"To 'DS,' gang of robbers goin' to hold up the flyer in Ashley's cut to-night. They will place rails and ties on the track to wreck train if they don't heed signal. Warn train to watch out and bring gang out from Sicklen. This is Dick Durstine."
All was quiet for a minute and then he started again, but soon he stopped short and we heard no more. The line remained open.
We raised Sicklen on a commercial wire and told him to turn his red-light and hold everything. I was in somewhat of a quandary; the sending had been miserable, sounding unlike any stuff Dick had ever sent, and then the stopping of the whole business made it seem rather suspicious. Still Ashley's cut was an ideal place for a hold up, and the weather was dark and stormy. Everything was propitious for just such a job.
In the meantime, Ashton, the first office south of Sicklen, had reported on the commercial line that the despatcher's wire was open north of him. That would place it near the cut in all probability. Anyway I didn't intend to take any chance, so I sent a message to Sicklen telling him to notify the sheriff of all the facts and ask him to send out a posse on the flyer, and, also, for him to get the day man to go out and patch the lines up until a line man could get there in the morning. About twenty minutes afterwards the flyer left Sicklen nicely fixed with a strong posse, and an order to approach the cut with caution. It was only three miles from Sicklen to the cut, and I knew it would be but a matter of a short while until something was heard. Sure enough, forty minutes later the despatcher's wire closed and this message came:
"To Bates, DS:
"Attempt to hold up No. 21 in Ashley's cut was frustrated by the sheriff's posse. Outlaws had placed ties on the track in case we did not heed the signal to stop. Two of them killed, three captured and one escaped. Dick Durstine is here, badly shot through the right lung. Will have him sent in from Sicklen on 22 in the morning.
"Stanton, Conductor."
The next morning when 22 pulled in I went down and there, laid out on a litter in the baggage car, was Dick Durstine, my former call boy, weak, pale, and just living. He was conscious, and when I leaned over him his eyes glistened for a minute, he smiled and feebly said:
"Say, Mister Bates, didn't I do them fellers up in good shape? When I gets well again will you gimme back my job so I can learn some more about the tick tick? I'll never monkey any more, honest to God, I won't."
A queer lump came in my throat and there was a suspicion of moisture in my eyes as I contemplated this brave little hero, and I said: