“There, you lobster,” he said to Pinkey, wiping off the perspiration, “now fill her up.”
Pinkey lowered the spout of the water-tank, opened the gate and let the water rush down into the tank of the engine. It would hold seven thousand gallons, and the fireman waited until the water brimmed over the top and splashed down along the sides before he turned it off.
“Now,” he said, defiantly, to Michaels, “you see fer yourself she’s full. Th’ way she’s steamin’, I bet that won’t carry us to Stewart.”
The engineer grunted contemptuously.
“Remarkable, ain’t it, how much these green firemen know?” he remarked to the front brakeman, as he gently opened the throttle.
“You’ll see,” said Pinkey, doggedly, and fell to work “ladling in the lampblack.”
Michaels watched him for a few moments in silence.
“What’s the matter?” he inquired, at length. “Got a hole in the fire-box?”
“No; why?” asked Pinkey, pausing between two shovelfuls.
“Somebody buried back there, an’ you’re tryin’ to dig him out?” pursued the engineer, with a gesture toward the pile of coal in the tender.
“What you talkin’ about, anyway?” demanded Pinkey, staring at him in amazement.
“Say, Jim,” said the engineer to the brakeman, “take that scoop away from that idiot, will ye? Pinkey, git up there on your box an’ set down or I’ll report ye fer wastin’ th’ company’s fuel.”
“She won’t steam without coal,” protested Pinkey.
“No; nor she won’t steam with a bellyful like that, either,” retorted the engineer, throwing on the draft. “Now I’ve got t’ blow about half of it out the smoke-stack.”
He watched grimly as the black smoke swirled upward from the stack and blew away to the left toward a little farmhouse.
“That feller’ll think he’s livin’ in Pittsburg,” remarked the brakeman, as the smoke closed down over the house and shut it from view for an instant.
Michaels snorted with laughter. Then he opened the injector again—and again the steam spurted out into the cab.
Without waiting for an order, Pinkey bent and opened the tank-cock. A thin little trickle told that the water in the tank was almost exhausted.
“Great Jehoshaphat!” cried Michaels, and stared in perplexity at the brakeman. “Th’ tank’s sprung a leak,” he said, at last, with conviction. “I ain’t pumped a hundred gallon into her since we left Little Hocking.”
“They ain’t no leak,” asserted Pinkey. “I went all around th’ tank, an’ it ain’t leakin’ a drop. I don’t believe it’ll carry us further ’n Coolville,” he added, triumphantly.
Michaels turned back to his engine without trusting himself to reply; but it was only by the most careful nursing that those six miles were covered and the water-plug at Coolville reached. There the engineer made a personal inspection of the tank while Pinkey filled it, and he found, as the fireman had said, that it was perfectly tight. Allan, who was as deeply puzzled as any one, also examined the tank, and with the same result.
The conductor sauntered forward while the tank was being filled, and watched the operation with considerable curiosity.
“Say,” he asked, at last, “what ’re you fellers up to, anyway? Tryin’ t’ create a water famine?”
“Oh, go back to your dog-house an’ go to sleep,” retorted Michaels, whose temper was beginning to give way under the strain.
“I can’t sleep more’n eight hours at a stretch. Think we’ll be to Athens by then?”
The engineer picked up a lump of coal, and the conductor hastily retreated.
“Say,” he sung out over his shoulder, “don’t fergit there’s a pen-stock at Stewart. Don’t pass it—it might feel slighted,” and he dodged the lump of coal, as it whizzed past his head.
“Blamed fool!” muttered Michaels, and settled into his seat.
But the four men in the cab were strangely silent as the train started westward again. There was something mysterious and alarming about all this—something positively supernatural in the disappearance of fourteen thousand gallons of water within an hour. The engineer tried his injector nervously from time to time, but for half an hour or so it worked properly, and squirted the water into the boiler as required. Then, suddenly, came the spurt of steam which told that there was no more water to squirt.
“Well,” said the engineer, in an awed voice,“that beats me. Even with th’ injector open all th’ time, no engine could drink water that way—why, it ’d flood her an’ flow out of her cupolo! Besides, her boiler ain’t more ’n half-full!”
Pinkey mechanically tried the cock again, and with the same result—the tank was nearly empty. Then, in a sort of trance, he turned to shovel in some more coal, but finding there was none lying loose within easy reach, took his rake, and climbed up the pile at the back of the tender, like a man walking in his sleep, and started to pull some coal down into the gangway.
An instant later, his companions heard a shriek of utter horror, audible even above the rattle of the engine, and the fireman rolled in a limp heap down the pile of coal, his face white as death, his eyes fairly starting from his head. If any man ever looked as though he had seen a ghost, Pinkey Jones was that man, and his terror was communicated in some degree to his companions.
“For God’s sake!” cried the brakeman, at last, seizing Pinkey by the collar and pulling him to an upright position. “What’s the matter?”
Instead of answering, Pinkey, his teeth chattering, tried to jump off the engine. The fireman grabbed him and pulled him back by main force.
“Come!” he said, shaking him fiercely. “Brace up! Be a man! What’s the matter?”
“Th—there’s a snake up there,” stuttered Pinkey. “Let me go!”
“A snake!”
“Big as my leg,” added Pinkey. “Black, with a red mouth! Let me go!”
The brakeman slammed him down on the seat and picked up the rake, while Allan armed himself with the bar of iron used for stirring up the fire.
“What was he doing?” asked the brakeman, when these preparations had been made.
“He—he had his head in the tank,” said Pinkey. “When he heard me comin’, he lifted it up an’ squirted water all over me!”
“Squirted water!” repeated Michaels, incredulously. “A snake? Oh, come!”
“Well, look at me,” said Pinkey. And indeed, they saw now that he was completely soaked.
“Why, he must ’a’ sent a stream like a fire-hose!” said the brakeman.
“He did,” agreed Pinkey. “It hit me so hard it knocked me backward down that pile o’ coal,” and he rubbed his head ruefully.
The three men in the cab stared at each other in amazement. A snake that could knock a man down with a stream of water!
“Well,” said Bill Michaels, grimly, at last, “all I kin say is that if they ever puts that snake on exhibition th’ biggest circus tent on earth won’t hold th’ crowds.”
“I’m goin’ up t’ take a look at him,” announced the brakeman, grasping the rake.
“I’ll go with you,” said Allan, reflecting that,after all, a snake which did nothing more than deluge its assailants with water was not so very dangerous, and he followed the brakeman up the pile of coal.
The latter reached the top and peered cautiously over. The next instant, his cap flew from his head, carried away by a stream of water which whistled past him and fell upon Allan. The brakeman ducked, and the two crouched for a moment staring into each other’s eyes.
“Well, I’ll be blamed!” said the brakeman, hoarsely.
“Did you see anything?” asked Allan.
“Nothin’ but a thing that looked like a nozzle squirtin’ water at me!” and he wiped the water from his eyes. “Well, I’m as wet now as I kin git. I’m a-goin’ to see what it is,” and again he elevated his head cautiously over the top of the pile of coal.
Allan saw a stream of water strike him violently in the face; but he held his place and shook it off, and the next instant, roaring with laughter, fairly rolled down the coal into the cab, carrying the boy with him.
“What is it?” asked Pinkey with bated breath.
Allan shook his head and pointed to the brakeman, who sat on the floor of the cab, rocking to and fro, holding his sides, with tears and water running down his cheeks.
“He’s gone crazy!” cried Pinkey. “He’s seen it an’ ’s gone crazy!”
“Ho! ho!” roared the brakeman. “If you’d ’a’ seen his eye! If you’d only seen his eye!”
Michaels, who had managed to keep his lookout ahead only in the most intermittent fashion, closed the throttle and applied the brakes.
“I’m a-goin’ t’ see what this is,” he said, savagely, “if we never move another foot! What was it you seen, Jim? Whose eye?”
“If you’d ’a’ seen his little wicked eye!” yelled the brakeman. “Oh! I must go up an’ look at it agin!”
But the train creaked to a stop, and the engineer jumped down from his seat and seized Jim fiercely.
“Here, you,” he cried. “What is it? Speak out, or by George—”
“It’s th’ elephant!” gasped Jim. “Oh, if you’d ’a’ seen his eye a-twinklin’!”
Michaels dropped the brakeman and jumped to the ground, the others following. And there, sure enough, with his trunk sticking out of a little window in the front end of the car just back of the tender was the elephant. Even as they looked, the trunk stretched forward, and the end of it disappeared through the manhole in the top of the tank.
“What’s up?” inquired the conductor, running up from the rear of the train. “What you stoppin’ out here for, Bill? They’s no plug here!”
A stream of water caught him squarely on the side of the face, and left him dazed and speechless.The engineer, fireman, and brakeman danced around, yelling and slapping their knees.
The conductor jumped out of range, wiped away the water, and regarded them disgustedly.
“Well, of all the blame fools!” he said. “It don’t take much to amuse some people.”
“What’s the joke?” asked the rear brakeman, coming up at that moment.
The elephant saw him, took deadly aim, and fired. The brakeman, with a yell of dismay, clapped his hands to his face. When he had cleared the water from his eyes, he saw four men dancing spasmodically up and down, fairly howling with mirth.
The brakeman gazed at them for a moment without comment, then turned on his heel and walked back to the caboose, waving his arms in the air in a very ecstasy of rage.
“Look at his eye,” gasped the front brakeman, when he could get his breath, and indeed the elephant’s right optic, which was the only one visible through the little window, was shining with unholy glee. He was having the time of his life.
The trainmen finally calmed down sufficiently to call one of the animal attendants, and an investigation followed. It was found that the elephant had managed to open the shutter which closed the little window by pulling out the catch. He had put his trunk through the window, and after some exploration, had found the opening through which the tank was filled. The cool water within had attractedhim, he had drank his fill, had given himself and the other occupants of the car a shower-bath and had then devoted himself to sprinkling the right of way until the water in the tank got too low for him to reach. Then he had retired within his car to meditate; but afterwards, finding the tank full again, had repeated the performance, and doubtless would have kept on doing so all the way to Cincinnati if he had not been discovered.
The shutter was closed and nailed shut, and the train finally proceeded on its way. At the next station, the conductor filed a message for headquarters, which the operator dutifully sent in.
“Extra west, Engine 1438, delayed twenty minutes by elephant. Stewart.”
The dispatcher who received the message requested that the word before the signature be repeated.
“E-l-e-p-h-a-n-t,” repeated the operator.
“What do you mean by elephant?” queried the dispatcher.
The operator happened to have a little pocket dictionary at hand, for he was not always sure of his spelling. He referred to it now.
“Elephant,” he answered, “a five-toed proboscian mammal.”
And what the dispatcher said in reply cannot be repeated here.
A CALL FOR AID
Allan had learned as much of the science of train-dispatching as it is possible to do without actual experience, and he was duly appointed operator at headquarters and extra dispatcher. He had a desk in the dispatchers’ office, where he worked ten and sometimes twelve hours a day receiving and sending the multitudinous messages which passed between the various officials of the road. This work was in one way not such good training for a future dispatcher as a trick out on the road, for here he had nothing whatever to do with the movement of trains; but on the other hand he was constantly in touch with the dispatchers, he could listen to their conversation and pick up matters of detail which no one would have thought to tell him; in such leisure moments as he had, he could sit down before the train-sheet and watch the actual business of dispatching trains; he could see how unusual problems were solved and unusual difficulties met; and all the information picked up thus, as it were, at haphazard, he stored away for future use, certain that it would some day be needed.
Not infrequently one of the dispatchers would relinquish his chair to him, and, for an hour or so, look after the operator’s duties, while Allan did the actual work of dispatching. But he knew that this was not a real test, for, in case of emergency, help was always at hand. It was with him much as it is with those amateur sociologists who assume the garb and habits of the poor, and imagine that they are tasting all the misery of life in the slums; forgetting that its greatest misery, its utter hopelessness, they can never taste, since they have only to walk out and away from the life whenever they choose, and be rid of it for ever. So Allan, in case of need, had only to lift his finger, and aid was at hand.
But at last the time came around when one of the dispatchers was to take his vacation; and one night, Allan reported for duty, to take the third trick on the east end. It was not without a certain tingling of the nerves that he sat down in the chair, looked over the sheet, and carefully read the written explanation of train-orders in force which the second-trick man had prepared for him.
“Understand?” the latter asked, when Allan had finished.
“Yes, I think so,” said the boy, and the dispatcher, nodding, took up his lunch-basket and left the office.
The weight of responsibility weighed on the boy for a time, and it was with no little nervousnessthat he transmitted his first order; but this feeling gradually wore away and was replaced by one of confidence. After all, there was no cause to worry. The position of every train was marked there on the sheet before him; there was no excuse for mistake. And yet, as he thought of those mighty engines rushing through the night with their precious burdens, obedient to his orders, his pulses quickened with a sense of power.
Fortunately business was light and the trains were running on time, so he really had little to do; and when, at last, his relief came at seven o’clock, he arose from the desk with a sense of work well done, without mistake or accident. For two weeks, night after night, he sat at that desk, ordering the traffic over that hundred miles of track, and with every night he felt his confidence increase. Problems arose, of course, but his training had been of the very best; he never lost his head or his nerve, and when, at last, the dispatcher came back from his vacation, Allan returned to the operator’s desk conscious that he had “made good,” and that he would be strong enough to climb the ladder of promotion for some rounds, at least.
He had been kept at the office rather later than usual the evening after he had resumed his work as operator, for there happened to be a sudden rush of business to be attended to, and it was after six o’clock when he finally put on his coat and started home to supper. As he entered the dining-room,he saw that supper had not yet been served, and from the kitchen he heard Jack’s voice raised excitedly.
“That you, Allan?” called Jack. “Come on out here.”
The boy entered the kitchen and saw Jack standing near the lamp, the evening paper in his hand.
“Did ye see this?” he asked, holding out the paper, and pointing to some flaring headlines on the first page. They read:
DARING ESCAPE!Four Convicts Scale the Wall of theState Prison!
GUARD WHO TRIED TO STOP THEMSERIOUSLY INJURED!
Had Made a Rope of Their Bedclothing and CarefullyArranged the Details of Their Plan!
No Present Trace of Their Whereabouts—Had Been Sentfrom Ross County under Ten-year Sentencefor Train-wrecking!
Not until he read the last line did Allan understand why Jack appeared so interested.
“Them’s our men,” said Jack; “but read the article.”
“Don’t read it now,” protested Mary; “supper’s about spoiled as it is.” And then an odourfrom the stove caused her to fly to it. “Look a-there, now,” she added, “th’ p’taties nearly burned up! Come along, both o’ ye,” and taking the paper inexorably from Allan, she pushed them all in toward the table. “They’s no use in lettin’ th’ supper spile, even if all th’ convicts in th’ pen. got loose!”
Which, indeed, was true. And Allan did not fully understand the cause of Jack’s excitement until, near the end of the meal, a single remark fell from him.
“Well, all I’ve got t’ say,” he remarked, “is that I certainly pity Dan Nolan if them fellys git hold o’ him!”
Allan looked up with sudden interest.
“You haven’t heard anything from Nolan?” he asked.
“No,” said Jack; “but I’d like t’ bet them fellys’ll soon find out where he is. They ain’t a tramp’ll stand by him arter what he did, an’ they’ll pass th’ word along where he’s likely t’ be found. I reckon Nolan went south fer th’ winter, but it wouldn’t surprise me t’ see him show up around here afore th’ summer’s over.”
“Maybe he’s not a tramp,” objected Allan. “Maybe he’s working somewhere.”
“Workin’ nothin’!” exclaimed Jack, disgustedly. “Why, he’s fergot how.”
“Well, anyway,” said Allan, "I don’t believe he’ll ever come around here again. He’s brokenhis parole and he knows the minute he sets foot in this State he’s in danger of being clapped back into prison."
“Yes, he knows that,” admitted Jack, “an’ yet I don’t believe even that’ll keep him away. They’s a kind o’ fascination seems t’ draw a man back t’ th’ place where he’s committed a crime. If they wasn’t, lots more’d escape than do.”
“Well,” laughed Allan, “I hope no fascination will draw our friends the train-wreckers back to this neighbourhood. But perhaps they’re safe in jail again before this.”
The morning papers, however, showed that they were anything but safe in jail. They had disappeared completely, and there seemed every reason to believe that confederates had been waiting to assist them, and that they had been able to discard their convict garb as soon as they reached the street. This conjecture became a certainty on the following day, when a labourer, cleaning one of the sewer inlets near the prison, had fished out four suits of convict clothing. All the mechanism of the law was set in motion in the effort to recapture them; descriptions and photographs were sent to every police-station in the middle west, a large reward was offered, the police drag-nets were drawn in, heavy with suspects, but the four fugitives were not among them. At the end of a week, the public, diverted by new sensations, had nearly forgottenthe episode, and Allan himself had long since ceased to think about it.
Allan had just finished up his work for the day. The hook was clear, and with a little sigh of relief, he closed his key after sending the last message. It had been a hard day, for all of the officers were out on the road at various points, and many of the messages that came to headquarters for them had to be repeated to the station where they happened to be at the moment.
The boy glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly six; then he rose, stretched himself, and was putting on his coat when the door opened and the chief-dispatcher came in. One glance at his worried countenance told the boy that something was wrong.
“I just got a ’phone from the hospital,” he said, “that Roscoe, the night man at Coalville, was hurt awhile ago. He was coming down to catch his train, when a runaway horse knocked him down and broke his leg.”
“Who’s going out?” inquired one of the dispatchers.
“I don’t know yet,” answered the chief, a line of worry between his eyes. “I’ve sent the caller after Hermann. Here he is now,” he added, as the caller hurried into the office. “Well?”
“Hermann can’t come,” the caller announced. “He’s sick in bed with the grip.”
The chief glanced at the clock.
“We’ve only got ten minutes,” he said. “Whoever goes has got to catch the accommodation.”
“Why can’t I go?” asked Allan, coming forward. “I’ll be glad to, if it’ll be any help.”
“Will you?” said the chief, eagerly. “Good for you! But you’ve had a hard day. I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” he added. “I’ll hunt up an extra man at Parkersburg or Athens and send him to Coalville on Number Eleven. That will let you off at midnight.”
“All right,” agreed Allan. “I can stand it that long. But I want something to eat before I start.”
“Get a lunch at the restaurant. They can fix up a basket for you and you can eat it on the train.”
Allan nodded and went down the steps three at a time. It was raining heavily, but he dodged around the corner of the building into the restaurant without getting very wet, and six minutes later, basket in hand, he jumped aboard the accommodation, waving his hand to the chief-dispatcher, who stood looking anxiously from the window of his office to be sure that the boy made the train.
He was genuinely hungry, and he devoted the first fifteen minutes to a consumption of the lunch which the restaurant-keeper had put up for him. Then the conductor, who had glanced at his pass, nodded, and gone on to collect the tickets, came back and sat down beside him.
“I thought you had a trick in the dispatchers’ office?” he said.
“I have,” answered Allan, “but I’m going out to Coalville on an emergency call. The night man there had his leg broken, awhile ago, and the chief couldn’t get anybody in a hurry to take his place. So I volunteered.”
“Yes,” said the conductor, “I saw Roscoe hurt, and it was the queerest accident I ever heard of. I was coming down Main Street to report for duty, and I saw Roscoe coming down Bridge, with his lunch-basket in his hand. There was a horse hitched to a buggy standing at the corner, and a man who seemed to be fixing something about the harness. Well, sir, just as Roscoe stepped in front of it, that horse gave a leap forward, went right over him, and galloped lickety-split up the street. It was stopped up near the canal, not much hurt. But I couldn’t understand what started it. There wasn’t a thing to scare it, and it had been standing quiet as a lamb the minute before.”
“Itwasqueer,” agreed Allan, thoughtfully. “Whose horse was it?”
“It was a livery-stable rig. A stranger had hired it for the afternoon. The livery-stable people said the horse had never run away before.”
“Did you find out who the stranger was?”
“No; but he was rather a nice-looking fellow. It was him who was fixing the harness. He helped pick Roscoe up and carry him into Steele’s drugstore,and seemed to be mighty sorry for what had happened. He stayed till the doctor came and found Roscoe’s right leg broken, and helped lift him into the ambulance which took him to the hospital. Then he went up to pay the damages at the livery-stable. He was a drummer, I reckon. There’s a fellow in the smoker looks a good deal like him. I thought it was him, at first, and spoke to him, but he didn’t seem to know me.”
The train slowed up for a station and the conductor hurried away to attend to his duties. But nobody got aboard and he soon came back and sat down again by Allan.
“Business light to-night,” he remarked, and, indeed, there was not more than six or eight people on the train. “Though I’ve got two passengers,” he added, “riding in the baggage-car.”
“In the baggage-car?”
“Yes; they’re taking out the money to pay off the miners at Coalville, to-morrow morning. They’ve got a big, iron-bound chest, about all that four men can lift, and they’re sitting on it, armed to the teeth. There’s probably fifty or sixty thousand dollars in it. They take it out that way every month.”
“Isn’t there a bank at Coalville?”
“A bank? Bless your heart, no! The coal company runs a sort of little savings institution for its employees; but they don’t pay any interest, and I’ve heard it said they don’t encourage their mento save anything. You see, as long as they can keep the men living from hand to mouth, there’s less danger of a strike; and if they do strike, it don’t take very long to starve ’em out. Oh, the company’s wise! It don’t want any bank at Coalville. Besides, I don’t imagine anybody’d be especially anxious to start a bank there. They’d be afraid the miners ’d get drunk some night and clean it out.”
“Are they so bad as all that?”
“They’re a tough gang, especially when they get liquor in them. The company doesn’t take any chances with them. It banks its money at Wadsworth and brings out just enough every month to pay them off. There’s always a wagon and half a dozen armed men ready to take it over to the company’s office, which is fitted up like a fort, and by noon next day, it’s all paid out and a big slice of it’s spent.”
“Why don’t they pay by check?”
“They tried it, but the saloon-keepers at Coalville charged five per cent. for cashing them and the men kicked.”
“Well, it strikes me it’s pretty dangerous,” remarked Allan.
“Oh, I don’t know. Nothing’s ever happened yet. Robbers, I don’t care how desperate they are, ain’t fond of running up against a gang of men armed with Winchesters,” and he went off to make another tour of the train.
THE TREASURE CHEST
Coalville was a hamlet worthy of its name, for its people not only mined coal, they breathed it, ate it, slept in it, and absorbed it at every pore. The town was divided into two parts, one on the hillside, the other in the valley. That portion on the hillside was popularly known as “Stringtown,” and consisted of row upon row of houses, all built upon the same plan, and arranged upon the slope which mounted gently upward from the mouth of the mine which gave the town its only reason for existence. These houses consisted invariably of three rooms and an attic, and into them were crowded the miners, for the most part Slavs or Poles. They had been brought direct from Europe, the immigration laws to the contrary notwithstanding, shipped out to the mine in car-load lots, assigned to the houses which were to be their homes, supplied with the tools necessary to mining, and put to work. By incessant labour, they were able to earn enough to provide themselves and their ever-increasing families with food enough to keep bodyand soul together, and clothing enough to cover their nakedness. More they did not ask. They were not compelled to serve in the army, they were not under police surveillance, they paid no taxes. So they were happy and contented, imagining themselves free.
Down in the valley, a quarter of a mile away, was the town proper—that is to say, about a hundred houses, larger, cleaner, and more pretentious than the hovels on the hillside. Here the superintendents lived, the bosses, the office force, and most of the Americans employed about the mine. Here, too, were the bakery, the two stores, supposed to be run upon a competitive basis, but really under one management, and the fifteen saloons into which no small portion of the miners’ wages went, and which yielded an annual profit of about a thousand per cent. on the investment.
The company which owned the mine owned the town,—not the residences only, but the stores, the barber-shop, the bakery, the boarding-house, and even the saloons. The money which it paid out in wages flowed back to it, practically undiminished, through one of these channels; and these minor industries contributed in no small degree to the handsome dividends, issued quarterly, which the mine paid. Perhaps if the stockholders had known just how these dividends were earned, they might not have received them so complacently; but none of them thought it worth while to inquire—or perhapsthey feared to investigate too closely the sources of so satisfactory an income.
The town was not upon the railroad, which passed about half a mile to the east of it. Two spurs of track connected the mine with the main line, but these spurs were used solely for the company’s business, and no passengers were carried over them. Hence it was necessary for every one wishing to leave the town to tramp half a mile along a road muddy or dusty, according to the weather, to the little frame shack on the main line, which served as a station for the town. It may be that the exertion needed to leave the town was one reason why so many persons, once they had arrived there, remained, and never thereafter emancipated themselves from bondage to coal-dust, nor saw the sky except through the black clouds arising ceaselessly from the dumps. To only one class of person did the town turn a cold shoulder, and that was to the labour organizer. The company was most anxious to keep its men free from the “union” microbe, which was working such disastrous results upon the dividends of other mining enterprises; it believed that it was the best and most proper judge of the wages which its men should receive. Therefore, whenever a union man struck the town he found himself unable to secure a place to sleep or food to eat—he had to get out or starve; when he asked for employment, he found all the places taken and no prospect of a job anywhere. The company,however, was generous; if the applicant happened to be out of money, he could always secure the funds necessary to take him away from Coalville.
The train pulled up before the little Coalville station on time; and Allan reported at once for duty and relieved the day man, who lived at Athens, and who hurried out to catch the accommodation, which would take him home.
For twenty minutes, Allan devoted himself to looking over the orders on the hook and getting acquainted with the position of trains; then his attention was attracted by a heavy bumping on the floor of the little waiting-room. It sounded as though a heavy trunk was being brought in, but when he looked through the ticket-window, he saw two men rolling a heavy chest end over end across the room.
The Coalville station contained three rooms. At one end was the waiting-room, with a row of benches along the wall; in the centre was the office, about six feet wide, in which the operator worked; and beyond it was another room where freight for Coalville was stored until it could be hauled away. There was a door from the office into both waiting-room and freight-shed as shown in the diagram.
It will be seen that the station had been constructed just as cheaply as possible. The passenger traffic to and from Coalville was not such as to require elaborate accommodations, and the freight for the town was allowed to take care of itself the best it could.
The Station at Coalville
The men who were bringing in the chest stopped where they had it in the middle of the waiting-room, and one of them, looking up, caught Allan’s eye as he looked at them through the ticket-window.
“We’d like to put this box in the freight-shed for awhile,” said the stranger. “The door’s locked, and we thought maybe you’d let us take it through your office.”
“Why, certainly,” answered Allan, who suspected at once that this was the chest containing the money for the miners, and he opened the door and helped them through with it. It was certainly heavy, but its weight, Allan decided, was more from its massive, iron-bound construction than from its contents.
The men went on into the freight-shed with it, and Allan heard them talking together, but he was called back to his instrument to take an order and for the moment forgot them. Presently one of them came out again, passed through the office, jumped down the steps of the waiting-room, and hastened away into the darkness.
It happened that there were two coal-trains to be started westward to Cincinnati just then, so perhaps half an hour passed before Allan looked up again. When he did so, he found the other custodian of the box standing at his elbow. He was a tall, slim man of middle age, with a black mustacheand dare-devil expression, which somehow made Allan think that he had been a cowboy. The slouch hat which he wore pulled down over his eyes added to this effect, as did the repeating rifle whose butt rested on the floor beside him. When the boy looked up, he nodded sociably, and sat down on the end of the table, one leg swinging in the air.
“It allers did beat me,” he began, “how a feller could learn t’ understand one o’ them little machines,” motioning toward the sounder.
“All it takes is practice,” answered Allan, leaning back in his chair. “It’s like everything else. Now I couldn’t hit a barn door with that rifle of yours, but I dare say you could hit a much smaller object.”
“Why, yes,” drawled the other, patting the gun affectionately. “Ihevpicked off my man at six hundred yards.”
“Your man?”
“I used t’ be depitty sheriff of Chloride County, Arizony,” explained the stranger. “Hopkins is my name—Jed Hopkins. Mebbe you’ve heerd o’ me?”
But Allan was forced to confess that he never had.
“Well, I’ve seen some excitin’ times,” Hopkins went on. “But life out thar ain’t what it was twenty year ago. I got disgusted an’ come back east an’ got this job.”
“Which job?” asked Allan.
“Oh, I’m special constable an’ guardeen o’ th’ company’s property. Not much doin’ now; but last year we had a strike, and I tell you, sir, things was fast an’ furious fer a couple o’ weeks. But them dagoes never saves no money—so we soon starved ’em out. I reckon that’s one reason th’ company pays in cash—a dago with cash in his pocket can’t pass a gin-shop—an’ they’s fifteen in Coalville, one right arter th’ other. About th’ only thing I’ve got t’ do now is to guard th’ company’s cash. That’s what’s in that big box in yonder,” he added, easily.
“Isn’t there some danger?” asked the boy.
“Danger?” repeated Hopkins, scornfully. “I should say not. Them vermin know me too well!”
Again his instrument called, and again Allan turned to answer it. Hopkins arose, went to the door of the waiting-room, and looked up and down the track.
“They’s usually a wagon waitin’ fer us,” he went on, coming back after a moment and resuming his seat. “Th’ company’s got an office, over at th’ mine, lined with steel an’ with steel shutters to th’ winders, with little loopholes in ’em. They had it fixed up last year when they was gittin’ ready fer th’ strike. And it was mighty useful.”
“Getting ready for the strike?”
“Sure. They knowed there’d be one as soon as they cut the men’s wages,” answered Hopkins, coolly. "Th’ fact is, th’ dumps was full o’ coal,business was slack, an’ they wanted t’ shet down awhile."
It took Allan some moments to digest this answer.
“The miners don’t seem to have any show at all,” he remarked, at last.
“Well, sir, not much,” agreed Hopkins. “You see, they ain’t organized—they don’t belong to no union—and th’ company takes mighty good care they sha’n’t. My, th’ organizers I’ve bounced out o’ this town—it was right interestin’ till th’ company got wise an’ found a better way.”
“A better way?”
“Sure. You see, as soon as an organizer was fired out, he’d go around th’ country hollerin’ about th’ company, an’ callin’ it bad names. Sometimes this got into th’ papers an’ made things onpleasant, specially since th’ company couldn’t say it wasn’t so. So now, th’ organizer fer this district is on th’ pay-roll. He gits a hundred dollars a month, an’ when he gits up at th’ convention t’ report, he tells how he’s doin’ his best t’ organize our dagoes, but finds ’em so ign’rant an’ cantankerous that they don’t want no union. However, he hopes, before another year rolls around, t’ be able t’ convince ’em—an’ so on. It’s a smooth game—an’ has worked first rate, so far.”
Allan glanced up at Jed to see if he was in earnest, but he appeared entirely so.
“And what happened during the strike?”
“Oh, they tried t’ rush us an’ set fire t’ th’ mine—an’us in that steel-lined office, armed with Winchesters! They didn’t have no chance.”
“Were any of them hurt?”
“Th’ newspapers said that ten was slightly injured—which was true as fur as it went,” and Jed grinned. “Eight went t’ sleep an’ never woke up, but that was kept quiet. No use makin’ a stir about a few dagoes; besides, th’ law was on our side. Only,” added Jed, “I’d ’a’ liked it better if we’d fought out in th’ open. But th’ manager wouldn’t hear of it.”
Allan shivered slightly. Of course, the law was on the company’s side; the men were trying to destroy its property; and yet that scarcely seemed to justify shooting them down from behind a wall of steel.
“We ain’t had no trouble since,” Jed added. “They’ve l’arnt their lesson. But it wouldn’t surprise me t’ wake up ’most any night with a dago knife in my belly.”
He stretched himself and yawned dismally.
“Ten o’clock,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Looks like I’d have t’ stay here all night. What’s yer name, sonny?”
“Allan West.”
“You ain’t th’ reg’lar night man here?”
“No; the regular night man was hurt this afternoon, and I’m taking his place.”
Hopkins nodded; then suddenly he sat erect and listened.
“There they come,” he said; “it’s time,” and he started for the door.
Allan had heard no sound, and Hopkins came back, after having gone to the door of the waiting-room and looked up and down the track again.
“False alarm,” he said. “I thought I heerd three or four men walkin’. Say, I’m goin’ in an’ lay down an’ take a nap. I’m most dead fer sleep.”
“Do you think it’s safe?”
“Safe? Sho! I should say so! Besides, I’ll show you a trick. Come along.”
Allan followed him into the dark freight-shed.
Hopkins struck a match and by its light gathered together a pile of burlap from the pieces lying in the corners. He threw this down before the door.
“There,” he said. “Anybody who comes in that door ’ll hev t’ step over Jed Hopkins. I reckon nobody ’ll try that more ’n once. Now I’m goin’ t’ shet th’ door. You ’d better tell anybody who comes t’ give me fair warnin’ afore they opens it.”
“All right,” laughed Allan. “Good night.”
“Night,” answered Hopkins, brusquely, and closed the door.
Allan heard him arranging himself on the other side. Then all was still. The boy went back to his desk at the front of the office and sat down. There was no sound to break the stillness, and the sudden sense of fatigue which stole over him reminded him that he had already done a hard day’s work before starting for Coalville. Luckily, he was to berelieved at midnight—an hour and a half more, and he would be free to go to sleep. He would sleep all the way back to Wadsworth. He must be sure to tell the conductor to call him and not let him be carried past his station. The conductor would understand—he would know, himself, what it was to work overtime.
He dropped his head on his hand, and sat staring out of the great window which formed the front of the office. The rays of light from the lamp on the wall beside him reached as far as the track which ran before the station, but beyond that was utter darkness. The rain had ceased, but the light was reflected in the puddles of muddy water which stood before the station, and the eaves were drip-dripping like the ticking of a clock. Once Allan thought he heard steps; and a moment later he fancied the floor creaked—it was no doubt Hopkins, moving in his sleep. A man must have nerves of iron to be able to sleep like that with a treasure-chest to guard; but then—
Some indescribable influence caused him to turn his head, and he found himself looking straight down the barrel of a revolver.
“HANDS UP!”
For an instant, Allan fancied that Jed Hopkins was playing a joke upon him, but when he glanced at the figure behind the revolver, he saw at once that it was shorter and heavier than that of the ex-plainsman. A slouch hat was pulled down over the eyes and a dirty red handkerchief tied over the mouth and chin, so that none of the face was visible except a short section of red, pimply, and unshaven cheek. All this the boy saw in the single second which followed his start of surprise on perceiving the revolver at his ear.
“Hands up,” muttered a hoarse voice, before Allan had time to move a muscle, and as he mechanically obeyed, his hands were seized from behind and bound together at the wrists in the twinkling of an eye.
“Now, tie him to his chair, Joe,” said his captor, and in another moment it was done. “Now the gag,” and before the boy could protest, a corn-cob, around which was wrapped a dirty rag, was forcedbetween his teeth and tied tightly to his head. Allan reflected grimly that he could appreciate a horse’s feelings when a bit was thrust into its mouth and secured there.
The man with the revolver lowered that weapon and regarded this handiwork with evident satisfaction.
“That’ll do,” he said, with a chuckle. “I reckonhewon’t bother us.”
Allan, twisting his head around, saw that there were two men in the office besides the one with the revolver, and he fancied he could detect another walking up and down before the station. He knew, of course, that they were after the miners’ money, and the robbery had evidently been planned with great care—as it had need to be, to stand any chance of success.
“Now, there’s just one fellow in there,” continued the man, who was evidently the leader of the expedition, “and we’ve got to rush him. All ready?”
The others drew revolvers from their pockets and nodded, grouping themselves before the door which led into the freight-shed.
The leader got out a small dark-lantern, tested it, and then leaned over and blew out the lamp.
At the same instant, Allan, kicking out desperately, upset the other chair which stood at the operator’s desk. It fell with a crash, but the noise was drowned by a greater one, as the door wasflung back and the robbers plunged through and hurled themselves upon Jed Hopkins.
Just what happened in the next few minutes Allan never definitely knew, for the lantern carried by the leader was shattered in the first moment of the onset and the place was in utter darkness. The little station shook and quivered under repeated shocks, as though some heavy body was being dashed against the floor and walls of the freight-shed. He could hear the gasping breath and muttered oaths that told of a desperate struggle. Evidently, Jed was giving a good account of himself, even against those heavy odds. Then a revolver spoke, followed by a yell of pain. A moment later there was a second shot, and instantly all was still.
“I thought I told you,” began an angry voice—
“He made me do it!” broke in a fierce falsetto. “He put a hole right through my hand.”
Somebody struck a match and evidently took a quick survey of the place.
“We must be gettin’ out of this,” went on the first speaker. “Maybe somebody heard them shots. Charlie, you go out and bring up th’ wagon. We’ll break the lock.”
One of the men hurried through the office and out of the station, but Allan scarcely heard him. For he had managed to bring his arms down in front of him; in an instant he had found his key, and was calling wildly for Wadsworth. Wadsworth answered at once.
“This is West at Coalville,” Allan ticked off with feverish haste. “There are three robbers in station after coal company’s money. Have killed guard. Rush help. They’re going—”
Some one seized him and dragged him violently back from the instrument.
“You young hound!” cried a fierce voice. “I’ve a good notion to—”
“What was he doin’?” asked a voice from the door.
“Callin’ for help.”
The man in the door muttered a fierce oath.
“Bat him in the face!” he said, and Allan was struck a savage blow which sent him over backward upon the floor. He felt that his nose was bleeding, but he did not lose consciousness.
“We’ve got plenty of time,” went on the second speaker. “They can’t get anybody here inside of an hour. I wonder where that fool Charlie’s gone?”
As though in answer to the question, there came a rattle of wheels from the road outside, and Allan heard the men in the freight-shed smash the lock and open the door which led out upon the freight-platform at the side of the station.
“Here she is,” said a voice, and a moment later the chest was dragged toward the open door.
“How’d you manage about the operator?” asked a voice which Allan recognized with a start as belonging to Dan Nolan.
“He’s in there with his face mashed in.”
“Is he?” and Nolan laughed joyfully. “I was never gladder in my life than when I seen him git off th’ train t’-night. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“No; who is he?”
“He’s th’ skunk that flagged th’ pay-car an’ got us all pinched.”
There was a moment’s astonished silence.
“Are you sure?” asked a voice incredulously, at last.
“Sure? I should say so. I’ve been tryin’ t’ do fer him ever since I got out. You know that.”
“Yes,” growled one of the men; “we heard about it.”
“Well,” went on Nolan, triumphantly, “that was one reason I wanted t’ git th’ reg’lar man out o’ th’ way. I knowed they wouldn’t have much time t’ git another, an’ this feller bein’ right there in th’ office, might hev t’ come. An’ it worked as slick as greased lightnin’.”
“You’ve got more sense than I thought you had, Dan,” remarked another of the men.
“Now we’ve got him, we kin do fer him,” added Nolan.
“Oh, no, we can’t,” retorted the first speaker. “I won’t stand for that. Let the kid alone. He got a bullet through him that night. That’s enough!”
“All right,” assented Nolan, sulkily; “but I’m goin’ in t’ take a look at him.”
Allan heard him enter the office. A match flared up and for an instant blinded him. Then he saw Dan Nolan stooping over him, his eyes glittering with infernal triumph.
“Well, well,” he sneered, “so thet purty face o’ your’n ’s spiled at last! It’s my time now, you scab!” and he kicked the boy savagely in the side. “I don’t reckon you’ll be pokin’ your nose into other folks’s affairs much longer!”
Allan gazed up at him with contempt, not unmixed with pity, for he began to believe that Nolan was insane. That wolf-like ferocity, surely, could belong only to a disordered brain.
“Hurry up, there,” called a hoarse voice.
“What’re you goin’ to do with this?” asked somebody, and Allan knew that he referred to the body of Jed Hopkins.
“There’s only one thing to do,” said a third, and added a word in a voice so low that Allan could not hear it.
“He’s right,” agreed the first speaker.
“How about the other one?”
“We’ll take him out.”
“But he’ll peach!”
“I don’t care if he does. Besides, what can he tell?”
“If he’s heard us talkin’ in here, he can tell a good deal.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“See here,” said the first speaker, finally, “you fellows know how I feel about this sort of thing. It’s bad enough as it is; but there’s a difference in killin’ a man in a fight an’ killin’ him in cold blood. I don’t care who he is, I won’t stand fer nothin’ like that. I’ve said so once already and I stick to it.”
“Well,” remarked one of the others, “I guess you’re right. Nolan, you get him out.”
“All right,” said Nolan, who had reëntered the freight-shed to listen to this controversy, and he started toward the office.
“Can you handle him yourself?”
“Sure. I’ll jest drag him out in th’ cheer an’ set him down. Then he can’t bother us.”
“Well, be quick about it. And shut all the doors.”
Nolan entered the office and closed the door behind him. Then he groped about until he found the chair which Allan had overturned. This he dragged across the floor to the door which led into the waiting-room.
“Good-bye, Mr. West,” he said, in a low voice, pausing an instant on the threshold. “Good-bye, an’ think o’ me.”
Then he shut the door, and Allan heard him dragging the empty chair heavily across the other room. He swung open the outside door, bumped the chair down the steps, then came up again andclosed the door carefully. A moment later, there came the rattle of wheels and the quick clatter of horses’ hoofs; the noise died away down the road and all was still.
Allan’s head was aching horribly from the injuries which he had received and from the position in which he lay, and he managed finally, by a mighty effort, to twist himself over on his side. He struggled to get his hands free, but they had been bound too tightly—so tightly, indeed, that his wrists were chafed and swollen and his hands were numb. Nor could he free himself from the chair. The rope, apparently a piece of ordinary clothes-line, which held him fast to it, was knotted firmly at the back, hopelessly beyond his reach.
When he had satisfied himself of this, he lay still again, in the easiest posture he could assume. After all, he had only to possess his soul in patience, and help would come. The attack, he thought, must have taken place about half-past ten, and it must now be after eleven. The regular passenger-train would be along shortly before twelve, bringing his relief; he could not fail to be discovered then. He had only to lie still for less than an hour. Perhaps not so long. A freight would probably precede the passenger. Or it might be that the message he had sent to headquarters before he was snatched away from his instrument would bring help more promptly still.
Perhaps they were even now sending him a messageof encouragement. He listened, but heard no sound. Then he remembered that he had not heard the instrument for a long time. He decided that when he was jerked away from it, he had left the key open. That would tell them even more surely that something was wrong. As long as his key remained open, the entire line was out of service, and an investigation would follow in short order.
Yes, he would soon be found. And a great weariness settled upon him. He fought against it for a time; but his eyelids drooped and drooped. He had had a hard day, and a hard night. Tired nature could endure no more. His eyes closed.
He dreamed that he was upon the topmost pinnacle of a great mountain. Around him on all sides the rock fell away in abrupt and impassable precipices. How he had reached that spot he did not know; still less, how he would be able to leave it safely. He could not see the precipices, for everything was dark around him, but he felt that they were there. The darkness was absolute—no night he had ever known had been so dark. There were no stars in the sky, no moon, and yet it seemed to him that the sky was very near. And the silence frightened him.
Then, suddenly, to the left he discerned a point of light, which burst upon the darkness, cutting it like a sword. It grew and grew with astonishing rapidity, and he saw it was the sun. But it was not rising; it was coming straight at him from somedistant point in space; coming rapidly and surely. He felt the air about him growing strangely warm and radiant; warmer and more radiant; until the sweat broke out upon him and a deadly fear assailed him—a fear that here, upon this pinnacle of rock, he was to be consumed by fire. He looked wildly from side to side. There was no escape. Yet any death was preferable to death by fire, and with a quick intaking of the breath, he leaped far out, and fell, fell—
He opened his eyes with a start. For an instant, under the influence of the dream, he fancied that he was still upon the rock, so light and warm was the office. Then he heard the roar of fire, and angry tongues of flame licked under and around the door, casting a lurid glow across the floor.