Alex Ward, like most vigorous, manly boys of his type, had a fixed
dislike for anything approaching foppishness, especially in other boys.
Consequently when on reporting at the Exeter office one evening he was
introduced to Wilson Jennings, Alex treated him with but little more than
necessary courtesy. For the newcomer, an operator but little older than
himself, was distinctly a "dude"--from his patent-leather shoes and
polka-dotted stockings to his red-and-yellow banded white straw hat. His
carefully-pressed suit was the very latest thing in light checked gray,
he wore a collar which threatened to envelope his ears, and his white tie
was of huge dimensions. Also he possessed the fair pink-and-white
complexion of a girl.
Alex was not alone in his derisive attitude toward the stranger. Shortly
following the appearance of the night chief Mr. Jennings nodded everyone
a good-evening, and departed, and immediately there was a general roar of
laughter in the operating-room.
"Where did he fall from?" "Whose complexion powder is he advertising?"
"Did you get onto his picture socks?" were some of the remarks bandied
about.
When the chief announced that the new operator was from the east, and was
being sent to the little foothills tank-station of Bonepile, there was a
fresh outburst of hilarity.
"Why, that cowboy outfit near there will string him up to the tank
spout," declared the operator on whose wire Bonepile was located. "It's
the toughest proposition on the wire."
"On the quiet, that is just why Jordan is sending him," the night chief
said. "Not to have him strung up, that is, but to put him in the way of
'finding himself,' so to speak."
"He'll certainly 'find himself' there, then--if there's anything left to
find when the ranch crew get through," laughed the operator. "I'd give
five real dollars to see that show, and walk back."
"At that, you _might_ have to walk back, if you wagered your money on the
outcome," responded the chief more gravely, turning to his desk. "Clothes
don't make a man--neither do they un-make one. The 'Dude' may surprise us
yet."
Whether the outcome of his appointment to the little watering station was
to be a surprise or no, there was no doubt of Wilson Jennings' surprise
when the following morning he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as
the train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was entirely alone.
Blankly he gazed at the little red-brown "drygoods-box" depot, the
water-tank, the hills to the west, and to north, south and east the
limitless stretching prairie. He had never imagined anything like this
when he had decided on giving up a good position in the east to taste
"some adventure" in the great west.
However, here he was; and picking up his two suitcases, the boy made his
way in to the tiny operating-room, and on into the bunk-kitchen-living-room
behind. For here, "a hundred miles from anywhere," the operator's board and
lodging was provided by the railroad.
Early that evening Wilson was sitting somewhat disconsolately at the
telegraph-room window when he was startled by a loud whoop. There was a
second, then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys came into view.
It was the "welcoming committee" of the Bar-O ranch, the "outfit"
referred to by the operator at Exeter.
With a final whoop the cowmen thundered up to the station platform, and
dismounted. Muskoka Jones, a huge, heavily-moustached ranchman over six
feet in height, was first to reach the open window. Diving within to the
waist, he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with a crash.
"Pardner, welcome to our city!" he shouted.
The response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead there was
a strange quiet.
The following Bar-O's faltered, and exchanged glances. Surely the Western
had not at last "fallen down" on its first obligation at Bonepile! For
since the coming of the rails they had regarded the station operator as a
sort of social adjunct to the ranch--the keeper of an open house of
hospitality, their daily paper, the final learned authority on all
matters of politics and sport. And if this latest change of operators had
brought them--
Muskoka spoke again, and the worst was realized.
"Well, you gal-faced little dude!"
The cowmen crowded forward, and peering over Muskoka's board shoulders,
studied Wilson from head to foot with speechless scorn.
Muskoka settled forward on his elbows.
"Are you a real operator?" he inquired.
In a voice that sounded foolish even to himself Wilson responded in the
affirmative.
"Actooal, real, male operator?"
The cluster of bronzed faces guffawed loudly.
"But y' don't play kiards, do you?" Muskoka asked incredulously. "Now I
bet you don't. Or smoke? Or chew? Or any of them wicked--"
"Here are some cigarettes the other man left." Hopefully the boy extended
the package--to have it snatched from his hand, scramblingly emptied, and
the box flipped ceilingward.
In falling the box brought further trouble. It struck something on the
wall which emitted a hollow thud, and glancing up the cowmen espied
Wilson's new, brilliantly-banded hat. In a trice Muskoka's long arm had
secured it, with the common inspiration the cluster of faces withdrew;
the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of
shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.
"There--all proper millinaried dee la Bonepile," said Muskoka. "An' don't
mention it."
"Now give me that white-washed fence you have around your ears." The boy
shrank farther back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for
the telegraph key. In a moment the big cowman's pistol was out.
"Back in your chair! Give me that white fence!" he commanded.
Trembling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The cowman
stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it.
"There," he announced, returning it, "much better. That's Bonepile
fashion. Put it on."
Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of cowmen roared at the result.
"Now," proceeded Muskoka, "that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I
think it'd look better inside-out. Try it."
Wilson again turned desperately toward the key, the cowman banged on the
table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes
after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway--in shattered
hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers
rolled to his knees--a spectacle that set the cowboys staggering and
shouting about the platform in convulsions of laughter.
In fact the result was so pleasing that after enjoying it to the full,
the ranchmen decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requesting
of Wilson that he wave his hat and give "three cheers for the citizens of
Bonepile," they mounted their ponies, and scampered away.
Hastening in to the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically
calling Exeter. Before X had responded, however, the boy paused, and sat
back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes.
"Yes, sir; I'll wager they sent them down here to do this," he said
aloud.
Suddenly he arose, and began removing the turned coat. "I'll stick it out
here for two weeks--if they lynch me!" declared the "dude" grimly.
It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold
shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an
unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the
superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the
mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard
train.
On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused. "Why, it's the
night of Dan Haggerty's dance," he pointed out indignantly. "Doesn't the
superintendent know that?"
"The superintendent didn't--and didn't care," was the response to the
wired protest. "The driver was supposed to remain at all times. It was an
old understanding."
Understanding or not, Big Bill declined to remain, and stormed out the
door, announcing that he would get someone down from the Bar-O ranch.
Half an hour later Muskoka Jones appeared.
"Good evening. I'm sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir,"
apologized Wilson.
"Good evening, Willie. Don't mention it," was the big cowman's scornful
response. Then, having momentarily paused to cast a contemptuous eye over
the lad's neat attire, he threw himself on the floor in the farthermost
corner of the room, and promptly fell fast asleep.
Some time after darkness had fallen the young telegrapher, dozing in his
chair at the instrument table, was startled into consciousness by the
sound of approaching hoofbeats. With visions of Indians or robbers he
sprang to the window, to discover a dim, tall figure dismounting on the
platform. In alarm he turned to call the sleeping guard, but momentarily
hesitating, looked again, the figure came into the light of the window,
and with relief he recognized Iowa Burns, another of the Bar-O cowmen.
"Hello, kid," said the newcomer, entering. "Where's Old Muskoke?"
"Good evening. Over there, asleep, sir. I suppose you knew he was taking
Mr. Smith's place, guarding the gold until the train came in?"
"Sure, yes. I was there when Bill come up." He crossed to the side of the
snoring Jones, and kicked him sharply on the sole of his boots. "M'skoke!
Git up!" he shouted. "Here's something to keep out the chills."
Again, and more sharply, he kicked the sleeping man, while the boy looked
on, smiling.
Suddenly the smile disappeared, and the lad's heart leaped into his
throat. He was gazing into the black, round muzzle of a pistol, and
beyond it was a face set with a deadly purpose. Instinctively his staring
eyes flickered towards the box of bullion.
"Yep, that's it. But wink an eye agin, an' y' git it!" said Burns coldly,
advancing. "Now, git back there up agin the corner of the table, an'
stand, so 'f anyone comes along you'll appear to be leanin' there,
conversin'. Go on, quick!"
Dazed, cold with fear, the boy obeyed, and Iowa, producing a sheaf of
hide thongs, proceeded to bind his arms to his side.
As the renegade tightened a knot securing the boy's left leg to the leg
of the table, Muskoka's snoring abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved
uneasily. In a flash Iowa was over him, pistol in hand. But the snoring
presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment, Iowa
returned to the boy.
"Now move, remember, an' I shoot," he repeated warningly. "To make sure,
I'm going to fix up that snoring idiot over there before I finish you.
An' don't you as much as shuffle your hoof!" Recovering the bundle of
thongs, he strode back to the sleeper.
As previously the man's back had been turned Wilson had shot a frantic
glance about him. In their sweep his eyes had fallen on the partly open
drawer in the end of the table, immediately below his left hand, and in
the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe. At the moment nothing had
resulted, but as the renegade's back was again turned his eyes again
dropped to the drawer, and a sudden wild possibility occurred to him.
His heart seemed literally to stand still at the audacity, the danger of
it. But might it not be possible? The light from the single lamp, on the
wall opposite, was poor, and his left side thus in deep shadow. And his
left hand--he tried it--yes, though tightly bound at the wrist, the hand
itself was free.
His first day at the station, the visit of the men from the ranch,
Muskoka's contemptuous greeting, recurred to him. Here was his
opportunity of vindication.
With a desperate clenching of the teeth the boy decided, and at once
began cautiously straining at the thongs about his wrist, to obtain the
reach necessary. Finally they slipped, slightly, but enough. Carefully he
leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He reached the pipe, fumbled a
moment, and secured it.
Burns was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a thong. An
instant Wilson hesitated, then springing erect, pointed the pipe-stem,
and in a voice he scarcely knew, a voice sharp as the crack of a whip,
cried:
"Hands up, Burns! I got you!
"_Quick! I'll shoot!_"
The renegade cowman, taken completely by surprise, leaped to his feet
with a cry, without turning, his hands instinctively half-raised.
"Quick! Up! _Up!_" cried the boy. A breathlessly critical instant the
hands wavered, then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended.
For a moment the young operator stood panting, but half believing the
witness of his own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then at the top
of his voice he cried: "Mr. Jones! Mr. Jones! Muskoka! Wake up! Wake up!"
Iowa, muttering beneath his breath, paused anxiously to watch results.
"Muskoka! Muskoka!" shouted the lad. The snoring continued evenly,
unbrokenly.
Iowa indulged in a dry laugh. "Save your wind, kid," he said. "I fixed a
drink he took before he came down."
At this news the boy's heart sank.
"But look here, kid." Iowa turned carefully, hands still in the air.
"Look here, can't we square this thing up? You got the drop on me, O
K--and with a blame little pea-shooter," he added, catching a glimpse, as
he thought, of the end of a small black barrel, but nevertheless
continuing his attitude of surrender. "You got the drop--and you're a
smart kid, you are--but can't we fix this thing up? You take half, say?
I'd be glad to let you in. Honest! An' no one'd ever think you was in the
game. Come, what d' y' say?"
Though apparently listening, the young operator was in reality urgently
casting about in his mind for other expedients. Obviously it would be too
dangerous to attempt to reach with the fingers of one of his bound hands
the thongs holding his left leg to the leg of the table. He might reveal
the pipe, or drop it. And neither could he reach the telegraph key, to
get in touch with someone on the wire. And in any case, how could that
help him? For the next train was not due for two hours, and it did not
seem possible he could carry on his bluff that length of time.
But think as he would, the wire seemed the only hope. Could he not reach
the key in some way?
The solution came as Iowa ventured a short step nearer, and repeated his
suggestion. At first sight it seemed as ridiculously impossible as the
bluff with the pipe, but quickly the boy weighed the chances, and
determined to take the risk.
"Now, Mr. Iowa," he said, "you are to do just exactly what I tell you,
step by step, so much and no more. If you make any other move, if I only
think you are going to, I shall shoot. My finger is pressing the trigger
constantly. And I guess you can see that at this range, though my hold on
the gun is a bit cramped, I could not miss you if I wanted to.
"Listen, now. You will come forward until you can reach the chair here by
sticking out your foot. Then you will push it back along the table to the
wall, and turn it face to me. Then you will sit down in it. After that
I'll tell you some more.
"Go ahead! And remember--my finger always pressing the trigger!"
As Burns came forward, infinitely puzzled, the boy turned slowly, so that
the "muzzle" of the pipe continued to cover the would-be bullion thief.
Gingerly Iowa reached out with his foot and shoved the chair back to the
wall, and turning, backed into it and sat down. With the shadow of a grin
on his face, he demanded, "Wot next?"
"Now, slowly let your left arm down at full length on the table.
There--hand is on the key, isn't it?
"Now," continued Wilson, who never for an instant allowed his eyes to
wander from the man's face, "now feel with your fingers at the back of
the key, and find a screw-head, standing up."
"Which one? There are two or three," said Iowa craftily.
"No, there are not. There's just one. And I give you 'three' to find it,"
said the young operator sharply. "One, two--"
"Oh, go on! I got it!" exclaimed Iowa angrily.
"Below the screw-head is a binding-nut. Loosen it, and turn it leftwise.
Found it? Now take hold of the screw-head again, and turn it to the left.
It turns free, doesn't it?"
"Sure."
"Turn it about four times completely around. Now the binding nut again,
down, the other way, till it's tight. Got it?
"Now, hold your finger tips over the black button at the inner end of the
key, and hit down on it smartly."
There was a click.
"That's it. It has plenty of play, hasn't it?"
"Works up and down about an inch, if that's wot you mean," growled Iowa,
still puzzled. "But wot--"
"I'm going to give you a lesson in telegraphy and you are going to--"