Opening the iron trail

“Hurrah! Everybody come out to end o’ track tomorrow. We’re going to throw a scare for sure into those Central gangs.”

That was Terry, bursting in through the back doorway of the Home Cooking restaurant, in this last new base and division point, of Bryan, far western Wyoming. Time: Friday evening, late in September, 1868.

“What kind of a ‘scare,’ Terry?”

“Track-laying. Another record. The Central matched our six miles in a day by claiming seven. General Casement is out yonder, with General Corse and a bunch of other big-bugs, and they’re feeling good; and tomorrow General Casement is going to show us off and put a stopper in the Central’s brag.”

“How far away are you now, boy?” George asked.

“Eighteen miles. They’re setting mile-post 877, at a side-station named Granger. We’ve just crossed the line into Utah (for Utah had not yet lost so much of its northeast corner) and that’s one reason we celebrate. Pat says he’ll lay eight miles as a mark for the ‘C. Pay. haythen’ to aim at.”

“I don’t believe it can be done,” Terry’s father declared.

“Yes, it can. Sure it can. Look at what we’ve been laying right along in the desert: two and three miles, and four, and once six, in mighty bad country.”

“I’ll be there, Terry,” Virgie cried. “I want to see.”

What a spring and summer that had been! And what a fall and winter it was to be! The great race was in full swing.

In middle April the U. P. track-layers had finally broken loose from winter quarters in Cheyenne, and since then they had not wasted a day.

At the start, the grade had not yet been clear of snow, nor the ground thawed, and it took twenty-four days to make thirty-three miles to the Laramie River just below Fort Sanders across the Black Hills.

A third of Cheyenne flocked here, to the new base named Laramie City. Even before the track got in, Laramie City boasted the title “Gem City of the Mountains,” had 500 shacks and 3,000 people, and was “roaring.” The freight trains were close behind end o’ track, and the passenger trains from Omaha began to roll in again.

In rolled, on wheels, the Cheyenne take-down buildings and the gambling and saloon and side-show outfits—and among the very first of all the outfits to report, was the Home Cooking restaurant. It had proved so popular that, as George said, it was given a “front seat.”

Terry and his father, at the farther front, were glad indeed to welcome it. But the grading gangs were on ahead, and the track-layer gang stayed only long enough to lay the switches and sidings. Then the rails leaped forward, on the trail.

“’Tis a long way yet to the ind o’ the 500 miles, lads,” reminded Paddy; and with him urging, and extra wages promised for Sundays and holidays, the track-layers scarcely straightened their backs except at darkness.

The track flew through the length of the Laramie Plains and found a bridge ready at the North Platte River almost on the very spot where young Engineer Appleton had swung across with the news of Percy Browne’s death. Leaping the river the rails paused to plant another terminal and supply base just beyond brand-new Fort Steele.

One hundred and twenty-six miles in sixty days. That was doing better—— “But we’re a bit soft still,” Pat apologized.

The supply base was named Benton. It proved to be the “roaringest” town yet—a seething town of red dust, of North Platte, Julesburg, Cheyenne and Laramie gamblers and saloon keepers, and of night turned into day. The river was three miles away, east, and water for the town people had to be hauled by wagons, price ten cents a bucket; but many of the inhabitants cared little for water.

Benton grew in a twinkling to 5,000 citizens; take-down business blocks were put together and set up in a day; it was said that two boys with screw-drivers could set up an imitation “brown-stone front” house (which arrived all boxed and numbered), in three hours. One gambler outfit ran the Big Tent—a canvas building 100 feet long and forty feet wide, and floored for dancing. But in three months Benton was less than Julesburg; there was not even a station.

For the rails had again sprinted. They passed right through the ravine of Rawlins Spring, dipped down into the Red Desert at the place where George and the rest of the Bates party had been rescued, and following the Percy Browne survey they never stopped for water or anything. The construction-train brought the water from behind, in tanks, until wells were drilled; wagons carried it forward to the grading gangs. Much of the water was rank with alkali and soda; it made the men ill, and foamed and encrusted in the engine boilers; but the Red Desert had no terrors for the U. P. gangs.

Long before, the reconnoitering surveyors, led by the division chief, had picked out the landmarks of hills and streams, as guides for the location surveyors. The location surveyors pressed after, with their maps and charts, to drive the stakes—at four, eight, twelve miles a day. Eating the stakes, 100 miles at a mouthful, the grading gangs, 8,000 and 10,000 strong, tried to keep fifty miles ahead of end o’ track. In their rear, ten and twenty miles ahead of end o’ track, the bridge crews and culvert crews plied hammer and saw. Behind them, and four or five miles ahead of end o’ track, the tie-layers and ballasters tugged and tamped. And end o’ track pursued with 500 other men and fifty teams.

In a perfect cloud the freight and supply wagons toiled back and forth beside the grade. They formed a line of alkali dust 150 miles long, stirred up by the hoofs of 5,000 horses and mules. And east of end o’ track were the puffing boarding-train and the busy construction-train, while Jimmie Muldoon and his little brother dashed down and back, fetching the loads of rails.

The Red Desert never had seen the like. In fact, the whole United States was getting excited. Every night the news was flashed by telegraph to New York: “The Union Pacific today laid two (or three, or five) miles of track,” and it was published in large headlines across the first pages of the New York papers.

General Casement lived constantly at the front; his brother Dan Casement worked day and night moving the supplies out of the warehouses. General Dodge made trip after trip from Omaha and by stage and horse across the mountains, even clear to Humboldt Wells of Nevada. Mr. Silas Seymour, the New York consulting engineer, was out; so were Mr. Hoxie and Mr. Snyder, who had charge of the operating of the road, from Omaha. And in mid-summer there had come a very distinguished party indeed, who inspected from Fort Sanders to end o’ track.

These were General U. S. Grant, himself, the chief of the Army; General Sherman, General Phil Sheridan, half a dozen other famous ’way-up army officers, Mr. Thomas C. Durant, of New York, the vice-president of the Union Pacific company and the man who raised the funds; and Mr. Sidney Dillon, again—the chairman of the board of directors.

They rode in a special Pullman car, and the track-layer gang eased up long enough to cheer them as they tumbled out and gazed about.

The Lincoln car was being kept busy chasing the construction, and accepting the track in sections of twenty to forty miles at a time, for the Government.

End o’ track traveled too rapidly for it. Far westward, in western Nevada the Central was putting in its best licks, too. One day its track-gang laid five miles of rails, and wired the news to New York, as a record. Pat was told, and grunted; and that same week the U. P. gang laid six miles in a day. The Central heard, and retorted by laying seven miles at one rush.

“An’ what o’ that?” growled Pat. “Sivin, you say? Wait till we get our toes set in a likely place, an’ we’ll hand ’em eight, as sugar for their tay.”

In the middle of September another supply base had been planted—Green River, 150 miles from Benton, and 845 miles from Omaha.

Three hundred miles of track, counting sidings, laid in five months of mainly “bad weather an’ worse wather,” as Paddy said. Average, sixty miles a month. The news was flashed to New York.

When the pay-car pulled in once more, Terry and George celebrated again in the Home Cooking restaurant. Pat himself was well pleased. So were General Dodge and General Casement. That had been a hard stint, in the desert, but the desert was conquered.

Only a thousand people gathered at Green River. End o’ track was traveling too fast also for some of the toughs who sought to make “roaring” towns—and some of them had been killed on this westward trail. But the Home Cooking restaurant bravely kept up the march.

It was a great institution—this Home Cooking restaurant. The two women were being called the “Heroines of the U. P.” Everybody respected them, and they still did a splendid business in good coffee and pies and doughnuts—“like your mother used to make.” But Terry and George hid the suspicion that they stuck it out on purpose to make a home for their men-folk.

George, because he was attached to the pay-car, which had its headquarters in the terminals, drew the big end of the bargain. He might eat and sleep “at home” almost every night. His father, though, out on survey, didn’t get in at all.

As for Terry, he and his father came in every night, as long as they might, between terminals. Old 119 and its crew—Engineer Richards and Fireman Sweeny—had been transferred from the boarding-train to the leading construction-train; and this was great, because while they were within twenty miles of the terminal they could scoot back, for supper and breakfast and a visit.

Virgie was having the time of her life, riding up and down track in the engine—bent upon being the “first passenger across,” she insisted.

Green River did not last long. It was the best built of any of the roaring towns; quite a number of its buildings were adobe, or dried clay, put up to stay and to be warm winter quarters; but the railroad decided to locate its division point farther on, and staked out another town, Bryan, fourteen miles.

The bridge over the Green River was waiting; the Red Desert and the Bitter Creek Desert had been crossed at last; the Wasatch Mountains ahead were already whitened by the first snows; and presently Green River town was left behind, deserted. Everybody—including the Home Cooking restaurant—moved on to Bryan, and Bryan “roared.”

“I’ll go to end o’ track tomorrow with you, Terry. I want to see,” repeated Virgie.

“I’ll be there, as usual,” Terry’s father laughed, grinning. “You can’t lose Virgie and me and 119.”

“It’s pay-day. So I’ll be there with the pay-car, you can bet,” George asserted.

“Well, you want to start mighty early, then, or we’ll be out of sight,” bragged Terry. “They’ll begin at seven sharp and work right through to five-thirty with only half an hour nooning. That’s ten hours. Can’t you come, ma; you and Mrs. Stanton?”

“Oh, dear, no! We’ve got people to feed.”

“Maybe we can slip away once, between times,” promised George’s mother.

“I can take you up, on one trip of the construction-train,” Engineer Richards proposed. “By the way they talk, they’ll keep me busy hauling iron. Eight miles of track calls for something over 300 car-loads of material, and they haven’t near enough iron on their dumps.”

The day dawned fine and snappy. When at six o’clock the construction-train pulled out with Terry and Virgie in the cab, its cars were black with people as well as rails and spikes and fastenings. A large part of Bryan was bound to end o’ track, also.

Paddy Miles already was busy, marshalling his gang on the outskirts of Granger siding. Little General Casement, his overcoat collar turned up around his whiskers, stood nervously puffing a cigar. His party of guests were with him. The chief of them was Major-General John M. Corse, an old army friend. They all had been entertained by General Casement—hunting and fishing and seeing the country, and making the grading-camps their base. They looked as though they’d had a gay night, celebrating in advance; but no amount of work or fun ever phazed the little general.

“Sure, is that your load—mainly peoples?” Pat hailed, of the cab, as he ran down the line of flat-cars, inspecting. “Get out the way, iv’ry wan o’ yez, an’ stand clear, or we’ll be ’atin’ the iron from under yez.”

The boarding-train stood upon the siding, to leave the way open for the construction-train to back on up in the wake of the trucks. The trucks were loaded and waiting. Jimmie Muldoon, his face as red as his hair, with excitement, sat his bony horse, expectant; his brother (likewise red) sat old Jenny, the rope taut. Old yellow Jenny had grown gaunt and stiff in the service; many and many a mile after mile had she galloped, but she was still game.

The long corrugated row of ties stretched westward, waiting, too. The nearest graders were staring back as they worked, to see the start. At the very end o’ track there was a dump of iron, in readiness. Every little help counted.

General Casement had been looking at his watch.

“Go!” he barked.

“Lay to it, lads,” shouted Pat. “We’re off. Now show them Cintral haythen a touch o’ the Irish!”

“Hooray!” the crowd cheered.

A file of the men attacked the end dump. Two by two they seized the rails and hustled them forward, in pairs. “Down! Down!” “Whang, whang, whangity-whang!” The fish-plate squads sprang with bolts and wrenches. In a few moments there were two streams of the rail-carriers—one double line trotting forward, one double line running back. End o’ track fairly leaped ahead. The dump became a far carry, when at a signal from Pat old Jenny and her truck-load came charging, with one-legged Dennis riding atop and Jimmie Muldoon’s brother whooping for passage.

“Hooray!”

The truck was emptied rapidly, as it rolled on, yard by yard, to keep up with the track. Now it was tipped to one side, and on charged Jimmie himself bringing fresh supply. Back galloped old Jenny.

General Casement was timing.

“Faster, men,” he rapped. “Down with ’em. Hit ’em hard. Be ready with those fish-plates, boys. Make every move tell. We’re out for a record.”

The men who had been carrying the rails turned to ballasting. So fast the track advanced that the crowd of spectators were constantly jostling onward, advancing also. George arrived, breathless, from the pay-car. Superintendent Reed had come up with it; so had Dan Casement, the general’s brother and partner.

“How far’ve they gone now?” George panted, his eyes snapping.

“I dunno. We’ve just started. But look at ’em hustle, will yuh!” answered Terry.

Virgie danced impatiently, craning and cheering.

“I guess they’ll lay ten miles, won’t they?” she implored.

“Aw, what’s the matter with you?” George rebuked. “That’s just like a girl. No gang can lay ten miles in a day.”

“Mr. Pat’s gang can, though, maybe,” she retorted.

The men were sweating. Steam rose from their bended forms. Old Jenny and the truck horse were sweating, pushed at top speed back and forth. The clang of the rails and the whang of the sledges never faltered. End o’ track leaped westward, toward the distant graders. The dumps were melting and disappearing.

“Look out! Here comes the train!”

At exactly the right moment old 119, with Terry’s father and Fireman Bill Sweeny gazing rearward from throttle and bell, pushed the construction-train on up over the new track as far as it could. Its extra large crew worked madly to throw the iron overboard into more dumps, nearer at hand.

Out puffed the train, gathering speed, for another load. Right on its heels Jimmie Muldoon tore with his truck, to the farthest dump again. There was no delay.

What with the constant pressing forward, all eyes upon the rails as they were laid, it was hard to keep posted.

“How far’ve we gone now? How far’ve we gone now?” appealed George, foolishly.

“How do I know? Gee whiz!” Terry rebuked. “I forget where we started from. You ought to count the truck-loads. It takes about ten to a mile, doesn’t it?”

“Yes; but I’ve lost count,” George complained.

“So’ve I,” confessed Terry. “Anyway, we’re sure traveling. Granger’s getting out of sight.”

Time flew like the end o’ track. With shrill whistle the construction-train backed in again, ready. It scarcely seemed possible that the round trip had been made so soon. The old dumps were vanishing; the last was almost gone; on came the train, rear end first; over went the iron, with a noisy clangor; and back started sturdy 119, dragging her rumbling empties.

On her next trip she brought Terry’s mother and George’s mother.

“Here come our folks,” George cried, spying them as they hastened forward.

“How far?” they queried. That was the universal question: “How far?”

“About three miles. We’re almost at the third mile-stake. We’ll pass it in a minute or two.”

“Are you coming back to dinner when we go?”

“’Tisn’t noon yet, is it?”

“No, but it will be soon.”

“Aw, shucks!” Terry uttered. “We can’t leave for dinner. Not this noon. We’ll eat here, with the gang. We’ve got to be on the job. And so has dad.”

“That’s what he says,” sighed his mother. “But seems to me you can take time to eat at home.”

“We couldn’t do it in half an hour. Might be missing something,” Terry explained. “There’ll be plenty grub here.”

“I’ll stay,” Virgie declared. “I don’t want to miss anything, either.”

The busy Pat had glimpsed them with the corner of an eye.

“Work hard, boys,” he urged. “The Heroines o’ the U. Pay. are watchin’ yez. A fine big doughnut to the crew that lays the last pair o’ rails in the eight miles!”

The construction-train emptied. The two mothers returned on it to Bryan. The three-mile stake had been passed, and the four-mile stake was drawing nearer. General Casement had been looking at his watch. He was right at end of track, all the way on.

“Time!” he barked.

“Toime, men,” echoed Pat.

They instantly quit work and straightened up wearily. The general tucked his watch into his pocket.

“Three and three-quarter miles, and we’ll better that this afternoon,” he said, to his party. “I’ll win my thousand dollars, gentlemen. We’ll finish out our eight miles, and I’ve another thousand to say so.”

“Golly!” George blurted. “He’s bet a thousand dollars on it.”

“Well, I reckon he’ll win, all right,” answered Terry. “The gang’s just getting limbered up. Come on, you and Virgie. Let’s hunt grub.”

The cooks had coffee and meat and potato and hot-bread ready. The squads were flocking to their messes.

“We’ll eat with Pat,” Terry proposed; and so they did, Virgie having the seat of honor.

“We’ll make it, we’ll make it,” Pat assured. “Sure we’ll make it. Ain’t we got to stick up a mark for them Chinks to aim at? Yes, an’ ain’t the papers out east waitin’ wid their big type, to tell all the world about it? Aye, we’ll make it. An’ if I know the gin’ral, then that thousand dollars’ll go as ’asy as it comes to him, an’ iv’ry man’ll have a bit to cilibrate on.”

Twelve-thirty! “Time!”

“Hit ’em ag’in, lads!” yelped Pat.

“Down! Down!” “Whang! Whang! Whangity-whang!”

A portion of the crowd had gone back to Bryan for dinner. Number 119 brought them in again, with the iron. Back and forth plied gaunt old Jenny and the bony nag her partner, hauling the trucks. Back and forth, on haul ever longer, plied the construction-train. End o’ track, followed by the General Casement party and the crowd, ever shot onward.

Mile-stake Four was passed; and in record time, Mile-stake Five; and Stake Six; and when the sun was low over the crests of the Wasatch Range, Stake Seven!

“Hurrah! Seven miles! Nobody’ll beat that, anyhow.”

“Wan more, now!” rasped Pat, hoarse with bossing at top speed. “Wan more, an’ yez can stop an’ have the rist o’ the day off.”

“You’ve got the time, but no time to spare,” snapped General Casement. He was getting nervous.

“Aw, they’ll make it,” said Terry, to George and Virgie. “But I’m sort of tired, myself. We’ll have stood around for eight miles, by night. How you feeling, Virgie?”

“I’m all right.”

“It’s toughest on Jenny. Look at her. She’s about all in,” spoke George.

That was the truth. Old Jenny’s yellow hide was dark and dirty and dank with sweat. Her nostrils flared, her ribs heaved, her eyes were wide and bulging, her breath sounded wheezily, and as she toiled down and up again, kicked vigorously by Jimmie Muldoon’s brother, she frequently stumbled.

“Her legs are giving out,” Terry pronounced. “Poor old Jenny. She’s come a long way.”

“Guess so,” George agreed. “They ought to let her quit, after today, and put her on a pension.”

The eight-mile stake was in sight; the men were on their last spurt. The sun had set behind the Wasatch. That made no difference. The sun set early, these days, here.

“Down! Down!” “Whang! Whang! Whangity-whang!” The brisk chorus never ceased; the men never faltered. Some of them, too, staggered and stumbled, but they didn’t miss a step or a blow. They all were wringing wet. Several had lost their hats—they didn’t pause to pick them up.

“Wonder what time it is now,” George remarked.

“I dunno. Must be five o’clock; feels that way.”

“This is a mighty long mile!”

“Sure is. It’s going to be a close shave.”

“Well, I guess they’ll make it, all right,” said George, hopefully.

“Will, if Jenny holds out.”

Jenny was standing straddled and trembly, her long ears lax and her head hanging. Her rider scarcely could budge her, between hauls. But the truck was empty, her rope had been hooked on to the rear end, the truck was tipped aside to let Jimmie Muldoon by, it was tipped back upon the track, her rider kicked her in the ribs, and she groaned and started.

“Give that boy a pair of spurs, somebody,” called a voice from the crowd. Jenny broke from her shamble into a gallop, and went laboring down track. Jimmie Muldoon’s nag stood heaving—near spent, himself.

The men snatched the rails off. Working fast—“Down! Down!”—they bared the truck and end o’ track reached out, for the eight-mile stake.

“Tip her! Tip her!” For the truck was empty and Jenny’s truck was nearing.

“Come on! Hurry up!” And Pat frantically waved his arm.

“What ails ye?” he bawled. “Put your heels into her ribs.”

“Bite her ear, boy!” That was mean advice.

Old Jenny tried to respond, as the crowd yelled and her rider pummeled her with hands and feet. She galloped again—but no use. Suddenly she swayed aside, blindly; and down she pitched, all in a heap; struggled an instant, to rise; rolled over and lay stiffening right across the track. Jimmie Muldoon’s brother rolled also, but he got up.

“Oh!” cried Virgie, covering her eyes with her hands. “Jenny’s dead. I know she’s dead.”

“Come on!” exclaimed Terry. He ran; George ran; Pat ran; the crowd flocked, whooping and laughing.

“T’row her off’n the track. For the love o’ the saints, t’row her off,” panted Pat. “She’s blockin’ traffic.”

A dozen men toiled, grabbing her by the legs and head and turning her over.

“Iron! Where’s the iron!” That was the call from end o’ track.

Now the rope had been unhooked and with one-legged Dennis putting his shoulder to the load, a dozen men swarmed against the truck and began to roll it forward.

“Whoa’p! That won’t do.” General Corse had laughingly objected. “You’re getting outside help. Casement. It isn’t in the bargain.”

“Let the truck alone. Bring on another animal—horse or mule, but bring it on,” stormed General Casement, watch in hand. “Quick, now.”

Pat yelled and waved and danced. People worked fast, but it seemed another long time before a white horse had taken Jenny’s place; and leaving her wet, muddy body lying, the truck rumbled on.

Virgie was still standing in place, her fingers pressing her eyes tight shut.

“Is Jenny dead?”

“I’m afraid she is, Virgie,” answered Terry.

“Then I want to go home,” she sobbed.

But what was that? General Casement had shouted—“Time!” the men had thrown down their tools, and were waiting and gazing and mopping their faces. The truck had not been a quarter emptied, and the stake was still on ahead.

“We couldn’t have made it, anyway, mule or no mule,” announced the general, calmly. “But we did our best. It’s a record to be proud of. The Central will know we’re on the job, at this end.”

“They’re quitting!” George gasped.

“How far do you want to call it, general?” asked General Corse.

“Seven miles and five-eighths, sir. That won’t miss it more than a foot. And I also call it a mighty good day’s work. Come on. Let’s go to supper.” With that, General “Jack,” champion track-layer of the continent, turned on his heel and strode off. He didn’t seem to care anything about the thousand dollars, or about Jenny.

“Close onto eight, annyhow,” Pat puffed. “’Twill be somethin’ for them pig-tails to chaw on.”

The tired men gave a cheer, and looking for coats and hats surged to meet the boarding-train or else to their camps. The crowd raced for the construction-train, and a ride back to Bryan. Helping the weeping Virgie, Terry and George hastened for the cab of 119. They passed Jenny—or what had been Jenny. She was dead; she didn’t give a sign of knowing who they were, although her eyes were staring wide open.

“Don’t suppose there’s any use in trying to bury her,” George proposed, as they paused a moment, while Virgie ran on blubbering.

“Nope. Who’d lend a hand at it? What does the U. P. care about a horse or mule?” Terry demanded, thickly.

“She died in line of duty, just the same; like old Shep was killed in action.”

“I know it. But that’s happening to something or somebody, about every day; and doesn’t matter, as long as the rails move forward.”

Remembering the handcar crew and the freight-train crew, and Percy Browne and Surveyor Hills (who was younger still), and now counting Shep and Jenny, it did seem as though the road was taking a heavy toll. There were many others, besides—somebody or something almost every day, as Terry had said.

Each bestowing upon Jenny’s cold hide a last pat, they followed after Virgie.

“Reckon we’ll have to break the news to Harry, back at Laramie,” remarked George. Harry Revere had got as far as Laramie City, and was lightning-shooter there, now.

“Yes, reckon we will,” Terry mused. “I’m glad he wasn’t here to see. He’s powerful fond of old Jenny.”

Somehow, they all felt rather sober, that night in the cosy Home Cooking restaurant. But it had been a great day. Seven and five-eighths miles of track in the ten hours. Whew! And Jenny had not been to blame. General Casement was satisfied. He had said that they wouldn’t have made the eight miles, anyway.