerge from the blackness of the tunnel, and those in its cab were just able to distinguish one another's faces by the rapidly increasing light from the tunnel's mouth, there came an awful crash and a shock like that of an earthquake. a shower of loose rocks fell on, and into, the cab. the locomotive was jerked backward with a sickening violence, and for a moment its driving wheels spun furiously above the track. then it broke loose from the train, and sprang forward. in another moment it emerged from the tunnel, and was brought to a standstill, like some panting, frightened animal, a few yards beyond its mouth. the occupants of the cab, bruised and shaken, stared at each other with blanched, awe-stricken faces. they had seen the train behind them swallowed by a vast tumbling mass of rock, and believed themselves the only survivors of one of the most hideous of railroad disasters. only rod thought he had seen the end of the baggage car protruding from the crushing mass, just as the locomotive became released and sprang forward. "the tunnel roof has caved in," said the engineman with a tone of horror; "and not a soul can have escaped beside ourselves. all those hundreds of people are lying in there, crushed beyond recognition. oh, it is terrible! terrible!" and tears, expressive of the agony of his mind, coursed down the strong man's cheeks. partially recovering himself in a moment, he said, "there is nothing left for us to do but go on to euston, report what has happened, and stop all trains." rod blake agreed that this was the engineman's first duty; but declared his intention of staying behind, and of going back into the tunnel, to see if there was not some one who might yet be saved. in vain they urged him not to, and pointed out the danger as well as the hopelessness of the attempt. he was certain that the end of the baggage car could be reached, and remembered the figure he had seen standing in it, as they entered the tunnel. he felt no trace of resentment against snyder appleby now; only a great overwhelming pity, coupled with the conviction that he was still within reach of help. finally they left him; and, armed with an axe from the tender, the young fireman again entered the dreadful darkness. loose stones were still falling from the roof of the tunnel, and more than one of these struck and painfully bruised him. the air was stifling with clouds of dust and smoke. only the lad's dauntless will and splendid courage enabled him to keep on. all at once the splintered end of a car assumed shape in the obscurity ahead of him. he heard a slow rending of wood, as one after another of its stout timbers gave way, and then, above all other sounds, came an agonized human cry. how rod cut his way into that car, how he found and dragged out snyder appleby's mangled form, or how he managed to bear its helpless weight to the open air and lay it on the ground beside the track, he never knew. he only knew, after it had been done, that he had accomplished all this somehow, and that he was weak and faint from his exertions. he also knew that he had barely escaped from the baggage car with his precious burden, when it was wholly crushed, and buried beneath the weight of rock from above. snyder had been conscious, and had spoken to him when he found him, pinned to the side of the car by its shattered timbers; but now he lay insensible, and apparently lifeless. rod dashed water in his face, and in a few minutes had the satisfaction of seeing a faint color flush the pallid cheeks. then the closed eyes opened once more, and gazed into the young fireman's face. the lips moved, and rod bent his head to catch the faint sound. "the cup is fairly yours, rod; for i put the emery in my wheel myself. can you forgive--" was what he heard. rodman's eyes were filled with tears as he answered, "of course i forgive you, fully and freely, old man. but don't worry about that now. keep quiet and don't try to talk. we'll soon have you at home, where you'll be all right, and get over this shake-up in no time." a bright smile passed over snyder's face, and glorified it. then his eyes closed wearily, never again to be opened in this world. when help came, and the poor, torn body was tenderly lifted, its spirit had fled. his faults had found forgiveness, here, from the one whom he had most deeply injured. is there any doubt but what he also found it in the home to which he had gone so peacefully, and with so happy a smile lighting his face? strange as it may seem, snyder appleby was the only victim of this curious accident; for the entire mass of falling material in the tunnel descended on the baggage car, of which he was the sole occupant. the hundreds of excursionists in the coaches were badly shaken up, and greatly frightened by the sudden stopping of the train; but not one was seriously injured. president vanderveer first heard of the accident at major appleby's house, where he was engaged in an earnest conversation with that gentleman, about his nephew and his adopted son. while they were still talking, a carriage drove to the door, bearing rod blake and the lifeless form of him whom the young fireman had risked his life to save. after the major had listened to the story of the lad who brought to him at the same time joy and grief, the tears streamed down his furrowed cheeks, and he exclaimed, "my boy! my dear boy! the pride and hope of my old age! forgive me as you have forgiven him, and never leave me again." "i never will, uncle," was the answer. at snyder's funeral the most beautiful floral tribute was an exact copy of the steel wheel club's railroad cup, in parma violets, with the inscription, woven of white violets, "forgive us our trespasses." directly behind the coffin, the members of the club marched in a body, headed by their captain, rod blake, whose resignation had never been accepted. as for the young captain's future, the events on which this story is founded, are of too recent occurrence for it to be predicted just yet. that he will become a prominent railroad man, in some one of the many lines now opening before him, is almost certain. he finished his apprenticeship with truman stump, on locomotive number , and became so fully competent to act as engineman himself, that the master mechanic offered him the position. at the same time president vanderveer invited him to become his private secretary, which place rod accepted, as it seemed to him the best school in which to study the higher branches of railroad management. he is still one of the most popular fellows on the road, and his popularity extends to every branch of the company's service. even smiler, the railroad dog, will leave his beloved trains for days at a time, to sit in the president's office, and mount guard over the desk of the private secretary. not long ago, when the chief officer of the road was asked to explain the secret of rod blake's universal popularity, he replied: "i'm sure i don't know, unless it is that he never allows his pride to get the better of his judgment, and always performs his duties on time." held for orders being stories of railroad life by frank h. spearman _illustrations by jay hambidge_ new york mcclure, phillips & company mcmi copyright, , by s. s. mcclure co. , by mcclure, phillips & co. first impression, october, second impression, november, _to_ john francis cordeal [illustration: shockley] contents the switchman's story--shockley the wiper's story--how mcgrath got an engine the roadmaster's story--the spider water the striker's story--mcterza the despatcher's story--the last order the nightman's story--bullhead the master mechanic's story--delaroo the operator's story--de molay four the trainmaster's story--of the old guard the yellow mail story--jimmie the wind illustrations shockley chris cooney hailey mcterza old man nicholson dave hawk jimmie the wind held for orders the switchman's story shockley "he's rather a bad lot, i guess," wrote bucks to callahan, "but i am satisfied of one thing--you can't run that yard with a sunday-school superintendent. he won't make you any trouble unless he gets to drinking. if that happens, _don't have any words with him_." bucks underscored three times. "simply crawl into a cyclone cellar and wire me. sending you eighteen loads of steel to-night, and six cars of ties. blair reports section ready for track layers and mear's outfit moving into the palisade cañon. push the stuff to the front." it was getting dark, and callahan sat in that part of the benkleton depot he called the office, pulling at a muddy root that went unaccountably hot in sudden flashes. he took the pipe from his mouth, leaving his foot on the table, and looked at the bowl resentfully, wondering again if there could be powder in that infernal tobacco of rubedo's. the mouthpiece he eyed as a desperate man might ponder a final shift. the pipe had originally come from god's country, with a beautiful amber mouthpiece, and a beautiful bowl; but it was a present from his sister and had been bought at a dry-goods store. once when thinking--or, if you please, when not thinking--callahan had held a lighted match to the beautiful amber mouthpiece instead of to the tobacco, and in the fire that ensued they had hard work to save the depot. callahan never wrote his sister about it; he thought only about buying pipes at dry-goods stores, and about being, when they exploded, a thousand miles from the man who sold them. there was plenty in that to think about. what he now brought his teeth reluctantly together on was part of the rubber tube of a dismantled atomizer; in happier post-christmas days a toilet fixture. but callahan had abandoned the use of bay rum after shaving. his razor had gone to the scrap and on sunday mornings he merely ran a pair of scissors over the high joints--for callahan was railroading--and on the front. after losing the mouthpiece he would have been completely in the air but for little chris oxen. chris was callahan's section gang. his name was once ochsner, but that wasn't in benkleton. callahan was hurried when he made up the pay roll and put it oxen, as being better united states. i say united states because callahan said united states, in preference to english. chris had been in america only three years; but he had been in russia three hundred, and in that time had learned many ways of getting something out of nothing. when the red-haired despatcher after the explosion cast away with bitterness the remains of the pipe, chris picked it up and by judicious action on the atomizer figured out a new mouthpiece no worse than the original, for while the second, like the first, was of rubber, it was not of the explosive variety. chris presented the remodelled root to callahan as a surprise; callahan, in a burst of gratitude, promoted him on the spot: he made little chris foreman. it didn't bring any advance in pay--but there was the honor. to be foreman was an honor, and as little chris was the only man on the yard force, he became, by promotion, foreman of himself. so callahan sat thinking of the ingenuity of chris, reflecting on the sting of construction tobacco, and studying over bucks's letter. the yard was his worry. not that it was much of a yard; just a dozen runs off the lead to take the construction material for callahan to distribute, fast as the grade was pushed westward. the trouble at the benkleton yard came from without, not from within. the road was being pushed into the cattle country, and it was all easy till they struck benkleton. benkleton was just a hard knot on the yellow grass trail: a squally, sandy cattle town. there were some bad men in benkleton; they didn't bother often. but there were some men in benkleton who thought they were bad, and these were a source of constant bedevilment to the railroad men. southwest of the yard, where the river breaks sheer into the bottoms, there hived and still hives a colony of railroad laborers, russians. they have squatted there, burrowed into the face of the bench like sand swallows, and scraped caves out for themselves, and the name of the place is little russia. this was in the troublous days, when the cowboys, homesick for evil, would ride around little russia with rope and gun, and scare the pioneers cross-eyed. the cattle fellows spent the entire winter months, all sand and sunshine, putting up schemes to worry callahan and the little russians. the headquarters for this restless gang were at pat barlie's place, across from the post office; it was there that the cowboys loved to congregate. to callahan, pat barlie's place was a wasps' nest; but to chris, it was a den of wolves--and of a dreader sort than russian wolves, for barlie's pack never slept. the east and west section men could run away from them on hand cars; it was the yardmen who caught it, and it grew so bad they couldn't keep a switchman. about ten o'clock at night, after number twenty-three had pulled in and they were distributing a trainload of bridge timber, a switch-man's lantern would go up in signal, when _pist!_ a bullet would knock the lamp clean out of his hand, and the nerve clean out of his head. handling a light in the benkleton yard was like smoking a celluloid pipe--you never could tell when it would go off. cowboys shot away the lamps faster than requisitions could be drawn for new ones. they shot the signals off the switches, and the lights from the tops of moving trains. whenever a brakeman showed a flicker, two cowboys stood waiting to snuff it. if they missed the lamp, they winged the brakeman. it compelled bucks after a while to run trains through benkleton without showing ever a light. this, though tough, could be managed, but to shunt flats in the yard at night with no light, or to get a switchman willing to play young tell to peg leg reynolds's william for any length of time, was impossible. at last bucks, on whom the worry reflected at headquarters, swore he would fight them with fire, and he sent shockley. callahan still sat speculating on what he would be up against when shockley arrived. the impression bucks's letter gave him--knowing bucks to be frugal of words--was that shockley would rise up with cartridges in his ears and bowie knives dangling from his watch chain. to live in fear of the cowboys was one thing; but to live in fear of the cowboys on the one hand, and in terror of a yard master on the other, seemed, all things considered, confusing, particularly if the new ally got to drinking and his fire scattered. just then train fifty-nine whistled. pat barlie's corner began to sputter its salute. callahan shifted around behind his bomb-proof, lit his powder horn, and looking down the line wondered whether shockley might be on that train. it was not till the next night though that a tall, thinnish chap, without visible reasons for alighting, got off fifty-nine and walked tentatively down the platform. at the ticket office he asked for the assistant superintendent. "out there on the platform talking to the conductor." the thin fellow emerged and headed for callahan. callahan noticed only his light, springy amble and his hatchet face. "mr. callahan?" "yes." "bucks sent me up--to take the yard." "what's your name?" "shockley." "step upstairs. i'll be up in a minute." shockley walked back into the depot but he left the copper-haired assistant superintendent uncertain as to whether it was really over; whether shockley had actually arrived or not. as callahan studied the claimant's inoffensive appearance, walking away, he rather thought it couldn't be over, or that bucks was mistaken; but bucks never made a mistake. next morning at seven, the new yard master took hold. callahan had intimated that the night air in the yard, it being low land, was miasmatic, and that shockley had maybe better try for a while to do his switching in the daytime. just before the appointed hour in the morning, the assistant had looked out on his unlucky yard; he thought to himself that if that yard didn't drive a man to drink nothing ever would. piled shanty high with a bewildering array of material, it was enough to take the heart out of a denver switching crew. while he stood at the window he saw their plug switch engine, that had been kicked out of every other yard on the system, wheeze out of the roundhouse, saw the new yard master flirt his hand at the engineer, and swing up on the footboard. but the swing--it made callahan's heart warm to him. not the lubberly jump of the hoboes that had worried the life out of him all summer, even when the cattlemen didn't bother. it was the swing of the sailor into the shrouds, of the cossack into the saddle, of the yacht into the wind. it was like falling down or falling up or falling on--the grace of a mastery of gravitation--that was shockley's swing on the footboard of the yard engine as it shot snorting past him. "he's all right," muttered callahan. it was enough. a man who flipped a tender like that was not like to go very wrong even in that chaos of rails and ties and stringers and coal. "now," continued callahan to himself, timidly hopeful, "if the cuss only doesn't get to drinking!" he watched apprehensively, dreading the first time he should see him entering pat barlie's place, but shockley didn't appear to know pat had a place. the cowboys, too, watched him, waiting for his lamp to gleam at night down in the yard, but their patience was strained for a long time. shockley got all his work done by daylight. to the surprise of callahan, and probably on the principle of the watched pot, the whole winter went without a brush between shockley and the cowboys. even peg leg reynolds let him alone. "he's the luckiest fellow on earth," remarked callahan one day at mccloud in reply to a question from bucks about shockley. "there hasn't a shot been fired at him all winter." "he wasn't always lucky," commented bucks, signing a batch of letters. "he came from chicago," bucks went on, after a silence. "he was switching there on the 'q' at the time of the stock-yards riots. shockley used to drink like a pirate. i never knew just the right of it. i understood it was in a brawl--anyway, he killed a man there; shot him, and had to get away in a hurry. i was train master. shockley was a striker; but i'd always found him decent, and when his wife came to me about it i helped her out a little; she's dead since. his record isn't just right back there yet. there's something about the shooting hanging over him. i never set eyes on the fellow again till he struck me for a job at mccloud; then i sent him up to you. he claimed he'd quit drinking--guess he had. long as he's behaving himself i believe in giving him a chance--h'm?" it really wasn't any longer a case of giving him a chance; rather of whether they could get on without him. when the colorado pacific began racing us into denver that summer, it began to crowd even shockley to keep the yard clean; he saw he would have to have help. "chris, what do they give you for tinkering up the ties?" asked shockley one day. "dollar an' a half." "why don't you take hold switching with me and get three dollars?" chris was thunderstruck. first he said callahan wouldn't let him, but shockley "guessed yes." then chris figured. to save the last of the hundred dollars necessary to get the woman and the babies over--it could be done in three months instead of six, if only callahan would listen. but when shockley talked callahan always listened, and when he asked for a new switchman he got him. and chris got his three; to him a sum unspeakable. by the time the woman and the children arrived in the fall, chris would have died for shockley. the fall that saw the woman and the stunted subjects of the czar stowed away under the bench in little russia brought also the cowboys down from montana to bait the russians. one stormy night, when chris thought it was perfectly safe to venture up to rubedo's after groceries, the cowboys caught him and dragged him over to pat barlie's. it was seven when they caught him, and by nine they had put him through every pace that civilization could suggest. peg leg reynolds, as always, master of ceremonies, then ordered him tied to the stove. when it was done, the cowboys got into a big circle for a dance. the fur on chris's coat had already begun to sizzle, when the front door opened. shockley walked in. straight, in his ambling, hurried way, he walked past the deserted bar through the ring of cowboys at the rear to chris frying against the stove, and began cutting him loose. through every knot that his knife slit he sent a very loud and very bad word, and no sooner had he freed chris than he jerked him by the collar, as if quarreling with him, toward the back door, which was handy, and before the cowboys got wind he had shoved him through it. "hold on there!" cried peg leg reynolds, when it was just too late. chris was out of it, and shockley turned alone. "all right, partner; what is it?" he asked amiably. "you've got a ripping nerve." "i know it." "what's your name?" "shockley." "can you dance?" "no." it was peg leg's opportunity. he drew his gun. "i reckon maybe you can. try it," he added, pointing the suggestion with the pistol. shockley looked foolish; he didn't begin tripping soon enough, and a bullet from the cowboy's gun splintered the baseboard at his feet. shockley attempted to shuffle. to any one who didn't know him it looked funny. but peg leg was a rough dancing master, and before he said enough an ordinary man would have dropped exhausted. shockley, breathing a good bit quicker, only steadied himself against the bar. "take off your hat before gentlemen," cried the cowboy. shockley hesitated, but he did pull off his cap. "that's more like it. what's your name?" "shockley." "shockley?" echoed reynolds with a burst of range amenities. "well, shockley, you can't help your name. drink for once in your life with a man of breeding--my name's reynolds. pat, set out the good bottle--this guy pays," exclaimed peg leg, wheeling to the bar. "what'll it be?" asked pat barlie of shockley, as he deftly slid a row of glasses in front of the men of breeding. "ginger ale for me," suggested shockley mildly. the cowboys put up a single yell. ginger ale! it was too funny. reynolds, choking with contempt, pointed to the yard master's glass. "fill it with whiskey," he shouted. "fill it, pat!" he repeated, as shockley leaned undecidedly against the bar. the yard master held out the glass, and the bar keeper began to pour. shockley looked at the liquor a moment; then he looked at reynolds, who fronted him gun in one hand and red water in the other. "drink!" shockley paused, looked again at the whiskey and drew the glass towards him with the curving hand of a drinker. "you want me to drink this?" he half laughed, turning on his baiter. "i didn't say so, did i? i said drink!" roared peg leg. everybody looked at shockley. he stood fingering the glass quietly. somehow everybody, drunk or sober, looked at shockley. he glanced around at the crowd; other guns were creeping from their holsters. he pushed the glass back, smiling. "i don't drink whiskey, partner," said shockley gently. "you'll drink that whiskey, or i'll put a little hole into you!" shockley reached good-naturedly for the glass, threw the liquor on the floor, and set it back on the bar. "go on!" said shockley. it confused reynolds. "a man that'll waste good whiskey oughtn't t' live, anyhow," he muttered, fingering his revolver nervously. "you've spoiled my aim. throw up your hat," he yelled. "i'll put a hole through that to begin with." instead, shockley put his cap back on his head. "put a hole through it there," said he. reynolds set down his glass, and shockley waited; it was the cowboy who hesitated. "where's your nerve?" asked the railroad man. the gun covered him with a flash and a roar. reynolds, whatever his faults, was a shot. his bullet cut cleanly through the crown, and the powder almost burnt shockley's face. the switchman recovered himself instantly, and taking off his cap laughed as he examined the hole. "done with me?" he asked evenly, cap in hand. peg leg drained his glass before he spoke. "get out!" he snapped. the switchman started on the word for the front door. when he opened it, everybody laughed--but shockley. maybe an hour later reynolds was sitting back of the stove in a card game, when a voice spoke at his ear. "get up!" reynolds looked around into a pistol; behind it stood shockley, pleasant. "get up!" he repeated. nobody had seen him come in; but there he was, and with an absolutely infantile gun, a mere baby gun, in the yellow light, but it shone like bright silver. reynolds with visible embarrassment stood up. "throw your cannon into the stove, reynolds, you won't need it," suggested shockley. reynolds looked around; there appeared to be no hopeful alternative: the drop looked very cold; not a cowboy interposed. under convoy, reynolds stumped over to the stove and threw in his gun, but the grace of the doing was bad. "get up there on the bar and dance; hustle!" urged shockley. they had to help the confused cowboy up; and when he stood shamefaced, looking down on the scene of his constant triumphs, and did a painful single foot, marking time with his peg, the cowboys, who had stood their own share of his bullying, roared. shockley didn't roar; only stood with busy eyes where he could cover any man on demand, not forgetting even pat barlie. [illustration: chris] peg leg, who had danced so many in his day, danced, and his roasting gun sputtered an accompaniment from the stove; but as shockley, who stood in front of it, paid no attention to the fusillade of bullets, good form prevented others from dodging. "that'll do; get down. come here, chris," called shockley. chris oxen, greatly disturbed, issued from an obscure corner. "get down on your knees," exclaimed the yard master, jerking reynolds with a chilly twist in front of the frightened russian. "get on your knees; right where i threw your whiskey," and shockley, crowding reynolds down to his humiliation, dropped for the first time into range civilities himself, and the shame and the abasement of it were very great. "boys," said the yard master, with one restless eye on reynolds and one on everybody else, as he pointed at chris, "this man's coat was burnt up. he's a poor devil, and his money comes hard. chip in for a new coat. i've nothing against any man that don't want to give, but reynolds must pass the hat. take mine, you coyote." nearly everybody contributed as reynolds went round. shockley made no comments. "count it," he commanded, when the fallen monarch had finished; and when the tale was made, shockley told pat barlie to put in as much more as the cap held, and he did so. "there, chris; go home. i don't like you," added shockley, insolently, turning on reynolds. "you don't know what fun is. this town won't hold you and me after to-night. you can take it or you can leave it, but the first time i ever put eyes on you again one of us will cash in." he backed directly towards the front door and out. peg leg reynolds took only the night to decide; next day he hit the trail. the nervy yard master he might have wiped out if he had stayed, but the disgrace of kneeling before the dog of a russian was something never to be wiped out in the annals of benkleton. peg leg moved on; and thereafter cowboys took occasion to stop shockley on the street and jolly him on the way he did the one-legged bully, and the lights were shot no more. the railroad men swore by the new yard master; the russians took their cigarettes from their mouths and touched their caps when shockley passed; callahan blessed his name; but little chris worshiped him. one day alfabet smith dropped off at benkleton from omaha headquarters. alfabet was the only species of lizard on the pay roll--he was the west end spotter. "who is that slim fellow?" he asked of callahan as shockley flew by on the pilot board of an engine. "that's shockley." "oh, that's shockley, is it?" but he could say little things in a way to make a man prick hot all over. "yes, that's shockley. why?" asked callahan with a dash of acid. "nothing, only he's a valuable man; he's wanted, shockley is," smiled alfabet smith, but his smile would freeze tears. callahan took it up short. "look here, alfabet. keep off shockley." "why?" "why? because you and i will touch, head on, if you don't." smith said nothing; he was used to that sort. the next time bucks was up, his assistant told him of the incident. "if he bothers shockley," bucks said, "we'll get his scalp, that's all. he'd better look after his conductors and leave our men alone." "i notice shockley isn't keeping his frogs blocked," continued bucks, reverting to other matters. "that won't do. i want every frog in the yard blocked and kept blocked, and tell him i said so." but the frog-blocking was not what worried shockley; his push was to keep the yard clean, for the month of december brought more stuff twice over than was ever poured into the front-end yard before. chris, though, had developed into a great switchman, and the two never let the work get ahead. so it came that little russia honored chris and his big pay check above most men. shockley stood first in little russia; then the czar, then chris, then callahan. queen victoria and bismarck might have admirers; but they were not in it under the bench. when the russian holidays came, down below, chris concluded that the celebration would be merely hollow without shockley; for was not the very existence of little russia due to him? all the growth, all the prosperity--what was it due to? protection. what was the protection? shockley. there were brakemen who argued that protection came from the tariff; but they never made any converts in little russia, where the inhabitants could be induced to vote for president only on the assurance that shockley was running. "well, what's the racket anyhow, chris?" demanded shockley lazily, after cross-eyes trying to get rid of the invitation to the festivities had sputtered switch-english five minutes at him. "ve got chrismus by us," explained chris desperately. "christmas," repeated shockley grimly. "christmas. why, man, christmas don't come nowhere on earth in january. you want to wind up your calendar. where'd you get them shoes?" "dollar sefenty-vife." "where?" "rubedo." "and don't you know a switchman oughtn't t' put his feet in flatboats? don't you know some day you'll get your foot stuck in a tongue or a guard? then where'll you be, dutch, with a string of flats rolling down on you, eh?" however, chris stuck for his request. he wouldn't take no for an answer. next day he tired shockley out. "well, for god's sake let up, chris," said the yard master at last. "i'll come down a while after twenty-three comes in. get back early after supper, and we'll make up fifty-five and let the rest go." it was a pretty night; pretty enough over the yard for anybody's christmas, julian or gregorian. no snow, but a moon, and a full one, rising early over the arikaree bluffs, and a frost that bit and sparkled, and the north wind asleep in the sand hills. shockley, after supper, snug in a pea-jacket and a storm cap, rode with the switch engine down from the roundhouse. chris, in his astrakhan reefer and turban, walking over from the dugouts in rubedo's new shoes, flipped the footboard at the stock-yard with almost the roll of shockley himself. happily for christmas in little russia, twenty-three pulled in on time; but it was long and heavy that night. it brought coal and ties, and the stuff for the fort rawlins depot, and a batch of bridge steel they had been waiting two weeks for--mostly cherry creek stuff--eleven cars of it. the minute the tired engine was cut off the long train, up ran the little switch engine and snapped at the headless monster like a coyote. out came the coal with a clatter; out came the depot stuff with a sheet of flame through the goat's flues--shot here, shot there, shot yonder--flying down this spur and down that and the other, like stones from a catapult; and the tough-connected, smut-faced, blear-eyed yard engine coughed and snorted and spit a shower of sparks and soot and cinders up into the christmas air. she darted and dodged and jerked, and backed up and down and across the lead, and never for a fraction of a second took her eye off shockley's lamp. shivering and clanging and bucking with steam and bell and air, but always with one smoky eye on shockley's lamp, until twenty-three was wrecked clean to the caboose, and the switch engine shot down the main line with the battered way-car in her claws like a hawk with a prairie dog. then there was only the westbound freight, fifty-five, to make up with the fort rawlins stuff and the cherry creek steel, which was "_rush_," and a few cars of ties flung on behind on general principles. it was quick work now--sorting and moving the bridge steel--half an hour for an hour's work, with the north wind waking at the clatter and sweeping a bank of cloud and sand across the valley. shockley and chris and the goat crew put at it like black ants. there was releasing and setting and kicking and splitting, and once in a while a flying switch, dead against the rubrics; and at last the whole train of steel was in line, clean as the links of a sprocket, and ready to run in on the house-track for the caboose. for that run chris set the east house-track switch, crossed the track, and swung a great circle with his lamp for the back. to get over to the switch again, he started to recross the track. in the dark, his ankle turned on a lump of coal; he recovered lightly, but the misstep sent his other foot wide, and with a bit of a jolt rubedo's new shoe slipped into the frog. up the track he heard a roll of stormy coughs from the engine gathering push to shove the string of flats down. they were coming towards him, over the spot where he stood, on his signal; and he quietly tried to loosen his heel. the engine's drivers let go, and she roared a steaming oath, and chris could hear it; but he was glad, for his heel would not work quietly out of the frog; it stuck. then the engineer, unruffled, pulled at his sand lever, and his engine snorted again and her driver tires bit, and slowly she sent the long train of steel down on chris's switch; he heard the frosty flanges grinding on the face of the rails as he tried to loosen his foot. coolly, first, like a confident man in a quicksand; soon, with alarm running into fright. but there was time enough; the head car was four or five lengths above the switch and coming very, very slowly, heavy-like, and squeaking stiffly under its load, yet coming; and he wrenched harder, but his foot stuck. then he yelled for shockley. shockley had gone over to open the caboose switch; shockley couldn't hear, and he knew it. and he yelled again. the sweat broke over him as he turned and twisted. the grip of the frog seemed to stifle him; half the time was gone; the near truck wheels screeched two car-lengths away: and the switchman played his last card. time and time again shockley had told him what to do if that moment came in the night; had told him to throw his lamp in the air like a rocket. but chris had forgotten all that till the flat dropped heavily on the tongue in front of him; then he threw his lamp like a rocket high into the night. no help came. he raised his arms frantically above his head, and his cries cut the wind. desperate at last, he threw himself flat to lie outside the rail, to save all but a foot; but the frog held him, and crying horribly he struggled back to his feet, only to sink again half crazy to the ground. as his senses left him he was hardly aware of a stinging pain in his foot, of a wrench at his leg, an instant arm round his back, and his yard master's voice in his ear. "jump!" screamed shockley. chris, scrambling frantically on the deadly rails, unable to jump, felt himself picked from the ground, heard a choke in the throat at his ear, and he was flung like a drawbar through the dark. shockley had passed a knife blade from vamp to sole, slit the russian's clumsy shoe, jerked his foot from it, and thrown him bodily into the clear. chris staggered panting to his feet. already the steel was moving slowly over the switch; he heard the sullen pounding of the trucks on the contact; a lantern, burning yet, lay on its side near the stand--it was shockley's lamp. chris looked wildly around for his yard master; called out; called shockley's name; listened. no scream, no groan, no cry, no answer; no sound, but just the steady pounding of the wheels over the contact. the little switchman screamed again in a frenzy, and turning, raced stumbling up the track to the cab. he swung into it, and by signs made the engineer shut off. he tried to talk, and only stammered a lingo of switch-pidgin and the name of shockley. they couldn't understand it all, but they shut off with faces pinched and sallow, threw open the furnace door, and grabbing their lanterns ran back. the fireman on his knees held his lamp out under the flat that spanned the contact; he drew shrinking back, and rising, started on the run for the depot to rouse callahan. it was callahan who pulled the pin a moment later, chris shivering like a rabbit at his side. it was callahan who gave the slow pull-ahead order that cut the train in two at the frog, and callahan who stepped wavering from the gap that opened behind the receding flat--back from something between the rails--back to put his hands blindly out for the target-rod, and unsteadily upon it. he heard shockley breathing. some carried the headlight back, and some tore the door off a box car, and they got him on. they carried him unevenly, stumbling, over to the depot. they laid him on callahan's mattress in the waiting room, and the men stood all about him; but the only sound was his breathing, and inside under the lamp the receiver, clicking, clicking, clicking, of bucks and the company surgeon coming on a special ahead of fifty-nine. they twisted tourniquets into his quivering flesh, and with the light dying in his eyes they put whiskey to his lips. but he turned his head and spit it from his mouth. then he looked from face to face about him--to the engineer and to the fireman, and to little chris and to callahan, and his lips moved. chris bent over him, but try as he would he could not catch the words. and callahan listened and watched and waited. "block--block--" said shockley's lips. and callahan wiped them slowly and bent close again and put his ear over them. "block--block--the--frogs." and shockley died. they lifted the mattress into the baggage room; callahan drew over it a crumpled sheet. a lantern left, burned on the checking desk, but the men, except chris, went their ways. chris hung irresolute around the open door. the special pulled in, and with the shoes wringing fire from her heels as she slowed, bucks and a man following close sprang from the step of the coach. callahan met them; shook his head. twenty minutes later fifty-nine whistled for the yard; but in the yard all was dark and still. one man got off fifty-nine that night. carrying his little valise in his hand, he walked in and out of the depot, hanging on the edges of the grouping men, who still talked of the accident. after hearing, he walked alone into the baggage room, and with his valise in his hand drew back the edge of the sheet and, standing, looked. afterward he paused at the door, and spoke to a man that was fixing a lantern. "what was his name?" "shockley." "shockley?" "yes." "yard master here?" "yes. know him?" "me? no. i guess not." he walked away with his valise, and drew his coat collar up in the wind that swept the platform. "i guess i don't want him," he muttered to himself. "i guess _they_ don't want _him_; not now." and he went back to the man and asked when a train left again for chicago. he had a warrant for shockley; but shockley's warrant had been served. after the others had gone, bucks and callahan and the surgeon talked together in the waiting room, and chris hanging by, blear-eyed and helpless, looked from one to the other: showed his foot when callahan pointed, and sat patient while the surgeon stitched the slit where shockley's blade had touched the bone. then he stood again and listened. while any one talked chris would listen; silent and helpless, just listening. and when bucks had gone up stairs, and the surgeon had gone up stairs, and callahan, tired and sick, had gone up stairs, and only the operator sat under his lamp at the table, chris stood back in the gloom in front of the stove and poked stealthily at the fire. when it blazed he dropped big chunks of smutty coal in on it, and wiped his frost-bitten nose with the back of his dirty hand, and looked toward the baggage room door and listened--listened for a cry, or a sound, or for that fearful, fearful breathing, such breathing as he had not been hearing before. but no cry, no sound, no stertorous breath came out of the darkness, and from under the lamp in front of the operator only the sounder clicked, always talking, talking, talking--talking queer things to russian ears. so chris drew his cap a little lower, for so he always began, pulled mechanically from his pocket a time-table, tore off a strip, and holding it carefully open, sprinkled a few clippings of tobacco upon it, and rolled his cigarette. he tucked it between his lips; it was company for the silence, and he could more easily stop the listening. but he did not light; only pulled his cap again a little lower, buttoned close his reefer, looked at his bandaged foot, picked up his lamp, and started home. it was dark, and the wind from the north was bitter, but he made a great detour into the teeth of it--around by the coal chutes, a long way round, a long way from the frog of the east house-track switch; and the cold stung his face as he limped heavily on. at last by the ice house he turned south, and reaching the face of the bench paused a moment, hesitating, on the side of the earthen stairs; it was very dark. after a bit he walked slowly down and pushed open the door of his dugout. it was dark inside, and cold; the fire was out. the children were asleep; the woman was asleep. he sat down in a chair and put out his lamp. there was no christmas that night in little russia. the wiper's story how mcgrath got an engine this came about through there being whiskers on the rails. it may not be generally understood that whiskers grow on steel rails; curious as it seems, they do. moreover, on steel rails they are dangerous, and, at times, exceedingly dangerous. do not infer that all steel rails grow whiskers; nor is it, as one might suppose, only the old rails that sport them. the youngest rail on the curve may boast as stout a beard as the oldest rail on the tangent, and one just as gray. they flourish, too, in spite of orders; for while whiskers are permitted on engineers and tolerated on conductors, they are never encouraged on rails. nature, however, provides the whiskers, regardless of discipline, and, what is more, shaves them herself. their culture depends on conditions. some months grow better whiskers than others: september is famous for whiskers, while july grows very few. whiskers will grow on steel rails in the air of a single night; but not every night air will produce whiskers. it takes a high, frosty air, one that stays out late, to make whiskers. take, for example, the night air of the black hills; it is known everywhere among steel rails as a beard tonic. the day's moisture, falling as the sun drops beyond the hills is drawn into feathery, jewelled crystals of frost on the chilly steel, as a glass of ice-water beads in summer shade; and these dewy stalagmites rise in a dainty profusion, until when day peeps into the cañons the track looks like a pair of long white streamers winding up and down the levels. but beware that track. it is a very dangerous track, and its possibilities lie where samson's lay--in the whiskers. so it lies in early morning, as pretty a death-trap as any flower that ever lured a fly; only, this pitfall waits for engines and trains and men--and sometimes gets them. it waits there on the mountain grades, in an ambush really deadly for an unwary train, until the sun, which is particularly lazy in the fall, peeping over into the cuts, smiles, at length, on the bearded steel as if it were too funny, and the whiskers vanish into thin air. a smooth-faced rail presents no especial dangers; and if trainmen in the hills had their way, they would never turn a wheel until the sun had done barbering. but despatchers not having to do with them take no account of whiskers. they make only the schedules, and the whiskers make the trouble. to lessen their dangers, engineers always start, up hill or down, with a tankful of sand, and they sand the whiskers. it is rough barbering, but it helps the driver-tires grit a bit into the face of the rail, and in that way hang on. in this emergency a tankful of sand is better than all the air westinghouse ever stored. aloysius mcgrath was a little sweeper; but he was an aspiring one, for even a sweeper may aspire, and in point of fact most of them do aspire. aloysius worked in the roundhouse at the head of the wind river pass on the west end mountains. it is an amazingly rough country; and as for grades, it takes your breath merely to look down the levels. three per cent, four per cent, five per cent--it is really frightful! but aloysius was used to heavy falls; he had begun working for the company as a sweeper under johnnie horigan, and no engineer would have thought of running a grade to compare with johnnie's headers. horigan was the first boss aloysius ever had. now aloysius, if caught just right, is a very pretty name, but johnnie horigan could make nothing whatever of it, so he called aloysius, cooney, as he said, for short--cooney mcgrath--and, by the way, if you will call that mcgraw, we shall be started right. as for horigan, he may be called anything; at least it is certain that on the west end he has been called everything. johnnie was ordinarily boss sweeper. he had suffered numerous promotions--several times to wiper, and once to hostler; but his tendency to celebrate these occasions usually cost him his job, and he reverted to sweeping. if he had not been such an inoffensive, sawed-off little old nubbin he wouldn't have been tolerated on the pay rolls; but he had been with the company so long and discharged so often that foremen grew tired of trying to get rid of him, and in spite of his very regular habits, he was hanging on somewhere all the time. [illustration: cooney] when johnnie was gone, using the word in at least two senses, aloysius cooney mcgrath became, _ipso facto_, boss sweeper. it happened first one sunday morning, just after pay day, when johnnie applied to the foreman for permission to go to church. permission was granted, and johnnie started for church; but it is doubtful whether he ever found it. at all events, at the end of three weeks he turned up again at the roundhouse, considerably the worse for his attempt to locate the house of prayer--which he had tried to find only after he had been kicked out of every other place in town. aloysius had improved the interval by sweeping the roundhouse as it never had been swept before; and when johnnie horigan returned, morally disfigured, aloysius mcgrath was already promoted to be wiper over his old superior. johnnie was in no wise envious. his only move was to turn the misfortune to account for an ulterior purpose, and he congratulated the boy, affecting that he had stayed away to let them see what stuff the young fellow was made of. this put him in a position to negotiate a small loan from his _protégé_--a position of which he never neglected the possibilities. it was out of the question to be mad very long at johnnie, though one might be very often. after a time aloysius got to firing: then he wanted an engine. but he fired many months, and there came no promotion. the trouble was, there were no new crews added to the engine service. nobody got killed; nobody quit; nobody died. one, two, and three years without a break, and little aloysius had become a bigger aloysius, and was still firing; he became also discouraged, for then the force was cut down and he was put back wiping. "never y' mind, never y' mind, cooney," old johnnie would say. "it'll come all right. you'll get y'r ingin' yet. lind me a couple till pay-a-day, cooney, will you? i'll wahrant y' y'r ingin' yet, cooney." which little assurance always cost aloysius two dollars till pay day, and no end of trouble getting it back; for when he attempted collection, johnnie took a very dark view of the lad's future, alluding vaguely to people who were hard-hearted and ungrateful to their best friends. and though aloysius paid slight attention to the old sweeper's vaporings, he really was in the end the means of the boy's getting his engine. after three years of panic and hard times on the mountain division, the mines began to reopen, new spurs were laid out, construction crews were put on, and a new activity was everywhere apparent. but to fill the cup of aloysius' woe, the new crews were all sent up from mccloud. that they were older men in the order of promotion was cold comfort--aloysius felt crowded out. he went very blue, and the next time johnnie applied for a loan aloysius rebuffed him unfeelingly; this in turn depressed john. "never mind, never mind, cooney. i'll not be speakin' t' neighbor agin t' set y' up. if y' like wipin', stick to ut. i'll not be troublin' neighbor agin." johnnie professed a great pull with the master mechanic. that aloysius might feel still more the sting of his coldness, johnnie for some days paid much court to the new firemen and engine runners. nothing about the house was too good for them, and as the crafty sweeper never overlooked an opportunity, he was in debt before the end of the week to most of the brotherhood. but the memorable morning for aloysius came shortly thereafter. it was one of those keen october mornings that bite so in the hills. the construction train, extra west, had started about five o'clock from the head of the pass with a load of steel for the track layers, and stopped for a bite of breakfast at wind river. above the roundhouse there is a switchback. when the train pulled in, the crew got off for some hot coffee. johnnie horigan was around playing good fellow, and he climbed into the cab to run the train through the switchback while the crews were at the eating house. it was irregular to leave the engine, but they did, and as for johnnie horigan, he was regularly irregular. there were sixteen cars of steel in the string, besides a cabooseful of laborers. the backing up the leg of the nipper was easy. after the switch was newly set, johnnie pulled down the lower leg; and that, considering the whiskers, was too easy. when he pulled past the eating house on the down grade, he was going so lively with his flats that he was away before the crew could get out of the lunch room. in just one minute everybody in wind river was in trouble: the crew, because their train was disappearing down the cañon; the eating house man, because nobody paid him for his coffee; and johnnie horigan, because he found it impossible to stop. he had dumped the sand, he had applied the air, he had reversed the engine--by all the rules laid down in the instruction car she ought to stop. but she didn't stop, and--this was the embarrassing feature--she was headed down a hill twenty miles long, with curves to weary a boa-constrictor. john hung his head wildly over the drivers, looked back at the yelling crew, contemplated the load that was pushing him down the grade and his head began to swim. there appeared but one thing more to do: that was to make a noise; and as he neared the roundhouse he whistled like the wind. aloysius o'cooney mcgrath, at the alarm, darted out of the house like a fox. as he reached the door he saw the construction train coming, and johnnie horigan in the gangway looking for a soft place to light. the wiper chartered the situation in a mental second. the train was running away, and horigan was leaving it to its fate. from any point of view it was a tough proposition, but tough propositions come rarely to ambitious railroad men, and aloysius was starving for any sort of a proposition that would help him out of the waste. the laborers in the caboose, already bewildered, were craning anxiously from the windows. horigan, opposite the roundhouse, jumped in a sprawl; the engine was shot past aloysius; boarding was out of the question. but on the siding stood a couple of flats, empty; and with his hair straight on centres, the little wiper ran for them and mounted the nearest. the steel train was jumping. aloysius, bunching his muscle, ran the length of the two flats for a head, and, from the far corner, threw himself across the gap, like a bat, on a load of the runaway steel. scrambling to his feet, he motioned and yelled to the hoboes, who were pouring frantic out on the hind flat of the string, to set brakes; then he made ahead for the engine. it was a race with the odds all wrong, for with every yard aloysius gained, the train gained a dozen. by the time he reached the tender, breathless, and slid down the coal into the deserted cab, the train was heading into little horn gap, and every italian aboard, yelling for life. aloysius jumped into the levers, poked his head through the window, and looked at the drivers. they were in the back motion, and in front of them the sand was streaming wide open. the first thing he did was to shut half it off--the fight could not be won by wasting ammunition. over and over again he jerked at the air. it was refusing its work. where so many a hunted runner has turned for salvation there was none for aloysius. he opened and closed, threw on and threw off; it was all one, and all useless. the situation was as simple as it was frightful. even if they didn't leave the track, they were certain to smash into number sixteen, the up-passenger, which must meet them somewhere on the hill. aloysius's fingers closed slowly on the sand lever. there was nothing on earth for it but sand, merely sand; and even the wiper's was oozing with the stream that poured from the tank on the whiskered rails. he shut off a bit more, thinking of the terrific curves below, and mentally calculated--or tried to--how long his steam would last to reverse the drivers--how he could shovel coal and sand the curves at the same time--and how much slewing the italians at the tail of the kite could stand without landing on the rocks. the pace was giddy and worse. when his brain was whirling fastest, a man put a hand on his shoulder. aloysius started as if davy jones had tapped him, and between bounces looked, scared, around. he looked into a face he didn't know from adam's, but there was sand in the eyes that met his. "what can i do?" aloysius saw the man's lips move, and, without taking his hands from the levers, bent his head to catch the words. "what can i do?" shouted the man at his elbow. "give me steam--steam," cried the wiper, looking straight ahead. it was the foreman of the steel gang from the caboose. aloysius, through the backs of his eyes, saw him grab the shovel and make a pass at the tender. doing so, he nearly took a header through the gangway, but he hung to the shovel and braced himself better. with the next attempt he got a shovelful into the cab, but in the delivery passed it well up aloysius's neck. there were neither words nor grins, but just another shovelful of coal a minute after; and the track-layer, in spite of the dizzy lurching, shot it where it belonged--into the furnace. feeling that if one shovelful could be landed, more could, aloysius's own steam rose. as they headed madly around the cinnamon bend the dial began to climb in spite of the obstacles; and the wiper, considering there were two, and the steam and the sand to fight the thing out, opened his valve and dusted the whiskers on the curve with something more than a gleam of hope. if there was confusion on the runaway train, there was terror and more below it. as the spectre flitted past pringle station, five miles down the valley, the agent caught a glimpse of the sallow face of the wiper at the cab window, and saw the drivers whirling backward. he rushed to his key and called the medicine bend despatcher. with a tattoo like a drum-roll the despatcher in turn called soda springs, ten miles below pringle, where number sixteen, the up-passenger, was then due. he rattled on with his heart in his fingers, and answer came on the instant. then an order flashed into soda springs: to no. . take soda springs siding quick. extra west has lost control of the train. di. there never was such a bubbling at soda springs as that bubbling. the operator tore up the platform like a hawk in a chicken yard. men never scattered so quick as when number sixteen began screaming and wheezing and backing for the clear. above the town, aloysius, eyes white to the sockets, shooting the curves like a meteor, watched his lessening stream of sand pour into the frost on the track. as they whipped over bridges and fills the caboose reeled like a dying top--fear froze every soul on board. to leave the track now meant a scatter that would break west end records. when soda springs sighted extra west, pitching down the mountain, the steel dancing behind and aloysius jumping before, there was a painful sensation--the sensation of good men who see a disaster they are powerless to avert. nor did soda springs know how desperate the wiper's extremity had become. not even the struggling steel foreman knew that with soda springs passing like the films of a cinematograph, and two more miles of down-grade ahead, the last cupful of sand was trickling from the wiper's tank. aloysius, at that moment, wouldn't have given the odd change on a pay check for all the chances extra and he himself had left. he stuck to his levers merely because there was no particular reason for letting go. it was only a question of how a man wanted to take the rocks. yet, with all his figuring, aloysius had lost sight of his only salvation--maybe because it was quite out of his power to effect it himself. but in making the run up to soda springs number sixteen had already sanded the rails below. he could feel the help the minute the tires ground into the grit. they began to smoke, and aloysius perceived the grade was easing somewhat. even the dazed foreman, looking back, saw an improvement in the lurch of the caboose. there was one more hair-raiser ahead--the appalling curve at the forks of the goose. but, instead of being hurled over the elevation, they found themselves around it and on the bridge with only a vicious slew. aloysius's hair began to lie down, and his heart to rise up. he had her checked--even the hoboes knew it--and a mile further, with the dangers past, they took new ones by dropping off the hind end. at the second bend below the goose, aloysius made a stop, and began again to breathe. a box was blazing on the tender truck, and, with his handy fireman, he got down at once to doctor it. the whole thing shifted so mortally quick from danger to safety that the two never stopped to inventory their fears; they seemed to have vanished with the frost that lured them to destruction. they jumped together into the cab; and whistling at the laborers strung back along the right of way extra west began backing pluckily up hill to soda springs. the first man who approached the cab as they slowed down for the platform--in fact, people rather stood back for him--was bucks, superintendent of the division; his car had come in attached to number sixteen. "how did your train get away from you?" he asked of aloysius; there was neither speculation nor sympathy in his manner and his words were bitten with frost. "it didn't get away from me," retorted aloysius, who had never before in his life seen the man, and was not aware that he owed him any money. but the operator at the springs, who knew aloysius and the superintendent both, was standing behind the latter doing a pantomime that would shame a medicine man. "quick talking will do more for you than smart talking," replied the superintendent, crisply. "you'll never get a better chance while you're working for this company to explain yourself." aloysius himself began to think so, for the nods and winks of the operator were bewildering. he tried to speak up, but the foreman of the steel gang put in: "see here, sport," he snapped, irreverently, at the angry official. "why don't you cool your hat before you jump a fellow like that?" "what business is it of yours how i jump a fellow?" returned the superintendent, sharply, "who are you?" "i'm only foreman of this steel gang, my friend; and i don't take any back talk from anybody." "in that case," responded bucks, with velvet sarcasm, "perhaps you will explain things. i'm only superintendent of this division; but it's customary to inquire into matters of this kind." aloysius at the words nearly sank to the platform; but the master of the hoboes, who had all the facts, went at the big man as if he had been one of the gang, and did not falter till he had covered the perspiring wiper with glory. "what's the reason the air wouldn't work?" asked the superintendent, turning, without comment, when the track-layer had finished, to aloysius. "i haven't had time to find out, sir." "find out and report to me. what's your name?" "mcgrath." "mcgraw, eh? well, mcgraw, look close into the air. there may be something in it for you. you did the firing?" he added, turning short again on the unabashed steel foreman. "what there was done." "i'll do a little now myself. i'll fire you right here and now for impertinence." "i suppose you're the boss," responded the man of ties, imperturbably. "when i made the crack, i'd made it harder if i had known who you were." "you know now, don't you?" "i guess so." "very good," said bucks, in his mildest tones. "if you will report to me at medicine bend this afternoon, i'll see whether we can't find something better for your manners than cursing hoboes. you can ride down in my car, sport. what do you say? that will save you transportation." it brought a yell from the railroad men crowding around, for that was bucks's way of doing things; and the men liked bucks and his way. the ex-captain of the dagoes tried to look cool, but in point of fact went very sheepish at his honors. followed by a mob, eager to see the finish, superintendent bucks made his way up the track along the construction train to where aloysius and the engineer of number sixteen were examining the air. they found it frozen between the first and the second car. bucks heard it all--heard the whole story. then he turned to his clerk. "discharge both crews of extra . fire johnnie horigan." "yes, sir." "mcgrath, run your train back to wind river behind us. we'll scare up a conductor here somewhere; if we can't, i'll be your conductor. make your report to medicine bend," bucks added, speaking to the operator; and without further words walked back to his car. as he turned away, the engineer of number sixteen slapped aloysius on the back: "kid, why the blazes didn't you thank him?" "who?" "bucks." "what for?" "what for? jiminey christmas! what for? didn't he just make you an engineer? didn't he just say, 'run your train back behind us to wind river'?" "my train?" "sure, your train. do you think bucks ever says a thing like that without meaning it? you bet not." bucks's clerk, too, was a little uncertain about the promotion. "i suppose he's competent to run the train back, isn't he?" he asked of bucks, suggestively. bucks was scrawling a message. "a man that could hold a train from wind river here on whiskers, with nothing but a tankful of sand and a hobo fireman, wouldn't be likely to fall off the right of way running back," he returned dryly. "he's been firing for years, hasn't he? we haven't got half enough men like mcgraw. tell neighbor to give him an engine." the roadmaster's story the spider water not officially; i don't pretend to say that. you might travel the west end from fresh water to salt--and we dip into both--without ever locating the spider water by map or by name. but if you should happen anywhere on the west end to sit among a gang of bridge carpenters; or get to confidence with a bridge foreman; or find the springy side of a roadmaster's heart; _then_, you might hear all you wanted about the spider water--maybe more; anyway, full plenty, as hailey used to say. the sioux named it; and whatever may be thought of their interpretation of scriptural views on land-grabbing, no man with sense ever attempted to improve on their names for things, whether birds, or braves, or winds, or waters--they know. our general managers hadn't always sense--this may seem odd, but on the system it would excite no comment--and one of them countenanced a shameful change in the name of the spider water. some polytechnical idiot at a safe distance dubbed it the big sandy; and the big sandy it is to this day on map and in folder--but not in the lingo of trackmen nor the heart of the sioux. don't say big sandy to trackmen and hand out a cigar. it will not go. say spider water without any cigar and you will get a word and a stool, and if you ask it, fine cut. the spider water--although ours is the pioneer line--was there when we first bridged it. it is probably as old as sundown, and nothing like as pretty. the banks--it has none to speak of. its stones--they are whiskered. its bed--full of sand-burs. everything about the villain stream has a dilapidate, broken-down air: the very mud of the spider water is rusty. so our people bridged it; and the trouble began. a number of matters bothered our pioneer managements--indians, outlaws, cabinet officers, congressional committees, and wall street magnates--but at one time or another our folks managed all of them. the only thing they couldn't at any time satisfactorily manage was the spider water. bridge after bridge they threw across it--and into it. year after year the spider water toyed with our civil engineers and our material department. one man at omaha given to asthma and statistics estimated, between spells, that the spider water had cost us more money than all the water courses together from the missouri to the sierras. then came to the west end a masterful man, a scotchman, pawky and hard. brodie was his name, an edinburgh man with no end of degrees and master of every one. brodie came to be superintendent of bridges on the western division, and to boss every water course on the plains and in the mountains. but the spider water took a fall even out of brodie. it swept out a howe truss bridge for brodie before he got his bag unpacked, and thereafter brodie, who was reputed not to care a stringer for anybody, did not conceal a distinct respect for the spider. brodie went at it right. he tried, not to make friends with the spider, for nobody could do that, but to get acquainted with it. for this he went to its oldest neighbors, the sioux. brodie spent weeks and weeks up the spider water hunting, summers; and with the sioux he talked spider water and drank fire-water. that was brodie's shame--the fire-water. but he was pawky, and he chinned unceasingly the braves and the medicine men about the uncommonly queer water that took the bridges so fast. the river that month in and month out couldn't squeeze up water enough to baptize a pollywog and then, of a sudden, and for a few days, would rage like the missouri, restore to the desert its own and living image, and leave our bewildered rails hung up either side in the wind. brodie talked cloudbursts up country; for the floods came, times, under clear skies--and the sioux sulked in silence. he suggested an unsuspected inlet from some mountain stream which maybe, times, sent its storm water over a low divide into the spider--and the red men shrugged their faces. as a last resort and in desperation he hinted at the devil; and the sceptics took a quick brace with as much as to say, now you _are_ talking; and muttered very bad medicine. then they gave him the indian stuff about the spider water; took him away up where once a party of pawnees had camped in the dust of the river bed to surprise the sioux; and told brodie how the spider, more sudden than buck, fleeter than pony, had come down in the night and surprised the pawnees--and so well that the next morning there wasn't enough material left for a scalp dance. they took brodie out into the ratty bed himself and when he said, heap dry, and said, no water, they laughed, indianwise, and pointed to the sand. scooping little wells with their hands they showed him the rising and the filling; the instant water where before was no water. and dropping into the wells feathers of the grouse, they showed brodie how the current carried them always across the well--every time, and always, brodie noticed--southeast. then brodie made hailey dig many holes, and the spider welled into them, and he threw in bits of notebooks and tobacco wrappers, but always they travelled southeast--always the same; and a bigger fool than brodie could see that the water was all there, only underground. but when did it rise? asked brodie. when the chinook spoke, said the sioux. and why? persisted brodie. because the spider woke, said the sioux. and brodie went out of the camp of the sioux wondering. [illustration: hailey] and he planned a new bridge which should stand the chinook and the spider and the de'il himself, said brodie, medicine or no medicine. and full seven year it lasted; then the fire-water spoke for the wicked scotchman--and he himself went out into the night. and after he died, miserable wreck of a man--and of a very great man--the spider woke and took his pawky bridge and tied up the main line for two weeks and set us crazy--for we were already losing our grip on the california fast freight business. but at that time hailey was superintendent of bridges on the west end. i his father was a section foreman. when hailey was a kid--a mere kid--he got into brodie's office doing errands; but whenever he saw a draughtsman at work he was no good for errands. at such times he went all into a mental tangle that could neither be thrashed nor kicked out of him, though both were conscientiously tried by old man hailey and superintendent brodie; and brodie, since he could do nothing else with him, finally kicked him into learning to read--and to cipher, brodie called it. then, by and by, hailey got an old table and part of a cake of india ink himself, and himself became a draughtsman, and soon, with some cursing from brodie and a "luk a' that now!" from his paralyzed daddy, became chief draughtsman in brodie's office. hailey was no college man--hailey was a brodie man. single mind on single mind--concentration absolute. mathematics, drawing, bridges, brains--that was hailey. but no classics except brodie, who himself was a classic. all that brodie knew, hailey had from him; and where brodie was weak, hailey was strong--master of himself. when brodie shamed the image he was made in, hailey hid the shame best he could,--though never touched or made it his own--and brodie, who hated even himself, showed still a light in the wreck by molding hailey to his work. for, one day, said brodie in his heart, this boy shall be master of these bridges. when i am rot, he will be here what i ought to have been--this irish boy--and they will say he was brodie's man. and better than any of these dough-heads they send me out, better than any of their eastern graduates he shall be, if he was made engineer by a drunkard. and hailey was better, far, far better than the graduates, better than brodie--and to hailey came the time to wrestle the spider. stronger than any man before or since he was for that work. all brodie knew, all the indians knew, all that a life's experience, eating, living, watching, sleeping with the big river had taught him, that hailey knew. and when brodie's bridge went out, hailey was ready with his new bridge for the spider water which should be better than brodie's, just as he was better than brodie. it was to be such a bridge as brodie's bridge with the fire-water left out. and the plans for a howe truss, two pier, two abutment, three span, pneumatic caisson bridge to span the big sandy river were submitted to headquarters. but the cost! the directors jumped their table when they saw the figures. we were being milked at that time--to put it bluntly, being sucked, worse than lemons--by a wall street clique that robbed our good road, shaved our salaries, impoverished our equipment, and cut our maintenance to the quick. they talked economy and studied piracy. in the matter of appropriations, for themselves they were free-booters; for us, they were thrifty as men of hamelin town. when hailey demanded a thousand guilders for his spider water bridge, they laughed and said, "come, take fifty." he couldn't do anything else; and he built a fifty guilder bridge to bar the spider's crawl. it lasted really better than the average bridge and since hailey never could get a thousand guilders at once, he kept drawing fifty at a time and throwing them annually at the spider. but the dream of his life--this _we_ all knew, and the sioux would have said the spider knew--was to build a final bridge over the spider water: a bridge to throttle it for all time. it was the one subject on which you could get a rise out of hailey any time, day or night,--the two pier, two abutment, three span, pneumatic caisson spider bridge. he would talk spider bridge to a chinaman. his bridge foreman ed peeto, a staving big, one-eyed french canadian, actually had but two ideas in life: one was hailey; the other the spider bridge. when the management changed again--when the pirates were sent out on the plank so many good men had walked at their command--and a great and public-spirited man took control of the system, ed peeto kicked his little water spaniel in a frenzy of delight. "now, sport, old boy," he exclaimed riotously, "we'll get the bridge!" so there were many long conferences at division headquarters between bucks, superintendent, and callahan, assistant, and hailey, superintendent of bridges, and after, hailey went once more to general headquarters lugging all his estimates revised and all his plans refigured. all his expense estimates outside the spider bridge and one other point were slight, because hailey could skin along with less money than anybody ever in charge of the bridge work. he did it by keeping everything up; not a sleeper, not a spike--nothing got away from him. the new president, as befitted a very big man, was no end of a swell, and received hailey with a considerate dignity unknown on our end. he listened carefully to the superintendent's statement of the necessities at the big sandy river. the amount looked large; but the argument, supported by a mass of statistics, was convincing. three bridges in ten years, and the california fast freight business lost twice. hailey's budget called, too, for a new bridge at the peace river--and a good one. give him these, he said in effect, and he would guarantee the worst stretch on the system for a lifetime against tie-up disasters. hailey stayed over to await the decision; but he was always in a hurry, and he haunted the general offices until the president told him he could have the money. to hailey this meant, particularly, the bridge of his dreams. the wire flashed the word to the west end; everybody at the wickiup was glad; but ed peeto burned red fire and his little dog sport ate rattlesnakes. the old shack of a depot building that served as division headquarters at medicine bend we called the wickiup. everybody in it was crowded for room, and hailey, whose share was what was left, had hard work to keep out of the wastebasket. but right away now it was different. two extra offices were assigned to hailey, and he took his place with those who sported windows and cuspidors--in a word, had departments in the service. old denis hailey went very near crazy. he resigned as section boss and took a place at smaller wages in the bridge carpenter's gang so he could work on the boy's bridge, and ed peeto, savage with responsibility, strutted around the wickiup like a cyclops. for a wonder the bridge material came in fast--the spider stuff first--and early in the summer hailey, very quiet, and peeto, very profane, with all and several their traps and slaves and belongings moved into construction headquarters at the spider, and the first airlock ever sunk west of the missouri closed over the heads of tall hailey and big ed peeto. like a swarm of ants the bridge-workers cast the refuse up out of the spider bed. the blow-pipes never slept: night and day the sand streamed from below, and hailey's caissons, like armed cruisers, sunk foot by foot towards the rock; by the middle of september the masonry was crowding high-water mark, and the following saturday hailey and peeto ran back to medicine bend to rest up a bit and get acquainted with their families. peeto was so deaf he couldn't hear himself swear, and hailey looked ragged and thin, like the old depot, but immensely happy. sunday morning counted a little even then in the mountains. it was at least a day to get your feet on the tables up in bucks's office and smoke callahan's cavendish--which was enough to make a man bless callahan if he did forget his maker. sunday mornings bucks would get out the dainty, pearl-handled wostenholm that lillienfeld, the big san francisco spirit-shipper, left annually for him at the bend, and open the r. r. b. mail and read the news aloud for the benefit of callahan and hailey and such hangers-on as peeto and an occasional stray despatcher. "hello," exclaimed bucks, chucking a nine-inch official manila under the table, "here's a general order--number fourteen----" the boys drew their briers like one. bucks read out a lot of stuff that didn't touch our end, and then he reached this paragraph: "'the mountain and the inter-mountain divisions are hereby consolidated under the name of the mountain division with j. f. bucks as superintendent, headquarters at medicine bend. c. t. callahan is appointed assistant superintendent of the new division.'" "good boy!" roared ed peeto, straining his ears. "well, well, well," said hailey, opening his eyes, "here's promotions right and left." "'h. p. agnew is appointed superintendent of bridges of the new division with headquarters at omaha, vice p. c. hailey,'" bucks read on, with some little surprise growing into a shock. then he read fast looking for some further mention of hailey. hailey promoted, transferred, assigned--but there was no further mention of hailey in g. o. number fourteen. bucks threw down the order in a silence. ed peeto broke out first. "who's h. p. canoe?" "agnew." "who the hell is he?" roared ed. nobody answered: nobody knew. bucks attempted to talk; callahan lit his lighted pipe; but ed peeto stared at hailey like a drunken man. "did you hear that?" he snorted at his superior. hailey nodded. "you're out!" stormed peeto. hailey nodded. the bridge foreman took his pipe from his mouth and dashed it into the stove. he got up and stamped across to the window and was like to have sworn the glass out before hailey spoke. "i'm glad we're up to high water at the spider, bucks," said he at last. "when they get in the peace river work, the division will run itself for a year." "hailey," bucks spoke slowly, "i don't need to tell you what i think of it, do i? it's a damned shame. but it's what i've said for a year--nobody ever knows what omaha will do next." hailey rose to his feet. "where you going, phil?" asked bucks. "going back to the spider on number two." "not going back this morning--why don't you wait for four, to-night?" suggested bucks. "ed," hailey raised his voice at the foreman, "will you get those stay-bolts and chuck them into the baggage-car for me on number two? i'm going over to the house for a minute." he forgot to answer bucks; they knew what it meant. he was bracing himself to tell the folks before he left them. preparing to explain why he wouldn't have the sunday at home with the children. preparing to tell the wife--and the old man--that he was out. out of the railroad system he had given his life to help build up and make what it was. out of the position he had climbed to by studying like a hermit and working like a hobo. out--without criticism, or allegation, or reason--simply, like a dog, out. nobody at the wickiup wanted to hear the telling over at the cottage; nobody wanted to imagine the scene. as number two's mellow chime whistle rolled down the gorge, they saw hailey coming out of his house, his wife looking after him, and two little girls tugging at his arms as he hurried along; old denis behind, head down, carrying the boy's shabby valise, trying to understand why the blow had fallen. that was what callahan up with bucks at the window was trying to figure--what it meant. "the man that looks to omaha for rhyme or reason will beggar his wits, callahan," said bucks slowly, as he watched ed peeto swing the stay-bolts up into the car so they would crack the baggageman across the shins, and then try to get him into a fight about it. "they never had a man--and i bar none, no, not brodie--that could handle the mountain-water like hailey; they never will have a man--and they dump him out like a pipe of tobacco. how does it happen we are cursed with such a crew of blooming idiots? other roads aren't." callahan made no answer. "i know why they did it," bucks went on, "but i couldn't tell hailey." "why?" "i think i know why. last time i was down, the president brought his name up and asked a lot of questions about where he was educated and so on. somebody had plugged him, i could see that in two minutes. i gave him the facts--told him that brodie had given him his education as an engineer. the minute he found out he wasn't regularly graduated, he froze up. very polite, but he froze up. see? experience, actual acquirements," bucks extended his hand from his vest pocket in an odd wavy motion till it was lost at arm's length, "nothing--nothing--nothing." as he concluded, hailey was climbing behind his father into the smoker; number two pulled down the yard and out; one thing hailey meant to make sure of--that they shouldn't beat him out of the finish of the spider bridge as he had planned it; one monument hailey meant to have--one he has. the new superintendent of bridges took hold promptly; we knew he had been wired for long before his appointment was announced. he was a good enough fellow, i guess, but we all hated him. bucks did the civil, though, and took agnew down to the spider in a special to inspect the new work and introduce him to the man whose bread and opportunity he was taking. "i've been wanting to meet you, mr. hailey," said agnew pleasantly after they had shaken hands. hailey looked at agnew silently as he spoke; bucks looked steadfastly at the grasshopper derrick. "i've been expecting you'd be along pretty soon," replied hailey presently. "there's considerable to look over here. after that we'll go back to peace river cañon. we're just getting things started there: then we'll run up to the bend and i'll turn the office over." "no hurry about that. you've got a good deal of a bridge here, mr. hailey?" "you'll need a good deal of a bridge here." "i didn't expect to find you so far along out here in the mountains. where did you get that pneumatic process?" it touched hailey, the pleasant, easy way agnew took him. the courtesy of the east against the blunt of the west. there wasn't a mean drop anywhere in hailey's blood, and he made no trouble whatever for his successor. after he let go on the west end hailey talked as if he would look up something further east. he spoke about it to bucks, but bucks told him frankly he would find difficulty without a regular degree in getting a satisfactory connection. hailey himself realized that; moreover, he seemed reluctant to quit the mountains. he acted around the cottage and the wickiup like a man who has lost something and who looks for it abstractedly--as one might feel in his pockets for a fishpole or a burglar. but there were lusty little haileys over at the cottage to be looked after, and bucks, losing a roadmaster about that time, asked hailey (after chewing it a long time with callahan) to take the place himself and stay on the staff. he even went home with hailey and argued it. "i know it doesn't seem just right," bucks put it, "but, hailey, you must remember this thing at omaha isn't going to last. they can't run a road like this with harvard graduates and boston typewriters. there'll be an entire new deal down there some fine day. stay here with me, and i'll say this, hailey, if i go, ever, you go with me." and hailey, sitting with his head between his hands, listening to his wife and to bucks, said, one day, "enough," and the first of the month reported for duty as roadmaster. agnew, meantime, had stopped all construction work not too far along to discontinue. the bridge at the spider fortunately was beyond his mandate; it was finished to a rivet as hailey had planned it. three spans, two piers, and a pair of abutments--solid as the tetons. but the peace river cañon work was caught in the air. hailey's caissons gave way to piles which pulled the cost down from one hundred to seventy-five thousand dollars, and incidentally it was breathed that the day for extravagant expenditures on the west end was past--and bucks dipped a bit deeper than usual into callahan's box of cross-cut, and rammed the splintered leaf into his brier a bit harder and said no word. "but if we lose just one more bridge it's good-bye and gone to the california fast freight business," muttered callahan. "it's taken two years to get it back as it is. did you tell the president that?" he growled at bucks, smoking. bucks put out his little wave. "i told him everything. i told him we couldn't stand another tie-up. i showed them all the records. one bridge at peace river, three at the spider in ten years." "what did they say?" "said they had entire confidence in agnew's judgment; very eminent authority and that sort--new blood was making itself felt in every department; that, of course, was fired at me; but they heard all i intended to say, just the same. i asked the blooming board whether they wanted my resignation and--" bucks paused to laugh silently, "the president invited me up to the millard to dine with him. hello, phil hailey!" he exclaimed as the new roadmaster walked in the door. "happy new year. how's your culverts, old boy? ed peeto said yesterday the piles were going in down at peace river." "just as good as concrete as long as they stay in," smiled hailey, "and they do cost a heap less. this is great bridge weather--and for that matter great track weather." we had no winter that year till spring; and no spring till summer; and it was a spring of snow and a summer of water. down below, the plains were lost in the snow after easter even, the snow that brought the blackwood disaster with three engines and a rotary to the bad, not to speak of old man sankey, a host in himself. after that the snow let up; it was then no longer a matter of keeping the line clear; it was a matter of lashing the track to the right of way to keep it from swimming clear. hailey had his hands full; he caught it all the while and worse than anybody, but he worked like two men, for in a pinch that was his way. bucks, irritable from repeated blows of fortune, leaned on the wiry roadmaster as he did on callahan or neighbor. hailey knew bucks looked to him for the track and he strained every nerve making ready for the time the mountain snows should go out. there was nobody easy on the west end: and least of all hailey, for that spring, ahead of the suns, ahead of the thaws, ahead of the waters, came a going out that unsettled the oldest calculator in the wickiup. brodie's old friends began coming out of the upper country, out of the spider valley. over the eagle pass and through the peace cañon the sioux came in parties and camps and tribes--out and down and into the open country. and bucks stayed them and talked with them. talked the great white father and the ghost dance and the bad agent. but the sioux grunted and did not talk; they traveled. then bucks spoke of good hunting, far, far south; if they were uneasy bucks was willing they should travel far, for it looked like a rising. some kind of a rising it must have been to take the indians out of winter quarters at such a time. after bucks, hailey tried, and the braves listened for they knew hailey and when he accused them of fixing for fight they shook their heads, denied, and turned their faces to the mountains. they stretched their arms straight out under their blankets like stringers and put out their palms, downward, and muttered to hailey. "plenty snow." "i reckon they're lying," said bucks, listening. "there's some deviltry up. they're not the kind to clear out for snow." hailey made no comment. only looked thoughtfully at the ponies shambling along, the squaws trudging, the braves loitering to ask after the fire-water chief who slept under a cairn of stones off the right of way above the yard. bucks didn't believe it. he could fancy rats deserting a sinking ship, because he had read of such things--but indians clearing out for snow! "not for snow, nor for water," muttered bucks, "unless it's fire-water." and once more the red man was misunderstood. now the spider wakes regularly twice; at all other times irregularly. once in april; that is the foothills water: once in june; that is the mountain water. and the june rise is like this [image: round mound]. but the april rise is like this [image: peaked mound]. now came an april without any rise; that april nothing rose--except the snow. "we shall get it all together," suggested bucks one night. "or will it get us altogether?" asked hailey. "either way," said callahan, "it will be mostly at once." may opened bleaker than april; even the trackmen walked with set faces; the dirtiest half-breed on the line knew now what the mountains held. at last, while we looked and wondered, came a very late chinook; july in may; then the water. ii section gangs were doubled and track-walkers put on. by-passes were opened, bridge crews strengthened, everything buckled for grief. gullies began to race, culverts to choke, creeks to tumble, rivers to madden. from the muddy to the summit the water courses swelled and boiled--all but the spider; the big river slept. through may and into june the spider slept; but hailey was there at the wickiup, always, and with one eye running over all the line, one eye turned always to the spider where two men and two, night and day, watched the lazy surface water trickle over and through the vagabond bed between hailey's monumental piers. never an hour did the operating department lose to the track. east and west of us railroads everywhere clamored in despair. the flood reached from the rockies to the alleghenies. our trains never missed a trip; our schedules were unbroken; our people laughed; we got the business, dead loads of it; our treasury flowed over; and hailey watched; and the spider slept. big ed peeto, still foreman of the bridges, hung on hailey's steps and tried with his staring, swearing eye to make it all out; to guess what hailey expected to happen, for it was plain he was thinking. whether smoking or speaking, whether waking or sleeping, he was thinking. and as may turned soft and hot into june with every ditch bellying and the mountains still buried, it put us all thinking. on the th there was trouble beyond wild hat and all our extra men, put out there under hailey, were fighting to hold the rat valley levels where they hug the river on the west slope. it wasn't really hailey's track. bucks sent him over there because he sent hailey wherever the emperor sent ney. sunday while hailey was at wild hat it began raining. sunday it rained. monday it rained all through the mountains; tuesday it was raining from omaha to eagle pass, with the thermometer climbing for breath and the barometer flat as an adder--and the spider woke. woke with the april water and the june water and the rain water all at once. trackmen at the bridge tuesday night flagged number one and reported the river wild, and sheet ice running. a wire from bucks brought hailey out of the west and into the east; and brought him to reckon for the last time with his ancient enemy. he was against it wednesday morning with dynamite. all the day, the night and the next day the sullen roar of the giant powder shook the ice-jams. two days more he spent there watching, with only an occasional thunderbolt to heave and scatter the spider water into sudden, shivery columns of spray; then he wired, "ice out," and set back dragged and silent for home and for sleep--ten hours out of two hundred, maybe, was all he reckoned to the good when he struck a pillow again. saturday night he slept and sunday all day and sunday night. monday about noon bucks sent up to ask, but hailey was asleep; they asked back by the lad whether they should wake him; bucks sent word, "no." tuesday morning the tall roadmaster came down fresh as sunshine and all day he worked with bucks and the despatchers watching the line. the spider raced like the missouri, and the men at the bridge sent in panic messages every night and morning, but hailey lit his pipe with their alarms. "that bridge will go when the mountains go," was all he said. tuesday was his wedding date, old denis told peeto; it was hailey's wooden wedding, and when he found everybody knew they were going to have a little spread over at the cottage, hailey invited the boys up for the evening. just a little celebration, hailey said, and everybody he spoke wrung his hand and slapped his iron shoulders till hailey echoed good cheer through and through. callahan was going over; bucks had promised to look in, and ed peeto and the boys had a little surprise for hailey, had it in the dark of the baggage-room in the wickiup, a big morris chair. no one would ever guess how it landed at medicine bend, but it was easy. ed peeto had pulled it badly demoralized out of a freight wreck at the sugar buttes and done it over in company screws and varnish to surprise hailey. the anniversary made it just right, very hot stuff, ed peeto said, and the company had undoubtedly paid a claim voucher, for it--or would. it was nine o'clock, night, and every star blinking when hailey looked in again at the office for the track-walkers' reports and the railway weather bulletins. bucks, callahan, and peeto sat about duffy, who in his shirt-sleeves threw the stuff out off the sounder as it trickled in dot and dash, dot and dash over the wires. the west wire was good but east everything below peace river was down. we had to get the eastern reports around by omaha and the south--a good thousand miles of a loop--but bad news travels even round a robin hood loop. and wild hat came first from the west with a stationary river and the loup creek falling--clear--good night. and ed peeto struck the table heavily and swore it was well in the west. then from the east came prairie portage, all the way round, with a northwest rain, a rising river, and anchor ice pounding the piers badly, track in fair shape and--and-- the wire went wrong. as duffy knit his eyes and tugged and cussed a little the wind outside took up the message and whirled a bucket of rain against the windows. but the wires wouldn't right and stuff that no man could get tumbled in like a dictionary upside down. and bucks and callahan and hailey and peeto smoked, silent, and listened to the deepening drum of the rain on the roof. then duffy wrestled mightily yet once more, and the long way came word of trouble in the omaha yards with the river at twenty-two feet and cutting; rising at bismarck one foot an hour. "hell to pay on the missouri, of course," growled the foreman, staring single-eyed at the inoffensive bulletin. "well, she don't run our way; let her boil, damn her." "keep still," exclaimed duffy, leaning heavily on the key. "here's something--from--the spider." only the hum of the rain and the nervous break of the sounder cut the smoke that curled from the pipes. duffy snatched a pen and ran it across a clip, and bucks leaning over read aloud from his shoulder: "omaha. "j.f.bucks.--trainmen from number seventy-five stalled west of rapid city--track afloat in simpson's cut--report spider bridge out send--" and the current broke. callahan's hand closed rigidly over his pipe; peeto sat speechless; bucks read again at the broken message, but hailey sprang like a man wounded and snatched the clip from his superintendent's hand. he stared at the running words till they burnt his eyes and then, with an oath, frightful as the thunder that broke down the mountains, he dashed the clip to the floor. his eyes snapped greenish with fury and he cursed omaha, cursed its messages and everything that came out of it. slow at first, but bitter, then fast and faster until all the sting that poisoned his heart in his unjust discharge poured from his lips. it flooded the room like a spilling stream and no man put a word against it for they knew he stood a wronged man. out it came--all the rage--all the heart-burning--all the bitterness--and he dropped, bent, into a chair and covered his face with his hands: only the sounder clicking iron jargon and the thunder shaking the wickiup like a reed filled the ears about him. they watched him slowly knot his fingers and loosen them, and saw his face rise dry and hard and old out of his hands. "get up an engine!" "not--you're not going down there to-night?" stammered bucks. "yes. now. right off. peeto! get out your crew!" the foreman jumped for the door; bucks hesitated barely an instant, then turning where he sat cut a telephone plug into the roundhouse; callahan saw him act and leaning forward spoke low to duffy. the despatcher snatching the train sheet began instantly clearing track for a bridge special. in twenty minutes twenty men were running twenty ways through the storm and a live engine boomed under the wickiup windows. "phil, i want you to be careful!" it was bucks standing by the roadmaster's side at the window as they looked out into the storm. "it's a bad night." hailey made no answer. "a wicked night," muttered bucks as the lightning shot the yards in a blaze and a crash rolled down the gorge. but wicked as it was he could not bring himself to countermand; something forbade it. evans the conductor of the special ran in. "here's your orders!" exclaimed duffy. evans pulling down his storm cap nodded as he took the tissue. hailey buttoned his leather jacket and turned to bucks. "good-by." "mind your track," said bucks, warningly to evans as he took hailey's hand. "what's your permit?" "forty miles an hour." "don't stretch it. good-bye, phil," he added, speaking to hailey. "i'll see you in the morning." "in the morning," repeated hailey. "good-by. nothing more in, duffy?" "nothing more." "come on!" with the words he pushed the conductor through the door and was gone. the switch engine puffed up with the caboose. ahead of it ed peeto had coupled in the pile driver. at the last minute callahan asked to go, and as the bridge gang tumbled into the caboose, the assistant superintendent, ed peeto, and hailey climbed into the engine. denis mullenix sat on the right and with william durden, fireman, they pulled out, five in the cab, for the spider water. from medicine bend to the spider water is a ninety mile run; down the gorge, through the foothills and into the painted desert that fills the jaw of the spur we intersect again west of peace river. from the peace to the spider the crow flies twenty miles, but we take thirty for it; there is hardly a tangent between. their orders set a speed limit, but from the beginning they crowded it. hailey, moody at first, began joking and laughing the minute they got away. he sat behind denis mullenix on the right and poked at his ribs and taunted him with his heavy heels. after a bit he got down and threw coal for durden, mile after mile, and crowded the boiler till the safety screamed. when durden took the shovel hailey put his hand on the shoulder of callahan, who was trying to hang to big ed peeto on the fireman's seat. "callahan," he yelled in his ear, "a man's better off----" and callahan, though he couldn't, in the pound and the roar, catch the words, nodded and laughed because hailey fiercely laughed. then going around to the right the roadmaster covered denis mullenix's fingers on the throttle latch and the air with his big hands and good-naturedly coaxed them loose, pushed the engineer back and got the whip and the reins into his own keeping. it was what he wanted, for he smiled as he drew out the bar a notch and settled himself for the run across the flat country. they were leaving the foothills, and when the lightning opened the night they could see behind through the blasting rain the great hulking pile driver nod and reel out into the painted desert like a drunken man; for hailey's schedule was the wind and his limit the wide throttle. the storm shook them with freshening fury and drove the flanges into the south rail with a grinding shriek, as they sped from the shelter of the hills. the rain fell in a sheet, and the right of way ran a river. the wind, whipping the water off the ballast, dashed it like hail against the cab glass; the segment of desert caught in the yellow of the headlight rippled and danced and swam in the storm water, and hailey pulled again at the straining throttle and latched it wider. callahan hung with a hand to a brace and a hand to peeto, and every little while looked back at the caboose dancing a horn-pipe over the joints; mullenix, working the injector, stared astonished at hailey; but durden grimly sprinkled new blood into the white furnace and eyed his stack. notch after notch hailey drew, heedless of lurch and jump; heedless of bed or curve; heedless of track or storm; and with every spur at her cylinders the engine shook like a frantic horse. men and monster alike lost thought of care and drunk a frenzy in the deafening whirl that hailey opened across the swimming plain. the peace river hills loomed into the headlight like moving pictures; before they could think it, the desert was behind. callahan, white-faced, climbed down, and passed from hand to hand by durden and mullenix got his hands on hailey's shoulders and his lips to his ear. "for god's sake, phil, let up!" hailey nodded and choked the steam a little. threw a hatful of air on the shoes, but more as a test than a check: the fire was in his blood and he slewed into the hills with a speed unslackened. from the rocks it is a down grade all the way to the cañon, and the wind blew them and the track pulled them and a frenzied man sat at the throttle. just where the line crosses peace river the track bends sharply in through the needles to take the bridge. the curve is a ten degree. as they struck it, the headlight shot far out upon the river--and they in the cab knew they were dead men. instead of lighting the box of the truss the lamp lit a black and snaky flood sweeping over the abutment with yellow foam. the peace had licked up agnew's thirty-foot piles and his bridge was not. whatever could be done--and hailey knew all--meant death to the cab. denis mullenix never moved; no man that knew hailey would think of trying to supplant him even with death under the ponies. he did what a man could do. there was no chance anyway for the cab: but the caboose held twenty of his faithful men. he checked--and with a scream from the flanges the special, shaking in the clutches of the air-brake, swung the curve. again, the roadmaster checked heavily. the leads of the pile driver swaying high above gravity center careened for an instant wildly to the tangent, then the monster machine, parting from the tender, took the elevation like a hurdle and shot into the trees, dragging the caboose after it. but engine and tender and five in the cab plunged head on into the peace. not a man in the caboose was killed; it was as if hailey had tempered the blow to its crew. they scrambled out of the splinters and on their feet, men and ready to do. one voice from below came to them through the storm, and they answered its calling. it was callahan; but durden, mullenix, peeto, hailey, never called again. at daybreak wreckers of the west end, swarming from mountain and plain, were heading for the peace, and the mccloud gang--up--crossed the spider on hailey's bridge--on the bridge the coward trainmen had reported out, quaking as they did in the storm at the spider foaming over its approaches. but hailey's bridge stood--stands to-day. yet three days the spider raged, and knew then its master, while he, three whole days sat at the bottom of the peace clutching the engine levers in the ruins of agnew's mistake. and when the divers got them up, callahan and bucks tore big peeto's arms from his master's body and shut his staring eye and laid him at his master's side. and only the spider ravening at hailey's caissons raged. but hailey slept. the striker's story mcterza i would not call her common. not that i would be afraid to, though most of the boys were more or less afraid of mrs. mullenix, but simply that it wouldn't be right--not in my opinion. she kept a short order house, let that be admitted at once, but her husband was long a west end engineer. denis mullenix went into the peace with hailey and ed peeto and durden the night of the big june water on the west end. the company didn't treat her just right. i was a strong company man, although i went out with the boys. but i say, and i've always said, the company did _not_ treat mrs. mullenix just right. a widow, and penniless, she bought the eating-house at mccloud with the few hundreds they gave her. there were five young mullenixes, and they were, every one, star children, from sinkers, who was foxy, to kate, who was not merely fine, she was royal. twenty, and straight, and true, with a complexion like sunrise and hair like a sunset. kate kept the cottage going, and mrs. mullenix ruled personally in the eating-house and in the short order annex. any one that has tasted a steak grilled swell in chicago or in denver, and tasted one broiled plain by mrs. mullenix in mccloud, half a block from the depot, can easily understand why the boys behaved well. as for her coffee, believe it or not, we owe most of our world-famous west end runs, not so much to the baldwin locomotive works, renowned as they are, nor to mr. george westinghouse, prince of inventors though we rank him--but to the coffee drawn by mrs. mary mullenix; honor where honor is due. mrs. mullenix's coffee for many years made the boys hot: what now makes them hot is that she can't be persuaded to draw it for anybody except mcterza, and they claim that's the way he holds the yellow mail with the ; but all the same mcterza is fast stuff, coffee or no coffee. [illustration: mcterza] they were none of them boisterous men, those reading engineers who took our jobs after the strike; but mcterza was an oyster, except that he couldn't be swallowed. mcterza didn't give up very much to anybody; not even to his own chums, foley and sinclair. the fact is he was diffident, owing, maybe, to a hesitation in his speech. it was funny, the bit of a halt, but not so odd as his disposition, which approached that of a grizzly. he had impudence and indifference and quiet--plenty of each. there was one place up street that was, in special and particular, headquarters for the bad men in our crowd--for we had some--gatling's billiard hall. foley himself never had the nerve to tackle gatling's. but one night, all alone and come from nobody knew where, the hall stuffed with striking men who had tasted blood that very day--mcterza walked into gatling's. it was like a yearling strolling into a cañon full of wolves. they were so surprised at first they couldn't bite, but pretty soon they got mcterza up against a mirror and began pasting pool balls at him. when ed banks arrived it was as bad as a rapid-fire gun, and he carried mcterza out the side door like a warm tapioca pudding. when the fellow got round again, though, he was just as careless as ever. it was pretty generally understood that in the strike the short order house was with us. mrs. mullenix had reason to feel bitter toward the company, and it became speedily known that mrs. mullenix's was not a healthy place for the men who took our engines; their money was not wanted. in fact, none of the new men ever tried to get service there except mcterza. mcterza one morning dropped into the short order house. "coffee," said he; he always cut things short because he was afraid he would get hung up between stations in remarks. mrs. mullenix, sick, had to manage as she could. kate was looking after things that day at the restaurant, and she was alone. she looked at mcterza chillingly. kate had more than enough instinct to tell a reading man from the brotherhood type. she turned in silence, and she poured a cup of coffee, but from the night tank: it was the grossest indignity that could be perpetrated on a man in the short order management. she set it with little of civility and less of sugar before mcterza, and pushing her girdle down, coldly walked front, half perched on a stool, and looked listlessly out the window. "cool," ventured mcterza as he stirred a lump of sugar hopefully into his purchase. kate made no comment on the observation; the thing appeared self-evident. "could i have a little c-c-condensed milk?" inquired mcterza presently. "this sc-sc-scream looks pretty rich," he added, stirring thoughtfully as he spoke at the pot of mustard, which was the only liquid in sight. kate mullenix glared contemptuously at him, but she passed out a jug of cream--and it was cream. from the defiance on her face as she resumed her attitude she appeared to expect a protest about the cold coffee. none came. mcterza drank the stuff very slowly, blowing it carefully the while as if it was burning him up. it vexed kate. "how much?" asked mcterza humbly, as he swallowed the last drop before it froze to the spoon, and fished for a dime to square his account. "twenty-five cents." he started slightly but reached again into his pocket and without a word produced a quarter. kate swept it into the drawer with the royal indifference of a circus faker and resumed her stool. "c-c-could i get another c-c-cup?" asked mcterza patiently. it looked like a defiance; however she boldly poured a second cup of the cold coffee, and mcterza tackled it. after an interval of silence he spoke again. "do you sell tickets on c-coffee here?" she looked at him with a questioning insolence. "i mean, c-could a fellow buy a chance--or get into a raffle--on the h-h-h-hot tank?" asked mcterza, throwing a sad glance on the live coffee urn, which steamed cozily beside its silent companion. "that tank is empty," snapped kate mullenix recklessly, for in spite of herself she was getting confused. "if it is," suggested mcterza, peering gravely underneath at the jet of gas that blazed merrily, "you ought to draw your fire: you're liable to b-b-burn your c-c-crown-sheet." "what's the matter?" demanded kate angrily; "is your coffee cold?" "oh, no," he responded, shaking his head and waiting for the surprising disclaimer to sink in. "not exactly cold. it's just dead." "we don't serve reading men here," retorted kate defiantly. "oh, yes, you do," responded mcterza, brightening at once. "you serve them like t-t-tramps." then after a pause: "could i get a cigar?" "yes." "how much is that kind?" "fifty cents," snapped kate, glancing into the street for some friendly striker to appear. "i want a good one." "that's a good one." "fifty cents a b-b-box?" "fifty cents apiece." "give me a small one, please." he put down a dollar bill as he took the cigar. she threw a half back on the case. at that moment in walked two of our boys, curtis rucker and ben nicholson. mcterza had a great chance to walk out, but he didn't improve it. rucker and ben were reds, both of them. ben, in fact, was an old terror at best. curtis rucker was a blackish, quick young fellow, fine as silk in a cab, but a devil in a strike, and what was more, a great admirer of kate mullenix, and the minx knew it. as mcterza bit off the end of his cigar and reached for the gas-lighter he noticed that her face lighted wonderfully. with a smile the newcomers called for coffee, and with a smile they got it. mcterza, smoking quietly at the cigar-case, watched the steaming liquid pour from the empty tank. it was a dispiriting revelation, but he only puffed leisurely on. when kate glanced his way, as she presently did, disdainfully, mcterza raised his finger, and pointed to the change she had thrown at him. "what is it, sir?" "mistake." the strikers pricked up their ears. "there isn't any mistake, sir. i told you the cigars were fifty cents each," replied kate mullenix. rucker pushed back his coffee, and sliding off his stool walked forward. "change isn't right," persisted mcterza, looking at kate mullenix. "why not?" "you forgot to take out twenty-five cents more for that last cup of c-c-coffee," stammered the reading man. kate took up the coin and handed a quarter back from the register. "that's right," put in rucker promptly, "make the scabs p-p-pay for what they g-g-get. they're sp-p-p-pending our money." the hesitating reading man appeared for the first time aware of an enemy; interested for the first time in the abuse that had been continually heaped on him since he came to town: it appeared at last to reach him. he returned rucker's glare. "you call me a scab, do you?" he said at last and with the stutter all out. "i belong to a labor order that counts thousands to your hundreds. your scabs came in and took our throttles on the reading--why shouldn't we pull your latches out here? your strike is beat, my buck, and reading men beat it. you had better look for a job on a threshing machine." rucker jumped for mcterza, and they mixed like clouds in a cyclone. for a minute it was a whirlwind, and nothing could be made of it; but when they could be seen mcterza had the best man in our camp pinned under a table with his throat in one hand like the latch of a throttle. nicholson at the same moment raising an oak stool smashed it over mcterza's head. the fellow went flat as a dead man, but he must have pulled up quick, for when neighbor, rushing in, whirled nicholson into the street, the reading man already had his feet, and a corner to work from. reed, the trainmaster, was right behind the big master mechanic. rucker was up, but saw he was outnumbered. "hurt, mac?" asked reed, running toward the reading man. the blow had certainly dazed him; his eyes rolled seasick for a minute, then he stared straight ahead. "look out," he muttered, pointing over reed's shoulder at kate mullenix, "she's going to faint." the trainmaster turned, but kate was over before her brother sinkers could reach her as he ran in. rucker moved towards the door. as he passed mcterza he sputtered villanously, but neighbor's huge bulk was between the two men. "never mind," retorted mcterza; "next time i get you i'll ram a billiard c-c-c-cue down your throat." it was the first intimation our fighting men had that the reading fellow could do business, and the affair caused mcterza to be inspected with some interest from behind screens and cracker boxes as he sauntered up and down the street. when the boys asked him what he was going to do about his treatment in the short order house he seemed indifferent; but the indifference, as our boys were beginning to find out, covered live coals; for when he was pressed he threw the gauntlet at the whole lodge of us, by saying that before he got through he would close the short order house up. that threat made him a marked man. the reading men were hated; mcterza was slated for the very worst of it. everybody on both sides understood that--except mcterza himself. he never understood anything, for that matter, till it was on him, and he dropped back into his indifference and recklessness almost at once. he even tried the short order house again. that time mrs. mullenix herself was in the saddle. there were things in life which even mcterza didn't hanker after tackling more than once, and one was a second interview with mrs. mullenix. but the fellow must have made an impression on even the redoubtable mrs. mary, for she privately asked neighbor, as one might of an honorable adversary, for peace' sake to keep that man away from her restaurant; so mcterza was banned. he took his revenge by sauntering in and out of gatling's, until gatling himself went gray-headed with the fear that another riot would be brought on his place. oddly enough, mcterza had one friend in the mullenix family. on the strike question, like many other mccloud families, the house of mullenix was divided against itself. all held for the engineers except the youngest member, sinkers. sinkers was telegraph messenger, and was strictly a company man in spite of everything. he naturally saw a great deal of the new men, but sinkers never took the slightest interest in mcterza till he handled rucker; after that sinkers cultivated him. sinkers would listen just as long as mcterza would stutter, and they became fast friends long before the yard riots. * * * * * the day the carload of detectives was imported the fight was on. scattering collisions breaking here and there into open fights showed the feeling, but it wasn't till little russia went out that things looked rocky for the company property at mccloud. little russia had become a pretty big russia at the time of the strike. the russians, planted at benkleton you might say by shockley, had spread up and down the line like tumbleweeds, and their first cousins, the polacks, worked the company coal mines. at mccloud they were as hard a crowd after dark as you would find on the steppes. the polacks, four hundred of them, struck while the engineers were out, and the fat went into the fire with a flash. the night of the trouble took even us by surprise, and the company was wholly unprepared. the engineers in the worst of the heat were accused of the rioting, but we had no more to do with it than homesteaders. our boys are americans, and we don't fight with torches and kerosene. we don't have to; they're not our weapons. the company imported the polacks, let them settle their own accounts with them, said our fellows, and i called it right. admitting that some of our reds got out to mix in it, we couldn't in sense be held for that. it was neighbor, the craftiest old fox on the staff of the division, who told the depot people in the afternoon that something was coming, and thinking back afterward of the bunches of the low-browed fellows dotting the bench and the bottoms in front of their dugouts, lowering at the guards who patrolled the railroad yards, it was strange no one else saw it. they had been out three weeks, and after no end of gabbling turned silent. men that talk are not so dangerous; it's when they quit talking. neighbor was a man of a thousand to act on his apprehension. all the afternoon he had the switch engines shunting cars about the roundhouse; the minute the arc lights went on the result could be seen. the old man had long lines of furniture vans, box cars, gondolas, and dead pullmans strung around the big house like parapets. whatever anybody else thought, neighbor was ready. even old john boxer, his head blacksmith, who operated an amateur battery for salutes and celebrations, had his gun overhauled: the roundhouse was looking for trouble. it was barely eight o'clock that night when a group of us on main street saw the depot lights go out, and pretty soon telephone messages began coming in to gatling's from the company plant up the river for the sheriff; the polacks were wrecking the dynamos. the arc lights covering the yards were on a different circuit, but it didn't take the whiskered fellows long to find that out. half an hour later the city plant was attacked; no one was looking for trouble there, and the great system of arcs lighting the yard for miles died like fireflies. we knew then, everybody knew, that the polacks meant business. not a man was in sight when the blaze sputtered blue, red, and black out; but in five minutes a dozen torches were moving up on the in-freight house like coyotes. we could hear the crash of the big oak doors clear down on main street. there, again, the company was weak; they hadn't a picket out at either of the freight houses. there wasn't so much as a sneeze till they beat the doors in; then there was a cry; the women were taking a hand, and it was a loot with a big l. the plunder maddened them like brandy. neighbor, who feared not the polacks nor the devil, made a sortie with a dozen men from his stockade, for that was what the roundhouse defenses looked like, to try to save the building. it wasn't in men to do it. the gutting was done and the kerosene burning yellow before he was half-way across, and the mob, running then in a wavering black line from the flames that licked the high windows, were making for the storehouse. the fellows were certainly up to everything good, for in plundering the freight house first they gave their women the chance to lay in supplies for months. neighbor saw in a minute there was nothing left for him to protect at the east end, and before he could cut off the constantly lengthening line of rioters, they were between him and the long storehouse. it must have made the old man weep blood, and it was there that the first shooting occurred. a squad of the detectives reënforcing neighbor's little following, ran in on the flank of the rioters as the master mechanic caught up with their rear. they wheeled, on his command to disperse, and met it with a cloud of stones and coupling pins. the detectives opened with their winchesters, and a yell went up that took me back to the haymarket. their answer was the torch to the storehouse and a charge on the imported guards that shook their front like a whirlwind. the detectives ran for neighbor's breastworks, with the miners hot behind, and a hail of deadly missiles on their backs. one went down at the turn-table, and it didn't look as if his life was worth a piece of waste. but the fellow, raising on one arm, began picking off the polacks closest with a revolver. they scattered like turkeys, and he staggered across the table before they could damage him any worse. half a dozen of us stood in the cupola of the fire-engine house, with the thing laid below like a panorama. far as the blazing freight house lit the yards, we could see the rioters swarming in from the bottoms. the railroad officials gathered up stairs in the passenger depot waited helpless for the moment when the fury of the mob should turn on the unprotected building. the entire records of the division, the despatchers' offices, the headquarters of the whole west end were under that roof, with nothing to stand between it and the torches. awkwardly as the rioters had maneuvered, they seemed then to be getting into better shape for mischief. they were quicker at expedients, and two intensely active leaders rose out of the crowds. following the shouts of the pair, which we could just hear, a great body of the strikers dashed up the yard. "by the gods!" cried andy cameron at my elbow, "they're going for the oil-house!" before the words were out we could hear the dull stroke of the picks sinking into the cleated doors. buckets were passed in and out from the house tanks. jacketed cans of turpentine and varnish were hustled down the line to men drunk with riot; in a moment twenty cars were ablaze. to top the frenzy they fired the oil-house itself. destruction crazed the entire population of the bottoms. the burning cars threw the front of the big brick depot up into the sky. as the reflection struck back from the plate-glass windows, the mob split into two great waves, and one headed for the passenger depot. they crossed the coal spurs brandishing torches and sledges and bars. we could see them plain as block signals. every implement that ever figured in a yard showed in their line, but their leader, a youngish fellow, swung a long, tapering stake. as the foremost polack climbed up on the last string of flats that separated them from the depot, the storage tanks in the oil-house took fire. the roof jumped from the wall-plates like one vast trap-door, and the liquid yellow spurted flaming a hundred feet up into the black. a splitting yell greeted the burst, and the polacks, with added fury, raced towards the long depot. i made out then the man with the club. it was rucker. the staff of the superintendent, and the force of despatchers, a handful of men all told, gathered at the upper windows and opened fire with revolvers. it was just enough to infuriate the rioters. and it appeared certain that the house would be burned under the defenders' feet, for the broad platform was bare from end to end. not a ghost of a barricade, not a truck, not a shutter stood between the depot and the torch, and nobody thought of a man until cameron with the quicker eyes cried: "for god's sake! there's mcterza!" such as pay-day there he was, walking down the platform towards the depot, and humping alongside--sinkers. i guess everybody in both camps swore. like a man in his sleep he was walking right in the teeth of the polacks. if we had tried ourselves to pit him it couldn't have been done cleaner. his friends, for mcterza had them, must have shivered--but that was just mcterza; to be where he shouldn't, when he shouldn't. even had there not been more pressing matters, nobody could have figured out where the fellow had come from with his convoy, or where he was going. he was there; that was all--he was there. the despatchers yelled at him from above. the cry echoed back short from a hundred polack throats, and they sent a splitter; it was plain they were mad for blood. even that cry didn't greatly faze the fellow, but in the clatter of it all he caught another cry--a cry sent straight to mcterza's ear, and he turned at the voice and the word like a man stung. rucker, leaping ahead and brandishing the truck-stake at the hated stutterer, yelled, "the scab!" the reading engineer halted like a baited bear. rucker's cry was enough--in that time and at that place it was enough. mcterza froze to the platform. there was more--and we knew it, all of us--more between those two men than scab and brotherhood, strike and riot, flood or fire: there was a woman. we knew it so well there was hardly a flutter anywhere, i take it, when men saw mcterza stooping, grasp sinkers, shove him towards the depot, slip like a snake out of his pea-jacket, and turn to front the whole blooming mob. there wasn't any fluttering, i take it--and not very much breathing; only the scab, never a tremendous big man, swelled bigger in the eyes then straining his way than any man in mccloud has ever swelled before or since. mobs are queer. a minute before it was the depot, now it was the scab--kill him. the scab stood. rucker stumbled across a rail in his fury, and went sprawling, but the scab stood. the line wavered like tumbleweeds. they didn't understand a man fronting forty. then ben nicholson--i recognized his whiskers--began blazing at him with a pistol. yet the scab stood and halted the polack line. they hesitated, they stopped to yell; but the scab stood. "stone him!" shouted ben nicholson. mcterza backed warily across the platform. the polacks wavered; the instinct of danger unsettled them. mobs are queer. a single man will head them quicker than a hundred guns. there is nothing so dangerous as one man. [illustration: old man nicholson.] mcterza saw the inevitable, the steady circling that must get him at last, and as the missiles flew at him from a score of miners he crouched with the rage of a cornered rat, one eye always on rucker. "come in, you coyote!" yelled mcterza tauntingly. "come in!" he cried, catching up a coupling pin that struck him and hurling it wickedly at his nearest assailant. rucker, swinging his club, ran straight at his enemy. "kill the scab!" he cried and a dozen bristling savages, taking his lead, closed on the reading man like a fan. from the windows above, the railroad men popped with their pistols; they might as well have thrown fire-crackers. mcterza, with a cattish spring, leaped through a rain of brickbats for rucker. the club in the striker's hands came around with sweep enough to drop a steer. quick as a sounder key mcterza's head bobbed, and he went in and under on rucker's jaw with his left hand. the man's head twisted with the terrific impact like a chinese doll's. down he went, mcterza, hungry, at his throat; and on top of mcterza the polacks, with knives and hatchets and with cossack barks, and they closed over him like water over a stone. nobody ever looked to see him pull out, yet he wormed his way through them corkscrew fashion, while they hacked at one another, and sprang out behind his assailants with rucker's club. in his hands it cut through guards and arms and knives like toothpicks. rucker was smothering under toppling polacks. but others ran in like rats. they fought mcterza from side to side of the platform. they charged him and flanked him--once they surrounded him--but his stanchion swung every way at once. swarm as they would, they could not get a knife or a pick into him, and it looked as if he would clear the whole platform, when his dancing eye caught a rioter at the baggage room door mercilessly clubbing poor little sinkers. the boy lay in a pitiful heap no better than a dying mouse. mcterza, cutting his way through the circle about him, made a swath straight for the kid, and before the brute over him could run he brought the truck-stake with a full-arm sweep flat across his back. the man's spine doubled like a jack-knife, and he sunk wriggling. mcterza made but the one pass at him; he never got up again. catching sinkers on his free arm, the reading man ran along the depot front, pulling him at his side and pounding at the doors. but every door was barred, and none dared open. he was clean outside the breastworks, and as he trotted warily along, dragging the insensible boy, they cursed and chased and struck him like a hunted dog. at the upper end of the depot stands a huge ice-box. mcterza, dodging in the hail that followed him, wheeling to strike with a single arm when the savages closed too thick, reached the recess, and throwing sinkers in behind, turned at bay on his enemies. with his clothes torn nearly off, his shirt streaming ribbons from his arms, daubed with dirt and blood, the scab held the recess like a giant, and beat down the polacks till the platform looked a slaughter pen. while his club still swung, old john boxer's cannon boomed across the yard. neighbor had run it out between his parallels, and turned it on the depot mob. it was the noise more than the execution that dismayed them. mcterza's fight had shaken the leaders, and as the blacksmiths dragged their gun up again, shotted with nothing more than an indian yell, mcterza's assailants gave way. in that instant he disappeared through the narrow passage at his back, and under the shadow behind the depot made his way along the big building and up main street to the short order house. almost unobserved he got to the side door, when rucker's crowd, with rucker again on his feet, spied him dragging sinkers inside. they made a yell and a dash, but mcterza got the boy in and the door barred before they could reach it. they ran to the front, baffled. the house was dark and the curtains drawn. their clamor brought mrs. mullenix, half dead with fright, to the door. she recognized nicholson and rucker, and appealed to them. "pray god, do you want to mob me, ben nicholson?" she sobbed, putting her head out fearfully. "we want the scab that sneaked into the side door, mrs. mary!" roared ben nicholson. "fire him out here." "sure there's no one here you want." "we know all about that," cried rucker breaking in. "we want the scab." he pushed her back and crowded into the door after her. the room was dark, but the fright was too great for mrs. mullenix, and she cried to mcterza to leave her house for the love of god. some one tore down the curtains; the glow of the burning yards lit the room, and out of the gloom, behind the lunch counter, almost at her elbow--a desperate sight, they told me--panting, blood-stained, and torn, rose mcterza. his fingers closed over the grip of the bread-knife on the shelf beside him. "who wants me?" he cried, leaning over his breastwork. "leave my house! for the love of god, leave it!" screamed mrs. mullenix, wringing her hands. the scab, knife in hand, leaped across the counter. nicholson and rucker bumped into each other at the suddenness of it, but before mcterza could spring again there was a cry behind. "he sha'n't leave this house!" and kate mullenix, her face ablaze, strode forward. "he sha'n't leave this house!" she cried again, turning on her mother. "leave this house, after he's just pulled your boy from under their cowardly clubs! leave it for who? he sha'n't go out. burn it over our heads!" she cried passionately, wheeling on the rioters. "when he goes we'll go with him. it's you that want him, curtis rucker, is it? come, get him, you coward! there he stands. take him!" her voice rang like a fire-bell. rucker, burnt by her words, would have thrown himself on mcterza, but nicholson held him back. there never would have been but one issue if they had met then. "come away!" called the older man hoarsely. "it's not women we're after. she's an engineer's wife, curt; this is her shanty. come away, i say," and saying, he pushed rucker and their coyote following out of the door ahead of him. mrs. mullenix and kate sprang forward to lock the door. as they ran back, mcterza, spent with blood, dropped between them. so far as i can learn that is where the courtship began, right then and there--and as mcterza says, all along of sinkers, for sinkers was always kate's favorite brother, as he is now mcterza's. sinkers had a time pulling through after the clubbing. polacks hit hard. there was no end of trouble before he came out of it, but sinkers are tough, and he pulled through, only to think more of mcterza than of the whole executive staff. at least that is the beginning of the courtship as i got it. there was never any more trouble about serving the new men at the short order house that i ever heard; and after the rest of us got back to work we ate there side by side with them. mcterza got his coffee out of the hot tank, too, though he always insisted on paying twenty-five cents a cup for it, even after he married kate and had a kind of an interest in the business. it was not until then that he made good his early threat. sinkers being promoted for the toughness of his skull, thought he could hold up one end of the family himself, and mcterza expressed confidence in his ability to take care of the other; so, finally, and through his persuasions, the short order house was closed forever. its coffee to-day is like the mccloud riots, only a stirring memory. as for mcterza, it is queer, yet he never stuttered after that night, not even at the marriage service; he claims the impediment was scared clean out of him. but that night made the reputation of mcterza a classic among the good men of mccloud. mccloud has, in truth, many good men, though the head of the push is generally conceded to be the husband of royal kate mullenix--johnnie mcterza. the despatcher's story the last order in order to meet objection on the score of the impossible, and to anticipate inquiry as to whether "the despatcher's story" is true, it may be well to state frankly at the outset that this tale, in its inexplicable psychological features, is a transcript from the queer things in the railroad life. it is based on an extraordinary happening that fell within the experience of the president of a large western railway system. whether the story, suggestive from any point of view of mystery, can be regarded as a demonstration of the efficacy of prayer may be a disputable question. in passing, however, it is only fair to say that the circumstance on which the tale is based was so regarded by the despatcher himself, and by those familiar with the circumstance. * * * * * a hundred times if once the thing had been, on appeals for betterment, before the board of directors. it was the one piece of track on the mountain division that trainmen shook their heads over--the peace river stretch. to run any sort of a line through that cañon would take the breath of an engineer. give him all the money he could ask and it would stagger wetmore himself. brodie in his day said there was nothing worse in the andes, and brodie, before he drifted into the rockies, had seen, first and last, pretty much all of the chilian work. but our men had the job to do with one half the money they needed. the lines to run, the grades to figure, the culverts to put in, the fills to make, the blasting to do, the tunnel to bore, the bridge to build--in a limit; that was the curse of it--the limit. and they did the best they could. but i will be candid: if a section and elevation of rosamond's bower and a section and elevation of our peace river work were put up to stand for a prize at a civil engineers' cake-walk the decision would go, and quick, to the peace river track. there are only eight miles of it; but our men would back it against any eighty on earth for whipping curves, tough grades, villainous approaches, and railroad tangle generally. the directors always have promised to improve it; and they are promising yet. thanks to what hailey taught them, there's a good bridge there now--pneumatic caissons sunk to the bed. it's the more pity they haven't eliminated the dread main line curves that approach it, through a valley which i brief as a cañon and the mauvaises terres rolled into one single proposition. yet, we do lots of business along that stretch. our engineers thread the cuts and are glad to get safely through them. our roadmasters keep up the elevations, hoping some night the blooming right of way will tumble into perdition. our despatchers, studying under shaded lamps, think of it with their teeth clinched and hope there never will be any trouble on that stretch. trouble is our portion and trouble we must get; but not there. let it come; but let it come anywhere except on the peace. it was in the golden days of the battered old wickiup that the story opens; when blackburn sat in the night chair. the days when the old guard were still there; before death and fame and circumstance had stolen our first commanders and left only us little fellows, forgotten by every better fate, to tell their greater stories. hailey had the bridges then, and wetmore the locating, and neighbor the roundhouses, and bucks the superintendency, and callahan, so _he_ claimed, the work, and blackburn had the night trick. i when blackburn came from the plains he brought a record clean as the book of life. four years on a station key; then eight years at omaha despatching, with never a blunder or a break to the eight years. but it was at omaha that blackburn lost the wife whose face he carried in his watch. i never heard the story, only some rumor of how young she was and how pretty, and how he buried her and the wee baby together. it was all blackburn brought to the west end mountains, his record and the little face in the watch. they said he had no kith or kin on earth, besides the wife and the baby back on the bluffs of the missouri; and so he came on the night trick to us. i was just a boy around the wickiup then, but i remember the crowd; who could forget them? they were jolly good fellows; sometimes there were very high jinks. i don't mean anybody drunk or that sort; but good tobacco to smoke and good songs to sing and good stories to tell--and lord! how they could tell them. and when the pins slipped, as they would, and things went wrong, as they will, there were clear heads and pretty wits and stout hearts to put things right. blackburn, as much as i can remember, always enjoyed it; but in a different way. he had such times a manner like nobody else's--a silent, beaming manner. when bucks would roll a great white pan-handle yarn over his fresh linen shirt-front and down his cool clean white arms, one of them always bared to the elbow--sanding his points with the ash of a san francisco cigar--and neighbor would begin to heave from the middle up like a hippopotamus, and callahan would laugh his whiskers full of dew, and hailey would yell with delight, and the slaves in the next room would double up on the dead at the story, blackburn would sit with his laugh all in a smile, but never a noise or a word. he enjoyed it all; not a doubt of that; only it was all tempered, i reckon, by something that had gone before. at least, that's the way it now strikes me, and i watched those big fellows pretty close--the fellows who were to turn, while i was growing up among them, into managers and presidents and magnates; and some of them from every day catch-as-catch-can men with the common alkali flecking their boots into dead men for whom marble never rose white enough or high enough. blackburn was four years at the wickiup on the night trick; it wouldn't have seemed natural to see him there in daylight. it needed the yellow gloom of the old kerosene lamp in the room; the specked, knotted, warped, smoky pine ceiling losing itself in black and cobwebbed corners; the smoldering murk of the soft-coal fire brooding in the shabby old salamander, and, outside in the darkness, the wind screwing down the gorge and rattling the shrunken casements, to raise blackburn in the despatcher's chair. blackburn and the lamp and the stove and the ceiling and the gloom--in a word, blackburn and the night trick--they went together. before the short line was opened the number one and number five trains caught practically all the coast passenger business. they were immensely heavy trains; month after month we sent out two and three sections of them each way, and they always ran into our division on the night trick. blackburn handled all that main line business with a mileage of eight hundred and five, besides the mountain branches, say four hundred more; and the passenger connections came off them, mostly at night, for one and five. now, three men wrestle with blackburn's mileage; but that was before they found out that despatchers, although something tougher than steel, do wear out. moreover, we were then a good way from civilization and extra men. if a despatcher took sick there was no handy way of filling in; it was just double up and do the best you could. one lad in the office those days everybody loved: fred norman. he was off the burlington. a kid of a fellow who looked more like a choir boy than a train despatcher. but he was all lightning--a laughing, restless, artless boy, open as a book and quick as a current. there was a better reason still, though, why they loved fred: the boy had consumption; that's why he was out in the mountains, and his mother in detroit used to write bucks asking about him, and she used to send us all things in fred's box. his flesh was as white and as pink as mountain snow, and he had brown eyes; he was a good boy, and i called him handsome. i reckon they all did. fred brought out a tennis set with him, the first we ever saw in medicine bend, and before he had been playing an hour he had neighbor, big as a grizzly, and callahan, with a pipe in one hand and a tennis guide in the other, chasing all over the yard after balls; and hailey trying to figure forty love, while fred taught bucks the lawford drive. i don't say what he was to me; only that he taught me all i ever knew or ever will know about handling trains; and, though i was carrying messages then, and he was signing orders, we were really like kids together. fred for a long time had the early trick. he came on at four in the morning and caught most of the through freights that got away from the river behind the passenger trains. there was no use trying to move them in the night trick. between the stock trains eastbound and the both-way passenger trains, if a westbound freight got caught in the mountains at night the engine might as well be standing in the house saving fuel--there wasn't time to get from one siding to another. so fred norman took the freights as they came and he handled them like a ringmaster. when fred's whip cracked, by joe! a train had to dance right along, grade or no grade. fred gave them the rights and they had the rest to do--or business to do with the superintendent or with doubleday, neighbor's assistant in the motive power. there was only one tendency in fred norman's despatching that anybody could criticise: he never seemed, after handling trains on the plains, to appreciate what our mountain grades really meant, and when they pushed him he sent his trains out pretty close together. it never bothered him to handle a heavy traffic; he would get the business through the mountains just as fast as they could put it at the division; but occasionally there were some hair-curling experiences among the freights on norman's trick trying to keep off each other's coat-tails. one night in july there was a great press moving eight or nine trains of montana grassers over the main line on some kind of a time contract--we were giving stockmen the earth then. everybody was prodding the mountain division, and part of the stuff came in late on blackburn and part of it early on fred, who was almost coughing his head off about that time, getting up at . every morning. fred at four o'clock took the steers and sent them train after train through the rat river country like bullets out of a maxim gun. it was hot work, and before he had sat in an hour there was a stumble. the engineer of a big ten-wheeler pulling twenty-five cars of steers had been pushing hard and, at the entrance of the cañon, set his air so quick he sprung one of the driver shoes and the main rod hit it. the great steel bar doubled up like a man with a cramp. it was showing daylight; they made stop, and, quick as men could do it, flagged both ways. but the last section was crowding into the cañon right behind; they were too close together, that was all there was to it. the hind section split into the standing train like a butcher knife into a sandwich. it made a mean wreck--and, worse, it made a lot of hard feeling at the wickiup. when the investigation came it was pretty near up to fred norman right from the start, and he knew it. but blackburn, who shielded him when he could, just as all the despatchers did, because he was a boy--and a sick one among men--tried to take part of the blame himself. he could afford it, blackburn; his shoulders were broad and he hadn't so much as a fly-speck on his book. bucks looked pretty grave when the evidence was all in, and around the second floor they guessed that meant something for norman. fred himself couldn't sleep over it, and to complicate things the engineer of the stalled train, who hated doubleday, hinted quietly that the trouble came in the first place from doubleday's new-fangled idea of putting the driver shoes behind instead of in front of the wheels. then the fat was in the fire. fred got hold of it, and, boy-like--sore over his own share in the trouble and exasperated by something doubleday was reported to have said about _him_ over at the house--lighted into doubleday about the engine failure. doubleday was right in his device, as time has proved; but it was unheard of then and moreover, the assistant master mechanic sensitive to criticism at any time, was a fearful man to run against. sunday morning he and norman met in the trainmaster's office. they went at each other like sparks, and when doubleday, who had a hard mouth, began cursing fred, the poor little despatcher, rankling with the trouble, anyway half sick, went all to pieces and flew at the big fellow like a sparrowhawk. he threw a wicked left into the master mechanic before doubleday could lift a guard. but walter doubleday, angry as he was, couldn't strike fred. he caught up both the boy's hands and pushed him, struggling madly, back against the wall to slap his face, when a froth of blood stained fred's lips and he fell fainting; just at that minute blackburn stepped into the room. it wasn't the kind of a time--they weren't the kind of men--to ask or volunteer explanations. blackburn was on doubleday in a wink, and before walter could right himself the night despatcher had thrown him headlong across the room. as the operators rushed in, blackburn and the tall master mechanic sprang at each other in a silent fury. no man dare say where it might have ended had not fred norman staggered between them with his hands up--but the blood was gushing from his mouth. it was pretty serious business. they caught him as he fell, and the boy lay on blackburn's arm limp as a dead wire: nobody thought after they saw that hemorrhage that he would ever live to have another. i was scared sick, and i never saw a man so cut up as doubleday. blackburn was cool in a second, for he saw quicker than others and he knew there was danger of the little despatcher's dying right there in his tracks. blackburn stood over him, as much at home facing death as he was in a fight or in a despatcher's chair. he appeared to know just how to handle the boy to check the gush, and to know just where the salt was and how to feed it, and he had doubleday telephoning for dr. carhart and me running to a saloon after chopped ice in a jiffy. when anybody was knocked out, blackburn was as regular a nurse as ever you saw; even switchmen, when they got pinched, kind of looked to blackburn. that day the minute he got fred into carhart's hands there was fred's trick to take care of, and nobody, of course, but blackburn to do it. he sat in and picked up the threads and held them till noon; then maxwell relieved him. doubleday was waiting outside when blackburn left the chair. i saw him put out his hand to the night despatcher. they spoke a minute, and went out and up third street toward fred norman's room. it was a gloomy day around the depot. everybody was talking about the trouble, and the way it had begun and the way it had ended. they talked in undertones, little groups in corners and in rooms with the doors shut. there wasn't much of that in our day there, and it was depressing. i went home early to bed, for i was on nights. but the wind sung so, even in the afternoon, that i couldn't quiet down to sleep. ii we were handling trains then on the old single-order system. i mention this because in no other way could this particular thing have happened; but there's no especial point in that, since other particular things do happen all the time, single order, double order, or no order system. the wind had dropped, and there was just a drizzle of rain falling through the mountains when i got down to the depot at seven o'clock that sunday evening. i don't know how much sleep blackburn had had during the day, but he had been at fred norman's bed most of the afternoon with doubleday and carhart, so he couldn't have had much. about half-past seven maxwell sent me over there with a note and his storm-coat for him and the three men were in the room then. boy-like, i hung around until it was time for blackburn to take his trick, and then he and doubleday and i walked over to the wickiup together. at sundown everything was shipshape. there hadn't been an engine failure in the district for twenty-four hours and every hand-car was running smoothly. moreover, there were no extra sections marked up and only one special on the division card--a theatrical train eastbound with henry irving and company from 'frisco to chicago. the irving special was heavy, as it always is; that night there were five baggage cars, a coach and two sleepers. i am particular to lay all this out just as the night opened when blackburn took his train sheet, because sometimes these things happen under extraordinary pressure on the line and sometimes they don't; sometimes they happen under pressure on the despatcher himself. it was all fixed, too, for blackburn to handle not only his own trick but the first two hours of fred's trick, which would carry till six o'clock in the morning. at six maxwell was to double into a four-hour dog-watch, and callahan was to sit in till noon. there was nothing to hold the big fellows around the depot that night, and they began straggling home through the rain about nine o'clock. before ten, bucks and callahan had left the office; by eleven, neighbor had got away from the roundhouse; doubleday had gone back to sit with fred norman. the lights in the yard were low and the drizzle had eased into a mist; it was a nasty night, and yet one never promised better for quiet. before midnight the switchmen were snug in the yard shanties; in the wickiup there were the night ticket agent downstairs and the night baggageman. up-stairs every door was locked and every room was dark, except the despatcher's office. in that, blackburn sat at his key; nearby, but closer to the stove, sat the night caller for the train crews, trying to starch his hair with a ten-cent novel. the westbound overland passenger, number one, was due to leave ames at . a. m., and ordinarily would have met a special like the irving at rosebud, which is a good bit west of the river. but number one's engine had been steaming badly all the way from mccloud, and on her schedule, which was crazy fast all night, she did not make ames till some fifty minutes late. while there were no special orders, it was understood we were to help the irving train as much as possible anyway. bucks had made the acquaintance of the great man and his fellows on the westbound run, and as they had paid us the particular compliment of a return trip, we were minded to give them the best of it--even against number one, which was always rather sacred on the sheet. this, i say, was pretty generally understood; for when it was all over there was no criticism whatever on blackburn's intention of making a meeting-point for the two trains, as they then stood, at o'fallon's siding. between ames and rosebud, twenty miles apart, there are two sidings--o'fallon's, west of the river, and salt rocks, east. there was no operator at either place. the train that leaves ames westbound is in the open for twenty miles with only schedule rights or a despatcher's tissue between her and the worst of it. at one o'clock that morning blackburn wired an order to ames for number one to hold at o'fallon's for special . a minute later he sent an order for special to run to o'fallon's regardless of number one. at least, he thought he sent such an order; but he didn't--he made a mistake. when he had fixed the meeting-point, blackburn rose from his chair and sat down by the stove. i lazily watched him, till, falling into a doze as i eyed him drowsily, he began to loom up in his chair and to curl and twist toward the roof like a signal column; then the front legs of his chair struck the floor, and with a start i woke, just as he stepped hurriedly back to his table and picked up the order book. the first suspicion i had that anything was wrong was an exclamation from blackburn as he stared at the book. putting it down almost at once and holding the page open with his left hand, he plugged callahan's house wire and began drumming his call. callahan's "aye, aye," came back inside of a minute, and blackburn tapped right at him: "come down." and i began to wonder what _was_ up. there was an interval; then callahan asked, "what's the matter?" i got up and walked over to the water-tank for a drink. blackburn again pressed the key, and repeated to callahan precisely the words he had used before: "come down." his face was drawn into the very shape of fear and his eyes, bent hard on me, were looking through me and through the shivering window--i know it now--and through the storming night, horror-set, into the cañon of the peace river. the sounder broke and he turned back, listened a moment; but it was stray stuff about time freight. he pushed the chair from behind him, still like a man listening--listening; then with an effort, plain even to me, he walked across the office, pushed open the door of callahan's private room, and stood with his hand on the knob, looking back at the lamp. it was as if he still seemed to listen, for he stood undecided a moment; then he stepped into the dark room and closed the door behind him, leaving me alone and dumb with fear. the mystery lay, i knew, in the order book. curiosity gradually got the better of my fright, and i walked from the cooler over to the counter to get courage, and shoved the train register around noisily. i crossed to the despatchers' table and made a pretence of arranging the pads and blanks. the train order book was lying open where he had left it under the lamp. with my eyes bulging, i read the last two orders copied in it: c. and e. no. one, ames. no. one, eng. , will hold at o'fallon's for special . c. and e. special , rosebud. special , eng. , will run to salt rocks regardless of no. one. salt rocks! i glared at the words and the letters of the words. i re-read the first order and read again the second. o'fallon's for number one. that was right. o'fallon's it should be for the special , of course, to meet her. but it wasn't: it was the first station east of o'fallon's he had ordered the special to run to. it was a lap order. my scalp began to creep. a lap order for the irving special and the number one passenger, and it doomed them to meet head on somewhere between o'fallon's and the salt rocks, in the peace river cañon. my mouth went sticking dry. the sleet outside had deepened into a hail that beat the west glass sharper and the window shook again in the wind. i asked myself, afraid to look around, what blackburn could be doing in callahan's room. the horror of the wreck impending through his mistake began to grow on me; i know what i suffered; i ask myself now what he suffered, inside, alone, in the dark. oh, you who lie down upon the rail at night to sleep, in a despatcher's hand, think you, ever, in your darkened berths of the cruel responsibility on the man who in the watches of the night holds you in his keeping? others may blunder; others may forget; others may fall and stand again: not the despatcher; a single mistake damns him. when he falls he falls forever. young as i was, i realized that night the meaning of the career to which my little ambition urged me. the soldier, the officer, the general, the statesman, the president, may make mistakes, do make mistakes, that cost a life or cost ten thousand lives. they redeem them and live honored. it is the obscure despatcher under the lamp who for a single lapse pays the penalty of eternal disgrace. i felt something of it even then, and from my boy's heart, in the face of the error, in the face of the slaughter, i pitied blackburn. callahan's room door opened again and blackburn came out of the dark. i had left the table and was standing in front of the stove. he looked at me almost eagerly; the expression of his face had completely changed. i never in my life saw such a change in so few minutes on any man's face, and, like all the rest, it alarmed me. it was not for me to speak if i had been able, and he did not. he walked straight over to the table, closed the order book, plugged callahan's house wire again, and began calling him. the assistant superintendent answered, and blackburn sent him just these words: "you need not come down." i heard callahan reply with a question: "what is the matter?" blackburn stood calmly over the key, but he made no answer. instead, he repeated only the words, "you need not come down." callahan, easily excitable always, was wrought up. "blackburn," he asked over the wire, impatiently, "what in god's name is the matter?" but blackburn only pulled the plug and cut him out, and sunk into the chair like a man wearied. "mr. blackburn," i said, my heart thumping like an injector, "mr. blackburn?" he glanced vacantly around; seemed for the first time to see me. "is there anything," i faltered, "i can do?" even if the words meant nothing, the offer must have touched him. "no, jack," he answered quietly; "there isn't." with the words the hall door opened and bucks, storm-beaten in his ulster, threw it wide and stood facing us both. the wind that swept in behind him blew out the lamps and left us in darkness. "jack, will you light up?" it was blackburn who spoke to me. but bucks broke in instantly, speaking to him: "callahan called me over his house wire a few minutes ago, blackburn, and told me to meet him here right away. is anything wrong?" he asked, with anxiety restrained in his tone. i struck a match. i was so nervous that i took hold of the hot chimney of the counter lamp and dropped it smash to the floor. no one said a word and that made me worse. i struck a second match, and a third, and with a fourth got the lamp on the despatchers' table lighted as blackburn answered the superintendent. "something serious has happened," he replied to bucks. "i sent lap orders at one o'clock for number one and the irving special." bucks stared at him. "instead of making a meeting-point at o'fallon's i sent one an order to run to o'fallon's and ordered the special to run to salt rocks against one." "why, my god!" exclaimed bucks, "that will bring them together in--the peace cañon--blackburn!--blackburn!--blackburn!" he cried, tearing off his storm-coat. he walked to the table, seized the order book and steadied himself with one hand on the chair; i never saw him like that. but it looked as if the horror long averted, the trouble in the peace river cañon, had come. the sleet tore at the old depot like a wolf, and with the sash shivering, bucks turned like an executioner on his subordinate. "what have you done to meet it?" he drew his watch, and his words came sharp as doom. "where's your wreckers? where's your relief? what have you done? what are you doing? _nothing?_ why don't you speak? will you kill two trainloads of people without an effort to do anything?" his voice rang absolute terror to me; i looked toward blackburn perfectly helpless. "bucks, there will be no wreck," he answered steadily. "be no wreck!" thundered bucks, towering in the dingy room dark as the sweep of the wind. "be no wreck? two passenger trains meet in hell and be no wreck? are you crazy?" the despatcher's hands clutched at the table. "no," he persisted steadily, "i am not crazy, bucks. don't make me so. i tell you there will not be a wreck." bucks, uncertain with amazement, stared at him again. "blackburn, if you're sane i don't know what you mean. don't stand there like that. do you know what you have done?" the superintendent advanced toward him as he spoke; there was a trace of pity in his words that seemed to open blackburn's pent heart more than all the bitterness. "bucks," he struggled, putting out a hand toward his chief, "i am sure of what i say. there will be no wreck. when i saw what i had done--knew it was too late to undo it--i begged god that my hands might not be stained with their blood." sweat oozed from the wretched man's forehead. every word wrung its bead of agony. "i was answered," he exclaimed with a strange confidence, "there will be no wreck. i cannot see what will happen. i do not know what; but there will be no wreck, believe me or not--it is so." his steadfast manner staggered the superintendent. i could imagine what he was debating as he looked at blackburn--wondering, maybe, whether the man's mind was gone. bucks was staggered; he looked it, and as he collected himself to speak again the hall door opened like an uncanny thing, and we all started as callahan burst in on us. "what's so?" he echoed. "what's up here? what did it mean, blackburn? there's been trouble, hasn't there? what's the matter with you all? bucks? is everybody struck dumb?" bucks spoke. "there's a lap order out on one and the theatrical special, callahan. we don't know what's happened," said bucks sullenly. "blackburn here has gone crazy--or he knows--somehow--there won't be any wreck," added the superintendent slowly and bewilderedly. "it's between o'fallon's and salt rocks somewhere. callahan, take the key," he cried of a sudden. "there's a call now. despatcher! don't speak; ask no questions. get that message," he exclaimed sharply, pointing to the instrument. "it may be news." and it was news: news from ames station reporting the irving special _in_ at . a. m.--out at . ! we all heard it together, or it might not have been believed. the irving special, eastbound, safely past number one, westbound, on a single track when their meeting orders had lapped! past without a word of danger or of accident, or even that they had seen number one and stopped in time to avoid a collision? exactly; not a word; nothing. in at ; out at . and the actors hard asleep in the berths--and on about its business the irving special--that's what we got from ames. callahan looked around. "gentlemen, what does this mean? somebody here is insane. i don't know whether it's me or you, blackburn. are you horsing me?" he exclaimed, raising his voice angrily. "if you are, i want to say i consider it a damned shabby joke." bucks put up a hand and without a word of comment repeated blackburn's story just as the despatcher had told it. "in any event there's nothing to do now; it's on us or we're past it. let us wait for number one to report." callahan pored over the order book. "maybe," he asked after a while, "didn't you send the orders right and copy them wrong in the book, blackburn?" the despatcher shook his head. "they went as they stand. the orders lapped, callahan. wait till we hear from number one. i feel sure she is safe. wait." bucks was pacing the floor. callahan stuck silent to the key, taking what little work came, for i saw neither of the chiefs wanted to trust blackburn at the key. he sat, looking, for the most part, vacantly into the fire. callahan meantime had the orders repeated back from ames and rosebud. it was as blackburn had said; they did lap; they had been sent just as the order book showed. there was nothing for it but to wait for rosebud to hear from number one. when the night operator there called the despatcher again it brought blackburn out of his gloom like a thunderclap. "give me the key!" he exclaimed. "there is rosebud." callahan pushed back and blackburn, dropping into the chair, took the message from the night operator at rosebud. "number one, in, . a. m." blackburn answered him, and strangely, with all the easy confidence of his ordinary sending. he sat and took and sent like one again master of the situation. "ask engineer sampson to come to the wire," said he to rosebud. sampson, not maje, but his brother arnold, was pulling number one that night. "engineer sampson here," came from rosebud presently. "ask sampson where he met special to-night." we waited, wrought up, for in that reply must come the answer to all the mystery. there was a hitch at the other end of the wire; then rosebud answered: "sampson says he will tell you all about it in the morning." "that will not do," tapped the despatcher. "this is blackburn. superintendent bucks and callahan are here. they want the facts. where did you meet special ?" there was another wearing delay. when the answer came it was slowly, at the engineer's dictation. "my orders were to hold at o'fallon's for special ," clicked the sounder, repeating the engineer's halting statement. "when we cleared salt rocks siding and got down among the quakers, i was cutting along pretty hard to make the cañon when i saw, or thought i saw, a headlight flash between the buttes across the river. it startled me, for i knew the special could not be very far west of us. anyway, i made a quick stop, and reversed and backed tight as i could make it for salt rocks siding. before we had got a mile i saw the headlight again, and i knew the was against our order. we got into the clear just as the special went by humming. nobody but our train crew and my fireman knows anything about this." the three men in front of me made no comment as they looked at each other. how was it possible for one train to have seen the headlight of another among the buttes of the peace river country? it was--possible. just possible. but to figure once in how many times a vista would have opened for a single second so one engineer could see the light of another would stagger a multiplying machine. chance? well, yes, perhaps. but there were no suggestions of that nature that night under the despatcher's lamp at the wickiup, with the storm driving down the pass as it drove that night; and yet at peace river, where the clouds never rested, that night was clear. blackburn, getting up, steadied himself on his feet. "go in there and lie down," said callahan to him. "you're used up, old fellow, i can see that. i'll take the key. don't say a word." "not a word, blackburn," put in bucks, resting his big hand on the despatcher's shoulder. "there's no harm done; nobody knows it. bury the thing right here to-night. you're broke up. go in there and lie down." he took their hands; started to speak; but they pushed him into callahan's room; they didn't want to hear anything. all the night it stormed at the wickiup. in the morning the irving special, flying toward chicago, was far down the platte. number one was steaming west, deep in the heart of the rockies; blackburn lay in callahan's room. it was nine o'clock, and the sun was streaming through the east windows when fred norman opened the office door. fred could do those things even when he was sickest. have a hemorrhage one day, scare everybody to death, and go back to his trick the next. he asked right away for kit, as he called blackburn, and when they pointed to callahan's door fred pushed it open and went in. a cry brought the operators to him. blackburn was stretched on his knees half on the floor, half face downward on the sofa. his head had fallen between his arms, which were stretched above it. in his hands, clasped tight, they found his watch with the picture of his wife and his baby. had he asked, when he first went into that room that night--when he wrestled like jacob of old in his agony of prayer--that his life be taken if only their lives, the lives of those in his keeping, might be spared? i do not know. they found him dead. the nightman's story bullhead his full name was james gillespie blaine lyons; but his real name was bullhead--just plain bullhead. when he began passenger braking the trainmaster put him on with pat francis. the very first trip he made, a man in the smoking car asked him where the drinking water was. bullhead, though sufficiently gaudy in his new uniform, was not prepared for any question that might be thrown at him. he pulled out his book of rules, which he had been told to consult in case of doubt, and after some study referred his inquirer to the fire-bucket hanging at the front end of the car. the passenger happened to be a foreigner and very thirsty. he climbed up on the baker heater, according to directions, and did at some risk get hold of the bucket--but it was empty. "iss no vater hier," cried the second-class man. bullhead sat half way back in the car, still studying the rules. he looked up surprised but turning around pointed with confidence to the firepail at the hind end of the smoker. "try the other bucket, johnnie," he said, calmly. at that every man in the car began to choke; and the german, thinking the new brakeman was making funny of him, wanted to fight. now bullhead would rather fight than go to sunday-school any day, and without parley he engaged the insulted homesteader. pat francis parted them after some hard words on his part; and kenyon, the trainmaster, gave bullhead three months to study up where the water cooler was located in standard, a pattern, smoking cars. bullhead's own mother, who did callahan's washing, refused to believe her son was so stupid as not to know; but bullhead, who now tells the story himself, claims he did not know. when he got back to work he tried the freight trains. they put him on the number twenty-nine, local, and one day they were drifting into the yard at goose river junction when there came from the cab a sharp call for brakes. instead of climbing out and grabbing a brakewheel for dear life, bullhead looked out the window to see what the excitement was. by the time he had decided what rule covered the emergency his train had driven a stray flat half way through the eating house east of the depot. kenyon, after hearing bullhead's own candid statement of fact, coughed apologetically and said three years; whereupon bullhead resigned permanently from the train service and applied for a job in the roundhouse. but the roundhouse--for a boy like bullhead. it would hardly do. he was put at helping pete beezer, the boiler washer. one night pete was snatching his customary nap in the pit when the hose got away from bullhead and struck his boss. in the confusion, peter, who was nearly drowned, lost a set of teeth; that was sufficient in that department of the motive power; bullhead moved on, suddenly. neighbor thought he might do for a wiper. after the boy had learned something about wiping he tried one day to back an engine out on the turn-table just to see whether it was easy. it was; dead easy; but the turn-table happened to be arranged wrong for the experiment; and neighbor, before calling in the wrecking gang, took occasion to kick bullhead out of the roundhouse bodily. nevertheless, bullhead, like every medicine bend boy, wanted to railroad. some fellows can't be shut off. he was offered the presidency of a cincinnati bank by a private detective agency which had just sent up the active head of the institution for ten years; but as bullhead could not arrange transportation east of the river he was obliged to let the opportunity pass. when the widow lyons asked callahan to put jamie at telegraphing the assistant superintendent nearly fell off his chair. mrs. lyons, however, was in earnest, as the red-haired man soon found by the way his shirts were starched. her son, meantime, had gotten hold of a sounder, and was studying telegraphy, corresponding at the same time with the cincinnati detective agency for the town and county rights to all "hidden and undiscovered crime," on the mountain division--rights offered at the very reasonable price of ten dollars by registered mail, bank draft or express money order; currency at sender's risk. the only obligations imposed by this deal were secrecy and a german silver star; and bullhead, after holding his trusting mother up for the ten, became a regularly installed detective with proprietary rights to local misdeeds. days he plied his sounder, and nights he lay awake trying to mix up pete beezer and neighbor with the disappearance of various bunches of horses from the bar m ranch. about the same time he became interested in dentistry; not that there is any obvious connection between railroading and detective work and filling teeth--but his thoughts just turned that way and following the advice of a local dentist, who didn't want altogether to discourage him, bullhead borrowed a pair of forceps and pulled all the teeth out of a circular saw to get his arm into practice. before the dentist pronounced him proficient, though, his mother had callahan reduced to terms, and the assistant superintendent put bullhead among the operators. that was a great day for bullhead. he had to take the worst of it, of course; sweeping the office and that; but whatever his faults, the boy did as he was told. only one vicious habit clung to him--he had a passion for reading the rules. in spite of this, however, he steadily mastered the taking, and, as for sending, he could do that before he got out of the cuspidor department. everybody around the wickiup bullied him, and maybe that was his salvation. he got used to expecting the worst of it, and nerved himself to take it, which in railroading is half the battle. a few months after he became competent to handle a key the nightman at goose river junction went wrong. when callahan told bullhead he thought about giving him the job, the boy went wild with excitement, and in a burst of confidence showed callahan his star. it was the best thing that ever happened, for the assistant head of the division had an impulsive way of swearing the nonsense out of a boy's head, and when bullhead confessed to being a detective a fiery stream was poured on him. the foolishness couldn't quite all be driven out in one round; but jamie lyons went to goose river fairly well informed as to how much of a fool he was. goose river junction is not a lively place. it has been claimed that even the buzzards at goose river junction play solitaire. but apart from the utter loneliness it was hard to hold operators there on account of nellie cassidy. a man rarely stayed at goose river past the second pay-check. when he got money enough to resign he resigned; and all because nellie cassidy despised operators. the lunch counter that matt cassidy, nellie's father, ran at the junction was just an adjunct for feeding train crews and the few miners who wandered down from the glencoe spur. matt himself took the night turn, but days it was nellie who heated the goose river coffee and dispensed the pie--contract pie made at medicine bend, and sent by local freight classified as ammunition, loaded and released, o. r. it was nellie's cruelty that made the frequent shifts at goose river. not that she was unimpressible, or had no heroes. she had plenty of them in the engine and the train service. it was the smart-uniformed young conductors and the kerchiefed juvenile engineers on the fast runs to whom nellie paid deference, and for whom she served the preferred doughnuts. but this was nothing to bullhead. he had his head so full of things when he took his new position that he failed to observe nellie's contempt. he was just passing out of the private detective stage; just getting over dental beginnings; just rising to the responsibility of the key, and a month devoted to his immediate work and the study of the rules passed like a limited train. previous to the coming of bullhead, no goose river man had tried study of the rules as a remedy for loneliness; it proved a great scheme; but it aroused the unmeasured contempt of nellie cassidy. she scorned bullhead unspeakably, and her only uneasiness was that he seemed unconscious of it. however, the little goose river girl had no idea of letting him escape that way. when scorn became clearly useless she tried cajolery--she smiled on bullhead. not till then did he give up; her smile was his undoing. it was so absolutely novel to bullhead--bullhead, who had never got anything but kicks and curses and frowns. before nellie's smiles, judiciously administered, bullhead melted like the sugar she began to sprinkle in his coffee. that was what she wanted; when he was fairly dissolved, nellie like the coffee went gradually cold. bullhead became miserable, and to her life at goose river was once more endurable. it was then that bullhead began to sit up all day, after working all night, to get a single smile from the direction of the pie rack. he hung, utterly miserable, around the lunch room all day, while nellie made impersonal remarks about the colorless life of a mere operator as compared with life in the cab of a ten-wheeler. she admired the engineer, nellie--was there ever a doughnut girl who didn't? and when one or two rose smoking out of the alkali east or the alkali west, and the mogul engine checked its gray string of sleepers at the junction platform, and bat mullen climbed down to oil 'round--as he always did--there were the liveliest kind of heels behind the counter. such were the moments when bullhead sat in the lunch room, unnoticed, somewhat back where the flies were bad, and helped himself aimlessly to the sizzling maple syrup--nellie rustling back and forth for engineer mullen, who ran in for a quick cup, and consulted, after each swallow, a dazzling open-faced gold watch, thin as a double eagle; for bat at twenty-one was pulling the fast trains and carried the best. and with bullhead feeding on flannel cakes and despair, and nellie cassidy looking quite her smartest, mullen would drink his coffee in an impassive rush, never even glancing bullhead's way--absolutely ignoring bullhead. what was he but a nightman, anyway? then mullen would take as much as a minute of his running time to walk forward to the engine with miss cassidy, and stand in the lee of the drivers chatting with her, while bullhead went completely frantic. it was being ignored in that way, after her smiles had once been his, that crushed the night operator. it filled his head with schemes for obtaining recognition at all hazards. he began by quarrelling violently with nellie, and things were coming to a serious pass around the depot when the klondike business struck the mountain division. it came with a rush and when they began running through freight extras by way of the goose river short line, day and night, the junction station caught the thick of it. it was something new altogether for the short line rails and the short line operators, and bullhead's night trick, with nothing to do but poke the fire and pop at coyotes, became straightway a busy and important post. the added work kept him jumping from sundown till dawn, and kept him from loafing daytimes around the lunch counter and ruining himself on fermented syrup. on a certain night, windier than all the november nights that had gone before, the night operator sat alone in the office facing a resolve. goose river had become intolerable. medicine bend was not to be thought of, for bullhead now had a suspicion, due to callahan, that he was a good deal of a chump, and he wanted to get away from the ridicule that had always and everywhere made life a burden. there appeared to bullhead nothing for it but the klondike. on the table before the moody operator lay his letter of resignation, addressed in due form to j. s. bucks, superintendent. near it, under the lamp, lay a well-thumbed copy of the book of rules, open at the chapter on resignations, with subheads on-- resign, who should. resign, how to. resign, when to. (see also time.) the fact was it had at last painfully forced itself on bullhead that he was not fitted for the railroad business. pat francis had unfeelingly told him so. callahan had told him so; neighbor had told him so; bucks had told him so. on that point the leading west end authorities were agreed. yet in spite of these discouragements he had persisted and at last made a show. who was it now that had shaken his stubborn conviction? bullhead hardly dared confess. but it was undoubtedly one who put up to be no authority whatever on motive power or train service or operating--it was matt cassidy's girl. while he re-read his formal letter and compared on spelling with his pocket webster, a train whistled. bullhead looked at the clock: . p. m. it was the local freight, thirty, coming in from the west, working back to medicine. from the east, number one had not arrived; she was six hours late, and bullhead looked out at his light, for he had orders for the freight. it was not often that such a thing happened, because one rarely went off schedule badly enough to throw her into his turn. he had his orders copied and o.k.'d, and waited only to deliver them. it was fearfully windy. the engine, pulling thirty that night, wheezed in the gale like a man with the apoplexy. she had a new fireman on, who was burning the life out of her, and as she puffed painfully down on the scrap rails of the first siding and took the y, her overloaded safety gasped violently. when the conductor of the number thirty train opened the station door, the wind followed him like a catamount. the stove puffed open with a down draft, and shot the room full of stinging smoke. the lamp blaze flew up the chimney--out--and left the nightman and the conductor in darkness. the trainman with a swear shoved-to the door, and bullhead, the patient, turned over his letter of resignation quick in the dark, felt for a match and relighted his lamp. swearing again at bullhead, the freight conductor swaggered over to his table, felt in all the operator's pockets for a cigar, tumbled all the papers around, and once more, on general principles, swore. bullhead took things uncomplainingly, but he watched close, and was determined to fight if the brute discovered his letter of resignation. when the trainman could think of no further indignities he took his orders, to meet number one at sackley, the second station east of goose river. after he had signed, bullhead asked him about the depot fire at bear dance that had been going over the wires for two hours, reminded him of the slow order for the number nine culvert and as the rude visitor slammed the door behind him, held his hand over the lamp. then he sat down again and turned over his letter of resignation. to make it binding it lacked only his signature--james gillespie blaine lyons--now, himself, of the opinion of every one else on the west end: that he was just a natural born blooming fool. he lifted his pen to sign off the aspirations of a young lifetime when the sounder began to snap and sputter his call. it was the despatcher, and he asked hurriedly if number thirty was there. "number thirty is on the y," answered bullhead. then came a train order. "hold number thirty till number one arrives." bullhead repeated the order, and got back the o. k. he grabbed his hat and hurried out of the door to deliver the new order to the local freight before it should pull out. to reach the train bullhead had to cross the short line tracks. the wind was scouring the flats, and as he tacked up the platform the dust swept dead into him. at the switch he sprang across the rails, thinking of nothing but reaching the engine cab of the local--forgetting about the track he was crossing. before he could think or see or jump, a through freight on the short line, wild, from the west, storming down the grade behind him, struck bullhead as a grizzly would a gnat--hurled him, doubling, fifty feet out on the spur--and stormed on into the east without a quiver out of the ordinary. one fatality followed another. the engineer of the short line train did not see the man he had hit, and with the nightman lying unconscious in the ditch, the local freight pulled out for sackley. bullhead never knew just how long he lay under the stars. when his head began to whirl the wind was blowing cool and strong on him, and the alkali dust was eddying into his open mouth. it was only a matter of seconds, though it seemed hours, to pull himself together and to put up his hand unsteadily to feel what it was soaking warm and sticky into his hair; then to realize that he had been struck by a short line train; to think of what a failure he had lately acknowledged himself to be; and of what it was he was clutching so tightly in his right hand--the holding order for number thirty. he raised his reeling head; there was a drift of starlight through the dust cloud, but no train in sight; number thirty was gone. with that consciousness came a recollection--he had forgotten to put out his red light. his red light wasn't out. he kept repeating that to himself to put the picture of what it meant before him. he had started to deliver an order without putting out his light, and number thirty was gone; against number one--a head end collision staring the freight and the belated passenger in the face. number thirty, running hard on her order to make sackley for the meeting, and one, running furiously, as she always ran--to-night worse than ever. he lifted his head, enraged with himself; enraged. he thought about the rules, and he grew enraged. only himself he blamed, nobody else--studying the rules for a lifetime and just when it would mean the death of a trainload of people forgetting his red signal. he lifted his head; it was sick, deadly sick. but up it must come, thirty gone, and it wabbled, swooning sick and groggy as he stared around and tried to locate himself. one thing he could see, the faint outline of the station and his lamp blazing smoky in the window. bullhead figured a second; then he began to crawl. if he could reach the lamp before his head went off again, before he went completely silly, he might yet save himself and number one. it wasn't in him to crawl till he thought of his own mistake; but there was a spur in the sweep of that through his head. his brain, he knew, was wabbling, but he could crawl; and he stuck fainting to that one idea, and crawled for the light of his lamp. it is a bare hundred feet across to the y. bullhead taped every foot of the hundred with blood. there was no one to call on for help; he just stuck to the crawl, grinding his teeth in bitter self-reproach. they traced him, next morning when he was past the telling of it, and his struggle looked the track of a wounded bear. dragging along one crushed leg and half crazed by the crack on his forehead, bullhead climbed to the platform, across, and dragged himself to the door. he can tell yet about rolling his broken leg under him and raising himself to grasp the thumb latch. not until he tried to open it did he remember it was a spring lock and that he was outside. he felt in his pocket for his keys--but his keys were gone. there were no rules to consult then. no way on earth of getting into the office in time to do anything; to drag himself to the lunch room, twice further than the station, was out of the question. but there was a way to reach his key in spite of all bad things, and bullhead knew the way. he struggled fast around to the window. raising himself with a frightful twinge on one knee, he beat at the glass with his fist. clutching the sash, he drew himself up with a hand, and with the other tore away the muntin, stuck his head and shoulders through the opening, got his hand on the key, and called the first station east, blaisdell, with the . life and death that call meant; the , the despatcher's call--hanging over the key, stammering the over the wire, and baptizing the call in his own blood--that is the way bullhead learned to be a railroad man. for blaisdell got him and his warning, and had number one on the siding just as the freight tore around the west curve, headed for sackley. while it was all going on, bullhead lay on the wind-swept platform at goose river with a hole in his head that would have killed anybody on the west end, or, for that matter on earth except james gillespie blaine lyons. after number thirty had passed so impudently, number one felt her way rather cautiously to goose river, because the despatchers couldn't get the blamed station. they decided, of course, that bullhead was asleep, and fixed everything at the wickiup to send a new man up there on three in the morning and fire him for good. but about one o'clock number one rolled, bad-tempered, into goose river junction, and bat mullen, stopping his train, strode angrily to the station. it was dark as a pocket inside. bat smashed in the door with his heel, and the trainmen swarmed in and began looking with their lanterns for the nightman. the stove was red-hot, but he was not asleep in the arm-chair, nor napping under the counter on the supplies. they turned to his table and discovered the broken window, and thought of a hold-up. they saw where the nightman had spilled something that looked like ink over the table, over the order book, over the clip, and there was a hand print that looked inky on an open letter addressed to the superintendent--and a little pool of something like ink under the key. somebody said suicide; but bat mullen suddenly stuck his lamp out of the broken window, put his head through after it, and cried out. setting his lantern down on the platform, he crawled through the broken sash and picked up bullhead. next morning it was all over the west end. "and bullhead!" cried everybody. "that's what gets me. who'd have thought it of _bullhead_!" when they all got up there and saw what bullhead had done, everybody agreed that nobody but bullhead could have done it. the pilot bar of the short line mogul, in swiping bullhead unmercifully, had really made a railroad man of him. it had let a great light in on the situation. whereas before every one else on the line had been to blame for his failures, bullhead now saw that he himself had been to blame, and was man enough to stand up and say so. when the big fellows, callahan and kenyon and pat francis, saw his trail next morning, saw the blood smeared over the table, and saw bullhead's letter of resignation signed in his own blood manual, and heard his straight-out story days afterward, they said never a word. but that morning, the morning after, callahan picked up the letter and put it just as it was between the leaves of the order book and locked both in his grip. it was some weeks before he had a talk with bullhead, and he spoke then only a few words, because the nightman fainted before he got through. callahan made him understand, though, that as soon as he was able he could have any key on that division he wanted as long as _he_ was running it--and callahan is running that division yet. it all came easy after he got well. instead of getting the worst of it from everybody, bullhead began to get the best of it, even from pretty nellie cassidy. but nellie had missed her opening. she tried tenderness while the boy was being nursed at the junction. bullhead looked grim and far-off through his bulging bandages, and asked his mother to put the sugar in his coffee for him; bullhead was getting sense. besides, what need has a young man with a heavy crescent-shaped scar on his forehead, that people inquire about and who within a year after the goose river affair was made a train despatcher under barnes tracy at medicine bend--what need has he of a coquette's smiles? his mother, who has honorably retired from hard work, says half the girls at the bend are after him, and his mother ought to know, for she keeps house for him. bullhead's letter of resignation with the print of his hand on it hangs framed over callahan's desk, and is shown to railroad big fellows who are accorded the courtesies of the wickiup. but when they ask bullhead about it, he just laughs and says some railroad men have to have sense pounded into them. the master mechanic's story delaroo "you tell it. i can't tell it," growled neighbor. "oh, no. no. that's your story, neighbor." "i ain't no story-teller--" "just an able-jawed liar," suggested callahan through a benevolent bluish haze. "delaroo's story wasn't any lie, though," muttered neighbor. "but a fellow would think it was to hear it; now he would, for a fact, wouldn't he?" i if you want him, quick and short, it would be: whiskers, secret societies, statistics and plug tobacco--the latter mostly worked up. that was maje sampson. bluntly, a wind-bag; two hundred and seventy pounds of atmosphere. up on benevolent fraternities, up on politics, up on the money question, up on everything. the seven financial conspiracies engaged maje sampson's attention pretty continually, and had for him a practical application: there were never less than seven conspiracies afoot in medicine bend to make maje sampson pay up. pay? indeed, he did pay. he was always paying. it was not a question of paying. not at all. it was a question of paying up, which is different. the children--they were brickbats. tow-headed, putty-faced, wash-eyed youngsters of all sizes and conditions. about maje sampson's children there was but one distinguishing characteristic, they were all boys, nothing but boys, and they spread all over town. was there a baby run over? it was maje sampson's. was there a child lost? maje sampson's. was there a violently large-headed, coarse-featured, hangdog, clattering sort of a chap anywhere around? in the street, station, roundhouse, yards, stock pens? it was a brickbat, sure, one of maje sampson's brickbat boys. the sampsons were at the end of the street, and the end of the street was up the mountain. maje sampson's lot, "raired," as neighbor put it--stood on its hind legs. his house had a startling tumble-over aspect as you approached it. the back end of his lot ran up into the sheer, but he marked the line sharply by a kind of horizontal fence, because the cliff just above belonged to the corporation that owned everything else on earth around medicine bend. maje sampson did not propose to let any grasping corporation encroach on his lines, so he built, and added to from time to time, a cluster of things on the hind end of his lot--an eruption of small buildings like pimples on a boy's nose, running down in size from the barn to the last dry-goods box the boys had heaved up the slope for a dog house. to add to the variety, some one of the structures was always getting away in the wind, and if anything smaller than a hotel was seen careening across-lots in a medicine bend breeze it was spotted without further investigation as maje sampson's. when the gale abated, joe mcbracken, who conducted the local dray line, was pretty sure to be seen with a henhouse or a woodshed, or something likewise, loaded on his trucks headed for maje sampson's. once the whole lean-to of the house blew off, but joe mcbracken stood ready for any emergency. he met the maverick addition at the foot of the grade, loaded it on his house-moving truck, hitched on four bronchos, crawled inside the structure, and, getting the lines through the front window, drove up main street before the wind had gone down. joe was photographed in the act, and afterward used the exhibit in getting judgment against maje sampson for his bill. now a man like maje wouldn't be likely to have very much of a run nor very much of an engine. he had the ; an old pop bottle with a stack like a tepee turned upside down. for a run he had always trains number twenty-nine and thirty, the local freights, with an accommodation coach east of anderson. there were times of stress frequently on the west end, times when everybody ran first in first out, except maje sampson; he always ran twenty-nine and thirty west to silver river and back. a pettifogging, cheap, jerk-water run with no rights to speak of, not even against respectable hand-cars. the only things maje sampson did not have to dodge were tramps, blanket indians and telegraph poles; everything else side-tracked twenty-nine and thirty and maje sampson. almost everybody on through trains must at some time have seen maje sampson puffing on a siding as moore or mullen shot by on number one or number two. maje was so big and his cab so little that when he got his head through the window you couldn't see very much of the cab for shoulders and whiskers and things. from the cab window he looked like a fourteen-year-old boy springing out of a ten-year-old jacket. three things only, made maje tolerable. first, the number of benevolent orders he belonged to; second, delaroo; third, martie. maje sampson was a joiner and a sitter up. he would join anything on the west end that had a ritual, a grip and a password, and he would sit up night after night with anybody that had a broken leg or a fever: and if nothing better offered, maje, rather than go to bed, would tackle a man with the stomachache. this kind of took the cuss off; but he was that peculiar he would sit up all night with a sick man and next day make everybody sick talking the money question--at least everybody but delaroo. if delaroo was bored he never showed it. as long as maje would talk delaroo would listen. that single word was in fact the key to delaroo: delaroo was a listener; for that reason nobody knew much about him. he wasn't a railroad man by birth, but by adoption. delaroo came from the mountains: he was just a plain mountain man. some said his father was a trapper; if so, it explained everything--the quiet, the head bent inquiringly forward, the modest unobtrusiveness of a man deaf. of a size and shape nothing remarkable, delaroo--but a great listener, for though he looked like a deaf man he heard like a despatcher, and saw marvellously from out the ends of his silent eyes. delaroo for all the world was a trapper. he came into the service as a roundhouse sweeper; then neighbor, after a long time, put him at wiping. delaroo said nothing but wiped for years and years, and was in a fair way to become liked, when, instead, he became one morning pitted with umbilical vesicles, and the doctors, with delaroo's brevity, said smallpox. the boarding house keeper threw him out bodily and at once. having no better place to go, delaroo wandered into steve boyer's saloon, where he was generally welcome. steve, however, pointed a hospitable gun at him and suggested his getting away immediately from the front end of it. delaroo went from there to the roundhouse with his umbilicals, and asked neighbor what a man with the smallpox ought to do with it. neighbor wouldn't run, not even from the smallpox--but he told delaroo what it meant to get the smallpox started in the roundhouse, and delaroo wandered quietly away from the depot grounds, a pretty sick man then, staggered up the yards, and crawled stupid into a box car to die without embarrassing anybody. by some hook or crook, nobody to this day knows how, that car was switched on to maje sampson's train when it was made up that day for the west. maybe it was done as a trick to scare the wind-bag engineer. if so, the idea was successful. when the hind-end brakeman at the second stop came forward and reported a tramp with the smallpox in the empty box car, maje was angry. but his curiosity gradually got the upper hand. this man might be, by some distant chance, he reflected, a p. q. w. of a., or a frater, or a fellow, or a knight or something like--and when they stopped again to throw off crackers and beer and catsup, maje went back and entered the infected car like a lion-tamer to try lodge signals and things on him. maje advanced and gave the countersign. it was not cordially received. he tried another and another--and another; his passes were lost in the air. the smallpox man appeared totally unable to come back at maje with anything. he was not only delirious, but by this time so frightfully broken out that maje couldn't have touched a sound spot with a masonic signal of distress. finally the venturesome engineer walked closer into the dark corner where the sick man lay--and by heaven! it was the indian wiper, delaroo. when maje sampson got back into the cab he could not speak--at least not for publication. he was tearing mad and sputtered like a safety. he gathered up his cushion and a water bottle and a bottle that would explode if water touched it, and crawled with his plunder into the box car. he straightened delaroo up and out and gave him a drink and by way of sanitary precaution took one personally, for he himself had never had the smallpox--but once. when he had done this little for delaroo he finished his run and came back to the bend hauling his pest-house box car. the fireman quit the cab immediately after maje exposed himself; the conductor communicated with him only by signals. the anderson operator wired ahead that maje sampson was bringing back a man with smallpox on thirty, and when maje, bulging out of the cab, pulled into the division yard nobody would come within a mile of him. he set out the box car below the stock pens, cross-lots from his house up on the hill, and, not being able to get advice from anybody else, went home to consult martie. though there were a great many women in medicine bend, maje sampson looked to but one, martie, the little washed-out woman up at sampson's--wife, mother, nurse, cook, slave--martie. no particular color hair; no particular color eyes; no particular color gown; no particular cut to it. a plain bit of a woman, mother of six boys, large and small, and wife of a great big wind-bag engineer, big as three of her by actual measurement. by the time maje had taken counsel and walked down town prominent business men were fending off his approach with shotguns. the city marshal from behind a bomb-proof asked what he was going to do with his patient, and maje retorted he was going to take him home. he wasn't a m. r. w. of t. nor a p. s. g. of w. e., but he was a roundhouse man, and between maje and a railroad man, a wiper even, there was a bond stronger than grip or password or jolly business of any kind. the other things maje, without realizing it, merely played at; but as to the railroad lay--if a railroad man was the right sort he could borrow anything the big fellow had, money, plug tobacco, pipe, water bottle, strong bottle, it made no odds what. and, on the other hand, maje wouldn't hesitate to borrow any or all of these things in return; the railroad man who got ahead of maje sampson in this respect had claims to be considered a past grand in the business. the doughty engineer lifted and dragged and hauled delaroo home with him. if there was no hospital, martie had said, no pest-house, no nothing, just bring him home. they had all had the smallpox up at sampson's except the baby, and the doctor had said lately the baby appeared to need something. they had really everything up at sampson's sooner or later: measles, diphtheria, croup, everything on earth except money. and martie sampson, with the washing and mending and scrubbing and cooking, nursed the outcast wiper through his smallpox. the baby took it, of course, and martie nursed the baby through and went on just the same as before--washing, mending, cooking, scrubbing. delaroo when he got well went to firing; neighbor offered the job as a kind of consolation prize; and he went to firing on the for maje sampson. it was then that maje took delaroo fairly in hand and showed him the unspeakable folly of trying to get through the world without the comradeship and benefits of the b. s. l.'s of u., and the fraters of the order of the double-barrelled star of macduff. delaroo caught a good deal of it on the sidings, where they lay most of their time dodging first-class trains; and evenings when they got in from their runs delaroo, having nowhere else to go, used to wander, after supper, up to sampson's. at sampson's he would sit in the shade of the lamp and smoke while maje, in his shirt-sleeves, held forth on the benevolent orders, and one boy crawled through the bowels of the organ and another pulled off the tablecloth--delaroo always saving the lamp--and a third harassed the dog, and a fourth stuck pins in a fifth--and martie, sitting on the dim side of the shade, so the operation would not appear too glaring, mended at maje's mammoth trousers. delaroo would sit and listen to maje and watch the heave of the organ with the boy, and the current of the tablecloth with the lamp, and the quarter in which the dog was chewing the baby, and watch martie's perpetual-motion fingers for a whole evening, and go back to the boarding-house without passing a word with anybody on earth, he was that silent. in this way the big, bluffing engineer gradually worked delaroo into all the secret benevolent orders in medicine bend--that meant pretty much every one on earth. there arose always, however, in connection with the initiations of delaroo one hitch: he never seemed quite to know whom he wanted to leave his insurance money to. he could go the most complicated catechism without a hitch every time, for maje spent weeks on the sidings drilling him, until it came to naming the beneficiary; there he stuck. nobody could get out of him to whom he wanted his money to go. had he no relations back in the mountains? nobody up in the spider country? no wives or daughters or fathers or mothers or friends or anything? delaroo always shook his head. if they persisted he shook his head. maje sampson, sitting after supper, would ask, and martie, when the dishes were side-tracked, would begin to sew and listen, and delaroo, of course, would listen, but never by any chance would he answer; not even when maje tried to explain how it bore on to . he declined to discuss any ratio or to name any beneficiary whatsoever. the right honorable recording secretaries fumed and denounced it as irregular, and maje sampson wore holes in his elbows gesticulating, but in the matter of distributing his personal share of the unearned increment, delaroo expressed no preference whatsoever. he paid his dues; he made his passes; he sat in his place, what more could be required? if they put him in a post of honor he filled it with a silent dignity. if they set him to guard the outer portal he guarded well; it was perilous rather for a visiting frater or even a local brother to try getting past delaroo if he was rusty in the ritual. not maje sampson himself could work the outer guard without the countersign; if he forgot it in the hurry of getting to lodge he had to cool his heels in the outer air till it came back; delaroo was pitiless. in the cab he was as taciturn as he was in the lodge or under the kerosene lamp at sampson's; he just listened. but his firing was above any man's who ever stoked the . delaroo made more steam on less coal than any man in the roundhouse. neighbor began to hold him up as a model for the division, and the boys found that the way to jolly neighbor was to say nice things about delaroo. the head of the motive power would brighten out of a sulk at the mention of delaroo's name, and he finally fixed up a surprise for the indian man. one night after delaroo came in, neighbor, in the bluff way he liked to use in promoting a man, told delaroo he could have an engine; a good one, one of the k. class; as much finer a machine than the old as duffy's chronometer was than a prize package watch. delaroo never said ay, yes, or no; he merely listened. neighbor never had a promotion received in just that way; it nearly gave him the apoplexy. but if delaroo treated the proposal coolly, not so maje sampson; when the news of the offer reached him, maje went into an unaccountable flutter. he acted at first exactly as if he wanted to hold his man back, which was dead against cab ethics. finally he assented, but his cheeks went flabby and his eyes hollow, and he showed more worry than his creditors. nobody understood it, yet there was evidently something on, and the major's anxiety increased until delaroo, the indian fireman and knight companion of the ancient order of druids and fluids, completely took neighbor's breath by declining the new engine. that was a west end wonder. he said if it made no odds he would stay on the . the men all wondered; then something new came up and the thing was forgotten. maje sampson's cheeks filled out again, he regained his usual nerve, and swore on the money question harder than ever. after that it was pretty generally understood that delaroo and maje sampson and the were fixtures. neighbor never gave any one a chance to decline an engine more than once. the boys all knew, if delaroo didn't, that he would be firing a long time after throwing that chance by; and he was. the combination came to be regarded as eternal. when the sloppy hove in sight, little delaroo and big maje sampson were known to be behind the boiler pounding up and down the mountains, up and down, year in and year out. big engines came into the division and bigger. all the time the division was crowding on the motive power and putting in the mammoth types, until, when the was stalled alongside a consolidated, or a mogul skyscraper, she looked like an ancient beer glass set next an imported stein. with the , when the or the class were concerned, it was simply a case of keep out of our way or get smashed, maje sampson or no maje sampson, money question or no money question. benevolent benefits fraternally proposed or ante-room signals confidentially put forth by the bald-headed were of no sort of consequence with the modern giants that pulled a thousand tons in a string up a two-thousand-foot grade at better than twenty miles an hour. it was a clear yet cold, "you old tub, get out of our way, will you?" and the fast runners, like moore and hawksworth and mullen and the crowleys, tim and syme, had about as much consideration for maje and his financial theories as their machines had for his machine. his jim-crow freight outfit didn't cut much of a figure in _their_ track schedules. so the maje sampson combination, but quite as brassy as though it had rights of the first class, dodged the big fellows up and down the line pretty successfully until the government began pushing troops into the philippines, and there came days when a rocky mountain sheep could hardly have kept out of the way of the extras that tore, hissing and booming, over the mountains for 'frisco. for a time the traffic came hot; so hot we were pressed to handle it. there was a good bit of skirmishing on the part of the passenger department to get the business, and then tremendous skirmishing in the operating department to deliver the goods. every broken-down coach in the backyards was scrubbed up for the soldier trains. we aimed to kill just as few as possible of the boys en route to the islands, though that may have been a mistaken mercy. however, we handled them well; not a man in khaki got away from us in a wreck, and in the height of the push we put more live stock into south omaha, car for car, than has ever gone in before or since. * * * * * it was november, and great weather for running, and when the rails were not springing under the soldiers westbound, they were humming under the steers eastbound. maje sampson, with his beer kegs and his crackers and his and his be-knighted fireman, hugged the sidings pretty close that week. some of the trains had part of the rights and others had the remainder. the and her train took what was left, which threw maje sampson most of the time on the worn-out, run-down, scrap rails that made corduroy roads of the passing tracks. then came the night that moulton, the philippine commandant, went through on his special. with his staff and his baggage and his correspondents and that kind he took one whole train. syme crowley pulled them, with ben sherer, conductor, and whatever else may be said of that pair, they deliver their trains on time. maje sampson left medicine bend with twenty-nine at noon on his regular run and tried to get west. but between the soldiers behind him and the steers against him, he soon lost every visionary right he ever did possess. they laid him out nearly every mile of the way to the end of the run. at sugar buttes they held him thirty minutes for the moulton special to pass, and, to crown his indignities, kept him there fifteen minutes more waiting for an eastbound sheep train. sampson afterward claimed that barnes tracy, the despatcher that did it, was a gold democrat, but this never was proved. it was nearing dark when the crew of local freight twenty-nine heard the dull roar of the moulton special speeding through the cañon of the rat. a passenger train running through the cañon at night comes through with the far roll of a thousand drums, deepening into a rumble of thunder. then out and over all comes the threatening purr of the straining engine breaking into a storm of exhausts, until like a rocket the headlight bursts streaming from the black walls, and moore on the , or mullen with the , or hawksworth in the , tear with a fury of alkali and a sweep of noise over the butte switch, past caboose and flats and boxes and the like fading light. just a sweep of darkened glass and dead varnish, a whirl of smoking trucks beating madly at the fishplates, and the fast train is up, and out, and gone! twenty-nine, local, was used to all this. used to the vanishing tail lights, the measured sinking of the sullen dust, the silence brooding again over the desert with, this night, fifteen minutes more to wait for the eastbound stock train before they dared open the switch. maje sampson killed the time by going back to the caboose to talk equities with the conductor. it was no trick for him to put away fifteen minutes discussing the rights of man with himself; and with an angel of a fireman to watch the cab, why not? the standing on the siding was chewing her cud as sweet as an old cow, with maybe a hundred and forty pounds of steam to the right of the dial, maybe a hundred and fifty--i say maybe, because no one but delaroo ever knew--when the sheep train whistled. sheep--nothing but sheep. car after car after car, rattling down from the short line behind two spanking big engines. they whistled, hoarse as pirates, for the butte siding, and, rising the hill a mile west of it, bore down the grade throwing dannah coal from both stacks like hydraulic gravel. no one knew or ever will know how it happened. they cat-hauled men on the carpet a week about that switch. the crew of the moulton special testified; the crews of the stock train testified; maje sampson testified; his conductor and both brakemen testified; the roadmaster and the section boss each testified, and their men testified--but however or whatever it was--whether the moulton special fractured the tongue, or whether the pony of the lead engine flew the guard, or whether the switch had been opened, or whether, in closing, the slip rail had somehow failed to follow the rod--the double-headed stocker went into that butte switch, into that butte siding, into the peaceable old and the twenty-nine, local, like a lyddite shell, crashing, rearing, ripping, scattering two whole trains into blood and scrap. destruction, madness, throes, death, silence; then a pyre of dirty smoke, a wail of sickening bleats, and a scream of hissing steam over a thousand sheep caught in the sudden shambles. there was frightened crawling out of the shattered cabooses, a hurrying up of the stunned crews, and a bewildering count of heads. both engine crews of the stock train had jumped as their train split the switch. the train crews were badly shaken; the head brakeman of the sheep train lay torn in the barbed-wire fencing the right of way; but only one man was missing--the fireman of twenty-nine--delaroo. "second jumped west switch passing track and went into train , engine . bad spill. delaroo, fireman the , missing," wired sugar buttes to medicine bend a few minutes later. neighbor got up there by ten o'clock with both roadmasters and the wrecking outfit. it was dark as a cañon on the desert that night. benedict morgan's men tore splintered car timber from the débris, and on the knolls back of the siding lighted heaping bonfires that threw a light all night on the dread pile smoking on the desert. they dug by the flame of the fires at the ghastly heap till midnight; then the moon rose, an extra crew arrived from the bend, and they got the derrick at work. yet with all the toil when day broke the confusion looked worse confounded. the main line was so hopelessly blocked that at daylight a special with ties and steel was run in to lay a temporary track around the wreck. "what do i think of it?" muttered neighbor, when the local operator asked him for a report for callahan. "i think there's two engines for the scrap in sight--and the , if we can ever find anything of her--and about a million sheep to pay for--" neighbor paused to give an order and survey the frightful scene. "and delaroo," repeated the operator. "he wants to know about delaroo--" "missing." at dawn hot coffee was passed among the wreckers, and shortly after sunrise the mccloud gang arrived with the second derrick. then the men of the night took hold with a new grip to get into the heart of the pile; to find--if he was there--delaroo. none of the mccloud gang knew the man they were hunting for, but the men from the bend were soon telling them about maje sampson's indian. not a mute nod he ever gave; not a piece of tobacco he ever passed; not a brief word he ever spoke to one of the battered old hulks who rode and cut and slashed and stormed and drank and cursed with benedict morgan, was forgotten then. every slewed, twisted, weather-beaten, crippled-up, gin-shivered old wreck of a wrecker--they were hard men--had something to say about delaroo. and with their hair matted and their faces streaked and their shirts daubed and their elbows in blood, they said it--whatever it was, much or little--of delaroo. the picks swung, the derricks creaked, and all day with the heaving and the calling they toiled; but the sun was sinking before they got to the middle of it. then benedict morgan, crawling under the drivers of the hind mogul, partly uncovered, edged out with a set face; he swore he heard breathing. it was alcohol to the veins of the double gang. neighbor himself went in and heard--and stayed to fasten a grapple to pull the engine truck off the roof of a box car that was jammed over and against the mogul stack. the big derrick groaned as the slack drew and the truck crashed through a tier of stays and swung whirling into the clear. a giant wrecker dodged the suspended wheels and raising his axe bit a hole into the jammed roof. through that they passed a second grapple, and presently it gave sullenly, toppled back with a crash, and the foremost axman, peering into the opening, saw the heart of the wreck. bending forward, he picked up something struggling in his arms. they thought it was a man; but it was a sheep, alive and uninjured, under all the horror: that was the breathing they heard. benedict morgan threw the man and his burden aside and stepped himself into the gap and through. one started to follow, but the chief of the wreckers waved him back. close by where the sheep had been freed stood delaroo. he stood as if with ear alert, so closely did the counterfeit seem the real. so sure was the impression of life that not until morgan, speaking to the fireman, put his hand on his shoulder did he realize that the indian stood quite dead just where the shock had caught him in his cab. stumbling over the wreckage, they passed him in the silence of the sunset from hand to hand into the open. a big fellow, pallid and scared, tottered after them, and when they laid the dead man down, half fell at his side: it was maje sampson. it surprised everybody the way maje sampson went to pieces after delaroo was killed. the indian was carried back to the bend and up to sampson's and laid out in the god-forsaken parlor; but maje wasn't any good fixing things up that time. he usually shone on like occasions. he was the comforter of the afflicted to an extraordinary degree; he gave the usual mourner no chance to let up. but now his day was as one that is darkened. when neighbor went up next night to see about some minor matters connected with the funeral and the precedence of the various dozen orders that were to march, he found maje sampson and martie alone in the darkness of the parlor with the silent delaroo. maje turned to the master mechanic from where delaroo lay. "neighbor, you might as well know it now as any time. don't you say so, martie? martie, what do you say?" martie burst into tears; but through them neighbor caught the engineer's broken confession. "neighbor--i'm color blind." the master mechanic sat stunned. "true as god's word. you might as well know it now. there's the man that stood between me and the loss of my job. it's been coming on me for two year. he knew it, that's why he stayed in my cab. he stayed because i was color blind. he knowed i'd git ketched the minute a new fireman come in, neighbor. he watched the signals--delaroo. i'm color blind, god help me." maje sampson sat down by the coffin. martie hushed her crying; the three sat in the darkness. "it wouldn't worry me so much if it wasn't f'r the family, neighbor. the woman--and the boys. i ain't much a-savin'; you know that. if you can gi' me a job i can get bread an' butter out of, give it to me. i can't pull a train; my eyes went out with this man here. i wish to god it was me, and him standing over. a man that's color blind, and don't know a thing on god's earth but runnin' an engine, is worse 'n' a dead man." neighbor went home thinking. they buried delaroo. but even then they were not through with him. delaroo had insurance in every order in the bend, which meant almost every one on earth. there was no end to his benefit certificates, and no known beneficiaries. but when they overhauled his trunk they found every last certificate filed away up to the last paid assessment and the last quarter's dues. then came a shock. people found out there was a beneficiary. while the fraters were busy making their passes delaroo had quietly been directing the right honorable recording secretaries to make the benefits run to neighbor, and so every dollar of his insurance ran. nobody was more thunderstruck at the discovery than the master mechanic himself. yet delaroo meant something by it. after neighbor had studied over it nights the best of a month; after maje sampson had tried to take the color test and failed, as he persistently said he would; after he had gone to tinkering in the roundhouse, and from tinkering respectably, and by degrees down the hill to wiping at a dollar and forty cents a day with time and a half for overtime--neighbor bethought himself all of a sudden one day of a paper delaroo had once given him and asked him to keep. he had put it away in the storekeeper's safe with his own papers and the drawings of his extension front end patent--and safely forgotten all about it. it was the day they had to go into the county court about the will that was not, when he recollected delaroo's paper and pulled it out of its envelope. there was only a half sheet of paper, inside, with this writing from delaroo to neighbor: r. b. a.--what is coming to me on ensurance give to marty sampson, wife of maje. give my trunk to p. mcgraw. rispk., p. de la roux. when the master mechanic read that before the probate judge, maje sampson took a-trembling: martie hid her face in her shawl, crying again. maybe a glimmer of what it meant came for the first time in her life over her. maybe she remembered delaroo as he used to sit with them under the kerosene lamp while maje untiringly pounded the money question into him--smoking as he listened, and martie mended on never-ending trousers. looking from maje sampson, heated with monologue, to his wife, patiently stitching. no comments; just looking as pierre delaroux could look. strange, neighbor thought it, and yet, maybe, not so strange. it was all there in the paper--the torn, worn little book of delaroo's life. she was the only woman on earth that had ever done him a kindness. nobody at medicine bend quite understood it; but nobody at medicine bend quite suspected that under all the barrenness up at maje sampson's an ambition could have survived; yet one had. martie had an ambition. way down under her faded eyes and her faded dress there was an ambition, and that for the least promising subjects in the rocky mountains--the brickbats. under the unending mending and the poverty and the toil, martie, who never put her nose out of doors, who never attended a church social, never ventured even to a free public school show--had an ambition for the boys. she wanted the two biggest to go to the state university; wanted them to go and get an education. and they went; and maje sampson says them boys, ary one, has forgotten more about the money question than he ever knew. it looks as if after all the brickbats might come out; a bit of money in martie's hands goes so far. there are a few soldiers buried at the bend. decoration day there is an attempt at a turn-out; a little speeching and a little marching. a thin, straggle column of the same warped, bent old fellows in the same faded old blue. up the hill they go and around to the cemetery to decorate. when they turn at maje sampson's place--there's a gate there now--martie and more or less of the boys, and maje, kind of join in along and go over with them carrying a basket or so of flowers and a bucket of water. the boys soon stray over to where the crowd is, around the graves of the heroes. but martie gets down by a grave somewhat apart and prods the drifting gravel all up loose with an old case-knife. you would think she might be kneading bread there, the way she sways under her sun-bonnet and gloves--for her little boiled hands are in gloves now. * * * * * "i don't know how much good it does delaroo spiking up his grave once a year," neighbor always winds up. "it may not do him a blamed bit of good, i don't say it does. but i can see them. i see them from the roundhouse; it does me good. hm? "maje?" he will add. "why, i've got him over there at the house, wiping. i'm going to put him running the stationary if old john boxer ever dies. when will he die? blamed if i know. john is a pretty good man yet. i can't kill him, can i? well, then, what's a matter with you? "no, maje don't talk as much as he used to; forgetting his passes more or less, too. getting old like some more of us. he's kind of quit the money question; claims he don't understand it now as well as the boys do. but he can talk about delaroo; he understands delaroo pretty well--now." the operator's story de molay four very able men have given their lives to the study of monsoon's headlight; yet science, after no end of investigation, stands in its presence baffled. the source of its illumination is believed to be understood. i say believed, because in a day when yesterday's beliefs are to-morrow's delusions i commit myself personally to no theory. whether it is a thing living or dead; whether malign to mackerel or potent in its influence on imperfectly understood atmospheric phenomena, i do not know. i doubt whether anybody knows, except maybe monsoon himself. i know only that on the west end, monsoon's headlight, from every point of view, stands high, and that on one occasion it stood between abe monsoon and a frightful catastrophe. there have been of late studied efforts to introduce electric headlights on the mountain division. but there are grizzled men in the cab who look with distrust--silent, it is true, yet distrust--on the claims put forth for them. while monsoon's headlight does its work--as it has done even long before monsoon followed it to the west end, and will do long after he leaves the west end--why, they say, and reasonably enough, take on new and theoretical substitutes? while the discussion deepens and even rages in the wickiup, monsoon himself is silent. brave men are modest men. among ourselves we don't use adjectives; where monsoon is known it is not necessary to put anything ahead of his name--except, may be, once a month on the payroll when the cross-eyed accountant adds a. or abe or abraham, just as he happens to be fixed for time. monsoon's name in itself stands for a great deal. when his brother engineers, men who have grown seamy and weather-beaten in the service, put up their voices for monsoon's headlight; or when talkative storekeepers, who servilely jump at headquarters' experiments in order to court the favor of the high, speak for electricity, abe monsoon himself is silent. his light is there; let them take it or leave it as they will. if the superintendent of motive power should attempt to throw it out for the new-fangled arrangement, monsoon would doubtless feel that it was not the first time omaha had gone wrong--and, for that matter, that neither he nor anybody else had assurance it would be the last. however-- the story opens on bob duffy. bob, right from the start, was what i call a good-looker, and, being the oldest boy, he had more of the swing anyway. when martin came along, his mother hadn't got over thinking about bob. doubtless she thought, too, of martin; but he was kind of overshadowed. bob began by clerking in the post-office and delivering mail to all the pretty girls. his sympathy for the girls was so great that after a while he began passing out letters to them whether they were addressed to the girls or to somebody else. this gradually weakened his influence with the government. martin began work in the telegraph office; he really learned the whole thing right there at the bend under callahan. began, carrying western unions stuck at his waist under a heavy leather belt. he wore in those days, when he had real responsibility, a formidable brown stetson that appeared bent on swallowing his ears: it was about the time he was rising trousers and eleven. nobody but sinkers ever beat martin duffy delivering messages, and nobody, bar none--bullhead, mcterza, anybody--ever beat him eating pie. it was by eating pie that he was able to wear the belt so long--and you may take that either way. but i speak gladly of the pie, because in the usual course of events there isn't much pie in a despatcher's life. there is, by very large odds, more anxiety than pie, and i introduce the pie, not to give weight to the incidents that follow but rather to lighten them; though as duffy has more recently admitted this was not always the effect of the pie itself. i do not believe that martin duffy ever had an enemy. a right tight little chap he was, with always a good word, even under no end of pressure on the single track. there's many a struggling trainman that will look quick and grateful when any fellow far or near speaks a word about martin duffy. fast as he climbed, his head never swelled. his hats rested, even after he got a key, same as the original stetson, right on the wings of his ears. but his heart grew right along after his head stopped, and that's where he laid over some other railroad men i could mention if i had to, which i don't--not here. about the time it looked as if martin would make a go of it on the road, the post-office inspectors were thinking bob would make a go of it over the road. but he was such a kid of a fellow that the postmaster convinced the detectives bob's way of doing things was simple foolishness, which it probably was, and they merely swore him out of the service. it was then that martin reached out a hand to his elder brother. there were really just the two brothers; and back of them--as there is, somewhere, back of every railroad man--a mother. no father--not generally; just a mother. a quiet, sombre little woman in a shawl and a bonnet of no special shape or size--just a shawl and a bonnet, that's all. anyhow, the duffy boys' mother was that way, and there's a lot more like her. i don't know what gets the fathers; maybe, very often, the scrap. but there's almost always, somewhere, a mother. so after martin began to make a record, to help his mother and his brother both, he spoke for bob. callahan didn't hesitate or jolly him as he used to do with a good many. he thought the company couldn't have too many of the duffy kind; so he said, "yes, sure." and bob duffy was put at work--same thing exactly: carrying messages, reading hair-destroyers and blowing his salary on pie. but pie acts queer. sometimes it makes a man's head solid and his heart big; then again it makes a man's head big and his heart solid. i'm not saying anything more now except that pie certainly acts different. bob duffy was taller than martin and i would repeat, handsomer; but i can't, because martin had absolutely no basis of beauty to start with. he was parchment-like and palish from sitting night after night and night after night over a sounder. never sick a day in his life; but always over the sounder until, sleeping or waking, resting or working, the current purred and purred through his great little head like a familiarity taking old tomcat. he could guess more off a wire than most men could catch after the whole thing had tumbled in. so up and up ladder he went. messenger, operator--up to assistant despatcher, up to a regular trick despatcher. up to the orders and signing the j. m. c., the letters that stood for our superintendent's name and honor. up to the trains and their movements, up to the lives, then chief!--with the honor of the division all clutched in martin duffy's three quick right fingers on the key and his three quick left fingers on the pen at the same instant scratching orders across the clip. talk about ambidexterity--martin didn't know what it would be like to use one hand at a time. if martin duffy said right, trains went right. if he said wrong, trains went wrong. but martin never said the wrong; he said only the right. giddings knows; he copied for him long enough. giddings and plenty more of them can tell all about martin duffy. bob didn't rise in the service quite so fast as martin. he was rather for having a good time. he did more of the social act, and that pleased his mother, who, on account of her bonnet-and-shawl complexion, didn't achieve much that way. martin, too, was proud of his brother, and as soon as bob could handle a wire, which was very soon (for he learned things in no time) martin got callahan to put him up at grant as operator. bob got the place because he was martin's brother, nothing else. he held it about two months, then he resigned and went to san 'frisco. he was a restless fellow; it was bob up and bob down. for a year he wandered around out there, telegraphing, then he bobbed up again in medicine bend out of a job. he wanted to go to work, and--well, callahan--martin's brother, you know--sent him up to montair as night operator. three months he worked steady as a clock. then one night the despatchers at the bend couldn't get montair for two hours. it laid out number six and a special with the general manager and made no end of a row. martin said right off he ought to go. but there was the little mother up home, silent, i expect, but pleading-like. it was left largely to martin, for the young fellow was already chief; and that was the trouble--he hated to bear down too hard; so he compromised by asking his superintendent not to fire bob but to set him back. they sent him up as night man to rat river, the meanest place on the whole system. that was the summer of the templars' conclave at san 'frisco. we worked the whole spring getting things up along the line, from omaha to the sierras, for that conclave. engines were overhauled, rolling stock touched up, roadbed put in shape, everything shaken from end to end. not only were the passenger records to be smashed, but beyond that a lot of our big general officers were way-up masons and meant that our line should get not merely the cream of the business but the cream of the advertising out of the thing. the general tenor of the instructions was to nickel-plate everything, from the catalpas to the target rods. for three months before the conclave date we were busy getting ready for it, and when the big day drew near on which we were to undertake the moving and the feeding of six thousand people one way on one track through the mountains, the car-tinks smoked cross-cut and the russian sectionmen began to oil their hair. callahan was superintendent under bucks, then general manager, and martin duffy, chief despatcher, neighbor, superintendent of motive power, and doubleday, division master mechanic, and with everything buttoned up on the west end we went that sunday morning on the firing line to take the first of the templar specials. medicine bend had the alkali pretty well washed out of its eyes, and never before in its history had it appeared really gay. the old wickiup was decorated till it looked like a buck rigged for a ghost dance. right after daybreak the trains began rolling in on harold davis's trick. duffy had annulled all local freights and all through odds and evens, all stock tramps east and all westbound empties--everything that could be, had been suspended for that sunday; and with it all there were still by five times more trains than ever before rolled through medicine bend in twenty-four hours. it was like a festival day in the mountains. even the indians and the squaw men turned out to see the fun. there was a crowd at the depot by five o'clock, when the first train rolled up the lower gorge with st. john's commandery, number three from buffalo; and the pullmans were gay with bunting. the medicine bend crowd gave them an indian yell and in two minutes the knights, with their scalps in their hands as a token of surrender, were tumbling out of their sleepers into the crisp dawn. they were just like schoolboys, and when shorty lovelace--the local curiosity who had both feet and both hands frozen off the night he got drunk with matt cassidy at goose river junction--struck up on his mouth-organ "put me off at buffalo," they dropped seven dollars, odd, and three baggage checks into his hat while the crews were changing engines. it appeared to affect them uncommon, to see a fellow without any hands or feet play the mouth-organ and before sundown shorty made the killing of his life. with what he raked in that day he kept the city marshal guessing for three months--which was also pretty good for a man without any hands or feet. all day it was that way: train after train and ovation after ovation. the day was cool as a watermelon--august--and bright as a baby's face all through the mountains; and the templars went up into the high passes with all the swing and noise we could raise. harold davis took it all morning steady from a. m. at the despatcher's key. he was used up long before noon; but he stayed, and just at twelve o'clock, while a big templar train from baltimore was loading its commandery in front of the wickiup after an early dinner, and a big templar band played a tingling two-step, martin duffy stuck his dry, parchment face into the platform crowd, elbowed his way unnoticed through it, climbed the wickiup stairs, walked into the despatcher's room, and, throwing off his hat and coat, leaned over harold davis's shoulder and took a transfer. young giddings had been sitting there in a perspiration half an hour then; he copied for martin duffy that day. at noon they figured to get the last templar over the eagle pass with the set of the sun. when duffy took the key he never looked his force cleaner, only he was tired; giddings could see that. the regular man had been sick a week and martin had been filling in. besides that, all saturday, the day before, he had been spiking the line--figuring what could be annulled and what couldn't; what could be run extra and what could be put into regulars. callahan had just got married and was going out to the coast on his wedding tour in bucks's car. he had refused to look at an order after saturday night. sunday morning, and from sunday morning on, it was all against duffy. when the chief took the middle trick there were fourteen templar specials still to come with the last one just pulling out of mccloud on the plains. they were ordered to run with right of track over all eastbound trains thirty minutes apart all the way through. a minute after martin duffy sat in, the conductor of the train below registered out. there was a yell pretty soon, and away went the baltimore crowd--and they were corkers, too, those baltimore fellows, and travelled like lords. at five o'clock in the evening the trains in the west division were moving just like clocks on the hour and the half--thirty minutes, thirty minutes, thirty minutes--and, as far as young giddings could see, duffy, after five booming hours, was fresher than when he took the chair. the little despatcher's capacity for work was something enormous; it wasn't till after supper-time, with the worst of the figuring behind him, and in the letting down of the anxiety, that martin began to look older and his dry indian hair began to crawl over his forehead. by that time his eyes had lost their snap, and when he motioned giddings to the key, and got up to walk up and down the hall in the breeze, he looked like a wilted potato vine. his last batch of orders was only a little one compared with those that had gone before. but with the changes to the different crews they read about like this-- telegraphic train order number . mountain division. superintendent's office, august , . for medicine bend to c. and e. of engines , , , , and . engines , , , and will run as four specials, medicine bend to bear dance. engine will double-head special to summit of eagle pass. first no. , engine , will run two hours thirty minutes late bear dance to medicine bend. second no. , engine , will run three hours and fifteen minutes late bear dance to medicine bend. third no. , engine , will run four hours and thirty minutes late bear dance to medicine bend. j. m. c. d. when young giddings sat in, the sun was dropping between the tetons. in the yard the car-cleaners were polishing the plates on bucks's private car and the darky cook was pulling chickens out of the refrigerator. duffy had thirteen conclaves moving smoothly on the middle trick. the final one was due, and the hostlers were steaming down with the double-header to pull it over the pass. this, the last of the commandery trains, was to bring de molay commandery number four of pittsburg, and the orders were to couple bucks's car on to it for the run west. de molay--and everybody had notice--was bucks's old commandery back in pennsylvania, and he was going to the end of the division that night with the cronies of his youth. little fellows they were in railroading when he rode the goat with them, but now mostly, like him, big fellows. half a dozen old salts had been pounding ahead at him all day over the wire. they were to join him and mr. and mrs. callahan for supper in the private car, and the yellow cider lay on the thin-shaven ice and the mountain grouse curled on the grill irons when de molay four, pittsburg, pulled into medicine bend. we had seen a good many swell trains that day, the swellest that ever pounded _our_ fishplates, pullmans solid, and the finest kind of people. boston, washington, new york, philadelphia sent some pretty gorgeous trains. but with at least half the town on the platform, when de molay four rolled in it took their breath so they couldn't yell till the sir knights began pouring from the vestibules and gave medicine bend their own lordly cheer. mahogany vestibules they were and extension platforms; salon lamps and nickeled handrails; buffet smoker and private diner: a royal train and a royal company; olive green from tender to tail lights--de molay four, pittsburg. bucks's old gang spied him. modestly back under the portico, he stood near the ticket window, and they broke through at him solid. they pulled him and hauled him and mauled him and passed him from hand to hand. they stood him on his head and on his hands and on his feet again, and told him of something they wanted and wanted right off. bucks looked the least bit uncertain as he considered the opening request. it wasn't much in some ways, what they asked; in other ways it was a good deal. he laughed and bantered and joked them as long as they would stand it; then he called up to martin duffy, who was leaning out the despatchers' window, "we'll see how he talks," laughed bucks in his great big way. "but, boys, it's up to the chief. i'm not in it on the orders, you know. martin," he called, as duffy bent his head, "they want fifteen minutes here to stretch their legs. say they've been roasted in the alkali all day. can you do anything for the boys?" the boys! big fellows in fezes, shriner style, and slim fellows in duck, sailor style, and bow-legged fellows in cheviot, any old style. chaps in white flannel, and chaps in gray, and chaps in blue. turkish whiskers and key west cigars and crusaders' togs--and, between them, bucks, his head most of the time in chancery. it was the first time they had seen him since he had made our jim crow line into a system known from the boston and maine to the mexican central, and, bar none, run cleaner or better. the first time they had seen him since he had made a name for himself and for his road from newport news to 'frisco, and they meant now to kill him, dead. you know about what it meant and about how it went, how it had to go. what could martin say to the man who had made him all he was and who stood, now a boy again among the boys of his boyhood, and asked for fifteen minutes--a quarter of an hour for de molay number four? it threw the little chief completely off his schedules; just fifteen minutes was more than enough to do that. all the work was done, the anxiety nearly past--martin had risen to rest his thumping head. but fifteen minutes; once in a lifetime--bucks asking it. duffy turned to big jack moore standing at his side ready to pull de molay over the pass, and spoke him low. jack nodded; everything went with jack, even the turn-tables that stuck with other engineers. martin in his shirt-sleeves leaned out the window and, looking down on the turbaned and turbulent mob, spoke so bucks could hear. "what is it?" demanded the most puissant commander of de molay excitedly. "what does he say, bucks?" "what says the slave?" growled a second formidable crusader; "out with it!" "all we want is fifteen minutes." "you wouldn't turn us down on fifteen minutes this far from an oasis, would you, bucks?" protested a glass-eyed shriner. bucks looked around royally. "fifteen minutes?" he drawled. "what's a quarter of an hour in a lifetime, jackman, on the last oasis? take off your clothes, you fellows, and take half an hour. now will you be good?" de molay put up a templar yell. they always get the good things of life, those pittsburg men; things other fellows couldn't begin to get. they passed the word through the sleepers, and the women began pouring from the vestibules. in two quick minutes out came the duquesne band in red pompoms, duck trousers and military jackets, white corded with black. the crowd broke, the band marched down the platform and, striking up the "washington post," opened ranks on the grass plot above the wickiup to receive the de molay guard. one hundred knights templar in fatigue debouched into a bit of a park, and in the purple of the sunset gave a commandery drill to the honor of bucks--bucks and the west end. it was sunday night, and still as august could make it. the battalion moving silent and mobile as a streamer over the grass, marched, deployed and rested. they broke, to the clear-cut music, into crosses and squares and crescents and stars until small boys went cross-eyed, and wheeling at last on the line, they saluted bucks--himself a past grand commander--and the railroad men yelled. meantime the general manager's private car had been pasted on the tail-end of de molay four, and a pusher edging up, stuck its nose into the rear vestibule. on the head end jack moore and oyster were backing down on the olive-green string with the two smoothest moguls on the division. bucks and neighbor had held back everything good all day for de molay four, down to engines and runners and conductor. pat francis carried the punch, and the little chief sat again in the despatcher's chair for de molay four. and while the lovely women strolled in the cool of the evening and the odor of mountain sweetness, and the guard drilled, and the band played, the chief knit his brows over his train sheet. it looked now, re-arranged, re-ordered, re-adjusted and re-organized, as if a gila monster had crawled over it without wiping his feet. and when de molay four got ready to pull out, with moore and oyster on the throttles and old john parker in the baggage, where he had absolutely nothing to do but drink cigars and smoke champagne and pat francis in the aisles, and bucks, with mr. and mrs. callahan and their crowd, in private number twelve--there was that much shouting and tooting and waving that martin duffy simply couldn't think for a few seconds; yet he held them all, for life or for death, every last one, in the curve of his fingers. so they stood ready in the gorge while duffy studied wearily how to handle first, second, and third eighty against them. first, second, and third eighty! if they could only have been wiped off the face of the rails as easy as they might have been wiped off a train sheet! but there they were, three sections, and big ones, of the california fast freight. high-class stuff for chicago and new york that couldn't be held or laid out that sunday, not for a dozen conclaves. all day first, second, and third eighty had been feeling their way east through the mountains, trying to dodge the swell commanderies rolling by impudent as pay cars. but all the final plans to keep them out of everybody's way, out of the way of fez and turban and chapeau and greek cross and crimson-splashed sleepers, were now dashed by thirty minutes at medicine for de molay four. order after order went from under his hand. new meeting-points for first, second, and third eighty and de molay four, otherwise special . pat francis snatched the tissues from duffy's hand and, after the battalion had dispersed among their wives and sisters, and among the sisters of the other fellow; after the pomponed chaps had chucked the trombones and cymbals and drums at old john parker's shins; after the last air-cock had been tested and the last laggard crusader thrown forcibly aboard by the provost guard, the double-header tooted, "out!" and, with the flutter of an ocean liner, de molay four pulled up the gorge. the orders buttoned in the reefers gave de molay a free sweep to elcho, and jack moore and oyster were the men to take it, good and hard. moreover, there was glory aboard. pennsylvania nobs, way-up railroad men, waiting to see what for motive power we had in the woolly west; how we climbed mountains and skirted cañon walls, and crawled down two and three per cent grades. then with bucks himself in the private car--what wonder they let her out and swung de molay through the gorge as maybe you've seen a particularly buoyant kite snake its tail out of the grass and drag it careening skyward. when they slowed for elcho at nightfall, past first and second eighty, and bucks named the mileage, the pennsys refused to believe it for the hour's run. but fast as they had sped along the iron trail, martin duffy's work had sped ahead of them, and this order was waiting: telegraphic train order number . c. and e. third no. , rat river. c. and e. special , elcho. third no. , engine , and special will meet at rock point. j. m. c. d. with this meeting-point made, it would be pretty much over in the despatchers' office. martin duffy pushed his sallow hair back for the last time, and, leaving young giddings to get the last o. k.'s and the last complete on his trick, got out of the chair. it had been a tremendous day for giddings, a tremendous day. thirty-two specials on the despatchers, and giddings copying for the chief. he sat down after duffy, filled with a riotous importance because it was now, in effect, all up to giddings, personally; at least until barnes tracy should presently kick him out of the seat of honor for the night trick. mr. giddings sat down and waited for the signature of the orders. very soon pat francis dropped off de molay four, slowing at elcho, ran straight to the operator for his order, signed it and at once order was throbbing back to young giddings at medicine bend. it was precisely . p. m. when giddings gave back the complete and at . elcho reported special , "out," all just like clockwork. what a head martin duffy has, thought young giddings--and behold! all the complicated everlasting headwork of the trick and the day, and of the west end and its honor, was now up to the signature of third eighty at rat river. just third eighty's signature for the rock point meeting, and the biggest job ever tackled by a single-track road in america (giddings thought) was done and well done. so the ambitious giddings by means of a pocket-mirror inspected a threatening pimple on the end of his chubby nose palming the glass skilfully so barnes tracy couldn't see it even if he did interrupt his eruption, and waited for bob duffy, the rat river nightman, to come back at him with third eighty's signature. under giddings' eye, as he sat, ticked martin duffy's chronometer--the watch that split the seconds and chimed the quarters and stopped and started so impossibly and ran to a second a month--the watch that bucks (who never did things by halves) had given little martin duffy with the order that made him chief. it lay at giddings's fingers, and the minute hand wiped from the enamelled dial seven o'clock fifty-five, fifty-six, seven, eight--nine. young giddings turned to his order book and inspected his entries like a methodical bookkeeper, and martin duffy's chronometer chimed the fourth quarter, eight o'clock. one entry he had still to make. book in hand he called rat river. "get third eighty's signature to order and hurry them out," he tapped impatiently at bob duffy. there was a wait. giddings lighted his pipe the way callahan always lighted _his_ pipe--putting out his lips to catch all the perfume and blowing the first cloud away wearily, as callahan always did wearily. then he twirled the match meditatively, and listened, and got suddenly this from bob duffy at rat river: "i forgot order ," came bob duffy's message. "i let third eighty go without it. they left here at seven--fifty"--fifty something, giddings never heard fifty what. the match went into the ink, the pipe into the water-pail, and giddings, before bob duffy finished, like a drowning man was calling elcho with the life and death, the nineteen call. "hold special !" he cried over the wire the instant elcho replied. but elcho, steadily, answered this: "special--three-twenty-six--left--here--seven-fifty-five." giddings, with both hands on the table, raised up like a drunken man. the west end was against it. third eighty in the open and going against the de molay four. bucks, callahan, wife--everybody--and rock point a blind siding that no word from anybody on earth could reach ahead of third eighty. giddings sprang to the open window and shouted to anybody and everybody to call martin duffy. but martin duffy spoke behind him. "what do you want?" he asked; it came terribly quick on giddings as he turned. "what's the matter?" exclaimed martin, looking into the boy's face. "speak, can't you? what's the matter, giddings?" "bob forgot order and let third eighty go without it--and special is out of elcho," choked giddings. "_what?_" "bob at--rat river--gave third eighty a clearance without the order ." martin duffy sprang straight up in the air. once he shut his lifted hands; once he looked at giddings, staggering again through the frightful news, then he dropped into the chair, looked wildly around, seized his key like a hunted man, stared at his train sheet, grabbed the order book, and listened to giddings cutting off one hope after another of stopping special . his fingers set mechanically and he made the rat river call; but rat river was silent. with barnes tracy tiptoeing in behind on the instinct of trouble, and young giddings shaking like a leaf, the chief called rat river. then he called elcho, asked for special , and elcho again repeated steadily: "special-- --left--here--on--order-- --at--seven-fifty-five p. m." martin duffy bent before the message; young giddings, who had been whispering to tracy, dropped on a stool and covered his face. "don't cry, giddings." it was duffy who spoke; dry and parched his voice. "it's nothing you--could help." he looked around and saw tracy at his elbow. "barnes," he said, but he tried twice before his voice would carry. "barnes--they will meet in the cinnamon cut. giddings told you? bob forgot, forgot my order. run, giddings, for benedict morgan and doubleday and carhart--_quick!_" giddings ran, the rat river call echoing again down the hall behind him. rat river was closest to rock point--would get the first news of the wreck, and martin duffy was calling his recreant brother at the river; but the river was silent. doubleday and the company surgeon, dr. carhart, rushed into the room almost together. then came with a storm the wrecking boss, benedict morgan; it was only an evil hour that brought benedict morgan into the despatchers' office. stooped and silent, martin duffy, holding the chair, was calling rat river. carhart watched him just a moment, then he took barnes tracy aside and whispered--and, going back, bent over duffy. the chief pulled himself up. "let tracy take the key," repeated the doctor. "get away from the table a minute, martin. it may not be as bad as you think." duffy, looking into the surgeon's face, put his hand on his arm. "it's the de molay train, the special , with bucks's car, double-headed. oh, my god--i can't stop them. doctor, they will meet!" carhart unfastened the fingers on his arm. "come away a minute. let tracy have the key," he urged. "a head-ender, eh?" croaked benedict morgan from the counter, and with a frightful oath. "a head-ender!" "shut up, you brute!" hissed carhart. duffy's hands were creeping queerly up the sides of his head. "sure," growled benedict morgan, loweringly, "sure. shut up. of course. shut up." carhart was a quick man. he started for the wrecker, but duffy, springing, stopped him. "for god's sake, keep cool, everybody," he exclaimed, piteously. there was no one else to talk, to give the orders. bucks and callahan both on the special--maybe past order-giving now. only martin duffy to take the double load and the double shame. he stared, dazed again, into the faces around as he held to the fiery surgeon. "morgan," he added steadily, looking at the surly wrecker, "get up your crew, quick. doubleday, make up all the coaches in the yard for an ambulance train. get every doctor in town to go with you. tracy, clear the line." the master mechanic and benedict morgan clattered down stairs. carhart, running to the telephone, told central to summon every medical man in the bend, and hurried out. before he had covered a block, roundhouse callers, like flaws of wind before a storm, were scurrying the streets, and from the tower of the fire-house sounded the harsh clang of the emergency gong for the wreckers. caught where they could be caught, out of saloons, beds, poker joints, salvation barracks, churches,--the men of the wrecking crew ran down the silent streets, waking now fast into life. congregations were dispersed, hymns cut, prayers forgotten, bars deserted, hells emptied, barracks raided at that call, the emergency gong call, fell as a fire-bell, for the mountain division wrecking gang. while the yard crews shot up and down the spurs switching coaches into the relief train, benedict morgan with solid volleys of oaths was organizing his men and filling them at the lunch counters with huge schooners of coffee. carhart pushed again through the jam of men and up to the despatchers' office. before and behind him crowded the local physicians with instrument bags and bandages. the ominous baggage deposited on the office floor, they sat down about the room or hovered around carhart asking for details. doubleday, tall and grim, came over from the roundhouse. benedict morgan stamped up from the yard--the mountain division was ready. all three despatchers were in the room. john mallers, the day man, stood near tracy, who had relieved giddings. the line was clear for the relief run. elcho had been notified of the impending disaster, and at tracy's elbow sat the chief looking fixedly at the key--taking the bob of the sounder with his eye. a dozen men in the room were talking; but they spoke as men who speaking wait on the life of a fuse. duffy, with suspense deepening into frenzy, pushed tracy's hand from the key and, sliding into the chair, began once more to call his brother at rat river. "r, t--r, t--r, t--r, t--" clicked the river call. "r, t--r, t--r, t--bob--bob--bob," spelled the sender. "answer me, answer, answer. r, t--r, t--r, t--r, t--" and barnes tracy edged away and leaned back to where the shadow hid his face. and john mallers, turning from the pleading of the current, stared gloomily out of the window across the yard shimmering under the double relay of arc lights; and young giddings, who couldn't stand it--just _couldn't_ stand it--bending on his stool, shook with gulping sobs. the others knew nothing of the heartbreaking in the little clicks. but they all knew the track--knew where the trains would meet; knew they could not by any possibility see each other till they whirled together on the curve of the cinnamon cut or on the trestle west of it and they waited only for the breaking of the suspense that settled heavily over them. ten, twenty, thirty, forty minutes went, with martin duffy at intervals vainly calling. then--as the crack opens in the field of ice, as the snow breaks in the mountain slide, as the sea gives up at last its dead, the sounder spoke--rat river made the despatcher's call. and martin duffy, staring at the copper coil, pushed himself up in his chair like a man that chokes, caught smothering at his neck, and slipped wriggling to the floor. carhart caught him up, but duffy's eyes stared meaningless past him. rat river was calling him, but martin duffy was past the taking. like the man next at the gun, barnes tracy sprang into the chair with the i, i, d. the surgeon, giddings helping, dragged duffy to the lounge in callahan's room--his chief was more to giddings then than the fate of special . but soon confused voices began to ring from where men were crowding around the despatchers' table. they echoed in to where the doctors worked over the raving chief. and young giddings, helping, began, too, to hear strange things from the other room. "the moon--" "the _moon_?" "the moon!" "_what?_" barnes tracy was trying to make himself heard: "the moon, damn it! moon! that's english, ain't it? _moon._" "who's talking at rat river?" demanded benedict morgan, hoarsely. "chick neale, conductor of third eighty; their train is back at rat river. god bless that man," stammered barnes tracy, wiping his forehead feverishly; "he's an old operator. he says bob duffy is missing--tell martin, quick, there isn't any wreck--quick!" "what does neale say?" cried doubleday with an explosion. tracy thought he had told them, but he hadn't. "he says his engineer, abe monsoon, was scared by the moon rising just as they cleared kennel butte," explained tracy unsteadily. "he took it for the headlight of special and jumped from his engine. the fireman backed the train to rat river--see?" while tracy talked, mallers at the key was getting it all. "look here," he exclaimed, "did you ever hear of such a mix-up in your life? the head brakeman of the freight was in the cab, neale says. he and the engineer were talking about the last conclave train, wondering where they were going to meet it, when the brakeman spied the moon coming up around kennel butte curve. 'there's the special!' he yelled, and lighted out the gangway. monsoon reversed and jumped off after him so quick he knocked the fireman over in the coal. when the fireman got up--he hadn't heard a word of it all--he couldn't see anything ahead but the moon. so he stops the train and backs up for the two guys. when neale and he picked them up they ran right back to rat river for orders. they never got to rock point at all--why, they never got two miles east of rat river." "and where's special ?" cried doubleday. "at rock point, you loco. she must be there and waiting yet for third eighty. the stopping of the freight gave her plenty of time to make the meeting-point, don't you see, and there she is--sweating--yet. neale is an old operator. by heaven! give me a man of the key against the the world. praise god from whom all blessings flow!" "then there isn't to be any wreck?" ventured a shy little lady homeopathic physician, who had been crimped into the fray to help do up the mangled knights and was modestly waiting her opportunity. "not to-night," announced tracy with the dignity of a man temporarily in charge of the entire division. a yell went out of the room like a tidal wave. doubleday and benedict morgan had not spoken to each other since the night of the roundhouse fire--that was two years. they turned wonder-struck to each other. doubleday impulsively put out his hand and, before he could pull it in again, the wrecking boss grabbed it like a pay check. carhart, who was catching the news from the rattle of young giddings, went wild trying to repeat it to duffy without losing it in his throat. the chief was opening his eyes, trying to understand. medical men of violently differing schools, allopaths, homeopaths, osteopaths, eclectics--made their peace with a whoop. a red-headed druggist, who had rung himself in for a free ride to the horror, threw his emergency packets into the middle of the floor. the doctors caught the impulse: instrument cases were laid with solemn tenderness on the heap, and a dozen crazy men, joining hands around the pyred saws and gauze, struck up "old hundred." engineer monsoon was a new man, who had been over the division only twice before in his life, both times in daylight. for that emergency abe monsoon was the man of all others, because it takes more than an ordinary moon to scare a thoroughbred west end engineer. but monsoon and his moon headlight had between them saved de molay four from the scrap. the relief arrangements and monsoon's headlight were the fun of it, but there was more. martin duffy lay eleven weeks with brain fever before they could say moon again to him. bob had skipped into the mountains in the very hour that he had disgraced himself. he has never shown up at medicine since; but martin is still chief, and they think more of him on the mountain district than ever. bucks got the whole thing when de molay four reached rat river that night. bucks and callahan and moore and oyster and pat francis got it and smiled grimly. nobody else on special even dreamed of leaving a bone that sunday night in the cinnamon cut. all the rest of the evening bucks smiled just the same at the knights and the knightesses, and they thought him for a bachelor wonderfully entertaining. a month later, when the old boys more or less ragged came straggling back from 'frisco, bucks's crowd stayed over a train, and he told his pennsylvania cronies what they had slipped through in that delay at rock point. "just luck," laughed one of the eastern superintendents, who wore on his watch chain an enormous greek cross with "our trust is in god" engraved on it. "just luck," he laughed, "wasn't it?" "maybe," murmured bucks, looking through the wickiup window at the teton peaks. "that is--you might call it that--back on the penn. out here i guess they'd call it, just god." the trainmaster's story of the old guard i never found it very hard to get into trouble: as far back as i can remember that has come dead easy for me. when this happened i hadn't been railroading a month and i was up with my conductor on the carpet, sweating from sheer grogginess and excitement. the job of front-end brakeman on a mountain division is no great stake for a man ordinarily, but it was one for me, just then. we knew when we went into the superintendent's office that somebody was to get fired; the only question was, who?--the train crew or the operator? our engine crew were out of it; it was up to the conductor and to me. had the operator displayed red signals? the conductor said, no; i said, no; the operator said, yes: but he lied. we couldn't prove it; we could only put our word against his: and what made it the worse for me, my conductor was something of a liar himself. i stood beading in a cold sweat for i could see with half an eye it was going against us; the superintendent, an up-and-up railroad man every inch and all business, but suspicious, was leaning the operator's way the strongest kind. there wasn't another soul in the little room as the three of us stood before the superintendent's desk except a passenger conductor, who sat behind me with his feet on the window ledge, looking out into the yard. "morrison's record in this office is clean," the superintendent was saying of the operator, who was doing us smooth as smokeless powder, "he has never to my knowledge lied in an investigation. but, allbers," continued the superintendent speaking bluntly to my conductor, "you've never told a straight story about that rat river switch matter yet. this man is a new man," he added, throwing a hard look at me. "ordinarily i'd be inclined to take the word of two men against one, but i don't know one at all and the other has done me once. i can't see anything for it but to take morrison's word and let you fellows both out. there wasn't any wreck, but that's not your fault; not for a minute." "mr. rocksby," i protested, speaking up to the division boss in a clean funk--the prospect of losing my job that way, through a lying operator, took the heart clean out of me--"you don't know me, it is true, but i pledge you my word of honor--" "what's your word of honor?" asked the superintendent, cutting into me like a hatchet, "i don't know any more about your word of honor than i do about you." what could i say? there were men who did know me, but they were a long cry from the rocky mountains and the headquarters of the mountain division. i glanced about me from his face, gray as alkali, to allbers, shuffling on the carpet, and to morrison, as steady as a successful liar, taking my job and my reputation at one swallow; and to the passenger conductor with the glossy black whiskers; but he was looking out the window. "what do i know about your word of honor?" repeated rocksby sharply. "allbers, take your man and get your time." a wave of helpless rage swept over me. the only thing i could think of, was strangling the lying operator in the hall. then somebody spoke. "show your papers, you damn fool." it came calm as sunshine and cold as a north-wester from the passenger conductor behind me, from dave hawk, and it pulled me into line like a bugle call. i felt my english all back at once. everybody heard him and looked my way; again it was up to me. this time i was ready for the superintendent, or for that matter for the blooming mountain division. i had forgot all about my papers till dave hawk spoke. i put my hand, shaking, into my inside vest pocket for a piece of oilskin--it was all i had left; i was a good way from my base that year. i laid the oilskin on the superintendent's table, unfolded it jealously and took out a medal and a letter, that in spite of the carefullest wrapping was creased and sweated. but the letter was from my captain and the bit of bronze was the cross. rocksby picked up the letter and read it. [illustration: dave hawk.] "have you been in the british army?" he asked curtly. "yes, sir." he scowled a minute over picton's scrawl, laid it down and gratified his curiosity by picking up the medal. he studied the face of the token, looked curiously at the dingy red ribbon, twirled it and saw the words on the reverse, "for valour," and looked again at me. "where'd you get this?" he asked indicating the victoria. "in the soudan, sir." dave hawk kept right on looking out the window. neither my conductor nor the operator seemed to know just what the row was. nobody spoke. "what' you doing here?" rocksby went on. "i came out to learn the cattle business." his brows went up easy-like. "they cleaned me out." brows dropped gentle-like. "then i went bad with mountain-fever," and he looked decent at me. "you say you had your head out the cupola and saw the white signal?" he asked, sort of puzzled. "i saw the white signal." rocksby looked at the operator morrison. "we'll adjourn this thing," said he at last, "till i look into it a little further. for the present, go back to your runs." we never heard any more of it. allbers got out quick. i waited to pick up my stuff and turned to thank dave hawk; he was gone. it wasn't the first time dave had pulled me out of the water. about two weeks before that i had crawled one night up on the front platform of the baggage at peace river to steal a ride to medicine bend on number one. it was dave's train. i had been kicked out of the mccloud hospital two days before without a cent, or a friend on earth outside the old country, and i hadn't a mind to bother the folks at home any more, come conan or the devil. the night was bitter bad, black as a fuzzy and sleeting out of the foothills like manslaughter. when the train stopped at rosebud for water, what with gripping the icy hand-rail and trying to keep my teeth steady on my knees i must have been a hard sight. just as the train was ready to pull out, dave came by and poked his lantern full in my face. he was an older man than i, a good bit older, for i was hardly more than a kid then, only spindling tall, and so thin i couldn't tell a stomach ache from a back ache. as i sat huddled down on the lee step with my cap pulled over my head and ears, he poked his light full into my face and snapped, "get out!" if it had been a headlight i couldn't have been worse scared, and i found afterward he carried the brightest lamp on the division. i looked up into his face and he looked into mine. i wonder if in this life it isn't mostly in the face after all? i couldn't say anything, i was shaking in a chill as i pulled myself together and climbed down into the storm. yet i never saw a face harder in some ways than dave hawk's. his visor hid his forehead and a blackbeard covered his face till it left only his straight cold nose and a dash of olive white under the eyes. his whiskers loomed high as a cossack's and his eyes were onyx black with just such a glitter. he knew it was no better than murder to put me off in that storm at a mountain siding: i knew it; but i didn't much care for i knew before very long i should fall off, anyway. after i crawled down he stood looking at me, and with nothing better on i stood looking at him. "if you get up there again i'll break your neck," he promised, holding up his lantern. i was quiet; the nerve was out of me. "where you going?" he asked shortly. "medicine ben----" "get into the smoker, you damn fool." how it galvanized me. for twenty-four hours i hadn't eaten. i was just out of a hospital bed and six weeks of mountain fever, but i braced at his words like a sioux buck. i hurried back ahead of him to the smoking car, drenched wet, and tough, i know. i looked so tough that the brakeman grabbed me the minute i opened the front door and tried to kick me out. i turned snarling then, crazy as a wolf all in a second, and somehow backed the brakeman against the water cooler with his windpipe twisted in my bony fingers like a corkscrew. the train was moving out. i had been cuffed and kicked till i would rather kill somebody than not; this seemed a fair chance for a homicide. when the poor fellow's wind went off--he wasn't much of a scrapper, i fancy--he whipped around in the aisle like a dying rooster. as he struggled in my grip there behind him in the doorway stood dave, lantern in hand, looking on with a new face. this time he was smiling--dave's smile meant just the parting of his lips over a row of glistening teeth; perfectly even teeth and under his black mustache whiter than ivory. it appeared to amuse him to see me killing the brakeman. the instant i saw dave i let go and he watched the crestfallen trainman pull himself together. "guess you'll let him alone now, won't you?" said dave pleasantly to my rattled assailant. "sit down," he growled harshly at me, stringing his lantern on his arm. he walked unconcernedly down the aisle, and i dropped exhausted into the front seat facing the baker heater. it was heavenly hot; red hot. i have loved a car heater ever since, and baker to me, is hardly lower than the angels. my togs began to steam, my blood began to flow, the train boy gave me a wormy apple, an irishman with a bottle of rank whiskey gave me a stinger and i wanted to live again. i curled up in the seat and in five minutes i was roasting, oh, such a heavenly roast; and dozing, lord! what a heavenly doze, before that baker heater. all night the forward truck beat and pounded under me: all night i woke and slept in the steaming, stinking air of the hot car. and whenever i opened my eyes i saw always the same thing, a topping tall conductor looming in the aisle, his green-hooded lamp, like a semaphore under his arm. and above, in the gloom, a bush of black beard and a pair of deep-set, shining eyes back under a peaked cap. dave often comes back as i saw him, waking and dreaming, that night in the smoker of number one. * * * * * it was breaking day when he bent over me. "we're getting into the bend," he said gruffly. "got any money for breakfast?" "i haven't a cent on god's earth." he put his hand in his pocket and pulling out a handful of loose bills shoved one into my fingers. "i'll take it from you and gladly," i said sitting up. "but i'm not a beggar nor a tramp." "off track?" "yes. i'm going to enlist--" his teeth flashed. "that's worse than railroading, ain't it?" something came into my head like a rocket. "if i could get started railroading----" "get started easy enough." that's how i happened to show him my victoria. he gave me a card to the trainmaster, and next day i went to braking for allbers, who, by the way, was the biggest liar i ever knew. but the morning i got into medicine bend that first time on number one i had another scare. i went into the lunch room for coffee and sandwiches and threw my bill at the boy. he opened it, looked at it and looked at me. "well," i growled, for i was impudent with luck and a hot stomach. "good, ain't it?" "smallest you got?" i nodded as if i had a pocket full. he hustled around and came back with a handful of money. i said nothing but when he spread it out before me i sat paralysed. i had just assumed that dave had given me a dollar. sinkers, deducting the price of two coffees and six sandwiches from the bill counted out nineteen dollars and thirty cents for me. that change kept me running for a month, and after my first pay day i hunted up dave to pay him back. i found him in the evening. he was sitting alone on the eating-house porch, his feet up against the rail, looking at the mountains in the sunset. "never mind," he said, as i held out a twenty dollar bill and tried to speak my little piece. he did not move except to wave back my hand. "oh, but i can't let you do that----" i protested. "put up your money, tommie." he called me tommie. "no," he repeated putting by my hand; his face set hard, and when dave's face did set it set stony. "put up your money; you don't owe me anything. i stole it." it was a queer deal out on the west end in those days. it was a case of wide open from the river to the rockies. everybody on the line from the directors to the car-tinks were giving the company the worst of it. the section hands hooked the ties for the maintenance, the painters drank the alcohol for the shellac, the purchasing agent had more fast horses than we had locomotives, and what made it discouraging for the conductors, the auditors stole what little money the boys did turn in. a hard place to begin railroading the old line was then: but that's where i had to tackle the game, and in all the hard crowd i mixed with dave hawk was the only big man on the division. there were others there who fixed the thing up by comparing notes on their collections and turning in percentages to make their reports look right. but dave was not a conspirator; never made a confidant of any man in his stealing or his spending, and despised their figuring. he did as he pleased and cared for no one; no superior had any terror for dave. he had a wife somewhere back east of the river, they said, that had sold him out--that's why he was in the mountains--and he lived among free and easy men a lonely life. if anybody ever got close to him, i think maybe i did, though i was still only a freight conductor when the lightning struck the division. it came with a clean sweep through the general offices at the river. everybody in the auditing department, the executive heads down to general manager and a whole raft of east end conductors. it was a shake-out from top to bottom, and the bloods on our division went white and sickly very fast. of course it was somebody's gain. when the heads of our passenger conductors began to drop, they began setting up freight men. rocksby had resigned a year earlier, and haverly, his successor, an ex-despatcher and as big a knave as there was on the pay roll, let the men out right and left with the sole idea of saving his own scalp. by the time i was put up to a passenger train the old force was pretty much cleared out except dave. every day almost, we looked to see him go. everybody loved him because he was a master railroad man, and everybody except dave himself was apprehensive about his future. he moved on just the same, calm and cold as ice-water, taking the same old chances, reckless of everything and everybody. i never knew till afterward, but the truth was haverly with all his bluff talk was just enough afraid of dave hawk to want to let him alone. the matter, though, focused one day up in the old office in an unexpected way. haverly's own seat got so hot that bedeviled by his fears of losing it and afraid to discharge dave, who now sailed up and down the line reckless as any pirate of the spanish main, he cowered, called dave into the little room at the wickiup and asked him to resign. in all the storm that raged on the division the old conductor alone had remained calm. every day it was somebody's head off; every night a new alarm; dave alone ignored it all. he was, through it all, the shining mark, the daredevil target; yet he bore a charmed life and survived every last associate. then haverly asked him to resign. dave, bitter angry, faced him with black words in his throat. "it's come to a showdown," muttered the superintendent uneasily after a minute's talking. "do you want to resign?" dave eyed the mountains coldly. "no." "you'll have to--" "have to?" hawk whirled dark as a storm. "have to? who says so?" the superintendent shifted the paperweight on the desk uncomfortably. "why should i resign?" demanded the old conductor angrily. "resign?" he rose from his chair. "you know i'm a thief. you're a thief yourself. you helped make me one. i've carried more men for you than for anybody else on the whole division. i don't resign for anybody. discharge me, damn you. i don't ask any odds of you." haverly met it sullenly, yet he didn't dare do anything. he knew dave could ruin him any day he chose to open his mouth. what he did not know was that dave hawk was molded in a class of men different from his own. even dishonor was safe in the hands of dave hawk. there was no change after, except that darker, moodier, lonelier than ever, dave moved along on his runs, the last of the old guard. better railroad man than he never took a train out of division. stress of wind or stress of weather, storm, flood or blockade, dave hawk's trains came and went on time or very close. so he rode, grim old privateer, with his letters of marque on the company's strongbox, and haverly trembled night and day till that day came that fear had foretold to him. a clap of thunder struck the wickiup and haverly's head fell low; and dave hawk sailed boldly on. i was extra passenger man when john stanley bucks took the west end. he came from south of our country, and we heard great things about the new superintendent and about what would happen as soon as he got into the saddle. what few of the old men in the wickiup were left looked at bucks just once and began to arrange their temporal affairs. his appearance bore out his reputation. only, everybody while pretty clear in his own mind as to what he would do--that is, as to what he would have to do--wondered what dave would do. he and bucks met. i couldn't for the life of me help thinking when they struck hands, this grizzled mountaineer and this contained, strong, soldierly executive who had come to command us, of another meeting, i once saw when i carried crook out on a special and watched him at bear dance strike hands with the last of the big fighting chiefs of the mountain sioux. for three months bucks sat his new saddle without a word or an act to show what he was thinking: then there came from the little room a general order that swept right and left from trainmaster to wrecking boss. the last one of the old timers in the operating department went except dave hawk. the day the order was bulletined bucks sent for dave; sent word by me he wanted to see him. "come on," said dave to me when i gave him the message. "what do you want me for?" "come on," he repeated, and, greatly against my inclination, i went up with him. i looked for a scene. "dave, you've been running here a good while, haven't you?" bucks began. "long as anybody, i guess," said dave curtly. "how many years?" "nineteen." "there's been some pretty lively shake-outs on the system lately," continued bucks; the veteran conductor looked at him coldly. "i am trying to shape things here for an entire new deal." "don't let me stand in your way," returned dave grimly. "that's what i want to see you about." "it needn't take long," blurted dave. "then i'll tell you what i want----" "i don't resign. you can discharge me any minute." "i wouldn't ask any man to resign, dave, if i wanted to discharge him. don't make a mistake like that. i suppose you will admit there's room for improvement in the running of this division?" dave never twitched. "a whole lot of improvement," bucks, with perceptible emphasis, added. it came from the new superintendent as a sort of gauntlet and dave picked it up. "i guess that's right enough," he replied candidly, "there is room for a whole lot of improvement. if i sat where you do i'd fire every man that stood in the way of it, too." "that's why i've sent for you," bucks resumed. "then drop the chinook talk and give me my time." "you don't understand me yet, dave. i want you to give up your run. i want your friend, burnes here, to take your run----" a queer shadow went over dave's face. when bucks began he was getting a thunderstorm on. somehow the way it ended, the way it was coming about--putting me into his place--i, the only boy on the division he cared "a damn" about--it struck him, as it struck me, all in a heap. he couldn't say a word; his eyes went out the window into the mountains: something in it looked like fate. for my part i felt murder guilty. "what i want you to do, dave," added bucks evenly, "is to come into the office here with me and look after the train crews. just at present i've got to lean considerably on a trainmaster, do you want the job?" the silent conductor turned to stone. "the men who own the road are new men, dave; they didn't steal it. they bought it and paid for it. they want a new deal and they propose to give a new deal to the men. they will pay salaries a man can live on honestly; they will give no excuse for knocking down; they want what's coming to them, and they propose the men shall have their right share of it in the pay checks. "but there's more than that in it. they want to build up the operating force, as fast as it can be built, from the men in the ranks. i aim to make a start now on this division. if you're with me, hang up your coat here the first of the month, and take the train crews." dave left the office groggy. the best bucks could do he couldn't get a positive answer out of him. he was overcome and couldn't focus on the proposition. bucks saw how he had gone to pieces and managed diplomatically to leave the matter open, callahan, whom bucks had brought with him as assistant, filling in meanwhile as trainmaster. the matter was noised. it was known that dave, admittedly the brainiest and most capable of the old guard had been singled out, regardless of his past record for promotion. "i'm not here sitting in judgment on what was done last year," bucks had said plainly. "it's what is done this year and next that will count in this office." and the conductors, thinking there was a chance, believing that at last if they did their work right they would get their share of the promotions, began to carry their lanterns as if they had more important business than holding up stray fares. meantime dave hung to his run. somehow the old run had grown a part of him and he couldn't give it up. when he told bucks at the end of the week that he would like another week to make his decision the superintendent waved it to him. everybody began to make great things of dave: some of the boys called him trainmaster and told him to drop his punch and give tommie a show. he didn't take the humor the way one would expect. always silent he grew more than that; sombre and dejected. we never saw a smile on his face. "dave is off," muttered henry cavanaugh, his old baggageman, "i don't understand it. he's off. you ought to talk to him, tommie. you're the only man on the division can do it." i was ordered west that night to bring a military special from washakie. i rode up on dave's train. the hind los angeles sleeper was loaded light, and when dave had worked the train and walked into the stateroom to sort his collections, i followed him. we sat half an hour alone and undisturbed, but he wouldn't talk. it was a heavy train and the wind was high. we made rat river after midnight, and i was still sitting alone in the open stateroom when i saw dave's green light coming down the darkened aisle. he walked in, put his lamp on the floor, sat down, and threw his feet on the cushions. "how's tommie to-night?" he asked, leaning back as if he hadn't seen me before, in his old teasing way. he played light heart sometimes; but it was no more than played: that was easy seeing. "how's dave?" he turned, pulled the window shade and looked out. there was a moon and the night was bright, only windy. "what are you going to do with bucks, dave?" "do you want my punch, tommie?" "you know better than that, don't you?" "i guess so." "you're blue to-night. what's the matter?" he shifted and it wasn't like him to shift. "i'm going to quit the west end." "quit? what do you mean? you're not going to throw over this trainmaster offer?" "i'm going to quit." "what's the use," he went on slowly. "how can i take charge of conductors, talk to conductors? how can i discharge a conductor for stealing when he knows i'm a thief myself? they know it; bucks knows it. there's no place among men for a thief." "dave, you take it too hard; everything ran wide open here. you're the best railroad man on this division; everybody, old and new, admits that." "i ought to be a railroad man. i held down a division on the pan handle when i was thirty years old." "were you a railroad superintendent at thirty?" "i was a trainmaster at twenty-seven. i'm forty-nine now, and a thief. the woman that ditched me is dead: the man she ran away with is dead: my baby is dead, long ago." he was looking out, as he spoke, on the flying desert ashen in the moonlight. in the car the passengers were hard asleep and we heard only the slew of the straining flanges and the muffled beat of the heavy truck under us. "there's no law on earth that will keep a man from leaving the track once in a while," i argued; "there's none to keep him from righting his trucks when the chance is offered. i say, a man's bound to do it. if you won't do it here, choose your place and i'll go with you. this is a big country, dave. hang it, i'll go anywhere. you are my partner, aren't you?" he bent to pick up his lantern, "tommie, you're a great boy." "well, i mean it." he looked at his watch, i pulled mine: it was one o'clock. "better go to sleep, tommie." i looked up into his face as he rose. he looked for an instant steadily into mine. "go to bed, tommie," he smiled, pulling down his visor, and turning, he walked slowly forward. i threw myself on the couch and drew my cap over my eyes. the first thing i felt was a hand on my shoulder. then i realized i had been asleep and that the train was standing still. a man was bending over me, lantern in hand. it was the porter. "what's wrong?" i exclaimed. "there's trouble up ahead, mr. burnes," he exclaimed huskily. i sprang to my feet. "have you got your pistol?" he stuttered. somebody came running down the aisle and the porter dodged like a hare behind me. it was the hind-end brakeman, but he was so scared he could not speak. i hurried forward. through the head los angeles sleeper, the san francisco cars and the portland i ran without meeting a living soul; but the silence was ominous. when i caught a glimpse of the inside of the chair car, i saw the ferment. women were screaming and praying, and men were burrowing under the foot-rests. "they've killed everybody in the smoker," shouted a travelling man, grabbing me. "damnation, make way, won't you!" i exclaimed, pushing away from him through the mob. at the forward door, taking me for one of the train robbers, there was another panic. passengers from the smoker were jammed together there like sardines. i had to pile them bodily across the seats to get through and into the forward car. it was over. the front lamps were out and the car smoking bluish. a cowboy hung pitched head and arms down over the heater seat. in the middle of the car henry cavanaugh, crouching in the aisle, held in his arms dave hawk. at the dark front end of the coach i saw the outline of a man sprawled on his face in the aisle. the news agent crawled out from under a seat. it must have been short and horribly sharp. they had flagged the train east of bear dance. two men boarded the front platform of the smoker and one the rear. but the two in front opened the smoker door just as dave was hurrying forward to investigate the stop. he was no man to ask questions. he saw the masks and covered them instantly. dave hawk any time and anywhere was a deadly shot. without a word he opened on the forward robbers. a game cowboy back of him pulled a gun and cut into it; and was the first to go down, wounded. but the train boy said, hawk himself had dropped the two head men almost immediately after the firing began and stood free handed when the man from the rear platform put a winchester against his back. even then, with a hole blown clean through him, he had whirled and fired again; we found the man's blood on the platform in the morning, but, whoever he was, he got to the horses and got away. when i reached dave, he lay in his baggage-man's arms. we threw the carrion into the baggage car and carried the cowboy and the conductor back into the forward sleeper. i gave the go-ahead orders and hurried again to the side of the last of the old guard. once his eyes opened, wandering stonily; but he never heard me, never knew me, never spoke. as his train went that morning into division he went with it. when we stopped, his face was cold. it was up to the grand master. a game man always, he was never a cruel one. he called himself a thief. he never hesitated with the other men high and low to loot the company. the big looters were financiers: dave was only a thief, yet gave his life for the very law he trampled under foot. thief, if you please; i don't know: we needn't quarrel about the word he branded himself with. yet a trust of money, of friendship, of duty were safer far in dave hawk's hands than in the hands of abler financiers. i hold him not up for a model, neither glory in his wickedness. when i was friendless, he was my friend: his story is told. the yellow mail story jimmie the wind there wasn't another engineer on the division that dared talk to doubleday the way jimmie bradshaw talked. [illustration: jimmy the wind.] but jimmie had a grievance, and every time he thought about it, it made him nervous. ninety-six years. it seemed a good while to wait; yet in the regular course of events on the mountain division there appeared no earlier prospect of jimmie's getting a passenger run. "got your rights, ain't you?" said doubleday, when jimmie complained. "i have and i haven't," grumbled jimmie, winking hard; "there's younger men than i am on the fast runs." "they got in on the strike; you've been told that a hundred times. we can't get up another strike just to fix you out on a fast run. hang on to your freight. there's better men than you in ireland up to their belt in the bog, jimmie." "it's a pity they didn't leave you there, doubleday." "you'd have been a good while hunting for a freight run if they had." then jimmie would get mad and shake his finger and talk fast: "just the same, i'll have a fast run here when you're dead." "maybe; but i'll be alive a good while yet, my son," the master mechanic would laugh. then jimmie would walk off very warm, and when he got into the clear with himself, he would wink furiously and say friction things about doubleday that needn't now be printed, because it is different. however, the talk always ended that way, and jimmie bradshaw knew it always would end that way. the trouble was, no one on the division would take jimmie seriously, and he felt that the ambition of his life would never be fulfilled; that he would go plugging to gray hairs and the grave on an old freight train; and that even when he got to the right side of the jordan there would still be something like half a century between him and a fast run. it was funny to hear him complaining about it, for everything, even his troubles, came funny to him, and in talking he had an odd way of stuttering with his eyes, which were red. in fact, jimmie was nearly all red; hair, face, hands--they said his teeth were sandy. when the first rumors about the proposed yellow mail reached the mountains jimmie was running a new ten-wheeler; breaking her in on a freight "for some fellow without a lick o' sense to use on a limited passenger run," as jimmie observed bitterly. the rumors about the mail came at first like stray mallards, opening signs of winter, and as the season advanced flew thicker and faster. washington never was very progressive in the matter of improving the transcontinental service, but once by mistake they put in a postmaster-general down there, who wouldn't take the old song. when the bureau fellows that put their brains up in curl papers told him it couldn't be done he smiled softly, and sent for the managers of the crack lines across the continent, without suspecting how it bore incidentally on jimmie bradshaw's grievance against his master mechanic. the postmaster-general called the managers of the big lines, and they had a dinner at chamberlain's, and _they_ told him the same thing. "it has been tried," they said in the old, tired way; "really it can't be done." "california has been getting the worst of it for years on the mail service," persisted the postmaster-general moderately. "but californians ought to have the best of it. we don't think anything about putting new york mail in chicago in twenty hours. it ought to be simple to cut half a day across the continent and give san francisco her mail a day earlier. where's the fall down?" he asked, like one refusing no for an answer. the general managers looked at our representative sympathetically, and coughed cigar smoke his way to hide him. "west of the missouri," murmured a pennsylvania swell, who pulled indifferently at a fifty-cent cigar. everybody at the table took a drink on the _exposé_, except the general manager who sat at that time for the rocky mountains. the west end representative was unhappily accustomed to facing the finger of scorn on such occasions. it had become with our managers a tradition. there was never a conference of transcontinental lines in which we were not scoffed at as the weak link in the chain of everything--mail, passenger, specials, what not--the trouble was invariably laid at our door. this time a new man was sitting for the line at the chamberlain dinner; a youngish man with a face that set like cement when the west end was trod on. the postmaster-general was inclined, from the reputation we had, to look on our man as one looks at a dog without a pedigree, or at a dray horse in a bunch of standard-breds. but something in the mouth of the west end man gave him pause; since the rough riders, it has been a bit different with verdicts on things western. the postmaster-general suppressed a rising sarcasm with a sip of chartreuse, for the dinner was ripening, and waited; nor did he mistake, the west ender _was_ about to speak. "why west of the missouri?" he asked, with a lift of the face not altogether candid. the pennsylvania man shrugged his brows; to explain might have seemed indelicate. "if it is put through, how much of it do you propose to take yourself?" inquired our man, looking evenly at the allegheny official. "sixty-five miles, including stops from the new york post-office to canal street," replied the pennsylvania man, and his words flowed with irritating ease. "what do you take?" continued the man with the jaw, turning to the burlington representative, who was struggling, belated, with an artichoke. "_about_ seventy from canal to tenth and mason. say, seventy," repeated the "q" manager, with the lordliness of a man who has miles to throw at almost anybody, and knows it. "then suppose we say sixty-five from tenth and mason to ogden," suggested the west ender. there was a well-bred stare the table round, a lifting of glasses to mask expressions that might give pain. sixty-five miles an _hour_? through the _rockies_? the postmaster-general struck the table quick and heavily; he didn't want to let it get away. "why, hang it, mr. bucks," he exclaimed with emphasis, "if you will say sixty, the business is done. we don't ask you to do the rockies in the time these fellows take to cut the alleghenies. do sixty, and i will put mail in 'frisco a day earlier every week in the year." "nothing on the west end to keep you from doing it," said general manager bucks. he had been put up then only about six months. "but----" every one looked at the young manager. the pennsylvania man looked with confidence, for he instantly suspected there must be a string to such a proposition, or that the new representative was "talking through his hat." "but what?" asked the cabinet member, uncomfortably apprehensive. "we are not putting on a sixty-five mile schedule just because we love our country, you understand, nor to heighten an already glorious reputation. oh, no," smiled bucks faintly, "we are doing it for 'the stuff.' you put up the money; we put up the speed. not sixty miles; sixty-five--from the missouri to the sierras. no; no more wine. yes, i will take a cigar." the trade was on from that minute. bucks said no more then; he was a good listener. but next day, when it came to talking money, he talked more money into the west end treasury for one year's running than was ever talked before on a mail contract for the best three years' work we ever did. when they asked him how much time he wanted to get ready, and told him to take plenty, three months was stipulated. the contracts were drawn, and they were signed by our people without hesitation because they knew bucks. but while the preparations for the fast schedule were being made, the government weakened on signing. nothing ever got through a washington department without hitch, and they said our road had so often failed on like propositions that they wanted a test. there was a deal of wrangling, then a test run was agreed on by all the roads concerned. if it proved successful, if the mail was put to the golden gate on the second of the schedule, public opinion and the interests in the philippines, it was concluded, would justify the heavy premium asked for the service. in this way the dickering and the figuring became, in a measure, public, and keyed up everybody interested to a high pitch. we said nothing for publication, but under bucks's energy sawed wood for three whole months. indeed, three months goes as a day getting a system into shape for an extraordinary schedule. success meant with us prestige; but failure meant obloquy for the road and for our division chief who had been so lately called to handle it. the real strain, it was clear, would come on his old, the mountain, division; and to carry out the point, rested on the motive power of the mountain division; hence, concretely, on doubleday, master mechanic of the hill country. in thirty days, neighbor, superintendent of the motive power, called for reports from the division master mechanics on the preparations for the yellow mail run, and they reported progress. in sixty days he called again. the subordinates reported well except doubleday. doubleday said merely, "not ready"; he was busy tinkering with his engines. there was a third call in eighty days, and on the eighty-fifth a peremptory call. everybody said ready except doubleday. when neighbor remonstrated sharply he would say only that he would be ready in time. that was the most he would promise, though it was generally understood that if he failed to deliver the goods he would have to make way for somebody that could. the plains division of the system was marked up for seventy miles an hour, and, if the truth were told, a little better; but, with all the help they could give us, it still left sixty for the mountains to take care of, and the yellow mail proposition was conceded to be the toughest affair the motive power at medicine bend had ever faced. however, forty-eight hours before the mail left the new york post-office doubleday wired to neighbor, "ready"; neighbor to bucks, "ready"; and bucks to washington, "ready"--and we were ready from end to end. then the orders began to shoot through the mountains. the test run was of especial importance, because the signing of the contract was believed to depend on the success of it. once signed, accidents and delays might be explained; for the test run there must be no delays. despatchers were given the eleven, which meant bucks; no lay-outs, no slows for the yellow mail. roadmasters were notified; no track work in front of the yellow mail. bridge gangs were warned, yard masters instructed, section bosses cautioned, track walkers spurred--the system was polished like a barkeeper's diamond, and swept like a parlor car for the test flight of the yellow mail. doubleday, working like a boiler washer, spent all day thursday and all thursday night in the roundhouse. he had personally gone over the engines that were to take the racket in the mountains. ten-wheelers they were, the and the , with fifty-six-inch drivers and cylinders big enough to sit up and eat breakfast in. spick and span both of them, just long enough out of the shops to run smoothly to the work; and on friday oliver sollers, who, when he opened a throttle, blew miles over the tender like feathers, took the , groomed like a wilkes mare, down to piedmont for the run up to the bend. now oliver sollers was a runner in a thousand, and steady as a clock; but he had a fireman who couldn't stand prosperity, steve horigan, a cousin of johnnie's. the glory was too great for steve, and he spent friday night in gallagher's place celebrating, telling the boys what the would do to the yellow mail. not a thing, steve claimed after five drinks, but pull the stamps clean off the letters the minute they struck the foothills. but when steve showed up at five a.m. to superintend the movement, he was seasick. the minute sollers set eyes on him he objected to taking him out. mr. sollers was not looking for any unnecessary chances on one of bucks's personal matters, and for the general manager the yellow mail test had become exceedingly personal. practically everybody east and west had said it would fail; bucks said no. neighbor himself was on the piedmont platform that morning, watching things. the mccloud despatchers had promised the train to our division on time, and her smoke was due with the rise of the sun. the big superintendent of motive power, watching anxiously for her arrival, and planning anxiously for her outgoing, glared at the bunged fireman in front of him, and, when sellers protested, neighbor turned on the swollen steve with sorely bitter words. steve swore mightily he was fit and could do the trick--but what's the word of a railroad man that drinks? neighbor spoke wicked words, and while they poured on the guilty steve's crop there was a shout down the platform. in the east the sun was breaking over the sandhills, and below it a haze of black thickened the horizon. it was mcterza with the and the yellow mail. neighbor looked at his watch; she was, if anything, a minute to the good, and before the car tinks could hustle across the yard, a streak of gold cut the sea of purple alfalfa in the lower valley, and the narrows began to smoke with the dust of the race for the platform. when mcterza blocked the big drivers at the west end of the depot, every eye was on the new equipment. three standard railway mail cars, done in varnished buttercup, strung out behind the sizzling engine, and they looked pretty as cowslips. while neighbor vaguely meditated on their beauty and on his boozing fireman, jimmie bradshaw, just in from a night run down from the bend, walked across the yard. he had seen steve horigan making a "sneak" for the bath-house, and from the yard gossip jimmie had guessed the rest. "what are you looking for, neighbor?" asked jimmie bradshaw. "a man to fire for sollers--up. do you want it?" neighbor threw it at him cross and carelessly, not having any idea jimmie was looking for trouble. but jimmie surprised him; jimmie did want it. "sure, i want it. put me on. tired? no. i'm fresh as rainwater. put me on, neighbor; i'll never get fast any other way. doubleday wouldn't give me a fast run in a hundred years. "neighbor," cried jimmie, greatly wrought, "put me on, and i'll plant sunflowers on your grave." there wasn't much time to look around; the was being coupled on to the mail for the hardest run on the line. "get in there, you blamed idiot," roared neighbor presently at jimmie. "get in and fire her; and if you don't give sollers two hundred and ten pounds every inch of the way i'll set you back wiping." jimmie winked furiously at the proposition while it was being hurled at him, but he lost no time climbing in. the was drumming then at her gauge with better than two hundred pounds. adam shafer, conductor for the run, ran backward and forward a minute examining the air. at the final word from his brakeman he lifted two fingers at sollers; oliver opened a notch, and jimmie bradshaw stuck his head out of the gangway. slowly, but with swiftly rising speed, the yellow string began to move out through the long lines of freight cars that blocked the spurs; and those who watched that morning from the piedmont platform, thought a smoother equipment than bucks's mail train never drew out of the mountain yards. jimmie bradshaw jumped at the work in front of him. he had never lifted a pick in as swell a cab. the hind end of the was big as a private car; jimmie had never seen so much play for a shovel in his life, and he knew the trick of his business better than most men even in west end cabs, the trick of holding the high pressure every minute, of feeling the drafts before they left the throttle; and as oliver let the engine out very, very fast, jimmie bradshaw sprinkled the grate bars craftily and blinked at the shivering pointer, as much as to say, "it's you and me now for the yellow mail, and nobody else on earth." there was a long reach of smooth track in front of the foothills. it was there the big start had to be made, and in two minutes the bark of the big machine had deepened to a chest tone full as thunder. it was all fun for an hour, for two hours. it was that long before the ambitious fireman realized what the new speed meant: the sickening slew, the lurch on lurch so fast the engine never righted, the shortened breath along the tangent, the giddy roll to the elevation and the sudden shock of the curve, the roar of the flight on the ear, and, above and over it all, the booming purr of the maddened steel. the canoe in the heart of the rapid, the bridge of a liner at sea, the gun in the heat of the fight, take something of this--the cab of the mail takes it all. when they struck the foothills sollers and jimmie bradshaw looked at their watches and looked at each other like men who had turned their backs on every mountain record. there was a stop for water, speed drinks so hard, an oil round, an anxious touch on the journals; then the yellow mail drew reeling into the hills. oliver eased her just a bit for the heavier curves, but for all that the train writhed frantically as it cut the segments, and the men thought, in spite of themselves, of the mountain curves ahead. the worst of the run lay ahead of the pilot, because the art in mountain running is not alone or so much in getting up hill; it is in getting down hill. but by the way the yellow mail got that day up hill and down, it seemed as if steve horigan's dream would be realized, and that the actually would pull the stamps off the letters. before they knew it they were through the gateway, out into the desert country, up along the crested buttes, and then, sudden as eternity, the wheel-base of the struck a tight curve, a pent-down rail sprang out like a knitting-needle, and the yellow mail shot staggering off track into a gray borrow-pit. there was a crunching of truck and frame, a crashing splinter of varnished cars, a scream from the wounded engine, a cloud of gray ash in the burning sun, and a ruin of human effort in the ditch. in the twinkle of an eye the mail train lay spilled on the alkali; for a minute it looked desperate bad for the general manager's test. it was hardly more than a minute; then like ants out of a trampled hill men began crawling from the yellow wreck. there was more--there was groaning and worse, yet little for so frightful a shock. and first on his feet, with no more than scratches, and quickest back under the cab after his engineer, was jimmie bradshaw, the fireman. sollers, barely conscious, lay wedged between the tank and the footboard. jimmie, all by himself, eased him away from the boiler. the conductor stood with a broken arm directing his brakeman how to chop a crew out of the head mail car, and the hind crews were getting out unaided. there was a quick calling back and forth, and the cry, "nobody killed!" but the engineer and the conductor were put out of action. there was, in fact, only one west end man unhurt--jimmie bradshaw. the first wreck of the fast mail, there have been worse since, took place just east of crockett's siding. a westbound freight lay at that moment on the passing track waiting for the mail. jimmie bradshaw, the minute he righted himself, cast up the possibilities of the situation. before the freight crew had reached the wreck jimmie was hustling ahead to tell them what he wanted. the freight conductor demurred; and when they discussed it with the freight engineer, kingsley, he objected. "my engine won't never stand it; it'll pound her to scrap," he argued. "i reckon the safest thing to do is to get orders." "get orders!" stormed jimmie bradshaw, pointing at the wreck. "get orders! are you running an engine on this line and don't know the orders for those mail bags? the orders is to move 'em! that's orders enough. move 'em! uncouple three of those empty box-cars and hustle 'em back. by the great united states! any man that interferes with moving this mail will get his time, that's what he'll get. that's doubleday, and don't you forget it. the thing is to move the mail, not to stand here chewing about it!" "bucks wants the stuff hustled," put in the freight conductor, weakening before jimmie's eloquence, "everybody knows that." "uncouple there!" cried jimmie, climbing into the mogul cab. "i'll pull the bags, kingsley; you needn't take any chances. come back there, every mother's son of you, and help on the transfer." he carried his points with a gale. he was conductor and engineer and general manager all in one. he backed the boxes to the curve below the spill, and set every man at work piling the mail from the wrecked train to the freight cars. the wounded cared for the wounded, and the dead might have buried the dead; jimmie moved the mail. only one thing turned his hair gray; the transfer was so slow, it threatened to defeat his plan. as he stood fermenting, a stray party of sioux bucks on a vagrant hunt rose out of the desert passes, and halted to survey the confusion. it was jimmie bradshaw's opportunity. he had the blanket men in council in a trice. they talked for one minute; in two, he had them regularly sworn in and carrying second-class. the registered stuff was jealously guarded by those of the mail clerks who could still hobble--and who, head for head, leg for leg, and arm for arm, can stand the wrecking that a mail clerk can stand? the mail crews took the registered matter; the freight crews and jimmie, dripping sweat and anxiety, handled the letter-bags; but second and third-class were temporarily hustled for the great white father by his irreverent children of the rockies. before the disabled men could credit their senses the business was done, they made as comfortable as possible, and, with the promise of speedy aid back to the injured, the yellow mail, somewhat disfigured, was heading again westward in the box-cars. this time jimmie bradshaw, like a dog with a bone, had the throttle. jimmie bradshaw for once in his life had the coveted fast run, and till he sighted fort rucker he never for a minute let up. meantime, at medicine bend, there was a desperate crowd around the despatcher. it was an hour and twenty minutes after ponca station reported the yellow mail out, before fort rucker, eighteen miles west, reported the box-cars and jimmie bradshaw in, and followed with a wreck report from the crockett siding. when that end of it began to tumble into the wickiup office doubleday's face turned hard; fate was against him, the contract gone glimmering, and he didn't feel at all sure his own head and the roadmaster's wouldn't follow it. then the rucker operator began again to talk about jimmie bradshaw, and "who's bradshaw?" asked somebody; and rucker went on excitedly with the story of the mogul and of three box-cars, and of a war party of sioux squatting on the brake-wheels; it came so mixed that medicine bend thought everybody at rucker station had gone mad. while they fumed, jimmie bradshaw was speeding the mail through the mountains. he had kingsley's fireman, big as an ox and full of his own enthusiasm. in no time they were flying across the flats of the spider water, threading the curves of the peace river, and hitting the rails of the painted desert, with the mogul sprinting like a texas steer, and the box-cars leaping like yearlings at the joints. it was no case of scientific running, no case of favoring the roadbed, of easing the strain on the equipment; it was simply a case of galloping to a broadway fire with a silsby rotary on a - call. up hill and down, curve and tangent, it was all one. there was speed made on the plains with that mail, and there was speed made in the foothills with the fancy equipment, but never the speed that jimmie bradshaw made when he ran the mail through the gorges in three box-cars; and frightened operators and paralyzed station agents all the way up the line watched the fearful and wonderful train, with bradshaw's red head sticking out of the cab window, shiver the switches. medicine bend couldn't get the straight of it over the wires. there was an electric storm in the mountains, and the wires went bad in the midst of the confusion. they knew there was a wreck, and understood there was mail in the ditch, and, with doubleday frantic, the despatchers were trying to get the track to run a train down to crockett's. but jimmie bradshaw had asked at rucker for rights to the bend, and in an unguarded moment they had been given; after that it was all off. nobody could get action on jimmie bradshaw. he took the rights, and stayed not for stake nor stopped not for stone. in thirty minutes the operating department were wild to kill him, but he was making such time it was concluded better to humor the lunatic than to hold him up anywhere for a parley. when this was decided jimmie and his war party were already reported past bad axe, fifteen miles below the bend with every truck on the box-cars smoking. the bad axe run to the bend was never done in less than fourteen minutes until bradshaw that day brought up the mail. between those two points the line is modeled on the curves of a ram's horn, but jimmie with the mogul found every twist on the right of way in eleven minutes; that particular record is good yet. indeed, before doubleday, then in a frenzied condition, got his cohorts fairly on the platform to look for jimmie, the hollow scream of the big freight engine echoed through the mountains. shouts from below brought the operators to the upper windows; down the bend they saw a monster locomotive flying from a trailing horn of smoke. as the stubby string of freight cars slewed quartering into the lower yard, the startled officials saw them from the wickiup windows wrapped in a stream of flame. every journal was afire, and the blaze from the boxes, rolling into the steam from the stack, curled hotly around a bevy of sioux indians, who clung sternly to the footboards and brake-wheels on top of the box-cars. it was a ride for the red men that is told around the council fires yet. but they do not always add in their traditions that they were hanging on, not only for life, but likewise for a butt of plug tobacco promised for their timely aid at crockett siding. by the time jimmie slowed up his astounding equipment the fire brigade was on the run from the roundhouse. the sioux warriors climbed hastily down the fire escapes, a force of bruised and bare-headed mail clerks shoved back the box-car doors, the car tinks tackled the conflagration, and jimmie bradshaw, dropping from the cab with the swing of a man who has done a trick, waited at the gangway for the questions to come at him. for a minute they came hot. "what the blazes do you mean by bringing in an engine in that condition?" choked doubleday, pointing to the blown machine. "i thought you wanted the mail?" winked jimmie. "how the devil are we to get the mail with you blocking the track two hours?" demanded callahan, insanely. "why, the mail's here, in these box-cars," answered jimmie bradshaw, pointing to his bobtail train. "now don't look daffy like that; every sack is right here. i thought the best way to get the mail here was to bring it. hm? we're forty minutes late, ain't we?" doubleday waited to hear no more. orders flew like curlews from the superintendent and the master mechanic. they saw there was a life for it yet. before the fire brigade had done with the trucks a string of new mail cars was backed down beside the train. the relieving mail crews waiting at the bend took hold like cats at a pudding, and a dozen extra men helped them sling the pouches. the , blowing porpoisewise, was backed up just as benedict morgan's train pulled down for crockett's siding, and the yellow mail, rehabilitated, rejuvenated, and exultant, started up the gorge for bear dance, only fifty-three minutes late with hawksworth in the cab. "and if you can't make that up, frank, you're no good on earth," sputtered doubleday at the engineer he had put in for that especial endeavor. and frank hawksworth did make it up, and the yellow mail went on and off the west end on the test, and into the sierras for the coast, on time. "there's a butt of plug tobacco and transportation to crockett's coming to these bucks, mr. doubleday," wheezed jimmie bradshaw uncertainly, for with the wearing off of the strain came the idea to jimmie that he might have to pay for it himself. "i promised them that," he added, "for helping with the transfer. if it hadn't been for the blankets we wouldn't have got off for another hour. they chew tomahawk, rough and ready preferred, mr. doubleday. hm?" doubleday was looking off into the yard. "you've been on a freight run some time, jimmie," said he tentatively. the indian detachment was crowding in pretty close on the red-headed engineer. he blushed. "if you'll take care of my tobacco contract, doubleday, we'll call the other matter square. i'm not looking for a fast run as much as i was." "if we get the mail contract," resumed doubleday reflectively, "and it won't be your fault if we don't--hm?--we may need you on one of the runs. looks to me as if you ought to have one." jimmie shook his head. "i don't want one, don't mind me; just fix these gentlemen out with some tobacco before they scalp me, will you?" the indians got their leaf, and bucks got his contract, and jimmie bradshaw got the pick of the runs on the yellow mail, and ever since he's been kicking to get back on a freight. but they don't call him bradshaw any more. no man in the mountains can pace him on a run. and when the head brave of the hunting party received the butt of tobacco on behalf of his company, he looked at doubleday with dignity, pointed to the sandy engineer, and spoke freckled words in the sioux. that's the way it came about. bradshaw holds the belt for the run from bad axe to medicine bend; but he never goes any more by the name of bradshaw. west of mccloud, everywhere up and down the mountains, they give him the name the sioux gave him that day--jimmie the wind. the end the night operator by frank l. packard author of "the wire devils," "the adventures of jimmie dale," etc. the copp, clark co., limited toronto copyright, . george h. doran company printed in the united states of america to charles agnew maclean by frank l. packard the night operator the further adventures of jimmie dale the adventures of jimmie dale the wire devils the sin that was his the beloved traitor greater love hath no man the miracle man foreword summed up short, the hill division is a vicious piece of track; also, it is a classic in its profound contempt for the stereotyped equations and formulae of engineering. and it is that way for the very simple reason that it could not be any other way. the mountains objected, and objected strenuously, to the process of manhandling. they were there first, the mountains, that was all, and their surrender was a bitter matter. so, from big cloud, the divisional point, at the eastern fringe of the rockies, to where the foothills of the sierras on the western side merge with the more open, rolling country, the right of way performs gyrations that would not shame an acrobatic star. it sweeps through the rifts in the range like a freed bird from the open door of its cage; clings to cañon edges where a hissing stream bubbles and boils eighteen hundred feet below; burrows its way into the heart of things in long tunnels and short ones; circles a projecting spur in a dizzy whirl, and swoops from the higher to the lower levels in grades whose percentages the passenger department does not deem it policy to specify in its advertising literature, but before which the men in the cabs and the cabooses shut their teeth and try hard to remember the prayers they learned at their mothers' knees. some parts of it are worse than others, naturally; but no part of it, to the last inch of its single-tracked mileage, is pretty--leaving out the scenery, which is _grand_. that is the hill division. and the men who man the shops, who pull the throttles on the big, ten-wheel mountain racers, who swing the pick and shovels in the lurching cabs, who do the work about the yards, or from the cupola of a caboose stare out on a string of wriggling flats, boxes and gondolas, and, at night-time, watch the high-flung sparks sail heavenward, as the full, deep-chested notes of the exhaust roar an accompaniment in their ears, are men with calloused, horny hands, toilers, grimy of face and dress, rough if you like, not gentle of word, nor, sometimes, of action--but men whose hearts are big and right, who look you in the face, and the grip of whose paws, as they are extended after a hasty cleansing on a hunk of more or less greasy waste, is the grip of men. many of these have lived their lives, done their work, passed on, and left no record, barely a memory, behind them, as other men in other places and in other spheres of work have done and always will do; but others, for this or that, by circumstance, or personality, or opportunity, have woven around themselves the very legends and traditions of their environment. and so these are the stories of the hill division and of the men who wrought upon it; the stories of those days when it was young and in the making; the stories of the days when carleton, "royal" carleton, was superintendent, when gruff, big-hearted, big-paunched tommy regan was master mechanic, when the grizzled, gray-streaked harvey was division engineer, and little doctor mcturk was the company surgeon, and riley was the trainmaster, and spence was the chief despatcher; the stories of men who have done brave duty and come to honor and glory and their reward--and the stories of some who have gone into division for the last time on orders from the great trainmaster, and who will never railroad any more. f. l. p. contents chapter i the night operator ii owslet and the iii the apotheosis of sammy durgan iv the wrecking boss v the man who squealed vi the age limit vii "the devil and all his works" viii on the night wire ix the other fellow's job x the rat river special the night operator i the night operator toddles, in the beginning, wasn't exactly a railroad man--for several reasons. first, he wasn't a man at all; second, he wasn't, strictly speaking, on the company's pay roll; third, which is apparently irrelevant, everybody said he was a bad one; and fourth--because hawkeye nicknamed him toddles. toddles had another name--christopher hyslop hoogan--but big cloud never lay awake at nights losing any sleep over that. on the first run that christopher hyslop hoogan ever made, hawkeye looked him over for a minute, said, "toddles," short-like--and, short-like, that settled the matter so far as the hill division was concerned. his name was toddles. piecemeal, toddles wouldn't convey anything to you to speak of. you'd have to see toddles coming down the aisle of a car to get him at all--and then the chances are you'd turn around after he'd gone by and stare at him, and it would be even money that you'd call him back and fish for a dime to buy something by way of excuse. toddles got a good deal of business that way. toddles had a uniform and a regular run all right, but he wasn't what he passionately longed to be--a legitimate, dyed-in-the-wool railroader. his paycheck, plus commissions, came from the news company down east that had the railroad concession. toddles was a newsboy. in his blue uniform and silver buttons, toddles used to stack up about the height of the back of the car seats as he hawked his wares along the aisles; and the only thing that was big about him was his head, which looked as though it had got a whopping big lead on his body--and didn't intend to let the body cut the lead down any. this meant a big cap, and, as toddles used to tilt the vizor forward, the tip of his nose, bar his mouth which was generous, was about all one got of his face. cap, buttons, magazines and peanuts, that was toddles--all except his voice. toddles had a voice that would make you jump if you were nervous the minute he opened the car door, and if you weren't nervous you would be before he had reached the other end of the aisle--it began low down somewhere on high g and went through you shrill as an east wind, and ended like the shriek of a brake-shoe with everything the westinghouse equipment had to offer cutting loose on a quick stop. hawkeye? that was what toddles called his beady-eyed conductor in retaliation. hawkeye used to nag toddles every chance he got, and, being toddles' conductor, hawkeye got a good many chances. in a word, hawkeye, carrying the punch on the local passenger, that happened to be the run toddles was given when the news company sent him out from the east, used to think he got a good deal of fun out of toddles--only his idea of fun and toddles' idea of fun were as divergent as the poles, that was all. toddles, however, wasn't anybody's fool, not by several degrees--not even hawkeye's. toddles hated hawkeye like poison; and his hate, apart from daily annoyances, was deep-seated. it was hawkeye who had dubbed him "toddles." and toddles repudiated the name with his heart, his soul--and his fists. toddles wasn't anybody's fool, whatever the division thought, and he was right down to the basic root of things from the start. coupled with the stunted growth that nature in a miserly mood had doled out to him, none knew better than himself that the name of "toddles," keeping that nature stuff patently before everybody's eyes, damned him in his aspirations for a bona fide railroad career. other boys got a job and got their feet on the ladder as call-boys, or in the roundhouse; toddles got--a grin. toddles pestered everybody for a job. he pestered carleton, the super. he pestered tommy regan, the master mechanic. every time that he saw anybody in authority toddles spoke up for a job, he was in deadly earnest--and got a grin. toddles with a basket of unripe fruit and stale chocolates and his "best-seller" voice was one thing; but toddles as anything else was just--toddles. toddles repudiated the name, and did it forcefully. not that he couldn't take his share of a bit of guying, but because he felt that he was face to face with a vital factor in the career he longed for--so he fought. and if nature had been niggardly in one respect, she had been generous in others; toddles, for all his size, possessed the heart of a lion and the strength of a young ox, and he used both, with black and bloody effect, on the eyes and noses of the call-boys and younger element who called him toddles. he fought it all along the line--at the drop of the hat--at a whisper of "toddles." there wasn't a day went by that toddles wasn't in a row; and the women, the mothers of the defeated warriors whose eyes were puffed and whose noses trickled crimson, denounced him in virulent language over their washtubs and the back fences of big cloud. you see, they didn't understand him, so they called him a "bad one," and, being from the east and not one of themselves, "a new york gutter snipe." but, for all that, the name stuck. up and down through the rockies it was--toddles. toddles, with the idea of getting a lay-over on a siding, even went to the extent of signing himself in full--christopher hyslop hoogan--every time his signature was in order; but the official documents in which he was concerned, being of a private nature between himself and the news company, did not, in the very nature of things, have much effect on the hill division. certainly the big fellows never knew he had any name but toddles--and cared less. but they knew him as toddles, all right! all of them did, every last one of them! toddles was everlastingly and eternally bothering them for a job. any kind of a job, no matter what, just so it was real railroading, and so a fellow could line up with everybody else when the paycar came along, and look forward to being something some day. toddles, with time, of course, grew older, up to about seventeen or so, but he didn't grow any bigger--not enough to make it noticeable! even toddles' voice wouldn't break--it was his young heart that did all the breaking there was done. not that he ever showed it. no one ever saw a tear in the boy's eyes. it was clenched fists for toddles, clenched fists and passionate attack. and therein, while toddles had grasped the basic truth that his nickname militated against his ambitions, he erred in another direction that was equally fundamental, if not more so. and here, it was bob donkin, the night despatcher, as white a man as his record after years of train-handling was white, a railroad man from the ground up if there ever was one, and one of the best, who set toddles-- but we'll come to that presently. we've got our "clearance" now, and we're off with "rights" through. no. , hawkeye's train--and toddles'--scheduled big cloud on the eastbound run at . ; and, on the night the story opens, they were about an hour away from the little mountain town that was the divisional point, as toddles, his basket of edibles in the crook of his arm, halted in the forward end of the second-class smoker to examine again the fistful of change that he dug out of his pants pocket with his free hand. toddles was in an unusually bad humor, and he scowled. with exceeding deftness he separated one of the coins from the others, using his fingers like the teeth of a rake, and dropped the rest back jingling into his pocket. the coin that remained he put into his mouth, and bit on it--hard. his scowl deepened. somebody had presented toddles with a lead quarter. it wasn't so much the quarter, though toddles' salary wasn't so big as some people's who would have felt worse over it, it was his _amour propre_ that was touched--deeply. it wasn't often that any one could put so bald a thing as lead money across on toddles. toddles' mind harked back along the aisles of the cars behind him. he had only made two sales that round, and he had changed a quarter each time--for the pretty girl with the big picture hat, who had giggled at him when she bought a package of chewing gum; and the man with the three-carat diamond tie-pin in the parlor car, a little more than on the edge of inebriety, who had got on at the last stop, and who had bought a cigar from him. toddles thought it over for a bit; decided he wouldn't have a fuss with a girl anyway, balked at a parlor car fracas with a drunk, dropped the coin back into his pocket, and went on into the combination baggage and express car. here, just inside the door, was toddles', or, rather, the news company's chest. toddles lifted the lid; and then his eyes shifted slowly and travelled up the car. things were certainly going badly with toddles that night. there were four men in the car: bob donkin, coming back from a holiday trip somewhere up the line; macnicoll, the baggage-master; nulty, the express messenger--and hawkeye. toddles' inventory of the contents of the chest had been hurried--but intimate. a small bunch of six bananas was gone, and hawkeye was munching them unconcernedly. it wasn't the first time the big, hulking, six-foot conductor had pilfered the boy's chest, not by many--and never paid for the pilfering. that was hawkeye's idea of a joke. hawkeye was talking to nulty, elaborately simulating ignorance of toddles' presence--and he was talking about toddles. "sure," said hawkeye, his mouth full of banana, "he'll be a great railroad man some day! he's the stuff they're made of! you can see it sticking out all over him! he's only selling peanuts now till he grows up and----" toddles put down his basket and planted himself before the conductor. "you pay for those bananas," said toddles in a low voice--which was high. "when'll he grow up?" continued hawkeye, peeling more fruit. "i don't know--you've got me. the first time i saw him two years ago, i'm hanged if he wasn't bigger than he is now--guess he grows backwards. have a banana?" he offered one to nulty, who refused it. "you pay for those bananas, you big stiff!" squealed toddles belligerently. hawkeye turned his head slowly and turned his little beady, black eyes on toddles, then he turned with a wink to the others, and for the first time in two years offered payment. he fished into his pocket and handed toddles a twenty-dollar bill--there always was a mean streak in hawkeye, more or less of a bully, none too well liked, and whose name on the payroll, by the way, was reynolds. "take fifteen cents out of that," he said, with no idea that the boy could change the bill. for a moment toddles glared at the yellow-back, then a thrill of unholy glee came to toddles. he could just about make it, business all around had been pretty good that day, particularly on the run west in the morning. hawkeye went on with the exposition of his idea of humor at toddles' expense; and toddles went back to his chest and his reserve funds. toddles counted out eighteen dollars in bills, made a neat pile of four quarters--the lead one on the bottom--another neat pile of the odd change, and returned to hawkeye. the lead quarter wouldn't go very far toward liquidating hawkeye's long-standing indebtedness--but it would help some. hawkeye counted the bills carefully, and crammed them into his pocket. toddles dropped the neat little pile of quarters into hawkeye's hand--they counted themselves--and hawkeye put those in his pocket. toddles counted out the odd change piece by piece, and as hawkeye put _that_ in his pocket--toddles put his fingers to his nose. queer, isn't it--the way things happen? think of a man's whole life, aspirations, hopes, ambitions, everything, pivoting on--a lead quarter! but then they say that opportunity knocks once at the door of every man; and, if that be true, let it be remarked in passing that toddles wasn't deaf! hawkeye, making toddles a target for a parting gibe, took up his lantern and started through the train to pick up the fares from the last stop. in due course he halted before the inebriated one with the glittering tie-pin in the smoking compartment of the parlor car. "ticket, please," said hawkeye. "too busy to buysh ticket," the man informed him, with heavy confidence. "whash fare loon dam to big cloud?" "one-fifty," said hawkeye curtly. the man produced a roll of bills, and from the roll extracted a two-dollar note. hawkeye handed him back two quarters, and started to punch a cash-fare slip. he looked up to find the man holding out one of the quarters insistently, if somewhat unsteadily. "what's the matter?" demanded hawkeye brusquely. "bad," said the man. a drummer grinned; and an elderly gentleman, from his magazine, looked up inquiringly over his spectacles. "bad!" hawkeye brought his elbow sharply around to focus his lamp on the coin; then he leaned over and rang it on the window sill--only it wouldn't ring. it was indubitably bad. hawkeye, however, was dealing with a drunk--and hawkeye always did have a mean streak in him. "it's perfectly good," he asserted gruffly. the man rolled an eye at the conductor that mingled a sudden shrewdness and anger, and appealed to his fellow travellers. the verdict was against hawkeye, and hawkeye ungraciously pocketed the lead piece and handed over another quarter. "shay," observed the inebriated one insolently, "shay, conductor, i don't like you. you thought i was--hic!--s'drunk i wouldn't know--eh? thash where you fooled yerself!" "what do you mean?" hawkeye bridled virtuously for the benefit of the drummer and the old gentleman with the spectacles. and then the other began to laugh immoderately. "same ol' quarter," said he. "same--hic!--ol' quarter back again. great system--peanut boy--conductor--hic! pass it off on one--other passes it off on some one else. just passed it off on--hic!--peanut boy for a joke. goin' to give him a dollar when he comes back." "oh, you did, did you!" snapped hawkeye ominously. "and you mean to insinuate that i deliberately tried to----" "sure!" declared the man heartily. "you're a liar!" announced hawkeye, spluttering mad. "and what's more, since it came from you, you'll take it back!" he dug into his pocket for the ubiquitous lead piece. "not--hic!--on your life!" said the man earnestly. "you hang onto it, old top. i didn't pass it off on you." "haw!" exploded the drummer suddenly. "haw--haw, haw!" and the elderly gentleman smiled. hawkeye's face went red, and then purple. "go 'way!" said the man petulantly. "i don't like you. go 'way! go an' tell peanuts i--hic!--got a dollar for him." and hawkeye went--but toddles never got the dollar. hawkeye went out of the smoking compartment of the parlor car with the lead quarter in his pocket--because he couldn't do anything else--which didn't soothe his feelings any--and he went out mad enough to bite himself. the drummer's guffaw followed him, and he thought he even caught a chuckle from the elderly party with the magazine and spectacles. hawkeye was mad; and he was quite well aware, painfully well aware that he had looked like a fool, which is about one of the meanest feelings there is to feel; and, as he made his way forward through the train, he grew madder still. that change was the change from his twenty-dollar bill. he had not needed to be told that the lead quarter had come from toddles. the only question at all in doubt was whether or not toddles had put the counterfeit coin over on him knowingly and with malice aforethought. hawkeye, however, had an intuition deep down inside of him that there wasn't any doubt even about that, and as he opened the door of the baggage car his intuition was vindicated. there was a grin on the faces of nulty, macnicoll and bob donkin that disappeared with suspicious celerity at sight of him as he came through the door. there was no hesitation then on hawkeye's part. toddles, equipped for another excursion through the train with a stack of magazines and books that almost hid him, received a sudden and vicious clout on the side of the ear. "you'd try your tricks on me, would you?" hawkeye snarled. "lead quarters--eh?" another clout. "i'll teach you, you blasted little runt!" and with the clouts, the stack of carefully balanced periodicals went flying over the floor; and with the clouts, the nagging, and the hectoring, and the bullying, that had rankled for close on two years in toddles' turbulent soul, rose in a sudden all-possessing sweep of fury. toddles was a fighter--with the heart of a fighter. and toddles' cause was just. he couldn't reach the conductor's face--so he went for hawkeye's legs. and the screams of rage from his high-pitched voice, as he shot himself forward, sounded like a cageful of australian cockatoos on the rampage. toddles was small, pitifully small for his age; but he wasn't an infant in arms--not for a minute. and in action toddles was as near to a wild cat as anything else that comes handy by way of illustration. two legs and one arm he twined and twisted around hawkeye's legs; and the other arm, with a hard and knotty fist on the end of it, caught the conductor a wicked jab in the region of the bottom button of the vest. the brass button peeled the skin off toddles' knuckles, but the jab doubled the conductor forward, and coincident with hawkeye's winded grunt, the lantern in his hand sailed ceilingwards, crashed into the center lamps in the roof of the car, and down in a shower of tinkling glass, dripping oil and burning wicks, came the wreckage to the floor. there was a yell from nulty; but toddles hung on like grim death. hawkeye was bawling fluent profanity and seeing red. toddles heard one and sensed the other--and he clung grimly on. he was all doubled up around hawkeye's knees, and in that position hawkeye couldn't get at him very well; and, besides, toddles had his own plan of battle. he was waiting for an extra heavy lurch of the car. it came. toddles' muscles strained legs and arms and back in concert, and for an instant across the car they tottered, hawkeye staggering in a desperate attempt to maintain his equilibrium--and then down--speaking generally, on a heterogeneous pile of express parcels; concretely, with an eloquent squnch, on a crate of eggs, thirty dozen of them, at forty cents a dozen. toddles, over his rage, experienced a sickening sense of disaster, but still he clung; he didn't dare let go. hawkeye's fists, both in an effort to recover himself and in an endeavor to reach toddles, were going like a windmill; and hawkeye's threats were something terrifying to listen to. and now they rolled over, and toddles was underneath; and then they rolled over again; and then a hand locked on toddles' collar, and he was yanked, terrier-fashion, to his feet. his face white and determined, his fists doubled, toddles waited for hawkeye to get up--the word "run" wasn't in toddles' vocabulary. he hadn't long to wait. hawkeye lunged up, draped in the broken crate--a sight. the road always prided itself on the natty uniforms of its train crews, but hawkeye wasn't dressed in uniform then--mostly egg yolks. he made a dash for toddles, but he never reached the boy. bob donkin was between them. "cut it out!" said donkin coldly, as he pushed toddles behind him. "you asked for it, reynolds, and you got it. now cut it out!" and hawkeye "cut it out." it was pretty generally understood that bob donkin never talked much for show, and bob donkin was bigger than toddles, a whole lot bigger, as big as hawkeye himself. hawkeye "cut it out." funny, the egg part of it? well, perhaps. but the fire wasn't. true, they got it out with the help of the hand extinguishers before it did any serious damage, for nulty had gone at it on the jump; but while it lasted the burning oil on the car floor looked dangerous. anyway, it was bad enough so that they couldn't hide it when they got into big cloud--and hawkeye and toddles went on the carpet for it the next morning in the super's office. carleton, "royal" carleton, reached for a match, and, to keep his lips straight, clamped them firmly on the amber mouthpiece of his brier, and stumpy, big-paunched tommy regan, the master mechanic, who was sitting in a chair by the window, reached hurriedly into his back pocket for his chewing and looked out of the window to hide a grin, as the two came in and ranged themselves in front of the super's desk--hawkeye, six feet and a hundred and ninety pounds, with toddles trailing him, mostly cap and buttons and no weight at all. carleton didn't ask many questions--he'd asked them before--of bob donkin--and the despatcher hadn't gone out of his way to invest the conductor with any glorified halo. carleton, always a strict disciplinarian, said what he had to say and said it quietly; but he meant to let the conductor have the worst of it, and he did--in a way that was all carleton's own. two years' picking on a youngster didn't appeal to carleton, no matter who the youngster was. before he was half through he had the big conductor squirming. hawkeye was looking for something else--besides a galling and matter-of-fact impartiality that accepted himself and toddles as being on exactly the same plane and level. "there's a case of eggs," said carleton at the end. "you can divide up the damage between you. and i'm going to change your runs, unless you've got some good reason to give me why i shouldn't?" he waited for an answer. hawkeye, towering, sullen, his eyes resting bitterly on regan, having caught the master mechanic's grin, said nothing; toddles, whose head barely showed over the top of carleton's desk, and the whole of him sizing up about big enough to go into the conductor's pocket, was equally silent--toddles was thinking of something else. "very good," said carleton suavely, as he surveyed the ridiculous incongruity before him. "i'll change your runs, then. i can't have you two men brawling and prize-fighting every trip." there was a sudden sound from the window, as though regan had got some of his blackstrap juice down the wrong way. hawkeye's face went black as thunder. carleton's face was like a sphinx. "that'll do, then," he said. "you can go, both of you." hawkeye stamped out of the room and down the stairs. but toddles stayed. "please, mr. carleton, won't you give me a job on----" toddles stopped. so had regan's chuckle. toddles, the irrepressible, was at it again--and toddles after a job, any kind of a job, was something that regan's experience had taught him to fly from without standing on the order of his flight. regan hurried from the room. toddles watched him go--kind of speculatively, kind of reproachfully. then he turned to carleton. "please give me a job, mr. carleton," he pleaded. "give me a job, won't you?" it was only yesterday on the platform that toddles had waylaid the super with the same demand--and about, every day before that as far back as carleton could remember. it was hopelessly chronic. anything convincing or appealing about it had gone long ago--toddles said it parrot-fashion now. carleton took refuge in severity. "see here, young man," he said grimly, "you were brought into this office for a reprimand and not to apply for a job! you can thank your stars and bob donkin you haven't lost the one you've got. now, get out!" "i'd make good if you gave me one," said toddles earnestly. "honest, i would, mr. carleton." "get out!" said the super, not altogether unkindly. "i'm busy." toddles swallowed a lump in his throat--but not until after his head was turned and he'd started for the door so the super couldn't see it. toddles swallowed the lump--and got out. he hadn't expected anything else, of course. the refusals were just as chronic as the demands. but that didn't make each new one any easier for toddles. it made it worse. toddles' heart was heavy as he stepped out into the hall, and the iron was in his soul. he was seventeen now, and it looked as though he never would get a chance--except to be a newsboy all his life. toddles swallowed another lump. he loved railroading; it was his one ambition, his one desire. if he could ever get a chance, he'd show them! he'd show them that he wasn't a joke, just because he was small! toddles turned at the head of the stairs to go down, when somebody called his name. "here--toddles! come here!" toddles looked over his shoulder, hesitated, then marched in through the open door of the despatchers' room. bob donkin was alone there. "what's your name--toddles?" inquired donkin, as toddles halted before the despatcher's table. toddles froze instantly--hard. his fists doubled; there was a smile on donkin's face. then his fists slowly uncurled; the smile on donkin's face had broadened, but there wasn't any malice in the smile. "christopher hyslop hoogan," said toddles, unbending. donkin put his hand quickly to his mouth--and coughed. "um-m!" said he pleasantly. "super hard on you this morning--hoogan?" and with the words toddles' heart went out to the big despatcher: "hoogan"--and a man-to-man tone. "no," said toddles cordially. "say, i thought you were on the night trick." "double-shift--short-handed," replied donkin. "come from new york, don't you?" "yes," said toddles. "mother and father down there still?" it came quick and unexpected, and toddles stared for a moment. then he walked over to the window. "i haven't got any," he said. there wasn't any sound for an instant, save the clicking of the instruments; then donkin spoke again--a little gruffly: "when are you going to quit making an ass of yourself?" toddles swung from the window, hurt. donkin, after all, was like all the rest of them. "well?" prompted the despatcher. "you go to blazes!" said toddles bitterly, and started for the door. donkin halted him. "you're only fooling yourself, hoogan," he said coolly. "if you wanted what you call a real railroad job as much as you pretend you do, you'd get one." "eh?" demanded toddles defiantly; and went back to the table. "a fellow," said donkin, putting a little sting into his words, "never got anywhere by going around with a chip on his shoulder fighting everybody because they called him toddles, and making a nuisance of himself with the big fellows until they got sick of the sight of him." it was a pretty stiff arraignment. toddles choked over it, and the angry blood flushed to his cheeks. "that's all right for you!" he spluttered out hotly. "you don't look too small for the train crews or the roundhouse, and they don't call you toddles so's nobody 'll forget it. what'd you do?" "i'll tell you what i'd do," said donkin quietly. "i'd make everybody on the division wish their own name was toddles before i was through with them, and i'd _make_ a job for myself." toddles blinked helplessly. "getting right down to a cash fare," continued donkin, after a moment, as toddles did not speak, "they're not so far wrong, either, about you sizing up pretty small for the train crews or the roundhouse, are they?" "no-o," admitted toddles reluctantly; "but----" "then why not something where there's no handicap hanging over you?" suggested the despatcher--and his hand reached out and touched the sender. "the key, for instance?" "but i don't know anything about it," said toddles, still helplessly. "that's just it," returned donkin smoothly. "you never tried to learn." toddles' eyes widened, and into toddles' heart leaped a sudden joy. a new world seemed to open out before him in which aspirations, ambitions, longings all were a reality. a key! that was real railroading, the top-notch of railroading, too. first an operator, and then a despatcher, and--and--and then his face fell, and the vision faded. "how'd i get a chance to learn?" he said miserably. "who'd teach me?" the smile was back on donkin's face as he pushed his chair from the table, stood up, and held out his hand--man-to-man fashion. "i will," he said. "i liked your grit last night, hoogan. and if you want to be a railroad man, i'll make you one--before i'm through. i've some old instruments you can have to practise with, and i've nothing to do in my spare time. what do you say?" toddles didn't say anything. for the first time since toddles' advent to the hill division, there were tears in toddles' eyes for some one else to see. donkin laughed. "all right, old man, you're on. see that you don't throw me down. and keep your mouth shut; you'll need all your wind. it's work that counts, and nothing else. now chase yourself! i'll dig up the things you'll need, and you can drop in here and get them when you come off your run to-night." spare time! bob donkin didn't have any spare time those days! but that was donkin's way. spence sick, and two men handling the despatching where three had handled it before, didn't leave bob donkin much spare time--not much. but a boost for the kid was worth a sacrifice. donkin went at it as earnestly as toddles did--and toddles was in deadly earnest. when toddles left the despatcher's office that morning with donkin's promise to teach him the key, toddles had a hazy idea that donkin had wings concealed somewhere under his coat and was an angel in disguise; and at the end of two weeks he was sure of it. but at the end of a month bob donkin was a god! throw bob donkin down! toddles would have sold his soul for the despatcher. it wasn't easy, though; and bob donkin wasn't an easy-going taskmaster, not by long odds. donkin had a tongue, and on occasions could use it. short and quick in his explanations, he expected his pupil to get it short and quick; either that, or donkin's opinion of him. but toddles stuck. he'd have crawled on his knees for donkin anywhere, and he worked like a major--not only for his own advancement, but for what he came to prize quite as much, if not more, donkin's approval. toddles, mindful of donkin's words, didn't fight so much as the days went by, though he found it difficult to swear off all at once; and on his runs he studied his morse code, and he had the "calls" of every station on the division off by heart right from the start. toddles mastered the "sending" by leaps and bounds; but the "taking" came slower, as it does for everybody--but even at that, at the end of six weeks, if it wasn't thrown at him too fast and hard, toddles could get it after a fashion. take it all around, toddles felt like whistling most of the time; and, pleased with his own progress, looked forward to starting in presently as a full-fledged operator. he mentioned the matter to bob donkin--once. donkin picked his words and spoke fervently. toddles never brought the subject up again. and so things went on. late summer turned to early fall, and early fall to still sharper weather, until there came the night that the operator at blind river muddled his orders and gave no. , the westbound fast freight, her clearance against the second section of the eastbound limited that doomed them to meet somewhere head-on in the glacier cañon; the night that toddles--but there's just a word or two that comes before. when it was all over, it was up to sam beale, the blind river operator, straight enough. beale blundered. that's all there was to it; that covers it all--he blundered. it would have finished beale's railroad career forever and a day--only beale played the man, and the instant he realized what he had done, even while the tail lights of the freight were disappearing down the track and he couldn't stop her, he was stammering the tale of his mistake over the wire, the sweat beads dripping from his wrist, his face gray with horror, to bob donkin under the green-shaded lamp in the despatchers' room at big cloud, miles away. donkin got the miserable story over the chattering wire--got it before it was half told--cut beale out and began to pound the gap call. and as though it were before him in reality, that stretch of track, fifteen miles of it, from blind river to the gap, unfolded itself like a grisly panorama before his mind. there wasn't a half mile of tangent at a single stretch in the whole of it. it swung like the writhings of a snake, through cuts and tunnels, hugging the cañon walls, twisting this way and that. anywhere else there might be a chance, one in a thousand even, that they would see each other's headlights in time--here it was disaster quick and absolute. donkin's lips were set in a thin, straight line. the gap answered him; and the answer was like the knell of doom. he had not expected anything else; he had only hoped against hope. the second section of the limited had pulled out of the gap, eastbound, two minutes before. the two trains were in the open against each other's orders. in the next room, carleton and regan, over their pipes, were at their nightly game of pedro. donkin called them--and his voice sounded strange to himself. chairs scraped and crashed to the floor, and an instant later the super and the master mechanic were in the room. "what's wrong, bob?" carleton flung the words from him in a single breath. donkin told them. but his fingers were on the key again as he talked. there was still one chance, worse than the thousand-to-one shot; but it was the only one. between the gap and blind river, eight miles from the gap, seven miles from blind river, was cassil's siding. but there was no night man at cassil's, and the little town lay a mile from the station. it was ten o'clock--donkin's watch lay face up on the table before him--the day man at cassil's went off at seven--the chance was that the day man might have come back to the station for something or other! not much of a chance? no--not much! it was a possibility, that was all; and donkin's fingers worked--the seventeen, the life and death--calling, calling on the night trick to the day man at cassil's siding. carleton came and stood at donkin's elbow, and regan stood at the other; and there was silence now, save only for the key that, under donkin's fingers, seemed to echo its stammering appeal about the room like the sobbing of a human soul. "cs--cs--cs," donkin called; and then, "the seventeen," and then, "hold second number two." and then the same thing over and over again. and there was no answer. it had turned cold that night and there was a fire in the little heater. donkin had opened the draft a little while before, and the sheet-iron sides now began to pur red-hot. nobody noticed it. regan's kindly, good-humored face had the stamp of horror in it, and he pulled at his scraggly brown mustache, his eyes seemingly fascinated by donkin's fingers. everybody's eyes, the three of them, were on donkin's fingers and the key. carleton was like a man of stone, motionless, his face set harder than face was ever carved in marble. it grew hot in the room; but donkin's fingers were like ice on the key, and, strong man though he was, he faltered. "oh, my god!" he whispered--and never a prayer rose more fervently from lips than those three broken words. again he called, and again, and again. the minutes slipped away. still he called--with the life and death--the "seventeen"--called and called. and there was no answer save that echo in the room that brought the perspiration streaming now from regan's face, a harder light into carleton's eyes, and a chill like death into donkin's heart. suddenly donkin pushed back his chair; and his fingers, from the key, touched the crystal of his watch. "the second section will have passed cassil's now," he said in a curious, unnatural, matter-of-fact tone. "it'll bring them together about a mile east of there--in another minute." and then carleton spoke--master railroader, "royal" carleton, it was up to him then, all the pity of it, the ruin, the disaster, the lives out, all the bitterness to cope with as he could. and it was in his eyes, all of it. but his voice was quiet. it rang quick, peremptory, his voice--but quiet. "clear the line, bob," he said. "plug in the roundhouse for the wrecker--and tell them to send uptown for the crew." toddles? what did toddles have to do with this? well, a good deal, in one way and another. we're coming to toddles now. you see, toddles, since his fracas with hawkeye, had been put on the elk river local run that left big cloud at . in the morning for the run west, and scheduled big cloud again on the return trip at . in the evening. it had turned cold that night, after a day of rain. pretty cold--the thermometer can drop on occasions in the late fall in the mountains--and by eight o'clock, where there had been rain before, there was now a thin sheeting of ice over everything--very thin--you know the kind--rails and telegraph wires glistening like the decorations on a christmas tree--very pretty--and also very nasty running on a mountain grade. likewise, the rain, in a way rain has, had dripped from the car roofs to the platforms--the local did not boast any closed vestibules--and had also been blown upon the car steps with the sweep of the wind, and, having frozen, it stayed there. not a very serious matter; annoying, perhaps, but not serious, demanding a little extra caution, that was all. toddles was in high fettle that night. he had been getting on famously of late; even bob donkin had admitted it. toddles, with his stack of books and magazines, an unusually big one, for a number of the new periodicals were out that day, was dreaming rosy dreams to himself as he started from the door of the first-class smoker to the door of the first-class coach. in another hour now he'd be up in the despatcher's room at big cloud for his nightly sitting with bob donkin. he could see bob donkin there now; and he could hear the big despatcher growl at him in his bluff way: "use your head--use your head--_hoogan_!" it was always "hoogan," never "toddles." "use your head"--donkin was everlastingly drumming that into him; for the despatcher used to confront him suddenly with imaginary and hair-raising emergencies, and demand toddles' instant solution. toddles realized that donkin was getting to the heart of things, and that some day he, toddles, would be a great despatcher--like donkin. "use your head, hoogan"--that's the way donkin talked--"anybody can learn a key, but that doesn't make a railroad man out of him. it's the man when trouble comes who can think quick and think _right_. use your----" toddles stepped out on the platform--and walked on ice. but that wasn't toddles' undoing. the trouble with toddles was that he was walking on air at the same time. it was treacherous running, they were nosing a curve, and in the cab, kinneard, at the throttle, checked with a little jerk at the "air." and with the jerk, toddles slipped; and with the slip, the center of gravity of the stack of periodicals shifted, and they bulged ominously from the middle. toddles grabbed at them--and his heels went out from under him. he ricochetted down the steps, snatched desperately at the handrail, missed it, shot out from the train, and, head, heels, arms and body going every which way at once, rolled over and over down the embankment. and, starting from the point of toddles' departure from the train, the right of way for a hundred yards was strewn with "the latest magazines" and "new books just out to-day." toddles lay there, a little, curled, huddled heap, motionless in the darkness. the tail lights of the local disappeared. no one aboard would miss toddles until they got into big cloud--and found him gone. which is irish for saying that no one would attempt to keep track of a newsboy's idiosyncrasies on a train; it would be asking too much of any train crew; and, besides, there was no mention of it in the rules. it was a long while before toddles stirred; a very long while before consciousness crept slowly back to him. then he moved, tried to get up--and fell back with a quick, sharp cry of pain. he lay still, then, for a moment. his ankle hurt him frightfully, and his back, and his shoulder, too. he put his hand to his face where something seemed to be trickling warm--and brought it away wet. toddles, grim little warrior, tried to think. they hadn't been going very fast when he fell off. if they had, he would have been killed. as it was, he was hurt, badly hurt, and his head swam, nauseating him. where was he? was he near any help? he'd have to get help somewhere, or--or with the cold and--and everything he'd probably die out here before morning. toddles shouted out--again and again. perhaps his voice was too weak to carry very far; anyway, there was no reply. he looked up at the top of the embankment, clamped his teeth, and started to crawl. if he got up there, perhaps he could tell where he was. it had taken toddles a matter of seconds to roll down; it took him ten minutes of untold agony to get up. then he dashed his hand across his eyes where the blood was, and cried a little with the surge of relief. east, down the track, only a few yards away, the green eye of a switch lamp winked at him. where there was a switch lamp there was a siding, and where there was a siding there was promise of a station. toddles, with the sudden uplift upon him, got to his feet and started along the track--two steps--and went down again. he couldn't walk, the pain was more than he could bear--his right ankle, his left shoulder, and his back--hopping only made it worse--it was easier to crawl. and so toddles crawled. it took him a long time even to pass the switch light. the pain made him weak, his senses seemed to trail off giddily every now and then, and he'd find himself lying flat and still beside the track. it was a white, drawn face that toddles lifted up each time he started on again--miserably white, except where the blood kept trickling from his forehead. and then toddles' heart, stout as it was, seemed to snap. he had reached the station platform, wondering vaguely why the little building that loomed ahead was dark--and now it came to him in a flash, as he recognized the station. it was cassil's siding--_and there was no night man at cassil's siding_! the switch lights were lit before the day man left, of course. everything swam before toddles' eyes. there--there was no help here. and yet--yet perhaps--desperate hope came again--perhaps there might be. the pain was terrible--all over him. and--and he'd got so weak now--but it wasn't far to the door. toddles squirmed along the platform, and reached the door finally--only to find it shut and fastened. and then toddles fainted on the threshold. when toddles came to himself again, he thought at first that he was up in the despatcher's room at big cloud with bob donkin pounding away on the battered old key they used to practise with--only there seemed to be something the matter with the key, and it didn't sound as loud as it usually did--it seemed to come from a long way off somehow. and then, besides, bob was working it faster than he had ever done before when they were practising. "hold second"--second something--toddles couldn't make it out. then the "seventeen"--yes, he knew that--that was the life and death. bob was going pretty quick, though. then "cs--cs--cs"--toddles' brain fumbled a bit over that--then it came to him. cs was the call for cassil's siding. _cassil's siding_! toddles' head came up with a jerk. a little cry burst from toddles' lips--and his brain, cleared. he wasn't at big cloud at all--he was at cassil's siding--and he was hurt--and that was the sounder inside calling, calling frantically for cassil's siding---where he was. the life and death--_the seventeen_--it sent a thrill through toddles' pain-twisted spine. he wriggled to the window. it, too, was closed, of course, but he could hear better there. the sounder was babbling madly. "hold second----" he missed it again--and as, on top of it, the "seventeen" came pleading, frantic, urgent, he wrung his hands. "hold second"--he got it this time--"number two." toddles' first impulse was to smash in the window and reach the key. and then, like a dash of cold water over him, donkin's words seemed to ring in his ears: "use your head." with the "seventeen" it meant a matter of minutes, perhaps even seconds. why smash the window? why waste the moment required to do it simply to answer the call? the order stood for itself--"hold second number two." that was the second section of the limited, east-bound. hold her! how? there was nothing--not a thing to stop her with. "use your head," said donkin in a far-away voice to toddles' wobbling brain. toddles looked up the track--west--where he had come from--to where the switch light twinkled green at him--and, with a little sob, he started to drag himself back along the platform. if he could throw the switch, it would throw the light from green to red, and--and the limited would take the siding. but the switch was a long way off. toddles half fell, half bumped from the end of the platform to the right of way. he cried to himself with low moans as he went along. he had the heart of a fighter, and grit to the last tissue; but he needed it all now--needed it all to stand the pain and fight the weakness that kept swirling over him in flashes. on he went, on his hands and knees, slithering from tie to tie---and from one tie to the next was a great distance. the life and death, the despatcher's call--he seemed to hear it yet--throbbing, throbbing on the wire. on he went, up the track; and the green eye of the lamp, winking at him, drew nearer. and then suddenly, clear and mellow through the mountains, caught up and echoed far and near, came the notes of a chime whistle ringing down the gorge. fear came upon toddles then, and a great sob shook him. that was the limited coming now! toddles' fingers dug into the ballast, and he hurried--that is, in bitter pain, he tried to crawl a little faster. and as he crawled, he kept his eyes strained up the track--she wasn't in sight yet around the curve--not yet, anyway. another foot, only another foot, and he would reach the siding switch--in time--in plenty of time. again the sob--but now in a burst of relief that, for the moment, made him forget his hurts. he was in time! he flung himself at the switch lever, tugged upon it--and then, trembling, every ounce of remaining strength seeming to ooze from him, he covered his face with his hands. it was _locked_--padlocked. came a rumble now--a distant roar, growing louder and louder, reverberating down the cañon walls--louder and louder--nearer and nearer. "hold second number two. hold second number two"--the "seventeen," the life and death, pleading with him to hold number two. and she was coming now, coming--and--and--the switch was locked. the deadly nausea racked toddles again; there was nothing to do now--nothing. he couldn't stop her--couldn't stop her. he'd--he'd tried--very hard--and--and he couldn't stop her now. he took his hands from his face, and stole a glance up the track, afraid almost, with the horror that was upon him, to look. she hadn't swung the curve yet, but she would in a minute--and come pounding down the stretch at fifty miles an hour, shoot by him like a rocket to where, somewhere ahead, in some form, he did not know what, only knew that it was there, death and ruin and---- "_use your head!_" snapped donkin's voice to his consciousness. toddles' eyes were on the light above his head. it blinked _red_ at him as he stood on the track facing it; the green rays were shooting up and down the line. he couldn't swing the switch--but the _lamp_ was there--and there was the red side to show just by turning it. he remembered then that the lamp fitted into a socket at the top of the switch stand, and could be lifted off--if he could reach it! it wasn't very high--for an ordinary-sized man--for an ordinary-sized man had to get at it to trim and fill it daily--only toddles wasn't an ordinary-sized man. it was just nine or ten feet above the rails--just a standard siding switch. toddles gritted his teeth, and climbed upon the base of the switch--and nearly fainted as his ankle swung against the rod. a foot above the base was a footrest for a man to stand on and reach up for the lamp, and toddles drew himself up and got his foot on it--and then at his full height the tips of his fingers only just touched the bottom of the lamp. toddles cried aloud, and the tears streamed down his face now. oh, if he weren't hurt--if he could only shin up another foot--but--but it was all he could do to hang there where he was. _what was that_! he turned his head. up the track, sweeping in a great circle as it swung the curve, a headlight's glare cut through the night--and toddles "shinned" the foot. he tugged and tore at the lamp, tugged and tore at it, loosened it, lifted it from its socket, sprawled and wriggled with it to the ground--and turned the red side of the lamp against second number two. the quick, short blasts of a whistle answered, then the crunch and grind and scream of biting brake-shoes--and the big mountain racer, the , pulling the second section of the limited that night, stopped with its pilot nosing a diminutive figure in a torn and silver-buttoned uniform, whose hair was clotted red, and whose face was covered with blood and dirt. masters, the engineer, and pete leroy, his fireman, swung from the gangways; kelly, the conductor, came running up from the forward coach. kelly shoved his lamp into toddles' face--and whistled low under his breath. "toddles!" he gasped; and then, quick as a steel trap: "what's wrong?" "i don't know," said toddles weakly. "there's--there's something wrong. get into the clear--on the siding." "something wrong," repeated kelly, "and you don't----" but masters cut the conductor short with a grab at the other's arm that was like the shutting of a vise--and then bolted for his engine like a gopher for its hole. from, down the track came the heavy, grumbling roar of a freight. everybody flew then, and there was quick work done in the next half minute--and none too quickly done--the limited was no more than on the siding when the fast freight rolled her long string of flats, boxes and gondolas thundering by. and while she passed, toddles, on the platform, stammered out his story to kelly. kelly didn't say anything--then. with the express messenger and a brakeman carrying toddles, kelly kicked in the station door, and set his lamp down on the operator's table. "hold me up," whispered toddles--and, while they held him, he made the despatcher's call. big cloud answered him on the instant. haltingly, toddles reported the second section "in" and the freight "out"--only he did it very slowly, and he couldn't think very much more, for things were going black. he got an order for the limited to run to blind river and told kelly, and got the "complete"--and then big cloud asked who was on the wire, and toddles answered that in a mechanical sort of a way without quite knowing what he was doing--and went limp in kelly's arms. and as toddles answered, back in big cloud, regan, the sweat still standing out in great beads on his forehead, fierce now in the revulsion of relief, glared over donkin's left shoulder, as donkin's left hand scribbled on a pad what was coming over the wire. regan glared fiercely--then he spluttered: "who in hell's christopher hyslop hoogan--h'm?" donkin's lips had a queer smile on them. "toddles," he said. regan sat down heavily in his chair. "_what?_" demanded the super. "toddles," said donkin. "i've been trying to drum a little railroading into him--on the key." regan wiped his face. he looked helplessly from donkin to the super, and then back again at donkin. "but--but what's he doing at cassil's siding? how'd he get there--h'm? h'm? how'd he get there?" "i don't know," said donkin, his fingers rattling the cassil's siding call again. "he doesn't answer any more. we'll have to wait for the story till they make blind river, i guess." and so they waited. and presently at blind river, kelly, dictating to the operator--not beale, beale's day man--told the story. it lost nothing in the telling--kelly wasn't that kind of a man--he told them what toddles had done, and he left nothing out; and he added that they had toddles on a mattress in the baggage car, with a doctor they had discovered amongst the passengers looking after him. at the end, carleton tamped down the dottle in the bowl of his pipe thoughtfully with his forefinger--and glanced at donkin. "got along far enough to take a station key somewhere?" he inquired casually. "he's made a pretty good job of it as the night operator at cassil's." donkin was smiling. "not yet," he said. "no?" carleton's eyebrows went up. "well, let him come in here with you, then, till he has; and when you say he's ready, we'll see what we can do. i guess it's coming to him; and i guess"--he shifted his glance to the master mechanic--"i guess we'll go down and meet number two when she comes in, tommy." regan grinned. "with our hats in our hands," said the big-hearted master mechanic. donkin shook his head. "don't you do it," he said. "i don't want him to get a swelled head." carleton stared; and regan's hand, reaching into his back pocket for his chewing, stopped midway. donkin was still smiling. "i'm going to make a railroad man out of toddles," he said. ii owsley and the his name was owsley--jake owsley--and he was a railroad man before ever he came to big cloud and the hill division--before ever the hill division was even advanced to the blue-print stage, before steel had ever spider-webbed the stubborn rockies, before the herculean task of bridging a continent was more than a thought in even the most ambitious minds. owsley was an engineer, and he came from the east, when they broke ground at big cloud for a start toward the western goal through the mighty range, a comparatively young man--thirty, or thereabouts. then, inch by inch and foot by foot, owsley, with his ballast cars and his boxes and his flats bumping material behind him, followed the construction gangs as they burrowed and blasted and trestled their way along--day in, day out, month in, month out, until the years went by, and they were through the rockies, with the coast and the blue of the pacific in sight. first over every bridge and culvert, first through every cut, first through every tunnel shorn in the bitter gray rock of the mountain sides, the pilot of owsley's engine nosed its way; and, when the rough of the work was over, and in the hysteria of celebration, the toll of lives, the hardships and the cost were forgotten for the moment, and the directors and their guests crowded the cab and perched on running boards and footplates till you couldn't see the bunting they'd draped the engine with, and the mahogany coaches behind looked like the striped sticks of candy the kids buy on account of more bunting, and then some, and the local band they'd brought along from big cloud got the mouthpieces of their trombones and cornets mixed up with the necks of champagne bottles, and the indian braves squatted gravely at different points along the trackside and thought their white brothers had gone mad, owsley was at the throttle for the first through run over the division--it was owsley's due. then other years went by, and the steel was shaken down into the permanent right of way that is an engineering marvel to-day, and owsley still held a throttle on a through run--just kept growing a little older, that was all--but one of the best of them, for all that--steadier than the younger men, wise in experience, and with a love for his engine that was like the love of a man for a woman. it's a strange thing, perhaps, a love like that; but, strange or not, there was never an engineer worth his salt who hasn't had it--some more than others, of course--as some men's love for a woman is deeper than others. with owsley it came pretty near being the whole thing, and it was queer enough to see him when they'd change his engine to give him a newer and more improved type for a running mate. he'd refuse point-blank at first to be separated from the obsolete engine, that was either carded for some local jerk-water, mixed-freight run, or for a construction job somewhere. "leave her with me," he'd say to regan, the master mechanic. "leave me with her. you can give my run to some one else, regan, d'ye mind? it's little i care for the swell run; me and the old girl sticks. i'll have nothing else." but the bluff, fat, big-hearted, good-natured, little master mechanic, knew his man--and he knew an engineer when he saw one. regan would no more have thought of letting owsley get away from the imperial's throttle than he would have thought of putting call boys in the cabs to run his engines. "h'm!" he would say, blinking fast at owsley. "feel that way, do you? well, then, mabbe it's about time you quit altogether. i didn't offer you your choice, did i? you take the imperial with what i give you to take her with--or take nothing. think it over!" and owsley, perforce, had to "think it over"--and, perforce, he stayed on the limited run. came then the day when changes in engine types were not so frequent, and a fair maximum in machine-design efficiency had been obtained--and owsley came to love, more than he had ever loved any engine before, his big, powerful, -class racer, with its four pairs of massive drivers, that took the curves with the grace of a circling bird, that laughed in glee at anything lower than a three per cent grade, and tackled the "fives" with no more than a grunt of disdain--owsley and the , right from the start, clipped fifty-five minutes off the running time of the imperial limited through the rockies, where before it had been nip and tuck to make the old schedule anywhere near the dot. for three years it was owsley and the ; for three years east and west through the mountains--and a smile in the roundhouse at him as he nursed and cuddled and groomed his big flyer, in from a run. not now--they don't smile now about it. it was owsley and the for three years--and at the end it was still owsley and the . the two are coupled together--they never speak of one on the hill division without the other--owsley and the . owsley! one of the old guard who answered the roll call at the birth of the hill division! forty years a railroader--call boy at ten--twenty years of service, counting the construction period, on the hill division! straight and upright as a young sapling at fifty-odd, with a swing through the gangway that the younger men tried to imitate; hair short-cropped, a little grizzled; gray, steady eyes; a beard whose color, once brown, was nondescript, kind of shading tawny and gray in streaks; a slim, little man, overalled and jumpered, with greasy, peaked cap--and, wifeless, without kith or kin save his engine, the star boarder at mrs. mccann's short-order house. liked by everybody, known by everybody on the division down to the last polack construction hand, quiet, no bluster about him, full of good-humored fun, ready to take his part or do his share in anything going, from a lodge minstrel show to sitting up all night and playing trained nurse to anybody that needed one--that was owsley. oh, you, in your millions, who ride in trains by day and night, do you ever give a thought to the men into whose keeping you hand your lives? does it ever occur to you that they are not just part of the equipment of iron and wood and steel and rolling things to be accepted callously, as bought and paid for with the strip of ticket that you hold, animate only that you may voice your grumblings and your discontent at some delay that saves you probably from being hurled into eternity while you chafe impatiently and childishly at something you know nothing about--that they, like you, are human too, with hopes achieved and aspirations shattered, and plans and interests in life? have you ever thought that there was a human side to railroading, and that--but we were speaking of owsley, jake owsley, perhaps you'll understand a little better farther on along the right of way. elbow bend, were it not for the insurmountable obstacles that dame nature had seen fit to place there--the bed of the glacier river on one side and a sheer rock base of mountain on the other--would have been a black mark against the record of the engineering corps who built the station. speaking generally, it's not good railroad practice to put a station on a curve--when it can be helped. elbow bend, the whole of it, main line and siding, made a curve--that's how it got its name. and yet, in a way, it wasn't the curve that was to blame; though, too, in a way, it was--owsley had a patched eye that night from a bit of steel that had got into it in the afternoon, nothing much, but a patch on it to keep the cold and the sweep of the wind out. it was the eastbound run, and, to make up for the loss of time a slow order over new construction work back a dozen miles or so had cost him, the was hitting a pretty fast clip as he whistled for elbow bend. owsley checked just a little as he nosed the curve--the imperial limited made no stop at elbow bend--and then, as the sort of got her footing, so to speak, on the long bend, he opened her out again, and the storm of exhausts from her short, stubby stack went echoing through the mountains like the play of artillery. the light of the west-end siding switch flashed by like a scintillating gem in the darkness. brannigan, owsley's fireman, pulled his door, shooting the cab and the heavens full of leaping, fiery red, and swung to the tender for a shovelful of coal. owsley, crouched a little forward in his seat, his body braced against the cant of the mogul on the curve, was "feeling" the throttle with careful hand, as he peered ahead through the cab glass. came the station lights; the black bulk of a locomotive, cascading steam from her safety, on the siding; and then the thundering reverberation as the began to sweep past a long, curving line of boxes, flats and gondolas, the end of which owsley could not see--for the curve. owsley relaxed a little. that was right--extra no. , west, was to cross him at elbow bend--and she was on the siding as she should be. his headlight, streaming out at a tangent to the curve, played its ray kaleidoscopically along the sides of the string of freights, now edging the roof of a box car, now opening a hole to the gray rock of the cut when a flat or two intervened--and then, sudden, quick as doom, with a yell from his fireman ringing in his ears, owsley, his jaws clamping like a steel trap, flung his arm forward, jamming the throttle shut, while with the other hand he grabbed at the "air." owsley had seen it, too--as quick as brannigan--a figure, arms waving frantically, for a fleeting second strangely silhouetted in the dancing headlight's glare on the roof of one of the box cars. a wild shout from the man, fluttering, indistinguishable, reached them as they roared by--then the grind and scream of brake-shoes as the "air" went on--the answering shudder vibrating through the cab of the big racer--the meeting clash of buffer plates echoing down the length of the train behind--and a queer obstructing blackness dead ahead ere the headlight, tardy in its sweep, could point the way--but owsley knew now--too late. brannigan screamed in his ear. "she ain't in the clear!" he screamed. "it's a swipe! she ain't in the clear!" he screamed again--and took a flying leap through the off-side gangway. owsley never turned his head--only held there, grim-faced, tight-lipped, facing what was to come--facing it with clear head, quick brain, doing what he could to lessen the disaster, as forty years had schooled him to face emergency. owsley--for forty years with his record, until that moment, as clean and unsmirched as the day he started as a kid calling train crews back in the little division town on the penn in the far east! strange it should come to owsley, the one man of all you'd never think it would! it's hard to understand the running orders of the great trainmaster sometimes--isn't it? and sometimes it doesn't help much to realize that we never will understand this side of the great divide--does it? the headlight caught it now--seemed to gloat upon it in a flood of blazing, insolent light--the rear cars of the freight crawling frantically from the main line to the siding--then the pitiful yellow from the cupola of the caboose, the light from below filtering up through the windows. it seared into owsley's brain lightning quick, but vivid in every detail in a horrible, fascinating way. it was a second, the fraction of a second since brannigan had jumped--it might have been an hour. the front of the caboose seemed to leap suddenly at the , seemed to rise up in the air and hurl itself at the straining engine as though in impotent fury at unwarranted attack. there was a terrific crash, the groan and rend of timber, the sickening grind and crunch as the van went to matchwood--the debris hurtling along the running boards, shattering the cab glass in flying splinters--and owsley dropped where he stood--like a log. and the pony truck caught the tongue of the open switch, and, with a vicious, nasty lurch, the wrenched herself loose from her string of coaches, staggered like a lost and drunken soul a few yards along the ties--and turned turtle in the ditch. it was a bad spill, but it might have been worse, a great deal worse--a box car and the van for the junk heap, and the for the shops to repair fractures--and nobody hurt except owsley. but they couldn't make head or tail of the cause of it. everybody went on the carpet for it--and still it was a mystery. the main line was clear at the west end of the siding, and the switch was right; everybody was agreed on that, and it showed that way on the face of it--and that was as it should have been. the operator at elbow bend swore that he had shown his red, and that it was showing when the limited swept by. he said he knew it was going to be a close shave whether the freight, a little late and crowding the limited's running time, would be clear of the main line without delaying the express, and he had shown his red before ever he had heard her whistle--his red was showing. the engine crew and the train crew of extra no. , west, backed the operator up--the red was showing. brannigan, the fireman, didn't count as a witness. the only light he'd seen at all was the west-end switch light, the curve had hidden anything ahead until after he'd pulled his door and turned to the tender for coal, and by then they were past the station. and owsley, pretty badly smashed up, and in bed down in mrs. mccann's short-order house, talked kind of queer when he got around to where he could talk at all. they asked him what color light the station semaphore was showing, and owsley said white--white as the moon. that's what he said--white as the moon. and they weren't quite sure he understood what they were driving at. for a week that's all they could make out of it, and then, with regan scratching his head over it one day in confab with carleton, the superintendent, it came more by chance than anything else. "blamed if i know what to make of it!" he growled. "ordinary, six men's words would be the end of it, but owsley's the best man that ever latched a throttle in our cabs, and for twenty years his record's cleaner than a baby's. what he says now don't count, because he ain't right again yet; but what you can't get away from is the fact that owsley's not the man to have slipped a signal. either the six of them are doing him cold to save their own skins, or there's something queer about it." carleton, "royal" carleton, in his grave, quiet way, shook his head. "we've been trying hard enough to get to the bottom of it, tommy," he said. "i wish to the lord we could. i don't think the men are lying--they tell a pretty straight story. i've been wondering about that patch owsley had on his eye, and----" "what's that got to do with it?" cut in the blunt little master mechanic, who made no bones about his fondness for the engineer. "he isn't blind in the other, is he?" carleton stared at the master mechanic for a moment, pulling ruminatively at his brier; then--they were in the super's office at the time--his fist came down with a sudden bang upon the desk. "i believe you've got it, tommy!" he exclaimed. "believe i've got it!" echoed regan, and his hand half-way to his mouth with his plug of chewing stopped in mid-air. "got what? i said he wasn't blind in the other, and neither he is--you know that as well as i do." "wait!" said carleton. "it's very rare, i know, but it seems to me i've heard of it. wait a minute, tommy." he was leaning over from his chair and twirling the little revolving bookcase beside the desk, as he spoke--not a large library was carleton's, just a few technical books, and his cherished britannica. he pulled out a volume of the encyclopedia, laid it upon his desk, and began to turn the leaves. "yes, here it is," he said, after a moment. "listen"--and he commenced to read rapidly: "'the most common form of daltonism'--that's color-blindness you know, tommy--'depends on the absence of the red sense. great additions to our knowledge of this subject, if only in confirmation of results already deduced from theory, have been obtained in the last few years by holmgren, who has experimented on two persons, each of whom was found to have _one color-blind eye_, the other being nearly normal." "color-blind!" spluttered the master mechanic. "in one eye," said carleton, sort of as though he were turning a problem over in his mind. "that would account for it all, tommy. as far as i know, one doesn't go color-blind--one is born that way--and if this is what's at the bottom of it, owsley's been color-blind all his life in one eye, and probably didn't know what was the matter. that would account for his passing the tests, and would account for what happened at elbow bend. it was the patch that did it--you remember what he said--the light was white as the moon." "and he's out!" stormed regan. "out for keeps--after forty years. say, d'ye know what this'll mean to owsley--do you, eh, do you? it'll be hell for him, carleton--he thinks more of his engine than a woman does of her child." carleton closed the volume and replaced it mechanically in the bookcase. regan's teeth met in his plug and jerked savagely at the tobacco. "i wish to blazes you hadn't read that!" he muttered fiercely. "what's to be done now?" "i'm afraid there's only one thing to be done," carleton answered gravely. "sentiment doesn't let us out--there's too many lives at stake every time he takes out an engine. he'll have to try the color test with a patch over the same eye he had it on that night. perhaps, after all, i'm wrong, and----" "he's out!" said the master mechanic gruffly. "he's out--i don't need any test to know that now. that's what's the matter, and no other thing on earth. it's rough, damn rough, ain't it--after forty years?"--and regan, with a short laugh, strode to the window and stood staring out at the choked railroad yards below him. and regan was right. three weeks later, when he got out of bed, owsley took the color test under the queerest conditions that ever a railroad man took it--with his right eye bandaged--and failed utterly. but owsley didn't quite seem to understand--and little doctor mcturk, the company surgeon, was badly worried, and had been all along. owsley was a long way from being the same owsley he was before the accident. not physically--that way he was shaping up pretty well, but his head seemed to bother him--he seemed to have lost his grip on a whole lot of things. they gave him the test more to settle the point in their own minds, but they knew before they gave it to him that it wasn't much use as far as he was concerned one way or the other. there was more than a mere matter of color wrong with owsley now. and maybe that was the kindest thing that could have happened to him, maybe it made it easier for him since the colors barred him anyway from ever pulling a throttle again--not to understand! they tried to tell him he hadn't passed the color test--regan tried to tell him in a clumsy, big-hearted way, breaking it as easy as he could--and owsley laughed as though he were pleased--just laughed, and with a glance at the clock and a jerky pull at his watch for comparison, a way he had of doing, walked out of riley's, the trainmaster's office, and started across the tracks for the roundhouse. owsley's head wasn't working right--it was as though the mechanism was running down--the memory kind of tapering off. but the , his engine--stuck. and it was train time when he walked out of riley's office that afternoon--the first afternoon he'd been out of bed and mrs. mccann's motherly hands since the night at elbow bend. perhaps you'll smile a little tolerantly at this, and perhaps you'll say the story's "cooked." well, perhaps! if you think that way about it, you'll probably smile more broadly still, and with the same grounds for a smile, before we make division and sign the train register at the end of the run. anyway, that afternoon, as owsley, out for the first time, walked a little shakily across the turntable and through the big engine doors into the roundhouse, the was out for the first time herself from the repair shops, and for the first time since the accident was standing on the pit, blowing from a full head of steam, and ready to move out and couple on for the mountain run west, as soon as the imperial limited came in off the prairie division from the east. is it a coincidence to smile at? yes? well, then, there is more of the same humor to come. they tell the story on the hill division this way, those hard, grimy-handed men of the rockies, in the cab, in the caboose, in the smoker, if you get intimate enough with the conductor or brakeman, in the roundhouse and in the section shanty--but they never smile themselves when they tell it. paxley, big as two of owsley, promoted from a local passenger run, had been given the imperial--and the . he was standing by the front-end, chatting with clarihue, the turner, as owsley came in. owsley didn't appear to notice either of the men--didn't answer either of them as they greeted him cheerily. his face, that had grown white from his illness, was tinged a little red with excitement, and his eyes seemed trying to take in every single detail of the big mountain racer all at once. he walked along to the gangway, his shoulders sort of bracing further back all the time, and then with the old-time swing he disappeared into the cab. he was out again in a minute with a long-spouted oil can, and, just as he always did, started in for an oil around. paxley and clarihue looked at each other. and paxley sort of fumbled aimlessly with the peak of his cap, while clarihue couldn't seem to get the straps of his overalls adjusted comfortably. brannigan, owsley's old fireman, joined them from the other side of the engine. none of them spoke. owsley went on oiling--making the round slowly, carefully, head and shoulders hidden completely at times as he leaned in over the rod, poking at the motion-gear. and regan, who had followed owsley, coming in, got the thing in a glance--and swore fiercely deep down in his throat. not much to choke strong men up and throw them into the "dead-center"? well, perhaps not. just a railroad man for forty years, just an engineer, and the best of them all--out! owsley finished his round, and, instead of climbing into the cab through the opposite gangway, came back to the front-end and halted before jim clarihue. "i see you got that injector valve packed at last," said he approvingly. "she looks cleaner under the guard-plates than i've seen her for a long time, too. give me the 'table, jim." not one of them answered. regan said afterward that he felt as though there'd been a head-on smash somewhere inside of him. but owsley didn't seem to expect any answer. he went on down the side of the locomotive, went in through the gangway, and the next instant the steam came purring into the cylinders, just warming her up for a moment, as owsley always did before he moved out of the roundhouse. it was clarihue then who spoke--with a kind of catchy jerk: "she's stiff from the shops. he ain't strong enough to hold her on the 'table." regan looked at paxley--and tugged at his scraggly little brown mustache. "you'll have to get him out of there, bob," he said gruffly, to hide his emotion. "get him out--gently." the steam was coming now into the cylinders with a more businesslike rush--and paxley jumped for the cab. as he climbed in, brannigan followed, and in a sort of helpless way hung in the gangway behind him. owsley was standing up, his hand on the throttle, and evidently puzzled a little at the stiffness of the reversing lever, that refused to budge on the segment with what strength he had in one hand to give to it. paxley reached over and tried to loosen owsley's hand on the throttle. "let me take her, jake," he said. owsley stared at him for a moment in mingled perplexity and irritation. "what in blazes would i let you take her for?" he snapped suddenly, and attempted to shoulder paxley aside. "get out of here, and mind your own business! get out!" he snatched his wrist away from paxley's fingers and gave a jerk at the throttle--and the began to move. the 'table wasn't set, and paxley had no time for hesitation. more roughly than he had any wish to do it, he brushed owsley's hand from the throttle and latched the throttle shut. and then, quick as a cat, owsley was on him. it wasn't much of a fight--hardly a fight at all--owsley, from three weeks on his back, was dropping weak. but owsley snatched up a spanner that was lying on the seat, and smashed paxley with it between the eyes. paxley was a big man physically--and a bigger man still where it counts most and doesn't show--with the blood streaming down his face, and half blinded, regardless of the blows that owsley still tried to rain upon him, he picked the engineer up in his arms like a baby, and with brannigan, dropping off the gangway and helping, got owsley to the ground. owsley hadn't been fit for excitement or exertion of that kind--for _any_ kind of excitement or exertion. they took him back to his boarding house, and doctor mcturk screwed his eyes up over him in the funny way he had when things looked critical, and mrs. mccann nursed him daytimes, and carleton and regan and two or three others took turns sitting up with him nights--for a month. then owsley began to mend again, and began to talk of getting back on the limited run with the --always the . and most times he talked pretty straight, too--as straight as any of the rest of them--only his memory seemed to keep that queer sort of haze over it--up to the time of the accident it seemed all right, but after that things blurred woefully. regan, carleton and doctor mcturk went into committee over it in the super's office one afternoon just before owsley was out of bed again. "what d'ye say--h'm? what d'ye say, doc?" demanded regan. doctor mcturk, scientific and professional in every inch of his little body, lined his eyebrows up into a ferocious black streak across his forehead, and talked medicine in medical terms into the superintendent and the master mechanic for a good five minutes. when he had finished, carleton's brows were puckered, too, his face was a little blank, and he tapped the edge of his desk with the end of his pencil somewhat helplessly. regan tugged at both ends of his mustache and sputtered. "what the blazes!" he growled. "give it to us in plain railroading! has he got rights through--or hasn't he? does he get better--or does he not? h'm?" "i don't know, i tell you!" retorted doctor mcturk. "i don't know--and that's flat. i've told you why a minute ago. i don't know whether he'll ever be better in his head than he is now--otherwise he'll come around all right." "well, what's to be done?" inquired carleton. "he's got to work for a living, i suppose--eh?" doctor mcturk answered. "and he can't run an engine any more on account of the colors, no matter what happens. that's the state of affairs, isn't it?" carleton didn't answer; regan only mumbled under his breath. "well then," submitted doctor mcturk, "the best thing for him, temporarily at least, to build him up, is fresh air and plenty of it. give him a job somewhere out in the open." carleton's eyebrows went up. he looked across at regan questioningly. "he wouldn't take it," said regan slowly. "there's nothing to anything for owsley but the ." "wouldn't take it!" snapped the little doctor. "he's got to take it. and if you care half what you pretend you do for him, you've got to see that he does." "how about construction work with mccann?" suggested carleton. "he likes mccann, and he's lived at their place for years now." "just the thing!" declared doctor mcturk heartily. "couldn't be better." carleton looked at regan again. "you can handle him better than any one else, tommy. suppose you see what you can do? and speaking of the , how would it do to tell him what's happened in the last month. maybe he wouldn't think so much of her as he does now." "no!" exclaimed doctor mcturk quickly. "don't you do it!" "no," said regan, shaking his head. "it would make him worse. he'd blame it on paxley, and we'd have trouble on our hands before you could bat an eyelash." "yes; perhaps you're right," agreed carleton. "well, then, try him on the construction tack, tommy." and so regan went that afternoon from the super's office over to mrs. mccann's short-order house, and up to owsley's room. "well, how's jake to-day?" he inquired, in his bluff, cheery way, drawing a chair up beside the bed. "i'm fine, regan," said owsley earnestly. "fine! what day is this?" "thursday," regan told him. "yes," said owsley, "that's right--thursday. well, you can put me down to take the old out monday night. i'm figuring to get back on the run monday night, regan." regan ran his hand through his short-cropped hair, twisted a little uneasily in his chair--and coughed to fill in the gap. "i wouldn't be in a hurry about it, if i were you, jake," he said. "in fact, that's what i came over to have a little talk with you about. we don't think you're strong enough yet for the cab." "who don't?" demanded owsley antagonistically. "the doctor and carleton and myself--we were just speaking about it." "why ain't i?" demanded owsley again. "why, good lord, jake," said regan patiently, "you've been sick--dashed near two months. a man can't expect to get out of bed after a lay-off like that and start right in again before he gets his strength back. you know that as well as i do." "mabbe i do, and mabbe i don't," said owsley, a little uncertainly. "how'm i going to get strong?" "well," replied regan, "the doc says open-air work to build you up, and we were thinking you might like to put in a month, say, with bill mccann up on the elk river work--helping him boss polacks, for instance." owsley didn't speak for a moment, he seemed to be puzzling something out; then, still in a puzzled way: "and then what about after the month?" "why then," said regan, "then"--he reached for his hip pocket and his plug, pulled out the plug, picked the heart-shaped tin tag off with his thumb nail, decided not to take a bite, and put the blackstrap back in his pocket again. "why then," said he, "you'll--you ought to be all right again." owsley sat up in bed. "you playing straight with me, regan?" he asked slowly. "sure," said regan gruffly. "sure, i am." owsley passed his hand two or three times across his eyes. "i don't quite seem to get the signals right on what's happened," he said. "i guess i've been pretty sick. i kind of had a feeling a minute ago that you were trying to side-track me, but if you say you ain't, i believe you. i ain't going to be side-tracked. when i quit for keeps, i quit in the cab with my boots on--no way else. i'll tell you something, regan. when i go out, i'm going out with my hand on the throttle, same as it's been for more'n twenty years. and me and the old , we're going out together--that's the way i want to go when the time comes--and that's the way i'm going. i've known it for a long time." "how do you mean you've known it for a long time?" regan swallowed a lump in his throat, as he asked the question--owsley's mind seemed to be wandering a little. "i dunno," said owsley, and his hand crept to his head again. "i dunno--i just know." then abruptly: "i got to get strong for the old , ain't i? that's right. i'll go up there--only you give me your word i get the back after the month." regan's eyes, from the floor, lifted and met owsley's steadily. "you bet, jake!" he said. "give me your hand on it," said owsley happily. and regan gripped the engineer's hand. regan left the room a moment or two after that, and on his way downstairs he brushed the back of his hand across his eyes. "what the hell!" he growled to himself. "i had to lie to him, didn't i?" and so, on the monday following, owsley went up to the new elk river road work, and--but just a moment, we've over-run our holding orders a bit, and we've got to back for the siding. the crosses us here. superstition is a queer thing, isn't it? speaking generally, we look on it somewhat from the viewpoint of the old adage that all men are mortal save ourselves; that is, we can accept, with more or less tolerant condescension, the existence of superstition in others, and, with more or less tolerant condescension, put it down to ignorance--in others. but we're not superstitious ourselves, so we've got to have something better to go on than that, as far as the is concerned. well, the was pretty badly shaken up that night in the spill at elbow bend, and when they overhauled her in the shops, while they made her look like new, perhaps they missed something down deep in her vitals in the doing of it; perhaps she was weakened and strained where they didn't know she was; perhaps they didn't get clean to the bottom of all her troubles; perhaps they made a bad job of a job that looked all right under the fresh paint and the gold leaf. there's nothing superstitious about that, is there? it's logical and reasonable enough to satisfy even the most hypercritical crank amongst us anti-superstitionists--isn't it? but that doesn't go in the cabs, and the roundhouses, and the section shanties on the hill division. you could talk and reason out there along that line until you were blue in the face from shortness of breath, and they'd listen to you while they wiped their hands on a hunk of waste--they'd listen, but they've got their own notions. it was the night at elbow bend that owsley and the together first went wrong; and both went into hospital together and came out together to the day--the for her old run through the mountains, and owsley with no other idea in life possessing his sick brain than to make the run with her. owsley had a relapse that day--and that day, twenty miles west of big cloud, the blew her cylinder head off. and from then on, while owsley lay in bed again at mrs. mccann's, the , when she wasn't in the shops from an endless series of mishaps, was turning the hair gray on a despatcher or two, and had got most of paxley's nerve. but what's the use of going into all the details--there was enough paper used up in the specification repair-sheets! going slow up a grade and around a curve that was protected with ninety-pound guard-rails, her pony truck jumped the steel where a baby carriage would have held the right of way; she broke this, she broke that, she was always breaking something; and rare was the night that she didn't limp into division dragging the grumbling occupants of the mahogany sleepers after her with her schedule gone to smash. and then, finally, putting a clincher on it all, she ended up, when she was running fifty miles an hour, by shedding a driving wheel, and nearly killing paxley as the rod ripped through and through, tearing the right-hand side of the cab into mangled wreckage--and that finished her for the limited run. do you recall that owsley, too, was finished for the limited run? superstition? you can figure it any way you like--they've got their own notions on the hill division. when the came out of the shops again after that, the marks of authority's disapprobation were heavy upon her--the gold leaf of the passenger flyer was gone; the big figures on the tender were only yellow paint. regan scowled at her as they ran her into the yards. "damn her!" said regan fervently; and then, as he thought of owsley, he scowled deeper, and yanked at his mustache. "say," said regan heavily, "it's queer, ain't it? blamed queer--h'm--when you come to think of it?" and so, while the , disfranchised, went to hauling extra freights, kind of a misfit doing spare jobs, anything that turned up, no regular run any more, owsley, kind of a misfit, too, without any very definite duties, because there wasn't anything very definite they dared trust him with, went up on the elk river work with bill mccann, the husband of mrs. mccann, who kept the short-order house. owsley told mccann, as he had told regan, that he was only up there getting strong again for the --and he went around on the construction work whistling and laughing like a schoolboy, and happy as a child--getting strong again for the ! mccann couldn't see anything very much the matter with owsley--except that owsley was happy. he studied the letter regan had sent him, and watched the engineer, and scratched at his bullet head, and blinked fast with his gray irish eyes. "faith," said mccann, "it's them that's off their chumps--not owsley. hark to him singin' out there like a lark! an', bedad, ut's mesilf'll tell 'em so!'" and he did. he wrote his opinion in concise, forceful, misspelled english on the back of a requisition slip, and sent it to regan. regan didn't say much--just choked up a little when he read it. mccann wasn't strong on diagnosis. it was still early spring when owsley went to the new loop they were building around the main line to tap a bit of the country south, and the chinook, blowing warm, had melted most of the snow, and the creeks, rivers and sluices were running full--the busiest time in all the year for the trackmen and section hands. it was a summer's job, the loop--if luck was with them--and the orders were to push the work, the steel was to be down before the snow flew again. that was the way it was put up to mccann when he first moved into construction camp, a short while before owsley joined him. "then give me the stuff," said mccann. "shoot the material along, an' don't lave me bitin' me finger nails for the want av ut--d'ye moind?" so the big cloud yards, too, had orders--standing orders to rush out all material for the elk river loop as fast as it came in from the east. in a way, of course, that was how it happened--from the standing orders. it was just the kind of work the was hanging around waiting to do--the odd jobs--pulling the extras. ordinarily, perhaps, somebody would have thought of it, and maybe they wouldn't have sent her out--maybe they would. you can't operate a railroad wholly on sentiment--and there were ten cars of steel and as many more of ties and conglomerate supplies helping to choke up the big cloud yards when they should have been where they were needed a whole lot more--in mccann's construction camp. but there had been two days of bad weather in the mountains, two days of solid rain, track troubles, and troubles generally, and what with one thing and another, the motive-power department had been taxed to its limit. the first chance they got in a lull of pressure, not the storm, they sent the material west with the only spare engine that happened to be in the roundhouse at the time--the --and never thought of owsley. regan might have, would have, if he had known it; but regan didn't know it--then. regan wasn't handling the operating. perhaps, after all, they needn't have been in a belated hurry that day--mccann and his foreigners had done nothing but hug their shanties and listen to the rain washing the ballast away for two days and a half, until, as it got dark on that particular day, barely a week after owsley had come to the work, they listened, by way of variation, to the chime whistle of an engine that came ringing down with the wind. mccann and owsley shared a little shanty by themselves, and mccann was trying to initiate owsley into the mysteries of that grand old game so dear to the hearts of irishmen--the game of forty-five. but at the first sound of the whistle, the cards dropped from owsley's hands, and he jumped to his feet. "d'ye hear that! d'ye hear that!" he cried. "an' fwhat av ut?" inquired mccann. "ut'll be the material we'd be hung up for, if 'twere not for the storm." owsley leaned across the table, his head turned a little sideways in a curious listening attitude--leaned across the table and gripped mccann's shoulders. "it's the !" he whispered. he put his finger to his lips to caution silence, and with the other hand patted mccann's shoulder confidentially. "it's the !" he whispered--and jumped for the door--out into the storm. "for the love av mike!" gasped mccann, staggering to his feet as the lamp flared up and out with the draft. "now, fwhat the divil--from this, an' the misfortunate way he picks up forty-foive, mabbe, mabbe i was wrong, an' mabbe ut's queer after all, he is, an'----" mccann was still muttering to himself as he stumbled to the door. there was no sign of owsley--only a string of boxes and flats, backed down, and rattling and bumping to a halt on the temporary track a hundred yards away--then the joggling light of a trainman running through the murk and, evidently, hopping the engine pilot, for the light disappeared suddenly and mccann heard the locomotive moving off again. mccann couldn't see the main line, or the little station they had erected there since the work began for the purpose of operating the construction trains, but he knew well enough what was going on. off the main line, in lieu of a turntable and to facilitate matters generally, they had built a y into the construction camp; and the work train, in from the east, had dropped its caboose on the main line between the arms of the y, gone ahead, backed the flats and boxes down the west-end arm of the y into the camp, left them there in front of him, and the engine, shooting off on the main line again, via the east-end arm of the y, would be heading east, and had only to back up the main line and couple on the caboose for the return trip to big cloud--there were no empties to go back, he knew. it was raining in torrents, pitilessly, and, over the gusts of wind, the thunder went racketing through the mountains like the discharge of heavy guns. mccann swore with sincerity as he gazed from the doorway, didn't like the look of it, and was minded to let owsley go to the devil; but, instead, after getting into rubber boots, a rubber coat, and lighting a lantern, he put his head down to butt the storm, goat fashion, and started out. "me conscience 'ud not be clear av anything happened the man," communed mccann, as he battered and sloshed his way along. "'tis wan hell av a night!" mccann lost some time. he could have made a short cut over to the main line and the station; but, instead, thinking owsley might have run up the track beside the camp toward the front-end of the construction train and the engine, he kept along past the string of cars. there was no owsley; and the only result he obtained from shouting at the top of his lungs was to have the wind slap his voice back in his teeth. mccann headed then for the station. he took the west-end arm of the y, that being the nearer to his destination. halfway across, he heard the engine backing up on the main line, and, a moment later, saw her headlight and the red tail lights of the caboose as she coupled on. of course, it was against the rules--but rules are broken sometimes, aren't they? it was a wicked night, and the station, diminutive and makeshift as it was, looked mighty hospitable and inviting by comparison. the engine crew, matt duggan and greene, his fireman, thought it sized up better while they were waiting for orders than the cab of the did, and they didn't see why the train crew, macgonigle, the conductor, and his two brakemen, should have any the better of it--so they left their engine and crowded into the station, too. there wasn't much room left for mccann when he came in like an animated shower bath. he heard merle, the young operator--they'd probably been guying him--snap at macgonigle: "i ain't got any orders for you yet, but you'd better get into the clear on the y--the limited, east, is due in four minutes." "say!" panted mccann. "say----" and that was as far as he got. matt duggan, making a wild dash for the door, knocked the rest of his breath out of him. and after duggan, in a mad and concerted rush, sweeping mccann along with it, the others burst through the door and out on the platform, as, volleying through the storm, came suddenly the quick, staccato bark of engine exhaust. for a moment, huddled there, trying to get the rights of it, no one spoke--then it came in a yell from matt duggan. "she's _gone_!" he screamed--and gulped for his breath. "she's gone!" mccann looked, and blinked, and shook the rain out of his face. two hundred yards east down the track, and disappearing fast, were the twinkling red tail lights of the caboose. "by the tokens av all the saints," stammered mccann. "ut's--ut's----" he grabbed at matt duggan. "fwhat engine is ut?" it was macgonigle who answered, as they crowded back inside again for shelter--and answered quick, getting mccann's dropped jaw. "the . what's wrong with you, mccann?" "holy mither!" stuttered mccann miserably. "that settles ut! ut's owsley! 'twas the whistle, d'ye moind--the whistle!" merle, young and hysterical, was up in the air. "the limited! the limited!" he burst out, white-faced. "there ain't three minutes between them! she's coming now!" macgonigle, grizzled old veteran, cool in any emergency, whirled on the younger man. "then stop her!" he drawled. "don't make a fool of yourself! show your red and hold her here until you get big cloud on the wire--they're both running the _same_ way, aren't they, you blamed idiot! everything's out of the road far enough east of here on account of the limited to give 'em time at headquarters to take care of things. let 'em have it at big cloud." and big cloud got it. spence, the despatcher, on the early night trick, got it--and carleton and regan, at their homes, got it in a hurried call from spence over their private keys, that brought them running to headquarters. "i've cleared the line," said spence. "the limited is holding at elk river till brook's cut reports owsley through--then she's to trail along." carleton nodded, and took a chair beside the despatcher's table. regan, as ever with him in times of stress, tugged at his mustache, and paced up and down the room. he stepped once in front of carleton and laughed shortly--and there was more in his words, a whole lot more, than he realized then. "the lord knows where he'll stop now with the bit in his teeth, but suppose he'd been heading the other way _into_ the limited--h'm! head-on--instead of just tying up all the blamed traffic between here and the elk--what? we can thank god for that!" carleton didn't answer, except by another nod. he was listening to spence at the key, asking brook's cut why they didn't report owsley through. the rain rattled at the window panes, and the sashes shook under the gusts of wind; out in the yards below the switch lights showed blurred and indistinct. regan paced the room more and more impatiently. carleton's face began to go hard. spence hung tensely over the table, his fingers on the key, waiting for the sounder to break, waiting for the brook's cut call. it was only seven miles from elk river, where the stalled passengers of the limited--will you remember this?--grumbled and complained, pettish in their discontent at the delay, only seven miles from there to brook's cut, the first station east--only seven miles, but the minutes passed, and still brook's cut answered: "no." and carleton's face grew harder still, and regan swore deep down under his breath from a full heart, and spence grew white and rigid in his chair. and so they waited there, waited with the sense of disaster growing cold upon them--waited--but brook's cut never reported owsley "in" or "out" that night. owsley? who knows what was in the poor, warped brain that night? he had heard her call to him, and they had brought him back the , and she was standing there, alone, deserted--and she had called to him. who knows what was in his mind, as, together, he and the went tearing through that black, storm-rent night, when the rivers, and the creeks, and the sluices were running full, and the elk river, that paralleled the right of way for a mile or two to the crossing, was a raging torrent? who knows if he ever heard the thundering crash with which the elk river bridge went out? who knows, as he swung the curve that opened the bridge approach, without time for any man, owsley or another, to have stopped, if the headlight playing on the surge of maddened waters meant anything to him? who knows? that was where they found them, beneath the waters, owsley and the --and owsley was smiling, his hand tight-gripped upon the throttle that he loved. "i dunno," says regan, when he speaks of owsley, "if the mountains out here have anything to do with making a man think harder. i dunno--sometimes i think they do. you get to figuring that the grand master mabbe goes a long way back, years and years, to work things out--if it hadn't been for owsley the limited would have gone into the elk that night with every soul on board. owsley? that's the way he wanted to go out, wasn't it?--with the . mabbe the grand master thought of him, too." iii the apotheosis of sammy durgan the only point the hill division, from carleton, the super, to the last car tink, would admit it was at all hazy on as far as sammy durgan was concerned, was why in the everlasting name of everything the man stuck to railroading. when the hill division got up against that point it was floored and took the count. sammy durgan wore the belt. he held a record never equalled before or since. tommy regan, the master mechanic, who had a warped gift for metaphor, said the man was as migratory on jobs as a flock of crows in a poor year for corn, only a blamed sight harder to get rid of. as far back as anybody could remember they remembered sammy durgan. somewhere on the division you were bound to bump up against him--but rarely twice in the same place. there wasn't any one in authority, even so mild an authority as a section boss, who hadn't fired sammy durgan so often that it had grown on them like a habit. not that it made much difference, however; for, ejected from the roundhouse, sammy durgan's name would be found decorating the pay roll next month in the capacity of baggage master, possibly, at some obscure spot up the line; and here, for example, a slight mix-up of checks in the baggage of a tourist family, that divided the family against itself and its baggage as far as the east is from the west--and sammy durgan moved on again. what the hill division said about him would have been complimentary if it hadn't been for the grin; they said he was an _all-round_ railroad man. shops, roundhouse, train crews, station work and construction gangs, sammy durgan knew them all; and they knew sammy durgan. eternally and everlastingly in trouble--that was sammy durgan. nothing much else the matter with him--just trouble. brains all right; only, as far as the hill division could make out, the last thing sammy durgan ever thought of doing was to give his brains a little exercise to keep them in condition. but, if appalling in his irresponsibility, sammy durgan nevertheless had a saving grace--no cork ever bobbed more buoyantly on troubled waters than sammy durgan did on his sea of adversity. sammy durgan always came up smiling. he had a perennial sort of cheerfulness on his leathery face that infected his guileless blue eyes, while a mop of fiery red hair like a flaming halo kind of guaranteed the effect to be genuine. one half of you felt like kicking the man violently, and the other half was obsessed with an insane desire to hobnob with him just as violently. sammy durgan, to say the least of it, was a contradictory proposition. he had an ambition--he wanted a steady job. he mentioned the matter to regan one day immediately following that period in his career when, doing odd jobs over at the station, he had, in filling up the fire buckets upstairs, inadvertently left the tap running. the sink being small and the flooring none too good, a cherished collection of regan's blue-prints in the room below were reduced to a woebegone mass of sticky pulp. sammy durgan mentioned his ambition as a sort of corollary, as it were, to the bitter and concise remarks in which the fat little master mechanic had just couched sammy durgan's ubiquitous discharge. regan didn't stop breathing--he had dealt with sammy durgan before. regan smiled as though it hurt him. "a _steady_ job, is it?" said regan softly. "i've been thinking so hard daytimes trying to place you in a railroad job and still keep railroading safe out in this part of the world that i've got to dreaming about it at nights. last night i dreamt i was in a foundry and there was an enormous vat of red, bubbling, liquid iron they'd just drawn off the furnace, and you came down from the ceiling on a spider web and hung over it. and then i woke up, and i was covered with cold sweat--for fear the web wouldn't break." "regan," said sammy durgan, blinking fast, "you don't know a man when you see one. you're where you are because you've had the chance to get there. mind that! i've never had a chance. but it'll come, regan. and the day'll come, regan, when you'll be down on your knees begging me to take what i'm asking for now, a steady job on your blessed railroad." "mabbe," said regan, chewing absently on his blackstrap; and then, as a sort of afterthought: "what kind of a job?" "a steady one," said sammy durgan doggedly. "i dunno just what, but----" "h'm!" said regan solicitously. "well, don't make up your mind in a hurry, durgan--i don't want to press you. when you've had a chance to look around a little more, mabbe you'll be able to decide better--what? get out!" sammy durgan backed to the door. there he paused, blinking fast again: "some day i'll show you, regan, you and all the rest of 'em, and----" "get out!" said the little master mechanic peremptorily. and sammy durgan got out. he was always getting out. that was his forte. when he got in, it was only to get out. "some day," said sammy durgan--and the hill division stuck its tongue in its cheek. but sammy durgan had his answer to the blunt refusal that invariably greeted his modest request for a fresh job. "listen here," said sammy durgan, with a firm hold on the overalls' strap of, it might be, the bridge foreman he was trying to wheedle a time check out of. "'twas regan fired me first, but he was in a bad humor at the time; 'twas the steam hose i was washing out boiler tubes with in the roundhouse got away from me, and it was accidental, though mabbe for the moment it was painful for him. it just shows that if you get fired once it sticks to you. and as for them baggage checks out to moose peak, they weren't no family, they was a tribe, about eighteen kids besides the pa and ma, and fourteen baggage cars full of trunks. _he_ was a little bow-legged fellow with a scared look, and he whispers where he wants the checks for about three minutes before train time, then _she_ comes in, bigger'n two elephants, scorches him through a pair of glasses she carries on a handle, and orders 'em checked somewhere else. say, was i to blame if some of them checks in the hurry didn't get the first name i'd written on 'em scratched out? and over there to the station the time regan's office got flooded 'twasn't my fault. if you get fired once, you keep on getting fired no matter what you do. i turned the tap off. it was one of them little devils of call boys turned it on again. but do you think any one would believe that? they would not--or i'd have mentioned it at the time. if there's any trouble anywhere and i'm around it's put onto me. and there's mrs. durgan back there to big cloud. she ain't very well. cough's troubling her more'n usual lately, and worrying about the rent not being paid ain't helping her any. say, you'll give me a job, won't you?" sammy durgan got the job. now, as may be inferred, sammy durgan did not always adhere strictly to the truth--not that he swerved from it with vicious intent, but that, like some other things, trouble for instance, the swerving had grown, as it were, to be a habit. mrs. durgan did not have a cough, neither was she worrying about the unpaid rent. mrs. durgan, speaking strictly in a physical sense, was mightiest among women in big cloud, and on the night the story proper opens--a very black night for sammy durgan--sammy durgan was sitting on mrs. durgan's front door step, and the door was locked upon him. sammy durgan, paradoxical as it may sound, though temporarily out of a job again and with no job to be fired from, was being fired at that moment harder than he had ever been fired before in his life--and the firing was being done by mrs. durgan. it had been threatening for quite a while, quite a long while, two or three years, but it none the less came to sammy durgan with something of a shock, and he gasped. mrs. durgan was intensely irish, from purer stock than sammy durgan, and through the window mrs. durgan spoke barbed words: "'tis shame yez should take to yersilf, sammy durgan, if yez had the sinse to take annything--the loikes av yez, a big strong man! 'tis years i've put up wid yez, whin another woman would not, but i'll put up wid yez no more! 'tis the ind this night, sammy durgan, an' the holy mither be praised there's no children to blush fer the disgrace yez are!" "maria," said sammy durgan craftily, for this had worked before, "do i drink?" mrs. durgan choked in her rage. "i do not," said sammy durgan soothingly. "and who but me lays the pay envelopes on your lap without so much as tearing 'em to count the insides of 'em? listen here, maria, listen----" "is ut mocking me, yez are!" shrieked mrs. durgan. "'tis little good the opening av 'em would do! listen, is ut, to the smooth tongue av yez! i've listened till me fingers are bare to the bone wid the washtubs to kape a roof over me head. i'll listen no more, sammy durgan, moind thot!" "maria," said sammy durgan, with a softness that was meant to turn away wrath, "maria, open the door." "i will not," said mrs. durgan, with a truculent gasp. "niver! not while yez live, sammy durgan--fer yez funeral mabbe, but fer no less than thot, an' thin only fer the joy av bein' a widdy!" it sounded inevitable. there was a sort of cold uncompromise even in the fire of mrs. durgan's voice. sammy durgan rose heavily from the doorstep. "some day," said sammy durgan sadly, "some day, maria, you'll be sorry for this. you'll break your heart for it, maria! you wait! 'tis no fault of mine, the trouble. everybody's against me--and now my wife. but you wait. once in the life of every man he gets his chance. mine ain't come yet. but you wait! it's the man who rises to an emergency that counts, and----" there was a gurgling sound from mrs. durgan's throat. then the window slammed down--hard. sammy durgan stared, stared a little blankly as the lamp retreated from the window and the front of the house grew black. "i guess," said sammy durgan a little wistfully to himself, "i guess i'm fired all around for fair." he turned and walked slowly out to the street and headed downtown toward the railroad yards. and as he walked he communed with himself somewhat bitterly: "any blamed little thing that comes up, that, if 'twere anybody else, nobody'd pay any attention to it, and everybody yells 'fire sammy durgan.' that's me----'fire sammy durgan.' and why? because i never get a chance--that's why!" sammy durgan grew earnest in his soliloquy. "some day," said he, as he reached the station platform, "i'll show 'em--i'll show maria! it'll come, every man gets his chance. give me the chance to rise to an emergency, that's all i ask--just give me that and i'll show 'em!" sammy durgan walked up the deserted platform with no very definite destination in view, and stopped abruptly in front of the freight shed as he suddenly remembered that it was very late. he sat down on the edge of the platform, and kicked at the main-line rail with the toe of his boot. sammy durgan was bedless, penniless, wifeless and jobless. it was a very black night indeed for sammy durgan. sammy durgan's mind catalogued those in authority in big cloud in whose gift a job was, and he went over the list--but it did not take him long, as he had need to hesitate over no single name. big cloud and a job for sammy durgan were separated by a great gulf. sammy durgan, however, his perennial optimism gaining the ascendancy again, found solace even in that fact. in view of his present marital difficulties a job in big cloud would be an awkward thing anyhow. in fact, for the first time in his life, he would have refused a job in big cloud. sammy durgan had a certain pride about him. given the opportunity, the roundhouse, the shops, the yards, and the train crews, once they discovered the little impasse that had arisen in the durgan family, might be safely trusted to make capital out of it--at his expense. sammy durgan's mind in search of a job went further afield. this was quite a different proposition, for the mileage of the hill division was big. for an hour sammy durgan sat there, scratching at his red hair, puckering his leathery face, and kicking at the rail to the detriment of the toe-cap of his boot. he knew the division well, very well--too well. at the moment, he could not place any spot upon it that he did not know, or, perhaps what was more to the point, that was not intimately acquainted with him. road work, bridge work, yard work, station work passed in review before him, but always and with each one arose a certain well-remembered face whose expression, biblically speaking, was not like unto a father's on the prodigal's return. and then at last sammy durgan sighed in relief. there was pat donovan! true, he and pat donovan had had a little misunderstanding incident to the premature explosion of a keg of blasting powder that had wrecked the construction shanty, but that was two years ago and under quite different conditions. pat donovan now was a section boss on a desolate stretch of track about five stations up the line, and his only companions were a few polacks who spoke english like parrots--voluble enough as far as it went, but not entirely soul-filling to an irishman of the sociable tendencies of pat donovan. he could certainly get a job out of pat donovan. the matter ultimately settled, sammy durgan stood up. across the yards they were making up the early morning freight. that solved the transportation question. a railroad man, whether he was out of a job or not, could always get a lift in any caboose that carried the markers or the tail lights of old bill wallis' train. sammy durgan got a lift that morning up to dam river; and there, a little further along the line, he ran pat donovan and his polacks to earth where they were putting in some new ties. donovan, a squat, wizened, red eye-lidded little man, with a short, bristling crop of sandy whiskers circling his jaws like an ill-trimmed hedge, hurriedly drew back the hand he had extended as he caught the tail end of sammy durgan's greeting. "oh, a job is ut?" he inquired without enthusiasm, from his seat on a pile of ties beside the track. "listen, here, pat," said sammy durgan brightly. "listen to----" "yez have yer nerve wid yez!" observed the section boss caustically. "yez put me in moind av a felley i had workin' fer me wance, for yez are the dead spit av him, sammy durgan, that blew the roof off av the construction shanty, an'----" "that was two years ago, donovan," interposed sammy durgan hurriedly, "and you've no blasting powder on this job, and it was no fault of mine. i would have explained it at the time, but you were a bit hot under the collar, pat, and you would not listen. i was but testing the detonator box, and 'twas yourself told me the connections were not made." "did i?"--the section boss was watching his chattering gang of foreigners with gradually narrowing eyes. "you did," asserted sammy durgan earnestly, "and----" sammy durgan stopped. donovan had leaped from his seat, and was gesticulating fiercely at his gold-earringed, greasy-haired laboring crew. "yez are apes!" he yelled, dancing frantically up and down. "yez are oorang-ootangs! an' yez talk like a cageful av monkeys! yez look loike men, but yez are not! yez are annything that has no brains! have i not told yez till me throat's cracked doin' ut thot yez are not rayquired to lift the whole dombed right av way to put in a single measly tie? is ut a hump loike a camel's back yez are try in' to make in the rail? here! dig--_here_!"--the little section boss, with wrathful precision, indicated the exact spot with the toe of his boot. he returned to his seat, and regarded sammy durgan helplessly. "'tis a new lot," said he sadly, "an' the worst, bar none, that iver i had." "but an irishman, and one that can talk your own tongue, you won't hire when he's out of a job," insinuated sammy durgan reproachfully. the section boss scrubbed reflectively at his chin whiskers. "an' how's mrs. durgan?" he asked, with some cordiality. "she's bad," said sammy durgan, suddenly mournful and shaking his head. "she's worse than ever she's been, donovan. i felt bad at leaving her last night, donovan--i did that. but what could i do? 'twas a job i had to get, donovan, bad as i felt at leaving her, donovan." "sure now, is thot so?" said the little section boss sympathetically. "'tis cruel harrd luck yez have, durgan. but yez'll moind i've not much in the way av jobs--'tis a desolate bit av country, an' mostly track-walkin' at a dollar-tin a day." "donovan," said sammy durgan from a full heart, "the day'll come, donovan, when i'll keep the grass green on your grave for this. i knew you'd not throw an old friend down." "'tis glad i am to do ut," said donovan, waving his hand royally. "an' yez can start in at wance." and sammy durgan started. and for a week sammy durgan assiduously tramped his allotted mileage out and back to the section shanty each day--and for a week sammy durgan and trouble were asunder. trouble? where, from what possible source, could there be any trouble? not a soul for miles around the section shanty, just mountains and track and cuts and fills, and nothing on earth for sammy durgan to do but keep a paternal eye generally on the roadbed. trouble? it even got monotonous for sammy durgan himself. "'tis not," confided sammy durgan to himself one morning, after a week of this, that found him plodding along the track some two miles east of the section shanty, "'tis not precisely the job i'd like, for it's a chance i'm looking for to show 'em, maria, and regan, and the rest of 'em, and there'll be no chance here--but temporarily it'll do. 'tis not much of a job, and beneath me at that, but have i not heard that them as are faithful in little will some day be handed much? there'll be no one to say"--he glanced carefully around him in all directions--"that sammy durgan was not a good track-walker." sammy durgan sat down on the edge of the embankment, extracted a black cutty from his pocket, charged it with very black tobacco, lit it, tamped the top of the bowl with a calloused forefinger, and from another pocket extracted a newspaper--one of a bundle that the train crew of no. thoughtfully heaved at the section shanty door each morning on their way up the line. it was a warm, bright morning; one of those comfortable summer mornings with just enough heat to lift a little simmering haze from the rails, and just enough sun to make a man feel leisurely, so to speak. sammy durgan, the cutty drawing well, wormed a comfortable and inviting hollow in the gravel of the embankment, propped his back against an obliging tie, and opened his paper. "track-walking," said sammy durgan, "is not much of a job, and 'tis not what i'm looking for, but there are worse jobs." somebody had read the paper before sammy durgan, hence the sheet that first presented itself to his view was a page of classified advertisements. his eye roved down the column of "situations vacant"--and held on one of them. men wanted for grading work at the gap. apply at engineers' office, big cloud, or to t. h. macmurtrey, foreman, at the gap. sammy durgan pursed his lips. "there's no telling," said sammy durgan thoughtfully, "when i'll be looking for a new job, so i'll bear it in mind. not that they'd give me a job at the office, for they would not; but by the name of him this t. h. macmurtrey 'll be a new man and unknown to me, which is quite another matter--and i'll keep it in mind." sammy durgan turned the sheet absently--and then, forgetful of the obliging tie that propped his back, he sat bolt upright with a jerk. "for the love of mike!" observed sammy durgan breathlessly, with his eyes glued to the paper. it leaped right out at him in the biggest type the big cloud _daily sentinel_ had to offer, which, if it had its limitations, was not to be despised, since it had acquired a second-hand font or two from a metropolitan daily east that made no pretense at being modest in such matters. sammy durgan's eyes began to pop, and his leathery face to screw up. ghastly railroad tragedy unknown man murdered in stateroom of eastbound flyer _no clue to assassin_ sammy durgan's eyes bored into the fine print of the "story." if the style was a trifle provincial and harrowing, sammy durgan was not fastidious enough to be disturbed thereby--it was intensely vivid. sammy durgan's mouth was half open, as he read. one of the most atrocious, daring and bloody murders in the annals of the country's crime was perpetrated last night in a compartment of the sleeping car on no. , the eastbound through express. it is a baffling mystery, though suspicion is directed against a passenger who gave his name as samuel starke of new york. the details, gathered by the _sentinel_ staff from conductor hurley, and clements, the porter, on the arrival of the train at big cloud, are as follows: the car was a new-type compartment car, with the compartment doors opening off the corridor that runs along one side of the length of the car. as the train was passing dam river, clements, the porter, at the forward end of the car, thought he heard two revolver shots from somewhere in the rear. clements says he thought at first he had been mistaken, for the train was travelling fast and making a great uproar, and he did not at once make any effort to investigate. then he heard a compartment door open, and he started down the corridor. starke was standing in the doorway of b compartment where the murdered man was, and starke yelled at clements. "here, porter, quick!" is what clements says starke said to him: "there's a man been shot in here! my compartment's next to this, you know, and i heard two shots and rushed in." it was a horrible and unnerving sight that greeted the porter's eyes. mr. clements was still visibly affected by it as he talked to the _sentinel_ reporter in big cloud. the unknown murdered man lay pitifully huddled on the floor, lifeless and dead, a great bullet wound in one temple and another along the side of his neck that must have severed the jugular vein. it was as though blood had rained upon the victim. he was literally covered with it. he was already past aid, being quite dead. conductor hurley was quickly summoned. but investigation only deepened the mystery. suicide was out of the question because there was no weapon to be found. mr. starke, at his own request, was searched, but had no revolver. mr. starke, however, has been held by the police. the _sentinel_, without wishing to infringe upon the sphere of the authorities or cast aspersions upon their acumen, but in the simple furtherance of justice, offers the suggestion that, as the compartment window was open, the assassin, whoever he was, hurled the revolver out of the window after committing his dastardly and unspeakable crime; and the _sentinel_ hereby offers _twenty-five dollars reward_ for the recovery of the revolver. lawlessness and crime, we had fondly believed, was stamped out of the west, and we raise our voice in protest against the return of desperadoes, bandits, and train robbers, and we solemnly warn all those of that caliber that they will not be tolerated in the new west, and we call upon all public-spirited citizens in whose veins red blood flows to rise up and put them down with an iron and merciless---- there were still three columns. sammy durgan read them voraciously. at the end, he sucked hard on the black cutty. the black cutty was out. "to think of the likes of that!" muttered sammy durgan heavily, as he dug for a match. "the fellow that wrote the piece--'twill be that little squint-eyed runt labatt--is not the fool i thought him. it's right, he is; what with murders and desperadoes no man's life's safe--it is not! and to think of it right on this same railroad! and who knows"--sammy durgan rose with sudden haste--"but 'twas right on this same spot where i am this blessed minute, for the paper says it was close to dam river, that the poor devil was shot dead and foully killed! and--" the match flamed over the bowl of the cutty, but sammy durgan's attention was not on it. sammy durgan, in a sort of strained way, descended the embankment. the match burned his fingers, and sammy durgan dropped it. sammy durgan rubbed his eyes--yes, it was still glistening away there in the sunlight. he stooped, and from the grass, trembling a little with excitement, picked up a heavy-calibered, nickel-trimmed revolver. "holy christmas!" whispered sammy durgan, blinking fast. "'tis the same! there's no doubt of it--'tis the same that done the bloody deed! and 'tis the first bit of luck i've had since i was born! twenty-five dollars reward!" he said it over very softly again: "twenty-five dollars reward!" sammy durgan returned to the track, and resumed his way along it; though, as far as his services to the road were concerned, he might just as well have remained where he was. sammy durgan's thoughts were not of loosened spikes and erring fishplates, and neither were his eyes intent on their discovery--his mind, thanks to labatt, of the big cloud _daily sentinel_, teemed with scenes of violence vividly portrayed, midnight murders, corpses in grotesque attitudes on gore-bespattered compartment floors, desperadoes of all descriptions, train bandits and train robbers in masks holding up trains. "'tis true," said sammy durgan to himself. "'tis a lawless country, these same rockies. i mind 'twas only a year ago that black dempsey and his gang tried to wreck number two in the cut near coyote bend--i mind it well." sammy durgan walked on down the track. at intervals he took the revolver from his pocket and put it back again, as though to assure himself beyond peradventure of doubt that it was in his possession. "twenty-five dollars reward!" communed sammy durgan, grown arrogant with wealth. "'tis near a month's pay at a dollar-ten--and all for the picking of it up. i called it luck--but it is not luck. an ordinary track-walker would have walked it by and not seen it. 'tis what you get for keeping your eyes about you, and besides the twenty-five 'tis promotion, too, mabbe i'll get. 'twill show 'em that there's track-walkers _and_ track-walkers. i'll say to regan: 'regan,' i'll say, 'you've said hard words to me, regan, but i ask you, regan, how many track-walkers would have brought a bloody murderer to justice by keeping their eyes about them in the faithful performance of their duty, regan? 'tis but the chance i ask. 'tis the man in an emergency that counts, and if ever i get a chance at an emergency i'll show you.' and regan'll say: 'sammy,' he'll say, 'you----'" sammy durgan paused in his engrossing soliloquy as the roar of an approaching train fell on his ears, and he scrambled quickly down from the right of way to the bottom of the embankment. just ahead of him was a short, narrow, high-walled rock cut, and at the farther end the track swerved sharply to the right, side-stepping, as it were, the twist of the dam river that swung in, steep-banked, to the right of way. "i'll wait here," said sammy durgan, "'till she's through the cut." sammy durgan waited. the train came nearer and nearer--and then sammy durgan cocked his head in a puzzled way and stared through the cut. he couldn't see anything, of course, for the curve, but from the sound she had stopped just beyond the cut. "now, what the devil is she stopping there for?" inquired sammy durgan of the universe in an injured tone. he started along through the cut. and then sammy durgan stopped himself--as though he were rooted to the earth--and a sort of grayish white began to creep over his face. came echoing through the cut a shout, a yell, another, a chorus of them--then a shot, another shot, a fusilade of them--and then a din mingling the oaths, the yells, and the shots into a hideous babel that rang terror in sammy durgan's ears. sammy durgan promptly sidled in and hugged up against the rock wall that towered above him. here he hesitated an instant, then he crept cautiously forward. where he could not see, it was axiomatic that he could not be seen; and where he could not be seen, it was equally logical that he would be safe. sammy durgan's face, quite white now, was puckered as it had never been puckered before, and his lips moved in a kind of twitching, jerky way as he crept along. then suddenly, a voice, that seemed nearer than the others, but which from the acoustic properties of the cut he could not quite locate, bawled out fiercely over the confusion, prefaced with an oath: "get that express car door open, and be damned quick about it! go on, shoot along the side of the train every time you see a head in a window!" sammy durgan's mouth went dry, and his heart lost a beat, then went to pounding like a trip-hammer. labatt and the big cloud _daily sentinel_ hadn't drawn any exaggerated picture. a hold-up--in broad daylight! "holy mither!" whispered sammy durgan. he crept farther forward, very cautiously--still farther--and then he lay full length, crouched against the rock wall at the end of the cut. he could see now, and the red hair of sammy durgan kind of straggled down damp over his forehead, and his little black eyes lost their pupils. it was a passenger train; one side of it quite hidden by the sharp curve of the track, the other side presented almost full on to sammy durgan's view--the whole length of it. and sammy durgan, gasping, stared. not ten yards away from the mouth of the cut a huge pile of ties were laid across the rails, with the pilot of the stalled engine almost nosing them. down the embankment, a very steep embankment where the dam river swirled along, marched there evidently at the revolver's point, the engine crew stood with their hands up in the air--at the revolver's point with a masked man behind it. along the length of the train, two or three more masked men were shooting past the windows in curt intimation to the passengers that the safest thing they could do was to stay where they were; and farther down, by the rear coach, the conductor and two brakemen, like their mates of the engine crew, held their hands steadfastly above their heads as another bandit covered them with his weapon. and through the open door of the express car sammy durgan could see bobbing heads and straining backs, and the express company's safe being worked across the floor preparatory to heaving it out on the ground. it takes long to tell it--sammy durgan got it all as a second flies. and something, a bitter something, seemed to be gnawing at sammy durgan's vitals. "holy mither!" he mumbled miserably. "'tis an emergency, all right--but 'tis not the right kind of an emergency. what could any one man do against a lot of bloodthirsty, desperate devils like that, that'd sooner cut your throat than look at you!" sammy durgan's hand inadvertently rubbed against his right-hand coat pocket--and his revolver. he drew it out mechanically, and it seemed to put new life into sammy durgan, for, as he stared again at the scene before him, sammy durgan quivered with a sudden, fierce elation. "i was wrong," said sammy durgan grimly. "'tis the right kind of an emergency, after all--and 'tis the man that uses his head and rises to one that counts. i'll show 'em, maria, and regan, and the rest of 'em! begorra, it can be done! 'tis no one 'll notice me while i'm getting to the engine and climbing in on the other side, and, by glory, if i back her out quick enough them thieving hellions in the express car can either jump for it or ride back to the arms of authority at the next station--but the safe 'll be there, and 'twill be sammy durgan that kept it there!" but sammy durgan still lay on the ground and stared--while the safe was being pushed to the express car door, and one edge of it already protruded out from the car. "go on, sammy durgan!" urged sammy durgan anxiously to himself. "don't you be skeered, sammy, you got a revolver. 'tis yourself, and not maria, that'll do the locking of the doors hereafter, and 'tis regan you can pass with fine contempt. think of that, sammy durgan! and all for a bit of a run that'll not take the time of a batting of an eyelash, and with no one to notice you doing it. 'tis a clever plan you've devised, sammy durgan--it is that. go on, sammy; go on!" sammy durgan wriggled a little on the ground, cocked his revolver--and wriggled a little more. "i will!" said sammy durgan with a sudden pinnacling of determination--and he sprang to his feet. some loosened shale rattled down behind him. sammy durgan dashed through the mouth of the cut--and then for a moment all was a sort of chaos to sammy durgan. from the narrow edge of the embankment, just clear of the cut, a man stepped suddenly out. sammy durgan collided with him, his cocked revolver went off, and, jerked from his grasp by the shock, sailed riverwards through the air, while, echoing its report from the express car door, a man screamed wildly and grabbed at a bullet-shattered wrist; and the man with whom sammy durgan had collided, having but precarious footing at best, reeled back from the impact, smashed into another man behind him, and with a crash both rolled down the almost perpendicular embankment. followed a splash and a spout of water as they struck the river--and from every side a tornado of yells and curses. "'tis my finish!" moaned sammy durgan--but his feet were flying. "i--i've done it now! if i ran back up the cut they'd chase me and finish me--'tis my finish, anyway, but the engine 'll be the only chance i got." sammy durgan streaked across the track, hurdled, tumbled, fell, and sprawled over the pile of ties, recovered himself, regained his feet, and made a frantic spring through the gangway and into the cab. with a sweep sammy durgan shot the reversing lever over into the back notch, and with a single yank he wrenched the throttle wide. there was nothing of the craftsman in engine-handling about sammy durgan at that instant--only hurry. the engine, from a passive, indolent and inanimate thing, seemed to rise straight up in the air like an aroused and infuriated beast that had been stung. with one mad plunge it backed crashing into the buffer plates of the express car behind it, backed again, and once again, and the tinkle of breaking glass sort of ricochetted along the train as one car after another added its quota of shattered window panes, while the drivers, slipping on the rails, roared around like gigantic and insensate pinwheels. sammy durgan snatched at the cab frame for support--and then with a yell he snatched at a shovel. a masked face showed in the gangway. sammy durgan brought the flat of the shovel down on the top of the man's head. the gangway was clear again. there was life for it yet! the train was backing quickly now under the urgent, prodding bucks of the engine. sammy durgan mopped at his face, his eyes warily on the gangways. another man made a running jump for it--again sammy durgan's shovel swung--and again the gangway was clear. shovel poised, lurching with the lurch of the cab, red hair flaming, half terrified and half defiant, eyes shooting first to one gangway and then the other, sammy durgan held the cab. a minute passed with no renewal of attack. sammy durgan stole a quick glance over his shoulder through the cab glass up the track--and, with a triumphant shout, he flung the shovel clanging to the iron floor-plates, and, leaning far out of the gangway, shook his fist. strewn out along the right of way masked men yelled and shouted and cursed, but sammy durgan was beyond their reach--and so was the express company's safe. "yah!" screamed sammy durgan, wildly derisive and also belligerent in the knowledge of his own safety. "yah! yah! yah! 'twas me, ye bloody hellions, that turned the trick on ye! 'twas me, sammy durgan, and i'll have you know it! 'twas----" sammy durgan turned, as the express car opened, and macy, the conductor, hatless and wild-eyed, appeared on the platform. "'s'all right, macy!" sammy durgan screeched reassuringly. "'s'all right--it's me, sammy durgan." macy jumped from the platform to the tender, jumped over the water tank, and came down into the cab with an avalanche of coal. his mouth was twitching and jerking, but for a moment he could not speak--and then the words came like an explosion, and he shook his fist under sammy durgan's nose. "you--you damned fathead!" he roared. "what in the double-blanked, blankety-blanked son of blazes are you doing!" "fathead, yourself!" retorted sammy durgan promptly--and there was spice in the way sammy durgan said it. "i'm doing what you hadn't the nerve or the head to do, macy--unless mabbe you're in the gang yourself! i'm saving that safe back there in the express car, that's what i'm doing." "saving nothing!" bellowed macy crazily, as he slammed the throttle shut. "there! look there!" he reached for sammy durgan's head, and with both hands twisted it around, and fairly flattened sammy durgan's nose against the cab glass. "what--what is it?" faltered sammy durgan, a little less assertively. macy was excitable. he danced upon the cab floor as though it were a hornets' nest. "what is it!" he echoed in a scream. "what is it! it's moving pictures, you tangle-brained, rusty-headed idiot! that's what it is!" a sort of dull gray film seemed to spread itself over sammy durgan's face. sammy durgan stared through the cab glass. the track ahead was just disappearing from view as the engine backed around a curve, but what sammy durgan saw was enough--two dripping figures were salvaging a wrecked and bedragged photographic outfit on the river bank, close to the entrance of the cut where he had been in collision with them; an excited group of train bandits, without any masks now, were gesticulating around the marooned engineer and fireman; and in the middle distance, squatting on a rail, a man, coatless, his shirt sleeve rolled up, was making horrible grimaces as a companion bandaged his wrist. macy's laugh rang hollow--it wasn't exactly a laugh. "i don't know how much it costs," stuttered the conductor demoniacally, "but there's about four million dollars' worth of film they're fishing out of the river there, and they paid a thousand dollars for the train and thirty-five minutes between stations to clear number forty, and there's about eight thousand car windows gone, and one vestibule and two platforms in splinters, and a man shot through the wrist, and if that crowd up there ever get their hands on you they'll----" "i think," said sammy durgan hurriedly, "that i'll get off." he edged back to the gangway and peered out. the friendly bend of the road hid the "outlaws." the train was almost at a standstill--and sammy durgan jumped. not on the river side--on the other side. sammy durgan's destination was somewhere deep in the wooded growth that clothed the towering mountain before him. there is an official record for cross-country mileage registered in the name of some one whose name is not sammy durgan--but it is not accurate. sammy durgan holds it. and it was far up on the mountain side that he finally crossed the tape and collapsed, breathless and gasping, on a tree stump. he sat there for quite a while, jabbing at his streaming face with the sleeve of his jumper; and there was trouble in sammy durgan's eyes, and plaint in his voice when at last he spoke. "twenty-five dollars reward," said sammy durgan wistfully. "and 'twas as good as in my pocket, and now 'tis gone. 'tis hard luck, cruel hard luck. it is that!" sammy durgan's eyes roved around the woods about him and grew thoughtful. "i was minded at the time," said sammy durgan, "that 'twas not the right kind of an emergency, and when he hears of it regan will be displeased. and now what'll i do? 'twill do no good to return to the section shanty, for they'll be telegraphing donovan to fire sammy durgan. that's me--fire sammy durgan. 'tis trouble dogs me and cruel hard luck--and all i'm asking for is a steady job and a chance." sammy durgan relapsed into mournful silence and contemplation for a spell--and then his face began to clear. sammy durgan's optimism was like the bobbing cork. "'tis another streak of cruel hard luck, of bitter, cruel hard luck i've had this day, but am i down and out for the likes of that?" inquired sammy durgan defiantly of himself. "i am not!" replied sammy durgan buoyantly to sammy durgan. "'tis not the first time i've been fired, and did i not read that there's macmurtrey begging for men up at the gap? and him being a new man and unknown to me, 'tis a job sure. 'tis only my name might stand in the way, for 'tis likely 'twill be mentioned in his hearing on account of the bit of trouble down yonder. but 'tis the job i care for and not the name. i'll be working for macmurtrey to-morrow morning--i will that! and what's more," added sammy durgan, beginning to blink fast, "i'll show 'em yet, maria, and regan, and the rest of 'em. once in every man's life he gets his chance. mine ain't come yet. i thought it had to-day, but i was wrong. but it'll come. you wait! i'll show 'em some day!" sammy durgan lost himself in meditation. after a little, he spoke again. "i'm not sure about the law," said sammy durgan, "but on account of the fellow that the bullet hit, apart from macmurtrey taking note of it, 'twould be as well, anyway, if i changed my name temporarily till the temper of all concerned is cooled down a bit." sammy durgan rose from the stump. "i'll start west," said sammy durgan, "and get a lift on the first way-freight before the word is out. i'm thinking they'll be asking for sammy durgan down at big cloud." and they were. it was quite true. down at headquarters they were earnestly concerned about sammy durgan. sammy durgan had made no mistake in that respect. "fire sammy durgan," wired the roadmaster to the nearest station for transmission by first train to pat donovan, the section boss--and he got this answer back the next morning: i. p. spears, roadmaster, big cloud: sammy durgan missing. p. donovan." missing--that was it. just that, nothing more--as though the earth had opened and swallowed him up, sammy durgan had disappeared. and while carleton grew red and apoplectic over the claim sheet for damages presented by the moving-picture company, and regan fumed and tugged at his scraggly brown mustache at thought of the damage to his rolling stock--sammy durgan was just missing, that was all--just missing. nobody knew where sammy durgan had gone. nobody had seen him. station agents, operators, road bosses, section bosses, construction bosses and everybody else were instructed to report--and they did. they reported--nothing. regan even went so far as to ask mrs. durgan. "is ut here to taunt me, yez are!" screamed mrs. durgan bitterly--and slammed the door in the little master mechanic's face. "i guess," observed regan to himself, as he gazed at the uncommunicative door panels, "i guess mabbe the neighbors have been neighborly--h'm? but i guess, too, we're rid of sammy durgan at last; and i dunno but what that comes pretty near squaring accounts for window glass and about a million other incidentals. only," added the little master mechanic, screwing up his eyes, as he walked back to the station, "only it would have been more to my liking to have got my hands on him first--and got rid of him after!" but regan, and carleton, and mrs. durgan, and the hill division generally were not rid of sammy durgan--far from it. for a week he was missing, and then one afternoon young hinton, of the division engineer's staff, strolled into the office, nodded at carleton, and grinned at the master mechanic, who was tilted back in a chair with his feet on the window sill. "i dropped off this morning to look over the new grading work at the gap," said hinton casually. "and i thought you might be interested to know that macmurtrey's got a man working for him up there by the name of timmy o'toole." "doesn't interest me," said regan blandly, chewing steadily on his blackstrap. "try and spring it on the super, hinton. he always bites." "who's timmy o'toole?" smiled carleton. hinton squinted at the ceiling. "sammy durgan," said hinton--casually. there wasn't a word spoken for a minute. regan lifted his feet from the window sill and lowered his chair legs softly down to the floor as though he were afraid of making a noise, and the smile on carleton's face sort of faded away as though a blight had withered it. "what was the name?" said carleton presently, in a velvet voice. "timmy o'toole," said hinton. carleton's hand reached out, kind of as though of its own initiative, kind of as though it were just habit, for a telegraph blank--but regan stopped him. it wasn't often that the fat, good-natured little master mechanic was vindictive, but there were times when even regan's soul was overburdened. "wait!" said regan, with ferocious grimness. "wait! i'll make a better job of it than that, carleton. i'm going up the line myself to-morrow morning on number three--and _i'll_ drop off at the gap. timmy o'toole now, is it? i'll make him sick!" regan clenched his pudgy fist. "when i'm through with him he'll never have to be fired again--not on this division. still looking for an emergency to rise to, eh? well, i'll accommodate him! he'll run up against the hottest emergency to-morrow morning he ever heard of!" and regan was right--that was exactly what sammy durgan did. only it wasn't quite the sort of emergency that regan----but just a moment till the line's clear, there go the cautionaries against us. if it had been any other kind of a switch it would never have happened--let that be understood from the start. and how it ever came to be left on the main line when modern equipment was installed is a mystery, except perhaps that as it was never used it was therefore never remembered by anybody. nevertheless, there it stood, an old weather-beaten, two-throw, stub switch of the vintage of the ark. two-throw, mind you, when a one-throw switch, even in the days of its usefulness, would have answered the purpose just as well, better for that matter. no modern drop-handle, interlocking safety device about it. not at all! a handle sticking straight out like a sore thumb that could creak around on a semi-circular guide, with a rusty pin dangling from a rusty chain to lock it--if some itinerant section hand didn't forget to jab the pin back into the hole it had the habit of worming its way out of! it stood about a quarter of the way down the grade of the gap, which is to say about half a mile from the summit, a deserted sentinel on guard over a deserted spur that, in the old construction days, had been built in a few hundred yards through a soft spot in the mountain side for camp and material stores. as for the gap itself, it was not exactly what might be called a nice piece of track. officially, the grade is an average of . ; practically, it is likened to a balloon descension by means of a parachute. it begins at the east end and climbs up in a wriggling, twisting way, hugging gray rock walls on one side, and opening a cañon on the other that, as you near the summit, would make you catch your breath even to look at over the edge--it is a sheer drop. and also the right of way is narrow, very narrow; just clearance on one side against the rock walls, and a whole cañon full of nothingness at the edge of the other rail, and----but there's our "clearance" now. macmurtrey's camp was at the summit; and macmurtrey's work, once the camp was fairly established and stores in, was to shave the pate of the summit, looking to an amelioration in the gap's grade average--that is, its official grade average. but on the morning that regan left big cloud on no. , the work was not very far along--only the preliminaries accomplished, so to speak, which were a siding at the top of the grade, with storehouse and camp shanties flanking it. and on the siding, that morning, just opposite the storehouse which, it might be remarked in passing, had already received its first requisition of blasting materials for the barbering of the grade that was to come, a hybrid collection of polacks, swedes, and hungarians were emptying an oil-tank car and discharging supplies from some flats and box cars; while on the main line track a red-haired man, with leathery face, was loading some grade stakes on a handcar. macmurtrey, tall, lanky and irascible, shouted at the red-haired man from a little distance up the line. "hey, o'toole!" the red-haired man paid no attention. "_o'toole!_" it came in a bellow from the road boss. "you, there, o'toole, you wooden-headed mud-picker, are you deaf!" sammy durgan looked up to get a line on the disturbance--and caught his breath. "by glory!" whispered sammy durgan to himself. "i was near forgetting--'tis me he's yelling at." "o'too----" "yes, sir!" shouted sammy durgan hurriedly. "oh, you woke up, have you?" shrilled macmurtrey. "well, when you've got those stakes loaded, take 'em down the grade and leave 'em by the old spur. and take it easy on the grade, and mind your brakes going down--understand?" "yes, sir," said sammy durgan. sammy durgan finished loading his handcar, and, hopping aboard, started to pump it along. at the brow of the grade he passed the oil-tank car, and nodded sympathetically at a round-faced, tow-headed swede who was snatching a surreptitious drag at his pipe in the lee of the car. like one other memorable morning in sammy durgan's career, it was sultry and warm with that same leisurely feeling in the air. sammy durgan and his handcar slid down the grade--for about an eighth of a mile--rounded a curve that hid sammy durgan and the construction camp one from the other, continued on for another hundred yards--and came to a stop. sammy durgan got off. on the cañon side there was perhaps room for an agile mountain goat to stretch its legs without falling off; but on the other side, if a man squeezed in tight enough and curled his legs turk fashion, the rock wall made a fairly comfortable backrest. "'twas easy, he said, to take it on the grade," said sammy durgan reminiscently. "and why not?" sammy durgan composed himself against the rock wall, and produced his black cutty. "'tis a better job than track-walking," said sammy durgan judicially, "though more arduous." sammy durgan smoked on. "but some day," said sammy durgan momentously, "i'll have a better one. i will that! it's a long time in coming mabbe, but it'll come. once in every man's life a chance comes to him. 'tis patience that counts, that and rising to the emergency that proves the kind of a man you are, as some day i'll prove to maria, and regan, and the rest of 'em." sammy durgan smoked on. it was a warm summer morning, sultry even, as has been said, but it was cool and shady against the rock ledge. peace fell upon sammy durgan--drowsily. also, presently, the black cutty fell, or, rather, slipped down into sammy durgan's lap--without disturbing sammy durgan. a half hour, three-quarters of an hour passed--and macmurtrey, far up at the extreme end of the construction camp, let a sudden yell out of him and started on a mad run toward the tank-car and the summit of the grade, as a series of screeches in seven different varieties of language smote his ears, and a great burst of black smoke rolling skyward met his startled gaze. but fast as he ran, the polacks, swedes and hungarians were faster--pipe smoking under discharging oil-tank cars and in the shadow of a dynamite storage shed they were accustomed to, but to the result, a blazing oil-tank car shooting a flame against the walls of the dynamite shed, they were not--they were only aroused to action with their lives in peril, and they acted promptly and earnestly--too earnestly. some one threw the main line open, and the others crowbarred the blazing car like mad along the few feet of siding to get it away from the storage shed, bumped it on the main line, and then their bars began to lose their purchase under the wheels--the grade accommodatingly took a hand. macmurtrey, tearing along toward the scene, yelled like a crazy man: "block her! block the wheels! you--you----" his voice died in a gasp. "d'ye hear!" he screamed, as he got his breath again. "block the wheels!" and the polacks, the swedes, the hungarians and the what-nots, scared stiff, screeched and jabbered, as they watched the tank-car, gaining speed with every foot it travelled, sail down the grade. and macmurtrey, too late to do anything, stopped dead in his tracks--his face ashen. he pulled his watch, licked dry lips, and kind of whispered to himself. "number three 'll be on the foot of the grade now," whispered macmurtrey, and licked his lips again. "oh, my god!" meanwhile, down the grade around the bend, sammy durgan yawned, sat up, and cocked his ear summitwards. "now what the devil are them crazy foreigners yelling about!" complained sammy durgan unhappily. "'tis always the way with them, like a cageful of screeching cockatoos, they are--but being foreigners mabbe they can't help it, 'tis their nature to yell without provocation and----" sammy durgan's ear caught a very strange sound, that mingled the clack of fast-revolving wheels as they pounded the fish-plates with a roar that hissed most curiously--and then sammy durgan's knees went loose at the joints and wobbled under him. trailing a dense black canopy of smoke, wrapped in a sheet of flame that spurted even from the trucks, the oil-tank car lurched around the bend and plunged for him--and for once, sammy durgan thought very fast. there was no room to let it pass--on one side was just nothing, barring a precipice; and on the rock side, no matter how hard he squeezed back from the right of way, there wasn't any room to escape that spurting flame that even in its passing would burn him to a crisp. and with one wild squeak of terror sammy durgan flung himself at his handcar, and, pushing first like a maniac to start it, sprang aboard. then he began to pump. there were a hundred yards between the bend and the scene of sammy durgan's siesta--only the tank-car had momentum, a whole lot of it, and sammy durgan had not. by the time sammy durgan had the handcar started the hundred yards was twenty-five, and the monster of flame and smoke behind him was travelling two feet to his one. sammy durgan pumped--for his life. he got up a little better speed--but the tank-car still gained on him. down the grade he went, the handcar rocking, swaying, lurching, and up and down on the handle, madly, frantically, desperately, wildly went sammy durgan's arms, shoulders and head--his hat blew off, and his red hair sort of stood straight up in the wind, and his face was like chalk. down he went, faster and faster, and the handcar, reeling like a drunken thing, took a curve with a vicious slew, and the off wheels hung in air for an instant while sammy durgan bellowed in panic, then found their base again and shot along the straight. and faster and faster behind him, on wings of fire it seemed, spitting flame tongues, vomiting its black clouds of smoke like an inferno, roaring like a mighty furnace in blast, came the tank-car. it was initial momentum and mass against sammy durgan's muscles on a handcar pump handle--and the race was not to sammy durgan. he cast a wild glance behind, and squeaked again, and his teeth began to go like castanets, as the hot breath of the thing fanned his back. "'tis my finish," wheezed and stuttered sammy durgan through bursting lungs and chattering teeth. "'tis a dead man, i am--oh, holy mither--'tis a dead man i am!" ahead and to either side swept sammy durgan's eyes like a hunted rat's--and they held, fascinated, on where the old spur track led off from the main line. but it was not the spur track that interested sammy durgan--it was that the rock wall, diverging away from his elbow, as it were, presented a wide and open space. "it's killed i am, anyway," moaned sammy durgan. "but 'tis a chance. if--if mabbe i could jump far enough there where there's room to let it pass, i dunno--but 'tis killed, i'll be, anyway--oh, holy mither--but 'tis a chance--oh, holy mither!" hissing in its wind-swept flames, belching its cataract of smoke that lay behind it up the grade like a pall of death, roaring like some insensate demon, the tank-car leaped at him five yards away. and, screaming now in a paroxysm of terror that had his soul in clutch, crazed with it, blind with it, sammy durgan jumped--_blindly_--just before he reached the spur. like a stone from a catapult, sammy durgan went through the air, and with a sickening thud his body crashed full into the old stub switch-stand and into the switch handle, whirled around, and he ricochetted, a senseless, bleeding, shattered sammy durgan, three yards away. it threw the switch. the handcar, already over it, sailed on down the main line and around the next bend, climbed up the front end of the that was hauling no. up the grade, smashed the headlight into battered ruin, unshipped the stack, and took final lodgment on the running board, its wheels clinging like tentacles to the 's bell and sand-box; but the tank-car, with a screech of wrenching axles, a frightened, quivering stagger, took the spur, rushed like a berserker amuck along its length, plowed up sand and gravel and dirt and rock where there were no longer any rails, and toppled over, a spent and buckled thing, on its side. it was a flying switch that they talk of yet on the hill division. no. , suspicious of the handcar, sniffed her way cautiously around the curve, and there, passengers, train crew, engine crew and tommy regan, made an excited exodus from the train--just as macmurtrey, near mad with fear, swedes, hungarians and polacks stringing out along the right of way behind him, also arrived on the scene. who disclaims circumstantial evidence! regan stared at the burning oil-tank up the spur, stared at the bleeding, senseless form of sammy durgan--and then he yelled for a doctor. but a medical man amongst the passengers was already jumping for sammy durgan; and macmurtrey was clawing at the master mechanic's arm, stuttering out the tale of what had happened. "and--and if it hadn't been for timmy o'toole there," stuttered macmurtrey, flirting away the sweat that stood out in great nervous beads on his face, "i--it makes me sick to think what would have happened when the tank struck number three. something would have gone into the cañon sure. timmy o'toole's a----" "his name's sammy durgan," said regan, kind of absently. "i don't give a blamed hoot what his name is!" declared macmurtrey earnestly. "he's a man with grit from the soles up, and a head on him to use it with. it was three-quarters of an hour ago that i sent him down, so he must have been near the top on his way back when he saw the tank-car coming--and he took the one chance there was--to try and beat it to the spur here to save number three; and it was so close on him, for it's a cinch he hadn't time to stop, that he had to jump for the switch with about one chance in ten for his own life--see?" "a blind man could see it," said regan heavily, "but--sammy durgan!" he reached uncertainly toward his hip pocket for his chewing--and then, with sudden emotion, the big-hearted, fat, little master mechanic bent over sammy durgan. "god bless the man!" blurted out regan. and then, to the doctor: "will he live?" "oh, yes; i think so," the doctor answered. "he's pretty badly smashed up, though." sammy durgan's lips were moving. regan leaned close to catch the words. "a steady job," murmured sammy durgan. "never get a chance. but some day it'll come. i'll show 'em, maria, and regan, and the rest of 'em!" "you have, sammy," said regan, in a low, anxious voice. "it's all right, sammy. it's all right, old boy. just pull around and you can have any blamed thing you want on the hill division." the doctor smiled sympathetically at regan. "he's delirious, you know," he explained kindly. "what he says doesn't mean anything." regan looked up with a kind of a grim smile. "don't it?" inquired regan softly. then he cleared his throat, and tugged at his scraggly brown mustache--both ends of it. "that's what i used to think myself," said the fat little master mechanic, sort of as though he were apostrophizing the distant peaks across the cañon, and not as though he were talking to the doctor at all. "but i guess--i guess i know sammy durgan better than i did. h'm?" iv the wrecking boss opinions, right or wrong, on any subject are a matter of individuality--there have been different opinions about flannagan on the hill division. but the story is straight enough--from car-tink to superintendent, there has never been any difference of opinion about that. flannagan was the wrecking boss. tommy regan said the job fitted flannagan, for it took a hard man for the job, and flannagan, bar none, was the hardest man on the payroll; hardest at crooking elbows in macguire's blazing star saloon, hardest with his fists, and hardest of all when it came to getting at the heart of some scalding, mangled horror of death and ruin that a man wouldn't be called a coward to turn from--sick. flannagan looked it. he stood six feet one in his stockings, and his chest and shoulders were like the front-end view you'd get looking at a sturdy, well-grown ox. he wasn't pretty. his face was scarred with cuts and burns enough to stall any german duelling student on a siding till the rails rusted, and the beard he grew to hide these multitudinous disfigurements just naturally came out in tussocks; he had black eyes that could go _coal_ black and lose their pupils, and a shock of black hair that fell into them half the time; also, he had a tongue that wasn't elegant. that was flannagan--flannagan, the wrecking boss. there's no accounting for the way some things come about--and it's pretty hard to call the turn of the card when dame fortune deals the bank. it's a trite enough saying that it is the unexpected that happens in life, but the reason it's trite is because it's immeasurably true. flannagan growled and swore and cursed one night, coming back from a bit of a spill up the line, because they stalled him and his wrecking outfit for an hour about half a mile west of big cloud--the reason being that, like the straw that broke the camel's back, a circus train in from the east, billed for a three days' lay-off at big cloud, had, seeking siding, temporarily choked the yards, already glutted with traffic, until the mix-up gleeson, the yardmaster, had to wrestle with would have put a problem in differential calculus into the kindergarten class. flannagan was very dirty, and withal very tired, and when, finally, they gave him the "clear" and his flat and caboose and his staggering derrick rumbled sullenly down toward the roundhouse and shops, the sight of gilded cages, gaudily decorated cars, and converted pullmans that were second-class-tourist equipment painted white, did not assuage his feelings; neither was there enchantment for him in the roars of multifarious beasts, nor in the hybrid smells that assailed his nostrils from the general direction of the menagerie. flannagan, for an hour's loss of sleep, with heartiness and abandon, consigned that particular circus, also all others and everything thereunto pertaining, from fangless serpents to steam calliopes, to regions that are popularly credited with being somewhat warmer than the torrid zone on the hottest day in mid-summer. but then--flannagan did not know. opinions differ. flannagan was about the last man on earth that any one on the hill division would have picked out for a marrying man; and, equally true the other way round, about the last man they would have picked out as one a pretty girl would want to marry. with her, maybe, it was the strength of the man, since they say that comes first with women; with him, maybe, it was just the trim little brown-eyed, brown-haired figure that could ride with the grace of a fairy. anyway, the only thing about it that didn't surprise any one was the fact that, when it came, it came as sudden and quick as a head-on smash around a ninety-degree curve. that was flannagan's way, for flannagan, if he was nothing else, was impulsive. that night flannagan cursed the circus; the next day he saw daisy macqueen riding in the street parade and--but this isn't the story of flannagan's courtship, not but that the courtship of any man like flannagan would be worth the telling--only there are other things. at first, big cloud winked and chuckled slyly to itself; and then, when the circus left and flannagan got a week off and left with it, it guffawed outright--but when, at the end of that week, flannagan brought back mrs. flannagan, _née_ daisy macqueen, big cloud stuck its tongue in its cheek, wagged its head and waited developments. this is the story of the developments. maybe that same impulsiveness of flannagan's, that could be blind and bullheaded, coupled with a passion that was like a devil's when aroused, was to blame; maybe the women of big cloud, following the lead of mrs. macaloon, the engineer's wife and the leader of society circles, who shook her fiery red head and turned up her celtic nose disdainfully at daisy macqueen, had something to do with it; maybe daisy herself had a little pride--but what's the use of speculating? it all goes back to the same beginning--opinions differ. tongues wagged; flannagan listened--that's the gist of it. but, once for all, let it be said and understood that daisy macqueen was as straight as they make them. she hadn't been brought up the way mrs. macaloon and her coterie had, and she liked to laugh, liked to play, liked to live, and not exist in a humdrum way ever over washtubs and a cook stove--though, all credit to her who hadn't been used to them, she never shirked one nor the other. the women's ideas about circuses and circus performers were, putting it mildly, puritanical; but the men liked daisy macqueen--and took no pains to hide it. they clustered around her, and, before long, she ruled them all imperially with a nod of her pretty head; and, as a result, the women's ideas from puritanical became more so--which is human nature, big cloud or anywhere else. at first, flannagan was proud of the little wife he had brought to big cloud--proud of her for the very attitude adopted toward her by his mates; but, as the months went by, gradually the wagging tongues got in their work, gradually flannagan began to listen, and the jealousy that was his by nature above the jealousy of most men commenced to smolder into flame. just a rankling jealousy, directed against no one in particular--just jealousy. things up at the little house off main street where the flannagans lived weren't as harmonious as they had been. in the beginning, daisy, not treating the matter seriously, answered flannagan with a laugh; finally, she answered him not at all. and that stage, unfortunately far from unique in other homes than flannagan's the world over, was reached where only some one act, word or deed was needed to bring matters to a head. perhaps, after all, there was poetic justice in flannagan's cursing of the circus, for it was the circus that supplied that one thing needed. not that the circus came back to town--it didn't--but a certain round, little, ferret-eyed, short, pompadour-haired, waxed-mustached, perfumed signor ferraringi, the ringmaster, did. ferraringi was a scoundrel--what he got he deserved, there was never any doubt about that; but that night flannagan, when he walked into the house, saw only ferraringi on his knees before daisy, heard only impassioned, flowery words, and, in the blind fury that transformed him from man to beast, the scorn, contempt and horror in daisy's eyes, the significance of the rigid little figure with tight-clenched hands, was lost. ferraringi had been in love with daisy. flannagan knew that, and his seething brain remembered that. the circus people had told him so; daisy had told him so; ferraringi had told him so with a snarl and a threat--and he had laughed--_then_. one instant flannagan hung upon the threshold. he was not a pretty sight. back from a wreck, he was still in his overalls, and these were smeared with blood--four carloads of steers had gone into premature shambles in the ditch. one instant flannagan hung there, his face working convulsively--and then he jumped. his left hand locked into the collar of the ringmaster's coat, his arm straightened like the tautening chains of his own derrick crane, and, as the other came off his knees and upright from the yank, flannagan's right swung a terrific full-arm smash that, landing a little above the jaw, plastered one side of that tonsorial work of art, the waxed and curled mustache, flat into ferraringi's cheek. ferraringi's answer, as he wriggled free, was a torrent of malediction--and a blinding flash. daisy screamed. the shot missed, but the powder singed flannagan's face. it was the only shot that ferraringi fired! with a roar, high-pitched like the maddened trumpeting of an elephant amuck, flannagan with a single blow sent the revolver sailing ceiling high--then his arms, like steel piston rods, worked in and out, and his fists drummed an awful, merciless tattoo upon the ringmaster. the smoke from the shot filled the room with pungent odor. chairs and furniture, overturned, broken, crashed to the floor. daisy, wild-eyed, with parted lips, dumb with terror, crouched against the wall, her hands clasped to her breast--but before flannagan's eyes all was red--_red_. a battered, bruised, reeling, staggering form before him curled up suddenly and slid in a heap at his feet. flannagan, with groping hands and twitching fingers, reached for it--and then, with a rush, other forms, many of them, came between him and what was on the floor. it was very good for ferraringi, very good, for that was all that saved him--flannagan was seeing only red. the neighbors lifted the stunned ringmaster, limp as rags, to his feet. flannagan brushed his great fist once across his eyes in a half-dazed way, and glared at the roomful of people. suddenly, he heaved forward, pushing those nearest him violently toward the door. "get out of here!" he bellowed hoarsely. "get out, curse you, d'ye hear! get out!" there were men in that little crowd, men besides the three or four women, mrs. macaloon amongst them; men not reckoned overfaint of spirit in big cloud by those who knew, but _they_ knew flannagan, and they went--went, half carrying, half dragging the ringmaster, oiled and perfumed now in a fashion grimly different than before. "get out!" roared flannagan again to hurry them, and, as the last one disappeared, he whirled on daisy. "and you, too!" he snarled. "get out!" terrified, shaken by the scene as she was, his words, their implication, their injustice, whipped her into scorn and anger. white-lipped, she stared at him for an instant. "you dare," she burst out, "you dare to----" "_get out!_" flannagan's voice in his passion was a thick, stumbling, guttural whisper. "get out! go back to your circus--go where you like! get out!" his hand dove into his pocket, and its contents, bills and coins, what there was of them, he flung upon the table. "get out--as far as all i've got will take you!" daisy macqueen was proud--perhaps, though, not above the pride of other women. the blood was hot in her cheeks; her big, brown eyes had a light in them near to that light with which she had faced ferraringi but a short time before; her breath came in short, hard, little gasps. for a full minute she did not speak--and then the words came cold as death. "some day--some day, michael flannagan, you'll get what you deserve." "that's what i'm gettin' now--what i deserve," he flung back; then, halting in the doorway: "you understand, eh? get out! i'm lettin' you down easy. get out of big cloud! get out before i'm back. number fifteen 'll be in in an hour--you'd better take her." flannagan stepped out on the street. a curious little group had collected two houses down in front of mrs. macaloon's. flannagan glanced at them, muttered a curse; and then, head down between his shoulders, clenched fists rammed in his pockets, he headed in the other direction toward main street. five minutes later, he pushed the swinging doors of the blazing star open, and walked down the length of the room to where pete macguire, the proprietor, lounged across the bar. "pete"--he jerked out his words hoarsely--"next tuesday's pay day--is my face good till then?" macguire looked at him curiously. the news of the fracas had not yet reached the blazing star. "why, sure," said he. "sure it is, flannagan, if you want it. what's----" "then let 'em come my way," flannagan rapped out, with a savage laugh; "an' let 'em come--_fast_." flannagan was the wrecking boss. a hard man, regan had called him, and he was--a product of the wild, rough, pioneering life, one of those men who had followed the grim-faced, bearded corps of engineers as they pitted their strength against the sullen gray of the mighty rockies from the eastern foothills to the plains of the sierras, fighting every inch of their way with indomitable perseverance and daring over chasms and gorges, through tunnels and cuts, in curves and levels and grades, against obstacles that tried their souls, against death itself, taping the thin steel lines they left behind them with their own blood. hard? yes, flannagan was hard. un-cultured, rough, primal, he undoubtedly was. a brute man, perhaps, full of the elemental--fiery, hot-headed, his passions alone swayed him. that side of flannagan, the years, in the very environment in which he had lived them, had developed to the full--the other side had been untouched. what flannagan did that night another might not have done--or he might. the judging of men is a grave business best let alone. flannagan let go his hold then; not at once, but gradually. that night spent in the blazing star was the first of others, others that followed insidiously, each closer upon the former's heels. daisy had gone--had gone that night--where, he did not know, and told himself he did not care. he grew moody, sullen, uncompanionable. big cloud took sides--the women for flannagan; the men for the wife. flannagan hated the women, avoided the men--and went to the blazing star. there was only one result--the inevitable one. regan, kindly for all his gruffness, understanding in a way, stood between flannagan and the super and warned flannagan oftener than most men were warned on the hill division. nor were his warnings altogether without effect. flannagan would steady up--temporarily--maybe for a week--than off again. steady up just long enough to keep putting off and postponing the final reckoning. and then one day, some six months after daisy flannagan had gone away, the master mechanic warned him for the last time. "i'm through with you, flannagan," he said. "understand that? i'm out from under, and next time you'll talk to carleton--and what he'll have to say won't take long--about two seconds. you know carleton, don't you? well, then--what?" it was just a week to a day after that that flannagan cut loose and wild again. he made a night and a day of it, and then another. after that, though by that time flannagan was quite unaware of the fact, some of the boys got him home, dumped him on his bed and left him to his reflections--which were a blank. flannagan slept it off, and it took about eighteen hours to do it. when he came to himself he was in a humor that, far from being happy, was atrocious; likewise, there were bodily ailments--flannagan's head was bad, and felt as though a gang of boiler-makers, working against time, were driving rivets in it. he procured himself a bracer and went back to bed. this resulted in a decidedly improved physical condition, but when he arose late in the afternoon any improvement there might have been in his mental state was speedily dissipated--flannagan found a letter shoved under his door, postmarked the day before, and with it an official manila envelope from the super's office. he opened the letter and read it--read it again while his jaws worked and the red surged in a passion into his face; then, with an oath, he tore it savagely into shreds, flung the bits on the floor and stamped upon them viciously with his heavy nail-heeled boot. the official manila he did not open at all. a guess was enough for that--a curt request to present himself in the super's office, probably. flannagan glared at it, then grabbed his hat, and started down for the station. there was no idea of shirking it; flannagan wasn't that kind at any time, and just now his mood, if anything, spurred him on rather than held him back. flannagan welcomed the prospect of a row about anything with anybody at that moment--if only a war of words. carleton's office was upstairs over the ticket office and next to the despatchers' room then, for the station did duty for headquarters and everything else--not now, it's changed now, and there's a rather imposing gray-stone structure where the old wooden shack used to be; but, no matter, that's the way it was then, for those were the early days when the road was young and in the making. flannagan reached the station, climbed the stairs, and pushed carleton's door open with little ceremony. "you want to see me?" he demanded gruffly, as he stepped inside. carleton, sitting at his desk, looked up and eyed the wrecking boss coolly for a minute. "no, flannagan," he said curtly. "i don't." "then what in blazes d'ye send for me for?" flannagan flung out in a growl. "see here, flannagan," snapped carleton, "i've no time to talk to you. you can read, can't you? you're out!" flannagan blinked. "was that what was in the letter?" "it was--just that," said carleton grimly. "hell!" flannagan's short laugh held a jeering note of contempt. "i didn't open it--or mabbe i'd have known, eh?" carleton's eyes narrowed. "well, you know now, don't you?" "sure!" flannagan scowled and licked his lips. "i'm out, thrown out, and----" "then, get out!" carleton cut in sharply. "you've had more chances than any man ever got before from me, thanks to regan; but you've had your last, and talking won't do you any good now." flannagan stepped nearer to the desk. "talkin'! who's talkin'?" he flared in sudden bravado. "didn't i tell you i didn't read your damned letter? didn't i, eh, didn't i? d'ye think i'd crawl to you or any man for a job? i'm out, am i? d'ye think i came down to ask you to take me back? i'd see you rot first! t'hell with the job--see!" few men on the hill division ever saw carleton lose his temper--it wasn't carleton's way of doing things. he didn't lose it now, but his words were like trickling drops of ice water. "sometimes, flannagan," he said, "to make a man like you understand one has to use your language. you say you'd see me rot before you asked me for the job back again--very well. i'd rot before i gave it to you after this. now, will you get out--or be thrown out?" for a moment it looked as though flannagan was going to mix it there and then. his eyes went ugly, and his fists, horny and gnarled, doubled into knots, as he glared viciously at the super. carleton, who was afraid of no man, or any aggregation of men, his face stern-set and hard, leaned back in his swivel chair and waited. a tense minute passed. then flannagan's better sense weighed down the balance, and, without so much as a word, he turned, went out of the room, and stamped heavily down the stairs. goaded into it, or through unbridled, ill-advised impulse, men say rash things sometimes--afterward, both flannagan and carleton were to remember their own and the other's words--and the futility of them. nor was it to be long afterward--without warning, without so much as a premonition, quick and sudden as doom, things happen in railroading. it was half past five when flannagan went out of the super's office; it was but ten minutes later when, before he had decanted a drop from the bottle he had just lifted to fill his glass, he slapped the bottle back on the bar of the blazing star with a sudden jerk. from down the street in the direction of the yards boomed three long blasts from the shop whistle--the wrecking signal. it came again and again. men around him began to move. chairs from the little tables were pushed hurriedly back. the bell in the english chapel took up the alarm. it stirred the blood in flannagan's veins, and whipped it to his cheeks in fierce excitement--it was the call to arms! he turned from the bar--and stopped like a man stunned. there had been times in the last six months when he had not responded to that call, because, deaf to everything, he had not _heard_ it. then, it had been his call--the call for the wrecking crew, and, first of all, for the wrecking boss; now--there was a dazed look on his face, and his lips worked queerly. it was not for him, he was barred--_out_. slowly he turned back to the bar, rested his foot on the rail, and, with a mirthless laugh and a shrug of his shoulders, reached for the bottle again. he poured the whisky glass full to the brim--and laughed once more and shrugged his shoulders as his fingers curled around it. he raised the glass--and held it poised halfway to his lips. quick-running steps came up the street, the swinging doors of the blazing star burst open and a call boy shoved in his head. "wreckers out! wreckers out!" he bawled. "number eighty's gone to glory in spider cut. everybody's killed"--and he was gone, a grimy-faced harbinger of death and disaster; gone, speeding with his summons to wherever men were gathered throughout the little town. an instant flannagan stood motionless as one transformed from flesh to sculptured clay--then the glass slid from his fingers and crashed into tinkling splinters on the floor. the liquor splashed his boots. number eighty was the eastbound coast express! like one who moves in unknown places through the dark, so, then, flannagan moved toward the door. men looked at him in amazement, and stood aside to let him pass. something was tugging at his heart, beating at his brain, impelling him forward; a force irresistible, that, in its first, sudden, overwhelming surge he could not understand, could not grasp, could not focus into concrete form--could only obey. he passed out through the doors, and then for the first time a cry rang from his lips. there were no halting, stumbling, uncertain steps now. men running down the street called to flannagan as he sped past them. flannagan made no answer, did not look their way; his face, strained and full of dumb anguish, was set toward the station. he gained the platform and raced along it. shouts came from across the yards. up and down the spurs fluttered the fore-shortened little yard engine, coughing sparks and wheezing from her exhaust as she bustled the wrecking train together; lamps swung and twinkled like fireflies, for it was just opening spring and the dark fell early; and in front of the roundhouse, the , blowing hard from her safety under a full head of steam, like a thoroughbred that scents the race, was already on the table. with a heave of his great shoulders and a sweep of his arms, flannagan won through the group of trainmen, shop hands, and loungers clustered around the door, and took the stairs four at a leap. a light burned in the super's office, but the voices came from the despatchers' room. and there in the doorway flannagan halted--halted just for a second's pause while his eyes swept the scene before him. regan, the master mechanic, by the window, was mouthing curses under his breath as men do in times of stress; spence, the despatcher, white-faced, the hair straggling into his eyes, was leaning over the key under the green-shaded lamp, over the key clearing the line while the sounder clicked in his ears of ruin and of lives gone out. harvey, the division engineer, was there, pulling savagely at a brier with empty bowl. and at the despatcher's elbow stood carleton, a grim commander, facing tidings of disaster, his shoulders braced and bent a little forward as though to take the blow, his jaws clamped tight till the lips, compressed, were bloodless, and the chiselled lines on his face told of the bitterness in his heart. then flannagan stepped forward. "carleton," he cried, and his words came like panting sobs, "carleton, give me back my job." it was no place for flannagan. carleton's cup was already full to overflowing, and he swung on flannagan like a flash. his hand lifted and pointed to the door. "get out of here!" he said between his teeth. "carleton," cried flannagan again, and his arms went out in supplication toward the super, "carleton, give me back my job--give it back to me for to-night--just for to-night." "no!" the single word came from carleton's lips like a thunder clap. flannagan shivered a little and shrank back. "just for to-night," he mumbled hoarsely. "just for----" "no!" carleton's voice rang hard as flint. "i tell you, no! get out of here!" harvey moved suddenly, threateningly, toward flannagan--and, as suddenly, flannagan, roused by the act, brushed the division engineer aside like a plaything, sprang forward, and, with a quick, fierce grip, caught carleton's arms and pinioned them, vise-like, to his sides. "and i tell you, yes!" his voice rose dominant with the power, the will that shook him now to the depths of his turbulent soul. as a man who knows no law, no obstacle, no restraint, as a man who would batter down the gates of hell itself to gain his end, so then was flannagan. "i tell you, yes! i tell you, yes! _my wife and baby's in that wreck to-night?_" turmoil, shouts, the short, quick intermittent hiss of steam as the , her cylinder cocks open, backed down to the platform, the clash of coupling cars, a jumbled medley of sounds, floated up from the yard without--but within the little room, the chattering sounder for the moment stilled, there fell a silence as of death, and no man among them moved or spoke. flannagan, gray-faced, gasping, his mighty grip still on carleton, his head thrown forward close to the other's, stared into the super's face--and, for a long minute, in the twitching muscles of the big wrecker's face, in the look that man reads seldom in his fellows' eyes, carleton drew the fearful picture, lived the awful story that the babbling wire had told. "royal" carleton, square man and big of heart, his voice broke. "god help you, flannagan--go." no word came from flannagan's lips--only a queer choking sound, as his hands dropped to his sides--only a queer choking sound, as he turned suddenly and jumped for the door. on the stairs, dorsay, the driver of the , coming up for his orders, passed flannagan. "bad spill, i hear," growled the engineer, as he went by. "the five hundred and five's pony truck jumped the rails on the lower curve and everything's in the ditch. old burke's gone out and a heap of the passengers with him. i----" flannagan heard no more--he was on the platform now. coupled behind the derrick crane and the tool car were two coaches, improvised ambulances, and into these latter, instead of the tool car, the men of the wrecking gang were piling--a bad smash brought luxury for them. shouts, cries, hubbub, a babel of voices were around him, but in his brain, repeated and repeated over and over again, lived only a phrase from the letter he had torn to pieces, stamped under heel that afternoon--the words were swimming before his eyes: "michael, dear, we've both been wrong; i'm bringing _baby_ back on the coast express friday night." men with little black bags brushed by him and tumbled into the rear coach--the doctors of big cloud to the last one of them. dorsay came running from the station, a bit of tissue, his orders, fluttering in his hand, and sprang for the cab. 's exhaust burst suddenly into quick, deafening explosions, the sparks shot volleying heavenward from her short stack, the big, whirling drivers were beginning to bite--and then, through the gangway, after the engineer, into the cab swung flannagan--flannagan, the wrecking boss. spider cut is the eastern gateway of the rockies, and it lies, as the crows fly, sixteen miles west of big cloud; but the right of way, as it twists and turns, circling and dodging the buttes that grow from mounds to foothills, makes it on the blue-prints twenty-one decimal seven. the running time of the fast fliers on this stretch is--but what of that? dorsay that night smashed all records, and the medical men in the rear coach tell to this day how they clung for life and limb to their seats and to each other, and most of them will admit--which is admitting much--that they were frightened, white-lipped men with broken nerves. as the wreck special, with a clash and clatter, shattered over the switches in the upper yard and nosed the main line, stan willard, who had the shovel end of it, with a snatch at the chain swung open the furnace door and a red glow lighted up the heavens. dorsay turned in his seat and looked at the giant form of the wrecking boss behind him--they had told him the story in the office. the eyes of the two men met. flannagan's lips moved dumbly; and, with a curious, pleading motion, he gestured toward the throttle. dorsay opened another notch. he laughed a grim, hard laugh. "i _know_," he shouted over the roar. "i know. leave it to me, flannagan." the bark of the exhaust came quicker and quicker, swelled and rose into the full, deep-toned thunder of a single note. notch by notch, dorsay opened out the , notch by notch, and the big mountain racer, answering like a mettlesome steed to the touch of the whip, leapt forward, ever faster, into the night. now the headlight played on shining steel ahead; now suddenly threw a path of light across the short, yellow stubble of a rising butte, and dorsay checked grudgingly for an instant as they swung the curve--just for an instant--then into the straight again, with wide-flung throttle. it was mad work, and in that reeling, dizzy cab no man spoke. the sweep of the singing wind, the wild tattoo of beating trucks, the sullen whir of flying drivers was in their ears; while behind, the derrick crane, the tool car and the coaches writhed and wriggled, swayed and lurched, tearing at their couplings, bouncing on their trucks, jerking viciously as each slue took up the axle play, rolling, pitching crazily like cockleshells tossed on an angry sea. now they tore through a cut, and the walls took up the deafening roar and echoed and reëchoed it back in volume a thousandfold; now into the open, and the sudden contrast was like the gasping breath of an imprisoned thing escaped; now over culverts, trestles, spans, hollow, reverberating--the speed was terrific. over his levers, bounding on his seat, dorsay, tense and strained, leaned far forward following the leaping headlight's glare; while staggering like a drunken man to keep his balance, the sweat standing out in glistening beads upon his grimy face, stan willard watched the flickering needle on the gauge, and his shovel clanged and swung; and in the corner, back of dorsay, bent low to brace himself, thrown backward and forward with every lurch, in the fantastic, dancing light like some tigerish, outraged animal crouched to spring, flannagan, with head drawn into his shoulders, jaws outthrust, stared over the engineer's back, stared with never a look to right or left, stared through the cab glass to the right of way ahead--stared toward spider cut. again and again, with sickening, giddy shock, wheel-base lifted from the swing, the struck the tangents, hung a breathless space, and, with a screech of crunching flanges, found the rails once more. again and again--but the story of that ride is the doctors' story--they tell it best. dorsay made the run that night from big cloud to spider cut, twenty-one point seven miles, in _nineteen_ minutes. there have been bad spills on the hill division, bad spills--but there have never been worse than on that friday night when the jumped the rails at the foot of the curve coming down the grade just east of spider cut, shot over the embankment and piled the coast express, mahogany sleepers and all, into splintered wreckage forty feet below the right of way. as dorsay checked and with screaming brake-shoes the slowed, flannagan, with a wild cry, leaped from the cab and dashed up the track ahead of the still-moving pilot. it was light enough--the cars of the wreck nearest him, the mail and baggage cars, had caught, and, fanned by the wind into yellow flames, were blazing like a huge bonfire. shouts arose from below; cries, anguished, piercing, from those imprisoned in the wreck; figures, those of the crew and passengers who had made their escape, were moving hither and thither, working as best they might, pulling others through shattered windows and up-canted doors, laying those who were past all knowing beside the long row of silent forms already tenderly stretched upon the edge of the embankment. a man, with face cut and bleeding, came running toward flannagan. it was kingsley, conductor of number eighty. flannagan jumped for him, grasped him by the shoulders and stared without a word into his face. but kingsley shook his head. "i don't know, flannagan," he choked. "she was in the first-class just ahead of the pullmans. there's--there's no one come out of that car yet"--he turned away his head--"we couldn't get to it." "couldn't get to it"--flannagan's lips repeated the phrase mechanically. then he looked--and understood the grim significance of the words. he laughed suddenly, jarring hoarse, as it is not good to hear men laugh--and with that laugh flannagan went into the fight. the details of that night no one man knows. there in the shadow of the gray-walled rockies, men, flint-hearted, calloused, rough and ready though they were, sobbed as they toiled; and while the derrick tackles creaked and moaned, axe and pick and bar swung and crashed and tore through splintering glass and ripping timber. what men could do they did--and through the hours flannagan led them. tough, grizzled men, more than one dropped from sheer weariness; but ever flannagan's great arms rose and fell, ever his mighty shoulders heaved, ever he led them on. what men could do they did--but it was graying dawn before they opened a way to the heart of the wreck--the first-class coach that once ahead of the pullmans was _under_ them now. flannagan, gaunt, burned and bleeding, a madman with reeling brain, staggered toward the jagged hole that they had torn in the flooring of the car. they tried to hold him back, the man who had spurred them through the night alternately with lashing curse and piteous prayer, the man who had worked with demon strength as no three men among them had worked, the man who was tottering now at the end in mind and body, they tried to hold him back--_for mercy's sake_. but flannagan shook them off and went--went laughing again the same fearful laugh with which he had begun the fight. he found her there--found her with a little bundle lying in the crook of her outstretched arm. she moaned and held it toward him--but flannagan had gone his limit, his work was done, the tension broke. and when they worked their way to the far end of the car after him, those hard, grim-visaged followers of flannagan, they found a man squatted on an up-ended seat, a woman beside him, death and desolation and huddled shapes around him, dandling a tiny infant in his arms, crooning a lullaby through cracked lips, crooning a lullaby--to a little one long hushed already in its last sleep. opinions differ. but big cloud to-day sides about solid with regan. "flannagan?" says the master mechanic. "flannagan's a pretty good wrecking boss, pretty good, i don't know of any better--since the almighty had him on the carpet. he's got a plot up on the butte behind the town, he and daisy, with a little mound on it. they go up there together every sunday--never've known 'em to miss. a man ain't likely to fall off the right of way again as long as he does that, is he? well, then, forget it, he's been doing that for a year now--what?" v the man who squealed back in the early days the payroll of the hill division was full of j. smiths, t. browns and h. something-or-others--just as it is to-day. but to-day there is a difference. the years have brought a certain amount of inevitable pedigree, as it were--a certain amount of gossip, so to speak, over the back fences of big cloud. it's natural enough. there's a possibility, as a precedent, that one or two of the passengers on the _mayflower_ didn't have as much blue blood when they started on the voyage as their descendants have got now--it's possible. the old hooker, from all accounts, had a pretty full passenger list, and there may have been some who secured accommodations with few questions asked, and a subsequent coat of glorified whitewash that they couldn't have got if they'd stayed at home where they were intimately known--that is, they couldn't have got the coat of glorified whitewash. it's true that there's a few years between the landing of the _mayflower_ and the inception of big cloud, but the interval doesn't count--the principle is the same. out in the mountains on the hill division, "who's who" begins with the founding of big cloud--it is verbose, unprofitable and extremely bad taste to go back any farther than that--even if it were possible. there's quite a bit known about the j. smiths, the t. browns and the h. something-or-others now, with the enlightenment of years upon them--but there wasn't then. there were a good many men who immigrated west to help build the road through the rockies, and run it afterwards--for reasons of their own. there weren't any questions asked. plain j. smith, t. brown or h. something-or-other went--that was all there was to it. he said his name was walton--p. walton. he was tall, hollow-cheeked, with skin of an unhealthy, colorless white, and black eyes under thin, black brows that were unnaturally bright. he dropped off at big cloud one afternoon--in the early days--from no. , the limited from the east, climbed upstairs in the station to the super's room, and coughed out a request to carleton for a job. carleton, "royal" carleton, the squarest man that ever held down a divisional swivel chair, looked p. walton over for a moment before he spoke. p. walton didn't size up much like a day's work anyway you looked at him. "what can you do?" inquired carleton. "anything," said p. walton--and coughed. carleton reached for his pipe and struck a match. "if you could," said he, sucking at the amber mouthpiece between words, "there wouldn't be any trouble about it. for instance, the construction gangs want men to----" "i'll go--i'll do anything," cut in p. walton eagerly. "just give me a chance." "nope!" said carleton with a grin. "i'm not hankering to break the sixth commandment--know what that is?" p. walton licked dry lips with the tip of his tongue. "murder," said he. "but you might as well let it come that way as any other. i'm pretty bad here"--he jerked his thumb toward his lungs--"and i'm broke here"--he turned an empty trouser's pocket inside out. "h'm!" observed carleton reflectively. there was something in the other that touched his sympathy, and something apart from that that appealed to him--a sort of grim, philosophical grit in the man with the infected lungs. "i came out," said p. walton, looking through the window, and kind of talking to himself, "because i thought it would be healthier for me out here than back east." "i dare say," said carleton kindly; "but not if you start in by swinging a pick. maybe we can find something else for you to do. ever done any railroading?" walton shook his head. "no," he answered. "i've always worked on books. i'm called pretty good at figures, if you've got anything in that line." "clerk, eh? well, i don't know," said carleton slowly. "i guess, perhaps, we can give you a chance. my own clerk's doing double shift just at present; you might help him out temporarily. and if you're what you say you are, we'll find something better for you before the summer's over. thirty dollars a month--it's not much of a stake--what do you say?" "it's a pretty big stake for me," said p. walton, and his face lighted up as he turned it upon carleton. "all right," said carleton. "you'd better spend the rest of the afternoon then in hunting up some place to stay. and here"--he dug into his pocket and handed p. walton two five-dollar gold pieces--"this may come in handy till you're on your feet." "say," said p. walton huskily, "i----" he stopped suddenly, as the door opened and regan, the master mechanic, came in. "never mind," smiled carleton. "report to halstead in the next room to-morrow morning at seven o'clock." p. walton hesitated, as though to complete his interrupted sentence, and then, with an uncertain look at regan, turned and walked quietly from the room. regan wheeled around and stared after the retreating figure. when the door had closed he looked inquiringly at carleton. "touched you for a loan, eh?" he volunteered quizzically. "no," said carleton, still smiling; "a job. i gave him the money as an advance." "more fool you!" said the blunt little master mechanic. "your security's bad--he'll never live long enough to earn it. what sort of a job?" "helping halstead out to begin with," replied carleton. "h'm!" remarked regan. "poor devil." "yes, tommy," said carleton. "quite so--poor devil." regan, big-hearted, good-natured for all his bluntness, walked to the front window and watched p. walton's figure disappear slowly, and a little haltingly, down the platform. the fat little master mechanic's face puckered. "we get some queer cards out here," he said. "he looks as though he'd had a pretty hard time of it--kind of a discard in the game, i guess. out here to die--pleasant, what? i wonder where he came from?" "he didn't say," said carleton dryly. "no," said regan; "i dare say he didn't--none of 'em do. i wonder, though, where he came from?" and in this the division generally were in accord with regan. they didn't ask--which was outside the ethics; and p. walton didn't say--which was quite within his rights. but for all that, the division, with regan, wondered. ordinarily, they wouldn't have paid much attention to a new man one way or the other, but p. walton was a little more than just a new man--he was a man they couldn't size up. that was the trouble. it didn't matter who any one was, or where he came from, if they could form an opinion of him--which wasn't hard to form in most instances--that would at all satisfactorily fill the bill. but p. walton didn't bear the earmarks of a hard case "wanted" east, or show any tendency toward deep theological thought; therefore opinions were conflicting--which wasn't satisfying. not that p. walton refused to mix, or held himself aloof, or anything of that kind; on the contrary, all hands came to know him pretty well--as p. walton. as a matter of cold fact, they had more chances of knowing him than they had of knowing most new-comers; and that bothered them a little, because, somehow, they didn't seem to make anything out of their opportunities. as assistant clerk to the super, p. walton was soon a familiar enough figure in the yards, the roundhouse and the shops, and genial enough, and pleasant enough, too; but they never got past the pure, soft-spoken, perfect english, and the kind of firm, determined swing to the jaw that no amount of emaciation could eliminate. they agreed only on one thing--on the question of therapeutics--they were unanimous on that point with regan--p. walton, whatever else he was, or wasn't, was out there to die. and it kind of looked to them as though p. walton had through rights to the terminal, and not much of any limit to speak of on his permit. regan put the matter up to carleton one day in the super's office, about a month after p. walton's advent to big cloud. "i said he was a queer card the first minute i clapped eyes on him," observed the master mechanic. "and i think so now--only more so. what in blazes does a white man want to go and live in a two-room pigsty, with a family of polacks and about eighteen kids, for?" carleton tamped down the dottle in his pipe with his forefinger musingly. "how much a week, tommy," he inquired, "is thirty dollars a month, with about a third of the time out for sick spells?" "i'm not a mathematician," growled the little master mechanic. "about five dollars, i guess." "it's a good guess," said carleton quietly. "he bought new clothes you remember with the ten i gave him--and he needed them badly enough." carleton reached into a drawer of his desk, and handed regan an envelope that was torn open across the end. "i found this here this afternoon after the paycar left," he said. regan peered into the envelope, then extracted two five-dollar gold pieces and a note. he unfolded the note, and read the two lines written in a hand that looked like steel-plate engraving. with thanks and grateful appreciation. p. walton. regan blinked, handed the money, note, and envelope back to carleton, and fumbled a little awkwardly with his watch chain. "he's the best hand with figures and his pen it's ever been my luck to meet," said carleton, kind of speculatively. "better than halstead; a whole lot better. halstead's going back east in a couple of weeks into the general office--got the offer, and i couldn't stand in his way. i was thinking of giving p. walton the job, and breaking some young fellow in to relay him when he's sick. what do you think about it, tommy?" "i think," said regan softly, "he's been getting blamed few eggs and less fresh air than he ought to have had, trying to make good on that loan. and i think he's a better man than i thought he was. a fellow that would do that is white enough not to fall very far off the right of way. i guess you won't make any mistake as far as trusting him goes." "no," said carleton, "i don't think i will." and therein carleton and regan were both right and wrong. p. walton wasn't--but just a minute, we're over-running our holding orders--p. walton is in the block ahead. the month hadn't helped p. walton much physically, even if it had helped him more than he, perhaps, realized in carleton's estimation. and the afternoon following regan's and carleton's conversation, alone in the room, for halstead was out, he was hanging over his desk a pretty sick man, though his pen moved steadily with the work before him, when the connecting door from the super's office opened, and bob donkin, the despatcher, came hurriedly in. "where's the super?" he asked quickly. "i don't know," said p. walton. "he went out in the yards with regan half an hour ago. i guess he'll be back shortly." "well, you'd better try and find him, and give him this. forty-two'll be along in twenty minutes." donkin slapped a tissue on the desk, and hurried back to his key in the despatchers' room. p. walton picked up the tissue and read it. it was from the first station west on the line. gopher butte, . p. m. j. h. carleton, supt. hill division: no. held up by two train robbers three miles west of here express messenger nulty in game fight killed one and captured the other in the express car. arrange for removal of body, and have sheriff on hand to take prisoner into custody on arrival in big cloud. everything o.k. mccurdy, conductor. p. walton, with the telegram in his hand, rose from his chair and made for the hall through the super's room, reading it a second time as he went along. there had been some pretty valuable express stuff on the train, as he knew from the correspondence that had passed through his hands--and he smiled a little grimly. "well, they certainly missed a good one," he muttered to himself. "i think i'd rather be the dead one than the other. it'll go hard with him. twenty years, i guess." he stepped out into the hall to the head of the stairs--and met carleton coming up. carleton, quick as a steel trap, getting the gist of the message in a glance, brushed by p. walton, hurried along the hall to the despatchers' room--and the next moment a wide-eyed call boy was streaking uptown for the sheriff, and breathlessly imparting the tale of the hold-up, embellished with gory imagination, to every one he met. by the time forty-two's whistle sounded down the gorge, there was a crowd on the platform bigger than a political convention, and p. walton, by virtue of his official position, rather than from physical qualifications, together with his chief, regan, the ticket agent, the baggage master and carruthers, the sheriff, were having a hard time of it to keep themselves from being shoved off on the tracks, let alone trying to keep a modest breadth of the platform clear. and when the train came to a stop with screeching brake-shoes, and the side door of the express car was shot back with a dramatic bang by some one inside, the crowd seemed to get altogether beyond p. walton's control, and surged past him. as they handed out a hard-visaged, bullet-headed customer, whose arms were tightly lashed behind him, p. walton was pretty well back by the ticket-office window with the crowd between him and the center of attraction--and p. walton was holding his handkerchief to his lips, flecking the handkerchief with a spot or two of red, and coughing rather badly. carleton found him there when the crowd, trailing carruthers and his prisoner uptown, thinned out--and carleton sent him home. p. walton, however, did not go home, though he started in that direction. he followed in the rear of the crowd up to carruthers' place, saw steel bracelets replace the cords around the captive's wrists, saw the captive's legs securely bound together, and the captive chucked into carruthers' back shed--this was in the early days, and big cloud hadn't yet risen to the dignity of a jail--with about as much formality as would be used in handling a sack of meal. after that, carruthers barred the door by slamming the long, two-inch-thick piece of timber, that worked on a pivot in the center, home into its iron rests with a flourish of finality, as though to indicate that the show was over--and the crowd dispersed--the men heading for the swinging doors of the blazing star; and the women for their own back fences. p. walton, with a kind of grim smile on his lips, retraced his steps to the station, climbed the stairs, and started through the super's room to reach his own desk. carleton removed his pipe from his mouth, and stared angrily as the other came in. "you blamed idiot!" he exploded. "i thought i told you to go home!" "i'm feeling better," said p. walton. "i haven't got those night orders out yet for the roundhouse. there's three specials from the east to-night." "well, halstead can attend to them," said carleton, a kindliness creeping into the tones that he tried to make gruff. "what are you trying to do--commit suicide?" "no," said p. walton, with a steady smile, "just my work. it was a little too violent exercise trying to hold the crowd, that was all. but i'm all right now." "you blamed idiot!" grunted carleton again. "why didn't you say so? i never thought of it, or i wouldn't have let----" "it doesn't matter," said p. walton brightly. "i'm all right now"--and he passed on into his own room. when he left his desk again it was ten minutes of six, and carleton had already gone. p. walton, with his neatly written order sheets, walked across the tracks to the roundhouse, handed them over to clarihue, the night turner, who had just come in, and then hung around, toying in an apparently aimless fashion with the various tools on the workbenches till the whistle blew, while the fitters, wipers and day gang generally washed up. after that he plodded across the fields to the polack quarters on the other side of the tracks from the town proper, stumbled into the filthy, garlic smelling interior of one of the shacks, and flung himself down on the bunk that was his bedroom. "lord!" he muttered. "i'm pretty bad to-night. guess i'll have to postpone it. might be as well, anyway." he lay there for an hour, his bright eyes fastened now on the dirty, squalling brood of children upon the floor, now on the heavy, slatternly figure of their mother, and now on the tin bowl of boiled sheep's head that awaited the arrival of ivan peloff, the master of the house--and then, with abhorrent disgust, he turned his eyes to the wall. "thank god, i get into a decent place soon!" he mumbled once. "it's the roughest month i ever spent. i'd rather be back where"--he smiled sort of cryptically to himself--"where i came from." a moment later he spoke again in a queer, kind of argumentative, kind of self-extenuating way--in broken sentences. "maybe i put it on a little too thick boarding here so's to stand in with carleton and pay that ten back quick--but, my god, i was scared--i've got to stand in with somebody, or go to the wall." it was after seven when ivan peloff came--smelling strong of drink, and excitement heightening the flush upon his cheek. "hello, meester walton!" he bubbled out with earnest inebriety. "we rise hell to-night--by an' by. get him goods by midnight." ivan peloff drew his fingers around his throat, and, in lieu of english that came hard to him at any time, jerked his thumb dramatically up and down in the air. "who?" inquired p. walton, without much enthusiasm. "dam' robber--him by train come in," explained ivan peloff laboriously. "oh," said p. walton, "talking of stringing him up--is that it?" ivan peloff nodded his head delightedly. p. walton swung himself lazily from his bunk. "eat?" invited ivan peloff, moving toward the table. "no," said p. walton, moving toward the door. "i'm not hungry; i'm going out for some air." ivan peloff pulled two bottles of a deadly brand from under his coat, and set them on the table. "me eat," he grinned. "by an' by have drinks all 'round"--he waved his hands as though to embrace the whole polack quarter--"den we comes--rise hell--do him goods by midnight." p. walton halted in the doorway. "who put you up to this, peloff?" he inquired casually. "cowboys," grinned peloff, lunging at the sheep's head. "plenty drink. say have fun." "the cowboys, eh?" observed p. walton. "so they're in town, are they--and looking for fun?" "we fix him goods by midnight," repeated ivan peloff, wagging his head; then, with a sudden scowl: "you not tell--eh, meester walton?" p. walton smiled disinterestedly--but there wasn't any doubt in p. walton's mind that devilment was in the wind--big cloud, in the early days, knew its full share of that. "i?" said p. walton quietly, as he went out. "no; i won't tell. it's no business of mine, is it?" it was fall, and already dark. p. walton made his way out of the polack quarters, reached the tracks, crossed them--and then headed out through the fields to circle around the town to the upper end again, where it dwindled away from cross streets to the houses flanking on main street alone. "i guess," he coughed--and smiled, "i won't postpone it till to-morrow night, after all." it was a long walk for a man in p. walton's condition, and it was a good half hour before he finally stopped in the rear of sheriff carruthers' back shed and listened--there were no fences here, just a procession of buttes and knolls merging the prairie country into the foothills proper of the rockies--neither was there any sound. p. walton stifled a cough, and slipped like a shadow through the darkness around to the front of the shed, shifted the wooden bar noiselessly on its pivot, opened the door, and, as he stepped inside, closed it softly behind him. "butch!" he whispered. a startled ejaculation, and a quick movement as of a man suddenly shifting his position on the floor, answered him. "keep quiet, butcher--it's all right," said p. walton calmly--and, stooping, guiding his knife blade by the sense of touch, cut away the rope from the other's ankles. he caught at the steel-linked wrists and helped the man to his feet. "come on," he said. "slip around to the back of the shed--talk later." p. walton pushed the door open, and the man he called the butcher, lurching a little unsteadily from cramped ankles, passed out. p. walton carefully closed the door, coolly replaced the bar in position, and joined the other. "now, run for it!" he said--and led the way straight out from the town. for two hundred yards, perhaps a little more, they raced--and then p. walton stumbled and went down. "i'm--i'm not very well to-night," he gasped. "this will do--it's far enough." the butcher, halted, gazed at the prostrate form. "say, cull, what's yer name?" he demanded. "i owe you something for this, an' don't you forget it." p. walton made no answer. his head was swimming, lights were dancing before his eyes, and there was a premonitory weakness upon him whose issue he knew too well--unless he could fight it off. the butcher bent down until his face was within an inch of p. walton's. "so help me!" he informed the universe in unbounded amazement. "it's de dook!" "sit down there opposite me, and hold out your hands," directed p. walton, with an effort. "we haven't got any time to waste." the butcher, heavy with wonderment, obeyed mechanically--and p. walton drew a rat-tail file from his pocket. "i saw you in the express car this afternoon, and i went to the roundhouse for this when i left the office," p. walton said, as he set to work on the steel links. "but i was feeling kind of down and out, and was going to leave you till to-morrow night--only i heard they were going to lynch you at midnight." "lynch me!" growled the butcher. "what fer? they don't lynch a fellow 'cause he's nipped in a hold-up--we didn't kill no one." "some of the cowboys are looking for amusement," said p. walton monotonously. "they've distributed red-eye among the polacks, for the purpose, i imagine, of putting the blame--on the polacks." "i get you!" snarled the butcher, with an oath. "it's de bar k ranch--we took their payroll away from 'em two weeks ago. lynchin', eh? well, some of 'em 'll dance on air fer this themselves, blast 'em! dook, yer white--an' you always was. i thought me luck was out fer keeps to-day when spud--you saw spud, didn't you?" "yes," said p. walton, filing steadily. "spud always had a soft spot in his heart," said the butcher. "instead of drilling that devil, nulty, when he had the chance, nulty filled spud full of holes, an' we fluked up--yer gettin' a bit of my wrist, dook, with that damned file. well, as i said, i thought me luck was out fer keeps--an' _you_ show up. gee! who'd have thought of seein' de angel dook, de prize penman, de gem of forgers! how'd you make yer getaway--you was in fer twenty spaces, wasn't you?" "i think they wanted to save the expense of burying me," said p. walton. "the other wrist, butch. i got a pardon." "what's de matter with you, dook?" inquired the butcher solicitously. "lungs," said p. walton tersely. "bad." "hell!" said the butcher earnestly. there was silence for a moment, save only for the rasping of the file, and then the butcher spoke again. "what's yer lay out here, dook?" he asked. "working for the railroad in the super's office--and keeping my mouth shut," said p. walton. "there's nothin' in that," said the butcher profoundly. "nothin' to it!" "not much," agreed p. walton. "forty a month, and--oh, well, forty a month." "i'll fix that fer you, dook," said the butcher cheerily. "you join de gang. there's de old crowd from joliet up here in de mountains. we got a swell layout. there's larry, an' big tom, an' dago pete--spud's cashed in--an' they'll stand on their heads an' yell salvation army songs when they hear that de slickest of 'em all--that's you, dook--is buyin' a stack an' settin' in." "no," said p. walton. "no, butch, i guess not--it's me for the forty per." "eh!" ejaculated the butcher heavily. "you don't mean to say you've turned parson, dook? you wouldn't be lettin' me loose if you had." "no; nothing like that," replied p. walton. "i'm sitting tight because i have to--until some one turns up and gives my record away--if i'm not dead first. i'm too sick, butch, to be any use to you--i couldn't stand the pace." "sure, you could," said the butcher reassuringly. "anyway, i'm not fer leavin' a pal out in de cold, an'----" he stopped suddenly, and leaned toward p. walton. "what was it you said you was doin' in de office?" he demanded excitedly. "assistant clerk to the superintendent," said p. walton--and his file bit through the second link. "you'll have to get the bracelets off your wrists when you get back to the boys--your hands are free." "say," said the butcher breathlessly, "it's a cinch! you see de letters, an' know what's goin' on pretty familiar-like, don't you?" "yes," said p. walton. "well, say, can you beat it!" once more the butcher invoked the universe. "you're de inside man, see? gee--it's a cinch! we only knew there was mazuma on de train to-day by a fluke, just spud an' me heard of it, too late to plan anything fancy an' get de rest of de gang. you see what happened? after this we don't have to take no chances. you passes out de word when there's a good juicy lot of swag comin' along, we does de rest, and you gets your share--equal. an' that ain't all. they'll be sendin' down east fer de pinkertons, if they ain't done it already, an' we gives 'em de laugh--you tippin' us off on de trains de 'dicks' are ridin' on, an' puttin' us wise to 'em generally. an' say"--the butcher's voice dropped suddenly to a low, sullen, ugly growl--"you give us de lay de first crack we make when that low-lived, snook-nosed nulty's aboard. he goes out fer spud--an' he goes out quick. he's fired a gun de last time he'll ever fire one--see?" p. walton felt around on the ground, picked up the bit of chain he had filed from the handcuffs, and handed it, with the file, to the butcher. "put these in your pocket, butch," he said, "and throw them in the river where it's deep when you get a chance--especially the file. i guess from the way you put it i could earn my stake with the gang." "didn't i tell you, you could!" the butcher, with swift change of mood, grinned delightedly. "sure, you can! larry's an innocent-lookin' kid, an' he's not known in de town. he'll float around an' get de bulletins from you--you'll know ahead when there's anything good comin' along, won't you?" "when it leaves the coast," said p. walton. "thirty-six hours--sometimes more." "an' i thought me luck was out fer keeps!" observed the butcher, in an almost awe-struck voice. "well, don't play it too hard by hanging around here until they get you again," cautioned p. walton dryly. "the further you get away from big cloud in the next few hours, the better you'll like it to-morrow." "i'm off now," announced the butcher, rising to his feet. "dook, you're white--all de way through. don't forget about nulty, blast him!" he wrung p. walton's hand with emotion. "so long, dook!" "so long, butch!" said p. walton. p. walton watched the butcher disappear in the darkness, then he began to retrace his steps toward the polack quarters. his one thought now was to reach his bunk. he was sick, good and sick, and those premonitory symptoms, if they had been arrested, were still with him. the day had been too much for him--the jostling on the platform, mostly when he had fought his way through the rear of the crowd for fear of an unguarded recognition on the part of the butcher; then the walking he had done; and, lastly, that run from the sheriff's shed. p. walton, with swimming head and choking lungs, reeled a little as he went along. it was farther, quite a lot farther, to go by the fields, and he was far enough down from carruthers' now so that it would not make any difference anyhow, even if the butcher's escape had been discovered--which it hadn't, the town was too quiet for that. p. walton headed into a cross street, staggered along it, reached the corner of main street--and, fainting, went suddenly down in a heap, as the hemorrhage caught him, and the bright, crimson "ruby" stained his lips. coming up the street from a conference in the super's office, nulty, the express messenger, big, brawny, hard-faced, thin-lipped, swung along, dragging fiercely at his pipe, scowling grimly as he reviewed the day's happenings. he passed a little knot of polacks, quite obviously far gone in liquor--and almost fell over p. walton's body. "hullo!" said nulty. "what the deuce is this!" he bent down for a look into the unconscious man's face. "the super's clerk!" he exclaimed--and stared around for help. there was no one in sight, save the approaching polacks--but one of these hurriedly, if unsteadily, lurched forward. "meester walton!" announced ivan peloff genially. "him be sick--yes?" "where's he live?" demanded nulty, without waste of words. "him by me live," said ivan peloff, tapping his chest proudly as he swayed upon his feet. he called to his companions, and reached for p. walton's legs. "we take him by us home." "let him alone!" said nulty gruffly, as the interior of a polack shanty pictured itself before his eyes. "him by me live," repeated ivan peloff, still reaching doggedly, if uncertainly, for p. walton's legs. "let him alone, i tell you, you drunken guinea!" roared nulty suddenly, and his arm went out with a sweep that brushed ivan peloff back to an ultimate seat in the road three yards away. without so much as a glance in the direction taken by the other, nulty stepped up to the rest of the polacks, stared into their faces, and selecting the one that appeared less drunk than the others, unceremoniously jerked the man by the collar into the foreground. "you know me!" he snapped. "i'm nulty--nulty. say it!" "nultee," said the bewildered foreigner. "yes," said nulty. "now you run for the doctor--and you run like hell. if he ain't at home--find him. tell him to come to nulty--_quick_. understand?" the polack nodded his head excitedly. "doctor--nultee," he ejaculated brightly. "yes," said nulty. "go on, now--run!" and he gave the polack an initial start with a vigorous push that nearly toppled the man forward on his nose. nulty stooped down, picked up p. walton in his arms as though the latter were a baby, and started toward his own home a block away. "my god," he muttered, "a railroad man down there in a state like this--he'd have a long chance, he would! poor devil, guess he won't last out many more of these. blast it all, now if the wife was home she'd know what to do--blamed if i know!" for all that, however, nulty did pretty well. he put p. walton to bed, and started feeding him cracked ice even before the doctor came--after that nulty went on feeding cracked ice. along toward midnight, gleason, the yard-master, burst hurriedly into the house. "say, nulty, you there!" he bawled. "that blasted train robber's got away, and--oh!" he had stepped from the hall over the threshold of the bedroom door, only to halt abruptly as his eyes fell upon the bed. "anything i can do--nulty?" he asked in a booming whisper, that he tried to make soft. nulty, sitting in a chair by the bed, shook his head--and gleason tiptoed in squeaky boots out of the house. p. walton, who had been lying with closed eyes, opened them, and looked at nulty. "what did he say?" he inquired. "says the fellow we got to-day has got away," said nulty shortly. "shut up--the doctor says you're not to talk." p. walton's bright eyes made a circuit of the room, came back, and rested again on nulty. "would you know him again if you saw him?" he demanded. "would i know him!" exclaimed nulty. "it's not likely i wouldn't, is it? i was dead-heading him down from gopher butte, wasn't i?" "i think," said p. walton slowly, "if it were me i'd be scared stiff that he got away--afraid he'd be trying to revenge that other fellow, you know. you want to look out for him." "i'd ask nothing better than to meet him again," said nulty grimly. "now, shut up--you're not to talk." p. walton was pretty sick. nulty sat up all that night with him, laid off from his run the next day, and sat up with p. walton again the next night. then, having sent for mrs. nulty, who was visiting relatives down the line, mrs. nulty took a hand in the nursing. mrs. nulty was a little, sweet-faced woman, with gray irish eyes and no style about her--nulty's pay-check didn't reach that far--but she knew how to nurse; and if her hands were red and the knuckles a little swollen from the washtub, she could use them with a touch that was full enough of tender sympathy to discount anything a manicure might have reason to find fault with on professional grounds. she didn't rate nulty for turning her home into a hospital, and crowding her train-sheet of work, already pretty full, past all endurance--mrs. nulty, god bless her, wasn't that kind of a woman! she looked at her husband with a sort of happy pride in her eyes; looked at p. walton, and said, "poor man," as her eyes filled--and went to work. but for all that, it was touch and go with p. walton--p. walton was a pretty sick man. it's queer the way trouble of that sort acts--down and out one day with every signal in every block set dead against you; and the next day a clear track, with rights through buttoned in your reefer, a wide-flung throttle, and the sweep of the wind through the cab glass whipping your face till you could yell with the mad joy of living. it's queer! five days saw p. walton back at the office, as good, apparently, as ever he was--but mrs. nulty didn't stop nursing. nulty came down sick in place of p. walton and took to bed--"to give her a chance to keep her hand in," nulty said. nulty came down, not from overdoing it on p. walton's account--a few nights sitting up wasn't enough to lay a man like nulty low--nulty came down with a touch of just plain mountain fever. it wasn't serious, or anything like that; but it put a stop order, temporarily at least, on the arrangements nulty had cussed p. walton into agreeing to. p. walton was to come and board with the nultys at the same figure he was paying ivan peloff until he got a raise and could pay more. and so, while nulty was running hot and cold with mountain fever, p. walton, with mrs. nulty in mind, kept his reservations on down in the polack quarters, until such time as nulty should get better--and went back to work at the office. on the first night of his convalescence, p. walton had a visitor--in the person of larry, the brains and leader of the gang. larry did not come inside the shack--he waited outside in the dark until p. walton went out to him. "hullo, dook!" said larry. "tough luck, eh? been sick? gee, i'm glad to see you! all to the mustard again? couldn't get into town before, but a fellow uptown said you'd been bad." "hello, larry," returned p. walton, and he shook the other's hand cordially. "glad to see you, too. yes; i guess i'm all right--till next time." "sure, you are!" said larry heartily. "anything good doing?" "well," said p. walton, "i don't know whether you'd call it good or not, but there was a new order went into effect yesterday to remain in force until further notice--owing to the heavy passenger traffic. they are taking the mail and express cars off the regular afternoon east-bound trains, and running them as a through extra on fast time. they figure to land the mails east quicker, and ease up on the equipment of the regular trains so as to keep them a little nearer schedule. so now the express stuff comes along on extra no. , due spider cut at eight-seventeen p. m., which is her last stop before big cloud." "say," said larry dubiously, "'taint going to be possible to board a train like that casual-like, is it?" then, brightening suddenly: "but say, when you get to thinking about it, it don't size up so bad, neither. i got the lay, dook--i got it for fair--listen! instead of a train-load of passengers to handle there won't be no one after the ditching but what's left of the train crew and the mail clerks; a couple of us can stand the stamp lickers up easy, while the two others pinches the swag. we'll stop her, all right! we ditch the train--see? there's a peach of a place for it about seven miles up the line from here. we tap the wires, big tom's some cheese at that, and then cuts them as soon as we know the train has passed spider cut, and is wafting its way toward us. say, it's good, dook, it's like a christmas present--i was near forgetting the registered mail." p. walton laughed--and coughed. "i guess it's all right, larry," he said. "according to a letter i saw in the office this afternoon, there's a big shipment of banknotes that some bank is remitting, and that will be on board night after next." "say that again," said larry, sucking in his breath quickly. "i ain't deaf, but i'd like to hear it just once more." "i was thinking," said p. walton, more to himself than to his companion, "that i'd like to get down to northern australia--up queensland way. they say it's good for what ails me--bakes it out of one." "dook," said larry, shoving out his hand, "you can buy your ticket the day after the night after next--you'll get yours, and don't you forget it, i'll see to that. we'll move camp to-morrow down handy to the place i told you about, and get things ready. and say, dook, is that cuss nulty on the new run?" "i don't know anything about nulty," said p. walton. "well, i hope he is," said larry, with a fervent oath. "we're going to cut the heart out of him for what he did to spud. the butcher was for coming into town and putting a bullet through him anyway, but i'm not for throwing the game. it won't hurt spud's memory any to wait a bit, and we won't lose any enthusiasm by the delay, you can bet your life on that! and now i guess i'll mosey along. the less i'm seen around here the better. well, so long, dook--i got it straight, eh? night after to-morrow, train passes spider cut eight-seventeen--that right?" "eight-seventeen--night after to-morrow--yes," said p. walton. "good luck to you, larry." "same to you, dook," said larry--and slipped away in the shadows. p. walton went uptown to sit for an hour or two with nulty--turn about being no more than fair play. also on the following night he did the same--and on this latter occasion he took the opportunity, when mrs. nulty wasn't around to hear and worry about it, to turn the conversation on the hold-up, after leading up to it casually. "when you get out and back on your run again, nulty, i'd keep a sharp look-out for that fellow whose pal you shot," he said. "you can trust me for that," said nulty anxiously. "i'll bet he wouldn't get away a second time!" "unless he saw you first," amended p. walton evenly. "there's probably more where those two came from--a gang of them, i dare say. they'll have it in for you, nulty." "don't you worry none about me," said nulty, and his jaw shot out. "i'm able to take care of myself." "oh, well," said p. walton, "i'm just warning you, that's all. anyway, there isn't any immediate need for worry. i guess you're safe enough--so long as you stay in bed." the next day p. walton worked assiduously at the office. if excitement or nervousness in regard to the events of the night that was to come was in any wise his portion, he did not show it. there was not a quiver in the steel-plate hand in which he wrote the super's letters, not even an inadvertent blur on the tissue pages of the book in which he copied them. only, perhaps, he worked a little more slowly--his work wasn't done when the shop whistle blew and he came back to the office after supper. it was close on ten minutes after eight when he finally finished, and went into the despatcher's room with the sheaf of official telegrams to go east during the night at odd moments when the wires were light. "here's the super's stuff," he said, laying the papers on the despatcher's desk. "all right," said spence, who was sitting in on the early trick. "how's p. walton to-night?" "pretty fair," said p. walton, with a smile. "how's everything moving?" "slick as clockwork," spence answered. "everything on the dot. i'll get some of that stuff off for you now." "good," said p. walton, moving toward the door. "good-night, spence." "'night, old man," rejoined spence, and picking up the first of the super's telegrams began to rattle a call on his key like the tattoo of a snare drum. p. walton, in possession of the information he sought--that extra no. was on time--descended the stairs to the platform, and started uptown. "i think," he mused, as he went along, "that about as good a place as any for me when this thing breaks will be sitting with nulty." p. walton noticed the light burning in nulty's bedroom window as he reached the house; and, it being a warm night, found the front door wide open. he stepped into the hall, and from there into the bedroom. mrs. nulty was sitting in a rocking-chair beside the lamp, mending away busily at a pair of nulty's overalls--but there wasn't anybody else in the room. "hello!" said p. walton cheerily. "where's the sick man?" "why, didn't you know?" said mrs. nulty a little anxiously, as she laid aside her work and rose from her chair. "the express company sent word this morning that if he was able they particularly wanted to have him make the run through the mountains to-night on extra number thirty-four--i think there was some special shipment of money. he wasn't at all fit to go, and i tried to keep him home, but he wouldn't listen to me. he went up to elk river this morning to meet thirty-four and come back on it. i've been worrying all day about him." p. walton's eyes rested on the anxious face of the little woman before him, dropped to the red, hard-working hands that played nervously with the corner of her apron then travelled to nulty's alarm clock that ticked raucously upon the table--it was . . p. walton smiled. "now, don't you worry, mrs. nulty," he said reassuringly. "a touch of mountain fever isn't anything one way or the other--don't you worry, it'll be all right. i didn't know he was out, and i was going to sit with him for a little while, but what i really came for was to get him to lend me a revolver--there's a coyote haunting my end of the town that's kept me awake for the last two nights, and i'd like to even up the score. if nulty hasn't taken the whole of his armament with him, perhaps you'll let me have one. "why, yes, of course," said mrs. nulty readily. "there's two there in the top bureau drawer. take whichever one you want." "thanks," said p. walton--and stepped to the bureau. he took out a revolver, slipped it into his pocket, and turned toward the door. "now, don't you worry, mrs. nulty," he said encouragingly, "because there's nothing to worry about. tell him i dropped in, will you?--and thank you again for the revolver. good-night, mrs. nulty."' p. walton's eyes strayed to the clock as he left the room--it was . . on the sidewalk he broke into a run, dashed around the corner and sped, with instantly protesting lungs, down main street, making for the railroad yards. and as he ran p. walton did a sum in mental arithmetic, while his breath came in gasps. if you remember flannagan, you will remember that the distance from spider cut to big cloud was twenty-one decimal seven miles. p. walton figured it roughly twenty-two. no. , on time, had already left spider cut at . --and the wires were cut. her running time for the twenty-two miles was twenty-nine minutes--she made big cloud at . . counting larry's estimate of seven miles to be accurate, no. had fifteen miles to go from spider cut before they piled her in the ditch, and it would take her a little over nineteen minutes to do it. with two minutes already elapsed--_three_ now--and allowing, by shaving it close, another five before he started, p. walton found that he was left with eleven minutes in which to cover seven miles. it took p. walton four of his five-minute allowance to reach the station platform; and here, for just an instant, he paused while his eyes swept the twinkling switch lights in the yards. then he raced along the length of the platform, jumped from the upper end to the ground, and lurching a little, up the main line track to where fore-shortened, unclassed little switching engine--the --was grunting heavily, and stealing a momentary rest after having sent a string of flats flying down a spur under the tender guidance of a brakeman or two. and as p. walton ran, he reached into his pocket and drew out nulty's revolver. there wasn't much light inside the cab--there was only the lamp over the gauges--but it was light enough to show p. walton's glittering eyes, fever bright, the deadly white of his face, the deadly smile on his lips, and the deadly weapon in his hand, as he sprang through the gangway. "get out!" panted p. walton coldly. neither dalheen, the fireman, nor mulligan, fat as a porpoise, on the right-hand side, stood upon the order of their going. dalheen ducked, and took a flying leap through the left-hand gangway; and mulligan, with a sort of anxious gasp that seemed as though he wished to convey to p. walton the fact that he was hurrying all he could, squeezed himself through the right-hand gangway and sat down on the ground. p. walton pulled the throttle open with an unscientific jerk. with a kind of startled scream from the hissing steam, the sparks flying from madly racing drivers as the wheel tires bit into the rails, the old , like a frightened thoroughbred at the vicious lash of a yokel driver, reared and plunged wildly forward. the sudden, violent start from inertia pitched p. walton off his feet across the driver's seat, and smashed his head against the reversing lever that stood notched forward in the segment. he gained his feet again, and, his head swimming a little from the blow, looked behind him. yells were coming from half a dozen different directions; forms, racing along with lanterns bobbing up and down, were tearing madly for the upper end of the yard toward him; there was a blur of switch lights, red, white, purple and green--then with a wicked lurch around a curve darkness hid them, and the sweep of the wind, the roar of the pounding drivers deadened all other sounds. p. walton smiled--a strange, curious, wistful smile--and sat down in mulligan's seat. his qualifications for a brotherhood card had been exhausted when he had pulled the throttle--engine driving was not in p. walton's line. p. walton smiled at the air latch, the water glass, the gauges and injectors, whose inner workings were mysteries to him--and clung to the window sill of the cab to keep his seat. he understood the throttle--in a measure--he had ridden up and down the yards in the switchers once or twice during the month that was past--that was all. quicker came the bark of the exhaust; quicker the speed. p. walton's eyes were fixed through the cab glass ahead, following the headlight's glare, that silvered now the rails, and now flung its beams athwart the stubble of a butte as the swung a curve. around him, about him, was dizzy, lurching chaos, as, like some mad thing, the little switcher reeled drunkenly through the night--now losing her wheel-base with a sickening slew on the circling track, now finding it again with a staggering quiver as she struck the tangent once more. it was not scientific running--p. walton never eased her, never helped her--p. walton was not an engineer. he only knew that he must go fast to make the seven miles in eleven minutes--and he was going fast. and, mocking every formula of dynamics, the little switcher, with no single trailing coach to steady it, swinging, swaying, rocking, held the rails. p. walton's lips were still half parted in their strange, curious smile. a deafening roar was in his ears--the pound of beating trucks on the fish-plates; the creak and groan of axle play; the screech of crunching flanges; the whistling wind; the full-toned thunder now of the exhaust--and reverberating back and forth, flinging it from butte to butte, for miles around in the foothills the still night woke into a thousand answering echoes. meanwhile, back in big cloud, things were happening in the super's office. spence, the despatcher, interrupting carleton and regan at their nightly pedro, came hastily into the room. "something's wrong," he said tersely. "i can't get anything west of here, and----" he stopped suddenly, as mulligan, flabby white, came tumbling into the room. "he's gone off his chump!" screamed mulligan. "gone delirious, or mad, or----" "what's the matter?" carleton was on his feet, his words cold as ice. "here!" gasped the engineer. "look!" he dragged carleton to the side window, and pointed up the track--the , sparks volleying skyward from her stack, was just disappearing around the first bend. "that's--that's the two-twenty-nine!" he panted. "p. walton's in her--drove me and dalheen out of the cab with a revolver." for an instant, no more than a breathing space, no one spoke; then spence's voice, with a queer sag in it, broke the silence: "extra thirty-four left spider cut eight minutes ago." carleton, master always of himself, and master always of the situation, spoke before the words were hardly out of the despatcher's mouth: "order the wrecker out, spence--jump! mulligan, go down and help get the crew together." and then, as spence and mulligan hurried from the room, carleton looked at the master mechanic. "well, tommy, what do you make of this?" he demanded grimly. regan, with thinned lips, was pulling viciously at his mustache. "what do i make of it!" he growled. "a mail train in the ditch, and nothing worth speaking of left of the two-twenty-nine--that's what i make of it!" carleton shook his head. "doesn't it strike you as a rather remarkable coincidence that our wires should go out, and p. walton should go off his head with delirium at the same moment?" "eh!" snapped regan sharply. "eh!--what do you mean?" "i don't mean anything," carleton answered, clipping off his words. "it's strange, that's all--i think we'll go up with the wrecker, tommy." "yes," said regan slowly, puzzled; then, with a scowl and a tug at his mustache: "it does look queer, queerer every minute--blamed queer! i wonder who p. walton is, and where he came from anyhow?" "you asked me that once before," carleton threw back over his shoulder, moving toward the door. "p. walton never said." and while regan, still tugging at his mustache, followed carleton down the stairs to the platform, and ill-omened call boys flew about the town for the wrecking crew, and the , big and capable, snorting from a full head of steam, backed the tool car, a flat, and the rumbling derrick from a spur to the main line, p. walton still sat, smiling strangely, clinging to the window sill of the laboring , staring out into the night through the cab glass ahead. "you see," said p. walton to himself, as though summing up an argument dispassionately, "ditching a train travelling pretty near a mile a minute is apt to result in a few casualties, and nulty might get hurt, and if he didn't, the first thing they'd do would be to pass him out for keeps, anyway, on spud's account. they're not a very gentle lot--i remember the night back at joliet that larry and the butcher walked out with the guards' clothes on, after cracking the guards' skulls. they're not a very gentle lot, and i guess they've been to some little trouble fixing up for to-night--enough so's they won't feel pleasant at having it spoiled. i guess"--p. walton coughed--"i won't need that ticket for the _heat_ of northern queensland. i guess"--he ended gravely--"i guess i'm going to hell." p. walton put his head out through the window and listened--and nodded his head. "sound carries a long way out here in the foothills," he observed. "they ought to hear it on the mail train as soon as we get close--and i guess we're close enough now to start it." p. walton got down, and, clutching at the cab-frame for support, lifted up the cover of the engineer's seat--there was sure to be something there among the tools that would do. p. walton's hand came out with a heavy piece of cord. he turned then, pulled the whistle lever down, tied it down--and, screaming now like a lost soul, the reeled on through the night. the minutes passed--and then the pace began to slacken. dalheen was always rated a good fireman, and a wizard with the shovel, but even dalheen had his limitations--and p. walton hadn't helped him out any. the steam was dropping pretty fast as the started to climb a grade. p. walton stared anxiously about him. it must be eleven minutes now since he had started from the big cloud yards, but how far had he come? was he going to stop too soon after all? what was the matter? p. walton's eyes on the track ahead dilated suddenly, and, as suddenly, he reached for the throttle and slammed it shut--he was not going to stop too soon--perhaps not soon enough. larry, the butcher, big tom, and dago pete had chosen their position well. a hundred yards ahead, the headlight played on a dismantled roadbed and torn-up rails, then shot off into nothingness over the embankment as the right of way swerved sharply to the right they had left no single loophole for extra no. , not even a fighting chance--the mail train would swing the curve and be into the muck before the men in her cab would be able to touch a lever. screaming hoarsely, the slowed, bumped her pony truck on the ties where there were no longer any rails jarred, bounced, and thumped along another half dozen yards--and brought up with a shock that sent p. walton reeling back on the coal in the tender. a dark form, springing forward, bulked in the left-hand gangway--and p. walton recognized the butcher. "keep out, butch!" he coughed over the scream of the whistle--and the butcher in his surprise sort of sagged mechanically back to the ground. "it's de dook!" he yelled, with a gasp; and then, as other forms joined him, he burst into a torrent of oaths. "what de blazes are you doin'!" he bawled. "de train 'll be along in a minute, if you ain't queered it already--cut out that cursed whistle! cut it out, d'ye hear, or we'll come in there an' do it for you in a way you won't like--have you gone nutty?" "try it," invited p. walton--and coughed again. "you won't have far to come, but i'll drop you if you do. i've changed my mind--there isn't going to be any wreck to-night. you'd better use what time is left in making your getaway." "so that's it, is it!" roared another voice. "you dirty pup, you'd squeal on your pals, would you, you white-livered snitch, you! well, take that!" there was a flash, a lane of light cut streaming through the darkness, and a bullet lodged with an angry spat on the coal behind p. walton's head. another and another followed. p. walton smiled, and flattened himself down on the coal. a form leaped for the gangway--and p. walton fired. there was a yell of pain and the man dropped back. then p. walton heard some of them running around behind the tender, and they came at him from both sides, firing at an angle through both gangways. yells, oaths, revolver shots and the screech of the whistle filled the air--and again p. walton smiled--he was hit now, quite badly, somewhere in his side. his brain grew sick and giddy. he fired once, twice more unsteadily--then the revolver slipped from his fingers. from somewhere came another whistle--they weren't firing at him any more, they were running away, and--p. walton tried to rise--and pitched back unconscious. nulty, the first man out from the mail train, found him there, and, wondering, his face set and grim, carried p. walton to the express car. they made a mattress for him out of chair cushions, and laid him on the floor--and there, a few minutes later, regan and carleton, from the wrecker, after a look at the and the wrecked track that spoke eloquently for itself, joined the group. carleton knelt and looked at p. walton--then looked into nulty's face. nulty, bending over p. walton on the other side, shook his head. "he's past all hope," he said gruffly. p. walton stirred, and his lips moved--he was talking to himself. "if i were you, nulty," he murmured, and they stooped to catch the words, "i'd look out for--for--that----" the words trailed off into incoherency. regan, tugging at his mustache, swallowed a lump in his throat, and turned away his head. "it's queer!" he muttered. "how'd he know--what? i wonder where he came from, and who he was?" but p. walton never said. p. walton was dead. vi the age limit as its scarred and battle-torn colors are the glory of a regiment, brave testimony of hard-fought fields where men were men, so to the hill division is its tradition. and there are names there, too, on the honor roll--not famous, not world-wide, not on every tongue, but names that in railroading will never die. the years have gone since men fought and conquered the sullen gray-walled rockies and shackled them with steel and iron, and laid their lives on the altar of one of the mightiest engineering triumphs the world has ever known; but the years have dimmed no memory, have only brought achievement into clearer focus, and honor to its fullness where honor is due. they tell the stories of those days yet, as they always will tell them--at night in the round-house over the soft pur of steam, with the yellow flicker of the oil lamps on the group clustered around the pilot of a -class mountain greyhound--and the telling is as though men stood erect, bareheaded, at "salute" to the passing of the old guard. heroes? they never called themselves that--never thought of themselves in that way, those old fellows who have left their stories. their uniform was a suit of overalls, their "decorations" the grime that came with the day's work--just railroad men, hard-tongued, hard-fisted, hard-faced, rough, without much polish, perhaps, as some rank polish, with hearts that were right and big as a woman's--that was all. maccaffery, dan maccaffery, was one of these. this is old dan maccaffery's story. maccaffery? dan was an engineer, one of the old-timers, blue-eyed, thin--but you'd never get old dan that way, he wouldn't look natural! you've got to put him in the cab of the , leaning out of the window, way out, thin as a bent toothpick, and pounding down the gorge and around into the straight making for the big cloud yards, with a string of buff-colored coaches jouncing after him, and himself bouncing up and down in his seat like an animated piece of rubber. nobody ever saw old dan inside the cab, that is, all in--he always had his head out of the window--said he could see better, though the wind used to send the water trickling down from the old blue eyes, and generally there were two little white streaks on his cheeks where no grime or coal dust ever got a chance at a strangle hold on the skin crevices. for the rest, what you could see sticking out of the cab over the whirling rod as he came down the straight, was just a black, greasy peaked cap surmounting a scanty fringe of gray hair, and a wizened face, with a round little knob in the center of it for a nose. but that isn't altogether old dan maccaffery, either--there was mrs. maccaffery. everybody liked dan, with his smile, and the cheery way he had of puckering up his lips sympathetically and pushing back his cap and scratching near his ear where the hair was, as he listened maybe to a hard-luck story; everybody liked dan--but they swore by mrs. maccaffery. leaving out the railroaders who worshipped her anyway, even the worst characters in big cloud, and there were some pretty bad ones in those early days, hangers-on and touts for the gambling hells and dives, used to speak of the little old lady in the lace cap with a sort of veneration. lace cap? yes. sounds queer, doesn't it? an engineer's wife, keeping his shanty in a rough and ready, half baked bit of an uncivilized town in the shadow of the rockies, and a lace cap don't go together very often, that's a fact. but it is equally a fact that mrs. maccaffery wore a lace cap--and somehow none of the other women ever had a word to say about her being "stuck up" either. there was something patrician about mrs. maccaffery--not the cold, stand-offish effect that's only make-believe, but the real thing. the lord knows, she had to work hard enough, but you never saw her rinsing the washtub suds from her hands and coming to the door with her sleeves rolled up--not at all. the last thing you'd ever think there was in the house was a washtub. little lace cap over smoothly-parted gray hair, little black dress with a little white frill around the throat, and just a glad look on her face whether she'd ever seen you before or not--that was mrs. maccaffery. as far back as any one could remember she had always looked like that, always a little old lady--never a young woman, although she and dan had come there years before, even before the operating department had got the steel shaken down into anything that might with justice be called a permanent right of way. perhaps it was the gray hair--mrs. maccaffery's hair had been gray then, when it ought to have been the glossy, luxuriant brown that the old-fashioned daguerreotype, hanging in the shanty's combination dining and silting room, proclaimed that it once was. big cloud, of course, didn't call her patrician--because they didn't talk that way out there. they said there was "some class" to mrs. maccaffery--and if their expression was inelegant, what they meant by it wasn't. not that they ranked her any finer than dan, for the last one of them ranked dan as one of god's own noblemen, and there's nothing finer than that, only they figured, at least the women did, that back in the old country she'd been brought up to things that dan maccaffery hadn't. maybe that accounted for their sending young dan east, and pinching themselves pretty near down to bed rock to give the boy an education and a start. not that mrs. maccaffery had any notions that railroading and overalls and dirt was plebeian and beneath her--far from it! she was proud of old dan, proud of his work, proud of his record; she'd talk about dan's engine to you by the hour just as though it were alive, just as dan would, and she would have hung chintz curtains on the cab windows and put flower pots on the running boards if they had let her. it wasn't that--mrs. maccaffery wasn't that kind. only there were limitations to a cab, and she didn't want the boy, he was the only one they had, to start out with limitations of any kind that would put a slow order on his reaching the goal her mother's heart dreamed of. what goal? who knows? mothers always dream of their boy's future in that gentle, loving, all-conquering, up-in-the-clouds kind of a way, don't they? she wanted young dan to do something, make a name for himself some day. and young dan did. he handed a jolt to the theory of heredity that should, if it didn't, have sent the disciples of that creed to the mat for the full count. when he got through his education, he got into a bank and backed the brain development, the old couple had scrimped to the bone to give him, against the market--with five thousand dollars of the bank's money. old dan and mrs. maccaffery got him off--mrs. maccaffery with her sweet old face, and dan with his grim old honesty. the bank didn't prosecute. the boy was drowned in a ferryboat accident the year after. and old dan had been paying up ever since. he was always paying up. five thousand dollars, even in instalments for a whole lot of years, didn't leave much to come and go on from his monthly pay check. he talked some of dropping the benefit orders he belonged to, and he belonged to most of them, but mrs. maccaffery talked him out of that on account of the insurance, she said, but really because she knew that dan and his lodge rooms and his regalias and his worshipful titles were just part and parcel of each other, and that he either was, or was just going to be, supreme high chief illustrious something-or-other of every order in town. besides, after all, it didn't cost much compared with the other, just meant pinching a tiny bit harder--and so they pinched. old dan and mrs. maccaffery didn't talk about their troubles. you'd never get the blues on their account, no matter how intimate you got with them. but everybody knew the story, of course, for everybody knows a thing like that; and everybody knew that dollars were scarce up at the maccafferys' shanty for, though they didn't know how much old dan sent east each year, they knew it had to be a pretty big slice of what was coming to him to make much impression on that five thousand dollars at the other end--and they wondered, naturally enough, how the maccafferys got along at all. but the maccafferys got along somehow, outwardly without a sign of the hurt that was deeper than a mere matter of dollars and cents, got along through the years--and mrs. maccaffery got a little grayer, a little more gentle and patient and sweet-faced, and old dan's hair narrowed to a fringe like a broken tonsure above his ears, and--but there's our "clearance" now, and we're off with a clean-swept track and "rights through" into division. dan was handling the cab end of one of the local passenger runs when things broke loose in the east--a flurry in wall street. but wall street was a long, long way from the rockies, and, though the papers were full of it, there didn't seem to be anything intimate enough in a battle of brokers and magnates, bitter, prolonged, and to the death though it might be, to stir up any excitement or enthusiasm on the hill division. the hill division, generally speaking, had about all it could do to mind its own affairs without bothering about those of others', for the rockies, if conquered, took their subjection with bad grace and were always in an incipient state of insurrection that kept the operating, the motive power and the maintenance-of-way departments close to the verge of nervous prostration without much let-up to speak of. but when the smoke cleared away down east, the hill division and big cloud forgot their bridge troubles and their washouts and their slides long enough to stick their tongues in their cheeks and look askance at each other; and carleton, in his swivel chair, pulled on the amber mouthpiece of his brier and looked at regan, who, in turn, pulled on his scraggly brown mustache and reached for his hip pocket and his plug. the system was under new control. "who's h. herrington campbell when he's at home?" spluttered regan. "our new general manager, tommy," carleton told him for the second time. regan grunted. "i ain't blind! i've read that much. who is he--h'm? know him?" carleton took the pipe from his mouth--a little seriously. "it's the p. m. & k. crowd, tommy. makes quite an amalgamation, doesn't it--direct eastern tidewater connection--what? they're a younger lot, pretty progressive, too, and sharp as they make them." "i don't care a hoot who owns the stock," observed regan, biting deeply at his blackstrap. "it's the bucko with the overgrown name in the center that interests me--who's he? do you know him?" "yes," said carleton slowly. "i know him." he got up suddenly and walked over to the window, looked out into the yards for a moment, then turned to face the master mechanic. "i know him, and i know most of the others; and i'll say, between you and me, tommy, that i'm blamed sorry they've got their fingers on the old road. they're a cold, money-grabbing crew, and campbell's about as human as a snow man, only not so warm-blooded. i fancy you'll see some changes out here." "i turned down an offer from the penn last week," said the fat little master mechanic reminiscently, "mabbe i----" carleton laughed--he could afford to. there was hardly a road in the country but had made covetous offers for the services of the cool-eyed master of the hill division, who was the idol of his men down to the last car tink. "no; i guess not, tommy. our heads are safe enough, i think. when i go, you go--and as the p. m. & k. have been after me before, i guess they'll let me alone now i'm on their pay roll." "what kind of changes, then?" inquired regan gruffly. "i don't know," said carleton. "i don't know, tommy--new crowd, new ways. we'll see." and, in time, regan saw. perhaps regan himself, together with riley, the trainmaster, were unwittingly the means of bringing it about a little sooner than it might otherwise have come--perhaps not. ultimately it would have been all the same. sentiment and h. herrington campbell were not on speaking terms. however, one way or the other, in results, it makes little difference. it was natural enough that about the first official act of the new directors should be a trip to look over the new property they had acquired; and if there was any resentment on the hill division at the change in ownership, there was no sign of it in big cloud when the word went out of what was coming. on the contrary, everybody sort of figured to make a kind of holiday affair of it, for the special was to lay off there until afternoon to give the big fellows a chance to see the shops. anyway, it was more or less mutually understood that they were to be given the best the hill division had to offer. regan kept his pet flyer, the , in the roundhouse, and tinkered over her for two days, and sent for dan maccaffery--there'd been a good deal of speculation amongst the engine crews as to who would get the run, and the men were hot for the honor. regan squinted at old dan--and squinted at the on the pit beside him. "how'd you think she looks, dan?" he inquired casually. the old engineer ran his eyes wistfully over the big racer, groomed to the minute, like the thoroughbred it was. "she'll do you proud, regan," he said simply. and then regan's fat little hand came down with a bang on the other's overalled shoulder--that was regan's way. "and you, too, dan," he grinned. "i got you slated for the run." "me!" said maccaffery, his wizened face lighting up. "you--sure!" regan's grin expanded. "it's coming to you, ain't it? you're the senior engineer on the division, ain't you? well, then, what's the matter with you? riley's doing the same for pete chartrand--he's putting pete in the aisles. what?" old dan looked at regan, then at the , and back at regan again. "say," he said a little huskily, "the missus 'll be pleased when i tell her. we was talking it over last night, and hoping--just hoping, mind you, that mabbe----" "go tell her, then," said the little master mechanic, who didn't need any word picture to make him see mrs. maccaffery's face when she heard the news--and he gave the engineer a friendly push doorwards. not a very big thing--to pull the latch of the directors' special? nothing to make a fuss over? well no, perhaps not--not unless you were a railroad man. it meant quite a bit to dan maccaffery, though, and quite a bit to mrs. maccaffery because it was an honor coming to dan; and it meant something to regan, too. call it a little thing--but little things count a whole lot, too, sometimes in this old world of ours, don't they? there had been a sort of little programme mapped out. regan, as naturally fell to his lot, being master mechanic, was to do the honors of the shops, and carleton was to make the run up through the rockies and over the division with the new directors: but at the last moment a telegram sent the superintendent flying east to a brother's sick bed, and the whole kit and caboodle of the honors, to his inward consternation and dismay, fell to regan. regan, however, did the best he could. he fished out the black sunday suit he wore on the rare occasions when he had time to know one day of the week from the other, wriggled into a boiled shirt and a stiff collar that was yellow for want of daylight, and, nervous as a galvanic battery, was down on the platform an hour before the train was due. also, by the time the train rolled in, regan's handkerchief was wringing wet from the sweat he mopped off his forehead--but five minutes after that the earnest little master mechanic, as he afterwards confided to carleton, "wouldn't have given a whoop for two trainloads of 'em, let alone the measly lot you could crowd into one private car." somehow, regan had got it into his head that he was going on his mettle before a crowd of up-to-the-minute, way-up railroaders; but when he found there wasn't a practical railroad man amongst them, bar h. herrington campbell, to whom he promptly and whole-heartedly took a dislike, regan experienced a sort of pitying contempt, which, if it passed over the nabobs' heads without doing them any harm, had at least the effect of putting the fat little master mechanic almost superciliously at his ease. inspect the shops? not at all. they were out for a joy ride across the continent and the fun there was in it. "how long we got here? three hours? wow!" boomed a big fellow, stretching his arms lazily as he gazed about him. "let's paint the town, boys," wheezed an asthmatic, bowlegged little man of fifty, who sported an enormous gold watch chain. "come on and look the natives over!" regan, who had been a little hazy on the etiquette of chewing in select company, reached openly for his plug--and kind of squinted over it non-committingly, as he bit in, at h. herrington campbell, who stood beside him. carleton had sized the new general manager up pretty well--cold as a snow man--and he looked it. h. herrington campbell was a spare-built man, with sharp, quick, black eyes, a face like a hawk, and lips so thin you wouldn't know he had any if one corner of his mouth hadn't been pried kind of open, so to speak, with the stub of a cigar. "go ahead and amuse yourselves, boys." h. herrington campbell talked out of the corner of his mouth where the cigar was. "we pull out at twelve-thirty sharp." then to regan, curtly: "we'll look the equipment and shops over, mr. regan." "yes--sure," agreed regan, without much enthusiasm, and led the way across the tracks toward the roundhouse as a starting point for the inspection tour. the whole blamed thing was different from the way regan had figured it out in his mind beforehand; but regan set out to make himself agreeable--and h. herrington campbell listened. h. herrington campbell was the greatest listener regan had ever met, and regan froze--and then regan thawed out again, but not on account of h. herrington campbell. regan might have an unresponsive audience, but then regan didn't require an audience at all to warm him up when it came to his roundhouse, and his big mountain racers, and the shops he lay awake at night planning and thinking about. here and there, h. herrington campbell shot out a question, crisp, incisive, unexpected, and lapsed into silence again--that was all. they inspected everything, everything there was to inspect; but when they got through regan had about as good an idea of what impression it had made on h. herrington campbell as he had when he started out, which is to say none at all. the new general manager just listened. regan had done all the talking. not that h. herrington campbell sized up as a misfit, not by any means, far from it! regan didn't make that mistake for a minute. he didn't need to be told that the other knew railroading from the ground up, he could feel it; but he didn't need to be told, either, that the other was more a high-geared efficiency machine than he was a man, he could feel that, too. one word of praise regan wanted, not for himself, but for the things he loved and worked over and into which he put his soul. and the one word, where a thousand were due, regan did not get. the new general manager had the emotional instincts of a wooden indian. regan, toward the end of the morning, got to talking a little less himself, that is, aloud--inwardly he grew more eloquent than ever, cholerically so. it was train time when they had finished, and the , with old dan maccaffery, half out of the cab window as usual, had just backed down and coupled on the special, as regan and the new general manager came along the platform from the upper freight sheds. and regan, for all his inward spleen, couldn't help it, as they reached the big, powerful racer, spick and span from the guard-plates up. "i dunno where you'll beat that, east or west," said regan proudly, with a wave of his hand at the . "wish we had more of that type out here--we could use 'em. what do you think of her, mr. campbell--h'm?" h. herrington campbell didn't appear to take any notice of the masterpiece of machine design to speak of. his eyes travelled over the engine, and fixed on dan maccaffery in the cab window. dan had an old, but spotless, suit of overalls on, spotless because mrs. maccaffery, who was even then modestly sharing her husband's honors from the back of the crowd by the ticket-office window, had made them spotless with a good many hours' work the day before, for grease sticks hard even in a washtub; and on old dan's wizened face was a genial smile that would have got an instant response from anybody--except h. herrington campbell. h. herrington campbell didn't smile, neither did he answer regan's question. "how old are you?" said he bluntly to dan maccaffery. "me?" said old dan, taken aback for a moment. then he laughed: "blest if i know, sir, it's so long since i've kept track of birthdays. sixty-one, i guess--no, sixty-two." h. herrington campbell didn't appear to hear the old engineer's answer, any more than he had appeared to take any notice of the . he had barely paused in his walk, and he was pulling out his watch now and looking at it as he continued along the platform--only to glance up again as pete chartrand, the senior conductor, gray-haired, gray-bearded, but dapper as you please in his blue uniform and brass buttons, hurried by toward the cab with the green tissue copy of the engineer's orders in his hand. regan opened his mouth to say something--and, instead, snapped his jaws shut like a steel trap. the last little bit of enthusiasm had oozed out of the usually good-natured little master mechanic. two days' tinkering with the , the division all keyed up to a smile, everybody trying to do his best to please, a dozen little intimate plans and arrangements talked over and worked out, were all now a matter of earnest and savage regret to regan. "by christmas," growled regan to himself, as he elbowed his way through the crowd on the platform--for the town, to the last squaw with a papoose strapped on her back, had turned out to see the directors' special off--"by christmas, if 'twere not for carleton's sake, i'd tell him, the little tin god that he thinks he is, what _i_ think of him! and mabbe," added regan viciously, as he swung aboard the observation car behind h. herrington campbell, "and mabbe i will yet!" but regan's cup, brimming as he held it to be, was not yet full. it was a pretty swell train, the directors' special, that the crowd sent off with a burst of cheering that lasted until the markers were lost to view around a butte; a pretty swell train, about the swellest that had ever decorated the train sheet of the hill division--two sleepers, a diner and observation, mostly mahogany, and the baggage car a good enough imitation to fit into the color scheme without outraging even the most esthetic taste, and the on the front end, gold-leafed, and shining like a mirror from polished steel and brass. as far as looks went there wasn't a thing the matter with it, not a thing; it would have pulled a grin of pride out of a polack section hand--which is pulling some. and there wasn't anything the matter with the send-off, either, that was propitious enough to satisfy anybody; but, for all that, barring the first hour or so out of big cloud, trouble and the directors' special that afternoon were as near akin as twin brothers. nothing went right; everything went wrong--except the , that ran as smooth as a full-jewelled watch, when old dan, for the mix-up behind him, could run her at all. the coupling on the diner broke--that started it. when they got that fixed, something else happened; and then the forward truck of the baggage car developed a virulent attack of hot box. the special had the track swept for her clean to the western foothills, and rights through. but she didn't need them. her progress was a crawl. the directors, in spite of their dollar-ante and the roof of the observation car for the limit, began to lose interest in their game. "what is this new toy we've bought?" inquired one of them plaintively. "a funeral procession?" even h. herrington campbell began to show emotion--he shifted his cigar stub at intervals from one corner of his mouth to the other. regan was hot--both ways--inside and out; hotter a whole lot than the hot box he took his coat off to, and helped old pete chartrand and the train crew slosh buckets of water over every time the directors' special stopped, which was frequently. it wasn't old pete's fault. it wasn't anybody's fault. it was just blamed hard luck, and it lasted through the whole blamed afternoon. and by the time they pulled into elk river, where regan had wired for another car, and had transferred the baggage, the directors' special, as far as temper went, was as touchy as a man with a bad case of gout. as they coupled on the new car, regan spoke to old dan in the cab--spoke from his heart. "we're two hours late, dan--h'm? for the love of mike, let her out and do something. that bunch back there's getting so damned polite to me you'd think the words would melt in their mouths--what?" old dan puckered his face into a reassuring smile under the peak of his greasy cap. "i guess we're all right now we've got rid of that car," he said. "you leave it to me. you leave it to me, regan." pete chartrand, savage as though the whole matter were a personal and direct affront, reached up with a new tissue to the cab window. "two hours and ten minutes late!" he snapped out. "nice, ain't it! directors' special, all the swells, we're doing ourselves proud! oh, hell!" "keep your shirt on, pete," said regan, somewhat inconsistently. "losing your hair over it won't do any good. you're not to blame, are you? well then, forget it!" two hours and ten minutes late! bad enough; but, in itself, nothing disastrous. it wasn't the first time in railroading that schedules had gone aglimmering. only there was more to it than that. there were not a few other trains, fast freights, passengers, locals and work trains, whose movements and the movements of the directors' special were intimately connected one with the other. two hours and ten minutes was sufficient, a whole lot more than sufficient, to play havoc with a despatcher's carefully planned meeting points over a hundred miles of right of way, and all afternoon donkin had been chewing his lips over his train sheet back in the despatcher's office at big cloud, until the directors' special, officially special , had become a nightmare to him. orders, counter orders, cancellations, new orders had followed each other all afternoon--and now a new batch went out, as the rehabilitated special went out of elk river, and bob donkin, with a sigh of relief at the prospect of clear sailing ahead, pushed the hair out of his eyes and relaxed a little as he began to give back the "completes." it wasn't donkin's fault; there was never so much as a hint that it was. the day man at mitre peak--forgot. that's all--but it's a hard word, the hardest there is in railroading. there was a lot of traffic moving that afternoon, and with sections, regulars, and extras all trying to dodge special , they were crowding each other pretty hard--and the day man at mitre peak forgot. it was edging dusk as old pete chartrand, from the elk river platform, lifted a finger to old dan maccaffery in the cab, and old dan, with a sort of grim smile at the knowledge that the honor of the hill division, what there was left of it as far as special was concerned, was up to him, opened out the to take the "rights" they'd given him afresh for all there was in it. from elk river to mitre peak, where the right of way crosses the divide, it is a fairly stiff climb--from mitre peak to eagle pass, at the cañon bed, it is an equally emphatic drop; and the track in its gyrations around the base of the towering, jutting peaks, where it clings as a fly clings to a wall, is an endless succession of short tangents and shorter curves. the rockies, as has been said, had been harnessed, but they had never been tamed--nor never will be. silent, brooding always, there seems a sullen patience about them, as though they were waiting warily--to strike. there are stretches, many of them, where no more than a hundred yards will blot utterly one train from the sight of another; where the thundering reverberations of the one, flung echoing back and forth from peak to peak, drown utterly the sounds of the other. and west of mitre peak it is like this--and the operator at mitre peak forgot the holding order for extra freight no. . it came quick, quick as the winking of an eye, sudden as the crack of doom. extra freight no. was running west, too, in the same direction as the directors' special; only extra no. was a heavy train and she was feeling her way down the grade like a snail, while the directors' special, with the spur and prod of her own delinquency and misbehavior, was hitting up the fastest clip that old dan, who knew every inch of the road with his eyes shut, dared to give within the limits of safety on that particular piece of track. it came quick. ten yards clear on the right of way, then a gray wall of rock, a short, right-angled dive of the track around it--and, as the pilot of the swung the curve, old dan's heart for an instant stopped its beat--three red lights focussed themselves before his eyes, the tail lights on the caboose of extra no. . there was a yell from little billy dawes, his fireman. "my god, dan, we're into her!" dawes yelled. "we're into her!" cool old veteran, one of the best that ever pulled a throttle in any cab, there was a queer smile on old dan maccaffery's lips. he needed no telling that disaster he could not avert, could only in a measure mitigate, perhaps, was upon them; but even as he checked, checked hard, and checked again, the thought of others was uppermost in his mind--the train crew of the freight, some of them, anyway, in the caboose. dawes was beside him now, almost at his elbow, as nervy and as full of grit as the engineer he'd shovelled for for five years and thought more of than he did of any other man on earth--and for the fraction of a second old dan maccaffery looked into the other's eyes. "give the boys in the caboose a chance for their lives, billy, in case they ain't seen or heard us," he shouted in his fireman's ear. "hold that whistle lever down." twenty yards, fifteen between them--the in the reverse bucking like a maddened bronco, old dan working with all the craft he knew at his levers--ten yards--and two men, scurrying like rats from a sinking ship, leaped from the tail of the caboose to the right of way. "jump!" the word came like a half sob from old dan. there was nothing more that any man could do. and he followed his fireman through the gangway. it made a mess--a nasty mess. from the standpoint of traffic, as nasty a mess as the hill division had ever faced. the rear of the freight went to matchwood, the , the baggage and two pullmans turned turtle, derailing the remaining cars behind; but, by a miracle, it seemed, there wasn't any one seriously hurt. scared? yes--pretty badly. the directors, a shaken, white-lipped crowd, poured out of the observation car to the track side. there was no cigar in h. herrington campbell's mouth. it was dark by then, but the wreckage caught fire and flung a yellow glow far across the cañon, and in a shadowy way lighted up the immediate surroundings. train crews and engine crews of both trains hurried here and there, torches and lanterns began to splutter and wink, hoarse shouts began to echo back and forth, adding their quota to a weird medley of escaping steam and crackling flame. regan, from a hasty consultation with old dan maccaffery and old pete chartrand, that sent the two men on the jump to carry out his orders, turned--to face h. herrington campbell. "nobody hurt, sir--thank god!" puffed the fat little master mechanic, in honest relief. h. herrington campbell's eyes were on the retreating forms of the engineer and conductor. "oh, indeed!" he said coldly. "and the whole affair is hardly worth mentioning, i take it--quite a common occurrence. you've got some pretty old men handling your trains out here, haven't you?" regan's face went hard. "they're pretty good men," he said shortly. "and there's no blame coming to them for this, mr. campbell, if that's what you mean." h. herrington campbell's fingers went tentatively to his vest pocket for a cigar, extracted the broken remains of one--the relic of his own collision with the back of a car seat where the smash had hurled him--and threw it away with an icy smile. "blame?" expostulated h. herrington campbell ironically. "i don't want to blame any one; i'm looking for some one to congratulate--on the worst run division and the most pitiful exemplification of near-railroading i've had any experience with in twenty years--mr. regan." for a full minute regan did not speak. he couldn't. and then the words came away with a roar from the bluff little master mechanic. "by glory!" he exploded. "we don't take that kind of talk out here even from general managers--we don't have to! that's straight enough, ain't it? well, i'll give you some more of it, now i've started. i don't like you. i don't like that pained look on your face. i've been filling up on you all morning, and you don't digest well. we don't stand for anything as raw as that from any man on earth. and you needn't hunt around for any greased words, as far as i'm concerned, to do your firing with--you can have my resignation as master mechanic of the worst run division you've seen in twenty years right now, if you want it--h'm?" h. herrington campbell was gallingly preoccupied. "how long are we stalled here for--the rest of the night?" he inquired irrelevantly. regan stared at him a moment--still apoplectic. "i've ordered them to run the forward end of the freight to eagle pass, and take you down," he said, choking a little. "there's a couple of flats left whole that you can pile yourselves and your baggage on, and down there they'll make up a new train for you." "oh, very good," said h. herrington campbell curtly. and ten minutes later, the directors' special, metamorphosed into a string of box cars with two flats trailing on the rear, on which the newly elected board of the transcontinental sat, some on their baggage, and some with their legs hanging over the sides, pulled away from the wreck and headed down the grade for eagle pass. funny, the transition from the luxurious leather upholstery of the observation to an angry, chattering mob of magnates, clinging to each others' necks as they jounced on the flooring of an old flat? well perhaps--it depends on how you look at it. regan looked at it--and regan grinned for the pure savagery that was in him. "but i guess," said regan to himself, as he watched them go, "i guess mabbe i'll be looking for that job on the penn after all--h'm?" everybody talked about the directors' special run--naturally. and, naturally, everybody wondered what was going to come from it. it was an open secret that regan had handed one to the general manager without any candy coating on the pill, and the hill division sort of looked to see the master mechanic's head fall and regan go. but regan did not go; and, for that matter, nothing else happened--for a while. carleton came back and got the rights of it from regan--and said nothing to regan about his reply to h. herrington campbell's letter, in which he had stated that if they were looking for a new master mechanic there would be a division superintendency vacant at the same time. the day man at mitre peak quit railroading--without waiting for an investigation. old dan maccaffery and billy dawes went back to their regular run with the . and the division generally settled down again to its daily routine--and from the perspective of distance, if the truth be told, got to grinning reminiscently at the run the big bugs had had for their money. only the grin came too soon. a week or so passed, pay day came and went--and the day after that a general order from the east hit the hill division like a landslide. carleton slit the innocent-looking official manila open with his paper knife, chucked the envelope in the wastebasket, read the communication, read it again with gathering brows--and sent for regan. he handed the form to the master mechanic without a word, as the latter entered the office. regan read it--read it again, as his chief had--and two hectic spots grew bright on his cheeks. it was brief, curt, cold--for the good of the service, safety, and operating efficiency, it stated. in a word, on and after the first of the month the services of employees over the age of sixty years would no longer be required. those were early days in railroading; not a word about pensions, not a word about half-pay; just sixty years and--out! the paper crackled in regan's clenched fists; carleton was beating a tattoo on his teeth with the mouthpiece of his pipe--there wasn't another sound in the office for a moment. then regan spoke--and his voice broke a little. "it's a damned shame!" he said, through his teeth. "it's that skunk campbell." "how many men does it affect?" asked carleton, looking through the window. "i don't know," said the little master mechanic bitterly; "but i know one that it'll hit harder than all the rest put together--and that's old dan maccaffery." there was hurt in the super's gray eyes, as he looked at the big-hearted little master mechanic's working face. "i was thinking of old dan myself," he said, in his low, quiet way. "he hasn't a cent!" stormed regan. "not a cent--not a thing on earth to fall back on. think of it! him and that little old missus of his, god bless her sweet old face, that have been scrimping all these years to pay back what that blasted kid robbed out of the bank. it ain't right, carleton--it ain't right--it's hell, that's what it is! sixty years! there ain't a better man ever pulled a latch in a cab, there ain't a better one pulling one anywhere to-day than old dan maccaffery. and--and i kind of feel as though i were to blame for this, in a way." "to blame?" repeated carleton. "i put him on that run, and riley put old pete chartrand on. it kind of stuck them under campbell's nose. the two of them together, the two oldest men--and the blamedest luck that ever happened on a run! h'm?" carleton shook his head. "i don't think it would have made any difference in the long run, tommy. i told you there'd be changes as soon as the new board got settled in the saddle." regan tugged viciously at his scraggly brown mustache. "mabbe," he growled fiercely; "but campbell's seen old dan now, or i'd put one over on the pup--i would that! there ain't any birth register that i ever heard of out here in the mountains, and if dan said he was fifty i'd take his word for it." "dan wouldn't say that," said carleton quietly, "not even to hold his job." "no, of course he wouldn't!" spluttered the fat little master mechanic, belligerently inconsistent. "who said he would? and, anyway, it wouldn't do any good. campbell asked him his age, and dan told him. and--and--oh, what's the use! i know it, i know i'm only talking, carleton." neither of them said anything for a minute; then regan, pacing up and down the room, spoke again: "it's a clean sweep, eh? train crews, engine crews, everything--there ain't any other job for him. over sixty is out everywhere. a white man--one of the whitest"--regan sort of said it to himself--"old dan maccaffery. who's to tell him?" carleton drew a match, with a long crackling noise, under the arm of his chair. "me?" said regan, and his voice broke again. he stopped before the desk, and, leaning, over, stretched out his arm impulsively across it. "i'd rather have that arm cut off than tell him, carleton," he said huskily. "i don't know what he'll say, i don't know what he'll do, but i know it will break his heart, and break mrs. maccaffery's heart--carleton." he took another turn the length of the room and back again. "but i guess it had better be me," said the little master mechanic, more to himself than to carleton. "i guess it had--i'd hate to think of his getting it so's it would hurt any more than it had to, h'm?" and so tommy regan told old dan maccaffery--that afternoon--the day after pay day. regan didn't mean to exactly, not then--he was kind of putting it off, as it were--until next day--and fretting himself sick over it. but that afternoon old dan, on his way down to the roundhouse--dan took out the regular passenger local that left big cloud at . every evening, and to spend an hour ahead of running time with the was as much a habit with dan as breathing was--hunted regan up in the latter's office just before the six o'clock whistle blew. for an instant regan thought the engineer had somehow or other already heard the news, but a glance at dan's face dispelled that idea as quickly as it had come. dan was always smiling, but there was a smile on the wizened, puckered, honest old face now that seemed to bubble out all over it. "regan," said old dan, bursting with happy excitement, "i just had to drop in and tell you on the way over to the roundhouse, and the missus, she says, 'you tell mr. regan, dan; he'll be rightdown glad.'" regan got up out of his chair. there seemed a sense of disaster coming somehow that set him to breathing heavily. "sure, dan--sure," he said weakly. "what is it?" "well," said dan, "you know that--that trouble the boy got into back--back----' "yes, i know," said regan hastily. "well," said dan, "it's taken a long time, a good many years, but yesterday, you know, was pay day; and to-day, regan, we, the missus and me, regan, sent the last of that money east, interest and all, the last cent of it, cleaned it all up. say, regan, i feel like i was walking on air, and you'd ought to have seen the missus sitting up there in the cottage and smiling through the tears. 'oh, dan!' she says, and then she gets up and puts her two hands on my shoulders, and i felt blamed near like crying myself. 'we can start in now, dan, to save up for old age,' she says, smiling. say, regan, ain't it--ain't it fine? we're going to start in now and save up for old age." regan didn't say a word. it came with a rush, choking him up in his throat, and something misty in front of his eyes so he couldn't see--and he turned his back, searching for his hat on the peg behind his desk. he jammed his hat on his head, and jerked it low down over his forehead. "ain't you--glad?" said old dan, a sort of puzzled hurt in his eyes. "i'll walk over a bit of the way to the roundhouse with you, dan," said regan gruffly. "come on." they stepped out of the shops, and across a spur--old dan, still puzzled, striding along beside the master mechanic. "what's the matter, regan?" he asked reproachfully. "i thought you'd be----" and then regan stopped--and his hand fell in a tight grip on the other's shoulder. "i got to tell you, dan," he blurted out. "but i don't need to tell you what i think of it. it's a damned shame! the new crowd that's running this road don't want anybody helping 'em to do it after the first of the month that's over sixty years of age. you're--you're out." old dan didn't seem to get it for a minute; then a whiteness kind of crept around his lips, and his eyes, from regan, seemed to circuit in a queer, wistful way about the yards, and fix finally on the roundhouse in front of him; and then he lifted his peaked cap, in the way he had of doing, and scratched near his ear where the hair was. he hit regan pretty hard with what he said. "regan," he said, "there's two weeks yet to the end of the month. don't tell her, regan, and don't you let the boys tell her--there's two weeks she don't need to worry. i'd kind of like to have her have them two weeks." regan nodded--there weren't any words that would come, and he couldn't have spoken them if there had. "yes," said old dan, sort of whispering to himself, "i'd kind of like to have her have them two weeks." regan cleared his throat, pulled at his mustache, swore under his breath, and cleared his throat again. "what'll you do, dan--afterwards?" old dan straightened up, looked at regan--and smiled. "i dunno," he said, shaking his head and smiling. "i dunno; but it'll be all right. we'll get along somehow." his eyes shifted to the roundhouse again. "i guess i'd better be getting over to the ," he said--and turned abruptly away. regan watched him go, watched the overalled figure with a slight shoulder stoop cross the turntable, watched until the other disappeared inside the roundhouse doors; and then he turned and walked slowly across the tracks and uptown toward his boarding house. "don't tell her"--the words kept reiterating themselves insistently--"don't let the boys tell her." "i guess they won't," said regan, muttering fiercely to himself. "i guess they won't." nor did they. the division and big cloud kept the secret for those two weeks--and they kept it for long after that. the little old lady in the lace cap never knew--they ranked her high, those pioneering women kind of hers in that little mountain town, those rough-and-ready toilers who had been her husband's mates--she never knew. but everybody else knew, and they watched old dan as the days went by, watched him somehow with a tight feeling in their throats, and kept aloof a little--because they didn't know what to say--kept aloof a little awkwardly, as it were. not that there seemed much of any difference in the old engineer; it was more a something that they sensed. old dan came down to the roundhouse in the late afternoon an hour before train time, just as he always did, puttered and oiled around and coddled the for an hour, just as he always did, just as though he was always going to do it, took his train out, came back on the early morning run, backed the into the roundhouse, and trudged up main street to where it began to straggle into the buttes, to where his cottage and the little old lady were--just as he always did. and the little old lady, with the debt paid, went about the town for those two weeks happier-looking, younger-looking than big cloud had ever seen her before. that was all. but regan, worrying, pulling at his mustache, put it up to little billy dawes, old dan's fireman, one day in the roundhouse near the end of the two weeks. "how's dan take it in the cab, billy?" he asked. the little fireman rolled the hunk of greasy waste in his hands, and swabbed at his fingers with it for a moment before he answered; then he sent a stream of blackstrap juice viciously into the pit, and with a savage jerk hurled the hunk of waste after it. "by god!" he said fiercely. regan blinked--and waited. "just the same as ever he was," said billy dawes huskily, after a silence. "just the same--when he thinks you're not looking. i've seen him sometimes when he didn't know i was looking." regan said: "h'm!"--kind of coughed it out, reached for his plug, as was usual with him in times of stress, bit into it deeply, sputtered something hurriedly about new piston rings for the left-hand head, and, muttering to himself, left the roundhouse. and that night old dan maccaffery took out the and the local passenger for the run west and the run back east--just as he always did. and the next night, and for two nights after that he did the same. came then the night of the st. it was the fall of the year and the dusk fell early; and by a little after six, with the oil lamps lighted, that at best only filtered spasmodic yellow streaks of gloom about the roundhouse, the engines back on the pits were beginning to loom up through the murk in big, grotesque, shadowy shapes, as regan, crossing the turntable, paused for a moment hesitantly. why he was there, he didn't know. he hadn't meant to be there. he was just a little early for his nightly game of pedro with carleton over in the super's office--it wasn't much more than half past six--so he had had some time to put in--that must be about the size of it. he hadn't meant to come. there wasn't any use in it, none at all, nothing he could do; better, in fact, if he stayed away--only he had left the boarding house early--and he was down there now, standing on the turntable--and it was old dan's last run. "i guess," mumbled regan, "i'll go back over to the station. carleton 'll be along in a few minutes. i guess i will, h'm?"--only regan didn't. he started on again slowly over the turntable, and entered the roundhouse. there wasn't anybody in sight around the pit on which the stood, nobody puttering over the links and motion-gear, poking here and there solicitously with a long-spouted oil can, as he had half, more than half, expected to find old dan doing; but he heard some one moving about in the cab, and caught the flare of a torch. regan walked down the length of the engine, and peered into the cab. it was billy dawes. "where's dan, billy? ain't he about?" inquired regan. the fireman came out into the gangway. "yes," he answered; "he's down there back of the tender by the fitters' benches. he's looking for some washers he said he wanted for a loose stud nut. i'll get him for you." "no; never mind," said regan. "i'll find him." it was pretty dark at the rear of the roundhouse in the narrow space between the engine tenders on the various pits and the row of workbenches that flanked the wall, and for a moment, as regan reached the end of the 's tender, he could not see any one--and then he stopped short, as he made out old dan's form down on the floor by the end bench as though he were groping for something underneath it. for a minute, two perhaps, regan stood there motionless, watching old dan maccaffery. then he drew back, tiptoed softly away, went out through the engine doors, and, as he crossed the tracks to the station platform, brushed his hand hurriedly across his eyes. regan didn't play much of a game of pedro that night--his heart wasn't in it. carleton had barely dealt the first hand when regan heard the backing down and coupling on the local, and he got up from his chair and walked to the window, and stood there watching until the local pulled out. carleton didn't say anything--just dealt the cards over again, and began once more as regan resumed his seat. an hour passed. regan, fidgety and nervous, played in a desultory fashion; carleton, disturbed, patiently correcting the master mechanic's mistakes. the game was a farce. "what's the matter, tommy?" asked carleton gravely, as regan made a misdeal twice in succession. "nothing," said regan shortly. "go on, play; it's your bid." carleton shook his head. "you're taking it too much to heart, tommy," he said. "it won't do you any good--either of you--you or dan. he'll pull out of it somehow. you'll see." there was a queer look on regan's face as he stared for an instant at carleton across the table, and he opened his lips as though to say something--and closed them again in a hard line instead. carleton bid. "it's yours," said regan. carleton led--and then regan, with a sweep of his hand, shot his cards into the center of the table. "it's no good," he said gruffly, getting up. "i can't play the blamed game to-night, i----" he stopped suddenly and turned his head, as a chair scraped sharply in the despatchers' room next door. a step sounded in the hall, the super's door was flung open, and spence put in his head. one glance at the despatcher, and carleton was on his feet. "what's the matter, spence?" he asked, quick and hard. regan hadn't moved--but regan spoke now, answering the question that was addressed to the despatcher, and answering it in a strangely assertive, absolute, irrefutable way. "the local," he said. "number forty-seven. dan maccaffery's dead." both men stared at him in amazement--and spence, sort of unconsciously, nodded his head. "yes," said spence, still staring at regan. "there was some sort of engine trouble just west of big eddy in the beaver cañon. i haven't got the rights of it yet, only that somehow maccaffery got his engine stopped just in time to keep the train from going over the bridge embankment--and went out doing it. there's no one else hurt. dawes, the fireman, and conductor neale walked back to big eddy. i've got them on the wire now. come into the other room." regan stepped to the door mechanically, and, with carleton behind him, followed spence into the despatchers' room. there, carleton, tight-lipped, leaned against the table; regan, his face like stone, took his place at spence's elbow, as the despatcher dropped into his chair. there wasn't a sound in the room for a moment save the clicking of the sender in a quick tattoo under spence's fingers. then spence picked up a pencil and began scribbling the message on a pad, as the sounder spoke--billy dawes was dictating his story to the big eddy operator. "it was just west of big eddy, just before you get to the curve at the approach to the beaver bridge," came dawes' story, "and we were hitting up a fast clip, but no more than usual, when we got a jolt in the cab that spilled me into the coal and knocked dan off his seat. it all came so quick there wasn't time to think, but i knew we'd shed a driver on dan's side, and the rod was cutting the side of the cab like a knife through cheese. i heard dan shout something about the train going over the embankment and into the river if we ever hit the beaver curve, and then he jumped for the throttle and the air. there wasn't a chance in a million for him, but it was the only chance for every last one of the rest of us. he made it somehow, i don't know how; it's all a blur to me. he checked her, and then the rod caught him, and----" the sounder broke, almost with a human sob in it, it seemed, and then went on again: "we stopped just as the turned turtle. none of the coaches left the rails. that's all." regan spoke through dry lips. "ask him what dan was like in the cab to-night," he said hoarsely. spence looked up and around at the master mechanic, as though he had not heard aright. "ask him what i say," repeated regan shortly. "what was dan like in the cab to-night?" spence bent over his key again. there was a pause before the answer came. "he says he hadn't seen dan so cheerful for months," said spence presently. regan nodded, kind of curiously, kind of as though it were the answer he expected--and then he nodded at carleton, and the two went back to the super's room. regan closed the door behind him. carleton dropped into his chair, his gray eyes hard and full of pain. "i don't understand, tommy," he said heavily. "it's almost as though you knew it was going to happen." regan came across the floor and stood in front of the desk. "i did," he said in a low way. "i think i was almost certain of it." carleton pulled himself forward with a jerk in his chair. "do you know what you are saying, tommy?" he asked sharply. "i'll tell you," regan said, in the same low way. "i went over to the roundhouse to-night before dan took the out. i didn't see dan anywhere about, and i asked dawes where he was. dawes said he had gone back to the fitters' benches to look for some washers. i walked on past the tender and i found him there down on the floor on his knees by one of the benches--but he wasn't looking for any washers. he was praying." with a sharp exclamation, carleton pushed back his chair, and, standing, leaned over the desk toward regan. regan swallowed a lump in his throat--and shook his head. "he didn't see me," he said brokenly, "he didn't know i was there. he was praying aloud. i heard what he said. it's been ringing in my head all night, word for word, while i was trying to play with those"--he jerked his hand toward the scattered cards on the desk between them. "i can hear him saying it now. it's the queerest prayer i ever heard; and i guess he prayed the way he lived--as though he was kind of intimate with god." "yes?" prompted carleton softly, as regan paused. regan turned his head away as his eyes filled suddenly--and his voice was choked. "what he said was this, just as though he was talking to you or me: 'you know how it is, god. i wouldn't take that way myself unless you fixed it up for me, because it wouldn't be right unless you did it. but i hope, god, you'll think that's the best way out of it. you see, there ain't nothing left as it is, but if we fixed it that way there'd be the fraternal insurance to take care of the missus, and she wouldn't never know. and then, you see, god, i guess my work is all done, and--and i'd kind of like to quit while i was still on the pay roll--i'd kind of like to finish that way, and to-night's the last chance. you understand, god, don't you?'" regan's lips were quivering as he stopped. there was silence for a moment, then carleton looked up from the blotter on his desk. "tommy," he said in his big, quiet way, as his hand touched regan's sleeve, "tell me why you didn't stop him, then, from going out to-night?" regan didn't answer at once. he went over to the window and stared out at the twinkling switch lights in the yards below--he was still staring out of the window as he spoke. "he didn't put it up to me," said regan. "he put it up to god." vii "the devil and all his works" maguire was a little, washed-out, kind of toil-bent hostler in the roundhouse--and he married old. how old? nobody knew--not even old bill himself--fifty something. mrs. maguire presented him with a son in due course, and the son's name was patrick burke maguire--but the hill division, being both terse and graphic by nature and education, called him "noodles." noodles wasn't even a pretty baby. tommy regan, who was roped in to line up at the baptismal font and act as godfather because old bill was a boiler-washer in the roundhouse, which was reason enough for the big-hearted master mechanic, said that noodles was the ugliest and most forbidding looking specimen of progeny he had ever seen outside a zoological garden. of course, be it understood, regan wasn't a family man, and god-fathering wasn't a job in regan's line, so when he got outside the church and the perspiration had stopped trickling nervously down the small of his back and he'd got a piece of blackstrap clamped firmly home between his teeth, he told old bill, by way of a grim sort of revenge for the unhappy position his good nature had led him into, that the offspring was the dead spit of its father--and he congratulated noodles. the irony, of course, was lost. the boiler-washer walked on air for a week. he told the roundhouse what regan had said--and the roundhouse laughed. bill thought the roundhouse thought he was lying, but that didn't dampen his spirits any. it wasn't everybody could get the master mechanic of the division to stand up with _their_ kids! everybody was happy--except noodles. noodles, just about then, developed colic. noodles got over the colic, got over the measles, the mumps, the whooping cough, and the scarlet fever--that may not have been the order of their coming or their going, but he got over them all. and when he was twelve he got over the smallpox; but he never got over his ugliness--the smallpox kind of put a stop-order on any lurking tendency there might have been in that direction. also, when he was twelve, he got over all the schooling the boiler-washer's limited means would span, which wasn't a university course; and he started in railroading as a call boy. there was nothing organically bad about noodles, except his exterior--which wasn't his fault. one can't be blamed for hair of a motley red, ubiquitous freckles wherever the smallpox had left room for them, no particular colored eyes, a little round knob of uptilted nose, and a mouth that made even the calloused dutchy at the lunch counter feel a little mean inwardly when he compared it with the mathematically cut slab of contract pie, eight slabs to the pie plate, and so much so that he went to the extent of--no, he never gave noodles an extra piece--but he went to the extent of surreptitiously pocketing noodles' nickel as though he were obtaining money under false pretenses--which was a good deal for dutchy to do--and just shows. there was nothing _organically_ bad about noodles--not a thing. noodles' troubles, and they came thick and fast with the inauguration of his railroad career, lay in quite another direction--his irrepressible tendency to practical jokes, coupled with a lack of the sense of the general fitness of things, consequences and results, and an absence of even a bowing acquaintance with responsibility that was appalling. the first night noodles went on duty as call boy, armed with a nickel thriller--that being only half the price of a regular dime novel--and visions of the presidency of the road being offered him before he was much older, spence was sitting in on the early night trick. there was a lot of stuff moving through the mountains that night, and the train sheet was heavy. and even spence, counted one of the best despatchers that ever held down a key on the hill division, was hard put to it, both to keep his crowding sections from treading on each other's heels, and to jockey the east and westbounds past each other without letting their pilots get tangled up head-on. it was no night or no place for foolishness--a despatcher's office never is, for that matter. noodles curled himself up in a chair behind the despatcher--and started in on the thriller. his first call was for the crews of no. , the local freight east, at . , and there was nothing to do until then unless spence should happen to want him for something. the thriller was quite up to the mark, even "thriller" than usual, but noodles left the hero at the end of the first chapter securely bound to the mill-wheel with the villain rushing to open the gate in the dam--and his eyes strayed around the room. it wasn't altogether the novelty of his surroundings--no phase of railroading was altogether a novelty to any big cloud youngster--there was just a sort of newness in his own position that interfered with any protracted or serious effort along literary lines. from a circuit of the room, his eyes went to the fly-specked, green-shaded lamp on the despatcher's table, then from the lamp to the despatcher's back--and fixed on the despatcher's back. his eyes held there quite a long time--then his fingers went stealthily to the lapel of his coat. spence had a habit when hurried or anxious of half rising from his chair, as though to give emphasis to his orders every time he touched the key. spence was both hurried and anxious that night and the key was busy. in the somewhat dim light, spence, to noodles' fancy, assumed the aspect of an animated jumping jack. deftly, through long experience, noodles coiled his pin with a wicked upshoot to the center of attack, cautiously lowered his own chair, which had been tilted back against the wall, to the more stable position of four legs on the floor, leaned forward, and laid the pin at a strategic point on the seat of spence's chair. two minutes later, kicked bodily down the stairs, noodles was surveying the big cloud yards by moonlight from the perspective of the station platform. noodles' career as a call boy had been brief--and it was ended. old bill, the boiler-washer, came to the rescue. he explained to regan who the godfather of the boy was and what bearing that had on the case, and how he'd larruped the boy for what he'd done, and how the boy hadn't meant anything by it--and could the boy have another chance? regan said, "yes," and said it shortly, more because he was busy at the time and wanted to get rid of old bill than from any predisposition toward noodles. noodles wasn't predisposing any way you looked at him, and regan had a good look at his godson now for about the first time since he'd sponsored him, and he didn't like noodles' looks--particularly. but regan, not taking too serious a view of the matter, said yes, and put noodles at work over in the roundhouse under the eye of his father. here, for a month, in one way or another, noodles succeeded in making things lively, and himself cordially disliked by about everybody in the shops, the roundhouse, and the big cloud yards generally. and there was a hint or two thrown out, that reached regan's ears, that old bill had known what he was doing when he got one of the "big fellows" as godfather for as ugly a blasted little nuisance as the hill division had known for many a long day. regan got to scowling every time he saw noodles' unhandsome countenance, and he took pains on more than one occasion to give a bit of blunt advice to both noodles and noodles' father--which the former received somewhat ungraciously, and the latter with trepidation. and then one night as it grew dark, just before six o'clock, while bill and the turner and the wipers were washing up and trying to put in the time before the whistle blew, noodles dropped into the turntable pit and wedged the turntable bearings with iron wedgings. half an hour later, when the night crew came to swing it for the , blowing hard from a full head of steam and ready to go out and couple on to no. for the westbound run, they couldn't move it. it took them a few minutes before they could find out what the matter was, and another few to undo the matter when they did find out--and no. went out five minutes late. nobody asked who did it--it wasn't necessary. they just said "noodles," and waited to see what noodles' godfather would do about it. they did not have long to wait. the limited five minutes late out of division and the delay up to the motive-power department, which was regan's department, would have been enough to bring the offender, whoever he might be, on the carpet with scant ceremony even if it had been an _accident_. regan was boiling mad. noodles didn't show up the next day. deep in noodles' consciousness was a feeling that his nickel thriller and a certain spot he knew up behind the butte, where many a pleasant afternoon had been passed when he should have been at school, was more conducive to peace and quietness than the center of railroad activities--also noodles ached bodily from his father's attentions. old bill, too, kept conveniently out of sight down in a pit somewhere every time the master mechanic showed his nose inside the roundhouse during the morning--but by afternoon, counting the edge of regan's wrath to have worn smooth, he followed regan out over the turntable after one of the master mechanic's visits. "regan," he blurted out anxiously, "about the bhoy, now." "well?" snapped regan, whirling about. the monosyllable was cold enough in its uncompromise to stagger the little hostler, and drive all thoughts of the carefully rehearsed oration he had prepared from his head. he scratched aimlessly at the half circle of gray billy-goat beard under his chin, and blinked helplessly at the master mechanic. noodles lacked much, and in noodles was much to be desired perhaps--but noodles, for all that, had his place in the irish heart that beat under the greasy jumper. "he's the only wan we've got, regan," stammered the harassed roundhouse man appealingly. "it's a wonder, then, you've not holes in the knees of your overalls giving thanks for it," declared regan grimly. "that's enough, bill--and we've had enough of noodles. keep him away from here." "ah, sure now, regan," begged the little hostler piteously, "yez don't mean ut. the bhoy's all right, regan--'tis but spirit he has. regan, listen here now, i've larruped him good for fwhat he's done--an' 'twas no more than a joke." "a joke!" regan choked; then brusquely: "that'll do, bill. i've said my last word, and i'm busy this afternoon. noodles is out--for keeps." "ah, regan, listen here"--noodles' father caught the master mechanic's arm, as the latter turned away. "regan, sure, ut's the bhoy's godfather yez are." the fat little master mechanic's face went suddenly red--this was the last straw--_noodles' godfather_! regan had been catching more whispers than he had liked lately anent godfathers and godfathering. his eyes puckered up and he wheeled on the boiler-washer--but the hot words on the tip of his tongue died unborn. there was something in the dejected droop of the other's figure, something in the blue eyes growing watery with age that made him change his mind--old bill wasn't a young man. as far back as the big-hearted, good-natured master mechanic could remember, he remembered old bill--in the roundhouse. always the same job, day after day, year after year--boiler-washing, tinkering around at odd jobs--not much good at anything else--church every sunday in shiny black coat, and peaked-faced mrs. maguire in the same threadbare, shiny black dress--not that regan ever went to church, but he used to see them going there--church every sunday, maguire was long on church, and week days just boiler-washing and tinkering around at odd jobs--a dollar-sixty a day. regan's pucker subsided, and he reached out his hand to the boiler-washer's shoulder--and he grinned to kind of take the sting out of his words. "well, bill," he said, "as far as that goes, i renounce the honor." "raynownce ut!" the boiler-washer's eyes opened wide, and his face was strained as though he had not heard aright. "raynownce ut! ut's an irish protystant yez are, regan, the same as me an' the missus, an' did yez not say the words in the church!" "i did," admitted regan; "though i've forgotten what they were. it was well enough, no doubt, for a kid in swaddling clothes--but it's some time since then." then, with finality: "go back to your work, bill--i can't talk to you any more this afternoon." "raynownce ut!" the words reached regan as he turned away and started across the tracks toward the platform, and in their tones was something akin to stunned awe that caused him to chuckle. "raynownce ut!--an' yez said the words forninst the priest!" regan's chuckle, however, was not of long duration, either literally or metaphorically. during the rest of the afternoon the boiler-washer's words got to swinging through regan's brain until they became an obsession, and somewhere down inside of him began to grow an uncomfortable foreboding that there might be something more to the godfathering business than he had imagined. he tackled carleton about it before the whistle blew. "carleton," said he, walking into the super's office, and picking up a ruler from the other's desk, "don't laugh, or i'll jam this ruler down your throat. if you can answer a straight question, answer it--otherwise, let it go. what's a godfather, anyhow?" carleton grinned. "you ought to know, tommy," he said. "i was running without a permit and off schedule at the time, and i was nervous," said regan. "what happened, or what the goings-on were, i don't know. what is it?" carleton shook his head gravely. "i'm afraid not, tommy," he said. "you're in the wrong shop. information bureau's downstairs to the right of the ticket office." "thanks!" said regan. and that was all the help he got from carleton--then. but that night over their usual game of pedro in the super's office, it was a little different. carleton, as he pulled the cards out of the desk drawer and tossed them on the table, pulled a small book from his pocket and tossed it to regan. "what's this?" inquired the master mechanic. "it's not to your credit to ask--it's a prayer book," carleton informed him. "be careful of it--i borrowed it." "you didn't need to say so," said regan softly. "page two hundred and eight," suggested carleton. "see if that's what you were looking for, tommy." regan thumbed the leaves, found the place and began to read--and a sickly sort of pallor began to spread over his face. "'you are his sureties that he will renounce the devil and all his works,'" he mumbled weakly. "yes," said carleton cheerfully. "there's some _little_ responsibility there, you see. but don't skip the parenthesis; get it all, tommy--'_until he come of age to take it upon himself_.'" regan didn't say a word--nor was the smile he essayed an enthusiastic success. he read the "articles" over again word by word, pointing the lines with his pudgy forefinger. "well," inquired carleton, "what do you make of the running orders, tommy?" "the devil and all his works!"--it came away from regan now with a rush from his overburdened soul. "d'ye mean to say that--that"--regan choked a little--"that i'm responsible for that brick-topped, monkey-faced kid?" "'until he come of age,'" carleton amplified pleasantly. regan's celtic temper rose. "i'll see him hung first!" he roared suddenly. "'twas no more than to please maguire that i stood up with the ugly imp! and mabbe i said what's here and mabbe i didn't, but in any event 'tis no more than a matter of form to be repeated parrot-fashion--and it means nothing." "oh, well," said the super slyly, "if you feel that way about it, don't let it bother you." "it will not bother _me_!" said regan defiantly, with a scowl. but it did. regan slept that night with an army corps of red-headed, pocked, and freckled-faced little devils to plague his rest--and their name was noodles. his thoughts were unpleasantly more on noodles than his razor when he shaved the next morning, and the result was an unsightly gash across his chin--and when he made his first inspection of the roundhouse an hour later he was in a temper to be envied by no man. his irritability was not soothed by the sight of maguire, who rose suddenly in front of him from an engine pit as he came in. "regan," said the old fellow, "about the bhoy----" "maguire," said regan, in a low, fervent voice, "you bother me about that again and i'll fire you, too!" "wait, regan." there was a quaver in the little hostler's voice, and he appeared to stand his ground only by the aid of some previously arrived at, painful resolution that rose superior to his nervousness. "wait, regan--mabbe yez'll not have to. i talked ut over wid the missus last night. i've worked well for yez, regan, all these years--all these years, regan, i've worked for yez here in the roun'house--an' i've worked well, though ut's mesilf that ses ut." "that's nothing to do with it," snapped the master mechanic. "mabbe ut has, an' mabbe ut hasn't." the watery-blue eyes sought the toes of their owner's grease-smeared, thickly-patched brogans. "i talked ut over wid the missus. sure now, regan, yez weren't thinkin' fwhat yez said, an' yez didn't mean fwhat yez said yisterday about raynowncin' the word ye'd passed. yez'll take ut back, regan?" "take it back? i'll be damned if i do!" said regan earnestly. the little hostler's body stiffened, the watery-blue eyes lifted and held steadily on the master mechanic, and for the first time in his lowly life he raised a hand to his superior--maguire pointed a forefinger, that shook a little, at regan. "'tis blasphymus yez are, regan!" he said in a thin voice. "an' 'tis no blasphymay i mean, god forbid, fwhen i say yez'll be damned if yez don't. before a priest, regan, an' in the church av god, regan, yez swore fwhat yez swore--an' 'tis the wrath av god, regan, yez'll bring down on your head. mind that, regan! fire me, is ut?" the little hostler's voice rose suddenly. "all these years i've worked well for yez, regan, but i'll work no more for a man as 'ud do a thing loike thot--an' the missus ses the same. poor we may be, but rayspect for oursilves we have. yez'll niver fire me, regan--i fire mesilf. i'm through this minute!" regan glared disdainfully. "have you been drinking, maguire?" he inquired caustically. noodles' father did not answer. he brushed past the master mechanic, walked through the big engine doors, and halted just outside on the cinders. "'tis forsworn yez are, regan," he said heavily. "yez may make light av ut now, but the day'll come, regan, fwhen yez'll find out 'tis no light matter. 'tis the wrath av god, regan, 'll pay yez for ut, yez can mark my words." regan stared after the old man, his eyes puckered, his face a little red; stared after the bent form in the old worn overalls as it picked its way across the tracks--and gave vent to his feelings by expectorating a goodly stream of blackstrap juice savagely into the engine pit at his side. this did not help very much, and for the rest of the morning, while he inwardly anathematized noodles, noodles' father and the whole noodles family collectively, he made things both uncomfortable and lively for those who were unfortunate enough to be within reach of his displeasure. "the wrath of god!" communed regan angrily. "i always said noodles took after his father, both by disposition and looks! it'll be a long time before the old man gets another job--a long time." and therein regan was right. it _was_ a long time--quite a long time--measured by the elasticity of the boiler-washer's purse, which wasn't very elastic on the savings from a dollar-sixty a day. old bill maguire, perhaps, was the only one who hadn't got quite the proper angle on the "rights" he carried--which were worse than those of a mixed local when the rails were humming under a stress of through traffic and the despatchers were biting their nails to the quick trying to take care of it. not, possibly, that it would have made any difference to the little worn-out hostler if he had; for, whether from principle, having deep-seated awe for the church and its tenets that forbade even a tacit endorsement of what he considered regan's sacrilege, or because of the public slight put upon his family--the roundhouse hadn't failed to hear his first conversation with regan, and hadn't failed to let him know that they had--or maybe from a mixture of the two, maguire was beyond question in deadly earnest. but if old bill hadn't got his signals right, and was reading green and white when it should have been red, the rest of the hill division wasn't by any means color blind; it was pretty generally understood that for several years back all that stood between maguire and the scrap heap--was regan. not on account of any jolly business about godfather or godfathering, but because that was regan's way--old bill puttered around the roundhouse on suffrance, thanks to regan, and didn't know it, though everybody else did, barring patient little mrs. maguire and noodles, who didn't count anyhow. nor did the little hostler even now pass the color test. short-tongued, a hard, grimy lot, just what their rough and ready life made them, they might have been, those railroaders of the rockies, but their hearts were always right. in the yards, in the trainmaster's office, in the roadmaster's office they pointed maguire to the quiet times, to the extra crews laid off, to the spare men back to their old ratings, to the section gangs pared down to a minimum, and advised him to ask regan for his job back again--they never told him he couldn't do a man's work any more. "ask regan!" stuttered the old boiler-washer, and the gray billy-goat beard under his chin, as he threw his head up, stuck out straight like a belligerent _chevaux de frise_. "niver! mind thot, now! niver--till he takes back fwhat he said--not av i starrve for ut!" regan, during the first few days, the brunt of his temper worn off, experienced a certain relief, that was no little relief--he was rid, and well rid, of the noodles combination. but at the end of about a week, the bluff, big-hearted master mechanic began to suck in his under lip at moments when he was alone, as the stories of old bill's futile efforts after a job, and old bill's rather pitiful defiance began to sift in to him. regan began to have visions of the little three-room shack way up in the waste fields at the end of main street. a dollar-sixty a day wasn't much to come and go on, even when the dollar-sixty was coming regularly every pay day--and when it wasn't, the cost of food and rent didn't go down any. regan got to thinking a good deal about the faded little old drudge of a woman that was mrs. maguire, and the bare floors as he remembered them even in the palmy days of noodles' birth when he had attended the celebration, bare, but scrubbed to a spotless white. she hadn't been very young then, and not any too strong, and that was twelve years ago. and he got to thinking a good deal about old bill himself--not much good any more, but good enough for a dollar-sixty a day from a company he'd served for many a long year--in the roundhouse. there had never been over much of what even an optimistic imagination could call luxury in the maguire's home, and the realization got kind of deep under the worried master mechanic's skin that things were down now to pretty near a case of bread to fill their mouths. and regan was right. even a week had been long enough for that--a man out of a job can't expect credit on the strength of the pay car coming along next month. things were in pretty straitened circumstances up at the maguires. and the more regan thought, the hotter he got under the collar--at noodles. where he had formerly disliked and submitted to noodles' existence in a passive sort of way, he now hated noodles in a most earnest and whole-hearted way--and with an unholy desire in his soul to murder noodles on sight. for, even if noodles was directly responsible and at the bottom of the pass things had come to, regan's uncomfortable feeling grew stronger each day that indirectly he had his share in the distress and want that had moved into headquarters up at the top of main street. it wasn't a nice feeling or a nice position to be in, and regan writhed under it--but primarily he cursed noodles. there was nothing small about regan--there never was. he wasn't small enough not to do something. he couldn't very well ask the yardmaster or the section boss to give maguire a job when he wouldn't give the old man one himself, so he sent word up to maguire to come back to work--in the roundhouse. maguire's answer differed in no whit from the answer he had made to gleason, the yardmaster, and every one else to whom he had applied for a job--maguire was in deadly earnest. "niver!" said he, to the messenger who bore the olive branch. "mind thot, now! niver--till he takes back fwhat he said--not av i starrve for ut!" regan swore--and here regan stuck. _noodles_! his gorge rose until he choked. kill the brat? yes--murder was in regan's soul. but to proclaim noodles as a godson--_noodles as a godson_! he had done it once not knowing what he was doing, and to do it now with the years of enlightenment upon him--regan choked, that was all, and grew apoplectically red in the face. it wasn't the grins and laughs of the hill division that he knew were waiting for him if he did--it was just _noodles_. when regan had calmed down from this explosion, he inevitably, of course, got back to the old perspective--and for another week the maguire family up main street occupied a reserved seat in his mind. carleton only spoke to him once about it, and that was along toward the end of the second week, as they were walking uptown together at the dinner hour. "by the way, tommy," said the super, "how's maguire getting along?" regan's thoughts having been on the same subject at that moment, he came back a little crossly. "blamed if i know!" he growled. carleton smiled. moved by the same motive perhaps, he had gone into the cash grocery store on the corner the day before and found that maguire's credit was re-established--thanks to regan--though timmons, the proprietor, had been sworn to secrecy. "one of you two will have to capitulate before very long," he said, with a side glance at regan. "and i don't think it will be maguire." "don't you!" regan flung out. "you think it will be me?" "yes," laughed carleton. "when i'm dead," said regan shortly. "had any word from those westinghouse fittings yet? i'm waiting for them now." "i'll see about them," said carleton. "i'm going east this afternoon." and there wasn't any more said about maguire. meanwhile, if regan's rancor against noodles had reached a stage that was acute, noodles had reached a stage of reciprocative hatred that was positively deadly. so far as elemental passion and savagery had developed in twelve years, and noodles was not a backward boy, just so far had he developed his malevolence against regan. things were in a pretty strained condition in the environment of the maguire shack; noodles was unhappy all the time, and hungry most of the time. he heard a good deal about regan and the depths a man could sink to, and enough about the immutable inviolability of church tenets and ordinances to satisfy the most fanatic disciple of orthodoxy--to say nothing of the deep-seated conviction of the wrath of god that must inevitably fall upon one who had the sacrilegious temerity to profane those tenets. mostly, noodles imbibed this at twilight over the sparsely set table, and when the twilight faded and it grew dark--they weren't using kerosene any more at the maguires--he could still sense the look on his mother's face that mingled anxiety and gentle reproof; and he edged back his chair out of reach of his father's cuffs, which he could dodge in the daylight and couldn't in the dark--for on one point regan and the old hostler were in perfect accord. "an' yez are the cause av ut!" old bill would shout, swinging the flat of his hand in the direction of noodles' ear every time his violent oratory reached a climacteric height where a period became a physical necessity. take it all round, what with the atmosphere of gloom, dodging his father's attentions, his mother's tears when he had caught her crying once or twice, and an unsatisfied stomach, black vengeance oozed from every pore of noodles' body. his warty little fists clenched, and his unlovely face contorted into a scowl such as noodles, and only noodles, thanks to the background that nature had already furnished him to work upon, could scowl. noodles set his brains to work. what he must do to regan must be something awful and bloodcurdling; and, realizing, perhaps, that, being but twelve, he would be handicapped in coping with the master mechanic single-handed, he sought the means of assistance that most logically presented itself to him. noodles lay awake nights trying to dovetail himself and regan into the situations of his nickel thrillers. there wasn't any money with which to buy new nickel thrillers, but by then noodles had accumulated quite a stock, and he knew them all off pretty well by heart, the essentials of them, anyhow. noodles racked his brain for a week of nights--and was in despair. not that the nickel thrillers did not offer situations harrowing enough to glut even his blood-thirsty little soul--they did--they were peaches--he could see regan's blood all over the bank vault that the master mechanic had been trying to rob--he could see regan walking the plank of a pirate ship, while the pirates cheered hoarsely--and he fairly revelled in every one of them--until cold despair would clutch again at his raging heart. they were peaches all right, but somehow they wouldn't fit into big cloud--he couldn't figure out how to get regan to rob a bank vault, and there weren't any pirates in the immediate vicinity that he had ever heard of. then inspiration came to noodles one night--and he sat bolt upright in bed. he would _shadow_ regan! a fierce, unhallowed joy took hold of noodles. noodles had grasped the constructive technique of the thriller! every hero in every nickel thriller shadowed every villain to his doom. regan's doom at the end was sure to take care of itself once he had found regan out--but the shadowing came first. noodles slept feverishly for the rest of the night, and the following evening he snooped down main street and took up his position in a doorway on the opposite side of the street from regan's boarding house. in just what dire deed of criminal rascality he expected to trap the master mechanic he did not know, but that regan was capable of anything, and that he would catch him in something, noodles now had no doubt--that was what the shadowing was for--he grimly determined that he would be unmoved by appeals for mercy--and his heart beat high with optimistic excitement. regan came out of the boarding house; and, bare-footed in lieu of gum-shoes, and hugging the shadows a block behind--noodles had refreshed his memory on the most improved methods--noodles trailed the master mechanic down the street. two blocks down, regan halted on the corner and began to peer around him. noodles' lips thinned suddenly--it began to look promising already--what was regan up to? a man came down the cross street, joined regan, and the two started on again toward the station. a little disappointed, noodles, still hugging the shadows, resumed the chase--it was only carleton, the superintendent. from the platform, noodles watched the two men disappear through the far door of the station. free from observation now, he hurried along the platform past the station, and was in time to see a lamp lighted upstairs in the side window of the super's office. noodles waited a moment, then he tiptoed back along the platform, and cautiously pushed open the door through which the others had disappeared. the door of the super's room on the upper story opened on the head of the stairs and, still on tiptoe, noodles reached the top. here, on his knees, his eyes glued to the keyhole, he peered into the room--regan and the super were engaged in their nightly game of cards. there was nothing to raise noodles' hopes in that, so he descended the stairs and took up his position behind the rain barrel at the corner of the building, where he could watch both the window and the entrance. at half past ten the light went out, regan and carleton came down the stairs and headed uptown. noodles, not forgetting the shadows, trailed them. at the corner where carleton had joined regan, carleton left regan, and regan went on two blocks further and disappeared inside his boarding house. noodles, being a philosopher of a sort, told himself that none of the heroes ever succeeded the first night--and went home. the next night, and the three following night, noodles shadowed regan with the same results. by the fifth night, with no single differing detail to enliven this somewhat monotonous and unproductive programme, it had become dispiriting; and though noodles' thirst for vengeance had not weakened, his faith in the nickel thrillers had. but on the sixth night--at the end of the second week since noodles and noodles' father had turned their backs upon the roundhouse--things were a little different. noodles, in common with every one else in big cloud, was quite well aware that the super's private car had been coupled on no. that afternoon, and that carleton had gone east. regan came out of his boarding house at the same hour as usual, and noodles dodged along after him down the street--noodles by this time, for finesse, could have put a combination of nick carter and old sleuth on the siding until the grass sprouted between the ties. noodles dodged along--in the shadows. regan didn't stop at the corner this time, but he kept right along heading down for the station. regan passed two or three people going in the opposite direction up the street of the sleepy little mountain town, but this did not confuse noodles--noodles kept right along after regan. there was no carleton to-night, and regan's criminal propensities would have full scope--noodles' hopes ran high. regan reached the station, went down the platform, and disappeared as usual through the same door. a little perplexed, noodles followed along the platform; but, a moment later, from his coign of vantage behind the rain barrel, he saw the light flash out from the super's window--and his heart almost stood still. what was regan doing in the super's office--_alone_! noodles' face grew very white--_carleton had a safe there_--he had got regan at last! it had taken a lot of time, but none of the heroes ever got the villain until after pages and pages of trying to get him. he had got regan at last! noodles crept from the shelter of the rain barrel stealthily as a cat, and, with far more caution than he had ever exercised before, pushed the outside door open and went up the stairs. there wasn't any hurry; he would give regan time to drill through the safe, and perhaps even let the master mechanic get the money before giving the alarm--noodles bitterly bemoaned the fact that he would have to give the alarm at all and let anybody else in on it, but, owing to the fact that he had been unable to finance a revolver with which to hold up the master mechanic red-handed and cover himself with glory at the same time, there appeared to be nothing else to do. it was just a step from the head of the stairs to the door of the super's room across the hall. noodles negotiated it with infinite circumspection, and, on his knees as usual, his heart pounding like a trip hammer, got his eye to the keyhole. he held it there a very long time, until he couldn't see any more through hot, scalding, impotent tears; then he edged back across the hall, and sat down on the top step--_regan was playing solitaire_. hands dug disconsolately in his pockets, playing mechanically with a bit of cord that was about their sole contents, noodles sat there--and his faith in nickel thrillers was shaken to the core. noodles' thoughts were too complex for coherency--that is, for coherency in any but one of his thoughts--he hated regan worse than ever, for he couldn't altogether expurgate the nickel thrillers from his mind on such a short notice, and he could hear regan gloat and hiss "foiled!" in his ear. noodles' hands came out of his pocket--with the cord. he wound one end around the bannisters, and began to see-saw it back and forth aimlessly in the darkness. there wasn't any good of shadowing regan any more--but he wasn't through with regan. noodles had a soul above discouragement. only what was he to do? if the nickel thrillers had failed him in his hour of need, he would have to depend on himself--only what was he to do? noodles stopped see-sawing the cord suddenly--and stared at it through the darkness, though he couldn't see it. then he edged down another step, turned around on his knees, and knotted one end of the cord--it was a good stout one--to one side of the bannisters, about six inches from the level of the hall floor. there was a bannister railing on each side, and he stretched the cord tightly across to the other bannister, and knotted it there. that would do for a beginning! it didn't promise as gory a dénouement as he thirsted for, and he was a little ashamed of the colorlessness of his expedient compared with those he'd read about, but there wasn't anybody else likely to use those stairs before regan did, and it would do for a beginning--regan would get a jolt or two before he reached the bottom! noodles retreated down the stairs and retired to the rain barrel. waits had been long there before, but to-night the time dragged hopelessly--he didn't expect to see very much, but he would be able to hear regan coming down the stairs, so he waited, curbing his impatience by biting anxiously on the ends of his finger nails. suddenly noodles leaned head and shoulders far out from behind the rain barrel to miss no single detail of this, the initial act of his revenge, that he could drink in, his eyes fastened on the station door--the light in the window above had gone out. very grim was noodles' face, and his teeth were hard set together--there was no foolishness about this. the super's door upstairs opened and shut--noodles leaned a little farther forward out from the rain barrel. meanwhile, regan, upstairs, was not in a good humor. regan, when alone, played a complicated and somewhat intricate species of solitaire, a matter of some pride to the master mechanic, and that evening he had had no luck--his combinations wouldn't work out. so, after something like fifteen abortive attempts that consumed the better part of an hour and a half, and victory still remaining an elusive thing, regan chucked the cards back into carleton's drawer in disgust, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, refilled the pipe for company homeward, and, growling a little to himself, blew out the super's lamp. he walked across to the door, opened and shut it, and stepped out into the hall. here, he halted and produced a match, both because his pipe was as yet unlighted, and because the stairs were dark. he struck the match, applied it to the tamped tobacco, puffed once--and his eyes, from the bowl of his pipe, focused suddenly downward on the head of the stairs. regan's round, fat little face went a color that put the glowing end of the match, still held mechanically over the pipe bowl, to shame, and the fist that wasn't occupied with the match clenched with the wrath that engulfed him--_noodles_! for a moment, breathing heavily with rage, regan glared at the cord--then the match, burning his fingers, did not soothe him any, and he dropped it hastily, swearing earnestly to himself. then he bent down, cut away the cord with his knife, and in grim, laborious silence--regan was a heavy man, and the stairs had a tendency to creak that was hard to suppress--descended step by step. regan was consumed with but one desire for the present or the hereafter--to get his hands on noodles. where noodles had been stealthy, regan was now positively devilish in his caution and cunning. step by step he went down, testing each foothold much after the fashion of a cat that stretches out its paw, and, finding something not quite to its liking, draws it back, and, shaking it vigorously, tries again more warily--and the while a fire unquenchable burned within him. he reached the door at the bottom, found the knob, waited an instant--then suddenly flung the door wide open and sprang out on the platform. noodles' form, projecting eagerly far out from the rain barrel not five yards away, was the first thing his eyes lighted upon. regan had no time to waste in words. he made a dash for the rain barrel--and noodles, with a sort of surprised squeak of terror, turned and ran. a fat man, ordinarily, cannot run very fast, and neither can a twelve-year-old boy; but, with vengeance supplying wings to the one, and terror imparting haste to the other, the time they made from the rain barrel along the platform past the baggage room and freight shed, off the platform to the ground, and up the track to the construction department's storehouse, a matter of a hundred and fifty yards, stands good to-day as a record in big cloud. it was pretty near a dead heat. noodles had five yards' start when he left the rain barrel; and when he reached the end of the storehouse he had five yards' lead--no more. a premonition of disaster began to twine itself around noodles' heart in a sickly, dispiriting way. he dashed along beside the wall of the building--and after him lunged regan, grunting like a grampus, a threat in every grunt. it was a long, low, windowless building, and halfway up its length was the door--noodles had known the door to be unlocked at nights for the purpose of loading rush material for the bridge gangs in the mountains to go out by the early morning freight west at . --and his hope lay in the door being open now. the place was full to the ceiling with boxes, bales, casks, barrels and kegs, and amongst them in the darkness, being of small dimensions himself, he could soon lose regan. he reached the door, snatched at the latch--the door was unlocked--and with an uplift immeasurable upon his young soul, that gave vent to itself in a hoot of derision, noodles flung himself inside. regan, still panting earnestly, the beads on his brow now embryonic fountain-heads that sent trickling streams down his face, lurched, pretty well winded, through the door five yards behind noodles--and then regan stopped--and the thought of noodles was swept from regan's mind in a flash. the smell of smoke was in his nostrils, and like a white, misty cloud in the darkness it hung around him--and through it, up toward the far end of the shed, a fire showed yellow and ugly, that with a curious, hissing, sibilant sound flared suddenly bright, then died to yellow ugliness again. grim-faced now, his jaws clamped hard, regan sprang forward toward the upper end of the shed. what was afire, he did not know, nor what had caused it--though the latter, probably, by a match dropped maybe hours ago by a careless polack, that had caught and set something smoldering, and that was now breaking into flame. all regan knew, all regan thought of then, was the--_powder_. there were fifty kegs of giant blasting powder massed together there somewhere ahead, and just beyond where the fire was flinging out its challenge to him--enough to wreck not only the shed, but half the railroad property in big cloud as well. up the little handcar tracks between the high-piled stores regan ran--and halted where a spurt of flame, ending in a vicious puff of smoke, shot out beside him, low down on the ground. it was light enough now, and in a glance the master mechanic caught the black grains of powder strewing the floor where a broken keg had been rolled along. a little alleyway had been left here running to the wall, and the fire itself was bursting from a case in the rear and bottom tier of stores on one side of this; on the other side were piled the powder kegs--and the space between, the width of the alleyway, was no more than a bare five or six feet. there was no time to wait for help, the powder grains crunched under his feet, and ran little zigzag, fizzy lines of fire like a miniature inferno as the sparks caught them; at any moment it might reach the kegs, and then--regan flung himself along the alleyway to the rear tier of cases, they were small ones here, though piled twice the height of his head--if he could wrench them away, he could get at the burning case below! regan bent, strained at the cases--they were light and moved--he heaved again to topple them over--and then, as a rasping, ripping sound reached him from above, he let go his hold to jump back--too late. a heavy casting, that had been placed on top of the cases, evidently for economy of space, came hurtling downward, struck regan on the head, glanced to his shoulder and arm, slid with a thump to the ground--and regan dropped like a log. a minute, perhaps two, it had all taken--no more. noodles, crouched down against a case just inside the door, had seen the master mechanic rush by him; and noodles, too, had seen the flame and smelt the smoke. noodles' first impulse was to make his escape, his next to see if he could not turn this unexpected intervention of fate to his own account anent the master mechanic. noodles heard regan moving about, and he stole silently in that direction; then noodles heard the heavy thump of iron, the softer thud of regan's fall, and something inside him seemed to stop suddenly, and his face went very white. "mr. regan! mr. regan!" he stammered out. there was no answer--no sound--save an ominous crackle of burning wood. noodles stole further forward--and then, as he reached the spot where regan lay, he stood stock-still for a second, petrified with fear--but the next instant, screaming at the top of his voice for help, he threw himself upon regan, pounding frantically with the flat of his hands at the master mechanic's shoulder, where the other's coat was beginning to blaze. somehow, noodles got this out, and then, still screaming for help, began to drag regan away from the side of the blazing case. but regan was a heavy man--almost too much for noodles. noodles, choking with the smoke, his eyes fascinated with horror as they fixed, now on the powder kegs--whose unloading, in company with a dozen other awe-struck boys, he had watched a few days before--now on the sparkling, fizzing grains of powder upon the floor, tugged, and wriggled, and pulled at the master mechanic. inch by inch, noodles won regan to safety--and then, on his hands and knees, he went back to sweep the grains away from the edge of the kegs. they burnt his hands as he brushed them along the floor, and he moaned with the pain between his screams for aid. it was hot in the narrow place, so narrow that the breath of flame swept his face from the case--but there was still some powder on the floor to brush back out of the way, little heaps of it. weak, and swaying on his knees, noodles brushed at it desperately. it seemed to spurt into his face, and he couldn't breathe any more, and he couldn't see, and his head was swirling around queerly. he staggered to his feet as there came a rush of men, and clarihue, the turner, with the night crew of the roundhouse came racing up the shed. "good god, what's this!" cried clarihue. "it's--it's a fire," said noodles, with a sob--and fell into clarihue's arms. they told regan about it the next day when they had got his head patched up and his arm set. regan didn't say very much as he lay in his bed, but he asked somebody to go to maguire's and ask old bill to come down. and an hour later maguire entered the room--but he halted a good yard away from the foot of regan's bed. "yez sint for me, regan," observed the little hostler, in noncommittal, far-away tones. "i did, maguire," said regan diplomatically. "things haven't been going as smooth as they might have over in the roundhouse since you left, and i want you to come back. what do you say?" "'tis not fwhat _i_ say," said maguire, and he moved no nearer to the bed. "'tis whether yez unsay fwhat yez said yersilf. do yez take ut back, regan?" "i do," said regan in grave tones--but his hand reached up to help the bandages hide his grin. "i take it all back, maguire--every word of it." "thot's all right, thin," said the little hostler, not arrogantly, but as one justified. "i'm sorry to see yez are sick, regan, an' i'm glad to see yez are better--but did i not warn yez, regan? 'twas the wrath av god, regan, thot's the cause av this." "mabbe," said regan softly. "mabbe--but to my thinking 'twas the devil and all his works." "fwhat's thot?" inquired maguire, bending forward. "i didn't catch fwhat yez said, regan." "i said," said regan, choking a little, "that noodles is a godson any godfather would be proud to have." "sure he is," said noodles' father cordially. "he is thot." viii on the night wire tommy regan speaks of it yet; so does carleton; and so, for the matter of that, does the hill division generally--and there's a bit of a smile goes with it, too, but the smile comes through as a sort of feeble thing from the grim set of their lips. they remember it--it is one of the things they have never forgotten--dan mcgrew and the kid, and the night the circus special pulled out of big cloud with bull coussirat and fatty hogan in the cab. neither the kid nor mcgrew were what you might call born to the hill division; neither of them had been brought up with it, so to speak. the kid came from an eastern system--and mcgrew came from god-knows-where. to pin mcgrew down to anything definite or specific in that regard was something just a little beyond the ability of the hill division, but it was fairly evident that where railroads were there mcgrew had been--he was old enough, anyway--and he knew his business. when mcgrew was sober he was a wizard on the key--but mcgrew's shame was drink. mcgrew dropped off at big cloud one day, casually, from nowhere, and asked for a job despatching. a man in those days out in the new west wasn't expected to carry around his birth certificate in his vest pocket--he made good or he didn't in the clothes he stood in, that was all there was to it. they gave him a job assisting the latest new man on the early morning trick as a sort of test, found that he was better, a long way better than the latest new man, gave him a regular despatcher's trick of his own--and thought they had a treasure. for a month they were warranted in their belief, for all that mcgrew personally appeared to be a rather rough card--and then mcgrew cut loose. he went into the blazing star saloon one afternoon--and he left it only when deposited outside on the sidewalk as it closed up at four o'clock on the following morning. this was the hour mcgrew was supposed to sit in for his trick at the key; but mcgrew was quite oblivious to all such considerations. a freight crew, just in and coming up from the yards, carried him home to his boarding house. mcgrew got his powers of locomotion back far enough by late afternoon to reach the blazing star again--and the performance was repeated--mcgrew went the limit. he ended up with a week in the hands of little doctor mcturk. mcturk was scientific from the soles of his feet up, and earnestly professional all the rest of the way. when mcgrew began to get a glimmering of intelligence again, mcturk went at him red-headed. "your heart's bad," the little doctor flung at mcgrew, and there was no fooling in his voice. "so's your liver--cirrhosis. but mostly your heart. you'll try this just once too often--and you'll go out like a collapsed balloon, out like the snuffing of a candle wick." mcgrew blinked at him. "i've heard that before," said he indifferently. "indeed!" snapped the irascible little doctor. "yes," said mcgrew, "quite a few times. this ain't my maiden trip. you fellows make me tired! i'm a pretty good man yet, ain't i? and i'm likely to be when you're dead. i've got my job to worry about now, and that's enough to worry about. got any idea of what carleton's said about it?" "you keep this up," said mcturk sharply, refusing to sidestep the point, as, bag in hand, he moved toward the door, "and it won't interest you much what carleton or anybody else says--mark my words, my man." it was tommy regan, fat-paunched, big-hearted, good-natured, who stepped into the breach. there was only one place on this wide earth in carleton's eyes for a railroad man who drank when he should have been on duty--and that was a six-foot trench, three feet deep. in carleton's mind, from the moment he heard of it, mcgrew was out. but regan saved mcgrew; and the matter was settled, as many a matter had been settled before, over the nightly game of pedro between the superintendent and the master mechanic, upstairs in the super's office over the station. incidentally, they played pedro because there wasn't anything else to do nights--big cloud in those days wasn't boasting a grand-opera house, and the "movies" were still things of the future. "he's a pretty rough case, i guess; but give him a chance," said regan. "a chance!" exclaimed carleton, with a hard smile. "give a despatcher who drinks a chance--to send a trainload or two of souls into eternity, and about a hundred thousand dollars' worth of rolling stock to the junk heap while he's boozing over the key!" "no," said regan. "a chance--to make good." carleton laid down his hand, and stared across the table at the master mechanic. "go on, tommy," he prompted grimly. "what's the answer?" "well," said regan, "he's a past master on the key, we know that--that counts for something. what's the matter with sending him somewhere up the line where he can't get a drink if he goes to blazes for it? it might make a man of him, and save the company a good operator at the same time--we're not long on operators." "h'm!" observed carleton, with a wry grin, picking up his cards again one by one. "i suppose you've some such place as angel forks, for instance, in mind, tommy?" "yes," said regan. "i was thinking _of_ angel forks." "i'd rather be fired," submitted carleton dryly. "well," demanded regan, "what do you say? can he have it?" "oh, yes," agreed carleton, smiling. "he can have _that_--after i've talked to him. we're pretty short of operators, as you say. perhaps it will work out. it will as long as he sticks, i guess--if he'll take it at all." "he'll take it," said regan, "and be glad to get it. what do you bid?" mcgrew had been at angel forks--night man there--for perhaps the matter of a month, when the kid came to big cloud fresh from a key on the penn. they called him the kid because he looked it--he wasn't past the stage of where he had to shave more than once a week. the kid, they dubbed him on the spot, but his name was charlie keene; a thin, wiry little chap, with black hair and a bright, snappy, quick look in his eyes and face. he was pretty good on the key, too; not a master like mcgrew, he hadn't had the experience, but pretty good for all that--he could "send" with the best of them, and there wasn't much to complain about in his "taking," either. the day man at angel forks didn't drink--at least his way-bill didn't read that way--and they gave him promotion in the shape of a station farther along the line that sized up a little less tomb-like, a little less like a buried-alive sepulcher than angel forks did. and the kid, naturally, being young and new to the system, had to start at the bottom--they sent him up to angel forks on the morning way freight the day after he arrived in big cloud. there was something about the kid that got the train crew of the way freight right from the start. they liked a man a whole lot and pretty sudden in their rough-and-ready way, those railroaders of the rockies in those days, or they didn't like him well enough to say a good word for him at his funeral; that's the way it went--and the caboose was swearing by the kid by the time they were halfway to angel forks, where he shifted from the caboose to the cab for the rest of the run. against the rules--riding in the cab? well, perhaps it is--if you're not a railroad man. it depends. who was going to say anything about it? it was fatty hogan himself, poking a long-spouted oil can into the entrails of the , while the train crew were throwing out tinned biscuits and canned meats and contract pie for the lunch counter at elk river, who invited him, anyhow. that's how the kid came to get acquainted with hogan, and hogan's mate, bull coussirat, who was handling the shovel end of it. coussirat was an artist in his way--apart from the shovel--and he started in to guy the kid. he drew a shuddering picture of the desolation and the general lack of what made life worth living at angel forks, which wasn't exaggerated because you couldn't exaggerate angel forks much in that particular respect; and he told the kid about dan mcgrew and how headquarters--it wasn't any secret--had turned angel forks into what he called a booze-fighter's sanatorium. but he didn't break through the kid's optimism or ambition much of any to speak of. by the time the way freight whistled for angel forks, the kid had bull coussirat's seat, and coussirat was doing the listening, while hogan was leaning toward them to catch what he could of what was going on over the roar and pound of the . there was better pay, and, what counted most, better chances for a man who was willing to work for them out in the west than there was in the east, the kid told them with a quiet, modest sincerity--and that was why he had come out there. he was looking for a train despatcher's key some day after he had got through station operating, and after that--well, something better still. there wasn't any jolly business or blowhard about the kid. he meant what he said--he was going up. and as far as mcgrew was concerned, he'd get along with mcgrew. mcgrew, or any other man, wouldn't hold him back from the goal he had his eyes set upon and his mind made up to work for. there was perhaps a little more of the youthful enthusiasm in it that looked more buoyantly on the future than hard-headed experience would; but it was sincere, and they liked him for it--who wouldn't? bull coussirat and fatty hogan in the days to come had reason to remember that talk in the cab. desolate, perhaps, isn't the word to describe angel forks--for angel forks was pretty enough, if rugged grandeur is counted pretty. across the track and siding, facing the two-story wooden structure that was the station, the bare gray rock of a cut through the mountain base reared upward to meet a pine-covered slope, and then blend with bare, gray rock once until it became a glaciered peak at the sky line; behind the station was a sort of plateau, a little valley, green and velvety, bisected by a tumbling, rushing little stream, with the mountains again closing in around it, towering to majestic heights, the sun playing in relief and shadow on the fantastic, irregular, snow-capped summits. it was pretty enough, no one ever disputed that! the road hung four-by-five-foot photographs of it with eight-inch-wide-trimmed-with-gilt frames in the big hotel corridors east, and no one who ever bought a ticket on the strength of the photographer's art ever sent in a kick to the advertising department, or asked for their money back--it looked all right from the car windows. but sign of habitation there was not, apart from the little station--not even a section man's shanty--just the station. angel forks was important to the transcontinental on one count, and on one count only--its siding. neither freight nor passenger receipts were swelled, twelve months in or twelve months out, by angel forks; but, geographically, the train despatcher's office back in big cloud never lost sight of it--in the heart of the mountains, single-tracked, mixed trains, locals, way freights, specials, and the limiteds that knew no "rights" on earth but a clean-swept track with their crazy fast schedules, met and crossed each other as expediency demanded. so, in a way, after all, perhaps it _was_ desolate--except from the car windows. horton, the day man that the kid was relieving, evidently had found it so. he was waiting on the platform with his trunk when the way freight pulled in, and he turned the station over to the kid without much formality. "god be with you till we meet again," was about the gist of what horton said--and he said it with a mixture of sympathy for another's misfortune and an uplift at his own escape from bondage struggling for the mastery, while he waved his hand from the tail of the caboose as the way freight pulled out. there was mighty little formality about the transfer, and the kid found himself in charge with almost breathtaking celerity. angel forks, dan mcgrew, way freight no. , and the man he had relieved, were sort of hazy, nebulous things for a moment. there wasn't time for them to be anything else; for, about one minute after he had jumped to the platform, he was o.s.-ing "out" the train that had brought him in. it wasn't quite what he had been used to back in the more sedate east, and he grinned a little to himself as his fingers tapped the key, and by the time he had got back his o. k. the tail of the caboose was swinging a curve and disappearing out of sight. the kid, then, had a chance to look around him--and look for dan mcgrew, the man who was to be his sole companion for the days to come. he found mcgrew upstairs--after he had explored all there was to explore of the ground floor of the station, which was a sort of combination kitchen, living room and dining room that led off from the office--just the two rooms below, with a ladder-like staircase between them leading up above. and above there was just the one room under the eaves with two bunks in it, one on either side. the night man was asleep in one of these, and the kid did not disturb him. after a glance around the rather cheerless sleeping quarters, he returned downstairs, and started in to pick up the threads of the office. dusk comes early in the fall in the mountains, and at five o'clock the switch and semaphore lamps were already lighted, and in the office under a green-shaded lamp the kid sat listening to some stray time stuff coming over the wire, when he heard the night man moving overhead and presently start down the stairs. the kid pushed back his chair, rose to his feet, and turned with outstretched hand to make friends with his new mate--and his outstretched hand drew back and reached uncertainly to the table edge beside him. for a long minute neither man spoke--staring into each other's eyes. in the opening through the partition at the foot of the stairs, dan mcgrew seemed to sway a little on his feet, and his face, what could be seen of it through the tawny beard that angel forks had offered him no incentive to shave, was ashen white. it was mcgrew who broke the silence. "hello, charlie!" he said in a sort of cheerful bravado, that rang far from true. "so _you_ are dan mcgrew! the last time i heard of you your name was brodie." the kid's lips, as he spoke, hardly seemed to move. "i've had a dozen since then," said mcgrew, in a pleading whine, "more'n a dozen. i've been chased from place to place, charlie. i've lived a dog's life, and----" the kid cut him short, in a low, passionate voice: "and you expect me to keep my mouth shut about you here--is that it?" mcgrew's fingers plucked nervously, hesitantly at his beard; his tongue circled dry lips, and his black eyes fell from the kid to trace aimlessly, it seemed, the cracks in the floor. the kid dropped back into his chair, and, elbows on the table, chin in hands, stared out across the tracks to where the side of the rock cut was now no more than a black shadow. again it was mcgrew who broke the silence. "what are you going to do?" he asked miserably. "what are you going to do? use the key and put them wise? you wouldn't do that, would you--charlie? you wouldn't throw me down--would you? i'm--i'm living decent here." the kid made no answer--made no movement. "charlie!" mcgrew's voice rose in a high-pitched, nervous appeal. "charlie--what are you going to do?" "nothing!" the kid's eyes were still on the black, rock shadow through the station window, and the words came monotonously. "nothing! as far as i am concerned, you are--dan mcgrew." mcgrew lurched heavily forward, relief in his face and voice as he put his hands on the kid's shoulders. "you're all right, charlie, all right; i knew you wouldn't----" the kid sprang to his feet, and flung the other's hands roughly from his shoulders. "keep your hands off me!" he said tensely. "i don't stand for that! and let's understand each other. you do your work here, and i do mine. i don't want to talk to you. i don't want you to talk to me. i don't want anything to do with you--that's as straight as i know how to put it. the first chance i get i'll move--they'll never move you, for i know why they sent you here. that's all, and that's where we stand--mcgrew." "d'ye mean that?" said mcgrew, in a cowed, helpless way. the kid's answer was only a harsh, bitter laugh--but it was answer enough. mcgrew, after a moment's hesitation, turned and went silently from the room. a week passed, and another week came and went, and neither man spoke to the other. each lived his life apart, cooked for himself, and did his work; and it was good for neither one. mcgrew grew morose and ugly; and the kid somehow seemed to droop, and there was a pallor in his cheeks and a listless air about him that was far from the cheery optimism with which he had come to take the key at angel forks. two weeks passed, and then one night, after the kid had gone to bed, two men pitched a rough, weather-beaten tent on the plateau below the station. hard-looking specimens they were; unkempt, unshaven, each with a mount and a pack horse. harvey and lansing they told mcgrew their names were, when they dropped in for a social call that night, and they said that they were prospectors--but their geological hammers were bottles of raw spirit that the indians loved, and the veins of ore they tapped were the furs that an indian will sell for "red-eye" when he will sell for no other thing on earth. it was against the law--enough against the law to keep a man's mouth who was engaged in that business pretty tightly shut--but, perhaps recognizing a kindred spirit in mcgrew, and warmed by the bottle they had hospitably brought, before that first night was over no secret of that sort lay between them and mcgrew. and so drink came to angel forks; and in a supply that was not stinted. it was harvey and lansing's stock in trade--and they were well stocked. mcgrew bought it from them with cash and with provisions, and played poker with them with a kitty for the "red-eye." there was nothing riotous about it at first, not bad enough to incapacitate mcgrew; and it was a night or two before the kid knew what was going on, for mcgrew was cautious. harvey and lansing were away in the mountains during the daytime, and they came late to fraternize with mcgrew, around midnight, long after the kid was asleep. then mcgrew began to tipple steadily, and signs of drink came patently enough--too patently to be ignored one morning when the kid relieved mcgrew and went on for the day trick. the kid said nothing, no word had passed between them for two weeks; but that evening, when mcgrew in turn went on for his trick, the kid went upstairs and found a bottle, nearly full, hidden under mcgrew's mattress. he took it, went outside with it, smashed it against a rock--and kept on across the plateau to the prospectors' outfit. harvey and lansing, evidently just in from a day's lucrative trading, were unsaddling and busy over their pack animals. "hello, keene!" they greeted in chorus; and lansing added: "hang 'round a bit an' join in; we're just goin' to cook grub." the kid ignored both the salutation and the proffered hospitality. "i came down here to tell you two fellows something," he said slowly, and there was a grim, earnest set to his lips that was not to be misunderstood. "it's none of my business that you're camping around here, but up there is railroad property, and that _is_ my business. if you show your faces inside the station again or pass out any more booze to mcgrew, i'll wire headquarters and have you run in; and somehow, though i've only met you once or twice, i don't fancy you're anxious to touch head-on with the authorities." he looked at the two steadily for an instant, while they stared back half angrily, half sheepishly. "that's fair warning, isn't it?" he ended, as he turned and began to retrace his steps to the station. "you'd better take it--you won't get a second one." they cursed him when they found their tongues, and did it heartily, interwoven with threats and savage jeers that followed him halfway to the embankment. but their profanity did not cloak the fact that, to a certain extent, the kid's words were worthy of consideration. the extent was two nights--that night, and the next one. on the third night, or rather, far on in the early morning hours, the kid, upstairs, awakened from sleep, sat suddenly up in his bunk. a wild outburst of drunken song, accompanied by fists banging time on the table, reached him--then an abashed hush, through which the click of the sounder came to him and he read it mechanically--the despatcher at big cloud was making a meeting point for two trains at the bend, forty miles away, nothing to do with angel forks. came then a rough oath--another--and a loud, brawling altercation. the kid's lips thinned. he sprang out of his bunk, pulled on shirt and trousers, and went softly down the stairs. they didn't hear him, they were too drunk for that; and they didn't see him--until he was fairly inside the room; and then for a moment they leered at him, suddenly silent, in a silly, owl-like way. there was an anger upon the kid, a seething passion, that showed in his bloodless face and quivering lips. he stood for an instant motionless, glancing around the office; the table from the other room had been dragged in; on either side of it sat harvey and lansing; at the end, within reach of the key, sat dan mcgrew, swaying tipsily back and forth, cards in hand; under the table was an empty bottle, another had rolled into a corner against the wall; and on the table itself were two more bottles amongst greasy, scattered cards, one almost full, the other still unopened. "s'all right, charlie," hiccoughed mcgrew blandly. "s'all right--jus' havin' little game--good boy, charlie." mcgrew's words seemed to break the spell. with a jump the kid reached him, flung him roughly from his seat, toppling him to the floor, and stretched out his hand for the key--but he never reached it. harvey and lansing, remembering the threat, and having more reason to fear the law than on the simple count of trespassing on railroad property, lunged for him simultaneously. quick as a cat on his feet, the kid turned, and his fist shot out, driving full into lansing's face, sending the man staggering backward--but harvey closed. purling oaths, lansing snatched the full bottle, and, as the kid, locked in harvey's arms, swung toward him, he brought the bottle down with a crash on the back of the kid's head--and the kid slid limply to the floor. white-faced, motionless, unconscious, the kid lay there, the blood beginning to trickle from his head, and in a little way it sobered the two "prospectors"--but not mcgrew. "see whash done," said mcgrew with a maudlin sob, picking himself up from where the kid had thrown him. "see whash done! killed him--thash whash done." it frightened them, mcgrew's words--harvey and lansing. they looked again at the kid and saw no sign of life--and then they looked at each other. the bottle was still in lansing's hand, and he set it back now on the table with a little shudder. "we'd better beat it," he croaked hoarsely. "by daylight we want to be far away from here." harvey's answer was a practical one--he made for the door and disappeared, lansing close on his heels. mcgrew alternately cursed and pleaded with them long after they were out of earshot; and then, moved by drunken inspiration, started to clear up the room. he got as far as reaching for the empty bottles on the floor, and that act seemed to father a second inspiration--there were other bottles. he reeled to the table, picked up the one from which they had been drinking, stared at the kid upon the floor, brushed the hair out of his eyes, and, throwing back his head, drank deeply. "jus'er steady myself--feel shaky," he mumbled. he stared at the kid again. the kid was beginning to show signs of returning consciousness. mcgrew, blinking, took another drink. "nosh dead, after all," said mcgrew thickly. "thank god, nosh dead, after all!" then drunken cunning came into his eyes. he slid the full bottle into his pocket, and, carrying the ether in his hand, stumbled upstairs, drank again, and hid them craftily, not beneath the mattress this time, but under the eaves where the flooring met and there was a loose plank. when he stumbled downstairs again, the kid was sitting in a chair, holding his swimming head in his hands. "s'all right, charlie," said mcgrew inanely. the kid did not look at him; his eyes were fixed upon the table. "where are those bottles?" he demanded suspiciously. "gone," said mcgrew plaintively. "gone witsh fellows--fellows took 'em an' ran 'way. whash goin' to do 'bout it, charlie?" "i'll tell you when you're sober," said the kid curtly. "get up to your bunk and sleep it off." "s'my trick," said mcgrew heavily, waving his hand toward the key. "can't let nusher fellow do my work." "your trick!" the words came in a withering, bitter rush from the kid. "your trick! you're in fine shape to hold down a key, aren't you!" "whash reason i ain't? held it down all right, so far," said mcgrew, a world of injury in his voice--and it was true; so far he had held it down all right that night, for the very simple reason that angel forks had not been the elected meeting point of trains for a matter of some three hours, not since the time when harvey and lansing had dropped in and mcgrew had been sober. "get up to your bunk!" said the kid between his teeth--and that was all. mcgrew swayed hesitantly for a moment on uncertain legs, blinked soddenly a sort of helpless protest, and, turning, staggered up the stairs. for a little while the kid sat in his chair, trying to conquer his dizzy, swimming head; and then the warm blood trickling down his neck--he had not noticed it before--roused him to action. he took the lamp and went into the other room, bathed his head in the wash-basin, sopping at the back of his neck to stop the flow, and finally bandaged it as best he could with a wet cloth as a compress, and a towel drawn tightly over it, which he knotted on his forehead. he finished mcgrew's abortive attempt at housecleaning after that, and sat in to hold down the rest of the night trick, while mcgrew in sleep should recover his senses. but mcgrew did not sleep. mcgrew was fairly started--and mcgrew had two bottles at command. at five-thirty in the morning, no. , the local freight, west, making a meeting point, rattled her long string of flats and boxes on the angel forks siding; and the kid, unknotting his bandage, dropped it into a drawer of his desk. brannahan, no. 's conductor, kicked the door open, and came in for his orders. "hello, kid!" exclaimed brannahan. "what you sitting in for? where's your mate?" "asleep," the kid laughed at him. "where do you suppose he is! we're swopping tricks for a while for the sake of variety." brannahan stooped and lunged the stub of the cigar in his mouth over the lamp chimney, and with the up-draft nearly extinguished the flame; then he pulled up a chair, tilted back and stuck his feet up on the desk. "guess most anything would be variety in this god-forsaken hole," he observed between puffs. "what?" "oh, it's not so bad--when you get used to it," said the kid. he edged his own chair around to face brannahan squarely--the wound in the back of his head was bleeding again; perhaps it had never stopped bleeding, he did not know. brannahan made small talk, waiting for the fast freight, east, to cross; and the kid smiled, while his fingers clutched desperately now and then at the arms of his chair to keep himself from pitching over, as those sickening, giddy waves, like hot and cold flashes, swept him. brannahan went at last, the fast freight roared by, no. pulled out, and the kid went back to the wash-basin and put his bandage on again. the morning came and went, the afternoon, and the evening; and by evening the kid was sick and dropping weak. that smash on his head must have been more serious than he had thought at first; for, again and again, and growing more frequent, had come those giddy flashes, and once, he wasn't sure, but it seemed as though he had fainted for a moment or two. it was getting on to ten o'clock now, and he sat, or, rather, lay forward with his head in his arms over the desk under the lighted lamp. the sounder was clicking busily; the kid raised his head a little, and listened. there was a circus special, west, that night, and no. , the eastbound limited, was an hour off schedule, and, trying to make it up, was running with clear rights while everything else on the train sheet dodged to the sidings to get out of the way. the sounder stopped for an instant, then came the dispatcher's "complete"--the circus special was to cross the limited at l'aramie, the next station west of angel forks. it had nothing to do with the kid, and it would be another two hours at least before the circus special was along. the kid's head dropped back on his arms again. what was he to do? he could stick out the night somehow--he _must_ stick it out. if he asked for a relief it was the sack for the man upstairs--it was throwing mcgrew cold. it wouldn't take them long to find out what was the matter with mcgrew! and surely mcgrew would be straight again by morning--he wasn't any better now, worse if anything, but by morning surely the worst of the drink would be out of him. mcgrew had been pretty bad all day--as bad as the kid had ever seen a man. he wondered a little numbly about it. he had thought once that mcgrew might have had some more drink hidden, and he had searched for it during the forenoon while mcgrew watched him from the bunk; but he had found nothing. it was strange, too, the way mcgrew was acting, strange that it took so long for the man to get it out of his system, it seemed to the kid; but the kid had not found those last two bottles, neither was the kid up in therapeutics, nor was he the diagnostician that doctor mcturk was. "by morning," said the kid, with the moan, "if he can't stand a trick i'll _have_ to wire. i'm afraid to-night 'll be my limit." it was still and quiet--not even a breeze to whisper through the cut, or stir the pine-clad slope into rustling murmurs. almost heavily the silence lay over the little station buried deep in the heart of the mighty range. only the sounder spoke and chattered--at intervals--spasmodically. an hour passed, an hour and a half, and the kid scarcely moved--then he roused himself. it was pretty near time for the circus special to be going through to make its meeting point with the limited at l'aramie, and he looked at his lights. he could see them, up and down, switch and semaphore, from the bay window of the station where he sat. it was just a glance to assure himself that all was right. he saw the lights through red and black flashes before his eyes, saw that the main line was open as it should be--and dropped his swooning, throbbing head back on his arms once more. and then suddenly he sat erect. from overhead came the dull, ominous thud of a heavy fall. he rose from his chair--and caught at the table, as the giddiness surged over him and his head swam around. for an instant he hung there swaying, then made his way weakly for the stairs and started up. there was a light above--he had kept a lamp burning there--but for a moment after he reached the top nothing but those ghastly red and black flashes met his eyes--and then, with a strange, inarticulate cry, he moved toward the side of the room. sprawled in a huddled heap upon the floor beneath the eaves, collapsed, out like the snuffing of a candle wick, as doctor mcturk had said some day he would go out, dead, lay dan mcgrew--the loose plank up, two empty bottles beside him, as though the man had snatched first one and then the other from their hiding place in the wild hope that there might be something left of the supply drained to the last drop hours before. the kid stooped over mcgrew, straightened up, stared at the lifeless form before him, and his hands went queerly to his temples and the sides of his head--the room spun dizzily around and around, the lamp, the dead man on the floor, the bunks, a red-and-black flashed whirl--the kid's hands reached grasping into nothingness for support, and he slipped inertly to the floor. from below came the sharp tattoo of the sounder making the angel forks call, quick, imperative at first--then like a knell of doom, in frantic appeal, the despatchers' life and death, the _seventeen_--and, "hold circus special." over and over again the sounder spoke and cried and babbled and sobbed like a human soul in agony; over and over again while the minutes passed, and with heavy, resonant roar the long circus special rumbled by--but the man on the night wire at angel forks was dead; and the kid was past the hearing--there were to come weeks, while he raved in the furious delirium and lay in the heavy stupor of brain fever, before a key meant anything to him again. it's queer the way things happen! call it luck, if you like--maybe it is--maybe it's something more than luck. it wouldn't be sacrilege, would it, to say that the hand of god had something to do with keeping the circus special and the limited from crashing head-on in the rock-walled, twisting cañon, four miles west of angel forks, whatever might be the direct means, ridiculous, before-unheard-of, funny, or absurd, that saved a holocaust that night? that wouldn't be sacrilege, would it? well, call it luck, if you like--call it anything you like. queer things happen in railroading--but this stands alone, queerest of all in the annals of fifty roads in a history of fifty years. the limited, thanks to a clean-swept track, had been making up time, making up enough of it to throw meeting point with the circus special at l'aramie out--and the despatcher had tried to hold the circus special at angel forks and let the limited pass her there. there was time enough to do it, plenty of it--and under ordinary circumstances it would have been all in the night's work. but there was blame, too, and saxton, who was on the key at big cloud that night, relieving donkin, who was sick, went on the carpet for it--he let the limited tear through l'aramie _before_ he sent his order to angel forks, with the circus special in the open cutting along for her meeting point with nothing but angel forks between her and l'aramie. that was the despatcher's end of it--the other end is a little different. whether some disgruntled employee, seeking to revenge himself on the circus management, loosened the door of one of the cars while the special lay on the siding waiting for a crossing at mitre peak, her last stop, or whether it was purely an accident, no one ever knew--though the betting was pretty heavy on the disgruntled employee theory--there had been trouble the day before. however, be that as it may, one way or the other, one thing was certain, they found the door open after it was all over, and--but, we're over-running our holding orders--we'll get to that in a minute. bull coussirat and fatty hogan, in the , were pulling the special that night, and as they shot by the angel forks station the fireman was leaning out of the gangway for a breath of air. "wonder how the kid's making out?" he shouted in hogan's ear, retreating into the cab as they bumped over the west-end siding switch with a shattering racket. "good kid, that--ain't seen him since the day he came up with us." hogan nodded, checking a bit for the curve ahead, mindful of his high-priced, heavily insured live freight. "did ever you hear such a forsaken row!" he ejaculated irrelevantly. "listen to it, bull. about three runs a year like this and i'd be clawing at iron bars and trying to mimic a menagerie. listen to it!" coussirat listened. every conceivable kind of an animal on earth seemed to be lifting its voice to high heaven in earnest protest for some cause or other--the animals, beyond any peradventure of doubt, were displeased with their accommodations, uncomfortable, and indignantly uneasy. the rattle of the train was a paltry thing--over it hyenas laughed, lions roared, elephants trumpeted, and giraffes emitted whatever noises giraffes emit. it was a medley fit for bedlam, from shrill, whistling, piercing shrieks that set the ear-drums tingling, to hoarse, cavernous bellows like echoing thunder. "must be something wrong with the animals," said coussirat, with an appreciative grin. "they weren't yowling like that when we started--guess they don't like their pullmans." "it's enough to give you the creeps," growled fatty hogan. coussirat reached for the chain, and with an expert flip flung wide the furnace door--and the bright glow lighted up the heavens and shot the black of the cab into leaping, fiery red. coussirat swung around, reaching for his shovel--and grabbed hogan's arm instead, as a chorus of unearthly, chattering shrieks rent the air. "for the love of mike, for god's sake, fatty," he gasped, "look at that!" perched on the tender, on the top of the water tank, just beyond the edge of the coal, sat a well-developed and complacent ape--and, as coussirat looked, from the roof of the property car, behind the tender, another swung to join the first. "jiminy christmas!" yelled hogan, screwed around in his seat. "the whole blasted tribe of monkeys is loose! that's what's wrong with the rest of the animals--the little devils have probably been teasing them through the barred air-holes at the ends of the cars. look at 'em! look at 'em come!" coussirat was looking--he hadn't stopped looking. along the roof of the property car they came, a chattering, jabbering, swaying string of them--and on the brake wheel two sat upright, lurching and clinging for dear life, the short hair blown straight back from their foreheads with the sweep of the wind, while they peered with earnest, strained faces into the cab. and the rest, two dozen strong now, massed on the roof of the property car, perilously near the edges for anything but monkeys, inspected the cab critically, picked at each other's hides, made gestures, some of which were decidedly uncomplimentary, and chattered volubly to their leaders already on the tender. the tender seemed to appeal. down came another monkey via the brake-rod, and swung by its tail with a sort of flying-trapeze effect to the tender--and what one did another did--the accommodation on the water tank was being crowded--the front rank moved up on the coal. "say!" bawled coussirat to his mate. "say, fatty, get up and give 'em your seat--there's ladies present. and say, what are we going to do about it? the little pets ought to be put back to bed." "do nothing!" snapped hogan, one wary eye on the monkeys, and the other on the right of way ahead. "if the circus people don't know enough to shut their damned beasts up properly it's their own lookout--it's not our funeral, whatever happens." the advance guard of the monkeys had approached too close to the crest of the high-piled coal, and as a result, while they scrambled back for firmer footing, they sent a small avalanche of it rolling into the cab. this was touching coussirat personally--and coussirat glared. coussirat was no nature faker--he knew nothing about animals, their habits, peculiarities, or characteristics. he snatched up a piece of coal, and heaved it at the nearest monkey. "get out, you little devil--_scut_!" he shouted--and missed--and the effect was disconcerting to coussirat. monkeys are essentially imitative, earnestly so--and not over-timid when in force--they imitated coussirat. before he could get his breath, first one and then another began to pick up hunks of coal and heave them back--and into the cab poured a rain of missiles. for an instant, a bare instant, coussirat stood his ground, then he dove for the shelter of his seat. soft coal? yes--but there are some fairish lumps even in soft coal. crash went the plate-glass face of the steam gauge! it was a good game, a joyous game--and there was plenty of coal, hunks and hunks of it--and plenty of monkeys, "the largest and most intelligent collection on earth," the billboards said. crash went the cab glass behind fatty hogan's head--and the monkeys shrieked delight. they hopped and jumped and performed gyrations over each other, those in the rear; while those on the firing line, with stern, screwed up, wizened faces, blinking furiously, swung their hairy arms--and into the cab still poured the hail of coal. with a yell of rage, clasping at his neck where the glass had cut him, fatty hogan bounced forward in his seat. "you double-blanked, blankety-blanked, triple-plated ass!" he bellowed at coussirat. "you--you _damned_ fool, you!" he screamed. "didn't you know any better than that! drive 'em off with the hose--turn the hose on them!" "turn it on yourself," said coussirat sullenly; he was full length on his seat, and mindful that his own glass might go as hogan's had. "d'ye think i'm looking for glory and a wreath of immortelles?" funny? well, perhaps. is this sacrilege--to say it wasn't luck? crash! there was a hiss of steam, a scalding stream of water, and in a moment the cab was in a white cloud. mechanically, hogan slammed his throttle shut, and snatched at the "air." it was the water glass--and the water glass sometimes is a nasty matter. coussirat was on his feet now like a flash, and both men, clamped-jawed, groped for the cock; and neither got off scathless before they shut it--and by then the train had stopped, and not a monkey was in sight. jimmie burke, the conductor, came running up from the rear end, as coussirat and hogan swung out of the gangway to the ground. "what's wrong?" demanded burke--he had his watch in his hand. "monkeys," said hogan, and he clipped the word off without any undue cordiality. "how?" inquired burke. "monkeys," said hogan--a little more brittle than before. "monkeys?" repeated burke politely. "yes, monkeys!" roared hogan, dancing up and down with the pain of his scalded hands. "monkeys--that's plain enough, ain't it? monkeys, blast you!--monkeys!" to the group came one of the circus men. "the door of the monkey car is open!" he announced breathlessly. "the monkeys have escaped." "you don't say!" said coussirat heavily. "yes," said the circus man. "and, look here, we'll have to find them; they couldn't have got away from the train until it stopped just now." "are they intelligent," inquired coussirat in a velvet voice, "same as the billboards say?" "of course," said the circus man anxiously. "well, then, just write them a letter and let them know when to be on hand for the next performance," said coussirat grimly. "there's lots of time--we can hang around here and stall the line for another hour or two, anyway!" burke and hogan were in earnest consultation. "we're close on the limited's time as it is," said hogan. "and look at that cab." "we'd better back up to the forks, then, and let her cross us there, that's the safest thing to do," said burke--and swung his lamp. "look here," said the circus man, "we've got to find those monkeys." burke looked at him unhappily--monkeys had thrown their meeting point out--and there was the trainmaster to talk to when they got back to big cloud. "unless you want to spend the night here you'd better climb aboard," he snapped. "all right, hogan--back away!" and he swung his lamp again. ten minutes later, as the circus special took the angel forks siding and the front-end brakeman was throwing the switch clear again for the main line, a chime whistle came ringing long, imperiously, from the curve ahead. fatty hogan's face went white; he was standing up in the cab and close to coussirat, and he clasped the fireman's arm. "what's that?" he cried. the answer came with a rush--a headlight cut streaming through the night, there was a tattoo of beating trucks, an eddying roar of wind, a storm of exhausts, a flash of window lights like scintillating diamonds, and the limited, pounding the fish-plates at sixty miles an hour, was in and out--and _gone_. hogan sank weakly down on his seat, and a bead of sweat spurted from his forehead. "my god, bull," he whispered, "do you know what that means? something's wrong. _she's against our order_." they found the kid and dan mcgrew, and they got the kid into little doctor mcturk's hands at big cloud--but it was eight weeks and more, while the boy raved and lay in stupor, before they got the story. then the kid told it to carleton in the super's office late one afternoon when he was convalescent--told him the bald, ugly facts in a sort of hopeless way. carleton listened gravely; it had come near to being a case of more lives gone out on the circus special and the limited that night than he cared to think about. he listened gravely, and when the kid had finished, carleton, in that quiet way of his, put his finger instantly on the crux of the matter--not sharply, but gently, for the kid had played a man's part, and "royal" carleton loved a man. "was it worth it, keene?" he asked. "why did you try to shield mcgrew?" the kid was staring hard at the floor. "he was my father," he said. ix the other fellow's job there is a page in hill division history that belongs to jimmy beezer. this is beezer's story, and it goes back to the days of the building of the long-talked-of, figure- -canted-over-sideways tunnel on the devil's slide, that worst piece of track on the hill division, which is to say, the worst piece of track, bar none, on the american continent. beezer, speaking generally, was a fitter in the big cloud shops; beezer, in particular, wore a beard. not that there is anything remarkable in the fact that one should wear a beard, though there are two classes of men who shouldn't--the man who chews tobacco, and the man who tinkers around a railroad shop and on occasions, when major repairs are the order of the day, is intimate with the "nigger-head" of a locomotive. beezer combined both classes in his person--but with beezer there were extenuating circumstances. according to big cloud, beezer wore a beard because mrs. beezer said so; mrs. beezer, in point of size, made about two of beezer, and big cloud said she figured the beard kind of took the cuss off the discrepancy. anyway, whether that is so or not, beezer wore a beard, and the reason it is emphasized here is because you couldn't possibly know beezer without it. its upper extremity was nicotine-dyed, in spots, to a nut brown, and from thence shaded down to an indeterminate rust color at its lower edge--when he hadn't been dusting off and doing parlor-maid work with it in the unspeakable grime of a "front-end." in shape it never followed the prevailing tonsorial fashions--as far as any one knew, no barber was ever the richer for beezer's beard. beezer used to trim it himself sunday mornings--sort of half moon effect he always gave it. he was a spare, short man, all jump and nerves, and active as a cat. he had shrewd, brown, little eyes, but, owing to the fact that he had a small head and wore a large-size, black, greasy peaked cap jammed down as far over his face as it would go, the color of his eyes could hardly be said to matter much, for when you looked at beezer, beezer was mostly just a round knob of up-tilted nose--and beard. beezer's claims to immortality and fame, such as they are, were vested in disease. yes; that's it, you've got it right--disease. beezer had a disease that is very common to mankind in general. there's a whole lot of men like beezer. beezer envied the other fellow's job. somebody has said that the scarcest thing on earth is hen's teeth, but the man who hasn't some time or other gone green-eyed over the other chap's trick, and confidentially complained to himself that he could "sit in" and hold it down a hanged sight better himself, has the scarcity-of-hen's-teeth-oracle nailed to the mast from the start. and a curious thing about it is that the less one knows of what the men he envies is up against the more he envies--and the better he thinks he could swing the other's job himself. there's a whole lot like beezer. now beezer was an almighty good fitter. tommy regan said so, and regan ought to know; that's why he took beezer out of the shops where the other had grown up, so to speak, and gave beezer the roundhouse repair work to do. and that's where beezer caught the disease--in the roundhouse. beezer contracted a mild attack of it the first day, but it wasn't bad enough to trouble him much, or see a doctor about, so he let it go on--and it got chronic. beezer commenced to inhale an entirely different atmosphere, and the more he inhaled it the more discontented he grew. an engine out in the roundhouse, warm and full of life, the steam whispering and purring at her valves, was a very different thing from a cold, rusty, dismantled boiler-shell jacked up on lumbering blocks in the erecting shop; and the road talk of specials, holding orders, tissues, running time and what-not had a much more appealing ring to it than discussing how many inches of muck no. had accumulated on her guard-plates, the incidental damning of the species wiper, and whether her boxes wanted new babbitting or not. toiling like a slave ten hours a day for six days a week, and maybe overtime on sundays, so that the other fellow could have the fun, and the glory, and the fatter pay check, and the easy time of it, began to get beezer's goat. the "other fellow" was the engineer. beezer got to contrasting up the two jobs, and the more he contrasted the less he liked the looks of his own, and the more he was satisfied of his superior ability to hold down the other over any one of the crowd that signed on or off in the grease-smeared pages of the turner's book, which recorded the comings and goings of the engine crews. and his ability, according to beezer's way of looking at it, wasn't all swelled head either; for there wasn't a bolt or a split-pin in any type of engine that had ever nosed its pilot on the hill division that he couldn't have put his finger on with his eyes shut. how much, anyhow, did an engineer know about an engine? there wasn't a fitter in the shops that didn't have the best engineer that ever pulled a throttle pinned down with his shoulders flat on the mat on that count--and there wasn't an engineer but what would admit it, either. but a routine in which one is brought up, gets married in, and comes to look upon as a sort of fixed quantity for life, isn't to be departed from offhand, and at a moment's notice. beezer grew ardent with envy, it is true; but the idea of actually switching over from the workbench to the cab didn't strike him for some time. when it did--the first time--it took his breath away--literally. he was in the pit, and he stood up suddenly--and the staybolts on the rocker-arm held, and beezer promptly sat down from a wallop on the head that would have distracted the thoughts of any other man than beezer. engineer beezer! he had to lift the peak of his cap to dig the tears out of his eyes, but when he put it back again the peak was just a trifle farther up his nose. engineer beezer--a limited run--the imperial flyer--into division on the dot, hanging like a lord of creation from the cab window--cutting the miles on the grades and levels like a swallow--roaring over trestles--diving through tunnels--there was excitement in that, something that made life worth living, instead of everlastingly messing around with a hammer and a cold chisel, and pulling himself thin at the hips on the end of a long-handled union wrench. day dreams? well, everybody day-dreams, don't they? why not beezer? it is not on record that any one ever metamorphosed himself into a drunkard on the spot the first time he ever stepped up to a bar; but as the irishman said: "kape yer foot on the rail, an' yez have the makin's av a dombed foine bum in yez!" of course, the thing wasn't feasible. it sounded all right, and was mighty alluring, but it was all dream. beezer put it from him with an unctuous, get-thee-behind-me-satan air, but he purloined a book of "rules"--road rules--out of pudgy macallister's seat in the cab of the . he read up the rules at odd moments, and moments that weren't odd--and gradually the peak of his cap crept up as far as the bridge of his nose. beezer was keeping his foot on the rail. mrs. beezer found the book. that's what probably started things along toward a showdown. she was, as has been said, a very large woman; also she was a very capable woman of whom beezer generally stood in some awe, who washed, and ironed, and cooked for the beezer brood during the day, and did overtime at nights on socks and multifarious sewing, including patches on beezer's overalls--and other things, which are unmentionable. the book fell out of the pocket of one of the other things, one evening. mrs. beezer examined it, discovered macallister's name scrawled on it, and leaned across the table under the paper-shaded lamp in their modest combination sitting and dining room. "what are you doing with this, mr. beezer?" she inquired peremptorily; mrs. beezer was always peremptory--with beezer. beezer coughed behind his copy of the big cloud _daily sentinel_. "well?" prompted mrs. beezer. "i brought it home for the children to read," said beezer, who, being uncomfortable, sought refuge in the facetious. "mr. beezer," said mrs. beezer, with some asperity, "you put down that paper and look at me." mr. beezer obeyed a little doubtfully. "now," continued mrs. beezer, "what's got into you since you went into the roundhouse, i don't know; but i've sorter had suspicions, and this book looks like 'em. you might just as well make a clean breast of what's on your mind, because i'm going to know." beezer looked at his wife and scowled. he felt what might be imagined to be somewhat the feelings of a man who is caught sneaking in by the side entrance after signing the pledge at a blue ribbon rally. it was not a situation conducive to good humor. "there ain't anything got into me," said he truculently. "if you want to know what i'm doing with that book, i'm reading it because i'm interested in it. and i've come to the conclusion that a fitter's job alongside of an engineer's ain't any better than a mud-picking polack's." "you should have found that out before you went into the shops ten years ago," said mrs. beezer, with a sweetness that tasted like vinegar. "ten years ago!" beezer flared. "how's a fellow to know what he's cut out for, and what he can do best, when he starts in? how's he to know, mrs. beezer, will you tell me that?" mrs. beezer was not sympathetic. "i don't know how he's to know," she said, "but i know that the trouble with some men is that they don't know when they're well off, and if you're thinking of----" "i ain't," said beezer sharply. "i said 'if,' mr. beezer; and if----" "there's no 'if' about it," beezer lied fiercely. "i'm not----" "you are," declared mrs. beezer emphatically, but with some wreckage of english due to exceeding her speed permit--mrs. beezer talked fast. "when you act like that i know you are, and i know you better than you do yourself, and i'm not going to let you make a fool of yourself, and come home here dead some night and wake me up same as poor mrs. dalheen got her man back week before last on a box car door. don't you know when you're well off? you an engineer! what kind of an engineer do you think you'd make? why----" "mrs. beezer," said beezer hoarsely, "shut up!" mrs. beezer caught her breath. "what did you say?" she gasped. "i said," said beezer sullenly, picking up his paper again, "that i'd never have thought of it, if you hadn't put it into my head; and now the more i think of it, the better it looks." "i thought so," sniffed mrs. beezer profoundly. "and now, mr. beezer, let this be the last of it. the idea! i never heard of such a thing!" curiously enough, or perhaps naturally enough, mrs. beezer's cold-water attitude had precisely the opposite effect on jimmy beezer to that which she had intended it should have. it was the side-entrance proposition over again. when you've been caught sneaking in that way, you might just as well use the front door on main street next time, and have done with it. beezer began to do a little talking around the roundhouse. the engine crews, by the time they tumbled to the fact that it wasn't just the ordinary grumble that any man is entitled to in his day's work, stuck their tongues in their cheeks, winked surreptitiously at each other--and encouraged him. now it is not to be implied that jimmy beezer was anybody's fool--not for a minute--a first-class master fitter with his time served is a long way from being in that class right on the face of it. beezer might have been a little blinded to the tongues and winks on account of his own earnestness; perhaps he was--for a time. afterwards--but just a minute, or we'll be running by a meeting point, which is mighty bad railroading. beezer's cap, when he took the plunge and tackled regan, had got tilted pretty far back, so far that the peak stood off his forehead at about the same rakish angle that his upturned little round knob of a nose stuck up out of his beard; which is to say that beezer had got to the stage where he had decided that the professional swing through the gangway he had been practising every time, and some others, that he had occasion to get into a cab, was going to be of some practical use at an early date. he put it up to regan one morning when the master mechanic came into the roundhouse. regan leaned his fat little body up against the jamb of one of the big engine doors, pulled at his scraggly brown mustache, and blinked as he listened. "what's the matter with you, beezer, h'm?" he inquired perplexedly, when the other was at an end. "haven't i just told you?" said beezer. "i want to quit fitting and get running." "talks as though he meant it," commented regan sotto voce to himself, as he peered earnestly into the fitter's face. "of course, i mean it," declared beezer, a little tartly. "why wouldn't i?" "no," said regan; "that ain't the question. the question is, why would you? h'm?" "because," beezer answered promptly, "i like a snap as well as the next man. it's a better job than the one i've got, better money, better hours, easier all around, and one i can hold down with the best of them." regan's eyebrows went up. "think so?" he remarked casually. "i do," declared beezer. "well, then," said regan, "if you've thought it all out and made up your mind, there's nothing i know of to stop you. want to begin right away?" "i do," said beezer again. it was coming easier than he had expected--there was a jubilant trill in his voice. "all right," said regan. "i'll speak to clarihue about it. you can start in wiping in the morning." "wiping?" echoed beezer faintly. "sure," said regan. "that's what you wanted, wasn't it? wiping--a dollar-ten a day." "look here," said beezer with a gulp; "i ain't joking about this." "well, then, what are you kicking about?" demanded regan. "about wiping and a dollar-ten," said beezer. "what would i do with a dollar-ten, me with a wife and three kids?" "i don't know what you'd do with it," returned regan. "what do you expect?" "i don't expect to start in wiping," said beezer, beginning to get a little hot. "you've been here long enough to know the way up," said regan. "wiping, firing--you take your turn. and your turn'll come for an engine according to the way things are shaping up now in, say, about fifteen years." "fifteen years!" "mabbe," grinned regan. "i can't promise to kill off anybody to accommodate you, can i?" "and don't the ten years i've put in here count for anything?" queried beezer aggressively. "why don't you start me in sweeping up the round-house? wiping! wiping, my eye! what for? i know all about the way up. that's all right for a man starting in green; but i ain't green. why, there ain't a year-old apprentice over in the shops there that don't know more about an engine than any blooming engineer on the division. you know that, regan--you know it hanged well, don't you?" "well," admitted the master mechanic, "you're not far wrong at that, beezer." "you bet, i'm not!" beezer was emphatic. "how about me, then? do i know an engine, every last nut and bolt in her, or don't i?" "you do," said regan. "and if it's any satisfaction to you to know it, i wouldn't ask for a better fitter any time than yourself." "then, what's the use of talking about wiping? if i've put in ten years learning the last kink there is in an engine, and have forgotten more than the best man of the engine crews 'll know when he dies, what's the reason i ain't competent to run one?" regan reached into his back pocket for his chewing, wriggled his head till his teeth met in the plug, and tucked the tobacco back into his pocket again. "beezer," said he slowly, spitting out an undesirable piece of stalk, "did it ever strike you that there's a whole lot of blamed good horse doctors that'd make damn poor jockeys--h'm?" beezer scowled deeply, and kicked at a piece of waste with the toe of his boot. "all i want is a chance," he growled shortly. "give me a chance, and i'll show you." "you can have your chance," said regan. "i've told you that." "yes," said beezer bitterly. "it's a hell of a chance, ain't it? a dollar-ten a day--_wiping_! i'd be willing to go on firing for a spell." "wiping," said regan with finality, as he turned away and started toward the shops; "but you'd better chew it over again, beezer, and have a talk with your wife before you make up your mind." somebody chuckled behind beezer--and beezer whirled like a shot. the only man in sight was pudgy macallister. pudgy's back was turned, and he was leaning over the main-rod poking assiduously into the internals of the with a long-spouted oil can; but beezer caught the suspicious rise and fall of the overall straps over the shoulders of the fat man's jumper. beezer was only human. it got beezer on the raw--which was already pretty sore. the red flared into his face hard enough to make every individual hair in his beard incandescent; he walked over to pudgy, yanked pudgy out into the open, and shoved his face into the engineer's. "what in the double-blanked, blankety-blanked blazes are you grinning at?" he inquired earnestly. "h'm?" said pudgy. "yes--_h'm_!" said beezer eloquently. "that's what i'm asking you." whether pudgy macallister was just plain lion-hearted, or a rotten bad judge of human nature isn't down on the minutes--all that shows is that he was one or the other. with some labor and exaggerated patience, he tugged a paper-covered pamphlet out of his pocket from under his jumper. it was the book of rules beezer had "borrowed" some time before. "mrs. beezer," said pudgy blandly, "was over visiting the missus this morning, and she brought this back. from what she said i dunno as it would do any good, but i thought, perhaps, if you were going to take regan's advice about talking to your wife, you and mrs. beezer might like to look it over again together before you----" that was as far as pudgy macallister got. generally speaking, the more steam there is to the square inch buckled down under the valve, the shriller the whistle is when it breaks loose. beezer let a noise out of him that sounded like a green parrot complaining of indigestion, and went at macallister head-on. the oil can sailed through the air and crashed into the window glass of clarihue's cubby-hole in the corner. there was a tangled and revolving chaos of arms and legs, and lean and fat bodies. then a thud. there wasn't any professional ring work about it. they landed on the floor and began to roll--and a pail of packing and black oil they knocked over greased the way. there was some racket about it, and regan heard it; so did clarihue, and macallister's fireman, and another engine crew or two, and a couple of wipers. the rush reached the combatants when there wasn't more than a scant thirty-second of an inch between them and the edge of an empty pit--but a thirty-second is a whole lot sometimes. when they stood them up and got them uncoupled, macallister's black eye was modestly toned down with a generous share of what had been in the packing bucket, but his fist still clutched a handful of hair that he had separated from beezer's beard--and beezer's eyes were running like hydrants from the barbering. take it all around, thanks mostly to the packing bucket, they were a fancy enough looking pair to send a high-class team of professional comedians streaking for the sidings all along the right of way to get out of their road. it doesn't take very much, after all, to make trouble, not very much; and, once started, it's worse than the measles--the way it spreads. mostly, they guyed pudgy macallister at first; they liked his make-up better owing to the black eye. but pudgy was both generous and modest; what applause there was coming from the audience he wanted beezer to get--he wasn't playing the "lead." and beezer got it. pudgy opened up a bit, and maybe drew on his imagination a bit about what mrs. beezer had said to mrs. macallister about jimmy beezer, and what beezer had said to regan, and regan to beezer, not forgetting regan's remark about the horse doctor. oh, yes, trouble once started makes the measles look as though it were out of training, and couldn't stand the first round. to go into details would take more space than a treatise on the manners and customs of the early moabites; but, summed up, it was something like this: mrs. beezer paid another visit to mrs. macallister, magnanimously ignoring the social obligation mrs. macallister was under to repay the former call. mrs. macallister received mrs. beezer in the kitchen over the washtubs, which was just as well for the sake of the rest of the house, for when mrs. beezer withdrew, somewhat shattered, but in good order, by a flank movement through the back yard, an impartial observer would have said that the kitchen had been wrecked by a gas explosion. this brought big cloud's one lawyer and the justice of the peace into it, and cost beezer everything but the odd change on his month's pay check--when it came. meanwhile, what with a disturbed condition of marital bliss at home, beezer caught it right and left from the train crews, engine crews and shop hands during the daytime. they hadn't anything against beezer, not for a minute, but give a railroad crowd an opening, and there's no aggregation on earth quicker on the jump to take it. they dubbed him "engineer" beezer, and "doctor" beezer; but mostly "doctor" beezer--out of compliment to regan. and old grumpy, the timekeeper in the shop, got so used to hearing it that he absent-mindedly wrote it down "doctor beezer" when he came to make up the pay roll. that put it up to carleton, the super, who got a curt letter from the auditors' office down east, asking for particulars, and calling his attention to the fact that all medical services were performed by contract with the company. carleton scowled perplexedly at the letter, scrawled tommy regan's initials at the bottom of the sheet, plus an interrogation mark, and put it in the master mechanic's basket. regan grinned, and wrote east, telling them facetiously to scratch out the "doctor" and squeeze in a "j" in front of the "beezer" and it would be all right; but it didn't go--you can't get by a high-browed set of red-tape-bound expert accountants of unimpeachable integrity, who are safeguarding the company's funds like that. hardly! they held out the money, and by the time the matter was straightened out the pay car had come and gone, and beezer got a chance to find out how good his credit was. considering everything, beezer took it pretty well--he went around as though he had boils. but if beezer had a grouch, and cause for one, it didn't make the other fellow's job look any the less good to beezer. mrs. beezer's sharp tongue, barbed with contemptuous innuendo that quite often developed into pointed directness as to her opinion of his opinions, and the kind of an engineer he'd make, which he was obliged to listen to at night, and the men--who didn't know what an innuendo was--that he was obliged to listen to by day, didn't alter beezer's views on that subject any, whatever else it might have done. beezer had a streak of stubbornness running through the boils. he never got to blows again. his tormentors took care of that. they had macallister as an example that beezer was not averse to bringing matters to an intimate issue at any time, and what they had to say they said at a safe distance--most of them could run faster than beezer could, because nature had made beezer short. beezer got to be a pretty good shot with a two-inch washer or a one-inch nut, and he got to carrying around a supply of ammunition in the hip pocket of his overalls. as for macallister, when the two ran foul of each other, as the engineer came on for his runs or signed off at the end of one, there wasn't any talking done. regan had warned them a little too hard to take chances. they just looked at each other sour enough to turn a whole milk dairy. the men told beezer that macallister had rigged a punching bag up in his back yard, and was taking a correspondence course in pugilism. beezer said curried words. "driving an engine," said they, "is a dog's life; it's worse than pick-slinging, there's nothing in it. why don't you cut it out? you've had enough experience to get a job in the _shops_. why don't you hit regan up and change over?" "by christmas!" beezer would roar, while he emptied his pocket and gave vent to mixed metaphor, "i'd show you a change over if i ever got a chance; and i'd show you there was something to running an engine besides bouncing up and down on the seat like balls with nothing but wind in them, and grinning at the scenery!" a chance--that's all beezer asked for--a chance. and he kept on asking regan. that dollar-ten a day looked worse than ever since mrs. beezer's invasion of mrs. macallister's kitchen. but regan was obdurate, and likewise was beginning to get his usually complacent outlook on life--all men with a paunch have a complacent, serene outlook on life as a compensation for the paunch--disturbed a little. beezer and his demands were becoming ubiquitous. regan was getting decidedly on edge. "firing," said beezer. "let me start in firing--there's as much in that as in fitting, and i can get along for the little while it'll be before you'll be down on your knees begging me to take a throttle." "firing, eh!" regan finally exploded one day. "look here, beezer; i've heard about enough from you. firing, eh? there'd have been some firing done before this that would have surprised you if you hadn't been a family man! get that? the trouble with you is that you don't know what you want or what you're talking about." "i know what i want, and i know what i'm talking about," beezer answered doggedly; "and i'm going to keep on putting it up to you till you quit saying 'no.'" "you'll be doing it a long time, then," said regan bluntly, laying a few inches of engine dust with blackstrap juice; "a long time, beezer--till i'm dead." but it wasn't. regan was wrong about that, dead wrong. it's unexplainable the way things work out sometimes! that afternoon, after a visit from harvey, who had been promoted from division engineer to resident and assistant-chief on the devil's slide tunnel, carleton sent for regan. "tommy," said he, as the master mechanic entered his office, "did you see harvey?" "no," said regan. "i didn't know he was in town." "he said he didn't think he'd have time to see you," said carleton; "i guess he's gone back on number seven. but i told him i'd put it up to you, anyway. he says he's along now where he is handling about half a dozen dump trains, but that what he has been given to pull them with, as near as he can figure out, is the prehistoric junk of the iron age." "i saw the engines when they went through," regan chuckled. "all the master mechanics on the system cleaned up on him. i sent him the old two-twenty-three myself. harvey's telling the truth so far. what's next?" "well," carleton smiled, "he says the string and tin rivets they're put together with come off so fast he can't keep more than half of them in commission at once. he wants a good fitter sent up there on a permanent job. what do you say?" "say?" regan fairly shouted. "why, i say, god bless that man!" "h'm?" inquired carleton. "beezer," said regan breathlessly. "tell him he can have beezer--wire him i'll send up beezer. he wants a good fitter, does he? well, beezer's the best fitter on the pay roll, and that's straight. i always liked harvey--glad to do him a good turn--harvey gets the best." carleton crammed the dottle down in the bowl of his pipe with his forefinger, and looked at regan quizzically. "i've heard something about it," said he. "what's the matter with beezer?" "packing loose around his dome cover, and the steam spurts out through the cracked joint all over you every time you go near him," said regan. "he's had me crazy for a month. he's got it into his nut that he could beat any engineer on the division at his own game, thinks the game's a cinch and is sour on his own. that's about all--but it's enough. say, you wire harvey that i'll send him beezer." carleton grinned. "suppose beezer doesn't want to go?" he suggested. "he'll go," said regan grimly. "according to the neighbors, his home life at present ain't a perennial dream of delight, and he'll beat it as joyful as a live fly yanked off the sheet of fly paper it's been stuck on; besides, he's getting to be a regular spitfire around the yards. you leave it to me--he'll go." and beezer went. you know the devil's slide. everybody knows it; and everybody has seen it scores of times, even if they've never been within a thousand miles of the rockies--the road carried it for years on the back covers of the magazines printed in colors. the transcontinental's publicity man was a live one, he played it up hard, and as a bit of scenic effect it was worth all he put into it--there was nothing on the continent to touch it. but what's the use?--you've seen it hundreds of times. big letters on top: "incomparable grandeur of the rockies", and underneath: "a scene on the line of the transcontinental--the coast to coast route." there wasn't anything the matter with the electrotypes, either--nature backed up those "ads" to the last detail, and threw in a whole lot more for good measure--even a pessimist didn't hold a good enough hand to call the raise and had to drop out. pugsley, the advertising man, was an awful liar, and what he said may not be strictly true, but he claimed the road paid their dividends for one quarter through the sale to a junk and paper-dealer of the letters they got from delighted tourists telling how far short anything he could say came to being up to the reality. anyway, pugsley and the passenger-agent's department were the only ones who weren't enthusiastic about the double-loop tunnel--it spoiled the scenic effect. this is beezer's story. beezer has "rights" through to the terminal, and pictures of scenery however interesting, and a description of how harvey bored his holes into the mountain sides however instructive, should naturally be relegated to the sidings; but there's just a word or two necessary before beezer pulls out into the clear. one thing the electrotypes didn't show was the approach to the devil's slide. it came along the bottoms fairly straight and level, the track did, for some five miles from the bend, until about a mile from the summit where it hit a long, stiff, heavy climb, that took the breath out of the best-type engine that regan, representing the motive-power department, had to offer. and here, the last few hundred yards were taken with long-interval, snorting roars from the exhaust, that echoed up and down the valley, and back and forward from the hills like a thousand thunders, or the play of a park of artillery, and the pace was a crawl--you could get out and walk if you wanted to. that was the approach of the devil's slide--on a westbound run, you understand? then, once over the summit, the devil's slide stretched out ahead, and in its two reeling, drunken, zigzag miles dropped from where it made you dizzy to lean out of the cab window and see the glacier river swirling below, to where the right of way in a friendly, intimate fashion hugged the glacier again at its own bed level. how much of a drop in that two miles? grade percentages and dry figures don't mean very much, do they? take it another way. it dropped so hard and fast that that's what the directors were spending three million dollars for--to divide that drop by two! it just _dropped_--not an incline, not by any means--just a drop. however---- when it was all over the cause of it figured out something like this--we'll get to the effect and beezer in a second. engine with number one, the imperial limited, westbound, and with macallister in the cab, blew out a staybolt one afternoon about two miles west of the bend. and quicker than you could wink, the cab was all live steam and boiling water. the fireman screamed and jumped. macallister, blinded and scalded, his hands literally torn from the throttle and "air" before he could latch in, fell back half unconscious to the floor, wriggled to the gangway and flung himself out. he sobbed like a broken-hearted child afterwards when he told his story. "i left her," he said. "i couldn't help it. the agony wasn't human--i couldn't stand it. i was already past knowing what i was doing; but the thought went through my mind that the pressure'd be down, and she'd stop herself before she got up the mile climb to the summit. that's the last i remember." dave kinlock, the conductor, testified that he hadn't noticed anything wrong until after they were over the summit--they'd come along the bottoms at a stiff clip, as they always did, to get a start up the long grade. they had slackened up almost to a standstill, as usual, when they topped the summit; then they commenced to go down the slide, and were speeding up before he realized it. he put on the emergency brakes then, but they wouldn't work. why? it was never explained. whether the angle-cock had never been properly thrown into its socket and had worked loose and shut off the "air" from the coaches, or whether--and queerer things than that have happened in railroading--it just plain went wrong, no one ever knew. they found the trouble there, that was all. the emergency wouldn't work; and that was all that dave kinlock knew then. now, beezer had been out on the construction work about two weeks when this happened, about two of the busiest weeks beezer had ever put in in his life. harvey hadn't drawn the long bow any in describing what the master mechanics had put over on him to haul his dump carts with. they were engines of the vintage of james watt, and beezer's task in keeping them within the semblance of even a very low coefficient of efficiency was no sinecure. harvey had six of these monstrosities, and, as he had started his work at both ends at once, with a cutting at the eastern base of the devil's slide and another at the summit, he divided them up three to each camp; and it kept beezer about as busy as a one-handed paper-hanger with the hives, running up and down answering "first-aid" hurry calls from first one and then the other. the way beezer negotiated his mileage was simple. he'd swing the cab or pilot of the first train along in the direction, up or down, that he wanted to go--and that's how he happened to be standing that afternoon on the track opposite the upper construction camp about a hundred yards below the summit, when number one climbed up the approach, poked her nose over the top of the grade, crawling like a snail that's worn out with exertion, and then began to gather speed a little, toboggan-like, as she started down the devil's slide toward him. beezer gave a look at her and rubbed his eyes. there wasn't anything to be seen back of the oncoming big mountain racer's cab but a swirling, white, vapory cloud. it was breezing pretty stiff through the hills that day, and his first thought was that she was blowing from a full head, and the wind was playing tricks with the escaping steam. with the next look he gulped hard--the steam was coming from the cab--not the dome. it was the , macallister's engine, and when he happened to go up or down on her he always chose the pilot instead of the cab--beezer never forced his society on any man. but this time he let the pilot go by him--there was something wrong, and badly wrong at that. the cab glass showed all misty white inside, and there was no sign of macallister. the drivers were spinning, and the exhaust, indicating a wide-flung throttle, was quickening into a rattle of sharp, resonant barks as the cab came abreast of him. beezer jumped for the gangway, caught the rail with one hand, clung there an instant, and then the tools in his other hand dropped to the ground, as, with a choking gasp, he covered his face, and fell back to the ground himself. by the time he got his wits about him again the tender had gone by. then beezer started to run, and his face was as white as the steam he had stuck his head into in the empty cab. he dashed along beside the track, along past the tender, past the gangway, past the thundering drivers, and with every foot the and the imperial limited, number one, westbound, was hitting up the pace. when he got level with the cylinder, it was as if he had come to a halt, though his lungs were bursting, and he was straining with every pound that was in him. he was barely gaining by the matter of inches, and in about another minute he was due to lose by feet. but he nosed in over the tape in a dead heat, flung himself sideways, and, with his fingers clutching at the drawbar, landed, panting and pretty well all in, on the pilot. a minute it took him to get his breath and balance, then he crawled to the footplate, swung to the steam chest and from there to the running board. here, for the first time, beezer got a view of things and a somewhat more comprehensive realization of what he was up against, and his heart went into his mouth and his mouth went dry. far down below him in a sheer drop to the base of the cañon wall wound the glacier like a silver thread; in front, a gray, sullen mass of rock loomed up dead ahead, the right of way swerving sharply to the right as it skirted it in a breath-taking curve; and with every second the and her trailing string of coaches was plunging faster and faster down the grade. the wind was already singing in his ears. there was a sudden lurch, a shock, as she struck the curve. beezer flung his arms around the handrail and hung on grimly. she righted, found her wheel base again, and darted like an arrow along the opening tangent. beezer's face was whiter now than death itself. there were curves without number ahead, curves to which that first was but child's play, that even at their present speed would hurl them from the track and send them crashing in splinters through the hideous depths into the valley below. it was stop her, or death; death, sure, certain, absolute and quick, for himself and every man, woman and child, from colonist coach to the solid-mahogany, brass-railed pullmans and observation cars that rocked behind him. there was no getting into the cab through the gangway; his one glance had told him that. there was only one other way, little better than a chance, and he had taken it. blue-lipped with fear--that glance into the nothingness almost below his feet had shaken his nerve and turned him sick and dizzy--beezer, like a man clinging to a crag, edged along the running board, gained the rear end, and, holding on tightly with both hands, lifted his foot, and with a kick shattered the front cab-glass; another kick and the window frame gave way, and, backing in feet first, beezer began to lower himself into the cab. meanwhile, white-faced men stood at spence's elbow in the despatchers' office at big cloud. some section hands had followed number one out of the bend in a handcar, and had found macallister and his fireman about two hundred yards apart on opposite sides of the right of way. both were unconscious. the section hands had picked them up, pumped madly back to the bend, and made their report. carleton, leaning over spence, never moved, only the muscles of his jaw twitched; regan, as he always did in times of stress, swore to himself in a grumbling undertone. there was no other sound in the room save the incessant click of the sender, as spence frantically called the construction camp at the summit of the slide; there was a chance, one in a thousand, that the section hands had got back to the bend before number one had reached the top of the grade. then, suddenly, the sounder broke, and spence began to spell off the words. "number one passed here five minutes ago." regan went down into a chair, and covered his face with his hands. "wild," he whispered, and his whisper was like an awe-stricken sob. "running wild on the devil's slide. _no one in the cab_. oh, my god!" there was a look on carleton's face no words could describe--it was gray, gray with a sickness that was a sickness of his soul; but his words came crisp and clear, cold as steel, and without a tremor. "clear the line, spence. get out the wrecking crew, and send the callers for the doctors--that's all that's left for us to do." but while big cloud was making grim preparations for disaster, beezer in no less grim a way was averting it, and his salvation, together with that of every soul aboard the train, came, in a measure at least, from the very source wherein lay their danger--the speed. that, and the fact that the pressure macallister had thought would drop before the summit was reached, was at last exhausting itself. the cab was less dense, and the speed whipping the wind through the now open window helped a whole lot more, but it was still a swirling mass of vapor. beezer lowered himself in, his foot touched the segment, and then found the floor. the was rocking like a storm-tossed liner. again there came the sickening, deadly slew as she struck a curve, the nauseating pause as she hung in air with whirring drivers. beezer shut his eyes and waited. there was a lurch, another and another, fast and quick like a dog shaking itself from a cold plunge--she was still on the right of way. beezer wriggled over on his back now, and, with head hanging out over the running board, groped with his hands for the levers. around his legs something warm and tight seemed to clinch and wrap itself. he edged forward a little farther--his hand closed on the throttle and flung it in--a fierce, agonizing pain shot through his arm as something spurted upon it, withering it, blistering it. the fingers of his other hand were clasped on the air latch and he began to check--then, unable to endure it longer, he threw it wide. there was a terrific jolt, a shock that keeled him over on his side as the brake-shoes locked, the angry grind and crunch of the wheel tires, and the screech of skidding drivers. he dragged himself out and crouched again on the running board. behind him, like a wriggling snake, the coaches swayed and writhed crazily, swinging from side to side in drunken, reeling arcs. a deafening roar of beating flanges and pounding trucks was in his ears--and shriller, more piercing, the screams of the brake-shoes as they bit and held. he turned his head and looked down the right of way, and his eyes held there, riveted and fascinated. two hundred yards ahead was the worst twist on the slide, where the jutting cliff of old piebald mountain stuck out over the precipice, and the track hugged around it in a circle like a fly crawling around a wall. beezer groaned and shut his eyes again. they say that in the presence of expected death sometimes one thinks of a whole lot of things. engineer beezer, in charge of number one, the imperial limited, did then; but mostly he was contrasting up the relative merits of a workbench and a throttle, and there wasn't any doubt in beezer's mind about which he'd take if he ever got the chance to take anything again. when he opened his eyes old piebald mountain was still ahead of him--about ten feet ahead of him--and the pony truck was on the curve. but they had stopped, and dave kinlock and a couple of mail clerks were trying to tear his hands away from the death grip he'd got on the handrail. it was a weak and shaken beezer, a beezer about as flabby as a sack of flour, that they finally lifted down off the running board. there was nothing small about regan--there never was. he came down on the wrecking train, and, when he had had a look at the and had heard kinlock's story, he went back up to the construction camp, where beezer had been outfitted with leg and arm bandages. "beezer," said he, "i didn't say all horse doctors wouldn't make jockeys--what? you can have an engine any time you want one." beezer shook his head slowly. "no," said he thoughtfully; "i guess i don't want one." regan's jaw dropped, and his fat little face puckered up as he stared at beezer. "don't want one!" he gasped. "don't want one! after howling for one for three months, now that you can have it, you don't want it! say, beezer, what's the matter with you--h'm?" but there wasn't anything the matter with beezer. he was just getting convalescent, that's all. there's a whole lot of men like beezer. x the rat river special this is martin bradley's story; an excerpt, if you will, from the pages of railroading where strange and grim things are, where death and laughter lock arms in the winking of an eye, and are written down as though akin. there have been better men than martin bradley--and worse. measure him as you will, that is one matter; in the last analysis frailty is a human heritage, and that is another. on the hill division they called him a game man. bradley was a fireman, a silent, taciturn chap. not sullen or surly--don't get that idea--more quiet than anything else, never much of anything to say. when a laugh was going around bradley could appreciate the fun, and did; only his laugh seemed tempered somehow by something behind it all. not a wet blanket, not by any means--they didn't understand him then, perhaps, didn't pretend to--he never invited a confidence or gave one--but the boys would crowd up and make room for bradley any time, as they dragged at their pipes and swopped yarns in the murk of the roundhouse at the midnight lunch hour, about the time bradley used to stroll in, snapping his fingers together softly in that curious, absent-minded way he had of doing--for bradley was firing for smithers then on the , that took the local freight, west, out of big cloud in the small morning hours. well set-up, jumper tucked in his overalls, the straps over husky shoulders, thick through the chest, medium height, stocky almost, steady black eyes, a clean-shaven, serious face, the black hair grizzled a little and threading gray--that was martin bradley. a bit old to be still firing, perhaps, but he had had to take his turn for promotion with the rest of the men when he came to the hill division. he'd have gone up in time, way up, to the best on the division, probably, for regan had him slated for an engine even then, only----but we'll come to that in a moment; there's just a word or two to "clear" the line before we have "rights" through to the terminal. big cloud in those days, which was shortly after the line was laid through the rockies, and the east and west were finally linked after the stress of toil and hardship and bitter struggle was over, was a pretty hard burg, pretty hard--a whole lot harder than it is to-day. there was still a big transient population of about every nationality on earth, for the road, just because they could operate it, wasn't finished by a good deal, and construction camps were more numerous than stations. bridge gangs were still at work; temporary trestles were being replaced with ones more permanent; there were cuts through the gray of the mountain rock to be trimmed and barbered with dynamite; and there were grades and approaches and endless things to struggle over; and--well, big cloud was still the mecca of the gamblers, the dive keepers, and the purveyors of "red-eye," who had flocked there to feed like vultures on the harvest of pay checks that were circling around. it was a pretty hard place, big cloud--everything wide open--not much of any law there in the far west in the shadow of the rockies. it's different to-day, of course; but that's the way it was then, when martin bradley was firing on the transcontinental. bradley from the first boarded with the macquigans. that's how, probably, he came to think more of young reddy macquigan, who was a wiper in the roundhouse, than he did of any of the rest of the railroad crowd. perhaps not altogether for young reddy's sake; perhaps on account of mrs. macquigan, and particularly on account of old john macquigan--who wasn't any good on earth--a sodden parasite on the household when he was drunk, and an ugly brute when there wasn't any money forthcoming from the products of mrs. macquigan's ubiquitous washtubs to get drunk with. for old john macquigan, between whom and bradley there existed an armed truce, each regarding the other mutually as a necessary evil, had no job--for two reasons: first, because he didn't want one; and, second, because no one would have given him one if he had. mrs. macquigan, a patient, faded-out little woman, tireless because she had to be tireless, shouldered the burden, and hid her shame as best she could from her neighbors. reddy? no; he didn't help out much--then. reddy used to stray a little from the straight and narrow himself--far enough so that it was pretty generally conceded that reddy held his job in the roundhouse on account of his mother, who did regan's washing; and, as a matter of cold fact, that was about the truth of it; and, as a matter of cold fact, too, that was why the big-hearted master mechanic liked martin bradley. "i dunno," regan used to say, twiddling his thumbs over his fat paunch, "i dunno; it's about the last place _i'd_ want to board, with that drunken pickings from the scrap heap around. the only decent thing old john 'll ever do will be to die--h'm? about a week of it would finish me. bradley? yes; he's hung on there quite a spell. pretty good man, martin. i dunno what mrs. macquigan would do without him. guess that's why he stays. i'm going to give martin an engine one of these days. that'll help out some. when? when his turn comes. first chance i get. i can't poison anybody off to make room for him--can i?" and now just a single word more, while we're getting back the "complete," to say that this had been going on for two or three years; martin bradley boarding at the macquigans' and firing the ; young reddy wiping in the roundhouse, and on the ragged edge of dismissal every time the pay car came along; mrs. macquigan at her washtubs; old john leading his disreputable, gin-soaked life; tommy regan between the devil of discipline and the deep blue sea of soft-heartedness anent the macquigans' son and heir--and we're off, the tissue buttoned in our reefer--off with a clean-swept track. it was pay day, an afternoon in the late fall, and, growing dusk, the switch lights in the big cloud yards were already beginning to twinkle red and white and green, as martin bradley, from the pay car platform, his pay check in his pocket, swung himself to the ground and pushed his way through a group of men clustered beside the car. he had caught sight of regan across the spur going into the roundhouse a moment before, and he wanted a word with the master mechanic--nothing very important--a requisition for an extra allowance of waste. and then, amongst the crowd, he caught sight of some one else, and smiled a little grimly. old john macquigan, as he always did on pay days, was hovering about first one, and then another, playing good fellow and trying to ring himself in on the invitations that would be going around presently when the whistle blew. bradley, his smile thinning a little as old john, catching sight of him in turn, sidled off, passed through the group, crossed the turntable--and halted abruptly, just outside the big engine doors, as regan's voice came to him in an angry growl. "now mind what i say, reddy! once more, and you're through--for keeps. and that's my last word. understand?" "well, you needn't jump a fellow before he's done anything!" it was reddy macquigan, answering sullenly. there was silence for a moment; then regan's voice again, pretty cold and even now. "i dunno," he said. "i figure you must have been brought into the world for something, but i dunno what it is. you're not to blame for your father; but if i let a mother of mine, and nearing sixty years, slave out the little time she's got left, i'd want to crawl out somewhere amongst the buttes and make coyote meat of myself. jump you before you've done anything--eh!" the little master mechanic's voice rose suddenly. "i saw you sneak uptown an hour ago when you left the pay car--one drink for a start--h'm! well, you put another on top of it, and it'll be for a--finish! i'd do a lot for that fine old lady of a mother of yours, and that's why i've taken the trouble to come over here and warn you what'll happen if you put in the night you're heading for. 'tisn't because i can't run the roundhouse without you, my bucko--mind that!" bradley was snapping his fingers in his queer, nervous way. reddy macquigan made no answer; at least, bradley did not hear any, but he heard regan moving toward the door. he had no wish to talk to the master mechanic any more, not just at that moment anyhow, so he crunched through the engine cinders to another door, entering the roundhouse as regan went out on the turntable and headed across the tracks for the station. two pits away, reddy macquigan, with a black scowl on his face, leaned against the steam chest of the . bradley, pretending not to see him, swung through the gangway and into the cab of the . there, for half an hour, he busied himself in an aimless fashion; but with an eye out for the young wiper, as the latter moved about the roundhouse. the whistle was blowing and reddy was pulling off his overalls, as bradley swung out of his cab again; and he was shading a match from the wind over the bowl of his pipe just across the turntable, as reddy came out. he tossed away the match, puffed, and nodded at macquigan. "hello, reddy," he said in his quiet way, and fell into step with the boy. macquigan didn't answer. bradley never spoke much, anyhow. they crossed the tracks and started up main street in silence. here, the railroaders, in groups and twos and threes, filled the street; some hurrying homeward; others dropping in through the swinging doors, not infrequently located along the right of way, where gasoline lamps flared out over the gambling hells, and the crash of tin-pan pianos, mingled with laughter and shouting, came rolling out from the dance-hall entrances. bradley, with his eyes in front of him, walked along silently. upon macquigan's young face had settled the black scowl again; and it grew blacker as he glanced, now and then, at the man beside him. behind them came a knot of his cronies--and some one called his name. macquigan halted suddenly. "well, so long, martin," he said gruffly. "i'll be up a little later." bradley's hand went out and linked in the other's arm. "better come on home, reddy," he said, with one of his rare smiles. "later," reddy flung out. "better make it now," said bradley quietly. the group behind had come up with them now, and, crowding into faro dave's place, paused a moment in the entrance to absorb the situation. "be a good boy, reddy, and do as you're told," one of them sang out. reddy whirled on bradley, the hot blood flushing his face. "i wish you'd mind your own blasted business!" he flared. "i'm blamed good and sick of you tagging me. this isn't the first time. you make me weary! the trouble with you is that you don't know anything but the everlasting grouch you carry around. you're a funeral! you're a tight-wad. everybody says so. nobody ever heard of you spending a cent. go on--beat it--leave me alone!" bradley's face whitened a little, but the smile was still on his lips. "better draw your fire, reddy; there's no need of getting hot," he said. "come on home; you know what'll happen if you don't; and you know what regan told you back there in the roundhouse." "so you heard that, eh?" reddy shot at him. "i thought you did; and you thought you'd fool me by hanging around there, playing innocent, to walk home with me, eh?" "i wasn't trying to fool you," bradley answered; and his hand went now to the wiper's shoulder. "let go!" snarled reddy. "i'll go home when i feel like it!" bradley's hand closed a little tighter. "don't make a fool of yourself, reddy," he said gravely. "you'll----" and that was all. macquigan wasn't much more than a boy, not much more than that, and hot-headed--and his chums were looking on. he freed himself from bradley's hold--with a smash of his fist in bradley's face. fight? no; there wasn't any fight. there was a laugh--from old john macquigan, who had been trailing the young bloods up the street. and as bradley, after staggering back from the unexpected blow, recovered himself, reddy macquigan, followed by old john, was disappearing into faro dave's "el dorado" in front of him. bradley went home alone. supper was ready--it was always ready, as everything else was where little old mrs. macquigan was concerned; and there were four plates on the red-checkered tablecloth--as there always were--even on pay day! bradley sat down, with mrs. macquigan opposite him. not much to look at--mrs. macquigan. a thin, sparse little woman in a home-made black alpaca dress; the gray hair, thinning, brushed smooth across her forehead; wrinkles in the patient face, a good many of them; a hint of wistfulness in the black eyes, that weren't as bright as they used to be; not very pretty hands, they were red and lumpy around the knuckles. not much to look at--just a little old woman, brave as god almighty makes them--just mrs. macquigan. bradley, uneasy, glancing at her furtively now and again, ate savagely, without relish. there wasn't much said; nothing at all about old john and young reddy. mrs. macquigan never asked a question--it was pay day. there wasn't much said until after the meal was over, and bradley had lighted his pipe and pushed back his chair; with mrs. macquigan lingering at the table, kind of wistfully it seemed, kind of listening, kind of hanging back from putting away the dishes and taking the two empty plates off the table--and then she smiled over at bradley as though there wasn't anything on her mind at all. "faith, martin," she said, "sure i don't know at all, at all, what i'd be doing not seeing you around the house; but it's wondered i have often enough you've not picked out some nice girl and made a home of your own." the words in their suddenness came to bradley with a shock; and, his face strained, he stared queerly at mrs. macquigan. a little startled, mrs. macquigan half rose from her chair. "what is it, martin?" she asked tremulously. for a moment more, bradley stared at her. strange that she should have spoken like that to-night when there seemed more than ever a sort of grim analogy between her life and his, that seemed like a bond to-night drawing them closer--that seemed, somehow, to urge him to pour out his heart to her--there was motherliness in the sweet old face that seemed to draw him out of himself as no one else had for more years than he cared to remember--as even she never had before. "what is it, martin?" she asked again. and then bradley smiled. "i've picked her out," he said, in a low voice. "i'm waiting for a little girl that's promised some day to keep house for me." "oh, martin!" cried mrs. macquigan excitedly. "and--and you never said a word!" bradley's hand dove into his inside pocket and came out with a photograph--and the smile on his face now was full of pride. "here's her picture," he said. "wait, martin--wait till i get my spectacles!" exclaimed mrs. macquigan, all in a flutter; and, rising, she hurried over to the little shelf in the corner. then, adjusting the steel bows over her ears, with little pats to smooth down her hair, she picked up the photograph and stared at it--at the picture of a little tot of eight or nine, at a merry, happy little face that smiled at her roguishly. "she's ten now, god bless her!" said bradley simply. "that was taken two years ago--so i haven't so long to wait, you see." "why--why, martin," stammered mrs. macquigan, "sure you never said you was married. and the wife, martin, poor boy, she's--she's dead?" bradley picked up the photograph and replaced it in his pocket--but the smile now was gone. "no--i don't know--i never heard," he said. he walked over to the window, pulled the shade and stared out, his back to mrs. macquigan. "she ditched me. i was on the penn then--doing well. i had my engine at twenty-five. i went bad for a bit. i'd have gone all the way if it hadn't been for the kiddie. i'd have had more to answer for than i'd want to have, blood, perhaps, if i'd stayed, so i pulled up stakes and came out here." he turned again and came back from the window. "i couldn't bring the kiddie, of course; it was no place for her. and i couldn't leave her where she was to grow up with that in her life, for she was too young then, thank god, to understand; so i'm giving her the best my money'll buy in a girl's school back east, and"--his voice broke a little--"and that's the little girl i'm waiting for, to make a home for me--some time." mrs. macquigan's hands fumbled a little as she took off her spectacles and laid them down--fumbled a little as she laid them on bradley's sleeve. "god be good to you, martin," she whispered, and, picking up some dishes, went hurriedly from the room. bradley went back again and stood by the window, looking out, snapping his fingers softly with that trick of his when any emotion was upon him. strange that he should have told his story to mrs. macquigan to-night! and yet he was glad he had told her; she probably would never refer to it again--just understand. yes; he was glad he had told her. he hadn't intended to, of course. it had come almost spontaneously, almost as though for some reason it was _meant_ that he should tell her, and---- bradley's eyes fixed on a small boy's figure that came suddenly streaking across the road and flung itself at the macquigans' little front gate; then the gate swung, and the boy came rushing up the yard. bradley thought he recognized the figure as one of the call boys, and a call boy running like that was always and ever a harbinger of trouble. instinctively he glanced back into the room. mrs. macquigan was out in the kitchen. bradley stepped quickly into the hall, and reached the front door as the boy began to pound a tattoo with his fists on the panels. bradley jerked the door open. "what's wrong?" he demanded tersely. the light from the hall was on the boy now--and his eyes were popping. "say," he panted, in a scared way, "say, one of reddy's friends sent me. there's a wild row on at faro dave's. reddy's raisin' the roof, an'----" bradley's hand closed over the youngster's mouth. in answer to the knock, mrs. macquigan was hurrying down the hall. "what's the matter, martin?" she questioned nervously, looking from bradley to the boy and back again to bradley. "nothing," said bradley reassuringly. "i'm wanted down at the roundhouse to go out with a special." he gave the boy a significant push gatewards. "go on, bub," he said. "i'll be right along." bradley went back into the house, picked up his cap, and, with a cheery good-night to mrs. macquigan, started out again. he walked briskly to the gate and along past the picket fence--mrs. macquigan had the shade drawn back, and was watching him from the window--and then, hidden by the coussirats' cottage next door, he broke into a run. it wasn't far--distances weren't great in big cloud in those days, aren't now, for that matter--and in less than two minutes bradley had faro dave's "el dorado" in sight down main street--and his face set hard. he wasn't the only one that was running; men were racing from every direction; some coming up the street; others, he passed, who shouted at him, and to whom he paid no attention. in a subconscious way he counted a dozen figures dart in through the swinging doors of the "el dorado" from the street--news of a row travels fast. bradley burst through the doors, still on the run--and brought up at a dead halt against a solidly packed mass of humanity; polacks and swedes and hungarians from the construction gangs; a scattering of railroad men in the rear; and more than a sprinkling of the harder element gathered from all over town, the hangers-on, the sharpers, and the card men, the leeches, the ilk of faro dave who ran the place, and who seemed to be intent on maintaining a blockade at the far end of the barroom. the place was jammed, everybody craning their necks toward the door of the back room, where faro dave ran his stud, faro and roulette layouts; and from there, over the shuffling feet of the crowding men in the bar, came a snarl of voices--amongst them, reddy's, screaming out in drunken fury, incoherently. bradley, without ceremony, pushed into the crowd, and the foreigners made way for him the best they could. then he commenced to shoulder through the sort of self-constituted guard of sympathizers with the house. one of these tried to block his way more effectually. "you'd better keep your hands off, whoever you are," the man threw at him. "the young fool's been putting the place on the rough ever since he came in here. all dave wants to do is put him out of the back door, and----" "thash the boy, reddy! don't lesh him bluff you--saw him change cards m'self. damn thief--damn cheat--thash the boy, reddy!" it was old john macquigan's voice, from the other room, high-pitched, clutter-tongued, drunken. then a voice, cold, with a sneer, and a ring in the sneer that there was no mistaking--faro dave's voice: "you make a move, and i'll drop you quicker'n----" bradley's arms swept out with a quick, fierce movement, hurling the man who tried to block him out of the way; and, fighting now, ramming with body and shoulders, throwing those in front of him to right and left, he half fell, half flung himself finally through the doorway into the room beyond--too late. "thash the boy, reddy!"--it was old john's maudlin voice again. "thash the----" the picture seared itself into bradley's brain, lightning-quick, instantaneous, but vivid in every detail, as he ran: the little group of men, three or four, who had been sitting at the game probably, seeking cover in the far corner; reddy macquigan, swaying a little, standing before a somewhat flimsy green-baized card table; old john, too far gone to stand upright alone, leaning against the wall behind reddy; faro dave, an ugly white in his face, an uglier revolver in his hand, standing, facing reddy across the table; the quick forward lunge from reddy, the crash of the table as the boy hurled it to the floor and flung himself toward the gambler; the roar of a revolver shot, the flash of the short-tongued flame; a choking scream; another shot, the tinkle of glass as the bullet shattered the ceiling lamp; then blackness--all but a dull glow filtering in through the barroom door, that for the first instant in the sudden contrast gave no light at all. bradley, before he could recover himself, pitched over a tangled mass of wrecked tables--over that and a man's body. somebody ran through the room, and the back door slammed. there were shouts now, and yells--a chorus of them from the barroom. some one bawled for a light. bradley got to his knees, and, reaching to raise the boy, wounded or killed as he believed, found his throat suddenly caught in a vicious grasp--and reddy's snarling laugh was in his ears. "let go!" bradley choked. "let go, reddy. it's me--martin." reddy's hands fell. "martin, eh?" he said thickly. "thought it was--hic--that----" reddy's voice sort of trailed off. they were bringing lamps into the room now, holding them up high to get a comprehensive view of things--and the light fell on the farther wall. reddy was staring at it, his eyes slowly dilating, his jaw beginning to hang weakly. bradley glanced over his shoulder. old john, as though he had slid down the wall, as though his feet had slipped out from under him, sat on the floor, legs straight out in front of him, shoulders against the wall and sagged a little to one side, a sort of ironic jeer on the blotched features, a little red stream trickling down from his right temple--dead. not a pretty sight? no--perhaps not. but old john never was a pretty sight. he'd gone out the way he'd lived--that's all. it was martin bradley who reached him first, and the crowd hung back while he bent over the other, hung back and made way for reddy, who came unsteadily across the room--not from drink now, the boy's gait--the drink was out of him--he was weak. there was horror in the young wiper's eyes, and a white, awful misery in his face. a silence fell. not a man spoke. they looked from father to son. the room was filling up now--but they came on tiptoe. gamblers, most of them, and pretty rough, pretty hard cases, and life held light--but in that room that night they only looked from father to son, the oaths gone from their lips, sobered, their faces sort of gray and stunned. bradley, from bending over the dead man, straightened up. reddy macquigan, with little jabs of his tongue, wet his lips. "the old man's gone, ain't he?" he said in a queer, lifeless way. "yes," said bradley simply. macquigan looked around the circle sort of mechanically, sort of unseeingly--then at the form on the floor. then he spoke again, almost as though he were talking to himself. "might just as well have been me that fired the shot," he whispered, nodding his head. "i'm to blame--ain't i? an' i guess--i guess i've finished the old lady, too." he looked around the circle again, then his hands kind of wriggled up to his temples--and before bradley could spring to catch him, he went down in a heap on the floor. macquigan wasn't much more than a boy, not much more than that--but old enough in another way. what he went through that night and in the days that followed was between macquigan and his god. life makes strange meeting points sometimes, and sometimes the running orders are hard to understand, and sometimes it looks like disaster quick and absolute, with everything in the ditch, and the right of way a tangled ruin--and yet when morning breaks there is no call for the wrecking crew, and it comes to you deep down inside somewhere that it's the great despatcher who's been sitting in on the night trick. reddy macquigan went back to the roundhouse a different macquigan than he had left it--sort of older, quieter, more serious--and the days went by, a month or two of them. regan, with a sort of inward satisfaction and some complacency, tugged at his scraggly brown mustache, and summed it up pretty well. "did i not say," said regan, "that the only decent thing old john would ever do would be to die? h'm? well, then, i was right, wasn't i? look at young reddy! straight as a string--and taking care of the old lady now. no; i ain't getting my shirts starched the way mrs. macquigan used to starch them--but no matter. mrs. macquigan isn't taking in washing any more, god bless her! i guess reddy got it handed to him pretty straight on the carpet that night. i'll have him pulling a throttle one of these days--what?" bradley? yes; this is martin bradley's story--not reddy macquigan's. but reddy had his part in it--had running orders to make one more of those strange meeting points fixed by the great despatcher that we were speaking about a minute ago. it was three months to the day from old john macquigan's death that bradley, in from a run, found a letter waiting for him up at mrs. macquigan's--and went down under it like a felled ox! not the big thing to do? well, perhaps not--all that he cared for in life, everything that he lived for, everything that had kept him straight since his trouble years ago, snatched from him without a moment's warning--that was all. another man might not have lost his grip--or he might. bradley lost his--for a little while--but they call him to-day a game man on the hill division. white-faced, not quite understanding himself, in a queer sort of groping way, bradley, in his flood of bitter misery, told mrs. macquigan, who had watched him open the letter--told her that his little housekeeper, as he had come to call the kiddie, was dead. not even a chance to see her--an accident--the letter from the lawyers who did his business, transmitting the news received from the school authorities who knew only the lawyers as the principals--a letter, trying to break the news in a softer way than a telegram would have done, since bradley was too far away to get back east in time, anyhow. and mrs. macquigan put her arms around him, and, understanding as only her mother's heart could understand, tried to comfort him, while the tears rained down the sweet old face. but bradley's eyes were dry. with his elbows on the table, holding his chin in his hands, his face like stone, he stared at the letter he had spread out on the red checkered cloth--stared for a long time at that, and at the little photograph he had taken from his pocket. "martin, boy," pleaded mrs. macquigan, and her hand brushed back the hair from his forehead, "martin, boy, don't take it like that." and then bradley turned and looked at her--not a word--only a bitter laugh--and picked up his letter and the picture and went out. bradley went up on the with the local freight, west, that night, and there was a dare-devil laugh in his heart and a mechanical sense of existence in his soul. and in the cab that night, deep in the mountains, bradley lost his grip. it seemed to sweep him in a sudden, overwhelming surge; and, with the door swung wide, the cab leaping into fiery red, the sweat beads trickling down his face that was white in a curious way where the skin showed through for all the grime and perspiration, he lurched and snatched at his engineer's arm. "life's a hell of a thing, ain't it, smithers?" he bawled over the roar of the train and the swirl of the wind, wagging his head and shaking imperatively at smithers' arm. smithers, a fussy little man, with more nerves than are good for an engineer, turned, stared, caught a something in the fireman's face--and tried to edge a little farther over on his seat. in the red, flickering glare, bradley's eyes had a look in them that wasn't sane, and his figure, swaying with the heave of the cab, seemed to shoot back and forth uncannily, grotesquely, in and out of the shadows. "martin, for god's sake, martin," gasped the engineer, "what's wrong with you?" "you heard what i said," shouted bradley, a sullen note in his voice, gripping the engineer's arm still harder. "that's what it is, ain't it? why don't you answer?" smithers, frightened now, stared mutely. the headlight shot suddenly from the glittering ribbons of steel far out into nothingness, flinging a filmy ray across a cañon's valley, and mechanically smithers checked a little as they swung the curve. then, with a deafening roar of thunder racketing through the mountains, they swept into a cut, the rock walls towering high on either side--and over the din bradley's voice screamed again--and again he shook smithers' arm. "ain't it? d'ye hear--ain't it? say--ain't it?" "y-yes," stammered smithers weakly, with a gulp. and then bradley laughed--queerly. "you're a damn fool, smithers!" he flung out, with a savage jeer. "what do you know about it!" and throwing the engineer's arm from him, his shovel clanged and clanged again, as into the red maw before him he shot the coal. smithers was scared. bradley never said another word after that--just kept to his own side of the cab, hugging his seat, staring through the cab glass ahead, chin down on his breast, pulling the door at intervals, firing at intervals like an automaton, then back to his seat again. smithers was scared. at elk river, the end of the local run, smithers told the train crew about it, and they laughed at him, and looked around to find out what martin bradley had to say about it--but bradley wasn't in sight. not much of a place, elk river, not big enough for one to go anywhere without the whole population knowing it; and it wasn't long before they knew where bradley was. the local made a two hours' lay-over there before starting back for big cloud; and martin bradley spent most of it in kelly's place, a stone's throw from, the station. not drinking much, a glass or two all told, sitting most of the time staring out of the window--not drinking much--getting the _taste_ of it that he hadn't known for a matter of many years. two glasses, perhaps three, that was all--but he left kelly's for the run back with a flask in his pocket. it was the flask that did it, not smithers. smithers was frightened at his silent fireman tippling over his shovel, good and frightened before he got to big cloud, and smithers did not understand; but smithers, for all that, wasn't the man to throw a mate down cold. neither was bradley himself bad enough to have aroused any suspicion. it was the flask that did it. they made big cloud on the dot that morning-- . . and in the roundhouse, as bradley stepped out through the gangway, his overalls caught on the hasp of the tool-box on the tender, and the jerk sent the flask flying into splinters on the floor--at regan's feet. the fat little master mechanic, on his morning round of inspection, halted, stared in amazement at the broken glass and trickling beverage, got a whiff of the raw spirit, and blinked at bradley, who, by this time, had reached the ground. "what's the meaning of this?" demanded regan, nonplussed. "not you, bradley--on the run?" bradley did not answer. he was regarding the master mechanic with a half smile--not a pleasant one--more a defiant curl of his lips. smithers, discreetly attempting to make his escape through the opposite gangway, caught regan's attention. "here, you, smithers," regan called peremptorily, "come----" then bradley spoke, cutting in roughly. "leave smithers out of it," he said. regan stared for another moment; then took a quick step forward, close up to bradley--and got the fireman's breath. bradley shoved him away insolently. it was a minute before regan spoke. he liked bradley and always had; but from the soles of his feet up to the crown of his head, regan, first and last, was a railroad man. and regan knew but one creed. other men might drink and play the fool and be forgiven and trusted again, a wiper, a shop hand, a brakeman, perhaps, or any one of the train crew, but a man in the cab of an engine--_never_. reasons, excuses, contributory causes, counted not at all--they were not asked for--they did not exist. the fact alone stood--as the fact. it was a minute before regan spoke, and then he didn't say much, just a word or two without raising his voice, before he turned on his heel and walked out of the roundhouse. "i'm sorry for this, bradley," he said. "you're the last man i expected it from. you know the rules. you've fired your last run on this road. you're out." but regan might have been making some comment on the weather for all the concern it appeared to give bradley. he stood leaning against the tender, snapping his fingers in his queer way, silent, hard-faced, his eyes far away from his immediate surroundings. smithers, a wiper or two, reddy macquigan amongst them, clustered around him after regan had gone; but bradley paid no attention to them, answered none of their questions or comments; and after a little while pushed himself through them and went out of the roundhouse. bradley didn't go home that day; but reddy macquigan did--at the noon hour. that's how mrs. macquigan got it. mrs. macquigan did not wait to wash up the dishes. she put on the little old-fashioned poke bonnet that she had worn for as many seasons as big cloud could remember, and started out to find regan. she ran the master mechanic to earth on the station platform, and opened up on him, fluttering, anxious, and distressed. "sure, regan," she faltered, "you did not mean it when you fired martin this morning--not for good." regan pulled at his mustache and looked at her--and shook his head at her reprovingly. "i meant it, mrs. macquigan," he said kindly. "you must know that. it will do neither of us any good to talk about it. i wouldn't have let him out if i could have helped it." "then listen here, regan," she pleaded. "listen to the why of it, that 'tis only me who knows." and regan listened--and the story lost nothing in the telling because the faded eyes were wet, and the wrinkled lips quivered sometimes, and would not form the words. at the end, big-hearted regan reached into his back pocket for his plug, met his teeth in it, wrenched a piece away without looking at her, and cleared his throat--but he still shook his head. "it's no use you talking, mrs. macquigan," he said gruffly, to hide his emotion. "i'd fire any man on earth, 'tis no matter the who or why, for drinking in the cab on a run." "but, regan," she begged, catching at his arm, "he'll be leaving big cloud with his job gone." "and what then?" said regan. "mabbe 'twould be the best thing--h'm?" "ah, regan," she said, and her voice caught a little, "sure, 'twould be the end of martin, don't you see? 'tis me that knows him, and 'twill not last long, the spell, only till the worst of it is over--martin is too fine for that, regan. if i can keep him by me, regan, d'ye mind? if he goes away where there's nobody to give him a thought he'll--he'll--ah, regan, faith, regan, 'tis a lot you've thought of martin bradley the same as me." regan examined a crack in the planking of the station platform minutely, while mrs. macquigan held tenaciously to his coat sleeve. "i dunno," said regan heavily. "i dunno. mabbe i'll----" "ah, regan!" she cried happily. "i knew 'twas----" "not in a cab!" interposed regan hastily. "not if he was the president of the road. but i'll see, mrs. macquigan, i'll see." and regan saw--thornley, the trainmaster. and after thornley, he saw reddy macquigan in the roundhouse. "reddy," said he, with a growl that wasn't real, "there's a vacancy in the engine crews--h'm?" "martin's?" said reddy quickly. "yes," said regan. "do you want it?" "no," said reddy macquigan shortly. "good boy," said the fat little master mechanic. "then i'll give it to you just the same. martin's through in here; but he'll get a chance braking for thornley. you'll run spare to begin with, and"--as reddy stared a little numbly--"don't break your neck thanking me. thank yourself for turning into a man. your mother's a fine woman, reddy. i guess you're beginning to find that out too--h'm?" so reddy macquigan went to firing where martin bradley had fired before, and his pay went up; and bradley--no, don't get that idea--whatever else he may have done, martin bradley didn't make a beast of himself. bradley took the job they offered him, neither gratefully nor ungratefully, took it with that spirit of utter indifference for anything and everything that seemed to have laid hold of him and got him in its grip--and off duty he spent most of his time in the emporiums along main street. he drank some, but never enough to snow him under; it was excitement that he seemed to crave, forgetfulness in anything that would absorb him for the moment. it was not drink so much; it was the faro tables and the roulette and the stud poker that, crooked from the drop of the hat, claimed him and cleaned him out night after night--all except mrs. macquigan's board money, that they never got away from, him. mrs. macquigan got that as regularly now that she didn't need it with reddy to look after her as she had when she was practically dependent upon bradley for it all. silent, grim, taciturn always, more so now than ever, bradley went his way; indifferent to regan when regan buttonholed him; indifferent to thornley and his threats of dismissal, meant to jerk bradley into the straight; indifferent to every mortal thing on earth. and the hill division, with regan leading, shook its head. there wasn't a man but knew the story, and, big under the greasy jumpers and the oil-soaked shirts, they never judged him; but bradley's eyes held no invitation for companionship, so they left him pretty much alone. "i dunno," said regan, tugging at his mustache, twiddling with his thumbs over his paunch, "i dunno--looks like the scrap heap at the end of the run--h'm? i dunno." but mrs. macquigan said no. "wait," said she, with her patient smile. "it's me that knows martin. it's a sore, hurt heart the boy has now; but you wait and see--i'll win him through. it's proud yet you'll be to take your hats off to martin bradley!" martin bradley--a game man--that's what they call him now. mrs. macquigan was right--wasn't she? not perhaps just in the way she thought she was--but right for all that. call it luck or chance if you like, something more than that if it strikes you that way--but an accident in the yards one night, a month after bradley had lost his engine, put one of the train crew of the rat river special out of commission with a torn hand, and sent a call boy streaking uptown for a substitute. call it luck if you like, that the work train with a hybrid gang of a hundred-odd polacks, armenians, and swedes, cooped up in a string of box cars converted into bunk houses, mess houses and commissariat, a window or two in them to take the curse off, and end doors connecting them for the sake of sociability, pulled out for the new rat river trestle work with reddy macquigan handling the shovel end of it for bull coussirat, who had been promoted in the cab--and bradley as the substitute brakeman on the front end. well, maybe it was luck--but that's not what they call it on the hill division. perhaps no one quite understood bradley, even at the end, except mrs. macquigan; and possibly even she didn't get it all. inconsistent, to put it mildly, that a man like bradley would have let go at all? well, it's an easy matter and a very human one, to judge another from the safe vantage ground of distance--isn't it? some men take a thing one way, and some another; and in some the feelings take deeper root than in others--and find their expression in a different way. ditched from the start, bradley hadn't much to cling to, had he--only the baby girl he had dreamed about on the runs at night; only the little tot he had slaved for, who some day was to make a home for him? but about the rat river special---- it was midnight when they pulled out of big cloud; and bradley, in the caboose, glanced at heney's tissue, which, as a matter of form, the conductor gave him to read. the special was to run twenty minutes behind no. , the westbound mail train, and make a meeting point with the through freight, no. , eastbound, at the forks. the despatchers had seized the propitious moment to send the rolling camp through in the quiet hours of traffic, with an eye out to getting the foreigners promptly on the job in the morning for fear they might draw an extra hour or two of time--without working for it! the special was due to make rat river at four o'clock. bradley handed back the order without comment, picked up his lantern, and started for the door. "no need of going forward to-night," said heney, laying his arm on bradley's arm. "we've only a short train, a dozen cars, and we can watch it well enough from the cupola. it's damn cold out there." "oh, i guess it's all right, heney," bradley answered--and went out through the door. there weren't any platforms to the box cars, just small end doors. once in camp, and stationary on a siding, the cars would be connected up with little wooden gangways, you understand? bradley, from the platform of the caboose, stepped across the buffer, and made his way through several cars. one was pretty much like another; a stove going, and stuffy hot; the foreigners stretched out in their bunks, some of them; some of them playing cards on the floor; some asleep; some quarrelling, chattering, jabbering; a hard looking lot for the most part, black-visaged, scowling, unshaven, gold circlets dangling in their ears--bar the swedes. bradley worked along with scarcely more than a glance at the occupants, until, in the fourth car, he halted suddenly and shoved his lamp into the face of a giant of a man, who squatted in the corner, sullen and apart, with muttering lips. "what's wrong with you?" he demanded brusquely. the man drew back with a growl that was like a beast's, lips curling back over the teeth. bradley stared at him coolly, then turned inquiringly to the crowd in the car. he was greeted with a burst of unintelligible, polyglot words, and spontaneous, excitable gesticulations. bradley shrugged his shoulders, and slammed the door behind him. outside on the buffer, he reached for the ladder, swung himself up the iron rungs to the top of the car, and, with his lantern hooked in his arm, sat down on the footboard, bracing himself against the brake wheel, and buttoned his reefer--there was another night--to think--ahead of him. to think--if he could only forget! it was that fearful sense of impotency--impotency--impotency. it seemed to laugh and jeer and mock at him. it seemed to make a plaything of this father love of his. there was nothing--nothing he could do to bring her back--that was it--nothing! soul, life, mind and body, he would have given them all to have saved her--would give them now to bring her back--and there was only this ghastly impotency. it seemed at times that it would drive him mad--and he could not forget. and then the bitter, crushing grief; the rebellion, fierce, ungovernable, that his _all_ should have been taken from him, that the years he had planned should be turned to nothing but grinning mockery; and then that raging sense of impotency again, that rocked his turbulent soul as in an angry, storm-tossed sea. time passed, and he sat there motionless, save for the jolting of the train that bumped him this way and that against the brake wheel. they were into the mountains now; and the snowy summits, moon-touched, reared themselves in white, grotesque, fanciful shapes, and seemed, cold in their beauty, to bring an added chill to the frosty night. ahead, far ahead, the headlight's ray swept now the track, now the gray rock side, now, softly green, a clump of pines, as the right of way curved and twisted and turned; now, slowing up a grade, the heavy, growling bark of the exhaust came with long intervals between, and now, on the level, it was quick as the tattoo of a snare drum, with the short stack belching a myriad fiery sparks insolently skyward in a steady stream; around him was the sweep of the wind, the roar of the train, the pound of the trucks beating the fish-plates, the sway, the jerk, the recovery of the slewing cars, and, curiously, the deep, brooding silence of the mountains, frowning, it seemed, at this sacrilege of noise; behind, showed the yellow glimmer from the caboose, the dark, indistinct outline of a watching figure in the cupola. suddenly, snatching at the brake wheel to help him up, bradley sprang erect. from directly underneath his feet came a strange, confused, muffled sound, like a rush of men from one end of the car to the other. then there broke a perfect bedlam of cries, yells, shouts and screams--and then a revolver shot. in an instant bradley was scrambling down the ladder to investigate--they could not hear the row, whatever it was, in the caboose--and in another he had kicked the car door open and plunged inside. a faint, bluish haze of smoke undulated in the air, creeping to the roof of the car; and there was the acrid smell of powder--but there was no sign of a fight, no man, killed or wounded, sprawling on the floor. but the twenty men who filled the car were crouched in groups and singly against the car sides; or sat upright in their bunks, their faces white, frightened--only their volubility unchecked, for all screamed and talked and waved their arms at once. they made a rush for bradley, explaining in half a dozen languages what had happened. bradley pushed them roughly away from him. "speak english!" he snapped. "what's wrong here? can't any of you speak english?" an italian grabbed his arm and pointed through the door bradley had left open behind him to the next car forward. "pietro!" he shouted out wildly. "gotta da craze--mad--gotta da gun!" "well, go on!" prodded bradley. "he's run into the next car. i understand that--but what happened here? who's pietro?" but the man's knowledge, like his english, was limited. he did not know much--pietro was not one of them--pietro had come only that morning to big cloud from the east--pietro had gone suddenly mad--no man had done anything to make pietro mad. and then suddenly into bradley's mind leaped the story that he had read in the papers a few days before of an italian, a homicidal maniac, who had escaped from an asylum somewhere east, and had disappeared. the description of the man, as he remembered it, particularly the great size of the man, tallied, now that he thought of it, with the fellow who had been in the car when he had first passed through. he glanced quickly around--the man was gone. so that was pietro! bradley started on the run for the next car ahead; and, subconsciously, as he ran, he felt the speed of the train quicken. but that was natural enough--they had been crawling to the summit of mitre peak, and, over that now, before them lay a four-percent grade to the level below, one of the nastiest bits of track on the division, curves all the way--only bull coussirat was hitting it up pretty hard for a starter. in the next car the same scene was repeated--the smell of powder smoke, the blue haze hanging listless near the roof out of the air currents; the crouched, terrified foreigners, one with a broken wrist, dangling, where a bullet had shattered it. pietro, berserker fashion, was shooting his way through the train. bradley went forward more cautiously now, more warily. strange the way the speed was quickening! the cars were rocking now with short, vicious slews. he thought he heard a shout from the track-side without, but he could not be sure of that. through the next car and the next he went, trailing the maniac; and then he started to run again. stumbling feet, trying to hold their footing, came to him from the top of the car. with every instant now the speed of the train was increasing--past the limit of safety--past the point where he would have hesitated to use the emergency brakes, if there had been any to use--a luxury as yet extended only to the passenger equipment in those days. the polacks, the armenians, and the swedes were beginning to yell with another terror, at the frantic pitching of the cars, making a wild, unearthly chorus that echoed up and down the length of the train. bradley's brain was working quickly now. it wasn't only this madman that he was chasing fruitlessly. there must be something wrong, more serious still, in the engine cab--that was heney, and carrol, the other brakeman, who had run along the top. bradley dashed through the door, and, between the cars, jumped for the ladder and swarmed up--the globe of his lamp in a sudden slew shivered against the car roof, and the flame went out in a puff. he flung the thing from him; and, with arms wide outspread for balance on his reeling foothold, ran, staggered, stumbled, recovered himself, and sped on again, springing from car to car, up the string of them, to where the red flare, leaping from the open fire box in the cab ahead, silhouetted two figures snatching for their hold at the brake-wheel on the front end of the forward car--heney and carrol. and as bradley ran, a thin stream of flame spurted upward from the cab, and there came faintly, almost lost in the thunder of the train, the bark of a revolver shot--and the two figures, ducking instantly, crouched lower. and then bradley stood beside the others; and heney, that no man ever called a coward, clutched at martin bradley and shouted in his ear: "for god's sake, martin, what'll we do? the throttle was wide at the top of the grade when he threw bull coussirat off. we saw it from the cupola. it's certain death to make a move for him!" but bradley made no answer. tight-lipped, he was staring down into the cab; and a livid face stared back at him--the face of the man that he had stopped to look at as they had pulled out of big cloud--pietro--the face, hideously contorted, of a maniac. and on the floor of the cab, stretched out, wriggling spasmodically, reddy macquigan lay upon his back; and pietro half knelt upon him, clutching with one hand at the boy's throat, pointing a revolver with the other at the roof of the car. wild, crazy fast now, the speed was; the engine dancing ahead; the cars wriggling behind; the yellow glimmer of the caboose shooting this way and that like a pursuing phantom will-o'-the-wisp; and from beneath the roofs of the cars rose that muffled, never-ending scream of terror from the polacks, the armenians and the swedes--rose, too, from the roofs of the cars themselves, for some were climbing there. it was disaster absolute and certain not a mile ahead where the track in a short, murderous curve hugged bald eagle peak, with the cañon dropping a thousand feet sheer down from the right of way, disaster there--if they ever got that far! but bradley, though he knew it well enough from a hundred runs, was not thinking of that. in a calm, strange way there seemed to come one more analogy between mrs. macquigan's life and his--this human thing that looked like a gorilla was choking her son to death, the son that was making a home for her as she had dreamed he would do some day, the son that was all she had to depend upon. mrs. macquigan's son--his little girl. both out! there seemed to flash before him the picture of the gray head bowed upon the red-checkered tablecloth in the little dining room, the frail shoulders shaking with the same grief that he was drinking now to the dregs, the same grief that he would have sold his soul to avert--only he had been impotent--impotent. but he was not impotent here--to keep those dregs from mrs. macquigan, the only soul on earth he cared for now. and suddenly bradley laughed--loud--high above the roar of the train, the shouts and screams of the maddened creatures it was sweeping to eternity, and the human gorilla in the cab shot its head forward and covered bradley with its revolver, teeth showing in a snarl. and so bradley laughed, and with the laugh poised himself--and sprang far out from the car roof in a downward plunge for the tender, reached the coal and rolled, choking with the hot blood in his throat from the shot that had caught him in mid-air, rolled down with an avalanche of coal, grappled with the frothing creature that leaped to meet him, staggered to his feet, struggled for a moment, fast-locked with the madman, until a lurch of the engine hurled them with a crash against the cab frame, and the other, stunned, slid inertly from his grasp. and then for an instant bradley stood swaying, clutching at his throat--then he took a step forward--both hands went out pawing for the throttle, found it, closed it--and he went down across bull coussirat's empty seat--dead. only a humble figure, bradley, just a toiler like millions of others, not of much account, not a great man in the world's eyes--only a humble figure. measure him as it seems best to you to measure him for his frailty or his strength. they call him a game man on the hill division. his story is told. [illustration: the locomotive settled back on a slant. _ralph on the engine. frontispiece (page .)_] ralph on the engine or the young fireman of the limited mail by allen chapman author of "ralph of the roundhouse," "ralph in the switch tower," "the young express agent," "two boy publishers," "the darewell chums," etc. illustrated new york grosset & dunlap publishers made in the united states of america the railroad series by allen chapman mo, cloth, illustrated. ralph of the roundhouse or, bound to become a railroad man ralph in the switch tower or, clearing the track ralph on the engine or, the young fireman of the limited mail (other volumes in preparation.) grosset & dunlap publishers--new york copyright, , by grosset & dunlap ralph on the engine contents chapter page i. the night run ii. the landslide iii. everybody's friend iv. an old-time enemy v. on special duty vi. zeph vii. limpy joe's railroad restaurant viii. the hidden plunder ix. a suspicious proceeding x. the special xi. kidnapped xii. the railroad president xiii. the short line railway xiv. a railroad strike xv. the runaway trains xvi. car no. xvii. under sealed orders xviii. the strike leader xix. the wire tappers xx. in peril xxi. a friend in need xxii. the limited mail xxiii. the picnic train xxiv. in "the barrens" xxv. too late xxvi. the mad engineer xxvii. a new mystery xxviii. the freight thieves xxix. a prisoner xxx. the lost diamonds xxxi. justice at last--conclusion ralph on the engine chapter i the night run "ralph fairbanks." "on hand, sir." "you are to relieve fireman cooper on the dover slow freight." "all right, sir." ralph fairbanks arose from the bench on which he was seated in the roundhouse at stanley junction. over a dozen men had been his companions for the past hour. there were engineers waiting for their runs, firemen resting after getting their locomotives in order, and "extras," who, like the young railroader himself, were so far on the substitute list only. ralph was glad of his appointment. this was his second month of service as a fireman. it had been by no means regular employment, and, as he was industrious and ambitious, he was glad to get at work with the prospect of a steady run. the foreman of the roundhouse had just turned from his desk after marking ralph's name on the list when a man hurriedly entered the place. he was rather unsteady in his gait, his face was flushed, and he looked dissolute and unreliable. "give me the slow freight run, forgan," he panted. "i'm listed next." "two minutes late," observed the foreman, in a business-like way. "that don't count on a stormy night like this." "system counts in this establishment always, jim evans," said mr. forgan. "i ran all the way." "stopped too long at the corner saloon, then," put in dave adams, a veteran engineer of the road. evans glared at the man who spoke, but recognizing a privileged character, stared down the row of loiterers and demanded: "who's got my run?" "do you own any particular run, jim?" inquired adams, with a grin. "well, griscom's was due me." "young fairbanks was on hand, so it's his run now." "that kid's," sneered evans, turning on ralph with angry eyes. "see here, young fellow, do you think it's square cutting in on a regular man this way?" "i'll answer that," interposed tim forgan sharply. "he was here, you weren't. he holds the run till a better man comes along." evans stood glaring at ralph for a few minutes. then he moved to the youth's side. "see here, kid," he observed, "i want this run specially. it'll be a regular, for cooper is going with another road. i'm a man and must earn a man's wages. you're only a kid. i've got a family. come, give me the run and i'll treat you handsomely," and the speaker extended a cigar. "thank you, i don't smoke," said ralph. then looking the man squarely in the eyes, he said: "mr. evans, i'll give up the run on one condition." "what's that?" inquired evans eagerly. "if you will sign the pledge, work steadily, and give your wages to your family as you should do." "i'll do it!" shouted evans, not a whit shame-facedly. "no, you won't," announced forgan. "fairbanks, kindness is kindness, but business is business. if you drop this run, it goes to the next extra on the list according to routine." "bah, you're all down on me!" flared out evans, and left the place in a rage. "it would do no good, fairbanks, to help that man," observed dave adams. "he would sign anything to secure a personal advantage and never keep his word. he squanders all his money and won't last long in the great northern, i can tell you." ralph went outside as he heard a whistle down the rails. evans was standing near a switch. "some kind of a plot, eh, you and your friend?" he sneered at ralph. "i don't know what you mean, mr. evans," replied ralph. "oh, yes, you do. forgan is partial to you. the others don't like me because i'm a crack man in my line. one word, though; i'll pay you off for this some time or other," and evans left the spot shaking his fist at ralph menacingly. "one of the bad kind," mused ralph, looking after the fellow, "not at all fit for duty half the time. here comes one of the good kind," he added as a freight engine with a long train of cars attached steamed up at the roundhouse. "it's my run, mr. griscom." "that's famous news," cried old john griscom, genuinely pleased. "good evening, mr. cooper," said ralph, as the fireman leaped from the cab. "hello," responded the latter. "you got the run? well, it's a good man in a good man's place." "that's right," said griscom. "none better. in to report, sam? good-bye. shovel in the coal, lad," the speaker directed ralph. "it's a bad night for railroading, and we'll have a hard run to dover." ralph applied himself to his duties at once. he opened the fire door, and as the ruddy glow illuminated his face he was a picture pleasant to behold. muscular, healthy, in love with his work, friendly, earnest and accommodating, ralph fairbanks was a favorite with every fair-minded railroad man on the great northern who knew him. ralph had lived at stanley junction nearly all of his life. his early experiences in railroading have been related in the first volume of the present series, entitled "ralph of the roundhouse." ralph's father had been one of the pioneers who helped to build the great northern. when he died, however, it was found that the twenty thousand dollars' worth of stock in the road he was supposed to own had mysteriously disappeared. further, his home was mortgaged to old gasper farrington, a wealthy magnate of the village. this person seemed to have but one object in life; to drive the widow fairbanks and her son from stanley junction. ralph one day overheard farrington threaten to foreclose a mortgage, and the youth suddenly realized his responsibilities. leaving school, he secured a job in the roundhouse at stanley junction. here, notwithstanding the plots, hatred and malice of a worthless, good-for-nothing fellow named ike slump, whose place he took, ralph made fine progress. he saved the railroad shops from wholesale destruction, by assisting john griscom to run an engine into the flames and drive a car of powder out of the way. for this brave deed ralph secured the friendship of the master mechanic of the road and was promoted to the position of junior leverman. in the second volume of this series, entitled "ralph in the switch tower," another vivid phase of his ability and merit has been depicted. he rendered signal service in saving a special from disaster and prevented a treasure train from being looted by thieves. among the thieves was his old-time enemy, ike slump, and a crony of his named mort bemis. they had been hired by farrington to harass ralph in every way possible. ralph had searched for the motive to the old man's animosity. he learned that farrington had appropriated his father's railroad stock on an illegal technicality, and that the mortgage on their homestead had once been paid by mr. fairbanks. once knowing this, ralph undertook the task of proving it. it required some clever work to unmask the villainous miser, but ralph succeeded, and farrington, to escape facing disgrace, left the town, ostensibly for europe. in unmasking the old man ralph was assisted by one van sherwin, a poor boy whom he had befriended. van and a former partner of gasper farrington, named farwell gibson, had secured a charter to build a short line railroad near dover, in which project ralph was very much interested. as has been said, ralph had now been a fireman for two months, but heretofore employed in yard service only. "it's the chance of my life," he cried cheerily, as he piled in the coal, "and what a famous partner is dear, bluff, honest old john griscom!" "won't have me for a partner long, lad," replied the veteran engineer with a slight sigh, as he moved the lever. "why not, mr. griscom?" inquired ralph. "eyes giving out. had to drop the daylight express. i'm going down the ladder, you are going up the ladder. stick to your principles, lad, for they are good ones, as i well know, and you'll surely reach the top." "i hope so." said ralph. the locomotive gave a sharp signal whistle, and the slow freight started on its night run for dover. chapter ii the landslide "trouble ahead!" "what's that, fairbanks?" "and danger. quick! slow down, or we're in for a wreck." ralph fairbanks spoke with suddenness. as he did so he leaped past the engineer in a flash, clearing the open window space at the side. two minutes previous the old engineer had asked him to go out on the locomotive to adjust some fault in the air gauge. ralph had just attended to this when he made a startling discovery. in an instant he was in action and landed on the floor of the cab. he sprang to his own side of the engine, and leaning far out peered keenly ahead. they were now in a deep cut which ended a steep climb, and the engine had full steam on and was making fairly good speed. "my bad eyes--" began griscom, and then he quivered in every nerve, for a tremendous shock nearly sent him off his seat. "just in time," cried ralph, and then he held his breath. slowing down, the train had come to a crashing halt. the locomotive reared upon its forward wheels and then settled back on a slant, creaking at every joint. ralph had swung the air lever or there would have been a catastrophe. "what was it?" gasped griscom, clearing his old eyes and peering ahead, but ralph was gone. seizing a lantern, he had jumped to the ground and was at the front of the locomotive now. the engineer shut off all steam after sounding the danger signal, a series of several sharp whistles, and quickly joined his assistant. in front of the locomotive, obstructing the rails completely, was a great mass of dirt, gravel and rocks. "a landslide," spoke griscom, glancing up one steep side of the cut. "if we had struck that big rock full force," observed ralph, "it would have been a bad wreck." "you saved us just in time," cried the old engineer. "i've often wondered if some day there wouldn't be just such a drop as this of some of these overhanging cliffs. company ought to see to it. it's been a fierce rain all the evening, perhaps that loosened the mass." "hardly," said ralph thoughtfully, and then, inspecting a glazed piece of paper with some printing on it he had just picked up, he looked queerly at his companion. "give them the trouble signal in the caboose, please, mr. griscom," said the young fireman. "i think i had better get back there at once. have you a revolver?" "always carry one," responded griscom. "keep it handy, then." "eh!" cried the engineer with a stare. "what you getting at, lad?" "that is no landslide," replied ralph, pointing at the obstruction. "what is it then?" "train wreckers--or worse," declared ralph promptly. "there is no time to lose, mr. griscom," he continued in rapid tones. "of course, if not an accident, there was a purpose in it," muttered griscom, reaching into his tool box for a weapon, "but what makes you think it wasn't an accident?" ralph did not reply, for he was gone. springing across the coal heaped up in the tender, he climbed to the top of the first freight car and started on a swift run the length of the train. the young fireman was considerably excited. he would not have been a spirited, wide-awake boy had he been otherwise. the paper he had found among the debris of the obstruction on the rails had an ominous sentence across it, namely, "_handle with care, dynamite_." this, taken in connection with what had at first startled him, made ralph feel pretty sure that he had not missed his guess in attributing the landslide to some agency outside of nature. while adjusting the air gauge ralph had noticed a flare ahead, then a lantern light up the side of the embankment, and then, in the blaze of a wild flash of lightning, he had witnessed the descent of a great tearing, tossing mass, landing in the railroad cut. "it can mean only a hold-up," theorized ralph. "yes, i am quite right." he slowed down in his wild dash over the car tops, and proceeded with caution. down at the end of the train he saw lights that he knew did not belong to the train hands. ralph neared the caboose and then dropped flat to the top of the car he was on. peering past its edge, he made out a wagon, half-a-dozen men, and the train hands backed to the side of the cut and held captive there by two of the strangers, who menaced them with revolvers. then two others of the marauding gang took crowbars from the wagon, and one, carrying a lantern, proceeded along the side of the cars inspecting the freight cards. "they must know of some valuable goods on the train," reflected ralph. it was an ideal spot for a train robbery, between two stations, and no train was due for several hours. ralph was in a quandary as to his best course of procedure. for a moment he considered going for griscom and arming himself with a bar of rod. "it would be six to two and we would get the worst of it," he decided. "there is only one thing to do--get back to brocton. it's less than a mile. can i make it before these fellows get away with their plunder? good! a patent coupler." the boy fireman had crept to the end of the car next to the caboose. glancing down, he discovered that the couplings were operated by a lever bar. otherwise, he could never have forced up the coupling pin. the cars were on a sharp incline, in fact, one of the steepest on the road. ralph relied on simple gravity to escape the robbers and hasten for relief. "there's some one!" careful as ralph was, he was discovered. a voice rang out in warning. then with a quick, bold snap, ralph lifted the coupler and the pin shot out. he sprang to the forward platform of the caboose. as the car began to recede, he dashed through its open door. "just in time. whew!" ejaculated ralph, "those fellows are desperate men and doing this in true, wild western style." the caboose, once started, began a rapid backward rush. ralph feared that its momentum might carry the car from the track. a curve turned, and the lights of brocton were in sight. before the runaway caboose slowed down entirely it must have gone fully three-quarters of a mile. ralph jumped from the car, and ran down the tracks at his best speed. he was breathless as he reached the little depot. it was dark and deserted, but opposite it was the one business street of the town. ralph left the tracks finally and made a dash for the open entrance of the general store of the village. the usual crowd of loiterers was gathered there. "hello! what's this?" cried the proprietor, as the young fireman rushed wildly into the store. "fireman on the dover freight," explained ralph breathlessly. "what's the trouble--a wreck?" "no, a hold-up. men! get weapons, a handcar, if there is one here, and we may head off the robbers." it took some urging to get that slow crowd into action, but finally half-a-dozen men armed with shotguns were running down the tracks following ralph's lead. it was a steep climb and several fell behind, out of breath. one big fellow kept pace with ralph. "there they are," spoke the latter as they rounded a curve. lights showed in the near distance. a flash of lightning momentarily revealed a stirring scene. the robbers were removing packages from a car they had broken into, and these they were loading into their wagon at the side of the train. "hurry up, hurry up!" ralph's companion shouted back to his comrades. "now, then, for a dash, and we'll bag those rogues, plunder, rig and all." "wait," ordered ralph sharply. he was too late. the impetuous villager was greatly excited and he ran ahead and fired off his gun, two of the others following his example. ralph was very sorry for this, for almost instantly the robbers took the alarm and all lights near the caboose were extinguished. the echo of rapid orders reached the ears of the relief party. fairly upon the scene, a flash of lightning showed the wagon being driven rapidly up a road leading from the cut. "look out for yourselves," suggested ralph. "those men are armed." "so are we, now!" sharply sounded the voice of one of the men from brocton, and another flash of lightning showed the enemy still in view. "up the road after them!" came a second order. ralph ran up to the side of the caboose. "all safe?" he inquired anxiously. "all but one of us," responded the conductor. ralph lit a lantern, noticing one of the train hands lying on the ground motionless. "he's a fighter, tom is," said the conductor. "he resisted and grappled with one of the robbers, and another of them knocked him senseless." "what's this in his hand?" inquired ralph. "oh, i see--a cap. snatched it from the head of his assailant, i suppose. hark! they are shooting up there." shots rang out along the cut road. in a few minutes, however, the men from brocton reappeared in the cut. "no use wasting our lives recklessly," said one of them. "they have bullets, we only small shot. the wagon got away. we'll hurry back to brocton, get a regular posse armed with rifles, and search the country for the rascals." "what's the damage?" inquired ralph of the conductor, going to the side of the car that had been broken open. "pretty big, i should say," responded the conductor. "that car had a consignment of valuable silks from brown & banks, in the city, and they piled a fair load of it into their wagon. you have saved a wholesale plundering of the car." the men from brocton departed. ralph helped the train crew revive the poor fellow who had been knocked insensible. they carried him into the caboose, applied cold water to his head, and soon had him restored to consciousness. "fix the red lights," ordered the conductor to a brakeman, "and then hurry to brocton and have them telegraph the train dispatcher. what's the trouble ahead, fairbanks?" ralph explained. shovels and crowbars were brought from the caboose, and two of the train crew accompanied him back to the locomotive. ralph thought of the cap he had stuck in his pocket. he looked it over carefully in the light of the lantern he carried. on the leather band inside of the cap were two initials in red ink--"i. s." "ike slump," murmured ralph. an old-time enemy had appeared on the scene, and the young fireman of the great northern knew that he would have to keep a sharp lookout or there would be more trouble. chapter iii everybody's friend "stand back there, you fellows!" "scatter, boys--it's ralph fairbanks!" it was two days after the landslide near brocton. the young fireman had just left the roundhouse at stanley junction in a decidedly pleasant mood. his cheering thoughts were, however, rudely disturbed by a spectacle that at once appealed to his manly nature. ralph, making a short cut for home, had come across a farmer's wagon standing in an alley at the side of a cheap hotel. the place was a resort for dissolute, good-for-nothing railway employes, and one of its victims was now seated, or rather propped up, on the seat of the wagon in question. he was a big, loutish boy, and had apparently come into town with a load to deliver. the wagon was filled with bags of apples. around the vehicle was gathered a crowd of boys. each one of them had his pockets bulging with the fruit stolen from one of the bags in the wagon. standing near by, jim evans in their midst, was an idle crowd of railroad men, enjoying and commenting on the scene. the farmer's boy was seemingly asleep or unconscious. he had been set up on the seat by the mob, and one side of his face blackened up. apples stuck all over the harness of the horses and on every available part of the vehicle. a big board lying across the bags had chalked upon it, "take one." the crowd was just about to start this spectacle through the public streets of stanley junction when ralph appeared. the young fireman brushed them aside quickly, removed the adornments from the horses and wagon, sprang to the vehicle, threw the sign overboard, and, lifting up the unconscious driver, placed him out of view under the wagon seat. as he did so, ralph noticed the taint of liquor on the breath of the country lad. "too bad," he murmured to himself. "this doesn't look right--more like a piece of malice or mischief. stand back, there!" ralph took up the reins, and also seized the whip. many of the crowd he had known as school chums, and most of them drew back shamefacedly as he appeared. there were four or five regular young loafers, however, who led the mob. among them ralph recognized ted evans, a son of the fireman he had encountered at the roundhouse two days previous. with him was a fellow named hemp gaston, an old associate of mort bemis. "hold on, there!" sang out gaston, grabbing the bridles of the horses. "what you spoiling our fun for?" "yes," added ted evans, springing to the wagon step and seizing ralph's arm. "get off that wagon, or we'll pull you off." ralph swung the fellow free of the vehicle with a vigorous push. "see here, you interfere with my boy and i'll take a hand in this affair myself," growled jim evans, advancing from the crowd of men. "you'll whip me first, if you do," answered one of them. "this is a boys' squabble, jim evans, and don't you forget it." "humph! he struck my boy." "then let them fight it out." "yes," shouted young evans angrily, "come down here and show that you are no coward." "very well," said ralph promptly. "there's one for you!" ralph fairbanks had acted in a flash on an impulse. he had leaped from the wagon, dealt young evans one blow and sent him half-stunned to the ground. regaining the wagon he drove quickly into the street before his astonished enemies could act any further. "poor fellow," said ralph, looking at the lad in the wagon. "now, what am i ever going to do with him?" ralph reflected for a moment or two. then he started in the direction of home. he was sleepy and tired out, and he realized that the present episode might interfere with some of his plans for the day, but he was a whole-hearted, sympathetic boy and could not resist the promptings of his generous nature. the young fireman soon reached the pretty little cottage that was his home, so recently rescued from the sordid clutches of old gasper farrington. he halted the team in front of the place and entered the house at once. "here i am, mother," he said cheerily. mrs. fairbanks greeted him with a smile of glad welcome. "i was quite anxious about you when i heard of the wreck, ralph," she said with solicitude. he had not been home since that happening. "it was not a wreck, mother," corrected ralph. then he briefly recited the incidents of the hold-up. "it seems as though you were destined to meet with all kinds of danger in your railroad life," said the widow. "you were delayed considerably." "yes," answered ralph, "we had to remove the landslide debris. that took us six hours and threw us off our schedule, so we had to lay over at dover all day yesterday. one pleasant thing, though." "what is that, ralph?" "the master mechanic congratulated me this morning on what he called, 'saving the train.'" "which you certainly did, ralph. why, whose wagon is that in front of the house?" inquired mrs. fairbanks, observing the vehicle outside for the first time. ralph explained the circumstances of his rescue of the vehicle to his mother. "what are you going to do with the farmer's boy?" she inquired. "i want to bring him in the house until he recovers." "very well, i will make up a bed on the lounge for him," said the woman. "it is too bad, poor fellow! and shameful--the mischief of those men at the hotel." ralph carried the farmer's boy into the house. then he ate his breakfast. after the meal was finished, he glanced at his watch. "i shall have to lose a little sleep, mother," he said. "i am anxious to help the poor fellow out, and i think i see a way to do it." the young fireman had noticed a small blank book under the cushion of the wagon seat. he now inspected it for the first time. all of its written pages were crossed out except one. this contained a list of names of storekeepers in stanley junction. ralph drove to the store first named in the list. within two hours he had delivered all of the apples. it seemed that the storekeepers named in the account book ordered certain fruits and vegetables regularly from the owner of the team, the farmer himself coming to town to collect for the same twice each month. when ralph got back home he unhitched the horses, tied them up near the woodshed, and fed them from a bag of grain he found under the wagon seat. "what is this, i wonder?" he said, discovering a small flat parcel under the wagon seat. the package resembled a store purchase of some kind, so, for safe keeping, ralph placed it inside the shed. his mother had gone to visit a sick neighbor. the farmer boy was sleeping heavily. "wake me before the boy leaves," he wrote on a card, leaving this for his mother on the kitchen table. then, pretty well tired out, ralph went to bed. it was late in the afternoon when he awoke. he went down stairs and glanced into the sitting room. "why, mother," he exclaimed, "where is the farmer boy?" "he left two hours ago, ralph." "is that so? then why didn't you wake me up? i left a card for you on the kitchen table." "i did not find it," said the widow, and then a search revealed the card where the wind had blown it under the stove. "what did the boy say?" inquired ralph. "he told me his name was zeph dallas. i talked to him about his misfortunes of the morning, and he broke down and cried. then he went out to the wagon. he found an account book there, and said you must have delivered his load for him, and that he would never forget your kindness." "there was a package in the wagon," said ralph. "he spoke of that, and said some one must have stolen it." "you are sure he didn't find it later?" inquired ralph. "it was in the woodshed, where i placed it for safe keeping." ralph went out to the shed, and found the package where he had left it. he returned to the house with it, ate a hurried meal, and hastened down town. he learned that zeph had called at several stores. the farmer boy appeared to have discovered ralph's interest in his behalf, and had driven home. "i wonder what there is in the package?" mused ralph, when he again reached the cottage. "i had better open it and find out." the young fireman was quite startled as he untied the parcel and glanced at its contents. the package contained two bolts of silk, and the tags on them bore the name of the firm which, ralph had learned at dover, had shipped the goods stolen from the slow freight two nights previous. chapter iv an old-time enemy "new engine, lad?" "not at all, mr. griscom, as you well know," answered ralph. the veteran engineer chuckled, but he continued looking over the locomotive with admiring eyes. the young fireman had come to work early that afternoon. the roundhouse men were careless and he decided to show them what "elbow grease" and industry could do. in an hour he had the old freight locomotive looking indeed like a new engine. they steamed out of the roundhouse and were soon at the head of their freight train. "i wish i had a little time to spare," said ralph. "half-an-hour before we have to leave, you know, lad," said griscom. "what's troubling you?" "i wanted to see bob adair, the road detective." "about the silk robbery?" inquired the engineer with interest. "yes." "something new?" "considerable, i think." "you might find him in the depot offices. run down and see. i'll attend to things here." "thanks, mr. griscom." ralph hurried away from the freight train. he wished to report about the discovery of the silk, and hunt up zeph dallas at once. "i hardly believe the farmer boy a thief," mused ralph, "but he must explain his possession of that silk." the young fireman did not find adair at the depot, and came back to the engine to discover jim evans lounging in the cab. "been helping griscom out," grinned the man. "well, get out, now," growled griscom. "time to start up. there's the signal from the conductor. that man has been hanging around the engine ever since you left," the old engineer continued to ralph, "and he is too good-natured to suit me." "nothing out of order," reported the youth, looking about the cab. "now, lad, for a run on time," said griscom. "this run has been late a good deal, and i don't want to get a bad name. when i ran the daylight express it was my pride and boast that we were always on time to the minute." they made good time out of stanley junction to afton. ten miles beyond, however, there was a jolt, a slide and difficult progress on a bit of upgrade rails. so serious was the difficulty that griscom stopped the train and got out to investigate. he returned to the cab with a set, grim face. "grease," he reported; "some one has been tampering with the rails. spite work, too." there was fully an hour's delay, but a liberal application of sand to the rails helped them out. five miles later on the locomotive began to puff and jerk. with full steam on, the engine did only half duty. "water gauge all right," said ralph. "i don't understand it." "i do," said griscom, "and i can tell it in two words--jim evans." "why, what do you mean, mr. griscom?" "he didn't come into the cab for nothing. yes, we are victims of the old trick--soap in the water and the valves are clogged." "what are we going to do about it?" inquired ralph anxiously. "pump out the water at the next tank and take a new supply on." there was a further delay of nearly two hours. once more they started up. ten miles from dover, a few seconds after ralph had thrown in coal, a terrible explosion threw the fire cover open and singed and burned both engineer and fireman. griscom looked angry, for the fire now needed mending. "lad," he said grimly, "these tricks are done to scare you and delay the train." "i am not scared one particle," retorted ralph, "only this strikes me as a dangerous piece of mischief--putting explosives in among the coal." "jim evans did it," positively asserted griscom. "that's what he sneaked into the cab for, and he has confederates along the line." ralph said nothing but he resolved to call evans to account when he returned to stanley junction. they were over an hour late on the run. returning to stanley junction, they were delayed by a wreck and the time record was bad at both ends of the line. "i don't like it," said griscom. "we'll mend it, mr. griscom," declared the young fireman, and he did not go home when they reached stanley junction, but proceeded at once to the home of jim evans. ralph knocked at the open door, but no one answered the summons and he stepped to the door of the sitting room. "any one here?" he called out through the house. "eh? oh--no," answered a muffled voice, and a man in the adjoining room got up quickly and fairly ran out through the rear door. "that's queer," commented ralph. "that man actually ran away from me." "ma has gone after pa," lisped a little urchin in the kitchen. "man wants to see him. what for funny man run away?" ralph hurried past the infantile questioner and after the object of his curiosity. "yes, the man did look funny, for a fact," said ralph. "he was disguised. there he is. hey, there! whoever you are, a word with you." he was now in close pursuit of a scurrying figure. the object of his curiosity turned to look at him, stumbled, and went headlong into a ditch. ralph came to the spot. the man lay groaning where he had fallen. "help me," he muttered--"i'm nearly stunned." "why!" exclaimed ralph as he assisted the man to his feet, "it is gasper farrington." it was the village magnate, disguised. he stood regarding ralph with savage eyes. "i thought you had gone to europe, mr. farrington," said ralph. "did you? well, i haven't," growled farrington, nursing a bruise on his face. "are you going to stay in stanley junction, then?" "none of your business." "oh, yes, it is," retorted ralph quickly. "you owe us thousands of dollars, and we want it." "you'll collect by law, then. i'll never give you a cent willingly." ralph regarded the man thoughtfully for a minute or two. "mr. farrington," he said, "i have come to the conclusion that you are trying to make me more trouble. this man evans is up to mischief, and i believe that you have incited him to it." the magnate was silent, regarding ralph with menacing eyes. "i warn you that it won't pay, and that you won't succeed," continued ralph. "what do you hope to accomplish by persecuting me?" the old man glanced all about him. then he spoke out. "fairbanks," he said, "i give you one last chance--get out of stanley junction." "why should i?" demanded ralph. "because you have humiliated me and we can't live in the same town together, that's why." "you deserved humiliation," responded ralph steadily. "all right, take your own view of the case. i will settle your claim for five thousand dollars and pay you the money at once, if you will leave stanley junction." "we will not take one cent less than the full twenty thousand dollars due us," announced ralph staunchly, "and i shall not leave stanley junction as long as my mother wants to live here." "then," said gasper farrington, venomously, as he walked from the spot, "look out for yourself." ralph went back to the evans home, but found only the little child there. he concluded he would not wait for evans that evening. the discovery of his old-time enemy, farrington, had been enlightening. "i will have a talk with mother about this," he mused. when ralph reached home a surprise greeted him. the little parlor was lighted up, indicating a visitor. he glanced in through the open windows. the visitor was zeph dallas, the farmer boy. chapter v on special duty ralph entered the house glad of an opportunity to interview the farmer boy, who had been in his thoughts considerably during the day. "mr. dallas, this is my son, ralph," said mrs. fairbanks, as the young fireman came into the parlor. the visitor arose from his chair in an awkward, embarrassed fashion. he flushed and stammered as he grasped ralph's extended hand. "brought you a sack of potatoes and some apples," he said. "neighbor gave me a lift in his wagon." "is that so?" returned ralph with a friendly smile. "well, mr. dallas, i am very glad to see you." "gladder than you were last time, i reckon," said zeph. "say, i--i want to say i am ashamed of myself, and i want to thank you for all you did for me. it's made me your friend for life, so i came to ask a favor of you." this was rather a queer way of putting the case, thought ralph, and the fellow blundered on. "you see, mr. ames, that's the man who hired me, found out about my doings down here at stanley junction, and he has set me adrift." "that is too bad," observed ralph. "no, it ain't, for i deserve better work," dissented zeph. "they say you're dreadfully smart and everybody's friend, and i want you to help me get where i want to get." "all right, i am willing to try to assist you." "i don't know exactly which i had better do," proceeded zeph--"become a chief of police or a railroad conductor. of course, the man who speaks quickest and will pay the most money gets me." ralph concealed a smile, for zeph was entirely in earnest. "well, you see," remarked the young fireman, "it is somewhat difficult to get just the position you want without some experience." "oh, that's all right," declared the farmer boy confidently. "i've thought it all out. i once watched a conductor go through a train. why, it's no work at all. i could do it easily. and as to being a detective i've read lots of books on the subject, and i've even got some disguises i made up, in my satchel here." "oh, brought your satchel, too, did you?" observed ralph. "why, yes, i thought maybe you'd house me for a day or two till i closed a contract with somebody." the fellow was so simple-minded that mrs. fairbanks pitied him, and, observing this, ralph said: "you are welcome, zeph, and i will later talk over with you the prospects of a situation." the visitor was soon completely at home. he ate a hearty supper, and, after the meal, took some home-made disguises from his satchel. the poor fellow strutted around proudly as he put these on in turn. "old peddler," he announced, donning a skull cap, a white beard made out of rope, and a big pair of goggles. "tramp," and he put on a ragged coat and a torn cap, and acted out the appearance of a typical tramp quite naturally. there were several other representations, but all so crude and funny that ralph with difficulty restrained his merriment. "how will it do?" inquired zeph, at the conclusion of the performance. "you have got the elements of the profession in mind," said ralph guardedly, "but there is the practical end of the business to learn." then ralph seriously and earnestly told his visitor the real facts of the case. he devoted a full hour to correcting zeph's wrong impressions of detective and railroad work. by the time he got through, zeph's face was glum. "why, if what you say is true," he remarked dejectedly, "i'm next to being good for nothing." "oh, no," said ralph, "don't you be discouraged at all. you have the starting point of every ambition--an idea. i myself do not think much of the detective line for one as young as you are. as to railroading, i can tell you one fact." "what's that?" interrogated zeph dreamily. "you must begin at the bottom of the ladder and take one step at a time--slow steps, sure steps, to reach the top." "you're a fireman, aren't you?" asked zeph, admiringly. ralph answered that he was, and this led to his relating to the curious and interested zeph the story of his career from roundhouse worker and switch tower man to the present position. "it's fascinating, ain't it?" said zeph, with a long-drawn breath, when ralph concluded his recital. "i reckon i'll give up the detective idea. can you help me get a position in the roundhouse?" "i am willing to try," assented ralph. "you are strong and used to hard work, and that means a good deal in the roundhouse service." ralph suggested a stroll before bedtime. zeph was glad for the exercise. once they were outside, ralph broached a subject he had been thinking over all the evening. "zeph," he said, "i want to ask you a very important question." "what is that?" "you remember the day i kept your team for you?" "i'll never forget it." "you missed a package that had been under the feed bags when you came to leave town?" "yes, and that's why i am here," said zeph. "old ames was almost ready to discharge me for letting those men at the hotel give me drink i had never tasted before and getting in that fix you found me in, and for losing some of the apples, but when he found out that i had lost that package, he was nearly wild." "was there something so valuable in it, then?" "i dunno. i only know i was told to be sure i kept it hidden and safe till it was delivered to a fellow named evans in town here." "jim evans?" "yes, that's the full name." ralph looked pretty serious. "you see, old ames himself didn't send the package," went on zeph. "it was brought to the house by a fellow who had hired a team from ames one day last week. dunno who he is, dunno where he lives, but i can describe him, if you are interested." "i am interested, very much so," assented ralph. zeph went on to describe the person he had alluded to. by the time he had concluded, it was evident to ralph that the sender of the package was ike slump. the young fireman took zeph back to the house but did not enter it himself. "i will be back soon, zeph," he said, "i have some business down town." ralph went at once to the home of bob adair. "want to see me, fairbanks?" questioned the brisk, wide-awake railroad detective, as ralph was shown into the room where he was busily engaged in packing a satchel. "yes, mr. adair, about the silk robbery." "oh, that mystery," nodded the detective. "i spent two days on it, and didn't find a clew." "i had one, but failed to find you," explained ralph. "i'll tell you all about it now." "quick work, then, fairbanks," went on adair, "for i'm due for a special to the city. big case from the general superintendent." ralph rapidly related all he had learned. adair listened intently. he reflected for a moment or two after the young fireman had finished his recital. then he said: "fairbanks, this is of great importance, but i can't neglect the city case. you helped me on another similar case once." "yes," said ralph. "also aided me in running down those switch tower wreckers." ralph nodded. "good work, and you did nobly in those affairs. let me think. yes, i'll do it! here, i want you to go straight to the assistant superintendent at afton." "you mean to-night?" "right away. i will give you a letter. no, hold on, i've got a better plan." again adair consulted his watch. bustlingly he hurried through with his preparations for departure. then he left the house, swung down the street briskly, and, ralph accompanying him, proceeded to the railroad depot. he wrote out a long telegram and handed it to the night operator. then he came back to ralph. "see here, fairbanks," he remarked. "i've fixed this thing as i want it, and you are one of the few persons i would trust in a matter like this." "thank you for the compliment, mr. adair." "i know your ability from past experience. it won't do to neglect following this clew to the silk robbers. i have wired the assistant superintendent for an official request that you be detailed on special duty in my department. wait here for the reply. then start out on the trail of those thieves, and report to me day after to-morrow, when i shall return to stanley junction." "all right," said ralph, "i may be able to accomplish something." "i think you will, judging from your present success in assisting me," said adair. ralph had to wait nearly an hour after adair had left on a special. then a reply came to the telegram. the operator, as instructed by adair, handed the message to ralph. it read: * * * * * "fairbanks, freight fireman, detailed for special work in another department." * * * * * "it's all right," said ralph to himself, as he started homewards. "now to trace down ike slump and the other train robbers." chapter vi zeph the young fireman reported at the roundhouse early in the morning, showing the telegram to jim forgan, but not until the foreman had got out of sight and hearing of the other men in the place. "h'm!" commented forgan laconically, "i don't like this." "indeed, mr. forgan?" smiled ralph. "i don't, and that's the truth of it--for two reasons." "what are they, mr. forgan?" "first, it interrupts a regular run for you." "but i may not be away two days." "next, it gives that jim evans a chance to take your place, and i don't trust the man." "neither do i," said ralph pointedly, "and i may have something important to tell you about him when i return." ralph found zeph industriously chopping kindling wood when he got back home again. the young fireman went into the house, explained his new employment to his mother, and then called to zeph. "you wanted some work, zeph," he said to the farmer boy. "sure, i do," cried zeph with unction. "very well, i think i am authorized to offer you a dollar a day." "steady job?" inquired zeph eagerly. "no, it may not last, but it is in the railroad service, and may lead to your further employment." "good," commented zeph. "what do they want me to do--engineer?" "scarcely, zeph," said ralph, smiling. "i simply want you to take me back to the ames farm and direct me about the locality." zeph looked disappointed. "why, what's that kind of work got to do with railroading?" he said. "you shall know later." "all right. you're too smart to make any mistakes and too friendly to do anything but good for me, so i'm your man." "very well. first, then, tell me the location of the ames farm." zeph did this, and ralph ascertained that it was about five miles west of brocton. ralph secured some money, and in an hour he and zeph stepped aboard the cab of a locomotive attached to a load of empties due to run down the line in a few minutes. they reached brocton about noon. ralph proceeded down the tracks towards the railroad cut which had been the scene of the landslide. he turned off at the wagon road and soon, with his companion, was started westward in the direction of the ames farm. "zeph," he said, "did you hear anything of a train robbery here the other night?" no, zeph had not heard of it. then ralph questioned him closely as to the night ames had loaned his wagon to strangers and gained a few more particulars relating to the silk robbers. "there is the ames farm," reported zeph at last. ralph had already planned out what he would do, and proceeded to instruct his assistant as to his share in the affair. "zeph," he said, "i do not wish to be seen by ames, nor must he know that you came here with a stranger." "am i to see him?" "yes," answered ralph, taking a package from under his coat. "why, that's the package i lost!" cried zeph. "the same." "and you had it all the time?" "i did, zeph, yes. no mystery about it--i simply don't care to explain to you anything about it till a little later on." "all right." "i want you to take it and go up to the farmhouse. i will keep out of sight. you go to ames and tell him it was returned to you, and you want to give it back to the person it belongs to with a message." "whose message?" "nobody's," answered ralph, "but you need not say that." "what shall i say, then?" "tell him you want to advise the person who sent the parcel that it isn't safe to send such goods to any one at the present time." "very well," said zeph. "suppose ames tells me where to find the fellow who sent the package?" "come back and report to me." zeph started for the farmhouse. ralph watched him enter it, the package in his hand. he came out in a very few minutes without the parcel. he was rather glum-faced when he rejoined ralph. "say," he observed, "i've found out nothing, and old ames took the package away from me." "what did he say?" asked the young fireman. "he told me he would see that it was returned to the person who sent it." "that delays matters," thought ralph, "and i don't know whether ames will take it back to the silk thieves, or wait for some of them to visit him." then the young fireman formed a sudden resolution. he regarded his companion thoughtfully, and said: "zeph, i am going to trust you with what is known as an official secret in the railroad line." the farmer boy looked pleased and interested. "i believe you are too square and friendly to betray that secret." "try me, and see!" cried zeph with ardor. "well," said ralph, "there was a silk robbery of the dover night freight last week, the train i am fireman on. from what you have told me, i feel sure that the thieves hired their rig from ames. that package you had was part of the stolen plunder. i am acting for the road detective of the great northern, and i must locate those robbers." "then," cried zeph delightedly, "i am helping you do detective work." "yes, zeph, genuine detective work." "oh! how i wish i had my disguises here!" "you are of more use to me as you are, because the thieves know you worked for ames, and they seem to trust him." "that's so," said zeph thoughtfully. "what you going to do?" "i want to locate the thieves," responded ralph. "you must know the district about here pretty well. can't you think of any spot where they would be likely to hide?" "none in particular. but i know every foot of the woods, swamps and creek. if the men you are looking for are anywhere in the neighborhood, i am sure we will find a trace of them." "you pilot the way, then, zeph. go with caution if you find any traces of the men, for i am sure that at least two of the party know me." for three hours they made a tour of the district, taking in nearly four miles to the south. the swamp lands they could not traverse. finally they came out of the woods almost directly on a town. "why," said ralph in some surprise, "here is millville, the next station to brocton." "that's so," nodded zeph. "i hardly think those fellows are in the woods. we have made a pretty thorough search." "there's the swamp and the high cliffs we haven't visited," said ralph. "i suppose you are hungry?" "moderately," answered zeph. "then we will go and have something to eat. i have a friend just on the edge of millville, who keeps a very unique restaurant." ralph smiled pleasantly, for the restaurant in question was quite a feature with railroad men. two lines of railroad crossed at millville, a great deal of switching was done outside of the town, and there was a shanty there to shelter the men. a little off from the junction was a very queer-looking house, if it could be called such. its main structure was an old freight car, to which there had been additions made from time to time. across its front was a sign reading, "limpy joe's railroad restaurant." "ever taken a meal here?" inquired ralph, as they approached the place. "no." "ever heard of limpy joe?" "don't think i have." "then," said ralph, "i am going to introduce you to the most interesting boy you ever met." chapter vii limpy joe's railroad restaurant zeph dallas stared about him in profound bewilderment and interest as ralph led the way towards limpy joe's railroad restaurant. it was certainly an odd-appearing place. additions had been built onto the freight car until the same were longer than the original structure. a square of about two hundred feet was enclosed by a barbed wire fence, and this space was quite as interesting as the restaurant building. there was a rude shack, which seemed to answer for a barn, a haystack beside it, and a well-appearing vegetable garden. then, in one corner of the yard, was a heap of old lumber, stone, brick, doors, window sash, in fact, it looked as if some one had been gathering all the unmated parts of various houses he could find. the restaurant was neatly painted a regular, dark-red freight-car color outside. into it many windows had been cut, and a glance through the open doorway showed an interior scrupulously neat and clean. "tell me about it," said zeph. "limpy joe--who is he? does he run the place alone?" "yes," answered ralph. "he is an orphan, and was hurt by the cars a few years ago. the railroad settled with him for two hundred dollars, an old freight car and a free pass for life over the road, including, limpy joe stipulated, locomotives and cabooses." "wish i had that," said zeph--"i'd be riding all the time." "you would soon get tired of it," ralph asserted. "well, joe invested part of his money in a horse and wagon, located in that old freight car, which the company moved here for him from a wreck in the creek, and became a squatter on that little patch of ground. then the restaurant idea came along, and the railroad hands encouraged him. before that, however, joe had driven all over the country, picking up old lumber and the like, and the result is the place as you see it." "well, he must be an ambitious, industrious fellow." "he is," affirmed ralph, "and everybody likes him. he's ready at any time of the night to get up and give a tired-out railroad hand a hot cup of coffee or a lunch. his meals are famous, too, for he is a fine cook." "hello, ralph fairbanks," piped a happy little voice as ralph and zeph entered the restaurant. ralph shook hands with the speaker, a boy hobbling about the place on a crutch. "what's it going to be?" asked limpy joe, "full dinner or a lunch?" "both, best you've got," smiled ralph. "the railroad is paying for this." "that so? then we'll reduce the rates. railroad has been too good to me to overcharge the company." "this is my friend, zeph dallas," introduced ralph. "glad to know you," said joe. "sit down at the counter, fellows, and i'll soon have you served." "well, well," said zeph, staring around the place one way, then the other, and then repeating the performance. "this strikes me." "interesting to you, is it?" asked ralph. "it's wonderful. fixed this up all alone out of odds and ends? i tell you, i'd like to be a partner in a business like this." "want a partner here, joe?" called out ralph to his friend in a jocular way. "i want a helper," answered the cripple, busy among the shining cooking ware on a kitchen stove at one end of the restaurant. "mean that?" asked zeph. "i do. i have some new plans i want to carry out, and i need some one to attend to the place half of the time." again zeph glanced all about the place. "say, it fascinates me," he observed to ralph. "upon my word, i believe i'll come to work here when i get through with this work for you." "tell you what," said limpy joe with a shrewd glance at zeph, as he placed the smoking dishes before his customers. "i'll make it worth the while of an honest, active fellow to come in here with me. i have some grand ideas." "you had some good ones when you fitted up the place," declared zeph. "you think it over. i like your looks," continued joe. "i'm in earnest, and i might make it a partnership after a while." the boys ate a hearty meal, and the young fireman paid for it. "business good, joe?" he inquired, as they were about to leave. "famous. i've got some new customers, too. don't know who they are." "what's that?" "i don't, for a fact." "that sounds puzzling," observed ralph. "well, it's considerable of a puzzle to me--all except the double pay i get," responded joe. "for nearly a week i've had a funny order. one dark night some one pushed up a window here and threw in a card. it contained instructions and a ten-dollar bill." "that's pretty mysterious," said the interested zeph. "the card told me that if i wanted to continue a good trade, i would say nothing about it, but every night at dark drive to a certain point in the timber yonder with a basket containing a good solid day's feed for half-a-dozen men." "well, well," murmured zeph, while ralph gave quite a start, but remained silent, though strictly attentive. "well, i have acted on orders given, and haven't said a word about it to anybody but you, ralph. the reason i tell you is, because i think you are interested in some of the persons who are buying meals from me in this strange way. it's all right for me to speak out before your friend here?" "oh, certainly," assented ralph. "well, ike slump is one of the party in the woods, and mort bemis is another." "i guessed that the moment you began your story," said ralph, "and i am looking for those very persons." "i thought you would be interested. they are wanted for that attempted treasure-train robbery, aren't they?" "yes, and for a more recent occurrence," answered ralph--"the looting of the dover freight the other night." "i never thought of that, though i should have done so," said joe. "the way i know that slump and bemis are in the woods yonder, is that one night i had a breakdown, and was delayed a little, and saw them come for the food basket where i had left it." ralph's mind was soon made up. he told joe all about their plans. "you've got to help us out, joe," he added. "you mean take you up into the woods in the wagon to-night?" "yes." "say," said joe, his shrewd eyes sparkling with excitement, "i'll do it in fine style. ask no questions. i've got a plan. i'll have another breakdown, not a sham one, this time. i'll have you two well covered up in the wagon box, and you can lie there until some one comes after the basket." "good," approved ralph, "you are a genuine friend, joe." ralph and zeph had to wait around the restaurant all the afternoon. there was only an occasional customer, and joe had plenty of time to spare. he took a rare delight in showing his friends his treasures, as he called them. about dusk joe got the food supply ready for the party in the woods. he hitched up the horse to a wagon, arranged some blankets and hay in the bottom of the vehicle, so that his friends could hide themselves, and soon all was ready for the drive into the timber. ralph managed to look out as they proceeded into the woods. the wagon was driven about a mile. then joe got out and set the basket under a tree. a little distance from it he got out again, took off a wheel, left it lying on the ground, unhitched the horse, and rode away on the back of the animal. the vehicle, to a casual observer, would suggest the appearance of a genuine breakdown. "now, zeph," said ralph as both arranged their coverings so they could view tree and basket clearly, "no rash moves." "if anybody comes, what then?" inquired the farmer boy. "we shall follow them, but with great caution. keep close to me, so that i can give you special instructions, if it becomes necessary." "good," said zeph. "that will be soon, for there they are!" two figures had appeared at the tree. one took up the basket, the other glanced around stealthily. ralph recognized both of them, even in the dim twilight, at some distance away. one was ike slump, the other his old-time crony and accomplice, mort bemis. chapter viii the hidden plunder "that's the fellow who brought the package of silk to old ames," whispered zeph, staring hard from under covert at slump. "yes, i recognize him," responded ralph in quite as guarded a tone. "quiet, now, zeph." ike slump and mort bemis continued to linger at the tree. they were looking at the wagon and beyond it. "say," spoke the former to his companion, "what's wrong?" "how wrong?" inquired mort. "why, some way our plans appear to have slipped a cog. there's the wagon broken down and the boy has gone with the horse. two of our men were to stop him, you know, and keep him here while we used the wagon." "maybe they're behind time. what's the matter with our holding the boy till they come?" "the very thing," responded ike, and, leaving the basket where it was, he and mort ran after limpy joe and the horse. "get out of here, quick," ordered ralph to zeph. "if we don't, we shall probably be carried into the camp of the enemy." "isn't that just exactly the place that you want to reach?" inquired the farmer boy coolly. "not in this way. out with you, and into the bushes. don't delay, zeph, drop flat, some one else is coming." it was a wonder they were not discovered, for almost immediately two men came running towards the spot. they were doubtless the persons ike slump had referred to, for they gave a series of signal whistles, responded to by their youthful accomplices, who, a minute later, came into view leading the horse of which limpy joe was astride. "we were late," panted one of the men. "should think you were," retorted ike slump. "this boy nearly got away. say, if you wasn't a cripple," he continued to the young restaurant keeper, "i'd give you something for whacking me with that crutch of yours." "i'd whack you again, if it would do any good," said the plucky fellow. "you're a nice crowd, you are, bothering me this way after i've probably saved you from starvation the last week." "that's all right, sonny," drawled out one of the men. "we paid you for what you've done for us, and we will pay you still better for simply coming to our camp and staying there a prisoner, until we use that rig of yours for a few hours." "if you wanted to borrow the rig, why didn't you do so in a decent fashion?" demanded joe indignantly. "you keep quiet, now," advised the man who carried on the conversation. "we know our business. here, slump, you and mort help get this wheel on the wagon and hitch up the horse." they forced joe into the wagon bottom and proceeded to get ready for a drive into the woods. "bet joe is wondering how we came to get out of that wagon," observed zeph to ralph. "don't talk," said ralph. "now, when they start away, i will follow, you remain here." "right here?" "yes, so that i may find you when i come back, and so that you can follow the wagon when it comes out of the woods again if i am not on hand." "you think they are going to move some of their plunder in the wagon?" "exactly," replied the young fireman. "well, so do i. they won't get far with it, though, if i am after them," boasted zeph. "wish i had a detective star and some weapons." "the safest way to do is to follow them until they get near a town or settlement, and then go for assistance and arrest them," advised ralph. "now, then, zeph, make no false moves." "no, i will follow your orders strictly," pledged the farmer boy. the basket was lifted into the wagon by ike, who, with mort, led the horse through the intricate timber and brushwood. progress was difficult and they proceeded slowly. as soon as it was safe to do so, ralph left zeph. the two men had taken up the trail of the wagon, guarding its rear so that joe could not escape. ralph kept sight of them for half-an-hour and was led deeper and deeper into the woods. these lined the railroad cut, and he wondered that the gang of robbers had dared to camp so near to the recent scene of their thieving operations. at last the young fireman was following only two men, for he could no longer see the wagon. "perhaps they have left ike and bemis to go ahead with the wagon and they are reaching the camp by a short cut," reflected ralph. "why, no," he suddenly exclaimed, as the men turned aside to take a new path. "these are not the same men at all who were with the wagon. i am off the trail, i am following some one else." ralph made this discovery with some surprise. certainly he had got mixed up in cautiously trailing the enemy at a distance. he wondered if the two men he was now following belonged to ike slump's crowd. "i must assume they do," ruminated ralph, "at least for the present. they are bound for some point in the woods, of course, and i shall soon know their destination." the two men proceeded for over a mile. they commenced an ascent where the cliffs lining the railroad cut began. the place was thick with underbrush and quite rocky in places, wild and desolate in the extreme, and the path they pursued so tortuous and winding that ralph at length lost sight of them. "where have they disappeared to?" he asked himself, bending his ear, keeping a sharp lookout, and with difficulty penetrating the worst jungle of bushes and stunted trees he had yet encountered. "i hear voices." these guided ralph, and he followed their indication. at last he came to a halt near an open space, where the men he was following had stopped. "here we are, ames," were the first distinct words that ralph heard spoken. "why, one of these men must be the farmer that zeph worked for," decided ralph. "all right, you're safe enough up here. got the plunder here, have you?" was asked. "yes. i will show you the exact spot, and you come here after we have got the bulk of the stuff to a new hiding place, take it as you can, dispose of it, and keep us in ready money until we feel safe to ship our goods to some distant city and realize on them." "i'll do just that," was replied. "what are you leaving here for?" "adair, the road detective, is after us, we understand, and this is too dangerously near the railroad." "that's so," replied the person ralph supposed to be ames. "all right, i'll not miss on my end of the case. only, don't send any more packages of the silk to friends. the one slump sent might have got you into trouble." "i never knew he did it at the time," was responded. "i raised a big row when i found out. you see, evans, the man he sent it to, is in with us in a way, and is a particular friend of ike slump, but it was a big risk to send him goods that might be traced right back to us. safe hiding place, eh?" the speaker had proceeded to some bushes guarding the entrance to a cave-like depression in the dirt, gravel and rocks. he re-appeared with some packages for his companion. then both went away from the spot. "why," said ralph, with considerable satisfaction, "this is the hiding place of the plunder. i am in possession, and what am i going to do about it?" the discovery had come about so easily that the young fireman could scarcely plan out a next intelligent move all in a moment. "ames is an accomplice of the thieves," he decided, "who are going to use joe's wagon to remove the bulk of this plunder. they will soon be here. what had i better do--what can i do?" ralph went in among the bushes as the men had done. he took a glance at a great heap of packages lying in a depression in the rocks. then he advanced a few steps towards the edge of the cliff. ralph looked down fully two hundred feet into the railroad cut. this was almost the spot where the landslide had stopped the dover night freight. the main tracks were clear now, but on a gravel pit siding were several cars. "why," exclaimed ralph suddenly, "if i only have the time to do it in, i have got the whole affair right in my own hands." a plan to deprive the railroad thieves of their booty had come into the mind of the young fireman. ralph filled his arms with the packages of silk, advanced to the edge of the cliff, threw them over, and continued his operation until he had removed the last parcel from its hiding place. "something more to do yet," he told himself, when this task was completed. "when the thieves discover that their plunder is gone, they may surmise that it disappeared this way. can i make a safe descent?" ralph had a hard time getting down into the railroad cut. once there, he hastily threw the silk packages into a half-filled gravel car, with a shovel covered them all over with sand and gravel, and then started on a run for brocton. chapter ix a suspicious proceeding "mr. griscom, this is life!" ralph fairbanks spoke with all the ardor of a lively, ambitious boy in love with the work in hand. he sat in the cab of the locomotive that drew the limited mail, and he almost felt as if he owned the splendid engine, the finest in the service of the great northern. two weeks had passed by since the young fireman had baffled the railroad thieves. ralph had made brief work of his special duty for adair, the road detective, and there had come to him a reward for doing his duty that was beyond his fondest expectations. this was a promotion that most beginners in his line would not have earned in any such brief space of time. the recovery of the stolen silk, however, had made bob adair a better friend than ever. the road detective had influence, and ralph was promoted to the proud position of fireman of the limited mail. this was his first trip in the passenger service, and naturally ralph was anxious and excited. griscom had been made engineer, his eyes having mended, and ralph was very glad that the veteran railroader would continue as his partner. regarding the silk robbery, that was now ancient history, but for several days the occurrence had been one of interest all along the line. adair had made public the circumstances of the case, and ralph became quite a hero. the night he had managed to get the plunder into the gravel car he had instantly secured assistance at brocton. the valuable goods were guarded all night, and a party of men made a search for the thieves, but they had taken the alarm and had escaped. zeph dallas had gone back to millville with limpy joe, and went to work there. a further search was made for ike slump, mort bemis and their accomplices, but they could not be found. jim evans had been discharged from the railroad service. nothing more was heard of gasper farrington, and it seemed to ralph as if at last his enemies had been fully routed and there was nothing but a clear track ahead. "it feels as if i was beginning life all over again," ralph had told his mother that morning. "fireman of the limited mail--just think of it, mother! one of the best positions on the road." ralph decided that the position demanded very honorable treatment, and he looked neat and quite dressed up, even in his working clothes, as he now sat in the engine cab. griscom proceeded to give him lots of suggestions and information regarding his new duties. there had been a change in the old time schedule of the limited mail. originally it had started from the city terminus in the early morning. now the run was reversed, and the train left stanley junction at : a.m. ralph proceeded to get everything in order for the prospective run, but everything was so handy, it was a pleasure to contemplate his duties. just before train time a boy came running up to the engine. he was an old schoolmate and a neighbor. "ralph! ralph!" he called breathlessly to the young fireman. "your mother sent me with a letter that she got at the post-office." "for me? thank you, ned," said ralph. he glanced at the address. the handwriting was unfamiliar. there was no time left to inspect the enclosure, so ralph slipped the letter in his pocket and proceeded to attend to the fire. he quite forgot the letter after that, finding the duties of a first-class fireman to be extremely arduous. there was plenty of coal to shovel, and he was pretty well tired out when they reached the city terminus. "there, lad," said griscom proudly, as they steamed into the depot on time to a second. "this makes me feel like old times once more." there was a wait of four hours in the city, during which period the train hands were at liberty to spend their time as they chose. griscom took ralph to a neat little hotel, where they had a meal and the privileges of a reading room. it was there that ralph suddenly remembered the letter sent to him that morning by his mother. as he opened it he was somewhat puzzled, for the signature was strange to him. the missive stated that the writer "was acting for a former resident of stanley junction who wished to settle up certain obligations, if a satisfactory arrangement could be made." further the writer, as agent of the party in question, would meet ralph at a certain hotel at a certain time and impart to him his instructions. the young fireman was about to consult griscom as to this mysterious missive, but found the old engineer engaged in conversation with some fellow railroaders, and, leaving the place, he proceeded to the hotel named in the letter. he was an hour ahead of the time appointed in the communication and waited patiently for developments, thinking a good deal and wondering what would come of the affair. finally a man came into the place, acting as if he was looking for somebody. he was an under-sized person with a mean and crafty face. he glanced at ralph, hesitated somewhat, and then advanced towards him. "is your name fairbanks?" he questioned. "yes," answered ralph promptly. "wrote you a letter." "i received one, yes," said ralph. "may i ask its meaning?" "well, there is nothing gained by beating about the bush. i represent, as an attorney, mr. gasper farrington." "i thought that when i read your letter," said ralph. "then we understand each other," pursued the attorney. "now then, see here, farrington wants to do the square thing by you." "he ought to," answered ralph. "he owes us twenty thousand dollars and he has got to pay it." "oh, yes, you can undoubtedly collect it in time," admitted the man. "but why all this mystery?" asked ralph abruptly. "in an important matter like this, it appears to me some regular attorney might consult our attorneys at stanley junction." "farrington won't do that. he don't feel the kindest in the world towards your people. here is his simple proposition: this affair is to be settled up quietly between the parties directly interested. i am to give you certain papers for your mother to sign. you get them attended to. you will be later advised where and when to deliver them and get your money." "twenty thousand dollars?" said ralph. "yes." ralph did not like the looks of things, but he kept his own counsel, and simply said: "very well, give me the documents you speak of and i will act upon them as my mother decides." "and keep the business strictly to yourselves." this looked reasonable to ralph. he knew that farrington felt deeply the disgrace already attached to his name for past misdeeds of which he had been guilty. "we have no desire to humiliate mr. farrington any further," he said. "we simply insist upon our rights. this strikes me as a mysterious and uncalled-for method of settling up a claim purely business-like in its character." "that is the way of old farrington, you know," suggested the man, with a coarse laugh. "yes, he seems to be given to dark ways," said ralph. "then it is all arranged?" questioned the "lawyer" eagerly. "so far as it can be arranged for the time being." "very well, you shall hear from us in a few days." ralph left the hotel with one fixed conviction in his mind--that old gasper farrington was up to some new scheme and that it would be wise to look out for him. chapter x the special within a week the young fireman of the limited mail was in full swing as a trusted and valued employe of the great northern. engineer griscom had got the time schedule down to a system of which he was proud. they made successful runs without a break or accident, and ralph loved the life for its variety, experience and promise of sure promotion. the documents given to him for his mother by the agent of gasper farrington in the city were apparently all regular and business-like. they covered receipt for twenty thousand dollars, designating certain numbered bonds indicated, but one phrase which exonerated the village magnate from blame or crooked dealing in the affair ralph did not at all like. he believed that there was some specious scheme under this matter and he awaited developments. one blustering night he and griscom had just run the engine into the roundhouse, when tim forgan, the foreman, came hastening towards them, a paper fluttering in his hand and accompanied by a young fellow about twenty years of age. the latter was handsome and manly-looking, very well dressed, and ralph liked him on sight. "the very men," spoke forgan, showing an unusual excitement of manner. "griscom, fairbanks, let me introduce you to mr. trevor." engineer and fireman bowed, but the young man insisted on shaking hands cordially with his new acquaintances. "glad to meet you, gentlemen," he said briskly. "i have heard nothing but regrets as to your absence and praises for your ability in the railroad line from forgan here. tell your story, mr. forgan. you know time is money to me, just at present," and the speaker consulted an elegant timepiece in a hurried, anxious way. "why, it's just this," said forgan. "mr. trevor, who is a nephew of the president of the road, came to me with a telegram directing us to send him through to the city on the quickest time on record." "a special, eh?" said griscom, eyeing the young man speculatively. "about that, only there is no time to waste in making up a train, and he inclines to riding on the locomotive. the train dispatcher will give clear tracks to terminus. we were just picking out an engine when you arrived. how is it, griscom?" "you mean, will we undertake the job?" inquired the veteran engineer in his practical, matter-of-fact way. "exactly," nodded trevor eagerly. "after a hard double run?" insinuated griscom. "that's so; it isn't right to ask them, forgan. give me some other engine." "won't you wait till i answer?" demanded griscom. "yes, we will, and glad to show you the courtesy. is that right, fairbanks?" "certainly," replied ralph. "is it a matter of a great deal of urgency, mr. trevor?" "particularly so. i have come five hundred miles on other roads on specials. i must connect with a train in the city at a certain time, or i miss europe and important business." old griscom took out his greasy, well-worn train schedule. he looked it over and pointing to the regular time made, said: "we can discount that exactly seventy-two minutes." "and that will bring me to terminus exactly on time," said the young man brightly. "do it, my friends, and you shall have a hundred dollars between you." "that isn't at all necessary"--began griscom. "i beg pardon, but in this case it is," broke in trevor. "it's all arranged. thanks. i will put on a rain coat, and if you will stow me in some corner of the tender i shall enjoy the run." forgan bustled about. through the call boy of the roundhouse ralph sent word to his mother of the extra trip. then he worked like a beaver on the locomotive. trevor watched him in a pleased and admiring way. they ran the locomotive out on the turn table. griscom consulted his watch, talked a few moments with forgan, and said to ralph: "tracks clear in twelve minutes, lad. just time enough to get a bite at the nearest restaurant." when they returned, trevor stood near the engine glancing all around him in a very animated way. "looking for forgan?" inquired the old engineer. "oh, no. i was wondering where a fellow disappeared to who was hanging around the tender a few minutes ago. he and a companion have been following me ever since i arrived." "then they have given up the job," observed griscom, glancing keenly about. "why should they follow you, mr. trevor?" "that i cannot tell. probably thought i looked prosperous, and were bent on waylaying me. anyhow, they kept close to me down the tracks from the depot. ready?" "in precisely one minute. there is the dover accommodation now," announced the engineer, as a headlight came around a curve. "all right. we'll have to coal up at the limits. then we will make you a comfortable seat, mr. trevor." "don't you give yourselves any concern about me," replied trevor. "i am used to railroad life." they coaled up at the limits, but did not stop for water, the tank being three-quarters full. ralph made tests of air valve and water pump, shook down the furnace, and the locomotive quivered under high-steam pressure as they started on their special run. a flagman shouted something at them as they passed a switch. "what was he saying?" inquired griscom. "i couldn't hear him," said ralph. "thought he pointed at the engine--at the cow-catcher," remarked trevor. "everything all right there," assured ralph, and in the brisk action of the hour the circumstance was forgotten. twenty, thirty, forty miles made, and as they slowed down griscom turned to trevor, a proud glitter in his eye. "how is that, sir?" he inquired. "famous!" cried the young man cheerily. "badly shaken up, and this seat up here is rather bumpy, but i enjoy it, just the same. going to stop?" "yes, crossing. only for half-a-minute, though." the engine halted on regular signal. griscom got down and ran about a bit, explaining that he was subject to cramps when seated long in one position. two men came up to the locomotive. "give us a lift?" demanded one of them. "couldn't do it, partner," responded ralph. "under special orders." "plenty of room up there on the tender." "not for you," answered the young fireman. both men regarded trevor very keenly. then they disappeared in the darkness. ralph got the signal from the crossing's switch tower to go ahead. "mr. griscom," he called out from his window. "why, where is he?--i don't see him," said trevor in surprise. "i saw him out there not a minute ago." ralph jumped to the ground in amazement. nowhere in sight was griscom; nowhere within hearing either, it seemed. like the two rough fellows who had just approached the engine, griscom has disappeared. "why, this is mysterious," declared the young fireman in an anxious tone of concern. "where can he have disappeared to?" "i don't like the looks of things," spoke trevor. "something is wrong, fairbanks," he continued. "look ahead there--i just saw a man on the cowcatcher." now ralph was more than mystified, he was alarmed. he seized a rod and jumped again to the ground. sure enough, on the cowcatcher sat a man, huddled up comfortably. "who are you?" demanded ralph, keeping his distance and eyeing the intruder suspiciously. "call me a tramp, if you like," laughed the fellow. "you must get off of that cowcatcher." "who says so?" "i do--against the rules. come, move on." "you try to put me off, youngster," drawled the fellow, with an ugly look in his eyes, "and i'll use this," and he drew a revolver from his pocket. "i want a free ride, and i intend to have it." "will you make me stop at the tower to get you put off?" threatened ralph. "you won't. there's no one there but the towerman, and he can't leave duty, and you won't stop because you're on a fast run. take it easy, sonny. i don't weigh much, and i won't hurt your old locomotive." ralph could do nothing better than submit to the imposition for the time being. he returned to the cab. his face was quite anxious. he called again to griscom. "i can't understand it," he said. "what can have befallen him? keep a close watch here for a few minutes, will you?" he asked of his passenger. ralph took a lantern and ran down the tracks, flashed the light across the empty freights lining the tracks, and returned to the locomotive more anxious than ever. "i can't think what to do, mr. trevor," he said. the young man consulted his watch nervously. "tell you, fairbanks, we mustn't lose time. you can't find your partner. run to the tower and have the man there telegraph the circumstances and get someone to look for griscom. we will have to run on without him." "without griscom!" cried ralph. "why, we cannot possibly secure a substitute this side of dover." "don't need one--you know how to run an engine, don't you?" "in a fashion, probably, but i am worried about mr. griscom." "the towerman can attend to that. i don't want to appear selfish, fairbanks, but you must get this special through on time or get to some point where we can find another engineer." "i don't like it," said ralph. "without a fireman, too." "i'll attend to that department," said trevor, briskly throwing off his coat. "now then, the tower, your word to the operator there, and make up for lost time, fairbanks, if you want to earn that hundred dollars." chapter xi kidnapped ralph climbed to the engineer's seat with many misgivings and very anxious concerning his missing partner. he knew how to run an engine, for the young fireman had watched griscom at his duties, had studied every separate piece of machinery thoroughly, and more than once had relieved the veteran engineer for brief periods of time between stations. "that was all well enough on a regular run," thought ralph, "but a special is a different thing." then, coming to the switch tower, he called up to the operator there, who was at the open window. he explained hurriedly about the disappearance of griscom. he also asked the towerman to telegraph ahead to dover for a substitute engineer. the operator said he would have some men come down from the first station back on the route on a handcar to search for the missing rail-roader. "man on your cowcatcher there," he called down as ralph started up the engine. "no time to bother with him now. let him ride to dover, if he wants to," advised trevor. "now, fairbanks, you to the throttle, me to the furnace. just give me a word of direction when i need it, won't you?" but for his anxiety concerning his missing partner, the young fireman would have enjoyed the run of the next two hours immensely. there was a clear track--he had only to look out for signals. he was entirely familiar with the route, and trevor proved a capable, practical assistant. "don't look much like the man who left a palace car to step into a locomotive at stanley junction, eh?" laughed the young man, reeking with perspiration, and greasy and grimed. "how do i do--all right?" "you must have had experience in the fireman line," submitted ralph. "why, yes," acknowledged trevor. "my uncle made me work in a roundhouse for a year. once i believe i could run an engine, but i've forgotten a good deal. fairbanks, look ahead!" there was no occasion for the warning. already the young fireman had discovered what his companion announced. as the locomotive glided around a sharp curve a great glare confronted them. not two hundred yards ahead was a mass of flames shooting skywards. the bridge crossing a creek that was located at this part of the route was on fire. ralph started to slow down. then, discerning the impossibility of doing so this side of the burning structure, he set full speed. "it's make or break," he said, in a kind of gasp. "put her through--take the risk," ordered trevor sharply. swish! crackle! crash!--it was an eventful moment in the career of the young fireman. there was a blinding glow, a rain of fire swayed through the locomotive cab, then, just as they cleared the bridge, the structure went down to midstream. "we must get this news to dover quick," said ralph, applying himself anew to lever and throttle. "we have ten minutes to make up then." clink!--snap!--a terrific jar shook the locomotive. contrary to signal given at the nearest switch ahead, the engine veered to a siding. "what does this mean?" demanded trevor sharply. "mischief--malice, perhaps," said ralph quickly. "freights ahead--we shall have to stop." "don't do it," directed trevor. "drive into them and push them ahead to the main line again. i'll stand all damage." "they are empties, i noticed them on the afternoon run," said the young fireman. "mr. trevor, all this complication, all these happenings are suspicious. we will have to slow down to the freights." "slow down entirely," growled a sudden voice. "do it, or i'll have it done by my partner, who is aboard all right." both ralph and trevor turned sharply. standing on the coal of the tender was a man. he was dripping with water, and in one hand held a revolver. "no delay, fairbanks," he cautioned sternly. "we've taken too much trouble to miss this last chance to get you and your passenger." ralph stopped the engine. then calmly, but with a certain sense of peril and defeat, he faced the man. "where did you come from?" demanded trevor in amazement. "only from inside the water tank," responded the stranger coolly. "been there since we left stanley junction." "why, you are one of the fellows who were following me at the depot!" cried trevor. "correct, boss," chuckled the stranger. "here's my partner," he announced, as the man ralph had discovered on the cowcatcher appeared at the side of the cab. "we'll relieve you two now," continued the speaker to ralph and trevor. "move back on that coal. we'll try a bit of engineering ourselves." "see here, my man," called out trevor sharply. "what is the object of all this?" "object?" grinned the man. "you'll know later. important, for it took four men on the route, lots of inquiring before you came to stanley junction, two of us here now, others waiting for us somewhere else, to get you dead right." "me!" exclaimed trevor in amazement. "you mean me?" "nobody else." "why, how are you interested in me?" "you'll know soon." "but----" "stand back, do as we say, or we'll use force," declared the speaker gruffly. his companion guarded ralph and trevor while he took the engineer's seat. he reversed the engine, ran back to the main tracks, from there, first setting a switch, onto a spur, and, after following this for nearly a mile, shut off steam and the locomotive came to a stop. then the fellow applied a whistle to his lips. several men approached the engine. he consulted with them, and came back to ralph carrying a piece of rope. "fairbanks," he said, "we'll have to tie you for safe keeping for a while." "won't you explain this?" inquired trevor, in a troubled way. "see here, men, i am due in the city. i will pay you handsomely to let us proceed on our trip." "how much?" inquired the man who had acted as engineer. "i have several hundred dollars with me." "not enough," retorted the man. "we want several thousand, seeing you are worth it." "i haven't a thousand dollars in the world," declared trevor. "you are worth twenty thousand," insisted the man confidently. "we'll prove it to you a little later. here," to his companion, "tie fairbanks, leave the letter with him, and let us get out of this before anybody is missed." "one word," said ralph. "are you people responsible for the disappearance of mr. griscom?" "perhaps," said the man. "he's all safe and sound--only out of the way of mischief for a spell. one other word, fairbanks, we didn't fire the bridge." trevor looked the picture of distress and uncertainty as he was forced from the locomotive cab. "you people will regret this high-handed outrage," he cried. "my uncle is president of the great northern." "that is just exactly why you are worth twenty thousand dollars," coolly announced the man who had acted as engineer. "plain and square, gentlemen, kindly call this a bit of kidnapping scientifically worked at some care and expense. you come with us. fairbanks will do the rest. got him tied up?" to his companion. "all right, now put the letter in his pocket." and, leaving the young fireman bound and helpless on the floor of the cab, the men with trevor left the scene. chapter xii the railroad president the young fireman had a good deal to think of as he lay in the locomotive cab, unable to help himself in any way. all the smooth sailing of the past week was remembered in strong contrast to the anxieties of the present moment. ralph had not recognized any of the crowd who had appeared about the engine during the evening. the leader, however, seemed to know his name. this inclined ralph to the belief that some one of the party did know him, and naturally he thought of ike slump and his associates. "they are desperate men, whoever they are," he decided, "and they must have planned out this scheme to perfection to keep track of mr. trevor and follow us up along the line. that man in the water tank is a daring fellow. he must have had a pleasant time in there. it was an original move, anyhow." it was in vain that ralph endeavored to release himself. he was stoutly tied. all he could do was to wriggle about and wonder how soon he would be set free by his captors or discovered by others. it must have been fully three hours before there was any break in the monotony of his situation. ralph heard some one whistling a tune and approaching rapidly. soon a man appeared on the cab step, looked ralph over coolly, and observed: "tired of waiting for me, kid?" "naturally," responded ralph. "are you going to set me free?" "that's the orders, seeing that our party is safe at a distance. got enough steam on to run the engine?" "yes," replied ralph. "there was full pressure when you people stopped us, and the steam lasts about six hours." "all right. you will have a great story to tell the railroad folks, eh? don't forget the letter we put in your pocket. there you are. now then, go about your business and don't say we did not treat you like a gentleman. oh--ooh! what's this?" the man had cut the ropes that held ralph captive, and carelessly swung to the step. in a flash the young fireman was on his mettle. springing to his feet, ralph snatched at a hooked rod. reaching out, he caught the man by the coat collar and pulled him back flat across the cab floor where he had just lain. "you lie still, or i shall use harsh measures," declared ralph, springing upon his captive and menacing him with the rod. "hold up your hands, folded, and let me tie you." "well, i guess not!" "yes, you shall!" cried ralph. in a second the situation changed. the man was much stronger than his opponent. he managed to throw ralph off, and got to his knees. the young fireman decided, as the fellow reached for a weapon, to strike out with the iron rod. it landed heavily on the man's temple, and he fell back senseless on the coal of the tender with a groan. ralph securely tied his captive. then he reversed the lever and opened the throttle. in a minute he was speeding back over the spur the way the locomotive had come four hours previous. "we have one of the kidnappers, at least," he said with satisfaction. "ah, there is some one at the bridge," he added, as he ran down the main tracks. signals of danger were set on both sides of the creek, and ralph could make out men in the distance moving about. he was soon on the scene. a track-walker had discovered the burning bridge and had summoned assistance. there was only one thing to do with the locomotive, to run on to dover, and this ralph did at once. he reported the occurrences of the evening to the assistant superintendent, whom he found getting a wrecking crew together. "well, this is a serious and amazing piece of business," commented that official. "here, men," he called to his assistants on the wrecking car, "fetch this fellow into the shanty yonder." the man ralph had knocked down in the locomotive cab had recovered consciousness. he was brought into the shanty and questioned, but was sullen and silent. "won't tell anything, eh?" said the assistant superintendent. "the letter says all there is to say," remarked the captive coolly, "but that twenty thousand dollars will never find young trevor if you keep me a prisoner." "a prisoner safe and tight you shall be," declared the railroad official with determination. "take him to the town jail, men," he added. "i must wire for the president of the road at once, and to adair at stanley junction. what's your plan, fairbanks?" he asked of ralph. "i hardly know," responded the young fireman. "i don't see that i can be of any assistance here." the letter the kidnappers had left with ralph was terse and clear as to its directions. the writer demanded twenty thousand dollars for the return of young trevor, and indicated how his friends might get in correspondence with his captors through an advertisement in the city newspapers. "the wrecking car is going to the bridge, fairbanks," said the official. "you can cross the creek some way and use a handcar, if they have one. tell the men there i say so. as to your prisoner, i will see that he is taken care of." it was just daylight when ralph reached the switch tower where griscom had disappeared. the towerman had just been relieved from duty, and met ralph with eager welcome as he was approaching the place. "glad to see you," he said. "we just found griscom." "where is he?" inquired ralph quickly. "in the tower, all safe and comfortable now, but he had a hard time of it lying all night in a freight car, gagged and tied. he is fighting mad, don't understand the affair, and worried to death about you." "oh, i am all right," said ralph. "i see you are. but what has happened, anyhow? you'll want to tell griscom, won't you? well, i'll go back with you to hear your story, too." it was an interesting scene, the meeting of the engineer and the young fireman. griscom fretted and fumed over the mishaps to his pet locomotive. he was furious at the gang who had worked out such mischief. "i'll wire my resignation when we reach stanley junction," he declared. "i'll do no more railroad work until i find those scoundrels and rescue young trevor." "don't be rash, mr. griscom," advised ralph. "the railroad detective force will soon be on the trail. the nephew of a railroad president doesn't disappear in this fashion every day in the year." when they got back to stanley junction they were interviewed at once by bob adair. both were worn out with double duty and got to bed as quickly as possible. ralph reported at the roundhouse late in the afternoon, but learned that there would be no through trains out until a temporary bridge was erected over the creek near dover. he returned to the house, and was pleased with the thought of having a social evening at home and a good night's rest. it was shortly after dark, and ralph was reading a book in the cozy sitting room of the home cottage, when the door bell rang. the young fireman answered the summons. a stranger stood at the threshold. he was a dignified, well-dressed gentleman, but seemed to be laboring under some severe mental strain, for he acted nervous and agitated. "mr. fairbanks--ralph fairbanks?" he inquired in a tone of voice that quivered slightly. "yes," replied the young fireman. "i am very anxious to have a talk with you," said the stranger hurriedly. "i have been down the line, and have just arrived at stanley junction. my name is grant, robert grant, and i am the president of the great northern railroad." "come in, sir," said ralph cordially, deeply impressed with welcoming so important a visitor, but maintaining his usual manly pose. he showed the official into the house and introduced him to his mother. mr. grant was soon in the midst of his story. he had been for many hours at dover trying to discover a trace of his missing nephew, and had signally failed. "mr. adair, the road detective, advised me to see you," said mr. grant, "for you saw the men who captured my nephew. would you know them again?" "some of them," responded ralph. "very well, then. i ask you as a special favor to return with me to dover and assist me in my task." "i will do so gladly," said ralph. one hour later a special conveyed the president of the great northern and ralph fairbanks down the line to dover. chapter xiii the short line railway ralph attracted a good deal of attention when he arrived at dover, and fully realized the honor of being treated as a companion by the president of the great railroad of which he was an employe. mr. grant was pleasant and friendly. he learned ralph's story, and discussed railroad experience in a way that was enlightening and encouraging to the young fireman. "about these kidnappers," he said, "i will never give them a dollar, but i will spend all i have to rescue my nephew. it is needless to say that you shall be richly rewarded if you assist me successfully." "i will do my best, sir," pledged ralph. at dover they were met by adair. they went into the depot and sat down on a bench in a remote corner. "i have not discovered the kidnappers nor the faintest clew to them, mr. grant," said adair. the railroad president sighed deeply. he showed in his face and manner the care and anxiety he was suffering. "can you suggest anything, fairbanks?" continued adair. "you know the district fairly well. what is your idea about these men?" ralph astonished his companions by suddenly arising to his feet and hurrying towards a boy who had just entered the depot and had taken up a pen and a telegraph pad on the counter outside the ticket office. it was van sherwin, the old-time friend of ralph, and pleasure at recognizing him had caused the young fireman to act on an impulse. "why, van!" he cried, "i am glad to see you." "eh?" spoke the other. "ralph! well, the gladness is mutual," and the pair shook hands cordially. "what brought you here?" asked ralph. "came down from headquarters in the timber on important business," replied van. "just sending a telegram." "why!" almost shouted ralph, glancing at the blank upon which his friend had just written a name, "to mr. grant, to the president of the great northern!" "yes," answered van. "does that startle you?" "it does. what are you wiring him for?" "about his nephew, dudley trevor." ralph was fairly taken off his feet, as the saying goes. he grasped van's arm excitedly. "see here, van sherwin," he cried. "what do you know of mr. trevor?" "only that he is at our headquarters with a broken arm, and he sent me here to wire his uncle the fact." ralph was delighted. he could scarcely credit the glad news. he led van up to the railroad president and the road detective with the words: "gentlemen, i am very happy to tell you that mr. trevor is in safe hands, and my friend here will explain. van sherwin, this is mr. grant, the president of the great northern." van nodded in his crisp, off-hand way to adair, whom he knew, and took off his cap to his dignified companion. his story was to his auditors most remarkable and exciting, but to van only the narration of a perfectly natural occurrence. early that morning there had come into "headquarters," as van termed it, a young man in an almost exhausted condition. his attire was all torn with brambles and bushes and one arm was broken. "he told us his name, and said that he had escaped from kidnappers. mr. gibson attended to his arm, and sent me to dover here to telegraph to you, sir," explained van to the railroad president. mr. grant was so glad and excited he could not sit still. "take me to him at once!" he cried. "my dear lad, you have brought happy news to me." "i don't know about going to see him," said van. "it is over twenty miles away in the woods." "allow me to explain, mr. grant," said adair. "between here and wilmer is a wild, wooded stretch of land known as the barrens." "i know of it," nodded mr. grant. "the great northern once surveyed two miles into the section, but abandoned the route as impracticable. there are only about twenty houses in the district, and the difficulties of clearing and grading were discouraging." "well," said adair, "it appears that a man named farwell gibson secured a charter to build a short line through the barrens from wilmer across the desolate tract to connect with the midland central." "i heard of that, too," nodded the railroad president. "this gibson is an odd genius. he has been working for two years on his scheme, terming the road the dover & springfield short line. just half way across the barrens he has a house, which he calls 'headquarters.' he is an erratic hermit, and adopted this boy here, van sherwin, who has been helping him. every day, the law requires, he must do some grading work on the prospective railroad line. this he has done, and you would be surprised to know the progress they have made." "especially lately," said van, with sparkling eyes. "even you, ralph, would be astonished. mrs. gibson got some money recently--five thousand dollars from old gasper farrington--and we have hired a lot of men. oh, that railroad is going through, and don't you forget it." "we realized our mistake after this gibson got hold of the franchise," said mr. grant. "once the road is built, it practically dominates passenger and freight business north and south." "that is right," said van, "for it becomes a bee-line, saving twenty to thirty miles distance, besides opening up a new district. well, sir, your nephew is now at our headquarters. to reach the place you will have to get a very heavy wagon and go pretty slow and sure, for there are no roads." "i must go at all hazards," cried the railroad president insistently, "and you, my friends, must accompany me," he added to adair and ralph. "why, those villains from whom my nephew escaped may undertake to recapture him." a little later the party, in charge of a sturdy fellow driving a strong team of horses attached to a heavy wagon, started out under the direction of van sherwin. the district was a wild jungle, interspersed with sweeps of hill and dales, and numerous creeks. finally they reached a hill surmounted by a dense grove of trees. a road led up here to a rambling log house. here and on the other side of the hill a ten-foot avenue was visible, neat and clean. the brush had been cleared away, the ground leveled, here and there some rudely cut ties set in place, and for an extended stretch there was a presentable graded roadbed. as they drove up to the cabin the railroad president almost forgot his nephew from interest in his surroundings. across the front of the building was a sign reading: "headquarters of the dover & springfield short line railroad." to the south there was a singular sight presented. some twenty men and boys were working on a roadbed, which had been cut for over two miles. a telegraph wire ran from the building over the tops of trees, and ralph was fairly astonished at the progress made since he had first visited farwell gibson in this place. "come in," said van, as mr. grant alighted from the wagon. "well, this is decidedly a railroady place," observed the president of the great northern with a faint smile. one half of the rambling place was a depot and railway offices combined. there were benches for passengers. in one corner was a partitioned off space, labeled: "president's office." on the wall hung a bunch of blank baggage checks, and there was a chart of a zigzag railway line, indicating bridges, water tanks and switch towers. "mr. gibson," called out van to a man seated at a desk, "this is mr. grant, the president of the great northern." "eh? what! my dear sir, i am glad to see you," said the eccentric hermit. "you came about your nephew, i presume? take the gentleman to his room, van," directed farwell. "i am something of a doctor and he is resting quite comfortably." mr. gibson greeted ralph very cordially. when van returned, he insisted on the young fireman inspecting the work on the railroad. "does that look like business?" he inquired, as they proceeded down the roadbed. "we have ten men and eight boys working for us." "eight boys--where did they come from?" inquired ralph. "an orphan asylum burned down and we engaged to care for them," replied van. "but what are they doing in those trees?" "stringing a telegraph wire. we expect within a month to have the telegraph through to springfield, and later to dover." "why, van," said ralph, "it seems incredible, the progress you have made." "that five thousand dollars we made old farrington pay mrs. gibson was a great help," replied van. "we have quite a construction crew here now. i help mrs. gibson do the cooking, and we get on famously." mr. grant was with his nephew for over an hour. then ralph was sent for, and trevor welcomed him with a glad smile. the young man described how he had been taken to a lonely building in the woods, how he had escaped from his enemies, breaking his arm in a runaway flight, and telling ralph that he intended to remain where he was for a month, to which his uncle had agreed. "confidentially, fairbanks," he said, "i have taken a great interest in this short cut railroad scheme, and as soon as i am well i am coming to see you at stanley junction." "regarding this railroad?" inquired ralph. "exactly," responded trevor. "i see a great future in it. i shall not go to europe. there is a practical business chance here, and i intend to help mr. gibson get the enterprise through." "it will take a lot of money," suggested ralph. "yes," assented trevor, "and i know how to raise it. in fact, i have almost agreed to market one hundred thousand dollars' worth of bonds of the dover & springfield short line railroad, and i want you to help me do it." chapter xiv a railroad strike "it's a bad outlook, lad," said old john griscom. the veteran engineer was serious and anxious as he pronounced the words. he and ralph were proceeding down the tracks beyond the round-house, just returned from their regular run from the city. "it's a strike, is it?" inquired ralph. "worse than a strike," replied griscom. "the railroad men's union is in a squabble among themselves and a fight is on. that means trouble and damage all around." it was two weeks after the kidnapping of young trevor, and affairs had subsided to regular routine for the engineer and fireman of the limited mail. the president of the great northern had sent a check for one hundred dollars to ralph, which he divided with griscom, both making up twenty-five dollars for van sherwin. from the actions of their superiors they knew that their being in close touch with mr. grant had helped them considerably, and both felt secure and contented in their positions, when a new disturbing element appeared. for several days there had been trouble on both the great northern and the midland central. as ralph understood it, the discharge of an irresponsible engineer on the latter line of railroad had led to a demand for his reinstatement. this the railway officials refused. a strike was at once ordered. two days later a man named delmay, a strike agent, came to stanley junction. he demanded that the men on the great northern engage in a sympathetic strike until the other road was brought to terms. the older, wiser hands laughed at him. jim evans had returned to stanley junction, and at once joined in a movement to disrupt the local union by favoring the strike in question. evans had done a good deal of swaggering and threatening around the roundhouse that day, ralph had just learned, and had intimidated some of the new hands into joining in the strike movement. he had left word that, as men came in from their runs, they were to report at a hall where the strikers met and announce which side of the contest they favored. "here we are, lad," said the veteran engineer, as they started up the stairs of a building on railroad street. "don't look very business-like, those pails of beer going into that hall yonder and that cloud of tobacco smoke. i wouldn't stir a foot, only it's quite regular according to union rules to call and report in a matter like this." "what are you going to do, mr. griscom?" asked ralph. "short and sweet, give my sentiments and leave these loafers to fight it out among themselves." "include mine," said ralph. "i do not understand these strike complications and i know you do, so i shall follow your guidance." when they entered the hall they found a noisy crowd, smoking, playing cards and lounging about. on a platform sat jim evans, looking profoundly important. he sat at a table with a heap of papers before him. griscom approached him, ralph by his side. "who's in charge here?" demanded the old engineer gruffly. "i am," announced evans, in a somewhat unsteady tone. "head of the movement." "that so?" muttered griscom. "movement can't amount to much, then. now then, jim evans, just one word. we came here out of courtesy to the union. we are members in good standing, and we represent the majority. at the meeting last night we voted you out as seceders. i am authorized to inform you that from now on no attention whatever will be paid to your crowd here." "is that so?" sneered evans. "i reckon we'll attract some attention when we get in action. we have started our own union. we are going to break up the old one. whoever comes in now to help us holds his job. whoever don't, will get downed somewhere along the line, and don't you forget it." "being in the wrong," predicted griscom steadily, "you won't succeed." "will you sign the roll?" "no." "nor fairbanks?" "let the lad speak for himself," said griscom. "i know little about these complications, mr. evans," said ralph. "i pay my dues, and we are upheld in our positions by the central union. in the present instance i stand by the regular men." evans angrily picked up a sheet of paper. he scribbled upon it hastily. "know what that means?" he demanded. "we don't, and are not at all anxious to know," retorted griscom, turning to leave the hall. "it means that you are blacklisted!" shouted evans, rising to his feet. "as to you, fairbanks, i owe you one, and the time has come when i am in power. think twice--join us, or it will be the worse for you." "come on, lad," directed griscom. "men," roared evans to his mob of friends, "those two are on the black list. notice them particularly, and hit hard when you strike." ralph went home somewhat disturbed by the episode, but not at all alarmed. he knew that such complications were frequent among the unions. his mother, however, was quite worried over the affair. "that fellow evans is a bad man, and has a personal hatred for you, ralph," she said. "besides that, as we know, he has been incited to make you trouble by mr. farrington. be careful of yourself, my son, for i fear he may try to do you some mischief." "i can only go on in the clear path of duty," said ralph sturdily. the next morning the roundhouse was in quite a tumult. its vicinity was picketed by the strikers. ralph entered the place to find tim forgan, the foreman, in a state of great excitement and worry. there were not men enough for the regular runs. "take out your regular train," he said to griscom, "but i believe it will be annulled and new orders issued at the city end of the line. we're in for trouble, i can tell you. the strikers make some pretty bad threats, and you want to watch every foot of the route until this strike is settled one way or the other." "there is no other way except to oppose these loafers boldly," pronounced griscom. "the union has expelled them, and they are on the basis of rioters." "well, the railroad company will make some move to protect its property," said forgan. "they must give us more men, though, or we will have to annul half the daily trains." the limited mail got out of the yards with some difficulty. they had a spiked switch to look out for, and a missile from an old building smashed the headlight glass. at the limits a man tossed a folded paper into the locomotive cab. it was a poor scrawl containing direful threats to anyone opposing the new union. when they reached the terminus griscom found a committee of men from the central union waiting for him. they held a consultation. then a messenger from the railway office came after him. it was a busy day for the veteran rail-roader. "i don't like the looks of things," he said to ralph, as they started on the homeward run. "the central union backs us, and the company is bound to fight the strikers to a finish. a lot of men are going down to take the places of the strikers. we are carrying them on this train, and serious trouble will begin as soon as the new men go to work." two days later the freight traffic of the great northern was practically tied up. the situation had become positively alarming. the strikers had gathered strength of numbers through intimidation, and the coming of new workers had aroused animosity. car loads of perishable fruits and the like were rotting in the yards, men were beaten, engines crippled, orders mixed up, crown sheets burned and cars smashed on open switches. the limited mail was annulled as a regular train, and griscom and ralph and all other passenger employes placed on the irregular list. one day a man would take out the mail, the next day he would be running freight empties to the city. some cars on siding along the route had been set on fire, and griscom and ralph were ordered down the line to pick up freight strays and haul them to the yards at dover. it proved an unpleasant task. strikers annoyed them in every way possible. finally with a mixed train of about twenty cars they arrived at afton, and took the sidings to gather in half-a-dozen gondolas. the spot was remote from the main tracks. ralph had to do the coupling. he had run back, bound on this duty in the present instance, when, just as he reached the end of their train, three ill-appearing men stepped into view from a dismantled switch shanty. "drop your signaling," spoke one of the three, advancing menacingly towards ralph. "hardly," responded ralph calmly, "seeing we want these cars." "you don't take them," retorted the man, placing himself between the halted train and the cars beyond. ralph calmly gave the signal to the engine. the train backed. the man had to jump quickly out of the way. ralph set the coupling pin, gave a quick signal and sprang into the first empty car. the man who had spoken to him followed him through the opposite open doorway. "fetch him out!" cried his two companions, running along the side of the car. "maul him, and send him back to stanley junction as a lesson to the others." the man attempted to seize ralph and the latter resisted. the fellow called to his companions, and they sprang into the car. ralph, trying to reach the doorway to leap out, was tripped up, and he fell quite heavily. "toss him out!" growled his first assailant, but ralph recovered himself, managed to gain his feet, and leaped to the ground outside. the three men followed. ralph ran behind a pile of railroad ties. his pursuers gained upon him. he stumbled, fell flat, and they pounced upon him. "hold on there," suddenly spoke a new voice. "get back and stay back, or i'll know the reason why." something whizzed through the air. it was a heavy cudgel. whack! whack! whack! the three fellows retreated as their shoulders were assailed good and hard. ralph in some surprise regarded his new friend. he was a queer-looking old man, carrying a formidable cudgel, and this he now brandished recklessly in the faces of his adversaries, beating them back step by step. "now, you mind your own business," he warned the men. "pitching onto a boy--three big loafers that you are!" the men were cowards and sneaked sullenly away. ralph's rescuer went back to the pile of ties and took up a little open memorandum book lying there. ralph noticed that its pages bore a list of numbers, as of cars. "i am very grateful to you," said the young fireman. "that's all right," responded the stranger, and ran his eye over the cars as they passed by as if looking at their numbers. ralph concluded that he had some business on the spot. "are you in the service of the railroad?" he asked. "yes," nodded the man--"of many railroads. i am a professional car finder." chapter xv the runaway trains ralph and his companion followed the train till it left the siding, when the young fireman set the switch and they stood by the side of the track until the locomotive backed down to where they were. "going into dover?" inquired the man who had rendered ralph such signal service. "yes," nodded griscom, looking the questioner over suspiciously, as was his custom with all strangers recently since the strike began. "give me a lift, will you? i am through with my work here," observed the man. "my name is drury. i am a car finder." "indeed?" said the old engineer with some interest of manner. "i've heard of you fellows. often thought i'd like the job." "you wouldn't, if you knew its troubles and difficulties," asserted drury with a laugh, as he climbed into the tender. "you think it's just riding around and asking a few questions. why, say, i have spent a whole month tracing down two strays alone." "that so?" said griscom. "yes, it is true. you see, cars get on a line shy of them, and they keep them purposely. then, again, cars are lost in wrecks, burned up, or thrown on a siding and neglected. you would be surprised to know how many cars disappear and are never heard of again." this was a new phase in railroad life to ralph, and he was greatly interested. he plied the man with questions, and gained a good deal of information from him. "switch off here, fairbanks," ordered griscom, as they neared a siding. "is your name fairbanks?" asked the carfinder of ralph. "it is." "heard of you," said drury, glancing keenly at the young fireman. "it was down at millville, last week. they seem to think a good deal of you, the railroad men there." "i hope i deserve it," said ralph modestly. "took a meal at a restaurant kept by a friend of yours," continued the carfinder. "you mean limpy joe?" "exactly. original little fellow--spry, handy and accommodating. met another genius there--dallas." "zeph? yes," said ralph. "he has got lots to learn, but he has the making of a man in him." "he has. he was greatly interested in my position. wanted me to hire him right away. said he knew he could find any car that was ever lost. i gave him a job," and drury smiled queerly. "what kind of a job?" inquired ralph. "oh, you ask him when you see him," said drury mysteriously. "i promised to keep it a secret," and he smiled again. "good-bye, i leave you here." "now then," said griscom to his young assistant, "orders are to run to ridgeton and start out in the morning picking up strays between there and stanley junction." when they got to ridgeton, it had begun to rain. it was a lonely station with a telegraph operator, and a few houses quite a distance away. the operator was not on duty nights since the strike. the engine was sidetracked. they got a meal at the nearest house, and the operator gave them the key to the depot, where he said they could sleep all night on the benches. this griscom insisted on doing, in order that they might keep an eye on the locomotive. they sat up until about nine o'clock. then, tired out with a hard day's work, both soon sank into profound sleep. it was some time later when both, always vigilant and easily aroused, awoke together. "oh," said the old engineer drowsily, "only the ticker." "yes, some one is telegraphing," answered ralph, "but it is a hurry call." "understand the code, do you?" "yes," answered ralph. "quiet, please, for a moment. mr. griscom, this is urgent," and ralph arose and hurried to the next room, where the instrument was located. he listened to the sharp ticking of the little machine. there was the double-hurry call. then came some sharp, nervous clicks. "r-u-n-a-w-a-y," he spelled out. "what's that?" cried griscom, springing to his feet. "j-u-s-t p-a-s-s-e-d w-i-l-m-e-r, s-i-x f-r-e-i-g-h-t c-a-r-s. s-t-o-p t-h-e-m a-t r-i-d-g-e-t-o-n, o-r t-h-e-y w-i-l-l m-e-e-t n-o. f-o-r-t-y-e-i-g-h-t." ralph looked up excitedly. griscom stood by his side. his eyes were wide awake enough now. "repeat that message--quick, lad!" he said in a suppressed tone. "can you signal for repeat?" ralph did so, once more spelling out the message as it came over the wire. "no. ?" spoke griscom rapidly. "that is the special passenger they have been sending out from stanley junction since the strike. what is the next station north? act! wire north to stop the train." ralph got the next station with some difficulty. a depressing reply came. no. had passed that point. "then she's somewhere on the thirty-mile stretch between there and here," said griscom. "lad, it is quick action--wind blowing a hurricane, and those freights thundering down a one per cent. grade. bring the lantern. don't lose a moment. hurry!" ralph took the lead, and they rushed for their locomotive. the young fireman got a red lantern and ran down the track, set the light, and was back to the engine quickly. "this is bad, very bad," said griscom. "nothing but this siding, ending at a big ravine, the only track besides the main. the runaway must have a fearful momentum on that grade. what can we do?" ralph tested the valves. he found sufficient steam on to run the engine. "i can suggest only one thing, mr. griscom," he said. "out with it, lad, there is not a moment to lose," hurriedly directed the old engineer. "get onto the main, back down north, set the switch here to turn the runaways onto the siding." "but suppose no. gets here first?" "then we must take the risk, start south till she reaches the danger signals, and sacrifice our engine, that is all," said ralph plainly. it was a moment of intense importance and strain. in any event, unless the unexpected happened, no. or their own locomotive would be destroyed. on the coming passenger were men, women and children. "duty, lad," said griscom, in a kind of desperate gasp. "we must not hesitate. pile in the black diamonds and hope for the best. if we can reach the creek before the runaways, we can switch them onto a spur. it means a smash into the freights there. but anything to save the precious lives aboard the night passenger from stanley junction." they ran on slowly, then, gaining speed, got a full head of steam on the cylinders. at a curve the bridge lights came into view. "what do you see?" demanded griscom, his band trembling on the throttle, wide open now. "she's coming," cried ralph. "i caught the glint of the bridge lights. she's not six hundred yards away." it was a desperate situation now. both engineer and fireman realized this. the backward swing was caught, and down the course they had just come their locomotive sped with frightful velocity. it was a mad race, but they had the advantage. one mile, two miles, three miles, the depot, down the main, and before the engine had stopped, ralph was on the ground. he ran to the switch, set it, and then both listened, watched and waited. "there are the runaways," said ralph. yes, there they were, speeding like phantoms over the rain-glistening steel. nearer and nearer they came, passed the siding, struck the switch, ran its length, and then a crash--and the night passenger from stanley junction was saved! "i don't know what the damage will be," muttered griscom in a long-drawn breath of relief, "but we have done our duty as we saw it." they got back on the siding and removed the red lights before no. arrived. the night passenger sped tranquilly by, her train crew little dreaming of the peril they had escaped. the next afternoon, when they arrived at stanley junction, the assistant superintendent of the road highly commended their action in regard to the runaway freights. ralph went home tired out from strain of work and excitement. as he neared the house he noticed a wagon in the yard and a horse browsing beside it. "why," he said, "that rig belongs to limpy joe." ralph hurried into the house. he found both joe and zeph in the sitting room. they were conversing with his mother, with whom the cripple boy had always been a great favorite. "well, fellows, i am glad to see you," said ralph heartily, "but what brought you here?" "plainly," replied limpy joe--"ike slump." "why, what do you mean?" inquired the young fireman. "i mean that we have been burned out," said joe, "and ike slump did it." chapter xvi car no. "burned out!" exclaimed ralph, deeply concerned. "yes," nodded joe, a trifle dolefully. "labors of years in ashes--limpy joe's railroad restaurant a thing of the past." "how did it happen?" "spite work. three nights ago, late in the evening, ike slump appeared at the restaurant and demanded a free meal. i gave it to him. then he demanded some money, and i refused it. he became bold and ugly, and told us how his crowd had it in for us, that they knew i had some hand in helping you get that stolen plunder, and would fix us sooner or later. he advised me to buy them off. i sent him away. last night we discovered the place on fire, and it was burned to the ground." ralph was deeply distressed over his friend's misfortune. the lame fellow, however, was undaunted. he deplored his loss, but he was by no means discouraged. "thankful to have the horse and wagon left," he said. "i can always earn a living with that. besides that, we saw van sherwin the other day. he is getting on finely, and i think we could get work on the short line railroad. for the present, though, i am going to stay at stanley junction. i have a dozen plans for getting a little money together. will you try us as boarders for a week or two, ralph?" "i answered that question a few minutes ago," reminded mrs. fairbanks, "and if you two will sleep in the same room, you will cause no inconvenience whatever." "and you, zeph?" said ralph, turning to the farmer boy. zeph had been strangely silent. he appeared to be trying to look very dignified and much absorbed in thought. "oh, me?" he said now. "why, i'm already at work. commence to-night. call boy at the roundhouse. old one is with the strikers. mr. forgan engaged me this afternoon." "why, that is fine," said ralph. "a start in the right direction. look out for the strikers, though, zeph." "don't fret about me," advised zeph. "i'm a fighter when aroused. see, here is my list to call in the morning," and he showed ralph a slip of paper containing about a dozen names. ralph read it over, and after a meal went out with zeph and showed him the location of the homes of those named in the list. "this job is all right," said zeph, as they returned to the house, "but it is only a sort of side line with me." "indeed?" smiled ralph, amused at the off-hand, yet self-important manner of his companion. "oh, yes." "how is that?" "simply want to get into the service so as to have the privilege of riding around on engines when i want to. it sort of introduces me, you see." "what do you want to ride around on engines for?" asked ralph. "you can't afford to waste your time that way." "waste my time? waste my time?" repeated zeph. "huh, guess you don't know what you're talking about! i'm on the trail of a big fortune." "you don't say so." "i do. ralph fairbanks, i'll let you into the secret. you've been a good friend to me, and you shall help me." "what ridiculous nonsense are you talking, zeph?" "you'll see whether it's nonsense or not when some day i walk in on you with a fortune. now, this is on the dead quiet, fairbanks?" "oh, sure," laughed ralph. "very well. i met a fellow the other day, who is a car finder." "mr. drury, you mean?" asked ralph. "how did you know?" questioned zeph in surprise. "he told me he had met you, and agreed with me that you were a pretty fair kind of a fellow." "did he?" said zeph, very much pleased at the double compliment. "well, i got interested in his business and he finally gave me a--a--well a job, you might call it." "salary big, zeph?" "no salary at all," responded zeph. "it's a partnership deal. if i find certain property, i am to have a big reward to divide with him." "what kind of property?" "diamonds." "oh, going digging for them?" "don't make fun of me, fairbanks," said zeph in a slightly offended tone. "this is a fair and square business proposition. about five years ago a car was lost, presumably on the great northern. at least, it can be traced no farther than the terminus of the midland central, where it was switched onto this line here. there all trace of it was lost." "valuable freight aboard?" "no, on the contrary, it was empty, but, all the same, between sealed boards and the rough ones a pocketbook containing a lot of valuable diamonds was hidden." "who by?" "a traveling jewelry salesman named isaacs." "what did he hide it there for?" "he had to. you see, he was on another railroad line and crossing some tracks when some footpads assaulted him. he managed to escape and got into the empty car i told you about. then he heard them coming to search for him, and hid the diamonds in a break of the boards at one side of the car." "i see." "they dragged him out, beat him into insensibility and stole all his money. he woke up in a hospital a month later, after a siege of fever. the first thing he thought of was the diamonds and the car. he had taken particular pains to note the number of the car." "what was it, may i ask?" "confidentially?" "of course." "it belonged to the southern air line road, and its number was ." "why, you are telling a very interesting story," declared ralph, now really interested in the same. "he searched for the car, of course?" "at once. he telegraphed everywhere; he advertised; he employed detectives. it was no use. during the month of his illness, car no. had disappeared." "that looks mysterious." "the car finder says not at all. such things happen frequently. but it went somewhere, didn't it? it may be lying on some old siding, in some creek after a wreck, stolen by gravel pit men, or in service still on some line. one thing is sure, if in existence still, it must be on one of four railroad lines, and the great northern is one of those roads." "what do you propose to do?" inquired ralph. "go over every one of those lines carefully." "but mr. drury has done that already, has he not?" "what of it? a first search doesn't always bring results. he has given me full details as to the car, and, according to the records, it was lost on the great northern. in a day or two i am going to have a look at the transfer records at dover. then i am going to look up the trainmen who probably hauled the car. oh, i have a theory and a plan. if i find the car i shall be almost rich." "not a bad prospect, zeph," said ralph, "but if i were you i would stick at regular work and make the search for that car a secondary matter." "you'll remember it and help me out if you can?" asked zeph. "surely i will," and ralph made a note of the number of the car in his memorandum book. when the young fireman arose the next morning, he found zeph seated on the front porch lounging back in an easy chair and his face all bandaged up. mrs. fairbanks stood near by, regarding her guest solicitously. "why, what is the matter, zeph?" inquired ralph in profound surprise. "whipped four men, that's all," answered zeph with a smile that was almost ghastly, for his lips were all cut and swollen up, one eye disfigured and two teeth gone. "i went on my rounds this morning. i made sure to wake up the fellows on call, and one of them threatened to kill me if i ever came to his door again with that 'fog-horn holler' of mine, as he called it. the night watch-man said he'd arrest me for disturbing the peace. i didn't mind that. then i ran across four strikers. they wanted me to join them. i refused, and--that's all, except that i'll bet they are worse off than i am, if it was four to one." "going to keep right on at your job?" inquired ralph. "am i?" cried the undaunted zeph. "well, if anything would make me it would be this attack on me. tell you, fairbanks, hot times are coming. forgan was on duty all night, and he told me this morning to advise you to be extra cautious in coming to work. the strikers are in an ugly mood, and they are going to make a bold break to smash up things to-day, they threaten." "yes," sighed ralph, "affairs must come to a crisis sooner or later, i fear. duty is plain, though. i shall stick to griscom, and griscom insists that he will stick to the road." mrs. fairbanks looked anxious and frightened. turning to enter the house, the young fireman started violently and his mother and zeph uttered exclamations of excitement. a terrific explosion had rent the air. its echoes rang out far and wide, and its source seemed to be the railroad depot. "oh, ralph! what does that mean?" cried mrs. fairbanks. "i fear," said ralph seriously, "the strikers are rioting and the trouble has begun." chapter xvii under sealed orders the young fireman was soon headed for the railroad yards. a good many people were bound hurriedly in the same direction, for the explosion had aroused the town. as he neared the place, he could hear considerable shouting. he came to the tracks at a point where there was a switch shanty. the man on duty looked worried and scared. "what is the trouble?" inquired ralph. "the strikers have blown up a freight car with dynamite," replied the flagman. "they have threatened me, old and feeble as i am. i'm afraid i'll have to lay off till this trouble is over." in the distance ralph saw the mere skeleton of a freight car. it was in flames, and a number of men were pushing other cars from its vicinity to prevent them from catching on fire. a man tapped him on the shoulder. turning, ralph recognized one of the strikers. "see here, fairbanks," he said, "i'm of the decent sort, as you know, but i think our position is right." "does that look like it?" demanded the young fireman, pointing to the burning car. "i'm not responsible for that," said the man, "and i can't prevent the hot-headed ones from violence. i know you won't join us, but i'm just friendly enough to give you a warning. don't go on duty to-day." "i certainly shall, if i am needed," replied ralph. "your union is in bad hands, and can't last." the man shrugged his shoulders and ralph passed on his way. a piece of coal came whizzing through the air a few minutes later from the vicinity of a crowd of loiterers. it knocked off the young fireman's cap. he picked it up and walked slowly on. when he came to the roundhouse, he found the doors shut. most of the windows in the place were broken in. several target rods near by lay on the ground, and at a glance ralph saw that considerable damage had been wrought during the night. "there must be a crisis soon," he said, and went to the roundhouse door. before he was admitted several stones rained about him, thrown from behind a pile of ties. inside, ralph found griscom and several others among the older engineers and firemen. all hands looked serious, the foreman particularly so. "glad you came," said forgan. "there's bad trouble brewing. the strike has reached the danger point. we can't run any regulars from the depot and won't try to to-day, but the limited mail must go to terminus. griscom is ready for the run; are you? the regular engineer and fireman say they won't risk their lives." "i did not see the train anywhere," observed ralph. "there is to be no regular train, only one postal and one express car. they will back down here in half-an-hour from the limits. here is a wire for you. came early this morning." with some surprise ralph read a brief telegram. it came from the headquarters of the great northern in the city, was signed by the president of the road, and read: "come to my office immediately on reaching terminus." ralph showed this to griscom. the situation was discussed by the men in the roundhouse, and the time passed by until a sharp whistle announced the arrival of the limited mail. as griscom and ralph went outside to relieve those temporarily in charge of the locomotive, they were pelted from several points with pieces of dirt, iron and coal. a crowd surged up to the engine. then a startling thing occurred that dispersed them more quickly than they had gathered. as if by magic there appeared on the platforms of the two coaches fully a dozen guards armed with rifles. the train now proceeded on its way without molestation. at the limits the guards left it to protect other railroad property. the only trouble experienced during the run was between afton and dover, when some missiles were thrown and two switches found spiked. when they reached the city, ralph tidied up and went to see the president of the road. mr. grant received him with a pleasant smile, beckoned him to a comfortable seat, and, closing the door of his private office, said: "fairbanks, we think a good deal of you, and i know you deserve that favorable opinion. there are many trusted and reliable men in our service, but they do not think as quickly as you do. you are familiar with people at stanley junction, and on that account i wish you to do an important service for us." "i shall be pleased to," said ralph. "it is this: some one is working against us, some one is undermining us. we now believe that the sympathetic strike, as it is called, is more the result of some plot than a genuine sentiment of unionism. a man named delmay, from the midland central, and a man named evans, a discharged employe of our road, are at the head of the movement. both are persons of bad record in every way." "i know that," murmured ralph. "we believe that these men are hired to promote the strike." "why, by whom, mr. grant?" inquired ralph in considerable surprise. "that we wish you to find out. all we suspect is that some outside party is inciting them to the strike to carry out some selfish personal ends. you must find out who he is. you must discover his motives." ralph was perplexed. he could not understand the situation at all. "i will do all i can in the line you suggest, sir," he said, "although i hardly know where to begin." "you will find a way to make your investigation," declared the president of the great northern. "i rely a great deal upon your ability already displayed in ferreting out mysteries, and on your good, solid, common sense in going to work cautiously and intelligently on a proposition. you can tell forgan you are relieved on special service and wire me personally when you make any discoveries." ralph arose to leave the room. "wait a moment," continued mr. grant, taking up an envelope. "i wish you to hand this to griscom. the limited mail will not make any return trip to-night. instead, a special will be ready for you. you need mention this to no one. that envelope contains sealed orders and is not to be opened until you start on your trip. the superintendent of the road will see you leave and will give you all further instructions needed." there was a certain air of mystery to this situation that perplexed ralph. he reported to griscom, who took the letter with a curious smile. "must be something extra going on down the road," he observed. "wonder what? start after dark, too. hello, i say--the pay car." they had come to the depot to observe an engine, two cars attached, and the superintendent standing on the platform conversing with a man attired in the garb of a fireman. the latter was a sturdy man of middle age, one of the best firemen on the road, as ralph knew. he nodded to griscom and ralph, while the superintendent said: "fairbanks, this man will relieve you on the run." ralph looked surprised. "why," he said, "then i am not to go on this trip?" "oh, yes," answered the official with a grim smile,--"that is, if you are willing, but it must be as a passenger." ralph glanced at the passenger coach. inside were half-a-dozen guards. "not in there," replied the superintendent, "we want you to occupy the pay car here. everything is ready for you." "all right," said ralph. "come on, then." the superintendent unlocked the heavy rear door of the pay car, led the way to the tightly sealed front compartment, and there ralph found a table, chair, cot, a pail of drinking water and some eatables. "you can make yourself comfortable," said the official. "there will probably be no trouble, but if there is, operate this wire." the speaker pointed to a wire running parallel with the bell rope to both ends of the train. on the table lay a rifle. the only openings in the car were small grated windows at either end. the official left the car, locking in ralph. the young fireman observed a small safe at one end of the car. "probably contains a good many thousands of dollars," he reflected. "well, here is a newspaper, and i shall try to pass the time comfortably." by getting on a chair and peering through the front ventilator, ralph could obtain a fair view of the locomotive. the train started up, and made good time the first thirty miles. then ralph knew from a halt and considerable switching that they were off the main rails. "why," he said, peering through the grating, "they have switched onto the old cut-off between dover and afton." that had really occurred, as the young fireman learned later. the officials of the road, it appeared, feared most an attack between those two points, and the sealed orders had directed griscom to take the old, unused route, making a long circuit to the main line again. ralph remembered going over this route once--rusted rails, sinking roadbed, watery wastes at places flooding the tracks. he kept at the grating most of the time now, wondering if griscom could pilot them through in safety. finally there was a whistle as if in response to a signal, then a sudden stop and then a terrible jar. ralph ran to the rear grating. "why," he cried, "the guard car has been detached, there are mr. griscom and the engineer in the ditch, and the locomotive and pay car running away." he could look along the tracks and observe all this. engineer and fireman had apparently been knocked from the cab. some one was on the rear platform of the pay car, a man who was now clambering to its roof. the guards ran out of the detached coach and fired after the stolen train, but were too late. rapidly the train sped along. ralph ran to the front grating. the locomotive was in strange hands and the tender crowded with strange men. "it's a plain case," said ralph. "these men have succeeded in stealing the pay car, and that little safe in the corner is what they are after." the train ran on through a desolate waste, then across a trestle built over a swampy stretch of land. at its center there was a jog, a rattle, the tracks gave way, and almost with a crash, the train came to a halt. it took some time to get righted again, and the train proceeded very slowly. ralph had done a good deal of thinking. he knew that soon the robbers would reach some spot where they would attack the pay car. "i must defeat their purpose," he said to himself. "i can't let myself out, but--the safe! a good idea." ralph settled upon a plan of action. he was busily engaged during the next half hour. when the train came to a final stop, there was an active scene about it. half-a-dozen men, securing tools from the locomotive, started to break in the door of the pay car. in this they soon succeeded. they went inside. the safe was the object of all their plotting and planning, but the safe was gone, and ralph fairbanks was nowhere in the pay car. chapter xviii the strike leader ralph felt that he had done a decidedly timely and clever act in outwitting the train robbers. he had left the car almost as it stopped, and under the cover of the dark night had gained the shelter of the timber lining the track. the young fireman waited until the men came rushing out of the car. they were dismayed and furious, and, leaving them in a noisy and excited consultation, ralph started back towards the trestle work. "they won't get the safe, that is sure," said the young railroader in tones of great satisfaction, as he hurried along in the pelting storm. "they will scarcely pursue me. it is pretty certain, however, that they will be pursued, and i may meet an engine before i reach dover." just as he neared the end of the trestle ralph saw at some distance the glint of a headlight. it was unsteady, indicating the uncertain character of the roadbed. "about two miles away," decided the young fireman. "i must manage to stop them." with considerable difficulty, ralph secured sufficient dry wood and leaves in among some bushes to start a fire between the rails and soon had a brisk blaze going. the headlight came nearer and nearer. a locomotive halted. ralph ran up to the cab. it contained griscom, the city fireman and two men armed with rifles. the old engineer peered keenly at the figure, quickly springing to the step of the engine. "you, lad?" he cried heartily. "i'm glad of that. where is the train?" "about two miles further on beyond the trestle." "and the pay car?" "the robbers were in possession when i left them." "then they will get away with the safe!" cried the engineer excitedly. "hardly," observed ralph, with a smile. "eh, lad, what do you mean?" "what i say. truth is, i saw what was coming. there was only one thing to do. there were tools in the car. i sawed a hole through the floor of the car, rolled the safe to it, and dumped it through. it went between two rotten ties, and lies in the swamp--safe." with a shout of delight old john griscom slapped his young assistant admiringly on the shoulder. "fairbanks," he cried, "you're a jewel! mate," to the fireman, "this is glad news." "it is, indeed," said his companion. "i wouldn't like the record of losing that safe. can you locate the spot, fairbanks?" "it may take some trouble," answered ralph. "the best thing to do is to get a wrecking car here; meantime, the trestle should be guarded." they ran on and up to the spot where the stolen train was halted, but found the vicinity deserted. it seemed that whatever the robbers had guessed out as to the mystery of the safe, they did not consider there was any chance of recovering it. the two men armed with rifles remained at the trestle, while the others took the stolen pay car back to dover. once there, griscom kept the wires busy for a time. about daylight a wrecking crew was made up. ralph accompanied them to the scene of the attempted robbery. he could fairly estimate the locality of the sunken safe, and some abrasions of the ties finally indicated the exact spot where the safe had gone through into the water below. it was grappled for, found, and before noon that day the pay car train arrived at stanley junction with the safe aboard. affairs at the terminal town were still in an unsettled condition. the presence of armed guards prevented wholesale attacks on the railroad property, but there were many assaults on workmen at lonely spots, switches tampered with and shanty windows broken in. ralph reported to tim forgan and then went home. he went to sleep at once, awoke refreshed about the middle of the afternoon, and then told his mother all the occurrences of that day and the preceding one. while mrs. fairbanks was pleased at the confidence reposed in her son by the railroad authorities, she was considerably worried at the constant turmoil and dangers of the present railroad situation. ralph, however, assured her that he would take care of himself, and left the house trying to form some plan to follow out the instructions of the president of the great northern. he could not go among the strikers, and without doing so, or sending a spy among them, it would be difficult to ascertain their motives and projects. coming around a street corner, the young fireman halted abruptly. a procession of strikers was coming down the street. they were a noisy, turbulent mob, cheered on by like rowdyish sympathizers lining the pavements. "why, impossible!" exclaimed ralph, as he noticed by the side of jim evans, the leader of the crowd, his young friend, zeph dallas. the latter seemed to share the excitement of the paraders. he acted as if he gloried in being a striker, and the familiar way evans treated him indicated that the latter regarded him as a genuine, first-class recruit. zeph caught ralph's eye and then looked quickly away. the young fireman was dreadfully disappointed in the farmer boy. he went at once to the roundhouse, where the foreman told him that zeph had deserted the afternoon previous. "i don't understand it," said forgan. "the lad seemed to hate the strikers for attacking him the other night. i suppose, though, it's with him like a good many others--there's lots of 'relief money' being given out, and that's the bait that catches them." "i must manage to see zeph," mused ralph. "i declare, i can hardly believe he is really on their side. i wonder how near i dare venture to the headquarters of that mob." the young fireman went to the vicinity of the hall occupied by the strikers, but he did not meet zeph. then ralph proceeded to the business portion of stanley junction. he visited the bank and several other leading local business institutions. he made a great many inquiries and he felt that he was on the edge of some important discoveries. when he got home he found zeph sitting on the porch, smiling as ever. ralph nodded seriously to him. zeph grinned outright. "what's that kind of a welcome for, eh?" he demanded. "sorry to see you in the ranks of the strikers to-day, zeph," observed ralph. "ought to be glad." "what?" "i suppose a fellow is free to follow out his convictions, isn't he?" "certainly." "well, i'm following out mine," declared zeph--"the conviction that of all the mean rascals in this burg, jim evans is the meanest. see here, fairbanks, have you lost your wits? do you really for one minute suppose i sympathize with those fellows?" "you seemed pretty close to evans." "grand!" chuckled zeph. "that's just what i was working for. see here, i made up my mind that those fellows were up to more mischief than what they have already done. i concluded there was something under the surface of this pretended strike. i wanted to find out. i have." ralph looked very much interested now. he began to see the light. "go on, zeph," he said. "well, i found out just what i suspected--some one is furnishing the strikers with money, and lots of it." "do you know who it is?" "i don't, but i do know one thing: every day evans goes to the office of a certain lawyer in town here. they have a long consultation. evans always comes away very much satisfied and with more money." "what's the lawyer's name, zeph?" inquired ralph. "bartlett." just then they were called in to supper by mrs. fairbanks. ralph was silent and thoughtful during most of the meal. the young fireman had learned that afternoon that a stranger named bartlett had been buying up all the stock of the railroad he could secure. the man was not in good repute at stanley junction. he had come there only the week previous, ralph was told, and occupied a mean little room in the main office building of the town. after supper ralph strolled down town. he entered the building in question and ascended its stairs. he knew the occupants of most of the offices, and finally located a room which contained a light but had no sign on the door. footsteps ascending the stairs caused the young fireman to draw back into the shadow. a man came into view and knocked noisily at the closed door. "here i am, bartlett," said the fellow, lurching about in an unsteady way. "i see you are," responded the man inside the room, "primed for work, too, it seems to me." ralph could not repress some excitement. the man bartlett he instantly recognized as the person who had delivered to him in the city the papers from gasper farrington. his visitor he knew to be a discharged telegraph operator of the great northern. "yes," said the latter, as the door closed on him, "i'm ready for work, so bring on your wire-tapping scheme soon as you like." chapter xix the wire tappers when the door of the office that ralph was watching closed again and was locked, the young fireman approached the room. he was very sure that some important move against the railroad was meditated by the two men he had just seen, and he was anxious to overhear their conversation if possible. to his intense satisfaction ralph found that a coal box rested under the clouded-glass window of the office looking into the hallway. this window was down from the top some inches. ralph clambered up on the coal box, got to the side of the window, fixed his eye at a small space where the glass was broken, and prepared to listen to the words of the two men he had in view. both sat in chairs now. bartlett looked brisk and pleased; the ex-telegraph operator was unkempt, rather sullen, and acted like a man under orders on some unpleasant duty. "well, morris," said the former, "all ready, are you? tools and wire in that bag?" "batteries and all, complete outfit," responded the other. "what's the programme?" "you haven't mentioned about my employing you to any one?" "certainly not." "and have arranged to stay away from town for several days?" "a week, if you like, at ten dollars a day you promised me," answered morris. "very good. let me see. there's a train about o'clock." "there is, if the strikers will let it run out," said morris. "oh, they will. i have arranged all that," chuckled bartlett. "they'll even help it on, knowing i'm aboard." "that so?" muttered morris. "you must have a pull somewhere." "i have, or at least money has, and i control the money," grinned bartlett. "you are to come with me down the line about twenty miles. you'll be told then about this special job." bartlett got up and bustled about. he packed a great many papers in a satchel, and finally announced that they had better be starting for the depot. "any little by-play you see on the train," said bartlett, "help along, mind you." "why, what do you mean?" inquired morris. "you'll see when we get there," replied bartlett enigmatically. when they reached the depot the two men got aboard the one passenger coach of the night accommodation. there was a combination express car ahead. ralph went to the messenger in charge and arranged to have free access to do as he desired. when the train started up, he opened the rear door of the car and commanded a clear view into the passenger coach. the men he was watching sat side by side, engaged in conversation. there were only a few passengers aboard. ralph kept his eye on the two men. he noticed that bartlett consulted his watch frequently and glanced as often from the car window. finally, when the brakeman was out on the rear platform and the conductor at the front of the coach, the young fireman saw bartlett quickly draw a small screwdriver from his pocket. hiding its handle in his palm and letting the blade run along one finger, he dropped his arm down the seat rail into the middle of the aisle. morris watched towards the rear platform, bartlett kept his eye on the conductor. his hand worked against the floor of the car. finally he drew up his arm, put the screwdriver in his pocket and once more resumed his watch on the outside landscape. there was a sharp signal, and the train gave a jerk. bartlett arose to his feet. the next instant he fell flat headlong, and lay apparently insensible on the floor of the coach. the conductor ran outside. the train started up again. ralph, from the open doorway, heard the engineer shout back something about a false signal, presumably the work of the strikers. the train proceeded on its way. it was not until then, as he re-entered the coach, that the conductor became aware of the prostrate man on the floor and morris and other passengers gathering around him in excitement and solicitude. ralph ventured across the platform near to the door of the passenger coach. bartlett, seemingly unconscious, was lifted to a seat. he soon opened his eyes, but feigned intense pain in his side, and acted the injured man to perfection. he began to explain, pointing to the floor. the conductor investigated. ralph saw him draw a long brass screw into sight. "a clever game," murmured the young fireman. "what a rascal the fellow is! he is laying the foundation for a damage suit." morris made himself busy, taking the names of witnesses. when the train stopped, bartlett had to be almost lifted from the coach. ralph alighted, too, and kept in the shadow. as soon as the train left, bartlett was able to walk about unassisted. the little town they had arrived at was dark and silent, and the two men met no one as they proceeded down its principal street. then they turned to the south and walked a distance of about a mile. there was a kind of a grove lining the railroad. at its center they reached a lonely hut. "open up, there!" shouted bartlett, pounding on its door with a stick he had picked up. a light soon showed through the cracks of the board shutters. "who is there?" demanded a voice from the inside. "bartlett." "all right--come in." "gasper farrington," murmured ralph, as he recognized the occupant of the hut. it was the magnate of stanley junction, still disguised, just as he had been the last night ralph had seen him at the home of jim evans. the three men disappeared within the house. ralph approached and went cautiously about the place. he could not find a single point where he could look into the hut. the young fireman felt that it was very important that he should learn what was going on within the house. he at length discovered a way of gaining access to at least one part of it. this was at the rear where a high stack of old hay stood. it almost touched the hut, and its top was very near to a sashless aperture in the attic. ralph scaled the stack with some difficulty and reached its top. in another moment he was inside the attic. it was low, the rafters were few and far between, and, as he crept over these, they began to sway and creak in an alarming way. "this won't do at all," murmured the youth in some dismay, for it seemed that one more movement would carry down the entire ceiling below. he tried to retreat. there was a great cracking sound, and before he could help himself the young fireman went sprawling into the room below in the midst of a shower of plaster and laths. "hello!" shouted bartlett, jumping up from a chair in consternation. "i should say so," exclaimed morris, dodging about out of the way of falling bits of plaster from the ceiling. "a spy!" cried farrington, "a spy! why, it's ralph fairbanks!" the young fireman stood surrounded by the three men, trying to clear his half-blinded eyes. he was seized and hustled about, thrown into a chair, and regained his wonted composure to find gasper farrington confronting him with an angry face. "so, it's you, is it--you, again?" spoke the latter, gazing at ralph with a glance full of ill will. "yes," responded the youth. "i can't deny it very well, can i?" "how do you come to be up in that attic? how long have you been there? what are you up to, anyway?" shouted the excited farrington. "don't ask me any questions for i shall not answer them," retorted ralph nervily. "here i am. make the best of it." "see here," said bartlett, a deep frown on his face. "this looks bad for us. morris, watch that young fellow a minute or two." he and farrington went into the next room. there was a low-toned consultation. when they came back the lawyer carried a piece of rope in his hand. it was useless for ralph to resist, and the three men soon had him securely bound. he was carried into a small adjoining room, thrown on a rude mattress, and locked in. for nearly half-an-hour he could hear the drone of low voices in the adjoining room. then the door was unlocked, and farrington came in with a light and made sure that the captive was securely bound. "you are going to leave here, then?" asked bartlett. "don't i have to?" demanded farrington. "this fellow has located us. i'll take you and morris to the place i told you about, and move my traps out of here early in the morning." "what are you going to do with fairbanks?" inquired bartlett. "i'm thinking about that," retorted farrington in a grim way. "it's the chance of a lifetime to settle with him. you leave that to me." the speakers, shortly after this, left the hut with morris. ralph found he could not release himself, and patiently awaited developments. his captors had left the light in the next room and the door open, and he could see on a table the satchel the lawyer had brought with him from his office. the sight of it caused ralph to make renewed efforts for freedom. he strained at his bonds strenuously. finally a strand gave way. it was just as he began to take hope that he might acquire his liberty before his captors returned, that a sudden disaster occurred that made the young fireman fear for his life. some more of the ceiling plastering fell. it struck the lamp on the table, upset it, and in an instant the room was ablaze. chapter xx in peril the young fireman gave a great shout of distress and excitement as he realized that he was in a decidedly perilous predicament. the oil of the lamp had ignited and the hut seemed doomed. ralph tugged at his bonds in a frenzy. another strand of the rope gave way, then another, and still another. he trembled with mingled surprise and hope. could he get free in time? it seemed not, for the flames were spreading fast and furiously. suddenly there was a shout outside of the hut. it was repeated, and then there came a great crash at the door. ralph wondered at this, for he could think only of farrington and his accomplices returning to the rescue. the loud pounding on the door, however, indicated that the persons engaged in it had no key. there was more than one person; ralph ascertained this from the sound of mingled voices. suddenly the door gave way. it was burst bodily from its hinges and went crashing against the blazing table, upsetting it. at just that moment ralph got one arm free. he was about to shout for assistance when he recognized the intruders. they were ike slump and mort bemis. both dashed into the blazing room. one found a pail of water and threw it in among the flames. this subdued the blaze partially. "be quick!" cried slump to his companion. "grab all you can. you have been watching the place, and say you know where old farrington is likely to hide his valuables." "right here," replied bemis, tearing open the door of a cupboard. "here's a satchel." "and here's another one," said ike slump, picking up the one that bartlett had brought to the place. "look sharp, now. they may come back at any moment." the two marauders ransacked the room. ralph refrained from calling out to them. he could now reach his pocket knife, and just as slump and bemis, pretty well singed by the flames, ran out of the hut, he hurried to a rear door and darted outside as well. the young fireman peered around the corner of the hut. he saw slump and bemis making for the nearest timber. ralph put after them, and as he gained the cover of the woods, looking back, he made out three figures dashing towards the blazing hut. "farrington and the others," decided ralph. "this is an exciting business. now to keep track of slump and bemis. i can hardly figure out, though, how they came to rob the hut, for farrington was once their friend." the precious pair of thieves scurried along through the woods, laughing and talking gleefully over the plunder they had secured. they must have gone over three miles before they halted. it was at a spot in among high bushes. here they had evidently been camping previously, for there was a lot of hay on the ground, the signs of a recent campfire, and a sort of roof of bark overhead for shelter from rain and dew. they sat down on the ground and slump proceeded to light a lantern. "your watching has amounted to something at last, mort," said slump. "farrington went back on us in a measly way. why, after all we did for him he took up with jim evans and others, and even refused me a few dollars when we were in hiding and trouble after that silk robbery. here's our revenge. he's been up to some deep game for a week. he'll never know who stole this plunder." "find how much of it there is," suggested bemis. each took up a satchel to investigate the contents. ralph was intensely interested. he peered from a safe covert near at hand. "well, well, well!" exclaimed slump as he opened the satchel taken from the cupboard of the old hut. "why, there's a fortune here, if we can only handle it. bonds of the great northern, stock in the great northern. see? some money--notes, mortgages, deeds! this is a big find." "same here, except the money," reported bemis, investigating the documents in the satchel brought from stanley junction by bartlett. "mostly railroad stock in the great northern. private letters, lists of names of the strikers. memoranda about some wire-tapping scheme. say, these papers are enough to send the old skeesicks to the penitentiary. he'll pay a fortune to get them back." slump pocketed the ready cash in the satchel. then he was silently thoughtful for a few moments. "see here, i have my scheme," he said finally. "we'll carry these satchels down to the old barge at the creek, and hide them there. then we'll block out some plan to work farrington for their return." "all right," said bemis. "come ahead." they took up the satchels and started on again, and ralph followed them as before. they came to a creek, and, after lining its shore for nearly a mile, to a large roughly-made scow. both boarded the craft, disappeared in its hold, reappeared, and came to the shore again. "we'll just enjoy the ready cash for the time being," said slump, "and later find out a safe way to deal with farrington." when they had gone, ralph went aboard the scow. a scuttle led down into its hold. its cover was closed with a strong spring bolt. ralph drew this back and sat over the edge of the scuttle. he peered down, prepared to push the cover clear back, when he slipped and went below head-long. the cover fell tightly shut, and he was a prisoner. ralph did not mind this much at the time. he believed he could readily force up the cover in some way when he wanted to leave the scow. he lit some matches and proceeded to search for the two satchels. he found them in a remote corner of the hold. it was when he prepared to leave the hold that the young fireman discovered himself in a decided quandary. he could barely reach the scuttle cover, and there was not an object in the hold that he could use to force it open. finally ralph decided that he could not hope for escape in that direction. there was a little window at one end of the scow, but it was too small to escape by. ralph was compelled to accept the situation, at least until daylight. he tried to sleep, and at dawn looked out from the window. "i will simply have to wait here until some one passes by," he told himself. "in the meantime, though, slump and bemis may return. can i reach the rope holding the scow to the shore?" this was secured around a tree stump. ralph reached with his pocket knife through the window, and began cutting at the scow end of the rope, which ran just above it. in a few minutes the strands gave way and the scow floated down the creek. chapter xxi a friend in need there was a sluggish current to the creek and as soon as the scow got into midstream, it proceeded steadily on its voyage. "this is better than staying at the old mooring place," reasoned ralph. "of course, slump and bemis will return there and search for the scow. before they do, i hope i will have drifted past some house or settlement where i can call out for assistance." ralph, however, was not destined to meet with ready relief. the scow floated along banks wild and timbered, and, during a vigilant watch at the little window of over two hours, he saw no human being or habitation. finally the scow slowed up, its course became irregular, it bumped into some obstacle, turned around, and ralph discovered the cause of the stoppage. a mass of logs and other debris had formed clear across the creek at one point. this the scow lined, edging slowly along as if drawn by some counter-current. in a few minutes the craft had worked its way into a cut-off from the creek. it floated slowly in among a swampy wilderness of reeds and stunted trees, came to halt at a shallow, and there remained stationary. "why, this is worse than being in the creek," ruminated ralph, with some concern. "there was a chance of hailing some one there sooner or later, but in this isolated spot i stand the risk of starving to death." the young fireman was both hungry and thirsty. he made another desperate attempt to force the scuttle, but found it an utter impossibility. then he took out his pocket knife. there was one last chance of escape in sight. if he could cut the wood away around the bolt of the scuttle cover, he might force it open. ralph could not work to any advantage, for the top of the hold was fully a foot above his head. however, patiently and hopefully he began his task. bit by bit, the splinters and shavings of wood dropped about him. "too bad, that ends it," he exclaimed suddenly, as there was a sharp snap and the knife blade broke in two. the situation was now a very serious one. ralph tried to view things calmly, but he was considerably worried. he was somewhat encouraged, however, a little later, as he noticed that along the dry land lining the swampy cut-off there were signs of a rough wagon road. "all i can do now is to watch and wait," he declared. "i guess i will take a look over the contents of those satchels." once started at the task, ralph became greatly interested. he was amazed at what the documents before him revealed of the plans and villainies of old gasper farrington. there was evidence enough, indeed, as slump had said, to send the village magnate to the penitentiary. "this information will be of great value to the railroad people," said ralph. "it would enable them to at once break the strike." "whoa!" ralph gave utterance to a cry of delight and surprise. he ran to the little window of the scow. not fifty feet away was a horse and wagon. its driver had shouted out the word to halt. now he dismounted and was arranging a part of the harness where it had come loose. "hello, there! joe! joe! hurry this way!" fairly shouted ralph. "hi, who's that, where are you?" demanded the person hailed. "in the scow. ralph! locked in! get me out!" "i declare! it can't be ralph. well! well!" nimbly as his crutches would allow him, limpy joe came towards the scow. he halted as he neared the window where he could make out the anxious face of his friend. "what are you ever doing there? how did you get in there? why, this is wonderful, my finding you in this way," cried the cripple. "i'll tell you all that when i get out," promised ralph. "all you have to do is to spring back the bolt catch on the cover to the hold scuttle." "i'll soon have you out then," said joe, and with alacrity he waded into the water, got aboard the old craft, and in another minute ralph had lifted himself free of his prison place. "whew! what a relief," aspirated the young fireman joyfully. "joe, it is easy explaining how i came to be here--the natural sequence of events--but for you to be on hand to save me is marvelous." "i don't see why," said joe. "i have been coming here for the last three days." "what for?" inquired ralph. "business, strictly." "mother told me you had taken the horse and wagon and had gone off on a peddling trip," said ralph. "yes, i sold out a lot of cheap shoes to farmers which i got at a bargain at an auction," explained joe. "then i struck a fine new scheme. it brought me here. i'll explain to you later. your story is the one that interests me. tell me how you came to be in that scow, ralph." the young fireman brought up the two satchels from the hold of the old craft, and briefly related to joe the incidents of his experience with farrington, slump and the others. "i say, you have done a big thing in getting those satchels," said joe, "and you want to place them in safe hands at once. come ashore, and i'll drive you to the nearest railroad town. you don't want to risk meeting any of your enemies until you have those papers out of their reach." when they came up to the wagon, ralph gazed at its piled-up contents in surprise. the wagon bottom was filled with walnuts and butternuts. there must have been over twelve bushels of them. on top of them was spread a lot of damp rushes and all kinds of wild flowers, mosses and grasses. two large mud turtles lay under the wagon seat. "why, what does all that layout mean?" exclaimed ralph, in amazement. "that," said little joe, with sparkling eyes, "is an advertising scheme. some time ago i discovered the finest nut grove in the timber yonder you ever saw. i suppose i could in time have gathered up a hundred wagon loads of them. i intend to make a heap of money out of them. a couple of days ago, though, i thought out a great idea. you know woods, the dry goods man at the junction?" "yes," nodded ralph. "he is a wide-awake, enterprising fellow, and i told him of my scheme. it caught his fancy at once. the plan was this: every week, i am to trim up his show window with what we call 'a nature feature.' we keep pace with vegetation. this week we show a swamp outfit; next week pumpkins and the like; the following week autumn leaves. we work in live objects like turtles to give motion to the scene. do you catch on?" "it is an excellent idea and will attract lots of attention," declared ralph. "you bet it will," assented his comrade with enthusiasm. "anyhow, my pay is fine and i expect to work other towns in the same way. i will show you the most artistic display window you ever saw when i get this load of truck to town." in about two hours they reached a railroad station, and somewhat later ralph caught a train for the city. he went at once to the office of the president of the great northern. there was a long interview. as ralph left the railroad magnate his face was pleased and his heart light and hopeful. "fairbanks," said mr. grant, "i cannot express my satisfaction at your discoveries. it is as we supposed--some individual has been encouraging the strikers. there are ample proofs among these papers of the fact that gasper farrington has hired the strikers to commit all kinds of misdeeds to scare stockholders of the road. he has thus been enabled to buy up their stock at a reduced figure, to make an enormous profit when the strike is over. he had a scheme to tap our wires and cause further complications and trouble. within a week the backbone of the strike will be broken, and we shall not forget your agency in assisting us to win out." ralph went back to stanley junction that same day. he related all his varied adventures to his mother that evening. "one thing i discovered from those documents in the satchels," said ralph. "farrington has transferred all his property to bartlett so we could not collect the money he owes us." "then we shall lose our twenty thousand dollars after all," said mrs. fairbanks anxiously. "wait and see," replied ralph, with a mysterious smile. "i am not yet through with gasper farrington." chapter xxii the limited mail "all aboard!" the conductor of the limited mail gave the signal cheerily. ralph swung in from his side of the cab on the crack locomotive of the road. old john griscom gave a chuckle of delight and the trip to the city began. it was ten days after the adventure in the scow--ten days full of activity and progress in the railroad interests of the great northern. this was the morning when old-time schedules were resumed and every part of the machinery of the line went back to routine. "i tell you, lad, it feels good to start out with clear tracks and the regular system again. i'm proud of you, fairbanks. you did up those strikers in fine style, and it will be a long time before we shall have any more trouble in that line." "i hope so, mr. griscom," said ralph. "the company seems determined to teach the strikers a lesson." this was true. immediately after the visit of ralph to the city, the railroad people had set at work to make the most of the evidence in their hands. a statement of the facts they had discovered was given to the public, a series of indictments found against gasper farrington, bartlett, jim evans and others, and a vigorous prosecution for conspiracy was begun. among the most important witnesses against them was zeph dallas. farrington and bartlett disappeared. evans and the others were sent to jail. a great revulsion in popular sentiment occurred when the true details of the strike movement were made known. the respectable element of the old union had scored a great victory, and work was resumed with many undesirable employes on the blacklist. it seemed to ralph now as though all unfavorable obstacles in the way of his success had been removed. he believed that slump and bemis were powerless to trouble him farther. as to farrington, ralph expected at some time to see that wily old schemer again, for the railroad was in possession of papers of value to the discredited railroad magnate. ralph had now become quite an expert at his work as a fireman. there was no grumbling at any time from the veteran engineer, for ralph had a system in his work which showed always in even, favorable results. the locomotive was in splendid order and a finer train never left stanley junction. at many stations cheers greeted this practical announcement of the end of the strike. there was no jar nor break on the route until they reached a station near afton. the engine was going very fast, when, turning a curve, griscom uttered a shout and turned the throttle swiftly. "too late!" he gasped hoarsely. the young fireman had seen what griscom saw. it was an alarming sight. at a street crossing a baby carriage was slowly moving down an incline. a careless nurse was at some distance conversing with a companion. the shrill shriek of the whistle caused her to discover the impending disaster, but she had become too terrified to move. ralph readily saw that speed would not be greatly diminished by the time the locomotive overtook the child in the baby carriage, and in a flash he acted. he was out on the running board and onto the cowcatcher so quickly that he seemed fairly to fly. grasping a bracket, the young fireman poised for a move that meant life or death for the imperiled child. the locomotive pounded the rails and shivered under the pressure of the powerful air brakes. ralph swung far down, one hand extended. the baby carriage had rolled directly between the rails and stood there motionless. it contained a beautiful child, who, with an innocent smile, greeted the approaching monster of destruction as if it were some great, pleasing toy. ralph's heart was in his throat. "grab out!" yelled griscom, fairly beside himself with fear and suspense. the young fireman's eyes were dilated, his whole frame trembled. quick as lightning his hand shot out. it met in a bunch of the clothing of the child. he lifted; the vehicle lifted, too, for a strap held in its occupant. there was a terrific tension on the arm of the young railroader. the lower part of the vehicle was crunched under the cowcatcher and the child was almost borne away with it. then the pressure lightened. with a great breath of relief and joy ralph drew the child towards him, tangled up in the wreckage of the baby carriage. the train stopped. griscom did not say a word as they backed down. his face was white, his eyes startled, his breath came hard, but he gave his intrepid young assistant a look of approbation and devotion that thrilled ralph to the heart. a crowd had gathered around the distracted nurse at the street crossing. she was hysterical as the rescued child was placed in safety in her arms. other women were crying. a big policeman arrived on the scene. griscom gave the particulars of the occurrence. "name, please?" said the officer to ralph. "oh, that isn't necessary at all," said ralph. "isn't it? do you know whose child that is?" "no," said ralph. "the father is judge graham, the richest man in the town. why, he'd hunt the world over to find you. a lucky fellow you are." ralph gave his name and the train proceeded on its way amid the cheers of the passengers, who had learned of the brave act of the young fireman. when terminus was reached, a fine-looking old lady approached the locomotive. "mr. fairbanks," she said to ralph, "the passengers desire you to accept a slight testimonial of their appreciation of your bravery in saving that young child." ralph flushed modestly. "this looks like being paid for doing a simple duty," he said, as the lady extended an envelope. "not at all, mr. fairbanks. it was a noble act, and we all love you for it." "i think more of that sentiment than this money," declared ralph. the envelope contained fifty dollars. griscom told the story of the rescue all over stanley junction next day, and the local newspapers made quite an article of it. the next morning ralph had just completed his breakfast, when his mother went to the front door to answer the bell. she showed some one into the parlor and told ralph that a gentleman wished to see him. the young fireman was somewhat astonished, upon entering the parlor, to be grasped by the hand and almost embraced by a stranger. "i am judge graham," spoke the latter, in a trembling, excited tone. "young man, you saved the life of my only child." "i was glad to," said ralph modestly. the judge went on with a description of the joy and gratitude of the mother of the child, of his sentiments towards ralph, and concluded with the words: "and now, mr. fairbanks, i wish to reward you." "that has been done already," said ralph, "in your gracious words to me." "not at all, not at all," declared the judge. "come, don't be modest. i am a rich man." "and i a rich mother in having so noble a son," spoke mrs. fairbanks, with deep emotion. "you must not think of a reward, sir. he will not take it." after a while the judge left the house, but he did so with an insistent and significant declaration that "he would not forget" ralph. the young fireman was surprised to see him returning a few minutes later, in the company of two of his own friends, mr. trevor, the nephew of the president of the great northern, and van sherwin. "well, this is a queer meeting," cried van with enthusiasm, as they entered the house. "here we met judge graham, who is a great friend of mr. trevor, and the very man we wished to see." this statement was soon explained. it appeared that mr. trevor had fully recovered his health, and had come to stanley junction with van to make preparations to issue and sell the bonds of the short cut railroad. the judge was one of the friends he had intended to interview about buying some bonds. for an hour young trevor recited to judge graham the prospects of the little railway line and their plans regarding the same. ralph was fascinated at his glowing descriptions of its great future. ralph's visitors went away, but in a short time van returned to the cottage. "i say, ralph," he remarked, "judge graham is going to invest in those bonds." "that's good," said ralph. "and i heard him tell mr. trevor to put down an extra block of them in the name of ralph fairbanks." chapter xxiii the picnic train zeph dallas had returned to work. his connection with the strikers had been fully explained to the railroad people by ralph, and the farmer boy was readily taken back into the service of the company. zeph boarded with mrs. fairbanks, and limpy joe did, too, when he was in stanley junction. the enterprising joe was winning his way famously. his advertising scheme was a grand success, and the nuts he gathered brought in a good many dollars. one day he came to town to announce that he was going to move his traps, thanking mrs. fairbanks for her great kindness to him in the past. "are you going to leave the junction permanently, joe?" asked ralph. "i think so," answered the cripple. "you see, i have been up to the headquarters of the short line railroad. they can use my horse and wagon. they offer me a good salary to cook for them, and the concession of running a restaurant when their line is completed." "a good opportunity, that, joe," said ralph, "although the main prospect you mention is far in the future, isn't it?" "not at all," declared joe. "i guess you haven't kept track of proceedings in the barrens. their telegraph line is clear through, both ways from headquarters now. the bonds are nearly all sold, and they expect to begin to lay the rails in earnest next week." "i noticed a good deal of activity at our end of the line," said ralph. "i think the scheme is going to be a success. i almost wish i was going to work with you fellows." it was now drawing on towards late fall. for several weeks the young fireman had not been disturbed by his enemies. work had gone on smoothly. he was learning more and more every day, and his savings amounted to quite a pretentious sum. the only outside issue that troubled ralph was the fact that they had not yet recovered the twenty thousand dollars due his mother from old gasper farrington. that individual had disappeared. ralph kept a sharp lookout, for upon finding the magnate and bringing him to terms depended the last chance of getting the money. there was the last picnic of the season one day, and ralph had been assigned to duty to look after things generally. he was surprised when forgan took him off the run of the limited mail. "it will be a sort of vacation holiday for you, lad," said the roundhouse foreman. "we want somebody reliable to look after the train, with so many women and children aboard. you will be boss over the engineer, fireman and the whole train crew for the day." "quite an important commission," said ralph, "but what will the train crew say about it?" "oh, they will be glad to work with the responsibility on somebody else. here is the schedule. be careful of your running time, fairbanks. i wouldn't have anything happen to the picnic train for worlds." ralph studied out the situation. when the train left stanley junction he took a position in the locomotive, attended to reports at all stations they passed, and the train reached the picnic grounds in safety and was run on the siding. ralph gave himself up to the enjoyment of a real holiday. he knew nearly everybody on the picnic grounds and nearly everybody there knew him. about the middle of the afternoon a boy living at the junction came up to him. "say, ralph," he remarked, tendering the young fireman a note. "a fellow out in the woods gave me this for you." ralph took the missive, and, opening it, read its contents with mingled surprise and suspicion. the note ran: "if r. f. wants to hear of something to his advantage, come to the old railroad bridge right away." there was no signature to the scrawl, but ralph quite naturally thought of ike slump and his crowd. that did not, however, deter him from going to keep the appointment. he cut a stout cudgel and proceeded to the old railroad bridge named in the note. the young fireman glanced keenly about him, but for some time did not get a view of anybody in the vicinity. finally from a clump of bushes up the incline a handkerchief waved. ralph climbed the embankment to find himself facing ike slump. the latter was ragged and starved-looking. to ralph it appeared that the ex-roundhouse boy had been having a decidedly hard time of it recently. "you needn't carry any stick around here," said slump, sullenly. "you needn't be afraid of me." "not at all," answered ralph, "although your actions in the past would warrant my having a whole battery around me." "that's done with," asserted slump, quite meekly. "bemis is up there a little ways. you needn't be afraid of him, either." "what are you getting at with all this talk, ike?" inquired ralph. "why, we want to be friends." "what for?" "because--because we're tired of starving and being hunted and the like," said slump. "you have won out, we are beaten. we want to work together." "i declare i don't understand what you are driving at," said ralph. "come, ike slump, play no more crafty games. it don't pay. be honest and straight. what did you bring me here for?" "to make some money for both of us." "in what way?" "you would give a good deal to find gasper farrington, wouldn't you, now?" "i certainly am anxious to locate that man, yes," answered ralph frankly. "all right, we know where he is." "and you are willing to make amends, i suppose, for your past misconduct by telling me where farrington is to be found, so that i can have him arrested." "well, i guess not!" cried mort bemis, coming upon the scene. "we want pay for what we do. we want a hundred dollars to begin with. a lot more when you get that money he owes you." "my friends," said ralph, promptly turning from the spot. "not a cent. i don't believe you know how to act square. you don't show it by your present proposition. if you really want to be helped, and if you are sorry for your past wrong doing, come back to stanley junction, tell the truth, take your punishment like men, and i will be your good friend." "well, you're a bold one," sneered slump, getting very angry. "you won't help us out, then?" "with money--on your promise? no. i shall find gasper farrington finally without your aid, and, if you have nothing further to say, i shall return to the picnic grounds." "i don't think you will," said bemis, roughly placing himself in ralph's path. "why not?" inquired the young fireman calmly, grasping his cudgel with a closer grip. "because--say, ike, grab him, quick! if he won't deal with us and we can get him a prisoner, farrington will pay us. you know he always wanted to get rid of him." ralph prepared to meet the enemy squarely. slump and bemis rushed towards him. before they could begin the fight, however, a man burst through the underbrush whom ralph recognized as a stanley junction police officer detailed on picnic duty. "found you, my friends, have i?" he hailed the two fellows. "grab one of them, fairbanks, i've got the other. i was on the lookout for them. they stole a purse from the basket of an old lady in the picnic grounds a few hours ago. slump? bemis? well, you are a fine pair, you are!" the officer insisted on arresting them, the more so that upon recognizing them now he suddenly remembered that a reward had been offered for their apprehension by the railroad company. the crestfallen plotters were taken to the train and locked up in one end of the express car. ralph went to them after a spell and tried to learn something more from them, but they were now sullen and vengeful. in due time the train was backed down to the main track, the engine detached made a run for water, and, returning, stood some little distance from the cars. the fireman and engineer left the engine to help their families gather up their traps and take them aboard the train. ralph was busy in the cab. he was looking over the gauges when a sudden blow from behind stretched him insensible on the coal of the tender. as he slowly opened his eyes ralph saw slump and bemis in the cab. in some way they had escaped, had stolen the locomotive, and were speeding away to liberty. "just heard a whistle. it must be the dover accommodation," slump was remarking. "get off and open the siding switch, mort." this bemis did, and the engine started up again. ralph thrilled at the words slump had spoken. he was weak and dizzy-headed, but he made a desperate effort, staggered to his feet and sprang from the cab. had the locomotive remained at the picnic grounds, the train would have been switched to the siding again until the accommodation passed. as it was, unwarned, the accommodation would crash into the train. ralph heard its whistle dangerously near. he looked up and down the tracks. ahead, a bridge crossed the tracks, and near it was a framework with leather pendants to warn freight brakemen in the night time. towards this ralph ran swiftly. weak as he was, he managed to scale the framework, gained its center, and sat there panting, poised for the most desperate action of his young career. the accommodation train came into view. ralph sat transfixed, knowing that he would soon face death, but unmindful of the fact in the hope that his action would save the lives of those aboard the picnic train. the accommodation neared him. the young fireman got ready to drop. he let go, crashed past the roof of the cab, and landed between the astonished engineer and fireman. "the picnic train--on the main, stop your locomotive!" he panted, and fainted dead away. chapter xxiv in "the barrens" ralph fairbanks had taken a terrible risk, and had met with his first serious accident since he had commenced his career as a young fireman. when he next opened his eyes he was lying in his own bed, a doctor and his mother bending solicitously over him. slowly reason returned to him. he stared wonderingly about him and tried to arise. a terrible pain in his feet caused him to subside. then ralph realized that he had suffered some serious injury from his reckless drop into the locomotive cab near the picnic grounds. "what is it, doctor?" he asked faintly. "a bad hurt in one arm and some ugly bruises. it is a wonder you were not crippled for life, or killed outright." "the train--the picnic train!" cried ralph, clearly remembering now the incidents of the stolen engine. "the accommodation stopped in time to avert a disaster," said mrs. fairbanks. ralph closed his eyes with a satisfied expression on his face. he soon sank into slumber. it was late in the day when he awoke. gradually his strength came back to him, and he was able to sit up in bed. the next day he improved still more, and within a week he was able to walk down to the roundhouse. forgan and all his old friends greeted him royally. "i suppose you have the nerve to think you are going to report for duty," observed forgan. "well, you needn't try. orders are to sick list you for a month's vacation." "i will be able to work in a week," declared ralph. "vacation on full pay," continued the roundhouse foreman. ralph had to accept the situation. he told his mother the news, and they had a long talk over affairs in general. the doctor advised rest and a change of scene. the next day van sherwin called on his way back to the barrens. that resulted in the young fireman joining him, and his mother urged him to remain with his friends and enjoy his vacation. a recruit to the ranks of the workers of the short cut railroad presented himself as ralph and van left for the depot one morning to ride as far as wilmer. this was zeph dallas. "no use talking," said the farmer boy. "i'm lonesome here at stanley junction and i'm going to join joe." "all right," assented van, "if you think it wise to leave a steady job here." "why, you'll soon be able to give me a better one, won't you?" insisted zeph. "it just suits me, your layout down there in the barrens. take me along with you." when they reached wilmer and left the train, van pointed proudly to a train of freight cars on the great northern tracks loaded with rails and ties. "that's our plunder," he said cheerily. "mr. trevor is hustling, i tell you. why, ralph, we expect to have this end of the route completed within thirty days." as they traversed the proposed railroad line, ralph was more and more interested in the project. little squads of men were busily employed here and there grading a roadbed, and the telegraph line was strung over the entire territory. they reached the headquarters about noon. a new sign appeared on the house, which was the center of the new railroad system. it was "gibson." a week passed by filled with great pleasure for the young railroader. evenings, mr. gibson and his young friends discussed the progress and prospects of the railroad. there were to be two terminal stations and a restaurant at the springfield end of the route. there were only two settlements in the barrens, and depots were to be erected there. "we shall have quite some passenger service," declared mr. gibson, "for we shorten the travel route for all transfer passengers as well as freight. the great northern people do not at all discourage the scheme, and the midland central has agreed to give us some freight contracts. oh, we shall soon build up into a first-class, thriving, little railroad enterprise." one evening a storm prevented ralph from returning to headquarters, so he camped in with some workmen engaged in grading an especially difficult part of the route. the evening was passed very pleasantly, but just before nine o'clock, when all had thought of retiring, a great outcry came from the tent of the cook. "i've got him, i've caught the young thief," shouted the cook, dragging into view a small boy who was sobbing and trembling with grief. "what's the row?" inquired one of the workmen. "why, i've missed eatables for a week or more at odd times, and i just caught this young robber stealing a ham." "i didn't steal it," sobbed the detected youngster. "i just took it. you'd take it, too, if you was in our fix. we're nearly starved." "who is nearly starved?" asked ralph, approaching the culprit. "me and dad. we were just driven to pick up food anywhere. you've got lots of it. you needn't miss it. please let me go, mister." "no, the jail for you," threatened the cook direfully. "oh, don't take me away from my father," pleaded the affrighted youngster. "he couldn't get along without me." "see here, cook, let me take this little fellow in hand," suggested ralph. "all right," assented the cook, adding in an undertone, "give him a good scare." ralph took the boy to one side. his name was ned. his father, he said, was amos greenleaf, an old railroader, crippled in an accident some years before. he had become very poor, and they had settled in an old house in the barrens a few miles distant. ralph made up a basket of food with the cook's permission. "now then, ned," said ralph, "you lead the way to your home." "you won't have me arrested?" "not if you have been telling me the truth." "i haven't," declared the young lad. "it's worse than i tell it. dad is sick and has no medicine. we have nearly starved." it was an arduous tramp to the wretched hovel they at last reached. ralph was shocked as he entered it. it was almost bare of furniture, and the poor old man who lay on a miserable cot was thin, pale and racked with pain. "i am ralph fairbanks, a fireman on the great northern," said the young railroader, "and i came with your boy to see what we can do for you." "a railroader?" said greenleaf. "i am glad to see you. i was once in that line myself. crippled in a wreck. got poor, poorer, bad to worse, and here i am." "too bad," said ralph sympathizingly. "why have you not asked some of your old comrades to help you?" "they are kind-hearted men, and did help me for a time, till i became ashamed to impose on their generosity." "how were you injured, mr. greenleaf?" asked ralph. "in a wreck. it was at the river just below big rock. i was a brakeman. the train struck a broken switch and three cars went into the creek. i went with them and was crippled for life. one of them was a car of another road and not so high as the others, or i would have been crushed to death." "a car of another road?" repeated ralph with a slight start. "yes." "you don't know what road it belonged to?" "no. they recovered the other two cars. i never heard what became of the foreign car. i guess it was all smashed up." "gondola?" "no, box car." ralph was more and more interested. "when did this occur, mr. greenleaf?" he asked. "five years ago." "is it possible," said ralph to himself, "that i have at last found a clew to the missing car zeph dallas and that car finder are so anxious to locate?" chapter xxv too late two days later ralph went down the line of the little railroad to where it met the tracks of the great northern. mr. gibson had sent him with some instructions to the men at work there, and at the request of the young fireman had assigned him to work at that point. this consisted in checking up the construction supplies delivered by rail. ralph had a motive in coming to this terminus of the short line route. the information he had gained from the old, crippled railroader, amos greenleaf, had set him to thinking. he found zeph dallas working industriously, but said nothing about his plans until the next day. at the noon hour he secured temporary leave of absence from work for zeph and himself, and went to find his friend. zeph was a good deal surprised when ralph told him that they were to have the afternoon for a ramble, but readily joined his comrade. "saw some friends of yours hanging around here yesterday," said the farmer boy. "that so?" inquired ralph. "yes, slump and bemis. guess they were after work or food, and they sloped the minute they set eyes on me. say, where are you bound for anyway, ralph?" "for wilmer." "what for?" "i want to look around the river near there. the truth is, zeph, i fancy i have discovered a clew to that missing freight car." "what!" cried zeph excitedly. "you don't mean car no. ?" "i mean just that," assented ralph. "here, let us find a comfortable place to sit down, and i'll tell you the whole story." ralph selected a spot by a fence lining the railroad right of way. then he narrated the details of his interview with amos greenleaf. "say," exclaimed zeph, "i believe there's something to this. every point seems to tally somehow to what information the car finder gave me, don't you think so? besides, in investigating the matter, i heard about this same wreck. and five years ago? ralph, this is worth looking up, don't you think so?" zeph was fairly incoherent amid his excitement. he could not sit still, and arose to his feet and began walking around restlessly. "you see, it is a long time since the car disappeared," said ralph, "and we may not be able to find any trace of it. the car finder, in his investigations, must have heard of this wreck. still, as you say, it is worth following up the clew, and that is why i got a leave from work for the afternoon." "hello," said zeph, looking in among the bushes abruptly, "some one in there? no, i don't see anybody now, but there was a rustling there a minute or two ago." "some bird or animal, probably," said ralph. "come on, zeph, we will go to the bridge and start on our investigations." the river near wilmer was a broad stream. it was quite deep and had a swift current. the boys started down one bank, conversing and watching out. ralph laughed humorously after a while. "i fancy this is a kind of a blind hunt, zeph," he said. "we certainly cannot expect to find that car lying around loose." "well, hardly, but we might find out where it went to if we go far enough," declared zeph. "i tell you, i shall never give it up now if i have to go clear to the end of this river." they kept on until quite late in the afternoon, but made no discoveries. they passed a little settlement and went some distance beyond it. then ralph decided to return to the railroad camp. "all right," said zeph, "only i quit work to-morrow." "what for?" "to find that car. i say, i'm thirsty. let us get a drink of water at that old farm house yonder." they went to the place in question and were drinking from the well bucket when the apparent owner of the place approached them. "won't you have a cup or a glass, my lads?" he inquired kindly. "oh, no, this is all right," said ralph. "on a tramp, are you?" continued the farmer, evidently glad to have someone to talk to. "in a way, yes," answered ralph, and then, a sudden idea struck him, he added: "by the way, you are an old resident here, i suppose?" "forty years or more." "do you happen to remember anything of a wreck at the bridge at wilmer about five years ago?" "let me see," mused the man. "that was the time of the big freshet. yes, i do remember it faintly. it's the freshet i remember most though. enough timber floated by here to build a barn. see that old shed yonder?" and he pointed to a low structure. "well, i built that out of timber i fished ashore. lumber yard beyond wilmer floated into the creek, and all of us along here got some of it." "what do you know about the wreck?" asked ralph. "heard about it at the time, that's all. sort of connect the freshet with it. that was a great washout," continued the farmer. "even sheds and chicken coops floated by. and say, a box car, too." "oh," cried zeph, with a start as if he was shot. "indeed?" said ralph, with a suppressed quiver of excitement in his tone. "yes. it went whirling by, big and heavy as it was." "say, mister, you don't know where that car went to, do you?" inquired zeph anxiously. "yes, i do. i know right where it is now." "you do?" "yes, old jabez kane, ten miles down the creek, got it. he is using it now for a tool shed." "oh!" again cried zeph, trembling with suspense and hope. ralph nudged him to be quiet. he asked a few more questions of the farmer and they left the place. "ralph," cried zeph wildly, "we've found it!" "maybe not," answered the young fireman. "it may not be the same car." "but you're going to find out?" "it's pretty late. we had better make a day of it to-morrow." "all right, if we can't attend to it to-day," said zeph disappointedly; and then both returned to camp. next morning early both started for the creek again. by proceeding across the country diagonally, they saved some distance. it was about noon when they approached a rickety, old farmhouse which a man had told them belonged to jabez kane. "there it is, there it is," cried zeph, as they neared it. "yes, there is an old box car in the yard near the creek, sure enough," said ralph. they entered the farm yard. the box of the car they looked at sat flat on the ground. it had been whitewashed several times, it appeared, so they could trace no markings on it. they approached it and stood looking it over when a man came out of the house near by. "hey," he hailed, advancing upon them. "what you trespassing for?" "are we?" inquired ralph, with a pleasant smile. "we mean no harm." "dunno about that," said the farmer suspiciously. "was you here last night?" "oh, no," answered ralph. "well, what do you want?" "i was sort of interested in this old car," announced ralph. "why so?" demanded kane. "well, we are looking for a car that floated down the creek here about five years ago." "for the railroad?" asked the farmer. "in a way, yes, in a way, no." "does the railroad want to take it away from me?" "certainly not. they would like to know, though, if it's a car of the southern air line and numbered ." "you've got it, lad. this was just that car. what's the amazing interest in it all of a sudden? look here," and he took them around to the other side of the car. "last night two boys came here; my son saw them hanging around here. then they disappeared. this morning i found the car that way." ralph and zeph stared in astonishment. a four-foot space of the boards on the outside of the car had been torn away. at one point there was a jagged break in the inside sheathing. in a flash the same idea occurred to both of them. "too late!" groaned poor zeph. "some one has been here and the diamonds are gone." ralph was stupefied. he remembered the rustling in the bushes when they were discussing their plans the day previous. he believed that their conversation had been overheard by some one. ralph asked the man to send for his son, which he did, and ralph interrogated him closely. the result was a sure conviction that ike slump and mort bemis had secured the diamonds hidden in the box car about five years previous. chapter xxvi the mad engineer "well, good-bye, zeph." "good-bye, ralph. another of my wild dreams of wealth gone." "don't fret about it, zeph." "how can i help it?" ralph had decided to return home. he was now fully recuperated, and his vacation period would expire in a few days. it was the evening of the day when they had discovered the missing box car only to find that others had discovered it before them. ralph had arranged to flag a freight at the terminus of the short line route and was down at the tracks awaiting its coming. the freight arrived, ralph clambered to the cab, waved his hand in adieu to zeph, and was warmly welcomed by his friends on the engine. they had proceeded only a short distance when a boy came running down an embankment. so rapid and reckless was his progress that ralph feared he would land under the locomotive. the lad, however, grasped the step of the cab, and was dragged dangerously near to the wheels. ralph seized him just in time and pulled him up into the cab. "well!" commented the engineer, "it's a good thing we were going slow. here, land out as you landed in, kid." "please don't," cried the boy, gazing back with tear-filled eyes and trembling all over. "please let me ride with you." "against the rules." "see, there they are!" almost shrieked the boy, pointing to two men who came rushing down the embankment. "oh, don't let them get me." "give him a show till i learn his story," said ralph to the engineer, so the latter put on steam and the two men were outdistanced. "oh, thank you, thank you!" panted the boy, clinging close to ralph. "come up on the water tank," said ralph, "and i'll have a talk with you." the lad, whom the young fireman had befriended, was a forlorn-looking being. he wore no shoes, was hatless, and had on a coat many sizes too large for him. "now then, what's the trouble?" inquired ralph, when they were both seated on the water tank. "those men were pursuing me," said the lad. "what for?" "i was running away from them. they are my uncles, and they have been very wicked and cruel to me. they want to send me to a reform school to get rid of me, and locked me up. i ran away this morning, but they got trace of me again." "what is your name?" "earl danvers. my father died and left them my guardians. they are after the property, i guess." "what do you propose to do?" "oh, anything to get away from them." ralph talked for quite a while with the boy and learned his entire history. then he said: "this is a case for a lawyer. would you like to come to stanley junction with me and have a lawyer look into the matter for you?" "no. i only want to escape from those bad men." "that will follow. you come with me. i will interest myself in your case and see that you are protected." "how kind you are--you are the only friend i ever knew," cried the boy, bursting into tears of gratitude. ralph took earl danvers home with him when they reached stanley junction. his kind-hearted mother was at once interested in the forlorn refugee. they managed to fit him out with some comfortable clothing, and ralph told him to take a rest of a few days, when he would have him see their lawyer and tell him his story. two days later the young fireman reported at the roundhouse for duty, and the ensuing morning started on a new term of service as fireman of the limited mail. the first trip out griscom was engineer. ralph noticed that he looked pale and worried. the run to the city was made in a way quite unusual with the brisk and lively veteran railroader. ralph waited until they were on their way home from the roundhouse that evening. then he said: "mr. griscom, you have not been your usual self to-day." "that's true, lad," nodded the engineer gravely. "anything the matter especially?" "oh, a little extra care on my mind and under the weather a bit besides," sighed griscom. "can i help you in any way?" inquired ralph. "no, lad--we must all bear our own troubles." the next day griscom did not report for duty at train time. a man named lyle was put on extra duty. ralph did not know him very well nor did he like him much. he understood that he was a fine engineer but that he had been warned several times for drinking. as he came into the cab, ralph noticed that his eyes were dull and shifty, his hands trembled and he bore all the appearance of a man who had been recently indulging in liquor to excess. as soon as they were out on the road, lyle began to drink frequently from a bottle he took out of his coat. he became more steady in his movements, and, watching him, ralph saw that he understood his business thoroughly and was duly attentive to it. after the wait at the city, however, lyle came aboard of the locomotive in quite a muddled condition. he was talkative and boastful now. he began to tell of the many famous special runs he had made, of the big salaries he had earned, and of his general proficiency as a first-class engineer. he ordered full steam on, and by the time they were twenty miles from the city he kept the locomotive going at top notch speed. there was a tremendous head on the cylinders and they ran like a racer. frogs and target rods were passed at a momentum that fairly frightened ralph, and it was a wonder to him the way the wheels ground and bounded that they always lit on the steel. lyle took frequent drinks from the bottle, which had been replenished. his eyes were wild, his manner reckless, almost maniacal. as they passed signals he would utter a fierce, ringing yell. ralph crowded over to him. "mr. lyle," he shouted, "we are ahead of time." "good," roared the mad engineer, "i'm going to make the record run of the century." "if any other train is off schedule, that is dangerous." "let 'em look out for themselves," chuckled lyle. "whoop! pile in the black diamonds." "stop!" almost shrieked ralph. of a sudden he made a fearful discovery. a signal had called for a danger stop where the great northern crossed the tracks of the midland central. unheeding the signal, lyle had run directly onto a siding of the latter railroad and was traversing it at full speed. "stop, stop, i say--there's a car ahead," cried ralph. lyle gave the young fireman a violent push backwards and forged ahead. chug! bang! a frightful sound filled the air. the locomotive had struck a light gondola car squarely, lifting it from the track and throwing it to one side a mass of wreckage. then on, on sped the engine. it struck the main of the midland central. ralph grabbed up a shovel. "lower speed," he cried, "or i will strike you." "get back," yelled lyle, pulling a revolver from his pocket. "back, i say, or i'll shoot. whoop! this is going." ralph climbed to the top of the tender. he was powerless alone to combat the engineer in his mad fury. a plan came into his mind. the first car attached to the tender was a blind baggage. ralph sprang to its roof. then he ran back fast as he could. the young fireman lost no time, dropping from the roof between platforms. as he reached the first passenger coach he ran inside the car. passengers were on their feet, amazed and alarmed at the reckless flight of the train. the conductor and train hands were pale and frightened. "what's the trouble?" demanded the conductor, as ralph rushed up to him. "a maniac is in charge of the train. he is crazed with drink, and armed. who of you will join me in trying to overpower him?" none of the train hands shrank from duty. they followed ralph to the platform and thence to the top of the forward coach. at that moment new warnings came. chapter xxvii a new mystery "danger," shouted ralph. "quick, men. do you see ahead there?" down the rails a red signal fuse was spluttering. it was quite a distance away, but they would reach it in less than sixty seconds if the present fearful speed of the train was kept up. "hear that?" roared the conductor in a hoarse, frightened tone. under the wheels there rang out a sharp crack, audible even above the roar of the rushing train--a track torpedo. ralph ran across the top of the forward car. as he reached its front end, lyle turning discovered him. he set up a wild yell, reached into the tender, seized a big sledgehammer lying there and braced back. the young fireman was amazed and fairly terrified at his movements, for lyle began raining blows on lever, throttle and everything in the way of machinery inside of the cab. past the red light, blotting it out, sped the train, turning a curve. ralph anticipated a waiting or a coming train, but, to his relief, the rails were clear. ahead, however, there was a great glow, and he now understood what the warnings meant. the road at this point for two miles ran through a marshy forest, and this was all on fire. ralph gained the tender. "back, back!" roared lyle, facing him, weapon in hand. "she's fixed to go, can't stop her now. whoop!" with deep concern the young fireman noted the disabled machinery. half-way between centers, the big steel bar on the engineer's side of the locomotive had snapped in two and was tearing through the cab like a flail, at every revolution of the driver to which it was attached. just as ralph jumped down from the tender, the locomotive entered the fire belt--in a minute more the train was in the midst of a great sweeping mass of fire. the train crew, blinded and singed, retreated. ralph trembled at a sense of the terrible peril that menaced. lyle had drawn back from the lever or he would have been annihilated. then as the fire swept into his face, he uttered a last frightful yell, gave a spring and landed somewhere along the side of the track. the young fireman was fairly appalled. such a situation he had never confronted before. the cab was ablaze in a dozen different places. the tops of the cars behind had also ignited. ralph did not know what to do. even if he could have stopped the train, it would be destruction to do so now. suddenly the locomotive dove through the last fire stretch. ahead somewhere ralph caught the fierce blast of a locomotive shrieking for orders. for life or death the train must be stopped. he flew towards the throttle but could not reach it safely. the great bar threatened death. twice he tried to reach the throttle and drew back in time to escape the descending bar. at a third effort he managed to slip the latch of the throttle, but received a fearful graze of one hand. then, exhausted from exertion and excitement, the young fireman saw the locomotive slow down not a hundred yards from a stalled train. the passenger coaches were soon vacated by the passengers, while the train crew beat out the flames where the cars were on fire. the limited mail made no return trip to stanley junction that night. the following morning, however, when the swamp fire had subsided, the train was taken back to the great northern and then to terminus. lyle, the engineer, was found badly burned and delirious in the swamp, where he would have perished only for the water in which he landed when he jumped from the locomotive cab. he was taken to a hospital. there was a great deal of talk about the latest exploit of the young fireman of the limited mail, and ralph did not suffer any in the estimation of the railroad people and his many friends. one evening he came home from an interview with a local lawyer concerning the interests of his young friend, earl danvers. ralph felt quite sanguine that he could obtain redress for earl from his heartless relations, and was thinking about it when he discovered his mother pacing up and down the front walk of the house in an agitated, anxious way. "why, mother," said ralph, "you look very much distressed." "i am so, truly," replied mrs. fairbanks. "ralph, we have met with a great loss." "what do you mean, mother?" "the house has been burglarized." "when?" "some time during the past three hours. i was on a visit to a sick neighbor, and returned to discover the rear door open. i went inside, and all the papers in the cabinet and some money we had there were gone." "the papers?" exclaimed ralph. "yes, every document concerning our claim against gasper farrington is missing." "but what of earl danvers?" inquired ralph. "was he away from home?" "he was when i left, but he must have returned during my absence." "how do you know that?" asked ralph. "the cap he wore when he went away i found near the cabinet." ralph looked serious and troubled. "i hope we have not been mistaken in believing earl to be an honest boy," he said, and his mother only sighed. then ralph began investigating. the rear door, he found, had been forced open. all the rooms and closets had been ransacked. "this is pretty serious, mother," he remarked. earl danvers did not return that day. this troubled and puzzled ralph. he could not believe the boy to be an accomplice of farrington, nor could he believe that he was the thief. next morning ralph reported the loss to the town marshal. when he went down the road, he threw off a note where the men were working on the short line route at its junction with the great northern. it was directed to zeph dallas, and in the note ralph asked his friend to look up the two uncles of earl danvers and learn all he could about the latter. it was two nights later when mrs. fairbanks announced to ralph quite an important discovery. in cleaning house she had noticed some words penciled on the wall near the cabinet. they comprised a mere scrawl, as if written under difficulty, and ran: "earl prisoner. two boys stealing things in house. get the old coat i wore." "why, what can this mean?" said ralph. "earl certainly wrote this. a prisoner? two boys? the thieves? get the old coat? he means the one he wore when he came here. what can that have to do with this business? mother, where is the coat?" "why, ralph," replied mrs. fairbanks, "i sold it to a rag man last week." chapter xxviii the freight thieves two days later zeph dallas came to stanley junction to purchase some supplies for mr. gibson's construction camp. in the evening he called at the fairbanks home. the farmer boy had located the relatives of earl danvers, and his report verified the story of the latter, who had disappeared from home, and, according to his uncles, his whereabouts was unknown to them. ralph related the story of the burglary, and zeph was at once interested. he believed that some mystery of importance was attached to the old coat. when he had gone away ralph got to thinking this over. "mother," he asked, "do you know the man to whom you sold that old coat?" "why, yes," replied mrs. fairbanks. "he is the man who goes around with an old wagon visiting the different country towns in this district in turn." ralph made some inquiries, and ascertained that the peddler in question made his headquarters at dover. he resolved upon opportunity to visit the man at a near date, although it was probable that the coat with the rags sold with it had been sent to some mill. a few days later zeph came again to stanley junction and ralph told him about the peddler. for a time after this, affairs ran on smoothly for the limited mail and her experienced crew, and ralph had settled down to a quiet enjoyment of congenial employment when there occurred a break in the routine that once more placed him in a position of peril. one day as he returned from the city run, the roundhouse foreman informed him that he was to report at the office of the master mechanic. ralph did not go home, but went at once to answer the summons. the master mechanic was his good friend and received him with his usual cordiality. "fairbanks," he said, "you are pretty well known to the officers of the road, and favorably, too, i suppose you know that." "it is a pleasure to have you say so," answered the young fireman. "they seem especially to value your ability in running down crookedness and ferreting out criminals," pursued the master mechanic. "the superintendent wired me today to have one road detective start out on a certain case. i wired back that mr. adair was engaged in a special case in the city. the return was to relieve you of regular duty and have you report at afton this afternoon." ralph nodded to indicate that he understood, but he said: "i do not like these interruptions to routine duty, but i suppose the company knows where it most needs a fellow." ralph went down the road shortly after noon. he reached afton and reported at once to the assistant superintendent. "i have ordered a substitute fireman on the mail for a week, fairbanks," said that official. "i think we shall engage your services for that length of time." "is it some particular case, sir?" asked ralph. "a very important case, yes. we seem to have got rid of incompetent employes and strikers, thanks to you and others who stood by the company in time of trouble. there is one thing, however, that is bothering us. it bothers every road more or less, but we won't have it." ralph waited for a further explanation. "freight thieves, fairbanks," continued the official. "some gang is regularly stealing from the road. when, where and how it is done we have been unable to ascertain. a train will leave the city or the junction, arrive at terminus, and some valuable package will be missing. the car seals will be all right, no one seems to have entered the car, and yet the pilfering goes on. will you help us run down the thieves?" "i will try," answered ralph. "what trains seem to suffer most?" "always the night freights," replied the assistant superintendent. "now, take your time, spare no expense, and go to work on this problem in your usual effective way." ralph devoted the remainder of the day to going up and down the road and familiarizing himself with the various freight trains and their schedules. just after dark he clambered into the cab of the night freight leaving the city. it was a dark, sleety night, for cold weather had just set in. the engineer was a tried and trusty veteran in the service. ralph felt that he understood him, and that he must trust him to a degree in order to facilitate his own programme. he waited till the fireman was busy outside on the engine, then he spoke to the old engineer. "mr. barton, i am on special duty here tonight." "that so, lad?" inquired the engineer. "yes, i suppose you know there is a good deal of missing freight in these night runs." "i heard so," answered barton, "but you see that is the business of the conductor, so i haven't much troubled myself about it." "still, you don't care to have these things occur in your runs." "should say not! working on the case, fairbanks?" "frankly, yes, mr. barton, and i want you to keep it quiet, but assist me when you can. i will be all over the train and the car tops to-night, and wanted to explain why to you." "that's all right, lad. just call on me if i can help you. hello, you, woods!" bawled the engineer suddenly to a fellow who appeared near the cab side, "what you doing there?" the man slunk out of view at being addressed, with a muttered remark that it was his own business. "don't like that fellow--caboose look-out," explained barton. "i hope he did not overhear our conversation," spoke ralph. about mid-way of the train there was a gondola oil car. it had an elevated runway so that train hands could pass over it readily. ralph selected this car as a vantage point, and got aboard as the train started on its way for stanley junction. he was dressed as a tramp, looked the character completely, and the false moustache he wore effectually changed his face so that no persons except familiar friends would easily recognize him. ralph got down at one side of the big oil tank. for the next hour he remained quiet. finally, as a brakeman passed over the platform, he climbed up and kept track of his movements. the man, however, simply passed up and down the train and then returned to the caboose. then there was a stop. ralph leaned from the car and looked up and down the train. "why," exclaimed ralph suddenly, "there is that fellow woods working at the doors of the cars a little ahead there." the brakeman in question now came down the length of the train. the engine was taking water. he halted almost opposite the car ralph was hiding on. suddenly he uttered a low, sharp whistle, and it was answered. three men appeared from the side of the track, spoke to him, bounded up on to the oil car, and crouched down so near to ralph that he could almost touch them. woods stood on the next track with his lantern as if waiting for the train to start up. "cars marked," he spoke. "i'll flash the glim when the coast is clear. you'll know the cases i told you about." there was no response. the locomotive whistled, and the brakeman ran back to the caboose. ralph lay perfectly still. the three men sat up against the railing of the car. "got the keys to the car ventilators?" asked one of the men, finally. "sure," was the response. "say, fellows, we want to be wary. this is a clever game of ours, but i hear that the railroad company is watching out pretty close." "oh, they can't reach us," declared another voice, "with woods taking care of the broken seals, and all kinds of duplicate keys, we can puzzle them right along." just then one of them arose to his feet. he stumbled heavily over ralph. "hello!" he yelled, "who is this?" chapter xxix a prisoner the three men almost instantly confronted ralph, and one of them seized him, holding him firmly. ralph quickly decided on his course of action. he yawned in the face of the speaker and drawled sleepily: "what are you waking a fellow up for?" one held ralph, another lit a match. they were rough, but shrewd fellows. instantly one of them said: "disguised!" and he pulled off ralph's false moustache. "that means a spy. fellows, how can we tell woods?" "s--sh!" warned a companion--"no names. now, young fellow, who are you?" but "young fellow" was gone! in a flash ralph comprehended that he was in a bad fix, his usefulness on the scene gone. in a twinkling he had jerked free from the grasp of the man who held him, had sprung to the platform of the oil car and thence to the roof of the next box car. almost immediately his recent captor was after him. it was now for ralph a race to the engine and his friend barton. the running boards were covered with sleet and as slippery as glass, yet ralph forged ahead. he could hear the short gasps for breath of a determined pursuer directly behind him. "got you!" said a quick voice. its owner stumbled, his head struck the young fireman and ralph was driven from the running board. he was going at such a momentum that in no way could he check himself, but slid diagonally across the roof of the car. there destruction seemed to face him. his pursuer had fallen flat on the running board. ralph dropped flat also, clutching vainly at space. his fingers tore along the thin sheeting of ice. he reached the edge of the car roof. for one moment the young fireman clung there. then quick as a flash he slipped one hand down. it was to hook his fingers into the top slide bar of the car's side door. the action drew back the door about an inch. it was unlocked. ralph dropped his other hold lightning-quick, thrust his hand into the interstice, pushed the door still further back, and precipitated himself forward across the floor of an empty box car. there he lay, done up, almost terrified at the crowding perils of the instant, marveling at his wonderful escape from death. "they must think i went clear to the ground," theorized ralph. "i am safe for the present, at least. what an adventure! and woods is in league with the freight thieves! that solves the problem for the railroad company. "an empty car," he said, as he finally struggled to his feet. "i'll wait till the train stops again and then run ahead to barton. hello!" he exclaimed sharply, as moving about the car, his foot came in contact with some object. ralph stood perfectly still. he could hear deep, regular breathing, as of some one asleep. his curiosity impelled him to investigate farther. he took a match from his pocket, flared it, and peered down. directly in one corner of the car lay a big, powerful man. he was dressed in rags. his coat was open, and under it showed a striped shirt. "why!" exclaimed ralph, "a convict--an escaped convict!" the man grasped in one hand, as if on guard with a weapon of defense, a pair of handcuffs connected with a long, heavy steel chain. apparently he had in some way freed himself from these. ralph flared a second match to make a still closer inspection of the man. this aroused the sleeper. he moved, opened his eyes suddenly, saw ralph, and with a frightful yell sprang up. "i've got you!" he said, seizing ralph. "after me, are you? hold still, or i'll throttle you. how near are the people who sent you on my trail?" "i won't risk that," shouted the man wildly. in a twinkling he had slipped the handcuffs over ralph's wrists. the latter was a prisoner so strangely that he was more curious than alarmed. "going to stop, are they?" pursued the man, as there was some whistling ahead. "mind you, now, get off when i do. don't try to call, and don't try to run away, or i'll kill you." the train stopped and ralph's companion pulled back the door. he got out, forcing ralph with him, and proceeded directly into the timber lining the railroad, never pausing till he had reached a desolate spot near a shallow creek. then the man ordered a halt. he sat down on the ground and forced his captive to follow his example. "who are you?" he demanded roughly. "i am ralph fairbanks, a fireman on the great northern railroad," promptly explained the young fireman. "do you know me?" "i infer from these handcuffs and your under uniform that you are an escaped convict," answered ralph. "know a good many people, do you?" "why, yes, i do," answered ralph. "where is stanley junction?" "about forty miles north of here. i live there." "you do? you do?" cried the convict, springing up in a state of intense excitement. "here, lad, don't think me harsh or mean, or cruel, but you have got to stay with me. you would betray me to the police." "no, i would not," declared ralph. "you would, i know--it's human nature. there is a big reward out for me. then, too, you know people. yes, you must stay with me." "i can't help you any--why should you detain me?" insisted ralph. "i must find a man," cried the convict, more wildly than ever--"or you must find him for me." "what man is that?" spoke ralph. "do you know a mr. gasper farrington?" "quite well," answered ralph, rather startled at the question. "that is the man!" shouted the convict. "and that is singular, for i am very anxious myself to find that same individual," said the young fireman. ralph felt that he was in the midst of a series of strange adventures and discoveries that might lead to important results, not only for the person he had so strangely met, but for himself, as well. this impression was enforced as he watched his captor pace up and down the ground, muttering wildly. he seemed to have some deep-rooted hatred for gasper farrington. "revenge," "punishment," "justice," were the words that he constantly uttered. ralph wondered what course he could pursue to get the man down to a level of coherency and reason. finally the man said: "come, get up, we must find some shelter." after an hour of arduous tramping they came to an old barn that had been partly burned down. there was some hay in it. the convict lay down on this, unloosed one handcuff from the wrist of his prisoner, and attached the other to his own arm and lay as if in a daze until daybreak. now he could inspect his prisoner clearly, and ralph could study the worn, frenzied face of his captor. the latter had calmed down somewhat. "boy," he said, finally, "i don't dare to let you go, and i don't know what to do." "see here," spoke ralph, "you are in deep trouble. i don't want to make you any more trouble. suppose you tell me all about yourself and see if i can't help you out." "oh, i don't dare to trust any one," groaned the man. "you spoke of gasper farrington," suggested ralph. "is he an enemy of yours?" "he has ruined my life," declared the convict. "and why do you seek him?" "to demand reparation, to drag him to the same fate he drove me to. just let me find him--that is all i wish--to meet him face to face." ralph began to quietly tell the story of his own dealings with the village magnate of stanley junction. it had a great effect upon his auditor. from dark distrust and suspicion his emotions gradually subsided to interest, and finally to confidence. it was only by gradations that ralph led the man to believe that he was his friend and could help him in his difficulties. the convict told a pitiful story. ralph believed it to be a true one. to further his own avaricious ends, farrington had devised a villainous plot to send the man to the penitentiary. he had escaped. he had documents that would cause farrington not only to disgorge his ill-gotten gains, but would send him to jail. "i want to get to where those documents are hidden," said the convict. "then to find farrington, and i shall right your wrongs as well as my own." ralph reflected deeply over the matter in hand. he resolved on a course of proceedings and submitted it to his companion. he offered to take the convict to the isolated home of amos greenleaf, where he could remain safely in retirement. ralph promised to get him comfortable garments and provide for his board and lodging. in a few days he would see him again and help him to find farrington. the young fireman was now released from the handcuffs. he calculated the location of the place where greenleaf lived. "it is about fifteen miles to the spot i told you of," he explained to the convict. "can we reach it without being seen by any one?" anxiously inquired his companion. "yes, i can take a route where we need not pass a single habitation." it was afternoon when they reached the home of old amos greenleaf. ralph experienced no difficulty in arranging that the convict remain there for a few days. he gave greenleaf some money, and, promising to see the convict very soon, proceeded to wilmer. the young fireman took the first train for afton, and reported what had occurred to the assistant superintendent. two days later woods and his companions were in jail, and a great part of the stolen freight plunder was recovered. woods confessed that he had duplicated keys and seals for the doors and ventilators of the freight cars, and the bold thieveries along the great northern now ceased. ralph obtained leave of absence for a week. he decided that it was worth while to try and find gasper farrington. he went to the city, got certain papers belonging to the magnate from mr. grant, and went to wilmer. he was soon at the junction of the springfield & dover short cut railroad and the great northern. that terminus was completed. a neat depot had been erected, and on the tracks of the new railroad there stood a handsome locomotive. "oh, ralph!" cried zeph dallas, rushing forward to greet his friend, as the young fireman appeared. "great news!" chapter xxx the lost diamonds "great news, eh?" said ralph. "you will say so when you hear what i have got to tell you," declared zeph dallas. "say, i am going straight to headquarters. come with me. the news will keep till we get there." "all right," assented ralph. "there is enough going on around here to keep a fellow interested." "the new railroad?" spoke zeph brightly. "i should say so. isn't it just famous? i tell you, some hustling work has been done here in the past few weeks." ralph was amazed and delighted at the progress made by the short line railway. as said, a new locomotive was on the rails at the terminus, and a little depot had been built. workmen were busy as far down the line as he could see. in fact, everything indicated that the road would soon be in full operation. "the tracks are laid both ways from headquarters, except for a little distance on the springfield side," said zeph. "we expect passenger and freight cars for the road to-day, and on monday we open the line." "and in what capacity will you appear on that grand occasion, zeph?" inquired the young fireman pleasantly. "conductor!" exploded the farmer boy, drawing himself up proudly. "see here;" he drew back his coat and revealed the biggest and most elaborate "conductor" badge manufactured. "we expect that earl danvers will become our brakeman." "who?" cried ralph with a start. "earl danvers." "is he here?" "he is at headquarters," said zeph. "don't bother asking me about him now. you will soon see him, and he will tell you his own story. then, too, mr. gibson wishes to see you particularly. here's our hand-car, jump aboard. we'll spin along at a fine rate, i tell you, for the roadbed is splendid." ralph found it so. it was a most interesting journey to headquarters. there was only one track, and on this the men had spent their energies to great advantage, and commendable results followed. he was warmly welcomed by his friends, particularly so by earl danvers. just as soon as mutual greetings were over ralph took earl to a pile of ties a little distance away. "now then, young man," he said, "seeing we are alone, suppose you give an account of yourself." earl danvers was thin and pale. he looked as if he had gone through some recent severe hardships, but he smiled serenely as he said: "it's easy to tell my story, now i am out of my troubles, but i tell you, ralph, i have had a hard time of it." "with slump and bemis?" "yes. the afternoon i left stanley junction, they were the fellows who forced me to go away with them. they broke into your house, and i found them ransacking it. they pitched on to me, and tied me up. then they recognized me." "what, had you known them before?" exclaimed ralph, in some surprise. "i found out that i had. you remember the first day that you saw me?" "yes," nodded ralph. "well, i had run away from my uncles that morning. i had made up a package hurriedly, containing shoes, coat and cap, and got away through a window in the attic. i went about five miles, when i ran right into two fellows in the woods. they were slump and bemis. they got mad at my stumbling over them, took away my parcel and began to belabor me. i had to run to keep from being terribly beaten. then i sneaked around, hoping to recover my parcel. they had gone in swimming. my parcel had disappeared. i had to have a coat. i grabbed one and ran away with it. they yelled after me, but i outdistanced them. then later i ran across my uncles looking for me. the rest you know." "and what about the coat?" "well," related earl, "when those fellows broke into your house, they inquired about that coat. i at once saw that they had a great interest in it. i told them i didn't know where it was. they insisted that i did. they ransacked the house from top to bottom. they took me away from town to a miserable hut where they were staying. until yesterday i was a prisoner there, tied up, half-starved, and every day slump would come and demand to know if i was going to tell him what had become of that coat. from the first i knew that coat was what they were after when they burglarized your house, and wrote what words i could on the wall of your sitting room." "yes," said ralph, "we found your message there. did you learn what their especial interest was in the coat?" "yes, i overheard some of their conversation a few days ago," replied earl. "that coat contained some diamonds they found in an old box car." "what!" cried ralph. "is it possible?" "it seems so. i escaped yesterday. you had told me about this place, and so i came here. zeph dallas was my friend at once, when i told him my story. here he is now." zeph approached with a beaming face. "fairbanks," he said, "i suppose danvers has told you how he came here, and his troubles with slump and bemis." "yes," nodded ralph. "well, i went to dover yesterday and saw the old rag man. he ransacked his stock and we found the coat." "you did?" spoke ralph, expectantly. "yes, and in an inside pocket were the diamonds. here they are." zeph handed ralph a moldy chamois skin bag. with interest the young fireman inspected the contents. "this is a rich find, zeph," he said. "you must report to the car finder at once." "i am going to the city to-day to see him," explained the former farmer boy. zeph left headquarters about noon. the next morning he reappeared. he was fairly gorgeous attired in the uniform of a conductor. "one thousand dollars i get as a special reward for the recovery of the diamonds," he said, "and more when the car finder has seen their original owner. i am to divide with you, fairbanks." "not at all," dissented ralph. "oh, yes, i shall," insisted zeph. "and, by the way, i have some news of importance for you." "indeed?" said ralph. "yes. you know where trafton is?" "on the midland central." "exactly. well, this morning on the platform there, i saw a man in whom you are considerably interested." "who was that?" inquired the young fireman. "bartlett, the fellow who was a partner of gasper farrington in that wire-tapping scheme." chapter xxxi justice at last--conclusion ralph lost no time in making up his mind to at once go to trafton and endeavor to run down bartlett. he was the friend and confidant of gasper farrington, and the latter the young fireman was now determined to find. he had his troubles for his pains. he got a trace of bartlett at trafton, but lost it again. his final clew was that bartlett had last been seen driving away from town in a covered wagon. ralph devoted the morning to these discoveries, then he made for the home of amos greenleaf. he cut across the timber for ten miles, and late in the afternoon reached the miserable hovel where the crippled railroader lived. it was when he was within a few rods of the place that a voice hailed him. "this way, mr. fairbanks, i have something to tell you." ralph went to a copse near at hand where the speaker stood, as if in hiding. it was the escaped convict. he was deeply excited. "i wanted to prepare you for a surprise before you went into the house," said the convict. "why, what do you mean?" asked ralph. "i mean farrington!" cried the convict. "he is there." "impossible!" exclaimed ralph. "no, it is true." "how did he happen to come here?" "a man driving a covered wagon brought him. farrington was sick, dying. the other man carried him into the house and said he would hurry for a doctor." "when was this?" asked ralph. "two hours ago. i have not shown myself to farrington yet. the man is certainly in a dying condition." "i had better investigate affairs," said ralph, and he proceeded to the house. gasper farrington lay on a wretched cot in a little bedroom. ralph was amazed at the change in the magnate since he had last seen him. farrington was thin, pale and weak. he was gasping painfully for breath, and groaned wretchedly as he recognized his visitor. "why, mr. farrington," said ralph, "you are a very sick man." "i am dying, ralph fairbanks," moaned the stricken farrington. "you have your revenge." "i wish for no revenge--i truly am sorry to see you in this condition." "well, here i am," groaned farrington--"a miserable wreck, dying in a wretched hovel, the end of all my plotting, and worst of all, robbed of everything i own." "by whom?" asked ralph. "by bartlett, who has abandoned me. i know it, and only this morning he got from me the deeds conveying all my property to him. once recorded, i am a beggar, and can make no reparation to those whom i have defrauded." "is that true?" asked ralph. "yes. he pretended he would drive to wilmer, record the deeds at stanley junction, return and take me safely out of the country. instead, he has isolated me in this desolate place. oh, to outwit him, fairbanks!" continued the magnate eagerly. "i can yet defeat him if you can assist me." "how?" "under the bed is my box of private papers. unknown to bartlett, last week, suspecting his scheme to rob me, believing i was dying, i executed deeds that distributed my property among those whom i had wronged. one deed is for your mother to adjust that twenty thousand dollar claim. another is for a poor fellow i sent to jail--an innocent man. another places my property in trust with your lawyer. here they are," and farrington took some documents from the box that ralph had handed him. "now then, act quickly." ralph looked over the papers. they were what the magnate described. he went outside and saw the convict, showing him the deed containing the name of "john vance." "is that your name?" asked ralph. "it is," assented the convict. "then farrington has done you tardy justice," and he explained the situation. in a few minutes the young fireman was bounding away towards wilmer. ralph caught a train just as it was moving away from the depot. he did not venture inside the cars, for he saw that bartlett was aboard, but at the next station proceeded to the locomotive. when the train reached the limits at stanley junction, ralph left it and boarded an engine on another track bound for the depot. he reached it some minutes in advance of the other locomotive. a hurried run for the office of the recorder, a swift delivery of the deeds, and then ralph hastened after the town marshal. they came upon bartlett leaving the office of the recorder with a glum and puzzled face. in his hand in a listless way he held some deeds which he had evidently been told were worthless. the man was disguised, but ralph knew him at once. the marshal stepped forward and seized his arm. "mr. bartlett," he said sternly, "you are under arrest." "oh, you want me? what--er--for?" stammered the plotter. "conspiracy in the recent railroad strike," explained the official. "pretty serious, too--not to mention that so-called accident you had on one of the cars, for which you wanted damages." with a scowl on his face bartlett turned and confronted ralph. "ah, so it's you?" he growled. "yes," returned the young fireman, coldly. "this is some of your work!" "if so, it is at the request of the man you robbed, bartlett." "eh?" "i mean gasper farrington," answered ralph, and this news caused the prisoner to turn pale and stagger back. he realized that he had come to the end of his plotting and must now suffer the consequences of his misdeeds. he was marched off to jail, and it may be as well to state, was, later on, sent to prison for a term of years. gasper farrington did not linger long. before he died, however, he had a talk with ralph and with the convict, and signed several papers of importance. he acknowledged all his wrong doings, and did all in his power to straighten matters out. his relatives came to his aid, and his last hours on earth were made as comfortable as circumstances permitted. two days after farrington's funeral came a surprise for ralph. he received word that ike slump and mort bemis had been caught in a tavern near dover. both of the roughs were in rags and penniless, having lost what money they had had. both were turned over to the police, and in due course of time each followed bartlett to prison. "it serves them right," said griscom, to ralph. "my! my! what a difference in boys! do you remember when you and slump were both wipers at the roundhouse?" "i do indeed!" answered ralph feelingly. "i am sorry for ike. but he has no one to blame but himself." "a holiday for us day after to-morrow, lad," went on the veteran engineer of the limited mail, with a twinkle in his eye. "guess you know why." "opening of the other line?" queried the young fireman. "exactly. special invitation for both of us," went on griscom, with a chuckle. "well, i hope everything pans out right," said ralph. "our friends have worked hard enough, goodness knows." the day for the opening of the new railroad came, and ralph and the old engineer took the early morning train for wilmer. not a few friends accompanied them. "it's a great day for van and for mr. gibson," said ralph. "and a great day for zeph and earl too," he added, with a smile. earl's uncles had been hailed into court, and a new guardian had been appointed for the boy. a little after noon that day the formal opening of the springfield & dover railroad was celebrated. two beautiful passenger coaches were filled with friends of the road and persons living near wilmer. the locomotive and cars were gaily decorated with bunting. limpy joe was bustling around his restaurant stand at the depot, happy and chipper. zeph dallas was the proud conductor, and earl danvers the brakeman of the train. mr. and mrs. gibson, mrs. fairbanks, mr. trevor and some of their friends formed a party by themselves. it was a regular gala occasion. the first trip was a grand success. people along the line greeted the train with glad cheers, and, returning to headquarters, a sumptuous repast was spread for the guests of the new road. "well, we are a happy family party," said farwell gibson with enthusiasm, as, that evening, his employes sat around the supper table at headquarters. "yes," nodded trevor. "to-morrow actual work begins. we have splendid prospects, loyal employes, and the springfield & dover short line is a grand success." "i cannot too deeply announce my feelings towards you, fairbanks," said mr. gibson. "it is to your friendship and co-operation that i owe, in a measure, all my good fortune in completing the railroad." "a grand lad," applauded old john griscom heartily. "his pluck and perseverance have helped us all out of difficulties many a time." "three cheers for the boy who helped to build a railroad!" cried zeph dallas. they were given with enthusiasm, and ralph had to respond with a speech. "i believe this is the happiest moment of my life," he declared. "i have been through some strenuous times, but all has ended well." and then what a cheer went up! ralph imagined that now, since his enemies had been disposed of, quiet times were ahead. but this was not to be. adventures in plenty still awaited him, and what some of them were will be related in another story, to be called "ralph on the overland express; or, the trials and triumphs of a young engineer." "it was certainly a great day, mother," said the young fireman, when he got home from the celebration. "yes, ralph," answered mrs. fairbanks. "and to think that you helped to make that day possible. oh, i am proud of you!" and she gave him a fond caress. "and the best of it is, that we have all those thousands of dollars," continued the young fireman. "we are not exactly rich, but we are comfortably situated, eh?" "yes, indeed, ralph! but listen to me. do you want to leave the railroad? you might go into business, or go to college, or----" "no, no, mother! i was born to follow a railroad life--i feel it. who knows, some day i may be the president of some road." "that is true. well, have your wish, ralph. they tell me now you are the best fireman in these parts. soon you'll have your engine then----" "i'll be very happy!" finished ralph. and his eyes brightened as he thought of splendid opportunities the future promised. the end this isn't all! would you like to know what became of the good friends you have made in this book? would you like to read other stories continuing their adventures and experiences, or other books quite as entertaining by the same author? on the _reverse_ side of the wrapper which comes with this book, you will find a wonderful list of stories which you can buy at the same store where you got this book. don't throw away the wrapper use it as a handy catalog of the books you want some day to have. but in case you do mislay it, write to the publishers for a complete catalog. the railroad series by allen chapman author of the "radio boys," etc. uniform style of binding. illustrated. every volume complete in itself. in this line of books there is revealed the whole workings of a great american railroad system. there are adventures in abundance--railroad wrecks, dashes through forest fires, the pursuit of a "wildcat" locomotive, the disappearance of a pay car with a large sum of money on board--but there is much more than this--the intense rivalry among railroads and railroad men, the working out of running schedules, the getting through "on time" in spite of all obstacles, and the manipulation of railroad securities by evil men who wish to rule or ruin. ralph of the round house; or, bound to become a railroad man. ralph in the switch tower; or, clearing the track. ralph on the engine; or, the young fireman of the limited mail. ralph on the overland express; or, the trials and triumphs of a young engineer. ralph, the train dispatcher; or, the mystery of the pay car. ralph on the army train; or, the young railroader's most daring exploit. ralph on the midnight flyer; or, the wreck at shadow valley. ralph and the missing mail pouch; or, the stolen government bonds. grosset & dunlap, publishers, new york old shag by bob farnham _there's no knowing what a man can do until the chips are down--especially with a helper like the shaggy man!_ [transcriber's note: this etext was produced from worlds of if science fiction, march . extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed.] maybe a guy shouldn't believe everything he hears, but the trouble with some people is that they don't even believe a true story. let me buy you a beer and tell you about it. after working some years in the baggage room of the local depot, i decided to transfer to the train service, and made application for it. the application was approved. i was sent to the city offices for the course of study and training which all trainmen undergo, and after a time i was sent out as brakeman on a freight. i stayed for a year and a half. then i succeeded in being assigned as head brakeman on a fast food special called the red ball special. it made no stop between chicago and new york except for water and fuel. the big diesel in which i rode as head brakie was a high-speed locomotive, used exclusively for hauling the food special. our first stop was detroit, where we cut off all but three cars, and took on five more scheduled in new york at the next morning. in new york, i strolled along broadway, gawking at the sights exactly like any other yokel. after a twelve-hour rest, the return trip began. i stood in my place in the big diesel till we had cleared for the main line, and then settled back to enjoy the ride. it was close to midnight. i sat at the cab window half asleep, my senses somewhat dulled by the steady rhythm of train movement. i'd finished an extra good cigar and had started to doze off when the engineer gave a low moan and toppled from his seat to the floor of the cab. the fireman, much against the rules, but feeling safe with the engineer and myself to watch in his place, had gone back to inspect a suspected leaking air hose without waiting for the train to stop. i got the engineer back on his seat. he was dead. * * * * * i tied him in place and then began pulling on the whistle cord like mad. it was not my work to operate a diesel. i'd not troubled to learn. i wondered why the fireman did not get back. i was going to jump, although i didn't like my chances at that speed, when i suddenly discovered a strange man in the cab with me. he was a pretty ordinary little guy, except for a wild, shaggy head of hair. "you chump!" he squeaked at me. "maybe next time you'll obey the rules, and not sneak by without finding out things! see that short rod with the spring-clip? squeeze that clip and pull the rod back. move, you fathead!" i did as the shaggy man told me, and felt the speed of the train slacken slightly as the power went off. "now, that brass handle sticking out of that pipe--move it to the right slowly. _slowly_, you dunce!" nine cars and the diesel ground slowly to a stop. the wheels shuddered and skidded slightly because of my inexperienced hand, but the train did stop. the stranger nodded in satisfaction. "when you get back home, bone up on things. but right now you go take a close look at the manifest card on the sides of the second and third cars...." i jumped to the ground to go back and look at the second and third cars. as i passed the rear of the diesel i saw why the fireman had not come back to the engine cab. all that was left of him was the lower part of his body. he had slipped, caught one foot and gone under the wheels. i came to the second car and read the manifest label. my hair stood straight up. the cars were marked: danger dynamite _high explosive_ the shaggy man was at my side. "you've got questions. but let me ask you one: ever hear a story about how if you travel back to the time of an ancestor and you let him die you never get born?" "what about it?" i said. "it's true," said the shaggy man. courtesy of the digital library@villanova university (http://digital.library.villanova.edu/)) transcriber's note text emphasis denoted as _italics_. whole and fraction part of numbers are dentoed as - / . the young train dispatcher * * * * * the works of burton e. stevenson [illustration] _the boys' story of the railroad series_ the young section-hand $ . the young train dispatcher . the young train master . the young apprentice . [illustration] _other works_ the spell of holland $ . the quest for the rose of sharon . [illustration] the page company beacon street boston, mass. * * * * * [illustration: "hurled itself on across the waiting-room and through the outer door to safety." (_see page _) ] _the boys' story of the railroad series_ the young train dispatcher _by_ burton e. stevenson author of "the young section-hand," "the holladay case," etc. illustrated by a. p. button [illustration: logo] _boston_ [illustration] the page company [illustration] _publishers_ _copyright, _ by the page company _entered at stationers' hall, london_ _all rights reserved_ made in u. s. a. first impression, june, second impression, october, third impression, april, fourth impression, august, fifth impression, september, sixth impression, may, seventh impression, april, eighth impression, february, ninth impression, march, tenth impression, march, eleventh impression, may, twelfth impression, june, printed by c. h. simonds company boston, mass., u.s.a. */ to e. r. s., w. w. w., g. w. p., and f. m. c. .. -. .- ..... ..... . ... . .. .- - .. . . -. .. .-. -.... . .. . .. .- ... ... .. ... - .- -. ... . .-- -. -.. -.- .. -. -.. ¬¬ .... .. -. - . ... . ... - [transcriber note: ¬¬ = long single dash. translation at end of book.] contents chapter page i. the new position ii. a rescue iii. a new friend iv. the young operators v. "flag number two!" vi. a private line vii. the call to duty viii. an old enemy ix. an unwelcome guest x. a professional friendship xi. the president's special xii. placing the blame xiii. probing the mystery xiv. to the rescue xv. light in dark places xvi. all's well that ends well xvii. allan entertains a visitor xviii. facing the lion xix. the first lesson xx. what delayed extra west xxi. a call for aid xxii. the treasure chest xxiii. "hands up!" xxiv. jed hopkins, phoenix xxv. how the plot was laid xxvi. the pursuit xxvii. a gruesome find xxviii. jed starts for home xxix. the young train dispatcher list of illustrations page "hurled itself on across the waiting-room and through the outer door to safety" (_see page _) _frontispiece_ "'look out!' he cried, and seizing him by the arm, dragged him sharply backwards" "snatched up the fusee, and fairly hurled himself down the track" "in the next instant, the tall figure had been flung violently into the room" "the afternoon passed happily" "'it b'longs t' th' mine company,' said nolan" the young train dispatcher chapter i the new position stretching from the atlantic seaboard on the east to the mississippi river on the west, lies the great p. & o. railroad, comprising, all told, some four thousand miles of track. look at it on the map and you will see how it twists and turns and sends off numberless little branches; for a railroad is like a river and always seeks the easiest path--the path, that is, where the grades are least and the passes in the mountains lowest. once upon a time, a czar of russia, asked by his ministers to indicate the route for a railroad from st. petersburg to moscow, placed a ruler on the map before him and drew a straight line between those cities, a line which his engineers were forced to follow; but that is the only road in the world constructed in so wasteful a fashion. that portion of the p. & o. system which lies within the boundaries of the buckeye state is known as the ohio division, and the headquarters are at the little town of wadsworth, which happens, by a fortunate chance of geographical position, to be almost exactly midway between the ends of the division. a hundred miles to the east is parkersburg, where the road enters the state; a hundred miles to the southwest is cincinnati, where it gathers itself for its flight across the prairies of southern indiana and illinois; and it is from this central point that all trains are dispatched and all orders for the division issued. here, also, are the great division shops, where a thousand men work night and day to repair the damage caused by ever-recurring accidents and to make good the constant deterioration of cars and engines through ordinary wear and tear. it is here that the pay-roll for the division is made out; hither all complaints and inquiries are sent; and here all reports of business are prepared. in a word, this is the brain. the miles and miles of track stretching east and west and south, branching here and there to tap some near-by territory, are merely so many tentacles, useful only for conveying food, in the shape of passengers and freight, to the great, insatiable maw. in fact, the system resembles nothing so much as a gigantic cuttle-fish. the resemblance is more than superficial, for, like the cuttle-fish, it possesses the faculty of "darting rapidly backward" when attacked, and is prone to eject great quantities of a "black, ink-like fluid,"--which is, indeed, ink itself--to confuse and baffle its pursuers. the headquarters offices are on the second floor of a dingy, rectangular building, the lower floor of which serves as the station for the town. it is surrounded by broad cement walks, always gritty and black with cinders, and the atmosphere about it reeks with the fumes of gas and sulphur from the constantly passing engines. the air is full of soot, which settles gently and continually upon the passers-by; and there is a never-ceasing din of engines "popping off," of whistles, bells, and the rumble and crash of cars as the fussy yard engines shunt them back and forth over the switches and kick them into this siding and that as the trains are made up. it is not a locality where any one, fond of quiet and cleanliness and pure air, would choose to linger, and yet, in all the town of wadsworth, there is no busier place. first of all, there are the passengers for the various trains, who, having no choice in the matter, hurry in and hurry out, or sit uncomfortably in the dingy waiting-rooms, growing gradually dingy themselves, and glancing at each other furtively, as though fearing to discern or to disclose a smut. then, strange as it may seem, there are always a number of hangers-on about the place--idlers for whom the railroad seems to possess a curious and irresistible fascination, who spend hour after hour lounging on the platform, watching the trains arrive and depart--a phenomenon observable not at wadsworth only, but throughout this broad land at every city, town, or hamlet through which a railroad passes. across one end of the building is the baggage-room, and at the other is the depot restaurant, dingy as the rest notwithstanding the valiant and unceasing efforts made to keep it clean. the sandwiches and pies and pallid cakes are protected from the contamination of the atmosphere by glass covers which are polished until they shine again; the counter, running the whole length of the room, is eroded by much scrubbing as stones sometimes are, and preserves a semblance of whiteness even amid these surroundings. behind it against the wall stand bottles of olives, pickles, and various relishes and condiments, which have been there for years and years, and will be there always--for who has time for food of that sort at a railway restaurant? indeed, it would seem that they must have been purchased, in the first place, for ornament rather than for use. at one end of the counter is a glass case containing a few boxes of stogies and cheap cigars, and at intervals along its length rise polished nickel standards bearing fans at the top, which are set in motion by a mechanism wound up every morning like a clock; but the motion is so slow, the fans revolve with such calm and passionless deliberation, that they rather add to the drowsy atmosphere of the place, and the flies alight upon them and rub the jam from their whiskers and the molasses from their legs, and then go quietly to sleep without a thought of danger. how often has this present writer sat before that counter in admiring contemplation of the presiding genius of the place as he sliced up a boiled ham for sandwiches. he was a master of the art; those slices were of more than paper thinness. it was his peculiar glory and distinction to be able to get more sandwiches out of a ham than any other mere mortal had ever been able to do, and he was proud of it as was napoleon of the campaign of austerlitz. the greater part of the custom of the depot restaurant was derived from "transients;" from passengers, that is, who, unable to afford the extravagance of the diner, are compelled to bolt their food in the five minutes during which their train changes engines, and driven by necessity, must eat here or nowhere. and they usually got a meal of surprising goodness; so good, in fact, that there were and still are many men who willingly plough their way daily through smoke and cinders, and sit on the high, uncomfortable stools before the counter, in order to enjoy regularly the entertainment which the restaurant offers--a striking instance of the triumph of mind over environment. these, then, are the activities which mark the lower floor of the building; those of the upper floor are much more varied and interesting, for it is there, as has been said, that the division offices are located. a constant stream of men pours up and down the long, steep flight of stairs which leads to them. conductors and engineers must report there and register before they take out a train and as soon as they bring one in; trainmen of all grades climb the stair to see what orders have been posted on the bulletin-board and to compare their watches with the big, electrically adjusted clock which keeps the official time for the division. others ascend unwillingly, with downcast countenances, summoned for a session "on the carpet," when trainmaster or superintendent is probing some accident, disobedience of orders, or dereliction of duty. still others, in search of employment, are constantly seeking the same officials, standing nervously before them, cap in hand, and relating, more or less truthfully, the story of their last job and why they left it;--so that the procession up and down the stair never ceases. the upper floor is not quite so dingy as the lower. it is newer, for one thing, its paint and varnish are fresher, and it is kept cleaner. but it is entirely inadequate to the needs of the business which is done there; for here are the offices of the division engineer, the division passenger and freight agents, the timekeeper, the division superintendent, the trainmaster--and dominating them all, the dispatchers' office, whence come the orders which govern the movements of every train. near by is a lounging-room for trainmen, where they can loiter and swap yarns, while waiting to be called for duty. it is a popular place, because if one only talks loud enough one can be overheard in the dispatchers' office across the hall. so the men gather there and express their opinions of the dispatchers at the top of the voice--opinions, which, however they may differ in minor details, are always the reverse of complimentary. for the dispatchers are the drivers; they crack the whip over the heads of the trainmen by means of terse and peremptory telegraphic orders, which there is no answering, and which no one dares disobey; and the driver, however well-meaning, is seldom popular with the driven. such is the station and division headquarters at wadsworth: unworthy alike as the one and the other. the whole effect of the building is of an indescribable, sordid dinginess; it is a striking example of that type of railroad economy which forbids the expenditure of money for the comfort and convenience of its patrons and employees--a type which, happily, is fast passing away. * * * * * on a certain bright spring morning--bright, that is, until one passed beneath the cloud of smoke which hung perpetually above the yards at wadsworth--a boy of about eighteen joined the procession which was toiling up the stair to the division offices, and, after hesitating an instant at the foot, as though to nerve himself for an ordeal which he dreaded, mounted resolutely step after step. as he pushed open the swinging-door at the top, the clamour of half a dozen telegraph instruments greeted his ears. he glanced through the open window of the dispatchers' office as he passed it, pushed his way through a group of men gathered before the bulletin-board, and, after an instant's hesitation, turned into an open doorway just beyond. there were two men in the room, seated on either side of a great desk which stood between the windows looking down over the yards. they glanced up at the sound of his step, and one of them sprang to his feet with a quick exclamation of welcome. "why, how are you, allan!" he cried, holding out his hand. "i'm mighty glad to see you. so you're ready to report for duty, are you?" "yes, sir," answered the boy, smiling into the genial gray eyes, and returning the warm handclasp, "i'm all right again." "you're a little pale yet, and a little thin," said the trainmaster, looking him over critically; "but that won't last long. george," he added, turning to his companion, "this is allan west, who saved the pay-car from that gang of wreckers last christmas eve." "is it?" and the chief-dispatcher held out his hand and shook the boy's heartily. "i'm glad to know you. mr. schofield has told us the story of that night until we know it by heart. all the boys will be glad to meet you." the boy blushed with pleasure. "thank you," he said. "allan's to take a job here as office-boy," added mr. schofield. "when will you be ready to go to work?" "right away, sir." "that's good. i was hoping you'd say that, for there's a lot of work piled up. the other boy was promoted just the other day, and i've been holding the place open. that will be your desk there in the corner, and your principal business for the present will be to see that each official here gets promptly the correspondence addressed to him. that basketful of letters yonder has to be sorted out and delivered. in this tray on my desk i put the messages i want delivered at once. understand?" "yes, sir," answered allan, and immediately took possession of the pack of envelopes lying in the tray. he sat down at his desk, with a little glow of pride that it was really his, and sorted the letters. three were addressed to the master mechanic, three to the company's freight agent, two to the yardmaster, and five or six more to other officials. as soon as he got them sorted, he put on his hat and started to deliver them. the trainmaster watched him as he left the office, and then smiled across at the chief-dispatcher. "bright boy that," he commented. "did you notice--he didn't ask a single question; just went ahead and did as he was told--and he didn't have to be told twice, either." the chief dispatcher nodded. "yes," he said; "he'll be a valuable boy to have about." "he's already proved his value to this road," added mr. schofield, and turned back to his work. no one familiar with allan west's history will dispute the justice of the remark. it was just a year before that the boy had secured a place on the road as section-hand--a year fraught with adventure, which had culminated in his saving the pay-car, carrying the men's christmas money, from falling into the hands of a gang of desperate wreckers. the lives of a dozen men would have been sacrificed had the attempt succeeded. that it did not succeed was due to the ready wit with which the boy had managed to defeat the plan laid by the wreckers, and to the sheer grit which had carried him through a situation of appalling danger. he had barely escaped with his life; he had spent slow weeks recovering from the all-but-fatal bullet-wound he had received there. it was during this period of convalescence, spent at the little cottage of jack welsh, the foreman under whom he had worked on section, that the trainmaster had come to him with the offer of a position in his office--a position not important in itself, but opening the way to promotion, whenever that promotion should be deserved. allan had accepted the offer joyfully--how joyfully those who have read the story of his adventures in "the young section-hand" will remember--and at last he was ready to begin his new duties, where yet other adventures awaited him. chapter ii a rescue with the packet of envelopes in his hand, allan descended the stair and came out upon the grimy platform. just across the yards lay the low, dark, brick building which was the freight office, and he made his way toward it over the tangle of tracks and switches, where the freight-trains were being "made up" to be sent east or west. after some inquiry, he found the freight agent gazing ruefully at a barrel of oil which had just been smashed to pieces by a too vigorous freight-handler. allan gave him the letters addressed to him and hurried away to deliver the others. farther down the yards was the office of the yardmaster, a little, square, frame building, standing like an island amid the ocean of tracks which surrounded it. here was kept the record of every car which entered or left the yards--the road it belonged to, its number, whence it came, whither it went, by what train, at what hour. this dingy little building was one link in that great chain of offices which enables every road in the country to keep track of the cars it is using, to know where they are, what progress they are making, and what service they are performing. every one who has seen a freight-train has noticed that it is almost always composed of cars belonging to many different roads, and must have wondered how these cars were kept accounted for. every road would prefer to use only its own cars, and to keep them on its own system, but this is impossible. a car of sugar, for instance, sent from new york to denver, must pass over at least two different lines. it can go from new york to chicago over the new york central, and from chicago to denver over the santa fé. now, if the car belonging to the new york central in which the sugar was loaded at new york be stopped at chicago, the sugar must be reloaded into another car belonging to the santa fé, a long and expensive process to which neither the shipper nor the road would agree. to avoid this loading and unloading, freight in car-load lots is always sent through to its destination without change, no matter how many roads the car must traverse, and when it reaches its destination and is emptied, it is usually held until it can be loaded again before it is sent back whence it came. when the traffic is not evenly balanced,--when there is more freight, that is, being sent one way than another,--the "empties" must be hauled back, and as "empties" produce no revenue, this is a dead expense which cuts deeply into the earnings. the roads which use a car must pay the road which owns it a fee of fifty cents for every day they keep it in their possession, whether loaded or empty; hence the road holding it tries to keep it moving, and when business is slack and it is not needed, gets it back to its owner as quickly as possible. if it is damaged in an accident on a strange road, it must be repaired before it is returned to its owner; if it is totally destroyed, it must be paid for. it is the duty of the conductor of every freight-train, as soon as he reaches a terminal, to mail to the superintendent of car service at headquarters, a report giving the initial and number of every car in his train, its contents, destination, and the hour of its departure from one terminal and arrival at another. these reports, as they come in from day to day, are entered in ledgers and enable the superintendent of car service to note the progress of every car, and to determine the per diem due its owner. these accounts are balanced every month. the books at headquarters are always, of necessity, at least three days behind, since the conductors' reports must come in from distant parts of the road; but reports so old as that are of small service in tracing a car, so it is the duty of the employees of the yardmaster's office to keep a daily record of the movement of cars, which shall be up-to-date and instantly available. every train which enters the yards is met by a yard-clerk, book in hand, who makes a note of the number and name of every car as it passes him. the men who do this gain an amazing facility, and as the cars rush past, jot down numbers and initials as unconcernedly as though they had all the time in the world at their disposal. allan had observed this more than once, and had often wondered how it was possible for a man to write down accurately the number of a car which had flashed past so rapidly that he himself was not able to distinguish it. there was a train coming in at the moment, and allan paused to watch the accountant with his note-book; then he went on to the office to leave the two letters addressed to john marney, the yardmaster, a genial irishman with bronzed face and beard tinged with gray, who knew the yards and the intricacies of "making up" better than most people know the alphabet. allan knew him well, for many an evening had he spent in the little shanty, where conductors and brakemen assembled, listening to tales of the road--tales grave and gay, of comedy and tragedy--yes, even of ghosts! if i stopped to tell a tenth of them, this book would never be. finished! "how are ye, allan?" the yardmaster greeted him, as he opened the door. "so ye've got a new job?" "yes, sir; official mail-carrier," and he handed him the letters. "hum," grunted marney; "this road never was over-liberal. you're beginnin' at th' bottom, fer sure!" "just where i ought to begin! i've got to learn the ropes before i can begin to climb." "well, it won't take ye long, my boy; i know that," said marney, his eyes twinkling. "you'll soon begin t' climb, all right; they can't kape ye down!" "i fully expect to be superintendent some day," said allan, laughing. "of course ye will!" cried the other. "i don't doubt it--not fer a minute. yes--an' i'll live t' see it! i'll be right here where i've allers been; an ye mustn't fergit old jack marney, me boy." "i won't," allan promised, still laughing. "i'll always speak to you, if i happen to think of it." "let me give you one piece of advice," went on marney, with sudden earnestness. "you'll be knockin around these yards more or less now, all th' time, an' if ye want t' live t' be suprintindint, you've got t' kape your eyes open. now moind this: when you're crossin' th' yards, niver think of anything but gittin' acrost; niver step on a track without lookin' both ways t' see if anything's comin; an' if anything _is_ comin' an' you're at all doubtful of bein' able t' git acrost ahead of it at an ordinary walk, don't try. give it th' right o' way. i've been workin' in these yards goin' on forty year, an' i've managed t' kape all my arms an' legs with me by allers rememberin' that rule. th' boys used t' laugh at me, but them that started in when i did are ayther sleepin' in th' cimitery, or limpin' around on one leg, or eatin' with one hand. a railroad yard is about th' nearest approach to a human slaughter-house there is on this earth. don't you be one o' th' victims." "i'll certainly try not to," allan assured him, and went out with a livelier sense of the dangers of the yard than he had ever had before; and, indeed, the yardmaster had not overstated them, though the crushing and maiming and killing which went on there were due in no small degree to the carelessness and foolhardiness of the men, who grew familiar with danger and contemptuous of it from looking it every day in the face, and took chances which sooner or later ended in disaster. the person allan had next to find was the master-mechanic, whose office was a square, one-storied building behind the great shops which closed in the lower end of the yards. he knew the shops thoroughly, for he had been through them more than once under jack welsh's guidance, and had spent many of his spare moments there, for there was a tremendous fascination about the intricate and mammoth machinery which filled them, almost human in its intelligence, and with which so many remarkable things were accomplished. so on he went, past the great roundhouse where stood the mighty engines groomed ready for the race, or being rubbed down by the grimed and sweaty hostlers after a hundred-mile run; past the little shanty with " " in big figures on its door--headquarters of section twenty-one, and receptacle for hand-car and tools,--the hand-car which he had pumped along the track so many times, the tools with which his hands had grown familiar. the door of the "long-shop" lay just beyond, and he entered it, for the shortest path to the master-mechanic's office lay through the shops; and allan knew that he would probably find the official he was seeking somewhere among them, inspecting some piece of machinery, or overseeing some important bit of work. the "long-shop," so named from its peculiar shape, very long and narrow, is devoted wholly to repairing and rebuilding engines. such small complaints as leaking valves and broken springs and castings may be repaired in the roundhouse, as the family medicine-chest avails for minor ailments; but for more serious injuries the engines must be taken to the experts in the long shop, and placed on one of the operating-tables there, and taken apart and put together and made fit for service again. when the injuries are too severe--when, in other words, it would cost more to rebuild the engine than the engine is worth--it is shoved along a rusty track back of the shop into the cemetery called the "bone-yard," and there eventually dismantled, knocked to pieces, and sold for "scrap." that is the sordid fate, which, sooner or later, overtakes the proudest and swiftest empress of the rail. in the long-shop, four or five engines are always jacked up undergoing repairs; each of them has a special gang of men attached to it, under a foreman whose sole business it is to see that that engine gets back into active service in the shortest possible time. to the inexperienced eye, the shop was a perfect maze of machinery. great cranes ran overhead, with chains and claws dangling; shafting whirred and belts rattled; along the walls were workbenches, variously equipped; at the farther end were a number of drills, and beyond them a great grindstone which whirred and whirred and threw out a shower of sparks incessantly, under the guidance of its presiding genius, a little, gray-haired man, whose duty it was to sharpen all the tools brought to him. there was a constant stream of men to and from the grindstone, which, in consequence, was a sort of centre for all the gossip of the shops. once the grindstone had burst, and had carried the little man with it through the side of the shop, riding a great fragment much as prince feroze-shah rode his enchanted horse; and though there was no peg which he could turn to assure a safe landing, he _did_ land safely, and next day superintended the installation of a new stone, from which the sparks were soon flying as merrily as ever. and even if the visitor was not confused by this tangle of machinery, he was sure to be confounded by the noise, toward which every man in the shop contributed his quota. the noise!--it is difficult to give an adequate idea of that merciless and never-ceasing din. chains clanked, drills squeaked, but over and above it all was the banging and hammering of the riveters, and, as a sort of undertone, the clangour from the boiler-shop, connected with the long-shop by an open arch. the work of the riveters never paused nor slackened, and the onlooker was struck with wonder and amazement that a human being could endure ten hours of such labour! allan, closing behind him the little door by which he had entered, looked around for the tall form of the master-mechanic. but that official was nowhere in sight, so the boy walked slowly on, glancing to right and left between the engines, anxious not to miss him. at last, near the farthest engine, he thought that he perceived him, and drew near. as he did so, he saw that an important operation was going forward. a boiler was being lowered to its place on its frame. a gang of men were guiding it into position, as the overhead crane slowly lowered it, manipulated by a lever in the hands of a young fellow whose eyes were glued upon the signalling hand which the foreman raised to him. "easy!" the foreman shouted, his voice all but inaudible in the din. "easy!" and the boiler was lowered so slowly that its movement was scarcely perceptible. [illustration: "'look out!' he cried, and seizing him by the arm, dragged him sharply backwards."] there was a pause, a quick intaking of breath, a straining of muscles-- "now!" yelled the foreman, and with a quick movement the young fellow threw over the lever and let the boiler drop gently, exactly in place. the men drew a deep breath of relief, and stood erect, hands on hips, straightening the strained muscles of their backs. there was something marvellous in the ease and certainty with which the crane had handled the great weight, responsive to the pressure of a finger, and allan ran his eyes admiringly along the heavy chains, up to the massive and perfectly balanced arm-- then his heart gave a sudden leap of terror. he sprang forward toward the young fellow who stood leaning against the lever. "look out!" he cried, and seizing him by the arm, dragged him sharply backwards. the next instant there was a resounding crash, which echoed above the din of the shop like a cannon-shot above the rattle of musketry, and a great block smashed the standing-board beside the lever to pieces. chapter iii a new friend the crash was followed by an instant's silence, as every man dropped his work and stood with strained attention to see what had happened; then the young fellow whose arm allan still held turned toward him with a quick gesture. "why," he cried, "you--you saved my life!" "yes," said allan; "i saw the block coming. it was lucky i happened to be looking at it." "lucky!" echoed the other, visibly shaken by his narrow escape, and he glanced at the splintered board where he had been standing. "i should say so! imagine what i'd have looked like about this time, if you hadn't dragged me out of the way!" the other men rushed up, stared, exclaimed, and began to devise explanations of how the accident had occurred. no one could tell certainly, but it was pretty generally agreed that the sudden rebound from the strain, as the boiler fell into place, had in some way loosened the block, thrown it away from its tackle, and hurled it to the floor below. but neither allan nor his companion paid much attention to these explanations. for the moment, they were more interested in each other than in anything else. a sudden comradeship, born in the first glance they exchanged, had arisen between them; a mutual feeling that they would like to know each other--a prevision of friendship. "my name is anderson," the boy was saying, his hand outstretched; "my first name is james--but my friends call me jim." "and my name is allan west," responded allan, clasping the proffered hand in a warm grip. "oho!" cried jim, with a start of surprise, "so you're allan west! well, i've always wanted to know you, but i never thought you'd introduce yourself like this!" "always wanted to know me?" repeated allan in bewilderment. "how could that be?" "hero-worship, my boy!" explained jim, grinning at allan's blush. "do you suppose there's a man on this road who hasn't heard of your exploits? and to hero-worship there is now added a lively sense of gratitude, since you arrived just in time to save me from being converted into a grease-spot. but there--the rest will keep for another time. where do you live?" "at jack welsh's house," answered allan; "just back of the yards yonder." "all right, my friend," said jim. "i'll take the liberty of paying you a call before very long. i only hope you'll be at home." "i surely will, if you'll let me know when to look for you," answered allan, heartily. "but i've got some letters here for the master-mechanic--i mustn't waste any more time." "well!" said jim, smiling, "i don't think you've been exactly wasting your time--though of course there might be a difference of opinion about that. but there he comes now," and he nodded toward the tall figure of the master-mechanic, who had heard of the accident and was hastening to investigate it. allan handed him his letters, which he thrust absently into his pocket, as he listened with bent head to the foreman's account of the mishap. allan did not wait to hear it, but, conscious that the errand was taking longer than it should, hurried on to deliver the other letters. this was accomplished in a very few minutes, and he was soon back again at his desk in the trainmaster's office. he spent the next half-hour in sorting the mail which had accumulated there. the trainmaster was busy dictating letters to his stenographer, wading through the mass of correspondence before him with a rapidity born of long experience. allan never ceased to be astonished at the vast quantity of mail which poured in and out of the office--letters upon every conceivable subject connected with the operation of the road--reports of all sorts, inquiries, complaints, requisitions--all of which had to be carefully attended to if the business of the road was to move smoothly. there was no end to it. every train brought a big batch of correspondence, which it was his duty to receive, delivering at the same time to the baggage-master other packets addressed to employees at various points along the road. the road took care of its own mail in this manner, without asking the aid of uncle sam, and so escaped a charge for postage which would have made a serious hole in the earnings. as soon as he had received the mail, allan would hasten up-stairs to his desk to sort it. always about him, echoing through the office, rose the clatter of the telegraph instruments. the trainmaster had one at his elbow, the chief-dispatcher another, and in the dispatchers' office next door three or four more were constantly chattering. it reminded allan of nothing so much as a chorus of blackbirds. often mr. schofield would pause in the midst of dictating a letter, open his key and engage in conversation with some one out on the line. and allan realized that, after all, the pile of letters, huge as it was, represented only a small portion of the road's business--that by far the greater part of it was transacted by wire. and he determined to master the secrets of telegraphy at the earliest possible moment. it was plainly to be seen that that way, and that way only, lay promotion. he was still pondering this idea when, the day's work over, he left the office and made his way toward the little house perched high on an embankment back of the yards, where he had lived ever since he had come to wadsworth, a year before, in search of work. big-hearted jack welsh had not only given him work, but had offered him a home--and a real home the boy found it. he had grown as dear to mary welsh's heart as was her own little girl, mamie, who had just attained the proud age of seven and was starting to school. allan found her now, waiting for him at the gate, and she escorted him proudly up the path and into the house. "well, an' how d' you like your new job?" mary asked, as they sat down to supper. "first rate," allan answered, and described in detail how he had spent the day. mary sniffed contemptuously when he had finished. "i don't call that sech a foine job," she said. "why, anybody could do that! a boy loike you deserves somethin' better! an' after what ye did fer th' road, too!" "but don't you see," allan protested, "it isn't so much the job itself, as the chance it gives me. i'm at the bottom of the ladder, it's true, just as john marney said; but there _is_ a ladder, and a tall one, and if i stay at the bottom it's my own fault." jack nodded from across the table. "right you are," he agreed. "and you'll git ahead, never fear!" "i'm going to try," said allan, and as soon as supper was over, he left the house and hastened uptown to the public library, where he asked for a book on telegraphy. he was just leaving the building with the coveted volume under his arm, when somebody clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned to find jim anderson at his side. "i say," cried the latter, "this is luck! where you going?" "i was just starting for home," said allan. "i'll go with you," said jim, promptly wheeling into step beside him and locking arms. "that is, if you don't mind." "mind!" cried allan. "you know i'm glad to have you." "all right then," said jim, laughing. "that's a great load off my mind. what's that book you're hugging so lovingly?" "it's a book on telegraphy," and allan showed him the title. "going to study it?" "yes; it didn't take me long to find out that to amount to anything in the offices, one has to understand what all that chatter is about." "right you are," assented jim, "but you'll find it mighty hard work learning it from a book. it'll be a good deal like learning to eat without any food to practise on. have you got an instrument?" "no. but of course i'll get one." "look here!" cried jim, excitedly, struck by a sudden idea; "i have it! my brother bob has two instruments stored away in the attic, batteries and everything. he's the operator at belpre now, and hasn't any more use for them than a dog has for two tails. he'll be glad to let us have them--glad to know that his lazy brother's improving his spare time. why can't we rig up a line from your house to mine, and learn together? i'm pretty sure i can get some old wire down at the shops for almost nothing." "that's a great idea," said allan, admiringly; "if we can only carry it out. where do you live? is it very far?" "well, it's quite a way; but i think we can manage it," said jim. "suppose we look over the ground." "all right; only wait till i take this book home; i live just over yonder," and a moment later they were at the gate. "won't you come in?" "no, not this time; it'll soon be dark and we'll have to step out pretty lively." "i won't be but a minute," said allan; and he wasn't. the two started up through the yards together, arm in arm. jim's house was, as he had said, "quite a way;" in fact, it was nearly a mile away, straight out the railroad-track. the house was a large brick, which stood very near the track, so near, indeed, that one corner had been cut away to permit the railroad to get by. the house had been built there nearly a century before by some wealthy farmer who had never heard of a railroad, and never dreamed that his property would one day be wanted for a right of way. but the day came when the railroad's surveyors ran their line of stakes out from the town, along the river-bank, and up to the very door of the house itself. condemnation proceedings were begun, the railroad secured the strip of land it wanted, and tore down the corner of the house which stood upon it. whereupon the owner had walled up the opening and rented what remained of the building to such families as had nerves strong enough to ignore the roar and rumble of the trains, passing so near that they seemed hurling themselves through the very house itself. allan knew it well. he had passed it many and many a time while he was working on section. indeed, it was this old house, when he learned its history, which made him realize for the first time, how young, how very modern the railroad was. looking at it--at its massive track, its enduring roadway carried on great fills and mighty bridges--it seemed as old, as venerable, as the rugged hills which frowned down upon the valley; it seemed that it must have been there from the dawn of time, that it was the product of a force greater than any now known to man. and yet, really, it had been in existence scarce half a century. many men were living who had seen the first rail laid, who had welcomed the arrival of the first train, and who still recalled with mellow and tender memory the days of the stage-coach--a mode of travel which, seen through the prism of the years, quite eclipsed this new fashion in romance, in comfort, and in good-fellowship. this leviathan of steel and oak had grown like the beanstalk of jack the giant-killer--had spread and spread with incredible rapidity, until it reached, not from earth to heaven, but from the atlantic to the pacific, from the lakes to the gulf. it had brought san francisco as near boston as was philadelphia in the days of the post rider. the four days' stage journey from new york to boston it covered in four hours. it had bound together into a concrete whole a country so vast that it equals in area the whole of europe. and all this in little more than fifty years! verily, there are modern labours of hercules beside which the ancient ones seem mere child's play! "it's a long stretch," said allan, looking back, through the gathering darkness, along the way that they had come. "it must be nearly a mile from here to the station." "just about," agreed jim. "but i know tom mickey, the head lineman, pretty well, and i believe that i can get him to let us string our wire on the company's poles. you see there's three or four empty places on the cross-bars." "oh, if we can do that," said allan, "it will be easy enough. do you suppose he will let us?" "i'm sure he will," asserted jim, with a good deal more positiveness than he really felt. "i'll see mickey in the morning--i'll start early so i'll have time before the whistle blows." "it seems to me that you're doing it all, and that i'm not doing anything," said allan. "you must let me furnish the wire, anyway." "we'll see about it," said jim. "won't you come in and see my mother?" he added, a little shyly. "it's pretty late," said allan. "do you think i'd better?" "yes," jim replied. "she--she asked me to bring you, the first chance i had." "what for?" asked allan, looking at him in surprise. "no matter," said jim. "come on," and he opened the door and led him into the house. they crossed a hall, and beside a table in the room beyond, allan saw a woman seated. she was bending over some sewing in her lap, but she looked up at the sound of their entrance, and as the beams of the lamp fell upon her face, allan saw how it lighted with love and happiness. and his heart gave a sudden throb of misery, for it was with that selfsame light in her eyes that his mother had welcomed him in the old days. "mother," jim was saying, "this is allan west." she rose with a little cry of pleasure, letting her sewing fall unheeded to the floor, and held out her hands to him. "so this is allan west!" she said, in a voice soft and sweet and gentle. "this is the boy who saved my boy's life!" "it was nothing," stammered allan, turning crimson. "you see, i just happened to be there--" "nothing! i wonder if your mother would think it nothing if some one had saved you for her!" a sudden mist came before allan's eyes; his lips trembled. and the woman before him, looking at him with loving, searching eyes, understood. "dear boy!" she said, and allan found himself clasped close against her heart. chapter iv the young operators tom mickey, chief lineman of the ohio division of the p. & o., was, like most other human beings, subject to fluctuations of temper; only, with tom, the extremes were much farther apart than usual. this was due, perhaps, to his mixed ancestry, for his father, a volatile irishman, had married a phlegmatic german woman, proprietress of a railroad boarding-house, where mickey found a safe and comfortable haven, with no more arduous work to do than to throw out occasionally some objectionable customer--and mickey never considered that as work, but as recreation pure and simple. it was into this haven that tom was born; there he grew up, alternating between the chronic high spirits of his father and the chronic low ones of his mother, and being, on the whole, healthy and well-fed and contented. he had entered the service of the road while yet a mere boy, preferring to go to work rather than to school, which was the only alternative offered him; and he soon became an expert lineman, running up and down the poles as agile as a monkey and dancing out along the wires in a way that earned him more than one thrashing from his boss. advancing years had tempered this foolhardiness, but had only served to accentuate the eccentric side of his character. he would be, one day, buoyant as a lark and obliging to an almost preposterous degree, and the next day, ready to snap off the head of anybody who addressed him, and barely civil to his superior officers. these vagaries got him into hot water sometimes; and more than once he was "on the carpet" before the superintendent; but the greatest punishment ever meted out to him was a short vacation without pay. the road really could not afford to do without him, for tom mickey was the best lineman in the middle west. the tangle of wires which were an integral part of the system was to him an open book, to be read at a glance. was any wire in trouble, he would mount his tricycle, a sort of miniature hand-car, spin out along the track, and in a surprisingly short time the trouble was remedied and the wire in working order. tom was a jewel--in the rough, it is true, and not without a flaw--but a jewel just the same. luckily he was in one of his buoyant moods when jim anderson approached him on the morning following his conversation with allan. perhaps it is only right to say that this was not wholly luck, for jim had reconnoitred thoroughly beforehand, and had not ventured to approach the lineman until assured by one of his helpers that he was in a genial humour. mickey was just loading up his tricycle with wire and insulators, preparatory to a trip out along the line, when jim accosted him. "mr. mickey," he began, "another fellow named allan west and myself want to rig up a little telegraph line from my house, out near the two bridges, to his, just back of the yards here, and we were wondering if you would let us string our wire on the company's poles. there seem to be some vacant places, and of course we'd be mighty careful not to interfere with the other wires." he stopped, eying mickey anxiously, but that worthy went on with his work as though he had not heard. he was puffing vigorously at a short clay pipe, and with a certain viciousness that made jim wonder if he had approached him at the wrong moment, after all. "what 'd ye say th' other kid's name is?" mickey asked, after what seemed an age to the waiting boy. "allan west." "is that th' kid that jack welsh took t' raise?" "yes; he lives with the welshes. he worked in welsh's section-gang last year--took dan nolan's place, you know." "yes--i moind," said mickey, and went on smoking. "how does it happen," he demanded at last, "that he wants t' learn t' be a operator?" "he's got a job in th' trainmaster's office," jim explained. "he wants to learn the business." mickey nodded, and knocking out his pipe against his boot-heel, deliberately filled it again, lighted it, and turned back to his work. finally the tricycle was loaded and he pushed it out on the main line, ready for his trip. jim followed him anxiously. he watched mickey take his seat on the queer-looking machine, spit on his hands and grasp the lever; then he turned away disappointed. that line was not going to be possible, after all. "wait a minute," called mickey. "what th' blazes are ye in such a hurry about? do ye see that wire up there--th' outside wire on th' lowest cross-arm?" "yes," nodded jim, following the direction of the pointed finger. "well, that's a dead one. we don't use it no more, an' i'm a-goin' t' take it down afore long. ye kin use it, if ye want to, till then--mebbe it'll be a month 'r two afore i git around to it." "oh, thank you, mr. mickey," cried jim, his face beaming. "that will be fine. we're a thousand times obliged--" but the lineman cut him short with a curt nod, bent to the lever, and rattled away over the switches, out of the yards. jim hurried on to his place in the long-shop, getting there just as the whistle blew, and went about his accustomed work, but he kept an eye out for allan, who, he knew, would be coming through before long in search of the master-mechanic. allan, you may be sure, did not neglect the chance to say good-morning to his new friend, and listened with sparkling eyes while jim poured out the story of his success with mickey. "and now," he concluded, "all we'll have to do is to run a wire into our house from the pole just in front of it, and then run another across the yards here to your house. we can do it in a couple of evenings." "and we'll have it for a month, anyway," added allan. "a month! we'll have it as long as we want it. that was just mickey's way. he didn't want to seem to be too tender-hearted. he'll never touch the wire as long as we're using it. i'll get some old wire to make the connections with, and fix up the batteries." "all right," agreed allan, and went on his way. the work of stringing the wires was begun that very evening; the batteries were overhauled and filled with dilute sulphuric acid, and the keys and sounders were tested and found to be in good shape. three evenings later, one of the instruments was clicking on the table in allan's room, and jim was bending over the other one in his room a mile away. only, alas, the clicks were wild and irregular and without meaning. but that did not last long. the book on telegraphy helped them; allan himself, in the dispatchers' office, had ample opportunity to observe how the system worked, and each of the boys copied out the morse alphabet and set himself to learn it, practising on his key at every spare moment. they found that telegraphic messages are transmitted by the use of three independent characters: short signals, or dots; long signals, or dashes; and dividing intervals or spaces between adjacent signals. thus, a dot followed by a dash represents the letter a; a dash followed by three dots represents the letter b, while two dots, space, dot, represents the letter c, and so through the alphabet, which, according to the morse code, is written like this: a, .-; b, -...; c, .. .; d, -..; e, .; and so on. longer spaces or pauses divide the words, and longer dashes are also used in representing some of the letters. the dots and dashes are made by means of a key which opens and closes the electric circuit, and causes the sounders of all the other instruments connected with the wire to vibrate responsively. when an operator desires to send the letter a, he depresses his key for a short interval, then releases it, and, after an interval equally brief, depresses it again, holding it down three times as long before releasing it. all the other sounders repeat this dot and dash, and the listening operators recognize the letter a. every word must be spelled out in this manner, letter by letter. as may well be believed, the boys found the sending and receiving of even the shortest words difficult and painful enough at first, but in a surprisingly short time certain combinations of sounds began to stand out, as it were, among their surroundings. the two combinations which first became familiar were - .... . and .- -. -.., representing respectively "the" and "and." following this, came the curious combination of sounds, ..--.., which represents the period, one of the most difficult the learner has to master. other combinations followed, until most of the shorter words began to assume the same individuality when heard over the wire that they have when seen by the eye. it was no longer necessary to listen to them letter by letter; the ear grasped them as a whole, just as the eye grasps the written word without separating it into the letters which compose it. but even then, allan still found the clicking of the instruments in the office an unsolvable riddle. this was due largely to the system of abbreviation which railroad operators use, a sort of telegraphic shorthand incomprehensible to the ordinary operator; but the sending was in most cases so rapid that even if the words had been spelled out in full the boy would have had great difficulty in following them. train-dispatchers, it may be said in passing, have no time to waste; their messages are terse and to the point, and are sent like a flash. and woe to the operator who has to break in with the . .. . .. which means "repeat!" the dispatchers themselves, of course, are capable of taking the hottest ball or the wildest that ever came over the wires. indeed, most of them can and do work the key with one hand while they eat their lunch with the other; and the call or signal for his office will instantly awaken him from a sleep which a cannon-shot would not disturb. telegraphy, in a word, develops a sort of sixth sense, and the experienced operator receives or sends a message as readily as he talks or reads or writes. it is second nature. it was about this time that one of the old dispatchers resigned to seek his fortune in the west, and a new one made his début in a manner that allan did not soon forget. he was a slender young fellow, with curly blond hair, and he came on duty at three o'clock in the afternoon, just when the rush of business is heaviest. the induction of a new dispatcher is something of a ceremony, for the welfare of the road rests in his hands for eight hours of every day, and everybody about the offices is always anxious to see just what stuff the newcomer is made of. so on this occasion, most of the division officials managed to have some business in the dispatchers' office at the moment the new man came on. he glanced over the train-sheet, while the man he was relieving explained to him briefly the position of trains and what orders were outstanding. his sounder began to click an instant later, and he leaned over, opened his key, and gave the signal, .. .., which showed that he was ready to receive the message. then, as the message started in a sputter which evidenced the excited haste of the man who was sending it, he turned away, took off his coat, and hung it up, deliberately removed his cuffs, and lighted a cigar. then he sat down at his desk, and picked up a pen. something very like a sigh of relief ran around the office. but the pen did not suit him. he tried it, made a wry face, and looked inquiringly at the other dispatcher. "the pens are over yonder in that drawer," said that worthy, with assumed indifference, and went on sending a message he had just started. the newcomer arose, went to the drawer, opened it, and selected a pen with leisurely care. allan watched him, his heart in his mouth. he could see that the chief-dispatcher was frowning and that the trainmaster looked very stern. he knew that neither of these officials would tolerate any "fooling," when the welfare of the road was in question. but at last the newcomer was in his seat again. he reached forward and opened his key, and every one waited for the . .. . .., which would ask that the message, a long and involved one, be repeated. but instead, a curt "cut it short," flew over the line, followed by an order so terse, so admirable, so clean-cut, that the trainmaster turned away with a sudden relaxation of countenance. "he'll do," he murmured, as he got out a match and lighted his forgotten cigar. "he'll do." and, indeed, at a later day, allan saw the same dispatcher receive and answer two messages simultaneously. but these were merely the trimmings of the profession. they savoured of sleight of hand, and had little to do with the real business of train-dispatching. so allan did not despair. every evening, he and jim laboured at their keys. first, allan would send an item, perhaps, from the evening paper, and jim would receive it. then he would send it back, and allan would write it out, as his sounder clicked along, and compare his copy with the original, to detect any errors. at first, errors were the rule; but as time went on, they became more and more infrequent; and at the end of two months, both the boys had acquired a very fair facility in sending and receiving. indeed, one evening, after an unusually satisfactory bout, jim was moved to a little self-approval. "i think we're both pretty good," he clicked out. "let's apply for a job as operator." "not yet," allan answered. "this line hasn't done all it can for us yet." nor for the road, he might have added, could he have foreseen the events of the next twenty-four hours. chapter v "flag number two!" the snow was falling steadily, a late spring snow, but as heavy as any of the winter. it had started in the early morning as sleet, which clung to everything it touched with a vise-like grip. then, the wind veering to the north had turned the sleet to snow, soggy, tenacious, and swirling fast and faster, until now, as night closed in, nearly six inches had fallen. it was a bad night for railroading, and the instruments in the office clicked incessantly as the dispatchers laboured, with tense faces, to keep their trains straight. the wires were working badly under the burden of snow and sleet; some were crossed, some were down, and the instruments slurred the dots and dashes which rattled over them in a way that brought a line of worry between the eyes of the men upon whom rested so great a responsibility. as for the less experienced operators along the line, they were--to use the expressive phrase usually applied to them--"up in the air." they knew that a single mistake might cost the lives of a score of people, and yet how were mistakes to be avoided when the instruments, instead of their usual clear-cut enunciation, stuttered and stammered and chattered meaninglessly. it was one of those crises which grow worse with each passing moment; when nerves, strained to snapping, finally give way; when brains, aching with anxiety, suddenly refuse to work; when, in a word, there is a break in the system to which even the smallest cog is necessary. so it was that the trainmaster, having swallowed his supper hastily, had hurried back to the office, and stood now peering out into the night, chewing nervously the end of a cigar which he had forgotten to light, and listening to the instruments clattering wildly on the tables behind him. although there were two of them, and their clatter never ceased, he followed without difficulty the story which each was telling, for he had risen to his present position after long years at the key. allan west had also hurried back to the office as soon as he had eaten his supper. it seemed to him that disaster was in the air; besides, he might be needed to carry a message, or for some other service, and he wanted to be on hand. it had been a hard day, for he had toiled back and forth across the slippery yards a score of times, but he forgot his fatigue as he sat there and listened to the crazy instruments and realized the tremendous odds against which the dispatchers were fighting. for the trains must be moved, and as nearly on time as human effort could do it. there is no stopping a railroad because of unfavourable weather. the movement of trains ceases only when an accident breaks the road in two or wreckage blocks the track, and then only until arrangements can be made to détour them past the place where the accident has occurred. when this cannot be done, a train is run to the spot from either side, and passengers, mail, and baggage transferred. and then the passengers get a fleeting and soon-forgotten glimpse of how the road is struggling to set things right again. for as they hurry past the place, they see a gang of men--a hundred, perhaps--toiling like the veriest galley-slaves to repair the damage; they see a huge derrick grappling with wrecked cars and engines and swinging them out of the way; they see locomotives puffing and hauling, and in command of it all, two or three haggard and dirt-begrimed men whom no one would recognize as the well-dressed and well-groomed gentlemen who fill the positions of superintendent, trainmaster, and superintendent of maintenance of way. all this the passengers pause a moment to contemplate, as one looks at a play at the theatre; then they hasten on and forget all about it. as for the labourers, they do not even raise their heads. it is no play for them, but deadly earnest. they have been toiling in just that fashion for hours and hours; they will keep doggedly at it until the road is open. to-night a dozen passengers in the luxuriantly appointed pullmans of the east-bound flyer were fuming and fretting because their train was ten minutes late. they complained to the conductor; they expressed their opinion of the road at length and in terms the most uncomplimentary. they vowed one and all that never again would they travel by this route. not that the delay really made any difference to any of them; but average human nature seems to be so constituted that it is most deeply annoyed by trifles. and the conductor reassured them, talked confidently of making up the lost time, did his best to keep them cheerful and contented, joked and laughed and seemed to be thinking about anything rather than the storm which swirled and howled outside. only for an instant, as he passed from one coach to another, and found himself alone, did the careless smile leave his lips. his face lined with anxiety as he glanced out through the door of the vestibule at the driving snow, and he shook his head. then he resumed his jaunty air and passed on into the next coach. every profession has its ethics--some citadel, some point of honour, which must be defended to the death. the physician may not refuse a call for aid, may not hesitate to risk his own life in the work of saving others--that is the implied agreement he makes with humanity when he accepts his diploma. the captain may not leave his ship until the last passenger has done so; his life is negligible and worthless in comparison with that of any passenger on board; if his passengers cannot be saved, he must go down with them; to think of his own life at such a time is to confess himself a coward and a traitor to a noble calling. the conductor of a passenger-train occupies much the same position. he is responsible for his train and his passengers; never must he seem worried, or admit that there is any danger; he must front death with a smile on his lips, and when the crash comes, his first duty is to the men and women entrusted to his charge. and what a glorious commentary it is on human nature that so few, brought face to face with that duty, seek to evade it! * * * * * back in the dispatchers' office, the situation grew worse and worse. the dispatcher in charge of the east end had lost a freight-train. he supposed that it was somewhere between two stations, but it was long overdue, and the conviction began to be forced upon him that it had somehow got past a station unnoticed and unreported, in the snow and storm. the operator swore it hadn't; swore that he had not slept a second; swore that he had kept a sharp lookout for the train, and hazarded the opinion that it had run off the track somewhere. the dispatcher retorted that when he wanted his opinion he would ask for it; and in the meantime that section of track was closed until the missing train could be found. a missing train! the words send a shiver through the bravest. somewhere, out yonder in the storm, it is careening along the rails; its crew is confident that its passage has been noted by the operator at the last station, and that the dispatcher will keep clear the track ahead. they do not suspect their peril; they do not know that another train may be speeding toward them, and that, in a few minutes, there will be a roar, a crash, the shriek of escaping steam, and then the cruel tongues of flame licking around the wrecked cars. so the fireman bends to his task, the engineer stares absently out into the night, his hand on the throttle, the front brakeman dozes upon the fireman's box, and back in the caboose, the conductor and hind-end brakeman engage in a social game of seven-up-- in safety, this time; for the dispatcher is one who knows his business and takes no chances. proceeding on the theory that the train has got past, he keeps the track clear and holds up the road's traffic until the missing train can be found. which, of course, is as soon as it reaches the next station--for on that end of the road, every operator, knowing what is wrong, has his eyes wide open. a mighty sigh of relief goes up as it is reported; traffic starts again with a rush. and the next day, the operator who swore so positively that the train had not got past was hunting another job. the dispatcher in charge of the west end was doing his best to keep the track clear for number two, the east-bound flyer, the premier train of the road, with right of way over everything; but there was no telling what any train would do on such a night, and the flyer had already been held ten minutes at vienna because a freight-train had stuck on the hill east of there and had to double over. the dispatcher set his teeth and vowed that there should be no more delay if he had to hold every other train on the division until the flyer passed. but freight conductors have a persuasive way with them, and when lew johnson reported from lyndon at . that his train was made up, engine steaming finely, and that he could make wadsworth easily in half an hour, the dispatcher yielded and told him to come ahead. but johnson had exaggerated a little, for his wife was sick and he was anxious to get home to her; the engine was not steaming so well, after all, the flues got to leaking, and when the train finally coasted down the grade into the yards at wadsworth, the flyer was only ten minutes behind. still, a miss is as good as a mile, and the dispatcher heaved a sigh of relief, as he looked out from the window and saw the freight pull into the yards. he stood staring a moment longer, then sprang to his key and began calling musselman. the trainmaster swung around sharply. "what's the matter?" he asked. "an extra west has just pulled out of the yards," gasped the dispatcher. "it had orders to start as soon as number two pulled in. the engineer must have thought that freight was the flyer," and he kept on calling musselman. in a moment came the tick-tick, tick-tick, which told that the operator at musselman had heard the call. "flag number two!" commanded the dispatcher, "and hold till arrival extra west." there was an instant's suspense; then the reply came ticking slowly in: "number two just passed. was just going to report her." the dispatcher leaned back in his chair, his face livid, and stared mutely at the trainmaster. "there's no night office between here and musselman," he said, hoarsely. "there'll be a head-end inside of ten minutes." allan had listened with white face. he shut his eyes for an instant and fancied he could see the passenger and freight rushing toward each other through the night. then, suddenly, he sprang erect. "do you know the number of that outside wire on the lower cross-arm?" he asked the trainmaster. "yes--fifteen--" "can you cut it in?" "of course--but what--" "no matter--do it!" cried allan, and sat down at the key, while the trainmaster went mechanically to the switchboard and pushed the proper plug into place. "j--j--j!" allan called. "j--j--j!" would jim hear? was he within call of his instrument? perhaps he was in some other part of the house; perhaps he was not at home at all. even if he were, how would he be able-- then, suddenly, the circuit was broken, and as allan held down his key, there came the welcome tick-tick, tick-tick, which told that jim had answered. "flag number two!" allan's hand was trembling so that he could scarcely control the key. "r--r," clamoured jim. "repeat--repeat!" small wonder that he doubted he had heard correctly! "flag number two--quick--collision!" this time allan controlled the trembling of his hand and sent the message clearly. "o. k.," flashed back the answer, and jim was gone, forgetting in his agitation to close his key. "who is it?" demanded mr. schofield, who had listened to this interchange with strained attention. "it's jim anderson," allan explained. "he lives in that house right by the track about a mile west of here. he and i rigged up a private line--mr. mickey let us use that old wire. perhaps he'll be in time." "perhaps--perhaps," agreed the trainmaster; but he did not permit himself to hope. the chance was too slender. how was the boy to flag the train? how could he make the engineer see him through that driving snow? it was absurd to suppose it could be done. "i think we'd better order out the wrecking-train," he said, to the chief-dispatcher. "call up a couple of doctors, too; we'll probably need them; and tell the hospital to have its ambulance at the station here before we get back. as for that fool who made the mistake--" he stopped abruptly. for, in the driving snow, the mistake was not so surprising, after all--the flyer was running ten minutes late, and the freight had come in exactly on her time--two facts with which the crew of the extra west could not have been familiar. "perhaps he's paid for it with his life by now," added the trainmaster, after a moment, and started toward the telephone to order the wrecking-train got ready. then, suddenly, he stopped, rigid with expectancy, for the instrument on the table in front of allan had begun to sound. "a--a," it called. "a--a." "tick-tick, tick-tick," allan answered, instantly. "i have number two, also extra west stopped here," came the message. "what shall they do?" "i guess i'll have to turn this over to you, sir," said allan, looking at mr. schofield, his eyes bright with emotion. "don't send too fast," he added, with a little, unsteady laugh, as the trainmaster took the key. "neither jim nor i is very expert, you know." chapter vi a private line the conductor of number two, having consoled and encouraged his passengers to the best of his ability, went forward into the smoker and sat down in a corner seat to sort his tickets and make up his report. from time to time, he glanced out the window, and though the driving snow shut off any glimpse of the landscape, he could tell, by a sort of instinct, just where the train was. he knew the rattle of every switch, the position of every light. the quick rattle of a target told him that the train had passed harper's. he recognized the clatter of the switches at roxabel as the train swept over them; then, from the peculiar echo, he knew that it had entered a cut and that musselman was near. then the train struck another cut, whirred over a bridge, and began to coast down a long grade, while the shrill blast of the whistle sounded faintly through the storm, and he knew that they were approaching wadsworth. the lights of the city would have been visible upon the right but for the swirling snow. there was a sharp repeated roar as the train shot over the two iron bridges at the city's boundary--and then there came a shock which shook the train from end to end, and sent the parcels flying from the wall-racks. instantly the conductor swung up his feet and braced himself against the seat in front of him. he knew that that sudden setting of the brakes meant danger ahead, and he wanted to be prepared for the crash which might follow. it is a trick which every trainman knows and which every passenger should know. the passengers who are injured in a collision are usually those who were sitting carelessly balanced on the edge of their seats, and who, when the crash came, were hurled about the car, with the inevitable result of broken bones. to trainmen and experienced travellers, the unmistakable shock which tells of brakes suddenly applied is always a signal to brace themselves against the more violent one which may follow in a moment. often this simple precaution means all the difference between life and death. but in this case, the train came shrieking to a stop without any shock more violent than the first, and the conductor hastened out to investigate. he found the engineer and fireman standing in front of the engine, staring at a fusee burning red in the darkness, and questioning a young fellow who stood near by. "what is it?" demanded the conductor, hurrying up. "this here youngster says he had orders t' flag th' train," answered the engineer. "orders from whom?" asked the conductor sharply, turning to the boy. "orders from--" the boy stopped and turned red. "well, go on. who gave the orders?" "a chum of mine," burst out the boy desperately. "he works in the trainmaster's office. he wired me a minute ago to flag number two and be quick about it. i just had time to get that fusee lighted when you whistled for the crossing." the conductor frowned. the whole affair savoured of a boyish prank. "and do you mean to say," he demanded, sternly, "that because another boy told you to, you stopped this train--" he paused, his mouth open, and listened, hand to ear. then he stooped, snatched up the fusee, and fairly hurled himself down the track, waving the blazing torch above his head. and an instant later, his companions caught the sound of an engine pounding up the grade toward them. the red light disappeared through the snow; then two sharp whistles testified that the signal had been seen; and a moment later, a great mogul of a freight-engine loomed through the darkness and came grinding to a stop not thirty feet away. her engineer swung himself to the ground and came running forward. [illustration: "snatched up the fusee, and fairly hurled himself down the track"] "what's all this?" he demanded; and then he saw the headlight of the other engine, almost obscured by the snow which encrusted it, and turned livid under his coat of tan. "what train's that?" "that's number two," answered the conductor, who had returned with the smoking fusee still in his hand. "number two!" echoed the engineer, and a cold sweat broke out across his forehead. "nonsense! i saw number two pull into the yards ten minutes ago!" "no you didn't," retorted the conductor, grimly, "for there's number two back there." the engineer passed his hand before his eyes and stared, scarce able to understand. then his face hardened and his lips tightened. "there must have been a freight ahead of you," he said. "it came in just on your time." "we're ten minutes late--and getting later every minute," the conductor added, and stamped impatiently. just then the conductor of the freight came hurrying up. the engineer turned to him with a little sardonic laugh. "well, pete," he said, "i guess this is our last run over this road." the conductor's face turned ghastly white. "wha-what do you mean?" he stammered. the engineer answered with a wave of the hand toward the headlight glaring down at them. "that's number two," he said. "number two!" echoed the conductor, blankly. "but then--why weren't we smashed to kindling wood?" "blamed if i know," answered the engineer, turning to clamber back on his engine. "and i don't much care. i reckon we're done, anyway." and they were, for a railroad never forgives or overlooks a mistake so serious as this. jim anderson came out of the house a moment later with an order from the trainmaster for the freight to back into the yards, and the flyer to follow. only the driving storm had kept the passengers on the flyer from coming out to inquire what the matter was; and when the conductor swung himself on board again, he was greeted with a volley of questions. what was the trouble? what had happened? "trouble?" he repeated, with a stare of surprise. "there wasn't any. we had to stop for orders, that was all." "you stopped pretty sudden, it seems to me," growled one old traveller. "the engineer didn't see the stop signal till he was right on it," answered the conductor, blandly. "snow so thick, you know." and the passengers returned to their seats satisfied, and none of them ever knew how narrow their escape had been--for it is the policy of all railroads that the passengers are never to know of mistakes and dangers, if the knowledge can by any means be kept from them. however, the employees in the yards at wadsworth had realized the mistake almost as soon as the dispatchers had--and there was quite a crowd waiting to greet the trains--a crowd which even yet did not understand how a terrible accident had been averted. it was not until the conductor of the flyer stepped off upon the platform and told the story in a few words, with voice carefully lowered lest some outsider should hear him, that they did understand; and even then, it was not as clear as it might have been until tom mickey came along and told how he had permitted the boys to use the old wire. as for the engineer of the freight, he dropped off his engine the moment it stopped, and hurried away to his home without even pausing to remove his overalls. six hours later, he was boarding a train on the n. & w., to seek a job in the south. the conductor remained for the inquiry and tried to brazen it through, but the evidence showed that, instead of staying out in the storm to watch for the arrival of number two and give the engineer the signal to go ahead, he had told the latter to start as soon as the passenger pulled in, and had ensconced himself in his berth in the caboose and gone comfortably to sleep. so he, too, was informed that the p. & o. no longer required his services. * * * * * when jim anderson reported for work next morning, his foreman told him he was to go at once to the office of mr. heywood, the division superintendent. he obeyed the order with some inward trepidation, crossed the yards to the division headquarters, mounted the stairs, and knocked tremulously at the door of the superintendent's office. a voice bade him enter. he opened the door, and saw, sitting at a great desk, a small, dark, dapper man who was dictating at fever heat to a stenographer. he paused for an instant, looking inquiringly at jim. "i'm jim anderson," said the boy. "my foreman told me--" the superintendent nodded. "that will do, graves," he said to the stenographer. "send young west in here at once." "very well, sir," answered the stenographer, and went out. mr. heywood turned abruptly in the direction of his visitor. "so you're jim anderson?" he began. "yes, sir." "it was you who flagged number two last night?" "yes, sir." "tell me about it." jim told the story as briefly as he could. allan came in before he had finished. "now let's hear your story," added the superintendent, turning to allan, and the latter related his share in the adventure. "there's only one thing i don't understand," said the superintendent, when allan had finished, turning back to jim, "and that is how you came to have that fusee." jim reddened. "i found it, sir," he explained. "you remember when the caboose of number ninety-seven was derailed about a month ago, near the bridges, and rolled down the bank and was smashed to pieces?" "perfectly," answered the superintendent, dryly. "well," jim continued, "i suppose the box of fusees in the caboose must have been broken open and scattered about. anyway, i found this one the next day in some bushes at the foot of the embankment. i suppose i should have returned it to the company--but--well--i thought i'd keep it for the fourth of july." his voice trembled and stopped, and he stood with hanging head, like a criminal waiting his sentence. let it be explained here that a fusee is a paste-board tube filled with powder--the same sort of powder which produces the red fire which forms a part of every exhibition of fire-works. at one end of this tube is a spike which can be thrust into the ground. the other end of the tube is closed by a cap containing a piece of emery-paper. to light the powder it is only necessary to remove the cap and scrape it on the end of the tube till a spark falls into it. a fusee burns with a bright red light for exactly ten minutes, and no train may run past one which is burning. its uses are manifold. it makes a brilliant danger signal, and one which no engineer can fail to see, which no mist nor snow can obscure, and which no wind can extinguish. but it is usually used by night--as torpedoes are by day--to protect the rear of a train which has been temporarily disabled and delayed between stations. if a train is stopped by a hot-box, for instance, a brakeman is at once sent out to protect the rear. he walks to a distance of two or three hundred yards, carrying a flag in the daytime or a lantern by night, with which to stop any train which may happen to come along before his train is ready to proceed. ordinarily, there is no danger to be apprehended from in front, because the dispatcher will permit no train coming toward them to pass the next station until the train which is in trouble arrives there. as soon as the heated journal has been cooled sufficiently to allow the train to proceed, the engineer blows four blasts on the whistle to recall the brakeman. but, obviously, during the time that he is walking back to the train and the train itself is getting under way, another train may come along at full speed and run into it. so, before he returns, the brakeman sticks a fusee in the middle of the track and lights it. it will burn for ten minutes, and during that time no train may run past the spot, so all danger of accident is avoided. if the breakdown occurs during the daytime, the brakeman will affix two torpedoes to the track instead of using the fusee. the first train which runs over these torpedoes explodes them, and the engineer must at once get his train under control, reduce speed, and look out for a stop signal. a single torpedo is a signal to stop. it was one of these fusees, a number of which are carried in every caboose, which had enabled jim anderson to flag number two, and lucky it was that he had it, for on a night such as the one before had been, a lantern would almost certainly have failed to be seen. but jim did not think of that, as he stood there with hanging head. his only thought was that he should not have kept the fusee, that it belonged to the company--that he might be thought a thief. he looked up at last to find the superintendent smiling at him. "my boy," said mr. heywood, "if, as you go through life, you never do anything worse than you have done in keeping possession of that fusee, you will never have any reason for remorse. it had been abandoned there by the company; you found it. you were under no obligation to return it. we had lost it through our own carelessness; it may have been missed, but was thought not worth searching for. so dismiss that from your mind. i called you boys before me for a very different purpose than to reproach either of you. in the first place, i want to thank you for your prompt and intelligent action, which saved the road what would probably have been one of the worst wrecks in its history. it is the sort of thing the road never forgets." there were four cheeks now, instead of two, that were flaming red. the praise was almost more embarrassing than the expected blame. "in the second place," continued the superintendent, "i have ordered lineman mickey to overhaul your private line and to equip it with up-to-date instruments." he smiled as he looked at the beaming countenances before him. "in the third place," he went on, "i have ordered a box of fusees and another of torpedoes left at your home, anderson. and they're not to be used on the fourth of july, either--at least, not more than one or two. they say lightning never strikes twice in the same place, but it's just possible that some day we may want you to flag another train out there, and so we provide you with the means to do it. "in the fourth place," he added, rising and glancing at his watch, "i'm going to offer you the first positions as operator that are vacant. now don't thank me," he protested, as exclamations of pleasure burst from the young lips before him. "i don't deserve any thanks. i'm simply looking out for the best interests of the road. we want operators who are more than mere telegraphers--we want men who are equal to an emergency, who have their wits about them, who can think quickly, and who don't get rattled--men like that are a good deal harder to find than you might think. that's the reason we want you two. i don't believe that one boy in a hundred would have had the wit to act as promptly and intelligently as you did last night. now, i'll let you know--" the door burst suddenly open and a girl rushed in--a girl of perhaps seventeen, with flushed, excited face--the loveliest face, allan thought, that he had ever seen. "oh, papa!" she cried. "our train will start in a minute! we mustn't miss it!" mr. heywood laughed and glanced at his watch again. "we won't miss it, bess," he said. "we've got three minutes and a half. no train has ever started ahead of time on this road since mr. round took charge of it. good-bye, boys," he added, and shook hands with them heartily. "hold yourselves ready for orders--and meanwhile get all the practice you can. come, bess," and the father and daughter went out together, leaving the boys staring after them with a mixture of emotions difficult to describe. chapter vii the call to duty one can easily understand with what enthusiasm jim anderson and allan west continued the study of telegraphy. here was something worth while, something vital, something with which great things might be accomplished; for surely there are few things in this world greater than the saving of human life. then, too, there was the protection of the company's property. a collision such as that which had been averted would have demolished engines and cars worth a hundred thousand dollars. damage suits, destroyed freight, the interruption of traffic, the cost of repairing the right of way, the loss of prestige which attends every great wreck--all these might easily have carried the total loss to a quarter of a million. yet neither in this accident nor in any other was it the money loss to the company of which the officials thought. they thought only of the danger to the passengers, for the passenger is the road's most sacred trust. in his behalf, the road exacts eternal vigilance from every man in its employ. his safety comes first of all. for it, no railroad man must hesitate to risk his life; nay, if need be, to throw his life away. he enters the service of the road on that condition--and rarely does he fail when the moment of trial comes, as it is sure to come, sooner or later. the boys, then, had reason to be pleased with what they had accomplished. the superintendent kept his word, and instruments of the latest pattern were soon installed by lineman mickey, while the current for the line was furnished by the company's batteries, and was stronger and more constant than their own little battery had been able to give them. nor was that all the help they had, for the trainmaster and the dispatchers took an interest in their work, and drilled them in the various abbreviations and code signals in use on the road, as well as the calls for the various offices. they were permitted to "cut in" with the main line whenever they wished; the messages which flashed over it were then repeated on their own sounders, and they could try their hands at transcribing them. needless to say, they progressed rapidly under this tuition, which was the very best they could have had; and the day came at last when allan, sitting at his desk sorting the mail, could understand perfectly what all the instruments about him were saying. there is within us, so scientists say, a sort of second-self which takes care of all actions which become habitual, without troubling us to think of them, or to will their performance. thus we breathe without any effort of consciousness--a wise provision of nature, else we should die of asphyxiation as soon as we went to sleep. the muscles which control the heart keep on working of themselves from birth to death. thus, too, while the baby must distinctly _will_ every step it takes, the child soon learns to walk or run automatically, without thinking about it at all, the muscles moving of themselves at the proper instant. so the fingers of the piano-player come to perform the duties required of them instinctively; and so, at last, the ear of the telegrapher recognizes a certain combination of sounds as having a certain meaning, and the brain has no need whatever to puzzle them out. the sounds are recorded mechanically, and the brain furnishes the translation. nay, more than that. the operator, worn out by long hours, sometimes goes to sleep beside his key. his slumber is so deep that the roar of passing trains does not disturb it, nor the clicking of his sounder, as messages flash over the wire. but let his call be sounded, that short and insistent combination of dots and dashes which means his office--a single letter usually--and he will start awake. the ear has caught the call, has sent it into the brain, and some second-self there rouses the sleeper and tells him he is wanted. operators are not supposed to go to sleep on duty; to be caught asleep means a "lay-off," if not dismissal. yet they _do_ go to sleep, for the long hours of the night pass slowly, and there are times when the weary eyes refuse to remain open. if it were not for the little monitor within which stays awake, on guard, listening for its call, accidents on the rail would be of much more frequent occurrence, and few operators but would, sooner or later, lose their jobs. and there is nothing especially peculiar or remarkable in this. almost any one, worn out with fatigue, will go to sleep with the buzz of conversation about him; but let some one speak his name insistently over and over and the sound of it will somehow waken him. an operator's call is as familiar to him as his name, and will attract his attention just as surely. it was to this sixth sense, this second-self, that allan was at last able to assign the duty of listening to the instruments in the office. he knew what they were saying, without having to stop all other work to listen; nay, without consciously listening at all. he had reached the place where he was competent to "take a trick"--much more competent, indeed, than young operators usually are. but still there came no opening for a regular position. a railroad does not "play favourites," no matter how deserving they may be. so long as a man does his work well, his position is his; and he stands in regular line for promotion. incompetency brings its punishment, swift and sure; just as signal services, in time, bring their reward; but reward and punishment are according to an established rule. for the record of every man is kept minutely from the hour he enters the employ of the road. what he may have been or done before that does not matter, once employment is given him--he starts square. but even the smallest thing he does after that _does_ matter, as he finds out, in course of time, to his amazement and chagrin. the trainmaster keeps, in a drawer of his desk, a little book bound in red leather, wherein entries are made every day; and the heart of the trainman who is "on the carpet" falls when he sees it produced. it affects him a good deal as the book wherein the recording angel writes will affect most of us at the day of judgment. it happened, at this particular moment, that all the operators' positions on the road were filled by competent men, and so allan had to wait until some one of them was promoted or resigned. as for jim, he had reconsidered his decision to become an operator. he had a natural love and aptitude for machinery, and he finally determined to remain in the branch of the service where he was, and seek promotion where he would probably deserve it most. but allan's mind was made up, and he lost no opportunity to perfect himself. often, after supper, he would return to the dispatchers' office and prevail upon the night operator to permit him to attend to his work for awhile, and in this way he got valuable practice; but he longed for the day when he should be given a key of his own--when the responsibility would be all his. the chance came at last. he was just finishing up his work, one evening, preparatory to going home to supper, when the instrument on the chief-dispatcher's desk began to call. allan, without really listening, heard the message: "night man at byers junction reported sick. send substitute." the chief-dispatcher clicked back "o. k.," and closed the key. then he wheeled about in his chair and met allan's eager eyes. "there's a job for you," he said, "if you want it." "want it!" echoed allan. "i certainly do!" "and if you think you can fill it," the chief added. "the work at byers is pretty heavy." "i'll do my best," allan promised. the chief looked at him for a moment longer, then nodded quickly and glanced at his watch. "you'll do," he said. "and you've only got thirty minutes. you'll have to catch number sixteen." "all right, sir; i'll catch it," said allan, and he went down the steps two at a time. mary welsh was just spreading the cloth preparatory to getting supper when allan raced up the steps leading from the street below and burst in at the door. "why!" cried mary. "what ails th' boy!" "hooray!" yelled allan, and seized her and danced around with her in his arms. "i'm going to be an op-e-ra-tor!" "well, i'm sure," gasped mary, releasing herself and reaching up to push the loosened hairpins back into place, "that ain't so wonderful. you'd ought t' been a oppeyrator long ago! a railroad ain't got no sense o' gratitude!" "there, there!" cried allan. "the road's all right--and i've got to catch number sixteen--and i wonder if there's a crust of bread or a cold potato, or anything of that sort handy?" "crust o' bread, indade!" snorted mary, glancing at the clock. "you'll have your supper. go an' git washed, an' i'll have it ready fer ye in a jiffy." "all right," said allan, "but i warn you i'll be back in just a minute and a half." indeed, it was not much longer than that; but when he came in again, his face shining from a vigorous rubbing, supper was almost ready--an egg fried to a turn, with a bit of broiled ham beside it, bread and butter, blackberry jam, a glass of milk, and a piece of apple-pie--just the sort of toothsome, topsy-turvy meal a healthy boy likes. "mary," he said, "you're a jewel!" and he stopped to hug her before he sat down. "none o' yer blarney!" she retorted, and affected to push him away, as she gave the last touches to the table. allan pulled up his chair and fell to with an appetite born of health and good digestion--an appetite unspoiled by over-indulgence, or by french confections, requiring no stimulus but that which work honestly done gave it. he ate with one eye on the clock, for he was not going to run any risk of missing his train, and at the end of five minutes, pushed back his chair and rose with a sigh of satisfaction. "that was great!" he said. "now if i may have one of those luscious doughnuts of yours, or a piece of that pie, to keep the wolf from the door to-night--" "doughnut, indade!" cried mary. "what do you suppose i've been doin' all this toime! here's your lunch," and she set on the table a little basket, covered with a snowy napkin. allan's eyes were shining at this new proof of her thoughtfulness for him. "mary," he began. "there, there," she interrupted; "git along or you'll miss your train. good-bye. an' take good keer o' yerself, my dear." allan snatched up hat and basket. "good-bye," he said. "i'm certainly a lucky boy!" she stood at the door watching him as he crossed the yards. "yes," she murmured to herself, turning back into the house as he passed from sight, "an' i'm a lucky woman!" * * * * * dan breen, the caller, met allan as he stepped upon the station platform. "here's yer card," he said, and held out a little envelope. "my card?" repeated the boy, taking the envelope mechanically. "yes, yer card; how did ye expect t' ride--pay yer way?" "oh," said allan, understanding suddenly; "my pass. yes; thank you," and he swung aboard number sixteen just as it was pulling out. when the conductor came through to collect the tickets, the boy proudly produced the card, which commanded all employees of the road to "pass the bearer, allan west, on all trains, over main line and branches, ohio division, p-- & o-- railway." the conductor glanced at it and then at the boy, nodded, and passed on. half an hour later, with fast-beating heart, allan dropped off the train at the little frame shanty which served as the operator's office at byers junction. the day operator had been compelled to work thirty-five minutes overtime, and was in no very genial humour in consequence, for if there is one point of honour upon which all operators agree, it is that they shall relieve each other promptly. so the day operator, whose name was nevins, and who knew that his supper would probably be cold when he got to it, merely nodded to the boy when he appeared in the doorway, put on his coat and hat, picked up his lunch-basket, and went out without saying a word. allan, his pulses racing, set his basket on the table, took off coat and hat, hung them on a nail near the window, and looked about the little room. the instrument was calling, but not for him, so he had leisure to examine the orders which fluttered from a hook on the wall near by. one was for a train which would be due in a few minutes, and allan went to the door to see that the signals were properly set and burning. white is no longer a safety signal on any of the larger railroads. the colours now in use are red for danger, and green for safety. under the old system, the red lens of the lantern might drop out or a tramp might smash it, leaving the lantern showing a white light past which the engineer would run, thinking everything all right. so green was substituted for white, and now white means danger just as much as red does. the only light past which an engineer may run is a green one. in fact, the first rule under the "use of signals" is that a signal imperfectly displayed, or the absence of a signal from a place where one is usually shown, must be regarded as a stop signal. the railroads are trying all the time to find some third colour which can be used satisfactorily in signalling. red for danger and green for safety are very well, as far as they go; but a caution signal is badly needed--one which will not absolutely stop a train, but which will warn the engineer to get it under control and proceed carefully. no such signal which will do the work required of it under all conditions has as yet been devised, although yellow is now used on some roads for this purpose. of course there are one or two other colours used. a combined green and white signal, for instance, is used to stop a train at a flag station; and a blue flag by day, or a blue light by night, displayed at one or both ends of an engine, car, or train, indicates that workmen are under or about it. when thus protected, it must not be coupled to or moved, and no man may remove these signals but the one who placed them there. this rule is enforced absolutely to safeguard, as far as possible, the lives of the employees of the road. the only fault in the system--as in all systems--is that human beings are not infallible, and mistakes are sometimes bound to happen. the signals may be wrongly set, or when rightly set, may not be seen. fog or smoke may obscure them, and the engineer rushes by, trusting that all is well. if he obeyed the rules, he would stop and make sure; but that would delay the train, perhaps needlessly, and trains must be run on time. the engineer who fails to run on time, either through timidity or overcaution, is very soon relegated to the work-train or the yard-engine--a humiliating fall for the master of the queenly flyer. as byers was a junction, there were two signals there for the government of trains, one a train-signal on the front of the shanty, and the other a semaphore just outside the door. the train-signal was merely an arm or signal-blade, operated by a lever inside the shanty. normally, this arm hung down in a perpendicular position and showed green, which meant proceed; but when the operator wanted an approaching train to stop, he pulled the lever, raising the arm to a horizontal position. at night, of course, it would not be possible for an engineer to see the position of this arm, so at the inner end of it was a large casting with two holes in it, one fitted with a green lens and the other with a red one. behind this a lamp was placed, and when the arm hung down for safety, the light shone through the green lens. when it was raised, the red lens was thrown before the light and indicated danger. the semaphore was a tall pole just outside the door. at its top was a cross-arm, bearing at either end red lanterns at night, to indicate its position, and operated by a lever at the foot of the pole. when the arm at the top stood in a perpendicular position, displaying the signals one above the other, it indicated that p. & o. trains could pass; when the arm was thrown to a horizontal position, displaying the signals one beside the other, it cleared the track for the connecting road. a ladder on the side of the pole enabled the person in charge of it to mount and attach the lanterns at nightfall. he was supposed to take them down and fill and clean them sometime during the day. there is, it may be added, a semaphore at every railroad-crossing which is worked on just this principle. allan had, of course, in preparing himself for the duties of operator, familiarized himself with all the signals used; and, as has been said, he stepped to the door of the shanty to assure himself that the train-signal was raised and showing red and that the lanterns on the semaphore were burning properly, so that the train which was almost due would stop to receive the orders intended for it. then his heart gave a sudden sickening leap, for the light of neither train-signal nor semaphore was showing at all! already he fancied that, far down the road, he could hear the hum of the approaching train! the day operator, despite the lateness of the hour, had not taken the trouble to light the signals. it was not his duty, strictly speaking, but there are times when more is expected of a man than his mere duty. it might not have really mattered, of course; the absence of any signal would bring the train to a stop, if the engineer obeyed the rules; but at the very least, it would have been his duty to report at headquarters that the signals at byers were not burning, and allan would have incurred a reprimand, and a severe one, in the first half-hour in his new position. all this flashed through the boy's mind much more rapidly than it can be set down here. in an instant, he had sprung to the train-signal, lowered it, touched a lighted match to the wick of the lamp, and then, as the flame flared up, hoisted the signal into place. then, with a single glance, he assured himself that the semaphore lanterns were not in the shanty. evidently the day man had not taken the trouble to bring them down and clean them; and the boy, without pausing to take breath, started to climb the pole. as he neared the top, he saw the lanterns swinging in place; but to light them, especially for the first time, was a ticklish job. he heard the train whistle for the crossing half a mile away, and his hands began to tremble a little, despite all effort to steady them. he reached out, drew one lantern to him, snapped it open, and, after an instant's agony, got it lighted. then he grabbed for the other. it swung for a moment beyond his reach, and the effort nearly overbalanced him; but he caught himself, got it at last, drew it to him, lighted it, and snapped it shut again, just as the headlight of the approaching engine flashed into view. he ran hurriedly down the ladder. as he reached the door of the office, he heard his call. he jumped to the instrument and answered. "where have you been--asleep?" came the question. "i was fixing the lanterns on the semaphore," allan answered. "hasn't first ninety-seven reached byers?" "there's a train just pulling in," allan answered, and at that moment the conductor appeared in the doorway. "are you first ninety-seven?" allan asked him. "yes," replied the newcomer. "any orders?" allan handed them to him with a sigh of relief that all was well, and notified the dispatcher that first ninety-seven had reached byers at . . it may be well to explain, at this point, that the regular freight-trains on every road are usually run in sections, the number of sections depending upon the amount of freight to be moved. for instance, if, toward the middle of the afternoon, there has accumulated in the yards at wadsworth only enough west-bound freight for a single train, the cars are made up, and at seven o'clock, immediately following the accommodation, regular west-bound freight-train no. is started toward cincinnati, and runs as nearly as possible on the schedule given it in the time-table. if, however, there are too many cars for one engine to handle, they are made up into two trains, and the first one that goes out is called the first section, and displays at the front of the engine two green lights to show that another section is following. ten minutes later, the second section is sent out, displaying no signals. theoretically, both sections constitute one train, and the track cannot be used by any other train until both get by; but this is a theory which is constantly broken in practice. sometimes, when freight business is heavy--in the fall, for instance, when the grain crops are being moved and the merchants throughout the country are laying in their supplies for the holidays--there will be three or four sections of each of the regular freight-trains. but while this system allows for a certain expansion of traffic to suit the road's business, by far the greater part of the freight in the busy season is handled by "extras"--that is, by trains which have no place on the time-card and no regular schedules, but which must run from station to station, whenever the track happens to be clear. for instance, as soon as number two, the east-bound flyer, pulls into the yards at wadsworth, an extra west-bound freight will be started out, with orders to run extra to the end of the division. the conductor is armed with the time-card, and must keep out of the way of all trains which appear on it. he is also provided with meeting orders for all the other extras which happen to be going over the road at the same time, and must take care to comply with them. as he goes from station to station, he is kept informed as to whether any of the regular trains are behind time, so that he need not wait on any of them unnecessarily, but may get over the road as rapidly as possible. the actual conduct of the train is left largely to him and to the engineer, so that their responsibility is no light one. all of this sounds much easier than it really is. as a matter of fact, the task of carrying on the business of a single-track road, where it is practically impossible for all trains to run on time, where meeting-points must be provided for all freight-trains, without delaying them unduly, and where the passenger-trains must have always a clear track and opportunity to make up as much time as possible, if they happen to be late, is one of the most delicate and nerve-racking that could be imagined, though under the new double-order system it is not so bad as it was under the old single-order one. the burden of keeping things moving and of getting the trains over the road in the shortest possible time, falls principally upon the dispatcher at headquarters, but every operator along the road bears his part, and an important part. he must keep awake and alert for any orders the dispatcher may wish to send him; he must note the passage of every train and report to the dispatcher the exact moment at which it passed; and he must be sure that the station signals are properly displayed, and that all orders are properly delivered. upon the faithful fulfilment of these duties does the safety of trains depend; but especially upon the second, for unless the dispatcher knows accurately the exact position of every train, disaster is sure to follow. only once that night did allan have any trouble. that was about three o'clock in the morning. there had not been many orders for byers, for traffic was light, and he had passed the time listening to the orders sent the other operators and studying the time-card and book of rules with which all operators are provided. but at last his sounder began to clatter out the already familiar "-..., -..., b, b," which was the call for byers. he answered it and took down the following message on his manifold sheet: "hold extra east, eng. , at b." allan repeated it at once from his copy, and a moment later, "com . c r h" was flashed back to him. the "com" meant "complete," showing that the order had been accurately repeated; the " . " was the time the order was sent, and the "c r h" were the initials of the superintendent, which are signed to all train-orders. three copies must be made of every such order, one for the conductor, one for the engineer, and the other for preservation by the operator. this is done by using tissue-paper for the orders--which are usually called "flimsies" for that reason--between the sheets of which carbon-paper has been placed. a steel-pointed instrument called a stylus is used to write with, instead of pen or pencil, in order that the impression through the three sheets may be clear and distinct. a few minutes after allan had taken the order, the extra east pulled in, and the conductor, bill higgins, stalked into the office. "any orders?" he asked. allan handed him two copies of the order just received, then waited, his own copy in his hand, for higgins to read the order aloud to him, as required by the rules. but instead, the conductor merely glanced at it, then, with a savage oath, crumpled it up in his hand and started to leave. "aren't you going to read it?" allan asked. "read it? i have read it!" answered higgins, savagely. "not aloud to me," allan pointed out. "what do you mean, you young fool?" demanded higgins, turning upon him fiercely. "d' you think i don't know my business?" "i only know," replied allan, paling a little as he saw that higgins had been drinking and was in a very ugly mood, "that the rules require you to read that order aloud in my presence." "well, what of it? that rule was made, mebbe, by th' same fool that just sent this order holdin' me here fer an hour, when i could git into hamden easy as pie afore number ten was due! what do i care fer th' rules? this here road's goin' t' blazes, anyway!" and he turned to go. "very well," said allan, evenly; "you will do as you think best, of course. but if you don't obey the rules, i shall have to report you." at the words, higgins sprang around again, purple with rage. "report me!" he shouted. "why, you young whipper-snapper, i'll spoil that putty face o' your'n," and he raised his fist. "hello, here," called a voice from the door. "what's the trouble?" and allan glanced past the irate conductor to see the engineer standing in the doorway. "what's up, bill?" he repeated, coming in. "what's the kid done?" "threatened to report me if i don't read this here order to him," answered higgins sullenly. the engineer glanced sharply from one to the other. "is _that_ all?" he said. "and you were going to fight about a little thing like that, bill?" "no kid shall report me!" growled bill, but he looked a little foolish. "well, then, read the order," advised the engineer, easily. bill hesitated an instant, then smoothed out the crumpled paper. "'hold extra east, engine , at byers,'" he snapped out, and handed the engineer his copy. "'hold extra east, engine , at byers,'" repeated the latter. "correct." the conductor turned without another word and left the office. the engineer followed him with his eyes until he disappeared in the darkness, and then turned back to allan. "would you really have reported him?" he asked, eying the boy curiously. "yes," answered allan, slowly. "i think i should. he was drunk." "he has been drinking," admitted the engineer. "personally, i detest him. but he's got the sweetest little wife you ever saw, and three kids that worship him; so he can't be wholly bad. what would become of them if he'd lose his job? of course, you can report him yet, if you want to. but i'd think it over first," and the engineer followed higgins out into the night. allan did think it over, and the result was that the superintendent never heard of that encounter in the little byers office. chapter viii an old enemy every night must end, although that one, as it seemed to allan, was at least forty hours long. his greatest difficulty was to keep awake, for he had been working all day before he came on duty. more than once he caught himself nodding, until, at last, he dared not sit still in his chair, but went out upon the stretch of cindered path before the shanty and tramped up and down it, pausing now and then at the door to make sure his instrument was not calling him. the cool air of the night blew sleepiness from his eyes, at last, and he stood for a long time gazing out over the silent fields. away in the distance a cock crew; others answered it, hailing the dawn; for the eastern sky began to show a tinge of gray. from every tree and coppice came sleepy twitterings, which, as the east grew brighter, burst into songs of joy to greet the rising sun. birds never make the mistake that some boys and girls do, of rising with sour faces--"wrong end first." they know how much it adds to the day's happiness to start the day right; they are always glad when morning comes, and they never forget to utter a little song of praise and gratitude for another sunrise. then they fly to the brook and take their bath, and hunt cheerfully for breakfast. nor do they lose their tempers if they can't find some particular worm or bug of which they are especially fond. truly, bird-ways are worth imitating. allan sat down in the door of the shanty to watch the daily miracle which was enacting before him, but which most people have come to regard as a matter of course. it was the first sunrise he had seen for many months--in fact, since the days, seemingly years ago, when he had risen every night to take his trick at guarding the track from train-wreckers. now, as he sat here, watching the brightening east, all the adventures of that time came vividly back to him, and he smiled to himself as he reviewed them one by one. he had made many firm friends--and one enemy, dan nolan, the vicious and vindictive scoundrel who had tried in so many ways to injure him; and had finally joined the gang of desperate tramps who had given the road so much trouble, and who, caught in the very act of trying to wreck the pay-car, had been sentenced to a term in the penitentiary. allan had incurred nolan's enmity the very first day of his service with the road. nolan had been a member of jack welsh's section-gang, and had been discharged for drunkenness. he knew, however, that the place on the gang would be hard to fill, and expected to be taken back again. but that very day, allan, who had walked all the way from cincinnati in search of employment, came along, and welsh, impressed by the boy's frank and honest face, had given him the place. nolan had blustered, threatened, and even tried to kill him; and had ended by being sent to the state prison. allan's face darkened as he recalled nolan's many acts of enmity, and the thought came to him that he had not yet heard the last of the scoundrel. but this gloomy mood did not endure long, for suddenly a radiant yellow disk peeped over the hills to the east, and flooded the world with golden splendour. the birds' songs of praise burst forth afresh, and every tree, every plant, every flower and blade of grass, seemed to lift its head and bow toward the east to greet the luminary upon which all life upon the earth depends. its warm rays drank the dew from the meadows, and over the brook, which ran beside the road, a filmy mist steamed upward from the water. away off, across the fields, allan could see a man ploughing, and a herd of cows wandered slowly over a near-by pasture, cropping the fresh grass and blowing clouds of warm and fragrant breath out upon the cool air. allan resolved that so long as he held this trick, every dawn should find him at the door watching for the sunrise, the wonder and mystery and beauty of which he was just beginning to understand. a call from his instrument summoned him back into the office. there were a number of orders to take for trains from east and west, which were to meet and pass at byers, and by the time these had been duly received, repeated, and o. k.'d, six o'clock had come and gone. six o'clock was the hour of relief, but nevins did not appear. after that, every minute seemed an hour, and allan began to understand nevins's feelings the night before, when his own relief did not arrive. he began to fear that he would miss the morning accommodation train to wadsworth. if he did, he could not get home before noon, and he was desperately tired and sleepy. he went to the door and looked out, but saw no sign of nevins, and was just turning back into the office, when a low, sneering laugh almost at his elbow caused him to start around. it was nevins, who stood there grinning maliciously. he had evidently come around the corner of the house, while allan was looking out across the fields. "well," he sneered, "how d' ye like it?" "i don't like it at all," said allan. "after this," added nevins, pushing past him, "you be on time and i will. that's all i want of _you_." "we'll have to rearrange our tricks," said allan, his cheek flushing at the other's tone. "i can't get here until the evening accommodation at six-thirty; so suppose you come on half an hour later in the morning. that will even things up." nevins growled a surly assent, and turning his back ostentatiously, he hung up his coat and flung himself into the chair. "there are three orders," added allan. "one of them--" "oh, shut up!" snarled nevins. "i can read, can't i?" "yes; no doubt you can. but the rules require that i explain outstanding orders to you before i go off duty." nevins looked up at him, an ugly light in his eyes. "so you're that kind, are you?" he queried. "little sunday-school boy. ain't you afraid your mamma's worryin' about you?" "don't you want me to--" "i don't want you to do nothin' but get out!" nevins broke in, and took the orders from the hook and looked over them. "as i said before, i can read. i suppose you can, too. so don't bother me." an angry retort rose to allan's lips, but he choked it back; and at that instant a whistle sounded down the line, and the roar of an approaching train. he had just time to grab coat and lunch-basket and swing aboard, and in a moment was off toward wadsworth. he sank into a seat, his heart still hot at nevins's insolence; and yet, on second thought, he was glad that he had not yielded to the impulse to return an angry answer. it was natural that nevins should have been provoked, though the delay of the night before was not allan's fault in the slightest degree; and, in any event, there was no use making an enemy of a fellow who might be able to do a great deal of mischief. but one thing allan resolved on, his lips set: he would explain outstanding orders to nevins, whether the latter chose to listen or not. mary welsh was waiting for him at the door. "you poor boy," she said. "you're half-dead fer sleep!" "only a quarter dead," allan corrected, "and i'll soon be good as new. what's that i smell?" he added, wrinkling his nose, as he stepped inside the door. "hot biscuits?" "you go git washed," retorted mary, with affected sternness, "an' you'll see what it is when ye git t' table. hurry up, now!" "all right," laughed the boy. "i know you, mary welsh." and when he sat down, he found that his nose had told him correctly. the biscuits were flaky and white and piping hot, with golden butter melting over them; and there were three slices of bacon cut very thin and browned to a turn; and potato-cakes--not those soggy, squashy potato-cakes which are, alas! too familiar--but crisp and brown, touching the palate in just the right way. ah, mary, you have achieved something in this world that many of your more "cultured" sisters may well envy you! how few of them could create potato-cakes like yours! it was after eight o'clock when allan finally climbed the stair to his little room under the roof, and went to bed. mary had darkened the windows, so that the light should not disturb him, and he dropped off to sleep almost at once. i know the physiologists tell us that sound sleep is impossible after a hearty meal, but, candidly, i don't believe it. healthy animals, at least, have no difficulty in sleeping after eating; in fact, a nap almost always follows a meal. watch your cat or dog after you have fed them. the cat will make a hasty toilet and curl up for a snooze; the dog will drop down behind the stove or in a sunny corner out-of-doors without even that formality. it is only when the stomach has been ruined by long years of overfeeding that one must use all the precautions which physical culturists and health-food advocates and cranks of that ilk advise--must eschew biscuits for bread two days old, and half-starve oneself in order to live at all. but the healthy boy may eat whatever he pleases, in moderation, and be none the worse for it. so all the day allan slept, never once so much as turning over, hearing nothing of the comings and goings in the house. indeed, mary welsh took care that there should be little noise to disturb him. mamie, when she came home from school at noon, was promptly warned to keep quiet, and ate her dinner as silently as a mouse. not until the sun was sinking low in the west and a glance at the clock assured her that he must be awakened, did she climb the stair which led to his little room and tap gently at his door. "allan!" she called. "allan!" "yes?" he answered sleepily, after a moment. "you must be gittin' up, if you're goin' t' ketch your train," she said. "all right; i'll be down in a minute," and he sprang out of bed and into his clothes in a jiffy. mary had his supper smoking hot on the table, and mamie, who had just come home from school, sat down with him to keep him company. "i don't like your new position very well, allan," she said, as she poured out his coffee for him. "why not?" he asked, smiling down into the serious little freckled face. "why, you're going to be away from home every evening," she explained. "who's going to help me get my lessons, i'd like to know?" allan laughed outright. "so that's it? well, we'll have to make some arrangement about it. maybe in the morning, as soon as i get in--" "you'll do no such thing," broke in mrs. welsh, sharply. "when you git home in th' mornin' you're goin' straight t' bed, jest as soon as you git your breakfast. mamie kin git her own lessons. it'll do her good. you're fair spoilin' th' child." "i'll tell you," said allan, "i'll get up half an hour earlier in the afternoon. there's no sense in my sleeping so long, anyway. it'll make me stupid. you hurry straight home from school, and we'll have plenty of time." mamie clapped her hands. then she sprang from her chair, flew around the table, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him. "allan, you're a dear!" she cried. "a perfect dear!" it was at this moment that the door opened and jack welsh came in, grinning broadly as he saw the tableau at the table. "mary," he said, "it seems to me that mamie's gittin' t' be a very forrerd sort o' body. it's scandalous th' way she runs arter th' boys." "only arter one boy, jack," corrected his wife, "an' i don't care how much she runs arter him. but how did ye happen t' git home so early?" "i was hungerin' fer a sight o' your black eyes, me darlint," answered jack, winking at allan, and he passed his arm about his wife's trim waist and gave her a tremendous hug. "go way, ye blarney!" she cried, beating him off. "do ye wonder your child's forrerd when her father sets her sich an example? an' i s'pose you'll be wantin' your supper now. well, it ain't ready!" "no," said jack, releasing her, "i've got t' go back t' th' yards first t' see th' roadmaster. i'll be back in about half an hour. come along, allan, if you're goin'." allan put on coat and hat, picked up the luncheon-basket, which mary had already packed for him, kissed mamie again, and followed jack down the steep path which led to the street. he turned at the gate to wave good-bye to mary and mamie, who stood watching them from the door above, then followed jack across the maze of tracks toward the station. "th' fact o' th' matter is, allan," said jack, in a low voice, as the boy caught up with him, "i come home early on purpose t' see you." "to see me?" allan repeated, and when he glanced at jack, he saw that his face was very grave. "yes, t' see you," said jack again, and hesitated, as though reluctant to impart the news which he knew would be unwelcome. "what is it?" asked allan, and a little shiver ran through him, for he knew that jack would not speak so without good reason. the elder man hesitated yet a moment. "dan nolan's loose," he said, at last, his voice hoarse with emotion. chapter ix an unwelcome guest "dan nolan's loose," repeated jack, as though his companion had not heard, and then walked on in silence. allan's heart gave a sickening leap--not in the least of fear, for he had never been afraid of nolan, but of anxiety for the property of the company. he knew nolan's revengeful and vindictive nature; he knew that he would never rest content until he had avenged himself upon the company for sending him to the penitentiary. for himself he did not fear; nolan, who was a coward at heart, a lazy, overgrown bully, had never dared attack him openly. he recalled how the thought of nolan had oppressed him that morning. there was something prophetic in it! "but i don't understand," he said, at last. "i thought nolan had been sent to the penitentiary for three years." "so he was," growled jack, "an' he'd got a stiffer dose than that if he hadn't been the coward an' traitor he was. you know he turned state's evidence an' testified agin his pals, an' so managed t' git hisself off with three year, while all th' others got ten. i'd hate t' be in nolan's shoes when they _do_ git out. they'll certainly never rest till they git even with him." "but how did he get out?" asked allan, again. "he hasn't been in the penitentiary more than six months." "only five months," corrected jack, grimly. "purty justice i call that! it's enough t' disgust an honest man! what's th' use o' being honest, anyway, if that's all they do to a dirty scoundrel like dan nolan? no wonder they's lynchin' parties every now an' then!" "jack," laughed allan, "you don't believe a word you're saying, and you know it!" "well, anyway," said jack, "it makes me fair sick at heart t' think of it! here's this cowardly blackguard loose agin, an' y' know he's got it in fer ye!" "oh, i can take care of myself," said allan, easily. "in a fair fight ye could," agreed jack. "but ye know as well as i do that he won't fight fair. he'll be tryin' some of his cowardly tricks on ye, jest like he did afore. i won't be able t' sleep fer worritin' about it!" "oh, nonsense, jack! you don't need to worry, at all. i'll keep my eyes open. but you haven't told me yet how he got out. was he pardoned?" "oh, wuss'n that!" answered jack, disgustedly. "they went an' put him on th' pay-roll!" "on the pay-roll!" repeated allan. "oh, you mean he's been parolled?" "yes; what's that mean?" "it means that he's released during good behaviour. as soon as he does anything wrong he'll be whisked back into the penitentiary, and won't get out again till his term's out." "much good that'll do," commented jack, "arter th' mischief's done! that's like lockin' th' stable door arter th' hoss is stole!" "he's probably promised to be good." "he'd promise anything," said jack; "why, he'd sell his soul t' th' devil, t' git another chance at ye. ye must look out fer yourself, me boy." "i will," promised allan, with a laugh, as he swung himself aboard the train. "don't worry." but when the train had started and he was alone with his thoughts, without the fear of jack's sharp eyes seeing what was passing in his mind, the smile faded from his lips. after all, seek to evade it as he might, there _was_ some danger. nolan was vindictive--he would seek revenge first of all, unless his nature had been completely changed, which was scarcely to be expected. if he would fight fairly, there was very little to apprehend from him; but allan knew perfectly well that he would not do this. he would work in the dark, undoubtedly; he would watch for a chance to injure his enemy without running any risk himself. so it was in a decidedly serious frame of mind that allan left the train at byers junction and entered the little frame building which was his office. nevins, the day man, grunted the gruffest kind of a greeting, caught up his coat and lunch-basket, and hastened away, while allan sat down, looked over the orders, and familiarized himself with the condition of things. there was an order or two to acknowledge, and a report to make, and half an hour passed almost before he knew it. as he leaned back in his chair to rest a moment, he happened to glance through the window, and was surprised to see nevins walking up and down the track, at a little distance, as though waiting for some one. he still had his lunch-basket in his hand, and evidently had not yet gone home to supper. allan watched him, with a feeling of uneasiness which he could not explain. at last, he saw nevins make an impatient gesture, and after looking up and down the track again, walk rapidly away in the direction of the little village where he boarded. first ninety-eight pulled in at that moment and stopped for orders; orders for an extra west had to be received, and a train on the connecting road had to be passed on its way, and by the time he was at leisure again he had forgotten all about nevins. he got out his copy of the book of rules, and looked through it to be sure that he was familiar with the rules which governed each emergency. the book opened with a "general notice," to the effect that "to enter or remain in the service is an assurance of willingness to obey the rules; obedience to the rules is essential to the safety of passengers and employees; the service demands the faithful, intelligent, and courteous discharge of duty; to obtain promotion, capacity must be shown for greater responsibility; and employees, in accepting employment, assume its risks." the general rules which followed were easily remembered. among other things they prohibited the use of intoxicants by employees, while on duty, and the warning was given that "the habitual use of intoxicants, or the frequenting of places where they are sold, is sufficient cause for dismissal." the officials of the railroads all over the country have come to realize the need for a cool head, steady nerves, and unimpaired judgment in every man who holds a railroad position, from the lowest to the highest, and conditions which were only too common a generation ago would not now be tolerated for a moment. the standard of character, of intelligence, and of conduct required from their employees by railroads, and by almost every other industrial enterprise, has been steadily growing higher, and while skill and experience, of course, still count for much, character and habits also weigh heavily in the scale. a whistle down the line told him that the extra west, for which he had an order, was approaching. he went to the door and assured himself that the signal was properly set, then, as the train pounded up, called up the dispatchers' office and reported its arrival. a moment later, a heavy step sounded on the platform and bill higgins entered. allan handed him the order silently, and stood waiting for him to read it, wondering if there would be another quarrel like that of the night before. but higgins read the order aloud, without protest, then folded it up, put it in his pocket, and turned to go. allan sat down again at his key; but after a moment he realized that higgins was still standing beside his chair. he glanced up in surprise, and saw that the big conductor was fiddling nervously with his lantern. "fact is," he burst out, catching allan's eye, "i made a fool o' myself last night. i want you to fergit it, m' boy." "i will," said allan, heartily, and held out his hand. bill grasped it in his mammoth palm and gave it a mighty squeeze. "'tain't fer my own sake," he added, and his voice was a little husky. "i know," said allan, quickly. "it's all right. i've forgotten it." "thank'ee," said bill, awkwardly, and turned away. allan watched his burly figure until it disappeared through the door. he was glad that he had taken the engineer's advice and not reported him. after all, the man was good, at heart; and besides, there were the wife and children. he waited until he heard the train puff away, reported its departure, and then picked up the book of rules again. he ran over the definitions--definition of "train," "section," "extra," and so on, which there is no need to repeat here--with which, indeed, the readers of this series ought already to be familiar. following the definitions came the train-rules, with instructions as to the time-card, and the signal rules. the latter are especially interesting, for every one who has travelled on a railway has noticed the signals made by hand, flag, or lantern, and has no doubt wondered what they meant. a hand, flag, or lantern swung across the track means stop; raised and lowered vertically, proceed; swung vertically in a circle across the track, when the train is standing, back; and there are other signals to indicate when the train has broken in two, and to order the release or application of the air-brakes. rule no. is that "any object waved violently by any one on or near the track is a signal to stop," and a stop signal must always be obeyed, no matter at what cost--to run by such a signal means instant dismissal. there are other signals, too, which are of interest to passengers, particularly the whistle signals. there are sixteen of these, but the more important ones are: one short blast, stop; one long blast on approaching stations, junctions, or railroad-crossings at grade; two long blasts followed by two short ones on approaching public crossings at grade, which is the signal most frequently heard by the travelling public. a succession of short blasts means danger ahead--and is used, too, to scare cows and horses off the track. there is yet another class of signals, which are given with the signal-cord which runs overhead through every passenger-coach. every one, of course, has seen this cord, and has also seen the conductor use it to signal to the engineer. it is connected with a little valve over the door of the car, and every time the conductor pulls it, there is a little hiss from the valve as of escaping steam. this is the compressed air escaping. the valve is connected with a compressed-air line which runs through the entire train, and every pull on the cord blows a little whistle in the cab of the engine. two pulls at this cord, when the train is moving, means stop at once; when the train is standing, two pulls is the signal to start. four pulls means reduce speed, and five, increase speed. three pulls is the signal usually heard, and indicates that the train is to stop at the next station. it is always answered by two toots from the whistle to show that the engineer understands. this compressed-air line long ago replaced the old signal-cord which rang a bell in the cab. a call sounded on his instrument, and allan laid down the book again to answer it. there was a short order to be taken, and just as he repeated it and snapped his key shut, he heard a step at the door behind him. he glanced around carelessly, then started suddenly upright, for on the threshold peering in at him stood dan nolan. chapter x a profession of friendship for a moment, neither of them spoke. then nolan drew back as though to go away, but thought better of it, entered the little room slowly, and without waiting for an invitation, sat down in the remaining chair. "howdy," he said, and smiled at allan in a manner intended to be amiable. "how are you?" allan answered, striving vainly to guess what object nolan could have had in coming here. nolan coughed dismally. "you see i'm out," he said, grinning sheepishly. "yes; i heard this evening that you had been parolled." nolan coughed again. "it'd have been murder to keep me in any longer," he said. "one lung's gone as it is. th' doctor told th' board i'd be dead inside o' six months if i wasn't let out." and, indeed, as allan looked at him more closely, he could see the change in him. he was thinner and his face had a ghastly pallor, revolting to see. an experienced police officer would have recognized the prison pallor at a glance--the pallor which all criminals acquire who serve a term in jail; but to allan it seemed proof positive of the progress of his old enemy's disease, and his heart was stirred with pity. "that's too bad," he said. "i hope you'll get well, now you're out again." nolan shook his head lugubriously. "not much hope o' that, i guess," he answered. "arter all, it's no more'n i deserve fer treatin' you th' way i did." allan stared at him in astonishment. repentance was the last thing he had ever expected of nolan, and he scarcely knew how to answer. "oh, it wasn't so bad as that," he managed to say, at last. "it's mighty kind o' you t' say so," replied nolan, humbly, "but i know better. i tell you, durin' th' last three months, arter i was locked up in my cell every night, i had plenty o' time t' think things over, an' i begun t' see what a blamed skunk i'd been." there was a whine in his voice not wholly genuine. allan would have doubted its genuineness still more could he have seen the grimace which nolan made at his back as he turned away to take an order. he was vaguely troubled. if nolan was sincerely repentant, he did not wish to be unjust to him, yet, at the same time, he could not wholly believe in the reality of a change so at variance with nolan's character. something of this hesitation was visible in his face, as he looked up from taking the message. "i don't blame you fer doubtin' me," nolan added. "if i was in your place, i'd kick me out." "oh, i'm not going to do that," protested allan, laughing at the twisted pronouns. "how did you happen to come to byers?" nolan's face wrinkled a little, but the answer came readily enough. "i'd been to wadsworth," he explained. "th' people at th' pen. bought me a ticket an' sent me back--but i was ashamed t' stay there--i was ashamed fer anybody t' see me. they all knowed what i'd done. so i thought i'd go t' parkersburg, where i've got an uncle who kin git me work, an' give me a chance t' earn an honest livin'." "and you're going to walk?" asked allan. "sure," answered nolan. "how else? i ain't a-goin' t' jump no train--that's agin th' law. an' i knows mighty well none o' th' trainmen 'd let me ride." allan was silent a moment. he remembered vividly the time when he himself had walked from cincinnati to wadsworth in search of work; he remembered how long and weary each of those hundred miles had seemed. and he had been strong and healthy, while nolan was evidently weak and sick, not fit at all for such a journey. nolan, who had been watching allan's face intently, rose suddenly to his feet. "don't you worry about me," he said. "i ain't wuth it. besides, i'll git along all right." "but maybe i can help you," allan began. "no, you can't; i won't let you. i ain't got that low," and nolan, crushing his hat fiercely down upon his head, strode to the door. "good-bye," he called over his shoulder, "an' good luck." "good-bye," answered allan, and watched him with something almost like respect until his figure was swallowed up in the darkness. * * * * * outside in the night, nolan was striding up and down, waving his clenched fists wildly in the air, his face convulsed with passion. "th' fool!" he muttered, hoarsely. "th' fool! th' goody-goody ape! wanted t' help me! oh, i couldn't 'a' stood it--i'd 'a' been at his throat in a minute more. i'll show him! i'll show him!" he circled the shanty cautiously until he reached a spot whence, through the window, he could see allan bending over his key. he shook his fist at the unconscious boy in a very ecstasy of rage. "i'll fix ye!" he cried. "i'll fix ye!" he saw allan stir uneasily in his chair, as though he had heard the threat, and for an instant he stood motionless, with bated breath, his clenched fist still in the air. then he realized the impossibility of being overheard at such a distance, and laughed weakly to himself. "you've lost yer nerve, dan," he said. "you've lost yer nerve! no, i'm blamed if y' have!" and he straightened up again and shook his fist fiercely in the air. "hello," said a voice just behind him, "what's all this about?" and a hand grabbed his wrist. nolan turned with a little cry of fright. he gave a gasp of relief as he recognized nevins. "what d' ye want t' scare a feller like that fer?" he demanded, wrenching his wrist loose. "were you scared?" asked nevins, with a little sneer. "lost your nerve, hey?" "no, i ain't lost my nerve," retorted nolan, savagely, "an' you'll soon find it out, if you tries t' git smart with _me_! i didn't tell all i knowed at th' trial!" even in the darkness, nolan could see how nevins's face changed, and he laughed triumphantly. nevins echoed the laugh, but in an uncertain key. "oh, come, dan," he said, "don't get mad. i didn't mean anything." but nolan was not one to be generous with an adversary when he had him down. "no," he went on slowly, "i didn't tell all i knowed. let's see--last fall you was night operator at harper's--an' th' station was robbed--an' when th' day man come on in th' mornin' he found you gagged an' bound in yer chair, sufferin' terrible. i didn't tell th' court how willin' you was t' git tied up, nor how we happened t' choose th' night when th' station was full o' vallyble freight, nor how you got a share o' th' swag--" "oh, come, dan," nevins broke in, "what's the use of raking all that up again? of course you didn't tell. i knew mighty well you wouldn't give a friend away." "there's no tellin' what i'll do if i lose my nerve," said nolan, threateningly. "where 're you stoppin'?" "over here at the village. and mighty dull it is." "well, they's nobody here knows me," said nolan. "s'pose we go over to your room an' have a talk." "all right," agreed nevins, after an instant's hesitation. and they walked away together. "what are you going to do now?" he asked, a moment later. "th' fust thing i'm a-goin' t' do," answered nolan, his eyes shining fiercely, "is t' git even with that dirty rat of an allan west, who sent me to th' pen." "all right," said nevins, heartily. "i'm with you there. i don't like him, either. only, of course, you'll not--you'll not--" "oh, don't be afeerd," snarled nolan. "i ain't a-goin' t' kill him. i got too much sense t' run my head in a noose. besides, that ain't what i want. that ain't good enough! i want somethin' t' happen that'll disgrace him, that he'll never git over--somethin' that'll haunt him all his life. he holds his head too high, an' i'm a-goin' t' make him hold it low!" "i see," said nevins, thoughtfully. "well, we can manage it some way." "o' course we kin," agreed nolan, and licked his lips eagerly. "afore i git through with him, he'll be sorry he was ever born!" nevins nodded. "we can manage it," he repeated. "here we are," he added, and stopped before a two-story frame dwelling-house. "my room is up-stairs. come along," and he opened the front door. nolan followed him through the door and up the stairs. nevins opened another door, struck a match to show his companion the way, and then lighted a lamp which stood on a table in the middle of the room. then he closed the door and locked it, and going to the window, pulled down the blind so that no one could see in from the outside. then he went to a bureau which stood in one corner, unlocked it and got out a box of stogies, a sack of sugar, a bottle of whiskey, and two glasses. he stirred up the fire in the little stove which warmed the room, and set over it a kettle which he filled with water from the pitcher on his washstand. nolan, who had been watching him with greedy eyes, licking his lips from time to time, dropped into a chair with a grunt of satisfaction. "you're all right, nevins," he said. "you treat a feller decent." "of course i do," agreed nevins, "especially when he's my friend. now we can talk." an hour later, any one looking in upon them, would have seen them sitting together before the fire, their heads nodding, and the room so filled with tobacco-smoke that the flame of the lamp showed through it dim and yellow. nevins was snoring heavily, but nolan was still awake and was muttering hoarsely to himself. "that's it!" he said. "that's th' ticket! you've got a great head, nevins! no, i'll never tell--not arter you're helpin' me out this way. why, we kin work it easy as greased lightnin'. nobody'll ever know--an' that kid'll never git over it. he's that kind--it'll haunt him! why, i wouldn't be surprised if he went crazy!" nevins awoke with a start. "come on," he said, "let's go to bed." "all right," assented nolan, and arose heavily, and began to undress, lurching unsteadily from side to side. "but you certainly are a peach, nevins, t' think of a scheme like that!" "oh, that was easy," protested nevins, who was winding his alarm-clock. "that was easy." "it'll fix him," nolan chuckled. "he'll never sleep sound ag'in!" "and he won't be such a pet at headquarters," nevins added. "in fact, i think his connection with the p. & o. will end then and there." "o' course," nolan assented. "but it ain't that i'm thinkin' of so much. it's of him thinkin' an' worryin' an' goin' crazy about it. mebbe he'll kill hisself!" even nevins, hardened as he was, could not repress a shudder as he saw nolan's countenance convulsed with horrible mirth. there was something revolting and fiendish about it. he turned quickly and blew out the light. "come on," he said, almost harshly. "get to bed. it's nearly midnight." but even after they were in bed, he could hear nolan chuckling ecstatically to himself, and shrank away from him in disgust. chapter xi the president's special the operator's work at byers junction was more important and difficult than at any of the other small stations on the line, because, as has already been explained, it was at that point that the track of the d. w. & i. joined that of the p. & o., and all d. w. & i. trains ran over the p. & o. tracks as far as west junction, a distance of about eight miles. this complicated the traffic problem and the movement of trains much more than a simple crossing would have done, for the trains had to be kept out of each other's way not only at the junction, but for the whole length of that stretch of track which was used in common by the two roads. the p. & o. was considerably the older of the two, and had been built along the main line of traffic from east to west--the line which, in the old days, had been followed by the stage-coach. as the state became more thickly settled, other lines sprang up, and finally, when rich deposits of coal were discovered in jackson county, the d. w. & i. was built to tap this territory and connect it with the northwestern part of the state. the p. & o. also ran through jackson county, and, of course, soon built a branch to the coal-fields, so that when the work of construction on the new road began it was found that it would closely parallel the p. & o. for a distance of about eight miles. the new road was short of cash at the time, as most roads in the building are, and decided to use the p. & o. track for that distance, instead of building a track of its own. so a traffic arrangement was made, the junction points established, and joint operators placed there. this arrangement, which, as was at first supposed, would be only temporary, was continued from year to year, the p. & o. getting a good rental out of this stretch of track, and the d. w. & i. never accumulating a sufficient balance in the treasury to build a track of its own--at least, whenever it _did_ get such a balance, it was always needed for some more pressing purpose, and the old arrangement was allowed to stand. when a railroad has to fight to earn the interest on its bonds, it is willing to do anything that will give it a longer lease of life. the d. w. & i. was, as will be seen, an unimportant road. it ran only one passenger-train a day in each direction, and, as it was not on the way to anywhere, its business, both freight and passenger, was purely local. at the beginning of its existence, it had hauled a great deal of coal for the chicago market, but this business had been killed by the development of the great pocahontas fields in west virginia. luckily for the road, it was discovered at this time that it might serve as a link between the mighty n. & w. and c. h. & d. to connect the pocahontas fields with chicago, so, while the east end of the line gradually degenerated into a streak of rust, traffic on the west end, from wadsworth to dayton, became heavier than ever, as train after train of coal and coke, from the west virginia fields, passed daily over this little stretch of track, and then rushed away to the busy city by the lake. it was a good deal like a man living on one lung, or with one side partially paralyzed; yet a certain sort of life is possible under those conditions, and this one-sided traffic provided the only dividend the d. w. & i. had ever paid, and permitted the road to struggle along without going into the hands of a receiver. owing to this double use of this little stretch of track, the operators at both byers and west junction were what is called "joint operators;" that is, they served as operator for both roads, received orders from both headquarters, and so managed the traffic that there should be no conflict. this consisted, for the most part, in holding the d. w. & i. trains until the p. & o. trains were out of the way; for the trains of the more important road were always given precedence, and the others had to make the best of it and hurry through whenever there was an opening. the p. & o. dispatcher had absolute control over the track, and the d. w. & i. trains were not turned back to the control of that road until they had got back upon their own line. at night, luckily, there was very little traffic over the d. w. & i.--so little that it had not bothered allan at all. but during the day trick, traffic was much livelier, and it required a cool head and steady judgment to get everything past without confusion. there was, both at byers and west junction, a long siding upon which trains could be held until the track ahead was clear, but they were used only when absolutely necessary, for the ideal and constant endeavour of dispatcher, operator, and every other employee of a railroad is to keep things moving. only by keeping things moving, can a railroad be profitably operated. one stalled train soon blocks a dozen others, and any derangement of the time-card means delayed mails, wrathful passengers, irate trainmen, and a general tangle of traffic almost certain to result in accident. to keep things moving on a single-track road, such as the p. & o., requires no little judgment and experience, as well as the power of reaching the wisest decision instantly. there must be, too, in the ideal dispatcher, an element of daring, for chances have to be taken occasionally, and in railroading, more than in any other business, he who hesitates is lost. not of foolhardiness, be it understood, for the foolhardy dispatcher soon comes to grief; but he must, as it were, expect the best, not the worst, and govern himself accordingly. before he sits down at his desk, he must make up his mind that during his trick, every train is going to get over the road on time, and then bend every energy to accomplish that result. this, it may be added, is the secret of all successful train-dispatching. nevins reported on time next morning, and greeted allan with unusual affability; but his eyes were bloodshot, and though he pretended to listen to allan's explanation of the orders in force, it was evident that his attention wandered and that he was making no effort to understand. "all right," he said, when allan had finished. "i've got that all straight," and he sat down heavily before the table. his hand trembled perceptibly as he opened his key, and allan, as he put on his coat, noticed the confused way in which he started to answer the dispatcher's question about the position of a train. the dispatcher cut in sharply. "who is this?" he asked. "nevins." "what's the matter--been out all night?" nevins, who knew that allan had heard the question, reddened to his ears. "now try again," added the dispatcher, "and brace up." nevins, by a mighty effort, controlled his uncertain muscles, and sent the remainder of the message accurately, but considerably slower than usual. the dispatcher acknowledged it. "all right," he said, "but take my advice and go out and put your head under the pump. you need it. the way you sent that message reminds me of a man going down the street so drunk that the only way he can walk straight is to watch every step he takes." nevins reddened again and growled unintelligibly. as for allan, he caught up his lunch-basket and hurried out of the office, sorry that he had overheard the reprimand, but scarcely able to suppress his laughter at the aptness of it. for nevins _had_ sent the message in just that slow, painful, dignified way. the accommodation stopped at the junction a few minutes later, and he swung aboard and settled into a seat. as the train started, some unaccountable impulse caused him to lean toward the window and look back at the little shanty. a man was just entering the door. allan caught but a glimpse of him, and yet it seemed to him in that instant that he recognized the slouching figure of dan nolan. he sank back into his seat strangely troubled. could it, indeed, be nolan? was he hanging about the place for some sinister purpose? then he thrust the thought away. it could not have been nolan. that worthy was by this time many miles away, on the road to parkersburg, in search of a chance to make an honest living. when allan stepped upon the platform of the wadsworth station that evening, lunch-basket in hand, to take the train back to byers, he was surprised to find jack welsh there awaiting him. "i didn't want t' go home early agin," jack explained. "mary 'd scent somethin' wrong and 'd git th' whole story out o' me. i don't want her t' be worrited about this business." "about what business?" asked allan. "oh, you know well enough. about dan nolan. he was here yistidday arternoon. some o' th' boys seen him over t' james's saloon. jem tuttle says he seen him jump on second ninety-eight. i thought mebbe he might 'a' gone t' byers." "he did," said allan, quietly. "i saw him." "ye did!" cried jack. "i hope ye did fer him!" "why, jack," protested allan, "the poor fellow's nearly dead with consumption. he's on his way to parkersburg to look for work. he says he wants a chance to earn an honest living." "he told ye that, did he? an' was ye fool enough t' set there with your mouth open an' gulp it all down? i give ye credit fer more sense than that!" allan reflected that nolan certainly had lied about his unwillingness to steal a ride. and the figure he had seen that morning vanishing through the door of the byers station recurred to him. "i _did_ believe it," he admitted finally. "he looked so sick and weak that i couldn't help but pity him." "pity a toad!" said jack, contemptuously. "pity a snake! an' he's a thousand times wuss 'n any snake! he's jest waitin' fer a good chance t' bite!" "well, i'll take care he doesn't get the chance," allan assured him, and clambered aboard the train at the sharp "all aboard!" of the conductor. the more he thought over the circumstances of nolan's appearance the night before, the more strongly was he inclined to believe that jack's warning was not without reason. nolan, perhaps, hoped to put him off his guard, to catch him napping, and then, in some underhanded way, to "get even." "well, he sha'n't do that," murmured allan to himself. "i'll keep my eyes open. and if mr. nolan _is_ up to any such little game, i think he'll get the worst of it." with which comforting reflection, he leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes, and took a little cat-nap until the junction was reached. when he entered the little office, he found nevins sitting listlessly at the table, his head in his hands. he glanced up quickly as allan entered, with a kind of guilty start, and the boy noticed how pale and tired he looked. nevins nodded, in answer to his greeting, then got unsteadily to his feet and stood drumming nervously with his fingers upon the table. "you look regularly done up," said allan. "had a hard day?" "hard!" echoed nevins, hoarsely. "i should say so--hard's no name for it! they've been tryin' to send all the freight in the country through here. and everybody snortin' mad, from the dispatchers down to the brakemen. you heard how that smarty lit into me the first thing this mornin'. it's enough to make a man throw up the job!" allan saw how overwrought he was and dropped into the chair without replying, and began to look over the orders on the hook. nevins watched him, his face positively haggard. just then the sounder clicked off a rapid message, as the operator at hamden reported the passage of a train to the dispatcher at headquarters. "hello," said allan; "there's a special coming west. do you know what it is?" "it's the president's special," answered nevins, moistening his lips nervously. "a lot of the big guns are on it, on their way to attend a meeting at cincinnati. they've kept the wires hot all day--nothing but thirty-nine, thirty-nine, thirty-nine. the other business had to take its chance." thirty-nine, it may be explained in passing, is the signal used for messages of the general officers, and indicates that such messages have precedence over all other messages except train-orders. nevins paused a moment longer, gazing down at allan's bent head, and opened his mouth once or twice as though to speak; then, seizing his coat and hat, fairly rushed from the place. allan hung up the order-hook again, and as he did so, he noticed that nevins's lunch-basket was standing on the floor near the window. nevins had evidently been so upset and nervous from the hard day's work that he had forgotten it. he glanced at his watch and saw that it was . . hamden, which had reported the passage of the special, was only eight miles away, so the train would pass the junction within five or six minutes. allan knew that when a train carrying the high officials went over the road, the way was kept clear for it, it was given the best engine and the nerviest engineer, and every effort was made to break records. there was no order for it at the junction, his signal would give it a clear track, and it would sweep by without slackening speed. as a matter of precaution, he went to the door to be sure the signal was properly set, and stood there, looking down the track in the direction whence the train was coming. he had a clear view for perhaps half a mile, and sure enough, a minute later, he saw a headlight flash into view, and the rails began to hum as they only do when a train is running a mile a minute. a long whistle from the engine showed that the engineer had seen the signal and knew that the track was clear. then suddenly, the boy's heart stood still, for down the track, toward west junction, he heard the chug-chug of an approaching freight! just what happened in the instant that followed allan never clearly remembered. his brain seemed paralyzed; his senses swam and the world grew dark before him as though some one had struck him a heavy blow upon the head. then, instinctively, his hand flew to the lever which controlled the train-signal and swung it over; but he had no hope that the engineer of the special would note the change. he was too close upon it, and besides he had assured himself that it showed an open track and so would not look at it again. an instant later, there was a report like a pistol-shot. allan heard the sharp shriek of applied brakes, the shrill blast from the whistle which told of "danger ahead!" he saw the special sweep past, shaken throughout its entire length by the mighty effort made to stop it; then he sank limply down on the threshold of the door, and buried his face in his hands, not daring to see more. chapter xii placing the blame the crowd of officials aboard the president's special was a jolly one. to get away, even for a few days, from the toil and moil of headquarters was a genuine and welcome vacation, and though there were three stenographers aboard, all of whom were kept busy, there remained plenty of time for story-telling and good-natured quizzing. at the head of the party was president bakewell, dressed in the height of fashion, holding his present position not so much because of any intimate knowledge of practical railroading as because of his ability as a financier, his skill as a pilot in days when earnings decreased, when times were bad, and when the money for running expenses or needed improvements had to be wrung from a tight market. at doing that he was a wizard, and he wisely left the problems of the actual management of the road to be solved by the men under him. these, with very few exceptions, had risen from the ranks. they knew how to do everything from driving a spike to running an engine. they had been drilled in that best of all schools, the school of experience. the superintendents knew their divisions, every foot of track, every siding, every fill, bridge, and crossing, more thoroughly than the ordinary man knows the walk from his front door to the gate. they had gone over the road so often, had studied it so thoroughly, that they had developed a sort of special sense in regard to it. put them down anywhere along it, blindfolded, on the darkest night, and, at the end of a moment, they could tell where they were. they knew each target by its peculiar rattle as the train sped past. they knew the position of every house--almost of every tree and rock--along it. they knew the pitch of every grade, the degree of every curve; they knew the weak spots, and laboured ceaselessly to strengthen them. now, as the special swept westward from general headquarters, superintendent after superintendent clambered aboard, as his division was reached, and pointed out to the president and other general officers the weak spots along it. he showed where the sidings were insufficient, where the grade was too steep to be passed by heavy trains, where a curve was too sharp to be taken at full speed without danger, where a bridge needed strengthening or replacing by a masonry culvert. he pointed out stations which were antiquated or inadequate to the growing business of the road, and suggested changes in schedule which would make for the convenience of the road's patrons. for a railroad is like a chain--it is only as strong as its weakest link, and the tonnage which an engine can handle must be computed, not with reference to the level track, but with reference to the stiffest grade which it will have to pass before reaching its destination--except, of course, in cases where the grade is so stiff, as sometimes happens on a mountain division, that it becomes a matter of economy to keep an extra engine stationed there to help the trains over, rather than trim the trains down to a point where a single engine can handle them. the president listened to the arguments and persuasive eloquence of his superintendents, and nodded from time to time. his stenographer, sitting at his elbow, took down the recommendations and the reasons for them, word for word, as well as a comment from the president now and then. as soon as general headquarters were reached again, all this would be transcribed, typewritten copies made and distributed among the general officers; the recommendations would then be carefully investigated and approved or disapproved as might be. at parkersburg, superintendent heywood and trainmaster schofield, of the ohio division, got aboard, to see that the needs of their division received proper consideration. athens, zaleski, mcarthur, and hamden were passed, and the two officials exchanged a glance. they had a recommendation to make which, if approved, would mean the expenditure of many thousands of dollars. "the next station is byers junction," said mr. heywood. "from there to west junction, as you know, the d. w. & i. uses our track. in view of the great increase of traffic during the last year both mr. schofield and i feel that the d. w. & i. should either be compelled to build its own track, or that the p. & o. should be double-tracked between those points." "hm!" commented the president. "how far is it?" "seven and a half miles." "do you know how much another track would cost?" "not less than fifty thousand dollars." "what return do we get from the d. w. & i. for the use of our track?" "it has averaged ten thousand dollars a year. but their freight business is increasing so that i believe it will soon be fifteen thousand." "hm!" commented the president again. "why don't they borrow the money and build their own track?" "in the first place, their credit isn't very good," mr. heywood explained, "and in the second place, for them to buy and get into shape a separate right of way would cost probably two hundred thousand dollars. we have our right of way, all grades are established, and all we have to do is to lay a second track along the one we already have." "it sounds easy, doesn't it?" laughed the president. "i don't know anything that's easier than building a railroad--on paper." "it would be a good investment," said mr. schofield, rallying to the support of the superintendent. "it would return at least twenty per cent. on the cost. if we don't get another track, we'll have to shut the d. w. & i. out. a single track won't handle the business any more. there's always a congestion there that affects the whole road." the president puffed his cigar meditatively. good investments appealed to him, and the reasons for the improvement certainly seemed to be weighty ones. "besides," went on mr. schofield, "there's always the danger of accident to be considered. a single one might cost us more than the whole eight miles of track." "ever had any there?" "no--none so serious as all that. but we've escaped some mighty bad ones by the skin of our teeth." the president smiled. "don't try to scare me," he said. "i'm not. but it's a serious matter, just the same. there's the office now," added mr. schofield, pointing to the little frame building. he saw a figure standing in the doorway, and knew that it was allan west. "there's the boy," he began, when a report like a pistol-shot stopped him. instantly he grasped the arms of his seat, as did all the others, for they knew that the train had run over a torpedo. a second later, they were all jerked violently into the air as the brakes were jammed on and the engine reversed. every loose object in the car was hurled forward with terrific force, and a negro porter, who was walking past bearing a tray of glasses, was shot crashing through the thin front partition, and disappeared with a yell of terror. a window, shattered by the strain, rained its fragments in upon the floor, and through the opening thus made, the occupants of the car could hear the shrieking brakes and labouring engine. in a moment, it was over; the train jerked itself to a stop; paused an instant as if to regain breath, and then, as the brakes were released, started with a jump back toward the office it had just passed. a moment later, something seemed to strike it and hurl it backward, but the car did not leave the rails. the impetus slowly ceased, and the train came to a stop just opposite the semaphore. without saying a word, the officials hastened outside. they knew perfectly well what had happened. a head-end collision had been averted by the narrowest possible margin; indeed, it had not been wholly averted, but had been so reduced in force that no great damage had been done. "lucky our train was a light one," muttered mr. schofield, as he jumped to the ground. "i wonder if he thinks now i was trying to scare him?" and he shuddered at the thought of what would have happened had the engineer been unable to control the train. if it had been a regular passenger, with eight or ten heavy pullmans crowding after the engine, even the most powerful brakes would have been unable to hold it. superintendent heywood, his face very stern, hurried forward toward the engine. it was his duty to investigate the accident, to place the blame, and to see that the guilty person was punished. he regretted, as he had often done before, that the only punishment the road could inflict was dismissal from the service. such a punishment for such a fault seemed so feeble and inadequate! bill roth, the engineer of the special, was walking about his engine, examining her tenderly to see what damage she had sustained from the tremendous strain to which she had been subjected and from the collision which had followed. "she's all right," he announced to mr. heywood. "nothing smashed but her pilot and headlight," and he patted one of the huge drivers as though the engine were a living thing and could feel the caress. the superintendent nodded curtly and hurried on. twenty feet down the track, the pilot and headlight also smashed, loomed a freight-engine. a single glance told mr. heywood that it belonged to the d. w. & i. "i'll run her in on the siding," he said to mr. schofield, who was at his elbow. the latter nodded and started on a run for the office, in order to get into touch at once with the dispatchers' office. neither official understood, as yet, how the accident had happened; but there would be time enough to inquire into that. the first and most important thing was to get the track clear so that the special could proceed on its way and the regular schedule be resumed. as mr. schofield sprinted toward the office, he glanced at the train-signal and noted that it was set at danger. he must find out why their engineer had disregarded that warning, for he knew that the brakes had not been applied until the train was past the signal. bill roth was one of the oldest and most trusted engineers on the road, else he would not have been in charge of the special, but the best record on earth could not excuse such carelessness as that. so mr. schofield reflected as he sprang up the steps that led to the door of the shanty. there he paused an instant, for at the table within stood allan west, ticking off to headquarters a message telling of the accident, and asking for orders. not until he came quite near could the trainmaster see now drawn and gray the boy's face was. he waited until the message was finished and the key clicked shut. then he stepped forward and laid his hand gently on the boy's arm. "all right, allan," he said. "no harm done, though it was a mighty close shave. you sit down there and pull yourself together, while i get this thing straightened out." in a moment he had headquarters. "eng. running extra delayed at byers junction ten minutes. will leave junction . . a m s." "o. k.," flashed the answer from the dispatcher, who at once proceeded to modify his other orders in accordance with this delay. as the trainmaster snapped the key shut, the superintendent appeared at the door. "all ready," he said. "the track's open," said mr. schofield. "i've notified greggs," and the two men ran down the steps and started toward the train. "did you notice the signal?" he added. "yes," answered the superintendent, "and i asked roth about it. he and his fireman both swear that it showed clear when they looked at it a moment before they reached it. roth merely glanced at it and then looked back at the track. but the fireman says that it seemed to him it was swinging up just as they rushed past it. then they hit the torpedo." "and where did _it_ come from?" "lord only knows. there's something mysterious about this affair, schofield." "i know there is," and the trainmaster's face hardened. "i'm going to stay right here till i get to the bottom of it." mr. heywood nodded. "yes--i think that's best. who's the night operator here now?" "allan west," answered the other, speaking with evident difficulty. the superintendent stopped for an instant, then went on whistling softly. "too bad," he said, at last. "have you asked him anything about it?" "no; he seemed all unstrung. but he kept his head. he was reporting the accident and asking for orders when i got to the office." "good; i hope he wasn't to blame--though the setting of the train-signal at the last instant looks bad." "yes," assented mr. schofield, "it does." "of course, i'm sorry for the boy; but if he was at fault, not even all he has done for the road can--can--" "no," broke in mr. schofield, curtly; "i know it can't. don't be afraid. i'll go to the bottom of the matter, regardless of who is hurt. i'll fix the blame." the superintendent nodded without replying. both men were more moved than they cared to show. for they were fond of the boy and had been very proud of him. mr. heywood glanced at his watch, saw that it pointed to . , and gave the signal to the conductor. and as the train pulled away, mr. schofield started slowly back toward the shanty. the task before him was about the most unpleasant that he had ever faced. but his countenance was impassive and composed as he mounted the steps to the door. chapter xiii probing the mystery allan had recovered somewhat from the nervous shock the threatened accident had given him, and was receiving a message as mr. schofield entered. the latter paused a moment to look at him--at the handsome, honest, boyish face; the broad and open brow bespeaking intelligence and character, the mouth firm beyond his years, the eyes steady and fearless; and as he looked, a weight seemed to drop from his heart. whoever was to blame, he knew instinctively that it was not allan west. he sat down with an audible sigh of relief, and got out a cigar and lighted it. a moment later, allan repeated the message, closed his key and looked up with a smile. mr. schofield had proved himself a friend tried and true, and one upon whom he knew he could rely. "well," said the trainmaster, answering the smile, "i've come to find out how it all happened. suppose you tell me the story." allan passed his hand quickly across his eyes. "i really know very little," he began. "i came on duty at the usual time, and took an order or two. then i heard the operator at hamden report the special. i knew it would be here in a few minutes, and as i had no order for it--" "you're sure there _was_ no order for it?" interrupted mr. schofield. "yes, sir; i had just looked over the orders on the hook. so i went to the door to be sure the signal showed a clear track." "it _did_ show a clear track, did it?" "yes, sir. i stood there a moment longer; and then i heard the special coming and saw its light flash around the curve. i watched it coming--it must have been running nearly a mile a minute." "it was--all of it," said mr. schofield. "well, it was almost at the switch, when i heard another engine chug-chugging up the grade from west junction. i don't remember clearly just what i did for the next moment or two--i have a sort of recollection that i jerked the signal over and then i heard a shot--" "it was a torpedo." "a torpedo?" echoed allan. "but who--" "i haven't the slightest idea. we'll look into that after awhile. go ahead with your story." allan paused a moment to collect his thoughts. "i heard the brakes go on and saw the special sort of humping itself up in the effort to stop--" "it _was_ humping itself, and no mistake," agreed the trainmaster. "and we were rattling around inside like dried peas in a pod." "and then," allan went on, "i thought i heard the trains come together, and things sort of went black before me; but i managed to pull myself together enough to report that the track was blocked. i was doing that when you came in." "yes, i heard you. now let's find out how that freight got past west junction. the operator there must have had an order to hold it until the special passed." he sat down before the key and called west junction. the operator there, who had heard of the accident, answered almost instantly. at the same moment, the conductor and engineer of the freight, having assured themselves that no great damage had been done, and having replaced their shattered headlight by a lantern from the caboose, came in to report and ask for orders. mr. schofield waited until he had received an answer to his question, then he closed the key and arose and faced them. "the operator at west junction says you left there at . ," he said. "how does it come it took you nearly an hour to make eight miles?" "we got a hot-box," explained the conductor, "the worst i ever see. it was about midway of the train, so nobody smelt it till it got so bad it blazed up, and then i happened to see it when i looked out the winder of the caboose. when we opened the box, we found it dry as a bone, not a bit of dope in it--regularly cleaned out. i'll bet it hadn't been packed for a month. the journal was swelled so tight it took us half an hour to get it down." "yes, an' we used nearly all th' water in th' tank doin' it," broke in the conductor. "an' then when i tried t' start, i found th' brakes set, an' we lost ten minutes more lookin' for th' air-hose that had busted an' puttin' on a new one." a hot-box, it should be explained in passing, is caused by imperfect lubrication of the axles of cars or engines, at the point where they pass through the journal-bearings. as they revolve rapidly under the great weight upon them, the friction generates heat, unless the surfaces are properly oiled, and this heat causes the journal to swell until it sticks in the bearing and refuses to revolve at all. not infrequently the heat is so great that it generates a flame and sets the car on fire. to keep the journal lubricated, it is enclosed in a metal box, called a journal-box, and this is filled with axle-grease, or "dope," as railroaders call it. in every railroad yard where trains are made up, there is a gang of men whose sole business it is to go from car to car, dope-bucket in hand, and make sure that all journal-boxes are properly filled. for hot-boxes are a prolific source of trouble. so are burst air-hose. air-brakes, operated by compressed air, are very generally in use now on freight-cars as well as passenger-coaches. the compressed air is carried under the cars in iron pipes, but the coupling is of rubber-hose, in order to allow some play as the cars bump together or strain apart, and this hose frequently bursts under the great pressure. a burst hose instantly sets all the brakes, and the train-hands must first find the break, and then replace the burst coupling with a new one. mr. schofield had listened to all these explanations with furrowed brow. now he turned abruptly to the conductor. "when you found you had run over your time," he demanded, "how does it come you proceeded without a flag?" "we hadn't run over our time," protested the conductor, hotly. "we had till . to make the junction. we supposed of course the operator here knew his business and would protect us." "you would have been protected if i'd known you were coming," said allan, quickly, "but i had no order for you." "what!" demanded the engineer, incredulously, "do you mean to say th' dispatcher didn't cover us?" "i certainly do." "an' you didn't git no order fer th' special to meet us here?" "i got no order whatever." the engineer, his face very red, produced from his pocket a soiled piece of tissue-paper. "read that," he said, and handed it to the trainmaster. mr. schofield opened it, his face very stern. "'engine ,'" he read, "'will run extra from west junction to byers junction and will keep clear of special passenger-train west, engine , after . p. m.'" "we'd have got here all right at . ," went on the engineer, truculently. "we had three minutes." "what time did the special pass?" asked mr. schofield. "at . ," answered allan. the trainmaster nodded, and handed the order back to the engineer. "you boys are all right," he said. "you're evidently not to blame." the engineer chuckled. "you bet we ain't," he agreed. "but that'll be th' last o' mister dispatcher on this road, i reckon. who was it?" "greggs," answered the trainmaster, tersely. "hum!" said the engineer, after a moment's reflection. "i'd never have thought greggs'd make a break like that. if it'd been jenkins, now." "when did you realize that something was wrong?" asked mr. schofield, with a little impatient jerk of the head. "when i saw that signal swung up. i knowed nobody'd handle it so rough as that without mighty good cause. so i jammed on th' brakes an' jerked open th' sand-box an' reversed her; an' then in about a second, i see another headlight comin' at me, an' i knowed what was up. "'git out o' here!' i yelled to joe--he's my fireman--but he'd seen her comin', too, an' didn't need no warnin' from me. i see him jump an' i was jest a-goin' t' foller suit, when i see th' other feller had his train under control. we had slowed up considerable, too--we hadn't been comin' very fast, but th' heavy train behind us shoved us on--so we jest give her a little love-tap, as it were, an' stopped." "a little harder one and we'd have been off the track," added the conductor. "i can't understand greggs makin' a mistake like that. i always thought he was the best man in the office. i don't see how he could have overlooked giving you an order for us." "better men than greggs have made mistakes," retorted the trainmaster, a little tartly. "well, we must be gettin' on," said the conductor, eying allan, curiously. "the investigation will show who was to blame." allan was already calling up the d. w. & i. headquarters. "eng. ," he reported, "delayed by hot-box, just arrived here and wants orders." in a moment the answer flashed back. "eng. will leave byers junction at . and run extra to wellston." allan repeated it, got it o. k.'d, and handed a copy to each of the two men. they read it aloud, glanced at their watches, and stalked out. a moment later, allan and the trainmaster heard the exhaust as the engine started. as soon as the train was past the switch, allan turned the semaphore and lowered the train-signal to show a clear track. then he came back and sat down by the trainmaster, who was puffing his cigar reflectively. "you're fonder of fresh air than i am," remarked the latter, as a little gust of wind rustled the orders which hung on the hook near the window. "we'd better have that down, hadn't we?" allan, glancing at the window, noticed for the first time that the lower sash was raised. "why, i didn't know it was open," he said, and going to it, took out the stick which supported the sash and let the sash down. "nevins must have raised it before he went away." "well, if it had been me," remarked the trainmaster, "i'd have noticed that wind blowing down my back before this. but we don't seem to be getting much nearer the solution of this accident--or, rather, we haven't discovered yet why it didn't happen." "why it _didn't_ happen?" repeated allan. "yes. let us review the circumstances. at . , this d. w. & i. freight passes west junction, with right of way to byers junction until . . that gives it forty-eight minutes to make a run which is usually made in twenty-five or less. but it develops a hot-box and bursts an air-hose and is delayed about half an hour. still, it would have reached here a minute or so ahead of time, and it certainly had the right of way until . . "you, however, have received no order for this freight, and thinking the track from here to west junction clear, you set your signals accordingly for the special which is nearly due, and which passes at . . just as it is passing, you hear the freight approaching, and throw the signal over. but the engineer, being almost upon it, doesn't see it. an instant later, however, a torpedo explodes, and the engineer manages to stop the train and begin backing before the freight hits it. the engineer of the freight, meanwhile, has seen the signal change, and then sees another headlight rushing down upon him, and manages to get his train pretty well under control before the crash comes. so not much damage is done. but why? what was to keep the special from dashing itself to pieces against the freight?" "it was the torpedo," answered allan. "precisely. the torpedo. and where did the torpedo come from? did it drop from heaven at precisely the right instant? i don't believe in that sort of miracle. did it just happen to be there? that would be a miracle, too. no, i believe that some one, at that spot, heard the trains coming, or saw you swing the signal up, realized what was about to happen, and placed that torpedo on the track. now, who was it?" allan, of course, was utterly unable to answer. "and whoever it was," added the trainmaster, "why doesn't he come and tell about it? a fellow who does a thing like that has no reason to run away and hide." he stopped, chewing the end of his cigar nervously, a wrinkle of perplexity between his eyes. "he must have been a railroad man," went on the trainmaster; "a brakeman, conductor, or section-man, or he wouldn't have had that torpedo in his pocket. unless it was a tramp who'd stolen it. but a tramp would have been here long ago to claim his reward; and a railroad man would have come to make his report. no; i can't understand it." he was interrupted by a sharp call on the instrument. allan answered it. "make report at once," clicked the sounder, "of accident to engs. and at byers junction. greggs." "eng. ," allan reported, "leaving west junction at . , delayed thirty minutes by hot-box, in collision with eng. at . just west of byers junction. both engines slightly damaged." "why didn't you hold special and protect eng. ?" came the query. "no order to that effect was sent me," allan answered. "i supposed the track clear." there was a moment's pause. then the sounder started again. "following order was sent byers junction at . : 'eng. , special west, will meet extra east, eng. , at byers junction.' operator at byers, initial n., repeated this, and it was o. k.'d, so that train was fully covered and should have been protected. useless to deny that order was received." allan had turned as white as a sheet, and his hands were trembling convulsively as he opened the key. "will investigate and report in a moment," he answered, and then turned to the trainmaster, his eyes dark with horror. "you heard?" he asked. the trainmaster nodded, and his face, too, was very grave. "you're sure there was no such order?" he inquired. "i came on at . ," said allan, "and went over all the orders on the hook very carefully. i'm sure there was no such order there," and he motioned toward the "flimsies" which hung on the wall beside the window. mr. schofield took down the hook and began to go slowly over the orders. in a moment, a sharp exclamation broke from him. "what is it?" asked allan, a sudden horrible fear seizing his heart and seeming to crush it. the trainmaster detached from the hook one of the sheets of tissue-paper, and spread it out before him, his face very stern. "'engine ,'" he read, "'special west, will meet extra east, engine , at byers junction.'" then he leaned back in his chair and gazed at allan with accusing eyes. chapter xiv to the rescue for an instant, allan scarcely understood. he sat as one stunned by a terrific blow. then the truth burst upon him like a lightning-flash. he had overlooked the order; two of the flimsy pieces of tissue-paper had stuck together, and he had not perceived it! the accident, had it occurred, would have been his fault; that it did not occur was due to no act of his, but to some mysterious, unexplainable providence. morally, he was as guilty as though the trains had dashed together at full speed. even now, because of his carelessness, they might have been one piled-up mass of twisted iron and splintered wood, with a score of human beings buried in the wreckage. the utter horror of the thought turned him a little dizzy. then he arose, and took down his coat. "what are you going to do?" demanded the trainmaster, who had been watching him closely. "there's only one thing for me to do, isn't there?" asked allan, with a wan little smile. "that is to get out. i see i'm not fit for anything better than section-work, after all. i'll ask jack welsh for my old job--that is, if the road will have me." "sit down," commanded mr. schofield, sternly. he saw how overwrought the boy was. "there's no use jumping at conclusions. besides, you've got to stay your trick out here, no matter how guilty you are. there's your call now," he added, as the key sounded. allan answered it mechanically, took down the message, repeated it, and had it o. k.'d. by the time that was done, he had partially regained his self-control. "of course i'll serve out the trick," he said. "but i didn't suppose i'd ever have a chance to serve another. a mistake like that deserves the severest punishment you can inflict." "you mean you think nevins left the order on the hook and that you overlooked it?" "certainly," said the boy. "how else could it have happened?" "i don't know. but neither can i understand how you could have overlooked it if you were at all careful. there are only three others on the hook." "i wasn't as careful as i should have been," said allan in a low voice, "that's certain." he was sure that he, and he only, had been at fault. any other explanation seemed ridiculous. "did nevins say anything about this train when you came on duty?" pursued the trainmaster. allan made a mighty effort at recollection. "no," he said, at last; "i'm sure he didn't. we talked a moment about the special, and he spoke of the heavy day's work he'd had. that was all. if he'd said he had an order for it, i certainly shouldn't have forgotten it right away." "then nevins broke the rules, too," said mr. schofield, and got out his book of rules. "the second paragraph on page seventy-six reads as follows: 'when both day and night operators are employed, one must not leave his post until relieved by the other, and the one going off duty must inform the one coming on respecting unfinished business and the position of trains.'" "he waited until i had looked over the orders," said allan, with a lively remembrance of nevins's attitude toward that particular rule. "he supposed that i could read, and if there was anything i didn't understand i'd have asked him." mr. schofield put his book back into his pocket, and got out another cigar. his nerves were jangling badly, and he felt the need of something to quiet them. "well," he said, at last, "i'm sorry." and allan bowed his head. he accepted the sentence of dismissal which the words implied; it was just. he saw all the air-castles which he had builded so hopefully come tumbling about him; he was overwhelmed in the ruins. he realized that there was no future for him in railroading; no place at the top. he had forfeited his right to serve the road, to expect promotion, by that one mistake, that one piece of carelessness. at least, he told himself, it had taught him a lesson, and one that he would never forget. it had taught him-- [illustration: "in the next instant the tall figure had been flung violently into the room."] some one stumbled heavily up the steps to the door, and mr. schofield uttered a sharp exclamation of astonishment. allan started around to see upon the threshold the strangest apparition his eyes had ever rested on. two figures stood there so daubed with mud, so bedraggled with dirty water, so torn and bruised and soiled as scarcely to resemble human beings. one was tall and thin, the other not so tall and much heavier. the shorter figure held the tall one by the back of the neck in a grip so tight and merciless that such of the latter's face as was visible through its coating of mud was convulsed and purple. one eye was closed and swollen, while the other seemed starting from its socket. both men had lost their hats, and their hair was matted with mud, reddened, in the case of the shorter one, with blood. all this allan saw at a glance, for in the next instant, the tall figure had been flung violently into the room, while the other entered after him, closed the door, and stood leaning against it, breathing heavily. for a moment, not a word was spoken. the trainmaster and allan stared in amazement from one of these strange figures to the other. the tall one lay where he had fallen, gasping for breath; the other, having recovered somewhat, got out a handkerchief from some recess, and made an ineffectual effort to blow his nose. then, as he caught the expression of the others' faces, he grinned so broadly that some of the mud on his cheeks cracked and scaled off. "ye don't happen t' have a bath-tub handy, do ye, allan?" he inquired, in a voice so familiar that the boy jumped in his chair, and even mr. schofield started perceptibly. "jack!" cried allan. "why, what--" he stopped, unable to go on, breathless with sheer astonishment. "is it really you, welsh?" asked the trainmaster. "yes, misther schofield; it's me, or what's left o' me," said jack, passing his hand ruefully over his head, and gazing down at his tattered garments. "and who's this?" asked the trainmaster, with a gesture toward the prostrate figure on the floor. "i don't know th' dirty scoundrel's name," answered jack, "but you'll know him, i reckon, as soon as we scrape th' mud off. but afore i tell th' story, i _would_ loike t' wash up." "all right," said allan, starting from his chair, "here you are," and he poured some water from a bucket into a wash-pan which stood on a soap-box beside the window. a towel hung from a roller on the wall, and a piece of soap lay on the window-sill. it was here he washed up every night before he ate his midnight lunch. jack took off the remains of his coat, one sleeve of which had been torn out at the shoulder, rolled up his shirt-sleeves, and plunged his head into the water with a grunt of satisfaction. he got off the worst of the mud, threw out the dirty water, and filled the pan with fresh. from this he emerged fairly like his old self, and rubbed face and head violently with the towel. when he had finished, an ugly cut was visible high on his forehead, near the roots of his hair. he touched it tenderly, and held the towel against it, for the washing had started it to bleeding again. "here, let me see that," said mr. schofield, peremptorily. he led jack near the lamp, despite his protests that it was only a scratch, examined the cut, got out his handkerchief, dipped it in clean water, and washed the wound carefully. then he took from his pocket a little case of court-plaster, drew the edges of the cut together, and stuck a sheet of the plaster over it. "there," he said, when the operation was finished, "that will soon be all right. and let me give you a piece of advice, welsh, and you, too, allan--never go about this world without a case of court-plaster in your pocket. men, especially railroad men, are always getting little knocks and cuts, not worth considering in themselves, but which may become poisoned, if left open, and cause a great deal of trouble. a snip of court-plaster stops all chance of that. so take my advice--" there was a sudden movement behind them, and jack hurled himself toward the door just in time to catch the other mud-bespattered figure as it was disappearing over the threshold. there was a moment's struggle, then jack got his deadly neck-grip again, and walked his captive back into the room. "so ye thought ye'd git away, did ye?" he demanded, savagely. "thought ye'd give me th' slip! not after th' hard work i had gittin' ye here, me boy!" he closed the door with his disengaged hand, then led his prisoner up to the light. "do ye know him?" he asked of allan and the trainmaster, but neither of them saw anything familiar in the distorted and mud-grimed features which the rays of the lamp disclosed. they noticed, however, with what an agony of fear the prisoner stared at them with the single eye which was open. "ye don't know him, hey?" said jack, seeing their blank countenances. "well, ye wouldn't know yer own father under such a layer o' mud. let's wash him off. then he'll look more nateral." he shoved the prisoner toward the bucket of water, in spite of his suddenly desperate struggles. then, pinching his neck savagely, he bent him down toward the bucket, and with his free hand splashed the water over his face. then he forced him up to the towel, rubbed his face vigorously, and finally spun him around toward the astonished onlookers. allan gave a gasp of amazement. "why, it's nevins!" he said. "nevins!" echoed mr. schofield, coming a step nearer. "why, no--yes it is, too!" "and who may nevins be?" demanded jack. "nevins is the day operator here," said mr. schofield. "let him go, jack; he can't escape." jack reluctantly released his grip of the unlucky operator's neck. "i don't know," he said, dubiously. "if you'd chased him five mile, an' fought him at th' bottom of a ditch, an' had him hit you in th' head with a rock, mebbe you wouldn't be so sure o' that!" "but what has he done?" demanded mr. schofield. "well, i don't exactly know," answered jack, deliberately, moving again between the prisoner and the door, and sitting down there. "but it was some deviltry." mr. schofield also sat down, more astonished than ever. "see here, welsh," he said, "you're not drunk?" "hain't drunk a drop fer a matter o' tin year, mr. schofield. th' effects wore off long ago." "he _is_ drunk, mr. schofield," broke in nevins, quickly. "i smelt it on his breath. i'll have the law on him. he assaulted me out there in a ditch and nearly killed me. i'll see if a man's to be treated that way by a big, drunken bully--" but mr. schofield stopped him with a gesture. "that will do," he said, coldly. "don't lie about it. i know that welsh isn't drunk. we'll have his story first, and then yours. fire away, jack." "well," began jack, "jest as th' torpedy went off--" "which torpedo?" "why, th' one that th' special exploded." "oh, begin further back than that--begin at the beginning." "well, then, jest as i jammed th' torpedy on th' track--" "was it _you_ put it on the track?" cried mr. schofield. "why, sure," said jack. "didn't ye know that? who else could it 'a' been?" "but how did you come to do that?" "why," said jack, "whin i heerd th' special whistling away off up th' line, an' th' signal showin' a clear track, an' knowed they was a freight comin' up th' grade, what else should i do but plant a torpedy? i didn't have time t' git t' th' office--besides, i knowed they was some diviltry on an' i wanted t' lay low till i could git nolan--" "nolan!" echoed the trainmaster, more and more amazed. "sure, nolan--dan nolan--you raymimber him. i thought it was him i had, an' mighty dissipinted i was whin i found my mistake. but i thought i'd better bring this feller along, anyhow, an' find out what it was he done when he raised th' windy there an' leaned in--" a flash of understanding sprang into mr. schofield's eyes, and he glanced quickly at nevins. but the latter's face was turned away. "see here, jack," said the trainmaster, leaning forward in his chair, "we'll never get anywhere in this way. i want you to begin at the very beginning and tell us the whole story." "well, sir," said jack, "i would, but i'm afeerd th' story'd be too long." "no, it wouldn't. we want to hear it." "all right, then," jack agreed, and settled back in his chair. "ye may as well set down, misther nevins," he added. "yes, sit down," said allan, moved with pity at the other's bedraggled and exhausted condition. he brought forward the box which served as washstand, and pressed nevins gently down upon it. the latter resisted for a moment; then, suddenly, he collapsed in a heap upon the box and buried his face in his hands, his whole body shaken by a dry, convulsive sobbing. chapter xv light in dark places the paroxysm lasted only for a moment, then nevins pulled himself together with a mighty effort, looking about him with a pitiful attempt at bravado. mr. schofield glanced at him, then turned his back, for nevins's countenance, not engaging at any time, was now positively hideous. "go ahead with your story, welsh," he said. "well, sir," jack began, "i waited fer allan this evenin' t' tell him that nolan had come back, an' when he told me that nolan had been out here--" "nolan out here?" interrupted the trainmaster, and allan related the conversation of the night before. "when i heerd all that," began jack, again, "i knowed that nolan was up to no good; i knowed that he had come out here t' do th' boy dirt; an' all th' whinin' an' crocydile tears in th' world couldn't convince me no different. so when allan got on th' accommydation, i left a message with th' caller fer my old woman, tellin' her i'd be late, an' jumped on th' back platform jest as th' train pulled out." mr. schofield nodded. he was beginning to understand the occurrences which had seemed so mysterious. at that moment a freight pulled in, and the conductor entered to get the orders. he cast an astonished glance at nevins, but the presence of the trainmaster stifled any questions which may have been upon his lips, and he read his order, signed for it, and went out again. allan went to the door, assured himself that the signals were properly set, then shut the door and resumed his seat on the table beside the instrument. "well," jack continued, "i knowed th' boy'd be mad if he thought i was follerin' him--he never did like it, even when nolan was arter him last year--so i stayed there on th' back platform, an' dropped off in th' dark down there by th' water-plug. i set down in th' shadder of a pile o' ties an' waited. i see allan come over here, an' purty soon th' other feller come out and hiked away fer th' village, like he had a date with his best girl an' was an hour late. "i was gittin' mighty hungry, and beginnin' t' feel purty foolish, too; fer i really hadn't nothin' t' go on except that dan nolan had been here th' day afore. it was gittin' cold, too, but i turned up my collar, pulled my cap down over my ears, lighted my pipe behind th' ties, an' arranged myself as comf'table as i could. i rammed my hands down in my pockets, t' keep 'em warm, an' snuggled up agin th' logs. somethin' jabbed me in th' side, an' when i felt t' see what it was, i found i had a torpedy in my pocket. i'd put it there in th' mornin' thinkin' i might need it afore night, and hadn't been back t' th' section shanty since. well, i eased it around so's it wouldn't jab me, and leaned back agin. "but th' minutes dragged by mighty slow, an' nothin' happened. i could see allan, through th' windy, bendin' over th' table, or readin' in a book. i couldn't see my watch, it was too dark, an' i didn't dare strike another match, fer fear somebody'd see it, but i jedge it was clost to seven o'clock, an' i was sort o' noddin' back agin th' pile o' ties, with my eyes shet, when i heerd two men a-talkin' on th' other side o' th' pile, an' in a minute i was wide awake, fer i knowed one o' th' voices belonged t' dan nolan." jack paused to enjoy the effect of the words. he could certainly find no fault with his audience on the score of inattention. allan and mr. schofield were regarding him with rapt countenances; and at the last words, nevins, too, had started to a strained attention, his quick, uneven breathing attesting his agitation. "yes, it was nolan," jack repeated, "an' th' other one was that felly there," and he indicated nevins with a motion of the finger. "'well, did ye do it?' nolan asked. "'yes, i done it,' said th' other. 'how about th' freight?' "'i left her three mile back,' says nolan, 'with th' wust hot-box ye iver see. an' when she tries t' start she'll find an air-hose busted. she can't git here till way arter seven.' "'th' special'll be along about seven-five, i think,' says nevins, 'an' it'll be a-comin' a mile a minute.' "'bully!' says nolan, an' laughs to himself. 'i guess that prig'll hev suthin' t' think about th' rest of his life. i guess he won't stay much longer with _this_ road.' "i knowed they was talkin' about allan," jack went on, "and i tell you my blood was a-boilin' considerable; it was all i could do t' keep myself from jumpin' up an' grabbin' them two scoundrels an' knockin' their heads together till i'd smashed 'em. but i couldn't see yet jest what it was they was up to. so i thought i'd set still an' try t' find out. an' purty soon i _did_ find out. "'but you've got t' git th' order back on th' hook,' says nolan. 'if y' don't, it'll be you who'll suffer an' not that rat.' "'niver worry,' says nevins, 'i'll git it back. i've pervided fer all thet.' "even yet i couldn't understand," jack added. "i couldn't believe that any two human bein's would be sich divils as them words'd indicate. i thought mebbe i was dreamin', but i pinched myself an' it hurt. then i thought mebbe i hadn't heerd right. i jest _couldn't_ b'lieve my own ears. "'well, i can't stay here,' says nevins. 'i must be gittin' over by th' shanty. i've got t' watch my chance.' "'i'll go along,' says nolan. 'mebbe i kin help. anyway, i'm a-goin' t' stay till th' thing comes off.' "they come around from behind th' pile o' ties, and i see them run across th' track an' dodge in among that little grove o' saplings down yonder. in a minute, they come out at th' edge by the shanty, an' i see one o' them creep up an' look through th' windy. then he fell flat on th' ground, an' i see allan git up an' come t' th' door. th' semyphore and train-signal both showed a clear track. i jumped up t' start acrost an' warn him, an' jest then i heerd th' special whistle. i knowed then what 'd happen unless somethin' was done mighty quick t' keep th' special from runnin' past. i grabbed out th' torpedy an' jabbed it over th' rail, an' then started on a run fer th' shanty, but th' special was comin' lickety-split, an' i hadn't hardly gone a rod afore it come singin' along. i stopped t' see what'd happen when it hit that torpedy. i knowed they'd be some mighty lively times fer a minute." "there were," said mr. schofield, ruefully, and rubbed an abrasion on his wrist. "an' then," jack continued, "my heart jumped right up in my throat, fer i heerd that freight come chuggin' up th' grade. it hadn't been held as long as nolan thought it would, an' it looked to me fer a minute as though th' trains'd come t'gether right by the semyphore. but that special was comin' like greased lightnin'. i see th' signal go up with a jerk, then th' ingine hit my torpedy, and th' brakes went on. i turned around t' see what allan was doin', an' i see him kind o' keel over in th' door. an' then i see somethin' else--i see that scoundrel there raise th' windy, put th' stick under it, climb up to th' sill, lean in an' do somethin'--i couldn't tell jest what." "i know what it was," said mr. schofield, his eyes flashing and his face very stern. "he replaced on the hook the order covering the freight, which he had taken away with him." "well," said jack, "i knowed it was some deviltry, an' i started fer him as fast as my legs'd carry me. he slid back t' th' ground, an' reached up his hand t' let th' windy down agin, an' then he heerd me comin'. he jest took one look, an' then lighted out across th' fields, over fences, through a strip o' woods back yonder, up a hill an' down th' other side--me after him, an' gainin'--fer i was goin' t' ketch him, if i dropped dead th' next minute. i reckon we must 'a' run three or four mile, an' he wasn't more'n a hunderd feet ahead o 'me, when i see him stop sudden, run a little way t' th' right, then stoop an' pick up somethin'. i was almost on him, when he throwed it at me, an' it was a rock," jack added, "with a sharp edge, an' it went through my hat an' caught me in the head. if it hadn't been fer th' hat, i reckon i'd been stretched out then and there. "but at th' time, i didn't hardly feel i was hit. i jest jumped fer him, an' over we went together, clawin' like kilkenny cats, into a ditch half full o' mud. it was that had stopped him, but i didn't see it till i was right on it, an' it was too late then t' stop. well, that mud was somethin' fierce--but ye kin jedge fer yerselves," he added, with an expressive gesture at his bedraggled attire and that of his opponent. "it didn't last very long, though," he added, "or i reckon we'd both been suffycated. i got one good lick at his eye, and then got a hold of his neck, an' he jest wilted. he wasn't no match fer me, nohow--he's too long an' spindle-legged. well, i managed t' git him out o' th' ditch, an' marched him back here,--an' that's all," he added, abruptly. for a moment mr. schofield did not speak, but sat looking at nevins with an expression of loathing as though that worthy were something venomous and unclean. "nevins," he said, at last, "i have known a good many cold-blooded scoundrels in my day, but none to compare with you. i believe i am speaking the exact truth when i say that hanging would be too good for you. you are a disgrace to humankind--you ought to be hunted off the earth like vermin--you and that rascally comrade of yours." nevins shivered and shrank together under the withering tone. "how did you get mixed up with such a scoundrel?" asked the trainmaster, at last. "he--he made me," nevins blurted out. he had intended, at first, to deny everything, to brazen it out, to affirm his innocence of any wrong-doing. but the net of evidence had been drawn too tightly around him; he saw there was no possible chance of escape. "_made_ you?" repeated mr. schofield. "you mean he had a hold of some kind upon you?" "he--i was afraid of him," muttered nevins, sullenly. "he said he wanted to get even with west for sending him to the pen." "and you agreed to help? not only that, it was you who furnished the plan. i know very well that nolan hasn't sense enough to work out such a pretty one." "he said he wanted to get even with west," nevins repeated. "he wanted to break him, to disgrace him, to make him lose his job, to give him something to think about all the rest of his life." "yes, it was a pretty plan," said mr. schofield, musingly; "about the most fiendish i ever heard of. suppose you tell us how it was worked." nevins grinned cunningly. "i'm not going to incriminate myself," he said "i'm not such a fool." mr. schofield made a gesture of impatience. "don't be afraid," he said. "you can't incriminate yourself any more than you are incriminated. besides, all i'm going to do to you is fire you, and i'd do that if you never spoke another word in your life. i've said hanging is too good for you, but i'm going to let somebody else take the trouble of having you convicted. this won't be your last scrape--unless you make a decided 'bout face! but i'll get nolan," he added. "i'll get nolan, if it takes a dozen years." "oh, all right," said nevins, looking vastly relieved. "you're welcome to nolan; and i'm going to get as far away from here as my money will carry me. i don't want to see nolan, myself. it was this way. i heard that order for the freight sent to west junction, and then, pretty soon, came the order for the special to me. nolan was here in the office at the time, and i remarked to him that if the freight could be held up half an hour or so after it left west junction, it would be just the chance he was looking for. "'i'll fix that,' he said, 'if you'll keep that order off the hook.' "i promised him i would, and he ran out and hooked on to a freight that was just pulling out for wadsworth. he dropped off at west junction, and it was pretty dark by that time, so he was able to remove the dope and packing from one of the journal-boxes of the d. w. & i. freight without any one seeing him. then the train started, and he got aboard, and rode back on it until the hot-box stopped it. then he dropped off, cut an air-hose, to be sure they couldn't get here ahead of time, and then started to walk the rest of the way back. "i put the order in my pocket, went to supper as soon as west relieved me, and then hurried back so that i would be sure to get the order back on the hook. the only thing i was afraid of was that nolan wouldn't be able to hold the freight long enough, and that it would pull in here ahead of the special. i was pretty sure, though, that even in that case i could get the order back on the hook without any one seeing me. i left my lunch-basket behind, and if there hadn't been any other way, i was going back after it, and jab the order on the hook when west wasn't looking. so there wasn't much risk, after all." "no," said mr. schofield, bitterly, "not for you. but how about the people in the special?" "well," answered nevins, deliberately, "i don't believe i fully realized what was going to happen until the special came singing down the track. then i turned sort of sick at my stomach; but i kept my head enough to raise the window, and put the order on the hook. then i heard that fellow coming for me and lit out. but i wasn't fast enough." "i'd 'a' got you," remarked jack, grimly, "if i'd had to chase you clear across to 'frisco." "all right," said nevins, who, in telling his story, had regained a little of his cheerfulness. "you beat me fairly. and i'm glad the wreck didn't happen. now, if you gentlemen will permit me, i will bid you a fond adieu." "good-bye," answered mr. schofield. "write me where you are, the first of the month, and the pay due you will be sent on to you. and if i were you, i'd let this experience teach me a lesson. you're young yet. you can get back all you've lost. and remember, besides any question of right or wrong, it pays to be honest, to do right; for every one who is dishonest or does wrong is sure to suffer for it." "i've found that out," agreed nevins. "i don't believe i'll forget it," and he opened the door, from in front of which jack moved grudgingly, and vanished into the outer darkness. in that instant, too, he vanished from this story, for by daybreak he was speeding west toward cincinnati. there he bought a ticket for denver, and somewhere in the west, at the present day, he is no doubt living--let us hope honestly and usefully. chapter xvi all's well that ends well the lamp seemed to shine more brightly and the air of the office seemed somehow clearer and cleaner when the door shut behind nevins and the sound of his footsteps died away. mr. schofield arose and shook himself, as though to rid himself of some infection. then he glanced at his watch. it was nearly midnight. "it's time i was getting back to town," he said. "i've got to join the special again in the morning. isn't there an extra west about due here?" "yes, sir," allan answered. "there's one due in about ten minutes." "well, i'll take it; i dare say the conductor can fix me up a berth in the caboose. you'd better come with me, jack," he added, as allan set the signal to stop the train. "your wife's probably trying to figure out what's happened to you, and i think she's entitled to an explanation." "not much sleep will she be gittin' this night," jack chuckled. "she'll be havin' me tell th' whole story foive times, at least!" "and, by the way, allan," went on mr. schofield, casually, "you needn't report for duty to-morrow night." allan's face flushed. of course there would have to be an investigation. he had forgotten that. "very well, sir," he said, quietly, though he could hear the heavy breathing which told that jack welsh did not think it well, at all. "because you know," the trainmaster went on, smiling queerly, "that the day trick here is vacant now, and, of course, it naturally falls to you. i will get some extra man to take it to-morrow, so that you can get a good night's rest--you need it. you will report for duty the next morning." allan's heart was in his throat, and he dared not trust himself to speak, but he held out his hand, and the trainmaster gripped it warmly. "and i'm mighty glad," said mr. schofield, not wholly unaffected himself, "that you've come out of this affair so well. i was afraid for a time that you wouldn't--and i couldn't have felt any worse if it had been my own boy. there she comes," he added, in another tone, as a whistle sounded far down the line. "come on, welsh; we mustn't keep her waiting. good-bye, allan," and he sprang down the steps. but allan held jack back for a whispered word. "after all, jack," he said, brokenly, squeezing the broad, honest, horny palm in both his own, "it was you who saved the train, not i. you deserve the reward, if there's to be one. i didn't do anything--only stood staring here like a fool--" "cut it out, boy; cut it out," broke in jack, gruffly. "you did all ye could. i jest happened t' be there." "but oh, jack, if you hadn't been! and no one would ever have known who caused the wreck! every one would have thought it was my fault!" "i know three people who wouldn't!" protested jack. "their names is mary, mamie, an' jack welsh!" "nonsense, jack," said allan, laughing, though his eyes were bright with tears. "why, i'd have thought so myself!" "there's th' train," broke in jack, hastily. "see ye in th' mornin'," and tearing himself away, he followed mr. schofield down the steps. allan, watching from the door, saw them jump aboard the caboose before it had fairly stopped. the trainmaster exchanged a word with the conductor, who swung far out and waved his lantern to the engineer; and as allan lowered the signal to show a clear track, the train gathered way again and sped westward into the night, toward wadsworth. he watched it until the tail lights disappeared in the darkness, then he turned back into the little room and sat down before his key, his heart filled with thanksgiving. the dispatcher at headquarters, calling byers junction to send a message to the trainmaster, soon found out that he was aboard the freight, and in consequence that fortunate train was given a clear track, and covered the twenty-eight miles to wadsworth in forty-five minutes. one o'clock was striking as jack welsh climbed the steep flight of steps that led to his front door. at the top, he found a shawled figure waiting. "why, mary," said he, "you'll be ruinin' your health, me darlint, stayin' up so late." "yes," she retorted, "an' i'll be goin' crazy, worritin' about ye. where've ye been, jack welsh?" "niver ye mind. is my supper ready?" "supper? ye mane breakfast, don't ye?" "call it what ye like, so it's fillin'. fer i've got an awful emptiness inside me. didn't i send ye word by dan breen that i'd be a little late?" "an' do ye call one o'clock in th' mornin' a little late?" she queried, with irony. "well," said jack, tranquilly, walking on through toward the kitchen, "that depends on how ye look at it. some folks might call it a little early." a lamp was burning on the kitchen table, and as jack came within its circle of light, mary, who was close behind, saw for the first time the condition of his clothes. "jack!" she screamed, and rushed up to him, and then she saw the piece of court-plaster on his forehead, as well as the various minor bumps and contusions which he had received. "have ye been fightin'?" she demanded, sternly. "yes, darlint," answered jack, cheerfully. "an' got hurted?" and she touched the wound tenderly. "only a scratch, mary; ye ought t' see th' other felly." "who was he, jack?" "his name's nevins--but ye don't know him." "tell me about it," she commanded, her eyes blazing. "all about it!" "well, it's a long story, darlint," said jack, teasingly, "an' i don't feel quite ekal to it on an empty stomach. i guess i'd better go over t' th' daypo restaurant an' git a snack. i ain't had nothin' t' eat since noon o' yistidday." "o' course i kept your supper hot fer ye, jack," she assured him, softening instantly. "you go git washed an' git into some clean clothes, so you'll look a little less like a hobo, an' i'll have it on th' table in a jiffy." mary welsh was one of those admirable housekeepers whom no emergency finds unprepared. jack's supper had long ago evaporated and dried up in the process of keeping it warm; even the tenderest steak, kept in an oven for seven hours, will acquire a leathery texture and a flavour of old shoes. but a fresh piece of steak was frying in a moment, and some sliced potatoes sputtering in the pan beside it; the coffee-pot was set on again, and the pantry rummaged for such supplies as it could furnish. it was some little time before jack reappeared, for he had to change his clothes from the skin out, as well as get the mud off the skin itself. when, at last, he did come down the stairs, the meal, fresh, appetizing, and smoking hot, was awaiting him on the table. "mary, you're a jewel," he said, as he drew up his chair, and fell to. "yes," she observed, dryly, "i've allers heerd that th' way to a man's heart is through his stomach." "well, i'd rather have me heart in me belly than in me pocketbook," retorted jack. "lucky i had on me old clothes," he added; "they'll niver be fit t' wear agin." mary sat down opposite him expectantly. "oh, i don't know," she said. "mebbe i kin wash 'em an' patch 'em so's they'll be all right, jack." "all right fer a scarecrow, mebbe, but not fer a swell like me. now, mary, you go ahead an' tell me all that's happened, while i finish me supper." "but there hain't anything happened t' me, jack," she protested, filling his empty cup. "i jest stayed at home, an' seen allan off, an' got your supper. an' then dan breen come an' said you'd be late. he'd seen ye git on th' accommydation an' thought mebbe you'd been called out on th' road somewheres. so i put mamie to bed, an' then jest set an' waited. it seemed an awful long time." jack pushed his empty plate away from him, and glanced at the clock, which was ticking merrily away on the mantelpiece. "why, it's half-past one!" he cried, in mock amazement. "we must be gittin' t' bed, mary. we won't want t' git up at all in th' mornin'," but mary was not alarmed, for she saw him fumbling in his pocket for his pipe, and knew that the story would not be long delayed. nor was it. once the pipe was started, the story started, too, and mary listened to every word with rapt attention, only interrupting from time to time, as it progressed, with an exclamation of astonishment or anger. when he had finished, she jumped up and came around the table to him, and kissed him and hugged him and even cried over him a little, for she loved him with her whole big irish heart. "why, jack, darlint," she cried, "you're a reg'lar hayro--like one reads about in th' story-books." "a hayro!" echoed jack, with a roar of laughter which was promptly stilled for fear of waking mamie. "listen to ye! jack welsh a hayro!" "you're my hayro, anyway," said mary, softly, as they mounted the stairs together to their bedroom. one morning, about two weeks later, mr. schofield sat at his desk in his office, looking through his mail. "you knew that penlow is going to resign on the first?" he asked, glancing across at the chief-dispatcher, who sat facing him on the other side of the broad expanse of quartered oak. "yes--what's the matter?" "well, he's getting old. he's been roadmaster nearly twenty years; and i guess he's laid up a snug little fortune--enough to keep him the rest of his life. i think he's sensible to quit when he's got enough." "yes--more sensible than lots of us who keep right on working till we drop. who are you going to appoint in his place?" "well," answered mr. schofield, slowly, "it will go naturally to one of the section-foremen--and i'm going to offer it to the best one on the road." the roadmaster, it may be remarked in passing, is a sort of magnified section-foreman. he has general supervision over a number of sections forming a subdivision, and all the foremen on that subdivision report to him. he has charge of all the track forces employed on his subdivision, and is responsible for keeping the track, fences, road-bed, bridges, culverts, and everything else pertaining to the roadway, in repair. he is supposed to spend most of his time out on his division, and to know every foot of it more intimately and minutely than any one else. he must be sure that the men under him understand their duties and perform them properly; he must attend in person to the removal of landslides, snow, or other obstructions, and in case of accident must take the necessary force to the place and use every effort to clear the road. officially, he is known as a supervisor, and it will be seen that his position is one of considerable importance and responsibility. "i'm going to offer it to the best one," repeated mr. schofield. "i think i know who you mean," said the chief-dispatcher, smiling. "he'll be all right." "yes, he's a good man; and he's done more for this road than most of us. i'd probably be a dead man by now and you'd be filling my shoes, if it hadn't been for him. that may not seem to you a cause for unmitigated rejoicing, but it does to me. i'm not quite ready, yet, to pass in my checks. it was really he, you know, who prevented that accident at byers. if it hadn't been prevented, this road would have needed a whole new complement of general officers. the old ones would have been wiped out." the chief-dispatcher nodded. "found any trace of nolan?" "no--not a trace," and mr. schofield's face clouded. "i've had our detectives scouring that whole country, but he seems to have disappeared completely. i believe he has left for other parts. i only hope he'll stay there. if i could catch him, i'd have him back in the pen. in short order." he looked up as some one entered, and saw that the newcomer was jack welsh, who came in with a slightly sheepish air, holding his cap in his hand. "i dunno what misther schofield wants t' see me fer," he had said to his wife that morning, when the trainmaster's message was delivered to him. "i ain't been doin' nothin' t' git hauled up on th' carpet fer." "o' course you ain't," agreed mary, warmly, instantly championing his cause. "an' don't ye take none o' his lip, jack. give him as good as he sinds." "all right, darlint," and jack chuckled. "o' course it don't matter if i lose me job. you kin take in washin'. an' i'm feelin' th' need o' resting fer a year or two, anyway. so i'll slug him in th' eye if he ain't properly respectful." yet the sheepishness in jack's demeanour, as he stood before the trainmaster, was not due to any feeling of subserviency or false modesty. it was rather embarrassment because of unfamiliar surroundings, and because of the many eyes centred upon him and the many ears straining to hear what would follow. "good morning, welsh," said mr. schofield, with a gruffness assumed for the occasion. "how is everything on twenty-one?" "all right, so far as i know, sir," answered jack. "so far as you know?" "well, ye see, sir, i ain't been over it since yistidday evenin'. no tellin' what's happened in the night." "does anything ever happen to it in the night?" "yes, sir; sometimes a hoss gits acrost a cattle-guard, and a train hits him an' musses up the road-bed frightful. an' them porters on th' diners are allers throwin' garbage off th' back platform,--t' say nothin' o' th' passengers, who don't seem t' do nothin' but stuff theirselves with oranges, an' banannys an' apples, an' drop th' remains out th' windy. th' porters ort t' be ordered t' take their garbage int' th' terminals an' git rid of it there, an' th' passengers ort t' be pervided with waste-baskets t' receive sech little odds an' ends as they can't swaller." "i'll think of it," said mr. schofield, making a note on a pad of paper at his elbow. "i don't know but what the suggestion is a good one. and now, welsh, i'm sorry to say that we'll have to get a new foreman for section twenty-one." jack blinked rapidly for a moment as though he had received a blow between the eyes. then he pulled himself together. "all right, sir," he said, quietly. "when must i quit?" "on the first. who's the best man in your gang?" "reddy magraw knows all th' ins an' outs o' section-work, sir. he'd make a good foreman." mr. schofield made another note on the pad. "penlow's also going to quit on the first," he remarked, casually, without looking up. "not fired, sir?" asked jack, quickly. "i know he's old, but he's a mighty good man." "no; he resigned. going to take the world easy. you're to take his place." for a moment, jack seemed not to understand. then his face turned very red; a profuse perspiration broke out across his forehead. he mopped it away with his big red handkerchief, and i dare say, dabbed his eyes once or twice, for his first thought was of mary's joy when she should hear the news. "ye could find a better man fer it, mr. schofield," he said, at last. "no, i couldn't," retorted the trainmaster; "not if i searched this division from end to end. you're the best section-foreman we've got, welsh, and you'll make the best roadmaster we've ever had. and i may add that i'm mighty glad of the chance to give you a promotion which you richly deserve. there isn't a man in the employ of this road--no, not from the superintendent down--who has done more for it than you have. the road never forgets such services." the dispatchers had come crowding to the door, and in the corridor outside a group of trainmen had stopped, attracted by this unusual orating. and when the trainmaster stopped and wrung welsh's hand, there was a little burst of applause, for every man on the road knew and liked jack welsh. this public commendation completed his confusion, and he stumbled from the room and down the stairs, looking as though he had received a whipping. it was some time before he could gather courage to go home; and when he finally got there, he found the news had preceded him. reddy magraw had heard it and had rushed over to congratulate him--so mary was waiting for him, her eyes alight, and she hugged him and kissed him and made much of him. "though it's no more than ye deserve, jack," she said, at last. "indade, it's not so much. why, reddy tells me that mr. schofield stood up there before th' whole crowd an' said you was th' best man on th' road, from th' sup'rintindint down." "i'll break reddy's head when i ketch him," threatened jack. "but o' course i was dissipinted that they didn't make me gineral manager. i told mr. schofield so, an' he said i should 'a' had th' job, only it didn't happen t' be vacant." * * * * * back in the offices, mr. schofield continued the work of going through his mail, another big batch of which had just been brought in. among the letters he opened, was a long, portentous-looking one from general headquarters. he glanced through it and chuckled. "it's an ill wind that blows nobody good," he remarked. "that narrow escape at byers has convinced the general officers that we need a double track there. that shaking up they got did more good than all the talk we could have talked. we can go ahead with it as soon as we like," and he tossed the letter across the desk to the chief-dispatcher, his face shining. "i don't know anything that could have pleased me more," he added. "it means so much to this division. do you know, george, i'm glad things happened just as they did! providence certainly had its eye on us that time!" chapter xvii allan entertains a visitor allan, meanwhile, had assumed the day trick at byers junction--a position carrying with it increased responsibilities, and, it may be added, an increased salary. he had long ago started an account at the wadsworth savings bank, to which he was now able to make a substantial addition every month. only one incident served to mar the pleasure of those first days in his new position. jim anderson had come to him one evening with a face in which joy and sorrow struggled for the mastery. "read that," he said, and thrust a letter into allan's hand. allan opened it and read. it was a letter from an uncle, a brother of jim's father. the two had been estranged by family differences years before, and the brother, who had moved to philadelphia and engaged in business there, had dropped entirely out of the other's life. now he was writing that his own wife and child were dead, that he was getting old and lonely, and that he would be glad to have his brother's son and widow live with him. he could offer the latter a good home, and the former would be sent to college, and drilled to succeed his uncle in business. although he did not say so, it was evident from the letter that if jim proved worthy, he would take the place left vacant by the death of his uncle's own boy. "well," asked jim, when allan had finished, "what do you think of it?" "think of it? why, i think it's fine! don't you?" "i don't know," said jim, hesitatingly. "for one thing, i don't want to leave wadsworth. for another thing, i want to be a machinist." "well, here's a chance to be a big one. there are scientific courses at college which will give you just what you need. you won't have to work in the shops all your life--you can be bigger than all that." "then you'd advise me to go?" "i certainly should," answered allan, warmly. "though i'll miss you awfully," he added. "i tell you what," said jim, "maybe i can persuade uncle to--" but allan interrupted him with a shake of the head. "no," he said; "it's not the same. you're his nephew and have a claim upon him--besides, you're going to take his son's place. i haven't any claim." and jim, looking at him, decided to say no more about it. "but i'll come over and visit you," allan promised, "the first vacation i get." so a few evenings later, he saw jim and mrs. anderson off on their way to philadelphia, and then walked slowly homeward, a very lonely boy. now that his evenings were again his own, he spent many of them at the wadsworth public library, and also bought some carefully selected books of his own--which is about the best investment any boy can make. every boy ought to have for his very own the books which he likes best, and these should be added to every year, as the boy's taste changes and matures, so that his library will come to be a sort of index of his growth and development. not many books, but loved ones, should be the motto. allan had, in his common-school education, a splendid foundation on which to build, and on this he reared a beautiful and noble edifice--an edifice which any boy who wishes can rear for himself--of acquaintance with the best books. this house of the imagination, with its lofty halls and great rooms, and gilded towers, was empty enough at first, but it soon became peopled with most engaging friends,--among them john halifax, tom pinch, john ridd, david copperfield, d'artagnan and his three comrades, henry esmond, amyas leigh, and that sweetest, bravest of all maidens, lorna doone. he accompanied great travellers to far countries; he fought with richard lion heart against saladin, with napoleon against wellington; with washington against howe and clinton and cornwallis. he read of the gallant bayard, fearless and without reproach, of king arthur and his knights, and something of the beauty and romance of chivalry entered into his own soul. in a word, he was gaining for himself a priceless possession--a possession worth more to its owner than gold, or silver, or precious stones; a continual delight and never-failing comfort--a knowledge of good books. the librarian advised him as to the best editions to buy for his own use, and he soon found that nearly all the great books were published in little volumes to be slipped easily into the pocket, and costing not more than fifty or sixty cents each. it was these little volumes which he grew especially to love--they were so companionable, so pretty, and yet so strong and serviceable. he got into the habit of putting one into his pocket every morning. he could read it on the train, going out and returning, and during the day in such odd times as his work permitted. it is wonderful how much one can accomplish in the way of reading by watching the spare moments; allan realized, as he had never done before, how much of every day he had wasted. the time that had been lost was lost for ever; but the present and the future were his, and he determined to make the most of them. no one can associate with wise and witty and gallant people, even in books, without showing the effects of it. some of their wisdom and wit and gallantry, be it never so little, passes to the reader; he learns to look at the world and the people in it with more discerning eyes; life gains a larger meaning; it becomes more full of colour and interest. the result, in the end, is what, for want of a better word, we call culture; a word meaning originally the tilling and cultivating of the ground, and afterwards coming to be applied to the tilling and cultivating of the mind. its most valuable result is the acquirement of what we call taste--another clumsy word and inexpressive, by which we mean the power to discern and to enjoy the right things--good literature, good music, good pictures--and to know and to reject the wrong things. it was this faculty which allan was gradually acquiring--so slowly and subtly that the change was not perceptible from day to day--scarcely from month to month. but at the end of a year, he was quite a different boy; he had grown mentally and physically; he was getting more out of life; he was beginning to understand the people about him; he could distinguish the gold from the dross, the true from the sham; and the more this power grew, the more did his respect and love and admiration grow for the humble friends among whom his lot was cast. they were genuine and true, speaking from the heart, happy without envy, honest and kind, ready to excuse and to forget another's fault and to reach out a helping hand to any one who needed it. he began to see, dimly and imperfectly, that the great, warm heart of america beats, not in the mansions of the rich, but in the humble and unpretentious homes scattered up and down this great land of ours, each sheltering a little family, living its own life, struggling toward its own ideals, and contributing its own mite to the world's happiness and progress. * * * * * nearly a year had passed; a year of which every day had brought its pleasures and its duties. allan had become one of the best operators on the road; the difficult business of the position at byers junction he handled easily and without confusion. he had gained confidence in himself. the trainmen liked him, for they found him ever willing and helpful; they respected him, too, for his decisions were prompt and intelligent and always just. the dispatchers knew they could rely on him, and the business of the junction was left more and more under his control. in fact, he came to be himself a sort of dispatcher over those eight miles of track between his office and west junction. as he stands in the door of the office this spring morning, watching a passenger-train which has stopped at the big tank to take water, he is worth looking at. his face is not handsome, as we use the word, but it is frank and open, with a manliness beyond its years. his eyes are blue-gray, clear, and direct; his mouth is a little large, with sensitive lips and a quirk at the corner which shows a sense of humour--altogether an attractive face and one to inspire liking and confidence. a good many people had left the train, during its halt, to stretch themselves and get a breath of fresh air. these clambered on board again, at the conductor's signal, and after a preliminary puff or two, the train started slowly, clinking over the switch, and rattling away westward. a moment later, allan's eyes caught a glint of colour at the edge of the little grove of saplings near the office, and a girl, carrying a bouquet of wild flowers, ran up the little bank to the track. she stood for an instant staring after the disappearing train, took a quick step or two as if to follow it, then, evidently seeing the uselessness of such pursuit, turned and walked slowly toward the operator's shanty. not until she was quite near did allan recognize her; then, with a curious little leap of the heart, he saw that it was the girl who had rushed into superintendent heywood's office one day long ago, to summon him to his train. allan remembered that her father had called her bess. she came up the little cinder path and stopped before the door without any hint of recognition in her eyes. "can you tell me when the next train for wadsworth leaves?" she asked. "not until five-nine," he answered. "and it is now?" "it is now one-fifty-one." "oh, dear," she sighed, and he saw that in the year which had intervened since he had seen her last, she had grown more distractingly pretty than ever--more mature and womanly. "well," she continued, her foot on the lowest step, "i suppose i may as well come in and sit down. this is the station, isn't it?" "this is the operator's office," he said. "the byers station is that frame building you can just see up the track yonder." "it seems an awful way," she remarked, gazing pensively in the direction of his gesture. "it's nearly half a mile; altogether too far for you to walk," said allan, with conviction. "oh, then i may stay here?" "you certainly may," allan hastened to assure her, and placed his best chair at her disposal. "but it isn't--well--palatial." she glanced around the dingy little room, with its rusty stove, its primitive lavatory, its rough, clapboarded walls, and then at the fresh-faced young fellow anxiously awaiting the verdict. "it's cosy," she said, and settled herself comfortably upon the chair. "i'm afraid i don't keep it quite as tidy as i might," said allan, suddenly conscious that it was anything but tidy. "you see the old broom wore out, and we haven't got a new one yet." "well, it's about time for spring house-cleaning, you know--do men ever have spring house-cleaning?" "this one will," allan promised, and smiled down into her friendly eyes. just then the familiar signal, " ," which heralded the transmission of a train-order, sounded from the table, and he sat down to receive it. after it had been repeated and confirmed, he turned again to his guest. "hadn't i better wire your father," he asked, "that you are here and will be home on number thirteen this evening?" she stared at him in amazement. "why, how do you know who my father is?" she demanded. "i happened to be in his office one day about a year ago, when you came after him," he explained. "oh," she said, but she still looked at him a little doubtfully. "my name's west," he added. "allan west?" there was a genuine interest in her eyes now. "oh, i've heard papa speak of you." "nothing very bad, i hope?" "no--quite the contrary. why," she added, gasping a little, as though just realizing it, "then you're the boy who--who saved the pay-car and--" "the very same," he interrupted, blushing in spite of himself. "shall i send the message?" "yes; please do. papa will be worried when he comes to the train to meet me and finds me not on it--especially as my coat and grip and umbrella are. he'll think i've been kidnapped." "you were left, then?" he asked. "yes; i was on my way home from visiting a friend at deer park, and was so tired with sitting, that when the train stopped here to take water, i thought i'd get off and walk the kinks out. then i saw a beautiful patch of these wake-robins and violets just at the edge of that little grove, and i couldn't resist the temptation to gather a few; and i suppose i must have gone into the grove deeper than i intended, for i didn't hear the train start, and was never so astonished in my life as when i came out on the track and found it gone." allan smiled at the earnestness with which she told the story. "i'll wire your father," he said, and called up headquarters. for a few minutes there was a sharp interchange of dots and dashes. then allan closed the key and turned back to her. "it's all right," he said. "he understands." "i think it's perfectly wonderful your being able to talk to each other that way," she commented. "what did he say?" "he said," stammered allan, confused by the sudden question; "he said it was all right." what mr. heywood really said was: "all right. keep her there and bring her in on thirteen, and don't make love to her any more than you can help." she noticed the stammer and gazed at him with her clear eyes, which, he saw now, were blue. "was that all he said?" "well, he said he'd meet you at the train this evening." "yes; and what else?" "he said," answered allan, floundering desperately, "that, if you had to be left somewhere, he was glad it was here." the vision bent over ostensibly to brush an imaginary speck of dust from her skirt, but in reality to conceal a smile. when she sat erect again, her face was quite demure. "so am i," she agreed. "it would have been horrible to be left at a place where i didn't know any one--of course, i don't really know you," she added, hastily, "but i've heard papa speak of you so much that you seem to be a sort of friend of the family." "i should like to be," he said, colouring at his own temerity. "well, it isn't so difficult. we're really rather a companionable family." he gasped a little at the dazzling vista the words suggested. "i don't know what i should have done," she went on, "if i had had to sit here so long without any one to talk to or anything to read. oh, you have a book there," she added, noticing the little book which was lying open face downward beside the key. "what is it?" "this," answered allan, laughing and picking up the thin little volume bound in black, "is the book of rules. i'm afraid it wouldn't interest you. but i have a splendid one in my pocket." he went to his coat and got it out. "have you ever read it?" he asked as he handed it to her. she glanced at the title. "les misérables," she read, making rather a botch of it. "what does that mean?" "'the miserable ones,' i think." "i don't like to read about miserable people." "oh, they're not all miserable," he protested, taking the book eagerly, and opening it. "the old bishop, for instance, bishop welcome--may i read you something?" she nodded, her eyes on his glowing face. "the old bishop, you know, gave all his money to help others, went to live in the little old hospital and made them move the beds to the building which had always been the bishop's palace. he said it was all a mistake--that there should be twenty-six people crowded together in that little building, while the big one next door had only him and his sister and his housekeeper in it. he never locked his door, and came to be so loved by the people that they called him bishop welcome. let me read you this chapter," and he turned to the seventh of the first book. "i don't pronounce the french names very well, but you mustn't mind." "i won't," she promised, and settled herself more comfortably in her chair. he interested her strangely--he was somehow different from the other boys she knew. they never talked to her in this way. and he began to read her the account of the bishop's meeting with that redoubtable brigand, cravatte, a bold wretch who had organized a band of outlaws, and even robbed the cathedral at embrun of all its gold-embroidered vestments. in the midst of the excitement, the bishop arrived, on the way to visit his parishioners in the mountains. his friends attempted to persuade him to turn back. "'there exists, yonder in the mountains,' said the bishop, 'a tiny community no bigger than that, which i have not seen for three years. they need to be told of the good god now and then. what would they say to a bishop who was afraid? what would they say if i did not go?' "'but the brigands, monseigneur?' "'hold,' said the bishop, 'i must think of that. you are right. i may meet them. they, too, need to be told of the good god.' "'but, monseigneur, there is a band of them! a flock of wolves!' "'it may be that it is of this very flock of wolves that jesus has constituted me the shepherd. who knows the ways of providence?' "'they will rob you!' "'i have nothing.' "'do not go, monseigneur. in the name of heaven! you are risking your life!' "'is that all?' asked the bishop. 'well, i am not in the world to guard my life, but to guard souls.'" so he went, and the brigands did not harm him. he reached the little village, and wished to celebrate a mass, but there were no vestments. nevertheless, the mass was announced, and then one night there was left at the house where the bishop was staying a great chest, and when it was opened all the vestments which had been stolen from the cathedral were found there, together with a paper reading, "from cravatte to bishop welcome." "wouldn't you like to do a thing like that?" asked allan, with sparkling eyes, when the chapter was finished. and bess heywood nodded, not trusting herself to speak. for a moment their hearts were very close together; for the wholesome, generous heart of youth longs ever to do noble deeds; to emulate the hero who "never turned his back, but marched breast forward;" to fight with strong and valiant soul; to ride forth in knight-errantry, with lance a-rest and sword on thigh, against wrong and treachery and deceit. and well it is that youth dreams dreams and sees visions and makes high resolves, however middle-age may laugh, and cynics sneer, and graybeards shake their heads. for, in the words of philip sidney, "who shoots at the midday sun, though he be sure he shall never hit the mark, yet as sure he is he shall shoot higher than he who aims but at a bush." so let youth aim at the sun while it has heart for the venture; and leave crabbed age to choose the bush for its mark if it will. chapter xviii facing the lion so the afternoon passed happily; with reading, with talking, with little confidences, interrupted, now and then, by the busy instrument on the table, or by some trainman stalking in to get his orders, and going out with a knowing smile upon his lips. all too soon, as it seemed to allan, the night man came up the steps; for the first time in his experience, allan found the sight of him unwelcome. ten minutes later, the train was bearing him and bess heywood homewards. that half-hour journey never seemed so short. mr. heywood was awaiting them on the grimy wadsworth platform. "thank you, allan," he said, "for taking care of the runaway. i thought she was old enough to travel alone, but it seems i was mistaken. i'll have to send a nurse along hereafter." "good-bye, allan," said the vision, holding out her hand, and allan was quite shocked, when he took it, by its smallness and softness. [illustration: "the afternoon passed happily."] "good-bye," he answered, but his tongue dared not pronounce her name. he watched them until they disappeared in the darkness, then turned away across the yards, meditating anxiously whether a being with a hand so small and soft, so evidently fragile, could long withstand the buffets of a world so rude and harsh as this one. * * * * * "well, young lady," said mr. heywood, at the dinner-table that evening, "i hope you were sufficiently punished for your thoughtlessness in wandering away from your train." "it wasn't such terrible punishment, papa," answered bess. "i had a very pleasant afternoon. i think allan is just fine." "so do i," agreed her father promptly. "he's a nice boy." "and he knows such a lot," added bess. "i felt a perfect booby." "quite a salutary feeling for a young lady," nodded her father. "especially for one who has always had an excellent opinion of herself." "oh, papa!" protested bess. "i'm not conceited!" "no, not that precisely," agreed her father; "but most girls, when they get to be about eighteen, and have all the boys making sheep's-eyes at them, begin to think that this world was made especially for them, and that nobody else has any right in it, except perhaps to hustle around and provide them with ribbons and chiffon ruffles. it's good for them to get a hint, now and then, that the world is really something more than a pedestal for them to stand on." bess sighed, a little dismally. "i never understood before," she said, "how awfully i've been wasting my time." "if you never waste any more, my dear, you'll have nothing to regret. most women don't wake up to the fact that they're wasting their time until they're middle-aged, and by that time they've fallen into such a habit of doing so that they can't change." "i believe," added bess, thoughtfully, "that i'll ask allan to the party i'm going to give next week." "do, by all means," said her father, heartily. "it will do you good, and it won't hurt him." so it came to pass, a few days later, that the postman mounted the steps to the little welsh cottage and left there a tiny envelope addressed to "mr. allan west." mary received it, and turned it over and over. "it's from a girl," was her comment. "bad cess to her. but i knowed th' girls couldn't let sich a foine-lookin' lad as that alone. they'll be makin' eyes at him, an' pertendin' t' edge away, an' all th' toime invitin' him on--don't i know 'em!" and mary grew quite warm with indignation, entirely forgetting that she herself had been a girl once upon a time, and an adept in all the arts of that pretty game of advance and retreat which she now denounced so vigorously. she laid the letter on allan's plate, and noted the little shock of surprise with which he found it there when he sat down to supper that evening. "hello; what's this?" he asked, picking it up. "it's a letter come fer ye this mornin'," answered mary, and she and jack and mamie all waited for him to open it, which he did with a hand not wholly steady. "'miss elizabeth heywood,'" he read, "'requests the pleasure of mr. allan west's company, thursday evening, april th. seven o'clock.'" "well, of all th' forrerd minxes!" burst out mary. "why, when i was a girl, i'd a' no more thought o' writin' a young man t' come an' see me--" jack interrupted her with a roar of laughter. "why, mary," he cried, "don't ye see! it's a party she's askin' him to--th' sup'rintindint's daughter!" "a party! th' sup'rintindint's daughter!" and mary paused between jealousy for her boy and pride that he should have received such an invitation. "an' of course he'll go," added jack, with decision. "it's a shame t' kape a foine felly like allan shut up here with us old fogies." "well, i'll say this," said mary, pouring out the coffee, "if he _does_ go, they won't be no finer lookin' young felly there." and i am inclined to think that betty heywood thought so, too, when she came forward to meet him that thursday evening. "how glad i am to see you," she said, with a bright smile of welcome. as for allan, he was for the moment tongue-tied. if she had been a vision in her gray travelling-suit, what was she now, clad, as it seemed to him, in a sparkling cloud of purest white? she noticed his confusion, and no doubt interpreted it aright--as what girl would not?--for she went on, without appearing to notice it: "and i want my mother to know you. here she is, over here," and she led the way to a beautiful woman of middle age, who sat in a great chair at one end of the room, the centre of a little court. "mother, this is allan west." mrs. heywood held out to him a hand even smaller and softer than her daughter's. "i am glad to know you, my boy," she said. "mr. heywood has spoken so much of you that i feel as though i had known you a long time. won't you sit down here by me awhile?" betty gave a little nod of satisfaction, and hurried away to meet some other guests, whirling away with her the circle which had been about her mother's chair. allan sat down, thinking that he had never heard a voice as sweet as mrs. heywood's. "we invalids, you know," she went on, with a little smile, "must be humoured. we can't go to people, so people must come to us. it's like mahomet and the mountain." "i wasn't thinking of that," answered allan, with a shy glance of admiration, "but of the fisherman and the princess." "so you know your arabian nights!" said mrs. heywood, colouring faintly with pleasure at the compliment. "that is right--every boy ought to know them. but you make me feel a sort of impostor. i have used that reference to mahomet and the mountain all my life, but i don't know that i ever really heard the story. do you know it?" "bacon tells about it in one of his essays," allan answered. "it seems that mahomet announced one day that he would call a hill to him, and offer up prayers from the top of it. a great crowd assembled and mahomet called the hill again and again, but it didn't move, and finally, without seeming worried or abashed, he announced that, since the mountain wouldn't come to mahomet, mahomet would go to the mountain, and marched away to it as proudly as though the mountain had obeyed him." "that is the first time i ever heard the whole story," said mrs. heywood, laughing, and she shot him a little observing glance, for he seemed an unusual boy. then she led him on to tell her something of himself, and almost before he knew it, he was telling her much more than he had ever thought to tell any one. there was a subtle sympathy about her--in her smile, in her quiet eyes--which there was no resisting. she sent him away, at last, to join the younger guests, but he did not feel at ease with them, as he had with the older woman. they were all polite enough, but youth is selfish, and allan soon found that he and they had few interests in common; there was nothing to talk about; they had not the same friends, nor the same habits of thought; there were no mutual recollections to laugh over, nor plans to make for next day or next week. of his hostess he saw very little, for her other guests claimed her attention at every turn--betty heywood was evidently immensely popular. so allan was glad, on the whole, when the time came to take his leave, and as he walked homeward under the bright stars, he was forced to admit that his first evening in society had been, in a way, a failure. he resolved that he did not care for it and would not go again. indeed, he had no chance, for bess heywood's friends voted him a "stick," and soon forgot all about him. nor did that young lady herself preserve a very vivid recollection of him, for her days were filled with other duties and pleasures. her mother's invalidism threw upon her much of the responsibility of household management, and she was just at the age when social claims are heaviest and most difficult to evade. not that she sought to evade them, for she enjoyed social relaxation, but in the whirl of party and ball, of calling and receiving calls, the memory of that afternoon in the operator's shanty at the junction grew faint and far away. and allan, in the long evenings, buried himself in his books and banished resolutely whatever dreams may have arisen in his heart, with such philosophy as he possessed. he soon had other things to think about. one of the dispatchers, in a moment of carelessness, had issued contradictory orders which had resulted in a wreck. in consequence he was compelled to seek a position somewhere else, and everybody below him in the office moved up a notch. the extra dispatcher was given a regular trick, and his place in consequence became vacant. a day or two later, allan received a message from the trainmaster ordering him to report at headquarters, and when he did so, he found that he was to be initiated into the mysteries of the dispatchers' office. "that is, if you want the job," added mr. schofield. allan pondered a moment. the responsibilities of such a position frightened him. as an operator, he had only to carry out the orders sent him; but as a dispatcher it would be his duty to issue those orders. the difference was the same as that between the general of an army and the private in the ranks. the private has only to obey orders, without bothering as to their wisdom or folly; if a defeat follows, it is the general who must answer for it. so each dispatcher has under him, for eight hours every day, one hundred miles of track, and a regiment of operators and trainmen, who must obey his orders without question. that stretch of track is the battlefield, and the victory to be gained is to move over it, without accident, and on time, such passenger and freight trains as the business of the road demands. this is the problem which confronts the dispatcher every time he sits down before his desk. all this flashed through allan's mind in that moment of reflection. and yet he did not really hesitate. he knew that the only road of advancement open to him lay through the dispatchers' office. there was no way around. if he faltered now, he must remain an operator always. "of course i want the job, sir," he said. "the only question is whether i'm good enough." "well, there's only one way to find out," said mr. schofield, grimly. "the principal thing to remember is that never, under any circumstances, must you lose your head. keep cool, and you've got the battle half won. but if you ever let the work get on your nerves, it's all over. you don't remember dan maroney? he was before your time. well, maroney was one of the best operators we had on the road, a bright fellow, and i finally called him in to take the extra dispatcher's trick. he seemed to pick up the work all right, and i hadn't any doubt he would make a good dispatcher. one night, the regular dispatcher reported sick, and so i sent for dan. he took off his coat and sat down at the desk, and the dispatcher who was going off duty explained to him how the trains lay and what orders had been issued. dan seemed to catch on all right, so the other dispatcher put on his coat and went home. about twenty minutes later, i happened into the office, and there was dan, lying back in his chair, white as a sheet and trembling like a leaf. "'why, what's the matter, dan?' i asked. 'are you sick?' "'no, i ain't sick, mr. schofield,' he said, and grinned the ghastliest grin i ever saw on a man's face. 'but i ain't fit for this job. i've lost my nerve.' "and, in fact, he was nearly scared to death. well, we tried to bolster him up and help him along, but it was no use. he'd lost his nerve, as he said, and he never got it back again. he's agent and operator now at bluefield, and that's as far as he'll ever get. so whatever you do, don't lost your nerve." "i'll try not to," said allan. "i've often thought," added mr. schofield, "that a dispatcher was a good deal like a lion-tamer. you know, the tamer enters the cage with perfect safety so long as he keeps his beasts under control. but the moment he loses his nerve, they seem to know it, some way, and perhaps he gets out of the cage alive and perhaps he doesn't. if he does, he never dares go back. he's lost his grip on the beasts and they no longer fear him. well, the railroad is like that. lose your grip on it, and it's all over; the only thing to do is to get out as quick as you can." "i'm going to do my best," said allan. "i'll look it right in the eye." "good. that's the spirit! you will report here for duty to-morrow morning at seven o'clock. i'll send jones out to byers in your place." and allan left the office, resolved that whatever happened, he would keep his nerve. chapter xix the first lesson the dispatchers' office is, as has already been remarked, the brain of the railroad. it is there that all orders relating to the movement of trains originate; and these orders keep the blood circulating, as it were--keep the system alive. let the brain be inefficient, and this movement becomes clogged and uncertain; traffic no longer flows smoothly, as it does when the brain is well. fortunately, the brain of a railroad can be replaced when it breaks down or wears out, and in so far the road is superior to a mere human being, who has only one brain and can never, by any possible means, get another. and so there is about the road something terrible and remorseless. every one has heard the story of frankenstein, that unfortunate scientist who conceived the idea that he might make a man; who did really succeed in manufacturing a being something akin to human shape, and in animating it with life. but, alas, he could not give it a soul, and the monster turned against its creator, pursuing him and his loved ones with implacable fury and torturing them with fiendish delight. the railroad is such a monster; made by man to be his servant, but greater than its maker; grinding out men's lives, in its fury; wearing out their brains in its service, and then discarding them; for the road must have always the best, and the jaded and second-best must step down and out. nowhere is the ruthlessness of this great machine more evident than in the dispatchers' office, for it is here that the strain is always at the highest; and it is here, too, that deterioration is at once apparent, and is swiftly and inexorably punished. a defect of judgment, a momentary indecision, a mistake, and the delinquent's days as a train-dispatcher are at an end. in the office at wadsworth there were always two dispatchers on duty. one had charge of the hundred miles of track stretching eastward to parkersburg, and the other had charge of the hundred miles of track stretching southwestward to cincinnati. the first is called the east end and the other the west end. there are six dispatchers, each of them being on duty eight hours a day. the first trick begins at seven in the morning and lasts till three in the afternoon; the second begins at three and lasts till eleven at night, and the third begins at eleven and lasts till seven in the morning. the new dispatcher begins with the third trick, east end, and gradually works up, as the other places are made vacant by promotions and dismissals, to the first trick, west end. from there, he graduates to the chief-dispatchership, and on to trainmaster, superintendent, general superintendent, and general manager. that is the regular ladder of promotion--a ladder which, it may be added, very few have the strength to climb. all the men in the dispatchers' office of course knew allan, and liked him, and he received a hearty greeting when he arrived for his first morning's instruction. he drew up a chair beside the first trick man on the west end, popularly known as "goody," not because of any fundamental traits of character, but because his name happened to be goodnough. "goody" had reached his present position of primacy by working up regularly through the various grades, and train-dispatching had become to him a sort of second nature. he was a good-humoured, companionable fellow, with an inexhaustible fund of anecdote and a fondness for practical jokes which not even advancing years and a twinge of rheumatism now and then could diminish. it is related of him--but, there, to recount half the things related of him would be to add another book to this series. allan, as we have said, drew up his chair beside him and took his first real lesson in train-dispatching. he had, of course, a general idea of how the thing was done, but never before had any one taken the time or trouble to explain its intricacies to him. the dispatcher sat before a long desk, on which, beside his key, sounder, bottle of ink, pens, and so on, lay the train-sheet, upon which the movement of every train was entered. the sheet, reduced to its simplest form, appears on the opposite page. just as allan sat down, the operator at harper's called up and reported that number seven had passed there at . . the dispatcher acknowledged the message and wrote " . " in the column devoted to train no. , opposite harper's. a moment later, the operator at madeira reported the passage of no. at . . this was also duly acknowledged and noted, and so on through the day, the columns of figures on the sheet were added to, showing the position, at that particular moment, of every train, freight or passenger, on the west end of the division. on the opposite side of the table sat the dispatcher in charge of the east end, recording, in a precisely similar manner, the progress of the trains on his end of the line. when a conductor and engineer are called, they report at once at the dispatchers' office, where there is a registry-book which they must sign. passenger conductors and engineers, as well as passenger-engines, have regular runs, which they always make unless some accident prevents. freight conductors and engineers are assigned to trains in the order in which they sign the book. there are in the employ of the road two men known as "callers," whose sole business it is to notify the trainmen when they are wanted. for instance, three freight-trains are scheduled to leave, one at ten o'clock, another at . , and a third at . . it is the caller's business to see that the crews for these trains are ready to take the trains out. a freight crew consists of engineer and fireman, conductor and two brakemen. the conductor and one brakeman, known as the rear-man, ride in the caboose. the other brakeman, known as the front-man, rides in the cab of the engine, and makes himself useful by ringing the bell, watching for signals, and so on, when he is not engaged in setting or releasing the brakes, or helping make up the train. [illustration: p. and o. railway--train sheet] ++=====================================================================++ || p. and o. railway--_train sheet_ || ++------------------------------------+--------------------------------++ || east bound | west bound || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+-----+----+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | | | | | | | | | || || no. | |no. | no. |no. | train |no. | no. | | no. | no. || || | | | | | | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ ||grace| |hawkes|harris | smith |conductor |brown | jones| | hall|hess || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ ||hill | | curry|rosland|jackson| engineer |snyder|hooker| |price|roads|| ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | | | | engine | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | | | | cars | | | | | || ++=====+-+======+=======+=======+==========+======+======+=+=====+=====++ ||a. m.| |a. m. | a. m. | a. m.| | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || : | | | : | : |cincinnati| | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || : | | | : | : | norwood | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | | | : | madeira | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | | | : | loveland | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | : | midland | : | | | | || || | | | | | city | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | highland | : | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | leesburg | : | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | east | : | | | : | || || | | | | | monroe | | | | | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | |greenfield| : | | | : | || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | | | | thrifton | | | | | : || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | lyndon | : | | | : | : || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | harper's | : | | | : | : || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | roxabel | : | : | | : | : || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | musselman| : | : | | : | : || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | anderson | : | : | | : | : || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | : | | | wadsworth| : | : | | : | : || ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | |a. m. | | | | a. m.| a. m.| |a. m.|a. m.|| ++-----+-+------+-------+-------+----------+------+------+-+-----+-----++ || | | | | | | | | | | || ++=====+++======+=======+=======+==========+======+======+=+=====+=====++ for each train that goes out, then, five men must be in readiness. the caller looks through his book, sees whose turn it is, goes to the dwellings of the men to be called, and notifies them of the hour they must be on duty. if any of them are ill or absent, he goes on and calls some one else. the passenger-trainmen, having regular runs, know, of course, the hours they must report for duty and do not need to be called. they are also paid a monthly salary, whereas the earnings of the freight crews vary with the amount of business done by the road. for each man must wait his turn. when business is slack and few freight-trains are needed, that turn is often a long time coming; but when business is heavy it frequently happens that the road finds itself short of men and the same crew which has just brought in one train is compelled to take out another, and is sometimes on duty for sixteen, twenty-four, and even thirty-six hours at a stretch. it is then that nerves give way, that memories fail, that eyes which should be alert grow dim and weary,--orders are forgotten, signals are unseen, and a bad accident follows. freight-men are paid by the trip, and not infrequently, in busy seasons, they make double time--that is, get in two days' work in every twenty-four hours. as has been said, the engineers and conductors register at once at the dispatchers' office. then the engineer goes on to the lower yards to look over his engine and see that it is in good shape, while the conductor waits for his orders. these are given to him in duplicate, one copy for himself and one for the engineer. he reads his copy aloud to the dispatcher, compares his watch with the big official clock, and then goes down to his train. as soon as the engine is coupled on, he gives the engineer his copy of the orders, which the engineer must read aloud to him. then they compare watches, and the conductor goes off to show the orders to the rear brakeman, while the engineer shows his copy to the fireman and front brakeman. thus every member of the crew knows under what orders the train is to proceed and its movement is not dependent upon the memory of one man alone. the dispatcher has also kept a copy of the orders, which he files away. at the time appointed in the orders, the conductor gives the word and the train starts on its journey. the dispatcher has, meanwhile, entered the number of the train, the names of conductor and engineer, the number of the engine and the number of cars on the train-sheet, as well as the hour and minute of the train's departure. when it passes the first station, the operator there calls up the dispatcher and reports the hour and minute at which it passed. this also is entered on the sheet, and as the train proceeds, the column of figures devoted to it grows. the record of east-bound trains starts at the top of the sheet and grows downward, while that of west-bound trains starts at the bottom of the sheet and grows upward. it should be remembered that east-bound trains always bear even numbers, and west-bound trains odd numbers. by this method, the dispatcher keeps a record on the sheet before him of the progress of every train. he knows the exact position of every train, or, at least, he knows the last station passed by each, and the probable time of its arrival, barring accident, at the next station. his problem is to keep all the trains moving, to keep a clear track for the passengers so that they can run on time, and to arrange meeting-points for trains going in opposite directions so that there will be no unnecessary delays. it should be understood that, while a few of the larger railroads are double-tracked, the great bulk of the railroad business of this country is done over single-track roads. on these roads, points of meeting or passing must be at sidings, upon which one train can run while the other passes on the main track. such sidings are usually at stations, and the problem of making the trains meet there is a very delicate one. in order to accomplish this with the least delay, the trains are divided into classes. the east-bound passengers always have the right of way, and expect a clear track. west-bound passengers must make arrangements to get out of the way of east-bound ones, but have precedence over all other trains. regular freight-trains must make provision to leave the track clear for the passengers, while the extra freights, which have no regular schedule, creep from station to station as best they can, giving all the other trains a clear track--a sort of yellow dog which every one is privileged to kick. all the regular trains, passenger and freight, run by the time-card. that is, each of them has its regular time for reaching and leaving every station on the road, and as long as all the trains are on time, things move smoothly and the dispatcher has an easy time of it. but it is indeed a red-letter day when all trains are on time. so many things may happen, there are so many possible causes of delay, that almost inevitably some of the trains will run behind. it is then that the dispatcher shows the stuff that is in him; if he knows his business thoroughly, he will not only keep the trains moving promptly, but will give those that are behind a chance to make up some of the time which they have lost. the rules given for dispatchers in the book of rules are short--only about a third as long as those for section-foremen. they state that the dispatcher reports to the superintendent, that it is his duty to issue orders for the movement of trains and to see that they are transmitted and recorded, that he may not go off duty until another dispatcher relieves him and that he must explain to the dispatcher coming on the train-orders in force. but how small a portion of the dispatcher's duty this really represents! he must "know the road,"--every grade, siding, and curve. nay, more; he must know the pitch of every grade, or he will give his engines such heavy loads that they will not be able to get over the road. he must know the capacity of every siding, or he may name one as a meeting-point for trains too long to pass there, except by breaking the trains up and see-sawing by a few cars at a time. he must know the capacity of every engine, so that he can tell just how many cars it can handle. he must know the disposition of every conductor and engineer, for some will complain without cause, while some will never ask for help until they absolutely need it. as a telegrapher, he must be expert in the highest degree; he must be quick and sure of decision, of an iron nerve and with a calmness which nothing can disturb. none of which things are mentioned in the book of rules! chapter xx what delayed extra west "well, how're ye goin' t' like it?" asked jack welsh at supper, that evening, noticing how thoughtfully the boy was eating. "oh, i shall like it," answered allan, confidently, looking up with a strange light in his eyes. "a position like that gives one such a sense of power and of responsibility. it's worth doing." jack nodded. "that's it!" he said. "that's th' spirit! buck up to it, an' it ain't half so hard to do. that's th' way with everything in this world. th' feller who's afeerd he's goin' t' git licked, most ginerally does." "well, i may get licked," said allan, "but if i do, it'll be because i'm not strong enough, not because i'm afraid." "i've seen little men lick big ones by mere force o' will," said jack. "th' big man was whipped afore he started in. i believe that most o' th' people who make a failure in this world, do it because they don't keep on fightin' as long as they've got any wind left, but sort o' give up an' turn tail an' try t' run away--an' th' fust thing they know they git a clip on th' jaw that puts 'em down an' out." in the days that followed, allan certainly felt no inclination to run away. he applied his whole mind to acquiring a full knowledge of the dispatcher's work. he studied diligently the various forms of train-order, and picked up such information as he could concerning the capacity of the various engines and the character of engineers and conductors. at the end of the week, he felt that he had the office work of the dispatcher pretty well learned. another week was spent in "learning the road"--a week during which every daylight hour was spent in travelling over the road on freight and passenger, learning the location and length of sidings, the position of switches, water-tanks, and signals. whenever he could he rode on the engine, for though that method of travel had long since lost its novelty, its fascination for the boy had increased rather than diminished. besides, there was always a great deal of information to be picked up from the engineer, as well as no little entertainment. for the engineer, especially if he was an old one, was sure to possess a rich store of tales of the road--tales humourous or tragic, as the case might be--tales of practical jokes, of ghosts, of strange happenings, or of accidents and duty done at any cost, of fearless looking in the face of death. he had taken a trip over the entire east end, on the last day of the week, and decided to make the return trip on an extra freight, which was to leave belpre, the eastern terminus of the freight business, about the middle of the afternoon. so he got a lunch at the depot restaurant at parkersburg, and then walked across the big bridge which spans the ohio there, reaching the yards at belpre just as the freight was getting ready to pull out. he was pleased to find that the engineer was bill michaels, an old friend, who at once suggested that there was a place in the cab at allan's disposal, if he cared to occupy it. allan thanked him and clambered up right willingly, taking his place on the forward end of the long seat which ran along the left side of the cab--the fireman's side. he watched the engineer "oil round"--that is, walk slowly around the engine, a long-spouted oil-can in his hand, and make sure that all the bearings were properly lubricated and all the oil-cups full. the fireman meanwhile devoted his energies to feeding his fire and getting up steam, and allan perceived, from a certain awkwardness with which he handled the shovel and opened and shut the heavy door of the fire-box, that he was new to the business. but even a green fireman can get up steam when his engine is standing still, so the needle of the indicator climbed steadily round the dial, until at last, the pressure threw up the safety-valve and the engine "popped off." the fireman leaned wearily upon his shovel and scraped the sweat from his forehead with bent forefinger. "hot work, isn't it?" said allan, smiling. "'tain't near so bad as 'twill be," returned the fireman, whose name was pinckney jones, and who was known by his intimates as pink, or pinkey, a nickname which he had tried in vain to live down. "it'll be a reg'lar wrastle t' keep 'er goin'. something's got int' th' cantankerous old beast, an' she won't steam t' save ye." he bent again to his task, raking and shaking up the fire, and throwing two or three more shovelfuls of coal into the blazing fire-box. then the engineer clambered up, followed by the front brakeman, and took his seat on the other side of the cab. he stuck his head out the window, to watch for the conductor's signal. presently it came, he opened the throttle gently, and the train, slowly gathering headway, rattled over the switches, out of the yards, and straightened out for the journey westward. "you want to be mighty careful this trip, bill," remarked the brakeman. "we've got two car-loads of wild animals back there. if we have a smash-up, there'll be lions and tigers and lord knows what all runnin' loose about the country." "that _would_ create considerable disturbance," agreed bill. "well, i'll try to keep her on the track. where're they billed to?" "they're goin' to the zoological garden at cincinnati. there's a whackin' big elephant in the first car and a miscellaneous lot of lions, tigers, snakes, and other vermin in the second. yes, sir, there _would_ be lively times if they got loose." "ain't there nobody with 'em?" "oh, yes; there's a couple of fellers to feed 'em; but these ain't the broken-to-harness, drawing-room kind of wild animals. they're right from the jungle, and are totally unacquainted with the amenities of civilization." and then, well pleased with his own facility of diction, he got out a plug of tobacco, bit off a piece, and offered the plug to bill. bill accepted the offer, took a tremendous chew, and returned the remnant to its owner. "and now, pinkey," he remarked, to the perspiring fireman, "if you'll kindly git up a few more pounds of steam, we'll be joggin' along. mebbe _you_ don't object to stayin' here all night, but _i'd_ like t' git home t' see my wife an' children." "i'm a-doin' my best," responded pinkey, desperately, "th' ole brute jest _won't_ steam, an' that's all they is to it." "yes," said the engineer, with irony, but keeping one eye on the track ahead, "i've heerd firemen say th' same thing lots o' times. you've got to nuss her along, boy--don't smother th' fire that a-way. an' keep th' door shet." "how'm i a-goin' t' git th' coal int' th' fire-box if i don't open th' door?" demanded pinkey. "jim, swing it fer him," said the engineer to the brakeman, and the latter, who had assisted at the breaking-in of many a green fireman, demonstrated to pinkey how the door of the fire-box must be swung open and shut between each shovelful of coal. to fire an engine properly is an art which requires more than one lesson to acquire, but pinkey made a little progress, and after awhile had the satisfaction of seeing the indicator-needle swing slowly up toward the point desired. just then, michaels, glancing at his water-gauge, saw that it was getting rather low, and opened the throttle of the injector in order to fill the boiler; but instead of the water flowing smoothly through from the tank, there was a spurt of steam which filled the cab. he tried again, and with the same result. "you blame fool!" he snorted, turning an irate face upon the unfortunate fireman, "didn't you know enough t' see that th' tank was full afore we left belpre? what 'd you think we'd steam on--air?" "it _was_ full," quavered pinkey. "i helped th' hostler fill it." "oh, come!" protested the engineer. "mebbe you'll tell me it's full now!" without replying, pinkey stooped and opened a little cock on the front of the tank, near the bottom. not a drop of water came out of it. "dry as a bone!" cried the engineer, his face purple. "mebbe you'll say i used it--mebbe you'll say th' engine drunk up a whole tankful inside o' ten mile. th' only question is," he added, with another glance at his gauge, "kin we git to little hocking?" little hocking, the nearest station, was about four miles away, and it looked for a time as though the water in the boiler would not be sufficient to carry the train so far, and the fireman would be compelled to draw his fire, while the brakeman tramped to the next station for help. such an accident would have made both engineer and fireman the laughing-stock of the road, besides leading to an investigation by the trainmaster, and a session "on the carpet." so bill, although boiling mad, nursed the engine along as carefully as he could, making every pound of steam count, and finally drew up in triumph beside the water-tank at little hocking. "there, you lobster," he said to pinkey, wiping off the perspiration, "now fill her up." pinkey lowered the spout of the water-tank, opened the gate and let the water rush down into the tank of the engine. it would hold seven thousand gallons, and the fireman waited until the water brimmed over the top and splashed down along the sides before he turned it off. "now," he said, defiantly, to michaels, "you see fer yourself she's full. th' way she's steamin', i bet that won't carry us to stewart." the engineer grunted contemptuously. "remarkable, ain't it, how much these green firemen know?" he remarked to the front brakeman, as he gently opened the throttle. "you'll see," said pinkey, doggedly, and fell to work "ladling in the lampblack." michaels watched him for a few moments in silence. "what's the matter?" he inquired, at length. "got a hole in the fire-box?" "no; why?" asked pinkey, pausing between two shovelfuls. "somebody buried back there, an' you're tryin' to dig him out?" pursued the engineer, with a gesture toward the pile of coal in the tender. "what you talkin' about, anyway?" demanded pinkey, staring at him in amazement. "say, jim," said the engineer to the brakeman, "take that scoop away from that idiot, will ye? pinkey, git up there on your box an' set down or i'll report ye fer wastin' th' company's fuel." "she won't steam without coal," protested pinkey. "no; nor she won't steam with a bellyful like that, either," retorted the engineer, throwing on the draft. "now i've got t' blow about half of it out the smoke-stack." he watched grimly as the black smoke swirled upward from the stack and blew away to the left toward a little farmhouse. "that feller'll think he's livin' in pittsburg," remarked the brakeman, as the smoke closed down over the house and shut it from view for an instant. michaels snorted with laughter. then he opened the injector again--and again the steam spurted out into the cab. without waiting for an order, pinkey bent and opened the tank-cock. a thin little trickle told that the water in the tank was almost exhausted. "great jehoshaphat!" cried michaels, and stared in perplexity at the brakeman. "th' tank's sprung a leak," he said, at last, with conviction. "i ain't pumped a hundred gallon into her since we left little hocking." "they ain't no leak," asserted pinkey. "i went all around th' tank, an' it ain't leakin' a drop. i don't believe it'll carry us further 'n coolville," he added, triumphantly. michaels turned back to his engine without trusting himself to reply; but it was only by the most careful nursing that those six miles were covered and the water-plug at coolville reached. there the engineer made a personal inspection of the tank while pinkey filled it, and he found, as the fireman had said, that it was perfectly tight. allan, who was as deeply puzzled as any one, also examined the tank, and with the same result. the conductor sauntered forward while the tank was being filled, and watched the operation with considerable curiosity. "say," he asked, at last, "what 're you fellers up to, anyway? tryin' t' create a water famine?" "oh, go back to your dog-house an' go to sleep," retorted michaels, whose temper was beginning to give way under the strain. "i can't sleep more'n eight hours at a stretch. think we'll be to athens by then?" the engineer picked up a lump of coal, and the conductor hastily retreated. "say," he sung out over his shoulder, "don't fergit there's a pen-stock at stewart. don't pass it--it might feel slighted," and he dodged the lump of coal, as it whizzed past his head. "blamed fool!" muttered michaels, and settled into his seat. but the four men in the cab were strangely silent as the train started westward again. there was something mysterious and alarming about all this--something positively supernatural in the disappearance of fourteen thousand gallons of water within an hour. the engineer tried his injector nervously from time to time, but for half an hour or so it worked properly, and squirted the water into the boiler as required. then, suddenly, came the spurt of steam which told that there was no more water to squirt. "well," said the engineer, in an awed voice, "that beats me. even with th' injector open all th' time, no engine could drink water that way--why, it 'd flood her an' flow out of her cupolo! besides, her boiler ain't more 'n half-full!" pinkey mechanically tried the cock again, and with the same result--the tank was nearly empty. then, in a sort of trance, he turned to shovel in some more coal, but finding there was none lying loose within easy reach, took his rake, and climbed up the pile at the back of the tender, like a man walking in his sleep, and started to pull some coal down into the gangway. an instant later, his companions heard a shriek of utter horror, audible even above the rattle of the engine, and the fireman rolled in a limp heap down the pile of coal, his face white as death, his eyes fairly starting from his head. if any man ever looked as though he had seen a ghost, pinkey jones was that man, and his terror was communicated in some degree to his companions. "for god's sake!" cried the brakeman, at last, seizing pinkey by the collar and pulling him to an upright position. "what's the matter?" instead of answering, pinkey, his teeth chattering, tried to jump off the engine. the fireman grabbed him and pulled him back by main force. "come!" he said, shaking him fiercely. "brace up! be a man! what's the matter?" "th--there's a snake up there," stuttered pinkey. "let me go!" "a snake!" "big as my leg," added pinkey. "black, with a red mouth! let me go!" the brakeman slammed him down on the seat and picked up the rake, while allan armed himself with the bar of iron used for stirring up the fire. "what was he doing?" asked the brakeman, when these preparations had been made. "he--he had his head in the tank," said pinkey. "when he heard me comin', he lifted it up an' squirted water all over me!" "squirted water!" repeated michaels, incredulously. "a snake? oh, come!" "well, look at me," said pinkey. and indeed, they saw now that he was completely soaked. "why, he must 'a' sent a stream like a fire-hose!" said the brakeman. "he did," agreed pinkey. "it hit me so hard it knocked me backward down that pile o' coal," and he rubbed his head ruefully. the three men in the cab stared at each other in amazement. a snake that could knock a man down with a stream of water! "well," said bill michaels, grimly, at last, "all i kin say is that if they ever puts that snake on exhibition th' biggest circus tent on earth won't hold th' crowds." "i'm goin' up t' take a look at him," announced the brakeman, grasping the rake. "i'll go with you," said allan, reflecting that, after all, a snake which did nothing more than deluge its assailants with water was not so very dangerous, and he followed the brakeman up the pile of coal. the latter reached the top and peered cautiously over. the next instant, his cap flew from his head, carried away by a stream of water which whistled past him and fell upon allan. the brakeman ducked, and the two crouched for a moment staring into each other's eyes. "well, i'll be blamed!" said the brakeman, hoarsely. "did you see anything?" asked allan. "nothin' but a thing that looked like a nozzle squirtin' water at me!" and he wiped the water from his eyes. "well, i'm as wet now as i kin git. i'm a-goin' to see what it is," and again he elevated his head cautiously over the top of the pile of coal. allan saw a stream of water strike him violently in the face; but he held his place and shook it off, and the next instant, roaring with laughter, fairly rolled down the coal into the cab, carrying the boy with him. "what is it?" asked pinkey with bated breath. allan shook his head and pointed to the brakeman, who sat on the floor of the cab, rocking to and fro, holding his sides, with tears and water running down his cheeks. "he's gone crazy!" cried pinkey. "he's seen it an' 's gone crazy!" "ho! ho!" roared the brakeman. "if you'd 'a' seen his eye! if you'd only seen his eye!" michaels, who had managed to keep his lookout ahead only in the most intermittent fashion, closed the throttle and applied the brakes. "i'm a-goin' t' see what this is," he said, savagely, "if we never move another foot! what was it you seen, jim? whose eye?" "if you'd 'a' seen his little wicked eye!" yelled the brakeman. "oh! i must go up an' look at it agin!" but the train creaked to a stop, and the engineer jumped down from his seat and seized jim fiercely. "here, you," he cried. "what is it? speak out, or by george--" "it's th' elephant!" gasped jim. "oh, if you'd 'a' seen his eye a-twinklin'!" michaels dropped the brakeman and jumped to the ground, the others following. and there, sure enough, with his trunk sticking out of a little window in the front end of the car just back of the tender was the elephant. even as they looked, the trunk stretched forward, and the end of it disappeared through the manhole in the top of the tank. "what's up?" inquired the conductor, running up from the rear of the train. "what you stoppin' out here for, bill? they's no plug here!" a stream of water caught him squarely on the side of the face, and left him dazed and speechless. the engineer, fireman, and brakeman danced around, yelling and slapping their knees. the conductor jumped out of range, wiped away the water, and regarded them disgustedly. "well, of all the blame fools!" he said. "it don't take much to amuse some people." "what's the joke?" asked the rear brakeman, coming up at that moment. the elephant saw him, took deadly aim, and fired. the brakeman, with a yell of dismay, clapped his hands to his face. when he had cleared the water from his eyes, he saw four men dancing spasmodically up and down, fairly howling with mirth. the brakeman gazed at them for a moment without comment, then turned on his heel and walked back to the caboose, waving his arms in the air in a very ecstasy of rage. "look at his eye," gasped the front brakeman, when he could get his breath, and indeed the elephant's right optic, which was the only one visible through the little window, was shining with unholy glee. he was having the time of his life. the trainmen finally calmed down sufficiently to call one of the animal attendants, and an investigation followed. it was found that the elephant had managed to open the shutter which closed the little window by pulling out the catch. he had put his trunk through the window, and after some exploration, had found the opening through which the tank was filled. the cool water within had attracted him, he had drank his fill, had given himself and the other occupants of the car a shower-bath and had then devoted himself to sprinkling the right of way until the water in the tank got too low for him to reach. then he had retired within his car to meditate; but afterwards, finding the tank full again, had repeated the performance, and doubtless would have kept on doing so all the way to cincinnati if he had not been discovered. the shutter was closed and nailed shut, and the train finally proceeded on its way. at the next station, the conductor filed a message for headquarters, which the operator dutifully sent in. "extra west, engine , delayed twenty minutes by elephant. stewart." the dispatcher who received the message requested that the word before the signature be repeated. "e-l-e-p-h-a-n-t," repeated the operator. "what do you mean by elephant?" queried the dispatcher. the operator happened to have a little pocket dictionary at hand, for he was not always sure of his spelling. he referred to it now. "elephant," he answered, "a five-toed proboscian mammal." and what the dispatcher said in reply cannot be repeated here. chapter xxi a call for aid allan had learned as much of the science of train-dispatching as it is possible to do without actual experience, and he was duly appointed operator at headquarters and extra dispatcher. he had a desk in the dispatchers' office, where he worked ten and sometimes twelve hours a day receiving and sending the multitudinous messages which passed between the various officials of the road. this work was in one way not such good training for a future dispatcher as a trick out on the road, for here he had nothing whatever to do with the movement of trains; but on the other hand he was constantly in touch with the dispatchers, he could listen to their conversation and pick up matters of detail which no one would have thought to tell him; in such leisure moments as he had, he could sit down before the train-sheet and watch the actual business of dispatching trains; he could see how unusual problems were solved and unusual difficulties met; and all the information picked up thus, as it were, at haphazard, he stored away for future use, certain that it would some day be needed. not infrequently one of the dispatchers would relinquish his chair to him, and, for an hour or so, look after the operator's duties, while allan did the actual work of dispatching. but he knew that this was not a real test, for, in case of emergency, help was always at hand. it was with him much as it is with those amateur sociologists who assume the garb and habits of the poor, and imagine that they are tasting all the misery of life in the slums; forgetting that its greatest misery, its utter hopelessness, they can never taste, since they have only to walk out and away from the life whenever they choose, and be rid of it for ever. so allan, in case of need, had only to lift his finger, and aid was at hand. but at last the time came around when one of the dispatchers was to take his vacation; and one night, allan reported for duty, to take the third trick on the east end. it was not without a certain tingling of the nerves that he sat down in the chair, looked over the sheet, and carefully read the written explanation of train-orders in force which the second-trick man had prepared for him. "understand?" the latter asked, when allan had finished. "yes, i think so," said the boy, and the dispatcher, nodding, took up his lunch-basket and left the office. the weight of responsibility weighed on the boy for a time, and it was with no little nervousness that he transmitted his first order; but this feeling gradually wore away and was replaced by one of confidence. after all, there was no cause to worry. the position of every train was marked there on the sheet before him; there was no excuse for mistake. and yet, as he thought of those mighty engines rushing through the night with their precious burdens, obedient to his orders, his pulses quickened with a sense of power. fortunately business was light and the trains were running on time, so he really had little to do; and when, at last, his relief came at seven o'clock, he arose from the desk with a sense of work well done, without mistake or accident. for two weeks, night after night, he sat at that desk, ordering the traffic over that hundred miles of track, and with every night he felt his confidence increase. problems arose, of course, but his training had been of the very best; he never lost his head or his nerve, and when, at last, the dispatcher came back from his vacation, allan returned to the operator's desk conscious that he had "made good," and that he would be strong enough to climb the ladder of promotion for some rounds, at least. he had been kept at the office rather later than usual the evening after he had resumed his work as operator, for there happened to be a sudden rush of business to be attended to, and it was after six o'clock when he finally put on his coat and started home to supper. as he entered the dining-room, he saw that supper had not yet been served, and from the kitchen he heard jack's voice raised excitedly. "that you, allan?" called jack. "come on out here." the boy entered the kitchen and saw jack standing near the lamp, the evening paper in his hand. "did ye see this?" he asked, holding out the paper, and pointing to some flaring headlines on the first page. they read: daring escape! four convicts scale the wall of the state prison! * * * * * guard who tried to stop them seriously injured! * * * * * had made a rope of their bedclothing and carefully arranged the details of their plan! * * * * * no present trace of their whereabouts--had been sent from ross county under ten-year sentence for train-wrecking! not until he read the last line did allan understand why jack appeared so interested. "them's our men," said jack; "but read the article." "don't read it now," protested mary; "supper's about spoiled as it is." and then an odour from the stove caused her to fly to it. "look a-there, now," she added, "th' p'taties nearly burned up! come along, both o' ye," and taking the paper inexorably from allan, she pushed them all in toward the table. "they's no use in lettin' th' supper spile, even if all th' convicts in th' pen. got loose!" which, indeed, was true. and allan did not fully understand the cause of jack's excitement until, near the end of the meal, a single remark fell from him. "well, all i've got t' say," he remarked, "is that i certainly pity dan nolan if them fellys git hold o' him!" allan looked up with sudden interest. "you haven't heard anything from nolan?" he asked. "no," said jack; "but i'd like t' bet them fellys'll soon find out where he is. they ain't a tramp'll stand by him arter what he did, an' they'll pass th' word along where he's likely t' be found. i reckon nolan went south fer th' winter, but it wouldn't surprise me t' see him show up around here afore th' summer's over." "maybe he's not a tramp," objected allan. "maybe he's working somewhere." "workin' nothin'!" exclaimed jack, disgustedly. "why, he's fergot how." "well, anyway," said allan, "i don't believe he'll ever come around here again. he's broken his parole and he knows the minute he sets foot in this state he's in danger of being clapped back into prison." "yes, he knows that," admitted jack, "an' yet i don't believe even that'll keep him away. they's a kind o' fascination seems t' draw a man back t' th' place where he's committed a crime. if they wasn't, lots more'd escape than do." "well," laughed allan, "i hope no fascination will draw our friends the train-wreckers back to this neighbourhood. but perhaps they're safe in jail again before this." the morning papers, however, showed that they were anything but safe in jail. they had disappeared completely, and there seemed every reason to believe that confederates had been waiting to assist them, and that they had been able to discard their convict garb as soon as they reached the street. this conjecture became a certainty on the following day, when a labourer, cleaning one of the sewer inlets near the prison, had fished out four suits of convict clothing. all the mechanism of the law was set in motion in the effort to recapture them; descriptions and photographs were sent to every police-station in the middle west, a large reward was offered, the police drag-nets were drawn in, heavy with suspects, but the four fugitives were not among them. at the end of a week, the public, diverted by new sensations, had nearly forgotten the episode, and allan himself had long since ceased to think about it. * * * * * allan had just finished up his work for the day. the hook was clear, and with a little sigh of relief, he closed his key after sending the last message. it had been a hard day, for all of the officers were out on the road at various points, and many of the messages that came to headquarters for them had to be repeated to the station where they happened to be at the moment. the boy glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly six; then he rose, stretched himself, and was putting on his coat when the door opened and the chief-dispatcher came in. one glance at his worried countenance told the boy that something was wrong. "i just got a 'phone from the hospital," he said, "that roscoe, the night man at coalville, was hurt awhile ago. he was coming down to catch his train, when a runaway horse knocked him down and broke his leg." "who's going out?" inquired one of the dispatchers. "i don't know yet," answered the chief, a line of worry between his eyes. "i've sent the caller after hermann. here he is now," he added, as the caller hurried into the office. "well?" "hermann can't come," the caller announced. "he's sick in bed with the grip." the chief glanced at the clock. "we've only got ten minutes," he said. "whoever goes has got to catch the accommodation." "why can't i go?" asked allan, coming forward. "i'll be glad to, if it'll be any help." "will you?" said the chief, eagerly. "good for you! but you've had a hard day. i'll tell you what i'll do," he added. "i'll hunt up an extra man at parkersburg or athens and send him to coalville on number eleven. that will let you off at midnight." "all right," agreed allan. "i can stand it that long. but i want something to eat before i start." "get a lunch at the restaurant. they can fix up a basket for you and you can eat it on the train." allan nodded and went down the steps three at a time. it was raining heavily, but he dodged around the corner of the building into the restaurant without getting very wet, and six minutes later, basket in hand, he jumped aboard the accommodation, waving his hand to the chief-dispatcher, who stood looking anxiously from the window of his office to be sure that the boy made the train. he was genuinely hungry, and he devoted the first fifteen minutes to a consumption of the lunch which the restaurant-keeper had put up for him. then the conductor, who had glanced at his pass, nodded, and gone on to collect the tickets, came back and sat down beside him. "i thought you had a trick in the dispatchers' office?" he said. "i have," answered allan, "but i'm going out to coalville on an emergency call. the night man there had his leg broken, awhile ago, and the chief couldn't get anybody in a hurry to take his place. so i volunteered." "yes," said the conductor, "i saw roscoe hurt, and it was the queerest accident i ever heard of. i was coming down main street to report for duty, and i saw roscoe coming down bridge, with his lunch-basket in his hand. there was a horse hitched to a buggy standing at the corner, and a man who seemed to be fixing something about the harness. well, sir, just as roscoe stepped in front of it, that horse gave a leap forward, went right over him, and galloped lickety-split up the street. it was stopped up near the canal, not much hurt. but i couldn't understand what started it. there wasn't a thing to scare it, and it had been standing quiet as a lamb the minute before." "it _was_ queer," agreed allan, thoughtfully. "whose horse was it?" "it was a livery-stable rig. a stranger had hired it for the afternoon. the livery-stable people said the horse had never run away before." "did you find out who the stranger was?" "no; but he was rather a nice-looking fellow. it was him who was fixing the harness. he helped pick roscoe up and carry him into steele's drugstore, and seemed to be mighty sorry for what had happened. he stayed till the doctor came and found roscoe's right leg broken, and helped lift him into the ambulance which took him to the hospital. then he went up to pay the damages at the livery-stable. he was a drummer, i reckon. there's a fellow in the smoker looks a good deal like him. i thought it was him, at first, and spoke to him, but he didn't seem to know me." the train slowed up for a station and the conductor hurried away to attend to his duties. but nobody got aboard and he soon came back and sat down again by allan. "business light to-night," he remarked, and, indeed, there was not more than six or eight people on the train. "though i've got two passengers," he added, "riding in the baggage-car." "in the baggage-car?" "yes; they're taking out the money to pay off the miners at coalville, to-morrow morning. they've got a big, iron-bound chest, about all that four men can lift, and they're sitting on it, armed to the teeth. there's probably fifty or sixty thousand dollars in it. they take it out that way every month." "isn't there a bank at coalville?" "a bank? bless your heart, no! the coal company runs a sort of little savings institution for its employees; but they don't pay any interest, and i've heard it said they don't encourage their men to save anything. you see, as long as they can keep the men living from hand to mouth, there's less danger of a strike; and if they do strike, it don't take very long to starve 'em out. oh, the company's wise! it don't want any bank at coalville. besides, i don't imagine anybody'd be especially anxious to start a bank there. they'd be afraid the miners 'd get drunk some night and clean it out." "are they so bad as all that?" "they're a tough gang, especially when they get liquor in them. the company doesn't take any chances with them. it banks its money at wadsworth and brings out just enough every month to pay them off. there's always a wagon and half a dozen armed men ready to take it over to the company's office, which is fitted up like a fort, and by noon next day, it's all paid out and a big slice of it's spent." "why don't they pay by check?" "they tried it, but the saloon-keepers at coalville charged five per cent. for cashing them and the men kicked." "well, it strikes me it's pretty dangerous," remarked allan. "oh, i don't know. nothing's ever happened yet. robbers, i don't care how desperate they are, ain't fond of running up against a gang of men armed with winchesters," and he went off to make another tour of the train. chapter xxii the treasure chest coalville was a hamlet worthy of its name, for its people not only mined coal, they breathed it, ate it, slept in it, and absorbed it at every pore. the town was divided into two parts, one on the hillside, the other in the valley. that portion on the hillside was popularly known as "stringtown," and consisted of row upon row of houses, all built upon the same plan, and arranged upon the slope which mounted gently upward from the mouth of the mine which gave the town its only reason for existence. these houses consisted invariably of three rooms and an attic, and into them were crowded the miners, for the most part slavs or poles. they had been brought direct from europe, the immigration laws to the contrary notwithstanding, shipped out to the mine in car-load lots, assigned to the houses which were to be their homes, supplied with the tools necessary to mining, and put to work. by incessant labour, they were able to earn enough to provide themselves and their ever-increasing families with food enough to keep body and soul together, and clothing enough to cover their nakedness. more they did not ask. they were not compelled to serve in the army, they were not under police surveillance, they paid no taxes. so they were happy and contented, imagining themselves free. down in the valley, a quarter of a mile away, was the town proper--that is to say, about a hundred houses, larger, cleaner, and more pretentious than the hovels on the hillside. here the superintendents lived, the bosses, the office force, and most of the americans employed about the mine. here, too, were the bakery, the two stores, supposed to be run upon a competitive basis, but really under one management, and the fifteen saloons into which no small portion of the miners' wages went, and which yielded an annual profit of about a thousand per cent. on the investment. the company which owned the mine owned the town,--not the residences only, but the stores, the barber-shop, the bakery, the boarding-house, and even the saloons. the money which it paid out in wages flowed back to it, practically undiminished, through one of these channels; and these minor industries contributed in no small degree to the handsome dividends, issued quarterly, which the mine paid. perhaps if the stockholders had known just how these dividends were earned, they might not have received them so complacently; but none of them thought it worth while to inquire--or perhaps they feared to investigate too closely the sources of so satisfactory an income. the town was not upon the railroad, which passed about half a mile to the east of it. two spurs of track connected the mine with the main line, but these spurs were used solely for the company's business, and no passengers were carried over them. hence it was necessary for every one wishing to leave the town to tramp half a mile along a road muddy or dusty, according to the weather, to the little frame shack on the main line, which served as a station for the town. it may be that the exertion needed to leave the town was one reason why so many persons, once they had arrived there, remained, and never thereafter emancipated themselves from bondage to coal-dust, nor saw the sky except through the black clouds arising ceaselessly from the dumps. to only one class of person did the town turn a cold shoulder, and that was to the labour organizer. the company was most anxious to keep its men free from the "union" microbe, which was working such disastrous results upon the dividends of other mining enterprises; it believed that it was the best and most proper judge of the wages which its men should receive. therefore, whenever a union man struck the town he found himself unable to secure a place to sleep or food to eat--he had to get out or starve; when he asked for employment, he found all the places taken and no prospect of a job anywhere. the company, however, was generous; if the applicant happened to be out of money, he could always secure the funds necessary to take him away from coalville. the train pulled up before the little coalville station on time; and allan reported at once for duty and relieved the day man, who lived at athens, and who hurried out to catch the accommodation, which would take him home. for twenty minutes, allan devoted himself to looking over the orders on the hook and getting acquainted with the position of trains; then his attention was attracted by a heavy bumping on the floor of the little waiting-room. it sounded as though a heavy trunk was being brought in, but when he looked through the ticket-window, he saw two men rolling a heavy chest end over end across the room. the coalville station contained three rooms. at one end was the waiting-room, with a row of benches along the wall; in the centre was the office, about six feet wide, in which the operator worked; and beyond it was another room where freight for coalville was stored until it could be hauled away. there was a door from the office into both waiting-room and freight-shed as shown in the diagram. it will be seen that the station had been constructed just as cheaply as possible. the passenger traffic to and from coalville was not such as to require elaborate accommodations, and the freight for the town was allowed to take care of itself the best it could.for the town was allowed to take care of itself the best it could. [illustration: the station at coalville] the men who were bringing in the chest stopped where they had it in the middle of the waiting-room, and one of them, looking up, caught allan's eye as he looked at them through the ticket-window. "we'd like to put this box in the freight-shed for awhile," said the stranger. "the door's locked, and we thought maybe you'd let us take it through your office." "why, certainly," answered allan, who suspected at once that this was the chest containing the money for the miners, and he opened the door and helped them through with it. it was certainly heavy, but its weight, allan decided, was more from its massive, iron-bound construction than from its contents. the men went on into the freight-shed with it, and allan heard them talking together, but he was called back to his instrument to take an order and for the moment forgot them. presently one of them came out again, passed through the office, jumped down the steps of the waiting-room, and hastened away into the darkness. it happened that there were two coal-trains to be started westward to cincinnati just then, so perhaps half an hour passed before allan looked up again. when he did so, he found the other custodian of the box standing at his elbow. he was a tall, slim man of middle age, with a black mustache and dare-devil expression, which somehow made allan think that he had been a cowboy. the slouch hat which he wore pulled down over his eyes added to this effect, as did the repeating rifle whose butt rested on the floor beside him. when the boy looked up, he nodded sociably, and sat down on the end of the table, one leg swinging in the air. "it allers did beat me," he began, "how a feller could learn t' understand one o' them little machines," motioning toward the sounder. "all it takes is practice," answered allan, leaning back in his chair. "it's like everything else. now i couldn't hit a barn door with that rifle of yours, but i dare say you could hit a much smaller object." "why, yes," drawled the other, patting the gun affectionately. "i _hev_ picked off my man at six hundred yards." "your man?" "i used t' be depitty sheriff of chloride county, arizony," explained the stranger. "hopkins is my name--jed hopkins. mebbe you've heerd o' me?" but allan was forced to confess that he never had. "well, i've seen some excitin' times," hopkins went on. "but life out thar ain't what it was twenty year ago. i got disgusted an' come back east an' got this job." "which job?" asked allan. "oh, i'm special constable an' guardeen o' th' company's property. not much doin' now; but last year we had a strike, and i tell you, sir, things was fast an' furious fer a couple o' weeks. but them dagoes never saves no money--so we soon starved 'em out. i reckon that's one reason th' company pays in cash--a dago with cash in his pocket can't pass a gin-shop--an' they's fifteen in coalville, one right arter th' other. about th' only thing i've got t' do now is to guard th' company's cash. that's what's in that big box in yonder," he added, easily. "isn't there some danger?" asked the boy. "danger?" repeated hopkins, scornfully. "i should say not. them vermin know me too well!" again his instrument called, and again allan turned to answer it. hopkins arose, went to the door of the waiting-room, and looked up and down the track. "they's usually a wagon waitin' fer us," he went on, coming back after a moment and resuming his seat. "th' company's got an office, over at th' mine, lined with steel an' with steel shutters to th' winders, with little loopholes in 'em. they had it fixed up last year when they was gittin' ready fer th' strike. and it was mighty useful." "getting ready for the strike?" "sure. they knowed there'd be one as soon as they cut the men's wages," answered hopkins, coolly. "th' fact is, th' dumps was full o' coal, business was slack, an' they wanted t' shet down awhile." it took allan some moments to digest this answer. "the miners don't seem to have any show at all," he remarked, at last. "well, sir, not much," agreed hopkins. "you see, they ain't organized--they don't belong to no union--and th' company takes mighty good care they sha'n't. my, th' organizers i've bounced out o' this town--it was right interestin' till th' company got wise an' found a better way." "a better way?" "sure. you see, as soon as an organizer was fired out, he'd go around th' country hollerin' about th' company, an' callin' it bad names. sometimes this got into th' papers an' made things onpleasant, specially since th' company couldn't say it wasn't so. so now, th' organizer fer this district is on th' pay-roll. he gits a hundred dollars a month, an' when he gits up at th' convention t' report, he tells how he's doin' his best t' organize our dagoes, but finds 'em so ign'rant an' cantankerous that they don't want no union. however, he hopes, before another year rolls around, t' be able t' convince 'em--an' so on. it's a smooth game--an' has worked first rate, so far." allan glanced up at jed to see if he was in earnest, but he appeared entirely so. "and what happened during the strike?" "oh, they tried t' rush us an' set fire t' th' mine--an' us in that steel-lined office, armed with winchesters! they didn't have no chance." "were any of them hurt?" "th' newspapers said that ten was slightly injured--which was true as fur as it went," and jed grinned. "eight went t' sleep an' never woke up, but that was kept quiet. no use makin' a stir about a few dagoes; besides, th' law was on our side. only," added jed, "i'd 'a' liked it better if we'd fought out in th' open. but th' manager wouldn't hear of it." allan shivered slightly. of course, the law was on the company's side; the men were trying to destroy its property; and yet that scarcely seemed to justify shooting them down from behind a wall of steel. "we ain't had no trouble since," jed added. "they've l'arnt their lesson. but it wouldn't surprise me t' wake up 'most any night with a dago knife in my belly." he stretched himself and yawned dismally. "ten o'clock," he said, glancing at his watch. "looks like i'd have t' stay here all night. what's yer name, sonny?" "allan west." "you ain't th' reg'lar night man here?" "no; the regular night man was hurt this afternoon, and i'm taking his place." hopkins nodded; then suddenly he sat erect and listened. "there they come," he said; "it's time," and he started for the door. allan had heard no sound, and hopkins came back, after having gone to the door of the waiting-room and looked up and down the track again. "false alarm," he said. "i thought i heerd three or four men walkin'. say, i'm goin' in an' lay down an' take a nap. i'm most dead fer sleep." "do you think it's safe?" "safe? sho! i should say so! besides, i'll show you a trick. come along." allan followed him into the dark freight-shed. hopkins struck a match and by its light gathered together a pile of burlap from the pieces lying in the corners. he threw this down before the door. "there," he said. "anybody who comes in that door 'll hev t' step over jed hopkins. i reckon nobody 'll try that more 'n once. now i'm goin' t' shet th' door. you 'd better tell anybody who comes t' give me fair warnin' afore they opens it." "all right," laughed allan. "good night." "night," answered hopkins, brusquely, and closed the door. allan heard him arranging himself on the other side. then all was still. the boy went back to his desk at the front of the office and sat down. there was no sound to break the stillness, and the sudden sense of fatigue which stole over him reminded him that he had already done a hard day's work before starting for coalville. luckily, he was to be relieved at midnight--an hour and a half more, and he would be free to go to sleep. he would sleep all the way back to wadsworth. he must be sure to tell the conductor to call him and not let him be carried past his station. the conductor would understand--he would know, himself, what it was to work overtime. he dropped his head on his hand, and sat staring out of the great window which formed the front of the office. the rays of light from the lamp on the wall beside him reached as far as the track which ran before the station, but beyond that was utter darkness. the rain had ceased, but the light was reflected in the puddles of muddy water which stood before the station, and the eaves were drip-dripping like the ticking of a clock. once allan thought he heard steps; and a moment later he fancied the floor creaked--it was no doubt hopkins, moving in his sleep. a man must have nerves of iron to be able to sleep like that with a treasure-chest to guard; but then-- some indescribable influence caused him to turn his head, and he found himself looking straight down the barrel of a revolver. chapter xxiii "hands up!" for an instant, allan fancied that jed hopkins was playing a joke upon him, but when he glanced at the figure behind the revolver, he saw at once that it was shorter and heavier than that of the ex-plainsman. a slouch hat was pulled down over the eyes and a dirty red handkerchief tied over the mouth and chin, so that none of the face was visible except a short section of red, pimply, and unshaven cheek. all this the boy saw in the single second which followed his start of surprise on perceiving the revolver at his ear. "hands up," muttered a hoarse voice, before allan had time to move a muscle, and as he mechanically obeyed, his hands were seized from behind and bound together at the wrists in the twinkling of an eye. "now, tie him to his chair, joe," said his captor, and in another moment it was done. "now the gag," and before the boy could protest, a corn-cob, around which was wrapped a dirty rag, was forced between his teeth and tied tightly to his head. allan reflected grimly that he could appreciate a horse's feelings when a bit was thrust into its mouth and secured there. the man with the revolver lowered that weapon and regarded this handiwork with evident satisfaction. "that'll do," he said, with a chuckle. "i reckon _he_ won't bother us." allan, twisting his head around, saw that there were two men in the office besides the one with the revolver, and he fancied he could detect another walking up and down before the station. he knew, of course, that they were after the miners' money, and the robbery had evidently been planned with great care--as it had need to be, to stand any chance of success. "now, there's just one fellow in there," continued the man, who was evidently the leader of the expedition, "and we've got to rush him. all ready?" the others drew revolvers from their pockets and nodded, grouping themselves before the door which led into the freight-shed. the leader got out a small dark-lantern, tested it, and then leaned over and blew out the lamp. at the same instant, allan, kicking out desperately, upset the other chair which stood at the operator's desk. it fell with a crash, but the noise was drowned by a greater one, as the door was flung back and the robbers plunged through and hurled themselves upon jed hopkins. just what happened in the next few minutes allan never definitely knew, for the lantern carried by the leader was shattered in the first moment of the onset and the place was in utter darkness. the little station shook and quivered under repeated shocks, as though some heavy body was being dashed against the floor and walls of the freight-shed. he could hear the gasping breath and muttered oaths that told of a desperate struggle. evidently, jed was giving a good account of himself, even against those heavy odds. then a revolver spoke, followed by a yell of pain. a moment later there was a second shot, and instantly all was still. "i thought i told you," began an angry voice-- "he made me do it!" broke in a fierce falsetto. "he put a hole right through my hand." somebody struck a match and evidently took a quick survey of the place. "we must be gettin' out of this," went on the first speaker. "maybe somebody heard them shots. charlie, you go out and bring up th' wagon. we'll break the lock." one of the men hurried through the office and out of the station, but allan scarcely heard him. for he had managed to bring his arms down in front of him; in an instant he had found his key, and was calling wildly for wadsworth. wadsworth answered at once. "this is west at coalville," allan ticked off with feverish haste. "there are three robbers in station after coal company's money. have killed guard. rush help. they're going--" some one seized him and dragged him violently back from the instrument. "you young hound!" cried a fierce voice. "i've a good notion to--" "what was he doin'?" asked a voice from the door. "callin' for help." the man in the door muttered a fierce oath. "bat him in the face!" he said, and allan was struck a savage blow which sent him over backward upon the floor. he felt that his nose was bleeding, but he did not lose consciousness. "we've got plenty of time," went on the second speaker. "they can't get anybody here inside of an hour. i wonder where that fool charlie's gone?" as though in answer to the question, there came a rattle of wheels from the road outside, and allan heard the men in the freight-shed smash the lock and open the door which led out upon the freight-platform at the side of the station. "here she is," said a voice, and a moment later the chest was dragged toward the open door. "how'd you manage about the operator?" asked a voice which allan recognized with a start as belonging to dan nolan. "he's in there with his face mashed in." "is he?" and nolan laughed joyfully. "i was never gladder in my life than when i seen him git off th' train t'-night. you know who he is, don't you?" "no; who is he?" "he's th' skunk that flagged th' pay-car an' got us all pinched." there was a moment's astonished silence. "are you sure?" asked a voice incredulously, at last. "sure? i should say so. i've been tryin' t' do fer him ever since i got out. you know that." "yes," growled one of the men; "we heard about it." "well," went on nolan, triumphantly, "that was one reason i wanted t' git th' reg'lar man out o' th' way. i knowed they wouldn't have much time t' git another, an' this feller bein' right there in th' office, might hev t' come. an' it worked as slick as greased lightnin'." "you've got more sense than i thought you had, dan," remarked another of the men. "now we've got him, we kin do fer him," added nolan. "oh, no, we can't," retorted the first speaker. "i won't stand for that. let the kid alone. he got a bullet through him that night. that's enough!" "all right," assented nolan, sulkily; "but i'm goin' in t' take a look at him." allan heard him enter the office. a match flared up and for an instant blinded him. then he saw dan nolan stooping over him, his eyes glittering with infernal triumph. "well, well," he sneered, "so thet purty face o' your'n 's spiled at last! it's my time now, you scab!" and he kicked the boy savagely in the side. "i don't reckon you'll be pokin' your nose into other folks's affairs much longer!" allan gazed up at him with contempt, not unmixed with pity, for he began to believe that nolan was insane. that wolf-like ferocity, surely, could belong only to a disordered brain. "hurry up, there," called a hoarse voice. "what're you goin' to do with this?" asked somebody, and allan knew that he referred to the body of jed hopkins. "there's only one thing to do," said a third, and added a word in a voice so low that allan could not hear it. "he's right," agreed the first speaker. "how about the other one?" "we'll take him out." "but he'll peach!" "i don't care if he does. besides, what can he tell?" "if he's heard us talkin' in here, he can tell a good deal." there was a moment's silence. "see here," said the first speaker, finally, "you fellows know how i feel about this sort of thing. it's bad enough as it is; but there's a difference in killin' a man in a fight an' killin' him in cold blood. i don't care who he is, i won't stand fer nothin' like that. i've said so once already and i stick to it." "well," remarked one of the others, "i guess you're right. nolan, you get him out." "all right," said nolan, who had reëntered the freight-shed to listen to this controversy, and he started toward the office. "can you handle him yourself?" "sure. i'll jest drag him out in th' cheer an' set him down. then he can't bother us." "well, be quick about it. and shut all the doors." nolan entered the office and closed the door behind him. then he groped about until he found the chair which allan had overturned. this he dragged across the floor to the door which led into the waiting-room. "good-bye, mr. west," he said, in a low voice, pausing an instant on the threshold. "good-bye, an' think o' me." then he shut the door, and allan heard him dragging the empty chair heavily across the other room. he swung open the outside door, bumped the chair down the steps, then came up again and closed the door carefully. a moment later, there came the rattle of wheels and the quick clatter of horses' hoofs; the noise died away down the road and all was still. allan's head was aching horribly from the injuries which he had received and from the position in which he lay, and he managed finally, by a mighty effort, to twist himself over on his side. he struggled to get his hands free, but they had been bound too tightly--so tightly, indeed, that his wrists were chafed and swollen and his hands were numb. nor could he free himself from the chair. the rope, apparently a piece of ordinary clothes-line, which held him fast to it, was knotted firmly at the back, hopelessly beyond his reach. when he had satisfied himself of this, he lay still again, in the easiest posture he could assume. after all, he had only to possess his soul in patience, and help would come. the attack, he thought, must have taken place about half-past ten, and it must now be after eleven. the regular passenger-train would be along shortly before twelve, bringing his relief; he could not fail to be discovered then. he had only to lie still for less than an hour. perhaps not so long. a freight would probably precede the passenger. or it might be that the message he had sent to headquarters before he was snatched away from his instrument would bring help more promptly still. perhaps they were even now sending him a message of encouragement. he listened, but heard no sound. then he remembered that he had not heard the instrument for a long time. he decided that when he was jerked away from it, he had left the key open. that would tell them even more surely that something was wrong. as long as his key remained open, the entire line was out of service, and an investigation would follow in short order. yes, he would soon be found. and a great weariness settled upon him. he fought against it for a time; but his eyelids drooped and drooped. he had had a hard day, and a hard night. tired nature could endure no more. his eyes closed. he dreamed that he was upon the topmost pinnacle of a great mountain. around him on all sides the rock fell away in abrupt and impassable precipices. how he had reached that spot he did not know; still less, how he would be able to leave it safely. he could not see the precipices, for everything was dark around him, but he felt that they were there. the darkness was absolute--no night he had ever known had been so dark. there were no stars in the sky, no moon, and yet it seemed to him that the sky was very near. and the silence frightened him. then, suddenly, to the left he discerned a point of light, which burst upon the darkness, cutting it like a sword. it grew and grew with astonishing rapidity, and he saw it was the sun. but it was not rising; it was coming straight at him from some distant point in space; coming rapidly and surely. he felt the air about him growing strangely warm and radiant; warmer and more radiant; until the sweat broke out upon him and a deadly fear assailed him--a fear that here, upon this pinnacle of rock, he was to be consumed by fire. he looked wildly from side to side. there was no escape. yet any death was preferable to death by fire, and with a quick intaking of the breath, he leaped far out, and fell, fell-- he opened his eyes with a start. for an instant, under the influence of the dream, he fancied that he was still upon the rock, so light and warm was the office. then he heard the roar of fire, and angry tongues of flame licked under and around the door, casting a lurid glow across the floor. chapter xxiv jed hopkins, phoenix for an instant, allan stared stupidly at those red tongues of flame, licking merrily about the door--then, in a flash, he understood, and his pulses seemed to stop. the robbers had set fire to the station! it was in this way they proposed to get rid of the evidences of a crime far more serious than robbery. and thus, too, they hoped to get rid of the only witness of that crime not implicated in it--and then allan remembered--it was not the robbers, it was dan nolan who had left him here to die--nolan who had been told to place him in safety, and who had pretended to do so! he remembered nolan's last words, the chuckle which had accompanied them,--all this passed lightning-like through the boy's mind, as a drowning man, in the moment before he loses consciousness, sees before him his whole life, in a kind of wonderful and fearful panorama. and, indeed, allan was as near death as any drowning man--and a death infinitely more horrible. only for a breath did he lie there passive, staring at the flames; then he strained and tugged at his bonds, regardless of torn flesh, of bleeding wrists, of aching muscles, but the knots held firmly. finally, still tight to the chair, he managed to turn upon his hands and knees and to drag himself, inch by inch, toward the door which opened into the waiting-room. would he reach it in time? he scarcely dared hope so, for the other door was crackling and smoking, threatening every instant to burst into a sheet of flame. he _did_ reach it, somehow, and raised himself to turn the knob and open it, when from behind him there came a blood-curdling yell, the smoking door burst open and a frantic apparition plunged through the sheet of flame, snatched open the other door before which allan crouched, and, catching the boy by the collar as it passed, hurled itself on across the waiting-room and through the outer door to safety. there it dropped the boy heavily beside the track, and threw itself into a pool of muddy water, left by the rain of the evening before. in this it wallowed and rolled, as though enjoying the utmost luxury of the bath, and allan, watching it, began to fancy it some kind of monstrous amphibian. but at last the monster rose, shook itself, and a hoarse voice issued from it. "thought they had jed hopkins, did they? shoot him an' burn him--bound t' git him some way! not this time, gentlemen! oh, no, not this time," and jed rubbed his hand over his head, leaving himself almost bald, for his hair had been scorched off. he stood an instant watching the flames. then he remembered allan, and strode toward him. "hello, kid," he said. "what'd they do to you?" the gag prevented allan from uttering more than a hoarse grunt by way of answer. jed stooped down and looked at him more closely. "gagged, by gum!" he said, and reaching around behind the boy's head, had the gag loose in a moment. "not dead, eh?" he asked. "no," answered allan, smiling despite his wounds. "only knocked up a little." "an' tied up, too," added jed, seeing the ropes for the first time. "i thought there was something queer about you when i dragged you out, but i didn't hev time t' stop an' inquire what it was. there you are," and he drew a knife from his pocket and severed the ropes. "kin you stand up?" he helped the boy to his feet, and after a moment of uncertainty, the latter was able to stand alone. "oh, i guess you ain't much hurt," said jed, cheerfully. "where'd all this gore come from?" and he indicated the boy's shirt, the front of which was fairly soaked with blood. "from my nose," answered allan, smiling again. "oh, that's good fer ye!" jed assured him. "banged you on th' nose, did they? break it?" "i don't know," and allan touched it tenderly. "it's pretty sore." "let's see," said jed, and seizing the swollen organ, he wiggled it back and forth, not regarding the boy's pained protest. "no, it ain't broke," he announced, after a moment. "hurt any place else?" "i think not," allan replied, feeling himself all over. "nothing more than a few bruises, at least. but aren't _you_ hurt? i thought you were dead." jed passed his hand over his head again, and laughed. "so did that feller who put his pistol to my head an' pulled th' trigger," he said. "you see, they all piled on me so that it wasn't fer some time i could git an arm loose an' git my gun out." "i thought the station was coming down," allan remarked, "from the noise you made. it felt like an earthquake." "yes, we _did_ bump around considerable. well, when i got my gun out, i jest fired it into th' air sort o' haphazard, an' winged one o' them." "through the hand; it was he who shot at you." "he didn't take no chance," said jed. "he made a lucky kick in th' dark an' caught me right on th' wrist an' knocked th' pistol clean out o' my hand. then i felt th' cold muzzle of a revolver pressin' agin my head, an' i reckoned jed hopkins's time was up. then i didn't know no more till th' fire begun t' burn one hand, an' that woke me up." "but how does it come you weren't killed?" "mebbe my skull's too thick fer a ordinary pistol-ball t' make a hole in. but i remember jerkin' my head away, an' i reckon th' ball hit me a kind o' glance blow, jest enough t' stun me. you kin see how it parted my hair fer me." he held down his head, and allan saw, furrowed in the scalp, a raw and bleeding wound. "if you happen t' have a handkercher in yer pocket," jed added, "mebbe you'd better tie it up till i have time t' git it sewed t'gether." allan got out his handkerchief and tenderly bandaged the wound as well as he was able. "i reckon i'll be bald fer quite awhile," remarked jed, when that operation was finished. "you see, my hat was knocked off in th' scuffle, an' my hair was jest ketchin' fire. i reckon i didn't come to any too soon." "well," said allan, "i'm glad you came to when you did, not only for your sake, but for my own. you saved my life, too, you know." "oh, shucks!" jed protested. "not a bit of it. you'd 'a' got out all right. but i'm wastin' time. i've got t' hike away on th' trail o' them robbers. hello! here comes help!" the station was by this time almost wholly in flames, which shot high into the air and were reflected on the clouds. the light had been observed in the village and everybody turned out of bed, awakened by the shouts, and started for the scene of the fire. the volunteer fire company, which possessed an antiquated hand-pump engine, got it out and yanked it along over the muddy road, although, if they had stopped to think, they would have known that there was no available water within reach of the station. however, at such a time, very few people do stop to think. it was, perhaps, a just punishment for their thoughtlessness that the members of the fire company were forced to tug the heavy engine back to the village by themselves, after the fire was over,--the populace, which had been only too eager to pull at the ropes on the outward trip, utterly refusing to lay a hand to them on the way back. at the end of fifteen minutes, the station was surrounded by a seething mass of people, who understood imperfectly what had happened and applied their imaginations to supplying the details. it was jed hopkins who, in spite of his blistered face and scorched head, took the leadership and selected twenty men to form a posse to pursue the robbers. and just as this ceremony was completed, the midnight train pulled in and nearly a score of armed men leaped off, headed by the sheriff of athens county. he explained his presence in a moment. the dispatcher at wadsworth, immediately upon receiving allan's warning, had called up the sheriff at athens, told him of the robbery, and asked him to swear in a body of deputies and proceed to the scene on the first train. he had also wisely concluded that where there had been so much fighting, there were doubtless some wounds to dress, and the company's surgeon, armed with lint, bandages, and what not, had come down from athens with the posse. he set to work at once dressing the injuries which allan and jed hopkins had sustained; while two linemen, who had come by the same train, started in to straighten out the tangle of wires and reestablish telegraphic communication. the operator who was to relieve allan was also on the train, so the boy was free to return home, when he wished. but he had no such intention. "i'm going along," he announced to jed, as that worthy emerged, his head elaborately bandaged, from under the hands of the surgeon. "all right, kid," jed agreed, good-naturedly. "kin you ride?" "not very well; but i'll manage to stick on." "sure you kin stand it?" and jed looked at him thoughtfully. "if i can't, i'll drop out." "well, come along; you were in at th' beginnin' an' it's no more'n fair you should be in at th' end. besides, you'll be useful identifyin' suspects. you're th' only one that seen 'em--they were on me afore i had my eyes open. but i left a mark on one of 'em--that'll help. you say it went through his hand?" "right through his hand, i heard him tell one of the others." "good; that won't be easy to rub away! now, men," jed went on, "we'll divide into two parties. you men who come with th' sheriff are armed, so you kin start at once. th' robbers drove off along this road. you start ahead, an' i'll go up to th' mine an' git arms fer my men an' as many hosses as i kin find, an' we'll come right after you." the men murmured assent and started off along the road, the sheriff in the lead. "but how can they ever catch them?" asked allan, as he watched them disappear in the darkness. "ever hear th' story of th' turtle an' th' rabbit?" queried jed. "yes--but this rabbit isn't going to go to sleep." "well, they'll have t' sleep sometime. besides, we've got a messenger that kin go a million miles to their one," and he motioned toward the wires overhead. "you mean the telegraph?" "sure. th' fust thing fer you to do is t' write out th' best description ye kin of them robbers, an' have it sent over th' wire jest as soon as it's fixed. it ort t' go to every police station an' tellygraft office within fifty mile o' here. by mornin', every road ort t' be guarded, and them fellers'll have to be mighty slick t' slip through. meanwhile, we keep a-follerin' 'em an' pushin' 'em on, an' purty soon they're caught between two fires. see?" allan nodded. he began to perceive that there was not so much urgency in starting off after the robbers as he had thought. the first thing was to spread the net, and then to drive them into it. "an' remember t' make th' description as full as ye kin," added jed. "don't leave out th' bullet-hole. every little helps. ye didn't happen t' know any of 'em, did ye?" "i recognized one of them," answered allan, in a low voice, "and i believe i know the others. they're those convicts who got away from the penitentiary not long ago." "th' deuce they are!" cried jed, slapping his thigh. "oh, this is too easy--this is child's play! why, we've got 'em sure--every police-station in th' state has got their photygrafts! git that off jest as quick as ye kin, an' then wait fer us here. we've got t' come back this way, from th' mine, an' i'll bring an extry hoss fer you." "all right," agreed allan, and jed led his men away into the darkness. a gasoline torch, hung to one of the telegraph-poles, flared and sputtered above the boy's head, as he sat down on a rock beside the track to write the description required of him. at the top of the pole, silhouetted against the sky, he could see the linemen labouring to make the connection. the operator had already found an old box, placed it at the foot of the pole, and screwed his instrument down to it, ready to commence work. indeed, he had gone farther than that, and attached to the inside of the box a hook for orders--for that box would no doubt represent the coalville station for some days to come. allan got from him a sheet of paper, braced his back against the pole, and began to write, using his knee as a table; he described the men as accurately as he could; then, with compressed lips, he added that in company with the gang was dan nolan, a prisoner parolled from the ohio penitentiary, and that from some words he had overheard, he believed the other men to be the convicts who had escaped from there about a week before. as jed hopkins had said, every police-station in the state already had photographs of these men, and it did not seem possible that they could escape the net which this description would draw around them. suddenly the instrument on the box began to chatter, and allan knew the connection had been made. as he read over his description, his ears mechanically caught the first words spelled out on the instrument, and his eyes clouded with sudden tears, for the words were: "is west safe?" "yes," the operator answered. "he's right here writing a description of the robbers." "o. k. let's have it," clicked the instrument, and allan handed the description over. as he leaned forward, it seemed to him that something burst in his side; there was an instant's rending pain, which wrung from him an agonized cry; then merciful nature intervened, and he fell back unconscious upon the ground. chapter xxv how the plot was laid allan had said in his message that he had recognized dan nolan; yet, in the stress of his emotion at the time, the strangeness of nolan's appearance under the circumstances had not occurred to him. yet it was strange; yes, more than strange. here was nolan in company with the men whom he had basely betrayed by turning state's evidence, and apparently received by them again on terms of comradeship. how had they come to forgive him the one offence which criminals never forgive? what was it had turned aside their anger and persuaded them to admit again to their company a man who had been proved a traitor? the chain of circumstances which led to this result was so peculiar that it is worth pausing a moment to describe. nolan had gone south, as jack welsh had predicted, after the failure of his attempt to wreck the special and to revenge himself on allan; but drawn, as jack had foreseen, by an irresistible attraction, he had gradually worked his way back to the north again, and, not daring to return to wadsworth, had finally drifted to coalville. there, after loitering around the saloons, until they refused admission to so penniless and disreputable a customer, he had secured work as hostler in the company's stables; where, if the wages were not large, neither was the work exhausting. here nolan had remained for some months, believing himself secure from discovery. he slept in a loft at the rear of the stable, and here, one night, he was awakened by a savage grip at his throat. he endeavoured to yell, but as he opened his mouth, something was stuffed into it that muffled the cry, and nearly choked him. half-dead with fright, he felt himself lifted from the hay, passed down the ladder and borne out into the open air. then he fainted. when he opened his eyes, he fancied for a moment that he was dreaming, so weird and uncanny was the picture which confronted him. black columns towered about him into the darkness overhead, like the pillars of a cathedral, and now and then he caught a glimpse of the ebon ceiling, shining with moisture, which dripped down the pillars to the floor. just in front of him flickered a little fire, over which a pot was simmering. about the fire were grouped four figures; and as he looked from one to the other of them, nolan's senses reeled and his heart quaked, for, by the dancing light of the fire, he recognized the four men whom he had betrayed. how had they come here? their terms in prison, he knew, would not end for many years; buried as he was in this hole among the hills, associating only with the dullest and most depraved of human beings, he had heard nothing of their escape. how had they found him? above all, what did they intend to do with him? he shuddered as he asked himself that last question. his captors were talking earnestly among themselves, paying no heed to him, but at the end of a moment, one of them arose to examine the contents of the pot, and glancing at nolan, perceived that his eyes were open. "why, hello, dannie," he cried, with a sort of unholy glee which frightened dan more than any threats could have done, "how are ye?" dan could find no voice to answer, but the others got up and, moving nearer, sat down before him. their eyes were shining as a cat's do when it sees the mouse under its paw. and like the cat, they prepared to put their prey to the torture. "well, this _is_ an unexpected pleasure," said one. "so glad to have you as our guest," said another. "yes; we've got the spare room ready," said a third, whereat they all laughed uproariously. "the spare room--good!" "a lofty chamber, dannie; you'll feel like a king." "and sleep like a top!" "even if the bed is rather hard." and then they all laughed again. "yes--and as long as you like! you're our guest, dannie. and we're going to keep you awhile!" dan was bathed from head to foot in a cold sweat. he could not guess their meaning, but he knew it boded no good for him. "we've been wanting to see you so bad," one of the men went on, "ever since you treated us so well at the trial. pity you couldn't have held your tongue then, dannie; you'd have had to stay in jail a little longer, but at least you'd have been alive." at last dan found his tongue. "you ain't a-goin' t' kill me!" he cried. "you wouldn't treat an old pal like that!" "no, no, dannie!" came the answer, soothingly, "we're just going to put you in our spare room. then i'm afraid we'll have to bid you adieu. you see this state don't agree with our health very well. we wouldn't have stayed this long except for the pleasure of seeing you. ain't you glad?" "how'd you know where i was?" nolan asked. the man laughed. "why, we've known where you were ever since you were let out on parole. we heard how you'd tried to wreck another train, and then lighted out for the south; we heard about your roustabouting on the wharves at mobile, and stealing a case of tobacco from a warehouse and trying to sell it and coming so near getting pinched that you had to get out of that place in a hurry, and start back north again. why, we've got friends who, at a word from us, would have done for you a dozen times over--they knew what you'd done; but we were reserving that pleasure for ourselves, daniel. and when we heard that you had stopped here, we decided to pay you a little visit on our way out of the state, and had this place fixed up for us, and here we are. but you don't look a bit glad to see us!" dan, following the speaker with painful attention, caught a glimpse of an underworld whose existence he had never suspected--a confederacy of crime to which he, as a mere novice and outsider, had never been admitted. the one unforgivable crime to this association was to turn traitor, to "peach"--that is, to inform against one's accomplices in order to escape oneself. that was exactly what nolan had done, and he was now to pay for it. the four men, as by a single impulse, rose to their feet, and one of them picked up a coil of rope which lay at the foot of the nearest pillar. "get up," said one of them roughly, to nolan. but nolan was paralyzed by fear, and incapable of movement, for he believed that they were going to hang him. "get up," his captor repeated, and seizing him by the shoulder, jerked him to his feet. nolan clutched for support at the pillar against which he had been leaning. he saw now that it was of coal, and he suddenly understood where he was. he had been brought to one of the abandoned workings of the mine; he knew there were many such, and that no one ever ventured into them through fear of the deadly fire-damp which almost always gathers in such neglected levels. and he knew there was no hope of rescue. "why, look at the coward!" cried his captor, disgustedly. "he's as weak as a rag. it's enough to make a man sick!" dan turned a piteous face toward him. "you--you ain't goin' to hang me?" he faltered. the men burst into a roar of laughter. "no," one of them answered, "we're goin' to save you from gettin' hanged, as you certainly would be if we let you go. really, you ought to thank us." partially reassured, dan managed to take a few steps forward. after all, they had said they were not going to kill him! then he stopped, with a quick gasp of dismay. at his feet yawned a pit, whose depth he could not guess. the torch which one of his captors bore disclosed the black wall below him, dripping with moisture, plunging into absolute and terrifying darkness. then nolan understood. this was the "spare room." his teeth were chattering and a sort of hoarse wailing came from his throat, as they slipped the rope under his arms. he was only half-conscious; too weak with terror to resist. he felt himself lifted and swung off over the abyss; his body scraped downward along the rough wall, hundreds of feet, as it seemed to him; the moisture soaked through his clothes and chilled him. at last his feet touched solid ground, but his legs doubled helplessly under him and he collapsed against the wall. he felt the rope drawn from about him; then a kind of stupor fell upon him and for a time he knew no more. at last he opened his eyes again and looked about him. he thought, at first, that he was sleeping in his loft, and that it was still night. then he felt the rock at his back, and suddenly remembered all that had happened to him. his throat was dry and parched; his muscles ached, and every particle of strength had left his body. it seemed to him that hours and even days had passed while he lay there unconscious. really, it had been only a few moments. he stretched his hands out on either side and felt the rough and dripping wall; then he got uncertainly to his feet, and step by step, advanced along the wall, stumbling, and stopping from time to time all a-tremble with fear and weakness. he kept on and on for perhaps half an hour; the cavern seemed of mammoth proportions, and a new terror seized him. perhaps his captors had not really intended to leave him there to die; perhaps they only wished to frighten him; but if he wandered away into the mine there would be no hope for him. he turned, and started back again with feverish haste. suppose they should look for him, and finding him gone, give him up for lost? a dry sobbing choked him, but still he hastened on. and yet, how was he to tell when he had reached the spot to which he had been lowered? might he not go past it? how was he to know? he stared upward into the black void above him, but it showed no vestige of light. he raised his voice in a shrill cry, but there was no response except the echo flung back at him by the vault above. and again that convulsive trembling seized him, and he sank limply down against the wall. but whatever manhood he had rallied to his support; that love of life which is the one controlling force of cowardly natures asserted itself and gave him some semblance of self-control. he clasped his head in his hands and tried to think. to find his way back--and then it suddenly occurred to him that he had in his pocket some matches. he fumbled for them eagerly. perhaps, with their help-- he struck one against the under side of his coat-sleeve, which was comparatively dry. it flared unsteadily, and then burned clearly. for a moment, nolan was blinded by the flame; then he stared about him, scarcely able to believe his eyes. for on every side the black walls shut him in. he was at the bottom of a pit, not more than thirty feet in diameter, and he had been walking round and round it, too agitated and stupefied by fear to notice that he was travelling in a circle. the match sputtered and went out, and nolan sat for a long time with the stump of it in his fingers. he was evidently at the bottom of a shaft sunk in search of another vein, or, perhaps, of a natural cavity in the rock. of the height of the walls he could form no estimate, but they were so smooth and straight that ten feet were as impossible to him as a hundred. decidedly there was no chance of escape unless his captors chose to assist him. as he sat there musing, a light fell into the pit, and he looked up to see one of his captors gazing down at him by the light of a torch which he held above his head. "i just came to say good-bye," he called down. "good-bye?" echoed nolan, hoarsely. "yes,--it will soon be dark, and we're going to pull out for the west. ohio's too hot for us just now." "and--and you're goin' t' leave me here?" cried nolan. "we certainly are. how do you like it?" "but that'll be murder!" nolan protested. "you might swing fer it!" "oh, no, we mightn't. you'll never be found. you're done with this world, daniel. fix your thoughts upon the next." nolan uttered a hollow moan. then a sudden inspiration brought him to his feet. "see here," he said, "let me out o' here an' i'll put y' on to somethin' good." his captor laughed mockingly. "i'm afraid it's not good enough, daniel-in-the-lion's-den," he said. "you're asking too big a price." "it's sixty thousand dollars," said dan, still more eagerly. "you kin git it day arter t'-morrer, as easy as fallin' off a log." the smile on the other's face vanished and he stood for a moment looking thoughtfully down into the pit. "is there anything in this, or is it just moonshine?" he asked, at last. "it's straight!" nolan protested. "it's dead straight! pull me out o' here an' i'll tell you." "wait a minute," said the other, and disappeared. nolan waited with an anxiety that deepened with every passing second; but at last the light appeared again at the edge of the pit, and this time four faces looked down at him instead of one. the rope was lowered, he slipped it under his arms, and three minutes later stood again facing his captors. [illustration: "'it b'longs t' th' mine company,' said nolan."] without speaking, they led him back to the place where their fire was still burning and motioned him to sit down. "now," said one of them, "let's have the story." "and if it's straight, you'll let me go?" "if it's straight, we'll let you go. if it's not, back you go into the pit, and this time you won't have a rope to help you down." "oh, i ain't afeerd," said nolan. "it's straight. but i think i ort t' have some of it." "how much did you say there is?" "between fifty an' sixty thousand dollars." "it's not in a bank?" "no; it's in a box." "and we can get it within a day or two." "you kin git it day arter to-morrer." "if everything turns out well, you shall have a thousand dollars." "oh, come," protested nolan, but the other stopped him with an impatient gesture. "that or nothing," he said, curtly, and nolan surrendered, for he saw the man was in earnest. "all right," he said, glumly, and instinctively they all drew a little nearer the fire. "th' day arter t'-morrer," he began, "they'll come in on th' evenin' train a box containin' sixty thousan' in cold cash." "whose is it?" asked one of the men. "it b'longs t' th' mine company," said nolan; "it's th' men's wages." and again the group drew a little closer together. chapter xxvi the pursuit jed hopkins, at the head of his men, hastened away from the station toward the offices of the company. there were several things he wanted cleared up before starting in pursuit of the robbers. in the first place, what had happened to the wagon which was to have come after the chest; and, in the second place, what had become of the man he had sent out to look for it? the latter question was quickly answered. as they passed through a little locust grove just beyond the station, jed's alert ear caught a stifled cry or gurgle to the left of the road, and without pausing an instant, he started toward it. the others followed, and a moment later, they found jed's companion bound to a tree and gagged as allan had been. his adventures were soon told. he had started along the road leading to the mine, expecting every moment to meet the wagon coming for the chest. just as he reached the grove, he heard wheels approaching, and stopped, intending to hail it, but before he could open his mouth, some one threw a heavy cloak or sack over his head from behind and pulled it tight, while some one else tripped him up and sat on him. his hands were tied, the gag forced into his mouth, and he was led to the tree and securely fastened. then to his astonishment, he heard the wagon stop, and the men on it exchange greetings with his captors. the latter then clambered aboard and the wagon continued on toward the station. "was it the company's wagon?" asked jed. "i couldn't swear to it," answered the other, chafing his wrists to start the circulation, "but it sounded mighty much like it." "well, we must find out," said jed, and hurried forward. as they neared the company's office, they became aware of a dull pounding, as of some one hammering upon iron. it would cease for a moment and then begin again, louder than before. not until they came quite near did any of the posse guess what it was; and it was jed who guessed first. "there's somebody shut up in th' office," he said. "i'll bet th' robbers did it! well, they're clever ones fer sure!" and this conjecture proved to be correct, as jed found after a few moments' shouted conversation with the prisoners. the first thing to be done was to get them out, but this was not so easy as might appear, for, as has already been stated, the little building had been built to withstand a siege; it was lined with steel, the windows were heavily barred and the door was armoured. one of the prisoners explained that the door had been locked on them from the outside, but the key was not in the lock. "they probably throwed it away arter they locked th' door," said jed. "but we can't find it in th' dark. th' only thing t' do is t' break a couple o' bars out o' one o' th' winders, an' make a hole big enough fer 'em t' squeeze through." and, after twenty minutes' hard work, this was accomplished. there were four prisoners, one of whom was the paymaster and another the mine superintendent, and after they had crowded through the opening, they told the story of their capture. the horses had been hitched to the wagon in the company's stable, and it had then been driven to the homes of the superintendent and paymaster, picked them up, as the custom was, and then turned back toward the company's office to get the two guards who awaited it there and who were to accompany it to and from the station. the guards were there, and the superintendent had unlocked the door, and led the way in to get the guns with which the guards were always armed. he had left the door open and the key in the lock, as he expected to go out again immediately. it was at that moment that the door was slammed shut and the key turned. those within the office had seen no one, nor heard any noise until the door closed. "but what was your driver doin' all that time?" asked jed. "why didn't he give the alarm? did they git him, too?" "i don't know. probably they did. i don't see how else his silence can be explained." "you didn't hear any struggle?" "no; still they might have silenced him with one blow." "mighty hard to do," said jed, reflectively, "with him up there on th' wagon-seat." "we'll know in the morning," remarked the superintendent. "we'll probably find his body hid around here somewhere." "well, we haven't got time t' look fer him now," said jed. "how many hosses kin we hev?" "we've got six in the stable yet." "let's have 'em out," and while they were being saddled and brought up, jed picked out four of the men whom he knew to accompany him and his partner in the mounted pursuit of the robbers. one of them crowded through the hole in the window and passed out arms and ammunition. the remainder of the posse was dismissed, and returned slowly toward their homes, not without considerable grumbling that their services had been so lightly regarded. at the end of ten minutes, jed and his five companions were mounted and away. they were soon back at the station, which was now only a smouldering mass of ruins, so quickly had the flames been able to consume the flimsy frame structure. "where's that kid?" asked jed. "i didn't suppose he'd keep us waitin'." "something's th' matter over there," said one of the men, and pointed to a little group which had gathered at one side of the track. jed swung off his horse and hastened to investigate. he found that it had gathered about allan west, who lay unconscious, his pale face looking positively ghastly under the flickering light of the gasoline torch, which hung from the pole above him. "what's th' matter with him?" asked jed. "he told me he wasn't hurt." "he's hurt in the side," answered the surgeon, who was bending above the boy. "i think there's a couple of ribs broken. he never mentioned the injury when i dressed his other wounds. is there a hospital at coalville?" "hospital?" jed grunted, derisively. "well, i should say not!" "number nine's due in about ten minutes," said the operator. "you can fix up some sort of bed in the baggage-car and take him back to wadsworth." "that'll do," agreed the surgeon, and bent again above the boy. jed stood watching him for a moment, shifting uneasily from one foot to the other. "think he's very bad, doctor?" he asked, at last. "oh, no," answered the surgeon. "just overdone things, i guess, and fainted from the pain. he'll be all right, as soon as i can get him to a place where i can fix him up." jed heaved a sigh of relief. "that's good," he said. "he's a plucky kid. i'd hate to see him knock under," and he strode away to join his men. in another moment, they were off up the road in the direction taken by the robbers. the latter had a start of over an hour, but that did not worry jed, because he knew they would soon find themselves on the horns of a dilemma. either they must take the chest with them, or leave it behind. if they took it, they could not abandon the wagon, and yet they would scarcely dare to use it after daybreak, for it had the name of the mining company painted on its side. on the other hand, they would not abandon the chest until they had opened it and secured the contents, and jed knew that it would be no easy job to break the chest open. so he rode on at a sharp canter, confident that the fugitives could not escape. for some miles there were no branches to the road except such as led to houses among the hills a little back from it. so he rode on without drawing rein, until he came to the place where the road forked. here he found the sheriff and the posse which had set out on foot unable to decide which fork to take and unwilling to divide their forces. "you wait a minute," said jed, jumping from his horse, and striking a match, he went a little way up one of the forks and examined the road minutely. "they didn't come this way," he announced, at last, and came back and went up the other fork. here he repeated the same performance, lighting match after match. at last he stood erect with a grunt of satisfaction. "all right," he said. "we're on th' trail." "how do you know we are?" inquired the sheriff, incredulously. "no matter," said jed. "take my word fer it. i didn't live on th' plains twenty year fer nothin'. hello! what's that?" he was listening intently, but for some moments the duller ears of the other members of the posse could catch no sound. then they heard, far up the road, the clatter of horses' hoofs and the rattle of wheels. the sound came nearer and nearer, and jed, who was peering through the darkness, suddenly drew his pistol and sprang to the middle of the road. "halt!" he cried, and the other members of the posse instinctively drew up behind him, their guns ready. they could hear the wagon still lumbering toward them. "halt, or we fire!" cried jed, again, but still the wagon came on, and a gray shape appeared in the darkness ahead. jed raised his pistol; then, with a sharp exclamation, thrust it back into his belt, sprang forward, and seized the approaching horses by the bridle. the posse swarmed about the wagon. the sheriff struck a match, and painted on the wagon's side descried the words: coalville coal company "why," said the sheriff, in bewilderment, "this is th' rig they run away with!" "precisely," agreed jed, coolly. "one of you men hold these horses, will you?" the sheriff clambered to the seat and struck another match. "the wagon's empty," he announced. "i thought so," said jed, mounting beside him. "they took out th' chest an' then turned th' rig loose." "and where are they?" "they're somewhere ahead openin' that box. i'll ride on with my men. you turn th' wagon around an' foller with as many as she'll hold." "all right," agreed the sheriff, and jed sprang to horse again. "come on, boys," he called, and set out up the road at a sharp gallop. mile after mile they covered, but without finding any sign of the fugitives. at last, jed dismounted and again examined the road. "we've passed 'em," he announced. "they didn't git this far. we've got 'em now, sure." the east was just showing a tinge of gray, as they turned to retrace their steps. jed stopped every now and then to scrutinize the road. at the end of a mile, they met the sheriff and his party in the wagon. "see anything of 'em?" he asked. "not a thing," said jed, "but they're back there, somewhere. wait a minute," and he got down and looked at the road again. "by george!" he cried, "they ain't far off! see, here's where they turned th' wagon an' started her back." then he looked at the tracks again. "i don't know, either," he added. "i don't believe they turned it at all. look how it ran down in this gully here by the fence--it's a wonder it didn't upset. the horses turned toward home themselves." "well, and where are the convicts?" asked the sheriff. "they're somewhere between here an' th' forks o' th' road," said jed. "they can't git away!" but by noon he was forced to confess that their capture was not going to be so easy as he had supposed. practically every foot of the ground on both sides of the road had been beaten over, and yet not a trace of the robbers had been discovered. nay, more than that, search as he might, jed, with all his skill in woodcraft, was not able to discover where they had left the road. that four men, carrying a heavy chest, should have been able to cross the muddy fields which extended on both sides of the road without leaving some mark of their passage seemed absurd, and yet, after going over the ground for the third time, jed was forced to confess himself defeated. "they're slick ones--that's all i kin say," he remarked, and mounted his horse and started back to coalville. the sheriff picketed every by-path; through all the neighbourhood the alarm was spread, and men were on the alert. acting under instructions from the state authorities, the sheriffs of adjoining counties set a guard on every road by which coalville could possibly be approached, and every one who could not give a satisfactory account of himself and who resembled in the least degree any one of the four convicts, was placed under arrest. the police of every city, the constables of every township, nay, the dwellers in every house, were on the lookout for the fugitives. it seemed impossible that they could escape through the meshes of a net so closely drawn. yet two days passed, and they had not been heard from. they had disappeared as completely as though the earth had opened and swallowed them. chapter xxvii a gruesome find when allan opened his eyes, it was to find the kindly face of mary welsh looking down at him. "is it time to get up?" he asked, and tried to rise, but mary pressed him gently back against the pillow. "there, there, lay still," she said. "but what," he began--and then a sudden twinge in the side brought back in a flash all that had occurred. "am i hurt?" he asked. "not bad, th' doctor says; but you'll have t' kape quiet fer awhile. they's two ribs broke." "two ribs!" repeated allan. "right there in yer side," said mary, indicating the place. "oh, yes; that's where dan nolan kicked me." "where what?" cried mary, her eyes flashing. and allan related in detail the story of his encounter with nolan. before he had finished, mary was pacing up and down the chamber like a caged tigress, her hands clasping and unclasping, her features working convulsively. allan, in the carefully darkened room, did not notice her agitation, and continued on to the end. "you lay still," she said, hoarsely, when he had ended; "i'll be back in a minute," and she hurried down the stair. once out of his sight, her self-control gave way completely; a dry sobbing shook her, a sobbing not of grief but of sheer fury. jack was sitting listlessly by the window when she burst into the room. "why, what is it, mary?" he cried, starting to his feet. "is he worse? he can't be! th' doctor said--" "jack," said mary, planting herself before her husband, "i want you t' promise me one thing. if you iver git yer hands on dan nolan, kill him as you would a snake!" "what's nolan been doin' now?" he asked, staring in astonishment at her working features. "it was him hurt our boy," she said; "kicked him in th' side as he laid tied there on th' floor. stood over him an' kicked him in th' side!" jack's face was livid, and his eyes suffused. "are you sure o' that?" he asked thickly. "allan told me." "th' fiend!" cried jack. "th' divil!" and shook his fists in the air. then he sat heavily down in his chair, shivering convulsively. "an' more'n that," mary went on, "he shut th' boy in th' station an' left him there t' burn," and she repeated the story allan had just told her. when she had done, jack rose unsteadily. "you say th' boy's all right?" he asked. "yes--he ain't got a bit o' fever." "then i'm goin' t' coalville," he said. "i couldn't sleep with th' thought of that varmint runnin' loose. i'm goin' t' git him." mary's eyes were blazing. "good boy!" she cried. "when'll you go?" "now," he answered. "i kin jest ketch number four. good-bye." "good-bye, jack," she answered, and caught him suddenly in her arms and kissed him. she watched him as he went down the path, then turned, and composing her face as well as she was able, mounted the stair and took up again her station by allan's bed. * * * * * half an hour after jack had got off the train at coalville, he entered the office of the coalville coal company. "i want a gun," were his first words. "what for?" inquired the man at the desk. "t' look fer th' robbers." the man gazed at him thoughtfully. there was something in jack's appearance, a certain wildness, which alarmed him a little. "i don't believe we care to employ any more deputies," he said at last. "i don't want t' be employed--i don't want no wages--i'm a volunteer." at that moment, the door opened and a man came in,--a tall, thin man, whose head was bandaged and the skin of whose face was peeling off. "here, jed," said the man at the desk, glad to turn the task of dealing with a probable madman into more competent hands, "is a recruit. and, strangely enough, he doesn't ask for pay." "it ain't a bit strange," protested jack, and he explained briefly who he was. when he had finished, jed held out his hand. "shake," he said. "that kid o' your'n is all right--grit clear through. will he git well?" "oh, he'll git well, all right." "good!" cried jed, his face brightening. "i've been worryin' about him considerable. how'd he git his ribs broke?" "one o' them fellers kicked him in th' side," explained jack, and repeated the story he had heard from mary. "th' skunk!" said jed, when he had finished, his face very dark. "th' low-down skunk! i only wish i could git my hands on him fer about two minutes." "so do i," agreed jack, his lips quivering. "that's why i came." jed held out his hand again. "i'm with you!" he said. "we'll go on a little still-hunt of our own. i'd intended t' go by myself, but i'll be glad to hev you along." so jack, provided with rifle and revolver, presently sallied forth beside his new friend. "no trace o' them yet?" he asked. "not a trace," jed answered. "it beats me. but one thing i'm sure of--it's possible that they managed t' slip through my lines, but they didn't take th' chest with 'em." "then what did they do with it?" "that's what i'm a-goin' t' find out," said jed, grimly. "it's somewhere here in these hills, an' i'm goin' t' find it if it takes ten years." and, indeed, after the first day's search, it seemed to jack that it might easily take much longer than that. "there's one thing they might 'a' done with it," jed remarked, as they turned homeward in the twilight. "they might 'a' shoved it up in some of th' old workin's around here. they're full o' fire-damp, o' course, an' no man could venture in them an' live, so i don't see jest how they'd work it. but to-morrer we'll take a look at 'em." so the next morning they set out, carrying, instead of rifles, a collection of ropes, candles, and lanterns, which jed had procured from the mine. "i've got a plan of th' old workin's, too," he said. "there's some over on th' other side of th' hill which it ain't any use wastin' time on. them fellers couldn't 'a' carried that chest over th' ridge, if they'd tried a month. but there's six or eight on this side. there's th' fust one, over yonder," and he pointed to a black hole in the hillside. "all of these old workin's," he went on, "are what they call drifts--that is, wherever they found th' coal croppin' out, they started in a tunnel, an' kept on goin' in till th' vein pinched out. then they stopped and started another tunnel on th' next outcrop. they're all driven in on an incline, so they'll drain theirselves, an' as soon as th' company stopped pumpin' air into them, they probably filled up with gas, so we've got t' be mighty careful." he clambered up to the mouth of the tunnel and peered into it cautiously. "can't see nothin'," he said. "let's try fer gas." he took from his pocket a leather bag, from which he extracted a little ball of cotton saturated in oil. "stand aside," he said, and himself stood at one side of the mouth of the tunnel. then, grasping the ball by a piece of wire attached to it, he struck a match, touched it to the cotton, and then hurled the ball with all his force into the opening. it seemed to jack that there was a sort of quick throb in the air, a sheet of flame shot out of the tunnel mouth, and an instant later a dull rumbling came from within the hill. jed caught up a lantern, snapped back the covering of wire gauze which protected the wick, and lighted it. "come on," he said. "it's safe for awhile now," and he led the way into the cavern. for a moment jack could see nothing; then as his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he discerned the black and dripping walls on either hand, and the dark void before, into which jed walked, swinging the lantern from side to side. but he did not go far. fifty feet from the entrance, a pile of debris blocked the way. jed swung his lantern over it and inspected it. "no use t' look any further in here," he said. "this stuff's been down a long time. let's go on to number two." the second tunnel was about five hundred feet from the first one, and resembled it exactly. but when jed threw into it his blazing ball, there was no explosion. "hello!" he said, in surprise, and then, bending down, he saw the ball blazing brightly on the floor of the tunnel, some distance from the entrance. "why, that hole is ventilated as well as a house!" he added. "plenty of air there," and catching up the lantern, which he had not extinguished, he started into the tunnel. the air was fresh and pure, and jed, looking about for an explanation, was not long in finding it. "look up there," he said, pointing to where a glimmer of light showed through the gloom above. "there's a flue up there--an accident, most likely,--just a crack in the rock,--but it lets the gas out all right. why, a feller could live in here--by george!" he added, "some feller has been livin' here. look there." jack followed the motion of his finger, and saw, on the floor, a pile of half-burned coal. over it was a bent piece of iron which had been driven into the floor and evidently served as a crane. a pot and a couple of pans lay near the base of one of the pillars which had been left to support the roof. "and they was more than one," jed continued, and pointed to four lumps of coal grouped around the central pile. "they used them to set on. it's dollars to doughnuts here's where th' gang stayed till they was ready t' spring their trap. th' question is, are they here yet?" "you kin bet your life they ain't," answered jack, confidently. "'cause why?" "'cause we're here t' tell th' tale. if they was here, they'd 'a' picked us off ten minutes ago. think what purty marks we made." "mebbe they thought they was a posse with us." "well, they don't think so now, an' they ain't shot us yet." jed nodded and moved forward. "well, if they ain't here, mebbe th' chest is," he said, but they saw no sign of it, although they explored the chamber thoroughly. "they could 'a' reached here with it easy enough," he went on. "th' road's jest down there, an' th' station ain't over half a mile away. nobody thought o' their gittin' out so clost to th' station. that's th' reason i didn't find their tracks. they drove th' wagon on nearly six mile afore they turned it loose. steady, steady," he added, suddenly, and stopped. at his feet yawned a pit of unknown depth. he swung his lantern over it and peered down, trying to see the bottom. then he stood upright with a sharp exclamation. "it's down there," he said. "what is?" "the chest. look over. don't you see it?" "i kin see something," answered jack, "but it might be a lump o' coal, or any old thing. what makes you think it's th' chest?" "i _know_ it is," jed asserted. "you wait here till i git th' ropes," and he hurried away toward the mouth of the tunnel. jack, holding the lantern at arm's length and shading his eyes with his other hand, leaned over the pit and stared down long and earnestly. but strain his eyes as he might, he could discern no details of the oblong mass below. that it should be the chest seemed too great a miracle. but jed was back in a moment, a coil of rope in his hand. "now i'll show you," he said, and laying down the rope, took from his pocket another of the oil-saturated balls, lighted it and dropped it into the pit. it struck the bottom and sputtered for a moment, then burned clear and bright. and the two men gazed fascinated at what it revealed to them. the chest was there, as jed had said; and beneath it, crushed against the rock, lay a man. chapter xxviii jed starts for home only for an instant did jed hopkins and jack welsh stand motionless there on the edge of the pit, staring down at the gruesome sight the burning cotton disclosed to them. then jed sprang erect, his lips compressed, caught up the rope, and rapidly made a noose in one end of it. "i'll go down," he said. "i'm th' lightest, an' i guess you kin handle me all right. stand well back from th' edge an' git a good hold. let it play over th' rock here where it's smooth. ready?" "all right," jack answered, taking a turn of the rope around his arm and bracing himself for the weight. jed sat down at the edge of the pit, placed one foot in the noose he had made, tested it, and then swung himself off. jack paid out the line slowly and carefully, so that it might not get beyond his control. at the end of a moment, the line slackened, and jack, looking down into the pit, saw his companion bending over the ghastly figure crushed against the floor. "he's dead," jed announced, after a short examination. "he's mashed right in. that box must o' caught him square on th' breast. he never knowed what hit him." "who is he?" asked jack, in an awed whisper, and then he started violently back, as something dark and uncanny whirred past his face,--for jack was not without his superstitions, and the surroundings were certainly ghostly enough to impress the strongest heart. as he looked up, he fancied he saw two eyes gleaming at him out of the darkness; again there was a whir of wings past the lantern, and then he laughed aloud, for he saw his spectral visitor was only a bat. "what's th' matter?" queried jed, looking up in surprise. "i don't see nothin' t' laugh at." "there's a lot o' bats up here," explained jack, a little sheepishly. "i was jest gittin' ready t' run--i thought they was banshees. do you know who th' pore feller is?" jed struck a match and examined the dead man's face. "no, i don't know him," he said at last. "an' yet his face seems sort o' familiar, too. why, yes; it's a feller who's been workin' around our stables. by gum! it's th' one thet druv th' wagon! we've been lookin' fer his corpse everywhere; an' when we didn't find it, we thought he was in cahoots with th' robbers an' had skipped out with 'em! now how do you suppose he got here?" jack, of course, could find no answer to the question, but stood staring stupidly down until jed, by a mighty effort, rolled the box to one side, and passed the noose beneath the dead man's arms. "all right," jed called. "i think you kin lift him--he ain't very heavy." and jack slowly pulled the body up, hand over hand, the muscles he had acquired by long years of work on section standing him in good stead. then, as the ghastly face, hanging limply back, came within the circle of light cast by his lantern, he saw it clearly, and in the shock it gave him almost let the body fall. "good god!" he muttered. "good god!" and stared down, fascinated, into the half-closed, lustreless eyes. for the dead man was dan nolan. just how he had met death there at the bottom of that pit was never certainly known. perhaps he had been sent down ahead to steady the chest in its descent and cast loose the ropes, and the chest had slipped or got beyond control of the men who were lowering it and crashed down upon him. or perhaps he himself, helping to lower it, had lost his balance and fallen, only to be crushed by it as it, too, fell. his companions, terrified, no doubt, by the tragedy, had waited only to assure themselves that he was dead, and had then drawn up the ropes and fled. some of those who knew the story of nolan's treachery to the robbers, believed that it was not an accident at all, but that his companions had deliberately used this method of avenging themselves and getting rid of him, now that his usefulness to them was past. whether by accident or design, certain it was that nolan had met his end miserably at the very place where his captors had intended him to die. as soon as jed was got out of the pit, help was summoned, for the box was far too heavy for two men to raise. the news that it had been found spread like wildfire, and a regular procession started for the mouth of the old mine to see it recovered. among them was the paymaster, and, as soon as the box was hauled up, he produced a key from his pocket, turned it in the lock, and threw back the lid. "good!" he said. "they didn't stop to open it. knew they ran the risk of being held up and searched, and didn't want any of the stuff to be found on them. they certainly had every reason to believe that it was safely planted here." "they didn't have time t' open it," said jed. "that lock was specially made--see how it throws three bolts instead o' one. nobody could 'a' picked it. th' only way they could 'a' got that chest open was t' blow it, like a safe, an' i don't suppose they was fixed fer that kind o' work, comin', as they did, straight from th' pen." "or perhaps they was scared away by nolan's death," added jack. "i certainly wouldn't 'a' cared t' stay here arter that!" "well, whatever the cause, the money's here," said the paymaster, and closed the lid again and locked it. * * * * * the evening shadows were lengthening along the path as jack climbed up to the little house back of the railroad yards, and softly opened the door and entered. mary was in the kitchen, and, at the sound of his step, turned toward him, her face very pale, her eyes asking the question her lips did not dare to utter. jack saw the question and understood. "he's dead," he said, briefly. "oh, jack, not that!" cried mary, her face gray with horror. "not that! i didn't mean it! god knows i didn't mean it!" "don't worry. 'twasn't me killed him. t knowed i couldn't do it. but i'd 'a' took him back to th' pen, myself, an' waited t' see him locked up." mary drew a deep breath of relief, and the colour returned to her face again. "thank god!" she said. "i was prayin' all night, jack, that you wouldn't find him; i was so worrited t' think that i'd let you go like that! and yet he wasn't no better than a snake!" "well, he's gittin' his deserts now," and jack told her the story of the finding of the body. mary listened to the end without offering to interrupt. "'twas god's judgment, jack," she said, solemnly, when he had finished. "but," she added, with a quick return of housewifely instinct, "you must be half-starved." "i _am_ purty hungry, an' that's a fact," he admitted. "what's that you've got on th' stove? it smells mighty good," and he sniffed appreciatively. "it's some chicken broth fer allan. would y' like some?" "a good thick beefsteak 'd be more in my line. how is th' boy?" "comin' on nicely," answered mary, as she hurried to the pantry. she reappeared in a moment, bringing back with her just the sort of steak jack was thinking of. he stared at it in astonishment. "what are you," he demanded, "a witch? do you jest wave your wand an' make things happen?" "oh, no," laughed mary. "i bought it this mornin'," and the steak was soon sizzling temptingly in a skillet. "and you're sure th' boy's comin' along all right?" he asked. "th' docther says he kin set up day arter t'-morrer. he's got his side in a plaster cast, an' says he'll keep it there till th' ribs knit. he says that won't take long." the doctor, as will be seen, counted on allan's perfect health and vigorous constitution; nor did he count in vain, for two days later he permitted the patient to rise from the bed, helped him carefully to descend the stairs, and saw him comfortably installed in a great padded chair by the front window, whence he could look down over the busy yards. "why, it seems like old times," he said, smiling, as he sank back into the chair. "it isn't so very long ago that i was sitting here with a bullet-hole through me." "you certainly have had your share," agreed the doctor. "it's just about two years since i cut that bullet out from under your shoulder-blade. what did you do with it?" "here it is," said mary, and taking a small bottle from the mantelpiece, she showed the little piece of flattened lead inside. "you'll get over this a good deal quicker," went on the doctor, reassuringly. "you may walk around a little, only be careful to move slowly and not to bring any strain or wrench upon the side. i'll look in once in awhile and make sure you're getting along all right," and with that he was gone. at the gate, allan saw him meet a mail-carrier, and pause to answer a question which the carrier put to him. then he jumped into his buggy, and drove away, while the carrier mounted to the front door and knocked. "i've got a registered letter here for john welsh," he said, when mary opened the door. "is he here?" "here i am," said jack, "but th' letter must be fer some other john welsh. where's it from?" "it's from coalville." "then it's fer you, jack," said mary, quickly. "all right; sign for it here," said the carrier, and presented the card and book. jack signed silently, and waited till the door closed behind the carrier. "i don't believe it's fer me," he said. "who'd be sendin' me a registered letter?" "the best way to find out is to open it," suggested allan. "here, you open it," said jack, "an' if it ain't fer me, shut it up agin. i've heerd o' people bein' sent t' jail fer openin' letters that didn't belong to 'em." "very well," assented allan, and tore open the envelope and drew out the letter. jack noticed how his face changed and his hands trembled as he glanced through it. "put it back, boy," he cried. "i knowed it wasn't fer me. put it back!" "yes, it _is_ for you, jack," said allan, looking up, his eyes bright with tears. listen: "'mr. john welsh, "'_wadsworth, ohio_. "'dear sir:--as you are no doubt aware, the coalville coal company offered a reward of five thousand dollars for the recovery of the chest, with contents intact, which was stolen on the night of the th inst. mr. jed hopkins and yourself succeeded in finding the chest, and an examination proved the contents to be undisturbed. it is with great pleasure, therefore, that i enclose the company's check for twenty-five hundred dollars, your share of the reward, and the company desires also to thank you for the great service which you assisted in rendering it. please acknowledge receipt of check. "very truly yours, "'s. r. alderson, "'_president_.'" for a moment, jack stood staring at allan, incapable of utterance; then, by a mighty effort, he pulled himself together. "but that ain't right!" he protested, violently. "i didn't find th' chest! i didn't do nothin'! it was jed hopkins. i jest went along! i didn't do a blame thing! i won't take it!" mary looked at him, her face alight with love and pride. "that's right, jack!" she cried. "we don't want nothin we hain't earned honest--we won't wrong nobody in this world!" allan sat looking at the slip of pink paper he held between his fingers. "i don't know," he said, slowly. "it seems to me that you are certainly entitled to a portion of the reward--perhaps not to half of it. you surely helped some." "if i did, i don't remember it," said jack. "besides--" a knock at the door interrupted him. mary opened it, to find a tall, lean figure standing on the threshold. "why, it's jed hopkins!" cried allan. "come in! come in!" "sure i will," laughed jed, stooping a little as he entered the door. "an' how is the kid?" "the kid's first-rate," allan assured him, clasping warmly the great palm held out to him. "mary and jack," he went on, turning to the others, "this is the man who saved my life. he was on fire himself and the flames were all about him, but he stopped long enough to get hold of me and pull me out." "oh, shet up!" protested jed. "i didn't stop at all. i jest sort o' hooked on to you as i was goin' past." mary came up to him, all her heart in her face. "we can't thank you," she said. "they ain't no use in our tryin' t' do that. but if that boy'd died like that--it--it--it would 'a' broke our hearts." "an' this is th' feller they think i'll rob," broke in jack. "rob?" repeated jed, looking at him. "do ye think fer a minute," cried jack, fiercely, "i'd take one penny o' that reward? not me! i didn't earn it! here!" and he seized the check from allan's fingers and crushed it into jed's hand. "take it. it's yourn." jed, his face very red, stared from the check to jack and from jack to the check. then a queer twinkle came into his eye. "oh, all right," he said, "if you feel that way." "i do," said jack, "an' so does mary," and he watched until jed had folded the check and placed it in his pocket. "now," he went on, with a sigh of relief, "i feel better. o' course you'll stay t' supper?" "o' course i will," answered jed, promptly, and mary bustled away to prepare the meal. and when it was served, half an hour later, jed was given the place of honour between jack and allan, with mamie and mary across from him. "well," he said, looking around at the smoking dishes, "this reminds me of old times, afore i pulled up stakes an' went west. i was born in new hampshire, an' didn't know when i was well off, an' so run away like so many fool boys do. i ain't had a home since--an' i've never had th' nerve t' go back thar an' face my old mother that i deserted like that. you see, i jest want t' show you what a good-fer-nothin' skunk i am." "you've got a home right here, if you want it," said mary, quickly, out of the depths of her heart. jed cleared his throat once or twice before he found the voice to answer. "mrs. welsh," he said, "i'm a-goin' back now, jest as fast as a train kin take me. i wanted t' come over fust an' say good-bye t' th' kid. he's clear grit. but i won't never fergit them words o' yours." at last he pushed his chair back from the table and rose. "th' best meal i've eat in twenty year," he said. "but i've got t' go--my train starts at six-ten. how much do i owe you?" "what!" cried jack, his eyes flashing. "owe us? ye don't owe us a cent!" "do you take me fer a dead beat!" shouted jed. "i'm a-goin' t' pay fer that meal. here," he cried, and fillped a folded bit of pink paper out upon the table, "take that. it's wuth it." allan alone understood, and he began to smile, though his eyes were wet. "you infernal galoot," went on jed, excitedly, "did you suppose fer a minute i'd take that money? i was never so near lickin' a man in my life! take it, or by george, i'll lick you yet!" and with that, he jumped on mamie, caught her up, kissed her, and fairly ran from the house. chapter xxix the young train dispatcher but those were happy hearts he left behind him, and sweet were the dreams they dreamed that night. mary, the summation and perfect example of irish housewives, dreamed of a little home in the suburbs, with an orchard and garden, and a yard for chickens, and a house for the cow, and a pen for the pigs, where she could be busy and happy all day long, working for her loved ones. jack dreamed of a new gown his wife should have, and of new dresses for mamie, and some new books for allan, and a new pipe for himself,--for jack had only a limited idea of what twenty-five hundred dollars would accomplish. and allan dreamed of the day when he, too, could come in as jed hopkins had done, and leave behind him a princely gift. "jack," said mary, at the table next morning, the memory of her dream still strong upon her, "i've been wishin' we could move t' some little place where we could kape chickens an' a cow." "i wish so, too, mary," said jack. "mebbe some day we kin." "it 'd be jest th' place fer mamie,--she don't git enough outdoors." "why, what's th' matter with her?" asked jack, with a quick glance at the child. "nothin' at all," mary hastened to assure him; "but she ought t' have a big yard t' play in--an' th' tracks is mighty dangerous." "yes, they is," jack agreed. "i wish we could git away from them." "well, i'll look around," said mary, and wisely let the subject drop there. she _did_ look around, and to such good purpose that two days later, which was sunday, she led jack triumphantly to a little house standing back from the road in a grove of trees, just outside the city limits. "i wanted ye to look at it," she said. "i thought mebbe you'd like t' live here." from the triumphant way in which she showed him about the place, and pointed out its beauties and advantages, it was quite evident that her own mind was made up. and, indeed, it was a perfect love of a place. the house was well-built and contained eight rooms--just the right number; the yard in front was shaded by graceful maples, and flanked on the left by a hedge of lilac. behind it was a milk-house, built of brick, and with a long stone trough at the bottom, through which cold, pure water from a near-by spring was always flowing. then there was a garden of nearly half an acre; an orchard containing more than a hundred trees, and outbuildings--just such outbuildings as mary had always longed for, roomy and dry and substantial. nearly an hour was consumed in the inspection, and finally they sat down together on the steps leading up to the front porch. "it's a mighty nice place," said jack. "there can't be no mistake about that." "an' it's fer sale," said mary. "fer sale cheap." "well, he'll be a lucky man what gits it." "jack," said mary, with sudden intensity, "you kin be that man--all you have t' do is to write your name acrost th' back of that little slip o' pink paper an' give it t' me. t'-morrer i'll bring you th' deed fer this place, an' we'll move in jest as soon as i kin git it cleaned up." jack looked about him and hesitated. "i wanted you t' have a new dress, mary," he said at last. "a silk one, what shines an' rustles when ye walk--like mrs. maroney's." "what do i keer fer a silk dress?" demanded mary, fiercely. "not that!" and she snapped her fingers. "i got plenty o' duds. but a home like this, jack,--i want a home like this!" there was an appeal in her voice there was no resisting, even had jack felt inclined to resist, which he did not in the least. he took from his pocket the slip of pink paper, now a little soiled, and from the other the stump of a lead pencil. slowly and painfully he wrote his name, then handed the check to mary. "there you are," he said. "an' i'm glad t' do it, darlint. fer this place suits me, too." and a pair of red-birds in the lilac hedge were astonished and somewhat scandalized to see the woman, who had been sitting quietly enough, fling herself upon him and hug him until he begged for mercy. * * * * * mamie had remained at home to entertain allan, which she did by getting him to read to her. she had grown to like jean valjean, too, though she preferred the thrilling portions of the story to the quieter ones which told of bishop welcome. this time she chose to hear again of jean valjean's flight across paris with cosette--how she shivered when he allowed that piece of money to rattle on the floor, or when, looking backward, he saw the police following him through the night; how she shuddered when he found himself trapped in that blind alley, hemmed in by lofty walls, where all seemed lost; and then the horrors of the hours that followed--but once cosette was stowed safely away in the hut of the old, lame gardener, the curly head began to nod, and allan, looking up at last from his reading, saw that she had gone to sleep. he laid his book aside, and sat for a long time looking down over the yards, busy even on sunday; for the work of a great railroad never ceases, day or night, from year end to year end. he thought of the evening, nearly three years agone, when he had first crossed the yards by jack welsh's side, a homeless boy, who was soon to find a home indeed. how many times he had crossed them since! how many times-- a man was crossing them now, a well-dressed, well-set-up man, whom, even at that distance, the boy knew perfectly. it was mr. schofield, who had proved himself so true a friend. allan, as he came nearer, waved at him from the window, pleased at the chance for even a distant greeting; but instead of passing by, the trainmaster entered the gate and mounted toward the house. allan had the door open in a moment. "why, hello," said the trainmaster, shaking his outstretched hand warmly. "are you as spry as all this? you'll soon be able to report for duty." "i can report to-morrow, if you need me, sir," allan answered. "i can't indulge in any athletics, yet, but i can work a key all right. besides, i'm tired of sitting around doing nothing." "well, we'll say thursday," said mr. schofield. "i can manage to worry along without you till then." "i'll be on hand thursday morning," allan promised. "oh, i don't want you in the morning--you'll report at eleven at night for the third trick, east end." "why," stammered allan, his lips trembling, "why, do you mean--" "i mean you're a regular dispatcher," explained the trainmaster, briefly. "nothing extraordinary about it at all. mr. heywood has been made general manager, with headquarters at cincinnati, so we all take a step up." "then you're--" "yes, i'm superintendent. look about the same, don't i?" allan held out his hands. "i'm glad," he said. "and i know one thing--there's not a road on earth that's got a better one!" * * * * * the doctor looked rather grave when allan told him he was going to work thursday night, but really there was little danger so long as the boy was careful to avoid strain on the injured side. the plaster cast had been removed, and in its place had been substituted by a broad leather bandage, drawn so tightly about the chest as to prevent all movement of the ribs. that was to stay there until the injury was quite healed. but, aside from the discomfort of this bandage, the boy was in no pain, he had had no fever after the second day; and, despite the fiery protests of jack and mary, the doctor finally consented that allan should go to work as he had promised. "t' think of a boy with two broke ribs in his body a-goin' t' work--an' at sech a time o' night!" fumed mary, as she packed his lunch-basket for him. "but a railroad ain't got no feelin's. all it wants is t' work a man till he's played out an' done fer, an' then throw him away like an old glove." "maybe i can get a job as crossing watchman when that time comes," laughed allan. "i ought to be good for a few years yet, anyway." "it wouldn't surprise me a bit t' be follerin' yer coffin a week from now," declared mary, darkly; but, just the same, it would have surprised her very much. allan laughed again, as he took up his lunch-basket and started across the yards. he was a little early, but he wanted to spend an extra five or ten minutes going over the train-orders, to make sure that he understood them thoroughly. as he approached the station, he saw two carriages drive up. a number of young men and women got out of them--they had evidently been packed in pretty tight--and gathered in a voluble group on the platform, evidently waiting for the east-bound flyer, which was almost due. allan, passing quite near, suddenly found himself looking into the blue eyes of betty heywood. instinctively he raised his hat. "why, how do you do," she said, and held out her hand in the old, friendly manner. "i hear you've been distinguishing yourself again." "just blundering into trouble," he answered, smiling. "some people are always doing that, you know." "well, that's better than running away from it--some people do that, too." "oh, yes," he agreed, and then stopped. he found it strangely difficult to talk to her with all these friends about her. if they were only alone together-- "i'm going away to school," she went on, seemingly not noticing his shyness. "then you'll be gone a long time?" "oh, i'm never coming back to wadsworth--that is to live. you see, we're moving to cincinnati, where papa will have his headquarters. but, of course," she added, "i shall often come back to see my friends. oh, there's my train! good-bye!" and she held out her hand again. "good-bye," said allan; then, not trusting himself to speak, he turned hastily away and mounted the stairs to the office. but he carried a sweet thought warm against his heart. part of the duty of his first trick would be to guard betty heywood from harm, as the train which bore her sped eastward through the night. and here this tale must end. perhaps, some day, the story will be told of how allan west fulfilled the duties of his new position; of the trials he underwent and the triumphs he achieved; of how he made new friends, yes, and new enemies, as every man must who plays a man's part in the world; and of how, finally, he won great happiness in the days when the boys in cab, and caboose, and section-shanty loved to refer to him, with shining eyes and smiling lips, as "the young trainmaster; the best in the country--and a true friend to us!" the end. * * * * * selections from l. c. page & company's books for young people the blue bonnet series _each large mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume_ $ . _the seven volumes, boxed as a set_ . a texas blue bonnet by caroline e. jacobs. blue bonnet's ranch party by caroline e. jacobs and edyth ellerbeck read. blue bonnet in boston by caroline e. jacobs and lela horn richards. blue bonnet keeps house by caroline e. jacobs and lela horn richards. blue bonnet--dÉbutante by lela horn richards. blue bonnet of the seven stars by lela horn richards. blue bonnet's family by lela horn richards. "blue bonnet has the very finest kind of wholesome, honest, lively girlishness and cannot but make friends with every one who meets her through these books about her."--_chicago inter-ocean._ "blue bonnet and her companions are real girls, the kind that one would like to have in one's home."--_new york sun._ the henrietta series by lela horn richards _each one volume, mo, illustrated_ $ . only henrietta "it is an inspiring story of the unfolding of life for a young girl--a story in which there is plenty of action to hold interest and wealth of delicate sympathy and understanding that appeals to the hearts of young and old."--_pittsburgh leader._ henrietta's inheritance "one of the most noteworthy stories for girls issued this season. the life of henrietta is made very real, and there is enough incident in the narrative to balance the delightful characterization."--_providence journal._ stories by i. m. b. of k. _each one volume, mo, illustrated_ $ . the young knight the clash of broad-sword on buckler, the twanging of bow-strings and the cracking of spears splintered by whirling maces resound through this stirring tale of knightly daring-do. the young cavaliers "there have been many scores of books written about the charles stuarts of england, but never a merrier and more pathetic one than 'the young cavaliers.'"--_family herald._ the king's minstrel "the interesting situations are numerous, and the spirit of the hero is one of courage, devotion and resource."--_columbus dispatch._ "it is told with spirit and action."--_buffalo express._ "the story will please all those who read it, and will be of particular interest for the boys for whom it was intended. it is a tale of devotion to an ideal of service and as such will appeal to youth."--_portage register-democrat._ "there is a lofty ideal throughout, some court intrigue, a smattering of the decadence of the old church heads, and a readable story."--_middletown press._ the boys' story of the railroad series by burton e. stevenson _each large mo, cloth decorative, illustrated_, $ . the young section-hand; or, the adventures of allan west. "the whole range of section railroading is covered in the story."--_chicago post._ the young train dispatcher "a vivacious account of the varied and often hazardous nature of railroad life."--_congregationalist._ the young train master "it is a book that can be unreservedly commended to anyone who loves a good, wholesome, thrilling, informing yarn."--_passaic news._ the young apprentice; or, allan west's chum. "the story is intensely interesting."--_baltimore sun._ the days of chivalry series of worth while classics for boys and girls _revised and edited for the modern reader_ _each large mo, illustrated and with a poster jacket in full color_ $ . the days of chivalry by w. h. davenport adams. the chaplet of pearls by c. m. yonge. erling the bold by r. m. ballantyne. winning his knighthood; or, the adventures of raoulf de gyssage. by h. turing bruce. "tales which ring to the clanking of armour, tales of marches and counter-marches, tales of wars, but tales which bring peace; a peace and contentment in the knowledge that right, even in the darkest times, has survived and conquered."--_portland evening express._ barbara winthrop series by helen katherine broughall _each one volume, cloth decorative, mo, illustrated_ $ . barbara winthrop at boarding school barbara winthrop at camp barbara winthrop: graduate barbara winthrop abroad "full of adventure--initiations, joys, picnics, parties, tragedies, vacation and all. just what girls like, books in which 'dreams come true,' entertaining 'gossipy' books overflowing with conversation."--_salt lake city deseret news._ "high ideals and a real spirit of fun underlie the stories. they will be a decided addition to the book-shelves of the young girl for whom a holiday gift is contemplated."--_los angeles saturday night._ doctor's little girl series by marion ames taggart _each large mo, cloth, illustrated, per volume_, $ . the doctor's little girl "a charming story of the ups and downs of the life of a dear little maid."--_the churchman._ sweet nancy: the further adventures of the doctor's little girl. "just the sort of book to amuse, while its influence cannot but be elevating."--_new york sun._ nancy, the doctor's little partner "the story is sweet and fascinating, such as many girls of wholesome tastes will enjoy."--_springfield union._ nancy porter's opportunity "nancy shows throughout that she is a splendid young woman, with plenty of pluck."--_boston globe._ nancy and the coggs twins "the story is refreshing."--_new york sun._ the peggy raymond series by harriet lummis smith _each one volume, cloth, decorative, mo, illustrated, per volume_ $ . peggy raymond's success; or, the girls of friendly terrace. "it is a book that cheers, that inspires to higher thinking; it knits hearts; it unfolds neighborhood plans in a way that makes one tingle to try carrying them out, and most of all it proves that in daily life, threads of wonderful issues are being woven in with what appears the most ordinary of material, but which in the end brings results stranger than the most thrilling fiction."--_belle kellogg towne in the young people's weekly, chicago._ peggy raymond's vacation "it is a clean, wholesome, hearty story, well told and full of incident. it carries one through experiences that hearten and brighten the day."--_utica, n. y., observer._ peggy raymond's school days "it is a bright, entertaining story, with happy girls, good times, natural development, and a gentle earnestness of general tone."--_the christian register, boston._ peggy raymond's friendly terrace quartette "the story is told in easy and entertaining style and is a most delightful narrative, especially for young people. it will also make the older readers feel younger, for while reading it they will surely live again in the days of their youth."--_troy budget._ peggy raymond's way "the author has again produced a story that is replete with wholesome incidents and makes peggy more lovable than ever as a companion and leader."--_world of books._ famous leaders series by charles h. l. johnston _each large mo, cloth decorative, illustrated, per volume (unless otherwise stated)_ $ . famous cavalry leaders "more of such books should be written, books that acquaint young readers with historical personages in a pleasant, informal way."--_new york sun._ famous indian chiefs "mr. johnston has done faithful work in this volume, and his relation of battles, sieges and struggles of these famous indians with the whites for the possession of america is a worthy addition to united states history."--_new york marine journal._ famous scouts "it is the kind of a book that will have a great fascination for boys and young men."--_new london day._ famous privateersmen and adventurers of the sea "the tales are more than merely interesting; they are entrancing, stirring the blood with thrilling force."--_pittsburgh post._ famous frontiersmen and heroes of the border "the accounts are not only authentic, but distinctly readable, making a book of wide appeal to all who love the history of actual adventure."--_cleveland leader._ famous discoverers and explorers of america "the book is an epitome of some of the wildest and bravest adventures of which the world has known."--_brooklyn daily eagle._ famous generals of the great war who led the united states and her allies to a glorious victory. "the pages of this book have the charm of romance without its unreality. the book illuminates, with life-like portraits, the history of the world war."--_rochester post express._ famous american athletes of today _cloth mo, illustrated from specially autographed photographs_ $ . "from lindy to bobby jones, including helen and trudy, they are all here--and a right fine company they are. we are not acquainted with anyone who will not enjoy these fascinating stories of virile people."--_monthly book talk._ by edwin wildman the founders of america (lives of great americans from the revolution to the monroe doctrine) the builders of america (lives of great americans from the monroe doctrine to the civil war) famous leaders of character (lives of great americans from the civil war to today) famous leaders of industry.--first series famous leaders of industry.--second series "these biographies drive home the truth that just as every soldier of napoleon carried a marshal's baton in his knapsack, so every american youngster carries potential success under his hat."--_new york world._ by charles lee lewis _professor, united states naval academy, annapolis_ famous american naval officers with a complete index. "in connection with the life of john paul jones, stephen decatur, and other famous naval officers, he groups the events of the period in which the officer distinguished himself, and combines the whole into a colorful and stirring narrative."--_boston herald._ stories by evaleen stein _each one volume, mo, illustrated_ $ . gabriel and the hour book a little shepherd of provence the christmas porringer the little count of normandy pepin: a tale of twelfth night children's stories the circus dwarf stories when fairies were friendly troubadour tales "no works in juvenile fiction contain so many of the elements that stir the hearts of children and grown-ups as well as do the stories so admirably told by this author."--_louisville daily courier._ "evaleen stein's stories are music in prose--they are like pearls on a chain of gold--each word seems exactly the right word in the right place; the stories sing themselves out, they are so beautifully expressed."--_the lafayette leader._ * * * * * transcriber's note the morse code image just before the "contents" page appears to translate as follows: .. -. ¦ .- ..... ..... . .. . .. . .. .- - .. . . -. ¦ . . .-. ¦ i n ¦ a p p r e c i a t i o n ¦ o f ¦ - .... . .. . .. ¦ .- ... ... .. ... - .- -. .. . . ¦ t h e i r ¦ a s s i s t a n c e ¦ .- -. -.. ¦ -.- .. -. -.. ¬¬ .. .. ¦ .. -. - . . .. . ... - a n d ¦ k i n d l y ¦ i n t e r e s t [note: ¬¬ equals the longer 'dash' in the image.] time correction on page , no. is reported to pass madeira at " . ". however, the time of travel for no. between madeira and norwood was minutes and no. left norwood at " : " (according to the "train sheet"). so, " . " was changed to " . ". transcriber's note: inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have been preserved. obvious typographical errors have been corrected. the book uses both "doc." and "doc". italic text is denoted by _underscores_. excuse me! [illustration] excuse me! _by_ rupert hughes author of "the old nest" with five illustrations a. l. burt company publishers new york copyright, , by the h. k. fly company contents chapter page i. the wreck of the taxicab ii. the early birds and the worm iii. in darkest chicago iv. a mouse and a mountain v. a queen among women vi. a conspiracy in satin vii. the masked minister viii. a mixed pickle ix. all aboard! x. excess baggage xi. a chance rencounter xii. the needle in the haystack xiii. hostilities begin xiv. the dormitory on wheels xv. a premature divorce xvi. good night, all! xvii. last call for breakfast xviii. in the composite car xix. foiled! xx. foiled again! xxi. matrimony to and fro xxii. in the smoking room xxiii through a tunnel xxiv. the train butcher xxv. the train wrecker xxvi. delilah and the conductor xxvii. the dog-on dog again xxviii. the woman-hater's relapse xxix. jealousy comes aboard xxx. a wedding on wheels xxxi. foiled yet again xxxii. the empty berth xxxiii. fresh trouble daily xxxiv. the complete divorcer xxxv. mr. and mrs. little jimmie xxxvi. a duel for a bracelet xxxvii. down brakes! xxxviii. hands up! xxxix. wolves in the fold xl. a hero in spite of himself xli. clickety-clickety-clickety illustrations no tips were to be expected from such transients _frontispiece_ page "now it's my vacation, and i'm going to smoke up" marjorie fairly forced the dog on him down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst of ironical rice "why, richard--chauncey!--er--billy! i'm amazed at you! let go, or i'll scream!" excuse me! chapter i the wreck of the taxicab the young woman in the taxicab scuttling frantically down the dark street, clung to the arm of the young man alongside, as if she were terrified at the lawbreaking, neck-risking speed. but evidently some greater fear goaded her, for she gasped: "can't he go a little faster?" "can't you go a little faster?" the young man alongside howled as he thrust his head and shoulders through the window in the door. but the self-created taxi-gale swept his voice aft, and the taut chauffeur perked his ear in vain to catch the vanishing syllables. "what's that?" he roared. "can't you go a little faster?" the indignant charioteer simply had to shoot one barbed glare of reproach into that passenger. he turned his head and growled: "say, do youse want to lose me me license?" for just one instant he turned his head. one instant was just enough. the unguarded taxicab seized the opportunity, bolted from the track, and flung, as it were, its arms drunkenly around a perfectly respectable lamppost attending strictly to its business on the curb. there ensued a condensed fourth of july. sparks flew, tires exploded, metals ripped, two wheels spun in air and one wheel, neatly severed at the axle, went reeling down the sidewalk half a block before it leaned against a tree and rested. a dozen or more miracles coincided to save the passengers from injury. the young man found himself standing on the pavement with the unhinged door still around his neck. the young woman's arms were round his neck. her head was on his shoulder. it had reposed there often enough, but never before in the street under a lamppost. the chauffeur found himself in the road, walking about on all fours, like a bewildered quadruped. evidently some overpowering need for speed possessed the young woman, for even now she did not scream, she did not faint, she did not murmur, "where am i?" she simply said: "what time is it, honey?" and the young man, not realizing how befuddled he really was, or how his hand trembled, fetched out his watch and held it under the glow of the lamppost, which was now bent over in a convenient but disreputable attitude. "a quarter to ten, sweetheart. plenty of time for the train." "but the minister, honey! what about the minister? how are we going to get to the minister?" the consideration of this riddle was interrupted by a muffled hubbub of yelps, whimpers, and canine hysterics. immediately the young woman forgot ministers, collisions, train-schedules--everything. she showed her first sign of panic. "snoozleums! get snoozleums!" they groped about in the topsy-turvy taxicab, rummaged among a jumble of suitcases, handbags, umbrellas and minor _impedimenta_, and fished out a small dog-basket with an inverted dog inside. snoozleums was ridiculous in any position, but as he slid tail foremost from the wicker basket, he resembled nothing so much as a heap of tangled yarn tumbling out of a work-basket. he was an indignant skein, and had much to say before he consented to snuggle under his mistress' chin. about this time the chauffeur came prowling into view. he was too deeply shocked to emit any language of the garage. he was too deeply shocked to achieve any comment more brilliant than: "that mess don't look much like it ever was a taxicab, does it?" the young man shrugged his shoulders, and stared up and down the long street for another. the young woman looked sorrowfully at the wreck, and queried: "do you think you can make it go?" the chauffeur glanced her way, more in pity for her whole sex than in scorn for this one type, as he mumbled: "make it go? it'll take a steam winch a week to unwrap it from that lamppost." the young man apologized. "i oughtn't to have yelled at you." he was evidently a very nice young man. not to be outdone in courtesy, the chauffeur retorted: "i hadn't ought to have turned me head." the young woman thought, "what a nice chauffeur!" but she gasped: "great heavens, you're hurt!" "it's nuttin' but a scratch on me t'umb." "lend me a clean handkerchief, harry." the young man whipped out his reserve supply, and in a trice it was a bandage on the chauffeur's hand. the chauffeur decided that the young woman was even nicer than the young man. but he could not settle on a way to say to it. so he said nothing, and grinned sheepishly as he said it. the young man named harry was wondering how they were to proceed. he had already studied the region with dismay, when the girl resolved: "we'll have to take another taxi, harry." "yes, marjorie, but we can't take it till we get it." "you might wait here all night wit'out ketchin' a glimp' of one," the chauffeur ventured. "i come this way because you wanted me to take a short cut." "it's the longest short cut i ever saw," the young man sighed, as he gazed this way and that. the place of their shipwreck was so deserted that not even a crowd had gathered. the racket of the collision had not brought a single policeman. they were in a dead world of granite warehouses, wholesale stores and factories, all locked and forbidding, and full of silent gloom. in the daytime this was a big trade-artery of chicago, and all day long it was thunderous with trucks and commerce. at night it was pompeii, so utterly abandoned that the night watchmen rarely slept outside, and no footpad found it worth while to set up shop. the three castaways stared every which way, and every which way was peace. the ghost of a pedestrian or two hurried by in the far distance. a cat or two went furtively in search of warfare or romance. the lampposts stretched on and on in both directions in two forevers. in the faraway there was a muffled rumble and the faint clang of a bell. somewhere a street car was bumping along its rails. "our only hope," said harry. "come along, marjorie." he handed the chauffeur five dollars as a poultice to his wounds, tucked the girl under one arm and the dog-basket under the other, and set out, calling back to the chauffeur: "good night!" "good night!" the girl called back. "good night!" the chauffeur echoed. he stood watching them with the tender gaze that even a chauffeur may feel for young love hastening to a honeymoon. he stood beaming so, till their footsteps died in the silence. then he turned back to the chaotic remnants of his machine. he worked at it hopelessly for some time, before he had reason to look within. there he found the handbags and suitcases, umbrellas and other equipment. he ran to the corner to call after the owners. they were as absent of body as they had been absent of mind. he remembered the street-number they had given him as their destination. he waited till at last a yawning policeman sauntered that way like a lonely beach patrol, and left him in charge while he went to telephone his garage for a wagon and a wrecking crew. it was close on midnight before he reached the number his fares had given him. it was a parsonage leaning against a church. he rang the bell and finally produced from an upper window a nightshirt topped by a frowsy head. he explained the situation, and his possession of certain properties belonging to parties unknown except by their first names. the clergyman drowsily murmured: "oh, yes. i remember. the young man was lieutenant henry mallory, and he said he would stop here with a young lady, and get married on the way to the train. but they never turned up." "lieutenant mallory, eh? where could i reach him?" "he said he was leaving to-night for the philippines." "the philippines! well, i'll be----" the minister closed the window just in time. chapter ii the early birds and the worm in the enormous barn of the railroad station stood many strings of cars, as if a gigantic young gulliver stabled his toys there and invisibly amused himself; now whisking this one away, now backing that other in. some of the trains were noble equipages, fitted to glide across the whole map with cargoes of lilliputian millionaires and their lilliputian ladies. others were humble and shabby linked-up day-coaches and dingy smoking-cars, packed with workers, like ants. cars are mere vehicles, but locomotives have souls. the express engines roll in or stalk out with grandeur and ease. they are like emperors. they seem to look with scorn at the suburban engines snorting and grunting and shaking the arched roof with their plebeian choo-choo as they puff from shop to cottage and back. the trainmen take their cue from the behavior of their locomotives. the conductor of a transcontinental nods to the conductor of a shuttle-train with less cordiality than to a brakeman of his own. the engineers of the limiteds look like senators in overalls. they are far-traveled men, leading a mighty life of adventure. they are pilots of land-ships across land-oceans. they have a right to a certain condescension of manner. but no one feels or shows so much arrogance as the sleeping car porters. they cannot pronounce "supercilious," but they can be it. their disdain for the entire crew of any train that carries merely day-coaches or half-baked chair-cars, is expressed as only a darkey in a uniform can express disdain for poor white trash. of all the haughty porters that ever curled a lip, the haughtiest by far was the dusky attendant in the san francisco sleeper on the trans-american limited. his was the train of trains in that whole system. his car the car of cars. his passengers the surpassengers of all. his train stood now waiting to set forth upon a voyage of two thousand miles, a journey across seven imperial states, a journey that should end only at that marge where the continent dips and vanishes under the breakers of the pacific ocean. at the head of his car, with his little box-step waiting for the foot of the first arrival, the porter stood, his head swelling under his cap, his breast swelling beneath his blue blouse, with its brass buttons like reflections of his own eyes. his name was ellsworth jefferson, but he was called anything from "poarr-turr" to "pawtah," and he usually did not come when he was called. to-night he was wondering perhaps what passengers, with what dispositions, would fall to his lot. perhaps he was wondering what his chicago sweetheart would be doing in the eight days before his return. perhaps he was wondering what his san francisco sweetheart had been doing in the five days since he left her, and how she would pass the three days that must intervene before he reached her again. he had othello's ebon color. did he have othello's green eye? whatever his thoughts, he chatted gaily enough with his neighbor and colleague of the portland sleeper. suddenly he stopped in the midst of a soaring chuckle. "lordy, man, looky what's a-comin'!" the portland porter turned to gaze. "i got my fingers crossed." "i hope you git him." "i hope i don't." "he'll work you hard and cuss you out, and he won't give you even a much obliged." "that's right. he ain't got a usher to carry his things. and he's got enough to fill a van." the oncomer was plainly of english origin. it takes all sorts of people to make up the british empire, and there is no sort lacking--glorious or pretty, or sour or sweet. but this was the type of english globe-trotter that makes himself as unpopular among foreigners as he is among his own people. he is almost as unendurable as the americans abroad who twang their banjo brag through europe, and berate france and italy for their innocence of buckwheat cakes. the two porters regarded mr. harold wedgewood with dread, as he bore down on them. he was almost lost in the plethora of his own luggage. he asked for the san francisco sleeper, and the portland porter had to turn away to smother his gurgling relief. ellsworth jefferson's heart sank. he made a feeble effort at self-protection. the pullman conductor not being present at the moment, he inquired: "have you got yo' ticket?" "of cawse." "could i see it?" "of cawse not. too much trouble to fish it out." the porter was fading. "do you remember yo' numba?" "of cawse. take these." he began to pile things on the porter like a mountain unloading an avalanche. the porter stumbled as he clambered up the steps, and squeezed through the strait path of the corridor into the slender aisle. he turned again and again to question the invader, but he was motioned and bunted down the car, till he was halted with a "this will do." the englishman selected section three for his own. the porter ventured: "are you sho' this is yo' numba?" "of cawse i'm shaw. how dare you question my----" "i wasn't questionin' you, boss, i was just astin' you." he resigned himself to the despot, and began to transfer his burdens to the seat. but he did nothing to the satisfaction of the englishman. everything must be placed otherwise; the catch-all here, the portmanteau there, the gladstone there, the golfsticks there, the greatcoat there, the raincoat there. the porter was puffing like a donkey-engine, and mutiny was growing in his heart. his last commission was the hanging up of the bowler hat. he stood on the arm of the seat to reach the high hook. from here he paused to glare down with an attempt at irony. "is they anything else?" "no. you may get down." the magnificent patronage of this wilted the porter completely. he returned to the lower level, and shuffled along the aisle in a trance. he was quickly recalled by a sharp: "pawtah!" "yassah!" "what time does this bally train start?" "ten-thutty, sah." "but it's only ten now." "yassah. it'll be ten-thutty a little later." "do you mean to tell me that i've got to sit hyah for half an hour--just waitin'?" the porter essayed another bit of irony: "well," he drawled, "i might tell the conducta you're ready. and mebbe he'd start the train. but the time-table says ten-thutty." he watched the effect of his satire, but it fell back unheeded from the granite dome of the englishman, whose only comment was: "oh, never mind. i'll wait." the porter cast his eyes up in despair, and turned away, once more to be recalled. "oh, pawtah!" "yassah!" "i think we'll put on my slippahs." "will we?" "you might hand me that large bag. no, stupid, the othah one. you might open it. no, its in the othah one. ah, that's it. you may set it down." mr. wedgewood brought forth a soft cap and a pair of red slippers. the porter made another effort to escape, his thoughts as black as his face. again the relentless recall: "oh, pawtah, i think we'll unbutton my boots." he was too weak to murmur "yassah." he simply fell on one knee and got to work. there was a witness to his helpless rage--a newcomer, the american counterpart of the englishman in all that makes travel difficult for the fellow travelers. ira lathrop was zealous to resent anything short of perfection, quick and loud of complaint, apparently impossible to please. in everything else he was the opposite of the englishman. he was burly, middle-aged, rough, careless in attire, careless of speech--as uncouth and savage as one can well be who is plainly a man of means. it was not enough that a freeborn afro-american should be caught kneeling to an englishman. but when he had escaped this penance, and advanced hospitably to the newcomer, he must be greeted with a snarl. "say, are you the porter of this car, or that man's nurse?" "i can't tell yet. what's yo' numba, please?" the answer was the ticket. the porter screwed up his eyes to read the pencilled scrawl. "numba se'm. heah she is, boss." "right next to a lot of women, i'll bet. couldn't you put me in the men's end of the car?" "not ve'y well, suh. i reckon the cah is done sold out." with a growl of rage, ira lathrop slammed into the seat his entire hand baggage, one ancient and rusty valise. the porter gazed upon him with increased depression. the passenger list had opened inauspiciously with two of the worst types of travelers the anglo-saxon race has developed. but their anger was not their worst trait in the porter's eyes. he was, in a limited way, an expert in human character. when you meet a stranger you reveal your own character in what you ask about his. with some, the first question is, "who are his people?" with others, "what has he achieved?" with others, "how much is he worth?" each gauges his cordiality according to his estimate. the porter was not curious on any of these points. he showed a democratic indifference to them. his one vital inquiry was: "how much will he tip?" his inspection of his first two charges promised small returns. he buttoned up his cordiality, and determined to waste upon them the irreducible minimum of attention. it would take at least a bridal couple to restore the balance. but bridal couples in their first bloom rarely fell to the lot of that porter, for what bridal couple wants to lock itself in with a crowd of passengers for the first seventy-two hours of wedded bliss? the porter banished the hope as a vanity. little he knew how eagerly the young castaways from that wrecked taxicab desired to be a bridal couple, and to catch this train. but the englishman was restive again: "pawtah! i say, pawtah!" "yassah!" "what time are we due in san francisco?" "san francisco? san francisco? we are doo thah the evenin' of the fo'th day. this bein' monday, that ought to bring us in abote thuzzday evenin'." the yankee felt called upon to check the foreign usurper. "porrterr!" "yassah!" "don't let that fellow monopolize you. he probably won't tip you at all." the porter grew confidential: "oh, i know his kind, sah. they don't tip you for what you do do, but they're ready letter writers to the sooperintendent for what you don't do." "pawtah! i say, pawtah!" "here, porrterr." the porter tried to imitate the irish bird, and be in two places at once. the american had a coin in his hand. the porter caught the gleam of it, and flitted thither. the yankee growled: "don't forget that i'm on the train, and when we get to 'frisco there may be something more." the porter had the coin in his hand. its heft was light. he sighed: "i hope so." the englishman was craning his head around owlishly to ask: "i say, pawtah, does this train ever get wrecked?" "well, it hasn't yet," and he murmured to the yankee, "but i has hopes." the englishman's voice was querulous again. "i say, pawtah, open a window, will you? the air is ghastly, abso-ripping-lutely ghastly." the yankee growled: "no wonder we had the revolutionary war!" then he took from his pocket an envelope addressed to ira lathrop & co., and from the envelope he took a contract, and studied it grimly. the envelope bore a chinese stamp. the porter, as he struggled with an obstinate window, wondered what sort of passenger fate would send him next. chapter iii in darkest chicago the castaways from the wrecked taxicab hurried along the doleful street. both of them knew their chicago, but this part of it was not their chicago. they hailed a pedestrian, to ask where the nearest street car line might be, and whither it might run. he answered indistinctly from a discreet distance, as he hastened away. perhaps he thought their question merely a footpad's introduction to a sandbagging episode. in chicago at night one never knows. "as near as i can make out what he said, marjorie," the lieutenant pondered aloud, "we walk straight ahead till we come to umtyump street, and there we find a rarara car that will take us to bloptyblop avenue. i never heard of any such streets, did you?" "never," she panted, as she jog-trotted alongside his military pace. "let's take the first car we meet, and perhaps the conductor can put us off at the street where the minister lives." "perhaps." there was not much confidence in that "perhaps." when they reached the street-carred street, they found two tracks, but nothing occupying them, as far as they could peer either way. a small shopkeeper in a tiny shop proved to be a delicatessen merchant so busily selling foreign horrors to aliens, that they learned nothing from him. at length, in the far-away, they made out a headlight, and heard the grind and squeal of a car. lieutenant mallory waited for it, watch in hand. he boosted marjorie's elbow aboard and bombarded the conductor with questions. but the conductor had no more heard of their street than they had of his. their agitation did not disturb his stoic calm, but he invited them to come along to the next crossing, where they could find another car and more learned conductors; or, what promised better, perhaps a cab. he threw marjorie into a panic by ordering her to jettison snoozleums, but the lieutenant bought his soul for a small price, and overlooked the fact that he did not ring up their fares. the young couple squeezed into a seat and talked anxiously in sharp whispers. "wouldn't it be terrible, harry, if, just as we got to the minister's, we should find papa there ahead of us, waiting to forbid the bands, or whatever it is? wouldn't it be just terrible?" "yes, it would, honey, but it doesn't seem probable. there are thousands of ministers in chicago. he could never find ours. fact is. i doubt if we find him ourselves." her clutch tightened till he would have winced, if he had not been a soldier. "what do you mean, harry?" "well, in the first place, honey, look what time it is. hardly more than time enough to get the train, to say nothing of hunting for that preacher and standing up through a long rigmarole." "why, harry mallory, are you getting ready to jilt me?" "indeed i'm not--not for worlds, honey, but i've got to get that train, haven't i?" "couldn't you wait over one train--just one tiny little train?" "my own, own honey love, you know it's impossible! you must remember that i've already waited over three trains while you tried to make up your mind." "and you must remember, darling, that it's no easy matter for a girl to decide to sneak away from home and be married secretly, and go all the way out to that hideous manila with no trousseau and no wedding presents and no anything." "i know it isn't, and i waited patiently while you got up the courage. but now there are no more trains. i shudder to think of this train being late. we're not due in san francisco till thursday evening, and my transport sails at sunrise friday morning. oh, lord, what if i should miss that transport! what if i should!" "what if we should miss the minister?" "it begins to look a great deal like it." "but, harry, you wouldn't desert me now--abandon me to my fate?" "well, it isn't exactly like abandonment, seeing that you could go home to your father and mother in a taxicab." she stared at him in horror. "so you don't want me for your wife! you've changed your mind! you're tired of me already! only an hour together, and you're sick of your bargain! you're anxious to get rid of me! you----" "oh, honey, i want you more than anything else on earth, but i'm a soldier, dearie, a mere lieutenant in the regular army, and i'm the slave of the government. i've gone through west point, and they won't let me resign respectably and if i did, we'd starve. they wouldn't accept my resignation, but they'd be willing to courtmartial me and dismiss me the service in disgrace. then you wouldn't want to marry me--and i shouldn't have any way of supporting you if you did. i only know one trade, and that's soldiering." "don't call it a trade, beloved, it's the noblest profession in all the world, and you're the noblest soldier that ever was, and in a year or two you'll be the biggest general in the army." he could not afford to shatter such a devout illusion or quench the light of faith in those beloved and loving eyes. he tacitly admitted his ability to be promoted commander-in-chief in a year or two. he allowed that glittering possibility to remain, used it as a basis for argument. "then, dearest, you must help me to do my duty." she clasped his upper arm as if it were an altar and she an iphigenia about to be sacrificed to save the army. and she murmured with utter heroism: "i will! do what you like with me!" he squeezed her hand between his biceps and his ribs and accepted the offering in a look drenched with gratitude. then he said, matter-of-factly: "we'll see how much time we have when we get to--whatever the name of that street is." the car jolted and wailed on its way like an old drifting rocking chair. the motorman was in no hurry. the passengers seemed to have no occasion for haste. somebody got on or got off at almost every corner, and paused for conversation while the car waited patiently. but eventually the conductor put his head in and drawled: "hay! here's where you get off at." they hastened to debark and found themselves in a narrow, gaudily-lighted region where they saw a lordly transfer-distributor, a profound scholar in chicago streets. he informed them that the minister's street lay far back along the path they had come; they should have taken a car in the opposite direction, transferred at some remote center, descended at some unheard-of street, walked three blocks one way and four another, and there they would have been. mallory looked at his watch, and marjorie's hopes dropped like a wrecked aeroplane, for he grimly asked how long it would take them to reach the railroad station. "well, you'd ought to make it in forty minutes," the transfer agent said--and added, cynically, "if the car makes schedule." "good lord, the train starts in twenty minutes!" "well, i tell you--take this here green car to wexford avenoo--there's usually a taxicab or two standin' there." "thank you. hop on, marjorie." marjorie hopped on, and they sat down, mallory with eyes and thoughts on nothing but the watch he kept in his hand. during this tense journey the girl perfected her soul for graceful martyrdom. "i'll go to the train with you, harry, and then you can send me home in a taxicab." her nether lip trembled and her eyes were filmed, but they were brave, and her voice was so tender that it wooed his mind from his watch. he gazed at her, and found her so dear, so devoted and so pitifully exquisite, that he was almost overcome by an impulse to gather her into his arms there and then, indifferent to the immediate passengers or to his far-off military superiors. an hour ago they were young lovers in all the lilt and thrill of elopement. she had clung to him in the gloaming of their taxicab, as it sped like a genie at their whim to the place where the minister would unite their hands and raise his own in blessing. thence the new husband would have carried the new wife away, his very own, soul and body, duty and beauty. then, ah, then in their minds the future was an unwaning honeymoon, the journey across the continent a stroll along a lover's lane, the pacific ocean a garden lake, and the philippines a chain of fortunate isles decreed especially for their eden. and then the taxicab encountered a lamppost. they thought they had merely wrecked a motor car--and lo, they had wrecked a paradise. the railroad ceased to be a lover's lane and became a lingering torment; the ocean was a weltering sahara, and the philippines a dry tortugas of exile. mallory realized for the first time what heavy burdens he had taken on with his shoulder straps; what a dismal life of restrictions and hardships an officer's life is bound to be. it was hard to obey the soulless machinery of discipline, to be a brass-buttoned slave. he felt all the hot, quick resentment that turns a faithful soldier into a deserter. but it takes time to evolve a deserter, and mallory had only twenty minutes. the handcuffs and leg-irons of discipline hobbled him. he was only a little cog in a great clock, and the other wheels were impinging on him and revolving in spite of himself. in the close-packed seats where they were jostled and stared at, the soldier could not even attempt to explain to his fascinated bride the war of motives in his breast. he could not voice the passionate rebellion her beauty had whipped up in his soul. perhaps if romeo and juliet had been forced to say farewell on a chicago street car instead of a veronese balcony, their language would have lacked savor, too. perhaps young mr. montague and young miss capulet, instead of wailing, "no, that is not the lark whose notes do beat the vaulty heaven so high above our heads," would have done no better than mr. mallory and miss newton. in any case, the best these two could squeeze out was: "it's just too bad, honey." "but i guess it can't be helped, dear." "it's a mean old world, isn't it?" "awful!" and then they must pile out into the street again so lost in woe that they did not know how they were trampled or elbowed. marjorie's despair was so complete that it paralyzed instinct. she forgot snoozleums! a thoughtful passenger ran out and tossed the basket into mallory's arms even as the car moved off. fortune relented a moment and they found a taxicab waiting where they had expected to find it. once more they were cosy in the flying twilight, but their grief was their only baggage, and the clasp of their hands talked all the talk there was. anxiety within anxiety tormented them and they feared another wreck. but as they swooped down upon the station, a kind-faced tower clock beamed the reassurance that they had three minutes to spare. the taxicab drew up and halted, but they did not get out. they were kissing good-byes, fervidly and numerously, while a grinning station-porter winked at the winking chauffeur. marjorie simply could not have done with farewells. "i'll go to the gate with you," she said. he told the chauffeur to wait and take the young lady home. the lieutenant looked so honest and the girl so sad that the chauffeur simply touched his cap, though it was not his custom to allow strange fares to vanish into crowded stations, leaving behind nothing more negotiable than instructions to wait. chapter iv a mouse and a mountain all the while the foiled elopers were eloping, the san francisco sleeper was filling up. it had been the receptacle of assorted lots of humanity tumbling into it from all directions, with all sorts of souls, bodies, and destinations. the porter received each with that expert eye of his. his car was his laboratory. a railroad journey is a sort of test-tube of character; strange elements meet under strange conditions and make strange combinations. the porter could never foresee the ingredients of any trip, nor their actions and reactions. he had no sooner established mr. wedgewood of london and mr. ira lathrop of chicago, in comparative repose, than his car was invaded by a woman who flung herself into the first seat. she was flushed with running, and breathing hard, but she managed one gasp of relief: "thank goodness, i made it in time." the mere sound of a woman's voice in the seat back of him was enough to disperse ira lathrop. with not so much as a glance backward to see what manner of woman it might be, he jammed his contract into his pocket, seized his newspapers and retreated to the farthest end of the car, jouncing down into berth number one, like a sullen snapping turtle. miss anne gattle's modest and homely valise had been brought aboard by a leisurely station usher, who set it down and waited with a speaking palm outstretched. she had her tickets in her hand, but transferred them to her teeth while she searched for money in a handbag old fashioned enough to be called a reticule. the usher closed his fist on the pittance she dropped into it and departed without comment. the porter advanced on her with a demand for "tickets, please." she began to ransack her reticule with flurried haste, taking out of it a small purse, opening that, closing it, putting it back, taking it out, searching the reticule through, turning out a handkerchief, a few hairpins, a few trunk keys, a baggage check, a bottle of salts, a card or two and numerous other maidenly articles, restoring them to place, looking in the purse again, restoring that, closing the reticule, setting it down, shaking out a book she carried, opening her old valise, going through certain white things blushingly, closing it again, shaking her skirts, and shaking her head in bewilderment. she was about to open the reticule again, when the porter exclaimed: "i see it! don't look no mo'. i see it!" when she cast up her eyes in despair, her hatbrim had been elevated enough to disclose the whereabouts of the tickets. with a murmured apology, he removed them from her teeth and held them under the light. after a time he said: "as neah as i can make out from the--the undigested po'tion of this ticket, yo' numba is six." "that's it--six!" "that's right up this way." "let me sit here till i get my breath," she pleaded, "i ran so hard to catch the train." "well, you caught it good and strong." "i'm so glad. how soon do we start?" "in about half a houah." "really? well, better half an hour too soon than half a minute too late." she said it with such a copy-book primness that the porter set her down as a school-teacher. it was not a bad guess. she was a missionary. with a pupil-like shyness he volunteered: "yo' berth is all ready whenever you wishes to go to baid." he caught her swift blush and amended it to--"to retiah." "retire?--before all the car?" said miss anne gattle, with prim timidity. "no, thank you! i intend to sit up till everybody else has retired." the porter retired. miss gattle took out a bit of more or less useful fancy stitching and set to work like another dorcas. her needle had not dived in and emerged many times before she was holding it up as a weapon of defense against a sudden human mountain that threatened to crush her. a vague round face, huge and red as a rising moon, dawned before her eyes and from it came an uncertain voice: "esscuzhe me, mad'm, no 'fensh intended." the words and the breath that carried them gave the startled spinster an instant proof that her vis-à-vis did not share her prohibition principles or practices. she regarded the elephant with mouselike terror, and the elephant regarded the mouse with elephantine fright, then he removed himself from her landscape as quickly as he could and lurched along the aisle, calling out merrily to the porter: "chauffeur! chauffeur! don't go so fasht 'round these corners." he collided with a small train-boy singing his nasal lay, but it was the behemoth and not the train-boy that collapsed into a seat, sprawling as helplessly as a mammoth oyster on a table-cloth. the porter rushed to his aid and hoisted him to his feet with an uneasy sense of impending trouble. he felt as if someone had left a monstrous baby on his doorstep, but all he said was: "tickets, please." there ensued a long search, fat, flabby hands flopping and fumbling from pocket to pocket. once more the porter was the discoverer. "i see it. don't look no mo'. here it is--up in yo' hatband." he lifted it out and chuckled. "had it right next his brains and couldn't rememba!" he took up the appropriately huge luggage of the bibulous wanderer and led him to the other end of the aisle. "numba two is yours, sah. right heah--all nice and cosy, and already made up." the big man looked through the curtains into the cabined confinement, and groaned: "that! haven't you got a man's size berth?" "sorry, sah. that's as big a bunk as they is on the train." "have i got to be locked up in that pigeon-hole for--for how many days is it to reno?" "reno?" the porter greeted that meaningful name with a smile. "we're doo in reno the--the--the mawnin' of the fo'th day, sah. yassah." he put the baggage down and started away, but the sad fat man seized his hand, with great emotion: "don't leave me all alone in there, porter, for i'm a broken-hearted man." "is that so? too bad, sah." "were you ever a broken-hearted man, porter?" "always, sah." "did you ever put your trust in a false-hearted woman?" "often, sah." "was she ever true to you, porter?" "never, sah." "porter, we are partners in mis-sis-ery." and he wrung the rough, black hand with a solemnity that embarrassed the porter almost as much as it would have embarrassed the passenger himself if he could have understood what he was doing. the porter disengaged himself with a patient but hasty: "i'm afraid you'll have to 'scuse me. i got to he'p the other passengers on bode." "don't let me keep you from your duty. duty is the--the----" but he could not remember what duty was, and he would have dropped off to sleep, if he had not been startled by a familiar voice which the porter had luckily escaped. "pawtah! pawtah! can't you raise this light--or rather can't you lower it? pawtah! this light is so infernally dim i can't read." to the englishman's intense amazement his call brought to him not the porter, but a rising moon with the profound query: "whass a li'l thing like dim light, when the light of your life has gone out?" "i beg your pardon?" without further invitation, the mammoth descended on the englishman's territory. "i'm a broken-hearted man, mr.--mr.--i didn't get your name." "er--ah--i dare say." "thanks, i will sit down." he lifted a great carry-all and airily tossed it into the aisle, set the gladstone on the lap of the infuriated englishman, and squeezed into the seat opposite, making a sad mix-up of knees. "my name's wellington. ever hear of li'l jimmie wellington? that's me." "any relation to the duke?" "nagh!" he no longer interested mr. wedgewood. but mr. wellington was not aware that he was being snubbed. he went right on getting acquainted: "are you married, mr.--mr.----?" "no!" "my heartfelt congrashlations. hang on to your luck, my boy. don't let any female take it away from you." he slapped the englishman on the elbow amiably, and his prisoner was too stifled with wrath to emit more than one feeble "pawtah!" mr. wellington mused on aloud: "oh, if i had only remained shingle. but she was so beautiful and she swore to love, honor and obey. mrs. wellington is a queen among women, mind you, and i have nothing to say against her except that she has the temper of a tarantula." he italicized the word with a light fillip of his left hand along the back of the seat. he did not notice that he filliped the angry head of mr. ira lathrop in the next seat. he went on with his portrait of his wife. "she has the 'stravaganza of a sultana"--another fillip for mr. lathrop--"the zhealousy of a cobra, the flirtatiousness of a humming bird." mr. lathrop was glaring round like a man-eating tiger, but wellington talked on. "she drinks, swears, and smokes cigars, otherwise she's fine--a queen among women." neither this amazing vision of womankind, nor this beautiful example of longing for confession and sympathy awakened a response in the englishman's frozen bosom. his only action was another violent effort to disengage his cramped knees from the knees of his tormentor; his only comment a vain and weakening cry for help, "pawtah! pawtah!" wellington's bleary, teary eyes were lighted with triumph. "finally i saw i couldn't stand it any longer so i bought a tic-hic-et to reno. i 'stablish a residensh in six monfths--get a divorce--no shcandal. even m'own wife won't know anything about it." the englishman was almost attracted by this astounding picture of the divorce laws in america. it sounded so barbarically quaint that he leaned forward to hear more, but mr. wellington's hand, like a mischievous runaway, had wandered back into the shaggy locks atop of mr. lathrop. his right hand did not let his left know what it was doing, but proceeded quite independently to grip as much of lathrop's hair as it would hold. then as mr. wellington shook with joy at the prospect of "dear old reno!" he began unconsciously to draw ira lathrop's head after his hair across the seat. the pain of it shot the tears into lathrop's eyes, and as he writhed and twisted he was too full of profanity to get any one word out. when he managed to wrench his skull free, he was ready to murder his tormentor. but as soon as he confronted the doddering and blinking toper, he was helpless. drunken men have always been treated with great tenderness in america, and when wellington, seeing lathrop's white hair, exclaimed with rapture: "why, hello, pop! here's pop!" the most that lathrop could do was to tear loose those fat, groping hands, slap them like a school teacher, and push the man away. but that one shove upset mr. wellington and sent him toppling down upon the pit of the englishman's stomach. for wedgewood, it was suddenly as if all the air had been removed from the world. he gulped like a fish drowning for lack of water. he was a long while getting breath enough for words, but his first words were wild demands that mr. wellington remove himself forthwith. wellington accepted the banishment with the sorrowful eyes of a dying deer, and tottered away wagging his fat head and wailing: "i'm a broken-hearted man, and nobody gives a ----." at this point he caromed over into ira lathrop's berth and was welcomed with a savage roar: "what the devil's the matter with you?" "i'm a broken-hearted man, that's all." "oh, is that all," lathrop snapped, vanishing behind his newspaper. the desperately melancholy seeker for a word of human kindness bleared at the blurred newspaper wall a while, then waded into a new attempt at acquaintance. laying his hand on lathrop's knee, he stammered: "esscuzhe me, mr.--mr.----" from behind the newspaper came a stingy answer: "lathrop's my name--if you want to know." "pleased to meet you, mr. lothrop." "lathrop!" "lathrop! my name's wellington. li'l jimmie wellington. ever hear of me?" he waited with the genial smile of a famous man; the smile froze at lathrop's curt, "don't think so." he tried again: "ever hear of well-known chicago belle, mrs. jimmie wellington?" "yes, i've heard of her!" there was an ominous grin in the tone. wellington waved his hand with modest pride. "well, i'm jimmie." "serves you right." this jolt was so discourteous that wellington decided to protest: "mister latham!" "lathrop!" the name came out with a whip-snap. he tried to echo it, "la-_throp_!" "i don't like that throp. that's a kind of a seasick name, isn't it?" finding the newspaper still intervening between him and his prey, he calmly tore it down the middle and pushed through it like a moon coming through a cloud. "but a man can't change his name by marrying, can he? that's the worst of it. a woman can. think of a heartless cobra di capello in woman's form wearing my fair name--and wearing it out. mr. la-_throp_, did you ever put your trust in a false-hearted woman?" "never put my trust in anybody." "didn't you ever love a woman?" "no!" "well, then, didn't you ever marry a woman?" "not one. i've had the measles and the mumps, but i've never had matrimony." "oh, lucky man," beamed wellington. "hang on to your luck." "i intend to," said lathrop, "i was born single and i like it." "oh, how i envy you! you see, mrs. wellington--she's a queen among women, mind you--a queen among women, but she has the 'stravagance of a----" lathrop had endured all he could endure, even from a privileged character like little jimmy wellington. he rose to take refuge in the smoking-room. but the very vigor of this departure only served to help wellington to his feet, for he seized lathrop's coat and hung on, through the door, down the little corridor, always explaining: "mrs. wellington is a queen among women, mind you, but i can't stand her temper any longer." he had hardly squeezed into the smoking-room when the porter and an usher almost invisible under the baggage they carried brought in a new passenger. her first question was: "oh, porter, did a box of flowers, or candy, or anything, come for me?" "what name would they be in, miss?" "mrs. wellington--mrs. james wellington." chapter v a queen among women miss anne gattle, seated in mrs. jimmie wellington's seat, had not heard mr. jimmie wellington's sketch of his wife. but she needed hardly more than a glance to satisfy herself that she and mrs. jimmie were as hopelessly antipathetic as only two polite women can be. mrs. jimmie was accounted something of a snob in chicago society, but perhaps the missionary was a trifle the snobbisher of the two when they met. miss gattle could overlook a hundred vices in a zulu queen more easily than a few in a fellow countrywoman. she did not like mrs. jimmie, and she was proud of it. when the porter said, "i'm afraid you got this lady's seat," miss gattle shot one glance at the intruder and rose stiffly. "then i suppose i'll have to----" "oh, please don't go, there's plenty of room," mrs. wellington insisted, pressing her to remain. this nettled miss gattle still more, but she sank back, while the porter piled up expensive traveling-bags and hat boxes till there was hardly a place to sit. but even at that mrs. jimmie felt called on to apologize: "i haven't brought much luggage. how i'll ever live four days with this, i can't imagine. it will be such a relief to get my trunks at reno." "reno?" echoed miss gattle. "do you live there?" "well, theoretically, yes." "i don't understand you." "i've got to live there to get it." "to get it? oh!" a look of sudden and dreadful realization came over the missionary. mrs. wellington interpreted it with a smile of gay defiance: "do you believe in divorces?" anne gattle stuck to her guns. "i must say i don't. i think a law ought to be passed stopping them." "so do i," mrs. wellington amiably agreed, "and i hope they'll pass just such a law--after i get mine." then she ventured a little shaft of her own. "you don't believe in divorces. i judge you've never been married." "not once!" the spinster drew herself up, but mrs. wellington disarmed her with an unexpected bouquet: "oh, lucky woman! don't let any heartless man delude you into taking the fatal step." anne gattle was nothing if not honest. she confessed frankly: "i must say that nobody has made any violent efforts to compel me to. that's why i'm going to china." "to china!" mrs. wellington gasped, hardly believing her ears. "my dear! you don't intend to marry a laundryman?" "the idea! i'm going as a missionary." "a missionary? why leave chicago?" mrs. wellington's eye softened more or less convincingly: "oh, lovely! how i should dote upon being a missionary. i really think that after i get my divorce i might have a try at it. i had thought of a convent, but being a missionary must be much more exciting." she dismissed the dream with an abrupt shake of the head. "excuse me, but do you happen to have any matches?" "matches! i never carry them!" "they never have matches in the women's room, and i've used my last one." miss gattle took another reef in her tight lips. "do you smoke cigarettes?" mrs. wellington's echoed disgust with disgust: "oh, no, indeed. i loathe them. i have the most dainty little cigars. did you ever try one?" miss gattle stiffened into one exclamation point: "cigars! me!" mrs. jimmie was so well used to being disapproved of that it never disturbed her. she went on as if the face opposite were not alive with horror: "i should think that cigars might be a great consolation to a lady missionary in the long lone hours of--what do missionaries do when they're not missionarying?" "that depends." there was something almost spiritual in mrs. jimmie's beatific look: "i can't tell you what consolation my cigars have given me in my troubles. mr. wellington objected--but then mr. wellington objected to nearly everything i did. that's why i am forced to this dreadful step." "cigars?" "divorces." "divorces!" "well, this will be only my second--my other was such a nuisance. i got that from jimmie, too. but it didn't take. then we made up and remarried. rather odd, having a second honeymoon with one's first husband. but remarriage didn't succeed any better. jimmie fell off the water-wagon with an awful splash, and he quite misunderstood my purely platonic interest in sammy whitcomb, a nice young fellow with a fool of a wife. did you ever meet mrs. sammy whitcomb--no? oh, but you are a lucky woman! indeed you are! well, when jimmie got jealous, i just gave him up entirely. i'm running away to reno. i sent a note to my husband's club, saying that i had gone to europe, and he needn't try to find me. poor fellow, he will. he'll hunt the continent high and low for me, but all the while i'll be in nevada. rather good joke on little jimmie, eh?" "excruciating!" "but now i must go. now i must go. i've really become quite addicted to them." "divorces?" "cigars. do stay here till i come back. i have so much to say to you." miss gattle shook her head in despair. she could understand a dozen heathen dialects better than the speech of so utter a foreigner as her fellow-countrywoman. mrs. jimmie hastened away, rather pleased at the shocks she had administered. she enjoyed her own electricity. in the corridor she administered another thrill--this time to a tall young man--a stranger, as alert for flirtation as a weasel for mischief. he huddled himself and his suitcases into as flat a space as possible, murmuring: "these corridors are so narrow, aren't they?" "aren't they?" said mrs. jimmie. "so sorry to trouble you." "don't mention it." she passed on, their glances fencing like playful foils. then she paused: "excuse me. could you lend me a match? they never have matches in the women's room." he succeeded in producing a box after much shifting of burdens, and he was rewarded with a look and a phrase: "you have saved my life." he started to repeat his "don't mention it," but it seemed inappropriate, so he said nothing, and she vanished behind a door. he turned away, saying to himself that it promised to be a pleasant journey. he was halted by another voice--another woman's voice: "pardon me, but is this the car for reno?" he turned to smile, "i believe so!" then his eyes widened as he recognized the speaker. "mrs. sammy whitcomb!" it promised to be a curious journey. chapter vi a conspiracy in satin the tall man emptied one hand of its suitcase to clasp the hand the newcomer granted him. he held it fast as he exclaimed: "don't tell me that you are bound for reno!" she whimpered: "i'm afraid so, mr. ashton." he put down everything to take her other hand, and tuned his voice to condolence: "why, i thought you and sam whitcomb were--" "oh, we were until that shameless mrs. wellington----" "mrs. wellington? don't believe i know her." "i thought everybody had heard of mrs. jimmie wellington." "mrs. jimmie--oh, yes, i've heard of her!" everybody seemed to have heard of mrs. jimmie wellington. "what a dance she has led her poor husband!" mrs. whitcomb said. "and my poor sammy fell into her trap, too." ashton, zealous comforter, took a wrathful tone: "i always thought your husband was the most unmitigated----" but mrs. whitcomb bridled at once. "how dare you criticize sammy! he's the nicest boy in the world." ashton recovered quickly. "that's what i started to say. will he contest the--divorce?" "of course not," she beamed. "the dear fellow would never deny me anything. sammy offered to get it himself, but i told him he'd better stay in chicago and stick to business. i shall need such a lot of alimony." "too bad he couldn't have come along," ashton insinuated. but the irony was wasted, for she sighed: "yes, i shall miss him terribly. but we feared that if he were with me it might hamper me in getting a divorce on the ground of desertion." she was trying to look earnest and thoughtful and heartbroken, but the result was hardly plausible, for mrs. sammy whitcomb could not possibly have been really earnest or really thoughtful; and her heart was quite too elastic to break. she proved it instantly, for when she heard behind her the voice of a young man asking her to let him pass, she turned to protest, but seeing that he was a handsome young man, her starch was instantly changed to sugar. and she rewarded his good looks with a smile, as he rewarded hers with another. then ashton intervened like a dog in the manger and dragged her off to her seat, leaving the young man to exclaim: "some tamarind, that!" another young man behind him growled: "cut out the tamarinds and get to business. mallory will be here any minute." "i hate to think what he'll do to us when he sees what we've done to him." "oh, he won't dare to fight in the presence of his little bridey-widey. do you see the porter in there?" "yes, suppose he objects." "well, we have the tickets. we'll claim it's our section till mallory and mrs. mallory come." they moved on into the car, where the porter confronted them. when he saw that they were loaded with bundles of all shapes and sizes, he waved them away with scorn: "the emigrant sleepa runs only toosdays and thuzzdays." from behind the first mass of packages came a brisk military answer: "you black hound! about face--forward march! section number one." the porter retreated down the aisle, apologizing glibly. "'scuse me for questionin' you, but you-all's baggage looked kind o' eccentric at first." the two young men dumped their parcels on the seats and began to unwrap them hastily. "if mallory catches us, he'll kill us," said lieutenant shaw. lieutenant hudson only laughed and drew out a long streamer of white satin ribbon. its glimmer, and the glimmering eyes of the young man excited mrs. whitcomb so much that after a little hesitance she moved forward, followed by the jealous ashton. "oh, what's up?" she ventured. "it looks like something bridal." "talk about womanly intuition!" said lieutenant hudson, with an ingratiating salaam. and then they explained to her that their classmate at west point, being ordered suddenly to the philippines, had arranged to elope with his beloved marjorie newton; had asked them to get the tickets and check the baggage while he stopped at a minister's to "get spliced and hike for manila by this train." having recounted this plan in the full belief that it was even at that moment being carried out successfully, lieutenant hudson, with a ghoulish smile, explained: "being old friends of the bride and groom, we want to fix their section up in style and make them truly comfortable." "delicious!" gushed mrs. whitcomb. "but you ought to have some rice and old shoes." "here's the rice," said hudson. "here's the old shoes," said shaw. "lovely!" cried mrs. whitcomb, but then she grew soberer. "i should think, though, that they--the young couple--would have preferred a stateroom." "of course," said hudson, almost blushing, "but it was taken. this was the best we could do for them." "that's why we want to make it nice and bridelike," said shaw. "perhaps you could help us--a woman's touch----" "oh, i'd love to," she glowed, hastening into the section among the young men and the bundles. the unusual stir attracted the porter's suspicions. he came forward with a look of authority: "'scuse me, but wha--what's all this?" "vanish--get out," said hudson, poking a coin at him. as he turned to obey, mrs. whitcomb checked him with: "oh, porter, could you get us a hammer and some nails?" the porter almost blanched: "good lawd, miss, you ain't allowin' to drive nails in that woodwork, is you?" that woodwork was to him what the altar is to the priest. but hudson, resorting to heroic measures, hypnotized him with a two-dollar bill: "here, take this and see nothing, hear nothing, say nothing." the porter caressed it and chuckled: "i'm blind, deaf and speechless." he turned away, only to come back at once with a timid "'scuse me!" "you here yet?" growled hudson. anxiously the porter pleaded: "i just want to ast one question. is you all fixin' up for a bridal couple?" "foolish question, number eight million, forty-three," said shaw. "answer, no, we are." the porter's face glistened like fresh stove polish as he gloated over the prospect. "i tell you, it'll be mahty refreshin' to have a bridal couple on bode! this dog-on old reno train don't carry nothin' much but divorcees. i'm just nachally hongry for a bridal couple." "brile coup-hic-le?" came a voice, like an echo that had somehow become intoxicated in transit. it was little jimmie wellington looking for more sympathy. "whass zis about brile couple?" "why, here's little buttercup!" sang out young hudson, looking at him in amazed amusement. "did i un'stan' somebody say you're preparing for a brile coupl'?" lieutenant shaw grinned. "i don't know what you understood, but that's what we're doing." immediately wellington's great face began to churn and work like a big eddy in a river. suddenly he was weeping. "excuse these tears, zhentlemen, but i was once--i was once a b-b-bride myself." "he looks like a whole wedding party," was ashton's only comment on the copious grief. it was poor wellington's fate to hunt as vainly for sympathy as diogenes for honesty. the decorators either ignored him or shunted him aside. they were interested in a strange contrivance of ribbons and a box that shaw produced. "that," hudson explained, "is a little rice trap. we hang that up there and when the bridal couple sit down--biff! a shower of rice all over them. it's bad, eh?" everybody agreed that it was a happy thought and even jimmie wellington, like a great baby, bounding from tears to laughter on the instant, was chortling: "a rishe trap? that's abslootly splendid--greates' invensh' modern times. i must stick around and see her when she flops." and then he lurched forward like a too-obliging elephant. "let me help you." mrs. whitcomb, who had now mounted a step ladder and poised herself as gracefully as possible, shrieked with alarm, as she saw wellington's bulk rolling toward her frail support. if hudson and shaw had not been football veterans at west point and had not known just what to do when the center rush comes bucking the line, they could never have blocked that flying wedge. but they checked him and impelled him backward through his own curtains into his own berth. finding himself on his back, he decided to remain there. and there he remained, oblivious of the carnival preparations going on just outside his canopy. chapter vii the masked minister being an angel must have this great advantage at least, that one may sit in the grandstand overlooking the earth and enjoy the ludicrous blunders of that great blind man's buff we call life. this night, if any angels were watching chicago, the mallory mix-up must have given them a good laugh, or a good cry--according to their natures. here were mallory and marjorie, still merely engaged, bitterly regretting their inability to get married and to continue their journey together. there in the car were the giggling conspirators preparing a bridal mockery for their sweet confusion. then the angels might have nudged one another and said: "oh, it's all right now. there goes a minister hurrying to their very car. mallory has the license in his pocket, and here comes the parson. hooray!" and then the angelic cheer must have died out as the one great hurrah of a crowded ball-ground is quenched in air when the home team's vitally needed home run swerves outside the line and drops useless as a stupid foul ball. in a shabby old hack, were two of the happiest runaways that ever sought a train. they were not miserable like the young couple in the taxicab. they were white-haired both. they had been married for thirty years. yet this was their real honeymoon, their real elopement. the little woman in the timid gray bonnet clapped her hands and tittered like a schoolgirl. "oh, walter, i can't believe we're really going to leave ypsilanti for a while. oh, but you've earned it after thirty years of being a preacher." "hush. don't let me hear you say the awful word," said the little old man in the little black hat and the close-fitting black bib. "i'm so tired of it, sally, i don't want anybody on the train to know it." "they can't help guessing it, with your collar buttoned behind." and then the amazing minister actually dared to say, "here's where i change it around." what's more, he actually did it. actually took off his collar and buttoned it to the front. the old carriage seemed almost to rock with the earthquake of the deed. "why, walter temple!" his wife exclaimed. "what would they say in ypsilanti?" "they'll never know," he answered, defiantly. "but your bib?" she said. "i've thought of that, too," he cried, as he whipped it off and stuffed it into a handbag. "look, what i've bought." and he dangled before her startled eyes a long affair which the sudden light from a passing lamppost revealed to be nothing less than a flaring red tie. the little old lady touched it to make sure she was not dreaming it. then, omitting further parley with fate, she snatched it away, put it round his neck, and, since her arms were embracing him, kissed him twice before she knotted the ribbon into a flaming bow. she sat back and regarded the vision a moment, then flung her arms around him and hugged him till he gasped: "watch out-watch out. don't crush my cigars." "cigars! cigars!" she echoed, in a daze. and then the astounding husband produced them in proof. "genuine lillian russells--five cents straight." "but i never saw you smoke." "haven't taken a puff since i was a young fellow," he grinned, wagging his head. "but now it's my vacation, and i'm going to smoke up." she squeezed his hand with an earlier ardor: "now you're the old walter temple i used to know." [illustration: "now it's my vacation, and i'm going to smoke up"....] "sally," he said, "i've been traveling through life on a half-fare ticket. now i'm going to have my little fling. and you brace up, too, and be the old mischievous sally i used to know. aren't you glad to be away from those sewing circles and gossip-bees, and----" "ugh! don't ever mention them," she shuddered. then she, too, felt a tinge of recurring springtide. "if you start to smoking, i think i'll take up flirting once more." he pinched her cheek and laughed. "as the saying is, go as far as you desire and i'll leave the coast clear." he kept his promise, too, for they were no sooner on the train and snugly bestowed in section five, than he was up and off. "where are you going?" she asked. "to the smoking-room," he swaggered, brandishing a dangerous looking cigar. "oh, walter," she snickered, "i feel like a young runaway." "you look like one. be careful not to let anybody know that you're a"--he lowered his voice--"an old preacher's wife." "i'm as ashamed of it as you are," she whispered. then he threw her a kiss and a wink. she threw him a kiss and winked, too. and he went along the aisle eyeing his cigar gloatingly. as he entered the smoking-room, lighted the weed and blew out a great puff with a sigh of rapture, who could have taken him, with his feet cocked up, and his red tie rakishly askew, for a minister? and sally herself was busy disguising herself, loosening up her hair coquettishly, smiling the primness out of the set corners of her mouth and even--let the truth be told at all costs--even passing a pink-powdered puff over her pale cheeks with guilty surreptition. thus arrayed she was soon joining the conspirators bedecking the bower for the expected bride and groom. she was the youngest and most mischievous of the lot. she felt herself a bride again, and vowed to protect this timid little wife to come from too much hilarity at the hands of the conspirators. chapter viii a mixed pickle mrs. whitcomb had almost blushed when she had murmured to lieutenant hudson: "i should think the young couple would have preferred a stateroom." and mr. hudson had flinched a little as he explained: "yes, of course. we tried to get it, but it was gone." it was during the excitement over the decoration of the bridal section, that the stateroom-tenants slipped in unobserved. first came a fluttering woman whose youthful beauty had a certain hue of experience, saddening and wisering. the porter brought her in from the station-platform, led her to the stateroom's concave door and passed in with her luggage. but she lingered without, a peri at the gate of paradise. when the porter returned to bow her in, she shivered and hesitated, and then demanded: "oh, porter, are you sure there's nobody else in there?" the porter chuckled, but humored her panic. "i ain't seen nobody. shall i look under the seat?" to his dismay, she nodded her head violently. he rolled his eyes in wonderment, but returned to the stateroom, made a pretense of examination, and came back with a face full of reassurance. "no'm, they's nobody there. take a mighty small-size burglar to squeeje unda that baid--er--berth. no'm, nobody there." "oh!" the gasp was so equivocal that he made bold to ask: "is you pleased or disappointed?" the mysterious young woman was too much agitated to rebuke the impudence. she merely sighed: "oh, porter, i'm so anxious." "i'm not--now," he muttered, for she handed him a coin. "porter, have you seen anybody on board that looks suspicious?" "evvabody looks suspicious to me, missy. but what was you expecting--especial?" "oh, porter, have you seen anybody that looks like a detective in disguise?" "well, they's one man looks 's if he was disguised as a balloon, but i don't believe he's no slooch-hound." "well, if you see anything that looks like a detective and he asks for mrs. fosdick----" "mrs. what-dick?" "mrs. fosdick! you tell him i'm not on board." and she gave him another coin. "yassum," said the porter, lingering willingly on such fertile soil. "i'll tell him mrs. fosdick done give me her word she wasn't on bode." "yes!--and if a woman should ask you." "what kind of a woman?" "the hideous kind that men call handsome." "oh, ain't they hideous, them handsome women?" "well, if such a woman asks for mrs. fosdick--she's my husband's first wife--but of course that doesn't interest you." "no'm--yes'm." "if she comes--tell her--tell her--oh, what shall we tell her?" the porter rubbed his thick skull: "lemme see--we might say you--i tell you what we'll tell her: we'll tell her you took the train for new york; and if she runs mighty fast she can just about ketch it." "fine, fine!" and she rewarded his genius with another coin. "and, porter." he had not budged. "porter, if a very handsome man with luscious eyes and a soulful smile asks for me----" "i'll th'ow him off the train!" "oh, no--no!--that's my husband--my present husband. you may let him in. now is it all perfectly clear, porter?" "oh, yassum, clear as clear." thus guaranteed she entered the stateroom, leaving the porter alone with his problem. he tried to work it out in a semi-audible mumble: "lemme see! if your present husband's absent wife gits on bode disguised as a handsome hideous woman i'm to throw him--her--off the train and let her--him--come in--oh, yassum, you may rely on me." he bowed and held out his hand again. but she was gone. he shuffled on into the car. he had hardly left the little space before the stateroom when a handsome man with luscious eyes, but without any smile at all, came slinking along the corridor and tapped cautiously on the door. silence alone answered him at first, then when he had rapped again, he heard a muffled: "go away. i'm not in." he put his lips close and softly called: "edith!" at this sesame the door opened a trifle, but when he tried to enter, a hand thrust him back and a voice again warned him off. "you musn't come in." "but i'm your husband." "that's just why you musn't come in." the door opened a little wider to give him a view of a downcast beauty moaning: "oh, arthur, i'm so afraid." "afraid?" he sniffed. "with your husband here?" "that's the trouble, arthur. what if your former wife should find us together?" "but she and i are divorced." "in some states, yes--but other states don't acknowledge the divorce. that former wife of yours is a fiend to pursue us this way." "she's no worse than your former husband. he's pursuing us, too. my divorce was as good as yours, my dear." "yes, and no better." the angels looking on might have judged from the ready tempers of the newly married and not entirely unmarried twain that their new alliance promised to be as exciting as their previous estates. perhaps the man subtly felt the presence of those eternal eavesdroppers, for he tried to end the love-duel in the corridor with an appeasing caress and a tender appeal: "but let's not start our honeymoon with a quarrel." his partial wife returned the caress and tried to explain: "i'm not quarreling with you, dear heart, but with the horrid divorce laws. why, oh, why did we ever interfere with them?" he made a brave effort with: "we ended two unhappy marriages, edith, to make one happy one." "but i'm so unhappy, arthur, and so afraid." he seemed a trifle afraid himself and his gaze was askance as he urged: "but the train will start soon, edith--and then we shall be safe." mrs. fosdick had a genius for inventing unpleasant possibilities. "but what if your former wife or my former husband should have a detective on board?" "a detective?--poof!" he snapped his fingers in bravado. "you are with your husband, aren't you?" "in illinois, yes," she admitted, very dolefully. "but when we come to iowa, i'm a bigamist, and when we come to nebraska, you're a bigamist, and when we come to wyoming, we're not married at all." it was certainly a tangled web they had woven, but a ray of light shot through it into his bewildered soul. "but we're all right in utah. come, dearest." he took her by the elbow to escort her into their sanctuary, but still she hung back. "on one condition, arthur--that you leave me as soon as we cross the iowa state line, and not come back till we get to utah. remember, the iowa state line!" "oh, all right," he smiled. and seeing the porter, he beckoned him close and asked with careless indifference: "oh, porter, what time do we reach the iowa state line?" "two fifty-five in the mawning, sah." "two fifty-five a.m.?" the wretch exclaimed. "two fifty-five a.m., yassah," the porter repeated, and wondered why this excerpt from the time-table should exert such a dramatic effect on the luscious-eyed fosdick. he had small time to meditate the puzzle, for the train was about to be launched upon its long voyage. he went out to the platform, and watched a couple making that way. as their only luggage was a dog-basket he supposed that they were simply come to bid some of his passengers good-bye. no tips were to be expected from such transients, so he allowed them to help themselves up the steps. mallory and his marjorie had tried to kiss the farewell of farewells half a dozen times, but she could not let him go at the gate. she asked the guard to let her through, and her beauty was bribe enough. again and again, she and mallory paused. he wanted to take her back to the taxicab, but she would not be so dismissed. she must spend the last available second with him. "i'll go as far as the steps of the car," she said. when they were arrived there, two porters, a sleeping car conductor and several smoking saunterers profaned the tryst. so she whispered that she would come aboard, for the corridor would be a quiet lane for the last rites. and now that he had her actually on the train, mallory's whole soul revolted against letting her go. the vision of her standing on the platform sad-eyed and lorn, while the train swept him off into space was unendurable. he shut his eyes against it, but it glowed inside the lids. and then temptation whispered him its old "why not?" while it was working in his soul like a fermenting yeast, he was saying: "to think that we should owe all our misfortune to an infernal taxicab's break-down." out of the anguish of her loneliness crept one little complaint: "if you had really wanted me, you'd have had two taxicabs." "oh, how can you say that? i had the license bought and the minister waiting." "he's waiting yet." "and the ring--there's the ring." he fished it out of his waistcoat pocket and held it before her as a golden amulet. "a lot of good it does now," said marjorie. "you won't even wait over till the next train." "i've told you a thousand times, my love," he protested, desperately, "if i don't catch the transport, i'll be courtmartialed. if this train is late, i'm lost. if you really loved me you'd come along with me." her very eyes gasped at this astounding proposal. "why, harry mallory, you know it's impossible." like a sort of benevolent satan, he laid the ground for his abduction: "you'll leave me, then, to spend three years without you--out among those manila women." she shook her head in terror at this vision. "it would be too horrible for words to have you marry one of those mahogany sirens." he held out the apple. "better come along, then." "but how can i? we're not married." he answered airily: "oh, i'm sure there's a minister on board." "but it would be too awful to be married with all the passengers gawking. no, i couldn't face it. good-bye, honey." she turned away, but he caught her arm: "don't you love me?" "to distraction. i'll wait for you, too." "three years is a long wait." "but i'll wait, if you will." with such devotion he could not tamper. it was too beautiful to risk or endanger or besmirch with any danger of scandal. he gave up his fantastic project and gathered her into his arms, crowded her into his very soul, as he vowed: "i'll wait for you forever and ever and ever." her arms swept around his neck, and she gave herself up as an exile from happiness, a prisoner of a far-off love: "good-bye, my husband-to-be." "good-bye my wife-that-was-to-have-been-and-will-be-yet-maybe." "good-bye." "good-bye." "good-bye." "good-bye." "i must go." "yes, you must." "one last kiss." "one more--one long last kiss." and there, entwined in each other's arms, with lips wedded and eyelids clinched, they clung together, forgetting everything past, future, or present. love's anguish made them blind, mute, and deaf. they did not hear the conductor crying his, "all aboard!" down the long wall of the train. they did not hear the far-off knell of the bell. they did not hear the porters banging the vestibules shut. they did not feel the floor sliding out with them. and so the porter found them, engulfed in one embrace, swaying and swaying, and no more aware of the increasing rush of the train than we other passengers on the earth-express are aware of its speed through the ether-routes on its ancient schedule. the porter stood with his box-step in his hand, and blinked and wondered. and they did not even know they were observed. chapter ix all aboard! the starting of the train surprised the ironical decorators in the last stages of their work. their smiles died out in a sudden shame, as it came over them that the joke had recoiled on their own heads. they had done their best to carry out the time-honored rite of making a newly married couple as miserable as possible--and the newly married couple had failed to do its share. the two lieutenants glared at each other in mutual contempt. they had studied much at west point about ambushes, and how to avoid them. could mallory have escaped the pit they had digged for him? they looked at their handiwork in disgust. the cosy-corner effect of white ribbons and orange flowers, gracefully masking the concealed rice-trap, had seemed the wittiest thing ever devised. now it looked the silliest. the other passengers were equally downcast. meanwhile the two lovers in the corridor were kissing good-byes as if they were hoping to store up honey enough to sustain their hearts for a three years' fast. and the porter was studying them with perplexity. he was used, however, to waking people out of dreamland, and he began to fear that if he were discovered spying on the lovers, he might suffer. so he coughed discreetly three or four times. since the increasing racket of the train made no effect on the two hearts beating as one, the small matter of a cough was as nothing. finally the porter was compelled to reach forward and tap mallory's arm, and stutter: "'scuse me, but co-could i git b-by?" the embrace was untied, and the lovers stared at him with a dazed, where-am-i? look. marjorie was the first to realize what awakened them. she felt called upon to say something, so she said, as carelessly as if she had not just emerged from a young gentleman's arms: "oh, porter, how long before the train starts?" "train's done started, missy." this simple statement struck the wool from her eyes and the cotton from her ears, and she was wide enough awake when she cried: "oh, stop it--stop it!" "that's mo'n i can do, missy," the porter expostulated. "then i'll jump off," marjorie vowed, making a dash for the door. but the porter filled the narrow path, and waved her back. "vestibule's done locked up--train's going lickety-split." feeling that he had safely checkmated any rashness, the porter squeezed past the dumbfounded pair, and went to change his blue blouse for the white coat of his chambermaidenly duties. mallory's first wondering thought was a rapturous feeling that circumstances had forced his dream into a reality. he thrilled with triumph: "you've got to go with me now." "yes--i've got to go," marjorie assented meekly; then, sublimely, "it's fate. kismet!" they clutched each other again in a fiercely blissful hug. marjorie came back to earth with a bump: "are you really sure there's a minister on board?" "pretty sure," said mallory, sobering a trifle. "but you said you were sure?" "well, when you say you're sure, that means you're not quite sure." it was not an entirely satisfactory justification, and marjorie began to quake with alarm: "suppose there shouldn't be?" "oh, then," mallory answered carelessly, "there's bound to be one to-morrow." marjorie realized at once the enormous abyss between then and the morrow, and she gasped: "tomorrow! and no chaperon! oh, i'll jump out of the window." mallory could prevent that, but when she pleaded, "what shall we do?" he had no solution to offer. again it was she who received the first inspiration. "i have it," she beamed. "yes, marjorie?" he assented, dubiously. "we'll pretend not to be married at all." he seized the rescuing ladder: "that's it! not married--just friends." "till we can get married----" "yes, and then we can stop being friends." "my love--my friend!" they embraced in a most unfriendly manner. an impatient yelp from the neglected dog-basket awoke them. "oh, lord, we've brought snoozleums." "of course we have." she took the dog from the prison, tucked him under her arm, and tried to compose her bridal face into a merely friendly countenance before they entered the car. but she must pause for one more kiss, one more of those bittersweet good-byes. and mallory was nothing loath. hudson and shaw were still glumly perplexed, when the porter returned in his white jacket. "i bet they missed the train; all this work for nothing," hudson grumbled. but shaw, seeing the porter, caught a gleam of hope, and asked anxiously: "say, porter, have you seen anything anywhere that looks like a freshly married pair?" "well," and the porter rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand as he chuckled, "well, they's a mighty lovin' couple out theah in the corridor." "that's them--they--it!" instantly everything was alive and in action. it was as if a bugle had shrilled in a dejected camp. "get ready!" shaw commanded. "here's rice for everybody." "everybody take an old shoe," said hudson. "you can't miss in this narrow car." "there's a kazoo for everyone, too," said shaw, as the outstretched hands were equipped with wedding ammunition. "do you know the 'wedding march'?" "i ought to by this time," said mrs. whitcomb. right into the tangle of preparation, old ira lathrop stalked, on his way back to his seat to get more cigars. "have some rice for the bridal couple?" said ashton, offering him of his own double-handful. but lathrop brushed him aside with a romance-hater's growl. "watch out for your head, then," cried hudson, and lathrop ducked just too late to escape a neck-filling, hair-filling shower. an old shoe took him a clip abaft the ear, and the old woman-hater dropped raging into the same berth where the spinster, anne gattle, was trying to dodge the same downpour. still there was enough of the shrapnel left to overwhelm the two young "friends," who marched into the aisle, trying to look indifferent and prepared for nothing on earth less than for a wedding charivari. mallory should have done better than to entrust his plans to fellows like hudson and shaw, whom he had known at west point for diabolically joyous hazers and practical jokers. even as he sputtered rice and winced from the impact of flying footgear, he was cursing himself as a double-dyed idiot for asking such men to engage his berth for him. he had a sudden instinct that they had doubtless bedecked his trunk and marjorie's with white satin furbelows and ludicrous labels. but he could not shelter himself from the white sleet and the black thumps. he could hardly shelter marjorie, who cowered behind him and shrieked even louder than the romping tormentors. when the assailants had exhausted the rice and shoes, they charged down the aisle for the privilege of kissing the bride. mallory was dragged and bunted and shunted here and there, and he had to fight his way back to marjorie with might and main. he was tugging and striking like a demon, and yelling, "stop it! stop it!" hudson took his punishment with uproarious good nature, laughing: "oh, shut up, or we'll kiss you!" but shaw was scrubbing his wry lips with a seasick wail of: "wow! i think i kissed the dog." there was, of necessity, some pause for breath, and the combatants draped themselves limply about the seats. mallory glared at the twin benedict arnolds and demanded: "are you two thugs going to san francisco with us?" "don't worry," smiled hudson, "we're only going as far as kedzie avenue, just to start the honeymoon properly." if either of the elopers had been calmer, the solution of the problem would have been simple. marjorie could get off at this suburban station and drive home from there. but their wits were like pied type, and they were further jumbled, when shaw broke in with a sudden: "come, see the little dovecote we fixed for you." before they knew it, they were both haled along the aisle to the white satin atrocity. "love in a bungalow," said hudson. "sit down--make yourselves perfectly at home." "no--never--oh, oh, oh!" cried marjorie, darting away and throwing herself into the first empty seat--ira lathrop's berth. mallory followed to console her with caresses and murmurs of, "there, there, don't cry, dearie!" hudson and shaw followed close with mawkish mockery: "don't cry, dearie." and now mrs. temple intervened. she had enjoyed the initiation ceremony as well as anyone. but when the little bride began to cry, she remembered the pitiful terror and shy shame she had undergone as a girl-wife, and she hastened to marjorie's side, brushing the men away like gnats. "you poor thing," she comforted. "come, my child, lean on me, and have a good cry." hudson grinned, and put out his own arms: "she can lean on me, if she'd rather." mrs. temple glanced up with indignant rebuke: "her mother is far away, and she wants a mother's breast to weep on. here's mine, my dear." the impudent shaw tapped his own military chest: "she can use mine." infuriated at this bride-baiting, mallory rose and confronted the two imps with clenched fists: "you're a pretty pair of friends, you are!" the imperturbable shaw put out a pair of tickets as his only defence: "here are your tickets, old boy." and hudson roared jovially: "we tried to get you a stateroom, but it was gone." "and here are your baggage checks," laughed shaw, forcing into his fists a few pasteboards. "we got your trunks on the train ahead, all right. don't mention it--you're entirely welcome." it was the porter that brought the first relief from the ordeal. "if you gemmen is gettin' off at kedzie avenue, you'd better step smart. we're slowin' up now." marjorie was sobbing too audibly to hear, and mallory swearing too inaudibly to heed the opportunity kedzie avenue offered. and hudson was yelling: "well, good-bye, old boy and old girl. sorry we can't go all the way." he had the effrontery to try to kiss the bride good-bye, and shaw was equally bold, but mallory's fury enabled him to beat them off. he elbowed and shouldered them down the aisle, and sent after them one of his own shoes. but it just missed shaw's flying coattails. mallory stood glaring after the departing traitors. he was glad that they at least were gone, till he realized with a sickening slump in his vitals, that they had not taken with them his awful dilemma. and now the train was once more clickety-clicking into the night and the west. chapter x excess baggage never was a young soldier so stumped by a problem in tactics as lieutenant harry mallory, safely aboard his train, and not daring to leave it, yet hopelessly unaware of how he was to dispose of his lovely but unlabelled baggage. hudson and shaw had erected a white satin temple to hymen in berth number one, had created such commotion, and departed in such confusion, that there had been no opportunity to proclaim that he and marjorie were "not married--just friends." and now the passengers had accepted them as that enormous fund of amusement to any train, a newly wedded pair. to explain the mistake would have been difficult, even among friends. but among strangers--well, perhaps a wiser and a colder brain than harry mallory's could have stood there and delivered a brief oration restoring truth to her pedestal. but mallory was in no condition for such a stoic delivery. he mopped his brow in agony, lost in a blizzard of bewilderments. he drifted back toward marjorie, half to protect and half for companionship. he found mrs. temple cuddling her close and mothering her as if she were a baby instead of a bride. "did the poor child run away and get married?" marjorie's frantic "boo-hoo-hoo" might have meant anything. mrs. temple took it for assent, and murmured with glowing reminiscence: "just the way doctor temple and i did." she could not see the leaping flash of wild hope that lighted up mallory's face. she only heard his voice across her shoulder: "doctor? doctor temple? is your husband a reverend doctor?" "a reverend doctor?" the little old lady repeated weakly. "yes--a--a preacher?" the poor old congregation-weary soul was abruptly confronted with the ruination of all the delight in her little escapade with her pulpit-fagged husband. if she had ever dreamed that the girl who was weeping in her arms was weeping from any other fright than the usual fright of young brides, fresh from the preacher's benediction, she would have cast every other consideration aside, and told the truth. but her husband's last behest before he left her had been to keep their precious pretend-secret. she felt--just then--that a woman's first duty is to obey her husband. besides, what business was it of this young husband's what her old husband's business was? before she had fairly begun to debate her duty, almost automatically, with the instantaneous instinct of self-protection, her lips had uttered the denial: "oh--he's--just a--plain doctor. there he is now." mallory cast one miserable glance down the aisle at dr. temple coming back from the smoking room. as the old man paused to stare at the bridal berth, whose preparation he had not seen, he was just enough befuddled by his first cigar for thirty years to look a trifle tipsy. the motion of the train and the rakish tilt of his unwonted crimson tie confirmed the suspicion and annihilated mallory's new-born hope, that perhaps repentant fate had dropped a parson at their very feet. he sank into the seat opposite marjorie, who gave him one terrified glance, and burst into fresh sobs: "oh--oh--boo-hoo--i'm so unhap--hap--py." perhaps mrs. temple was a little miffed at the couple that had led her astray and opened her own honeymoon with a wanton fib. in any case, the best consolation she could offer marjorie was a perfunctory pat, and a cynicism: "there, there, dear! you don't know what real unhappiness is yet. wait till you've been married a while." and then she noted a startling lack of completeness in the bride's hand. "why--my dear!--where's your wedding ring?" with what he considered great presence of mind, mallory explained: "it--it slipped off--i--i picked it up. i have it here." and he took the little gold band from his waistcoat and tried to jam it on marjorie's right thumb. "not on the thumb!" mrs. temple cried. "don't you know?" "you see, it's my first marriage." "you poor boy--this finger!" and mrs. temple, raising marjorie's limp hand, selected the proper digit, and held it forward, while mallory pressed the fatal circlet home. and then mrs. temple, having completed their installation as man and wife, utterly confounded their confusion by her final effort at comfort: "well, my dears, i'll go back to my seat, and leave you alone with your dear husband." "my dear what?" marjorie mumbled inanely, and began to sniffle again. whereupon mrs. temple resigned her to mallory, and consigned her to fate with a consoling platitude: "cheer up, my dear, you'll be all right in the morning." marjorie and mallory's eyes met in one wild clash, and then both stared into the window, and did not notice that the shades were down. chapter xi a chance rencounter while mrs. temple was confiding to her husband that the agitated couple in the next seat had just come from a wedding-factory, and had got on while he was lost in tobacco land, the people in the seat on the other side of them were engaged in a little drama of their own. ira lathrop, known to all who knew him as a woman-hating snapping-turtle, was so busily engaged trying to drag the farthest invading rice grains out of the back of his neck, that he was late in realizing his whereabouts. when he raised his head, he found that he had crowded into a seat with an uncomfortable looking woman, who crowded against the window with old-maidenly timidity. he felt some apology to be necessary, and he snarled: "disgusting things, these weddings!" after he heard this, it did not sound entirely felicitous, so he grudgingly ventured: "excuse me--you married?" she denied the soft impeachment so heartily that he softened a little: "you're a sensible woman. i guess you and i are the only sensible people on this train." "it--seems--so," she giggled. it was the first time her spinstership had been taken as material for a compliment. something in the girlish giggle and the strangely young smile that swept twenty years from her face and belied the silver lines in her hair, seemed to catch the old bachelor's attention. he stared at her so fiercely that she looked about for a way of escape. then a curiously anxious, almost a hungry, look softened his leonine jowls into a boyish eagerness, and his growl became a sort of gruff purr: "say, you look something like an old sweetheart--er--friend--of mine. were you ever in brattleboro, vermont?" a flush warmed her cheek, and a sense of home warmed her prim speech, as she confessed: "i came from there originally." "so did i," said ira lathrop, leaning closer, and beaming like a big sun: "i don't suppose you remember ira lathrop?" the old maid stared at the bachelor as if she were trying to see the boy she had known, through the mask that time had modeled on his face. and then she was a girl again, and her voice chimed as she cried: "why, ira!--mr. lathrop!--is it you?" she gave him her hand--both her hands, and he smothered them in one big paw and laid the other on for extra warmth, as he nodded his savage head and roared as gentle as a sucking dove: "well, well! annie--anne--miss gattle! what do you think of that?" they gossiped across the chasm of years about people and things, and knew nothing of the excitement so close to them, saw nothing of chicago slipping back into the distance, with its many lights shooting across the windows like hurled torches. suddenly a twinge of ancient jealousy shot through the man's heart, recurring to old emotions. "so you're not married, annie. whatever became of that fellow who used to hang round you all the time?" "charlie selby?" she blushed at the name, and thrilled at the luxury of meeting jealousy. "oh, he entered the church. he's a minister out in ogden, utah." "i always knew he'd never amount to much," was lathrop's epitaph on his old rival. then he started with a new twinge: "you bound for ogden, too?" "oh, no," she smiled, enraptured at the new sensation of making a man anxious, and understanding all in a flash the motives that make coquettes. then she told him her destination. "i'm on my way to china." "china!" he exclaimed. "so'm i!" she stared at him with a new thought, and gushed: "oh, ira--are you a missionary, too?" "missionary? hell, no!" he roared. "excuse me--i'm an importer--anne, i--i----" but the sonorous swear reverberated in their ears like a smitten bell, and he blushed for it, but could not recall it. chapter xii the needle in the haystack the almost-married couple sat long in mutual terror and a common paralysis of ingenuity. marjorie, for lack of anything better to do, was absent-mindedly twisting snoozleums's ears, while he, that pocket abridgment of a dog, in a well meaning effort to divert her from her evident grief, made a great pretence of ferocity, growling and threatening to bite her fingers off. the new ring attracted his special jealousy. he was growing discouraged at the ill-success of his impersonation of a wolf, and dejected at being so crassly ignored, when he suddenly became, in his turn, a center of interest. marjorie was awakened from her trance of inanition by the porter's voice. his plantation voice was ordinarily as thick and sweet as his own new orleans sorghum, but now it had a bitterness that curdled the blood: "'scuse me, but how did you-all git that theah dog in this heah cah?" "snoozleums is always with me," said marjorie briskly, as if that settled it, and turned for confirmation to the dog himself, "aren't you, snoozleums?" "well," the porter drawled, trying to be gracious with his great power, "the rules don't 'low no live stock in the sleepin' cars, 'ceptin' humans." marjorie rewarded his condescension with a blunt: "snoozleums is more human than you are." "i p'sume he is," the porter admitted, "but he can't make up berths. anyway, the rules says dogs goes with the baggage." marjorie swept rules aside with a defiant: "i don't care. i won't be separated from my snoozleums." she looked to mallory for support, but he was too sorely troubled with greater anxieties to be capable of any action. the porter tried persuasion: "you betta lemme take him, the conducta is wuss'n what i am. he th'owed a couple of dogs out the window trip befo' last." "the brute!" "oh, yassum, he is a regulah brute. he just loves to hear 'm splosh when they light." noting the shiver that shook the girl, the porter offered a bit of consolation: "better lemme have the pore little thing up in the baggage cah. he'll be in charge of a lovely baggage-smasher." "are you sure he's a nice man?" "oh, yassum, he's death on trunks, but he's a natural born angel to dogs." "well, if i must, i must," she sobbed. "poor little snoozleums! can he come back and see me to-morrow?" marjorie's tears were splashing on the puzzled dog, who nestled close, with a foreboding of disaster. "i reckon p'haps you'd better visit him." "poor dear little snoozleums--good night, my little darling. poor little child--it's the first night he's slept all by his 'ittle lonesome, and----" the porter was growing desperate. he clapped his hands together impatiently and urged: "i think i hear that conducta comin'." the ruse succeeded. marjorie fairly forced the dog on him. "quick--hide him--hurry!" she gasped, and sank on the seat completely crushed. "i'll be so lonesome without snoozleums." mallory felt called upon to remind her of his presence. "i--i'm here, marjorie." she looked at him just once--at him, the source of all her troubles--buried her head in her arms, and resumed her grief. mallory stared at her helplessly, then rose and bent over to whisper: "i'm going to look through the train." "oh, don't leave me," she pleaded, clinging to him with a dependence that restored his respect. "i must find a clergyman," he whispered. "i'll be back the minute i find one, and i'll bring him with me." [illustration: marjorie fairly forced the dog on him....] the porter thought he wanted the dog back, and quickened his pace till he reached the corridor, where mallory overtook him and asked, in an effort at casual indifference, if he had seen anything of a clergyman on board. "ain't seen nothin' that even looks like one," said the porter. then he hastened ahead to the baggage car with the squirming snoozleums, while mallory followed slowly, going from seat to seat and car to car, subjecting all the males to an inspection that rendered some of them indignant, others of them uneasy. if dear old doctor temple could only have known what mallory was hunting, he would have snatched off the mask, and thrown aside the secular scarlet tie at all costs. but poor mallory, unable to recognize a clergyman so dyed-in-the-wool as doctor temple, sitting in the very next seat--how could he be expected to pick out another in the long and crowded train? all clergymen look alike when they are in convention assembled, but sprinkled through a crowd they are not so easily distinguished. in the sleeping car bound for portland, mallory picked one man as a clergyman. he had a lean, ascetic face, solemn eyes, and he was talking to his seat-mate in an oratorical manner. mallory bent down and tapped the man's shoulder. the effect was surprising. the man jumped as if he were stabbed, and turned a pale, frightened face on mallory, who murmured: "excuse me, do you happen to be a clergyman?" a look of relief stole over the man's features, followed closely by a scowl of wounded vanity: "no, damn you, i don't happen to be a parson. i have chosen to be--well, if you had watched the billboards in chicago during our run, you would not need to ask who i am!" mallory mumbled an apology and hurried on, just overhearing his victim's sigh: "such is fame!" he saw two or three other clerical persons in that car, but feared to touch their shoulders. one man in the last seat held him specially, and he hid in the turn of the corridor, in the hope of eavesdropping some clue. this man was bent and scholastic of appearance, and wore heavy spectacles and a heavy beard, which mallory took for a guaranty that he was not another actor. and he was reading what appeared to be printer's proofs. mallory felt certain that they were a volume of sermons. he lingered timorously in the environs for some time before the man spoke at all to the dreary-looking woman at his side. then the stranger spoke. and this is what he said and read: "i fancy this will make the bigots sit up and take notice, mother: 'if there ever was a person named moses, it is certain, from the writings ascribed to him, that he disbelieved the egyptian theory of a life after death, and combated it as a heathenish superstition. the judaic idea of a future existence was undoubtedly acquired from the assyrians, during the captivity.'" he doubtless read much more, but mallory fled to the next car. there he found a man in a frock coat talking solemnly to another of equal solemnity. the seat next them was unoccupied, and mallory dropped into it, perking his ears backward for news. "was you ever in moline?" one voice asked. "was i?" the other muttered. "wasn't i run out of there by one of my audiences. i was givin' hypnotic demonstrations, and i had a run-in with one of my 'horses,' and he done me dirt. right in the midst of one of his cataleptic trances, he got down from the chairs where i had stretched him out and hollered: 'he's a bum faker, gents, and owes me two weeks' pay.' thank gawd, there was a back door openin' on a dark alley leadin' to the switch yard. i caught a caboose just as a freight train was pullin' out." mallory could hardly get strength to rise and continue his search. on his way forward he met the conductor, crossing a vestibule between cars. a happy thought occurred to mallory. he said: "excuse me, but have you any preachers on board?" "none so far." "are you sure?" "positive." "how can you tell?" "well, if a grown man offers me a half-fare ticket, i guess that's a pretty good sign, ain't it?" mallory guessed that it was, and turned back, hopeless and helpless. chapter xiii hostilities begin during mallory's absence, marjorie had met with a little adventure of her own. ira lathrop finished his re-encounter with anne gattle shortly after mallory set out stalking clergymen. in the mingled confusion of finding his one romantic flame still glowing on a vestal altar, and of shocking her with an escape of profanity, he backed away from her presence, and sank into his own berth. he realized that he was not alone. somebody was alongside. he turned to find the great tear-sprent eyes of marjorie staring at him. he rose with a recrudescence of his woman-hating wrath, and dashing up the aisle, found the porter just returning from the baggage car. he seized the black factotum and growled: "say, porter, there's a woman in my berth." the porter chuckled, incredulous: "woman in yo' berth!" "yes--get her out." "yassah," the porter nodded, and advanced on marjorie with a gentle, "'scuse me, missus--ye' berth is numba one." "i don't care," snapped marjorie, "i won't take it." "but this un belongs to that gentleman." "he can have mine--ours--mr. mallory's," cried marjorie, pointing to the white-ribboned tent in the farther end of the car. then she gripped the arms of the seat, as if defying eviction. the porter stared at her in helpless chagrin. then he shuffled back and murmured: "i reckon you'd betta put her out." lathrop withered the coward with one contemptuous look, and strode down the aisle with a determined grimness. he took his ticket from his pocket as a clinching proof of his title, and thrust it out at marjorie. she gave it one indifferent glance, and then her eyes and mouth puckered, as if she had munched a green persimmon, and a long low wail like a distant engine-whistle, stole from her lips. ira lathrop stared at her in blank wrath, doddered irresolutely, and roared: "agh, let her have it!" the porter smiled triumphantly, and said: "she says you kin have her berth." he pointed at the bridal arbor. lathrop almost exploded at the idea. now he felt a hand on his shoulder, and turned to see little jimmie wellington emerging from his berth with an enormous smile: "say, pop, have you seen lovely rice-trap? stick around till she flops." but lathrop flung away to the smoking room. little jimmie turned to the jovial negro: "porter, porter." "i'm right by you." "what time d'you say we get to reno?" "mawnin' of the fo'th day, sah." "well, call me just before we roll in." and he rolled in. his last words floated down the aisle and met mrs. little jimmie wellington just returning from the women's room, where she had sought nepenthe in more than one of her exquisite little cigars. the familiar voice, familiarly bibulous, smote her ear with amazement. she beckoned the porter to her anxiously. "porter! porter! do you know the name of the man who just hurried in?" "no'm," said the porter. "i reckon he's so broken up he ain't got any name left." "it couldn't be," mrs. jimmie mused. "things can be sometimes," said the porter. "you may make up my berth now," said mrs. wellington, forgetting that anne gattle was still there. mrs. wellington hastened to apologize, and begged her to stay, but the spinster wanted to be far away from the disturbing atmosphere of divorce. she was dreaming already with her eyes open, and she sank into number six in a lotus-eater's reverie. mrs. wellington gathered certain things together and took up her handbag, to return to the women's room, just as mrs. whitcomb came forth from the curtains of her own berth, where she had made certain preliminaries to disrobing, and put on a light, decidedly negligée negligée. the two women collided in the aisle, whirled on one another, as women do when they jostle, recognized each other with wild stares of amazement, set their teeth, and made a simultaneous dash along the corridor, shoulder wrestling with shoulder. they reached the door marked "women" at the same instant, and as neither would have dreamed of offering the other a courtesy, they squeezed through together in a kilkenny jumble. chapter xiv the dormitory on wheels of all the shocking institutions in human history, the sleeping car is the most shocking--or would be, if we were not so used to it. there can be no doubt that we are the most moral nation on earth, for we admit it ourselves. perhaps we prove it, too, by the arcadian prosperity of these two-story hotels on wheels, where miscellaneous travelers dwell in complete promiscuity, and sleep almost side by side, in apartments, or compartments, separated only by a plank and a curtain, and guarded only by one sleepy negro. after the fashion of the famous country whose inhabitants earned a meagre sustenance by taking in each other's washing, so in sleeping carpathia we attain a meagre respectability by everybody's chaperoning everybody else. so topsy-turvied, indeed, are our notions, once we are aboard a train, that the staterooms alone are regarded with suspicion; we question the motives of those who must have a room to themselves!--a room with a real door! that locks!! and, now, on this sleeping car, prettily named "snowdrop," scenes were enacting that would have thrown our great-grandmothers into fits--scenes which, if we found them in france, or japan, we should view with alarm as almost unmentionable evidence of the moral obliquity of those nations. but this was our own country--the part of it which admits that it is the best part--the moralest part, the staunch middle west. this was illinois. yet dozens of cars were beholding similar immodesties in chastest illinois, and all over the map, thousands of people, in hundreds of cars, were permitting total strangers to view preparations which have always, hitherto, been reserved for the most intimate and legalized relations. the porter was deftly transforming the day-coach into a narrow lane entirely surrounded by portières. behind most of the portières, fluttering in the lightest breeze, and perilously following the hasty passer-by, homely offices were being enacted. the population of this little town was going to bed. the porter was putting them to sleep as if they were children in a nursery, and he a black mammy. the frail walls of little sanctums were bulging with the bodies of people disrobing in the aisle, with nothing between them and the beholder's eye but a clinging curtain that explained what it did not reveal. from apertures here and there disembodied feet were protruding and mysterious hands were removing shoes and other things. women in risky attire were scooting to one end of the car, and men in shirt sleeves, or less, were hastening to the other. when mallory returned to the "snowdrop," his ear was greeted by the thud of dropping shoes. he found marjorie being rapidly immured, like poe's prisoner, in a jail of closing walls. she was unspeakably ill at ease, and by the irony of custom, the one person on whom she depended for protection was the one person whose contiguity was most alarming--and all for lack of a brief trialogue, with a clergyman, as the _tertium quid_. when mallory's careworn face appeared round the edge of the partition now erected between her and the abode of doctor and mrs. temple, marjorie shivered anew, and asked with all anxiety: "did you find a minister?" perhaps the recording angel overlooked mallory's answer: "not a damn' minister." when he dropped at marjorie's side, she edged away from him, pleading: "oh, what shall we do?" he answered dismally and ineffectively: "we'll have to go on pretending to be--just friends." "but everybody thinks we're married." "that's so!" he admitted, with the imbecility of fatigued hope. they sat a while listening to the porter slipping sheets into place and thumping pillows into cases, a few doors down the street. he would be ready for them at any moment. something must be done, but what? what? chapter xv a premature divorce suddenly marjorie's heart gave a leap of joy. she was having another idea. "i'll tell you, harry. we'll pretend to quarrel, and then----" "and then you can leave me in high dudgeon." the ruse struck him as a trifle unconvincing. "don't you think it looks kind of improbable on--on--such an occasion?" marjorie blushed, and lowered her eyes and her voice: "can you suggest anything better?" "no, but----" "then, we'll have to quarrel, darling." he yielded, for lack of a better idea: "all right, beloved. how shall we begin?" on close approach, the idea did seem rather impossible to her. "how could i ever quarrel with you, my love?" she cooed. he gazed at her with a rush of lovely tenderness: "and how could i ever speak crossly to you?" "we never shall have a harsh word, shall we?" she resolved. "never!" he seconded. so that resolution passed the house unanimously. they held hands in luxury a while, then she began again: "still, we must pretend. you start it, love." "no, you start it," he pleaded. "you ought to," she beamed. "you got me into this mess." the word slipped out. mallory started: "mess! how is it my fault? good lord, are you going to begin chucking it up?" "well, you must admit, darling," marjorie urged, "that you've bungled everything pretty badly." it was so undeniable that he could only groan: "and i suppose i'll hear of this till my dying day, dearest." marjorie had a little temper all her own. so she defended it: "if you are so afraid of my temper, love, perhaps you'd better call it all off before it's too late." "i didn't say anything about your temper, sweetheart," mallory insisted. "you did, too, honey. you said i'd chuck this up till your dying day. as if i had such a disposition! you can stay here." she rose to her feet. he pressed her back with a decisive motion, and demanded: "where are you going?" "up in the baggage car with snoozleums," she sniffled. "he's the only one that doesn't find fault with me." mallory was stung to action by this crisis: "wait," he said. he leaned out and motioned down the alley. "porter! wait a moment, darling. porter!" the porter arrived with a half-folded blanket in his hands, and his usual, "yassah!" beckoning him closer, mallory mumbled in a low tone: "is there an extra berth on this car?" the porter's eyes seemed to rebuke his ears. "does you want this upper made up?" "no--of course not." "ex--excuse me, i thought----" "don't you dare to think!" mallory thundered. "isn't there another lower berth?" the porter breathed hard, and gave this bridal couple up as a riddle that followed no known rules. he went to find the sleeping car conductor, and returned with the information that the diagram showed nobody assigned to number three. "then i'll take number three," said mallory, poking money at the porter. and still the porter could not understand. "now, lemme onderstan' you-all," he stammered. "does you both move over to numba three, or does yo'--yo' lady remain heah, while jest you preambulates?" "just i preambulate, you black hound!" mallory answered, in a threatening tone. the porter could understand that, at least, and he bristled away with a meek: "yassah. numba three is yours, sah." the troubled features of the baffled porter cleared up as by magic when he arrived at number three, for there he found his tyrant and tormentor, the english invader. he remembered how indignantly mr. wedgewood had refused to show his ticket, how cocksure he was of his number, how he had leased the porter's services as a sort of private nurse, and had paid no advance royalties. and now he was sprawled and snoring majestically among his many luggages, like a sleeping lion. revenge tasted good to the humble porter; it tasted like a candied yam smothered in 'possum gravy. he smacked his thick lips over this revenge. with all the insolence of a servant in brief authority, he gloated over his prey, and prodded him awake. then murmured with hypocritical deference: "excuse me, but could i see yo' ticket for yo' seat?" "certainly not! it's too much trouble," grumbled the half asleeper. "confound you!" the porter lured him on: "is you sho' you got one?" wedgewood was wide awake now, and surly as any englishman before breakfast: "of cawse i'm shaw. how dare you?" "too bad, but i'm 'bleeged to ask you to gimme a peek at it." "this is an outrage!" "yassah, but i just nachelly got to see it." wedgewood gathered himself together, and ransacked his many pockets with increasing anger, muttering under his breath. at length he produced the ticket, and thrust it at the porter: "thah, you idiot, are you convinced now?" the porter gazed at the billet with ill-concealed triumph. "yassah. i's convinced," mr. wedgewood settled back and closed his eyes. "i's convinced that you is in the wrong berth!" "impossible! i won't believe you!" the englishman raged, getting to his feet in a fury. "perhaps you'll believe mista ticket," the porter chortled. "he says numba ten, and that's ten across the way and down the road a piece." "this is outrageous! i decline to move." "you may decline, but you move just the same," the porter said, reaching out for his various bags and carryalls. "the train moves and you move with it." wedgewood stood fast: "you had no right to put me in here in the first place." the porter disdained to refute this slander. he stumbled down the aisle with the bundles. "it's too bad, it's sutt'nly too bad, but you sholy must come along." wedgewood followed, gesticulating violently. "here--wait--how dare you! and that berth is made up. i don't want to go to bed now!" "mista ticket says, 'go to baid!'" "of all the disgusting countries! heah, don't put that thah--heah." the porter flung his load anywhere, and absolved himself with a curt, "i's got otha passengers to wait on now." "i shall certainly report you to the company," the englishman fumed. "yassah, i p'sume so." "have i got to go to bed now? really, i----" but the porter was gone, and the irate foreigner crawled under his curtains, muttering: "i shall write a letter to the _london times_ about this." to add to his misery, mrs. whitcomb came from the women's room, and as she passed him, she prodded him with one sharp elbow and twisted the corner of her heel into his little toe. he thrust his head out with his fiercest, "how dare you!" but mrs. whitcomb was fresh from a prolonged encounter with mrs. wellington, and she flung back a venomous glare that sent the englishman to cover. the porter reveled in his victory till he had to dash out to the vestibule to give vent to hilarious yelps of laughter. when he had regained composure, he came back to mallory, and bent over him to say: "yo' berth is empty, sah. shall i make it up?" mallory nodded, and turned to marjorie, with a sad, "good night, darling." the porter rolled his eyes again, and turned away, only to be recalled by marjorie's voice: "porter, take this old handbag out of here." the porter thought of the vanquished lathrop, exiled to the smoking room, and he answered: "that belongs to the gemman what owns this berth." "put it in number one," marjorie commanded, with a queenly gesture. the porter obeyed meekly, wondering what would happen next. he had no sooner deposited lathrop's valise among the incongruous white ribbons, than marjorie recalled him to say: "and, porter, you may bring me my own baggage." "yo' what--missus?" "our handbags, idiot," mallory explained, peevishly. "i ain't seen no handbags of you-alls," the porter protested. "you-all didn't have no handbags when you got on this cah." mallory jumped as if he had been shot. "good lord, i remember! we left 'em in the taxicab!" the porter cast his hands up, and walked away from the tragedy. marjorie stared at mallory in horror. "we had so little time to catch the train," mallory stammered. marjorie leaped to her feet: "i'm going up in the baggage car." "for the dog?" "for my trunk." and now mallory annihilated her completely, for he gasped: "our trunks went on the train ahead!" marjorie fell back for one moment, then bounded to her feet with shrill commands: "porter! porter! i want you to stop this train this minute!" the porter called back from the depths of a berth: "this train don't stop till to-morrow noon." marjorie had strength enough for only one vain protest: "do you mean to say that i've got to go to san francisco in this waist--a waist that has seen a whole day in chicago?" the best consolation mallory could offer was companionship in misery. he pushed forward one not too immaculate cuff. "well, this is the only linen i have." "don't speak to me," snapped marjorie, beating her heels against the floor. "but, my darling!" "go away and leave me. i hate you!" mallory rose up, and stumbling down the aisle, plounced into berth number three, an allegory of despair. about this time, little jimmie wellington, having completed more or less chaotic preparations for sleep, found that he had put on his pyjamas hindside foremost. after vain efforts to whirl round quickly and get at his own back, he put out a frowsy head, and called for help. "say, porter, porter!" "i'm still on the train," answered the porter, coming into view. "you'll have to hook me up." the porter rendered what aid and correction he could in wellington's hippopotamine toilet. wellington was just wide enough awake to discern the undisturbed bridal-chamber. he whined: "say, porter, that rice-trap. aren't they going to flop the rice-trap?" the porter shook his head sadly. "don't look like that floppers a'goin' to flip. that dog-on bridal couple is done divorced a'ready!" chapter xvi good night, all! the car was settling gradually into peace. but there was still some murmur and drowsy energy. shoes continued to drop, heads to bump against upper berths, the bell to ring now and then, and ring again and again. the porter paid little heed to it; he was busy making up number five (ira lathrop's berth) for marjorie, who was making what preparations she could for her trousseauless, husbandless, dogless first night out. finally the englishman, who had almost rung the bell dry of electricity, shoved from his berth his indignant and undignified head. once more the car resounded with the cry of "pawtah! pawtah!" the porter moved up with noticeable deliberation. "did you ring, sah?" "did i ring! paw-tah, you may draw my tub at eight-thutty in the mawning." "draw yo'--what, sah?" the porter gasped. "my tub." "ba-ath tub?" "bahth tub." "lawdy, man. is you allowin' to take a ba-ath in the mawnin'?" "of course i am." "didn't you have one befo' you stahted?" "how dare you! of cawse i did." "well, that's all you git." "do you mean to tell me that there is no tub on this beastly train?" wedgewood almost fell out of bed with the shock of this news. "we do not carry tubs--no, sah. there's a lot of tubs in san francisco, though." "no tub on this train for four days!" wedgewood sighed. "but whatever does one do in the meanwhile?" "one just waits. yassah, one and all waits." "it's ghahstly, that's what it is, ghahstly." "yassah," said the porter, and mumbled as he walked away, "but the weather is gettin' cooler." he finished preparing marjorie's bunk, and was just suggesting that mallory retreat to the smoking room while number three was made up, when there was a commotion in the corridor, and a man in checked overalls dashed into the car. his ear was slightly red, and he held at arm's length, as if it were a venomous monster, snoozleums. and he yelled: "say, whose durn dog is this? he bit two men, and he makes so much noise we can't sleep in the baggage car." marjorie went flying down the aisle to reclaim her lost lamb in wolf's clothing, and snoozleums, the returned prodigal, yelped and leaped, and told her all about the indignities he had been subjected to, and his valiant struggle for liberty. marjorie, seeing only snoozleums, stepped into the fatal berth number one, and paid no heed to the dangling ribbons. mallory, eager to restore himself to her love by loving her dog, crowded closer to her side, making a hypocritical ado over the pup. everybody was popping his or her face out to learn the cause of such clamor. among the bodiless heads suspended along the curtains, like dyak trophies, appeared the great mask of little jimmie wellington. he had been unable to sleep for mourning the wanton waste of that lovely rice-trap. when he peered forth, his eyes hardly believed themselves. the elusive bride and groom were actually in the trap--the hen pheasant and the chanticleer. but the net did not fall. he waited to see them sit down, and spring the infernal machine. but they would not sit. in fact, marjorie was muttering to harry--tenderly, now, since he had won her back by his efforts to console snoozleums--she was muttering tenderly: "we must not be seen together, honey. go away, i'll see you in the morning." and mallory was saying with bitterest resignation: "good night--my friend." and they were shaking hands! this incredible bridal couple was shaking hands with itself--disintegrating! then wellington determined to do at least his duty by the sacred rites. the gaping passengers saw what was probably the largest pair of pyjamas in chicago. they saw little jimmie, smothering back his giggles like a schoolboy, tiptoe from his berth, enter the next berth, brushing the porter aside, climb on the seat, and clutch the ribbon that pulled the stopper from the trap. down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst of ironical rice, and with it came little jimmie wellington, who lost what little balance he had, and catapulted into their midst like the offspring of an iceberg. it was at this moment that mrs. wellington, hearing the loud cries of the panic-stricken marjorie, rushed from the women's room, absent-mindedly combing a totally detached section of her hair. she recognized familiar pyjamas waving in air, and with one faint gasp: "jimmie! on this train!" she swooned away. she would have fallen, but seeing that no one paid any attention to her, she recovered consciousness on her own hook, and vanished into her berth, to meditate on the whys and wherefores of her husband's presence in this car. [illustration: down upon the unsuspecting elopers came this miraculous cloudburst of ironical rice....] dr. temple in a nightgown and trousers, roger ashton in a collarless estate, and the porter, managed to extricate mr. wellington from his plight, and stow him away, though it was like putting a whale to bed. mallory, seeing that marjorie had fled, vented his wild rage against fate in general, and rice traps in particular, by tearing the bridal bungalow to pieces, and then he stalked into the smoking room, where ira lathrop, homeless and dispossessed, was sound asleep, with his feet in the chair. he was dreaming that he was a boy in brattleboro, the worst boy in brattleboro, trying to get up the courage to spark pretty anne gattle, and throwing rocks at the best boy in town, charlie selby, who was always at her side. the porter woke ira, an hour later, and escorted him to the late bridal section. marjorie had fled with her dog, as soon as she could grope her way through the deluge of rice. she hopped into her berth, and spent an hour trying to clear her hair of the multitudinous grains. and as for snoozleums, his thick wool was so be-riced that for two days, whenever he shook himself, he snew. eventually, the car quieted, and nothing was heard but the rumble and click of the wheels on the rails, the creak of timbers, and the frog-like chorus of a few well-trained snorers. as the porter was turning down the last of the lights, a rumpled pate was thrust from the stateroom, and the luscious-eyed man whispered: "porter, what time did you say we crossed the iowa state line?" "two fifty-five a.m." from within the stateroom came a deep sigh, then with a dismal groan: "call me at two fifty-five a.m.," the door was closed. poor mallory, pyjamaless and night-shirtless, lay propped up on his pillows, staring out of the window at the swiftly shifting night scene. the state of illinois was being pulled out from under the train like a dark rug. farmhouses gleamed or dreamed lampless. the moonlight rippled on endless seas of wheat and indian corn. little towns slid up and away. large towns rolled forward, and were left behind. ponds, marshes, brooks, pastures, thickets and great gloomy groves flowed past as on a river. but the same stars and the moon seemed to accompany the train. if the flying witness had been less heavy of heart, he would have found the reeling scene full of grace and night beauty. but he could not see any charm in all the world, except his tantalizing other self, from whom a great chasm seemed to divide him, though she was only two windows away. he had not yet fallen asleep, and he was still pondering how to attain his unmarried, unmarriable bride, when the train rolled out in air above a great wide river, very noble under the stars. he knew it for the mississippi. he heard a faint knocking on a door at the other end of the car. he heard sounds as of kisses, and then somebody tiptoed along the aisle stealthily. he did not know that another bridegroom was being separated from his bride because they were too much married. somewhere in iowa he fell asleep. chapter xvii last call for breakfast it was still iowa when mallory awoke. into his last moments of heavy sleep intruded a voice like a town-crier's voice, crying: "lass call for breakfuss in the rining rar," and then, again louder, "lass call for breakfuss in rinin-rar," and, finally and faintly, "lasscall breakfuss ri'rar." mallory pushed up his window shade. the day was broad on rolling prairies like billows established in the green soil. he peeked through his curtains. most of the other passengers were up and about, their beds hidden and beddings stowed away behind the bellying veneer of the upperworks of the car. all the berths were made up except his own and number two, in the corner, where little jimmie wellington's nose still played a bagpipe monody, and one other berth, which he recognized as marjorie's. his belated sleep and hers had spared them both the stares and laughing chatter of the passengers. but this bridal couple's two berths, standing like towers among the seats had provided conversation for everybody, had already united the casual group of strangers into an organized gossip-bee. mallory got into his shoes and as much of his clothes as was necessary for the dash to the washroom, and took on his arm the rest of his wardrobe. just as he issued from his lonely chamber, marjorie appeared from hers, much disheveled and heavy-eyed. the bride and groom exchanged glances of mutual terror, and hurried in opposite directions. the spickest and spannest of lieutenants soon realized that he was reduced to wearing yesterday's linen as well as yesterday's beard. this was intolerable. a brave man can endure heartbreaks, loss of love, honor and place, but a neat man cannot abide the traces of time in his toilet. lieutenant mallory had seen rough service in camp and on long hikes, when he gloried in mud and disorder, and he was to see campaigns in the philippines, when he should not take off his shoes or his uniform for three days at a time. but that was the field, and this car was a drawing room. in this crisis in his affairs, little jimmie wellington waddled into the men's room, floundering about with every lurch of the train, like a cannon loose in the hold of a ship. he fumbled with the handles on a basin, and made a crazy toilet, trying to find some abatement of his fever by filling a glass at the ice-water tank and emptying it over his head. these drastic measures restored him to some sort of coherency, and mallory appealed to him for help in the matter of linen. wellington effusively offered him everything he had, and mallory selected from his store half a dozen collars, any one of which would have gone round his neck nearly twice. wellington also proffered his safety razor, and made him a present of a virgin wafer of steel for his very own. with this assistance, mallory was enabled to make himself fairly presentable. when he returned to his seat, the three curtained rooms had been whisked away by the porter. there was no place now to hide from the passengers. he sat down facing the feminine end of the car, watching for marjorie. the passengers were watching for her, too, hoping to learn what unheard-of incident could have provoked the quarrel that separated a bride and groom at this time, of all times. to the general bewilderment, when marjorie appeared, mallory and she rushed together and clasped hands with an ardor that suggested a desire for even more ardent greeting. the passengers almost sprained their ears to hear how they would make up such a dreadful feud. but all they heard was: "we'll have to hurry, marjorie, if we want to get any breakfast." "all right, honey. come along." then the inscrutable couple scurried up the aisle, and disappeared in the corridor, leaving behind them a mighty riddle. they kissed in the corridor of that car, kissed in the vestibule, kissed in the two corridors of the next car, and were caught kissing in the next vestibule by the new conductor. the dining car conductor, who flattered himself that he knew a bride and groom when he saw them, escorted them grandly to a table for two; and the waiter fluttered about them with extraordinary consideration. they had a plenty to talk of in prospect and retrospect. they both felt sure that a minister lurked among the cars somewhere, and they ate with a zest to prepare for the ceremony, arguing the best place for it, and quarreling amorously over details. mallory was for one of the vestibules as the scene of their union, but marjorie was for the baggage car, till she realized that snoozleums might be unwilling to attend. then she swung round to the vestibule, but mallory shifted to the observation platform. marjorie had left snoozleums with mrs. temple, who promised to hide him when the new conductor passed through the car, and she reminded harry to get the waiter to bring them a package of bones for their only "child," so far. on the way back from the dining car they kissed each other good-bye again at all the trysting places they had sanctified before. the sun was radiant, the world good, and the very train ran with jubilant rejoicing. they could not doubt that a few more hours would see them legally man and wife. mallory restored marjorie to her place in their car, and with smiles of assurance, left her for another parson-hunt through the train. she waited for him in a bridal agitation. he ransacked the train forward in vain, and returned, passing marjorie with a shake of the head and a dour countenance. he went out to the observation platform, where he stumbled on ira lathrop and anne gattle, engaged in a conversation of evident intimacy, for they jumped when he opened the door, as if they were guilty of some plot. mallory mumbled his usual, "excuse me," whirled on his heel, and dragged his discouraged steps back through the observation room, where various women and a few men of evident unclericality were draped across arm chairs and absorbed in lazy conversation or bobbing their heads over magazines that trembled with the motion of the train. mrs. wellington was busily writing at the desk, but he did not know who she was, and he did not care whom she was writing to. he did not observe the baleful glare of mrs. whitcomb, who sat watching mrs. wellington, knowing all too well who she was, and suspecting the correspondent--mrs. whitcomb was tempted to spell the word with one "r." mallory stumbled into the men's portion of the composite car. here he nodded with a sickly cheer to the sole occupant, dr. temple, who was looking less ministerial than ever in an embroidered skull cap. the old rascal was sitting far back on his lumbar vertebræ. one of his hands clasped a long glass filled with a liquid of a hue that resembled something stronger than what it was--mere ginger ale. the other hand toyed with a long black cigar. the smoke curled round the old man's head like the fumes of a sultan's narghilé, and through the wisps his face was one of oriental luxury. mallory's eyes were caught from this picture of beatitude by the entrance, at the other door, of a man who had evidently swung aboard at the most recent stop--for mallory had not seen him. his gray hair was crowned with a soft black hat, and his spare frame was swathed in a frock coat that had seen better days. his soft gray eyes seemed to search timidly the smoke-clouded atmosphere, and he had a bashful air which mallory translated as one of diffidence in a place where liquors and cigars were dispensed. with equal diffidence mallory advanced, and in a low tone accosted the newcomer cautiously: "excuse me--you look like a clergyman." "the hell you say!" mallory pursued the question no further. chapter xviii in the composite car it was the gentle stranger's turn to miss his guess. he bent over the chair into which mallory had flopped, and said in a tense, low tone: "you look like a t'oroughbred sport. i'm trying to make up a game of stud poker. will you join me?" mallory shook his heavy head in refusal, and with dull eyes watched the man, whose profession he no longer misunderstood, saunter up to the blissful doctor from ypsilanti, and murmur again: "will you join me?" "join you in what, sir?" said dr. temple, with alert courtesy. "a little game." "i don't mind," the doctor smiled, rising with amiable readiness. "the checkers are in the next room." "quit your kiddin'," the stranger coughed. "how about a little freeze-out?" "freeze-out?" said dr. temple. "it sounds interesting. is it something like authors?" the newcomer shot a quick glance at this man, whose innocent air he suspected. but he merely drawled: "well, you play it with cards." "would you mind teaching me the rules?" said the old sport from ypsilanti. the gambler was growing suspicious of this too, too childlike innocence. he whined: "say, what's your little game, eh?" but decided to risk the venture. he sat down at a table, and dr. temple, bringing along his glass, drew up a chair. the gambler took a pack of cards from his pocket, and shuffled them with a snap that startled dr. temple and a dexterity that delighted him. "go on, it's beautiful to see," he exclaimed. the gambler set the pack down with the one word "cut!" but since the old man made no effort to comply, the gambler did not insist. he took up the pack again and ran off five cards to each place with a grace that staggered the doctor. mallory was about to intervene for the protection of the guileless physician when the conductor chanced to saunter in. the gambler, seeing him, snatched dr. temple's cards from his hand and slipped the pack into his pocket. "what's the matter now?" dr. temple asked, but the newcomer huskily answered: "wait a minute. wait a minute." the conductor took in the scene at a glance and, stalking up to the table, spoke with the grimness of a sea-captain: "say, i've got my eye on you. don't start nothin'." the stranger stared at him wonderingly and demanded: "why, what you drivin' at?" "you know all right," the conductor growled, and then turned on the befuddled old clergyman, "and you, too." "me, too?" the preacher gasped. "yes, you, too," the conductor repeated, shaking an accusing forefinger under his nose. "your actions have been suspicious from the beginning. we've all been watching you." dr. temple was so agitated that he nearly let fall his secret. "why, do you realize that i'm a----" "ah, don't start that," sneered the conductor, "i can spot a gambler as far as i can see one. you and your side partner here want to look out, that's all, or i'll drop you at the next tank." then he walked out, his very shoulder blades uttering threats. dr. temple stared after him, but the gambler stared at dr. temple with a mingling of accusation and of homage. "so you're one of us," he said, and seizing the old man's limp hand, shook it heartily: "i got to slip it to you. your make-up is great. you nearly had me for a come-on. great!" and then he sauntered out, leaving the clergyman's head swimming. dr. temple turned to mallory for explanations, but mallory only waved him away. he was not quite convinced himself. he was convinced only that whatever else anybody might be, nobody apparently desired to be a clergyman in these degenerate days. the conductor returned and threw into dr. temple the glare of two basilisk eyes. the old man put out a beseeching hand and began: "my good man, you do me a grave injustice." the conductor snapped back: "you say a word to me and i'll do you worse than that. and if i spot you with a pack of cards in your hand again, i'll tie you to the cow-ketcher." then he marched off again. the doctor fell back into a chair, trying to figure it out. then ashton and fosdick and little jimmie wellington and wedgewood strolled in and, dropping into chairs, ordered drinks. before the doctor could ask anybody to explain, ashton was launched on a story. his mind was a suitcase full of anecdotes, mostly of the smoking-room order. wherever three or four men are gathered together, they rapidly organize a clearing-house of off-color stories. the doctor listened in spite of himself, and in spite of himself he was amused, for stories that would be stupid if they were decent, take on a certain verve and thrill from their very forbiddenness. the dear old clergyman felt that it would be priggish to take flight, but he could not make the corners of his mouth behave. strange twitchings of the lips and little steamy escapes of giggle-jets disturbed him. and when ashton, who was a practiced raconteur, finished a drolatic adventure with the epilogue, "and the next morning they were at niagara falls," the old doctor was helpless with laughter. some superior force, a devil no doubt, fairly shook him with glee. "oh, that's bully," he shrieked, "i haven't heard a story like that for ages." "why, where have you been, dr. temple?" asked ashton, who could not imagine where a man could have concealed himself from such stories. but he laughed loudest of all when the doctor answered: "you see, i live in ypsilanti. they don't tell me stories like that." "they--who?" said fosdick. "why, my pa--my patients," the doctor explained, and laughed so hard that he forgot to feel guilty, laughed so hard that his wife in the next room heard him and giggled to mrs. whitcomb: "listen to dear walter. he hasn't laughed like that since he was a--a medical student." then she buried her face guiltily in a book. "wasn't it good?" dr. temple demanded, wiping his streaming eyes and nudging the solemn-faced englishman, who understood his own nation's humor, but had not yet learned the yankee quirks. wedgewood made a hollow effort at laughter and answered: "extremely--very droll, but what i don't quite get was--why the porter said----" the others drowned him in a roar of laughter, but ashton was angry. "why, you blamed fool, that's where the joke came in. don't you see, the bridegroom said to the bride----" then he lowered his voice and diagrammed the story on his fingers. mrs. temple was still shaking with sympathetic laughter, never dreaming what her husband was laughing at. she turned to mrs. whitcomb, but mrs. whitcomb was still glaring at mrs. wellington, who was still writing with flying fingers and underscoring every other word. "some people seem to think they own the train," mrs. whitcomb raged. "that creature has been at the writing desk an hour. the worst of it is, i'm sure she's writing to _my_ husband." mrs. temple looked shocked, but another peal of laughter came through the partition between the male and female sections of the car, and she beamed again. then mrs. wellington finished her letter, glanced it over, addressed an envelope, sealed and stamped it with a deliberation that maddened mrs. whitcomb. when at last she rose, mrs. whitcomb was in the seat almost before mrs. wellington was out of it. mrs. wellington paused at another wave of laughter from the men's room. she commented petulantly: "what good times men have. they've formed a club in there already. we women can only sit around and hate each other." "why, i don't hate anybody, do you?" mrs. temple exclaimed, looking up from the novel she had found on the book shelves. mrs. wellington dropped into the next chair: "on a long railroad journey i hate everybody. don't you hate long journeys?" "it's the first i ever took," mrs. temple apologized, radiantly, "and i'm having the--what my oldest boy would call the time of my life. and dear walter--such goings on for him! a few minutes ago i strolled by the door and i saw him playing cards with a stranger, and smoking and drinking, too, all at once." "boys will be boys," said mrs. wellington. "but for dr. temple of all people----" "why shouldn't a doctor? it's a shame the way men have everything. think of it, a special smoking room. and women have no place to take a puff except on the sly." mrs. temple stared at her in awe: "the woman in this book smokes!--perfumed things!" "all women smoke nowadays," said mrs. wellington, carelessly. "don't you?" the politest thing mrs. temple could think of in answer was: "not yet." "really!" said mrs. wellington, "don't you like tobacco?" "i never tried it." "it's time you did. i smoke cigars myself." mrs. temple almost collapsed at this double shock: "ci--cigars?" "yes; cigarettes are too strong for me; will you try one of my pets?" mrs. temple was about to express her repugnance at the thought, but mrs. wellington thrust before her a portfolio in which nestled such dainty shapes of such a warm and winsome brown, that mrs. temple paused to stare, and, like mother eve, found the fruit of knowledge too interesting once seen to reject with scorn. she hung over the cigar case in hesitant excitement one moment too long. then she said in a trembling voice: "i--i should like to try once--just to see what it's like. but there's no place." mrs. wellington felt that she had already made a proselyte to her own beloved vice, and she rushed her victim to the precipice: "there's the observation platform, my dear. come on out." mrs. temple was shivering with dismay at the dreadful deed: "what would they say in ypsilanti?" "what do you care? be a sport. your husband smokes. if it's right for him, why not for you?" mrs. temple set her teeth and crossed the rubicon with a resolute "i will!" mrs. wellington led the timid neophyte along the wavering floor of the car and flung back the door of the observation car. she found ira lathrop holding anne gattle's hand and evidently explaining something of great importance, for their heads were close together. they rose and with abashed faces and confused mumblings of half swallowed explanations, left the platform to mrs. wellington and her new pupil. shortly afterward little jimmie wellington grew restive and set out for a brief constitutional and a breath of air. he carried a siphon to which he had become greatly attached, and made heavy going of the observation room, but reached the door in fairly good order. he swung it open and brought in with it the pale and wavering ghost of mrs. temple, who had been leaning against it for much-needed support. wellington was stupefied to observe smoke pouring round mrs. temple's form, and he resolved to perform a great life-saving feat. he decided that the poor little woman was on fire and he poised the siphon like a fire extinguisher, with the noble intention of putting her out. he pressed the handle, and a stream of vichy shot from the nozzle. fortunately, his aim was so very wobbly that none of the extinguisher touched mrs. temple. wellington was about to play the siphon at her again when he saw her take from her lips a toy cigar and emit a stream of cough-shaken smoke. the poor little experimentalist was too wretched to notice even so large a menace as wellington. she threw the cigar away and gasped: "i think i've had enough." from the platform came a voice very well known to little jimmie. it said: "you'll like the second one better." mrs. temple shuddered at the thought, but wellington drew himself up majestically and called out: "like second one better, eh? i suppozhe it's the same way with husbandsh." then he stalked back to the smoking room, feeling that he had annihilated his wife, but knowing from experience that she always had a come-back. he knew it would be good, but he was afraid to hear it. he rolled into the smoking room, and sprawling across doctor temple's shoulders, dragged him from the midst of a highly improper story with alarming news. "doc., your wife looks kind o' seedy. better go to her at once." dr. temple leaped to his feet and ran to his wife's aid. he found her a dismal, ashen sight. "sally! what on earth ails you?" "been smok-oking," she hiccoughed. the world seemed to be crashing round dr. temple's head. he could only gurgle, "sally!" mrs. temple drew herself up with weak defiance: "well, i saw you playing cards and drinking." in the presence of such innocent deviltry he could only smile: "aren't we having an exciting vacation? but to think of you smoking!--and a cigar!" she tossed her head in pride. "and it didn't make me sick--much." she clutched a chair. he tried to support her. he could not help pondering: "what would they say in yp-hip-silanti?" "who cares?" she laughed. "i--i wish the old train wouldn't rock so." "i--i've smoked too much, too," said dr. temple with perfect truth, but mrs. temple, remembering that long glass she had seen, narrowed her eyes at him: "are you sure it was the smoke?" "sally!" he cried, in abject horror at her implied suspicion. then she turned a pale green. "oh, i feel such a qualm." "in your conscience, sally?" "no, not in my conscience. i think i'll go back to my berth and lie down." "let me help you, mother." and darby and joan hurried along the corridor, crowding it as they were crowding their vacation with belated experience. chapter xix foiled! it was late in the forenoon before the train came to the end of its iron furrow across that fertile space between two of the world's greatest rivers, which the indians called "iowa," nobody knows exactly why. in contrast with the palisades of the mississippi, the missouri twists like a great brown dragon wallowing in congenial mud. the water itself, as bob brudette said, is so muddy that the wind blowing across it raises a cloud of dust. a sonorous bridge led the way into nebraska, and the train came to a halt at omaha. mallory and marjorie got out to stretch their legs and their dog. if they had only known that the train was to stop there the quarter of an hour, and if they had only known some preacher there and had had him to the station, the ceremony could have been consummated then and there. the horizon was fairly saw-toothed with church spires. there were preachers, preachers everywhere, and not a dominie to do their deed. after they had strolled up and down the platform, and up and down, and up and down till they were fain of their cramped quarters again, marjorie suddenly dug her nails into mallory's arm. "honey! look!--look!" honey looked, and there before their very eyes stood as clerical a looking person as ever announced a strawberry festival. mallory stared and stared, till marjorie said: "don't you see? stupid! it's a preacher! a preacher!" "it looks like one," was as far as mallory would commit himself, and he was turning away. he had about come to the belief that anything that looked like a parson was something else. but marjorie whirled him round again, with a shrill whisper to listen. and he overheard in tones addicted to the pulpit: "yes, deacon, i trust that the harvest will be plentiful at my new church. it grieves me to leave the dear brothers and sisters in the lord in omaha, but i felt called to wider pastures." and a lady who was evidently mrs. deacon spoke up: "we'll miss you terrible. we all say you are the best pastor our church ever had." mallory prepared to spring on his prey and drag him to his lair, but marjorie held him back. "he's taking our train, lord bless his dear old soul." and mallory could have hugged him. but he kept close watch. to the rapture of the wedding-hungry twain, the preacher shook hands with such of his flock as had followed him to the station, picked up his valise and walked up to the porter, extending his ticket. but the porter said--and mallory could have throttled him for saying it: "'scuse me, posson, but that's yo' train ova yonda. you betta move right smaht, for it's gettin' ready to pull out." with a little shriek of dismay, the parson clutched his valise and set off at a run. mallory dashed after him and marjorie after mallory. they shouted as they ran, but the conductor of the east-bound train sang out "all aboard!" and swung on. the parson made a sprint and caught the ultimate rail of the moving train. mallory made a frantic leap at a flying coat-tail and missed. as he and marjorie stood gazing reproachfully at the train which was giving a beautiful illustration of the laws of retreating perspective, they heard wild howls of "hi! hi!" and "hay! hay!" and turned to see their own train in motion, and the porter dancing a zulu step alongside. chapter xx foiled again mallory tucked marjorie under his arm and marjorie tucked snoozleums under hers, and they did a sort of three-legged race down the platform. the porter was pale blue with excitement, and it was with the last gasp of breath in all three bodies that they scrambled up the steps of the only open vestibule. the porter was mad enough to give them a piece of his mind, and they were meek enough to take it without a word of explanation or resentment. and the train sped on into the heart of nebraska, along the unpoetic valley of the platte. when lunch-time came, they ate it together, but in gloomy silence. they sat in marjorie's berth throughout the appallingly monotonous afternoon in a stupor of disappointment and helpless dejection, speaking little and saying nothing then. whenever the train stopped, mallory watched the on-getting passengers with his keenest eye. he had a theory that since most people who looked like preachers were decidedly lay, it might be well to take a gambler's chance and accost the least ministerial person next. so, in his frantic anxiety, he selected a horsey-looking individual who got on at north platte. he looked so much like a rawhided ranchman that mallory stole up on him and asked him to excuse him, but did he happen to be a clergyman? the man replied by asking mallory if he happened to be a flea-bitten maverick, and embellished his question with a copious flow of the words ministers use, but with a secular arrangement of them. in fact he split one word in two to insert a double-barrelled curse. all that mallory could do was to admit that he was a flea-bitten what-he-said, and back away. after that, if a vicar in full uniform had marched down the aisle heading a procession of choir-boys, mallory would have suspected him. he vowed in his haste that marjorie might die an old maid before he would approach anybody else on that subject. nebraska would have been a nice long state for a honeymoon, but its four hundred-odd miles were a dreary length for the couple so near and yet so far. the railroad clinging to the meandering platte made the way far longer, and mallory and marjorie felt like pyramus and thisbe wandering along an eternal wall, through which they could see, but not reach, one another. they dined together as dolefully as if they had been married for forty years. then the slow twilight soaked them in its melancholy. the porter lighted up the car, and the angels lighted up the stars, but nothing lighted up their hopes. "we've got to quarrel again, my beloved," mallory groaned to marjorie. somehow they were too dreary even to nag one another with an outburst for the benefit of the eager-eyed passengers. a little excitement bestirred them as they realized that they were confronted with another night-robeless night and a morrow without change of gear. "what a pity that we left our things in the taxicab," marjorie sighed. and this time she said, "we left them," instead of "you left them." it was very gracious of her, but mallory did not acknowledge the courtesy. instead he gave a start and a gasp: "good lord, marjorie, we never paid the second taxicab!" "great heavens, how shall we ever pay him? he's been waiting there twenty-four hours. how much do you suppose we owe him?" "about a year of my pay, i guess." "you must send him a telegram of apology and ask him to read his meter. he was such a nice man--the kindest eyes--for a chauffeur." "but how can i telegraph him? i don't know his name, or his number, or his company, or anything." "it's too bad. he'll go through life hating us and thinking we cheated him." "well, he doesn't know our names either." and then they forgot him temporarily for the more immediate need of clothes. all the passengers knew that they had left behind what baggage they had not sent ahead, and much sympathy had been expressed. but most people would rather give you their sympathy than lend you their clothes. mallory did not mind the men, but marjorie dreaded the women. she was afraid of all of them but mrs. temple. she threw herself on the little lady's mercy and was asked to help herself. she borrowed a nightgown of extraordinary simplicity, a shirt waist of an ancient mode, and a number of other things. if there had been anyone there to see she would have made a most anachronistic bride. mallory canvassed the men and obtained a shockingly purple shirt from wedgewood, who meant to put him at his ease, but somehow failed when he said in answer to mallory's thanks: "god bless my soul, old top, don't you think of thanking me. i ought to thank you. you see, the idiot who makes my shirts, made that by mistake, and i'd be no end grateful if you'd jolly well take the loathsome thing off my hands. i mean to say, i shouldn't dream of being seen in it myself. you quite understand, don't you?" ashton contributed a maroon atrocity in hosiery, with equal tact: "if they fit you, keep 'em. i got stung on that batch of socks. that pair was originally lavender, but they washed like that. keep 'em. i wouldn't be found dead in 'em." the mysterious fosdick, who lived a lonely life in the observation car and slept in the other sleeper, lent mallory a pair of pyjamas evidently intended for a bridegroom of romantic disposition. mallory blushed as he accepted them and when he found himself in them, he whisked out the light, he was so ashamed of himself. once more the whole car gaped at the unheard of behavior of its newly wedded pair. the poor porter had been hungry for a bridal couple, but as he went about gathering up the cast-off footwear of his large family and found mallory's big shoes at number three and marjorie's tiny boots at number five, he shook his head and groaned. "times has suttainly changed for the wuss if this is a bridal couple, gimme divorcees." chapter xxi matrimony to and fro and the next morning they were in wyoming--well toward the center of that state. they had left behind the tame levels and the truly rural towns and they were among foothills and mountains, passing cities of wildly picturesque repute, like cheyenne, and laramie, bowie, and medicine bow, and bitter creek, whose very names imply literature and war whoops, cow-boy yelps, barking revolvers, another redskin biting the dust, cattle stampedes, town-paintings, humorous lynchings and bronchos in epileptic frenzy. but the talk of this train was concerned with none of these wonders, which the novelists and the magazinist have perhaps a trifle overpublished. the talk of this train was concerned with the eighth wonder of the world, a semi-detached bridal couple. mrs. whitcomb was eager enough to voice the sentiment of the whole populace, when she looked up from her novel in the observation room and, nudging mrs. temple, drawled: "by the way, my dear, has that bridal couple made up its second night's quarrel yet?" "the mallorys?" mrs. temple flushed as she answered, mercifully. "oh, yes, they were very friendly again this morning." mrs. whitcomb's countenance was cynical: "my dear, i've been married twice and i ought to know something about honeymoons, but this honeyless honeymoon----" she cast up her eyes and her hands in despair. the women were so concerned about mr. and "mrs." mallory, that they hardly noticed the uncomfortable plight of the wellingtons, or the curious behavior of the lady from the stateroom who seemed to be afraid of something and never spoke to anybody. the strange behavior of anne gattle and ira lathrop even escaped much comment, though they were forever being stumbled on when anybody went out to the observation platform. when they were dislodged from there, they sat playing checkers and talking very little, but making eyes at one another and sighing like furnaces. they had evidently concocted some secret of their own, for ira, looking at his watch, murmured sentimentally to anne: "only a few hours more, annie." and anne turned geranium-color and dropped a handful of checkers. "i don't know how i can face it." ira growled like a lovesick lion: "aw, what do you care?" "but i was never married before, ira," anne protested, "and on a train, too." "why, all the bridal couples take to the railroads." "i should think it would be the last place they'd go," said anne--a sensible woman, anne! "look at the mallories--how miserable they are." "i thought they were happy," said ira, whose great virtue it was to pay little heed to what was none of his business. "oh, ira," cried anne, "i hope we shan't begin to quarrel as soon as we are married." "as if anybody could quarrel with you, anne," he said. "do you think i'll be so monotonous as that?" she retorted. her spunk delighted him beyond words. he whispered: "anne, you're so gol-darned sweet if i don't get a chance to kiss you, i'll bust." "why, ira--we're on the train." "da--darn the train! who ever heard of a fellow proposing and getting engaged to a girl and not even kissing her." "but our engagement is so short." "well, i'm not going to marry you till i get a kiss." perhaps innocent old anne really believed this blood-curdling threat. it brought her instantly to terms, though she blushed: "but everybody's always looking." "come out on the observation platform." "oh, ira, again?" "i dare you." "i take you--but" seeing that mrs. whitcomb was trying to overhear, she whispered: "let's pretend it's the scenery." so ira rose, pushed the checkers aside, and said in an unusually positive tone: "ah, miss gattle, won't you have a look at the landscape?" "oh, thank you, mr. lathrop," said anne, "i just love scenery." they wandered forth like the sleeping beauty and her princely awakener, and never dreamed what gigglings and nudgings and wise head-noddings went on back of them. mrs. wellington laughed loudest of all at the lovers whose heads had grown gray while their hearts were still so green. it was shortly after this that the wellingtons themselves came into prominence in the train life. as the train approached green river, and its copper-basined stream, the engineer began to set the air-brakes for the stop. jimmie wellington, boozily half-awake in the smoking room, wanted to know what the name of the station was. everybody is always eager to oblige a drunken man, so ashton and fosdick tried to get a window open to look out. the first one they labored at, they could not budge after a biceps-breaking tug. the second flew up with such ease that they went over backward. ashton put his head out and announced that the approaching depot was labelled "green river." wellington burbled: "what a beautiful name for a shtation." ashton announced that there was something beautifuller still on the platform--"oh, a peach!--a nectarine! and she's getting on this train." even doctor temple declared that she was a dear little thing, wasn't she? wellington pushed him aside, saying: "stand back, doc., and let me see; i have a keen sense of beau'ful." "be careful," cried the doctor, "he'll fall out of the window." "not out of that window," ashton sagely observed, seeing the bulk of wellington. as the train started off again, little jimmie distributed alcoholic smiles to the green riverers on the platform and called out: "goo'bye, ever'body. you're all abslootly--ow! ow!" he clapped his hand to his eye and crawled back into the car, groaning with pain. "what's the matter," said wedgewood. "got something in your eye?" "no, you blamed fool. i'm trying to look through my thumb." "poor fellow!" sympathized doctor temple, "it's a cinder!" "a cinder! it's at leasht a ton of coal." "i say, old boy, let me have a peek," said wedgewood, screwing in his monocle and peering into the depths of wellington's eye. "i can't see a bally thing." "of course not, with that blinder on," growled the miserable wretch, weeping in spite of himself and rubbing his smarting orb. "don't rub that eye," ashton counselled, "rub the other eye." "it's my eye; i'll rub it if i want to. get me a doctor, somebody. i'm dying." "here's doctor temple," said ashton, "right on the job." wellington turned to the old clergyman with pathetic trust, and the deceiver writhed in his disguise. the best he could think of was: "will somebody lend me a lead pencil?" "what for?" said wellington, uneasily. "i am going to roll your upper lid up on it," said the doctor. "oh, no, you're not," said the patient. "you can roll your own lids!" then the conductor, still another conductor, wandered on the scene and asked as if it were not a world-important matter: "what's the matter--pick up a cinder?" "yes. perhaps you can get it out," the alleged doctor appealed. the conductor nodded: "the best way is this--take hold of the winkers." "the what?" mumbled wellington. "grab the winkers of your upper eyelid in your right hand----" "i've got 'em." "now grab the winkers of your lower eyelid in your left hand. now raise the right hand, push the under lid under the overlid and haul the overlid over the underlid; when you have the overlid well over the under----" wellington waved him away: "say, what do you think i'm trying to do? stuff a mattress? get out of my way. i want my wife--lead me to my wife." "an excellent idea," said dr. temple, who had been praying for a reconciliation. he guided wellington with difficulty to the observation room and, finding mrs. wellington at the desk as usual, he began: "oh, mrs. wellington, may i introduce you to your husband?" mrs. wellington rose haughtily, caught a sight of her suffering consort and ran to him with a cry of "jimmie!" "lucretia!" "what's happened--are you killed?" "i'm far from well. but don't worry. my life insurance is paid up." "oh, my poor little darling," mrs. jimmie fluttered, "what on earth ails you?" she turned to the doctor. "is he going to die?" "i think not," said the doctor. "it's only a bad case of cinder-in-the-eyetis." thus reassured, mrs. wellington went into the patient's eye with her handkerchief. "is that the eye?" she asked. "no!" he howled, "the other one." she went into that and came out with the cinder. "there! it's just a tiny speck." wellington regarded the mote with amazement. "is that all? it felt as if i had pike's peak in my eye." then he waxed tender. "oh, lucretia, how can i ever----" but she drew away with a disdainful: "give me back my hand, please." "now, lucretia," he protested, "don't you think you're carrying this pretty far?" "only as far as reno," she answered grimly, which stung him to retort: "you'd better take the beam out of your own eye, now that you've taken the cinder out of mine," but she, noting that they were the center of interest, observed: "all the passengers are enjoying this, my dear. you'd better go back to the café." wellington regarded her with a revulsion to wrath. he thundered at her: "i will go back, but allow me to inform you, my dear madam, that i'll not drink another drop--just to surprise you." mrs. wellington shrugged her shoulders at this ancient threat and jimmie stumbled back to his lair, whither the men followed him. feeling sympathy in the atmosphere, little jimmie felt impelled to pour out his grief: "jellmen, i'm a brok'n-heartless man. mrs. well'n'ton is a queen among women, but she has temper of tarant----" wedgewood broke in: "i say, old boy, you've carried this ballast for three days now, wherever did you get it?" wellington drew himself up proudly for a moment before he slumped back into himself. "well, you see, when i announced to a few friends that i was about to leave mrs. well'n'ton forever and that i was going out to--to--you know." "reno. we know. well?" "well, a crowd of my friends got up a farewell sort of divorce breakfast--and some of 'em felt so very sad about my divorce that they drank a little too much, and the rest of my friends felt so very glad about my divorce, that they drank a little too much. and, of course, i had to join both parties." "and that breakfast," said ashton, "lasted till the train started, eh?" wellington glowered back triumphantly. "lasted till the train started? jellmen, that breakfast is going yet!" chapter xxii in the smoking room wellington's divorce breakfast reminded ashton of a story. ashton was one of the great that-reminds-me family. perhaps it was to the credit of the englishman that he missed the point of this story, even though jimmie wellington saw it through his fog, and dr. temple turned red and buried his eyes in the eminently respectable pages of the _scientific american_. ashton and wellington and fosdick exchanged winks over the britisher's stare of incomprehension, and ashton explained it to him again in words of one syllable, with signboards at all the difficult spots. finally a gleam of understanding broke over wedgewood's face and he tried to justify his delay. "oh, yes, of cawse i see it now. yes, i rather fancy i get you. it's awfully good, isn't it? i think i should have got it before but i'm not really myself; for two mawnings i haven't had my tub." wellington shook with laughter: "if you're like this now, what will you be when you get to sin san frasco--i mean frinsansisco--well, you know what i mean." ashton reached round for the electric button as if he were conferring a favor: "the drinks are on you, wedgewood. i'll ring." and he rang. "awf'lly kind of you," said wedgewood, "but how do you make that out?" "the man that misses the point, pays for the drinks." and he rang again. wellington protested. "but i've jolly well paid for all the drinks for two days." wellington roared: "that's another point you've missed." and ashton rang again, but the pale yellow individual who had always answered the bell with alacrity did not appear. "where's that infernal buffet waiter?" ashton grumbled. wedgewood began to titter. "we were out of scotch, so i sent him for some more." "when?" "two stations back. i fancy we must have left him behind." "well, why in thunder didn't you say so?" ashton roared. "it quite escaped my mind," wedgewood grinned. "rather good joke on you fellows, what?" "well, i don't see the point," ashton growled, but the triumphant englishman howled: "that's where _you_ pay!" wedgewood had his laugh to himself, for the others wanted to murder him. ashton advised a lynching, but the conductor arrived on the scene in time to prevent violence. fosdick informed him of the irretrievable loss of the useful buffet waiter. the conductor promised to get another at ogden. ashton wailed: "have we got to sit here and die of thirst till then?" the conductor refused to "back up for a coon," but offered to send in a sleeping-car porter as a temporary substitute. as he started to go, fosdick, who had been incessantly consulting his watch, checked him to ask: "oh, conductor, when do we get to the state-line of dear old utah?" "dear old utah!" the conductor grinned. "we'd 'a' been there already if we hadn't 'a' fell behind a little." "just my luck to be late," fosdick moaned. "what you so anxious to be in utah for, fosdick?" ashton asked, suspiciously. "you go on to 'frisco, don't you?" fosdick was evidently confused at the direct question. he tried to dodge it: "yes, but--funny how things have changed. when we started, nobody was speaking to anybody except his wife, now----" "now," said ashton, drily, "everybody's speaking to everybody except his wife." "you're wrong there," little jimmie interrupted. "i wasn't speaking to my wife in the first place. we got on as strangersh and we're strangersh yet. mrs. well'n'ton is a----" "a queen among women, we know! dry up," said ashton, and then they heard the querulous voice of the porter of their sleeping car: "i tell you, i don't know nothin' about the buffet business." the conductor pushed him in with a gruff command: "crawl in that cage and get busy." still the porter protested: "mista pullman engaged me for a sleepin' car, not a drinkin' car. i'm a berth-maker, not a mixer." he cast a resentful glance through the window that served also as a bar, and his whole tone changed: "say, is you goin' to allow me loose amongst all them beautiful bottles? say, man, if you do, i can't guarantee my conduck." "if you even sniff one of those bottles," the conductor warned him, "i'll crack it over your head." "that won't worry me none--as long as my mouf's open." he smacked his chops over the prospect of intimacy with that liquid treasury. "lordy! well, i'll try to control my emotions--but remember, i don't guarantee nothin'." the conductor started to go, but paused for final instructions: "and remember--after we get to utah you can't serve any hard liquor at all." "what's that? don't they 'low nothin' in that old utah but ice-cream soda?" "that's about all. if you touch a drop, i'll leave you in utah for life." "oh, lordy, i'll be good!" the conductor left the excited black and went his way. ashton was the first to speak: "say, porter, can you mix drinks?" the porter ruminated, then confessed: "well, not on the outside, no, sir. if you-all is thirsty you better order the simplest things you can think of. if you was to command anything fancy, lord knows what you'd get. supposin' you was to say, 'gimme a tom collins.' i'd be just as liable as not to pass you a jack johnson." "well, can you open beer?" "oh, i'm a natural born beer-opener." "rush it out then. my throat is as full of alkali dust as these windows." the porter soon appeared with a tray full of cotton-topped glasses. the day was hot and the alkali dust very oppressive, and the beer was cold. dr. temple looked on it when it was amber, and suffered himself to be bullied into taking a glass. he felt that he was the greatest sinner on earth, but worst of all was the fact that when he had fallen, the forbidden brew was not sweet. he was inexperienced enough to sip it and it was like foaming quinine on his palate. but he kept at it from sheer shame, and his luxurious transgression was its own punishment. the doleful mallory was on his way to join the "club". crossing the vestibule he had met the conductor, and had ventured to quiz him along the old lines: "excuse me, haven't you taken any clergymen on board this train yet?" "devil a one." "don't you ever carry any preachers on this road?" "usually we get one or two. last trip we carried a whole methodist convention." "a whole convention last trip! just my luck!" the unenlightened conductor turned to call back: "say, up in the forward car we got a couple of undertakers. they be of any use to you?" "not yet." then mallory dawdled on into the smoking room, where he found his own porter, who explained that he had been "promoted to the bottlery." "do we come to a station stop soon?" mallory asked. "well, not for a considerable interval. do you want to get out and walk up and down?" "i don't," said mallory, taking from under his coat snoozleums, whom he had smuggled past the new conductor. "meanwhile, porter, could you give him something to eat to distract him?" the porter grinned, and picking up a bill of fare held it out. "i got a meenuel. it ain't written in dog, but you can explain it to him. what would yo' canine desiah, sah?" snoozleums put out a paw and mallory read what it indicated: "he says he'd like a filet chateaubriand, but if you have any old bones, he'll take those." the porter gathered snoozleums in and disappeared with him into the buffet, mallory calling after him: "don't let the conductor see him." dr. temple advanced on the disconsolate youth with an effort at cheer: "how is our bridegroom this beautiful afternoon?" mallory glanced at his costume: "i feel like a rainbow gone wrong. just my luck to have to borrow from everybody. look at me! this collar of mr. wellington's makes me feel like a peanut in a rubber tire." he turned to fosdick. "i say, mr. fosdick, what size collar do you wear?" "fourteen and a half," said fosdick. "fourteen and a half!--why don't you get a neck? you haven't got a plain white shirt, have you? our english friend lent me this, but it's purple, and mr. ashton's socks are maroon, and this peacock blue tie is very unhappy." "i think i can fit you out," said fosdick. "and if you had an extra pair of socks," mallory pleaded,--"just one pair of unemotional socks." "i'll show you my repertoire." "all right, i'll see you later." then he went up to wellington, with much hesitance of manner. "by the way, mr. wellington, do you suppose mrs. wellington could lend miss--mrs.--could lend marjorie some--some----" wellington waved him aside with magnificent scorn: "i am no longer in mrs. wellington's confidence." "oh, excuse me," said mallory. he had noted that the wellingtons occupied separate compartments, but for all he knew their reason was as romantic as his own. chapter xxiii through a tunnel mrs. jimmie wellington, who had traveled much abroad and learned in england the habit of smoking in the corridors of expensive hotels, had acquired also the habit, as travelers do, of calling england freer than america. she determined to do her share toward the education of her native country, and chose, for her topic, tobacco as a feminine accomplishment. she had grown indifferent to stares and audible comment and she could fight a protesting head waiter to a standstill. if monuments and tablets are ever erected to the first woman who smoked publicly in this place or that, mrs. jimmie wellington will be variously remembered and occupy a large place in historical record. the narrow confines of the women's room on the sleeping car soon palled on her, and she objected to smoking there except when she felt the added luxury of keeping some other woman outside--fuming, but not smoking. and now mrs. jimmie had staked out a claim on the observation platform. she sat there, puffing like a major-general, and in one portion of nebraska two farmers fell off their agricultural vehicles at the sight of her cigar-smoke trailing after the train. in wyoming three cowboys followed her for a mile, yipping and howling their compliments. feeling the smoke mood coming on, mrs. wellington invited mrs. temple to smoke with her, but mrs. temple felt a reminiscent qualm at the very thought, so mrs. jimmie sauntered out alone, to the great surprise of ira lathrop, whose motto was, "two heads are better than one," and who was apparently willing to wait till anne gattle's head grew on his shoulder. "i trust i don't intrude," mrs. wellington said. "oh, no. oh, yes." anne gasped in fiery confusion as she fled into the car, followed by the purple-faced ira, who slammed the door with a growl: "that wellington woman would break up anything." the prim little missionary toppled into the nearest chair: "oh, ira, what will she think?" "she can't think!" ira grumbled. "in a little while she'll know." "don't you think we'd better tell everybody before they begin to talk?" ira glowed with pride at the thought and murmured with all the ardor of a senile romeo: "i suppose so, ducky darling. i'll break it--i mean i'll tell it to the men, and you tell the women." "all right, dear, i'll obey you," she answered, meekly. "obey me!" ira laughed with boyish swagger. "and you a missionary!" "well, i've converted one heathen, anyway," said anne as she darted down the corridor, followed by ira, who announced his intention to "go to the baggage car and dig up his old prince albert." in their flight forward they passed the mysterious woman in the stateroom. they were too full of their own mystery to give thought to hers. mrs. fosdick went timidly prowling toward the observation car, suspecting everybody to be a spy, as mallory suspected everybody to be a clergyman in disguise. as she stole along the corridor past the men's clubroom she saw her husband--her here-and-there husband--wearily counting the telegraph posts and summing them up into miles. she tapped on the glass and signalled to him, then passed on. he answered with a look, then pretended not to have noticed, and waited a few moments before he rose with an elaborate air of carelessness. he beckoned the porter and said: "let me know the moment we enter utah, will you?" "yassah. we'll be comin' along right soon now. we got to pass through the big aspen tunnel, after that, befo' long, we splounce into old utah." "don't forget," said fosdick, as he sauntered out. ashton perked up his ears at the promise of a tunnel and kept his eye on his watch. fosdick entered the observation room with a hungry look in his luscious eyes. his now-and-then wife put up a warning finger to indicate mrs. whitcomb's presence at the writing desk. fosdick's smile froze into a smirk of formality and he tried to chill his tone as if he were speaking to a total stranger. "good afternoon." mrs. fosdick answered with equal ice: "good afternoon. won't you sit down?" "thanks. very picturesque scenery, isn't it?" "isn't it?" fosdick seated himself, looked about cautiously, noted that mrs. whitcomb was apparently absorbed in her letter, then lowered his voice confidentially. his face kept up a strained pretense of indifference, but his whisper was passionate with longing: "has my poor little wifey missed her poor old hubby?" "oh, so much!" she whispered. "has poor little hubby missed his poor old wife?" "horribly. was she lonesome in that dismal stateroom all by herself?" "oh, so miserable! i can't stand it much longer." fosdick's face blazed with good news: "in just a little while we come to the utah line--then we're safe." "god bless utah!" the rapture died from her face as she caught sight of dr. temple, who happened to stroll in and go to the bookshelves, and taking out a book happened to glance near-sightedly her way. "be careful of that man, dearie," mrs. fosdick hissed out of one side of her mouth. "he's a very strange character." her husband was infected with her own terror. he asked, huskily: "what do you think he is?" "a detective! i'm sure he's watching us. he followed you right in here." "we'll be very cautious--till we get to utah." the old clergyman, a little fuzzy in brain from his début in beer, continued innocently to confirm the appearance of a detective by drifting aimlessly about. he was looking for his wife, but he kept glancing at the uneasy fosdicks. he went to the door, opened it, saw mrs. wellington finishing a cigar, and retreated precipitately. seeing mrs. temple wandering in the corridor, he motioned her to a chair near the fosdicks and she sat by his side, wondering at his filmy eyes. the fosdicks, glancing uncomfortably at dr. temple, rose and selected other chairs further away. then roger ashton sauntered in, his eyes searching for a proper companion through the tunnel. he saw mrs. wellington returning from the platform, just tossing away her cigar and blowing out the last of its grateful vapor. with an effort at sarcasm, he went to her and offered her one of his own cigars, smiling: "have another." she took it, looked it over, and parried his irony with a formula she had heard men use when they hate to refuse a gift-cigar: "thanks. i'll smoke it after dinner, if you don't mind." "oh, i don't mind," he laughed, then bending closer he murmured: "they tell me we are coming to a tunnel, a nice, long, dark, dismal tunnel." mrs. wellington would not take a dare. she felt herself already emancipated from jimmie. so she answered ashton's hint with a laughing challenge: "how nice of the conductor to arrange it." ashton smacked his lips over the prospect. and now the porter, having noted ashton's impatience to reach the tunnel, thought to curry favor and a quarter by announcing its approach. he bustled in and made straight for ashton just as the tunnel announced itself with a sudden swoop of gloom, a great increase of the train-noises and a far-off clang of the locomotive bell. out of the egyptian darkness came the unmistakable sounds of osculation in various parts of the room. doubtless, it was repeated in other parts of the train. there were numerous cooing sounds, too, but nobody spoke except mrs. temple, who was heard to murmur: "oh, walter, dear, what makes your breath so funny!" next came a little yowl of pain in mrs. fosdick's voice, and then daylight flooded the car with a rush, as if time had made an instant leap from midnight to noon. there were interesting disclosures. mrs. temple was caught with her arms round the doctor's neck, and she blushed like a spoony girl. mrs. fosdick was trying to disengage her hair from mr. fosdick's scarf-pin. mrs. whitcomb alone was deserted. mr. ashton was gazing devotion at mrs. wellington and trying to tell her with his eyes how velvet he had found her cheek. but she was looking reproachfully at him from a chair, and saying, not without regret: "i heard everybody kissing everybody, but i was cruelly neglected." ashton's eyes widened with unbelief, he heard a snicker at his elbow, and whirled to find the porter rubbing his black velvet cheek and writhing with pent-up laughter. mrs. wellington glanced the same way, and a shriek of understanding burst from her. it sent the porter into a spasm of yah-yahs till he caught ashton's eyes and saw murder in them. the porter fled to the platform and held the door fast, expecting to be lynched. but ashton dashed away in search of concealment and soap. the porter remained on the platform for some time, planning to leap overboard and take his chances rather than fall into ashton's hands, but at length, finding himself unpursued, he peered into the car and, seeing that ashton had gone, he returned to his duties. he kept a close watch on ashton, but on soberer thoughts ashton had decided that the incident would best be consigned to silence and oblivion. but for all the rest of that day he kept rubbing his lips with his handkerchief. the porter, noting that the train had swept into a granite gorge like an enormously magnified aisle in a made-up sleeping car, recognized the presence of echo canyon, and with it the entrance into utah. he hastened to impart the tidings to mr. fosdick and held out his hand as he extended the information. fosdick could hardly believe that his twelve-hundred-mile exile was over. "we're in utah?" he exclaimed. "yassah," and the porter shoved his palm into view. fosdick filled it with all his loose change, then whirled to his wife and cried: "edith! we are in utah now! embrace me!" she flung herself into his arms with a gurgle of bliss. the other passengers gasped with amazement. this sort of thing was permissible enough in a tunnel, but in the full light of day----! fosdick, noting the sensation he had created, waved his hand reassuringly and called across his wife's shoulder: "don't be alarmed, ladies and gentlemen. she's my wife!" he added in a whisper meant for her ear alone: "at least till we get to nevada!" then she whispered something in his ear and they hurried from the car. they left behind them a bewilderment that eclipsed the wonder of the mallories. that couple spoke to each other at least during the day time. here was a married pair that did not speak at all for two days and two nights and then made a sudden and public rush to each other's arms! dr. temple summed up the general feeling when he said: "i don't believe in witches, but if i did, i'd believe that this train is bewitched." later he decided that fosdick was a mormon elder and that mrs. fosdick was probably a twelfth or thirteenth spouse he was smuggling in from the east. the theory was not entirely false, for fosdick was one of the many victims of the crazy-quilt of american divorce codes, though he was the most unwilling of polygamists. and dr. temple gave up his theory in despair the next morning when he found the fosdicks still on the train, and once more keeping aloof from each other. chapter xxiv the train butcher mallory was dragging out a miserable existence with a companion who was neither maid, wife, nor widow and to whom he was neither bachelor, husband, nor relict. they were suffering brain-fag from their one topic of conversation, and heart-fag from rapture deferred. marjorie had pretended to take a nap and mallory had pretended that he would leave her for her own sake. their contradictory chains were beginning to gall. mallory sat in the smoking room, and threw aside a half-finished cigar. life was indeed nauseous when tobacco turned rank on his lips. he watched without interest the stupendous scenery whirling past the train; granite ravines, infernal grotesques of architecture and diablerie, the giant's teapot, the devil's slide, the pulpit rock, the hanging rock, splashes of mineral color, as if titanic paint pots had been spilled or flung against the cliffs, sudden hushes of green pine-worlds, dreary graveyards of sand and sagebrush, mountain streams in frothing panics. his jaded soul could not respond to any of these thrillers, the dime-novels and melodramatic third-acts of nature. but with the arrival of a train-boy, who had got on at evanston with a batch of salt lake city newspapers, he woke a little. the other men came trooping round, like sheep at a herd-boy's whistle or chickens when a pan of grain is brought into the yard. the train "butcher" had a nasal sing-song, but his strain might have been the pied piper's tune emptying hamelin of its grown-ups. the charms of flirtation, matrimonial bliss and feminine beauty were forgotten, and the males flocked to the delights of stock-market reports, political or racing or dramatic or sporting or criminal news. even ashton braved the eyes of his fellow men for the luxury of burying his nose in a fresh paper. "papers, gents? yes? no?" the train butcher chanted. "salt lake papers, ogden papers, all the latest papers, comic papers, magazines, periodicals." "here, boy," said ashton, snapping his fingers, "what's the latest new york paper?" "last sat'day's." "six days old? i read that before i left new york. well, give me that salt lake paper. it has yesterday's stock market, i suppose." "yes, sir." he passed over the sheet and made change, without abating his monody: "papers, gents. yes? no? salt lake pa----" "whash latesh from chicago?" said wellington. "monday's." "i read that before--that breakfast began," laughed little jimmie. "well, give me _salt lake bazoo_. it has basheball news, i s'pose." "yes, sir," the butcher answered, and his tone grew reverent as he said: "the giants won. mr. mattyson was pitching. papers, gents, all the latest papers, magazines, periodicals." wedgewood extended a languid hand: "what's the latest issue of the _london times_?" "never heard of it." wedgewood almost fainted, and returned to his baedeker of the united states. dr. temple summoned the lad: "i don't suppose you have the _ypsilanti eagle_?" the butcher regarded him with pity, and sniffed: "i carry newspapers, not poultry." "well, give me the----" he saw a pink weekly of rather picturesque appearance, and the adventure attracted him. "i'll take this--also the _outlook_." he folded the pink within the green, and entered into a new and startling world--a sort of journalistic slumming tour. "give me any old thing," said mallory, and flung open an ogden journal till he found the sporting page, where his eyes brightened. "by jove, a ten-inning game! matthewson in the box!" "mattie is most intelleckshal pitcher in the world," said little jimmie, and then everybody disappeared behind paper ramparts, while the butcher lingered to explain to the porter the details of the great event. about this time, marjorie, tired of her pretence at slumber, strolled into the observation car, glancing into the men's room, where she saw nothing but newspapers. then mrs. wellington saw her, and smiled: "come in and make yourself at home." "thanks," said marjorie, bashfully, "i was looking for my--my----" "husband?" "my dog." "how is he this morning?" "my dog?" "your husband." "oh, he's as well as could be expected." "where did you get that love of a waist?" mrs. wellington laughed. "mrs. temple lent it to me. isn't it sweet?" "exquisite! the latest ypsilanti mode." marjorie, suffering almost more acutely from being badly frocked than from being duped in her matrimonial hopes, threw herself on mrs. wellington's mercy. "i'm so unhappy in this. couldn't you lend me or sell me something a little smarter?" "i'd love to, my dear," said mrs. wellington, "but i left home on short notice myself. i shall need all my divorce trousseau in reno. otherwise--i--but here's your husband. you two ought to have some place to spoon. i'll leave you this whole room." and she swept out, nodding to mallory, who had divined marjorie's presence, and felt the need of being near her, though he also felt the need of finishing the story of the great ball game. husband-like, he felt that he was conferring sufficient courtesy in throwing a casual smile across the top of the paper. marjorie studied his motley garb, and her own, and groaned: "we're a sweet looking pair, aren't we?" "mr. and miss fit," said mallory, from behind the paper. "oh, harry, has your love grown cold?" she pleaded. "marjorie, how can you think such a thing?" still from behind the paper. "well, mrs. wellington said we ought to have some place to spoon, and she went away and left us, and--there you stand--and----" this pierced even the baseball news, and he threw his arms around her with glow of devotion. she snuggled closer, and cooed: "aren't we having a nice long engagement? we've traveled a million miles, and the preacher isn't in sight yet. what have you been reading--wedding announcements?" "no--i was reading about the most wonderful exhibition. mattie was in the box--and in perfect form." "mattie?" marjorie gasped uneasily. "mattie!" he raved, "and in perfect form." and now the hidden serpent of jealousy, which promised to enliven their future, lifted its head for the first time, and mallory caught his first glimpse of an unsuspected member of their household. marjorie demanded with an ominous chill: "and who's mattie? some former sweetheart of yours?" "my dear," laughed mallory. but marjorie was up and away, with apt temper: "so mattie was in the box, was she? what is it to you, where she sits? you dare to read about her and rave over her perfect form, while you neglect your wife--or your--oh, what am i, anyway?" mallory stared at her in amazement. he was beginning to learn what ignorant heathen women are concerning so many of the gods and demi-gods of mankind. then, with a tenderness he might not always show, he threw the paper down and took her in his arms: "you poor child. mattie is a man--a pitcher--and you're the only woman i ever loved--and you are liable to be my wife any minute." the explanation was sufficient, and she crawled into the shelter of his arm with little noises that served for apology, forgiveness and reconciliation. then he made the mistake of mentioning the sickening topic of deferred hope: "a minister's sure to get on at the next stop--or the next." marjorie's nerves were frayed by too much enduring, and it took only a word to set them jangling: "if you say minister to me again, i'll scream." then she tried to control herself with a polite: "where is the next stop?" "ogden." "where's that? on the map?" "well, it's in utah." "utah!" she groaned. "they marry by wholesale there, and we can't even get a sample." chapter xxv the train wrecker the train-butcher, entering the observation room, found only a loving couple. he took in at a glance their desire for solitude. a large part of his business was the forcing of wares on people who did not want them. his voice and his method suggested the mosquito. seeing mallory and marjorie mutually absorbed in reading each other's eyes, and evidently in need of nothing on earth less than something else to read, the train-butcher decided that his best plan of attack was to make himself a nuisance. it is a plan successfully adopted by organ-grinders, street pianists and other blackmailers under the guise of art, who have nothing so welcome to sell as their absence. mallory and marjorie heard the train-boy's hum, but they tried to ignore it. "papers, gents and ladies? yes? no? paris fashions, lady?" he shoved a large periodical between their very noses, but marjorie threw it on the floor, with a bitter glance at her own borrowed plumage: "don't show me any paris fashions!" then she gave the boy his congé by resuming her chat with mallory: "how long do we stop at ogden?" the train-boy went right on auctioning his papers and magazines, and poking them into the laps of his prey. and they went right on talking to one another and pushing his papers and magazines to the floor. "i think i'd better get off at ogden, and take the next train back. that's just what i'll do. nothing, thank you!" this last to the train-boy. "but you can't leave me like this," mallory urged excitedly, with a side glance of "no, no!" to the train-boy. "i can, and i must, and i will," marjorie insisted. "i'll go pack my things now." "but, marjorie, listen to me." "will you let me alone!" this to the gadfly, but to mallory a dejected wail: "i--i just remembered. i haven't anything to pack." "and you'll have to give back that waist to mrs. temple. you can't get off at ogden without a waist." "i'll go anyway. i want to get home." "marjorie, if you talk that way--i'll throw you off the train!" she gasped. he explained: "i wasn't talking to you; i was trying to stop this phonograph." then he rose, and laid violent hands on the annoyer, shoved him to the corridor, seized his bundle of papers from his arm, and hurled them at his head. they fell in a shower about the train-butcher, who could only feel a certain respect for the one man who had ever treated him as he knew he deserved. he bent to pick up his scattered merchandise, and when he had gathered his stock together, put his head in, and sang out a sincere: "excuse me." but mallory did not hear him, he was excitedly trying to calm the excited girl, who, having eloped with him, was preparing now to elope back without him. "darling, you can't desert me now," he pleaded, "and leave me to go on alone?" "well, why don't you do something?" she retorted, in equal desperation. "if i were a man, and i had the girl i loved on a train, i'd get her married if i had to wreck the----" she caught her breath, paused a second in intense thought, and then, with sudden radiance, cried: "harry, dear!" "yes, love!" "i have an idea--an inspiration!" "yes, pet," rather dubiously from him, but with absolute exultation from her: "let's wreck the train!" "i don't follow you, sweetheart." "don't you see?" she began excitedly. "when there are train wrecks a lot of people get killed, and things. a minister always turns up to administer the last something or other--well----" "well?" "well, stupid, don't you see? we wreck a train, a minister comes, we nab him, he marries us, and--there we are! everything's lovely!" he gave her one of those looks with which a man usually greets what a woman calls an inspiration. he did not honor her invention with analysis. he simply put forward an objection to it, and, man-like, chose the most hateful of all objections: "it's a lovely idea, but the wreck would delay us for hours and hours, and i'd miss my transport----" "harry mallory, if you mention that odious transport to me again, i know i'll have hydrophobia. i'm going home." "but, darling," he pleaded, "you can't desert me now, and leave me to go on alone?" she had her answer glib: "if you really loved me, you'd----" "oh, i know," he cut in. "you've said that before. but i'd be court-martialled. i'd lose my career." "what's a career to a man who truly loves?" "it's just as much as it is to anybody else--and more." she could hardly controvert this gracefully, so she sank back with grim resignation. "well, i've proposed my plan, and you don't like it. now, suppose you propose something." the silence was oppressive. they sat like stoughton bottles. there the conductor found them some time later. he gave them a careless look, selected a chair at the end of the car, and began to sort his tickets, spreading them out on another chair, making notes with the pencil he took from atop his ear, and shoved back from time to time. ages seemed to pass, and mallory had not even a suggestion. by this time marjorie's temper had evaporated, and when he said: "if we could only stop at some town for half an hour," she said: "maybe the conductor would hold the train for us." "i hardly think he would." "he looks like an awfully nice man. you ask him." "oh, what's the use?" marjorie was getting tired of depending on this charming young man with the very bad luck. she decided to assume command herself. she took recourse naturally to the original feminine methods: "i'll take care of him," she said, with resolution. "a woman can get a man to do almost anything if she flirts a little with him." "marjorie!" "now, don't you mind anything i do. remember, it's all for love of you--even if i have to kiss him." "marjorie, i won't permit----" "you have no right to boss me--yet. you subside." she gave him the merest touch, but he fell backward into a chair, utterly aghast at the shameless siren into which desperation had altered the timid little thing he thought he had chosen to love. he was being rapidly initiated into the complex and versatile and fearfully wonderful thing a woman really is, and he was saying to himself, "what have i married?" forgetting, for the moment, that he had not married her yet, and that therein lay the whole trouble. chapter xxvi delilah and the conductor like the best of women and the worst of men, marjorie was perfectly willing to do evil, that good might come of it. she advanced on the innocent conductor, as the lady from sorek must have sidled up to samson, coquetting with one arch hand and snipping the shears with the other. the stupefied mallory saw marjorie in a startling imitation of herself at her sweetest; only now it was brazen mimicry, yet how like! she went forward as the shyest young thing in the world, pursed her lips into an ecstatic simper, and began on the unsuspecting official: "isn't the country perfectly----" "yes, but i'm getting used to it," the conductor growled, without looking up. his curt indifference jolted marjorie a trifle, but she rallied her forces, and came back with: "how long do we stop at ogden?" "five minutes," very bluntly. marjorie poured maple syrup on her tone, as she purred: "this train of yours is an awfully fast train, isn't it?" "sort of," said the conductor, with just a trace of thaw. what followed made him hold his breath, for the outrageous little hussy was actually saying: "the company must have a great deal of confidence in you to entrust the lives and welfare of so many people to your presence of mind and courage." "well, of course, i can't say as to that----" even mallory could see that the man's reserve was melting fast as marjorie went on with relentless treacle: "talk about soldiers and firemen and life-savers! i think it takes a braver man than any of those to be a conductor--really." "well, it is a kind of a responsible job." the conductor swelled his chest a little at that, and marjorie felt that he was already hers. she hammered the weak spot in his armor: "responsible! i should say it is. mr. mallory is a soldier, but soldiers are such ferocious, destructive people, while conductors save lives, and--if i were only a man i think it would be my greatest ambition to be a conductor--especially on an overland express." the conductor told the truth, when he confessed: "well, i never heard it put just that way." then he spoke with a little more pride, hoping to increase the impression he felt he was making: "the main thing, of course, is to get my train through on time!" this was a facer. he was going to get his train through on time just to oblige marjorie. she stammered: "i don't suppose the train, by any accident, would be delayed in leaving ogden?" "not if i can help it," the hero averred, to reassure her. "i wish it would," marjorie murmured. the conductor looked at her in surprise: "why, what's it to you?" she turned her eyes on him at full candle power, and smiled: "oh, i just wanted to do a little shopping there." "shopping! while the train waits! excuse me!" "you see," marjorie fluttered, "by a sad mistake, my baggage isn't on the train. and i haven't any--any--i really need to buy some--some things very badly. it's awfully embarrassing to be without them." "i can imagine," the conductor mumbled. "why don't you and your husband drop off and take the next train?" "my husb--mr. mallory has to be in san francisco by to-morrow night. he just has to!" "so have i." "but to oblige me? to save me from distress--don't you think you could?" like a sweet little child she twisted one of the brass buttons on his coat sleeve, and wheedled: "don't you think you might hold the train just a little tiny half hour?" he was sorry, but he didn't see how he could. then she took his breath away again by asking, out of a clear sky: "are you married?" he was as awkward as if she had proposed to him, she answered for him: "oh, but of course you are. the women wouldn't let a big, handsome, noble brave giant like you escape long." he mopped his brow in agony as she went on: "i'm sure you're a very chivalrous man. i'm sure you would give your life to rescue a maiden in distress. well, here's your chance. won't you please hold the train?" she actually had her cheek almost against his shoulder, though she had to poise atiptoe to reach him. mallory's dismay was changing to a boiling rage, and the conductor was a pitiable combination of saint anthony and tantalus. "i--i'd love to oblige you," he mumbled, "but it would be as much as my job's worth." "how much is that?" marjorie asked, and added reassuringly, "if you lost your job i'm sure my father would get you a better one." "maybe," said the conductor, "but--i got this one." then his rolling eyes caught sight of the supposed husband gesticulating wildly and evidently clearing for action. he warned marjorie: "say, your husband is motioning at you." "don't mind him," marjorie urged, "just listen to me. i implore you. i----" seeing that he was still resisting, she played her last card, and, crying, "oh, you can't resist my prayers so cruelly," she threw her arms around his neck, sobbing, "do you want to break my heart?" mallory rushed into the scene and the conductor, tearing marjorie's arms loose, retreated, gasping, "no! and i don't want your husband to break my head." mallory dragged marjorie away, but she shook her little fist at the conductor, crying: "do you refuse? do you dare refuse?" "i've got to," the conductor abjectly insisted. marjorie blazed with fury and the siren became a scylla. "then i'll see that my father gets you discharged. if you dare to speak to me again, i'll order my husband to throw you off this train. to think of being refused a simple little favor by a mere conductor! of a stupid old emigrant train!! of all things!!!" then she hurled herself into a chair and pounded her heels on the floor in a tantrum that paralyzed mallory. even the conductor tapped him on the shoulder and said: "you have my sympathy." chapter xxvii the dog-on dog again as the conductor left the mallorys to their own devices, it rushed over him anew what sacrilege had been attempted--a fool bride had asked him to stop the trans-american of all trains!--to go shopping of all things! he stormed into the smoking room to open the safety valve of his wrath, and found the porter just coming out of the buffet cell with a tray, two hollow-stemmed glasses and a bottle swaddled in a napkin. "say, ellsworth, what in ---- do you suppose that female back there wants?--wants me to hold the trans-american while----" but the porter was in a flurry himself. he was about to serve champagne, and he cut the conductor short: "'scuse me, boss, but they's a lovin' couple in the stateroom forward that is in a powerful hurry for this. i can't talk to you now. i'll see you later." and he swaggered off, leaving the door of the buffet open. the conductor paused to close it, glanced in, started, stared, glared, roared: "what's this! well, i'll be--a dog smuggled in here! i'll break that coon's head. come out of there, you miserable or'nary hound." he seized the incredulous snoozleums by the scruff of his neck, growling, "it's you for the baggage car ahead," and dashed out with his prey, just as mallory, now getting new bearings on marjorie's character, spoke across the rampart of his napoleonically folded arms: "well, you're a nice one!--making violent love to a conductor before my very eyes. a minute more and i would have----" she silenced him with a snap: "don't you speak to me! i hate you! i hate all men. the more i know men the more i like----" this reminded her, and she asked anxiously: "where is snoozleums?" mallory, impatient at the shift of subject, snapped back: "oh, i left him in the buffet with the waiter. what i want to know is how you dare to----" "was it a colored waiter?" "of course. but i'm not speaking of----" "but suppose he should bite him?" "oh, you can't hurt those nigger waiters. i started to say----" "but i can't have snoozleums biting colored people. it might not agree with him. get him at once." mallory trembled with suppressed rage like an overloaded boiler, but he gave up and growled: "oh, lord, all right. i'll get him when i've finished----" "go get him this minute. and bring the poor darling back to his mother." "his mother! ye gods!" cried mallory, wildly. he turned away and dashed into the men's room with a furious: "where's that damned dog?" he met the porter just returning. the porter smiled: "he's right in heah, sir," and opened the buffet door. his eyes popped and his jaw sagged: "why, i lef' him here just a minute ago." "you left the window open, too," mallory observed. "well, i guess he's gone." the porter was panic stricken: "oh, i'm turrible sorry, boss, i wouldn't have lost dat dog for a fortune. if you was to hit me with a axe i wouldn't mind." to his utter befuddlement, mallory grinned and winked at him, and murmured: "oh, that's all right. don't worry." and actually laid half a dollar in his palm. leaving the black lids batting over the starting eyes, mallory pulled his smile into a long face and went back to marjorie like an undertaker: "my love, prepare yourself for bad news." marjorie looked up, startled and apprehensive: "snoozleums is ill. he did bite the darkey." "worse than that--he--he--fell out of the window." "when!" she shrieked, "in heaven's name--when?" "he was there just a minute ago, the waiter says." marjorie went into instant hysterics, wringing her hands and sobbing: "oh, my darling, my poor child--stop the train at once!" she began to pound mallory's shoulders and shake him frantically. he had never seen her this way either. he was getting his education in advance. he tried to calm her with inexpert words: "how can i stop the train? now, dearie, he was a nice dog, but after all, he was only a dog." she rounded on him like a panther: "only a dog! he was worth a dozen men like you. you find the conductor at once, command him to stop this train--and back up! i don't care if he has to go back ten miles. run, tell him at once. now, you run!" mallory stared at her as if she had gone mad, but he set out to run somewhere, anywhere. marjorie paced up and down distractedly, tearing her hair and moaning, "snoozleums, snoozleums! my child. my poor child!" at length her wildly roving eyes noted the bell rope. she stared, pondered, nodded her head, clutched at it, could not reach it, jumped for it several times in vain, then seized a chair, swung it into place, stood up in it, gripped the rope, and came down on it with all her weight, dropping to the floor and jumping up and down in a frenzied dance. in the distance the engine could be heard faintly whistling, whistling for every pull. the engineer, far ahead, could not imagine what unheard-of crisis could bring about such mad signals. the fireman yelled: "i bet that crazy conductor is attacked with an epilettic fit." but there was no disputing the command. the engine was reversed, the air brakes set, the sand run out and every effort made to pull the iron horse, as it were, back on its haunches. the grinding, squealing, jolting, shook the train like an earthquake. the shrieking of the whistle froze the blood like a woman's cry of "murder!" in the night. the women among the passengers echoed the screams. the men turned pale and braced themselves for the shock of collision. some of them were mumbling prayers. dr. temple and jimmie wellington, with one idea in their dissimilar souls, dashed from the smoking room to go to their wives. ashton and wedgewood, with no one to care for but themselves, seized windows and tried to fight them open. at last they budged a sash and knelt down to thrust their heads out. "i don't see a beastly thing ahead," said wedgewood, "except the heads of other fools." "we're slowing down though," said ashton, "she stops! we're safe. thank god!" and he collapsed into a chair. wedgewood collapsed into another, gasping: "whatevah are we safe from, i wondah?" the train-crew and various passengers descended and ran alongside the train asking questions. panic gave way to mystery. even dr. temple came back into the smoking room to finish a precious cigar he had been at work on. he was followed by little jimmie, who had not quite reached his wife when the stopping of the train put an end to his excuse for chivalry. he was regretfully mumbling: "it would have been such a good shansh to shave my life's wife--i mean my--i don't know what i mean." he sank into a chair and ordered a drink; then suddenly remembered his vow, and with great heroism, rescinded the order. mallory, finding that the train was checked just before he reached the conductor, saw that official's bewildered wrath at the stoppage and had a fearsome intuition that marjorie had somehow done the deed. he hurried back to the observation room, where he found her charging up and down, still distraught. he paused at a safe distance and said: "the train has stopped, my dear. somebody rang the bell." "i guess somebody did!" marjorie answered, with a proud toss of the head. "where's the conductor?" "he's looking for the fellow that pulled the rope." "you go tell him to back up--and slowly, too." "no, thank you!" said mallory. he was a brave young man, but he was not bearding the conductors of stopped expresses. already the conductor's voice was heard in the smoking room, where he appeared with the rush and roar of a bashan bull. "well!" he bellowed, "which one of you guys pulled that rope?" "it was nobody here, sir," dr. temple meekly explained. the conductor transfixed him with a baleful glare: "i wouldn't believe a gambler on oath. i bet you did it." "i assure you, sir," wedgewood interposed, "he didn't touch it. i was heah." the conductor waved him aside and charged into the observation room, followed by all the passengers in an awe struck rabble. here, too, the conductor thundered: "who pulled that rope? speak up somebody." mallory was about to sacrifice himself to save marjorie, but she met the conductor's black rage with the withering contempt of a young queen: "i pulled the old rope. whom did you suppose?" the conductor almost dropped with apoplexy at finding himself with nobody to vent his immense rage on, but this pink and white slip. "you!" he gulped, "well, what in----say, in the name of--why, don't you know it's a penitentiary offense to stop a train this way?" marjorie tossed her head a little higher, grew a little calmer: "what do i care? i want you to back up." the conductor was reduced to a wet rag, a feeble echo: "back up--the train up?" "yes, back the train up," marjorie answered, resolutely, "and go slowly till i tell you to stop." the conductor stared at her a moment, then whirled on mallory: "say, what in hell's the matter with your wife?" mallory was saved from the problem of answering by marjorie's abrupt change from a young tsarina rebuking a serf, to a terrified mother. she flung out imploring palms and with a gush of tears pleaded: "won't you please back up? my darling child fell off the train." the conductor's rage fell away in an instant. "your child fell off the train!" he gasped. "good lord! how old was he?" with one hand he was groping for the bell cord to give the signal, with the other he opened the door to look back along the track. "he was two years old," marjorie sobbed. "oh, that's too bad!" the conductor groaned. "what did he look like?" "he had a pink ribbon round his neck." "a pink ribbon--oh, the poor little fellow! the poor little fellow!" "and a long curly tail." the conductor swung round with a yell: "a curly tail!--your son?" "my dog!" marjorie roared back at him. the conductor's voice cracked weakly as he shrieked: "your dog! you stopped this train for a fool dog?" "he wasn't a fool dog," marjorie retorted, facing him down, "he knows more than you do." the conductor threw up his hands: "well, don't you women beat----" he studied marjorie as if she were some curious freak of nature. suddenly an idea struck into his daze: "say, what kind of a dog was it?--a measly little cheese-hound?" "he was a noble, beautiful soul with wonderful eyes and adorable ears." the conductor was growing weaker and weaker: "well, don't worry. i got him. he's in the baggage car." marjorie stared at him unbelievingly. the news seemed too gloriously beautiful to be true. "he isn't dead--snoozleums is not dead!" she cried, "he lives! he lives! you have saved him." and once more she flung herself upon the conductor. he tried to bat her off like a gnat, and mallory came to his rescue by dragging her away and shoving her into a chair. but she saw only the noble conductor: "oh, you dear, good, kind angel. get him at once." "he stays in the baggage car," the conductor answered, firmly and as he supposed, finally. "but snoozleums doesn't like baggage cars," marjorie smiled. "he won't ride in one." "he'll ride in this one or i'll wring his neck." "you fiend in human flesh!" marjorie shrank away from him in horror, and he found courage to seize the bell rope and yank it viciously with a sardonic: "please, may i start this train?" the whistle tooted faintly. the bell began to hammer, the train to creak and writhe and click. the conductor pulled his cap down hard and started forward. marjorie seized his sleeve: "oh, i implore you, don't consign that poor sweet child to the horrid baggage car. if you have a human heart in your breast, hear my prayer." the conductor surrendered unconditionally: "oh, lord, all right, all right. i'll lose my job, but if you'll keep quiet, i'll bring him to you." and he slunk out meekly, followed by the passengers, who were shaking their heads in wonderment at this most amazing feat of this most amazing bride. when they were alone once more, marjorie as radiant as april after a storm, turned her sunshiny smile on mallory: "isn't it glorious to have our little snoozleums alive and well?" but mallory was feeling like a march day. he answered with a sleety chill: "you care more for the dog than you do for me." "why shouldn't i?" marjorie answered with wide eyes, "snoozleums never would have brought me on a wild goose elopement like this. heaven knows he didn't want to come." mallory repeated the indictment: "you love a dog better than you love your husband." "my what?" marjorie laughed, then she spoke with lofty condescension: "harry mallory, if you're going to be jealous of that dog, i'll never marry you the longest day i live." "so you'll let a dog come between us?" he demanded. "i wouldn't give up snoozleums for a hundred husbands," she retorted. "i'm glad to know it in time," mallory said. "you'd better give me back that wedding ring." marjorie's heart stopped at this, but her pride was in arms. she drew herself up, slid the ring from her finger, and held it out as if she scorned it: "with pleasure. good afternoon, mr. mallory." mallory took it as if it were the merest trifle, bowed and murmured: "good afternoon, miss newton." he stalked out and she turned her back on him. a casual witness would have said that they were too indifferent to each other even to feel anger. as a matter of romantic fact, each was on fire with love, and aching madly with regret. each longed for strength to whirl round with outflung arms of reconciliation, and neither could be so brave. and so they parted, each harking back fiercely for one word of recall from the other. but neither spoke, and marjorie sat staring at nothing through raining eyes, while mallory strode into the men's room as melancholy as hamlet with yorick's skull in his hands. it was their first great quarrel, and they were convinced that the world might as well come to an end. chapter xxviii the woman-hater's relapse the observation room was as lonely as a deserted battle-field and marjorie as doleful as a wounded soldier left behind, and perishing of thirst, when the conductor came back with snoozleums in his arms. he regarded with contemptuous awe the petty cause of so great an event as the stopping of the trans-american. he expected to see marjorie receive the returned prodigal with wild rapture, but she didn't even smile when he said: "here's your powder-puff." she just took snoozleums on her lap, and, looking up with wet eyes and a sad smile, murmured: "thank you very much. you're the nicest conductor i ever met. if you ever want another position, i'll see that my father gets you one." it was like offering the kaiser a new job, but the conductor swallowed the insult and sought to repay it with irony. "thanks. and if you ever want to run this road for a couple of weeks, just let me know." marjorie nodded appreciatively and said: "i will. you're very kind." and that completed the rout of that conductor. he retired in disorder, leaving marjorie to fondle snoozleums with a neglectful indifference that would have greatly flattered mallory, if he could have seen through the partition that divided them. but he was witnessing with the cynical superiority of an aged and disillusioned man the, to him, childish behavior of ira lathrop, an eleventh-hour orlando. for just as mallory moped into the smoking-room at one door, ira lathrop swept in at the other, his face rubicund with embarrassment and ecstasy. he had donned an old frock coat with creases like ruts from long exile in his trunk. but he was feeling like an heir apparent; and he startled everybody by his jovial hail: "well, boys--er--gentlemen--the drinks are on me. waiter, take the orders." little jimmie woke with a start, rose hastily to his feet and saluted, saying: "present! who said take the orders?" "i did," said lathrop, "i'm giving a party. waiter, take the orders." "sarsaparilla," said dr. temple, but they howled him down and ordered other things. the porter shook his head sadly: "nothin' but sof' drinks in utah, gemmen." a groan went up from the club-members, and lathrop groaned loudest of all: "well, we've got to drink something. take the orders. we'll all have sarsaparilla." little jimmie wellington came to the rescue. "don't do anything desperate, gentlemen," he said, with a look of divine philanthropy. "the bar's closed, but little jimmie wellington is here with the life preserver." from his hip-pocket he produced a silver flask that looked to be big enough to carry a regiment through the alps. it was greeted with a salvo, and lathrop said to jimmie: "i apologize for everything i have said--and thought--about you." he turned to the porter: "there ain't any law against giving this away, is there?" the porter grinned: "not if you-all bribe the exercise-inspector." and he held out a glass for the bribe, murmuring, "don't git tired," as it was poured. he set it inside his sanctum and then bustled round with ice-filled glasses and a siphon. when little jimmie offered of the flask to dr. temple, the clergyman put out his hand with a politely horrified: "no, thank you." lathrop frightened him with a sudden comment: "look at that gesture! doc, i'd almost swear you were a parson." mallory whirled on him with the eyes of a hawk about to pounce, and "the very idea!" was the best disclaimer dr. temple could manage, suddenly finding himself suspected. ashton put in with, "the only way to disprove it, doc, is to join us." the poor old clergyman, too deeply involved in his deception to brave confession now, decided to do and dare all. he stammered, "er--ah--certainly," and held out his hand for his share of the poison. little jimmie winked at the others and almost filled the glass. the innocent doctor bowed his thanks. when the porter reached him and prepared to fill the remainder of the glass from the siphon, the parson waved him aside with a misguided caution: "no, thanks. i'll not mix them." mallory turned away with a sigh: "he takes his straight. he's no parson." then they forgot the doctor in curiosity as to lathrop's sudden spasm of generosity--with wellington's liquor. wedgewood voiced the general curiosity when he said: "what's the old woman-hater up to now?" "woman-hater?" laughed ira. "it's the old story. i'm going to follow mallory's example--marriage." "i hope you succeed," said mallory. "wherever did you pick up the bride?" said wedgewood, mellowing with the long glass in his hand. "brides are easy," said mallory, with surprising cynicism. "where do you get the parson?" "hang the parson," wedgewood repeated, "who's the gel?" "i'll bet i know who she is," ashton interposed; "it's that nectarine of a damsel who got on at green river." "not the same!" lathrop roared. "i found my bride blooming here all the while. girl i used to spark back in brattleboro, vermont. i've been vowing for years that i'd live and die an old maid. i've kept my head out of the noose all this time--till i struck this train and met up with anne. we got to talking over old times--waking up old sentiments. she got on my nerves. i got on hers. finally i said, 'aw, hell, let's get married. save price of one stateroom to china anyway.' she says, 'damned if i don't!'--or words to that effect." mallory broke in with feverish interest: "but you said you were going to get married on this train." "nothing easier. here's how!" and he raised his glass, but mallory hauled it down to demand: "how? that's what i want to know. how are you going to get married on this parsonless express. have you got a little minister in your suitcase?" ira beamed with added pride as he explained: "well, you see, when i used to court anne i had a rival--charlie selby his name was. i thought he cut me out, but he became a clergyman in utah--oh, charlie! i telegraphed him that i was passing through ogden, and would he come down to the train and marry me to a charming lady. he always wanted to marry anne. i thought it would be a durned good joke to let him marry her--to me." "d-did he accept?" mallory asked, excitedly, "is he coming?" "he is--he did--here's his telegram," said ira. "he brings the license and the ring." he passed it over, and as mallory read it a look of hope spread across his face. but ira was saying: "we're going to have the wedding obsequies right here in this car. you're all invited. will you come?" there was a general yell of acceptance and ashton began to sing, "there was i waiting at the church." then he led a sort of indian war-dance round the next victim of the matrimonial stake. at the end of the hullaballoo all the men charged their glasses, and drained them with an uproarious "how!" poor doctor temple had taken luxurious delight in the success of his disguise and in the prospect of watching some other clergyman working while he rested. he joined the dance as gaily, if not as gracefully, as any of the rest, and in a final triumph of recklessness, he tossed off a bumper of straight whisky. instantly his "how!" changed to "wow!" and then his throat clamped fast with a terrific spasm that flung the tears from his eyes. he bent and writhed in a silent paroxysm till he was pounded and shaken back to life and water poured down his throat to reopen a passage. the others thought he had merely choked and made no comment other than sympathy. they could not have dreamed that the old "physician" was as ignorant of the taste as of the vigor of pure spirits. after a riot of handshaking and good wishes, ira was permitted to escape with his life. mallory followed him to the vestibule, where he caught him by the sleeve with an anxious: "excuse me." "well, my boy----" "your minister--after you get through with him--may i use him?" "may you--what? why do you want a minister?" "to get married." "again? good lord, are you a mormon?" "me a mormon!" "then what do you want with an extra wife? it's against the law--even in utah." "you don't understand." "my boy, one of us is disgracefully drunk." "well, i'm not," said mallory, and then after a fierce inner debate, he decided to take lathrop into his confidence. the words came hard after so long a duplicity, but at last they were out: "mr. lathrop, i'm not really married to my wife." "you young scoundrel!" but his fury changed to pity when he heard the history of mallory's ill-fated efforts, and he promised not only to lend mallory his minister at secondhand, but also to keep the whole affair a secret, for mallory explained his intention of having his own ceremony in the baggage-car, or somewhere out of sight of the other passengers. mallory's face was now aglow as the cold embers of hope leaped into sudden blaze. he wrung lathrop's hand, saying: "lord love you, you've saved my life--wife--both." then he turned and ran to marjorie with the good news. he had quite forgotten their epoch-making separation. and she was so glad to see him smiling at her again that she forgot it, too. he came tearing into the observation room and took her by the shoulders, whispering: "oh, marjorie, marjorie, i've got him! i've got him!" "no, i've got him," she said, swinging snoozleums into view. mallory swung him back out of the way: "i don't mean a poodle, i mean a parson. i've got a parson." "no! i can't believe it! where is he?" she began to dance with delight, but she stopped when he explained: "well, i haven't got him yet, but i'm going to get one." "what--again?" she groaned, weary of this old bunco game of hope. "it's a real live one this time," mallory insisted. "mr. lathrop has ordered a minister and he's going to lend him to me as soon as he's through with him, and we'll be married on this train." marjorie was overwhelmed, but she felt it becoming in her to be a trifle coy. so she pouted: "but you won't want me for a bride now. i'm such a fright." he took the bait, hook and all: "i never saw you looking so adorable." "honestly? oh, but it will be glorious to be mrs. first lieutenant mallory." "glorious!" "i must telegraph home--and sign my new name. won't mamma be pleased?" "won't she?" said mallory, with just a trace of dubiety. then marjorie grew serious with a new idea: "i wonder if mamma and papa have missed me yet?" mallory laughed: "after three days' disappearance, i shouldn't be surprised." "perhaps they are worrying about me." "i shouldn't be surprised." "the poor dears! i'd better write them a telegram at once." "an excellent idea." she ran to the desk, found blank forms and then paused with knitted brow: "it will be very hard to say all i've got to say in ten words." "hang the expense," mallory sniffed magnificently, "i'm paying your bills now." but marjorie tried to look very matronly: "send a night letter in the day time! no, indeed, we must begin to economize." mallory was touched by this new revelation of her future housewifely thrift. he hugged her hard and reminded her that she could send a day-letter by wire. "an excellent idea," she said. "now, don't bother me. you go on and read your paper, read about mattie. i'll never be jealous of her--him--of anybody--again." "you shall never have cause for jealousy, my own." but fate was not finished with the initiation of the unfortunate pair, and already new trouble was strolling in their direction. chapter xxix jealousy comes aboard there was an air of domestic peace in the observation room, where mallory and marjorie had been left to themselves for some time. but the peace was like the ominous hush that precedes a tempest. mallory was so happy with everything coming his way, that he was even making up with snoozleums, stroking the tatted coat with one hand and holding up his newspaper with the other. he did not know all that was coming his way. the blissful silence was broken first by marjorie: "how do you spell utah?--with a y?" "utah begins with you," he said--and rather liked his wit, listened for some recognition, and rose to get it, but she waved him away. "don't bother me, honey. can't you see i'm busy?" he kissed her hair and sauntered back, dividing his attention between snoozleums and the ten-inning game. and now there was a small commotion in the smoking room. through the glass along the corridor the men caught sight of the girl who had got on at green river. ashton saw her first and she saw him. "there she goes," ashton hissed to the others, "look quick! there's the nectarine." "my word! she's a little bit of all right, isn't she?" even dr. temple stared at her with approval: "dear little thing, isn't she?" the girl, very consciously unconscious of the admiration, moved demurely along, with eyes downcast, but at such an angle that she could take in the sensation she was creating; she went along picking up stares as if they were bouquets. her demeanor was a remarkable compromise between outrageous flirtation and perfect respectability. but she was looking back so intently that when she moved into the observation room she walked right into the newspaper mallory was holding out before him. both said: "i beg your pardon." when mallory lowered the paper, both stared till their eyes almost popped. her amazement was one of immediate rapture. he looked as if he would have been much obliged for a volcanic crater to sink into. "harry!" she gasped, and let fall her handbag. "kitty!" he gasped, and let fall his newspaper. both bent, he handed her the newspaper and tossed the handbag into a chair; saw his mistake, withdrew the newspaper and proffered her snoozleums. marjorie stopped writing, pen poised in air, as if she had suddenly been petrified. the newcomer was the first to speak. she fairly gushed: "harry mallory--of all people." "kitty! kathleen! miss llewellyn!" "just to think of meeting you again." "just to think of it." "and on this train of all places." "on this train of all places!" "oh, harry, harry!" "oh, kitty, kitty, kitty!" "you dear fellow, it's so long since i saw you last." "so long." "it was at that last hop at west point, remember?--why, it seems only yesterday, and how well you are looking. you are well, aren't you?" "not very." he was mopping his brow in anguish, and yet the room seemed strangely cold. "of course you look much better in your uniform. you aren't wearing your uniform, are you?" "no, this is not my uniform." "you haven't left the army, have you?" "i don't know yet." "don't ever do that. you are just beautiful in brass buttons." "thanks." "harry!" "what's the matter now?" "this tie, this green tie, isn't this the one i knitted you?" "i am sure i don't know, i borrowed it from the conductor." "don't you remember? i did knit you one." "did you? i believe you did! i think i wore it out." "oh, you fickle boy. but see what i have. what's this?" he stared through the glassy eyes of complete helplessness. "it looks like a bracelet." "don't tell me you don't remember this!--the little bangle bracelet you gave me." "d-did i give you a baygled branglet?" "of course you did. and the inscription. don't you remember it?" she held her wrist in front of his aching eyes and he perused as if it were his own epitaph, what she read aloud for him. "_from harry to kitty, the only girl i ever loved._" "good night!" he sighed to himself, and began to mop his brow with snoozleums. "you put it on my arm," said kathleen, with a moonlight sigh, "and i've always worn it." "always?" "always! no matter whom i was engaged to." the desperate wretch, who had not dared even to glance in marjorie's direction, somehow thought he saw a straw of self-defense. "you were engaged to three or four others when i was at west point." "i may have been engaged to the others," said kathleen, moon-eyeing him, "but i always liked you best, clifford--er, tommy--i mean harry." "you got me at last." kathleen fenced back at this: "well, i've no doubt you have had a dozen affairs since." "oh, no! my heart has only known one real love." he threw this over her head at marjorie, but kathleen seized it, to his greater confusion: "oh, harry, how sweet of you to say it. it makes me feel positively faint," and she swooned his way, but he shoved a chair forward and let her collapse into that. thinking and hoping that she was unconscious, he made ready to escape, but she caught him by the coat, and moaned: "where am i?" and he growled back: "in the observation car!" kathleen's life and enthusiasm returned without delay: "fancy meeting you again! i could just scream." "so could i." "you must come up in our car and see mamma." "is ma-mamma with you?" mallory stammered, on the verge of imbecility. "oh, yes, indeed, we're going around the world." "don't let me detain you." "papa is going round the world also." "is papa on this train, too?" at last something seemed to embarrass her a trifle: "no, papa went on ahead. mamma hopes to overtake him. but papa is a very good traveler." then she changed the subject. "do come and meet mamma. it would cheer her up so. she is so fond of you. only this morning she was saying, 'of all the boys you were ever engaged to, kathleen, the one i like most of all was edgar--i mean clarence--er--harry mallory." "awfully kind of her." "you must come and see her--she's some stouter now!" "oh, is she? well, that's good." mallory was too angry to be sane, and too helpless to take advantage of his anger. he wondered how he could ever have cared for this molasses and mucilage girl. he remembered now that she had always had these same cloying ways. she had always pawed him and, like everybody but the pawers, he hated pawing. it would have been bad enough at any time to have kathleen hanging on his coat, straightening his tie, leaning close, smiling up in his eyes, losing him his balance, recapturing him every time he edged away. but with marjorie as the grim witness it was maddening. he loathed and abominated kathleen llewellyn, and if she had only been a man, he could cheerfully have beaten her to a pulp and chucked her out of the window. but because she was a helpless little baggage, he had to be as polite as he could while she sat and tore his plans to pieces, embittered marjorie's heart against him, and either ended all hopes of their marriage, or furnished an everlasting rancor to be recalled in every quarrel to their dying day. oh, etiquette, what injustices are endured in thy name! so there he sat, sweating his soul's blood, and able only to spar for time and wonder when the gong would ring. and now she was off on a new tack: "and where are you bound for, harry, dear?" "the philippines," he said, and for the first time there was something beautiful in their remoteness. "perhaps we shall cross the pacific on the same boat." the first sincere smile he had experienced came to him: "i go on an army transport, fortu--unfortunately." "oh, i just love soldiers. couldn't mamma and i go on the transport? mamma is very fond of soldiers, too." "i'm afraid it couldn't be arranged." "too bad, but perhaps we can stop off and pay you a visit. i just love army posts. so does mamma." "oh, do!" "what will be your address?" "just the philippines--just the philippines." "but aren't there quite a few of them?" "only about two thousand." "which one will you be on?" "i'll be on the third from the left," said mallory, who neither knew nor cared what he was saying. marjorie had endured all that she could stand. she rose in a tightly leashed fury. "i'm afraid i'm in the way." kathleen turned in surprise. she had not noticed that anyone was near. mallory went out of his head completely. "oh, don't go--for heaven's sake don't go," he appealed to marjorie. "a friend of yours?" said kathleen, bristling. "no, not a friend," in a chaotic tangle, "mrs.--miss--miss--er--er--er----" kathleen smiled: "delighted to meet you, miss ererer." "the pleasure is all mine," marjorie said, with an acid smile. "have you known harry long?" said kathleen, jealously, "or are you just acquaintances on the train?" "we're just acquaintances on the train!" "i used to know harry very well--very well indeed." "so i should judge. you won't mind if i leave you to talk over old times together?" "how very sweet of you." "oh, don't mention it." "but, marjorie," mallory cried, as she turned away. kathleen started at the ardor of his tone, and gasped: "marjorie! then he--you----" "not at all--not in the least," said marjorie. at this crisis the room was suddenly inundated with people. mrs. whitcomb, mrs. wellington, mrs. temple and mrs. fosdick, all trying to look like bridesmaids, danced in, shouting: "here they come! make way for the bride and groom!" chapter xxx a wedding on wheels the commotion of the matrimony-mad women brought the men trooping in from the smoking room and there was much circumstance of decorating the scene with white satin ribbons, a trifle crumpled and dim of luster. mrs. whitcomb waved them at mallory with a laugh: "recognize these?" he nodded dismally. his own funeral baked meats were coldly furnishing forth a wedding breakfast for ira lathrop. mrs. wellington was moving about distributing kazoos and mrs. temple had an armload of old shoes, some of which had thumped mallory on an occasion which seemed so ancient as to be almost prehistoric. fosdick was howling to the porter to get some rice, quick! "how many portions does you approximate?" "all you've got." "boiled or fried?" "any old way." the porter ran forward to the dining-car for the ammunition. mrs. temple whispered to her husband: "too bad you're not officiating, walter." but he cautioned silence: "hush! i'm on my vacation." the train was already coming into ogden. noises were multiplying and from the increase of passing objects, the speed seemed to be taking on a spurt. the bell was clamoring like a wedding chime in a steeple. mrs. wellington was on a chair fastening a ribbon round one of the lamps, and mrs. whitcomb was on another chair braiding the bell rope with withered orange branches, when ashton, with kazoo all ready, called out: "what tune shall we play?" "i prefer the mendelssohn wedding march," said mrs. whitcomb, but mrs. wellington glared across at her. "i've always used the lohengrin." "we'll play 'em both," said dr. temple, to make peace. mrs. fosdick murmured to her spouse: "the old justice of the peace didn't give us any music at all," and received in reward one of his most luscious-eyed looks, and a whisper: "but he gave us each other." "now and then," she pouted. "but where are the bride and groom?" "here they come--all ready," cried ashton, and he beat time while some of the guests kazooed at mendelssohn's and some wagner's bridal melodies, and others just made a noise. ira lathrop and anne gattle, looking very sheepish, crowded through the narrow corridor and stood shamefacedly blushing like two school children about to sing a duet. the train jolted to a dead stop. the conductor called into the car: "ogden! all out for ogden!" and everybody stood watching and waiting. ira, seeing mallory, edged close and whispered: "stand by to catch the minister on the rebound." but mallory turned away. what use had he now for ministers? his plans were shattered ruins. the porter came flying in with two large bowls of rice, and shouting, "here comes the 'possum--er posson." seeing marjorie, he said: "shall i perambulate mista snoozleums?" she handed the porter her only friend and he hurried out, as a lean and professionally sad ascetic hurried in. he did not recognize his boyish enemy in the gray-haired, red-faced giant that greeted him, but he knew that voice and its gloating irony: "hello, charlie." he had always found that when ira grinned and was cordial, some trouble was in store for him. he wondered what rock ira held behind his back now, but he forced an uneasy cordiality: "and is this you, ira? well, well! it is yeahs since last we met. and you're just getting married. is this the first time, ira?" "first offense, charlie." the levity shocked selby, but a greater shock was in store, for when he inquired: "and who is the--er--happy--bride?" the triumphant lathrop snickered: "i believe you used to know her. anne gattle." this was the rock behind ira's back, and selby took it with a wince: "not--my old----" "the same. anne, you remember, charlie." "oh, yes," said anne, "how do you do, charlie?" and she put out a shy hand, which he took with one still shyer. he was so unsettled that he stammered: "well, well, i had always hoped to marry you, anne, but not just this way." lathrop cut him short with a sharp: "better get busy--before the train starts. and i'll pay you in advance before you set off the fireworks." the flippancy pained the rev. charles, but he was resuscitated by one glance at the bill that ira thrust into his palm. if a man's gratitude for his wife is measured by the size of the fee he hands the enabling parson, ira was madly in love with anne. the rev. charles had a reminiscent suspicion that it was probably a counterfeit, but for once he did ira an injustice. the minister was in such a flutter from losing his boyhood love, and gaining so much money all at once and from performing the marriage on a train, that he made numerous errors in the ceremony, but nobody noticed them, and the spirit, if not the letter of the occasion, was there and the contract was doubtless legal enough. the ritual began with the pleasant murmur of the preacher's voice, and the passengers crowded round in a solemn calm, which was suddenly violated by a loud yelp of laughter from wedgewood, who emitted guffaw after guffaw and bent double and opened out again, like an agitated umbrella. the wedding-guests turned on him visages of horror, and hissed silence at him. ashton seized him, shook him, and muttered: "what the--what's the matter with you?" the englishman shook like a boy having a spasm of giggles at a funeral, and blurted out the explanation: "that story about the bridegroom--i just saw the point!" ashton closed his jaw by brute force and watched over him through the rest of the festivity. chapter xxxi foiled yet again mallory had fled from the scene at the first hum of the minister's words. his fate was like alkali on his palate. for twelve hundred miles he had ransacked the world for a minister. when one dropped on the train like manna through the roof, even this miracle had to be checkmated by a perverse miracle that sent to the train an early infatuation, a silly affair that he himself called puppy-love. and now marjorie would never marry him. he did not blame her. he blamed fate. he was in solitude in the smoking room. the place reeked with drifting tobacco smoke and the malodor of cigar stubs and cigarette ends. his plans were as useless and odious as cigarette ends. he dropped into a chair his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands--napoleon on st. helena. and then, suddenly he heard marjorie's voice. he turned and saw her hesitating in the doorway. he rose to welcome her, but the smile died on his lips at her chilly speech: "may i have a word with you, sir?" "of course. the air's rather thick in here," he apologized. "just wait!" she said, ominously, and stalked in like a young zenobia. he put out an appealing hand: "now, marjorie, listen to reason. of course i know you won't marry me now." "oh, you know that, do you?" she said, with a squared jaw. "but, really, you ought to marry me--not merely because i love you--and you're the only girl i ever----" he stopped short and she almost smiled as she taunted him: "go on--i dare you to say it." he swallowed hard and waived the point: "well, anyway, you ought to marry me--for your own sake." then she took his breath away by answering: "oh, i'm going to marry you, never fear." "you are," he cried, with a rush of returning hope. "oh, i knew you loved me." she pushed his encircling arms aside: "i don't love you, and that's why i'm going to marry you." "but i don't understand." "of course not," she sneered, as if she were a thousand years old, "you're only a man--and a very young man." "you've ceased to love me," he protested, "just because of a little affair i had before i met you?" marjorie answered with world-old wisdom: "a woman can forgive a man anything except what he did before he met her." he stared at her with masculine dismay at feminine logic: "if you can't forgive me, then why do you marry me?" "for revenge!" she cried. "you brought me on this train all this distance to introduce me to a girl you used to spoon with. and i don't like her. she's awful!" "yes, she is awful," mallory assented. "i don't know how i ever----" "oh, you admit it!" "no." "well, i'm going to marry you--now--this minute--with that preacher, then i'm going to get off at reno and divorce you." "divorce me! good lord! on what grounds?" "on the grounds of miss kitty--katty--llewellington--or whatever her name is." mallory was groggy with punishment, and the vain effort to foresee her next blow. "but you can't name a woman that way," he pleaded, "for just being nice to me before i ever met you." "that's the worst kind of unfaithfulness," she reiterated. "you should have known that some day you would meet me. you should have saved your first love for me." "but last love is best," mallory interposed, weakly. "oh, no, it isn't, and if it is, how do i know i'm to be your last love? no, sir, when i've divorced you, you can go back to your first love and go round the world with her till you get dizzy." "but i don't want her for a wife," mallory urged, "i want you." "you'll get me--but not for long. and one other thing, i want you to get that bracelet away from that creature. do you promise?" "how can i get it away?" "take it away! do you promise?" mallory surrendered completely. anything to get marjorie safely into his arms: "i promise anything, if you'll really marry me." "oh, i'll marry you, sir, but not really." and while he stared in helpless awe at the cynic and termagant that jealousy had metamorphosed this timid, clinging creature into, they heard the conductor's voice at the rear door of the car: "hurry up--we've got to start." they heard lathrop's protest: "hold on there, conductor," and selby's plea: "oh, i say, my good man, wait a moment, can't you?" the conductor answered with the gruffness of a despot: "not a minute. i've my orders to make up lost time. all aboard!" while the minister was tying the last loose ends of the matrimonial knot, mallory and marjorie were struggling through the crowd to get at him. just as they were near, they were swept aside by the rush of the bride and groom, for the parson's "i pronounce you man and wife," pronounced as he backed toward the door, was the signal for another wedding riot. once more ira and anne were showered with rice. this time it was their own. ira darted out into the corridor, haling his brand-new wife by the wrist, and the wedding guests pursued them across the vestibule, through the next car, and on, and on. nobody remained to notice what happened to the parson. having performed his function, he was without further interest or use. but to mallory and marjorie he was vitally necessary. mallory caught his hand as it turned the knob of the door and drew him back. marjorie, equally determined, caught his other elbow: "please don't go," mallory urged, "until you've married us." the reverend charles stared at his captors in amazement: "but my dear man, the train's moving." marjorie clung all the tighter and invited him to "come on to the next stop." "but my dear lady," selby gasped, "it's impossible." "you've just got to," mallory insisted. "release me, please." "never!" "how dare you!" the parson shrieked, and with a sudden wriggle writhed out of his coat, leaving it in marjorie's hands. he darted to the door and flung it open, with mallory hot after him. the train was kicking up a cloud of dust and getting its stride. the kidnapped clergyman paused a moment, aghast at the speed with which the ground was being paid out. then he climbed the brass rail and, with a hasty prayer, dropped overboard. mallory lunged at him, and seized him by his reversed collar. but the collar alone remained in his clutch. the parson was almost lost in the dust he created as he struck, bounded and rolled till he came to a stop, with his stars and his prayers to thank for injuries to nothing worse than his dignity and other small clothes. mallory returned to the observation room and flung the collar and bib to the floor in a fury of despair, howling: "he got away! he got away!" chapter xxxii the empty berth the one thing mallory was beginning to learn about marjorie was that she would never take the point of view he expected, and never proceed along the lines of his logic. she had grown furious at him for what he could not help. she had told him that she would marry him out of spite. she had commanded him to pursue and apprehend the flying parson. he failed and returned crestfallen and wondering what new form her rage would take. and, lo and behold, when she saw him so downcast and helpless, she rushed to him with caresses, cuddled his broad shoulders against her breast, and smothered him. it was the sincerity of his dejection and the complete helplessness he displayed that won her woman's heart. mallory gazed at her with almost more wonderment than delight. this was another flashlight on her character. most courtships are conducted under a rose-light in which wooer and wooed wear their best clothes or their best behavior; or in a starlit, moonlit, or gaslit twilight where romance softens angles and wraps everything in velvet shadow. then the two get married and begin to live together in the cold, gray daylight of realism, with undignified necessities and harrowing situations at every step, and disillusion begins its deadly work. this young couple was undergoing all the inconveniences and temper-exposures of marriage without its blessed compensations. they promised to be well acquainted before they were wed. if they still wanted each other after this ordeal, they were pretty well assured that their marriage would not be a failure. mallory rejoiced to see that the hurricane of marjorie's jealousy had only whipped up the surface of her soul. the great depths were still calm and unmoved, and her love for him was in and of the depths. soon after leaving ogden, the train entered upon the great bridge across the great salt lake. the other passengers were staring at the enormous engineering masterpiece and the conductor was pointing out that, in order to save forty miles and the crossing of two mountain chains, the railroad had devoted four years of labor and millions of dollars to stretching a thirty-mile bridge across this inland ocean. but marjorie and mallory never noticed it. they were absorbed in exploring each other's souls, and they had safely bridged the great salt lake which the first big bitter jealousy spreads across every matrimonial route. they were undisturbed in their voyage, for all the other passengers had their noses flattened against the window panes of the other cars--all except one couple, gazing each at each through time-wrinkled eyelids touched with the magic of a tardy honeymoon. for all that anne and ira knew, the great salt lake was a moon-swept lagoon, and the arid mountains of nevada which the train went scaling, were the very hillsides of arcadia. but the other passengers soon came trooping back into the observation room. ira had told them nothing of mallory's confession. in the first place, he was a man who had learned to keep a secret, and in the second place, he had forgotten that such persons as mallory or his marjorie existed. all the world was summed up in the fearsomely happy little spinster who had moved up into his section--the section which had begun its career draped in satin ribbons unwittingly prophetic. the communion of mallory and marjorie under the benison of reconciliation was invaded by the jokes of the other passengers, unconsciously ironic. dr. temple chaffed them amiably: "you two will have to take a back seat now. we've got a new bridal couple to amuse us." and mrs. temple welcomed them with: "you're only old married folks, like us." the mallorys were used to the misunderstanding. but the misplaced witticisms gave them reassurance that their secret was safe yet a little while. at their dinner-table, however, and in the long evening that followed they were haunted by the fact that this was their last night on the train, and no minister to be expected. and now once more the mallorys regained the star rôles in the esteem of the audience, for once more they quarreled at good-night-kissing time. once more they required two sections, while anne gattle's berth was not even made up. it remained empty, like a deserted nest, for its occupant had flown south. chapter xxxiii fresh trouble daily the following morning the daylight creeping into section number one found ira and anne staring at each other. ira was tousled and anne was unkempt, but her blush still gave her cheek at least an indian summer glow. after a violent effort to reach the space between her shoulder blades, she was compelled to appeal to her new master to act as her new maid. "oh, mr. lathrop," she stammered--"ira," she corrected, "won't you please hook me up?" she pleaded. ira beamed with a second childhood boyishness: "i'll do my best, my little ootsum-tootsums, it's the first time i ever tried it." "oh, i'm so glad," anne sighed, "it's the first time i ever was hooked up by a gentleman." he gurgled with joy and, forgetting the poverty of space, tried to reach her lips to kiss her. he almost broke her neck and bumped his head so hard that instead of saying, as he intended, "my darling," he said, "oh, hell!" "ira!" she gasped. but he, with all the proprietorship he had assumed, answered cheerily: "you'll have to get used to it, ducky darling. i could never learn not to swear." he proved the fact again and again by the remarks he addressed to certain refractory hooks. he apologized, but she felt more like apologizing for herself. "oh, ira," she said, "i'm so ashamed to have you see me like this--the first morning." "well, you haven't got anything on me--i'm not shaved." "you don't have to tell me that," she said, rubbing her smarting cheek. then she bumped her head and gasped: "oh--what you said." this made them feel so much at home that she attained the heights of frankness and honesty by reaching in her handbag for a knob of supplementary hair, which she affixed dextrously to what was homegrown. ira, instead of looking shocked, loved her for her honesty, and grinned: "now, that's where you have got something on me. say, we're like a couple of sardines trying to make love in a tin can." "it's cosy though," she said, and then vanished through the curtains and shyly ran the gauntlet of amused glances and over-cordial "good mornings" till she hid her blushes behind the door of the women's room and turned the key. if she had thought of it she would have said, "god bless the man that invented doors--and the other angel that invented locks." the passengers this morning were all a little brisker than usual. it was the last day aboard for everybody and they showed a certain extra animation, like the inmates of an ocean liner when land has been sighted. ashton was shaving when ira swaggered into the men's room. without pausing to note whom he was addressing, ashton sang out: "good morning. did you rest well?" "what!" ira roared. "oh, excuse me!" said ashton, hastily, devoting himself to a gash his safety razor had made in his cheek--even in that cheek of his. ira scrubbed out the basin, filled it and tried to dive into it, slapping the cold water in double handfuls over his glowing face and puffing through it like a porpoise. meanwhile the heavy-eyed fosdick was slinking through the dining-car, regarded with amazement by dr. temple and his wife, who were already up and breakfasting. "what's the matter with the bridal couples on this train, anyway?" said dr. temple. "i can't imagine," said his wife, "we old couples are the only normal ones." "some more coffee, please, mother," he said. "but your nerves," she protested. "it's my vacation," he insisted. mrs. temple stared at him and shook her head: "i wonder what mischief you'll be up to to-day? you've already been smoking, gambling, drinking--have you been swearing, yet?" "not yet," the old clergyman smiled, "i've been saving that up for a good occasion. perhaps it will rise before the day's over." and his wife choked on her tea at the wonderful train-change that had come over the best man in ypsilanti. by this time fosdick had reached the stateroom from which he had been banished again at the nevada state-line. he knocked cautiously. from within came an anxious voice: "who's there?" "whom did you expect?" mrs. fosdick popped her head out like a jill in the box. "oh, it's you, arthur. kiss me good morning." he glanced round stealthily and obeyed instructions: "i guess its safe--my darling." "did you sleep, dovie?" she yawned. "not a wink. they took off the portland car at granger and i had to sleep in one of the chairs in the observation room." mrs. fosdick shook her head at him in mournful sympathy, and asked: "what state are we in now?" "a dreadful state--nevada." "just what are we in nevada?" "i'm a bigamist, and you've never been married at all." "oh, these awful divorce laws!" she moaned, then left the general for the particular: "won't you come in and hook me up?" fosdick looked shocked: "i don't dare compromise you." "will you take breakfast with me--in the dining-car?" she pleaded. "do we dare?" "we might call it luncheon," she suggested. he seized the chance: "all right, i'll go ahead and order, and you stroll in and i'll offer you the seat opposite me." "but can't you hook me up?" he was adamant: "not till we get to california. do you think i want to compromise my own wife? shh! somebody's coming!" and he darted off to the vestibule just as mrs. jimmie wellington issued from number ten with hair askew, eyes only half open, and waist only half shut at the back. she made a quick spurt to the women's room, found it locked, stamped her foot, swore under her breath, and leaned against the wall of the car to wait. about the same time, the man who was still her husband according to the law, rolled out of berth number two. there was an amazing clarity to his vision. he lurched as he made his way to the men's room, but it was plainly the train's swerve and not an inner lurch that twisted the forthright of his progress. he squeezed into the men's room like a whole crowd at once, and sang out, "good morning, all!" with a wonderful heartiness. then he paused over a wash basin, rubbed his hands gleefully and proclaimed, like another chantecler advertising a new day: "well--i'm sober again!" "three cheers for you," said his rival in radiance, bridegroom lathrop. "how does it feel?" demanded ashton, smiling so broadly that he encountered the lather on his brush. while he sputtered wellington was flipping water over his hot head and incidentally over ashton. "i feel," he chortled, "i feel like the first little robin redbreast of the merry springtime. tweet! tweet!" when the excitement over his redemption had somewhat calmed, ashton reopened the old topic of conversation: "well, i see they had another scrap last night." "they--who?" said ira, through his flying toothbrush. "the mallorys. once more he occupied number three and she number seven." "well, well, i can't understand these modern marriages," said little jimmie, with a side glance at ira. ira suddenly remembered the plight of the mallorys and was tempted to defend them, but he saw the young lieutenant himself just entering the washroom. this was more than wellington saw, for he went on talking from behind a towel: "well, if i were a bridegroom and had a bride like that, it would take more than a quarrel to send me to another berth." the others made gestures which he could not see. his enlightenment came when mallory snapped the towel from his hands and glared into his face with all the righteous wrath of a man hearing his domestic affairs publicly discussed. "were you alluding to me, mr. wellington?" he demanded, hotly. little jimmie almost perished with apoplexy: "you, you?" he mumbled. "why, of course not. you're not the only bridegroom on the train." mallory tossed him the towel again: "you meant mr. lathrop then?" "me! not much!" roared the indignant lathrop. mallory returned to wellington with a fiercer: "whom, then?" he was in a dangerous mood, and ashton came to the rescue: "oh, don't mind wellington. he's not sober yet." this inspired suggestion came like a life-buoy to the hard-pressed wellington. he seized it and spoke thickly: "don't mind me--i'm not shober yet." "well, it's a good thing you're not," was mallory's final growl as he began his own toilet. the porter's bell began to ring furiously, with a touch they had already come to recognize as the englishman's. the porter had learned to recognize it, too, and he always took double the necessary time to answer it. he was sauntering down the aisle at his most leisurely gait when wedgewood's rumpled mane shot out from the curtains like a lion's from a jungle, and he bellowed: "pawtah! pawtah!" "still on the train," said the porter. "you may give me my portmanteau." "yassah." he dragged it from the upper berth, and set it inside wedgewood's berth without special care as to its destination. "does you desire anything else, sir?" "yes, your absence," said wedgewood. "the same to you and many of them," the porter muttered to himself, and added to marjorie, who was just starting down the aisle: "i'll suttainly be interested in that man gittin' where he's goin' to git to." noting that she carried snoozleums, he said: "we're comin' into a station right soon." without further discussion she handed him the dog, and he hobbled away. when she reached the women's door, she found mrs. wellington waiting with increasing exasperation: "come, join the line at the box office," she said. "good morning. who's in there?" said marjorie, and mrs. wellington, not noting that mrs. whitcomb had come out of her berth and fallen into line, answered sharply: "i don't know. she's been there forever. i'm sure it's that cat of a mrs. whitcomb." "good morning, mrs. mallory," snapped mrs. whitcomb. mrs. wellington was rather proud that the random shot landed, but marjorie felt most uneasy between the two tigresses: "good morning, mrs. whitcomb," she said. there was a disagreeable silence, broken finally by mrs. wellington's: "oh, mrs. mallory, would you be angelic enough to hook my gown?" "of course i will," said marjorie. "may i hook you?" said mrs. whitcomb. "you're awfully kind," said marjorie, presenting her shoulders to mrs. whitcomb, who asked with malicious sweetness: "why didn't your husband do this for you this morning?" "i--i don't remember," marjorie stammered, and mrs. wellington tossed over-shoulder an apothegm: "he's no husband till he's hook-broken." just then mrs. fosdick came out of her stateroom. seeing mrs. whitcomb's waist agape, she went at it with a brief, "good morning, everybody. permit me." mrs. wellington twisted her head to say "good morning," and to ask, "are you hooked, mrs. fosdick?" "not yet," pouted mrs. fosdick. "turn round and back up," said mrs. wellington. after some maneuvering, the women formed a complete circle, and fingers plied hooks and eyes in a veritable ladies' mutual aid society. by now, wedgewood was ready to appear in a bathrobe about as gaudy as the royal standard of great britain. he stalked down the aisle, and answered the male chorus's cheery "good morning" with a ramlike "baw." ira lathrop felt amiable even toward the foreigner, and he observed: "glorious morning this morning." "i dare say," growled wedgewood. "i don't go in much for mawnings--especially when i have no tub." wellington felt called upon to squelch him: "you englishmen never had a real tub till we americans sold 'em to you." "i dare say," said wedgewood indifferently. "you sell 'em. we use 'em. but, do you know, i've just thought out a ripping idea. i shall have my cold bath this mawning after all." "what are you going to do?" growled lathrop. "crawl in the icewater tank?" "oh, dear, no. i shouldn't be let," and he produced from his pocket a rubber hose. "i simply affix this little tube to one end of the spigot and wave the sprinklah hyah over my--er--my person." lathrop stared at him pityingly, and demanded: "what happens to the water, then?" "what do i care?" said wedgewood. "you durned fool, you'd flood the car." wedgewood's high hopes withered. "i hadn't thought of that," he sighed. "i suppose i must continue just as i am till i reach san francisco. the first thing i shall order to-night will be four cold tubs and a lemon squash." while the men continued to make themselves presentable in a huddle, the hook-and-eye society at the other end of the car finished with the four waists and mrs. fosdick hurried away to keep her tryst in the dining-car. the three remaining relapsed into dreary attitudes. mrs. wellington shook the knob of the forbidding door, and turned to complain: "what in heaven's name ails the creature in there. she must have fallen out of the window." "it's outrageous," said marjorie, "the way women violate women's rights." mrs. whitcomb saw an opportunity to insert a stiletto. she observed to marjorie, with an innocent air: "why, mrs. mallory, i've even known women to lock themselves in there and smoke!" while mrs. wellington was rummaging her brain for a fitting retort, the door opened, and out stepped miss gattle, as was. she blushed furiously at sight of the committee waiting to greet her, but they repented their criticisms and tried to make up for them by the excessive warmth with which they all exclaimed at once: "good morning, mrs. lathrop!" "good morning, who?" said anne, then blushed yet redder: "oh, i can't seem to get used to that name! i hope i haven't kept you waiting?" "oh, not at all!" the women insisted, and anne fled to number six, remembered that this was no longer her home, and moved on to number one. here the porter was just finishing his restoring tasks, and laying aside with some diffidence two garments which anne hastily stuffed into her own valise. meanwhile marjorie was pushing mrs. wellington ahead: "you go in first, mrs. wellington." "you go first. i have no husband waiting for me," said mrs. wellington. "oh, i insist," said marjorie. "i couldn't think of it," persisted mrs. wellington. "i won't allow you." and then mrs. whitcomb pushed them both aside: "pardon me, won't you? i'm getting off at reno." "so am i," gasped mrs. wellington, rushing forward, only to be faced by the slam of the door and the click of the key. she whirled back to demand of marjorie: "did you ever hear of such impudence?" "i never did." "i'll never be ready for reno," mrs. wellington wailed, "and i haven't had my breakfast." "you'd better order it in advance," said marjorie. "it takes that chef an hour to boil an egg three minutes." "i will, if i can ever get my face washed," sighed mrs. wellington. and now mrs. anne lathrop, after much hesitation, called timidly: "porter--porter--please!" "yes--miss--missus!" he amended. "will you call my--" she gulped--"my husband?" "yes, ma'am," the porter chuckled, and putting his grinning head in at the men's door, he bowed to ira and said: "excuse me, but you are sent for by the lady in number one." ashton slapped him on the back and roared: "oh, you married man!" "well," said ira, in self-defence, "i don't hear anybody sending for you." wedgewood grinned at ashton. "i rather fancy he had you theah, old top, eh, what?" ira appeared at number one, and bending over his treasure-trove, spoke in a voice that was pure saccharine: "are you ready for breakfast, dear?" "yes, ira." "come along to the dining-car." "it's cosier here," she said. "couldn't we have it served here?" "but it'll get all cold, and i'm hungry," pouted the old bachelor, to whom breakfast was a sacred institution. "all right, ira," said anne, glad to be meek; "come along," and she rose. ira hesitated. "still, if you'd rather, we'll eat here." he sat down. "oh, not at all," said anne; "we'll go where you want to go." "but i want to do what you want to do." "so do i--we'll go," said anne. "we'll stay." "no, i insist on the dining-car." "oh, all right, have your own way," said ira, as if he were being bullied, and liked it. anne smiled at the contrariness of men, and ira smiled at the contrariness of women, and when they reached the vestibule they kissed each other in mutual forgiveness. as wedgewood stropped an old-fashioned razor, he said to ashton, who was putting up his safety equipment: "i say, old party, are those safety razors safe? can't you really cut yourself?" "cut everything but hair," said ashton, pointing to his wounded chin. mallory put out his hand: "would you be kind enough to lend me your razor again this morning?" "sure thing," said ashton. "you'll find your blade in the box there." mallory then negotiated the loan of one more fresh shirt from the englishman, and a clean collar from ashton. he rejoiced that the end of the day would bring him in touch with his own baggage. four days of foraging on the country was enough for this soldier. also he felt, now that he and marjorie had lived thus long, they could survive somehow till evening brought them to san francisco, where there were hundreds of ministers. and then the conductor must ruin his early morning optimism, though he made his appearance in the washroom with genial good mornings for all. mallory acknowledged the greeting, and asked offhandedly: "by the way, how's she running?" the conductor answered even more offhandedly: "about two hours late--and losin'." mallory was transfixed with a new fear: "good lord, my transport sails at sunrise." "oh, we ought to make 'frisco by midnight, anyway." "midnight, and sail at daylight!" "unless we lose a little more time." mallory realized that every new day managed to create its own anxieties. with the regularity of a milkman, each morning left a fresh crisis on his doorstep. chapter xxxiv the complete divorcer the other passengers were growing nervous with their own troubles. the next stop was reno, and in spite of all the wit that is heaped upon the town, it is a solemn place to those who must go there in purgatorial penance for matrimonial error. some honest souls regard such divorce-emporiums as dens of evil, where the wicked make a mockery of the sacrament and assail the foundations of society, by undermining the home. other equally honest souls, believing that marriage is a human institution whose mishaps and mistakes should be rectified as far as possible, regard the divorce courts as cities of refuge for ill-treated or ill-mated women and men whose lives may be saved from utter ruination by the intervention of high-minded judges. but, whichever view is right, the ordeal by divorce is terrifying enough to the poor sinners or martyrs who must undergo it. little jimmie wellington turned pale, and stammered, as he tried to ask the conductor casually: "what kind of a place is that reno?" the conductor, somewhat cynical from close association with the divorce-mill and its grist, grinned: "that depends on what you're leaving behind. most folks seem to get enough of it in about six months." then he went his way, leaving wellington red, agape and perplexed. the trouble with wellington was that he had brought along what he was leaving behind. or, as ashton impudently observed: "you ought to enjoy your residence there, wellington, with your wife on hand." the only repartee that wellington could think of was a rather uninspired: "you go to ----." "so long as it isn't reno," ashton laughed, and walked away. wedgewood laid a sympathetic hand on little jimmie's shoulder, and said: "that ashton is no end of a bounder, what?" wellington wrote his epitaph in these words: "well, the worst i can say of him is, he's the kind of man that doesn't lift the plug out when he's through with the basin." he liked this so well that he wished he had thought of it in time to crack it over ashton's head. he decided to hand it to him anyway. he forgot that the cardinal rule for repartee, is "better never than late." as he swung out of the men's room he was buttonholed by an individual new to the little trans-american colony. one of the camp-followers and sutlers who prosper round the edges of all great enterprises had waylaid him on the way to the battleground of marital freedom. the stranger had got on at an earlier stop and worked his way through the train to the car named "snowdrop." wellington was his first victim here. his pushing manner, the almost vulture-like rapacity of his gleaming eyes, and the very vulturine contour of his profile, his palmy gestures, his thick lisp, and everything about him gave wellington his immediate pedigree. it ill behooves christendom to need reminding that the jewish race has adorned and still adorns humanity with some of its noblest specimens; but this interloper was of the type that must have irritated voltaire into answering the platitude that the jews are god's chosen people with that other platitude, "tastes differ." little jimmie wellington, hot in pursuit of ashton, found himself checked in spite of himself; in spite of himself deposited somehow into a seat, and in spite of himself confronted with a curvilinear person, who said: "excoose, pleass! but are you gettink off at r-r-reno?" "i am," wellington answered, curtly, essaying to rise, only to be delicately restored to his place with a gesture and a phrase: "then you neet me." "oh, i need you, do i? and who are you?" "who ain't i? i am baumann and blumen. our cart, pleass." wellington found a pasteboard in his hand and read the legend: real estate agents. baggage transfer. baumann & blumen divorce outfitters, alimony avenue, reno, nev. notary public. divorces secured. justice of the peace. satisfaction guaranteed. wellington looked from the crowded card to the zealous face. "divorce outfitters, eh? i don't quite get you." "vell, in the foist place----" "'the foist place,' eh? you're from new york." "yes, oritchinally. how did you know it? by my feshionable clothink?" "yes," laughed wellington. "but you say i need you. how?" "vell, you've got maybe some beggetch, some trunks--yes?" "yes." "vell, in the foist place, i am an expressman. i deliver 'em to your address--yes? vere iss it?" "i haven't got any yet." "also i am addressman. do you vant it a nice hotel?--or a fine house?--or an apartment?--or maybe a boarding-house?--yes? how long do you make a residence?" "six months." "no longer?" "not a minute." "take a fine house, den. i got some beauties just wacated." "for a year?--no thanks." "all the leases in reno run for six months only." "well, i'd like to look around a little first." "good. don't forget us. you come out here for six months. you vant maybe a good quick divorce--yes?" "the quickest i can get." "do you vant it confidential? or very nice and noisy?" "what's that?" "ve are press agents and also suppress agents. some likes 'em one way, some likes 'em anudder. vich do you vant it?" "quick and quiet." "painless divorce is our specialty. if you pay me an advence deposit now, i file your claim de minute de train stops and your own vife don't know you're divorced." "i'll think it over," said wellington, rising with resolution. "don't forget us. baumann and blumen. satisfaction guaranteed or your wife refunded. avoid substitoots." and then, seeing that he could not extract any cash from little jimmie, mr. baumann descended upon mallory, who was just finishing his shave. laying his hand on mallory's arm, he began: "excoose, pleass. can i fit you out vit a nice divorce?" "divorce?--me!--that's good," laughed mallory at the vision of it. then a sudden idea struck him. it took no great genius to see that mr. baumann was not a clergyman, but there were other marriers to be had. "you don't perform marriages, do you?" he asked. mr. baumann drew himself up: "who says i don't? ain't i a justice of the peaces?" mallory put out his hand in welcome: then a new anxiety chilled him. he had a license for chicago, but chicago was far away: "do i need a license in nevada?" "why shouldn't you?" said mr. baumann. "don't all sorts of things got to have a license in nevada, saloons, husbands, dogs----" "how could i get one?" mallory asked as he went on dressing. "ain't i got a few vit me? do you vant to get a nice re-marriage license?" "re-marriage?--huh!" he looked round and, seeing that no one else was near: "i haven't taken the first step yet." mr. baumann layed his hands in one another: "a betchelor? ah, i see you vant to marry a nice divorcee lady in r-r-reno?" "she isn't in reno and she has never been married, either." this simple statement seemed to astound mr. baumann: "a betcheller marry a maiden!--in reno!--oi, oi, oi! it hasn't been done yet, but it might be." mallory looked him over and a twinge of distaste disturbed him: "you furnish the license, but--er--ah--is there any chance of a clergyman--a christian clergyman--being at the station?" "vy do you vant it a cloigyman? can't i do it just as good? or a nice fat alderman i can get you?" mallory pondered: "i don't think she'd like anything but a clergyman." "vell," baumann confessed, "a lady is liable to be particular about her foist marriage. anyvay i sell you de license." "all right." mr. baumann whipped out a portfolio full of documents, and as he searched them, philosophized: "a man ought alvays to carry a good marriage license. it might be he should need it in a hurry." he took a large iron seal from his side-pocket and stamped the paper and then, with fountain pen poised, pleaded: "vat is the names, pleass?" "not so loud!" mallory whispered. baumann put his finger to his nose, wisely: "i see, it is a confidential marriage. sit down once." when he had asked mallory the necessary questions and taken his fee, he passed over the document by which the sovereign state of nevada graciously permitted two souls to be made more or less one in the eyes of the law. "here you are," said mr. baumann. "vit dat you can get married anyvere in nevada." mallory realized that nevada would be a thing of the past in a few hours more and he asked: "it's no good in california?" "himmel, no. in california you bot' gotta go and be examined." "examined!" mallory gasped, in dire alarm. "vit questions, poissonally," mr. baumann hastened to explain. "oh!" "in nevada," baumann insinuated, still hopeful, "i could marry you myself--now, right here." "could you marry us in this smoking room?" "in a cattle car, if you vant it." "it's not a bad idea," said mallory. "i'll let you know." seeing marjorie coming down the aisle, he hastened to her, and hugged her good-morning with a new confidence. dr. and mrs. temple, who had returned to their berth, witnessed this greeting with amazement. after the quarrel of the night before surely some explanation should have been overheard, but the puzzling mallorys flew to each other's arms without a moment's delay. the mystery was exciting the passengers to such a point that they were vowing to ask a few questions point blank. nobody had quite dared to approach either of them, but frank curiosity was preferable to nervous prostration, and the secret could not be kept much longer. fellow-passengers have some rights. not even a stranger can be permitted to outrage their curiosity with impunity forever. seeing them together, mrs. temple watched the embrace with her daily renewal of joy that the last night's quarrel had not proved fatal. she nudged her husband: "see, they're making up again." dr. temple was moved to a violent outburst for him: "well, that's the darnedest bridal couple--i only said darn, my dear." he was still more startled when mr. baumann, cruising along the aisle, bent over to murmur: "can i fix you a nice divorce?" dr. temple rose in such an attitude of horror as he assumed in the pulpit when denouncing the greatest curse of society, and mr. baumann retired. as he passed mallory he cast an appreciative glance at marjorie and, tapping mallory's shoulder, whispered: "no vonder you want a marriage license. i'll be in the next car, should you neet me." then he went on his route. marjorie stared after him in wonder and asked: "what did that person mean by what he said?" "it's all right, marjorie," mallory explained, in the highest cheer: "we can get married right away." marjorie declined to get her hopes up again: "you're always saying that." "but here's the license--see?" "what good is that?" she said, "there's no preacher on board." "but that man is a justice of the peace and he'll marry us." marjorie stared at him incredulously: "that creature!--before all these passengers?" "not at all," mallory explained. "we'll go into the smoking room." marjorie leaped to her feet, aghast: "elope two thousand miles to be married in a smoking room by a yiddish drummer! harry mallory, you're crazy." put just that way, the proposition did not look so alluring as at first. he sank back with a sigh: "i guess i am. i resign." he was as weary of being "foiled again" as the villain of a cheap melodrama. the two lovers sat in a twilight of deep melancholy, till marjorie's mind dug up a new source of alarm: "harry, i've just thought of something terrible." "let's have it," he sighed, drearily. "we reach san francisco at midnight and you sail at daybreak. what becomes of me?" mallory had no answer to this problem, except a grim: "i'll not desert you." "but we'll have no time to get married." "then," he declared with iron resolve, "then i'll resign from the army." marjorie stared at him with awe. he was so wonderful, so heroic. "but what will the country do without you?" "it will have to get along the best it can," he answered with finality. "do you think i'd give you up?" but this was too much to ask. in the presence of a ruined career and a hero-less army, marjorie felt that her own scruples were too petty to count. she could be heroic, too. "no!" she said, in a deep, low tone, "no, we'll get married in the smoking room. go call your drummer!" this opened the clouds and let in the sun again with such a radiant blaze that mallory hesitated no longer. "fine!" he cried, and leaped to his feet, only to be detained again by marjorie's clutch: "but first, what about that bracelet?" "she's got it," mallory groaned, slumping from the heights again. "do you mean to say she's still wearing it?" "how was i to get it?" "couldn't you have slipped into her car last night and stolen it?" "good lord, i shouldn't think you'd want me to go--why, marjorie--i'd be arrested!" but marjorie set her jaw hard: "well, you get that bracelet, or you don't get me." and then her smouldering jealousy and grief took a less hateful tone: "oh, harry!" she wailed, "i'm so lonely and so helpless and so far from home." "but i'm here," he urged. "you're farther away than anybody," she whimpered, huddling close to him. "poor little thing," he murmured, soothing her with voice and kiss and caress. "put your arm round me," she cooed, like a mourning dove, "i don't care if everybody is looking. oh, i'm so lonely." "i'm just as lonely as you are," he pleaded, trying to creep into the company of her misery. "please marry me soon," she implored, "won't you, please?" "i'd marry you this minute if you'd say the word," he whispered. "i'd say it if you only had that bracelet," she sobbed, like a tired child. "i should think you would understand my feelings. that awful person is wearing your bracelet and i have only your ring, and her bracelet is ten times as big as my r-i-ing, boo-hoo-hoo-oo!" "i'll get that bracelet if i have to chop her arm off," mallory vowed. the sobs stopped short, as marjorie looked up to ask: "have you got your sword with you?" "it's in my trunk," he said, "but i'll manage." "now you're speaking like a soldier," marjorie exclaimed, "my brave, noble, beautiful, fearless husband. i'll tell you! that creature will pass through this car on her way to breakfast. you grab her and take the bracelet away from her." "i grab her, eh?" he stammered, his heroism wavering a trifle. "yes, just grab her." "suppose she hasn't the bracelet on?" he mused. "grab her anyway," marjorie answered, fiercely. "besides, i've no doubt it's wished on." he said nothing. "you did wish it on, didn't you?" "no, no--never--of course not--" he protested "if you'll only be calm. i'll get it if i have to throttle her." like a young lady macbeth, marjorie gave him her utter approval in any atrocity, and they sat in ambush for their victim to pass into view. they had not had their breakfast, but they forgot it. a dusky waiter went by chanting his "lass call for breakfuss in rining rar." he chanted it thrice in their ears, but they never heard. marjorie was gloating over the discomfiture of the odious creature who had dared to precede her in the acquaintance of her husband-to-be. the husband-to-be was miserably wishing that he had to face a tribe of bolo-brandishing moros, instead of this trivial girl whom he had looked upon when her cheeks were red. chapter xxxv mr. and mrs. little jimmie mrs. sammy whitcomb had longed for the sweet privilege of squaring matters with mrs. jimmie wellington. sneers and back-biting, shrugs and shudders of contempt were poor compensation for the ever-vivid fact that mrs. wellington had proved attractive to her sammy while mrs. wellington's jimmie never looked at mrs. whitcomb. or if he did, his eyes had been so blurred that he had seen two of her--and avoided both. yesterday she had overheard jimmie vow sobriety. to-day his shining morning face showed that he had kept his word. she could hardly wait to begin the flirtation which, she trusted, would render mrs. wellington helplessly furious for six long reno months. the divorce drummer interposed and held jimmie prisoner for a time, but as soon as mr. baumann released him, mrs. whitcomb apprehended him. with a smile that beckoned and with eyes that went out like far-cast fishhooks, she drew leviathan into her net. she reeled him in and he plounced in the seat opposite. what she took for bashfulness was reluctance. to add the last charm to her success, mrs. wellington arrived to see it. mrs. whitcomb saw the lonely ashton rise and offer her the seat facing him. mrs. wellington took it and sat down with the back of her head so close to the back of mr. wellington's head that the feather in her hat tickled his neck. jimmie wellington had seen his wife pass by. to his sober eyes she was a fine sight as she moved up the aisle. in his alcohol-emancipated mind the keen sense of wrong endured that had driven him forth to reno began to lose its edge. his own soul appealed from jimmie drunk to jimmie sober. the appellate judge began to reverse the lower court's decision, point by point. he felt a sudden recrudescence of jealousy as he heard ashton's voice unctuously, flirtatiously offering his wife hospitality. he wanted to trounce ashton. but what right had he to defend from gallantry the woman he was about to forswear before the world? jimmie's soul was in turmoil, and mrs. whitcomb's pretty face and alluring smile only annoyed him. she had made several gracious speeches before he quite comprehended any of them. then he realized that she was saying: "i'm so glad you're going to stop at reno, mr. wellington." "thank you. so am i," he mumbled, trying to look interested and wishing that his wife's plume would not tickle his neck. mrs. whitcomb went on, leaning closer: "we two poor mistreated wretches must try to console one another, musn't we?" "yes,--yes,--we must," wellington nodded, with a sickly cheer. mrs. whitcomb leaned a little closer. "do you know that i feel almost related to you, mr. wellington?" "related?" he echoed, "you?--to me? how?" "my husband knew your wife so well." somehow a wave of jealous rage surged over him, and he growled: "your husband is a scoundrel." mrs. whitcomb's smile turned to vinegar: "oh, i can't permit you to slander the poor boy behind his back. it was all your wife's fault." wellington amazed himself by his own bravery when he heard himself volleying back: "and i can't permit you to slander my wife behind her back. it was all your husband's fault." mrs. jimmie overheard this behind her back, and it strangely thrilled her. she ignored ashton's existence and listened for mrs. whitcomb's next retort. it consisted of a simple, icy drawl: "i think i'll go to breakfast." she seemed to pick up ashton with her eyes as she glided by, for, finding himself unnoticed, he rose with a careless: "i think i'll go to breakfast," and followed mrs. whitcomb. the wellingtons sat _dos-à-dos_ for some exciting seconds, and then on a sudden impulse, mrs. jimmie rose, knelt in the seat and spoke across the back of it: "it was very nice of you to defend me, jimmie--er--james." wellington almost dislocated several joints in rising quickly and whirling round at the cordiality of her tone. but his smile vanished at her last word. he protested, feebly: "james sounds so like a--a butler. can't you call me little jimmie again?" mrs. wellington smiled indulgently: "well, since it's the last time. good-bye, little jimmie." and she put out her hand. he seized it hungrily and clung to it: "good-bye?--aren't you getting off at reno?" "yes, but----" "so am i--lucretia." "but we can't afford to be seen together." still holding her hand, he temporized: "we've got to stay married for six months at least--while we establish a residence. couldn't we--er--couldn't we establish a residence--er--together?" mrs. wellington's eyes grew a little sad, as she answered: "it would be too lonesome waiting for you to roll home." jimmie stared at her. he felt the regret in her voice and took strange courage from it. he hauled from his pocket his huge flask, and said quickly: "well, if you're jealous of this, i'll promise to cork it up forever." she shook her head skeptically: "you couldn't." "just to prove it," he said, "i'll chuck it out of the window." he flung up the sash and made ready to hurl his enemy into the flying landscape. "bravo!" cried mrs. wellington. but even as his hand was about to let go, he tightened his clutch again, and pondered: "it seems a shame to waste it." "i thought so," said mrs. jimmie, drooping perceptibly. her husband began to feel that, after all, she cared what became of him. "i'll tell you," he said, "i'll give it to old doc temple. he takes his straight." "fine!" he turned towards the seat where the clergyman and his wife were sitting, oblivious of the drama of reconciliation playing so close at hand. little jimmie paused, caressed the flask, and kissed it. "good-bye, old playmate!" then, tossing his head with bravado, he reached out and touched the clergyman's shoulder. dr. temple turned and rose with a questioning look. wellington put the flask in his hand and chuckled: "merry christmas!" "but, my good man----" the preacher objected, finding in his hand a donation about as welcome and as wieldy as a strange baby. wellington winked: "it may come in handy for--your patients." and now, struck with a sudden idea, mrs. wellington spoke: "oh, mrs. temple." "yes, my dear," said the little old lady, rising. mrs. wellington placed in her hand a small portfolio and laughed: "happy new year!" mrs. temple stared at her gift and gasped: "great heavens! your cigars!" "they'll be such a consolation," mrs. wellington explained, "while the doctor is out with his patients." dr. temple and mrs. temple looked at each other in dismay, then at the flask and the cigars, then at the wellingtons, then they stammered: "thank you so much," and sank back, stupefied. wellington stared at his wife: "lucretia, are you sincere?" "jimmie, i promise you i'll never smoke another cigar." "my love!" he cried, and seized her hand. "you know i always said you were a queen among women, lucretia." she beamed back at him: "and you always were the prince of good fellows, jimmie." then she almost blushed as she murmured, almost shyly: "may i pour your coffee for you again this morning?" "for life," he whispered, and they moved up the aisle, arm in arm, bumping from seat to seat and not knowing it. when mrs. whitcomb, seated in the dining-car, saw mrs. little jimmie pour mr. little jimmie's coffee, she choked on hers. she vowed that she would not permit those odious wellingtons to make fools of her and her sammy. she resolved to telegraph sammy that she had changed her mind about divorcing him, and order him to take the first train west and meet her half-way on her journey home. chapter xxxvi a duel for a bracelet all this while marjorie and mallory had sat watching, as kingfishers shadow a pool, the door wherethrough the girl with the bracelet must pass on her way to breakfast. "she's taking forever with her toilet," sniffed marjorie. "probably trying to make a special impression on you." "she's wasting her time," said mallory. "but what if she brings her mother along? no, i guess her mother is too fat to get there and back." "if her mother comes," marjorie decided, "i'll hold her while you take the bracelet away from the--the--from that creature. quick, here she comes now! be brave!" mallory wore an aspect of arrant cowardice: "er--ah--i--i----" "you just grab her!" marjorie explained. then they relapsed into attitudes of impatient attention. kathleen floated in and, seeing mallory, she greeted him with radiant warmth: "good morning!" and then, catching sight of marjorie, gave her a "good morning!" coated with ice. she flounced past and mallory sat inert, till marjorie gave him a ferocious pinch, whereupon he leaped to his feet: "oh, miss--er--miss kathleen." kathleen whirled round with a most hospitable smile. "may i have a word with you?" "of course you can, you dear boy." marjorie winced at this and writhed at what followed: "shan't we take breakfast together?" mallory stuttered: "i--i--no, thank you--i've had breakfast." kathleen froze up again as she snapped: "with that--train-acquaintance, i suppose." "oh, no," mallory amended, "i mean i haven't had breakfast." but kathleen scowled with a jealousy of her own: "you seem to be getting along famously for mere train-acquaintances." "oh, that's all we are, and hardly that," mallory hastened to say with too much truth. "sit down here a moment, won't you?" "no, no, i haven't time," she said, and sat down. "mamma will be waiting for me. you haven't been in to see her yet?" "no. you see----" "she cried all night." "for me?" "no, for papa. he's such a good traveler--and he had such a good start. she really kept the whole car awake." "too bad," mallory condoled, perfunctorily, then with sudden eagerness, and a trial at indifference: "i see you have that bracelet still." "of course, you dear fellow. i wouldn't be parted from it for worlds." marjorie gnashed her teeth, but kathleen could not hear that. she gushed on: "and now we have met again! it looks like fate, doesn't it?" "it certainly does," mallory assented, bitterly; then again, with zest: "let me see that old bracelet, will you?" he tried to lay hold of it, but kathleen giggled coyly: "it's just an excuse to hold my hand." she swung her arm over the back of the seat coquettishly, and marjorie made a desperate lunge at it, but missed, since kathleen, finding that mallory did not pursue the fugitive hand, brought it back at once and yielded it up: "there--be careful, someone might look." mallory took her by the wrist in a gingerly manner, and said, "so that's the bracelet? take it off, won't you?" "never!--it's wished on," kathleen protested, sentimentally. "don't you remember that evening in the moonlight?" mallory caught marjorie's accusing eye and lost his head. he made a ferocious effort to snatch the bracelet off. when this onset failed, he had recourse to entreaty: "just slip it off." kathleen shook her head tantalizingly. mallory urged more strenuously: "please let me see it." kathleen shook her head with sophistication: "you'd never give it back. you'd pass it along to that--train-acquaintance." "how can you think such a thing?" mallory demurred, and once more made his appeal: "please please, slip it off." "what on earth makes you so anxious?" kathleen demanded, with sudden suspicion. mallory was stumped, till an inspiration came to him: "i'd like to--to get you a nicer one. that one isn't good enough for you." here was an argument that kathleen could appreciate. "oh, how sweet of you, harry," she gurgled, and had the bracelet down to her knuckles, when a sudden instinct checked her: "when you bring the other, you can have this." she pushed the circlet back, and mallory's hopes sank at the gesture. he grew frantic at being eternally frustrated in his plans. he caught kathleen's arm and, while his words pleaded, his hands tugged: "please--please let me take it--for the measure--you know!" kathleen read the determination in his fierce eyes, and she struggled furiously: "why, richard--chauncey!--er--billy! i'm amazed at you! let go or i'll scream!" [illustration: "why, richard--chauncey!--er--billy! i'm amazed at you! let go, or i'll scream!"] she rose and, twisting her arm from his grasp, confronted him with bewildered anger. mallory cast toward marjorie a look of surrender and despair. marjorie laid her hand on her throat and in pantomime suggested that mallory should throttle kathleen, as he had promised. but mallory was incapable of further violence; and when kathleen, with all her coquetry, bent down and murmured: "you are a very naughty boy, but come to breakfast and we'll talk it over," he was so addled that he answered: "thanks, but i never eat breakfast." chapter xxxvii down brakes! just as kathleen flung her head in baffled vexation, and mallory started to slink back to marjorie, with another defeat, there came an abrupt shock as if that gigantic child to whom our railroad trains are toys, had reached down and laid violent hold on the trans-american in full career. its smooth, swift flight became suddenly such a spasm of jars, shivers and thuds that mallory cried: "we're off the track." he was sent flopping down the aisle like a bolster hurled through the car. he brought up with a sickening slam across the seat into which marjorie had been jounced back with a breath-taking slam. and then kathleen came flying backwards and landed in a heap on both of them. several of the other passengers were just returning from breakfast and they were shot and scattered all over the car as if a great chain of human beads had burst. women screamed, men yelled, and then while they were still struggling against the seats and one another, the train came to a halt. "thank god, we stopped in time!" mallory gasped, as he tried to disengage himself and marjorie from kathleen. the passengers began to regain their courage with their equilibrium. little jimmie wellington had flown the whole length of the car, clinging to his wife as if she were francesca da rimini, and he paolo, flitting through inferno. the flight ended at the stateroom door with such a thump that mrs. fosdick was sure a detective had come for her at last, and with a battering ram. but when jimmie got back breath enough to talk, he remembered the train-stopping excitement of the day before and called out: "has mrs. mallory lost that pup again?" everybody laughed uproariously at this. people will laugh at anything or nothing when they have been frightened almost to death and suddenly relieved of anxiety. everybody was cracking a joke at marjorie's expense. everybody felt a good-natured grudge against her for being such a mystery. the car was ringing with hilarity, when the porter came stumbling in and paused at the door, with eyes all white, hands waving frantically, and lips flapping like flannel, in a vain effort to speak. the passengers stopped laughing at marjorie, to laugh at the porter. ashton sang out: "what's the matter with you, porter? are you trying to crow?" everybody roared at this, till the porter finally managed to articulate: "t-t-t-train rob-rob-robbers!" silence shut down as if the whole crowd had been smitten with paralysis. from somewhere outside and ahead came a pop-popping as of firecrackers. everybody thought, "revolvers!" the reports were mingled with barbaric yells that turned the marrow in every bone to snow. these regions are full of historic terror. all along the nevada route the conductor, the brakemen and old travelers had pointed out scene after scene where the indians had slaked the thirst of the arid land with white man's blood. ashton, who had traveled this way many times, had made himself fascinatingly horrifying the evening before and ruined several breakfasts that morning in the dining-car, by regaling the passengers with stories of pioneer ordeals, men and women massacred in burning wagons, or dragged away to fiendish cruelty and obscene torture, staked out supine on burning wastes with eyelids cut off, bound down within reach of rattlesnakes, subjected to every misery that human deviltry could devise. ashton had brought his fellow passengers to a state of ecstatic excitability, and, like many a recounter of burglar stories at night, had tuned his own nerves to high tension. the violent stopping of the train, the heart-shaking yells and shots outside, found the passengers already apt to respond without delay to the appeals of fright. after the first hush of dread, came the reaction to panic. each passenger showed his own panic in his own way. ashton whirled round and round, like a horse with the blind staggers, then bolted down the aisle, knocking aside men and women. he climbed on a seat, pulled down an upper berth, and, scrambling into it, tried to shut it on himself. mrs. whitcomb was so frightened that she assailed ashton with fury and seizing his feet, dragged him back into the aisle, and beat him with her fists, demanding that he protect her and save her for sammy's sake. mrs. fosdick, rushing out of her stateroom and not finding her luscious-eyed husband, laid hold of jimmie wellington and ordered him to go to the rescue of her spouse. mrs. wellington tore her hands loose, crying: "let him go, madam. he has a wife of his own to defend." jimmie was trying to pour out dying messages, and only sputtering, forgetting that he had put his watch in his mouth to hide it, though its chain was still attached to his waistcoat. anne gattle, who had read much about chinese atrocities to missionaries, gave herself up to death, yet rejoiced greatly that she had provided a timely man to lean on and should not have to enter paradise a spinster, providing she could manage to convert ira in the next few seconds, before it was everlastingly too late. she was begging her first heathen to join her in a gospel hymn. but ira was roaring curses like a pirate captain in a hurricane, and swearing that the villains should not rob him of his bride. mrs. temple wrung her twitching hands and tried to drag her husband to his knees, crying: "oh, walter, walter, won't you please say a prayer?--a good strong prayer?" but the preacher was so confused that he answered: "what's the use of prayer in an emergency like this?" "walter!" she shrieked. "i'm on my va-vacation, you know," he stammered. marjorie was trying at the same time to compel mallory to crawl under a seat and to find a place to hide snoozleums, whom she was warning not to say a word. snoozleums, understanding only that his mistress was in some distress, refused to stay in his basket and kept offering his services and his attentions. suddenly marjorie realized that kathleen was trying to faint in mallory's arms, and forgot everything else in a determined effort to prevent her. after the first blood-sweat of abject fright had begun to cool, the passengers came to realize that the invaders were not after lives, but loot. then came a panic of miserly effort to conceal treasure. kathleen, finding herself banished from mallory's protection, ran to mrs. whitcomb, who had given ashton up as a hopeless task. "what shall we do, oh, what, oh what shall we do, dear mrs. wellington?" she cried. "don't you dare call me mrs. wellington!" mrs. whitcomb screamed; then she began to flutter. "but we'd better hide what we can. i hope the rah-rah-robbers are ge-gentlemen-men." she pushed a diamond locket containing a small portrait of sammy into her back hair, leaving part of the chain dangling. then she tried to stuff a large handbag into her stocking. mrs. fosdick found her husband at last, for he made a wild dash to her side, embraced her, called her his wife and defied all the powers of nevada to tear them apart. he had a brilliant idea. in order to save his fat wallet from capture, he tossed it through an open window. it fell at the feet of one of the robbers as he ran along the side of the car, shooting at such heads as were put out of windows. he picked it up and dropped it into the feed-bag he had swung at his side. then running on, he clambered over the brass rail of the observation platform and entered the rear of the train, as his confederate, driving the conductor ahead of him, forged his way aft from the front, while a third masquerader aligned the engineer, the fireman, the brakeman and the baggagemen. chapter xxxviii hands up! all this time lieutenant mallory had been thinking as hard as an officer in an ambuscade. his harrowing experiences and incessant defeats of the past days had unnerved him and shattered his self-confidence. he was not afraid, but intensely disgusted. he sat absent-mindedly patting marjorie on the back and repeating: "don't worry, honey, they're not going to hurt anybody. they don't want anything but our money. don't worry, i won't let 'em hurt you." but he could not shake off a sense of nausea. he felt himself a representative of the military prowess of the country, and here he was as helpless as a man on parole. the fact that mallory was a soldier occurred to a number of the passengers simultaneously. they had been trained by early studies in those beautiful works of fiction, the school histories of the united states, and by many fourths of july, to believe that the american soldier is an invincible being, who has never been defeated and never known fear. they surged up to mallory in a wave of hope. dr. temple, being nearest, spoke first. having learned by experience that his own prayers were not always answered as he wished, had an impulse to try some weapon he had never used. "young man," he pleaded across the back of a seat, "will you kindly lend me a gun?" mallory answered sullenly: "mine is in my trunk on the train ahead, damn it. if i had it i'd have a lot of fun." mrs. whitcomb had an inspiration. she ran to her berth, and came back with a tiny silver-plated revolver. "i'll lend you this. sammy gave it to me to protect myself in nevada!" mallory smiled at the . -calibre toy, broke it open, and displayed an empty cylinder. "where are the pills that go with it?" he said. "oh, sammy wouldn't let me have any bullets. he was afraid i'd hurt myself." mallory returned it, with a bow. "it would make an excellent nut-cracker." "aren't you going to use it?" mrs. whitcomb gasped. "it's empty," mallory explained. "but the robbers don't know that! couldn't you just overawe them with it?" "not with that," said mallory, "unless they died laughing." mrs. wellington pushed forward: "then what the devil are you going to do when they come?" mallory answered meekly: "if they request it, i shall hold up my hands." "and you won't resist?" kathleen gasped. "not a resist." "and he calls himself a soldier!" she sneered. mallory writhed, but all he said was: "a soldier doesn't have to be a jackass. i know just enough about guns not to monkey with the wrong end of 'em." "coward!" she flung at him. he turned white, but marjorie red, and made a leap at her, crying: "he's the bravest man in the world. you say a word, and i'll scratch your eyes out." this reheartened mallory a little, and he laughed nervously, as he restrained her. kathleen retreated out of danger, with a parting shot: "our engagement is off." "thanks," mallory said, and put out his hand: "will you return the bracelet?" "i never return such things," said kathleen. the scene was so painful and such an anachronism that dr. temple tried to renew a more pressing subject: "it's your opinion then that we'd best surrender?" "of course--since we can't run." wedgewood broke in impatiently: "well, i consider it a dastardly outrage. i'll not submit to it. i'm a subject of his majesty the----" "you're a subject of his majesty the man behind the gun," said mallory. "i shall protest, none the less," wedgewood insisted. mallory grinned a little. "have you any last message to send home to your mother?" wedgewood was a trifle chilled at this. "d-don't talk of such things," he said. and by this time the train-robbers had hastily worked their way through the other passengers, and reached the frantic inhabitants of the sleeper, "snowdrop." "hands up! higher!! hands up!" with a true sense of the dramatic, the robbers sent ahead of them the most hair-raising yells. they arrived simultaneously at each end of the aisle, and with a few short sharp commands, straightened the disorderly rabble into a beautiful line, with all palms aloft and all eyes wide and wild. one robber drove ahead of him the conductor and the other drove in mr. manning, whom he had found trying to crawl between the shelves of the linen-closet. the marauders were apparently cattlemen, from their general get-up. their hats were pulled low, and just beneath their eyes they had drawn big black silk handkerchiefs, tied behind the ears and hanging to the breast. over their shoulders they had slung the feed-bags of their horses, to serve as receptacles for their swag. their shirts were chalky with alkali dust. their legs were encased in heavy chaparejos, and they carried each a pair of well-used colt's revolvers that looked as big as artillery. when the passengers had shoved and jostled into line, one of the men jabbed the conductor in the back with the muzzle of his gun, and snarled: "now speak your little piece, like i learned it to you." the conductor, like an awkward schoolboy, grinned sheepishly, and spoke, his hands in the air the while: "ladies and gents, these here parties in the black tidies says they want everybody to hold his or her hands as high as possible till you git permission to lower 'em; they advise you not to resist, because they hate the sight of blood, but prefer it to argument." the impatient robbers, themselves the prey of fearful anxieties, broke in, barking like a pair of coyotes in a jumble of commands: "now, line up with your backs that way, and no back talk. these guns shoot awful easy. and remember, as each party is finished with, they are to turn round and keep their hands up, on penalty of gittin' 'em shot off. line up! hands up! give over there!" mrs. jimmie wellington took her time about moving into position, and her deliberation brought a howl of wrath from the robber: "get into that line, you!" mrs. wellington whirled on him: "how dare you, you brute?" and she turned up her nose at the gun. the anxious conductor intervened: "better obey, madame; he's an ugly lad." "i don't mind being robbed," said mrs. jimmie, "but i won't endure rudeness." the robber shook his head in despair, and he tried to wither her with sarcasm: "pardong, mamselly, would you be so kind and condescendin' as to step into that there car before i blow your husband's gol-blame head off." this brought her to terms. she hastened to her place, but put out a restraining hand on jimmie, who needed no restraint. "certainly, to save my dear husband. don't strike him, jimmie!" then each man stuck one revolver into its convenient holster, and, covering the passengers with the other, proceeded to frisk away valuables with a speed and agility that would have looked prettier if those impatient-looking muzzles had not pointed here, there and everywhere with such venomous threats. and so they worked from each end of the car toward the middle. their hands ran swiftly over bodies with a loathsome familiarity that could only be resented, not revenged. their hands dived into pockets, and up sleeves, and into women's hair, everywhere that a jewel or a bill might be secreted. and always a rough growl or a swing of the revolver silenced any protest. their heinous fingers had hardly begun to ply, when the solemn stillness was broken by a chuckle and low hoot of laughter, a darkey's unctuous laughter. at such a place it was more shocking than at a funeral. "what ails you?" was the nearest robber's demand. the porter tried to wipe his streaming eyes without lowering his hands, as he chuckled on: "i--i--just thought of sumpum funny." "funny!" was the universal groan. "i was just thinking," the porter snickered, "what mighty poor pickings you-all are goin' to git out of me. whilst if you had 'a' waited till i got to 'frisco, i'd jest nachelly been oozin' money." the robber relieved him of a few dimes and quarters and ordered him to turn round, but the black face whirled back as he heard from the other end of the car wedgewood's indignant complaint: "i say, this is an outrage!" "ah, close your trap and turn round, or i'll----" the porter's smile died away. "good lawd," he sighed, "they're goin' to skin that british lion! and i just wore myself out on him." the far-reaching effect of the whole procedure was just beginning to dawn on the porter. this little run on the bank meant a period of financial stringency for him. he watched the hurrying hands a moment or two, then his wrath rose to terrible proportions: "look here, man," he shouted at the robber, "ain't you-all goin' to leave these here passengers nothin' a tall?" "not on purpose, nigger." "no small change, or nothin'?" "nary a red." "then, passengers," the porter proclaimed, while the robber watched him in amazement; "then, passengers, i want to give you-all fair warnin' heah and now: no tips, no whisk-broom!" perhaps because their hearts were already overflowing with distress, the passengers endured this appalling threat without comment, and when there was a commotion at the other end of the line, all eyes rolled that way. mr. baumann was making an effort to take his leave, with great politeness. "excoose, pleass. i vant to get by, pleass!" "get by!" the other robber gasped. "why, you----" "but i'm not a passenger," mr. baumann urged, with a confidential smile, "i've been going through the train myself." "much obliged! hand over!" and a rude hand rummaged his pockets. it was a heart-rending sight. "oi oi!" he wailed, "don't you allow no courtesies to the profession?" and when the inexorable thief continued to pluck his money, his watch, his scarf-pin, he grew wroth indeed. "stop, stop, i refuse to pay. i'll go into benkruptcy foist." but still the larceny continued; fingers even lifted three cigars from his pockets, two for himself and a good one for a customer. this loss was grievous, but his wildest protest was: "oh, here, my frient, you don't vant my business carts." "keep 'em!" growled the thief, and then, glancing up, he saw on the tender inwards of mr. baumann's upheld palms two huge glisteners, which their owner had turned that way in a misguided effort to conceal the stones. the robber reached up for them. "take 'em. you're velcome!" said mr. baumann, with rare presence of mind. "those nevada nearlies looks almost like real." "keep 'em," said the robber, as he passed on, and mr. baumann almost swooned with joy, for, as he whispered to wedgewood a moment later: "they're really real!" now the eye-chain rolled the other way, for little jimmie wellington was puffing with rage. the other robber, having massaged him thoroughly, but without success, for his pocketbook, noticed that jimmie's left heel was protruding from his left shoe, and made jimmie perform the almost incredible feat of standing on one foot, while he unshod him and took out the hidden wealth. "there goes our honeymoon, lucretia," he moaned. but she whispered proudly: "never mind, i have my rings to pawn." "oh, you have, have you? well, i'll be your little uncle," the kneeling robber laughed, as he overheard, and he continued his outrageous search till he found them, knotted in a handkerchief, under her hat. she protested: "you wouldn't leave me in reno without a diamond, would you?" "i wouldn't, eh?" he grunted. "do you think i'm in this business for my health?" and he snatched off two earrings she had forgotten to remove. fortunately, they were affixed to her lobes with fasteners. mrs. jimmie was thoroughbred enough not to wince. she simply commented: "you brutes are almost as bad as the customs officers at new york." and now another touch of light relieved the gloom. kathleen was next in line, and she had been forcing her lips into their most attractive smile, and keeping her eyes winsomely mellow, for the robber's benefit. marjorie could not see the smile; she could only see that kathleen was next. she whispered to mallory: "they'll get the bracelet! they'll get the bracelet!" and mallory could have danced with glee. but kathleen leaned coquettishly toward the masked stranger, and threw all her art into her tone as she murmured: "i'm sure you're too brave to take my things. i've always admired men with the courage of claude duval." the robber was taken a trifle aback, but he growled: "i don't know the party you speak of--but cough up!" "listen to her," marjorie whispered in horror; "she's flirting with the train-robber." "what won't some women flirt with!" mallory exclaimed. the robber studied kathleen a little more attentively, as he whipped off her necklace and her rings. she looked good to him, and so willing, that he muttered: "say, lady, if you'll give me a kiss, i'll give you that diamond ring you got on." "all right!" laughed kathleen, with triumphant compliance. "my god!" mallory groaned, "what won't some women do for a diamond!" the robber bent close, and was just raising his mask to collect his ransom, when his confederate glanced his way, and knowing his susceptible nature, foresaw his intention, and shouted: "stop it, jake. you 'tend strictly to business, or i'll blow your nose off." "oh, all right," grumbled the reluctant gallant, as he drew the ring from her finger. "sorry, miss, but i can't make the trade," and he added with an unwonted gentleness: "you can turn round now." kathleen was glad to hide the blushes of defeat, but marjorie was still more bitterly disappointed. she whispered to mallory: "he didn't get the bracelet, after all." chapter xxxix wolves in the fold mallory's heart sank to its usual depth, but marjorie had another of her inspirations. she startled everybody by suddenly beckoning and calling: "excuse me, mr. robber. come here, please." the curious gallant edged her way, keeping a sharp watch along the line: "what d'you want?" marjorie leaned nearer, and spoke in a low tone with an amiable smile: "that lady who wanted to kiss you has a bracelet up her sleeve." the robber stared across his mask, and wondered, but laughed, and grunted: "much obliged." then he went back, and tapped kathleen on the shoulder. when she turned round, in the hope that he had reconsidered his refusal to make the trade, he infuriated her by growling: "excuse, me, miss, i overlooked a bet." he ran his hand along her arm, and found her bracelet, and accomplished what mallory had failed in, its removal. "don't, don't," cried kathleen, "it's wished on." "i wish it off," the villain laughed, and it joined the growing heap in the feed-bag. kathleen, doubly enraged, broke out viciously: "you're a common, sneaking----" "ah, turn round!" the man roared, and she obeyed in silence. then he explored mrs. whitcomb, but with such small reward that he said: "say, you'd oughter have a pocketbook somewheres. where's it at?" mrs. whitcomb brushed furiously: "none of your business, you low brute." "perdooce, madame," the scoundrel snorted, "perdooce the purse, or i'll hunt for it myself." mrs. whitcomb turned away, and after some management of her skirts, slapped her handbag into the eager palm with a wrathful: "you're no gentleman, sir!" "if i was, i'd be in wall street," he laughed. "now you can turn round." and when she turned, he saw a bit of chain depending from her back hair. he tugged, and brought away the locket, and with laying the tress on her shoulder, and proceeded to sound ashton for hidden wealth. and now mrs. temple began to sob, as she parted with an old-fashioned brooch and two old-fashioned rings that had been her little vanities for the quarter of a century and more. the old clergyman could have wept with her at the vandalism. he turned on the wretch with a heartsick appeal: "can't you spare those? didn't you ever have a mother?" the robber started, his fierce eyes softened, his voice choked, and he gulped hard as he drew the back of his hand across his eyes. "aw, hell," he whimpered, "that ain't fair. if you're goin' to remind me of me poor old mo-mo-mother----" but the one called jake--the claude duval who had been prevented from a display of human sentiment, did not intend to be cheated. he thundered: "stop it, bill. you 'tend strictly to business, or i'll blow your mush-bowl off. you know your maw died before you was born." this reminder sobered the weeping thief at once, and he went back to work ruthlessly. "oh, all right, jake. sorry, ma'am, but business is business." and he dumped mrs. temple's trinkets into the satchel. it was too much for the little old lady's little old husband. he fairly shrieked: "young man, you're a damned scoundrel, and the best argument i ever saw for hell-fire!" mrs. temple's grief changed to horror at such a bolt from the blue: "walter!" she gasped, "such language!" but her husband answered in self-defence: "even a minister has a right to swear once in his lifetime." mallory almost dropped in his tracks, and marjorie keeled over on him, as he gasped: "good lord, doctor temple, you are a--a minister?" "yes, my boy," the old man confessed, glad that the robbers had relieved him of his guilty secret along with the rest of his private properties. mallory looked at the collapsing marjorie, and groaned: "and he was in the next berth all this time!" the unmasking of the old fraud made a second sensation. mrs. fosdick called from far down the aisle: "dr. temple, you're not a detective?" mrs. temple shouted back furiously: "how dare you?" but mrs. fosdick was crying to her luscious-eyed mate: "oh, arthur, he's not a detective. embrace me!" and they embraced, while the robbers looked on aghast at the sudden oblivion they had fallen into. they focussed the attention on themselves again, however, with a ferocious: "here, hands up!" but they did not see mr. and mrs. fosdick steal a kiss behind their upraised arms, for the robber to whose lot mallory fell was gloating over his well-filled wallet. mallory saw it go with fortitude, but noting a piece of legal paper, he said: "say, old man, you don't want that marriage license, do you?" the robber handled it as if it were hot--as if he had burned his fingers on some such document once before, and he stuffed it back in mallory's pocket. "i should say not. keep it. turn round." meanwhile the other felon turned up another beautiful pile of bills in dr. temple's pocket. "not so worse for a parson," he grinned. "you must be one of them fifth avenue sky-shaffures." and now mrs. temple's gentle eyes and voice filled with tears again: "oh, don't take that. that's the money for his vacation--after thirty long years. please don't take that." her appeals seemed always to find the tender spot of this robber's heart, for he hesitated, and called out: "shall we overlook the parson's wad, podner?" "take it, and shut up, you mollycoddle!" was the answer he got, and the vacation funds joined the old gewgaws. and now everybody had been robbed but marjorie. she happened to be at the center of the line, and both men reached her at the same time: "i seen her first," the first one shouted. "you did not," the other roared. "i tell you i did." "i tell you i did." they glared threateningly at each other, and their revolvers seemed to meet, like two game cocks, beak to beak. the porter voiced the general hope, when he sighed: "oh, lawd, if they'd only shoot each other." this brought the rivals to their evil senses, and they swept the line with those terrifying muzzles and that heart-stopping yelp: "hands up!" bill said: "you take the east side of her, and i'll take the west." "all right." and they began to snatch away her side-combs, the little gold chain at her throat, the jewelled pin that mallory had given her as the first token of his love. the young soldier had foreseen this. he had foreseen the wild rage that would unseat his reason when he saw the dirty hands of thieves laid rudely on the sacred body of his beloved. but his soldier-schooling had drilled him to govern his impulses, to play the coward when there was no hope of successful battle, and to strike only when the moment was ripe with perfect opportunity. he had kept telling himself that when the finger of one of these men touched so much as marjorie's hem, he would be forced to fling himself on the profane miscreant. and he kept telling himself that the moment he did this, the other man would calmly blow a hole through him, and drop him at marjorie's feet, while the other passengers shrank away in terror. he told himself that, while it might be a fine impulse to leap to her defence, it was a fool impulse to leap off a precipice and leave marjorie alone among strangers, with a dead man and a scandal, as the only rewards for his impulse. he vowed that he would hold himself in check, and let the robbers take everything, leaving him only the name of coward, provided they left him also the power to defend marjorie better at another time. and now that he saw the clumsy-handed thugs rifling his sweetheart's jewelry, he felt all that he had foreseen, and his head fought almost in vain against the white fire of his heart. between them he trembled like a leaf, and the sweat globed on his forehead. the worst of it was the shivering terror of marjorie, and the pitiful eyes she turned on him. but he clenched his teeth and waited, thinking fiercely, watching, like a hovering eagle, a chance to swoop. but the robbers kept glancing this way and that, and one motion would mean death. they themselves were so overwrought with their own ordeal and its immediate conclusion, that they would have killed anybody. mallory shifted his foot cautiously, and instantly a gun was jabbed into his stomach, with a snarl: "don't you move!" "who's moving?" mallory answered, with a poor imitation of a careless laugh. and now the man called bill had reached marjorie's right hand. he chortled: "golly, look at the shiners." but jake, who had chosen marjorie's left hand, roared: "say, you cheated. all i get is this measly plain gold band." "oh, don't take that!" marjorie gasped, clenching her hand. mallory's heart ached at the thought of this final sacrilege. he had the license, and the minister at last--and now the fiends were going to carry off the wedding ring. he controlled himself with a desperate effort, and stooped to plead: "say, old man, don't take that. that's not fair." "shut up, both of you," jake growled, and jabbed him again with the gun. he gave the ring a jerk, but marjorie, in the very face of the weapon, would not let go. she struggled and tugged, weeping and imploring: "oh, don't, don't take that! it's my wedding ring." "agh, what do i care!" the ruffian snarled, and wrenched her finger so viciously that she gave a little cry of pain. that broke mallory's heart. with a wild, bellowing, "damn you!" he hurled himself at the man, with only his bare hands for weapons. chapter xl a hero in spite of himself passion sent mallory into the unequal fight with two armed and desperate outlaws. but reason had planned the way. he had been studying the robber all the time, as if the villain were a war-map, studying his gestures, his way of turning, and how he held the revolver. he had noted that the man, as he frisked the passengers, did not keep his finger on the trigger, but on the guard. marjorie's little battle threw the desperado off his balance a trifle; as he recovered, mallory struck him, and swept him on over against the back of a seat. at the same instant, mallory's right hand went like lightning to the trigger guard, and gripped the fingers in a vise of steel, while he drove the man's elbow back against his side. mallory's left hand meanwhile flung around his enemy's neck, and gave him a spinning fall that sent his left hand out for balance. it fell across the back of the seat, and mallory pinioned it with elbow and knee before it could escape. all in the same crowded moment, his left knuckles jolted the man's chin in air, and so bewildered him that his muscles relaxed enough for mallory's right fingers to squirm their way to the trigger, and aim the gun at the other robber, and finally to get entire control of it. the thing had happened in such a flash that the second outlaw could hardly believe his eyes. the shriek of the astounded passengers, and the grunt of mallory's prisoner, as he crashed backward, woke him to the need for action. he caught his other gun from its holster, and made ready for a double volley, but there was nothing to aim at. mallory was crouched in the seat, and almost perfectly covered by a human shield. still, from force of habit and foolhardy pluck, bill aimed at mallory's right eyebrow, just abaft jake's right ear, and shouted his old motto: "hands up! you!" "hands up yourself!" answered mallory, and his victim, shuddering at the fierce look in his comrade's eyes, gasped: "for god's sake, don't shoot, bill!" even then the fellow stood his ground, and debated the issue, till mallory threw such ringing determination into one last: "hands up, or by god, i'll fire!" that he caved in, lifted his fingers from the triggers, turned the guns up, and slowly raised both hands above his head. a profound "ah!" of relief soughed through the car, and mallory, still keeping his eye on bill, got down cautiously from the seat. the moment he released jake's left hand, it darted to the holster where his second gun was waiting. but before he could clutch the butt of it, mallory jabbed the muzzle of his own revolver in the man's back, and growled: "put 'em up!" and the robber's left hand joined the right in air, while mallory's left hand lifted the revolver, and took possession of it. mallory stood for a moment, breathing hard and a little incredulous at his own swift, sweet triumph. then he made an effort to speak as if this sort of thing were quite common with him, as if he overpowered a pair of outlaws every morning before breakfast, but his voice cracked as he said, in a drawing-room tone: "dr. temple, would you mind relieving that man of those guns?" dr. temple was so set up by this distinction that he answered: "not by a----" "walter!" mrs. temple checked him, before he could utter the beautiful word, and dr. temple looked at her almost reproachfully, as he sighed: "golly, i should like to swear just once more." then he reached up and disarmed the man who had taken his wallet and his wife's keepsakes. but the doctor was not half so happy over the recovery of his property as over the unbelievable luxury of finding himself taking two revolvers away from a masked train-robber. american children breathe in this desperado romance with their earliest traditions, and dr. temple felt all his boyhood zest surge back with a boy's tremendous rapture in a deed of derring-do. and now nothing could check his swagger, as he said to mallory: "what shall we do with these dam-ned sinners?" he felt like apologizing for the clerical relapse into a pulpitism, but mallory answered briskly: "we'd better take them into the smoking room. they scare the ladies. but first, will the conductor take those bags and distribute the contents to their rightful owners?" the conductor was proud to act as lieutenant to this lieutenant, and he quickly relieved the robbers of their loot-kits. mallory smiled. "don't give anybody my things," and then he jabbed his robber with one of the revolvers, and commanded: "forward, march!" the little triumphal procession moved off, with bill in the lead, followed by dr. temple, looking like a whole field battery, followed by jake, followed by mallory, followed by the porter and as many of the other passengers as could crowd into the smoking room. the rest went after those opulent feed-bags. chapter xli clickety-clickety-clickety marjorie, as the supposed wife of the rescuing angel, was permitted first search, and the first thing she hunted for was a certain gold bracelet that was none of hers. she found it and seized it with a prayer of thanks, and concealed it among her own things. mrs. temple gave her a guilty start, by speaking across a barrier: "mrs. mallory, your husband is the bravest man on earth." "oh, i know he is," marjorie beamed, and added with a spasm of conscience: "but he isn't my husband!" mrs. temple gasped in horror, but marjorie dragged her close, and poured out the whole story, while the other passengers recovered their properties with as much joy as if they were all new gifts found on a bush. meanwhile, under mallory's guidance, the porter fastened the outlaws together back to back with the straps of their own feed-bags. the porter was rejoicing that his harvest of tips was not blighted after all. mallory completed his bliss, by giving him dr. temple's brace of guns, and establishing him as jailer, with a warning: "now, porter, don't take your eye off 'em." "lordy, i won't bat an eyelid." "if either of these lads coughs, put a hole through both of 'em." the porter chuckled: "my fingers is just a-itchin' fer them lovin' triggers." and now mr. baumann, having scrambled back his possessions, hastened into the smoking room, and regarded the two hangdog culprits with magnificent generosity; he forgave them their treatment. in fact, he went so far as to say: "you gents vill be gettin' off at reno, yes? you'll be needing a good firm of lawyers. don't forget us. baumann" (he put a card in bill's hat) "and blumen" (he put a card in jake's hat). "avoid substitoots." mallory pocketed two of the captured revolvers, lest a need might arise suddenly again. as he hurried down the aisle, he was received with cheers. the passengers gave him an ovation, but he only smiled timidly, and made haste to marjorie's side. she regarded him with such idolatry that he almost regretted his deed. but this mood soon passed in her excitement, and in a moment she was surreptitiously showing him the bracelet. he became an accessory after the fact, and shared her guilt, for when she groaned with a sudden droop: "she'll get it back!" he grimly answered, "oh, no she won't!" hoisted the window, and flung the bracelet into a little pool by the side of the track, with a farewell: "good-bye, trouble!" as he drew his head in, a side glance showed him that up near the engine a third train-robber held the miserably weary train crew in line. he found the conductor just about to pull the bell-rope, to proceed. the conductor had forgotten all about the rest of the staff. mallory took him aside, and told him the situation, then turned to marjorie, said: "excuse me a minute," and hurried forward. the conductor followed mallory through the train into the baggage coach. the first news the third outlaw had of the counter-revolution occurring in the sleeping car was a mysterious bullet that flicked the dust near his heel, and a sonorous shout of "hands up!" as he whirled in amaze, he saw two revolvers aimed point blank at him from behind a trunk. he hoisted his guns without parley, and the train crew trussed him up in short order. mallory ran back to marjorie, and the conductor followed more slowly, reassuring the passengers in the other cars, and making certain that the train was ready to move on its way. mallory went straight to dr. temple, with a burning demand: "you dear old fraud, will you marry me?" dr. temple laughed and nodded. marjorie and mrs. temple had been telling him the story of the prolonged elopement, and he was eager to atone for his own deception, by putting an end to their misery. "just wait one moment," he said, and as a final proof of affection, he unbuttoned his collar and put it on backwards. mrs. temple brought out the discarded bib, and he donned it meekly. the transformation explained many a mystery the old man had enmeshed himself in. even as he made ready for the ceremony, the conductor appeared, looked him over, grinned, and reached for the bell-cord, with a cheerful: "all aboard!" mallory had a sort of superstitious dread, not entirely unfounded on experience, that if the train got under way again, it would run into some new obstacle to his marriage. he turned to the conductor: "say, old man, just hold the train till after my wedding, won't you?" it was not much to ask in return for his services, but the conductor was tired of being second in command. he growled: "not a minute. we're 'way behind time." "you might wait till i'm married," mallory pleaded. "not on your life!" the conductor answered, and he pulled the bell-rope twice; in the distance, the whistle answered twice. mallory's temper flared again. he cried: "this train doesn't go another step till i'm married!" he reached up and pulled the bell-rope once; in the distance the whistle sounded once. this was high treason, and the conductor advanced on him threateningly, as he seized the cord once more. "you touch that rope again, and i'll----" "oh, no, you won't," said mallory, as he whisked a revolver from his right pocket and jammed it into the conductor's watch-pocket. the conductor came to attention. then mallory, standing with his right hand on military duty, put out his left hand, and gave the word: "now, parson." he smiled still more as he heard kathleen's voice wailing: "but i can't find my bracelet. where's my bracelet?" "silence! silence!" dr. temple commanded, and then: "join hands, my children." marjorie shifted snoozleums to her left arm, put her right hand into mallory's, and dr. temple, standing between them, began to drone the ritual. everybody said they made a right pretty picture. when the old clergyman had done his work, the young husband-at-last graciously rescinded military law, recalled the artillery from the conductor's very midst, and remembering manila, smiled: "you may fire when ready, conductor." the conductor's rage had cooled, and he slapped the bridegroom on the back with one hand, as he pulled the cord with the other. the train began to creak and tug and shift. the ding-dong of the bell floated murmurously back as from a lofty steeple, and the clickety-click, click-clickety-click quickened and softened into a pleasant gossip, as the speed grew, and the way was so smooth for the wheels that they seemed to be spinning on rails of velvet. the end [illustration: "quick as a flash the kid had my arm."] ----------------------------------------------------------------------- danger signals remarkable, exciting and unique examples of the bravery, daring and stoicism in the midst of danger of train dispatchers and railroad engineers by john a. hill and jasper ewing brady absorbing stories of men with nerves of steel, indomitable courage and wonderful endurance fully illustrated chicago jamieson-higgins co. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- copyright , by s. s. mcclure co. copyright by doubleday & mcclure co. copyright by jamieson-higgins co. ----------------------------------------------------------------------- contents part i. page jim wainright's kid an engineer's christmas story the clean man and the dirty angels a peg-legged romance my lady of the eyes some freaks of fate mormon joe, the robber a midsummer night's trip the polar zone part ii. chapter i. learning the business--my first office ii. an encounter with train robbers iii. in a wreck iv. a woman operator who saved a train v. a night office in texas--a stuttering despatcher vi. blue field, arizona, and an indian scrimmage vii. taking a whirl at commercial work--my first attempt--the galveston fire viii. sending a message perforce--recognizing an old friend by his stuff ix. bill bradley, gambler and gentleman x. the death of jim cartwright--chased off a wire by a woman xi. witnessing a marriage by wire--beating a pool room--sparring at long range xii. how a smart operator was squelched--the galveston flood xiii. sending my first order xiv. running trains by telegraph--how it is done xv. an old despatcher's mistake--my first trick xvi. a general strike--a locomotive engineer for a day xvii. chief despatcher--an inspection tour--big river wreck xviii. a promotion by favor and its results xix. jacking up a negligent operator--a convict operator--dick, the plucky call boy xx. an episode of sentiment xxi. the military operator--a fake report that nearly caused trouble xxii. private dennis hogan, hero xxiii. the commission won--in a general strike xxiv. experiences as a government censor of telegraph xxv. more censorship xxvi. censorship concluded xxvii. conclusion ----------------------------------------------------------------------- list of illustrations part i. "quick as a flash the kid had my arm." frontispiece to face "i noticed his long, slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever" "it was a strange courting ... there on that engine" "we carried him into the depot" "he was the first man i ever killed" "'mexican,' said i" "what seemed to be a giant iceberg...." "a white city ... was visible for an instant" part ii. facsimile of a completed train-despatcher's order "two of the men tied my hands in front of me" "after many efforts i finally reached the lowest cross-arm" "one of them picked up the lantern, and swaggering over to where i sat all trembling...." "he looked at me ... then catching me by the collar...." "... half lying on the table, face downward, dead by his own hand" "'see here, who is going to pull this train?'" "are you not doing it just because i am a woman?" "... dennis, lying under the telegraph line. his left hand still grasped the instrument" ----------------------------------------------------------------------- danger signals. part i. jim wainright's kid as i put down my name and the number of the crack engine of america--as well as the imprint of a greasy thumb--on the register of our roundhouse last saturday night, the foreman borrowed a chew of my fireman's fine-cut, and said to me: "john, that old feller that's putting on the new injectors wants to see you." "what does he want, jack?" said i. "i don't remember to have seen him, and i'll tell you right now that the old squirts on the are good enough for me--i ain't got time to monkey with new-fangled injectors on _that_ run." "why, he says he knowed you out west fifteen years ago." "so! what kind o' looking chap is he?" "youngish face, john; but hair and whiskers as white as snow. sorry-looking rooster--seems like he's lost all his friends on earth, and wa'n't jest sure where to find 'em in the next world." "i can't imagine who it would be. let's see--'lige clark, he's dead; dick bellinger, hank baldwin, jim karr, dave keller, bill parr--can't be none of them. what's his name?" "winthrop--no, wetherson--no, lemme see--why, no--no, wainright; that's it, wainright; j. e. wainright." "jim wainright!" says i, "jim wainright! i haven't heard a word of him for years--thought he was dead; but he's a young fellow compared to me." "well, he don't look it," said jack. after supper i went up to the hotel and asked for j. e. wainright. maybe you think jim and i didn't go over the history of the "front." "out at the front" is the pioneer's ideal of railroad life. to a man who has put in a few years there the memory of it is like the memory of marches, skirmishes, and battles in the mind of the veteran soldier. i guess we started at the lowest numbered engine on the road, and gossiped about each and every crew. we had finished the list of engineers and had fairly started on the firemen when a thought struck me, and i said: "oh, i forgot him, jim--the 'kid,' your cheery little cricket of a firesy, who thought jim wainright the only man on the road that could run an engine right. i remember he wouldn't take a job running switcher--said a man that didn't know that firing for jim wainright was a better job than running was crazy. what's become of him? running, i suppose?" jim wainright put his hand up to his eyes for a minute, and his voice was a little husky as he said: "no, john, the kid went away--" "went away?" "yes, across the great divide--dead." "that's tough," said i, for i saw jim felt bad. "the kid and you were like two brothers." "john, i loved the--" then jim broke down. he got his hat and coat, and said: "john, let's get out into the air--i feel all choked up here; and i'll tell you a strange, true story--the kid's story." as we got out of the crowd and into boston common, jim told his story, and here it is, just as i remember it--and i'm not bad at remembering. "i'll commence at the beginning, john, so that you will understand. it's a strange story, but when i get through you'll recall enough yourself to prove its truth. "before i went beyond the mississippi and under the shadows of the rocky mountains, i fired, and was promoted, on a prairie road in the great basin well known in the railway world. i was much like the rest of the boys until i commenced to try to get up a substitute for the link motion. i read an article in a scientific paper from the pen of a jackass who showed a corliss engine card, and then blackguarded the railroad mechanics of america for being satisfied with the link because it was handy. i started in to design a motion to make a card, but--well, you know how good-for-nothing those things are to pull loads with. "after my first attempt, i put in many nights making a wooden model for the patent office. i was subsequently informed that the child of my brain interfered with about ten other motions. then i commenced to think--which i ought to have done before. i went to studying _what had been done_, and soon came to the conclusion that i just knew a little--about enough to get along running. i gave up hope of being an inventor and a benefactor of mankind, but study had awakened in me the desire for improvement; and after considerable thought i came to the conclusion that the best thing i could do was to try to be the best runner on the road, just as a starter. in reality, in my inmost soul, my highest ideal was the master mechanic's position. "i was about twenty-five years old, and had been running between two or three years, with pretty good success, when one day the general master mechanic sent for me. in the office i was introduced to a gentleman, and the g. m. m. said to him in my presence: "'this is the engineer i spoke to you of. we have none better. i think he would suit you exactly, and, when you are through with him, send him back; we are only lending him, mind,' and he went out into the shop. "the meaning of it all was that the stranger represented a firm that had put up the money to build a locomotive with a patent boiler for burning a patent fuel--she had an improved valve motion, too--and they had asked our g. m. m. for a good engineer, to send east and break in and run the new machine and go with her around the country on ten-day trials on the different roads. he offered good pay, it was work i liked, and i went. i came right here to boston and reported to the firm. they were a big concern in another line, and the head of the house was a relative of our g. m. m.--that's why he had a chance to send me. "after the usual introductions, the president said to me: "'now, mr. wainright, this new engine of ours is hardly started yet. the drawings are done, and the builders' contract is ready to sign; but we want you to look over the drawings, to see if there are any practical suggestions you can make. then stay in the shops, and see that the work is done right. the inventor is not a practical man; help him if you can, for experience tells us that ten things fail because of bad _design_ where one does because of bad manipulation. come up into the drawing-room, and i will introduce you to the inventor.' "up under the skylight i met the designer of the new engine, a mild little fellow--but he don't figure in this story. in five minutes i was deep in the study of the drawings. everything seemed to be worked out all right, except that they had the fire-door opening the wrong way and the brake-valve couldn't be reached--but many a good builder did that twenty years ago. i was impressed with the beauty of the drawings--they were like lithographs, and one, a perspective, was shaded and colored handsomely. i complimented him on them. "'they are beautiful, sir,' he said; 'they were made by a lady. i'll introduce you to her.' "a bright, plain-faced little woman with a shingled head looked up from her drawing-board as we approached, shook hands cordially when introduced, and at once entered into an intelligent discussion of the plans of the new record-beater. "well, it was some months before the engine was ready for the road, and in that time i got pretty well acquainted with miss reynolds. she was mighty plain, but sharp as a buzz-saw. i don't think she was really homely, but she'd never have been arrested for her beauty. there was something 'fetching' about her appearance--you couldn't help liking her. she was intelligent, and it was such a novelty to find a woman who knew the smoke stack from the steam chest. i didn't fall in love with her at all, but i liked to talk to her over the work. she told me her story; not all at once, but here and there a piece, until i knew her history pretty well. "it seems that her father had been chief draughtsman of those works for years, but had lately died. she had a strong taste for mechanics, and her father, who believed in women learning trades, had taught her mechanical drawing, first at home and then in the shop. she had helped in busy times as an extra, but never went to work for regular wages until the death of her father made it necessary. "she seemed to like to hear stories of the road, and often asked me to tell her some thrilling experience the second time. her eyes sparkled and her face kindled when i touched on a snow-bucking experience. she often said that if she was a man she'd go on the railroad, and after such a remark she would usually sigh and smile at the same time. one day, when the engine was pretty nearly ready, she said to me: "'mr. wainright, who is going to fire the experiment?' "'i don't know. i had forgot about that; i'll have to see about it.' "'it wouldn't be of much use to get an experienced man, would it--the engine will burn a new fuel in a new way?' "'no,' said i, 'not much.' "'now,' said she, coloring a little, 'let me ask a favor of you. i have a brother who is just crazy to go out firing. i don't want him to go unless it's with a man i can trust; he is young and inexperienced, you know. won't you take him? please do.' "'why, i'll be glad to,' said i. 'i'll speak to the old man about it.' "'don't tell him it's my brother.' "'well, all right.' "the old man told me to hire whoever i liked, and i told miss reynolds to bring the boy in the morning. "'won't you wait until monday? it will be an accommodation to me.' "of course i waited. "the next day miss reynolds did not come to the office, and i was busy at the shop. monday came, but no miss reynolds. about nine o'clock, however, the foreman came down to the experiment with a boy, apparently about eighteen years old, and said there was a lad with a note for me. "before reading the note i shook hands with the boy, and told him i knew who he was, for he looked like his sister. he was small, but wiry, and had evidently come prepared for business, as he had some overclothes under his arm and a pair of buckskin gloves. he was bashful and quiet, as boys usually are during their first experience away from home. the note read: "'dear mr. wainright.--this will be handed you by brother george. i hope you will be satisfied with him. i know he will try to please you and do his duty; don't forget how green he is. i am obliged to go into the country to settle up some of my father's affairs and may not see you again before you go. i sincerely hope the "experiment," george, and his engineer will be successful. i shall watch you all. "'g. e. reynolds.' "i felt kind of cut up, somehow, about going away without bidding old business--as the other draughtsman called miss reynolds--good-by; but i was busy with the engine. "the foreman came along half an hour after the arrival of young reynolds, and seeing him at work cleaning the window glass, asked who he was. "'the fireman,' said i. "'what! that kid?' "and from that day i don't think i ever called young reynolds by any other name half a dozen times. that was the 'kid' you knew. when it came quitting time that night, i asked the kid where they lived, and he said, charlestown. i remarked that his voice was like his sister's; but he laughed, and said i'd see difference enough if they were together; and bidding me good-night, caught a passing car. "we broke the experiment in for a few days, and then tackled half a train for providence. she would keep her water just about hot enough to wash in with the pump on. it was a tough day; i was in the front end half the time at every stop. the kid did exactly what i told him, and was in good spirits all the time. i was cross. nothing will make a man crosser than a poor steamer. "we got to providence in the evening tired; but after supper the kid said he had an aunt and her family living there, and if i didn't mind, he'd try to find them. i left the door unlocked, and slept on one side of the bed, but the kid didn't come back; he was at the engine when i got there the next morning. "the kid was such a nice little fellow i liked to have him with me, and, somehow or other (i hardly noticed it at the time), he had a good influence on me. in them days i took a drink if i felt like it; but the kid got me into the habit of taking lemonade, and wouldn't go into drinking places, and i soon quit it. he gave me many examples of controlling my temper, and soon got me into the habit of thinking before i spoke. "we played horse with that engine for four or five weeks, mostly around town, but i could see it was no go. the patent fuel was no good, and the patent fire-box little better, and i advised the firm to put a standard boiler on her and a pair of links, and sell her while the paint was fresh. they took my advice. "the kid and i took the engine to hinkley's, and left her there; we packed up our overclothes, and as we walked away, the kid asked: 'what will you do now, jim?' "'oh, i've had a nice play, and i'll go back to the road. i wish you'd go along.' "'i wouldn't like anything better; will you take me?' "'yes, but i ain't sure that i can get you a job right away.' "'well, i could fire for you, couldn't i?' "'i'd like to have you, kid; but you know i have a regular engine and a regular fireman. i'll ask for you, though.' "'i won't fire for anybody else!' "'you won't! what would you do if i should die?' "'quit.' "get out!' "'honest; if i can't fire for you, i won't fire at all.' "i put in a few days around the 'hub,' and as i had nothing to do, my mind kept turning to miss reynolds. i met the kid daily, and on one of our rambles i asked him where his sister was. "'out in the country.' "'send word to her that i am going away and want to see her, will you, kid?' "'well, yes; but sis is funny; she's too odd for any use. i don't think she'll come.' "'well, i'll go and see her.' "'no, sis would think you were crazy.' "'why? now look here kid, i like that sister of yours, and i want to see her.' "but the kid just stopped, leaned against the nearest building, and laughed--laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. the next day he brought me word that his sister had gone to chicago to make some sketches for the firm and hoped to come to see us after she was through. i started for chicago the day following, the kid with me. "i had little trouble in getting the kid on with me, as my old fireman had been promoted. i had a nice room with another plug-puller, and in a few days i was in the old jog--except for the kid. he refused to room with my partner's fireman; and when i talked to him about saving money that way, he said he wouldn't room with any one--not even me. then he laughed, and said he kicked so that no one could room with him. the kid was the butt of all the firemen on account of his size, but he kept the cleanest engine, and was never left nor late, and seemed more and more attached to me--and i to him. "things were going along slick enough when daddy daniels had a row with his fireman, and our general master mechanic took the matter up. daniels' fireman claimed the run with me, as he was the oldest man, and, as they had an 'oldest man' agreement, the master mechanic ordered smutty kelly and the kid changed. "i was not in the roundhouse when the kid was ordered to change, but he went direct to the office and kicked, but to no purpose. then he came to me. "'jim,' said he, with tears in his eyes, 'are you satisfied with me on the ?' "'why, yes, kid. who says i'm not?' "'they've ordered me to change to the with that horrible old ruffian daniels, and smutty kelly to go with you.' "'they have!' says i. 'that slouch can't go out with me the first time; i'll see the old man.' "but the old man was mad by the time i got to him. "'that baby-faced boy says he won't fire for anybody but you; what have you been putting into his head?' "'nothing; i've treated him kindly, and he likes me and the --that's the cleanest engine on the--' "'tut, tut, i don't care about that; i've ordered the firemen on the and changed--and they are going to be changed.' "the kid had followed me into the office, and at this point said, very respectfully: "'excuse me, sir, but mr. wainright and i get along so nicely together. daniels is a bad man; so is kelly; and neither will get along with decent men. why can't you--' "'there! stop right there, young man. now, will you go on the _as ordered_?' "'yes, if jim wainright runs her.' "'no _ifs_ about it; will you go?' "'no, sir, i won't!' "'you are discharged, then.' "'that fires me, too,' said i. "'not at all, not at all; this is a fireman row, jim.' "i don't know what struck me then, but i said: "'no one but this boy shall put a scoop of coal in the or any other engine for me; i'll take the poorest run you have, but the kid goes with me.' "talk was useless, and in the end the kid and i quit and got our time. "that evening the kid came to my room and begged me to take my job back and he would go home; but i wouldn't do it, and asked him if he was sick of me. "'no, jim,' said he. 'i live in fear that something will happen to separate us, but i don't want to be a drag on you--i think more of you than anybody.' "they were buying engines by the hundred on the rio grande and santa fé and the a. & p. in those days, and the kid and i struck out for the west, and inside of thirty days we were at work again. "we had been there three months, i guess, when i got orders to take a new engine out to the front and leave her, bringing back an old one. the last station on the road was in a box-car, thrown out beside the track on a couple of rails. there was one large, rough-board house, where they served rough-and-ready grub and let rooms. the latter were stalls, the partitions being only about seven feet high. it was cold and bleak, but right glad we were to get there and get a warm supper. everything was rough, but the kid seemed to enjoy the novelty. after supper i asked the landlord if he could fix us for the night. "'i can jest fix ye, and no more,' said he; 'i have just one room left. ye's'll have to double up; but this is the kind o' weather for that; it'll be warmer.' "the kid objected, but the landlord bluffed him--didn't have any other room--and he added: 'if i was your pardner there, i'd kick ye down to the foot, such a cold strip of bacon as ye must be.' "about nine o'clock the kid slipped out, and not coming in for an hour, i went to look for him. as i went toward the engine, i met the watchman: "'phy don't that fireman o' yourn sleep in the house or on the caboose floor such a night as this? he'll freeze up there in that cab wid no blankets at all; but when i tould him that, he politely informed meself that he'd knowed men to git rich mindin' their own biz. he's a sassy slip of a yankee.' "i climbed up on the big consolidation, and, lighting my torch, looked over the boiler-head at the kid. he was lying on a board on the seat, with his overcoat for a covering and an arm-rest for a pillow. "'what's the matter with you, kid?' i asked. 'what are you doing freezing here when we can both be comfortable and warm in the house? are you ashamed or afraid to sleep with me? i don't like this for a cent.' "'hope you won't be mad with me, jim, but i won't sleep with any one; there now!' "'you're either a fool or crazy,' said i. 'why, you will half freeze here. i want some explanation of such a trick as this.' "the kid sat up, looked at me soberly for a few seconds, reached up and unhooked his door, and said: "'come over and sit down, jim, and i'll tell you something.' "i blew out the torch and went over, half mad. as i hooked the door to keep out the sharp wind i thought i heard a sob, and i took the kid's head in my hands and turned his face to the moonlight. there were big tears in the corner of each tightly closed eye. "'don't feel bad, kid,' said i. 'i'm sure there's some reason keeps you at such tricks as this; but tell me all your trouble--it's imaginary, i know.' "there was a tremor in the kid's voice as he took my hand and said, 'we are friends, jim; ain't we?' "'why, of course,' said i. "'i have depended on your friendship and kindness and manhood, jim. it has never failed me yet, and it won't now, i know. i have a secret, jim, and it gnaws to be out one day, and hides itself the next. many and many a time i have been on the point of confessing to you, but something held me back. i was afraid you would not let me stay with you, if you knew--' "'why, you ain't killed any one, kid?' i asked, for i thought he was exaggerating his trouble. "'no--yes, i did, too--i killed my sister.' "i recoiled, hurt, shocked. 'you--' "'yes, jim, there is no such person to be found as my sister, georgiana--_for i am she_!'' "'you! why, kid, you're crazy!' "'no, i'm not. listen, jim, and i will explain.' "'my father was always sorry i was not a boy. taught me boyish tricks, and made me learn drawing. i longed for the life on a locomotive--i loved it, read about it, thought of it, and prayed to be transformed into _something_ that could go out on the road. my heart went out to you early in our acquaintance, and one day the thought to get started as a fireman with you shot into my brain and was acted upon at once. after the first move there was no going back, and i have acted my part well; i have even been a good fireman. i am strong, healthy, and happy when on the road with you. i love the life, hard as it is, and can't think of giving it up, and--and you, jim.' "and then she broke down, and cried as only a woman can. "i took both her hands in mine and kissed her--think of kissing your fireman on the engine--and told her that we could be happy yet. then i told her how i had tried to get a letter to the lost sister, and how they never came back, and were never answered--that i loved the sister and loved her. she reminded me that she herself got all the letters i had sent, and was pretty sure of her ground when she threw herself on my protection. "it was a strange courting, john, there on that engine at the front, the boundless plains on one side, the mountains on the other, the winds of the desert whirling sand and snow against our little house, and the moon looking coldly down at the spectacle of an engineer making love to his fireman. "that night the kid slept in the bed in the house, and i stayed on the engine. "when we got back to headquarters the kid laid off to go home, and i made a trip or two with another fireman, and then i had to go to illinois to fix up some family business--kid and i arranged that. "we met in st. louis, the kid hired a ball dress, and we were married as quiet as possible. i had promised the kid that, for the present at least, she could stay on the road with me, and you know that the year you were there i done most of the heavy firing while the kid did the running. we remained in the service for something like two years--a strange couple, but happy in each other's company and our work. "i often talked to my wife about leaving the road and starting in new, where we were not known, as man and wife, she to remain at home; but she wouldn't hear of it, asking if i wanted an irishman for a side-partner. this came to be a joke with us--'when i get my irishman i will do so-and-so.' "one day, as our 'hog' was drifting down the long hill, the kid said to me, 'jim, you can get your irishman; i'm going to quit this trip.' "'kind o' sudden, hey, kid?' "'no, been hating to give up, but--' and then the kid came over and whispered something to me. "john, we both quit and went south. i got a job in texas, and the kid was lost sight of, and mrs. j. e. wainright appeared on the scene in tea-gown, train, and flounces. we furnished a neat little den, and i was happy. i missed my kid fireman, and did indeed have an irishman. kid had a struggle to wear petticoats again, and did not take kindly to dish-washing, but we were happy just the same. "our little fellow arrived one spring day, and then our skies were all sunshiny for three long, happy years, until one day kid and i followed a little white hearse out beyond the cypress grove and saw the earth covered over our darling, over our hopes, over our sunshine, and over our hearts. "after that the house was like a tomb, so still, so solemn, and at every turn were reminders of the little one who had faded away like the morning mist, gone from everything but our memories--there his sweet little image was graven by the hand of love and seared by the branding-iron of sorrow. "men and women of intelligence do not parade their sorrows in the market-place; they bear them as best they can, and try to appear as others, but once the specter of the grim destroyer has crossed the threshold, his shadow forever remains, a dark reminder, like a prison-bar across the daylight of a cell. this shadow is seen and recognized in the heart of a father, but it is larger and darker and more dreadful in the mother heart. "at every turn poor kid was mutely reminded of her loss, and her heart was at the breaking point day by day, and she begged for her old life, to seek forgetfulness in toil and get away from herself. so we went back to the old road, as we went away--jim wainright and kid reynolds--and glad enough they were to get us again for the winter work. "three years of indoor life had softened the wiry muscles of the kid, and our engine was a hard steamer, so i did most of the work on the road. but the work, excitement, and outdoor life brought back the color to pale cheeks, and now and then a smile to sad lips--and i was glad. "one day the kid was running while i broke up some big lumps of coal, and while busy in the tank i felt the air go on full and the reverse lever come back, while the wheels ground sand. i stepped quickly toward the cab to see what was the matter, when the kid sprang into the gangway and cried 'jump!' "i was in the left gangway in a second, but quick as a flash the kid had my arm. "'the other side! quick! the river!' "we were almost side by side as she swung me toward the other side of the engine, and jumped as we crashed into a landslide. i felt kid's hand on my shoulder as i left the deck--just in time to save my life, but not the kid's. "she was crushed between the tank and boiler in the very act of keeping me from jumping to certain death on the rocks in the river below. "when the crew came over they found me with the crushed clay of my poor, loved kid in my arms, kissing her. they never knew who she was. i took her back to our texas home and laid her beside the little one that had gone before. the firemen's brotherhood paid kid's insurance to me and passed resolutions saying: 'it has pleased almighty god to remove from our midst our beloved brother, george reynolds,' etc., etc. "george reynolds's grave cannot be found; but over a mound of forget-me-nots away in a southern land, there stands a stone on which is cut: 'georgiana, wife of j. e. wainright, aged thirty-two years.' "but in my heart there is a golden pyramid of love to the memory of a fireman and a sweetheart known to you and all the world but me, as 'jim wainright's kid.'" an engineer's christmas story in the summer, fall, and early winter of , i was tossing chips into an old hinkley insider up in new england, for an engineer by the name of james dillon. dillon was considered as good a man as there was on the road: careful, yet fearless, kindhearted, yet impulsive, a man whose friends would fight for him and whose enemies hated him right royally. dillon took a great notion to me, and i loved him as a father; the fact of the matter is, he was more of a father to me than i had at home, for my father refused to be comforted when i took to railroading, and i could not see him more than two or three times a year at the most--so when i wanted advice i went to jim. i was a young fellow then, and being without a home at either end of the run, was likely to drop into pitfalls. dillon saw this long before i did. before i had been with him three months, he told me one day, coming in, that it was against his principles to teach locomotive-running to a young man who was likely to turn out a drunkard or gambler and disgrace the profession, and he added that i had better pack up my duds and come up to his house and let "mother" take care of me--and i went. i was not a guest there: i paid my room-rent and board just as i should have done anywhere else, but i had all the comforts of a home, and enjoyed a thousand advantages that money could not buy. i told mrs. dillon all my troubles, and found kindly sympathy and advice; she encouraged me in all my ambitions, mended my shirts, and went with me when i bought my clothes. inside of a month, i felt like one of the family, called mrs. dillon "mother," and blessed my lucky stars that i had found them. dillon had run a good many years, and was heartily tired of it, and he seldom passed a nice farm that he did not call my attention to it, saying: "jack, now there's comfort; you just wait a couple of years--i've got my eye on the slickest little place, just on the edge of m----, that i am saving up my pile to buy. i'll give you the 'roger william' one of these days, jack, say good evening to grief, and me and mother will take comfort. think of sleeping till eight o'clock,--and no poor steamers, jack, no poor steamers!" and he would reach over, and give my head a gentle duck as i tried to pitch a curve to a front corner with a knot: those hinkleys were powerful on cold water. in dillon's household there was a "system" of financial management. he always gave his wife just half of what he earned; kept ten dollars for his own expenses during the month, out of which he clothed himself; and put the remainder in the bank. it was before the days of high wages, however, and even with this frugal management, the bank account did not grow rapidly. they owned the house in which they lived, and out of her half "mother" had to pay all the household expenses and taxes, clothe herself and two children, and send the children to school. the oldest, a girl of some sixteen years, was away at normal school, and the boy, about thirteen or fourteen, was at home, going to the public school and wearing out more clothes than all the rest of the family. dillon told me that they had agreed on the financial plan followed in the family before their marriage, and he used to say that for the life of him he did not see how "mother" got along so well on the allowance. when he drew a small month's pay he would say to me, as we walked home: "no cream in the coffee this month, jack." if it was unusually large, he would say: "plum duff and fried chicken for a sunday dinner." he insisted that he could detect the rate of his pay in the food, but this was not true--it was his kind of fun. "mother" and i were fast friends. she became my banker, and when i wanted an extra dollar, i had to ask her for it and tell what i wanted it for, and all that. along late in november, jim had to make an extra one night on another engine, which left me at home alone with "mother" and the boy--i had never seen the girl--and after swearing me to be both deaf, dumb, and blind, "mother" told me a secret. for ten years she had been saving money out of her allowance, until the amount now reached nearly $ , . she knew of jim's life ambition to own a farm, and she had the matter in hand, if i would help her. of course i was head over heels into the scheme at once. she wanted to buy the farm near m----, and give jim the deed for a christmas present; and jim mustn't even suspect. jim never did. the next trip i had to buy some underclothes: would "mother" tell me how to pick out pure wool? why, bless your heart, no, she wouldn't, but she'd just put on her things and go down with me. jim smoked and read at home. we went straight to the bank where jim kept his money, asked for the president, and let him into the whole plan. would he take $ , out of jim's money, unbeknown to jim, and pay the balance of the price of the farm over what "mother" had? no, he would not; but he would advance the money for the purpose--have the deeds sent to him, and he would pay the price--that was fixed. then i hatched up an excuse and changed off with the fireman on the m---- branch, and spent the best part of two lay-overs fixing up things with the owner of the farm and arranging to hold back the recording of the deeds until after christmas. every evening there was some part of the project to be talked over, and "mother" and i held many whispered conversations. once jim, smiling, observed that, if i had any hair on my face, he would be jealous. i remember that it was on the th day of december, , that payday came. i banked my money with "mother," and jim, as usual, counted out his half to that dear old financier. "uncle sam'd better put that 'un in the hospital," observed jim, as he came to a ragged ten-dollar bill. "goddess of liberty pretty near got her throat cut there; guess some reb has had hold of her," he continued, as he held up the bill. then laying it down, he took out his pocket-book and cut off a little three-cornered strip of pink court-plaster, and made repairs on the bill. "mother" pocketed her money greedily, and before an hour i had that very bill in my pocket to pay the recording fees in the courthouse at m----. the next day jim wanted to use more money than he had in his pocket, and asked me to lend him a dollar. as i opened my wallet to oblige him, that patched bill showed up. jim put his finger on it, and then turning me around towards him, he said: "how came you by that?" i turned red--i know i did--but i said, cool enough, "'mother' gave it to me in change." "that's a lie," he said, and turned away. the next day we were more than two-thirds of the way home before he spoke; then, as i straightened up after a fire, he said: "john alexander, when we get in, you go to aleck (the foreman) and get changed to some other engine." there was a queer look on his face; it was not anger, it was not sorrow--it was more like pain. i looked the man straight in the eye, and said: "all right, jim; it shall be as you say--but, so help me god, i don't know what for. if you will tell me what i have done that is wrong, i will not make the same mistake with the next man i fire for." he looked away from me, reached over and started the pump, and said: "don't you know?" "no, sir, i have not the slightest idea." "then you stay, and i'll change," said he, with a determined look, and leaned out of the window, and said no more all the way in. i did not go home that day. i cleaned the "roger william" from the top of that mountain of sheet-iron known as a wood-burner stack to the back casting on the tank, and tried to think what i had done wrong, or not done at all, to incur such displeasure from dillon. he was in bed when i went to the house that evening, and i did not see him until breakfast. he was in his usual spirits there, but on the way to the station, and all day long, he did not speak to me. he noticed the extra cleaning, and carefully avoided tarnishing any of the cabfittings;--but that awful quiet! i could hardly bear it, and was half sick at the trouble, the cause of which i could not understand. i thought that, if the patched bill had anything to do with it, christmas morning would clear it up. our return trip was the night express, leaving the terminus at : . as usual, that night i got the engine out, oiled, switched out the cars, and took the train to the station, trimmed my signals and headlight, and was all ready for jim to pull out. nine o'clock came, and no jim; at : i sent to his boarding-house. he had not been there. he did not come at leaving time--he did not come at all. at ten o'clock the conductor sent to the engine-house for another engineer, and at : , instead of an engineer, a fireman came, with orders for john alexander to run the "roger william" until further orders,--i never fired a locomotive again. i went over that road the saddest-hearted man that ever made a maiden trip. i hoped there would be some tidings of jim at home--there were none. i can never forget the blow it was to "mother;" how she braced up on account of her children--but oh, that sad face! christmas came, and with it the daughter, and then there were two instead of one: the boy was frantic the first day, and playing marbles the next. christmas day there came a letter. it was from jim--brief and cold enough--but it was such a comfort to "mother." it was directed to mary j. dillon, and bore the new york post-mark. it read: "uncle sam is in need of men, and those who lose with venus may win with mars. enclosed papers you will know best what to do with. be a mother to the children--you have _three_ of them. "james dillon." he underscored the three--he was a mystery to me. poor "mother!" she declared that no doubt "poor james's head was affected." the papers with the letter were a will, leaving her all, and a power of attorney, allowing her to dispose of or use the money in the bank. not a line of endearment or love for that faithful heart that lived on love, asked only for love, and cared for little else. that christmas was a day of fasting and prayer for us. many letters did we send, many advertisements were printed, but we never got a word from james dillon, and uncle sam's army was too big to hunt in. we were a changed family: quieter and more tender of one another's feelings, but changed. in the fall of they changed the runs around, and i was booked to run in to m----. ed, the boy, was firing for me. there was no reason why "mother" should stay in boston, and we moved out to the little farm. that daughter, who was a second "mother" all over, used to come down to meet us at the station with the horse, and i talked "sweet" to her; yet at a certain point in the sweetness i became dumb. along in may, ' , "mother" got a package from washington. it contained a tin-type of herself; a card with a hole in it (made evidently by having been forced over a button), on which was her name and the old address in town; then there was a ring and a saber, and on the blade of the saber was etched, "presented to lieutenant jas. dillon, for bravery on the field of battle." at the bottom of the parcel was a note in a strange hand, saying simply, "found on the body of lieutenant dillon after the battle of five forks." poor "mother!" her heart was wrung again, and again the scalding tears fell. she never told her suffering, and no one ever knew what she bore. her face was a little sadder and sweeter, her hair a little whiter--that was all. i am not a bit superstitious--don't believe in signs or presentiments or prenothings--but when i went to get my pay on the th day of december, , it gave me a little start to find in it the bill bearing the chromo of the goddess of liberty with the little three-cornered piece of court-plaster that dillon had put on her wind-pipe. i got rid of it at once, and said nothing to "mother" about it; but i kept thinking of it and seeing it all the next day and night. on the night of the th, i was oiling around my black maria to take out a local leaving our western terminus just after dark, when a tall, slim old gentleman stepped up to me and asked if i was the engineer. i don't suppose i looked like the president: i confessed, and held up my torch, so i could see his face--a pretty tough-looking face. the white mustache was one of that military kind, reinforced with whiskers on the right and left flank of the mustache proper. he wore glasses, and one of the lights was ground glass. the right cheek-bone was crushed in, and a red scar extended across the eye and cheek; the scar looked blue around the red line because of the cold. "i used to be an engineer before the war," said he. "do you go to boston!" "no, to m----." "m----! i thought that was on a branch." "it is, but is now an important manufacturing point, with regular trains from there to each end of the main line." "when can i get to boston?" "not till monday now; we run no through sunday trains. you can go to m---- with me to-night, and catch a local to boston in the morning." he thought a minute, and then said, "well, yes; guess i had better. how is it for a ride?" "good; just tell the conductor that i told you to get on." "thanks; that's clever. i used to know a soldier who used to run up in this country," said the stranger, musing. "dillon; that's it, dillon." "i knew him well," said i. "i want to hear about him." "queer man," said he, and i noticed he was eying me pretty sharp. "a good engineer." "perhaps," said he. [illustration: "i noticed his long, slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever."] i coaxed the old veteran to ride on the engine--the first coal-burner i had had. he seemed more than glad to comply. ed was as black as a negro, and swearing about coal-burners in general and this one in particular, and made so much noise with his fire-irons after we started, that the old man came over and sat behind me, so as to be able to talk. the first time i looked around after getting out of the yard, i noticed his long slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever. did you ever notice how it seems to make an ex-engineer feel better and more satisfied to get his hand on the reverse-lever and feel the life-throbs of the great giant under him? why, his hand goes there by instinct--just as an ambulance surgeon will feel for the heart of the boy with a broken leg. i asked the stranger to "give her a whirl," and noticed with what eager joy he took hold of her. i also observed with surprise that he seemed to know all about "four-mile hill," where most new men got stuck. he caught me looking at his face, and touching the scar, remarked: "a little love pat, with the compliments of wade hampton's men." we talked on a good many subjects, and got pretty well acquainted before we were over the division, but at last we seemed talked out. "where does dillon's folks live now?" asked the stranger, slowly, after a time. "m----," said i. he nearly jumped off the box. "m----? i thought it was boston!" "moved to m----." "what for?" "own a farm there." "oh, i see; married again?" "no." "no!" "widow thought too much of jim for that." "no!" "yes." "er--what became of the young man that they--er--adopted?" "lives with 'em yet." "so!" just then we struck the suburbs of m----, and, as we passed the cemetery, i pointed to a high shaft, and said: "dillon's monument." "why, how's that?" "killed at five forks. widow put up monument." he shaded his eyes with his hand, and peered through the moonlight for a minute. "that's clever," was all he said. i insisted that he go home with me. ed took the black maria to the house, and we took the street cars for it to the end of the line, and then walked. as we cleaned our feet at the door, i said: "let me see, i did not hear your name?" "james," said he, "mr. james." i opened the sitting-room door, and ushered the stranger in. "well, boys," said "mother," slowly getting up from before the fire and hurriedly taking a few extra stitches in her knitting before laying it down to look up at us, "you're early." she looked up, not ten feet from the stranger, as he took off his slouched hat and brushed back the white hair. in another minute her arms were around his neck, and she was murmuring "james" in his ear, and i, like a dumb fool, wondered who told her his name. well, to make a long story short, it was james dillon himself, and the daughter came in, and ed came, and between the three they nearly smothered the old fellow. you may think it funny he didn't know me, but don't forget that i had been running for three years--that takes the fresh off a fellow; then, when i had the typhoid, my hair laid off, and was never reinstated, and when i got well, the whiskers--that had always refused to grow--came on with a rush, and they were red. and again, i had tried to switch with an old hook-motion in the night and forgot to take out the starting-bar, and she threw it at me, knocking out some teeth; and taking it altogether, i was a changed man. "where's john?" he said finally. "here," said i. "no!" "yes." he took my hand, and said, "john, i left all that was dear to me once, because i was jealous of you. i never knew how you came to have that money or why, and don't want to. forgive me." "that is the first time i ever heard of that," said "mother." "i had it to buy this farm for you--a christmas present--if you had waited," said i. "that is the first time i ever heard of that," said he. "and you might have been shot," said "mother," getting up close. "i tried my darndest to be. that's why i got promoted so fast." "oh, james!" and her arms were around his neck again. "and i sent that saber home myself, never intending to come back." "oh, james, how could you!" "mother, how can you forgive me?" "mother," was still for a minute, looking at the fire in the grate. "james, it is late in life to apply such tests, but love is like gold; ours will be better now--the dross has been burned away in the fire. i did what i did for love of you, and you did what you did for love of me; let us all commence to live again in the old way," and those arms of hers could not keep away from his neck. ed went out with tears in his eyes, and i beckoned the daughter to follow me. we passed into the parlor, drew the curtain over the doorway--and there was nothing but that rag between us and heaven. the clean man and the dirty angels when i first went firing, down in my native district, where bean is king, there was a man on the road pulling a mixed train, by the name of clark--'lige clark. being only a fireman, and a new one at that, i did not come very much in contact with clark, or any of the other engineers, excepting my own--james dillon. 'lige clark was a character on the road; everybody knew "old 'lige;" he was liked and respected, but not loved; he was thought puritanical, or religious, or cranky, by some, yet no one hated him, or even had a strong dislike for him. his honesty and straightforwardness were proverbial. he was always in charge of the funds of every order he belonged to, as well as of the sunday-school and church. he was truthful to a fault, but above all, just. "'cause 'tain't right, that's why," was his way of refusing to do a thing, and his argument against others doing it. after i got to running, i saw and knew more of 'lige, and i think, perhaps, i was as much of a friend as he ever had. we never were chums. i never went to his house, and he never went to mine; we were simply roundhouse acquaintances; used to talk engine a little, but usually talked about children--'lige had four, and always spoke about "doing the right thing by them." 'lige had a very heavy full beard, that came clear up to his eyes, and a mass of wavy hair--all iron grey. his eyes were steel grey, and matched his hair, and he had a habit of looking straight at you when he spoke. on his engine he invariably ran with his head out of the side window, rain or shine, and always bareheaded. when he stepped upon the footboard, he put his hat away with his clothes, and there it stayed. he was never known to wear a cap, excepting in the coldest weather. once in a while, when i was firing, i have seen him come in, in winter, with his beard white with frost and ice, and some smoke-shoveling wit dubbed him santa claus. 'lige had a way of looking straight ahead and thinking of his work, and, after he got to running express, would go through a town, where other trains were sidetracked for him, looking at the track ahead, and at the trains, but never seeming to care that they were there, never nodding or waving a hand. once in a while he would blink his eyes,--that was all. the wind tossed his mane and hair and made him look for all the world like a lion, who looks at, but appears to care nothing for the crowds around his den. someone noticed the comparison, and dubbed him "the lion," and the name clung to him. he was spoken of as "old 'lige, the lion." just why he was called old, i don't know--he was little more than forty then. when the men on the road had any grievances, they always asked 'lige to "go and see the old man." 'lige always went to lodge and to meetings of the men, but was never known to speak. when the demands were drawn up and presented to him, he always got up and said: "them air declarations ain't right, an' i wouldn't ask any railroad to grant 'em;" or, "the declarations are right. of course i'll be glad to take 'em." when old 'lige declined to bear a grievance it was modified or abandoned; and he never took a request to headquarters that was not granted--until the strike of ' . when the war broke out, 'lige was asked to go, and the railroad boys wanted him to be captain of a company of them; but he declined, saying that slavery was wrong and should be crushed, but that he had a sickly wife and four small children depending on his daily toil for bread, and it wouldn't be right to leave 'em unprovided for. they drafted him later, but he still said it "wa'n't right" for him to go, and paid for a substitute. but three months later his father-in-law died, up in the country somewhere, and left his wife some three thousand dollars, and 'lige enlisted the next, day, saying "'tain't right for any man to stay that can be spared; slavery ain't right; it must be stopped." he served as a private until it was stopped. shortly after the war 'lige was pulling the superintendent over the road, when he struck a wagon, killing the driver, who was a farmer, and hurting his wife. the woman afterward sued the road, and 'lige was called as a witness for the company. he surprised everybody by stating that the accident was caused by mismanagement of the road, and explained as follows: "i pull the regular atlantic express, and should have been at the crossing where the accident occurred, an hour later than i was; but mr. doe, our superintendent, wanted to come over the road with his special car, and took my engine to pull him, leaving a freight engine to bring in the express. mr. doe could have rode on the regular train, or could have had his car put into the train, instead of putting the company to the expense of hauling a special, and kept the patrons of the road from slow and poor service. we ran faster than there was any use of, and mr. doe went home when he got in, showing that there was no urgent call for his presence at this end of the line. if there had been no extra train on the road this farmer wouldn't have been killed: 'twa'n't right." the widow got pretty heavy damages, and the superintendent tried to discharge 'lige. but 'lige said '"twa'n't right," and the men on the road, the patrons and even the president agreed with him, so the irate super gave the job up for the time being. a couple of weeks after this, i went to that super.'s office on some business, and had to wait in the outer pen until "his grace" got through with someone else. the transom over the door to the "holy of holies" was open, and i heard the well-known voice of 'lige "the lion". "now, there's another matter, mr. doe, that perhaps you'll say is none of my business, but 'tain't right, and i'm going to speak about it. you're hanging around the yards and standing in the shadows of cars and buildings half the night, watching employees. you've discharged several yardmen, and i want to tell you that a lot of the roughest of them are laying for you. my advice to you is to go home from the office. they'll hurt you yet. 'tain't right for one man to know that another is in danger without warning him, so i've done it; 'twouldn't be right for them to hurt you. you're not particularly hunting them but me, but you won't catch me." mr. doe assured "the lion" that he could take care of himself, and two nights later got sand-bagged, and had about half his ribs kicked loose, over back of the scale house. when the trouble commenced in ' , old 'lige refused to take up a request for increase of pay, to headquarters; said the road could afford to keep us just where we were, which was more than some roads were doing, and "'twa'n't right" to ask for more. two months later they cut us ten per cent., and offered to pay half script. old 'lige said '"twa'n't right," and he'd strike afore he'd stand it;--and, in the end, we all struck. the fourth day after the strike commenced i met 'lige, and he asked me where i was going to hunt work. i told him i was going back when we won. he laughed, and said there wa'n't much danger of any of us going back; we were beat; mail trains all running, etc. '"tain't right, brother john, to loaf longer'n you can help. i'm goin' out west to-morrer"--and he went. some weeks afterward joe johnson and i concluded that, contrary to all precedent, the road was going to run without us, and we also went west; but by that time the country was full of men just like us. when i did get a job, it was drying sand away out at the front on one of the new roads. the first engine that come up to the sand house had a familiar look, even with a boot-leg stack that was fearfully and wonderfully made. there was a shaggy head sticking out of the side window, and two cool grey eyes blinked at me, but didn't seem to see me; yet a cheery voice from under the beard said: "hello, brother john, you're late, but guess you'll catch on pretty quick. there's lots of 'em here that don't know nothin' about railroading, as far as i can see, and they're running engines, too. 'tain't right." the little town was booming, and 'lige invested in lots, and became interested in many schemes to benefit the place and make money. he had been a widower for some years, and with one exception his children were doing for themselves, and that one was with his sister, and well cared for. 'lige had considerable means, and he brought it all west. he personally laid the corner-stone of the courthouse, subscribed more than any other working man to the first church, and was treasurer of half the institutions in the village. he ought to have quit the road, but he wouldn't; but did compromise on taking an easy run on a branch. 'lige was behind a benevolent scheme to build a hospital, to be under the auspices of the church society, and to it devoted not a little time and energy. when the constitution and by-laws were drawn up, the more liberal of the trustees struck a snag in old 'lige. he was bound that the hospital should not harbor people under the influence of liquor, or fallen women. 'lige was very bitter against prostitution. "it is the curse of civilization," he often said. "prostitutes ruin ten men where whiskey ruins one. they stand in the path of every young man in the country, gilded tempters of virtue, honesty and manhood; 'tain't right that they should be allowed in the country." if you attributed their existence to man's passions, inhumanity or cruelty, or woman's weakness, he checked you at once. "every woman that becomes a crooked woman does so from choice; she needn't to if she didn't want to. the way to stop prostitution is for every honest man and woman to refuse to have anything to do with them in any way, or with those who do recognize them. 'tain't right." in this matter 'lige clark had no sympathy nor charity. "'twa'n't right"--and that settled it as far as he was concerned. the ladies of the church sided with old 'lige in his stand on the hospital board, but the other two men wanted the doors of the institution to be opened to all in need of medical attention or care, regardless of who they were or what caused their ailment. 'lige gave in on the whiskey, but stood out resolutely against the soiled doves, and so matters stood until midwinter. half the women in the town were outcasts from society--two dance-houses were in full blast--and 'lige soon became known to them and their friends as the "prophet elijah, second edition." the mining town over the hills, at the end of 'lige's branch, was booming, too, and wanted to be the county seat. it had its church, dance-halls, etc., and the discovery of coal within a few miles bid fair to make it a formidable rival. the boom called for more power and i went over there to pull freight, and 'lige pulled passengers only. then they put more coaches on his train and put my engine on to help him, thus saving a crew's wages. passenger service increased steadily until a big snow-slide in one of the gulches shut up the road. i'll never forget that slide. it happened on the th of january. 'lige and i were double-heading on nine coaches of passengers and when on a heavy grade in alder gulch, a slide of snow started from far up the mountain-side, swept over the track just ahead of us, carrying trees, telegraph poles and the track with it. we tried to stop, but 'lige's engine got into it, and was carried sideways down some fifty or sixty feet. mine contented herself with simply turning over, without hurting either myself or fireman--much to my satisfaction. 'lige fared worse. his reverse lever caught in his clothing and before he could get loose, the engine had stopped on her side, with 'lige's feet and legs under her. he was not badly hurt except for the scalding water that poured upon him. as soon as we could see him, the fireman and i got hold of him and forcibly pulled him out of the wreck. his limbs were awfully burned--cooked would be nearer the word. [illustration: "it was a strange courting ... there on that engine."] the passengers crowded around, but did little good. one look was enough for most of them. there were ten or twelve women in the cars. they came out slowly, and stood timidly away from the hissing boilers, with one exception. this one came at once to the injured man, sat down in the snow, took his head in her lap, and taking a flask of liquor from her ulster pocket, gave poor 'lige some with a little snow. i got the oil can and poured some oil over the burned parts to keep the air from them; we needed bandages, and i asked the ladies if they had anything we could use for the purpose. one young girl offered a handkerchief and another a shawl, but before they were accepted the cool woman holding 'lige's head got up quickly, laying his head down tenderly on the snow, and without a word or attempt to get out of sight, pulled up her dress, and in a second kicked out two white skirts, and sat down again to cool 'lige's brow. that woman attended 'lige like a guardian angel until we got back to town late that afternoon. the hospital was not yet in shape, so 'lige was taken to the rather dreary and homeless quarters of the hotel. as quick as it was known that elijah clark was hurt, he had plenty of friends, male and female, who came to take care of him, but the woman who helped him live at the start came not; yet every day there were dainty viands, wine or books left at the house for him--but pains were taken to let no one know from whom they came. one day a month after the accident i sat beside 'lige's bed when he told me that he was anticipating quite a discussion there that evening, as the hospital committee was going to meet to decide on the rules of the institution. "wilcox and gorman are set to open the house to those who have no part in our work and no sympathy with christian institutions, and 'tain't right," said he. "brother john, you can't do no good by prolonging the life of a brazen woman bent on vice." "don't you think, 'lige," said i, "that you are a little hard on an unfortunate class of humanity, who, in nine cases out of ten, are the victims of others' wrong-doing, and stay in the mire because no hand is extended to help them out? think of the woman of samaria. it's sinners, not saints, that need saving." "they are as a coiled serpent in the pathway of mankind, brother john, fascinating, but poisonous. there can be no good in one of those creatures." "oh yes there is, i'm sure," said i. "why, 'lige, don't you know who the woman was that gave you brandy, held your head, and used her skirts for bandages when you were hurt?" old 'lige raised up on his elbow, all eagerness. "no, john, i don't, but she wa'n't one of them. she was too thoughtful, too tender, too womanly. i've blessed her from that day to this, and though i don't know it, i think she has sent me all these wines and fruits. she saved my life. who is she? do you know?" "yes. she is molly may, who keeps the largest dance-house in cascade city. she makes lots of money, but spends it all in charity; there has never been a human being buried by the town since she has been there. molly may is a ministering angel to the poor and sick, but a bird of prey to those who wish to dissipate." the hospital was opened on easter, and the first patient was a poor consumptive girl, but lately an inmate of the red-light dance-house. 'lige clark did not run again; he became mayor of the little city, had faith in its future, invested his money in land and died rich some years ago. 'lige must have changed his mind as he grew older, or at least abandoned the idea that to crush out a wrong you should push it from all sides, and thus compress and intensify it at the heart, and come to the conclusion that the right way is to get inside and push out, thus separating and dissolving it. for before me lies the tenth annual prospectus of a now noted institution in one of the great cities of the continent, and on its title page, i read through the dimmed glasses of my spectacles: "industrial home and refuge for fallen women. founded by elijah clark. mary e. may, matron." a peg-legged romance some men are born heroes, some become heroic, and some have heroism thrust upon them; but nothing of the kind ever happened to me. i don't know how it is; but, some way or other, i remember all the railroad incidents i see or hear, and get to the bottom of most of the stories of the road. i must study them over more than most men do, or else the other fellows enjoy the comedies and deplore the tragedies, and say nothing. sometimes i am mean enough to think that the romance, the dramas, and the tragedies of the road don't impress them as being as interesting as those of the plains, the indians, or the seas--people are so apt to see only the everyday side of life anyway, and to draw all their romance and heroics from books. i helped make a hero once--no, i didn't either; i helped make the golden setting after the rough diamond had shown its value. miles diston pulled freight on our road a few years ago. he was of medium stature, dark complexion, but no beauty. he was a manly-looking fellow, well-educated enough, sober, and a steady-going, reliable engineer; you would never pick him out for a hero. miles was young yet--not thirty--but, somehow or other, he had escaped matrimony: i guess he had never had time. he stayed on the farm at home until he was of age, and then went firing, so that when i first knew him he had barely got to his goal--the throttle. a good many men, when they first get there, take great interest in their work for a few months--until experience gives them confidence; then they take it easier, look around, and take some interest in other things. most of them never hope to get above running, and so sit down more or less contented, get married, buy real estate, gamble, or grow fat, each according to the dictates of his own conscience or the inclinations of his make-up. miles figured a little on matrimony. i can't explain it; but when a railroad man is in trouble, he comes to me for advice, just as he would go to the company doctor for kidney complaint. i am a specialist in heart troubles. miles came to me. miles was like the rest of them. they don't come right down and say, "something's the matter with me; what would you do for it?" no, sir! they hem and haw, and laugh off the symptoms, until you come right out and tell them just how they feel and explain the cause; then they will do anything you say. miles hemmed and hawed a little, but soon came out and showed his symptoms--he asked me if i had ever noticed the "frenchman's" girl. "the frenchman," be it known, was our boss bridge carpenter. he lived at a small place half-way over my division--i was pulling express--and the freights stopped there, changing engines. i knew venot, the bridge carpenter, very well; met him in lodge occasionally, and once in a while he rode on the engine with me to inspect bridges. his wife was a canadian woman, and good-looking for her forty years and ten children. the daughter that was killing miles diston, marie venot, was the eldest, and had just graduated from some sisters' school. she was a very handsome girl, and you could read the romantic nature of her being through her big, round, gray eyes. she was vivacious, and loved to go; but she was a dutiful daughter, and at once took hold to help her mother in a way that made her all the more adorable in the eyes of practical men like miles. miles made the most of his opportunities. but, bless you, there were other eyes for good-looking girls besides those in poor miles diston's head, and he was far from having the field to himself; this he wanted badly, and came to get advice from me. i advised strongly against wasting energy to clear the field, and in favor of putting it all into making the best show and in getting ahead of all competitors. under my advice, miles disposed of some vacant lots, and bought a neat little house, put it in thorough order, and made the best of his opportunities with marie. marie came to our house regularly, and i had good opportunity to study her. she was a sensible little creature, and, to my mind, just the girl for miles; as miles was just the man for her. but she had confided to my wife the fact that she never, never could consent to marry and settle down in the regulation, humdrum way; she wanted to marry a hero, some one she could look up to--a king among men. my wife told her that kings and heroes were scarce just then, and that a lot of pretty good women managed to be comparatively happy with common railroad men. but marie wanted a hero, and would hear of nothing less. it was during one of her visits to my house that miles took marie out for a ride and (accidentally, of course) dropped around by his new house, induced her to look at it, and told his story, asking her to make the home complete. it would have caught almost any girl; but when miles delivered her at our door and drove off, i knew that there would be a "for rent" card on that house in a few days and that marie venot was bound to have a hero or nothing. miles took his repulse calmly, but it hurt. he told me that marie was hunting for a different kind of man from him; said that he thought perhaps if he would enlist, and go out to fight sitting bull, and come home in a new, brass-bound uniform, with a poisoned arrow sticking out of his breast, she would fall at his feet and worship him. she told him she liked him better than any of the town boys; his calling was noble enough and hard enough; but she failed to see her ideal hero in a man with blue overclothes on and cinders in his ears. if any of miles's competitors had rescued a drowning child, or killed a bear with a penknife, at this juncture, i'm afraid marie would have taken him. but, as i have indicated, it was a dull season for heroes. about this time our road invested in some mogul passenger engines, and i drew one. i didn't like the boiler sticking back between me and dennis rafferty. i didn't like six wheels connected. i didn't like a knuckle-joint in the side rod. i didn't like eighteen-inch cylinders. i was opposed to solid-end rods. and i am afraid i belonged to a class of ignorant, short-sighted, bull-headed engineers who didn't believe that a railroad had any right to buy anything but fifteen by twenty-two eight-wheelers--the smaller they were the more men they would want. i got over that a long time ago; but, at the time i write of, i was cranky about it. the moguls were high and short and jerky, and they tossed a man around like a rat in a corn-popper. one day, as i was chasing time over our worst division, holding on to the arm-rest and watching to see if the main frame touched the driving-boxes as she rolled, dennis rafferty punched me in the small of the back, and said: "jahn, for the love ave the vargin, lave up on her a minit. oi does be chasing that dure for the lasth twinty minits, and dang the wan'st has i hit it fair. she's the divil on th' dodge." dennis had a pile of coal just inside and just outside of the door, the forward grates were bare, the steam was down, and i went in seven minutes late, too mad to eat--and that's pretty mad for me. i laid off, and miles diston took the high-roller out next trip. miles didn't rant and write letters or poetry, or marry some one else to spite himself, or take the first steamer for burraga, or equatorial africa, as rejected lovers in stories do. it hurt, and he didn't enjoy it, but he bore up all right, and went about his business, just as hundreds of other sensible men do every day. he gave up entirely, however, rented his house, and said he couldn't fill the bill--there wasn't a hero in his family as far back as he could remember. miles had been making time with the black maria for about a week, when the big accident happened in our town. the boilers in a cotton mill blew up, and killed a score of girls and injured hundreds more. miles was at the other end of the division, and they hurried him out to take a car-load of doctors down. they were given the right of the road, and miles tested the speed of that mogul--proving that a pony truck would stay on the track at fifty miles an hour, which a lot of us "cranks" had disputed. a few miles out there is a coaling-station, and at that time they were building the chutes. one of the iron drop-aprons fell just before miles with the mogul got to it; it smashed the headlight, dented the stack, ripped up the casing of the sand-box and dome, cut a slit in the jacket the length of the boiler, tore off the cab, struck the end of the first car, and then tore itself loose, and fell to the ground. the throttle was knocked wide open, and the mogul was flying. miles was thrown down, his head cut open by a splinter, and his foot pretty badly hurt. he picked himself up instantly, and took a look back as he closed the throttle. everything was "coming" all right, he remembered the emergency of the case, and opened the throttle again. a hasty inspection showed the engine in condition to run--she only looked crippled. miles had to stand up. his foot felt numb and weak, so he rested his weight on the other foot. he was afraid he would fall off if he became faint, and he had dennis take off the bell-cord and tie it around his waist, throwing a loop over the reverse lever, as a measure of safety. the right side of the cab and all the roof were gone, so that miles was in plain sight. the cut in his scalp bled profusely, and in trying to wipe the blood from his eyes, he merely spread it all over himself, so that he looked as if he had been half murdered. it was this apparition of wreck, ruin, and concentrated energy that marie venot saw flash past her father's door, hastening to the relief of the victims of a worse disaster, forty miles away. her father came home for his dinner in a few minutes from his little office in the depot. to his daughter's eager inquiry he said there had been some big accident in town and the "extra" was carrying doctors from up the road. but what was the matter with the engine, he didn't know; it was the ; so it was old man alexander, he said--and that's the nearest i ever came to being a hero. marie knew who was running the pretty well; so after dinner she went to the telegraph office for information, and there she learned that the special had struck the new coal chute at coalton and that the engineer was hurt. it was time she ran down to see mrs. alexander, she said, and that afternoon's regular delivered her in town. like all other railroaders not better employed, i dropped round to the depot at train time to talk with the boys and keep track of things in general. the regular was late, but miles diston was coming with a special, and came while we were talking about it. miles didn't realize how badly he was hurt until he stopped the mogul in front of the general office. so long as the excitement of the run was on, so long as he saw the absolute necessity of doing his whole duty until the desired end was accomplished, so long as he had a reputation to protect, his will power subordinated all else. but when several of us engineers ran up to the engine, we found miles hanging to the reverse lever by his safety cord, in a dead faint. we carried him into the depot, and one of the doctors administered some restorative. then we got a hack and started him and the doctor for my house; but miles came to himself, and insisted on going to his boarding-house and nowhere else. mrs. bailey, miles's boarding-house keeper, had been a trained nurse, but had a few years before invested in a rather disappointing matrimonial venture. she was one of the best nurses and one of the "crankiest" women i ever knew. i believe she was actually glad to see miles come home hurt, just to show how she could pull him through. the doctor found that miles had an ankle out of joint; the little toe was badly crushed; there was a bad cut in the leg, that had bled profusely; there was a black bruise over the short ribs on the right side, and there was a button-hole in the scalp that needed about four stitches. the little toe was cut off without ceremony, the ankle replaced and hot bandages applied, and other repairs were made, which took up most of the afternoon. when the doctor got through, he called mrs. bailey and myself out into the parlor, and said that we must not let people crowd in to see the patient; that his wounds were not dangerous, but very painful; that miles was weak from loss of blood, and that his constitution was not in particularly good condition. the doctor, in fact, thought that miles would be in great luck if he got out of the scrape without a run of fever. thereafter mrs. bailey referred all visitors to me. i talked with the doctor and the nurse, and we all agreed that it would stop most inquisitive people to simply say that the patient had suffered an amputation. that evening, when i went home, there were two anxious women-to receive me, and the younger of them looked suspiciously as if she had been crying. i told them something of the accident, how it all happened, and about miles's injuries. both of them wanted to go right down and help "do something," but i told them of the doctor's order and of his fears. by this time the reporters came; and i called them into the parlor, and then let them pump me. i detailed the accident in full, but declined to tell anything about miles or his history. "the fact is," said i, "that you people won't give an engineer his just dues. now, if miles diston had been a fireman and had climbed down a ladder with a child, you would have his picture in the paper and call him a hero and all that sort of thing; but here is a man crushed, bleeding, with broken bones, and a crippled engine, who stands on one foot, lashed to his reverse lever, for eighty miles, and making the fastest time ever made over the road, because he knew that others were suffering for the relief he brought." "that's nerve," said one of the young men. "nerve!" said i, "nerve! why, that man knows no more about fear than a lion; and think of the sand of the man! this afternoon he sat up and watched the doctor perform that amputation without a quiver; he wouldn't take chloroform; he wouldn't even lie down." [illustration: "we carried him into the depot."] "was the amputation above or below the knee?" asked the reporter. "below" (i didn't state how far). "which foot?" "left." "he is in no great danger?" "yes, the doctor says he will be a very sick man for some time--if he recovers at all. boys," i added, "there's one thing you might mention--and i think you ought to--and that is that it is such heroes as this that give a road its reputation; people feel as though they were safe behind such men." if miles diston had read the papers the next morning he would have died of flattery; the reporters did themselves proud, and they made a whole column of the "iron will and nerves of steel" shown in that "amputation without ether." marie venot was full of sympathy for miles; she wanted to see him, but mrs. bailey referred her to me, and she finally went home, still inquiring every day about him. i don't think she had much other feeling for him than pity. she was down again a week later, and i talked freely of going to pick out a wooden foot for miles, who was improving right along. meanwhile, the papers far and near copied the articles about the "hero of the throttle," and the item about the road's interest in heroes attracted the attention of our general passenger agent--he liked the free advertising and wanted more of it--so he called me in one day, and asked if i knew of a choice run they could give miles as a reward of merit. i told him, if he wanted to make a show of gratitude from the road, and get a big free advertisement in the papers, to have miles appointed superintendent of the spring creek branch, where a practical man was needed, and then give it out "cold" that miles had been rewarded by being made superintendent of the road. this was afterwards done, with a great hurrah (in the papers). the second sunday after miles was hurt, marie was down, and i thought i'd have a little fun with her, and see how she regarded miles. "there's quite a romance connected with diston's affair," said i at the dinner table, rather carelessly. "there is a young lady visiting here in town--i hear she is very wealthy--who saw miles when we took him off his engine. she sends flowers every day, calls him her hero, and is just crazy for him to get well so she can see him." "who is she, did you say?" asked my wife. "i forgot her name," said i, "but i am here to tell you that she will get miles if there is any chance in the world. her father is an army officer, but she says that miles diston is a greater hero than the army ever produced." "she's a hussy," said marie. i don't know whether you would call that a bull or a bear movement on the diston stock, but it went up--i could see that. a week later miles was able to come down to our house for dinner, and my wife asked marie to come also. i met her at the depot, and after she was safe in the buggy, i told her that miles was up at the house. she nearly jumped out; but i quieted her, and told her she mustn't notice or say a word about miles's game leg, as he was extremely sensitive about it. my wife was in the kitchen, and i went to the barn to put out the horse. marie went to the sitting-room to avoid the parlor and miles, but he was there, i guess, and marie found her hero, for when they came out to dinner he had his arm around her. they were married a month later, and went to washington, stopping to see us on the way back. as i came home that night with my patent dinner pail, and with two rows of wrinkles and a load of responsibility on my brow, marie shook her fist in my face and called me "an old story-teller." "story-teller," said i; "what story?" "oh, what story? that _leg_ story, of course, you old cheat." "what leg story?" "old innocence; that amputation below the knee--you know." "wa'n't it below the knee?" "yes, but it was only the little toe." "john," said miles, "she cried when she looked for that wooden foot and only found a slightly flat wheel." "that's just like 'em," said i. "here marie only expected a part of a hero, and we give her a whole man, and she kicks--that's gratitude for you." "i got my hero all right, though," said marie; "you told me a big fib just the same, but i could kiss you for it." "don't you do that," said i; "but if the lord should send you many blessings, and any of 'em are boys, you might name one after me." she said she'd do it--and she did. my lady of the eyes one morning, some years ago, i struck the general master mechanic of a rocky mountain road for a job as an engineer--i needed a job pretty badly. as quick as the m. m. found that i could handle air on two hundred foot grades, he was as tickled as i was; engineers were not plenty in the country then, so many deserted to go to the mines. "the 'iii' will be out in a couple of days, and you can have her regular, unless hopkins comes back," said he. i hustled around for a room and made my peace with the boarding-house people before i reported to break in the big consolidation that was to fall to my care. she was big and black and ugly and new, and her fresh fire made the asphalt paint on her fire-box and front-end stink in that peculiar and familiar way given to recently rebuilt engines; but it smelt better to me than all the perfumes of arabia. a good-natured engineer came out on the ash-pit track to welcome me to the west and the road, and incidentally to remark that it was a great relief to the gang that i had come as i did. "why," i asked, "are you so short-handed that you are doubling and trebling?" "no, but they are afraid that some of 'em will have to take out the 'iii'--she is a holy terror." hadn't she been burned the first trip? didn't she kill jim o'neil with the reverse lever? hadn't she lain down on the bed of the arkansas river and wallowed on "scar face" hopkins, and he not up yet? hadn't she run away time and again without cause or provocation? but a fellow that has needed a job for six months will tackle almost anything, and i tackled the "holy terror." in fixing up the cab, i noticed an extra bracket beside the steam gage for a clock, and mentally noted that it would come in handy just as soon as i had a twenty dollar bill to spare for one of those jeweled, nickle-plated, side-winding clocks, that are the pride and comfort of those particular engineers who want nice things, with their names engraved on the case. before i had got everything ready to take the "three aces" over the turn-table for her breaking-in trip, the foreman of the back-shop came out with a package done up in a pair of old overalls, and said that here was hopkins's clock, which i might as well use until he got around again--'fraid someone would steal it if left in his office. hopkins's clock was put on its old bracket. hopkins must have been one of those particular engineers; his clock was a fine one; "s. h. hopkins" was engraved on the case in german text. the lower half of the dial was black with white figures, the upper half white with black figures. but what struck me was part of a woman's face burned into the enamel. just half of this face showed, that on the white part of the dial; the black half hid the rest. it was the face, or part of the face, of a handsome young woman with hair parted in the middle and waved back over the ears, a broad forehead, and such glorious eyes--eyes that looked straight into yours from every view point--honest eyes--reproving eyes--laughing eyes--loving eyes. i mentally named the picture "her eyes." now, i was not and am not sentimental or superstitious. i'd been married and helped wean a baby or two even then, but those eyes bothered me. they hunted mine and looked at me and asked me questions and made me forget things, and made me think and dream and speculate; all of which are sheer suicide for a locomotive engineer. i got a switchman and started out to limber up the "iii." i asked him to let me out on the main line, took a five-mile spin, and sidetracked for a freight train. while the man was unlocking the switch, i looked into the eyes and wondered what their owner was, or could be, or had been, to "scar faced" hopkins, and--ran off the switch. then i wondered if hopkins was looking into those eyes when he and the "iii" went into the arkansas river that dark night. a few days after this the "iii," dennis rafferty and i went into the regular freight service of the road. on the first trip, when half way up greenhall grade, i glanced at the clock and was startled. the "eyes" were looking at me; there was a scared, pained look, a you-must-do-something look in the eyes, or it seemed to me there was. "damn that clock," said i to myself, "i'm getting superstitious or have softening of the brain," and i reached over to open the front door, so that the breeze could cool me off. in doing so my hand touched the water pipe to the injector--it was hot. the closed overflow injector was new to merit had "broke," and was blowing steam back to the tank that i thought was putting water into the boiler. i put it to work properly and "felt of the water:" there was just a flutter in the lower gage cock; in five minutes the crown sheet and my reputation would have been burned beyond recognition. those eyes were good for something after all. i looked at them and they were calm. "it's all right now, but be careful," they said. dennis rafferty had troubles of his own. the liner came off the new fire door letting the door get red hot, but it wasn't half as hot as dennis. he hammered it with the coal pick and burned his hands and swore, and dennis was an artist in profanity. he stepped up into the cab wiping his face on his sleeve, and ripping the english and profane languages into tatters; but he stopped short in the middle of an oath and looked ashamed, glanced at me, crossed himself and went back to his work quietly. when he came back into the cab, i asked him what choked him so sudden. "her," said he, nodding his head toward the clock. "howly mither, man, she looked hurted and sorry-like, same's me owld mither uster, whin i was noctious with the blasthfemry." so the "eyes" were on dennis, too. that took some of the conceit out of me, i was getting foolish about the eyes. we had a time order against a passenger train, it would be sharp work to make the next station, the train was heavy, the road and the engine new to me, and i hesitated. the conductor was dubious but said the " " or frosty keeler could do it any day of the week. i looked at my watch and then at the clock. the eyes looked "yes, go, you can do it easily; the 'iii' will do all you ask; trust her." i went, and as we pulled our caboose in to clear and before the express whistled for the junction, the eyes looked "didn't i tell you; wasn't that splendid." those eyes had been over the road more than i had, and knew the "iii" better. i would trust the eyes. on the return trip, a night run, i had a big train and a bad rail, but the "iii" did splendid work and made her time while "her eyes" approved every move i made, smiled at me and admired my handling of the engine. the conductor unbent enough to send over word that it was the best run he'd ever had from a new man, but the "eyes" looked, "that's nothing, you can do it every time, i know you can." half over the division, we took a siding for the "cannon ball." we cleared her ten minutes and i had time to oil around while dennis cleaned his fire. i climbed up into the cab, wiping the long oiler and glanced at the clock. the "eyes" were looking wild alarm--"do something quick." the "eyes" had the look, or seemed to me to have the look, you might expect in those of a bound woman who sees a child at the stake just before the fire is lighted--immeasurable pain, pity, appeal. i tried the water, unconsciously; it was all right. i stepped into the gangway and glanced back. our tail-lights were "in" and the white light of the switch flashed safely there, and we had backed in any way. i glanced ahead. the switch light was white, the target showed main line plainly, for my headlight shone on it full and clear. what could be the matter with "her eyes." as i turned to enter the cab the roar of the coming express came down the wind on the frosty air and my eyes fell on the rail ahead. my god, they were full to the siding! it was a stub-rail switch, and the stand had moved the target and the light, but not the rails--the bridle-rod was broken. i yelled like a mad man, but the brakeman had gone to the caboose for his lunch pail. i ran to the switch. it was useless. i fought it an instant and then turned to the rails. putting my foot against the main line rail, i grasped the switch rail and throwing all my strength into the effort, jerked it-over to the main line, but would it stay until the train passed over? i felt sure it would not. i looked about for something to hold it. part of a broken pin was the only thing in sight. the headlight of the express shone in my face, and something seemed to say, "this is your trial, do something quick." i threw myself prone on the ground, my head near the rails, and held the broken pin between the end of the siding rail and the main line. the switch rails could not be forced over without shearing off the pin. the corner of the pilot of the flying demon caught my right sleeve and tore it off, and the cloth threw the cylinder cocks open with a hiss, the wind and dust blinded and shook me, and the rails hammered and bruised and pinched my hand, but i held on. twenty seconds later i sat watching the red lights of the tenth sleeper whip themselves out of sight. then i went back to the cab, and "her eyes" glorified me. "god bless your dear eyes," said i, "where would we have all been now but for you?" but the "eyes" deprecated my remarks, and looked me upon a pedestal, but the company doctor dressed my hand the next day, and the superintendent gave the whole crew ten days for backing into that siding. another round trip, and i fear i watched "her eyes" more than the signals and the track ahead. "her eyes" decided for me, chose for me, approved and disapproved. i was running by "her eyes." in a telegraph office they asked me if i could do something in a certain time and i was dazed. i didn't give my usual quick decision, my judgment was wobbly and uncertain. i must look at my clock--and "her eyes." i went out to the "iii" to consult them, lost my chance and was "put in the hole" all over the division by the disgusted dispatcher. then i got to thinking and moralizing and sitting in judgment on my thraldom. was i running the "iii" or was "her eyes?" did the company pay me for my knowledge, judgment, experience and skill in handling a locomotive, or for obeying orders from "her eyes." any fool could obey orders. then i declared for liberty, but i kept away from "her eyes." i declared for liberty in the roundhouse. i am a man of decision, and no sooner had i taken this oath than i got a screw driver, climbed into the cab of the "iii," without looking at "her eyes," held my hand over the face of the clock and took it down. i wrapped it up and took it back to the foreman. "why, yes," said he, "'scar face' was here for it this morning. he's round somewhere yet. ain't goin' to railroad no more, goin' into the real estate business. he's got money, so's his wife--daffool he didn't quit long ago." "if 'scar face' hopkins puts that clock over his desk and trusts 'her eyes,' he'll get rich," thought i. perhaps, though, those eyes don't reach the soul of "scar face" hopkins; perhaps he don't see them change as i did; men are conceited that way. during the next month i got acquainted with "scar face" hopkins, who was a first-class fellow, with a hand-clasp like a polar bear, a heart like a steam pulsometer, and a face that looked as if it might have been used for the butting post at the end of the world. "scar face" hopkins got all his scars in the battle of life. men who command locomotives on the firing line often get hurt, but hopkins had votes of thanks from officials and testimonials from men, and life-saver's medals from two governments to show that his scars were the brands of honorable degrees conferred by the almighty on the field for brave and heroic deeds well done. "scar face" hopkins was a fellow you'd like to get up close to of a night and talk with, and smoke with, and think with, until unlawful hours. one day i went into his office and the clock was there, and his old torch and a nickle-plated oiler, mementoes of the field. i looked at the clock, and "her eyes" smiled at me, or i thought they did, and said, just as plain as words, "glad to see you, dear friend; sit down." but i turned my back to that clock; i can resist temptation when i know where it is coming from. one day, a few weeks later, i stopped before a store window in a crowd to examine some pictures, satisfied my curiosity, and in stepping back to go away, put the heel of my number ten on a lady's foot with that peculiar "craunch" that you know hurts. i turned to make an apology, and faced the original of the picture on the clock. a beautiful pair of eyes, the rest of the face was hidden by a peculiar arrangement of veil that crossed the bridge of the nose and went around the ears and neck. those eyes, full of pain at first, changed instantly to frank forgiveness, and, bowing low, i repeated my plea for pardon for my clumsy carelessness, but was absolved so absolutely and completely, and dismissed so naturally, that i felt relieved. i sauntered up to hopkins' office. "hopkins," said i, "i just met your wife." "you did?" "yes, and i stepped on her foot and hurt her badly, i know." then i told him about it. "what did she say?" asked hopkins, and i noticed a queer look. i thought it might be jealousy. "why, well, why i don't know as i remember, but it was very kindly and ladylike." there was a queer expression on hopkins' face. "of course--" "sure she spoke?" asked hopkins. "how did you know it was my wife anyway?" "because it was the same face that is pictured on your clock, and some one in the crowd said it was mrs. hopkins. you know hop., i ran by that clock for a few weeks, and i noticed the eyes." "anything queer about 'em?" this was a challenge. "yes, i think there is. in the first place, i know you will understand me when i say they are handsome eyes, and i'm free to confess that they had a queer influence on me, i imagined they changed and expressed things and--" "talked, eh." "well, yes." then i told hopkins the influence the "eyes" had on me. he listened intently, watching me; when i had finished, he came over, reached out his hand and said: "shake, friend, you're a damned good fellow." i thought hopkins had been drinking--or looking at "her eyes." he pulled up a chair and lit a cigar. "john," said he, "it isn't every man that can understand what my wife says. only kindred spirits can read the language of the eyes. _she hasn't spoken an audible word in ten years_, but she talks with her eyes, even her picture talks. we, rather she, is a mystery here; people believe all kinds of things about her and us; but we don't care. i want you to come up to the house some evening and know her better. we'll be three chums, i know it, but don't ask questions; you will know things later on." before i ever went to hopkins' house, he had told her all about me, and when he introduced us, he said: "madeline, this is the friend who says your picture talked to him." i bowed low to the lady and tried to put myself and her at ease. "mrs. hopkins, i'm afraid your husband is poking fun at me, and thinks my liver is out of order, but, really, i did imagine i saw changing expression in your eyes in that picture--in fact, i named you 'my lady of the eyes.'" she laughed--with her eyes--held out her hands and made me welcome. "that name is something like mine," said hopkins, "i call her talking eyes.'" then hopkins brought in his little three-year-old daughter, who immediately climbed on my knee, captured my watch, and asked: "what oo name?" "john," said i. "don, don," she repeated; "my name maddie." "that's daddy's chum," put in hopkins. "tum," repeated maddie. "uncle chummy," said hopkins. "untle tummie." and i was "untle tummie" to little madeline and "chummy" to hopkins and his wife from then on. mrs. hopkins wore her veil at home as well as abroad, but it was so neatly arranged and worn so naturally that i soon became entirely used to it, in fact, didn't notice it. otherwise, she was a well-dressed, handsomely set up woman, a splendid musician and a capital companion. she sat at her work listening, while hopkins and i "railroaded" and argued about politics, and religion and everything else under the sun. mrs. hopkins took sides freely; a glance at her eyes told where she stood on any question. between "scar face" hopkins and his handsome wife there appeared to be perfect sympathy and confidence. sitting in silence, they glanced from one to the other now and again, smiled, nodded--and understood. i was barred from the house for a month during the winter because little madeline had the scarlet fever, then epidemic, but it was reported a light case and i contented myself with sending her toys and candy. one day i dropped into hopkins' office to make inquiry, when a clerk told me hopkins had not been to the office for several days. mrs. hopkins was sick. i made another round trip and inquired again, and got the same answer; then i went up to the house. the officious quarantine guard was still walking up and down in front of the hopkins residence. to a single inquiry, this voluble functionary volunteered the information that the baby was all right now, but the lady herself was very sick with scarlet fever. hopkins was most crazy, no trained nurses could be had for love nor money, the doctor was coming three times a day, and did i know that mrs. hopkins was some kind of a foreign dago, and the whole outfit "queer?" hopkins was in trouble; i pushed open the gate and started up the walk. "hey, young feller, where yer goin'," demanded the guard. "into the house, of course." "d'ye know if you go in ye got to stay for the next two weeks?" "perfectly." "then go on, you darned fool." and i went on. hopkins met me, hollow-eyed and haggard. "chum," said he, "you've come to prison, but i'm glad. help is out of reach. if you can take care of maddie, the girl will do the cooking and i will--i will do my duty." and night and day he did do his duty, being alone with his wife except for the few moments of the doctor's calls. one evening, after my little charge had been put to sleep downstairs by complying with her invariable order to "tell me a 'tory 'bout when oo was a 'ittle teenty weenty boy," the doctor came down with a grave face. "our patient has reached the worst stage--delirium. the turn will come to-night. poor hopkins is about worn out, and i'm afraid may need you. please don't go to bed; be 'on call.'" one hour, two hours, i sat there without hearing a sound from upstairs. i was drowsy and remembering that i had missed my evening smoke i lighted my pipe, silently opened the front door and stepped out upon the porch to get a whiff of fresh air. it was a still dark night, and i tiptoed down to the end that overlooked the city and stood looking at the lights and listening to the music of the switch engines in the yards below the hill. the porch was in darkness except the broad beam of light from the hall gas jet through the open door. the lights below made me think of home and my wife and little ones sleeping safely, i hoped, close to the coastwise lights of the old colony. i thought i heard a stealthy footfall behind me, and turned around to face an apparition that made the cold chill creep up my back. if ever there was a ghost, this must be one, an object in white not six feet from me. i'm not at all afraid of ghosts when i reach my second wind, and i grabbed at this one. it moved backward silently and as i made a quick step toward it that specter let out the most blood-curdling yell i ever heard--the shriek of a maniac. i stepped quicker now, but it moved away until it stood in the flood of light from the doorway, and then i saw a sight that took all the strength out of me. the most awful and frightful face i ever beheld, and,--it was the face of madeline hopkins. the neck and jaw and mouth were drawn and seamed and scarred in a frightful and hideous manner, the teeth protruded and the mouth was drawn to one side in a frightful leer; above that was all the beauty of "my lady of the eyes." for a moment i was dumb and powerless, and in that moment hopkins appeared with a bound, and between us we captured my poor friend's wife and struggled and fought with her up the long stairs and back to her bed. sitting one on either side, we had all we could do to hold her hands. she would lift us both to our feet, she was struggling desperately, and the eyes were the eyes of a tigress. when this strain was at its worst and every nerve on edge, another scream from behind us cut our ears like a needle, the eyes of the tigress as well as ours sought the door, and there in her golden curls and white "nightie" stood little madeline. the eyes of the tigress softened to tenderest love, and with a bound, the baby was on her mother's breast, her arms around her neck, and she was saying, "poor mama, what they doin' to poor mama?" "my darling, my darling," said the mother in the sweetest of tones. i unconsciously released my hold upon the arm i held, and she drew the sheet up and covered her face as i was wont to see it, and held it there. with the other, she gently stroked the baby curls. i watched this transformation as if under a spell. suddenly she turned her head toward hopkins, her eyes full of tenderness and pity and love, reached out her hand and said: "oh, steadman, my voice has come back, god has taken off the curse." but poor hopkins was on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in his arms, his strong shoulders heaving and pitiful sobs breaking from his very heart. a couple of months afterward i resigned to go back to god's country, the home of the east wind, and where i could know my own children and speak to my own wife without an introduction, and the hopkins invited me to a farewell dinner. "my lady of the eyes" presided, looking handsomer and stronger than usual, but she didn't eat with us. but with eyes and voice she entertained us so royally and pleasantly that hopkins and i did eating enough for all. after supper, hop. and i lighted our cigars and "railroaded" for awhile, then "her eyes" went to the piano and sang a dozen songs as only a trained singer can. her voice was wonderfully sweet and low. they were old songs, but they seemed the better for that, and while she sang hopkins's cigar went out and he just gazed at her with pride and joy in every lineament of his scarred and furrowed face. little maddie was allowed to sit up in honor of "untle tummy," but after awhile the little head bobbed quietly and the little chin fell between the verses of her mother's song, and "my lady of the eyes" took her by the hand and brought her over to us. "tell papa good-night and uncle chum my good-bye, dear, and we'll go to bed." hopkins kissed the baby, and i got my hug, and another to take to my "ittle dirl," and mrs. hopkins held out both her hands to me. "good-bye, dear chum," said she, "my love to you and yours, now and always." hopkins put his arm around his wife, kissed her forehead and said: "sweetheart, i'm going to tell chum a story." "and don't forget the hero," said she, and turning to me, "don't believe all he says, and don't blame those that he blames, and remember that what is, is best, and seeming calamities are often blessings in disguise." hopkins and i looked into each other's faces and smoked in silence for ten minutes, then he turned to his secretary and, opening a drawer, took out a couple of cases and opened them. they contained medals. then he opened a package of letters and selected one or two. we lighted fresh cigars and hopkins began his story. "my father was a pretty well-to-do business man and i his only child. my mother died when i was young. i managed to get through a grammar school and went to college. i wanted to go on the road from the time i could remember and had no ambition higher than to run a locomotive. that was my ideal of life. "my father opposed this very strenuously, and offered to let me go to work if i'd select something decent--that's the way he put it. he used to say, 'try a brick-yard, you might own one some day, you'll never own a railroad.' i had my choice, college or something decent,' and i took the college, although i didn't like it. "the summer before i came of age my father died suddenly and my college life ended." here hopkins fumbled around in his papers and selected one. "just to show you how odd my father was, here is the text of his will, leaving out the legal slush that lawyers always pack their papers in: "'to my son, steadman hudson hopkins, i leave one thousand dollars to be paid immediately on my demise. all the residue of my estate consisting of etc., etc.'--six figures, chum, a snug little wad--'shall be placed in the hands of three trustees'--naming the presidents of three banks--'to be invested by them in state, municipal or government bonds, principal and interest accruing to be paid by said trustees to my son hereinbefore mentioned when he has pursued one calling, with average success, for ten consecutive years, and not until then. all in the best judgment of the trustees aforenamed. "'to my son i also bequeath this fatherly advice, knowing the waste of money by heirs who have done nothing to produce it, and knowing that had i been given a fortune at the beginning of my career, it would have been lost for lack of business experience, and knowing too, the waste of time usually made by young men who drift from one employment or occupation to another'--having wasted fifteen years of my own life in this way--i make these provisions in this my last will and testament, believing that in the end, if not now, my son will see the wisdom of this provision, etc., etc.' "the governor had a long, clear head and he knew me and young men in general, but bless you, i thought he was a little mean at the time. "i turned to the trustees and asked what they would consider as fulfilling the requirements of the will. "'any honorable employment,' answered the oldest man of the trio. "the next day, i went to see andy bridges, general superintendent of the old home road, who had been a friend of father's, and told him i wanted to go railroading. he offered to put me in his office, but i insisted on the footboard, and to make a long story short, was firing inside of three weeks and running inside of three years. "i was the proudest young prig that ever pulled a throttle. i always loved the work and--well, you know how the first five years of it absorbs you if you are cut out for it and like it and intend to stay at it. "i had been running about two years, and had paid about as much attention to young women as i had to the subject of astronomy, until madelene bridges came out of a southern convent to make her home with her uncle, our 'old man.' "the first time i saw her i went clean, stark, raving, blind, drunken daft over her. i tried to argue and reason myself out of it, but it was no go. i didn't even know who she was then. "but i was in love and, being so, wasn't hardly safe on the road. "then i spruced up and started in to see if i couldn't interest her in me half as much as i was interested in her. "i didn't have much trouble to get a start, for andy bridges had come up from the ranks and hadn't forgotten it--most of 'em do--and welcomed any decent young man in his house, even if he was a car hand. madelene had a couple of marriageable cousins then and that may account for old andy. "i got on pretty well at first, for i was first in the field. i got in a theatre or two before the other young fellows caught on. about this time there was a dance, and i lost my grip. i took madelene but couldn't dance, and all the others could, especially dandy tamplin, one of the train despatchers. "i took private dancing lessons, however, and squared myself that way. "singing was a favorite mode of passing the evenings with the young folks at the bridges's home, and i cursed myself for being tuneless. "it finally settled down to a race between tamplin and myself, and each of us was doing his level best. i was so dead in earnest and so truly in love that i was no fit company for man or beast, and i'm afraid i was twice as awkward and dull in madelene's presence as in any other place. "dandy tamplin was a handsome young fellow, and a formidable rival, for he was always well-dressed, a good talker and more or less of a lady's man. besides that, he was on the ground all the time and i had to be away two-thirds of the time on my runs. "i came in one trip determined to know my fate that very evening--had my little piece all committed to memory. "as i registered i heard one of the other despatchers, behind a partition, telling some one that he was going to work dandy's trick until eleven o'clock, and then the two entered into a discussion of dandy's quest of the 'old man's' niece, one of them remarking that all the opposition he had was hopkins and that wasn't worth considering. i resolved to get to bridges's ahead of tamplin. "but man--railroad man, anyway--proposes and the superintendent disposes. i met bridges at the door. "'hopkins,' said he, 'i want you to do me a personal favor.' "'yes, sir,' "'i want you to double out in half an hour on some perishable freight that's coming in from the west; there isn't one available engine in. will you do it?' "'yes,' i answered, slowly, showing my disappointment. 'but, mr. bridges, i was particularly anxious to go up to your house to-night; i intend to ask--' "'i know, i know,' said he kindly, taking my hand; 'it'll be all right i hope; there ain't another young chap i'd like to see go up _and stay_ better than you, but my son, _she will keep_, and this freight wont. you go out, and i'll promise that no one shall get a chance to ask ahead of you.' this was a friend at court and a strong one. "'it means a lot to me,' said i "'i know it my boy, and i'm proud to have you say so right out in meeting, but--well, you get those fruit cars in by moonlight, and i'll have you back light, and you can have the front parlor for a week.' "on my return trip, i found a big howe truss bridge on fire and didn't get in for two days. the road was blocked, everything out of gear and i had to double back again, whether or no. "i was 'chewing the rag' with a roundhouse foreman about it when old andy came along. "'go on, hopkins,' said he, 'and you can lay off when you get back. i'm going south with my car _and will take the girls with me_!' "that was hint enough, and i said yes. "it was in the evening, and while the fireman and i got our supper, the hostler turned my engine, coaled her up, took water and stood her on the north branch track, next the head end of her train, that had not yet been entirely made up. "this north branch came into the south and west divisions off a very heavy grade and on a curve, the view being cut off at this point by buildings close to the track. the engine herself stood close to the office building, and after oiling around, i backed on to the train, bringing my cab right opposite a window in the despatcher's office. just before this open window and facing me sat dandy tamplin at his key. i hated dandy tamplin. "it was dark outside and in the cab, the conductor had given me my orders and said we'd go just as quick as the pony found a couple of cars more and put them on the hind end. dennis had put in a big fire for the hill, and then gone skylarking around the station, and i was in the dark glaring at dandy tamplin in the light. "the blow-off cock on this engine was on the right side and opened from the cab. ordinarily, you pulled the handle up, but the last time the boiler was washed out they had turned the plug cock half over and the handle stuck up through the deck among the oil cans ahead of the reverse lever, and opened by pushing it down. i remember thinking it was dangerous, as a man might accidentally open it. on the cock was a piece of pipe to carry the hot water away from the paint work, and this stuck straight out under the footboard, the cock leaked a little and the end of the pipe dripped hot water and steam. "while i glared at tamplin, old man bridges and the girls came into the room. bridges went up to the narrow, shelf-like counter, looked at the register and asked tamplin a question. "tamplin went up to the group, his back to me, and spoke to one after the other. madelene was the last in the row and, while the others were talking, laid her gloves, veil and some flowers on the counter. tamplin spoke to her and i could see the color change in her face. oh! if i only had hold of dandy tamplin. "bridges hurried out into the hall behind the passage way, the girls following. tamplin turned around and espied madelene's belongings. he went up to them, smelled the flowers, then hurriedly took a note out of his pocket and slipped it into one of the gloves. the other glove he put in his breast pocket. it was well for dandy tamplin i didn't have a gun. "remember, all this happened quickly. before tamplin was fairly in his seat and at work, madelene came tripping back alone and made for her bundle, but tamplin left his key open and went over to her. i couldn't hear what was said for by this time the safety valves of my engine were blowing and drowned all sound. she evidently asked him what time it was and leaned partly over the counter to hear his reply. he put his hand under her chin and turned her face toward the clock, this with such an air of assurance that my heart sank--but murder was in my soul. then quickly putting his hand behind her neck, he pulled her toward him and kissed her. i was a demon in an instant. "she sprang away from him and ran into the hall and he came back to his chair with a smile of triumph on his thin lips. "somehow or other, just at this moment, i noticed the steam at the end of that blow-off pipe, and all the devils in hell whispered at once 'one move of your hand and your revenge is complete.' i wasn't steadman hopkins then, i was a madman bent on murder, and i reached down for that handle, holding on by the throttle with my left hand. the cock had some mud in it and i opened it wide before it blew out and then with a roar and a shriek it burst--and the crime was done. "all the devils flew away at once and left me alone, naked with my conscience. murderer, murderer!' resounded in my ears; hisses, roars and screams seemed to come to fill my brain and dance around my condemned soul; voices seemed shrieking and crash upon crash seemed to smite my ears. i thought i was dying, and i remember distinctly how glad i was. i didn't let go of that valve, i couldn't--i'd go to hell with it in my hand and let them do their worst. "then remorse took possession of me. wasn't it enough to maim and disfigure poor tamplin, why cook him to death--i'd shut off that cock. i fought with it, but it wouldn't close, and i called dennis to help me. "some one stood behind me and put a cool hand on my brow, and a woman's voice said, 'poor brave fellow, he's still thinking of his duty; all the heroes don't live in books.' "i opened my eyes, and looked around. i was in st. mary's hospital, and a nun was talking to herself. "well, john, i'd been there for more than six weeks, and it took six more before i understood just what had happened and could hobble around, for i had legs and ribs and an arm broken. "it must have been at the moment i opened that blow-off cock that part of a runaway train came down the north grade, backward, like a whirlwind and buried my engine and myself, piling up an awful wreck that took fire. i was rescued at the last moment by the crowd of railroad men that collected and bodily tore the wreck apart to get at me. every one thought i tried to close that blow-off cock and hold the throttle shut. i was a hero in the papers and to the men, and i couldn't get a chance to tell the truth if i dared, and i was afraid to ask about dandy tamplin. "no word came from madelene. one day bridges came to see me, and brought me this watch i wear now, a present from the company. i determined to tell bridges--but he wouldn't believe me. looked, too, as if he thought i was off in my head yet and i must have looked crazy, for most of these brands i got that night. to be sure i've added to the collection here and there, but i never was pretty after that roundup. "at last i mustered up courage and asked: 'how is tamplin?' 'all right, working right along, but takes it hard,' said bridges. "'was he laid up long? is he as badly disfigured as i am?' "'why, man, he wasn't touched. he had gone to the other end of the room for a drink of water. i'm afraid, my boy, its madelene he's worried about.' "'she has refused him then?' "'well, i don't know that. she is still in bed, badly hurt. she has not seen a soul but her nurse, the doctor and my wife, and denies herself to all callers, even her best friends, even to me.' "chum, i won't tell you what i said or suffered. madelene had come into the room again for her belongings, and had faced the dagger of steam sent by the hand of a man who would give his immortal soul to make her well again. "i couldn't get around much, but i wrote her a brief note asking if i might call and sent it by a messenger. "she replied that she could not see me then. i waited. i hadn't the heart to write a confession i wanted to make in person, so after a week or two i went to the house. "madelene sent down word that she couldn't see me then and could not tell when she would see me. "i thought the nurse, who acted as messenger, did not interpret either my message or hers as they were intended--i would write a note. "i stepped into the library on one side of the hall, made myself at home and wrote madelene a note, a love letter, begging for just one interview. taking blame for all that had happened and confessing my love and devotion to her. "it was a long letter and just as i finished it, i heard some one in the hall. i thought it was a servant and started for the doorway to ask her to carry my message. it was the nurse. "i was partly concealed by the portieres. she was facing the door, her finger on her lips, and before her stood dandy tamplin. "'it's all right' she whispered, 'be still,' and both of them tiptoed upstairs. "this, then was why i could not see madelene. dandy tamplin was her accepted lover. "that night i left the old home for good to seek my fortunes and forgetfulness far away. i didn't care where, so long as it was a great way off. "at new york i found some engineers going out to run on the meig's road in peru. i signed a contract and in two days was on the atlantic, bound for the isthmus of panama. "i ran an engine in peru until the war broke out with chili. i was sent to the front with a train of soldiers one day and got on the battle field. our side was getting badly worsted, and i got excited and jumping off the engine, armed myself and lit into the fight. a little crowd gathered around me and i found myself the leader, no officer in sight. there was a charge and we didn't run--surprised the chilians. i got some of these blue brands on my left cheek there and made a new reputation. before i knew it, i had on a uniform and dangled a sword. they nicknamed me the 'fighting yankee.' "peru had lots of trouble and i saw a good deal of it. when it was all over, i found myself in command of a gun boat, just a tug, but she was alive and had accounted for herself several times. "the president sent me on a special mission to chili just after the close of the war, and, all togged out in a new uniform, i went on board of an american ship at callao bound for valparaiso. i thought i was some pumpkins then. i'd lived a rough and tumble life for about three years and was beginning to like it--and to forget. "i used to do the statuesque before the passengers, my scars attested my fighting propensities, and there were several peruvian liars aboard that knew me by reputation, and enlarged on it. "we touched at coquimbo and an american civil engineer and family came aboard, homeward bound. "that afternoon i was lolling in the smoking-room on deck, when i was attracted by the sound of ladies talking on the promenade just outside the open port where i sat. it was the engineer's wife and daughter. "'mamma,' said the young lady. 'i must read you madelene's letter. poor, dear madelene, it's just too sorrowful and romantic for anything.' "madelene! i hadn't heard that name pronounced for three years. it was wrong, i knew it, but i listened. "'poor dear, she was awfully hurt and disfigured in a railroad wreck.' "it was _my_ madelene they were talking about. wild horses could not have dragged me from the spot. "the girl read something like this. i know for i've read that letter a hundred times. it's in this pile here. "'dear lottie: your ever welcome'--'no, not that.' "'uncle andrew is going'--'let me see, oh! yes, here it is, now listen mamma,' said the girl. "'dear schoolmate. i have never told a soul about my troubles or my trials, for long i could not bear to think of them myself. but lately i have seen it in its true light, and have come to the conclusion that i have no right to moan my life away. i'm past all that, there is nothing for me to live for in myself, but my life is spared for some purpose, and i propose to devote it to doing good to others'--'isn't she a sweet soul, mamma?' "'after i came to live with uncle andrew, i was very happy, it seemed like a release from prison. i saw much company, and in six months had two lovers--more than i deserved. one of these was a plain, honest manly man; he was one of uncle andrew's engineers. he wasn't handsome, but he was the kind of man that sensible women love. the other was a handsome, showy, witty man, also an employee of the railroad, considered 'the catch' among the girls. really, lottie, both of them tried to propose and i wouldn't let them, i didn't know which one of them i liked best. but if things had taken the usual course, i should have married the handsome one--and been sorry forever after.' "my heart stood still--she hadn't married dandy tamplin after all." "'the night of the wreck, i was going out on uncle andrew's private car. the handsome man was on duty in the office. the plain man on an engine that stood before the open window, i didn't know that then. "'a runaway train crashed into the engine and something exploded and a stream of boiling water came into the room and scalded me beyond recognition. you would not know me, lottie, i am so disfigured. "'the handsome man did nothing but wring his hands; the plain one staid on the engine and tried to stop the steam from coming out, and was himself terribly injured. "'i was for weeks in bed and suffered mental agony much beyond the merely physical pain. i was so wicked i cursed my life and my maker and prayed for death--yet i lived. i was so resentful, so heartbroken, so wicked, that i refused to speak for weeks, then, when i tried, i couldn't, god had put the curse of silence on my wickedness.' "think of madelene being wicked, chum. "'when i was getting well enough and reconciled to my own fate, enough to think of others, i thought of my two lovers. then i asked my nurse for a glass. one look, and i made up my mind never to see either of them again. "'both of them were clamoring to see me, and i refused to see either. the plain man wrote me the only love letter i ever received. i have worn it out reading it. it was so manly, so unselfish! he blamed himself for the accident, and offered me his devotion and love, no matter in what condition the letter found me. this letter he wrote in uncle andrew's library, left it open on the desk and--disappeared. "'i have never heard from him from that day to this. i never could understand it. a man that could write that letter, couldn't run away. the last sentence in his letter proved that. it said: "remember, dear madelene, that somewhere, somehow, i am thinking of you always; that whether you see me or not, you will some day come to know that i love your soul, not your face; that your life is dear to me, and no calamity can make any difference." "'those were brave words, and after i read them, i knew for the first time that this was the man i loved. they told me he was frightfully disfigured, too, but that made no difference to me, i loved him. but he was gone, no one knew where. why did he go? "'the handsome man disappeared the same day, and he never came back, but he left no letter. "'dear lottie, i have only now solved the mystery. my sometime nurse has just confessed that the night the letter was written the other man came to the house, like a thief, he had bribed her to give me drugs to make me sleep and then she led him into my room and showed him my scars. if he ever loved me at all, he was in love with my face; the other man loved me. one went away because he saw me, the other one because he saw his rival apparently granted the interview refused to him. my true lover must have seen that man sneaking up to my room.' "john, every fibre of my being danced for joy. i didn't hear the rest, and she read several pages. i had heard enough. "i went right out on the deck, begged pardon to begin with, introduced myself, confessed to eavesdropping, told who i was, where i had been and asked for that letter. "i got it and madelene's picture; the one you have seen on my clock. "i finished my task at valparaiso while the vessel lay there, reported by mail, and came home on the same ship. "i took that letter and photograph to andy bridges's house and wrote across the envelope 'madelene bridges, i demand your immediate and unconditional surrender, signed, steadman h. hopkins.' "and i got it in five minutes. chum, that is the only case on record where something worth having was ever surrendered to an officer of the peruvian government. "in six months i was back on an engine in a new country, with my silent, loved and loving wife, in a new home. three times before now someone has seen madelene's face, twice i told this story, and then we moved away; once i told it and trusted, and it was not repeated. madelene can stand being a mystery and wondered at, but she cannot stand pity and curiosity. as for you, old chum, i haven't even asked you not to repeat what i have told you--i know you won't." after a long while, i turned to hopkins and said: "and yet, hopkins, fools say there is no romance in railroad life. this is a story worth reading, and some day i'd like to write it." "not in madelene's time, or in mine, chum, but if ever a time comes, i'll send you a token." "send me your picture, hop." "no, i'll send you madelene's. no, i'll send you the clock with the 'talking eyes.'" and standing at hopkins's gate, the scar-faced man with the romance and i parted, like ships that meet, hail and pass on, never to meet again. hopkins and i moved away from one another, each on his own course, across the seven seas of life. and all this happened almost twenty years ago. the other day, my office boy brought me a card that read, "mrs. henry adams, washington, d. c." "is she a book agent?" i asked. "nope, don't look like one." "show her in." a young woman came in, looked at me hard for a moment, laid a package on my desk and asked, "is this the mr. alexander who used to be an engineer?" i confessed. "i don't suppose you remember me," she asked. i put on my glasses and looked at her. no, i never--then she put her handkerchief up to her lips covering the lower part of her face; it was the face of madelene hopkins. "yes," said i, "i remember you perfectly, seventeen or eighteen years ago you used to sit on my knee and call me 'untle tummy.' and i called you maddie." then we laughed and shook hands. "mr. alexander," said she, "in looking over some of father's papers, we came across a request that under certain conditions you were to be sent an old keepsake of his, a clock with mother's picture on it. i have brought it to you." "and your father and mother, what of them, my friend?" i asked, for the promise of that clock "under certain conditions" was coming back to me. "haven't you heard, sir, poor papa and mama were lost in that awful wreck at castleton, two years ago." and as i write, from the dial of "scar faced" hopkins's clock "my lady of the eyes" looks down at me from across the mystery of eternity. the eyes do not change as once they did, or has age dimmed my sight and imagination? long i look into their peaceful depths thinking of their story, and ask, "dear eyes, is it well with thee?"--and they seem to answer, "it is well." some freaks of fate i am just back from a visit to old scenes, old chums and old memories of my interesting experience on the western fringe of uncle sam's great, gray blanket--the plains. if some of these fellows who know more about writing than about running engines would only go out there for a year and keep their eyes and ears and brains open, and mouths shut, they could come home and write us some true stories that would make fiction-grinders exceedingly weary. the frontier attracts strong characters, men with pioneer spirit, men who are willing to sacrifice something, in order to gain an end; men with loves and men with hates. bad men are there, some of them hunted from eastern communities, perhaps, but you will find no fools and mighty few weak faces--there's character in every feature you look at. every one is there for a purpose; to accomplish something; to get ahead in the world; to make a new start; perhaps to live down something, or to get out of the rut cut by ancestors; some may only want to drink, and shout, and shoot, but even these do it with a vim--they mean it. of the many men who ran engines at the front, with me in the old days, i recall few whose lives were purposeless; almost every one had a life-story. if there's anything that i enjoy, it's to sit down to a pipe and a life-story--told by the subject himself. how many have i listened to, out there, and every one of them worthy the pen of a kipling! the population of the frontier is never all made up of men, and the women all have strong features, too--self-sacrifice, devotion, degradation, or _something_, is written on every face. there are no blanks in that lottery--there's little material there for homes of feeble-minded. it isn't strange, either, when you come to think of it; fools never go anywhere, they are just born and raised. if they move it's because they are "took"--you never heard of a pioneer fool. one of the strongest characters i ever knew was a runner out there by the name of gunderson--oscar gunderson. he was of swedish parentage, very light-complexioned, very large, and a splendid mechanic, as swedes are apt to be when they try. gunderson's name was, i suppose, properly entered on the company's time-book, but it never was in the nomenclature of the road. with the railroaders' gift for abbreviation and nickname, gunderson soon came down to "gun," his size, head, hand or heart furnished the prefix of "big," and "big gun" he remains to-day. "big gun" among his friends, but simple "gun" to me. i think i called him "gun" from the start. gun ran himself as he did his engine, exercised the same care of himself, and always talked engine about his own anatomy, clothes, food and drink. his hat was always referred to as his "dome-casing;" his brotherhood pin was his "number-plate;" his coat was "the jacket;" his legs the "drivers;" his hands "the pins;" arms were "side-rods;" stomach "fire-box;" and his mouth "the pop." he invariably referred to a missing suspender-button as a broken "spring-hanger;" to a limp as a "flat-wheel;" he "fired up" when eating; he "took water," the same as the engine; and "oiled round," when he tasted whisky. gun knew all the slang and shop-talk of the road, and used it--was even accused of inventing much of it--but his engine talk was unique and inimitable. we roomed together a whole winter; and often, after i had gone to bed, gun would come in, and as he peeled off his clothes he would deliver himself something as follows: "say, john, you don't know who i met on the up trip? well, sir, dock taggert. i was sailin' along up the main line near bob's, and who should i see but dock backed in on the sidin'--seemed kinder dilapidated, like he was runnin' on one side. i jest slammed on the wind and went over and shook. dock looks pretty tough, john--must have been out surfacing track, ain't been wiped in lord knows when, oiled a good deal, but nary a wipe, jacket rusted and streaked, tire double flanged, valves blowin', packing down, don't seem to steam, maybe's had poor coal, or is all limed up. he's got to go through the back shop 'efore the old man'll ever let him into the roundhouse. i set his packin' out and put him in a stall at the gray's corral; hope he'll brace up. dock's a mighty good workin' scrap, if you could only get him to carryin' his water right; if he'd come down to three gauges he'd be a dandy, but this tryin' to run first section with a flutter in the stack all the time is no good--he must 'a flagged in." which, being translated into english, would carry the information that gun had seen one of the old ex-engineers at bob slattery's saloon, had stopped and greeted him. dock looked as if he had tramped, had drank, was dirty, coat had holes, soles of his boots badly worn, wheezing, seemed hungry and lifeless, been eating poor food, and was in a general run-down condition. gun had "set out his packing" by feeding him and put him in a bed at the grand central hotel--nicknamed the "grayback's corral." gun thought he would have to reform, before the m. m. put him into active service. he was a good engineer, but drank too much, and lastly, he was in so bad a condition he could not get himself into headquarters unless someone helped him by "flagging" for him. gun was a bachelor; he came to us from the pacific side, and told me once that he first went west on account of a woman, but--begging mr. kipling's pardon--that's another story. "i don't think i'd care to double-crew my mill," gun would say when the conversation turned to matrimony. "i've been raised to keep your own engine and take care of it, and pull what you could. in double-heading there's always a row as to who ought to go ahead and enjoy the scenery or stay behind and eat cinders." i knew from the first that gun had a story to tell, if he'd only give it up, and i fear i often led up to it, with the hope that he would tell it to me--but he never did. my big friend sent a sum of money away every month, i supposed to some relative, until one day i picked up from the floor a folded paper dirty from having been carried long in gun's pocket, and found a receipt. it read: "mission, san antonio, jan. , . "received of o. gunderson, for mabel rogers, $ . . "sister theresa." ah, a little girl in the story! i thought; it's a sad story, then. there's nothing so pure and beautiful and sweet and joyous as a little girl, yet when a little girl has a story it's almost always a sad story. i gave gun the paper; he thanked me; said he must look out better for those receipts, and added that he was educating a bit of a girl out on the coast. "yours, gun?" i asked kindly. "no, john; she ain't; i'd give $ , if she was." he looked at me straight, with that clear, blue eye, and i knew he told me the truth. "how old is she?" i asked. "i don't know; 'bout five or six." "ever seen her?" "no." "where did you get her?" "ain't had her." "tell me about her?" "she was willed to me, john, kinder put in extra, but i can't tell you her story now, partly because i don't know it all myself, and partly because i won't--i won't even tell her." i did not again refer to gun's little girl, and soon other experiences and other biographies crowded the story out of my mind. one evening in the spring, i sat by the open window, enjoying the cool night breeze from off the mountains, when i heard gun's cheery voice on the porch below. he was lecturing his fireman, in his own, unique way. "well, jim, if i ain't ashamed of you! there ain't no one but you; coming into general headquarters with a flutter in the stack, so full that you can't whistle, air-pump a-squealing 'count of water, smeared from stack to man-hole, headlight smoked and glimmery, don't know your own rights, kind o' runnin' wildcat, without proper signals, imagining you're first section with a regardless order. you want to blow out, man, and trim up, get your packing set out and carry less juice. you're worse than one of them slippin', dancin', three-legged, no-good grants. the next time i catch you at high-tide, i'll scrap you, that's what i'll do, fire you into the scrap-pile. why can't you use some judgment in your runnin'? why can't you say, 'why, here's the town of whisky, i'm going to stop here and oil around,' sail right into town, put the air on steady and fine, bring her right down to the proper gait, throw her into full release, so as to just stop right, shut off your squirt, drop a little oil on the worst points, ring your bell and sail on. "but you, you come into town forty miles an hour, jam on the emergency and while the passengers pick 'emselves out of the ends of the cars, you go into the supply house and leave the injector on, and then, when you do move, you're too full to go without opening your cylinder cocks and givin' yourself dead away. "now, i'm goin' to californ', next month, and if you get so as you can tell when you've got enough liquor without waiting for it to break your injectors, i'll ask the old man to let you finger the plug on old baldy whilst i'm gone. but i'm damned if i don't feel as if you was like that measly old --jest fit to be jacked up to saw wood with." while gun was in california, i was taken home on a requisition from my wife, and oscar gunderson and his little girl became a memory--a page in a book that i had partly read and lost, but not entirely forgotten. one day last summer i took the westbound express at topeka, and spreading my grip, hat, coat and umbrella, out on the seats, so as to resemble an experienced english tourist, i fished up a wheeling stogie and a book and went into the smoking-pen of the sleeper, which i had all to myself for half-an-hour. the train stopped to give the thirsty tender a drink and a man came in to wash his hands. he had been riding on the engine. after washing, he stepped to the door of the "smokery," struck a match on the leg of his pants, held both hands around the end of his cigar while he lighted it, then waving the match to put it out, he threw it down and came in. while he was absorbed in all this, i took a glance at him. six-foot-four, if an inch; high cheek bones; yellow beard; clear, blue eyes; white skin, and a hand about the size of a cincinnati ham. i knew that face despite twelve years of turkey-tracks about the eyes. "gunderson, old man, how are you?" i said, offering my fin. "well, john alexander, how in the name of thunder did you get away out here on the main stem, without orders?" "inspection-car," said i; "how did you get here?" "deadheading home; been out on special, a gilt-edged special, took her clean through to new york." "you did!" i exclaimed; "why, how was that?" "went up special to a weddin', don't you see? went up to see a new compound start off--prettiest sight i ever saw--working smooth as grease; but i'm kind of dubious about repairs and general running. i'm anxious to see how the performance sheet looks at the end of the year, john." "who's been double-heading, gun?" "why--why, my little girl, trimmest, neatest, slickest little mill you ever saw. lord! but she was painted red and white and gold-leaf, three brass bands on her stack, solid nickel trimming, all the latest improvements, corrugated fire-box, high pressure smoke consumer and sand-jet--jest made a purpose for specials, and pay-car. but if she ain't got herself coupled onto a long-fire-boxed ten-wheeler, with a big lap and a joy gear, you can put me down for a clinker. yes, sir; the baby is a heart-breaker on dress-parade, and the ten-wheeler is a whale on business, and if they don't jump the track, you watch out for some express speed that will make the canals sick, see if they don't." without giving me time to say a word, he was off again. "you ought to seen 'em start out, nary a slip, cutting off square as a die, small one ahead speaking her little piece chipper and fast on account of her smaller wheels, and the ten-wheeler barking bass, steady as a clock, with a hundred-and-enough on the gauge, a full throttle, and half a pipe of sand. you couldn't tell to save you whether the little one was pulling the big one or the big one shoving the little--never saw a relief train start out in such shape in my life." gunderson was evidently enthusiastic over the marriage of his little girl. we talked over old times and the changes, and followed each other up to date with a great deal of mutual enjoyment, until the porter demanded the "smokery" for his bunk. as we started for bed, gun laid his hand on my shoulder and said: "john, a good many years ago, you asked me to tell you the story of my little girl. i refused then for her sake. i'll tell you in the morning." after a hearty breakfast and a good cigar, gunderson squared himself for the story. he shut his eyes for a few minutes, as if to recall something, and then, speaking as if to himself, he said: "well, sir, there wasn't a simmer anywhere, dampers all shut; you wouldn't'a suspected they was up to the popping point, but the minute they got their orders, and the con. put up his hand, so, up went--" "say," i interrupted, "i thought i was to have the story. i believe you told me about the wedding, last night. the young couple started out well." "oh, yes, old man, i forgot, the story; well, get on the next pit here," motioning to a seat next to him, "and i'll give you the history of an old, hook-motion, name of oscar gunderson, and a trim, class "g" made of solid silver, from pilot to draft-gear. "you think i'm a swede; well, i ain't, i don't know what i am, but i guess i come nearer to being a chinaman than anything else. my father was a sea-captain, and my mother found me on the china sea--but they were both swedes just the same. i had two sisters older than myself, and in order to better our chances, father moved to new york when i was less than five years old. "he soon secured work as captain on a steamer in the cuban trade, and died at sea, when i was ten. "i had a bent for machinery, and tried the old machine-shops of the central road, but soon found myself firing. "i went to california, shortly after the war, on account of a woman--mostly my fault. "well, after running around there for some years, i struck a job on the virginia & truckee, in ' . "virginia city and carson and all the nevada towns were doing a fall-rush business, turning every wheel they had, with three crews to a mill. why, if you'd go down street in any one of them towns at night, and see the crowds around the gamblers and molls, you'd think hell was a-coming forty-mile an hour, and that it wan't more than a car-length away. "well, one morning, i came into virginia about breakfast time, and with the rest of the crew, went up to the old california chop-house for breakfast. this same chop-house was a building about good-enough for a stable, these days; but it had a reputation then for steaks. all the gamblers ate there; and it's a safe rule to eat where the gamblers do, in a frontier town, if you want the best there is, regardless of price. "it was early for the regular trade, and we had the dining-room mostly to ourselves, for a few minutes, then there were four women folks came in and sat down at a table bearing a card: 'reserved for ladies.' "three of them were dressed loud, had signs out whereby any one could tell that they wouldn't be received into no four hundred; but one of them was a nice-looking, modestly-dressed woman, had on half-mourning, if i remember. she had one of them sweet, strong faces, john, like the nun when i had my arm broke and was scalded,--her sweet mouth kept mumblin' prayers, but her fingers held an artery shut that was trying its damndest to pump gun gunderson's old heart dry--strong character, you bet. "well, that woman sat facing our table and kept looking at me; i couldn't see her without turning, but i knew she was looking. john, did you ever notice that you could _feel_ the presence of some people; you knew they were near you without seeing them? well, when that happens, don't forget to give that fellow due credit; for whoever it is he or she has the strongest mind--the dominant one. "i _had_ to look around at that woman. i shall never forget how she looked; her hand was on the side of her face; her great, brown, tender eyes were staring right at me--she was reading my very soul. i let her read. "i had been jacking up a gilly of a gafter who had referred to his mother as "the old woman," and i didn't let the four females disturb me. i meant to hold up a looking-glass for that young whelp to look into. i hate a man that don't love his mother. "why," says i, "you miserable example of divine carelessness, do you know what that 'old woman' mother has done for you, you drivelin' idiot, a-thankin' god that you're alive and forgetting the very mother that bore you; if you could see the tears that she has shed, if you could count the sleepless nights that she has put in, the heartaches, the pain, the privation that she has humbly, silently, even thankfully borne that you might simply live, you'd squander your last cent and your last breath to make her life a joy, from this day until her light goes out. a man that don't respect his mother is lost to all decency; a man who will hear her name belittled is a judas, and a man who will call his mother 'old woman' is a no-good, low-down, misbehaven whelp. why, damn it, i'd fight a buzz-saw, if it called my mother 'old woman'--and she's been dead a long time; gone to that special, exalted, gilt-edged and glorious heaven for mothers. no one but mothers have a right to expect to go to a heaven, and the only question that'll be asked is, 'have you been a mother?' [illustration: "he was the first man i ever killed."] "well, sir, i had forgot about the women, but they clapped their hands and i looked around, and there were tears in the eyes of that one woman. "she got up; came to our table and laid a card by my plate, and said, 'i beg your pardon; but won't you call on me? please do.' "i was completely knocked out, but told her i would, and she went out alone; the others finished their breakfast. "she had no sooner gone than cy nash, my conductor, commenced to giggle--'made a mash on the flyest woman in town,' he tittered; 'ain't a blood in town but what would give his head for your boots, old man; that's mabel verne--owns the odeon dance hall, and the tontine, in carson.' "i glanced at the card, and it did read, 'mabel verne, flood avenue.' "well, flood avenue is no slouch of a street, the best folks live there," i answered. "'yes, that's her private residence, and if you go there and are let in, you'd be the first man ever seen around there. she's a curious critter, never rides or drives, or shows herself off at all; but you bet she sees that the rest of the stock show off. she's in it for money, i tell you.' "i don't know why, but it made me kind of heart-sick to think of the hell that woman must be in, for i knew by her looks that she had a heart and a brain, and that neither of them was in the odeon or the tontine dance-houses. "i thought the matter over,--and didn't go to see her. the next trip, she sent a carriage for me. "she met me at the door, and took my hat, and as i dropped into an easy chair, i opened the ball to the effect that 'this here was a strange proceeding for a lady.' "'yes,' said she, sitting down square in front of me; 'it is; i felt as if i had found a true man, when i first saw you, and i have asked you here to tell you a story, my story, and ask your help and advice. i am so earnest, so anxious to do thoroughly what i have undertaken, that i fear to overdo it; i need counsel, restraint; i can trust you. won't you help me?" "'if i can; what is it that you want me to do, madam?' "'first of all, keep a secret, and next, protect or help protect, an innocent child.' "'suppose i help the child, and you don't tell me the secret?' "'no, it concerns the child, sir; she is my child; i want her to grow up without knowing what her mother has done, or how she has lived and suffered; you wouldn't tell her that, would you?' "'no; certainly not!' "'nor anyone else?' "'no.' "'you would judge her alone, forgetting her mother?' "'yes.' "'then i will tell you the story.' "she got up and changed the window blinds, so that the light shone on my face; i guess she wanted to study the effect of her words. "'i was born at sacramento,' she began; 'my father was a well-to-do mechanic, and i his only child; i grew up pretty fair-looking, and my parents spent about all they could make to complete my education, especially in music, of which i was fond. when i was eighteen years old, i fell in love with a young man, the son of one of the rich merchants of san francisco, where we had removed. like many another foolish girl, i trusted too implicitly, and believed too easily, and soon found myself in a humiliating position, but trusted to the honor of my lover to stand by me. "'when i explained matters to him he seemed pleased, said he could fix that easy enough; we would get married at once and claim a secret marriage for some months past. "'he arranged that i should meet him the next evening, and go to an old priest in an obscure parish, and be married. "'i stood long hours on a corner, half dead with fear, that night, for a lover that never came. he's dead now, got run over in oakland yard, that very night, as he was running away from me, and as i waited and shivered under the stars and the fire of my own conscience.' "'did he stand on one track, to get out of the way of another train, and get struck?' i asked. "'yes,' looking at me close. "'did he have on a false moustache, and a good deal of money and securities in a satchel, and everybody think at first he was a burglar?' "'yes; but how did you know that?' "'because, i killed him.' "'you?' "'yes; i ran an engine over him, couldn't make him hear or see me. he was the first man i ever killed; strange he should be _this_ particular man.' "'it's fate,' said the woman, rocking slowly back and forth, 'it's fate, but it seems as though i like you better now that you were my avenger. that accident drove revenge out of my heart, caused me to let _him_ be forgotten, and to live for my child. i have lived for her. i live to-day for her and i will continue to live for her.' "'my disgrace killed my mother and ruined my father. i swore i would be an honest woman, and i sought employment to earn a living for my babe and myself, but every avenue was closed to me. i washed and scrubbed while i was able to teach music splendidly, but i could get no pupils. i made shirts for a pittance and daily refused, to me, fortunes for dishonor. i have gone hungry and almost naked to pay for my baby's board, but i was hunted down at last. "'one day, after many rebuffs in seeking employment, i went to the home of a sister of my child's father, and took the baby, told her who i was and asked her to help me to a chance to work. the good woman scarcely looked at me or the child; she said that had it not been for such as i, poor charles would have been alive; his blood was on my head; i ought to ask god to wash my blood-stained hands. "'i went away from that house with my mind made up what to do. i would put my child in honest hands, and chain myself to the stake to suffer everlasting damnation for her sweet sake. "'she is in the mission san antonio now, between three and four, a perfect little princess, she looks like me, and grows, oh, so lovely! if you could see her, you'd love her. "'i can't go to see her any more; she is old enough to remember. the last time i was there, she demanded a papa! "'i am making a great deal of money. many of the rich men, whose puritan wives and daughters refused me honest work, are squandering lots of their wealth in my houses. i am saving money, too; and propose, as soon as i can get a neat fortune together to go away to the ends of the earth, and have my little girl with me. i will raise her to know herself and to know mankind.' "'and what do you want me to do, madam?' "'i want you to be that child's guardian; the honest man through whom she will reach the outside of san antonio and the world. who will go between her and me until a happier time.' "'i am only a rough engineer; the child will be raised to consider herself well off, perhaps rich.' "'adopt her. i will stay in the background; make her expenditures and her education what you like. i will trust you.' "'i can't do that.' "'you are single; your life is hard; i have money enough for us all. let us go to the sandwich islands, anywhere, and commence life anew. the little one will know no other father, and all inquiry will be stopped.' "'i couldn't think of it, my dear madam; it's too easy; it's like pulling jerkwater passenger--i like through freight.' "well, john, to make a long story short, the interview ended about here, and several more got to about the same place. there were a thousand things i could not help but admire in that woman, and i liked her better the more i knew her. but it wan't love; it was a sort of an admiration for her love of the child, and the nerve she displayed in its behalf. but i shrank from becoming her husband or companion, although i think she loved me, in the end, better than she ever did anybody. "however, i finally agreed to look after the little one, in case anything happened to the mother, and commenced then to send the money for her board and tuition, and the mother dropped out of all connection with the child or those having her in charge. "the mother made her pile and got out of the business, and at my suggestion went down near los angeles and bought a nice country place, to start respectable before she took the little one home. she left money in carson, subject to my check, for the little girl, and things slid along for a year or so all smooth enough. "i was out on a snow-bucking expedition one time the next winter, sleeping in cars, shanties or on the engine, and i soon found myself all bunged up with the worst dose of rheumatiz' you ever see. i had to get down to a lower altitude, and made for sacramento in the spring. i paid the mission a year in advance, and with less than a hundred dollars of my own, struck out, hoping to dodge the twists that were in my bones. "a hundred blind gaskets don't go far when you're sick, and the first thing i knew i was dead broke; couldn't pay my board, couldn't buy medicine, couldn't walk--nothing but think and suffer. i finally had to go to a hospital. not one of the old gang ever came to see me. old gun was a dandy, when he was making--and spending--a couple hundred a month; the rest of the time he was supposed to be dead. "i might have died in the hospital, if fate hadn't decreed to send me relief. it suddenly dawned upon me that i was getting far better treatment than usual, had a special nurse, the best of food, flowers, etc., all labeled 'from the boys.'" "i found out, after i was well enough to take a sun bath on the porch, that a woman had sent all my luxuries, and that her purse had been opened for my relief. i knew who it was at once, and was anxious to get well and at work, so as not to live on one who was only too glad to do everything for me. "a six months' wrastle with the twisters leaves a fellow stiff-jointed and oldish, and lying in bed takes the strength out of him. i took the notion to get out and go to work, one day, and walked down to the shops--i was carried back, chuck full of 'em again. "the doctor said i must go to ojo caliente, away down south, if i was to get well. john, if the santa fé road had 'a been for sale for a cent then, i couldn't 'a bought a spike. "at about the height of my ill-luck, i got a letter from mabel verne--she had another name, but that don't matter--and she asked me again to come to her; to have a home, and care and devotion. it wasn't a love-sick letter, but it was one of them strong, tender, _fetching_ letters. it was unselfish, it asked very little of me, and offered a good deal. "i thought over it all night, and decided at last to go. what better was i than this woman? surely she was better educated, better bred. she had made one mistake, i had made many. she had no friends on earth; i didn't seem to have any, either. i hadn't had a letter from either of my married sisters for six or eight years, then. we could trust one another, and have an object in life in the education of the child. i'd be no worse off than i was, anyway. "the next morning i felt better. i got ready to leave, bid all my fellow flat-wheels good-by; and had a gig ordered to take me to the train--the doctor had given me two-hundred dollars a short time before--'from a lady friend.' "as i sat waiting for the hack, they brought me a letter from home--a big one, with a picture in it. it was from my youngest sister, and the picture was of her ten-year boy, named for me--such a happy, sunny little swede face you never see. 'he always talks of uncle oscar as a great and good man,' wrote carrie, 'and says every day that he's going to do just like you. he will do nothing that we tell him uncle oscar would not like, and anything that he would. if you are as good as he thinks you are, you are sure of heaven.' "and i was even then going off to live with a woman who made a fortune out of virginia city dance-houses. i had a sort of a remorseful chill, and before i really knew just where i was, i had got to arizona, and from there to the santa fé where you knew me. "i wrote my benefactress an honest letter, and told her why i had not come, and in a short time sent her the money she had put up for me; but it was returned again, and i sent it to the mission for my little girl. "well, while i was with you there, i got a fare-thee-well letter, saying that when i got that mabel verne would be no more--same as dead--and that she had deposited forty thousand dollars in the phoenix bank for _your_ little girl--_yours_, mind ye--and asked me to adopt her legally and tell her that her mother was dead. "john, i ain't heard of that woman from then until now. i thought she had got tired of waiting on me and got married, but i believe she is dead. "i went to california and adopted the baby--a daisy too--and i've honestly tried to be a father to her. "i got to making money in outside speculations, and had plenty; so i let her money accumulate at the phoenix and paid her way myself. "about four years ago, i left the road for good; bought me a nice place just outside of oakland, and settled down to take a little comfort. "mabel, my daughter mabel, for she called me papa, went to germany, nearly three years ago, in charge of her music teacher, sister florence, to finish herself off. ah, john, you ort to see her claw ivory! before she went, she called me into the mission parlor, one day, and almost got me into a snap; she wanted me to tell her all about her parents right then, and asked me if there wasn't some mystery about her birth, and the way she happened to be left in the mission all her life, her mother disappearing, and my adoption of her." "what did you tell her, gun?" i asked. "why, lied to her, of course, as any honorable man would have done. i told her that her father was an engineer and a friend of mine, and that he was killed in an accident before she was born--that was all plausible enough. "then i told her that her mother was in poor health, and had died just before i had adopted her, and had left a will, giving her to me, and besides had left forty thousand dollars in the bank for her, when she married or became of age. "well, john, cutting down short, she met a fellow over there, a new yorker, that just seemed to think she was made a-purpose for him, and about a year ago he wrote and asked me for my daughter--just think of it! his petition was seconded by the baby herself, and recommended by sister florence. "they came home six months ago, and the baby got ready for dress-parade; and i went down to new york and seen 'em off; but here's where old fate gets in his work again. that rascal of an o. b. sanderson--i didn't notice the name before--was my own nephew, the very young cuss whose picture kept me from marryin' the baby's mother! i never tumbled till i ran across his mother, she was my sister carrie. "john, i don't care a continental cuss how good he was, the baby was good enough for him--too good--i just said nothing--and watched the signals. you ort to a seen me a-givin' the bride away! then, when it was all over, and i was childless, i give my little girl a check for forty-seven thousand and a fraction; kissed her, and lit out for home--and here i am. "but i ain't satisfied now, and just as quick as i get back, i'm a-going running again; then, when i've got so old i can't see more'n a car length, i'm going to ask for a steam-pump to run. i'm a-going to die railroading." "have you ever made any inquiries about the mother, gun?" i asked. "no; not much; it's so long now, it ain't no use; i guess that her light's gone out." "what would you do, if she was to turn up?" "well, i don't know; i guess i'd keep still and see what she done." "suppose, gun, that she showed up now; loved you more than ever for what you have done, and renewed her old proposal? you know it's leap year." "well, old man, if an angel flew down out of the sky and give me a second-hand pair of wings just rebuilt, and ordered me to put 'em on and follow her, i guess i wouldn't refuse to go out. time was, though, when i'd a-held out for new, gold-mounted ones, or nothing; but that won't come, john; but you just ort to a been to the consolidation; it was just simply--well, pulling the president's special would be just like hauling a gravel-train to it!" the train stopped suddenly here, and "gun" said he was going ahead to get acquainted with the water-boiler, and i took out my note-book and jotted down a few points. after the train got into motion again, i was reading over my notes, when, without looking, i thought gunderson had come back, and i moved along in the seat to give him room, but a black dress sat down beside me. we had been sitting with our backs to a curtain between the first berth and a state-room. the lady came from the state-room. "pardon me, sir," she said, "i want to finish that story. i have heard it all; i am sister florence, music teacher to mr. gunderson's daughter; he does not know that i am on this train. "mr. gunderson did not tell you that the phoenix bank failed some months ago, and that the fortune of his adopted child was lost. he never told her and she does not know it to-day--" "he said he paid her the full amount--" i interrupted. "very true. he did; but he paid it out of his own pocket. sold his farm; put up all his securities, and borrowed seven hundred dollars to make the sum complete. that is the reason he is going to run an engine again. he does not know that i am aware of this, so don't mention it to him." "gun is a man," said i; "a great, big-hearted, true man." "he is a nobleman!" said the nun, arising and going back into the state-room. half an hour later, gunderson came back, took a seat beside me and commenced to talk. "say, john, that's the hardest-riding old pelter i ever see, about three inches of slack between engine and tank, pounding like a stamp-mill and--" looking over his shoulder and then at me, "john, i could a swore there was some one standing right there, i _felt_ 'em. "it seems to me they ort to keep up their engines here in pretty good shape. they've got bad water, and so much boiler work that they have to have new flues before the machinery gets worn much. but, lord, they don't seem--" he looked over his shoulder again, quickly, then settled in his seat to resume, when a pair of hands covered gun's eyes--the nun's hands. "guess who it is, gun," said i; and noticed that he was very pale. "it's mabel," said he, putting up his hands and taking both of hers; "no one but her ever made me feel like that." mormon joe, the robber i'm on intimate terms with one of the biggest robbers in this country. he's an expert at the business, but has now retired from active work. the fact of the matter is, joe didn't know he was robbing, at the time he did it, but he got there, just the same, and come mighty nigh doing time in the penitentiary for it, too. maybe i'd better commence at the beginning and tell you that i first knew joe hogg in ' , out at the front, on the santa fé. joe hailed from salt lake city, and had run on the utah central, which gave him the nickname of "mormon joe," a name he never resented being called, and to which he always answered. i never did really know whether he was a mormon or not, and never cared; he was a good engineer, that's about all i cared for. joe took good care of his engine, wore a clean shirt and behaved himself--which was doing more than the average engineer at the front did. i remember, one night, jack mccabe--"whisky jack," we used to call him--made some mean remark about the mormons in general and joe in particular, and joe replied: "i don't propose to defend the mormon faith; it's as good as any, to my mind. i don't propose to judge or misjudge any man by his belief or absence of belief. all that i have got to say is, that the mormon religion is a _practical_ religion. they don't give starving women a tract, or tramps jobs on the stone-pile. the women get bread, and the tramps work for _pay_. their faith is based on the christian bible, with a book added--guess they have as big a right to add or take away as some of the old kings had--bigamy is upheld by the bible, but has been dead in utah, for some years. it can't live for the young people are against it. in utah the woman has all the rights a man has, votes, and is a _person_. (since cut out of new constitution.) before the gentiles came to salt lake, the mormons had but _one_ policeman, no jail, few saloons, no houses of prostitution--now the gentile christian has sway, and the town is full of them. i guess you could argue on the quality and quantity of rot-gut whisky a good engineer ought to drink, better than on theology, anyhow." i never heard any of the gang twit joe about the mormons again. i didn't take an awful sight of notice about joe until i came in, one night, and the boys told me that joe was arrested as an accomplice in the robbery of the black prince mine, in constitution gulch. this black prince was a gold placer owned by two middle-aged englishmen. they had a small stamp-mill, run by mule power; and a large number of sluice-boxes. they always worked alone, and said they were developing the mine. no one had any idea that they were taking out much dust, until the mill and sluice-boxes were burned one night, and the story came out that they had been robbed of more than thirty thousand dollars. each partner accused the other of the theft. both were arrested, and detectives commenced to follow every clue. joe's arrest fell like a thunder-clap among us. the brotherhood men took it up right away, and i went to see joe, that very night. it was said that joe had visited the black prince, the day before, and had been seen carrying away a large package, the night before the robbery. joe absolutely refused to say a word for or against himself. "the detectives got this scheme up and know what they are doing," said he; "i don't. when they get all through, you'll know how it'll come out." to all questions as to his guilt or innocence, to every query about the crime or his arrest, he replied alike, to friend or foe: "ask the sheriff; he's doing this." he was in jail a long time, but nothing was proven against him and he was finally released. neither of the englishmen could fasten the crime on his partner, and they sold out and drifted away, one going back to england and the other to mexico. joe ran awhile on the road again and then took a job as chief-engineer of a big stamp-mill in arizona, and going there he was lost to myself and the men on the road, and finally the black prince robbery passed into history, and nothing remained but the tradition, a sort of a myth of the mountains, like captain kidd's treasures, the amount only being increased by time. i believe that the last time i heard the story, it was calmly stated that thirty million dollars was taken. when i was out west, last time, i got off the train at santa fé, and when gunning through the baggage for my _kiester_, i saw a trunk, bearing on its end this legend: "mrs. jos. hogg." while i was "gopping" at it, as they say down east, and wondering if it could be my joe hogg, a very nice-looking lady came in, leading a little girl, glanced along the lines of trunks, put her hand on the one i was looking at, and said: "that's the one; yes; the little one. i want it checked to new york." just then, a little fellow with whiskers on his chin and a twinkle in his eye came in and took charge of the trunk, the woman and the child, and with the little one's arms around his neck, bid them good-by, and got them into their seats in the sleeper. i watched this individual with a great deal of interest; he looked like my old friend, "mormon joe," only for the whiskers and the stockman clothes. finally he jumped off the moving train, waved his hand and stood watching it out of sight, to catch the last glimpse of (to him) precious burden-bearer; he raised his hand to shade his eyes, and as he did so, i saw that it was minus one thumb, and i remembered that "mormon joe" left one of his under an engine up in colorado--i was sure of him. there was a tear in his eye, as he turned to go away, so i stepped up to him and asked: "any new wives wanted down your way, elder?" he glanced up, half angry, looked me straight in the eye, and a smile started at the southeast corner of his phiz and ran around to his port ear. "well, john, old man, i don't mind being _sealed_ to one about your size, right now. i've just sent away the best one in the wide world. old man, you're looking plump; by the holy joe smith, a sight of you is good for sore eyes!" well, we started, and--but there ain't no use in telling you all about it--i went home with joe, went up a creek with a jaw-breaking spanish name, for miles, to a very good cattle ranch, that was the property of "mormon joe." joe only quit running some three or four years ago, and the ranch and its neat little home represented the savings of joe hogg's life. his wife and only child had just started for a visit to england where she was born. the next day we rode the range to see joe's cattle, and the next we started out for a little hunt. it was sitting by a jolly camp-fire, back in the hills of new mexico, that "mormon joe" told me the true story of the robbery of the black prince mine and the romance of his life. filling his cob pipe with cut-plug, joe sat looking away over space toward our hobbled horses and then said: "old man, i reckon you remember all about the black prince robbery. i don't forget you were the first man that came to the cooler to see me while i was doing time as a _suspect_. well, coming right down to the point, _i had the dust all the time_! and the working out of the mystery would be rather interesting reading if it was written up, and, as you are such an accomplished liar, i wouldn't be surprised if you made it the base-line of one of them yarns of yourn--only, mind you, don't go too far with it, for it's as curious as a lie itself. i would not try to improve on it, if i was you. i'll tell it to you as it was. "about four days before the robbery, i was introduced to rachel rokesby, daughter of one of the partners in the black prince. i met her, in what seemed to be a casual way, at mother cameron's hash-foundry, but i found out, a long time afterward, that she had worked for two weeks to bring about the introduction. "i don't know as you remember seeing her, but she was a quiet, retiring, well-educated, rosy-cheeked english girl--impressed you right away as being the pure, unrefined article, about twenty-two karat. she "chinned" me about an hour, that evening, and just cut a cameo of her pretty face right on my old heart. "well, course i saw her home, and tried my best to be interesting, but if a fellow ever in his natural life becomes a double-barreled jackass, it's just immediately after he falls in love. why, he ain't as interesting as the unlettered side of an ore-sack. "but we got on amazing well; the girl did most of the talking and along toward the last, mentioned that she was in great trouble--of course i wa'n't interested in that at all. i liked to have broken my neck in getting her to tell me at once if i couldn't do something to help her, say, for instance, move raton mountain up agin pike's peak. "i went home that night, promising to call on her the next trip, not to let any one know i was coming, not to tell anybody i had been there, not for _worlds_ to repeat or intimate what she told me, and she would tell me her trouble from start to finish, and then i could help her, if i wanted to. well, i wanted to, _bad_. "i went up to the rokesby's cabin, next trip in; it was dark, and as i went up the front walk, i heard the old gentleman going out the back, bound for the village 'diggin's.' i had it all to myself--the secret, i mean. "when i went in, i got about a forty-second squeeze of a neat little hand, and things did look so nice and clean and homelike that i had it on the end of my tongue to ask right then to camp in the place. "after a few commonplaces, she turned around and asked me if i still wanted to help her and would keep the secret, if i concluded in the end to keep out of her troubles. you bet your life, old man, she didn't have to wait long for assurance--why i wouldn't'a waited a minute to have contracted to turn the mississippi into the mammoth cave, if she had asked it. "'well," says she, finally, "it is not generally known, in fact, isn't known at all, that the black prince is a paying placer, and that papa and mr. sanson have been taking out lots of gold for some time. they have over fifty pounds of gold-dust and nuggets hidden under the floor of the old mill.' "'well,' says i, 'that hadn't ought to worry you so.' "'but that isn't all the story,' she continued; 'we have discovered a plot on the part of mr. sanson to rob papa of the gold and burn the mill and sluice-boxes, to hide the crime. you will find that every tough in town is his friend, because he buys whisky for them, and they all dislike papa. if he carried out his plan, we would have no redress whatever; all the justices in town can be bribed. the plan is to take the gold, burn the mill, and then accuse papa of the crime. now, can't you help me to fool that old villain of a sanson, and put papa's half of the money in a safe place?' "i thought quite a while before i answered; it seemed strange to me that the case should be as she stated, and i half feared i might be made a cat's-paw and get into trouble, but the girl looked at me so trustingly with her blue eyes and added: "'i am afraid that i am the cause of all the trouble, too. papa and sanson got along well until i refused to marry him; after that, the row began--i hate him. he said i would _have_ to marry him before he was done with me--but i won't!' "'you bet you won't, darling,' says i, before i thought. 'pardon me, miss rokesby, but if there is any marrying done around here, i want a hand in the game myself.' "she blushed deeply, looked at the toe of her shoe a minute, and said: "'i'm only eighteen, and am too young to think of marrying. suppose we don't talk of that until we get out of the present difficulties.' "'sensible idea,' says i. 'but when we are out, suppose you and i have a talk on that subject.' "she looked at the toe of her shoe for a minute again, turned red and white around the gills, looked up at me, shyly at first, then fully and fairly, stretched out her hand and said: "'yes; if you care to.' "course, i didn't _care_, or nothing--no more than a man cares for his head. "i guess that was about a half engagement, anyhow, it's the only one we ever had. she said it would be ruinous to our plans if i was seen with her then or afterward; and agreed to leave a note at the house for me by next trip, telling me her plan--which she should talk over with her father. "a couple of days later i got in from a round trip and made a dive for the boarding-house. "'any mail for me, mother?' i asked old mrs. cameron. "'no, young man; i'm sorry to say there ain't' "'i was anxious to hear from home.' "'too bad; but maybe it'll come to-morrow.' "i was up to fever heat, but could do nothing but wait. i went to bed late, and, raising up my pillow to put my watch under it, i found a note; it read: "'midnight, july . "'dear joe: "'just thought of that rule for changing counter-balance you wanted. there has always been a miscalculation about the weight of counter-balance; they are universally _too heavy_. the weights are in pieces; take out two _pieces_; this treatment would even improve a mule sweep. when once out, pieces should be changed or placed where careless or malicious persons cannot get hold of them and replace them. all is well; hope you are the same; will see you some time soon. "'jack.' "here was apparently a fool letter from one young railroader to another, but i knew well enough that it was from rachel and meant something. "i noticed that it was dated the _next night_; then i commenced to see, and in a few minutes my instructions were plain. the old five-stamp mill was driven by a mule, who wandered aimlessly around a never-ending circle at the end of a long, wooden sweep; this pole extended past the post of the mill a few feet, and had on the short end a box of stones as a counter-weight. i would find two packages of gold there at midnight of july . "i was running one of those old pittsburgh hogs then, and she had to have her throttle ground the next day, but it was more than likely that she would be ready to go out at : on her turn; but i arranged to have it happen that the stand-pipe yoke should be broken in putting it up, so that another engine would have to be fired up, and i would lay in. "i told stories in the roundhouse until nearly ten o'clock that fateful night, and then started for the hash-foundry, dodged into a lumber yard, got onto the rough ground back of town and made a wide detour toward constitution gulch, the black prince and the mule-sweep. i crept up to the washed ground through some brush and laid down in a path to wait for midnight. i felt a full-fledged sneak-thief, but i thought of rachel and didn't care if i was one or not, so long as she was satisfied. "i looked often at my watch in the moonlight, and at twelve o'clock everything was as still as death. i could hear my own heart beat against my ribs as i sneaked up to that counter-balanced sweep. i got there without accident or incident, found two packages done up in canvas with tarred-string handles; they were heavy but small, and in ten minutes i had them alone with me among the stumps and stones on the little _mesa_ back of town. "i'll never forget how i felt there in the dark with all that money that wasn't mine, and if some one had have said 'boo' from behind a stump, i should have probably dropped the boodle and taken to the brush. "as i approached the town, i realized that i could never get through it to the boarding-house or the roundhouse with those two bundles that _looked like country sausages_. i studied awhile on it and finally put them under an old scraper beside the road, and went without them to the shops. i got from my seat-box a clean pair of overalls and jacket and came back without being seen. "i wrapped one of the packages up in these and boldly stepped out into the glare of the electric lights--i remember i thought the town too darned enterprising. "one of the first men i met was the marshal, jack kelly. he was reported to be a pinkerton man, and was mistrusted by some of the men, but tried to be friendly and 'stand in' with all of us. he slapped me on the back and nearly scared the wits out of me. he insisted on treating me, and i went into a saloon and 'took something' with him, in fear and trembling. the package was heavy, but i must carry it lightly under my arm, as if it were only overclothes. "i treated in return, and had it charged, because i dare not attempt to get my right hand into my pocket. jack was disposed to talk, and i feared he was just playing with me like a cat does with a mouse, but i finally got off and deposited my precious burden in my seat-box, under lock and key--then i sneaked back for the second haul. i met jack and a policeman, on my next trip, and he exclaimed: "'why, ain't you gone out yet?' and started off, telling the roundsman to keep the bunkos off me up to the shop. _i thought then i was caught_, but i was not, and the bluecoat bid me a pleasant good-night, at the shop yard. "when i got near my engine, i was surprised to see barney murry, the night machinist, with his torch up on the cab--he was putting in the newly-ground throttle. "just before i had decided to emerge from the shadow of the next engine, barney commenced to yell for his helper, dick, to come and help him on with the dome-cover. "dick came with a sandwich in one hand and a can of coffee in the other. this reminded barney of his lunch, and setting his torch down on the top of the cab, he scrambled down on the other side and hurried off to the sand-dryer, where the gang used to eat their dyspepsia insurance and swap lies. "after listening a moment, to be sure i was alone, i stepped lightly to the cab, and in a minute the two heavy and dangerous packages were side by side again. "but just here an inspiration struck me. i opened the front door of the cab, stepped out on the running-board, and a second later was holding barney's smoking torch down in the dome. "the throttle occupied most of the space, but there was considerable room each side of it and a good two feet between the top of the boiler shell and the top row of flues. i took one of the bags of gold, held it down at arm's length, swung it backward and forward a time or two, and let go, so as to drop it well ahead on the flues: the second bag followed at once, and again i held down the light to see if the bags were out of sight; satisfied on this point, i got down, took my clothes under my arm, and jumped off the engine into the arms of the night foreman." "'what did you call me for? that engine is not ready to go out on the extra,' i demanded, off-hand. "'i ain't called you; you're dreaming.' "'may be i am,' said i, 'but i would 'a swore some one came and called under my window that i got out at : , on a stock-train, extra.' "just then, barney and dick came back, and i soon had the satisfaction of seeing the cover screwed down on my secret and a fire built under it--then i went home and slept. "i guess it was four round trips that i made with the old pelter, before kelly put this and that together, and decided to put me where the dogs wouldn't bite me. "i appeared as calm as i could, and set the example since followed by politicians, that of 'dignified silence.' kelly tried to work one of the 'fellow convict' rackets on me, but i made no confessions. i soon became a martyr, in the eyes of the women of the town. you boys got to talking of backing up a suit for false imprisonment; election was coming on and the sheriff and county judge were getting uneasy, and the district attorney was awfully unhappy, so they let me out. "nixon, the sheriff, pumped me slyly, to see what effect my imprisonment would have on future operations, and i told him i didn't propose to lose any time over it, and agreed to drop the matter for a little nest-egg equal to the highest pay received by any engineer on the road. pat dailey was the worst hog for overtime, and i selected his pay as the standard and took big money,--from the campaign funds. i wasn't afraid of re-arrest;--i had 'em for bribery. "whilst i was in hock, i had cold chills every time i heard the 's whistle, for fear they would wash her out and find the dust; but she gave up nothing. "when i reported for work, the old scrap was out on construction and they were disposed to put me on another mill, pulling varnished cars, but i told the old man i was under the weather and 'crummy,' and that put him in a good humor; and i was sent out to a desolate siding, and once again took charge, of the steam 'fence,' for the robber of the black prince mine. "on sunday, by a little maneuvering, i managed to get the crew to go off on a trout-fishing expedition, and under pretext of grinding-in her chronically leaky throttle, i took off her dome-cover and looked in; there was nothing in sight. "i was afraid that the cooking of two months or more had destroyed the canvas bags; then again the heavy deposit of scale might have cemented the bags to the flues. in either case, rough handling would send the dust to the bottom of the boiler, making it difficult if not impossible to recover; and worse yet, manifest itself sometime and give me dead away. "i concluded to go at the matter right, and after two hours of hard work, managed to get the upright throttle-pipe out of the dome. i drew her water down below the flue-line, and though it was tolerably warm, i got in. "both of my surmises were partially correct; the canvas was rotted, in a measure, and the bags were fastened to the flues. the dust had been put up in buckskin bags, first, and these had been put into shot-sacks; the buckskin was shrunken but intact. i took a good look around, before i dared take the treasure into the sunlight; but the coast was clear, and inside of an hour they were locked in my clothes-box, and the cover was on the kettle again and i was pumping her up by hand. "i was afraid something would happen to me or the engine, so i buried the packages in a bunch of willows near the track. "it must have been two weeks after this that a mover's wagon stopped near the creek within half a mile of the track, and hobbled horses soon began to 'rustle' grass, and the smoke of a camp-fire hunted the clouds. "we saw this sort of thing often, and i didn't any more than glance at it; but after supper i sauntered down by the engine, smoking and thinking of rachel rokesby, when i noticed a woman walking towards me, pail in hand. "she had on a sunbonnet that hid her face and she got within ten feet of me before she spoke--she asked for a pail of drinking-water from the tank--the creek was muddy from a recent rain. "just as soon as she spoke, i knew it was rachel, but i controlled myself, for others were within hearing. i walked with her to the engine and got the water; i purposely drew the pail full, which she promptly spilled, and i offered to carry it for her. "the crew watched us walk away and i heard some of them mention 'mash,' but i didn't care, i wanted a word with my girl. "when we were out of earshot, she asked without looking up: "'well, old coolness, are you all right?' "'you bet! darling.' "'papa has sold out his half and we are going away for good. i think if we get rid of the dust without trouble, we may go to england. just as soon as all is safe, you shall hear from me; can't you trust me, joe?' "'yes, rachel, darling; now and forever.' "'where's the gold?' "'within one hundred feet of you, in those willows; when it is dark, i will go and get it and put it on that stump by the big tree; go then and get it. but where will you put it?' "'i'm going to pack it in the bottom of a jar of butter.' "'good idea, little girl! i think you'd make a good thief yourself. how's my friend, sanson?' "'he's gone to mexico; says yet that papa robbed him, but he knows as well as you or i that all his bluster was because he only found _half_ that he expected; i pride myself on getting ahead of a wicked man once, thanks to our hero, by the name of hogg.' "it was getting dusk and we were out of sight, so i sat down the pail and asked: "'do i get a kiss, this evening?' "'if you want one.' "'there's only one thing i want worse.' "'what is that, joe?' "my arm was around her waist now, and the sunbonnet was shoved back from the face. i took a couple of cream-puffs where they were ripe, and answered: "that message to come and have that talk about matrimony.' "here a man's voice was heard calling: 'rachel! rachel!' and throwing her arms around my neck, she gave me one more kiss, snatched up her pail and answered: "'yes; i'm coming.' "then to me, hurriedly: "'good-by, dear; wait patiently, you shall hear from me.' "i went back and put the dangerous dust on the stump and returned to the bunk-car. the next morning when i turned out, the outlines of the wagon were dimly discernible away on a hill in the road; it had been gone an hour. "i walked down past my stump--the gold was gone. "well, john, i settled down to work and to wait for that precious letter that would summon me to the side of rachel rokesby, wherever she was; but it never came. uncle sam never delivered a line to me from her from that day to this." joe kicked the burning sticks in our fire closer together, lit his pipe and then proceeded: "i was hopeful for a month or two; then got impatient, and finally got angry, but it ended in despair. a year passed away before i commenced to _hunt_, instead of waiting to be hunted; but after another year i gave it up, and came to the belief that rachel was dead or married to another. but the very minute that such a treasonable thought flashed through my mind, my heart held up the image of her pure face and rebuked me. "i was discharged finally, for forgetting orders--i was thinking of something else--then i commenced to pull myself together and determined to control myself. i held the job in arizona almost a year, but the mill company busted; then i drifted down on to the mexican national, when it was building, and got a job. a few months later, it came to my ears that one of our engineers, billy gardiner, was in one of their damnable prisons, for running over a greaser, and i organized a relief expedition. i called on gardiner, and talked over his trouble fully; he was in a loathsome dobie hole, full of vermin, and dark. as i sat talking to him, i noticed an old man, chained to the wall in a little entry on the other side of the room. his beard was grizzly white, long and tangled. he was hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed, and looked at me in a strange, fascinated way. "'what's he in for,' i whispered to gardiner. "'murdered his partner in a mining camp. got caught in the act. he don't know it yet, but he's condemned to be shot next friday--to-morrow. poor devil, he's half crazy, anyhow.' "as i got up to go, the old man made a sharp hiss, and as i turned to look at him, he beckoned with his finger. i took a step or two nearer, and he asked, in an audible whisper: "'mr. hogg, don't you know me?' "i looked at him long and critically, and then said: "'no; i never saw you before.' "'yes; that's so,' said he; 'but i have seen you, many times. you remember the black prince robbery?' "'yes, indeed; then you are sanson?' "'no; rokesby.' "'rokesby! my god, man, where's rachel?' "'i thought so,' he muttered. 'well, she's in england, but i'm here.' "'what part of england?' "'sit down on that box, mr. hogg, and i will tell you something.' "'is she married?' i asked eagerly. "'no, lad, she ain't, and what's more, she won't be till she marries you, so be easy there.' "just here a pompous mexican official strode in, stepped up in front of the old man and read something in spanish. "'what in hell did he say?' asked the prisoner of gardiner. "'something about sentence, pardner.' "'well, it's time they was doing something; did he say when it was?' "'to-morrow.' "'good enough; i'm dead sick o' this.' "'can't i do anything for you, mr. rokesby--for rachel's sake?' "'no--yes, you can, too, young man; you can grant me a pardon for a worse crime nor murder, if you will--for--for rachel's sake." "'it's granted then.' "'good! that gives me heart. now, mr. hogg, to business, it was me that robbed the black prince mine. i took every last cent there was, and i used you and rachel to do the work for me and take the blame if caught. sanson was honest enough, i fired the mill myself. "'it was me that sent rachel to you; i admired your face, as you rode by the claim every day on your engine. i knew you had nerve. if you and rachel hadn't fallen in love with one another, i'd 'a lost though; but i won. "'well, i took the money i got for the claim and sent rachel back to her mother's sister, in england. you may not know, but she is not my daughter; she thinks she is, though. her parents died when she was small, and i provided for her. i'm her half-uncle. i got avaricious in my old age, and went into a number of questionable schemes. "'after leaving new mexico, i worked the dust off, a little at a time, an' wasted the money--but never mind that. "'it was just before she got aboard the ship that rachel sent me a letter containing another to you, to be sent when all was right--i've carried it ever since--somehow or other i was afraid it would drop a clew to send it at first, and after it got a year old, i didn't think of it much.' "he fumbled around inside of his dirty flannel shirt for a minute, and soon fished up a letter almost as black as the shirt, and holding it up, said: "'that's it.' "'i had the envelope off in a second, and read: "'dear joseph: "'i am going to my aunt, mrs. julia bradshaw, harrow lane, leicester, england. if you do not change your mind, i will be happy to talk over our affairs whenever you are ready. i shall be waiting. "'rachel'. "i turned and bolted toward a door, when gardiner yelled: "'where are you going?' "'to england,' said i. "'this door, then, sir,' said a mexican. "i came back to the old man. "'rokesby,' said i, 'you have cut ten years off my life, but i forgive you; good-by.' "'one thing more, mr. hogg; don't tell 'em at home how i went--nothing about this last deal.' "'well, all right; but i'll tell rachel, if we marry and come to america.' "'i've got lots of honest relations, and my old mother still lives, in her eighties.' "'well, not till after she goes, unless to save rachel in some way.' "'good-by, mr. hogg, god bless you! and--and, little rachel.' "'good-by, mr. rokesby.' "the next day i left mexico for god's country, and inside of ten days was on a cunarder, eastward bound. i reached england in proper time; i found the proper pen in the proper train, and was deposited in the proper town, directed to the proper house, and street, and number, and had pulled out about four yards of wire attached to the proper bell. "a kindly-faced old lady looked at me over her spectacles, and i asked: "'does mrs. julia bradshaw live here?' "'yes, sir; that's me.' "'have you a young lady here named rachel r--' "the old lady didn't wait for me to finish the name, she just turned her head fifteen degrees, put her open hand up beside her mouth, and shouted upstairs: "'rachel! rachel! come down here, quick! here's your young man from america!'" a midsummer night's trip it is all of twenty years now since the little incident happened that i am going to tell you about. after the strike of ' , i went into exile in the wild and woolly west, mostly in "bleeding kansas," but often in colorado, new mexico, and arizona--the santa fé goes almost everywhere in the southwest. one night in august i was dropping an old baldwin consolidator down a long mexican grade, after having helped a stock train over the division by double-heading. it was close and hot on this sage-brush waste, something not unusual at night in high altitudes, and the heat and sheet lightning around the horizon warned me that there was to be one of those short, fierce storms that come but once or twice a year in these latitudes, and which are known as cloudbursts. the alkali plains, or deserts, as they are often erroneously called, are great stretches of adobe soil, known as "dobie" by the natives. this soil is a yellowish brown, or perhaps more of a gray color, and as fine as flour. water plays sad havoc with it, if the soil lies so as to oppose the flow, and it moves like dust before a slight stream. on the flat, hard-baked plains, the water makes no impression, but on a railroad grade, be it ever so slight, the tendency is to dig pitfalls. i have seen a little stream of water, just enough to fill the ditches on each side of the track, take out all the dirt, and keep the ties and track afloat until the water was gone, then drop them into a hole eight or ten feet deep, or if the washout was short, leave them suspended, looking safe and sound, to lure some poor engineer and his mate to death. another peculiarity of these storms is that they come quickly, rage furiously for a few minutes, and are gone, and their lines are sharply defined. it is not uncommon to find a lot of water, or a washout, within a mile of land so dry that it looks as if it had never seen a drop of water. all this land is fertile when it can be brought under irrigating ditches and watered, but here it lies out almost like a desert. it is sparsely inhabited along the little streams by a straggling off-shoot of the mexican race; yet once in a while a fine place is to be seen, like an oasis in the sahara, the home of some old spanish don, with thousands of cattle or sheep ranging on the plains, or perhaps the headquarters of some enterprising cattle company. but these places were few and far between at the time of which i write; the stations were mere passing places, long side-tracks, with perhaps a stock-yard and section house once in a while, but generally without buildings or even switch lights. noting the approach of the storm, i let the heavy engine drop the faster, hoping to reach a certain sidetrack, over twenty miles away, where there was a telegraph operator, and learn from him the condition of the road. but the storm was faster than any consolidator that baldwins ever built, and as the lightning suddenly ceased and the air became heavy, hot, and absolutely motionless, i realized that we would have the storm full upon us in a few moments. i had nothing to meet for more than thirty miles, and there was nothing behind me; so i stopped, turned the headlight up, and hung my white signal lamps down below the buffer-beams each side of the pilot--this to enable me to see the ends of the ties and the ditch. billy howell, my fireman, and a good one, hastily went over the boiler-jacket with signal oil, to prevent rust; we donned our gum coats; i dropped a little oil on the "mary ann's" gudgeon's, and we proceeded on our way without a word. on these big consolidators you cannot see well ahead, past the big boiler, from the cab, and i always ran with my head out of the side window. both of us took this position now, standing up ready for anything; but we bowled safely along for one mile--two miles, through the awful hush. then, as sudden as a flash of light, "boom!" went a peal of thunder as sharp and clear as a signal gun. there was a flash of light along the rails, the surface of the desert seemed to break out here and there with little fitful jets of greenish-blue flame, and from every side came the answering reports from the batteries of heaven, like sister gunboats answering a salute. the rain fell in torrents, yes, in sheets. i have never, before or since, seen such a grand and fantastic display of fireworks, nor heard such rivalry of cannonade. i stopped my engine, and looked with awe and interest at this angry fit of nature, watched the balls of fire play along the ground, and realized for the first time what a sight was an electric storm. as the storm commenced at the signal of a mighty peal of thunder, so it ended as suddenly at the same signal; the rain changed in an instant from a torrent to a gentle shower, the lightning went out, the batteries ceased their firing, the breeze commenced to blow gently, the air was purified. again we heard the signal peal of thunder, but it seemed a great way off, as if the piece was hurrying away to a more urgent quarter. the gentle shower ceased, the black clouds were torn asunder overhead; invisible hands seemed to snatch a gray veil of fleecy clouds from the face of the harvest moon, and it shone out as clear and serene as before the storm. the ditches on each side of the track were half full of water, ties were floating along in them, but the track seemed safe and sound, and we proceeded cautiously on our way. within two miles the road turned to the west, and here we found the water in the ditches running through dry soil, carrying dead grass and twigs of sage upon its surface; we passed the head of the flood, tumbling along through the dry ditches as dirty as it well could be, and fast soaking into the soil; and then we passed beyond the line of the storm entirely. billy put up his seat and filled his pipe, and i sat down and absorbed a sandwich as i urged my engine ahead to make up for lost time; we took up our routine of work just where we had left it, and--life was the same old song. it was past midnight now, and as i never did a great deal of talking on an engine, i settled down to watching the rails ahead, and wondering if the knuckle-joints would pound the rods off the pins before we got to the end of the division. [illustration: "'mexican,' said i."] billy, with his eyes on the track ahead, was smoking his second pipe and humming a tune, and the "mary ann" was making about forty miles an hour, but doing more rolling and pitching and jumping up and down than an eight-wheeler would at sixty. all at once i discerned something away down the track where the rails seemed to meet. the moon had gone behind a cloud, and the headlight gave a better view and penetrated further. billy saw it, too, for he took his pipe out of his mouth, and with his eyes still upon it, said laconically, as was his wont: "cow." "yes," said i, closing the throttle and dropping the lever ahead. "man," said billy, as the shape seemed to assume a perpendicular position. "yes," said i, reaching for the three-way cock, and applying the tender brake, without thinking what i did. "woman," said billy, as the shape was seen to wear skirts, or at least drapery. "mexican," said i, as i noted the mantilla over the head. we were fast nearing the object. "no," said billy, "too well built." i don't know what he judged by; we could not see the face, for it was turned away from us; but the form was plainly that of a comely woman. she stood between the rails with her arms stretched out like a cross, her white gown fitting her figure closely. a black, shawl-like mantilla was over the head, partly concealing her face; her right foot was upon the left-hand rail. she stood perfectly still. we were within fifty feet of her, and our speed was reduced to half, when billy said sharply: "hold her, john--for god's sake!" but i had the "mary ann" in the back motion before the words left his mouth, and was choking her on sand. billy leaned upon the boiler-head and pulled the whistle-cord, but the white figure did not move. i shut my eyes as we passed the spot where she had stood. we got stopped a rod or two beyond. i took the white light in the tank and sprang to the ground. billy lit the torch, and followed me with haste. the form still stood upon the track just where we had first seen it; but it faced us and the arms were folded. i confess to hurrying slowly until billy caught up with the torch, which he held over his head. "good evening, señors," said the apparition, in very sweet english, just tinged with the castilian accent, but she spoke as if nearly exhausted. "good gracious," said i, "whatever brought you away out here, and hadn't you just as lief shoot a man as scare him to death?" she laughed very sweetly, and said: "the washout brought me just here, and i fancy it was lucky for you--both of you." "washout?" said i. "where?" "at the dry bridge beyond." well, to make a long story short, we took her on the engine--she was wet through--and went on to the dry bridge. this was a little wooden structure in a sag, about a mile away, and we found that the storm we had encountered farther back had done bad work at each end of the bridge. we did not cross that night, but after placing signals well behind us and ahead of the washout, we waited until morning, the three of us sitting in the cab of the "mary ann," chatting as if we were old acquaintances. this young girl, whose fortunes had been so strangely cast with ours, was the daughter of señor juan arboles, a rich old spanish don who owned a fine place and immense herds of sheep over on the rio pecos, some ten miles west of the road. she was being educated in some catholic school or convent at trinidad, and had the evening before alighted at the big corrals, a few miles below, where she was met by one of her father's mexican rancheros, who led her saddle broncho. they had started on their fifteen-mile ride in the cool of the evening, and following the road back for a few miles were just striking off toward the distant hedge of cotton woods that lined the little stream by her home when the storm came upon them. there was a lone pine tree hardly larger than a bush about a half-mile from the track, and riding to this, the girl, whose name was josephine, had dismounted to seek its scant protection, while the herder tried to hold the frightened horses. as peal on peal of thunder resounded and the electric lights of nature played tag over the plain, the horses became more and more unmanageable and at last stampeded, with old paz muttering mexican curses and chasing after them wildly. after the storm passed, josephine waited in vain for paz and the bronchos, and then debated whether she should walk toward her home or back to the corrals. in either direction the distance was long, and the adobe soil is very tenacious when wet, and the wayfarer needs great strength to carry the load it imposes on the feet. as she stood there, thinking what it was best to do, a sound came to her ears from the direction of the timber and home, which she recognized in an instant, and without waiting to debate further, she turned and ran with all her strength, not toward her home, but away from it. across the waste of stunted sage she sped, the cool breeze upon her face, every muscle strained to its utmost. nearer and nearer came the sound; the deep, regular bay of the timber wolf. these animals are large and fierce; they do not go in packs, like the smaller and more cowardly breeds of wolves, but in pairs, or, at most, six together. a pair of them will attack a man even when he is mounted, and lucky is he if he is well armed and cool enough to despatch one before it fastens its fangs in his horse's throat or his own thigh. as the brave girl ran, she cast about for some means of escape or place of refuge. she decided to run to the railroad track and climb a telegraph pole--a feat which, owing to her free life on the ranch, she was perfectly capable of. once up the pole, she could rest on the cross-tree, in perfect safety from the wolves, and she would be sure to be seen and rescued by the first train that came along after daybreak. she approached the track over perfectly dry ground. to reach the telegraph poles, she sprang nimbly into the ditch; and as she did so, she saw a stream of water coming rapidly toward her--it was the front of the flood. the ditch on the opposite side of the track, which she must also cross to reach the line of poles, she found already full-flooded. she decided to run up the track, between the walls of water. this would put a ten-foot stream between her and her pursuers, and change her course enough, she hoped, to throw them off the scent. in this design she was partly successful, for the bay of the wolves showed that they were going to the track as she had gone, instead of cutting straight across toward her. thus she gained considerable time. she reached the little arroyo spanned by the dry bridge; it was like a mill-pond, and the track was afloat. she ran across the bridge; she scarcely slackened speed, although the ties rocked and moved on the spike-heads holding them to the rails. she hoped for a moment that the wolves would not venture to follow her over such a way; but their hideous voices were still in her ear and came nearer and nearer. then there came to her, faintly, another, a strange, metallic sound. what was it? where was it? she ran on tiptoe a few paces in order to hear it better; it was in the rails--the vibration of a train in motion. then there came into view a light--a headlight; but it was so far away, so very far, and that awful baying so close! the "mary ann," however, was fleeter of foot than the wolves; the light grew big and bright and the sound of working machinery came to the girl on the breeze. would they stop for her? could she make them see her? then she thought of the bridge. it was death for them as well as for her--they _must_ see her. she resolved to stay on the track until they whistled her off; but now the light seemed to come so slow. a splash at her side caused her to turn her head, and there, a dozen feet away, were her pursuers, their tongues out, their eyes shining like balls of fire. they were just entering the water to come across to her. they fascinated her by their very fierceness. forgetting where she was for the instant, she stared dumbly at them until called to life and action by a scream from the locomotive's whistle. then she sprang from the track just in the nick of time. she actually laughed as she saw two grayish-white wolf-tails bob here and there among the sage brush, as the wolves took flight at sight of the engine. this was the story she told as she dried her garments before the furnace door, and i confess to holding this cool, self-reliant girl in high admiration. she never once thought of fainting; but along toward morning she did say that she was scared then at thinking of it. early in the morning a party of herders, with josephine's father ahead, rode into sight. they were hunting for her. josephine got up on the tender to attract their attention, and soon she was in her father's arms. her frightened pony had gone home as fast as his legs would carry him, and a relief party swam their horses at the ford and rode forward at once. the old don was profuse in his thanks, and would not leave us until billy and i had agreed to visit his ranch and enjoy a hunt with him, and actually set a date when we should meet him at the big corral. i wanted a rest anyway, and it was perfectly plain that billy was beyond his depth in love with the girl at first sight; so we were not hard to persuade when she added her voice to her father's. early in september billy and i dropped off no. with our guns and "plunder," as baggage is called there, and a couple of the old don's men met us with saddle and pack animals. i never spent a pleasanter two weeks in my life. the quiet, almost gloomy, old don and i became fast friends, and the hunting was good. the don was a spaniard, but josephine's mother had been a mexican woman, and one noted for her beauty. she had been dead some years at the time of our visit. billy devoted most of his time to the girl. they were a fine looking young couple, he being strong and broad-shouldered, with laughing blue eyes and light curly hair, she slender and perfect in outline, with a typical southern complexion, black eyes--and such eyes they were--and hair and eyebrows like the raven's wing. a few days before billy and i were booked to resume our duties on the deck of the "mary ann," miss josephine took my arm and walked me down the yard and pumped me quietly about "mr. howell," as she called billy. she went into details a little, and i answered all questions as best i could. all i said was in the young man's favor--it could not, in truth, be otherwise. josephine seemed satisfied and pleased. when we got back to headquarters, i was given the care of a cold-water hinkley, with a row of varnished cars behind her, and billy fell heir to the rudder of the "mary ann." we still roomed together. billy put in most of his lay-over time writing long letters to somebody, and every thursday, as regular as a clock, one came for him, with a censor's mark on it. often after reading the letter, billy would say: "that girl has more horse sense than the rest of the whole female race--she don't slop over worth a cent." he invariably spoke of her as "my mexican girl," and often asked my opinion about white men intermarrying with that mongrel race. sometimes he said that his mother would go crazy if he married a mexican, his father would disown him, and his brother henry--well, billy did not like to think just what revenge henry would take. billy's father was manager of an eastern road, and his brother was assistant to the first vice-president, and billy looked up to the latter as a great man and a sage. he himself was in the west for practical experience in the machinery department, and to get rid of a slight tendency to asthma. he could have gone east any time and "been somebody" on the road under his father. finally, billy missed a week in writing. at once there was a cog gone from the answering wheel to match. billy shortened his letters; the answers were shortened. then he quit writing, and his thursday letter ceased to come. he had thought the matter all over, and decided, no doubt, that he was doing what was best--both for himself and the girl; that his family's high ideas should not be outraged by a mexican marriage. he had put a piece of flesh-colored court-plaster over his wound, not healed it. early in the winter the old don wrote, urging us to come down and hunt antelope, but billy declined to go--said that the road needed him, and that josephine might come home from school and this would make them both uncomfortable. but henry, his older brother, was visiting him, and he suggested that i take henry; he would enjoy the hunt, and it would help him drown his sorrow over the loss of his aristocratic young wife, who had died a year or two before. so henry went with me, and we hunted antelope until we tired of the slaughter. then the old don planned a deer-hunting trip in the mountains, but i had to go back to work, and left henry and the old don to take the trip without me. while they were in the mountains, josephine came home, and henry howell's stay lengthened out to a month. but i did not know until long afterward that the two had met. billy was pretty quiet all winter, worked hard and went out but little--he was thinking about something. one day i came home and found him writing a letter. "what now, billy?" i asked. "writing to my mexican girl," said he. "i thought you had got over that a long time ago?" "so did i, but i hadn't. i've been trying to please somebody else besides myself in this matter, and i'm done. i'm going to work for bill now." "take an old man's advice, billy, and don't write that girl a line--go and see her." "oh, i can fix it all right by letter, and then run down there and see her." "don't do it." "i'll risk it." a week later billy and i sat on the veranda of the company's hash-foundry, figuring up our time and smoking our cob meerschaums, when one of the boys who had been to the office, placed two letters in billy's hands. one of them was directed in the handwriting that used to be on the old thursday letters. billy tore it open eagerly--and his own letter to josephine dropped into his hand. billy looked at the ground steadily for five minutes, and i pretended not to have seen. finally he said, half to himself: "you were right, i ought to have gone myself--but i'll go now, go to-morrow." then he opened the other letter. he read its single page with manifest interest, and when his eyes reached the last line they went straight on, and looked at the ground, and continued to do so for fully five minutes. without looking up, he said: "john, i want you to do me two favors." "all right," said i. still keeping his eyes on the ground, he said, slowly, as if measuring everything well: "i'm going up and draw my time, and will leave for old mexico on no. to-night. i want you to write to both these parties and tell them that i have gone there and that you have forwarded both these letters. don't tell 'em that i went after reading 'em." "and the other favor, billy?" "read this letter, and see me off to-night." the letter read: "philadelphia, may , . "dear brother will: i want you and mr. a. to go down to don juan arboles's by the first of june. i will be there then. you must be my best man, as i stand up to marry the sweetest, dearest wild-flower of a woman that ever bloomed in a land of beauty. don't fail me. josephine will like you for my sake, and you will love her for your brother. henry." most engineers' lives are busy ones and full of accident and incident, and having my full share of both, i had almost forgotten all these points about billy howell and his mexican girl, when they were all recalled by a letter from billy himself. with his letter was a photograph of a family group--a be-whiskered man of thirty-five, a good-looking woman of twenty, but undoubtedly a mexican, and a curly-headed baby, perhaps a year old. the letter ran: "city of mexico, july , . "dear old john: i had lost you, and thought that perhaps you had gone over to the majority, until i saw your name and recognized your quill in a story. write to me; am doing well. i send you a photograph of all there are of the howell outfit. _no half-breeds for your uncle this time._ "wm. howell." the polar zone very few of my friends know me for a seafaring man, but i sailed the salt seas, man and boy, for nine months and eighteen days, and i know just as much about sailing the hereinbefore mentioned salt seas as i ever want to. ever so long ago, when i was young and tender, i used to have fits of wanting to go into business for myself. along about the front edge of the seventies, pay for "toting" people and truck over the eastern railroads of new england was not of sufficient plenitude to worry a man as to how he would invest his pay check--it was usually invested before he got it. one of my periodical fits of wanting to go into business for myself came on suddenly one day, when i got home and found another baby in the house. i was right in the very worst spasms of it when my brother enoch, whom i hadn't seen for seventeen years, walked in on me. enoch was fool enough to run away to sea when he was twelve years old--i suppose he was afraid he would get the chance to do something besides whaling. we were born down new bedford way, where another boy and myself were the only two fellows in the district, for over forty years, who didn't go hunting whales, icebergs, foul smells, and scurvy, up in king frost's bailiwick, just south of the pole. enoch had been captain and part owner of a pacific whaler; she had recently burned at honolulu, and he was back home now to buy a new ship. he had heard that i, his little brother john, was the best locomotive engineer in the whole world, and had come to see me--partly on account of relationship, but more to get my advice about buying a steam whaling-ship. enoch knew more about whales and ships and such things than you could put down in a book, but he had no more idea _how_ steam propelled a ship than i had what a "skivvie tricer" was. well, before the week was out, enoch showed me that he was pretty well fixed in a financial way, and as he had no kin but me that he cared about, he offered me an interest in his new steam whaler, if i would go as chief engineer with her to the north pacific. the terms were liberal and the chance a good one, so it seemed, and after a good many consultations, my wife agreed to let me go for _one_ cruise. she asked about the stops to be made in going around the horn, and figured mentally a little after each place was named--i believe now, she half expected that i would desert the ship and walk home from one of these spots, and was figuring on the time it would take me. when the robins were building their nests, the new steam whaler, "champion," left new bedford for parts unknown (_via_ the horn), with the sea-sickest chief engineer that ever smelt fish oil. the steam plant wasn't very much--two boilers and a plain twenty-eight by thirty-six double engine, and any amount of hoisting rigs, blubber boilers, and other paraphernalia. we refitted in san francisco, and on a clear summer morning turned the white-painted figurehead of the "champion" toward the north and stood out for behring sea. but, while we lay at the mouth of the yukon river, up in alaska, getting ready for a sally into the realm of water above the straits, a whaler, bound for san francisco and home, dropped anchor near us, the homesickness struck in on me, and--never mind the details now--your uncle john came home without any whales, and was mighty glad to get on the extra list of the old road. the story i want to tell, however, is another man's story, and it was while lying in the yukon that i heard it. i was deeply impressed with it at the time, and meant to give it to the world as soon as i got home, for i set it all down plain then, but i lost my diary, and half forgot the story--who wouldn't forget a story when he had to make two hundred and ten miles a day on a locomotive and had five children at home? but now, after twenty years, my wife turns up that old diary in the garret this spring while house-cleaning. fred had it and an old fourth-of-july cannon put away in an ancient valise, as a boy will treasure up useless things. under the head of october th, i find this entry: "at anchor in yukon river, weather fair, recent heavy rains; set out packing and filed main-rod brasses of both engines. settled with enoch to go home on first ship bound south. demented white man brought on board by indians, put in my cabin." in the next day's record there appears the following: "watched beside sick man all night; in intervals of sanity he tells a strange story, which i will write down to-day." the th has the following: "wrote out story of stranger. see the back of this book." and at the back of the book, written on paper cut from an old log of the "champion," is the story that now, more than twenty-five years later, i tell you here: on the evening of the th, i went on deck to smoke and think of home, after a hard day's work getting the engines in shape for a siege. the ship was very quiet, half the crew being ashore, and some of the rest having gone in the boat with captain enoch to the "enchantress," homeward bound and lying about half a mile below us. i am glad to say that enoch's principal business aboard the "enchantress" is to get me passage to san francisco. i despise this kind of dreariness--rather be in state prison near the folks. i sat on the rail, just abaft the stack, watching some natives handle their big canoes, when a smaller one came alongside. i noticed that one of the occupants lay at full length in the frail craft, but paid little attention until the canoe touched our side. then the bundle of skins and indian clothes bounded up, almost screamed, "at last!" made a spring at the stays, missed them, and fell with a loud splash into the water. the indians rescued him at once, and in a few seconds he lay like one dead on the deck. i saw at a glance that the stranger in indian clothes was a white man and an american. a pretty stiff dram of liquor brought him to slightly. he opened his eyes, looked up at the rigging, and closing his eyes, he murmured: "thank god!--'frisco--polaria!" i had him undressed and put into my berth. he was shaking as with an ague, and when his clothes were off we plainly saw the reason--he was a skeleton, starving. i went on deck at once to make some inquiry of the indians about our strange visitor, but their boat was just disappearing in the twilight. the man gained strength, as we gave him nourishment in small, frequent doses, and talked in a disjointed way of everything under the sun. i sat with him all night. toward morning he seemed to sleep longer at a time, and in the afternoon of yesterday fell into a deep slumber, from which he did not waken for nearly twenty hours. when he did waken, he took nourishment in larger quantities, and then went off into another long sleep. the look of pain on his face lessened, a healthy glow appeared on his cheek, and he slept so soundly that i turned in--on the floor. i was awake along in the small hours of the morning, and heard my patient stirring, so i got up and drew the little curtain over the bulls-eye port--it was already daylight. i gave him a drink and a biscuit, and told him i would go to the cook's galley and get him some broth, but he begged to wait until breakfast time--said he felt refreshed, and would just nibble a sea biscuit. then he ate a dozen in as many minutes. "did you take care of my pack?" he said eagerly, throwing his legs out of the berth, and looking wildly at me. "yes, it's all right; lie down and rest," said i; for i thought that to cross him would set him off his head again. "do you know that dirty old pack contains more treasures than the mines of africa?" "it don't look it," i answered, and laughed to get him in a pleasant frame of mind--for i hadn't seen nor heard of his pack. "not for the little gold and other valuable things, but the proofs of a discovery as great as columbus made, the discovery of a new continent, a new people, a new language, a new civilization, and riches beyond the dreams of a solomon--" he shut his eyes for a minute, and then continued: "but beyond purgatory, through death, and the other side of hell--" just here enoch came in to inquire after his health, and sat down for a minute's chat. enoch is first, last, and all the time captain of a whaler; he knows about whales and whale-hunters just as an engineer on the road knows every speck of scenery along the line, every man, and every engine. enoch couldn't talk ten minutes without being "reminded" of an incident in his whaling life; couldn't meet a whaleman without "yarning" about the whale business. he lit his pipe and asked: "been whaling, or hunting the north pole?" "well, both." "what ship?" "the 'duncan mcdonald.'" "the--the 'mcdonald!'--why, man, we counted her lost these five years; tell me about her, quick. old chuck burrows was a particular friend of mine--where is he?" "captain, father burrows and the 'duncan mcdonald' have both gone over the unknown ocean to the port of missing ships." "sunk?" "aye, and crushed to atoms in a frozen hell." enoch looked out of the little window for a long time, forgot his pipe, and at last wiped a tear out of his eye, saying, as much to himself as to us: "george burrows made me first mate of the first ship he ever sailed. she was named for his mother, and we left her in the ice away up about the seventy-third parallel. he was made of the salt of the earth--a sailor and a nobleman. but he was a dare-devil--didn't know fear--and was always venturing where none of the rest of us would dare go. he bought the 'mcdonald,' remodeled and refitted her after he got back from the war--she was more than a whaler, and i had a feeling that she would carry burrows and his crew away forever--" eight bells rung just here, and enoch left us, first ordering breakfast for the stranger, and saying he would come back to hear the rest after breakfast. as i was going out, a sailor came to the door with a flat package, perhaps six inches thick and twelve or fourteen square, covered with a dirty piece of skin made from the intestines of a whale, which is used by the natives of this clime because it is light and water-proof. "we found this in a coil of rope, sir; it must belong to him. it must be mostly lead." it was heavy, and i set it inside the door, remarking that here was his precious pack. "precious! aye, aye, sir; precious don't describe it. sacred, that's the word. that package will cause more excitement in the world than the discovery of gold in california. this is the first time it's been out of my sight or feeling for months and months; put it in the bunk here, please." i went away, leaving him with his arms around his "sacred" package. after breakfast, enoch and i went to the little cabin to hear the stranger's story, and i, for one, confess to a great deal of curiosity. our visitor was swallowing his last bowl of coffee as we went in. "so you knew captain burrows and the 'duncan mcdonald,'" said he. "let me see, what is your name?" "alexander, captain of the 'champion,' at your service, sir." "alexander; you're not the first mate, enoch alexander, who sat on a dead whale all night, holding on to a lance staff, after losing your boat and crew?" "the same." "why, i've heard captain burrows speak of you a thousand times." "but you were going to tell us about the 'duncan mcdonald.' tell us the whole cruise from stem to stern." "let's see, where shall i begin?" "at the very beginning," i put in. "well, perhaps you've noticed, and perhaps you have not, but i'm not a sailor by inclination or experience. i accidentally went out on the 'duncan mcdonald.' how old would you take me to be?" "fifty or fifty-five," said enoch. "thanks, captain, i know i must look all of that; but, let me see, forty-five, fifty-five, sixty-five, seventy--seventy--what year is this?" "seventy-three." "seventy-three. well, i'm only twenty-eight now." "impossible! why, man, you're as gray as i am, and i'm twice that." "i was born in forty-five, just the same. my father was a sea captain in the old clipper days, and a long time after. he was in the west india trade when the war broke out, and as he had been educated in the navy, enlisted at once. it was on one of the gunboats before vicksburg that he was killed. my mother came of a well-to-do family of merchants, the clarks of boston, and--to make a long story short--died in sixty-six, leaving me considerable money. "an itching to travel, plenty of money, my majority, and no ties at home, sent me away from college to roam, and so one spring morning in sixty-seven found me sitting lazily in the stern of a little pleasure boat off fort point in the golden gate, listlessly watching a steam whaler come in from the pacific. my boatman called my attention to her, remarking that she was spick-and-span new, and the biggest one he ever saw, but i took very little notice of the ship until in tacking across her wake, i noticed her name in gold letters across the stern--'duncan mcdonald.' now that is my own name, and was my father's; and try as i would, i could not account for this name as a coincidence, common as the name might be in the highlands of the home of my ancestors; and before the staunch little steamer had gotten a mile away, i ordered the boat to follow her. i intended to go aboard and learn, if possible, something of how her name originated. "as she swung at anchor, off goat island, i ran my little boat alongside of her and asked for a rope. 'rope?' inquired a yankee sailor, sticking his nose and a clay pipe overboard; 'might you be wantin' to come aboard?' "'yes, i want to see the captain.' "'well, the cap'en's jest gone ashore; his dingy is yonder now, enemost to the landin'. you come out this evenin'. the cap'en's particular about strangers, but he's always to home of an evenin'.' "'who's this boat named after?' "'the lord knows, stranger; i don't. but i reckon the cap'en ken tell; he built her.' "i left word that i would call in the evening, and at eight o'clock was alongside again. this time i was assisted on board and shown to the door of the captain's cabin; the sailor knocked and went away. it was a full minute, i stood there before the knock was answered, and then from the inside, in a voice like the roar of a bull, came the call: 'well, come in!' "i opened the door on a scene i shall never forget. a bright light swung from the beams above, and under it sat a giant of the sea--captain burrows. he had the index finger of his right hand resting near the north pole of an immense globe; there were many books about, rolls of charts, firearms; instruments, clothing, and apparent disorder everywhere. the cabin was large, well-furnished, and had something striking about it. i looked around in wonder, without saying a word. captain burrows was the finest-looking man i ever saw--six feet three, straight, muscular, with a pleasant face; but the keenest, steadiest blue eye you ever saw. his hair was white, but his long flowing beard had much of the original yellow. he must have been sixty. but for all the pleasant face and kindly eye, you would notice through his beard the broad, square chin that proclaim the decision and staying qualities of the man." "that's george burrows, stranger, to the queen's taste--just as good as a degerry-type," broke in enoch. "well," continued the stranger, "he let me look for a minute or two, and then said: 'was it anything particular?' "i found my tongue then, and answered; 'i hope you'll excuse me, sir; but i must confess it is curiosity. i came on board out of curiosity to--' "'reporter, hey?' asked the captain. "'no, sir; the fact is that your ship has an unusual name, one that interests me, and i wish to make so bold as to ask how she came to have it.' "'any patent on the name?' "'oh, no, but i--' "'well, young man, this ship--by the way, the finest whaler that was ever stuck together--is named for a friend of mine; just such a man as she is a ship--the best of them all.' "'was he a sailor?' "'aye, aye, sir, and such a sailor. fight! why, man, fighting was meat and drink to him--' "'was he a whaler?' "'no, he wa'n't; but he was the best man i ever knew who wa'n't a whaler. he was a navy sailor, he was, and a whole ten-pound battery by hisself. why, you jest ort to see him waltz his old tin-clad gun-boat up agin one of them reb forts--jest naturally skeered 'em half to death before he commenced shooting at all.' "'wasn't he killed at the attack on vicksburg?' "'yes, yes; you knowed him didn't you? he was a--' "'he was my father.' "'what? your father?' yelled captain burrows, jumping up and grasping both my hands. 'of course he was; darn my lubberly wit that i couldn't see that before!' then he hugged me as if i was a ten-year-old girl, and danced around me like a maniac. "'by all the gods at once, if this don't seem like providence--yes, sir, old man providence himself! what are you a-doin'? when did you come out here? where be you goin', anyway?' "i found my breath, and told him briefly how i was situated. 'old man providence has got his hand on the tiller of this craft or i'm a grampus! say! do you know i was wishin' and waitin' for you? yes, sir; no more than yesterday, says i to myself, chuck burrows, says i, you are gettin' long too fur to the wind'ard o' sixty fur this here trip all to yourself. you ort to have young blood in this here enterprise; and then i just clubbed myself for being a lubber and not getting married young and havin' raised a son that i could trust. yes, sir, jest nat'rally cussed myself from stem to stern, and never onct thought as mebbe my old messmate, duncan mcdonald, might 'a'done suthin' for his country afore that day at vicks--say! i want to give you half this ship. mabee i'll do the square thing and give you the whole of the tub yet. all i want is for you to go along with me on a voyage of discovery--be my helper, secretary, partner, friend--anything. what de ye say? say!' he yelled again, before i could answer, 'tell ye what i'll do! bless me if--if i don't adopt ye; that's what i'll do. call me pop from this out, and i'll call you son. _son!_' he shouted, bringing his fist down with a bang on the table. '_son!_ that's the stuff! by the bald-headed abraham, who says chuck burrows ain't got no kin? the "duncan mcdonald," burrows & son, owners, captain, chief cook, and blubber cooker. and who the hell says they ain't?' "and the old captain glared around as if he defied anybody and everybody to question the validity of the claims so excitedly made. "well, gentlemen, of course there was much else said and done, but that announcement stood; and to the day of his death i always called the captain father burrows, and he called me 'son,' always addressing me so when alone, as well as when in the company of others. i went every day to the ship, or accompanied father burrows on some errand into the city, while the boat was being refitted and prepared for a three-years' cruise. "every day the captain let me more and more into his plans, told me interesting things of the north, and explained his theory of the way to reach the pole, and what could be found there; which fascinated me. captain burrows had spent years in the north, had noted that particularly open seasons occurred in what appeared cycles of a given number of years, and proposed to go above the eightieth parallel and wait for an open season. that, according to his figuring, would occur the following year. "i was young, vigorous, and of a venturesome spirit, and entered into every detail with a zest that captured the heart of the old sailor. my education helped him greatly, and new books and instruments were added to our store for use on the trip. the crew knew only that we were going on a three-years' cruise. they had no share in the profits, but were paid extra big wages in gold, and were expected to go to out-of-the-way places and further north than usual. captain burrows and myself only knew that there was a brand-new twenty-foot silk flag rolled up in oil-skin in the cabin, and that father burrows had declared: 'by the hoary-headed nebblekenizer, i'll put them stars and stripes on new land, and mighty near to the pole, or start a butt a-trying.' "in due course of time we were all ready, and the 'duncan mcdonald' passed out of the golden gate into the broad pacific, drew her fires, and stopped her engines, reserving this force for a more urgent time. she spread her ample canvas, and stood away toward alaska and the unknown and undiscovered beyond. "the days were not long for me, for they were full of study and anticipation. long chats with the eccentric but masterful man whose friendship and love for my father had brought us together were the entertainment and stimulus of my existence--a man who knew nothing of science, except that he was master of it in his own way; who knew all about navigation, and to whom the northern seas were as familiar as the contour of boston common was to me; who had more stories of whaling than you could find in print, and better ones than can ever be printed. "i learned first to respect, then to admire, and finally to love this old salt. how many times he told me of my father's death, and how and when he had risked his life to save the life of father burrows or some of the rest of his men. as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, captain burrows and myself became as one man. "i shall never forget the first sunday at sea. early in the morning i heard the captain order the boatswain to pipe all hands to prayers. i had noticed nothing of a religious nature in the man, and, full of curiosity, went on deck with the rest. captain burrows took off his hat at the foot of the mainmast, and said: "'my men, this is the first sunday we have all met together; and as some of you are not familiar with the religious services on board the 'duncan mcdonald,' i will state that, as you may have noticed, i asked no man about his belief when i employed him--i hired you to simply work this ship, not to worship god--but on sundays it is our custom to meet here in friendship, man to man, protestant and catholic, mohammedan, buddhist, fire-worshiper, and pagan, and look into our own hearts, worshiping god as we know him, each in his own way. if any man has committed any offense against his god, let him make such reparation as he thinks will appease that god; but if any man has committed an offense against his fellow-man, let him settle with that man now and here, and not worry god with the details. religion is goodness and justice and honesty; no man needs a sky-pilot to lay a course for him, for he alone knows where the channel, and the rocks, and the bar of his own heart are--look into your hearts.' "captain burrows stood with his hat in his hand, and bowed as if in prayer, and all the old tars bowed as reverently as if the most eloquent divine was exhorting an unseen power in their behalf. the new men followed the example of the old. it was just three minutes by the wheel-house clock before the captain straightened up and said 'amen,' and the men turned away about their tasks. "'beats mumblin' your words out of a book, like a britisher,' said the captain to me; 'can't offend no man's religion, and helps every one on 'em.' "long months after, i attended a burial service conducted in the same way--in silence. "in due course of time we anchored in norton sound, and spent the rest of the winter there; and in the spring of sixty-eight, we worked our way north through the ice. we passed the seventy-fifth parallel of latitude on july th. during the summer we took a number of whales, storing away as much oil as the captain thought necessary, as he only wanted it for fuel and our needs, intending to take none home to sell unless we were unsuccessful in the line of discovery--in that event he intended to stay until he had a full cargo." here our entertainer gave out, and had to rest; and while resting he went to sleep, so that he did not take up his story until the next day. in the morning our guest expressed a desire to be taken on deck; and, dressed in warm sailor clothes, he rested his hand on my shoulder, and slowly crawled on deck and to a sheltered corner beside the captain's cabin. here he was bundled up; and again enoch and i sat down to listen to the strange story of the wanderer. "i hope it won't annoy you, gentlemen," said he, "but i can't settle down without my pack; i find myself thinking of its safety. would you mind sending down for it?" it was brought up, and set down beside him; he looked at it lovingly, slipped the rude strap-loop over his arm, and seemed ready to take up his story where he left off. he began: "i don't remember whether i told you or not, but one of the objects of captain burrows's trip was to settle something definite about the location of the magnetic pole, and other magnetic problems, and determine the cause of some of the well-known distortions of the magnetic needle. he had some odd, perhaps crude, instruments, of his own design, which he had caused to be constructed for this purpose, and we found them very efficient devices in the end. late in july, we found much open water, and steamed steadily in a northwesterly course. we would find a great field of icebergs, then miles of floe, and then again open water. the aurora was seen every evening, but it seemed pale and white. "captain burrows brought the 'duncan mcdonald's' head around to the west in open water, one fine day in early august, and cruised slowly; taking a great many observations, and hunting, as he told me, for floating ice--he was hunting for a current. for several days we kept in the open water, but close to the ice, until one morning the captain ordered the ship to stand due north across the open sea. "he called me into his cabin, and with a large map of the polar regions on his table, to which he often referred, he said: 'son, i've been hunting for a current; there's plenty of 'em in the arctic ocean, but the one i want ain't loafing around here. you see, son, it's currents that carries these icebergs and floes south; i didn't tell you, but some days when we were in those floes, we lost as much as we gained. we worked our way north through the floe, but not on the surface of the globe; the floe was taking us south with it. maybe you won't believe it, but there are currents going north in this sea; once or twice in a lifetime, a whaler or passage hunter returns with a story of being drifted _north_--now that's what i want, i am hunting for a northern current. we will go to the northern shore of this open water, be it one mile or one thousand, and there--well, hunt again.' "well, it was in september when we at last got to what seemed the northern shore of this open sea. we had to proceed very slowly, as there were almost daily fogs and occasional snow-storms; but one morning the ship rounded to, almost under the shadow of what seemed to be a giant iceberg. captain burrows came on deck, rubbing his hands in glee. "'son,' said he, 'that is no iceberg; that's ancient ice, perpetual ice, the great ice-ring--palæcrystic ice, you scientific fellows call it. i saw it once before, in thirty-seven, when a boy; that's it, and, son, beyond that there is something. take notice that that is ice; clear, glary ice. you know a so-called iceberg is really a snowberg; it's three-fourths under water. now, it may be possible that, that being ice which will float more than half out of water, the northern currents may go under it--but i don't believe it. under or over, i am going to find one of 'em, if it takes till doomsday.' [illustration: "what seemed to be a giant iceberg...."] "we sailed west, around close to this great wall of ice, for two weeks, without seeing any evidence of a current of any kind, until there came on a storm from the northwest that drove a great deal of ice around the great ring; but it seemed to keep rather clear of the great wall of ice and to go off in a tangent toward the south. the lead showed no bottom at one hundred fathoms, even within a quarter of a mile of the ice. "it was getting late in the season, the mercury often going down to fifteen below zero, and every night the aurora became brighter. we sailed slowly around the open water, and finally found a place where the sheer precipice of ice disappeared and the shore sloped down to something like a beach. putting out a sea-anchor, the 'duncan mcdonald' kept within a half-a-mile of this icy shore. the captain had determined to land and survey the place, which far away back seemed to terminate in mountain peaks of ice. "that night the captain and i sat on the rail of our ship, talking over the plans for to-morrow's expedition, when the ship slowly but steadily swung around her stern to the mountain of ice--the engines had been moving slowly to keep her head to the wind. captain burrows jumped to his feet in joy. 'a current!' he shouted; 'a current, and toward the north, too--old man providence again, son; he allus takes care of his own!' "some staves were thrown overboard, and, sure enough, they floated toward the ice; but there was no evidence of an opening in the mighty ring, and i remarked to captain burrows that the current evidently went under the ice. "'it looks like it did, son; it looks like it did; but if it goes under, we will go over.' "after we had taken a few hours of sleep, the long-boat landed our little party of five men and seven dogs. we had food and drink for a two weeks' trip, were well armed, and carried some of our instruments. it appeared to be five or six miles to the top of the mountain, but it proved more than thirty. we were five days in getting there, and did so only after a dozen adventures that i will tell you at another time. "we soon began to find stones and dirt in the ice, and before we had gone ten miles, found the frozen carcass of an immense mastodon--its great tusks only showing above the level; but its huge, woolly body quite plainly visible in the ice. the ice was melting, and there were many streams running towards the open water. it was warmer as we proceeded. dirt and rocks became the rule, instead of the exception, and we were often obliged to go around a great boulder of granite. while we were resting, on the third day, for a bite to eat, one of the men took a dish, scooped up some sand from the bottom of the icy stream, and 'panned' it out. there was gold in it: gold enough to pay to work the ground. about noon of the fifth day, we reached the summit of the mountain, and from there looked down the other side--upon a sight the like of which no white men had ever seen before. "from the very summits of this icy-ring mountain the northern side was a sheer precipice of more than three thousand feet, and was composed of rocks, and rocks only, the foot of the mighty crags being washed by an open ocean; and this was lighted up by a peculiar crimson glow. great white whales sported in the waters; huge sea-birds hung in circles high in the air; yet below us, and with our glasses, we could see, on the rocks at the foot of the crags, seals and some other animals that were strange to us. but follow the line of beetling crags and mountain peaks where you would, the northern side presented a solid blank wall of awful rocks, in many places the summit overhanging and the shore well under in the mighty shadow. nothing that any of us had ever seen in nature before was so impressive, so awful. we started on our return, after a couple of hours of the awe-inspiring sight beyond the great ring, and for full two hours not a man spoke. "'father burrows,' said i, 'what do you think that is back there?' "'no man knows, my son, and it will devolve on you and me to name it; but we won't unless we get to it and can take back proofs.' "'do you think we could get down the other side?' "'no, i don't think so, and we seem to have struck it in the lowest spot in sight. i'd give ten years of my life if the 'duncan mcdonald' was over there in that duck pond.' "'captain,' said eli jeffries, the second mate, 'do you know what i've been thinkin'? i believe that 'ere water we seen is an open passage from the behring side of the frozen ocean over agin' some of them 'ere roosian straits. if we could get round to the end of it, we'd sail right through the great northwest passage.' "'you don't think there is land over there somewhere?' "'nope.' "'didn't take notice that the face of your "passage" was granite or quartz rocks, hey? didn't notice all them animals and birds, hey?--' "'look out!' yelled the man ahead with the dog-sledge. "a strange, whirring noise was heard in the foggy light, that sounded over our heads. we all dropped to the ground, and the noise increased, until a big flock of huge birds passed over us in rapid flight north. there must have been thousands of them. captain burrows brought his shot-gun to his shoulder and fired. there were some wild screams in the air, and a bird came down to the ice with a loud thud. it looked very large a hundred feet away, but sight is very deceiving in this white country in the semi-darkness. we found it a species of duck, rather large and with gorgeous plumage. "'goin' north, to eli's "passage" to lay her eggs on the ice,' said the captain, half sarcastically. "we reached the ship in safety, and the captain and i spent long hours in trying to form some plan for getting beyond the great ice-ring. "'if it's warm up there, and everything that we've seen says it is, all this cold water that's going north gets warm and goes out some place; and rest you, son, wherever it goes out, there's a hole in the ice.' "here we were interrupted by the mate, who said that there were queer things going on overhead, and some of the sailors were ready to mutiny unless the return trip was commenced. captain burrows went on deck at once, and you may be sure i followed at his heels. "'what's wrong here?' demanded the captain, in his roaring tone, stepping into the midst of the crew. "'a judgment against this pryin' into god's secrets, sir,' said an english sailor, in an awe-struck voice. 'look at the signs, sir,' pointing overhead. "captain burrows and i both looked over our heads, and there saw an impressive sight, indeed. a vast colored map of an unknown world hung in the clouds over us--a mirage from the aurora. it looked very near, and was so distinct that we could distinguish polar bears on the ice-crags. one man insisted that the mainmast almost touched one snowy peak, and most of them actually believed that it was an inverted part of some world, slowly coming down to crush us. captain burrows looked for several minutes before he spoke. then he said: 'my men, this is the grandest proof of all that providence is helping us. this thing that you see is only a picture; it's a mirage, the reflection of a portion of the earth on the sky. just look, and you will see that it's in the shape of a crescent, and we are almost in the center of it; and, i tell you, it's a picture of the country just in front of us. see this peak? see that low place where we went up? there is the great wall we saw, the open sea beyond it, and, bless me, if it don't look like something green over in the middle of that ocean! see, here is the "duncan mcdonald," as plain as a, b, c, right overhead. now, there's nothing to be afraid of in that; if it's a warning, it's a good one--and if any one wants to go home to his mother's, and is old enough, _he can walk_!' [illustration: "a white city ... was visible for an instant."] "the captain looked around, but the sailors were as cool as he was--they were reassured by his honest explanation. then he took me by the arm, and, pointing to the painting in the sky, said: 'old man providence again, son, sure as you are born; do you see that lane through the great ring? there's an open, fairly straight passage to the inner ocean, except that it's closed by about three miles of ice on our side; see it there, on the port side?' "yes, i could see it, but i asked captain burrows how he could account for the open passages beyond and the wall of ice in front; it was cold water going in. "'it's strange,' he answered, shading his eye with his hand, and looking long at the picture of the clear passage, like a great canal between the beetling cliffs. all at once, he grasped my arm and said in excitement, pointing towards the outer end of the passage: 'look!' "as i looked at the mirage again, the great mass of ice in front commenced to slowly turn over, outwardly. "'it's an iceberg, sir, only an iceberg!' said the captain, excitedly, 'and she is just holding that passage because the current keeps her up against the hole; now, she will wear out some day, and then--in goes the "duncan mcdonald"!' "'but there are others to take its place,' and i pointed to three other bergs, apparently some twenty miles away, plainly shown in the sky; 'they are the reinforcements to hold the passage.' "'looks that way, son, but by the great american buzzard, we'll get in there somehow, if we have to blow that berg up.' "as we looked, the picture commenced to disappear, not fade, but to go off to one side, just as a picture leaves the screen of a magic lantern. over the inner ocean there appeared dark clouds; but this part was visible last, and the clouds seemed to break at the last moment, and a white city, set in green fields and forests, was visible for an instant, a great golden dome in the center remaining in view after the rest of the city was invisible. "'a rainbow of promise, son,' said the captain. "i looked around. the others had grown tired of looking, and were gone. captain burrows and myself were the only ones that saw the city. "we got under way for an hour, and then stood by near the berg until eight bells the next morning; but you must remember it was half dark all the time up there then. while captain burrows and myself were at breakfast, he cudgeled his brains over ways and means for moving that ice, or preventing other bergs from taking its place. when we went on deck, our berg was some distance from the mouth of the passage, and steadily floating away. captain burrows steamed the ship cautiously up toward the passage; there was a steady current coming out. "'i reckon,' said eli jeffries, 'they must have a six-months' ebb and flow up in that ocean.' "'if that's the case, said captain burrows, 'the sooner we get in, the better;' and he ordered the 'duncan mcdonald' into the breach in the world of ice. "gentlemen, suffice it to say that we found that passage perfectly clear, and wider as we proceeded. this we did slowly, keeping the lead going constantly. the first mate reported the needle of the compass working curiously, dipping down hard, and sparking--something he had never seen. captain burrows only said: 'let her spark!' "as we approached the inner ocean, as we called it, the passage was narrow; it became very dark and the waters roared ahead. i feared a fall or rapid, but the 'duncan mcdonald' could not turn back. the noise was only the surf on the great crags within. as the ship passed out into the open sea beyond, the needle of the compass turned clear around and pointed back. 'do you know, son,' said captain burrows, 'that i believe the so-called magnetic pole is a great ring around the true pole, and that we just passed it there? the whole inside of this mountain looks to me like rusted iron instead of stone, anyhow.'" here our story-teller rested and dozed for a few minutes; then rousing up, he said: "i'll tell you the rest to-morrow; yes, to-morrow; i'm tired now. to-morrow i'll tell you about a wonderful country; wonderful cities; wonderful people! i'll show you solar pictures such as you never saw, of scenes, places, and people you never dreamed of. i will show you implements that will prove that there's a country where gold is as common as tin at home--where they make knives and forks and stew-pans of it! i'll show you writing more ancient and more interesting than the most treasured relics in our sanscrit libraries. i'll tell you of the two years i spent in another world. i'll tell you of the precious cargo that went to the bottom of the frozen ocean with the staunch little ship, 'duncan mcdonald;' of the bravest, noblest commander, and the sweetest angel of a woman that ever breathed and lived and loved. i'll tell you of my escape and the hell i've been through. to-morrow--" he dozed off for a few moments again. "but i've got enough in this pack to turn the world inside out with wonder--ah, what a sensation it will be, what an educational feature! it will send out a hundred harum-scarum expeditions to find polaria--but there are few commanders like captain burrows; he could do it, the rest of 'em will die in the ice. but when i get to san fran----. say, captain, how long will it take to get there, and how long before you start?" enoch and i exchanged glances, and enoch answered: "we wa'n't goin' to "frisco." "around the horn, then?" inquired the stranger, sitting up. "but you will land me in 'frisco, won't you? i can't wait, i must--" "we're goin' _in_," said enoch; "goin' north, for a three-years' cruise." "north!" shouted the stranger, wildly. "three years in that hell of ice. three years! my god! north! north!" he was dancing around the deck like a maniac, trying to put his pack-loop over his head. enoch went toward him, to tell him how he could go on the "enchantress," but he looked wildly at him, ran forward and sprang out on the bowsprit, and from there to the jib. enoch saw he was out of his mind, and ordered two sailors to bring him in. as they sprang on to the bow, he stood up and screamed: "no! no! no! three years! three lives! three hells! i never--" one of the men reached for him here, but he kicked at the sailor viciously, and turning sidewise, sprang into the water below. a boat, already in the water, was manned instantly; but the worn-out body of another north pole explorer had gone to the sands of the bottom where so many others have gone before; evidently his heavy pack had held him down, there to guard the story it could tell--in death as he had in life. the end ----------------------------------------------------------------------- danger signals remarkable, exciting and unique examples of the bravery, daring and stoicism in the midst of danger of train dispatchers and railroad engineers by john a. hill and jasper ewing brady absorbing stories of men with nerves of steel, indomitable courage and wonderful endurance fully illustrated chicago jamieson-higgins co. [illustration: facsimile of a completed order as entered in the despatcher's order-book] danger signals. part ii. chapter i learning the business--my first office seated in sumptuously furnished palace cars, annihilating space at the rate of sixty miles an hour, but few passengers ever give a thought to the telegraph operators of the road stuck away in towers or in dingy little depots, in swamps, on the tops of mountains, or on the bald prairies and sandy deserts of the west; and yet, these selfsame telegraph operators are a very important adjunct to the successful operation of the road, and a single error on the part of one of them might result in the loss of many lives and thousands of dollars. the whole length of the railroad from starting point to terminus is literally under the eyes of the train despatcher. by means of reports sent in by hundreds of different operators, he knows the exact location of all trains at all times, the number of "loads" and "empties" in each train, the number of cars on each siding, the number of passing tracks and their capacity, the capabilities of the different engines, the gradients of the road, the condition of the roadbed, and, above all, he knows the personal characteristics of every conductor and engineer on the road. in fact if there is one man of more importance than another on a railroad it is the train despatcher. during his trick of eight hours he is the autocrat of the road, and his will in the running of trains is absolute. therefore despatchers are chosen with very special regard for their fitness for the position. they must be expert telegraphers, quick at figures, and above all they must be as cool as ice, have nerves of steel, and must be capable of grasping a trying situation the minute an emergency arises. an old despatcher once said to me: "sooner or later a despatcher, if he sticks to the business, will have his smash-up, and then down goes a reputation which possibly he has been years in building up, and his name is inscribed on the roll of 'has-beens.'" before the despatcher comes the operator, and the old biblical saying, "many are called but few are chosen," is well illustrated by the small number of good despatchers that are found; it is easy enough to find excellent operators, but a first-class despatcher is a rarity among them. i learned telegraphy some fifteen or sixteen years ago at a school away out in western kansas. after i had been there three or four months, i was the star of the class, and imagined that the spirit of professor morse had been reincarnated in me. no wire was too swift for me to work, no office too great for me to manage; in fact visions of a superintendency of telegraph flitted before my eyes. such institutions as this school are very correctly named "ham factories." during my stay at the school i formed the acquaintance of the night operator at the depot and it was my wont to spend most of my nights there picking up odds and ends of information. for my own benefit i used to copy everything that came along; but the young man in charge never left me entirely alone. night operators at all small stations have to take care of their own lamps and fires, sweep out, handle baggage, and, in short, be porter as well as operator, and for the privilege of being allowed to stay about i used to do this work for the night man at the office in question. his name was harry burgess and he was as good a man as ever sat in front of a key. some few weeks after this he was transferred to a day office up the road and by his help i was made night operator in his stead. need i say how proud i felt when i received a message from the chief despatcher telling me to report for duty that night? i think i was the proudest man, or boy rather, on this earth. just think! night operator, porter and baggageman, working from seven o'clock in the evening until seven o'clock in the morning, and receiving the magnificent sum of forty dollars per month! it was enough to make my bosom swell with pride and it's a wonder i didn't burst. heretofore, i had had burgess to fall back upon when i was copying messages or orders, but now i was alone and the responsibility was all mine. i managed to get through the first night very well, because all i had to do was to take a few "red" commercial messages, "o. s." the trains and load ten big sample trunks on no. . the trains were all on time and consequently there were no orders. i was proud of my success and went off duty at seven o'clock in the morning with a feeling that my services were well nigh indispensable to the road, and if anything were to happen to me, receivers would surely have to be appointed. the second night everything went smoothly until towards eleven o'clock, when the despatcher began to call "mn," and gave the signal " ." now the signal " " means "train orders," and takes precedence over everything else on the wire. the situation was anything but pleasant for me, because i had never yet, on my own responsibility, taken a train order, and i stood in a wholesome fear of the results that might accrue from any error of mine. so i didn't answer the despatcher at once as i should have done because i hoped he would get tired of calling me and would tackle "og," and give him the order. but he didn't. he just kept on calling me, increasing his speed all the time. in sheer desperation, i went out on the platform for five minutes and stamped around to keep warm, hoping all the time he would stop when he found i did not answer. but when i returned instead of calling me on one wire, he had his operator calling me on the commercial line while he was pounding away on the railroad wire. at the rate those two sounders were going they sounded to me like the crack of doom and i was becoming powerfully warm. i finally mustered up courage and answered him. the first thing the despatcher said was: "where in h--l have you been?" i didn't think that was a very nice thing for him to say, and he fired it at me so fast i could hardly read it, so i simply replied, "out fixing my batteries." "well," he said, "your batteries will need fixing when i get through with you. now copy ." "copy ," means to take three copies of the order that is to follow, so i grabbed my manifold order-book and stylus and prepared to copy. there is a rule printed in large bold type in all railroad time-cards which says, "despatchers, in sending train orders to operators, will accommodate their speed to the abilities of the operators. in all cases _they will send plainly and distinctly_." if the despatcher had sent according to my ability just then he would have sent that order by train mail. but instead, from the very beginning, he fired it at me so fast, that before i had started to take it he was away down in the body of it. i had written down only the order number and date, when i broke and said, "g. a. to." that made him madder than ever and he went at me again with increased violence the sounder seeming like the roll of a drum. i think i broke him about ten times and finally he said, "for heaven's sake go wake up the day man. you're nothing but a ham." strangely enough i could take all of his nasty remarks without any trouble while the order almost completely stumped me. however, i finally succeeded in putting it all down, repeated it back to him, and received his "o. k." when the train arrived the conductor and engineer came in the office and i gave them the order. the conductor glanced at it for a moment and then said with a broad grin, "say, kid, which foot did you use in copying this?" my copy wasn't very clear, but finally he deciphered it, and they both signed their names, the despatcher gave me the "complete," and they left. as soon as the train, which was no. , a livestock express, had departed, i made my o. s. report, and then heaved a big sigh of relief. scarcely had the tail-lights disappeared across the bridge and around the bend, when the despatcher called again and said, "for god's sake stop that train." i said, "i can't. she's gone." "well," he snapped back, "there's a good chance for a fine smash-up this night." that scared me almost out of my wits, and i looked at my copy of the order. but it read all right, and yet i felt mighty creepy. about thirty minutes afterwards, i heard a heavy step on the platform and in a second the hind brakeman came tramping in, and cheerfully saluted me with, "well, i reckon you've raised h--l to-night. and are up against each other hard about a mile and a half east of here. they met on a curve and engines, box-cars, livestock and freight are piled up in fine shape." "any one killed?" i asked with a blanched face and sinking heart. "naw, no one is exactly killed, but one engineer and a fireman are pretty badly scalded, and 'shorty' jones, our head man, has a broken leg caused by jumping. you'd better tell the despatcher." visions of the penitentiary for criminal neglect danced before my disordered brain; all my knowledge of telegraphy fled; i was weak in the knees, sick at heart, and as near a complete wreck as a man could be. but something had to be done, so i finally told the despatcher that nos. and were in the ditch, and he snapped back, "d--n it, i've been expecting it, and have ordered the wrecking outfit out from watsego. you turn your red-light and hold everything that comes along. in the meantime go wake up the day man. i want an operator there, and not a ham." when the day man came in, half dressed, he said, "well, what the devil is the matter?" speech had entirely left me by this time, so i simply pointed to the order, and the brakeman told him the rest. never in all my life have i spent such a night as that. the day man regaled me with charming little incidents, about men he knew, who, for having been criminally negligent, had been shot by infuriated engineers or had been sent up for ten years. he seemed to take a fiendish delight in telling me these things and my discomfiture was great. i would have run away if i hadn't been too weak. about seven o'clock in the morning, after a night of misery, he patronizingly told me, that it wasn't my fault at all; the despatcher had given a "lap order," and that the blame was on him. well! the reaction was as bad, almost, as the first feeling of horror. i went home and after a light breakfast, retired to bed, but not to sleep, for every time i would close my eyes, visions of wrecks, penitentiaries, dead men and ruined homes came crowding upon my disordered brain. about ten o'clock they sent for me to come to the office. i went over and webster the agent said the superintendent wanted to see me. i had never seen the superintendent and he seemed to me to be about as far off as the president of the united states, but i screwed up my courage and went in. i saw a kindly-looking gentleman seated before webster's desk, but i was too much frightened to speak and just stood there like a bump on a log. presently, mr. brink, the superintendent, turned to webster and said, "i wonder why that night man doesn't come?" i tremblingly replied, "i am the night man, sir." he looked at me for a moment and smilingly said, "why, bless my soul, my lad! i thought you were a messenger boy." he then asked me for my story of the wreck. when i had given it he seemed satisfied, and gave me lots of good advice; but in the end he said i was too young to have the position, and i was discharged. but he kindly added, that in a few years he would be glad to have me come back on the road, after i had acquired more experience. the next day i returned to school. chapter ii an encounter with train robbers my first attempt at holding an office had proved such a flat and dismal failure that i thought i should never have the heart to apply for another. i worked faithfully in the school for about a month, and then the fever to try again took hold of me. i knew it would be of no use to apply to my former superintendent, mr. brink, so i wrote to mr. r. b. bunnell, superintendent of telegraph of the p. q. & x. railroad at kansas city, missouri, saying i was an expert operator and desired a position on his road. mr. bunnell must have been laboring under a hypnotic spell, for by return mail he wrote, enclosing me a pass to alfreda, kansas, and directing me to assume charge of the night office at that point at the magnificent salary of $ . per month. this was a slight decrease from my former salary, but i didn't care. i wanted a chance to redeem myself and i felt confident i could be more successful in my second attempt. so i packed my few belongings, bade good-bye to the school forever, and away i went. when i left "mn," i said nothing to any one about my destination, and i did not know a thing about alfreda, except that it was near the border line between kansas and colorado. the brakeman on the train in talking to me told me it was a very pleasant place; but when he said so i fancied i could detect a sarcastic ring in his voice, and i was in no doubt about it when i arrived and saw what a desolate, dreary place alfreda was. the only things in sight were a water-tank, a pump-house and the telegraph office; and i wish you could have seen that office. it was simply the bed of a box-car, taken off the trucks and set down with one end towards the track. a small platform, two windows, a door, and the signal board perched high on a pole completed the outfit. i arrived at six-thirty in the morning and there wasn't a living soul in sight. an hour later, a big broad shouldered irishman who proved to be the pumper, came ambling along on a railroad velocipede. he looked at me for a minute, and after i had made myself known he grinned and said, "well, i hopes as how ye will loike the place. burke, the man who was here afore ye, got scared off by thramps, and i reckon he's not stopped runnin' yit." fine introduction wasn't it? i found there was no day operator and the only house around was the section house, two miles up the track. the operator and pumper boarded there with the section boss; but the railroad company was magnanimous enough to furnish a velocipede for their use in going to and from the station. how i felt the first night, stuck away out there in that box-car, two miles from the nearest house and twelve miles from the nearest town, i must leave to the imagination. my heart sank and i had many misgivings, in fact, i was scared to death, but i set my teeth hard and determined to do my best, with the hope that i might be promoted to a better office. i did win that promotion but i wouldn't go through my experiences again for the whole road. one night after i had been working there about a month, i went to my office as usual at seven o'clock. it was a black night threatening a big storm. the pumper had not gone home as yet and he remarked, that it was "goin' to be a woild night," but he hoped "the whistlin' av the wind would be after kaping me company," and with that he jumped on the velocipede, and off he went. i didn't much relish the idea of the storm, for i knew the reputation of kansas as a cyclone state, and my box-car office was not well adapted to stand a hurricane. however, i went inside, and after lighting my lamps, sat down and wrote letters and read, when i was not taking train orders. this office was kept up solely because it was a convenient place to deliver orders to freight trains at night when they stopped for water. about twelve-thirty in the morning my door opened suddenly, and a man stepped quickly in. i was startled because this was almost the only man except the pumper and the train crews that had been there since i came. once in a while a stray tramp had gone through, but this man was not a tramp. he wore a long overcoat, buttoned to his chin, with the collar turned up. a slouch hat pulled well down over his eyes so far concealed his face that his features were scarcely visible. he came over to my desk and gruffly asked, "what time is there a passenger train east to-night?" i answered that one went through at half past one, the overland flyer, but it did not stop at alfreda. quick as a flash he pulled a revolver and poking it in my face, said, "young man, you turn your red-light and stop that train or i'll make a vacancy in this office mighty d----d quick." [illustration: "two of the men tied my hands in front of me."] the longer i gazed down the barrel of that revolver the bigger it grew, and it looked to me as if it was loaded with buck-shot to the muzzle. when it had grown to about the size of a gatling gun (and it didn't take long to do it), i concluded that "discretion was the better part of valor," and reached up and turned my red-light. meanwhile the door opened again, and three more men came in. they were masked and the minute i saw them i knew they were going to make an attempt to hold up the overland flyer. often this train carried large amounts of bullion and currency east, and i supposed they had heard that there was a shipment to go through that night. i was standing with my back to the table, and just then i heard the despatcher say that the flyer was thirty minutes late from the west. i put my hands quietly behind me and let the right rest on the key. i then carefully opened the key and had just begun to speak to the despatcher when one of the men suspected me and said to the leader, "bill, watch that little cuss. he's monkeying with the instrument and may give them warning." i stopped, closed the key, and was trying to look unconcerned, when "bill," said that "to stop all chances of further trouble," they would bind and gag me. thereupon two of the men tied my hands in front of me, bound my legs securely, and thrust a villainously dirty gag in my mouth. when this was done, "bill" said, "throw him across those blamed instruments so they will keep quiet." they flung me upon the table, face downwards, so that the relay was just under my stomach, and of course my weight against the armature of the relay stopped the clicking of the sounder. as luck would have it, my left hand was in such a position that it just touched the key, and i found i could move the hand slightly. so i opened the key and pretended to be struggling quite a little. the leader came over and giving me a good stiff punch in the ribs, said with an oath, "you keep quiet or we'll find a way to make you." i became passive again, and then when the men were engaged in earnest conversation, i began to telegraph softly to the despatcher. the relay being shut off by my weight, there was no noise from the sounder, and i sent so slowly that the key was noiseless. of course i did not know on whom i was breaking in, but i kept on. i told the exact state of affairs, and asked him to either tell the flyer not to heed my red-light and go through, or, better still, to send an armed posse from kingsbury, twelve miles up the road. i repeated the message twice, so that he would be sure to hear it, and then trusted to luck. the cords and gags were beginning to hurt, and my anxiety was very great. the minutes dragged slowly by, and i thought that hour would never end; but it did end at last, and all of a sudden i heard the long calliope whistle of the engine on the flyer as she came down the grade. this was followed by two short blasts, that showed she had seen my red-light and was going to stop. "my god!" i thought. "has she been warned?" so soon as the train whistled the men went out leaving me helpless on the table. i heard the whistle of the air brakes and knew the train must be slowing up. my anxiety was intense. presently i heard her stop at the tank, and then, in about a second, i listened to the liveliest fusillade that i had ever heard in my life. it was sweet music to my ears i can tell you, for it indicated to me, what proved to be a fact, that a posse were on board and that the robbers were foiled. one of them was shot, and two were captured, but "bill," the leader, escaped. they had their horses hitched to the telegraph poles, and as "bill" went running by the office i heard him say, "i'll fix that d--d operator, anyhow." then, bang! crash, went the glass in the window, and a bullet buried itself in the table, not two inches from my head. i was not exactly killed, but i was frightened so badly, and the strain had been so great, that when the trainmen came in to release me, i at once lost consciousness. when i came to, i was surrounded by a sympathetic crowd of passengers and trainmen, and a doctor, who happened to be on the train, was pouring something down my throat that soon made me feel better. as soon as i had recovered myself sufficiently, i telegraphed the despatcher what had happened, and the chief, who in the meantime had been sent for, told me to close up my office, and come east on the flyer, to report for duty in the morning in his office as copy operator. that is how i won my promotion. chapter iii in a wreck the change from alfreda to the chief despatcher's office in nicholson was, indeed, a pleasant one. the despatchers, especially the first trick man, seemed somewhat dubious as to my ability to do the work, but i was rapidly improving in telegraphy, and, in spite of my extreme youth i was allowed to remain. but the life of a railroad man is very uncertain, and one day we were much surprised to hear that the road had gone into the hands of receivers. there were charges of mismanagement made against a number of the higher officials of the road, and one of the first things the receivers did was to have a general "house-cleaning." the general manager, the general superintendent, and a number of the division superintendents resigned to save dismissal, and my friend the chief despatcher went with them. he was succeeded by ted donahue, the man who had been working the first trick. ted didn't like me worth a cent, and, rather than give him an opportunity to dismiss me, i quit. i was at home idle for a few weeks, and then hearing that there might be an opening for operators on the c. q. & r., a new road building up in nebraska, i once more started out. it was an all night ride to the division headquarters, and thinking i might as well be luxurious for once, i took a sleeper. my berth was in the front end of the last car on the train. i retired about half past ten and soon dropped off into a sound sleep. i had been asleep for perhaps two hours, when i was awakened by the car giving a violent lurch, and then suddenly stopping. i was stunned and dazed for a moment, but i soon heard the cracking and breaking of timbers, and the hissing of steam painfully near to my section. i tried to move and rise up, but found that the confines of my narrow quarters would not permit it. i then realized that we were wrecked and that i was in a bad predicament. i felt that i had no bones broken, and my only fear was that the wreck would take fire. my fears were not groundless for i soon smelled smoke. i cried out as loudly as i could, but my berth had evidently become a "sound proof booth." then i felt that my time had come, and had about given up all hope, and was trying to say a prayer, when i heard the train-crew and passengers working above me. again i cried out and this time was heard, and soon was taken out. god! what a night it was--raining a perfect deluge and the wind blowing a hurricane. i learned that our train had stopped on account of a hot driving-box on the engine; the hind brakeman had been sent back to put out a flag, but, imagining there was nothing coming, he had neglected to do his full duty, and before he knew it, a fast freight came tearing around the bend, and a tail-end collision was the result. seeing the awful effects of his gross neglect, the brakeman took out across the country and was never heard of again. i fancy if he could have been found that night by the passengers and train-crew his lot would have been anything but pleasant. two people in the sleeper were killed outright, and three were injured, while the engineer and fireman of the freight were badly hurt by jumping. i didn't get a scratch. as i stood watching the wrecked cars burn, i heard the conductor say, "he wished to god he had an operator with him." i told him i was an operator and offered my services. he said there was a pocket instrument in the baggage car, and asked me if i would cut in on the wire and tell the despatcher of the wreck. i assented and went forward with him to the baggage car, where he gave me a pair of pliers, a pocket instrument and about eight feet of office wire. i asked for a pair of climbers and some more office wire, but neither was to be had. here, therefore, was a pretty knotty problem. the telegraph poles were thirty feet high; how was i to make a connection with only eight feet of wire and no climbers? i thought for a while, and then i put the instrument in my pocket, and undertook to "shin up" the pole as i used to do when i was a schoolboy. after many efforts, in which i succeeded in tearing nearly all the clothes off of me, i finally reached the lowest cross-arm, and seated myself on it with my legs wrapped around the pole. there was only one wire on this arm, so i had, comparatively speaking, plenty of room. on each of the other two cross arms there were four wires, and there was also one strung along the tops of the poles. this made ten wires in all, and i had not the least idea which one was the despatcher's wire. the pole being wet from the rain, made the wires mighty hot to handle. i had the fireman hand me up a piece of old iron wire he happened to have on the engine, and with this i made a flying cut in the third wire of the second cross arm. i attached the little pocket instrument, and found that upon adjusting it, i was on a commercial wire. there i was, straddling a cross arm between heaven and earth, with the instrument held on my knee, and totally ignorant of any of the calls or the wire i was on. i yelled down to the conductor and asked him if he knew any of the calls. no; of course he didn't; and he was so excited he didn't have sense enough to look on his time-card, where the calls are always printed. finally, after carefully adjusting the instrument, i opened my key, broke in on somebody, and said "wreck." the answer came, "sine." i said, "i haven't any sine. no. on the c. k. & q. has been wrecked out here, and i want the despatcher's office. can you tell me if he is on this wire?" now there is a vast deal of difference between sending with a bunnell key on a polished table, and sending with a pocket instrument held on your knee, especially when you are perched on a thirty foot pole, with the rain pouring down in torrents, the wind blowing almost a gale, and expecting every minute to be blown off and have your precious neck broken. consequently my sending was pretty "rocky," and some one came back at me with, "oh! get out you big ham." but i hung to it and finally made them understand who i was and what i wanted. the main office in ouray cut me in on the despatcher's wire and i told him of the wreck. he said he had suspected that no. . was in trouble, but he had no idea that it was as bad as i had reported. he said he would order out the wrecking outfit and would send doctors with it. would i please stay close and do the telegraphing for them, he would see that i was properly rewarded. then i told him about where i was, but promised to hold on as long as i could, but for him to be sure and send out some more wire and a pair of climbers on the wrecker. after waiting about an hour the wrecker arrived, and with it the doctors; so our anxiety was relieved, the wounded taken care of, and a decent wrecking office put in. the division superintendent came out with them, and for my services he offered me the day office at x----, which i accepted. chapter iv a woman operator who saved a train x---- was a pretty good sort of an office to have, barring a beastly climate wherein all four seasons would sometimes be ably and fully represented in one twenty-four hours. but eighty big round american dollars a month was not to be sneezed at--that was a heap of money to a young chap--and i hung on. in those days civilization had not advanced as far westward as it is to-day, and there was not much local business on the road, due to the sparsely settled country. the first office east of x---- was dunraven, some twenty miles away. between the two places were several blind sidings used as passing tracks. dunraven was a cracking good little village and the day operator there was miss mary marsh; there was no night office. now i was just at the age where all a young man's susceptibility comes to the surface, and i was a pretty fair sample. i weighed one hundred and fifty pounds and every ounce of me was as susceptible as a barometer on a stormy day. consequently it was not long until i knew mary and liked her immensely. all my spare time was occupied in talking to her over the wire, except when the cussed despatcher would chase me off with, "oh! get out you big spoon, you make every one tired." then mary would give me the merry, "ha, ha, ha." one time i took a day off and ran down to dunraven, and my impressions were fully confirmed. mary was a little bit of a woman, with black hair, red lips, white teeth, and two eyes that looked like coals of fire, so bright were they. she was small, but when she took hold of the key, she was jerked lightning, and i have never seen but one woman since who was her equal in that line. our road was one of the direct connections of the "overland route," west to san francisco, and twice a day we had a train, that in those days was called a flyer. now it would be in a class with the first class freights. the west bound train passed my station at eight in the morning, and the east bound at seven-thirty in the evening. after that i gave "ds" good night, and was free until seven the next morning. the east bound flyer passed dunraven at eight-fifteen in the evening and then. mary was through for the night. the town was a mile away from the depot and the poor girl had to trudge all that distance alone. but she was as plucky as they make them and was never molested. a mile west of dunraven was peach creek, spanned by a wooden pile and stringer bridge. ordinarily, you could step across peach creek, but sometimes, after a heavy rain it would be a raging torrent of dirty muddy water, and it seemed as if the underpinning must surely be washed out by the flood. one day after i had been at x---- a couple of months, we had a stem-winder of a storm. the rain came down in torrents unceasingly for twelve hours, and the country around x---- was almost a morass. the roadbed was good, however, and when the section men came in at six that night they reported the track firm and safe. but, my stars! how the rain was falling at seven-thirty as the flyer went smashing by. i made my "os" report and then thought i'd sit around and wait until it had passed dunraven and have a little chat with mary, before going home for the night. at seven-forty-five i called her but no answer. then i waited. eight o'clock, eight-fifteen, eight-twenty, and still nothing from dunraven. the despatcher then started to call "du," but no answer. finally, he said to me, "you call 'du.' maybe the wire is heavy and she can't adjust for me." i called steadily for five minutes, but still no reply. i was beginning to get scared. all sorts of ideas came into my head--robbers, tramps, fire and murder. "ds" said, "i'm afraid something has happened to the flyer. turn your red-light and when no. comes along, i'll give them an order to cut loose with the engine and go through and find the flyer." five minutes later the wire opened and closed. then the current became weak, but adjusting down, i heard, "ds, ds, wk." ah! that meant a wreck. "ds" answered and i heard the following message:-- "w. d. c. "peach creek, | , -- "ds. "peach creek bridge washed out to-night, but i heard of it and arrived here in time to flag the flyer. send an operator on the wrecking outfit to relieve me. (signed) mary marsh, operator." two hours afterwards the wrecker came by x---- and, obedient to orders from the despatcher, i boarded it and went down to work the office. we reached there in about forty minutes and found that the torrent had washed out the underpinning of the bridge, and nothing was left but a few ties, the rails and the stringers. a half witted boy, who lived in dunraven, had been fishing that day like "simple simon," and came tramping up to the office, telling miss marsh, in an idiotic way, that peach creek bridge had washed out. just then she heard me "os" the flyer and her office was the next one to mine. as the flyer did not stop at dunraven, the baggageman and helper went home at six o'clock and she was absolutely alone save for this half witted boy. the section house was a mile and a half away to the east. a mile away, to the south were the twinkling lights of the village, while but one short mile to the west was peach creek, with the bridge gone out, and the flyer thundering along towards it with its precious load of human freight. how could it be warned. the boy hadn't sense enough to pound sand. she must do it. so, quick as a flash she picked up the red-light standing near, and started down the track. the rain was coming down in a perfect deluge, and the wind was sweeping across the nebraska prairies like a hurricane. lightning was flashing, casting a lurid glare over the soaked earth, and the thunder rolled peal after peal, resembling the artillery of great guns in a big battle. truly, it was like the setting for a grand drama. undaunted by it all, this brave little woman, bare headed, hair flying in the wind, and soaked to the skin, battled with the elements as she fought her way down the track. a mile, ordinarily, is a short distance, but now, to her, it seemed almost interminable; and all the time the flyer was coming nearer and nearer to the creek with the broken bridge. my god! would she make it! presently, above the howling of the wind she heard the mad waters as they went boiling and tumbling down the channel. [illustration: "after many efforts i finally reached the lowest cross-arm."] at last she was there, standing on the brink. but the train was not yet saved. just across the creek the road made an abrupt curve around a small hill, and if she could not reach that curve her labors would be to no avail, and a frightful wreck would follow. all the bridge was gone save the rails, stringers and a few shaky ties. only forty feet intervened between her and the opposite bank, and get across she must. there was only one way, so grasping the lantern between her teeth, she started across on her hands and knees. the stringers swayed back and forth in the wind, and her frail body, it seemed, would surely be caught up and blown into the mad maëlstrom of waters below. no! no! she could not fail now. away up the road, borne to her anxious ears by the howling wind, she heard two long and two short blasts of the flyer's whistle as she signalled for a crossing. god! would she ever get there. straining every nerve, at last success was hers, and tottering, she struggled up the other side. flying up the track, looking for all the world like some eyrie witch, she reached the curve, swinging her red light like mad. bob burns, who was pulling the flyer that night, saw the signal, and immediately applied the emergency brakes. then he looked again and the red-light was gone. but caution is a magic watchword with all railroad men, and he stopped. climbing down out of the cab of the engine, he took his torch, and started out to investigate. he didn't have far to go, when he came upon the limp, inanimate form of mary marsh, the extinguished red-light tightly clasped in her cold little hand. "my god! mike," he yelled to his fireman, "it's a woman. why, hang me, if it isn't the little lady from dunraven. wonder what she is doing out here." he wasn't long in ignorance, because a brakeman sent out ahead saw that the bridge had gone. rough, but kindly hands, bore her tenderly into the sleeper, and under the ministrations of her own sex, she soon came around. so soon as she had seen the flyer stopping she realized that she had succeeded and womanlike--she fainted. her clothes were torn to tatters, and taken all in all this little heroine was a most woebegone specimen of humanity. a wrecking office was cut in by the baggageman, who happened to be an old lineman, and she sent the message to "ds," telling him of the wreck. i relieved her and she stayed in the sleeper all night, and the next day she returned to her work at dunraven, but little worse for the experience. she had positively refused to accept a thing from the thankful passengers, saying she did but her duty. two months afterwards she married the chief despatcher, and the profession lost the best woman operator in the business. i was dreadfully cut by the ending of affairs, but she had said, "red headed operators were not in her class," and i reckon she was about right. surely, she was a direct descendant from the spartan mothers. chapter v a night office in texas--a stuttering despatcher it was not long after mary threw me over that i became tired of x---- and gave up my job and started south. i said it was on account of ill health, but the last thing that cussed first trick despatcher said to me was, "never mind, you old spoon, you'll get over this attack in a very short while." i landed in st. louis one bright morning and went up to the office of the chief despatcher of the q. m. & s., and applied for an office on his division. he had none to give me but wired the chief despatcher at big rock, and in answer thereto i was sent the next morning to healyville. and what a place i found! the town was down in the swamps of southeast missouri, four miles north of the arkansas line, and consisted of the depot and twenty or twenty-five houses, five of which were saloons. there was a branch road running from here to honiton, quite a settlement on the mississippi river, and that was the only possible excuse for an officer at this point. the atmosphere was so full of malaria, that you could almost cut it with an axe. i stayed there just three days, and then, fortunately, the chief despatcher ordered me to come to his office. he wanted me to take the office at boling cross, near the texas line, but i had the traveling fever and wanted to go further south, and he sent me down on the i. & g. n., and the chief there sent me to herron, texas. there wasn't much sickness in the air around herron, but there were just a million fleas to every square inch of sand in the place. herron was one of the few towns in a very extensive cattle belt, and a few days after i had arrived i noticed the town had filled up with "cow punchers." they had just had their semi-annual round up, and were in town spending their money and having a whooping big time. you probably know what that means to a cow-boy. i was a tenderfoot of the worst kind, and every one at the boarding-house and depot seemed to take particular delight in telling me of the shooting scrapes and rackets of these cow-boys, and how they delighted in making it warm for a tenderfoot. bob wolfe, the day man at the depot, told me how at times they had come up and raised particular cain at the station, especially when there was a new operator on hand. i didn't half believe all their stories, but i will confess that i had a few misgivings the first night when i went to work. one night passed safely enough, but the second was a hummer from the word go. the office was somewhat larger than the telegraph offices usually are in small towns. the table was in the recess of a big bay window, giving me a clear view of the i. & g. n. tracks, while along the front ran the usual long wide platform. the p. & t. c. road crossed at right angles at one end of the platform, and one operator did the work for the two roads. there were two lamps over my desk--one on each side of the bay window--and one was out in the waiting-room. i also kept a lantern lighted to carry when i went out to trains. all through the early part of the night, i heard sounds of revelry and carousing, accompanied by an occasional pistol shot, up in the town, but about half past eleven these sounds ceased, and i was congratulating myself that my night, would after all, be uneventful. about twelve o'clock, however, there arose just outside the office the greatest commotion i had ever heard in my life. i was eating my midnight lunch, and had a piece of pie in my hand, when i heard the tramp of many feet on the platform. it sounded like a regiment of infantry, and in a minute there came the report of a shot, and with a crash out went one of my lights, a shower of glass falling on the table. before i could collect myself there came another shot and smash out went the other light. i dropped my pie and spasmodically grasped the table. the only lights left were the one in the waiting-room and my lantern, which made it in the office little better than total darkness. all the time the tramp, tramp on the platform was coming closer and closer, and my heart was gradually forcing its way up in my mouth. in a moment the waiting-room door was thrown open, and with a wild whoop and a big hurrah, the crowd came in. the door between the office and the waiting-room was closed, but that made no difference to my visitors; they smashed it open and swarmed into the office. one of them picked up the lantern, and swaggering over to where i sat all trembling with fear, and expecting that _my_ lights would go out next, raised it to my face. they all crowded around me and one of them gave me a good punch in the ribs. then the one with the lantern said, "well, fellows, the little cuss is game. he didn't get under the table like the last one did. kid, for a tenderfoot, you're a hummer." get under the table! i couldn't. i would have given half my interest in the hereafter to have been able to crawl under the table or to have run away. but fright held its sway, and locomotion was impossible. for about five minutes the despatcher had been calling me for orders, and in a trembling voice i asked them to let me answer and take the order. "cert," said one of them, who appeared to be the leader, "go on and take the order, and then take a drink with us." by the dim light of only that lantern, with my order pad on a table covered with broken glass, and smattered with pie, i finally copied the order, but it was about the worst attempt i had ever made; and the conductor remarked when he signed it, that it would take a philadelphia lawyer to read it. the cow-punchers, however, from that time on were very good friends of mine, and many a pleasant sunday did i spend on their ranches. they afterwards told me that bob wolfe had put them up to their midnight visit in order to frighten me. they certainly succeeded. my service at herron was not very profitable, the road being in the hands of receivers, and for four months none of us received a cent of wages. the road was called the "international & great northern," but we facetiously dubbed it the "independent & got nothing." some months after this i was transferred down to the southern division, and made night operator at mankato. this was really about the best position i had yet struck: good hours, plenty of work and a fine office to do it in, and eighty dollars a month. the agent and day man were both fine fellows, and there was no chore work around the station--a baggage smasher did that. the despatchers up in "ds" office were pleasant to work with and as competent a lot of men as ever touched a key. i had never met any of them when i first took the office, though of course i soon knew their names, and the following incident will disclose how and under what unusual circumstances i formed the acquaintance of one of them, fred de armand, the second trick man. about four weeks after i took the mankato office, engine , pulling a through livestock freight north, broke a parallel rod, and besides cutting the engineer into mince-meat, caused a great wreck. this took place about two miles and a half north of mankato. the hind man came back and reported it, and being off duty, i caught up a pocket instrument and some wire, and jumping on a velocipede, was soon at the wreck. i cut in an office in short order, and "ds" soon knew exactly how matters stood. one passenger train south was tied up just beyond the wreck, and in about an hour and a half the wrecker appeared in charge of the trainmaster. i observed a young man twenty-eight or thirty years of age standing around looking on, and once when i was near him i noticed that he stammered very badly. i carefully avoided saying anything to that young man, because, i, too, at times, had a rather bad impediment in my speech. it asserted itself especially when i heard any one else stutter, or when the weather was going to change; the men who knew me well said they could always foretell a storm by my inability to talk. from my own experience, however, i knew that when a stammerer heard another man stammer, he imagined that he was being made fun of, and all the fight in him came at once to the surface; and as this young man was about twice my size, i did my best to keep away from him. but in a few moments he came over to where i was and said to me, "a-a-a-sk 'ds' t-t-t-t-o s-s-s-end out m-m-m-y r-r-ain c-c-c-c-oat on th-th-th-irteen." every other word was followed by a whistle. my great help in stammering was to kick with my right foot. i knew what was coming, and tried my best to avert the trouble. i drew in a long breath and said: "who sh-sh-sh-all i s-s-s-ay y-y-y-ou are?" and my right foot was doing great execution. true to its barometrical functions, my throat was predicting a storm. it came. he looked at me for a second, grew red in the face, then catching me by the collar, gave me a yank, that made me see forty stars, and said, "b-b-b-last you! wh-wh-at d-d-o y-y-ou m-mean b-b-y m-mocking me? i'll sm-sm-ash y-y-our b-b-b-lamed r-r-ed head.'" speech left me entirely then, and i am afraid i would have been most beautifully thumped, had not sanders, the trainmaster, come over and stopped him. he called him "de armand," and i then knew he was the second trick despatcher. after many efforts de armand told sanders how i had mocked him. sanders didn't know me and the war clouds began to gather again; but johnson, the conductor of the wrecker, came over and said, "hold on there, de armand, that kid ain't mocking you; he stammers so bad at times that he kicks a hole in the floor. why, i have seen him start to say something to my engineer pulling out of mankato, and he would finish it just as the caboose went by, and we had some forty cars in the train at that." at this a smile broke over de armand's face, and he grasped my hand and said, "excuse m-m-m-e k-k-id; but y-y-you k-k-know how it is y-y-yourself." you may well believe that i did know. one night, shortly after this, i was repeating an order to de armand, and in the middle of it i broke myself very badly. he opened his key, and said, "kick, you devil, kick!" and i got the merry ha-ha from up and down the line. but in giving me a message a little while after he flew the track, and i instantly opened up and said, "whistle, you tarrier, whistle!" maybe he didn't get it back. chapter vi blue field, arizona, and an indian scrimmage the desire to travel was strong within me, and in the following june i left mankato, went out to arizona and secured a position on the a. & p., at blue field, a small town almost in the centre of the desert. alfreda, kansas, was dreary and desolate enough, but there, i was at least in communication with civilization, because i had one wire running to kansas city, while blue field was the crowning glory of utter desolation. the bible says that the good lord made heaven and earth in six days, and rested on the seventh. it needed but a single glance at blue field to thoroughly convince me that the lord quit work at the end of the sixth day right there, and had never taken it up since. there was nothing but some scattering adobe shacks, with the usual complement of saloons, and as far almost as the eye could see in every direction,--sand--hot, glaring, burning sand. to the far northwards, could be dimly observed the outlines of the mogollon range of mountains. the population consisted chiefly of about four hundred dare-devil spirits who had started to wander westwards in search of the el dorado and had finally settled there, too tired, too disgusted to go any farther, and lacking money enough to return to their homes. it wasn't the most congenial crowd in the world. there was only one good thing in the place, and that was a deep well of pure sparkling water. the sun during the day was so scorching that the rails seemed to sizzle as they stretched out like two slender, interminable bands of silver over the hot sands, and at night no relief was apparent, and the office so stifling hot that my existence was well nigh unbearable. but the pay was ninety dollars per month and i hung on until i could save funds enough to get back to god's own country. to sleep in a house, in the day time, was almost killing, so i used to make up a sort of bunk on a truck and sleep in the shade of the freight shed. at seven-forty-three in the evening, the trans-continental flyer went smashing by at a fifty-five mile an hour clip and the dust it raised was enough to strangle a man. the arizona climate is a well known specific for pulmonary troubles, and thousands of people come down there in all stages of consumption from the first premonitory cough to the living emaciated skeleton. the first station west of me was clear creek (so called on account of a good sized stream of water that came down from the mogollons), and a few days after i arrived at blue field, i heard a message going over the wires saying that fred baird was coming down there to take charge. i had known him up in kansas, and his looks and a hacking cough indicated only too truly, that the dreaded consumption had fastened itself on him; therefore when i heard of his assignment to clear creek, i knew it was his health that brought him down to that awful country. he had a wife (and a sweet little woman she was), and two beautiful children, aged two and four. a few evenings after this i had the pleasure of talking to them for several minutes as they went through on a slow passenger train, and i must say that my heart ached when i thought of the town to which that family was going. what a place to bring a woman? but then women have a faculty of hanging on to their liege lords under all circumstances and conditions. god bless 'em. baird, himself, looked wretched, being a mere shadow of his former self, but like all consumptives he imagined he was going to get well. just about this time, two indian gentlemen, named geronimo and victoria, were raising particular mischief all through that section of the country, and the feeling that any moment they might come down on you and raise your scalp after puncturing you full of holes was anything but pleasant. it was decidedly creepy and many a time i wished myself back in the good old state of texas. i had come for excitement and adventure and it was not long until i had both articles doled out to me in large chunks. those indians used to break out from their reservations, swoop down on some settlement, kill everything in sight and then loot and burn to their heart's content. there was no warning--just a few shots, then a shrill war-whoop, and a perfect horde of yelling and shooting red devils would be upon you. precautions were taken and some of the larger settlements were able to stand them off until some of the small army could come and scatter them. blue field had pickets posted every night, chosen from among the four hundred toughs that lived there, and was pretty well protected. they gave us a wide berth for a while, but one night, i was sitting dozing in my chair about eleven-thirty, when i was awakened by the sharp crack of a rifle, followed in quick succession by others, until it was a regular fusillade. then i heard the short shrill apache war-whoop, and mentally i thought my time had come. i tried to breathe a prayer, but the high and unusual position of my heart effectually prevented any articulation. the window had been closed on account of a high wind blowing, or i fancy i should have gone out that way. however, i grabbed up a rifle, and then opening a trap door, dropped down into a little cubbyhole under the floor, where we used to keep our batteries. what i brought the rifle along for i can't say, unless it was to blow the top of my own head off. the place was like a bake-oven and all the air i received came through a small crack in the floor, and it was not long until i was soaked with perspiration. [illustration: "one of them picked up the lantern, and swaggering over to where i sat all trembling...."] overhead i could hear the crack of the rifles and the whoop of the indians as the battle raged, back and forth. during a temporary lull i heard the despatcher calling me for dear life, but he could call for all i cared; i had other business just then--i was truly " ." all at once i heard a bigger commotion than ever, there was a sound as if caused by the scurrying of many feet, and then all was quiet. i sat there wondering what was coming next, and how much longer i had to live, when i smelled smoke, and in a second i knew the depot was on fire. i tried to raise the trap-door, but it had a snap lock and had been dropped so hard in my mad efforts to get away, that it was securely locked. good god! was i to be burned like a rat in a trap? all was quiet save the crackling of the flames as they licked up the depot. something must be done and quickly at that, or there would be one operator who would receive his congé in a manner that was anything but pleasant. feverishly, i groped around, and all at once my hand came in contact with the winchester rifle. i grasped it by the barrel, and using it as a battering ram i started to smash that door. the smoke by this time was stifling, suffocating, and already my senses were leaving me,--everything was swimming around before my eyes, but it was a case of life and death, and i hammered away with all my might. finally, crash! ah! i had succeeded, the lock broke and in a moment i had pulled myself up in the office. the side towards the door was all ablaze and escape that way was impossible, so i picked up a chair and slammed it through the window over the table, and climbed out taking a loose set of instruments with me. the wires were still working, and above the crackle of the flames i heard "ds" still calling me. i reached in through the window and simply said, "indians--depot on fire--have saved a set of instruments--will call you later when i can fix a wire," and signed my name, "bates." my lungs were filled with smoke and felt like they had a million sharp needles sticking in them, but thanks to my lucky stars, i was not otherwise hurt. everything appeared so quiet and still that i was dazed, but presently i heard a low mumbling of voices out to the westwards. i made my way thither and found the population (all that was left of it), assembled. when i staggered up to a group of the men, they turned on me like tigers, not knowing what kind of an animal i was. i recognized one of them who was commonly known as "full-house charley," and weakly said, "don't shoot, charley, it's bates the night operator at the depot." "well! where the devil have you been all the time? when the depot was burning some of us went over there, but you'd gone some place. we couldn't save anything so we let 'er burn. your side partner, the day man, was killed and scalped." it appeared that just as the fight was the hottest, three troops of the --th u. s. colored cavalry, appeared on the scene, having been on the trail of this same band all day. they made short work of the red men who melted away to the fastnesses of the mogollons, first setting fire to the depot, the troops in close pursuit. if there ever were faithful hard working fighters in that country, it was these same dusky brunettes. i told the gang where i had been, and in a few minutes several of them went over to the station to help me rig up a wire. i knew the despatcher's wire, and taking a pole's length out of another line, i soon made a connection to the instrument i had saved. it was no go--the wire was dead open. then i rigged up a ground by running a wire to a pipe that ran down the well, and in testing i found the wire was open west. i called up "ds," who was east of-me, and told him what a nice hot old time we had been having out there. "yes," he said, "i knew there was trouble. just after you told me about the indians and fire, clear creek said their place was attacked by another band and things were getting pretty hot with them. then the wire went open, caused as i supposed by your fire, but now it seems as if baird is probably up against it as well. a train load of troops will come through in a short while to try and get beyond the indians and cut them off. if you are able, i wish you would flag them and go over to clear creek and report from there. disconnect and take your instrument and leave the line cut through. a line man will be sent out from here in the morning. everything is tied up on the road, and you can tell the c. & e. there's nothing ahead of them, but to run carefully, keeping a sharp lookout for torn up track and burned trestles." my experiences had been so exciting and the smoke in my lungs so painful, that i was ready to drop from fatigue; but then i thought of poor fred baird and his family, and i said i'd go. the troop train came in presently and i boarded her. it did my heart good to ride on that engine with "daddy" blake at the throttle, and think that four hundred big husky american regulars were trailing along behind, waiting for something to turn up and just aching for a crack at the red men. it was now about three o'clock, and just as the first rays of early dawn illumined the horizon, we came in sight of clear creek. there was a dull red glow against the sky, that told only too well what we should find. the place had not been as well protected as blue field, and the slaughter was something fearful. the depot was nothing but a smoldering mass of ruins, and but a short distance away we came upon the bodies of baird, his wife and two children, shot to pieces, stripped, horribly mutilated and scalped. it was sickening, and shortly after, when the troop train pulled out for chiquito, the sense of loneliness was oppressing. a few people had escaped by hiding in obscure places and when they came out they went to work and buried the dead. i finally succeeded in getting a wire through and then, despite the heat, i slept. the next day the troops corralled the indians, gave them a good licking and sent them back to their old reservations. and yet in face of just such incidents as these, there are people who say that poor lo can be civilized. a construction gang came out and started to re-build, and the company offered me a good day office if i would remain, but nay! nay! i had had all i wanted of arizona, and i went back to texas, thankful that i had a whole skin and a full shock of red hair. chapter vii taking a whirl at commercial work--my first attempt--the galveston fire the memory of my exciting experience in arizona lasted me a good long time, and i finally determined to leave the railroad service and try my hand at commercial work. the two classes are the same, and yet they are entirely different. it is a most interesting sight, to the uninitiated, to go into the operating room of a big commercial office and see the swarms of men and women bending over glass partitioned tables; nimble footed check boys running hither and thither like so many flies, carrying to each wire the proper messages, while the volume of sound that greets your ears is positively deafening. every once in a while some operator will raise his head and yell "pink," "c. n. d." or "wire." "pink" means a message that is to be rushed; "c. n. d." is a market quotation that is to be hurried over to the bucket shops or stock exchange, while "wire," means a message that pertains to some wire that is in trouble and such messages must have precedence over all others. the check boys are trained to know the destination of each and every wire and work under the direction of the traffic chief. far over on one side of a room is the switch board. to the untutored mind it looks like numberless long parallel strips of brass tacked on the side of the wall, and each strip perforated by a number of small holes, while stuck around, in what seems endless profusion, are many gutta-percha-topped brass pegs. yet through all this seeming mass of confusion, everything is in apple pie order, and each one of those strips represents a wire and every plug a connection to some set of instruments. the wire chief and his assistants are in full charge of this work, and it must needs be a man of great ability to successfully fill such a place in a large office. the chief operator has entire supervision over the whole office, and his duties are hard, constant, and arduous. like competent train despatchers, men able to be first-class chief operators are few and far between. not only must he be an expert telegrapher, but he must thoroughly understand line, battery and switch board work, and his executive ability must be of the highest order. i had always supposed if a man were a first-class railroad operator he could do equally good work on a commercial wire; in fact the operator in a small town is always employed by the railroad company and does the little amount of commercial work in addition to his other duties. after leaving blue field i loafed a while, but that's tiresome work at best, so i journeyed down to galveston, texas, one bright fall morning, and after trying my luck at the railroad offices, i wandered into the commercial office on the strand and asked george clarke, the chief operator, for a job. "what kind of a man are you?" he said. "first-class in every respect, sir," i replied. "sit down there on the polar side of that houston quad and if you are any account, i'll give you a job at seventy dollars per month." now a "quad" is an instrument whereby four messages are going over the _same_ wire at the _same_ time. the mechanism of the machine is different in every respect from the old relay, key and sounder, used on the railroad wires. in a vague way i had heard of "quads," and imagined i could work them as well as an "o. s." wire, but when he said for me to sit down on the "polar side," i was, for a minute, stumped. however, there were already three chaps sitting at that table, so the fourth place must be mine. i sat down and presently i heard the sounder say, "who?" i answered "by," and then "ho," said, "hr. city," i grabbed a pen and made ready to copy, but by the time he had finished the address i was just putting down the number and check. "break" i said, "g. a. from," b-r-r-r-r- how that sounder did jump. this interesting operation was repeated several times, but finally i succeeded in getting the message down, and then without giving me time to draw my breath, he said, "c. n. d." and started ahead with a jargon of figures and words that i had never heard of before. his sending was plain enough, in fact it was like a circus bill, but i wasn't on to the combination, and it was all greek to me. perspiration started from every pore, and in my agony i said, "break, g. a. ahr.," holy smoke! how he did fly off at that, and how those other three chaps did grin at my discomfiture. "call your chief operator over here," and with that he refused to work with me any more. clarke came over and that blasted chump at "ho" said, "for heaven's sake give us an operator to do the receiving on the polar' side of this quad. we are piled up with business and can't be delayed by teaching the ropes to a railroad ham. he's been ten minutes taking one message, and i haven't been able to pound into his head what a 'c. n. d,' is yet." clarke quietly gave him "o. k." and then turned to me with, "i guess you are not used to this kind of work. better go back to railroading, and learn something about commercial work before tackling a job like this again. come back in six months and i'll give you another trial." i sneaked out of the office, followed by the broad smiles of every man in the place, and thus ended the first lesson. i took clarke's advice and went back to work on a narrow-gauge road running northwards out of houston, through the most god-forsaken country on the footstool. sluggish bayous, foul rank growth of vegetation, alligators as long as a rail, that would come out and stop trains by being on the track, and air so malarious in quality that it was only a question of time until one had the fever. i stuck it out for two months and then succumbed to the inevitable and went to the hospital where i lay for three weeks. after i had fully recovered they put me to work in the houston general office, and some eight months after reaching there i received a message from my old friend clarke, saying, "if i had improved any in my commercial work he would give me a job at seventy dollars per month." i hadn't improved much, but as this world is two-thirds bluff, i made mine, and said i'd come, trusting to luck to be able to hold on. i reached there one pleasant afternoon and the next morning went to work. i must have had my rabbit's foot with me, because i was assigned to a "way wire." i think if he had told me to tackle a "quad," again, i should have fainted. a "way wire," is one that runs along a railroad, having offices cut in in all the small towns. there wasn't a town on the whole string that had more than ten or fifteen messages a day, but the aggregate of all the offices made up a very good day's work. then again i didn't have to handle any of those confounded "c. n. d." messages. clarke watched me closely and at the end of the first day he said my work showed a marked improvement. you may rest assured i watched my p's and q's, and it wasn't long before i had the hang of the system and could take my trick on a "quad" with the best of them. rheostats, wheatstone bridges, polarized relays, pole changers, and ground switches became as familiar to me as the old relay key and sounder had been. some of the rarest gems of the profession worked in "g" office at this time--george clarke, "cy" clamphitt, "jack" graham, will church, john mcneill, paul finnegan alias the "count," and a score or more of men, as good as ever touched a key or balanced a quad. a day's work was from eight a. m., until five p. m., and for all over time we were paid extra at the rate of forty cents per hour. this extra work was called "scooping." one day in december, clarke asked me if i wanted to "scoop" that night. i acquiesced and after eating a hasty supper i went back to the office and prepared for a long siege. i was put to sending press reports, which is just about as hard work as a man can do. i sent " " (the end) at two o'clock in the morning, and went home worn to a frazzle. i was boarding on avenue m. with ten other operators, in a house kept by a mrs. swanson, and roomed with her little son jimmie, who was a hopeless cripple. i undressed, and after shoving little jim over to his own side of the bed, tumbled in and was soon sleeping like a log. it seemed as if i had just closed my eyes when i felt some one pulling my hair. i knocked the hand away and prepared to take another snooze, when there was that awful pull on my red head again. i opened my eyes prepared to fight, when i felt an extra hard pull, and heard the wee sma' voice of my diminutive room mate say, "get up, the house is on fire." "rats," i said--again,--the awful pull,--and,--"mr. bates, for god's sake get up; the house is on fire; the whole town is burning up." i sprang out of bed and the crackling of the timbers, the glow of the flames, and the stifling smoke, soon assured me it was time to move, and quickly at that. i grabbed up a few clothes in one arm, and grasping brave little jimmie swanson in the other, i started for the steps. on our side, the whole house was in flames, and the smoke rushing up the stair-way was something awful. i wrapped jimmie's head in his night shirt, and throwing a coat over mine, i started down the stairs. half way down my foot slipped, and we both pitched head first to the bottom. poor little jim, his right arm was broken by the fall, and when he tried to get up, he found that his one sound leg was badly strained. he said, "never mind me, mr. bates, save yourself. i'll crawl out." leave him to roast alive? never! i grabbed him again and after a desperate effort succeeded in getting him out. all our supply of clothing had been lost in our mad efforts to escape, and as a bitter norther was blowing at the time, our position was anything but pleasant. i found a few clothes dropped by some one else and we made ourselves as warm as possible. then i grabbed jimmie up again and fled before the fiery blast. the awful catastrophe had started in a fisherman's shack over on the bay, twenty-seven squares from where we lived, and being borne by a high wind, had swept everything in its path. the houses were mostly of timber and were easy prey to the relentless flames. although galveston is entirely surrounded by water, the pipe-lines for fighting fire at this time extended only to avenue h, ten blocks from the strand. beyond that, the fire department depended on the cisterns of private houses for the water to subdue the flames. with lightning-like rapidity the flames had spread and almost before they knew it the town seemed doomed. arches of flame, myriads of falling sparks, hundreds of fleeing half-clad men, women and children, the hissing of the engines in their puny attempts to fight the monster, and ever and anon the dull roar of the falling walls, made a scene, as grand and weird as it was desolate and awful. in less than two hours time fifty-two squares had been laid waste, leaving a trail of smoldering black ashes. that the whole city did not go is due to a providential switch of the wind that blew the flames back on their own tracks. of the fifteen operators in the day force, twelve had been burned out, and the next morning, at eight o'clock, when all had reported for duty, they were as sorry a looking lot of men as ever assembled. "some in rags, some in jags, and one in velvet gown." "count" finnegan had on a frilled shirt, a pair of trousers three sizes too small for him, and his manly form was wrapped in a flowing robe of black velvet, picked up by him in his mad flight. it was many a day before the effects of this direful calamity were entirely obliterated. chapter viii sending a message perforce--recognizing an old friend by his stuff some time after this i was in fort worth copying night reports at eighty dollars per month. the night force consisted of two other men besides myself. the "split trick" man worked until ten o'clock, the other chap stayed around until twelve, or until he was clear, while i hung on until " " on report which came anywhere from one-thirty until four a. m. after midnight i had to handle all the business that came along. when i had received " " i would cut out the instruments and go home. one morning, about two-thirty i had said "g. n." to galveston, cut out the instruments, put out the lights in the operating room, and started to go home through the receiving room and i was about to put out the last light there, when the outer door opened and in staggered a half drunken ranchman who said, "hold on there, young fellow, i want to send a message to st. louis." "i'm sorry, but it's too late to send it now. all the instruments are cut out and we wont have st. louis until eight o'clock in the morning. come around then and some of the day force will send it for you." "but," he said in a maudlin voice, "i've got nineteen cars of cattle out here that are going up there to-morrow and i want to notify my agents." i persisted in my refusal and was beginning to get hot under the collar, but my bucolic friend also had a temper and showed it. "d--n it," he said, "you send this message or there is going to be trouble." "not much, i won't send your confounded old message. get out of this office: i'm going home." just then i heard an ominous click and in a second i was gazing down the barrel of a . , and he said, "now will you send it? you'd better or i'll send you to a home that will be a permanent one." a . , especially when it is loaded, cocked and pointed at your head, with a half drunken galoot's finger on the trigger, is a powerful incentive to quick action. "give me your blamed old message, and i'll send it for you." now there wasn't a through wire to any place at the time, but i had thought of a scheme to stave him off. i took his telegram, went over and monkeyed around the switch board for a while, and then sat down to a local instrument and went through the form of sending a message. my whole salvation lay in the hope that he was not an operator and would fail to discover my ruse. i glanced at him furtively out of the corner of my eye, and there he stood, pistol in hand, grinning like a monkey and swaying to and fro like a reed in the wind. i didn't know what that grin portended for me, but after i had gone through the form of sending the telegram, i hung it up on the hook, and turned around with, "there, i hope you are satisfied now. your blamed old message has been sent." "satisfied! why certainly i'm satisfied. i just wanted to show you that the western union company wasn't the whole push. come on over to the white elephant with me and we'll have a drink together, just to show there's no hard feelings between us," and with that he put away his pistol and we went out. on the way over to the elephant he said, "say, kid, did you think i'd shoot if you hadn't sent the message?" "well," i replied, "i wasn't taking any chances on the matter." then he laughed loud enough to be heard a block away and said, "why, that pistol hasn't been loaded for six months, i was just running a bluff on you, and you bit like a fish." good joke, wasn't it? we had our drink, _and his message was sent by one of the day force, at eight-twelve a. m._ the morse telegraphic alphabet is exactly the same the world over, and yet each operator has a peculiarity to his sending, or "stuff," as it is called, that makes it easy to recognize an old friend, even though his name be changed. in the early part of my career, when i was working days at x----, in nebraska, at sweeping water there was a chap called ned kingsbury holding down the night job, and as wild a youngster as ever hit the road. one night when i was sitting up a little late i heard the despatcher give ned an order for a train that ordinarily would not stop there. ned repeated it back all right enough, and then gave the signal, " ," which meant that he had turned his red-light to the track and would hold it there until the order was delivered and understood. so far, so good. but the reckless little devil had forgotten to turn his red-board and proceeded to write to some of his numerous girls, and the first thing he knew that freight train went smashing by at a thirty-five mile clip, and mr. ned knew he was up against it. in some states a railroader guilty of criminal negligence is sent up for a term of from one to ten years. the smash up that resulted from ned's carelessness was a catastrophe of the fatal kind; one engineer was killed, and a fireman and brakeman or two laid up for months. he fully realized the magnitude of his offence and promptly skipped away from the wrath that was sure to follow, and nothing more was heard of him in that section of the country. this all happened a number of years before i went to work in fort worth, and one morning i was doing a little "scooping," by working days, and sat down to send on the "da" quad. i worked hard for about two hours on the polar side, and was sending to some cracker jack, who signed "ky." shortly after that i changed over to the receiving side and "ky" did the sending to me. i had been taking about ten messages and the conviction was growing on me momentarily that the sending was very familiar and that i must have known the sender. where had i heard that peculiar jerky sending before? it was as plain as print, but there was an individuality about it that belonged only to one man. all at once that night in nebraska flashed on my mind and i knew my sender was none other than ned kingsbury. i broke him and said, "hello, ned kingsbury, where did you come from?" "you've got the wrong man this time, sonny, my name is pillsbury," he replied. "oh! come off. i'd know that combination of yours if i heard it in halifax. didn't you work at sweeping water, nebraska, some time ago, and didn't you have some kind of a queer smash up there?" then he 'fessed up and said he had recognized my stuff as soon as he heard it, but hadn't said anything in hopes i wouldn't twig him. "don't give me away, old chap. i'm flying the flag now and have lost all my former brashness." i never did. chapter ix bill bradley, gambler and gentleman telegraphers are, as a rule, a very nomadic class, wandering hither and thither like a chip buffeted about on the ocean. their pathway is not always one of roses, and many times their feet are torn by the jagged rocks of adversity. i was no different from any of the rest, neither better nor worse, and many a night i have slept with only the deep blue sky for a covering, and it may be added--sotto voce--it is not a very warm blanket on a cold night. 'tis said, an operator of the first class can always procure work, but there are times when even the best of them are on their uppers. for instance, when winter's chill blasts sweep across the hills and dales of the north, like swarms of swallows, operators flit southwards to warmer climes, and for this reason the supply is often greater than the demand. i was a "flitter" of the first water, and after i had been in fort worth for a very short while i became possessed of a desire to see something of the far famed border towns along the rio grande frontier. so i went south to a town called hallville, and found it a typical tough frontier town. i landed there all right enough and then proceeded to gently strand. work was not to be had, money i had none, and my predicament can be imagined. many of you have doubtless been on the frontier and know what these places are. there was the usual number of gambling dens, dance halls and saloons, and of course they had their variety theatre. ever go into one of the latter places? the first thing that greets your eye is a big black and white sign "buy a drink and see the show." inside, at one end, is the long wooden bar, presided over by some thug of the highest order, with a big diamond stuck in the centre of a broad expanse of white shirt front. at the other end is the so-called stage, while scattered about indiscriminately are the tables and chairs. the air is filled--yea, reeking--with the fumes of bad whiskey, stale beer, and the odor of foul smelling cheap tobacco smoke, and through all this haze the would-be "show," goes on, and the applause is manifested by whistles, cat calls, the pounding of feet on the floor and glasses on the tables. occasionally some artist (?) will appear who does not seem to strike the popular fancy and will be greeted by a beer glass or empty bottle being fired at his or her head. now, at the time of which i speak, my prospects were very slim, and as nature had endowed me with a fair singing voice, i had just about made up my mind to go to the palace variety theatre and ask for a position as a vocalist. i could, at least, sing as well as some of the theatrical bygones that graced the place. the price of admission in one of these places is simply the price of a drink. i felt in my pocket and found that i had one solitary lonely dime, and swinging aside the green baize door, i entered. "gimme a beer," i said laying down my dime. a small glass, four-fifths froth and one-fifth beer, was skated at me by the bartender from the other end of the counter, and my dime was raked into the till. then i stood around like a bump on a log, trying to screw my courage up to ask the blear eyed, red-nosed apollo for a job. some hack voiced old chromo was trying to warble "do they miss me at home," and mentally i thought "if he had ever sung like that when he was at home they were probably glad he had left." the scene was sickening and disgusting to me, but empty stomachs stand not on ceremony, so i turned around and was just about to accost the proprietor, when biff! i felt a stinging whack between my shoulders. quickly i faced about, all the risibility of my red headed nature coming to the surface, and there i saw a big handsome chap standing in front of me. six feet tall, broad-shouldered, straight, lithe limbs, denoting herculean strength, a massive head poised on a well shaped neck, two cold blue eyes, and a face covered by a bushy brown beard; dressed in well fitting clothes, trousers tucked in the tops of shiny black boots, long prince albert coat and a broad sombrero set rakishly on one side of his head. such was the man who hit me in the back. "hello, youngster, what's your name?" rubbing my lame shoulder, i said, "well it might be jones and it might be smith, but it ain't, and i don't know what affair it is of yours, any way." "oh! come now, boy, don't get huffy. you've got an honest face and appear to be in trouble. what is it? out with it. you're evidently a tenderfoot and this hell-hole of vice isn't a place for a boy of your years. what's your name? come over here at this table and sit down and tell me." something in his bluff hearty manner gave me hope and after sitting down, i said. "my name is martin bates. i'm a telegraph operator by profession and blew into this town this morning on my uppers. i can't get work and i haven't a red cent to my name. it is necessary for me to live, and as i can sing a little bit, i came in here to see if i could get a job warbling. i won't beg or steal, and there is no one here i can borrow from. there's my story. not a very pleasant one is it?" "there may have been worse. how long since you've had anything to eat." "nine o'clock this morning," i grimly replied. "good lord, that's twelve hours ago. come on with me out of here and i'll fix you up." meekly i followed my new found friend. i was sick at heart, weary and worn out in body and i didn't care a rap whether school kept or not; anything would be better than my present situation. he took me about three blocks up the main street and we went into a suite of beautifully furnished rooms. he rang a bell, a darkey came in, and it wasn't long before i had a lunch in front of me fit for the gods, and i may add it didn't take me many minutes to get outside of it. my friend watched me narrowly while i was eating, and when i had finished he said, "now youngster, you're all tired out. you go to bed in the next room and get a good night's sleep. in the morning we'll see what we can do for you, but one thing is certain, you're not going into that vile hole of a palace theatre again. somewhere in this world you have a father and mother who are praying for you this night. don't make a slip in your pathway in life and break their hearts. everything is safe and quiet here and no one will disturb you until i come in in the morning." there was a peculiar earnestness in his voice as he spoke that was very convincing, and as he rose to go out, i meekly said, "what's your name, mister?" "bill bradley," he answered with a queer smile. "now don't you ask any more questions to-night," and with that he was gone. i went to bed almost sick from my exposure and lack of food, and just as the old sand man of childhood's happy days began to sprinkle his grains in my eyes, i heard, way off in the distance, a peculiar click and a drawling voice calling off some numbers. "four." "sixteen." "thirty-three." "seventy-eight." "ten." "twenty-six," and then, a great shout arose and some one called out "keno." ah! i was near a gambling house, but i was too tired to care, nature asserted herself, and i gently crossed the river into the land of nod. the next morning i was really sick with a high fever, and when bill came in i was well nigh loony. "hello," he said, "this won't do. tom, i say, you tom, go and tell doctor bailey i want him here quick. d--n quick. do you hear?" and black tom answered, "yas, suh." to be brief, i was three weeks on my back, and bluff old bill bradley nursed me like a loving mother would a sick child. day and night he hung over me, never a thing did i need but what he procured for me, and one day after the fever had left me and i was sitting up by an open window, i said, "mr. bradley, what do you do for a living?" "boy," he replied with a flushed face, "i am sorry you asked that question, but sooner or later you would have heard it and i'd a great deal rather tell you about it myself. i'm a gambler and these three rooms adjoin my place which is called the "three nines," and then he told me the story of his life. he was a son of a fine connecticut family, a graduate of harvard, and in his day had been a very able young lawyer with brilliant prospects, but one night, he went out with a crowd of roystering chaps, the lie was passed, and--it was the old story,--he came to texas for a refuge. the great civil war was just over, the country in a chaotic state, and there he had remained ever since. thrown with wild, uncouth men, and being reckless in the extreme, he opened a gambling house. "why did you take this great interest in me?" i asked. "look here, young chap, you are altogether too inquisitive. i've got an old father and mother way up in ball brooke, connecticut, whose hearts have been broken by my actions, and when i saw you in that hellish den of vice you looked so out of place that i determined to save you. it was impulse, my boy, and then again, it may have been the remembrance of the one, at whose knee i used to lisp, 'now i lay me down to sleep.'" my recovery was very rapid from that time on, and when i was able to work i secured a position in the commercial office in hallville. one evening after being paid i strolled into the "three nines;" bill was dealing faro, and i thought i might in a measure, show my gratitude towards him by risking a coin. there was a big crowd standing around the table, but i edged my way in and placed a dollar on the queen to win. luck was with me and i won. once, twice, thrice, did the cards come my way, and my stack of whites and reds was growing. this didn't seem to me much like gratitude to win a man's money, and i wished i hadn't started. presently bill looked up, and spying me, pointed to my stack of chips, and said, "whose stack is that?" "mine," i replied, and with one fell swoop he dashed the chips into the rack, and taking a ten-dollar bill from the drawer, he turned to his side partner and said, "jim, take the deal," and then he got up, took me by the arm, saying, "you come with me." feeling like a sneak i followed him, and when we had reached his sitting-room, he sat down and said, "kid, how much were you in on that deal?" "just one dollar," i replied. then he looked at me, his eyes shone like coals of fire, and he said, "look here boy, here's ten dollars. if you are ever hard up and want money come to me, and i'll give it to you willingly, but don't you ever let me see or hear of you staking a cent on a card again. i'm running a gambling house, and as gambling houses go, it's an honest one, but i'm not out plucking lambs like you. your intentions were probably good but don't you ever do it again. if you really want to show your gratitude for what i have done for you, promise me honestly that you will never gamble." i felt very much humiliated, but took his words of advice, promised, and have never flipped a coin on a card since that night. bill was a married man, and in addition to his suite of rooms spoken of, he had a very nice residence on capitol hill. his suite was a side issue, to be used when the games were running high. i had never met mrs. bradley, but during my illness i had evidence every day of her goodness in the shape of many delicacies that found their way to my bedside. i had asked bill time and again to take me out to meet his wife, but he always put me off on one pretext or another. when i started to work, i had secured a room at the house of a mrs. slade. she had three daughters and one sunday afternoon we were all out walking together, when one of them pointed to a very fine residence and said, "that's the residence of bill bradley, the big gambler." just then bill and his wife came driving by behind a spanking team of bays. quick as a flash my hat came off, and i bowed low. bill saw it and very cavalierly returned my salute. the elder miss slade turned on me like a tigress, and said, "mr. bates, do you know who that man is? do you know what he is?" "yes, i know him very well," i replied. "then what do you mean by insulting us by speaking to such a man? i did not know that you associated with men of his ilk." in a plain unvarnished way i told them of bill bradley's kindness to me, but it was no go, and as i would not renounce my liking for the man who had been my benefactor, my room in their house became preferable to my society and i left. the next evening i saw bill in his rooms, and he said, "martin, yesterday, when mrs. bradley and i drove by you and the slade girls, you spoke to me and lifted your hat to mrs. bradley. i could do naught but return the salute. now my boy, there's no use of my mincing words with you; i befriended you, probably saved you from ruin, but young as you are, you know full well that our paths do not lie parallel with each other. i am a gambler, and although mrs. bradley is as good a woman as ever lived, (and i'd kill the first man that said she wasn't) we are not recognized by society; no, not even by the riff raff that live in hallville. you have your way to carve in the world, don't ruin it right at the outset by letting people know you are friendly with gamblers. no matter how good your motives may be, this scoffing world will always misconstrue them and censure you." this made me hot and i told him so. no matter if he was a gambler, he was more of a gentleman than nine-tenths of the men of society, yes, men, who would come and gamble half the night away in his place, and then go forth the next day and pose as models of propriety. the upshot of the whole business was that i left hallville soon after this and went to san antonio to take day report, and one day i picked up a paper, and read an account of how bill bradley had been assassinated by a cowardly cur who had a grudge against him. he was stabbed in the back, and thus ended the career of bill bradley, gambler and gentleman. chapter x the death of jim cartwright--chased off a wire by a woman i didn't stay at san antonio very long after this but started northwards. you see it was getting to be warm weather. the first place i struck was a night job in a smashing good town up near the south line of the pan handle. i quit working at midnight, and to get to my boarding house had to walk a mile through a portion of the town called "hell's half-acre." the most prominent place of any description in the city was a saloon and gambling house known as the "blue goose," owned by john waring and luke ravel. both men were as nervy as they make 'em and several nicks in the butts of their revolvers testified mutely as to their prowess. their place was like all other dens, and consisted of the usual bar and lunch counter in one room, while in the adjoining one was the hall of gaming. faro, roulette, hazard, monte, and the great national game, poker, held high carnival there nightly. next to the "goose" was a long narrow room used as a shooting gallery. the place was only a few doors around the corner from my office, and many a night on my way home i would stop at the lunch counter and have a sandwich and a cup of coffee. i remembered my promise to bluff old bill bradley, and was never tempted to go in the gambling hall. i generally used to rise about noon each day and go up town and loaf until four o'clock, when it was time to go to work. i picked up a speaking acquaintance with luke ravel, and sometimes we would go into the shooting gallery together and have a friendly bout with the flobert rifles. at this time there was one of those tough characters in the town named jim cartwright. in days gone by he had been a deputy united states marshal, and one time took advantage of his official position to provoke a quarrel with an enemy and killed him in cold blood. public indignation ran high and jim had to skip to mexico. he stayed away two years and getting in trouble over there, came back to his old stamping grounds in hopes the people had forgotten his former scrape. they hadn't exactly forgotten it, but jim was a pretty tough character and no one seemed to care to tackle him. one night luke ravel and jim had some words over a game of cards, and bad blood was engendered between them. the next day my side partner frank noel, and i went into the shooting gallery to try our luck, and were standing there enjoying ourselves, when luke came in and took a hand. he was dressed in the height of fashion, and while we three were standing there, jim cartwright, three sheets in the wind, appeared in the doorway pistol in hand. he looked at luke and said, with an oath, "look here, luke ravel, your time has come. i'm going to kill you." my hair arose, my heart seemed to stop beating, but there was no way out, so noel and i edged our way over as far as possible, and held our breath. luke never turned a hair, nor changed color. he was as cool as an iceberg, and squarely facing cartwright said, "you wouldn't shoot an unarmed man would you, jim?" "ain't you got no gun?" "no," replied luke, "i'm unarmed. see," and with that he threw up the tails of his long coat. jim hesitated a minute, and then shoving his gun into his pocket he said, "no, by heavens, i won't kill an unarmed man. i'll give you a chance for your life, but i warn you to fix yourself, because the next time i see you i'm going to let daylight through your carcass," and with another oath he turned to walk away. hardly had he taken two steps, when there was a blinding flash followed by a loud report, and jim cartwright lay dead, shot through the heart, while luke ravel stood over him; a smoking . pocket pistol in his hand. where he pulled his gun from no one ever knew; it was all over in a flash. it seems a cowardly thing to shoot a man in the back, but it was a case of 'dog eat dog.' luke was arrested next day, and noel and i gave our testimony before the coroner's jury, and he was bound over for trial before the next term of the circuit court to sit six months hence. there is an old and very trite saying in texas that, "a dead witness is better than a live one." this was gently whispered into our ears, and accordingly one night about a month after this, noel and i "folded our tents, and like the arabs, silently stole away." luke was acquitted on the plea of self defence. spring time having come, and with it the good hot weather, i continued to move northwards and finally brought up in a good office in nebraska, where i was to copy the night report from chicago. we had two wires running to chicago, one a quad for the regular business, and the other a single string for "c. n. d." and report work. my stay in this office was, short, sharp, brilliant and decisive. the first night i sat down to work at six-thirty, and in a few minutes was receiving the worst pounding i had ever experienced, from some operator in "ch" office who signed "jl." there was no kick coming on the sending, it was as plain as a large sized poster, but it was so all-fired fast, that it made me hustle for all i was worth to get it down. there is no sense in a fellow sending so fast, because nothing is made by it and it tires every one completely out. ordinarily, a thirty word a minute clip is a good stiff speed for report, but this night, thirty-five or forty was nearer the mark. in every operator there is a certain amount of professional pride inherent that makes him refrain from breaking on report unless it is absolutely necessary. the sender always keeps a record of the breaks of each receiver on the line, and if they become too frequent the offender is gently fired. on the night in question i didn't break, but there were several times when foreign dispatches were coming that i faked names in great shape. it was an ugly night out, and about nine o'clock our quad flew the track, and in a minute "jl" said to me, "here's ten blacks (day messages) just handed me to send to you," and without waiting for me to get my manifold clip out of the way he started. i didn't get a chance to put the time or date down, and was swearing, fighting mad. after sending five of the ten messages, "jl" stopped a second and said, "how do i come?" "you come like the devil. for heaven's sake let up a bit," i replied. "who do you think you are talking to?" came back at me. seemingly, patience had ceased to be a virtue with me, so i replied, "some d----d ambitious chump of a fool who's stuck on making a record for himself." "that settles you. call your chief operator over here." joe saunders was the chief, and when he came over he said, "what's the trouble here, kid, this wire gone down?" "no," i answered, "the wire hasn't gone down, but that cuss up in 'ch' who signs 'jl' has been pounding the eternal life out of me and i've just given him a piece of my mind." "say anything brash?" asked joe. "no, not very. just told him he was a d--d fool with a few light embellishments." joe laughed very heartily and said, "i guess you are the fool in this case, because 'jl' is a woman, miss jennie love, by name, and the swiftest lady operator in the business. if she makes this complaint official, you'll get it in the neck." i didn't wait for any official complaint, but put on my coat and walked out much chagrined, because i had always boasted that no woman could ever run me off a wire. i had the pleasure of meeting miss love afterwards and apologized for my conduct. she forgave me, but like mary marsh, she married another man. chapter xi witnessing a marriage by wire--beating a pool room--sparring at long range after my disastrous encounter with miss love, i went south and brought up in st. louis, where old "top," the chief operator, gave me a place working a new york quad. this was about the worst "roast" i had ever struck, and it was work from the word go from p. m. until a. m. work on any wire from a big city leading to new york is always hot, and this particular wire was the worst of the bunch. while working in this office i had several little incidents come under my observation that may be of interest. the coy little god of love manifests itself in many ways, and the successful culmination of two hearts' happiness is as often queer as it is humorous. miss jane grey was an operator on the g. c. & f. railway at wichita, kansas, and mr. paul dimmock worked for the western union in louisville, kentucky. through the agency of a matrimonial journal, jane and paul became acquainted; letters and pictures were exchanged, and--it was the old, old story--they became engaged. they wanted to be wedded and the more sensational and notorious they could make it the better it would suit them both. jane only earned forty dollars per month, while paul's monthly stipend was the magnificent sum of sixty, with whatever extra time he could "scoop." neither one of them wanted to quit work just then, they felt they could not afford it, but that marriage must come off, or they would both die of broken hearts. paul wrote,--jane wrote,--plans and compromises were made and refused; the situation was becoming desperate, and finally jane's brilliant mind suggested a marriage by wire. great head--fine scheme. _it takes a woman to circumvent unforeseen obstacles every time._ chief operators were consulted in kansas city and st. louis and they agreed to have the wire cut through on the evening appointed. there were to be two witnesses in each office, and i was one of the honored two in st. louis. the day finally arrived, and promptly at seven-thirty in the evening louisville was cut through to wichita, and after all the contracting parties and the witnesses had assembled, the ceremony began. there was a minister at each end, and as the various queries and responses were received by the witnesses, they would read them to the contracting party present, and finally paul said, "with this ring, i thee wed, and with all my worldly goods i thee endow: in the name of the father, and of the son, and of the holy ghost, amen." the ring was placed on the bride's finger, _by proxy_, the benediction pronounced by the wichita minister, and the deed was done. in due time the certificate was received and signed by all the witnesses, and the matter made of record in both places. how long did they live apart? oh! not very long. i think it was the next night that i saw a message going through directed to paul saying, "will leave for louisville to-night," and signed "jane." i wonder if old s. f. b. morse ever had any idea when he was perfecting the telegraph, that it would some day be used to assist in joining together, "two souls with but a single thought, two hearts that beat as one." operators are as a rule as honest as the sun, yet, "where you find wheat, there also you find chaff," and once in a while a man will be found whose proper place is the penitentiary. one of the easiest ways for an operator, so inclined to make money, is to cut wires, steal the reports of races, market quotations, or c. n. d. reports, and beat them to their destinations. wires are watched very closely so that it is hard for an outsider to do any monkeying. many men understand telegraphy who do not work at the business, and it is for this reason that all the instruments in the bucket shops and stock exchanges are turned so low that no one outside of the operating room can hear a sound. when it is realized that transactions are made, and fortunes won or lost in a fractional part of a minute, it will be seen how very careful the great telegraph companies must be. the big horse races every year offer great temptations. while i was working in st. louis, a case came under my observation that will readily illustrate the perversity of human nature. in a large office not so very far away, there was working a friend of mine, who did nothing but copy race reports and c. n. d.'s all day. on the day the great kentucky derby was to be run, the wire was cut through from the track in louisville to a big pool room in this city. now the chief operator in this place was a scaly sort of a cuss--in fact, it was said that he had done time in the past for some skullduggery--and when the horses went to the post, he stood by the switchboard and deliberately cut the pool room wire, so the report didn't go through. he copied the report himself, knew what horse had won, and then sent a message to a henchman of his, who was an operator and had an instrument secreted in his room near the pool room. this chap went quickly into the pool room and made wagers right and left. a rank outsider, a twenty to one shot, won the race, and after the confederate had signified that he was ready, the chief sent the report through as if it had come from the track. the whole transaction didn't take over two minutes and the "bookies" were hit for about $ , , which mr. chief and his side pardner divided between them. a little while later the suspicions of the bookmakers became aroused, complaints were made, an investigation followed, and one fine day when matters were becoming pretty warm, the recalcitrant chief disappeared. his confederate confessed to the whole scheme and the jig was up. the chief was afterwards apprehended and sent up for seven years, but he held on to his boodle. for the first month of my stay in st. louis, my life was as uneventful as a may day, but at the end of that time a man came on the new york end of our quad that was enough to make a man drink. the men working together on a wire like this should always be harmonious, because the business is so heavy there is no time for any war of words. however, operators are like all other men, and scraps are not uncommon. generally they take place at long range, and no one is hurt thereby. some men have an unhappy faculty of incurring the hatred of every person over a wire, while personally they may be princes of good fellows. the man referred to above, signed "sy," and he had about as much judgment as a two year old kid. it didn't make any difference to him whether the weather was clear or muggy, no matter whether the wire was weak or strong, he'd pound along like a cyclone. remonstrance availed nothing, and one night when he was cutting up some of his monkeyshines, i became very warm under the collar and told him in language more expressive than elegant, just what i thought of him, threatening to have our wire chief have him fired off the wire. he answered: "oh! you go to blazes, you big ham. you're too fresh anyway." the epithet "ham" is about as mean a one as can be applied to an operator, and i came back at him with: "look here, you infernal idiot, i'll meet you some time and when i do i'm going to smash your face. stop your monkeying and take these messages." "hold your horses, sonny, what's the difference between you and a jackass?" he said. "just nine hundred miles," i replied. further words were useless and in a few minutes he was relieved, but just about the time he got up he said: "say, 'by,' don't forget you've got a contract to smash my face some of these days. i'll be expecting you. ta ta." that was the last of him on that wire and the incident passed from my mind. i pulled up and left st. louis shortly after that and went to work for the old baltimore and ohio commercial company, at the corner of broadway and canal streets, in new york. i drew a prize in the shape of the common side of the first boston quad. sitting right alongside of me was a great, big, handsome irish chap named dick stanley. he was as fine a fellow as ever lived, and that night took me over to his house on long island to board. we were sitting in his room about nine-thirty, having a farewell smoke before retiring and our conversation turned to "shop talk." we talked of the old timers we had both known, told reminiscences, spun yarns, and all at once dick said: "say, bates, did you ever work in 'a' office in st. louis?" "oh! yes," i replied, "i put in three months there under 'old top.' in fact, i came from there to new york." "that so?" he answered. "i used to work on the polar side of the no. quad, from this end, over in the western union office on broadway and dey street. what did you sign there?" "by," i answered. i thought he looked queer, but we continued our talk, and finally i told him of my wordy war with a man in new york, who signed "sy," and remarked that i was going over to broadway, and size him up some day. he knocked the ashes out of his pipe, got up from his chair, and, stretching his six feet two of anatomy to its full length said: "well, old chap, i'm fagged. i'm going to bed. you'd better get a good sleep and be thoroughly rested in the morning, because you'll need all your strength. i'm the man that signed 'sy' in the new york office, and i'm ready to take that licking." [illustration: "he looked at me ... then catching me by the collar...."] did i lick him? not much, i couldn't have licked one side of him, and we were the best of chums during my stay in the city. chapter xii how a smart operator was squelched--the galveston flood a little while after this "stub" hanigan, another operator, invited dick and me to go down to a chop house with him for lunch, and we accepted. i say chop house when in reality it was one of those numerous little hotels that abound all over new york where one can get a good meal for very little money. hanigan was a rattling good operator, but he was very young and had a tendency to be too fresh on occasion. he ordered us a fine lunch and while we were sitting there discussing the good things, a big awkward looking chap came into the dining-room. he was accompanied by a sweet, pretty looking little woman. she was a regular beauty, and it needed but a glance to see that they were bride and groom, and from the country. they had all the ear marks so apparent in every bride and groom. they hesitated on the threshold a moment, and the groom said very audibly: "dearest, this is the finest dining-room in the world," and "dearest" beamed on her liege lord in a manner that was very trustful and sweet. hanigan, idiot that he was, laughed outright. dick and i both gave him a savage kick under the table, but it didn't have any effect. the head waiter brought the couple over and sat them down at our table, and, say--that woman was as pretty as any that ever came down the pike. towards the end of the meal, hanigan took his knife and fork and began to telegraph to stanley and me, making all sorts of fun about the country pair. now that is a pretty dangerous business, because there is no telling who may be an operator. dick growled at him savagely under his breath and told him to shut up. nay! nay! mr. hanigan wouldn't shut up worth a cent. finally he made some scurrilous remark, and then another knife and fork came into play. mr. bridegroom was doing the talking now, and this is what he said to hanigan: "i happen to be an operator myself, and have heard and understood every word you said. as long as you confined yourself to innocent remarks about country brides and grooms, i haven't minded it a bit. in fact, i have rather enjoyed it. but now you've gone too far, and in about five seconds i'm going to have the pleasure of smashing your face." then, before we had time to do a thing, biff; and hanigan got it squarely on the jaw. we hustled him out of there as soon as we could, but mr. bridegroom had all his irish up and followed him out. eventually we succeeded in calming him down; "stub" made a most abject apology, and i don't believe he ever used his knife and fork for any such a purpose again. the gawky chap was mr. dave harrison, one of the finest operators in the profession. just about this time fall weather was coming on, and there was a suggestion of an approaching winter in the chill morning air, and receiving a letter from my old friend clarke in galveston, telling me there was a good job waiting for me if i could come at once, i pulled up stakes in new york, and sailed away on the mallory line ship "comal," for my old stamping ground. i reached there the next week and was put to work on the new york duplex, which, by the way, was the longest string in the united states. mrs. swanson had re-opened her boarding house on avenue m, everything looked lovely and i anticipated a very pleasant winter. up to september th, everything was as quiet and calm as a may day. the weather had been beautiful, the surf bathing and concerts in front of the beach hotel fine, and nothing was left to wish for. i quit working on thursday, september th, at five p. m., and went out to the beach and had a plunge. the sky was clear, but there was a good stiff breeze blowing, and it was increasing all the time. the tide was flowing in, and the dashing of the waves and roar of the surf made a picture long to be remembered. after my swim i went home, and when supper was finished three of us again went out to the beach. the wind had increased to a perfect gale, and already the water was over the car tracks. the pagoda and surf bath houses were surrounded, while numerous small shacks along the shore had been washed away. inch by inch, foot by foot, the water advanced until it began to look serious, but no one dreamed of the flood that was to follow. we went home at eight-thirty, and at ten i dropped into the realms of the sand man, lulled to sleep by the roar of the distant surf, and the whistling and moaning of the high wind. jimmie swanson was again my roommate and about five o'clock he woke me up and said: "mr. bates, if this wind keeps up the whole island will be under water in a very few hours more." "nonsense, jimmie," i replied, "there is no danger of that," and i turned over to have another snooze, when i heard a peculiar _swash_, _swash_, _swash_, against the side of the house. "jimmie, what's the swash we hear?" i asked. he got out of bed, limped over to the window, opened the blinds, looked a minute and then yelled: "good lord! the whole town is under water, and we are floating." it needed but a glance to convince me that he spoke part truth. there we were surrounded on all sides by water, but the house was still on its foundation. "water, water, everywhere nor any drop to drink." on account of the sandy nature of the soil on galveston island, most of the houses were built up on piles, and the water was gently slopping all over the first floor of our habitation. the streets were flowing waist high, and filled with floating debris of all kinds;--beer kegs, boards, doors, and tables _ad lib_. the wind soon began to quiet down, and when our first fright was over we had a high old time swimming and splashing around in the water. it's a great city that will bring salt water bathing right up to the doors of its houses. after a very skimpy breakfast, four of us made a raft, and paddled and pushed it down to the office. nary a wire was there in working order. you see, galveston is on a very flat island scarcely one mile wide, and the only approach at this time was a low railroad bridge, three miles long. our wires were strung along the side of that, and at five o'clock in the morning, every wire was under water, and the force on duty either swam home or slept on the floor. that day was about the easiest i ever spent in a telegraph office. there was a mexican cable from galveston to vera cruz, but the flood had washed away their terminals, and for that day, galveston was entirely isolated from the world. houston, fifty-five miles north, was the first big town adjacent, and as all our wires ran through there, it was apparent they were having a hot time doing the relaying all day. they had only a small force, and evidently the business was delayed. the storm had finally blown itself out, and at four o'clock clarke called for volunteers to go to houston to help out until our wires came in shape again. the g. h. & h. railroad people said they thought the water was low enough to permit an engine to cross the bridge, and in response to clarke's call eight of us volunteered to attempt the trip. after reaching the mainland we would be all right, but there was that confounded three mile bridge to cross. we boarded engine , with dad duffy at the throttle, and at four-fifteen he pulled out. water was still over the track and we proceeded at a snail-like pace. just at the edge of the bridge we stopped; dad looked over the situation and said: "the water is within two inches of the fire-box now, and it's doubtful if we can get across, but here goes and god save us all." the sensation when we first struck that bridge and realized that we were literally on a water support, was anything but pleasant, and i reckon most of us uttered the first prayer in many a day. slowly we crept along, and just as we were in the middle of the structure the draw sagged a little, and _kersplash!_ out went the fire. a great cloud of steam arose and floated away on the evening air, and then, there stood that iron monster as helpless as a babe. dad looked around at us eight birds perched up on the tender and said: "well i reckon you fellers won't pound any brass in houston to-night." pleasant fix to be in, wasn't it? a mile and a half from land, perched up on a dead engine, surrounded on all sides by water, and no chance to get away. there was no absolute danger, because the underpinning was firm enough, but all the same, every man jack of us wished he hadn't come. night, black and dreary, settled over the waters, and still no help. finally, at eight o'clock, the water had receded so that the tops of the rails could be seen, and two of us volunteered to go back on foot to the yard office for help. that was just three miles away, but nothing venture, nothing have, so we dropped off the hind end of the tender and started on our tramp back over the water-covered ties. we had one lantern, and after we had gone about a half of a mile, my companion who was ahead, slipped and nearly fell. i caught him but good-bye to the lantern, and the rest of the trip was made in utter darkness. to be brief, after struggling for two hours and a half, we reached the yard office, and an engine was sent out to help us. at twelve o'clock the whole gang were back in the city, wet, weary and worn out. the next day the water had entirely subsided and work was resumed. we learned then of the horror of the flood. sabine pass had been completely submerged, and some hundred and fifty or two hundred people drowned. indianola had been wiped out of existence, and the whole coast lined with the wreckage of ships. that there were no casualties in galveston, was providential, and due, doubtless, to the fact that the whole country for fifty miles back of it is as flat as a pan-cake, and the water had room to spread. i worked there until spring and then a longing for my first love, the railroad, came over me and i gave up my place and bade good-bye to the commercial business forever. i had had my fling at it and was satisfied. chapter xiii sending my first order i had now been knocking about the country for quite a few years, and working in all kinds of offices and places, and had acquired a great deal of experience and valuable information, so i reached the conclusion that it was about time for me to settle down and get something that would last me for a while. commercial work i did not care for, nor did i want to go back on the road as a night operator on a small salary. i thought i had the making of a good despatcher in me, and determined to try for that place. i knew it had to be attained by starting first at the bottom, so i went up on the k. m. & o. and secured a position as night operator at vining. the k. m. & o. was a main trunk line running out of chaminade, and was the best road for business that i had as yet struck. vining was midway on the division, and was such a good old town that i would have been content to have stayed there for some time, but one day an engine pulling a through livestock express broke a driving rod while running like lightning, and the result was a smash up of the first water--engine in the ditch, cars piled all over her, livestock mashed up, engineer killed, fireman badly hurt, and the road blocked for twenty-four hours. the wreck occurred on a curve going down a rather steep grade, so that it was impossible to build a temporary track around it. a wrecking train was sent out from el monte, and as i happened to be off duty, i was picked up and taken along, to cut in the wrecking office. the division superintendent came out to hurry up things and he appeared so pleased at my work that, in a few weeks, he offered me a place as copy operator in the despatcher's office at el monte. this appeared to be a great chance to satisfy my ambition to become a despatcher, so i gladly accepted, and in a few days was safely ensconced in my new position. the despatchers only work eight hours a day, while the copy operators work twelve, so they work with two despatchers every day. i had the day end of the job and worked from eight a. m. until eight p. m., with an hour off for dinner, so that i really was only on duty for eleven hours. the pay was good for me, seventy dollars per month, and i was thoroughly satisfied. really all that is necessary to be a first class copy operator is to be an expert telegrapher. it is simply a work of sending and receiving messages all day. however i wanted to learn, so i kept my ears and eyes opened, and studied the time card, train sheet, and order book very assiduously. the first trick despatcher was honest old patrick j. borroughs, a man of twenty-five years' experience in the business and as good a man as ever sent an order or took an o. s. report. he was kindness and gentleness personified, and assisted me in every way possible, and all my future success was due to his help and teaching. the memory of the time i worked under him is the brightest spot in all the years i served in the business. after i had been there for about five months, he would allow me, under his supervision, to make simple meeting points for two trains, and one day he allowed me to give a right-of-track order to a through freight train over a delayed passenger. then he would let me sit around in his chair, while he swallowed his lunch, and copy the o. s. reports. i was beginning to think that my education as a despatcher was complete, and was thinking of asking for the next vacancy, when a little incident occurred that entirely disabused my mind. the following occurrence will show how little i knew about the business. we had received notice one morning of a special train to be run over our division that afternoon, carrying a congressional railroad committee, and of course that meant a special schedule, and you all know how anxious the roads are to please railroad committees, especially when they are on investigating tours (?) with reference to the extension of the inter-state commerce act, as this one was. we were told to "whoop her through." the track on our division was the best on the whole road, and it was only miles long; we had plenty of sidings and passing tracks, and besides old "jimmie" hayes, with engine was in, so they could be assured of a run that was a hummer. mr. hebron, the division superintendent, came in the office and told borroughs to tear things loose, in fact, as he said, "make 'em all car sick." after he had gone out pat tossed the notification over to me, and said, "bates, here's a chance for you to show what kind of stuff you are made of. make out a schedule for this special, giving her a clean sweep from end to end, with the exception of no. ." proud! that wasn't the proper name for it. i was fully determined that _this_ special should have a run for her money if she ran on my schedule. no congressional committee was going back to washington with the idea that the k. m. & o. wasn't the swiftest road in the bunch, if i could help it, and i had a big idea that i could. pat told me he would do the copying while i made the schedule, but as he said it i fancied i saw a merry twinkle in his honest blue eyes. i wasn't daunted though, and started to work. "order no. . "to c&e, all trains: "k. m. & o. railroad (eastern division). "despatcher's office, 'ds,' october , -- "special east engine , will run from el monte to marsan having right of track over all trains except no. , on the following schedule:-- "leave el monte, : p. m." thus far i proceeded without any trouble, and then i stuck. here was where the figuring came in, along with the knowledge of the road, grades and so forth, but i was sadly lacking in that respect. i studied and figured and used up lots of gray matter, and even chewed up a pencil or two. i finally finished the schedule and submitted it to pat. he read it carefully, knitted his brows for a moment, and then said, slowly: "for a beginner that schedule is about the best i ever saw. it's a hummer without a doubt. but to prevent the lives of the congressional committee from being placed in jeopardy, i think i shall have to make another." then he laughed heartily, and continued, "all joking aside, bates, my boy, you did pretty well, but you have only allowed seven minutes between sumatra and borneo, while the time card shows the distance to be fourteen miles. jim hayes and engine are capable of great bursts of speed, but, by jingo, they can't fly. then again you have forgotten our through passenger train, no. , which is an hour late from the south to-day; what are you going to do with her? pass them on one track, i suppose. but don't be discouraged, my boy, brace up and try it again. that's a much better schedule than the first one i ever made." he made another schedule and i resumed my copying. it wasn't long, however, before my confidence returned and i wanted a trick. i got it, but in such a manner that even now, fifteen years afterwards, i shudder to think of it. chapter xiv running trains by telegraph--how it is done the despatcher's office of a big railroad line is one of the most interesting places a man can get into, especially if he is interested in the workings of our great railway systems. it is located at the division headquarters, or any other point, such as will make the despatching of trains and attendant orders of easy accomplishment. in riding over a road, many people are prone to give the credit of a good swift run to the engineer and train crew. pick up a paper any day that the president or some big functionary is out on a trip, and you will probably read how, at the end of the run, he stopped beside the panting engine, and reaching up to shake the hand of the faithful, grimy engineer, would say: "thank you so much for giving us such a good run. i don't know when i have ridden so fast before," or words to that effect. he never thinks that the engineer and crew are but the mechanical agents, they are but small cogs in a huge machine. they do their part and do it well, but the brains of the machine are up in the little office and are all incorporated in the despatcher on duty. flying over the country regardless of time or space, one is apt to forget where the real credit belongs. the swift run could not be made, and the train kept running without a stop, if it were not for the fact that the despatcher puts trains on the sidetrack so that the special need not be delayed, and he does it in such a manner that the regular business of the road shall not be interfered with. the interior of the despatcher's office is not, as a rule, very sumptuous. there is the big counter at one side of the room, on which are the train registers, car record books, message blanks, and forms for the various reports. against the wall on one of the other sides is a big black board known as the "call board." on it is recorded the probable arrival and departure of trains, and the names of their crews, also the time certain crews are to be called. as soon as the train men have completed the work of turning their train over to the yard crew at the end of their run, they are registered in the despatcher's office, and are liable thereafter for duty in their turn. the rule "first in, first, out," is supposed to be strictly adhered to in the running of trains. about the middle of the room, or in the recess of the bay window, is the despatcher's table. on it in front of the man on duty, is the train sheet, containing information, exact and absolute in its nature, of each train on the division. on this sheet there is also a space set apart for the expected arrival of trains on his district from the other end, and one for delays. loads, empties, everything, is there that is necessary for him to know to properly run the trains on time and with safety. at any minute the despatcher on duty can tell you the precise location of any train, what she is doing, how her engine is working, how much work she has to do along the road, and all about her engineer and conductor. generally, there are two sets of instruments on the table, one for use of what is known as the despatcher's wire, over which his sway is absolute, and the other for a wire that is used for messages, reports, and the like, and in case of emergency, by the despatcher. mounted on a roll in front of him is the current official time card of the division. from the information contained thereon, the despatcher makes all his calculations for time orders, meeting points, work trains, etc. across the table from the despatcher sits the "copy operator," whose duty it is to copy everything that comes along, thus relieving the despatcher of anything that would tend to disturb him in his work. the copy operator is generally the man next for promotion to a despatcher's trick, and his relations with his chief must be entirely harmonious. the working force in a well regulated despatcher's office consists of the chief despatcher, three trick despatchers, and two copy operators, with the various call boys and messengers. the chief despatcher is next to the division superintendent, and has full charge of the office. he has the supervision of the yard and train reports, and the ordering out of the trains and crews. he has charge of all the operators on the division, their hiring and dismissal, and has general supervision of the telegraph service. in fact, he is a little tin god on wheels. his office hours? he hasn't any. most of the chiefs are in their offices from early morn until late at night, and there is no harder worked man in the world than the chief despatcher. each day is divided into three periods of eight hours each, known as "tricks," and a despatcher assigned to each. the first trick is from eight a. m. until four p. m.; the second from four p. m. until twelve midnight; and the third from twelve midnight until eight a. m. at eight o'clock in the morning, the first trick despatcher comes on duty, and his first work is to verify the train sheet and order book. the man going off duty checks off all orders issued by him that have been carried out, and his successor signs his initials to all orders yet to be obeyed. this signifies that he has read them over very carefully and thoroughly understands their purport. as soon as he has receipted for them he becomes as responsible as if he had first issued them. he glances carefully over his train sheet, assures himself that everything is correct and then assumes his duties for the day. anything that is not clear to him must be thoroughly explained before his predecessor leaves, and he must signify that he understands everything. the value of that old time card rule, so familiar to all railroaders, "in case of doubt always take the safe side," is exemplified many times every day in the running of trains by telegraph, and the attendant orders. after a despatcher has assumed charge of the trick he is the master of the situation; he is responsible for everything, and his attentiveness, ability and judgment are the powers that keep the trains moving and on time. when all trains are running on time, and there are no extras or specials out, the despatcher's duty is easy, and consists largely in taking and recording "o. s. reports," and "consists." the "o. s. report" is the report sent in by the various operators as the trains arrive and depart from the several stations. a "consist" is a message sent by the conductor of a train to the division superintendent, giving the exact composition and destination of every car in his train. when trains are late, however, or many extras are running or the track washed out, the despatcher's work becomes very arduous. orders of all kinds have to be made, engines and crews kept working together and trains moving. down the centre of the train sheet, which varies in size according to the length of the division, are printed the names of all the telegraph stations on the division and the distances between them. on either side of this main column are ruled smaller columns, each one of which represents a train. the number of each train is at the head of the appropriate column, and under it are the number of the engine, the names of the conductor and engineer, and the number of loads and empties in the train. all trains on the division are arranged in three classes, and each class has certain rights. trains of the first class are always passengers; the through freight, and the combination freight and passenger trains compose the second class. all other trains, such as local freights, work trains and construction trains belong to the third class. it is an invariable rule on all railroads that trains running one way have _exclusive rights_ over trains of their own and of inferior classes running in the opposite direction. what is called the "double order system," is used almost exclusively on all single track roads, and if the rules and regulations governing it were strictly adhered to and carried out, accidents for which human agency is responsible, would be impossible. it consists simply in giving an order to all the trains concerned _at the same time_. that is to say, if the despatcher desires to make a meeting point for two trains, he will send the same order simultaneously to both of them. if a train is leaving his end of the division and he desires to make a meeting point with a train coming in, before giving his order to his conductor and engineer, he would telegraph it to a station at which the incoming train was soon to arrive, and from whence the operator would repeat it back word for word, and would give a signal signifying that his red board was turned. by this means both trains would receive the same order, and there would be no doubt about the point at which they were to meet. to illustrate this method, let us suppose a case of two sections of no. running east and one section of no. running west. both trains are of the second class, and as the east bound trains have the right of way, no. _must_ keep out of the way of the two 's. a certain point, call it smithville, is, according to the time card, the meeting point for these two trains. but no. finds out she has a lot of work to do at jonesboro; or a hot driving box or a draw head pulling out delays her, and thus she cannot possibly reach smithville for no. . she is at jason, and unless she can get orders to run farther on no. 's time, she will have to tie up there and be further delayed an hour. the conductor tells the operator at jason to ask "ds" if he can help them out any. "ds" glances over his train sheet, and finds that he cannot let them run to smithville, because no. is nearly on time; but there is a siding at burkes, between jason and smithville, and he concludes to let go there. so he tells the operator at jason to "copy ," and then he calls smithville and tells him to "copy ." both the engineer and conductor get a copy of all orders pertaining to their trains, and the operators retain one for their records and for reference in case of accident. both operators turn their red boards _the first thing_, and so long as the signal remains red, no train can pass the station, without first receiving an order or a clearance card. in the case supposed the order would be as follows: "ds despatcher's office, , , ' "orders no. . to c. & e. st and nd , sm. to c. & e. no. , jn. first and second sections no. , and no. will meet at burkes. . (answer how you understand). "h. g. c." the despatcher's operator, sitting opposite to him, copies every word of this order as the despatcher sends it, and when the operators at smithville and jason repeat it back, he underlines each word, great care being taken to correct any mistakes made by the operators. after an operator has repeated an order back he signs his name, and the despatcher then says: "order no. , o. k.," giving the time and signing the division superintendent's initials thereto. the order is next handed to the conductor and engineer of each train when they come to the office; both read it carefully, and then signify that they understand it fully by signing their names. the operator then says to the despatcher, "order , sig. jones and smith," and the despatcher gives the "complete" and the exact time. then a copy is given to the conductor and one to the engineer and they leave. on the majority of roads the conductor must read the order aloud to the engineer before leaving the office. thus no. having received her orders, pulls out, and when she reaches burkes, she goes on the side track and waits there for both 's, because , being an east bound train of the same class, has the right-of-track over her. the same _modus operandi_ is gone through with for no. , and when the trains have departed the operators pull in their red boards. when the meeting has been made and both trains are safely by burkes, the despatcher draws a blue pencil or makes a check mark on his order book copy and signs his initials, which signifies that the provisions of the order have been carried out. should its details not have been completed when the despatcher is relieved, his successor signs his initials thereto showing that he has received it. this is the method of sending train orders, exact and simple, on single track railroads. on double track lines the work is greatly simplified because trains running in each direction have separate tracks. does it not seem simple? and how impossible are mistakes when its rules are adhered to. it really seems as if any one gifted with a reasonable amount of common sense, and having a knowledge of the rudiments of mathematics, could do the work, but underneath all the simplicity explained, there runs a deep current of complications that only long time and a cool head can master. i have worked in offices and been figuring on orders for a train soon to start out from my end of the division, when all of a sudden some train out on the road that has been running all night, will bob up with a hot box, or a broken draw head, and then all the calculations for the new train will be knocked into a cocked hat. the simple meeting order has been given above. the following examples will illustrate some of the other many forms of orders, and are self-explanatory. time order no. has a right to use ten minutes of the time of no. between jason and jonesboro. slow order all trains will run carefully over track from one-half mile east of salt water to big river bridge, track soft. extra order engine will run extra from deleon to valdosta. annulment order no. of january th is annulled between santiago and rio. work order engine will work between posey and patterson, keeping out of the way of all regular trains. clear track for extra west, engine at : a. m. when an operator has once turned his red board to the track for an order, under no circumstances must he pull it in until he has delivered the order for the train for which it is intended. in the meantime should another train come in for which he has no orders, he will give it a clearance card as follows: to c. & e., no. there are no orders for you, signal is set for no. . h. g. clarke, operator. at stated times during the day, the despatchers on duty on each division send full reports of all their trains to the divisions adjoining them on either side. this train report is very complete, giving the composition of each and every train on the road, and the destination of every car. a form of the message will readily illustrate this: san angelo, | , --. w. h. c. ds no will arrive at ds, at : a. m., with the following: hh goods chgo. livestock kansas city. mdse " emgt. outfit st. louis. coal houston. wheat chgo. empty sys. flats flat rock. -- total h. g. b. all work is done over the initials of the division superintendent and in his name. these reports keep the despatchers fully informed as to what may be expected, and arrangements can be made to keep the trains moving without delay. of course the report illustrated above is for but one train, necessarily it must be much longer when many trains are running. at some regular time during the day all the agents on the division send in a car report. this is copied by the despatcher's operator and shows how many and what kind of cars are on the side tracks; the number of loads ready to go out; the number and kind of cars wanted during the ensuing twenty-four hours; and if the station is a water station, how many feet of water are in the tank; or if a coaling station, how many cars of coal there are on hand; and lastly, what is the character of the weather. on some roads weather reports are sent in every hour. in view of all this, i think it is not too much to say, that the eyes of the despatcher see everything on the road. there are a thousand and one small details, in addition to the momentous matters of which he has charge, and the man who can keep his division clear, with all trains moving smoothly and on time, must indeed possess both excellent method and application, and must have the ability and nerve to master numerous unexpected situations the moment they arise. he is not an artisan or a mechanic, _he is a genius_. chapter xv an old despatcher's mistake--my first trick i had become thoroughly proficient and more frequently than ever borroughs would let me "spell" for him for a while each day. be it said to his credit, however, he was always within hearing, when i was doing any of his work. he was carefulness personified, and the following incident only serves to show what unaccountable errors will be made by even the best of men. one cold morning in january, i started to the office as usual. the air was so still, crisp and biting that the air-pumps of the engines had that peculiar sharp, snappy sound heard only in a panting engine in cold weather. they seemed almost imbued with life. as i went into the office at eight o'clock to go to work, the night man remarked that i must be feeling pretty brash; my spirits seemed so high. and in fact, that was no joke; i was feeling fine as silk and showed it all over. but as i said good morning to borroughs, i noticed that he seemed rather glum, and i asked: "what's the matter, dad? feeling bad this morning?" he snapped back in a manner entirely foreign to him, "no, but i don't feel much like chaffing this day. i feel as if something was going to happen, and i don't like the feeling." i answered, "oh! bosh, dad. you'll feel all right in a few minutes; i reckon you've got a good old attack of dyspepsia; brace up." just then the wires started up, and he gruffly told me to sit down and go to work and our conversation ceased. that was the first time he had ever used anything but a gentle tone to me, and i felt hurt. the first trick is always the busiest, and under the stress of work the incident soon passed from my mind. pat remarked once, that the general superintendent was going to leave chaminade in a special at : a. m., on a tour of inspection over the road. that was about all the talking he did that morning. his work was as good as ever, and in fact, he made some of the prettiest meets that morning i had ever seen. [illustration: "... half lying on the table, face downward, dead by his own hand"] about : , i asked borroughs to allow me to go over to the hotel to get a cigar. i would be gone only a few minutes. he assented, and i slipped on my overcoat and went out. i wasn't gone over ten minutes, and as i stepped into the doorway to come upstairs on my return, i heard what sounded like a shot in the office. i flew upstairs two steps at a time, and never to my dying day will i forget the sight that met my gaze. borroughs, whom i had left but a few moments before full of life and energy, was half lying on the table, face downwards, dead by his own hand. the blood was oozing from a jagged wound in his temple, and on the floor was the smoking pistol he had used. fred bennett, the chief despatcher, as pale as a ghost, was bending over him, while the two call boys were standing near paralyzed with fright. it was an intensely dramatic setting for a powerful stage picture, and my heart stood still for a minute as i contemplated the awful scene. mr. hebron, the division superintendent, came in from the outer office, and was transfixed with horror and amazement when he saw the terrible picture. bennett turned to me and said, "bates, come here and help me lift poor borroughs out of this chair." gently and carefully we laid him down on the floor and sent one of the badly frightened boys for a surgeon. medical skill was powerless, however, and the spirit of honest pat borroughs had crossed the dark river to its final reckoning. work in the office was at a standstill on account of the tragic occurrence, but all of a sudden i heard monte carlo calling "ds" and using the signal "wk," which means "wreck." bennett told me to sit down and take the trick until the second trick man could be called. i went over and sat down in the chair, still warm from the body of my late friend, and wiping his blood off the train sheet with my handkerchief, i answered. it would be impossible to describe the state of my feelings as i first touched the key; i had completely lost track of trains, orders and everything else. however, i gradually pulled myself together, and got the hang of the road again, and then i learned how the wreck had occurred. about a minute after i went out, borroughs had given a right-of-track order to an express freight from monte carlo to johnsonville, and had told them to hurry up. johnsonville is on the outskirts of chaminade, and borroughs had completely forgotten that the general superintendent's special had left there just five minutes before with a clean sweep order. that he had known of it was evident from the fact that it was recorded on the train sheet. two minutes after the freight had left monte carlo, poor pat realized he had at last made his mistake. he said not a word to any person, but quietly ordered out the wrecking outfit, and then reaching in the drawer he took out a revolver and--snuffed out his candle. he fell forward on the train sheet, as if to cover up with his lifeless body, the terrible blunder he had just made. many other despatchers had made serious errors, and in a measure outlived them; but here was a man who had grown gray in the service of railroads, with never a bad mark against him. day and night, in season and out, he had given the best of his brain and life to the service, and finally by one slip of the memory he had, as he thought, ruined himself; and, too proud to bear the disgrace, he killed himself. he was absolutely alone in the world and left none to mourn his loss save a large number of operators he had helped over the rough places of the profession. the wreck was an awful one. the superintendent's son was riding on the engine, and he and the engineer and the fireman were mashed and crushed almost beyond recognition. the superintendent, his wife and daughter, and a friend, were badly bruised, but none of them seriously injured. the second trick man was not to be found immediately, so i worked until four o'clock, and the impression of that awful day will never leave me. pat's personality was constantly before me in the shape of the blood stain on the train sheet. it was a long time before i recovered my equanimity. the next afternoon we buried poor pat under the snow, and the earth closed over him forever; and thus passed from life a man whose character was the purest, whose nature was the gentlest: honest and upright, i have never seen his equal in the profession or out. i often think if i had not gone over to the hotel that morning, the accident might have been averted, because, perhaps, i would have noticed the mistake in time to have prevented the collision. but, on the other hand, it is probable i would not have noticed it, because operators, not having the responsibility of the despatchers, rarely concentrate their minds intensely on what they are taking. a man will sit and copy by the hour with the greatest accuracy, and at the same time be utterly oblivious of the purport of what he has been taking. there can be no explanation as to why pat forgot the special. it is one of those things that happen; that's all. the rule of seniority was followed in the office, and in the natural sequence of events the night man got my job, i was promoted to the third trick--from twelve midnight until eight a. m.--and a new copy operator was brought in from vining. if any trick is easier than another it is the third, but none of them are by any means sinecures. when i was a copy operator i used to imagine it was an easy thing to sit over on the other side of the table and give orders, "jack up" operators, conductors and engineers, and incidentally haul some men over the coals every time i had to call them a few minutes; but when i reached the summit of an operator's ambition, and was assigned to a trick i found things very different. copying with no responsibility was dead easy; but despatching trains i found about the stiffest job i had ever undertaken. i had to be on the alert with every faculty and every minute during the eight hours i was on duty. while the first and second trick men, have perhaps more train order work attached to them, the third is about on a par with them as far as actual labor is concerned, because, in addition to the regular train order work, a new train sheet has to be opened every night at twelve o'clock, which necessitates keeping two sheets until all the trains on the old one have completed their runs. there is also a consolidated train report to be made at this time, which is a re-capitulation of the movements of all trains for the preceding twenty-four hours, giving delays, causes thereof, accidents, cars hauled, etc. this is submitted to the division superintendent in the morning, and after he has perused and digested its contents he sends a condensed copy to the general superintendent. many a man loses his job by a report against him on that train sheet. to show the strain on a man's mind when he is despatching trains, let me tell a little incident that happened to me just in the beginning of my career as a despatcher. every morning about five o'clock, the third trick man begins to figure on his work train orders for the day and when he has completed them he sends them out to the different crews. work train orders, it may not be amiss to explain, are orders given to the different construction crews, such as the bridge gang, the grading gang, the track gang, etc., to work between certain points at certain times. they must be very full and explicit in detail as to all trains that are to run during the continuance of the order. for regular trains running on time, no notification need be given, because the time card rules would apply; but for all extras, specials, and delayed trains, warnings must be given, so that the work trains can get out of the way for them, otherwise the results might be very serious, and business be greatly delayed. work orders are the bane of a new despatcher's existence, and the manner in which he handles them is a sure indication as to whether he will be successful or not. many a man gets to a trick only to fall down on these work orders. i stumbled along fairly well the first night as a despatcher, and had no mishaps to speak of, although i delayed a through passenger some ten minutes, by hanging it up on a siding for a fast freight train, and i put a through freight on a siding for a train of an inferior class. for these little errors of judgment i was "cussed out" by all the conductors and engineers on the division when they came in; and the division superintendent, on looking over the train sheet the next morning, remarked, that delaying a passenger train would never do--in such a tone of voice that i could plainly see my finish should i ever so offend again. the second night passed all right enough, and by : a. m., i had completed my work orders and sent them out. from that time on until eight o'clock when the first trick man relieved me i was kept busy. he read over my outstanding orders, verified the sheet, and signed the transfer on the order book, and after a few moments' chat i went home. i went to bed about nine o'clock, and was on the point of dropping off to sleep, when all at once i remembered that an extra fast freight was due to leave at : a. m., and that there was a train working in a cut four miles out. i wondered if i had notified her to get out of the way of the extra. that extra would go down through that cut like a streak of greased lightning, because horace daniels, on engine , was going to pull her, and horace was known as a runner from away back. i reviewed in my mind, as carefully as i could all the orders i had given to the work train, and was rather sure i had notified them, but still i was not absolutely certain, and began to feel very uncomfortable. poor borroughs had just had his smash up, and i didn't want "poor bates," to have his right away. maybe it was the spirit of this same old man borroughs, who was sleeping so peacefully under the ground that made me feel and act carefully. i looked at my watch and found it was : . the extra would leave in twenty-five minutes and i lived nearly a mile from the office. the strain was beginning to be too much, so i slipped on my clothes and without putting on a collar or a cravat, i caught up my hat and ran with all my might for the depot. as i approached i saw daniels giving the last touch of oil before he pulled out. thank god, they hadn't gone. i shouted to him, "don't pull out for a minute, daniels; i think there is a mistake in your orders." daniels was a gruff sort of a fellow, and he snapped back at me, "what's the matter with you? i hain't got no orders yet. come here until i oil those wheels in your head." i went up in the office and daniels followed me. bennett, the chief, was standing by the counter as i went in, and after a glance at me he said, "what's up, kid? seen a ghost? you look almost pale enough to be one yourself." i said, "no, i haven't seen any ghosts, but i am afraid i forgot to notify that gang working just east of here about this extra." the conductor and engineer were both there and they smiled very audibly at my discomfiture; in fact, it was so audible you could hear it for a block. bennett went over to the table, glanced at the order book and train sheet for a minute and then said, "oh, bosh! of course you notified them. here it is as big as life, 'look out for extra east, engine , leaving el monte at : a. m.' what do you want to get such a case of the rattles and scare us all that way for?" i was about to depart for home to resume my sleep, and was congratulating myself on my escape, when bennett called me over to one side of the room, and in a low, but very firm voice, metaphorically ran up and down my spinal column with a rake. he asked me if i didn't know there were other despatchers in that office besides myself; men who knew more in a minute about the business than i did in a month; and didn't i suppose that the order book would be verified, and the train sheet consulted before sending out the extra? he hoped i would never show such a case of the rattles again. that was all. good morning. all the same i was glad i went back to the office that morning, because i had satisfied myself that i had not committed an unpardonable error at the outset of my career. _in case of doubt always take the safe side._ chapter xvi a general strike--a locomotive engineer for a day during the ensuing spring, one of those spasmodic waves of strikes passed over the country. some northern road that wasn't earning enough money to pay the interest on its bonds, cut down the salaries of some of its employees, and they went out. then the "sympathy" idea was worked to the full limit, and gradually other roads were tied up. we had hopes it would escape us, but one fine day we awoke to find our road tied up good and hard. the conductors and brakemen went first, and a few days later they were followed by the engineers and firemen. that completed the business and we were up against it tighter than a brick. our men hadn't the shadow of a grievance against the company, and were not in full sympathy with the strike, but their obligation to their unions was too strong for them to resist. it placed us in a pretty bad fix because just at this time we had a yard full of freight, a good deal of it perishable, and it was imperative that it should be moved at once or the company would be out a good many dollars. the roundhouse men and a few hostlers were still working, so it was an easy thing to get a yard engine out. bennett, myself, burns, the second trick man, and mr. hebron, the division superintendent, went down in the yard to do the switching. there were twenty-three cars of texas livestock and california fruit waiting for a train out, and the drovers were becoming impatient, because they wanted to get up to chicago to take advantage of a big bulge in the market. i soon found that standing up in the bay window of an office, watching the switchmen do the yard work and doing it yourself, were two entirely different propositions. when i first went in between two cars to make a coupling, i thought my time had come for sure. i fixed the link and pin in one car, and then ran down to the next and fixed the pin there. the engine was backing slowly, but when i turned around, it looked as if it had the speed of an overland "flyer." i watched carefully, raised and guided the link in the opposite draw head, and then dropped the pin. those two cars came together like the crack of doom, and i shut my eyes and jumped back, imagining that i had been crushed to death, in fact, i could feel that my right hand was mashed to a pulp. but it was a false alarm; it wasn't. i had made the coupling without a scratch to myself, and it wasn't long before i became bolder, and jumped on and off of the foot-boards and brake-beams like any other lunatic. that all four of us were not killed is nothing short of miracle. by a dint of hard work we succeeded in getting a train made up for chaminade, and all that was now needed was an engine and crew. there was a large and very interested crowd of men standing around watching us, and many a merry ha-ha we received from them for our crude efforts. engine was hooked on, and we were all ready for the start. burns was going to play conductor, bennett was to be the hind man, while i was to ride ahead. but where were the engineer and fireman? mr. hebron had counted on a non-union engineer to pull the train, and a wiper to do the firing, but just as we expected them to appear, we found that some of the strikers had succeeded in talking them over to their side. to make matters worse the roundhouse men and the hostlers caught the fever, and out they went. mr. hebron was in a great pickle, but he didn't want to acknowledge that he was beaten so he stood around hanging on in hopes something would turn up to relieve the strain. now, it had occurred to me that i could run that engine. when i was young and fresh in the railroad business, i had spent much of my spare time riding around on switch engines, and once in a while i had taken a run out over the road with an engineer who had a friendly interest in me. one man, old tom robinson, who pulled a fast freight, had been particularly kind to me, and on one occasion i had taken a few days' lay off, and gone out and back one whole trip with him. being of an inquisitive turn of mind, i asked him a great many questions about gauges, valves, oil cups, eccentrics, injectors, etc., and whenever he would go down under his engine, i always paid the closest attention to what he did. i used to ride on the right hand side of the cab with him, and occasionally he would allow me to feel the throttle for a few minutes. thus, when i was a little older, i could run an engine quite well. i knew the oil cups, could work the injector, knew enough to open and close the cylinder cocks, could toot the whistle and ring the bell like an old timer, and had a pretty fair idea, generally speaking, of the machine. having all these things in mind, i approached mr. hebron, as he stood cogitating upon his ill-luck, and said, "mr. hebron, i'll run this train into chaminade if you will only get some one to keep the engine hot." "you," said hebron, "you are a despatcher; what the devil do you know about running a locomotive?" i told him i might not know much, but if he would say the word i would get those twenty-three cars into chaminade, or know the reason why. he looked at me for a minute, asked me a few questions about what i knew of an engine and then said, "by george! i'll risk it. get on that engine, my boy; take this one wiper left for a fireman, and pull out. but first go over to the office for your orders. you won't need many, because everything is tied up between here and johnsonville, and you will have a clear track. now fly, and let me see what kind of stuff you are made of." strangely enough, after he had consented i was not half so eager to undertake it; but i had said i would and now i must stick to my word, or acknowledge that i was a big bluffer. i went up to the office and fred bennett gave me the orders. but as he did so he said: "bates, that's a foolhardy thing for you to do, and i reckon the old man must be crazy to allow you to try it, but rather than give in to that mob out there i'll see you through with it. now don't you forget for one minute, that you have twenty-three cars and a caboose trailing along behind you; that i am on the hind end, and that i have a wife and family to support, with a mighty small insurance on my life." he went out, and bennett told the cattle men to get aboard as we were about to start. all this had been done unbeknown to any of the strikers; but when they saw me coming down that yard with a piece of yellow tissue paper in my hand they knew something was up, for every man of them knew that was a train order. but where was the engineer? i went down and climbed up in the cab of old , and removing my coat, put on a jumper i had brought from the office. engine , as i have said, was run by horace daniels, one of the best men that ever pulled a throttle, and his pride in her was like that of a mother in a child. she was a big ten-wheeled baldwin, and i have heard daniels talk to her as if she was a human being; in fact, he said she was the only sweetheart he ever had. he was standing in the crowd and when he saw me put on the jumper he came over and said: "see here, mr. hebron, who is going to pull this train out?" mr. hebron who was standing by the step, said, "bates is." daniels grew red with rage, and said: "bates? why good heavens, mr. hebron, bates can't run an engine; he's nothing but an old brass pounder, and, judging from some of the meets he has made for me on this division, he must be a very poor one at that. this here old girl don't know no one but me nohow; for god's sake don't let her disgrace herself by going out with that sandy-haired chump at the throttle." mr. hebron smiled and said, "well then, you pull her out, daniels." daniels shook his head and replied, "you know i can't do that, mr. hebron. it's true i'm not in sympathy with this strike one jot, but the boys are out, and i've got to stand by them. but when this strike is over i want old back. why, mr. hebron, i'd rather see a scab run her than that old lightning jerker." but mr. hebron was firm and daniels walked slowly and sadly away. by this time we had a good head of steam on, and bennett gave me the signal to pull out. i shoved the reverse lever from the centre clear over forward, and grasping the throttle, tremblingly gave it a pull. longfellow says, in "the building of the ship:" "she starts, she moves, she seems to feel a thrill of life along her keel." i can fancy exactly how that ship felt, because just as the first hiss of steam greeted my ears and i felt that engine move, i felt a peculiar thrill run along my keel, and my heart was in my mouth. she did not start quite fast enough for me, so i gave the throttle another jerk, and whew! how those big drivers did fly around! i shut her off quickly, gave her a little sand, and started again. this time she took the rail beautifully, walking away like a thoroughbred. there is a little divide just outside of the el monte yard, and then for a stretch of about five miles, it is down grade. after this the road winds around the river banks, with level tracks to johnsonville, where the double track commences. all i had to do was to get the train to the double track, and from there a belt line engine was to take it in. thus my run was only thirty-five miles. our start was very auspicious, and when we were going along at a pretty good gait, i pulled the reverse lever back to within one point of the centre, and opened her up a little more. she stood up to her work just as if she had an old hand at the throttle instead of a novice. i wish i were able to describe my sensations as the engine swayed to and fro in her flight. the fireman was rather an intelligent chap, and had no trouble in keeping her hot, and twenty-three cars wasn't much of a train for old . we went up the grade a-flying. when we got over the divide, i let her get a good start before i shut her off for the down grade. and how she did go! i thought at times she would jump the track but she held on all right. at the foot of this grade is a very abrupt curve and when she struck it, i thought she bounded ten feet in the air. my hat was gone, my hair was flying in the wind, and all the first fright was lost in the feeling of exhilaration over the fact that _i_ was the one who was controlling that great iron monster as she tore along the track. i--i was doing it all by myself. it was like the elixir of life to an invalid. my fireman came ever to me at one time and said in my ear that i'd better call for brakes or the first thing we knew we would land in the river. brakes! not on your life. i didn't want any brakes, because if she ever stopped i wasn't sure that i could get her started again. we made the run of thirty-five miles in less than an hour, and when we reached johnsonville i received a message from mr. hebron, congratulating me on my success. but bennett--well, the rating he gave me was worth going miles to hear. he said that never in his life had he taken such a ride, nor would he ever volunteer to ride behind a crazy engineer again. but i didn't care; i had pulled the train in as i said i would, and the engine was in good shape, barring a hot driving box. i may add, however, that i don't care to make any such trip again myself. we went back on a mail train that night, that was run by a non-union engineer, and in a day or two the strike was declared off, the men returned to work, and peace once more reigned supreme. daniels got his "old girl" in as good shape as ever, and once when he was up in my office he told me he had hoped that old would get on the rampage that day i took her out and "kick the stuffin'" out of that train and every one on it. poor old daniels, he stuck to his "old girl" to the last, but one day he struck a washout, and as a result received a "right of track order," on the road that leads to the paradise of all railroaders. chapter xvii chief despatcher--an inspection tour--big river wreck i had always supposed that the higher up you ascended in any business, the easier would be your position and the happier your lot. what a fallacy, especially in the railroad service, where your responsibilities, work, care, and worries increase in direct proportion as you rise! the operator's responsibility is limited to the correct reception, transmission, delivery and repetition of his orders and messages; the despatcher's to the correct conception of the orders and their transmission at the proper time to the right train; but the chief despatcher's responsibilities combine not only these but many more. a despatcher's work is cut out for him, just as the tailor would cut his cloth for a journeyman workman, and when his eight hour trick is done, his work for the day is finished and his time is his own. not so the chief. his work is never done; he works early and late, and even at night when he goes home utterly tired out from his long day, he is liable to be called up to go out on a wrecking outfit, or to perform some special duty. as soon as anything goes wrong on a division the first cry is, "send for the chief despatcher." almost everybody on the division is under his jurisdiction except the division superintendent, and sometimes i have seen that mighty dignitary take a back seat for his chief despatcher. it was some ten years after i had begun to pound brass, that i awoke one fine morning to find myself offered the position of chief despatcher on the central division of the c. n. & q. railway, with headquarters at selbyville. i was very well satisfied at el monte, had been promoted to the first trick and had many friends whom i did not like to leave, but then, i was as high as i could get in a good many years, because fred bennett, the chief, was a stayer from away back, and there wouldn't be a vacancy there for a long time to come. the district of which i was to take charge was about three hundred miles long, and consisted of three freight divisions of one hundred miles each. that meant a whole lot of hard confining work, but who wouldn't accept a promotion; so after carefully considering the matter, i gratefully accepted, and was duly installed in my new position. as i did not know anything about the road or the operators thereon, one of my first acts was to take a trip of inspection over the road. i rode on freight trains or anything that came along, and dropped off as i wanted to, in order that i might become thoroughly acquainted with the road and the men. one of the time card rules was that no person was to be allowed to enter any of the telegraph offices except those on duty there; even the train men were supposed to receive their orders and transact their business at the window or counter. generally, however, this rule was not enforced very rigidly. when i was a night operator i never paid any attention to it at all. i dropped off no. at eleven-thirty one night at bakersville. a night office was kept there because it was a good order point and had a water tank. i had never met the night man and knew nothing of him, except that he was a fiery-tempered irishman named barry, and a most excellent operator. it had been told me that the despatchers had, on more than one occasion, complained of his impudence, but his ability was so marked and he was so prompt in answering and transacting business, that he was allowed to remain. as no. pulled out he went into the office, closed the door and then shut the window. he had apparently not seen me, or if he had he paid no attention to me, so i went into the waiting-room and rapped on the ticket window. he shoved it up, stared at me and gruffly said, "well! what's wanted?" i answered pretty sharply, that i desired to come into his office. "well then you can take it out in wanting, because you don't get in here, see!" i started to reason with him, when he slammed the window in my face. that made me madder than a march hare, and i told him if he didn't let me in that office mighty quick, i'd smash that window into smithereens and come in anyhow. biff! up went that window, and mr. barry's face looking like a boiled beet appeared, "smash that window will you? you just try it and i'll smash your blamed old red head with this poker. get out of that waiting-room. tramps are not allowed." just then it occurred to me that he did not know me from the sight of sole leather; so i said: "hold on there, young man; i'm mr. bates, the newly appointed chief despatcher of this division, and i'm out on a tour of inspection. now stop your monkeying and open up." "bates thunder! bates would never come sneaking out over the road in this manner. you pack up and get. it will take more than your word to make me believe you are bates." i saw that remonstrance with him was useless, and, besides i had an idea that he might carry out his threat to smash my head with the poker, so i went over to a mean little hotel and stayed all night, vowing to have vengeance on his head in the morning. when daylight came, i went back to the station, and dayton, the day man, knew me at once, having worked with me on the k. m. & o. barry had told him of the trouble, and he was having a great laugh at my expense. barry, himself, showed up in a little while, but he didn't seem the least bit disturbed, when he found out who i really was. he said there was a time card rule, that forbade him allowing any unauthorized person in his office; he thought i was some semi-respectable "hobo," who wanted a place to stay all night; how in the world was he to know? suppose some one else had come out and said he was the chief despatcher, was he going to let them in the office without some proof? i saw that this was mighty good reasoning and that he was right. did i fire him? not much. men on railroads who so implicitly obey orders are too valuable to lose; and before i left the road he was working the third trick. things ran along very smoothly for a while and i was having a good time. the winter passed and with the advent of spring came the heavy rains for which that part of the country was justly noted. then the work commenced. one friday evening after four or five days of the steadiest and hardest kind of rain, i received a message from the section foreman at truxton, saying that big river was beginning to come up pretty high, and that the constant rains were making the track quite soft. i immediately sent him an order to put out a track walker at once, and told the despatcher on duty to make a "slow order" for five miles this side of the big river; the track on the other, or south side, was all right, being on high ground. our fast mail came in just then, and after the engines were changed, the engineer and conductor came into my office for their orders. i told them about the soft track, and in a spirit of pure fun, remarked to ben roberts, the engineer, that he had better look out or he would be taking a bath in big river that night. he facetiously replied: "well, i don't much mind. i'm generally so dirty when i get that far out that a bath would do me good." they received their orders, and as roberts went out the door, he laughingly said, "i reckon, bates, you'd better send the wrecker out right after us to fish me out of big river to-night." i stepped over to the window, saw him climb up on engine , a beautiful mcqueen, and pull out, and just as he started, he turned and waved his hand to me as if in token of farewell. truxton, five miles from the river, was not a stop for the mail, but i had them flagged there, to give them another special warning about approaching big river with caution. just then the track walker came into truxton, and reported that he had come from the river on a velocipede, and that while the track was soft it was not unsafe and the bridge appeared to be all right. presently, i heard, "os, os, xn, no. , a : , d : " and i knew the mail had gone on. the next station south was burton, three miles beyond the bridge, and i thought i would wait until i had the "os" report from there before going home for the night. thirty minutes passed and no sign of her. this did not worry me much, because i knew roberts would be extremely careful and run slow until he passed the bridge. in a minute truxton opened up and said, "raining like blazes now." i asked him where the track walker was, and he said he had gone out towards the bridge just after the mail had left. fifty minutes of the most intense anxiety passed, and all of a sudden every instrument in the office ceased clicking. as soon as a wire opens, all the operators are instructed to try their ground wires, and in that way the break is soon located. bentonville, bakersville, muncy, ashton, all in quick succession tried their grounds, and reported "all wires open south." presently the despatchers' wire closed again, and "ds, ds, xn." there! that was truxton calling us now. i answered and he said, "wires all open south. heavy rain now falling; violent wind storm has just passed over us; lots of lightning; looks like the storm would last all night." i told him to hustle out and get the section foreman, and gave him an order to take his gang and car and go to the bridge and back at once and make a full report. but where was all this time? stuck in the mud, i hoped, but all the same i was beginning to have a great many misgivings. mr. antwerp, the division superintendent, came in just then, and i reported all the facts of the case to him. he was very much worried, but said he hoped it would turn out all right. getting nothing from burton, on the south, i told truxton to keep on his ground until the section gang or track walker came back with a report. twenty minutes later he began to call "ds" with all his might. i answered and this is what the despatcher's copy operator took: truxton, | , --. "m. n. b. "ds. "no. went through big river bridge to-night; track was soft all the way over from truxton; engine, mail, baggage and one coach on the bridge when it gave way; three pullmans stayed on the track. roberts, engineer; carter, fireman, and sampson, conductor, all missing. need doctors. "o'hara, "brakeman." my god! wasn't it awful! i sent one caller to get out the wrecking crew and another for a doctor. i then instructed burke to prepare orders for the wrecker, pulling everything off and giving her a clean sweep; told truxton to keep on his ground wire and stay close; and pulling on my rain coat, i bounded down the steps and up to the roundhouse to hurry up the engine. engine , with ed stokes at the throttle, was just backing down as i came out, so i ran back, signed the orders, and as soon as the doctors arrived, mr. antwerp told me to pull out and take charge, saying he would come out if necessary on a special. it was scarcely five minutes from the time i received the first message until we pulled out and started on our wild ride of rescue. forty miles in forty minutes, with one slow down was our time. the old derrick and wreck outfit swayed to and fro like reeds in the wind, as we went down the track like a thunderbolt, but fortunately we held to the rails. there was scarcely a word spoken in the caboose, every one being intent upon holding on and thinking of the horrible scene we were soon to view. when we reached truxton we found the track walker there, and after hearing his story in brief, we pulled out for the bridge. our ride from truxton over to the wreck was frightful. it was still raining torrents, the wind was coming up again, lightning flashed, thunder rolled and the track was so soft in some places that it seemed as if we would topple over; but we finally reached there--and then what a scene to behold! the bridge, a long wooden trestle, was completely gone, nothing being left but twisted iron and a few broken stringers hanging in the air. four mail clerks, the express messenger, and the baggage man were drowned like rats in a trap. poor ben roberts had hung to his post like the hero, that he was, and was lost. sampson, the conductor, and carter, the fireman, were both missing, and in the forward coach, which was not entirely submerged, having fallen on one end of the baggage car, were many passengers, a number of whom were killed, and the rest all more or less injured. the river was not very wide, and i had the headlight taken off of our engine and placed on the bank; and presently a wrecker came up from the south, and her headlight was similarly placed, casting a ghastly weird, white light over the scene of suffering and desolation. i cut in a wrecking office, truxton took off his ground, i put on mine, and mr. antwerp was soon in possession of all the facts. a little later i was standing up to my knees in mud and water, and i heard a weak voice say: "mr. bates, for god's sake let me speak to you a minute." i looked around and beheld the most woebegone, bedraggled specimen of humanity i had ever seen in my life. "well, who under the sun are you?" i asked. "i'm carter, the fireman of no. . when i felt the bridge going i jumped. i was half stunned, but managed to keep afloat, being carried rapidly down the stream. i struck the bank about a mile and a half below here, and i've had one almighty big struggle to get back. for the love of the virgin give me a drink; i'm half dead;" and with that the poor fellow fell over senseless. i called one of the doctors and had him taken to the caboose of the wrecker, and when i had time i went in and heard the rest of his story. the poor chap was badly hurt, having one ankle broken, besides being bruised up generally. he said when no. left truxton, roberts proceeded at a snail-like pace, keeping a sharp lookout for a wash out. he slowed almost to a standstill before going on the bridge, but everything appearing all safe and sound he started again, remarking to carter, "here's where i get the bath that bates spoke about." [illustration: "see here, who is going to pull this train?"] the engine was half way over when there came a deafening roar; the train quivered, and--then carter jumped. that was all he knew. it was enough, and we sent him back with the rest of the wounded the next morning. he is pulling a passenger train there to-day. the engine was lost in the quicksands, and was never recovered, and ben roberts stayed with her to the last. he had more than his bath in big river that night; he had his funeral; the river was his grave, and the engine his shroud. chapter xviii a promotion by favor and its results i had been on the c. n. & q. for about eight months, when my second trick man took sick, and being advised to seek a healthier climate, resigned and went south. generally speaking the chief despatcher's recommendation is enough to place a man in his office; and as i had always believed in the rule of seniority, i wanted to appoint the third trick man to the second trick, make the day copy operator third trick man, and call in a new copy operator to replace the night man who would be promoted to the day job. in fact, i had started the ball rolling toward the accomplishment of this end, when mr. antwerp, the division superintendent, defeated all my plans by peremptorily asserting his prerogative and appointing his nephew, john krantzer, who had been night copy operator to the third trick. i protested with all my might, in fact was once on the point of resigning my position but the old man wouldn't hear of either proposition, and krantzer secured the place. now while krantzer was an excellent copy operator, he was very young, and lacked that persistence and reliability so essential in a successful despatcher. after i had protested until i was black in the face, i asked mr. antwerp at least to put the young man on the second trick, so that in a measure i could have him under my eye. but no, nothing but the third trick would satisfy him, so on the third trick the rattle-brained chap went the next night. he struggled through the first night without actually killing anybody, but his train sheet the next morning resembled a man with a very bad case of measles; there were delays on everything on the road, with very few satisfactory explanations. there was the fast mail twenty-five minutes in going six miles. cause? none was given. but a perusal of the order book showed that krantzer had made a meet for her with a freight train, and had hung her up on a blind siding for fifteen minutes. freights that had been out all night were still out, tied up in all kinds of shapes. meets had been made for two long trains at a point where the passing track was not large enough to accommodate either one of them, and the result was thirty minutes lost by both of them in "raw hiding" by. many other discrepancies were noticeable, but these sufficed to show that krantzer's abilities as a despatcher were of a very low order. however, i reflected, that it was his first night, and i remembered my own similar experience not many years ago, so i simply submitted the sheet to mr. antwerp without comment. he wiped his glasses, carefully adjusted them on his aristocratic nose, and after glancing at the sheet for a few moments, said, "ah! humph! well! well! well! not a very auspicious start, to be sure; but the boy will pick up. just jack him up in pretty good shape, bates; it will do him good." i jacked him up all right to the queen's taste but it was like pouring water on a duck's back. the second night was not much of an improvement, and i made a big kick to mr. antwerp the following morning, but it did no good. the third night was a hummer. i was kept at the office pretty late, in fact until after eleven o'clock, and before going home i wrote krantzer a note telling him to be very careful as there were many trains on the road. our through business at this time was very heavy, and compelled us to run many extras and specials. i was particular to inform him of two extras north, that would leave bradford, the lower end of the division, some time after : a. m., and directed him to run them as special freights having the right of track over all trains except the passengers. each train was made up of twenty-five cars of california fruit bound for new york, and they were the first of their kind to be run by us. we had a strong competitor for this class of business in the valley route, a line twenty miles away, and were making a big bid for the trade. the general manager had sent a message that a special effort was to be made to put the two trains through a-whooping, and i had ordered engines and , two of the best on the road, to pull them. burke, the second trick man had everything running smoothly at the time i wrote the note, and i told krantzer that, as it looked then, all he would have to do would be to keep them coming. no. , a fast freight south, had an engine that wasn't steaming very well, and i suggested to him to put her on the siding at manitou. it would delay about fifteen minutes but her freight was all dead stuff, so that would not make much difference. i did everything but write the order, and that i could not do, because i couldn't tell just what the conditions would be when the extras reached bradford, where they would receive the order. krantzer succeeded in getting them started in fair shape; but not content to let well enough alone, he thought he would run no. on to burnsides instead of putting her on the siding at manitou as i had suggested, and gave orders to that effect. after he had given the "complete" he told the operator to tell them to "fly." if he had given this same order for the meeting at burnsides to the two extras, _at the same time_, all would have been well, except that the extras would have been delayed some fifteen minutes, but this he was unable to do. burnsides itself is only a day office, so he could not communicate with them there, and they had already passed gloriana, the first night office south of burnsides. the operator at gloriana heard the order to and told krantzer it was a risky thing to do; but he told him "to mind his own business, as he (krantzer) could run that division without any help." no. was pulled by engine , with jim bush at the throttle, and he was such a runner that he had earned the sobriquet of "lightning jimmie." while he had reported early in the evening that his engine was not steaming very well, he had succeeded in getting her to working good by this time. burnsides is at the foot of a long grade from the north, and about a mile up there is a very abrupt curve as the track winds around the side of the hill. the two extras were bowling along merrily when they struck this grade; and although there is a time card rule that says that trains will be kept ten minutes apart, they were right together, helping each other over the grade. in fact, it was one train with two engines, somewhat of a double header with the second engine in the middle. they were going on for all they were worth, expecting to meet no. at manitou, as originally ordered. in the meantime, bush pulling no. , had passed manitou, and with thirty-eight heavy cars behind him, was working her for all she was worth on the down grade, so as to get on the siding for the extras at burnsides. he was carrying out krantzer's order to "fly," with a vengeance. and just as he turned the curve, he saw, not fifty yards ahead of him, the headlight of the first extra. to stop was out of the question. he whistled once for brakes, reversed his engine, pulled her wide open and then jumped! he landed safely enough, and beyond a broken right arm, and a badly bruised leg, was unhurt. his poor fireman, though, jumped on the other side and was dashed to pieces on the rocks; and the head man and engineer of the first extra were also killed. i had known many times of two trains being put in the hole; but this was the first time i had ever seen three of them so placed. krantzer had sense enough to order out the wrecker, and send for me. i knew just as soon as i heard the caller's rap on my door that he had done something so i lost no time in getting over to the office and there sat krantzer as cool as if he had not just killed three men by his gross carelessness and cost the company thousands of dollars. i had the old man called and when he came and learned what had occurred, his discomfiture was so great that i felt fully repaid for all my annoyance on his nephew's account. he directed me to go out to the wreck and report to him upon arrival. i had forbush, the first trick man, called and placed him in charge of the office during my absence. incidentally, i told krantzer he had better be scarce when i sent the remains of those crews in, because i fancied they were in a fit mood to kill him. when i returned i found that he had gone. it appeared that jim bush went up into the office, and although he had one arm broken, he was prepared to beat the life out of that crazy young despatcher. forbush saw him coming and gave krantzer a tip, and as bush came in one door, krantzer went out the other. the effects of this wreck were far beyond calculation to the company because they lost the business they were striving to win, and the way the general manager went for old man antwerp was enough to make us all grin with delight. it is needless to say i was allowed to place my own men thereafter. chapter xix jacking up a negligent operator--a convict operator--dick, the plucky call boy one of the most unpleasant duties i had to perform was that of "jacking up" operators, and punishing them for their short-comings. generally, if the case was not a very bad one, and the man had a good reputation, i would try and smooth it over with only a reprimand; but there are times "when patience ceases to be a virtue," and punishment must be inflicted. the train sheet is always the first indication that some operator is to be "hauled up on the carpet." one morning i found the following entry on the sheet:-- "no. delayed forty-five minutes at bentonville, account not being able to raise the operator at sicklen in that time. called for explanation and operator said 'he was over at hotel getting some lunch.'" that excuse "over at hotel getting some lunch," is as familiar to a railroad operator as the creed is to a good churchman. a young man named charles ferral was the night man at sicklen, and his ability as an operator was only exceeded by his inability to tell the truth when he was in a tight place. i was too old an operator to be fooled by any such a yarn as this; and besides, the conductor of no. reported to me that he had found ferral stretched out on the table asleep, when he stopped there for water. but he was a first-rate man and i didn't want to lose him, so i wrote him a sharp letter and told him that a repetition of his offense would cause him to receive his time instantly. he was as penitent as the prodigal son, and promised never to so offend again; and he kept his word--for just about ten days. one morning he asked my permission to come up to "ds" on no. and go back on no. in the afternoon. i gave it, but warned him to not lose too much sleep. there are some men in the business that the sound of their office call on a telegraph instrument will cause to awaken at once no matter how soundly they may be sleeping, but ferral was not one of these. the night following his return to his station, i was kept at the office until late, and about eleven o'clock no. appeared at bakersville, and wanted to run to ashton for no. . they were both running a little late, and as had a heavy train of coal and system empties, i told burke to let them go. but the only station at which we could then get an order to was sicklen, ferral's station. burke began to call, but sicklen made no answer. he called for forty-five minutes at a stretch, all the time waiting at bakersville. he stopped for five minutes and then went at it again. in ten minutes sicklen answered. burke started to give the order, but ferral broke and gave the "os" report that had just gone by. that settled it; no. was hung up another hour all on account of ferral's failure to attend to his duty. i opened up on him and said, "where have you been for the last fifteen minutes?" the same old excuse, "lunch," came back at me. "well, where were you for ten minutes before that?" then that dear old stereotyped expression, "fixing my batteries," followed. but i was only too sure that he had been asleep, and no. going by had awakened him. so i gently remarked that "i was not born yesterday, and said that he would probably have ample time to fix his batteries after this; that, in fact, i thought it would be a good thing for him to take a long course in battery work, and i would assist him all i could--i would provide him with the time for the work." the next morning i laid the matter before mr. antwerp, and he wanted the man discharged forthwith. but during the night my anger had cooled somewhat and now i felt inclined to give him another chance; so i simply urged that he be laid off for a while. "all right, bates, but make it a good stiff lay-off--not less than fifteen days," said mr. antwerp. i wrote ferral accordingly; but i had scarcely finished when a letter came from him to me, begging off, and promising anything if i would not discharge him; but, instead would lay him off for _forty-five days_. i took him at his word and gave him the forty-five days he asked for, instead of the fifteen i had intended to give him. but, about two weeks later he came up to "ds," and looked so woebegone, and pleaded so hard to be taken back, that i remitted the remainder of his punishment. he was greatly chagrined when he learned that he had trebled his own sentence. he was never remiss again. go over to the despatcher's office any night and you will see him, bright and alert, sitting opposite the despatcher doing the copying. he is in the direct line of promotion, and some day will be a despatcher himself. i never regretted my leniency. in addition to the main line, i had a branch of thirty-eight miles, running from bentonville up to sandia. the despatching for this branch was done from my office, and when we wanted anyone there bentonville would cut us through. this was seldom necessary, however, because there were only two trains daily, a combination freight and passenger each way. the last station this side of sandia was alexis. the state penitentiary was located there, and the telegraphing was done by a convict "trusty"--a man who, having been appointed cashier of a big freight office in the western part of the state, couldn't stand prosperity, and, in consequence, had been sent up for six years. his conduct had been so good that, after he had served four years inside of the walls, he was made a "trusty." his ability as an operator was extraordinary. he had a smooth easy way of sending that made his sending as plain as a circus bill. the two branch trains on the branch were known as and , and one day , running north in the morning, had jumped the track laying herself out about ten hours. when she left sandia as on her return trip south, she again went off the track and the result was sixteen hours' more delay. we wouldn't send a wrecker up from the main line, and they had to work out their own salvation. when they finally appeared at alexis they were running on the time of . that would never do, and the conductor asked the operator at alexis to get him orders to run to bentonville regardless of no. . burke, my second trick man, was on duty at the time, and it so chanced that he did not know the alexis man was a convict. he was about to give the order asked for when something on the main line diverted him for a moment. when he was ready again, alexis broke him and said, "wait a minute." to tell a despatcher to wait a minute when he is sending a train order is to court sudden death, and burke said, "wait for what?" "for whatever you blame please, i'm going out to weigh this coal." burke's irish blood was all up in his head by this time, and he said: "what do you mean by talking that way to me? no. is waiting for this ' '; now you copy and i'll get your time sent you in the morning." "oh! will you? i guess my time is all fixed so you can't touch it. i only wish you could; i'd like mighty well to be fired from this job; i wouldn't even wait for my pay." i had been sitting at my desk taking it all in, and was just about ready to expire with laughter, when burke called over to me: "did you hear that young fellow's impudence?" "yes, i heard." "well, what are you going to do about it? i've never had an operator talk to me like that before. i must certainly insist that you dismiss him at once. he and i can't work on the same road." "unfortunately, burke," said i, "the state has a claim on his services for two years yet, and i am afraid they won't waive it." at this it dawned upon burke, who and what the man really was; but i cannot say that his humor was improved at once by the discovery. one morning shortly after this i was sitting in my office making up an annual train report, and was cussing out anything and everybody, because this train report is one of the worst things in the whole business. it was figures till you couldn't rest, and i had already been working at it for three days, and my head was in a perfect whirl. that morning one of our call boys had turned up missing and that fact also irritated me. it would seem that a call boy was a pretty insignificant chap in a big railroad, but such is not the case. in a perfect system every employee is like a cog in a big wheel, and as soon as one cog is broken there is a jar in the otherwise smooth symmetrical movement of the machine. the call boy is quite an important personage, because, upon him depends the prompt calling of the various crews in time to take out their trains. he must keep a keen watch on the call board for the marking up of trains; he must know who is the first to go out, and he must know the dwelling place of every engineer, fireman, conductor and brakeman in the city. on a big division like ours, this, in itself, was not a small job. on some roads men are employed for this work, but i had always been partial to the boys, and kept four of them, two on days and two on nights. when my day boy left, i promoted a night boy to the second day job, and was cudgeling my brain for a good chap to go on nights. in a little while i heard a sharp rap on the office door, and in response to my "come in," uttered in a tone that was anything but pleasant, a sturdy looking little chap about fourteen years old stood before me. he had a shock of jet black hair, tumbled all over his head, a pair of bright eyes, round full face, not over clean, strong limbs and a well knit body. his clothes hung on him like gunny sacks, and the crudity of the many various patches indicated that they had not been put on by woman's deft fingers. he didn't wait for me to speak, but blurted out: "say, mister, i have just heard tell as how you wants a call boy. do you?" he took my breath away by his bluntness; he looked so honest and sincere, so i simply replied, "yes," and waited. "well then, i wants the job. see!" "what's your name, youngster, and where is your home?" "my name's dick durstine; i hain't got no home, no father, no mother, no nothin', just me, and i wants to learn the tick tick business. it looks dead easy." this was really funny, but i liked his impudence, and, while i had no intention of hiring him, i determined to draw him out, so i said: "where were you born, when did you come here, and do you know where any of the crews live?" "i was born in st. louis; mother died when i was a kid, and dad was such a drunken worthless old cuss and beat me so much, that i brought up in a foundling asylum. i come in here riding on the trucks of your mail train about three weeks ago, and the fellers up in the roundhouse have been lettin' me feed and snooze there. i know where all the crews live exceptin' some of your kid glove engineers wot pulls the fast trains, but i can soon find them out. please give me the job, mister; i'm honest and i'll work hard." something in his blunt straightforward way appealed to me and i determined to try him. handled right i imagined he would be a good man; handled wrong, he would probably become a bright and shining light of the _genus_ hobo. so i hired him, telling him his salary would be forty dollars per month. "hully gee!" he exclaimed, "forty plunks a month! well say! i won't do a ting wid all dat mun; i'll just buy a road. thank you mister, i'll work so hard for you that you'll not be sorry you gave me the job. but don't you forget that i wants to learn the tick tick business." that night at seven o'clock he went to work, and it didn't take long to see that he was as bright as a new dollar. he knew everything about the division, knew all the crews and where they lived. days went by and still he held up his end and was a great favorite with all the force. there was a local instrument in the office, and one of the operators wrote the morse alphabet for him, and ever after that he kept pegging away at the key. he practiced writing and it wasn't many weeks before he was getting to be something of an operator. i went out to the main line battery room one evening to give some instructions to the man in charge and there i discovered master dick with a battery syringe in one hand and a brush in the other deeply engrossed in monkeying with the jars. "look here, you young rascal," i said sharply, "what are you doing in here? first thing you know you will short circuit some of these batteries and then there'll be the de'il to pay: don't you ever let me catch you out here again, or i'll fire you bodily." "i hain't been doing nothin', mister bates, i just wanted to see what made the old thing go tick tick. wot's all them glass jars for wid the green water and the tin in?" i explained to him as well as i could the construction of the gravity battery. he had been forbidden to monkey with any of the instruments or the switch board in the main office, but his infernal inquisitiveness soon ran away with his sense, and it wasn't long before he was in trouble. he pulled a plug out of the switch board one evening, and burke threatened to kill him. another evening, he went into my office and monkeyed with an instrument that i kept there connected to the despatcher's wire, and left it open. there was no report from any of the offices on either side, and investigation soon revealed the culprit. the wire was open for ten minutes and burke was as mad as a march hare, when he reported it to me the next morning. i sent for master dick and informed him that another such a report against him would cause his instant dismissal. he seemed penitent enough, but two nights afterwards he short circuited all the main line batteries by his foolishness, and raised cain in the office for a while. the next morning his time was presented to him and he was told to get out. he pleaded hard but his offenses had been too numerous, and i had to let him go. i must confess, however, that we all missed him greatly, because, in spite of his troublesome nature, he was a prime favorite with all the force. our road ran through some wild unsettled country, and a few years previous, a mr. bob forney and some distinguished gentlemen of the road, had paid us a visit, with the result that the express company lost about forty thousand dollars and their messenger his life. the country became too warm for them and they fled. our flyer left two nights after this, having on board about a hundred thousand dollars of government money, and i remarked to bob stanton, the conductor, that it was a fine chance for a hold up, but he laughed it off and said that civilization was too far advanced for that kind of work just now. about nine o'clock i was sitting in the despatcher's office smoking a cigar before going home for the night, when all at once the despatcher's wire and the railroad line opened. sicklen reported south of him and then took off his ground. pretty soon the sounder began to open and close in a peculiar shaky manner, and then i heard the following: "to 'ds,' gang of robbers goin' to hold up the flyer in ashley's cut to-night. they will place rails and ties on the track to wreck train if they don't heed signal. warn train to watch out and bring gang out from sicklen. this is dick durstine." all was quiet for a minute and then he started again, but soon he stopped short and we heard no more. the line remained open. we raised sicklen on a commercial wire and told him to turn his red-light and hold everything. i was in somewhat of a quandary; the sending had been miserable, sounding unlike any stuff dick had ever sent, and then the stopping of the whole business made it seem rather suspicious. still ashley's cut was an ideal place for a hold up, and the weather was dark and stormy. everything was propitious for just such a job. in the meantime, ashton, the first office south of sicklen, had reported on the commercial line that the despatcher's wire was open north of him. that would place it near the cut in all probability. anyway i didn't intend to take any chance, so i sent a message to sicklen telling him to notify the sheriff of all the facts and ask him to send out a posse on the flyer, and, also, for him to get the day man to go out and patch the lines up until a line man could get there in the morning. about twenty minutes afterwards the flyer left sicklen nicely fixed with a strong posse, and an order to approach the cut with caution. it was only three miles from sicklen to the cut, and i knew it would be but a matter of a short while until something was heard. sure enough, forty minutes later the despatcher's wire closed and this message came: "to bates, ds: "attempt to hold up no. in ashley's cut was frustrated by the sheriff's posse. outlaws had placed ties on the track in case we did not heed the signal to stop. two of them killed, three captured and one escaped. dick durstine is here, badly shot through the right lung. will have him sent in from sicklen on in the morning. "stanton, conductor." the next morning when pulled in i went down and there, laid out on a litter in the baggage car, was dick durstine, my former call boy, weak, pale, and just living. he was conscious, and when i leaned over him his eyes glistened for a minute, he smiled and feebly said: "say, mister bates, didn't i do them fellers up in good shape? when i gets well again will you gimme back my job so i can learn some more about the tick tick? i'll never monkey any more, honest to god, i won't." a queer lump came in my throat and there was a suspicion of moisture in my eyes as i contemplated this brave little hero, and i said: "god bless your brave little heart, dick, you can have anything on this division." mr. antwerp had appeared and was visibly affected. we had dick removed to the company hospital, and then for some days he lay hovering between life and death, but youth, and a strong constitution finally won out and he began to mend. when he was able to sit up i heard his story. it appeared that when i dismissed him he laid around the place for a day, and then jumping a freight, started south. at sicklen he had been put off by a heartless brakeman and had started to walk to ashton. it was evening and he became tired. after walking as far as the north end of the cut he laid down and went to sleep behind a pile of old ties. he was awakened by the sound of voices near by, and listening intently, he learned that the men were outlaws and intended to hold up the flyer that night. they intended to flag her down as she entered the cut and do the business in the usual smooth manner. in case she wouldn't stop, they would have a pile of ties on the track that would soon put a quietus on her flight. poor little dick was horrified and stealing quietly away some distance he stopped and cogitated. time was becoming precious. how was he to send a warning? oh! if he could only get into a telegraph office! suddenly an idea struck him. he went a little farther up the track, and shinning up a pole he took his heavy jack-knife, and after a hard effort, succeeded in cutting two wires. another pole was climbed and only one wire cut from it. with this strand he made a joint so that the two ends of the despatcher's wire could be brought in easy contact. then by knocking the two ends together he sent the warning. his cutting of the wire had made a peculiar loud twang and one of the outlaws heard it. becoming suspicious, he and his partner started up the track to investigate. they came upon dick, kneeling on one knee, engrossed in his work, and without one word of warning shot him in the back. they left him for dead, but thank god he did not die, and to-day he is on a road that before many years will land him on top of the heap. chapter xx an episode of sentiment the night man down at bentonville quit rather suddenly one fall morning, and as i had no immediate relief in prospect, i wired the chief despatcher of the division south of me to send me a man if he had any to spare. that afternoon i received a message from him saying he had sent miss ellen ross to take the place. i still had a very distinct recollection of my encounter with miss love, and i wasn't overfond of women operators anyway, so miss ross's welcome to my division was not a hearty one. she was the first woman i had ever had under my jurisdiction. i was at the office quite late a night or two after this, and heard some of her work; there was no use denying that she was a very smooth operator as well as a very prompt one. burke said he had no complaint to offer; she was always on time, and i must confess i felt much chagrined. i wanted a chance to discharge her, but it didn't appear to materialize. but i was a patient waiter and one morning about three weeks later i came into the office and on looking over the delay sheet i saw the following entry in the delay column: "no. delayed fifty minutes, account not being able to raise the operator at bentonville in that time; as an explanation, operator says she was over at the hotel getting her lunch." evidently miss ross had little ingenuity in the line of excuses or she would never have offered such a threadbare one as that. i wanted the chance to annihilate her and here it was. i called up bentonville and asked if miss ross was there. she was, and i said, "isn't it possible for you to invent a better excuse than 'lunch' for your failure to answer last night, or this morning rather?" she drummed on the key for a moment and then said if i didn't like that excuse i knew what i could do. i caught my breath at her audacity and then "_did_." i sent her time to her on no. , and a man to take her place. i then dismissed the matter from my mind and supposed that i had heard the last of miss ross. i never was very well acquainted with the female sex or i would not have dismissed the matter with such complacency. a day or two after this i was sitting in the division superintendent's office, he being out on the road, and i heard a voice say: "is this mr. bates?" i had not heard anyone come in and i glanced up and answered, "yes." i saw before me a young woman of an air and appearance that fairly took my breath away. i immediately arose to my feet and with all possible deference invited her to take a seat. i supposed she was the wife of some of the officials and wanted a pass. in response to my inquiry as to what could i do for her she said, timidly: "i am miss ross, lately night operator at bentonville." her answer put me more off my ease than ever, but the discipline of the road had to be maintained at any-cost; so as soon as i could, i put on my severest look and sternly said, "well!" she smiled slightly in a way that made me doubt if she were much impressed by my display of rigor; and answered, "i came to see if you wouldn't take me back. i am sure i didn't mean to offend the other night. i have been an operator for nearly four years and i have never had the least bit of trouble before. you have no fault to find with my work i am sure; and i promise to be very careful to never offend again. won't you please take me back?" gee! but she did look pretty and her big black eyes were shining like bright stars. if she had only known it i was ready by this time to have given her the best job on the whole division, even my own, but i wasn't going to give up without a show of resistance and i said: "humph! well let's see!" then i rang my bell and told the boy to get me the train sheet of the sixteenth. i looked very stern and very wise as i read the delay report to her. "that, miss ross, is a very serious offense. a delay of fifty minutes to any train is bad enough, but when it happens to a through freight it is the worst possible. then you say you were at the hotel for lunch. the order book shows that the despatcher called you from two a. m. until two-fifty a. m. isn't that rather an unearthly hour to be going out to lunch? my recollection of the bentonville station is that it is a mile from the excuse of a hotel in the place. really, i am very sorry but i don't see how anything can be done." discipline was being maintained, you see, in great shape, but all the time i was delivering my little speech i was feeling like a big red-headed hypocrite. miss ross looked up at me with those beautiful eyes; then two big tears made their appearance on the scene, and she sobbed out: "well, i know i told a fib when i made that excuse, but the despatcher was so sharp and i was so scared when he said he had been calling me for fifty minutes, that i told him the first thing that came into my mind. then, the next day i was angry at you, because i thought you were chaffing me, as i was the only woman on the line, and i suppose i was rather impudent. but do you think it is fair to discharge me for the same thing that you only gave mr. ferral fifteen days for? are you not doing it simply because i am a woman?" i never could stand a woman's tears, especially a pretty one, and when she cited the case of ferral, i realized that i had lost my game. i let myself down as easily as i could and that night miss ross went back to work at bentonville, and the man there was put on the waiting list. it was very funny after this how many times i had to run down to bentonville. that sandia branch line had to be inspected; the switch board had to be replaced by a new one in "bn" office; wires had to be changed, a new ground put in, and many other things done, and always i had to go myself to see that the work was done properly. the agent at bentonville came, before very long, to smile in a very knowing way whenever i jumped off the train; mr. antwerp had a peculiarly wise look in his eye when i mentioned anything about bentonville, but i didn't mind it. i was in love with the sweet little girl, and was walking on the clouds. if i hadn't been i would have seen that my cake was all dough in that quarter. i might have noticed that big dan forbush had an amused look in his eye when i went off on one of these trips. if i had watched the mail i might have seen numerous little billets coming daily from bentonville, addressed in a neat round hand to "mr. dan forbush." but i didn't, i kept right on in my mad career, and one day when my courage was high i offered my hand and my heart to miss ross. she refused and told me that while she was honored by my proposal, she had been engaged to mr. forbush for two years, having known him down on the "sunset" before he came to our road. i took my defeat as philosophically as i could and the next spring she left bentonville for good, and dan took a three weeks' leave. when he came back he brought sweet ellen as his bride. one evening not long after that i was calling there, when mrs. forbush looked up at me very naively and said: "mr. bates, did i pay you back for discharging me?" [illustration: "are you not doing it just because i am a woman?"] there's no doubt about it, she did, and i felt it. she was the third girl to throw me over, and i determined to give up the business and go for a soldier. i stuck it out there till fall and then resigned for all time. chapter xxi the military operator--a fake report that nearly caused trouble the railroad and commercial telegraphers are well known to the general public, because they are thrown daily in contact with them, but there is still another class in the profession, which, while not being so well known are, in their way, just as important in their acts and deeds. i refer to the military telegrapher. his work does not often carry him within the environments of civilization; his instruments are not of the beautiful bunnell pattern, placed on polished glass partitioned tables; his task is a very hard one and yet he does it without a grumble. his sphere of duty is out at the extreme edge of advancing civilization. you will find him along the rio grande frontier; out on the sun-baked deserts of new mexico and arizona; up in the bad lands of montana, and the snow-capped mountains of the rockies. a few of them you will find in nice offices at some department headquarters or in the war office in washington, but such places are generally given to men who have grown old and gray in the service. his office? any old place he can plant his instruments, many times a tent with a cracker box for a table; a chair would be an unheard-of luxury. his pay? thirteen big round american dollars per month. his rank and title? hold your breath while i tell you. private, united states army. great, isn't it? many times a detail to one of the frontier points means farewell to your friends as long as the tour lasts. when i left the railroad business i journeyed out westward to fort hayes, kansas, and held up my right hand and swore all manner of oaths to support the constitution of the united states; obey the orders of the president of the united states and all superior officers; to accept the pay and allowances as made by a generous (god save the word) congress for the period of five years. thus did i become a soldier and a "dough boy" because i went to the infantry arm of the service. i've stuck to the business ever since. i supposed when i went into the army that my connection with wires and telegraph instruments was entirely finished. i had worked at the business long and faithfully and was in a state of mind that i thought i had had enough. that's very good in theory, but powerful poor in practice, because i hadn't been soldiering a month before a feeling of homesickness for my old love came over me; in fact to this day i never see a railroad but what i want to go up in the despatcher's office and sit down and take a "trick." but there were commissions to be had from the ranks of the army and i wanted one, so i hung on and did my duty as best i could. the stay at fort hayes was a very peaceful and serene one; i did no telegraphing there for a year, and then we were ordered to fort clark, texas. when i quit the commercial business i had almost taken an oath never to go back to texas, but i couldn't help it in this case. fort clark is one hundred and thirty miles due west of dear old san antonio, and situated nine miles from the railroad. when my company arrived, there was no telegraphic communication with the outside world and all telegrams had to be sent by courier to spofford junction, for transmission. after having been stationed there for about eight months i was sent for by the commanding officer and told to take charge of a party and build a telegraph line over to the railroad. the poles had been set by a detachment of the rd cavalry and in five days' time i had strung the wire. being the only operator in the post i was placed in charge of the office and relieved from all duty. it was a perfect snap; no drills, no guards, no parades, nothing but just work the wire and plenty of time to devote to my studies. in december, , the sioux indians again broke loose from their reservations at pine ridge and all of the available men of the pitifully small, but gallant, united states army were hurriedly rushed northwards to give them a smash that would be lasting and convincing. there was the th cavalry, custer's old command, the th and th cavalry, the th, nd, and th infantry, the late lamented and gallant capron's flying battery of artillery, besides others--general miles personally assumed command, and the campaign was short, sharp, brilliant and decisive. the indians were lambasted into a semblance of order, and that personification of deviltry, sitting bull, given his transportation to the happy hunting grounds, but not before a score or more of brave officers and men had passes to their long reckoning. captain george wallace, of the th cavalry; lieutenant mann, of the same regiment, and lieutenant ned casey, of the nd infantry, left places in the ranks of the officers that were hard to fill. my regiment, the th infantry, was too far away to go, and besides, the rio grande frontier, with señor garza and his band of cutthroats prowling around loose, could not be left unprotected. there would be too big a howl from the texans if that occurred. during all these trying times my telegraph office was naturally the center of interest, and i had made an arrangement with the chief operator at san antonio to send me bulletins of any important news. i always made two copies, posting one on the bulletin board in front of my office, and delivering the other to the colonel in person. soldiers are very loquacious as a rule and give them a thread upon which to hang an argument, and in a minute a free silver, demo-popocrat convention would sound tame in comparison. go into a squad-room at any time the men are off duty, and you can have a discussion on almost any old subject from the result of the coming prize fight to the deepest question of the bible and theology. many times the argument will become so warm between privates "hicky" flynn and "pie faced" sullivan that theology will be settled _a la_ queensbury out behind the wash-house. among soldiers this argumentative spirit is called "chewing the rag." one morning shortly after wounded knee with its direful results had been fought, i thought it would be a great joke to post a startling bulletin, just to start the men's tongues a-wagging. so i wrote the following: "bulletin "san antonio, texas, | , . "reported that the th and th cavalry were ambuscaded yesterday by sioux indians under crazy horse, and completely wiped out of existence. custer's little big horn massacre outdone. not a man escaped." i chuckled with fiendish glee as i posted this on the bulletin board and then started for breakfast. i thought some soldier would read it, tell it to the men of his company, and in that way the fun would commence. my scheme worked to perfection, because some of the men of g company, (mine was d) had seen me stick it up and had come post haste to read. i started the ball rolling in my own company and in about a minute there were fifty men around me all jabbering like magpies as to the result of this awful massacre. of course, the regiment would be hurried north forthwith--no other regiment could do the work of annihilation so well as the th. oh! no. of course not! said my erstwhile friend and bunkie "hickey" flynn: "av coorse, moiles will be after sendin' a message to lazelle to bring the ateenth fut up at once, and thin the smashin' we will be after givin' them rid divils will make a wake look sick." "aw cum off, hickey," said sullivan, "phat the divil does yez know av foightin' injuns? phat were ye over in the auld sod? nathin' but a turf digger. phat were ye here before ye 'listed? dom ye, i think ye belong to the clan na gael and helped to murther poor doc cronin, bad cess to ye." a display of authority on the part of the top sergeant prevented a clash and the jaw-breaking contest proceeded. by this time the news had spread and the entire garrison were talking. just as i was about to tell them that it was a fake pure and simple, i happened to glance towards my office, and holy smoke! there was my captain standing on his tiptoes (he was only five feet four) reading that confounded bulletin. i hadn't counted on any of the officers reading it. generally they didn't get up until eight o'clock and by that time i would have destroyed the fake report. the officers' club was in the same building as my office and the captain had come down early, evidently to get a--to read the morning paper (_which came at p. m._) and his eye lighted on my bulletin. i saw him read it carefully, and then reaching up he tore it from the board and as quick as his little legs would carry him, he made a bee line for the commanding officer's quarters. i knew full well how the colonel would regard that bulletin when he found out it was a fake. i was able to discern a summary court-martial in my mind's eye, and that would knock my chances for a commission sky-highwards--because a man's military record must be absolutely spotless when he appears for examination. what was i to do? just then i saw the captain go up the colonel's steps, ring the bell, and in a moment he was admitted. i felt that my corpse was laid out right then and there and the wake was about to begin. a few moments later the commanding officer's orderly came in, and looking around for a minute, caught sight of me and said: "corporal, the commanding officer wants to see you at his quarters at once," and out he went. "start the band to playing the 'dead march in saul,'" thought i, "because this is the beginning of a funeral procession in which i am to play the leading part." i walked as slowly as i could and not appear lagging, but i arrived at my crematory all too soon. i rapped on the door and in tones that made me shiver was bidden by the old man to come in. the colonel was standing in the middle of his parlor, wrapped in a gaudy dressing gown, and in his hand he held my mangled bulletin. right at that minute i wished i had never heard a telegraph instrument click. "corporal," said the colonel, "what time did you receive this bulletin?" "about six-fifteen, sir, immediately after reveille," i replied with a face as expressionless as a mummy's. "why did you not bring it to me direct as you have heretofore done?" "well, sir, i didn't think you were awake yet, and i did not want to disturb you." "have you any later news, corporal?" "no sir, none, but i haven't been back to the office since, sir." gee! but that room was becoming warm! "are you certain as to the truth of this awful report?" "it is probably as authentic as a great many stories that are started during times like these--that is all i know of it, sir." (lord forgive me.) "it seems almost too horrible to be true, and yet, one cannot tell about those sioux. they're a bad lot--a devilish bad lot"--this to my captain--and then to me: "you go back to your office, corporal, and remain very close until you have a denial or a confirmation of this story and bring any news you may receive to me instanter. that's all corporal." the "corporal" needed no second dismissal, and saluting i quickly got out of an atmosphere that was far from chilly to me. now, by my cussed propensity for joking, i had involved myself in this mess, and there was but one way out of it, and that was to brazen it out for a while longer and then post a denial of the supposed awful rumor. _but the denial must come over the wire_, so when i reached my office i called up spofford and told old man livingston what i had done and what i wanted him to do for me, and in about half an hour he sent me a "bulletin" saying that the previous report had happily proved unfounded and the th and th cavalry were all right. this message i took at once to the colonel and as he read it he heaved a big sigh of relief, but he dismissed me with a very peculiar look in his eye. the next evening as i was passing the colonel's quarters on my way to deliver a message to the hospital, i heard him remark to another officer, "major, don't you think it is strange that the papers received to-day make no mention of that frightful report received-here yesterday morning relative to the supposed massacre of the th and th cavalry?" no, the major didn't think it a bit strange. maybe he knew that newspaper stories should be taken _cum grano salis_, and then maybe he knew me. there were no more "fake reports" from that office. chapter xxii private dennis hogan, hero it was while i was sitting around a barrack-room fire that i picked up the following story. there were a number of old soldiers in my company--men who had served twenty-five years in the army--and their fund of anecdote and excitement was of the largest size. on thanksgiving day, --, private dennis hogan, company b, th united states infantry, the telegraph operator at fort flint, montana, sat in his dingy little "two by four" office in the headquarter building, communing with himself and cussing any force of circumstances that made him a soldier. the instruments were quiet, a good thanksgiving dinner had been enjoyed and now the smoke from his old "t. d." pipe curled in graceful rings around his red head. denny was a smashing good operator and some eighteen months before he had landed in st. louis dead broke. all the offices and railroads were full and nary a place did he get. while walking up pine street one morning his eye fell foul of a sign:-- "wanted, able-bodied, unmarried men, between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-five, for service in the united states army." in his mind's eye he sized himself up and came to the conclusion that he would fill all the requirements. now, he hadn't any great hankering for soldiering, but he didn't have a copper to his name and as empty stomachs stand not on ceremony, in he went and after being catechized by the recruiting sergeant, he was pounded for thirty minutes by the examining surgeon, pronounced as sound as a dollar, and then sworn in "to serve uncle sam honestly and faithfully for five years. so help me god." the space of time necessary to transform a man from a civilian to a soldier is of a very short duration, and almost before he knew it he was dressed in the plain blue of the soldier of the republic. he was assigned to b company of the th united states infantry stationed at fort flint, montana. the experience was new and novel to him, and the three months recruit training well nigh wore him out, but he stuck to it, and some two months after he had been returned to duty, he was detailed as telegraph operator vice adams of g company, discharged. there he had remained since. at four o'clock on the afternoon in question denny was aroused from his reverie by the sounder opening up and calling "fn" like blue blazes. he answered and this is what he took: "department headquarters st. paul, minn. "november th, - "commanding officer, "fort flint, montana. "sioux indians out. prepare your command for instant field service. thirty days' rations; two hundred rounds ammunition per man. wire when ready. "by command of major general wherry. (signed) smith, "assistant adjutant-general." denny was the messenger boy as well as operator and without waiting to make an impression copy, he grabbed his hat and flew down the line to the colonel's quarters. that worthy was entertaining a party at dinner, and was about to give hogan fits for bringing the message to him instead of to the post adjutant; but a glance at the contents changed things and in a moment all was bustle and confusion. for weeks the premonitory signs of this outbreak had been plainly visible, but true to the red-tape conditions, the army could not move until some overt act had been committed. the generous interior department had supplied the indians with arms and ammunition and then mr. red devil under that prince of fiends incarnate, sitting bull, started on his campaign of plunder and pillage. at eight o'clock that night colonel clarke wired his chief that his command was ready, and at midnight he received orders to proceed the next morning at daylight, by forced marches up to the junction of the forks of the red bud, and take position there to intercept the indians should they attempt to cross. two regiments from the more northern posts were due to reach there at the same time, and the combined strength of the three commands was supposed to be sufficient to drive back any body of indians. there was little sleep in fort flint that night. now, hogan wasn't much of a success as a garrison soldier, but when a chance for a genuine fight presented itself, all the irish blood in his nature came to the surface, and after much pleading and begging, the adjutant allowed him to join his company, detailing jones of d company as operator in his stead. jones wasn't as good an operator by far as denny, but in a pinch he could do the work, and besides, he had just come out of the hospital and was unable to stand the rigors attendant upon a winter campaign in montana. denny went to the company quarters in high glee and soon had his kit all packed. some weeks before he had been out repairing the line and when he returned to the post he had left a small pocket instrument and a few feet of office wire in his haversack. he saw these things and was about to remove them, when something impelled him to take them along. what this was no one ever knew. perhaps premonition. the next morning just as the first dim shadows of early dawn stole over the snow-clad earth, the gallant old th, five hundred strong, swung out of fort flint, on its long tramp. from out of half-closed blinds on the officer's line gazed many a tear-stained face, and up on "soapsuds row" many an honest-hearted laundress was bemoaning the fates that parted her from her "ould mon." the weather turned bitter cold and after seven days of the hardest kind of marching they reached and crossed the red bud just below the junction of the two forks. a strong position was taken and every disposition made to prevent surprise. the expected re-enforcement would surely come soon and then all would be safe. the next day dawned and passed, but not a sign of that re-enforcement. that night queer looking red glows were seen at stated intervals on the horizon--north, west and east on the north side of the river, and to the south on the other bank did they gleam and glow. colonel clarke was old and tried in indian warfare and well did he know what those fires meant--indians--and lots of them all around his command. his hope now was that the two northern regiments would strike them in the rear while he smashed them in front. the next morning, first one, two, three, four, an hundred, a thousand figures mounted on fleet footed ponies appeared silhouetted against the clear sky, and it wasn't long before that little command of sturdy bluecoats was surrounded by a superior force of the wildest red devils that ever strode a horse or fired a winchester rifle. slowly they drew their lines closer about the troops like the clinging tentacles of some monster devilfish, and about eleven o'clock, _bang!_ and the battle was on. "husband your fire, men. don't shoot until you have taken deliberate aim, and can see the object aimed at," was the word passed along the line by colonel clarke. behind hastily constructed shelter trenches the soldiers fought off that encircling band of indians, with a desperation and valor born of an almost hopeless situation. ever and anon, from across the river came the ping of a winchester bullet, proving that retreat was cut off that way. the indians had completely marched around them. where was the re-enforcement? why didn't it come? was this to be another little big horn, and were these brave men to be massacred like the gallant th cavalry under custer? as long as his ammunition held out colonel clarke knew he could stand them off, but after three days of hard fighting, resulting in the loss of many brave men, the situation was becoming desperate. fires could not be lighted and more than one brave fellow went to kingdom come in filling the canteens at the river's bank. most of the animals had been shot, many of them being used for breastworks. colonel clarke was inspecting his lines on the early evening of the third day, and had about made up his mind to ask for a volunteer to try and get beyond the indian lines and carry the news to fort scott, sixty miles away, to call for re-enforcements. six troops of the th cavalry were stationed there under his old friend and classmate, colonel foster. he knew the character of the regular army chaps well enough to be certain they would come to his assistance, if it were a possible thing. if all went well with his courier in three days' time they would be there. the word was passed along the line and in a few seconds he had any number of officers and men who were willing and ready to take the ride. just as the colonel had decided to send st lieutenant jarvis on this perilous trip, hogan appeared before him, saluting with military precision, and said with a broad irish brogue:-- "axin' yer pardin' kurnel, but oi think oi kin tell ye a betther way. the telegraph loine from scott to kearney runs just twenty-foive moiles beyant here to the southards. up at the end of our loines on the other side of the river is a deep ravine. if oi kin get across with a good horse and slip through the indian loines on the other soide, i can, by hard roidin' reach this loine in two or three hours. i have a pocket instrument wid me and can cut in and ask for re-enforcements from fort scott. if the loine is down i can continue on to the post, and make as quick time as any of the officers; if it is up it will be a matther of a short toime before we are pulled out of this hole. plaze let me thry it kurnel. lieutenant jarvis has a wife and two children, and his loss would be greatly felt, whoile i--i--well i haven't any wan, sir, and besoides, i'm an irishman, and you know, kurnel, an irishman is a fool for luck." this last was said with a broad grin. colonel clarke was somewhat amazed at this speech, but he studied reflectively, with knitted brows for a moment, and then said, "all right, hogan, i'll let you try it. take my horse and start at three o'clock in the morning. do your best, my man, do your best; the lives of the remainder of this command depend on your efforts. god be with you." "if i fail kurnel, it will be because i'm dead, sir." shortly before three o'clock in the morning, denny made ready for his perilous ride. the horse's hoofs were carefully padded, ammunition and revolver looked after, the pocket instrument fastened around his neck by the wire, so if any accident happened to the horse he would not be unnecessarily delayed, and all was ready. he gave his old bunkie a farewell silent clasp of the hand and then started on his ride that meant life or death to his comrades. the horse was a magnificent kentuckian and seemed to know what was required of him. carefully and slowly hogan pushed his way to the place opposite the ravine, and then giving his mount a light touch with the spurs, he took to the cold water. the stream was filled with floating ice but was only about fifty yards wide and in a few minutes he was safely over, and climbing up the other bank through the ravine. finally, the end was reached and he was on high ground. resting a minute to see if all was well, he started. so far, so good, he was beyond the indian lines. he was congratulating himself on the promised success of his mission when all at once, directly in front of him he saw the dim shadowy outlines of a mounted indian. quick as a flash denny pulled his revolver and another indian was soon in the happy hunting ground. this caused a general alarm and hogan knew he was in for it. putting his spurs deep in his horse's flanks away he went with the speed of the wind. a perfect swarm of indians came after him, yelling like fiends and shooting like demons. on! on! he sped, seemingly bearing a charmed life because bullets whizzed by him like hail. he was not idle, and when the opportunity presented itself his revolver spoke and more than one indian pony was made riderless thereby. suddenly he felt a sharp stinging pain in his right shoulder, and but for a convulsive grasp of the pommel with his bridle hand he would have pitched headlong to the earth. no, by god! he couldn't fail now. he must succeed, the lives of his comrades depended on his efforts. he had told colonel clarke he would get through or die, and he was a long way from dead yet. only an hour and a half more and he would have sent the message and then all the indians in the country could go to the demnition bow wows for all he cared. hearing no more shots denny drew rein for a moment and listened. not a sound could be heard, the snow had started to softly fall and the first faint rays of light on the eastern horizon heralded the approach of a new-born day. ah! he had outridden his pursuers. gently patting his faithful horse's neck, he once more started swiftly on, and when he was within a few miles of the line he chanced to glance back and saw that one lone indian was following him. now it was a case of man against man. in his first flight and running fight he had fired away all his ammunition save one cartridge. this he determined to use to settle his pursuer, but not until it was absolutely necessary; and putting spurs to his already tired horse, he galloped on. the indian was slowly gaining on him and he saw the time for decisive action was at hand. ahead of him but one short half mile was that line, already in the early morning light he could see the poles, and if the god of battles would only speed his one remaining bullet in the right direction, his message could be sent in safety and his comrades rescued. his wounded right arm was numb from pain and his left was not the steadiest in the world, but nothing venture, nothing have, and just then--_bang!_ and a bullet whizzed by his head. "not this toime, ye red devil," denny defiantly shouted. a second bullet and he dropped off his horse. quickly wheeling about, he dropped on his stomach, and taking a careful aim over his wounded right arm, he fired. the shot was apparently a true one and the indian pitched off head first and lay still. with an exultant shout hogan jumped up and started for the line. nothing could stop him now. loss of blood and the intense cold had weakened him so that his legs were shaky, the earth seemed to be going around at a great rate, dark spots were dancing before his eyes; but with a superhuman effort he recovered himself and was soon at the line. the wire was strung on light lances, and if denny were in full possession of his strength he could easily pull one down. he threw his weight against one with all of his remaining force--but to no avail. what was he to do? but sixteen feet intervened between him and that precious wire. the faithful, tired horse, when denny jumped off, had only run a little way and stopped, only too glad of the chance to rest. he was now standing near hogan, as if intent on being of some further use to him. suddenly denny's anxious eyes lighted on the horsehair lariat attached to the saddle. here was the means at hand. quickly as he could he undid it, and with great difficulty tied one end to the pommel and the other to the lance. then he gave the horse a sharp blow, and, _crash!_ down went the lance. making the connections to the pocket instrument as best he could with one cold hand, he placed the wire across a sharp rock and a few blows with the butt of his revolver soon cut it. the deed was done. * * * * * private dunn, the operator at fort scott, opened up his office bright and early one cold morning and marveled to find the wire working clear to kearney. after having a chat with the man at kearney about the indian trouble, he was sitting around like mr. micawber when he heard the sounder weakly calling "fs." quickly adjusting down he answered and this is what he took. "commanding officer, "fort scott, montana. " th infantry surrounded by large body hostile sioux just north of junction of the forks of the red bud. colonel clarke asks for immediate re-enforcements; ammunition almost gone; situation desperate. i left the command at three o'clock this morning. (signed.) dennis ho----." then blank, the sounder was still and the line remained open. the sending had been weak and shaky, just as if the sender had been out all night, but there was no mistaking the purport of the message. dunn didn't wait to pick up his hat but fairly flew down the line to the commanding officer's quarters. the colonel was not up yet, but the sound of animated voices in the hallway caused him to appear at the head of the stairs in his dressing gown. "what is it, dunn," he asked. "a message from the th infantry, sir, saying they are surrounded by the sioux indians and want help." colonel foster read the message, and exclaimed, "my god! charlie clarke stuck out there and wants help! dunn, have the trumpeter sound 'boots and saddles.' present my compliments to the adjutant and tell him i desire him to report to me at once. kraus,"--this to his dutch striker who was standing around in open-mouthed wonderment--"saddle my horse and get my field kit ready at once. be quick about it." a few men had seen dunn's mad rush to the colonel's quarters and suspected that something was up, so they were not surprised a few minutes later to hear "boots and saddles" ring out on the clear morning air. the command had been in readiness for field service for some days, and but a few moments elapsed until six sturdy troops were standing in line on the snow-covered parade. a hurried inspection was made by the troop commanders and then colonel foster commanded "fours right, trot, march," and away they went on their sixty-mile ride of rescue. a few halts were made during the day to tighten girths, and at six o'clock a short rest was made for coffee. * * * * * the sound of the firing across the river shortly after hogan left the th was plainly heard by his comrades and many a man was heard to exclaim, "it's all up with poor denny." but the firing grew more distant and colonel clarke had hopes that hogan had successfully eluded his pursuers and determined to hold on as best he could. he knew full well that the indians would be extraordinarily careful and that it would be folly for him to attempt to get another courier through that night. that day was indeed a hard one; it was trying to the extreme. tenaciously did those indians watch their prey. well did they know by the rising of the morrow's sun the ammunition of the soldiers would be exhausted and then would come their feast of murder and scalps; little big horn would be repeated. about two o'clock, colonel clarke, utterly regardless of personal danger, exposed himself for a moment and chug! down he went, shot through the thigh by a winchester bullet. brave old chap, never for one minute did he give up, and after having his wound dressed as best it could be done, he insisted on remaining near the fighting line. lieutenant jarvis was shot through the arm, captain belknap of e company was lying dead near his company, and scores of other brave men had gone to their last reckoning. hanigan, hogan's bunkie, was badly wounded, and out of his head. every once in a while he would mumble, "never you mind, fellers, we will be all right yet, just stand 'em off a little while longer and denny will be here with the th cavalry. he said he'd do it and by god! he won't fail." as the shades of the cold winter evening crept silently over the earth, the firing died away, and the command settled down to another night of the tensest anxiety and watching. oh! why didn't those northern regiments come? did hogan succeed in his perilous mission? depressed indeed were the spirits of the officers and men. about nine o'clock lieutenant tracy, the adjutant, was sitting beside his chief, who was apparently asleep. suddenly, colonel clarke sat up and grabbing tracy by the arm said, "hark! what's that noise i hear?" "nothing sir, nothing," replied tracy; "lie down colonel and try to rest, you need it sir"--and then aside--"poor old chap, his mind's wandering." "no, no, tracy. listen man, don't you hear it? it sounds like the beat of many horses' hoofs, re-enforcements are coming, thank god. hogan got through." just then, crash! bang! and a clear voice rang out, "right front into line, gallop, march! _charge!_" and those sturdy chaps of the th cavalry true to their regimental hatred for the indians, charged down among the red men scattering them like so much chaff. then to the northwards was heard another ringing cheer, and the two long-delayed regiments came down among the indians like a thunderbolt of vengeance. truly, "it never rains but it pours." the th, all that was left of it, was saved, and when colonel foster leaned over the prostrate form of his old friend and comrade, colonel clarke feebly asked, "where is that brave little chap, hogan?" "hogan? who is hogan?" asked foster. "why, my god, man, hogan was the man that got beyond the indian lines to make the ride to inform you of our plight. didn't you see him?" "no, i didn't see him," and then colonel foster related how the information had reached him. a rescuing party was started out and in the pale moonlight they came upon the body of poor denny lying stark and stiff under the telegraph line, his left hand grasping the instrument and the key open. a bullet hole in his head mutely told how he had met his death. beside him lay the indian, dead, one hand grasping hogan's scalp lock, the other clasping a murderous-looking knife. death had mercifully prevented the accomplishment of his hellish purpose. hogan's shot had mortally wounded the indian in the left breast, but with all the vengeful nature of his race, he had crawled forward on his hands and knees, and while hogan was intent on sending his precious message, he shot him through the head, but not until the warning had been given to fort scott. denny's faithful horse was standing near, as if keeping watch over the inanimate form of his late friend. they buried him where he lay, and a traveler passing over that trail, will observe a solitary grave. on the tombstone at the head is inscribed: "dennis hogan, "private, company b, " th u. s. infantry. "he died that others might live." chapter xxiii the commission won--in a general strike the time spent as a soldier in the ranks passed by all too swiftly. the service was pleasant, the duty easy, and the regiment one of the best in the entire army. i don't know any two and a half years of my life that have been as happy and peaceful as those spent in the ranks of the american army. when the proper time came my recommendations were all in good shape and i was duly ordered to appear before an august lot of officers and gentlemen at fortress monroe, virginia, to determine my fitness to trot along behind a company, sign the sick-book, and witness an occasional issue of clothing. one warm june afternoon i bade good-bye to the men who had so long been my comrades, and journeyed to the eastwards. i was successful in the examinations, and on a sunday morning early in august, myself, in company with twelve other young chaps, received the precious little parchment in which the president of the united states sends greetings and proclaims to all the world:-- "that reposing especial confidence and trust in the valor, patriotism, and fidelity of one john smith, i have made him a second lieutenant in the regular army. look out for him because he hasn't much sense but i have strong hopes as how he will learn after a while." [illustration: "... dennis, lying under the telegraph line, his left hand still grasped the instrument"] the apprenticeship was finished and the chevrons gave way to the shoulder straps. this time i thought surely i had heard the last of the telegraph, never again was i going to touch a key. i had been at my first station just about two months when one morning i appeared before the signal officer of the post and plaintively asked him to let me have a set of telegraph instruments. he did, and it wasn't long before i had a ticker going in my quarters. there was no one to practice with me, so i just pounded away by myself for an hour or so each day, to keep my hand in. i have yet to see a man who has worked at the business for any length of time who could give it up entirely. it's like the opium habit--powerful hard to break off. i have never since tried to lose sight of it. in - one of those spasmodic upheavals known as a sympathetic strike spread over the country like wild fire, and it wasn't long before the continuance of law and order was entirely out of the hands of the state authorities in about ten states, and once more the faithful little army was called out to put its strong hand on the throat of destruction and pillage. troops were hurriedly despatched from all posts to the worst points and the inefficient state militia in several states relegated to its proper sphere--that of holding prize drills and barbecues. owing to the fact that the army cannot be used until a state executive acknowledges his inability to preserve law and order, and owing also to the fact that the executives in one or two of the states were pandering to the socialistic element, saying they could enforce the laws without the assistance of the army, this strike had spread until the entire country except the extreme east and southeast was in its strong grasp, and the work cut out for the army was doled out to it in great big chunks. men seemed to lose all their senses and the emissaries of the union succeeded in getting many converts, each one of which paid the sum of one dollar to the so-called head of the union. snap for the aforesaid "head," wasn't it? it was positively refreshing to the army at this time to have at its head a man who did not know what it was to pander to the socialists, and one who would enforce his solemn oath, "to enforce the laws of the united states," at all hazards. united states mail trains were being interfered with; the inter-state commerce law was being violated with impunity, and various other acts of vandalism and pillage were being committed all over the land--and the municipal and state authorities "winked the other eye." way out in one of the far western posts was a certain lieutenant jack brainerd, st u. s. infantry, serving with his company. jack was a big, whole-souled, impulsive chap, and before his entrance to the military academy, had been a pretty fair operator. in fact, being the son of a general superintendent of one of the big trunk lines, he was quite familiar with a railroad, and could do almost anything from driving a spike, or throwing a switch to running an engine. the first three years succeeding his graduation had been those of enervating peace; all of which palled on the soul of lieutenant jack to a large degree. the martial spirit beat high within his breast, and he wanted a scrap--he wanted one badly. the preliminary mutterings of this great strike had been heard for days, but no one dreamed that anarchy was about to break loose with the strength of all the fires of hell; and yet such was the case. on the evening of july th, a message came to the commanding officer at fort blank, to send his command of six companies of infantry to c---- at once to assist in quelling the riots. the chance for a scrap so longed for by lieutenant brainerd was coming swift and sure. the next morning the command pulled out. the trip was uneventful during the day, but at night a warning was received by major sharp, the grizzled battalion commander, who had fought everything from manly, brave confederates to skulking indians, to watch out for trouble as he approached the storm centre. there were rumors of dynamited bridges, broken rails, etc. the major didn't believe much in these yarns, but--"_verbum sap_."--and the precautions were taken. the next morning at five the train pulled into hartshorne, eleven miles out from c----. this was the beginning of the great railroad yards and evidences of the presence of the enemy were becoming very apparent. a large crowd had gathered to watch the bluecoats and it was plain to be seen that they were in full sympathy with the strikers. "scab" and a few other choice epithets were hurled at the train crew, and when they were ready to pull out the train didn't go. the conductor went forward and found that the engineer had refused to handle his engine because hartshorne was his home and the crowd had threatened to kill him if he hauled that load of "slaves of pullman" any further. when major sharp heard of it his little grey eyes snapped and he growled out:-- "won't pull this train, eh! well, damn him, we'll make him pull it. here, mr. brainerd, you take some men and go forward and make that engineer take us through these yards. if he refuses you know what to do with him." do? well, i reckon jack knew what to do all right enough. he took sergeant fealy, a veteran, and three men and went forward. the engineer, a little snub-nosed irishman, was at his post with his fireman, a good head of steam was on, but nary an inch did that train budge. a big crowd of men and women stood around jeering and laughing at the plight of the bluecoats. pushing his way through the crowd, jack climbed up into the cab closely followed by his little escort. "sergeant fealy," he said in a voice loud enough to be heard a block, "get up on that tender, have your men load their rifles, and shoot the first d----d man that raises a hand or throws a missile. and you," this to the engineer, "shove that reverse lever over and pull out." "but, my god, lieutenant," expostulated the engineer, "this is my home and if i pull you fellers out of here they'll kill me on sight--besides look at the track ahead. i'd run over and kill a lot of those people." "there's no 'buts' about it. this train is going in or i'll lose my commission in the army; besides if these people haven't sense enough to get out of the way let 'em die." mr. engineer started to expostulate farther but the ominous click of a . colt's was incentive enough to make him stop and then he shoved her over and gave her a little steam--just a coaxer. "here, you blasted chump, that won't do," and with that brainerd reached over and yanked the throttle so that she bounded away like a hare; at the same time he gave her sand. it's a great wonder every draw head in the train didn't pull out, but fortunately they held on. the crowd on the track melted away like the mists before the summer's sun, and beyond a few taunting jeers no overt act was committed. the engineer didn't relish the idea of a soldier running his engine and became somewhat obstreperous. brainerd grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and landed him all in a heap in the coal. then he climbed up on the right-hand side of the cab and took charge of things himself. there were myriads of tracks stretching out before him like the long arms of some giant octopus, but all traffic was suspended on account of the strike and the main line was clear. the train flew down the line like a scared rabbit and in thirty minutes reached the camp at blake park. i had arrived there that morning from the south for special service and when i saw brainerd climb down off of that engine his face was smutty, but his eyes twinkled and he came towards me with a broad grin and said, "hello, bates, where in thunder did you spring from?" there wasn't much time for talking because the great city was groaning beneath the grasp of anarchy, and until that power was broken, there would be no rest for the weary. the situation that existed at this time is too well known to require any explanation here. the state and city authorities were powerless; the militia inefficient and many a citizen bowed his head and thanked god on that warm july morning for the arrival of the regulars. only twenty-one hundred of them all told, mind you, against so many thousands of the rioters, and yet, they were disciplined men and led by officers who simply enforced orders as they received them. no matter where or what the sympathies of the men of a company might be, when the captain said "fire," look out, because the bullets would generally fly breast high. the situation resembled the paris commune, and but for the timely arrival of the small body of bluecoats, another cow might have kicked over another lamp, and the frightful conflagration of have been more than duplicated. but the "cow" was slaughtered and the "lamp" extinguished. the morning after brainerd arrived he was detailed on special service and ordered to report to me, and together we worked until the trouble was over. just what this service was need not be recorded, but one thing sure, railroads and the telegraph figured in it quite largely. in fact the general superintendent of the western union telegraph company placed the entire resources of the company at my disposal. a wire was run direct to washington, lines run to all the camps, and jack and i each carried a little pocket instrument on our person. although the brotherhood of locomotive engineers did not go out in a body, there was quite a number of them who would not pull trains for fear of personal violence from the strikers. one old chap, bob redway, by name, had known major mckenney of our battalion, in days gone by, when he was pulling a train on the n. p., and the major was stationed at missoula. bob wandered into camp one afternoon to see his old friend and just at that time a company was ordered to the southern part of the city to stop a crowd that was looting and burning p. h. railway property. as usual the engineer backed out at the last moment. the major turned to redway, and said, "see here, bob, you're not in sympathy with these cutthroats, suppose you pull this train out." "all right, major, i'll pull you through if the old girl will only hold up. she's a stranger to me, but i reckon she'll last." brainerd and i were to go along and do some special work around the stock-yards, and soon we were shooting down the track like a flyer. at nd street we passed a sullen looking crowd and when we reached th street, we were flagged by the operator in the tower, and informed that the mob in our rear was starting to block the track by overturning a standard sleeper. they were going to cut us off. we cut the engine loose, put fourteen men up on the tender, and brainerd and i started back with them. the engine was going head on, having backed out from the city, and bob let her put for all she was worth. just at nd street there is a long sweeping curve and we were coming around it like a streak of blue lightning, when all at once we saw the crowd just in the act of pulling the sleeper over on our track. there was no time to lose and the command "fire" was sharply given. "bang," rang out the springfields, one or two of the mob dropped to the ground, the rest let go of the ropes and ran like scared cats, and the car tottered back in its original place. redway had shut off steam and was slowing down under ordinary air, when all at once there was a dull deafening roar, and then for me--oblivion. i was only stunned and when i regained consciousness looked around and saw the men slowly regaining their feet. redway was not killed, but the shock and concussion of the detonation of the dynamite made him lose his speech and he was bleeding profusely at the nose and ears. the cowcatcher, headlight and forward trucks of the engine were blown to smithereens, but fortunately the boiler did not burst and there she stood like some powerful monster wounded to the death. the mob, imagining that their fiendish work had been complete, became emboldened and rapidly gathered around the little body of bluecoats. it began to look rocky, and brainerd came limping over to me and said, "bates, i'm pretty badly bruised about the legs, and can't climb, but if you're able, for god's sake climb that telegraph pole and cut in and ask department headquarters to send us down some help. i'll form the men around the bottom of the pole and shoot the first damned man or woman that throws a missile. we're in a devilish bad box." i took the little instrument, nippers and wire and up i went. there were side steps on the pole so the ascent was easy. what a scene below! five or six thousand angry faces, besotted, coarse and ill-bred looking brutes, gazing up at me with the wrath of vengeance in their hearts; and held at bay by a band of fourteen battered and bruised bluecoats, a wounded engineer and fireman, commanded by an almost beardless boy. well did that mob know that if those rifles ever spoke there would be a number of vacant chairs at the various family boards that night. the wire was soon cut, the main office gave me department headquarters and in thirty minutes' time that mob was scattering like so much chaff before the wind, and with a ringing cheer, two companies of the --th infantry came down among them like a thunderbolt. we were saved and took redway back to camp with us. that evening the major came over to see him. poor chap! he couldn't speak but he motioned for a pencil and paper and this is what he wrote:-- "don't worry, major, i'm all right. my speaking machine seems to have had a head end collision with a cyclone, but if you want me to pull any more trains out my right arm is still in pretty good shape." bob hung to us all through the trying weeks that followed and in the end some of us succeeded in getting him a good position in one of the departments in washington. far up in the northwest things were in a very bad shape. everything was tied up tight; mail trains could not run because there were no men to run them; "debsism" had a firm grasp; and even though many of the trainmen were willing to run, intimidation by the strikers caused them to go slow. at one place, call it bridgeton, there was an overland mail waiting to go out, but no engineer. here's where the versatility of the american soldier came in. major clarke of the --th infantry, had four companies of his regiment guarding public property at bridgeton and he sent word by his orderly that he wanted a locomotive engineer and a fireman. quick as a flash he had six engineers and any number of men who could fire. he chose two good men and then detailed captain stilling's company to go along as an escort. orders were procured at the telegraph office for the train to run to pokeville, where further orders would be sent them. when the crowd of loiterers and strikers saw the preparations they jeered in derision. they had the engineer and fireman corralled, but their laugh turned to sorrow when they saw a strapping infantry sergeant climb into the cab and after placing his loaded rifle in front of him, he grasped the throttle and away they went--much to the disgust of mr. rioter. they didn't like it worth a cent, but as one striker put it, "what's the use of monkeyin' with them reg'lars? when they gets an order to shoot, they're just damned fools enough to shoot right into the crowd. milish' fire in the air, because as a rule they have friends in the crowd and don't care to hurt 'em." pokeville was one hundred and two miles from bridgeton and the run was carefully made and without incident. when the volunteer engineer and captain stillings, who was playing conductor, went to the office for orders, they found the place deserted. a sullen-looking crowd was looking on and appeared to enjoy the discomfiture of the soldiers. they had put the operator _away_ for a while. pressing up near the sides of the train they became somewhat ugly and captain stillings brought out his company, and lining them up alongside of the track he turned to his st lieutenant and said: "mr. mitchell, i'm going into this telegraph office. if this crowd gets ugly i want you to shoot the first damned man that moves a finger to harm anybody." but without an operator orders could not be procured, and without orders the train could not go. captain stillings was in a quandary, but all at once he stepped out in front of his company and said in a loud tone, "i want an operator." "i'm one, sir," said private o'brien, quickly stepping forward and saluting. "go in that office and get orders for this train." "yes, sir," replied o'brien, and in a minute another bluecoat was helping the train on its way. if captain stillings had wanted a chinese interpreter he could have gotten one--any old thing. the train had no further mishaps, because everything necessary to run a railroad was right here in one company of sixty-two men belonging to the regular army. july slipped away and it was well into august before we returned to our posts and the old grind of "fours right," and "fours left." chapter xxiv experiences as a government censor of telegraph the few years succeeding the great strike were ones of calm, peaceful tranquility. each recurring november st, brought the initiation of post lyceums at all garrisons, in which the officers were gathered together twice a week, and war in all its phases was studied. we didn't exactly know where the war was coming from, but, still we boned it out. old campaigns were fought over; the mistakes made by the world's greatest commanders, from alexander the great to grant and lee were pointed out; kriegspiel was played; essays written and discussed, recommendations made as to ammunition and food supply; use of artillery in attack and defense; the proper method of employing the telegraph in the war; and a thousand and one things relative to the machine militaire were gone over. all this time we were slumbering over a smoldering volcano, and on february , , the eruption broke loose; the good ship _maine_ was destroyed in havana harbor, and the feelings of the people, already drawn to the breaking point by the inhuman cruelties of spain towards her colonies near our own shores, burst with a vehemence that portended, in unmistakable language, the rending asunder of the once proud kingdom of spain. the army wanted a war; the navy wanted it, the whole population wanted it and here it was within our grasp. it was the dawning of a new day for the united states; a new empire was being born in the western hemisphere. the feverish preparations attendant upon the new conditions are of too recent date to need any sketching here. when it was finally determined that the time had arrived for the assembling of the small but efficient regular army, i was stationed with my regiment at fort wayne, michigan. like all other troops, we were at the post ready for the start. the pistol cracked on the th of april, and on the th we started. mobile, alabama, was our objective where we arrived on the nd of the month. here began the ceaseless preparation for the part the regiment was to play in the grand drama of war that was to follow, all this camp life and concentration being but the prologue. the camp was a most beautiful one, the weather pleasant, and it was indeed a most inspiring sight to see the long unbroken lines of blue go swinging by, keeping absolute time and perfect alignment to the inspiring strains of some air like "hot time in the old town to-night," or "the stars and stripes forever." i had started in with my regiment and expected to remain on duty with it until the end of the war, sharing all its perils and hardships, doing my part in the fighting, and partaking of any of the renown it might achieve should the dons ever be met. but "man proposes and god disposes," and on the afternoon of may st, i was sitting in my tent correcting some manuscript when a very bright-eyed colored newsboy came along and said: "buy a paper, cap'n." that was the day that a wild rumor had been in circulation that sampson had met cervera in the bahama channel and completely smashed him, so i laid down my manuscript and said: "anything in there about sampson licking cervera?" "naw, sir, dat were a fake, cap'n, but dere is lots of oder news fur you." "no, kid, i don't want a paper to-night, and besides i'm not a captain, i'm only a lieutenant." "but yer may be one some day. please buy one cap'n," and with this he laid a paper down on my table (a cracker box). i was about to shove it aside and sharply tell him to skip out when my eye fell upon: "nominations by the president." "to be captains in the signal corps," then followed my name. i bought a paper, yes, all he had. on may th, i was ordered to proceed at once to tampa, florida, reporting upon arrival by telegraph to the chief signal officer of the army for instructions. tuesday morning, the th of may, i reported my arrival and spent the rest of the morning in looking around the camps, renewing old acquaintances. i supposed of course that i was to be assigned to the command of one of the new signal companies then forming to take part in the santiago campaign and was filled with delight at the prospect, but about eleven o'clock i received an order from general greely directing me to assume charge of the telegraphic censorship at tampa. three civilians, heston at jacksonville, munn at miami, and fellers at tampa, were sworn in as civilian assistants and directed to report to me, thereafter acting wholly under my orders. mr. b. f. dillon, superintendent of the western union telegraph company, was in tampa, and i had a long conference with him. he assured me of his confidence and cordial support, and placed the entire resources of his company at my disposal. operators all over the state were instructed that anything i ordered was to be obeyed and then the work began. the idea of a telegraphic censorship was a new and irksome one to the great american people and just what it meant was hard to determine. much has been written about "press censorship." that term was a misnomer. there never _was_ an attempt to _censor_ the _great american press_. the newspapers were just as free to print as they were before the war started. _all the censorship that existed was over the telegraph lines militarily occupied._ a government officer was placed in charge and his word was absolute; he could only be overruled by general greely, the secretary of war or the president. it was his duty to watch telegrams, regulate the kind that were allowed to pass, and to see that no news was sent whereby the interests of the government or the safety of the army might suffer. the instructions i received were general in their nature and in all specific cases arising, my judgment was to determine, and i want to remark right here, the rapidity with which those specific cases would arise was enough to make a man faint. the first rule made was that cipher messages or those written in a foreign tongue were prohibited unless sent by a government official on public business. there were a few exceptions to this rule. for instance; many large business houses have telegraphic cipher codes for the transaction of business, and it was not the policy of the government to interfere in any manner with the commercial affairs of the country, so these messages were allowed to pass when the code book was presented to the censor and a sworn translation made in his presence. spanish messages were transmitted only after being most carefully scanned and upon proof of the loyalty of the sender or receiver and a sworn translation. not a single private message could be sent by any one, that in any way hinted at the time of the departure or destination of any ship or body of troops. even officers about to sail away were not allowed to telegraph their wives and families. if they had a pre-arranged code, whereby a message could be written in plain english, there was no way to stop their transmission. foreign messages were watched with eagle eyes and many and many a one was gently consigned to the pigeon hole, when the contents and meaning were not plain. from key west (which was shortly afterwards placed in my charge) there ran the cable to havana, and this line was the subject of an extraordinarily strict espionage; not a message being allowed to pass over it that was not perfectly plain in its meaning. mr. j. w. atkins was sworn in as my assistant at key west, and thus i had the whole state of florida under my control. all the lines from the southern part of the state converge to jacksonville, and not a message could go from a point within the state to one out of it without first passing under the scrutiny of either myself or one of my sworn assistants. my office was in h. b. plant's tampa bay hotel, and there, every day, from seven a. m. until twelve midnight, and sometimes one and two in the morning, i did my work. my own long experience as a practical telegrapher stood me in good stead and when any direct work was to be done with the white house in washington, or any especially important messages were to be sent, i personally did the telegraphing. at the executive mansion was colonel b. f. montgomery, signal corps, in charge of the telegraph office, so when anything special passed, no one knew it but the colonel and myself. the tampa bay hotel was at this time the scene of the most dazzling and brilliant gaiety. shafter's th corps was preparing for its santiago campaign and each night many officers and their wives would meet in the hotel and pass the time away listening to the music of some regimental band or in pleasant conversation. men who had not seen each other since the close of the great civil war renewed old acquaintances and spun reminiscences by the yard. military attaches from all the countries of the world were daily arriving, and their gaudy uniforms added a dash of color to the already brilliant panorama. the bright gold of captain paget, the english naval attache, the deep blue of colonel yermeloff, who represented russia, contrasted vividly with the blue and yellow of japanese major shiska, and the scarlet and black of count goetzen of germany. but prominent among all this moving panorama of color was the plain blue of the volunteer, and the brown khaki of the regular. my view of the scene was limited to fleeting glimpses from my office where i was nightly scanning messages, doing telegraphing or overlooking , or , words of correspondents' copy. preparations for the embarkation were going on with feverish haste, and orders were daily expected for the army to move. there were at this time nearly two hundred newspaper correspondents scattered around through the hotel and in the various camps. they represented papers from all over the world, and were typical representatives of the brain and sinew of the newspaper profession, and were there to accompany the army when it moved. such men as richard harding davis, stephen bonsai, frederick remington, caspar whitney, grover flint, edward marshall, maurice low, john taylor, john klein, louis seibold, george farman and mr. akers of the london papers, and scores of others. they were quick and active, intensely patriotic, alert for all the news, a "scoop" for them was the blood of life, and the censorship came like a wet blanket. in a small way i had been corresponding for a paper since the beginning of the war, but when the detail as censor came i gave it up as the two were incompatible. chapter xxv more censorship i must confess that i stood in awe of these newspaper chaps, because i knew my orders would incense them and if they took it into their heads to roast me my life would be made miserable for a good many days to come. but then in the army orders are made to be obeyed and i determined not to show partiality to any of them. it was to be "a fair field and no favor," so i sent word and asked them to meet me in the reading-room of the hotel at two o'clock that afternoon. they came garbed in all sorts of field uniform and i made a little speech telling what they might send and what was interdicted; i remarked that the work was as irksome to me as it was to them, but orders were orders and if they would live up to the few _simple_ rules they would make my task much easier and save themselves lots of trouble. nothing absolutely was to be sent, that would convey in any way an idea of the number of troops in tampa, the time of arrival or departure of any number of troops or ships, and above all, not a word was to be sent out as to when the th army corps was to sail. when i had finished one of the correspondents shook his head in a deprecatory way and said: "well, captain, we thought lieutenant miley (my predecessor) was bad enough but you can give him cards and spades and beat him out. you're certainly a hummer from the word go, and i reckon we'd better go home." he had my sympathy but that was all. every correspondent had a war department pass; these i examined and registered each man. that night my fun commenced. at six p. m. they began to file stuff, and armed with a big blue pencil i started to slash and when i finished, some of their sheets looked like a miniature football field, while their faces betokened blank amazement and intense disgust. boiled down, the first night's batch of copy consisted of a glowing description of the new censor; this fiend whose weapon was a blue pencil--his glowing red whiskers--his goggle eyes, and his titian-colored hair. one of them said: "this afternoon the new censor stuck his head out of the window and the glow was so great from his red whiskers and auburn locks that the fire department was turned out. the latest report is that the censor was unquenched," and so on. they couldn't send any news so they sent me. most of them were space writers and everything went. in many ways they tried to evade the rules; by insinuations, hints upon which a bright telegraph editor could raise an edifice with a semblance of truth, but the blue pencil generally got in its work before the dispatch reached the operator. i had two stamps made; one "o. k. for transmission," and the other, "rejected, file, do not return." number one went on all messages for transmission and number two on all others. as i gaze at these relics now i see that number two has been used much more than its companion. i had made it a rule that each paper maintaining a correspondent in tampa was to furnish me with a copy of every edition of the paper. as a result, in a few days i had a mail that was stupendous. a clerk was on hand who read these papers, marking all things bearing a tampa date line. then i would read them and woe betide the correspondent whose paper contained contraband news from tampa. off went his head and his permit was recalled for a certain time as a punishment. there never has been a line of sentinels so strong but that some one could break through, and there was undoubtedly some leakage from tampa, but to see news of actual importance from there was like hunting for a needle in a haystack. the mails carried out some, but even then the correspondents suffered. two incidents may not be amiss. one young chap whose keenness ran away with his judgment, brought me a stack of copy one night, almost every word of which was contraband. the blue pencil got in its work in great shape and then the "rejected" stamp put its seal of disapproval on the message and it was filed away with many others, that "were not dead, but sleeping." mr. correspondent muttered something about "a cussed red-headed censor who wasn't the pope and could be beaten" and walked away. i thought no more of the matter until about seven days thereafter when my clerk gave me a marked copy of the correspondent's paper, and there, big as life, under a tampa date line was the rejected dispatch. he had left my office and mailed his story to a friend living up in georgia, and it was telegraphed by him from there. you see, georgia was beyond my jurisdiction. he had surely made a "scoop;" he had sown the wind and that night he reaped the whirlwind, because i promptly suspended him from correspondents' privileges, and forbade him the use of the wires. general greely upheld me in this as in all other cases and for ten days i allowed him to ruminate over his offence, while his paper was cussing him out for failing to send in stuff. then i restored him to his former status, first making him sign a pledge on honor that he would abide forever thereafter by the censorship rules. another young man who represented a cincinnati daily, walked into the express office in tampa one evening and gave the agent a package saying: "say, old chap, have your messenger running north to-night give this to the first operator after crossing the georgia line and tell him to send it to my paper. it's a big scoop and i want to get it through." of course, the "old chap" was built just that way. he took the message and in five minutes it was reposing gently in my desk. i then quickly sent out a telegram to all my censors taking away the correspondent's privileges until further orders. that night full of innocence--and beer--he walked into the tampa city office and handed censor fellers a message for his paper, just as a sort of a bluff. fellers grinned at him quietly said: "sorry, mr. j--, but captain b--has just suspended you from use of the telegraph until further orders." in a very few minutes mr. j--appeared at my office, blustering like a kansas cyclone, and demanded to know why i had dared to treat him thus? i simply picked up his copy and showed it to him, saying: "this is your handwriting, i believe, mr. j--." the props dropped out from under him and he said: "well, by thunder, you censor mail, telegraph and express; i reckon if i attempted to send anything by carrier pigeon you'd catch it and put that d--d old 'rejected' stamp on it." "no," i replied, "but i might possibly use it on a mule." in spite of his pleadings and promises he was hung up for ten days. it must be said, however, that such men as these were rarities: most of the men, especially those representing the great dailies, were only too willing to abide by orders. they kicked hard--naturally and rightfully--because news that they were forbidden to send from tampa was sent broadcast from washington as coming from the war department. oh! yes they kicked so much that it seemed as if my auburn locks would turn gray, but the protest was against the censorship in general and not against me. i was enough of a newspaper man to fully appreciate their position, and more than one message went from me to general greely asking if washington could not be censored as well as tampa. no! army officers had no power to stop the mouths of the high civil officials of the government, and so the dance went on. and the managing editors would flood their correspondents with telegrams of inquiry as to why they did not send the news that daily came from washington as having originated in tampa; and the correspondents would come to me and i would endeavor to calm them down as best i could. then, incidentally, the managing editors would take a fling at me personally, and i would receive a polite telegram of protest but to no avail. finally, one night the trouble culminated, and conjointly the correspondents sent a long telegram to general greely asking if he could not right the seeming injustice. they did not mind being beaten in a fair field, but they did hate to be "scooped" by washington correspondents who were having an easy time. almost every man signed the protest and then it was brought to me, and i quickly o. k'd. it. shortly afterwards a number of them came to my office and assured me that it was not against me personally they were kicking, and louis seibold, of the new york world, sent general greely a message saying: "i don't like your blooming censor business one bit, but if you have to have it, you've got the best man for it in the army right here in tampa," or words to that effect. many others sent similar messages, but not quite so outspoken. general greely appreciated their position and said so, but was unable to change the condition of affairs and so matters continued. all this time feverish preparations were being made to rush off shafter's expedition. june th was a very hard and trying day, and at six o'clock in the evening i had just seated myself for a hasty bite of dinner when a messenger came to me from the telegraph office saying that the white house wanted me at once. i went to the key and was informed that the president wanted to talk to generals miles and shafter and that the greatest secrecy must be maintained. after sending word to the generals, i sent all the operators out of the office, closed the windows and turned down the sounder so that it could not be heard _three feet away_. when general shafter came in he had an officer stationed in the hall so that no one could approach in that direction. general miles came in shortly afterwards and the door was closed. we all sat in front of the table, general miles on my right, and general shafter on the left. lieutenant miley of general shafter's staff stood behind his chief. it was a scene long to be remembered. general shafter was dressed in the plain blue army fatigue uniform, its strict sombreness being relieved only by the two gleaming silver stars on his shoulder straps. general miles, the commanding general, was in conventional tuxedo dress, and looked every inch the gallant soldier and gentleman that he is. from the little telegraph instrument on the table ran a single strand of copper wire, out in the dark night, over the pine tops of florida and georgia, over the mountains of the carolinas, and hills and vales of virginia, into the executive mansion at washington. in the office of the white house were the president, the secretary of war, and adjutant-general corbin. the key there was worked by colonel montgomery, so if there ever was an official wire this was one. when all was ready i told the white house to go ahead. the first message was from the secretary of war to general shafter directing him to sail at once, as he was needed at the destination which was known at this time only to about five officers in tampa. general shafter replied that he would be ready to sail the next morning at daylight. then, by the president's direction, a message was repeated that had been received from admiral sampson, saying he had that day bombarded the outer defenses of santiago, and if ten thousand men were there the city and fleet would fall within forty-eight hours. the president further directed that general shafter should sail as indicated by him with not less than ten thousand men. then followed an interchange of messages, more or less personal in their nature, between the generals and the washington contingent. finally all was over and the line was cut off. the whole conversation lasted about fifty minutes, but the beginning of new history was started in that time and the curtain was going up on the grand drama of war. all the time this was going on i could hear faintly his strains of '_auf wiedersehn_,' together with the merry jest of the officers and the light laughter of the women. brave men, braver women--soon their laughter was turned to tears and many of the officers who went out of the tampa bay hotel on that warm june night are now sleeping their last sleep, having given up their lives that their country's honor might live. the train carrying the headquarters to port tampa left at five o'clock in the morning. there was very little sleep that night and the next morning the big hotel was well nigh deserted. and all this time the destination of the fleet was unknown to all but those high in rank and myself. chapter xxvi censorship concluded my own sleep on that night was limited to about two hours snatched between work, and the following morning was a very busy one. about once every hour i would report to the white house how things were progressing at the port. as the big transports received their load of living freight, one by one they would pull out in the stream and anchor, waiting until the time should come when all would be ready, and then like a big swarm they would pull out together. they did not sail at daylight; unexpected delays occurred, and eight, nine, ten, eleven and twelve o'clock passed and still they had not sailed, although the twelve o'clock report said they would be gone by twelve-thirty. at one o'clock a messenger came hurriedly to me and said the white house wanted me at the key at once. when i answered, colonel montgomery said, "_the president wants to know if you can stop that fleet?_" now the wire to port tampa was on a table right back of me and calling him with my left hand i said: "can you get general miles or general shafter?" and with my right hand i said to the president, "i'll try, wait a minute." then said the white house, "_it is imperative that the fleet be stopped at once._" from port tampa, "no sir, i can't find general miles or general shafter." i replied, "have all the transports pulled out of the slip?" "yes sir, so far as i can see they are all gone." from washington, "have you stopped the fleet?" "wait a minute--will let you know later, am trying now." to port tampa, "go out and find a tug and get this message to either general miles or general shafter, 'the president directs that you stop the sailing of shafter's army until further orders.' now fly." just then port tampa said, "here comes general miles now," and in a minute more the message was delivered and the fleet stopped. i then reported to the president: "i have delivered your message to general miles and the fleet will not sail until further orders." they came back wondering what had stopped them and that evening we learned of the appearance of the "phantom" spanish fleet in the nicholas channel _heading westward_. "cervera wasn't bottled up in santiago," said some, "and before morning he will be here and blow us out of the water." great was the consternation and as a precaution all the ships were ordered back into the slip. it must be said, however, that general miles _never had any idea that the spanish fleet was approaching our shores_. the transport fleet was tied up and then followed six days of weary waiting, and the duties of the censor became more arduous than ever, and the utmost vigilance was exercised. private messages were almost all hung up, in fact, very little else than government business was allowed to pass over the wires. and yet, every day for a week, copies of the daily papers that reached me had, under flaming headlines, the startling news that shafter's fleet had sailed--destination--havana, san juan, matanzas,--yes--even the spanish coast. all this was announced from washington, and made the correspondents snort; they made every excuse to let their papers know they were still there. they wanted money, they wanted to send messages to their families, in fact, they wanted everything under the sun, but to no avail. finally, on the th of june the army sailed away, filled with hope and courage, on their mission that resulted in victory for the american arms; but that was a foregone conclusion, while we less fortunate ones were left behind to pray for the success that we knew would be theirs. the correspondents were all on the transport "olivette," and just before they pulled out i sent them a message saying i would release the news that night about the _sailing of the fleet only_, and they might file their messages. they did in large numbers and here is where the joke came in. when the messages reached the papers they thought it was all a bluff to mislead the public, and many of them refused to publish the news, but the fleet had gone this time for certain. as late as two days afterwards i received messages from the managing editors of two of the greatest papers in the country, asking me if the fleet had really sailed. i assured them it had. one thing is certain, the destination of that fleet was a well-kept secret. mr. richard harding davis in his admirable book on the cuban and porto rican campaigns, says that credit is due the censor because it was so well kept. i am afraid that this is about the only good word the censor ever received from the said mr. davis. the "olivette," on which the correspondents sailed, was the last boat to leave port tampa. she left about six-thirty p. m. in the glory of the setting sun of a tropical evening. about five-thirty p. m. mr. edward marshall, that prince of good fellows, who represented the new york journal, came into my office to write a message for his paper, to be left with me and sent when the story was released. marshall was a typical newspaper man and a thorough american, and had just returned from new york where he had been in attendance upon the sick-bed of his wife. he was very anxious to get his story written before he sailed. i knew the "olivette" was about to pull out, and if he expected to go on her it was high time he was moving. as port tampa was nine miles away, i told him to fly and cut his story short or send it from port tampa. he thanked me and reached port tampa just in time to save being left. it was this same edward marshall who so daringly pushed to the front during the guasimas fight of the rough riders, and was seriously wounded by a mauser bullet near his spine. he was supposed to be dying, but true to his newspaper training and full of loyalty to his paper, he dictated a message to his journal between the puffs of a cigarette, when it was supposed each breath would be his last. but thank god he did not die, and now gives promise of many years of useful life. i have often thought if i had not warned him in time to go he would not have been shot; but then all war is uncertain, and in warning him i was only, "doing unto others as i would be done by." during all these stirring times just described there were two women correspondents, poor souls, who were indeed sad and lonely. they were very ambitious and wanted to go to cuba with the army, but the war department wisely forbade any such a move and then my trouble began. at all hours of the day or night i was pestered by these same women. one of them represented a canadian paper and was most anxious to go. she tried every expedient and tackled every man or woman of influence that came along. even dear old clara barton did not escape her importunities. she wanted to go as a red cross nurse, but didn't know anything about nursing. however, i reckon she was as good as some of the women who did go. she was an irish girl with rich red hair, and as mine was of an auburn tinge we didn't get along worth a cent. she didn't do much telegraphing but sent all of her stuff by mail. however, it was her intention to send _one telegram_ to her paper and "scoop" all the other chaps in so doing. she wrote a letter to her managing editor in toronto and told him there was a censor down there who thought he could bottle up florida as regards news, but she intended to outwit him. particular attention was being paid so as to preserve the secrecy of the sailing day of shafter's army. cipher and code messages bearing on this occurrence were to be strictly interdicted. but that didn't make any difference to her; she could beat that game. so on the day the fleet actually sailed she would send a message to her paper saying, "_send me six more jubilee books._" this would indicate that the fleet had really gone. brilliant scheme from the brain of a very bright woman, but she lost sight of the fact that messrs. carranza and polo y bernabe were at that time in canada spying on the united states, and that all the canadian mail was most carefully watched. such, however, was the case, and in a short time the contents of her letter were known to general greely, and by him communicated to me. one evening miss correspondent was standing in the lobby of the tampa bay hotel surrounded by a group of her friends, when i approached and said: "excuse me, miss j--, but i should like to speak to you for a moment." "well, what is it, pray? surely you haven't anything to say but what my friends can hear, have you?" sassy, wasn't she? "oh! well if that is the case?" i replied, "i am sorry to inform you that you are suspended from correspondent's privileges and from the use of the telegraph until further orders." "and what for pray?" "i don't just exactly know," i answered, "but i think it has something to do with sending you 'six more jubilee books' from canada." well! she turned all the colors of the rainbow, and snapped out, "goodness gracious! how did you--where did you hear that?" i smiled politely and walked away. the next morning, shortly after i reached my office, a timid knock was heard at the door. "come in," i yelled, thinking it was a messenger boy. in walked miss j----, woebegone, crestfallen and disheartened, with a letter of apology and explanation. i forwarded this to general greely and kept her suspended for seven days. she never offended again, and the last i heard of her she was in key west gazing with longing eyes towards the pearl of the antilles. she never reached there. the other woman correspondent was different. she was an american widow, bright, dashing and vivacious. she had heard of the ogre of a censor; she would conquer him through his susceptibility. i'll admit that the censor in question was susceptible of some things--but not in business matters. one day she filed an innocent little telegram to her paper, saying, "for ice cream read typhoid." the operator glanced at it and said, "you'll have to get captain b----'s o. k. on that message before i can send it." she talked sweetly to him, but that didn't happen to be one of his "susceptible" days. then she came to me, and as my "susceptibility" had run to a pretty low ebb i refused to permit the message to go on, on account of its hidden meaning. "oh, pshaw! captain, i wrote a story for my paper and in it described the death of a man from the effects of eating too much ice cream, and now i learn that he died of typhoid fever." i was pretty hard-headed that morning and couldn't assist the lady and she left the office vowing vengeance. the next edition of her paper contained the most charmingly sarcastic article about the red-headed, white-shoed censor i have ever seen, but i had become case-hardened by this time and did not mind it in the least. it might be supposed that as soon as the army had sailed and the correspondents had gone, that the censorship duties would be lighter. they were, officially, but otherwise they became harder than ever. the army had gone, but the women had been left behind. the husbands were away--fighting--dying--while the wives were waiting with dry eyes and aching hearts for the news that would mean life or death to them. there were some forty wives, daughters, and sweethearts remaining in the tampa bay hotel, and to them the censor became a most interesting party. they knew that any news that came to tampa would come through him, and they wanted it whether his orders would allow him to divulge it or not. before, i had to contend with the importunities of zealous correspondents, now it was the longing eyes of sweet women whose hearts were breaking with suspense, whose lives had stood still since the th day of june when the fleet sailed away. of the two, i would rather contend with the former. the long and trying days dragged slowly by and still no news. finally, on the nd of june, it was known that the army was landing; june th, the guasimas fight of the cavalry division took place, and from that time on life was made miserable for me by importunate women. many telegrams--yes, hundreds of them--came to me every day, and each time one of those cursed little yellow envelopes was put in my hands, if i happened to be in the lobby of the hotel, i could feel forty or fifty pairs of anxious eyes concentrated on me, as if to read from the expression of my face whether the news was good or bad. colonel michler of general miles's staff was there, and if we should happen to be together talking, the women would surmise that the news was bad; and many times their surmises were just about right. one sweet little black-eyed woman always said she could tell from my face whether i was bluffing or not. july st, nd, and rd, were very gloomy days for we poor chaps who had been left behind--and for the women. we--they--knew the fight was on, that men were heroically dying, and _we_ also knew that the army was in a hard way. strive as we might, no gleam of hope could be culled from the news of those three days. cervera's fleet was still in the harbor of santiago, and the army not only had the spanish troops to fight but the navy as well. flesh and blood might stand the rain of mauser bullets, but they could not stand rapid-fire guns and eight-inch shells. the third of july dragged by, and at eleven o'clock colonel michler retired for the night not feeling in a very pleasant frame of mind. the lobby was well nigh deserted, but colonels smith and powell and a few more officers sat by one of the big open doors having a farewell smoke and chat before going to bed. at eleven-thirty i was standing by the desk talking to the clerk, when the night operator came charging out of the office and gave me a little piece of yellow paper. i quickly opened it and read, "sampson entirely destroyed cervera's fleet this morning." news like that, if true, was too good to keep, so i went into the telegraph office and had a wire cut through to the new york office and asked for a confirmation or denial of the report. they confirmed it and gave me the text of the official report. i bounded out in the hall and shouted out the glorious news at the top of my voice. gloom was dispelled instanter, and joy reigned supreme. at just twelve o'clock midnight, we drank a toast to the army and navy, and to our country. santiago surrendered and the army went to porto rico only to be stopped in the midst of a most brilliant campaign by the signing of the protocol. the censorship was ended and willingly did i lay down the blue pencil and take up my sword. chapter xxvii conclusion i cannot refrain from concluding this little volume by a tribute to the telegraphers of the country. it is but fifty-five years since professor s. f. b. morse electrified the civilized world by the completion of his electro-magnetic telegraph. since that time great improvements have been made until now it is difficult to recognize in the delicate mechanisms of the relay, key, sounder, duplex, quad, and multiplex, the principle first promulgated in the old morse register. its influence was at once felt in all walks of life; it was an art to be an expert telegrapher. keeping pace with the strides of advancing civilization, the telegraph has spread its slender wires, until now almost the entire world is connected by its magnetism. away back in the early fifties when railroads and comforts were few, while danger and trials were plenty, these faithful knights of the key carried on their work under the most adverse circumstances. since its first appearance it has manifestly been the possessor of millions of secrets, public and private. in times of joy you flash your congratulations to distant relatives or friends; in minutes of sorrow and tribulation, your message of sympathy is quickly carried as a balm to aching hearts; in the worries of business its use is of the most vital importance; and while you are peacefully slumbering on some swiftly moving railroad train the telegraph is one of the principal means of insuring a safe and speedy trip. pick up your favorite daily paper--the one that is always reliable--read the market or press reports accurately printed, and then think that the telegraph does it all. read news from foreign countries--from out-of-the-way places--and think of the miles of mountains, deserts, plains and valleys passed over; think of the slender cable down deep in the throbbing bosom of the ocean and of the little spark that brings the news to your door; and then reflect on the men whose abilities accomplish these results. think of his work in the countries where it is so hot that it seems as if the land beyond the river styx is at his elbow; in lands where it is always cold and the days and nights are long. in season and out; in times of death, pestilence and famine, with never a murmur, these sturdy, loyal men, and true-hearted women do their work. all these are incidents of peace. now think, when war, grim-visaged and terrible, spreads its mighty power over the earth. what is responsible for the news of victory? what brings you the list you so anxiously scan of the dead and wounded? what means are employed by the subdivisions of the army in the field to keep in constant communication, so that they may act as the integral parts of an harmonious whole? in the late spanish-american war what first brought news, authentic in character, to the navy department that cervera with his doomed fleet was in santiago harbor? and during the dark and trying days from june nd until july th, the telegraphers of the army--the signal corps men--were ceaseless and tireless in their efforts, and as a result within five minutes of its being sent, a message would be in washington. while the army slept they worked, without any regard to self or comfort. and to-day in the far-off philippine islands they are still striving with the best results. the telegraphers are honest, loyal, patriotic men--a little bohemian, perhaps, in their tastes--and deserve a better recognition for the good work they do. " " "filed, : a. m." "received, : a. m." stories of the railroad john a. hill [illustration: "_quick as a flash the kid had my arm._" (_page ._)] stories _of the_ railroad by john a. hill [illustration: logo] new york doubleday & mcclure co. copyright, , , by s. s. mcclure co. copyright, , by doubleday & mcclure co. contents page an engineer's christmas story the clean man and the dirty angels jim wainwright's kid a peg-legged romance my lady of the eyes some freaks of fate mormon joe, the robber a midsummer night's trip the polar zone list of illustrations "quick as a flash the kid had my arm." _frontispiece_ to face "i noticed his long, slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever" "it was a strange courting ... there on that engine" "we carried him into the depot" "'mexican,' said i" "what seemed to be a giant iceberg...." "a white city ... was visible for an instant" stories of the railroad [illustration: facsimile of a completed order as entered in the despatcher's order-book] an engineer's christmas story in the summer, fall, and early winter of , i was tossing chips into an old hinkley insider up in new england, for an engineer by the name of james dillon. dillon was considered as good a man as there was on the road: careful, yet fearless, kindhearted, yet impulsive, a man whose friends would fight for him and whose enemies hated him right royally. dillon took a great notion to me, and i loved him as a father; the fact of the matter is, he was more of a father to me than i had at home, for my father refused to be comforted when i took to railroading, and i could not see him more than two or three times a year at the most--so when i wanted advice i went to jim. i was a young fellow then, and being without a home at either end of the run, was likely to drop into pitfalls. dillon saw this long before i did. before i had been with him three months, he told me one day, coming in, that it was against his principles to teach locomotive-running to a young man who was likely to turn out a drunkard or gambler and disgrace the profession, and he added that i had better pack up my duds and come up to his house and let "mother" take care of me--and i went. i was not a guest there: i paid my room-rent and board just as i should have done anywhere else, but i had all the comforts of a home, and enjoyed a thousand advantages that money could not buy. i told mrs. dillon all my troubles, and found kindly sympathy and advice; she encouraged me in all my ambitions, mended my shirts, and went with me when i bought my clothes. inside of a month, i felt like one of the family, called mrs. dillon "mother," and blessed my lucky stars that i had found them. dillon had run a good many years, and was heartily tired of it, and he seldom passed a nice farm that he did not call my attention to it, saying: "jack, now there's comfort; you just wait a couple of years--i've got my eye on the slickest little place, just on the edge of m----, that i am saving up my pile to buy. i'll give you the 'roger william' one of these days, jack, say good evening to grief, and me and mother will take comfort. think of sleeping till eight o'clock,--and no poor steamers, jack, no poor steamers!" and he would reach over, and give my head a gentle duck as i tried to pitch a curve to a front corner with a knot: those hinkleys were powerful on cold water. in dillon's household there was a "system" of financial management. he always gave his wife just half of what he earned; kept ten dollars for his own expenses during the month, out of which he clothed himself; and put the remainder in the bank. it was before the days of high wages, however, and even with this frugal management, the bank account did not grow rapidly. they owned the house in which they lived, and out of her half "mother" had to pay all the household expenses and taxes, clothe herself and two children, and send the children to school. the oldest, a girl of some sixteen years, was away at normal school, and the boy, about thirteen or fourteen, was at home, going to the public school and wearing out more clothes than all the rest of the family. dillon told me that they had agreed on the financial plan followed in the family before their marriage, and he used to say that for the life of him he did not see how "mother" got along so well on the allowance. when he drew a small month's pay he would say to me, as we walked home: "no cream in the coffee this month, jack." if it was unusually large, he would say: "plum duff and fried chicken for a sunday dinner." he insisted that he could detect the rate of his pay in the food, but this was not true--it was his kind of fun. "mother" and i were fast friends. she became my banker, and when i wanted an extra dollar, i had to ask her for it and tell what i wanted it for, and all that. along late in november, jim had to make an extra one night on another engine, which left me at home alone with "mother" and the boy--i had never seen the girl--and after swearing me to be both deaf, dumb, and blind, "mother" told me a secret. for ten years she had been saving money out of her allowance, until the amount now reached nearly $ , . she knew of jim's life ambition to own a farm, and she had the matter in hand, if i would help her. of course i was head over heels into the scheme at once. she wanted to buy the farm near m----, and give jim the deed for a christmas present; and jim mustn't even suspect. jim never did. the next trip i had to buy some underclothes: would "mother" tell me how to pick out pure wool? why, bless your heart, no, she wouldn't, but she'd just put on her things and go down with me. jim smoked and read at home. we went straight to the bank where jim kept his money, asked for the president, and let him into the whole plan. would he take $ , out of jim's money, unbeknown to jim, and pay the balance of the price of the farm over what "mother" had? no, he would not; but he would advance the money for the purpose--have the deeds sent to him, and he would pay the price--that was fixed. then i hatched up an excuse and changed off with the fireman on the m---- branch, and spent the best part of two lay-overs fixing up things with the owner of the farm and arranging to hold back the recording of the deeds until after christmas. every evening there was some part of the project to be talked over, and "mother" and i held many whispered conversations. once jim, smiling, observed that, if i had any hair on my face, he would be jealous. i remember that it was on the th day of december, , that payday came. i banked my money with "mother," and jim, as usual, counted out his half to that dear old financier. "uncle sam'd better put that 'un in the hospital," observed jim, as he came to a ragged ten-dollar bill. "goddess of liberty pretty near got her throat cut there; guess some reb has had hold of her," he continued, as he held up the bill. then laying it down, he took out his pocket-book and cut off a little three-cornered strip of pink court-plaster, and made repairs on the bill. "mother" pocketed her money greedily, and before an hour i had that very bill in my pocket to pay the recording fees in the courthouse at m----. the next day jim wanted to use more money than he had in his pocket, and asked me to lend him a dollar. as i opened my wallet to oblige him, that patched bill showed up. jim put his finger on it, and then turning me around towards him, he said: "how came you by that?" i turned red--i know i did--but i said, cool enough, "'mother' gave it to me in change." "that's a lie," he said, and turned away. the next day we were more than two-thirds of the way home before he spoke; then, as i straightened up after a fire, he said: "john alexander, when we get in, you go to aleck (the foreman) and get changed to some other engine." there was a queer look on his face; it was not anger, it was not sorrow--it was more like pain. i looked the man straight in the eye, and said: "all right, jim; it shall be as you say--but, so help me god, i don't know what for. if you will tell me what i have done that is wrong, i will not make the same mistake with the next man i fire for." he looked away from me, reached over and started the pump, and said: "don't you know?" "no, sir, i have not the slightest idea." "then you stay, and i'll change," said he, with a determined look, and leaned out of the window, and said no more all the way in. i did not go home that day. i cleaned the "roger william" from the top of that mountain of sheet-iron known as a wood-burner stack to the back casting on the tank, and tried to think what i had done wrong, or not done at all, to incur such displeasure from dillon. he was in bed when i went to the house that evening, and i did not see him until breakfast. he was in his usual spirits there, but on the way to the station, and all day long, he did not speak to me. he noticed the extra cleaning, and carefully avoided tarnishing any of the cabfittings;--but that awful quiet! i could hardly bear it, and was half sick at the trouble, the cause of which i could not understand. i thought that, if the patched bill had anything to do with it, christmas morning would clear it up. our return trip was the night express, leaving the terminus at : . as usual, that night i got the engine out, oiled, switched out the cars, and took the train to the station, trimmed my signals and headlight, and was all ready for jim to pull out. nine o'clock came, and no jim; at : i sent to his boarding-house. he had not been there. he did not come at leaving time--he did not come at all. at ten o'clock the conductor sent to the engine-house for another engineer, and at : , instead of an engineer, a fireman came, with orders for john alexander to run the "roger william" until further orders,--i never fired a locomotive again. i went over that road the saddest-hearted man that ever made a maiden trip. i hoped there would be some tidings of jim at home--there were none. i can never forget the blow it was to "mother;" how she braced up on account of her children--but oh, that sad face! christmas came, and with it the daughter, and then there were two instead of one: the boy was frantic the first day, and playing marbles the next. christmas day there came a letter. it was from jim--brief and cold enough--but it was such a comfort to "mother." it was directed to mary j. dillon, and bore the new york post-mark. it read: "uncle sam is in need of men, and those who lose with venus may win with mars. enclosed papers you will know best what to do with. be a mother to the children--you have _three_ of them. "james dillon." he underscored the three--he was a mystery to me. poor "mother!" she declared that no doubt "poor james's head was affected." the papers with the letter were a will, leaving her all, and a power of attorney, allowing her to dispose of or use the money in the bank. not a line of endearment or love for that faithful heart that lived on love, asked only for love, and cared for little else. that christmas was a day of fasting and prayer for us. many letters did we send, many advertisements were printed, but we never got a word from james dillon, and uncle sam's army was too big to hunt in. we were a changed family: quieter and more tender of one another's feelings, but changed. in the fall of ' they changed the runs around, and i was booked to run in to m----. ed, the boy, was firing for me. there was no reason why "mother" should stay in boston, and we moved out to the little farm. that daughter, who was a second "mother" all over, used to come down to meet us at the station with the horse, and i talked "sweet" to her; yet at a certain point in the sweetness i became dumb. along in may, ' , "mother" got a package from washington. it contained a tintype of herself; a card with a hole in it (made evidently by having been forced over a button), on which was her name and the old address in town; then there was a ring and a saber, and on the blade of the saber was etched, "presented to lieutenant jas. dillon, for bravery on the field of battle." at the bottom of the parcel was a note in a strange hand, saying simply, "found on the body of lieutenant dillon after the battle of five forks." poor "mother!" her heart was wrung again, and again the scalding tears fell. she never told her suffering, and no one ever knew what she bore. her face was a little sadder and sweeter, her hair a little whiter--that was all. i am not a bit superstitious--don't believe in signs or presentiments or prenothings--but when i went to get my pay on the th day of december, , it gave me a little start to find in it the bill bearing the chromo of the goddess of liberty with the little three-cornered piece of court-plaster that dillon had put on her wind-pipe. i got rid of it at once, and said nothing to "mother" about it; but i kept thinking of it and seeing it all the next day and night. on the night of the th, i was oiling around my black maria to take out a local leaving our western terminus just after dark, when a tall, slim old gentleman stepped up to me and asked if i was the engineer. i don't suppose i looked like the president: i confessed, and held up my torch, so i could see his face--a pretty tough-looking face. the white mustache was one of that military kind, reinforced with whiskers on the right and left flank of the mustache proper. he wore glasses, and one of the lights was ground glass. the right cheek-bone was crushed in, and a red scar extended across the eye and cheek; the scar looked blue around the red line because of the cold. "i used to be an engineer before the war," said he. "do you go to boston!" "no, to m----." "m----! i thought that was on a branch." "it is, but is now an important manufacturing point, with regular trains from there to each end of the main line." "when can i get to boston?" "not till monday now; we run no through sunday trains. you can go to m---- with me to-night, and catch a local to boston in the morning." he thought a minute, and then said, "well, yes; guess i had better. how is it for a ride?" "good; just tell the conductor that i told you to get on." "thanks; that's clever. i used to know a soldier who used to run up in this country," said the stranger, musing. "dillon; that's it, dillon." "i knew him well," said i. "i want to hear about him." "queer man," said he, and i noticed he was eying me pretty sharp. "a good engineer." "perhaps," said he. i coaxed the old veteran to ride on the engine--the first coal-burner i had had. he seemed more than glad to comply. ed was as black as a negro, and swearing about coal-burners in general and this one in particular, and made so much noise with his fire-irons after we started, that the old man came over and sat behind me, so as to be able to talk. [illustration: "_i noticed his long, slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever._" (_page ._)] the first time i looked around after getting out of the yard, i noticed his long slim hand on the top of the reverse-lever. did you ever notice how it seems to make an ex-engineer feel better and more satisfied to get his hand on the reverse-lever and feel the life-throbs of the great giant under him? why, his hand goes there by instinct--just as an ambulance surgeon will feel for the heart of the boy with a broken leg. i asked the stranger to "give her a whirl," and noticed with what eager joy he took hold of her. i also observed with surprise that he seemed to know all about "four-mile hill," where most new men got stuck. he caught me looking at his face, and touching the scar, remarked: "a little love pat, with the compliments of wade hampton's men." we talked on a good many subjects, and got pretty well acquainted before we were over the division, but at last we seemed talked out. "where does dillon's folks live now?" asked the stranger, slowly, after a time. "m----," said i. he nearly jumped off the box. "m----? i thought it was boston!" "moved to m----." "what for?" "own a farm there." "oh, i see; married again?" "no." "no!" "widow thought too much of jim for that." "no!" "yes." "er--what became of the young man that they--er--adopted?" "lives with 'em yet." "so!" just then we struck the suburbs of m----, and, as we passed the cemetery, i pointed to a high shaft, and said: "dillon's monument." "why, how's that?" "killed at five forks. widow put up monument." he shaded his eyes with his hand, and peered through the moonlight for a minute. "that's clever," was all he said. i insisted that he go home with me. ed took the black maria to the house, and we took the street cars for it to the end of the line, and then walked. as we cleaned our feet at the door, i said: "let me see, i did not hear your name?" "james," said he, "mr. james." i opened the sitting-room door, and ushered the stranger in. "well, boys," said "mother," slowly getting up from before the fire and hurriedly taking a few extra stitches in her knitting before laying it down to look up at us, "you're early." she looked up, not ten feet from the stranger, as he took off his slouched hat and brushed back the white hair. in another minute her arms were around his neck, and she was murmuring "james" in his ear, and i, like a dumb fool, wondered who told her his name. well, to make a long story short, it was james dillon himself, and the daughter came in, and ed came, and between the three they nearly smothered the old fellow. you may think it funny he didn't know me, but don't forget that i had been running for three years--that takes the fresh off a fellow; then, when i had the typhoid, my hair laid off, and was never reinstated, and when i got well, the whiskers--that had always refused to grow--came on with a rush, and they were red. and again, i had tried to switch with an old hook-motion in the night and forgot to take out the starting-bar, and she threw it at me, knocking out some teeth; and taking it altogether, i was a changed man. "where's john?" he said finally. "here," said i. "no!" "yes." he took my hand, and said, "john, i left all that was dear to me once, because i was jealous of you. i never knew how you came to have that money or why, and don't want to. forgive me." "that is the first time i ever heard of that," said "mother." "i had it to buy this farm for you--a christmas present--if you had waited," said i. "that is the first time i ever heard of that," said he. "and you might have been shot," said "mother," getting up close. "i tried my darndest to be. that's why i got promoted so fast." "oh, james!" and her arms were around his neck again. "and i sent that saber home myself, never intending to come back." "oh, james, how could you!" "mother, how can you forgive me?" "mother," was still for a minute, looking at the fire in the grate. "james, it is late in life to apply such tests, but love is like gold; ours will be better now--the dross has been burned away in the fire. i did what i did for love of you, and you did what you did for love of me; let us all commence to live again in the old way," and those arms of hers could not keep away from his neck. ed went out with tears in his eyes, and i beckoned the daughter to follow me. we passed into the parlor, drew the curtain over the doorway--and there was nothing but that rag between us and heaven. the clean man and the dirty angels when i first went firing, down in my native district, where bean is king, there was a man on the road pulling a mixed train, by the name of clark--'lige clark. being only a fireman, and a new one at that, i did not come very much in contact with clark, or any of the other engineers, excepting my own--james dillon. 'lige clark was a character on the road; everybody knew "old 'lige;" he was liked and respected, but not loved; he was thought puritanical, or religious, or cranky, by some, yet no one hated him, or even had a strong dislike for him. his honesty and straightforwardness were proverbial. he was always in charge of the funds of every order he belonged to, as well as of the sunday-school and church. he was truthful to a fault, but above all, just. "'cause 'tain't right, that's why," was his way of refusing to do a thing, and his argument against others doing it. after i got to running, i saw and knew more of 'lige, and i think, perhaps, i was as much of a friend as he ever had. we never were chums. i never went to his house, and he never went to mine; we were simply roundhouse acquaintances; used to talk engine a little, but usually talked about children--'lige had four, and always spoke about "doing the right thing by them." 'lige had a very heavy full beard, that came clear up to his eyes, and a mass of wavy hair--all iron grey. his eyes were steel grey, and matched his hair, and he had a habit of looking straight at you when he spoke. on his engine he invariably ran with his head out of the side window, rain or shine, and always bareheaded. when he stepped upon the footboard, he put his hat away with his clothes, and there it stayed. he was never known to wear a cap, excepting in the coldest weather. once in a while, when i was firing, i have seen him come in, in winter, with his beard white with frost and ice, and some smoke-shoveling wit dubbed him santa claus. 'lige had a way of looking straight ahead and thinking of his work, and, after he got to running express, would go through a town, where other trains were side-tracked for him, looking at the track ahead, and at the trains, but never seeming to care that they were there, never nodding or waving a hand. once in a while he would blink his eyes,--that was all. the wind tossed his mane and hair and made him look for all the world like a lion, who looks at, but appears to care nothing for the crowds around his den. someone noticed the comparison, and dubbed him "the lion," and the name clung to him. he was spoken of as "old 'lige, the lion." just why he was called old, i don't know--he was little more than forty then. when the men on the road had any grievances, they always asked 'lige to "go and see the old man." 'lige always went to lodge and to meetings of the men, but was never known to speak. when the demands were drawn up and presented to him, he always got up and said: "them air declarations ain't right, an' i wouldn't ask any railroad to grant 'em;" or, "the declarations are right. of course i'll be glad to take 'em." when old 'lige declined to bear a grievance it was modified or abandoned; and he never took a request to headquarters that was not granted--until the strike of ' . when the war broke out, 'lige was asked to go, and the railroad boys wanted him to be captain of a company of them; but he declined, saying that slavery was wrong and should be crushed, but that he had a sickly wife and four small children depending on his daily toil for bread, and it wouldn't be right to leave 'em unprovided for. they drafted him later, but he still said it "wa'n't right" for him to go, and paid for a substitute. but three months later his father-in-law died, up in the country somewhere, and left his wife some three thousand dollars, and 'lige enlisted the next day, saying "'tain't right for any man to stay that can be spared; slavery ain't right; it must be stopped." he served as a private until it was stopped. shortly after the war 'lige was pulling the superintendent over the road, when he struck a wagon, killing the driver, who was a farmer, and hurting his wife. the woman afterward sued the road, and 'lige was called as a witness for the company. he surprised everybody by stating that the accident was caused by mismanagement of the road, and explained as follows: "i pull the regular atlantic express, and should have been at the crossing where the accident occurred, an hour later than i was; but mr. doe, our superintendent, wanted to come over the road with his special car, and took my engine to pull him, leaving a freight engine to bring in the express. mr. doe could have rode on the regular train, or could have had his car put into the train, instead of putting the company to the expense of hauling a special, and kept the patrons of the road from slow and poor service. we ran faster than there was any use of, and mr. doe went home when he got in, showing that there was no urgent call for his presence at this end of the line. if there had been no extra train on the road this farmer wouldn't have been killed: 'twa'n't right." the widow got pretty heavy damages, and the superintendent tried to discharge 'lige. but 'lige said "'twa'n't right," and the men on the road, the patrons and even the president agreed with him, so the irate super. gave the job up for the time being. a couple of weeks after this, i went to that super.'s office on some business, and had to wait in the outer pen until "his grace" got through with someone else. the transom over the door to the "holy of holies" was open, and i heard the well-known voice of 'lige "the lion". "now, there's another matter, mr. doe, that perhaps you'll say is none of my business, but 'tain't right, and i'm going to speak about it. you're hanging around the yards and standing in the shadows of cars and buildings half the night, watching employees. you've discharged several yardmen, and i want to tell you that a lot of the roughest of them are laying for you. my advice to you is to go home from the office. they'll hurt you yet. 'tain't right for one man to know that another is in danger without warning him, so i've done it; 'twouldn't be right for them to hurt you. you're not particularly hunting them but me, but you won't catch me." mr. doe assured "the lion" that he could take care of himself, and two nights later got sand-bagged, and had about half his ribs kicked loose, over back of the scale house. when the trouble commenced in ' , old 'lige refused to take up a request for increase of pay, to headquarters; said the road could afford to keep us just where we were, which was more than some roads were doing, and "'twa'n't right" to ask for more. two months later they cut us ten per cent., and offered to pay half script. old 'lige said "'twa'n't right," and he'd strike afore he'd stand it;--and, in the end, we all struck. the fourth day after the strike commenced i met 'lige, and he asked me where i was going to hunt work. i told him i was going back when we won. he laughed, and said there wa'n't much danger of any of us going back; we were beat; mail trains all running, etc. "'tain't right, brother john, to loaf longer'n you can help. i'm goin' out west to-morrer"--and he went. some weeks afterward joe johnson and i concluded that, contrary to all precedent, the road was going to run without us, and we also went west; but by that time the country was full of men just like us. when i did get a job, it was drying sand away out at the front on one of the new roads. the first engine that come up to the sand house had a familiar look, even with a boot-leg stack that was fearfully and wonderfully made. there was a shaggy head sticking out of the side window, and two cool grey eyes blinked at me, but didn't seem to see me; yet a cheery voice from under the beard said: "hello, brother john, you're late, but guess you'll catch on pretty quick. there's lots of 'em here that don't know nothin' about railroading, as far as i can see, and they're running engines, too. 'tain't right." the little town was booming, and 'lige invested in lots, and became interested in many schemes to benefit the place and make money. he had been a widower for some years, and with one exception his children were doing for themselves, and that one was with his sister, and well cared for. 'lige had considerable means, and he brought it all west. he personally laid the corner-stone of the courthouse, subscribed more than any other working man to the first church, and was treasurer of half the institutions in the village. he ought to have quit the road, but he wouldn't; but did compromise on taking an easy run on a branch. 'lige was behind a benevolent scheme to build a hospital, to be under the auspices of the church society, and to it devoted not a little time and energy. when the constitution and by-laws were drawn up, the more liberal of the trustees struck a snag in old 'lige. he was bound that the hospital should not harbor people under the influence of liquor, or fallen women. 'lige was very bitter against prostitution. "it is the curse of civilization," he often said. "prostitutes ruin ten men where whiskey ruins one. they stand in the path of every young man in the country, gilded tempters of virtue, honesty and manhood; 'tain't right that they should be allowed in the country." if you attributed their existence to man's passions, inhumanity or cruelty, or woman's weakness, he checked you at once. "every woman that becomes a crooked woman does so from choice; she needn't to if she didn't want to. the way to stop prostitution is for every honest man and woman to refuse to have anything to do with them in any way, or with those who do recognize them. 'tain't right." in this matter 'lige clark had no sympathy nor charity. "twa'n't right"--and that settled it as far as he was concerned. the ladies of the church sided with old 'lige in his stand on the hospital board, but the other two men wanted the doors of the institution to be opened to all in need of medical attention or care, regardless of who they were or what caused their ailment. 'lige gave in on the whiskey, but stood out resolutely against the soiled doves, and so matters stood until midwinter. half the women in the town were outcasts from society--two dance-houses were in full blast--and 'lige soon became known to them and their friends as the "prophet elijah, second edition." the mining town over the hills, at the end of 'lige's branch, was booming, too, and wanted to be the county seat. it had its church, dance-halls, etc., and the discovery of coal within a few miles bid fair to make it a formidable rival. the boom called for more power and i went over there to pull freight, and 'lige pulled passengers only. then they put more coaches on his train and put my engine on to help him, thus saving a crew's wages. passenger service increased steadily until a big snow-slide in one of the gulches shut up the road. i'll never forget that slide. it happened on the th of january. 'lige and i were double-heading on nine coaches of passengers and when on a heavy grade in alder gulch, a slide of snow started from far up the mountain-side, swept over the track just ahead of us, carrying trees, telegraph poles and the track with it. we tried to stop, but 'lige's engine got into it, and was carried sideways down some fifty or sixty feet. mine contented herself with simply turning over, without hurting either myself or fireman--much to my satisfaction. 'lige fared worse. his reverse lever caught in his clothing and before he could get loose, the engine had stopped on her side, with 'lige's feet and legs under her. he was not badly hurt except for the scalding water that poured upon him. as soon as we could see him, the fireman and i got hold of him and forcibly pulled him out of the wreck. his limbs were awfully burned--cooked would be nearer the word. the passengers crowded around, but did little good. one look was enough for most of them. there were ten or twelve women in the cars. they came out slowly, and stood timidly away from the hissing boilers, with one exception. this one came at once to the injured man, sat down in the snow, took his head in her lap, and taking a flask of liquor from her ulster pocket, gave poor 'lige some with a little snow. i got the oil can and poured some oil over the burned parts to keep the air from them; we needed bandages, and i asked the ladies if they had anything we could use for the purpose. one young girl offered a handkerchief and another a shawl, but before they were accepted the cool woman holding 'lige's head got up quickly, laying his head down tenderly on the snow, and without a word or attempt to get out of sight, pulled up her dress, and in a second kicked out two white skirts, and sat down again to cool 'lige's brow. that woman attended 'lige like a guardian angel until we got back to town late that afternoon. the hospital was not yet in shape, so 'lige was taken to the rather dreary and homeless quarters of the hotel. as quick as it was known that elijah clark was hurt, he had plenty of friends, male and female, who came to take care of him, but the woman who helped him live at the start came not; yet every day there were dainty viands, wine or books left at the house for him--but pains were taken to let no one know from whom they came. one day a month after the accident i sat beside 'lige's bed when he told me that he was anticipating quite a discussion there that evening, as the hospital committee was going to meet to decide on the rules of the institution. "wilcox and gorman are set to open the house to those who have no part in our work and no sympathy with christian institutions, and 'tain't right," said he. "brother john, you can't do no good by prolonging the life of a brazen woman bent on vice." "don't you think, 'lige," said i, "that you are a little hard on an unfortunate class of humanity, who, in nine cases out of ten, are the victims of others' wrong-doing, and stay in the mire because no hand is extended to help them out? think of the woman of samaria. it's sinners, not saints, that need saving." "they are as a coiled serpent in the pathway of mankind, brother john, fascinating, but poisonous. there can be no good in one of those creatures." "oh yes there is, i'm sure," said i. "why, 'lige, don't you know who the woman was that gave you brandy, held your head, and used her skirts for bandages when you were hurt?" old 'lige raised up on his elbow, all eagerness. "no, john, i don't, but she wa'n't one of them. she was too thoughtful, too tender, too womanly. i've blessed her from that day to this, and though i don't know it, i think she has sent me all these wines and fruits. she saved my life. who is she? do you know?" "yes. she is molly may, who keeps the largest dance-house in cascade city. she makes lots of money, but spends it all in charity; there has never been a human being buried by the town since she has been there. molly may is a ministering angel to the poor and sick, but a bird of prey to those who wish to dissipate." the hospital was opened on easter, and the first patient was a poor consumptive girl, but lately an inmate of the red-light dance-house. 'lige clark did not run again; he became mayor of the little city, had faith in its future, invested his money in land and died rich some years ago. 'lige must have changed his mind as he grew older, or at least abandoned the idea that to crush out a wrong you should push it from all sides, and thus compress and intensify it at the heart, and come to the conclusion that the right way is to get inside and push out, thus separating and dissolving it. for before me lies the tenth annual prospectus of a now noted institution in one of the great cities of the continent, and on its title page, i read through the dimmed glasses of my spectacles: "industrial home and refuge for fallen women. founded by elijah clark. mary e. may, matron." jim wainright's kid as i put down my name and the number of the crack engine of america--as well as the imprint of a greasy thumb--on the register of our roundhouse last saturday night, the foreman borrowed a chew of my fireman's fine-cut, and said to me: "john, that old feller that's putting on the new injectors wants to see you." "what does he want, jack?" said i. "i don't remember to have seen him, and i'll tell you right now that the old squirts on the are good enough for me--i ain't got time to monkey with new-fangled injectors on _that_ run." "why, he says he knowed you out west fifteen years ago." "so! what kind o' looking chap is he?" "youngish face, john; but hair and whiskers as white as snow. sorry-looking rooster--seems like he's lost all his friends on earth, and wa'n't jest sure where to find 'em in the next world." "i can't imagine who it would be. let's see--'lige clark, he's dead; dick bellinger, hank baldwin, jim karr, dave keller, bill parr--can't be none of them. what's his name?" "winthrop--no, wetherson--no, lemme see--why, no--no, wainright; that's it, wainright; j. e. wainright." "jim wainright!" says i, "jim wainright! i haven't heard a word of him for years--thought he was dead; but he's a young fellow compared to me." "well, he don't look it," said jack. after supper i went up to the hotel and asked for j. e. wainright. maybe you think jim and i didn't go over the history of the "front." "out at the front" is the pioneer's ideal of railroad life. to a man who has put in a few years there the memory of it is like the memory of marches, skirmishes, and battles in the mind of the veteran soldier. i guess we started at the lowest numbered engine on the road, and gossiped about each and every crew. we had finished the list of engineers and had fairly started on the firemen when a thought struck me, and i said: "oh, i forgot him, jim--the 'kid,' your cheery little cricket of a firesy, who thought jim wainright the only man on the road that could run an engine right. i remember he wouldn't take a job running switcher--said a man that didn't know that firing for jim wainright was a better job than running was crazy. what's become of him? running, i suppose?" jim wainright put his hand up to his eyes for a minute, and his voice was a little husky as he said: "no, john, the kid went away--" "went away?" "yes, across the great divide--dead." "that's tough," said i, for i saw jim felt bad. "the kid and you were like two brothers." "john, i loved the--" then jim broke down. he got his hat and coat, and said: "john, let's get out into the air--i feel all choked up here; and i'll tell you a strange, true story--the kid's story." as we got out of the crowd and into boston common, jim told his story, and here it is, just as i remember it--and i'm not bad at remembering. "i'll commence at the beginning, john, so that you will understand. it's a strange story, but when i get through you'll recall enough yourself to prove its truth. "before i went beyond the mississippi and under the shadows of the rocky mountains, i fired, and was promoted, on a prairie road in the great basin well known in the railway world. i was much like the rest of the boys until i commenced to try to get up a substitute for the link motion. i read an article in a scientific paper from the pen of a jackass who showed a corliss engine card, and then blackguarded the railroad mechanics of america for being satisfied with the link because it was handy. i started in to design a motion to make a card, but--well, you know how good-for-nothing those things are to pull loads with. "after my first attempt, i put in many nights making a wooden model for the patent office. i was subsequently informed that the child of my brain interfered with about ten other motions. then i commenced to think--which i ought to have done before. i went to studying _what had been done_, and soon came to the conclusion that i just knew a little--about enough to get along running. i gave up hope of being an inventor and a benefactor of mankind, but study had awakened in me the desire for improvement; and after considerable thought i came to the conclusion that the best thing i could do was to try to be the best runner on the road, just as a starter. in reality, in my inmost soul, my highest ideal was the master mechanic's position. "i was about twenty-five years old, and had been running between two or three years, with pretty good success, when one day the general master mechanic sent for me. in the office i was introduced to a gentleman, and the g. m. m. said to him in my presence: "'this is the engineer i spoke to you of. we have none better. i think he would suit you exactly, and, when you are through with him, send him back; we are only lending him, mind,' and he went out into the shop. "the meaning of it all was that the stranger represented a firm that had put up the money to build a locomotive with a patent boiler for burning a patent fuel--she had an improved valve motion, too--and they had asked our g. m. m. for a good engineer, to send east and break in and run the new machine and go with her around the country on ten-day trials on the different roads. he offered good pay, it was work i liked, and i went. i came right here to boston and reported to the firm. they were a big concern in another line, and the head of the house was a relative of our g. m. m.--that's why he had a chance to send me. "after the usual introductions, the president said to me: "'now, mr. wainright, this new engine of ours is hardly started yet. the drawings are done, and the builders' contract is ready to sign; but we want you to look over the drawings, to see if there are any practical suggestions you can make. then stay in the shops, and see that the work is done right. the inventor is not a practical man; help him if you can, for experience tells us that ten things fail because of bad _design_ where one does because of bad manipulation. come up into the drawing-room, and i will introduce you to the inventor.' "up under the skylight i met the designer of the new engine, a mild little fellow--but he don't figure in this story. in five minutes i was deep in the study of the drawings. everything seemed to be worked out all right, except that they had the fire-door opening the wrong way and the brake-valve couldn't be reached--but many a good builder did that twenty years ago. i was impressed with the beauty of the drawings--they were like lithographs, and one, a perspective, was shaded and colored handsomely. i complimented him on them. "'they are beautiful, sir,' he said; 'they were made by a lady. i'll introduce you to her.' "a bright, plain-faced little woman with a shingled head looked up from her drawing-board as we approached, shook hands cordially when introduced, and at once entered into an intelligent discussion of the plans of the new record-beater. "well, it was some months before the engine was ready for the road, and in that time i got pretty well acquainted with miss reynolds. she was mighty plain, but sharp as a buzz-saw. i don't think she was really homely, but she'd never have been arrested for her beauty. there was something 'fetching' about her appearance--you couldn't help liking her. she was intelligent, and it was such a novelty to find a woman who knew the smoke stack from the steam chest. i didn't fall in love with her at all, but i liked to talk to her over the work. she told me her story; not all at once, but here and there a piece, until i knew her history pretty well. "it seems that her father had been chief draughtsman of those works for years, but had lately died. she had a strong taste for mechanics, and her father, who believed in women learning trades, had taught her mechanical drawing, first at home and then in the shop. she had helped in busy times as an extra, but never went to work for regular wages until the death of her father made it necessary. "she seemed to like to hear stories of the road, and often asked me to tell her some thrilling experience the second time. her eyes sparkled and her face kindled when i touched on a snow-bucking experience. she often said that if she was a man she'd go on the railroad, and after such a remark she would usually sigh and smile at the same time. one day, when the engine was pretty nearly ready, she said to me: "'mr. wainright, who is going to fire the experiment?' "'i don't know. i had forgot about that; i'll have to see about it.' "'it wouldn't be of much use to get an experienced man, would it--the engine will burn a new fuel in a new way?' "'no,' said i, 'not much.' "'now,' said she, coloring a little, 'let me ask a favor of you. i have a brother who is just crazy to go out firing. i don't want him to go unless it's with a man i can trust; he is young and inexperienced, you know. won't you take him? please do.' "'why, i'll be glad to,' said i. 'i'll speak to the old man about it.' "'don't tell him it's my brother.' "'well, all right.' "the old man told me to hire whoever i liked, and i told miss reynolds to bring the boy in the morning. "'won't you wait until monday? it will be an accommodation to me.' "of course i waited. "the next day miss reynolds did not come to the office, and i was busy at the shop. monday came, but no miss reynolds. about nine o'clock, however, the foreman came down to the experiment with a boy, apparently about eighteen years old, and said there was a lad with a note for me. "before reading the note i shook hands with the boy, and told him i knew who he was, for he looked like his sister. he was small, but wiry, and had evidently come prepared for business, as he had some overclothes under his arm and a pair of buckskin gloves. he was bashful and quiet, as boys usually are during their first experience away from home. the note read: "'dear mr. wainright.--this will be handed you by brother george. i hope you will be satisfied with him. i know he will try to please you and do his duty; don't forget how green he is. i am obliged to go into the country to settle up some of my father's affairs and may not see you again before you go. i sincerely hope the "experiment," george, and his engineer will be successful. i shall watch you all. "'g. e. reynolds.' "i felt kind of cut up, somehow, about going away without bidding old business--as the other draughtsman called miss reynolds--good-by; but i was busy with the engine. "the foreman came along half an hour after the arrival of young reynolds, and seeing him at work cleaning the window glass, asked who he was. "'the fireman,' said i. "'what! that kid?' "and from that day i don't think i ever called young reynolds by any other name half a dozen times. that was the 'kid' you knew. when it came quitting time that night, i asked the kid where they lived, and he said, charlestown. i remarked that his voice was like his sister's; but he laughed, and said i'd see difference enough if they were together; and bidding me good-night, caught a passing car. "we broke the experiment in for a few days, and then tackled half a train for providence. she would keep her water just about hot enough to wash in with the pump on. it was a tough day; i was in the front end half the time at every stop. the kid did exactly what i told him, and was in good spirits all the time. i was cross. nothing will make a man crosser than a poor steamer. "we got to providence in the evening tired; but after supper the kid said he had an aunt and her family living there, and if i didn't mind, he'd try to find them. i left the door unlocked, and slept on one side of the bed, but the kid didn't come back; he was at the engine when i got there the next morning. "the kid was such a nice little fellow i liked to have him with me, and, somehow or other (i hardly noticed it at the time), he had a good influence on me. in them days i took a drink if i felt like it; but the kid got me into the habit of taking lemonade, and wouldn't go into drinking places, and i soon quit it. he gave me many examples of controlling my temper, and soon got me into the habit of thinking before i spoke. "we played horse with that engine for four or five weeks, mostly around town, but i could see it was no go. the patent fuel was no good, and the patent fire-box little better, and i advised the firm to put a standard boiler on her and a pair of links, and sell her while the paint was fresh. they took my advice. "the kid and i took the engine to hinkley's, and left her there; we packed up our overclothes, and as we walked away, the kid asked: 'what will you do now, jim?' "'oh, i've had a nice play, and i'll go back to the road. i wish you'd go along.' "'i wouldn't like anything better; will you take me?' "'yes, but i ain't sure that i can get you a job right away.' "'well, i could fire for you, couldn't i?' "'i'd like to have you, kid; but you know i have a regular engine and a regular fireman. i'll ask for you, though.' "'i won't fire for anybody else!' "'you won't! what would you do if i should die?' "'quit.' "'get out!' "'honest; if i can't fire for you, i won't fire at all.' "i put in a few days around the 'hub,' and as i had nothing to do, my mind kept turning to miss reynolds. i met the kid daily, and on one of our rambles i asked him where his sister was. "'out in the country.' "'send word to her that i am going away and want to see her, will you, kid?' "'well, yes; but sis is funny; she's too odd for any use. i don't think she'll come.' "'well, i'll go and see her.' "'no, sis would think you were crazy.' "'why? now look here kid, i like that sister of yours, and i want to see her.' "but the kid just stopped, leaned against the nearest building, and laughed--laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks. the next day he brought me word that his sister had gone to chicago to make some sketches for the firm and hoped to come to see us after she was through. i started for chicago the day following, the kid with me. "i had little trouble in getting the kid on with me, as my old fireman had been promoted. i had a nice room with another plug-puller, and in a few days i was in the old jog--except for the kid. he refused to room with my partner's fireman; and when i talked to him about saving money that way, he said he wouldn't room with any one--not even me. then he laughed, and said he kicked so that no one could room with him. the kid was the butt of all the firemen on account of his size, but he kept the cleanest engine, and was never left nor late, and seemed more and more attached to me--and i to him. "things were going along slick enough when daddy daniels had a row with his fireman, and our general master mechanic took the matter up. daniels' fireman claimed the run with me, as he was the oldest man, and, as they had an 'oldest man' agreement, the master mechanic ordered smutty kelly and the kid changed. "i was not in the roundhouse when the kid was ordered to change, but he went direct to the office and kicked, but to no purpose. then he came to me. "'jim,' said he, with tears in his eyes, 'are you satisfied with me on the ?' "'why, yes, kid. who says i'm not?' "'they've ordered me to change to the with that horrible old ruffian daniels, and smutty kelly to go with you.' "'they have!' says i. 'that slouch can't go out with me the first time; i'll see the old man.' "but the old man was mad by the time i got to him. "'that baby-faced boy says he won't fire for anybody but you; what have you been putting into his head?' "'nothing; i've treated him kindly, and he likes me and the --that's the cleanest engine on the--' "'tut, tut, i don't care about that; i've ordered the firemen on the and changed--and they are going to be changed.' "the kid had followed me into the office, and at this point said, very respectfully: "'excuse me, sir, but mr. wainright and i get along so nicely together. daniels is a bad man; so is kelly; and neither will get along with decent men. why can't you--' "'there! stop right there, young man. now, will you go on the _as ordered_?' "'yes, if jim wainright runs her.' "'no _ifs_ about it; will you go?' "'no, sir, i won't!' "'you are discharged, then.' "'that fires me, too,' said i. "'not at all, not at all; this is a fireman row, jim.' "i don't know what struck me then, but i said: "'no one but this boy shall put a scoop of coal in the or any other engine for me; i'll take the poorest run you have, but the kid goes with me.' "talk was useless, and in the end the kid and i quit and got our time. "that evening the kid came to my room and begged me to take my job back and he would go home; but i wouldn't do it, and asked him if he was sick of me. "'no, jim,' said he. 'i live in fear that something will happen to separate us, but i don't want to be a drag on you--i think more of you than anybody.' "they were buying engines by the hundred on the rio grande and santa fé and the a. & p. in those days, and the kid and i struck out for the west, and inside of thirty days we were at work again. "we had been there three months, i guess, when i got orders to take a new engine out to the front and leave her, bringing back an old one. the last station on the road was in a box-car, thrown out beside the track on a couple of rails. there was one large, rough-board house, where they served rough-and-ready grub and let rooms. the latter were stalls, the partitions being only about seven feet high. it was cold and bleak, but right glad we were to get there and get a warm supper. everything was rough, but the kid seemed to enjoy the novelty. after supper i asked the landlord if he could fix us for the night. "'i can jest fix ye, and no more,' said he; 'i have just one room left. ye's'll have to double up; but this is the kind o' weather for that; it'll be warmer.' "the kid objected, but the landlord bluffed him--didn't have any other room--and he added: 'if i was your pardner there, i'd kick ye down to the foot, such a cold strip of bacon as ye must be.' "about nine o'clock the kid slipped out, and not coming in for an hour, i went to look for him. as i went toward the engine, i met the watchman: "'phy don't that fireman o' yourn sleep in the house or on the caboose floor such a night as this? he'll freeze up there in that cab wid no blankets at all; but when i tould him that, he politely informed meself that he'd knowed men to git rich mindin' their own biz. he's a sassy slip of a yankee.' "i climbed up on the big consolidation, and, lighting my torch, looked over the boiler-head at the kid. he was lying on a board on the seat, with his overcoat for a covering and an arm-rest for a pillow. "'what's the matter with you, kid?' i asked. 'what are you doing freezing here when we can both be comfortable and warm in the house? are you ashamed or afraid to sleep with me? i don't like this for a cent.' "'hope you won't be mad with me, jim, but i won't sleep with any one; there now!' "'you're either a fool or crazy,' said i. 'why, you will half freeze here. i want some explanation of such a trick as this.' "the kid sat up, looked at me soberly for a few seconds, reached up and unhooked his door, and said: "'come over and sit down, jim, and i'll tell you something.' "i blew out the torch and went over, half mad. as i hooked the door to keep out the sharp wind i thought i heard a sob, and i took the kid's head in my hands and turned his face to the moonlight. there were big tears in the corner of each tightly closed eye. "'don't feel bad, kid,' said i. 'i'm sure there's some reason keeps you at such tricks as this; but tell me all your trouble--it's imaginary, i know.' "there was a tremor in the kid's voice as he took my hand and said, 'we are friends, jim; ain't we?' "'why, of course,' said i. "'i have depended on your friendship and kindness and manhood, jim. it has never failed me yet, and it won't now, i know. i have a secret, jim, and it gnaws to be out one day, and hides itself the next. many and many a time i have been on the point of confessing to you, but something held me back. i was afraid you would not let me stay with you, if you knew--' "'why, you ain't killed any one, kid?' i asked, for i thought he was exaggerating his trouble. "'no--yes, i did, too--i killed my sister.' "i recoiled, hurt, shocked. 'you----' "'yes, jim, there is no such person to be found as my sister, georgiana--_for i am she_!' "'you! why, kid, you're crazy!' "'no, i'm not. listen, jim, and i will explain.' "'my father was always sorry i was not a boy. taught me boyish tricks, and made me learn drawing. i longed for the life on a locomotive--i loved it, read about it, thought of it, and prayed to be transformed into _something_ that could go out on the road. my heart went out to you early in our acquaintance, and one day the thought to get started as a fireman with you shot into my brain and was acted upon at once. after the first move there was no going back, and i have acted my part well; i have even been a good fireman. i am strong, healthy, and happy when on the road with you. i love the life, hard as it is, and can't think of giving it up, and--and you, jim.' "and then she broke down, and cried as only a woman can. "i took both her hands in mine and kissed her--think of kissing your fireman on the engine--and told her that we could be happy yet. then i told her how i had tried to get a letter to the lost sister, and how they never came back, and were never answered--that i loved the sister and loved her. she reminded me that she herself got all the letters i had sent, and was pretty sure of her ground when she threw herself on my protection. [illustration: "_it was a strange courting ... there on that engine._" (_page ._)] "it was a strange courting, john, there on that engine at the front, the boundless plains on one side, the mountains on the other, the winds of the desert whirling sand and snow against our little house, and the moon looking coldly down at the spectacle of an engineer making love to his fireman. "that night the kid slept in the bed in the house, and i stayed on the engine. "when we got back to headquarters the kid laid off to go home, and i made a trip or two with another fireman, and then i had to go to illinois to fix up some family business--kid and i arranged that. "we met in st. louis, the kid hired a ball dress, and we were married as quiet as possible. i had promised the kid that, for the present at least, she could stay on the road with me, and you know that the year you were there i done most of the heavy firing while the kid did the running. we remained in the service for something like two years--a strange couple, but happy in each other's company and our work. "i often talked to my wife about leaving the road and starting in new, where we were not known, as man and wife, she to remain at home; but she wouldn't hear of it, asking if i wanted an irishman for a side-partner. this came to be a joke with us--'when i get my irishman i will do so-and-so.' "one day, as our 'hog' was drifting down the long hill, the kid said to me, 'jim, you can get your irishman; i'm going to quit this trip.' "'kind o' sudden, hey, kid?' "'no, been hating to give up, but--' and then the kid came over and whispered something to me. "john, we both quit and went south. i got a job in texas, and the kid was lost sight of, and mrs. j. e. wainright appeared on the scene in tea-gown, train, and flounces. we furnished a neat little den, and i was happy. i missed my kid fireman, and did indeed have an irishman. kid had a struggle to wear petticoats again, and did not take kindly to dish-washing, but we were happy just the same. "our little fellow arrived one spring day, and then our skies were all sunshiny for three long, happy years, until one day kid and i followed a little white hearse out beyond the cypress grove and saw the earth covered over our darling, over our hopes, over our sunshine, and over our hearts. "after that the house was like a tomb, so still, so solemn, and at every turn were reminders of the little one who had faded away like the morning mist, gone from everything but our memories--there his sweet little image was graven by the hand of love and seared by the branding-iron of sorrow. "men and women of intelligence do not parade their sorrows in the market-place; they bear them as best they can, and try to appear as others, but once the specter of the grim destroyer has crossed the threshold, his shadow forever remains, a dark reminder, like a prison-bar across the daylight of a cell. this shadow is seen and recognized in the heart of a father, but it is larger and darker and more dreadful in the mother heart. "at every turn poor kid was mutely reminded of her loss, and her heart was at the breaking point day by day, and she begged for her old life, to seek forgetfulness in toil and get away from herself. so we went back to the old road, as we went away--jim wainright and kid reynolds--and glad enough they were to get us again for the winter work. "three years of indoor life had softened the wiry muscles of the kid, and our engine was a hard steamer, so i did most of the work on the road. but the work, excitement, and outdoor life brought back the color to pale cheeks, and now and then a smile to sad lips--and i was glad. "one day the kid was running while i broke up some big lumps of coal, and while busy in the tank i felt the air go on full and the reverse lever come back, while the wheels ground sand. i stepped quickly toward the cab to see what was the matter, when the kid sprang into the gangway and cried 'jump!' "i was in the left gangway in a second, but quick as a flash the kid had my arm. "'the other side! quick! the river!' "we were almost side by side as she swung me toward the other side of the engine, and jumped as we crashed into a landslide. i felt kid's hand on my shoulder as i left the deck--just in time to save my life, but not the kid's. "she was crushed between the tank and boiler in the very act of keeping me from jumping to certain death on the rocks in the river below. "when the crew came over they found me with the crushed clay of my poor, loved kid in my arms, kissing her. they never knew who she was. i took her back to our texas home and laid her beside the little one that had gone before. the firemen's brotherhood paid kid's insurance to me and passed resolutions saying: 'it has pleased almighty god to remove from our midst our beloved brother, george reynolds,' etc., etc. "george reynolds's grave cannot be found; but over a mound of forget-me-nots away in a southern land, there stands a stone on which is cut: 'georgiana, wife of j. e. wainright, aged thirty-two years.' "but in my heart there is a golden pyramid of love to the memory of a fireman and a sweetheart known to you and all the world but me, as 'jim wainright's kid.'" a peg-legged romance some men are born heroes, some become heroic, and some have heroism thrust upon them; but nothing of the kind ever happened to me. i don't know how it is; but, some way or other, i remember all the railroad incidents i see or hear, and get to the bottom of most of the stories of the road. i must study them over more than most men do, or else the other fellows enjoy the comedies and deplore the tragedies, and say nothing. sometimes i am mean enough to think that the romance, the dramas, and the tragedies of the road don't impress them as being as interesting as those of the plains, the indians, or the seas--people are so apt to see only the everyday side of life anyway, and to draw all their romance and heroics from books. i helped make a hero once--no, i didn't either; i helped make the golden setting after the rough diamond had shown its value. miles diston pulled freight on our road a few years ago. he was of medium stature, dark complexion, but no beauty. he was a manly-looking fellow, well-educated enough, sober, and a steady-going, reliable engineer; you would never pick him out for a hero. miles was young yet--not thirty--but, somehow or other, he had escaped matrimony: i guess he had never had time. he stayed on the farm at home until he was of age, and then went firing, so that when i first knew him he had barely got to his goal--the throttle. a good many men, when they first get there, take great interest in their work for a few months--until experience gives them confidence; then they take it easier, look around, and take some interest in other things. most of them never hope to get above running, and so sit down more or less contented, get married, buy real estate, gamble, or grow fat, each according to the dictates of his own conscience or the inclinations of his make-up. miles figured a little on matrimony. i can't explain it; but when a railroad man is in trouble, he comes to me for advice, just as he would go to the company doctor for kidney complaint. i am a specialist in heart troubles. miles came to me. miles was like the rest of them. they don't come right down and say, "something's the matter with me; what would you do for it?" no, sir! they hem and haw, and laugh off the symptoms, until you come right out and tell them just how they feel and explain the cause; then they will do anything you say. miles hemmed and hawed a little, but soon came out and showed his symptoms--he asked me if i had ever noticed the "frenchman's" girl. "the frenchman," be it known, was our boss bridge carpenter. he lived at a small place half-way over my division--i was pulling express--and the freights stopped there, changing engines. i knew venot, the bridge carpenter, very well; met him in lodge occasionally, and once in a while he rode on the engine with me to inspect bridges. his wife was a canadian woman, and good-looking for her forty years and ten children. the daughter that was killing miles diston, marie venot, was the eldest, and had just graduated from some sisters' school. she was a very handsome girl, and you could read the romantic nature of her being through her big, round, gray eyes. she was vivacious, and loved to go; but she was a dutiful daughter, and at once took hold to help her mother in a way that made her all the more adorable in the eyes of practical men like miles. miles made the most of his opportunities. but, bless you, there were other eyes for good-looking girls besides those in poor miles diston's head, and he was far from having the field to himself; this he wanted badly, and came to get advice from me. i advised strongly against wasting energy to clear the field, and in favor of putting it all into making the best show and in getting ahead of all competitors. under my advice, miles disposed of some vacant lots, and bought a neat little house, put it in thorough order, and made the best of his opportunities with marie. marie came to our house regularly, and i had good opportunity to study her. she was a sensible little creature, and, to my mind, just the girl for miles, as miles was just the man for her. but she had confided to my wife the fact that she never, never could consent to marry and settle down in the regulation, humdrum way; she wanted to marry a hero, some one she could look up to--a king among men. my wife told her that kings and heroes were scarce just then, and that a lot of pretty good women managed to be comparatively happy with common railroad men. but marie wanted a hero, and would hear of nothing less. it was during one of her visits to my house that miles took marie out for a ride and (accidentally, of course) dropped around by his new house, induced her to look at it, and told his story, asking her to make the home complete. it would have caught almost any girl; but when miles delivered her at our door and drove off, i knew that there would be a "for rent" card on that house in a few days and that marie venot was bound to have a hero or nothing. miles took his repulse calmly, but it hurt. he told me that marie was hunting for a different kind of man from him; said that he thought perhaps if he would enlist, and go out to fight sitting bull, and come home in a new, brass-bound uniform, with a poisoned arrow sticking out of his breast, she would fall at his feet and worship him. she told him she liked him better than any of the town boys; his calling was noble enough and hard enough; but she failed to see her ideal hero in a man with blue overclothes on and cinders in his ears. if any of miles's competitors had rescued a drowning child, or killed a bear with a penknife, at this juncture, i'm afraid marie would have taken him. but, as i have indicated, it was a dull season for heroes. about this time our road invested in some mogul passenger engines, and i drew one. i didn't like the boiler sticking back between me and dennis rafferty. i didn't like six wheels connected. i didn't like a knuckle-joint in the side rod. i didn't like eighteen-inch cylinders. i was opposed to solid-end rods. and i am afraid i belonged to a class of ignorant, short-sighted, bull-headed engineers who didn't believe that a railroad had any right to buy anything but fifteen by twenty-two eight-wheelers--the smaller they were the more men they would want. i got over that a long time ago; but, at the time i write of, i was cranky about it. the moguls were high and short and jerky, and they tossed a man around like a rat in a corn-popper. one day, as i was chasing time over our worst division, holding on to the arm-rest and watching to see if the main frame touched the driving-boxes as she rolled, dennis rafferty punched me in the small of the back, and said: "jahn, for the love ave the vargin, lave up on her a minit. oi does be chasing that dure for the lasth twinty minits, and dang the wan'st has i hit it fair. she's the divil on th' dodge." dennis had a pile of coal just inside and just outside of the door, the forward grates were bare, the steam was down, and i went in seven minutes late, too mad to eat--and that's pretty mad for me. i laid off, and miles diston took the high-roller out next trip. miles didn't rant and write letters or poetry, or marry some one else to spite himself, or take the first steamer for burraga, or equatorial africa, as rejected lovers in stories do. it hurt, and he didn't enjoy it, but he bore up all right, and went about his business, just as hundreds of other sensible men do every day. he gave up entirely, however, rented his house, and said he couldn't fill the bill--there wasn't a hero in his family as far back as he could remember. miles had been making time with the black maria for about a week, when the big accident happened in our town. the boilers in a cotton mill blew up, and killed a score of girls and injured hundreds more. miles was at the other end of the division, and they hurried him out to take a car-load of doctors down. they were given the right of the road, and miles tested the speed of that mogul--proving that a pony truck would stay on the track at fifty miles an hour, which a lot of us "cranks" had disputed. a few miles out there is a coaling-station, and at that time they were building the chutes. one of the iron drop-aprons fell just before miles with the mogul got to it; it smashed the headlight, dented the stack, ripped up the casing of the sand-box and dome, cut a slit in the jacket the length of the boiler, tore off the cab, struck the end of the first car, and then tore itself loose, and fell to the ground. the throttle was knocked wide open, and the mogul was flying. miles was thrown down, his head cut open by a splinter, and his foot pretty badly hurt. he picked himself up instantly, and took a look back as he closed the throttle. everything was "coming" all right, he remembered the emergency of the case, and opened the throttle again. a hasty inspection showed the engine in condition to run--she only looked crippled. miles had to stand up. his foot felt numb and weak, so he rested his weight on the other foot. he was afraid he would fall off if he became faint, and he had dennis take off the bell-cord and tie it around his waist, throwing a loop over the reverse lever, as a measure of safety. the right side of the cab and all the roof were gone, so that miles was in plain sight. the cut in his scalp bled profusely, and in trying to wipe the blood from his eyes, he merely spread it all over himself, so that he looked as if he had been half murdered. it was this apparition of wreck, ruin, and concentrated energy that marie venot saw flash past her father's door, hastening to the relief of the victims of a worse disaster, forty miles away. her father came home for his dinner in a few minutes from his little office in the depot. to his daughter's eager inquiry he said there had been some big accident in town and the "extra" was carrying doctors from up the road. but what was the matter with the engine, he didn't know; it was the ; so it was old man alexander, he said--and that's the nearest i ever came to being a hero. marie knew who was running the pretty well; so after dinner she went to the telegraph office for information, and there she learned that the special had struck the new coal chute at coalton and that the engineer was hurt. it was time she ran down to see mrs. alexander, she said, and that afternoon's regular delivered her in town. like all other railroaders not better employed, i dropped round to the depot at train time to talk with the boys and keep track of things in general. the regular was late, but miles diston was coming with a special, and came while we were talking about it. miles didn't realize how badly he was hurt until he stopped the mogul in front of the general office. so long as the excitement of the run was on, so long as he saw the absolute necessity of doing his whole duty until the desired end was accomplished, so long as he had a reputation to protect, his will power subordinated all else. but when several of us engineers ran up to the engine, we found miles hanging to the reverse lever by his safety cord, in a dead faint. we carried him into the depot, and one of the doctors administered some restorative. then we got a hack and started him and the doctor for my house; but miles came to himself, and insisted on going to his boarding-house and nowhere else. [illustration: "_we carried him into the depot._" (_page ._)] mrs. bailey, miles's boarding-house keeper, had been a trained nurse, but had a few years before invested in a rather disappointing matrimonial venture. she was one of the best nurses and one of the "crankiest" women i ever knew. i believe she was actually glad to see miles come home hurt, just to show how she could pull him through. the doctor found that miles had an ankle out of joint; the little toe was badly crushed; there was a bad cut in the leg, that had bled profusely; there was a black bruise over the short ribs on the right side, and there was a button-hole in the scalp that needed about four stitches. the little toe was cut off without ceremony, the ankle replaced and hot bandages applied, and other repairs were made, which took up most of the afternoon. when the doctor got through, he called mrs. bailey and myself out into the parlor, and said that we must not let people crowd in to see the patient; that his wounds were not dangerous, but very painful; that miles was weak from loss of blood, and that his constitution was not in particularly good condition. the doctor, in fact, thought that miles would be in great luck if he got out of the scrape without a run of fever. thereafter mrs. bailey referred all visitors to me. i talked with the doctor and the nurse, and we all agreed that it would stop most inquisitive people to simply say that the patient had suffered an amputation. that evening, when i went home, there were two anxious women to receive me, and the younger of them looked suspiciously as if she had been crying. i told them something of the accident, how it all happened, and about miles's injuries. both of them wanted to go right down and help "do something," but i told them of the doctor's order and of his fears. by this time the reporters came; and i called them into the parlor, and then let them pump me. i detailed the accident in full, but declined to tell anything about miles or his history. "the fact is," said i, "that you people won't give an engineer his just dues. now, if miles diston had been a fireman and had climbed down a ladder with a child, you would have his picture in the paper and call him a hero and all that sort of thing; but here is a man crushed, bleeding, with broken bones, and a crippled engine, who stands on one foot, lashed to his reverse lever, for eighty miles, and making the fastest time ever made over the road, because he knew that others were suffering for the relief he brought." "that's nerve," said one of the young men. "nerve!" said i, "nerve! why, that man knows no more about fear than a lion; and think of the sand of the man! this afternoon he sat up and watched the doctor perform that amputation without a quiver; he wouldn't take chloroform; he wouldn't even lie down." "was the amputation above or below the knee?" asked the reporter. "below" (i didn't state how far). "which foot?" "left." "he is in no great danger?" "yes, the doctor says he will be a very sick man for some time--if he recovers at all. boys," i added, "there's one thing you might mention--and i think you ought to--and that is that it is such heroes as this that give a road its reputation; people feel as though they were safe behind such men." if miles diston had read the papers the next morning he would have died of flattery; the reporters did themselves proud, and they made a whole column of the "iron will and nerves of steel" shown in that "amputation without ether." marie venot was full of sympathy for miles; she wanted to see him, but mrs. bailey referred her to me, and she finally went home, still inquiring every day about him. i don't think she had much other feeling for him than pity. she was down again a week later, and i talked freely of going to pick out a wooden foot for miles, who was improving right along. meanwhile, the papers far and near copied the articles about the "hero of the throttle," and the item about the road's interest in heroes attracted the attention of our general passenger agent--he liked the free advertising and wanted more of it--so he called me in one day, and asked if i knew of a choice run they could give miles as a reward of merit. i told him, if he wanted to make a show of gratitude from the road, and get a big free advertisement in the papers, to have miles appointed superintendent of the spring creek branch, where a practical man was needed, and then give it out "cold" that miles had been rewarded by being made superintendent of the road. this was afterwards done, with a great hurrah (in the papers). the second sunday after miles was hurt, marie was down, and i thought i'd have a little fun with her, and see how she regarded miles. "there's quite a romance connected with diston's affair," said i at the dinner table, rather carelessly. "there is a young lady visiting here in town--i hear she is very wealthy--who saw miles when we took him off his engine. she sends flowers every day, calls him her hero, and is just crazy for him to get well so she can see him." "who is she, did you say?" asked my wife. "i forgot her name," said i, "but i am here to tell you that she will get miles if there is any chance in the world. her father is an army officer, but she says that miles diston is a greater hero than the army ever produced." "she's a hussy," said marie. i don't know whether you would call that a bull or a bear movement on the diston stock, but it went up--i could see that. a week later miles was able to come down to our house for dinner, and my wife asked marie to come also. i met her at the depot, and after she was safe in the buggy, i told her that miles was up at the house. she nearly jumped out; but i quieted her, and told her she mustn't notice or say a word about miles's game leg, as he was extremely sensitive about it. my wife was in the kitchen, and i went to the barn to put out the horse. marie went to the sitting-room to avoid the parlor and miles, but he was there, i guess, and marie found her hero, for when they came out to dinner he had his arm around her. they were married a month later, and went to washington, stopping to see us on the way back. as i came home that night with my patent dinner pail, and with two rows of wrinkles and a load of responsibility on my brow, marie shook her fist in my face and called me "an old story-teller." "story-teller," said i; "what story?" "oh, what story? that _leg_ story, of course, you old cheat." "what leg story?" "old innocence; that amputation below the knee--you know." "wa'n't it below the knee?" "yes, but it was only the little toe." "john," said miles, "she cried when she looked for that wooden foot and only found a slightly flat wheel." "that's just like 'em," said i. "here marie only expected a part of a hero, and we give her a whole man, and she kicks--that's gratitude for you." "i got my hero all right, though," said marie; "you told me a big fib just the same, but i could kiss you for it." "don't you do that," said i; "but if the lord should send you many blessings, and any of 'em are boys, you might name one after me." she said she'd do it--and she did. my lady of the eyes one morning, some years ago, i struck the general master mechanic of a rocky mountain road for a job as an engineer--i needed a job pretty badly. as quick as the m. m. found that i could handle air on two hundred foot grades, he was as tickled as i was; engineers were not plenty in the country then, so many deserted to go to the mines. "the 'iii' will be out in a couple of days, and you can have her regular, unless hopkins comes back," said he. i hustled around for a room and made my peace with the boarding-house people before i reported to break in the big consolidation that was to fall to my care. she was big and black and ugly and new, and her fresh fire made the asphalt paint on her fire-box and front-end stink in that peculiar and familiar way given to recently rebuilt engines; but it smelled better to me than all the perfumes of arabia. a good-natured engineer came out on the ash-pit track to welcome me to the west and the road, and incidentally to remark that it was a great relief to the gang that i had come as i did. "why," i asked, "are you so short-handed that you are doubling and trebling?" "no, but they are afraid that some of 'em will have to take out the 'iii'--she is a holy terror." hadn't she been burned the first trip? didn't she kill jim o'neil with the reverse lever? hadn't she lain down on the bed of the arkansas river and wallowed on "scar face" hopkins, and he not up yet? hadn't she run away time and again without cause or provocation? but a fellow that has needed a job for six months will tackle almost anything, and i tackled the "holy terror." in fixing up the cab, i noticed an extra bracket beside the steam gage for a clock, and mentally noted that it would come in handy just as soon as i had a twenty dollar bill to spare for one of those jeweled, nickle-plated, side-winding clocks, that are the pride and comfort of those particular engineers who want nice things, with their names engraved on the case. before i had got everything ready to take the "three aces" over the turn-table for her breaking-in trip, the foreman of the back-shop came out with a package done up in a pair of old overalls, and said that here was hopkins's clock, which i might as well use until he got around again--'fraid someone would steal it if left in his office. hopkins's clock was put on its old bracket. hopkins must have been one of those particular engineers; his clock was a fine one; "s. h. hopkins" was engraved on the case in german text. the lower half of the dial was black with white figures, the upper half white with black figures. but what struck me was part of a woman's face burned into the enamel. just half of this face showed, that on the white part of the dial; the black half hid the rest. it was the face, or part of the face, of a handsome young woman with hair parted in the middle and waved back over the ears, a broad forehead, and such glorious eyes--eyes that looked straight into yours from every view point--honest eyes--reproving eyes--laughing eyes--loving eyes. i mentally named the picture "her eyes." now, i was not and am not sentimental or superstitious. i'd been married and helped wean a baby or two even then, but those eyes bothered me. they hunted mine and looked at me and asked me questions and made me forget things, and made me think and dream and speculate; all of which are sheer suicide for a locomotive engineer. i got a switchman and started out to limber up the "iii." i asked him to let me out on the main line, took a five-mile spin, and side-tracked for a freight train. while the man was unlocking the switch, i looked into the eyes and wondered what their owner was, or could be, or had been, to "scar faced" hopkins, and--ran off the switch. then i wondered if hopkins was looking into those eyes when he and the "iii" went into the arkansas river that dark night. a few days after this the "iii," dennis rafferty and i went into the regular freight service of the road. on the first trip, when half way up greenhall grade, i glanced at the clock and was startled. the "eyes" were looking at me; there was a scared, pained look, a you-must-do-something look in the eyes, or it seemed to me there was. "damn that clock," said i to myself, "i'm getting superstitious or have softening of the brain," and i reached over to open the front door, so that the breeze could cool me off. in doing so my hand touched the water pipe to the injector--it was hot. the closed overflow injector was new to me; it had "broke," and was blowing steam back to the tank that i thought was putting water into the boiler. i put it to work properly and "felt of the water:" there was just a flutter in the lower gage cock; in five minutes the crown sheet and my reputation would have been burned beyond recognition. those eyes were good for something after all. i looked at them and they were calm. "it's all right now, but be careful," they said. dennis rafferty had troubles of his own. the liner came off the new fire door letting the door get red hot, but it wasn't half as hot as dennis. he hammered it with the coal pick and burned his hands and swore, and dennis was an artist in profanity. he stepped up into the cab wiping his face on his sleeve, and ripping the english and profane languages into tatters; but he stopped short in the middle of an oath and looked ashamed, glanced at me, crossed himself and went back to his work quietly. when he came back into the cab, i asked him what choked him so sudden. "her," said he, nodding his head toward the clock. "howly mither, man, she looked hurted and sorry-like, same's me owld mither uster, whin i was noctious with the blasthfemry." so the "eyes" were on dennis, too. that took some of the conceit out of me, i was getting foolish about the eyes. we had a time order against a passenger train, it would be sharp work to make the next station, the train was heavy, the road and the engine new to me, and i hesitated. the conductor was dubious but said the " " or frosty keeler could do it any day of the week. i looked at my watch and then at the clock. the eyes looked "yes, go, you can do it easily; the 'iii' will do all you ask; trust her." i went, and as we pulled our caboose in to clear and before the express whistled for the junction, the eyes looked "didn't i tell you; wasn't that splendid." those eyes had been over the road more than i had, and knew the "iii" better. i would trust the eyes. on the return trip, a night run, i had a big train and a bad rail, but the "iii" did splendid work and made her time while "her eyes" approved every move i made, smiled at me and admired my handling of the engine. the conductor unbent enough to send over word that it was the best run he'd ever had from a new man, but the "eyes" looked, "that's nothing, you can do it every time, i know you can." half over the division, we took a siding for the "cannon ball." we cleared her ten minutes and i had time to oil around while dennis cleaned his fire. i climbed up into the cab, wiping the long oiler and glanced at the clock. the "eyes" were looking wild alarm--"do something quick." the "eyes" had the look, or seemed to me to have the look, you might expect in those of a bound woman who sees a child at the stake just before the fire is lighted--immeasurable pain, pity, appeal. i tried the water, unconsciously; it was all right. i stepped into the gangway and glanced back. our tail-lights were "in" and the white light of the switch flashed safely there, and we had backed in any way. i glanced ahead. the switch light was white, the target showed main line plainly, for my headlight shone on it full and clear. what could be the matter with "her eyes." as i turned to enter the cab the roar of the coming express came down the wind on the frosty air and my eyes fell on the rail ahead. my god, they were full to the siding! it was a stub-rail switch, and the stand had moved the target and the light, but not the rails--the bridle-rod was broken. i yelled like a mad man, but the brake-man had gone to the caboose for his lunch pail. i ran to the switch. it was useless. i fought it an instant and then turned to the rails. putting my foot against the main line rail, i grasped the switch rail and throwing all my strength into the effort, jerked it over to the main line, but would it stay until the train passed over? i felt sure it would not. i looked about for something to hold it. part of a broken pin was the only thing in sight. the headlight of the express shone in my face, and something seemed to say, "this is your trial, do something quick." i threw myself prone on the ground, my head near the rails, and held the broken pin between the end of the siding rail and the main line. the switch rails could not be forced over without shearing off the pin. the corner of the pilot of the flying demon caught my right sleeve and tore it off, and the cloth threw the cylinder cocks open with a hiss, the wind and dust blinded and shook me, and the rails hammered and bruised and pinched my hand, but i held on. twenty seconds later i sat watching the red lights of the tenth sleeper whip themselves out of sight. then i went back to the cab, and "her eyes" glorified me. "god bless your dear eyes," said i, "where would we have all been now but for you?" but the "eyes" deprecated my remarks, and looked me upon a pedestal, but the company doctor dressed my hand the next day, and the superintendent gave the whole crew ten days for backing into that siding. another round trip, and i fear i watched "her eyes" more than the signals and the track ahead. "her eyes" decided for me, chose for me, approved and disapproved. i was running by "her eyes." in a telegraph office they asked me if i could do something in a certain time and i was dazed. i didn't give my usual quick decision, my judgment was wobbly and uncertain. i must look at my clock--and "her eyes." i went out to the "iii" to consult them, lost my chance and was "put in the hole" all over the division by the disgusted dispatcher. then i got to thinking and moralizing and sitting in judgment on my thraldom. was i running the "iii" or was "her eyes?" did the company pay me for my knowledge, judgment, experience and skill in handling a locomotive, or for obeying orders from "her eyes." any fool could obey orders. then i declared for liberty, but i kept away from "her eyes." i declared for liberty in the roundhouse. i am a man of decision, and no sooner had i taken this oath than i got a screw driver, climbed into the cab of the "iii," without looking at "her eyes," held my hand over the face of the clock and took it down. i wrapped it up and took it back to the foreman. "why, yes," said he, "'scar face' was here for it this morning. he's round somewhere yet. ain't goin' to railroad no more, goin' into the real estate business. he's got money, so's his wife--daffool he didn't quit long ago." "if 'scar face' hopkins puts that clock over his desk and trusts 'her eyes,' he'll get rich," thought i. perhaps, though, those eyes don't reach the soul of "scar face" hopkins; perhaps he don't see them change as i did; men are conceited that way. during the next month i got acquainted with "scar face" hopkins, who was a first-class fellow, with a hand-clasp like a polar bear, a heart like a steam pulsometer, and a face that looked as if it might have been used for the butting post at the end of the world. "scar face" hopkins got all his scars in the battle of life. men who command locomotives on the firing line often get hurt, but hopkins had votes of thanks from officials and testimonials from men, and life-saver's medals from two governments to show that his scars were the brands of honorable degrees conferred by the almighty on the field for brave and heroic deeds well done. "scar face" hopkins was a fellow you'd like to get up close to of a night and talk with, and smoke with, and think with, until unlawful hours. one day i went into his office and the clock was there, and his old torch and a nickle-plated oiler, mementoes of the field. i looked at the clock, and "her eyes" smiled at me, or i thought they did, and said, just as plain as words, "glad to see you, dear friend; sit down." but i turned my back to that clock; i can resist temptation when i know where it is coming from. one day, a few weeks later, i stopped before a store window in a crowd to examine some pictures, satisfied my curiosity, and in stepping back to go away, put the heel of my number ten on a lady's foot with that peculiar "craunch" that you know hurts. i turned to make an apology, and faced the original of the picture on the clock. a beautiful pair of eyes, the rest of the face was hidden by a peculiar arrangement of veil that crossed the bridge of the nose and went around the ears and neck. those eyes, full of pain at first, changed instantly to frank forgiveness, and, bowing low, i repeated my plea for pardon for my clumsy carelessness, but was absolved so absolutely and completely, and dismissed so naturally, that i felt relieved. i sauntered up to hopkins' office. "hopkins," said i, "i just met your wife." "you did?" "yes, and i stepped on her foot and hurt her badly, i know." then i told him about it. "what did she say?" asked hopkins, and i noticed a queer look. i thought it might be jealousy. "why, well, why i don't know as i remember, but it was very kindly and ladylike." there was a queer expression on hopkins' face. "of course--" "sure she spoke?" asked hopkins. "how did you know it was my wife anyway?" "because it was the same face that is pictured on your clock, and some one in the crowd said it was mrs. hopkins. you know hop., i ran by that clock for a few weeks, and i noticed the eyes." "anything queer about 'em?" this was a challenge. "yes, i think there is. in the first place, i know you will understand me when i say they are handsome eyes, and i'm free to confess that they had a queer influence on me, i imagined they changed and expressed things and--" "talked, eh." "well, yes." then i told hopkins the influence the "eyes" had on me. he listened intently, watching me; when i had finished, he came over, reached out his hand and said: "shake, friend, you're a damned good fellow." i thought hopkins had been drinking--or looking at "her eyes." he pulled up a chair and lit a cigar. "john," said he, "it isn't every man that can understand what my wife says. only kindred spirits can read the language of the eyes. _she hasn't spoken an audible word in ten years_, but she talks with her eyes, even her picture talks. we, rather she, is a mystery here; people believe all kinds of things about her and us; but we don't care. i want you to come up to the house some evening and know her better. we'll be three chums, i know it, but don't ask questions; you will know things later on." before i ever went to hopkins' house, he had told her all about me, and when he introduced us, he said: "madeline, this is the friend who says your picture talked to him." i bowed low to the lady and tried to put myself and her at ease. "mrs. hopkins, i'm afraid your husband is poking fun at me, and thinks my liver is out of order, but, really, i did imagine i saw changing expression in your eyes in that picture--in fact, i named you 'my lady of the eyes.'" she laughed--with her eyes--held out her hands and made me welcome. "that name is something like mine," said hopkins, "i call her 'talking eyes.'" then hopkins brought in his little three-year-old daughter, who immediately climbed on my knee, captured my watch, and asked: "what oo name?" "john," said i. "don, don," she repeated; "my name maddie." "that's daddy's chum," put in hopkins. "tum," repeated maddie. "uncle chummy," said hopkins. "untle tummie." and i was "untle tummie" to little madeline and "chummy" to hopkins and his wife from then on. mrs. hopkins wore her veil at home as well as abroad, but it was so neatly arranged and worn so naturally that i soon became entirely used to it, in fact, didn't notice it. otherwise, she was a well-dressed, handsomely set up woman, a splendid musician and a capital companion. she sat at her work listening, while hopkins and i "railroaded" and argued about politics, and religion and everything else under the sun. mrs. hopkins took sides freely; a glance at her eyes told where she stood on any question. between "scar face" hopkins and his handsome wife there appeared to be perfect sympathy and confidence. sitting in silence, they glanced from one to the other now and again, smiled, nodded--and understood. i was barred from the house for a month during the winter because little madeline had the scarlet fever, then epidemic, but it was reported a light case and i contented myself with sending her toys and candy. one day i dropped into hopkins' office to make inquiry, when a clerk told me hopkins had not been to the office for several days. mrs. hopkins was sick. i made another round trip and inquired again, and got the same answer; then i went up to the house. the officious quarantine guard was still walking up and down in front of the hopkins residence. to a single inquiry, this voluble functionary volunteered the information that the baby was all right now, but the lady herself was very sick with scarlet fever. hopkins was most crazy, no trained nurses could be had for love nor money, the doctor was coming three times a day, and did i know that mrs. hopkins was some kind of a foreign dago, and the whole outfit "queer?" hopkins was in trouble; i pushed open the gate and started up the walk. "hey, young feller, where yer goin'," demanded the guard. "into the house, of course." "d'ye know if you go in ye got to stay for the next two weeks?" "perfectly." "then go on, you darned fool." and i went on. hopkins met me, hollow-eyed and haggard. "chum," said he, "you've come to prison, but i'm glad. help is out of reach. if you can take care of maddie, the girl will do the cooking and i will--i will do my duty." and night and day he did do his duty, being alone with his wife except for the few moments of the doctor's calls. one evening, after my little charge had been put to sleep downstairs by complying with her invariable order to "tell me a 'tory 'bout when oo was a 'ittle teenty weenty boy," the doctor came down with a grave face. "our patient has reached the worst stage--delirium. the turn will come to-night. poor hopkins is about worn out, and i'm afraid may need you. please don't go to bed; be 'on call.'" one hour, two hours, i sat there without hearing a sound from upstairs. i was drowsy and remembering that i had missed my evening smoke i lighted my pipe, silently opened the front door and stepped out upon the porch to get a whiff of fresh air. it was a still dark night, and i tiptoed down to the end that overlooked the city and stood looking at the lights and listening to the music of the switch engines in the yards below the hill. the porch was in darkness except the broad beam of light from the hall gas jet through the open door. the lights below made me think of home and my wife and little ones sleeping safely, i hoped, close to the coastwise lights of the old colony. i thought i heard a stealthy footfall behind me, and turned around to face an apparition that made the cold chill creep up my back. if ever there was a ghost, this must be one, an object in white not six feet from me. i'm not at all afraid of ghosts when i reach my second wind, and i grabbed at this one. it moved backward silently and as i made a quick step toward it that specter let out the most blood-curdling yell i ever heard--the shriek of a maniac. i stepped quicker now, but it moved away until it stood in the flood of light from the doorway, and then i saw a sight that took all the strength out of me. the most awful and frightful face i ever beheld, and,--it was the face of madeline hopkins. the neck and jaw and mouth were drawn and seamed and scarred in a frightful and hideous manner, the teeth protruded and the mouth was drawn to one side in a frightful leer; above that was all the beauty of "my lady of the eyes." for a moment i was dumb and powerless, and in that moment hopkins appeared with a bound, and between us we captured my poor friend's wife and struggled and fought with her up the long stairs and back to her bed. sitting one on either side, we had all we could do to hold her hands. she would lift us both to our feet, she was struggling desperately, and the eyes were the eyes of a tigress. when this strain was at its worst and every nerve on edge, another scream from behind us cut our ears like a needle, the eyes of the tigress as well as ours sought the door, and there in her golden curls and white "nightie" stood little madeline. the eyes of the tigress softened to tenderest love, and with a bound, the baby was on her mother's breast, her arms around her neck, and she was saying, "poor mama, what they doin' to poor mama?" "my darling, my darling," said the mother in the sweetest of tones. i unconsciously released my hold upon the arm i held, and she drew the sheet up and covered her face as i was wont to see it, and held it there. with the other, she gently stroked the baby curls. i watched this transformation as if under a spell. suddenly she turned her head toward hopkins, her eyes full of tenderness and pity and love, reached out her hand and said: "oh, steadman, my voice has come back, god has taken off the curse." but poor hopkins was on his knees beside the bed, his face buried in his arms, his strong shoulders heaving and pitiful sobs breaking from his very heart. a couple of months afterward i resigned to go back to god's country, the home of the east wind, and where i could know my own children and speak to my own wife without an introduction, and the hopkins invited me to a farewell dinner. "my lady of the eyes" presided, looking handsomer and stronger than usual, but she didn't eat with us. but with eyes and voice she entertained us so royally and pleasantly that hopkins and i did eating enough for all. after supper, hop. and i lighted our cigars and "railroaded" for awhile, then "her eyes" went to the piano and sang a dozen songs as only a trained singer can. her voice was wonderfully sweet and low. they were old songs, but they seemed the better for that, and while she sang hopkins's cigar went out and he just gazed at her with pride and joy in every lineament of his scarred and furrowed face. little maddie was allowed to sit up in honor of "untle tummy," but after awhile the little head bobbed quietly and the little chin fell between the verses of her mother's song, and "my lady of the eyes" took her by the hand and brought her over to us. "tell papa good-night and uncle chum my good-bye, dear, and we'll go to bed." hopkins kissed the baby, and i got my hug, and another to take to my "ittle dirl," and mrs. hopkins held out both her hands to me. "good-bye, dear chum," said she, "my love to you and yours, now and always." hopkins put his arm around his wife, kissed her forehead and said: "sweetheart, i'm going to tell chum a story." "and don't forget the hero," said she, and turning to me, "don't believe all he says, and don't blame those that he blames, and remember that what is, is best, and seeming calamities are often blessings in disguise." hopkins and i looked into each other's faces and smoked in silence for ten minutes, then he turned to his secretary and, opening a drawer, took out a couple of cases and opened them. they contained medals. then he opened a package of letters and selected one or two. we lighted fresh cigars and hopkins began his story. "my father was a pretty well-to-do business man and i his only child. my mother died when i was young. i managed to get through a grammar school and went to college. i wanted to go on the road from the time i could remember and had no ambition higher than to run a locomotive. that was my ideal of life. "my father opposed this very strenuously, and offered to let me go to work if i'd select something decent--that's the way he put it. he used to say, 'try a brick-yard, you might own one some day, you'll never own a railroad.' i had my choice, college or 'something decent,' and i took the college, although i didn't like it. "the summer before i came of age my father died suddenly and my college life ended." here hopkins fumbled around in his papers and selected one. "just to show you how odd my father was, here is the text of his will, leaving out the legal slush that lawyers always pack their papers in: "'to my son, steadman hudson hopkins, i leave one thousand dollars to be paid immediately on my demise. all the residue of my estate consisting of etc., etc'--six figures, chum, a snug little wad--'shall be placed in the hands of three trustees'--naming the presidents of three banks--'to be invested by them in state, municipal or government bonds, principal and interest accruing to be paid by said trustees to my son hereinbefore mentioned when he has pursued one calling, with average success, for ten consecutive years, and not until then. all in the best judgment of the trustees aforenamed. "'to my son i also bequeath this fatherly advice, knowing the waste of money by heirs who have done nothing to produce it, and knowing that had i been given a fortune at the beginning of my career, it would have been lost for lack of business experience, and knowing too, the waste of time usually made by young men who drift from one employment or occupation to another--having wasted fifteen years of my own life in this way--i make these provisions in this my last will and testament, believing that in the end, if not now, my son will see the wisdom of this provision, etc., etc.' "the governor had a long, clear head and he knew me and young men in general, but bless you, i thought he was a little mean at the time. "i turned to the trustees and asked what they would consider as fulfilling the requirements of the will. "'any honorable employment,' answered the oldest man of the trio. "the next day, i went to see andy bridges, general superintendent of the old home road, who had been a friend of father's, and told him i wanted to go railroading. he offered to put me in his office, but i insisted on the foot-board, and to make a long story short, was firing inside of three weeks and running inside of three years. "i was the proudest young prig that ever pulled a throttle. i always loved the work and--well, you know how the first five years of it absorbs you if you are cut out for it and like it and intend to stay at it. "i had been running about two years, and had paid about as much attention to young women as i had to the subject of astronomy, until madelene bridges came out of a southern convent to make her home with her uncle, our 'old man.' "the first time i saw her i went clean, stark, raving, blind, drunken daft over her. i tried to argue and reason myself out of it, but it was no go. i didn't even know who she was then. "but i was in love and, being so, wasn't hardly safe on the road. "then i spruced up and started in to see if i couldn't interest her in me half as much as i was interested in her. "i didn't have much trouble to get a start, for andy bridges had come up from the ranks and hadn't forgotten it--most of 'em do--and welcomed any decent young man in his house, even if he was a car hand. madelene had a couple of marriageable cousins then and that may account for old andy. "i got on pretty well at first, for i was first in the field. i got in a theatre or two before the other young fellows caught on. about this time there was a dance, and i lost my grip. i took madelene but couldn't dance, and all the others could, especially dandy tamplin, one of the train despatchers. "i took private dancing lessons, however, and squared myself that way. "singing was a favorite mode of passing the evenings with the young folks at the bridges's home, and i cursed myself for being tuneless. "it finally settled down to a race between tamplin and myself, and each of us was doing his level best. i was so dead in earnest and so truly in love that i was no fit company for man or beast, and i'm afraid i was twice as awkward and dull in madelene's presence as in any other place. "dandy tamplin was a handsome young fellow, and a formidable rival, for he was always well-dressed, a good talker and more or less of a lady's man. besides that, he was on the ground all the time and i had to be away two-thirds of the time on my runs. "i came in one trip determined to know my fate that very evening--had my little piece all committed to memory. "as i registered i heard one of the other despatchers, behind a partition, telling some one that he was going to work dandy's trick until eleven o'clock, and then the two entered into a discussion of dandy's quest of the 'old man's' niece, one of them remarking that all the opposition he had was hopkins and that wasn't worth considering. i resolved to get to bridges's ahead of tamplin. "but man--railroad man, anyway--proposes and the superintendent disposes. i met bridges at the door. "'hopkins,' said he, 'i want you to do me a personal favor.' "'yes, sir.' "'i want you to double out in half an hour on some perishable freight that's coming in from the west; there isn't one available engine in. will you do it?' "'yes,' i answered, slowly, showing my disappointment. 'but, mr. bridges, i was particularly anxious to go up to your house to-night; i intend to ask--' "'i know, i know,' said he kindly, taking my hand; 'it'll be all right i hope; there ain't another young chap i'd like to see go up _and stay_ better than you, but my son, _she will keep_, and this freight wont. you go out, and i'll promise that no one shall get a chance to ask ahead of you.' this was a friend at court and a strong one. "'it means a lot to me,' said i. "'i know it my boy, and i'm proud to have you say so right out in meeting, but--well, you get those fruit cars in by moonlight, and i'll have you back light, and you can have the front parlor for a week.' "on my return trip, i found a big howe truss bridge on fire and didn't get in for two days. the road was blocked, everything out of gear and i had to double back again, whether or no. "i was 'chewing the rag' with a roundhouse foreman about it when old andy came along. "'go on, hopkins,' said he, 'and you can lay off when you get back. i'm going south with my car _and will take the girls with me_!' "that was hint enough, and i said yes. "it was in the evening, and while the fireman and i got our supper, the hostler turned my engine, coaled her up, took water and stood her on the north branch track, next the head end of her train, that had not yet been entirely made up. "this north branch came into the south and west divisions off a very heavy grade and on a curve, the view being cut off at this point by buildings close to the track. the engine herself stood close to the office building, and after oiling around, i backed on to the train, bringing my cab right opposite a window in the despatcher's office. just before this open window and facing me sat dandy tamplin at his key. i hated dandy tamplin. "it was dark outside and in the cab, the conductor had given me my orders and said we'd go just as quick as the pony found a couple of cars more and put them on the hind end. dennis had put in a big fire for the hill, and then gone skylarking around the station, and i was in the dark glaring at dandy tamplin in the light. "the blow-off cock on this engine was on the right side and opened from the cab. ordinarily, you pulled the handle up, but the last time the boiler was washed out they had turned the plug cock half over and the handle stuck up through the deck among the oil cans ahead of the reverse lever, and opened by pushing it down. i remember thinking it was dangerous, as a man might accidentally open it. on the cock was a piece of pipe to carry the hot water away from the paint work, and this stuck straight out under the footboard, the cock leaked a little and the end of the pipe dripped hot water and steam. "while i glared at tamplin, old man bridges and the girls came into the room. bridges went up to the narrow, shelf-like counter, looked at the register and asked tamplin a question. "tamplin went up to the group, his back to me, and spoke to one after the other. madelene was the last in the row and, while the others were talking, laid her gloves, veil and some flowers on the counter. tamplin spoke to her and i could see the color change in her face. oh! if i only had hold of dandy tamplin. "bridges hurried out into the hall behind the passage way, the girls following. tamplin turned around and espied madelene's belongings. he went up to them, smelled the flowers, then hurriedly took a note out of his pocket and slipped it into one of the gloves. the other glove he put in his breast pocket. it was well for dandy tamplin i didn't have a gun. "remember, all this happened quickly. before tamplin was fairly in his seat and at work, madelene came tripping back alone and made for her bundle, but tamplin left his key open and went over to her. i couldn't hear what was said for by this time the safety valves of my engine were blowing and drowned all sound. she evidently asked him what time it was and leaned partly over the counter to hear his reply. he put his hand under her chin and turned her face toward the clock, this with such an air of assurance that my heart sank--but murder was in my soul. then quickly putting his hand behind her neck, he pulled her toward him and kissed her. i was a demon in an instant. "she sprang away from him and ran into the hall and he came back to his chair with a smile of triumph on his thin lips. "somehow or other, just at this moment, i noticed the steam at the end of that blow-off pipe, and all the devils in hell whispered at once 'one move of your hand and your revenge is complete.' i wasn't steadman hopkins then, i was a madman bent on murder, and i reached down for that handle, holding on by the throttle with my left hand. the cock had some mud in it and i opened it wide before it blew out and then with a roar and a shriek it burst--and the crime was done. "all the devils flew away at once and left me alone, naked with my conscience. 'murderer, murderer!' resounded in my ears; hisses, roars and screams seemed to come to fill my brain and dance around my condemned soul; voices seemed shrieking and crash upon crash seemed to smite my ears. i thought i was dying, and i remember distinctly how glad i was. i didn't let go of that valve, i couldn't--i'd go to hell with it in my hand and let them do their worst. "then remorse took possession of me. wasn't it enough to maim and disfigure poor tamplin, why cook him to death--i'd shut off that cock. i fought with it, but it wouldn't close, and i called dennis to help me. "some one stood behind me and put a cool hand on my brow, and a woman's voice said, 'poor brave fellow, he's still thinking of his duty; all the heroes don't live in books.' "i opened my eyes, and looked around. i was in st. mary's hospital, and a nun was talking to herself. "well, john, i'd been there for more than six weeks, and it took six more before i understood just what had happened and could hobble around, for i had legs and ribs and an arm broken. "it must have been at the moment i opened that blow-off cock that part of a runaway train came down the north grade, backward, like a whirlwind and buried my engine and myself, piling up an awful wreck that took fire. i was rescued at the last moment by the crowd of railroad men that collected and bodily tore the wreck apart to get at me. every one thought i tried to close that blow-off cock and hold the throttle shut. i was a hero in the papers and to the men, and i couldn't get a chance to tell the truth if i dared, and i was afraid to ask about dandy tamplin. "no word came from madelene. one day bridges came to see me, and brought me this watch i wear now, a present from the company. i determined to tell bridges--but he wouldn't believe me. looked, too, as if he thought i was off in my head yet and i must have looked crazy, for most of these brands i got that night. to be sure i've added to the collection here and there, but i never was pretty after that roundup. "at last i mustered up courage and asked: 'how is tamplin?' 'all right, working right along, but takes it hard,' said bridges. "'was he laid up long? is he as badly disfigured as i am?' "'why, man, he wasn't touched. he had gone to the other end of the room for a drink of water. i'm afraid, my boy, its madelene he's worried about.' "'she has refused him then?' "'well, i don't know that. she is still in bed, badly hurt. she has not seen a soul but her nurse, the doctor and my wife, and denies herself to all callers, even her best friends, even to me.' "chum, i won't tell you what i said or suffered. madelene had come into the room again for her belongings, and had faced the dagger of steam sent by the hand of a man who would give his immortal soul to make her well again. "i couldn't get around much, but i wrote her a brief note asking if i might call and sent it by a messenger. "she replied that she could not see me then. i waited. i hadn't the heart to write a confession i wanted to make in person, so after a week or two i went to the house. "madelene sent down word that she couldn't see me then and could not tell when she would see me. "i thought the nurse, who acted as messenger, did not interpret either my message or hers as they were intended--i would write a note. "i stepped into the library on one side of the hall, made myself at home and wrote madelene a note, a love letter, begging for just one interview. taking blame for all that had happened and confessing my love and devotion to her. "it was a long letter and just as i finished it, i heard some one in the hall. i thought it was a servant and started for the doorway to ask her to carry my message. it was the nurse. "i was partly concealed by the portieres. she was facing the door, her finger on her lips, and before her stood dandy tamplin. "'it's all right' she whispered, 'be still,' and both of them tip-toed up-stairs. "this, then was why i could not see madelene. dandy tamplin was her accepted lover. "that night i left the old home for good to seek my fortunes and forgetfulness far away. i didn't care where, so long as it was a great way off. "at new york i found some engineers going out to run on the meig's road in peru. i signed a contract and in two days was on the atlantic, bound for the isthmus of panama. "i ran an engine in peru until the war broke out with chili. i was sent to the front with a train of soldiers one day and got on the battle field. our side was getting badly worsted, and i got excited and jumping off the engine, armed myself and lit into the fight. a little crowd gathered around me and i found myself the leader, no officer in sight. there was a charge and we didn't run--surprised the chilians. i got some of these blue brands on my left cheek there and made a new reputation. before i knew it, i had on a uniform and dangled a sword. they nicknamed me the 'fighting yankee.' "peru had lots of trouble and i saw a good deal of it. when it was all over, i found myself in command of a gun boat, just a tug, but she was alive and had accounted for herself several times. "the president sent me on a special mission to chili just after the close of the war, and, all togged out in a new uniform, i went on board of an american ship at callao bound for valparaiso. i thought i was some pumpkins then. i'd lived a rough and tumble life for about three years and was beginning to like it--and to forget. "i used to do the statuesque before the passengers, my scars attested my fighting propensities, and there were several peruvian liars aboard that knew me by reputation, and enlarged on it. "we touched at coquimbo and an american civil engineer and family came aboard, homeward bound. "that afternoon i was lolling in the smoking-room on deck, when i was attracted by the sound of ladies talking on the promenade just outside the open port where i sat. it was the engineer's wife and daughter. "'mamma,' said the young lady. 'i must read you madelene's letter. poor, dear madelene, it's just too sorrowful and romantic for anything.' "madelene! i hadn't heard that name pronounced for three years. it was wrong, i knew it, but i listened. "'poor dear, she was awfully hurt and disfigured in a railroad wreck.' "it was _my_ madelene they were talking about. wild horses could not have dragged me from the spot. "the girl read something like this. i know for i've read that letter a hundred times. it's in this pile here. "'dear lottie: your ever welcome'--'no, not that.' "'uncle andrew is going'--'let me see, oh! yes, here it is, now listen mamma,' said the girl. "'dear schoolmate. i have never told a soul about my troubles or my trials, for long i could not bear to think of them myself. but lately i have seen it in its true light, and have come to the conclusion that i have no right to moan my life away. i'm past all that, there is nothing for me to live for in myself, but my life is spared for some purpose, and i propose to devote it to doing good to others'--'isn't she a sweet soul, mamma?' "'after i came to live with uncle andrew, i was very happy, it seemed like a release from prison. i saw much company, and in six months had two lovers--more than i deserved. one of these was a plain, honest manly man; he was one of uncle andrew's engineers. he wasn't handsome, but he was the kind of man that sensible women love. the other was a handsome, showy, witty man, also an employee of the railroad, considered 'the catch' among the girls. really, lottie, both of them tried to propose and i wouldn't let them, i didn't know which one of them i liked best. but if things had taken the usual course, i should have married the handsome one--and been sorry forever after.' "my heart stood still--she hadn't married dandy tamplin after all." "'the night of the wreck, i was going out on uncle andrew's private car. the handsome man was on duty in the office. the plain man on an engine that stood before the open window, i didn't know that then. "'a runaway train crashed into the engine and something exploded and a stream of boiling water came into the room and scalded me beyond recognition. you would not know me, lottie, i am so disfigured. "'the handsome man did nothing but wring his hands; the plain one staid on the engine and tried to stop the steam from coming out, and was himself terribly injured. "'i was for weeks in bed and suffered mental agony much beyond the merely physical pain. i was so wicked i cursed my life and my maker and prayed for death--yet i lived. i was so resentful, so heartbroken, so wicked, that i refused to speak for weeks, then, when i tried, i couldn't, god had put the curse of silence on my wickedness.' "think of madelene being wicked, chum. "'when i was getting well enough and reconciled to my own fate, enough to think of others, i thought of my two lovers. then i asked my nurse for a glass. one look, and i made up my mind never to see either of them again. "'both of them were clamoring to see me, and i refused to see either. the plain man wrote me the only love letter i ever received. i have worn it out reading it. it was so manly, so unselfish! he blamed himself for the accident, and offered me his devotion and love, no matter in what condition the letter found me. this letter he wrote in uncle andrew's library, left it open on the desk and--disappeared. "'i have never heard from him from that day to this. i never could understand it. a man that could write that letter, couldn't run away. the last sentence in his letter proved that. it said: "remember, dear madelene, that somewhere, somehow, i am thinking of you always; that whether you see me or not, you will some day come to know that i love your soul, not your face; that your life is dear to me, and no calamity can make any difference." "'those were brave words, and after i read them, i knew for the first time that this was the man i loved. they told me he was frightfully disfigured, too, but that made no difference to me, i loved him. but he was gone, no one knew where. why did he go? "'the handsome man disappeared the same day, and he never came back, but he left no letter. "'dear lottie, i have only now solved the mystery. my sometime nurse has just confessed that the night the letter was written the other man came to the house, like a thief, he had bribed her to give me drugs to make me sleep and then she led him into my room and showed him my scars. if he ever loved me at all, he was in love with my face; the other man loved me. one went away because he saw me, the other one because he saw his rival apparently granted the interview refused to him. my true lover must have seen that man sneaking up to my room.' "john, every fibre of my being danced for joy. i didn't hear the rest, and she read several pages. i had heard enough. "i went right out on the deck, begged pardon to begin with, introduced myself, confessed to eavesdropping, told who i was, where i had been and asked for that letter. "i got it and madelene's picture; the one you have seen on my clock. "i finished my task at valparaiso while the vessel lay there, reported by mail, and came home on the same ship. "i took that letter and photograph to andy bridges's house and wrote across the envelope 'madelene bridges, i demand your immediate and unconditional surrender, signed, steadman h. hopkins.' "and i got it in five minutes. chum, that is the only case on record where something worth having was ever surrendered to an officer of the peruvian government. "in six months i was back on an engine in a new country, with my silent, loved and loving wife, in a new home. three times before now someone has seen madelene's face, twice i told this story, and then we moved away; once i told it and trusted, and it was not repeated. madelene can stand being a mystery and wondered at, but she cannot stand pity and curiosity. as for you, old chum, i haven't even asked you not to repeat what i have told you--i know you won't." after a long while, i turned to hopkins and said: "and yet, hopkins, fools say there is no romance in railroad life. this is a story worth reading, and some day i'd like to write it." "not in madelene's time, or in mine, chum, but if ever a time comes, i'll send you a token." "send me your picture, hop." "no, i'll send you madelene's. no, i'll send you the clock with the 'talking eyes.'" and standing at hopkins's gate, the scar-faced man with the romance and i parted, like ships that meet, hail and pass on, never to meet again. hopkins and i moved away from one another, each on his own course, across the seven seas of life. and all this happened almost twenty years ago. the other day, my office boy brought me a card that read, "mrs. henry adams, washington, d. c." "is she a book agent?" i asked. "nope, don't look like one." "show her in." a young woman came in, looked at me hard for a moment, laid a package on my desk and asked, "is this the mr. alexander who used to be an engineer?" i confessed. "i don't suppose you remember me," she asked. i put on my glasses and looked at her. no, i never--then she put her handkerchief up to her lips covering the lower part of her face; it was the face of madelene hopkins. "yes," said i, "i remember you perfectly, seventeen or eighteen years ago you used to sit on my knee and call me 'untle tummy.' and i called you maddie." then we laughed and shook hands. "mr. alexander," said she, "in looking over some of father's papers, we came across a request that under certain conditions you were to be sent an old keepsake of his, a clock with mother's picture on it. i have brought it to you." "and your father and mother, what of them, my friend?" i asked, for the promise of that clock "under certain conditions" was coming back to me. "haven't you heard, sir, poor papa and mama were lost in that awful wreck at castleton, two years ago." and as i write, from the dial of "scar faced" hopkins's clock "my lady of the eyes" looks down at me from across the mystery of eternity. the eyes do not change as once they did, or has age dimmed my sight and imagination? long i look into their peaceful depths thinking of their story, and ask, "dear eyes, is it well with thee?"--and they seem to answer, "it is well." some freaks of fate i am just back from a visit to old scenes, old chums and old memories of my interesting experience on the western fringe of uncle sam's great, gray blanket--the plains. if some of these fellows who know more about writing than about running engines would only go out there for a year and keep their eyes and ears and brains open, and mouths shut, they could come home and write us some true stories that would make fiction-grinders exceedingly weary. the frontier attracts strong characters, men with pioneer spirit, men who are willing to sacrifice something, in order to gain an end; men with loves and men with hates. bad men are there, some of them hunted from eastern communities, perhaps, but you will find no fools and mighty few weak faces--there's character in every feature you look at. every one is there for a purpose; to accomplish something; to get ahead in the world; to make a new start; perhaps to live down something, or to get out of the rut cut by ancestors; some may only want to drink, and shout, and shoot, but even these do it with a vim--they mean it. of the many men who ran engines at the front, with me in the old days, i recall few whose lives were purposeless; almost every one had a life-story. if there's anything that i enjoy, it's to sit down to a pipe and a life-story--told by the subject himself. how many have i listened to, out there, and every one of them worthy the pen of a kipling! the population of the frontier is never all made up of men, and the women all have strong features, too--self-sacrifice, devotion, degradation, or _something_, is written on every face. there are no blanks in that lottery--there's little material there for homes of feeble-minded. it isn't strange, either, when you come to think of it; fools never go anywhere, they are just born and raised. if they move it's because they are "took"--you never heard of a pioneer fool. one of the strongest characters i ever knew was a runner out there by the name of gunderson--oscar gunderson. he was of swedish parentage, very light-complexioned, very large, and a splendid mechanic, as swedes are apt to be when they try. gunderson's name was, i suppose, properly entered on the company's time-book, but it never was in the nomenclature of the road. with the railroaders' gift for abbreviation and nickname, gunderson soon came down to "gun," his size, head, hand or heart furnished the prefix of "big," and "big gun" he remains to-day. "big gun" among his friends, but simple "gun" to me. i think i called him "gun" from the start. gun ran himself as he did his engine, exercised the same care of himself, and always talked engine about his own anatomy, clothes, food and drink. his hat was always referred to as his "dome-casing;" his brotherhood pin was his "number-plate;" his coat was "the jacket;" his legs the "drivers;" his hands "the pins;" arms were "side-rods;" stomach "firebox;" and his mouth "the pop." he invariably referred to a missing suspender-button as a broken "spring-hanger;" to a limp as a "flat-wheel;" he "fired up" when eating; he "took water," the same as the engine; and "oiled round," when he tasted whisky. gun knew all the slang and shop-talk of the road, and used it--was even accused of inventing much of it--but his engine talk was unique and inimitable. we roomed together a whole winter; and often, after i had gone to bed, gun would come in, and as he peeled off his clothes he would deliver himself something as follows: "say, john, you don't know who i met on the up trip? well, sir, dock taggert. i was sailin' along up the main line near bob's, and who should i see but dock backed in on the sidin'--seemed kinder dilapidated, like he was runnin' on one side. i jest slammed on the wind and went over and shook. dock looks pretty tough, john--must have been out surfacing track, ain't been wiped in lord knows when, oiled a good deal, but nary a wipe, jacket rusted and streaked, tire double flanged, valves blowin', packing down, don't seem to steam, maybe's had poor coal, or is all limed up. he's got to go through the back shop 'efore the old man'll ever let him into the roundhouse. i set his packin' out and put him in a stall at the gray's corral; hope he'll brace up. dock's a mighty good workin' scrap, if you could only get him to carryin' his water right; if he'd come down to three gauges he'd be a dandy, but this tryin' to run first section with a flutter in the stack all the time is no good--he must 'a flagged in." which, being translated into english, would carry the information that gun had seen one of the old ex-engineers at bob slattery's saloon, had stopped and greeted him. dock looked as if he had tramped, had drank, was dirty, coat had holes, soles of his boots badly worn, wheezing, seemed hungry and lifeless, been eating poor food, and was in a general run-down condition. gun had "set out his packing" by feeding him and put him in a bed at the grand central hotel--nicknamed the "grayback's corral." gun thought he would have to reform, before the m. m. put him into active service. he was a good engineer, but drank too much, and lastly, he was in so bad a condition he could not get himself into headquarters unless someone helped him by "flagging" for him. gun was a bachelor; he came to us from the pacific side, and told me once that he first went west on account of a woman, but--begging mr. kipling's pardon--that's another story. "i don't think i'd care to double-crew my mill," gun would say when the conversation turned to matrimony. "i've been raised to keep your own engine and take care of it, and pull what you could. in double-heading there's always a row as to who ought to go ahead and enjoy the scenery or stay behind and eat cinders." i knew from the first that gun had a story to tell, if he'd only give it up, and i fear i often led up to it, with the hope that he would tell it to me--but he never did. my big friend sent a sum of money away every month, i supposed to some relative, until one day i picked up from the floor a folded paper dirty from having been carried long in gun's pocket, and found a receipt. it read: "mission, san antonio, _jan. , _. "received of o. gunderson, for mabel rogers, $ . . "sister theresa." ah, a little girl in the story! i thought; it's a sad story, then. there's nothing so pure and beautiful and sweet and joyous as a little girl, yet when a little girl has a story it's almost always a sad story. i gave gun the paper; he thanked me; said he must look out better for those receipts, and added that he was educating a bit of a girl out on the coast. "yours, gun?" i asked kindly. "no, john; she ain't; i'd give $ , if she was." he looked at me straight, with that clear, blue eye, and i knew he told me the truth. "how old is she?" i asked. "i don't know; 'bout five or six." "ever seen her?" "no." "where did you get her?" "ain't had her." "tell me about her?" "she was willed to me, john, kinder put in extra, but i can't tell you her story now, partly because i don't know it all myself, and partly because i won't--i won't even tell her." i did not again refer to gun's little girl, and soon other experiences and other biographies crowded the story out of my mind. one evening in the spring, i sat by the open window, enjoying the cool night breeze from off the mountains, when i heard gun's cheery voice on the porch below. he was lecturing his fireman, in his own, unique way. "well, jim, if i ain't ashamed of you! there ain't no one but you; coming into general headquarters with a flutter in the stack, so full that you can't whistle, air-pump a-squealing 'count of water, smeared from stack to man-hole, headlight smoked and glimmery, don't know your own rights, kind o' runnin' wildcat, without proper signals, imagining you're first section with a regardless order. you want to blow out, man, and trim up, get your packing set out and carry less juice. you're worse than one of them slippin', dancin', three-legged, no-good grants. the next time i catch you at high-tide, i'll scrap you, that's what i'll do, fire you into the scrap-pile. why can't you use some judgment in your runnin'? why can't you say, 'why, here's the town of whisky, i'm going to stop here and oil around,' sail right into town, put the air on steady and fine, bring her right down to the proper gait, throw her into full release, so as to just stop right, shut off your squirt, drop a little oil on the worst points, ring your bell and sail on. "but you, you come into town forty miles an hour, jam on the emergency and while the passengers pick 'emselves out of the ends of the cars, you go into the supply house and leave the injector on, and then, when you do move, you're too full to go without opening your cylinder cocks and givin' yourself dead away. "now, i'm goin' to californ', next month, and if you get so as you can tell when you've got enough liquor without waiting for it to break your injectors, i'll ask the old man to let you finger the plug on old baldy whilst i'm gone. but i'm damned if i don't feel as if you was like that measly old --jest fit to be jacked up to saw wood with." while gun was in california, i was taken home on a requisition from my wife, and oscar gunderson and his little girl became a memory--a page in a book that i had partly read and lost, but not entirely forgotten. one day last summer i took the westbound express at topeka, and spreading my grip, hat, coat and umbrella, out on the seats, so as to resemble an experienced english tourist, i fished up a wheeling stogie and a book and went into the smoking-pen of the sleeper, which i had all to myself for half-an-hour. the train stopped to give the thirsty tender a drink and a man came in to wash his hands. he had been riding on the engine. after washing, he stepped to the door of the "smokery," struck a match on the leg of his pants, held both hands around the end of his cigar while he lighted it, then waving the match to put it out, he threw it down and came in. while he was absorbed in all this, i took a glance at him. six-foot-four, if an inch; high cheek bones; yellow beard; clear, blue eyes; white skin, and a hand about the size of a cincinnati ham. i knew that face despite twelve years of turkey-tracks about the eyes. "gunderson, old man, how are you?" i said, offering my fin. "well, john alexander, how in the name of thunder did you get away out here on the main stem, without orders?" "inspection-car," said i; "how did you get here?" "deadheading home; been out on special, a gilt-edged special, took her clean through to new york." "you did!" i exclaimed; "why, how was that?" "went up special to a weddin', don't you see? went up to see a new compound start off--prettiest sight i ever saw--working smooth as grease; but i'm kind of dubious about repairs and general running. i'm anxious to see how the performance sheet looks at the end of the year, john." "who's been double-heading, gun?" "why--why, my little girl, trimmest, neatest, slickest little mill you ever saw. lord! but she was painted red and white and gold-leaf, three brass bands on her stack, solid nickel trimming, all the latest improvements, corrugated firebox, high pressure smoke consumer and sand-jet--jest made a purpose for specials, and pay-car. but if she ain't got herself coupled onto a long-fire-boxed ten-wheeler, with a big lap and a joy gear, you can put me down for a clinker. yes, sir; the baby is a heart-breaker on dress-parade, and the ten-wheeler is a whale on business, and if they don't jump the track, you watch out for some express speed that will make the canals sick, see if they don't." without giving me time to say a word, he was off again. "you ought to seen 'em start out, nary a slip, cutting off square as a die, small one ahead speaking her little piece chipper and fast on account of her smaller wheels, and the ten-wheeler barking bass, steady as a clock, with a hundred-and-enough on the gauge, a full throttle, and half a pipe of sand. you couldn't tell to save you whether the little one was pulling the big one or the big one shoving the little--never saw a relief train start out in such shape in my life." gunderson was evidently enthusiastic over the marriage of his little girl. we talked over old times and the changes, and followed each other up to date with a great deal of mutual enjoyment, until the porter demanded the "smokery" for his bunk. as we started for bed, gun laid his hand on my shoulder and said: "john, a good many years ago, you asked me to tell you the story of my little girl. i refused then for her sake. i'll tell you in the morning." after a hearty breakfast and a good cigar, gunderson squared himself for the story. he shut his eyes for a few minutes, as if to recall something, and then, speaking as if to himself, he said: "well, sir, there wasn't a simmer anywhere, dampers all shut; you wouldn't'a suspected they was up to the popping point, but the minute they got their orders, and the con. put up his hand, so, up went--" "say," i interrupted, "i thought i was to have the story. i believe you told me about the wedding, last night. the young couple started out well." "oh, yes, old man, i forgot, the story; well, get on the next pit here," motioning to a seat next to him, "and i'll give you the history of an old, hook-motion, name of oscar gunderson, and a trim, class "g" made of solid silver, from pilot to draft-gear. "you think i'm a swede; well, i ain't, i don't know what i am, but i guess i come nearer to being a chinaman than anything else. my father was a sea-captain, and my mother found me on the china sea--but they were both swedes just the same. i had two sisters older than myself, and in order to better our chances, father moved to new york when i was less than five years old. "he soon secured work as captain on a steamer in the cuban trade, and died at sea, when i was ten. "i had a bent for machinery, and tried the old machine-shops of the central road, but soon found myself firing. "i went to california, shortly after the war, on account of a woman--mostly my fault. "well, after running around there for some years, i struck a job on the virginia & truckee, in ' . "virginia city and carson and all the nevada towns were doing a fall-rush business, turning every wheel they had, with three crews to a mill. why, if you'd go down street in any one of them towns at night, and see the crowds around the gamblers and molls, you'd think hell was a-coming forty-mile an hour, and that it wan't more than a car-length away. "well, one morning, i came into virginia about breakfast time, and with the rest of the crew, went up to the old california chop-house for breakfast. this same chop-house was a building about good-enough for a stable, these days; but it had a reputation then for steaks. all the gamblers ate there; and it's a safe rule to eat where the gamblers do, in a frontier town, if you want the best there is, regardless of price. "it was early for the regular trade, and we had the dining-room mostly to ourselves, for a few minutes, then there were four women folks came in and sat down at a table bearing a card: 'reserved for ladies.' "three of them were dressed loud, had signs out whereby any one could tell that they wouldn't be received into no four hundred; but one of them was a nice-looking, modestly-dressed woman, had on half-mourning, if i remember. she had one of them sweet, strong faces, john, like the nun when i had my arm broke and was scalded,--her sweet mouth kept mumblin' prayers, but her fingers held an artery shut that was trying its damndest to pump gun gunderson's old heart dry--strong character, you bet. "well, that woman sat facing our table and kept looking at me; i couldn't see her without turning, but i knew she was looking. john, did you ever notice that you could _feel_ the presence of some people; you knew they were near you without seeing them? well, when that happens, don't forget to give that fellow due credit; for whoever it is he or she has the strongest mind--the dominant one. "i _had_ to look around at that woman. i shall never forget how she looked; her hand was on the side of her face; her great, brown, tender eyes were staring right at me--she was reading my very soul. i let her read. "i had been jacking up a gilly of a gafter who had referred to his mother as "the old woman," and i didn't let the four females disturb me. i meant to hold up a looking glass for that young whelp to look into. i hate a man that don't love his mother. "why," says i, "you miserable example of divine carelessness, do you know what that 'old woman' mother has done for you, you drivelin' idiot, a-thankin' god that you're alive and forgetting the very mother that bore you; if you could see the tears that she has shed, if you could count the sleepless nights that she has put in, the heartaches, the pain, the privation that she has humbly, silently, even thankfully borne that you might simply live, you'd squander your last cent and your last breath to make her life a joy, from this day until her light goes out. a man that don't respect his mother is lost to all decency; a man who will hear her name belittled is a judas, and a man who will call his mother 'old woman' is a no-good, low-down, misbehaven whelp. why, damn it, i'd fight a buzz-saw, if it called my mother 'old woman'--and she's been dead a long time; gone to that special, exalted, gilt-edged and glorious heaven for mothers. no one but mothers have a right to expect to go to a heaven, and the only question that'll be asked is, 'have you been a mother?' "well, sir, i had forgot about the women, but they clapped their hands and i looked around, and there were tears in the eyes of that one woman. "she got up; came to our table and laid a card by my plate, and said, 'i beg your pardon; but won't you call on me? please do.' "i was completely knocked out, but told her i would, and she went out alone; the others finished their breakfast. "she had no sooner gone than cy nash, my conductor, commenced to giggle--'made a mash on the flyest woman in town,' he tittered; 'ain't a blood in town but what would give his head for your boots, old man; that's mabel verne--owns the odeon dance hall, and the tontine, in carson.' "i glanced at the card, and it did read. 'mabel verne, flood avenue.' "well, flood avenue is no slouch of a street, the best folks live there," i answered. "'yes, that's her private residence, and if you go there and are let in, you'd be the first man ever seen around there. she's a curious critter, never rides or drives, or shows herself off at all; but you bet she sees that the rest of the stock show off. she's in it for money, i tell you.' "i don't know why, but it made me kind of heart-sick to think of the hell that woman must be in, for i knew by her looks that she had a heart and a brain, and that neither of them was in the odeon or the tontine dance-houses. "i thought the matter over,--and didn't go to see her. the next trip, she sent a carriage for me. "she met me at the door, and took my hat, and as i dropped into an easy chair, i opened the ball to the effect that 'this here was a strange proceeding for a lady.' "'yes,' said she, sitting down square in front of me; 'it is; i felt as if i had found a true man, when i first saw you, and i have asked you here to tell you a story, my story, and ask your help and advice. i am so earnest, so anxious to do thoroughly what i have undertaken, that i fear to overdo it; i need counsel, restraint; i can trust you. won't you help me?" "'if i can; what is it that you want me to do, madam?' "'first of all, keep a secret, and next, protect or help protect, an innocent child.' "'suppose i help the child, and you don't tell me the secret?' "'no, it concerns the child, sir; she is my child; i want her to grow up without knowing what her mother has done, or how she has lived and suffered; you wouldn't tell her that, would you?' "'no; certainly not!' "'nor anyone else?' "'no.' "'you would judge her alone, forgetting her mother?' "'yes.' "'then i will tell you the story.' "she got up and changed the window blinds, so that the light shone on my face; i guess she wanted to study the effect of her words. "'i was born at sacramento,' she began; 'my father was a well-to-do mechanic, and i his only child; i grew up pretty fair-looking, and my parents spent about all they could make to complete my education, especially in music, of which i was fond. when i was eighteen years old, i fell in love with a young man, the son of one of the rich merchants of san francisco, where we had removed. like many another foolish girl, i trusted too implicitly, and believed too easily, and soon found myself in a humiliating position, but trusted to the honor of my lover to stand by me. "'when i explained matters to him he seemed pleased, said he could fix that easy enough; we would get married at once and claim a secret marriage for some months past. "'he arranged that i should meet him the next evening, and go to an old priest in an obscure parish, and be married. "'i stood long hours on a corner, half dead with fear, that night, for a lover that never came. he's dead now, got run over in oakland yard, that very night, as he was running away from me, and as i waited and shivered under the stars and the fire of my own conscience.' "'did he stand on one track, to get out of the way of another train, and get struck?' i asked. "'yes,' looking at me close. "'did he have on a false moustache, and a good deal of money and securities in a satchel, and everybody think at first he was a burglar?' "'yes; but how did you know that?' "'because, i killed him.' "'you?' "'yes; i ran an engine over him, couldn't make him hear or see me. he was the first man i ever killed; strange he should be _this_ particular man.' "'it's fate,' said the woman, rocking slowly back and forth, 'it's fate, but it seems as though i like you better now that you were my avenger. that accident drove revenge out of my heart, caused me to let _him_ be forgotten, and to live for my child. i have lived for her. i live to-day for her and i will continue to live for her.' "'my disgrace killed my mother and ruined my father. i swore i would be an honest woman, and i sought employment to earn a living for my babe and myself, but every avenue was closed to me. i washed and scrubbed while i was able to teach music splendidly, but i could get no pupils. i made shirts for a pittance and daily refused, to me, fortunes for dishonor. i have gone hungry and almost naked to pay for my baby's board, but i was hunted down at last. "'one day, after many rebuffs in seeking employment, i went to the home of a sister of my child's father, and took the baby, told her who i was and asked her to help me to a chance to work. the good woman scarcely looked at me or the child; she said that had it not been for such as i, poor charles would have been alive; his blood was on my head; i ought to ask god to wash my blood-stained hands. "'i went away from that house with my mind made up what to do. i would put my child in honest hands, and chain myself to the stake to suffer everlasting damnation for her sweet sake. "'she is in the mission san antonio now, between three and four, a perfect little princess, she looks like me, and grows, oh, so lovely! if you could see her, you'd love her. "'i can't go to see her any more; she is old enough to remember. the last time i was there, she demanded a papa! "'i am making a great deal of money. many of the rich men, whose puritan wives and daughters refused me honest work, are squandering lots of their wealth in my houses. i am saving money, too; and propose, as soon as i can get a neat fortune together to go away to the ends of the earth, and have my little girl with me. i will raise her to know herself and to know mankind.' "'and what do you want me to do, madam?' "'i want you to be that child's guardian; the honest man through whom she will reach the outside of san antonio and the world. who will go between her and me until a happier time.' "'i am only a rough engineer; the child will be raised to consider herself well off, perhaps rich.' "'adopt her. i will stay in the background; make her expenditures and her education what you like. i will trust you.' "'i can't do that.' "'you are single; your life is hard; i have money enough for us all. let us go to the sandwich islands, anywhere, and commence life anew. the little one will know no other father, and all inquiry will be stopped.' "'i couldn't think of it, my dear madam; it's too easy; it's like pulling jerkwater passenger--i like through freight.' "well, john, to make a long story short, the interview ended about here, and several more got to about the same place. there were a thousand things i could not help but admire in that woman, and i liked her better the more i knew her. but it wan't love; it was a sort of an admiration for her love of the child, and the nerve she displayed in its behalf. but i shrank from becoming her husband or companion, although i think she loved me, in the end, better than she ever did anybody. "however, i finally agreed to look after the little one, in case anything happened to the mother, and commenced then to send the money for her board and tuition, and the mother dropped out of all connection with the child or those having her in charge. "the mother made her pile and got out of the business, and at my suggestion went down near los angeles and bought a nice country place, to start respectable before she took the little one home. she left money in carson, subject to my check, for the little girl, and things slid along for a year or so all smooth enough. "i was out on a snow-bucking expedition one time the next winter, sleeping in cars, shanties or on the engine, and i soon found myself all bunged up with the worst dose of rheumatiz' you ever see. i had to get down to a lower altitude, and made for sacramento in the spring. i paid the mission a year in advance, and with less than a hundred dollars of my own, struck out, hoping to dodge the twists that were in my bones. "a hundred blind gaskets don't go far when you're sick, and the first thing i knew i was dead broke; couldn't pay my board, couldn't buy medicine, couldn't walk--nothing but think and suffer. i finally had to go to a hospital. not one of the old gang ever came to see me. old gun was a dandy, when he was making--and spending--a couple hundred a month; the rest of the time he was supposed to be dead. "i might have died in the hospital, if fate hadn't decreed to send me relief. it suddenly dawned upon me that i was getting far better treatment than usual, had a special nurse, the best of food, flowers, etc., all labeled 'from the boys.' "i found out, after i was well enough to take a sun bath on the porch, that a woman had sent all my luxuries, and that her purse had been opened for my relief. i knew who it was at once, and was anxious to get well and at work, so as not to live on one who was only too glad to do everything for me. "a six months' wrastle with the twisters leaves a fellow stiff-jointed and oldish, and lying in bed takes the strength out of him. i took the notion to get out and go to work, one day, and walked down to the shops--i was carried back, chuck full of 'em again. "the doctor said i must go to ojo caliente, away down south, if i was to get well. john, if the santa fé road had 'a been for sale for a cent then, i couldn't 'a bought a spike. "at about the height of my ill-luck, i got a letter from mabel verne--she had another name, but that don't matter--and she asked me again to come to her; to have a home, and care and devotion. it wasn't a love-sick letter, but it was one of them strong, tender, _fetching_ letters. it was unselfish, it asked very little of me, and offered a good deal. "i thought over it all night, and decided at last to go. what better was i than this woman? surely she was better educated, better bred. she had made one mistake, i had made many. she had no friends on earth; i didn't seem to have any, either. i hadn't had a letter from either of my married sisters for six or eight years, then. we could trust one another, and have an object in life in the education of the child. i'd be no worse off than i was, anyway. "the next morning i felt better. i got ready to leave, bid all my fellow flat-wheels good-by; and had a gig ordered to take me to the train--the doctor had given me two-hundred dollars a short time before--'from a lady friend.' "as i sat waiting for the hack, they brought me a letter from home--a big one, with a picture in it. it was from my youngest sister, and the picture was of her ten-year boy, named for me--such a happy, sunny little swede face you never see. 'he always talks of uncle oscar as a great and good man,' wrote carrie, 'and says every day that he's going to do just like you. he will do nothing that we tell him uncle oscar would not like, and anything that he would. if you are as good as he thinks you are, you are sure of heaven.' "and i was even then going off to live with a woman who made a fortune out of virginia city dance-houses. i had a sort of a remorseful chill, and before i really knew just where i was, i had got to arizona, and from there to the santa fé where you knew me. "i wrote my benefactress an honest letter, and told her why i had not come, and in a short time sent her the money she had put up for me; but it was returned again, and i sent it to the mission for my little girl. "well, while i was with you there, i got a fare-thee-well letter, saying that when i got that mabel verne would be no more--same as dead--and that she had deposited forty thousand dollars in the phoenix bank for _your_ little girl--_yours_, mind ye--and asked me to adopt her legally and tell her that her mother was dead. "john, i ain't heard of that woman from then until now. i thought she had got tired of waiting on me and got married, but i believe she is dead. "i went to california and adopted the baby--a daisy too--and i've honestly tried to be a father to her. "i got to making money in outside speculations, and had plenty; so i let her money accumulate at the phoenix and paid her way myself. "about four years ago, i left the road for good; bought me a nice place just outside of oakland, and settled down to take a little comfort. "mabel, my daughter mabel, for she called me papa, went to germany, nearly three years ago, in charge of her music teacher, sister florence, to finish herself off. ah, john, you ort to see her claw ivory! before she went, she called me into the mission parlor, one day, and almost got me into a snap; she wanted me to tell her all about her parents right then, and asked me if there wasn't some mystery about her birth, and the way she happened to be left in the mission all her life, her mother disappearing, and my adoption of her." "what did you tell her, gun?" i asked. "why, lied to her, of course, as any honorable man would have done. i told her that her father was an engineer and a friend of mine, and that he was killed in an accident before she was born--that was all plausible enough. "then i told her that her mother was in poor health, and had died just before i had adopted her, and had left a will, giving her to me, and besides had left forty thousand dollars in the bank for her, when she married or became of age. "well, john, cutting down short, she met a fellow over there, a new yorker, that just seemed to think she was made a-purpose for him, and about a year ago he wrote and asked me for my daughter--just think of it! his petition was seconded by the baby herself, and recommended by sister florence. "they came home six months ago, and the baby got ready for dress-parade; and i went down to new york and seen 'em off; but here's where old fate gets in his work again. that rascal of an o. b. sanderson--i didn't notice the name before--was my own nephew, the very young cuss whose picture kept me from marryin' the baby's mother! i never tumbled till i ran across his mother, she was my sister carrie. "john, i don't care a continental cuss how good he was, the baby was good enough for him--too good--i just said nothing--and watched the signals. you ort to a seen me a-givin' the bride away! then, when it was all over, and i was childless, i give my little girl a check for forty-seven thousand and a fraction; kissed her, and lit out for home--and here i am. "but i ain't satisfied now, and just as quick as i get back, i'm a-going running again; then, when i've got so old i can't see more'n a car length, i'm going to ask for a steam-pump to run. i'm a-going to die railroading." "have you ever made any inquiries about the mother, gun?" i asked. "no; not much; it's so long now, it ain't no use; i guess that her light's gone out." "what would you do, if she was to turn up?" "well, i don't know; i guess i'd keep still and see what she done." "suppose, gun, that she showed up now; loved you more than ever for what you have done, and renewed her old proposal? you know it's leap year." "well, old man, if an angel flew down out of the sky and give me a second-hand pair of wings just rebuilt, and ordered me to put 'em on and follow her, i guess i wouldn't refuse to go out. time was, though, when i'd a-held out for new, gold-mounted ones, or nothing; but that won't come, john; but you just ort to a been to the consolidation; it was just simply--well, pulling the president's special would be just like hauling a gravel-train to it!" the train stopped suddenly here, and "gun" said he was going ahead to get acquainted with the water-boiler, and i took out my note-book and jotted down a few points. after the train got into motion again, i was reading over my notes, when, without looking, i thought gunderson had come back, and i moved along in the seat to give him room, but a black dress sat down beside me. we had been sitting with our backs to a curtain between the first berth and a state-room. the lady came from the state-room. "pardon me, sir," she said, "i want to finish that story. i have heard it all; i am sister florence, music teacher to mr. gunderson's daughter; he does not know that i am on this train. "mr. gunderson did not tell you that the phoenix bank failed some months ago, and that the fortune of his adopted child was lost. he never told her and she does not know it to-day--" "he said he paid her the full amount--" i interrupted. "very true. he did; but he paid it out of his own pocket. sold his farm; put up all his securities, and borrowed seven hundred dollars to make the sum complete. that is the reason he is going to run an engine again. he does not know that i am aware of this, so don't mention it to him." "gun is a man," said i; "a great, big-hearted, true man." "he is a nobleman!" said the nun, arising and going back into the state-room. half an hour later, gunderson came back, took a seat beside me and commenced to talk. "say, john, that's the hardest-riding old pelter i ever see, about three inches of slack between engine and tank, pounding like a stamp-mill and--" looking over his shoulder and then at me, "john, i could a swore there was some one standing right there, i _felt_ 'em. "it seems to me they ort to keep up their engines here in pretty good shape. they've got bad water, and so much boiler work that they have to have new flues before the machinery gets worn much. but, lord, they don't seem--" he looked over his shoulder again, quickly, then settled in his seat to resume, when a pair of hands covered gun's eyes--the nun's hands. "guess who it is, gun," said i; and noticed that he was very pale. "it's mabel," said he, putting up his hands and taking both of hers; "no one but her ever made me feel like that." mormon joe, the robber i'm on intimate terms with one of the biggest robbers in this country. he's an expert at the business, but has now retired from active work. the fact of the matter is, joe didn't know he was robbing, at the time he did it, but he got there, just the same, and come mighty nigh doing time in the penitentiary for it, too. maybe i'd better commence at the beginning and tell you that i first knew joe hogg in ' , out at the front, on the santa fé. joe hailed from salt lake city, and had run on the utah central, which gave him the nickname of "mormon joe," a name he never resented being called, and to which he always answered. i never did really know whether he was a mormon or not, and never cared; he was a good engineer, that's about all i cared for. joe took good care of his engine, wore a clean shirt and behaved himself--which was doing more than the average engineer at the front did. i remember, one night, jack mccabe--"whisky jack," we used to call him--made some mean remark about the mormons in general and joe in particular, and joe replied: "i don't propose to defend the mormon faith; it's as good as any, to my mind. i don't propose to judge or misjudge any man by his belief or absence of belief. all that i have got to say is, that the mormon religion is a _practical_ religion. they don't give starving women a tract, or tramps jobs on the stone-pile. the women get bread, and the tramps work for _pay_. their faith is based on the christian bible, with a book added--guess they have as big a right to add or take away as some of the old kings had--bigamy is upheld by the bible, but has been dead in utah, for some years. it can't live for the young people are against it. in utah the woman has all the rights a man has, votes, and is a _person_. (since cut out of new constitution.) before the gentiles came to salt lake, the mormons had but _one_ policeman, no jail, few saloons, no houses of prostitution--now the gentile christian has sway, and the town is full of them. i guess you could argue on the quality and quantity of rot-gut whisky a good engineer ought to drink, better than on theology, anyhow." i never heard any of the gang twit joe about the mormons again. i didn't take an awful sight of notice about joe until i came in, one night, and the boys told me that joe was arrested as an accomplice in the robbery of the black prince mine, in constitution gulch. this black prince was a gold placer owned by two middle-aged englishmen. they had a small stamp-mill, run by mule power; and a large number of sluice-boxes. they always worked alone, and said they were developing the mine. no one had any idea that they were taking out much dust, until the mill and sluice-boxes were burned one night, and the story came out that they had been robbed of more than thirty thousand dollars. each partner accused the other of the theft. both were arrested, and detectives commenced to follow every clue. joe's arrest fell like a thunder-clap among us. the brotherhood men took it up right away, and i went to see joe, that very night. it was said that joe had visited the black prince, the day before, and had been seen carrying away a large package, the night before the robbery. joe absolutely refused to say a word for or against himself. "the detectives got this scheme up and know what they are doing," said he; "i don't. when they get all through, you'll know how it'll come out." to all questions as to his guilt or innocence, to every query about the crime or his arrest, he replied alike, to friend or foe: "ask the sheriff; he's doing this." he was in jail a long time, but nothing was proven against him and he was finally released. neither of the englishmen could fasten the crime on his partner, and they sold out and drifted away, one going back to england and the other to mexico. joe ran awhile on the road again and then took a job as chief-engineer of a big stamp-mill in arizona, and going there he was lost to myself and the men on the road, and finally the black prince robbery passed into history, and nothing remained but the tradition, a sort of a myth of the mountains, like captain kidd's treasures, the amount only being increased by time. i believe that the last time i heard the story, it was calmly stated that thirty million dollars was taken. when i was out west, last time, i got off the train at santa fé, and when gunning through the baggage for my _kiester_, i saw a trunk, bearing on its end this legend: "mrs. jos. hogg." while i was "gopping" at it, as they say down east, and wondering if it could be my joe hogg, a very nice-looking lady came in, leading a little girl, glanced along the lines of trunks, put her hand on the one i was looking at, and said: "that's the one; yes; the little one. i want it checked to new york." just then, a little fellow with whiskers on his chin and a twinkle in his eye came in and took charge of the trunk, the woman and the child, and with the little one's arms around his neck, bid them good-by, and got them into their seats in the sleeper. i watched this individual with a great deal of interest; he looked like my old friend, "mormon joe," only for the whiskers and the stockman clothes. finally he jumped off the moving train, waved his hand and stood watching it out of sight, to catch the last glimpse of (to him) precious burden-bearer; he raised his hand to shade his eyes, and as he did so, i saw that it was minus one thumb, and i remembered that "mormon joe" left one of his under an engine up in colorado--i was sure of him. there was a tear in his eye, as he turned to go away, so i stepped up to him and asked: "any new wives wanted down your way, elder?" he glanced up, half angry, looked me straight in the eye, and a smile started at the southeast corner of his phiz and ran around to his port ear. "well, john, old man, i don't mind being _sealed_ to one about your size, right now. i've just sent away the best one in the wide world. old man, you're looking plump; by the holy joe smith, a sight of you is good for sore eyes!" well, we started, and--but there ain't no use in telling you all about it--i went home with joe, went up a creek with a jaw-breaking spanish name, for miles, to a very good cattle ranch, that was the property of "mormon joe." joe only quit running some three or four years ago, and the ranch and its neat little home represented the savings of joe hogg's life. his wife and only child had just started for a visit to england where she was born. the next day we rode the range to see joe's cattle, and the next we started out for a little hunt. it was sitting by a jolly camp-fire, back in the hills of new mexico, that "mormon joe" told me the true story of the robbery of the black prince mine and the romance of his life. filling his cob pipe with cut-plug, joe sat looking away over space toward our hobbled horses and then said: "old man, i reckon you remember all about the black prince robbery. i don't forget you were the first man that came to the cooler to see me while i was doing time as a _suspect_. well, coming right down to the point, _i had the dust all the time_! and the working out of the mystery would be rather interesting reading if it was written up, and, as you are such an accomplished liar, i wouldn't be surprised if you made it the base-line of one of them yarns of yourn--only, mind you, don't go too far with it, for it's as curious as a lie itself. i would not try to improve on it, if i was you. i'll tell it to you as it was. "about four days before the robbery, i was introduced to rachel rokesby, daughter of one of the partners in the black prince. i met her, in what seemed to be a casual way, at mother cameron's hash-foundry, but i found out, a long time afterward, that she had worked for two weeks to bring about the introduction. "i don't know as you remember seeing her, but she was a quiet, retiring, well-educated, rosy-cheeked english girl--impressed you right away as being the pure, unrefined article, about twenty-two karat. she "chinned" me about an hour, that evening, and just cut a cameo of her pretty face right on my old heart. "well, course i saw her home, and tried my best to be interesting, but if a fellow ever in his natural life becomes a double-barreled jackass, it's just immediately after he falls in love. why, he ain't as interesting as the unlettered side of an ore-sack. "but we got on amazing well; the girl did most of the talking and along toward the last, mentioned that she was in great trouble--of course i wa'n't interested in that at all. i liked to have broken my neck in getting her to tell me at once if i couldn't do something to help her, say, for instance, move raton mountain up agin pike's peak. "i went home that night, promising to call on her the next trip, not to let any one know i was coming, not to tell anybody i had been there, not for _worlds_ to repeat or intimate what she told me, and she would tell me her trouble from start to finish, and then i could help her, if i wanted to. well, i wanted to, _bad_. "i went up to the rokesby's cabin, next trip in; it was dark, and as i went up the front walk, i heard the old gentleman going out the back, bound for the village 'diggin's.' i had it all to myself--the secret, i mean. "when i went in, i got about a forty-second squeeze of a neat little hand, and things did look so nice and clean and homelike that i had it on the end of my tongue to ask right then to camp in the place. "after a few commonplaces, she turned around and asked me if i still wanted to help her and would keep the secret, if i concluded in the end to keep out of her troubles. you bet your life, old man, she didn't have to wait long for assurance--why i wouldn't'a waited a minute to have contracted to turn the mississippi into the mammoth cave, if she had asked it. "'well," says she, finally, "it is not generally known, in fact, isn't known at all, that the black prince is a paying placer, and that papa and mr. sanson have been taking out lots of gold for some time. they have over fifty pounds of gold-dust and nuggets hidden under the floor of the old mill.' "'well,' says i, 'that hadn't ought to worry you so.' "'but that isn't all the story,' she continued; 'we have discovered a plot on the part of mr. sanson to rob papa of the gold and burn the mill and sluice-boxes, to hide the crime. you will find that every tough in town is his friend, because he buys whisky for them, and they all dislike papa. if he carried out his plan, we would have no redress whatever; all the justices in town can be bribed. the plan is to take the gold, burn the mill, and then accuse papa of the crime. now, can't you help me to fool that old villain of a sanson, and put papa's half of the money in a safe place?' "i thought quite a while before i answered; it seemed strange to me that the case should be as she stated, and i half feared i might be made a cat's-paw and get into trouble, but the girl looked at me so trustingly with her blue eyes and added: "'i am afraid that i am the cause of all the trouble, too. papa and sanson got along well until i refused to marry him; after that, the row began--i hate him. he said i would _have_ to marry him before he was done with me--but i won't!' "'you bet you won't, darling,' says i, before i thought. 'pardon me, miss rokesby, but if there is any marrying done around here, i want a hand in the game myself.' "she blushed deeply, looked at the toe of her shoe a minute, and said: "'i'm only eighteen, and am too young to think of marrying. suppose we don't talk of that until we get out of the present difficulties.' "'sensible idea,' says i. 'but when we are out, suppose you and i have a talk on that subject.' "she looked at the toe of her shoe for a minute again, turned red and white around the gills, looked up at me, shyly at first, then fully and fairly, stretched out her hand and said: "'yes; if you care to.' "course, i didn't _care_, or nothing--no more than a man cares for his head. "i guess that was about a half engagement, anyhow, it's the only one we ever had. she said it would be ruinous to our plans if i was seen with her then or afterward; and agreed to leave a note at the house for me by next trip, telling me her plan--which she should talk over with her father. "a couple of days later i got in from a round trip and made a dive for the boarding-house. "'any mail for me, mother?' i asked old mrs. cameron. "'no, young man; i'm sorry to say there ain't'. "'i was anxious to hear from home.' "'too bad; but maybe it 'll come to-morrow.' "i was up to fever heat, but could do nothing but wait. i went to bed late, and, raising up my pillow to put my watch under it, i found a note; it read: "'midnight, july . "'dear joe: "'just thought of that rule for changing counter-balance you wanted. there has always been a miscalculation about the weight of counter-balance; they are universally _too heavy_. the weights are in pieces; take out two _pieces_; this treatment would even improve a mule sweep. when once out, pieces should be changed or placed where careless or malicious persons cannot get hold of them and replace them. all is well; hope you are the same; will see you some time soon. "'jack.' "here was apparently a fool letter from one young railroader to another, but i knew well enough that it was from rachel and meant something. "i noticed that it was dated the _next night_; then i commenced to see, and in a few minutes my instructions were plain. the old five-stamp mill was driven by a mule, who wandered aimlessly around a never-ending circle at the end of a long, wooden sweep; this pole extended past the post of the mill a few feet, and had on the short end a box of stones as a counter-weight. i would find two packages of gold there at midnight of july . "i was running one of those old pittsburgh hogs then, and she had to have her throttle ground the next day, but it was more than likely that she would be ready to go out at : on her turn; but i arranged to have it happen that the stand-pipe yoke should be broken in putting it up, so that another engine would have to be fired up, and i would lay in. "i told stories in the roundhouse until nearly ten o'clock that fateful night, and then started for the hash-foundry, dodged into a lumber yard, got onto the rough ground back of town and made a wide detour toward constitution gulch, the black prince and the mule-sweep. i crept up to the washed ground through some brush and laid down in a path to wait for midnight. i felt a full-fledged sneak-thief, but i thought of rachel and didn't care if i was one or not, so long as she was satisfied. "i looked often at my watch in the moonlight, and at twelve o'clock everything was as still as death. i could hear my own heart beat against my ribs as i sneaked up to that counter-balanced sweep. i got there without accident or incident, found two packages done up in canvas with tarred-string handles; they were heavy but small, and in ten minutes i had them alone with me among the stumps and stones on the little _mesa_ back of town. "i'll never forget how i felt there in the dark with all that money that wasn't mine, and if some one had have said 'boo' from behind a stump, i should have probably dropped the boodle and taken to the brush. "as i approached the town, i realized that i could never get through it to the boarding-house or the roundhouse with those two bundles that _looked like country sausages_. i studied awhile on it and finally put them under an old scraper beside the road, and went without them to the shops. i got from my seat-box a clean pair of overalls and jacket and came back without being seen. "i wrapped one of the packages up in these and boldly stepped out into the glare of the electric lights--i remember i thought the town too darned enterprising. "one of the first men i met was the marshal, jack kelly. he was reported to be a pinkerton man, and was mistrusted by some of the men, but tried to be friendly and 'stand in' with all of us. he slapped me on the back and nearly scared the wits out of me. he insisted on treating me, and i went into a saloon and 'took something' with him, in fear and trembling. the package was heavy, but i must carry it lightly under my arm, as if it were only overclothes. "i treated in return, and had it charged, because i dare not attempt to get my right hand into my pocket. jack was disposed to talk, and i feared he was just playing with me like a cat does with a mouse, but i finally got off and deposited my precious burden in my seat-box, under lock and key--then i sneaked back for the second haul. i met jack and a policeman, on my next trip, and he exclaimed: "'why, ain't you gone out yet?' and started off, telling the roundsman to keep the bunkos off me up to the shop. _i thought then i was caught_, but i was not, and the bluecoat bid me a pleasant good-night, at the shop yard. "when i got near my engine, i was surprised to see barney murry, the night machinist, with his torch up on the cab--he was putting in the newly-ground throttle. "just before i had decided to emerge from the shadow of the next engine, barney commenced to yell for his helper, dick, to come and help him on with the dome-cover. "dick came with a sandwich in one hand and a can of coffee in the other. this reminded barney of his lunch, and setting his torch down on the top of the cab, he scrambled down on the other side and hurried off to the sand-dryer, where the gang used to eat their dyspepsia insurance and swap lies. "after listening a moment, to be sure i was alone, i stepped lightly to the cab, and in a minute the two heavy and dangerous packages were side by side again. "but just here an inspiration struck me. i opened the front door of the cab, stepped out on the running-board, and a second later was holding barney's smoking torch down in the dome. "the throttle occupied most of the space, but there was considerable room each side of it and a good two feet between the top of the boiler shell and the top row of flues. i took one of the bags of gold, held it down at arm's length, swung it backward and forward a time or two, and let go, so as to drop it well ahead on the flues: the second bag followed at once, and again i held down the light to see if the bags were out of sight; satisfied on this point, i got down, took my clothes under my arm, and jumped off the engine into the arms of the night foreman." "'what did you call me for? that engine is not ready to go out on the extra,' i demanded, off-hand. "'i ain't called you; you're dreaming.' "'may be i am,' said i, 'but i would 'a swore some one came and called under my window that i got out at : , on a stock-train, extra.' "just then, barney and dick came back, and i soon had the satisfaction of seeing the cover screwed down on my secret and a fire built under it--then i went home and slept. "i guess it was four round trips that i made with the old pelter, before kelly put this and that together, and decided to put me where the dogs wouldn't bite me. "i appeared as calm as i could, and set the example since followed by politicians, that of 'dignified silence.' kelly tried to work one of the 'fellow convict' rackets on me, but i made no confessions. i soon became a martyr, in the eyes of the women of the town. you boys got to talking of backing up a suit for false imprisonment; election was coming on and the sheriff and county judge were getting uneasy, and the district attorney was awfully unhappy, so they let me out. "nixon, the sheriff, pumped me slyly, to see what effect my imprisonment would have on future operations, and i told him i didn't propose to lose any time over it, and agreed to drop the matter for a little nest-egg equal to the highest pay received by any engineer on the road. pat dailey was the worst hog for overtime, and i selected his pay as the standard and took big money,--from the campaign funds. i wasn't afraid of re-arrest;--i had 'em for bribery. "whilst i was in hock, i had cold chills every time i heard the 's whistle, for fear they would wash her out and find the dust; but she gave up nothing. "when i reported for work, the old scrap was out on construction and they were disposed to put me on another mill, pulling varnished cars, but i told the old man i was under the weather and 'crummy,' and that put him in a good humor; and i was sent out to a desolate siding, and once again took charge of the steam 'fence,' for the robber of the black prince mine. "on sunday, by a little maneuvering, i managed to get the crew to go off on a trout-fishing expedition, and under pretext of grinding-in her chronically leaky throttle, i took off her dome-cover and looked in; there was nothing in sight. "i was afraid that the cooking of two months or more had destroyed the canvas bags; then again the heavy deposit of scale might have cemented the bags to the flues. in either case, rough handling would send the dust to the bottom of the boiler, making it difficult if not impossible to recover; and worse yet, manifest itself sometime and give me dead away. "i concluded to go at the matter right, and after two hours of hard work, managed to get the upright throttle-pipe out of the dome. i drew her water down below the flue-line, and though it was tolerably warm, i got in. "both of my surmises were partially correct; the canvas was rotted, in a measure, and the bags were fastened to the flues. the dust had been put up in buckskin bags, first, and these had been put into shot-sacks; the buckskin was shrunken but intact. i took a good look around, before i dared take the treasure into the sunlight; but the coast was clear, and inside of an hour they were locked in my clothes-box, and the cover was on the kettle again and i was pumping her up by hand. "i was afraid something would happen to me or the engine, so i buried the packages in a bunch of willows near the track. "it must have been two weeks after this that a mover's wagon stopped near the creek within half a mile of the track, and hobbled horses soon began to 'rustle' grass, and the smoke of a camp-fire hunted the clouds. "we saw this sort of thing often, and i didn't any more than glance at it; but after supper i sauntered down by the engine, smoking and thinking of rachel rokesby, when i noticed a woman walking towards me, pail in hand. "she had on a sunbonnet that hid her face and she got within ten feet of me before she spoke--she asked for a pail of drinking-water from the tank--the creek was muddy from a recent rain. "just as soon as she spoke, i knew it was rachel, but i controlled myself, for others were within hearing. i walked with her to the engine and got the water; i purposely drew the pail full, which she promptly spilled, and i offered to carry it for her. "the crew watched us walk away and i heard some of them mention 'mash,' but i didn't care, i wanted a word with my girl. "when we were out of earshot, she asked without looking up: "'well, old coolness, are you all right?' "'you bet! darling.' "'papa has sold out his half and we are going away for good. i think if we get rid of the dust without trouble, we may go to england. just as soon as all is safe, you shall hear from me; can't you trust me, joe?' "'yes, rachel, darling; now and forever.' "'where's the gold?' "'within one hundred feet of you, in those willows; when it is dark, i will go and get it and put it on that stump by the big tree; go then and get it. but where will you put it?' "'i'm going to pack it in the bottom of a jar of butter.' "'good idea, little girl! i think you'd make a good thief yourself. how's my friend, sanson?' "'he's gone to mexico; says yet that papa robbed him, but he knows as well as you or i that all his bluster was because he only found _half_ that he expected; i pride myself on getting ahead of a wicked man once, thanks to our hero, by the name of hogg.' "it was getting dusk and we were out of sight, so i sat down the pail and asked: "'do i get a kiss, this evening?' "'if you want one.' "'there's only one thing i want worse.' "'what is that, joe?' "my arm was around her waist now, and the sunbonnet was shoved back from the face. i took a couple of cream-puffs where they were ripe, and answered: "'that message to come and have that talk about matrimony.' "here a man's voice was heard calling: 'rachel! rachel!' and throwing her arms around my neck, she gave me one more kiss, snatched up her pail and answered: "'yes; i'm coming.' "then to me, hurriedly: "'good-by, dear; wait patiently, you shall hear from me.' "i went back and put the dangerous dust on the stump and returned to the bunk-car. the next morning when i turned out, the outlines of the wagon were dimly discernible away on a hill in the road; it had been gone an hour. "i walked down past my stump--the gold was gone. "well, john, i settled down to work and to wait for that precious letter that would summon me to the side of rachel rokesby, wherever she was; but it never came. uncle sam never delivered a line to me from her from that day to this." joe kicked the burning sticks in our fire closer together, lit his pipe and then proceeded: "i was hopeful for a month or two; then got impatient, and finally got angry, but it ended in despair. a year passed away before i commenced to _hunt_, instead of waiting to be hunted; but after another year i gave it up, and came to the belief that rachel was dead or married to another. but the very minute that such a treasonable thought flashed through my mind, my heart held up the image of her pure face and rebuked me. "i was discharged finally, for forgetting orders--i was thinking of something else--then i commenced to pull myself together and determined to control myself. i held the job in arizona almost a year, but the mill company busted; then i drifted down on to the mexican national, when it was building, and got a job. a few months later, it came to my ears that one of our engineers, billy gardiner, was in one of their damnable prisons, for running over a greaser, and i organized a relief expedition. i called on gardiner, and talked over his trouble fully; he was in a loathsome dobie hole, full of vermin, and dark. as i sat talking to him, i noticed an old man, chained to the wall in a little entry on the other side of the room. his beard was grizzly white, long and tangled. he was hollow-cheeked and wild-eyed, and looked at me in a strange, fascinated way. "'what's he in for,' i whispered to gardiner. "'murdered his partner in a mining camp. got caught in the act. he don't know it yet, but he's condemned to be shot next friday--to-morrow. poor devil, he's half crazy, anyhow.' "as i got up to go, the old man made a sharp hiss, and as i turned to look at him, he beckoned with his finger. i took a step or two nearer, and he asked, in an audible whisper: "'mr. hogg, don't you know me?' "i looked at him long and critically, and then said: "'no; i never saw you before.' "'yes; that's so,' said he; 'but i have seen you, many times. you remember the black prince robbery?' "'yes, indeed; then you are sanson?' "'no; rokesby.' "'rokesby! my god, man, where's rachel?' "'i thought so,' he muttered. 'well, she's in england, but i'm here.' "'what part of england?' "'sit down on that box, mr. hogg, and i will tell you something.' "'is she married?' i asked eagerly. "'no, lad, she ain't, and what's more, she won't be till she marries you, so be easy there.' "just here a pompous mexican official strode in, stepped up in front of the old man and read something in spanish. "'what in hell did he say?' asked the prisoner of gardiner. "'something about sentence, pardner.' "'well, it's time they was doing something; did he say when it was?' "'to-morrow.' "'good enough; i'm dead sick o' this.' "'can't i do anything for you, mr. rokesby--for rachel's sake?' "'no--yes, you can, too, young man; you can grant me a pardon for a worse crime nor murder, if you will--for--for rachel's sake." "'it's granted then.' "'good! that gives me heart. now, mr. hogg, to business, it was me that robbed the black prince mine. i took every last cent there was, and i used you and rachel to do the work for me and take the blame if caught. sanson was honest enough, i fired the mill myself. "'it was me that sent rachel to you; i admired your face, as you rode by the claim every day on your engine. i knew you had nerve. if you and rachel hadn't fallen in love with one another, i'd 'a lost though; but i won. "'well, i took the money i got for the claim and sent rachel back to her mother's sister, in england. you may not know, but she is not my daughter; she thinks she is, though. her parents died when she was small, and i provided for her. i'm her half-uncle. i got avaricious in my old age, and went into a number of questionable schemes. "'after leaving new mexico, i worked the dust off, a little at a time, an' wasted the money--but never mind that. "'it was just before she got aboard the ship that rachel sent me a letter containing another to you, to be sent when all was right--i've carried it ever since--somehow or other i was afraid it would drop a clew to send it at first, and after it got a year old, i didn't think of it much.' "he fumbled around inside of his dirty flannel shirt for a minute, and soon fished up a letter almost as black as the shirt, and holding it up, said: "'that's it.' "'i had the envelope off in a second, and read: "'dear joseph: "'i am going to my aunt, mrs. julia bradshaw, harrow lane, leicester, england. if you do not change your mind, i will be happy to talk over our affairs whenever you are ready. i shall be waiting. "'rachel.' "i turned and bolted toward a door, when gardiner yelled: "'where are you going?' "'to england,' said i. "'this door, then, sir,' said a mexican. "i came back to the old man. "'rokesby,' said i, 'you have cut ten years off my life, but i forgive you; good-by.' "'one thing more, mr. hogg; don't tell 'em at home how i went--nothing about this last deal.' "'well, all right; but i'll tell rachel, if we marry and come to america.' "'i've got lots of honest relations, and my old mother still lives, in her eighties.' "'well, not till after she goes, unless to save rachel in some way.' "'good-by, mr. hogg, god bless you! and--and, little rachel.' "'good-by, mr. rokesby.' "the next day i left mexico for god's country, and inside of ten days was on a cunarder, eastward bound. i reached england in proper time; i found the proper pen in the proper train, and was deposited in the proper town, directed to the proper house, and street, and number, and had pulled out about four yards of wire attached to the proper bell. "a kindly-faced old lady looked at me over her spectacles, and i asked: "'does mrs. julia bradshaw live here?' "'yes, sir; that's me.' "'have you a young lady here named rachel r--' "the old lady didn't wait for me to finish the name, she just turned her head fifteen degrees, put her open hand up beside her mouth, and shouted upstairs: "'rachel! rachel! come down here, quick! here's your young man from america!'" a midsummer night's trip it is all of twenty years now since the little incident happened that i am going to tell you about. after the strike of ' , i went into exile in the wild and woolly west, mostly in "bleeding kansas," but often in colorado, new mexico, and arizona--the santa fé goes almost everywhere in the southwest. one night in august i was dropping an old baldwin consolidator down a long mexican grade, after having helped a stock train over the division by double-heading. it was close and hot on this sage-brush waste, something not unusual at night in high altitudes, and the heat and sheet lightning around the horizon warned me that there was to be one of those short, fierce storms that come but once or twice a year in these latitudes, and which are known as cloudbursts. the alkali plains, or deserts, as they are often erroneously called, are great stretches of adobe soil, known as "dobie" by the natives. this soil is a yellowish brown, or perhaps more of a gray color, and as fine as flour. water plays sad havoc with it, if the soil lies so as to oppose the flow, and it moves like dust before a slight stream. on the flat, hard-baked plains, the water makes no impression, but on a railroad grade, be it ever so slight, the tendency is to dig pitfalls. i have seen a little stream of water, just enough to fill the ditches on each side of the track, take out all the dirt, and keep the ties and track afloat until the water was gone, then drop them into a hole eight or ten feet deep, or if the wash-out was short, leave them suspended, looking safe and sound, to lure some poor engineer and his mate to death. another peculiarity of these storms is that they come quickly, rage furiously for a few minutes, and are gone, and their lines are sharply defined. it is not uncommon to find a lot of water, or a wash-out, within a mile of land so dry that it looks as if it had never seen a drop of water. all this land is fertile when it can be brought under irrigating ditches and watered, but here it lies out almost like a desert. it is sparsely inhabited along the little streams by a straggling off-shoot of the mexican race; yet once in a while a fine place is to be seen, like an oasis in the sahara, the home of some old spanish don, with thousands of cattle or sheep ranging on the plains, or perhaps the headquarters of some enterprising cattle company. but these places were few and far between at the time of which i write; the stations were mere passing places, long side-tracks, with perhaps a stock-yard and section house once in a while, but generally without buildings or even switch lights. noting the approach of the storm, i let the heavy engine drop the faster, hoping to reach a certain side-track, over twenty miles away, where there was a telegraph operator, and learn from him the condition of the road. but the storm was faster than any consolidator that baldwins ever built, and as the lightning suddenly ceased and the air became heavy, hot, and absolutely motionless, i realized that we would have the storm full upon us in a few moments. i had nothing to meet for more than thirty miles, and there was nothing behind me; so i stopped, turned the headlight up, and hung my white signal lamps down below the buffer-beams each side of the pilot--this to enable me to see the ends of the ties and the ditch. billy howell, my fireman, and a good one, hastily went over the boiler-jacket with signal oil, to prevent rust; we donned our gum coats; i dropped a little oil on the "mary ann's" gudgeon's, and we proceeded on our way without a word. on these big consolidators you cannot see well ahead, past the big boiler, from the cab, and i always ran with my head out of the side window. both of us took this position now, standing up ready for anything; but we bowled safely along for one mile--two miles, through the awful hush. then, as sudden as a flash of light, "boom!" went a peal of thunder as sharp and clear as a signal gun. there was a flash of light along the rails, the surface of the desert seemed to break out here and there with little fitful jets of greenish-blue flame, and from every side came the answering reports from the batteries of heaven, like sister gun-boats answering a salute. the rain fell in torrents, yes, in sheets. i have never, before or since, seen such a grand and fantastic display of fireworks, nor heard such rivalry of cannonade. i stopped my engine, and looked with awe and interest at this angry fit of nature, watched the balls of fire play along the ground, and realized for the first time what a sight was an electric storm. as the storm commenced at the signal of a mighty peal of thunder, so it ended as suddenly at the same signal; the rain changed in an instant from a torrent to a gentle shower, the lightning went out, the batteries ceased their firing, the breeze commenced to blow gently, the air was purified. again we heard the signal peal of thunder, but it seemed a great way off, as if the piece was hurrying away to a more urgent quarter. the gentle shower ceased, the black clouds were torn asunder overhead; invisible hands seemed to snatch a gray veil of fleecy clouds from the face of the harvest moon, and it shone out as clear and serene as before the storm. the ditches on each side of the track were half full of water, ties were floating along in them, but the track seemed safe and sound, and we proceeded cautiously on our way. within two miles the road turned to the west, and here we found the water in the ditches running through dry soil, carrying dead grass and twigs of sage upon its surface; we passed the head of the flood, tumbling along through the dry ditches as dirty as it well could be, and fast soaking into the soil; and then we passed beyond the line of the storm entirely. billy put up his seat and filled his pipe, and i sat down and absorbed a sandwich as i urged my engine ahead to make up for lost time; we took up our routine of work just where we had left it, and--life was the same old song. it was past midnight now, and as i never did a great deal of talking on an engine, i settled down to watching the rails ahead, and wondering if the knuckle-joints would pound the rods off the pins before we got to the end of the division. billy, with his eyes on the track ahead, was smoking his second pipe and humming a tune, and the "mary ann" was making about forty miles an hour, but doing more rolling and pitching and jumping up and down than an eight-wheeler would at sixty. all at once i discerned something away down the track where the rails seemed to meet. the moon had gone behind a cloud, and the headlight gave a better view and penetrated further. billy saw it, too, for he took his pipe out of his mouth, and with his eyes still upon it, said laconically, as was his wont: "cow." "yes," said i, closing the throttle and dropping the lever ahead. "man," said billy, as the shape seemed to assume a perpendicular position. "yes," said i, reaching for the three-way cock, and applying the tender brake, without thinking what i did. "woman," said billy, as the shape was seen to wear skirts, or at least drapery. "mexican," said i, as i noted the mantilla over the head. we were fast nearing the object. [illustration: "_'mexican,' said i._" (_page ._)] "no," said billy, "too well built." i don't know what he judged by; we could not see the face, for it was turned away from us; but the form was plainly that of a comely woman. she stood between the rails with her arms stretched out like a cross, her white gown fitting her figure closely. a black, shawl-like mantilla was over the head, partly concealing her face; her right foot was upon the left-hand rail. she stood perfectly still. we were within fifty feet of her, and our speed was reduced to half, when billy said sharply: "hold her, john--for god's sake!" but i had the "mary ann" in the back motion before the words left his mouth, and was choking her on sand. billy leaned upon the boiler-head and pulled the whistle-cord, but the white figure did not move. i shut my eyes as we passed the spot where she had stood. we got stopped a rod or two beyond. i took the white light in the tank and sprang to the ground. billy lit the torch, and followed me with haste. the form still stood upon the track just where we had first seen it; but it faced us and the arms were folded. i confess to hurrying slowly until billy caught up with the torch, which he held over his head. "good evening, señors," said the apparition, in very sweet english, just tinged with the castilian accent, but she spoke as if nearly exhausted. "good gracious," said i, "whatever brought you away out here, and hadn't you just as lief shoot a man as scare him to death?" she laughed very sweetly, and said: "the washout brought me just here, and i fancy it was lucky for you--both of you." "washout?" said i. "where?" "at the dry bridge beyond." well, to make a long story short, we took her on the engine--she was wet through--and went on to the dry bridge. this was a little wooden structure in a sag, about a mile away, and we found that the storm we had encountered farther back had done bad work at each end of the bridge. we did not cross that night, but after placing signals well behind us and ahead of the washout, we waited until morning, the three of us sitting in the cab of the "mary ann," chatting as if we were old acquaintances. this young girl, whose fortunes had been so strangely cast with ours, was the daughter of señor juan arboles, a rich old spanish don who owned a fine place and immense herds of sheep over on the rio pecos, some ten miles west of the road. she was being educated in some catholic school or convent at trinidad, and had the evening before alighted at the big corrals, a few miles below, where she was met by one of her father's mexican rancheros, who led her saddle broncho. they had started on their fifteen-mile ride in the cool of the evening, and following the road back for a few miles were just striking off toward the distant hedge of cotton woods that lined the little stream by her home when the storm came upon them. there was a lone pine tree hardly larger than a bush about a half-mile from the track, and riding to this, the girl, whose name was josephine, had dismounted to seek its scant protection, while the herder tried to hold the frightened horses. as peal on peal of thunder resounded and the electric lights of nature played tag over the plain, the horses became more and more unmanageable and at last stampeded, with old paz muttering mexican curses and chasing after them wildly. after the storm passed, josephine waited in vain for paz and the bronchos, and then debated whether she should walk toward her home or back to the corrals. in either direction the distance was long, and the adobe soil is very tenacious when wet, and the wayfarer needs great strength to carry the load it imposes on the feet. as she stood there, thinking what it was best to do, a sound came to her ears from the direction of the timber and home, which she recognized in an instant, and without waiting to debate further, she turned and ran with all her strength, not toward her home, but away from it. across the waste of stunted sage she sped, the cool breeze upon her face, every muscle strained to its utmost. nearer and nearer came the sound; the deep, regular bay of the timber wolf. these animals are large and fierce; they do not go in packs, like the smaller and more cowardly breeds of wolves, but in pairs, or, at most, six together. a pair of them will attack a man even when he is mounted, and lucky is he if he is well armed and cool enough to despatch one before it fastens its fangs in his horse's throat or his own thigh. as the brave girl ran, she cast about for some means of escape or place of refuge. she decided to run to the railroad track and climb a telegraph pole--a feat which, owing to her free life on the ranch, she was perfectly capable of. once up the pole, she could rest on the cross-tree, in perfect safety from the wolves, and she would be sure to be seen and rescued by the first train that came along after daybreak. she approached the track over perfectly dry ground. to reach the telegraph poles, she sprang nimbly into the ditch; and as she did so, she saw a stream of water coming rapidly toward her--it was the front of the flood. the ditch on the opposite side of the track, which she must also cross to reach the line of poles, she found already full-flooded. she decided to run up the track, between the walls of water. this would put a ten-foot stream between her and her pursuers, and change her course enough, she hoped, to throw them off the scent. in this design she was partly successful, for the bay of the wolves showed that they were going to the track as she had gone, instead of cutting straight across toward her. thus she gained considerable time. she reached the little arroyo spanned by the dry bridge; it was like a mill-pond, and the track was afloat. she ran across the bridge; she scarcely slackened speed, although the ties rocked and moved on the spike-heads holding them to the rails. she hoped for a moment that the wolves would not venture to follow her over such a way; but their hideous voices were still in her ear and came nearer and nearer. then there came to her, faintly, another, a strange, metallic sound. what was it? where was it? she ran on tiptoe a few paces in order to hear it better; it was in the rails--the vibration of a train in motion. then there came into view a light--a headlight; but it was so far away, so very far, and that awful baying so close! the "mary ann," however, was fleeter of foot than the wolves; the light grew big and bright and the sound of working machinery came to the girl on the breeze. would they stop for her? could she make them see her? then she thought of the bridge. it was death for them as well as for her--they _must_ see her. she resolved to stay on the track until they whistled her off; but now the light seemed to come so slow. a splash at her side caused her to turn her head, and there, a dozen feet away, were her pursuers, their tongues out, their eyes shining like balls of fire. they were just entering the water to come across to her. they fascinated her by their very fierceness. forgetting where she was for the instant, she stared dumbly at them until called to life and action by a scream from the locomotive's whistle. then she sprang from the track just in the nick of time. she actually laughed as she saw two grayish-white wolf-tails bob here and there among the sage brush, as the wolves took flight at sight of the engine. this was the story she told as she dried her garments before the furnace door, and i confess to holding this cool, self-reliant girl in high admiration. she never once thought of fainting; but along toward morning she did say that she was scared then at thinking of it. early in the morning a party of herders, with josephine's father ahead, rode into sight. they were hunting for her. josephine got up on the tender to attract their attention, and soon she was in her father's arms. her frightened pony had gone home as fast as his legs would carry him, and a relief party swam their horses at the ford and rode forward at once. the old don was profuse in his thanks, and would not leave us until billy and i had agreed to visit his ranch and enjoy a hunt with him, and actually set a date when we should meet him at the big corral. i wanted a rest anyway, and it was perfectly plain that billy was beyond his depth in love with the girl at first sight; so we were not hard to persuade when she added her voice to her father's. early in september billy and i dropped off no. with our guns and "plunder," as baggage is called there, and a couple of the old don's men met us with saddle and pack animals. i never spent a pleasanter two weeks in my life. the quiet, almost gloomy, old don and i became fast friends, and the hunting was good. the don was a spaniard, but josephine's mother had been a mexican woman, and one noted for her beauty. she had been dead some years at the time of our visit. billy devoted most of his time to the girl. they were a fine looking young couple, he being strong and broad-shouldered, with laughing blue eyes and light curly hair, she slender and perfect in outline, with a typical southern complexion, black eyes--and such eyes they were--and hair and eyebrows like the raven's wing. a few days before billy and i were booked to resume our duties on the deck of the "mary ann," miss josephine took my arm and walked me down the yard and pumped me quietly about "mr. howell," as she called billy. she went into details a little, and i answered all questions as best i could. all i said was in the young man's favor--it could not, in truth, be otherwise. josephine seemed satisfied and pleased. when we got back to headquarters, i was given the care of a cold-water hinkley, with a row of varnished cars behind her, and billy fell heir to the rudder of the "mary ann." we still roomed together. billy put in most of his lay-over time writing long letters to somebody, and every thursday, as regular as a clock, one came for him, with a censor's mark on it. often after reading the letter, billy would say: "that girl has more horse sense than the rest of the whole female race--she don't slop over worth a cent." he invariably spoke of her as "my mexican girl," and often asked my opinion about white men intermarrying with that mongrel race. sometimes he said that his mother would go crazy if he married a mexican, his father would disown him, and his brother henry--well, billy did not like to think just what revenge henry would take. billy's father was manager of an eastern road, and his brother was assistant to the first vice-president, and billy looked up to the latter as a great man and a sage. he himself was in the west for practical experience in the machinery department, and to get rid of a slight tendency to asthma. he could have gone east any time and "been somebody" on the road under his father. finally, billy missed a week in writing. at once there was a cog gone from the answering wheel to match. billy shortened his letters; the answers were shortened. then he quit writing, and his thursday letter ceased to come. he had thought the matter all over, and decided, no doubt, that he was doing what was best--both for himself and the girl; that his family's high ideas should not be outraged by a mexican marriage. he had put a piece of flesh-colored court-plaster over his wound, not healed it. early in the winter the old don wrote, urging us to come down and hunt antelope, but billy declined to go--said that the road needed him, and that josephine might come home from school and this would make them both uncomfortable. but henry, his older brother, was visiting him, and he suggested that i take henry; he would enjoy the hunt, and it would help him drown his sorrow over the loss of his aristocratic young wife, who had died a year or two before. so henry went with me, and we hunted antelope until we tired of the slaughter. then the old don planned a deer-hunting trip in the mountains, but i had to go back to work, and left henry and the old don to take the trip without me. while they were in the mountains, josephine came home, and henry howell's stay lengthened out to a month. but i did not know until long afterward that the two had met. billy was pretty quiet all winter, worked hard and went out but little--he was thinking about something. one day i came home and found him writing a letter. "what now, billy?" i asked. "writing to my mexican girl," said he. "i thought you had got over that a long time ago?" "so did i, but i hadn't. i've been trying to please somebody else besides myself in this matter, and i'm done. i'm going to work for bill now." "take an old man's advice, billy, and don't write that girl a line--go and see her." "oh, i can fix it all right by letter, and then run down there and see her." "don't do it." "i'll risk it." a week later billy and i sat on the veranda of the company's hash-foundry, figuring up our time and smoking our cob meerschaums, when one of the boys who had been to the office, placed two letters in billy's hands. one of them was directed in the handwriting that used to be on the old thursday letters. billy tore it open eagerly--and his own letter to josephine dropped into his hand. billy looked at the ground steadily for five minutes, and i pretended not to have seen. finally he said, half to himself: "you were right, i ought to have gone myself--but i'll go now, go to-morrow." then he opened the other letter. he read its single page with manifest interest, and when his eyes reached the last line they went straight on, and looked at the ground, and continued to do so for fully five minutes. without looking up, he said: "john, i want you to do me two favors." "all right," said i. still keeping his eyes on the ground, he said, slowly, as if measuring everything well: "i'm going up and draw my time, and will leave for old mexico on no. to-night. i want you to write to both these parties and tell them that i have gone there and that you have forwarded both these letters. don't tell 'em that i went after reading 'em." "and the other favor, billy?" "read this letter, and see me off to-night." the letter read: "philadelphia, may , . "dear brother will: i want you and mr. a. to go down to don juan arboles's by the first of june. i will be there then. you must be my best man, as i stand up to marry the sweetest, dearest wild-flower of a woman that ever bloomed in a land of beauty. don't fail me. josephine will like you for my sake, and you will love her for your brother. henry." most engineers' lives are busy ones and full of accident and incident, and having my full share of both, i had almost forgotten all these points about billy howell and his mexican girl, when they were all recalled by a letter from billy himself. with his letter was a photograph of a family group--a bewhiskered man of thirty-five, a good-looking woman of twenty, but undoubtedly a mexican, and a curly-headed baby, perhaps a year old. the letter ran: "city of mexico, july , . "dear old john: i had lost you, and thought that perhaps you had gone over to the majority, until i saw your name and recognized your quill in a story. write to me; am doing well. i send you a photograph of all there are of the howell outfit. _no half-breeds for your uncle this time._ "wm. howell." the polar zone very few of my friends know me for a seafaring man, but i sailed the salt seas, man and boy, for nine months and eighteen days, and i know just as much about sailing the hereinbefore mentioned salt seas as i ever want to. ever so long ago, when i was young and tender, i used to have fits of wanting to go into business for myself. along about the front edge of the seventies, pay for "toting" people and truck over the eastern railroads of new england was not of sufficient plenitude to worry a man as to how he would invest his pay check--it was usually invested before he got it. one of my periodical fits of wanting to go into business for myself came on suddenly one day, when i got home and found another baby in the house. i was right in the very worst spasms of it when my brother enoch, whom i hadn't seen for seventeen years, walked in on me. enoch was fool enough to run away to sea when he was twelve years old--i suppose he was afraid he would get the chance to do something besides whaling. we were born down new bedford way, where another boy and myself were the only two fellows in the district, for over forty years, who didn't go hunting whales, icebergs, foul smells, and scurvy, up in king frost's bailiwick, just south of the pole. enoch had been captain and part owner of a pacific whaler; she had recently burned at honolulu, and he was back home now to buy a new ship. he had heard that i, his little brother john, was the best locomotive engineer in the whole world, and had come to see me--partly on account of relationship, but more to get my advice about buying a steam whaling-ship. enoch knew more about whales and ships and such things than you could put down in a book, but he had no more idea _how_ steam propelled a ship than i had what a "skivvie tricer" was. well, before the week was out, enoch showed me that he was pretty well fixed in a financial way, and as he had no kin but me that he cared about, he offered me an interest in his new steam whaler, if i would go as chief engineer with her to the north pacific. the terms were liberal and the chance a good one, so it seemed, and after a good many consultations, my wife agreed to let me go for _one_ cruise. she asked about the stops to be made in going around the horn, and figured mentally a little after each place was named--i believe now, she half expected that i would desert the ship and walk home from one of these spots, and was figuring on the time it would take me. when the robins were building their nests, the new steam whaler, "champion," left new bedford for parts unknown (_via_ the horn), with the sea-sickest chief engineer that ever smelt fish oil. the steam plant wasn't very much--two boilers and a plain twenty-eight by thirty-six double engine, and any amount of hoisting rigs, blubber boilers, and other paraphernalia. we refitted in san francisco, and on a clear summer morning turned the white-painted figurehead of the "champion" toward the north and stood out for behring sea. but, while we lay at the mouth of the yukon river, up in alaska, getting ready for a sally into the realm of water above the straits, a whaler, bound for san francisco and home, dropped anchor near us, the homesickness struck in on me, and--never mind the details now--your uncle john came home without any whales, and was mighty glad to get on the extra list of the old road. the story i want to tell, however, is another man's story, and it was while lying in the yukon that i heard it. i was deeply impressed with it at the time, and meant to give it to the world as soon as i got home, for i set it all down plain then, but i lost my diary, and half forgot the story--who wouldn't forget a story when he had to make two hundred and ten miles a day on a locomotive and had five children at home? but now, after twenty years, my wife turns up that old diary in the garret this spring while house-cleaning. fred had it and an old fourth-of-july cannon put away in an ancient valise, as a boy will treasure up useless things. under the head of october th, i find this entry: "at anchor in yukon river, weather fair, recent heavy rains; set out packing and filed main-rod brasses of both engines. settled with enoch to go home on first ship bound south. demented white man brought on board by indians, put in my cabin." in the next day's record there appears the following: "watched beside sick man all night; in intervals of sanity he tells a strange story, which i will write down to-day." the th has the following: "wrote out story of stranger. see the back of this book." and at the back of the book, written on paper cut from an old log of the "champion," is the story that now, more than twenty-five years later, i tell you here: on the evening of the th, i went on deck to smoke and think of home, after a hard day's work getting the engines in shape for a siege. the ship was very quiet, half the crew being ashore, and some of the rest having gone in the boat with captain enoch to the "enchantress," homeward bound and lying about half a mile below us. i am glad to say that enoch's principal business aboard the "enchantress" is to get me passage to san francisco. i despise this kind of dreariness--rather be in state prison near the folks. i sat on the rail, just abaft the stack, watching some natives handle their big canoes, when a smaller one came alongside. i noticed that one of the occupants lay at full length in the frail craft, but paid little attention until the canoe touched our side. then the bundle of skins and indian clothes bounded up, almost screamed, "at last!" made a spring at the stays, missed them, and fell with a loud splash into the water. the indians rescued him at once, and in a few seconds he lay like one dead on the deck. i saw at a glance that the stranger in indian clothes was a white man and an american. a pretty stiff dram of liquor brought him to slightly. he opened his eyes, looked up at the rigging, and closing his eyes, he murmured: "thank god!--'frisco--polaria!" i had him undressed and put into my berth. he was shaking as with an ague, and when his clothes were off we plainly saw the reason--he was a skeleton, starving. i went on deck at once to make some inquiry of the indians about our strange visitor, but their boat was just disappearing in the twilight. the man gained strength, as we gave him nourishment in small, frequent doses, and talked in a disjointed way of everything under the sun. i sat with him all night. toward morning he seemed to sleep longer at a time, and in the afternoon of yesterday fell into a deep slumber, from which he did not waken for nearly twenty hours. when he did waken, he took nourishment in larger quantities, and then went off into another long sleep. the look of pain on his face lessened, a healthy glow appeared on his cheek, and he slept so soundly that i turned in--on the floor. i was awake along in the small hours of the morning, and heard my patient stirring, so i got up and drew the little curtain over the bulls-eye port--it was already daylight. i gave him a drink and a biscuit, and told him i would go to the cook's galley and get him some broth, but he begged to wait until breakfast time--said he felt refreshed, and would just nibble a sea biscuit. then he ate a dozen in as many minutes. "did you take care of my pack?" he said eagerly, throwing his legs out of the berth, and looking wildly at me. "yes, it's all right; lie down and rest," said i; for i thought that to cross him would set him off his head again. "do you know that dirty old pack contains more treasures than the mines of africa?" "it don't look it," i answered, and laughed to get him in a pleasant frame of mind--for i hadn't seen nor heard of his pack. "not for the little gold and other valuable things, but the proofs of a discovery as great as columbus made, the discovery of a new continent, a new people, a new language, a new civilization, and riches beyond the dreams of a solomon----" he shut his eyes for a minute, and then continued: "but beyond purgatory, through death, and the other side of hell----" just here enoch came in to inquire after his health, and sat down for a minute's chat. enoch is first, last, and all the time captain of a whaler; he knows about whales and whale-hunters just as an engineer on the road knows every speck of scenery along the line, every man, and every engine. enoch couldn't talk ten minutes without being "reminded" of an incident in his whaling life; couldn't meet a whaleman without "yarning" about the whale business. he lit his pipe and asked: "been whaling, or hunting the north pole?" "well, both." "what ship?" "the 'duncan mcdonald.'" "the--the 'mcdonald!'--why, man, we counted her lost these five years; tell me about her, quick. old chuck burrows was a particular friend of mine--where is he?" "captain, father burrows and the 'duncan mcdonald' have both gone over the unknown ocean to the port of missing ships." "sunk?" "aye, and crushed to atoms in a frozen hell." enoch looked out of the little window for a long time, forgot his pipe, and at last wiped a tear out of his eye, saying, as much to himself as to us: "george burrows made me first mate of the first ship he ever sailed. she was named for his mother, and we left her in the ice away up about the seventy-third parallel. he was made of the salt of the earth--a sailor and a nobleman. but he was a dare-devil--didn't know fear--and was always venturing where none of the rest of us would dare go. he bought the 'mcdonald,' remodeled and refitted her after he got back from the war--she was more than a whaler, and i had a feeling that she would carry burrows and his crew away forever----" eight bells rung just here, and enoch left us, first ordering breakfast for the stranger, and saying he would come back to hear the rest after breakfast. as i was going out, a sailor came to the door with a flat package, perhaps six inches thick and twelve or fourteen square, covered with a dirty piece of skin made from the intestines of a whale, which is used by the natives of this clime because it is light and water-proof. "we found this in a coil of rope, sir; it must belong to him. it must be mostly lead." it was heavy, and i set it inside the door, remarking that here was his precious pack. "precious! aye, aye, sir; precious don't describe it. sacred, that's the word. that package will cause more excitement in the world than the discovery of gold in california. this is the first time it's been out of my sight or feeling for months and months; put it in the bunk here, please." i went away, leaving him with his arms around his "sacred" package. after breakfast, enoch and i went to the little cabin to hear the stranger's story, and i, for one, confess to a great deal of curiosity. our visitor was swallowing his last bowl of coffee as we went in. "so you knew captain burrows and the 'duncan mcdonald,'" said he. "let me see, what is your name?" "alexander, captain of the 'champion,' at your service, sir." "alexander; you're not the first mate, enoch alexander, who sat on a dead whale all night, holding on to a lance staff, after losing your boat and crew?" "the same." "why, i've heard captain burrows speak of you a thousand times." "but you were going to tell us about the 'duncan mcdonald.' tell us the whole cruise from stem to stern." "let's see, where shall i begin?" "at the very beginning," i put in. "well, perhaps you've noticed, and perhaps you have not, but i'm not a sailor by inclination or experience. i accidentally went out on the 'duncan mcdonald.' how old would you take me to be?" "fifty or fifty-five," said enoch. "thanks, captain, i know i must look all of that; but, let me see, forty-five, fifty-five, sixty-five, seventy--seventy--what year is this?" "seventy-three." "seventy-three. well, i'm only twenty-eight now." "impossible! why, man, you're as gray as i am, and i'm twice that." "i was born in forty-five, just the same. my father was a sea captain in the old clipper days, and a long time after. he was in the west india trade when the war broke out, and as he had been educated in the navy, enlisted at once. it was on one of the gun-boats before vicksburg that he was killed. my mother came of a well-to-do family of merchants, the clarks of boston, and--to make a long story short--died in sixty-six, leaving me considerable money. "an itching to travel, plenty of money, my majority, and no ties at home, sent me away from college to roam, and so one spring morning in sixty-seven found me sitting lazily in the stern of a little pleasure boat off fort point in the golden gate, listlessly watching a steam whaler come in from the pacific. my boatman called my attention to her, remarking that she was spick-and-span new, and the biggest one he ever saw, but i took very little notice of the ship until in tacking across her wake, i noticed her name in gold letters across the stern--'duncan mcdonald.' now that is my own name, and was my father's; and try as i would, i could not account for this name as a coincidence, common as the name might be in the highlands of the home of my ancestors; and before the staunch little steamer had gotten a mile away, i ordered the boat to follow her. i intended to go aboard and learn, if possible, something of how her name originated. "as she swung at anchor, off goat island, i ran my little boat alongside of her and asked for a rope. 'rope?' inquired a yankee sailor, sticking his nose and a clay pipe overboard; 'might you be wantin' to come aboard?' "'yes, i want to see the captain.' "'well, the cap'en's jest gone ashore; his dingy is yonder now, enemost to the landin'. you come out this evenin'. the cap'en's particular about strangers, but he's always to home of an evenin'.' "'who's this boat named after?' "'the lord knows, stranger; i don't. but i reckon the cap'en ken tell; he built her.' "i left word that i would call in the evening, and at eight o'clock was alongside again. this time i was assisted on board and shown to the door of the captain's cabin; the sailor knocked and went away. it was a full minute, i stood there before the knock was answered, and then from the inside, in a voice like the roar of a bull, came the call: 'well, come in!' "i opened the door on a scene i shall never forget. a bright light swung from the beams above, and under it sat a giant of the sea--captain burrows. he had the index finger of his right hand resting near the north pole of an immense globe; there were many books about, rolls of charts, firearms, instruments, clothing, and apparent disorder everywhere. the cabin was large, well-furnished, and had something striking about it. i looked around in wonder, without saying a word. captain burrows was the finest-looking man i ever saw--six feet three, straight, muscular, with a pleasant face; but the keenest, steadiest blue eye you ever saw. his hair was white, but his long flowing beard had much of the original yellow. he must have been sixty. but for all the pleasant face and kindly eye, you would notice through his beard the broad, square chin that proclaimed the decision and staying qualities of the man." "that's george burrows, stranger, to the queen's taste--just as good as a degerrytype," broke in enoch. "well," continued the stranger, "he let me look for a minute or two, and then said: 'was it anything particular?' "i found my tongue then, and answered: 'i hope you'll excuse me, sir; but i must confess it is curiosity. i came on board out of curiosity to----' "'reporter, hey?' asked the captain. "'no, sir; the fact is that your ship has an unusual name, one that interests me, and i wish to make so bold as to ask how she came to have it.' "'any patent on the name?' "'oh, no, but i----' "'well, young man, this ship--by the way, the finest whaler that was ever stuck together--is named for a friend of mine; just such a man as she is a ship--the best of them all.' "'was he a sailor?' "'aye, aye, sir, and such a sailor. fight! why, man, fighting was meat and drink to him----' "'was he a whaler?' "'no, he wa'n't; but he was the best man i ever knew who wa'n't a whaler. he was a navy sailor, he was, and a whole ten-pound battery by hisself. why, you jest ort to see him waltz his old tin-clad gun-boat up agin one of them reb forts--jest naturally skeered 'em half to death before he commenced shooting at all.' "'wasn't he killed at the attack on vicksburg?' "'yes, yes; you knowed him didn't you? he was a----' "'he was my father.' "'what? your father?' yelled captain burrows, jumping up and grasping both my hands. 'of course he was; darn my lubberly wit that i couldn't see that before!' then he hugged me as if i was a ten-year-old girl, and danced around me like a maniac. "'by all the gods at once, if this don't seem like providence--yes, sir, old man providence himself! what are you a-doin'? when did you come out here? where be you goin', anyway?' "i found my breath, and told him briefly how i was situated. 'old man providence has got his hand on the tiller of this craft or i'm a grampus! say! do you know i was wishin' and waitin' for you? yes, sir; no more than yesterday, says i to myself, chuck burrows, says i, you are gettin' long too fur to the wind'ard o' sixty fur this here trip all to yourself. you ort to have young blood in this here enterprise; and then i just clubbed myself for being a lubber and not getting married young and havin' raised a son that i could trust. yes, sir, jest nat'rally cussed myself from stem to stern, and never onct thought as mebbe my old messmate, duncan mcdonald, might 'a'done suthin' for his country afore that day at vicks--say! i want to give you half this ship. mabee i'll do the square thing and give you the whole of the tub yet. all i want is for you to go along with me on a voyage of discovery--be my helper, secretary, partner, friend--anything. what de ye say? say!' he yelled again, before i could answer, 'tell ye what i'll do! bless me if--if i don't adopt ye; that's what i'll do. call me pop from this out, and i'll call you son. _son!_' he shouted, bringing his fist down with a bang on the table. '_son!_ that's the stuff! by the bald-headed abraham, who says chuck burrows ain't got no kin? the "duncan mcdonald," burrows & son, owners, captain, chief cook, and blubber cooker. and who the hell says they ain't?' "and the old captain glared around as if he defied anybody and everybody to question the validity of the claims so excitedly made. "well, gentlemen, of course there was much else said and done, but that announcement stood; and to the day of his death i always called the captain father burrows, and he called me 'son,' always addressing me so when alone, as well as when in the company of others. i went every day to the ship, or accompanied father burrows on some errand into the city, while the boat was being refitted and prepared for a three-years' cruise. "every day the captain let me more and more into his plans, told me interesting things of the north, and explained his theory of the way to reach the pole, and what could be found there; which fascinated me. captain burrows had spent years in the north, had noted that particularly open seasons occurred in what appeared cycles of a given number of years, and proposed to go above the eightieth parallel and wait for an open season. that, according to his figuring, would occur the following year. "i was young, vigorous, and of a venturesome spirit, and entered into every detail with a zest that captured the heart of the old sailor. my education helped him greatly, and new books and instruments were added to our store for use on the trip. the crew knew only that we were going on a three-years' cruise. they had no share in the profits, but were paid extra big wages in gold, and were expected to go to out-of-the-way places and further north than usual. captain burrows and myself only knew that there was a brand-new twenty-foot silk flag rolled up in oil-skin in the cabin, and that father burrows had declared: 'by the hoary-headed nebblekenizer, i'll put them stars and stripes on new land, and mighty near to the pole, or start a butt a-trying.' "in due course of time we were all ready, and the 'duncan mcdonald' passed out of the golden gate into the broad pacific, drew her fires, and stopped her engines, reserving this force for a more urgent time. she spread her ample canvas, and stood away toward alaska and the unknown and undiscovered beyond. "the days were not long for me, for they were full of study and anticipation. long chats with the eccentric but masterful man whose friendship and love for my father had brought us together were the entertainment and stimulus of my existence--a man who knew nothing of science, except that he was master of it in his own way; who knew all about navigation, and to whom the northern seas were as familiar as the contour of boston common was to me; who had more stories of whaling than you could find in print, and better ones than can ever be printed. "i learned first to respect, then to admire, and finally to love this old salt. how many times he told me of my father's death, and how and when he had risked his life to save the life of father burrows or some of the rest of his men. as the days grew into weeks, and the weeks into months, captain burrows and myself became as one man. "i shall never forget the first sunday at sea. early in the morning i heard the captain order the boatswain to pipe all hands to prayers. i had noticed nothing of a religious nature in the man, and, full of curiosity, went on deck with the rest. captain burrows took off his hat at the foot of the mainmast, and said: "'my men, this is the first sunday we have all met together; and as some of you are not familiar with the religious services on board the 'duncan mcdonald,' i will state that, as you may have noticed, i asked no man about his belief when i employed him--i hired you to simply work this ship, not to worship god--but on sundays it is our custom to meet here in friendship, man to man, protestant and catholic, mohammedan, buddhist, fire-worshiper, and pagan, and look into our own hearts, worshiping god as we know him, each in his own way. if any man has committed any offense against his god, let him make such reparation as he thinks will appease that god; but if any man has committed an offense against his fellow-man, let him settle with that man now and here, and not worry god with the details. religion is goodness and justice and honesty; no man needs a sky-pilot to lay a course for him, for he alone knows where the channel, and the rocks, and the bar of his own heart are--look into your hearts.' "captain burrows stood with his hat in his hand, and bowed as if in prayer, and all the old tars bowed as reverently as if the most eloquent divine was exhorting an unseen power in their behalf. the new men followed the example of the old. it was just three minutes by the wheel-house clock before the captain straightened up and said 'amen,' and the men turned away about their tasks. "'beats mumblin' your words out of a book, like a britisher,' said the captain to me; 'can't offend no man's religion, and helps every one on 'em.' "long months after, i attended a burial service conducted in the same way--in silence. "in due course of time we anchored in norton sound, and spent the rest of the winter there; and in the spring of sixty-eight, we worked our way north through the ice. we passed the seventy-fifth parallel of latitude on july th. during the summer we took a number of whales, storing away as much oil as the captain thought necessary, as he only wanted it for fuel and our needs, intending to take none home to sell unless we were unsuccessful in the line of discovery--in that event he intended to stay until he had a full cargo." here our entertainer gave out, and had to rest; and while resting he went to sleep, so that he did not take up his story until the next day. in the morning our guest expressed a desire to be taken on deck; and, dressed in warm sailor clothes, he rested his hand on my shoulder, and slowly crawled on deck and to a sheltered corner beside the captain's cabin. here he was bundled up; and again enoch and i sat down to listen to the strange story of the wanderer. "i hope it won't annoy you, gentlemen," said he, "but i can't settle down without my pack; i find myself thinking of its safety. would you mind sending down for it?" it was brought up, and set down beside him; he looked at it lovingly, slipped the rude strap-loop over his arm, and seemed ready to take up his story where he left off. he began: "i don't remember whether i told you or not, but one of the objects of captain burrows's trip was to settle something definite about the location of the magnetic pole, and other magnetic problems, and determine the cause of some of the well-known distortions of the magnetic needle. he had some odd, perhaps crude, instruments, of his own design, which he had caused to be constructed for this purpose, and we found them very efficient devices in the end. late in july, we found much open water, and steamed steadily in a northwesterly course. we would find a great field of icebergs, then miles of floe, and then again open water. the aurora was seen every evening, but it seemed pale and white. "captain burrows brought the 'duncan mcdonald's' head around to the west in open water, one fine day in early august, and cruised slowly; taking a great many observations, and hunting, as he told me, for floating ice--he was hunting for a current. for several days we kept in the open water, but close to the ice, until one morning the captain ordered the ship to stand due north across the open sea. "he called me into his cabin, and with a large map of the polar regions on his table, to which he often referred, he said: 'son, i've been hunting for a current; there's plenty of 'em in the arctic ocean, but the one i want ain't loafing around here. you see, son, it's currents that carries these icebergs and floes south; i didn't tell you, but some days when we were in those floes, we lost as much as we gained. we worked our way north through the floe, but not on the surface of the globe; the floe was taking us south with it. maybe you won't believe it, but there are currents going north in this sea; once or twice in a lifetime, a whaler or passage hunter returns with a story of being drifted _north_--now that's what i want, i am hunting for a northern current. we will go to the northern shore of this open water, be it one mile or one thousand, and there--well, hunt again.' "well, it was in september when we at last got to what seemed the northern shore of this open sea. we had to proceed very slowly, as there were almost daily fogs and occasional snow-storms; but one morning the ship rounded to, almost under the shadow of what seemed to be a giant iceberg. captain burrows came on deck, rubbing his hands in glee. [illustration: "_what seemed to be a giant iceberg...._" (_page ._)] "'son,' said he, 'that is no iceberg; that's ancient ice, perpetual ice, the great ice-ring--palæcrystic ice, you scientific fellows call it. i saw it once before, in thirty-seven, when a boy; that's it, and, son, beyond that there is something. take notice that that is ice; clear, glary ice. you know a so-called iceberg is really a snowberg; it's three-fourths under water. now, it may be possible that, that being ice which will float more than half out of water, the northern currents may go under it--but i don't believe it. under or over, i am going to find one of 'em, if it takes till doomsday.' "we sailed west, around close to this great wall of ice, for two weeks, without seeing any evidence of a current of any kind, until there came on a storm from the northwest that drove a great deal of ice around the great ring; but it seemed to keep rather clear of the great wall of ice and to go off in a tangent toward the south. the lead showed no bottom at one hundred fathoms, even within a quarter of a mile of the ice. "it was getting late in the season, the mercury often going down to fifteen below zero, and every night the aurora became brighter. we sailed slowly around the open water, and finally found a place where the sheer precipice of ice disappeared and the shore sloped down to something like a beach. putting out a sea-anchor, the 'duncan mcdonald' kept within a half-a-mile of this icy shore. the captain had determined to land and survey the place, which far away back seemed to terminate in mountain peaks of ice. "that night the captain and i sat on the rail of our ship, talking over the plans for to-morrow's expedition, when the ship slowly but steadily swung around her stern to the mountain of ice--the engines had been moving slowly to keep her head to the wind. captain burrows jumped to his feet in joy. 'a current!' he shouted; 'a current, and toward the north, too--old man providence again, son; he allus takes care of his own!' "some staves were thrown overboard, and, sure enough, they floated toward the ice; but there was no evidence of an opening in the mighty ring, and i remarked to captain burrows that the current evidently went under the ice. "'it looks like it did, son; it looks like it did; but if it goes under, we will go over.' "after we had taken a few hours of sleep, the long-boat landed our little party of five men and seven dogs. we had food and drink for a two weeks' trip, were well armed, and carried some of our instruments. it appeared to be five or six miles to the top of the mountain, but it proved more than thirty. we were five days in getting there, and did so only after a dozen adventures that i will tell you at another time. "we soon began to find stones and dirt in the ice, and before we had gone ten miles, found the frozen carcass of an immense mastodon--its great tusks only showing above the level; but its huge, woolly body quite plainly visible in the ice. the ice was melting, and there were many streams running towards the open water. it was warmer as we proceeded. dirt and rocks became the rule, instead of the exception, and we were often obliged to go around a great boulder of granite. while we were resting, on the third day, for a bite to eat, one of the men took a dish, scooped up some sand from the bottom of the icy stream, and 'panned' it out. there was gold in it: gold enough to pay to work the ground. about noon of the fifth day, we reached the summit of the mountain, and from there looked down the other side--upon a sight the like of which no white men had ever seen before. "from the very summits of this icy-ring mountain the northern side was a sheer precipice of more than three thousand feet, and was composed of rocks, and rocks only, the foot of the mighty crags being washed by an open ocean; and this was lighted up by a peculiar crimson glow. great white whales sported in the waters; huge sea-birds hung in circles high in the air; yet below us, and with our glasses, we could see, on the rocks at the foot of the crags, seals and some other animals that were strange to us. but follow the line of beetling crags and mountain peaks where you would, the northern side presented a solid blank wall of awful rocks, in many places the summit overhanging and the shore well under in the mighty shadow. nothing that any of us had ever seen in nature before was so impressive, so awful. we started on our return, after a couple of hours of the awe-inspiring sight beyond the great ring, and for full two hours not a man spoke. "'father burrows,' said i, 'what do you think that is back there?' "'no man knows, my son, and it will devolve on you and me to name it; but we won't unless we get to it and can take back proofs.' "'do you think we could get down the other side?' "'no, i don't think so, and we seem to have struck it in the lowest spot in sight. i'd give ten years of my life if the 'duncan mcdonald' was over there in that duck pond.' "'captain,' said eli jeffries, the second mate, 'do you know what i've been thinkin'? i believe that 'ere water we seen is an open passage from the behring side of the frozen ocean over agin' some of them 'ere roosian straits. if we could get round to the end of it, we'd sail right through the great northwest passage.' "'you don't think there is land over there somewhere?' "'nope.' "'didn't take notice that the face of your "passage" was granite or quartz rocks, hey? didn't notice all them animals and birds, hey?----' "'look out!' yelled the man ahead with the dog-sledge. "a strange, whirring noise was heard in the foggy light, that sounded over our heads. we all dropped to the ground, and the noise increased, until a big flock of huge birds passed over us in rapid flight north. there must have been thousands of them. captain burrows brought his shot-gun to his shoulder and fired. there were some wild screams in the air, and a bird came down to the ice with a loud thud. it looked very large a hundred feet away, but sight is very deceiving in this white country in the semi-darkness. we found it a species of duck, rather large and with gorgeous plumage. "'goin' north, to eli's "passage" to lay her eggs on the ice,' said the captain, half sarcastically. "we reached the ship in safety, and the captain and i spent long hours in trying to form some plan for getting beyond the great ice-ring. "'if it's warm up there, and everything that we've seen says it is, all this cold water that's going north gets warm and goes out some place; and rest you, son, wherever it goes out, there's a hole in the ice.' "here we were interrupted by the mate, who said that there were queer things going on overhead, and some of the sailors were ready to mutiny unless the return trip was commenced. captain burrows went on deck at once, and you may be sure i followed at his heels. "'what's wrong here?' demanded the captain, in his roaring tone, stepping into the midst of the crew. "'a judgment against this pryin' into god's secrets, sir,' said an english sailor, in an awe-struck voice. 'look at the signs, sir,' pointing overhead. "captain burrows and i both looked over our heads, and there saw an impressive sight, indeed. a vast colored map of an unknown world hung in the clouds over us--a mirage from the aurora. it looked very near, and was so distinct that we could distinguish polar bears on the ice-crags. one man insisted that the mainmast almost touched one snowy peak, and most of them actually believed that it was an inverted part of some world, slowly coming down to crush us. captain burrows looked for several minutes before he spoke. then he said: 'my men, this is the grandest proof of all that providence is helping us. this thing that you see is only a picture; it's a mirage, the reflection of a portion of the earth on the sky. just look, and you will see that it's in the shape of a crescent, and we are almost in the center of it; and, i tell you, it's a picture of the country just in front of us. see this peak? see that low place where we went up? there is the great wall we saw, the open sea beyond it, and, bless me, if it don't look like something green over in the middle of that ocean! see, here is the "duncan mcdonald," as plain as a, b, c, right overhead. now, there's nothing to be afraid of in that; if it's a warning, it's a good one--and if any one wants to go home to his mother's, and is old enough, _he can walk_!' "the captain looked around, but the sailors were as cool as he was--they were reassured by his honest explanation. then he took me by the arm, and, pointing to the painting in the sky, said: 'old man providence again, son, sure as you are born; do you see that lane through the great ring? there's an open, fairly straight passage to the inner ocean, except that it's closed by about three miles of ice on our side; see it there, on the port side?' "yes, i could see it, but i asked captain burrows how he could account for the open passages beyond and the wall of ice in front; it was cold water going in. "'it's strange,' he answered, shading his eye with his hand, and looking long at the picture of the clear passage, like a great canal between the beetling cliffs. all at once, he grasped my arm and said in excitement, pointing towards the outer end of the passage: 'look!' "as i looked at the mirage again, the great mass of ice in front commenced to slowly turn over, outwardly. "'it's an iceberg, sir, only an iceberg!' said the captain, excitedly, 'and she is just holding that passage because the current keeps her up against the hole; now, she will wear out some day, and then--in goes the "duncan mcdonald"!' "'but there are others to take its place,' and i pointed to three other bergs, apparently some twenty miles away, plainly shown in the sky; 'they are the reinforcements to hold the passage.' "'looks that way, son, but by the great american buzzard, we'll get in there somehow, if we have to blow that berg up.' [illustration: "_a white city ... was visible for an instant._" (_page ._)] "as we looked, the picture commenced to disappear, not fade, but to go off to one side, just as a picture leaves the screen of a magic lantern. over the inner ocean there appeared dark clouds; but this part was visible last, and the clouds seemed to break at the last moment, and a white city, set in green fields and forests, was visible for an instant, a great golden dome in the center remaining in view after the rest of the city was invisible. "'a rainbow of promise, son,' said the captain. "i looked around. the others had grown tired of looking, and were gone. captain burrows and myself were the only ones that saw the city. "we got under way for an hour, and then stood by near the berg until eight bells the next morning; but you must remember it was half dark all the time up there then. while captain burrows and myself were at breakfast, he cudgeled his brains over ways and means for moving that ice, or preventing other bergs from taking its place. when we went on deck, our berg was some distance from the mouth of the passage, and steadily floating away. captain burrows steamed the ship cautiously up toward the passage; there was a steady current coming out. "'i reckon,' said eli jeffries, 'they must have a six-months' ebb and flow up in that ocean.' "'if that's the case, said captain burrows, 'the sooner we get in, the better;' and he ordered the 'duncan mcdonald' into the breach in the world of ice. "gentlemen, suffice it to say that we found that passage perfectly clear, and wider as we proceeded. this we did slowly, keeping the lead going constantly. the first mate reported the needle of the compass working curiously, dipping down hard, and sparking--something he had never seen. captain burrows only said: 'let her spark!' "as we approached the inner ocean, as we called it, the passage was narrow; it became very dark and the waters roared ahead. i feared a fall or rapid, but the 'duncan mcdonald' could not turn back. the noise was only the surf on the great crags within. as the ship passed out into the open sea beyond, the needle of the compass turned clear around and pointed back. 'do you know, son,' said captain burrows, 'that i believe the so-called magnetic pole is a great ring around the true pole, and that we just passed it there? the whole inside of this mountain looks to me like rusted iron instead of stone, anyhow.'" here our story-teller rested and dozed for a few minutes; then rousing up, he said: "i'll tell you the rest to-morrow; yes, to-morrow; i'm tired now. to-morrow i'll tell you about a wonderful country; wonderful cities; wonderful people! i'll show you solar pictures such as you never saw, of scenes, places, and people you never dreamed of. i will show you implements that will prove that there's a country where gold is as common as tin at home--where they make knives and forks and stew-pans of it! i'll show you writing more ancient and more interesting than the most treasured relics in our sanscrit libraries. i'll tell you of the two years i spent in another world. i'll tell you of the precious cargo that went to the bottom of the frozen ocean with the staunch little ship, 'duncan mcdonald;' of the bravest, noblest commander, and the sweetest angel of a woman that ever breathed and lived and loved. i'll tell you of my escape and the hell i've been through. to-morrow----" he dozed off for a few moments again. "but i've got enough in this pack to turn the world inside out with wonder--ah, what a sensation it will be, what an educational feature! it will send out a hundred harum-scarum expeditions to find polaria--but there are few commanders like captain burrows; he could do it, the rest of 'em will die in the ice. but when i get to san fran----. say, captain, how long will it take to get there, and how long before you start?" enoch and i exchanged glances, and enoch answered: "we wa'n't goin' to 'frisco." "around the horn, then?" inquired the stranger, sitting up. "but you will land me in 'frisco, won't you? i can't wait, i must----" "we're goin' _in_," said enoch; "goin' north, for a three-years' cruise." "north!" shouted the stranger, wildly. "three years in that hell of ice. three years! my god! north! north!" he was dancing around the deck like a maniac, trying to put his pack-loop over his head. enoch went toward him, to tell him how he could go on the "enchantress," but he looked wildly at him, ran forward and sprang out on the bowsprit, and from there to the jib. enoch saw he was out of his mind, and ordered two sailors to bring him in. as they sprang on to the bow, he stood up and screamed: "no! no! no! three years! three lives! three hells! i never----" one of the men reached for him here, but he kicked at the sailor viciously, and turning sidewise, sprang into the water below. a boat, already in the water, was manned instantly; but the worn-out body of another north pole explorer had gone to the sands of the bottom where so many others have gone before; evidently his heavy pack had held him down, there to guard the story it could tell--in death as he had in life. the end