XIVTHE LAST OF THE FREIGHT THIEVES
“No; I’m not after you this time,” laughingly responded Detective Boyle to Jack’s half serious inquiry on recognizing his visitor at the station one evening a month later as the road detective who on the previous memorable occasion had called in company with the sheriff. “Instead, I want your assistance.
“Do you know,” he asked, seating himself, “that your friends the freight thieves are operating again on the division?”
“No!” said Jack in surprise.
“They are. And they have evolved some scheme that is more baffling even than the ‘haunting’ trick you spoiled for them here last spring. Every week they are getting away with valuable stuff from one of the night freights between Claxton and Eastfield, while the train is actually en route, apparently. That sounds incredible, I know, but it is the only possible conclusion to come to, since the train does not stop between those places, and I made sure the goods each time were aboard when it left Claxton.”
Jack whistled. “That does look a problem, doesn’t it! But where do I come in, Mr. Boyle?”
“Last evening, while thinking the matter over, thetrick the thieves used here at the Junction recurred to me—the man shipped in a box. It came to me: Why couldn’t that same dodge be played back against them in this case?”
“Oh, I see! Have yourself shipped in a box, and ‘stolen’ by them! Clever idea,” exclaimed Jack.
“Not so bad I think, myself. Well, in the country between Claxton and Eastfield, where it is my theory the gang has its headquarters, there are no telephone or telegraph lines, and it struck me it would be a good plan to take someone along with me who in case of things going wrong could make his way back to the railroad, and cut in on the wire and call for help. And naturally you were the first one I thought of. Do you want the job?” asked the detective.
“I’d jump at the chance,” Jack agreed eagerly. “It’d be more fun than enough.
“But, Mr. Boyle, how do you know that the boxes are taken to the freight thieves’ headquarters, unopened, and not broken into right at the railroad?”
“I figure that out from the number and size of the packages they have taken each time—just a good load for a light wagon. And anyway you can see that that would be their safest plan. If they broke up boxes near the track they would leave clues that would be sure to be found sooner or later, and put us on their trail.
“And through a friend in the wholesale dry-goods business at Claxton, who I’ll see down there to-night,” the detective went on, “I can make practically sureof our being ‘stolen’ together. The thieves have shown a partiality for his goods; and by having our boxes attractively labelled ‘SILK,’ and placed just within the car door, there will be little chance of the robbers passing us by.”
“My plan is to bring it off to-morrow night. Would that suit you?” concluded the detective.
“Yes, sir. That is, if I can get away. For it will take all night, I suppose?”
“Yes. There will be no trouble about your getting off, though. I spoke to Allen before I came down,” said Boyle, rising. “All right, it is arranged. You take the five-thirty down to-morrow evening, with the necessary instruments, and I’ll be at the station to meet you. Good night.”
As Boyle had promised, Jack had no difficulty in arranging to be off duty the following night, and early that evening he alighted from the train at Claxton, to find the railroad detective awaiting him.
“The instruments, eh?” queried Boyle, indicating a parcel under Jack’s arm as they left the station. “Yes, sir; and I have some wire and a file in my pocket.”
“That’s the ticket. And everything here is arranged nicely. We will head for the warehouse at once.”
“Here’s the other ‘bolt of silk,’ Mr. Brooke,” the detective announced a few minutes later as they entered the office adjoining a large brick building. “All ready for us?”
“Hn! He’s a pretty small ‘bolt,’ isn’t he?” commented the merchant, eyeing Jack with some surprise.
“A trifle; but he makes up for size in quality,” declared the detective, while Jack blushed. “He is the youngster who solved the ‘ghost’ riddle and spoiled this same gang’s game at Midway Junction.”
The merchant warmly shook Jack’s hand. “I’m glad to meet you, my boy,” he said. “After that, I can readily believe what Boyle says.
“Yes, I am all ready. This way, please,” he requested.
Following the speaker, Jack and the detective found themselves in a large shipping-room. As they entered, a workman with a pot and ink-brush in his hand was surveying lettering he had just completed on a good-sized packing-case.
“Here are the ‘goods,’ Judson,” announced the merchant.
“All ready, sir,” the workman responded, eyeing Jack and the detective curiously.
“Did you substitute boards with knot-holes?” Mr. Brooke asked.
“Yes, sir. And this is the door,” said the man, indicating two wide boards at one end. “I used both wooden buttons and screw-hooks on the inside, as you suggested.”
“Good.”
The detective examined the box. “You’ve made a good job of it,” he commented.
“I suppose this is the boy’s?” he added, turning to a smaller box, on which also were the words: “SILK—VALUABLE!”
With lively interest Jack examined the case.
“Get in and let us see how it fits,” suggested the merchant. Jack did so.
“Fine,” he announced. “I could ride all night in it, easily—either sitting, or lying down curled up on my side.”
Detective Boyle glanced at his watch. “You may as well stay right there, Jack,” he said. “We will start just as soon as the wagon is ready.”
“It’s ready now. Judson, go and bring the dray around,” the merchant directed.
As the man left, the detective produced and handed Jack a small pocket revolver. “Here, take this, Jack,” said he. “I hope you’ll not have to use it, but we must take all precautions.
“Now to box you in.” So saying the detective fitted the “door” of Jack’s box into place, and Jack on the inside secured it with the hooks and wooden buttons, and announced “O K.” The detective then entered his own box, and with the merchant’s assistance closed the opening. As he tested it there was a rattle of wheels without, and the big door rumbled open.
A few minutes later the two boxes of “valuable silk” had been slid out onto the truck, and the first stage of the strange journey had begun.
As planned, it was dusk when the two boxesreached the freight depot. The station agent himself met them. “Everything O K, Boyle?” he whispered.
“O K. Place us right before the door, with the lettering out,” the detective directed. The agent did as requested, and with a final “Good luck!” closed and sealed the car door just as the clanging of a bell announced the approach of an engine. A crash and a jar told the two unsuspected travelers that their car had been coupled, there was a whistle, a rumble, a clanking over switch-points—and they were on their way.
The wheels had been drumming over the rail-joints for perhaps half an hour, and the disappearance of the light which had filtered through the car door had announced the fall of darkness, when there came a screeching of brakes.
“Where do you suppose we are now, Mr. Boyle?” asked Jack from his box.
“It’s the grade just north of Axford Road. When we hit the up-grade two miles beyond we may begin to expect something. It was along there I figured that the—
“What’s that?”
Both listened. “One of the brakemen, isn’t it?” suggested Jack.
“What is he doing down on the edge of the car roof?”
The next sound was of something slapping against the car door.
Suddenly the detective gave vent to a cry that was barely suppressed.
“Jack, I’ve got it! I’ve got it at last!” he whispered excitedly.
“The freight thieves have bought up one of the brakemen! He lets himself down to the car door by a rope, opens it, and throws the stuff out!”
Jack’s exclamation of delight at this final revelation of the heart of the mystery was followed by one of consternation. “But won’t we get an awful shaking up if we’re pitched off, going at full speed?” he said in alarm.
“We may. We’ll have to take it. It’s all in the game you know,” declared Boyle grimly. “Sit tight and brace hard, and it’ll not be so bad, though.
“Sh! Here he is!”
There was a sound of feet scraping against the car door, a rattle as the seal was broken and the clasp freed, then a rumble and the sudden full roar of the train told the two in the boxes that the door had been opened.
Swinging within, the intruder closed the door behind him, and lit a match. Peering from a knot-hole, Jack saw that the detective’s guess was correct. It was a brakeman.
As Jack watched, the man produced and lit a dark-lantern, and turned it on the cases before him. Jack held his breath as the light streamed through the cracks of his own box.
“Just to order,” muttered the brakeman audibly.
“And the bigger one, too. I’ll not have to haul any out.”
Then, to Jack’s momentary alarm, then amusement, the man seated himself on the box, above him.
Presently, as Jack was wondering what the trainman was waiting for, from the distant engine came the two long and two short toots for a crossing, and the man started to his feet. With his eye to the knot-hole Jack watched.
Again came a whistle, and the creaking of brakes. Immediately the brakeman slid the car door back a few inches, flashed his lantern four times, muffled it, and ran the door open its full width.
The critical moment had come. Gathering himself together, Jack braced with knees and elbows. The trainman seized the box, swung it to the door, and tipped it forward. The next instant Jack felt himself hurled out into the darkness.
For one terrible moment he felt himself hurtling through space. Then came a crackle of branches, the box whirled over and over, again plunged downward, and brought up with a crash.
A brief space Jack lay dazed, in a heap, head down. But he had been only slightly stunned, and recovering, he righted himself, and found with satisfaction that he had suffered no more than a bruise of the scalp and an elbow.
He had not long to speculate on his whereabouts. From near at hand came a sound of breaking twigs, and a voice.
THE NEXT INSTANT JACK FELT HIMSELF HURLED OUT INTOTHE DARKNESS.
THE NEXT INSTANT JACK FELT HIMSELF HURLED OUT INTOTHE DARKNESS.
“Here’s one,” it said.
Only with difficulty did Jack avoid betraying himself. It was the voice of the man “Watts”!
“What is it?” inquired a second voice.
Through a crack a light appeared. “Silk,” announced Watts.
“A good weight, too,” he added, tipping the box. “Catch hold.”
The packing-case was caught up; and rocked and jolted, Jack felt himself carried for what he judged a full quarter-mile. As the men slowed up a gleam of moonlight showed through the knot-hole, and peering forth he discovered a tree-lined road, and a two-horse wagon.
Sliding the box into the rear of the wagon, and well to the front, the men disappeared. The wait that followed was to Jack the most trying experience of the evening. Had the detective safely landed? Was there not a possibility of the larger box having been shattered? Or sufficiently broken to reveal its true contents, and disclose the plot to the freight-robbers? And what then would be his fate?
These and many other disquieting possibilities passed through Jack’s mind, causing him several times as the minutes went by to finger the hooks and buttons which would permit of his escape. Finally snapping twigs, then heavy, stumbling footfalls allayed his anxiety, and the two men reappeared, staggering under the box containing the officer.
With difficulty the unsuspecting thieves raised the heavy packing-case to the tail-board of the wagon.
“It won’t go in,” said Watts’ companion.
“Push this way a little,” Watts directed.
“I can’t—Look out!” There was a scramble, and the box crashed to the ground. At the same moment came a muffled exclamation, and Jack caught his breath. Was it the detective? If so, had the others overheard it?
With relief, however, he heard Watts, who apparently was the chief of the gang, call his companion a mule, and order him to catch hold again. The box this time was successfully slid aboard; and at once the two men climbed to the seat, and the wagon rumbled off.
As they rattled along over a badly-kept road Jack gave as close attention to the passing scenery as his limited view permitted, in order that he might be able to find his way back to the railroad if it should prove necessary. This did not promise to be difficult. On either side the dim moonlight showed an unbroken succession of trees, and also that the robbers were continuing in one direction—apparently due south.
For what seemed at least two miles they proceeded. Then appeared a small clearing, and with a quickening of the pulse Jack felt the wagon slow up and turn in. They were at their destination.
A forbiddingly suitable place for its purpose it was. Standing out darkly on the crest of a rise two hundred yards back, was a low shanty-like house, in which appeareda single gleam of light. Between, to the road, stretched a desolate moonlit prospect of stumps, decaying logs and brush-piles. On either side the woods formed a towering wall of blackness.
Rocking and pitching, the wagon made its way up a rutty, corkscrew lane. They reached the house, and the door opened, and a tall, unpleasant-looking woman appeared and greeted the men.
“Good luck, eh?” she remarked briefly.
“Sure. Don’t we always have good luck?” responded Watts. “Is supper ready?”
“Yes. You-uns better come in before you opens them boxes,” said the woman.
“All right.”
Passing on, the wagon came at last to a halt before a good-sized barn. The two men leaped to the ground, and while one of them opened the large side doors the other proceeded to back the wagon to it.
As the two freight thieves then unhooked, and led their horses to the stable, there came to Jack’s ears a welcome tapping. “Are you all right, lad?” whispered the detective.
“Yes, O K, sir, though a bit nervous,” Jack acknowledged.
“Keep cool and we’ll soon have them where we want them. As they are going in to supper first we’ll not leave the boxes till then. That’ll give us just the opportunity we want to look around and arrange things nicely.
“Sh! Here they come!”
“Catch hold,” said Watts. Jack heard the detective’s box slide out, an “Up!” from Watts, the staggering steps of the men across the barn floor, and a thud as the box was dropped.
At what then immediately followed Jack for a moment doubted his senses. It was the voice of Watts saying quietly and coldly, “Now my clever friend in the box, kindly come out!”
Theyhadheard Boyle’s exclamation when the box had fallen!
Scarcely breathing, Jack listened. Would the detective give himself up without a—
There was a muffled report, instantly a second, louder, then silence.
“Will you come out now?” demanded Watts.
To Jack’s horror there was no response. Watts repeated the order, then called on his companion for an axe, and there followed the sound of blows and splintering wood.
“Now haul him out.”
Terror-stricken, Jack listened. Suddenly there came the sound of a scramble, then of a terrific struggle.
The detective was all right! It had been only a ruse! Uttering a suppressed hurrah Jack began hurriedly undoing the fastenings of his door, to get out to the detective’s assistance. Before he had opened it, however, there was the sound of a heavy fall, and a triumphant shout from Watts. Promptly Jack paused, debated a moment, and restored the fastenings. Hewould wait. Perhaps they would bind Boyle and leave him in the barn.
A moment later Jack regretted his decision. Through the knot-hole he saw the detective led by, his arms bound behind him, and one of the freight-robbers on either side.
The voices and footsteps died away in the direction of the house, and Jack fell to wondering what he should do. Before he had decided he heard the voices of the men returning. Apprehensively he waited. Had they any suspicion of his presence in the second packing-case?
While he held his breath and grimly clutched his revolver, they slid his box to the rear of the wagon, lifted it out, and deposited it on the barn floor.
“Going to have a look at it? Make sure it hasn’t some live stock in it too?” inquired the second man.
Jack’s heart stood still.
“No; it’s all right,” declared Watts confidently. “We’ll have supper first.” And to Jack’s unspeakable relief they passed out and closed the barn door. Listening until from the house had come the slamming of a door, Jack once more freed the fastenings within the box, slipped the board aside, again listened a moment, and crawled forth.
As he stood stretching his cramped limbs, he glanced about. A tier of what looked like bolts of cloth in the moonlight beneath one of the barn windows caught his eye. He stepped over.
It was silk—silk such as he had seen in the warehouse at Claxton!
Instantly there came to Jack a startling suggestion. As quickly he decided to act upon it. “They may never ‘catch on,’” he told himself delightedly, “and in any case it will give me a good start back for the railroad, for help.”
Glancing from the barn window, to make sure all was quiet in the direction of the house, he drew his box into the moonlight, took out the parcel containing the telegraph instruments, and proceeded to remove the hooks and buttons, and all other signs of the “door.” Then quickly he filled the box with bolts of silk from the pile beneath the window.
That done, he found a hammer and nails, and muffling the hammer with his handkerchief, as quietly as possible nailed the boards into place. Triumphantly he slid the box to its former position on the floor.
“I think that will fool you, Mr. Watts,” he said with a smile, and catching up the telegraph instruments he turned to the door.
On the threshold he started back. The two men, and two others, were returning from the house.
In alarm Jack looked about for a way of escape. Across the barn was a smaller door. He ran for it on tiptoe, darted through, and found himself in the stable. Passing quietly on to the outer door, which the cracks and moonlight revealed, he waited until the four men had entered the main barn, then slipped forth, and keeping in the shadows, ran toward the house.
HE SAW THE DETECTIVE LED BY, HIS ARMS BOUND BEHIND HIM.
HE SAW THE DETECTIVE LED BY, HIS ARMS BOUND BEHIND HIM.
A beam of light streamed from one of the rear windows. Jack made for it, and cautiously approaching, peered within. The woman he had seen at the door was at a table, washing dishes, her back toward him. And just beyond, facing him, and bound hand and foot in a big arm-chair, was the detective.
For some minutes Jack tried in vain to attract the officer’s attention. Then the woman obligingly stepped into the pantry with some dishes, and quickly Jack gave a single tap on the window-pane. Boyle looked up instantly, started, smiled, then nodded his head in the direction of the railroad. Jack held up the parcel containing the telegraph instruments, the detective nodded again, and in a moment Jack was off.
It was an exhausting run over the rough, little-used road, now darkened by the overhanging trees; but at length Jack recognized the point at which he had been carried from the woods, and turning in, soon found himself at the railroad.
Hurrying to the nearest telegraph pole, he swarmed up to the cross-tree, and quickly filed through the wire on one side of the glass insulator. The broken wire fell jangling to the rails. Connecting an end of the wire he had brought with him to the wire on the other side of the pin, Jack slid to the ground, made the connections with the instrument, and the relay clicked closed.
At once someone on the wire sent, “Who had it open? What did you say?”
“Alex!” exclaimed Jack, at once recognizing the sending; and was about to break in when the instrument clicked, “17 just coming—CX.”
“Claxton, and 17! Just what we want!” Quickly interrupting, Jack sent, “CX—Hold 17! Hold her!”
Then, “To X—This is Jack, Al. I’m in the woods about four miles from Claxton. We found the freight thieves, but they have Boyle prisoner. Ask the chief to have 17 take on a posse at CX and rush them here. I’ll wait here, and lead them back. If they are quick they’ll capture the whole gang.”
“OK! OK! Good for you,” shot back Alex. The wire was silent a moment, then Jack heard the order go on to Claxton as desired.
Twenty-five minutes later, waiting in the darkness on the track, Jack saw the headlight of the fast-coming freight. The engineer, on the lookout, discovered him, pulled up, and a moment after Jack was off through the woods followed by two officers and several of the train crew.
When they reached the farm, lights were still moving about in the barn. Stealthily the party made for it, and surrounded it.
“How would you like to lead the way in, Jack?” whispered the sheriff as they paused before the door. “That would be only fair, after the trick Watts played on you.”
Jack caught at the idea delightedly, and all beingready, boldly threw open the barn door and entered with drawn revolver, followed by the sheriff.
The four occupants were so completely taken by surprise that for a moment they stood immovable about a box of dry-goods they had been repacking.
“How do you do, Mr. Watts,” said Jack, smiling. “This is my friend the sheriff, and the barn is surrounded. I think you would be foolish not to give up.”
“Yes, hands up!” crisply ordered the sheriff. And slowly the four pairs of hands went into the air, and the entire balance of the long-successful gang of freight thieves were prisoners.
It was Jack himself who rushed off to the house and freed Detective Boyle. A half hour later, with one of the robbers’ own wagons filled with a great quantity of recovered stolen goods, the sheriff escorted his prisoners back to the railroad, and before daylight they were in the jail at Eastfield.
Jack received considerable attention because of his part in the capture, and the affair still forms one of the popular yarns among trainmen on that division of the Middle Western.
XVTHE DUDE OPERATOR
Alex Ward, like most vigorous, manly boys of his type, had a fixed dislike for anything approaching foppishness, especially in other boys. Consequently when on reporting at the Exeter office one evening he was introduced to Wilson Jennings, Alex treated him with but little more than necessary courtesy. For the newcomer, an operator but little older than himself, was distinctly a “dude”—from his patent-leather shoes and polka-dotted stockings to his red-and-yellow banded white straw hat. His carefully-pressed suit was the very latest thing in light checked gray, he wore a collar which threatened to envelope his ears, and his white tie was of huge dimensions. Also he possessed the fair pink-and-white complexion of a girl.
Alex was not alone in his derisive attitude toward the stranger. Shortly following the appearance of the night chief Mr. Jennings nodded everyone a good-evening, and departed, and immediately there was a general roar of laughter in the operating-room.
“Where did he fall from?” “Whose complexion powder is he advertising?” “Did you get onto his picture socks?” were some of the remarks bandied about.
When the chief announced that the new operator was from the east, and was being sent to the little foothills tank-station of Bonepile, there was a fresh outburst of hilarity.
“Why, that cowboy outfit near there will string him up to the tank spout,” declared the operator on whose wire Bonepile was located. “It’s the toughest proposition on the wire.”
“On the quiet, that is just why Jordan is sending him,” the night chief said. “Not to have him strung up, that is, but to put him in the way of ‘finding himself,’ so to speak.”
“He’ll certainly ‘find himself’ there, then—if there’s anything left to find when the ranch crew get through,” laughed the operator. “I’d give five real dollars to see that show, and walk back.”
“At that, youmighthave to walk back, if you wagered your money on the outcome,” responded the chief more gravely, turning to his desk. “Clothes don’t make a man—neither do they un-make one. The ‘Dude’ may surprise us yet.”
Whether the outcome of his appointment to the little watering station was to be a surprise or no, there was no doubt of Wilson Jennings’ surprise when the following morning he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as the train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was entirely alone. Blankly he gazed at the little red-brown “drygoods-box” depot, the water-tank, the hills to the west, and to north, south and east the limitless stretching prairie. He had never imaginedanything like this when he had decided on giving up a good position in the east to taste “some adventure” in the great west.
However, here he was; and picking up his two suitcases, the boy made his way in to the tiny operating-room, and on into the bunk-kitchen-living-room behind. For here, “a hundred miles from anywhere,” the operator’s board and lodging was provided by the railroad.
Early that evening Wilson was sitting somewhat disconsolately at the telegraph-room window when he was startled by a loud whoop. There was a second, then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys came into view.
It was the “welcoming committee” of the Bar-O ranch, the “outfit” referred to by the operator at Exeter.
With a final whoop the cowmen thundered up to the station platform, and dismounted. Muskoka Jones, a huge, heavily-moustached ranchman over six feet in height, was first to reach the open window. Diving within to the waist, he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with a crash.
“Pardner, welcome to our city!” he shouted.
The response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead there was a strange quiet.
The following Bar-O’s faltered, and exchanged glances. Surely the Western had not at last “fallen down” on its first obligation at Bonepile! For since the coming of the rails they had regarded the stationoperator as a sort of social adjunct to the ranch—the keeper of an open house of hospitality, their daily paper, the final learned authority on all matters of politics and sport. And if this latest change of operators had brought them—
Muskoka spoke again, and the worst was realized.
“Well, you gal-faced little dude!”
The cowmen crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka’s board shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn.
Muskoka settled forward on his elbows.
“Are you a real operator?” he inquired.
In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself Wilson responded in the affirmative.
“Actooal, real, male operator?”
The cluster of bronzed faces guffawed loudly.
“But y’ don’t play kiards, do you?” Muskoka asked incredulously. “Now I bet you don’t. Or smoke? Or chew? Or any of them wicked—”
“Here are some cigarettes the other man left.” Hopefully the boy extended the package—to have it snatched from his hand, scramblingly emptied, and the box flipped ceilingward.
In falling the box brought further trouble. It struck something on the wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the cowmen espied Wilson’s new, brilliantly-banded hat. In a trice Muskoka’s long arm had secured it, with the common inspiration the cluster of faces withdrew; the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of shots, and theshattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.
“There—all proper millinaried dee la Bonepile,” said Muskoka. “An’ don’t mention it.”
“Now give me that white-washed fence you have around your ears.” The boy shrank farther back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for the telegraph key. In a moment the big cowman’s pistol was out.
“Back in your chair! Give me that white fence!” he commanded.
Trembling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The cowman stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it.
“There,” he announced, returning it, “much better. That’s Bonepile fashion. Put it on.”
Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of cowmen roared at the result.
“Now,” proceeded Muskoka, “that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I think it’d look better inside-out. Try it.”
Wilson again turned desperately toward the key, the cowman banged on the table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway—in shattered hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers rolled to his knees—a spectacle that set the cowboys staggering and shouting about the platform in convulsions of laughter.
In fact the result was so pleasing that after enjoyingit to the full, the ranchmen decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requesting of Wilson that he wave his hat and give “three cheers for the citizens of Bonepile,” they mounted their ponies, and scampered away.
Hastening in to the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically calling Exeter. Before X had responded, however, the boy paused, and sat back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes.
“Yes, sir; I’ll wager they sent them down here to do this,” he said aloud.
Suddenly he arose, and began removing the turned coat. “I’ll stick it out here for two weeks—if they lynch me!” declared the “dude” grimly.
It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard train.
On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused. “Why, it’s the night of Dan Haggerty’s dance,” he pointed out indignantly. “Doesn’t the superintendent know that?”
“The superintendent didn’t—and didn’t care,” was the response to the wired protest. “The driver was supposed to remain at all times. It was an old understanding.”
Understanding or not, Big Bill declined to remain, and stormed out the door, announcing that he would get someone down from the Bar-O ranch. Half an hour later Muskoka Jones appeared.
“Good evening. I’m sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir,” apologized Wilson.
“Good evening, Willie. Don’t mention it,” was the big cowman’s scornful response. Then, having momentarily paused to cast a contemptuous eye over the lad’s neat attire, he threw himself on the floor in the farthermost corner of the room, and promptly fell fast asleep.
Some time after darkness had fallen the young telegrapher, dozing in his chair at the instrument table, was startled into consciousness by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. With visions of Indians or robbers he sprang to the window, to discover a dim, tall figure dismounting on the platform. In alarm he turned to call the sleeping guard, but momentarily hesitating, looked again, the figure came into the light of the window, and with relief he recognized Iowa Burns, another of the Bar-O cowmen.
“Hello, kid,” said the newcomer, entering. “Where’s Old Muskoke?”
“Good evening. Over there, asleep, sir. I suppose you knew he was taking Mr. Smith’s place, guarding the gold until the train came in?”
“Sure, yes. I was there when Bill come up.” He crossed to the side of the snoring Jones, and kicked him sharply on the sole of his boots. “M’skoke! Gitup!” he shouted. “Here’s something to keep out the chills.”
Again, and more sharply, he kicked the sleeping man, while the boy looked on, smiling.
Suddenly the smile disappeared, and the lad’s heart leaped into his throat. He was gazing into the black, round muzzle of a pistol, and beyond it was a face set with a deadly purpose. Instinctively his staring eyes flickered towards the box of bullion.
“Yep, that’s it. But wink an eye agin, an’ y’ git it!” said Burns coldly, advancing. “Now, git back there up agin the corner of the table, an’ stand, so ’f anyone comes along you’ll appear to be leanin’ there, conversin’. Go on, quick!”
Dazed, cold with fear, the boy obeyed, and Iowa, producing a sheaf of hide thongs, proceeded to bind his arms to his side.
As the renegade tightened a knot securing the boy’s left leg to the leg of the table, Muskoka’s snoring abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved uneasily. In a flash Iowa was over him, pistol in hand. But the snoring presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment, Iowa returned to the boy.
“Now move, remember, an’ I shoot,” he repeated warningly. “To make sure, I’m going to fix up that snoring idiot over there before I finish you. An’ don’t you as much as shuffle your hoof!” Recovering the bundle of thongs, he strode back to the sleeper.
As previously the man’s back had been turned Wilson had shot a frantic glance about him. In theirsweep his eyes had fallen on the partly open drawer in the end of the table, immediately below his left hand, and in the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe. At the moment nothing had resulted, but as the renegade’s back was again turned his eyes again dropped to the drawer, and a sudden wild possibility occurred to him.
His heart seemed literally to stand still at the audacity, the danger of it. But might it not be possible? The light from the single lamp, on the wall opposite, was poor, and his left side thus in deep shadow. And his left hand—he tried it—yes, though tightly bound at the wrist, the hand itself was free.
His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka’s contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his opportunity of vindication.
With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough. Carefully he leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He reached the pipe, fumbled a moment, and secured it.
Burns was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a thong. An instant Wilson hesitated, then springing erect, pointed the pipe-stem, and in a voice he scarcely knew, a voice sharp as the crack of a whip, cried:
“Hands up, Burns! I got you!
“Quick! I’ll shoot!”
The renegade cowman, taken completely by surprise, leaped to his feet with a cry, without turning, his hands instinctively half-raised.
“Quick! Up!Up!” cried the boy. A breathlessly critical instant the hands wavered, then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended.
For a moment the young operator stood panting, but half believing the witness of his own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then at the top of his voice he cried: “Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Muskoka! Wake up! Wake up!”
Iowa, muttering beneath his breath, paused anxiously to watch results.
“Muskoka! Muskoka!” shouted the lad. The snoring continued evenly, unbrokenly.
Iowa indulged in a dry laugh. “Save your wind, kid,” he said. “I fixed a drink he took before he came down.”
At this news the boy’s heart sank.
“But look here, kid.” Iowa turned carefully, hands still in the air. “Look here, can’t we square this thing up? You got the drop on me, O K—and with a blame little pea-shooter,” he added, catching a glimpse, as he thought, of the end of a small black barrel, but nevertheless continuing his attitude of surrender. “You got the drop—and you’re a smart kid, you are—but can’t we fix this thing up? You take half, say? I’d be glad to let you in. Honest! An’ no one’d ever think you was in the game. Come, what d’ y’ say?”
Though apparently listening, the young operator was in reality urgently casting about in his mind for other expedients. Obviously it would be too dangerous to attempt to reach with the fingers of one of his bound hands the thongs holding his left leg to the leg of the table. He might reveal the pipe, or drop it. And neither could he reach the telegraph key, to get in touch with someone on the wire. And in any case, how could that help him? For the next train was not due for two hours, and it did not seem possible he could carry on his bluff that length of time.
But think as he would, the wire seemed the only hope. Could he not reach the key in some way?
The solution came as Iowa ventured a short step nearer, and repeated his suggestion. At first sight it seemed as ridiculously impossible as the bluff with the pipe, but quickly the boy weighed the chances, and determined to take the risk.
“Now, Mr. Iowa,” he said, “you are to do just exactly what I tell you, step by step, so much and no more. If you make any other move, if I only think you are going to, I shall shoot. My finger is pressing the trigger constantly. And I guess you can see that at this range, though my hold on the gun is a bit cramped, I could not miss you if I wanted to.
“Listen, now. You will come forward until you can reach the chair here by sticking out your foot. Then you will push it back along the table to the wall, and turn it face to me. Then you will sit down in it. After that I’ll tell you some more.
“Go ahead! And remember—my finger always pressing the trigger!”
As Burns came forward, infinitely puzzled, the boy turned slowly, so that the “muzzle” of the pipe continued to cover the would-be bullion thief. Gingerly Iowa reached out with his foot and shoved the chair back to the wall, and turning, backed into it and sat down. With the shadow of a grin on his face, he demanded, “Wot next?”
“Now, slowly let your left arm down at full length on the table. There—hand is on the key, isn’t it?
“Now,” continued Wilson, who never for an instant allowed his eyes to wander from the man’s face, “now feel with your fingers at the back of the key, and find a screw-head, standing up.”
“Which one? There are two or three,” said Iowa craftily.
“No, there are not. There’s just one. And I give you ‘three’ to find it,” said the young operator sharply. “One, two—”
“Oh, go on! I got it!” exclaimed Iowa angrily.
“Below the screw-head is a binding-nut. Loosen it, and turn it leftwise. Found it? Now take hold of the screw-head again, and turn it to the left. It turns free, doesn’t it?”
“Sure.”
“Turn it about four times completely around. Now the binding nut again, down, the other way, till it’s tight. Got it?
“Now, hold your finger tips over the black buttonat the inner end of the key, and hit down on it smartly.”
There was a click.
“That’s it. It has plenty of play, hasn’t it?”
“Works up and down about an inch, if that’s wot you mean,” growled Iowa, still puzzled. “But wot—”
“I’m going to give you a lesson in telegraphy and you are going to—”
Iowa saw, and exploded. “Well, of all the—Say, wot do you think—”
“All right!” Sharply, bravely, though inwardly steeling himself for catastrophe, the lad counted, “One!—Two!—”
Again he won. “Oh, go on!” sputtered Iowa, through gritting teeth. And the boy resumed.
“Hit the key a sharp rap! Pretty good. Now, two raps, one right after the other. Good.
“Now, those are what we call ‘dots.’ Remember. Now, press the key down, hold it for just a moment, and let it come up again. Very good. You would learn telegraphy quickly, Mr. Burns. That is what we call a ‘dash.’” With the situation apparently so well in hand, Wilson was beginning almost to enjoy it.
“Now I’ll have you do what I’ve been aiming at. And remember always—my finger is constantly pressing the trigger!”
“Now then, feel just this side of the key button, below. The little button of a lever? Got it? Press it from you.”
There was a single sharp upward click of relay and sounder. The key was “open,” ready for operation.
“Now listen. I want you to make the letter X—a dot, a dash, then two more dots right together. And keep repeating till I stop you.”
Still under the spell of the fancied revolver and the boy’s unfaltering gaze, the renegade cowman obeyed, and the telegraph instruments clicked out a painfully deliberate, but fairly readable “X.”
It was an idle half-hour, and when the despatcher at Exeter heard his call he glanced up from a magazine, listened a moment, and impatiently remarking, “Some idiot student!” returned to his reading.
But steadily, insistently, the repetition of X’s continued, and at length he reached forward, struck open the key, and demanded, “Who? Sign!”
Clumsily came the answer, “B.”
“Bonepile! Now what’s happening down there? It doesn’t sound like the new operator, either.”
The wire again clicked open, and slowly, in the same heavy hand, the mystified and then amazed despatcher read:
“H-E-L-P—H-E-L-D U-P—A-F-T-E-R G-O-L-D—T-I-E-D T-O T-A-B-L-E—G-O-T D-R-O-P O-N H-I-M—M-A-K-I-N-G H-I-M S-E-N-D—B.”
The despatcher grasped his key. “Good boy! Good boy!” he hurled back. “Keep it up for twenty-five minutes and we’ll get help to you. There’s an extra engine at H, waiting for 92. I’ll start her rightdown.” And therewith he whirled off into an urgent succession of “H’s.”
But through young Jennings’ strange feat in telegraphy help was nearer even than the unexpected succor from Hillside. Despite the sleeping draught Burns had administered to Muskoka Jones, the unaccustomed clicking of the telegraph instruments had begun to arouse the big cowman. When finally, in climax, came the lightning whirr of the despatcher’s excited response, he gasped into consciousness, blinked, and suddenly found himself sitting upright, staring open-mouthed at the spectacle before him.
The next moment, with a shout, he was on his feet in the middle of the floor, and the nerve-strung boy had fainted.
As the lad sank forward his “pistol” fell from his hand and rolled into the light.
From Burns came an inarticulate cry, his jaw dropped, his eyes started in his head. Muskoka halted in his stride, wet his lips and muttered incredulous words of admiration and amazement. Then in a moment he had cut Wilson free, and stretched him on the floor.
It was Iowa broke the silence. Rising, with compressed lips he held toward Muskoka the butt of his pistol. “Here, shoot me—with my own gun!” he said hoarsely. “I deserve it.”
Muskoka considered. “No,” he decided at length. “Leave your gun as a present for the kid, and,” turning and indicating the door, “git!”
Thus was it the young “dude” operator proved himself, and came into possession of a handsome pearl-handled Colt’s revolver—and, early the following morning, from a “committee” of the Bar-O cowmen, headed by Muskoka Jones, a fine high-crowned, silver-spangled Mexican sombrero, to take the place of the hat they had destroyed, and “as a mark of esteem for the pluckiest little operator ever sent to Bonepile.”
More important still, however, the incident won Wilson immediate esteem at division headquarters, where one of the first of the operators to congratulate him was Alex Ward.