"_Always together in sunshine and rain,
Facing the weather atop o' the train,
Watching the meadows move under the stars;
Always together atop o' the cars._"
Patsy was just singing it soft and low to himself, and not even thinking
of the song, for he was not riding "atop o' the cars" now. With his arm
run through the bail of his nickel-plated, white light, he was taking
the numbers and initials of the cars in the Denver Limited. He was a
handsome fellow, and the eight or ten years that had passed lightly over
his head since he came singing himself into the office of the general
manager to ask for a pass over a competing line, had rounded out his
figure, and given him a becoming mustache, but they had left just a
shade of sadness upon his sunny face. The little mother whom he used to
visit at Council Bluffs had fallen asleep down by the dark Missouri, and
he would not see her again until he reached the end of his last run.
And that's what put the shadow upon his sunny face. The white light,
held close to his bright, new uniform, flashed over his spotless linen,
and set his buttons ablaze.
"Ah there, my beauty! any room for dead-heads to-night?"
Patsy turned to his questioner, closed his train-book and held out his
hand: "Always room for the Irish; where are you tagged for?"
"The junction."
"But we don't stop there."
"I know, but I thought Moran might slow her down to about twenty posts,
and I can fall off--I missed the local."
"I've got a new man," said Patsy, "and he'll be a bit nervous to-night,
but if we hit the top of Zero Hill on the dot we'll let you off; if not,
we'll carry you through, and you can come back on No. 4."
"Thank you," said the Philosopher, "but I'm sorry to trouble you."
"And I don't intend you shall; just step back to the outside gate and
flag Mr. and Mrs. Moran, and don't let him buy a ticket for the sleeper;
I've got passes for him right through to the coast."
As the Philosopher went back to "flag," Patsy went forward to the
engine. "If you hit Zero Junction on time, Guerin, I wish you'd slow
down and let the agent off," said the conductor.
"And if I'm late?"
"Don't stop."
"Well," said the young driver, "we'll not be apt to stop, for it's a
wild night, Patsy; a slippery rail and almost a head wind."
"Nothing short of a blizzard can check Blackwings," said Patsy, going to
the rear.
The day coaches were already well filled, and the sleeping-car
conductors were busy putting their people away when the Philosopher came
down the platform accompanied by the veteran engineer, his pretty wife,
and her bright little girl. Mrs. Moran and her daughter entered the
sleeper, while her husband and the station master remained outside to
finish their cigars.
"What a magnificent train," observed the old engineer, as the two men
stood looking at the Limited.
"Finest in all the West," the Philosopher replied. "Open from the tank
to the tail-lamps: all ablaze with electric lights; just like the
Atlantic liners we read about in the magazines. Ever been on one of
those big steamers, Dan?"
"No, and I never want to be. Never get me out o' sight o' land. Then
they're too blamed slow; draggin' along in the darkness, eighteen and
twenty miles an hour, and nowhere to jump."
"And yet they say we kill more people than they do."
"I know they say so," said the engineer, "but they kill 'em so
everlastingly dead. A man smashed up in a wreck on the road _may_
recover, but a man drowned a thousand miles from anywhere has no show."
Patsy, coming from the station, joined the two dead-heads, and Moran,
glancing at his watch, asked the cause of delay.
"Waiting for a party of English tourists," said Patsy; "they're coming
over the Grand Trunk, and the storm has delayed them."
"And that same storm will delay you to-night, my boy, if I'm any
guesser," observed the old engineer. "I'd go over and ride with Guerin,
but I'm afraid he wouldn't take it well. That engine is as quick as
chain-lightning, and with a greasy rail like this she'll slip going down
hill, and the more throttle he gives her the slower she'll go. And
what's more, she'll do it so smoothly, that, blinded by the storm, he'll
never know she's slipping till she tears her fire all out and comes to a
dead stall."
The old engineer knew just how to prevent all that, but he was afraid
that to offer any suggestion might wound the pride of the young man,
whom he did not know very well. True, he had asked the master-mechanic
to put Guerin on the run, but only because he disliked the Reading man
who was next in line. Mrs. Moran came from the car now, and asked to be
taken to the engine where she and her daughter might say good-bye to
Bennie who was now the regular fireman on Blackwings. "Bennie," said his
stepfather, "see that your sand-pipes are open."
While Bennie talked with his mother and sister, Moran chatted with the
engineer. "I want to thank you," said Guerin, "for helping me to this
run during your absence, and I shall try to take good care of both
Bennie and Blackwings."
"It isn't worth mentioning," said Moran with a wave of his hand, "they
do these things to suit themselves."
"Now, if she's got any tricks," said Guerin, "I'd be glad to know them,
for I don't want to disgrace the engine by losing time. I've been trying
to pump the boy, but he's as close as a clam."
"Well, that's not a common fault with firemen," said Moran, with his
quiet smile. "The only thing I can say about Blackwings," he went on,
for he had been aching to say it, "is that she's smart, and on a rail
like this you'll have to humor her a little--drop her down a notch and
ease up on the throttle, especially when you have a heavy train. She's
mighty slippery."
Guerin thanked him for the tip, and the old engineer, feeling greatly
relieved, went back to where Patsy and the Philosopher were
"railroading." They had been discussing the vestibule. The Philosopher
had remarked that recently published statistics established the fact
that when a solid vestibuled train came into collision with an
old-fashioned open train of the same weight, the latter would go to
splinters while the vestibuled train would remain intact, on the
principle that a sleeping car is harder to wreck when the berths are
down, because they brace the structure. "The vestibule," continued the
Philosopher, "is a life-saver, and a great comfort to people who travel
first class, but this same inventor, who has perfected so many railway
appliances, has managed in one way or another to help all mankind. He
has done as much for the tramp as for the millionaire. Take the high
wheel, for instance. Why, I remember when I was 'on the road' that you
had to get down and crawl to get under a sleeper, and sit doubled up
like a crawfish all the while. I remember when the Pennsylvania put on a
lot of big, twelve-wheeled cars. A party of us got together under a
water tank down near Pittsburgh and held a meeting. It was on the Fourth
of July and we sent a copy of our resolutions to the president of the
sleeping car company at Chicago. The report was written with charcoal
upon some new shingles which we found near, and sent by express,
'collect.' I remember how it read:
'At the First Annual Convention of the Tramps' Protective Association of
North America, it was
'_Resolved:_ That this union feels itself deeply indebted to the man who
has introduced upon American railways the high wheel and the triple
truck. And be it further
'_Resolved:_ That all self-respecting members of this fraternity shall
refrain from riding on, or in any way encouraging, such slow-freight
lines as may still hold to the old-fashioned, eight-wheeled,
dirt-dragging sleeper, blind to their own interest and dead to the
world.'"
"All aboard," cried Patsy, and the Denver Limited left Chicago just ten
minutes late. The moment they had passed beyond the shed the storm swept
down from the Northwest and plastered the wet snow against the windows.
Slowly they worked their way out of the crowded city, over railway
crossings, between guarded gates, and left the lights of Chicago behind
them. The scores of passengers behind the double-glassed windows chatted
or perused the evening papers.
Nearly all the male members of the English party had crowded into the
smoking-rooms of the sleepers to enjoy their pipes. Patsy, after working
the train, sat down to visit with the Morans. The old engineer had been
hurt in a wreck and the company had generously given him a two months'
leave of absence, with transportation and full pay, and he was going to
spend the time in Southern California. The officials were beginning to
share the opinion of Mr. Watchem, the famous detective who had declared,
when Moran was in prison, that he ought to be wearing a medal instead of
handcuffs. He had battled, single-handed and alone, with a desperado who
was all fenced about with firearms, saved the company's property and, it
might be, the lives of passengers. Later he had taken the dynamite from
the engine to prevent its exploding, wrecking the machine and killing
the crew. And rather than inform upon the wretch who had committed the
crime he had gone to prison, and had borne disgrace.
With the exception of Patsy, Moran, and his wife, none of the passengers
gave a thought to the "fellows up ahead." Before leaving Chicago Guerin
had advised the youthful fireman to stretch a piece of bell-rope from
the cab to the tank to prevent him from falling out through the gangway,
for he intended to make up the ten minutes if it were in the machine.
The storm had increased so that the rail had passed the slippery stage,
for it is only a damp rail that is greasy. A very wet rail is almost as
good as a dry one, and Blackwings was picking her train up beautifully.
This was the engine upon which Guerin had made his maiden trip as
fireman, and the thought of that dreadful night saddened him. Here was
where Cowels sat when he showed him the cruel message. Here in this very
window he had held him, and there was the identical arm-rest over which
hung the body of the dead engineer. And this was his boy. How the years
fly! He looked at the boy, and the boy was looking at him with his big,
sad eyes. The furnace door was ajar, and the cab was as light as day.
Guerin had always felt that in some vague way he was responsible for
Cowels's death, and now the boy's gaze made him uncomfortable. Already
the snow had banked against the windows on his side and closed them. He
crossed over to the fireman's side, and looked ahead. The headlight was
almost covered, but they were making good time. He guessed, from the
vibration that marked the revolutions of the big drivers, that she must
be making fifty miles an hour. Now she began to roll, and her bell began
to toll, like a distant church-bell tolling for the dead, and he crossed
back to his own side. Both Moran and Patsy were pleased for they knew
the great engine was doing her work. "When one of these heavy sleepers
stops swinging," said Patsy, "and just seems to stand still and shiver,
she's going; and when she begins to slam her flanges up against the
rail, first one side and then the other, she has passed a sixty-mile
gait, and that's what this car is doing now."
Mrs. Moran said good-night, and disappeared behind the silken curtain of
"lower six," where her little girl was already sound asleep. Only a few
men remained in the smoking-rooms, and they were mostly English.
Steam began to flutter from the dome above the back of Blackwings. The
fireman left the door on the latch to keep her cool and save the water;
the engineer opened the injector a little wider to save the steam; the
fireman closed the door again to keep her hot; and that's the way men
watch each other on an engine, to save a drop of water or an ounce of
steam, and that's the best trick of the trade.
Guerin looked out at the fireman's window again. The headlight was now
entirely snowed in and the big black machine was poking her nose into
the night at the rate of a mile a minute.
"My God! how she rolls," said Guerin, going back to his place again. Of
a sudden she began to quicken her pace, as though the train had parted.
She might be slipping--he opened the sand lever. No, she was holding the
rail, and then he knew that they had tipped over Zero Hill. He cut her
back a notch, but allowed the throttle to remain wide open. Bennie saw
the move and left the door ajar again. He knew where they were and
wondered that Guerin did not ease off a bit, but he had been taught by
Moran to fire and leave the rest to the engineer. Guerin glanced at his
watch. He was one minute over-due at Zero Junction, a mile away. At the
end of another minute he would have put that station behind him, less
than two minutes late. He was making a record for himself. He was
demonstrating that it is the daring young driver who has the sand to go
up against the darkness as fast as wheels can whirl. He wished the snow
was off the headlight. He knew the danger of slamming a train through
stations without a ray of light to warn switchmen and others, but he
could not bring himself to send the boy out to the front end in that
storm the way she was rolling. And she did roll; and with each roll the
bell tolled! tolled!! like a church bell tolling for the dead. The snow
muffled the rail, and the cry of the whistle would not go twenty rods
against that storm; and twenty rods, when you're making a mile and a
half in a minute, gives barely time to cross yourself.
About the time they tipped over the hill the night yard master came from
the telegraph office, down at the junction, and twirled a white light at
a switch engine that stood on a spur with her nose against an empty
express car. "Back up," he shouted: "and kick that car in on the house
track."
"The Limited's due in a minute," said the switch engineer, turning the
gauge lamp upon his watch.
"Well, you're runnin' the engine--I'm runnin' the yard," said the
official, giving his lamp another whirl, and the engine with the express
car backed away. The yard master unbent sufficiently to say to the
switchman on the engine that the Limited was ten minutes late, adding,
that she would probably be fifteen at the junction, for it was storming
all along the line. The snow had packed in about the switch-bridle and
made it hard to move, but finally, with the help of the fireman, the
switch was turned, and the yard engine stood on the main track. The
engineer glanced over his shoulder, but there was nothing behind him
save the storm-swept night. Suddenly he felt the earth tremble, and,
filled with indescribable horror, he pulled the whistle open and leaped
through the window. The cry of the yard engine was answered by a wild
shriek from Blackwings. Guerin closed the throttle, put on the air and
opened the sand-valves. The sound of that whistle, blown back over the
train, fell upon the ears of Patsy and the two dead-heads, and filled
them with fear. A second later they felt the clamp of brake-shoes
applied with full force; felt the grinding of sand beneath the wheels,
and knew that something was wrong. The old engineer tore the curtains
back from "lower six," and spread out his arms, placing one foot against
the foot of the berth, and threw himself on top of the two sleepers.
Patsy and the Philosopher braced themselves against the seat in front of
them, and waited the shock. Bennie heard the whistle, too, and went out
into the night, not knowing where or how he would light. Young Guerin
had no time to jump. He had work to do. His left hand fell from the
whistle-rope to the air-brake, and it was applied even while his right
hand shoved the throttle home, and opened the sand-valves--and then the
crash came. Being higher built, Blackwings shot right over the top of
the yard engine, turned end for end, and lay with her pilot under the
mail car, which was telescoped into the express car. The balance of the
train, surging, straining, and trembling, came to a stop, with all
wheels on the rail, thanks to the faithful driver, and the open
sand-pipes. The train had scarcely stopped when the conductor and the
two dead-heads were at the engine, searching, amid the roar of escaping
steam, for the engine crew. A moment later Bennie came limping in from a
neighboring field where he had been wallowing in a snow-drift. The
operator, rushing from the station, stumbled over the body of a man. It
was Guerin. When the engine turned over he had been hurled from the cab
and slammed up against the depot, fifty feet away. The rescuers,
searching about the wreck, shouted and called to the occupants of the
mail car, but the wail of the wounded engine drowned their voices. In a
little while both men were rescued almost unhurt. Now all the employees
and many passengers gathered about the engineer. The station master held
Guerin's head upon his knee, while Moran made a hasty examination of his
hurt. There was scarcely a bone in his body that was not broken, but he
was still alive. He opened his eyes slowly, and looked about. "I'm
cold!" he said distinctly. Patsy held his white light close to the face
of the wounded man. His eyes seemed now to be fixed upon something far
away. "Mercy, but I'm cold!" he said pathetically. Now all the women
were weeping, and there were tears in the eyes of most of the men.
"Raise him up a little," said Moran. "It's getting dark," said the dying
man, "Oh, _so_ dark! It must be the snow--" and he closed his eyes
again--"snow--on--the headlight."