CHAPTER XXV
The victory was dear, but none murmured at its cost. Medicine Bend foronce had been purged of its parasites.
At the railroad head-quarters Stanley, before daylight, was directingthe resumption of operations so interrupted by the three days ofanarchism on the mountain division. New men were added every hour tothe pay-roll, and the smaller tradesmen of the town, ruined by theriots, were given positions to keep them until the town could berebuilt.
The pressure on the operating department increased twofold with theresumption of traffic. Winter was now upon the mountains, butconstruction could not be stopped for winter. The enormous prizes forextending the line through the Rockies to meet the rival railroadheading east from California, spurred the builders to every effort tolengthen their mileage, and something unheard of was attempted,namely, mountain railroad-building in midwinter.
Levake, the leader among the mountain outlaws, was nursed back to lifeby the surgeon he had so nearly murdered. But his respite was a briefone. When new officers of the law were elected in Medicine Bend, themurderer was tried for one of his many crimes and paid on the scaffoldthe penalty of his cold-blooded cruelty. Rebstock, the fox, and hiscompanion Seagrue escaped the exterminating raid of the vigilantes butfought shy of Medicine Bend for long afterward.
A few days after the riots Stanley sent for Bucks, who was holding akey among the operators downstairs, to come to his office.
"How long have you been a telegraph operator, Bucks?" he asked.
Bucks laughed in some embarrassment. "Since I was about twelve yearsold, sir."
"Twelve years old!" echoed Stanley in amazement. "Where did you learnto telegraph at twelve?"
Bucks hesitated again. "I never learned, sir!"
"What do you mean?"
"I used to sit in the telegraph office of the road when my unclewas superintendent, and I got used to hearing the sound of theinstruments. I just woke up one morning and found I could telegraph.I couldn't the night before. That's the only way I ever learned,sir."
Stanley regarded the boy with interest. "How old are you now?"
"Seventeen."
"Very well. When you went to bed last night you were not a traindespatcher: this morning you are." Bucks started. "If any one everasks you," continued Stanley dryly, "how you learned to be a traindespatcher, tell them just that."
"I don't want you to think you are old enough to be a despatcher,"continued Stanley, as Bucks stammered his thanks, "for you are not.And I don't want you to think I like to make you one. I don't. Neitherfor your sake nor mine. I don't like to impose the responsibilities ofa man on a boy. But I can't help it. We haven't the men, and we can'tget them--and we must all, men and boys, pull together and just dothe best we can--do you understand?"
"I understand everything, Colonel Stanley."
"I need not say much about what is before you. You have been sendingdespatchers' orders for years yourself. You know how many lives areheld every minute in the despatchers' hand. Don't overrate yourresponsibility and grow nervous over it; and don't ever underestimateit. As long as you keep yourself fit for your work, and do the bestyou can, you may sleep with a clear conscience. Report to Mr. Baxter.Remember you are working with green trainmen and don't expect too muchof them."
When Bucks signed a transfer and took his train-sheet that night attwelve o'clock, his chief anxiety was to keep the material trainsgoing to Casement and everything eastbound was laid out in an effortto send the ties and rails west. Bucks set himself to keep pace withthe good work done by the despatcher in the evening trick and for twohours kept his sheet pretty clean.
A heavy train of rails which he had been helping all the way westafter midnight was then at Castle Springs, and Bucks gave its crew anorder to meet the eastbound passenger train at Point of Rocks. It wasthree o'clock when a message came from the operator at Point of Rocks,saying the rail train had passed westbound. Bucks seized a key andsilencing the wires asked for the passenger train. Nothing had beenseen of it. He called up Bitter Creek, the first telegraph point westof Point of Rocks with an order to hold the passenger train. But thetrain had already gone.
The new dispatcher sprang up from the table frantic. Then, racingagain to the key, he made the operator at Castle Springs repeat theorder and assure him it had been delivered. Of this there could be noquestion. The freight crew had ignored or forgotten it, and were nowpast Point of Rocks running head-on against the passenger train. Ifthe heavens had fallen the situation would have seemed better toBucks. A head-on collision on the first night of his promotion meant,he felt, his ruin. As he sat overwhelmed with despair, trying tocollect his wits and to determine what to do, the door opened and BobScott appeared.
The scout, with his unfailing and kindly smile, advanced and held outhis hand. "Just dropped in to extend my congratulations."
Bucks looked at him in horror, his face rigid and his eyes set. Scottpaused and regarded his aspect with surprise. "Something hashappened," he said, waiting for the despatcher to speak.
"Bob!" exclaimed the boy in desperation, "No. 9 has run past hermeeting order at Point of Rocks with No. 2. They will meet head-on andkill everybody. My God! what can I do?"
In the dim light of the shaded oil lamp, Bucks, looking at the scout,stood the picture of despair. Scott picked up the poker and began tostir the fire and asked only a few questions and said little. However,when Bucks told him he was going to wake Stanley, whose sleeping-roomadjoined his office at the end of the hall, Scott counselled no.
"He could do nothing," said Scott reflecting. "Let us wait a whilebefore we do anything like that," he added, coupling himself with thedespatcher in the latter's overwhelming anxiety. "The first news ofthe collision will come from Bitter Creek. It will be time enough thento call Stanley. Give your orders for a wrecking crew, get a trainready, and get word to Doctor Arnold to go with it."
Bucks, steadying himself under the kindly common-sense of his olderfriend, followed each suggestion promptly. Scott, who ordinarily wouldhimself have been running around on the job, made no move to leave theroom, thinking he could be of more service in remaining with theunfortunate despatcher. The yard became a scene of instant activity.And although no organization to meet emergencies of this kind had beenas yet effected on the new division, the men responded intelligentlyand promptly with the necessary arrangements.
Everyone summoned tried to get into the dispatchers' room to hear thestory repeated. Scott took it upon himself to prevent this, andstanding in the anteroom made all explanations himself. He rejoinedBucks after getting rid of the crowd, and the moment the relief trainreported ready the despatcher sent it out, that help might reach thescene of disaster at the earliest possible moment. Bucks, calmedsomewhat but suffering intensely, paced the floor or threw himselfinto his chair, while Scott picked up the despatcher's old copy of"The Last of the Mohicans," and smoking silently sat immovable,waiting with his customary stoicism for the call that should announcethe dreaded wreck.
The moments loaded with anxiety went with leaden feet while the twomen sat. It seemed as if the first hour never would pass. Then thelong silence of the little receiver was broken by a call for thedispatcher. Bucks sprang to answer it.
Scott watched his face as he sent his "Ay, ay." Without understandingwhat the instruments clicked, he read the expressions that followedone after the other across Bucks's countenance, as he would have reada desert trail. He noted the perplexity on the despatcher's face whenthe latter tried to get the sender of the call.
"Some one is cutting in on the line," exclaimed Bucks, mystified, asthe sounder clicked. "Bob, it is Bill Dancing."
A pause followed. "What can it mean, his sending a message to me? Heis between Bitter Creek and Castle Springs. Wait a moment!"
The receiver clicked sharp and fast. Scarcely able to control hisvoice in his anxiety, Bucks turned to the now excited scout: "Thetrains met between Bitter Creek and Castle Springs. There was nocollision!"
Almost collapsing with t
he passing of the strain, Bucks faltered inhis taking. Asking Dancing again for the story, Bucks took it morecoolly and repeated it to his eager listener, as it came.
"Dancing was out with two men on the line to-day, repairing betweenBitter Creek and Castle Springs. He didn't get done and camped besidethe track for the night, to finish in the morning."
"Go on," exclaimed Scott.
"They shot a jack-rabbit----"
"Hang the jack-rabbit," cried Scott. "What about the trains?"
"You can't hurry Bill Dancing, Bob," pleaded Bucks. "You know that.Faster, Bill, faster," he telegraphed urgently.
"You will get it faster," returned the distant lineman far out in themountains under the stars, as he talked calmly with the despatcher,"if you will go slower."
Bucks strangled his impatience. Dancing resumed, and the despatcheragain translated for Scott.
"They cooked the jack-rabbit for supper----"
Scott flung his book violently across the room. "It tasted good,"continued Dancing exasperatingly. "But the night was awfully cold, sothey built a big camp-fire near the curve. The freight engineer sawthe fire and thought it was a locomotive head-light. Then heremembered he had run past his meeting point. He stopped his train tofind out what the fire was. When he told Bill what had happened theygrabbed up the burning logs, carried them down the track, and built asignal fire for No. 2. And it came along inside five minutes----"
"And there they are!" concluded Bucks, wiping the dampness from hisforehead.
The receiver continued to click. "Bill thought I would be worried andhe cut in on the line right away to tell me what had happened."
"Now give your orders to No. 2 to back up to Castle Springs and letthe rail train get by. Recall your relief train," added Scott. "Andbring that freight engineer in here in the morning and let Stanleytalk to him for just about five minutes." The key rattled for amoment. Scott, going to the farthest corner of the room, picked up"The Last of the Mohicans." "Bucks," he murmured insinuatingly, as hesat down to look into the book again, "I want to ask you now, once forall, whether this is a true story?"
"Bob, put that book where it belongs and stop talking about it."
Scott hitched one shoulder a bit and returned to the fire, but he wasnot silenced.
"That reminds me, Bucks," he resumed after a pause, "there is anotherfriend of yours here at the door, waiting to congratulate you. ShallI let him in?"
"I don't want any congratulations, Bob."
"I'll promise he doesn't say a single word, Bucks." As he spoke, Scottopened the hall door and whistled into the darkness. For an instantthere was no response. Then a small and vague object outlined itselfin the gloom, but halted questioningly on the threshold. Wagging hisabbreviated tail very gently and carrying his drooping ears very low,Scuffy at length walked slowly into the room. Bucks hailed him withdelight, and Scuffy bounding forward crouched at his feet.
"I can't do a thing with him over at the ranch," complained Scott,eying the dog with a secret admiration. "He is eating the hounds up;doesn't give them a chance to pick a bone even after he's done withit."
"I'm afraid there is nothing to do with Scuffy, but to make adespatcher of him," returned Bucks, picking him up by the forepaws. "Ican see very plainly it's going to be a dog's life most of the time."
The Mountain Divide Page 25