Opening the iron trail

The Indians had chosen exactly the right time, for them. They had awaited the moment when the main body of track-layers were farthest separated from the boarding-train and the stacks of arms; they had seen that there were no soldiers on guard; and here they came, with a rush, at least 500 of them.

“Fall in, men! Lay down! Down wid yez!”

Terry tumbled off his yellow mule in a jiffy. Dropping spade and sledge, ducking and lunging, the men were scurrying along the roadbed, seeking shelter. Only the squad of tampers and ballasters following end o’ track to settle the ties were near the first gun stacks; Terry joined their flat line. The Springfield carbines were passed rapidly, but there were not enough.

“Stiddy, boys!” bawled Pat. He had been a top sergeant in the regular army before the war. “Hug the ground. The word from headquarters is ‘Niver retrate.’ Sure, if we haven’t guns we can foight wid picks. Wait for orders, now.”

Down dashed the Indians, at reckless speed: one party straight from the north, one party obliquing from the west. The engines of both trains were shrieking furiously. All up the grade the wagons were bunching, at a gallop, with military precision; the laborers were rushing in squads to corral in them and in the low dug-outs beside the roadbed.

The party of Indians from the westward split; one half veered in, and racing back and forth there, pelted the road embankment with a storm of bullets and arrows. The graders replied, but it was hard to land on those weaving, scudding figures.

The other half of the party tore on, heading to unite with the second party and cut off the boarding-train. That was it! The Indians wanted the boarding-train and supplies.

Hurrah! The boarding-train was coming on, regardless. It was manned by only Engine Driver Richards and Fireman Sweeny, a brakeman and the cooks; but no matter. Like a great demon it was coming on, whistling long shrieks and belching pitchy smoke.

The Sioux (some Cheyennes, too) were close upon it. They began to race it, whooping and shooting. The windows of dining-car and caboose replied with jets of white, as the cook and the brakeman bravely defended. Stoker Bill shot from his side of the cab. The train gathered way slowly; the ponies easily kept up with it—their riders, swerving in, flung themselves free of the saddles, clung to the steps and ladders and vaulted the couplings; clung like ants and dragged and writhed, as if they could hold it back!

They charged the engine; even cast their ropes at the smoke-stack; swarmed to the tender and from there shot into the cab. Terry’s heart welled into his mouth, with fear for his father. Suddenly there was a great gush of white steam—Engineer Richards had opened the cylinder cocks, and the cloud of scalding vapor surged back, sweeping the tender. Out popped sprawly brown figures, to land head over heels upon the right-of-way, and blindly scramble for safety.

Hurrah! Bully for Engineer Richards! And the construction-train was coming too. No! Look at it! From Terry’s neighbors a groan of disgust issued.

“The dirty cowards! Bad cess to ’em! Turnin’ tail, they are!”

For the construction-train was standing still, on the track, and the engine was making off, back across the wide plains, leaving a trail of smoke and a good-by shriek.

“Niver mind! We’ve a train of our own. Yis, an’ hearts to match it.”

“’Tis all right, boys. He’s only goin’ to the tiligraph,” Pat shouted. “It’s word to the troops at Sidgwick he has up his sleeve. The Pawnees’ll be wid us in a jiffy—an’ then watch them red rascals skedaddle. ’Asy, ’asy,” continued Pat, “till the train’s widin reach of us. Stiddy. We mustn’t get scattered, like.”

The boarding-train was jolting and swaying on the newly laid rails; but what ailed it, besides? Aha!

“Settin’ the brakes! Settin’ the brakes, they are!”

And sure enough. These Cheyennes and Sioux were wise. For a year and a half they had been watching the white man’s iron horses and big thunder wagons advancing onward into the buffalo country; and they had learned a number of new wrinkles. They were no longer afraid of the strange “medicine.” For here they were, boldly tackling the cars, laying hands upon them, climbing aboard—and setting the brakes!

Their almost naked figures, outlined against the sky, atop the cars, tugged and hauled at the brake wheels. The brake-shoes ground harshly; fumy smoke floated from underneath, as the locked car-wheels slid on the rails; the engine, with throttle open, roared vainly. Out from the cab darted Fireman Bill Sweeny, mounted the tender and, skipping to the first car, revolver in hand, hung to the ladder while he raked the tops beyond.

“Sharp-shooters give it to ’em!” Pat yelped. The carbines of the track-layer gang banged hopefully.

The Indians ducked and swung off to the farther side. The brakeman was out of the caboose. He lay flat upon one end of the train, the fireman lay flat upon the other end; and hitching along they began to kick the brakes free. The galloping Indians peppered at them, but failed to hit them.

“Be ready, lads,” Pat ordered. “Skirmishes wid the guns, first. The rist of us wid the picks. We’ll run for it, and meet the train. Jist a minute, now.” And—“Oh, the divils!” he added. “Charge!”

A squad of the Indians, dismounted, had thrown a tie across the track. A wild volley from the carbines had not stayed them. Engineer Richards, plunged in his own steam cloud, evidently did not see the tie; he came on, pushing Jimmie Muldoon’s loaded truck before him; the white horse tried to bolt and fell with a broken neck just as the rope parted; the smoke-stack was atilt, and spitting smoke and steam from a dozen bullet-holes; but twitched by the roaring engine, the train moved faster and faster.

Up sprang the men, with a yell. The line of skirmishers, carbines poised, charged—charged in splendid order, like soldiers, aiming, firing, running. With picks and sledges and even spades the other men also charged, behind the skirmishers; bending low and shouting, yes, laughing in their excitement.

“The tie! Look out for the tie on the track!” they hallooed.

Terry had nothing to carry, and he was fast on his feet. Never had he sprinted so, before. The first thing he knew, he was through the skirmishers and legging on by himself, while the bullets hummed by him and every instant the distance between tie and truck was lessening. All his eyes and thoughts were on that tie. If the engine—his father’s engine—rammed it with the rail-loaded truck—wow!

He lost his hat—he heard whoops and shouts and excited Shep’s wild barking—the Indians on his side were swerving off, before the carbine bullets—but the engine was thundering down upon him, he saw his father’s astonished grimy face peering from the cab and he glimpsed the cars behind spewing naked figures. Then he dived for the tie. He barely had time to lift one end when the truck struck the tie, hurled it to the left and him to the right; but they both fell clear, for as he picked himself up the box-cars were rumbling by, jerking to the sharply braked engine.

All was hurly-burly with the Indians scooting and screeching, the men scrambling and cheering, catching at the steps and braces, running alongside until the train stopped, and clutching the guns passed out from doors and windows.

The dining-car door slid back; the sweaty faces of the cook and cookee grinned down; the brakeman leaped off——

“Fall in, now! Fall in wid yez!” were Pat’s orders. “Take your distances ben’ath—two men to each pair o’ wheels. An’ them that hasn’t guns lay flat inside.”

Terry had no notion of lying flat inside. He plunged like a rabbit under the dining-car (bewildered Shep at his heels), for a place between the rails; found none, and dodged on, trying not to step on anybody or be in the way. He arrived at the tender, and had to come out.

“Get in here! Quick!” It was his father, sighting him. Terry hoisted himself into the engine, while several bullets rang upon the metal grasped by his hands. He lurched to the fireman’s seat and huddled there, to gain breath and grin. With a running leap Shep followed, to curl close in a corner, safe, he believed, from all that racket.

“Well, where were you going?” his father demanded.

“Just looking for a good place,” Terry panted.

“You’ve found it, and you’d better stick. ’Tisn’t healthy, outside. What were you doing on the track ahead of me? Didn’t I hit something?”

“A tie, dad. They’d laid a tie across the track.”

“Oho! Good for you. But you took a big chance. Did you reach it?”

“I got one end up.”

“If I’d hit it plumb, reckon some of those rails would have been driven into the boiler. I couldn’t see plain, on account the steam and the truck. The crooked stack bothered me, too. Anyhow, here’s one train they don’t capture.”

“They can’t take it, can they, dad?”

“Not on your life, Terry. Not while there’s a cartridge for a gun or an Irishman to swing a pick, or an ounce of steam in the boiler of old 119. If worst comes to worst we can run back and forth, ’twixt here and that construction-train.”

Terry jumped down and crawled to peek out between engine and tender.

“No, we can’t, dad. They’re piling ties on the track ’way behind!”

“I declare! They’re too smart. They even set the brakes on me, and tried to rope the engine stack, like they would a horse’s neck! So they think they have us corralled, do they?”

That was so. The pesky Indian had daringly charged to the farthest pile of ties—a spare pile—tied ropes, and at a gallop dragging the ties to safer distance were erecting a barricade upon the track.

Evidently they meant business, this time. It was to be a fight to a finish. All up the graded roadbed the U. P. men were fighting off the red bandits—fighting from the dug-outs and the embankment and the wagon corrals; they had no chance to sally to the boarding-train. And here at the boarding-train Paddy Miles’ track-layers were fighting.

Part of the Indians dashed around and around in a great circle, whooping gleefully and shooting at long distance. “Blamed if they haven’t got better guns than we have,” remarked Terry’s father, as now and then a bullet pinged viciously against the boiler-iron of engine or tank. Others, dismounted, crept steadily forward, like snakes, firing from little hollows and clumps of brush.

The Paddy Miles sharp-shooters, snug beneath the cars, and protected by the rails and the car-wheels, stanchly replied. The heavy Springfield balls kicked up long spurts of sand and ’dobe dust; once in a while a pony rider darted in, for closer shot—sometimes he got away with it, and sometimes his horse lunged headlong, to lie floundering while the rider himself ran hunched, for shelter. Then the men cheered and volleyed at him; maybe bowled him over, but not always.

Terry’s father had lighted his pipe; and there he sat, on his seat, with his gun poked out of the window, to get a shot when he might. He was as cool as a cucumber, and ready for any kind of business. This was not his first scrape, by any means. He had been a gold-seeker in the rush of Fifty-nine, to the Pike’s Peak diggin’s of Colorado; and he had served in the Union Army of the Civil War. Only his crippled knee had put him into the cab—but brave men were needed here, the same as elsewhere, these days.

“Where did the other engine go, dad?” Terry asked.

“To the nearest wire. There’s a spur station and operator ten miles back, you know. Sedgwick has the word, by now; and so has North Platte. Pretty soon we’ll see the Pawnees coming from the one direction and the general himself from the other; and that’ll put an end to this fracas.”

Terry exclaimed.

“They’re shooting fire arrows!”

Cleverly worming along, several of the Indians had posted themselves near enough to use their bows. They launched arrow after arrow, with bunches of flaming dried grass and greasy rags—yes, as like as not old waste—tied to the heads; and these plumped into car top and car side.

“The confounded rascals!” growled Engineer Richards.

Fireman Bill Sweeny hurdled from the first car down to the tender. He was sweat-streaked and grim, and bleeding at the shoulder. He grabbed a bucket, soused it into the tank, and away he staggered.

“Train’s afire, Ralph,” he yelled back. “Don’t shove out——” and he was gone.

Forward bustled other men, with buckets; dipped into the tank and sped for the rear again. Matters were getting serious. The Springfields seemed unable to ferret out the bow-wielders. There was a cheer, and Pat Miles led a charge. Out from beneath the cars there rushed a line of skirmishers, while behind them the carbines barked, supporting them. Up from their coverts sprang the fire-arrow Indians, and bolted. Giving them a volley the skirmish dropped and dug in.

A line was thrown out on the other side of the train, also. This made the Indians furious; their horsemen raced madly up and down, showing only an arm and a leg, or suddenly firing from the saddle and hanging low again. At the best they were difficult marks. They had plenty of ammunition, and rifles that outranged the stubby carbines.

“Fire’s squelched except the last car; that’s a-burnin’,” gasped Stoker Bill, lurching in and sinking breathless upon his seat. “Don’t back up. Say, kid, help me tie this shoulder, will you?”

“Hurt bad, Bill?” Engineer Richards queried, keenly.

“Nope. Just perforated a trifle.”

“Anybody else hurt?”

“None particular. But I sure thought this kid was a goner, though. Did you see him?”

“Where?”

“When he reached for that tie?”

“Didn’t see him or the tie either, till too late. I knew I hit something.”

“Well, I happened to be squinting up this way, and I saw him just as he heaved an end clear of the track. Next thing, you sent him one way and the tie the other. He’s an all-right boy.”

“Guess he is,” laughed Terry’s father. “He’ll get promoted off that old yellow mule, first thing we know.”

“Wish General Dodge would let me go out on a survey,” Terry blurted. “Like George Stanton.”

“I’ll speak to the general about it,” said Fireman Bill, with a wink at his cab partner.

But Engineer Richards did not notice. He was peering behind, out of his window.

“Hi! Here comes the other engine,” he uttered. “Yes, and the headquarters car for a trailer! The old man (that was Major-General Dodge, of course) is inside it, I’ll bet a hat!”

They all looked. Far down the track an engine, twitching a single car, was approaching. By her trail of dense wood smoke and the way she bounced on the little curves and bumps, she was making good time, too.

“Chief boss is on the job, sure,” quoth Bill.

“Usually is,” added Terry’s father. “Always has been. Nothing happens from one end of line to t’other, but he’s there.”

The fighting track-layers had seen, and began to cheer afresh. Away galloped a portion of the enemy, to pester the reinforcements. But the engine came right on, until it halted at the end of the construction-train. Out from the headquarters car issued man after man—springing to the ground, guns in their hands, until they numbered some twenty.

The first was a straight, well-knit figure in broad-brimmed black slouch hat and ordinary civilian clothes. There appeared to be two or three men in regular city clothes with him; the rest were dressed more rough and ready, like trainmen and workmen.

The Indians were circling and yelling and shooting, at long distance. The slouch hat led forward at a run. From the construction-train the handful of train crew leaped out; they had been housed, waiting, on defense, but helpless to do much. All ran forward. The slouch hat man pointed and gave orders; the train crew jumped at the pile of ties, while the other men rapidly deployed, in accurate line—advancing as if in uniform, and yielding not an inch.

The ties were scattered in a twinkling; the engine pushed—the train moved slowly up track, with the slouch hat’s men clearing either side of the track, at a trot, fire, and trot again. The train crew closed the rear. The engine whistled triumphantly; Terry’s father yanked the whistle cord of No. 119, and by blast after blast welcomed the new-comers.

In spite of the frantic Indians the trains joined. But the fighting was not over. It had only been extended into a longer line. Terry could stay quiet no more. He simply had to be out into the midst of things. With General Dodge, the chief engineer and noted army man, on deck, there would be a change of program.

“I’m going, dad,” he announced. Not waiting for answer, out he tumbled, so quickly that Shep did not know it. For Shep was sound asleep.