BLACK’S TRUMP CARD
“You scoundrel---you unhung imitation of Satan himself!” gasped
Reade, great beads of perspiration standing out on his face.
“Oho! We’re fools, are we?” sneered Black “We’re people whom
you can beat with your cheap little tricks about a different signature
for each station on the line, are we? For that was why the conductor
refused the false order at Brewster’s. He has a code of signatures
for train orders---a different signature to be used for messages
at each station?”
Black’s keen mind had solved the reason for the conductor’s refusal
to hold his train on a siding. The conductor _had_ been supplied
with a code list of signatures---a different one for each station
along the line.
“Now, you know,” mocked Black, enjoying every line of anxiety
written on Tom Reade’s face, “that we have you knocked silly.
You know, now, that your train can’t get through by tonight---probably
not even by tomorrow night. You realize at last---eh?---that
you’ve lost your train and your charter---your railroad?”
“I wasn’t thinking of the train, or of the road,” Tom groaned.
“What I’m thinking of is the train, traveling at high speed,
running into that blown-out place. The train will be ditched
and the crew killed. A hundred and fifty passengers with them---many
of them state officials. Oh, Black, I wouldn’t dare stand in
your shoes now! The whole state---the entire country---will unite
in running you down. You can never hope to escape the penalty
of your crime!”
“What are you talking about?” sneered Black. “Do you think I’m
fool enough to ditch the train? No, sir! Don’t believe it.
I’m not running my neck into a noose of that kind. A cluster
of red lights has been spread along the track before the blow-out.
The engineer will see the signals and pull his train up---he
has to, by law! No one on the train will be hurt, but the train
simply can’t get through!”
“Oh, if the train is safe, I don’t care so much,” replied Reade,
the color slowly returning to his face. “As for getting through
tonight, the S.B. & L. has a corps of engineers and a full staff
in other departments. Black, you’ll lose after all your trouble.”
“Humph!” muttered Black unbelievingly. “Your train will have
to get through in less than three hours, Reade!”
“It’ll do it, somehow,” smiled Tom.
“Yes; your engineers will bring it through, somehow,” taunted
Black. “We have the chief of that corps with us right now.”
“That’s all right,” retorted Tom. “You’re welcome to me, if I
can be of any real comfort to you. But you forget that you haven
it my assistant. Harry Hazelton is at large, among his own friends.
Harry will see the train through tonight. Never worry.”
Click-click-click-click! sounded the machine on the barrel.
“It’s the division superintendent at Lineville, calling up Brewster’s,”
announced the operator.
“Answer for Brewster, then,” directed Black. “Let us see what the
division super wants, anyway.”
More clicking followed, after which the operator explained:
“Division super asks Brewster if through train has passed there.”
“Answer, ‘Yes; twelve minutes ago,’” directed Black.
The instrument clicked furiously for a few moments.
“The division super keeps sending, ‘Sign, sign, sign!’” explained
the operator at the barrel. “So I’ve kept on signing ‘Br,’ ‘Br,’
over and over again. That’s the proper signature for Brewster’s.”
Again the machine clicked noisily.
“Still insisting on the signature,” grinned the operator uneasily.
“Do you know the name of the operator at Brewster’s?” demanded
’Gene Black.
“Yes,” nodded the man at the barrel. “The operator at Brewster’s
is a chap named Havens.”
“Then send the signature, ‘Havens, operator, Brewster’s,” ordered Black.
Still the machine clicked insistently.
“Super still yells for my signature,” explained the man at the
barrel desk. “He demands to know whether I’m really the operator
at Brewster’s, or whether I’ve broken in on the wire at some other
point.”
“Don’t answer the division super any further, then,” snorted Black
disgustedly.
Tom, with his ability to read messages, was enjoying the whole
situation until Black, with a sudden flash of his eyes, turned upon
the cub chief engineer.
“Reade,” he hissed, “you must know the proper signature for tonight
for the operator at Brewster’s to use.”
“Nothing doing,” grunted Tom.
“Give us that signature the right one for Brewster’s.”
“Nothing doing,” Tom repeated.
“Put a pistol muzzle to his ear and see his memory brighten,”
snarled the scoundrel.
One of the hard-looking men behind Tom obeyed. Reade, it must
be confessed, shivered slightly when he felt the cold touch of
steel behind his ear.
“Give us the proper signature!” insisted ’Gene.
“Nothing doing,” Tom insisted.
“Give us the right signature, or take the consequences!”
“I can’t give it to you,” Tom replied steadily. “I don’t know
the signature.”
“You lie!”
“Thank you.”
Tom had gotten his drawl back.
“Do you want to have the trigger of that pistol pulled?” cried
’Gene Black hoarsely.
“I certainly don’t,” Tom confessed. “Neither do I doubt that
you fellows are scoundrels enough to do such a trick. However,
I can’t help you, even though I have to lose my life for my ignorance.
I honestly don’t know the right signature for Brewster’s tonight.
That information doesn’t belong to the engineering department,
anyway.”
“Shall I pull the trigger, Black?” asked the man who held the
weapon to Reade’s head.
“Yes; if he doesn’t soon come to his senses,” snarled Black.
“I’ve already told you,” persisted Tom, “that I couldn’t give
you the proper signature, even if I wanted to---which I don’t.”
“You may be glad to talk before we’re through with you tonight,”
threatened Black. “The time for trifling is past. Either give
us that signature or else prepare to take the consequences. For
the last time, are you going to answer my question?”
“I’ve told you the truth,” Reade insisted. “If you won’t believe
me, then there is nothing more to be said.”
“You lie, if you insist that you don’t know the signatures for
tonight!” cried Black savagely.
“All right, then,” sighed Tom. “I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
From off in the distance came the shrill too-oo-oot! of a locomotive.
Tom Reade heard, and, despite his fears for his safety, an exclamation
of joy escaped him.
“Oh, you needn’t build any false hopes,” sneered Black. “That
whistle doesn’t come from the through train. It’s one of the
locomotives that the S.B. & L. had delivered over the D.V. & S.,
which makes a junction with your road at Lineville. A locomotive
or a train at the Lineville end won’t help your crowd any. That
isn’t the through train required by the charter. The S.B. & L.
loses the game, just the same.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Tom argued. “The S.B. & L. road was finished
within charter time. No railroad can get a train through if the
opposition sends out men to dynamite the tracks.”
“Humph!” jeered Black maliciously. “That dynamited roadbed won’t
save your crowd. The opposition can make it plain enough that
your crowd dynamited its own roadbed through a well-founded fear
that the tracks clear through weren’t strong enough to stand the
passing of a train. Don’t be afraid, Reader the enemies of your
road will know how to explain the dynamiting this side of Brewster’s.”
“That’s a question for tomorrow, Black,” rejoined Tom Reade.
“No man can ever tell, today, what tomorrow will bring forth.”
Too-oo-oot! sounded a locomotive whistle again. One of the men
in the thicket threw himself to the ground, pressing his ear to
the earth.
“There’s a train, or a locomotive, at least, coming this way from
Lineville, boss,” reported the fellow.
“A train?” gasped Black. Then his face cleared. “Oh, well, even
if it’s a fully equipped wrecking train, it can’t get the road
mended in time to bring the through train in before midnight,
as the charter demands.”
Now the train from Lineville came closer, and the whirr of its
approach was audible along the steel rails. The engine’s bell
was clanging steadily, too, after the manner of the engines of
“specials.”
’Gene Black crowded to the outer edge of the thicket, peering
through intently. The bright headlight of an approaching locomotive
soon penetrated this part of the forest. Then the train rolled
swiftly by.
“Humph!” muttered Black. “Only an engine, a baggage car and one
day coach. That kind of train can’t carry much in the way of
relief.”
As the train passed out of sight the engine sent back a screeching
whistle.
“The engineer is laughing at you, Black,” jeered Tom.
“Let him,” sneered the other. “I have the good fortune to know
where the laugh belongs.”
Toot! toot! too-oot-oot! Something else was coming down the track
from Lineville. Then it passed the beholders in the thicket---a full
train of engine and seven cars.
“Good old Harry Hazelton!” glowed Tom Reade. “I’ll wager that
was Harry’s thought---a pilot ahead, and then the real train!”
“Small good it will do,” laughed ’Gene Black disagreeably.
Then, a new thought striking him, he added:
“Bill Hoskins, you and some of the men get the dynamite under
the track opposite here. You know how to do it! Hustle!”
“You bet I know how,” growled Bill eagerly, as he stepped forward,
picking out the fellows he wanted as his helpers. “I’ll have
the blast against the roadbed here ready in five minutes, Black.”
“Now, you’ll have three trains stalled along the line tonight,
Cub Reade,” laughed Black sneeringly. “Getting any train as
far as this won’t count for a copper’s worth! Your road has
to get a through train all the way into Lineville before midnight.
We’ll blow out the roadbed here, and then where are you?”