A NIGHT OF DANGER
But the storm was not to be dismissed so lightly as Allan had
dismissed it. Among the houses of the town he was sheltered
somewhat, but, as he strode on westward, out into the open country,
it seemed to rage with redoubled violence. The wind swept across the
embankment along the river with a fury which threatened to blow him
away. He bent low before it, and, swinging his lantern from right to
left in unison with his steps, fought his way slowly onward, his
eyes on the track. Away down at his right he could hear the river
raging, and from instant to instant the lightning disclosed to him
glimpses of the storm-tossed water. Once he saw a ball of fire roll
down the track far ahead and finally leap off, shattering into a
thousand fragments.
The thunder crashed incessantly, and overhead he could see great
black clouds rolling across the sky. The rain fell in torrents, and,
driven before the wind, dashed into his face with a violence which
stung and blinded him whenever he raised his head. From time to
time, he was forced to face about, his back to the wind, and gasp
for breath. Once a gust of extra violence drove him to his knees,
but he struggled up again and on. He knew that he was not the only
one who was facing the tempest; he knew that up and down two hundred
miles of track others were fighting the same fight. They had left
warm homes, just as he had done, where preparations for Christmas
were going on; they had not held back from the call of duty, nor
would he.
He shut his teeth tight together and staggered on. A vision flashed
before him of the bright room he had just left; he could see Jack
sitting in his chair, and Mary putting the last touches to the
Christmas tree. He knew that they were talking of him, planning for
him, and a sudden wave of tenderness swept over him at the thought
of how these people had taken him into their hearts and given him
another home in place of the one he had lost. The new one, of
course, could never quite take the place of the old one; and yet he
was no longer the friendless, hungry, lonely boy who had approached
Jack Welsh so timidly that morning and asked for work. He had
friends to whom he could look for sympathy and encouragement; there
were hearts which loved him; he had a place in the world and was
doing useful work; and he hoped in time to prove himself worthy of a
higher place and competent to fill it. To-morrow would be a happy
Christmas!
So, as he fought his way on, it was with no despondent heart, but
with a bright and hopeful one, that cared nothing for the discomfort
of the storm. He was happy and at peace within, and no mere external
tempest could disturb him!
A little grove on either side the track, its trees roaring in the
tempest, gave him a moment’s shelter. Then he pushed on to the two
iron bridges which spanned the canal and the highroad just beyond
it. These he looked over carefully by the light of his lantern, and
assured himself that they were all right. Beyond the bridges was the
long grade which led to the deep cut through the spur of hill which
stretched across the track, and here the wind was howling with a
fury that threatened to sweep him off his feet. But he fought his
way on doggedly, step by step, head lowered, eyes on the track,
lantern swinging from side to side.
Then suddenly the wind ceased, though he could still hear it roaring
far overhead, and he looked up to see that he had gained the cover
of the cut. He stopped for breath, rejoicing that the hardest part
of his task was over. Beyond the cut was a sharp curve, the road was
carried on a high trestle over a deep ravine, and then onward along
the top of an embankment,—a “fill,” in railroad parlance,—and this
embankment marked the western limit of his trick. On his journey
home, he would have the wind at his back and could get along easily
and rapidly.
Cheered by this thought, he walked on through the cut, but, as he
turned the corner at the farther side, the wind struck him again
with terrific force. He staggered back for an instant against the
rock, when there came a great flash of lightning that silhouetted
before him every feature of the landscape. Yet, as the lightning
died, there remained photographed on his brain only one detail of
the picture,—before him stretched the trestle, and in the middle of
it four men were working with feverish energy tearing up a rail!
He leaned back against the rock, dazed at the sight, not
understanding for a moment what it meant. Then in a flash its
meaning dawned upon him—they were preparing to wreck a train. But
what train? It must be nearly eleven o’clock—no train was due for an
hour or more—yes, there was—the pay-car, hurrying from Cincinnati
with the Christmas money for the men. It was the pay-car they were
after. But the pay-car was always crowded with armed men—men armed
not merely with revolvers, but with Winchester repeaters. Yet, let
the car crash over that trestle fifty feet upon the rocks below, and
how many of its occupants would be living to defend themselves?
Allan sank back among the rocks trembling, realizing that in some
way he must save the train. His first act was to open his lantern
and extinguish it, lest it betray him. Then he tried quickly to
think out a plan of action. He must get across the trestle in order
to flag the train—but how could he get across it? And of a sudden
his heart stood still as two vague forms loomed up before him. They
stopped for a moment in the shelter of the wall.
“It was just about here,” said a rough voice he seemed to recognize.
“I caught a glint of a red light an’ then it went out. I was
watchin’ fer the track-walker, y’ know, an’ I was sure that was
him.”
“Flash o’ lightnin’, most likely,” came in a hoarse undertone from
another.
Allan heard the newcomers grope about, as he cowered close to the
rock, his heart beating fiercely as he expected each moment to feel
a hand upon him.
“Y’ see they ain’t nobody here,” said the first speaker, at last.
“Yes,” assented the other, uncertainly. “But he’s about due, if he’s
comin’.”
“I dunno,” protested the other. “Y’d better not bank on that.”
“I ain’t a-bankin’ on it!” retorted his companion, impatiently.
“You’re goin’ t’ keep a lookout, ain’t you? Now I’ll go on back an’
you stay right here. You kin see a long stretch down th’ track from
here, so they can’t surprise us. If they’s more’n one, warn
us,—maybe they’ve put on a double guard t’-night,—but, if they’s
only one, wait here behind this rock, an’ when he comes past, do fer
him—’specially if it’s Welsh ’r th’ kid. It’s about time we was
gittin’ even!”
Allan’s heart leaped. He knew the voice now—there was no
mistaking—it was Nolan’s!
Nolan started back toward the trestle through the storm and was lost
to sight instantly, while the sentry sat down upon a rock to watch
the track, whistling to himself, as though train-wrecking were the
most ordinary thing in the world. But Allan was thinking only of one
thing—he must get past that man on the rock, he must cross the
ravine, he must flag the train.
That was his duty lying clear before him. Danger? Yes,—but which of
his comrades would stop to think of that? Yet he must be
careful,—not for his own sake, but for the sake of those who were
speeding toward this peril. He must run no risk of failure, for
their lives depended upon him—upon his coolness, his foresight, his
quickness. And whatever he did must be done at once. He gripped his
hands together to still their trembling. Come,—this was no time for
weakness. He must prove himself a man! He must prove himself worthy
the service of the road!
He could not climb the well-nigh perpendicular side of the cut; to
go back and work his way over the hill would require too much
time—and there was not a moment to be lost. The only thing to do,
then, was to go forward. He drew a deep breath; then he tucked his
lantern snugly under his left arm, grasped his club firmly, and
moved forward cautiously, hugging the side of the cut, his eyes on
the sentry.
Once he stumbled heavily over some obstruction, but the storm
covered the noise, and the sentry made no sign that he had heard,
but sat twirling a heavy stick and looking down the track. Hope
began to revive in the boy’s breast; perhaps he might be able to
steal past unseen. Lower and lower he crouched; slow and more slowly
he moved; he was almost past—almost past—
Then, of a sudden, a broad flash of lightning flared down into the
cut and revealed them to each other.
“Reddy!” cried the boy. “Reddy!”
The sentry sprang toward him with uplifted club, his face distorted
with rage.
“Don’t you know me, Reddy?” cried Allan, springing back to avoid the
blow.
“Sure Oi knows y’!” shouted the madman, savagely, coming on. “An’
Oi’m a-goin’ t’ do fer y’, like Dan told me to. He told me y’re all
in th’ plot ag’in me!”
“It’s a lie, Reddy!” protested Allan, violently. “It’s a lie!”
Reddy paused for an instant.
“A loi, is it?” he repeated. “Wasn’t it you as told on me fer
breakin’ that link motion?”
“Yes,” admitted the boy; “but—”
[Illustration: “HE STEPPED TO ONE SIDE, AND ... BROUGHT DOWN HIS CLUB
UPON THE OTHER’S HEAD”]
Reddy waited to hear no more.
“Oi knowed it!” he yelled. “Oi knowed it! Oi’ll show you! Oi’ll show
you, y’ dirty spy! Don’t try t’ run—it’s no use!”
And he came charging down upon Allan, his club swinging savagely.
But Allan was thinking not in the least of running. Instead, he
stood his ground, his teeth clenched, his eyes alert, his club
ready. He was not in the least excited; now, indeed, he found an
instant in which to wonder at his calmness. Then Reddy was upon him
and struck at him savagely. He stepped to one side, and, putting all
his force into the blow,—oh, how he hated to do it!—brought down his
club upon the other’s head.