Part 26 (1/2)

Old Dan straightened up, looked at Regan--and smiled.

”I dunno,” he said, shaking his head and smiling. ”I dunno; but it'll be all right. We'll get along somehow.” His eyes s.h.i.+fted to the roundhouse again. ”I guess I'd better be getting over to the 304,” he said--and turned abruptly away.

Regan watched him go, watched the overalled figure with a slight shoulder stoop cross the turntable, watched until the other disappeared inside the roundhouse doors; and then he turned and walked slowly across the tracks and uptown toward his boarding house. ”Don't tell her”--the words kept reiterating themselves insistently--”don't let the boys tell her.”

”I guess they won't,” said Regan, muttering fiercely to himself. ”I guess they won't.”

Nor did they. The division and Big Cloud kept the secret for those two weeks--and they kept it for long after that. The little old lady in the lace cap never knew--they ranked her high, those pioneering women kind of hers in that little mountain town, those rough-and-ready toilers who had been her husband's mates--she never knew.

But everybody else knew, and they watched old Dan as the days went by, watched him somehow with a tight feeling in their throats, and kept aloof a little--because they didn't know what to say--kept aloof a little awkwardly, as it were. Not that there seemed much of any difference in the old engineer; it was more a something that they sensed. Old Dan came down to the roundhouse in the late afternoon an hour before train time, just as he always did, puttered and oiled around and coddled the 304 for an hour, just as he always did, just as though he was always going to do it, took his train out, came back on the early morning run, backed the 304 into the roundhouse, and trudged up Main Street to where it began to straggle into the b.u.t.tes, to where his cottage and the little old lady were--just as he always did. And the little old lady, with the debt paid, went about the town for those two weeks happier-looking, younger-looking than Big Cloud had ever seen her before. That was all.

But Regan, worrying, pulling at his mustache, put it up to little Billy Dawes, old Dan's fireman, one day in the roundhouse near the end of the two weeks.

”How's Dan take it in the cab, Billy?” he asked.

The little fireman rolled the hunk of greasy waste in his hands, and swabbed at his fingers with it for a moment before he answered; then he sent a stream of blackstrap juice viciously into the pit, and with a savage jerk hurled the hunk of waste after it.

”By G.o.d!” he said fiercely.

Regan blinked--and waited.

”Just the same as ever he was,” said Billy Dawes huskily, after a silence. ”Just the same--when he thinks you're not looking. I've seen him sometimes when he didn't know I was looking.”

Regan said: ”H'm!”--kind of coughed it out, reached for his plug, as was usual with him in times of stress, bit into it deeply, sputtered something hurriedly about new piston rings for the left-hand head, and, muttering to himself, left the roundhouse.

And that night old Dan MacCaffery took out the 304 and the local pa.s.senger for the run west and the run back east--just as he always did. And the next night, and for two nights after that he did the same.

Came then the night of the 31st.

It was the fall of the year and the dusk fell early; and by a little after six, with the oil lamps lighted, that at best only filtered spasmodic yellow streaks of gloom about the roundhouse, the engines back on the pits were beginning to loom up through the murk in big, grotesque, shadowy shapes, as Regan, crossing the turntable, paused for a moment hesitantly. Why he was there, he didn't know. He hadn't meant to be there. He was just a little early for his nightly game of pedro with Carleton over in the super's office--it wasn't much more than half past six--so he had had some time to put in--that must be about the size of it. He hadn't meant to come. There wasn't any use in it, none at all, nothing he could do; better, in fact, if he stayed away--only he had left the boarding house early--and he was down there now, standing on the turntable--and it was old Dan's last run.

”I guess,” mumbled Regan, ”I'll go back over to the station. Carleton 'll be along in a few minutes. I guess I will, h'm?”--only Regan didn't. He started on again slowly over the turntable, and entered the roundhouse.

There wasn't anybody in sight around the pit on which the 304 stood, n.o.body puttering over the links and motion-gear, poking here and there solicitously with a long-spouted oil can, as he had half, more than half, expected to find old Dan doing; but he heard some one moving about in the cab, and caught the flare of a torch. Regan walked down the length of the engine, and peered into the cab. It was Billy Dawes.

”Where's Dan, Billy? Ain't he about?” inquired Regan.

The fireman came out into the gangway.

”Yes,” he answered; ”he's down there back of the tender by the fitters'

benches. He's looking for some washers he said he wanted for a loose stud nut. I'll get him for you.”

”No; never mind,” said Regan. ”I'll find him.”

It was pretty dark at the rear of the roundhouse in the narrow s.p.a.ce between the engine tenders on the various pits and the row of workbenches that flanked the wall, and for a moment, as Regan reached the end of the 304's tender, he could not see any one--and then he stopped short, as he made out old Dan's form down on the floor by the end bench as though he were groping for something underneath it.

For a minute, two perhaps, Regan stood there motionless, watching old Dan MacCaffery. Then he drew back, tiptoed softly away, went out through the engine doors, and, as he crossed the tracks to the station platform, brushed his hand hurriedly across his eyes.

Regan didn't play much of a game of pedro that night--his heart wasn't in it. Carleton had barely dealt the first hand when Regan heard the 304 backing down and coupling on the local, and he got up from his chair and walked to the window, and stood there watching until the local pulled out.