Stories by American Authors, Volume 6 by Various

V >> Various >> Stories by American Authors, Volume 6

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9

Sinclair stepped quickly to the door of his bedroom, and motioned Foster
to enter. Then there came a knock at the outer door, and he opened it
and stood on the threshold, erect and firm. Half a dozen "toughs" faced
him.

"Major," said their spokesman, "we want that man."

"You cannot have him, boys."

"Major, we're a-goin' to take him."

"You had better not try," said Sinclair, with perfect ease and
self-possession, and in a pleasant voice. "I have given him shelter, and
you can only get him over my dead body. Of course you can kill me, but
you won't do even that without one or two of you going down; and then
you know perfectly well, boys, what will happen. You _know_ that if you
lay your finger on a railroad man it's all up with you. There are five
hundred men in the tie-camp, not five miles away, and you don't need to
be told that in less than one hour after they get word there won't be a
piece of one of you big enough to bury."

The men made no reply. They looked him straight in the eyes for a
moment. Had they seen a sign of flinching they might have risked the
issue, but there was none. With muttered curses, they slunk away.
Sinclair shut and bolted the door, then opened the one leading to the
bedroom.

"Foster," he said, "the train will pass here in half an hour. Have you
money enough?"

"Plenty, Major."

"Very well; keep perfectly quiet, and I will try to get you safely off."
He went to an adjoining room and called Sam, the contractor's man. He
took in the situation at a glance.

"Wa'al, Foster," said he, "kind o' 'close call' for yer, warn't it?
Guess yer'd better be gittin' up an' gittin' pretty lively. The train
boys will take yer through, an' yer kin come back when this racket's
worked out."

Sinclair glanced at his watch, then he walked to the window and looked
out. On a small _mesa_, or elevated-plateau, commanding the path to the
railroad, he saw a number of men with rifles.

"Just as I expected," said he. "Sam, ask one of the boys to go down to
the track and, when the train arrives, tell the conductor to come here."

In a few minutes the whistle was heard, and the conductor entered the
building. Receiving his instructions, he returned, and immediately on
engine, tender, and platform appeared the trainmen, with _their_ rifles
covering the group on the bluff. Sinclair put on his hat.

"Now, Foster," said he, "we have no time to lose. Take Sam's arm and
mine, and walk between us."

The trio left the building and walked deliberately to the railroad. Not
a word was spoken. Besides the men in sight on the train, two behind the
window-blinds of the one passenger coach, and unseen, kept their fingers
on the triggers of their repeating carbines. It seemed a long time,
counted by anxious seconds, until Foster was safe in the coach.

"All ready, conductor," said Sinclair. "Now, Foster, good-by. I am not
good at lecturing, but if I were you, I would make this the
turning-point in my life."

Foster was much moved.

"I will do it, Major," said he; "and I shall never forget what you have
done for me to-day. I am sure we shall meet again."

With another shriek from the whistle the train started. Sinclair and Sam
saw the men quietly returning the firearms to their places as it
gathered way. Then they walked back to their quarters. The men on the
_mesa_, balked of their purpose, had withdrawn.

Sam accompanied Sinclair to his door, and then sententiously remarked:
"Major, I think I'll light out and find some of the boys. You ain't got
no call to know anything about it, but I allow it's about time them
cusses was bounced."

Three nights after this, a powerful party of _Vigilantes_, stern and
inexorable, made a raid on all the gambling dens, broke the tables and
apparatus, and conducted the men to a distance from the town, where they
left them with an emphatic and concise warning as to the consequences
of any attempt to return. An exception was made in Jeff Johnson's
case--but only for the sake of his daughter--for it was found that many
a "little game" had been carried on in his house.

Erelong he found it convenient to sell his business and retire to a town
some miles to the eastward, where the railroad influence was not as
strong as at Barker's. At about this time, Sinclair made his
arrangements to go to New York, with the pleasant prospect of marrying
the young lady in Fifth Avenue. In due time he arrived at Barker's with
his young and charming wife and remained for some days. The changes were
astounding. Common-place respectability had replaced abnormal
lawlessness. A neat station stood where had been the rough contractor's
buildings. At a new "Windsor" (or was it "Brunswick"?) the performance
of the kitchen contrasted sadly (alas! how common is such contrast in
these regions) with the promise of the _menu_. There was a tawdry
theatre yclept "Academy of Music," and there was not much to choose in
the way of ugliness between two "meeting-houses."

"Upon my word, my dear," said Sinclair to his wife, "I ought to be
ashamed to say it, but I prefer Barker's _au naturel_."

One evening, just before the young people left the town, and as Mrs.
Sinclair sat alone in her room, the frowsy waitress announced "a lady,"
and was requested to bid her enter. A woman came with timid mien into
the room, sat down, as invited, and removed her veil. Of course the
young bride had never known Sally Johnson, the whilom belle of Barker's,
but her husband would have noticed at a glance how greatly she was
changed from the girl who walked with Foster past the engineers'
quarters. It would be hard to find a more striking contrast than was
presented by the two women as they sat facing each other: the one in the
flush of health and beauty, calm, sweet, self-possessed; the other still
retaining some of the shabby finery of old days, but pale and haggard,
with black rings under her eyes, and a pathetic air of humiliation.

"Mrs. Sinclair," she hurriedly began, "you do not know me, nor the like
of me. I've got no right to speak to you, but I couldn't help it. Oh!
please believe me, I am not real downright bad. I'm Sally Johnson,
daughter of a man whom they drove out of the town. My mother died when I
was little, and I _never_ had a show; and folks think because I live
with my father, and he makes me know the crowd he travels with, that I
must be in with them, and be of their sort. I never had a woman speak a
kind word to me, and I've had so much trouble that I'm just drove wild,
and like to kill myself; and then I was at the station when you came in,
and I saw your sweet face and the kind look in your eyes, and it came in
my heart that I'd speak to you if I died for it." She leaned eagerly
forward, her hands nervously closing on the back of a chair. "I suppose
your husband never told you of me; like enough he never knew me; but
I'll never forget him as long as I live. When he was here before, there
was a young man "--here a faint color came in the wan cheeks--"who was
fond of me, and I thought the world of him, and my father was down on
him, and the men that father was in with wanted to kill him; and Mr.
Sinclair saved his life. He's gone away, and I've waited and waited for
him to come back--and perhaps I'll never see him again. But oh! dear
lady, I'll never forget what your husband did. He's a good man, and he
deserves the love of a dear good woman like you, and if I dared, I'd
pray for you both, night and day."

She stopped suddenly and sank back in her seat, pale as before, and as
if frightened by her own emotion. Mrs. Sinclair had listened with
sympathy and increasing interest.

"My poor girl," she said, speaking tenderly (she had a lovely, soft
voice) and with slightly heightened color, "I am delighted that you came
to see me, and that my husband was able to help you. Tell me, can we not
do more for you? I do not for one moment believe you can be happy with
your present surroundings. Can we not assist you to leave them?"

The girl rose, sadly shaking her head. "I thank you for your words," she
said. "I don't suppose I'll ever see you again, but I'll say, God bless
you!"

She caught Mrs. Sinclair's hand, pressed it to her lips, and was gone.

Sinclair found his wife very thoughtful when he came home, and he
listened with much interest to her story.

"Poor girl!" said he; "Foster is the man to help her. I wonder where he
is? I must inquire about him."

The next day they proceeded on their way to San Francisco, and matters
drifted on at Barker's much as before. Johnson had, after an absence of
some months, come back and lived without molestation, amid the shifting
population. Now and then, too, some of the older residents fancied they
recognized, under slouched sombreros, the faces of some of his former
"crowd" about the "Ranchman's Home," as his gaudy saloon was called.

Late on the very evening on which this story opens, and they had been
"making up" the Denver Express in the train-house on the Missouri, "Jim"
Watkins, agent and telegrapher at Barker's, was sitting in his little
office, communicating with the station rooms by the ticket window. Jim
was a cool, silent, efficient man, and not much given to talk about such
episodes in his past life as the "wiping out" by Indians of the
construction party to which he belonged, and his own rescue by the
scouts. He was smoking an old and favorite pipe, and talking with one of
"the boys" whose head appeared at the wicket. On a seat in the station
sat a woman in a black dress and veil, apparently waiting for a train.

"Got a heap of letters and telegrams there, ain't year, Jim?" remarked
the man at the window.

"Yes," replied Jim; "they're for Engineer Sinclair, to be delivered to
him when he passes through here. He left on No. 17, to-night." The
inquirer did not notice the sharp start of the woman near him.

"Is that good-lookin' wife of his'n a comin' with him?" asked he.

"Yes, there's letters for her, too."

"Well, good-night, Jim. See yer later," and he went out. The woman
suddenly rose and ran to the window.

"Mr. Watkins," cried she, "can I see you for a few moments, where no one
can interrupt us? It's a matter of life and death." She clutched the
sill with her thin hands, and her voice trembled. Watkins recognized
Sally Johnson in a moment. He unbolted a door, motioned her to enter,
closed and again bolted it, and also closed the ticket window. Then he
pointed to a chair, and the girl sat down and leaned eagerly forward.

"If they knew I was here," she said in a hoarse whisper, "my life
wouldn't be safe five minutes. I was waiting to tell you a terrible
story, and then I heard who was on the train due here to-morrow night.
Mr. Watkins, don't, for God's sake, ask me how I found out, but I hope
to die if I ain't telling you the living truth! They're going to wreck
that train--No. 17--at Dead Man's Crossing, fifteen miles east, and rob
the passengers and the express car. It's the worst gang in the country,
_Perry's_. They're going to throw the train off the track the passengers
will be maimed and killed,--and Mr. Sinclair and his wife on the cars!
Oh! My God! Mr. Watkins, send them warning!"

She stood upright, her face deadly pale, her hands clasped. Watkins
walked deliberately to the railroad map which hung on the wall and
scanned it. Then he resumed his seat, laid his pipe down, fixed his eyes
on the girl's face, and began to question her. At the same time his
right hand, with which he had held the pipe, found its way to the
telegraph key. None but an expert could have distinguished any change in
the _clicking_ of the instrument, which had been almost incessant; but
Watkins had "called" the head office on the Missouri. In two minutes the
"sounder" rattled out "_All right! What is it_?"

Watkins went on with his questions, his eyes still fixed on the poor
girl's face, and all the time his fingers, as it were, playing with the
key. If he were imperturbable, so was _not_ a man sitting at a receiving
instrument nearly five hundred miles away. He had "taken" but a few
words when he jumped from his chair and cried:

"Shut that door, and call the superintendent and be quick! Charley,
brace up--lively--and come and write this out!" With his wonderful
electric pen, the handle several hundred of miles long, Watkins,
unknown to his interlocutor, was printing in the Morse alphabet this
startling message:

"Inform'n rec'd. Perry gang going to throw No. 17 off
track near--xth mile-post, this division, about nine to-morrow
(Thursday) night, kill passengers, and rob express and mail.
Am alone here. No chance to verify story, but believe it to be
on square. Better make arrangements from your end to block
game. No Sheriff here now. Answer."

The superintendent, responding to the hasty summons, heard the message
before the clerk had time to write it out. His lips were closely
compressed as he put his own hand on the key and sent these laconic
sentences: "_O.K. Keep perfectly dark. Will manage from this end_."

Watkins, at Barker's, rose from his seat, opened the door a little way,
saw that the station was empty, and then said to the girl, brusquely,
but kindly:

"Sally, you've done the square thing, and saved that train. I'll take
care that you don't suffer and that you get well paid. Now come home
with me, and my wife will look out for you."

"Oh! no," cried the girl, shrinking back, "I must run away. You're
mighty kind, but I daren't go with you." Detecting a shade of doubt in
his eye, she added: "Don't be afeared; I'll die before they'll know I've
given them away to you!" and she disappeared in the darkness.

At the other end of the wire, the superintendent had quietly impressed
secrecy on his operator and clerk ordered his fast mare harnessed, and
gone to his private office.

"Read that!" said he to his secretary, "it was about time for some
trouble of this kind, and now I'm going to let Uncle Sam take care of
his mails. If I don't get to the reservation before the General's turned
in, I shall have to wake him up. Wait for me, please."

They gray mare made the six miles to the military reservation in just
half an hour. The General was smoking his last _cigar_, and was alert in
an instant; and before the superintendent had finished the jorum of "hot
Scotch" hospitably tendered, the orders had gone by wire to the
commanding officer at Fort----, some distance east of Barker's, and been
duly acknowledged.

Returning to the station, the superintendent remarked to the waiting
secretary:

"The General's all right. Of course we can't tell that this is not a
sell; but if those Perry hounds mean business they'll get all the fight
they want; and if they've got any souls--which I doubt--may the Lord
have mercy on them!"

He prepared several despatches, two of which were as follows:

"MR. HENRY SINCLAIR:

"On No. 17, Pawnee Junction:

This telegram your authority to take charge of train on which
you are, and demand obedience of all officials and trainmen on
road. Please do so, and act in accordance with information
wired station agent at Pawnee Junction."

To the Station Agent:

"Reported Perry gang will try wreck and rob No. 17 near--xth
mile-post. Denver Division, about nine Thursday night
Troops will await train at Fort----. Car ordered ready for
them. Keep everything secret, and act in accordance with
orders of Mr. Sinclair."

"It's worth about ten thousand dollars," sententiously remarked he,
"that Sinclair's on that train. He's got both sand and brains.
Good-night," and he went to bed and slept the sleep of the just.

III.

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 a--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, till 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 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'
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, 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
unconcerned 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.

Pages:
1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9