Part 6 (1/2)

And Regan was right. Three weeks later, when he got out of bed, Owsley took the color test under the queerest conditions that ever a railroad man took it--with his right eye bandaged--and failed utterly.

But Owsley didn't quite seem to understand--and little Doctor McTurk, the company surgeon, was badly worried, and had been all along. Owsley was a long way from being the same Owsley he was before the accident.

Not physically--that way he was shaping up pretty well, but his head seemed to bother him--he seemed to have lost his grip on a whole lot of things. They gave him the test more to settle the point in their own minds, but they knew before they gave it to him that it wasn't much use as far as he was concerned one way or the other. There was more than a mere matter of color wrong with Owsley now. And maybe that was the kindest thing that could have happened to him, maybe it made it easier for him since the colors barred him anyway from ever pulling a throttle again--not to understand!

They tried to tell him he hadn't pa.s.sed the color test--Regan tried to tell him in a clumsy, big-hearted way, breaking it as easy as he could--and Owsley laughed as though he were pleased--just laughed, and with a glance at the clock and a jerky pull at his watch for comparison, a way he had of doing, walked out of Riley's, the trainmaster's office, and started across the tracks for the roundhouse.

Owsley's head wasn't working right--it was as though the mechanism was running down--the memory kind of tapering off. But the 1601, his engine--stuck. And it was train time when he walked out of Riley's office that afternoon--the first afternoon he'd been out of bed and Mrs. McCann's motherly hands since the night at Elbow Bend.

Perhaps you'll smile a little tolerantly at this, and perhaps you'll say the story's ”cooked.” Well, perhaps! If you think that way about it, you'll probably smile more broadly still, and with the same grounds for a smile, before we make division and sign the train register at the end of the run. Anyway, that afternoon, as Owsley, out for the first time, walked a little shakily across the turntable and through the big engine doors into the roundhouse, the 1601 was out for the first time herself from the repair shops, and for the first time since the accident was standing on the pit, blowing from a full head of steam, and ready to move out and couple on for the mountain run west, as soon as the Imperial Limited came in off the Prairie Division from the East.

Is it a coincidence to smile at? Yes? Well, then, there is more of the same humor to come. They tell the story on the Hill Division this way, those hard, grimy-handed men of the Rockies, in the cab, in the caboose, in the smoker, if you get intimate enough with the conductor or brakeman, in the roundhouse and in the section shanty--but they never smile themselves when they tell it.

Paxley, big as two of Owsley, promoted from a local pa.s.senger run, had been given the Imperial--and the 1601. He was standing by the front-end, chatting with Clarihue, the turner, as Owsley came in.

Owsley didn't appear to notice either of the men--didn't answer either of them as they greeted him cheerily. His face, that had grown white from his illness, was tinged a little red with excitement, and his eyes seemed trying to take in every single detail of the big mountain racer all at once. He walked along to the gangway, his shoulders sort of bracing further back all the time, and then with the old-time swing he disappeared into the cab. He was out again in a minute with a long-spouted oil can, and, just as he always did, started in for an oil around.

Paxley and Clarihue looked at each other. And Paxley sort of fumbled aimlessly with the peak of his cap, while Clarihue couldn't seem to get the straps of his overalls adjusted comfortably. Brannigan, Owsley's old fireman, joined them from the other side of the engine. None of them spoke. Owsley went on oiling--making the round slowly, carefully, head and shoulders hidden completely at times as he leaned in over the rod, poking at the motion-gear. And Regan, who had followed Owsley, coming in, got the thing in a glance--and swore fiercely deep down in his throat.

Not much to choke strong men up and throw them into the ”dead-center”?

Well, perhaps not. Just a railroad man for forty years, just an engineer, and the best of them all--out!

Owsley finished his round, and, instead of climbing into the cab through the opposite gangway, came back to the front-end and halted before Jim Clarihue.

”I see you got that injector valve packed at last,” said he approvingly. ”She looks cleaner under the guard-plates than I've seen her for a long time, too. Give me the 'table, Jim.”

Not one of them answered. Regan said afterward that he felt as though there'd been a head-on smash somewhere inside of him. But Owsley didn't seem to expect any answer. He went on down the side of the locomotive, went in through the gangway, and the next instant the steam came purring into the cylinders, just warming her up for a moment, as Owsley always did before he moved out of the roundhouse.

It was Clarihue then who spoke--with a kind of catchy jerk:

”She's stiff from the shops. He ain't strong enough to hold her on the 'table.”

Regan looked at Paxley--and tugged at his scraggly little brown mustache.

”You'll have to get him out of there, Bob,” he said gruffly, to hide his emotion. ”Get him out--gently.”

The steam was coming now into the cylinders with a more businesslike rush--and Paxley jumped for the cab. As he climbed in, Brannigan followed, and in a sort of helpless way hung in the gangway behind him.

Owsley was standing up, his hand on the throttle, and evidently puzzled a little at the stiffness of the reversing lever, that refused to budge on the segment with what strength he had in one hand to give to it.

Paxley reached over and tried to loosen Owsley's hand on the throttle.

”Let me take her, Jake,” he said.

Owsley stared at him for a moment in mingled perplexity and irritation.

”What in blazes would I let you take her for?” he snapped suddenly, and attempted to shoulder Paxley aside. ”Get out of here, and mind your own business! Get out!” He s.n.a.t.c.hed his wrist away from Paxley's fingers and gave a jerk at the throttle--and the 1601 began to move.

The 'table wasn't set, and Paxley had no time for hesitation. More roughly than he had any wish to do it, he brushed Owsley's hand from the throttle and latched the throttle shut.

And then, quick as a cat, Owsley was on him.

It wasn't much of a fight--hardly a fight at all--Owsley, from three weeks on his back, was dropping weak. But Owsley s.n.a.t.c.hed up a spanner that was lying on the seat, and smashed Paxley with it between the eyes. Paxley was a big man physically--and a bigger man still where it counts most and doesn't show--with the blood streaming down his face, and half blinded, regardless of the blows that Owsley still tried to rain upon him, he picked the engineer up in his arms like a baby, and with Brannigan, dropping off the gangway and helping, got Owsley to the ground.