RALPH ON THE TRAIL
Ralph Fairbanks had stepped back under the inimical glare of the
supervisor’s look. At that moment he had been ready to forget Mr.
Hopkins’ unkindness and unfairness to him. But the man’s plain dislike
aroused renewed antagonism in Ralph’s mind. He turned away and, in
spite of the tugging at his own heartstrings, was prepared to ignore
the supervisor’s trouble. His worst fears for Cherry had been
realized, and he suspected that the blow to her father would be well
nigh overwhelming.
Swinging his dinner can, the young engineer went down the platform,
approaching the big locomotive he drove and which had just been
brought up from the roundhouse by his faithful firemen. But before he
arrived beside the engine he heard a cry and the quick pounding of
feet upon the cement. He glanced back over his shoulder.
Supervisor Hopkins, white-faced and staring, was tearing along after
him, waving the telegram in his hand. The man was utterly beside
himself. At last the strain of all his troubles and anxieties had
broken him. One would scarcely have recognized the erstwhile stern and
uncompromising supervisor who had, within four months, managed to
create so much disturbance on this division of the Great Northern
Railway.
“Pull out! Pull out!” he cried, seizing Ralph’s arm and hustling him
toward the steps of the huge locomotive.
“Can’t pull out for four minutes, Mr. Hopkins,” Ralph said, trying to
keep his own voice and manner placid. “The schedule——”
“Hang the schedule!” cried this former exponent of method and
exactness. “Do you know what has happened? Those demons!” He shook the
paper in his hand. “Do you know what they have done, Fairbanks?”
“I read the message off the wire,” returned the young fellow coolly.
“I have been afraid all along that Andy McCarrey’s gang had something
to do with Miss Cherry’s disappearance.”
“It is those bloodthirsty strikers!” gasped Hopkins.
“The strikers are not bloodthirsty. They are men who have worked for
the railroad for years. Some of them are my neighbors and friends.
They have been badly advised in this strike, I admit. But I doubt if a
single ex-employee of this division has had anything to do with this
beastly thing.”
“This message——”
“You were threatened before. I guess you were threatened before you
came to Rockton, Mr. Hopkins,” said Ralph quickly. “You are pretty
sure who is the moving spirit in this dastardly crime.”
“McCarrey. Yes, I know that. But he has men to help him. I must get to
Shadow Valley at once——”
The gong in the train-shed roof sounded. Ralph started up the steps of
the locomotive. Hopkins remained right at his elbow.
“You get a seat in one of the coaches where you will be comfortable,
Mr. Hopkins,” advised Ralph. “I’ll get you to the place you want to
reach as quickly as I can.”
“I’ll ride with you. Want me to write a pass for myself?” the excited
supervisor asked. “In the locomotive I will be that much nearer the
place this message came from.”
“Come aboard, then,” said Ralph, not even smiling. “We’ll waive the
pass for this once.”
“All aboard!” called out the conductor from the end of the train.
Ralph leaped to his seat and seized the lever. The supervisor followed
him into the cab. You should have seen the eyes of the two firemen!
Supervisor Hopkins was certainly shaking. Out of the corner of his eye
Ralph watched those long, lean, red hands twitching nervously.
“Maybe he has been under this pressure all the time,” Ralph
considered. “It might be. He is as close-mouthed as a clam. Anybody
can see that. Mr. Barton Hopkins would never confide in any person as
long as he could keep his self-control. My gracious! I never saw him
so broken up.”
While Ralph was thinking these thoughts he was speeding up the great
eight-wheeler. The train, gaining on its pace with each revolution of
the drivers, left the Rockton yard behind. It whirled up the small
slope beyond, and then the searchlight, like a bright index finger,
pointed the way into the black cavern of the cloudy night.
Suddenly the young engineer realized that Mr. Hopkins’ fingers were
quiet. He sat on the bench without fidgeting as he had at first. Ralph
could even sense that the man breathed regularly.
He turned in some surprise to look into Barton Hopkins’ face. What had
changed him in this brief time? The supervisor’s gaze was fixed upon
Ralph’s left hand, the hand which rested all the time on the throttle.
Faster and faster the train sped on. As he had promised, the young
fellow was sending the Midnight Flyer on at the best pace he could
compass. Never during the time he had handled the train had he made
better time.
On and on they rushed, the wheels drumming over the rail-joints with a
rhythm of sound that could only be compared to faint rifle-fire. Again
and again the whistle sent its warning through the night. They rushed
past little stations and parti-colored switch targets as though they
were merely painted upon the backdrop of the night.
Now and then a white flash told Ralph that Adair’s guards were still
on duty. “All’s well” they signaled, and he dared keep the heavy train
at top speed over stretches of road which ordinarily would call for
more cautious driving.
The lights of Fryburg finally came into view. Distant specks like
star-shine at first. Almost immediately they were slowing down for the
town and the bell was jangling. Ralph brought the train to a
wonderfully easy stop.
Not for a moment had he been troubled by the presence of the
supervisor behind him on the seat. He was so sure of himself that he
was never ruffled by being watched at his work.
But as the locomotive came panting to its stop, Barton Hopkins put a
now quite steady hand upon Ralph Fairbanks’ shoulder.
“A wonderful run, Fairbanks,” he said, in his usual stern voice. “I
had no idea you were such a master of your art. I could give you
nothing but praise for your work. And you have gained three minutes
over the schedule. I thank you.”
For some reason Ralph felt a lump in his throat. There was something a
bit pathetic in the supervisor’s honest assurance that he appreciated
what little Ralph could do for him. The young fellow understood that
the man’s keen interest in the way the engineer handled his locomotive
had aided to calm him and had helped him gain control of himself.
They went on from Fryburg to Shadow Valley Station at a speed quite in
keeping with the first stretch of the run. There was no red glow in
the sky ahead to-night. When Ralph had returned from Hammerfest the
day before the area of the forest fire had been much reduced.
Again the Flyer made the swift plunge into the valley. They rounded
the curves and crossed the trestle at the Devil’s Den in safety. Under
instructions from the supervisor, the train was pulled down at Timber
Brook Station. Ralph could not stop to learn if anything had happened
there of moment.
The supervisor got down on the lower step of the cabin and made a
flying leap to the cinder path. He waved his hand to Ralph as the
latter speeded up the train again. Then the lights of the little
station and the tall figure of the supervisor were shut out of his
sight.
The Midnight Flyer made another of her famous runs that morning, and
Ralph brought her to Hammerfest in ample season for the connection on
the Boise City road. Although he had closely applied himself to the
running of the train, Ralph’s mind was hot with thoughts of the
mystery of Cherry Hopkins’ disappearance.
Something his mother had said regarding Zeph Dallas’s dropping out of
sight shuttled to and fro in his thought; and at last it pointed to a
fixed fact. He thought he saw a way of helping Hopkins find the place
of captivity of his lost daughter.
But to put this idea to the test he must have freedom. He rushed to
the telegraph office the minute he was free of the locomotive and
began to put in requests for the master mechanic. But that individual
was at neither end of the division, and at that early hour of the day
he could not be found.
While Ralph in his anxiety was striving to reach Mr. Connoly and was
waiting outside the telegraph office, he saw an accommodation from the
west pull in, to the tail of which was attached a very familiar
private car. He could have tossed up his cap in glee as he started on
a run for the end of the platform.
Before he reached the private car the general manager stepped down and
approached the station. He hailed Ralph genially.
“Oh, yes, this is your end of run, isn’t it, Ralph? How are you?”
“Terribly troubled, sir,” admitted the young engineer.
“It seems your whole division is troubled,” grumbled the general
manager. “I have been wondering, boy, if you were not right when you
said that an official should be able to see things from the men’s
standpoint. This Hopkins——”
“Don’t say another word against him!” gasped Ralph. “Let me tell you!”
And he proceeded to do so—to tell the genial general manager the
particulars of everything that had happened within his ken on the
division since Barton Hopkins’ drastic rules had begun to create
friction. But mainly Ralph gave the details of the wreck in Shadow
Valley, what had led up to it, and what had now resulted from it. His
text was, after all, Cherry Hopkins.
“You mean to say those blackguards have stolen the supervisor’s
daughter?” cried the general manager. “Why, the State police ought to
be out after them.”
“Here’s the boy who ought to be after them,” declared Ralph boldly,
pointing to himself, and he went on to sketch for the general manager
his own belief of what should be done in the matter of searching for
Cherry.
“If I could get excused from this run back to Rockton I’d be able to
do something. If they haven’t found her down there in Shadow Valley, I
believe I can. I’ll get back to Rockton in time to take out the
Midnight Flyer to-night.”
“Is there an engineer here able to take over your locomotive?”
“Ben Rogers is the man!” exclaimed Ralph. “I’ll put him wise to
everything before we reach Timber Brook.”
“Go to it then, boy!” exclaimed the general manager. “I am sorry for
Barton Hopkins. Until this strike came he was saving money right and
left for the Great Northern. It is a pity that he has been under this
strain—if he has—all this time. I hope Adair is helping him.”
Ralph had been quite sure that Bob Adair was giving his full attention
to the kidnapping of Cherry Hopkins, and when he dropped off his
locomotive at Timber Brook he was so assured. For he chanced to meet
Mr. Adair right at the little station.
When they had exchanged news, Ralph found that the chief detective had
not thought of the point that Mrs. Fairbanks had put into her son’s
mind. The detectives had spent all the morning with Mr. Hopkins in
beating the forest on either side of the road—even the burned area—for
some trace of a hideout that the villains might use.
It was learned that the Timber Brook Station had been broken into, and
one of the kidnappers had sent that message to Mr. Hopkins which Ralph
had heard off the wire. But otherwise, nobody had seen any suspicious
person about the right of way since the wreck of Thirty-three.
“Come on!” said Ralph excitedly. “I believe my mother has the right
idea. At any rate, Mr. Adair, don’t you think it is worth putting to
the test?”
Bob Adair agreed, and they started at once toward the Devil’s Den.