WHITE POINT
Mr. Moss was the sole employe of the railroad company at White Point
flag station. His official hours were long. They extended round the
dial of the clock twice daily. Curiously enough, his leisure extended
to practically the same limits. The truth was, in summer, anyway, he
had no duties that could seriously claim him. Thus the long summer
days were spent chiefly among his vegetables, and the bits of flowers
at the back of the shanty, which was at once his home and his office,
in short, White Point.
Jack Huntly at Amberley grumbled at the unenlivening conditions of his
existence, but compared with those of Mr. Moss he lived in a perfect
whirlwind of gaiety.
There was no police station at White Point. There were no farms in the
neighborhood. There was not even a half-breed camp, with its
picturesque squalor, to break up the deadly drear of the surrounding
plains. The only human diversion that ever marred the calm serenity of
the neighborhood was the rare visit of some lodge of Indians, straying
from the reservation, some sixty miles to the south, on a hunting
pass.
But if White Point lacked interest from human associations its setting
at least was curiously arresting. Nature's whim was the inspiration
which had brought the station into existence. To the north, south, and
west the prairie stretched away in the distance for untold miles; but
immediately to the east quite another aspect prevailed. Here lay the
reason of White Point station.
Almost from the very foot of the walls of Mr. Moss's shanty the land
rose up with, as it were, a jolt. Great forest-clad hills reared their
torn and barren crests to enormous heights out of the dead level of
the prairie. A tumbled sea of Nature's wreckage lay strewn about
unaccountably, for a distance of something like two miles, east and
west, and double that distance from north to south. It was an oasis of
natural splendor in the heart of a calm sea of green grass.
These strange hills necessitated a watchful eye upon the railroad
track, which pierced their heart, in winter and spring. In summer
there was nothing to exercise the mind of Mr. Moss. But in winter the
track was constantly becoming blocked with snow, while during the
spring thaw there was always the dread of a "wash-out" to disturb his
nightly dreams. At such times these things kept the agent far more
alive than he cared about.
Just now, however, it was the height of summer, and no such anxieties
prevailed. Therefore Mr. Moss fell back upon the less exciting pastime
of a perspiry afternoon among his potatoes and other vegetable
luxuries.
He was hoeing the rows of potatoes with a sort of dogged determination
to find interest in the work. He believed that physical effort was the
only safety-valve for healthy feelings all too long bottled up. Even
the streaming sweat suggested to him a feeling that it was at least
hygienic, although the moist mixture of muddy consistency upon his
face, merging with the growth of three days' beard, left his
appearance something more than a blot upon the general view.
Just now he had nothing to disturb the blank of his mind. The only
possible interruption to the work in hand, of an official character,
was the passing of a local freight train. However, a local freight was
a matter of no importance whatever. It might come to-day, or it might
come to-morrow. He would signal it through in due course, after that
he didn't much care what happened to it.
The potatoes fully occupied him, and as he came to the end of each row
he took the opportunity of straightening out the crick in his back,
and gazing upon his handiwork with the look of a man who feels he has
surely earned his own admiration.
Once he varied this procedure by glancing up while still in the middle
of a row. His glance was sharp and startled. He had heard an
unaccustomed sound, distinct but distant. It seemed to him that a
horse had neighed. There came an answering neigh. It was quite
disturbing.
A long and careful scrutiny of the plains in every direction, however,
left him with a feeling of doubt. There was no horse in sight
anywhere, and the great hills adjacent offered no inducement
whatsoever for any straying quadruped. He assured himself that the
solitude of his life was rendering him fanciful, and forthwith
returned to his work.
For some time the measured stroke of his hoe clanked upon the baking
soil, and later on he paused to fill and light his pipe. He had just
cut the flakes of tobacco from his plug, and was rolling them in the
palms of his hands, when the thought occurred to him to glance at the
time. His great coin-silver timepiece pointed the hour when he felt he
might safely signal the freight train through.
Lounging round to the front of the station building he walked down the
track to the foot of the semaphore, and flung the rusty lever over.
His action expressed something of the contempt in which he held all
"local freights." Then he sauntered back to his work with his pipe
under full blast.
But his day has yet surprises in store. In half an hour's time he
received his second start. A distant rumble and grinding warned him
that the freight was approaching through the hills. He smiled at the
sound, and his smile was largely satirical. He glanced up once, but
promptly continued his work. But it was only for a few moments. The
sound which had been growing had almost died out and was being
replaced by the hammering of the cars as they closed up against each
other. The train was stopping.
He was looking up now full of interest, and one hand went up to his
head, and its fingers raked among the roots of his hair. Suddenly the
engine bell began to clang violently. There was distinctly a note of
protest in the sound. Something was wrong. He swung round and looked
at his signal. Say--was he dreaming? What on earth----? Half an hour
ago he had lowered the semaphore, at least he had set the lever over,
and now--now it was set against the train!
For a second he stared at the offending arm, then, as the bell clanged
still more violently, he dashed across the intervening space to remedy
his mistake.
But now incident crowded upon him. He was quite right. The lever was
set as it should be set. His practiced eye glanced rapidly down the
connecting rod to discover the source of the trouble, and further
amazement waited upon him. The explanation of the mystery lay before
his eyes. There at the triangular junction, where the connecting rod
linked with the down-haul of the semaphore, the bolt had fallen out,
and the whole thing was disconnected. The bolt with its screw nut and
washer were lying on the ground, where, apparently, they had fallen.
The furious clanging of the engine bell, where the head of the train
stood just in view round the bend of the track where it entered the
hills, left him no time for consideration of the mishap. The
protesting train must be passed on without further delay. Therefore,
with deft hands, he quickly readjusted the bolt, and once again set
the lever. This time the arm of the signal dropped.
It was not until these things were accomplished that he had time to
study the cause of the disconnection. Then, at once, a curious feeling
of incredulity swept over him. It was an impossibility for the thing
to have happened. The bolt fitted horizontally, and the washered nut
had full two inches to unscrew! Besides this, the whole thing was well
rusted with years of exposure. Yet the impossible had happened!
He stood gazing at the bolt with a sort of uncanny feeling stirring
within him. The engine at the head of its long string of box cars
approached. It passed him, and he heard its driver hurl some
uncomplimentary remark at him as the rattling old kettle clanked by.
Then, as the last car passed him, and rapidly grew smaller as the
distance swallowed it up, he turned back to his vegetable patch with
the mystery still unsolved.
* * * * *
The journey through the hills was nearly over, and White Point was but
a short distance ahead. The conductor and crew of the local freight
were lounging comfortably in the caboose.
The brakeman's life is full of risk and little comfort, and such
moments as these were all too few. When they came they were more than
gratefully received. Now the men were spread out in various attitudes
of repose, and, for the most part, were half asleep.
Suddenly, without the least warning, they were startled into full
wakefulness by the familiar clatter, beginning at the head of the
train and passing rapidly down its full length, as the cars closed up
on each other. The resting men knew that the locomotive was either
stopping, or had already come to a halt.
The conductor, or head brakeman, sat up with a jolt.
"Hey, you, Jack!" he cried peevishly. "Get up aloft an' get a peek
out. Say, we sure ain't goin' to get held up at a bum flag layout."
His contempt was no less for the flag station than Mr. Moss's for a
local freight.
The man addressed as "Jack" sprang alertly to the roof of the caboose.
A moment later his voice echoed through the car below him.
"Can't see a thing," he cried. "We're on the last bend, just outside
White Point. She's stopped--dead sure. Guess the flag has got us held
up." With a few added curses he clambered down into the car again.
* * * * *
As the brakeman left the roof of the caboose the enactment of a
strange scene began at the fore part of the car immediately in front
of it.
A glance down at the coupling would have revealed the cautious
appearance of a shock of rough hair covering a man's head from under
the last box car. Slowly it twisted round till a grimy, dust-covered
face was turned upward, and a pair of expectant eyes peered up at the
tops of the two cars.
Apparently the preliminary survey was satisfactory, for, in a moment,
the head was withdrawn, only to be replaced by an outstretched bare
hand and forearm. The hand reached up and caught the iron foot rail,
gripping it firmly. Then another hand appeared, and with it came the
same head again and part of a man's body. The second hand reached
toward the coupling-pin, which, with a dexterous movement, was slowly
and noiselessly removed. The pin was lowered to the length of its
chain. Then, once more the hand reached toward the coupling. This time
it seized the great iron link. This, without a moment's delay, was
lifted from its hook and noiselessly lowered till it swung suspended
from the car in front. Then both arms, head, and body vanished once
more under the car, beneath which the man must have traveled for
miles.
* * * * *
A few moments later the welcome jolting of couplings reached the crew
in the caboose, who promptly settled themselves down to await the next
call of duty. The conductor's relief at the brevity of the delay was
expressed in smiling contempt at the expense of all flag stations.
"Trust a darned outfit like that to hold you up," he cried
witheringly. "They got to act fresh, or the company 'ud get wise they
ain't no sort o' use on the line. Say----"
But he broke off listening.
The jolting had ceased. The grinding of wheels of the moving train was
plainly heard. But--the caboose remained stationary.
He leaped to his feet.
"Hell!" he cried. "What the----"
But the brakeman, Jack, was on his feet, too. With a bound he sprang
at the door of the caboose. But instantly he fell back with a cry.
Four gun muzzles were leveled at his body, and, behind them, stood the
figures of two masked men.
One of the two spoke in the slow easy drawl of the West, which lacked
nothing in conviction.
"Jest keep dead still--all o' you," he said. "Don't move--nor nothin',
or we'll blow holes through your figgers that'll cause a hell of a
draught. We ain't yearning to make no sort o' mess in this yer
caboose. But we're going to do it--'cep' you keep quite still, an'
don't worry any."
The conductor was a man of wide experience on the railroad. He had
seen many "hold-ups." So many, he was almost used to them. But without
being absolutely sure of the purpose of these men he thanked his
genius of good luck that he had not seen the "pay train" for nearly a
month. He was quite ready to obey. For all he cared the raiders could
take locomotive, train, caboose and all, provided he was left with a
whole skin.