Superintendent Finnan led the way beyond the cars into the open. A mile
distant, and hidden from the boarding-train by the cars on the sidings,
was a depression in the prairie bordered with low scrub. "We'll have a
look there," he said.
Some minutes later they stood in the bottom of the miniature valley,
beside the unmistakably fresh hoofprints of a hobbled pony.
The official was grimly silent as they retraced their steps toward the
construction-train. They had almost reached it when Alex, who had been
examining the fragments of burned shavings, broke the silence. "Mr.
Finnan, let me see the bit of shaving we found by the rear car, please."
There was a touch of excitement in Alex's voice, and the superintendent
halted.
"What is it?" he asked as he produced the whittling.
Alex glanced at it, and smiling, placed it beside two of the charred
fragments in his hand. "Look at these little ridges, sir! The same knife
whittled them all. The blade had two small nicks in it.
"All we have to do now, sir, is to find the owner of the knife!"
"A bright idea, Ward! Splendid!" exclaimed the superintendent heartily.
"But," he added as they moved on, "how are we going to find him? We can't
very well round up the whole Dog Rib country, and hold a jack-knife
inspection."
They came within sight of the bleached-out dining-cars. Basking in the
morning sun on the steps of one of the old coaches was the figure of a
young Indian, who had come from no one knew where the first day of their
arrival, and had attached himself to the kitchen department.
Alex laid his hand on the superintendent's arm. "Mr. Finnan, why not try
Little Hawk?"
"It occurred to me just as you spoke. I will. Right now.
"You go on in to breakfast, Ward," he directed. "And say nothing of our
suspicions or discoveries."
"Very well, sir."
The members of the telegraph-car party were leaving for the diner as Alex
appeared.
"Hello, Ward! Catch the early worm?" inquired one of the track-foremen
jocularly.
"You mean, 'did he shoot it?'" corrected a time-clerk.
At this there was a general laugh, and glancing about for an explanation,
Alex saw Elder, Superintendent Finnan's personal clerk and aide de camp,
hastily remove a cartridge-belt and revolver from his waist and toss them
into his bunk.
Elder was the one unpopular man in the telegraph-car. An undersized,
aggressively important individual, just out of college, and affecting a
stylish khaki hunting-suit, natty leather leggings and a broad-brimmed
hat, he bore himself generally as though second in importance only to the
construction superintendent himself. And naturally he had promptly been
made the butt of the party.
"But you know," gravely observed one of the inspectors, as they took
their places about the plain board table in the dining-car, "some of
these tramps are dangerous fellows. They'd just as soon pull a gun on you
as borrow a dime. So there's nothing like being prepared. Particularly
when one carries about such evidence of wealth and rank as friend Elder,
here."
At the chuckles which followed the clerk bridled angrily.
"Well, anyway, Ryan," he retorted, "I am ready to fight if one of them
interferes with me. I'll not stick up my hands and let him go through me,
as you did once."
"Oh, you wouldn't, eh?"
"No, I wouldn't. In fact, I'd like to see anyone make me throw up my
hands, even if I didn't have a revolver," Elder went on emphatically.
"I'd rather be shot--yes, sir, I'd rather be shot than have to think
afterward that I'd been such a weak-kneed coward. And that's what I think
of any man who would permit a low-down tramp to go through his pockets."
Loud applause greeted these remarks, clapping, banging of plates, and
cries of "Hear, hear!"
"Go it, Elder!"
"Show him up!"
"It's on me. He has me labelled, OK," admitted Ryan with marked humility.
"But then, gentlemen, I protest it is hardly fair to compare an ordinary
mortal to so remarkably courageous a man as Elder. I claim it is not
given many men to be that fearless. Why, 'with half an eye,' as the old
grammars say, you can see courage sticking out all over him."
"All right, laugh. But I never showed the white feather to a hobo," Elder
repeated scathingly.
"No; but--what is it Kipling, or Shakespeare, says?--'While there's life
there's soap?'" observed Ryan, a sudden twinkle appearing in his eye.
The inspector explained the meaning of his facetiously garbled quotation
when Elder left the table. The proposal he made was greeted with
enthusiasm.
Work had been started on the branch road itself that morning, and on
returning to the telegraph-car at noon the superintendent's clerk found
most of the party there before him, preparing for dinner. An animated
debate which was in progress ceased as he entered, and someone exclaimed,
"Here he is now. He'd soon straighten them up."
"What is the trouble, men?" inquired Elder, with the air of a
sergeant-major.
"Our two head-spikers had a disagreement this morning, and have gone
across the yards to settle it," explained one of the time-keepers through
his towel. "Couldn't you go after them, and interfere? They may put each
other out of commission. Refused to listen to me or the foreman."
"The childish idiots! Certainly," agreed Elder, turning back to the door.
"Which way did they go?"
"Straight across the yard. But hadn't you better take your gun?" the
time-clerk suggested. "They are a pair of pretty tough customers."
"Well--perhaps I had, since you mention it," Elder responded. Going to
his bunk, he secured and buckled on the belt, drew the revolver from its
holster to examine it, and set forth grimly. As he disappeared the men in
the car broke into barely-subdued splutterings of laughter, and crowding
to the door, waited expectantly.
With an air of responsibility and determination the clerk made his way
between the adjacent cars. There were six tracks filled with the long
trains of construction material. He had passed the fifth, and was
stooping beneath the couplings of two flats beyond, when from the other
side he heard footsteps.
One hand on the butt of his revolver, he leaped forth. Uttering a choking
cry he sprang back. Within a foot of his eyes were the barrels of two big
Colt's-pistols, and looking over the tops of them was a villainous
handkerchief-masked face.
"Hands up!" ordered the tramp hoarsely.
Elder's hands flew into the air. Immediately, despite his fright, there
returned a remembrance of his boast that morning. He half made as though
to bring his hands down. Instantly the cold muzzles of the pistols were
pressed close beneath his nose. With a wild flutter Elder's fingers shot
upward to their fullest stretch.
"Come out!" ordered the tramp.
Quaking, and almost on tiptoes in his effort to keep his hands aloft,
Elder obeyed. Lowering one of the pistols and thrusting it into his belt,
the tramp reached forward and secured the clerk's revolver, dropping it
to the ground beneath his feet.
"Now, Mr. Superintendent," he ordered gruffly, "hand over your roll!"
"Why, I'm not the superintendent," quavered Elder hopefully. "I am--only
a clerk."
"Clerk nothing! Don't you think I know a superintendent when I see one?
Out with those yellowbacks you drew yesterday, or by gum--" The pistol
was again thrust under his nose, and Elder blanched.
"But I'm not the superintendent! Honestly I'm not!" he protested. "I'm
only a clerk. And I only get--only get--"
"Yes, come on! You only get?" thundered the tramp.
"I only get thirty-five dollars a month," whispered the clerk.
"Only thirty-five bones a month? Well, by gum!" The tramp looked the
shrinking clerk over with unspeakable contempt. "Why, there ain't a Dago
shoveler in the outfit doesn't get more than that!
"Very well, then," he conceded loftily. "You can keep your coppers. I
never let it be said I rob the poor.
"But I tell you what I will have," he went on suddenly. "Them clothes are
sure too good for any man not getting as much money as a Dago. These,"
indicating his own tattered and grimy garments, "are more in your line.
Come on! Peel off!"
The trimly-dressed clerk stared aghast.
"You surely--don't mean--"
"I surely DO mean! _Shell off!_" roared the tramp.
And utterly beyond belief as it was, ten minutes later Elder was
surveying himself in the unspeakable rags of the hobo, and the latter,
before him, was ridiculously attired in his own natty, smaller garments.
Having then removed Elder's fancy Stetson and clamped his own greasy and
battered christy down to the clerk's ears, the tramp had one further
humiliation. Pointing to a clump of black, oily waste hanging from a
nearby axle-box, he ordered, "Pull out a bunch of that!"
Slowly, wondering, Elder did so.
"No one would believe you were a genuine hobo with such a scandalously
clean face as that. Rub the waste over it," commanded the tramp.
This was too much. Blindly Elder turned to escape. Instantly both pistols
were once more at his head. And in final abject surrender he slowly
rubbed the black car-grease upon his cheeks.
"Very good. A little on the forehead now," directed the relentless tramp.
"Now the ears.
"_Go on!_... Very good.
"Now you may go."
Frantically Elder spun about and dove between the cars. As he did so,
behind him roared out six quick pistol shots.
Blindly he scrambled under the next train. Shouts rose ahead of him.
"Help, help!" he cried. "Tramps! Tramps! Help!"
From the boarding-cars broke out a hubbub of excitement. "Tramps!
Tramps!" he shrilled, scuttling beneath the third train.
On the other side he suddenly pulled up. He had forgotten his outlandish
appearance! What if--
Men sprang into view from between the cars farther down. "Here he is!"
they shouted, instantly heading for him.
"It's me! Elder!" cried the apparent tramp.
More men appeared. "The tramp who burned the car!" rose the cry. "Lynch
him! Lynch him!"
Elder dove back the way he had come. The trackmen raced for the nearest
openings, and dove after.
As Elder dashed for the next train several of his pursuers sprang into
view but a car-length away. "Head him off! Don't let him get away!" they
shouted.
Madly Elder rushed on, darted beneath the last string of flats, and on
out into the open.
A figure was approaching on horseback. He recognized Superintendent
Finnan. Uttering a cry of hope, he headed for him. At sight of the
desperately running figure, with its grimy face and flapping rags, the
superintendent pulled up in sheer amazement. When the stream of men broke
through the train and poured after, yelping like a pack of hounds, he
urged his horse forward.
"Catch him! Stop him!" shouted the pursuers.
"It's me! Elder!" screamed the clerk. "Elder! Elder!"
A big Irishman, a pick-handle in his hand, was gaining on the supposed
tramp at every bound, roaring, "I'll fix ye! I'll fix ye, ye vermin!"
With a last desperate sprint the flying clerk reached the horse and threw
himself at the superintendent's stirrups. "It's Elder, Mr. Finnan!" he
gasped. "Elder! Elder!"
The superintendent gazed down into the blackened face an instant, then
suddenly doubled up over his horse's head, rocking and shaking in a
convulsion of laughter. The action saved the clerk from the Irishman. The
descending pick-handle halted in mid-air, the wielder gazed open-mouthed
at the convulsed official, then suddenly grasping the clerk's head,
twisted it about, and staggered back, roaring and shouting at the top of
his lungs. As fast as the others arrived the riot of merriment increased;
and when presently the superintendent moved on toward the train, the
crestfallen clerk still at his stirrup, they were the center of a
hilariously howling mob.
The final blow came when Elder entered the telegraph-car. Carefully laid
out in his bunk were the garments he had surrendered to the "tramp."
The incident had its final good result, however. The mangling of Elder's
vanity disclosed an unsuspected streak of common-sense and manliness, and
a day or so after he frankly thanked Ryan, the perpetrator of the joke,
for "having put him right." And finally he became one of the most popular
men on the train.