BLACK’S PLOT OPENS WITH A BANG
“Some mistake here, gentlemen,” interjected Tom Reade coolly.
“Unless I’m very badly informed I don’t belong to either of you.
If anyone owns me, then I belong to the S.B. & L.”
“I told you I’d make you settle with me for throwing me out of
the camp,” remarked Black disagreeably.
“You’re not out yet---more’s the pity,” Tom retorted. “You will
be, however, as soon as the paymaster arrives.”
“You’re wrong,” jeered ’Gene. “You’re out---from this minute!”
“What do you mean?” Tom inquired, looking Black steadily in the eye.
Yet the young chief engineer had a creepy realization of just
what the pair _did_ mean. Black must have confederates somewhere
in the mountains near. It was evidently the rascal’s intention
to seize Tom and carry him away where he would be held a prisoner
until he had lost all hope of regaining his position at the head
of the railroad’s field force.
“You say that I’ll be thrown out of camp very soon,” sneered Black.
“The fact is, you are not going back to camp.”
“What’s going to stop me?” Reade inquired, with no sign of fear.
“You’re not going back to camp!” Black insisted.
“Someone has been giving you the wrong tip,” smiled Tom.
He started forward, brushing past Black. It was mainly a pretense,
for Reade had no notion but that he would be stopped.
With a savage cry Black seized him by the shoulders.
Tom made a quick turn, shaking the fellow off. While he was thus
occupied Bad Pete slipped about, and now confronted Reade. The
muzzle of a revolver was pressed against the young engineer’s belt.
“Hoist your hands!” ordered Pete warningly.
Tom obeyed, though he hoisted his hands only as far as his mouth.
Forming a megaphone, he gave vent to a loud yell of:
“Roo-rup! roo-rup! roo-rup!”
It was one of the old High School yells of the good old Gridley
days---one of the yells sometimes used as a signal of distress
by famous old Dick & Co., of which Tom Reade had been a shining
member.
On the still air of the mountain night that yell traveled far
and clearly. It was a call of penetrating power, traveling farther
than its sound would suggest.
“You do that again, you young coyote, and I’ll begin to pump!”
growled Bad Pete savagely.
“I won’t need to do it again,” Tom returned. “Wait a few minutes,
and you’ll see.”
“Shall I drop him, Black?” inquired Pete.
’Gene Black was about to answer in the affirmative, when a sound
up the trail caught his attention.
“There’s someone coming,” snarled Black, using his keen powers
of hearing.
“Wait and I’ll introduce you,” mocked Tom Reade.
“We won’t wait. Neither will you,” retorted Black. “You’ll come
with us. About face and walk fast!”
“I’m not going your way tonight,” replied Reade calmly.
“If he doesn’t obey every order like a flash, Pete, then you pull
the trigger and wind this cub up.”
“All right,” nodded Pete. “Cub, you heard what Black said?”
“Yes,” replied Tom, looking at Pete with smiling eyes.
“Then come along,” ordered Black, seizing Tom by one arm.
“I won’t!” Tom declared flatly.
“You know what refusal means. Pete is steady on the trigger.”
“Is he?” asked Reade coolly.
Watching like a cat through his sleepy-looking eyes, Reade suddenly
shot his right hand across his abdomen in such fashion as to knock
away the muzzle of the revolver. Bad Pete felt himself seized
in a football tackle that had been the terror of more than one
opposing High School football player.
Crash! Pete struck the ground, Reade on top of him.
’Gene Black darted to the aid of his companion, but shrank back
as he caught the glint of the revolver that Tom had twisted out
of the hand of the bad man.
“Duck, Black!” warned Tom, in a quiet tone that nevertheless had
a deadly note in it.
“Where are you?” called the voice of Harry Hazelton, not two hundred
yards up the trail now.
“Here!” called Tom.
“Wow-ow-ow! Whoop!” yelled a chorus of college boys.
It all took place in a very few seconds. Black, hesitating whether
or not to close with Reade, decided on flight. He turned and
fled.
Whizz-zz-zz! The sound was made by the captured revolver as Tom,
leaping to his feet, threw it as far from him as he could. It
sailed through space, next disappearing over the edge of a steep
precipice.
“What’s your hurry, Peter?” drawled Reade, as, jerking Bad Pete
to his feet, he planted a kick that sent the bad man down the
trail a dozen feet.
Tom started after Pete, intent on another kick. Bad Pete sped
down the trail blindly. Like most of his gun-play kind, he had
little courage when deprived of his implement of murder.
“What’s up, Tom?” demanded Harry Hazelton, leaping to the spot.
“What’s the row, chief?” asked one of the university boys eagerly.
“Anyone you want us to catch? Whoop! Lead the way to the running
track while we show you our best time!”
“There’s nothing to be done, I think,” laughed Tom. “Do you all
know Black by sight?”
“Yes,” came the answer from a score of throats.
“Well,” Tom continued, “if any of you ever catch sight of him
in the camp again you are hereby authorized to run him out by
the use of any kind of tactics that won’t result fatally.”
On the way up the trail Tom told the rescue party something about
the late affair.
However, Reade referred to it only as a personal quarrel, refraining
from making any mention of the treachery of Black and of the plots
of which that treacherous engineer was a part.
“If you’ve many friends like that one, chief, you had better strap
a gun on to your belt.”
“I don’t like revolver carrying,” Tom replied bluntly. “It always
makes a coward of a fellow.”
Two mornings later the telegraph wire, one end of which now rested
in a tent in camp, brought word that President Newnham was at the
construction camp, and would be along in the course of the day.
Tom, Harry and the draughtsmen were the only engineers in camp
at the hour when the message arrived.
“Big doings coming our way!” announced Tom, after he had broken
the news to the others.
“Is Mr. Newnham likely to make much of a shake-up?” asked Watson,
one of the college-boy draughtsmen.
“I’ve never met him,” Tom answered, “and I don’t know. We’re
going along at grand old speed, and Mr. Newnham had better let
things run just as they’re going now, if he wants to see the S.B.
& L. open for traffic within charter time.”
“He may give all of us university boys the swift run,” laughed
another of the draughtsmen.
“I don’t believe it,” Tom replied. “The added help that you fellows
have given us has enabled us to double our rush forward. I’ve a
notion that President Newnham is a man of great common sense.”
“How are the sick men this morning,” inquired Harry. “Is either
one of them fit to talk with the president?”
“Doc Gitney says he won’t allow any caller within a thousand feet
of his patients,” Tom smiled. “And Doc seems to be a man of his
word.”
Both Mr. Thurston and Mr. Blaisdell were now weakly conscious,
in a half-dazed sort of way. Their cases were progressing favorably
on the whole, though it would be weeks ere either would be fit
to take charge of affairs.
The camp had been moved forward, so as to leave the sick men about
a fifth of a mile away from the scenes of camp activity. This
insured quiet for them until they were able to endure noise once more.
“You’ll be amazingly busy until the president gets here, I take
it,” remarked Bushrod, another college boy, without glancing up
from his drawing table.
“Yes,” drawled Tom, with a smile. “When you get time to breathe
look out of the door and see what I’m doing.”
Tom walked over to his favorite seat, a reclining camp chair that
he had placed under a broad shade tree. Seating himself, the
cub chief opened a novel that he had borrowed from one of the
college boys.
“It looks lazy,” yawned Tom, “but what can I do? I’ve hustled
the corps, but I’m up with them to the last minute of work they’ve
done. There is nothing more I can do until they bring me more
work. I might ride out and see how the fellows are coming along
in the field, but I was out there yesterday, and I know all they’re
doing, and everyone of their problems. Besides, if I rode afield,
I’d miss Mr. Newnham.”
So he opened the book and read for an hour. Then he glanced up
as a stranger on horseback rode into camp.
“Tell me where I can find Mr. Reade,” said the new arrival.
“You’re looking at hire,” Tom replied.
“No, son; I want your father,” explained the horseman.
“If you go on horseback it will take you months to reach him,”
Tom explained. “My father lives ’way back east.”
“But I want the chief engineer of this outfit,” insisted the stranger.
“Then you’re at the end of your journey.”
“Don’t tell me, young man, that you’re the chief engineer,” protested
the horseman.
“No,” Tom admitted modestly. “I’m only the acting chief. Hold
on. If you think I’m not responsible for that statement you might
ask any of the fellows over in the headquarters tent.”
At that moment Harry Hazelton thrust his head out through the
doorway.
“Young man,” hailed the stranger, “I want to find the chief.”
“Reach out your hand, and you can touch him on the shoulder,”
answered Hazelton, and turned back.
“I know I don’t look entirely trustworthy,” grinned Tom, “but
I’ve been telling you the truth.”
“Then, perhaps,” continued the stranger, looking keenly at the
cub engineer, “you’ll know why I’m here. I’m Dave Fulsbee.”
“You’re mighty welcome, then,” cried Tom, reaching out his hand.
“I’ve been wondering where you were.”
“I came as soon as I could get the wagon-load of equipment together,”
grinned Fulsbee.
“Where is the wagon?”
“Coming along up the trail. It will be here in about twenty minutes.”
“I’ll be glad to see your equipment, and to set you at work as
soon as we’re ready,” Reade went on. “Harry, show Mr. Fulsbee
the tent we’ve set aside for himself and his helper.”
“Who is that party?” questioned Watson, as Hazelton started off
with the newcomer in tow.
“Oh, just a new expert that we’re taking on,” Tom drawled.
Ten minutes later all other thoughts were driven from Reade’s
mind. A mountain wagon was sighted coming up the trail, drawn
by a pair of grays. The stout gentleman, on the rear seat, dressed
in the latest fashion, even to his highly polished shoes, must
surely be all the way from Broadway.
“Mr. Newnham?” queried Tom, advancing to the wagon as it halted.
“Yes; is Mr. Reade here?”
“You’re speaking to him, sir,” smiled the cub engineer.
Mr. Newnham took a quick look, readjusted his spectacles, and
looked once more. Tom bore the scrutiny calmly.
“I expected to find a very young man here, Mr. Reade, but you’re
considerably younger than I had expected. Yet Howe, in charge
of the construction corps, tells me that you’ve been hustling
matters at this field survey end. How are you, Reade?”
Mr. Newnham descended from the wagon, at once holding out his hand.
“I’m very comfortable, thank you, sir,” Tom smiled.
“You’re dreadfully busy, I’m sure,” continued the president of
the S.B. & L. “In fact, Reade, I feel almost guilty in coming
here and taking up your time when you’ve such a drive on. Don’t
let me detain you. I can go right on into the field and talk
with you there.”
“It won’t be necessary, sir,” Tom answered, with another smile.
“I’m not doing anything in particular.”
“Nothing in particular? Why, I thought-----”
“I don’t do any tearing around myself,” laughed Reade. “Since
you were kind enough to make me acting chief engineer here I’ve
kept the other fellows driving pretty hard, and I have every bit
of work done right up to the minute. Yet, as for myself, I have
little to do, most of the day, except to sit in a camp easy chair,
or else I ride a bit over the ground and see just where the fellows
are working.”
“You take it mighty easily,” murmured President Newnham.
“A chief may, if he has the sense to know how to work his
subordinates,” Tom continued. “I don’t believe, sir, that you’ll
find any fault with the way matters have gone forward.”
“Let me see the latest reports,” urged Mr. Newnham.
“Certainly, sir, if you’ll come into the head-quarters tent.”
Leading the way into the tent where Harry Hazelton and his draughting
force were at work, Tom announced:
“Gentlemen, Mr. Newnham, president of the S.B. & L., wishes to
look over the reports and the maps with me. You may lay off until
called back to work.”
As the others filed out of the tent, Tom made Harry a sign to
remain. Then the three went over the details of what the field
survey party was doing.
“From all I can see,” remarked President Newnham, “you have done
wonderfully well, Reade. I can certainly find no fault with Tim
Thurston for recommending that you be placed in charge. Thurston
will certainly be jealous when he gets on his feet again. You
have driven the work ahead in faster time than Thurston himself
was able to do.”
“It’s very likely, sir,” replied Tom Reade, “that I have had an
easier part of the country to work through than Mr. Thurston had.
Then, again, the taking on of the engineer student party from
the State University has enabled us to get ahead with much greater
speed.”
“I wonder why Thurston never thought to take on the students,”
murmured Mr. Newnham.
Bang! sounded an explosion, a mile or two to the westward.
“I didn’t know that you were doing any blasting, Reade,” observed
the president of the S.B. & L.
“Neither did I, sir,” Tom replied, rising and listening.
Bang! bang! bang! sounded a series of sharp reports.
Tom ran out into the open Mr. Newnham following at a slower gait.
Bang! bang! bang!
“Hi, there, Riley!” roared Tom promptly. “Saddle two horses as
quickly as you can. Harry, make ready to follow with me as soon
as the horses are ready.”
“Is anything wrong?” inquired the president. He was answered by more
explosions in the distance.
“I’m afraid so,” Tom muttered, showing his first trace of uneasiness.
“However, I don’t want to say, Mr. Newnham, until I’ve investigated.”
Before the horses were ready Tom descried, half a mile away, on
a clear bit of trail, a horseman riding in at a furious gallop.
“There comes a messenger, Mr. Newnham,” Tom went on. “We’ll soon
know just what the trouble is.”
“Trouble?” echoed Mr. Newnham, in astonishment. “Then you believe
that is the word, do you?”
“I’m afraid, Mr. Newnham, that you’ve reached here just in time to
see some very real trouble,” was Reade’s quick answer. “But wait
just two minutes, sir, and we’ll have exact information. Guessing
won’t do any good.”
Once or twice, through the trees, they caught sight of the on-rushing
rider. Then Jack Rutter, a big splotch of red on the left sleeve
of his shirt, rode hard into camp.
“Reade,” he shouted, “we’re ambushed! Hidden scoundrels have
been firing on us.”
“You’ve ordered all the men in?” called Tom, as Rutter reined
up beside him.
“Every man of them,” returned Jack. “Poor Reynolds, of the student
party, is rather seriously hit, I’m afraid. Some of the fellows
are bringing him in.”
“You’re hit yourself,” Tom remarked.
“What? That little scratch?” demanded Rutter scornfully. “Don’t
count me as a wounded man, Reade. There are some firearms in
this camp. I want to get the men armed, as far as the weapons
will go, and then I want to go back and smoke out the miserable
rascals!”
“It won’t be wise, Jack,” Tom continued coolly. “You’ll find
that there are too many of the enemy. Besides, you won’t have
to fatigue yourselves by going back over the trail. The scoundrels
will be here, before long. They doubtless intend to wipe out
the camp.”
“Assassins coming to wipe out the camp?” almost exploded President
Newnham. “Reade, this is most extraordinary!”
“It is---very,” Tom assented dryly.
“But who can the villains be?”
“A picked-up gang of gun-fighters, sent here to blow this camp
off the face of the earth, since that is the only way that the
backers of the rival road can find to set us back,” Tom rejoined.
“If they drive us away from here, they’ll attack the construction
force next!”