XXI The Mills of the Gods
It was merely by chance that Adair had Michael Gallagher for his engineer when the “01” was made up for the after-midnight run from Saint’s Rest to the MacMorrogh headquarters. But it was a chance which was duly gratifying to Leckhard. The little Irishman was Ford’s most loyal liegeman, and a word was all that was needed to put him on his mettle. The word was spoken while he was oiling around for the man-killing extra service.
“Pretty well knocked out, Michael?” asked Leckhard, by way of preface.
“I am thot, Misther Leckhard. ’Tis the good half of lasht night, all day yestherday, and thin some.”
“It’s tough. But if any of the other men were in, I should still ask you to go. Mr. Ford is in a pinch, and Mr. Adair, your passenger, is going to help him out. He can do it if you get him to Horse Creek in time; and I know you’ll get him there if the 956 and the ’01’ will stay on the steel.”
“To help Misther Foord out? Thot’s me,” said Gallagher simply.
“Not having a wire, I can’t boost you any from this end. You’ll meet Folsom and Graham with the other two sections of empties where you can: you’ll run as fast as the Lord’ll let you on such a track as you have: but above all, you’ll stay on the rails. If you ditch yourself, it’ll go hard with Mr. Ford.”
“I’ll do all thim things and wan more—and thot wan is the shtiffest av thim all: the saints aidin’ me, Misther Leckhard, I’ll shtay awake.”
There was a short siding at the summit of the pass, and by good hap, Gallagher met Folsom with the first string of empties at that point: or rather, giving the bit of good luck full credit, he heard the roaring of Folsom’s exhaust as the first of the opposing trains pounded up the dangerous western grade, and hastily backed up and took the summit siding.
Pitching over the hill with the “01” the moment Folsom’s tail-lights had passed the outlet switch, Gallagher had a sharp attack of memory. The day before, in the Horse Creek yard, he had seen and remarked a jagged scratch on the side of the Nadia. Hence, he was watching for the narrow rock cuttings, and the three passages perilous on the cliff face were made in safety.
Once off the mountain, however, the greater peril began to assert itself. For a time the Irishman kept himself fully awake and alert by pushing the 956 to the ragged edge of hazard, scurrying over the short tangents and lifting her around the curves in breath-taking spurts. Later this expedient began to lose its fillip. Since the train was running wholly on the air-brakes there was nothing for the fireman to do, and Jackson, the loyalest understudy Gallagher had ever known, tumbled from his box in a doze, staggered across the gang-way into the half-filled tender, and fell like a man anæsthetized full length on the coal. Gallagher did not try to arouse him.
“’Tis hell for wan, an’ twice hell for two,” he muttered; and then he shifted his right hand to the brake-cock and grasped the hot throttle lever with the ungloved left. And for a time the pain of the burn sufficed.
It was another piece of luck, good or bad, that made Ten Mile station the special train’s meeting point with the second train of empties. This time it was Graham, the other engineer, who heard. He had stopped at Ten Mile on the bare chance that the wire between that point and Saint’s Rest had been repaired; public opinion to the contrary notwithstanding, an engineer does not run “wild” when he can help it.
The engineer of the third section had come out of the night operator’s office disappointed, and was climbing to his engine to pull out, when he heard, or thought he heard, the dull rumble of a train racing down the canyon. It came in sight while he listened, and the yellow flare told him that it was either Gallagher or Folsom doubling back on one of the construction engines. What startled him was the fact that the coming train appeared to be running itself; there was no warning whistle shriek and no slackening of speed.
Graham was a Scotchman, slow of speech, slow to anger, methodical to the thirty-third degree. But in an emergency his brain leveled itself like a ship’s compass gimballed to hang plumb in the suddenest typhoon. Three shrill whistle calls sent a sleepy flagman racing to set the switch of the siding. With a clang the reversing lever came over and the steam roared into the cylinders.
The Scotchman had the grade to help him, which was fortunate. When he had the string of empties fairly in retreat, the beam of Gallagher’s headlight was shining full in his face and blinding him. For a heart-breaking second he feared that the opposing train would follow him in on the siding; there was but an instant for the flicking of the switch. But by this time the sleepy flagman was wide awake, and he jerked the switch lever for his life the moment Graham’s engine had cleared the points. It was the closest possible shave. Gallagher’s cab ticked the forward end of the other engine’s running board in passing, and if Graham had not been still shoving backward with the throttle wide open, the “01,” being wider than its piloting engine, would have had its side ripped out.
Graham had a glimpse into the cab of the 956 as it passed and saw Gallagher, sitting erect on his box with wide-staring eyes. He knew the symptoms, and feared that he had only postponed the catastrophe. The siding was a short one, and he knew that in backing down he must inevitably have shoved the rear end of his train out upon the main line at the lower switch. Once again the level brain righted itself to the emergency. Four sharp shrieks of the whistle for switches, a jamming of the whistle lever to set the canyon echoes yelling in the hope of arousing Gallagher, and Graham slammed his engine into the forward motion without pausing to close the throttle. There was a grinding of fire from the wheels, a running jangle of slack-taking down the long line of empties, and the freight train shot ahead, snatching its rear end out of harm’s way just as Gallagher, dreaming that his boiler had burst and that all the fiends of the pit were screeching the news of it, came to life and snapped on the air.
When the stop was made, the little Irishman roused his fireman, got off and footed it up the line to see what he had done. Graham had stopped his engine when he was sure his train was clearing the lower switch, and was on his way back to find out what had happened to Gallagher. The two men met in the shadow of the halted material empties, and it was the Irishman who began it.
“Paste me wan, Scotchie,” he said. “’Tis owin’ to me.”
Without a word the Scotchman gave the blow, catching the little man full in the chest and knocking him half a car-length. That was enough. Gallagher picked himself up out of the gravel, the lust of battle hot upon him.
“Wan more like thot, ye divvle, and I cajo lick ye if ye wor Fin-mac-Coul himself,” he panted; and Graham gave it judiciously, this time on the point of the jaw. For five bloody minutes it went on, give and take, down and up; methodically on Graham’s part, fiery hot on Gallagher’s. And in the end the Irishman had the heavier man backed against the string of empties and yelling for quarter.
“Are you full awake now, ye red-hot blastoderm?” gasped Graham, struggling to free himself when Gallagher gave him leave.
“I am thot, thanks to you, Sandy, lad. ’Twas a foine bit av a scrimmage, an’ I’m owin’ ye wan. Good night to ye.”
“Ye’ve got a clear track from this,” called Graham, swabbing his battered face with a piece of cotton waste drawn from one of the pockets of method. “But ye’d better not take any more cat-naps. Go on with ye, ye wild Irishman; ye’re obstructin’ the traffic.”
For twenty miles below Ten Mile Gallagher sat on his box like a man refreshed. Then the devil of sleep postponed beset him again. Once more the fireman was asleep on the coal, and to the little Irishman’s bombardment of wrenches and other missiles he returned only sodden groans. Gallagher nerved himself to fight it through alone. Mile after mile of the time-killing track swung slowly to the rear, and there was not even the flick of speed to help in the grim battle.
Dawn came when the end-of-track camp was still forty miles away, but the breaking day brought no surcease of strugglings. When it came to the bitter end, when his eyelids would close involuntarily and he would wake with a start to wonder dumbly how far the 956 had come masterless, Gallagher took a chew of tobacco and began to rub the spittle into his eyes—the last resort of the sleep-tormented engineman. Like all the other expedients it sufficed for the time; but before long he was nodding again, and dreaming that a thousand devils were burning his eyes out with the points of their red-hot pitchforks.
Out of one of these nightmares he came with a yell of pain to see what figured for the moment as another nightmare. Three hundred feet ahead the track seemed to vanish for three or four rail-lengths. It was second nature to jam on the brakes and to make the sudden stop. Then he sat still and rubbed his smarting eyes and stared again. The curious hallucination persisted strangely. Fifty feet ahead of the stopped engine the glistening lines of the steel ended abruptly, beginning again a car-length or two beyond. Without disturbing the sleeping Jackson, Gallagher got down and crept cautiously out to the break. It was a break. He stooped and felt the rail ends with his hands.
When he straightened up his passenger was standing beside him.
“What is it?” asked Adair. “Have we lost something?”
Gallagher waved a grimy hand at the gap.
“The thrack,” he said. “’Twas there whin I pulled me sthring av empties out over ut lasht night. ’Tis gone now, else I’m thot near dead for sleep I can nayther see nor feel sthraight.”
Adair was calmly lighting a cigarette.
“Your senses are still in commission,” he said; “there is a good-sized piece of track missing. Who sniped it, do you suppose?”
The engineer was shaking his fiery head.
“’Tis beyond me, Misther Adair.”
“That’s the deuce of it,” smiled the young man. “It’s beyond the train. How is your engine—pretty good on the broad jump?”
Gallagher was not past laughing.
“She’ll not lep thot, this day. But who’d be doin’ this job betune dark an’ mornin’, d’ye think?”
“You will have to ask me something easy, I’m not up in all the little practical jokes of the country. But if I should venture a guess, I should say it was some one who didn’t want me to answer the first call for breakfast at your end-of-track camp this morning. What do we do?”
Gallagher was thinking.
“We passed a camp av surfacers tin mile back, and there’d be rails at Arroyo Siding, tin mile back o’ thot,” he said reflectively.
Adair had passed over to the river side of the line and was looking at a fresh plowing of the embankment.
“The rails have been dragged down here and they are probably in the river,” he announced. “If we had men and tools we might fish them out and repair damages.”
“Come on, thin,” cried the little Irishman, and when he ran back to climb to the footboard of the 956, Adair climbed with him.
Jackson, refreshed by his cat-naps on the coal, was sent to the rear end of the “01” to flag back, and in due time the special picked up the gang of surfacers just turning out to the day’s work. An Irish foreman was in command, and to him Gallagher appealed, lucidly but not too gently. The reply was a volley of abuse and a caustic refusal to lend his men to the track-laying department.
Gallagher turned to Adair with his red-apple face wrinkling dismayfully.
“’Tis up to me to push thot felly’s face in, Misther Adair; and what wid two nights and a day, shtandin’, and wan fight wid a bully twice me size, I’m not man enough.”
Adair tossed away the stump of his cigarette.
“You’re quite sure that is what is needed?” he queried.
“To knock a grain av sinse into thot Wicklow man?” queried Gallagher. “Sure, it is.” And then whispering: “But not for you, Misther Adair; he’d ate you in two bites. L’ave me have a thry wid him.”
But Adair was off and fronting the surly MacMorrogh foreman.
“We need a dozen of your men and some tools,” he said quietly. “Do we get them?”
“Not by a fistful!” retorted the surly one. “Maybe you think you’re enough of a —— —— —— to take ’em.”
“I am a better man than you are,” was the even-toned rejoinder.
“Prove it, then.”
Gallagher, leaning from his cab window, fully awake now, and chuckling and rubbing his hands together softly, saw the blow. It was clean-cut, swift as the lightning’s flash, true to a finger’s breadth, and the sound of it was as bone upon bone. At its impact the Wicklow man bounded into the air, arched his back like a bow, and pitched on his head in the ditch. When he rose up, roaring blasphemies and doubling his huge fists for the fray, the quiet voice was assailing him again. “Do we get the men and tools?”
“Not—”
Again the lightning-like passes of the hands, and the Wicklow man sat down forcibly and gasped. The Italian surfacers threw aside their picks and shovels and made a ring, dancing excitedly and jeering. The big foreman, whose scepter of authority was commonly a pick-handle for the belaboring of offenders, was not loved.
“Kick-a da shin—kick-a da shin—he like-a da nigger-mans,” suggested one of the Italians, but there was no need. Being safely out of range of the catapult fists, the foreman stayed there.
“Take your track gang and be damned to you!” he snarled.
Adair made a forward step and stood over him.
“Are you quite convinced that I am the better man?” he asked very gently.
“It’s a trick!” growled the Wicklow man savagely. “I could get onto it in another whirl or two.”
“Get up,” said the gentle voice. “You’ll never have a better chance to learn the trick.” But the foreman had the saving grace to shun anti-climaxes.
“G’wan! Take the men, I say; all of ’em, if you like.”
“Thanks,” said Adair pleasantly. “We’ll do it, and we’ll take you, as well—to answer for their good behavior. Let me help you up,” and he stooped and snapped the big one to his feet as a man would collar a reluctant boy.
“Great judgment!” gasped the foreman. “Say, Mister Cock-o’-the-walk—where do you hide all that muscle?” And without waiting for an answer he piled a dozen of his men upon the engine and followed them, still muttering.
It was a partly surfaced ten miles over which the special train thundered for the third time since dawn-breaking, and Gallagher took the last wheel-turn out of the 956. None the less, the sun was reddening the western mountains when the Italians took ground at the mysterious gap. The rails were found in the stream, as Adair had predicted, and it was a work of minutes only to snake them up the embankment and to spike them lightly into place. But when Adair, for the healing of wounds, had thrust a bank-note into the hand of the Wicklow man, and the special was once more on its unhindered way westward, the sun had fairly topped the eastern range, and Johnson, the porter of the “01,” was shouting across the rocketing tender that breakfast was served.
The young man in the London-cut clothes might have climbed back to the car over the coal; or Gallagher would have stopped for him. But he elected to stay in the cab, and he was still there, hanging from the open window on Jackson’s side, when the one-car special woke the echoes with its whistle, clattered in over the switches at Horse Creek, and came to a stand opposite the MacMorroghs’ commissary.
It was Brian MacMorrogh who came across the tracks to greet Adair, and, since this was their first meeting, he made the mistake of his life in calling the young director by name.
“The top of the morning to you, Misther Adair. Is it Misther Colbrith you’d be looking for?”
“It is,” said Adair shortly, not failing to remark that the barrel-bodied, black-bearded man seemed to recognize and to be expecting him.
“’Tis two hours gone they all are,” was the oily-voiced explanation. “Up the grade and over to Copah. But they’ll be back to-morrow, Heaven savin’ thim, and we’ll make you comfortable here—as comfortable as we can.”
“That will be quickly done,” said Adair, swinging down from the engine step. “Just give me a horse and tell me which way they have gone, and I’ll overtake them.”
But here the barrel-bodied one spread his hands helplessly.
“’Tis just our luck!” he protested, in the keenest self-reproach. “There isn’t a horse or a mule in camp that you could get a mile an hour out of. In fact, I’m thinking there isn’t anny horses at all!”