WHEN Roger Oakley fled from Antioch on the night of the murder he was resolved that, happen what might, he would not be taken.
For half an hour he traversed back alleys and grass-grown “side streets,” seeing no one and unseen, and presently found himself to the north of the town.
Then he sat down to rest and consider the situation.
He was on the smooth, round top of a hill-side. At his back were woods and fields, while down in the hollow below him, beyond a middle space that was neither town nor country, he saw the lights of Antioch twinkling among the trees. Dannie was there somewhere, wondering why he did not return. Nearer at hand, across a narrow lane, where the rag-weed and jimson and pokeberry flourished rankly, was the cemetery.
In the first peaceful month of his stay in Antioch he had walked out there almost every Sunday afternoon to smoke his pipe and meditate. He had liked to hear the blackbirds calling overhead in the dark pines, and he had a more than passing fondness for tombstone literature. Next to the Bible it seemed about the soundest kind of reading. He would seat himself beside a grave whose tenant had been singularly pre-eminent as possessing all the virtues, and, in friendly fellowship with the dead, watch the shadows marshalled by the distant woodlands grow from short to long, or listen to the noisy cawing of the crows off in the cornfields.
The night was profoundly still, until suddenly the town bell rang the alarm. The old convict's face blanched at the sound, and he came slowly to his feet. The bell rang on. The lights among the trees grew in number, dogs barked, there was the murmur of voices. He clapped his hands to his ears and plunged into the woods.
He had no clear idea of where he was going, but all night long he plodded steadily forward, his one thought to be as far from Antioch as possible by morning. When at last morning came, with its song of half-awakened birds and its level streaks of light piercing the gray dawn, he remembered that he was hungry, and that he had eaten nothing since noon the day before. He stopped at the first farmhouse he came to for breakfast, and at his request the farmer's wife put up a lunch for him to carry away.
It was night again when he reached Barrow's Saw Mills. He ventured boldly into the one general store and made a number of purchases. The storekeeper was frankly curious to learn what he was doing and where he was going, but the old convict met his questions with surly reserve.
When he left the store he took the one road out of the place, and half a mile farther on forsook the road for the woods.
It was nearly midnight when he went into camp. He built a fire and toasted some thin strips of bacon. He made his supper of these and a few crackers. He realized that he must harbor his slender stock of provisions.
He had told himself over and over that he was not fit to live among men. He would have to dwell alone like a dangerous animal, shunning his fellows. The solitude and the loneliness suited him. He would make a permanent camp somewhere close to the lakes, in the wildest spot he could find, and end his days there.
He carried in his pocket a small railroad map of the State, and in the morning, after a careful study of it, marked out his course. That day, and for several days following, he plodded on and on in a tireless, patient fashion, and with but the briefest stops at noon for his meagre lunch. Each morning he was up and on his way with the first glimmer of light, and he kept his even pace until the glow faded from the sky in the west.
Beyond Barrow's Saw Mills the pine-woods stretched away to the north in one unbroken wilderness. At long intervals he passed loggers' camps, and more rarely a farm in the forest; but he avoided these. Instinct told him that the news of Ryder's murder had travelled far and wide. In all that range of country there was no inhabited spot where he dare show his face.
Now that he had evolved a definite purpose he was quite cheerful and happy, save for occasional spells of depression and bitter self-accusation, but the excitement of his flight buoyed him up amazingly.
He had distanced and outwitted pursuit, and his old pride in his physical strength and superiority returned. The woods never ceased to interest him. There was a mighty freedom about them, a freedom he shared and joyed in. He felt he could tramp on forever, with the scent of the pines filling his nostrils and the sweep of the wind in his ears. His muscles seemed of iron. There was cunning and craft, too, in the life he was living.
The days were sultry August days. No rain had fallen in weeks, and the earth was a dead, dry brown. A hot haze quivered under the great trees. Off in the north, against which his face was set, a long, low, black cloud lay on the horizon. Sometimes the wind lifted it higher, and it sifted down dark threads of color against the softer blue of the summer sky. Presently the wind brought the odor of smoke. At first it was almost imperceptible—a suggestion merely, but by-and-by it was in every breath he drew. The forest was on fire ahead of him. He judged that the tide of devastation was rolling nearer, and he veered to the west. Then one evening he saw what he had not seen before—a dull red light that shone sullenly above the pines. The next day the smoke was thick in the woods; the wind, blowing strongly from the north, floated little wisps and wreaths of it down upon him. It rested like a heavy mist above the cool surface of the lake, on the shores of which he had made his camp the night previous, while some thickly grown depressions he crossed were sour with the stale, rancid odor that clung to his clothes and rendered breathing difficult. There was a powdering of fine white ashes everywhere. At first it resembled a hoar-frost, and then a scanty fall of snow.
By five o'clock he gained the summit of a low ridge. From its top he was able to secure an extended view of the fire. A red line—as red as the reddest sunset—stretched away to the north as far as the eye could see. He was profoundly impressed by the spectacle. The conflagration was on a scale so gigantic that it fairly staggered him. He knew millions of feet of timber must be blazing.
He decided to remain on the ridge and study the course of the fire, so he lay down to rest. Sleep came over him, for the day had been a fatiguing one, but at midnight he awoke. A dull, roaring sound was surging through the forest, and the air was stifling. The fire had burned closer while he slept. It had reached the ridge opposite, which was nearly parallel to the one he was on, and was burning along its northern base. The ridge flattened perceptibly to the west, and already at this point a single lone line of fire had surmounted the blunt crest, and was creeping down into the valley which intervened. Presently tongues, of fire shot upwards. The dark, nearer side of the ridge showed clearly in the fierce light, and soon the fire rolled over its entire length, a long, ruddy cataract of flame. As it gained the summit it seemed to fall forward and catch fresh timber, then it raced down the slope towards the valley, forming a great red avalanche that roared and hissed and crackled and sent up vast clouds of smoke into the night.
Clearly any attempt to go farther north would be but a waste of time and strength. The fire shut him off completely in that quarter. He must retrace his steps until he was well to the south again. Then he could go either to the east or west, and perhaps work around into the burned district. The risk he ran of capture did not worry him. Indeed, he scarcely considered it. He felt certain the pursuit, if pursuit there were, had been abandoned days before. He had a shrewd idea that the fire would give people something else to think of. His only fear was that his provisions would be exhausted. When they went he knew the chances were that he would starve, but he put this fear resolutely aside whenever it obtruded itself. With care his supplies could be made to last many days.
He did not sleep any more that night, but watched the fire eat its way across the valley. When it reached the slope at his feet he shouldered his pack and started south. It was noon when he made his first halt. He rested for two hours and then resumed his march. He was now well beyond the immediate range of the conflagration. There was only an occasional faint odor of smoke in the woods. He had crossed several small streams, and he knew they would be an obstacle in the path of the fire unless the wind, which was from the north, should freshen.
Night fell. He lighted a camp-fire and scraped together his bed of pine-needles, and lay down to sleep with the comforting thought that he had put a sufficient distance between himself and the burning forest. He would turn to the west when morning came. He trusted to a long day's journey to carry him out of the menaced territory. It would be easier travelling, too, for the ridges which cut the face of the country ran east and west. The sun was in the boughs of the hemlocks when he awoke. There had been a light rain during the night, and the forest world had taken on new beauty. But it grew hot and oppressive as the hours passed. The smoke thickened once more. At first he tried to believe it was only his fancy. Then the wind shifted into the east, and the woods became noticeably clearer. He pushed ahead with renewed hope. This change in the wind was a good sign. If it ever got into the south it would drive the fire back on itself.
He tramped for half the night and threw himself down and slept heavily—the sleep of utter exhaustion and weariness. It was broad day when he opened his eyes. The first sound he heard was the dull roar of the flames. He turned with a hunted, fugitive look towards the west. A bright light shone through the trees. The fire was creeping around and already encircled him on two sides. His feeling was one of bitter disappointment, fear, too, mingled with it. In the south were Ryder's friends—Dannie's enemies and his. Of the east he had a horror which the study of his map did not tend to allay; there were towns there, and settlements, thickly scattered. Finally he concluded he would go forward and examine the line of fire. There might be some means by which he could make his way through it.
A journey of two miles brought him to a small watercourse. The fire was burning along the opposite bank. It blazed among the scrub and underbrush and leaped from tree to tree; first to shrivel their foliage to a dead, dry brown, and then envelop them in sheets of flame. The crackling was like the report of musketry.
Roger Oakley was awed by the sight. In spite of the smoke and heat he sat down on the trunk of a fallen pine to rest. Some birds fluttered out of the rolling masses of smoke above his head and flew south with shrill cries of alarm. A deer crossed the stream, not two hundred yards from where he sat, at a single bound. Next, two large timber wolves entered the water. They landed within a stone's throw of him, and trotted leisurely off. The heat soon drove him from his position, and he, too, sought refuge in the south. The wall of flame cut him off from the north and west, and to the east he would not go.
There was something tragic in this blocking of his way. He wondered if it was not the Lord's wish, after all, that he should be taken. This thought had been troubling him for some time. Then he remembered Dannie. Dannie, to whom he had brought only shame and sorrow. He set his lips with grim determination. Right or wrong, the Lord's vengeance would have to wait. Perhaps He would understand the situation. He prayed that He might.
Twenty-four hours later and he had turned westward, with the desperate hope that he could cross out of the path of the fire, but the hope proved futile. There was no help for it. To the east he must go if he would escape.
It was the towns and settlements he feared most, and the people; perhaps they still continued the search. When he left the wilderness the one precaution he could take would be to travel only by night. This plan, when it was firmly fixed in his mind, greatly encouraged him. But at the end of ten hours of steady tramping he discovered that the fire surrounded him on three sides. Still he did not despair. For two days he dodged from east to west, and each day the wall of flame and smoke drew closer about him, and the distances in which he moved became less and less. And now a great fear of Antioch possessed him. The railroad ran nearly due east and west from Buckhom Junction to Harrison, a distance of ninety-five miles. Beyond the road the country was well settled. There were thriving farms and villages. To pass through such a country without being seen was next to impossible. He felt a measure of his strength fail him, and with it went his courage. It was only the thought of Dannie that kept him on the alert. Happen what might, he would not be taken. It should go hard with the man or men who made the attempt. He told himself this, not boastfully, but with quiet conviction. In so far as he could, as the fire crowded him back, he avoided the vicinity of Antioch and inclined towards Buckhorn Junction.
There was need of constant vigilance now, as he was in a sparsely settled section. One night some men passed quite near to the fringe of tamarack swamp where he was camped. Luckily the undergrowth was dense, and his fire had burned to a few red embers. On another occasion, just at dusk, he stumbled into a small clearing, and within plain view of the windows of a log-cabin. As he leaped back into the woods a man with a cob-pipe in his mouth came to the door of the cabin.
Roger Oakley, with the hickory staff which he had cut that day held firmly in his hands, and a fierce, wild look on his face, watched him from his cover. Presently the man turned back into the house, closing the door after him.
These experiences startled and alarmed him. He grew gaunt and haggard; a terrible weariness oppressed him; his mind became confused, and a sort of panic seized him. His provisions had failed him, but an occasional cultivated field furnished corn and potatoes, in spite of the serious misgivings he felt concerning the moral aspect of these nightly depredations. When he raided a spring-house, and carried off eggs and butter and milk, he was able to leave money behind. He conducted these transactions with scrupulous honesty.
He had been living in the wilderness three weeks, when at last the fire drove him from cover at Buck-horn Junction. As a town the Junction was largely a fiction. There was a railroad crossing, a freight-shed, and the depot, and perhaps a score of houses scattered along a sandy stretch of country road.
The B. & A. had its connection with the M. & W. at this point. It was also the beginning of a rich agricultural district, and the woods gave place to cultivated fields and farm-lands.
It was late afternoon as Roger Oakley approached Buckhorn. When it was dark he would cross the railroad and take his chance there. He judged from the light in the sky that the fire had already burned in between Buckhom and Antioch. This gave him a certain sense of security. Indeed, the fire surrounded Buckhorn in every quarter except the south. Where there was no timber or brush it crept along the rail-fences, or ran with tiny spurts of flame through the dry weeds and dead stubble which covered much of the cleared land.
He could see a number of people moving about, a quarter of a mile west of the depot. They were tearing down a burning fence that was in perilous proximity to some straw-stacks and a barn.
He heard and saw the 6.50 on the M. & W. pull in. This was the Chicago express; and the Huckleberry's local, which was due at Antioch at midnight, connected with it. This connection involved a wait of three hours at Buckhom. Only one passenger left the train. He disappeared into the depot.
Roger Oakley waited until it was quite dark, and then, leaving the strip of woods just back of the depot, where he had been hiding, stole cautiously down to the track. He had noticed that there was an engine and some freight cars on one of the sidings. He moved among them, keeping well in the shadow. Suddenly he paused. Two men emerged from the depot. They came down the platform in the direction of the cars. They were talking earnestly together. One swung himself up into the engine and lighted a torch.
He wondered what they were doing, and stole nearer.
They were standing on the platform now, and the man who held the torch had his back to him. His companion was saying something about the wires being down.
He listened intently.
Antioch was in danger, and if Antioch was in danger—Dannie—
All at once the man with the torch turned and its light Suffused his face.
It was Dan Oakley.
DAN OAKLEY went to Chicago, intending to see Holloway and resign, but he found that the Huckleberry's vice-president was in New York on business, and no one in his office seemed to know when he would return, so he sat down and wrote a letter, telling him of the condition of affairs at Antioch, and explaining the utter futility, in view of what had happened, of his trying to cope with the situation.
He waited five days for a reply, and, none coming, wired to learn if his letter had been received. This produced results. Holloway wired back that he had the letter under consideration, and requested Oakley to remain in Chicago until he returned, but he did not say whether or not his resignation would be accepted. Since there was nothing to be done but await Holloway's pleasure in the matter, Dan employed his enforced leisure in looking about for another position. He desired a connection which would take him out of the country, for the farther away from Antioch and Constance Emory he could get the better he would be satisfied. He fancied he would like to go to South America. He was willing to accept almost any kind of a post—salary was no longer a consideration with him. What he required was a radical change, with plenty of hard work.
It was not to be wondered at that his judgment of the case was an extreme one, or that he told himself he must make a fresh start, as his record was very much against him and his ability at a discount. While he could not fairly be held responsible for the miscarriage of his plans at Antioch, he felt their failure keenly, so keenly that could he have seen the glimmer of a hope ahead he could have gone back and taken up the struggle, but the killing of Ryder by his father made this impossible. There was nothing he could do, and his mere presence outraged the whole town. No understanding would ever be reached with the hands if he continued in control, while a new man in his place would probably have little or no difficulty in coming to an agreement with them. No doubt they were quite as sick as he had been of the fight, and if he left they would be content to count his going a victory, and waive the question of wages. It was part of the irony of the condition that the new man would find enough work contracted for to keep the shop open and running full time for the next eight or ten months. But his successor was welcome to the glory of it when he had hidden himself in some God-forsaken corner of the globe along with the other waifs and strays—the men who have left home because of their health or their accounts, and who hang around dingy seaport towns and read month-old newspapers and try to believe that the game has been worth the candle.
By far his greatest anxiety was his father. He watched the papers closely, expecting each day to read that he had been captured and sent back to Antioch, but the days slipped past, and there was no mention of him. Holt, with whom he was in constant correspondence, reported that interest in his capture had considerably abated, while the organized pursuit had entirely ceased.
Dan had the feeling that he should never see him again, and the pathos of his age and dependence tore his heart. In a manner, too, he blamed himself for the tragedy. It might have been averted had he said less about Ryder in his father's hearing. He should have known better than to discuss the strike with him.
One morning, as he left Holloway's office, he chanced to meet an acquaintance by the name of Curtice. They had been together in Denver years before, and he had known him as a rather talkative young fellow, with large hopes and a thrifty eye to the main chance. But he was the one man he would have preferred to meet, for he had been in South America and knew the field there. Apparently Curtice was equally glad to see him. He insisted upon carrying him off to his club to lunch, where it developed he was in a state of happy enthusiasm over his connection with a road that had just gone into the hands of a receiver, and a new baby, which he assured Oakley on the spur of the moment he was going to name after him.
“You see, Oakley,” he explained, as they settled themselves, “I was married after you left to a girl who had come to Denver with a consumptive brother. They boarded at the same place I did.” His companion was properly interested. “Look here, how long are you going to be in the city? I want you to come and see us.”
Dan avoided committing himself by saying his stay in Chicago was most uncertain. He might have to leave very soon.
“Well, then, you must drop in at my office. I wish you'd make it your headquarters while you are here.”
“What about the road you are with?”
“Oh, the road! We are putting it in shape.”
Oakley smiled a trifle skeptically. He recalled that even as a very young man filling a very subordinate position, Curtice had clung to the “we.” Curtice saw the smile and remembered too.
“Now, see here, I'm giving it to you straight. I really am the whole thing. I've got a greenhorn for a boss, whose ignorance of the business is only equalled by his confidence in me. If you want to be nasty you can say his ignorance is responsible for much of his confidence. I've been told that before.”
“Then I'll wait. I may be able to think of something better.”
“There are times when I wonder if he really knows the difference between an engine's head-light and a coupling-pin. He's giving me all the rope I want, and we'll have a great passenger service when I get done. That's what I am working on now.”
“But where are you going to get the funds for it? A good service costs money,” said Dan.
“Oh, the road's always made money. That was the trouble.” Oakley looked dense. He had heard of such things, but they had been outside of his own experience.
“The directors were a superstitious lot; they didn't believe in paying dividends, and as they had to get rid of the money somehow, they put it all out in salaries. The president's idea of the value of his own services would have been exorbitant if the road had been operating five thousand miles of track instead of five hundred. I am told a directors' meeting looked like a family reunion, and they had a most ungodly lot of nephews—nephews were everywhere. The purchasing agent was a nephew, so were two of the division superintendents. Why, the president even had a third cousin of his wife's braking on a way freight. We've kept him as a sort of curiosity, and because he was the only one in the bunch who was earning his pay.”
“No wonder the stockholders went to law,” said Oakley, laughing.
“Of course, when the road was taken into court its affairs were seen to be in such rotten shape that a receiver was appointed.”
Oakley's business instinct asserted itself. He had forgotten for the time being that his services still belonged to Cornish. Now he said: “See here, haven't you cars you intend to rebuild?”
'“We've precious few that don't need carpenter-work or paint or upholstering.”
“Then send them to me at Antioch. I'll make you a price you can't get inside of, I don't care where you go.”
Curtice meditated, then he asked: “How are you fixed to handle a big contract? It 'll be mostly for paint and upholstery or woodwork. We have been considering equipping works of our own, but I am afraid they are not going to materialize.”
“We can handle anything,” and from sheer force of habit he was all enthusiasm. He had pleasant visions of the shops running over-time, and everybody satisfied and happy. It made no difference to him that he would not be there to share in the general prosperity. With the start he had given it, the future of the Huckleberry would be assured. He decided he had better say nothing to Curtice about South America.
The upshot of this meeting was that he stuck to Curtice with a genial devotion that made him wax in his hands. They spent two days together, inspecting paintless and tattered day coaches, and on the third day Dan strolled from his friend's office buttoning his coat on a contract that would mean many thousands of dollars for Antioch. It was altogether his most brilliant achievement. He felt that there only remained for him to turn the Huckleberry over to Holloway and leave the country. He had done well by it.
Dan had been in Chicago about three weeks, when at last Holloway returned, and he proved as limp as Cornish had said he would be in a crisis. He was inclined to be critical, too, and seemed astonished that Oakley had been waiting in Chicago to see him. He experienced a convenient lapse of memory when the latter mentioned his telegram.
“I can't accept your resignation,” he said, fussing nervously among the papers on his desk. “I didn't put you at Antioch; that was General Cornish's own idea, and I don't know what he'll think.”
“It has gotten past the point where I care what he thinks,” retorted Dan, curtly. “You must send some one else there to take hold.”
“Why didn't you cable him instead of writing me?” fretfully. “I don't know what he will want, only it's pretty certain to be the very thing I sha'n't think of.”
“I would have cabled him if I had considered it necessary, but it never occurred to me that my resignation would not be agreed to on the spot, as my presence in Antioch only widens the breach and increases the difficulty of a settlement with the men.”
“Whom did you leave in charge?” inquired Holloway.
“Holt.”
“Who's he?”
“He's Kerr's assistant,” Dan explained.
“Why didn't you leave Kerr in charge?” demanded the vice-president.
“I laid him off,” said Dan, in a tone of exasperation, and then he added, to forestall more questions: “He was in sympathy with the men, and he hadn't the sense to keep it to himself. I couldn't be bothered with him, so I got rid of him.”
“Well, I must say you have made a frightful mess of the whole business, Oakley, but I told General Cornish from the first that you hadn't the training for the position.”
Dan turned very red in the face at this, but he let it pass.
“It's too bad,” murmured Holloway, still fingering the letters on the desk.
“Since you are in doubt, why don't you cable General Cornish for instructions, or, if there is a reason why you don't care to, it is not too late for me to cable,” said Dan.
This proposal did not please Holloway at all, but he was unwilling to admit that he feared Cornish's displeasure, which, where he was concerned, usually took the form of present silence and a subsequent sarcasm that dealt with the faulty quality of his judgment. The sarcasm might come six months after it had been inspired, but it was certain to come sooner or later, and to be followed by a bad half-hour, which Cornish devoted to past mistakes. Indeed, Cornish's attitude towards him had become, through long association, one of chronic criticism, and he was certain to be unpleasantly affected both by what he did and by what he left undone.
“Why don't you wait until the general returns from England? That's not far off now. Under the circumstances he'll accept your resignation.”
“He will have to,” said Oakley, briefly.
“Don't worry; he'll probably demand it,” remarked the vice-president, disagreeably.
“If you are so sure of this, why don't you accept it?” retorted Dan.
“I have no one to appoint in your place.”
“What's wrong with Holt? He'll do temporarily.”
“I couldn't feel positive of his being satisfactory to General Cornish. He's a very young man, ain't he?”
“Yes, I suppose you'd call him a young man, but he has been with the road for a long time, and has a pretty level head. I have found him very trustworthy.”
“I would have much greater confidence in Kerr. He's quiet and conservative, and he's had an excellent training with us.”
“Well, then, you can get him. He is doing nothing, and will be glad to come.”
“But you have probably succeeded in antagonizing him.”
“I hope so,” with sudden cheerfulness. “It was a hardship not to be able to give him a sound thrashing. That's what he deserved.”
Holloway looked shocked. The young man was displaying a recklessness of temper which was most unseemly and entirely unexpected.
“I guess it will be well for you to think it over, Oakley, before you conclude to break with General Cornish. To go now will be rather shabby of you, and you owe him fair treatment. Just remember it was those reforms of yours that started the strike, in the first place. I know—I know. What you did you did with his approval The men are peaceable enough, ain't they?” and he glared at Oakley with mingled disfavor and weariness.
“Anybody can handle them but me.”
“It won't be long until they are begging you to open the shops. They will be mighty sick of the trouble they've shouldered when their money is all gone.”
“They will never come to me for that, Mr. Holloway,” said Dan. “I think they would, one and all, rather starve than recognize my position.”
“They'll have to. We'll make them. We mustn't let them think we are weakening.”
“You don't appreciate the feeling of intense hostility they have for me.”
“Of course the murder of that man—what was his name?”
“Ryder, you mean.”
“Was unfortunate. I don't wonder you have some feeling about going back.”
Dan smiled sadly.
The vice-president was wonderfully moderate in his choice of words. He added: “But it is really best for the interest of those concerned that you should go and do what you can to bring about a settlement.”
“It would be the sheerest idiocy for me to attempt it. The town may go hungry from now till the end of its days, but it won't have me at any price.”
“I always told Cornish he should sell the road the first opportunity he got. He had the chance once and you talked him out of it. Now you don't want to stand by the situation.”
“I do,” said Oakley, rising. “I want to see an understanding reached with the men, and I am going to do what I can to help along. You will please to consider that I have resigned. I don't for the life of me see how you can expect me to show my face in Antioch,” and with that he stalked from the place. He was thoroughly angry. He heard Holloway call after him:
“I won't accept your resignation. You'll have to wait until you see Cornish!”
Dan strode out into the street, not knowing what he would do. He was disheartened and exasperated at the stand Holloway had taken.
Presently his anger moderated and his pace slackened. He had been quite oblivious to what was passing about him, and now for the first time, above the rattle of carts and trucks, he heard the newsboys shrilly calling an extra. He caught the words, “All about the big forest fire!” repeated over and over again.
He bought a paper and opened it idly, but a double-leaded head-line arrested his attention. It was a brief special from Buckhom Junction. He read it with feverish interest. Antioch was threatened with complete destruction by the forest fires.
“I'll take the first train for Antioch. Have you seen this?” and he held out the crumpled page he had just torn from his newspaper.
Holloway glanced up in astonishment at this unlooked-for change of heart.
“I thought you'd conclude it was no way to treat General Cornish,” he said.
“Hang Cornish! It's not on his account I'm going. The town is in a fair way to be wiped off the map. Here, read.”
And he thrust the paper into Holloway's hands. “The woods to the north and west of Antioch have been blazing for two days. They have sent out call after call for help, and apparently nobody has responded yet. That's why I am going back, and for no other reason.”
AT Buckhorn Junction, Joe Durks, who combined the duties of telegraph operator with those of baggage-master and ticket-agent, was at his table receiving a message when Dan Oakley walked into the office. He had just stepped from the Chicago express.
“What's the latest word from Antioch, Joe?” he asked, hurriedly.
“How are you, Mr. Oakley? I got Antioch now.”
“What do they say?”
“They are asking help.”
The metallic clicking of the instrument before him ceased abruptly.
“What's wrong, anyhow?” He pushed back his chair and came slowly to his feet His finger was still on the key. He tried again to call up Antioch. “They are cut off. I guess the wire is down.”
The two men stared at each other in silence.
Dan's face was white in the murky, smoky twilight that filled the room. Durks looked anxious—the limit of his emotional capacity. He was a lank, colorless youth, with pale yellow tobacco stains about the corners of his mouth, and a large nose, which was superior to its surroundings.
Oakley broke silence with:
“What's gone through to-day, Joe?”
“Nothing's gone through on the B. & A. There's nothing to send from this end of the line,” the operator answered, nervously.
“What went through yesterday?”
“Nothing yesterday, either.”
“Where is No. 7?”
“It's down at Harrison, Mr. Oakley.”
“And No. 9?”
“It's at Harrison, too.”
“Do you know what they are doing at Harrison?” demanded Oakley, angrily.
It seemed criminal negligence that no apparent effort had as yet been made to reach Antioch.
“I don't,” said Durks, laconically, biting his nails. “I suppose they are waiting for the fire to burn out.”
“Why don't you know?” persisted Dan, tartly. His displeasure moved the operator to a fuller explanation.
“It was cut off yesterday morning. The last word I got was that No. 7 was on a siding there, and that No. 9, which started at 8.15 for Antioch, had had to push back. The fire was in between Antioch and Harrison, on both sides of the track, and blazing to beat hell.”
Having reached this verbal height, he relapsed into comparative indifference.
“Where's the freight?” questioned Oakley.
“The last I heard it was trying to make Parker's Run.”
“When was that?”
“That was yesterday morning, too. It had come up that far from Antioch the day before to haul out four carloads of ties. Holt gave the order. It is still there, for all I know—that is, if it ain't burned or ditched. I sent down the extra men from the yards here to help finish loading the cars. I had Holt's order for it, and supposed he knew what was wanted. They ain't come back, but they got there ahead of the freight all right.”
Oakley felt this care for a few hundred dollars' worth of property to have been unnecessary, in view of the graver peril that threatened Antioch. Still, it was not Durks's fault. It was Holt who was to blame. He had probably lost his head in the general alarm and excitement.
While Harrison might be menaced by the fire, it was in a measure protected by the very nature of its surroundings. But with Antioch, where there was nothing to stay the progress of the flames, the case was different. With a north wind blowing, they could sweep over the town unhindered.
“Yesterday the wind shifted a bit to the west, and for a while they thought Antioch was out of danger,” said Durks, who saw what was in Oakley's mind.
“What have you heard from the other towns?”
“They're deserted. Everybody's gone to Antioch or Harrison. There was plenty of time for that, and when No. 7 made her last run, I wired ahead that it was the only train we could send out.”
“How did you get the extra men to Parker's Rim?”
“Baker took 'em there on the switch engine. I sent him down again this morning to see what was the matter with the freight, but he only went to the ten-mile fill and come back. He said he couldn't go any farther. I guess he wasn't so very keen to try. He said he hadn't the money put by for his funeral expenses.”
“They told me up above that the M. & W. had hauled a relief train for Antioch. What has been done with it? Have you made an effort to get it through?”
Durks looked distressed. Within the last three days flights of inspiration and judgment had been demanded of him such as he hoped would never be required again. And for forty-eight hours he had been comforting himself with the thought that about everything on wheels owned by the Huckleberry was at the western terminus of the road.
“It ain't much of a relief train, Mr. Oakley. Two cars, loaded with fire-engines and a lot of old hose. They are on the siding now.”
“Were any men sent here with the relief train?” questioned Oakley.
“No; Antioch just wanted hose and engines. The water's played out, and they got to depend on the river if the fire strikes the town. They're in pretty bad shape, with nothing but one old hand-engine. You see, their water-mains are about empty and their hose-carts ain't worth a damn.”
Oakley turned on his heel and strode from the office. The operator followed him. As they gained the platform Dan paused. The very air was heavy with smoke. The sun was sinking behind a blue film. Its dull disk was the color of copper. He wondered if the same sombre darkness was settling down on Antioch. The element of danger seemed very real and present. To Dan this danger centred about Constance Emory. He quite overlooked the fact that there were several thousand other people in Antioch. Durks, at his side, rubbed the sandy bristles on his chin with the back of his hand, and tried to believe he had thought of everything and had done everything there was to do.
The woods were on fire all about the Junction, but the town itself was in no especial danger, as cultivated fields intervened to shut away the flames. In these fields Dan could see men and women busy at work tearing down fences. On a hillside a mile off a barn was blazing.
“There goes Warrick's barn,” remarked the operator.
“What was the last word from Antioch? Do you remember exactly what was said?” asked Dan.
“The message was that a strong north wind was blowing, and that the town was pretty certain to burn unless the engines and hose reached there tonight; but they have been saying that for two days, and the wind's always changed at the right moment and driven the fire back.”
Dan glanced along the track, and saw the relief train, consisting of an engine, tender, and two flatcars, loaded with hose and fire-engines, on one of the sidings. He turned on Durks with an angry scowl.
“Why haven't you tried to start that train through? It's ready.”
“No one is here to go with it, Mr. Oakley. I was sort of counting on the freight crew for the job.”
“Where's Baker?”
“He went home on the 6. 10. He lives up at Car-son, you know.”
This was the first stop on the M. & W. east of Buckhom.
“Why did you let him leave? Great God, man! Do you mean to say that he's been loafing around here all day with his hands in his pockets? He'll never pull another throttle for the Huckleberry!”
Durks did not attempt to reply to this explosion of wrath.
“Who made up the train?” demanded Dan.
“Baker did. Him and his fireman. I didn't know but the freight might come up from Parker's Run, and I wanted to be fixed for 'em. I couldn't do a thing with Baker. I told him his orders were to try and reach Antioch with the relief train, but he said he didn't care a damn who gave the order, he wasn't going to risk his life.”
But Dan had lost interest in Baker.
“Look here,” he cried. “You must get a fireman for me, and I'll take out the train myself.”
He wondered why he had not thought of this before.
“I guess I'll manage to reach Antioch,” he added, as he ran across to the siding and swung himself into the cab.
A faded blue blouse and a pair of greasy overalls were lying on the seat in the cab. He removed his coat and vest and put them on. Durks, who had followed him, climbed up on the steps.
“You'll have to run slow, Mr. Oakley, because it's likely the heat has spread the rails, if it ain't twisted them loose from the ties,” he volunteered. For answer Oakley thrust a shovel into his hands.
“Here, throw in some coal,” he ordered, opening the furnace door.
Durks turned a sickly, mottled white.
“I can't leave,” he gasped.
“You idiot. You don't suppose I'd take you from your post. What I want you to do is to help me get up steam.”
The operator attacked the coal on the tender vigorously. He felt an immense sense of comfort.
Dan's railroad experience covered nearly every branch. So it chanced that he had fired for a year prior to taking an office position. Indeed, his first ambition had been to be an engineer. It was now quite dark, and, the fires being raked down, he lit a torch and inspected his engine with a comprehensive eye. Next he probed a two-foot oiler into the rods and bearings and filled the cups. He found a certain pleasure in the fact that the lore of the craft to which he had once aspired was still fresh in his mind.
“Baker keeps her in apple-pie order, Joe,” he observed, approvingly. The operator nodded.
“He's always tinkering.”
“Well, he's done tinkering for us, unless I land in a ditch to-night, with the tender on top of me.”
A purring sound issued from the squat throat of the engine. It was sending aloft wreaths of light gray smoke and softly spitting red-hot cinders.
Dan climbed upon the tender and inspected the tank. Last of all he went forward and lit the headlight, and his preparations were complete. He jumped down from the cab, and stood beside Joe on the platform.
“Now,” he said, cheerfully, “where's that fireman, Joe?”
“He's gone home, Mr. Oakley. He lives at Car-son, too, same as Baker,” faltered the operator.
“Then there's another man whose services we won't require in future. We'll have to find some one else.”
“I don't think you can,” ventured Durks, reluctantly. Instinct told him that this opinion would not tend to increase his popularity with Oakley.
“Why not?”
“They just won't want to go.”
“Do you mean to tell me that they will allow Antioch to burn and not lift a hand to save the town?” he demanded, sternly.
He couldn't believe it.
“Well, you see, there won't any one here want to get killed; and they will think they got enough trouble of their own to keep them home.”
“We can go up-town and see if we can't find a man who thinks of more than his own skin,” said Dan.
“Oh, yes, we can try,” agreed Durks, apathetically, but his tone implied an unshaken conviction that the search would prove a fruitless one.
“Can't you think of any one who would like to make the trip?” Durks was thoughtful. He thanked his lucky stars that the M. & W. paid half his salary. At last he said:
“No, I can't, Mr. Oakley.”
There was a sound like the crunching of cinders underfoot on the other side of the freight car near where they were standing, but neither Durks nor Oakley heard it. The operator's jaws worked steadily in quiet animal enjoyment of their task. He was still canvassing the Junction's adult male population for the individual to whom life had become sufficiently burdensome for Oakley's purpose. Dan was gazing down the track at the red blur in the sky. Back of that ruddy glow, in the path of the flames, lay Antioch. The wind was in the north. He was thinking, as he had many times in the last hour, of Constance and the Emorys. In the face of the danger that threatened he even had a friendly feeling for the rest of Antioch. It had been decent and kindly in its fashion until Ryder set to work to ruin him.
He knew he might ride into Antioch on his engine none the worse for the trip, except for a few bums, but there was the possibility of a more tragic ending. Still, whatever the result, he would have done his full part.
He faced Durks again.
“Any man who knows enough to shovel coal will do,” he said.
“But no one will want to take such long chances, Mr. Oakley. Baker said it was just plain suicide.”
“Hell!” and Dan swore like a brakeman out of temper, in the bad, thoughtless manner of his youth.
At the same moment a heavy, slouching figure emerged from the shadow at the opposite end of the freight car, and came hesitatingly towards the two men. Then a voice said, in gentle admonition:
“Don't swear so, Dannie. It ain't right. I'll go with you.”
It was his father.