McGUIRE LEARNS TELEGRAPHY
OMAHA hung out the first flag on young McGuire as he hurried westward
in the wake of the Star of Empire. Looking far into the future he saw
the necessity of learning the language of the wire that had just been
stretched across the plains. There were schools of telegraphy, but he
chose the office, and, having shown good letters and a disposition to
work, he was given employment, or rather an opportunity to learn the
business.
Being accustomed to office work he soon fitted in, and made friends
with all the operators, which helped him greatly. The present General
Manager of the great line that at that time had just been opened to
the Rocky Mountains, it is said, was one of the old employees who
gave aid and encouragement to the young railroader: and the venerable
President of the Gould system in the West recalls with pride that Tom
McGuire was once an operator in his office at Omaha. To be sure there
are many, many more who rocked the cradle of our hero, but of these
above mentioned we know. The successful railway man is often amazed at
the number of officials who “made him,” just as the great writer is
constantly crossing the trail of the man who “discovered” him.
When McGuire had mastered the key he was given a station. He was
duly appointed station-master, ticket agent, operator, yardmaster,
head switchman, and superintendent of the windmill and water tank at
Plainfield, far out on the plains.
Carefully and tenderly the superintendent of telegraph broke the news
to the young man that he would have to sleep in the depot, and would,
until some enterprising caterer opened a hotel, be obliged to do his
own cooking. The depot had “filled” walls, the superintendent said, so
there would be little danger. Upon inquiry, the young man learned that
the station was built of boards, outside and inside, with four inches
of sand between them.
“What’s that for?” asked McGuire.
“Oh, to keep out the cold and--things. But you must not rely wholly
upon that. You must work and sleep in your six-shooters and keep your
rifle in easy reach, day and night.”
McGuire believed, until it was too late to back out of an ugly job,
that the superintendent of telegraph was only having fun with him.
Three days later, when the west-bound passenger train stopped at
Plainfield, the new station agent stepped off. The express messenger
kicked off a bundle of bedding and a few boxes of supplies, some flour
and bacon, and a small cook stove.
McGuire cast one sweeping glance over Plainfield, and turning to the
brakeman, asked: “Where’s the station?”
For answer the brakeman gave the operator a withering look, and then
putting his gloved hand upon the little board shanty that stood beside
the track, said: “Johnny, you mus’ be goin’ bline! here’s yer station,
see? right here.”
At that moment the train pulled out, and when the station agent had
glanced up and down the track and out over the plain on either side,
he realized that the brakeman had told the truth, for, if we except
the windmill and the water tank, this was the only “improvement” at
Plainfield.
Down the track he could see the rear end of the departing train,
contracting and sinking nearer and nearer to earth. Faint and far away
came the roar of wheels, and even as he looked, the last car dropped
below the line of the horizon, the sound ceased, and he listened for
other sounds, but there were none. He looked longingly to see some
living thing, but there was neither bird nor beast in sight. He glanced
along the level plain that lay cold and gray at the end of autumn, but
there was not a living, moving thing upon the earth, not even a snake
or horned toad. A timid man would have been helpless with fear, but
young McGuire was one of those rare beings who never knew that feeling
in the least. What impressed him now was the unutterable dreariness
of the place. His whole being was filled with a sense of loneliness,
hitherto unknown to him. Seated upon one of the boxes, he was gazing at
the ground, when, to his great relief, a little brown animal with dark
stripes down its back came from under the shanty, sat on the end of a
tie, and looked at him. It was no larger than a small rat, but it lived
and moved, and it was welcome. Now, if this thing could live in this
desert alone, a man ought to exist, and the operator took heart.
Fishing a key from his pocket that had a tag upon which was written
“Plainfield,” he unlocked the big padlock and pushed the door open.
As he did so he noticed that the door, which was also “filled,” and
thick like the door of a refrigerator car, was full of holes. Walking
’round the house he found that the outer walls were perforated. The
holes, he reasoned, must have been made by things. He remembered that
the superintendent of telegraph had said that the sand was put between
the walls “to keep out the cold--and things.” Coming round to the door
again he went in. The place had been occupied before. There was a
chair and a table and some twisted wire, but the telegraph instrument
had been taken away. A small coal stove, red with rust, stood on the
floor. The floor was also rusty. No, it was not rust; it was blood.
So the agent, too, had been taken away. McGuire examined the walls,
and noticed with a feeling of satisfaction that none of the things had
penetrated the inner boards.
In a low lean-to he found fuel, and concluded to unpack and make the
best of the hard lay-out, for McGuire was not a quitter. With a rusty
hatchet that he had unearthed in the shed he began opening his freight.
The first long box contained a rifle, two six-shooters, and many rounds
of ammunition. Another held sugar and coffee, and from a third he got
a neat medicine chest that contained cotton bandages and liniment.
Scenting the biscuits and bacon, the little brown squirrel came nosing
’round the freight, and the agent, appreciating its company, gave it
bits of cracker, and gained a companion. The first work of the operator
was to examine his fire-arms and load them. He was not an expert with a
rifle, but he had been three winters in St. Louis, and he reasoned that
a man who could hit a snipe on the wing with a shot-gun ought to be
able to hit a Sioux on his door-sill with a six-shooter.
When he had carried all his belongings into the shanty and the shed,
and had spread his bedding upon the hard board bunk, he sat down upon
an empty box to think. The sun, big and red, was burning down the west
at the end of a short squaw-summer day. Out of the east the shades of
night came creeping across the sea of sage-brush, and the operator
turned to contemplate the glory of the sunset. When the red disc was
cut in half by the line of the horizon, the lone man fixed his eyes
upon it and held them there. Far out on the plain, a long, lean animal,
that looked to be part sheep and the rest dog, limped across the face
of the falling sun, and immediately disappeared in the gloaming.
The operator entered the shanty, and in the fading light tried to
connect his instrument to the broken wire that was upon the pine table.
On the morrow a man would come from Kearney and fix it for him; but
McGuire was lonely. If he could talk to Omaha, two or three hundred
miles away, the operator there would be company for him. He worked
patiently until it was dark, and then lighted his lamp. He had been
so interested in the wire that he had forgotten to cook supper. He
made coffee and ate some crackers and a short roll of indefinite meat.
Presently he heard the roar of an approaching train. He opened the
door. The rails were clicking as though they were out in a hail-storm.
Now they began to sing, and a moment later the fast mail crashed by
and showed her tail lights to the agent at Plainfield. It was eleven
o’clock when the young operator got his instrument connected and in
shape to talk to Omaha. The next moment brought answer to his call,
and a great load was lifted from the young man’s mind. He no longer
felt lonely, for he could hear the wire talking to him, and it gave him
courage. He turned to the west and called up station after station,
and they all answered cheerily and gave him welcome over the wire. The
operators along the line knew him for a new man, but they knew he was
no coward or he would not be sleeping out in that manner. Presently,
when the wire was free, they began to jolly the new agent. Kearney
advised him to take off his boots when he went to bed, so as to avoid
the chance of dying with them on. North Platte told him to put his
hair outside the door, so the Sioux could get it without waking him.
“Oh, you’ll like the place,” said Lincoln; “good night.”
McGuire made no answer to these playful shots. The situation, from his
point of view, was far from funny.
Having barred the doors and placed his fire-arms within easy reach, the
agent at Plainfield rolled up in his blankets and tried to sleep. Far
out on the desert he heard a lone wolf howl. That, thought he, is the
shadow that crossed the sun.