" ' Was you thinkin' av lavin', Mr. Holman ? '" 
 
ON THE IRON AT 
 BIG CLOUD 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK L. PACKARD 
 
 NEW YORK 
 THOMAS Y. CROWEU, COMPANY 
 
 PUBLISHERS 
 
COPYRIGHT, 1911, 
 BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY. 
 
 Published September, 1911. 
 
. 
 
 T/J? 
 
 TO 
 
 MY FATHER 
 
 lluetug 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 PAOS 
 
 I. RAFFERTY'S RULE i 
 
 II. THE LITTLE SUPER 22 
 
 III. " IF A MAN DIE " 43 
 
 IV. SPITZER 66 
 
 V. SHANLEY'S LUCK 92 
 
 VI. THE BUILDER 123 
 
 VII. THE GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE ... 153 
 
 VIII. THE BLOOD OF KINGS 182 
 
 IX. MARLEY 210 
 
 X. THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 237 
 
 XL " WHERE'S HAGGERTY? " 256 
 
 XII. MCQUEEN'S HOBBY 274 
 
 XIII. THE REBATE 292 
 
 XIV. SPECKLES 308 
 
 XV. MUNFORD : 323 
 
 M532952 
 
ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 RAFFERTY'S RULE 
 
 THE General Manager of the Transcontinental 
 System glared at the young man who stood facing him 
 across the office desk. " Why, you wouldn't last 
 three months ! " he snapped. 
 
 " I'd like to try, uncle." 
 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 " I'm qualified for the position," young Holman 
 went on. " I've done my stint with the construction 
 gangs and I've spent four years in the Eastern shops. 
 You promised me that if I'd stick I'd have my chance." 
 
 " Well, if I did, I didn't promise to put you in the 
 way of making a fool of yourself and a laughing-stock 
 of me, did I? You may be qualified technically, I 
 don't say you're not. In fact, I've been rather pleased 
 with you; that's one reason why you're not going out 
 there to tackle something you can't handle. If men 
 like Rawson and Williams can't hold down the job, 
 what do you expect to do ? " 
 
 " No worse than they, at least," Holman answered, 
 quietly. " Look here, uncle, that's just the point. 
 There aren't any of the men want the position, so I'm 
 not jumping anybody to take it. I'll not make any 
 laughing-stock of you, either. I'm not going out as 
 
2 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 the Old Man's nephew; just plain Dick Holman. If 
 I don't make good you can wash your hands of my 
 railroad career." 
 
 " Young man," said the General Manager, severely, 
 " don't make rash statements." 
 
 He pushed the papers on his desk irritably to one 
 side. Then he frowned. Two years ago, when the 
 road had dug, blasted, burrowed, and trestled its right 
 of way through the mountains, they had built the 
 repair shops for the maintenance of the rolling stock, 
 and from the moment the first brass time-check had 
 been issued the locomotive-foremanship of the Hill 
 Division was no subject to be introduced with temerity 
 anywhere within the precincts of the executive offices. 
 One man after another had gone out there, and one 
 after another they had resigned. " Hard lot to 
 handle," Carleton, the division superintendent, had 
 replied to the numerous requests for explanation that 
 had been fired at him. And now Dick wanted to go. 
 The general manager's fingers beat a tattoo on the 
 desk and his frown deepened into a scowl. " You're 
 a young fool," he grunted at last. 
 
 And Holman knew that he had gained his point. 
 " That's very good of you, uncle," he cried. " I knew 
 you'd see it my way. When may I start ? " 
 
 " I guess you'll get there soon enough," his uncle 
 answered grimly. He rose from his chair and accom- 
 panied Holman to the door. "Well, go if you want 
 to, but remember this, young man, you're going on 
 your own terms. When you resign from that posi- 
 tion, you resign from the road, understand ! " 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 3 
 
 i 
 
 " All right, uncle/' Holman laughed in reply. " It's 
 a bargain." 
 
 Three days later, as Number One pulled into Big 
 Cloud, Holman swung himself to the platform. Up 
 past the mail and baggage cars, the steam drumming 
 at her safety, a big ten-wheeler was backing down to 
 couple on for the run through the Rockies. There 
 was the pride of proprietorship in his glance as his 
 eyes swept the great mogul critically, for in his pocket 
 was his official appointment as Locomotive Foreman 
 of the Hill Division, vice Williams, resigned. 
 
 It was not until the last of the Pullmans had rolled 
 smoothly past him that he turned to take stock in his 
 surroundings. The first impression was not prepos- 
 sessing. Before him, just across the yard filled with 
 strings of freight cars, were the low, rambling, smoke- 
 begrimed shops and running shed, while beyond these 
 again the town straggled out monotonously. 
 
 To the westward, through the mountains, were the 
 curves and grades that wrenched and racked and tore 
 the equipment he would hereafter be accountable for. 
 To the eastward but " eastward " was only two hun- 
 dred yards away, for there his eye caught the " Yard 
 Limit " post, that likewise marked the end of the 
 division. 
 
 If after this cursory survey there still lingered any 
 illusions of the picturesque in Holman's mind, they 
 were rudely dispelled by the interior of the barn-like 
 structure at the side of the platform that did duty for 
 station, division headquarters, general storeroom, and 
 anything else that might seek the shelter of its pro- 
 
4 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 tecting roof. The walls were adorned with such 
 works of art as are afforded by the Sunday supple- 
 ments, interspersed here and there with an occasional 
 blue-print and time schedule. The furnishings bore 
 unmistakable evidence of having seen service with the 
 construction staff when the road was in the making. 
 At the right of the door, as Holman entered, the 
 despatcher was poring over the train sheet. 
 
 " Sure," said he in answer to Holman's inquiry, 
 " that's the super over there." 
 
 Holman crossed the room and proffered his creden- 
 tials. 
 
 " Glad you've come," was Carleton's greeting, as he 
 rose and extended his hand. " We've been expecting 
 you. Williams went East this morning on Number 
 Two. Sit down. That's your desk there." 
 
 Holman glanced at the battered table toward which 
 the other pointed, then back again to the four days' 
 growth on the super's face. 
 
 Carleton grinned. " Fixings aren't up to what you 
 boiled-shirt fellows down East are used to. Out here 
 on the firing line most anything goes. I've been 
 requisitioning office fixtures for months. Ain't seen 
 any way-bill of them yet, Davis, have you? " he called 
 across to the despatcher. 
 
 Davis got up with a laugh and joined the other two, 
 " No," said he, shaking hands with Holman, " not 
 yet." 
 
 " And not likely to, either," continued the super. 
 " It's rough and ready out here, Holman. The staff 
 quarters up there," he jerked his thumb toward the 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 5 
 
 ceiling, " are all-fired crude, and the Chinese cook is a 
 gilt-edge thief and most persuasive liar; but we've got 
 the finest division of the best railroad in the world, 
 and we're pushing stuff through the mountains on a 
 schedule that makes Southern competition sick. We're 
 young here yet. Some day, when the roadbed's shaken 
 down to stay, we'll build the extras." 
 
 The enthusiasm and bluff heartiness of the super 
 was contagious. Holman put out his hand impul- 
 sively. " We've heard a lot of you fellows down 
 East," he said, "and I'm glad 'I've got a chance to 
 chip in." His eyes swept around the room and came 
 back to meet the super's smilingly. " Even if accom- 
 modations are below ' Tourist Class/ " he added. 
 
 So Holman came to the division and joined the 
 staff. Spence, chief dispatcher, had shaken his head. 
 " Twenty-eight and locomotive foreman of this divi- 
 sion with the roughest, toughest bunch on the system's 
 pay-roll to handle ! Hanged if he isn't a decent sort, 
 though, even if he will shave and wear collars. 
 Imagine Williams with creased trousers! And say, 
 his wardrobe he's actually got a dress suit with him ! 
 Wouldn't that ground the wires! Who is he, Car- 
 leton ? Got a pull with the Old Man ? " 
 
 " Didn't inquire," returned Carleton bluntly. " Let 
 him try out." 
 
 If the super waited before passing judgment on the 
 latest addition to the staff of the Hill Division, the 
 shop hands did likewise but for another reason. 
 They waited for Rafferty. Rafferty was boss. Who 
 Rafferty's boss was, was his affair, and it did not con- 
 
6 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 cern them. What Rafferty said went. It was two 
 weeks before he delivered his verdict. 
 
 " A damned pink-faced dude ! " he announced and 
 terminated his remark with a stream of black-strap 
 juice by way of an exclamation mark. 
 
 The fiat had gone forth ! 
 
 Down in the pits, stripping the engines of their 
 motion gear, the fitters passed resolutions of con- 
 fidence in Rafferty's judgment, and among the lathes 
 and planers the machinists did likewise. The concur- 
 rence of the forge gang was expressed by a vicious 
 wielding of the big sledges that sent showers of sparks 
 flying from the spluttering metal whenever Holman 
 was sighted coming down the shop on a tour of in- 
 spection a significant intimation to him to keep his 
 distance. And that the sentiment of the shops might 
 not be lacking in unanimity, the boilermakers, should 
 Holman have the temerity to pause for an instant 
 before a shell on which they were at work, would send 
 up a din from their clattering hammers intolerable to 
 any but the men themselves whose ears were plugged 
 with cotton waste. 
 
 As for Holman, he might have been entirely un- 
 conscious of the hostility and ill-will of his subor- 
 dinates for all the evidence he gave of being aware of 
 it. He was busy mastering the routine and details of 
 his new position. For a month he said nothing; then 
 one morning over at headquarters he turned to Carle- 
 ton, who was reading the train mail that had just 
 come in. 
 
 " Why did Williams resign ? " he asked quietly. 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 7 
 
 "Eh?" said Carleton, startled out of his calm by 
 reason of the suddenness of the question. 
 
 "Why did Williams resign?" Holman repeated. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. Tired of the life out here, I 
 guess," Carleton evaded. 
 
 "Was it Rafferty?" 
 
 Carleton turned sharply to scrutinize the other's 
 countenance. Holman was gazing out of the window. 
 
 " It was Rafferty," Carleton admitted after a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Holman's gaze never shifted from the window. 
 "Why wasn't Rafferty fired?" he asked in the same 
 quiet tones, but this time there was just the faintest 
 tinge of accusation in his voice. 
 
 Carleton's face flushed. An instant's hesitation, 
 then he answered bluntly : " He weighed more, that's 
 why ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " said Holman significantly. " Then why 
 didn't you recommend Rafferty for the position long 
 ago and save all the trouble ? " 
 
 " I would have if he could do anything more than 
 sign his name." 
 
 Holman turned angrily to face the super. " So," 
 he cried, " when a fellow comes out here he has to play 
 a lone hand, eh? A show-down with Rafferty, shop 
 hands, and the whole division drawing cards against 
 him. You, Carleton, I didn't put you down as a man 
 with a pet." 
 
 Carleton got up and put his hand on Holman's 
 shoulder. " Don't do it, either," he said quietly. 
 " Don't run off your schedule that way, son. It has 
 
8 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 always been man to man, and I wasn't appealed to. 
 So far it has been all Rafferty. It's easier to get a 
 new foreman than a new shop crew, so I haven't in- 
 terfered." 
 
 " I don't understand," said Holman blankly. 
 
 The super laughed shortly. " Rafferty has the men 
 where he wants them. If he got on his ear he could 
 tie us up so quick we wouldn't know what happened. 
 A nice thing for me to admit, isn't it ? But it's so. I 
 suppose I should have nipped the whole business in 
 the bud, but I kept on hoping that each new man 
 would beat Rafferty at his own game. Has he got 
 you going, too ? " 
 
 Holman gathered up the repair reports from his 
 desk and started for the door. " Game's young yet," 
 he flung over his shoulder as he went out. 
 
 From the office Holman walked up the yard to the 
 spur tracks at the end of the shops where three or 
 four engines were waiting their turn for an empty pit. 
 He glanced at their numbers, comparing them with 
 the papers he held in his hand, then turned and walked 
 back, pausing on the way to inspect an engine, bright 
 and clean as fresh paint and gold leaf would make 
 her, that had been hauled out of the shops that morn- 
 ing. He passed in through the upper doors to the 
 fitting-shop. Already another engine had been 
 shunted in to replace the one that had gone out. Her 
 guard-plates, links, cross-heads, main and connecting 
 rods were lying on the floor beside her, and the labor 
 gang were jacking and blocking her up preparatory 
 to running the wheels out from underneath her. 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 9 
 
 There was a trace of heightened color in Holman's 
 face as he turned to look for Rafferty. 
 
 The boss fitter was in his usual place. Down the 
 shop, hands dug deep in his trousers pockets, legs 
 spread wide apart, he swung slowly round and round 
 on the little iron turntable that intersected the hand- 
 car tracks where they branched out in all directions 
 through the shops. As Holman approached he stopped 
 the motion indolently by allowing the toe of his boot 
 to trail along the floor around the table. 
 
 Holman's manner was quiet and his voice was soft, 
 almost deferential, as he spoke : " I see you have 483 
 finished, Mr. Rafferty." 
 
 Rafferty looked down from his superior two inches 
 and said : " Yis." 
 
 " And," continued Holman, " you've run in 840 in 
 her place." 
 
 " Yis," said Rafferty again, this time even more 
 indifferently than before. 
 
 " Well, now, really, Mr. Rafferty, I'd like to know 
 why you did it ? You know I told you yesterday to be 
 particular to take 522 next." Holman's tones were 
 more nearly those of apology than of expostulation. 
 
 For answer Rafferty gave a little shove with his 
 foot and the turntable began to revolve slowly. Dur- 
 ing the circuit Rafferty coolly gave some directions to 
 the men nearest him, and then as he once more came 
 round facing Holman he stopped. " Fwhat was ut 
 you was sayin', Mr. Holman ? " he drawled. 
 
 " This is the biggest division on the system, isn't 
 it? " Holman asked inconsequently. 
 
io ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Eh? " demanded Rafferty. 
 
 " Longest division most mileage covers quite a 
 stretch of country," Holman amplified. 
 
 "Oh!" returned the other with a grin. "Well, 
 you'll be thinkin' so if you ever sthay long enough to 
 git acquainted wid ut." 
 
 " Perhaps that's the reason I am beginning to feel 
 cramped I've only been here a month, you know," 
 Holman smiled. 
 
 "Fwhat d'ye mean?" 
 
 " Why, curiously, it doesn't seem big enough or 
 wide enough or long enough for even two men." 
 
 Holman purred his words in soft, mild accents, and 
 Rafferty, understanding, sneered in quick retort : 
 f< Was you thinkin' av lavin', Mr. Holman ? " 
 
 " No," said Holman, slowly, " I don't know that I 
 was. I thought perhaps the matter might be adjusted, 
 and I'd like to ask your advice. Now, if you were 
 locomotive foreman and you found that the foreman 
 of this shop, in a dirty, low, underhanded fashion was 
 discrediting you with the men, and furthermore flatly 
 disobeyed your orders, what would you do, Mr. 
 Rafferty?" 
 
 By the time Holman had completed his arraign- 
 ment, Rafferty was mad fighting mad. " I'll tell 
 you fwhat I'd do," he yelled, shaking a great horny 
 fist under Holman's nose. " I'd plug him good an' 
 hard, that's fwhat I'd do ! See ! " 
 
 " Rather drastic," Holman commented after a 
 pause, during which Rafferty drew back and with 
 hands on hips stood scowling belligerently. " But 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE II 
 
 desperate cases sometimes require desperate remedies, 
 and I don't know but that " his fist shot out and 
 caught Rafferty fairly on the point of the jaw 
 "you're right!" 
 
 Rafferty, staggering back from the impact of the 
 blow, set the table whirling. His feet went out from 
 under him and he fell sprawling to the floor. As he 
 picked himself up, Holman sprang toward him and 
 swinging twice landed two vicious smashes on Raf- 
 ferty 's face. Then, except for a confused recollection 
 of a rush of men, that was all Holman remem- 
 bered until he opened his eyes to find himself in his 
 bunk at headquarters with Carleton bending over 
 him. 
 
 "You're a sight," Carleton commented grimly. 
 " What was the muss about? " 
 
 Holman explained. " I took Rafferty's advice and 
 plugged him, you see, and after that " 
 
 " After that if it hadn't been for old Joe, the turner, 
 running over here to tell us, they'd have killed you. 
 Don't you know any better than to stack up against 
 Rafferty like that, let alone the whole gang? Did you 
 expect to do them all up ? " 
 
 " No, not exactly. I expected there'd be something 
 coming to me, but I had to do it. I'll admit, Carleton, 
 I was in a blue funk, but I just had to. Moral effect, 
 you know." 
 
 " Yes," said Carleton savagely, " the moral effect 
 is great! It will be as much as your life is worth to 
 put your head inside those shops again. You don't 
 know the men you're dealing with out here." 
 
12 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 ' You're wrong, dead wrong, Carleton, I do. You 
 said it was man to man, didn't you ? Well, then, either 
 I'm running the shops or Rafferty is. Rafferty has 
 the men with him because he's a bully and they're 
 afraid of him. It was mere force of habit made them 
 pile on to me. You wait until they're cooled off a bit 
 and see." 
 
 But Carleton shook his head. " You're a bloomin' 
 fool," he summed up judicially, "but here, shake! 
 You've got your grit with you, if you did leave your 
 sense behind." 
 
 For the rest of the morning Holman nursed his in- 
 juries, but at one o'clock he was at his desk again. 
 Five minutes afterward Rafferty came in. He was 
 not a pretty sight with his cut lip and battered eye as 
 he limped past both Spence and Holman. With a 
 vindictive glare at the latter he marched straight 
 across the room to where Carleton sat. He leaned 
 both hands on the super's desk. 
 
 " Ut'll be just a show-down, Mr. Carleton, that's 
 all there is to ut. Me or him, which ? " he announced. 
 
 Carleton tilted his chair back, put his feet up on the 
 desk and his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. 
 " State your case, Rafferty," he said calmly. 
 
 "Case!" Rafferty spluttered. "Case is ut? I'm 
 sick av bein' bossed bye kids out av school that was 
 buildin' blocks whin I was buildin' enjines. I quit or 
 he does ! " Rafferty jerked his thumb in Holman's 
 direction. 
 
 " Is that all you have to say, Rafferty? " 
 
 " That's about the size av ut." 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 13 
 
 " Very well, Rafferty, you can get your time," said 
 Carleton quietly. 
 
 For a moment Rafferty stared as though he had not 
 heard aright, then he swung round on his heel only to 
 turn again and face the super with a short laugh. " All 
 right, Mr. Carleton, you're the docthor. It's satisfied 
 I am. Whin I go out, every bloomin' man in the shops 
 'ull go out wid me ! " 
 
 Carleton's feet came off the desk like a shot, his 
 chair came down to the floor with a bang, and the 
 next instant he was standing in front of the boss 
 fitter. 
 
 " See here, Rafferty," he blazed, " you know me 
 the men know me. While I've held the bank there's 
 been fifty-two cards in the case and every mother's son 
 of you has had a square deal. You know it, don't 
 you? No man on this division ever came to me 
 with just cause for complaint but had a chance to state 
 his grievance on a clear track and no limit on his 
 permit either. Now, I'm entitled to the same line of 
 treatment I hand out, and I won't stand for threats ! " 
 
 Rafferty shifted uneasily and to hide his confusion 
 reached for his " chewing." " We've nothin' agin 
 you, Mn Carleton, an' I'm givin' you fair warnin'," 
 he mumbled as his teeth met in the plug. 
 
 " When you make trouble on this division you make 
 trouble for me," said Carleton bluntly. " As for warn- 
 ing, I give you warning now that if you start any dis- 
 turbance in those shops it will be the worse for you. 
 Now go ! " 
 
 They watched him through the windows as he 
 
14 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 crossed the tracks. Finally, as he disappeared inside 
 the shops, Carleton turned with a grave face. 
 
 " I'm afraid it's going to be a bad business," he 
 said. 
 
 " You don't mean to say," Holman burst out, " that 
 the men are fools enough to quit just because one man 
 with a grouch says so, do you ? " 
 
 " I told you that you didn't know the class of men 
 out here they're partisan to the core it's bred in 
 them. I'm not blaming you, Holman not for a 
 minute! As I said this morning, I've seen it coming 
 for a long while long before Williams gave up 
 the ghost. Now it's here, we'll face the music, 
 what?" 
 
 " It's mighty good of you to say so, old man," said 
 Holman, slowly, " but I've put you in a bad hole, and 
 it's up to me to get you out of it. Inside of two weeks 
 with the repair shops on strike our rolling stock won't 
 be able to handle the traffic." He put on his hat and 
 started for the door. 
 
 "Where are you going?" Carleton demanded. 
 
 " Rafferty's not going to have this all his own way. 
 The men have no grievance, and I don't believe they'll 
 follow him out if they're talked to right. I'm going 
 over." 
 
 " Not if I know it, you're not," said Carleton 
 grimly. " There may be a coroner's inquest before 
 this affair is settled, perhaps more than one if things 
 get nasty, but I'm hanged if I propose starting in that 
 way this afternoon." 
 
 "That's all right," Holman replied doggedly. 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 15 
 
 "Just the same, I'm Eh? What's up, Carleton? 
 What's wrong?" 
 
 Spence had bent suddenly over the key, and Car- 
 leton, with a startled exclamation, was staring at the 
 words the dispatcher was hastily scribbling on the 
 pad. Holman leaned over the super's shoulder and 
 even as he saw Carleton reach to plug in the telephone 
 connection with the roundhouse, he read the message : 
 " Number Two wrecked Eagle Pass. Send wrecker 
 and medical assistance at once." The next instant he 
 was flying across the yard to the shops. 
 
 As he burst in through the door he was greeted 
 with a snarl. The men were massed in a body around 
 one of the locomotives in the fitting-shop, and Raf- 
 f erty, from the cab, was talking in fierce, heated tones. 
 At sight of the master mechanic he stopped short and 
 with an oath leaped from his perch straight for 
 Holman. The crowd divided, making a lane between 
 the two men, then, with startling suddenness, breaking 
 the ominous silence that had fallen, there came three 
 short blasts from the shop whistle the wrecker's 
 signal. It halted Rafferty when but an arm's-length 
 from the locomotive foreman. Then Holman spoke: 
 
 " You hear that, men ? Number Two has gone to 
 glory up in Eagle Pass. You, Rafferty, get the wreck- 
 ing crew together, quick! The rest of you get back 
 to work." 
 
 "You're a liar!" Rafferty yelled. "A measly, 
 putty-faced, starch-shirted liar, d'ye hear? Ut's a 
 plant! You can't work any sharp trick loike that on 
 me!" 
 
16 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 There was a low, menacing growl from the men and 
 they edged in close. But Holman gave them no heed ; 
 he took a step nearer Rafferty, looking straight into 
 the other's eyes. 
 
 * Rafferty," he said quietly, " you've a wife and 
 kids, haven't you? And you're a railroad man, aren't 
 you ? Well, there's wives and kids and mates up there 
 in that wreck. The other affair can wait until we get 
 back. Now, will you go ? " 
 
 And Rafferty went at the head of the wreckers 
 out into the yard where the switching crew were 
 working like beavers making up the relief train. Two 
 passenger coaches to serve as ambulances, behind them 
 a flat, then the wrecking crane, the tool car, and a 
 caboose. As Rafferty was piling his men into the 
 train, Holman raced across the tracks to the station. 
 On the platform the doctors, hastily summoned, were 
 crowded around Carleton. Holman stopped beside 
 them. "We're all ready, Carleton," he announced; 
 then to the others : " You fellows had better get 
 aboard; we'll be off as soon as we get the track." 
 
 " Spence will have the line clear in a minute," said 
 Carleton, as the doctors started for the coaches. " I'm 
 sending a dispatcher up with you ; he can tap in on the 
 wires. How many men did you scrape up ? " 
 
 ' The regular crew." 
 
 "And Rafferty?" 
 
 " He's going along." 
 
 " I don't know how you did it, and there's no time 
 for explanations now ; but I think, Holman, you'd bet- 
 ter leave Rafferty behind." 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 17 
 
 " And have the whole crew quit, too ? It's no use, 
 Carleton, he's got to go. That's all there is to it." 
 
 Carleton shook his head doubtfully. " I don't like 
 the idea of you two getting up there together. There's 
 no need of you going, and you'd better not go. You 
 don't know the man; if you think he'll forget " 
 
 "You're wrong, I do. I told you so before; any- 
 way, it's too late now we're off. Here's Spence 
 with the orders." 
 
 Before Carleton could reply, Holman had grabbed 
 the tissue and was running for the train. As he 
 swung himself into the cab of the engine and handed 
 Hurley, the driver, his orders, Rafferty climbed in 
 from the other side. 
 
 At sight of Holman, Rafferty hesitated and half 
 turned around in the gangway to go back to the 
 caboose; but Holman reached out and caught his 
 arm. 
 
 " Stay where you are, Rafferty," he said quietly. 
 And during the nerve-racking thirty-mile run to Eagle 
 Pass no other words passed between them. Sometimes 
 in the mad slur of the locomotive as she hit the tan- 
 gents their bodies touched ; that was all. 
 
 Holman, by virtue of railroad etiquette, had climbed 
 to the fireman's seat and once or twice he had glanced 
 around at the great bulk of the man behind him, at the 
 grim, set features, at the eyes that would not meet his, 
 and wondered at his own temerity in inviting a physi- 
 cal encounter. And what good had it done? Was 
 Carleton right after all? Perhaps. And yet behind 
 the stubbornness, the self-will, the purely physical, 
 
i8 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 there must be the other side of the man. If he could 
 only reach it only touch it. He had touched it. His 
 appeal for the injured. 
 
 Hurley was eating up the miles as only a man at the 
 throttle of a wrecker with clear rights could do it. A 
 long scream from the whistle that echoed through the 
 mountains above the pounding, deafening rush of the 
 train brought Holman back to his immediate surround- 
 ings. Another minute and they had swung round the 
 curve and thundered over the trestle that made the 
 approach to the Pass. 
 
 Half a mile ahead of them up the track they saw the 
 horror. Hurley latched in his throttle and began to 
 check. As the brake-shoes bit into the tires, Holman 
 slipped off his seat and faced Rafferty. There was a 
 curious look in the other's eyes, and Holman under- 
 stood. Understood that here Rafferty was his master 
 and knew it. So this was the meaning of it. This 
 was how he had touched the other's better nature! 
 Rafferty had cunningly seized the opportunity of plac- 
 ing him at an even greater disadvantage than before. 
 For an instant he hesitated as he bit his lip, then he 
 canceled the personal equation. " Go ahead, Rafferty," 
 he said quietly, answering the unspoken challenge, 
 "you're better up in this sort of thing than I am. 
 You're in charge." 
 
 And Rafferty without a word swung himself from 
 the cab. 
 
 To Holman the first five minutes was unnerving. It 
 was his first bad wreck. Down East it had never been 
 his province to go out with the crew nor was it here, 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 19 
 
 he reflected grimly, and at that moment was grateful 
 for the veteran Rafferty. It was like some hideous 
 nightmare to him. All along the line of burning 
 wreckage lay the dead, their silence the more awful by 
 contrast with the shrieks and cries of the wounded still 
 imprisoned in the wreck. And then the feeling passed 
 and he worked worked like a madman. 
 
 Once a woman had caught his arm and, sobbing, 
 dragged him toward the stateroom end of one of the 
 Pullmans. Through the smoke and scorching heat of 
 the flames he had fought his way in, then back with 
 the child. The woman had thrown her arms hyster- 
 ically around his neck. 
 
 It was all a mad, furious turmoil, and he gloried in 
 it. The crunch of the ax through glass and wood- 
 work, the wild rush into the heart of things to stagger 
 back blinded and choked with his helpless burden. 
 The fierce joy if life still lingered; the tender reverence 
 if life were gone. 
 
 Up the track toward the engine there was a crash 
 and a chorus of excited cries. He rushed in that direc- 
 tion. A half-dozen of the wrecking crew were grouped 
 around the forward baggage-car. As Holman reached 
 them, disheveled, clothes torn and scorched, face 
 blackened with smoke and daubed with blood where 
 glass and splinters had cut him, the men drew back 
 aghast, staring white-faced. 
 
 " By God ! " one cried. " It's him! " 
 
 "Of course it's me! Are you crazy? What's the 
 matter with you ? " 
 
 The man pointed to the blazing car. " Some one 
 
20 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 said you was in there, and he went in after you just 
 before she crumpled up." 
 
 "Who?" Holman shouted. 
 
 " Rafferty." 
 
 Holman made a dash for the car. The men held him 
 back. " Don't try it, sir; it's too late to do any good." 
 
 He shook them off, and with his arms crossed in 
 front of his head to protect his face he half stumbled, 
 half fell through the opening that had once been a 
 door. The car was half over on its side. The trunks, 
 dashed into a heap on top of each other when the car 
 had left the track, were all that supported the burning 
 roof timbers. Between the trunks and the edge of the 
 car there was a little space with the floor at an angle 
 of forty-five degrees, and along this, head down, Hol- 
 man crawled blindly. The floor was already begin- 
 ning to smolder, the metal-bound edges of the trunks 
 blistered his hands as he touched them. His senses 
 reeled, but on and on he crawled, and in his mind over 
 and over again the one thought : " Rafferty ! My 
 God, Rafferty!" 
 
 Then his hands touched something soft, and slowly, 
 painfully, inch by inch, he struggled back dragging 
 Rafferty after him. Somehow he reached the door, 
 then a confused jumble of noises and nothing more 
 until he returned to consciousness, and to the knowl- 
 edge that he was back in his room at Big Cloud with 
 the almond-eyed factotum in attendance. 
 
 " Belly much better? Likee eat ? " inquired that indi- 
 vidual solicitously. 
 
 Holman grinned in spite of the pain. " No," he an- 
 
RAFFERTY'S RULE 21 
 
 swered ; then as he closed his eyes again he muttered : 
 " Tell Carleton I was right." 
 
 And he was, for two days afterward Rafferty pub- 
 licly abdicated. He gathered the men in the fitting- 
 shop and mounted to the cab of an engine jacked half- 
 way up to the ceiling as before, only on this occasion it 
 was at noon hour and not in the company's time. His 
 words were few and to the point, delivered with a force 
 and eloquence that was all his own : 
 
 " I sed he was a damned pink-faced dude, so I did. 
 Well, I take ut back, d'ye moind? An' f what's more, 
 I'll flatten the face av any man fwhat sez I iver sed 
 ut!" 
 
II 
 
 THE LITTLE SUPER 
 
 TOMMY REGAN backed the big compound mogul 
 down past the string of dark-green coaches that he 
 had pulled for a hundred and fifty miles, took the table 
 with a slight jolt, and came to a stop in the roundhouse. 
 As he swung himself from the cab, Healy, the turner, 
 came up to him. 
 
 " He's a great lad, that av yours," Healy began, 
 with a shake of his head " a great lad ; but mind ye 
 this, Tommy Regan, there'll be trouble for me an' you 
 an' him an' the whole av us, if you don't watch him." 
 
 " What's the matter this time, John ? " 
 
 "Matter," said Healy, ruefully; "there's matter 
 enough. The little cuss come blame near running 429 
 into the pit a while back, so he did." 
 
 " Where is he now ? " Regan asked, with a grin. 
 
 " Devil a bit I know. I chased him out, an' he 
 started for over by the shops. An' about an hour ago 
 your missus come down an' said the bhoy was no- 
 wheres to be found, an' that you was to look for him." 
 
 Regan pulled out his watch. " Six-thirty. Well," 
 he said, " I'll go over and see if Grumpy knows any- 
 thing about him. Next time the kid shows up around 
 here, John, you give him the soft side of a tommy-bar, 
 and send him home." 
 
 22 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 23 
 
 Healy scratched his head. " I will," he said; " I'll 
 do ut. He's a foine lad." 
 
 Regan crossed the yard to the gates of the big shops. 
 They were still unlocked, and he went through into 
 the storekeeper's office. Grumpy was sorting the brass 
 time-checks. He glanced up as Regan came in. 
 
 " I suppose you're lookin' fer yer kid again," he 
 said sourly. 
 
 " That's what I am, Steve," Regan returned, diplo- 
 matically dispensing with the other's nickname. 
 
 " Well, he ain't here," Grumpy announced, returning 
 to his checks. " I've just been through the shops, an' 
 I'd seen him if he was." 
 
 The engineer's face clouded. " He must be some- 
 where about, Steve. John said he saw him come over 
 here, and the wife was down to the roundhouse looking 
 for him, so he didn't go home. Let's go through the 
 shops and see if we can't find him." 
 
 " I don't get no overtime fer chasin' lost kids," 
 growled Grumpy. 
 
 Nevertheless, he got up and walked through the 
 door leading into the forge-shop, which Regan held 
 open for him. The place was gloomy and deserted. 
 Here and there a forge-fire, dying, still glowed dully. 
 At the end of the room the men stopped, and Grumpy, 
 noting Regan's growing anxiety, gave surly comfort. 
 
 " Wouldn't likely be here, anyhow," he said. 
 " Fitting-shop fer him ; but we'll try the machine-shop 
 first on the way through." 
 
 The two men went forward, prying behind planers, 
 drills, shapers, and lathes. The machines took gro- 
 
24 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 tesque shapes in the deepening twilight, and in the 
 silence, so incongruous with the usual noisy clang and 
 clash of his surroundings, Regan's nervousness in- 
 creased. 
 
 He hurried forward to the fitting-shop. Engines 
 on every hand were standing over their respective pits 
 in all stages of demolition, some on wheels, some 
 blocked high toward the rafters, some stripped to the 
 bare boiler-shell. Regan climbed in and out of the 
 cabs, while Grumpy peered into the pits. 
 
 " Aw ! he ain't here," said Grumpy in disgust, wip- 
 ing his hands on a piece of waste. " I told you he 
 wasn't. He's home, mabbe, by now." 
 
 Regan shook his head. " Bunty ! Ho, Eunt-ee! " he 
 called. And again: "Run-tee!" 
 
 There was no answer, and he turned to retrace his 
 steps when Grumpy caught him by the shoulder. The 
 big iron door of the engine before them swung slowly 
 back on its hinges, and from the front end there 
 emerged a diminutive pair of shoes, topped by little 
 short socks that had once been white, but now hung 
 in grimy folds over the tops of the boots. A pair of 
 sturdy, but very dirty, bare legs came gradually into 
 view as their owner propelled himself forward on his 
 stomach. They dangled for a moment, seeking foot- 
 ing on the plate beneath ; then a very small boy, aged 
 four, in an erstwhile immaculate linen sailor suit, 
 stood upright on the foot-plate. The yellow curls were 
 tangled with engine grease and cemented with cinders 
 and soot. Here and there in spots upon his face the 
 skin still retained its natural color. 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 25 
 
 Bunty paused for a moment after his exertions to 
 regain his breath, then, still gripping a hammer in his 
 small fist, he straddled the draw-bar, and slid down the 
 pilot to the floor. 
 
 Grumpy burst into a guffaw. 
 
 Bunty blinked at him reprovingly, and turned to his 
 father. 
 
 " I's been fixin' the 'iger-'ed," he announced gravely. 
 
 Regan surveyed his son grimly. " Fixing what ? " 
 he demanded. 
 
 " The 'iger-'ed," Bunty repeated. Then reproach- 
 fully: "Don't oo know w'at a 'iger-'ed is?" 
 
 " Oh," said Regan, "the nigger-head, eh? Well, I 
 guess there's another nigger-head will get some fixing 
 when your mother sees you, son." 
 
 He picked the lad up in his arms, and Bunty nestled 
 confidingly, with one arm around his father's neck. 
 His tired little head sank down on the paternal shoul- 
 der, and before they had reached the gates Bunty was 
 sound asleep. 
 
 In the days that followed, Bunty found it no easy 
 matter to elude his mother's vigilance; but that was 
 only the beginning of his troubles. The shop gates 
 were always shut, and the latch was beyond his reach. 
 Once he had found them open, and had marched boldly 
 through, to find his way barred by the only man of 
 whom he stood in awe. Grumpy had curtly ordered 
 him away, and Bunty had taken to his heels and run 
 until his small body was breathless. 
 
 The roundhouse was no better. Old John would 
 have none of him, and Bunty marveled at the change* 
 
26 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 He was a railroad man, and the shops were his 
 heritage. His soul protested vigorously at the outrage 
 that was being heaped upon him. 
 
 It took him some time to solve the problem, but at 
 last he found the way. Each afternoon Bunty would 
 trudge sturdily along the track for a quarter of a 
 mile to the upper end of the shops, where the big, wide 
 engine doors were always open. Here four spur- 
 tracks ran into the erecting-shop, and Bunty found no 
 difficulty in gaining admittance. Once safe among 
 the fitting-gang, the little Super, as the men called 
 him, would strut around with important air, inspect- 
 ing the work with critical eyes. 
 
 One lesson Bunty learned. Remembering his last 
 interview with his mother, he took good care not to be 
 locked in the shops again. So each night when the 
 whistle blew he fell into line with the men, and, secure 
 in their protection, would file with them past Grumpy 
 as they handed in their time-checks. And Grumpy, 
 unmindful of the spur-tracks, wondered how he got 
 there, and scowled savagely. 
 
 When Bunty was six, his father was holding down 
 the swivel-chair in the Master Mechanic's office of the 
 Hill Division, and Bunty's allegiance to the shops 
 wavered. Not from any sense of disloyalty ; but with 
 his father's promotion a new world opened to Bunty, 
 and fascinated him. It was now the yard-shunter and 
 headquarters that engaged his attention. The years, 
 too, brought other changes to Bunty. The curls had 
 disappeared, and his hair was cut now like his father's. 
 Long stockings had replaced the socks, and he wore 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 27 
 
 real trousers; short ones, it is true, but real trousers 
 none the less, with pockets in them. 
 
 When school was over, he would fly up and down 
 the yard on the stubby little engine, and Healy, doing 
 the shunting then and forgetting past grievances, would 
 let Bunty sit on the driver's seat. In time Bunty 
 learned to pull the throttle, but the reversing-lever was 
 too much for his small stature, and the intricacies of 
 the " air " were still a little beyond him. But Healy 
 swore he'd make a driver of him and he did. 
 
 The evenings at the office Bunty loved fully as well. 
 Headquarters were not much to boast about in those 
 days. That was before competition forced a double- 
 track system, and the train-dispatcher, with his tissue 
 sheets, still held undisputed sway. They called them 
 " offices " at Big Cloud out of courtesy just the attic 
 floor over the station, with one room to it. The floor 
 space each man's desk occupied was his office. 
 
 Here Bunty would sit curled up in his father's chair 
 and listen to the men as they talked. If it was any- 
 thing about a locomotive, he understood; if it was 
 traffic or bridges or road-bed or dispatching, he would 
 pucker his brows perplexedly and ask innumerable 
 questions. But most of all he held Spence, the chief 
 dispatcher, in deep reverence. 
 
 Once, to his huge delight, Spence, holding his hand, 
 had let him tap out an order. It is true that with the 
 O. K. came back an inquiry as to the brand the dis- 
 patcher had been indulging in; but the sarcasm was 
 lost on Bunty, for when Spence with a chuckle read 
 off the reply, Bunty gravely asked if there was any 
 
28 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 answer. Spence shook his head and laughed. " No, 
 son; I guess not," he said. "We've got to maintain 
 our dignity, you know." 
 
 That winter, on top of the regular traffic, and that 
 was not light, they began to push supplies from the 
 East over the Hill Division, preparing to double track 
 the road from the western side of the foothills as soon 
 as spring opened up. And while the thermometer crept 
 steadily to zero, the Hill Division sweltered. 
 
 Everybody and everything got it, the shops and the 
 road-beds, the train crews and the rolling-stock. What 
 little sleep Carleton, the super, got, he spent in formu- 
 lating dream plans to handle the business. Those that 
 seemed good to him when he awoke were promptly 
 vetoed by the barons of the General Office in the far- 
 off East. 
 
 Regan got no sleep. He raced from one end of the 
 division to the other, and he did his best. Engine crews 
 had to tinker anything less than a major injury for 
 themselves : there was no room in the shops for them. 
 
 But the men on the keys got it most of all. As the 
 days wore into months, Spence's face grew careworn 
 and haggard ; and the irritability from overwork of the 
 men about him added to his discomfort. Human na- 
 ture needs a safety-valve, and one night near the end 
 of January when Regan and Carleton and Spence 
 were gathered at the office, with Bunty in his accus- 
 tomed place in his father's chair, the master mechanic 
 cut loose. 
 
 " It's up to you, Spence," he cried savagely, bringing 
 his fist down with a crash on the desk. " There ain't 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 29 
 
 a pair of wheels on the division fit to pull a hand-car. 
 Every engine's a cripple, and getting lamer every day. 
 The engine ain't built, nor never will be, that'll stand 
 the schedule you're putting them on through the hills, 
 especially through the Gap. That's a three per cent, 
 with the bed like an S. You can't make time there; 
 you've got to crawl. You're pulling the stay-bolts out 
 of my engines, that's what you're doing." 
 
 Carleton, being in no angelic mood, and glad to 
 vent his feelings, growled assent. 
 
 Spence raised his head from the keys, a red tinge 
 of resentment on his cheeks. He picked up his pipe, 
 packing it slowly as he looked at Regan and the super. 
 " I'm taking all they're sending," he said quietly. He 
 reached over for the train-sheet and handed it to the 
 super. " You and Regan here are growling about 
 the schedule. It's your division, Carleton; but I'm 
 not sure you know just what we're handling every 
 twenty- four hours. It's push them through on top of 
 each other somehow, or tell them down-East we can't 
 handle them. Do you want to do that ? " 
 
 " No," said Carleton, " I don't ; and what's more, I 
 won't." 
 
 Spence nodded. " I rather figured that was your 
 idea. Well, we've about all we can do without nagging 
 one another. I'm near in now, and so are you and 
 Regan here, both of you. I've got to make time, Gap 
 or no Gap. There's so much moving there isn't siding 
 enough to cross them." 
 
 " You're right," said Carleton ; " we can't afford to 
 jump each other. We're all doing our best, and each 
 
30 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 of us knows it. How's Number One and Two to- 
 night?" 
 
 Spence studied for a moment before he answered: 
 " Number One is forty minutes off, and Number Two's 
 an hour to the bad." 
 
 Carleton groaned. The Imperial Limited West and 
 East, officially known on the train-sheets as One and 
 Two, carried both the transcontinental mail and the 
 de-luxe passengers. Of late the East had been making 
 pertinent suggestions to the Division Superintendent 
 that it would be as well if those trains ran off the Hill 
 Division with a little more regard for their established 
 schedule. So Carleton groaned. He got up and put 
 on his hat and coat preparatory to going home. " Look 
 here," he said from the doorway, " they'll stand for 
 'most anything if we don't misuse One and Two. 
 They're getting mighty savage about that, and they'll 
 drop hard before long. You fellows have got to take 
 care of those trains, if nothing else on the division 
 moves. That's orders. I'll shoulder all kicks coming 
 on the rest of the traffic. Good-night." 
 
 When Bunty left the office that night and walked 
 home with his father, he had learned that there was 
 another side to railroading besides the building and re- 
 pairing of engines, and the delivery of magic tissue 
 sheets to train crews that told them when and where to 
 stop, and how to thread their way through hills and 
 plains on a single-track road, with heaps of other 
 trains, some going one way, some another. He under- 
 stood vaguely and in a hazy kind of way that some- 
 where, many, many miles away, were men who sat in 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 31 
 
 judgment on the doings of his father and Spence and 
 Carleton ; that these men were to be obeyed, that their 
 word was law, and that their names were President 
 and Directors. 
 
 So Bunty, trotting beside his father, pondered these 
 things. Being 1 too weighty for him, he appealed: 
 " Daddy, what's president and directors ? " 
 
 Regan's temper being still ruffled, he answered 
 shortly: "Fools, mostly." 
 
 Bunty nodded gravely, and his education as a rail- 
 road man was almost complete. The rest came 
 quickly, and the Gap did it. 
 
 The Gap! There was not a man on the division, 
 from track-walker to superintendent, who would not 
 jump like a nervous colt if you said " Gap ! " to them 
 offhand and short-like. A peaceful stretch of track it 
 looked, a little crooked, as Regan said, hugging the 
 side of the mountain at the highest point of the division. 
 The surroundings were undeniably grand. A sheer 
 drop of eighteen-hundred feet to the canon below, with 
 the surrounding mountains rearing their snow-capped 
 peaks skyward, completed a picture of which the road 
 had electrotypes and which it used in their magazine- 
 advertising. What the picture did not show was the 
 two-mile drop, where the road-bed took a straight 
 three per cent and sometimes better, to the lower levels. 
 So when Carleton or Spence or Regan, reading their 
 magazines, saw the picture, they shuddered, and, re- 
 membering past history and fearful of the future, 
 turned the page hurriedly. 
 
 But to Bunty the Gap possessed the fascination of 
 
32 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 the unknown. He was wakened early the next morn- 
 ing by his father's voice talking excitedly over the 
 special wire with headquarters about the Gap and a 
 wreck. He sat bolt upright, and listened with all his 
 might; then he crawled noiselessly out of bed, and 
 began to dress hastily. He heard his father speaking 
 to his mother, and presently the front door banged. 
 Bunty was dressed by that time and he crept down- 
 stairs and opened the door softly. 
 
 It was just turning daylight as he started on a run 
 for the yard. It was not far to the office, a hundred 
 yards or so, and Bunty reached there in record time. 
 Across the tracks by the roundhouse they were coup- 
 ling on to the wrecker ; and answering hasty summons, 
 men, running from all directions, were quickly gath- 
 ering. 
 
 Bunty hesitated a minute on the platform, then he 
 entered the station and tiptoed softly up the stairs. 
 The office door was open, and from the top stair 
 Bunty could see into the room. The night lamp was 
 still burning on the dispatcher's desk, and Spence was 
 sitting there, working with frantic haste to clear the 
 line. In the center of the room, the super, his father, 
 and Flannagan, the wrecking boss, were standing. 
 
 " It's a freight smash," Carleton was saying to 
 Flannagan " east edge of the Gap. You'll have 
 rights through, and no limit on your permit. Tell 
 Emmons if he doesn't make it in better than ninety 
 minutes he'll talk to me afterward. By the time you 
 get there, Number Two will be crawling up the grade. 
 She's pulling the Old Man's car, and that means get 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 33 
 
 her through somehow if you have to drop the wreck 
 over the cliff. You can back down to Riley's to let her 
 pass. We'll do the patching up afterward. Under- 
 stand?" 
 
 Flannagan nodded, and glanced impatiently at 
 Spence. 
 
 The super opened and shut his watch. " Ready, 
 Spence ? " he asked shortly. 
 
 " Just a minute," Spence answered quietly. 
 
 Bunty waited to hear no more. He turned and ran 
 down the stairs and across the tracks as fast as his legs 
 would carry him. He scrambled breathlessly up the 
 steps of the tool-car and edged his way in among the 
 men grouped near the door. He was fairly inside be- 
 fore they noticed him. 
 
 " Hello," cried Allan, Bunty's bosom friend of the 
 fitting-gang days, " here's the little Super ! What 
 you doin' here, kid? " 
 
 " I'm going up to the wreck," Bunty announced 
 sturdily. 
 
 The men laughed. 
 
 " Well, I guess not much, you're not," said Allan, 
 " What do you think your father would say ? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Bunty, airily. " I just corned from 
 the office," he added artfully, " and I'll tell you about 
 the wreck if you like." 
 
 The men grouped around him in a circle. 
 
 " It's at the Gap," Bunty began, sparring for time as 
 through the window he saw Flannagan coming from 
 the office at a run. " And it's a freight train, and' 
 and it's all smashed up, and =" 
 
 
34 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 The train started with a jerk that nearly took the 
 men off their feet. At the same time Flannagan's 
 face appeared at the car door. 
 
 " All here, boys ? " he called. Then he announced 
 cheerfully : " The devil's to pay up the line ! " 
 
 Meanwhile, Bunty, taking advantage of the inter- 
 ruption, had squirmed his way through the men to the 
 far end of the car, and the train had bumped over the 
 switches on to the main line before they remembered 
 him. Then it was too late. They hauled him out from 
 behind a rampart of tools, where he had intrenched 
 himself, and Flannagan shook his fist, half-angrily, 
 half-playfully, in Bunty's face. 
 
 " You little devil, what are you doing here, eh ? " 
 he demanded. 
 
 And Bunty answered as before : " I'm going up to 
 the wreck." 
 
 " Humph ! " said Flannagan, with a grin. " Well, I 
 guess you are, and I guess you'll be sorry, too, 
 when you get back and your dad gets hold of 
 you." ' 
 
 But Bunty was safe now, and he only laughed. 
 
 Breakfastless, he shared the men's grub and lis- 
 tened wide-eyed as they talked of wrecks in times gone 
 by; but most of all he listened to the story of how his 
 father, when he was pulling Number One, had saved 
 the Limited by sticking to his post almost in the face of 
 certain death. Bunty's father was his hero, and his 
 small soul glowed with happiness at the tale. He 
 begged so hard for the story over again that Allan told 
 it, and when he had finished, he slapped Bunty on the 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 35 
 
 back. " And I guess you're a chip of the old block," 
 he said. 
 
 And Bunty was very proud, squaring his shoulders, 
 and planting his feet firmly to swing with the motion 
 of the car. 
 
 The speed of the train slackened as they struck the 
 grade leading up the eastern side of the Gap. Flanna- 
 gan set the men busily at work overhauling the kit. 
 He paused an instant before Bunty. " Look here, 
 kid/' he said, shaking a warning finger, " you keep out 
 of the way, and don't get into trouble." 
 
 It would have taken more than words from Flanna- 
 gan to have curbed Bunty's eagerness; so when the 
 train came to a stop and the men tumbled out of the 
 car with a rush, he followed. What he saw caused 
 him to purse his lips and cry excitedly, " Gee ! " 
 
 Right in front of him a big mogul had turned tur- 
 tle. Ditched by a spread rail, she had pulled three box- 
 cars with her, and piled them up, mostly in splinters, 
 on the tender. They had taken fire, and were burning 
 furiously. Behind these were eight or ten cars still 
 on the road-bed, but badly demolished from bumping 
 over the ties when they had left the rails. Still farther 
 down the track in the rear were the rest of the string, 
 apparently uninjured. The snow was knee-deep at the 
 side of the track, but Bunty plowed manfully through 
 it, climbing up the embankment to a place of vantage. 
 
 His eyes blazed with excitement as he watched the 
 scene before him and listened to the hoarse shouts 
 of the men, the crash of pick and ax, and, above it all, 
 the sharp crackle of the fire as the flames, growing in 
 
36 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 volume, bit deeper and deeper into the wreck. Fiercely 
 as the men fought, the fire, with its long start, kept 
 them from making any headway against it. Already 
 it had reached some of the cars standing on the 
 track. 
 
 From where Bunty stood he could see the track dip- 
 ping away in a long grade to the valley below. They 
 called that grade the Devil's Slide, and the wreck was 
 on the edge of it, with the caboose and some half-dozen 
 cars still resting on the incline. As he looked, far 
 below him he saw a trail of smoke. It was Number 
 Two climbing the grade. By this time the excitement 
 of his surroundings had worn off a little, and the 
 arrival of the Limited offered a new attraction. 
 
 He clambered down from his perch and began to 
 pick his way past the wreck. Flannagan, begrimed 
 and dirty, was talking to Emmons. " I don't like to 
 do it," Bunty heard Flannagan say, " but we'll have to 
 blow up that box-car if we can't stop the fire any other 
 way, or we'll have a blaze down the whole line. The 
 train crew says there's turpentine two cars of it 
 next the flat there, and if that catches Hi, there, 
 kid," he broke off to yell, as he caught sight of Bunty, 
 " you get back to the tool-car, and stay there ! " 
 
 And Bunty ran in the other direction. He knew 
 Number Two would stop a little the other side of the 
 wreck, and that there would be a great big ten-wheeler 
 pulling her, all as bright as a new dollar and glistening 
 in paint and gold-leaf. When he pulled up breathless 
 and happy by the side of Number Two, Masters, the 
 engineer, was giving Engine 901 an oil round, touch- 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 37 
 
 ing the journals critically with the back of his hand as 
 he moved along. 
 
 At sight of Bunty, the engineer laid his oil-can on 
 the slide-bars and grinned as he extended his hand. 
 " How are you, Bunty ? " he asked. 
 
 And Bunty, accepting the proffered hand, replied 
 gravely : " I'm pretty well, Mr. Masters, thank you." 
 
 " Glad to hear it, Bunty. How did you get here ? " 
 
 " I corned up with the wrecker-train. It's a' awful 
 smash." 
 
 " Is it, now ! Think they'll have the line cleared 
 soon?" 
 
 " Oh, no," Bunty replied, eyeing the cab of the big 
 engine wistfully. " Not for ever and ever so long." 
 
 Masters' eyes followed Bunty's glance. " Want to 
 get up in the cab, Bunty ? " 
 
 " Oh, please ! " Bunty cried breathlessly. 
 
 " All right," said Masters, boosting the lad through 
 the gangway. Then warningly : " Don't touch any- 
 thing." 
 
 And Bunty promised. 
 
 It was only four hundred yards up to the wreck ; but 
 that was enough. Masters and his firemen left their 
 train and went to get a view at close quarters. When 
 it was all over, it was up to the wrecking boss and the 
 engine crew of Number Two. Flannagan swore he 
 blocked the trucks of the cars on the incline; but 
 Flannagan lied, and he got clear. Masters and his 
 mate had no chance to lie, for they broke rules, and 
 they got their time. 
 
 Be that as it may, Bunty sat on the driver's seat of 
 
38 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 the Imperial Limited and watched the engineer and 
 fireman start up the track. He lost sight of the men 
 long before they reached the wreck. They were still in 
 view, but he was very busy : he was playing " pretend." 
 
 Bunty's imagination was vivid enough to make the 
 game a fascinating one whenever he indulged in it, 
 and that was often. But now it was almost reality, and 
 his fancy was little taxed to supply what was lacking. 
 He was engineer of the Limited, and they had just 
 stopped at a station. He leaned out of the cab window 
 to get the " go-ahead " signal. Then his hand went 
 through the motion of throwing over the reversing- 
 lever and opening the throttle. And now he was off; 
 faster and faster. He rocked his body to and fro to 
 supply the motion of the cab. He sat very grim and 
 determined, peering straight ahead. He was booming 
 along now at full speed. They were coming to a 
 crossing. !e Too-oo-o, toot, toot!" cried Bunty at the 
 top of his shrill treble, for the rules said you must whis- 
 tle at every crossing, and Bunty knew the rules. Now 
 they were coming to the next station, and he began to 
 slow up. "Ding-dong, ding " 
 
 Bang! 
 
 Bunty nearly fell from his seat with fright. Ahead 
 of him, up the track, there was a column of smoke as a 
 mass of wreckage rose in the air, and then a crash. 
 Flannagan had blown up a car. Bunty stared, fasci- 
 nated, not at the explosion, but at the rear end of the 
 wreck on the grade. He rubbed his eyes in bewilder- 
 ment, then he scrambled over the side of the seat. He 
 paused half-way off, looking again through the front 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 
 
 39 
 
 
 window to make sure. There was no doubt of it : the 
 cars were beginning to roll down the track toward 
 him. He waited for no more, but rushed to the gang- 
 way to jump off. Then he stopped as the story Allan 
 had told about his father came back to him. Bunty's 
 heart thumped wildly as he turned white-faced and 
 determined. No truly engineer would leave his train; 
 his father had not, and Bunty did not. 
 
 The reversing-lever was in the back notch where 
 Masters had left it when he stopped the train. It was 
 Bunty's task to reach and open the throttle. He 
 climbed up on the seat and stood on tiptoe. Leaning 
 over, he grasped the lever with both hands and pulled it 
 open. What little science of engine-driving Bunty 
 possessed, was lost in the terror that gripped him. The 
 runaway cars were only a couple of hundred yards 
 away now, and, gaming speed with every rail they 
 traveled, spelt death and destruction to the Imperial 
 Limited, if they ever reached her. The men at the top 
 of the grade were yelling their lungs out and waving 
 their arms in frantic warning. 
 
 The train started with a jolt that threw Bunty 
 back on the seat. For an instant the big drivers raced 
 like pin-wheels, then they bit into the rails, and aided 
 by the grade, Number Two began to back slowly down 
 the hill. 
 
 Bunty picked himself up, his little frame shaking 
 with dry sobs. The freight-cars had gained on him in 
 the last minute, and had nearly reached him. Again 
 he leaned over for the throttle, and hanging grimly to 
 it, pulled it open another notch, and then another, and 
 
40 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 then wide open. 901 took it like a frightened thor- 
 oughbred. Rearing herself from the track under her 
 two hundred and ten pounds of steam, she jumped 
 into the cars behind her for a starter with a shock that 
 played havoc with the passengers' nerves. Then she 
 settled down to travel. The Devil's Slide is two 
 miles long, and some pretty fair running has been 
 made on it in times of stress; but Bunty holds the 
 record, it's good yet, and Bunty was only an 
 amateur ! 
 
 It was neck and neck for a while, and there was al- 
 most a pile-up on the nose of 901 's pilot before she 
 began to hold her own. Gradually she began to pull 
 away, and by the time they were half-way down the 
 hill the distance between her and the truant freight- 
 cars was widening. The speed was terrific. 
 
 Pale and terror-stricken, Bunty now crouched on 
 the driver's seat. Time and again the engineer's 
 whistle in the cab over his head signaled, now en- 
 treatingly, now with frantic insistence. But Bunty 
 gave it no heed ; his only thought was for those cars 
 in front of him that were always there. He cried 
 to himself with little moans. 
 
 There was a sickening slur as they flew round a 
 curve. 901 heeled to the tangent, one set of drivers 
 fairly lifted from the track. When she found her 
 wheel base again, Bunty, shaken from his hold, was 
 clinging to the reversing-lever. He shut his eyes as he 
 pulled himself back to his seat. When he looked again, 
 he saw the freight-cars hit the curve above him, then 
 slew as they jumped the track and, with a crash that 
 
THE LITTLE SUPER 41 
 
 reached him above the roar and rattle of the train, 
 the booming whir of the great drivers beneath him, go 
 pitching headlong down the embankment. 
 
 Bunty rose to his knees, and for the first time looked 
 out of the side window, to find a new terror there as 
 the rocks and trees and poles flashed dizzily by him. 
 He turned and looked behind. A man was clinging to 
 the hand-rail of the mail-car, and another, lying flat, 
 was crawling over the coal heaped high on the tender. 
 Bunty dashed the tears from his eyes; he was no 
 " fraidy " kid. He stood up, and holding on to the 
 frame of the window, staggered toward the throttle. 
 As he reached for it, 901 lurched madly, and Bunty 
 lost his balance and fell headlong upon the iron floor 
 plate of the cab. Then it was all dark. 
 
 NUMBER Two pulled into Big Cloud that night ten 
 hours late, and it brought Bunty. His father and 
 Carleton and Spence and the shop-hands were on the 
 platform. From the private car, which carried the 
 tail-lights, an elderly gentleman got off with Bunty in 
 his arms. The men cheered, and while the master 
 mechanic rushed forward to take his son, the super and 
 Spence drew back respectfully. 
 
 " Mr. Regan," said the old gentleman, with tears in 
 his eyes, " you ought to be pretty proud of this little 
 lad." 
 
 Regan tried to speak, but the words choked some- 
 how. 
 
 The old gentleman swung himself back upon the car. 
 " Good-by, Bunty! " he called. 
 
 ! 
 
42 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 And Bunty, from the depths of the blanket they had 
 wrapped around him, called back, " Good-by, sir ! " 
 
 When Bunty was propped up in bed, his father told 
 him how the express messenger had stopped the train 
 and carried him back into the Pullmans. 
 
 Bunty listened gravely. " Yes/' he said, nodding his 
 head ; " they was awful good to me, and the man that 
 tooked me off the train told me stories, and then I told 
 him some, too." 
 
 " What did you tell him? " Regan asked. 
 
 " Oh, 'bout trains and shops and presidents and 
 directors and and lots of things." 
 
 " Presidents and directors ! " said Regan, in sur- 
 prise. " What did you tell him about them? " 
 
 " I told him what you said that they was fools, 
 and you knew, 'cause you'd seen them." 
 
 Regan whistled softly. 
 
 " And," continued Bunty, " he laughed, and when 
 I asked him what he was laughing at, he gived me a 
 piece of paper and told me to give it to you, and you'd 
 tell me." 
 
 Regan groaned. " Guess it's my time all right," he 
 muttered. " Where's the paper, Bunty? " 
 
 " He putted it in my pocket." 
 
 Regan drew the chair with Bunty's clothing on it 
 toward him, and began a hurried search. He fished 
 out a narrow slip of paper and unfolded it on his knee. 
 It was a check for one thousand dollars payable to 
 Master Bunty Regan, and signed by the President of 
 the road. 
 
Ill 
 
 " IF A MAN DIE " 
 
 EAST and West now, the Transcontinental is double- 
 tracked, all except the Hill Division and that, in the 
 nature of things, probably never will be. If you know 
 the mountains, you know the Hill Division. From the 
 divisional point, Big Cloud, that snuggles at the east- 
 ern foothills, the right of way, like the trail of a great 
 sinewy serpent, twists and curves through the moun- 
 tains, through the Rockies, through the Sierras, and 
 finally emerges to link its steel with a sister division, 
 that stretches onward to the great blue of the Pacific 
 Ocean. 
 
 It is a stupendous piece of track. It has cost fabulous 
 sums, and the lives of many men; it has made the 
 fame of some, and been the graveyard of more. The 
 history of the world, in big things, in little things, in 
 battles, in strife, in sudden death, in peace, in progress, 
 and in achievement, has its counterpart, in miniature, 
 in the history of the Hill Division. There is a page 
 in that history that belongs to " Angel " Breen. This 
 is Breen's story. 
 
 It has been written much, and said oftener, that men 
 in every walk of life, save one, may make mistakes and 
 live them down, but that the dispatcher who falls once 
 
 43 
 
44 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 is damned forever. And it is true. I am a dispatcher. 
 I know. 
 
 Where he got the nickname " Angel " from, is more 
 than I can tell you, and I've wondered at it often 
 enough myself. Contrast, I guess it was. Contrast 
 with the boisterous, rough and ready men around him, 
 for this happened back in the early days when men 
 were what a life of hardship and no comfort made 
 them. No, Breen wasn't soft far from it. He was 
 just quiet and mild-mannered. It must have been that 
 contrast. Anyway, he was " Angel " when I first 
 knew him, and you can draw your own conclusions as 
 to what he is now I'm not saying anything at all 
 about that. 
 
 Where did he come from? What was he before he 
 came here? I don't know. I don't believe anybody 
 knew, or ever gave the matter a thought. That sort 
 of question was never asked it was too delicate and 
 pointed in the majority of cases. A man was what he 
 was out here, not what he had been ; he made good, or 
 he didn't. Not that I mean to imply that there was 
 anything crooked or anything wrong with Breen's 
 past, I'm sure there wasn't for that matter, but I'm 
 just trying to make you understand that when I say 
 Breen had the night trick in the dispatcher's office here 
 in Big Cloud, I'm beginning at the beginning. 
 
 Breen wasn't popular. He wasn't a good enough 
 mixer for that. Personally, it isn't anything I'd 
 hold up against him, or any other man. Popularity is 
 too often cheap, and being a " good fellow " isn't al- 
 ways a license for a man to puff out his chest though 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 
 
 '" 
 
 most of them do it, and that's the high sign that what 
 I say is right. No, I'm not moralizing, I'm telling a 
 story, you'll see what I mean before I get through. I 
 say Breen wasn't popular. He got the reputation of 
 thinking himself a little above the rank and file of 
 those around him, stuck-up, to put it in cold English, 
 and that's where they did him an injustice. It was 
 the man's nature, unobtrusive, retiring different 
 from theirs, if you get my point, and they couldn't un- 
 derstand just because it was different. The limitations 
 weren't all up to Breen. 
 
 If they had known, or taken the trouble to know, 
 as much about him as they could have known before 
 passing judgment on him, perhaps things might have 
 been a little different ; perhaps not, I won't say, for it's 
 pretty generally accepted in railroad law that a dis- 
 patcher's slip is a capital offense, and there's no court 
 of appeal, no stay of execution, no anything, and to all 
 intents and purposes he's dead from the moment that 
 slip is made. There have been lots of cases like that, 
 lots of them, and there's no class of men I pity more 
 a slip, and damned for the rest of their lives ! I don't 
 say that because I'm a dispatcher myself. We're only 
 human, aren't we? Mistakes like that, God knows, 
 aren't made intentionally. Sometimes a man is over- 
 worked, sometimes queer brain kinks happen to him 
 just as they do to every other man. We're ranked 
 as human in everything but our work. I'm not saying 
 it's not right. In the last analysis I suppose it has to 
 be that way. It's part of the game, and we know the 
 rules when we " sit in." We've no reason to complain, 
 
46 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 only I get a shiver every time I read a newspaper head- 
 line that I know, besides being a death-warrant, is 
 tearing the heart out of some poor devil. You've 
 seen the kind I mean, read scores of them " Dis- 
 patcher's Blunder Costs Many Lives " or something 
 to the same effect. Maybe you'll think it queer, but for 
 days afterward I can't handle an order book or a train 
 sheet when I'm on duty without my heart being in my 
 mouth half the time. 
 
 What's this got to do with Breen? Well, in one 
 way, it hasn't anything to do with him; and, then 
 again, in another way, it has. I want you to know 
 that a blunder means something to a dispatcher be- 
 sides the loss of his job. Do you think they're a cold- 
 blooded, calloused lot? I want you to know that they 
 care. Oh, yes, they're human. They've got a heart 
 and they've got a soul; the one to break, the other to 
 sear. My God! think of it a slip. That's the 
 ghastly horror of it all a slip! Don't you think they 
 can feel? Don't you think their own agony of mind is 
 punishment enough without the added reproach, and 
 worse, of their fellows? But let it go, it's the Law 
 of the Game. 
 
 I said they didn't know much about Breen out here 
 then except that he was a pretty good dispatcher, but 
 as far as that goes it didn't help him any, rather the 
 reverse, when the smash came. The better the man 
 the harder the fall, what? It's generally that way, 
 isn't it? Perhaps you're wondering what / know 
 about him. I'll tell you. If any one knew Breen, I 
 knew him. I was only a kid then, I'm a man now. I 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 47 
 
 hadn't even a coat Breen gave me one. I'm a dis- 
 patcher Breen taught me, and no better man on the 
 " key " than Breen ever lived, a better man than I 
 could ever hope to be, yet he slipped. Do you wonder 
 I shiver when I read those things ? I'm not a religious 
 man, but I've asked God on my bended knees, over 
 and over again, to keep me from the horror, the suffer- 
 ing, the blasted life that came to Breen and many 
 another man through a slip. Yes, if any one knew 
 Breen, I did. All I know, all I've got, everything in 
 this whole wide world, I owe to Breen " Angel " 
 Breen. 
 
 You probably read of the Elktail wreck at the time 
 it happened, but you've forgotten about it by now. 
 Those things don't live long in the mind unless they 
 come pretty close home to you ; there's too many other 
 things happening every hour in this big pulsing world 
 to make it anything more than the sensation of the 
 moment. But out here the details have cause enough 
 to be fixed in the minds of most of us, not only of the 
 wreck itself, but of what happened afterward as well 
 and I don't know which of the two was the worse. 
 You can judge for yourself. 
 
 I'm not going into technicalities. You'll understand 
 better if I don't. You'll remember I said that the Hill 
 Division is only single-tracked. That means, I don't 
 need to tell you, that it's up to the dispatcher every sec- 
 ond, and all that stands between the trains and 
 eternity is the bit of tissue tucked in the engineer's 
 blouse and its duplicate crammed in the conductor's 
 side pocket. Orders, meeting points, single track, 
 
48 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 you understand? The dispatcher holds them all, 
 every last one of them, for life or death, men, women 
 and children, train crews and company property, all 
 and Breen slipped ! 
 
 No one knows to this day how it happened. I dare- 
 say some eminent authority on psychology might ex- 
 plain it, but the explanation would be too high-browed 
 and too far over my head to understand it even if he 
 did. I only know the facts and the result. Breen sent 
 out a lap order on Number One, the Imperial Limited, 
 westbound, and Number Eighty-Two, a fast freight, 
 perishable, streaking east. Both were off schedule, and 
 he was nursing them along for every second he could 
 squeeze. Back through the mountains, both ways, all 
 through the night, he'd given them the best of every- 
 thing the Imperial clear rights, and Eighty-Two 
 pretty nearly, if not quite, as good. Then he fixed the 
 meeting point for the two trains. 
 
 I read a story once where the dispatcher sent out a 
 lap order on two trains and his mistake was staring at 
 him all the time from his order book. I guess that 
 was a slip of the pen, and he never noticed it. That 
 was queer enough, but what Breen did was queerer 
 still. His order book showed straight as a string. 
 The freight was to hold at Muddy Lake, ten miles west 
 of Elktail, for Number One. Number One, of course, 
 as I told you, running free. Somehow, I don't know 
 how, it's one of those things you can't explain, a sub- 
 conscious break between the mind and the mechanical, 
 physical action, you've noticed it in little things you've 
 done yourself, Breen wired the word " Elktail " in- 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 49 
 
 stead of " Muddy Lake " and never knew it never 
 had a hint that anything was wrong never caught it 
 on the repeat, and gave back his O. K. The order, the 
 written order in the book, was exactly as it should be. 
 It read Muddy Lake that was right, Muddy Lake. 
 You see what happened? There wasn't time for the 
 freight to make Elktail, but she got within three miles 
 of it and that's as far as she ever got! In a nasty 
 piece of track, full of trestles and gorges, where the 
 right of way bends worse than the letter S, they met, 
 the two of them, head on Number One and Number 
 Eighty-Two ! 
 
 And Breen didn't know what he had done even after 
 the details began to pour in. How could he know? 
 What was Eighty-Two doing east of Muddy Lake? 
 She should have been waiting there for Number One 
 to pass her. The order book showed that plain 
 enough. And all through the rest of that night, while 
 he worked like a madman clearing the line, getting 
 up hospital relief, and wrecking trains with Carle- 
 ton, he was super then, gray- faced and haggard, like 
 the master of a storm-tossed liner on his bridge giving 
 orders, pacing the room, cursing at times at his own 
 impotency Breen didn't know, neither of them knew, 
 where the blame lay. But the horror of the thing had 
 Breen in its grip even then. I was there that night, 
 and I can see him now bent over under the green- 
 shaded lamp I can see Carleton's face, and it wasn't 
 a pleasant face to see. One thing I remember Breen 
 said. Once, as the sounder pitilessly clicked a message 
 more ghastly than any that had gone before, adding 
 
SO ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 to the number of those whose lives had gone out for- 
 ever, adding to the tale of the wounded, to the wild, 
 mad story of chaos and ruin, Breen lifted his head from 
 the key for a moment, pushed his hair out of his eyes 
 with a nervous, shaky sweep of his hand, and looked 
 at Carleton. 
 
 " It's horrible, horrible," he whispered ; " but think 
 of the man who did it. Death would be easy compared 
 to what he must feel. It makes me as weak as a kitten 
 to think of it, Carleton. My God, man, don't you see ! 
 I, or any other dispatcher, might do this same thing 
 to-morrow, the next day, or the day after. Tell 
 me again, Carleton, tell me again, that order's 
 straight." 
 
 " Don't lose your nerve/' Carleton answered 
 sharply. " Whoever has blundered, it's not you." 
 
 Irony? No. It's beyond all that, isn't it? It's 
 getting about as near to the tragedy of a man's life 
 as you can get. It's getting as deep and tapping as 
 near bed-rock as we'll ever do this side of the Great 
 Divide. Think of it ! Think of Breen that night it's 
 too big to get, isn't it ? God pity him ! Those words 
 of his have rung in my ears all these years, and that 
 scene I can see over again in every detail every time I 
 close my eyes. 
 
 In the few hours left before dawn that morning, 
 there wasn't time to give much attention to the cause. 
 There was enough else to think of, enough to give 
 every last man on the division from car tink to super- 
 intendent all, and more, than they could handle the 
 investigation could come later. But it never came. 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 51 
 
 There was no need for one. How did they find out? 
 It came like the crack of doom, and Breen got it got 
 it and it seemed to burst the floodgates of his mem- 
 ory open, seemed to touch that dormant chord, and he 
 knew, knew as he knew that he had a God, what he 
 had done. 
 
 They found the order that made the meeting point 
 Elktail tucked in Mooney's jumper when, after they 
 got the crane at work, they hauled him out from under 
 his engine. Who was Mooney? Engineer of the 
 freight. They found him before they did any of his 
 train crew, or his fireman either, for that matter. 
 Dead? Yes. I'm a dispatcher, look at it from the 
 other side if you want to, it's only fair. That bit of 
 tissue cleared Mooney, of course but it sent him to 
 his death. Yes, I know, good God, don't you think I 
 know what it means to slip? 
 
 It was just before Davis, Breen's relief, came on 
 for the morning trick, in fact Davis was in the room, 
 when Breen got the report. He scribbled it on a pad, 
 word by word as it came in, for Carleton to see. For a 
 minute it didn't seem to mean anything to him, and 
 then, as I say, he got it. I never saw such a look on 
 a man's face before, and I pray God I never may again. 
 He seemed to wither up, blasted as the oak is blasted 
 by a lightning stroke. The horror, the despair, the 
 agony in his eyes are beyond any words of mine to 
 describe, and you wouldn't want to hear it if I could 
 tell you. He held out his arms pitifully like a pleading 
 child. His lips moved, but he had to try over and over 
 again before any sound came from them. There was no 
 
52 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 thought of throwing the blame on anybody else. 
 Breen wasn't that kind. Oh, yes, he could have done 
 it. He could have put the blunder on the night man 
 at the Gap where Mooney received his Elktail holding 
 order, and Breen's order book would have left it an 
 open question as to which of the two had made the 
 mistake would probably have let him out and damned 
 the other. You say from the way he acted he didn't 
 think of that and therefore the temptation didn't come 
 to him. Yes, I know what you mean. Not so much 
 to Breen's credit, what? Well, I don't know, it de- 
 pends on the way you look at it. I'd rather believe 
 the thought didn't come because the man's soul was too 
 clean. It was clean them no matter what he did after- 
 ward. 
 
 There have been death scenes of dispatchers before, 
 many of them there will be others in the days to 
 come, many of them. So long as there are railroads 
 and so long as men are frail as men, lacking the infal- 
 libility of a higher power, just so long will they be 
 inevitable. But no death scene of a dispatcher's career 
 was ever as this one was. Breen was his own judge, 
 his own jury, his own executioner. Do you think I 
 could ever forget his words? He pointed his hand 
 toward the window that faced the western stretch of 
 track, toward the foothills, toward the mighty peaks 
 of the Rockies that towered beyond them, and the life, 
 the being of the man was in his voice. They came 
 slowly, those words, wrenched from a broken heart, 
 torn from a shuddering soul. 
 
 " I wish to God that it were me in their stead. 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 53 
 
 Christ be merciful ! I did it, Carleton. I don't know 
 how. I did it." 
 
 No one answered him. No one spoke. For a 
 moment that seemed like all eternity there was silence, 
 then Breen, his arms still held out before him, walked 
 across the room as a blind man walks in his own utter 
 darkness, walked to the door and passed out alone. 
 Those few steps across the room alone ! I've thought 
 of that pretty often since they seemed so horribly, 
 grimly, significantly in keeping with what there was of 
 life left for the stricken man alone. It's a pretty 
 hard word, that, sometimes, and sometimes it brings 
 the tears. 
 
 I don't know how I let him go like that. I was too 
 stunned to move I guess, but I reached him at the foot 
 of the stairs as he stepped out onto the platform. 
 There wasn't anything I could say, was there ? What 
 would you have said? 
 
 No man knew better than Breen himself what this 
 would mean to him. He was wrecked, wrecked worse 
 than that other wreck, for his was a living death. 
 There weren't any grand jurys or things of that kind 
 out here then, not that it would have made any differ- 
 ence to Breen if there had been. You can't put any 
 more water in a pail when it's already full, can you? 
 You can't add to the maximum, can you ? Don't you 
 think Breen's punishment was beyond the reach of 
 man or men to add to, or, for that matter, to abate by 
 so much as the smallest fraction? It was, God knows 
 it was all except one final twinge, that I believe now 
 settled him, though I'll say here that whatever it did 
 
54 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 to Breen it's not for me to judge her. Who am I, 
 that I should ? It is between her and her Maker. I'll 
 come to that in a minute. 
 
 Yes, Breen knew well enough what it meant to him, 
 but his thoughts that morning as we walked up the 
 street weren't, I know right well, on himself he was 
 thinking of those others. And I, well, I was thinking 
 of Breen. Wouldn't you? I told you I owed Breen 
 everything I had in the world. Neither of us said a 
 word all the way up to his boarding-house. It was 
 almost as though I wasn't with him for all the atten- 
 tion he paid to me. But he knew I was there just the 
 same. I like to think of that. I wasn't very old then 
 I'm not offering that as an excuse, for I'm not ashamed 
 to admit that I was near to tears if I'd been older 
 perhaps I could have said or done something to help. 
 As it was, all I could do was to turn that one black 
 thought over and over and over again in my mind. 
 Breen's living death, death, death, death. That's the 
 way it hit me, the way it caught me, and the word 
 clung and repeated itself as I kept step beside him. 
 
 He was dead, dead to hope, ambition, future, every- 
 thing, as dead as though he lay outstretched before me 
 in his coffin. It seemed as if I could see him that way. 
 And then, don't ask me why, I don't know, I only know 
 such things happen, come upon you unconsciously, 
 suddenly, there flashed into my mind that bit of verse 
 from the Bible, you know it " if a man die, shall he 
 live again ? " I must have said it out loud without 
 knowing it, for he whirled upon me quick as ligKtning, 
 placed his two hands upon my shoulders, and stared 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 55 
 
 with a startled gaze into my eyes. I say startled. It 
 was, but there was more. There seemed for a second 
 a gleam of hope awakened, hungry, oh, how hungry, 
 pitiful in its yearning, and then the uselessness, the 
 futility of that hope crushed it back, stamped it out, 
 and the light in his eyes grew dull and died away. 
 
 We had halted at the door of his boarding-house 
 and I made as though to go upstairs with him to his 
 room, but he stopped me. 
 
 " Not now, Charlie, boy," he said, shaking his head 
 and trying to smile ; " not now. I want to be alone." 
 
 And so I left him. 
 
 Alone ! He wanted to be alone. Were ever words 
 more full of cruel mockery ! It seems hard to under- 
 stand sometimes, doesn't it ? And we get to question- 
 ing things we'd far better leave alone. I know at first 
 I used to wonder why Almighty God ever let Breen 
 make that slip. He could have stopped it, couldn't 
 He? But that's not right. We're running on train 
 orders from the Great Dispatcher, and the finite can't 
 span the infinite. 
 
 Maybe you'll think it queer that I left Breen like 
 that, let him go to his room alone. You're thinking 
 that in his condition he might do himself harm end 
 it all, to put it bluntly. Well, that thought didn't 
 come to me then, it did afterward, but not then. Why ? 
 It must have been just the innate consciousness that he 
 wouldn't do that sort of thing. Some men face things 
 one way, some face them another. It's a question of 
 individuality and temperament. I don't think Breen 
 could have done anything like that, I know he seemed 
 
56 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 so far apart from it in my mind that, as I say, the 
 thought didn't come to me. He was too big a man, 
 big enough to have faced what was before him, faced 
 conditions, faced the men, though God knows they 
 treated him like skulking coyote, if it had not been 
 for her. I want to stand right on this. Breen would 
 never have done what he did if she had acted differ- 
 ently. That much I know. But, I want to say it 
 again, I've no right to judge her. 
 
 Perhaps you've read that story of Kipling's about 
 the Black Tyrone Regiment that saw their dead? 
 Well, Breen, as I told you, at the beginning, wasn't 
 popular, and the boys had seen their dead. Do you 
 understand? Pariah, outcast, what you like, they 
 made him, all except pity they gave him, and I say he 
 would have taken it all, accepted it all, only there 
 are some things too heavy for a man to bear, aren't 
 there? Load limit, the engineers call it when they 
 build their bridge. Well, there's a load limit on the 
 heart and brain and soul of a man just as there is on a 
 bridge; and while one, strained beyond the breaking 
 point, goes crashing in a horrid mass of twisted wreck- 
 age to the bottom of the canon, to the bottom of the 
 gorge, into the rushing, boiling waters of the river 
 beneath, the other crashes, a damned soul, to the 
 bottom of hell. Kitty Mooney had seen her dead. 
 Kitty Mooney, the engineer's sister ! And Breen loved 
 her, was going to marry her. That's all. 
 
 How do I know? How do you know? Perhaps it 
 was grief, perhaps it was hysteria, perhaps it was ac- 
 cording to the light God gave her and she couldn't 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 57 
 
 understand, perhaps it was only wild, unreasoning, 
 frantic passion. I don't know. I only know she called 
 him a murderer. She couldn't have loved him, you 
 say. Perhaps no, perhaps yes. Does it make any dif- 
 ference ? Breen thought she did, and Breen loved her. 
 I don't know. I only know that where he looked for 
 a ray of mercy, her mercy, to light the blackened 
 depths, for the touch, her touch, that would have held 
 him back from the brink, for the word of comfort, her 
 word, that would have bid him stand like a gallant 
 soldier facing untold odds, he received, instead, a con- 
 demnation more terrible than any that had gone be- 
 fore, and a bleeding heart dried bitter as gall, a patient, 
 grief-stricken man became a vicious snapping wolf, and 
 " Angel " Breen a devil. 
 
 Would I have been a stronger man than Breen? 
 Would you? Would I have done differently than 
 Kitty Mooney did if I had been in her place ? Would 
 you ? We don't know, do we ? No one knows. God 
 keep us from ever knowing. The poor devil in the 
 gutters, the wretched, ruined lives of women who have 
 lost their grip and drunk the dregs, the human, 
 stranded, battered wrecks we see around us, were once 
 like you and me. We don't know, do we? God pity 
 them! God keep us from the sneer! Our strength 
 has never been measured. It may be no greater than 
 theirs. To-morrow it may be you or I. 
 
 It was pretty lawless out here in those days. We 
 had the riff-raff of the East, and worse ; and there was 
 nothing to restrain them, nothing much to keep them 
 in check, and they did about as they liked. They 
 
58 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 brought the touch into the picture of the West that 
 the West hasn't lived down yet, and I'm not sure ever 
 will. The brawling, gambling, gun-handling type, the 
 thief, the desperado, the bad man, rotten bad, bad to 
 the core. They've been stamped out now most of 
 them, but it was different then. They didn't turn a 
 cold shoulder to Breen. Why should they? They 
 were outcasts and pariahs, too, weren't they? And 
 Breen, well, I guess you understand as well as I do, 
 and you know as I know that when a man like that 
 goes he goes the limit. There's no middle course for 
 some men, they're not made that way. 
 
 Whatever holds them for good, or whatever holds 
 them for bad, it holds them all, either way, all, body, 
 mind and spirit, all. And that is true in spite of the 
 fact that, often enough, there's some one thing, it may 
 be a little thing, it may be a big thing, but some one 
 thing that the worst of us balk at, can't do. It's not 
 morality, it's not conscience, a man gets way beyond 
 all that; it's a memory of the past perhaps, a some- 
 thing bred in him from babyhood. I don't know. 
 You can't treat human nature like a specimen on the 
 glass slide under a microscope. There is no specimen. 
 As there are millions of people, so is each one in some 
 way different from the other. You can't classify, you 
 can't tabulate the different kinks into a list and learn 
 it by heart, can you? The man who says he knows 
 human nature says he is as wise as the God who made 
 him, and that man is a poor fool. That's right, isn't 
 it ? And so I say that, strange as it may seem, in the 
 worst of us, fall as low as we will, there's generally 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 59 
 
 some one thing our soul, what's left of it, revolts at 
 doing. Breen was a railroad man. Railroading was 
 in his blood. I want you to get that. It was part of 
 him. Any man that's worth his salt in this business 
 is that way. It's in the blood or it isn't ; you're a rail- 
 road man or you're not. 
 
 Breen disappeared from Big Cloud and I didn't see 
 him from the day Kitty Mooney turned him from her 
 door until the night but I'm coming to that that's 
 the end. There's a word or two that goes before so 
 that you'll understand. He disappeared from Big 
 Cloud, but he didn't leave the mountains. Maybe 
 back of it all, an almost impossible theory if you like, 
 but I can understand it, a something in him wouldn't 
 let him run away. He did run away, you say. Yes, 
 but there's the queer brain kink again. Perhaps he 
 temporized. You temporize. I temporize. We try 
 to fool and delude sometimes, snatch at loopholes, 
 snatch at straws, to bolster up our self-respect, don't 
 we? That's what I mean when I say it's possible he 
 couldn't run away. He clung to the straw, the loop- 
 hole, that running away was measured in miles. I 
 don't say that was it, for I don't know. It's possible. 
 We heard of him from time to time as the months 
 went by, and the things we heard weren't pleasant 
 things to hear. He drifted from bad to worse, until 
 that something that he couldn't do brought him to a 
 halt brought the end. 
 
 Don't ask me when Breen threw in his lot with 
 Black Dempsey and the band of fiends that called him 
 leader the ugliest, soul-blackened set of fiends that 
 
60 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 ever polluted the West, and that's using pretty strong 
 language. Don't ask me how Breen got to Big Cloud 
 that night away from the others waiting to begin their 
 hellish work. Don't ask me. I don't know. Why 
 he did it is different. That, I can tell you. What 
 they wanted him to do, to have a part in, was that one 
 thing I was speaking about, the one thing he couldn't 
 do. Breen was a railroad man, railroading was in his 
 blood, that's all but it's everything railroading was 
 in his blood. As for the rest, maybe he didn't know 
 what they were really up to until the last moment, and 
 then stole away from them. Maybe they found it out, 
 suspected him, and some of them followed him, tried 
 to stop him, tried to keep him from reaching here. 
 But what's the use of speculating? I never knew, I 
 never will know. Breen can't tell me, can he? And 
 all that I can tell you is what I saw and heard that 
 night. 
 
 I had the night trick then Breen's job they gave 
 me Breen's job. It seemed somehow at first like sacri- 
 lege to take it as though I was robbing him of it, 
 taking it away from him, wronging, stripping, im- 
 poverishing the man to whom I owed even the knowl- 
 edge that made me fit, that made it possible, to hold 
 down a key his key. Of course, that was only sen- 
 sitiveness, but you understand, don't you? It caught 
 me hard when I first " sat in," but gradually the feel- 
 ing wore off; not that I ever forgot, I haven't yet for 
 that matter, only time blunts the sharp edges, and 
 routine, habit, and custom do the rest. I don't need 
 to tell you that I remember that night. Remember it ! 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 61 
 
 That was before this station was built, and in those 
 days we had an old wooden shack here that did duty 
 for freight house, station, division headquarters, and 
 everything else all rolled into one. The dispatcher's 
 room was upstairs. 
 
 Things were moving slick as a whistle that night. 
 No extra traffic, no road troubles, in out, in out, all 
 along the line the trains were running like clockwork 
 from one end of the division to the other. If there was 
 anything on my mind at all it was the Limited, Number 
 Two, eastbound. We were handling a good deal of 
 gold in those days, there was a lot of it being shipped 
 East then is still, from the Klondyke now, you know 
 and we were getting a fair share of the business 
 away from the southern competition. We hadn't had 
 any trouble, weren't looking for any, but it was pretty 
 generally understood that all shipments of that kind 
 were to get special attention. Number Two was carry- 
 ing an extra express car with a consignment for the 
 mint that night, so, naturally, I had kept my eye on her 
 more closely than usual all the way through the moun- 
 tains from the time I got her from the Pacific Divi- 
 sion. At the time I'm speaking about, four o'clock in 
 the morning, I was almost clear of her, for she wasn't 
 much west of Coyote Bend, fifteen miles from here, 
 and she had rights all the way in. Half an hour more 
 at the most, and she would be off my hands and up to 
 the dispatchers of the Prairie Division. She had held 
 her schedule to the tick every foot of the way, and all 
 I was waiting for was the call from Coyote Bend that 
 would report her in and out again into the clear for 
 
62 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Big Cloud. Coyote Bend is the first station west of 
 here, you understand? There's nothing between. 
 She was due at Coyote at 4.05, and I want you to 
 remember this I said it before, but I want to repeat 
 it. I want you to get it hard she had run to the 
 second all through the night. 
 
 My watch was open on the table before me, and I 
 watched the minute hand creep round the dial. 4.03, 
 4.04, 4.05, 4.06, 4.07, 4.08. I was alone in the office. 
 The night caller had gone out perhaps ten minutes 
 before to call the train crew of the five o'clock local. 
 There wasn't anything to be nervous about. I don't 
 put it down to that. Three minutes wasn't anything. 
 Perhaps it was just impatience, fretfulness. You 
 know how it is when you're waiting for something to 
 happen, and I was expecting the sounder to break 
 every second with that report from Coyote Bend. 
 Anyway, put it down to what you like, though I didn't 
 want a drink particularly I pushed back my chair, got 
 up, and walked over to the water cooler. The 
 dispatcher's table was on the east side of the room, 
 the door opened on the south side, and the water 
 cooler was over in the opposite corner. I'm explain- 
 ing this so that you'll understand that the door was 
 between the wat^r cooler and the table. That old 
 shack was rough and ready, and I've wondered more 
 than once what ever kept it from falling to pieces. It 
 didn't take more than a breath of wind to set every 
 window-sash in the outfit rattling like a corps of snare 
 drums. That's why, I guess, I didn't hear any one 
 coming up the stairs. It was blowing pretty hard that 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 63 
 
 night. But I heard the door open. I thought it was 
 the caller back again, and I wondered how he'd made 
 his rounds in such quick time. With the tumbler half 
 up to my lips I turned around then the glass slipped 
 from my fingers and crashed into slivers on the floor. 
 My mouth went dry, my heart seemed to stop. I 
 couldn't speak, couldn't move. It was Breen 
 "Angel" Breen! 
 
 I saw him start at the noise of the splintering glass, 
 but he didn't look at me. He clung swaying to the 
 door jamb for an instant, his face chalky white, then 
 he reeled across the room and dropped into his old 
 chair. I saw him glance at my watch and his face 
 seemed to go whiter than before, then he snatched 
 at the train sheet and a smile no, it wasn't exactly a 
 smile, you couldn't call it that, his whole face seemed 
 to change, light up, and his lips moved I know now 
 in a prayer of gratitude. You understand, don't you ? 
 He knew the time-card, knew that Number Two, after 
 he had seen my watch, should have been out of Coyote 
 Bend four, perhaps five, minutes before, but the train 
 sheet showed her still unreported. His fingers closed 
 on the key and he began to make the Coyote Bend 
 call. Over and over, quick, sharp, clear, incisive, with 
 all the old masterful touch of his sending Breen was 
 rattling the call cc,cx cc,cx cc,cx cc,cx. 
 
 And then I found my voice. 
 
 " God in Heaven, Breen ! " I stammered, and started 
 toward him. "You! What " 
 
 The sounder broke. Coyote Bend answered. And 
 on the instant Breen flashed this order over the wire. 
 
64 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 "Hold Number Two. Hold Number Two " 
 twice the sender spelled out the words. 
 
 Then Coyote Bend repeated the order, and Breen 
 gave back the O. K. 
 
 " Breen! " I shouted. " What are you doing? Are 
 you crazy! What are you doing here? Speak, man, 
 w hat " 
 
 He had straightened in his chair, and a sort of low, 
 catchy gasp came from his lips. It seemed as though 
 it took all his power, all his strength, to lift his eyes 
 to mine. I sprang for the key, but he jerked himself 
 suddenly forward and pushed me desperately away. 
 And then he called me by the old name, not much 
 above a whisper, I could hardly catch the words, and 
 I didn't understand, didn't know, that the man before 
 me was a wounded, dying man. My brain was 
 whirling, full of that other night, full of the 
 days and months that had followed. I couldn't 
 think. I 
 
 " Charlie boy, it's all right. Black Dempsey in the 
 Cut. I was afraid I was too late too late. They shot 
 me here " he was tearing with his fingers at his 
 waistcoat. 
 
 And then I understood too late. As I reached for 
 him, he swayed forward and toppled over, a huddled 
 heap, over the key, over the order book, over the train 
 sheet that once had taken his life and now had given it 
 back to him dead. 
 
 What is there to say ? Whatever he may have done, 
 however far he may have fallen, back of it all, through 
 it all, bigger than himself, stronger than any other 
 
"IF A MAN DIE" 65 
 
 bond was the railroading that was in his blood. Breen 
 was a railroad man. 
 
 I don't know why, do I? You don't know why, 
 after Number Two had run to schedule all that night, 
 it happened just when it did. It might have happened 
 at some other time but it didn't. Luck or chance if 
 you like, more than that if you'd rather think of it in 
 another way, but just a few miles west of Coyote Bend 
 something went wrong in the cab of Number Two. 
 Nothing much, I don't remember now what it was, 
 don't know that I ever knew, nothing much. Just 
 enough to hold her back a few minutes, the few minutes 
 that let Breen sit in again on the night dispatcher's 
 trick, sit in again at the key, hold down his old job once 
 more before he quit railroading forever with the order 
 that he gave his life to send, to keep Number Two from 
 rushing to death and destruction against the rocks and 
 boulders Black Dempsey and his gang had piled across 
 the track in the Cut five miles east of Coyote Bend. 
 
 I don't know. " If a man die, shall he live again? " 
 I leave it to you. I only know that they think a lot of 
 him out here, think a lot of Breen, " Angel " Breen 
 now. 
 
IV 
 SPITZER 
 
 SPITZER was just naturally born diffident. Some- 
 times that sort of thing wears off as one grows older, 
 sometimes it doesn't. When it doesn't, it is worse than 
 the most virulent disease -it had been virulent with 
 Spitzer for all of his twenty-two years. 
 
 Spitzer wasn't much to look at, neither was he of 
 much account on the Hill Division. Some men rise 
 to occasions, others don't; as for Spitzer well, he 
 was a snubby-nosed, peaked-faced, touzled-haired 
 little fellow with washed-out blue eyes that always 
 seemed to carry around an apology in their depths that 
 their owner existed, and this idea was backed up a good 
 bit by Spitzer's voice. Spitzer had a weak voice and 
 that militated against him. The ordinary voice of the 
 ordinary man on the Hill Division was not weak it 
 was assertive. Spitzer suffered thereby because every- 
 body crawled over him. Nobody thought anything of 
 Spitzer. They all knew him, of course, that is, those 
 whose duties brought them within the zone of Spitzer's 
 orbit, which was restricted to Big Cloud or, rather, to 
 the roundhouse at Big Cloud. Nobody ever gave him 
 credit for courage enough to call his soul his own. 
 Even when it came to pay day he took his check as 
 
 66 
 
SPITZER 67 
 
 though it was a mistake and that it really wasn't meant 
 for him. He just dubbed along, doing his work day 
 after day like a faithful dog, only he was a hanged 
 sight less obtrusive. Summed up in a word, Spitzer 
 ranked as a nonentity, physically, mentally, pro- 
 fessionally. 
 
 Of course he never got ahead. He just kept on 
 sweeping out the roundhouse and puttering around 
 playing bell-boy to every Tom, Dick and Harry that 
 lifted a finger at him. Year in, year out, he swept 
 and wiped in the roundhouse. As far as seniority went 
 he was it, but when it came to promotion he wasn't. 
 Promotion and Spitzer were so obviously, so ostenta- 
 tiously at variance with each other that no one ever 
 thought of such a thing. When there was a vacancy 
 others got it. Spitzer saw them move along, firing, 
 driving spare, up to full-fledged regulars on the right- 
 hand side of the cabs, men that had started after he 
 did; but Spitzer still wiped and swept out the round- 
 house. 
 
 Carleton, the super, called him a landmark, and that 
 hit the bull's-eye. Summer, winter, fall, spring, good 
 weather, bad weather, five-foot-five-with-his-boots-on 
 Spitzer, lugging a little tin dinner-pail, trudged down 
 Main Street in Big Cloud as regular as clockwork, 
 and reported at the roundhouse at precisely the same 
 hour every morning five minutes of seven. Never a 
 miss, never a slip five minutes of seven. The train 
 crews got to setting their watches by him, and the dis- 
 patchers wired the meteorological observatory every 
 time their chronometers didn't tally that is, tally with 
 
68 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Spitzer and the meteorological crowd put Spitzer 
 first across the tape every shot. 
 
 It was just the same at night, only then Spitzer went 
 by the six o'clock whistle. Ten hours a day, Sundays 
 off sometimes wiping, sweeping, sweeping, wiping, 
 from his boarding-house to the roundhouse in the 
 morning, from the roundhouse to his boarding-house 
 at night that was Spitzer, self-effaced, self-obliter- 
 ated, innocuous, modest Spitzer. 
 
 Night times? Spitzer didn't exist, there was no 
 Spitzer it wasn't expected of him! If any one had 
 been asked they would have looked their amazement, 
 but then no one ever was asked or asked, which is 
 the same thing the other way. Spitzer was like a tool 
 laid away after the day's work and forgotten absolutely 
 and profoundly until the following morning. No one 
 knew anything about Spitzer after the six o'clock 
 whistle blew, no one knew and cared less that is, 
 none of the railroad crowd knew, and they, when 
 all is said and done, were Big Cloud, they owned 
 it, ran it, absorbed it, and properly so, since 
 Big Cloud was the divisional point on the Hill 
 Division. 
 
 In the ineffable perversity of things is the spice and 
 variety of life. Tommy Regan, the master mechanic, 
 was a man not easily jolted, not easily disturbed. He 
 was very short, very broad, with little black eyes, and 
 a long, scraggly, drooping-at-the-corners, brown mus- 
 tache. Also, he was blessed with a well-defined, well- 
 nourished paunch which is a sign irrefutable of con- 
 tentment, a calm and placid outlook upon life in general 
 
SPITZER 69 
 
 and particular, and a freedom from the ills of haste 
 and worry. A man with a paunch is a man apart and 
 greatly to be envied, even when that paunch, as was 
 the case with Regan, is of Irish extraction, for then 
 the accompanying touch of Celtic temper makes him 
 more like an ordinary, cross-grained, irritable, every- 
 day mortal and less of a temperamental curiosity. 
 Regan was justly proud of both his paunch and his 
 nationality. Regan put it the other way his nation- 
 ality and his paunch. That, however, is a matter for 
 individual decision and the relative importance of 
 things is as one sees it ; the main thing is that one per- 
 mitted him to use fiery words on occasion, and the 
 other enabled him to preserve, ordinarily, a much to 
 be commended state of equanimity. 
 
 Perversity of perversities! It was Spitzer that 
 jolted Regan not once, more than once. And before 
 he got through, jolted him so hard that Regan hasn't 
 got over the wonder of it yet. 
 
 " Think of it/' he'll say, when the subject is brought 
 up. " Think of it ! You know Spitzer, h'm ? Well, 
 think of it ! SPITZER ! " And if it's summer he'll mop 
 his beady brow, and if it's winter he'll twiddle his 
 thumbs with his fingers laced over his embonpoint, 
 which is to say over the lower button of his waist- 
 coat. 
 
 Regan's first jolt came to him one morning as, 
 after a critical inspection of his pets in the round- 
 house big six- and eight-wheeled mountain engines 
 he strolled out and leaned against the push-bar on the 
 turntable, mentally debating the respective merits of a 
 
70 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 rust-joint and a straight patch as specifically applied 
 to number 583 that had been run into the shops the day 
 before for repairs. 
 
 A figure emerged from the engine doors at the far 
 end of the roundhouse and came toward him. Regan's 
 eyes, attracted, barely glanced in that direction, and 
 then went down again in meditation, as he kicked a 
 little hole in the cinders with the toe of his boot it 
 was only Spitzer. 
 
 When he looked up again Spitzer was nearer, quite 
 near. Spitzer had halted before him and was standing 
 there patiently, an embarrassed flush on his cheeks, 
 wiping his hands nervously on an exceedingly dirty 
 piece of packing which in his abstraction, for Spitzer 
 was plainly abstracted, he had picked up for a piece of 
 waste. 
 
 " Huh ! " said Regan, staring at Spitzer's hands, 
 " what you trying to do ? Black up for a minstrel 
 show?" 
 
 Spitzer dropped the packing as though it had been 
 a handful of thistles, and rubbed his hands up and 
 down the legs of his overalls. 
 
 "Well?" Regan invited. 
 
 Spitzer began to talk, rapidly, hurriedly that is, his 
 lips moved rapidly, hurriedly. 
 
 Regan listened attentively and with a strained and 
 hopeless expression, as he strove to catch a word and 
 hence the drift of Spitzer's remarks. 
 
 " How ? " he demanded, when he saw Spitzer was at 
 an end. " Speak out, man. You won't wake the baby 
 up." 
 
SPITZER 71 
 
 Spitzer began all over again. This time he did a 
 little better. 
 
 " A dollar twenty-five/' repeated the master me- 
 chanic numbly. 
 
 Spitzer brightened visibly, and nodded. 
 
 Regan stared, bewildered and dumfounded. Gradu- 
 ally, impossible, incomprehensible, incongruous as it 
 appeared, it dawned on him that Spitzer, even Spitzer, 
 Spitzer was asking for a raise! 
 
 " A dollar twenty-five," was all Regan could repeat 
 over again, and the words came away with a gasp. 
 
 Spitzer, misinterpreting the tone, his face grew rue- 
 ful and full of trouble. He was appalled at his own 
 temerity in broaching the subject in the first place, but 
 now he had overstepped the bounds he had asked 
 for too much ! 
 
 "A dollar twenty," he ventured, in timid compro- 
 mise Spitzer was getting a dollar fifteen. 
 
 " How long you been working here ? " inquired 
 Regan, recovering a little and beginning to get a grip 
 on himself. 
 
 " Four years," said Spitzer faintly. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " mumbled Regan. " Four years. A 
 dollar twenty-five, h'm ? Well, I dunno, I guess we can 
 manage that." And then, as a new thought suddenly 
 struck him : " What the blazes would you do with 
 more money, h'm ? " 
 
 But Spitzer only grinned sheepishly as, after mur- 
 muring his thanks, he walked back and disappeared in 
 the roundhouse. 
 
 " Good Lord ! " muttered Regan, looking after him. 
 
72 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Four years, and a dollar and a quarter, and Spitzer ! 
 Good Lord!" 
 
 Regan went around more or less dazed all that day. 
 He ordered the patch on 583 when he had definitely 
 decided on the rust- joint as the best tonic for the en- 
 gine's complaint, and he figured out how much one 
 dollar and fifteen cents a day came to for a year 
 barring Sundays, then he did the same with a dollar 
 twenty-five as the multiplicand and compared the re- 
 sults. Spitzer's demand was not exorbitant, and it 
 wasn't much to upset any man that was just it it 
 was Spitzer, and Spitzer wasn't much. Effect, psy- 
 chological or otherwise, is by no manner of means to be 
 measured by the mere magnitude of the cause, it is the 
 phenomenal and unusual that is to be treated with 
 wholesome respect, and for safe handling requires a 
 double-tracked, block system with the cautionary 
 signals up from start to finish the master me- 
 chanic found it that way anyhow, and he ought to 
 know. 
 
 He unburdened himself that night after supper to 
 Carleton and a few of the others over at division head- 
 quarters, which had been moved upstairs over the sta- 
 tion, where the chiefs used to meet regularly each 
 evening for a pipe, with a round of pedro thrown in 
 to liven things up a bit Big Cloud not being blessed 
 with many attractions in the amusement line. 
 
 Carleton grinned. 
 
 " Bad company," he suggested. " Hard lot, that of 
 yours over in the roundhouse, Tommy. They're spoil- 
 ing his manners. Been a long time in coming, but you 
 
SPITZER 73 
 
 know the old story of the water and the stone. 
 What?" 
 
 " What in blazes would he do with more money ? " 
 inquired Spence, the chief dispatcher, in unfeigned 
 astonishment. 
 
 Regan glared disdainfully. He had put precisely 
 the same question to Spitzer himself, but since then 
 he had been brushing up his mathematics. 
 
 "Do with it!" he choked. "Thirty dollars and 
 eighty cents a year. Hell of a problem, ain't it? " 
 
 " Well, you needn't run off your schedule," said 
 Spence, a little tartly. " You're the one that's making 
 most of the fuss over it." 
 
 " Tell you what, Tommy," remarked Carleton, still 
 grinning, " you want to look out for Spitzer from now 
 on. I guess his emancipation has begun nothing like 
 a start. Before you know it he'll be running rough- 
 shod over the motive power department, including the 
 master mechanic." 
 
 " I give him the raise," said Regan, more to himself 
 than aloud. " 'Twas coming to him, what ? Four 
 years, and the first time I ever heard a yip out of him." 
 
 ''' You'll hear more," prophesied Carleton ; " even if 
 he doesn't talk very loud." 
 
 " Think so ? " said Regan, puckering up his eyes. 
 
 " I do," said Carleton. 
 
 And Regan did. 
 
 Not at once, not for several weeks. But in the mean- 
 time a change came over Spitzer. He swept and wiped 
 and reported at five minutes of seven every morning 
 and kept himself just as much in the background, just 
 
74 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 as much out of everybody's way, just as unobtrusive 
 as he had before, but Spitzer was none the less 
 changed. 
 
 It began the day after he got his raise. It was an 
 indefinite, elusive, negative sort of a change, not the 
 kind you could lay your hand on and describe in so 
 many words. Regan tried to, and gave it up. The 
 nearest he came to anything concrete was one day 
 when he came around the tail-end of a tender and, un- 
 expectedly, upon Spitzer. Spitzer was sweeping as 
 usual, but Spitzer was also whistling which was not 
 usual. Regan, it is true, couldn't puzzle very much out 
 of that, but then Regan had his limitations. 
 
 Mindful of Carleton's words, Regan kept his eye in 
 a mildly curious kind of a way on the little faded, blue- 
 eyed drudge, and as he noticed the first change without 
 being able to define it, he now, after a week or so, 
 noticed a second, with the difference that this time the 
 diagnosis was painfully obvious Spitzer 's return to 
 Spitzer's normal self. Spitzer stopped whistling. 
 
 Regan began to catch Spitzer's eyes fixed on him 
 with a hesitating, irresolute, anxious gaze about every 
 time he entered the roundhouse. And though he didn't 
 quite grasp it, something of the truth came to him. 
 Spitzer was screwing up his courage to the sticking 
 point preparatory to another step onward in his be- 
 lated march toward emancipation. 
 
 It was a month to the day from the first interview 
 when Spitzer tackled the master mechanic again, and 
 as before, out by the turntable in front of the round- 
 house, and, if anything, in a manner even more nervous 
 
SPITZER 75 
 
 and ill at ease than on the former occasion. He stam- 
 mered once or twice in an effort to begin and his 
 effort was utter failure. 
 
 Regan eyed him in profound distrust. Once in four 
 years wasn't so much, and after all, even Spitzer, now 
 that the shock was over, might be expected to do that. 
 But again in a month and from Spitzer ! Something 
 was wrong perhaps Carleton was right. 
 
 r< Well," he snapped, " you got your raise. Ain't 
 you satisfied ? " 
 
 Spitzer nodded dumbly. 
 
 " Well, then, what's the matter with you if you're 
 satisfied ? " exploded the master mechanic. 
 
 " I want to get " the last word trailed off into 
 
 tremulous, quavering incoherency. 
 
 " You want to get what ? " growled Regan. " Don't 
 sputter as though you'd swallowed your teeth. What 
 is it you want to get ? " 
 
 " Firing," blurted Spitzer after a desperate struggle. 
 
 Regan gasped for his breath. Spitzer! SPITZER 
 in a cab ! He couldn't have heard straight. 
 
 " Say it again," whispered the master mechanic. 
 
 " Firing," repeated Spitzer, with more confidence 
 now that the plunge was taken. 
 
 " Yes," said Regan weakly to himself. " That's it. 
 I got it right firing ! He wants to get firing! " 
 
 " I I can do it," faltered Spitzer. " I got to." 
 
 " Eh ? What's that ? " said Regan. " You got to ? 
 Say, you, Spitzer, what the devil's the matter with you 
 anyway ? " 
 
 Spitzer wriggled like a worm on a hook, and his face 
 
76 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 went the color of a semaphore arm a deep red one. 
 Spitzer was suffering acutely. 
 
 " Well, well/' prodded Regan. " Release the air ! 
 Take the brakes off!" 
 
 " I'm," began Spitzer shamefacedly, " I'm " He 
 
 gulped down his Adam's apple hard, twice, and then 
 it came away with a rush : " I'm going to get married 
 to Merla Swenson." 
 
 Regan's jaw sagged like the broken limb of a tree, 
 and his eyes fairly popped out and hung down over the 
 roll of his cheeks. Then gradually, very gradually, he 
 began to double up and unhandsome contortions 
 afflicted his facial muscles. Spitzer! Spitzer was 
 enough ! But Spitzer and Merla Swenson ! Six-foot- 
 heavy-boned-long-armed Swedish-maiden Merla! Oh, 
 contrariety, variety, perversity of lif e ! 
 
 " Haw ! " he roared suddenly. " Haw, haw ! Haw, 
 haw, haw ! " And again only louder. The turner 
 and a helper or two poked their noses out of the round- 
 house doors to get a line on the disturbance. 
 
 Can a stone float? Can a feather sink? Astonish- 
 ing, bewildering, dumfounding, impossible, oh, yes; 
 but it was also very funny. It was the funniest thing 
 that Regan had ever heard in his life. 
 
 "Haw, haw!" he screamed. "Ho, ho! Haw, 
 haw ! " 
 
 His paunch shook like jelly, and he held both hands 
 to his sides to ease the pain. He straightened up pre- 
 paratory to going off into another burst of guffaws, 
 and then, with his mouth already opened to begin, he 
 stopped as though he had been stunned. Spitzer was 
 
SPITZER 77 
 
 still standing before him, and Spitzer's head was turned 
 away, but Regan caught it, caught the two big tears 
 that rolled slowly down the grimy cheeks. And in 
 that moment he realized what neither he nor any other 
 man on the Hill Division had ever realized before 
 that Spitzer, too, was human. 
 
 Regan coughed, choked, and cleared his throat. 
 Here was Spitzer in a new light, but the Spitzer of 
 years was not so readily to be consigned to the back- 
 ground of oblivion. Spitzer in a cab was as much 
 an anomaly as ever, conjugal aspirations to the con- 
 trary. 
 
 "Firing?" said he, with grave consideration that 
 he meant, by contrast, should serve as palliation for the 
 sting of his mirth. "Firing? I'm afraid not. You're 
 not fit for it. You're not big enough." 
 
 Spitzer dashed his hands across his eyes. 
 
 " I can fire," he announced with a surprising show 
 of spirit, " an' I got to. There's smaller ones than me 
 doing it." 
 
 (t What do you mean by ' got to ' ? " demanded the 
 master mechanic. 
 
 Spitzer shifted uneasily and kicked at the ground. 
 
 " Merla an' me's been making up for quite a while," 
 he stammered : " but she wouldn't say nothing one 
 way or the other till I got a raise." 
 
 " Well, you got it," said Regan. 
 
 Spitzer nodded miserably. 
 
 ;< Yes, an' now she says 'tain't enough to get married 
 on, an' an' we'll have to wait till I get firing." 
 
 " Good Lord ! " murmured Regan, and he mopped 
 
78 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 his brow in deep perplexity. The destiny of mortals 
 was in his hands but so was the motive power de- 
 partment of the Hill Division. He could no more see 
 Spitzer in a cab than he could see the time-honored 
 camel passing through the eye of a needle. Then in- 
 spiration came to him. 
 
 " Look here, Spitzer," said he, soothingly. " There 
 ain't any use talking about firing, and I ain't going to 
 let you build up any false hopes. But I'll tell you what, 
 you don't need to feel glum about it. She loves you, 
 don't she?" 
 
 Spitzer's lips moved. 
 
 " H'm ? " inquired Regan solicitously, bending for- 
 ward. 
 
 " Yes ; she says she does," repeated Spitzer in thin 
 tones. 
 
 '' Yes ; well then, when you know women, and as 
 much about 'em as I do, you'll know that nothing else 
 counts nothing but the love, I mean. It's their 
 nature, and they're all alike. That's the way it is with 
 all of 'em " Regan waved his hand expansively. 
 " It'll be all right. You'll see. She won't hold out on 
 that line." 
 
 Some men profit much by little experience, others 
 profit little by much experience. Spitzer, possibly, had 
 had little, very little, but the dejected droop of his 
 shoulders, as he started back for the roundhouse, inti- 
 mated that in the matter of knowledge as applied to the 
 eternal feminine he was perhaps, in so far as it lay be- 
 tween himself and the master mechanic, the better 
 qualified of the two to speak. And that, certainly, 
 
SPITZER 79 
 
 when concretely applied, which is to say applied to 
 Merla Swenson. 
 
 Regan couldn't have kept the story back to save his 
 life, and it didn't take long for the division to get it. 
 They all got it train crews and engine crews on way 
 freights, stray freights, locals, extras and regulars, the 
 staff, the shop hands, the track-walkers and the section 
 gangs down to the last car-tink. At first the division 
 looked incredulous, then it grinned, and then it howled, 
 and its howl was the one word " Spitzer ! " with 
 seventeen exclamation points after it to make the 
 tempo and rhythm hang out in a manner befitting and 
 commensurate with the occasion. 
 
 It's an ill wind that blows nobody good. Dutchy 
 Damrosch did the business of his life he did more 
 business than he had ever dreamed of doing in his 
 wildest flights of imagination, for Dutchy had the lunch 
 counter rights at Big Cloud. What's that got to do 
 with Spitzer and his marital ambition ? Well, a whole 
 lot ! Merla Swenson was second girl in Dutchy's 
 establishment, and Merla was the " fee-ancy " of 
 Spitzer which was a rotten bad pun of Spider Kelly's, 
 the conductor, and due more to the brogue-like twist of 
 his tongue than to any malice aforethought. 
 
 To see any girl that was in love with Spitzer was 
 worth the price of coffee and sinkers any old time. 
 The lunch counter took on the air of a dime museum, 
 and the visitors questioned Merla anxiously, a little 
 suspicious that after all there might be a nigger in the 
 woodpile somewhere in the shape of a " frame-up " 
 with the hoax on themselves. 
 
8o ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Merla settled all doubts on that score. Unruffled, 
 calmly, stoically, dispassionately she answered the same 
 question fifty times a day, and each time in the same 
 way. 
 
 " Yah, I ban love Spitzer," was her infallible reply, 
 in a tone that made the bare possibility that she could 
 have done anything else seem the very acme of 
 absurdity. Merla's inflexion struck deep at the root 
 of things inevitable. 
 
 After that there was nothing to be said. A few, 
 very few, and as the days went by their numbers 
 thinned with amazing rapidity, had the temerity to 
 snicker audibly. They only did it once, as with arms 
 akimbo and hands on hips Merla advanced to the edge 
 of the counter with a look in her steadfast, blue eyes, 
 that was far from inviting, and inquired : 
 
 " Him ban goot mans, I tank ? " 
 
 It was put in the form of a question, it is true, but 
 the " put " was of such cold uncompromise that the 
 result was always the same. The offender hastily 
 buried his nose in his coffee-cup, dug for a dime to 
 square his account with Dutchy and made for the 
 platform. 
 
 This was all very well, but unless Regan died and 
 some one with a little less or a little more, depending 
 on how you look at it imagination took his place, 
 Spitzer's chances of getting into a cab were as good 
 as ever, which is to say that they were about as good 
 as the goodness of a plugged nickel. And the trouble 
 was that, as far as Spitzer could see, the master 
 mechanic wasn't sprouting out with any visible signs 
 
SPITZER 81 
 
 of premature decay. Furthermore, as he had sus- 
 picioned and now discovered, Regan wasn't the last 
 word on women; not, perhaps, that Merla put firing 
 before love, only she was uncommonly strong on firing. 
 Spitzer was unhappy. 
 
 All things come to those who wait, they say. So 
 they do, perhaps ; but the way of their coming is some- 
 times not to be understood or fathomed. The story 
 of a man who fell from the eighteenth story window 
 of an office building, and, incidentally, broke his neck 
 has no place here except in a general way. A friend 
 who took a passing interest in the event was curious 
 enough to investigate the cause, and he traced it back 
 step by step, logically, surely, inevitably, beyond the 
 possibility of refutation, to the fact that the second 
 hook from the top on the back of the man's wife's 
 dress not the man's dress, the dress of the man's wife 
 was missing on the morning of the day of his un- 
 timely decease. The man not the man's friend was 
 an inventor. But no matter. It just shows. Regan 
 being still alive, the chances are better than a thousand 
 to one that Spitzer would have known a cold and for- 
 lorn old age, as Robert Louis puts it, and Merla would 
 never have had a second edition of herself if it hadn't 
 been for a few measly, unripe crab-apples. What? 
 Yes, that's it crab-apples. That's the way Spitzer 
 got where he is to-day just crab-apples. Funny how 
 things happen sometimes when you come to think of it, 
 isn't it ? Spitzer and the man who broke his neck aren't 
 the only ones who've had their ups and downs that way, 
 not by several. There isn't any moral to this except 
 
82 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 that here and there you'll find a man who isn't as. 
 modest about his own ability as he ought to be ! 
 
 Spitzer's nocturnal habits, that were a matter of so 
 much unconcern and of which the railroad crowd at 
 Big Cloud were so densely in ignorance, have a part 
 in this. The truth is that between the lunch-counter 
 and the station is the baggage and freight-shed, and 
 behind the freight-shed it is very dark; and also, not 
 less pertinent, is the fact that Merla was possessed of 
 no other quarters than those shared by her sister-in- 
 arms in Dutchy's employ which were neither propi- 
 tious nor commodious. Hence but the connection is 
 obvious. 
 
 On Merla's night off at eight o'clock, Spitzer 
 sneaked down through the fields and across the plat- 
 form, weather permitting, and on those nights Merla 
 donned her bonnet " for a walk " at the same hour. 
 When the station-clock struck ten and, coincident- 
 ally, Number One's mellow chime sounded down the 
 gorge, Merla retraced her steps to the upstairs rear of 
 the lunch-counter, and Spitzer retraced his across the 
 platform to the fields in the direction of the town and 
 his boarding-house; only, of late, Spitzer had taken 
 to lingering on the platform way up at the far end 
 where it was also very dark and equally as deserted. 
 
 Here he would gaze wistfully at the big mogul with 
 valves popping and the steam drumming at her gauges, 
 as she waited on the siding just in front of him 'Big 
 Cloud being a divisional point where the engines were 
 changed to back down onto Number One for the first 
 stretch of the mountain run Burke's run with 503, 
 
SPITZER 83 
 
 and big Jim MacAloon looking after the shovel end 
 of it. 
 
 There wasn't anything novel in the sight, but it 
 didn't seem to strike Spitzer as monotonous although, 
 when it was all over and he watched the vanishing 
 tail lights, he always sighed. It was just the same 
 performance each time. Ten minutes or so before 
 Number One, westbound, was due, MacAloon would 
 run 503 out of the roundhouse, over the turntable, 
 up the line, and back onto the siding. Then Burke 
 would appear on the scene, light a torch, and poke 
 around with a long-spouted oil can. 
 
 Spitzer would usually reach his position up the plat- 
 form in time to see the engineer's final jab with the 
 torch between the drivers or into the link-motion be- 
 fore swinging himself through the gangway into the 
 cab, as the Limited with snapping trucks and screech- 
 ing brake-shoes rolled into the station; but one night 
 it fell out a little differently. The station clock had 
 struck ten, Merla had hastened to her domicile, and 
 Spitzer to the far end of the platform as usual, but 
 Number One was late. 
 
 Suddenly Spitzer jumped and his heart seemed to 
 shoot into his mouth. There was a wild, piercing 
 scream of agony. It came again. The blood left 
 Spitzer's cheeks. He saw Burke fly around the end 
 of the pilot, the torch dancing in his hand, and make 
 for the cab. Spitzer involuntarily leaped from the 
 platform to the track and ran in the same direction, 
 then the safety-valve popped with a terrific roar, 
 drowning out all other sounds. He clambered cau- 
 
84 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 tiously into the cab. On the floor MacAloon was 
 going through a performance that would have beg- 
 gared the efforts of a writhing python, and the while 
 he groaned and yelled. 
 
 As Spitzer watched, Burke, who was bending over 
 MacAloon with an anxious face, suddenly reached 
 forward and picked up a little round object that rolled 
 from the pocket of the fireman's jumper, then another 
 and another. Spitzer instinctively craned forward, 
 and in so doing attracted Burke's notice for the first 
 time. Burke's look of anxiety gave way to a grin 
 and he held out the objects to Spitzer, just as if it 
 wasn't Spitzer at all but an ordinary man humor, 
 like death, is a great leveler, but no matter, let that 
 go. Burke held them out to Spitzer, Spitzer took 
 them, and even Spitzer grinned. It didn't need any 
 doctor to diagnose MacAloon's complaint and the 
 complaint wasn't poetic! Cramps, old-fashioned, un- 
 adulterated cramps just plain cramps and green crab- 
 apples ! Some things lay a man out worse perhaps 
 but there aren't many. 
 
 Burke's grin didn't last long, for at that moment 
 came Number One's long, clear siren note, and back 
 over the tender a streak of light shot out in a wide 
 circle from around a butte and then danced along the 
 rails and began to light up the platform, as the Limited 
 thundered, five minutes late, into the straight stretch. 
 
 " Holy fishplates ! " yelled Burke. " I've got to get 
 a man to fire. Spitzer, you run like hell to the round- 
 house and " 
 
 Burke stopped. Spitzer stopped him. There are 
 
SPITZER 85 
 
 moments in everybody's life when they rise above 
 themselves, above habit, above environment, above 
 everything, if even for only a brief instant. A chance 
 like this would never come again. If he could fire one 
 trip maybe Regan would change his mind. Spitzer 
 grasped at it frantically, despairingly. 
 
 " Burke, I can fire," he fairly screamed. " Give me 
 a chance, Burke. I'll never get one if you don't." 
 
 Burke gasped for a moment like a man with his 
 breath knocked out of him, then something like a dry 
 chuckle sounded in his throat. No one knows but 
 Burke what decided him. It might have been either 
 of two things, or a combination of them both 
 Spitzer's pleading face, or the desire to take a rise 
 out of Regan Burke and Regan not having been on 
 the best of terms since the last general elections. Be 
 that as it may, Burke pointed at the squirming fireman. 
 
 " Take his feet," he grunted. 
 
 Together they lifted and dragged the stricken Mac- 
 Aloon out of the cab and to the ground. 1 108, pulling 
 Number One, had come to a stop abreast of them by 
 now, and Burke shouted at the engine crew. 
 
 " Here ! " he bawled. " Lend a hand ! " 
 
 And as both men stuck their heads out of the 
 gangway, he and Spitzer boosted the fireman up to 
 them. 
 
 " Got cramps," explained Burke tersely. " You'll 
 be able to fix him up in the roundhouse. Five minutes 
 late, h'm? Well, hurry, you're clear. There's your 
 * go-ahead.' Pull out and let me get hold." 
 
 Burke turned to Spitzer, as 1108 slipped away from 
 
86 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 the baggage-car and moved up the track, and pointed 
 to the gangway of his own engine. 
 
 " Get in," he said grimly. " You'll get a chance to 
 fire, and, take it from me, you'll never get a chance 
 to do that or anything else again this side of the happy 
 hunting-grounds, my bucko, if you throw me down." 
 
 And while Regan quarreled amiably over a game 
 of pedro upstairs in the station with Carleton, 503, 
 with Spitzer, touzled-haired, mild-eyed, heart-beating- 
 like-a-trip-hammer Spitzer, in the cab, backed down 
 on the Imperial Limited and coupled on for the moun- 
 tain run. There was a quick testing of the " air," a 
 hurried running up and down the platform, and then 
 Burke, leaning from the window with his arms 
 stretched out inside the cab and fingers on the throttle, 
 opened a notch, and the platform began to slide past 
 them. 
 
 Spitzer wrinkled his face and stared at the gauge 
 needle two hundred and ten pounds, all the way, all 
 the time two hundred and ten pounds. It was up to 
 him. With a jerk of the chain, he swung the furnace 
 door wide and a shovelful of coal shot, neatly scat- 
 tered, over the grate. 
 
 There is art in all things; there is the quintessence 
 of art in the prosaic and laborious task of firing an 
 engine. Spitzer was not without art, for in a way he 
 had had years of experience ; but banking a fire in the 
 roundhouse, and nursing a roaring pit of flame to its 
 highest degree of efficiency in a swaying, lurching cab, 
 are two different and distinct operations that are in 
 no way to be confounded. 503 began to lurch and 
 
SPITZER 87 
 
 sway. Notch by notch Burke was opening her out, and 
 the bark of her exhaust was coming like the quick 
 crackle of a gatling. Five minutes late in the moun- 
 tains on a time schedule already marked up to a dizzy 
 height that called for more chances than the passengers 
 paid for is well, it's five minutes, just five minutes, 
 that's all. Some men would have left it for the Pacific 
 Division crowd the next day on a level track and a 
 straight sweep but not Burke. 
 
 Spitzer's initiation was in ample form and he got 
 the full benefit of all the rites and ceremonies with 
 every detail of the ritual worked in and no favors 
 shown. So far all was well, the rough country was 
 all in front of the pilot, and Spitzer was all business. 
 His pulse was beating in tune to only one thing the 
 dancing needle on the gauge. Again he swung the 
 door open, and the red flare lighted up the heavens 
 and played on features that Regan would never have 
 known for Spitzer's they were set, grim and deter- 
 mined, covered with little sweat beads that glistened 
 like diamonds. The singing sweep of the wind was 
 in his ears as he poised his shovel. There was a sick- 
 ening slur. 503 shot round a tangent and the shovel- 
 ful of coal shot like bullets all over the cab, and, in- 
 cluding Burke, hit about everything in sight but the 
 objective point aimed at. Simultaneously, Spitzer 
 promptly performed a gyration that resembled some- 
 thing like a back hand-spring and landed well up on 
 the tender, to roll back to the floor of the cab again 
 with an accompanying avalanche of coal. 
 
 He picked himself up and glanced apprehensively at 
 
88 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 the engineer. There was not a scowl, not even a grin 
 on Burke's face, just an encouraging flirt of the hand 
 but the flirt was momentous. Wise and full of guile 
 was Burke, for with that little act Spitzer, biblically 
 speaking, girded up his loins and got his second wind. 
 
 They were well into the foothills now, and the right 
 of way was an amazing wonder. Diving, twisting, 
 curving, it circled and bored and trestled its way, and 
 buttes, canons, gorges and coulees roared past like 
 flights of fancy. 
 
 The speed was terrific. To Spitzer it was all a wild, 
 mad medley of things he had never known before, of 
 things that had neither beginning nor end. The giddy 
 slew as the big mountain racer hit the curves, the 
 crunching grind of the flanges as for an instant she 
 lifted from her wheel-base, the pitch, the roll, the 
 staggering reel, the gasp for breath, the beat of the 
 trucks, the whir of the racing drivers, the rush of the 
 wind, the echoing thunder of the flying coaches behind 
 it was all there, all separate, all welded into one, a 
 creation, new, vernal, life, the life of the rail, that beat 
 at his eardrums and quickened the pounding throb of 
 his heart. 
 
 At first, from time to time, Burke leaned over his 
 levers to glance at the pressure gauge, but after a bit 
 he crouched a little further forward in his seat and his 
 eyes held on the track ahead where the beam of the 
 electric headlight flooded the glittering ribbons of 
 steel. He was getting what MacAloon or no other 
 man had ever given him before two hundred and 
 ten pounds all the way. SPITZER was firing Num- 
 
SPITZER 89 
 
 her One, the Imperial Limited, westbound, on the 
 mountain run, three minutes late ! 
 
 The sweat was rolling in streams from the little 
 fellow now, and he clung in the gangway for a mo- 
 ment's breathing spell, leaning out, staring ahead at a 
 few shining lights in the distance. Came the hoarse 
 scream of the whistle, the clattering crash as they 
 shattered the yard switches, a blurred vision of dark 
 outlines dotted with tiny scintillating points, and 
 station, yard, lights, switches and all were behind him. 
 
 Spitzer drew his sleeve across his forehead, and 
 turned again to his work as they thundered over a 
 long steel trestle Thief Creek. Spitzer knew the 
 road well enough at second hand, if not from personal 
 experience. Just ahead was The Pass Sucker Pass 
 straight enough for its quarter-mile stretch, but where 
 the rock walls rose up on either side so close as to 
 almost scratch the paint off the rolling stock. Eased 
 for a moment in scant deference to switches and 
 trestle just passed, Spitzer felt the forward leap of the 
 racer as Burke threw her wide open again. He bent 
 for his shovel and then, quick as the winking of an 
 eye, sudden as doom, came a tearing, rending crash, 
 a scream from Burke, and the right-hand side of the 
 cab seemed literally torn in two. 
 
 A flying piece of woodwork that struck him across 
 the eyes, a terrific jolt as the engine lifted and fell 
 back, sent Spitzer headlong to the floor of the cab. 
 Dazed, half mad with the pain, the blood streaming 
 from his forehead, he staggered to his feet. Burke 
 lay coiled in an inert heap just in front of him by the 
 
90 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 furnace door. A whizzing piece of steel rose up, 
 crunched, slithered, gashed a track of ruin for itself, 
 and was gone. It had missed Burke only by a hair's- 
 breadth next time there might not be even that limit 
 of safety. With a cry, Spitzer leaped forward and 
 dragged the unconscious engineer across the cab. 
 Again the jolt, the slur, the stagger, the desperate 
 wrench. It seemed like years, like eternity to Spitzer. 
 He was living a lifetime in the passing of a second- 
 it had been no more than that, no more than two or 
 three at most. 
 
 There are some things worse, much worse, in rail- 
 roading than a broken crank-pin and a rod amuck, 
 but not when it comes in The Pass, where derail- 
 ment at their racing speed spelt death, quick and 
 sudden. There was just one chance for the trailing 
 string of coaches, just one for every last soul aboard 
 Spitzer. But between Spitzer and the throttle and the 
 air-latch was a thing of steel that rose and fell, now 
 swinging a splintering, murderous arc through the 
 shattered side of the cab, now grinding into the ties 
 and roadbed, threatening with /every revolution to 
 pitch 503 and the train behind her headlong from the 
 rails to crumple like flimsy egg-shells against the 
 narrow rocky walls that lined The Pass. Just one 
 chance for the train crew and passengers just one in 
 a thousand for Spiftzer. And little five- foot-five 
 Spitzer, diffident, retiring, self -effaced, unobtrusive 
 Spitzer, with a dry, choking sob in his throat, flung 
 himself forward to stop the train. His hands clutched 
 desperately at the levers, there was a hiss, the vicious 
 
SPITZER 91 
 
 bite of the brake-shoes, then a blinding light before 
 his eyes as the rod caught him and he pitched, sense- 
 less, half out through the front window of the cab, 
 head down on the running-board. 
 
 The last word is a woman's it is her inalienable 
 right. Said Merla to Regan with a world of sugges- 
 tion in the cadence of her voice, when Spitzer was 
 getting well enough to think about going to work 
 again : 
 
 " I ban love Spitzer." 
 
 " Well," said Regan, squinting at her round, stead- 
 fast, blue eyes, " there ain't anything I know of to 
 keep you waiting. He can name any run he wants. 
 And then, the wonder of it being still heavy upon him, 
 he exclaimed with the air of one invoking the uni- 
 verse : " Now, wouldn't that get you ! What do you 
 think, h'm?" 
 
 All English to Merla was literal. 
 
 " Him ban goot mans, I tank," she said. 
 
V 
 
 SHANLEY'S LUCK 
 
 GENERALLY speaking, Carleton, the super, was a 
 pretty good judge of human nature, and he wasn't in 
 the habit of making many breaks when it came to 
 sizing up a man not many. He did sometimes, but 
 not often. However 
 
 Shanley came out from the East, third class, colonist 
 coach, billed through to Bubble Creek, B. C. Not that 
 Shanley had any relatives or friends there, nor, for 
 that matter, any particular reason for wanting to go 
 there it was simply a question of how far his money 
 would go in yards of pink-colored paper, about two 
 and one-half inches wide, stamped, printed, counter- 
 signed, and signed again to obviate any possible mis- 
 understanding that might arise touching the company's 
 liability for baggage, the act of God, dangers foreseen 
 and unforeseen, personal effects or resultant personal 
 defects whether due to negligence or not it was all 
 one. The colonist ticket was a bill of lading, and the 
 " goods " went through " O. R.," owner's risk. 
 
 This possibly may not be strictly legal, but it is 
 strictly safe for the company. Furthermore, the 
 directors didn't have to sit up very late at night to 
 figure out that if they got the colonists' money first 
 there would be none left for legal advice in case of 
 
 92 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 93 
 
 eventualities, and that's the way it was with about nine 
 hundred and ninety-nine out of every thousand colo- 
 nists. The company, of course, did take some risk 
 they took a chance on the one-thousandth man. The 
 company had sporting blood. 
 
 If Shanley had only known what was going to 
 happen, he could have saved some of his money on 
 that ticket. As it stands now, he has still got trans- 
 portation coming to him from Little Dance on the 
 Hill Division to Bubble Creek, B. C. That may 
 be an asset, or it may not Shanley never asked 
 for it. 
 
 Third class, colonist, no stop over allowed, red- 
 haired, freckle-faced, an uptilt to the nose, a jaw as 
 square as the side of a house, shoulders like a bull's, 
 and a fist that would fell an ox that was Shanley. 
 That was Shanley until the sprung rail that ditched 
 the train at Little Dance caused him the loss of two 
 things his erstwhile status in the general passenger 
 agent's department, and a well-beloved and reeking 
 brier. 
 
 Both were lost forever his status partly on account 
 of the reasons before mentioned, and partly because 
 Shanley wasn't particularly interested in Bubble Creek ; 
 his brier because it became a part, an integral part, of 
 that memorable wreck, as Shanley, who was peacefully 
 smoking in the front-end compartment of the colonist 
 coach when the trouble happened, left the pipe behind 
 while he catapulted through the open door it was 
 summer and sizzling hot and landed, a very much 
 dazed, bewildered, but not otherwise hurt Shanley, 
 
94 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 halfway up the embankment on the off side of a scene 
 of most amazing disorder. 
 
 The potentialties that lie in a sprung rail are some- 
 thing to marvel at. Up ahead, the engine had promptly 
 turned turtle, and, as promptly giving vent to its dis- 
 pleasure at the indignity heaped upon it, had incased 
 itself in an angry, hissing cloud of steam; behind, the 
 baggage and mail cars seemed to have vied with each 
 other in affectionate regard for the tender. Only the 
 brass-polished, nickel-plated Pullmans at the rear still 
 held the rails ; the rest was just a crazy, slewed-edge- 
 ways, up-canted, toppled-over string of cars, already 
 beginning to smoke as the flames licked into them. 
 
 The shouts of those who had made their escape, the 
 screams of those still imprisoned within the wreckage, 
 the sight of others crawling through the doors and 
 windows brought Shanley back to his senses. He rose 
 to his feet, blinked furiously, as was his habit on all 
 untoward occasions, and the next instant he was down 
 the embankment and into the game to begin his career 
 as a railroad man. That's where he started in the 
 wreck at Little Dance. 
 
 In and out of the blazing pyre, after a woman or a 
 child; the crash of his ax through splintering wood- 
 work ; the scorching heat ; prying away some poor devil 
 wedged down beneath the debris ; tinkling glass as the 
 heat cracked the windows or he beat through a pane 
 with his fist it was all hazy, all a dream to Shanley 
 as, hours afterward, a grim, gaunt figure with 
 blackened, bleeding face, his clothes hanging in ribbons, 
 he rode into the Big Cloud yards on the derrick car. 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 95 
 
 Some men would have hit up the claim agent for a 
 stake; Shanley hit up Carleton for a job. But for 
 modesty's sake, previous to presenting himself before 
 the superintendent's desk, he borrowed from one of 
 the wrecking crew the only available article of wearing 
 apparel at hand a very dirty and disreputable pair of 
 overalls. Dirty and disreputable, but whole. 
 
 " I want a job, Mr. Carleton," said he bluntly, when 
 he had gained admittance to the super. 
 
 "You do, eh?" replied Carleton, looking him up 
 and down. " You do, eh ? You're a pretty hard-look- 
 ing nut, h'm ? " 
 
 Shanley blinked, but, being painfully aware that he 
 undoubtedly did look all if not more than that, and 
 being, too, not quite sure what to make of the super, he 
 contented himself with the remark: 
 
 " I ain't a picture, I suppose." 
 
 " H'm ! " said Carleton. " Been up at the wreck, I 
 hear what ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Shanley shortly. No long story, no 
 tale of what he'd done, no anything just " Yes," and 
 that was what caught Carleton. 
 
 " What can you do? " demanded the super. 
 
 " Anything. I'm not fussy," replied Chanley. 
 
 " H'm ! " said Carleton. " You don't look it." And 
 he favored Shanley with another prolonged stare. 
 
 Shanley, at first uncomfortable, shifted nervously 
 from one foot to the other; then, as the stare continued, 
 he began to get irritated. 
 
 " Look here," he flung out suddenly. " I ain't on 
 exhibition." I come for a job. I ain't got any letters 
 
96 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 of recommendation from pastors of churches in the 
 East. I ain't got anything. My name's Shanley, an' I 
 haven't even got anything to prove that." 
 
 "You've got your nerve," said Carleton, leaning 
 back in his swivel chair and tucking a thumb in the 
 armhole of his vest. " Ever worked on a railroad? " 
 
 " No," answered Shanley, a little less assertively, as 
 he saw his chances of a job vanishing into thin air, and 
 already regretting his hasty speech a few odd nickels 
 wasn't a very big stake for a man starting out in a new 
 country, and that represented the sum total of Shan- 
 ley's worldly wealth. " No, I never worked on a rail- 
 road." 
 
 " H'm," continued Carleton. " Well, my friend, you 
 can report to the trainmaster in the morning and tell 
 him I said to put you on breaking. Get out ! " 
 
 It came so suddenly and unexpectedly that it took 
 Shanley's breath. Carleton's ways were not Shanley's 
 ways, or ways that Shanley by any peradventure had 
 been accustomed to. A moment before he wouldn't 
 have exchanged one of his nickels for his chances of a 
 job, therefore his reply resolved itself into a sheepish 
 grin; moreover but of this hereafter Shanley back 
 East was decidedly more in the habit of having his ap- 
 plications refused with scant ceremony than he was to 
 receiving favorable consideration, which was another 
 reason for his failure to rise to the occasion with ap- 
 propriate words of thanks. 
 
 Incidentally, Shanley, like a select few of his fellow 
 creatures, had his failings; concretely, his particular 
 strayings from the straight and narrow way, not hav- 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 97 
 
 ing been hidden under a bushel, were responsible, with 
 the advice and assistance of a distant relative or two 
 advice being always cheap, and assistance, in this case, 
 a marked-down bargain for his migration to the 
 West, as far West as the funds in hand would take 
 him Bubble Creek, B. C, the distant relatives saw 
 to that. They bought the ticket. 
 
 Shanley, still smiling sheepishly and in obedience to 
 the super's instruction to " get out," was halfway to 
 the door when Carleton halted him. 
 
 "Shanley!" 
 
 "Yes, sir?" said Shanley, finding his voice and 
 swinging around. 
 
 " Got any money? " 
 
 Shanley's hand mechanically dove through the over- 
 alls and rummaged in the pocket of his torn and rib- 
 boned trousers the pocket had not been spared the 
 nickels, every last one of them, were gone. The look 
 on his face evidently needed no interpretation. 
 
 Carleton was holding out two bills two tens. 
 
 " Cleaned out, eh ? Well, I wouldn't blame any one 
 if they asked you for your board bill in advance. Here, 
 I guess you'll need this. You can pay it back later on. 
 There's a fellow keeps a clothing store up the street 
 that it wouldn't do you any harm to visit h'm ? " 
 
 With gratitude in his heart and the best of resolu- 
 tions exuding from every pore he was always long 
 on resolutions Shanley being embarrassed, and there- 
 fore awkward, made a somewhat ungraceful exit from 
 the super's presence. 
 
 But neither gratitude nor resolutions, even of steel- 
 
98 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 plate, double-riveted variety, are of much avail against 
 circumstances and conditions over which one has 
 absolutely, undeniably, and emphatically no control. 
 If Dinkelman's clothing emporium had occupied a site 
 between the station and MacGuire's Blazing Star 
 saloon, instead of the said Blazing Star saloon occupy- 
 ing that altogether inappropriate position itself, and if 
 Spider Kelly, the conductor of the wrecked train, had 
 not run into Shanley before he had fairly got ten yards 
 from the super's office, things undoubtedly would have 
 been very different. Shanley took that view of it after- 
 ward, and certainly he was justified. It is on record 
 that he had no hand in the laying out of Big Cloud nor 
 in the control of its real estate, rentals, or leases. 
 
 Railroad men are by no stretch of the imagination 
 to be regarded as hero worshipers, but if a man does a 
 decent thing they are not averse to telling him so. 
 Shanley had done several very decent things at the 
 wreck. Spider Kelly invited him into the Blazing 
 Star. 
 
 Shanley demurred. " I've got to get some clothes," 
 he explained. 
 
 "Get 'em afterward," said Kelly; "plenty of time. 
 Come on; it's just supper-time, and there'll be a lot of 
 the boys in there. They'll be glad to meet you. If 
 you're hungry you'll find the best free layout on the 
 division. There's nothing small about MacGuire." 
 
 Shanley hesitated, and, proverbially, was lost. 
 
 An intimate and particular description of the events 
 of that night are on no account to be written. They 
 would not have shocked, surprised, or astonished Shan- 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 99 
 
 ley's distant relatives but everybody is not a distant 
 relative. Shanley remembered it in spots only in 
 spots. He fought and whipped Spider Kelly, who was 
 a much bigger man than himself, and thereby cemented 
 an undying friendship; he partook of the hospitality 
 showered upon him and returned it with a lavish hand 
 as long as Carleton's twenty lasted; he made 
 speeches, many of them, touching wrecks and the na- 
 ture of wrecks and his own particular participation 
 therein which was seemly, since at the end, about 
 three o'clock in the morning, he slid with some dignity 
 under the table, and, with the fond belief that he was 
 once more clutching an ax and doing heroic and noble 
 service, wound his arms grimly, remorselessly, tena- 
 ciously, like an octopus, around the table leg and 
 slept. 
 
 MacGuire before bolting the front door studied the 
 situation carefully, and left him there for the sake of 
 the table. 
 
 The sunlight next morning was not charitable to 
 Shanley. Where yesterday he had borne the marks of 
 one wreck, he now bore the marks of two his own on 
 top of the company's. Up the street Dinkelman's 
 clothing emporium flaunted a canvas sign announcing 
 unusual bargains in men's apparel. This seemed to 
 Shanley an unkindly act that could be expressed in no 
 better terms than " rubbing it in." He gazed at the 
 sign with an aggrieved expression on his face, blinked 
 furiously, and started, with a step that lacked some- 
 thing of assurance, for the railroad yards and the train- 
 master's office. 
 
ioo ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 He was by no means confident of the reception that 
 awaited him. If there is one characteristic over and 
 above any other that is common to human nature, it is 
 the faculty, though that's rather an imposing word, of 
 worrying like sin over something that may happen 
 but never does. Shanley might just as well have saved 
 himself the mental worry anent the trainmaster's pos- 
 sible attitude. He did not report to the trainmaster 
 that morning, never saw that gentleman until long, very 
 long afterward. Instead, he reported to Carleton at 
 the latter's urgent solicitation in the shape of a grin- 
 ning call-boy, who intercepted his march of progress 
 toward the station. 
 
 " Hi, you, there, cherub face ! " bawled the urchin 
 politely. :< The super wants you on the hop ! " 
 
 Shanley stopped short, and, resorting to his favorite 
 habit, blinked. 
 
 " Carleton. Get it ? Carleton,'' repeated the mes- 
 senger, evidently by no means sure that he was 
 thoroughly understood; and then, for a parting shot 
 as he sailed gayly up the street : " Gee, but you're 
 pretty ! " 
 
 Carleton ! Shanley had forgotten all about Carleton 
 for the moment. His hand instinctively went into his 
 pocket and then he groaned. He remembered Carle- 
 ton. But worst of all, he remembered Carleton's 
 twenty. 
 
 There were two courses open to him. He could 
 sneak out of town with all possible modesty and dis- 
 patch, or he could face the music. Not that Shanley 
 debated the question the occasion had never yet arisen 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 101 
 
 when he hadn't faced the music he simply experienced 
 the temptation to " crawl," that was all. 
 
 " It looks to me," he ruminated ruefully, " as though 
 I was up against it for fair. Just my luck, just my 
 blasted luck, always the same kind of luck, that's what. 
 'Tain't my fault neither, is it? / ain't responsible for 
 that darned wreck if 'twasn't for that I wouldn't be 
 here. An' Kelly, Spider he said his name was, if 
 'twasn't for him I wouldn't be here neither. What 
 the blazes did / have to do with it? I always have 
 to stand for the other cuss. That's me every time, I 
 guess. An' that's logic." 
 
 It was. Neither was there any flaw in it as at first 
 sight might appear, for the last test of logic is its 
 power of conviction. Shanley, from being a man with 
 some reasonable cause for qualms of conscience, be- 
 came, in his own mind, one deeply sinned against, one 
 injured and crushed down by the load of others he 
 was forced to bear. 
 
 He explained this to Carleton while the thought of 
 his burning wrongs was still at white heat, and before 
 the super had a chance to get in a word. He began 
 as he opened the office door, continued as he crossed 
 the room, and finished as he stood before the super's 
 desk. 
 
 The scowl that had settled on Carleton's face, as he 
 looked up at the other's entrance, gradually gave way 
 to a hint of humor lurking around the corners of his 
 mouth, and he leaned back in his chair and listened 
 with an exaggerated air of profound attention. 
 
 " Just so, just so," said he, when Shanley finally 
 
102 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 came to a breathless halt. " Now perhaps you will 
 allow me to say a word. It may not have occurred to 
 you that I sent for you in order that / might do the 
 talking h'm?" 
 
 This really seemed to require no answer, so Shanley 
 made none. 
 
 ' Yesterday," went on Carleton, " you came to me 
 for a job, and I gave you one, didn't I ? " 
 
 ' Yes," admitted Shanley, licking his lips. 
 
 " Just so," said Carleton mildly. " I hired you then. 
 I fire you now. Pretty quick work, what? " 
 
 ' You're the doctor," said Shanley evenly enough. 
 He had, for all his logic, expected no more nor less 
 he was too firm a believer in his own particular and ex- 
 clusive brand of luck. " You're the doctor," he re- 
 peated. " There's a matter of twenty bucks " 
 
 " I was coming to that," interrupted Carleton ; " but 
 I'm glad you mentioned it. I'll be honest enough to 
 admit that I hardly expected you would. A man who 
 acts as you've acted doesn't generally h'm? " 
 
 " I told you 'twasn't my fault," said Shanley stub- 
 bornly. 
 
 Carleton reached for his pipe, and struck a match, 
 surveying Shanley the while with a gaze that was half 
 perplexed, half quizzical. 
 
 " You're a queer card," he remarked at last. :< Why 
 don't you cut out the booze ? " 
 
 " 'Twasn't my fault, I tell you," persisted Shanley. 
 
 " You're a pretty good hand with your fists, what ? " 
 said Carleton irrelevantly. " Kelly's no slouch him- 
 self." 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 103 
 
 Shanley blinked. It appeared that the super was as 
 intimately posted on the events of the preceding 
 evening as he was himself. The remark suggested an 
 inspection of the fists in question. They were grimy 
 and dirty, and most of the knuckles were barked; 
 closed, they resembled a pair of miniature battering- 
 rams. 
 
 " Pretty good," he admitted modestly. 
 
 " H'm ! About that twenty. You intend to pay it 
 back, don't you ? " 
 
 " I'm not a thief, whatever else I am," snapped Shan- 
 ley. " Of course, I'll pay it back. You needn't worry." 
 
 "When?" insisted Carleton coolly. 
 
 " When I get a job." 
 
 " I'll give you one," said Carleton" Royal " Carle- 
 ton the boys called him, the squarest man that ever 
 held down a division. " I'll give you one where your 
 fists will be kept out of mischief, and where you can't 
 hit the high joints quite as hard as you did last night. 
 But I want you to understand this, Shanley, and under- 
 stand it good and plenty and once for all, it's your last 
 chance. You made a fool of yourself last night, but 
 you acted like a man yesterday that's why you're 
 getting a new deal. You're going up to Glacier Canon 
 with McCann on the construction work. You won't 
 find it anyways luxurious, and maybe you'll like Mc- 
 Cann and maybe you won't he's been squealing for a 
 white man to live with. You can help him boss Italians 
 at one seventy-five a day, and you can go up on 
 Twenty-nine this morning, that'll take care of your 
 transportation. What do you say ? " 
 
104 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Shanley couldn't say anything. He looked at the 
 super and blinked; then he looked at his fists specula- 
 tively and blinked. 
 
 Carleton was scribbling on a piece of paper. 
 
 " All right, h'm? " he said, looking up and handing 
 over the paper. :t There's an order on Dinkelman, 
 only get some one else to show you the way this time, 
 and take the other side of the street going up. Under- 
 stand?" 
 
 " Mr. Carleton/' Shanley blurted out, " if ever I get 
 full again, you " 
 
 " I will ! " said Carleton grimly. " I'll fire you so 
 hard and fast you'll be out of breath for a month. 
 Don't make any mistake about that. No man gets 
 more than two chances with me. The next time you 
 get drunk will finish your railroad career for keeps, 
 I promise you that." 
 
 " Yes," said Shanley humbly ; and then, after a 
 moment's nervous hesitation : " About Kelly, Mr. 
 Carleton. I don't want to get him in bad on this. You 
 see, it was this way. He left early that's what 
 started the fight. I called him a a quitter or some- 
 thing like that." 
 
 " H'm, yes ; or something like that," repeated Carle- 
 ton dryly. " So I believe. I've had a talk with Kelly. 
 You needn't let the incomprehensible workings of that 
 conscience of yours prick you any on his account. 
 Kelly knows when to stop. His record is O. K. in this 
 office. Kelly doesn't get drunk. If he did, he'd be 
 fired just as fast as you will be if it ever happens 
 again." 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 105 
 
 " If I'm never fired for anything but that," exclaimed 
 Shanley in a burst of fervent emotion, " I've got a job 
 for life. I'll prove it to you, Mr. Carleton. I'm going 
 to make good. You see if I don't." 
 
 " Very well," said Carleton. " I hope you will. 
 That's all, Shanley. I'll let McCann know you're 
 coming." 
 
 Shanley's second exit from the super's presence was 
 different from the first. He walked out with a firm 
 tread and squared shoulders. He was rejuvenated and 
 buoyant. He was on his mettle quite another matter, 
 entirely another matter, and distinctly apart from the 
 paltry consideration of a mere job. He had told Carle- 
 ton that he would make good. Well, he would and 
 he did. Carleton himself said so, and Carleton wasn't 
 in the habit of making many breaks when it came to 
 sizing up a man not many. He did sometimes, but 
 not often. 
 
 Shanley did not take the other side of the street on 
 the way to Dinkelman's by no means. He deliber- 
 ately passed as close to the Blazing Star saloon as he 
 could, passed with contemptuous disregard, passed 
 boastfully in the knowledge of his own strength. A 
 sixteen-hundred class engine with her four pairs of 
 forty-six-inch drivers can pull countless cars up a 
 mountain grade steep enough to make one dizzy, but 
 Shanley would have backed himself to win against 
 her in a tug of war over the scant few inches that 
 separated him from MacGuire's dispensary as he 
 brushed by. None of MacGuire's for him. Not at 
 all. Red-headed, freckle-faced, barked-knuckled, bul- 
 
io6 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 warked-and-armor-cased-against-temptation Shanley 
 dealt that morning with Mr. Dinkelman, purveyor of 
 bargains in men's apparel. 
 
 The dealings were liberal on the part of both men. 
 On Shanley's part because he needed much; on Mr. 
 Dinkelman's part because it was Mr. Dinkelman's 
 business, and his nature, to sell much if he could > 
 safely. This was eminently safe. Carleton's name in 
 the mountains stood higher than guaranteed, gilt- 
 edged gold bonds any time. 
 
 The business finally concluded, Shanley boarded 
 Twenty-nine, local freight, west, and in due time, well 
 on in the afternoon, righteously sober, straight as a 
 string, cleaned, groomed, and resplendent in a new 
 suit, swung off from the caboose at Glacier Canon as 
 the train considerately slackened speed enough to give 
 him a fighting chance for life and limb. 
 
 He landed safely, however, in the midst of a jab- 
 bering Italian labor gang, who received his sudden 
 advent with patience and some awe. A short, squint- 
 faced man greeted him with a grin. 
 
 " Me name's McCann," said he of the squint face. 
 :( This is Glacier Canon, fwhat yez see av ut. Them's 
 the Eyetalians. Yon's fwhere I roost an' by the same 
 token, fwhere yez'll roost, too, from now on. Above 
 is the shack av the men. Are yez plased wid yer in- 
 troduction? 'Tis wan hell av a hole ye've come to. 
 Shanley's the name, eh ? A good wan, an' I'm proud 
 to make the acquaintance." 
 
 Shanley blinked as he stretched out his hand and 
 made friends with his superior, and blinked again as 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 107 
 
 he looked first one way and then another in an effort 
 to follow and absorb the other's graphic description 
 of the surroundings. 
 
 The road foreman's summary was beyond dispute. 
 Glacier Canon was as wild a piece of track as the Hill 
 Division boasted, which was going some. The right 
 of way hugged the bald gray rock of the mountains 
 that rose up at one side in a sheer sweep, and the trains 
 crawled along for all the world like huge flies at the 
 base of a wall. On the other side was the Glacier 
 River with its treacherous sandy bed that had been the 
 subject of more reports and engineers' gray hairs than 
 all the rest of the system put together. The construc- 
 tion camp lay just to the east of the Canon, and at the 
 foot of a long, stiff, two-mile, four-per-cent grade. 
 That was the reason the camp was there that grade. 
 
 Locking the stable door when the horse is gone is a 
 procedure that is very old. It did not originate with 
 the directors of the Transcontinental they never 
 claimed it did. But their fixed policy, if properly 
 presented before a court of arbitration, would have 
 gone a long way toward establishing a clear title to 
 it. If they had built a switchback at the foot of the 
 grade in the first place, Extra Number Eighty-three, 
 when she lost control of herself near the bottom 
 coming down, would have demonstrated just as clearly 
 the necessity for one being there as she demonstrated 
 most forcibly what would happen when there wasn't. 
 All of which is by way of saying that rock or no rock, 
 expense or no expense, the door was now to be locked, 
 and McCann and his men were there to lock it. 
 
io8 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 McCann explained this to Shanley as he walked him 
 around, up the track to the men's shanties, over the 
 work, and back again down the track to inspect the 
 interior of the dwelling they were to share in common 
 a relic of deceased Extra Number Eighty-three in 
 the shape of a truckless box-car with dinted and 
 bulging sides dinted one side and bulged the other, 
 that is. 
 
 " But," said Shanley, " I dunno what a switchback 
 is." 
 
 '' Who expected it av ye ? " inquired McCann. 
 " An' fwhat difference does ut make ? Carleton sint 
 word ye were green. Ye've no need to know. So's 
 ye can do as yez are told an* make them geesers do as 
 they are told, an' can play forty- foive at night that's 
 the point, the main point wid me, an' it's me yez av to 
 get along wid 'twill be all right. Since Meegan, 
 him that was helpin' me, tuk sick a week back, I've 
 been alone. Begad, playin' solytare is " 
 
 " I can play forty-five," said Shanley. 
 
 McCann's face brightened. 
 
 " The powers be praised ! " he exclaimed. " I'll en- 
 lighten ye, then, on the matter av switchbacks, me son, 
 so as ye'll have an intilligent conception av the work. 
 A switchback is a bit av a spur track that sticks out 
 loike the quills av a porkypine at intervuls on a bad 
 grade such as the wan forninst ye. 'Tis run off the 
 main line, d'ye mind, an' up contrariwise to the dip 
 av the grade. Whin a train comin' down gets beyond 
 control an' so expresses herself by means av her 
 whistle, she's switched off an' given a chance to run 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 109 
 
 uphill by way av variety until she stops. An* the same 
 holds true if she breaks loose goin' up. Is ut clear? " 
 
 " It is," said Shanley. " When do I begin work? " 
 
 " In the mornin'. Tis near six now, an' the 
 bhoys'll be quittin' for the night. Forty-foive is a 
 grand game. We'll play ut to-night to our better ac- 
 quaintance. I contind 'tis the national game av the 
 ould sod." 
 
 Whether McCann's contention is borne out by fact, 
 or by the even more weighty consideration of public 
 opinion, is of little importance. Shanley played forty- 
 five with McCann that night and for many nights 
 thereafter. He lost a figure or two off the pay check 
 that was to come, but he won the golden opinion of the 
 little road boss, which ethically, and in this case prac- 
 tically, was of far greater value. 
 
 " He's a bright jool av a lad," wrote McCann across 
 the foot of a weekly report. 
 
 And Carleton, seeing it, was much gratified, for 
 Carleton wasn't in the habit of making many breaks 
 when it came to sizing up a man not many. He did 
 sometimes, but not often. Shanley was making good. 
 Carleton was much gratified. 
 
 Of the three weeks that followed Shanley's advent 
 to Glacier Canon, this story has little to do in a de- 
 tailed way; but, as a whole, those three weeks are 
 pointed, eloquent, and important very important. 
 
 Italian laborers have many failings, but likewise 
 they have many virtues. They are simple, demonstra- 
 tive, and their capacity for adoration of both men 
 and things is very great. 
 
no ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 From Jacko, the water boy, to Pietro Maraschino, 
 the padrone, they adored Shanley, and enthroned him 
 as an idol in their hearts, for the very simple reason 
 that Shanley, not being a professional slave-driver by 
 trade, established new and heretofore undreamed-of 
 relations with them. Shanley was very green, very 
 ignorant, very inexperienced he treated them like 
 human beings. That was the long and short of it. 
 Shanley became popular beyond the popularity of any 
 man, before or since, who was ever called upon to 
 handle the " foreign element " on the Hill Division. 
 
 And the work progressed. Day by day the cut 
 bored deeper into the stubborn mountain-side; day by 
 day the Glacier River gurgled peacefully along over its 
 treacherous sandy bed, one of the prettiest scenic 
 effects on the system, so pretty that the company used 
 it in the magazines; day by day regulars and extras, 
 freights and passengers, east and west, snorted up and 
 down the grade, the only visitations from the outside 
 world; night after night Shanley played forty-five 
 with McCann in the smoky, truckless box-car. 
 
 Also the camp was dry, very dry, dryer than a 
 sanatorium that is, than some sanatoriums. Carle- 
 ton had been quite right. There was no opportunity 
 for Shanley to hit the high joints quite as hard as he 
 had that night in Big Cloud there was no oppor- 
 tunity for him to hit the high joints at all. Shanley 
 had not seen a bottle for three weeks. Therefore 
 Shanley felt virtuous, which was proper. 
 
 Some events follow others as the natural, logical 
 outcome and conclusion of preceding ones; others, 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK in 
 
 again, are apparently irrelevant, and the connection is 
 not to be explained either by logic, conclusion, or 
 otherwise. Rain, McCann's departure for Big Cloud, 
 and Pietro Maraschino's birthday are an example of 
 this. 
 
 When it settles down for a storm in the mountains, 
 it is, if the elements are really in earnest, torrential, 
 and prolonged, and has the effect of tying up con- 
 struction work tighter than a supreme court injunction 
 could come anywhere near doing it. 
 
 McCann had business in Big Cloud, whether per- 
 sonal or pertaining to the company is of no conse- 
 quence, and the day the storm set in the morning 
 having demonstrated that its classification was not to 
 be considered as transient he seized the opportunity 
 to flag the afternoon freight eastbound. This was 
 natural and logical, and an opportunity not to be 
 neglected. 
 
 That this day, however, should be the anniversary 
 of the day the padrone's mother of blessed memory 
 had given birth to Pietro Maraschino in sunny Naples 
 fifty-three years before is, though apparently irrelevant, 
 far from being so ; and since its peculiar and coincident 
 happening cannot be laid at the door of either logical, 
 natural, scientific, or philosophical conclusions, and 
 since it demands an explanation of some sort, it must, 
 perforce, be attributed to the metaphysical which is a 
 name given to all things about which nobody knows 
 anything. 
 
 ' Yez are in charge," said McCann grandiloquently, 
 waving his hand to Shanley as he swung into the 
 
H2 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 caboose. ' Yez are in charge av the work, me son. 
 See to ut. I trust ye." 
 
 As the work at the moment was entirely at a stand- 
 still and bid fair to remain so until McCann's return 
 on the morrow, this was very good of McCann. But 
 all men like words of appreciation, most of them 
 whether they deserve them or not, so Shanley went 
 back into the box-car out of the rain to ponder over 
 the tribute McCann had paid him, and to ponder, too, 
 over the new responsibility that had fallen to his lot. 
 
 He did not ponder very long; indeed, the freight 
 that was transporting McCann could hardly have been 
 out of sight over the summit of the grade, when a 
 knock at the door was followed by the entrance of the 
 dripping figure of the padrone. 
 
 Shanley looked up anxiously. 
 
 " Hello, Pietro," he said nervously, for the weather 
 wasn't the kind that would bring a man out for 
 nothing, and he was keenly alive to that new respon- 
 sibility. " Hello, Pietro," he repeated. " Anything 
 wrong? " 
 
 Pietro grinned amiably, shook his head, unbuttoned 
 his coat, and held out a bottle. 
 
 Shanley stared in amazement, and then began to 
 blink furiously. 
 
 " Here ! " said he. " What's this ? " 
 
 " Chianti," said Pietro, grinning harder than ever. 
 
 " Key-aunty." Shanley screwed up his face. 
 "What the devil is key-aunty?" 
 
 " Ver' good wine from Italia," said the beaming 
 padrone. 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 113' 
 
 " It is, is it? Well, it's against the rules," asserted 
 Shanley with conviction. ." It's against the rules. 
 McCann 'u'd skin you alive. He would. Whefe'd 
 you get it? What's up, eh? It's against the rules. 
 I'm in charge." 
 
 Pietro explained. It was his birthday. It was very 
 bad weather. For the rest of the afternoon there 
 would be no work. They would celebrate the birthday. 
 Meester McCann had taken the train. As for the 
 wine Pietro shrugged his shoulders his people 
 adored wine. Unless they were very poor his people 
 would have a little wine in their packs, perhaps. He 
 was not quite sure where they had got it, but it was 
 very thoughtful of them to remember his birthday. 
 Each had presented him with a little wine. This bottle 
 was an expression of their very great good estime of 
 Meester Shanley. Perhaps, later, Meester Shanley 
 would come himself to the shack. 
 
 " It's against the rules," blinked Shanley. " McCann 
 'u'd skin you alive. Maybe I'll drop in by and by. 
 You can leave the bottle." 
 
 Pietro bobbed, grinned delightedly, handed over the 
 bottle, and backed out into the storm. 
 
 Shanley, still blinking, placed the bottle on the table, 
 and gazed at it thoughtfully for a few minutes and 
 his thoughts were of Carleton. 
 
 " If 'twere whisky," said he, " I'd have no part of 
 it, not a drop, not even a smell. I would not. I would 
 
 not touch it. But as it is " Shanley uncorked the 
 
 bottle. 
 
 Not at all. One does not get drunk on a bottle of 
 
114 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Chianti wine. A single bottle of Chianti wine is very 
 little. That is the trouble it is very little. After 
 three weeks of abstinence it is very little indeed so 
 little that it is positively tantalizing. 
 
 The afternoon waned rapidly and so did the Chi- 
 anti. Outside, the storm instead of abating grew 
 worse the thunder racketing through the mountains, 
 the lightning cutting jagged streaks in the black sky, 
 the rain coming down in sheets that set the culverts 
 and sluiceways running full. It was settling down for 
 a bad night in the mountains, which, in the Rockies, 
 is not a thing to be ignored. 
 
 " 'Tis no wonder McCann found it lonely/' muttered 
 Shanley, as he squeezed the last drop from the bottle. 
 1 'Tis very lonely, indeed " he held the bottle upside 
 down to make sure that it was thoroughly drained 
 "most uncommon lonely. It is that. Maybe those 
 Eyetalians'll be thinkin' I'm stuck up, perhaps which 
 I am not. It's a queer name the stuff has, though it's 
 against the rules, an' I can't get my tongue around it, 
 but I've tasted worse. For the sake of courtesy I'll 
 look in on the birthday party." 
 
 He incased himself in a pair of McCann's rubber 
 boots, put on McCann's rubber coat, and started out. 
 
 " An' to think," said he, as he sloshed and buffeted 
 his way up the two hundred yards of track to the 
 construction shanties, " to think that Pietro came out 
 in cruel bad weather like this all for to present his 
 compliments an' ask me over ! 'Twould be ungracious 
 to refuse the invitation ; besides my presence will keep 
 them in due bounds an' restraint. I've heard that 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 115 
 
 Eyetalians, being foreigners, do not practice restraint 
 but, being foreigners, 'tis not to be held against 
 them. I'm in charge, an' I'll see to it." 
 
 Ihey greeted him in the largest of the three bunk- 
 houses. They greeted him heartily, sincerely, uproari- 
 ously, and with fervor. They were unfeignedly glad 
 to see him, and if he had not been by nature a modest 
 man he would have understood that his popularity 
 was above the popularity ever before accorded to a 
 boss. Likewise, their hospitality was without stint. 
 If there was any shortage of stock which is a matter 
 decidedly open to question they denied themselves 
 that Shanley might not feel the pinch. Shanley was 
 lifted from the mere plane of man he became a 
 king. 
 
 A little Chianti is a little; much Chianti is to be 
 reckoned with and on no account to be despised. Shan- 
 ley not only became a king, he became regally, im- 
 perially, royally, and majestically drunk. Also there 
 came at last an end to the Chianti, at which stage of 
 the proceedings Shanley, with extravagant dignity and 
 appropriate words an exhortation on restraint 
 waddled to the door to take his departure. 
 
 It was very dark outside, very dark, except when 
 an intermittent flash of lightning made momentary 
 daylight. Pietro Maraschino offered Shanley one of 
 the many lanterns that, in honor of the festive occa- 
 sion, they had commandeered, without regard to color, 
 from the tool boxes, and had strung around the shack. 
 Further, he offered to see Shanley on his way. 
 
 The offer of assistance touched Shanley it touched 
 
ii6 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 him wrong. It implied a more or less acute condition 
 of disability, which he repudiated with a hurt expres- 
 sion on his face and forceful words on his tongue. He 
 refused it; and being aggrieved, refused also the lan- 
 tern Pietro held out to him. He chose one for him- 
 self instead the one nearest to his hand. That this 
 was red made no difference. Blue, white, red, green, 
 or purple, it was all one to Shanley. His fuddled 
 brain did not differentiate. A light was a light, that 
 was all there was to that. 
 
 The short distance from the shanty door to the right 
 of way Shanley negotiated with finesse and aplomb, 
 and then he started down the track. This, however, 
 was another matter. 
 
 Railroad ties, at best, do not make the smoothest 
 walking in the world, and to accomplish the feat under 
 some conditions is decidedly worthy of note. Shan- 
 ley's performance beggars the English language 
 there is no metaphor. For every ten feet he moved 
 forward he covered twenty in laterals, and, consider- 
 ing that the laterals were limited to the paltry four 
 feet, eight and one-half inches that made the gauge 
 of the rails, the feat was incontestably more than 
 worthy of mere note it was something to wonder at. 
 He clung grimly to the lantern, with the result that 
 the gyrations of that little red light in the darkness 
 would have put to shame an expert's exhibition with 
 a luminous dumb-bell. The while Shanley spoke 
 earnestly to himself. 
 
 " Queshun is am I drunk thash's the queshun. If 
 I'm drunk lose my job. Thash what Carleton said 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 117 
 
 lose my job. If I'm not drunk s'all right. Wish 
 I knew wesser I'm drunk or not." 
 
 He relapsed into silent communion and debate. 
 This lasted for a very long period, during which, mar- 
 velous to relate, he had not only reached a point oppo- 
 site his box-car domicile, but, being oblivious of that 
 fact, had kept on along the track. Progress, however, 
 was becoming more and more difficult. Shanley was 
 assuming a position that might be likened somewhat 
 to the letter C, owing to the fact that the force of 
 gravity seemed to be exerting an undue influence on 
 his head. Shanley was coming to earth. 
 
 As a result of his communion with himself he began 
 to talk again, and his words suggested that he had sus- 
 picions of the truth. 
 
 " Jus' my luck," said he bitterly. " Jus' my luck. 
 Allus same kind of luck. What'd I have to do wis 
 Peto Mara Mars Marscheeno's birthday ? Nothing. 
 Nothing 'tall. 'Twasn't my fault. Jus' my luck. Jus' 
 my " 
 
 Shanley came to earth. Also his head came into 
 contact with the unyielding steel of the left-hand rail, 
 and as a result he sprawled inertly full across the right 
 of way, not ten yards west of where the Glacier River 
 swings in to crowd the track close up against the 
 mountain base. 
 
 Providence sometimes looks after those who are un- 
 able to look after themselves. By the law of proba- 
 bilities the lantern should have met disaster quick 
 and absolute ; but, instead, when it fell from Shanley 's 
 hand, it landed right side up just outside the rail be- 
 
n8 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 tween two ties, and, apart from a momentary and hesi- 
 tant flicker incident to the jolt, burned on serenely. 
 And it was still burning when, five minutes later, above 
 the swish of leaping waters from the Glacier River 
 now a chattering, angry stream with swollen banks, 
 above the moan of the wind and the roll of the thunder 
 through the mountains, above the pelting splash of the 
 steady rain, came the hoarse scream of Number One's 
 whistle on the grade. 
 
 Sanderson, in the cab, caught the red against him on 
 the right of way ahead, and whistled insistently for the 
 track. This having no effect, he grunted, latched in 
 the throttle, and applied the " air." The ray of the 
 headlight crept along between the rails, hovered over a 
 black object beside the lantern, passed on again and 
 held, not on the glistening rain-wet rails they had 
 disappeared but on a crumbling road-bed and a dark 
 blotch of waters, as with a final screech from the 
 grinding brake-shoes Number One came to a standstill. 
 
 " Holy MacCheesar ! " exclaimed Sanderson, as he 
 swung from the cab. 
 
 He made his way along past the drivers to where 
 the pilot's nose was inquisitively poked against the 
 lantern, picked up the lantern, and bent over Shanley. 
 
 " Holy MacCheesar ! " he exclaimed again, straight- 
 ening up after a moment's examination. " Holy Mac- 
 Cheesar!" 
 
 "What's wrong, Sandy?" snapped a voice behind 
 him, the voice of Kelly, Spider Kelly, the conduc- 
 tor, who had hurried forward to investigate the tin- 
 scheduled stop. 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 119 
 
 " Search me," replied Sanderson. " Looks like the 
 Glacier was up to her old tricks. There's a washout 
 ahead, and a bad one, I guess. But the meaning of 
 this here is one beyond me. The fellow was curled up 
 on the track just as you see him with the light burning 
 alongside, that's what saved us, but he's as drunk as 
 a lord." 
 
 As Kelly bent over the prostrate form, others of the 
 train crew appeared on the scene. One glance he gave 
 at Shanley's never-under-any-circumstances-to-be-for- 
 gotten homely countenance, and hastily ordered the 
 men to go forward and investigate the washout ahead. 
 Then he turned to the engineer. 
 
 " The man is not drunk, Sandy," said he. 
 
 " He is gloriously and magnificently drunk, Kelly," 
 replied the engineer. 
 
 " What would he be doing here, then ? He is not 
 drunk." 
 
 " Sleeping it off. He is disgracefully drunk." 
 
 " Can ye not see the bash on his head where he must 
 have stumbled in the dark trying to save the train and 
 struck against the rail? He is not drunk." 
 
 " Can ye not smell ? " retorted Sanderson. " He 
 is dead drunk ! " 
 
 " I have fought with him and he licked me. He is 
 a man and a friend of mine " Kelly shoved his 
 lantern into Sanderson's face. . ff He is not drunk." 
 
 " He is not drunk," said Sanderson. " He is a hero. 
 What will we do with him? " 
 
 " We'll carry him, you and me, over to the construc- 
 tion shanty, it's only a few yards, and put him in his 
 
120 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 bunk. He works here, you know. McCann's in Big 
 Cloud, for I saw him there. After that we'll run back 
 to the Bend for orders and make our report." 
 
 " Hurry, then/' said the engineer. " Take his legs. 
 What are you laughing at ? " 
 
 " I was thinking of Carleton," said Kelly. 
 
 "Carleton? What's Carleton got to do with it?" 
 
 " I'll tell you later when we get to the Bend. Come 
 
 on." 
 
 " H'm," said Sanderson, as they staggered with 
 their burden over to the box-car shack. " I've an idea 
 that bash on the head is more dirt than hurt. He's 
 making a speech, ain't he ? " 
 
 " Jus' my luck," mumbled the reviving Shanley dole- 
 fully. " Jus' my luck. Allus same kind of luck." 
 
 " Possibly," said Kelly. " Set him down and slide 
 back the door. That's right. In with him now. We 
 haven't got time to make him very comfortable, but 
 I guess he'll do. I can fix him up better at the Bend 
 than I can here." 
 
 "At the Bend? What d'ye mean?" demanded 
 Sanderson. 
 
 " You'll see," replied Kelly, with a grin. " You'll 
 
 see." 
 
 And Sanderson saw. So did Carleton in a way. 
 
 Kelly's report, when they got to the Bend, was a 
 work of art. He disposed of the nature and extent of 
 the washout in ten brief, well-chosen words, but the 
 operator got a cramp before Kelly was through cover- 
 ing Shanley with glory. The passengers, packed in the 
 little waiting-room clamoring for details, yelled deliri- 
 
SHANLEY'S LUCK 121 
 
 ously as he read the message aloud and promptly 
 took up a collection, a very generous collection, because 
 all collections are generous at psychological moments 
 that is to say, if not delayed too long to allow a re- 
 covery from hysteria. 
 
 At Big Cloud, the dispatcher, because the washout 
 was a serious matter that not only threatened to tie 
 up traffic, but was tying it up, sent a hurry call to 
 Carleton's house that brought the super on the run to 
 the office. By this time the collection had been counted, 
 and the total wired in, as an additional detail one 
 hundred and forty dollars and thirty-three cents. The 
 odd change being a contribution from a Swede in the 
 colonist coach who could not speak English, and who 
 paid because a man in uniform, a brakeman acting as 
 canvasser, made the request. A Swede has a great 
 respect for a uniform. 
 
 " H'm," said Carleton, when he had read it all. " I 
 know a man when I see one. Tell Shanley to report 
 here. I guess we can find something better for him to 
 do than bossing laborers. What ? Yes, send the letter 
 up on the construction train. One hundred and forty, 
 thirty-three, h'm? Tell him that, too. He'll feel good 
 when he sees it in the morning." 
 
 But Shanley did not feel good when he saw it in 
 the morning, for he was nursing a very bad headache 
 and a stomach that had a tendency to squeamishness. 
 The letter was lying on the floor, where some one had 
 considerately chucked it in without disturbing him. 
 His eyes fell on it as he struggled out of his bunk. 
 He picked it up, opened it, read it and blinked. His 
 
122 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 face set with a very blank and bewildered expression. 
 He read it again, and again once more. Then he went 
 to the door and looked out. 
 
 A construction train was on the line a little below 
 him, and a gang of men, not his nor Pietro Maras- 
 chino's men, were busily at work. As he gazed, his 
 face puckered. The problem that had so obsessed him 
 on his return journey from the birthday celebration 
 the night before was a problem no longer. 
 
 " I was drunk," said he, with conviction. " I must 
 have been." 
 
 He went back to the letter and studied it again, 
 scratching his head. 
 
 " Something," he muttered, " has happened. What 
 it is, I dunno. I was drunk, an* I'm not fired. I was 
 drunk, an' I'm promoted. I was drunk, an' I'm paid 
 well for it, very well. I was drunk an' I'll keep my 
 mouth shut." 
 
 Which was exactly the advice Kelly took pains to 
 give him half an hour later, when Number One crawled 
 down to the Canon and halted for a few minutes op- 
 posite the dismantled box-car, while the construction 
 train put the last few touches to its work. 
 
VI 
 
 THE BUILDER 
 
 THERE are two sides to every story which is a 
 proverb so old that it is in the running with Father 
 Time himself. It is repeated here because there must 
 be some truth in it anything that can stand the wear 
 and tear of the ages, and the cynics, and the wise old 
 philosophical owls without getting any knock-out dints 
 punched in its vital spots must have some sort of 
 merit fundamentally, what? Anyway, the company 
 had their side, and the men's version differed of 
 course. Maybe each, in a way, was more or less right, 
 and, equally, in a way, more or less wrong. Maybe, 
 too, both sides lost their tempers and got their crown- 
 sheets burned out before the arbitration pow-wow 
 had a chance to get the line clear and give anybody 
 rights, schedule or otherwise. However, be that as 
 it may, whoever was right or whoever was wrong, 
 one or the other, or both, it is the strike, not the ethics 
 of it, that has to do with but just a moment, we* re 
 over-running our holding orders. 
 
 From the time the last rail was spiked home and 
 bridging the Rockies was a reality, not a dream from 
 then to the present day, there isn't any very much 
 better way of describing the Hill Division than to call 
 it rough and ready. Coming right down to cases, the 
 
124 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 history of that piece of track, the history of the men 
 who gave the last that was in them to make it, and 
 the history of those who have operated it since isn't 
 far from being a pretty typical and comprehensive ex- 
 ample of the pulsing, dominating, dogged, go-forward 
 spirit of a continent whose strides and progress are the 
 marvel of the world; and, withal, it is an example so 
 compact and concrete that through it one may see and 
 view the larger picture in all its angles and in all its 
 shades. Heroism and fame and death and failureit 
 has known them all but ever, and above all else, it 
 has known the indomitable patience, the indomitable 
 perseverance, the indomitable determination against 
 which no times, nor conditions, nor manners, nor cus- 
 toms, nor obstacles can stand the spirit of the New 
 Race and the Great New Land, the essence and the 
 germ of it. 
 
 Building a road through the Rockies and tapping 
 the Sierras to give zest to the finish wasn't an infant's 
 performance; and operating it, single-track, on crazy- 
 wild cuts and fills and tangents and curves and tun- 
 nels and trestles with nature to battle and fight against, 
 isn't any infant's performance, either. The Hill Divi- 
 sion was rough and ready. It always was, and it is 
 now just naturally so. And Big Cloud, the divi- 
 sional point, snuggling amongst the buttes in the east- 
 ern foothills, is even more so. It boasts about every 
 nationality classified in certain erudite editions of small 
 books with big names, and, to top that, has an extra 
 anomaly or two left over and up its sleeve for good 
 measure; but, mostly, it is, or rather was it has 
 
THE BUILDER 125 
 
 x 
 
 changed some with the years composed of Indians, 
 bad Americans, a scattering of Chinese, and an inde- 
 scribable medley of humans from the four quarters of 
 Europe, the Cockney, the Polack, the Swede, the Rus- 
 sian and the Italian laborers on the construction 
 gangs. Big Cloud was a little more than rough and 
 ready it wasn't exactly what you'd call a health resort 
 for finnicky nerves. 
 
 So, take it by and large, the Hill Division, from one 
 end to the other, wasn't the quietest or most peaceful 
 locality on the map even before the trouble came. 
 After that well, mention the Big Strike to any of the 
 old-timers and they'll talk fast enough and hard 
 enough and say enough in a minute to set you wonder- 
 ing if the biographers hadn't got mixed on dates and if 
 Dante hadn't got his material for that little hair-stiff- 
 ener of his no further away than the Rockies, and no 
 longer back than a few years ago. But no matter 
 
 The story opens on the strike not the ethics of it. 
 There's some hard feeling yet too much of it to take 
 sides one way or the other. But then, apart from that, 
 this is not the story of a strike, it is the story of men 
 a story that the boys tell at night in the darkened 
 roundhouses in the shadow of the big ten-wheelers on 
 the pits, while the steam purrs softly at the gauges and 
 sometimes a pop- valve lifts with a catchy sob. They 
 tell it, too, across the tracks at headquarters, or on 
 the road and in construction camps; but they tell it 
 better, somehow, in the roundhouse, though it is not 
 an engineer's tale and Clarihue, the night turner, tells 
 it best of all. Set forth as it is here it takes no rank 
 
126 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 with him, but all are not so fortunate as to have 
 listened while Clarihue talked. 
 
 Just one word more to make sure that the red isn't 
 against us anywhere and we'll get to Keating and Spir- 
 law just a word to say that Carleton, " Royal " Carle- 
 ton, was superintendent then, and Regan was master 
 mechanic, Harvey was division engineer, Spence was 
 chief dispatcher, and Riley was trainmaster. Pretty 
 good men that little group, pretty good railroaders 
 there have never been better. Some of them are bigger 
 now in the world's eyes, heads of systems instead of 
 departments and some of them will never railroad 
 any more. However 
 
 If you haven't forgotten Shanley you will recall the 
 Glacier Canon, and, most of all, you will recall the 
 Glacier River with its treacherous sandy bed that snug- 
 gled close to the right of way and forced the track hard 
 against the rocky walls of the mountain's base. The 
 havoc the Glacier played with the operating depart- 
 ment on the night of Shanley's memorable heroism 
 was not the first time it had misbehaved itself, nor was 
 it the last that was the trouble. It washed out the 
 road-bed with such consistent persistency, on so little 
 provocation, and did it so effectually as to stir at last 
 to resentment even the torpid blood of the directors 
 down East. So they voted the sum, though it hurt, 
 and solaced themselves with the thought that after all 
 it was economy which was true. 
 
 There was only one thing to do against that over- 
 hospitable and affectionate little stream, and that was 
 to get away from it; but, before proceeding to do so 
 
THE BUILDER 127 
 
 in order to get elbow room to work so that the flyers 
 and the fast mails and the traffic generally wouldn't be 
 hung up every time a Polack swung a pick they 
 pushed the track out over the chattering river on a long, 
 temporary, hybrid trestle of wood and steel. That 
 done, the rest was up to Spirlaw up to Spirlaw and 
 Keating. 
 
 The plans called for the shaving down of the moun- 
 tain-side, the barbering, mostly, to be done with dyna- 
 mite, for the beard of the Rockies is not the down of 
 a youth. So, when the trestle was finished, Spirlaw 
 with a gang of some thirty Polacks moved into con- 
 struction camp, promptly tore up the old track, and 
 set themselves to the task in hand. A little later, Keat- 
 ing joined them. 
 
 Spirlaw was a road boss, and the roughest of his 
 kind. Physically he was a giant; and which of the 
 three was the hardest, his face, his fist, or his tongue, 
 would afford the sporting element a most excellent 
 opportunity to indulge in a little book-making with the 
 odds about even all round. His hair was a coarse mop 
 of tawny brown that straggled over his eyes; and his 
 eyes were all black, every bit of them there didn't 
 seem to be any pupil at all, which gave them a glint 
 that was harder than a cold chisel. Take him summed 
 up, Spirlaw looked a pretty tough proposition, and in 
 some ways, most ways perhaps, he was he never 
 denied it. 
 
 " What the blue blinding blazes, d'ye think, h'm? " 
 he would remark, reaching into his hip pocket for his 
 " chewing," as he swept the other arm comprehensively 
 
128 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 over the particular crowd of sweating foreigners that 
 happened to be under his particular jurisdiction at the 
 time. " What d'ye think ! You can't run cuts an' fills 
 with an outfit like this on soft soap an' candy sticks, 
 can you ? Well then h'm ? " 
 
 That last " h'm " was more or less conclusive very 
 few cared to pursue the argument any further. At a 
 safe distance, the Big Fellows on the division, as a 
 salve to their consciences when humanitarian ideas 
 were in the ascendancy, would bombard Spirlaw with 
 telegrams which were forceful in tone and direful in 
 threat but that's all it ever amounted to. Spirlaw's 
 work report for a day on anything, from bridging a 
 canon to punching a hole in the bitter hard rock of the 
 mountain-side, was a report that no one else on the 
 division had ever approached, let alone duplicated 
 and figures count perhaps just a little bit more in the 
 operating department of a railroad than they do any- 
 where else in the world. Spirlaw used the telegrams 
 as spills to light a pipe as hard-looking as himself, 
 whose bowl was down at the heels on one side from 
 much scraping, and on such occasions it was more 
 than ordinarily unfortunate for the sour-visaged 
 Polack who should chance to arouse his ire. 
 
 Some men possess the love of a fight and their na- 
 tures are tempestuous by virtue of their nationality, be- 
 cause some nationalities are addicted that way. This 
 may have been the case with Spirlaw or it may not. 
 There's no saying, for Spirlaw's nationality was a 
 question mark. He never delivered himself on the sub- 
 ject, and, certainly, there was no figuring it out from 
 
THE BUILDER 129 
 
 the derivation of his name that could have been most 
 anything, and could have come from most anywhere. 
 
 To say that " opposites attract " isn't any more 
 original, any less gray-bearded, than the words at the 
 head of these pages. Generally, that sort of thing is 
 figured in the worn-out, stale, familiarity-breeds-con- 
 tempt realm of platitude, and at its unctuous repetition 
 one comes to turn up his nose ; but, once in a while, life 
 has a habit of getting in a kink or a twist that gives you 
 a jolt and a different side-light, and then, somehow, 
 a thing like that rings as fresh and virile as though 
 you had just heard it for the first time. As far as any 
 one ever knew, Keating was the only one that ever 
 got inside of Spirlaw's shell, the only one that the road 
 boss ever showed the slightest symptoms of caring a 
 hang about and yet, on the surface, between the two 
 there was nothing in common. Where one was pol- 
 ished the other was rough; where one was weak the 
 other was strong. Keating was small, thin, pale-faced, 
 and he had a cough a cough that had sent him West 
 in a hurry without waiting for the other year that 
 would have given him his engineer's diploma from the 
 college in the East. 
 
 When the boy, he wasn't much more than a boy, 
 dropped off at Big Cloud, and Carleton read the letter 
 he brought from one of the big Eastern operators, the 
 super raised his eyebrows a little, looked him over and 
 sent him out to Spirlaw. Afterwards, he spoke to 
 Regan about him. 
 
 " I didn't know what to do with him, Tommy ; but 
 I had to do something, what? Any one with half an 
 
130 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 eye could tell that he had to be kept out of doors. 
 Thought he might be able to help Spirlaw out a little 
 as assistant, h'm ? Guess he'll pick up the work quick 
 enough. He don't look strong." 
 
 " Mabbe it's just as well," grinned the master 
 mechanic. " He won't be able to batter the gang any. 
 One man doing that is enough when it's Spirlaw." 
 
 Spirlaw heard about it before he saw Keating, and 
 he swore fervently. 
 
 " What the hell ! " he growled. " Think I'm runnin' 
 a nursery or an outdoor sanatorium ? I guess I've got 
 enough to do without lookin' after sick kids, I guess I 
 have. Fat lot of help he'll be help my eye ! I don't 
 need no help." 
 
 But for all that, somehow, from the first minute 
 when Keating got off the local freight, that stopped 
 for him at the camp, and shoved out his hand to Spir- 
 law it was different after that it was all Keating as 
 far as the road boss was concerned. 
 
 Queer the way things go. Keating looked about the 
 last man on earth you would expect to find rubbing 
 elbows with an iron-fisted foreman whose tongue was 
 rougher than a barbed-wire fence ; the last man to hold 
 his own with a slave-driven gang of ugly Polacks. He 
 seemed too quiet, too shy, too utterly unfit, physically, 
 for that sort of thing. The blood was all out of the 
 boy he got rid of it faster than he could make it. 
 But his training stood him in good stead, and, 
 within his limitations, he took hold like an old hand. 
 That was what caught Spirlaw. He did what he was 
 told, and he did what he could did a little more than 
 
THE BUILDER 131 
 
 he could at times, which would lay him up for a bad 
 two or three days of it. 
 
 " Good man," Spirlaw scribbled across the bottom 
 of a report one day a day that was about equally 
 divided between barking his knuckles on a Polack's 
 head and feeding cracked ice to Keating in his bunk. 
 Cracked ice? No, it wasn't on the regular camp bill 
 of fare but the company supplied it for all that. Spir- 
 law, with supreme contempt for the dispatchers and 
 their schedules and their train sheets, held up Number 
 Twelve and the porter of the Pullman for a goodly 
 share of the commodity possessed by that colored 
 gentleman. That's what Spirlaw thought of Keating. 
 
 For the first few weeks after he struck the camp 
 Keating didn't have very much to say about himself, or 
 anything else for that matter; but after he got a little 
 nearer to Spirlaw and the mutual liking grew stronger, 
 he began to open up at nights when he and the road 
 boss sat outside the door of the construction shanty 
 and watched the sun lose itself behind the mighty 
 peaks, creep again with a wondrous golden-tinted glow 
 between a rift in the range, and finally sink with en- 
 suing twilight out of sight. Keating could talk then. 
 
 " Don't see what you ever took up engineerin' for," 
 remarked Spirlaw one evening. " It's about the rough- 
 est kind of a life I know of, an* you ' 
 
 " I know, I know," Keating smiled. " You think 
 I'm not strong enough for it. Why, another year out 
 here in the West and I'll be like a horse." 
 
 " Sure, you will," agreed Spirlaw, hastily. " I 
 didn't mean just that." Then he sucked his briar hard. 
 
132 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Spirlaw wasn't much up on therapeutics, he knew more 
 about blasting rock, but down in his heart there wasn't 
 much doubt about another year in the West for the 
 boy, and another and another, all of them only they 
 would be over the Great Divide that one only crosses 
 once when it is crossed forever. Six months, four, 
 three, just months, not years, was what he read in 
 Keating's face. " What I meant," he amended, " was 
 that you don't have to. From what you've said, I 
 figur' your folks back there would be willin' to stake 
 you in most any line you picked out, h'm ? " 
 
 " No, I don't have to," Keating answered, and his 
 face lighted up as he leaned over and touched the road 
 boss on the sleeve. " But, Spirlaw, it's the greatest 
 thing in all the world. Don't you see? A man does 
 something. He builds. I'm going to be a builder a 
 builder of bridges and roads and things like that. I 
 want to do something some day something that will 
 be worth while. That's why I'm going to be an en- 
 gineer ; because, all over the world from the beginning, 
 the engineers have led the way and and they've left 
 something behind them. I think that's the biggest 
 thing they can say of any man when he dies that he 
 was a builder, that he left something behind him. I'd 
 like to have them say that about me. Well, after I 
 put in another year out here I'm a heap better even 
 now than when I came I'm going back to finish my 
 course, and then well, you understand what I want to 
 do, don't you ? " 
 
 There were lots of talks like that, evening after even- 
 ing, and they all of them ended in the same way 
 
THE BUILDER 133 
 
 Spirlaw would knock out his pipe against a stone or 
 his boot heel, and " figur' he'd stroll up the camp a 
 bit an* make sure all was right for the night.'* 
 
 A pretty hard man Spirlaw was, but under the rough 
 and the brutal, the horny, thick-shelled exterior was 
 another self, a strange side of self that he had never 
 known until he had known Keating. It got into him 
 pretty deep and pretty hard, the boy and his ambitions ; 
 and the irony of it, grim and bitter, deepened his pity 
 and roused, too, a sense of fierce, hot resentment 
 against the fate that mocked in its pitiless might so 
 defenseless and puny a victim. To himself he came to 
 call Keating " The Builder," and one day when Har- 
 vey came down on an inspection trip, he told the divi- 
 sion engineer about it that's how it got around. 
 
 Carleton, when he heard it, didn't say anything 
 just crammed the dottle in his pipe down with his 
 forefinger and stared out at the switches in the yards. 
 They were used to seeing the surface of things plowed 
 up and the corners turned back in the mountains, there 
 weren't many days went by when something that 
 showed the raw didn't happen in one way or another, 
 but it never brought callousness or indifference, only, 
 perhaps, a truer sense of values. 
 
 They had been blasting in the Canon for a matter 
 of two months when the first signs of trouble began to 
 show themselves, and the beginning was when the shop 
 hands at Big Cloud went out the boiler-makers and 
 the blacksmiths, the painters, the carpenters and the 
 fitters. The construction camp, that is Spirlaw, didn't 
 worry very much about this for the very simple reason 
 
134 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 that there didn't appear to be any reason why it, or he, 
 should that was Regan's hunt. But when the train 
 crews followed suit and stray rumors of a fight or two 
 at Big Cloud began to come in, with the likelihood of 
 more hard on the heels of the first, it put a different 
 complexion on things ; for the rioting, what there had 
 been of it, lay, not at the door of the railroad boys, 
 but with the town's loafers and hangers-on, these and 
 the foreign element particularly the foreign element 
 the brothers and the cousins of the Polacks who 
 were swinging the picks and the shovels under the iron 
 hand of Spirlaw, their temporary lord and master 
 the Polacks, as pungently ungentle, when amuck, as 
 starved pumas. 
 
 Then the Brotherhood said " quit," and the engine 
 crews followed the trainmen. Things began to look 
 black, and headquarters began to find it pretty hard 
 to move anything. The train schedule past the Canon 
 was cut better than in half, and the faces of the men 
 in the cabs and the cabooses were new faces to those 
 in camp the faces of the men the company were bring- 
 ing in on hurry calls from wherever they could get 
 them, from the plains East or the coast West. 
 
 Every day brought reports of trouble from one end 
 of the line to the other, more rioting, more disorder 
 at Big Cloud; and, in an effort to nip as much of it in 
 the bud as possible, Carleton issued orders to stop all 
 construction work all except the work in Glacier 
 Canon, for there the temporary trestle lay uneasy on 
 his mind. 
 
 The day the stop orders went out elsewhere a letter 
 
THE BUILDER 135 
 
 went out to Spirlaw. Spirlaw read it and his face set 
 like a thunder cloud. He handed it to Keating. 
 
 Keating read it and looked serious. 
 
 " I guess things aren't any too rosy down there," 
 he commented ; then slowly : " I've noticed our men 
 seemed a bit sullen lately. They don't care anything 
 much about the strike, it must be a sort of sympathetic 
 movement with the rest of their crowd that's running 
 wild at Big Cloud only I don't just figure how they 
 can know very much about what's going on. We don't 
 ourselves, for that matter." 
 
 Spirlaw smiled grimly. 
 
 " I'll tell you how," he said. " I caught a Polack 
 in the camp last night that didn't belong here and I 
 broke his head for the second time, see? He used to 
 work for me about a year ago that's when I broke 
 it the first time. He's one of their influential citizens 
 name's Kuryla. Sneaked in here to stir up trouble 
 guess he's sorry for it, I guess he is." 
 
 " That's the first I've heard of it," said Keating, his 
 eyes opening a little wider in surprise. 
 
 " You was asleep," explained Spirlaw tersely. 
 
 Keating stared curiously at the road boss for a min- 
 ute, then he glanced again at the super's letter which 
 he still held in his hand. 
 
 " Carleton says he is depending on you to put this 
 work through if it's a possible thing. You don't really 
 think we'll have any serious trouble here though, do 
 you?" 
 
 Spirlaw bit deeply into his plug before he answered. 
 
 " Yes, son; I do," he said at last. " And there's a 
 
136 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 good many reasons why we will, too. Once start 'em 
 goin' an' there's no worse hellions on earth than the 
 breed we're livin' next door to. Furthermore they 
 don't love me they're just afraid of me as, by the 
 holy razoo, I mean 'em to be. Let 'em once get a smell 
 of the upper hand an' it would be all day an' good-by. 
 Let 'em get goin' good at Big Cloud an' they'll get 
 goin' good here they'll kind of figur' then that there 
 ain't any law to bother 'em an', unless I miss my 
 guess, Big Cloud's in for the hottest celebration in its 
 history, which will be goin' some for it's had a few 
 before that weren't tame by a damn sight." 
 
 " Well," inquired Keating, " what do you intend to 
 do?" 
 
 " H'm-m," drawled Spirlaw reflectively, and there 
 was a speculative look in his eyes as they roved over 
 his assistant. " That's what I've been chewin' over 
 since I caught that skunk Kuryla last night. As far 
 as I can figur' it the chance of trouble here depends on 
 how far those cusses go at Big Cloud. If I knew that, 
 I'd know what to expect, h'm ? I thought I'd send you 
 up to headquarters for a day. You could have a talk 
 with the super, tell him just where we stand here, an* 
 size things up there generally. What do you say ? " 
 
 " Why, of course. All right, if you want me to," 
 agreed Keating readily. 
 
 " That's the boy," said Spirlaw, heartily. " Number 
 Twelve will be along in half an hour. I'll flag her, an' 
 you can go an' get ready now. I'll give you a letter to 
 take along to Carleton." 
 
 As Keating, with a nod of assent, turned briskly 
 
THE BUILDER 137 
 
 away, Spirlaw watched him out of sight and the hint 
 of a smile played over the lips of the road boss. He 
 pulled a report sheet from his pocket, and on the back 
 of it scrawled laboriously a letter to the superintendent 
 of the Hill Division. It wasn't a very long letter even 
 with the P. S. included. His smile hardened as he read 
 it over. 
 
 " Supt., Big Cloud," it ran. " Dear Sir : Replying 
 to yours 8th inst, please send a couple of good .455, 
 and plenty of stuffing. ('Plenty of stuffing' was 
 heavily underscored.) Yrs. Resp., H. Spirlaw. P.S. 
 Keep the boy up there out of this." (The P. S. was 
 even more heavily underscored than the other.) 
 
 Wise and learned in the ways of men and Polacks 
 was Spirlaw. Spirlaw was not dealing with the 
 possibility of trouble it was simply a question of how 
 long it would be before it started. He folded the letter, 
 sealed it in one of the company's manilas, and, as he 
 watched Number Twelve disappear around the bend 
 steaming east for Big Cloud with Keating aboard her 
 and the epistle reposing in Keating's pocket, he 
 stretched out his arms that were big as derrick booms 
 and drew in a long breath like a man from whose 
 shoulders has dropped a heavy load. 
 
 That day Spirlaw talked from his heart to the men, 
 and they listened in sullen, stupid silence, leaning on 
 their picks and shovels. 
 
 " You know me," he snapped, and his eyes starting 
 at the right of the group rested for a bare second on 
 each individual face as they swept down the line. 
 " You know me. You've been actin' like sulky dogs 
 
138 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 lately don't think I haven't spotted it. You saw what 
 happened to that coyote friend of yours that sneaked in 
 here last night. I meant it as a lesson for the bunch 
 of you as well as him. The yarns he was fillin' you full 
 of are mostly lies, an' if they ain't it's none of your 
 business, anyhow. It won't pay you to look for trouble, 
 I promise you that. You can take it from me that 
 I'll bash the first man to powder that tries it. Get 
 that? Well then, wiggle them picks a bit an' get 
 busy ! " 
 
 " The man that hits first," said Spirlaw to himself, 
 as he walked away, " is the man that usually comes out 
 on top. I guess them there few kind words of mine'll 
 give 'em a little something to chew on till Carle- 
 ton sends that hardware down, I guess they will, 
 h'm?" 
 
 The camp was pretty quiet that night quieter than 
 usual. The cook-house and the three bunk-houses, 
 that lay a few hundred yards east of the trestle, might 
 have been occupied by dead men for all the sounds 
 that came from them. Occasionally, Spirlaw, sitting 
 out as usual in front of his own shanty, that was be- 
 tween the trestle and the gang's quarters, saw a Polack 
 or two skulk from one of the bunk-houses to the other 
 and he scowled savagely as he divided his glances 
 between them and the sky. It looked like a storm in 
 the mountains, and a storm in the mountains is never 
 by any possibility to be desired least of all was it to 
 be desired just then. The men at work was one thing; 
 the men cooped up for a day, or two days, of enforced 
 idleness with the temper they were in was another 
 
THE BUILDER 139 
 
 Spirlaw turned in that night with the low, ominous roll 
 of distant thunder for a lullaby. 
 
 Once in the night he woke suddenly at the sound of 
 a splitting crash, and once, twice, and again, like a 
 fierce, winking stream of flame, the lightning filled the 
 shack bright as day, while on the roof the rain beat 
 steadily like the tattoo of a corps of snare drums. 
 Spirlaw smiled grimly as the darkness shut down on 
 him again. 
 
 " Got the little builder out just about the right time, 
 h'm? " he remarked to himself; and, turning over in 
 his bunk, went to sleep again but even in his sleep 
 the grim smile lingered on his lips. 
 
 The morning broke with the steady downpour un- 
 abated. Everything ran water, and the rock cut was 
 rilled with it. Work was out of the question. Spir- 
 law ate his breakfast, that the dripping camp cook 
 brought him, and then, putting on his rubber boots and 
 coat, started over for the track. Number Eleven was 
 due at the Canon at seven-thirty, and she would have 
 the package of " hardware " he had asked Carleton for. 
 
 But though seven-thirty came, Number Eleven did 
 not neither did any other train, east or west. The 
 hours passed from a long morning to drag through a 
 longer afternoon. Something was wrong somewhere 
 and badly wrong at that. Spirlaw's face was blacker 
 than the storm. Twice, once in the morning and once 
 in the afternoon, he started down the track in the direc- 
 tion of Keefer's Siding, which was just what its name 
 proclaimed it to be a siding, no more, no less, only 
 there was an operator there. Each time, however, he 
 
140 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 changed his mind after getting no further than a few 
 yards. The Polacks could be no less alive to the fact 
 than himself that something out of the ordinary was in 
 the air, and second considerations swung strongly to 
 the advisability of sticking close to the camp, so that 
 his presence might have the effect of dampening the 
 ardor of any mischief that might be brewing. 
 
 It was not until well on toward eight o'clock in the 
 evening and the last of the twilight that the hoarse 
 screech of a whistle sounded down the canon grade 
 a long blast and three short ones. It was belated Num- 
 ber Eleven whistling for the camp she wouldn't stop, 
 just slow down to transact her business. Spirlaw, 
 who was in his shanty at the time, snatched up his 
 hat, dashed out of the door, and headed for the bend 
 of the track. As he did so, out of the tail of his eye, 
 he caught sight of the Polacks clustered with out- 
 poked heads from the open doors of the bunk-houses. 
 
 As he reached the line, Number Eleven came round 
 the curve, and the door of the express car swung back. 
 The messenger dropped a package into his hand that 
 the road boss received with a grim smile, and a word 
 into his ear that caused Spirlaw's jaw to drop nor 
 was that all that dropped, for, from the rear end, as 
 the train rolled by dropped Keating. 
 
 White- faced and shaky the boy looked more so 
 than usual. Spirlaw stared as though he had seen an 
 apparition, stared for a minute in silence before he 
 could lay tongue to words then they came like the 
 out-spout of a volcano. 
 
 "What the hell's the meanin' of this?" he roared. 
 
THE BUILDER 141 
 
 " Who in the double-blanked blazes let you out of Big 
 Cloud, h'm ? I'll have some " 
 
 " Let's get in out of the wet," broke in Keating, 
 smiling through a spell of coughing that racked him at 
 that moment. " You can growl your head off then, 
 if you like " and he started on a run for the shack. 
 
 Once inside, Spirlaw rounded on the boy again, and 
 he stopped only when he was out of breath. 
 
 " Didn't Carleton tell you to stay where you was ? " 
 he finished bitterly. 
 
 "Oh yes," said Keating, "that's about the first 
 thing he did say after he had read your letter, when I 
 gave it to him yesterday. Then I tumbled to why you 
 had sent me out of camp. You're about as square as 
 they make them, Spirlaw. You needn't blame Carle- 
 ton, he had about all he could do without paying any 
 attention to me or any one else. Had any wires or 
 news in here ? " 
 
 Spirlaw shook his head. 
 
 " No ; but I knew something was up, because Num- 
 ber Eleven is the first train in or out to-day. The ex- 
 press messenger just said they'd cut loose in Big Cloud 
 and wrecked about everything in sight, but I guess he 
 was puttin' it on a bit." 
 
 " He didn't put on anything," said Keating slowly. 
 " My God, Spirlaw, it was an awful night ! The 
 freight-house and the shops and the roundhouse, what's 
 left of them, are ashes. They cut all the wires and 
 then they cut loose themselves the Polacks and that 
 crowd, you know. Yes, they wrecked everything in 
 sight, and there's a dozen lives gone out to pay for 
 
142 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 it." Keating stopped suddenly, and again began to 
 cough. 
 
 Spirlaw looked at the boy uneasily, and mechan- 
 ically fumbled with the cords of the package he had 
 laid upon the table. By the time he had removed the 
 wrappers and disclosed two ugly, businesslike looking 
 .455 and a half-dozen boxes of cartridges, Keating's 
 paroxysm had passed. 
 
 " I guess it was exciting enough for me, anyhow " 
 Keating tried hard to make his laugh ring true. 
 " I'm a little weak from it yet." 
 
 " If you weren't sick," Spirlaw burst out, " I'd make 
 you sick for comin' back here. You know well enough 
 we'll get it next you knew so well you came back to 
 help- 
 
 " I told Carleton he ought to send some help down 
 here," Keating interrupted hastily; "and he just 
 looked at me like a crazy man he was half mad any- 
 how with the ruin of things. ' Help ! ' he flung out at 
 me. ' Where's it coming from ? Let Spirlaw yank 
 up his stakes and pull out if things get looking bad ! ' 
 
 " Pull out ! " shouted Spirlaw, in a sudden roar. 
 "Pull out! Me! Not for all the cross-eyed, ham- 
 strung Polacks on the system ! " 
 
 " I think you'd better," said Keating quietly. 
 "After what I saw last night, I think you'd better. 
 There was no holding them they were like savages, 
 and the further they went the worse they got. They 
 were backed up by whisky and the worst element in 
 town. I was in the station with Carleton, Regan, 
 Harvey, Riley and Spence and some of the other dis- 
 
THE BUILDER 143 
 
 patchers. It was a regular pitched battle, and in spite 
 of their revolvers the station would have gone with the 
 rest if, along toward morning, the striking trainmen 
 and the Brotherhood hadn't taken a hand and helped 
 us out. I don't know that it's over yet, that it won't 
 break out again to-night ; though I heard Carleton say 
 there'd be a detachment of the police in town by four 
 o'clock. I wish you would pull out, Spirlaw. You 
 said yourself that all these fellows here needed to start 
 them sticking their claws into you was a little encour- 
 agement from the other end. They've been afraid of 
 you, but they hate you like poison. Once started, 
 they'll be worse than the crowd at Big Cloud for hate 
 is a harder driver than whisky. Then besides, I really 
 think you'd be of more use in Big Cloud. You could 
 do some good there no matter what the end was, while 
 here you're alone and you stand to lose everything and 
 gain nothing. I wish you would pull out, Spirlaw, 
 won't you? " 
 
 Spirlaw reached out his hand and laid it on Keat- 
 ing's shoulder, as he shook his head. 
 
 " I've got a whole lot to lose," he answered, his 
 hard face softening a little. " A whole lot. I can't 
 say things the way you do, but I guess you'll under- 
 stand. You got something that means a whole lot to 
 you, that you'd risk anything for what you want to 
 do and what you want to leave behind you when it 
 comes along time to cash in. Well, I guess most of 
 us have in one way or another, though mabbe it don't 
 rank anywheres up to that. I reckon, too, a whole lot 
 of us don't never think to put it in words, an' a whole 
 
144 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 lot of us couldn't if we tried to, but it's there with 
 any man that's any good. I'd rather go out for keeps 
 than pull out I'd rather they'd plant me. D'ye think 
 I'd want to live an' have to cross the street because I 
 couldn't look even a Polack in the eyes a man would 
 be better dead, what ? " 
 
 For a moment Keating did not answer, he seemed 
 to be weighing the possibility of still shaking the de- 
 termination of the road boss before accepting it as 
 irrevocable: then, evidently coming to the conclusion 
 that it was useless to argue further, he pointed to the 
 revolvers. 
 
 " Then the sooner you load those the better," he 
 jerked out. 
 
 Spirlaw looked at him curiously, questioningly. 
 
 " Because," went on Keating, answering the un- 
 spoken interrogation, " when I dropped off the train I 
 saw that fellow Kuryla he was pointed out to me in 
 Big Cloud yesterday and three or four more drop 
 off on the other side. I didn't know they were on the 
 train until then, of course, or I would have had them 
 put off. There isn't much doubt about what they are 
 here for, is there? " 
 
 " So that's it, is it? " Spirlaw ripped out with an 
 oath. " No, there ain't much doubt ! " 
 
 He snatched up a cartridge-box, slit the paper band 
 with his thumb nail, and, breaking the revolvers, be- 
 gan to cram the cartridges into the cylinders. His 
 face was twitching and the red that flushed it shaded 
 to a deep purple. Not another word came from him 
 just a deadly quiet. He thrust the weapons into his 
 
THE BUILDER 145 
 
 pockets, strode to the door, opened it, stepped over the 
 threshold and stopped. An instant he hung there in 
 indecision, then he came back, shut the door behind 
 him, sat down on the edge of his bunk, and looked at 
 Keating grimly. 
 
 " There's been one train along, there'll be another," 
 he snapped. " An' the first one that comes you'll get 
 aboard of. I hate to keep those whinin' coyotes waitin', 
 
 bat- 
 
 " I'll take no train," Keating cut in coolly ; " but 
 I'll take a revolver." 
 
 Spirlaw growled and shook his head. 
 
 " Why didn't you tell me about Kuryla at first ? " 
 he demanded abruptly. 
 
 " You know why as well as I do," smiled Keating. 
 " I wanted to get you away from here if I could. 
 There wouldn't have been any use trying at all if I'd 
 begun by telling you that. Wild horses wouldn't have 
 budged you then. As for a train, what's the use of 
 talking about it, there probably won't be another one 
 along under an hour. In the meantime, give me one 
 of the guns." 
 
 Not m " 
 
 Spirlaw's refusal died half uttered on his lips, as 
 he sprang suddenly to his feet ; then he whipped out the 
 revolvers and shoved one quickly into Keating's hand. 
 
 Carried down with the sweep of the wind came the 
 sound of many voices raised in shouts and discordant 
 song. It grew louder, swelled, and broke into a high- 
 pitched, defiant yell. 
 
 " Whisky ! " gritted Spirlaw between his teeth. 
 
146 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " That devil Kuryla and the coyotes that came with 
 him knew the best an' quickest way to start the ball 
 rollin'. Well, son, I reckon we're in for it. The only 
 thing I'm sorry about is that you're here ; but that can't 
 be helped now. You were white clean through to 
 come Holy Mother, listen to that ! " another yell 
 broke louder, fiercer than before over the roar of the 
 storm. 
 
 Spirlaw stepped to the door and peered out. It was 
 already getting dark. The rain still poured in sheets, 
 and the wind howled down the gorge in wild, furious, 
 spasmodic gusts. Thin streaks of light strayed out 
 from the doors of the bunk-houses, and around the 
 doors were gathered shadowy groups. A moment 
 more and the shadowy groups welded into a single 
 dark mass. Came a mad, exultant yell from a single 
 throat. It was caught up, flung back, echoed and re- 
 echoed by a score of voices and the dark mass began 
 to move. 
 
 " Guess you'd better put out that light, son," said 
 Spirlaw coolly. " There's no use makin' targets of 
 our " 
 
 Before he ended, before Keating had more than 
 taken a step forward, a lump of rock shivered the little 
 window and crashed into the lamp it was out for 
 keeps. A howl followed this exhibition of marksman- 
 ship, and, following that, a volley of stones smashed 
 against the side of the shack thick and fast as hail 
 then the onrush of feet. 
 
 Spirlaw's revolver cut the black with a long, blind- 
 ing flash, then another, and another. Screams and 
 
THE BUILDER 147 
 
 shrieks answered him, but it did not halt the Polacks. 
 In a mob they rushed the door. Spirlaw sprang back, 
 trying to close it after him; instead, a dozen hands 
 grasped and half wrenched it from its hinges. 
 
 "Lie down on the floor, Spirlaw, quick!" it was 
 Keating's voice, punctuated with a cough. The next 
 instant his gun barked, playing through the doorway 
 like a gatling. 
 
 From the floor the road boss joined in. The mob 
 wavered, pitched swaying this way and that, then 
 broke and ran, struggling with each other to get out 
 of the line of fire. 
 
 " Hurrah ! " cried Keating. " I guess that will hold 
 them." 
 
 ' 'Tain't begun," was Spirlaw's grim response. 
 "Where's them cartridges?" 
 
 " On the table got them? " 
 
 " Yes," said Spirlaw, after a minute's groping. 
 " Here, put a box in your pocket." 
 
 " What are they up to now ? " asked Keating as, in 
 the silence that had fallen, they reloaded and listened. 
 
 " God knows," growled Spirlaw ; " but I guess we'll 
 find out quick enough." 
 
 As he spoke, from a little distance away, came the 
 splintering crash of woodwork then silence again. 
 
 " That's the storehouse," Spirlaw snarled. " They're 
 after the bars an' anything else they can lay their 
 hands on. Guess they weren't countin' on our havin' 
 anything more than our fists to fight with, guess they 
 weren't." 
 
 Keating's only reply was a cough. 
 
148 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 The minutes passed, two, three, five of them. Once 
 outside sounded what might have been the stealthy 
 scuffle of feet or only a storm-sound so construed by 
 the imagination. Then, from the direction of the river- 
 bed, sudden, sharp, came a terrific roar. 
 
 " My God ! " yelled Spirlaw. " There's the trestle 
 gone they Ve blown it up ! They're sure to have laid 
 a fuse here, too. Get out of here quick ! Fool that I 
 was, I might have known it was the dynamite they 
 were after." 
 
 Both men were scrambling for the door as he spoke. 
 They reached it not an instant too soon. The ground 
 behind them lifted, heaved ; the walls, the roof of the 
 shack rose, cracked like eggshells, and scattered in 
 flying pieces and the mighty, deafening detonation 
 of the explosion echoed up and down the gorge, echoed 
 again and died away. 
 
 The mob caught sight of them as they ran and, foiled 
 for the moment, sent up a yell of rage then started 
 in pursuit. 
 
 " Make for the cut," shouted Spirlaw. " We can 
 hold them off there behind the rocks." 
 
 Keating had no breath for words. Panting, sick, his 
 head swimming, a fleck of blood upon his lips, he 
 struggled after the giant form of the road boss; while, 
 behind, coming ever closer, ringing in his ears, were 
 the wild cries of the maddened Polacks. The splash of 
 water revived him a little as they plunged along the 
 old right of way where the river, flooded by the storm, 
 had again claimed its own. The worst of it was up to 
 his armpits. A grip on his shoulder and a pull from 
 
THE BUILDER 149 
 
 Spirlaw helped him over. They gained the other side 
 with a bare two yards separating them from the mob 
 behind, went on again and then Spirlaw caught his 
 foot, tripped and pitched headlong, causing Keating, 
 at his heels, to stumble and fall over him. 
 
 Like wild beasts the Polacks surged upon them. 
 Keating tried to regain his feet but he got no further 
 than his knees as a swinging blow from a pick-handle 
 caught him on his head. Half-stunned, he sank back 
 and, as consciousness left him, he heard Spirlaw's great 
 voice roar out like the maddened bellow of a bull, saw 
 the giant form rise with, it seemed, a dozen Polacks 
 clinging to neck and shoulders, legs and body, saw him 
 shake them off and the massive arms rise and fall 
 and all was a blur, all darkness. 
 
 The road boss lay stretched out a yard away from 
 him when he opened his eyes. He was very weak. He 
 raised himself on his elbow. From the camp down the 
 line he could see the lights in the bunk-houses, hear 
 drunken, chorused shouts. He crept to Spirlaw, called 
 him, shook him the big road boss never moved. The 
 Polacks had evidently left both of them for dead 
 and one, it seemed, was. He slid his hand inside the 
 other's vest for the heart beat. So faint it was at first 
 he could not feel it, then he got it, and, realizing that 
 Spirlaw was still alive he straightened up and looked 
 helplessly around and, in a flash, like the knell of 
 doom, Spirlaw's words came back to him : " There's 
 the trestle gone! " 
 
 Sick the boy was with his clotting lungs, deathly 
 sick, weak from the blow on his head, dizzy, and his 
 
150 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 brain swam. " There's the trestle gone! " he coughed 
 it out between blue lips. 
 
 " There's the trestle gone! " 
 
 Keefer's Siding was a mile away. Somehow he 
 must reach it, must get the word along the line that 
 the trestle was out, get the word along before the 
 stalled traffic moved, before the first train east or west 
 crashed through to death, before more wreck and ruin 
 was added to the tale that had gone before. He bent 
 to Spirlaw's ear and three times called him frantically : 
 " Spirlaw ! Spirlaw ! Spirlaw! " There was no re- 
 sponse. He tried to lift him, tried to drag him the 
 great bulk was far beyond his strength. And the 
 minutes were flying by, each marking the one perhaps 
 when it would be too late, too late to warn any one that 
 the trestle was out. 
 
 Just up past the rock cut, a bare twenty yards away 
 where the leads to the temporary track swung into the 
 straight of the main line, was the platform handcar 
 they had used for carrying tools and the odds and ends 
 of supplies between the storehouse and the work if 
 he could only get Spirlaw there ! 
 
 He called him again, shook him, breathing a prayer 
 for help. The road boss stirred, raised himself a little, 
 and sank down again with a moan. 
 
 " Spirlaw, Spirlaw, for God's sake, man, try to get 
 up! I'll help you. You must, do you hear, you 
 must!" he was dragging at the road boss's collar. 
 
 Keating's voice seemed to reach the other's con- 
 sciousness, for, weakly, dazed, without sense, blindly, 
 Spirlaw got upon his knees, then to his feet, and, stag- 
 
THE BUILDER 151 
 
 gering, reeling like a drunken man, his arm around 
 Keating's neck, his weight almost crushing to the 
 ground the one sicker than himself, the two stumbled, 
 pitched, and, at the end, crawled those twenty yards. 
 
 "The handcar, Spirlaw, the handcar!" gasped 
 Keating. " Get on it. You must ! Try ! Try ! " 
 
 Spirlaw straightened, lurched forward, and fell half 
 across the car with out-flung arms unconscious again. 
 
 The rest Keating managed somehow, enough so that 
 the dangling legs freed the ground by a few inches; 
 then, with bursting lungs, far spent, he unblocked the 
 wheels, pushed the car down the little spur, swung the 
 switch, dragged himself aboard, and began to pump 
 his way west toward Keefer's Siding. 
 
 No man may tell the details of that mile, every inch 
 of which was wrung from blood that oozed from 
 parted, quivering lips; no man may question from 
 Whom came the strength to the frail body, where 
 strength was not ; the reprieve to the broken lungs, that 
 long since should have done their worst only Keating- 
 knew that the years were ended forever, that with 
 every stroke of the pump-handle the time was shorter. 
 The few minutes to win through that was the last 
 stake ! 
 
 At the end he choked fighting for his consciousness, 
 as, like dancing points, switch lights swam before him. 
 He checked with the brake, reeled from the car, fell, 
 tried to rise and fell back again. Then, on his hands 
 and knees, he crept toward the station door. It had 
 come at last. The hemorrhage that he had fought 
 back with all his strength was upon him. He beat 
 
152 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 upon the door. It opened, a lantern was flashed upon 
 him, and he fell inside. 
 
 " The trestle's out at the Glacier hold trains both 
 ways Polacks Spirlaw on handcar I " 
 
 That was all. Keating never spoke again. 
 
 " I dunno as you'd call him a builder," says Clarihue, 
 the night turner, when he tells the story in the 
 darkened roundhouse in the shadow of the big ten- 
 wheelers on the pits, while the steam purrs softly at 
 the gauges and sometimes a pop-valve lifts with a 
 catchy sob, " I dunno as you would. It depends on the 
 way you look at it. Accordin* to him, he was. He left 
 something behind him, what ? " 
 
VII 
 
 THE GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 
 
 THERE is one bad piece of track on the Hill Division, 
 particularly bad, which is the same as saying that it is 
 the worst piece of track, bar none, on the American 
 Continent. Not that the engineers were to blame 
 they weren't. It was Dame Nature in the shape of the 
 Rockies Dame Nature and the directors. 
 
 Sir Ivers Clayborn, gray-haired and grizzled, a man 
 schooled in the practical school of many lands and 
 many years, who was chief consulting engineer when 
 the road was building, advised a double-looped tunnel 
 that, according to his sketch, looked something like the 
 figure 8 canted over sideways. The directors poised 
 their glasses and examined the sketch with interest 
 until they caught sight of the penciled estimate in the 
 corner. That settled it. They did not even take the 
 trouble to vote. They asked for an alternative and 
 they got it. They got the Devil's Slide. 
 
 First and last, it has euchred more money out of the 
 treasury of the Transcontinental than it would have 
 taken to build things Sir Ivers' way to begin with ; and 
 it has taken some years, a good many of them, for the 
 directors to learn their lesson. The old board never 
 did, for that matter; but, thanks perhaps to younger 
 blood, they've begun now to build as they should have 
 
 153 
 
154 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 built in the first place. It isn't finished yet, that double- 
 looped tunnel, it won't be for years, but, no matter, it's 
 begun, and some day a good many more than a few 
 men will sleep the easier because of it. 
 
 From Carleton, the super, to the last section hand 
 and track-walker, the Devil's Slide was a nightmare. 
 The dispatchers, under their green-shaded lamps, 
 cursed it in the gray hours of dawn ; the traffic depart- 
 ment cursed it spasmodically, but at such times so 
 whole-heartedly and with such genuine fervor and 
 abandon that its occasional lapses into silence were 
 overlooked ; the motive power department in the shape 
 of Regan, the master mechanic, cursed it all the time, 
 and did it breathlessly. It had only one friend 
 the passenger agent's department. The passenger 
 agent's department swore by it on account of the 
 scenery. 
 
 " Scenery ! " gulped the dispatchers, and the white 
 showed under their nail tips as their fingers tightened 
 on their keys. 
 
 " Scenery ! " howled the traffic department, and 
 reached for the claim file. 
 
 " Scenery ! " Regan didn't say it he choked. 
 Just choked, and spat the exclamation point in a stream 
 of black-strap. 
 
 "Scenery!" murmured Mr. General Passenger 
 Agent esthetically, waving a soft and diamond be- 
 decked hand from the platform of Carleton's private 
 car. " Wonderful ! Grand ! Magnificent ! We've got 
 them all beaten into a coma. No other road has any- 
 thing like it anywhere in the world." 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 155 
 
 " They have not," agreed Carleton, and the bitterness 
 of his soul was in his words. 
 
 Everybody was right. 
 
 The general passenger agent was right the scenic 
 grandeur was beyond compare, and he made the most 
 of it in booklets, in leaflets, in pamphlets, and in a score 
 of pages in a score of different magazines. 
 
 The others were right the Devil's Slide was every- 
 thing that the ethics of engineering said it shouldn't be. 
 It was neither level nor straight. In its marvelous two 
 miles from the summit of the pass to the canon below, 
 its nearest approach to the ethical was three percent 
 drop. There wasn't much of that most of it was a 
 straight five ! It twisted, it turned, it slid, it slithered, 
 and it dove around projecting mountain-sides at scan- 
 dalous tangents and with indecent abruptness. 
 
 Chick Coogan swore, with a grin, that he could see 
 his own headlight coming at him about half the time 
 every trip he made up or down. That, of course, is 
 exaggerating a little but not much! Coogan sized 
 up the Devil's Slide pretty well when he said that, all 
 things considered, pretty well there wasn't much 
 chance to mistake what he meant, or what the Devil's 
 Slide was, or what he thought of it. Anyway, be that 
 as it may, Coogan's description gave the division the 
 only chance they ever had to crack a smile when the 
 Devil's Slide was in question. 
 
 They smiled then, those railroaders of the Rockies, 
 but they'll look at you queerly now if you mention the 
 two together Coogan and the Devil's Slide. Fate is 
 a pretty grim player sometimes. 
 
156 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Any one on the Hill Division can tell you the story 
 they've reason to know it, and they do to the last man. 
 If you'd rather get it first hand in a roundhouse, or 
 between trains from the operator at some lone station 
 that's no more than a siding, or in the caboose of a way 
 freight if you are a big enough man to ride there, and 
 that means being bigger than most men or anywhere 
 your choice or circumstance leads you from the super's 
 office to a track-walker's shanty ; if you'd rather get it 
 that way, and you'll get it better, far better, than you 
 will here, don't try any jolly business to make the boys 
 talk just say a good word for Coogan, Chick Coogan. 
 That's the " open sesame " and the only one. 
 
 There's no use talking about the logical or the illogi- 
 cal, the rational or the irrational, when it comes to Coo- 
 gan's story. Coogan's story is just Coogan's story, 
 that's all there is to it. What one man does another 
 doesn't. You can't cancel the human equation because 
 there's nothing to cancel it with ; it's there all the time 
 swaying, compelling, dominating every act in a man's 
 life. The higher branches of mathematics go far, and 
 to some men three dimensions are but elemental, but 
 there is one problem even they have never solved and 
 never will solve the human equation. What Coogan 
 did, you might not do or you might. 
 
 Coogan didn't come to the Transcontinental a full- 
 blown engineer from some other road as a good many 
 of the boys have, though that's nothing against them ; 
 Coogan was a product of the Hill Division pure and 
 simple. He began as a kid almost before the steel was 
 spiked home, and certainly before the right of way was 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 157 
 
 shaken down enough to begin to look like business. He 
 started at the bottom and he went up. Call-boy, 
 sweeper, wiper, fireman one after the other. Pro- 
 motion came fast in the early days, for, the Rockies 
 once bridged, business came fast, too ; and Coogan had 
 his engine at twenty-one, and at twenty-four he was 
 pulling the Imperial Limited. 
 
 " Good goods," said Regan. " That's what he is. 
 The best ever." 
 
 Nobody questioned that, not only because there was 
 no one on the division who could put anything over 
 Coogan in a cab, but also because, and perhaps even 
 more pertinent a reason, every one liked Coogan some 
 of them did more than that. 
 
 Straight as a string, clean as a whistle was Coogan, 
 six feet in his stockings with a body that played up to 
 every inch of his height, black hair, jet black, black eyes 
 that laughed with you, never at you, a smile and a 
 cheery nod always the kind of a man that makes yon 
 feel every time you see them that the world isn't such 
 an eternal dismal grind after all. That was Chick Coo- 
 gan all except his heart. Coogan had a heart like a 
 woman's, and a hard luck story from a 'bo stealing a 
 ride, a railroad man, or any one else for that matter, 
 never failed to make him poorer by a generous percent- 
 age of what happened to be in his pocket at the time. 
 Who wouldn't like him! Queer how things happen. 
 
 It was the day Coogan got married that Regan gave 
 him 505 and the Limited run as a sort of wedding pres- 
 ent ; and that night Big Cloud turned itself completely 
 inside out doing honor and justice to the occasion. 
 
158 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Big Cloud has had other celebrations, before and 
 since, but none quite so unanimous as that one. Re- 
 straint never did run an overwhelmingly strong favor- 
 ite with the town, but that night it was hung up higher 
 than the arms on the telegraph poles. Men that the 
 community used to hide behind and push forward as 
 hostages of righteousness, when it was on its good be- 
 havior and wanted to put on a front, cut loose and out- 
 shone the best or the worst, if you like that better 
 of the crowd that never made any bones about being 
 on the other side of the fence. They burned red flares, 
 very many of them, that Carleton neglected to imagine 
 had any connection with the storekeeper and the supply 
 account; they committed indiscretions, mostly of a 
 liquid nature, that any one but the trainmaster, who 
 was temporarily blind in both eyes, could have seen; 
 and, as a result, the Hill Division the next day was an 
 eminently paralytic and feeble affair. This is a very 
 general description of the event, because sometimes it 
 is not wise to particularize this is a case in point. 
 
 Coogan's send-off was a send-off no other man, be 
 he king, prince, president, sho-gun, or high mucky- 
 muck of whatever degree, could have got except 
 Coogan. Coogan got it because he was Coogan, just 
 Coogan and the night was a night to wonder at. 
 
 Regan summarized it the next evening over the usual 
 game of pedro with Carleton, upstairs over the station 
 in the super's office. 
 
 " Apart from Coogan and me," said the master 
 mechanic, in a voice that was still suspiciously husky, 
 " apart from Coogan and me and mabbe the minis- 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 159 
 
 ter " the rest was a wave of his hand. Regan could 
 wave his hand with a wealth of eloquence that was 
 astounding. 
 
 " Quite so," agreed Carleton, with a grin. " Too bad 
 to drag them into it, though. Both ' peds ' to me, 
 Tommy. It's a good thing for the discipline of the 
 division that bigamy is against the law, what ? " 
 
 " They'll be talking of it," said Regan reminis- 
 cently, " when you and me are on the scrap heap, 
 Carleton." 
 
 " I guess that's right," admitted the super. " Play 
 on, Tommy." 
 
 But it wasn't. They only talked of Coogan's wed- 
 ding for about a year no, they don't talk about it 
 now. We'll get to that presently. 
 
 The Imperial Limited was the star run on the divi- 
 sion Regan gave Coogan the thirty-third degree when 
 he gave him that that and 505, which was the last 
 word in machine design. And Coogan took them, took 
 them and the schedule rights that pertained thereto, 
 which were a clear and a clean-swept track, and day 
 after day, up hill and down, Number One or Number 
 Two, as the case might be, pulled into division on the 
 dot. Coogan's stock soared if that were possible; 
 but not Coogan. The youngest engineer on the road 
 and top of them all, would have been excuse enough 
 for him to show his oats and, within decent limits, no 
 one would have thought the worse of him for it Coo- 
 gan never turned a hair. He was still the friend of the 
 'bo and the man in trouble, still the Coogan that had 
 been a wiper in the roundhouse; and yet, perhaps, not 
 
i6o ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 quite the same, for two new loves had come into his 
 life his love for Annie Coogan, and his love, the love 
 of the master craftsman, for 505. In the little house at 
 home he talked to Annie of the big mountain racer and 
 Annie, being an engineer's daughter as well as an en- 
 gineer's wife, listened with understanding and a smile, 
 and in the smile was pride and love ; in the cab Coogan 
 talked of Annie, always Annie, and one day he told his 
 fireman a secret that made big Jim Dahleen grin sheep- 
 ishly and stick out a grimy paw. 
 
 Fate is a pretty grim player sometimes and always, 
 it seems, the cards are stacked. 
 
 The days and the weeks and the months went by, 
 and then there came a morning when a sober-, serious- 
 faced group of men stood gathered in the super's office, 
 as Number Two's whistle, in from the Eastbound run, 
 sounded down the gorge. They looked at Regan. 
 Slowly, the master mechanic turned, went out of the 
 room and down the stairs to the platform, as 505 shot 
 round the bend and rolled into the station. For a mo- 
 ment Regan stood irresolute, then he started for the 
 front-end. He went no further than the colonist coach, 
 that was coupled behind the mail car. Here he 
 stopped, made a step forward, changed his mind, 
 climbed over the colonist's platform, dropped down on 
 the other side of the track, and began to walk toward 
 the roundhouse they changed engines at Big Cloud 
 and 505, already uncoupled, was scooting up for the 
 spur to back down for the 'table. 
 
 The soles of Regan's boots seemed like plates of lead 
 as he went along, and he mopped his forehead nerv- 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 161 
 
 ously. There was a general air of desertion about the 
 roundhouse. The 'table was set and ready for 505, but 
 there wasn't a soul in sight. Regan nodded to himself 
 in sympathetic understanding. He crossed the turn- 
 table, walked around the half circle, and entered the 
 roundhouse through the engine doors by the far pit 
 the one next to that which belonged to 505. Here, just 
 inside, he waited, as the big mogul came slowly down 
 the track, took the 'table with a slight jolt, and stopped. 
 He saw Coogan, big, brawny, swing out of the cab like 
 an athlete, and then he heard the engineer speak to his 
 fireman. 
 
 " Looks like a graveyard around here, Jim. Wonder 
 where the boys are. I won't wait to swing the 'table, 
 they'll be around in a minute, I guess. I want to get 
 up to the little woman." 
 
 " All right," Dahleen answered. " Leave her to me, 
 I'll run her in. Good luck to you, Chick." 
 
 Coogan was starting across the yards with a stride 
 that was almost a run. Regan opened his mouth to 
 shout and swallowed a lump in his throat instead. 
 Twice he made as though to follow the engineer, and 
 twice something stronger than himself held him back ; 
 and then, as though he had been a thief, the master 
 mechanic stole out from behind the doors, went back 
 across the tracks, climbed the stairs to Carleton's room 
 with lagging steps, and entered. 
 
 The rest were still there : Carleton in his swivel chair, 
 Harvey, the division engineer, Spence, the chief dis- 
 patcher, and Riley, the trainmaster. Regan shook his 
 head and dropped into a seat. 
 
162 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " I couldn't/' he said in a husky voice. " My God, 
 I couldn't" he repeated, and swept out his arms. 
 
 A bitter oath sprang from Carleton's lips, lips that 
 were not often profane, and his teeth snapped through 
 the amber of his briar. The others just looked out of 
 the window. 
 
 Mac Vicar, a spare man, took the Limited out that 
 night, and it was three days before Coogan reported 
 again. Maybe it was the fit of the black store-clothes 
 and perhaps the coat didn't hang just right, but as he 
 entered the roundhouse he didn't look as straight as he 
 used to look and there was a queer inward slope to his 
 shoulders and he walked like a man who didn't see any- 
 thing. The springy swing through the gangway was 
 gone. He climbed to the cab as an old man climbs 
 painfully. The boys hung back and didn't say any- 
 thing, just swore under their breaths with full hearts as 
 men do. There wasn't anything to say nothing that 
 would do any good. 
 
 Coogan took 505 and the Limited out that night, 
 took it out the night after and the nights that followed, 
 only he didn't talk any more, and the slope of the 
 shoulders got a little more pronounced, a little more 
 noticeable, a little beyond the cut of any coat. And on 
 the afternoons of the lay-overs at Big Cloud, Coogan 
 walked out behind the town to where on the slope of the 
 butte were two fresh mounds one larger than the 
 other. That was all. 
 
 Regan, short, paunchy, big-hearted Regan, tackled 
 Jim Dahleen, Coogan's fireman. 
 
 " What's he say on the run, Jim, h'm? " 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 163 
 
 " He ain't talkative/' Dahleen answered shortly. 
 
 " What the hell," growled the master mechanic deep 
 in his throat, to conceal his emotion. " 'Tain't doing 
 him any good going up there afternoons. God knows 
 it's natural enough, but 'tain't doing him any good, not 
 a mite nor them either, as far as I can see, h'm ? You 
 got to make him talk, Jim. Wake him up." 
 
 " Why don't you talk to him? " demanded the fire- 
 man. 
 
 " H'm, yes. So I will. I sure will," Regan 
 answered. 
 
 And he meant to, meant to, honestly. But, somehow, 
 Coogan's eyes and Coogan's face said " no " to him as 
 they did to every other man, and as the days passed, 
 almost a month of them, Regan shook his head, per- 
 plexed and troubled, for he was fond of Coogan. 
 
 Then, one night, it happened. 
 
 Regan and Carleton were alone over their pedro at 
 headquarters, except for Spence, the dispatcher, in the 
 next room. It was getting close on to eleven-thirty. 
 The Imperial Limited, West-bound, with Coogan in the 
 cab, had pulled out on time an hour and a half before. 
 The game was lagging, and, as usual, the conversation 
 had got around to the engineer, introduced, as it always 
 was, by the master mechanic. 
 
 " I sure don't know what to do for the boy," said he. 
 " I'd like to do something. Talking don't amount to 
 anything, does it, h'm ? even if you can talk. I can't 
 talk to him, what?" 
 
 " A man's got to work a thing like that out for him- 
 self, Tommy," Carleton answered, " and it takes time. 
 
1 64 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 That's the only thing that will ever help him time. I 
 know you're pretty fond of Coogan, even more than 
 the rest of us and that's saying a good deal, but you're 
 thinking too much about it yourself." 
 
 Regan shook his head. 
 
 " I can't help it, Carleton. It's got me. Time, and 
 that sort of thing, may be all right, but it ain't very 
 promising when a man broods the way he does. I ain't 
 superstitious or anything like that, but I've a feeling I 
 can't just explain that somehow something's going to 
 break. Kind of premonition. Ever have anything like 
 that ? It gets on your mind and you can't shake it off. 
 It's on me to-night worse than it's ever been." 
 
 " Nonsense," Carleton laughed. " Premonitions are 
 out of date, because they've been traced back to their 
 origin. Out here, I should say it was a case of too 
 much of Dutchy's lunch-counter pie. You ought to 
 diet anyway, Tommy, you're getting too fat. Hand 
 over that fine-cut of yours, I " 
 
 He stopped as a sharp cry came from the dispatcher's 
 room, followed by an instant's silence, then the crash 
 of a chair sounded as, hastily pushed back, it fell to the 
 floor. Quick steps echoed across the room, and the 
 next moment Spence, with a white face and holding a 
 sheet of tissue in his hand, burst in upon them. 
 
 Carleton sprang to his feet. 
 
 "What's the matter, Spence?" he demanded 
 sharply. 
 
 " Number One," the dispatcher jerked out, and ex- 
 tended the sheet on which he had scribbled the message 
 as it came in off the sounder. 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 165 
 
 Carleton snatched the paper, and Regan, leaping 
 from his chair, looked over his shoulder. 
 
 " Number One, engine 505, jumped track east of 
 switch-back number two in Devil's Slide. Report three 
 known to be killed, others missing. Engineer Coogan 
 and fireman Dahleen both hurt," they read. 
 
 Carleton was ever the man of action, and his voice 
 rang hard as chilled steel. 
 
 " Clear the line, Spence. Get your relief and wrecker 
 out at once. Wire Dreamer Butte for their wrecker 
 as well, so they can work from both ends. Now then, 
 Tommy my God, what's the matter with you, are you 
 crazy?" 
 
 Regan was leaning over the back of his chair, his 
 face strained, his arm outstretched, finger pointing to 
 the wall. 
 
 "I knew it," he muttered hoarsely. "I knew it. 
 That's what it is." 
 
 Carleton's eyes traveled from the master mechanic 
 to the wall and back again in amazed bewilderment, 
 then he shook Regan by the shoulder. 
 
 " That's what, what is ? " he questioned brusquely. 
 " Are you mad, man ? " 
 
 "The date," whispered Regan, still pointing to 
 where a large single-day calendar with big figures on it 
 hung behind the super's desk. " It's the twenty- 
 eighth." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Tommy," Carle- 
 ton's voice was quiet, restrained. 
 
 " Mean ! " Regan burst out, with a hard laugh. " I 
 don't mean anything, do I? 'Tain't anything to do 
 
166 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 with it, it's just coincidence, mabbe, and mabbe it's 
 not. It's a year ago to-night Coogan was married/' 
 
 For a moment Carleton did not speak; like Regan, 
 he stared at the wall. 
 
 " You think that " 
 
 " No, I don't " Regan caught him up roughly 
 " I don't think anything at all. I only know it's queer, 
 ghastly queer." 
 
 Carleton nodded his head slowly. Steps were com- 
 ing up the stairs. The voice of Flannagan, the wreck- 
 ing boss, reached them, other voices excited and loud 
 joined in. He slapped the master mechanic on the 
 back. 
 
 " I don't wonder it caught you, Tommy," he said. 
 " It's almost creepy. But there's no time for that now. 
 Come on." 
 
 Regan laughed, the same hard laugh, as he followed 
 the chief into the dispatcher's room. 
 
 " East of number two switch-back, eh ? " he swore. 
 " If there's any choice for hellishness anywhere on 
 that cursed stretch of track, that's it. My God, it's 
 come, and it's come good and hard good and hard." 
 
 It had. It was a bad mess, a nasty mess but, like 
 everything else, it might have been worse. Instead of 
 plunging to the right and dropping to the canon eigh- 
 teen hundred feet below, 505 chose the inward side and 
 rammed her nose into the gray mass of rock that made 
 the mountain wall. The wreckers from Dreamer Butte 
 and the wreckers from Big Cloud tell of it to this day. 
 For twenty-four hours they worked and then they 
 dropped and fresh men took their places. There was 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 167 
 
 no room to work just the narrow ledge of the right 
 of way on a circular sweep with the jutting cliff of 
 Old Piebald Mountain sticking in between, hiding one 
 of the gangs from the other, and around which the big 
 wrecking cranes groped dangling arms and chains like 
 fishers angling for a bite. It was a mauled and tangled 
 snarl, and the worst of it went over the canon's edge 
 in pieces, as axes, sledges, wedges, bars and cranes 
 ripped and tore their way to the heart of it. And as 
 they worked, those hard-faced, grimy, sweating men 
 of the wrecking crews, they wondered wondered that 
 any one had come out of it alive. 
 
 Back at headquarters in Big Cloud they wondered at 
 it, too and they wondered also at the cause. Every 
 one that by any possible chance could throw any light 
 upon it went on the carpet in the super's office. Every- 
 body testified everybody except Dahleen, the fireman, 
 and Coogan, the engineer; and they didn't testify be- 
 cause they couldn't. Coogan was in the hospital with 
 queer, inconsequent words upon his tongue and a welt 
 across his forehead that had laid bare the bone from eye 
 to the hair-line of his skull ; and Dahleen was there also, 
 not so bad, just generally jellied up, but still too bad to 
 talk. And the testimony was of little use. 
 
 The tender of switch-back number one reported that 
 the Limited had passed him at perhaps a little greater 
 speed than usual which was the speed of a man's 
 walk, for trains crawl down the Devil's Slide with fear 
 and caution but not fast enough to cause him to think 
 anything about it. 
 
 Hardy, the conductor, testified. Hardy said it was 
 
168 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 the " air ; " that the train began to slide faster and 
 faster after the first switch-back was passed and that 
 her speed kept on increasing up to the moment that the 
 crash came. He figured that it couldn't be anything 
 else just the " air " it wouldn't work and the con- 
 trol of the train was lost. That was all he knew. 
 
 And while Regan swore and fumed, Carleton's 
 face set grim and hard and he waited for Dah- 
 leen. 
 
 It was a week before the fireman faced Carleton 
 across the super's desk, but when that time came Carle- 
 ton opened on him straight from the shoulder, not even 
 a word of sympathy, not so much as " glad to see 
 you're out again," just straight to the point, hard and 
 quick. 
 
 " Dahleen," he snapped, " I want to know what 
 happened in the cab that night, and I want a straight 
 story. No other kind of talking will do you any good." 
 
 Dahleen's face, white with the pallor of his illness, 
 flushed suddenly red. 
 
 " You're jumping a man pretty hard, aren't you, Mr. 
 Carleton ? " he said resentfully. 
 
 " Maybe I've reason to," replied Carleton. " Well, 
 I'm waiting for that story." 
 
 " There is no story that I know of," said Dahleen 
 evenly. " After we passed switch-back number one we 
 lost control of the train the ' air ' wouldn't work." 
 
 " Do you expect me to believe that ? " 
 
 " You don't seem to," retorted Dahleen, with a set 
 jaw. 
 
 " What did you do to stop her? " 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 169 
 
 " What I could," said Dahleen, with terse finality. 
 
 Carleton sprang to his feet, and his fist crashed down 
 upon the desk. 
 
 " You are lying! " he thundered. " That wreck and 
 the lives that are lost are at your door, and if I could 
 prove it ! " he shook his fist at the fireman. " As it 
 is I can only fire you for violation of the rules. I 
 thought at first it was Coogan and that he'd gone off 
 his head a bit, and you are cur enough to let the blame 
 go there if you could, to let me and every other man 
 think so!" 
 
 Dahleen's fists clenched, and he took a step forward. 
 
 " That's enough ! " he cried hoarsely. " Enough 
 from you or any other man ! " 
 
 Carleton rounded on him more furiously than before. 
 
 " I've given you a chance to tell a straight story and 
 you wouldn't. God knows what you did that night. 
 I believe you were fighting drunk. I believe that gash 
 in Coogan's head wasn't from the wreck. If I knew 
 I'd fix you." He wrenched open a drawer of his desk, 
 whipped out a metal whisky flask, and shook it before 
 Dahleen's eyes. " When you were picked up this was 
 in the pocket of your jumper! " 
 
 The color fled from Dahleen's face leaving it whiter 
 than when he had entered the room. He wet his lips 
 with the tip of his tongue. All the bluster, all the fight 
 was gone. He stared mutely, a startled, frightened 
 look in his eyes, at the damning evidence in the super's 
 hand. 
 
 " Forgotten about it, had you ? " Carleton flung out 
 grimly. " Well, have you anything to say ? " 
 
170 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Dahleen shook his head. 
 
 " Ain't anything to say, is there ? " his voice was 
 low with just a hint of the former defiance. " It's 
 mine, but you can't prove anything. You can't prove I 
 drank it. D'ye think I'd be fool enough to do anything 
 but keep my mouth shut ? " 
 
 " No ; I can't prove it " Carleton's voice was deadly 
 cold. ' You're out ! I'll give you twelve hours to get 
 out of the mountains. The boys, for Coogan's sake 
 alone if for no other, would tear you to pieces if they 
 knew the story. No one knows it yet but the man who 
 found this in your pocket and myself. I'm not going 
 to tell you again what I think of you get out! " 
 
 Dahleen, without a word, swung slowly on his heel 
 and started for the door. 
 
 " Wait ! " said Carleton suddenly. " Here's a pass 
 East for you. I don't want your blood on my hands, 
 as I would have if Coogan's friends, and that's every 
 last soul out here, got hold of you. You've got twelve 
 hours after that they'll know to set Coogan 
 straight." 
 
 Dahleen hesitated, came back, took the slip of paper 
 with a mirthless, half-choked laugh, turned again, and 
 the door closed behind him. 
 
 Dahleen was out. 
 
 Carleton kept his word twelve hours and then 
 from the division rose a cry like the cry of savage 
 beasts ; but Regan was like a madman. 
 
 " Curse him ! " he swore bitterly, breaking into a 
 seething torrent of oaths. " What did you let him go 
 for, Carleton? You'd no business to. You should 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 171 
 
 have held him until Coogan could talk, and then we'd 
 have had him." 
 
 " Tommy " Carleton laid his hand quietly on the 
 master mechanic's shoulder " we're too young out in 
 this country for much law. I don't think Coogan 
 knows or ever will know again what happened in the 
 cab that night. The doctors don't seem quite able to 
 call the turn on him themselves, so they've said to you 
 and said to me. But whether he does or not, it doesn't 
 make any difference as far as Dahleen goes. It would 
 have been murder to keep him here. And if Coogan 
 ever can talk he'll never put a mate in bad no matter 
 what the consequences to himself. There's nothing 
 against Dahleen except that he had liquor in his posses- 
 sion while on duty. That's what I fired him for that's 
 the only story that's gone out of this office. You and I 
 and the rest are free to put the construction on it that 
 suits us best, and there it ends. If I was wrong to 
 let him go, I was wrong. I did what I thought was 
 right that's all I can ever do." 
 
 " Mabbe," growled Regan, " mabbe; but, damn him, 
 he ought to be murdered. I'd like to have had 'em 
 done it ! It's that smash on the head put Coogan to the 
 bad. You're right about one thing, I guess, he'll never 
 be the same Coogan again." 
 
 And in a way this was so ; in another it wasn't. It 
 was not the wound that was to blame, the doctors were 
 positive about that; but Coogan, it was pitifully evi- 
 dent, was not the same. Physically, at the end of a 
 month, he left the hospital apparently as well as he had 
 ever been in his life; but mentally, somewhere, a cog 
 
172 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 had slipped. His brain seemed warped and weakened, 
 simple as a child's in its workings ; his memory fogged 
 and dazed, full of indefinite, intangible snatches, vague, 
 indeterminate glimpses of his life before. One thing 
 seemed to cling to him, to predominate, to sway him 
 the Devil's Slide. 
 
 Regan and Carleton talked to him, trying to guide 
 his thoughts and stimulate his memory. 
 
 ' You remember you used to drive an engine, don't 
 you, Chick ? " asked Carleton. 
 
 " Engine? " Coogan nodded. " Yes; in the Devil's 
 Slide." 
 
 " 55>" sa id Regan quickly. " You know old 505." 
 
 Coogan shook his head. 
 
 Carleton tried another tack. 
 
 '* You were in a bad accident, Coogan, one night. 
 You were in the cab of the engine when she went to 
 smash. Do you remember that ? " 
 
 " The smash was on the Devil's Slide," said Coogan. 
 
 " That's it," cried Carleton. " I knew you'd remem- 
 ber." 
 
 " They're always there," said Coogan simply, " al- 
 ways there. It is a bad track. I'm a railroad man and 
 I know. It's not properly guarded. I'm going to work 
 there and take care of it." 
 
 " Work there ? " said Regan, the tears almost in his 
 eyes. " What kind of work ? What do you want to 
 do, Chick?" 
 
 " Just work there," said Coogan. " Take care of the 
 Devil's Slide." 
 
 The super and the master mechanic looked at each 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 173 
 
 other and averted their eyes. Then they took Coogan 
 up to his boarding-house, where he had moved after 
 Annie and the little one died. 
 
 " He'll never put his finger on a throttle again," 
 said Regan with a choke in his voice, as they came out. 
 " The best man that ever pulled a latch, the best man 
 that ever drew a pay-check on the Hill Division. It's 
 hell, Carleton, that's what it is. I don't think he really 
 knew you or me. He don't seem to remember much of 
 anything, though he's natural enough and able enough 
 to take care of himself in all other ways. Just kind of 
 simple-like. It's queer the way that Devil's Slide has 
 got him, what? We can't let him go out there." 
 
 " I wonder if he remembers Annie," said Carleton. 
 " I was afraid to ask him. I didn't know what effect 
 it might have. No; we can't let him go out on the 
 Devil's Slide." 
 
 But the doctors said yes. They went further and 
 said it was about the only chance he had. The thing 
 was on his mind. It was better to humor him, and 
 that, with the outdoor mountain life, in time might 
 bring him around again. 
 
 And so, while Regan growled and swore, and Carle- 
 ton knitted his brows in perplexed protest, the doctors 
 had their way and Coogan, Chick Coogan, went to 
 the Devil's Slide. Officially, he was on the pay-roll as 
 a section hand; but Millrae, the section boss, had his 
 own orders. 
 
 " Let Coogan alone. Let him do what he likes, only 
 see that he doesn't come to any harm," wired the super. 
 
 And Coogan, when Millrae asked him what he 
 
174 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 wanted to do, answered simply : " I'm going to take 
 care of the Devil's Slide." 
 
 " All right, Chick," the section boss agreed cheerily. 
 " It's up to you. Fire ahead." 
 
 At first no one understood, perhaps even at the end 
 no one quite understood possibly Coogan least of all. 
 He may have done some good or he may not. In time 
 they came to call him the Guardian of the Devil's Slide 
 not slightingly, but as strong men talk, defiant of 
 ridicule, with a gruff ring of assertion in their tones 
 that brooked no question. 
 
 Up and down, down and up, two miles east, two 
 miles west, Coogan patroled the Devil's Slide, and 
 never a weakened rail, a sunken tie, a loosened spike 
 escaped him he may have done some good, or he may 
 not. 
 
 He slept here and there in one of the switch-back 
 tender's shanties, moved and governed by no other con- 
 sideration than fatigue day and night were as things 
 apart. He ate with them, too; and scrupulously he 
 paid his footing. Twenty-five cents for a meal, twenty- 
 five cents for a bunk, or a blanket on the floor. They 
 took his money because he forced it upon them, furi- 
 ously angry at a hint of refusal; but mostly the coin 
 would be slipped back unnoticed into the pocket of 
 Coogan's coat poor men and rough they were, noth- 
 ing of veneer, nothing of polish, grimy, overalled, 
 horny-fisted toilers, their hearts were big if their purses 
 weren't. 
 
 At all hours, in the early dawn, at midday or late 
 afternoon, the train crews and the engine crews on pas- 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 175 
 
 sengers, specials and freights, passed Coogan up and 
 down, always walking with his head bent forward, his 
 eyes fastened on the right of way passed with a 
 cheery hail and the flirt of a hand from cab, caboose, 
 or the ornate tail of a garish Pullman. And to the 
 tourists he came to be more of an attraction than the 
 scenic grandeur of the Rockies themselves ; they stared 
 from the observation car and listened, with a running 
 fire of wondering comment, as the brass-buttoned, 
 swelled-with-importance, colored porters told the story, 
 until at last to have done the Rockies and have missed 
 the Guardian of the Devil's Slide was to have done 
 them not at all. It was natural enough, anything out 
 of the ordinary ministers to and arouses the public's 
 curiosity. Not very nice perhaps, no but natural. 
 The railroad men didn't like it, and that was nat- 
 ural, too; but their feelings or opinions, in the very 
 nature of things, had little effect one way or the 
 other. 
 
 Coogan grew neither better nor worse. The months 
 passed, and he grew neither better nor worse. Winter 
 came, and, with the trestle that went out in the big 
 storm that year, Coogan went into Division for the 
 last time, went over the Great Divide, the same simple, 
 broken-minded Coogan that had begun his self-ap- 
 pointed task in the spring he may have done some 
 good, or he may not. They found him after two or 
 three days, and sent him back to Big Cloud. 
 
 " He'd have chosen that himself if he could have 
 chosen," said Carleton soberly. " God knows what the 
 end would have been. The years would have been all 
 
176 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 alike, he'd never have got his mind back. It's all for 
 the best, what ? " 
 
 Regan did not answer. Philosophy and the master 
 mechanic's heart did not always measure things alike. 
 
 The Brotherhood took charge of the arrangements, 
 and Coogan's funeral was the biggest funeral Big 
 Cloud ever had. Everybody wanted to march, so they 
 held the service late in the afternoon and closed down 
 the shops at half-past four : and the shop hands, from 
 the boss fitter to the water boy, turned out to the last 
 man and so did every one else in town. 
 
 It was getting dark and already supper time when it 
 was over, but Carleton, who had left some unfinished 
 work on his desk, went back to his office instead of 
 going home. He lighted the lamp, put on the chimney, 
 but the match was still burning between his fingers 
 when the door opened and a man, with his hat pulled 
 far down over his face, stepped in and closed it behind 
 him. 
 
 Carleton whirled around, the match dropped to the 
 floor, and he leaned forward over his desk, a hard look 
 settling on his face. The man had pushed back his 
 hat. It was Dahleen, Coogan's fireman, Jim Dahleen. 
 
 For a moment neither man spoke. Bitter words rose 
 to Carleton's tongue, but something in the other's face 
 checked and held them back. It was Dahleen who 
 spoke first. 
 
 " I heard about Chick that he'd gone out," he said 
 quietly. " I don't suppose it did him any good, but I 
 kind of had to chip in on the good-by Chick and me 
 used to be pretty thick. I saw you come down here 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 177 
 
 and I followed you. Don't stare at me like that, you'd 
 have done the same. Have you got that flask yet ? " 
 
 " Yes," Carleton answered mechanically, and as 
 mechanically produced it from the drawer of his 
 desk. 
 
 " Ever examine it particularly ? " 
 
 "Examine it?" 
 
 " I guess that answers my question. I was afraid 
 you might, and I wanted to ask you for it that day, 
 only I thought you'd think it mighty funny, refuse, 
 and well well, get to looking it over on your own 
 hook. Will you give it here for a minute ? " 
 
 Carleton handed it over silently. 
 
 Dahleen took it, pulled off the lower half that 
 served as drinking cup, laid his finger on the inside 
 rim, and returned it to the super. 
 
 Carleton moved nearer to the light then his face 
 paled. It was Coogaris flask! The inscription, a little 
 dulled, in fine engraving, was still plain enough. ' To 
 Chick from Jim, on the occasion of his wedding." 
 Carleton's hand was trembling as he set it down. 
 
 " My God ! " he said hoarsely. " It was Coogan 
 who was drunk that night not you." 
 
 " I figured that's the way you'd read it, you or any 
 other railroad man," said Dahleen. " It was him or me 
 and one of us drunk, in the eyes of any of the boys on 
 the road, from the minute that flask showed up. There 
 was only one thing would have made you believe 
 different, and I couldn't tell you then. I'd have taken 
 the same stand you did. But you're wrong. Coogan 
 wasn't drunk that night he never touched a drop. I 
 
178 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 wouldn't be telling you this now, if he had, would 
 I?" 
 
 " Sit down," said Carleton. 
 
 Dahleen took the chair beside the desk, and resting 
 his feet on the window-sill stared out at the lights 
 twinkling below him. 
 
 " Yes, I gave him the flask," he said slowly, as 
 though picking up the thread of a story, " for a wed- 
 ding present. The day he came back to his run after 
 the little woman and the baby died he had it in his 
 pocket, and he handed it to me. 'I'm afraid of it, 
 Jimmy/ he said. That was all, just that only he 
 looked at me. Then he got down out of the cab to 
 oil round, me still holding it in my hand for the words 
 kind of hit me they meant a whole lot. Well, before 
 he came back, I lifted up my seat and chucked it down 
 in the box underneath. I don't want to make a long 
 story of this. You know how he took to brooding. 
 Sometimes he wouldn't say a word from one end of 
 the run to the other. And once in a while he seemed to 
 act a little queer. I didn't think much of it and I didn't 
 say anything to anybody, figuring it would wear off. 
 When we pulled out of Big Cloud the night of the 
 wreck I didn't see anything out of the ordinary about 
 him, I'd kind of got used to him by then and if there 
 was any difference I didn't notice it. He never said 
 a word all the way out until we hit the summit of the 
 Devil's Slide and started down. I had the fire-box 
 door open and was throwing coal when he says so sud- 
 den as almost to make me drop my shovel : 
 
 " ' Jimmy, do you know what night this is ? ' 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 179 
 
 " * Sure/ says I, never thinking, ' it's Thursday/ 
 
 " He laughed kind of softlike to himself. 
 
 " ' It's my wedding night, Jimmy/ he says. ' My 
 wedding night, and we're going to celebrate/ 
 
 " The light from the fire-box was full on his face, 
 and he had the queerest look you ever saw on a man. 
 He was white and his eyes were staring and he was 
 pushing his hand through his hair and rocking in his 
 seat. I was scart. I thought for a minute he was 
 going to faint, then I remembered that whisky and 
 jumped for my side of the cab, opened the seat and 
 snatched it up. I went back to him with it in my hand. 
 I don't think he ever saw it I know he didn't. He 
 was laughing that soft laugh again, kind of as though 
 he was crooning, and he reached out his hand and 
 pushed me away. 
 
 " ' We're going to celebrate, Jimmy/ says he again. 
 ' We're going to celebrate. It's my wedding night/ 
 
 "I felt the speed quicken a bit, we were on the 
 Slide then, you know, and I saw his fingers tightening 
 on the throttle. Then it got me, and my heart went 
 into my mouth Chick was clean off his head. I 
 slipped the flask into my pocket, and tried to coax his 
 hands away from the throttle. 
 
 " ' Let me take her a spell, Chick/ says I, thinking 
 my best chance was to humor him. 
 
 " He threw me off like I was a plaything. Then 
 I tried to pull him away and he smashed me one be- 
 tween the eyes and sent me to the floor. All the time 
 we was going faster and faster. I tackled him again, 
 but I might as well have been a baby, and then then ^ 
 
i8o ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 well, that wound in his head came from a long-handled 
 union-wrench I grabbed out of the tool box. He 
 went down like a felled ox but it was too late. Be- 
 fore I could reach a lever we were in splinters." 
 
 Dahleen stopped. Carleton never stirred, he was 
 leaning forward, his elbows on his desk, his chin in 
 his hands, his face strained, eyes intently fastened on 
 the other. 
 
 Dahleen fumbled a second with his watch chain, 
 twisting it around his fingers, then he went on : 
 
 c< While I laid in the hospital I turned the thing over 
 in my mind pretty often, long before the doctors 
 thought I knew my own name again, and I figured that, 
 if it was ever known, old Coogan was down and out 
 for fair even if when he got better his head turned out 
 all right again, because he wouldn't be ever trusted in a 
 cab under any circumstances, you understand? If he 
 didn't come out straight why that ended it, of course; 
 but I had it in my mind that it was only what they 
 call a temporary aberration. I couldn't queer him if 
 that was all, could I ? So I said to myself, ' Jimmy, all 
 you know is that the " air " wouldn't work.' That's 
 what I told you that day; and then you sprang that 
 flask on me. You were right, I had forgotten it. 
 Whisky in the cab on the night of an accident is pretty 
 near an open and shut game. It was him or me, and 
 I couldn't tell you the story then without doing Coogan 
 cold, but Coogan's gone now and it can't hurt him. 
 That's all." 
 
 The tick of the clock on the wall, the click of the 
 sounder from the dispatcher's room next door were 
 
GUARDIAN OF THE DEVIL'S SLIDE 181 
 
 the only sounds for a long minute, then Carleton's 
 chair scraped and he stood up and put out his hand. 
 
 " Dahleen," he said huskily, " I'd give a good deal 
 to be as white a man as you are." 
 
 Dahleen shook his head. 
 
 " Any one would have done it for Coogan," he said. 
 
VIII 
 THE BLOOD OF KINGS 
 
 THERE never was, and there isn't now, anything 
 elusive about the Hill Division, unless you get to talk- 
 ing about the mileage when you strike the mileage 
 you strike deep water, and the way of it is this. Most 
 things that are big and vital and enduring develop 
 with the years to their own maturity, and with maturity 
 comes perfection as nearly as anything is perfect. 
 When the last rail that proclaimed man's mastery of 
 the Rockies and the Sierras an accomplished fact was 
 spiked to the ties with much ceremony and more eclat, 
 to say nothing of the somewhat wobbly and uncer- 
 tain blows with which the silk-hatted, very-important- 
 national-personage performed this crowning act, while 
 the rough-and-readys whose toil and sweat and grime 
 and blood had bought the miles the orators were eulo- 
 gizing, being no longer of the elect, looked on from a 
 respectful distance when all this was done the Hill 
 Division, even then, was no more than the rough draft 
 of a masterpiece. 
 
 In the years that followed came the pruning and 
 the changes, the smoothing and the toning down tun- 
 nels bored through the mountain-sides lessened the 
 grades and lopped off winding miles around projecting 
 spurs; trestles with long embankment approaches 
 
 182 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 183 
 
 added their quota to this much-to-be-desired result; 
 while in the foothills, instead of circling around and 
 around, to the right and the left and the left and the 
 right of an endless procession of buttes, the buttes 
 themselves came to be bisected with mathematical pre- 
 cision. All told, many miles, very many miles, have 
 been wiped out in this fashion the elusive part of it 
 is that, measured in the dollars and cents paid by the 
 tourists for transportation and the shippers and con- 
 signees for freight hauls, the line is just as long as 
 ever it was! And it would appear that a good deal 
 of money had been spent with nothing to show for it; 
 but then against this is the fact that the directors down 
 East were never rated as imminent or near-imminent 
 subjects for a lunacy commission. The mileage is 
 elusive let it go at that. 
 
 For the rest, the right of way from Big Cloud, the 
 divisional point, just East of the mighty blue-blurred, 
 snow-capped range that towers to the skyline North 
 and South from there to the rolling, undulating 
 country that reaches West from the base of the Sierras, 
 the Hill Division is, without question, the most marvel- 
 ous piece of track ever conceived by man, and it stands 
 a perpetual and enduring monument to the brains and 
 the genius, ay, and the manhood, too, of those who 
 built it. 
 
 Such is the Hill Division. You who know the 
 Rockies know it for the grandeur of its scenery, know 
 it for the glory of its conquest over obstacles seemingly 
 insurmountable ; but there is another side that you may 
 not know, a side that the maps and plans and blue- 
 
184 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 prints and the railroad folders and the windows of the 
 observation cars, big as they are, do not show and 
 that side is the human side. It is full of tears and 
 laughter, full of sorrow and joy, of dangers and death 
 and mistakes and triumph its history would fill many 
 pages, but it is a history that will never be written, for 
 the generals and the rank and file of its army have 
 fought their battles without the blare of trumpets, 
 have done their work and their duty as they saw it, 
 simply and with few words, without thought of per- 
 sonal profit and, much less, of fame. They tell their 
 own stories amongst themselves, and they hold in 
 honor those entitled thereto which is a meed beyond 
 any recognition of governments or kings or princi- 
 palities, because it is the tribute of man to man, without 
 glamor and without pretense. If you are a man as 
 they measure men, they will tell you the stories, too; 
 and, if you care to smoke, they will offer you their 
 black plugs with the heart-shaped tin tags that their 
 favorite manufacturer imbeds therein and, further, 
 they will hand you their clasp knives with which to 
 slice it. If you are wise you will understand that you 
 are honored above most men, and you will be becom- 
 ingly humble and will listen. But if this, through 
 circumstance and misfortune, has never been your lot, 
 then, here and there, inadequately and meagerly, you 
 may run across, in print, a stray breath from the Hill 
 Division this is a case in print the story of " King " 
 Gilleen. 
 
 Gilleen was a man you would never pass in a crowd 
 without turning your head to look at him a second 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 185 
 
 time, not even in a big crowd, for nature had dealt 
 with Gilleen generously or otherwise whichever way 
 it pleases you best to consider it. He had red hair of 
 a shade that might be classified as brilliant, but which 
 Regan, the master mechanic, described in metaphor. 
 Said Regan : ' You could see that head a mile away 
 on the other side of a curve in a blizzard at night when 
 he pokes it out of the cab window. You'll never get 
 Gilleen on the carpet because his headlight's out, 
 what ? " Certainly, at any rate, Gilleen's hair was 
 undeniably red. He had blue eyes, and a very small 
 nose which, for all that, was, next to his hair, the most 
 prominent feature he possessed small noses with a 
 slight up-cant to the tip are pronounced, mere size to 
 the contrary. His face was freckled and so were his 
 hands; also, he was no small chunk of a man, not so 
 very tall, but the shoulders on him were something to 
 envy if you were friendly with him, or to respect if 
 you were not. That was Gilleen, all except the fact 
 that he admitted with emphasis to the blood of some 
 wild Irish race of kings coursing through his veins. 
 This last point was never established every one took 
 Gilleen's word for it, that is every one but Regan, who 
 was Irish himself and, more pertinent still, Gilleen's 
 direct superior. On this point Regan, who was never 
 averse to doing it, could get a rise out of Gilleen 
 quicker than the bite of a hungry trout. 
 
 " By Christmas," Gilleen would sputter on such oc- 
 casions, " I'll have you know I'm no liar, an' if 'twere 
 not for the missus an' the six kids " here Gilleen 
 would always stop to count, owing to a possible arrival 
 
186 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 since the last clash, realizing that any slip would be 
 instantly and mercilessly turned against him by the 
 grinning master mechanic " if 'twere not for them, 
 Regan, you listen to me, I'd bash your face an' then 
 ram the measly job you give me down your throat, I 
 would that ! " 
 
 "Well," Regan would return, "when you get to 
 sitting on a dinky, gilded throne, sunk to the crown- 
 sheet in the bogs though it will be, I'd ask no more 
 nor as much from your hands as you get from mine 
 which is more than your deserts. Who but me would 
 do as much for you? You ought to be back wiping. 
 I've thought some seriously of it, h'm? Six, is it 
 now ? well, it's a grand race ! " 
 
 Whereupon Gilleen would say hot words and say 
 them fervently, while he shook his fist at the master 
 mechanic. 
 
 " I'll show you some day, Regan," was his final 
 word. " I'll show you what kind of a race it is, an' 
 don't you forget it ! " 
 
 All of which is neither very interesting nor in any 
 degree witty it simply shows where Gilleen's nick- 
 name came from. Everybody on the division called 
 him " King " not to his face, they do now, but they 
 didn't then. Queer the way a little thing like that acts 
 on a man sometimes. Gilleen was well enough liked 
 in a way, but no one ever really took him seriously in 
 anything. Associate a man with a joke and hencefor- 
 ward and forever after, usually, the two are insepara- 
 ble. He may have aspirations, ambitions, what you 
 will, but he is given no credit for having them with 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 187 
 
 Gilleen it was that way. Just Gilleen, " King " Gilleen 
 and a grin. 
 
 The Lord only knows what possessed Gilleen to 
 adhere with such stout-hearted loyalty to his ancestors 
 you may put an interrogation mark after that last 
 word, if you like it began with perhaps no more 
 than a boyish boast when his official connection with 
 the system was no further advanced than to the degree 
 of holding down the job of assistant boiler-washer in 
 the roundhouse. The more they guyed him the more 
 stubbornly he stuck it was a matter worth fighting 
 for, and Gilleen fought. He threw pounds, reach, and 
 other advantages to the winds and took on anybody 
 and everybody. By the time he had moved up to firing 
 he had fought all who cared to fight, who were not a 
 few; and when, following that in the due course of 
 promotion, he got his engine, he had by blows, not 
 argument, established his assertion outwardly at least. 
 At a safe distance the division, remembering broken 
 noses and missing teeth and no longer denying him 
 his royal blood, gave him his way, smiled tolerantly in 
 self-solace and called him " nutty." 
 
 Regan, of course, still guyed but Regan was mas- 
 ter mechanic. Not that he did it by virtue of the im- 
 munity his official position afforded him, he never gave 
 that a thought. He did it because he was Regan, 
 and Regan was built that way. He could no more 
 forego the chance of a laugh or an inward chuckle 
 than he could forego the act of breathing and 
 live. A joke was a joke, just fun with him, that 
 was all. 
 
1 88 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 But with Gilleen it was different. Being unable to 
 use his fists as was his wont, and being possessed of no 
 other safety-valve, the pressure mounted steadily until 
 it registered a point on his mental gauge that spoke 
 eloquently of trouble to come. 
 
 And so matters stood when, following a rather dull 
 summer, the fall business opened with a rush and a 
 roar. Things moved with a jump, and the rails 
 hummed under a constant stream of traffic east and 
 west. Here, at least, was no joke a rush on the Hill 
 Division, single-track, through the mountains, never 
 was. A month of it, and every one from car-tink to 
 superintendent began to show the effects of the strain. 
 It was double up everywhere, extra duty, extra tricks. 
 The dispatchers caught their share of it and their 
 eyes grew red and heavy under the lamps at night, and 
 the heads of the day-men ached as they figured a 
 series of meeting points that had no beginning and no 
 end ; but, bad as it was for the men on the keys, it was 
 worse for some of those in the cabs. Schedules went 
 to smash. Perishables and flyers were given the best 
 of it the rights of the rest were the sidings. It was 
 a case of crawl along, sneak from one to the other, with 
 layout after layout, until the ordinary length of a day's 
 duty lapped over into fifteen-hour stretches and some- 
 times to twenty-four. Sleep, what they could get of 
 it, the engine crews snatched bolt upright in their seats 
 while they waited for Number One's headlight to shoot 
 streaming out of the East, or nodded until roused by 
 the roar and thunder of a flying freight, cars and cars 
 of it crammed with first-class ratings, streaking East, 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 189 
 
 as it hurtled by with insolent disregard for every 
 mortal thing on earth. 
 
 Maybe Gilleen got a little more of it than any one 
 else on the throttles, maybe he did or maybe he didn't. 
 Gilleen thought he did anyhow, and naturally he put it 
 down to Regan's account. Regan was head of the 
 motive power department of the Hill Division there 
 was no one else to put it down to. It was Regan or 
 imagination. Gilleen, not being strong on imagin- 
 ation, did not debate the question he let it go at 
 Regan. 
 
 In from one run, shot out on another that was 
 Gilleen's schedule. The little woman in the little house 
 uptown off Main street got to be mostly a memory to 
 Gilleen, and as for the six brick-headed scions of his 
 kingly race he came to wonder if they really existed 
 at all. 
 
 Things boomed and hummed on the Hill Division, 
 and while everybody on it snarled and swore and 
 nagged at each other, as weary, worn-out, dropping- 
 with-fatigue men will do, the smiles broadened on the 
 lips and spread over the faces of the directors down 
 East, as they rubbed their palms beneficently, ex- 
 pectantly, scenting extra dividends and soaring 
 stock. 
 
 It was noon one day when Gilleen, with a trailing 
 string of slewing freights behind him, pulled into the 
 Big Cloud yards, uncoupled, backed down the spur, 
 crossed the 'table, and ran into the roundhouse. As he 
 swung from the gangway, Regan came hurrying in 
 through the engine doors of Gilleen's pit from the 
 
190 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 direction of headquarters, and walked up to the 
 engineer. 
 
 " Gilleen," said he briskly, " you'll have to take out 
 Special Eighty-three. 1603*8 ready with a full head 
 on pit two." 
 
 "What's that?" snapped Gilleen. "Take out a 
 special now? " You know damn well I'm just in from 
 a run. I'm tired. You'll rub it in once too often, 
 Regan." 
 
 "We're all tired, aren't we?" returned the master 
 mechanic tartly. " Do you think you're the only one? 
 As for rubbing it in, you'd better draw your fire, my 
 bucko. There's no rubbing in being done except in 
 your eye! Anyhow, that's enough talk. Special 
 Eighty-three's carded on rush orders from down 
 East, and she's been in here an hour now." 
 
 " Well, why didn't you let the crew that brought her 
 in keep goin' then ? " snarled Gilleen. It was a fool 
 question and he knew it; but, as he had said, he was 
 tired, and his temper, never angelic, was now pretty 
 well on edge. 
 
 Regan glared at him a moment angrily. Regan, too, 
 was tired and irritable, harassed beyond the limit that 
 most men are harassed. The demand upon the motive 
 power department for men and engines had kept him 
 up more than one night trying to figure out a prob- 
 lem that was well-nigh impossible. 
 
 " Let 'em go on ! " he snorted. " You know well 
 enough I haven't anything on the Prairie Division men. 
 You know that what d'ye say it for, h'm? You're 
 the first man in and you go out first." 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 191 
 
 " It strikes me I'm generally the first man in these 
 days/' retorted Gilleen angrily; " an' I'm sick of gettin' 
 the short end of it. I guess I won't go out this 
 time." 
 
 It took a breathing spell before the master mechanic 
 could explode adequately. 
 
 ' You call yourself a railroad man ! " he flung out 
 furiously. " What are you whining about ? Every 
 man's got his shoulder to the wheel and pushing with- 
 out talk. We haven't got any room here for quitters. 
 I guess that blood of yours you're so pinhead-brained 
 proud " 
 
 Regan did not finish. With a bellow of rage the 
 red-haired engineer went at the other like a charging 
 bull, and the master mechanic promptly measured his 
 length on the roundhouse floor from a wallop on the 
 head that made him see stars. 
 
 Regan scrambled to his feet. His heart was the 
 heart of a fighter, even if his build was not. Straight 
 at Gilleen he flew, and the passes and lunges and jabs 
 he made while the engineer played on the master 
 mechanic's paunch like a kettle-drum and delivered a 
 second wallop on the head as a plaster for the first are 
 historic only for their infinitesimal coefficient of effect- 
 iveness. It is unquestionably certain that the master 
 mechanic then and there would have proceeded to 
 make up for some of his lost sleep, at least, if Gilleen's 
 fireman and a wiper or two hadn't got in between the 
 two men just when they did. 
 
 Gilleen was boiling mad. 
 
 " Well," he bawled, " got anything more to say 
 
192 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 about quittin' or that other thing? I guess I won't go 
 out this time, what ? " 
 
 Regan was equally mad. And as he felt tenderly of 
 his forehead, where a lump was rapidly approximating 
 the formation of a goose egg, he grew madder still. 
 
 " You won't go out, won't you ? " he roared. " Well 
 7 guess you will ; and, what's more, you'll go out now 
 and get your time ! I fire you, understand ? " 
 
 "You bet!" said "King" Gilleen and that's all 
 he said. He looked at the master mechanic for a min- 
 ute, but didn't say anything more just laughed and 
 walked out of the roundhouse. 
 
 Naturally enough, the story got up and down the 
 division, and everybody talked about it. With their 
 rough and impartial justice they put both men in the 
 wrong, but mostly Gilleen for insubordination. The 
 affront Gilleen had suffered was not so big and 
 momentous, a long way from being the vital thing in 
 their eyes that it was in his. Gilleen was just nutty 
 on that point, that was all there was to that. Regan's 
 judgment had been bad and the moment he had seized 
 for his thrust and fling was by no manner of means a 
 psychological one; but, for all that, Gilleen had no 
 business to strike the master mechanic. He had got 
 what was coming to him that was the verdict. He 
 was out and out for good. It was pretty generally 
 conceded that it would be a long while before he pulled 
 a throttle on the Hill Division again. 
 
 What sympathy the engineer got, for he got some, 
 wasn't on his own account. It was on account of his 
 family not the ancestral end of it, however. Six kids 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 193 
 
 and a wife do not leave much change out of a pay- 
 check even when it's padded by overtime ; six kids and 
 a wife with no pay-check is pretty stiff running. 
 
 Gilleen was too hot under the collar to give a 
 thought to that when he marched out of the round- 
 house that noon; but it wasn't many hours, after he 
 had put in a few to make up for the sleep he hadn't had 
 during the preceding weeks, that the problem was up 
 to him for consideration with a vote for adjournment 
 for once ruled out as not in order. 
 
 Mrs. Gilleen may or may not have shared her 
 spouse's opinions on the subject of his illustrious 
 descent if she did she never put on any " airs " about 
 it. Washing and dressing and cooking was about all 
 one woman could manage for a household as big as 
 hers. That's what she said anyway, whenever any one 
 asked her about it. And one glance at the red-headed 
 brood that filled the front yard and swung on the front 
 gate, whose hinges creaked in loud and bitter protest, 
 was enough to preclude any dispute on that score. Just 
 a little bit of a woman she was physically; but bigger 
 practically than the whole corps of leading lights in 
 social and domestic economy which, come to think of 
 it, is damning Mrs. Gilleen with faint praise, whereas 
 too much couldn't be said for her. However, let that 
 go. Mrs. Gilleen was practical, and she had the matter 
 up to the engineer almost before he had the sleep 
 washed out of his eyes. No nagging, no reproach, 
 nothing of that kind Mrs. Gilleen wasn't that sort of a 
 woman. " King," or not, Gilleen might have been, 
 Katie Gilleen was a queen, not in looks perhaps, but a 
 
i 9 4 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 queen that's flat. A fine woman is the finest thing in 
 the world, and if that were said a little more often than 
 it is maybe things generally wouldn't be any the worse 
 for it which is not a plank in the platform of the 
 Suffragettes, though it may sound like it. 
 
 " Michael," said she, " you rowed with Mr. Regan, 
 and he fired you. Will he take you back ? " 
 
 Gilleen lowered the towel to his chin to catch the 
 dripping water from his hair he had just buried his 
 head in the washbowl the minute before and looked at 
 his wife. 
 
 " I wouldn't ask him, Kate," he said shortly. 
 
 Mrs. Gilleen was proud, too but for all that she 
 sighed. 
 
 "What will you do, then, Michael?" she asked. 
 
 " I dunno yet, little woman. Some of the others 
 will give me a job, I guess. Mabbe I'll try the train 
 crews. I'll hit 'em up for something, anyway." 
 
 " But there's ever so much less money in that " 
 Mrs. Gilleen's tones were judicial, not plaintive. 
 
 " I know it," returned Gilleen ; " but it'll tide us over 
 an' keep the steam up till we get a chance to pull out 
 for somewheres where a man can get an engine with- 
 out a grinning fool of a master mechanic to double- 
 cross him with the worst of it every chance he gets." 
 
 " I hope it will all come out right," said Mrs. Gilleen, 
 a little wistfully. 
 
 " It will," Gilleen assured her. " Don't you worry. 
 I'll get after a job right away as soon as I've had a 
 bite." 
 
 It came easier even than Gilleen had figured it 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 195 
 
 would such as it was and it was about the last job 
 Gilleen had thought of as a possibility. Things have a 
 peculiar way of working themselves out sometimes, 
 and, curiously enough, by means which, on the surface, 
 are, more often than not, apparently trivial and incon- 
 sequent. Certainly, if Gilleen, on his way to the sta- 
 tion that morning, had not run into Gleason, the yard- 
 master, why then but he did. 
 
 " Call-boys kind of scarce around your diggin's since 
 yesterday, ain't they, Gilleen ? " was Gleason's greet- 
 ing. 
 
 " Yes," said Gilleen. " I'm out." 
 
 " See you're headin' for the station," remarked 
 Gleason tentatively. " Goin' down to patch it up ? " 
 
 " No ! " answered Gilleen with a hard ring in his 
 voice the " no " was emphatic. 
 
 Gleason stared at the engineer for a minute, then 
 took a bite from his plug, and the motion of his head 
 might have been a nod of understanding or merely a 
 wrench or two to free his teeth from the black-strap in 
 which they were imbedded. 
 
 "No," said Gilleen again; " I'm not. I'm goin' 
 down for another job." 
 
 "What kind of a job?" inquired Gleason. 
 
 " Any kind from any one that will put me on ex- 
 cept Regan." 
 
 Gleason thought of his choked yards the rush had 
 in no way overlooked him. Men, men that knew a 
 draw-bar and a switch-handle from a hunk of cheese, 
 were as scarce in his department as they were in any 
 of the others. 
 
196 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Yards ? " he queried and blinked. 
 
 " D'y e mean it ? " demanded Gilleen, taking him up 
 short. 
 
 " Sure, I mean it." 
 
 " You're on," said Gilleen. 
 
 " Night switchman," amplified the yard-master. 
 " You can begin to-night." 
 
 "All right, I'll be on deck," agreed Gilleen; "an* 
 thanks, Gleason. I'm much obliged to you." 
 
 " Humph ! " grunted Gleason. " 'Tain't much of a 
 stake compared with an engine, but it's yours, an' wel- 
 
 come." 
 
 It was quite true. Comparatively, it wasn't much of 
 a stake, and even the first night of it was enough to 
 throw the comparison into strong and bitter relief. 
 If anything would have put a finishing touch on Gil- 
 leen's feelings anent the master mechanic it was that 
 first night on yard switching, that and, of course, the 
 nights that followed. It wasn't so much the work, 
 though that was hard enough, and, being green, the 
 engineer made about twice as much for himself as 
 there was any need of, it was a not-to-be-denied ten- 
 dency of his eyes to stray toward the roundhouse every 
 time a gleaming headlight showed on the turn-table. 
 If Gilleen had never known before how much he loved 
 an engine he knew it in those dark hours while he 
 swung a lantern from the roofs of a freight string, or 
 hopped the foot-board of the switcher. Up and down 
 the yards from dusk till dawn, to the accompaniment 
 of the wheezing, grunting, coughing, foreshortened 
 apology for a shunter, the clash of brake-beams, the 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 197 
 
 bump and rattle, staccato, diminuendo, as a line of 
 box-cars grumbled into motion, didn't take on any ro- 
 seate hues from the angle Gilleen looked at it ; nor did 
 an occasional ten-wheeler, out or in, sailing grandly 
 past him with impudent airs help any, either. Gilleen's 
 language became as freckled as his face and hands and 
 as fiery as his head. Even that grand old Irish race 
 from which he sprang, that wild and untamed breed 
 of kingly sires paled into insignificance Gilleen was 
 more occupied with Regan. What he thought he said, 
 and said it aloud without making any bones about it 
 said it through his teeth, with his fists clenched. 
 
 Perhaps it was just as well Gilleen was on nights, 
 for, ordinarily, the master mechanic had nothing to 
 bring him around the yards, shops or roundhouse after 
 sundown Regan's evenings being spent with Carle- 
 ton, the super, a pipe and a game of pedro upstairs 
 over the station in the superintendent's office next 
 door to the dispatcher's room just as well for both 
 their sakes; for Regan's physically; for Gilleen's be- 
 cause, little fond of his job as he was, there were 
 certain necessities that even little Mrs. Gilleen with 
 all her practicability and economy could not supply 
 without money. Anyway, the days went by and the 
 two men did not meet, though Gilleen's orations got 
 around to Regan's ears fast enough. The master 
 mechanic only laughed when he heard them. 
 
 "Gilleen," said he, "is like the parrot that said 
 ' sic 'em ! ' and said it once too often. He talks too 
 much. If he'd kept his mouth shut I'd have given him 
 his run back, after a lay off to teach him manners. As 
 
198 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 it is, if he likes switching let him keep at it. Mabbe 
 by the time he's tired the throne of his ancestors'll be 
 ready for him, what ? " 
 
 All this was enough to spell ructions in the air, and, 
 ordinarily, the division to a man would have hung 
 mildly expectant on the result of the final showdown. 
 But the Hill Division just then wasn't hankering for 
 anything more to liven it up it was getting all of that 
 sort of thing it wanted and a little besides. Attending 
 strictly to business was about all it could do, a trifle 
 beyond what it could do, and everything else was apart 
 the boom showed more signs of increasing than it 
 did of being on the wane. There wasn't any let-up 
 anywhere things sizzled. 
 
 It never rains but it pours, they say; and that's one 
 adage, at least, that the railroad men of Big Cloud, and 
 the town itself for that matter, will swear by to this 
 day. There are a few things that Big Cloud remem- 
 bers vividly and with astounding minuteness for detail, 
 but the night the shops went up tops them all. 
 
 When it was all over they decided that a slumbering 
 forge-fire in the blacksmith shop was at the bottom 
 of it not that any one really knew, or knows now, 
 but they put it down to that because it sounded rea- 
 sonable and because there wasn't anything else to put 
 it down to. However, whether that was the cause or 
 whether it wasn't, on one point there was no possible 
 opening for an argument and that was the effect and 
 the result. 
 
 If you knew Big Cloud in the old days, you know 
 where the shops were and what they looked like; if 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 199 
 
 you didn't, it won't take a minute to tell you. You 
 could see them from the station platform across the 
 tracks far up at the west end of the yards; and they 
 looked more like a succession of barns nailed on to each 
 other than anything else, except for the roofs which 
 were low and flat the buildings being all one-storied. 
 What with the quarters of the boiler-makers, the car- 
 penters, the machinists and the fitters, the old shops 
 straggled out over a goodly length of ground, and a 
 grimy, ramshackle, dirty, blackened, Godforsaken 
 looking structure it was. To-day, thanks to that fire 
 and the Big Strike when it came along, there's a mod- 
 ern affair of structural steel and the rest is but a mem- 
 ory. However 
 
 Night in the mountains in the Fall comes early, and 
 by nine o'clock on the night the fire broke out it had 
 shut down pitch dark. Nothing showed in the yards 
 but the twinkling switch lights, the waving lamps of 
 the men, and an occasional gleam from the shunter's 
 headlight when it shot away from the end of a box- 
 car. Across the tracks the station lights were like fire- 
 flies, and there was a glimmer or two showing from 
 the roundhouse. Apart from the fact that a pretty 
 strong west wind was brushing the yards, if you could 
 count that as anything apart, there was nothing out of 
 the ordinary, everything was going on as usual, when, 
 suddenly without warning, a wicked fang of flame shot 
 skyward, then another higher than the first. It was 
 answered by a yell from the yardmen, caught up in the 
 roundhouse, and then the switcher's whistle shrieked 
 the alarm. A minute more, and everything with steam 
 
200 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 enough to lift a valve joined in. Dark forms began 
 to run in the direction of the shops, and then the bell in 
 the little English chapel uptown took a hand in the 
 clamor. The alarm was unanimous enough and gen- 
 eral enough when it came, there was never any doubt 
 about that, but the fire must have got a pretty stiff 
 start before it broke through the windows to fling its 
 first challenge at the railroad men. 
 
 Gilleen and the rest of the yard crew were on the 
 run for the scene when Gleason's voice, bawling over 
 the din, halted them. 
 
 " Clean out three, four an' five, an' get 'em down to 
 the bottom of the yards, an' look lively!" he yelled. 
 " Leave that string of gondolas on six till the last. 
 Jump now, boys ! Eat 'em up ! " 
 
 Oil-spattered floors and oil-smeared walls are a feed- 
 ing ground for a fire than which there is no better. 
 The flame tongues leaped higher and higher throwing 
 a lurid glare down the yards, and throwing, too, as the 
 wind caught them up and whirled them in gusts, a 
 driving rain of sparks that threatened the long, dark 
 lines of rolling stock, for the most part choked to the 
 doors with freight freight enough to total a sum in 
 claim-checks that would blanch the cheeks of the 
 most florid director on the board of the Transcontin- 
 ental. 
 
 With Gleason in command, Gilleen and his mates 
 went at their work heads down. There wasn't any- 
 thing fancy or artistic about the way they banged those 
 cars to safety there wasn't time to be fussy. Behind 
 them the south end of the shops was already a blazing 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 201 
 
 mass. The little switcher took hold of first one string 
 then another, shook it angrily for a minute as her ex- 
 haust roared into a quick crackle of reports and the 
 drivers spun around like pin-wheels making the steel 
 fly fire, then with a cough and a grunt and a final push 
 she would snap the cars away from her, and the string 
 would go sailing down the yard to bump and pound to 
 a stop, with an echoing crash, into whatever might 
 be at the other end. There was a car or two the next 
 morning with front-ends and rear-ends and both ends 
 at once, that looked as though they had been in a 
 cyclone; and there was a claim- voucher or two put 
 through for a consignment of nursing bottles and a 
 sewing machine not that the two necessarily go to- 
 gether, but no matter, they did then. Anyway, the 
 record the yardmen made that night is the record to- 
 day, and in no more than ten minutes there wasn't a 
 car within three hundred yards of the shops. 
 
 But while the yard crew worked others were not 
 idle. Regan and Carleton, both of them, had caught 
 the first flash from the windows of the super's room, 
 and they were down the stairs, across the yards and 
 into the game from the start. Joined by the nightmen 
 and the hostlers and the wide-eyed call-boys they 
 tackled the blaze. By the time they had dragged and 
 coupled the fifty-foot hose lengths, it took five lengths, 
 along the tracks from the roundhouse, the needle on 
 the stationary's gauge, luckily not yet quite dead from 
 the day's work and whose fire-box Clarihue, the turner, 
 now crammed with oil-soaked packing, began to climb, 
 and they got an uncertain, weakly stream playing un- 
 
202 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 certain, but a stream. After that, things went with a 
 rush both ways the fire and the fight. 
 
 From the gambling hells and the saloons, from the 
 streets and their homes came the population of Big 
 Cloud, the Polacks, the Russians, the railroad men, the 
 good and the bad whites, the half-breeds and the 
 local fire brigade. Two more streams they ran from 
 the roundhouse and that was the limit the rest of 
 the hose was liquid rubber somewhere under the 
 blaze. 
 
 Regan, with a bitter, hard look on his face for the 
 shops were Regan's, was everywhere at once, and 
 what man could do he did; but, inch by inch, the flames 
 were getting the better of him. The yards were as 
 bright as day now, and the heat was driving the circle 
 of fighters back, stubbornly as they fought to hold 
 their ground. It looked like a grand slam for the fire 
 with the four aces in one hand. Twice Regan had 
 been on the point of ordering the men to the roof, and 
 twice he held back once he had even ordered a ladder 
 planted, only to order it away again. The building 
 was only wood, and old, and the roof was none too 
 strong at best; but now, under and supported by the 
 roof of the fitting-shop, put in a month before in lieu 
 of the old system of jacking and blocking by hand, 
 making the risk a hundredfold greater, were the heavy 
 steel girders and hydraulic traveling cranes that 
 whipped the big moguls like jack-straws from their 
 wheels preparatory to stripping them to their bare 
 boiler-shells. Regan shook his head it was asking a 
 man to take his life in his hands. For the moment he 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 203 
 
 stood a little apart in front of the crowd and just be- 
 hind the nozzle end of one of the streams. Again 
 he measured the chances, and again he shook his 
 head. 
 
 " I can't ask a man to do it," he muttered ; " but we 
 ought to have a stream up there, it's " 
 
 "Why don't you take it there yourself, then?" 
 the words came sharp and quick from his elbow, sting- 
 ing hot like the cut of a whip-lash. It was " King " 
 Gilleen, red-haired, blue-blooded, freckled-skinned 
 Gilleen. 
 
 The master mechanic whirled like a shot, and for a 
 minute the two men stared into each other's eyes, 
 stared as the leaping flames sent flickering shadows 
 across the grim, set features of them both, stared at 
 each other face to face for the first time since that 
 noon in the roundhouse days before. 
 
 " Why don't you take it there yourself, then ? " said 
 Gilleen again, and his laugh rang hard and cold. 
 " You ain't a quitter, are you? There's nothin' 
 wrong with your blood, is there ? If you're not afraid 
 come on ! " as he spoke he stepped forward, pushed 
 the men from the nozzle and looked back at the 
 master mechanic. 
 
 Regan's lips were like a thin, white line. 
 
 Gilleen laughed out again, and it carried over the 
 roar and the crackle of the flames, the snapping tim- 
 bers, the hiss and spit of the water, the voices of the 
 crowd. 
 
 " Put up the ladder ! " it was Regan's voice, deadly 
 cold. " Lash a short end around that nozzle, an' stand 
 
204 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 by to pass it up" he was at the foot of the ladder 
 almost before they got it in position, and the next in- 
 stant began to climb. 
 
 Like a flash, Gilleen, surrendering the fire-hose tem- 
 porarily, sprang after him and up. 
 
 It wasn't far the shops were low, just one story 
 high and both men were on the roof in a minute. 
 Gilleen caught the coiled rope they slung him from 
 below, and together he and the master mechanic hauled 
 up the writhing, spluttering hose. 
 
 A shower of sparks and a swirling cloud of smoke 
 enveloped them as they stood upright and began to ad- 
 vance. It cleared away leaving them silhouetted 
 against the leaping wall of flame a few yards in front 
 of them and a cheer went up from the throats of the 
 crowd below. 
 
 Not a word passed between the two men. Foot by 
 foot they moved forward, laying the hose in a line 
 behind them to lessen the weight and the side-pull, that 
 at first had called forth all their strength to direct the 
 play of the stream; foot by foot they went forward, 
 closer and closer, perilously close, to the blistering, 
 scorching, seething mass for neither of them would 
 be the first to hold back. 
 
 High into the heavens streamed the great yellow-red 
 forks of angry flame, and over all, like a gigantic 
 canopy, rolled dense volumes of gray-black smoke. 
 Came at the two men spurting, fiery tongues, stabbing 
 at them, robbing them of their breath, mocking at 
 their puny might. 
 
 Another step forward and Regan reeled back, one 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 205 
 
 hand went to his face and the nozzle almost wrenched 
 itself from the engineer's grasp. 
 
 " It's a grand race ! " laughed Gilleen, but the laugh 
 was more of a gasping cough, and the cough came 
 from cracked and swollen lips. " It's a grand race, 
 Regan; an' the blood " 
 
 With a choking sob, Regan steadied himself and 
 seized hold of the nozzle again. 
 
 They held where they were now it was the fire, not 
 they, that was creeping forward, pitilessly, inevitably, 
 licking greedily at the tarred roof until it grew soft 
 beneath their feet and the bubbles puffed up and 
 formed and broke. 
 
 A cry of warning came from below, and with it 
 came the ominous rending groan of yielding timbers. 
 It came again, the cry, and rang in Gilleen's ears al- 
 most without sense. He could scarcely see, his eyes 
 were scorched and blinded, his lungs were full of the 
 stinging smoke, choking full. Beside him Regan hung, 
 dropping weak. " Get back, for God's sake, get 
 back!" it was Carleton's voice. "Do you hear!" 
 shouted the super frantically. " Get back ! The roof 
 is sagging ! Run for " 
 
 Like the roar of a giant blast, as a park of artillery 
 belches forth in deafening thunder, there came a ter- 
 rific crash and, fearful in its echo, a cry of horror rose 
 from those below. Where there had been roof a foot 
 in front of the men was now nothingness. 
 
 Gilleen, with a shout, as he felt the edge crumple 
 under him, flung himself backward and as he leaped 
 he snatched at Regan, His fingers brushed the master 
 
206 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 mechanic's sleeve, hooked, slipped and he struck on 
 his back a full yard away. He reeled to his feet like a 
 drunken man, and dug at his eyes with his fists. Over 
 the broken edge of the shattered roof, hanging into the 
 black below, was the dangling hose but Regan was 
 gone. Weak, spent, exhausted, the master mechanic, 
 unequal to the exertion of Gilleen's leap, had pitched 
 downward, clutching desperately, feebly, vainly, as he 
 went. Regan was gone, and twenty feet, somewhere, 
 below he lay. 
 
 Gilleen staggered forward. It was the far end of 
 the beams that had given away and the six or seven 
 yards of the roof that had fallen still separated him 
 from the heart of the blaze. The advancing flames 
 lighted up a scene of wreck and ruin below in the 
 fitting-shop girders and steel Ts and cranes and 
 tackles, splotches of roofing, shattered timbers, lay over 
 the black looming shapes of the monster engine-shells 
 blocked on the pit. 
 
 " Regan ! " he called ; and again : " Regan ! 
 Regan!" 
 
 Above the roaring crackle of the fire, above the surg- 
 ing, pounding noises that beat mercilessly at his ear- 
 drums, faint, so faint it seemed like fancy, a low moan 
 answered him. Once more it came and upon Gilleen 
 surged new-born strength and life. He began to drag 
 at the hose with all his might, dropping it foot by foot 
 over the jagged edge of the roof until it reached well 
 down to the snarled and tangled wreckage below. And 
 then a mighty yell went up from a hundred throats 
 and again and again : 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 207 
 
 " Gilleen ! King Gilleen ! King ! King! " 
 There was no gibe now just a bursting cheer from 
 the full hearts of men. " King! " they roared, and the 
 shout swelled, but Gilleen never heard them as they 
 crowned him. King he was at last in the eyes of all 
 men, a king that knows no blood nor race nor throne 
 nor retinue Gilleen was lowering himself down the 
 hose. 
 
 It was a question of minutes. The fire was sweep- 
 ing in a mad wave across the intervening space. The 
 engineer's feet touched something solid and he let go 
 his hold of the hose and stumbled, lost his balance, 
 and pitched forward striking on his head with a blow 
 that dazed and stunned him. Mechanically he under- 
 stood that what he had taken for flooring was a work- 
 bench. He got to his feet again, the blood streaming 
 from his forehead, and shouted. This time there was 
 no answer. Staggering, falling, tripping, stumbling, 
 he began to search frantically amid the debris. The 
 air was thick with the smothering smoke, hot, stifling, 
 drying up his lungs. He began to moan, crying the 
 name of the master mechanic over and over again, 
 crying it as a man cries out in delirium. Bits of oil- 
 soaked waste and wads of packing, catching from the 
 glowing cinders, were blazing around his feet, the on- 
 rush of the flames swept a blighting wave upon him 
 that sent him reeling back, scorching, blistering the 
 naked skin of his face and hands. Again he fell. A 
 great sheet of fire leapt high behind him, held for an 
 instant, and then the dull red glow settled around him 
 again but in that instant, just a little to the right, 
 
208 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 pinned under a scanling, half hidden by a snarled 
 knot of roof and girders, was the master mechanic's 
 form. 
 
 On his knees, groping with his hands, Gilleen 
 reached him, and began to tear furiously, savagely, 
 madly, at the timber that lay across Regan's chest. He 
 moved it little by little, every inch tasking his weaken- 
 ing muscles to the utmost. Blackness was before him, 
 he could no longer see, he could no longer breathe, 
 hot, nauseating fumes strangled him and sent the 
 blood bursting from his nostrils. He tried to lift 
 Regan's shoulders and sank down beside the master 
 mechanic instead. Feebly he raised his head there 
 came the splintering crash of glass, a rushing stream 
 tore through a window, hissed against the boiler-shell 
 above him, and, glancing off, lashed a cold spray of 
 water into his face. 
 
 The window! Three yards to the window! He 
 was up again, and pulling at the dead weight of the 
 master mechanic. Just three yards! He cried like a 
 child as he struggled, and the tears ran down his cheeks 
 in streams. A foot, two feet, three two more yards 
 to go. Axes were swinging now in front of him, 
 shouts reached him. Half the distance was covered 
 but he had gone to his knees. Everything around was 
 hot, it was all fire and hell and madness. A yard and 
 a half only a yard and a half. Alone he could make 
 it easily enough and maybe Regan was dead anyhow, 
 alone and there was safety and life, alone then he 
 laughed. " It's a grand race, Regan, a grand race," 
 he sobbed hysterically, and his grip tightened on the 
 
THE BLOOD OF KINGS 209 
 
 master mechanic, and he won another foot and another 
 and another. A black form wavered before him, he 
 felt an arm reach out and grasp him then he tottered, 
 swayed, and dropped inert, unconscious. 
 
 They got him out, and they got Regan out, and they 
 got the fire out by the time there wasn't much left to 
 burn; and, after a week or two, both men got out of 
 the hospital. That's about all there is to it, except that 
 Gilleen's red head now decorates the swellest cab on 
 the division, and that he never fought for his title 
 after that night he never had to ; though, if you feel 
 like questioning it, you can still get plenty of fight, for 
 all that any of the boys will accommodate you any 
 time. 
 
 Regan isn't an artist as a pugilist, but even so it is 
 unwise to take risks unscientific men by lucky flukes 
 have handed knockouts to their betters. 
 
 "If Gilleen says so that's enough, whether it's so or 
 not, what ? " Regan will fling at you. " It's pretty 
 good blood, ain't it, no matter what kind it is? Well 
 then h'm?" 
 
IX 
 MARLEY 
 
 THERE are some men they remember on the 
 Hill Division Marley is one of them; and his story 
 goes back to the days before the fire wiped out what 
 the strike had left of the old rambling shops at the 
 western end of the Big Cloud yards, back to the time 
 when " Royal " Carleton was young in the superin- 
 tendency of the division, when Tommy Regan, squat, 
 fat and paunchy was master mechanic, and Harvey 
 was division engineer, and Spence was chief dispatcher, 
 when the Big Fellows, as they were called, wrestled 
 with the rough of it, shaking the steel down into a per- 
 manent right of way, shackling the Rockies, welding 
 the West and the East. 
 
 Marley was not a " Big Fellow " in either sense of 
 the word. 
 
 Officially, when he started in, he wasn't anything 
 that is, anything in particular. Sort of general assist- 
 ant, assistant section hand, assistant boiler washer, 
 assistant anything you like to everybody Marley's 
 duties, if nothing else, were multifarious. 
 
 Physically, he was a queer card. He was built on 
 plans that gave you the impression Dame Nature had 
 been doing a little something herself along the lines of 
 original research and experimentation and wasn't 
 
 2IO 
 
MARLEY 211 
 
 well enough satisfied with the result to duplicate it! 
 Anyway, as far as any one ever knew, there wasn't but 
 one Marley produced. Maybe nature, even, isn't in- 
 fallible ; maybe she made a mistake, maybe she didn't. 
 You couldn't call him deformed and yet you could ! 
 That's Marley exactly when you get to describing 
 him you get contradictory. It must have been his neck. 
 That lopped off two or three inches from his stature 
 because he hadn't any ! But if that shortened him down 
 to, say, five feet five, which isn't so short after all 
 there's the contradiction again, you see the length 
 of his arms at least was something to marvel at, they 
 made up for the neck. Regan used to say Marley 
 could stand on the floor of the roundhouse and clean 
 out an engine pit without leaning over. The master 
 mechanic was more or less gifted with imagination, 
 but he wasn't so far out, not more than a couple of feet 
 or so, at that. Marley's hair, more than anything 
 else that comes handy by way of comparison, was like 
 the stuff, in color and texture, the fellows on the stage 
 light and put in their mouths so as to blow out smoke 
 like a belching stack under forced draft tow, they 
 call it. Eyes' no woman ever had any like them 
 big and round and wide, with a peculiar violet tinge 
 to them, and lids that had a trick of closing down with 
 a little hesitating flutter like a girl trying to flirt with 
 you. 
 
 But what's the use ! Marley, piecemeal, would never 
 look like the short-stepping, springy-walked, foreshort- 
 ened, arms-flopping Marley with the greasy black 
 peaked cap pulled over his forehead, the greasy jumper 
 
212 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 tucked into greasier overalls who sold his hybrid serv- 
 ices to the Transcontinental for the munificent sum of 
 a dollar ten a day. 
 
 Marley's arrival and introduction to Big Cloud was, 
 like Marley himself, decidedly out of the ordinary and 
 by no manner of means commonplace. Marley arrived 
 " 'boing it " in a refrigerator car. 
 
 They ice the cars at Big Cloud and, luckily for 
 Marley, the particular one he had, in some unexplained 
 way, managed to appropriate required a little some- 
 thing more than icing. They pulled him out in about 
 as flabby a condition as a sack of flour. He didn't say 
 anything for himself mainly because he was pretty 
 nearly past ever saying anything for himself or any- 
 body else. The boys who found him cursed fluently 
 because he wasn't a pleasant sight, and then carried 
 him up Main Street on the door of a box-car with the 
 hazy notion that MacGuire's Blazing Star Saloon was 
 the most fitting Mecca available. 
 
 Marley continued to play in luck. Mrs. Coogan, the 
 mother of Chick Coogan, that is, who went out in the 
 Fall blizzard on the Devil's Slide some years before, 
 spotted the procession as it passed her little shack, 
 halted it, made a hasty, but none the less comprehen- 
 sive, examination, amplified it by a few scathing re- 
 marks on discovering the proposed destination, per- 
 emptorily ordered them into her bit of a cottage and 
 installed Marley therein. 
 
 He was pretty far gone, pretty far and he hung on 
 the ragged edge for weeks. Nobody knows what Mrs. 
 Coogan did for him except Marley himself; but it was 
 
MARLEY 213 
 
 generally conceded that she did more than she could 
 afford for anybody, let alone doing it for a stray hobo, 
 
 Marley got well in time, of course, for, than old, 
 motherly Mrs. Coogan there was no better nurse, even 
 if she had few comforts and dainties and less money to 
 buy them with; and then Marley got a job or rather 
 Mrs. Coogan got one for him. 
 
 There wasn't anything Mrs. Coogan could have 
 asked for and not got that was within their power to 
 give her she was Chick's mother, and with Carleton 
 or Regan or any of the rest of them that was enough. 
 But Mrs. Coogan never asked anything for herself 
 she had the Coogan pride. 
 
 " The good Lord be praised," she would say Mrs. 
 Coogan was sincerely devout. " I'm able to worrk, so 
 I am, an' f why should I ? " 
 
 Why should she ? They smiled at her as men smile 
 when something touches them under the vest, and they 
 want to say the proper thing and can't. They smiled 
 and gave her their washing. 
 
 Mrs. Coogan tackled Regan on Marley's behalf. 
 
 The master mechanic scratched his head in perplex- 
 ity, but his reply was prompt and hearty enough. 
 
 " Sure. Sure thing, Mrs. Coogan," he said. " Send 
 him down to me. I'll find him something to do." 
 
 To Marley he talked a little differently. 
 
 " I ain't quite sure I like the looks of you/' he 
 flung out bluntly enough, taking in the new man from 
 head to toe. " There's no job for you, but I'll give 
 you a chance." 
 
 Marley's eyes came down in a flutter. 
 
214 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Thanks, sir," he mumbled nervously. 
 
 Tommy Regan wasn't used to being " sir " ed the 
 Hill Division did its business with few handles and it 
 wasn't long on the amenities. 
 
 " Humph ! " he ejaculated with a snort, and a stream 
 of black-strap laid the dust on a good few inches of 
 engine cinders. " You can hand any thanks you've 
 got coming over to Mother Coogan. And say " the 
 master mechanic wriggled his fat forefinger under 
 Marley's nose " thanks are all right as far as they go, 
 but I figure you owe her something over and above 
 that, what ? " 
 
 A faint flush came into Marley's cheeks and he 
 darted a quick look at Regan. His eyes were on the 
 ground and his hands had suddenly disappeared in his 
 pockets before he answered. 
 
 " I'm going to board with her a spell," he said in a 
 slow way, as though he was measuring every word 
 before it was uttered. 
 
 " Are, eh ? " grunted Regan, but the grunt carried 
 a grudging note of approval. " Well, maybe that'll 
 help some. You can report at noon, Marley, and make 
 yourself generally handy around. I reckon you'll find 
 enough to do." 
 
 :( Thanks, sir," said Marley again, as he turned 
 away. 
 
 Regan, leaning on the turntable push-bar in front of 
 the roundhouse, followed with his eyes as the other 
 crossed the tracks in the direction of the town, then 
 he spat profoundly again. 
 
 " Queerest looking specimen that ever blew into the 
 
MARLEY 215 
 
 mountains, and we've had some before that were in a 
 whole class by themselves at that," he remarked, screw- 
 ing up his eyebrows. " Makes you think of a blasted 
 gorilla the way he's laid out, what ? Well, we'll give 
 him a try anyway," and, with a final glance in the 
 direction of the retreating figure, the master mechanic 
 went into the roundhouse for his morning inspection of 
 the big moguls on the pits. 
 
 It took the division and Big Cloud some time to size 
 up the new man, and then just about when they 
 thought they had they found they hadn't. 
 
 Marley, if he was nothing else, was a contradictory 
 specimen. 
 
 Mrs. Coogan said it was like the good Lord was 
 kind of paying her special attention, kind of giving her 
 another son " so quiet an' accommodatin' an' handy 
 to have around. A good bhoy was Marley a foine 
 lad." One hand would rest on her hip, and the other 
 would smooth the thin white hair over her ear with 
 quick, nervous, little pats as she talked, and the gray 
 Irish eyes, a little dim now, would light up happily. 
 ' Yes, ut's more than I deserve ; but I always knew the 
 Lord wud provide. 'Tain't so easy to move the tubs 
 around as it uster be. I guess I knew it, but I wasn't 
 willin' to admit it till I had somebody to do it for me. 
 Sivinty-wan I was last birthday. 'Tain't old for a 
 man, but a woman indade he's a foine lad, an' 'tis 
 myself that ses ut." 
 
 Down at headquarters Mrs. Coogan's praise went a 
 long way, and after Carleton and Regan and the others 
 in the office got accustomed to seeing him around they 
 
216 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 came to accept him in a passive, indifferent sort of a 
 way. He was a curious case, if you like, but inoffen- 
 sive they let it go at that. 
 
 The men had their view-point. Marley didn't talk 
 much, didn't draw out the way a new hand was ex- 
 pected to in order to establish his footing with the 
 fraternity. Least of all did he make any overtures 
 tending to anything like an intimate relationship with 
 any of his new associates. Marley was never one of 
 the group behind the storekeeper's office that had 
 stolen out from the shops for a drag at their pipes 
 and a breath of air ; never on the platform to exchange 
 a word of banter with the crews of the incoming 
 trains; never amongst the wipers and hostlers in the 
 roundhouse who lounged in idle moments in the lee 
 of a ten-wheeler with an eye out across the yards 
 against the possible intrusion of Regan or some other 
 embodiment of authority. He was civil enough and 
 quick enough to answer when he was spoken to, but 
 his words were few no more than a simple negative 
 or affirmative if he could help it. And when he him- 
 self was in question there was not even that Marley 
 became dumb. 
 
 All this did not help him any he wasn't what you'd 
 call exactly popular! So, if he had little to say for 
 himself, the men had plenty, and the general opinion 
 was that he was a surly brute that by no possible 
 chance was any credit to the Hill Division and by no 
 manner of means an acquisition to Big Cloud. 
 
 A few, very few, took a more charitable view, bas- 
 ing it on the shy, slow flutter of Marley's eyelids 
 
MARLEY 217 
 
 they charged it up to an acute sensitiveness of his 
 grotesque and abnormal appearance. That isn't the 
 way they put it, though. 
 
 " Looks like hell, an' he knows it," said they judici- 
 ally. " Let the beggar alone." 
 
 It was good advice, whether their analysis was or 
 wasn't Pete Boileau, the baggage master, can vouch 
 for that. As the time-worn saying has it, it came like 
 a bolt from the blue, and but just a minute, we're 
 overrunning our targets and that means trouble. 
 
 Things had gone along, as far as Marley was con- 
 cerned, without anything very startling or out of the 
 way happening for quite a spell, and Regan, who had 
 stood closer to Chick Coogan than any other man on 
 the division before the young engineer died, had begun 
 to look on Marley with a little more interest as a sort 
 of deus ex machina for Mrs. Coogan. It seemed to 
 afford the big-hearted master mechanic a good deal of 
 relief. He got to talking about it to Carleton one 
 morning about a month after Marley's advent to the 
 Hill Division. 
 
 " No, of course, I don't know anything about him, 3 " 
 he said. " Nobody does, I guess they don't. But he 
 minds his own business and does what he has to do 
 well enough, h'm ? The old lady's been getting a little 
 feeble lately kind of wearing out, I guess she is. I 
 was thinking Marley was worth a little more than a 
 dollar ten a day, what ? " 
 
 They were sitting in the super's office, and Carle- 
 ton's glance, straying out through the window from 
 where he sat at his desk, fastened on Marley's clumsy, 
 
218 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 ungainly figure hopping across the yard tracks from 
 the roundhouse toward the station platform. He 
 smiled a little and looked back at Regan. 
 
 " I guess so, Tommy if it will do her any good. I 
 wouldn't bank on it, though. He's a queer card. Im- 
 presses you with the feeling that there's something you 
 ought to know about him and don't. I've a notion, 
 somehow, I've seen him before." 
 
 "Have you?" said Regan. "That's funny. I've 
 thought I had myself once or twice, but I guess it's 
 imagination more than anything else. Anyway, he 
 seems to remember what Mrs. Coogan did for him. 
 I dunno what she'd do even now without the board 
 money, little as it is, to help out. There's no use bor- 
 rowing trouble I suppose, but later on I dunno what 
 on earth she'll do. She's prouder than a sceptered 
 queen and she won't be able to wash much longer, 
 nor take a boarder either, what ? " 
 
 Carleton sucked at his briar for a moment in silence. 
 
 :< We've all got to face the possibility of the scrap 
 heap some day, Tommy," he said soberly. " But it's 
 harder for a woman, I'll admit bitter hard. Some- 
 times things don't seem just right. If you want to 
 give Marley a small raise, go ahead." 
 
 The master mechanic nodded his head. 
 
 " I think I will," he announced. " He's queer if 
 you like, but that's his own business. Never a word 
 out of him nor a bit of trouble since " 
 
 Regan's words stopped as though they had been 
 chopped off with a knife. Both men, as though actu- 
 ated by a single impulse, had leaped to their feet. Be- 
 
MARLEY 219 
 
 hind them their chairs toppled unheeded with a crash 
 to the floor, and for an instant, as their eyes met each 
 other's, the color faded in their cheeks. It had come 
 and gone like a flash a wild, hoarse scream of rage, 
 a brute scream, horrid, blood curdling, like the jungle 
 howl of some maddened beast plunged in a savage, 
 blind, all-possessing paroxysm of fury. 
 
 Themselves again in a second, the master mechanic 
 and superintendent sprang to the window. 
 
 On the platform, up at the far end, the great form 
 of Pete Boileau rocked and swayed like a drunken 
 man, and clinging to him, his legs twined around the 
 other's knees, his arms locked around the baggage- 
 master's body just above the elbows was Marley! 
 
 Regan and Carleton gazed spellbound. There was 
 something uncanny, inhuman about the scene like a 
 rabid dog that had leaped, snarling, for the throat hold. 
 
 Suddenly, Marley's legs with a quick, wriggling 
 slide, released their hold, his whole form appeared to 
 shrink, grow smaller, he seemed to crouch on his knees 
 at the other's feet, then his body jerked itself erect to 
 its full stature with a movement swift as a loosed bow- 
 string, his arms flew up carrying a great burden, and 
 over his shoulders, over his head, a sprawling form 
 hurtled through the air. 
 
 " Merciful God! He's killed him! " gasped Carle- 
 ton, dashing for the door. " Come on, Tommy. 
 Quick!" 
 
 Both men were down the stairs in a space of time 
 that Regan, at least, chunky and fat, has never dupli- 
 cated before or since. Carleton, hard-faced and tight- 
 
220 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 lipped, led the way, with the picture beating into his 
 brain of Boileau's senseless form on the ground and 
 the other above tearing like a beast at its prey. He 
 wrenched the door of the station open, sprang out on to 
 the platform, stopped involuntarily, and then ran for- 
 ward again. 
 
 The baggage-master's form was on the ground lying 
 in a curled-up, huddled heap, and he was senseless all 
 right if he wasn't something more than that. But the 
 rest of Carleton's mental picture was wrong, dead 
 wrong. Right beside where the fight, if fight it could 
 be called, had taken place was a baggage truck, and 
 over this, his head down, his two great arms wound 
 round his face, shoulders heaving in convulsive sobs, 
 Marley was crying like a broken-hearted child. 
 
 Take him any way you like, look at him any way 
 you like, Marley, whatever else he was, was a contra- 
 dictory specimen. 
 
 Any other man with a skull a shade less tender than 
 Boileau's it must have been made of boiler plate 
 would never have drawn another pay check. And 
 even granting the boiler plate part of it, it was some- 
 thing to wonder at. He had gone through the air like 
 a rocket, and his head had caught the full of it when 
 he landed. How far? Carleton never said. He 
 measured it twice. But he never gave out the figures 
 of Boileau's aerial flight. Pete was a big man, six 
 feet something, and heavy for his height. The 
 strength of four ordinary men concentrated in one 
 pair of arms might have done it perhaps ; mathematic- 
 ally it wouldn't figure out any other way. Carleton 
 
MARLEY 221 
 
 never said. But what's the use! The division did 
 some tall thinking over it and Marley cried ! 
 
 They picked up Pete Boileau and carried him into 
 the station, and the contents of a fire bucket over his 
 head opened his eyes. But it was a good fifteen min- 
 utes before he could talk, and by that time when they 
 got over their scare and thought of Marley the baggage 
 truck was deserted. 
 
 " What started it ! " growled Boileau, repeating 
 Carleton's inquiry. " I'm hanged if I know. I was 
 jossing him a little nothing to make anybody sore. 
 I was only funning anyhow, and laughing when I said 
 it." 
 
 " Said what ? " demanded Regan, cutting in. 
 
 " Why, nothing much. He looked so queer hopping 
 across the tracks like a monkey on a stick that I just 
 asked him why he didn't cut out railroading and hit 
 up a museum for a job, and then before I knew it he 
 let out a screech and was on me like a blasted cata- 
 mount." 
 
 " Serves you right," said the master mechanic 
 gruffly. " I guess you w r on't nag him again, I guess 
 you won't. And none of the other men won't neither 
 if they've had any notion that way." 
 
 " He's a wicked little devil," snarled Boileau. " And 
 the strength of him " the baggage-master shivered 
 " he ain't human. He'll kill somebody yet, that's 
 what he'll do ! " 
 
 Pete's summing up was a popular one the men 
 promptly ticketed and carded Marley as per Boileau's 
 bill of lading. There wasn't any more doubt about 
 
222 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 him, no discussions, no anything. They knew Marley 
 at last, and they liked him less than ever; but, also, 
 they imbibed a very wholesome respect for the welfare 
 of their own skins. A man with arms whose strength 
 is the strength of derrick booms is to be approached 
 with some degree of caution. 
 
 Marley himself said nothing. Carleton and Regan 
 got him on the carpet and tried to get his version of 
 the story, but for all they got out of him they might 
 as well have saved their time. 
 
 A pathetic enough looking figure, in a way, he was, 
 as he stood in the super's office the afternoon of the 
 fight. The shoulders were drooping giving the arms 
 an even longer appearance than usual, no color in his 
 face, the violet eyes almost black, with a dead, hunted 
 look in them. Sorrow, remorse, dread neither Regan 
 nor Carleton knew. They couldn't understand him 
 then. Marley offered no explanation, volunteered 
 nothing. Boileau's story was right that was all. 
 
 " You might have killed the man," said Carleton 
 sternly, at the end of an unsatisfactory twenty minutes. 
 " You can thank your Maker you haven't his blood on 
 your hands it's a miracle you haven't. Don't you 
 know your own strength ? We can't have that sort of 
 thing around here/' 
 
 Marley's face seemed to grow even whiter than be- 
 fore and he shivered a little, though the afternoon was 
 dripping wet with the heat and the thermometer was 
 sizzling well up in the nineties he shivered but his 
 lips were hard shut and he didn't say a word. 
 
 Carleton, for once in his life when it came to hand- 
 
MARLEY 223 
 
 ling men, didn't seem to be altogether sure of himself. 
 An ordinary fight was one thing, and, generally speak- 
 ing, strictly the men's own business; but everything 
 about Marley, from his arrival at Big Cloud to the 
 sudden beastlike ferocity he had displayed that morn- 
 ing, put a little different complexion on the matter. 
 A puzzled look settled on the super's face as he glanced 
 from Marley to the master mechanic, while his fingers 
 drummed a tattoo on the edge of his desk. 
 
 ' You had some provocation, Marley," he said 
 slowly, " I don't want you to think I'm not taking that 
 into consideration but not enough to work up any 
 such deviltry as you exhibited. You'll never get on 
 with the men here after this. They'll make things 
 pretty hard for you. I think you'd better go for your 
 own sake." 
 
 There was dead silence in the super's room for a 
 half minute, then Regan, who had been sitting with 
 his chair tilted back and his feet up on the window-sill, 
 dropped the chair legs to the floor and swung around. 
 
 " I put Logan up firing yesterday," said he. 
 " There's a night job wiping in the roundhouse. What 
 do you say about it, Carleton? " 
 
 It was Marley who answered. 
 
 "Yes!" he said fiercely. 
 
 Carleton jabbed at the bowl of his pipe with his 
 forefinger and his eyebrows went up at Marley's sud- 
 den animation. Marley's eyes met his with a single 
 quick glance, and then the eyelids fluttered down cov- 
 ering them. There was something in the look that 
 caught the super, something he couldn't define. There 
 
224 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 was a plea, but there was something more like a 
 pledge, almost, it seemed. 
 
 " All right," he said shortly; then, nodding at Mar- 
 ley in dismissal : " I hope you will remember what I've 
 said. You may go." 
 
 Marley hesitated as though about to speak and 
 changed his mind, evidently, for he turned, walked 
 straight to the door and out, then his boots creaked 
 down the stairs. 
 
 " He'll be away from the men there, all except a 
 few," said the master mechanic, as though picking up 
 the thread of a discussion. " And as for them, I'll see 
 there's no trouble. There's Mrs. Coogan now that " 
 
 "Yes, Tommy " Carleton smiled a little"! 
 didn't put your interest all down to love for Marley." 
 
 '* What gets me," muttered Regan screwing up his 
 eyes, as his teeth met in the plug he had dragged with 
 some labor from his hip pocket, " what gets me is the 
 way he went to crying afterward. Like a kid, he was. 
 It was the blamedest thing I ever saw, what? " 
 
 " I don't think he's responsible for himself when he 
 gets like that," replied Carleton. "That's exactly 
 what I am afraid of. It comes over him in a flash, 
 making a very demon of him, and then the relaxation 
 the other way is just as uncontrollable. I don't suppose 
 he can help it, he's made that way. It wouldn't make 
 so much difference in an ordinary man, but with 
 strength like his " Carleton blew a ring of smoke 
 ceilingwards " you saw what he did to Boileau." 
 
 " I ain't likely to forget it," said Regan. " But if 
 he's left alone I guess he'll be all right. Any man 
 
MARLEY 225 
 
 that's fool enough to do anything else now will do it 
 with his eyes open, and it's his own funeral." 
 
 Those of the night crew in the roundhouse were 
 evidently of the same mind. They received him, it is 
 true, with little evidence of cordiality, but their aloof- 
 ness was decidedly pronounced, and they looked ask- 
 ance at the queer figure as it dodged in and out of the 
 shadows cast by the big mountain racers, or, at times, 
 stood silently by one of the engine doors under the dim 
 light of an oil lamp staring out across the black of the 
 turntable to the twinkling switch lights in the yard. 
 They didn't like him, but they had learned their lesson 
 well ; and, as the weeks slipped away, they practised it 
 he was to be left alone. 
 
 One thing they grudgingly admitted Marley could 
 work, and did. Clarihue, the night turner, was man 
 enough to give another his due any time, no matter 
 what his own personal feelings might be, and there 
 was some talk, after a bit, between him and the master 
 mechanic about Marley getting the next spare run 
 Hiring. 
 
 Clarihue even went so far as to hint at it as a 
 possibility to Marley, and for his pains got a surprise 
 he wasn't used to seeing the chance of promotion 
 turned down. Marley had shaken his head and would 
 have none of it. He was satisfied where he was. That 
 was all there was to that. Clarihue drew back into his 
 shell after that. Marley could wipe till his hair was 
 gray for all he cared. 
 
 So Marley wiped ; but at Mrs. Coogan's cottage, as 
 the summer waned, there wasn't as much washing done 
 
226 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 as there had been, and the company doctor got to drop- 
 ping in too frequently to put his visits down to the 
 old-time occasional friendly calls for an afternoon 
 chat. And then, one day in the early fall, the washing 
 stopped altogether, and the doctor's face was puckered 
 and serious as he left the cottage and headed down 
 Main Street to the station. He entered Carleton's 
 office and, after a few words between them, the super 
 sent for Regan. 
 
 That evening Carleton's private car was waiting on 
 the siding when Number Two, the Eastbound Limited, 
 Chick Coogan's old train, pulled in. 
 
 As the little yard switcher importantly coughed the 
 super's car on to the rear Pullman, Regan, in his Sun- 
 day best, a store suit of black twill, with boiled shirt 
 and stiff collar, came out of the station with Mrs. 
 Coogan on his arm. 
 
 An incongruous pair they looked. The little old 
 lady's walk was in painful contrast to the burly master 
 mechanic's stride her short steps had a painful, hesi- 
 tating, uncertain waver to them. One hand gripped 
 tenaciously at Regan's coat-sleeve, while the other held 
 the faded, old-fashioned shawl close about her thin, 
 bent shoulders. She carried her head drooped for- 
 ward a little, hiding the face under the quaint poke 
 bonnet. 
 
 A moment later Carleton, too, emerged from the 
 station and joined them. 
 
 The station hands and the loungers eyed the trio 
 with curiosity, and then stared in amazement as the 
 two officials helped the old lady up the steps of the 
 
MARLEY 
 
 private car Mrs. Coogan was getting the best of it, 
 whatever it meant. 
 
 The three disappeared inside, but presently Regan 
 and Carleton came out again, and the super dropped to 
 the station platform. He held out his hand to the 
 master mechanic as Frank Knowles, the conductor, 
 lifted his finger to Burke in the cab. 
 
 " Good-by, Tommy; and good luck," he called, as 
 the train began to move out. " Don't hurry, take all 
 the time you need." 
 
 " All right," Regan shouted back. " Good-by." 
 
 Carleton stood for a moment watching the tail lights 
 grow dimmer until, finally, they shot suddenly out of 
 sight with the curve of the track, then he turned to 
 walk back along the platform and stopped. 
 
 Crouched back against the wall of the freight house, 
 deep in the shadows, was Marley. 
 
 " Here you, Marley," Carleton called. 
 
 Marley, evidently believing himself to have been 
 unobserved, started violently, and then came slowly 
 forward. 
 
 "What are you hiding there for?" demanded the 
 super. 
 
 " I wanted to see Mrs. Coogan off," Marley an- 
 swered a little defiantly. 
 
 The tone of the other's voice did not please Carle- 
 ton. 
 
 ' You've a queer way of doing it then," he snapped 
 shortly. 
 
 Marley was twisting his hands, staring down the 
 track. 
 
228 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " I said good-by before I came down to work/' 
 he spoke as though talking to himself. 
 
 " Oh ! " said Carleton, and looked at Marley sharply, 
 " I suppose you know what she went East for? " 
 
 "Yes," said Marley gruffly. That was all just 
 " yes." And with that he turned abruptly and started 
 across the tracks for the roundhouse. 
 
 Carleton, taken aback, watched him in angry amaze- 
 ment, then the scowl that had settled on his face broke 
 in a smile, and he shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " Guess Tommy is right," he muttered, as he went 
 on toward the office. " Marley's all in a class by him- 
 self. We've never had anything like him in the moun- 
 tains before." 
 
 It was four days before Mrs. Coogan and the 
 master mechanic came back. Days during which Mar- 
 ley slipped into Dutchy's lunch counter at deserted 
 moments for his meals, and, if that were possible, 
 drew into himself closer than ever. 
 
 The boys were curious about Mrs. Coogan, natur- 
 ally ; curious enough even to question Marley. He had 
 one answer, only one. " She's sick, I guess," he said. 
 They got nothing more out of him than that. 
 
 One thing Marley did, though, that Clarihue, while 
 he thought nothing of it at the time, remembered well 
 enough afterwards. He asked the turner to give him a 
 sheet of railroad paper and a manila, and in his spare 
 moments the night before Mrs. Coogan came back he 
 labored, bent over the little desk where the engine 
 crews signed on and off, scratching painstakingly with 
 a pen. Clarihue caught a glimpse of the sheet in pass- 
 
MARLEY 229 
 
 ing before Marley hastily covered it up just a glimpse, 
 not enough to read a single word, just enough to mar- 
 vel a little at the wiper's hand. Marley was a pretty 
 good penman. 
 
 Marley, of course, being on night duty slept day- 
 times, but the afternoon Regan brought Mrs. Coogan 
 back to the cottage he must have heard them coming, 
 for he was standing in the little sitting-room when they 
 came in. 
 
 Mrs. Coogan kind of hesitated on the threshold, 
 then she called out quickly in a faltering way : 
 
 " Marley, Marley, is that you ? " 
 
 Marley was twisting his hands nervously. His eyes 
 shot a rapid glance from the old lady to the master 
 mechanic, and then the eyelids fluttered down. 
 
 " Sure," he said, " it's me." 
 
 She stumbled toward him and burst into tears, cry-* 
 ing as though her heart would break. 
 
 " Marley, Marley," she sobbed, " don't lave them do 
 ut. Don't lave them do ut, there's a good bhoy, Mar- 
 ley." 
 
 Marley never moved, just licked his lips with his 
 tongue and his face grew whiter. Queer, the way he 
 acted? Well, perhaps. Never a move to catch the 
 frail, tottering figure, never a word to soothe the piti- 
 ful grief. He stood like a man listening as a judge 
 pronounces his doom. Oh, yes, queer, if you like. 
 Marley, whatever else he was, was a contradictory 
 specimen. 
 
 It was Regan who caught the old lady in his arms, 
 and led her gently into her bedroom off the parlor. 
 
230 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " You mustn't give way like that, Mrs. Coogan," he 
 said kindly. " Just lie down for a. spell and you'll feel 
 better. I'll ask Mrs. Dahleen, next door, to come in." 
 
 It took the master mechanic several minutes to quiet 
 her and persuade her to do as he asked, but when he 
 came out again Marley was still standing, exactly as 
 before, in the centre of the room. With a black scowl 
 on his face, Regan motioned the other outside, and, 
 once on the street, he laid the wiper low. Hard 
 tongued was Regan when his temper was aroused and 
 he did not choose his words. 
 
 " What d'ye mean by treating her like that, you 
 scrapings from the junk heap, you!" he exploded. 
 ' You know well enough what she went away for, and 
 if youVe any brains in that ugly head of yours you 
 know well enough what she's come back to, without 
 any printed instructions to help you out. What are 
 you playing at, eh ? What do you mean ? You're not 
 fit to associate with a dog! And she the woman that 
 spent about her all to save your miserable carcass, you 
 _ y ou " 
 
 " You'd better stop ! " the words came like the 
 warning hiss of a serpent before it strikes. Marley's 
 face was livid, and his great gnarled hands were creep- 
 ing slowly upward above his waist line. 
 
 With a startled oath, Regan leaped quickly back : and 
 then, separated by a yard, the men stood eying each 
 other in silence. 
 
 It was gone in a flash as it had come, for Marley, 
 with a shudder, dropped his hands limply to his sides, 
 and the color crept slowly back into his cheeks. 
 
MARLEY 231 
 
 "There is no chance for her?" no trace of the 
 passionate outburst of an instant before remained. 
 The question came low, hesitating more like an asser- 
 tion combined with a wistful appeal for contradiction. 
 
 It took Regan longer to recover himself, and it was 
 a minute before he answered. Then he shook his 
 head. 
 
 " She'll be stone blind in a month," he said gruffly. 
 
 Marley's eyes came up to the master mechanic's 
 and dropped instantly with their habitual little flut- 
 ter. 
 
 " Ain't no doubt, no chance of a mistake? " he ven- 
 tured. 
 
 Again Regan shook his head. 
 
 " Not a chance. The best man we could find East 
 made the examination. We're arranging to get her 
 into an institute a home for the blind somewhere." 
 
 " I thought you would " Marley's voice was mo- 
 notonous. " That's what she was talking about, 
 wasn't it?" 
 
 " Yes," said Regan. 
 
 Marley wagged his head with a judicial air. 
 
 " That'll kill her," he remarked, as though stating 
 a self-evident, but commonplace, fact. " That'll kill 
 her." 
 
 " I'm afraid it will," the master mechanic admitted 
 gravely. " But there's nothing else to do. It's im- 
 possible for her to stay here. She's got to have some 
 one to look after her, and she has no money. God 
 knows I wish we could, but we can't see any other way 
 than put her in some place like that." 
 
232 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " I thought you would if it turned out bad/' said 
 Marley again, in dead tones. " I figured it out that 
 way when you were gone." His hands were travel- 
 ing in an aimless fashion in and out of his pockets. 
 Suddenly he half pulled out an envelope, started, has- 
 tily shoved it back, and looked at Regan. " I I got a 
 letter to post," he muttered. 
 
 " Well, supposing you have," said Regan a little 
 savagely Regan wasn't interested in letters just tHen, 
 " supposing you have, you needn't " 
 
 But Marley was well across the street. 
 
 The master mechanic gasped angrily, choked and 
 went into Mrs. Dahleen's cottage on his errand. It 
 was wasted breath to talk to Marley anyhow. 
 
 It didn't take long for the news to spread around 
 Big Cloud, and for three days they talked about Mrs. 
 Coogan pretty constantly after that they talked about 
 Marley. 
 
 The Westbound Limited schedules Big Cloud for 
 2 : 05 in the afternoon, and on the third day after Mrs. 
 Coogan's return Marley came down the street about 
 half-past one, and crossed the tracks to the shops. 
 Regan was in the fitting-shop when Marley walked in. 
 
 " I'd like to speak to you," said Marley, going 
 straight up to the master mechanic. 
 
 ''' Well? " grunted Regan, none too cordially. 
 
 " I'd like you to come over to Mr. Carleton's office 
 with me." 
 
 There was something in Marley's voice, feverish, 
 impelling, something in his face, that stopped the im- 
 patient question that sprang to Regan's lips. He 
 
MARLEY 233 
 
 looked at the ungainly, grotesque figure of the wiper 
 for an instant curiously, then without a word led the 
 way out of the shops. 
 
 They traversed the yard in silence, climbed the stairs 
 in the station, and entered the super's room. Marley 
 closed the door and stood with his back against it. 
 
 Carleton, at his desk, looked from one to the other 
 in surprise. 
 
 " Hello," said he. " What's up ? " 
 
 The master mechanic jerked his thumb at Marley, 
 and appropriated a chair. 
 
 " He wanted me to come over. I don't know what 
 for." 
 
 Carleton turned inquiringly to the wiper. 
 
 "What is it?" he demanded. 
 
 Marley walked slowly across the room until he 
 reached the super's desk. His face was drawn, and 
 he wet his lips with the tip of his tongue. 
 
 " It's about Mrs. Coogan," he said jerkily. " Five 
 thousand would be enough, wouldn't it? " 
 
 Carleton stared at the man as though he were mad, 
 and Regan hitched his chair suddenly forward. 
 
 " Will you swear to give it to her if I get it for 
 you? " Marley 's hand, clenched, was on the desk, and 
 he leaned his body far forward toward the super. 
 There was no flutter of the eyelids now, and his eyes 
 stared into Carleton's without a flicker. " Swear it! " 
 he cried fiercely. 
 
 Carleton drew back involuntarily. 
 
 " Marley," he said soothingly, " you're not yourself, 
 you " 
 
234 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " No, I'm not mad/' Marley broke in passionately. 
 " I know what I'm talking about. I know she'd die in 
 one of them charity places. It's up to me. She treated 
 me white the only soul on God's earth that ever did. 
 And maybe, maybe too, it'll help square accounts. 
 You'll play fair and swear she gets the money, won't 
 you?" 
 
 "I don't understand," said Carleton slowly; "but 
 I'll swear to give her anything you have to give." 
 
 Marley nodded quickly. 
 
 " That's all I want," he said. " There ain't much 
 to understand." He fumbled in his pocket and brought 
 out a newspaper clipping, a column long, which he 
 laid on the desk. " I guess you'll get it all there." 
 
 The heavy " set " of the heading leaped up at Carle- 
 ton. " $5,000 REWARD." Below, halfway down 
 the column, was the reproduction of a photograph 
 Marley's. 
 
 Regan was up from his chair, bending over the 
 super's shoulder. 
 
 " I thought I'd seen you somewhere before " Carle- 
 ton's voice sounded strained and hollow in his own 
 ears. " It must have been the picture. I remember 
 now. You you killed a man in Denver a year ago." 
 
 " It's all there," said Marley, licking his lips again. 
 " I never saw him before. I killed him like I almost 
 killed Boileau this summer. I didn't know till after- 
 ward that he was rich, not until the family hung out 
 that reward." 
 
 Carleton did not speak. Regan reached viciously 
 for his plug. Marley stirred uneasily, and drew the 
 
MARLEY 235 
 
 back of his hand across his forehead. It came away 
 soggy wet. In the silence the chime of the Limited's 
 whistle floated in through the open window, then, 
 presently, the roar of the train and the grinding shriek 
 of the brake-shoes. 
 
 " My God," said Carleton in a whisper, " you want 
 me to give you up and get the reward for her ! " 
 
 A queer smile flickered across Marley's face. Heavy 
 steps came running up the stairs. There was a smart 
 rap upon the door and a man stepped quickly inside. 
 For a second his eyes swept the little group. Then he 
 whirled like a flash, and the blue-black muzzle of a 
 revolver held a bead on Marley's heart. 
 
 " Ah, Shorty," he cried grimly, " we've got you at 
 last, eh ? Put out your hands ! " 
 
 Without protest, with the same queer smile on his 
 face, Marley obeyed. There was a little click of steel, 
 and he dropped his locked wrists before him. 
 
 ' ( You're Mr. Carleton, aren't you?" the new- 
 comer had swung to the desk. 
 
 " Yes," said Carleton numbly. 
 
 " I'm Hepburn of the Denver police," went on the 
 officer. " We appreciate this, Mr. Carleton. Shorty 
 here has been badly wanted for a long time. We got 
 your letter yesterday." 
 
 Hepburn paused to reach into his pocket, and in the 
 pause Carleton's eyes met Marley's and he under- 
 stood. Marley had written the letter himself and 
 signed his, Carleton's, name. And, too, it was clear 
 enough now, the telegram he had puzzled over the pre- 
 vious afternoon. It was lying before him on his desk. 
 
236 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 His eyes dropped to it. " Will be on hand on arrival 
 of Limited, (signed) Denver." 
 
 ;< We can't give you any receipt for him as you re- 
 quested/' continued Hepburn, drawing a paper out of 
 his pocket ; " but here's an acknowledgment that his 
 capture is due to information furnished by you. I 
 guess that will answer the purpose. You won't have 
 any trouble getting the reward." He handed the paper 
 to Carleton. 
 
 The super took it mechanically, and started as it 
 crackled in his fingers. 
 
 " Now," said Hepburn briskly, " I don't want to 
 appear abrupt, but there's a local East at two-twenty. 
 We'll move along, Shorty. Good-by, Mr. Carleton. 
 Next time you're in Denver look us up." He took 
 Marley's arm and moved toward the door. 
 
 " Don't tell her, Mr. Carleton " there was a catch 
 in Marley's voice, and the words came low. 
 
 Carleton did not answer. He was staring at the 
 paper in his hand Marley's price. 
 
 Regan had turned his back, with a hasty movement 
 of his fist to his eyes. 
 
 " Don't tell her " the plea came again from the 
 doorway. 
 
 Carleton tried to speak and his voice broke, then 
 he cleared his throat. 
 
 " She will never know, Marley," he said huskily. 
 
X 
 
 THE MAN! WHO DIDN'T COUNT 
 
 HE was a little gray-haired hostler, wiper, sweeper, 
 assistant night man in the roundhouse at Big Cloud, 
 anything you like, and this is the story he told me one 
 night, leaning against the blackened jamb of one of 
 the big doors, wiping his hands occasionally upon a 
 hunk of greasy waste. 
 
 They were a rough lot out in the mountains in the 
 days when the Hill Division was shaking her steel into 
 something like a permanent right of way a pretty 
 rough lot. The railroaders because they had to be; 
 the rest because they were just that way naturally. 
 Miners and Indians made up the citizenship mostly, 
 and there's no worse mixture. They've got the red- 
 skins corralled on reserves now ; but they hadn't then, 
 and it didn't take more than one bad word and one 
 drop of bad whisky to set things in lively motion. 
 
 There's a few highfaluting poems, and some other 
 things, about the noble red man that works you up 
 so when you read them that you get to wishing the 
 Almighty had seen fit to let you be a red man, too. 
 Well, that's all right in its way because, after you've 
 rubbed elbows with some of the real thing, you real- 
 ize that the world owes the poets a living just as much 
 
 237 
 
238 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 as it does anybody else, and that what they say has to 
 sound good; so you just come to keep the cautionary 
 signals up by instinct, and let it go at that. 
 
 But, to give the poets their due, there's one thing 
 they never trip up on, and that's the Indian's com- 
 pound efficiency for smell. The Indian can smell. 
 When he sticks out his chest, faces southeast, and be- 
 gins to draw in the God-given mountain air, you're 
 free to bet that the distilleries down Kentucky way are 
 doing enough business to make regular dividend checks 
 a sure thing. That's generally good whisky. Bad 
 whisky, in smell and otherwise, carries farther and 
 it's only fifteen miles from here to Coyote Bend! 
 
 Coyote Bend wasn't even a pin prick on the engi- 
 neers' blue prints when they mapped out the right of 
 way, and there wasn't any such place w r hen the steel 
 was all spiked down until the day some wandering 
 prospector staked out a bunch of claims and the news 
 spread. 
 
 Gold in the Rockies ? No ; there's never been much 
 of it found, but there's an all-fired big superstition 
 that the mother lode of the whole country is tucked 
 away here somewhere. That's why, in two days, the 
 wilderness and a gurgling stream that trickled peace- 
 fully down through a high-walled canon became Coy- 
 ote Bend; and that's why the local freight began to 
 make regular stops to dump off supplies alongside the 
 track. There was no station, of course, no agent, no 
 nothing; the stuff was just dumped, that's all. The 
 consignees picked out their goods if they could read, 
 or guessed at it if they couldn't. 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 239 
 
 Maybe I ought to have told you this before; any- 
 way, I'll stick it in now. There are three men that 
 figure in this story, though one of them doesn't count 
 for much. He was a young chap named Charlie Lee. 
 A graduate of an Eastern college he was, and all he 
 had to his name was his diploma and the clothes he 
 stood in when he hit the West. He struck the super 
 for a job, and he got it braking on the local freight. 
 Hell for a man like him, eh? Well, it was, in more 
 ways than one! Anyway, from that day to this it 
 was the best job he ever held down long enough to 
 draw a second month's pay check. 
 
 The other two were Matt Perley and Faro Clancy 
 " Breed " Clancy, they called him behind his back. 
 
 Perley was a very good sort, pretty straight, pretty 
 clean, measuring by the standards out here in those 
 days; a little bit of a sawed-off, blond-haired, blue- 
 eyed man, full of grit inside, and an out-and-out rail- 
 road man only a freight conductor, conductor on the 
 local, but he knew his business; he'd have gone up, 
 'way up, in time. 
 
 Clancy was a hellion, there's no other name for him, 
 and even that doesn't express it no one word could. 
 Indian one way, Irish the other. He looked mostly 
 Indian; the Irish came out in the brogue. Black, 
 swarthy, small eyes like needle points, coarse dry hair 
 that straggled down over his eyebrows, a hulking bony 
 frame with the strength of a wrecking crane that's 
 Clancy, Breed Clancy. 
 
 Oh, yes, he was slick, slick as they're made with 
 his hands. Faro, stud poker, dice, anything it was 
 
240 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 his business; that, and running booze joints. Mining 
 camps and brand-new boom towns were Clancy's meat 
 mostly after Perley drove him out of Big Cloud. 
 
 Don't ask me. I don't know what there was be- 
 tween them. That was before my time. A woman 
 probably a woman's generally blamed anyhow. Any- 
 way, one night Perley got the drop on Breed and 
 marched him down the street in front of his pistol 
 and out of the town. After that, Clancy kept away 
 from Big Cloud. As I say, that part was before my 
 time. I only know there was bad blood between them ; 
 wicked bad blood on one side, as you'll see. Clancy 
 disappeared from Big Cloud, and the two didn't foul 
 each other again until Coyote Bend started. 
 
 Breed Clancy hit the Bend with the first inrush of 
 the miners, and before any of them had time to much 
 more than get a pick into the ground he was busy 
 knocking together a bit of a shack he called a hotel, 
 and was ordering the furnishings liquid furnishings, 
 you understand from Big Cloud. 
 
 There were three barrels of it, the hardest kind of 
 fire water that ever went into the mountains waybilled 
 to Clancy at Coyote Bend by the local, on the first 
 trip that Charlie Lee ever made with Matt Perley. 
 I'm getting back to Lee now, you see. 
 
 Well, it was about noon when they whistled for the 
 Bend that day, and Lee, riding the brake wheels on 
 the front end, could see about a dozen " blankets " 
 squatting alongside the right of way about where the 
 train would stop. Grouped behind these were a num- 
 ber of stragglers from the camp, among whom was a 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 241 
 
 big fellow in a red shirt you could see farther than a 
 semaphore arm. 
 
 Now, I don't say those Indians were attracted by 
 the gold rush to Coyote Bend. Coyote Bend, or any 
 other place, old or new, stale or prosperous, would get 
 its share of the redskins. Where they came from or 
 where they went nobody knew. They'd drop in from 
 nowhere, and, if they liked the place, they'd grunt and 
 settle down for a spell; if they didn't like it, they'd 
 grunt, in benediction or otherwise, and leave. 
 
 I'm not saying they smelled the whisky in that train. 
 I'm not saying they knew Clancy was importing fire 
 water, and they were just there to feast their eyes on 
 the barrels and meditate on what was inside. I'm not 
 saying anything at all about that, or what followed. 
 There's only one man that perhaps might have ex- 
 plained it I say " perhaps " because he never did ; 
 and also, because he knew Indian nature as well as any 
 white man in the West. That was Perley. 
 
 Whether Perley even knew that Clancy was at the 
 Bend or not, I don't know. I only know that he could 
 have known it if he'd bothered to read the waybills ; and 
 it was likewise on the cards that he might have learned 
 the day before, down at Big Cloud, that the whisky 
 was going up the following morning. I don't know, 
 and that's straight. Sometimes I think he did; some- 
 times I think he didn't. I don't know. 
 
 Anyway, Lee slid to the ground as the train stopped, 
 and went back to the car that held the consignment for 
 the Bend. As he fumbled with the door, he got a 
 whiff of raw spirit that nearly knocked him over. And 
 
242 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 then, right behind him, rose a chorus of appreciative 
 "ughs!" 
 
 I told you an Indian could smell whisky, but I didn't 
 tell you why. It's his ruling passion. That's straight. 
 I'm not judging the Indian ; the taste was born in him. 
 There are some white men just as bad. I'm not judg- 
 ing them, either. Some drink for the same reason the 
 Indian does, some for others, and some some men 
 drink because they have to. 
 
 What was I saying? Oh, yes, Lee getting that 
 whiff. Well, before he got the door unfastened, the 
 man in the red shirt had pushed through the Indians 
 and come up beside him. 
 
 " Me name's Clancy," said he. " Did yez bring up 
 any stuff for me?" 
 
 " There's three barrels for somebody," replied Lee, 
 and slid open the door and the next minute he had 
 jumped back with a yell, colliding with Clancy. 
 
 " Ugh ! " ejaculated the apparition that confronted 
 him. 
 
 " He's drunk ! Majestically drunk ! An' on my 
 stuff!" roared Clancy; and then, turning fiercely on 
 Lee : " Fwhat did ye let him in there for, eh ? Fwhat 
 did ye let him in for, ye mealy-faced little " 
 
 " Let him in nothing ! " retorted Lee, getting back 
 his grip on himself. " Here, you, get out and quick! " 
 
 The Indian blinked gravely, but never moved. He 
 sat cross-legged on the floor, exactly in the middle of 
 the car between the doors, swaying slightly backward 
 and forward. Beside him, up-ended and broached, 
 was one of Clancy's kegs. The car reeked with the 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 243 
 
 smell of it, for of the half kegful that had gushed out 
 what hadn't gone into the Indian had gone on to the 
 floor. 
 
 The half-breed was raving mad. I've a notion some- 
 times the man wasn't human at all. He had his hand 
 on Lee's throat when Perley came running up from 
 the rear end. 
 
 " What's the row ? " he began, and then he stopped. 
 He was a cool devil was Perley, and he never turned 
 a hair as he stepped between the two men. " Ah, 
 Clancy, it's you, is it, you copper-faced renegade? " 
 no loud talk, no bluster, he didn't raise his voice; 
 but his insult, the worst he could have laid his tongue 
 to, cut like the sting of a lash. 
 
 Clancy swung around like a flash and stared into 
 the muzzle of the conductor's .45. His hands were 
 clenching and unclenching as he recognized Perley, 
 and the cords in his neck swelled into knotty lumps, 
 
 " Ut's your worrk, this job, is ut ? " he snarled. 
 " Some day, Perley, I'll show you." 
 
 Queer, you say, he'd act like that nothing to war- 
 rant it. Well, maybe. I don't know. I don't know 
 what was between them before; but I do know the 
 awful deviltry of Breed Clancy, and I know that Lee, 
 leaning back against the car, shivered at the look that 
 passed between the two of them. 
 
 Perley cut the half-breed short off. " Once," said 
 he contemptuously, still quiet, not a tone raised, and 
 his voice the more deadly for it, " once, perhaps you'll 
 remember, I warned you to keep out of my road. Lee, 
 how'd that Indian get in the car? " 
 
244 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " I don't know," said Lee. 
 
 " Well, then, throw him out," said Perley shortly, 
 snapping his watch with his free hand. " We can't 
 stay here all day." 
 
 This little ruction between Perley and the half-breed 
 has taken me longer to tell it, I guess, than it did to 
 happen. Anyway, it didn't cause the excitement you 
 might think it would. The " blankets " were too busy 
 drinking in the smell of that whisky to let their hungry 
 eyes wander very far from anywhere but the open door 
 of that car. And as for the stragglers, by the time 
 they'd caught on to the fact that there was something 
 on the boards besides that drunken Indian, Perley, with 
 the same cool contempt, had slipped his gun back in his 
 pocket and was boosting Lee into the car. 
 
 The Indian offered no opposition as Lee tackled 
 him. He couldn't he was beyond all that he was 
 so full of dead-eye it was oozing out by the pores. He 
 just sat there, and Lee slid him to the door just as he 
 was, still sitting, and dropped him out. He struck the 
 ground with a thud, rebounded a foot, rolled over, 
 grunted, and lay like a log. There was a guffaw from 
 the camp stragglers, and a deep and envious chorus 
 of " Ughs ! " from the " blankets." 
 
 No, I'm not joking it's a long way from a joke, as 
 you'll see. They were envious. It acted like a red 
 rag on a bull the possibility of attaining the condi- 
 tion, the state of heavenly bliss, that had been reached 
 by their red brother, do you understand ? 
 
 Clancy wasn't laughing. He stood where Perley had 
 left him, sullen and with twitching face. I don't know, 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 245 
 
 I think it was Parley's sheer nerve that kept the half- 
 breed from drawing and shooting the conductor when 
 his back was turned. I don't know brute beast cowed 
 by the human mind, perhaps. No one ever knew Breed 
 Clancy. He had his yellow streak at times, and then 
 again the blood that was in him made him worse than 
 a frenzied madman. Yes, I guess it was a case of 
 " brute " all right, for there was no cowing him when 
 the frenzy was on him. 
 
 Perley wasn't laughing, either. He was opening 
 and shutting his watch impatiently. " Come on ! Come 
 on ! " he cried at Lee. " Get those barrels out. 
 We've got to cross Number Two at the Creek. It'll 
 be the carpet for ours if we hold her up." 
 
 Lee grabbed the broached cask and edged it toward 
 the doorway. The contents slopped and sloshed inside 
 as he moved it, and occasionally a little of the stuff 
 would spill out through the bunghole. Then, some- 
 how, just as he got it to the door, his hold slipped, out 
 it went, bounded on the edge of the ties, and then went 
 down the embankment right into the hands of those 
 squatting " blankets." They didn't squat long; I don't 
 need to tell you that. They were on it in a mob, and 
 they got the taste they'd had the smell and the fill 
 was to come presently. 
 
 Clancy was cursing in streams; and no fouler- 
 mouthed man than Clancy ever lived. He tried once 
 to get the Indians off the barrel, and the stragglers 
 backed him up half-heartedly. You might as well have 
 tried to move that mogul on the pit there behind 
 you. He didn't try but once, then he fell back on 
 
246 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 cursing again, and Parley was the target for most 
 of it. 
 
 Perley? He never answered him, but his face grew 
 harder and harder and his gun was in his hand again. 
 : ' Throw out those other two barrels ! " he snapped at 
 Lee. 
 
 'The redskins will get every last drop if I do," 
 objected Lee, hesitating. 
 
 " Owner's risk. We've no station here. Throw 
 'em out ! " repeated Perley, grimmer than before, only 
 this time loud enough for Clancy to hear him. 
 
 " Ye do," roared the half-breed, " ye do, an' I'll 
 worse than murdher ye one of these " 
 
 ' Throw 'em out ! " said Perley quietly, waving the 
 go-ahead signal to the engine crew. 
 
 And out they went down the embankment after 
 the first. 
 
 Lee jumped to the ground and banged the door shut, 
 just as the drawbars began to snap tight along the train 
 and the local jolted into motion. He waited beside 
 Perley to swing the caboose as it came up. And while 
 he waited he watched and grinned. 
 
 Funny? I don't know; it depends on the way you 
 look at it, depends on what you call fun. Lee thought 
 it was funny then. The air was full of curses, In- 
 dian yells, shouts, oaths; and there was one jumbled 
 mess of arms, and legs, and barrels. The Indians 
 were after their fill, and this time Clancy and the strag- 
 glers were in the game for keeps. 
 
 Up ahead the engine crew hung grinning out of the 
 gangway. Behind, the other brakeman was occupy- 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 247 
 
 ing a reserved seat on the top of the caboose. A quar- 
 ter of a mile away over by the camp, men, attracted by 
 the shouting, were beginning to run toward the track. 
 Inconsistent kind of a mix-up, eh? Indians, miners, 
 whisky barrels, and railroaders. I don't know ; call it 
 funny if you like, though perhaps you can size it up 
 better when I'm through. 
 
 By this time the caboose was up to where Perley and 
 Lee were standing. Perley motioned Lee aboard, and 
 then swung on himself. 
 
 Just as he did so, Clancy's red shirt loomed up out of 
 the melee, his arm lifted, and over the clack of the car 
 trucks pounding the steel came the tinkle of breaking 
 glass from the shattered pane in the door the bullet 
 had passed between the heads of the two men on the 
 platform, missing them by a hair's breadth. Another 
 shot followed the first, another and another, danger- 
 ously close; splintering the woodwork around them; 
 and then Perley fired. The half-breed spun round 
 like a top, clapped his hand to his face and pitched 
 over. 
 
 Then the curve of the track shut out the scene, but 
 for five minutes after they were out of sight they still 
 got the whoops of the redskins, the shouts and curses 
 of the miners, and the crackle of guns like the quick 
 fire of a Catling. You see it came to that before it was 
 through, and there was some blood spilled a lot of it 
 and, not counting Clancy's, it wasn't all " blanket '* 
 blood, either. 
 
 Clancy? I'm coming to him. No, he wasn't killed 
 if he had been I'd never be telling you this story. 
 
248 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 It was two or three days before Lee and Perley got 
 the details of what happened. The redskins fought 
 like fiends after the miners began to fire on them and 
 had killed one or two, and, though they were finally 
 subdued, the casualties, as I've said, weren't all on 
 their side by a hanged sight. 
 
 But I was talking about Clancy. Well, that bullet 
 of Perley's caught him on the cheek bone, glanced in, 
 plowed through his left eye, and landed up some- 
 where against the cartilage of his nose a bullet will 
 make queer tracks sometimes, worse than surveyors 
 by a heap. They got him down to Big Cloud to a doc- 
 tor's, and before he was half cured he disappeared. 
 They had a sort of makeshift hospital here in 
 those days, and when I say " disappeared " I mean 
 they found his bed empty one morning, that was 
 all. 
 
 I told you I didn't know whether Perley had any 
 hand in putting that Indian in the car, or the other red- 
 skins at the Bend. I don't. I told you I didn't know 
 what was between him and the half-breed before all 
 this happened. I don't. Perley never said. But day 
 after day as he and Lee pounded up and down on the 
 local through the mountains, he began to grow silent 
 and moody. 
 
 Lee, young Lee then, was the only one that could 
 get anywhere near the inside of his vest. He took to 
 Lee, and Lee liked him; but even Lee had his limits 
 when it came to confidences. There was lots Perley 
 never opened his lips about. No, I don't know as it 
 makes much difference now. 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 249 
 
 Lee was the first of the two to hear that Faro 
 Clancy was " loose." " It looks to me like a bad busi- 
 ness," he said, after telling Perley the news. 
 
 Perley's eyes just narrowed a little. " It looks more 
 like a bad shot, a rotten bad shot," he answered evenly. 
 
 "That, if you like," returned Lee; "but there'll be 
 more to follow." 
 
 " One would think you kneiv Clancy," said Perley, 
 cool as ever. 
 
 Lee was anxious. Call it presentiment or what you 
 like, from that moment the thing was on his nerves. 
 Perley had been pretty good to him ; had made things 
 a heap easier for the young fellow, green and raw as 
 he was, in a hundred different ways. Things like that 
 mean something. 
 
 " Look here, Perley," said he, " I've heard some 
 talk, and I know there's something behind all this be- 
 tween you and that devil. I'm not asking for con- 
 fidences" 
 
 Perley cut him short, and caught him almost angrily 
 by the shoulder. " Don't meddle ! " he snapped. " Let 
 it drop. You don't count in this, whatever happens. 
 Your being at the Bend that day was an accident. 
 What's between me and Clancy concerns ourselves. 
 You don't count. Unless you're looking for another 
 run besides the local, just remember that and don't 
 meddle." 
 
 That was all. Lee never mentioned it to Perley 
 again. Perley was right, wasn't he ? I told you there 
 were three men in this story, but that one of them 
 didn't count. No, Lee didn't count. Why should he? 
 
250 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 What did he have to do with it? Perley was right, I 
 leave it to you. 
 
 You've been over the division, and you know the 
 Devil's Slide just west of the Gap from here. You 
 know the grade the worst in the mountains. The 
 trains crawl up at the pace a man could walk, be- 
 cause they can't go any faster; and they crawl down 
 just as slowly, because they don't dare do anything 
 else. 
 
 I've seen the passengers get off the observation and 
 walk so have you. Done it yourself probably? I 
 thought so. Extra engine on the rear end to push or 
 hold back, and one in the middle if the train's heavy, 
 to keep it from breaking apart lessens the drawbar 
 pull, you know. They're tunneling now to do away 
 with that particular grade, but that's nothing to do 
 with this story, nor, for that matter, with the night, 
 some six weeks after that business at the Bend, when 
 the local, eastbound, was climbing the Devil's Slide. 
 
 It was a dirty night outside the caboose. A storm 
 had been racketing through the mountains all after- 
 noon, and by the time it got dark it was a howling 
 gale, raining hard enough to float the ties. 
 
 Lee's place was on the front end, going up that bit 
 of track, but he wasn't well that night, and the other 
 brakeman was doing his snatch. Touch of mountain 
 fever, or something, nothing serious; just enough to 
 make him shiver and boil alternately over the little 
 stove in the caboose, sitting with his back to the door. 
 Up above him in the cupola, holding down the swivel 
 chair where he could watch the train that is, see his 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 251 
 
 engine fling up the sparks, for that's about all he could 
 see, I guess was Perley. 
 
 The car was swinging like a hammock with the 
 heave and strain of the big pusher coupled right behind 
 it it acts queer, that does. Every time I've felt it I've 
 always thought of a cat and a mouse. It's like the en- 
 gine had the caboose by the scruff and was trying to 
 shake the life out of it. 
 
 You've felt it a little if you've ever been in the rear 
 Pullman going up the difference is that a caboose 
 hasn't any springs to speak of, you understand? 
 Racket enough to raise the dead. You couldn't hear 
 yourself think. Not so much from the noise of the 
 train or the storm, but from the booming roar of the 
 trailer's exhaust like she was trying to cough her 
 boiler tubes out every time the valves slid. 
 
 Now, there's just one more thing I want you to get. 
 The engine crew of a pusher naturally can't see any 
 track, road-bed, or anything of that kind, and it isn't 
 their business to, either. All they watch is the leader 
 and the intermediate, if there is one. Their headlight 
 plays along over a few cars if it's high enough, or loses 
 itself on the top of the door or the roof of the caboose 
 if it isn't, understand? 
 
 Lee didn't hear anything. He was sitting bent over 
 with his head between his hands, and it was the current 
 of air from the opening door that made him twist 
 around and look up, thinking it had blown open. I 
 don't know as you'd call him a coward; maybe yes, 
 maybe no ; anyway, he was a white-faced, terrified man 
 that next instant, as he started up from his chair. He 
 
252 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 never got to his feet. Instead, he shut up like a jack- 
 knife, and went down to the floor with a blow over 
 the head from a revolver butt that knocked him sense- 
 less. 
 
 It all happened in a second, but in that second Lee 
 got it with more vividness than a thousand hours 
 would have given him the great, hulking figure, the 
 water trickling to the floor in little pools from the drip- 
 ping clothes, the sickly pallor of the face, the thin new 
 skin of the livid scar across the cheek, the sightless eye 
 Clancy. 
 
 Lee couldn't have lain unconscious more than twenty 
 minutes, perhaps it was only fifteen, for it takes about 
 forty minutes to climb the four miles of the Slide, you 
 see. Call it twenty, that allows for what happened be- 
 fore and what happened after. When he came to his 
 senses the light in the bracket lamp was out ; blown out 
 by the draft, for the door was open. A stray beam 
 or two from the pusher's headlight filled the caboose 
 with an uncertain, wavering light from the jolt and 
 swing, you know, though Lee thought at first it was 
 his head. 
 
 He tried to get up, but he couldn't move. He was 
 bound hand and foot, laid out on the flat of his back 
 helpless. For a minute he was too dazed to under- 
 stand, then he remembered Clancy. He stared up 
 into the cupola above him. The swivel chair was 
 empty Perley had gone! 
 
 The car trucks were beating a steady clack, clack- 
 clack, as they pounded the fishplates; from behind 
 came the full, deep-chested thunder of the trailer's ex- 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 253 
 
 haust; around, the hundred noises of the creaking, 
 groaning, swaying car; without, the patter of rain, 
 the wail of the wind. But over it all, low though it 
 was, came a sound that sent a chill to Lee's heart. 
 
 It was like a breathless moan, do you understand? 
 That was the inhuman part of it; it was breathless 
 there was no break a sort of sobbing monotone. It 
 came from behind him. Lee shivered as he listened, 
 and then his heart began to pound as though it would 
 burst. He was afraid afraid. Premonition, perhaps ; 
 I don't know. He rolled himself over on his side, and 
 he saw 
 
 How can I tell it! A figure was crouched against 
 the side of the car in a half-sitting posture, the face 
 was red red with the blood that was flowing from the 
 forehead. Lee shrieked aloud in terror. " Perley ! 
 Perley ! " Then he grew sick with the horror that was 
 on him. Worse than murder the half-breed had threat- 
 ened and he had kept his word. Perley had been 
 scalped ! 
 
 Lee's cry must have reached the poor wretch's con- 
 sciousness, for he staggered to his feet, sweeping his 
 eyes clear with both hands. Lee, sick to the depths of 
 his soul, the sweat breaking out in great, cold drops 
 upon his forehead, fought like a maniac with his 
 bonds. 
 
 Perley never spoke, never paid any attention to Lee 
 he was past all that but his brain, at least, was still 
 capable of coherent impression. It must have been to 
 account for what he did. Right in front of him, as he 
 hung there tottering and swaying, was a broken bit 
 
254 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 of mirror tacked up on the side of the car. He was 
 staring into it. 
 
 His moaning stopped. The shock of his own awful 
 horror must have revolted, shaken his very being. His 
 hand groped weakly, subconsciously perhaps, for his 
 pocket his revolver the end. 
 
 Again Lee shrieked as he struggled to free himself, 
 and then, as Perley fired, he burst out into a peal of 
 wild, discordant laughter. His mind was giving way. 
 He began to gibber like a madman that's the way 
 they found him with Perley's body pitched full across 
 his chest. 
 
 Don't ask me. I told you Perley was a little, under- 
 sized, sawed-off man. I don't know, do I ? The half- 
 breed, physically, could have handled him like a baby, 
 once he caught him unawares. That's all I know. 
 
 They buried Perley down at Big Cloud; and they 
 buried Clancy where the posse dropped him, drilled full 
 of holes. That's the story. 
 
 Lee? Charlie Lee? Why, he doesn't count, does 
 he? He had nothing to do with it. Well, if you're 
 interested in him I'll tell you. His college diploma 
 never did him any good. Once he got ^better and out 
 of the hospital, he took to drinking periodically hard. 
 Between times straight as a string, you understand, for 
 six weeks say, then off again. That was fifteen years 
 ago, and he's done it ever since. The doctors said that 
 blow on the head unsettled him, skull splinter, or 
 something like that ; but medicine's not an exact science. 
 The doctors were wrong. The trouble was deeper than 
 the skull it was in his soul. Lee drank to save him- 
 
THE MAN WHO DIDN'T COUNT 255 
 
 self from the madhouse I told you, didn't I, that 
 some men drink because they have to ? 
 
 Carleton, the super, and the men before Carleton, 
 understood what the doctors didn't, so Lee's working 
 for the railroad yet. Not braking he's not fit for 
 that, but he keeps the job they gave him and it's kept 
 
 for him when he gets back after his spells. I 
 
 there's the foreman shouting for me. Sorry, but I'll 
 have to go. 
 
 If you're going out on Number One she's just com- 
 ing down the gorge now. Good night, sir." 
 
 I lost him in the shadows of the big mogul on the pit 
 behind me. Then I turned and walked slowly out of 
 the roundhouse, over the turntable, and across the 
 tracks to the station platform. Number One's mellow 
 chime floated down from the gorge, then the flare of 
 the electric headlight, and the rumble of the train. 
 And in quick, fierce tempo, the beating, drumming 
 trucks caught up the name I had heard the foreman 
 shout, and rang it over and over again in my ears : 
 
 "Oh-you-Lee! Charlie-Lee! Lee! Charlie-Lee- 
 Lee!" ' 
 
XI 
 
 " WHERE'S HAGGERTY ? " 
 
 THE Hill Division was proud enough over it, of 
 course, for Carleton was its old chief; but, none the 
 less, it read General Order Number 38 with dismay 
 and misgiving. 
 
 " T. J. Hale," the G. O. ran, " is hereby appointed 
 Superintendent of the Hill Division, with headquar- 
 ters at Big Cloud, vice H. B. Carleton promoted to 
 General Manager of the System." 
 
 " Now who in the double-blanked, blankety-blanked 
 blazes is Hale ? " demanded the roundhouse and the 
 
 engine crews. 
 
 " Carleton was all to the good, h'm ? what ! " 
 growled the dispatchers. 
 
 The train crews swung their lanterns with a defiant 
 air, and the passenger conductors juggled their 
 punches around their little fingers, smiling a superior 
 smile to themselves. Hale might be a good man, per- 
 haps he was, but Carleton was " Royal " Carleton. 
 " I guess he'll get along all right with us, but he don't 
 want to get fresh, that's all. Where'd he come from, 
 h'm?" 
 
 That question, at first, no one seemed able to answer. 
 The general impression was that the Transcontinental 
 had got him from some Eastern road. Certainly he 
 was a new man, bran new, to the System. 
 
 256 
 
"WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 257 
 
 And then the renown of one Haggerty, who was 
 braking on a passenger local, became great, and, in con- 
 sequence, the displeasure of the Division increased. 
 
 Said Haggerty : " When I was on the Penn five 
 years back, this fellow Hale was assistant super. I 
 knew him well. You wanter look out for him, you can 
 take my little word for that. He's a holy terror, an* 
 that's a fact. Got any chewin' ? " 
 
 Haggerty got his chewing, being an egregious liar; 
 and Hale got a damaged reputation for the same rea- 
 son. 
 
 But Haggerty got more than his chewing and he 
 had not long to wait. On the day that the new super 
 was expected, Haggerty, on passenger local Number 
 Seven, got into Big Cloud about noon, and, taking 
 advantage of the ten-minute wait for refreshments, 
 straddled a stool at the lunch-counter. Between bites, 
 he fired questions at Spence the dispatcher, who was 
 bolting his mid-day meal. 
 
 " Hale come yet ? " he demanded. 
 
 " Haven't seen him," replied Spence. 
 
 " When d'ye expect him ? " persisted Haggerty. 
 
 " I don't know," Spence answered. 
 
 " Oh, don't be so blasted close ! " snapped Haggerty. 
 " You ain't givin' away any weighty secret if you let 
 out what time his special'll be along, I suppose." 
 
 " I haven't heard of any special," said Spence. 
 " Say, Haggerty, they tell me Hale's an old friend of 
 yours, h'm? No wonder you're anxious. I forgot 
 about that. As soon as I get word about him, I'll wire 
 up the line to you so's you can jump your train, come 
 
258 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 back on a hand-car, and be here on the platform to 
 meet him." 
 
 " You go to blazes ! " retorted Haggerty, and 
 scowled across the counter at an inoffensive looking 
 little fellow who had taken the liberty of smiling at 
 the dispatcher's words. 
 
 At Haggerty's look, the smile disappeared in a cup 
 of coffee raised hastily to the lips. " Huh ! " snorted 
 Haggerty, by way of driving home to the other the 
 audacity and temerity of his act, and likewise the 
 inadvisability of repeating it. Haggerty was galled. 
 Once before that morning he had been obliged to rele- 
 gate this insignificant, squint, eye-glassed individual, 
 who had persisted in riding on the platform, to a 
 proper sense of submission. And the method employed 
 had been no more delicate a one than that of jerking the 
 man bodily into the car by the collar of his coat. 
 " Huh ! " he repeated, with rising inflexion. 
 
 " No, Haggerty," went on Spence pleasantly, " don't 
 you worry. I won't fail you. When the super steps 
 off the train, and the first words he says is, ' Where's 
 Haggerty?' and you're not here to respond in kind I 
 can plainly see there'll be doings. Oh, no, don't you 
 fret, I'll not throw you down on anything like that 
 'twouldn't be wise for us, that's got to live with him, 
 to rile him up at the outset ! No, it certainly wouldn't, 
 what?" 
 
 " You go bite on a brake-shoe, you're too sharp to 
 be munchin' doughnuts," snarled Haggerty. And, 
 swinging himself from his seat, he went back to his 
 train. 
 
"WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 259 
 
 An hour later when he reached Elk River, the end 
 of his run, he found a telegram waiting for him from 
 Spence. He sucked in his under lip as he read it. 
 
 " You sly joker," wired the dispatcher, " why didn't 
 you tell us that your friend came up with you on Num- 
 ber Seven?" 
 
 Haggerty pushed his cap to the back of his head, 
 and swore softly under his breath. He began to go 
 over in his mind the passengers that had been aboard 
 the train when they ran into Big Cloud. No one 
 individual seemed to stand out carded and waybilled as 
 the new super. 
 
 Then an idea struck Haggerty, and he climbed into 
 the rear coach where Berkely, his conductor, was 
 making up his report sheets. 
 
 " Say, Jim," said Haggerty, " was there any passes 
 into Big Cloud this mornin' ? " 
 
 Berkely looked up suspiciously. " You mind your 
 own business, an' you'll get along better ! " he snapped. 
 
 " Oh, punk ! " returned Haggerty. " My count's 
 the same as your'n, ain't it? What's the matter with 
 you, then? Honest, Jim, I wanter know. Was there 
 any passes ? " 
 
 " No, there wasn't," grunted Berkely, cooling down 
 a little. 
 
 " Well, then, you might have said so at first, instead 
 of jumpin' a fellow for nothin'," said Haggerty, and 
 went out of the car to hang meditatively over the hand- 
 rail and spit reflectively at the ties. 
 
 " Now wouldn't that sting you ? " he demanded of 
 the universe in general. " Wouldn't that sting you ? 
 
260 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Who ever heard of a new super comin' on the job 
 ridin' a local on a ticket! An' me askin' when he was 
 goin' to turn up. Oh, yes, it sure would sting you! 
 That funny boy Spence'll pass this along an' oh, 
 punk! I ain't sure it wouldn't have been better if I'd 
 kept my mouth shut about knowin' Hale, but who'd 
 ever thought he'd come up on my train! How was I 
 to know, h'm? " And during all that afternoon's lay- 
 up at Elk River, Haggerty pondered the matter. He 
 continued to ponder it as they pulled out for the return 
 trip in the evening, and he was still pondering it when 
 they whistled for Big Cloud. 
 
 There was no moon up that night, and it was pretty 
 dark as they ran in. Haggerty, with his lantern, was 
 standing on the rear end. As the train slowed itself 
 to a halt, a man came tearing down the station plat- 
 form at a run. 
 
 "Where's Haggerty?" he called breathlessly. 
 " Where's " 
 
 " Here," said Haggerty promptly, leaning out over 
 the steps and showing his light. " What d'ye want? " 
 
 " Oh, all right," said the man. " I'll be back" 
 and he disappeared in the shadow of the station. 
 
 " He acts like he was nutty," muttered Haggerty, 
 and swung himself off the steps. 
 
 But, though Haggerty waited, the man did not come 
 back, and he had not come back when the train began 
 to roll out of the station, and Haggerty was again on 
 the rear platform of the car. Then, just as his hand 
 reached out to open the door, he stopped and started 
 suddenly as though he had been stung. 
 
st WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 261 
 
 A voice came out of the darkness from the other 
 side of the track over by the roundhouse. " Where's 
 Haggerty? " it demanded anxiously. 
 
 Then Haggerty tumbled, and his face went red with 
 rage. He leaned far out over the rail, and, forgetful 
 that the pantomime was lost in the darkness, shook his 
 clinched fist in the direction from whence the voice 
 had come. 
 
 " You go to he-ee-11-111 ! " he bawled, the exclama- 
 tion shaken into syllables by reason of the car wheels 
 jolting over the siding switches at that precise moment. 
 And then, his senses being very acute, from where the 
 light shone in the dispatcher's window he thought he 
 heard, above the momentarily increasing rattle of the 
 train, a laugh a laugh that produced anything but a 
 quieting effect on his already outraged sensibilities. 
 
 Now Haggerty was not the nature of those who can 
 pass lightly over a joke at their own expense, especially 
 if that joke be too prolonged and carries with it a hint 
 of underlying venom. Therefore, as the " one on 
 Haggerty " spread over the division, and scarcely an 
 hour of the day passed that the cry " Where's Hag- 
 gerty ? " did not reach his ears, he began to sulk and 
 treasure up his injury. The division was rubbing it in 
 pretty hard. But the curious part of it all was that his 
 bitterness was not directed against himself who was 
 the direct cause of his discomfiture, nor against Spence 
 who was the indirect cause, but against Hale, who was 
 no cause at all. 
 
 Just once had Haggerty seen the superintendent. 
 Hale was pointed out to him on the platform at Big 
 
262 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Cloud, and Haggerty had ducked hastily back inside 
 his train. Hale was the inoffensive little fellow he had 
 treated with such scant courtesy at the lunch-counter, 
 the insignificant, squint-eye-glassed individual he had 
 hauled from the car platform by the coat collar! 
 When Haggerty's mingled feelings of perturbation 
 and amazement permitted him any speech at all, it was 
 rather incoherent. 
 
 <e That the runt ! " he gasped, and subsided into an 
 empty seat. 
 
 And in this inelegant, but pithy, summing up of the 
 capacity and dimensions of the new official the division 
 was with him to the last section hand. Him a rail- 
 road man ! The Hill Division remembered " Royal " 
 Carleton and was ashamed, and it rankled for the 
 shame that it considered had been put upon it. Out of 
 it all, Haggerty was the only thing of saving grace! 
 So upon Haggerty they loosened, behind the humor, 
 some of their bitterness. Haggerty became the safety 
 valve of the division. 
 
 A month had gone by and Hale had lived well up 
 to what his appearance had led them to expect. He 
 might have been an automaton for all the signs of 
 life that emanated from his office. Just routine, the 
 routine business, routine, that was all. The disquiet 
 and unrest that brooded over the division became con- 
 tempt the kind of contempt that made the car-tinks 
 put on airs, and in their heart of hearts figure them- 
 selves better railroad men than he who sat over them 
 in supreme authority. 
 
 Even Haggerty no longer ducked out of sight when 
 
"WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 263 
 
 circumstances required that he should breathe the same 
 air as his superior. Haggerty had acquired a swagger ; 
 also, he now voiced his opinion, his cordially poor 
 opinion, of Mr. Hale without restraint and with no 
 check upon his tongue. 
 
 And then Haggerty got a shock. It was imparted by 
 Spence. 
 
 " Got it from Hale's clerk last night," said the dis- 
 patcher. " He's going to run an inspection special 
 over the division, and he's picked out the fag end of all 
 things for the crew. He picked you first, Haggerty." 
 
 " Aw, forget it ! " growled Haggerty, with a scowl. 
 
 " I think there's something behind it, though," 
 Spence went on, his voice modulated confidentially. 
 " Between you and me, Haggerty, the inspection trip 
 is a bluff." 
 
 Haggerty pricked up his ears. " How's that? " he 
 demanded. 
 
 " Well," said Spence serenely, backing to a safe dis- 
 tance, " I think he's hurt at the way you've cut him 
 since he's been here. He's pining for your company, 
 and " 
 
 Haggerty sprang to his feet from the baggage truck 
 on which he had been seated, and shook his fist franti- 
 cally at the fast retreating figure. He was still gestic- 
 ulating fiercely and muttering savagely to himself 
 when the window in the dispatcher's room overhead 
 opened softly, and Spence stuck out his head. 
 
 " Hey, there, Haggerty," he called, " quit practising 
 that deaf and dumb alphabet. You haven't got any 
 time to waste. You want to run along and get the 
 
264 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 missus to press out a pair of panties, and iron a boiled 
 shirt for you. You'll get your orders in the morning." 
 
 " Come down for one minute," choked Haggerty, 
 his rage fanned to a white heat by the knowledge of his 
 own impotence, for Spence, as he well knew, was 
 safely entrenched behind locked doors. " Just one 
 minute, an' I'll make your face look like it had never 
 been born. I will that ! " 
 
 " Haggerty," said Spence in an injured tone, as the 
 window closed, " you are disgruntled." 
 
 But Haggerty was to be still more disgruntled, for 
 the next morning, true to Spence's words, he found 
 himself assigned to Inspection Special Number Eighty- 
 nine. Haggerty was not happy; but he boarded the 
 forward car, as they pulled out for the mountains with 
 the mental resolution that he would keep out of the 
 super's way. 
 
 Resolutions, however, like many other things, are 
 sometimes rudely upset in the face of conditions that 
 are not taken into account in the reckoning. They had 
 been running at a forty-mile clip, and were about into 
 the yard at Coyote Bend, when Haggerty nearly went 
 to the floor as the " air " came on with a sudden rush, 
 and the train came jerking to a halt like a bucking 
 bronco. The whistle was going like mad for the block 
 ahead. Haggerty grabbed his red flag, dropped to the 
 ground, and ran back past the super's car to take his 
 distance. 
 
 Up ahead, he could see the tail end of a freight dis- 
 appearing around the bend, crawling into safety on the 
 siding. Nothing very interesting about that, some- 
 
"WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 265 
 
 body would get Tokio for laying out the Special, he 
 supposed. Maybe the freight had had a breakdown, 
 and was off schedule making the Bend. Personally, 
 Haggerty did not care. It made very little difference 
 to him. He picked up a handful of stones, and began 
 to plug them at the nearest telegraph pole. Suddenly 
 he changed the direction of his shots, and let fly with 
 all his might at a gopher he had spotted squatting in 
 front of his hole. 
 
 " Holy Mac ! " he ejaculated in unbounded astonish- 
 ment. " I believe I hit the cuss ! " and he went back 
 to see. 
 
 Just as he got down the embankment, the Special 
 began to whistle for her flag, one two three four, 
 and Haggerty, scrambling to the track again, began to 
 run. But fast as he ran, he had only covered about 
 half the distance when the train began to move. It 
 was, therefore, a very breathless and panting Haggerty 
 who just managed to grab the rail of the rear car the 
 super's car! 
 
 There was nothing for it but to pass through and 
 Haggerty, with his acquired swagger, started. The 
 super was alone in the rear compartment, seated at a 
 table, a mass of papers before him. Haggerty was in- 
 dustriously rolling up his flag as he passed along. 
 
 "Haggerty!" 
 
 Haggerty stopped and swung around at the sound 
 of his name. 
 
 Hale reached his hand into a box of cigars that lay 
 open on the table, selected one carefully, lighted it, 
 and leaned back in his chair. " I would like to offer 
 
266 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 you one, Haggerty," he said quietly, " but I am afraid 
 you would misunderstand." 
 
 Haggerty shifted a little before the super's look. 
 Somehow, there wasn't any squint at all; instead, be- 
 hind the glasses, the gray eyes were remarkably bright 
 and clear, and their steadiness was discomposing to 
 Haggerty. 
 
 " It seems," said Hale, a little smile playing around 
 the corners of his mouth, " that they don't measure 
 men by the same standard out West here that they did 
 when we were back on the Penn together, eh ? " 
 
 Haggerty reddened. His only belief would have 
 been in bluster; but, curiously enough, there was 
 something about this little man, he couldn't tell just 
 what, that made bluster impossible. Therefore, Hag- 
 gerty held his peace, and his fingers played nervously 
 with the flag, twirling it around and around awk- 
 wardly. 
 
 "Don't make any mistake, Haggerty," the super 
 continued pleasantly. " I'm not trying to rub it in. 
 I want you to know that I've heard the story. I want 
 you to know that I didn't nose it out. I heard it at the 
 lunch-counter that day after you went out, and before 
 the men there knew who I was. I want to start 
 straight with you, Haggerty." 
 
 Haggerty was puzzled and flustered at this opening. 
 " Well, sir," he blurted out, " of course you know it 
 was all a lie. I only did it for a josh." 
 
 " Yes, I understand," Hale answered. " In itself it 
 didn't amount to anything, but the consequences are a 
 little more than you reckoned on, aren't they? It's 
 
(( WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 267 
 
 acted like a boomerang, and you're pretty sore, Hag- 
 gerty, aren't you ? " 
 
 The openness and friendly tones of the super took 
 hold of Haggerty, and he warmed toward the other. 
 
 " Well, yes, sir, I suppose I am," he admitted. 
 
 Hale nodded. " Now, I want you to see the other 
 side of it, Haggerty my side. No division of any 
 railroad, or anything else for that matter, can do itself 
 justice unless everyone connected with it is pulling to- 
 gether for it. I want every man out here with me, 
 and first of all I want you. There is nothing destroys 
 respect so much as ridicule. The division, much after 
 the fashion that an epidemic of measles springs up 
 amongst children, took it into their heads to dislike 
 the successor of Mr. Carleton, no matter who he might 
 be. Now, unfortunately, instead of having checked 
 the spread, the germs are being fostered because, back 
 of their fun with you, a description of contempt for me 
 is constantly kept alive. So I want you to 
 cooperate with me, Haggerty, and show them that, 
 after all, whether I'm a holy terror or not, whether I'm 
 a runt of a giant, no matter what, I'm entitled to a 
 fair deal out here in the West. There, Haggerty, 
 that's a pretty long sermon for me. I'm not much at 
 preaching. Just turn what I've said over in your mind, 
 that's all. I think I can safely offer you a cigar now. 
 Will you have one ? " 
 
 Haggerty accepted the cigar with a flustered mumble 
 of thanks, and as he went forward to the other coach 
 he chewed the end pensively. 
 
 "Well, how's the little fellow? Hope the ride 
 
268 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 ain't makin' him car-sick," sneered Slakely, the con- 
 ductor. 
 
 Haggerty strode up to the other, and shoved his 
 fist savagely within an inch of Slakely's nose. 
 
 " I'll have you know, the super's all right, you wall- 
 eyed coyote, you ! I'm tellin' you he's a man. Do I 
 hear any r^-marks to the contrary ? " 
 
 " Say," gasped Slakely blankly, retreating down the 
 aisle, " what's the matter with you, anyway ? " 
 
 ''' That's what's the matter ! " Haggerty's explana- 
 tion was more forcible than explicit, though the mean- 
 ing of his clenched fist which he shook at the other was 
 pointed enough in its inference. " That's what's the 
 matter, my bucko," he repeated fiercely, " an' don't 
 you forget it! I'm givin' it to you straight, an' I'll 
 take none of your lip about it neither ! See ? " 
 
 Haggerty had raised the standard. Not, perhaps, 
 as the super had expected; but according to his own 
 ideas, or rather to his fiery temper which led him to act 
 blindly on the spur of the moment as his impulse 
 directed. 
 
 But it was not this method of Haggerty's, if such a 
 term could by any stretch of the imagination be applied 
 to Haggerty, that was to bring about the desired result, 
 and at the same time rid him of his tormentors tor- 
 mentors who continued to sound the cry, " Where's 
 Haggerty ? " with undiminished frequency tormen- 
 tors who were much too wary to allow themselves to 
 be caught anywhere within striking distance, for Hag- 
 gerty's forearm was a thing to wonder at. Instead, 
 the end came from another source as totally different 
 
" WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 269 
 
 as it was unexpected. It came on the third day of the 
 inspection trip, up in the Rockies at the new bridge 
 across the Stony River and it was the new bridge 
 that did it. 
 
 They were to lay out there for the morning, and 
 Haggerty started in to employ the two or three hours 
 of leisure this gave him by looking over the work. It 
 wasn't much of a bridge as bridges go, for the Stony 
 wasn't much of a river; but the approaches were 
 enough to pull the heart out of the stoutest bridge crew 
 that ever toiled and sweated and slaved. Just rock, 
 solid, gray, massive; and so it was blast, blast, blast, 
 hour after hour all through the day, day after day. 
 One span, resting on the shore abutments, was to 
 bridge the canon that yawned six hundred feet below, 
 where the Stony swirled and eddied, a foaming, angry, 
 chattering, little stream. 
 
 On the eastern side, where Haggerty stood, the an- 
 chorage was pretty well under way, but over across 
 on the western shore they were still pitting their blast- 
 ing powder against the stubborn rock of the mountain- 
 side. Haggerty crossed over on the old bridge to take 
 a look at this. Just as he reached the other side a 
 stationary engine blew shrilly for a blast, and the 
 men began to run for cover. Haggerty pulled his 
 watch and marked the time one minute and fifteen 
 seconds. Then the blast thundered, echoed, reechoed, 
 and died away through the mountains. He joined the 
 men as they went back to their work. 
 
 " Holy Mac ! " he exclaimed to the foreman, as "he 
 peered over the edge of the excavation and looked 
 
270 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 down some fifteen or twenty feet to the ledge where 
 the men were already busy again. " Holy Mac ! 
 You've got to look sharp, eh ? " 
 
 " Oh, I dunno," replied the foreman. " We give 
 'em plenty of time. When the whistle blows the men 
 hump it. We don't touch the button till the last one is 
 crawlin' over the top of the bank. Then, with the 
 time fuse, there's a minute, lots of time." 
 
 Haggerty looked on for awhile, then he turned 
 away, sat down by one of the shanties, and loaded his 
 pipe. The pipe once alight, he settled himself in a 
 more comfortable position by sprawling on his back, 
 his hands under his head. From where he lay, he com- 
 manded a view of the other side of the river as well as 
 the work before him. He could see Hale across there 
 talking to one of the bridge engineers. He watched 
 the two men lazily, in drowsy contentment, until he 
 lost sight of them as they started to come over to his 
 side, then his attention became riveted again on his 
 immediate surroundings. 
 
 They were getting ready for another blast. Hag- 
 gerty sat up. It was rather exciting to see the men 
 come scrambling out of the hole. The whistle had just 
 gone three toots. They were coming now, one head 
 after another popping up over the edge, then the shoul- 
 ders, and finally the men on their feet running like 
 deers for shelter not far, only a few yards, for the ex- 
 cavation itself afforded protection, once clear of it. 
 Haggerty himself was not fifteen yards away. 
 
 He counted the men as they came out. It was the 
 eighteenth who, just as his head and shoulders ap- 
 
"WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 271 
 
 peared, waved an arm and shouted : " All out. Let 
 'er go ! " He saw the foreman bend over the battery 
 and make the connection that would spark the time- 
 fuse at the other end, and then a groan of horror went 
 up around him. Number Eighteen, with a cry and a 
 desperate effort to pull himself over the top, had slipped 
 back and disappeared from sight ! 
 
 Haggerty's pipe dropped to the ground from be- 
 tween his teeth, his heart seemed to stop its beats, a 
 cold sweat broke out upon his face. He was on his 
 feet now, and the foreman's words were ringing in his 
 ears : " Then there's a minute, lots of time ! Then 
 there's a minute, lots of time!" 
 
 He began to run, and the seconds, as he ran, length- 
 ened into years and cycles. " My God ! " he muttered 
 in a catchy way. 
 
 But fast as he ran, someone was faster than he. 
 Five yards from the edge of the excavation, a figure, 
 small, short, speeding like the wind, passed him. It 
 was Hale the super ! 
 
 Behind, the foreman's voice bellowed hoarsely: 
 " Come back ! Come back ! Ye can't get to the fuse ! 
 D'ye hear!" 
 
 " Mabbe," mumbled Haggerty between his teeth, 
 " mabbe we can get the man. Mary, Mother, help 
 us!" 
 
 Hale, flat on the ground, was making to swing him- 
 self over as Haggerty, for the second time, caught him 
 by the collar of his coat. " You ain't strong enough," 
 he grunted, yanking the super back. " You help me 
 from the top " and over the edge he went himself. 
 
272 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Then there's a minute, lots of time ! " the words 
 came again unbidden. How much, in God's name how 
 much, of that minute had gone, how much was left? 
 His teeth were set, his heart pounds so fierce and rapid 
 that his breath came hard and choked, as he lowered 
 himself to a little ledge, projecting- out some seven 
 or eight feet below the surface that had caught and 
 held the body of Number Eighteen. The man lay there 
 groaning. It was easy to see what had happened. A 
 misplaced step in the climb, then a loosened rock, his 
 balance gone, and the stone had crashed down upon his 
 legs and ankles. 
 
 There was a look of helpless terror in the eyes of 
 the wounded man as Haggerty reached and bent over 
 him. " Get out," the white lips quivered. " You ain't 
 got time. I give the signal. The blast'll be goin' now." 
 
 " There's a minute, lots of time," said Haggerty in a 
 sing-song, crazy way. He was trying to fit the words 
 to an air he had heard somewhere. Queer he couldn't 
 remember it, the words were straight enough! Then 
 he laughed foolishly as he worked like a madman ! 
 
 He had raised the man in his arms and now, heaving 
 with all his strength, was gradually pushing him up, 
 up. The strain became terrific. Haggerty's muscles 
 cracked. One of his arms was almost useless to him 
 owing to the narrowness of the ledge that, to maintain 
 even a precarious footing as, little by little, he rose to 
 an upright position, forced him tight against the wall 
 of rock and earth. Haggerty panted with cruel, gasp- 
 ing sobs. " Then there's a minute, lots of time ! " 
 The repetition of the words came surging upon him 
 
" WHERE'S HAGGERTY?" 273 
 
 with a shock of horror, lending him a frenzied 
 strength. A desperate twist, and he had made the half- 
 turn that brought his back to the cutting. His other 
 arm was free now. A heave, and he had swung Num- 
 ber Eighteen above his shoulders within reach of the 
 super's outstretched hands. A second more, and, with 
 Hale pulling above and Haggerty lifting below, the 
 man, with a cry of agony as his wounded leg banged 
 limply against the ground, was forced up over the 
 bank. 
 
 " Quick, Haggerty ! For God's sake, be quick 
 yourself," cried Hale. "Hurry, man, hurry!" 
 
 " There's a minute " Haggerty sprang for the 
 top of the bank, clutched it " lots of" The last 
 word was blotted out as he dragged himself over the 
 edge, and heard Hale's sharp command : " Lie flat ! " 
 From behind and below him came the roar of the de- 
 tonation, he felt the ground shake and quiver beneath 
 him, the echoes were rolling and reverberating like a 
 park of artillery then Hale's low, fervent: "Thank 
 God!" 
 
 It was Hale who got it first as the mob of men 
 rushed forward, cheering, laughing, gabbling hysteric- 
 ally. And it was at Hale's uplifted hand that the 
 clamor died suddenly away, and in its stead came the 
 super's voice in quiet tones: "Where's Haggerty?" 
 
 " Aw, gwan ! " sputtered Haggerty sheepishly, try- 
 ing to fight his way out of the crowd that pressed upon 
 him to haul and maul him, to thump his back, to shake 
 his hand. " Aw, gwan ! I wanter get me pipe that 
 I left over by the shanty." 
 
XII 
 McQUEEN'S HOBBY 
 
 THERE isn't much use in talking about the logical 
 or the illogical when you come to couple up with a 
 man's hobby, because a hobby is a hobby and that's all 
 there is to it with nothing left to be said on the sub- 
 ject. Most men have a hobby. McQueen's was coal 
 just coal. 
 
 McQueen talked coal with a persistence that was 
 amazing. On all occasions and under any pretext it 
 was coal. Was he off schedule with a regularity that 
 entailed his presence on the carpet before the division 
 superintendent, it was coal. Did he break down be- 
 tween meeting-points with the attendant result that 
 the dispatchers fretted and fumed and swore as they 
 readjusted their schedules and rearranged their train 
 sheets, it was coal. Everlastingly and eternally 
 coal. 
 
 "What's coal?" McQueen would demand orac- 
 ularly. " It's carbon and oxygen and hydrogen with a 
 dash of nitrogen, ain't it? Well, then, what are you 
 talking about? Coal ain't just coal, some of it's 
 mostly slate. Two hundred and ten pounds all the 
 way, all the time, with the grate bars cluttered with 
 that, huh! What?" 
 
 No purchasing agent that had ever hit the division 
 
 274 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 275 
 
 had been quite able to satisfy McQueen with the brand 
 of the commodity that was supplied in accordance 
 with the requisition orders that he drew. And so, 
 day in and day out, big 802 puffed her way through 
 the mountains, and McQueen, in the cab, absorbed 
 coal statistics, coal data, coal everything, with an 
 avidity, a thoroughness, and a masterliness of 
 detail, that would have put some noted geologists to 
 shame and given the rest a run to hold their rights 
 on the marked-up schedule. 
 
 Up at headquarters when things were running 
 smoothly and McQueen was behaving himself with 
 no scores chalked up against him on the time-card 
 they treated his hobby as a joke. So that when his 
 whistle boomed out of the gorge to the westward, or 
 shrilled across the cut to the eastward, followed a 
 moment afterward by the sight of the big, flying 
 mogul with her string of slewing dark-green coaches, 
 the staff on duty at Big Cloud would lean from the 
 upper windows and watch the Limited as she shat- 
 tered the yard switches with a roar watch as, with a 
 hiss of the air and the grinding of the brake shoes as 
 they sparked the tires, she would draw up, panting, at 
 the platform, and the big engineer would swing him- 
 self from the cab for an oil around. Then the badi- 
 nage flew thick and fast while McQueen swabbed his 
 hands on a hunk of waste and punctuated the remarks 
 with squirts from his long-spouted can as he filled the 
 thirsty oil cups. 
 
 So the big fellows laughed and joked, and the 
 Brotherhood chaffed him unmercifully. 
 
276 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD] 
 
 If anyone had asked McQueen what had started, 
 let alone caused him to exhaust the subject of coal 
 with such painstaking and conscientious insistence, 
 he couldn't for the life of him have answered. It had 
 started just started, that's all and, fascinating him, 
 had pursued its insidious advance unchecked and un- 
 questioned that is, unquestioned until one morning 
 when Clarihue, the turner at the Big Cloud round- 
 house, kind of jerked him up a little on the proposi- 
 tion. 
 
 " You're against the red, you and your coal, 
 Mac, all right, all right," Clarihue chuckled, as 
 the engineer came in to sign on for the day's 
 run. 
 
 McQueen was patting 8o2's slide bars affection- 
 ately. " How's that? " he asked. 
 
 "Oil!" 
 
 " Oil ? " repeated McQueen, puzzled. 
 
 " Sure thing ! No more coal no more slate no 
 more cinders you touch her off, and there you are! 
 You'll have to cut out the coal and plug up on oil, 
 Mac." 
 
 "Oh!" said McQueen, enlightened. "Oil-burn- 
 ers, eh ? I saw one of 'em down East. They're evil- 
 smelling, inhuman, stinking brutes, that's what they 
 are! Don't you let 'em side track you like that, son. 
 They may do down there, but not in the hills. Not 
 while you and me are pulling throttles, and don't you 
 think so." 
 
 Clarihue grinned. 
 
 " Well, mabbe," said he. " But say, honest, Mac, 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 277 
 
 what's the sense of gassing about coal the way you 
 do? What's to come out of it? What's the good of 
 it? You just get the laugh from the boys, 
 what?" 
 
 McQueen's answer was to scratch his head. To 
 put the matter into the concrete class of practica- 
 bility was a phase of the subject that he had not con- 
 sidered. He scratched his head when the turner had 
 gone ; and, also, he scratched his head for several days 
 thereafter. Then he caught at a happy inspiration 
 whereby to solve the riddle, and therein he fell but 
 of that in a moment. 
 
 Things were booming on the Hill Division. 
 Traffic was doubled, trebled. Everything on the train 
 sheets was in sections. Promotions flew thick and 
 fast. Wipers were set to firing, and the firemen 
 moved over to the right-hand side of the cabs. Every 
 wheel the division could beg, borrow or steal was 
 doing fancy time stunts smashing records. Everyone 
 from car-tink to superintendent, was on the jump. 
 Even the directors, not to be outdone in the general 
 order of things, worked overtime rubbing fat hands 
 in gleeful anticipation of juicy, luscious dividends to 
 be ; only they neglected to figure in Noonan as an item 
 on the balance sheets. 
 
 Noonan? Where is the Brotherhood that does not 
 number among its members men with grievances, 
 fancied or real? Noonan had a grievance, no par- 
 ticular grievance, just a grievance and Noonan was 
 a power in that branch of the Brotherhood that held 
 sway over the Hill Division. Noonan always had a 
 
278 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 grievance; due, primarily, to the fact that he had a 
 deep and long-seated grudge against himself. It 
 dated way back he'd been born that way. 
 
 " Grievances! " he spluttered to a group of his ad- 
 mirers. " Grievances ? Why, we're against the worst 
 of it all the time. We're not track-walkers, are we? 
 Well then, who runs the road? It's us on the 
 throttles, what? Who's to blame for our measly 
 schedule of hours and pay? We are, 'cause we 
 haven't the sand to stand up for our rights. That's 
 what, and don't you forget it ! " 
 
 There was a chorus of assent. " Noonan's right," 
 said one Devins, " only it don't look to me like now 
 was what you might rightly call the time to growl. 
 Times are good, everything's double-headed, and the 
 paycar's running carload lots." 
 
 Noonan glared. f You've got the brains of a piston 
 head, that's what you have," he exploded. " It's 
 times like these we'd win hands down. Perhaps you'd 
 like to wait till there's nothing doing, and they're 
 laying the boys off and everybody, mostly, is running 
 spare! What chance d'ye think any demands would 
 stand then?" 
 
 Of a truth it was the accepted time and a most 
 glorious opportunity. In that, Noonan was right. 
 Only one obstacle lay between him and the accom- 
 plishment of his cherished ambition to make some^ 
 thing of his trouble-hunting proclivities and become 
 a leader of men in a strike. That obstacle was 
 McQueen. 
 
 McQueen was a company man. Out and out a 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 279 
 
 company man; though nothing would have surprised 
 McQueen more than to learn that he was looked up 
 to as a leader by the conservative element of the 
 Brotherhood. True, he and his coal was the joke of 
 the division; but that was only a joke, and in no wise 
 to be held up against him. His influence, of whose 
 existence he was oblivious, was based on things apart 
 from that. Big, kindly, honest, incapable of deceit, 
 simple, straight-forward, staunch in his friendships, 
 somewhat inclined to stubborness in his beliefs per- 
 haps, easily ruffled but as easily pacified, such was 
 McQueen. Such was the McQueen the officials 
 honored, and such was the McQueen with whom the 
 boys would gladly and loyally have shared their pay 
 checks to the last cent. 
 
 All this Noonan knew. Knew, too, that to gain his 
 end he must first win over McQueen. And to that 
 object he began to devote himself. He and McQueen 
 shared the honors of the fast mail, and under or- 
 dinary conditions communication between the two 
 men was limited to a flirt of the hand from the cab as 
 one or other of them tore by the siding designated 
 as their meeting-point by the lords of the road, the 
 dispatchers. But now things were a bit different, 
 everything was more or less off schedule. And while 
 the Limited, East and West, was nursed along as 
 near her running time as possible, and generally got 
 the best of it over everything else, there were, never- 
 theless, occasions when both men were stalled together 
 on time orders at the same point. 
 
 Noonan tackled McQueen at the first opportunity. 
 
280 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 He picked his way cautiously as though not quite 
 sure of his rights and ready for a quick reverse. 
 
 " Say, Mac," he began, " what do you think of all 
 this talk that's going 'round ? " 
 
 " Talk ? " said McQueen. " What talk ? " 
 
 " You don't mean to say," gasped Noonan, in well- 
 simulated surprise, " that you haven't heard it ? And 
 the boys are slinging it pretty hot, at that ! " 
 
 " I haven't heard anything," McQueen answered, 
 slightly suspicious that Noonan was about to spring 
 one at his expense. "What you giving us?" 
 
 "Straight," confided Noonan earnestly. "It's 
 strike, Mac, that's what." 
 
 " Strike ! " ejaculated McQueen, bewildered. " What 
 for?" 
 
 " What for ! " cried Noonan. " What for? That's 
 a sweet question to ask. Well, pretty dashed near 
 everything," he waved his hand expansively 
 " hours, scale, and and " 
 
 McQueen shook his head. " I'm not kicking," he 
 said. " I don't see anything to strike about. Looks 
 to me as though you fellows were hunting trouble. 
 You'll probably get it, what?" 
 
 " You never see anything," Noonan blurted out, 
 irritation getting the better of diplomacy. " Nothing 
 but the blamed coal you're forever yapping 
 about." 
 
 " What I know about coal," returned McQueen 
 with dignity, "you'll never know. It's a subject that 
 requires brains." 
 
 " Is that so! " Noonan jeered. " You tell it! " 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 281 
 
 "It requires brains/' McQueen repeated stolidly. 
 
 " It's a shame that the only man on the division 
 that has 'em, don't know how to use 'em, then," 
 Noonan prodded. " Who cares about your blazing old 
 coal and what it's made of? Talk's cheap. There's 
 no sense to it, anyhow." 
 
 " Maybe there isn't, and then again maybe there is. 
 At any rate, there's a dollar a day for every man 
 pulling a throttle," McQueen announced triumph- 
 antly. " I don't know yet just how much for the fire- 
 men, I haven't figured it on their schedule." 
 
 Noonan pricked up his ears. " What's that you 
 say, Mac," he demanded. 
 
 Here was McQueen's vindication. They'd laugh 
 at his absurd, pointless theories on coal, would they? 
 Well then, he'd show them! And it wasn't any of 
 their business, either, how many days he'd racked 
 his brains, puzzling out an adequate solution to the 
 question Clarihue had flung at him! He shook two 
 impressive fat fingers at Noonan. 
 
 " One dollar a day, every day, and the spare men 
 proportionately, that's what! Do you get that, 
 Noonan ? " 
 
 " Rats ! " said Noonan. " You'd better go into the 
 shops for repairs. You need new stay-bolts on your 
 dome cover ! " 
 
 " Never you mind my dome cover," McQueen 
 flung back, beginning to get exasperated. " It may 
 need a little tinkering, but it's not ready for the scrap- 
 heap yet, the way some are I could mention but 
 won't. It all goe back to what I said. It's a subject 
 
282 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 that requires brains which you haven't got. There's 
 no use explaining anything to you because 
 
 " You can't," Noonan interrupted craftily. " You're 
 only long on wind, Mac." 
 
 " You listen to me, you rust- jointed disgrace to 
 the throttle ! " cried McQueen, stung into retort. 
 " You listen to me ! What are you paid for ? Mile- 
 age, ain't it ? How do you get your mileage ? Steam ! 
 What makes steam? Coal! D'ye hear? Coal! Coal, 
 and don't you forget it. Well then, poor coal means 
 poor steam, and poor steam means poor mileage, don't, 
 it, what?" 
 
 Noonan burst into a loud and derisive guffaw. 
 
 McQueen glared. " You're a wild, uneducated, 
 hee-hawing ass ! " he choked. " What do you know, 
 anyway? Nothing! But I know! A dollar a day I 
 said, and I say so now. I figured it out. It's the 
 difference between high grade coal and the muck we 
 burn. It's the difference between the mileage we 
 make and the mileage we could make in the same time. 
 That totes up one dollar a day. Supposing they 
 wouldn't let us have any more mileage than they do 
 now, well, we'd do it in better time, and the difference 
 would be ours, wouldn't it ? And time's money. And 
 that totes up one dollar a day just the same. It's the 
 same either way time or mileage. Take your 
 choice!" 
 
 " There, Johnny, that's a good boy, run along and 
 fetch me a bucket of steam," Noonan scoffed. 
 
 With a snort of unutterable contempt, McQueen 
 turned to swing himself into his cab. 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 283 
 
 " Hold on a minute, Mac," Noonan cried, afraid 
 that he had overstepped himself. " Don't get whiffy. 
 I swear, I believe you're right. Let's see how you 
 figure it." 
 
 And McQueen, mollified, figured it. Figured it 
 with the stub of a pencil in greasy, scrawling char- 
 acters on the back of a time order. As to the pro- 
 cess by which the conclusion was arrived at, that was 
 something of which Noonan was in profound and 
 utter ignorance. Whether it was right or wrong, 
 he did not know. He never knew and cared less! 
 Certainly the result was there. 
 
 McQueen completed the last figure of his calcula- 
 tion with a flourish. " There ! " he cried exultingly. 
 " How about it now, eh? " 
 
 Noonan took the paper, wrinkled his brows, pursed 
 his lips, and stared at it with the air of a connoisseur 
 of calculus. " H'm," said he slowly, " are you dead 
 sure it's right, Mac ? " 
 
 " Right ! " McQueen fairly yelled, touched in an- 
 other tender spot. " Right ! Confound you, it's 
 there in black and white, ain't it? Figures don't lie, 
 do they? Well, what in thunder's wrong with you, 
 then?" 
 
 " I wanted to be sure, Mac, that's all. Holy fish- 
 plates, I knew it was bad, rotten bad, but I 
 didn't think they were handing it to us like 
 this." 
 
 "You bet it's bad. It's the worst ever. There's 
 more kinds of coal than there are spikes in the right 
 of way from here to Big Cloud and back again, but 
 
284 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 the coal we get is the last on the list. Bad ! It's what 
 I've always said, ain't it?" 
 
 "It's fierce!" continued Noonan with rising em- 
 phasis. " And when the boys hear this, it'll be the 
 last straw. They'll fix 'em I " 
 
 " Fix who ? " inquired McQueen, blankly. 
 
 " Why, ain't I telling you! The company." 
 
 " I I was talking about the coal," said McQueen a 
 little uneasily. 
 
 " Sure you were," Noonan agreed heartily. " Sure 
 you were, and how the company is robbing every 
 engineer on the division of a dollar a day, to say 
 nothing of the firemen and the train crews. It's 
 enough to make a man mad. Well, I should say yes ! " 
 
 " I I didn't say the company was robbing us," 
 protested McQueen. 
 
 " What's that ! " cried Noonan sharply ; then in 
 apparent disgust : " So your crazy old figures are just 
 gas-bag filling like the rest of your coal talk, eh? 
 They did look pretty scaly, and that's a fact. I had 
 my suspicions. That's why I asked you if you were 
 sure they were right. But I might have known they 
 weren't without asking." 
 
 " Oh, you might, might you ? " exploded McQueen, 
 goaded once more into angry outburst. ' You and 
 your suspicions! Who are you! I tell you they are 
 right, and that's the end of it ! " 
 
 " Well, if they're right, why don't you stand by 
 them, then? We're being robbed every day we work, 
 ain't we?" 
 
 " Ye-e-es, I suppose we are," McQueen admitted re- 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 285 
 
 luctantly ; " but I didn't figure it out for the purpose 
 of " 
 
 " Mac," Noonan interrupted unctuously, " 'tain't for 
 you nor me to say the purpose it's to be put to. 
 There's others besides us. But I do say, Mac, you're 
 almighty smart." 
 
 McQueen shook his head. " I'm a company man," 
 he said dubiously. 
 
 "Company man! Of course you are. We're all 
 company men. But right's right and wrong's wrong 
 before anything else. Well, ta ta, Mac, see you 
 again. I'm off. There's Hake with the tissue. I'll 
 tell the boys where you stand." 
 
 It was a somewhat dazed McQueen that in turn 
 pulled himself up into his own cab. He stood in the 
 gangway and squinted meditatively at the coal heaped 
 high on the tender. To his conscientious self-com- 
 munion, his triumphant vindication had somewhat 
 the appearance of a boomerang. " I don't know," he 
 reflected. " It is damn poor coal, and and figures 
 don't lie. We we've been getting the worst of it, 
 and and a man should stand up for his rights." 
 
 And while McQueen, busy with new and momen- 
 tous problems, was steaming west into the Rockies, 
 Noonan, with his tongue in his cheek, was cutting 
 along for Big Cloud with a wide-flung throttle. 
 
 That night, at Big Cloud, Noonan's cronies got the 
 story. That is, they got what Noonan saw fit to tell 
 them. And the burden of his tale was that McQueen 
 was with the Brotherhood and against the company. 
 Jhat was sufficient. They looked with appreciative 
 
286 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 admiration at the man who had done the trick, and 
 then they flew to obey his orders. 
 
 By morning, every engineer on the division had the 
 news. On way freights, on stray freights, on regu- 
 lars, specials, and sections, they got it every last one 
 of them. And McQueen coming east again on Num- 
 ber Two got it, and marvelled a little at his new im- 
 portance, never seeing Noonan's hand in the marked 
 deference paid to him. 
 
 First and last it was a bad business. Bad for the 
 company, bad for the hot heads led by Noonan, bad 
 for the others, and bad for McQueen. It caught the 
 company none too well prepared, and Carleton, for 
 this happened in the days of his superintendency, was 
 hard put to it to move anything. There was pretty 
 bitter feeling; and before it was over there was blood 
 spilled. But the roughs at Big Cloud, who didn't 
 know the pilot from a horn-block, were responsible 
 for the most of that, though, in their own way, too, 
 they ended it. 
 
 It came to a show-down the night they carried 
 young Carl Davis home from the yard on a door 
 they had wrenched from a box-car. Davis was brak- 
 ing in the yard then, and he was a nephew of Mc- 
 Queen's. He had lived with the engineer ever since, 
 as a little chap of ten, he had come out to the West. 
 Childless themselves, McQueen and his wife thought 
 as much of the lad as though he had been their 
 own. 
 
 McQueen in his grief didn't get the rights of it. 
 Only in a confused sort of a way he understood the 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 287 
 
 roughs had winged the boy with a cowardly shot, 
 meaning perhaps to do no more than shoot out his 
 lamp as he swung by on the top of a car. And while 
 his wife with tender hands busied herself in render- 
 ing such assistance to the surgeon as she could, Mc- 
 Queen sat in a chair and stared, dry-eyed and bitter 
 of heart, at the white face on the bed. 
 
 Also McQueen was getting sense. Certainly, he 
 had never intended to strike. Now, the shock of 
 Carl's hurt had sobered his judgment and he saw 
 things as he should have seen them, saw them as he 
 cursed himself for not having seen them before he 
 had allowed his senseless egotism to carry him off his 
 feet. As the thoughts came crowding through his 
 brain, his cheeks burned dull red at his own shame. 
 But through it all he blamed only himself, with never 
 an inkling that he had been used as a cat's-paw by the 
 crafty Noonan that was to come afterward. 
 
 McQueen waited only to wring a half-grudging 
 assurance from the doctor that the boy would pull 
 through, then he took his hat and left the house. It 
 was getting on toward eleven o'clock when he walked 
 into the hall across from the station where the boys 
 had their headquarters, and had been in the habit of 
 congregating each night ever since the strike began. 
 Usually noisy in a good-natured, devil-may-care way, 
 there was a subdued and serious quiet pervading the 
 room as McQueen stepped in. The shooting in the 
 yard was something they had not counted on and, like 
 McQueen, it was acting on them as a tonic. All 
 except Noonan who, evidently bolstered up with a few 
 
288 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 drinks, was more noisy, hilarious and quarrelsome 
 than ever. 
 
 McQueen answered the questions they crowded at 
 him as to the boy's condition soberly, and going over 
 to Noonan took him by the arm and led him into a 
 corner. 
 
 :( The game ain't worth it," he said shortly. " I've 
 had my lesson to-night and I'm through ! " 
 
 ;< What for ? " demanded Noonan aggressively. 
 " We didn't have anything to do with it. We're not 
 responsible, are we?" 
 
 " We are," said McQueen sturdily. " Morally re- 
 sponsible." 
 
 " Morally responsible ! " Noonan mocked with a 
 sneer. " Oh, mamma, listen to him ! Streak of 
 yellow, that's you, McQueen." Then fiercely : " You 
 play the scab and I'll bash your head to jelly." 
 
 " You're drunk," retorted McQueen contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 " Drunk, eh ? I'm not so drunk but that I know 
 who's running this strike. It's me, and don't you 
 foget it! And what I says goes, d'ye hear? " 
 
 " I'm asking you to call it off. Blood on our heads 
 I won't stand for. Our grievances don't warrant 
 what's likely to happen here if things go on. You 
 owe it to the men who followed you into the strike, 
 Noonan." 
 
 " Oh, I do, do I ? Followed me into the strike, 
 eh? How about the men that followed you?" 
 
 " That followed me ? " repeated McQueen in 
 amazement. 
 
McQUEEN'S HOBBY 289 
 
 "Sure, that followed you! You didn't think I 
 took any stock in your batty coal talk, did you? 
 You must think I'm green ! All I wanted was you 
 you bit fast and easy enough the rest of the softies 
 came along then like a pack of sheep. What d'ye 
 think now about me owing it all to the men, Mr. 
 Morally Responsible, eh ? " 
 
 It took McQueen a minute to get the whole of it 
 the bitter whole of it. Then the blood rushed to his 
 face in a crimson flood. He reached out and grasp- 
 ing Noonan by neck and shoulders shook him as 
 a terrier shakes a rat. " You cur ! " he cried hoarsely, 
 and flung the other suddenly away against the 
 wall. 
 
 The men at the sound of the scuffle came running 
 over. 
 
 " He's a scab ! Kill him ! " shrieked Noonan. 
 
 McQueen turned to face the men. "If beating 
 this strike's a scab, I'm a scab," he said quietly. " I'm 
 out to beat it right now ! I've been a fool and I'm 
 ready to admit it. But I didn't know until to-night 
 that I'd been bait for a whining thing like that ! " 
 pointing at Noonan. " He says some of you men 
 came in on the strike because I did. If that's so, then 
 get out of it because I do. Get out of it before there's 
 more on our hands than we'll be able to answer for 
 when we go into Division for the last time. That's 
 all I've got to say. I'm going over now to ask Carle- 
 ton to put me on again, if it's nothing better than 
 pulling a way freight. And and I hope you'll come 
 with me." 
 
290 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD; 
 
 As the flood follows the fracture in the dam, so the 
 breaking of the tension filled the room with pande- 
 monium. Cheers, yells, hisses, curses, shouts the 
 Brotherhood was divided against itself. But ten 
 minutes later, the majority of them were clustered 
 behind McQueen in the super's office. 
 
 Carleton and his staff were sleeping at headquarters 
 those days, and they gathered in a group around the 
 green-shaded lamp on the dispatcher's table to face 
 the delegation. 
 
 " Mr. Carleton/' McQueen began, " we " 
 
 That was all. He never got any further. From 
 the platform outside came hoots and cat-calls, and 
 above the chorus Noonan's voice: 
 
 " Soak the scab! Kill him! If he's so fond of it, 
 let him have it ! Now! " 
 
 The window pane was shivered with a crash, and 
 McQueen, struck full in the head by a huge hunk of 
 coal, sank without so much as a moan to the 
 floor. 
 
 They cured him of brain fever in the course of time 
 all right, but they never cured him of coal. Up and 
 down from one end of the division to the other, when 
 he got around again, he talked coal harder than ever 
 it was his business. McQueen was doing the buy- 
 ing for the road. 
 
 '' There wasn't anything wrong with what I said 
 about coal," he asserts with a smile, when the boys 
 put it up to him. " Not for a minute ! Good coal 
 makes better steam, better everything, and pays the 
 company. They saw that all right. That's why I'm 
 
MCQUEEN'S HOBBY 291 
 
 buying it, see? As for figuring it into the schedule, 
 the sum was too hard and they couldn't do it. Me? 
 Oh, I can't, either, I lost the paper I did it for Noonan 
 on. I ain't so good on figures as I was, what? " 
 
XIII 
 THE REBATE 
 
 HE was known as Dutchy, but his name was Dam- 
 rosch. This is Dutchy's story when Dutchy and the 
 Transcontinental were in the making; and before, as 
 has been recorded elsewhere, he came to Big Cloud. 
 He started railroading as cook's helper on a con- 
 struction gang that was laying track across the prairie. 
 As the mileage grew, so Dutchy grew. At first lank 
 and lean, he took on, little by little, the appearance of 
 being comfortably nourished, until, by the time they 
 hit the Rockies, Dutchy's gait had become a waddle 
 and his innocent blue eyes were almost hidden by the 
 great rolls of fat that puffed out his face like a toy 
 balloon. Then Dutchy, slow of body and likewise of 
 brain, and yearning for a quiet and peaceful existence, 
 secured the lunch-counter rights for Dry Notch. 
 
 Now, Dry Notch, half-way across the prairie, con- 
 sisted of a water-tank, a small roundhouse, a smaller 
 station and a diminutive general store. But because 
 of its geographical position, it was headquarters for 
 the Mid-Plains Division. 
 
 Here, T. V. Brett was superintendent; Thornley 
 was his chief clerk; and MacDonald was dispatcher. 
 And these, with the railroad hands and train-crews 
 comprised the population of Dry Notch, unless there 
 
 292 
 
THE REBATE 293 
 
 might be added a few ranchers somewhere in the 
 neighborhood. 
 
 The staff bunked in a room over the station, and 
 the men had their quarters in the roundhouse, but 
 one and all they ate at Dutchy's counter. Sinkers 
 and coffee, apple pie and sandwiches they stood as a 
 steady diet for a month after he had appeared upon 
 the scene, and then a delegation waited upon him 
 and demanded dishes more substantial. 
 
 " You can make meat pies and chicken stew and 
 all that sort of thing, can't you ? " they demanded. 
 
 " Sure ! " said Dutchy. " But dot iss expensive." 
 
 Money was no object, they assured him, and 
 thereupon proceeded to fix a schedule of prices 
 fifteen cents for a meat pie ; twenty cents for a chicken 
 stew with two slices of bread and butter thrown in 
 for good measure. 
 
 " Veil/' said Dutchy, " so iss it." 
 
 And a few nights later, true to his promise, they 
 got their chicken stew canned chicken stew. 
 
 The huge pot, full to the brim, had been emptied, 
 and Dutchy, his face beaming with smiles, had bustled 
 into the back room for a further supply, when Mac- 
 Donald's voice rose plaintively: 
 
 " It's it's chicken, isn't it? " 
 
 The crowd looked inquiringly at the dispatcher. 
 
 " Because," went on MacDonald softly, " I never 
 heard of any chickens in Dry Notch." 
 
 And then, amid the laughter that ensued, Thornley 
 rose dramatically from his seat, and, picking up a 
 bone from his plate, waved it aloft. 
 
294 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Gentlemen, this is no time for mirth ! " he cried. 
 "We are the victims of a swindle. We are in the 
 clutch of an octopusthat is to say, a food trust, 
 composed of Dutchy and the dining-car conductors 
 of Numbers One and Two. It is my painful duty to 
 assert that I recognize this bone as the identical bone on 
 which I fed two nights ago coming up the line on 
 Number One." 
 
 Dutchy entered, staggering under the load of the re- 
 plenished pot, when Thornley solemnly demanded a 
 rebate on the spot. 
 
 :< Vat iss it ? " said Dutchy, halting and peering 
 anxiously into the pot ; then, evidently reassured that 
 no essential ingredient had been forgotten, he looked 
 up at the ring of faces that were regarding him with 
 grave inquiry. "Vat iss a repate?" he demanded. 
 " It something iss mit der bread und butter for twenty 
 cents to go, yess ? " 
 
 The crowd roared, and up and down the division 
 train-crews, engine-crews, and section-gangs got the 
 joke and passed it on until the lunch-counter became 
 known to every man on the system as "The 
 Rebate." 
 
 They did not explain the joke to Dutchy, and for 
 days he endured the chaff stolidly, though with 
 much bewilderment, until, one afternoon, MacDonald 
 patiently and ploddingly acquainted him with the un- 
 hallowed baseness of one Thornley helping himself, 
 by way of compensation, to the heap of doughnuts 
 under the glass cover. 
 
 Dutchy listened, his cheeks getting redder and 
 
THE REBATE -295 
 
 redder as MacDonald, exaggerating some hundred- 
 fold, suavely rubbed it in. 
 
 " Dot Thornley iss iss a pig ! " shouted Dutchy 
 suddenly, as the light burst in upon him. 
 
 MacDonald nodded assent, his mouth too full of 
 doughnut to speak. 
 
 " Und I a fool iss, yess ? " continued the proprietor, 
 pounding a fat fist on the counter. 
 
 Again MacDonald nodded, smiling sweetly and 
 reached for another doughnut. 
 
 But this time Dutchy's fingers were firmly clasped 
 around the cover, and he peered suspiciously through 
 the glass at the number of doughnuts remaining, 
 then glared at the dispatcher. 
 
 " You you git out from here ! " he said slowly, but 
 with rising emphasis. 
 
 And MacDonald, chuckling, went. 
 
 It was not until after supper that same evening, 
 when Number One pulled in, that Dutchy made any 
 move toward retribution then Dutchy cut loose. It 
 was Taggart who got it little Shorty Taggart, the 
 driver of Number One, who was red-haired and an 
 inveterate joker, and likewise a great crony of 
 Thornley's. 
 
 The first intimation MacDonald had that anything 
 was up was an enraged howl that, rising above the 
 tumult of the station, reached him where he sat in 
 the dispatcher's office. There was no mistaking the 
 voice it was Dutchy's. MacDonald stuck his head 
 hastily out of the window, while Thornley, who was 
 in the room, leaned over his shoulder. 
 
296 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD: 
 
 Dutchy was bellowing like a mad bull. " Say it ! 
 Shusht say it. Oh! py golly! " 
 
 Here followed a volcanic eruption of guttural 
 German with one or two words common to all lan- 
 guages intermingled. 
 
 Then, flying through the doorway of the lunch- 
 room, dashing down the platform, scattering 
 loungers, passengers, and car-tinks in all directions, 
 in a mad rush for the engine end of the train, tore a 
 short figure in tight-fitting, bandy-legged overalls, 
 whose flaming red hair presented a shining mark for 
 the plate that whizzed past his ear and smashed into a 
 hundred pieces against a baggage-truck. 
 
 And Dutchy, blowing hard, his sleeves rolled up 
 over the fat of his arms, waddled to the center of the 
 platform and shook a frantic fist after the retreating 
 engineer. 
 
 "la fool iss no longer yet, don'd it ? " he screamed, 
 and, puffing his cheeks in and out like a whezzy in- 
 jector, he turned, reentered the restaurant, and the 
 door closed behind him with a resounding 
 bang. 
 
 MacDonald drew in his head, and the tears were 
 running down his cheeks as he held his 
 sides. 
 
 Thornley groped for a chair. 
 
 " Guess Taggart was asking for a rebate/' he 
 gasped. " It was worth pay to see him run." 
 
 " You bet ! " said MacDoneld eloquently, when he 
 could get his breath. 
 
 The door opened, and Brett, the super, came in. 
 
THE REBATE 297 
 
 "D'ye see Taggart and Dutchy, Brett?" cried 
 Thornley. 
 
 "Yes," said Brett, laughing. Then, more seri- 
 ously : " Look here, you'd better patch it up with 
 Dutchy. There's no use rubbing it in too hard. 
 MacDonald, tell Blaney to put my car on Number Two 
 when she comes in. I'm going east to-night." 
 
 The patching, however, was quite a different matter 
 than talking about it. 
 
 The next morning the lunch-room door was omi- 
 nously closed and the staff went breakfastless. By 
 listening at the keyhole, and from an occasional 
 glimpse through the window, they knew that Dutchy 
 was inside. 
 
 But to pleadings, threats, and door-kickings 
 the occupant was, to all intents and purposes, oblivi- 
 ous. Things began to look serious for the staff and 
 station hands who were wont to depend on Dutchy 
 for their grub-stakes. 
 
 Thornley whistled softly and pulled at his pipe, his 
 feet on the dispatcher's desk. 
 
 " He'll have to open up when Number Ninety-Seven 
 pulls in," Thornley was saying, more by way of re- 
 assuring himself than of presenting any new view of 
 the case to MacDonald. " The company won't stand 
 for any inconvenience to the passengers that is " he 
 hastened to amend, " not of this kind. What ? 
 TheyVe got a sort of lien on that joint, and if he 
 waits for them to get after him he'll get into trouble v 
 Wish Brett were back he'd make him open up 
 quick, I guess. What's the matter with Number 
 
298 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Ninety-Seven, anyhow ? Thought you said she was on 
 time?" 
 
 " So she is," said MacDonald, grinning. " Hear 
 her?" 
 
 From the eastward came the hoarse shriek from 
 the whistle of a five-hundred class. 
 
 " Guess I'll go down," said Thornley. " Coming? " 
 
 MacDonald nodded and got up from his chair. 
 The two men reached the platform in time to acknowl- 
 edge a flirt of the hand from Sanders in the cab as the 
 big machine, wheel-tires sparking from the tight-set 
 brakes, rolled slowly past them, coming to a halt 
 farther on. 
 
 Simultaneously the door of the lunch-room swung 
 wide open, and on the threshold, completely filling 
 the opening with his bulk, stood Dutchy. In his left 
 hand he held his bell, which he began to ring clamor- 
 ously; in his right hand, almost but not quite con- 
 cealed behind his apron, was no less a weapon than 
 a substantial-looking rolling-pin. A crowd of pas- 
 sengers began to surge toward the restaurant, and 
 among them mingled the hungry railroad men of 
 Dry Notch. 
 
 "Come on!" shouted Thornley exultantly. "I 
 knew he'd have to open up. Here's where we feed 
 h'm?" 
 
 :< Vait ! " cried Dutchy imperiously, as the head of 
 the column reached him. " You, yess ; you, no. Vat 
 iss it ? " He was sorting the sheep from the goats, 
 allowing the passengers to enter, pushing the railroad- 
 ers ruthlessly to one side. 
 
THE REBATE 299 
 
 " You, yess ; you, no. You, yess ; you oh ! py 
 golly!" 
 
 He had caught sight of Thornley, and, swinging 
 suddenly, struck out viciously in that direction with 
 the rolling-pin. Being obliged, however, to maintain 
 his position in the doorway, the strategic key to the 
 situation, the jab fell short by two or three inches, 
 barely missing Thornley's nose. 
 
 Thornley fell back instinctively. 
 
 " Look here, you old ass ! " he yelled angrily, 
 " we've had about enough of this. It's past a joke. 
 The company's got a lien on that joint of yours, and 
 we'll close it up so tight you'll never open it again 
 d'ye hear?" 
 
 Dutchy stopped short in the monotonous, " You, 
 yess; you, no," on which he had recommenced, and 
 his paunch began to shake. 
 
 "Yah!" he cried. "Dot iss a joke. Oh, py 
 golly, lean! Dot iss ven you ge-starving get, yah? 
 Ho, ho ! Ha, ha ! " 
 
 In Dutch's burst of merriment first one and then 
 another joined, until even Thornley, his good nature 
 getting the better of him, roared with the rest at his 
 own expense. 
 
 But if this apparent return to good humor on 
 Dutchy's part inspired any hope in the minds of the 
 railroad men that he had relented and that former 
 friendly relations were to be resumed, they were 
 doomed to disappointment, for Dutchy stolidly con- 
 tinued to allow the passengers to go in and as stolidly 
 barred the entrance to the others. 
 
300 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Then they gave it up, and bought out the slender 
 stock of canned goods and biscuits from the shelves 
 of the general store. 
 
 They messed in the baggage-room and they swal- 
 lowed their scanty portions to the tune of " Die 
 Wacht am Rhein," bellowed out by a strong and 
 sonorous voice, through the partition, on the other side 
 of which, laid out in tempting confusion, as they were 
 painfully aware, was plenty. 
 
 What they had, however, did little more than whet 
 their appetites, and by three o'clock some of the men 
 were talking of carrying the position by storm, help- 
 ing themselves, and doing a few fancy stunts with 
 Dutchy. 
 
 :< We can't have any row," said Thornley, pulling at 
 his mustache and staring at MacDonald. " What 
 had we better do? The boys'll be pulling the old 
 shack down around his ears. He'll fight like blazes, 
 and some one'll get hurt. And then the com- 
 pany '11 want to know what's what. Say, the old 
 geeser has got us where he wants us, sure eh, 
 what?" 
 
 MacDonald nodded. 
 
 " I'll tell you what it is," Thornley went on im- 
 pressively, " there's some one besides Dutchy in this. 
 They've been giving him a steer, and I'd give a few 
 to know who it is. It's mighty queer Dutchy would 
 wake up so suddenly to the fact that he was a joke. 
 Then, there isn't enough to that rebate josh to make 
 him so sore. Some one's been stringing him good 
 and plenty. What had we better do ? " 
 
THE REBATE 301 
 
 "I don't know/* MacDonald answered. "Let's 
 go and see if we can't talk him over." 
 
 At the sight of Thornley and the dispatcher head- 
 ing for the lunch-room, the trainmen and station- 
 hands fell in behind them. 
 
 MacDonald halted a few paces from the door. 
 
 " You boys, stay here," he directed. " Let me see 
 what I can do." 
 
 Thornley and the men halted obediently, while 
 MacDonald went on and knocked at the door. There 
 was no response. 
 
 "But Mr. Damrosch!" he called. "It's Mac- 
 Donald. I want to talk to you." 
 
 This time his knock was answered, and so suddenly 
 as to cause him to jump back in surprise. 
 
 " Veil, vat iss it ? " demanded Dutchy, scowling 
 belligerently. 
 
 " We're we're " stammered MacDonald, his 
 confidence a little shaken at the proprietor's attitude. 
 Then, desperately : " Oh, I say, confound it all, 
 Dutchy, we're hungry." 
 
 " So ! " Dutchy 's exclamation was a world of in- 
 nocent astonishment and kindly interest. 
 
 '' Yes," went on MacDonald, diplomatically. 
 ' You bet we are. It's been a good joke, but you've 
 had the best end of it. Let's call it quits, there's a 
 good fellow, and and give us all a hand- 
 out." 
 
 Dutchy listened attentively to the appeal. 
 
 " I, a fool iss no longer yet, don'd it ? " he queried 
 softly. 
 
302 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 "You most decidedly are not," MacDonald as- 
 sured him. 
 
 "You vill for repates no longer ask, yet?" per- 
 sisted Mr. Damrosch. 
 
 " Not on your life ! " replied the dispatcher earn- 
 estly, beginning to see daylight. "That's all off. 
 We'll apologize, too, if you like. I promise you, 
 we are quite willing to apologize." 
 
 :< Veil, den," announced Mr. Damrosch, " ve vill 
 aggravate " and he slammed the door in Mac- 
 Donald's face. 
 
 "Oh, hold on, Dutchy!" cried MacDonald pit- 
 eously, for he was very hungry. " What did you 
 say? " 
 
 :< Vat I said iss dot ve vill aggravate ! " shouted 
 Dutchy from the other side of the door. " Dot iss 
 English, don'd it ? Aggravate ! " 
 
 " He means arbitrate," prompted Thornley from 
 the platform. 
 
 "Oh, all right!" said MacDonald. "We'll agree 
 to that, Dutchy. Come on open up ! " 
 
 " I vill not mit you aggra arra do it hang dot 
 vord ! " Dutchy asserted decisively, but again opening 
 the door. " But mit Mister Brett I vill do it." 
 
 " But Mr. Brett isn't here, you know that," retorted 
 MacDonald, beginning to get exasperated. " And, 
 what's more, he won't be back until the day after to- 
 morrow. I guess you know that, too, don't 
 you?" 
 
 Dutchy smiled a patient, chiding smile. " Dot iss 
 too bad," he remarked regretfully. " But dot Thorn- 
 
THE REBATE 303 
 
 ley a pig iss, und you oh, py golly! you I could 
 not you pelief. Ve vill vait for Mister Brett/* 
 
 He was closing the door again, when MacDonald 
 put his foot against the jamb and, leaning toward 
 Dutchy, said quickly, in an undertone : 
 
 " Look here, Dutchy, you're going too far. If I 
 couldn't see any farther than you, I'd wear glasses. 
 Now's the time to make your deal. I'll help you 
 see? You can get anything out of the boys now, but 
 you push them too far and they'll pull the whole outfit 
 down over your ears. You say what you want, and 
 I'll get it for you." 
 
 Dutchy looked meditatively into MacDonald's face, 
 and shook his head with a sad smile of wisdom. 
 
 " I could not you pelief," he repeated. 
 
 " You don't have to. You don't have to believe any- 
 body. Whatever you want us to do we'll do before 
 you let us in to eat. You can't lose. What do you 
 say?" 
 
 Mr. Damrosch scratched his head pensively, without 
 taking his eyes off the dispatcher. After a minute he 
 tapped MacDonald on the shoulder. 
 
 " Veil," he announced, " I vill tell you. Listen." 
 
 MacDonald listened incredulously. Then he 
 whistled a low, long-drawn-out note of consternation. 
 
 " Well, you've got a nerve ! " he gasped. " What 
 do you think, eh? The boys'll never " He stopped 
 suddenly, a smile came over his face, and he chuckled 
 softly to himself. " Dutchy, you're great ! It'll be 
 meat for the boys to make Thornley stand for it. 
 That's what you want to do make Thornley stand 
 
304 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 for it. Will the boys make him? Oh, will they! 
 Give them the chance. That's the way to handle it. 
 I told you I'd help you. Now, make your spiel." 
 
 MacDonald turned to the group on the platform. 
 " Dutchy'll arbitrate ! " he cried. 
 
 At this the men began to push forward, but Dutchy 
 stopped them. " Vait as you iss ! Ven der der 
 hang dot word iss, den iss it. Vait! " 
 
 They waited, and Dutchy began to count on his fin- 
 gers. " Dere iss sixteen dot breakfasted didn'd," 
 he began. " Dot iss iss " 
 
 " Average 'em up at a quarter apiece," prompted 
 MacDonald in a whisper. " That makes four dol- 
 lars." 
 
 " Iss four dollars yess," went on Dutchy. " Veil, 
 I vant dot. Dere iss der crews dot in-came und out- 
 vent und didn'd eat ven der door vas closed. Dot iss 
 two dollars yess? Veil, I vant dot." 
 
 The men came to, and a roar of derision rent the 
 air, in the face of which even Dutchy was a little 
 shaken. 
 
 " Stand pat," encouraged MacDonald. " You've 
 got them coming and going." 
 
 Dutchy held up his hand for silence. " Dere iss der 
 sixteen over again yet dot dinnered didn'd. Dot iss 
 four dollars yess? Veil, I vant dot. Dot iss four 
 und two and four. Dot iss ten dollars don'd it? 
 Veil, I vant dot, und den you come in yess, one py 
 one for a quarter py each." 
 
 Then, amid the storm of abuse and jeers that 
 greeted Dutchy's ultimatum, MacDonald, with a 
 
THE REBATE 305 
 
 final injunction to the proprietor to stand by his guns, 
 turned and joined Thornley and the men. 
 
 " Veil, py golly ! " screamed Dutchy above the din. 
 " Vat iss it? Who was der commencer of dot joke 
 dot iss ten dollars to pay? It iss dot Thornley! " 
 
 " Why, you wretched old thief," yelled Thornley, 
 " do you think we're going to pay you for grub we 
 didn't get, because you wouldn't let us have it, and 
 then pay you for it again when you do dole it out? 
 We'll see you further, first." 
 
 " It vas agreed in front of der hang dot word ! 
 py der" 
 
 " Agreed nothing ! " snorted Thornley. 
 
 "Dot you vill for repates no longer ask, yet, don'd 
 it ? Veil, der price ten dollars iss. Dere iss no repate. 
 Oh, py golly, Mister Thornley, dot vas an expensive 
 joke yess? Dot vas your joke, und I shusht thought 
 me dot I hope you will pay dot yourself." 
 
 Thornley paid. With no good grace, but because, 
 as MacDonald had said they would, the men made 
 him. Disgruntled and angry, he led the file into the 
 restaurant, placing ten dollars and twenty-five cents 
 in Dutchy's hand before he crossed the threshold. 
 
 Behind him followed MacDonald and the grinning 
 line of men, each contributing their quarters in 
 advance for the first square meal they had had that 
 day. 
 
 " Eat vat you like," said Dutchy magnanimously. 
 
 Thornley glared. " Eat vat you like ! Eat vat you 
 like ! " he mimicked savagely. " I like your colossal 
 generosity at my expense ! " 
 
306 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 For a long time there was no other noise save the 
 rattle of dishes and the busy clatter of knives, forks, 
 and spoons. Then Thornley beckoned to Dutchy. 
 
 ' Veil, vat iss it ? " inquired the proprietor from be- 
 hind the counter. 
 
 " Who put you on to this ? " demanded Thornley. 
 "I've had to stand for it, and I'd like to know. I 
 would that! " 
 
 MacDonald, sitting beside Thornley, noticed, with 
 some misgivings, a peculiar expression sweep over 
 Dutchy's face, but to his relief the proprietor's only 
 reply was a grunt, as he answered a call for more 
 coffee. 
 
 " By the hokey, I'll bet it was that red-haired Tag- 
 gart!" exclaimed Thornley suddenly, turning to the 
 dispatcher. 
 
 MacDonald buried his face in his cup, ostensibly to 
 drain the last drop, then he set it down quickly and 
 jerked his watch from his pocket. 
 
 "Holy Moses!" he ejaculated, and fled from the 
 room. 
 
 An hour later, as Thornley was again sitting with his 
 feet on MacDonald's desk, Dutchy stuck his head into 
 the room and beckoned to the dispatcher. Mac- 
 Donald walked across the floor and joined him. 
 Dutchy pulled him out of the room and closed the 
 door. 
 
 " Dere iss one thing dot I forgotted did," announced 
 Mr. Damrosch. 
 
 "What's that?" inquired MacDonald. 
 
 " Dere iss five doughnuts dot iss paid for not." 
 
THE REBATE 307 
 
 "Oh! "said MacDonald. 
 
 " Dot vas der time you told dot it vas Thornley 
 yess ? Dot vas von dollar py each. Veil, I vant dot 
 yess?" 
 
 " Really !" laughed MacDonald. "Well, I guess 
 not! " 
 
 " Dot vas der time " Dutchy was raising his 
 voice, each word growing louder and more distinct 
 than the preceding one. Thornley's chair inside 
 creaked ominously. MacDonald glanced furtively to- 
 ward the door, and his face grew red " you told 
 dot " 
 
 With a hasty movement, MacDonald clapped one 
 hand over Dutchy's mouth, and with the other thrust 
 a five-dollar bill into his fingers. 
 
 " Get out ! " he choked, and shoved Dutchy violently 
 toward the stairs. 
 
 At the bottom, Dutchy halted, turned and looked up 
 with a grin. 
 
 " Py golly," said he, " I shusht thought me dot I like 
 jokes pretty good, and I hope dot " 
 
 " Oh, shut up ! " said MacDonald. 
 
XIV 
 
 SPECKLES 
 
 THIS happened at a period in the history of the Hill 
 Division when trade was very bad, and the directors, 
 scowling over the company's annual report, threw up 
 their hands in holy horror; while from the sacred 
 precincts of the board-room there emanated the 
 agonized cry: 
 
 " Economy ! " 
 
 The general manager took up the slogan and dinned 
 it into the ears of the division superintendents. 
 
 " Operating expenses are too high," he wrote. 
 " They must be cut down." And the superintendents 
 of divisions, painfully alive to the fact that the G. M. 
 was not dictating for the mere pleasure of it, intimated 
 in unmistakable language to the heads of departments 
 under them that the next quarterly reports were ex- 
 pected to show a marked improvement. 
 
 John Healy had charge of the roundhouse at Big 
 Cloud, in those days, and the morning after the light- 
 ning struck the system he came fuming back across 
 the yards from his interview with the superintendent, 
 stuttering angrily to himself. As he stamped into the 
 running-shed his humor a shade worse than usual the 
 first object that caught his eye was Speckles, squatted 
 on the lee side of 483, dangling his legs in the pit. 
 
 308 
 
SPECKLES 309 
 
 That is, it would have been the lee side if Healy had 
 come in the other door. 
 
 " Cut down operatin' expinses, is ut? " Healy mut- 
 tered. " Begorra, I'll begin right now ! " 
 
 And he fired Speckles on the spot. 
 
 Now, Speckles whose name, by the way, was 
 Dolivar Washington Babson had been fired on 
 several occasions before, and if he swallowed a little 
 more tobacco-juice than was good for his physical 
 comfort it was rather as a gulp of startled surprise at 
 Healy's appearance than because of any poignant 
 regret at the misfortune that had overtaken him. 
 Nevertheless, he felt it incumbent on himself to ex- 
 postulate. 
 
 " Git out an' stay out ! " said Healy, refusing to 
 argue. 
 
 And Speckles got out. 
 
 For a day he kept away from the roundhouse, the 
 length of time past experience had taught him was 
 required to cool the turner's anger; then he sauntered 
 down again and came face to face with Healy on the 
 turntable. 
 
 " I came down to ask you to put me on again, Mr. 
 Healy," he began, broaching the subject timidly. 
 
 " Phwat? " demanded Healy. 
 
 " I came down to ask you to put me on again, Mr. 
 Healy," Speckles repeated monotonously. 
 
 " Oh, I heard you I heard you," said Healy, a 
 little inconsistently. " On ag'in, is ut ? Ut'll be a 
 long toime, me son, mark that ! " 
 
 This being quite different from Healy's accustomed, 
 
310 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 r< Well, git back to yer job/' it began to filter vaguely 
 through Speckles' brain that his name was no longer 
 to adorn the company's pay-sheets. 
 
 " Am I fired for good, Mr. Healy ? " he faltered. 
 
 "You are!" said Healy. "Just that!" Then, 
 relenting a little as Speckles' face fell: "If 'twere not 
 fer the big-bugs down yonder " he jerked his thumb 
 in the general direction of the East " I might- 
 moind, I don't say I would, but I might put you on 
 ag'in. As ut is, we've instructions to cut down the 
 operatin' expinses, an' there's an ind on ut! " 
 
 Speckles stood for a moment in dismay as Healy 
 went back into the roundhouse; then he turned dis- 
 consolately away, crossed the tracks to the platform 
 of the station, and, seeking out a secluded corner of 
 the freight-house, sat down upon a packing-case to 
 think it out. 
 
 To Speckles it was no mere matter of cutting down 
 expenses. It was a blasted career ! 
 
 Whatever Speckles' faults, and he was only a lad, 
 he had one redeeming quality, before which, in the 
 eyes of the business he had elected to follow, his 
 strayings from the straight and narrow path dwindled 
 into insignificance railroading was born in him. 
 
 At ten he had started in as caller for the night-crews, 
 and, during the five years the company had had the 
 benefit of his valuable services in that capacity, there 
 was not a man on the division but sooner or later came 
 to know long-armed, bony, freckled-faced, red-haired 
 Speckles came to know the little rascal, and like him, 
 too. 
 
SPECKLES 311 
 
 Then Speckles had been promoted to the post of 
 sweeper in the roundhouse, and occasionally, under 
 Healy's critical inspection, to washing out boiler- 
 tubes. Fresh fuel thereby added to the fire of his 
 ambition, he began to figure how long it would be 
 before he got to wiping, then to firing, and after that 
 even Speckles' boundless optimism did not have the 
 temerity to specify any particular date the time 
 when he would attain his goal and get his engine. 
 
 Now, instead, at the age of sixteen, he found him- 
 self seated on a cracker-box, his dreams for the future 
 rudely shattered thanks to Healy, old Sour Face 
 Healy! 
 
 So Speckles sighed, and as he sighed the shop 
 whistle blew. It was noon, and the men began to 
 pour out of the big gates. Then Speckles, remem- 
 bering that the schools were also " letting out," hur- 
 ried down the platform and up the main street. He 
 would confide in Madge. Madge would under- 
 stand. 
 
 Madge Bolton was the daughter of the ticket agent 
 at the station, and between Mr. Bolton and Speckles 
 there existed a standing feud, the casus belli being 
 fifteen-year-old, blue-eyed Madge. Speckles kicked 
 his heels on the corner until she appeared; then he 
 turned and fell into step beside her, reaching a little 
 awkwardly for her strap of books. 
 
 " Hallo, Dol ! " was Madge's greeting. She was 
 the only person in Big Cloud who did not call him 
 Speckles. 
 
 "Hallo, Madge!" he returned. 
 
312 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Madge glanced at his face and hands. " Haven't 
 you been to work? " she asked. 
 
 " Nope." 
 
 "Why, Dol?" 
 
 " Fired," said Speckles laconically. 
 
 "Oh, Dol, again!" she cried reproachfully. 
 "What for?" 
 
 "'Tain't only the third time, and 'twasn't for 
 nothinY' said Speckles, a bit sullenly. " I was only 
 restin'." 
 
 " Dolivar Babson," she accused, " you were loaf- 
 ing. Oh, Dol, you'll never get to firing, and and " 
 She hesitated and stopped, her cheeks a little red 
 with the hint of boy-and-girl castle-building that 
 would have increased her father's ire against the luck- 
 less Speckles had he seen it. 
 
 Speckles, somewhat shamefaced, and having no 
 excuse to offer, trudged on in silence. 
 
 " Did you ask Mr. Healy to take you back ? " she 
 inquired, after a moment. 
 
 " He won't," said Speckles. 
 
 " What are you going to do, Dol? " 
 
 "I dunno." 
 
 " Well," said Madge, hopefully, " perhaps you 
 could get a job in one of the stores. I'll ask Mr. 
 Timmons, the grocer, if you like. I know him pretty 
 well." 
 
 Speckles came to an abrupt and sudden halt, cast 
 in Madge's face one look that carried with it a world 
 of unutterable reproach, handed over her books in 
 silence and fled. 
 
SPECKLES 313 
 
 He, a railroad man, go into a store! And this 
 from Madge ! Madge, who, of all others it was too 
 much! Speckles ate his dinner, dispirited and 
 crushed. Everything and everybody was against 
 him. 
 
 His mother's curt inquiry as to when he was going 
 back to work did not in any way tend to mitigate his 
 troubles rather, on the contrary, to accentuate 
 them. 
 
 " Old Sour Face won't put me back," he jerked out, 
 in response to his mother's repeated question. 
 
 " No wonder he won't," said his mother sharply, 
 " if you're as disrespectful as that. I'm ashamed of 
 you, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself." 
 
 Speckles was too much depressed to offer any 
 defense. He finished his meal in silence, gulped down 
 his cup of tea in two swallows, took his hat, and 
 started out. 
 
 Unconsciously he directed his steps toward the 
 yards, and, some five minutes later, arrived at the 
 station. Here, about half-way down the platform, he 
 spotted Mat Bolton in the open doorway of the ticket 
 office. 
 
 As he approached, the nonchalant air with which 
 the other leaned with folded arms against the jamb 
 of the door aroused Speckles' suspicions. To reach 
 the seat of his meditations the cracker-box in the 
 freight shed which had now become his objective 
 point he would be obliged to pass Mr. Bolton. He 
 therefore began to incline his course toward the edge 
 of the platform nearest the rails, so that, when he 
 
314 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 came opposite the office door, some fifteen feet were 
 between him and his arch enemy. 
 
 Mr. Bolton awoke from his lethargy with surprising 
 suddenness. 
 
 ' You young rascal/' he shouted, " what you been 
 doing to my girl? I'll teach you to make girls cry, 
 you little speckled- face runt, you ! " 
 
 He made a dash for Speckles, but by the time he had 
 recovered his balance and saved himself from toppling 
 over the edge of the platform to the tracks, Speckles 
 had reached the safe retreat of the freight-shed door. 
 And as the irate parent, after shaking his fist im- 
 potently, walked back and disappeared within his 
 domain, Speckles indulged in a series of pantomimes 
 in which his fingers and his nose played an intimate 
 and comprehensive part. 
 
 Perched once more on the cracker-box, Speckles 
 again resolved himself into a committee on ways and 
 means. His little skirmish with Madge's father had 
 exhilarated him to such an extent that his heavy and 
 oppressing sense of despondency had vanished, and in 
 its place came a renewed determination to resume, 
 somehow or other, the railroad career that Healy had 
 so emphatically interrupted. 
 
 He turned over in his mind the feasibility of apply- 
 ing to Regan, the master mechanic, for a job in the 
 shops, but dismissed the idea almost immediately on 
 the ground that shop men were not, strictly speaking, 
 railroaders. 
 
 He might start in switching and braking, and work 
 up to conductor. That, at least, was railroading not 
 
SPECKLES 315 
 
 to be compared with engine-driving, not by long 
 odds, but still it was railroading. His face brigh- 
 tened. He would interview Farley, the train- 
 master. 
 
 Farley was in his office. Speckles had not very far 
 to go, only a few steps down the platform. All the 
 offices and Big Cloud was division headquarters 
 were under the same roof. 
 
 At Speckles' request, Farley swung around in his 
 swivel-chair with a quizzical expression on his face. 
 Then he grinned. 
 
 " Want to go on with the train-crews, eh ? What 
 do you think, kid, that I'm running a kindergarten 
 outfit, even if some of 'em do act like it ? How old are 
 you?" 
 
 " Sixteen," said Speckles, with a sinking heart. 
 
 " Sixteen, eh ? Well, come back in a couple of 
 years, and " 
 
 But, for the second time that day, Speckles fled. 
 He was in no mood to stand much chaffing, and Far- 
 ley, as he well knew, had a leaning that way. Speckles 
 halted outside the door, undecided what move to make 
 next, when the clicking of the instruments in the dis- 
 patcher's room overhead came to his ears like an in- 
 spiration. 
 
 Why hadn't he thought of that before? Spence, 
 who had been on the night trick most of the years 
 that Speckles was caller, was now chief dispatcher. 
 If he had any friend anywhere, it was Spence, the 
 man at whose elbow he had sat through those long, 
 dark hours of the night that beget confidences, and 
 
3i6 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 into whose ears he had so often poured the tales of 
 his cherished aims and ambitions. 
 
 Speckles covered the stairs three steps at a time, in 
 his new-found exuberance. Spence looked up from 
 his key and listened as Speckles told his story. 
 
 " So you're Healy's contribution to economy, eh ? " 
 he said when Speckles had finished. " And he won't 
 take you back ? " 
 
 " No," said Speckles. 
 
 " Well, that's pretty rough. But I don't see how I 
 can help you any, Speckles. I haven't any rights over 
 Healy, you know." 
 
 Speckles hesitated a moment and fidgeted nerv- 
 ously from one foot to the other. " I know you 
 ain't," he began, " but I thought maybe you'd put me 
 on here." 
 
 "W-what!" ejaculated Spence. Then, smothering 
 a laugh at the sight of Speckles' woebegone counte- 
 nance, he demanded gravely " You mean dispatch- 
 ing?" 
 
 Speckles nodded. 
 
 " No, no, Speckles, that would never do. You go 
 back and see Healy. I'll do what I can for you with 
 him." 
 
 " 'Twon't do no good," said Speckles hopelessly. 
 " I've asked him twice already." 
 
 " Well, ask him again. Look here, Speckles, it's 
 up to you to square yourself with Healy, somehow 
 or other. If you want your job very badly, you ought 
 to be sharp enough to find a way of getting it. Go on, 
 
 now." 
 
SPECKLES 317 
 
 So Speckles descended the stairs to the platform 
 and irresolutely began to cross the tracks in the direc- 
 tion of the running-shed. He reached the roundhouse 
 and skirmished cautiously along its front. No Healy 
 was in sight, so he dived in between two engines and 
 made his way to the rear of the shed. Here, by peer- 
 ing around the end of a tender, he could see Healy's 
 cubby-hole Healy called it an office a bit of space 
 about four by six partitioned off from the back wall in 
 the corner, with a greasy book the engine-crews signed, 
 and two or three others, equally greasy, in which Healy 
 kept tabs on things in general. 
 
 In spite of his trepidation, Speckles grinned. Healy 
 was there, bending over a very flimsy, spindle-legged 
 table that he had wheedled out of the claim-agent 
 some months before. His brows were puckered into a 
 ferocious scowl, and he growled and muttered to him- 
 self, now laboring furiously with a stubby pencil on 
 the sheets of paper in front of him, now pausing to 
 bite that unoffending article almost in two in his 
 desperation. 
 
 Healy was working on his invention. All the divi- 
 sion knew about Healy's ideas on Westinghouse and 
 " air," and that these ideas, when perfected, were to 
 be patented. As to what the consensus of opinion of 
 their value was is neither here nor there, except that 
 in Healy's presence, when referred to at all, the sub- 
 ject was treated with dignity and respect, for Healy's 
 physkal powers were beyond the ordinary, and dearest 
 to Healy's heart and most sacred in his eyes was this 
 
3i8 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 creation of his brain, or, to be more accurate, 
 fancy. 
 
 Speckles sidled up to the cubby-hole, and, without 
 any peroration, took the plunge. 
 
 " I came to ask you to put me on again, Mr. Healy," 
 he spoke rapidly, as though he feared his courage 
 might ooze out before he could finish. 
 
 Healy wheeled round with a grunt. 
 
 " Oh, ut's you, is ut? " he demanded grimly. 
 
 Speckles, ready to run at the first sign of violence, 
 acknowledged the impeachment by nodding his head 
 affirmatively, and smiled sheepishly while Healy scru- 
 tinized him with a long stare from head to foot. 
 
 " Well/' said Healy, " you wait a minute an' I'll 
 give you me answer." 
 
 Speckles' heart bounded in joyous hope. Healy 
 very deliberately gathered up his papers, folded them 
 carefully, and opening the cupboard where his coat 
 hung it was a hot day, and Healy was in his shirt- 
 sleeves tucked them into the inside pocket. Then, 
 like a flash, he turned and reached for the first thing 
 in sight. It was a broom. 
 
 But, quick as he was, Speckles was quicker, and 
 he led Healy by the length of the pit as he dodged 
 around the tail end of a tender and darted out of the 
 running-shed across the tracks to the freight- 
 house. 
 
 Healy followed no farther than the turntable. 
 There he halted, and Speckles, from his retreat, saw 
 him shake his fist and listened to the threat that thun- 
 dered across the yards: 
 
SPECKLES 319 
 
 " Show yer face around here ag'in, you young 
 rascal, an' I'll bate the loife out av you, so I will ! " 
 
 Speckles betook himself to the cracker-box; and 
 from his lips there flowed a fluent and unrestrained 
 expression of his opinion on things in general, but 
 more particularly of Healy, and more particularly 
 still of Healy's invention. Then, his indignation sub- 
 siding, it was followed by a fit of the blues; so that 
 when, at the expiration of half an hour, Healy, still 
 in his shirt-sleeves, came out of the roundhouse and 
 walked up the tracks in the direction of the shops, 
 Speckles, through the freight-house door, remarked 
 the incident in complete apathy and as one in which 
 he had no interest whatever. 
 
 Ten minutes later, however, his apathy vanished 
 and he sprang to his feet at the sound of the excited 
 shouts of the men in the running-shed. Some were 
 hastily swinging the big engine doors wide open, 
 others were setting the table in position, while one 
 started on a run in the direction Healy had taken. 
 
 Another minute and the shop whistle had boomed 
 out its warning, and as Healy, with the man who had 
 gone after him, came tearing down the track like mad, 
 Speckles saw the smoke beginning to curl up over the 
 roof at the back. The running-shed was afire. 
 
 With a whoop, Speckles traversed the platform, 
 leaped to the rails, and was hard on Healy's heels 
 by the time the turntable was crossed. Healy paused 
 but an instant. The thing to do was to get the engines 
 out, and Healy was the man to do it. 
 
 " Get tackle rigged on 463," he ordered. " She's 
 
320 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 cold, an' we'll have to haul her out. Set the table fer 
 518; I'll take her." 
 
 Then he started on the jump for the cubby-hole 
 and his precious papers. 
 
 Now, the tackle that Healy had referred to was 
 stored in the rear of the roundhouse in the same gen- 
 eral direction as the cubby-hole, and as the order had 
 been given to no one in particular, Speckles, shouting 
 " I'll get it," started after Healy. 
 
 Some grease and waste had caught and was rolling 
 up a nasty smoke. Through it, even while he tugged 
 manfully at the heavy tackle, Speckles saw Healy run 
 into his office, snatch his coat, rush out again, and 
 dash for the cab of 518, throwing the coat up on the 
 tender. As he did so, something fell from the pocket. 
 
 Speckles dropped the tackle and pounced upon it. 
 It was the bundle of papers he had seen Healy put in 
 his coat-pocket a little while before. 
 
 It was Healy's invention! 
 
 Speckles' first impulse was to shout to Healy, but 
 just then 518 glided out of the shed, and the men in 
 front of 463 were yelling in chorus for the tackle, 
 so Speckles put his tongue in his cheek and the papers 
 in his pocket. 
 
 It wasn't much of a blaze, but it looked bad while 
 it lasted. Even after the shop-hands had got their 
 hose-lengths connected and a stream playing on the 
 fire, and the engines were all in safety in the yard, 
 the smoke continued to roll out in clouds, with here 
 and there a vicious tongue of flame. 
 
 Then Healy, his duty done, bethought him of his 
 
SPECKLES 321 
 
 coat on the tender of 518. And Speckles, as he heard 
 Healy' s gasp of dismay on discovering that his papers 
 were gone, had an inspiration. 
 
 " Me papers ! Me papers ! " wailed Healy. " Per 
 the love av Mike, I must av dropped thim on the 
 flure!" 
 
 " I'll get them for you, Mr. Healy," said Speckles, 
 quick as a shot. 
 
 "You'll not!" said Healy. "I'll have no wan 
 risk his life fer thim, bad as I want thim. Hey, come 
 back, you runt ! " 
 
 But Speckles was gone. Headed straight for the 
 big, yawning doors that vomited their smoke and 
 flames? Oh, no, not Speckles! Hardly! Speckles 
 would make his attempt from the rear! And around 
 the end of the shed and in behind he raced. 
 
 Some of the men were fighting the fire from that 
 side, but they were too busy to pay any attention to 
 Speckles. A dab of soot and dirt on his face which 
 he obtained by rubbing his fingers along the blackened 
 wall, an artistic smudge of generous proportions on 
 the outside of the papers, which he took from his 
 pocket, and Speckles' make-up was complete and con- 
 vincing. 
 
 Now, Speckles had an eye for the dramatic and an 
 appreciation of its value. He peered in through one 
 of the windows. It was not nearly as bad inside as it 
 had been, and he decided there would be no risk and 
 very little discomfort in carrying out the plan that had 
 popped into his head. 
 
 So he climbed in through a window and dropped 
 
322 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD] 
 
 down to the floor on the other side. The next minute 
 he had dashed through the running-shed, and emerged 
 from a whirl of black smoke into the open in front 
 of the turntable, the papers waved aloft in his fist. 
 
 It was effective decidedly effective! A cheer 
 went up, and the men crowded around, while Healy 
 rushed forward and began to pump Speckles' arm up 
 and down like an engine-piston. 
 
 "Ut's a hero you are, me bright jool av a lad! " 
 he cried in his delight. " 'Tis mesilf, John Healy, that 
 ses ut, an* the bhoys are me witness. Come back to 
 yer job in the mornin' an', by my sowl, Speckles, I'll 
 niver fire you ag'in, niver ! An' ut's more I'll do I'll 
 promote you. Ut's a wiper you are from now on, me 
 son, an' to blazes wid cuttin' down operatin' expinses ! 
 Where did you f oind the papers ? " 
 
 "On the floor," said Speckles -and he told the 
 truth. 
 
XV 
 
 MUNFORD 
 
 MUNFORD came to the work before the gangs were 
 deep enough into the hills to lose daily, or rather 
 nightly, touch with Big Cloud. And the way of his 
 coming was this : The town, springing up in a night, 
 had its beginning in the wooden shanty the engineers 
 built as headquarters for the Hill Division that was 
 to be. Then, with mushroom growth, came shacks 
 innumerable; and these shacks, for the most part, 
 were gambling hells and dives and saloons, and the 
 population was Indian, Chinese and bad American. 
 To these places of lurid entertainment flocked the 
 toilers at night, loading down the construction 
 empties as they backed their way to the spurs and 
 sidings that soon spread out like a cobweb around 
 headquarters. 
 
 Naturally, rows were of pretty frequent occurrence 
 between the company's men and the leeches who bleed 
 them with crooked games and stacked decks over the 
 roulette, faro and stud-poker tables. But of them all 
 in the delectable pursuit of separating the men and 
 their pay-checks, Pete McGonigle's " Golden Luck " 
 saloon was in the van, both as to size and crookedness. 
 And that high station of eminence it maintained until 
 the night a stranger wrecked it by no more delicate a 
 
 3*3 
 
'324 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 method than that of kicking over the roulette table, 
 sending it and the attendant, who was presiding over 
 the little whirling ball in Pete's interest, crashing to 
 the floor. That stranger was Munford. And that 
 was how Munford came to join the army of the 
 Rockies. 
 
 A number of the company men were present and 
 they sided in with Munford. Before this amalgama- 
 tion, Pete and his hangers-on went down to ignomini- 
 ous defeat, and the " Golden Luck," to utter demolish- 
 ment and ruin. News of the fracas spread rapidly to 
 the other " joints." The dive-keepers joined forces, 
 the company men did likewise, and that night became 
 the wildest in the history of Big Cloud. 
 
 Munford took command of his new-found friends 
 from the start. In the street fight that followed he 
 did wondrous things and did them with zest, delight 
 and effectiveness. With his great bulk he towered 
 above his companions, and the sweep of his long arms 
 as they rose and fell, the play of his massive shoulders 
 as he lunged forward to give impetus to his blows, 
 was a marvelous sight to see. But the details of that 
 fight have no place here. Its result, however, was 
 that Munford, previously unknown and unheard of, 
 became thereafter, a marked man in Big Cloud. 
 
 When the fight was over the company men, elated 
 with victory though somewhat the worse for wear, 
 retired to the yard to wait for the construction trains 
 to take them up to their work. And while they 
 waited they spent the time gazing in admiration at 
 Munford who sat on the edge of a flat-car, his legs 
 
MUNFORD 325 
 
 dangling over, blowing softly on his knuckles, a smile 
 of divine contentment on his face. 
 
 What was Munford going to do? demanded Mc- 
 Guire and the cronies of his particular gang who had 
 had the honor of being present at Pete's when the 
 evening's proceedings were instituted, and who there- 
 fore felt they had a prior claim to the hero's considera- 
 tion over and above that of the men from other sec- 
 tions of the work who had taken part in the fight. 
 Munford did not know. Would he go up the line 
 with them and take a job with their gang if they 
 promised to get him one? Munford would. So he 
 kept his seat when the construction train pulled out 
 just as the dawn was breaking, and twenty miles up 
 the road at Twin Bear Creek they tumbled him off 
 and introduced him to Alan Burton, foreman of 
 Bridge Gang No. 3. 
 
 At the sight of his battered and jaded crew, who in 
 no wise appeared fit for the day's work before them, 
 Durton swore savagely and with great bitterness of 
 tongue bade them get to their work. Then he turned 
 in his ill-humor to Munford, who was still standing 
 beside him. 
 
 " Who the devil are you ? What you doin' here ? 
 Where d'ye come from?" 
 
 The questions came quick and sharp like a volley 
 of small arms. 
 
 Munford eyed the wiry little chunk of a man, 
 scarcely up to his own shoulders, in silence, taking 
 him in from head to foot. 
 
 "Well," snapped Burton, "speak up!" 
 
326 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Munford's my name," said Munford, coolly. 
 " I'm here for a job. Where I come from ain't none 
 of your blamed business, is it? " 
 
 "Ain't it?" said Burton. "Well, then, you can 
 walk back there, my bucko ! " and he turned on his 
 heel and followed the men to their work. 
 
 Munford sat down on the doorsill of the camp 
 shanty and with a laugh pulled out his pipe and be- 
 gan to smoke. He was still sitting there a half-hour 
 later when the foreman came back. 
 
 " If you've got far to go," grinned Burton, you'd 
 better get started." 
 
 " No hurry," replied Munford, imperturbably. 
 
 " You're a queer card," said Burton, after a mo- 
 ment. " What's this about the trouble down at Big 
 Cloud last night the boys are so full of they can't do 
 anything besides talk? " 
 
 Munford chuckled quietly. " Nothin' much," 
 said he. 
 
 " Nothing much, eh ? They say you put the 
 " Golden Luck and Pete McGonigle to the bad, and 
 then cleaned out every dive in town. You're quite a 
 reformer, ain't you ? I'll tell you this, though, it won't 
 be healthy for you around these parts from now on." 
 
 " Oh, I don't know," said Munford. " Say, how 
 about that job?" 
 
 Burton laughed. " You've got a sweet nerve to 
 ask for a job, and you responsible for a gang that 
 won't be able to do a day's work among the lot of 
 them between now and night. Did up McGonigle's, 
 eh? Well, I don't know, I reckon in the long run 
 
MUNFORD 327 
 
 that'll be worth more to the company than the day's 
 work. All right, sport, you can go to work until 
 Pete and his crowd scare you out, which I predict 
 won't be long. And while you're here, if you get 
 itchy for trouble don't look for it among the men, 
 come to me." 
 
 " Well, I'll" gasped Munford. " Why, I could 
 twist you like " Then he laughed in pure delight at 
 Burton's spunk " Oh, sure ! Sure, I will." 
 
 It took Munford no longer than a day to get the 
 hang of the work. He was already more than a demi- 
 god in the eyes of Bridge Gang No. 3, and that counted 
 for much. They were eager and ready to show him 
 what they knew themselves, whereas the ignorance 
 and rawness of any other newcomer would have been 
 turned to good account in the shape of gibes and jests 
 at his expense. In two days, from a natural adapt- 
 ability coupled with his great strength, that was the 
 strength of two men, Munford had fitted into place 
 with the same nicety that one part of a well designed 
 machine fits into another. 
 
 To the crews of the construction trains bringing up 
 the bridge material he was pointed out with pride by 
 his mates though, indeed, that action was superfluous 
 as " the boy who did the trick at Pete's." And from 
 these in turn Munford learned that down at Big 
 Cloud, Pete and others of his ilk had sworn that, 
 sooner or later, they would fix him for it. At this he 
 only laughed and, doubling his great arm bared to the 
 shoulders, intimated that there could be no greater 
 pleasure in life for him than to have them try it. And 
 
328 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD. 
 
 that night sitting outside the camp after supper, Mc- 
 Guire-, as spokesman, alluding to the threat, proposed 
 that under Munford's leadership they should make 
 another raid on Big Cloud. 
 
 Burton, passing by, caught the gist of the conversa- 
 tion. " I want to see you a minute, Munford," he 
 called, shortly. 
 
 Munford got up and followed to the foreman's little 
 shanty that stood a few yards away from the main 
 camp. Once inside, Burton shoved him into a chair 
 and shook his fist under Munford's nose. 
 
 " Didn't I tell you yesterday morning," he splut- 
 tered angrily, " that if you were looking for trouble 
 to come to me and leave the gang alone? And here 
 you're at it again, what? Go down to Big Cloud and 
 raise hell, eh? You great, big overgrown calf!" 
 
 Munford blinked at the foreman, speechless. It 
 was a long time since he had taken words like these 
 from any man, much less a little spitfire like Burton. 
 
 " Trouble ! " continued the irate Burton, hardly 
 pausing for breath. " You live on it, don't you ? Eat 
 it, eh? Well, you'll get a fill of it before long that'll 
 give you the damnest indigestion you ever heard of. 
 I promise you that ! But you keep your hands off my 
 crew! Now you listen to what I'm saying! " 
 
 "Aw, go hang!" said Munford, contemptu- 
 ously. " I can't help it, can I, if they want to go down 
 to Big Cloud? If you're so blamed anxious about 
 them, it's a wonder you don't go around every night 
 and tuck 'em into their bunks ! " 
 
 For a moment Burton looked as though he were 
 
MUNFORD 329 
 
 going to jump into Munford and mix it then and 
 there; but instead, with a short laugh, he turned and 
 walked to the other side of the room, sat down on the 
 edge of his bunk and pulled out his pipe. He cut some 
 tobacco from his plug, rolled it between his palms, 
 packed his pipe slowly and lighted it. It was five 
 minutes before he broke the silence; Munford was 
 beginning to feel uncomfortable. 
 
 " I don't suppose throwing a few timbers across 
 Twin Bear Creek means much of anything to you, 
 Munford, eh? " he asked quietly. 
 
 " Not so much," replied Munford carelessly, a little 
 puzzled at the question. 
 
 " No ? Well, it means a lot to me, a whole lot ! 
 Until that trestle is up, we can't shove material over 
 to the other side, ties and rails and heavy stuff. 
 Progress on the Hill Division depends just at this 
 minute on Bridge Gang No. 3, and concretely on me. 
 I don't propose to have it interfered with by the men 
 going down to Big Cloud and getting their heads 
 broke, understand?" 
 
 " Oh, I guess we can take care of our heads, if 
 that's all that bothers you," drawled Munford. " And 
 I furthermore guess your bloomin' little bridge you 
 seem so stuck on won't take any hurt by lettin' the 
 boys have their fling. Anyway, whether it will or 
 not, what's the use of you shootin' off all your talk? 
 You can't stop 'em! If they want to go, they'll go. 
 And say, Burton " an inspiration coming to Mun- 
 ford " come on down with us. I'll promise you the 
 time of your life." 
 
330 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " I ought to have put it up to you differently, I 
 guess, and saved my breath," said Burton in disgust. 
 '' You're just a hulk of bone and muscle and your 
 head's wood. You can lift a timber and swing a pick 
 or axe because you've got the strength. But that's 
 all you know, or all you're good for ! " 
 
 The cool contempt in Burton's voice stung Mun- 
 ford more than the words themselves. 
 
 " Is that so ! " he snarled, resorting to his favorite 
 habit of blowing on his knuckles. " I'd show you 
 fast enough what I'm good for, you runt, if you was a 
 little bigger!'' 
 
 " Maybe you'll find I'm big enough one of these 
 days," said Burton, sharply. " Now I'll put it to 
 you straight so that you'll understand. I'll show you 
 whether I can stop the gang going to Big Cloud or 
 not. No man rides on the construction trains after 
 to-day without a pass signed by me. That's orders! 
 If the men don't like it, you can tell them it's your 
 fault. The next row in Big Cloud wouldn't stop at 
 fists. And as for you, you wouldn't come out of it 
 alive." 
 
 " You needn't worry about me," sneered Munford. 
 " I'm- 
 
 " You're a fool ! The thickest-headed, trouble- 
 hunting fool it's ever been my cursed luck to run 
 against ! " exclaimed Burton angrily. 
 
 Munford brushed his great shock of hair out of his 
 eyes with a nervous sweep of his hand. " I ain't ever 
 before taken the back talk from any man that I've 
 taken from you without hurtin' him," he said thickly, 
 
MUNFORD 331 
 
 rising from his chair. " And I'm goin' to get out of 
 here before I hurt you!" He walked quickly across 
 the shanty and swung around in the doorway. " By 
 God, I wish you was bigger ! " he flung out. 
 
 Munford walked back to the men's camp and 
 listened to their conversation awhile in sullen silence. 
 They were still on the same topic and were waxing 
 more enthusiastic each minute. 
 
 " Aw, dry up ! " said Munford, cutting in at last. 
 " It'll be a long time before any of you see Big Cloud 
 again." 
 
 " Who says so ? " demanded McGuire, aggressively. 
 
 Munford jerked his thumb in the direction of the 
 foreman's shanty. " Him," he said laconically. 
 
 "How's he goin' to stop it? What for? What's 
 the matter with him, anyway? It's none of his busi- 
 ness ! " the men were talking in chorus. 
 
 " He's fussy about gettin' his dinky little bridge 
 through," sneered Munford. " He says he ain't goin' 
 to have broken heads interferin' with it, either. From 
 now on you've got to get a pass to ride on the con- 
 struction train. Likewise, he said if you didn't like 
 it I was to tell you " here Munford paused to glance 
 around the circle " that it's my fault and I'm the 
 cause of all the trouble." 
 
 " What did you tell him? " demanded the crew. 
 
 " I told him to go hang. What else would I 
 tell him?" 
 
 " Bully for you ! " shouted McGuire, slapping his 
 leg in delight. " Did he fire you? " 
 
 This was something Munford had not thought of. 
 
332 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 " Fire me ? " he repeated. Then slowly, pondering 
 the idea : " No, he didn't. It's funny he didn't, 
 though; I gave him back talk enough." 
 
 " Aw," said McGuire, with a sneer, " that's easy. 
 He'd have fired you quick enough if he dared." 
 
 " Why," said Munford innocently. " I wouldn't 
 have touched him if he had. He's too small to touch 
 I told him that, too." 
 
 "'Tain't that," McGuire returned. "He ain't 
 afraid of any man, big or little. I'll give him credit 
 for that. It's his bridge, and that means his job, 
 that he's afraid of." 
 
 " What's my gettin' fired got to do with the 
 bridge?" demanded Munford, in amazement. 
 
 "Aw, go on; you know what I mean. If Burton 
 has trouble with us the bridge work stops, don't it? 
 And the company'll be askin' Burton the reason why, 
 won't they? Well, Burton knows there's some things 
 we won't stand for, and firm' you after we brought 
 you up here is one of them. And that's right, too, 
 eh, mates ? " 
 
 There was emphatic assent from the men. 
 
 Munford, a little flustered at this wholesale ex- 
 hibition of homage, fidgeted nervously. " Much 
 obliged," said he, clumsily. " Don't put yourselves 
 out on my account. I " 
 
 "That's all right," broke in McGuire. "Burton 
 won't try it; he knows better. As for gettin' a pass 
 to get out of camp, I dunno about that." He got up, 
 stretched himself and yawned. " The way I look at 
 it, it's more up to Munford here than it is to Burton. 
 
MUNFORD 333 
 
 I'm goin' to turn in, but I'll say first that the night 
 Munford says Big Cloud, then Big Cloud it is for 
 Bridge Gang No. 3. That's the way we talked it 
 before we knew about Burton mixin' in, and I reckon 
 it stands just the same now." 
 
 And the camp retired to their bunks and to sleep, 
 voicing McGuire's sentiments and swearing a unan- 
 imous and enthusiastic allegiance to Munford; all 
 but Munford himself who did not sleep but lay awake 
 tossing restlessly though, withal, in a very self-satis- 
 fied frame of mind. 
 
 This outburst of popularity pleased Munford ex- 
 ceedingly. The more so that it was directly traceable 
 to his great strength and physical courage of which he 
 was inordinately vain. He began to regard Burton 
 with contempt. Burton was a man whose backbone 
 wobbled when it came to a showdown ! As Munford 
 turned the situation over in his mind his contempt 
 grew stronger until he came to decide that he despised 
 the little foreman heartily. Would he, he demanded 
 of himself with a snort, have fired a man that had 
 talked to him as he had talked to Burton, had he been 
 in Burton's place? He would! And the gang, bridge, 
 job and everything else could go to blazes! Munford 
 sat up to emphasize his feelings on this point with a 
 crash of his fist on the side of the bunk. He thrilled 
 with the fierce joy of enacting just such a role as his 
 imagination depicted, despising Burton accordingly 
 for lacking in what were, to him, the essentials of a 
 man. He decided, as he fell asleep, to make the fore- 
 man's life a burden to him and he did. 
 
334 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD. 
 
 No flagrant violation or disobedience of orders was 
 there, instead the inauguration of a petty little system 
 of nagging that embraced every indignity Munford 
 could think of. And the range of his attack was from 
 profound and exaggerated attention and politeness to 
 the utter and complete ignoring of the very existence 
 of such a person as Alan Burton, foreman of Bridge 
 Gang No. 3. While the gang, taking their cue from 
 Munford, would shift from one extreme to the other 
 with a precision and significance that cut deeper into 
 a man of Burton's high-strung, nervous temperament 
 than any other form of torture they could have 
 devised. 
 
 Three times during three days Burton, who was 
 afraid of no man or aggregation of men, took the bull 
 by the horns and struck Munford a violent blow in 
 an effort to bring matters to a head. On the first 
 occasion the gang watched the action with a gasp of 
 mixed pity and admiration looking for Burton's in- 
 stant annihilation. But Munford, with a bit of a 
 laugh, only reached out and grasping Burton's neck 
 held him wriggling, helplessly, impotently, at arm's 
 length. " You got to grow, boy ; just keep quiet now, 
 I ain't going to hurt you," he taunted. And the gang 
 promptly lost their faint appreciation of Burton's 
 nerve in their relish of the ridiculous figure cut by the 
 white-faced, raging foreman. 
 
 It was dirty work, and deep down in his heart Mun- 
 ford knew it. But his better nature no sooner mani- 
 fested itself by sundry pricks of conscience than it was 
 smothered beneath the new sense of authority and 
 
MUNFORD 335 
 
 command that was now his for the first time in his 
 experience; and which, catering as it did to his pea- 
 cock vanity, was paramount to all things else. The 
 work lagged sadly and fell behind. The daily reports 
 Burton signed and sent down to headquarters be- 
 came worse and worse. 
 
 Each day, too, the feud between the dives at Big 
 Cloud and Bridge Gang No. 3, fanned by the crews of 
 the construction trains, who taunted McGuire and the 
 men with cowardice, grew stronger. For the train- 
 men, having no idea of disregarding Burton's orders 
 and allowing the bridge men to ride down on the 
 empties, rubbed it in until the gang writhed under 
 their gibes. 
 
 Munford did not come in for much of this per- 
 sonally. The trainmen, none of them, seemed to dis- 
 play any particular hankering for discussing the ques- 
 tion in his presence; but he got it second-hand from 
 McGuire and the gang. The outcome of it all was a 
 decision one night after supper to board the construc- 
 tion train the following evening, Burton, the train 
 crew and the company to the contrary, and go down to 
 Big Cloud if they had to run the train themselves. 
 Munford concurred in the decision by blowing very 
 gently on his knuckles. It looked bad for the peace 
 and quiet of Big Cloud; and it looked bad for Bur- 
 ton's standing with the company. 
 
 Munford, as commander-in-chief, and McGuire, as 
 chief of staff, withdrew from the circle and strolled 
 off by themselves to perfect their plans for the next 
 day's campaign, taking the trail in the direction of 
 
336 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 Big Cloud a trail still called, but now a passable road 
 due to the traffic incident to the building of the Hill 
 Division, whose right of way it paralleled from Big 
 Cloud to the ford at Twin Bear Creek. At the end of 
 a quarter of a mile the two men sat down on a felled 
 tree by the side of the trail to talk. Some ten minutes 
 had passed when McGuire, in the midst of a graphic 
 description of what they would do to Pete McGonigle 
 and the rest, suddenly stopped and gripped Munford 
 tightly by the shoulder. 
 
 " Keep mum," he cautioned. " There's someone 
 comin' ! " 
 
 In the bright moonlight they could make out the 
 figure of a man about a hundred yards down the road 
 coming toward them from the camp. 
 
 " He walks like Burton," whispered McGuire. 
 :< What the devil is he f ollowin' us for ? Get back into 
 the trees and let him pass." 
 
 They moved noiselessly a little deeper into the wood 
 that fringed the road, and lying flat, watched the man 
 who was approaching. 
 
 " It's Burton," McGuire announced at last. 
 
 Munford grunted assent. 
 
 " He's been followin' us all right, and now he's 
 goin' to wait for us to come back," continued Mc- 
 Guire, as Burton halted within a few yards of them 
 and sat down to smoke. " Well, we'll give him a run 
 for his money. He can wait a while, I'm 
 thinkin'." 
 
 Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. McGuire began 
 to tire of his self-selected game of hide and seek. 
 
MUNFORD 337 
 
 " Come on," said he, " let's go out and see what he 
 wants." 
 
 " Wait," Munford answered. " There's someone 
 comin' from Big Cloud way. It's not us Burton's 
 after. Listen!" 
 
 There was the faint beat of horse's hoofs gradually 
 drawing nearer. Then presently rider and horse 
 loomed out of the shadows and Burton, getting up, 
 stepped out into the middle of the road. 
 
 The horseman drew up beside him. " That you, 
 Burton?" he called softly. 
 
 " Yes," said Burton, shortly. 
 
 " You got Pete's letter, then," the man went on, 
 dismounting from his horse. " I suppose it's all right 
 to talk here. No one around, eh ? " 
 
 " As well here as anywhere. Only cut it short." 
 
 " Oh, there ain't any hurry," returned the man, 
 with a laugh. " Wait till I tie my horse, then we can 
 sit down and chew it over comfortable." 
 
 " Now," he went on, that task performed, " what I 
 came to see you about was this fellow Munford." 
 
 "Well," demanded Burton, "what about him?" 
 
 " It looks to us down to Big Cloud, from the way 
 the fellows on the construction trains are talkin', you 
 ain't got any cause to love him, eh? So Pete figured 
 you and him could deal. You want to get rid of him, 
 don't you ? " 
 
 " I wish to God I'd never seen his face ! " exclaimed 
 Burton, with great bitterness. 
 
 "Sure! That's the idea. You don't want him; 
 we do want him bad! There's nothin' against the 
 
338 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD. 
 
 rest of the men; we'll forget all about that. It's just 
 Munford we're after." 
 
 "Why don't you get him, then?" said Burton 
 curtly. 
 
 " We're goin j to," the man replied, with a nasty 
 laugh. " We're goin' to, all right. It's a fair deal. 
 You're on, eh? Pete said you'd jump at the chance 
 to sit in. We want you to fire him." 
 
 "That all I'm to do?" asked Burton, quietly. 
 
 " Sure, that's all there is to it except this." 
 
 Munford's hand closed on his companion's arm in 
 a tight, spasmodic grip as Pete's emissary produced a 
 wad of bills and began to peel off the outer ones. 
 
 :< Three hundred plunks," said the man, extending 
 the money he had abstracted from the roll to Burton. 
 " Pretty good for just firm' a man we've been lookin' 
 for you to fire for the last week, anyway. Besides, 
 there's been some talk down at headquarters about you 
 not bein' able to handle your men, and about them 
 gettin someone that can. Pete says not to bother 
 about that, he'll fix it for you. Here, take the money." 
 
 " Suppose I fired him," said Burton, slowly, 
 "where'd he go?" 
 
 :( What do you care where he goes, so long as you 
 get rid of him? " 
 
 " He couldn't go West," went on Burton, paying 
 no attention to the other's remark ; " so he'd have to 
 go East that's Big Cloud and murder! " He 
 turned fiercely, savagely on the man. " You dirty, 
 low-lived hound ! " he flashed. " You offer me three 
 hundred dollars to murder a man, do you? 1 You 
 
MUNFORD 339 
 
 wonder why I've stood for what I did, do you, you 
 scrimp ! Fire him, eh, to get a cowardly knife or shot 
 in his back! You think I didn't know what would 
 happen if I let him out, eh? Get out of here, you cur! 
 And get out now while you can!" Burton's voice 
 rasped, hoarse with passion. He turned abruptly 
 away and strode quickly in the direction of the camp. 
 
 " Hold on, wait a minute, Burton," cried the other, 
 following him. " Don't get batty." 
 
 Unconsciously Munford had tightened his grip on 
 McGuire's arm until the latter whimpered with the 
 pain, and now Munford lifted him bodily to his feet 
 making cautiously for the spot where the horse was 
 standing. The two figures were still discernible, and 
 Burton's angry voice continued to reach the listeners, 
 though the words were now indistinguishable. 
 
 Mun ford's face in the moonlight was colorless, 
 the muscles around his mouth twitched convulsively. 
 "D'ye hear what they said? D'ye hear what they 
 said? My God! d'ye hear it all? " he was mumbling 
 incoherently in McGuire's ear, his eyes strained up 
 the road. 
 
 " Yes, I heard it. Let go of my arm, you're 
 breakin' it!" 
 
 " He's comin' back," said Munford, hoarsely. 
 
 Burton had disappeared around a turn in the road 
 and the man, after hesitating a moment, began to 
 retrace his steps to his horse, muttering fiercely to 
 himself as he came along. As he reached for the 
 bridle, Munford leaped out and grasped him by the 
 throat, choking back the man's cry of terror. 
 
340 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 ' You make a noise," snarled Munford, " and I'll 
 finish you! Oh, it's you, eh? Look here, Mac, it's 
 the cuss that ran the roulette wheel that night at 
 Pete's. So my price is three hundred, eh ? Well, hand 
 it out. Quick!" 
 
 Slowly the fellow put his hand in his pocket and for 
 the second time that night pulled out his roll. 
 
 Mun ford's anger seemed to have vanished. He 
 laughed softly as he took the money. 
 
 " What are you going to do with me ? " whined the 
 gambler. 
 
 Munford made no answer. In the imperfect light, 
 he was laboriously counting the bills. McGuire 
 watched the operation, at the same time keeping an 
 eye on their prisoner. 
 
 " Two sixty eighty three hundred," said Mun- 
 ford at last, cramming that amount into his pocket 
 and handing back by far the larger part of the roll to 
 the man. " W r hat am I goin' to do with you ? 
 Nothin' ! You get on that horse and ride back to 
 Pete. I want him to know this. Tell him all about 
 it. Tell him Munford told you to tell him. That's 
 worth more than breakin' your neck and that's all 
 that saves you from gettin' it broke, savvy? You tell 
 him I've got the three hundred, and I'll give him his 
 chance at me for it one of these days. And when 
 I do My God, you ride before I begin with 
 you!" 
 
 The fellow glanced fearfully from Munford to 
 McGuire and back again to Munford to assure him- 
 self that he was free to go. Then he clambered fran- 
 
MUNFORD 341 
 
 tically into the saddle and lashing his beast in a frenzy 
 of terror disappeared down the trail. 
 
 Munford, with swift revulsion of mood, threw him- 
 self down on the grass, burying his face in his hands. 
 Not a word from McGuire; he walked awkwardly up 
 and down, whistling under his breath. After a minute 
 Munford looked up. 
 
 " I got to square this with Burton," he said 
 brokenly. 
 
 McGuire nodded. 
 
 " He's a better man than you and me and the whole 
 gang put together " Munford's tones were fiercely 
 assertive. 
 
 " He is that," assented McGuire, with conviction. 
 
 There was silence for a moment between them ; then 
 McGuire spoke : " Why didn't you take it all ? " he 
 asked. 
 
 " Take it all ! " flared Munford. " I'm no thief, am 
 I? Well, then, what's the matter with you? That's 
 my price, ain't it ? Three hundred. That's what Pete 
 offered for a chance to get his paws on me. Well, /'// 
 give him his chance, you heard me promise, didn't 
 you? That's right, eh? That's Pete's proposition, 
 and the money's mine, ain't it ? " 
 
 " It is," said McGuire. 
 
 " It is, and it ain't," said Munford. " Burton could 
 have had it if he'd sold me out, couldn't he? Well, 
 then, I'm goin' to see he gets it anyway." 
 
 " He wouldn't take it, not by any means, he 
 wouldn't," objected McGuire. 
 
 " Not outright, he wouldn't," agreed Munford. " I 
 
342 ON THE IRON AT BIG CLOUD 
 
 know that well enough. We got to fix it so he won't 
 know where it come from, and so it will square me 
 with him, and you fellows, too." 
 
 " How you goin' to do that ? " demanded McGuire. 
 
 "I dunno," said Munford. "We'll talk it over 
 with the boys. Come on back to camp." 
 
 The next day and the day after, the gang worked 
 like Trojans, and the lack of any sneer or incivility 
 on their part, coupled with a subdued, expectant ex- 
 citement that the men tried fruitlessly to hide, made 
 Burton more anxious and ill at ease than during the 
 days that had gone before. It looked like the lull be- 
 fore the storm; and he wondered bitterly what cul- 
 minating piece of deviltry they were hatching. 
 
 To the taunts of the train crews the gang grinned 
 and said nothing. 
 
 On the second day a package, addressed to Mun- 
 ford, came up from the East, and at noon hour the 
 men handed it around from one to another in awe- 
 struck wonder at the magnificence of the solid gold 
 repeater that chimed the quarters, halves and hours, 
 and split the seconds into fractions. It was indeed a 
 beauty. Maybe the chain was a little massive, but the 
 men opined that it was therefore strong. They pried 
 open the case to read the inscription over whose word- 
 ing they had wrestled most of a night. 
 
 " Nifty, ain't it? " cried McGuire, admiringly; and 
 he read it aloud : " ' This is to certify that Alan Burton 
 is as square as they make them, and Munford and the 
 gang are sorry. So help us ! ' They delivered it 
 solemnly to Munford, who was to make the presenta- 
 
MUNFORD 343 
 
 tion, and started in a body for Burton's shanty. 
 Burton met them at the door, his face hard and set. 
 
 " So it's a showdown at last, eh, boys? " he laughed 
 grimly. "Well, what is it?" 
 
 The men shoved Munford bodily forward and he 
 stood balancing himself sheepishly, first on one foot 
 and then on the other, as he faced Burton. He cleared 
 his throat painfully once or twice, then he found his 
 voice. From a point of oratory or rhetoric it was 
 perhaps the lamest presentation speech on record, for 
 Munford suddenly thrust the watch and chain into the 
 astounded Burton's hands. 
 
 "Here, take it," he sputtered. "It's all written 
 out on the inside." And breaking through the men, 
 he turned and fled incontinently. 
 
RETURN CIRCULATION DEPARTMENT 
 
 TO * 202 Main Library 
 
 LOAN PERIOD 1 
 HOME USE 
 
 2 
 
 3 
 
 4 
 
 5 
 
 6 
 
 ALL BOOKS MAY BE RECALLED AFTER 7 DAYS 
 
 1-mnth loans may foe renewed by calling 642-3405 
 
 1-year loans may be recharged by bringing the books to the Circulation Dt 
 
 Renewals and recharges may be made 4 days prior to due date 
 
 DUE AS STAMPED BELOW 
 
 MAY 1 z 1ys4 
 
 
 
 -.1,1 -ire MAY 9 
 
 fitt 
 
 
 n;cQ t " v " |W * 
 SENT ON ILL 
 
 
 
 I A 1.1 ft J Q-ftftQ 
 
 
 
 JAN 3 1 200Z 
 
 
 
 U. C. BERKELEY 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, BERKELEY 
 FORM NO. DD6, 60m, 1 783 BERKELEY, CA 94720 
 
 s 
 
VC 46686' 
 
v '-;\.v ; ^^- 
 
 E r ;- 1 rjOK VSS