A TRAGEDY
There was a fight down by one of the stockade gates not long after
Ralph telephoned to Mr. Hopkins to learn if the supervisor knew
anything about Bob Adair. It might as well be said that the young
train dispatcher got no satisfaction from Barton Hopkins.
“I am not giving information of railroad affairs to anybody,
Fairbanks, and you should know that,” the supervisor had said shortly.
“If the chief detective wishes to interview you, he doubtless will
know how to find you.”
“But I’ve got some information for him!” ejaculated Ralph.
Mr. Hopkins hung up without further reply. He evidently considered it
sheer impudence for the train dispatcher to have called him. It was
within the next ten minutes that the row started at the yard gate.
Ralph grabbed his cap and ran down to see what it was all about. The
time was verging toward midnight. Freight trains had been made up as
usual and sent out. But outside the railroad property a crowd had been
gathering, and the yard crews were hooted and threatened.
The train dispatcher was too late to take any part in the fight. But
he learned that the attack had been made upon several of the members
of the night train crews that were coming in by this gate because it
was nearest to the roundhouse.
The police had charged and aided the railroad men in driving back the
strike sympathizers. Missiles had been thrown and one of the men
attacked had had his coat torn off. When Ralph got close to this man
he saw that it was old Byron Marks, engineer of the fast express.
“For pity’s sake, By!” he demanded, as he aided the old engineer away
from the center of the mêlée, “why didn’t you come around the other
way?”
“I didn’t want to see that blamed supervisor again,” gasped the
engineer, wiping the blood from his scratched face. Then he held a
hand tightly upon his heart as though to still it. He was very pale,
save for crimson spots beneath his cheekbones. “I’d rather fight these
rats than talk to Hopkins.”
“Be a man!” exclaimed Ralph. “Don’t let that man scare you.”
“He’s no easy man to meet,” returned the old engineer. “He can put the
gaff into you, if he likes.”
“The Brotherhood is behind you. Tell him where he gets off. The road
is short of engineers. He won’t dare tie the can to you. You know
that.”
“Don’t talk! Don’t talk, Ralph!” whispered the engineer. “I know what
is threatening me better than you do. I’m growing old. And I can’t
afford to drop out on a pittance.”
“Why, you must have something, Byron,” said the train dispatcher.
“After all these years at a good wage——”
“Nothing. Just a little home. And that mortgaged. Sickness in the
family and an invalid child has taken all I could make. Death in a
wreck, or the like, is the only good thing that could come to me.”
“My gracious! Don’t talk like that.”
“It is true. I carry a big accident policy. If I’m killed my family is
well fixed. If I get canned, we’ll starve. That’s about the size of
it,” and the old man walked away, leaving Ralph with a lump in his
throat.
“And I’ve been blaming this old fellow for not pulling out and letting
some younger man have his run,” thought the young train dispatcher
bitterly. “We never know! Old Byron deserves pity, not blame. A long
life gone, and nothing much to show for it. Well!”
The rabble was driven back and broken up by the police. Two or three
rioters were arrested. And that, as Ralph knew, did more harm than
good. Every strike sympathizer that was arrested made a whole family
sore at the railroad. The strikers themselves were sharp enough to
keep away from the scene of trouble.
The big eight-wheeler was being rolled out of the roundhouse as Ralph
turned back toward the brick station. He saw By Marks, his face washed
of blood, and now in a clean overall suit, sitting on the bench in the
driver’s side of the cabin, as the huge locomotive wheeled across the
turntable.
“Good luck to you, old man!” cried Ralph, and waved his hand to the
grave-faced engineer.
Afterward Ralph was glad he had given Byron this hail. The long train
of varnished cars had been standing under the train shed for half an
hour. The train on the other road rolled in at the far end of the
station and the passengers piled out and joined those already
occupying their staterooms or berths in the coaches of the Midnight
Flyer.
Suddenly Ralph was halted. A hand had fallen heavily on his shoulder
and he turned swiftly to look at the person who had touched him. It
was the tall man in the long black coat who had been sitting in the
office of the supervisor. Ralph cried out with satisfaction.
“Mr. Adair! I certainly am glad to see you!”
“I was looking for you, Ralph. But I supposed you were at home at this
hour and I hated to disturb your mother,” said the chief detective of
the Great Northern system.
“Oh, no. I am around the offices now, every night. Until this Midnight
Flyer pulls out, at least.”
“I don’t suppose the supervisor knows that, does he?” asked Adair
dryly.
“He knows it to-night, anyway,” said Ralph, grimly. “I was just asking
him for you—or if he knew where you were.”
“Indeed? And he said he didn’t know?”
“He gave me to understand that he was not giving out information to
underlings,” and Ralph laughed shortly. “Oh, well! let that pass. I
had something to show you, and here it is.”
He hauled out the strange message that he believed had come from Zeph
Dallas. Mr. Adair read it swiftly.
“That’s just the thing I wanted to know!” he exclaimed. “Hang that
Hopkins, anyway! He takes himself as altogether too important. Why,
Malone is the man I am after!”
“You don’t really think that poor, half-witted fellow can be of real
importance in any conspiracy against the road?” asked Ralph,
wonderingly.
“He has got wit enough to give evidence in court. And he is the sort
to turn state’s evidence if he is cornered. The use of such fellows as
Malone by men of the calibre of McCarrey is our main chance in
bringing the latter to book.
“McCarrey has to engage Whitey Malone and others like him to do his
dirty work. He has some plan against the division that Malone is to
help put through. If the latter is down there at Shadow Valley, as
Zeph intimates, I am going to make that neighborhood the main point of
my investigation.”
“But the strikers are here in Rockton!” cried Ralph.
“Foolish as these shopmen and the other strikers are, I would not
accuse any of them of being angry enough to commit an overt act
against the road. Especially of the nature of train wrecking.”
“I should hope not!” gasped Ralph.
“Yet we have received written threats to that effect,” said Adair
gloomily. “This very train,” and he nodded toward the long line of
Pullmans standing beside the platform waiting for the locomotive to
back down, “is on the list of those that somebody has threatened to
stop.”
“The Midnight Flyer?”
“Yes. Here comes the old mill. Wait. By Marks is not the fellow for
this job, Ralph,” and the detective shook his head.
“He’s all right!” exclaimed the young train dispatcher hastily. He was
determined to commend the aged engineer after this, not criticize him.
“I know that nobody could take that express through to Hammerfest much
better than he does. And I am the fellow who makes the schedule.”
“Indeed?” rejoined his friend, with a curious look at Ralph. “Suppose
you were pulling this train?”
“Humph! Think I would be any better than an experienced old engineer
like By? What nonsense, Mr. Adair!”
But the latter only laughed. They were at the head of the train. There
was a little group of station employees and others on the platform.
Ralph was watching the slowly backing locomotive. He saw the pallid
face of Marks thrust out of the window as the great machine backed
against the head coach. The red spots in Mark’s cheeks, Ralph thought,
were slowly fading out.
The couplings came together with a crunch of steel. The locomotive was
stopped on the instant—a pretty connection. Nobody but a skilled
operative could have done it.
“He’s all right, old as he is!” muttered Ralph, as the two firemen
leaped down to make the air-hose and water-hose connections on either
side of the tender.
The train dispatcher walked forward on the engineer’s side of the cab.
He looked up again at the old man in the window. Then he cried out and
leaped up the steps to the locomotive’s deck.
Byron Marks’ head had fallen upon the window sill. His eyes were still
staring, wide open. But the color had now entirely receded from his
cheeks. When Ralph put a tentative hand upon the old man’s shoulder
the torso of his body wabbled dreadfully.
The hand on the throttle relaxed and fell. At the instant the engineer
had made the nicely balanced coupling, he had lost consciousness!