Part 4 (1/2)
”I'll trouble you for the card,” said he. ”I may meet _other_ conductors.”
Slowly Cullin fumbled for it, twiddled it between his fingers, and finally, half reluctant, restored it. At that instant, faint, distant, but distinct, came the sound of the whistle of the belated No. 4.
”That's for Spearman's now,” thought Geordie, but so tense had been the scene that for a moment no man spoke.
Then Toomey gave tongue.
”She'll go by here kiting,” said he. ”Ten miles down-grade and a two-mile straightaway from Cimarron Bend, out yonder.” Again the whistle, and nearer. ”That's for the crossing at the creek. By gad, she's just jumping! Hang onto your hair when you see her head-light and scramble for the cab.”
Another whistle, two short blasts and a long. Nearer still, yet still out of sight; and then presently there shot into view, over a mile away to the west, even though the gray light of the summer's dawn now overspread the landscape, the glare of a head-light. It was No. 4 coming full tilt.
And then--surprise! From steam-drum and 'scape-valve jetted clouds of flat-driven steam. No. 4 had suddenly ”shut off,” and was now coasting downhill like a huge toboggan.
Another blast came from the whistle. ”By Jove, she's going to stop!”
said Cullin. ”What on earth's the meaning of that?”
With prodigious shriek and roar of steam, with clinching, crunching air-brakes on the glistening tires, with sparks flying from the whirring wheels and signal-lanterns swinging at the side, No. 4 came rus.h.i.+ng in. As the baggage-car shot by, a little group of men stood by the doorway about a rec.u.mbent figure, and the conductor whisked up his lantern and started after it. When nearly opposite the caboose the big train settled to a stop. Four pairs of strong arms lifted the prostrate figure from one car to the other. There were brief, hurried words. A lantern waved; the whistle sounded two quick blasts; No. 4 slowly started, quickly gained speed, and, almost as quickly as it came, was steaming away for Buffalo b.u.t.te, its pale lamps gleaming dimly in the gathering light. The conductor came running forward.
”Pull out for Argenta, Ben!” he shouted. ”Say, young feller, drop shovelling and come back. I've got n.o.body to help me, and here No. 4's loaded me with a half-dead man to be taken home. There's a row at the mines. Every man is out from Silver s.h.i.+eld!”
CHAPTER VI
FIRST AID TO THE WOUNDED
Slowly, jerkily, the Time Freight began to gather headway as the big Mogul pulled, hissing loudly, from the siding to the main track, the ugly brown cars winding grudgingly after. This was before the days of mile-long freight-trains with air-brakes and patent couplers. Over the grades of the Transcontinental no engine yet had pulled more than twenty ”empties.” There was ever the danger of breaking in two. In the dim interior of the caboose the conductor, with Geordie Graham by his side, was bending over a battered and dishevelled form. As the rear trucks went clicking over the switch-points, the former sprang to the open doorway to see that his brakeman reset and locked the switch, and with a swift run overtook the caboose and swung himself aboard.
”I'll be up in a minute, Andy,” cried Cullin to his aid, already scrambling up the iron ladder for his station on the roof. ”This poor devil's battered into pulp and I can't leave him.” And again he was by Graham's side--Graham who, kneeling now and sponging with cold water the bruised, hacked, disfigured face of the senseless victim, had made a startling discovery.
Here, with his clothing ripped, torn, and covered with dirt and blood, with one arm obviously broken and his head beaten, kicked, and cruelly gashed--here, beyond a doubt, lay the man who nearly five years earlier had been the one obstacle between him and the goal of his ambition, the cadets.h.i.+p at West Point; here lay the son of the man probably most prominent in the conspiracy against the absent shareholders of Silver s.h.i.+eld; here, in fine, lay the almost lifeless body of the youth he had seen spying upon their arrival at Denver--young Breifogle himself.
By this time the Mogul was grinding her way up the track, in determined effort to land the Time Freight in the yards at Argenta before the whistle blew for seven o'clock. It was a twelve-mile pull up-grade, every inch of the way--twisting, turning, and tunnelling, as has been said--and the caboose reeled and swayed from side to side as it rounded the reverse curves and swung at the tail of the train. Cullin, lantern in hand, had climbed to his seat in the lookout.
”I've got to be up here,” he explained, ”till we are through the tunnels. Do what you can. I suppose sponging is all we _can_ do.”
Graham nodded. He had stripped the leather-covered cus.h.i.+on from the conductor's chair, and with this and a rolled coat made a support for the senseless head. He had a fire-bucket of cold water, and even as he plied the wet sponge and sought to stanch the trickling blood, his wits were at work. The men on No. 4 had only time to say that four miles out from Argenta, down the Run beyond Narrow Gauge Junction, their whistle suddenly shrieked, the air-brakes were set with a clamp that jolted the whole train, and they slowed down just enough not to knock into flinders a hand-car that was sailing ahead of them, down-grade. ”The pilot hit it a lick that tossed it into the ditch,” No. 4's crew had explained, and beside it they had found--this.
And ”this” it was now Geordie's task and duty to keep alive until they could turn it over to competent hands at Argenta. ”This,” which others failed to know, he had recognized. ”This” it was for him to make known, yet in so doing he might betray himself and the purpose of his coming, and so undo every hope and plan he had made. There was no Toomey to help him now--no devoted ex-trooper and friend to back him. Engineer, fireman, conductor, and brakemen, every man of the crew had to be at his post as the freight panted away up the winding mountain road. The crew of No. 4 had searched the pockets in vain for a clew as to the injured man's ident.i.ty. Everything was gone. His a.s.sailants had seen to that. Not a sc.r.a.p had been found that could account for him. Even the s.h.i.+rt ”tab” bore no initials; the watch-pocket of the trousers bore no name. The garments had been purchased ready-made and gave no sign.
Then there was another matter to be considered. Badly as he was battered and bruised, the man was not dying. Graham knew how to test the pulse, and its strength told him not to fear. The chances were that his patient would return to consciousness before very long. Then recognition of his grimy attendant would probably follow. Breifogle was no fool, as Graham remembered, and a fireman's black cap and sooty s.h.i.+rt and overalls would be but scant disguise.
And to carry out his plan it was essential that he should pa.s.s through Argenta, reach Hatch's Cove and eventually the Silver s.h.i.+eld mine, and reach this latter unknown and unsuspected. Toomey and he had hit on a plan--once Toomey could succeed in getting word to Nolan. But that, reasoned Geordie, might be impossible now in view of this new complication--serious trouble at the mines, and ”every man out at Silver s.h.i.+eld.”
If only he could see Toomey again for a moment! That was impossible.
Toomey's every muscle was needed to keep that fiery and insatiable monster fed with fuel every rod of the way to Argenta. There was no intermediate stop. There could be no signals--no sending of a message.
Half the distance had they gone, panting and straining, barely fifteen miles to the hour. Broad daylight, and then the rejoicing suns.h.i.+ne, had come to cheer and gladden and revive, and Cullin shouted inquiry, as he bent down from his perch, and Graham nodded or shook his head by way of reply. Swiftly and scientifically he kept up the play of the sponges; shook his head to Cullin's suggestion of a little more whiskey--the frontier's ”first aid” for every kind of mishap. The pulse said there was no further need of it, at the moment at least. And then, as they rumbled over some resounding bridge-work and crossed the swift and foaming Run, the train crept under the shadow of the cliff and stretched away over a bit of open, undulating gra.s.sland, and then the racket ceased for a while and it was possible, by bending down, to catch the patient's breathing.
And it gave Geordie an idea.
The poor, bruised head was turning in restless pain; the puffed and swollen lips were moving; the still unconscious man was muttering. Not a word could Geordie distinguish. It was all guesswork. But, glancing up at Cullin, he called: ”He's trying to talk. Perhaps I can get his name,” and again inclined his ear and bent down over the luckless fellow's face. ”Yes,” he said, loudly, so that Cullin could hear--”yes, I understand.... Don't worry.... You're with friends.... Tell us your name and home.... What? Try once again.... Bry--what? Oh, Breifogle?...
Yes. Argenta? That's just where we're going. We'll be there very soon.