Hosselkus’s life to be a regular passenger-engineer--in railroad
parlance, to “pull varnished cars.” This was the goal upon the
attainment of which the best efforts of his life had been
concentrated, and still, after twenty years’ service, he seemed as
far as ever from success. Many times he had almost achieved it, but
always something had happened to prevent, some unaccountable and
unavoidable piece of ill-luck. Finally, his name became so
synonymous with disaster that the “Company” hesitated to intrust the
valuable equipment of an express-train and the lives of the
traveling public to him. Thus, as the years went by, old Hard Luck
had become accustomed to crawling out from under the disgruntled
engine of a side-tracked worktrain or way-freight to acknowledge the
patronizing wave of the hand, as some former fireman of his whizzed
by with a passenger-train or an “officers’ special.” Despair,
however, had no place in his heart, and he still reveled in the
fancied joys of pulling the fast express, and dreamed of that happy
time when, to the customary inquiry as to the time of his departure,
he would be able to answer: “I go out on Number Three.”
There is a great difference in engineers; some can step off the
foot-board at the end of a long run looking as fresh and clean as at
the start, while, to judge from the appearance of others, one would
imagine they had made the journey in the ash-pan. Hosselkus belonged
to the latter class. It would have required some more powerful
solvent than simple soap and water to have removed the soot and
grime that had gradually accumulated in the wrinkles and hollows of
his countenance during the years of arduous service. There was some
excuse for him, however, seeing that so much of his life had been
spent upon superannuated “ten-wheelers,” which, as every one knows,
are awkward machines to oil, on account of their wheels being so low
and close together. Then, too, he had so many accidents. He scarcely
ever made a round trip without “slipping an eccentric,” “bursting a
flue,” or “burning out his grates,” not to mention more serious
mishaps, such as derailments, head and hind-end collisions, or
running into slides and wash-outs. Much practice had made him almost
perfect in “taking down a side,” or disconnecting a locomotive,
while some of his exploits in the fire-box, plugging flues, rivaled
the exhibition given by the Hebrew children in that seven times
heated furnace of Holy Writ.
But while his extensive experience upon the road had developed
habits of self-reliance and a certain readiness in emergencies, it
was not calculated to impart that gloss or polish which enables one
to shine in society. Hard Luck’s only appearance within the charmed
circle had been when he acted as pall-bearer at the funeral of a
division superintendent, and upon that occasion he had scandalized
his colleagues by appearing without the conventional white gloves,
and a hurried and embarrassed search of his pockets only brought to
light a bunch of “waste” and a “soft hammer,” articles which, though
almost indispensable on a locomotive, are not essential to the
success of a well-ordered interment.
Gamblers say that if one is but possessed of sufficient capital, the
most persistent run of ill-luck may eventually be broken, and so it
proved in Hosselkus’s case.
An “officers’ special,” carrying the leading magnates of the road
upon a tour of inspection, was expected, and Engine
Seven-Seventy-Seven, the fastest locomotive on the division, and
Bill Pearson, an engineer with a record, had been held in readiness
for some time to take them out.
The engine, with a full tank of the best coal, had already been run
out of the roundhouse, and the train-dispatcher had the freights
safely side-tracked, and satisfactory “meets” with the
passenger-trains about figured out, when he was interrupted in his
study of the train-sheet by a nervous ring at the telephone. The
dispatcher answered it himself, and the foreman of the roundhouse
announced that Pearson was sick, and unable to take the special out.
“That’s bad,” mused the dispatcher, but added, a moment later:
“Well, send the next best man, and get a move on; they’ll be here in
ten minutes.”
“They ain’t none,” replied the roundhouse.
“No other engineer?” shouted the dispatcher.
“Well, there’s only Perkins on the yard-engine and Hard Luck just in
on Scott’s work-train--might double him out again--that’s all.”
The dispatcher rushed into the adjoining room to consult the
superintendent.
It was in the midst of the busiest season, and every available
engineer was out upon the road.
“Hard Luck? nonsense!” said the superintendent when he was informed
of the situation. “Tell Pearson he must take the special out--this
is a nice time for him to get sick!”
The roundhouse was notified, and replied that Pearson was “foamin’
awful--his wife’s got him jacked up and two doctors workin’ on him,”
yelled the foreman.
“This is terrible! _terrible!_” groaned the superintendent. “Perkins
is only a boy, we can’t put him on, and Hosselkus will never get
over the division without something happening--never in the world!”
and the perspiration started upon his forehead. The whistle of the
special aroused him to the necessity of immediate action.
“Tell them to put Hosselkus on, and get him out as quick as
possible--we are in the hands of Providence anyway, I suppose,” he
added to himself.
All was hurry and excitement when the special pulled in. The engine
that brought it in was cut off and hurried out of the way, while the
huge, well-groomed “Three-Sevens” backed slowly down in charge of
Hosselkus, whose heart swelled chokingly as the brazen clangor of
her bell pealed out.
But the beginning was ominous. The engine was unfamiliar to him and
worked more stiffly than he had expected, so that when he backed
down to be coupled on, he struck the train with a momentum that
jarred its occupants uncomfortably.
“Lord! _Lord!_” moaned the superintendent as he wiped his clammy
brow and sought to divert the directors’ attention from the mishap
by suggesting some needed improvements in the “Company’s” water
supply.
Presently he excused himself and went ahead to the engine to
interview Hard Luck. He found him with an oil-can in one hand and a
bunch of waste in the other, engaged in the important duty of
“oiling ’round.”
Hosselkus had had no time to change his greasy jumper and overalls
for cleaner ones; his hasty wash had merely imparted a smeary look
to his countenance, and the badge on his cap was upside down, but
his eyes sparkled beneath their shaggy brows, his mustache bristled
savagely, and the whole man was nervously alert as, with a squirt of
oil here, a dab of the waste there, and feeling carefully each key
and bearing to detect any signs of heating, he worked his way around
the mighty racer. He was just finishing his round when the
superintendent came up.
“Now, Hosselkus,” said the latter, appealingly, “_do_ be careful and
try and get us over the division in some kind of shape--make time,
and, for heaven’s sake, don’t break down on the road. If you make a
first-class run, I’ll see what we can do about getting a passenger
run for you.”
Hosselkus put away his tallow-pot, wiped his hands on the bunch of
waste, which he then carefully placed in his pocket to serve as a
handkerchief, and at length spoke: “Colonel,” he said, “don’t you
lose no sleep over this excursion--we’ll git there in the biggest
kind of shape--this mill has got it in her, an’ if I can’t coax a
move out of her, I’ll run a stationary the rest of my life. Now,
these kid-engineers of yours, they ain’t up in mechanics like they’d
oughter be--not but what they’re good boys--mind you, I’m not sayin’
a word agin ’em--but they waste her stren’th--they don’t really
savvy the theory. Now----”
“Yes, yes,” hurriedly interrupted the superintendent; “I know, but
we must be getting out of here, and don’t forget that passenger
run--it’s manslaughter, if not murder in the first degree,” he said
to himself, as he hastened back; “but if we escape with our lives,
he shall have the run.”
The conductor waved his hand, Hosselkus opened the throttle slightly
and the steam shrilled through the cylinder-cocks as the special
moved down the yard. Slowly he threaded the network of tracks,
cut-offs, and blind switches, and then more rapidly by the long
siding opposite the row of cottages, where the families of the
conductors and engineers lived. And instinctively he felt the eyes
of the women upon him, and that they were saying: “Well, if there
ain’t that crazy fool on Pearson’s Three-Sevens, with a passenger
special! Wouldn’t that kill you?” for women are jealous
divinities--they would not that man should have any other gods or
goddesses before them, and, as Hosselkus worshiped only a
locomotive, a thing of steel and iron, they made of him a by-word
and a reproach. But at that moment, Hard Luck cared but little for
their disdain; he only thought of his triumph, and the discordant
clanging of the bell of the Three-Sevens sounded in his ears as a
pæan of victory. “At last--at last,” seemed to say its brazen
tongue.
The last switch was passed, and Hosselkus, forgetting the lightness
of his train, opened the throttle so suddenly that the engine fairly
leaped forward, while passengers’ necks received a violent wrench.
“This engineer of yours, colonel,” said the general superintendent,
spitting out the end of a cigar he had involuntarily swallowed, “is
just off a pile-driver, is he not?”
The colonel laughed a joyless laugh. “The fact is,” he replied, “the
regular man was taken sick at the last moment, and we had no one but
this fellow to put on. He is an old engineer, but not used to the
engine. I think he will improve when he gets the hang of it.”
“I hope so--I hope so,” said the general, fervently, as he lit a
fresh cigar; “there is evidently room for improvement.”
But presently even the anxious superintendent was forced to admit
they were moving. Telegraph-poles, that had appeared and disappeared
with majestic deliberation, began to flit by the windows with a
frequency and abruptness very unusual in those stately objects;
quicker and less rhythmic came the click of the wheels as each rail
was passed, and the leaps of the engine at each revolution of the
driving-wheels were merged into a continuous, convulsive shudder.
The passengers no longer experienced the sensation of being drawn
along, but felt as though projected through space, and the more
timid clung to their seats to avoid soaring off through the roof.
Trainmen who could traverse undisturbed the reeling roofs of a fast
freight, made their way through the swaying cars with difficulty.
Old Hard Luck was evidently “getting there,” and the superintendent
prayed silently that he might maintain the speed to the end.
At the first stop he went forward to congratulate the engineer. The
fireman was under the engine “hoeing out,” and Hosselkus, sooty but
triumphant, was “oiling ’round.”
“How’d’s that suit you, colonel?” he cried, as his superior
approached; “the old girl’s a-crawlin’, ain’t she?”
“You’re doing fine, Hosselkus--fine, but keep it up--pound her on
the back, for the porter tells me the wine is getting low and
they’re liable to see something to beef about. Keep ’em a-rollin’,
and the passenger run is yours.” The colonel had risen from the
ranks, and at times, unconsciously, lapsed into the old dialect.
“Don’t you worry none, we’ll git there. Gimme this mill, colonel,
an’ none of the other boys on the division ’ud ever get a smell of
my smoke. An’ she does it so easy, reminds of your maw’s old
rocker--just handle her right, don’t crowd her, that’s the main
point. Now my theory’s like this, we’ll say the cylinder receives so
much----”
But the colonel had fled. Hard Luck carried his theory with him, for
he never succeeded in obtaining a listener to whom he could expound
it.
No accident occurred, however; the speed was maintained, and the
special reached Oleson’s Siding so far in advance of the
train-dispatcher’s calculations that quite a wait was necessary
while Number Three, the east-bound express, toiled up the grade.
Hosselkus lit the headlight, for the sun was impaled upon one of the
peaks of the distant Sierras, whose eastern slopes were already
purpling with shades of evening.
It was the last stop. Below him wound the tortuous Goose-Neck Grade,
with the division terminus at its foot. The run was nearly ended.
Having finished oiling, Hosselkus leaned against the cylinder-head
and gazed abstractedly down the track. A brakeman was seated on the
head-block of the switch, throwing stones at an adjacent
telegraph-pole, and moodily speculating upon the probabilities of
“getting in” in time for supper, while an occasional breath of wind
from the valley brought with it, from far down the grade, the
puffing of the engines on Number Three.
He had succeeded. The record would be broken beyond a doubt; but as
the cool breeze of sunset blew in his face, he suddenly became aware
of the fact that he was tired, and he remembered then that he had
been on the road for over forty-eight hours.
The smell of heated tallow struck him, for the first time, as being
a singularly unappetizing odor, and he looked over the huge machine
with something akin to dissatisfaction in the expression of his
face. He sighed, and the brakeman asked if she was coming--meaning
the train.
“No,” replied Hard Luck; “she ain’t showed up ’round the bend
yet--I’uz just thinkin’.”
“Well, here she’s a-comin’.”
Hosselkus clambered to his seat, and as soon as the express-train
had cleared the switch it was opened by the brakeman, and the
special was once more under way.
Leaning uncomfortably now to this side, now to that, and with angry
grinding of flange on rail, it swept around the curves with
ever-increasing speed. A crashing roar, a flare of yellow sunset
light reflected from rocky walls, told of a cutting safely passed,
while bridge, and culvert, and trestle bellowed again as the engine
cleared them at a bound.
The Three-Sevens devoured the way. Again and again Hosselkus proved
the correctness of his theory by the terrific bursts of speed with
which the mighty engine responded to his every impulse; but his
nerves were no longer responsive to the exultant thrill of triumph.
A sickening foreboding griped his heart; yet, whenever he would have
shut off steam and slackened speed, an unconquerable impulse
restrained him; for, in the exhaust of the engine and the roar of
wheels, he fancied he heard one word repeated over and over again,
with maddening persistency: “Hurry! hurry! hurry! hurry!” And the
fireman, as he shoveled in coal and struggled to maintain his
difficult footing, noted with wonder, not unmixed with uneasiness,
that Hosselkus was working steam on grades where it was usual to
“let them down” under the restraining pressure of the air-brakes.
The lagging summer twilight gradually deepened until the illuminated
faces of clock and steam-gauge stood out with pallid distinctness in
the gloom of the cab. Lights in lonely section-houses shot past, and
occasionally a great flare of red rushed upward from the momentarily
opened door of the fire-box. The dazzling light of the furnace
revealed old Hard Luck crouching forward on his seat, one hand on
the throttle, the other grasping the reversing lever. His features
were set and sharpened, and so pale that through its grimy enameling
his face looked positively blue. An occasional swift, comprehensive
glance took in clock, steam-gauge, and water-glass, and then his
eyes were again fixed upon the arrowy torrent of ties that streamed
into the glare of the headlight and disappeared beneath the pilot
with unbroken, dizzying swiftness. At last a white post flitted by
and Hosselkus relaxed. He glanced at the clock, and the next moment
a long, wailing blast of the whistle warned the yardmen at the
division’s end.
The record was broken; the passenger run was his at last; old Hard
Luck had actually got over the division without a mishap and in time
never before equaled; but instead of exulting over it, as he shut
off steam, he found himself marveling how faint and far away the
whistle had sounded; had he not felt the vibration of the escaping
steam, he would hardly have believed it was the Three-Seven’s
stentorian voice. Undoubtedly there was something wrong; he would
have to fix it the first thing in the morning. The engine lurched
over the switches, and Hosselkus cursed the sudden fog that had
dimmed the switch-lamps so he could hardly tell red from white, but
at length he pulled up before the Railway Hotel--fortune favored him
to the last, he made a splendid stop.
With a great sigh of relief he leaned back on his seat, while the
eating-house gong banged and thundered a hospitable welcome to the
belated guests.
“You made a magnificent run, Hosselkus. I’ll fix it with the
master-mechanic--you go out on Number Three to-morrow,” called out
the superintendent, as he hurried by.
Presently a yardman uncoupled the engine and waved his lantern. “All
right!” called out the fireman, who was standing in the gangway.
The engineer made no move.
“What’s the matter?” inquired the switchman, climbing into the cab;
“Why in----” The light of his lantern fell upon the engineer’s face;
he paused suddenly, for it was white beneath the grime.
Hard Luck was taken from the engine, laid upon a bench, and a
physician hastily summoned. Engineers, with smoky torches, and
trainmen, with lanterns, crowded around with bated breath, while the
doctor listened long and attentively for a sound of life, but only
the air-pump on the Three-Sevens sighed softly, as the light rings
of smoke from her stack floated up, and up, and up in the quiet air,
where still a tinge of twilight lingered.
“Dead!” said the doctor, and the tension was relaxed.
Then they all praised their late comrade, and all agreed that the
old fellow had a good heart in him, anyway--that is, all but the
doctor, who, as he rose and carefully wiped his spectacles, muttered
something about “Organic weakness--told him so.”
The next day, as the superintendent had promised, Hard Luck went out
on Number Three--but he went in a box, lashed to the platform of the
baggage-car.
THE DOTTED TRAIL
By W. H. Irwin
The first time that Dudley Latimer kissed Belle Sharp, the
half-Spanish “help” at the P. L. Ranch, he was not in earnest; he
would have been the last to say that there was any serious intention
in it. He did it partly in a spirit of pure bravado, and partly
because the morning was as warm and white as new milk, and she,
smiling back over her shoulder as she emptied her pails, looked a
part of it. Equally innocent of any harmful intent, she let him
after a formal struggle. He was tall and clean, and as handsome as a
young Englishman can be when he is in perfect condition, and has a
fine, red coat of tan. Then he bade her good-by. He had been at the
ranch a week, ranging the hills in a vain hunt for antelope, already
then, in the early eighties, becoming scarce. His canvas-covered
wagon and his “side partner,” the Hon. Justin Weymouth, waited by
the gate.
The Hon. Justin was taking a parting nip with the “Old Man,” and did
not see the diversion, and none of the four noticed that Emilio
Gonolez, horse trainer and man-of-all-work, was coming in through
the kitchen yard carrying an antelope so freshly killed that its
throat was not yet cut. Emilio stood and watched. He saw the
struggle, heard the girl cry “The gall of you!” saw her color turn
as she lifted her face with unwilling willingness, saw her throw at
young Latimer, walking away, a look of admiration that he took for
something else. Then Emilio slipped round the barn with his quarry,
and came upon the wagon in front. Dudley was smiling across the
fence at Belle, who had found business in the front yard. For half a
minute, Emilio looked what he felt; then smiled as he slipped into
view, and said: “I make-a present you thees antelope. He ees fresh.
Myself, I shoot heem. He come ver’ close.”
“Careful how you tie it, Emmy,” said the Old Man. “Dump it in for
’em. Well, boys, stacking in the north field. Good-by, and luck to
you.”
While Dudley chatted across the fence with Belle, Emilio was
explaining to the Hon. Justin how an antelope should be tied and
hung for a journey. “Head down so he bleed--the dust bother ver’
leetle--oh, yes, a lee-tle cut on the throat so he bleed slow. That
ees bes’. I cut heem.” A slow, red stream trickled over snowy throat
and gray jaws. The wagon drove on. Down the road behind it trailed
an irregular line of wet dots, the centres for an army of noisy
flies.
“Awfully jolly girl,” said Dudley, as they bowled easily along
through the red dust. The Hon. Justin puffed at his pipe, and made
no answer. He might have said that he hastened their going just
because his companion was very young and the girl very pretty. A
flock of sage-hens started from the olive-green brush to one side.
Justin pulled up, took out his shotgun and followed, Dudley throwing
stones to make them rise. A right and left shot brought down a
brace. They gathered up the birds, and turned to the wagon, and as
they did so, the elder man looked back. Just level with the ranch
house, two miles behind, a cloud of red dust veiled the road and
lapped far over its edge. Through the thin atmosphere came a muffled
rumble, and then a few dots, followed at an interval by another,
heaved out of the mass.
“Cattle!” said Dudley. “That’s jolly. I always wanted to see one of
those big droves on the foot. Shall we wait for them to pass?”
“I think not,” said the Hon. Justin. “Not until we get to the next
ranch. They say that those wild range cattle do singular things.”
But still they stood and watched, fascinated by the shimmering,
shifting, red cloud, the distant rumble, the glint of a blazing sun
on the sabred heads of a thousand Texas long-horns.
Of a sudden the dust-cloud, which had spilled over the road only to
the right, away from the ranch fence, widened out, shifted to the
left. They had passed the fence corner, and were on open range. No
dust arose on that wing; it was hard prairie, tied close by
sagebrush. And inexperienced as were their eyes, the two Englishmen
could see some commotion running through the mass; the units
composing it were spreading hither and thither; two compound dots,
mounted men, were swinging wide about them. The rumble grew louder,
lulled, rose again, and above the noise came the sound of a dozen
shots, fired in quick succession. Away back in his consciousness,
Dudley began to regret that they had chosen, in their young British
insolence, to travel without a guide, who might explain to them the
strange happenings of this incomprehensible country.
Justin started at the sound of a frightened snort in his ear. He
turned to see his horses quivering in every nerve. Almost before he
could catch its bridle, the near one was plunging and pitching.
“Get the reins!” yelled Justin; “we’d best be out of here.”
The team broke into a dead run. Looking back, Justin saw the cloud
ominously, frightfully near. A struggling advance-guard of
long-horns heaved out before, and ahead of them were two men, riding
like demons, yet ever beating backward as they rode. Then the red
veil fell, and there was nothing but a dust-cloud, rolling on nearer
and nearer.
* * * * *
When the Englishmen were gone, Belle looked after their retreating
wagon, and sighed. She was just realizing, now that the week was
past and these clean, courteous, easy-moving beings of another world
were gone, that she had been dreaming dreams. Emilio looked also,
sometimes after the wagon, sometimes after the girl. When he bent
his gaze on Belle he was serious enough, but when his eye ran down
the track of bloody dots, he drew his lips back from his white
teeth, and smiled. He was holding the reins of his roan bronco; he
dropped them to lean over the fence, and looked up the road, away
from the wagon.
“What is it that you see up there?” she asked, carelessly, in
Spanish.
“Something that your white-haired friend will be glad to see,” he
answered. She looked, saw the dust-cloud coming, saw the little,
caking pool of blood, and went white in a moment.
“That,” she cried, “that is what your antelope meant! You knew that
cattle were coming this way to-day.”