TRAIN NO. 14
The fight for the possession of the Manchester and Truesdale Railroad
divides itself naturally into two acts. During the first week, while it
would be absurd to say that the acts of either side were legal, all the
proceedings had worn the cloak of law. But now matters had come to a
deadlock. Judge Grey was both able and willing to undo any or all of the
acts of Judge Black, and conversely. The last event of the first act was
the attempt on Tuesday morning of the C. & S.C. people, armed with writs
from Black, to seize the books of the company. They were courteously
received and the vaults were thrown open to their inspection; but as the
books had been spirited away the night before, the search was fruitless.
Porter and McNally had been beaten at their own game, and they withdrew
their forces to Truesdale. The fight was to be kept up on other lines.
Wednesday morning, No. 7 on the C. & S.C. brought down a much larger
number of passengers for Truesdale than ordinarily came on that train.
They climbed down to the station platform from different cars, and
regarded each other with studied indifference, but there was something
homogeneous about the crowd that drew upon it the frankest stares of
the station loafers. There were no women or children among them, they
carried no baggage, and there was an air about them, carefully repressed
but still discernible, which suggested that if any one were looking for
trouble they were the men to whom to apply. They seemed to be trying to
attract as little attention as possible, but they were followed by
many curious glances, as they straggled in a long irregular line up the
street toward the Truesdale Hotel.
Katherine had driven into town that morning, and from her high trap she
watched the spectacle with amused interest. Seeing McNally coming out
of the hotel office she pulled up her horses and nodded to him with a
peremptory cordiality which left him no escape from coming to speak to
her.
“So war is declared,” she said laughingly, nodding toward the rear guard
who were disappearing in the hotel entrance. “I see you are massing your
troops. Is that the entire army, or only a division?”
McNally tried to utter a protest, but she went on unheeding. “I think
they're too absurdly comical for words. They try so hard to look as if
they weren't spoiling for a fight.”
“Miss Porter,” said McNally, seriously, “your father's interests are at
stake now and we must be discreet.”
“I suppose so,” she said; “but really those men are irresistibly funny.”
She gathered up the reins and the horses started, but as they moved away
she turned and called back to him,--
“Be sure and come out to luncheon--that is, if you don't go to the
front.”
The words troubled McNally. Only two days before he had been dragged
out of his hiding-place in the Manchester station and kicked downstairs.
This experience still occupied a large place in his thoughts, and he
took Katherine's remark as a reflection on his personal courage. Though
he had no idea of “going to the front,” he decided not to go to the
Porters' for luncheon.
All that morning new people kept streaming into Truesdale. No. 22
brought in McDowell, a division superintendent on the C. & S.C. and
other less important employees of the same road came in on every train.
All over the city was the exciting premonition that something was going
to happen. The army, as Katherine had called it, was reenforced by two
fresh detachments brought in on the C. & S.C. from no one knew just
where, but they were carefully guarded from being too much in evidence,
and there was not the least disorder. When noon came and nothing had
happened the tension relaxed a little, and the town returned to its
accustomed quiet.
At the M. & T. station, however, the excitement increased, manifesting
itself in many ways. The trains came in and went out on their scheduled
time, and the routine work went on without variation, but there was a
nervous alertness evident everywhere. Train crews stood in little knots
about the platform and yards, speculating about the fight whose issue
meant much to each of them, but in which they had not as yet been able
to take a part. At one forty-five No. 14, which leaves Truesdale at two
o'clock for Tillman City, St. Johns, and Manchester, backed down to the
station to take on its passengers. Carse, the conductor, stood near the
cab talking to the engineer and the fireman, keeping all the while an
eye on the passengers.
“We're getting a big crowd to-day,” he observed. “That's McDowell of the
C. & S.C. getting in the rear coach there. He's a mean brute. Ain't you
glad we ain't under him, Downs?”
The engineer nodded emphatically, and climbing down from the cab, stood
beside the conductor. “Seems to me,” he said, “there are a lot of C. &
S.C. boys taking this train. I've spotted three or four already.”
“Say,” exclaimed Carse, “do you suppose they're going back to Manchester
to have another shot at the old man? I brought them back from there
yesterday on No. 5, and they were the sickest crowd you ever saw. The
old man can give them just about all they want.”
He paused and glanced at his watch. “We pull out in thirty seconds,” he
said. And at two o'clock No. 14 started northward on what was to prove
a most eventful run in the history of the M. & T. The train rattled over
the yard switches, slid creaking under the brakes down to the river,
rumbled across the bridge, and then toiled up the first of the long
grades between Truesdale and Sawyerville.
Carse was collecting tickets in the second car when suddenly it thrilled
and trembled, and the train, with grinding squealing brakes, came to a
stop. The conductor was all but thrown from his feet, but he staggered
to the platform, and leaping down ran toward the engine, followed by an
excited crowd of passengers.
“What's the matter?” he demanded of Downs, whom he found clambering out
of the cab.
“That's what I want to know,” answered the engineer. “Didn't you pull
the signal cord?”
“No,” said Carse, looking puzzled. “I wonder what's up.”
At that moment a man came forward from the group of passengers: it was
McDowell. “I signalled you to stop,” he said.
Carse waited an instant for him to go on, and then asked impatiently,
“Well, what's wrong?”
“Nothing that I know of,” said McDowell, easily. “I wanted the train to
stop.”
Carse stepped toward him angrily. “I don't know whether you're drunk
or not,” he said, “but that's a damned poor kind of a joke. You'll find
that out as soon as we get to Sawyerville.”
“Oh, no, I won't,” said McDowell. “I'm superintendent of this road, and
the first thing I'm going to do is to fire you. Haven,”--he called to
one of the group behind him,--“you can take this train to Manchester.”
Another man pushed into the circle. He was Stewart, the sheriff of
Evelyn County. “Mr. McDowell is quite right. Mr. Frederick McNally, the
receiver of the road, appointed him this morning. And I now serve on you
a writ from Judge Black--”
“See here,” interrupted Carse, “are you sheriff of Evelyn County or
of the whole United States? You'd better keep out of this; the county
line's about half a mile back.”
“We're wasting time,” said McDowell, shortly. “James and Mangan, take
the engine. We'll take charge of this train, sir, county or no county.”
“Not if I can help it,” said Carse, under his breath. Then shouting,
“Get away, boys; don't mind me,” he sprang upon McDowell, hitting out
swift and hard, and in a second the two men were clinched and rolling in
the sand. Downs took the hint and, leaping into the cab, let off the
air brake and seized the throttle, while Berg, his big fireman, wrenched
free from the two men who tried to hold him and rushed toward the cab.
For a moment it looked as though No. 14 was going to get away.
But the first detachment of Mr. McNally's army was not at hand for
nothing. Berg was pulled down from the step he had succeeded in
reaching, and a blow from behind stretched him unconscious beside the
track. Downs caught up the shovel which lay at his feet, and brought
it down hard on a man who was climbing over the tender; then without
turning he drove the handle squarely into the face of another who was
standing on the step and trying to clutch his legs. But the odds were
too great, and in a moment he was rushed back against the fire-box, and
his arms were pinioned fast. McDowell had been freed from his assailant
by two of his brawny supporters, and he rose to his feet with some
difficulty; the blood was streaming down his face, but he was quite
cool. Seeing that resistance was at an end, he called to the men in the
engine:--
“Let up on that man; we don't want to kill him. Bring him down here.”
A moment later, he said: “Put bracelets on all three of them and take
them into the smoker. Some of you stay around and see that they don't
do any more mischief.” Then turning to the men he had already ordered to
take charge of the train, he said: “All right, boys, let her go. We're
nearly ten minutes late.”
McNally's plans were well laid; so well laid that McDowell's mistake in
not stopping the train soon enough did not prevent their being carried
out successfully. The sheriff of Malden County had been told what was
expected of him, and he was waiting on the platform of the Sawyerville
station when No. 14 pulled in. There had been no warning, there was
no possibility of resistance, and everything moved as smoothly as
clockwork. The writs were served, the telegraph office seized, and the
M. & T. employees about the station replaced by McDowell's “boys” almost
before the dazed incumbents knew what was happening. The new telegraph
operator wired to McNally, who had already taken possession of the
Truesdale terminal, telling him briefly of the fight for the train and
the capture of Sawyerville. McNally sent back brief instructions for the
conduct of the rest of the raid. They were told to make no attempt
to keep schedule time, but to go slowly and cautiously, and to use as
little violence as possible. Altogether McDowell had reason to feel well
satisfied when he came out on the station platform ready to take his
train on its unique journey up the road.
There stood near him a number of passengers gathered in an excited
group, discussing the fight, the delay of the train, and the somewhat
remote chance of getting to Manchester. One of them, a very stout man
with deep-set, watery eyes and a florid complexion, recognized the
Superintendent and turned to him.
“Are we likely to have to wait as long as this at every station?” he
asked.
“I guess so,” answered McDowell, shortly.
“This is an outrage,” exclaimed the other, angrily. “I took this train
for the purpose of getting to Manchester.”
“You'd better get aboard then,” said McDowell. “We're going to start
now.”
His coolness exasperated the stout man, and he shouted after the
Superintendent, “I won't submit to this. I tell you, you'll be sorry for
it before I get through with you.”
McDowell paid no heed to the threat, and nodded Haven to go ahead; but a
young telegraph operator, whose services were to be required further up
the road, heard the words and shouted to the angry man:--
“If you don't want to take the train, there's probably a livery stable
here, or else you can go to the hotel. It's a gold cure, but I guess
they'd take you in.”
McDowell laughed and went into the car. He did not hear what his former
passenger answered, and he did not care. He would probably have been
less amused if he had known that the man was none other than State
Senator “Sporty” Jones. It does not pay to enrage any man wantonly,
and especially not a man who makes it his main principle in life to get
even. And as any of his circumspect associates could inform you, Senator
Sporty Jones was just such a man.
It was nearing six o'clock when No. 14 slowed down in the southern
outskirts of Tillman City. The army, though depleted, was jubilant, and
more than made up in _esprit du corps_ what it had lost in numbers. The
raid had so far been completely successful: all the stations had been
seized, and the south-bound trains they had met had been held up and
placed in charge of C. & S.C. employees. There had been no resistance
worth mentioning, and they had prevented any warning of their coming
from going up the line ahead of them. Tillman City was lying an
unsuspecting prey, though fairly in their clutches.
Bill Stevens, the agent at Tillman, knew that something had gone wrong,
for No. 14 was later than usual, and had not been reported from the last
two stations; so when the drooping semaphore told him that she was in
the block, he went out on the platform to find out what had happened. As
the train came panting up to the station he saw two strange men in the
cab instead of Downs and Berg, and this puzzled him more than ever.
The sheriff was the first man off the train; he walked straight up to
the agent, and in two minutes the formalities were over. Stevens and his
subordinates were discharged, and the ticket office and baggage room
put in charge of the new employees with a celerity born of practice.
A number of deputies under McDowell's orders scattered out to take
possession of the roundhouse, the freight depot, and the yards.
Still standing on the platform in an excited crowd of raiders, former
employees, and station loafers, was the agent. He was thinking fast,
for he saw the importance of getting word to Manchester of what was
happening along the line. The telegraph line was in the hands of the
enemy, but a locomotive--It was worth a trial, anyway. There were three
at Tillman: 33 that had just brought in No. 14, 7 on a siding waiting to
take the train to Manchester, and 10, the regular yard engine. The two
passenger engines were out of the question, for they were already well
guarded, but the little switching locomotive lay at the northern end
of the yard, and had not as yet been seized by the deputies. In the
confusion, and aided by the gathering dusk of the early October evening,
something might be done.
Glancing around, Stevens saw Murphy, the hostler, standing at his elbow.
Without turning toward him he spoke softly.
“Murphy,” he said, “slip out of this crowd and follow me. I'm going to
try to get away on 10. I want you to throw a switch for me.”
The hostler nodded without a word, and threaded his way after the agent
to the edge of the platform. Once out of the glare of the station lights
there was less need for caution, and the two men set out at a rapid walk
toward the north end of the yards.
Suddenly a deputy came out from behind a freight car and laid a
detaining hand on the agent's arm.
“What are you up to?” he demanded.
There was no word of reply, but Murphy's fist shot out, landing dully on
the man's jaw, and without an outcry he sank inert on the sand.
The agent darted forward, keeping out of the heavy sand by bounding
along the irregularly laid ties, and in a moment he was climbing into
the cab of the switch engine.
“Thank God! there's steam and water,” he thought, and throwing over the
reversing lever he grasped the throttle and came backing rapidly down
the siding.
It was too dark for the men at the station to see perfectly what had
happened, but they saw enough to excite their suspicion, and No. 33,
which had already uncoupled from the train, ran up the main track to
investigate. James and Mangan and a couple of deputies were in the cab.
Murphy had already thrown the switch and was standing beside it, holding
a coupling pin in his hand, awaiting developments. The two locomotives
were running right at each other, and unless somebody changed his mind
very promptly a collision was inevitable; but the agent was in such a
frame of mind that a smash-up was rather to his liking than otherwise,
and he pulled the throttle a little wider open. He would waste no steam
whistling, but grasping the hand rail he swung out from the cab and
waved his free arm.
“Look out!” he yelled, “I'm coming.”
Furthermore it was obvious to the men in 33 that he meant to keep on
coming, and as none of them had any wish to try conclusions, even with
little No. 10, the big locomotive stopped short and went backing down
the track, the deputies shouting to their comrades at the station for
reenforcements.
No. 10 slowed down as she backed on to the main track, and as Murphy
threw the switch she stopped and then moved forward. Stevens waited for
Murphy, who left the switch open and climbed into the cab. Then with a
clear track before her No. 10 went tearing down the long grade as fast
as her dumpy little drivers would carry her.
Halfway to Byron is a milk shed with a short siding, and when they
reached it Stevens shut down and stopped with a jerk.
“Get out,” he said to Murphy, “and throw over that switch and put out
the lamp.”
As they started on again he said dryly, “When they strike that, it may
teach 'em to go slow for the rest of the run.”
It was just six-seventeen by the station clock when Mason, the operator
at Byron, heard No. 10 coming in. He ran out on the platform, but
Stevens waved him back.
“Get in there,” he said as he dropped from the cab. “I want you to send
a message quick.”