"Good morning, Ward. Any word of the progress made by the K. & Z.?"
inquired Construction Superintendent Finnan the following morning,
Sunday, looking into the telegraph-car.
Alex threw down his towel and stepped to the instrument table. "Yes, sir;
here's one that came late last night.
"It says they started from Red Deer yesterday morning, and made nearly
three and a half miles."
The superintendent looked somewhat glum as he read the message. "That
beats us by half a mile," he remarked. "If the news is reliable, that is.
They may plan to give out inflated distances, in order to discourage us.
That would be a small matter to them, after trying to burn us out."
"There has been no sign of Little Hawk yet, sir?" Alex inquired.
"No. I am beginning to think the rascal has gone over to the K. & Z.,"
said the superintendent, turning away. At the door he paused. "By the
way, Ward, remind me to give you a message to-morrow morning asking for
two more operators. We will have made six or seven miles by Monday night,
and will be running the train down the branch. And the temporary station
is almost completed," he added, glancing from the window toward a box-car
which had been lifted from its trucks and placed on a foundation of ties
beside the main-line tracks.
Alex promised gladly. It meant the coming of Jack Orr and Wilson
Jennings.
Following breakfast, the morning being a beautiful one, Alex determined
on a walk, and set off along the main-line to the west. Two miles distant
he struck a small bridge and a deep, dry creek-bed, and turning south
along its border, headed for the distant rail-head of the new branch.
At a bend in the creek some two hundred yards from the track-machine and
its string of flat-cars, Alex sharply paused. Two saddled ponies were
hobbled together in the creek-bottom. Casting a glance toward the
construction-train, Alex leaped into the gully, out of sight.
He had not a doubt that the horses belonged to men in the service of the
K. & Z., and that something was on foot similar to the attempted burning
of the bridge-car.
What should he do? Return the three miles to the junction? or continue on
to the track-machine? For undoubtedly the owners of the horses were
there; and the machine, he knew, was in the sole charge of an oiler.
Alex decided on the latter course, and making his way along the bed of
the stream, passed the hobbled ponies, and on to the new bridge fifty
feet in rear of the construction-train.
As he there halted, low voices reached Alex's ears. Peering cautiously
out, and seeing no one, he crept forth, and made his way along the side
of the embankment toward the train. A few feet from the rear car Alex
came upon a three-wheeled track velocipede, used by Elder, the
superintendent's clerk in running backwards and forwards between the
rail-head and the junction. Pausing, he debated whether he should not put
it on the rails, and make a run for the junction immediately. Finally
Alex concluded first to learn something further of what was going on, and
to count on the velocipede as a means of making his escape in case of
emergency. To this end he proceeded cautiously to place the little jigger
in a position from which he could quickly swing it onto the irons. Then
continuing forward under the edge of the train, he reached the pilot-car.
"Yes; it's a first class machine--the best on the market."
The voice was that of the oiler. Apparently he had been showing the
strangers over the track-machine. For a brief space Alex wondered whether
after all his suspicions were justified. But at once came the thought,
"Why had the strangers hidden their horses in the creek-bottom if they
were genuine visitors?" and he remained quiet.
"Where is the boiler?" inquired a new voice, evidently one of the owners
of the horses.
"There is none. The steam comes from the engine, behind," the oiler
responded. "Here--it comes in here."
"So! And does the machine get out of order very easily?" asked a second
voice.
There was something in the tone that caused Alex to prick up his ears.
"Almost never. It's all simple. Nothing intricate," the man in charge
replied.
"I suppose it could be put out of order, though--say, you fellows were to
go on strike, and wanted to disable things? Eh?"
"Huh! That's rather a funny question. But I suppose it could. Anything
could, for that matter."
"What do they pay you, as oiler?"
"Say, what are you two fellows driving at?" the oiler demanded sharply.
There was a momentary silence, during which Alex imagined the two
strangers looking questioningly at one another. Then one of them spoke.
"Look here, whatever you get, we will give you a hundred dollars a month
extra to put this machine out of order two or three times a week. Nothing
very bad, but just enough to lose two or three hours' work each time. We
are--well, never mind who we are. The thing stands this way: We have a
big bet on that the K. & Z. will win in this building race for Yellow
Creek, and--well, you see the point, I guess. What do you say?"
During the pause that followed Alex waited breathlessly, and with growing
disappointment. Was the oiler considering the bribe?
"Well," said the oiler at length, "is that your best offer? Couldn't you
make it a thousand?"
"A thousand! Nonsense--"
"Two thousand, then."
"What do you mean--"
"Just this!" cried the oiler, and simultaneously there was a rush of feet
and a sound of blows. Exultingly Alex was scrambling forth to go to the
oiler's assistance, when just above him was a crash of falling bodies,
and a figure bounded over the side of the car and rolled sprawling down
the embankment.
It was the plucky oiler, and Alex shrank back in horror as the man came
to a stop flat on his back, and lay immovable, blood trickling from a
wound over his eyes.
Overhead was the sound of someone getting to their feet. "He nearly got
you," said a voice.
"Nearly. But I guess I 'got him' one better."
"Is he safe for awhile, do you think?"
As the two men moved to the edge of the car and apparently gazed down at
the prostrate figure in the ditch, Alex shrank back with apprehension on
his own account.
"Perhaps we'd better make sure of him."
"All right. Here is a bit of rope."
Hurriedly Alex crawled beneath the nearby truck, behind the wheels, and a
tall figure in the garb of a cowboy dropped to the ground before him and
ran down to the still unconscious oiler. Binding the prostrate man's feet
together at the ankles, the cowman turned the oiler on his face, and
secured his hands behind his back. Turning him again face up, he studied
his eyes a moment, and announcing, "Good job. Only stunned," he returned
to the car and drew himself up on it.
"Now what'll we do?" inquired his companion. "That idiot has knocked our
plans to pieces. We can't go back and say we neither made the deal, nor
did anything else for our money."
"We'll have to tear things up ourselves," said the first man decisively.
"Let us see what we can do in the engine-room here."
The footsteps passed into the engine-house, and Alex at once crawled
forth, to make his way back to the velocipede.
As he emerged from beneath the car he paused to glance down at the
prostrate oiler. Should he leave him lying there? It did not seem right,
despite the obvious necessity of heading for the junction without a
moment's delay.
As he hesitated, the eyes of the prostrate man flickered, and opened.
Alex dodged back, lest the oiler should betray his presence to the men on
the car. As he dropped down there came the recollection that there were
two seats on the velocipede. Why not take the man with him, if he
sufficiently recovered? Good!
Anxiously Alex watched as the stunned man blinked about him. Finally
comprehension, then a hot flush of rage appeared in the oiler's face, and
with a violent kick he twisted about toward the car.
Springing into view, Alex caught the oiler's startled eye, and made a
warning gesture. The man stared dully for a moment, then nodded, and on
Alex's further urgent signalling, dropped back and again closed his eyes.
Alex produced and opened his jack-knife.
The men above were busily fumbling about in the engine-room. Only pausing
to make sure they were entirely occupied, Alex slipped forth, cautiously
crept down the embankment, reached the bound man, and with a slash of the
knife freed his feet and hands.
"Let us slip back to the velocipede--it's ready to throw on the
rails--and make a dash of it for the junction," Alex whispered. The oiler
arose, and with one eye on the engine-room door they crept up under the
edge of the car, and on toward the rear of the train.
They reached the little track-car, and cautiously lifted it onto the
rails.
"Better push it a ways," the oiler advised in a low voice. "They might
hear the rumble, with our weight on it."
Gently they set the velocipede in motion. With the first move one of the
wheels gave forth a shrill screech. The two paused as the sounds on the
pilot-car immediately ceased.
"If we hear one of them going to the edge to look for me, we'll make a
run of it," said the oiler.
"They may go on tiptoe," Alex pointed out.
The suggestion was followed by a sharp exclamation from the head of the
train. "The oiler's gone!" cried a voice. Simultaneously there was the
sound of someone springing to the ground, and Alex and the oiler
scrambled into the velocipede seats, Alex facing the rear, and threw
themselves against the handles. The oilless wheel again screeched, and
from the pilot-car rose the cry, "Around at the end! Quick!"
Alex and the oiler wrenched the handles backwards and forwards with all
their might, and the little car leaped ahead. Before they had gained full
headway, however, one of the machine-wreckers appeared about the end of
the train, and with a cry to his companion, dashed after. He ran like a
deer, and despite the increasing speed of the velocipede, quickly gained
upon them.
"He'll get us!" Alex exclaimed.
"The creek bridge is just ahead. That'll stop him," said the oiler.
The second man appeared, and joined in the chase.
The first runner saw the bridge, and redoubled his efforts. In spite of
their best endeavors, he drew rapidly nearer. A hand shot out to clutch
the oiler's shoulder.
It reached him--and with a rumble they were on and over the bridge, and
their pursuer had sprawled forward flat on his face.
He was on his feet again like a wildcat, however, and crossing the bridge
three ties at a time, leaped to the flat ground beside the track, and was
again after the velocipede like a race-horse.
Try as they would, Alex and the oiler could get no more speed out of the
low-geared machine, and with alarm Alex saw the runner once more drawing
near. The second man they had outdistanced.
Closer the cowman came. "Stop!" he shouted. "Stop! You may as well! I've
got you!"
Determinedly they held on, working the handles desperately, Alex watching
the grim, clean-shaven face and the fluttering dotted handkerchief about
the pursuing man's neck with a curious fascination.
At last he was parallel with them. Still running, he drew his revolver.
"Stop!" he ordered. "Stop, or I'll put one through you!"
"Keep it up, boy," the oiler directed sharply. "He daresn't fire. He
daresn't add murder to it. And he'd be heard at the junction."
The runner snapped his gun back into its holster, and putting on an extra
spurt, rushed slanting up the embankment, and threw himself bodily upon
the oiler. They tumbled off backwards in a struggling heap. Throwing his
weight against the handles, Alex stopped the velocipede, sprang off, and
dashed to the oiler's assistance.
The cowman's revolver had fallen from his belt. Alex caught it up and
pressed it against the back of the man's head. "Stop it! Let go!" he
cried. "I'll certainly shoot!"
The man half relaxed, and glared up sideways. Alex brought the muzzle to
his eyes, and slowly he freed his hold on the oiler. "Oh, very well," he
muttered with a curse. "You win."
"No--don't!" said Alex, as the enraged oiler spun about to strike the
half-prostrate man. "He's down, and has given up."
At that moment interruption came from another quarter. It was a shrill
cry from the direction of the creek-bed, and turning, all three saw a
round-shouldered figure on horseback scrambling from the creek-bottom,
leading the ponies of the two would-be wreckers, and the second cowman
running toward him.
"It's Little Hawk!" Alex exclaimed.
The cowboy reached the Indian, sprang at him, there was a terrific
scrimmage, and the white man sprang from the melee with the bridle of one
of the ponies, leaped into the saddle, and was off across the prairie in
a whirl of dust.
So interested had Alex been in the second conflict that momentarily he
had forgotten the man on the ground before him. He was reminded by
suddenly finding himself sprawling upon his back, and regaining his feet,
found their prisoner also racing off at top speed. The oiler darted
after, but quickly gave it up. He was no match for the light-footed
cowman.