CHAPTER V[ToC]
FIRST NIGHT ON THE RANGE
Away up among the Rockies, with towering, pine-fringed, snow-sprinkled crests looming dimly about them in the moonlight, two young men stood waiting by a switch-target of the Transcontinental. Facing westward, they could see the huge bulk of the mountain range rolling up between them and the starry sky-line, black and forbidding in the middle distance, yet fading away northward and southward into faint and tender outlines—soft grays and violets—and with the earliest signals in the East of the speedy coming of the long summer's day. Facing eastward, there confronted them close at hand the huge black bulk of the mammoth Mogul engine, its dazzling head-light shining afar up the westward right of way, and throwing into heavier shade, by force of contrast, every object outside its beams. In the solemn stillness of nature in those high levels, almost the only sound was the soft hiss of escaping steam from the cylinder-cocks or an occasional rumble from the boiler. Even murmured words seemed audible and intelligible sixty feet away, and twice big Ben Tillson, the engineer of 705, had pricked up his ears as he circled about his giant steed, oiling the grimy joints, elbows, and bearings, and pondering in his heavy, methodical way over certain parting instructions that had come to him from the lips of the division superintendent. "A young feller learning firing" would board him at Chimney Switch, forty miles out from the Springs, and the Boss desired Ben Tillson to understand that "The Road" had its reasons, and the "young feller" was to be spared the customary quizzing. Furthermore, Ben Tillson was to understand that nothing was to be said about it. If anybody at Argenta or among the mines had any questions to ask, Ben was to know next to nothing.
But what set Ben's wits to work was the odd behavior of his fireman, Jim Toomey. Toomey was a silent sort of chap as a rule, and surely, too, with a grudge against the gang over in Hatch's Cove and up the Run. Toomey had taken to firing because he had got cleaned out at the mines. Toomey ordinarily wasn't over-civil to anybody. Toomey, too, had been favored with a word from Mr. Anthony, and never had Big Ben seen his fireman more cheery over his work than he was that night as they panted and strained up the foot-hills to Chimney Switch. Ben could have sworn Toomey was "excited like" when they side-tracked there for a way-train, and never in the course of Big Ben's experience had he seen an old fireman greet a would-be as Toomey welcomed the tall "young feller" in the dirty cap, shirt, and overalls who there clambered into the cab. Twice, Ben could have further sworn, he had heard Toomey say "sir," a word Toomey used to no one less than the division superintendent.
Somewhat grudgingly and suspiciously, therefore, had Ben nodded greeting and looked the "young feller" over. He did not extend his hand. The new-comer had on a pair of oiled-buck gauntlets, "soldier gauntlets," such as the cavalry used to have at Reynolds, that "all the boys in the cabs are stuck on." Even at the hardest kind of shovelling they outlived every other kind a dozen weeks, and the fireman was a lucky malefactor who could induce a soldier to part with his.
And though the "young feller's" cap and clothing were strictly and unimpeachably professional and grimy, it was the face no less than the gloves and boots that told Ben Tillson this was no needy seeker after a job. The boots were new and fine, laced daintily up the front, and showed their style even through the lack of polish and the coating of dust and ashes. The gauntlets also, though worn and old, were innocent of grease. This was no cub fireman, said Ben, resentfully, as he revolved in mind a scheme or two that should take the stuffing of conceit out of him, when suddenly he paused. "Why, certainly," Ben had it, just another case such as he had been reading about, how the sons of successful railway magnates, discarding wealth and luxuries, had determined to learn the business from the bottom up and fit themselves for future eminence in railway circles. The "young feller" must be a Gould or a Vanderbilt, a Ledyard, a Huntington, a son of somebody at the financial head of things. While sacrificing none of his steady self-reliance or self-respect, Ben Tillson decided to treat his new fireman, assistant to the old, with all due civility. He would cringe or kowtow to no one, but, like the sturdy citizen he was, Ben deemed it wise to keep on the good side of the powers. It was necessary, however, that the new-comer should understand who was boss on that engine, and even as they stood waiting at the Chimney Ben had taken occasion to say, "I see you're not stuck on shovelling, young man"; then with a most knowing and suggestive wink, "I reckon you'd rather do tennis or tiddlywinks," and was surprised at the answer.
"As matters stand, I'd rather be shovelling here than playing tennis—anywhere."
"It's the first time you ever saw the West from a cab-window, I'm betting," said Ben. And George Graham, who had seen more of the West than Ben could ever hope to see, and who knew the Silver Run country before ever the railway reached the foot-hills, had the wisdom to answer, "You'd win."