Chapter 5

The trainmen were working quietly, but very effectively, unloading. The day coaches had been emptied, the hand-brakes set, and all the wheels blocked with links and pins and stones, when the link between the engine and the mail-car snapped and the engine moved forward.

McNally heard the snap and felt her going, leaped from the window, caught and held a scrub cedar that grew in a rock crevice, and saw his black steed plunge down the dark cañon, a sheer two thousand feet.

McNally had been holding her in the back motion with steam in her cylinders; and now, when she leaped out into space, her throttle flew wide, a knot in the whistle-rope caught in the throttle, opening the whistle-valve as well. Down, down she plunged,--her wheels whirling in mid-air, a solid stream of fire escaping from her quivering stack, and from her throat a shriek that almost froze the blood in the veins of the onlookers. Fainter and farther came the cry, until at last the wild waters caught her, held her, hushed her, and smothered out her life.

CHASING THE WHITE MAIL

Over the walnuts and wine, as they say in Fifth Avenue, the gray-haired gentleman and I lingered long after the last of the diners had left the café car. One by one the lights were lowered. Some of the table-stewards had removed their duck and donned their street clothes. The shades were closely drawn, so that people could not peep in when the train was standing. The chief steward was swinging his punch on his finger and yawning. My venerable friend, who was a veritable author's angel, was a retired railway president with plenty of time to talk.

"We had, on the Vandalia," he began after lighting a fresh cigar, "a dare-devil driver named Hubbard--'Yank' Hubbard they called him. He was a first-class mechanic, sober and industrious, but notoriously reckless, though he had never had a wreck. The Superintendent of Motive Power had selected him for the post of master-mechanic at Effingham, but I had held him up on account of his bad reputation as a wild rider.

"We had been having a lot of trouble with California fruit trains,--delays, wrecks, cars looted while in the ditch,--and I had made the delay of a fruit train almost a capital offence. The bulletin was, I presume, rather severe, and the enginemen and conductors were not taking it very well.

"One night the White Mail was standing at the station at East St. Louis (that was before the first bridge was built) loading to leave. My car was on behind, and I was walking up and down having a good smoke. As I turned near the engine, I stopped to watch the driver of the White Mail pour oil in the shallow holes on the link-lifters without wasting a drop. He was on the opposite side of the engine, and I could see only his flitting, flickering torch and the dipping, bobbing spout of his oiler.

"A man, manifestly another engineer, came up. The Mail driver lifted his torch and said, 'Hello, Yank,' to which the new-comer made no direct response. He seemed to have something on his mind. 'What are you out on?' asked the engineer, glancing at the other's overalls. 'Fast freight--perishable--must make time--no excuse will be taken,' he snapped, quoting and misquoting from my severe circular. 'Who's in that Kaskaskia?' he asked, stepping up close to the man with the torch.

"'The ol' man,' said the engineer.

"'No! ol' man, eh? Well! I'll give him a canter for his currency this trip,' said Yank, gloating. 'I'll follow him like a scandal; I'll stay with him this night like the odor of a hot box. Say, Jimmie,' he laughed, 'when that tintype of yours begins to lay down on you, just bear in mind that my pilot is under the ol' man's rear brake-beam, and that the headlight of the 99 is haunting him.'

"'Don't get gay, now,' said the engineer of the White Mail.

"'Oh, I'll make him think California fruit is not all that's perishable on the road to-night,' said Yank, hurrying away to the round-house.

"Just as we were about to pull out, our engineer, who was brother to Yank, found a broken frame and was obliged to go to the house for another locomotive. We were an hour late when we left that night, carrying signals for the fast freight. As we left the limits of the yard, Hubbard's headlight swung out on the main line, picked up two slender shafts of silver, and shot them under our rear end. The first eight or ten miles were nearly level. I sat and watched the headlight of the fast freight. He seemed to be keeping his interval until we hit the hill at Collinsville. There was hard pounding then for him for five or six miles. Just as the Kaskaskia dropped from the ridge between the east and west Silver Creek, the haunting light swept round the curve at Hagler's tank. I thought he must surely take water here; but he plunged on down the hill, coming to the surface a few minutes later on the high prairie east of Saint Jacobs.

"Highland, thirty miles out, was our first stop. We took water there; and before we could get away from the tank, Hubbard had his twin shafts of silver under my car. We got a good start here, but our catch engine proved to be badly coaled and a poor steamer. Up to this time she had done fairly well, but after the first two hours she began to lose. Seeing no more of the freight train, I turned in, not a little pleased to think that Mr. Yank's headlight would not haunt me again that trip. I fell asleep, but woke again when the train stopped, probably at Vandalia. I had just begun to doze again when our engine let out a frightful scream for brakes. I knew what that meant,--Hubbard was behind us. I let my shade go up, and saw the light of the freight train shining past me and lighting up the water-tank. I was getting a bit nervous, when I felt our train pulling out.

"Of course Hubbard had to water again; but as he had only fifteen loads, and a bigger tank, he could go as far as the Mail could without stopping. Moreover, we were bound to stop at county seats; and as often as we did so we had the life scared out of us, for there was not an air-brake freight car on the system at that time. What a night that must have been for the freight crew! They were on top constantly, but I believe the beggars enjoyed it all. Any conductor but Jim Lawn would have stopped and reported the engineer at the first telegraph station. Still, I have always had an idea that the train-master was tacitly in the conspiracy, for his bulletin had been a hot one delivered orally by the Superintendent, whom I had seen personally.

"Well, along about midnight Hubbard's headlight got so close, and kept so close, that I could not sleep. His brother, who was pulling the Mail, avoided whistling him down; for when he did he only showed that there _was_ danger, and published his bad brother's recklessness. The result was that when the Mail screamed I invariably braced myself. I don't believe I should have stood it, only I felt it would all be over in another hour; for we should lose Yank at Effingham, the end of the freight's division. It happened, however, that there was no one to relieve him, or no engine rather; and Yank went through to Terre Haute. I was sorry, but I hated to show the white feather. I knew our fresh engine would lose him, with his tired fireman and dirty fire. Once or twice I saw his lamp, but at Longpoint we lost him for good. I went to bed again, but I could not sleep. I used to boast that I could sleep in a boiler-maker's shop; but the long dread of that fellow's pilot had unnerved me. I had wild, distressing dreams.

* * * * *

"The next morning, when I got to my office, I found a column of news cut from a morning paper. It had the usual scare-head, and began by announcing that the White Mail, with General Manager Blank's car Kaskaskia, came in on time, carrying signals for a freight train. The second section had not arrived, 'as we go to press.' I think I swore softly at that point. Then I read on, for there was a lot more. It seemed, the paper stated, that a gang of highwaymen had planned to rob the Mail at Longpoint, which had come to be regarded as a regular robber station. One of the robbers, being familiar with train rules, saw the signal lights on the Mail and mistook it for a special, which is often run as first section of a fast train, and they let it pass. They flagged the freight train, and one of the robbers, who was doubtless new at the business, caught the passing engine and climbed into the cab. The engineer, seeing the man's masked face at his elbow, struck it a fearful blow with his great fist. The amateur desperado sank to the floor, his big, murderous gun rattling on the iron plate of the coal-deck. Yank, the engineer, grabbed the gun, whistled off-brakes, and opened the throttle. The sudden lurch forward proved too much for a weak link, and the train parted, leaving the rest of the robbers and the train crew to fight it out. As soon as the engineer discovered that the train had parted, he slowed down and stopped.

"When he had picketed the highwayman out on the tank-deck with a piece of bell-cord, one end of which was fixed to the fellow's left foot and the other to the whistle lever, Yank set his fireman, with a white light and the robber's gun, on the rear car and flagged back to the rescue. The robbers, seeing the blunder they had made, took a few parting shots at the trainmen on the top of the train, mounted their horses, and rode away.

"When the train had coupled up again, they pulled on up to the next station, where the conductor reported the cause of delay, and from which station the account of the attempted robbery had been wired.

"I put the paper down and walked over to a window that overlooked the yards. The second section of the White Mail was coming in. As the engine rolled past, Yank looked up; and there was a devilish grin on his black face. The fireman was sitting on the fireman's seat, the gun across his lap. A young fellow, wearing a long black coat, a bell-rope, and a scared look, was sweeping up the deck.

"When I returned to my desk, the Superintendent of Motive Power was standing near it. When I sat down, he spread a paper before me. I glanced at it and recognized Yank Hubbard's appointment to the post of master-mechanic at Effingham.

"I dipped a pen in the ink-well and wrote across it in red, 'O--K.'"

OPPRESSING THE OPPRESSOR

"Is this the President's office?"

"Yes, sir."

"Can I see the President?"

"Yes,--I'm the President."

The visitor placed one big boot in a chair, hung his soft hat on his knee, dropped his elbow on the hat, let his chin fall in the hollow of his hand, and waited.

The President of the Santa Fé, leaning over a flat-topped table, wrote leisurely. When he had finished, he turned a kindly face to the visitor and asked what could be done.

"My name's Jones."

"Yes?"

"I presume you know about me,--Buffalo Jones, of Garden City."

"Well," began the President, "I know a lot of Joneses, but where is Garden City?"

"Down the road a piece, 'bout half-way between Wakefield and Turner's Tank. I want you folks to put in a switch there,--that's what I've come about. I'd like to have it in this week."

"Anybody living at Garden City?"

"Yes, all that's there's livin'."

"About how many?"

"One and a half when I'm away,--Swede and Injin."

The President of the Santa Fé smiled and rolled his lead pencil between the palms of his hands. Mr. Jones watched him and pitied him, as one watches and pities a child who is fooling with firearms. "He don't know I'm loaded," thought Jones.

"Well," said the President, "when you get your town started so that there will be some prospect of getting a little business, we shall be only too glad to put in a spur for you."

Jones had been looking out through an open window, watching the law-makers of Kansas going up the wide steps of the State House. The fellows from the farm climbed, the town fellows ran up the steps.

"Spur!" said Jones, wheeling around from the window and walking toward the President's desk, "I don't want no spur; I want a side track that'll hold fifty cars, and I want it this week,--see?"

"Now look here, Mr. Jones, this is sheer nonsense. We get wind at Wakefield and water at Turner's Tank; now, what excuse is there for putting in a siding half-way between these places?"

Again Mr. Jones, rubbing the point of his chin with the ball of his thumb, gave the President a pitying glance.

"Say!" said Jones, resting the points of his long fingers on the table, "I'm goin' to build a town. You're goin' to build a side track. I've already set aside ten acres of land for you, for depot and yards. This land will cost you fifty dollars per, _now_. If I have to come back about this side track, it'll cost you a hundred. Now, Mr. President, I wish you good-mornin'."

At the door Jones paused and looked back. "Any time this week will do; good-mornin'."

The President smiled and turned to his desk. Presently he smiled again; then he forgot all about Mr. Jones and the new town, and went on with his work.

Mr. Jones went down and out and over to the House to watch the men make laws.

* * * * *

In nearly every community, about every capital, State or National, you will find men who are capable of being influenced. This is especially true of new communities through which a railway is being built. It has always been so, and will be, so long as time expires. I mean the time of an annual pass. It is not surprising, then, that in Kansas at that time, the Grasshopper period,--before prohibition, Mrs. Nation, and religious dailies,--the company had its friends, and that Mr. Jones, an honest farmer with money to spend, had his.

Two or three days after the interview with Mr. Jones, the President's "friend" came over to the railroad building. He came in quietly and seated himself near the President, as a doctor enters a sick-room or a lawyer a prison cell. "I know you don't want me," he seemed to say, "but you need me."

When his victim had put down his pen, the politician asked, "Have you seen Buffalo Jones?"

The President said he had seen the gentleman.

"I think it would be a good scheme to give him what he wants," said the Honorable member of the State legislature.

But the President could not agree with his friend; and at the end of half an hour, the Honorable member went away not altogether satisfied. He did not relish the idea of the President trying to run the road without his assistance. One of the chief excuses for his presence on earth and in the State legislature was "to take care of the road." Now, he had gotten up early in order to see the President without being seen, and the President had waved him aside. "Well," he said, "I'll let Jones have the field to-day."

* * * * *

Two days later, when the President opened his desk, he found a brief note from his confidential assistant,--not the Honorable one, but an ordinary man who worked for the company for a stated salary. The note read:--

"If Buffalo Jones calls to-day please see him.--I am leaving town. G.O.M."

But Buffalo did not call.

Presently the General Manager came in, and when he was leaving the room he turned and asked, "Have you seen Jones?"

"Yes," said the President of the Santa Fé, "I've seen Jones."

The General Manager was glad, for that took the matter from his hands and took the responsibility from his drooping shoulders.

About the time the President got his mind fixed upon the affairs of the road again, Colonel Holiday came in. Like the Honorable gentleman, he too entered by the private door unannounced; for he was the Father of the Santa Fé. Placing his high hat top side down on the table, the Colonel folded his hands over the golden head of his cane and inquired of the President if he had seen Jones.

The President assured the Colonel, who in addition to being the Father of the road was a director.

The Colonel picked up his hat and went out, feeling considerable relief: for _his_ friend in the State Senate had informed him at the Ananias Club on the previous evening, that Jones was going to make trouble for the road. The Colonel knew that a good, virtuous man with money to spend could make trouble for anything or anybody, working quietly and unobtrusively among the equally virtuous members of the State legislature. The Colonel had been a member of that august body.

In a little while the General Manager came back; and with him came O'Marity, the road-master.

"I thought you said you had seen Jones," the General Manager began.

Now the President, who was never known to be really angry, wheeled on his revolving chair.

"I--_have_--seen Jones."

"Well, O'Marity says Jones has not been 'seen.' His friend, who comes down from Atchison every Sunday night on O'Marity's hand-car, has been good enough to tell O'Marity just what has been going on in the House. There must be some mistake. It seems to me that if this man Jones had been seen properly, he would subside. What's the matter with your friend--Ah, here comes the Honorable gentleman now."

The President beckoned with his index finger and his friend came in. Looking him in the eye, the President asked in a stage whisper: "Have you--seen--Jones?"

"No, sir," said the Honorable gentleman. "I had no authority to see him."

"It's damphunny," said O'Marity, "if the President 'ave seen 'im, 'e don't quit."

"I certainly saw a man called Jones,--Buffalo Jones of Garden City. He wanted a side track put in half-way between Wakefield and Turner's Tank."

"And you told him, 'Certainly, we'll do it at once,'" said the General Manager.

"No," the President replied, "I told him we would not do it at once, because there was no business or prospect of business to justify the expense."

"Ah--h," said the Manager.

O'Marity whistled softly.

The Honorable gentleman smiled, and looked out through the open window to where the members of the State legislature were going up the broad steps to the State House.

"Mr. Rong," the Manager began, "it is all a horrible mistake. You have never 'seen' Jones. Not in the sense that we mean. When you see a politician or a man who herds with politicians, he is supposed to be yours,--you are supposed to have acquired a sort of interest in him,--an interest that is valued so long as the individual is in sight. You are entitled to his support and influence, up to, and including the date on which your influence expires." All the time the Manager kept jerking his thumb toward the window that held the Honorable gentleman, using the President's friend as a living example of what he was trying to explain.

"Is Jones a member?"

"No, Mr. Rong, but he controls a few members. It is easier, you understand, to acquire a drove of steers by buying a bunch than by picking them up here and there, one at a time."

"I protest," said the Honorable member, "against the reference to members of the legislature as 'cattle.'"

Neither of the railway men appeared to hear the protest.

"I think I understand now," said the President. "And I wish, Robson, you would take this matter in hand. I confess that I have no stomach for such work."

"Very well," said the Manager. "Please instruct your--your--" and he jerked his thumb toward the Honorable gentleman--"your _friend_ to send Jones to my office."

The Honorable gentleman went white and then flushed red, but he waited for no further orders. As he strode towards the door, Robson, with a smooth, unruffled brow, but with a cold smile playing over his handsome face, with mock courtesy and a wide sweep of his open hand, waved the visitor through the open door.

* * * * *

"Mr. Jones wishes to see you," said the chief clerk.

"Oh, certainly--show Mr. Jones--Ah, good-morning, Mr. Jones, glad to see you. How's Garden City? Going to let us in on the ground floor, Mr. Rong tells me. Here, now, fire up; take this big chair and tell me all about your new town."

Jones took a cigar cautiously from the box. When the Manager offered him a match he lighted up gingerly, as though he expected the thing to blow up.

"Now, Mr. Jones, as I understand it, you want a side track put in at once. The matter of depot and other buildings will wait, but I want you to promise to let us have at least ten acres of ground. Perhaps it would be better to transfer that to us at once. I'll see" (the Manager pressed a button). "Send the chief engineer to me, George," as the chief clerk looked in.

All this time Jones smoked little short puffs, eyeing the Manager and his own cigar. When the chief engineer came in he was introduced to Mr. Jones, the man who was going to give Kansas the highest boom she had ever had.

While Jones stood in open-mouthed amazement, the Manager instructed the engineer to go to Garden City when it would suit Mr. Jones, lay out a siding that would hold fifty loads, and complete the job at the earliest possible moment.

"By the way, Mr. Jones, have you got transportation over our line?"

Mr. Jones managed to gasp the one word, "No."

"Buz-z-zz," went the bell. "George, make out an annual for Mr. Jones,--Comp. G.M."

Jones steadied himself by resting an elbow on the top of the Manager's desk. The chief engineer was writing in a little note-book.

"Now, Mr. Jones--ah, your cigar's out!--how much is this ten acres to cost us?--a thousand dollars, I believe you told Mr. Rong."

"Yes, I did tell him that; but if this is straight and no jolly, it ain't goin' to cost you a cent."

"Well, that's a _great_ deal better than most towns treat us," said the Manager. "Now, Mr. Jones, you will have to excuse me; I have some business with the President. Don't fail to look in on me when you come to town; and rest assured that the Santa Fé will leave nothing undone that might help your enterprise."

With a hearty handshake the Manager, usually a little frigid and remote, passed out, leaving Mr. Jones to the tender mercies of the chief engineer.

Up to this point there is nothing unusual in this story. The remarkable part is the fact that the building of a side track in an open plain turned out to be good business. In a year's time there was a neat station and more sidings. The town boomed with a rapidity that amazed even the boomers. To be sure, it had its relapses; but still, if you look from the window as the California Limited crashes by, you will see a pretty little town when you reach the point on the time-table called

"Garden City."

THE IRON HORSE AND THE TROLLEY

I

Two prospectors had three claims in a new camp in British Columbia, but they had not the $7.50 to pay for having them recorded. They told their story to Colonel Topping, author of "The Yellowstone Park," and the Colonel advanced the necessary amount. In time the prospectors returned $5.00 of the loan, and gave the Colonel one of the claims for the balance, but more for his kindness to them; for they reckoned it a bully good prospect. Because they considered it the best claim in the camp, they called it Le Roi. Subsequently the Colonel sold this "King," that had cost him $2.50, for $30,000.00.

The new owners of Le Roi stocked the claim; and for the following two or three years, when a man owed a debt that he was unwilling to pay, he paid it in Le Roi stock. If he felt like backing a doubtful horse, he put up a handful of mining stock to punish the winner. There is in the history of this interesting mine a story of a man swapping a lot of Le Roi stock for a burro. The former owner of the donkey took the stock and the man it came from into court, declaring that the paper was worthless, and that he had been buncoed. As late as 1894, a man who ran a restaurant offered 40,000 shares of Le Roi stock for four barrels of Canadian whiskey; but the whiskey man would not trade that way.