Opening the iron trail

“The roof of the continent, gentlemen.”

It was the second day after leaving Rawlins Springs. Mr. Blickensderfer, the government representative; Mr. Carter, the director; Colonel Seymour, the railroad expert, General Casement and Superintendent Reed had turned back yesterday, for the Black Hills again. They had taken an escort and a couple of wagons. So now the party were formed of only General Dodge, General Rawlins, Geologist Van Lennep, Mr. Corwith, young Mr. Duff, Engineer Appleton, Sol Judy and Terry, accompanied by Colonel Mizner, Lieutenant Wheelan, Surgeon Terry and the cavalry and teamsters.

From Rawlins Springs on across the high plateau there had been a gradual steady climb, according to the general; until here, this late afternoon, he made the startling announcement:

“The roof of the continent, gentlemen.”

“You mean this is the ridge dividing the waters that flow east from the waters that flow west?”

“Yes, sir. The Continental Divide, formed by the Rocky Mountains.”

“Well, it doesn’t look it,” complained young Mr. Duff. “It’s too flat. I expected to see more of a ridge. This is nothing but a long hump. Are we higher than Sherman Summit of the Black Hills?”

“No. Sherman Summit, at 8,250 feet, is the highest point on the proposed line. The main divide, here, is scarcely more than 7,000. That is one beauty of the survey as run by Mr. Browne before his death. We cross the Continental Divide at its lowest point, by an easy grade. South in Colorado we would have to cross at 12,000 feet; and north we would have to cross at 9,000 feet.”

“Speaking of ridge-poles, young man,” Sol put in, “you cast yore eye ’round and you’ll see where the ridge-poles were used. But once in a while the builders of this roof had to make a spot to sit down on.”

And truly, the view from this immense “hump” was superb. Far in north and south and west uplifted the jagged snowy ranges—the real mountains of Colorado, Wyoming and Utah, with this great bare plateau stretching between like a broad trough. Behind, or east, they could look back upon the Laramie Plains, shimmering below.

“Mr. Appleton says that tomorrow morning we’ll sight the Percy Browne basin of the Red Desert,” Mr. Corwith remarked, after supper, in camp.

“How far ahead?”

“As soon as we cross this divide. Then we drop right into it.”

General Dodge had been correct. Within a few miles from camp, in the morning, they were going down hill. The Laramie Plains were cut off, so was much of the plateau itself, but the mountains before, and hazy in the distance, rose more and more, with a flat desert gradually creeping out from their base. After all, the “hump” was a rounded ridge—a sort of welt.

It fell away, with a long slant—and suddenly the party halted short, craning forward, almost speechless, to the pointing arm of General Dodge.

“The unknown land,” he uttered. “The Browne basin, and the Red Desert.”

“Where poor Percy gave up his life,” added Engineer Appleton.

“Yes, and where many another good man has ended his trail,” added Sol Judy.

From the foot of the slant, onward below there extended, now fully revealed, so vast a basin that it might have been the floor of a dry ocean. They were gazing down into it, as if from the side of an amphitheater. Lofty mountains, some of them a hundred miles away, surrounded it with a fringe of cloudlike crests. The clear air rested upon it and gave it a setting of crystal.

There were abrupt little cone-like peaks, patches of white, patches of red, patches of dark brush; and over all a wondrous blue sky without a break, through which the hot sun rode high.

The basin looked enchanted and mysterious.

“The unknown land,” repeated General Dodge, thoughtfully. “The Overland Stage road crosses, for the Bitter Creek country, beyond. But there are no other trails. There may be no streams, either. Those white patches are soda and alkali, of course. The red is granite and sandstone—good ballast stuff for a roadbed. Lacking any streams flowing west, we’ll have to travel by compass, and save our water as much as we can. But we’ll go in; see what Percy found, and maybe find Bates.”

“So that’s where your friend is, is it?” inquired Mr. Duff, of Terry.

“Yes, sir, he’s liable to be. But I hope he isn’t.”

“So do I,” agreed Mr. Duff. “That country certainly spells Desolation with a capital ‘D.’”

“I told you before that a jack-rabbit always makes his will and kisses his family good-by, when he starts in from the edge of that country,” reminded Sol.

“Do you expect to build a railroad right through, general?” queried General Rawlins. “No easier route?”

“None that’s short and of the proper grades. The mountains block us off, north and south. This is the natural highway for the rails, I think. The Central Pacific will have just as bad a desert, in western Nevada, until we meet them. If we can bring up our water from behind, while we’re building, we’ll put the rails across, and sink wells to supply the engines and stations. I’ll be glad to find that the Percy Browne surveys are the best for the railroad. The iron track through, by the trail that he discovered, will be an eternal monument to his memory.”

Down they all went, into the basin. It was rougher and even larger than it had seemed from above. There were many bare red-rock ridges, cutting the surface—many smaller basins between, white with alkali and nasty scum; many strange pedestals and figures carved by wind and sand; but no water except in poisonous stagnant pools.

It was no place for George Stanton, or any other human being.

This first evening they made dry camp. The rocks and gravel were growing redder; and where after storms the water had soaked into the soil it left red washes of caked mud. A weird, glowing landscape this was, as if blasted by a wizard’s spell.

In the morning the general, Engineer Appleton and Sol rode to the top of a rock rise, to survey around. The general peered long through his glasses—handed them to Mr. Appleton, and Mr. Appleton peered. Sol squinted.

They turned their horses and came in at a gallop.

“Injun sign out yonder,” cried Sol.

“Colonel! Oh, Colonel Mizner!” summoned the general. “We’ve sighted what may likely be a party of Indians, on before. Whether they’ve seen our camp smoke, I can’t tell. We’ll go ahead, of course; and if you’ll kindly make arrangements accordingly, we may wipe out a few scores. I’m sure we’ve got a good fight in us.”

“I only hope they’ll give us a chance to show it,” answered the colonel. And—“My compliments to Lieutenant Wheelan, and tell him I’d like to speak with him,” he said, to his orderly.

Away ran the orderly. Lieutenant Wheelan was delighted— “It’s been a long trip without a scrimmage. The men are famished for a brush or two,” he cheered.

With wagon train closed up, guarded well, and with cavalry riding the flanks in compact lines, the march proceeded. Sol, the colonel, and General Dodge and General Rawlins held the advance.

“How far are those beggars, I wonder,” said young Mr. Duff. “Bet they’ll run away.”

“Only ten miles, but the glasses could scarcely pick them out, among the rocks,” replied Mr. Appleton.

“The general sees ’em again!”

The advance had halted, to scan with the glasses. Sol galloped back.

“They aren’t Injuns. They’re white men, and act like they’re in trouble. They’re afoot an’ leading hosses. Fetch on yore water, for we’ll probably need it.”

“There’s the Bates party, I’ll wager,” rapped Mr. Corwith; and all dashed forward.

General Dodge and Major Dunn had forged ahead, but Terry, wild with fears, pelted close after. The horses’ hoofs rang on the rocks, and thudded in the reddish sand and gravel.

The slowly toiling figures were down, flat, as if exhausted; one struggled to get up, staggered blindly, and fell again. The general arrived first, was off his horse in a jiffy, to kneel and raise the figure against him. He quickly unsnapped his canteen, and poured from it and dabbled with his handkerchief.

“To the next, major,” he ordered. “I’ll take care of this one.”

But with a cry Terry stopped short, and tumbled off. The figure against the general’s knees was George Stanton!

Yes, George Stanton—and his own mother scarcely would have recognized him. However, Terry knew George; a fellow learns not to be mistaken in his brother or his chum.

“That’s George Stanton, general!” he gasped. “That’s my pardner—the boy I’ve talked about. Is he dead? George! Hello, George!”

“No, not dead; but pretty near gone, from thirst. This must be the Bates party, then. You tend to him—keep his face and mouth wet, but don’t give him too much water, at once. He’ll be all right, soon. I’ll pass along to the others.”

Terry took charge—holding George tenderly, shoulders up, off the hard rock and hot sand, and sopping his face and dribbling into his half open mouth.

Once, George had been a wiry, snappy, black-eyed package of nerve; now he was wasted to a framework of bones, his skin was drawn tight and parched, his lips were shrunken apart and his tongue, black and stiff, almost filled the space between.

“George!” Terry repeated. “You’re all right. We’ve found you. I’m Terry—I’m your old pard Terry. Swallow this water. There’s plenty more.”

The rest of the advance party had passed along, to administer first aid. The surgeon and some of the cavalry arrived.

Doctor Terry, the army surgeon, paused an instant, beside “Doctor” Terry the amateur, for a swift survey.

“Keep up the work, boy. He’ll be all right—he’s coming ’round.” He laid finger on George’s withered wrist, for the pulse. “Good! Pulse regular. Wet his wrists, occasionally. Who is he? Know him?”

“Yes, sir. He’s George Stanton—the other boy I was looking for.”

“Great Scott! That’s luck, sure.” And on passed the doctor.

George’s eyeballs rolled, his lids fluttered, and he groaned. He clutched for the canteen.

“Not yet, old fellow. I’m tending to you. Too much at once might make you sick.”

George stared up, vacantly; then he actually grinned, as his head swayed.

“Where you come from?” he asked, thickly.

“Oh, just riding through, looking for you. You’re found.”

“Water. More. Darn it, lemme drink,” complained George. That was exactly like him—peppery and obstinate.

Beyond, the General Dodge squad and the soldiers were working over other members of the survey party, who had been scattered in a straggled line across the desert. George wriggled and groaned more and more, and suddenly sat up, of himself.

“Why don’t you let me drink?” he scolded.

“You have been drinking, George.”

“It never got down. It soaked in part way.”

“I’ll ask the doctor.”

Surgeon Terry was coming back, on a tour of inspection.

“Aha! How’s the boy now?”

“He wants to drink.”

“Ten swallows. And in five minutes another ten swallows. Will that suit?”

George nodded and eagerly reached for the canteen.

“I’ll count, and at ten you quit,” Terry instructed.

He grabbed the canteen from George’s lips at the eleventh swallow, and George grudgingly yielded.

“Where’s Mr. Bates? Did you find Mr. Bates?” he asked, still a bit thickly. “And my dad?”

“Yes. They’re coming ’round. They’ve asked after you, too. You’re all going to be all right. Tongue more limber, eh? What happened to you fellows? Get lost?”

“I guess so,” George confessed. “Trying to run a line across—for railroad—no water—no water ’t all—three days—awful dry——” and his voice fell off. “Don’t I get ’nother drink?” he wailed.

“Let him have it,” bade the doctor, and turned back.

It was the grandest thing in the world to watch George drink, and drink, and swell with the moisture, and grow stronger.

“Whew!” he sighed, rubbing his eyes. “I was like an old buffalo carcass lying out for a year or two. Nothing but hide and bones. Now I’m loosening up. Golly, but I’m glad to see you. We all thought we were goners, except Mr. Bates. He said we’d get through, but he was worse off than any of us. I was sorry for dad. Wish I could see ’em. How far’s the railroad in?”

“It’s past Julesburg.”

“Old Julesburg?”

“Yes, but we made another Julesburg, north of the river. It’s a ‘roaring town,’ too. You ought to see it. Toughest town yet.”

“Thought you were hauling rails.”

“So I was. But I came on with General Dodge, exploring and to fight Injuns—and to find you fellows. He invited me because—well, just because. He says he’ll open the way. We’ve got two companies of cavalry and Sol Judy.”

“Sol? Say, I want to see Sol. Had any fights?”

“One big one, when we were laying rails between North Platte and Julesburg. They didn’t get us, though. And we had another at Plum Creek, only it wasn’t a fight; it was plain massacre.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“I’d gone for a ride on the road, in a special train. Got as far as Kearney, and who do you think I found? Harry! He’s lightning-shooter there. So I stopped off. Then I started back on a handcar with some linemen. And this side of Plum Creek the Cheyennes wrecked us in the dark. They just slung us every which-way, and killed three of the men and scalped Bill Thompson (he was head lineman), and corralled him and Shep and me—and then one of ’em killed Shep in a hand-to-hand fight when Shep was protecting us.”

“Oh, the dickens!” George mourned. “I’m awful sorry about Shep. Did you get the Injun?” That also was just like the spunky George!

“Naw. How could I? They’d wrecked a train, too—a freight. We had to lie and watch ’em do it. Then the soldiers from McPherson came down and the Injuns skipped. But Sol Judy and a soldier and I buried old Shep. We saved his scalp, anyway; and his motto is: ‘Killed in action.’”

“You surely have a lot to tell me,” George asserted. “Seems as though you’ve been having most of the fun and hard work both. How’s your father?”

“He’s fine. He’s running 119, and I’m running Jenny, when I’m there.”

“How many miles of track have you laid? A hundred?”

“I left the job at Julesburg, to come on this trip. We’d laid only about ninety miles, account of storms and Injuns. Reckon by now they’ve laid a hundred more. The rails’ll be on top the Black Hills pass, by fall—maybe down to Fort Sanders, before winter, the general says.”

“That’s certainly hustling,” George praised. “I’d like to be there and help, for a spell. All I’ve done is to drive stakes and carry chain. You’ve had the big end.” This sounded queer, when he’d been out here in the desert and had nearly died. “We’ll beat the Central Pacific, won’t we? If only we get across this desert——”

“Aw, we will,” Terry asserted. “Nothing can stop us. And over the mountains and into Salt Lake, and keep going. The Irish’ll beat the Chinks.”

“Guess so! But we’ve the long way. We’ll have to lay two miles of track to their one.”

“Shucks! The U. P. track and grading gangs work like soldiers,” Terry scoffed. “They’re on their toes, and they’ve got system. We’ll finish up, this year, 500 miles from Omaha; then we’ll have only about 500 more to Salt Lake. We’ll get there by 1870, sure. Five hundred miles in two years is nothing, to the U. P. gangs. Did you fellows have any Injun trouble?”

“Not much. Mainly water trouble. The last water we found was poison—made us awful sick; and Mr. Bates has been trying to run by compass straight east, out of here, before we all died on him. We’ve lost a pile of horses and mules; but we’ve got one wagon, still, somewhere behind. If any Injuns had come, they’d have had an easy time.”

“That’s so,” Terry admitted. “The Sioux wiped out Percy Browne. Did you hear?”

“No! Aw, thunder!”

“Yes. Three hundred of ’em corralled him and eight soldiers, in this same basin. They shot him, and the soldiers carried him clear to LaClede stage station, but he died. Mr. Appleton, his assistant, is with us now. We met him back at the North Platte.”

“Well, I reckon we’re lucky,” sighed George. “We did hate to quit the survey, though. Come on. I want to see dad and Mr. Bates and Sol Judy.”

The General Dodge squad and the soldiers were collecting the Bates men into a central spot, for noon camp. The few horses and mules had been given bucketfuls of water, and had perked up. Terry lent George an arm, and they went in, themselves.

George’s father was sitting up, wan and weak but getting O. K.

“Hello, dad. I’m ’round before you are,” George challenged, gaily.

“So I see,” Mr. Stanton retorted. “But you’re smaller. It doesn’t take so much water to fill you. How are you, Terry? Think you’d like a survey job, eh?”

“I dunno,” Terry confessed. “’Tisn’t all a picnic, I guess.”

“I told you about the jack-rabbit and his canteen, didn’t I?” reminded Sol Judy, as he shook hands heartily with George.

Mr. Bates—Thomas F. Bates, called “Tom” by those who knew him—was not only the chief of the party but also head engineer of the whole Pacific Division of the company. He had recovered enough to talk.

“By what you’ve seen of the Bates party, and by what you’ve heard and seen of the Browne party, you all will appreciate the stuff that our engineer corps is composed of, gentlemen,” General Dodge was proudly saying. “Yes, and some of the difficulties connected with these advance surveys. Winter and summer the men are out, and they never know from day to day what is before them. But I’ve yet to learn of a coward among them, from the chief down to the greenest stake-driver. What are your plans now, Tom?”

“I mean to check up, sir, and revise my notes; and then if you’ll lend us a little water we’ll run our lines.”

“Your year’s work is done, if you say so,” offered the general. “You ought to take a rest. You’d better go on into Fort Sanders, to check your notes.”

“No, sir.” And Engineer Bates smiled out of a haggard face. “It’s early in the season. I’ll have to travel light, but I want to run our lines. I’ll have plenty more checking over to do, this winter.”

The general’s eyes flashed, but he pondered.

“All right. Just as you say, Tom. I’ll give you a wagon or two, and a small escort—eh, colonel?”

“By all means, sir,” nodded Colonel Mizner.

“But you’d better cut down your force, Tom.”

“How much, general?”

“This boy George is too young for another spell of desert work. He ought to go out, for a rest, and then on to the railroad. I’ll send some dispatches back, for General Casement.”

“Aw——!” George blurted. “Please let me stay. I’m all right. I——” and with a burst of tears he collapsed in Terry’s arms, as they sat.

“Humph! Fainted,” murmured Doctor Terry, the army surgeon, sprinting for him. “It’s nothing serious,” he reported, feeling George’s pulse, and then working over him. “Weakness. I like his spunk.”

“So do I,” General Dodge declared. “But you all can see that he ought to go. Can you spare him, Tom?”

“He’s as good as any man in my outfit, general. And he’s no quitter. He won’t go unless he’s ordered. What do you say, Stanton? You’re his father.”

Mr. Stanton shook his head.

“That makes no difference, sir. He’s a member of the party. I ask no favors for him. You’re his chief. He’s stuck it out so far and acted like a man. But I don’t deny that I’d feel easier, myself, if he was at work somewhere else, for a change.”

“I’ll order him,” spoke the general, briskly. “I’ll re-assign him. And the dispatches must go.” His eyes wandered musingly over his company.

At George’s wail of disappointment, and his collapse, Terry’s heart had risen chokingly. With sudden impulse he stood up and saluted.

“I’ll take them and go with George, sir, if you please. He—we sort of hang together, and he’d feel better about it, to have me along.”

“Good!”

“I don’t want to quit. ’Tisn’t that, sir,” Terry explained anxiously. “Only—I guess you can get on without me, and I’ve had a splendid time, and now I can help George and be back to lay some more rails, to the Black Hills.”

“You’re a brick, by Jiminy!” exclaimed young Mr. Duff. “Wish I had a pardner like you. Don’t know whether we can get along without you, or not.”

“Soldier’s orders, on special duty as dispatch bearer—that will free you of any suspicion of ‘quitting,’ my boy,” said General Rawlins. “That’s the understanding, general?”

“Detached service, of course. But he’ll not miss much, except discomfort. The best part of the trip lies behind us, unless we get through the desert in time to cross the mountains before snow.”

When George heard of the plan, he kicked vigorously—not about himself, any more, but about Terry. However, Terry only laughed.

“No, sir; I’m the man,” he insisted. “I can be spared the easiest of anybody, and I’m ready to see the rails again. We’ll have a lot of fun, on the way.”

Colonel Mizner detached a squad of the cavalry, under red-faced Sergeant Ryan, for an escort to Sanders, and by way of Rawlins Springs they backtracked for the Laramie Plains; one day hove in sight of Fort Sanders—and Terry pointed before, with a shout.

“See ’em? Hurrah! The first gang’s across the pass. Now the rails will follow.”

For southward, at the base of the Black Hills, the tents of camps glimmered, and a reddish line of upturned earth showed like a thread. The advance of the railroad graders were already attacking the new survey—and, as Terry had cheered, the rails would soon follow.