Kitabı oku: «Ralph on the Overland Express: or, The Trials and Triumphs of a Young Engineer», sayfa 12
CHAPTER XXX
SNOWBOUND
Chug!
“A snowslide!” exclaimed Ralph, in dismay.
“An avalanche!” declared Fogg. “Dodge – something’s coming!”
With a crash both cab windows were splintered to fragments. The young engineer of No. 999 was nearly swept from his seat as there poured in through the gap a volume of snow.
They had struck an immense snowdrift obliquely, but the fireman’s side caught the brunt. As the powerful locomotive dove into the drift, the snow packed through the denuded window-frame at the fireman’s seat like grain into a bin. A solid block of snow was formed under the terrific pressure of the compact. It lodged against the coal of the tender with a power that would probably have crushed the life out of a person standing in the way.
“Whew!” shouted Fogg. “Lucky I ducked.”
Ralph stopped the engine, which had been going slower and slower each minute of the past hour. They had gotten about half the distance to Rockton. Long since, however, both engineer and fireman had fully decided that they would never make terminus that night.
They had left Stanley Junction under difficulties. The snow was deep and heavy, and there was a further fall as they cleared the limits. There was no wind, but the snow came down with blinding steadiness and volume, and at Vernon they got the stop signal.
The operator stated that the line ahead leading past Fordham Cut was impassable. The passenger was stalled ten miles away, and orders from Rockton were to the effect that the Overland Express should take the cut-off. This diverged into the foothills, where there were no such deep cuts as on the direct route, and where it was hoped the drifts would not be so heavy.
Neither Ralph nor Fogg was familiar with their new routing. For an hour they made fair progress. Then they began to encounter trouble. They did not run a yard that the pilot wheels were not sunk to the rims in snow. Landmarks were blotted out. As they found themselves blindly trusting to the power of the giant locomotive to forge ahead despite obstacles, they were practically a lost train.
It was now, as they dove bodily into a great drift choking up an embankment cut, that they realized that they had reached a definite angle in their experience of the run, and were halted for good.
No. 999 barely pushed her nose far enough out of the enveloping drift, to enable Ralph by the aid of the glaring headlight to discern other drifts further ahead.
“We’re stalled, that’s dead sure,” declared Fogg. “Signal the conductor and see what the programme is.”
It was some time after the tooting signal that the conductor put in an appearance. He did not come along the side track. That was fairly impossible, for it would have been sheer burrow progress. He came over the top of the next car to the tender, a blind baggage, and as he climbed over the coal in the tender his lantern smashed and he presented a pale and anxious face to the view of the cab crew.
“What’s the prospects?” he inquired in a discouraged tone.
“It looks like an all-night lay-over,” reported Ralph.
“There’s nothing ahead, of course,” said the conductor calculatingly. “There’s a freight due on the in track. Behind us a freight was to come, provided No. 11 put out from Stanley Junction to-night.”
“Which I doubt,” said Fogg.
“If we could back to Vernon we’d be in better touch with something civilized,” went on the conductor. “The wires are all down here.”
“I can try it,” replied Ralph, “but without a pilot the rear car will soon come to a bump.”
“Give her a show, anyway,” suggested the conductor.
Two minutes’ effort resulted in a dead stop. The young engineer knew his business well enough to understand that they were in danger of running the train off the track.
“I’ll send a signal back, if a man can get back,” decided the conductor.
The backing-up had left a clear brief space before the train. Ralph took a lantern and left his fireman in charge of the locomotive. He was gone about ten minutes, and came back panting and loaded down with the heavy, clinging snow.
“May as well bunk in right here,” ventured Fogg.
“That’s it,” answered Ralph definitely. “It’s drift after drift ahead. No use disabling the locomotive, and we simply can’t hope to dig our way out.”
The conductor came forward again looking miserable. A red lantern had been planted as far down the tracks as the brakeman dared to go. The conductor and Ralph held a conversation. Fogg, a veteran in the service, was appealed to for a final decision.
“You’ve hit it,” said the fireman sagely and with emphasis. “It’s a permanent blockage, and our only chance is for the Great Northern to find us out or for us to wait until the snow melts.”
“If this snow keeps up we’ll be buried under,” said the conductor.
“Well, we’ve got to make the best of it,” advised Fogg. “If we can make it, build a big fire ahead there as a warning or signal, although I don’t believe there’s much stirring at either end. Then it’s just a question of food and warmth.”
“Food!” repeated the conductor, who was fat and hearty and looked as if he never willingly missed his meals; “where in the world are we to get food? They cut the diner off at the Junction, and there probably isn’t a farmhouse or station along this dreary waste for miles.”
“Well, I fancy we’ll have to stand the hunger,” said Ralph. “As to the heat, that’s an essential we mustn’t neglect. We had better shut off the steam pipes, keeping only a little fire in the furnace and starting the stoves in the coaches.”
“Yes, we might last out on that plan,” nodded the conductor, glancing over the tender.
Ralph pulled to a spot about two hundred feet ahead, where the advance and retreat of the train had cleared a space alongside the rails, and the conductor went back to the coaches.
Ralph adjusted the steam pipes so they would not freeze, and Fogg banked the fire. Then they got to the ground with rake and shovel, and skirmished around to see what investigation might develop.
Despite the terrible weather and the insecurity of their situation, the train crew were soon cheerily gathering wood up beyond the embankment. They had to dig deep for old logs, and they broke down tree branches. Then they cleared a space at the side of the track and started a great roaring fire that flared high and far.
“Nobody will run into that,” observed Fogg with a satisfied chuckle.
“And it may lead a rescue party,” suggested Ralph.
Some of the men passengers strolled up to the fire. Fear and anxiety had given way to a sense of the novelty of the situation. Ralph assured them that their comfort and safety would be looked after. He promised a foraging party at daylight in search of food supplies.
“They’re talking about you back there in the coaches, Fairbanks,” reported the conductor a little later. “They know about your arrangements for their comfort, and they’re chatting and laughing, and taking it all in like a regular picnic.”
“I suppose you’ve been giving me undue credit, you modest old hero!” laughed Ralph.
“Hello!” suddenly exclaimed Fogg; “now, what is that?”
All hands stared far to the west. A dim red flame lit the sky. Then it appeared in a new spot, still far away. This was duplicated until there were vague red pencils of light piercing the sky from various points of the compass.
“It’s queer,” commented the conductor. “Something’s in action, but what, and how?”
“There!” exclaimed Fogg, as suddenly seemingly just beyond the heavy drift immediately in front of the train the same glare was seen.
“Yes, and here, too!” shouted out the conductor, jumping back.
Almost at his feet something dropped from midair like a rocket, a bomb. It instantly burst out in a vivid red flame. Ralph investigated, and while thus engaged two more of the colored messengers, projectiles, fireworks, whatever they were, rained down, one about half-way down the train, the other beyond it.
The young engineer was puzzled at first, but he soon made out all that theory and logic could suggest. There was no doubt but that some one at a distance had fired the queer little spheres, which were made of the same material as the regular train fuse, only these burned twice as long as those used as railroad signals, or fully twenty minutes.
“I make it out,” explained Ralph to the conductor, “that somebody with a new-fangled device like a Roman candle is sending out these bombs as signals.”
“Then we’re not alone in our misery,” remarked Fogg.
“First they went west, then they came this way,” continued Ralph. “I should say that it looks as if the signal is on a train stalled like us about a mile away. I’ll soon know.”
Ralph got into the cab. In a minute or two No. 999 began a series of challenge whistles that echoed far and wide.
“Hark!” ordered Fogg, as they waited for a reply.
“A mere peep,” reported the conductor, as a faint whistle reached their strained hearing above the noise of the tempest.
“Yes,” nodded Fogg, “I figure it out. There’s a train somewhere near with the locomotive nigh dead.”
“If it should be the east freight stalled,” suggested Ralph to the conductor, “you needn’t worry about those hungry children in the coaches, and that baby you told about wanting milk.”
“No, the east freight is a regular provision train,” put in the fireman. “If we could reach her, we’d have our pick of eatables.”
It was two hours later, and things had quieted down about the snowed-in train, when a series of shouts greeted Ralph, Fogg and the conductor, seated on a broken log around the fire at the side of the tracks.
“What’s this new windfall!” exclaimed Fogg.
“More signals,” echoed the conductor, staring vaguely.
“Human signals, then,” supplemented Ralph. “Well, here’s a queer arrival.”
Five persons came toppling down the side of the embankment, in a string. They were tied together at intervals along a rope. All in a mix-up, they landed helter-skelter in the snow of the cut. They resembled Alpine tourists, arrived on a landslide.
“Why, it’s Burton, fireman of the east freight!” shouted the conductor, recognizing the first of the five who picked himself up from the snow.
“That’s who!” answered the man addressed, panting hard. “We’re stalled about a mile down the cut. Coal given out, no steam. Saw your fire, didn’t want to freeze to death quite, so–”
“We guessed that you were the Overland,” piped in a fresh, boyish voice. “Packed up some eatables, and here we are. How do you like my new railroad rocket signals, Engineer Fairbanks?” and Archie Graham, the young inventor, picked himself up from the snow.
CHAPTER XXXI
CONCLUSION
One hour after daybreak the vicinity of the snowbound Overland Express resembled a picture, rather than a forlorn blockade.
The lone adventurers who had made the trip from the stalled freight had been a relief party indeed. The engineer was a railroader of long experience, and he had thought out the dilemma of the refugees. He and his companions had broken open a freight car and had brought each a good load. There was coffee, sugar, crackers, canned meats, a ham, and, what was most welcome to anxious mothers and their babes, a whole crate of condensed milk.
There never was a more jolly breakfast than that aboard the snowbound coaches. There was plenty to eat and to spare all around, and plenty more at the stalled freight, everybody knew. In front of the engine many a merry jest went the rounds, as the train crews and some of the passengers broiled pieces of succulent ham on the end of pointed twigs.
“You see, it was this way,” Archie Graham explained to the young engineer of No. 999. “I was just watching a chance for washouts or snowstorms to get on a train diving into the danger. Those red bombs are my invention. I shoot them from a gun. I can send them a mile or gauge them to go fifty feet. They ignite when they drop, and by sending out a lot of them they are bound to land somewhere near the train you aim at. The engineer is bound to take notice, just as you did, of the glare, and that’s where they beat the fusees and save the running back of a brakeman.”
“Archie,” said Ralph honestly, “I believe you’re going to hit some real invention some time.”
“I helped out some with my patent rocket signals this time,” declared Archie.
“You did, my lad,” observed Fogg with enthusiasm, “and the passengers know all about it, and they’ve mentioned you in a letter they’re getting up to the company saying how they appreciate the intelligence – that’s Fairbanks – the courage, ahem! that’s me, and the good-heartedness, that’s all of us, of the two train crews.”
By the middle of the afternoon a snow plow opened up the line from Rockton to the stalled train. It was not until two mornings later, however, that the main line was open and Ralph and Fogg got back to Stanley Junction.
Archie came on the same train. Ralph asked him up to the house, but the young inventor said he wanted the quiet of his hotel room to work on his signal rocket idea, which he declared would amount to something yet.
The young engineer had scarcely got in the house after the warm, cheerful greeting of his anxious mother, when Zeph Dallas put in an appearance.
Zeph was looking exceedingly prosperous. He wore a new, nicely-fitting suit of clothes, a modest watch and chain, and was quite dignified and subdued, for him.
“When you’ve had your breakfast, Ralph,” he said, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
“Yes,” nodded Ralph, “I’m expecting to hear a pretty long story from you, Zeph.”
The young engineer hurried his breakfast and soon joined Zeph in the sitting-room.
“Say, Ralph,” at once observed his friend, “you’ve done some big things in your time, but the biggest thing you ever did was when you saw to it that Jim Evans and Ike Slump, and most of all, that fellow, Morris, were held as prisoners by Adair, the road detective.”
“I fancied they deserved locking up,” remarked Ralph.
“There would have been a murder if you hadn’t seen to it,” declared Zeph. “I’ve a story to tell that would make your hair stand on end, but it would take a book to tell it all.”
“I’m here to listen, Zeph,” intimated Ralph.
“Yes, but I’m due to meet Mr. Adair at the jail. He’s sent Evans and Slump back to the prison they escaped from. I hurried on here from the Fordham cut purposely to tell him what I wanted done with Morris.”
“I say, Zeph,” rallied the young railroader, “you seem to have a big say in such things for a small boy.”
“That’s all right,” declared Zeph good-naturedly; “I’m all here, just the same, and I’m here for a big purpose. In a word, not to mystify you, Ralph, for you know only half of the story, I was hired by Marvin Clark, the son of the Middletown & Western Railroad president, to do all I’ve done, and I have been royally paid for it.”
“Then you must have done something effective,” observed Ralph.
“Clark thought so, anyway. I’ll try and be brief and to the point, so that you’ll understand in a nutshell. You know Marvin Clark and Fred Porter and the two Canaries?”
The young engineer nodded assentingly.
“Well, as I say, I ran across Clark accidentally in my stray wanderings. He and a sickly boy named Ernest Gregg were living in a fixed-over building at Fordham Spur. I seemed to be just the person Clark was waiting for. He hired me to do some work for him. He was planning to get the poor boy, Gregg, his rights.”
“Yes, I know about that,” observed Ralph.
“Then if you do, I can hurry over things. It seems that when he began to look up Gregg’s affairs, he found out that Ernest had a strange hermit of a grandfather, named Abijah Gregg. Ernest’s father was an only son. About five years ago the old man discovered a terrible forgery in which he was robbed of over ten thousand dollars. He had reason to believe that Ernest’s father and a man named Howard were responsible for it. He disowned his son and all his family, and a month later Ernest’s father died, leaving his son a disowned and homeless outcast.”
“And what became of Howard?” inquired the interested Ralph.
“He disappeared. Old Gregg became soured at all humanity after that,” narrated Zeph; “the more so because he had a profligate nephew who turned out bad. This was the man in jail here now.”
“Lord Lionel Montague – Morris?”
“Yes, Morris robbed the old man, who became afraid of him. The old man tried to hide away from everybody. In his wanderings he picked up the two Canaries and settled down at the lonely place at Fordham Cut. He was very rich, partly paralyzed, and intended to leave his fortune to the state, rather than have any relative benefit by it. Well, Marvin Clark, the splendid, unselfish fellow, got a clew to all this. He located old Abijah Gregg. He spent just loads of money following down points, until he discovered that the man Howard was a broken-down invalid in New Mexico. Clark was sick himself for a month, and that was why Fred Porter did not hear from him.”
“And later?” asked Ralph.
“I ran across Porter and brought him to the Spur about a month ago. He is there now. Well, Clark found out positively that Ernest’s father never had a thing to do with forgery. It had been really committed by Howard and this villain, Morris. He got in touch with Howard in New Mexico, who was a dying man. He found him anxious to make what reparation he could for a wicked deed. Old Gregg would not go to New Mexico. Howard could only live where the air was just right for him. The physicians said that if he ever went to any other climate, the change of atmosphere would kill him. With plenty of money at his command, Clark arranged it all. The New Mexico doctors got a tank that held an artificial air, and Clark arranged so that Howard could come east in a special car.”
“And the first tourist car that you ran empty to the Spur?” inquired Ralph.
“Why, we knew that Morris was trying every way to locate and annoy his uncle. We thought that maybe he had got onto our plans about Howard. We ran the dummy car to see if we were being watched. Don’t you see, that if Morris had succeeded in smashing the glass air tank, Howard would have died before he could tell his story to old Mr. Gregg.”
“And now?” said Ralph.
“The story has been told. Old Mr. Gregg is convinced that his son was innocent of forgery. He will take care of his grandson and make him his heir, and young Clark, as you see, has done a grand thing.”
“Yes, indeed,” assented Ralph.
“Howard will return to New Mexico with a relieved conscience. I am going to the jail here now to see Morris. If he will agree to leave the country and never annoy his uncle again, I will give him a certain large sum of money, as directed by his uncle. If he doesn’t, he will be prosecuted for the forgery.”
“Zeph,” observed the young railroader enthusiastically, “you have proven yourself not only a real detective, but a splendid lawyer, as well.”
“Thank you,” returned Zeph, and blushed modestly; “most everybody that gets in with you does some kind of good in the world.”
It was two hours later when a messenger came to the Fairbanks home with a letter for Ralph.
The young engineer flushed with pleasure as he read a brief communication from the master mechanic, advising him that Mr. Robert Grant, president of the Great Northern, was at Stanley Junction, and wished to see him for a few minutes at the Waverly Hotel.
Ralph told his mother of the incident, and her eyes followed him fondly and proudly as, arrayed in his best, Ralph started out to keep his appointment.
It was a warm welcome that the young railroader received from the great railroad magnate. Mr. Grant went over their mutual experiences the night of the wild dash of the special from Rockton to Shelby Junction.
“You did a most important service for the road that night, Fairbanks,” said the railroad president; “how much, is a secret in the archives of the company, but I can say to you confidentially that the Mountain Division would have passed to another line if we had not acted in time.”
“I am very glad,” said Ralph modestly.
“I want to acknowledge that service. I am only the president of the road,” said Mr. Grant, smiling, and Ralph smiled, too, “so being a servant of the road, I must act under orders. I learned that, like all thrifty young men, you had a savings account at the bank here. I have deposited there the company’s check for one thousand dollars to your account.”
“Oh, Mr. Grant–” began Ralph, but the railroad president held up his hand to check the interruption.
“As to Fogg,” went on Mr. Grant, “the road has closed up the subscription in his behalf, by giving him sufficient to rebuild his burned-down house.”
Ralph’s face was aglow with pride, pleasure and happiness.
“So, good-by for the present, Fairbanks,” concluded the railroad president, grasping Ralph’s hand warmly. “There are higher places for ambitious young men in the service of the road, as you know. I shall not try to influence your plans, for I know that sheer merit will put you forward when you decide to advance. As to my personal influence, that, you know, is yours to command. For the present, however, we should regret to see the Overland Express in other hands than those of the youngest and the best engineer on the Great Northern.”
What Mr. Grant had to say about Ralph’s advancement came true a little later, and those who care to follow our hero’s future career may do so in the next story of this series, to be called, “Ralph, the Train Dispatcher; or, The Mystery of the Pay Car.” In that volume we shall meet many of our old friends once more, and see what our hero did when new difficulties confronted him.
One day Ralph was surprised to receive a visit from Marvin Clark and Fred Porter. He received them both warmly, and soon learned that Clark had fixed up his trouble over railroad work, and with his parent, and had secured a good position for Fred, so that the latter would no longer need to lead a roving life.
“But I must have one more ride with you, Fairbanks,” said Fred.
“And I’ll go along,” said the son of the railroad president.
“With pleasure!” cried Ralph. “Come on!” And he led the way to where No. 999 stood ready for the next run.
The trip was a grand success. And here we will, for the present, at least, say good-by to Ralph of the Overland Express.
