Opening the iron trail

With a terrific jar Terry landed far in the brush and went ploughing and rolling, topsy-turvy. He thought that he heard Shep yelp (as if Shep had landed, too, somewhere); then he brought up, in a heap, wedged at the bottom of a little wash.

He lay without moving, listening and wondering if any bones were broken. No; he seemed to be all right. But there were chases, through the brush, in the darkness; the Indians were riding hither-thither, shouting and shooting. He heard it all—the shots, the yells of triumph, a groan or two. The Indians were killing the handcar men!

It seemed to him a long time before that was over with, and every moment he expected an Indian to ride on top of him. But the yelling and shooting and scurrying died away. The Indians appeared to be gathering at their fire.

Ah! What was that? He heard a faint rustle, near him. An Indian was scouting about, on foot, looking for him? He scarcely dared to breathe as he hugged the earth, and his heart thumped like a drum. Then something paused, beside him; next something cold, like a knife blade, pressed against his neck, and he heard a little whimper.

It was Shep, and Shep’s nose! Shep was alive and had found him. Oh, Shep! Good old Shep! Be quiet, Shep. But Shep knew. He was satisfied, and crouched close, only once in a while growling low in his throat.

Here they were—the only ones left alive, Terry felt, from the handcar. Now what could he do? The Indians were talking and laughing, at a little distance. He gradually untangled himself, and inch by inch raised his head, to see, in the direction of the fire. He had to crawl a few feet, to the edge of his wash. He peeped over.

The Indians were collected around their fire, beside the track. Between his place and the fire there was a narrow gully, bridged by a wooden culvert; and upon the track over the culvert there was a tie, fastened to the rails by wire, but knocked askew. That was what the handcar had struck; and he had been thrown clear across to this side and luckily had landed in this wash cut diagonally by the rains. The sage was quite high here, too. He guessed he hadn’t been counted on the handcar, because he had been lying down and the four men had been standing.

He could just see the handcar, bottomside up, in the brush on the slope of the gully. Now the Indians were leaving their fire and trooping down track a little way. They began to pry at the rails, with poles. They were planning another wreck. This one had been a success, but it was only a small one. Perhaps they thought that a tie would not wreck a train, and they wanted to wreck a train.

They pried and worked, loosening the rails. What could a fellow do? That freight at Kearney might have got tired of waiting, and be along any time. Or a passenger train might come. Terry thought upon breaking for Willow Island, to give the alarm there. No, that wouldn’t be the quickest way. If he might only get around the Indians, and run to Plum Creek—it couldn’t be more than five or six miles, and he might meet the train this side of it and stop it, somehow.

“Whisht! Come on, Shep. Careful, now,” he whispered. He started to crawl. Shep crawled behind him. Once down in the gully, maybe they could follow it up a way, and make a circuit around that gang. They reached the bottom, and were about to do finely, when Terry heard a groan.

It sounded from the brush, beyond the gully. He listened, and heard it again. It was a groan in English. One of the handcar men was alive. Well, he ought to go and see.

“’Elp!”

That was Bill Thompson! Bill was groaning for help. Oh, dear!

Up he crawled, seeking the place of the groans.

“Hello! Where are you?” he asked, cautiously. He was almost into the fire-light.

“’Ere. Who are you?”

“Terry Richards. I’m coming.”

He kept crawling, and pretty soon he found Bill lying flat on his side, with his head on his arm. In the faint glimmer of the flames a ghastly thing he was.

“You bad hurt, Bill?”

“’Ello. They shot me through the h’arm an’ knifed me in the neck an’ scalped me, but I got the scalp.”

“What?”

“Yes. ’Ere ’tis, in my ’and. The bloomin’ beggar didn’t ’ang onto h’it. ’E dropped h’it. H’I saw ’im. Felt like the ’ole top o’ my ’ead was h’off, but I got h’it when they wasn’t lookin’. D’ you think h’it’ll grow on me again?”

“I dunno. We’d better get right out of here, though. He may come looking for it.”

“’E ’asn’t missed it, I reckon. H’it was in ’is belt. What they doin’ now?”

“Tearing up the rails, so as to wreck a train. I’m going to try to make Plum Creek. I’ll help you into that gully; then I’ve got to go.”

“H’all right,” groaned Bill. “You go. Never you mind me. H’I can manage.”

“No,” said Terry. And suddenly he crouched lower. “Keep quiet, Bill. They’re coming back.”

“Oh, the bloody villains,” groaned Bill. “Make a run for it, while you can. Never mind me.”

“I can’t,” answered Terry. And even if he would, he didn’t dare. They might see him; if they didn’t catch him, they’d find Bill——!

The whole body of Indians were roistering back, up track, for their fire; probably to hide near it, as before, and wait. Some were afoot, some on ponies; and a hideous sight they offered, to Terry, crouched here on the outskirts of the fire-light, and daring to move not a muscle. Cheyennes; that’s who they were: Cheyennes!

They began to scatter out, for ambush. Perhaps there’d be a chance to risk it and crawl farther away. Ah! Oh, thunder! One of them was coming across, straight this way, prowling through the brush.

“Lie low, Bill. Watch sharp.”

“What’s doin’?”

“They’re at the fire, but one of ’em’s coming.”

“’E’s lookin’ for ’is scalp,” Bill groaned.

They stiffened, motionless. Shep growled, and Terry nudged him frantically. The Indian—he had feathers in his braids and a gun in his hands—ranged right and left, and all the time drew nearer. At that rate, he couldn’t miss them—not if he kept on. Terry didn’t know whether to bolt or to stay. If Shep only would quit that growling——! Or if the Indian would only turn aside. To be shot, or tomahawked, would be awful. It took a great deal of nerve to stiffen, here, and hold one’s breath, and wait and pray. There was just the chance that they wouldn’t be discovered—but the Indian was coming, coming, in sure and easy fashion, looking for that scalp!

Quit it, Shep! Bill was gasping, in his efforts to utter no sound. It was worse for him, because he couldn’t see. Terry could see, with the corner of an eye, through the brush—and he’d about made up his mind that at the last moment he would bolt, and run, dodging, for the open. He’d have to risk a bullet, and have to risk being overhauled; but he might get away, and that would lead the Indian from Bill, too. There wasn’t any use in the both of them being found, in this one spot.

He was all braced, to make his dive, when on a sudden Shep took matters into his own hand. The Indian was scouting about, in the brush not more than twenty yards before—and out Shep charged, with a furious snarly rush, in defense.

Terry had no time in which to grab him; and it would have been too late, anyway. An instant more—so brief a space that the Indian was taken by surprise—and out from the brush Shep had sprung for his throat. He knocked the Indian backward. They staggered around together, Shep snarling and snapping, the Cheyenne fighting him off. Terry half sat up, to watch, his heart in his throat.

“It’s my dog,” he panted, to Bill.

The Cheyenne seemed to have Shep by the neck or jaw, and was thrusting with his other arm, stabbing him. Shep yelped, snarlily. With a kick and a fling the Cheyenne threw him aside; and as Shep pluckily struggled to his feet and still snarling made for him again, the Cheyenne quickly leveled rifle, and fired.

The bullet drove poor old Shep in a heap. He lay black and lax, scarcely moving, except to lift his head, and drop it. He had happened to land in a bare spot, and Terry could see him plainly. Yes, he was dead.

Such a hot wrath surged into Terry’s brain and to his very finger-tips that all he wanted now was a chance at that Indian, himself. If he but had a gun—or if he might grab the Indian by the legs, drag him down, and get atop of him! Anything, so as to avenge brave old Shep. For the moment Terry was too hot to think of himself, or Bill, or anybody except Shep, and that Cheyenne.

The Cheyenne stood over Shep, kicked him once or twice, and then seemed about to come on again. Terry crouched, tense and alert. Shep had not saved them, after all. Too bad.

“Is ’e comin’?” murmured Bill. “’E killed the dawg?”

“Sh!” warned Terry.

No! Hurrah! The Cheyenne stopped, and looked back. The Indians by the fire had whooped to him, and were disappearing. The Cheyenne turned and ran for them.

“He’s going, Bill!” Terry gasped. “It’s the train. That’s coming. I can see the headlight. Oh, Bill!”

Bill struggled, to see also. Afar down the track there was a light, wavering and flashing, and they could hear a dull rumble. Several of the mounted Indians had dashed away, in that direction. The others were scuttling and hiding.

“H’it’s the freight,” Bill groaned. “H’it’s the freight that was at Kearney. Bully Brookes, ’e’s h’engine driver, ’Enshaw, ’e’s the stoker. H’it’ll be a smash, an’ we can’t ’elp it. Is your dawg killed?”

“Yes, I guess so. But if he hadn’t run out the Cheyenne would have found us and we’d have been killed, too.”

“’E was a good dawg, a sure-’nough ’ero. ’E stopped the h’Injun, but we can’t stop that train.”

“There are two trains, Bill! I see another light, ’way behind the first one!”

“H’it’ll be plain murder,” Bill groaned. “An’ we can’t do a thing. I wish you’d never found me.”

“I couldn’t have got there in time, anyway,” said Terry.

The first light rapidly grew larger, the rumbling increased. Terry stared, fascinated. He didn’t wish to see, but somehow he had to. If Bully Brookes or his fireman, Henshaw, only would discover the lifted rails and stop, in time, themselves. But it did not seem as though they were going to stop or slacken. Flaring and wavering, the headlight was coming on.

The engine began to whistle madly, with long shriek after long shriek. Had it sensed its danger? But it did not slacken—it was coming faster. And see! The Cheyennes were nagging it; by the glare from the opened firebox as the fireman shoved in the cordwood sticks the Indians were shown, racing on either side, brandishing their bows and guns, egging the train on.

The engine jetted steam from its cylinder cocks; the whistle shrieked and shrieked; the firebox glowed redly as the firemen stoked with the cordwood, the Indians lashed their ponies and plied their arrows. It was a wild scene, and terrible. Terry trembled with excitement. Bill sank back, groaning.

“Tell me when she ’its,” he pleaded.

The engine was approaching the bonfire. It had not reached the tilted rails, yet. Oh, would nobody see them?

They were seen, they were seen! Listen! The notes of the whistle had changed to frantic yaps like those of a frightened animal. “Down brakes, down brakes, quick!” the whistle was imploring. The engine wheels spurted sparks, under reversed throttle. Too late. The racing Cheyennes swerved apart, for safety; even while Terry gazed, and before he had time to close his eyes, the engine rose right into the air, with a roar and a plunge left the track, and dragging the tender and car after car it went lurching into the prairie.

It toppled over, cars toppled, and in a moment everything seemed to be piled in a long heap. The engine was almost buried from sight. Out of the jangle there welled shouts. From the rear, men came running; from the front the Cheyennes charged. One man with a lantern—the conductor, maybe—arrived at the fore; the Indians seemed to miss him, in the excitement, for he turned and ran fast, again, down track, throwing his lantern away. He was going to the train behind, and it looked as though he got off, safe.

The Cheyennes chased about, circled the engine heap, and danced and whooped. Flames burst forth, licking up through the heap, and the scene grew brighter and brighter.

“I think we’d better move, Bill,” Terry stammered. “They’ll see us here, sure, as soon as the train gets to burning. We can hide in the little gully where I was.”

“H’all right,” Bill groaned. “H’it’s a good time, while they’re murderin’ somebody h’else.”

That was a hard journey, with Bill hitching painfully through the brush, using one arm and carrying his scalp and stopping every little while to rest and pant. The wonder was, that he could move at all—a man who had been shot and stabbed and scalped; but he had a lot of will power, and was determined to live and make the scalp grow on his head again, “to fool them bloody h’Injuns.”

At last he was settled in the gully, with Terry’s coat under his head. Terry crawled up to the edge again, to lie shivering, and see what more occurred. It wasn’t very likely, though, that the Indians would leave the wreck until they had to.

No, they stayed there. One or two of the cars following the engine and tender had been loaded with brick. They had landed right on top of the engine, and the bricks were scattered all around. The Indians were pelting the heap with the loose bricks; they acted like children; but pretty soon the fire got too hot for that, so they withdrew, to squat in a circle, and curiously watch.

The second train had backed down track, and was far distant, still backing. Had gone to Plum Creek, probably, for help. Shivering Terry and groaning Bill Thompson were left alone, with the Indians and the blazing wreck. What a night! When would help come?

Terry never forgot this night. Up the track, and down the track beyond the wreck nothing moved. The Indians stretched out and seemed to sleep comfortably in the warmth of their big fire, as if waiting until morning. In the gully Bill now and then groaned. On the edge of the gully Terry huddled and nodded—but whenever he started to doze, he woke with a jump, seeing things.

Poor old Shep! He had Shep in his mind a great deal. Yes, Shep was a hero, and he should not be left there, for the coyotes to eat. That would not be fair.

“H’are you ’ere?” Bill called up, faintly. “’Ello, lad.”

“I’m here,” Terry answered. “I’ll stay with you, Bill. I’m going to stay till people come. I want to bury my dog.”

“’E was a fine dawg,” Bill agreed.

Finally Terry did manage to sleep, in spite of his shivering and his bad dreams. He awakened stiff and bewildered. Where was he? Oh, yes; here in the brush, still, outside the wreck. He might see about him. The air was thin and gray, morning had come. He cautiously raised higher, to look. The wreck was smoking, the Indians were there—they were moving about, and flocking down track, and climbing over the cars. No rescue had come yet. Oh, dear! The telegraph wires had been used, for tying the tie that wrecked the handcar, to the track, but why didn’t help come from Plum Creek way?

Was Bill dead? No, he spoke.

“’Ello?”

“Hello. How are you?”

“Wish I had a drink. What’s doin’ now?”

“They’re robbing the wreck.”

“Yes, that’s what,” groaned Bill.

The Indians were enjoying themselves. They had broken into some cars loaded with drygoods, and were strewing the stuff right and left. As the morning brightened, that was an odd sight, down there. The Cheyennes wrapped themselves in gay calico and gingham and red flannel and other cloths; they tied whole bolts of the same cloth to their saddle horns and their ponies’ tails, and darted hither-thither over the plain, while the bolts unrolled and other riders chased after, trying to step on the long streamers. They had so much plunder that they seemed crazy.

Suddenly they all galloped to one side, to a little rise, and gathered there, like a flock of magpies, gazing up track. Had they seen Terry? He felt a thrill of fear, and huddled lower. Then he bethought to look behind, up track, too—and he saw smoke!

It was a train! A train was coming, from the west. And how it did come! A rescue train! Hurrah!

“Bill! A train’s coming! The Injuns are quitting!”

“Where from?”

“Up track.”

“’Ow’d they get word, thereabouts?”

“I dunno; but it’s coming, and coming lickity-split, as if it had soldiers.”

“’Ooray!” Bill groaned. “An’ I ’ope it ’as a doctor, to stick this ’ere scalp on me again.”

The engine shrieked, and the smoke poured blacker. The Indians were getting restless. Then away they scoured. Terry stood up and yelled and waved his arms, the train—a short train of box-cars—pulled in and soldiers tumbled out. How good their blue coats looked! Terry went stumbling and staggering to meet them. He saw somebody he knew—the scout in buckskin who was leading the soldiers, with the officer.

“Sol! Hello, Sol Judy! Oh, Sol!”

But Sol scarcely knew him.

“Who are you? What? For heaven’s sake, boy! You aren’t Terry Richards?”

“Guess I am.” And Terry sank down. His legs had given out. “Oh, Sol! They wrecked our handcar, and Bill Thompson’s in that gully with his scalp gone, but he’s alive, and they killed Shep and then they wrecked the freight and killed a lot more.”

In a moment he was surrounded and picked up. He had to tell his story all over again, while some examined the wreck, and some got Bill and carried him up, and the Cheyennes meanwhile made off.

They were soldiers from Fort McPherson, beyond Willow. A man had ridden around the Indians, from Plum Creek, and taken the word.

“There aren’t enough of us to follow those fellows,” explained Sol. “But the Pawnees are on the way from end o’ track. They’ll do the business. Now you and Thompson can go back with this train.”

“I want to bury Shep, first,” Terry pleaded.

“Sure you do. He died fighting, like a soldier, and ‘Killed in action’ is the report on him. A good U. P. hand he was, wasn’t he? So we’ll just bury him right here, where he can watch the tracks.”

Nobody seemed to blame Terry any for crying, when he and Sol and a couple of soldiers put Shep away. Sol understood; he had known Shep a long time, himself.

The bodies of the handcar men and a brakeman (the engineer and fireman had been burned) were placed aboard, for Willow. Taking Bill Thompson and Terry, but leaving the soldiers on guard at the wreck, the train backed up track. Bill’s scalp had been stowed in a bucket of water, to keep it limber. It curled about, as it floated, and looked exactly like a drowned rat. No doctor ever did succeed in planting it and making it grow again on Bill’s head; but Bill got well and went to work, wearing a skull-cap.

However, Terry went to work, the first, at end o’ track once more, the next morning. Jenny was glad to see him. His father had been mighty glad, too, and together they mourned the brave Shep.

“I hear tell ye lost your dog,” said Paddy Miles, kindly.

“Yes, that’s so,” Terry answered, with a gulp.

“Ah, well; ’twas a bad night, sure enough, for him an’ you an’ them others,” mused Pat. “But him an’ they are not the only wans. There’s many a grave beside the U. Pay., behind us, an’ there’s more on ahead an’ more yet to be made, before the road goes through. ’Tis a big job an’ a cruel job an’ a long road to travel; but ’tis sich a job as is worth the dyin’ for anny day, say I—though I’d fair like to live jist to see the Cintral baten into Salt Lake an’ the U. Pay. track stretchin’ out clane across Nevady.”