Part 12 (2/2)

MacMurtrey's camp was at the summit; and MacMurtrey's work, once the camp was fairly established and stores in, was to shave the pate of the summit, looking to an amelioration in The Gap's grade average--that is, its official grade average. But on the morning that Regan left Big Cloud on No. 3, the work was not very far along--only the preliminaries accomplished, so to speak, which were a siding at the top of the grade, with storehouse and camp shanties flanking it.

And on the siding, that morning, just opposite the storehouse which, it might be remarked in pa.s.sing, had already received its first requisition of blasting materials for the barbering of the grade that was to come, a hybrid collection of Polacks, Swedes, and Hungarians were emptying an oil-tank car and discharging supplies from some flats and box cars; while on the main line track a red-haired man, with leathery face, was loading some grade stakes on a handcar.

MacMurtrey, tall, lanky and irascible, shouted at the red-haired man from a little distance up the line.

”Hey, O'Toole!”

The red-haired man paid no attention.

”_O'Toole!_” It came in a bellow from the road boss. ”You, there, O'Toole, you wooden-headed mud-picker, are you deaf!”

Sammy Durgan looked up to get a line on the disturbance--and caught his breath.

”By glory!” whispered Sammy Durgan to himself. ”I was near forgetting--'tis me he's yelling at.”

”O'Too----”

”Yes, sir!” shouted Sammy Durgan hurriedly.

”Oh, you woke up, have you?” shrilled MacMurtrey. ”Well, when you've got those stakes loaded, take 'em down the grade and leave 'em by the old spur. And take it easy on the grade, and mind your brakes going down--understand?”

”Yes, sir,” said Sammy Durgan.

Sammy Durgan finished loading his handcar, and, hopping aboard, started to pump it along. At the brow of the grade he pa.s.sed the oil-tank car, and nodded sympathetically at a round-faced, tow-headed Swede who was s.n.a.t.c.hing a surrept.i.tious drag at his pipe in the lee of the car.

Like one other memorable morning in Sammy Durgan's career, it was sultry and warm with that same leisurely feeling in the air. Sammy Durgan and his handcar slid down the grade--for about an eighth of a mile--rounded a curve that hid Sammy Durgan and the construction camp one from the other, continued on for another hundred yards--and came to a stop.

Sammy Durgan got off. On the canon side there was perhaps room for an agile mountain goat to stretch its legs without falling off; but on the other side, if a man squeezed in tight enough and curled his legs Turk fas.h.i.+on, the rock wall made a fairly comfortable backrest.

”'Twas easy, he said, to take it on the grade,” said Sammy Durgan reminiscently. ”And why not?”

Sammy Durgan composed himself against the rock wall, and produced his black cutty.

”'Tis a better job than track-walking,” said Sammy Durgan judicially, ”though more arduous.”

Sammy Durgan smoked on.

”But some day,” said Sammy Durgan momentously, ”I'll have a better one.

I will that! It's a long time in coming mabbe, but it'll come. Once in every man's life a chance comes to him. 'Tis patience that counts, that and rising to the emergency that proves the kind of a man you are, as some day I'll prove to Maria, and Regan, and the rest of 'em.”

Sammy Durgan smoked on. It was a warm summer morning, sultry even, as has been said, but it was cool and shady against the rock ledge. Peace fell upon Sammy Durgan--drowsily. Also, presently, the black cutty fell, or, rather, slipped down into Sammy Durgan's lap--without disturbing Sammy Durgan.

A half hour, three-quarters of an hour pa.s.sed--and MacMurtrey, far up at the extreme end of the construction camp, let a sudden yell out of him and started on a mad run toward the tank-car and the summit of the grade, as a series of screeches in seven different varieties of language smote his ears, and a great burst of black smoke rolling skyward met his startled gaze. But fast as he ran, the Polacks, Swedes and Hungarians were faster--pipe smoking under discharging oil-tank cars and in the shadow of a dynamite storage shed they were accustomed to, but to the result, a blazing oil-tank car shooting a flame against the walls of the dynamite shed, they were not--they were only aroused to action with their lives in peril, and they acted promptly and earnestly--too earnestly. Some one threw the main line open, and the others crowbarred the blazing car like mad along the few feet of siding to get it away from the storage shed, b.u.mped it on the main line, and then their bars began to lose their purchase under the wheels--the grade accommodatingly took a hand.

MacMurtrey, tearing along toward the scene, yelled like a crazy man:

”Block her! Block the wheels! You--you----” His voice died in a gasp. ”D'ye hear!” he screamed, as he got his breath again. ”Block the wheels!”

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