Just now he was fighting at long range. And all the complex system of the C. G. & X. railroad vibrated under his blows. A dozen rapid-fire orders had sent as many station officials scuttling to posts of duty. Already telegraph wires were sizzling; and employees miles away were hustling in consequence, to fulfil their master’s behests. The fastest engine on the C. G. & X. was getting up steam. A dozen frantic machinists with oil cans, wrenches and hammers were swarming over and under the huge locomotive making her ready for a record trip. In the few minutes that remained, before his Special could start, Caleb Conover, coolest, least hurried man in the whole buzzing station, was talking over the long-distance telephone to Caine.
“Yes,” he was saying, as, cigar in mouth, he lounged above the transmitter on his desk, “I’ll be off in three minutes. So listen hard, for you are liable to have a wakeful day before you. I’ve gave orders to side-track everything on the C. G. & X. between here an’ McIntyre Junction. That’ll give us room for a sixty-five-mile-an-hour trip as far as the Junction. After that I’ll be off the C. G. & X. tracks and I’ll have to take my chances of gettin’ the right of way. But I guess a couple of tel’grams I’ve sent will loosen things up on the other road. Remember, I’m a’ comin’ as fast as steam will carry me. Since you say the Starke bill ain’t come up yet, there’s a show of my gettin’ there on time, after all. I’ve just ’phoned Bourke, the Assemblyman from my Districk, to hold the crowd together as well as he can till I land. What? No, don’t you bother over that. He knows how to keep the bill back for a while, anyhow. Motion to adjourn’s always in order. He’ll hop up an’ move to adjourn ev’ry five minutes and then demand a poll on the vote. Good ol’-fashioned fil’busterin’. That, an’ a few other cunnin’ little stunts that I’ve taught him, is liable to delay business pretty much in the Assembly to-day. My crowd’s got all their orders. But Blacarda was a roarin’ fool not to push the bill through early this mornin’. I s’pose he figgered out he had all day ahead of him. Him an’ me will settle our score later. So long! My engine’s ready.”
Clambering aboard the locomotive cab the moment the last oiler scuttled to safety from underneath the driving-wheels, Conover lighted a fresh cigar, and with a grim smile leaned back to enjoy the whirlwind flight through the rain. He was happier than he had been in weeks. Not only through the quick lifting of the horror that had so engulfed him, but from the joy of a hard fight against heavy odds. In spite of his cheery tone toward Caine, he knew it was problematical whether or not his henchman, Bourke, could retard the vote on the Starke Bill until his arrival. But it was a chance well worth the taking. His anxiety for Desirée banished, the Fighter turned with more than wonted zeal to the battle before him.
The engine thundered over the miles of sodden land, the cab windows awash with rain; the great bulk swaying perilously from its own reckless speed; the twisting of sharp curves more than once hurling Caleb headlong from his seat. Past long lines of side-tracked freight and passenger trains they whizzed. Every switch along the line bore its burden of cars hustled off the main line by Caleb’s commands. The entire C. G. & X. system was for the time tied up, that its ruler might travel over its rails as no man had before traversed them.
“At this rate,” mused Caleb, “I’ll make it, with any sort of luck. If I can be sure of speed on the other line—!”
Toward the latest of many brown wooden stations they flashed. The engineer threw over a lever. The wheels shrieked ear-splitting protest as they gripped and shaved the rails in the shock of the brake’s clutch.
“What’s up?” bellowed Conover, wrathfully. “Is—?”
“Station agent’s flagging us, sir, with the danger signal,” replied the engineer, leaning out into the rain to accost a scared, shirtsleeved man who ran toward them, flag in hand, along the track.
Conover pulled the engineer to one side and thrust his own head from the cab window, just as the panting station agent came up.
“What d’ye mean by stoppin’ us?” demanded the Fighter.