AT Buckhorn Junction, Joe Durks, who combined the duties of telegraph
operator with those of baggage-master and ticket-agent, was at his table
receiving a message when Dan Oakley walked into the office. He had just
stepped from the Chicago express.
“What's the latest word from Antioch, Joe?” he asked, hurriedly.
“How are you, Mr. Oakley? I got Antioch now.”
“What do they say?”
“They are asking help.”
The metallic clicking of the instrument before him ceased abruptly.
“What's wrong, anyhow?” He pushed back his chair and came slowly to his
feet His finger was still on the key. He tried again to call up Antioch.
“They are cut off. I guess the wire is down.”
The two men stared at each other in silence.
Dan's face was white in the murky, smoky twilight that filled the room.
Durks looked anxious--the limit of his emotional capacity. He was a
lank, colorless youth, with pale yellow tobacco stains about the corners
of his mouth, and a large nose, which was superior to its surroundings.
Oakley broke silence with:
“What's gone through to-day, Joe?”
“Nothing's gone through on the B. & A. There's nothing to send from this
end of the line,” the operator answered, nervously.
“What went through yesterday?”
“Nothing yesterday, either.”
“Where is No. 7?”
“It's down at Harrison, Mr. Oakley.”
“And No. 9?”
“It's at Harrison, too.”
“Do you know what they are doing at Harrison?” demanded Oakley, angrily.
It seemed criminal negligence that no apparent effort had as yet been
made to reach Antioch.
“I don't,” said Durks, laconically, biting his nails. “I suppose they
are waiting for the fire to burn out.”
“Why don't you know?” persisted Dan, tartly. His displeasure moved the
operator to a fuller explanation.
“It was cut off yesterday morning. The last word I got was that No.
7 was on a siding there, and that No. 9, which started at 8.15 for
Antioch, had had to push back. The fire was in between Antioch and
Harrison, on both sides of the track, and blazing to beat hell.”
Having reached this verbal height, he relapsed into comparative
indifference.
“Where's the freight?” questioned Oakley.
“The last I heard it was trying to make Parker's Run.”
“When was that?”
“That was yesterday morning, too. It had come up that far from Antioch
the day before to haul out four carloads of ties. Holt gave the order.
It is still there, for all I know--that is, if it ain't burned or
ditched. I sent down the extra men from the yards here to help finish
loading the cars. I had Holt's order for it, and supposed he knew
what was wanted. They ain't come back, but they got there ahead of the
freight all right.”
Oakley felt this care for a few hundred dollars' worth of property
to have been unnecessary, in view of the graver peril that threatened
Antioch. Still, it was not Durks's fault. It was Holt who was to blame.
He had probably lost his head in the general alarm and excitement.
While Harrison might be menaced by the fire, it was in a measure
protected by the very nature of its surroundings. But with Antioch,
where there was nothing to stay the progress of the flames, the case
was different. With a north wind blowing, they could sweep over the town
unhindered.
“Yesterday the wind shifted a bit to the west, and for a while they
thought Antioch was out of danger,” said Durks, who saw what was in
Oakley's mind.
“What have you heard from the other towns?”
“They're deserted. Everybody's gone to Antioch or Harrison. There was
plenty of time for that, and when No. 7 made her last run, I wired ahead
that it was the only train we could send out.”
“How did you get the extra men to Parker's Rim?”
“Baker took 'em there on the switch engine. I sent him down again this
morning to see what was the matter with the freight, but he only went to
the ten-mile fill and come back. He said he couldn't go any farther. I
guess he wasn't so very keen to try. He said he hadn't the money put by
for his funeral expenses.”
“They told me up above that the M. & W. had hauled a relief train for
Antioch. What has been done with it? Have you made an effort to get it
through?”
Durks looked distressed. Within the last three days flights of
inspiration and judgment had been demanded of him such as he hoped
would never be required again. And for forty-eight hours he had been
comforting himself with the thought that about everything on wheels
owned by the Huckleberry was at the western terminus of the road.
“It ain't much of a relief train, Mr. Oakley. Two cars, loaded with
fire-engines and a lot of old hose. They are on the siding now.”
“Were any men sent here with the relief train?” questioned Oakley.
“No; Antioch just wanted hose and engines. The water's played out, and
they got to depend on the river if the fire strikes the town. They're in
pretty bad shape, with nothing but one old hand-engine. You see, their
water-mains are about empty and their hose-carts ain't worth a damn.”
Oakley turned on his heel and strode from the office. The operator
followed him. As they gained the platform Dan paused. The very air was
heavy with smoke. The sun was sinking behind a blue film. Its dull disk
was the color of copper. He wondered if the same sombre darkness was
settling down on Antioch. The element of danger seemed very real and
present. To Dan this danger centred about Constance Emory. He quite
overlooked the fact that there were several thousand other people in
Antioch. Durks, at his side, rubbed the sandy bristles on his chin with
the back of his hand, and tried to believe he had thought of everything
and had done everything there was to do.
The woods were on fire all about the Junction, but the town itself was
in no especial danger, as cultivated fields intervened to shut away the
flames. In these fields Dan could see men and women busy at work tearing
down fences. On a hillside a mile off a barn was blazing.
“There goes Warrick's barn,” remarked the operator.
“What was the last word from Antioch? Do you remember exactly what was
said?” asked Dan.
“The message was that a strong north wind was blowing, and that the town
was pretty certain to burn unless the engines and hose reached there
tonight; but they have been saying that for two days, and the wind's
always changed at the right moment and driven the fire back.”
Dan glanced along the track, and saw the relief train, consisting of an
engine, tender, and two flatcars, loaded with hose and fire-engines, on
one of the sidings. He turned on Durks with an angry scowl.
“Why haven't you tried to start that train through? It's ready.”
“No one is here to go with it, Mr. Oakley. I was sort of counting on the
freight crew for the job.”
“Where's Baker?”
“He went home on the 6. 10. He lives up at Car-son, you know.”
This was the first stop on the M. & W. east of Buckhom.
“Why did you let him leave? Great God, man! Do you mean to say that he's
been loafing around here all day with his hands in his pockets? He'll
never pull another throttle for the Huckleberry!”
Durks did not attempt to reply to this explosion of wrath.
“Who made up the train?” demanded Dan.
“Baker did. Him and his fireman. I didn't know but the freight might
come up from Parker's Run, and I wanted to be fixed for 'em. I couldn't
do a thing with Baker. I told him his orders were to try and reach
Antioch with the relief train, but he said he didn't care a damn who
gave the order, he wasn't going to risk his life.”
But Dan had lost interest in Baker.
“Look here,” he cried. “You must get a fireman for me, and I'll take out
the train myself.”
He wondered why he had not thought of this before.
“I guess I'll manage to reach Antioch,” he added, as he ran across to
the siding and swung himself into the cab.
A faded blue blouse and a pair of greasy overalls were lying on the seat
in the cab. He removed his coat and vest and put them on. Durks, who had
followed him, climbed up on the steps.
“You'll have to run slow, Mr. Oakley, because it's likely the heat has
spread the rails, if it ain't twisted them loose from the ties,” he
volunteered. For answer Oakley thrust a shovel into his hands.
“Here, throw in some coal,” he ordered, opening the furnace door.
Durks turned a sickly, mottled white.
“I can't leave,” he gasped.
“You idiot. You don't suppose I'd take you from your post. What I want
you to do is to help me get up steam.”
The operator attacked the coal on the tender vigorously. He felt an
immense sense of comfort.
Dan's railroad experience covered nearly every branch. So it chanced
that he had fired for a year prior to taking an office position. Indeed,
his first ambition had been to be an engineer. It was now quite dark,
and, the fires being raked down, he lit a torch and inspected his engine
with a comprehensive eye. Next he probed a two-foot oiler into the rods
and bearings and filled the cups. He found a certain pleasure in the
fact that the lore of the craft to which he had once aspired was still
fresh in his mind.
“Baker keeps her in apple-pie order, Joe,” he observed, approvingly. The
operator nodded.
“He's always tinkering.”
“Well, he's done tinkering for us, unless I land in a ditch to-night,
with the tender on top of me.”
A purring sound issued from the squat throat of the engine. It was
sending aloft wreaths of light gray smoke and softly spitting red-hot
cinders.
Dan climbed upon the tender and inspected the tank. Last of all he went
forward and lit the headlight, and his preparations were complete. He
jumped down from the cab, and stood beside Joe on the platform.
“Now,” he said, cheerfully, “where's that fireman, Joe?”
“He's gone home, Mr. Oakley. He lives at Car-son, too, same as Baker,”
faltered the operator.
“Then there's another man whose services we won't require in future.
We'll have to find some one else.”
“I don't think you can,” ventured Durks, reluctantly. Instinct told him
that this opinion would not tend to increase his popularity with Oakley.
“Why not?”
“They just won't want to go.”
“Do you mean to tell me that they will allow Antioch to burn and not lift
a hand to save the town?” he demanded, sternly.
He couldn't believe it.
“Well, you see, there won't any one here want to get killed; and they
will think they got enough trouble of their own to keep them home.”
“We can go up-town and see if we can't find a man who thinks of more
than his own skin,” said Dan.
“Oh, yes, we can try,” agreed Durks, apathetically, but his tone implied
an unshaken conviction that the search would prove a fruitless one.
“Can't you think of any one who would like to make the trip?” Durks was
thoughtful. He thanked his lucky stars that the M. & W. paid half his
salary. At last he said:
“No, I can't, Mr. Oakley.”
There was a sound like the crunching of cinders underfoot on the other
side of the freight car near where they were standing, but neither Durks
nor Oakley heard it. The operator's jaws worked steadily in quiet animal
enjoyment of their task. He was still canvassing the Junction's adult
male population for the individual to whom life had become sufficiently
burdensome for Oakley's purpose. Dan was gazing down the track at the
red blur in the sky. Back of that ruddy glow, in the path of the flames,
lay Antioch. The wind was in the north. He was thinking, as he had many
times in the last hour, of Constance and the Emorys. In the face of the
danger that threatened he even had a friendly feeling for the rest of
Antioch. It had been decent and kindly in its fashion until Ryder set to
work to ruin him.
He knew he might ride into Antioch on his engine none the worse for the
trip, except for a few bums, but there was the possibility of a more
tragic ending. Still, whatever the result, he would have done his full
part.
He faced Durks again.
“Any man who knows enough to shovel coal will do,” he said.
“But no one will want to take such long chances, Mr. Oakley. Baker said
it was just plain suicide.”
“Hell!” and Dan swore like a brakeman out of temper, in the bad,
thoughtless manner of his youth.
At the same moment a heavy, slouching figure emerged from the shadow at
the opposite end of the freight car, and came hesitatingly towards the
two men. Then a voice said, in gentle admonition:
“Don't swear so, Dannie. It ain't right. I'll go with you.”
It was his father.