Opening the iron trail

“Th’ C. Pay. are this side o’ Ogden an’ a-comin’ up th’ U. Pay. grade!”

Those were the very words, plainly heard by Terry and George both; but the startling news seemed unbelievable. Pat straightened and gaped.

“What? Say that ag’in. Ye don’t mane the tracks!”

“No; not yit. But, b’ gorry, th’ C. Pay. ingineers have drove their stakes, an’ th’ C. Pay. Mongolians have follered in, an’ th’ dirt’ll soon be flyin’ on two grades instead o’ wan, in the same canyon, jist ahid.”

“An’ where’s their ind o’ track, then? Tell me that,” stammered Pat.

“Wan hunderd an’ fifty mile to th’ west’rd still. Yez’ll bate ’em into Ogden wid th’ rails, but it’s smart they be. For haven’t they thrown their men beyant themselves, to grade clane through Ogden an’ into th’ mountains, so whilst th’ U. Pay. is a-claimin’ to Humboldt Wells, th’ C. Pay.’ll be filin’ a map wid th’ Prisident at Washington claimin’ their own rights, an’ pay accordin’, t’rough th’ Salt Lake Valley.”

“It’s the rails that’ll count,” Pat retorted. “We’ll be first wid the rails—wan continuous line, mark ye—an’ whilst they’re a-comin’ we’ll be still a-goin’.”

“They’re over th’ Humboldt Mountains, an’ they say they’ll be layin’ their six mile a day, on th’ level.”

“If they lay their six mile a day we’ll lay our siven an’ eight,” growled Pat. “An’ bad luck to their Chinks who get in the way o’ the Irish.”

“Golly! Hope I’ll get in often enough to see the fun,” chuckled George, to Terry. “You’ll be down in front among the graders—expect there’ll be some mix-ups when the two gangs meet.”

“There would be if the U. P. graders were Irish; but the gangs between here and Ogden are Brigham Young’s Mormons. I don’t believe they’ll fight with the Chinamen. And Pat’s track-layers won’t stop to fight, yet.”

The wreck was left for the Echo City crews to clean up. Pat forgot it; his sole thought now was to put the rails into Ogden. Orders reached him from Superintendent Reed to let the C. P. gangs strictly alone and attend only to the U. P. business. Out of Echo Canyon shot the track, and down the marvelous Weber Canyon, with every mile getting lower and nearer to Ogden.

Yes, the C. P. were in here. First, a few advance stakes were to be noted, piloting an up grade almost parallel with the U. P. down grade. Then a bunch of C. P. location surveyors were sighted, camped across the way. But all eyes were peeled for a sight of the “Chinks” themselves—those C. P. graders of whom so much had been said.

The end o’ track, pushed forward at top speed as it wound snakelike through the canyon, passed the Thousand Mile Tree (a lone pine, beside the grade, on which the location surveyors had hung the sign “1000 Miles”), and twenty-four miles farther sort of burst into view of the Great Salt Lake Valley at last.

The Mormon graders were under separate contract and separate bosses, so that as timekeeper Terry had nothing to do with them. And he was with the Irish track-construction crew when end o’ track forged by the C. P. grade.

“Th’ Chinymin! Be them th’ Chinymin? Faith, look at ’em wance! Ain’t they th’ craturs, to be workin’ alongside white min?”

For there they were, the Central Pacific graders, in Union Pacific territory—and Chinamen, sure enough!

“The first I ever saw,” quoth Pat, while he and the other men eyed them askance. “A quare lot, I must say.”

A queer lot indeed, where in noon camp, wearing enormously brimmed wicker hats like flat over-turned bowls, and quilted blouses with large sleeves, and flappy blue-cotton trousers, and stubby shoes, they squatted around huge bowls of steaming rice and fished out the grains with their chop-sticks.

“I hear tell they work for a dollar a day an’ find themselves wid rice an’ pork,” pursued Pat. “Well, they look it. Sure ’twould be shame to insult a shillaly wid breakin’ it on the crown o’ such pore craturs—an’ all I ask is that they kape out o’ me way.”

The Chinamen scarcely tilted their heads, under their bowl-shaped hats, to gaze at their rivals; and the rails went on.

“’Tis a fairish grade they’re buildin’,” Pat sized up, cocking his eye. “But who cares? The rails are what’ll count, an’ we’re out o’ the mountains an’ more’n a few o’ them Chinks are naded to stop a U. Pay. gang.”

Out of the mountains! Date, last of February. Mileage in the two months, sixty, not including the sidings: but a tough sixty, battling the snows and frozen earth and the many curves.

Beautiful lay the Salt Lake Valley, under a bright sun; its thrifty Mormon ranches showing green, its towns clearly blocked, and the Great Salt Lake shimmering like silver, in the middle, with the desert ranges bluish beyond.

“Where’s Ogden, now?”

“How fur to Ogden?”

And——

“Where’s th’ C. Pay. track?”

“Only nine mile north’rd ’round the base o’ the mountains, to Ogden, lads,” Pat cheered. “Hooray! Lave the dollar-a-day haythen to their gradin’ an’ their bits o’ rice, for they’ll have mainly their trouble as their pay. Their rails are a hunderd miles yit out on the desert t’other side them high ridges. Wan more sprint for us, an’ there we are, wid ’ase.”

This night there was much excitement in the boarding-train and the camps pitched alongside.

“We’ve bate ’em! We’ve bate ’em! Nigh 500 miles in under tin months ag’in their 400, an’ the dead o’ winter ketchin’ us in the mountains, to boot!”

Three days of rush; and the first week of March, this 1869, Paddy Miles’ track-construction gang entered Ogden. Distance from Omaha, 1033.4 miles.

In rolled the pay-car, with George aboard, his eyes snapping.

“Did you see those Chinamen?” he demanded. “Did you have any fight?”

In rolled the freights, and the first passenger train. Already the Government had accepted the track as far as the Thousand Mile Tree.

George and Terry climbed to a hill-side high above Ogden. Below, the track gangs and the tie-layers were celebrating; the Mormon citizens joined in. Whistles blew—the hoarse siren of old 119 rose victorious, and the whistle of the boarding-train engine tried to out-do. It was a great event, but many eyes were peering off into the northwest, like the eyes of the junior pay department.

“Can you see the C. P. grade?” queried George.

“Reckon I can. Look around the north end of the lake, to that humpy point that sticks into it. Wish I had a glass.”

“I see! Anyhow, I think I see—looks like there was a gang at work on top the ridge.”

“Jim Bridger or Sol Judy could tell. That’s Promontory Point, and both lines cross it.”

“You don’t see any rails, though! That’s only end o’ grade—the real grade. C. P. end o’ track is clear the other side of Promontory, and Promontory’s fifty miles.”

“But look at our own grade, boy! It’s almost to Promontory, itself.”

“Hi!” George chuckled. “Reckon we’re bound right through, across Utah for Humboldt Wells in Nevada. And when those two grades mix, some day, there’s liable to be tall doings between the Paddies and the Chinks.”

Excitement continued to reign in Ogden. Matters had taken a surprising turn. The Union Pacific was here first; nobody could deny that, and it proceeded to make good its foothold by occupying all the ground possible, with Pat Miles laying a maze of switches and side-tracks under the direction of Major Hurd. For Ogden was the key to the Salt Lake Valley and the vast trade with the Mormon settlers who would ship out produce and ship in supplies. Salt Lake City was only thirty-five miles south—a branch road would be built to it, of course. Then——

But the Central people also were claiming Ogden as a terminal. They had jumped across 100 miles of country and with Mormon help were running a roadbed out of Ogden and eastward up Weber Canyon, for Echo City, forty miles! They had filed a map, at Washington, showing that their line was being completed into Ogden and beyond—and almost on the very day that the Union Pacific track had entered Ogden the Central Pacific vice-president, Mr. C. P. Huntington, had been given by the Government a portion of the payment due, at $32,000 a mile, on that new division of the road.

“Now if the Gover’mint’s ag’in us——!” Pat complained. “Sure, have we got to stop right here, when our eyes are set on Humboldt Wells, 200 mile beyant, an’ the ingineers have marked the way, an’ the tracks are ready to foller. Not a single rail can the C. Pay. show, inside a hundred miles. B’ gorry, though, they have smart min, not countin’ their pig-tailed haythen.”

“We’re going on!” George announced.

Being close to the pay-department quarters, he heard considerable straight talk; and this time he was not mistaken. Mr. Sidney Dillon, of the board of directors, had come out from New York. He and General Dodge and General Casement and other officials had a meeting; President Oliver Ames and Vice-President Thomas Durant had made a big protest to Washington and Congress was going to investigate the claims of the Central Pacific; the word was: “Forward, march, to Humboldt Wells,” and, as said Pat: “Niver mind the rice-’atin’ Mongolians. We’ll tach ’em how the Irish handle the pick.”

“We’re getting out of money, but don’t you tell,” George confided, to Terry, on the quiet. “It took over $10,000,000 extra, for the work last winter. Gosh! I tell you we fellows in the pay-car have to figure mighty close.”

But the race was on again, just the same—only worse. General Dodge and General Casement met the Central Pacific deal by sending a large gang of Paddy’s track-layers ahead 200 miles across country, to begin a track into Humboldt Wells. And out of Ogden the main track was shoved toward Promontory Point, with the graders working ahead, on the U. P. survey.

Track-laying had slackened. It was a long, long haul, now, from Omaha, more than 1000 miles, across the plains where the Sioux were still fighting the iron horse, and across the mountains where the storms of spring raged and the snow-slides ran. And the track-layers and graders both had threatened to strike, because of lack of pay.

But the Central likewise was having trouble. The Central, too, was far from its iron—ships bringing the rails and spikes and fastenings around Cape Horn or up from the Isthmus of Panama were sunk, becalmed, delayed; the Nevada desert was bare of forage for the horses; and for days at a time the Central work-gangs sat idle and discontented.

The two railroads resembled two staggering long-distance runners, almost exhausted as each struggled on, from opposite directions, to breast the tape.

The Central grade came eastward by its own survey, which was not at all the Union Pacific survey; and that was a funny thing—the two roads working as hard as they could, to meet, and yet not meeting.

The C. P. grade had swung around the north end of the Salt Lake, and down over Promontory Point—which was the high point that jutted into the lake. The U. P. grade had been launched northward from Ogden, along the lake shore, as if to drive the C. P. grade back. And slow work the grading was, because the country was cut by streams and rocky ridges, running into the boggy marge of the lake itself.

On some stretches the surveys were a mile separated—on others they approached close to each other. The grades would do the same.

“As long as the two gangs are a mile apart, ’twill be a paceful country yon,” quoth Pat; “for a high fince makes good neighbors, ye understand. But,” he added, kindly, to Terry, “when they’re a-workin’ side by side like, I’d advise ye to ride wid an eye open an’ an umbrelly up. Some o’ them blastin’ crews are liable to lay a ‘grave,’ an’ I wouldn’t want ye hurt.”

Just what Pat meant by a “grave,” Terry did not know, but he was speedily to find out.

On a morning when he rode out, in advance of U. P. end o’ track, for his regular “time inspection,” the two grades were passing each other at last. The C. P. grade was holding to the higher ground, here. The long line of busy Chinamen (“Crocker’s pets,” they were called, Mr. Charles Crocker being the C. P. superintendent of construction) were toiling away, with pick and spade and wheel-barrow, right above the long line of flannel-shirted Irishmen building the U. P. grade.

The Chinamen were saying scarcely a word, and casting scarcely a glance. They trotted with their barrows, and pecked with short little stabs, but they swarmed like rats. The Irish laughed among themselves, making remarks not at all complimentary to their rivals.

As Terry approached a cut, he suddenly ran into a blast. That is, before ever he saw the red flag of danger, cautious voices in low tone, and sly gestures warned him.

“Whisht, now! Look out. Stand where ye be.”

There was no red flag, and no shout; but heads were being turned, along the grade—in the cut the men were pausing, poised, ready to jump—everybody seemed aware, except the Chinamen above the cut; and amidst a sudden scattering for cover by the cut men, up burst the blast itself.

The rocks soared high, specking the air, and rained down, volleying among the Chinamen. The Chinamen squeaked with fright, and ducked and scurried, but several were bowled over.

This appeared to tickle the Irish graders immensely. They pretended to pay no attention; only grinned broadly, as they resumed work, while the Chinamen yelped protests, and shook helpless fists.

“But maybe you killed some of ’em, Mike,” Terry gasped, considerably flustered, himself.

“Them Chinks?” rasped Big Mike, the grade boss here. “Aw, now, don’t ye worry. Let ’em look out for themselves. Our orders be, to pay no attintion to the C. Pay. grade; we’ve our own work. What are they doin’ here, anyhow, right ferninst the blastin’? They ought to know enough to kape away. An’ a ‘grave’ is a blessin’ to a Chinyman—for as soon as he’s dead, ain’t he sint back to the ould country?”

So that was a “grave,” was it? Huh! After that Terry moved cautiously, when taking time; for other “graves” were “opened” by the cunning U. P. graders. They willingly enough dodged the rocks, themselves, in the hopes of “burying” some of the timid “Crocker’s pets.”

Superintendent Crocker made complaint straight to General Casement and General Dodge; and General Casement and Superintendent Reed ordered Big Mike to stop that nonsense among his men. Big Mike only promised—and that day another “grave” was laid.

Then the Chinamen took matters into their own hands. They also “opened” a “grave,” smack above a bevy of the Irish. It was a large one; it buried three Irishmen completely—killed two of them and wounded half a dozen others.

Big Mike was reported to have at first roared like a bull, for revenge, and to have finished by scratching his thatch ruefully.

“B’ gorry,” he said, “if it’s a game two can play at, they have the advantage o’ position. Before me min get nervous mebbe we’d better call it quits.”

And back at end o’ track Pat remarked:

“’Tis a wonder them haythens didn’t have the same sinse before. Now I guess there’ll be no more ‘graves,’ yon, o’ that kind.”

U. P. end o’ track was twenty miles out of Ogden, and half way to Promontory Point. C. P. end o’ track was eighty miles out, or thirty miles the other side of Promontory Point. One end o’ track was going one way, the other end o’ track was coming the other way; but they were not aimed to meet!

“On to Humboldt Wells,” was the slogan of the Union Pacific.

“On to Ogden,” was the slogan of the Central Pacific.

Not until the U. P. grade had climbed Promontory, to join with its grade in the desert beyond, and the C. P. grade was touching Ogden, did the fresh news break.

Pat received a telegram, read it, and burst into a flurry.

“It’s all off! The orders be for us to join ind o’ track wid the Cintral ind atop o’ Promontory Summit—an’ shame on us if we let ’em bate us there. A holiday in Salt Lake City wid full pay for iv’ry man o’ yez if yez’ll step on the tails of the tie-layers wid your rails.”

So it was to be a race for the meeting at Promontory Summit! Distance to go: Union Pacific, twenty-eight miles; Central Pacific, thirty miles. The telegraph was already in operation, waiting to announce the victor, to the world.