A RACE TO THE FORT
Three miles out and the Mogul's six drivers were spinning like so many
tops. Flat along the grimy roofs of the heaving freight-cars behind,
the cloud of coal smoke from her stunted chimney fled rearward until
clear of the train, then drifted idly across the rolling uplands. Ahead
and to right and left, distant, snow-capped summits barred the
sky-line. On either side the gray-green slopes, bare and treeless,
billowed away, higher and higher toward the range, with here and there
a bunch of fattening cattle gazing stupidly at the invaders of their
peace and quietude. Close at hand to the left the murky waters of the
stream flashed quickly by. Close at hand to the right the hard-beaten
prairie road meandered over the sod. There had been a ridge or two
and some sharp curves just west of town, and now, as they rounded
the last of these and flew out upon an almost level track, the bottom
of some prehistoric mountain lake, the eyes of two of the three silent
occupants of the cab were strained along the gleaming rails ahead, and
almost at the same instant the same thought sprang to the lips of
each--Big Ben, with his left hand at the throttle, hunched up on his
shelf, his cap pulled down over the bushy brows, and Geordie, across
the cab on the fireman's seat, clinging to the window-frame to
withstand the lurching of the throbbing monster, while between them, on
the coal-blackened floor, Toomey, with his big shovel flinging open the
iron gate to the blazing furnace for every new mouthful he fed it, and
snapping it shut when he turned away for another, for not a whiff of
the draught could be wasted. Once past the deserted station at the Fort
there would come eight miles of twisting and turning and struggling
up-grade, and every pound of steam would be needed to pull even this
baker's dozen of heavily laden cars now thundering merrily along
behind.
[Illustration: "NOT A WHIFF OF THE DRAUGHT COULD BE WASTED"]
Only two short, smooth miles ahead lay the low ridge that formed the
eastern boundary of the old reservation. Beyond it, on the broad
_mesa_, stood the buildings of the frontier garrison, once Geordie's
home and refuge. The tall flag-staff came suddenly into view, and in
less than four minutes they would be rushing by. Over forty miles to
the hour were they flying now. Big Ben had just let out another notch
as they swung into the two-mile tangent, when at the same instant he
and Geordie caught sight of three or four black dots dimly bobbing in
the midst of a little dust-cloud on the roadway far ahead, and almost
at the same instant came from each the low cry, "There they are!"
Toomey dropped his shovel and glanced forward over Ben's burly
shoulder, then, grabbing the vertical handrails on cab and tender,
leaned out and gazed astern. The wagon road twisted over the bleak
"divide" the train had just rounded, and, barring a team or two jogging
slowly into town, was bare of traffic. "No chasers so far," he shouted,
as he again stooped to his tools.
"No chasers but us could catch 'em," growled Ben. "We'll give 'em a
toot of the whistle!" he shouted across to Geordie, and the steam blast
shrieked through the keen morning air in obedience to the quick pull at
the cord.
And now 705 was fairly flying, the green flags at the rear flattened
like shingles in the whistling wind, and a cloud of mingled dust and
smoke rolling furiously after the caboose. Big Ben had "pulled her wide
open," and under full head of steam the powerful engine tore like a
black meteor up the glistening track. In eagerness and excitement
almost uncontrollable George Graham clung to his perch and gazed with
all his eyes. Barely a mile ahead now spurred the fugitives, his old
friend Nolan in their midst--Nolan whom he had come all those miles to
see!
And then a strange thing happened. So far from finding reassurance,
friendship, sympathy in the whistle blast, the riders had read the very
opposite. So far from slackening speed and letting the signalling train
come up on them, they had suddenly veered to the left, the south, and,
bending low like jockies over their coursers' manes, they shot across
the track, dived down into the pebbly bottom, and the next thing
Geordie saw they were plunging breast-deep through the brown and
heaving torrent, the waters foaming at their knees.
"Might 'a' known it!" bellowed Toomey, disgusted. "'Course they reason
we've got the sheriff and posse aboard, and they're taking the
short-cut to the--you know," he said, with a sudden significant gulp,
to Geordie, and a warning glance at Ben. Even now that he had left the
trooper habits months behind, Toomey could not forget or disregard
trooper ethics. Ben might be friendly to Nolan, just as he claimed,
but--would Ben keep other's secrets?
And even under his coat of coal and tan Geordie's face blazed suddenly.
As a lad whom the troopers knew and loved and trusted, he could not
help knowing in by-gone days of the ranch just south of the
post--"Saints' Rest," they called it, laughingly--the shack owned and
occupied by an old soldier with a numerous family: the rendezvous for
many a revel, the resting-place of many a hunting-party, the refuge of
many a home-bound squad of "the boys," before the days of the canteen
that brought comfort and temperance into the army for the short but
blessed spell of its existence--boys just back from an unhallowed
frolic in town, and not yet sober enough to face their first sergeant
and "the Old Man" at the orderly room. Oh, wonderful things were told
of old Shiner and his ranch! In the eyes of some straitlaced commanders
he had been little better than a receiver of stolen goods, a soldier
Shylock who loaned moneys at usurious interest, a gambler who fleeced
the trooper folk of their scanty pay, a dispenser of bad liquors and
worse morals. Some truth there may have been in some of these tales,
yet Shiner had been a strangely useful man. He supplied the post with
milk and cream, butter and eggs, of better quality and lower price than
could possibly be had in town. He knew the best hunting and fishing on
the range. He had teams and "rigs" at all times at the service of
officers and soldiers, when the post ambulance was forbidden by an
unfeeling government. He had a corral and stockade that had more than
once bidden stout defiance to both the law and the lawless. He had, so
the fort children firmly believed, a subterranean passage from his
stockade to the sentry-lines. He was hated by both sheriff and sutler
in days when the latter lived and thrived; he overreached the one,
undersold the other, and outwitted both. He befriended every soldier in
a scrape, whether the offence were against the majestic letter of the
civil law or only the unimportant spirit of the military. In the eyes
of the few he was much of a sinner; in the eyes of the many no less of
a saint; and, after careful casting up of accounts, the colonel of the
--th Cavalry had declared Shiner far more good than bad, treated him
accordingly, and won a surprised and devoted friend and ally. Another
officer Shiner swore by was Dr. Graham, and for reasons similar to
those of his fellow, and farther-distant, ranchman Ross.
Yet Geordie had often heard of mysterious doings at Shiner's that would
not bear official investigation--had heard and kept silent. In those
days Shiner dwelt close under the sheltering wing of a sympathetic
garrison. Now, if still there, he must be living in the light, and for
the first time it dawned upon Geordie that what he heard of Shiner in
by-gone days and kept to himself, he could not hear and know and keep
to himself now. It was one thing to be a garrison boy; it was another
to be an officer in the army of the United States.
The instant that it dawned upon him that Nolan and his friends were
heading across country for Shiner's old plant, riding hard in the
belief that they were pursued by rail, it flashed upon him that he
could not join Nolan there--indeed, he must, if a possible thing, guide
or direct him elsewhere.
Already the pursued were through the ford and, with dripping flanks,
were scrambling up the opposite shore. Already big 705 was almost
abreast of them, and in another moment would be swiftly speeding by.
It was two years since Geordie last set eyes on Nolan, but there was no
mistaking, even at that distance, the tall, gaunt figure and the
practised seat in saddle. Behind him trailed three comrades, two of
whom, at least, were tyros in the art of horsemanship. They were
hanging on for dear life as their steeds labored on after the leader.
The object of all four was obviously to get beyond easy rifle range of
the rushing train before drawing rein to reconnoitre, and now, probably
noting that the engine was driving on full speed, with no sign of
stopping, the tall horseman in the lead circled swiftly to his right,
along the crest of a low ridge perhaps three hundred yards away, then
peered from under his broad hatbrim at the supposed enemy.
And then it was that Graham and Toomey, both, sprang back to the
coal-pile in the tender, clambered high as possible on the shifting
slope, and, balancing as best they could, whipped off their caps, swung
them joyously about their heads, and eagerly gave the old-time,
well-known cavalry signal, "Forward!" "Forward!" They saw Nolan and
his friends seated on their panting horses, staring after them in amaze
and wonderment, then resolutely following.
A mile now would bring them whistling by the site of old Fort Reynolds,
and a lump rose in Geordie's throat, for the weather-beaten, ramshackle
stables came in view as the Mogul rounded a long, easy curve, and
there, beyond them and on the level bench before them, stood the trim
rows of officers' quarters, now deserted and tenantless, yet guarded by
the single sergeant and his little squad of men. To the right, afar up
the track near the foot-bridge and ford, lay the station building,
wellnigh useless now since the greater interests and industries, that
had made the railway possible and forced the Indian farther back, had
also fouled the mountain stream and spoiled the site for a cavalry
post.
There stood the freight sheds; there were the chutes for horses and
mules; there, beyond them, the now abandoned office and waiting-room;
and there, still glistening white and towering, the semaphore
signal-mast of the railway; and then and there, sure and sudden, there
dropped the black arm straight across and above their glistening path
in the never-to-be-neglected order--Stop!
Big Ben's lined face went swiftly gray through its coat of grime, but
the firm hand did its instant work with the throttle. Then, swinging
from his seat, he grasped the glistening lever and, peering intently
forward, stood ready to throw it in reverse. Toomey sprang for the cord
and jerked one fierce toot out of the whistle, the old-time signal for
down-brakes before Westinghouse and his science put everything at the
touch of the engineer. Almost at the moment the swift rush of the train
became jarring and rough. Two daring men scampered, monkey-like, along
the top of the cars, twisting a brake on each, then darting to the
next. A furious gust of steam tore from the escape-valve and streamed
away overhead. Not a thing was in sight on the track, not a soul on the
platform, to account for the alarming signal. A switch-target clanked
as they tore over the points; a vagrant dog scurried away toward the
once thriving saloon, and not until they drove in, hissing, grinding,
and bumping, to the side of the dusty platform, did Ben's keen eyes
catch sight of two herdsmen's horses--cow ponies--tethered back of the
shanty beside the saloon, and up went the lid of his box at the
instant, in went his right hand, and then out it came full grasp on a
brown-barrelled six-shooter.