The sun never shone more brightly and the air was never more clear
and bracing than when Sinclair helped his wife off the train at Pawnee
Junction. The station-master's face fell as he saw the lady, but he
saluted the engineer with as easy an air as he could assume, and watched
for an opportunity to speak to him alone. Sinclair read the despatches
with an unmoved countenance, and after a few minutes' reflection simply
said: “All right. Be sure to keep the matter perfectly quiet.” At
breakfast he was _distrait_--so much so that his wife asked him what was
the matter. Taking her aside, he at once showed her the telegrams.
“You see my duty,” he said. “My only thought is about you, my dear
child. Will you stay here?”
She simply replied, looking into his face without a tremor:
“My place is with you.” Then the conductor called “All aboard,” and the
train once more started.
Sinclair asked Foster to join him in the smoking compartment and tell
him the promised story, which the latter did. His rescue at Barker's, he
frankly and gratefully said, _had_ been the turning point in his life.
In brief, he had “sworn off” from gambling and drinking, had found
honest employment, and was doing well.
“I've two things to do now, Major,” he added; “first, I must show my
gratitude to you; and next”--he hesitated a little--“I want to find that
poor girl that I left behind at Barker's. She was engaged to marry me,
and when I came to think of it, and what a life I'd have made her lead,
I hadn't the heart till now to look for her; but, seeing I'm on the
right track, I'm going to find her, and get her to come with me. Her
father's an--old scoundrel, but that ain't her fault, and I ain't going
to marry _him_.”
“Foster,” quietly asked Sinclair, “do you know the Perry gang?”
The man's brow darkened.
“Know them?” said he. “I know them much too well. Perry is as ungodly a
cutthroat as ever killed an emigrant in cold blood, and he's got in
his gang nearly all those hounds that tried to hang me. Why do you ask,
Major?”
Sinclair handed him the despatches. “You are the only man on the train
to whom I have shown them,” said he.
Foster read them slowly, his eyes lighting up as he did so. “Looks as if
it was true,” said he.
“Let me see! Fort ------. Yes, that's the --th infantry. Two of their
boys were killed at Sidney last summer by some of the same gang, and the
regiment's sworn vengeance. Major, if this story's on the square, that
crowd's goose is cooked, and _don't you forget it!_ I say, you must give
me a hand in.”
“Foster,” said Sinclair, “I am going to put responsibility on your
shoulders. I have no doubt that, if we be attacked, the soldiers will
dispose of the gang; but I must take all possible precautions for the
safety of the passengers. We must not alarm them. They can be made to
think that the troops are going on a scout, and only a certain number
of resolute men need be told of what we expect. Can you, late this
afternoon, go through the cars, and pick them out? I will then put
you in charge of the passenger cars, and you can post your men on the
platforms to act in case of need. My place will be ahead.''
“Major, you can depend on me,” was Foster's reply. “I'll go through the
train and have my eye on some boys of the right sort, and that's got
their shooting-irons with them.”
Through the hours of that day on rolled the train, still over the crisp
buffalo grass, across the well-worn buffalo trails, past the prairie-dog
villages. The passengers chatted, dozed, played cards, read, all
unconscious, with the exception of three, of the coming conflict
between the good and the evil forces bearing on their fate; of the fell
preparations making for their disaster; of the grim preparations making
to avert such disaster; of all of which the little wires alongside of
them had been talking back and forth. Watkins had telegraphed that he
still saw no reason to doubt the good faith of his warning, and Sinclair
had reported his receipt of authority and his acceptance thereof.
Meanwhile, also, there had been set in motion a measure of that power to
which appeal is so reluctantly made in time of peace.
At Fort ------, a lonely post on the plains, the orders had that morning
been issued for twenty men under Lieutenant Halsey to parade at 4 p. m.,
with overcoats, two days' rations, and ball cartridges; also for
Assistant Surgeon Kesler to report for duty with the party. Orders as to
destination were communicated direct to the lieutenant from the post
commander, and on the minute the little column moved, taking the road to
the station. The regiment from which it came had been in active service
among the Indians on the frontier for a long time, and the officers and
men were tried and seasoned fighters. Lieutenant Halsey had been well
known at the West Point balls as the “leader of the german.” From the
last of these balls he had gone straight to the field, and three years
had given him an enviable reputation for _sang-froid_ and determined
bravery. He looked every inch the soldier as he walked along the trail,
his cloak thrown back and his sword tucked under his arm. The doctor,
who carried a Modoc bullet in some inaccessible part of his scarred
body, growled good-naturedly at the need of walking, and the men,
enveloped in their army-blue overcoats, marched easily by fours.
Reaching the station, the lieutenant called the agent aside, and with
him inspected, on a siding, a long platform car on which benches had
been placed and secured. Then he took his seat in the station and
quietly waited, occasionally twisting his long blond mustache. The
doctor took a cigar with the agent, and the men walked about or sat on
the edge of the platform. One of them, who obtained a surreptitious
glance at his silent commander, told his companions that there was
trouble ahead for somebody.
“That's just the way the leftenant looked, boys,” said he, “when we was
laying for them Apaches that raided Jones's Ranch and killed the women
and little children.”
In a short time the officer looked at his watch, formed his men, and
directed them to take their places on the seats of the car. They had
hardly done so when the whistle of the approaching train was heard. When
it came up, the conductor, who had his instructions from Sinclair, had
the engine detached and backed on the siding for the soldiers' car,
which thus came between it and the foremost baggage car when the train
was again made up. As arranged, it was announced that the troops were to
be taken a certain distance to join a scouting party, and the curiosity
of the passengers was but slightly excited. The soldiers sat quietly in
their seats, their repeating rifles held between their knees, and the
officer in front. Sinclair joined the latter, and had a few words with
him as the train moved on. A little later, when the stars were shining
brightly overhead, they passed into the express car, and sent for the
conductor and other trainmen, and for Foster. In a few words Sinclair
explained the position of affairs. His statement was received with
perfect coolness, and the men only asked what they were to do.
“I hope, boys,” said Sinclair, “that we are going to put this gang
to-night where they will make no more trouble. Lieutenant Halsey will
bear the brunt of the fight, and it only remains for you to stand by the
interests committed to your care. Mr. Express Agent, what help do
you want?” The person addressed, a good-natured giant, girded with a
cartridge belt, smiled as he replied:
“Well, sir, I'm wearing a watch which the company gave me for standing
off the James gang in Missouri for half an hour, when we hadn't the
ghost of a soldier about. I'll take the contract, and welcome, to hold
_this_ fort alone.”
“Very well,” said Sinclair. “Foster, what progress have you made?”
“Major, I've got ten or fifteen as good men as ever drew a bead, and
just red-hot for a fight.”
“That will do very well. Conductor, give the trainmen the rifles from
the baggage car and let them act under Mr. Foster. Now, boys, I am sure
you will do your duty. That is all.”
From the next station Sinclair telegraphed “All ready” to the
superintendent, who was pacing his office in much suspense. Then he
said a few words to his brave but anxious wife, and walked to the rear
platform. On it were several armed men, who bade him good-evening, and
asked “when the fun was going to begin.” Walking through the train, he
found each platform similarly occupied, and Foster going from one to the
other. The latter whispered as he passed him:
“Major, I found Arizona Joe, the scout, in the smokin' car, and he's on
the front platform. That lets me out, and although I know as well as you
that there ain't any danger about that rear sleeper where the madam is,
I ain't a-going to be far off from her.” Sinclair shook him by the hand;
then he looked at his watch. It was half-past eight. He passed through
the baggage and express cars, finding in the latter the agent sitting
behind his safe, on which lay two large revolvers. On the platform car
he found the soldiers and their commander sitting silent and imconcerned
as before. When Sinclair reached the latter and nodded, he rose and
faced the men, and his fine voice was clearly heard above the rattle of
the train.
“Company, 'ten_tion!_” The soldiers straightened themselves in a second.
“With ball cartridge, _load!_” It was done with the precision of a
machine. Then the lieutenant spoke, in the same clear, crisp, tones that
the troops had heard in more than one fierce battle.
“Men,” said he, “in a few minutes the Perry gang, which you will
remember, are going to try to run this train off the track, wound and
kill the passengers, and rob the cars and the United States mail. It
is our business to prevent them. Sergeant Wilson” (a gray-bearded
non-commissioned officer stood up and saluted), “I am going on the
engine. See that my orders are repeated. Now, men, aim low, and don't
waste any shots.” He and Sinclair climbed over the tender and spoke to
the engine-driver.
“How are the air-brakes working?” asked Sinclair.
“First-rate.”
“Then, if you slowed down now, you could stop the train in a third of
her length, couldn't you?”
“Easy, if you don't mind being shaken up a bit.”
“That is good. How is the country about the --xth mile-post?”
“Dead level, and smooth.”
“Good again. Now, Lieutenant Halsey, this is a splendid head-light, and
we can see a long way with my night glass. I will have a----”
“--2d mile-pole just past,” interrupted the engine-driver.
“Only one more to pass, then, before we ought to strike them. Now,
lieutenant, I undertake to stop the train within a very short distance
of the gang. They will be on both sides of the track, no doubt; and the
ground, as you hear, is quite level. You will best know what to do.”
The officer stepped back. “Sergeant,” called he, “do you hear me
plainly?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Have the men fix bayonets. When the train stops, and I wave my sword,
let half jump off each side, run up quickly, and form line abreast of
the engine--not ahead.”
“Jack,” said Sinclair to the engine-driver, “is your hand steady?” The
man held it up with a smile. “Good. Now stand by your throttle and your
air-brake. Lieutenant, better warn the men to hold on tight, and tell
the sergeant to pass the word to the boys on the platforms, or they will
be knocked off by the sudden stop. Now for a look ahead!” and he brought
the binocular to his eyes.
The great parabolic head-light illuminated the track a long way in
advance, all behind it being of course in darkness. Suddenly Sinclair
cried out:
“The fools have a light there, as I am a living man; and there is a
little red one near us. What can that be? All ready, Jack! By heaven!
they have taken up two rails. Now _hold on, all!_ Stop her!!”
The engine-driver shut his throttle-valve with a jerk. Then, holding
hard by it, he sharply turned a brass handle. There was a fearful
jolt--a grating--and the train's way was checked. The lieutenant,
standing sidewise, had drawn his sword. He waved it, and almost before
he could get off the engine the soldiers were up and forming, still in
shadow, while the bright light was thrown on a body of men ahead.
“Surrender, or you are dead men!” roared the officer. Curses and several
shots were the reply. Then came the orders, quick and sharp:
“_Forward! Close up! Double-quick! Halt!_ Fire!”... It was speedily
over. Left on the car with the men, the old sergeant had said:
“Boys, you hear. It's that ------ Perry gang. Now, don't forget Larry
and Charley that they murdered last year,” and there had come from the
soldiers a sort of fierce, subdued _growl_. The volley was followed by a
bayonet charge, and it required all the officer's authority to save the
lives even of those who “threw up their hands.” Large as the gang was
(outnumbering the troops), well armed and desperate as they were, every
one was dead, wounded, or a prisoner when the men who guarded the train
platforms ran up. The surgeon, with professional coolness, walked up to
the robbers, his instrument case under his arm.
“Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant,” said he. “That practice for
Creedmoor is telling on the shooting. Good thing for the gang, too.
Bullets are better than rope, and a Colorado jury will give them plenty
of that.”
Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all was over. Then he
ordered a fire lighted, and the rails relaid. The flames lit a strange
scene as the passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men to keep
them back.
“Is there a telegraph station not far ahead, Sinclair?” asked he. “Yes?
All right.” He drew a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a despatch to
the post commander.
“Be good enough to send that for me,” said he, “and leave orders at
Barker's for the night express eastward to stop for us, and bring
a posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners. And now, my dear
Sinclair, I suggest that you get the passengers into the cars, and go on
as soon as those rails are spiked. When they realize the situation,
some of them will feel precious ugly, and you know we can't have any
lynching.”
Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at once to the conductor
and brakemen, who began vociferating, “All aboard!” Just then Foster
appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing clearly on his
face, in the firelight.
“Major,” said he, “I didn't use to take much stock in special
Providence, or things being ordered; but I'm darned if I don't believe
in them from this day. I was bound to stay where you put me, but I was
uneasy, and wild to be in the scrimmage; and, if I had been there, I
wouldn't have taken notice of a little red light that wasn't much behind
the rear platform when we stopped. When I saw there was no danger there
I ran back, and what do you think I found? There was a woman in a dead
faint, and just clutching a lantern that she had tied up in a red scarf,
poor little thing! And, Major, it was Sally! It was the little girl that
loved me out at Barker's, and has loved me and waited for me ever since!
And when she came to, and knew me, she was so glad she 'most fainted
away again; and she let on as it was her that gave away the job. And I
took her into the sleeper, and the madam, God bless her!--she knew Sally
before and was good to her--she took care of her and is cheering her up.
And now, Major, I'm going to take her straight to Denver, and send for a
parson, and get her married to me, and she'll brace up, sure pop.”
The whistle sounded, and the train started. From the window of the
“sleeper” Sinclair and his wife took their last look at the weird scene.
The lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, wrapped in his cloak,
caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair's pretty face, and returned her bow.
Then, as the car passed out of sight, he tugged at his mustache and
hummed:
“Why, boys, why,
Should we be melancholy, boys
Whose business 'tis to die?”
In less than an hour, telegrams having in the meantime been sent in
both directions, the train ran alongside the platform at Barker's; and
Watkins, imperturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and gave him his letters.
“Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major,” said he. “Good thing for the
country. That's a lesson the 'toughs' in these parts won't forget for
a long time. Plucky girl that give 'em away, wasn't she? Hope she's all
right.”
“She is all right,” said Sinclair with a smile.
“Glad of that. By the way, that father of her'n passed in his checks
to-night. He'd got one warning from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they
found out he was in with this gang, and they was a-going for him; but
when the telegram come, he put a pistol to his head and saved them all
trouble. Good riddance to everybody, I say. The sheriff's here now,
and is going east on the next train to get them fellows. He's got a big
posse together, and I wouldn't wonder if they was hard to hold in, after
the 'boys in blue' is gone.”
In a few minutes the train was off, and its living freight--the just
and the unjust, the reformed and the rescued, the happy and the anxious.
With many of the passengers the episode of the night was already a thing
of the past. Sinclair sat by the side of his wife, to whose cheeks
the color had all come back; and Sally Johnson lay in her berth, faint
still, but able to give an occasional smile to Foster. In the station on
the Missouri the reporters were gathered about the happy superintendent,
smoking his cigars, and filling their note-books with items. In Denver,
their brethren would gladly have done the same, but Watkins failed to
gratify them. He was a man of few words. When the train had gone, and
a friend remarked: “Hope they'll get through all right, now,” he simply
said: “Yes, likely. Two shots don't most always go in the same hole.”
Then he went to the telegraph instrument. In a few minutes he could have
told a story as wild as a Norse _saga_, but what he said, when Denver
had responded, was only--“No. 17, fifty-five minutes late!”