“Hang on tight, this is no ordinary roadbed,” cautioned the foreman, as the engineer pulled open the throttle. And the young homesteaders soon learned that he spoke the truth.
More like a dory at the mercy of a high sea than a locomotive did the engine seem as it pitched and tossed over the rails, first one side, then the other, sinking sharply, in many cases taking a curve before it righted itself.
“How in the world can you pull a train over this track?” Phil asked the engineer, as the locomotive struck a comparatively level stretch.
“This is nothing, what, Steve?” grinned the man at the throttle.
“Not for us, Jim.” Then, turning to his guests, the foreman continued: “We can’t take the time to lay much of a roadbed, we move too often. We’ve only been hauling over this course two days, and tomorrow will see us through with it.”
“My eye! but it must use up a lot of rails to change so often,” commented Ted.
“It would if we didn’t move them with us. As fast as we finish one course, we pull up the track and lay it in a different direction. That’s why it doesn’t pay to spend much time over the roadbed. But, as Jim says, this course is nothing. In some places the inclines are so steep that we are obliged to use cog-wheel tracks. When we stop, you can look at the cog-wheels under the engine. All our cars are equipped with them. They hold the train on the track, no matter how sharp the grade, or steep the pitch.”
Three piercing blasts from the whistle drowned the comment on Phil’s lips, and with a grinding of brakes, the engine stopped.
“That’s the camp,” announced Steve, nodding toward half a dozen cabins from which men of all sizes and descriptions were pouring, ready to begin their day’s work.
“There’s the Black Swede,” suddenly exclaimed Ted, who had been watching the lumber-jacks as they emerged from their log houses. “I’d recognize him anywhere.”