“Well, good-night, Jim. See yer later,” and he went out. The woman suddenly rose and ran to the window.
“Mr. Watkins,” cried she, “can I see you for a few moments where no one can interrupt us? It's a matter of life and death.” She clutched the sill with her thin hands, and her voice trembled. Watkins recognized Sally Johnson in a moment. He unbolted a door, motioned her to enter, closed and again bolted it, and also closed the ticket window. Then he pointed to a chair, and the girl sat down and leaned eagerly forward.
“If they knew I was here,” she said in a hoarse whisper, “my life wouldn't be safe five minutes. I was waiting to tell you a terrible story, and then I heard who was on the train due here tomorrow night. Mr. Watkins, don't, for God's sake, ask me how I found out, but I hope to die if I ain't telling you the living truth! They're going to wreck that train—No. 17—at Dead Man's Crossing, fifteen miles east, and rob the passengers and the express car. It's the worst gang in the country, Perry's. They're going to throw the train off the track, the passengers will be maimed and killed—and Mr. Sinclair and his wife on the cars! Oh! my God! Mr. Watkins, send them warning!”
She stood upright, her face deadly pale, her hands clasped. Watkins walked deliberately to the railroad map which hung on the wall and scanned it. Then he resumed his seat, laid his pipe down, fixed his eyes on the girl's face, and began to question her. At the same time his right hand, with which he had held the pipe, found its way to the telegraph key. None but an expert could have distinguished any change in the clicking of the instrument, which had been almost incessant; but Watkins had “called” the head office on the Missouri. In two minutes the “sounder” rattled out “All right! What is it?”
Watkins went on with his questions, his eyes still fixed on the poor girl's face, and all the time his fingers, as it were, playing with the key. If he were imperturbable, so was not a man sitting at a receiving instrument nearly five hundred miles away. He had “taken” but a few words when he jumped from his chair and cried:
“Shut that door, and call the superintendent and be quick! Charley, brace up—lively—and come and write this out!” With his wonderful electric pen, the handle several hundreds of miles long, Watkins, unknown to his interlocutor, was printing in the Morse alphabet this startling message:
“Inform'n rec'd. Perry gang going to throw No. 17 off track
near —xth mile-post, this division, about nine to-morrow
(Thursday) night, kill passengers, and rob express and mail.
Am alone here. No chance to verify story, but believe it to
be on square. Better make arrangements from your end to
block game. No Sheriff here now. Answer.”
The superintendent, responding to the hasty summons, heard the message before the clerk had time to write it out. His lips were closely compressed as he put his own hand on the key and sent these laconic sentences: “O. K. Keep perfectly dark. Will manage from this end.”
Watkins, at Barker's, rose from his seat, opened the door a little way, saw that the station was empty, and then said to the girl, brusquely, but kindly:
“Sally, you've done the square thing, and saved that train. I'll take care that you don't suffer and that you get well paid. Now come home with me, and my wife will look out for you.”