"I'M READY NOW"
There was no other train over the Transcontinental, westward, before
7.30 A.M. They had reached Denver by the Pacific express, and in five
minutes the sleeper in which the two had journeyed from Chicago would
be whirling swiftly away for "The Springs" before beginning the long,
tortuous climb over the huge bulwark between them and the watershed of
the great Colorado beyond. There had really been no reason why Graham
should stop over at Denver. He knew none of the officials of the Silver
Shield there resident. He did not wish to know them. They had doubtless
conspired with their associates at Argenta to "squeeze out" his father
and friends. They hoped and expected to buy in for a song the valuable
stock held by this scattered band of soldiers and some twenty or
thirty prospective victims in the distant East. This would give them a
controlling interest in the property. It would make them virtual owners
of a valuable mine. It would make them richer by far than they were
beforehand. This would impoverish, and it might ruin, many of the
absent who had furnished the means by which Silver Shield was
developed. It was robbery outright, but robbery of a kind so common in
our country that people have become callous to it. It was by just such
means and methods that many of the great fortunes of America have been
won, and the winners ride to-day on the topmost wave of prosperity and
popular acclaim, when, if the people but realized the truth, many an
object of their adulation would be wearing convict stripes and prison
pallor to the end of his dishonored days.
But Graham had journeyed with his long-time friend and senior
officer--senior by seven years--and McCrea's plans, to a certain point,
seemed to dominate those of the younger and less experienced man.
McCrea's idea was to "tackle" the local directors first and compel
recognition of their rights. He, as post quartermaster, had had
business dealings with bankers and merchants both in Denver and
Chicago. He believed that, reinforced by the presence of Captain Lee
from Reno, he could make a certain impression, or else certain threats,
that would bring these magnates to time.
But Dr. Graham, an older head, thought otherwise, had so instructed
Geordie and so endeavored to impress McCrea. The men, said he, had
planned this out. "They stand to lose little in the market if the
stocks are 'beared.' They have invested little; we have invested our
all. If nothing was found they could quit. If good ore was found, then
it was their game to conceal the fact, to demand more and more money
for more and more development, force us out, get our shares, and own
the property. Why, laddie, the man that warned me dared not sign his
name, for every wire was watched; yet I'd stake six months' pay he's
got the rights of it. There's ore there in plenty!"
And so every indication said at the start. It wasn't until many Eastern
people had been induced to invest (Dr. Graham's New York friends, the
Fraziers, among them) that managers and directors began to tell dismal
tales and ask for more and more. It was then that Dr. Graham bethought
him of a brother Scot who dwelt near Argenta, a man once so poor that
when his bairns were down with diphtheria he could not coax Argenta
doctors out across the five-mile stretch of storm-swept, frozen
prairie. It was the burly post surgeon from the fort who rode eight
miles to and eight miles back in any kind of weather, night or day,
until he snatched those babies back from death, and gave them, weak and
gasping, yet alive, to the arms of their weeping and imploring and at
last rejoicing mother. Oh, those are deeds that women remember so long
as life remains to them, and that but few men forget, and the clansman,
who couldn't begin to pay in cash for what "the Graeme" had done for
him and his, could reward in fealty now. It was Donald Ross to whom the
doctor had written, and Ross who made investigation and reply.
And yet, though he had taken precaution to send his letter from a
village post-office, and his message from a railway station ten miles
east of Argenta, the spies of Silver Shield had heard of one or both,
and now their watcher knew that two at least of the enemy were in their
camp. For what else was young Breifogle there? For what but to give
warning had he so suddenly vanished?
It was of all this that Geordie was thinking, as silently he strode
along by the side of the two elders, hearing yet scarcely heeding their
eager talk. He had plans and projects of his own. Father was not the
only one who had a friend or two in Yampah and up the range. Veteran
troopers of the old regiment were scouting there for gold and silver,
where ten years earlier they had scouted for the red warriors of
Colorow and Yampah Jack. If he could but get in touch with Nolan, with
Feeny, with almost any one of those now mining who once rode in "E"
Troop! If he could only reach some of the men he guided over the
Divide to the successful capture of the gang that looted the First
National! Oh, the shame of Breifogle's ingratitude! As one of the
bank's directors at that time, he had pledged everlasting gratitude to
the officers and troopers who had restored their treasure.
Suddenly Warden turned a corner, pushed back a swinging door, led the
way into a clean, brightly lighted little "dairy" restaurant, passed on
through to the less public tables partitioned off in alcoves of their
own, and here, behind an outspread newspaper, sat, lonely and
expectant, a broad-shouldered ranchman whose weather-beaten face beamed
joyously at sight of the three, and whose big hands were on young
Graham's squared shoulders before they had fairly shaken greeting to
any one. "Geordie, mon, but it's glad I am to see ye!" was the
whispered welcome. "Softly, now, there's--others here."
Quickly they were served with steaks, scrambled eggs, toast, tea or
coffee, as they chose, and two at least were hungry, yet Geordie,
brimful of eagerness to put his plan into execution, could hardly
spare time to eat. Yes, Ross knew Nolan and Feeny of old. Many's the
time they'd dropped in at the ranch when antelope-stalking down the
foot-hills. Nolan had prospered. He and Feeny, both, when last heard of
were somewhere up among the mines. Burns was in Collins's Camp on Lance
Creek. Toomey and Scully had got "cleaned out" and were firing on the
Transcontinental.
"Where?" demanded Geordie, his eyes dilating.
"Mountain Division, both of 'em. Toomey on the Mogul that pulls the
Time Freight over the range--" And here Geordie stopped him.
"Hear this, Mr. McCrea," said he. "Toomey, of 'E' Troop, fireman on the
big freight-engine! He'll surely know where the others are. Now, _you_
know the railway people. You say you've got to stay here a day or two.
Get _me_ permission to ride on any freight-engine, Mountain Division,
for the next three days, and I'm off for the mines before we're half a
day older, and no man here or there the wiser."
"They'd spot you as you went through Argenta," said McCrea. "Breifogle
will be watching every train."
"Every _car_ of every train, perhaps; but I'll be firing by the time we
get there, black with soot and coal-dust, and they wouldn't know me if
they saw me. If the division superintendent doesn't give it away--and
you--who's to know I've turned fireman on a freight? There's my chance,
McCrea, and you know it!"
"By Jove, Geordie, but I believe you're right," was McCrea's answer,
rising to his feet and facing the eager young fellow across the table.
"You're a 'dandy,' as was said of you on graduation day, only it was
meant in a different sense. Who's in charge at the station now,
Warden?" he asked, with sudden resolution. "I knew most of their
traffic men when I was quartermaster."
Warden whipped out a railway folder. "Colorado Transcontinental," he
read, and began skimming down a long list of official titles and names.
Traffic managers, freight and passenger agents, superintendents,
division superintendents, and then, "Here we are, Mountain Division:
W.B. Anthony."
"Know him well," cried McCrea. "He brought the first passengers up to
Argenta in eighty-seven. He was freight conductor on the U.P. when I
was a boy at Cheyenne. We'll nab him first thing in the morning."
"Can't we nab him to-night?" asked Geordie.
McCrea laughed. "You're keen as your father, Pops," said he. "Niver put
off till t'-morrow what can be done the day."
"The laddie's right," said Ross. "I'm betting you'll find him at the
yards till after No. 2 comes in--the Flyer--that's due at 12.40."
And so it happened that, as the clocks were pointing to the quarter
after midnight, Lieutenant Ralph McCrea and the newly appointed
subaltern, both in plain travelling dress, once more appeared at the
Union Station, and presently learned that Mr. Anthony was about the
yard. It was not long thereafter that they found him, busy, as such men
must ever be, yet recognizing McCrea at a glance and giving him
cordial welcome.
But when McCrea presented his friend, "Lieutenant Graham, whose father
you probably knew as post surgeon at Reynolds," and then made his
request, the official looked grave.
"It's against orders," said he. "The Old Man has jacked up more than
one of the best engineers for allowing it. Why, the Governor had to get
a permit from the general manager for his son to ride in the cab of the
Flyer only last week, and for some reason they've shut down on our
freight people entirely. Gil Frost, bringing his own brother, who used
to fire on the Union Pacific, over on old 550 two weeks ago, had to
dance the carpet the next morning right here in Denver."
"How do you break in your _new_ firemen?" asked Geordie. "Some of our
best men are firing for you now. They had to begin somehow, I suppose."
"Pitch 'em neck and crop into a cab, with a short-handled shovel and a
sharp-tongued old hand. It nigh breaks their backs, but they learn
quick that way."
"Well, pitch me, neck and crop, into a cab, with as short a handle and
sharp a tongue as you like, Mr. Anthony. I'm on three months' leave,
and for reasons of my own want to learn how to fire an engine."
For a moment Anthony looked at the young fellow in amaze. Then the
resolute, square-jawed, clean-cut face began to impress him.
"Well, I've been dealing with you army men out here nigh onto twenty
years," said he, "and I'm blessed if I ever heard the like of that."
"Don't let it surprise you into telling it, Anthony, that's all," put
in McCrea. "Here! Let me give you a pointer--you've got a West Pointer.
I've known you for a square man ever since we were stationed at
Russell," and, linking his arm in that of the astonished official,
McCrea drew him a few paces away from the point where they found him,
with a great passenger-engine hissing and throbbing close at hand,
waiting to take the Flyer whirling eastward toward the Missouri.
Geordie stood silently and watched them. He saw the wonderment in
Anthony's strong face give way to interest as McCrea talked rapidly on;
saw interest deepen to sympathy and a certain excitement. In three
minutes Anthony broke away and came hurrying back, looking at his
watch.
"Mr. Graham," said he, "d' you want to go up the line this very night?
Could you be ready in two hours?"
"I'm ready now," was the instant reply. "All I want is an old cap and
overalls--the blacker the better."