II.

When the celebrated Rocky Mountain gold excitement broke out, more than

twenty years ago, and people painted "PIKE'S PEAK OR BUST" on the

canvas covers of their wagons and started for the diggings, they

established a "trail" or "trace" leading in a south-westerly direction

from the old one to California.

At a certain point on this trail a frontiersman named Barker built a

forlorn ranch-house and _corral_, and offered what is conventionally

called "entertainment for man and beast."

For years he lived there, dividing his time between fighting the Indians

and feeding the passing emigrants and their stock. Then the first

railroad to Denver was built, taking another route from the Missouri,

and Barker's occupation was gone. He retired with his gains to St. Louis

and lived in comfort.

Years passed on, and the "extension" over which our train is to pass was

planned. The old pioneers were excellent natural engineers, and their

successors could find no better route than they had chosen. Thus it was

that "Barker's" became, during the construction period, an important

point, and the frontiersman's name came to figure on time-tables.

Meanwhile the place passed through a process of evolution which would

have delighted Darwin. In the party of engineers which first camped

there was Sinclair, and it was by his advice that the contractors

selected it for division headquarters. Then came drinking "saloons," and

gambling-houses--alike the inevitable concomitant and the bane of

Western settlements; then scattered houses and shops, and a shabby

so-called hotel, in which the letting of miserable rooms (divided from

each other by canvas partitions) was wholly subordinated to the business

of the bar. Before long, Barker's had acquired a worse reputation than

even other towns of its type, the abnormal and uncanny aggregations of

squalor and vice which dotted the plains in those days; and it was at

its worst when Sinclair returned thither and took up his quarters in the

engineers' building. The passion for gambling was raging, and to pander

thereto were collected as choice a lot of desperadoes as ever "stocked"

cards or loaded dice. It came to be noticed that they were on excellent

terms with a man called "Jeff" Johnson, who was lessee of the hotel; and

to be suspected that said Johnson, in local parlance, "stood in with"

them. With this man had come to Barker's his daughter Sarah, commonly

known as "Sally," a handsome girl with a straight, lithe figure, fine

features, reddish auburn hair, and dark blue eyes. It is but fair to say

that even the "toughs" of a place like Barker's show some respect for

the other sex, and Miss Sally's case was no exception to the rule. The

male population admired her; they said she "put on heaps of style"; but

none of them had seemed to make any progress in her good graces.

On a pleasant afternoon, just after the track had been laid some miles

west of Barker's, and construction trains were running with some

regularity to and from the end thereof, Sinclair sat on the rude veranda

of the engineers' quarters, smoking his well-colored meerschaum and

looking at the sunset. The atmosphere had been so clear during the day

that glimpses were had of Long's and Pike's peaks, and as the young

engineer gazed at the gorgeous cloud-display he was thinking of the

miners' quaint and pathetic idea that the dead "go over the Range."

"Nice-looking, ain't it, Major?" asked a voice at his elbow, and he

turned to see one of the contractors' officials taking a seat near him.

"More than nice-looking, to my mind, Sam," he replied. "What is the news

to-day?"

"Nothin' much. There's a sight of talk about the doin's of them faro an'

keno sharps. The boys is gittin' kind o' riled, fur they allow the game

ain't on the square wuth a cent. Some of 'em down to the tie-camp wuz

a-talkin' about a vigilance committee, an' I wouldn't be surprised ef

they meant business. Hev yer heard about the young feller that come in a

week ago from Laramie an' set up a new faro-bank?"

"No. What about him?"

"Wa'al, yer see he's a feller thet's got a lot of sand an' ain't afeared

of nobody, an' he's allowed to hev the deal to his place on the square

every time. Accordin' to my idee, gamblin's about the wust racket a

feller kin work, but it takes all sorts of men to make a world, an' ef

the boys is bound to hev a game, I calkilate they'd like to patronize

his bank. Thet's made the old crowd mighty mad, an' they're a-talkin'

about puttin' up a job of cheatin' on him an' then stringin' him up. Be

sides, I kind o' think there's some cussed jealousy on another lay as

comes in. Yer see the young feller--Cyrus Foster's his name--is sweet on

thet gal of Jeff Johnson's. Jeff wuz to Laramie before he come here, an'

Foster knowed Sally up thar. I allow he moved here to see her. Hello! Ef

thar they ain't a-comin' now."

Down a path leading from the town, past the railroad buildings, and well

on the prairie, Sinclair saw the girl walking with the "young feller."

He was talking earnestly to her, and her eyes were cast down. She looked

pretty and, in a way, graceful; and there was in her attire a noticeable

attempt at neatness, and a faint reminiscence of by-gone fashions. A

smile came to Sinclair's lips as he thought of a couple walking up Fifth

Avenue during his leave of absence not many months before, and of a

letter, many times read, lying at that moment in his breast-pocket.

"Papa's bark is worse than his bite," ran one of its sentences. "Of

course he does not like the idea of my leaving him and going away to

such dreadful and remote places as Denver and Omaha, and I don't know

what else; but he will not oppose me in the end, and when you come on

again--"

"By thunder!" exclaimed Sam; "ef thar ain't one of them cussed sharps a

watchin' 'em."

Sure enough, a rough-looking fellow, his hat pulled over his eyes, half

concealed behind a pile of lumber, was casting a sinister glance toward

the pair.

"The gal's well enough," continued Sam; "but I don't take a cent's wuth

of stock in thet thar father of her'n. He's in with them sharps, sure

pop, an' it don't suit his book to hev Foster hangin' round. It's ten to

one he sent that cuss to watch 'em. Wa'al, they're a queer lot, an' I'm

afeared thar's plenty of trouble ahead among 'em. Good luck to you,

Major," and he pushed back his chair and walked away.

After breakfast next morning, when Sinclair was sitting at the table in

his office, busy with maps and plans, the door was thrown open, and

Foster, panting for breath, ran in.

"Major Sinclair," he said, speaking with difficulty, "I've no claim on

you, but I ask you to protect me. The other gamblers are going to hang

me. They are more than ten to one. They will track me here, and unless

you harbor me, I'm a dead man."

Sinclair rose from his chair in a second and walked to the window. A

party of men were approaching the building. He turned to Foster:

"I do not like your trade," said he; "but I will not see you murdered if

I can help it. You are welcome here." Foster said "Thank you," stood

still a moment, and then began to pace the room, rapidly clinching his

hands, his whole frame quivering, his eyes flashing fire--"for all the

world," Sinclair said, in telling the story afterward, "like a fierce

caged tiger."

"My God!" he muttered, with concentrated intensity, "to be _trapped_,

TRAPPED like this!"

Sinclair stepped quickly to the door of his bedroom, and motioned Foster

to enter. Then there came a knock at the outer door, and he opened it

and stood on the threshold, erect and firm. Half a dozen "toughs" faced

him.

"Major," said their spokesman, "we want that man."

"You cannot have him, boys."

"Major, we're a-goin' to take him."

"You had better not try," said Sinclair, with perfect ease and

self-possession, and in a pleasant voice. "I have given him shelter, and

you can only get him over my dead body. Of course you can kill me, but

you won't do even that without one or two of you going down; and then

you know perfectly well, boys, what will happen. You _know_ that if you

lay your finger on a railroad man it's all up with you. There are five

hundred men in the tie-camp, not five miles away, and you don't need to

be told that in less than one hour after they get word there won't be a

piece of one of you big enough to bury."

The men made no reply. They looked him straight in the eyes for a

moment. Had they seen a sign of flinching they might have risked the

issue, but there was none. With muttered curses, they slunk away.

Sinclair shut and bolted the door, then opened the one leading to the

bedroom.

"Foster," he said, "the train will pass here in half an hour. Have you

money enough?"

"Plenty, Major."

"Very well; keep perfectly quiet, and I will try to get you safely off."

He went to an adjoining room and called Sam, the contractor's man. He

took in the situation at a glance.

"Wa'al, Foster," said he, "kind o' 'close call' for yer, warn't it?

Guess yer'd better be gittin' up an' gittin' pretty lively. The train

boys will take yer through, an' yer kin come back when this racket's

worked out."

Sinclair glanced at his watch, then he walked to the window and looked

out. On a small _mesa_, or elevated-plateau, commanding the path to the

railroad, he saw a number of men with rifles.

"Just as I expected," said he. "Sam, ask one of the boys to go down to

the track and, when the train arrives, tell the conductor to come here."

In a few minutes the whistle was heard, and the conductor entered the

building. Receiving his instructions, he returned, and immediately on

engine, tender, and platform appeared the trainmen, with _their_ rifles

covering the group on the bluff. Sinclair put on his hat.

"Now, Foster," said he, "we have no time to lose. Take Sam's arm and

mine, and walk between us."

The trio left the building and walked deliberately to the railroad. Not

a word was spoken. Besides the men in sight on the train, two behind the

window-blinds of the one passenger coach, and unseen, kept their fingers

on the triggers of their repeating carbines. It seemed a long time,

counted by anxious seconds, until Foster was safe in the coach.

"All ready, conductor," said Sinclair. "Now, Foster, good-by. I am not

good at lecturing, but if I were you, I would make this the

turning-point in my life."

Foster was much moved.

"I will do it, Major," said he; "and I shall never forget what you have

done for me to-day. I am sure we shall meet again."

With another shriek from the whistle the train started. Sinclair and Sam

saw the men quietly returning the firearms to their places as it

gathered way. Then they walked back to their quarters. The men on the

_mesa_, balked of their purpose, had withdrawn.

Sam accompanied Sinclair to his door, and then sententiously remarked:

"Major, I think I'll light out and find some of the boys. You ain't got

no call to know anything about it, but I allow it's about time them

cusses was bounced."

Three nights after this, a powerful party of _Vigilantes_, stern and

inexorable, made a raid on all the gambling dens, broke the tables and

apparatus, and conducted the men to a distance from the town, where they

left them with an emphatic and concise warning as to the consequences

of any attempt to return. An exception was made in Jeff Johnson's

case--but only for the sake of his daughter--for it was found that many

a "little game" had been carried on in his house.

Erelong he found it convenient to sell his business and retire to a town

some miles to the eastward, where the railroad influence was not as

strong as at Barker's. At about this time, Sinclair made his

arrangements to go to New York, with the pleasant prospect of marrying

the young lady in Fifth Avenue. In due time he arrived at Barker's with

his young and charming wife and remained for some days. The changes were

astounding. Common-place respectability had replaced abnormal

lawlessness. A neat station stood where had been the rough contractor's

buildings. At a new "Windsor" (or was it "Brunswick"?) the performance

of the kitchen contrasted sadly (alas! how common is such contrast in

these regions) with the promise of the _menu_. There was a tawdry

theatre yclept "Academy of Music," and there was not much to choose in

the way of ugliness between two "meeting-houses."

"Upon my word, my dear," said Sinclair to his wife, "I ought to be

ashamed to say it, but I prefer Barker's _au naturel_."

One evening, just before the young people left the town, and as Mrs.

Sinclair sat alone in her room, the frowsy waitress announced "a lady,"

and was requested to bid her enter. A woman came with timid mien into

the room, sat down, as invited, and removed her veil. Of course the

young bride had never known Sally Johnson, the whilom belle of Barker's,

but her husband would have noticed at a glance how greatly she was

changed from the girl who walked with Foster past the engineers'

quarters. It would be hard to find a more striking contrast than was

presented by the two women as they sat facing each other: the one in the

flush of health and beauty, calm, sweet, self-possessed; the other still

retaining some of the shabby finery of old days, but pale and haggard,

with black rings under her eyes, and a pathetic air of humiliation.

"Mrs. Sinclair," she hurriedly began, "you do not know me, nor the like

of me. I've got no right to speak to you, but I couldn't help it. Oh!

please believe me, I am not real downright bad. I'm Sally Johnson,

daughter of a man whom they drove out of the town. My mother died when I

was little, and I _never_ had a show; and folks think because I live

with my father, and he makes me know the crowd he travels with, that I

must be in with them, and be of their sort. I never had a woman speak a

kind word to me, and I've had so much trouble that I'm just drove wild,

and like to kill myself; and then I was at the station when you came in,

and I saw your sweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it came in

my heart that I'd speak to you if I died for it." She leaned eagerly

forward, her hands nervously closing on the back of a chair. "I suppose

your husband never told you of me; like enough he never knew me; but

I'll never forget him as long as I live. When he was here before, there

was a young man "--here a faint color came in the wan cheeks--"who was

fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and my father was down on

him, and the men that father was in with wanted to kill him; and Mr.

Sinclair saved his life. He's gone away, and I've waited and waited for

him to come back--and perhaps I'll never see him again. But oh! dear

lady, I'll never forget what your husband did. He's a good man, and he

deserves the love of a dear good woman like you, and if I dared, I'd

pray for you both, night and day."

She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, pale as before, and as

if frightened by her own emotion. Mrs. Sinclair had listened with

sympathy and increasing interest.

"My poor girl," she said, speaking tenderly (she had a lovely, soft

voice) and with slightly heightened color, "I am delighted that you came

to see me, and that my husband was able to help you. Tell me, can we not

do more for you? I do not for one moment believe you can be happy with

your present surroundings. Can we not assist you to leave them?"

The girl rose, sadly shaking her head. "I thank you for your words," she

said. "I don't suppose I'll ever see you again, but I'll say, God bless

you!"

She caught Mrs. Sinclair's hand, pressed it to her lips, and was gone.

Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he came home, and he

listened with much interest to her story.

"Poor girl!" said he; "Foster is the man to help her. I wonder where he

is? I must inquire about him."

The next day they proceeded on their way to San Francisco, and matters

drifted on at Barker's much as before. Johnson had, after an absence of

some months, come back and lived without molestation, amid the shifting

population. Now and then, too, some of the older residents fancied they

recognized, under slouched sombreros, the faces of some of his former

"crowd" about the "Ranchman's Home," as his gaudy saloon was called.

Late on the very evening on which this story opens, and they had been

"making up" the Denver Express in the train-house on the Missouri, "Jim"

Watkins, agent and telegrapher at Barker's, was sitting in his little

office, communicating with the station rooms by the ticket window. Jim

was a cool, silent, efficient man, and not much given to talk about such

episodes in his past life as the "wiping out" by Indians of the

construction party to which he belonged, and his own rescue by the

scouts. He was smoking an old and favorite pipe, and talking with one of

"the boys" whose head appeared at the wicket. On a seat in the station

sat a woman in a black dress and veil, apparently waiting for a train.

"Got a heap of letters and telegrams there, ain't year, Jim?" remarked

the man at the window.

"Yes," replied Jim; "they're for Engineer Sinclair, to be delivered to

him when he passes through here. He left on No. 17, to-night." The

inquirer did not notice the sharp start of the woman near him.

"Is that good-lookin' wife of his'n a comin' with him?" asked he.

"Yes, there's letters for her, too."

"Well, good-night, Jim. See yer later," and he went out. The woman

suddenly rose and ran to the window.

"Mr. Watkins," cried she, "can I see you for a few moments, where no one

can interrupt us? It's a matter of life and death." She clutched the

sill with her thin hands, and her voice trembled. Watkins recognized

Sally Johnson in a moment. He unbolted a door, motioned her to enter,

closed and again bolted it, and also closed the ticket window. Then he

pointed to a chair, and the girl sat down and leaned eagerly forward.

"If they knew I was here," she said in a hoarse whisper, "my life

wouldn't be safe five minutes. I was waiting to tell you a terrible

story, and then I heard who was on the train due here to-morrow night.

Mr. Watkins, don't, for God's sake, ask me how I found out, but I hope

to die if I ain't telling you the living truth! They're going to wreck

that train--No. 17--at Dead Man's Crossing, fifteen miles east, and rob

the passengers and the express car. It's the worst gang in the country,

_Perry's_. They're going to throw the train off the track the passengers

will be maimed and killed,--and Mr. Sinclair and his wife on the cars!

Oh! My God! Mr. Watkins, send them warning!"

She stood upright, her face deadly pale, her hands clasped. Watkins

walked deliberately to the railroad map which hung on the wall and

scanned it. Then he resumed his seat, laid his pipe down, fixed his eyes

on the girl's face, and began to question her. At the same time his

right hand, with which he had held the pipe, found its way to the

telegraph key. None but an expert could have distinguished any change in

the _clicking_ of the instrument, which had been almost incessant; but

Watkins had "called" the head office on the Missouri. In two minutes the

"sounder" rattled out "_All right! What is it_?"

Watkins went on with his questions, his eyes still fixed on the poor

girl's face, and all the time his fingers, as it were, playing with the

key. If he were imperturbable, so was _not_ a man sitting at a receiving

instrument nearly five hundred miles away. He had "taken" but a few

words when he jumped from his chair and cried:

"Shut that door, and call the superintendent and be quick! Charley,

brace up--lively--and come and write this out!" With his wonderful

electric pen, the handle several hundred of miles long, Watkins,

unknown to his interlocutor, was printing in the Morse alphabet this

startling message:

"Inform'n rec'd. Perry gang going to throw No. 17 off

track near--xth mile-post, this division, about nine to-morrow

(Thursday) night, kill passengers, and rob express and mail.

Am alone here. No chance to verify story, but believe it to be

on square. Better make arrangements from your end to block

game. No Sheriff here now. Answer."

The superintendent, responding to the hasty summons, heard the message

before the clerk had time to write it out. His lips were closely

compressed as he put his own hand on the key and sent these laconic

sentences: "_O.K. Keep perfectly dark. Will manage from this end_."

Watkins, at Barker's, rose from his seat, opened the door a little way,

saw that the station was empty, and then said to the girl, brusquely,

but kindly:

"Sally, you've done the square thing, and saved that train. I'll take

care that you don't suffer and that you get well paid. Now come home

with me, and my wife will look out for you."

"Oh! no," cried the girl, shrinking back, "I must run away. You're

mighty kind, but I daren't go with you." Detecting a shade of doubt in

his eye, she added: "Don't be afeared; I'll die before they'll know I've

given them away to you!" and she disappeared in the darkness.

At the other end of the wire, the superintendent had quietly impressed

secrecy on his operator and clerk ordered his fast mare harnessed, and

gone to his private office.

"Read that!" said he to his secretary, "it was about time for some

trouble of this kind, and now I'm going to let Uncle Sam take care of

his mails. If I don't get to the reservation before the General's turned

in, I shall have to wake him up. Wait for me, please."

They gray mare made the six miles to the military reservation in just

half an hour. The General was smoking his last _cigar_, and was alert in

an instant; and before the superintendent had finished the jorum of "hot

Scotch" hospitably tendered, the orders had gone by wire to the

commanding officer at Fort----, some distance east of Barker's, and been

duly acknowledged.

Returning to the station, the superintendent remarked to the waiting

secretary:

"The General's all right. Of course we can't tell that this is not a

sell; but if those Perry hounds mean business they'll get all the fight

they want; and if they've got any souls--which I doubt--may the Lord

have mercy on them!"

He prepared several despatches, two of which were as follows:

"MR. HENRY SINCLAIR:

"On No. 17, Pawnee Junction:

This telegram your authority to take charge of train on which

you are, and demand obedience of all officials and trainmen on

road. Please do so, and act in accordance with information

wired station agent at Pawnee Junction."

To the Station Agent:

"Reported Perry gang will try wreck and rob No. 17 near--xth

mile-post. Denver Division, about nine Thursday night

Troops will await train at Fort----. Car ordered ready for

them. Keep everything secret, and act in accordance with

orders of Mr. Sinclair."

"It's worth about ten thousand dollars," sententiously remarked he,

"that Sinclair's on that train. He's got both sand and brains.

Good-night," and he went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.