The Western Romance MEGAPACK ®: 20 Classic Tales

by Zane Grey

  Gertrude watched his unremitting toil; his shifty balancing on his footing with ever-growing amazement, but the others gave it not the slightest heed. The engineer looked only ahead, and Glover’s face behind him never turned. Then Gertrude for the first time looked through her own sash out into the storm.

  Strain as she would, her vision could pierce to nothing beyond the ceaseless sweep of the thin, wild snow across the brilliant flow of the headlight. She looked into the white whirl until her eyes tired, then back to the cab, at the flying shovel of the fireman, the peaked cap of the muffled engineer—at Glover behind him, his hand resting now on the reverse lever hooked high at his elbow. But some fascination drew her eyes always back to that bright circle in the front—to the sinister snow retreating always and always advancing; flowing always into the headlight and out, and above it darkening into the fire that streamed from the dripping stack. A sudden lurch nearly threw her from her seat, and she gave a little scream as the engine righted. Glover beside her like thought caught her outstretched hand. “A curve,” he said, bending apologetically toward her ear as she reseated herself. “Is it very trying?”

  “No, except that I am in continual fear of falling from my seat—or having to embrace the unfortunate fireman. Oh!” she exclaimed, putting her wrist on Glover’s arm as the cab jerked.

  “If I could keep out of the fireman’s way, I should stand here,” he said.

  “There is room on the seat here, I think, if you have not wholly deserted me. Oh!”

  “I didn’t mean to desert you. It is because the snow is packing harder that you are rocked more; the cab has really been riding very smoothly.”

  She moved forward on the box. “Are you going to sit down?”

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, don’t thank me. I shall feel ever so much safer if you will.” He tried to edge up into the corner behind her, pushing the heavy cushion up to support her back. As he did so she turned impatiently, but he could not catch what she said. “Throw it away,” she repeated. He chucked the cushion forward below her feet and was about to sit up where she had made room for him when the engineer put both hands to the throttle-bar and shut off. For the first time since they had started Gertrude saw him look around.

  “Where’s Point of Rocks?” he called to Glover as they slowed, and he looked at his watch. “I’m afraid we’re by.”

  “By?” echoed Glover.

  “It looks so.”

  The fireman opened his furnace with a bang. The engineer got stiffly down and straightened his legs while he consulted with Glover. Both knew they had been running past small stations without seeing them, but to lose Point of Rocks with its freight houses, coal chutes, and water tanks!

  They talked for a minute, the engineer climbed up to his seat, the reverse lever was thrown over and they started cautiously back on a hunt for the lost station, both straining their eyes for a glimpse of a light or a building. For twenty minutes they ran back without finding a solitary landmark. When they stopped, afraid to retreat farther, Glover got out into the storm, walked back and forth, and, chilled to the bone, plunged through the shallow drifts from side to side of the right of way in a vain search for reckoning. Railroad men on the rotary, the second day after, exploded Glover’s torpedoes eleven miles west of Point of Rocks, where he had fastened them that night to the rails to warn the ploughs asked for when leaving Sleepy Cat.

  With his clothing frozen he swung up into the cab. They were lost. She could see his eyes now. She could see his face. Their perilous state she could not understand, nor know; but she knew and understood what she saw in his face and eyes—the resource and the daring. She saw her lover then, master of the elements, of the night and the danger, and her heart went out to his strength.

  The three men talked together and the fireman asked the question that none dared answer, “What about the ploughs?”

  Would Giddings hold them at Point of Rocks till the Special reported?

  Would he send them out to keep the track open regardless of the Special’s reaching Point of Rocks?

  Had they themselves reached Point of Rocks at all? If past it, had they been seen? Were the ploughs ahead or behind? And the fireman asked another question; if they were by the Point tank, would the water hold till they got to Medicine Bend? No one could answer.

  There was but one thing to do; to keep in motion. They started slowly. The alternatives were discussed. Glover, pondering, cast them all up, his awful responsibility, unconscious of her peril, watching him from the fireman’s box. The engineer looked to Glover instinctively for instructions and, hesitating no longer, he ordered a dash for Medicine Bend regardless of everything.

  Without a qualm the engineer opened his throttle and hooked up his bar and the engine leaped blindly ahead into the storm. Glover, in a few words, told Gertrude their situation. He made no effort to disguise it, and to his astonishment she heard him quietly. He cramped himself down at her feet and muffled his head in his cap and collar to look ahead.

  They had hardly more than recovered their lost distance, and were running very hard when a shower of heavy blows struck the cab and the engine gave a frantic plunge. Forgetting that he pulled no train McGraw’s eyes flew to the air gauge with the thought his train had broken, but the pointer stood steady at the high pressure. Again the monster machine strained, and again the cab rose and plunged terrifically. The engineer leaped at the throttle like a cat; Gertrude, jolted first backward, was thrown rudely forward on Glover’s shoulder, and the fireman slid head first into the oil cans. Worst of all, Glover, in saving Gertrude, put his elbow through the lower glass of the running-board door. The engine stopped and a blast of powdered ice streamed in on them; their eyes met.

  She tried to get her breath. “Don’t be frightened,” he said; “you are all right. Sit perfectly still. What have you got, Paddy?” he called to the engineer. The engineer did not attempt to answer; taking lanterns, the two men climbed out of the cab to investigate. The wind swept through the broken pane and Gertrude slipped down from her seat with relief, while the fireman caught up a big double handful of waste from his box and stuffed it into the broken pane. So intense had the strain of silence become that she would have spoken to him, but the sudden stop sprung the safety-valve, and overwhelmed with its roar she could only watch him in wretched suspense shake the grate, restore his drip can, start his injector, and hammer like one pursued by a fury at the coal. Since she had entered the cab this man had never for one minute rested.

  McGraw, followed by Glover, climbed back under the canvas from the gangway. Their clothing, moist with the steam of the cab, had stiffened the instant the wind struck it. McGraw hastening to the furnace seized the chain, jerked open the door and motioned to Glover to come to the fire, but Glover shook his head behind McGraw, his hands on the little man’s shoulders, and forced him down in front of the fearful blaze to thaw the gloves from his aching fingers.

  All the horror of the storm they were facing had passed Gertrude unfelt until she saw the silent writhing of the crouching man. This was three minutes of the wind that Glover had asked her not to tempt; this was the wind she had tempted. She was glad that Glover, bending over the engineer, holding one hand to the fire as he gazed into it, did not look toward her. From cap to boots he was frozen in snow and ice. The two men, without speaking, left the cab again. They were gone longer. Gertrude felt chills running over her.

  “This is a terrible night,” she said to the fireman.

  “Yes, ma’am, it’s pretty bad. I don’t know why they’d send white men out into this. I wouldn’t send a coyote out.”

  “They are staying out so long this time,” she murmured. “Could they possibly freeze while they are out, do you think?”

  “Sure, they could; but them boys know too much for that. Mr. Glover stays out a week at a time in this kind; he don’t care. Tha
t man Paddy McGraw is his head engineer in the bucking gang; he don’t care—them fellows don’t care. But I’ve got a wife at the Cat and two babies, that’s my fix. I never cared neither when I was single, but if I’m carried home now it’s seven hundred and fifty relief and a thousand dollars in the A. O. U. W., and that’s the end of it for the woman. That’s why I don’t like to freeze to death, ma’am. But what can you do if you’re ordered out? Suppose your woman is a-hangin’ to your neck like mine hung to me to-night and cryin’—whatever can you do? You’ve got to go or lose your job; and if you lose your job who’ll feed your kids then?”

  McGraw’s head appeared under the canvas doorway. Glover did not follow him and Gertrude grew alarmed: but when the canvas rattled and she saw his cap she was waiting for him at the doorway and she put her hands happily on his frozen sleeve: “I’m so glad.”

  He looked at her with humor in his big eyes.

  “I was afraid without you,” she added, confusedly.

  He laughed. “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Oh, you are so cold. Come to the fire.”

  “What do you think about the ploughs now?” he asked of McGraw, who had climbed up to his seat.

  “How many is there?” returned the engineer as Glover shivered before the fire.

  “There may be a thousand.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “There’s only one thing, Paddy. Go through them,” answered Glover, slamming shut the furnace door.

  McGraw laid his bar over, and, like one putting his house in order, looked at his gauges and tried his valves.

  “What is it?” whispered Gertrude, at Glover’s side.

  He turned. “We’ve struck a bunch of sheep.”

  “Sheep?”

  “In a storm they drift to keep from freezing out in the open. These sheep have bunched in a little cut out of the wind,” he explained, as the fireman sprinkled the roaring furnace. “You had better get up on your seat, Miss Brock.”

  “But what are you going to do?”

  “Run through them.”

  “Run through them? Do you mean to kill them?”

  “We shall have to kill a few; there isn’t much danger.”

  “But oh, must you mangle those poor creatures huddling in the cut out of the storm? Oh, don’t do that.”

  “We can’t help it.”

  “Oh, yes, yes, you can if you will, I am sure.” She looked at him imploringly.

  “Indeed I cannot. Listen a moment.” He spoke steadily. The wheels were turning under her, the engine was backing for the dash. “We know now the ploughs are not ahead of us, for the cut is full of sheep and snow. If they are behind us we are in grave danger. They may strike us at any moment—that means, do you understand? death. We can’t go back now; there’s too much snow even if the track were clear. To stay here means to freeze to death.” She turned restively from him. “Could you have thought it a joke,” he asked, slowly, “to run a hundred and seventy miles through a blizzard?” She looked away and her sob cut him to the heart. “I did not mean to wound you,” he murmured. “It’s only that you don’t realize what self-preservation means. I wouldn’t kill a fly unnecessarily, but do you think I could stand it to see anyone in this cab mangled by a plough behind us—or to see you freeze to death if the engine should die and we’re caught here twelve hours? It is our lives or theirs, that’s all, and they will freeze anyway. We are only putting them out of their misery. Come; we are starting.” He helped her to her seat.

  “Don’t leave me,” she faltered. The cylinder cocks were drumming wildly. “Which ever way we turn there’s danger,” he admitted, reluctantly, “a steam pipe might burst. You must cover your face.” She drew the high collar of her coat around her neck and buried her face in her muff, but he caught up a blanket and dropped it completely over her head; then locking her arm in his own he put one heavy boot against the furnace door, and, braced between the woman he loved and the fire-box, nodded to the engineer—McGraw gave head.

  Furred with snow, and bearded fearfully with ice; creeping like a mountain-cat on her prey; quivering under the last pound of steam she could carry, and hissing wildly as McGraw stung her heels again and again from the throttle, the great engine moved down on the blocked cut.

  Unable to reckon distance or resistance but by instinct, and forced to risk everything for headway, McGraw pricked the cylinders till the smarting engine roared. Then, crouching like a jockey for a final cruel spur he goaded the monster for the last time and rose in his stirrups for the crash.

  With never a slip or a stumble, hardly reeling in her ponderous frame, the straining engine plunged headlong into the curve. Only once, she staggered and rolled; once only, three reckless men rose to answer death as it knocked at their hearts; but their hour was not come, and the engine struggled, righted, and parted the living drift from end to end.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  DAYBREAK

  Crouching under the mountains in the grip of the storm Medicine Bend slept battened in blankets and beds. All night at the Wickiup, O’Neill and Giddings, gray with anxiety, were trying to keep track of Glover’s Special. It was the only train out that night on the mountain division. For the first hour or two they kept tab on her with little trouble, but soon reports began to falter or fail, and the despatchers were reduced at last to mere rumors. They dropped boards ahead of Special 1018, only to find to their consternation that she was passing them unheeded.

  Once, at least, they knew that she herself had slipped by a night station unseen. Oftener, with blanched faces they would hear of her dashing like an apparition past a frightened operator, huddled over his lonely stove, a spectral flame shot across the fury of the sky—as if the dread night breathing on the scrap-pile and the grave had called from other nights and other storms a wraith of riven engines and slaughtered men to one last phantom race with death and the wind.

  Within two hours of division headquarters a train ran lost—lost as completely as if she were crossing the Sweetgrass plains on pony trails instead of steel rails. Not once but a dozen times McGraw and Glover, pawning their lives, left the cab with their lanterns in a vain endeavor to locate a station, a siding, a rock. Numbed and bitten at last with useless exposure they cast effort to the wind, gave the engine like a lost horse her head, and ran through everything for headquarters and life. Consultation was abandoned, worry put away, one good chance set against every other chance and taken in silence.

  At five o’clock that morning despatchers and night men under the Wickiup gables, sitting moodily around the big stove, sprang to their feet together. From up the distant gorge, dying far on the gale, came the long chime blast of an engine whistle; it was the lost Special.

  They crowded to the windows to dispute and listen. Again the heavy chime was sprung and a second blast, lasting and defiant, reached the Wickiup—McGraw was whistling for the upper yard and the long night of anxiety was ended. Unable to see a car length into the storm howling down the yard, save where the big arc-lights of the platform glared above the semaphores, the men swarmed to the windows to catch a glimpse of the belated engine. When the rays of its electric headlight pierced the Western night they shouted like boys, ran to the telephones, and while the roundhouse, the superintendent, and the master-mechanic were getting the news the Special engine steamed slowly into sight through the whirling snow and stopped at the semaphore. So a liner shaken in the teeth of a winter storm, battered by heading seas, and swept by stiffening spray, rides at last, ice-bound, staggering, majestic, into port.

  The moment they struck the mountain-path into the Bend, McGraw and Glover caught their bearings by the curves, and Glover, standing at Gertrude’s elbow, told her they were safe.

  Not until he had laughed into her ear something that the silent McGraw, lying on his back under the engine with a wrench, w
hen he confessed he never expected to see Medicine Bend again, had said of her own splendid courage did the flood spring from her eyes.

  When Glover added that they were entering the gorge, and laughingly asked if she would not like to sound the whistle for the yard limits, she smiled through tears and gave him her hand to be helped down, cramped and chilled, from her corner.

  At the moment that she left the cab she faltered again. McGraw stripped his cap from his head as she turned to speak. She took from the breast of her blouse her watch, dainty as a jewel, and begged him to take it, but he would not.

  She drew her glove and stripped from her finger a ring.

  “This is for your wife,” she said, pressing it into his hand.

  “I have no wife.”

  “Your sister.”

  “Nor sister.”

  “Keep it for your bride,” she whispered, retreating. “It is yours. Good-by, good-by!”

  She sprang from the gangway to Glover’s arms and the snow. The storm drove pitilessly down the bare street as she clung to his side and tried to walk the half block to the hotel. The wind, even for a single minute, was deadly to face. No light, no life was anywhere visible. He led her along the lee of the low street buildings, and mindful of the struggle it was to make headway at all turned half between her and the wind to give her the shelter of his shoulders, halting as she stumbled to encourage her anew. He saw then that she was struggling in the darkness for breath, and without a word he bent over her, took her up like a child and started on, carrying her in his arms.