THE HEROES OF THE IRON HORSE.
Honor to Whom Honor is Due--A Class of Men Not Always Thoroughly
Appreciated at their Worth--An Amateur's Ride on a Flying
Locomotive--From Twelve Miles an Hour to Six Times that Speed--The
Signal Tower and the Men who Work in it--Stealing a Train--A Race with
Steam--Stones about Bewitched Locomotives and Providential Escapes.
No one who has not given the matter special consideration has the
remotest idea of the magnitude and importance of the railroad system of
the United States. Nor has any one who has not studied the statistics
bearing on the question the faintest conception of the cost of the roads
built and in operation. The cost in dollars and cents for a mile of
track has been ascertained to a fractional point. Expert accountants
have figured out to a hundredth part of a cent the cost of hauling a
passenger or a ton of merchandise any given distance. There are even
tables in existence showing the actual expense incurred in stopping a
train, while such details as the necessary outlay in wages, fuel,
repairs, etc., have received the attention which the magnitude of the
interests involved deserves.
But the cost in human life and suffering of the great railroad system of
the United States is quite another matter, and one that does not come
within the scope of the calculations of accountants, expert or
otherwise. It has been said repeatedly that a man is safer in a railroad
train than on the streets. In other words, the percentage of death and
serious injury is said by statisticians to be lower among men habitually
traveling than among people who are classed as stay-at-homes, and who
seldom take a railroad journey. But while this is doubtless correct, so
far as passengers are concerned, the rule does not apply to railroad
employes, and those who by their never-wavering care and energy protect
the life and limbs of passengers, and make railroad traveling safe as
well as comfortable.
A celebrated divine, when preaching on the subject of faith, once took a
railroad journey for an illustration. As he pointed out, with much
eloquence and force, there could be no more realistic personification of
faith than the man who peacefully lay down to sleep at night in his
berth of a Pullman car, relying implicitly upon the railroad men to
avert the thousands of dangers which had to be encountered during the
still hours of the night.
Whenever there is a strike, a great deal is written about the men
employed in various capacities by railroads, and every misdeed is
exaggerated, and every indiscretion magnified into a crime. But very
little is said on the other side of the question. The men to whom
railroad travelers, and especially those who ride at night, commend
their safety, are worked to the full extent of their powers, and are
paid very small wages, when the nature of their duties and the hours
they have to make are taken into consideration.
The commendation of these men takes the form of deeds, rather than
words, and while so few have ever stopped to consider the loyalty and
devotion of the poorly paid and hard-worked railroad man, every traveler
who enters a railroad car pays silent tribute to their reliability. The
passenger, as he lounges comfortably in a luxurious seat, or sleeps
peacefully in his state-room, thinks nothing of the anxiety and
annoyances of the men in charge of the train, or of those who are
responsible for the track being kept clear, and proper orders being
given to the engineer.
This official is a man of many hardships and dangers. To him is
entrusted daily the lives of hundreds of human beings. He knows not how
many, but he knows that the slightest error on his part will hurl
perhaps ten, perhaps twenty, and perhaps fifty human beings into
eternity, besides maiming for life two or three times as many more. He
knows, too, that not only is he responsible for the safety of the men,
women and children who are riding behind him, but also for the occupants
of other trains on the same track. He knows exactly where he must run on
to a side track to allow the express in the other direction to pass, and
he knows just where he must slacken speed in order to get safely around
a dangerous curve, or cross a bridge which is undergoing repairs, or
which is not quite as substantial as it would be if he, instead of
millionaire railroad directors, had the control of the bridge
construction and repair fund.
To catch an idea of the responsibility of a locomotive engineer, it is
necessary to ride a hundred miles or so in an engine. The author was
given this privilege on a bleak, frosty day, early last winter. He was
told by the officials that he took the ride at his own risk, and as a
matter of personal favor, and that he must not interfere with the
engineer or fireman in the execution of their duties. The guest was
received kindly by both engineer and fireman, and was given a seat
whence he could see along expanse of track over which the locomotive had
to draw the train of cars. To a novice the sensation of a first ride on
a locomotive is a very singular one, and to say that there is no tinge
of fear intermingled with the excitement and pleasure, would be to make
a statement not borne out by fact. On the occasion referred to, the
train was a special one, carrying a delegation half way across the
continent. It was about fifteen minutes late, and in order to make the
run to the next division point it was necessary to maintain an average
speed of more than forty-five miles an hour. As is almost always the
case, when there is need for exceptional hurry, all sorts of trifling
delays occurred, and several precious minutes were wasted before a start
could be made.
Finally, the conductor gives the necessary word, the engineer pulls the
lever, and the irregular passenger finds for the first time in his life
how much more difficult it is to start a locomotive than he ever
imagined.
First, there is a distinct tremble on the huge locomotive. Then there
comes a loud hiss, with a heavy escape of steam, as the huge pistons tug
and pull at the heavy wheels, which slip round and round and fail to
grip the rail. Then, as gradually scientific power overcomes brute
force, there is a forward motion of a scarcely perceptible character.
Then, as the sand-box is brought into requisition, the wheels distinctly
bite the rail, and, in the words of the race-track, "They're off." For a
few seconds progress is very slow, indeed. Then the good work of the
trusted locomotive becomes apparent, and before we are well out of the
yards quite a good speed is being obtained. The fireman is busy ringing
the bell, and the engineer, from time to time, adds to the warning noise
by one of those indescribable toots made only by a steam engine.
Now we are outside the city limits, and the train is making excellent
time. We take out our watch and carefully time the speed between two
mile-posts, to ascertain that about seventy seconds were occupied in
covering the distance. Regardless of our instructions we mention this
fact to the fireman, who has just commenced to throw a fresh supply of
coal on to the roaring fire, adding a word of congratulation.
"Why, that's nothing," he replies, laughing, "we are going up grade now.
Wait until we get along the level or go down grade, and we will show you
a mile away inside of sixty."
We are not particularly glad to hear this. Already the locomotive is
rocking a good deal more than is quite pleasant to the uninitiated, and
the contrast between the hard seat and the pleasant one at our disposal
in the Pullman car is becoming more and more obvious. Just as we are
wondering how it will be possible to preserve one's equilibrium while
going around a curve in the distance, a cow strays sheepishly on to the
track, apparently some 200 yards ahead. The engineer plays a tune with
his whistle, and the cow proceeds to trot down the track in front of us.
That singularly misnamed appendage, the cow-catcher, strikes her
amidships. She is thrown twenty feet in the air, and all that is left of
her rolls into the ditch by the side of the track.
For the moment we had forgotten George Stephenson's reply to the member
of the British Parliament, who asked him what would happen in the event
of a cow getting in front of one of the trains George was proposing to
run, if necessary powers could be obtained. His reply, which has long
since become historical, was that it would be very bad for the cow. We
remembered this, and agreed with the pioneer railroad man when we saw
the unfortunate bovine turn a quadruple somersault and terminate her
existence in less than a second. But a moment previously we had been
wondering what would happen when the inevitable collision took place.
The fireman observes that the occurrence has somewhat unnerved us, and
in a good-natured way assures us that a little thing of that kind
doesn't amount to anything. It is pretty bad, he says, when a bunch of
cows get on a track, and he remembers once, several years ago, having a
train stopped out in the Far West by a bunch of fat steers, which
blocked up the track. "But," he adds, by way of parenthesis, "that was
on a very poor road with a broken-down freight locomotive. If we had had
"87," with a full head of steam on, we could have got through all right,
even if we had to overload the market with beef."
Now the train rushes around a curve in one direction and now in another.
The engineer never relaxes his vigilance, and, although he affects to
make light of the responsibility, and assures his somewhat nervous
passenger that there is no danger of any kind, his actions do not bear
out his words. We are running special, a little ahead of the mid-day
express schedule, and at every station there are waiting passengers who
herald our approach with delight, and, gathering together their
packages, advance to the edge of the platform evidently supposing we are
going to stop for them. That we are to dash through the station at a
speed of fifty or sixty miles an hour, does not occur to them as a
remote possibility, and the looks of astonishment which greet us as we
rush past the platform are amusing. Finally, we reach a long stretch of
level track, where the rails are laid as straight as an arrow for
apparently several miles ahead.
"Now's your time, if you want to take a good mile," says the friendly
fireman.
We take his advice, and by aid of a stop watch, especially borrowed for
the occasion, we ascertain the fact that a mile is covered in fifty-two
seconds. The next mile is two seconds slower, but the speed is more than
maintained on the third mile. Reduced to ordinary speed figures, this
means that we are making something like seventy miles an hour, and doing
vastly better than was even anticipated. Our good work is, however,
interfered with by the sudden application of the air brakes and the
shutting off of steam as we approach a little station, where the signal
is against us. A change in train orders proves to be the cause of the
hindrance to our progress, and the engineer grumbles somewhat as he
finds he will have to wait at a station some twenty miles further on,
provided a train coming in the opposite direction is not on the side
track before he gets there. The execution of this order involves a delay
of five or ten minutes, but when we have the line clear again such good
time is made that we accomplish our task and pull into the depot, where
locomotives are to be changed, on time to the second.
Such is a ride on a locomotive in broad daylight. At night of course the
dangers and risks are increased ten-fold. The head-light pierces into
the inky darkness, and frequently exaggerates the size of objects on and
near the track. The slightest misunderstanding, the most trivial
misinterpretation of an order, the least negligence on the part of any
one connected with or employed by the road, may involve a wreck, to the
total destruction of the train and its passengers, and the engineer
feels every moment the full extent of his responsibilities and the
nature of the risks he runs.
These responsibilities are increased ten-fold by the great speed
necessary in these days of haste and hurry. Few of our great-grandfathers
lived to see steam applied as a motive power for locomotion. Most of our
grandparents remember the first train being run in this country. Many of
those who read these lines can recollect when a philosopher placed
himself on record that a speed of twenty miles was impossible, because,
even if machinery could be constructed to stand the wear and tear, the
motion would be so rapid that the train men and passengers would succumb
to apoplexy or some other terrible and fatal malady.
It is less than seventy years ago since the time that the so-called
crank, George Stephenson, ventured modestly to assert that his little
four-and-a-half-ton locomotive, "The Rocket," was actually capable of
whirling along one to two light carriages at the astounding velocity of
twelve miles an hour. He was laughed to scorn by the highly intelligent
British Parliamentary Committee engaged in the investigation of his new
method of land traveling. At the present day, with regularly scheduled
trains on many lines thundering across wide continents tirelessly hour
after hour, at the rate of a mile a minute, it is the deliberate
judgment of the most conservative students of railway science that the
ultimate limit of speed is still in the far distance, and that 100 miles
per hour will not be deemed an extraordinary rate of travel by the time
the first decade of the Twentieth Century shall have closed.
It is true that railroad schedules seldom call for mile-a-minute
traveling, but the engineer is called upon very frequently to go even
faster. The majority of people, even the most intelligent among those
who habitually travel, obtain their conceptions of speed from the
figures of the time-table, forgetting that in nearly every instance
considerable portions of the route must be traversed at much more than
the average speed required to cover the total distance in the schedule
time. There are very few, if any, of the fast express trains which do
not, on some part of each "run," reach or exceed a speed of a mile a
minute. Yet, by reason of superior roadway and well constructed cars,
the accelerated velocity is unnoticed; while running at from sixty to
seventy miles an hour the passenger calmly peruses his paper or book,
children play in the aisle, and a glass brim full of water may be
carried from one end to the other of the smoothly rolling coach without
the spilling of a drop. All the while the nerves of those in charge of
the train are kept at high tension, and, oblivious as the passengers may
be as to the danger, actual and imaginary, the risks incurred are never
for a moment lost sight of by the two men on the locomotive.
The man in the signal tower has an equal responsibility. In some
respects the burden upon his shoulders is even greater, because he has
the fate of perhaps a score of trains in his hands, with the lives of
hundreds of passengers. Now and then, when the wrong lever has been
pulled and a train is wrecked, we hear of a signal man sleeping at his
post, but few of us stop to think how many thousand times a day the
right lever is pulled, and how exceptional is the lapse from duty. There
are heroes of the sea, and there are heroes of the battle-field, but
there are ten times as many heroes who perform their deeds of heroism on
locomotives, in switch and signal towers, and in railroad yards. It may
not be fashionable to compare these savers of human life with those who
destroy life on the battle-field, but the valor and endurance of the
former is at least as conspicuous and meritorious as the daring and
suffering of the latter.
In "Scribner's Magazine" there recently appeared a most graphic
description of a two-storied, square signal tower at "Sumach Junction."
"This tower," says the contributor to the magazine named, "had two rows
of windows on all sides and stood at the intersection of branches. At
this point the trunk line resolved itself from four tracks into two, and
here the gravel track, which looked as if it had been laid by a palsied
contractor, left the main line and respectability behind, and hobbled
out of sight behind the signal station with an intoxicated air. Beneath
the tower, to the right hand, a double-tracked branch tapped a fertile
country beyond the sand hills. And beneath the signal tower, to the
left, a single-tracked branch, only a mile long, brought South Sumach,
one of those tiresome towns that manufacture on water-power, in touch
with the middle man. This petty branch (as if the case had been with
petty people), made more trouble than all the rest of the lines put
together. The signal man found this out.
"So Sumach Junction had its place in the world, and, perhaps, it was a
more important one than that of many a complacent and opulent suburb.
The heart of this little community did not center, as a thoughtless
person might suppose, in the church, or the commandery, or the grocery
store, or the school, but in the signal tower. It was the pulse of the
section. It was the life-blood of thousands of unconcerned travelers,
whose lives and happiness depended on the intelligent vigilance of three
men. These three took turns up there in the tower, locking and unlocking
switches and signals until one might expect them to faint for dizziness
and confusion. It was no uncommon thing in the signal tower, when one of
the three wanted a day off, for the other two to double up on
twelve-hour shifts. As long as the service was well performed, the
Superintendent asked no questions."
The story came to be written on account of the prolonged sickness of one
of the three, which compelled the remaining two to remain on duty until
their eyes were often dim, and their brain power exhausted. One of these
finally worked until nature overcame force of habit and reliability, and
a collision would have resulted but for the returning consciousness of
the overworked and thoroughly exhausted man.
While this hero of everyday life slept, or rather lost the power of
thought from extreme exhaustion, the heavy snow storm which was making
the night doubly dark had so blocked the machinery of the semaphore that
it refused to respond to the desperate efforts of the weary signal man,
who heard a freight train approaching, and knew that unless it was
flagged at once it would dash into the rear end of a passenger train,
which was standing in sight of the signal box, with its locomotive
disabled. Finally, abandoning the attempt to move the lever, he rushed
out into the night and forced his way through the snow in the direction
of the approaching train. He was in time to avert the collision that
appeared inevitable, but in his excitement overlooked his own danger,
and was knocked down and terribly injured by the train he flagged.
Within the last year the largest railroad station in the world, in the
yards of which there is an immense amount of traffic, and from whose
signal towers are worked switches and signals innumerable, has been
opened. This immense station is situated at St. Louis. It covers an area
of about twelve acres, and is larger than the two magnificent depots of
Philadelphia combined. The second largest railroad station in the world
is at Frankfort, Germany. The third in order of size is the Reading
Station at Philadelphia. The four next largest being the Pennsylvania
Depot at Philadelphia, St. Pancras Station in London, England, the
Pennsylvania Depot in Jersey City, and the Grand Central Depot in New
York City.
We have all heard of peculiar thefts from time to time, and the records
of stolen stoves and other heavy articles seem to show that few things
are sufficiently bulky to be absolutely secure from the peculator or
kleptomaniac. But to steal a train seems to the average mind an
impossibility, though under some conditions it is even easy. During the
crusade of the Commonwealers in 1894, more than one train was stolen.
All that was required was a sufficient force to overcome the train crew
at some small station or water tank, and one or two men who knew how to
turn on steam and keep up a fire.
History tells of a much more remarkable case of train stealing, with
events of startling bravery and hair-breadth escapes connected with it.
We refer to the great railroad raid in Georgia during the year 1862,
when a handful of intrepid heroes invaded a hostile country,
deliberately stole a locomotive, and came within an ace of getting it
safely delivered into the hands of their friends.
A monument, surmounted by the model of a locomotive, was erected four or
five years ago to commemorate an event without precedent and without
imitation. The story of the raid reads like fiction, but every incident
we record is one of fact. Every danger narrated was run. Every
difficulty was actually encountered, and the ultimate failure came about
exactly as stated.
Generals Grant and Buell were at the time marching towards Corinth,
Mississippi, where a junction was to be made. The Confederate troops
were concentrating at the same point, and there was immediate trouble
brewing. General Mitchell, who was in command of one of Buell's
divisions, had advanced as far as Huntsville, Alabama, and another
detachment had got within thirty miles of Chattanooga. It was deemed
advisable, and even necessary, to cut off the railway communication
between Chattanooga and the East and South, and James J. Andrews was
selected by General Buell for the task.
Andrews picked out twenty-four spirits like unto himself, who entered
the enemy's territory in ordinary Southern dress, and without any other
arms than revolvers.
Their purpose was to capture a train, burn the bridges on the northern
part of the Georgia State Railroad, and also on the East Tennessee
Railroad, where it approaches the Georgia State line, thus completely
isolating Chattanooga, which was then virtually ungarrisoned. These men
rendezvoused at Marietta, Georgia, more than 200 miles from the point of
departure, having (with the exception of five, who were captured en
route or belated) made their way thither in small detachments of three
and four. The railroad at Marietta was found to be crowded with trains,
and many soldiers were among the passengers.
After much reconnoitering, it was determined to capture a train at Big
Shanty, a few miles north of Marietta, and, purchasing tickets for
different stations along the line in the direction of Chattanooga, the
party, which included two engineers, reached Big Shanty.
While the conductor, the engineer, and most of the passengers were at
breakfast, the train was seized, and being properly manned, after the
uncoupling of the passenger cars, was started on its fierce race
northward. Think of the exploit--twenty men, with a hostile army about
them, setting out thus bravely on a long and difficult road crowded with
enemies.
Of course the theft of the train 'produced great consternation, but the
captors got away in safety, stopping frequently for the purpose of
tearing up the track, cutting telegraph wires, etc. Andrews informed the
people at the stations that he was an agent of General Beauregard,
running an impressed powder train through to Corinth, and generally this
silenced their doubts, though some acted suspiciously.
The first serious obstacle was met at Kingston, thirty miles on the
journey. Here the captors and their train were obliged to wait until
three trains south-bound passed by. For an hour and five minutes they
remained in this most critical position, sixteen men being shut up in
the box-car, personating Beauregard's ammunition. Just as the train got
away from Kingston two pursuers appeared, being Captain W. A. Fuller,
the conductor of the stolen train, and an officer who happened to be
aboard of it at the time it was run out from Big Shanty. Finding a
hand-car, they had manned it and pushed forward until they had found an
old locomotive standing with steam up on a side track, which they
immediately loaded with soldiers and hurried forward with flying wheels
in pursuit, until Kingston was reached, where they took the engine and a
car of one of the waiting trains, and with forty armed Confederates
continued the journey.
It was now nip and tuck, with one engine rushing wildly after another.
To wreck the pursuing train was the only tangible hope of the fugitives,
who stopped again and again in order to loosen a rail. Had they been
equipped with proper tools they could have done this easily, but as it
was, they simply lost precious time. Once they were almost overtaken by
the pursuing engine, and compelled to set out again at a terrible speed.
At one point at Adairsville, they narrowly escaped running into an
express train. Fuller, the conductor of the stolen train, and his
companions, being arrested by the obstructions of the track, left their
engine behind and started on foot, finally taking possession of the
express passed at Adairsville, and turning it back in pursuit.
When Calhoun was passed, the trains were within sight of each other. The
track was believed to be clear to Chattanooga, and if only the pursuing
train could be wrecked, the end would be gained. Again the lack of tools
hampered the daring little band. They made desperate effort to break a
rail, but the pursuers were upon them before they had accomplished it,
and Andrews hurried on his engine, dropping one car and then another,
which were picked up and pushed ahead, by the pursuers, to Resaca
Station.
Both engines were, at the time, at the highest rate of speed. Andrews at
last broke off the end of his last box car and dropped crossties on the
track as he ran. Several times he almost lifted a rail, but each time
the coming of the Confederates within rifle range compelled him to
desist.
A participant in the feat, in his narrative of the affair, published in
"Battles and Leaders of the Civil War," by the Century Company, says:
"Thus we sped on, mile after mile, in this fearful chase, around curves
and past stations in seemingly endless perspective. Whenever we lost
sight of the enemy beyond a curve, we hoped that some of our
obstructions had been effective in throwing him from the track, and that
we would see him no more; but at each long reach backward the smoke was
again seen, and the shrill whistle was like the scream of a bird of
prey. The time could not have been so very long, for the terrible speed
was rapidly devouring the distance, but with our nerves strained to the
highest tension, each minute seemed an hour. On several occasions the
escape of the enemy from wreck seemed little less than miraculous. At
one point a rail was placed across the track so skillfully on the curve,
that it was not seen till the train ran upon it at full speed. Fuller
says that they were terribly jolted, and seemed to bounce altogether
from the track, but lighted on the rail in safety. Some of the
Confederates wished to leave a train which was driven at such a reckless
rate, but their wishes were not gratified."
At last, when hope was well nigh exhausted, a final attempt was made.
Additional obstructions were thrown on the track, the side and end
boards of the last car were torn into shreds, all available fuel was
piled upon it, and blazing brands were brought back from the engine.
Reaching a long, covered bridge, the car, which was now fairly ablaze,
was uncoupled; but before the bridge was fully on fire the pursuers came
upon it, pushed right into the smoke, and ran the burning car before
them to the next side track. So this expedient also failed. With no car
left, no fuel--every scrap of it having been thrown into the engine or
upon the burning car--and with no means of further obstructing the
track, the pursued party were reduced to desperation, and as a last
resource, when within eighteen miles of Chattanooga, abandoned the train
and dispersed to the woods, each to save himself.
The good old locomotive, now feeble and useless, was left. According to
some accounts it was reversed, in order to cause a collision with the
on-coming train, but according to others, the steam was exhausted, and
the engine just stopped for want of power. However this may have been,
the hunters of the train become at once hunters of the train stealers,
several of whom were captured the same day, and all but two within a
week. Two of those who had failed to connect with the party were also
captured. Being in citizen's dress within the enemy's lines, the whole
party were held as spies. A court-martial was formed and the leader and
seven out of the remaining twenty-two were condemned and executed. The
others were never brought to trial. Of the remaining fourteen, eight
succeeded by a bold effort in making an escape from Atlanta, and
ultimately reaching the North. The other six failed in this effort, and
remained prisoners until March, 1863, when they were exchanged.
All sorts of stories have been heard from time to time concerning the
supernatural side of railroading, and the peculiar and apparently hidden
antics which locomotives occasionally are guilty of. The following story
is well worth reproducing, and may serve as an illustration of hundreds
of others. It was told by an engineer, who worked on the Utah & Northern
Railroad years ago, before that road became part of the Union Pacific
system. The road was very rough, and save for a long stretch of sage
brush along the Snake River north of Pocatello, it ran in cañons, over
mountains, and through heavy cuts of clay, which was often washed down
on to the tracks by the spring rains. It was, as it is now, a railroad
rushed with business.
It was the only line into Butte City, which had been struck a short time
before, and was then giving promise of its future distinction as the
greatest mining camp in the world. The shipments of gold and bullion
were very heavy, and all the money for the banks in Butte and Helena was
sent over this road. There were no towns along the line. The only stops
were made at water-tanks, and such eating-houses as the railroad company
had built at long intervals. It was a rough, hard run, and was made
especially lonely by the uninhabited stretches of sand and sage brush,
and the echoes from the high granite walls of the narrow cañon. It was a
dangerous run besides. The James gang of train robbers and the Younger
brothers had been operating so successfully in Missouri, Kansas and
Minnesota that other bandits had moved West to attempt similar
operations.
Finally, word came from the general offices of Wells, Fargo & Co. that
several train robbers had been seen in Denver, and might work their way
north in the hope of either securing gold bullion from one of the down
trains from Butte, or money in exchange on an up train. After detailing
these conditions, the engineer went on.
"We got a new manager for the road, an Eastern man, who had some high
notions about conducting railroad travel on what he called a modern
basis. One of the first results of his management was a train, which he
called the 'Mormon Flyer,' running from Butte to Salt Lake, and
scheduled on the time card to run forty miles an hour. We told him he
never could make that time on a rough mountain road, where a train had
to twist around cañon walls like a cow in the woods, but he wouldn't
believe it. He said that if a train could run forty-five miles an hour
in the East it could run forty on that road. The train was made up with
a heavy 'hog' engine, a baggage car, express car and two sleepers. The
first train down jumped the track twice, and the up train from Salt Lake
was wrecked and nearly thrown into the Snake River. Then the trains ran
from four to six hours behind time, and the people and the papers began
to jest about the 'Mormon Flyer,' and ask for a return of the old
Salisbury coach line. The manager complained from time to time, and said
it was all the fault of the engineers; said that we did not know our
business, and that he would get some men from the East who would make
the 'Mormon Flyer' fly on time.
"Well, one evening in Butte I had made up my train and was waiting for
orders, when the station-master handed two telegrams to me. One was from
the manager at Salt Lake, and read: 'You bring the 'Flyer' in on time
to-morrow, or take two weeks' notice.' The other was from the Wells,
Fargo & Co. agent, at Salt Lake, and read: 'No. 3 (the north-bound
'Flyer') held up this afternoon near Beaver Cañon. Treasure box taken
and passengers robbed.' The best description of the robbers that could
be had, was given. I showed both telegrams to the conductor, who held
the train until he could get a dozen Winchesters from the town. In the
meantime I had put the fireman on, and we put the finishing touches on
the engine, No. 38--a big, new machine, with eight drivers, and in the
pink of condition. I told my fireman that if we couldn't pull her
through on time we would leave the train on the side of the road, and
thus teach a trick or two to the man who wanted to run a mountain road
on Eastern methods. I pulled that train out of Butte as though it had
been shot out of a gun, and when we reached the flat below Silver Bar
Cañon I had her well set and flying like a scared wolf. The train was
shaking from side to side like a ship at sea, and we were skipping past
the foothills so fast that they looked like fence posts. The cab shook
so that my fireman couldn't stand to fill the fire-box, so he dumped the
coal on the floor and got down on all fours and shoveled it in. No. 38
seemed to know that she was wanted to hold down my job, and quivered
like a race horse at the finish. We made up the lost time in the first
100 miles, and got to Beaver Cañon with a few minutes to spare.
"It was when I slowed her up a bit in the cañon that I noticed something
the matter with her. She dropped her steady gait and began to jerk and
halt. The fire-box clogged and the steam began to drop, and when I
reached a fairly long piece of road in the dark and silent cañon, she
refused to recover. She spit out the steam and gurgled and coughed, and
nothing that I could do would coax her along. I told the fireman that
the old girl was quitting us, and that we might as well steer for new
jobs. He did his best to get her into action, but she was bound to have
her own way. She kept losing speed every second, and wheezed and puffed
like a freight engine on a mountain grade, and moved about as fast.
Finally, we came to a corner of a sharp turn, almost at the mouth of the
cañon, and then No. 38 gave one loud, defiant snort and stopped. "'She's
done for now,' I said to the fireman, and we got out of the cab with our
lanterns.
"The cylinder-heads were almost opposite a high rock at the turns. Well,
when we got there, what do you think we saw? Not a hundred yards ahead
of the mouth of the cañon, and as plain as day in the moonlight, was a
pile of rocks on the track. On either side was a bunch of half a dozen
masked men, with Winchester rifles half raised. Ten rods further on were
a dozen or more horses picketed at a few cottonwood trees.
"Well, you bet your life we couldn't get back to that train too quick.
It was not midnight, and in two minutes we had the crew and passengers
out with enough guns and revolvers to furnish the Chinese army.
Passengers, in those days, and in that country, carried guns. When the
robbers saw that the train had stopped they started forward, to be met
by a rattling fire. One of them dropped, but the rest ran for their
horses and got away.
"Now, then, you can't tell me that there isn't something in an engine
besides machinery," concluded the engineer, as he turned to the other
members of the Roundhouse Club.
"The man who says there isn't, is a fool," was the answer from one, and
the others nodded their heads in approval.