WITH THE CONSTRUCTION TRAIN
On a newly-made siding parallel to the main-line tracks, and in the center of a rolling vista of yellow-brown prairie, stood a trampish-looking train of weather-beaten passenger coaches and box-cars. In the sides of the latter small windows had been cut, and from the roofs projected chimneys. North of the train, to a din of clanking, pounding and shoveling, a throng of men were laying ties and rails, driving spikes and tightening bolts, in the construction of further short stretches of track.
It was the Yellow Creek branch “boarding” and construction train, and the laying of the sidings of the newly-created Yellow Creek Junction was the first step in the race of the Middle Western and the K. & Z., some miles below the southern horizon, for the just-discernible break to the southwest in the blue line of the Dog Rib Mountains—the coveted entrance to the new gold fields in the valley beyond.
And here, the first of the construction operators sent forward, Alex had been two days established in the “telegraph-car.”
As he had anticipated, Alex was enjoying the experience hugely. It was every bit as good as camping out, he had declared over the wire to Jack—having for an office a table at one end of the old freight-car, sleeping in a shelf-like bunk at the other end, and eating in the rough-and-ready diner with the inspectors, foremen, time-keepers and clerks who shared the telegraph-car with him. As well, the work going on about him was a constant source of interest during Alex’s spare moments.
On this, the second day, Alex had been particularly interested in the newly-arrived track-laying machine—which did not actually lay track at all, but by means of roller-bottomed chutes fed out a stream of rails and ties to the men ahead of it. After supper, the wire being silent, Alex made his way amid several trains of track-material already filling completed sidings, for a closer view of the big machine.
There proved to be less to see than he had expected; and having climbed aboard the pilot-car and examined the engine, Alex ascended the tower from which a brakeman controlled the movements of the train.
On his right lay a string of flats piled high with timbers for bridges and culverts. Glancing along them, Alex was surprised to see a man’s head cautiously emerge from an opening in the lumber on one of the cars, and quickly disappear on discovering him. A moment after he had a fleeting glimpse of the intruder running low along the side of the train toward the rear.
“Only a hobo,” Alex decided on second thought. For numbers of tramps had come through on the material-trains. And presently Alex returned to the telegraph-car.
Shortly after midnight the young operator was awakened by someone running through the car and shouting for Construction Superintendent Finnan. When he caught the word “Fire!” he scrambled into his clothes and leaped to the floor, and out.
Over the tops of the cars in the direction of the track-machine was a dancing glare.
In alarm Alex joined the stream of men dropping to the ground all along the boarding-cars. Dodging through the intervening trains, he brought up with an expression of relief beside, not the track-machine, but a car of bridge material.
Fanned by a brisk wind, flames were spouting from amid the timbers at several points. Already men were pitching the burning beams over the side, however; and finding a shovel, Alex joined those who were smothering them with sand.
“Tramps, sure!” Alex heard another of the shovelers remark angrily. Immediately then he recalled the man he had seen from the track-machine tower, and pausing in his work, he counted the cars back.
It was the same car. Yes; undoubtedly the fire was the careless work of the tramp he had seen running away.
The force of fire fighters was rapidly augmented, and soon, despite the fresh breeze, the last of the burning beams were smothered, and all danger of a general conflagration was past.
It was as Alex at last headed back for the boarding-train that a theory other than the tramp theory of the origin of the fire occurred to him. It came from a sudden recollection of Division Superintendent Cameron’s prediction of interference from the K. & Z. “Could that be the real explanation?” he asked himself with some excitement.
The first streak of dawn found Alex again at the scene of the fire, bent on proving or disproving the theory of incendiarism. Climbing aboard the scorched car, he dropped to his knees and began carefully brushing aside the sand with which the burning floor had been covered.
A few minutes’ search produced the burned ends of shavings!
“So!—the ‘fight’ is on!” observed Alex to himself gravely.
With several of the tell-tale fragments in his pocket Alex was about to leap to the ground when Construction Superintendent Finnan appeared. “Good morning, my lad. You beat me here, eh?” he said genially. “Well, what do you make of it?”
Alex sprang down beside him, and produced the charred pine whittlings. “I found these on the bottom of the car, sir. They don’t seem to support the careless tramp theory, do they?” Continuing, Alex then told of the man he had seen there the evening before. “Do you think it was the work of the K. & Z., sir?” he concluded.
The superintendent’s lips were drawn tight. “Yes; I believe it was. Could you identify the man?”
“I am afraid not, sir. It was getting dusk, and he was five or six car-lengths from me, and running stooped over.
“Perhaps we could follow his footsteps down the side of the train?” Alex suggested.
“Good idea! Lead ahead. There has been a good deal of tramping about, but we may pick them out.”
Proceeding to the point several cars distant at which he had seen the stranger on the ground, Alex moved on slowly, carefully inspecting the freshly turned but considerably trampled earth, the superintendent following him.
A car-length beyond, the latter suddenly paused, retraced his steps a few feet, and pointing out three succeeding impressions, exclaimed, “I think we have him, Ward! See? A long step! He was running on his toes.”
Aided by the known length of the stride, they continued, following the footprints with comparative ease. Passing the second car from the end, they found the steps shorten, then change to a walk. “Probably turned in between this and the last car,” the superintendent observed.
“Yes; here they go,” announced Alex, halting at the opening between the two flats. “He stood for a moment, then went on through.”
Alex and the superintendent followed, and continued toward the rear of the last car. Half way Alex halted, and with an ejaculation stooped and picked up something white. “A small shaving, sir!”
The official took it. “That decides the matter,” he said. “Probably it was sticking to his clothes.”
“He sat down here, for some time, did he not?” Alex was pointing to a depression in the earth well under the car, between two ties, and to the marks of bootheels. The superintendent went to his knees and closely examined the impressions left by the heels.
“Good! Look here,” he said with satisfaction. “The marks of spurs! Our ‘tramp’ was a horseman.”
Alex turned to look about. “Where would he have kept his horse?”
Superintendent Finnan led the way beyond the cars into the open. A mile distant, and hidden from the boarding-train by the cars on the sidings, was a depression in the prairie bordered with low scrub. “We’ll have a look there,” he said.
Some minutes later they stood in the bottom of the miniature valley, beside the unmistakably fresh hoofprints of a hobbled pony.
The official was grimly silent as they retraced their steps toward the construction-train. They had almost reached it when Alex, who had been examining the fragments of burned shavings, broke the silence. “Mr. Finnan, let me see the bit of shaving we found by the rear car, please.” There was a touch of excitement in Alex’s voice, and the superintendent halted.
“What is it?” he asked as he produced the whittling.
Alex glanced at it, and smiling, placed it beside two of the charred fragments in his hand. “Look at these little ridges, sir! The same knife whittled them all. The blade had two small nicks in it.
“All we have to do now, sir, is to find the owner of the knife!”
“A bright idea, Ward! Splendid!” exclaimed the superintendent heartily.
“But,” he added as they moved on, “how are we going to find him? We can’t very well round up the whole Dog Rib country, and hold a jack-knife inspection.”
They came within sight of the bleached-out dining-cars. Basking in the morning sun on the steps of one of the old coaches was the figure of a young Indian, who had come from no one knew where the first day of their arrival, and had attached himself to the kitchen department.
Alex laid his hand on the superintendent’s arm. “Mr. Finnan, why not try Little Hawk?”
“It occurred to me just as you spoke. I will. Right now.
“You go on in to breakfast, Ward,” he directed. “And say nothing of our suspicions or discoveries.”
“Very well, sir.”
The members of the telegraph-car party were leaving for the diner as Alex appeared.
“Hello, Ward! Catch the early worm?” inquired one of the track-foremen jocularly.
“You mean, ‘did he shoot it?’” corrected a time-clerk.
At this there was a general laugh, and glancing about for an explanation, Alex saw Elder, Superintendent Finnan’s personal clerk and aide de camp, hastily remove a cartridge-belt and revolver from his waist and toss them into his bunk.
Elder was the one unpopular man in the telegraph-car. An undersized, aggressively important individual, just out of college, and affecting a stylish khaki hunting-suit, natty leather leggings and a broad-brimmed hat, he bore himself generally as though second in importance only to the construction superintendent himself. And naturally he had promptly been made the butt of the party.
“But you know,” gravely observed one of the inspectors, as they took their places about the plain board table in the dining-car, “some of these tramps are dangerous fellows. They’d just as soon pull a gun on you as borrow a dime. So there’s nothing like being prepared. Particularly when one carries about such evidence of wealth and rank as friend Elder, here.”
At the chuckles which followed the clerk bridled angrily.
“Well, anyway, Ryan,” he retorted, “I am ready to fight if one of them interferes with me. I’ll not stick up my hands and let him go through me, as you did once.”
“No, I wouldn’t. In fact, I’d like to see anyone make me throw up my hands, even if I didn’t have a revolver,” Elder went on emphatically. “I’d rather be shot—yes, sir, I’d rather be shot than have to think afterward that I’d been such a weak-kneed coward. And that’s what I think of any man who would permit a low-down tramp to go through his pockets.”
Loud applause greeted these remarks, clapping, banging of plates, and cries of “Hear, hear!”
“Go it, Elder!”
“Show him up!”
“It’s on me. He has me labelled, OK,” admitted Ryan with marked humility. “But then, gentlemen, I protest it is hardly fair to compare an ordinary mortal to so remarkably courageous a man as Elder. I claim it is not given many men to be that fearless. Why, ‘with half an eye,’ as the old grammars say, you can see courage sticking out all over him.”
“All right, laugh. But I never showed the white feather to a hobo,” Elder repeated scathingly.
“No; but—what is it Kipling, or Shakespeare, says?—‘While there’s life there’s soap?’” observed Ryan, a sudden twinkle appearing in his eye.
The inspector explained the meaning of his facetiously garbled quotation when Elder left the table. The proposal he made was greeted with enthusiasm.
Work had been started on the branch road itself that morning, and on returning to the telegraph-car at noon the superintendent’s clerk found most of the party there before him, preparing for dinner. An animated debate which was in progress ceased as he entered, and someone exclaimed, “Here he is now. He’d soon straighten them up.”
“What is the trouble, men?” inquired Elder, with the air of a sergeant-major.
“Our two head-spikers had a disagreement this morning, and have gone across the yards to settle it,” explained one of the time-keepers through his towel. “Couldn’t you go after them, and interfere? They may put each other out of commission. Refused to listen to me or the foreman.”
“The childish idiots! Certainly,” agreed Elder, turning back to the door. “Which way did they go?”
“Straight across the yard. But hadn’t you better take your gun?” the time-clerk suggested. “They are a pair of pretty tough customers.”
“Well—perhaps I had, since you mention it,” Elder responded. Going to his bunk, he secured and buckled on the belt, drew the revolver from its holster to examine it, and set forth grimly. As he disappeared the men in the car broke into barely-subdued splutterings of laughter, and crowding to the door, waited expectantly.
With an air of responsibility and determination the clerk made his way between the adjacent cars. There were six tracks filled with the long trains of construction material. He had passed the fifth, and was stooping beneath the couplings of two flats beyond, when from the other side he heard footsteps.
One hand on the butt of his revolver, he leaped forth. Uttering a choking cry he sprang back. Within a foot of his eyes were the barrels of two big Colt’s-pistols, and looking over the tops of them was a villainous handkerchief-masked face.
“Hands up!” ordered the tramp hoarsely.
Elder’s hands flew into the air. Immediately, despite his fright, there returned a remembrance of his boast that morning. He half made as though to bring his hands down. Instantly the cold muzzles of the pistols were pressed close beneath his nose. With a wild flutter Elder’s fingers shot upward to their fullest stretch.
“Come out!” ordered the tramp.
Quaking, and almost on tiptoes in his effort to keep his hands aloft, Elder obeyed. Lowering one of the pistols and thrusting it into his belt, the tramp reached forward and secured the clerk’s revolver, dropping it to the ground beneath his feet.
“Now, Mr. Superintendent,” he ordered gruffly, “hand over your roll!”
“Why, I’m not the superintendent,” quavered Elder hopefully. “I am—only a clerk.”
“Clerk nothing! Don’t you think I know a superintendent when I see one? Out with those yellowbacks you drew yesterday, or by gum—” The pistol was again thrust under his nose, and Elder blanched.
“But I’m not the superintendent! Honestly I’m not!” he protested. “I’m only a clerk. And I only get—only get—”
“Yes, come on! You only get?” thundered the tramp.
“I only get thirty-five dollars a month,” whispered the clerk.
“Only thirty-five bones a month? Well, by gum!” The tramp looked the shrinking clerk over with unspeakable contempt. “Why, there ain’t a Dago shoveler in the outfit doesn’t get more than that!
“Very well, then,” he conceded loftily. “You can keep your coppers. I never let it be said I rob the poor.
“But I tell you what I will have,” he went on suddenly. “Them clothes are sure too good for any man not getting as much money as a Dago. These,” indicating his own tattered and grimy garments, “are more in your line. Come on! Peel off!”
The trimly-dressed clerk stared aghast.
“You surely—don’t mean—”
“I surely DO mean! Shell off!” roared the tramp.
And utterly beyond belief as it was, ten minutes later Elder was surveying himself in the unspeakable rags of the hobo, and the latter, before him, was ridiculously attired in his own natty, smaller garments.
Having then removed Elder’s fancy Stetson and clamped his own greasy and battered christy down to the clerk’s ears, the tramp had one further humiliation. Pointing to a clump of black, oily waste hanging from a nearby axle-box, he ordered, “Pull out a bunch of that!”
Slowly, wondering, Elder did so.
“No one would believe you were a genuine hobo with such a scandalously clean face as that. Rub the waste over it,” commanded the tramp.
This was too much. Blindly Elder turned to escape. Instantly both pistols were once more at his head. And in final abject surrender he slowly rubbed the black car-grease upon his cheeks.
“Very good. A little on the forehead now,” directed the relentless tramp. “Now the ears.
“Go on!... Very good.
“Now you may go.”
Frantically Elder spun about and dove between the cars. As he did so, behind him roared out six quick pistol shots.
Blindly he scrambled under the next train. Shouts rose ahead of him. “Help, help!” he cried. “Tramps! Tramps! Help!”
From the boarding-cars broke out a hubbub of excitement. “Tramps! Tramps!” he shrilled, scuttling beneath the third train.
On the other side he suddenly pulled up. He had forgotten his outlandish appearance! What if—
Men sprang into view from between the cars farther down. “Here he is!” they shouted, instantly heading for him.
“It’s me! Elder!” cried the apparent tramp.
More men appeared. “The tramp who burned the car!” rose the cry. “Lynch him! Lynch him!”
Elder dove back the way he had come. The trackmen raced for the nearest openings, and dove after.
As Elder dashed for the next train several of his pursuers sprang into view but a car-length away. “Head him off! Don’t let him get away!” they shouted.
Madly Elder rushed on, darted beneath the last string of flats, and on out into the open.
A figure was approaching on horseback. He recognized Superintendent Finnan. Uttering a cry of hope, he headed for him. At sight of the desperately running figure, with its grimy face and flapping rags, the superintendent pulled up in sheer amazement. When the stream of men broke through the train and poured after, yelping like a pack of hounds, he urged his horse forward.
“Catch him! Stop him!” shouted the pursuers.
“It’s me! Elder!” screamed the clerk. “Elder! Elder!”
A big Irishman, a pick-handle in his hand, was gaining on the supposed tramp at every bound, roaring, “I’ll fix ye! I’ll fix ye, ye vermin!”
With a last desperate sprint the flying clerk reached the horse and threw himself at the superintendent’s stirrups. “It’s Elder, Mr. Finnan!” he gasped. “Elder! Elder!”
The superintendent gazed down into the blackened face an instant, then suddenly doubled up over his horse’s head, rocking and shaking in a convulsion of laughter. The action saved the clerk from the Irishman. The descending pick-handle halted in mid-air, the wielder gazed open-mouthed at the convulsed official, then suddenly grasping the clerk’s head, twisted it about, and staggered back, roaring and shouting at the top of his lungs. As fast as the others arrived the riot of merriment increased; and when presently the superintendent moved on toward the train, the crestfallen clerk still at his stirrup, they were the center of a hilariously howling mob.
The final blow came when Elder entered the telegraph-car. Carefully laid out in his bunk were the garments he had surrendered to the “tramp.”
The incident had its final good result, however. The mangling of Elder’s vanity disclosed an unsuspected streak of common-sense and manliness, and a day or so after he frankly thanked Ryan, the perpetrator of the joke, for “having put him right.” And finally he became one of the most popular men on the train.