CHAPTER V
ON THE HEELS OF A SHADOW
Ralph reflected upon the hint Zeph had secured from two section men far down the division. The name of Andy McCarrey was one to conjure with among a large part of the maintenance of way men employed by the Great Northern. “Thumbs up” or “Thumbs down” might mean exactly what Zeph suggested.
And the Midnight Flyer—so called, because it left Rockton terminal on the jot of midnight—was causing the divisional officials enough trouble and anxiety in any event. The new train should run on a schedule that called for the finest kind of human attention. The engineer in charge should be as good a man as there was on the division. The two firemen should be highly trained specialists in the handling of a locomotive’s fuel and water.
There were but four stops for this flyer between Rockton and Hammerfest—a four-hour run at top speed. The locomotive pulling the train, and returning the next day with another fast express, was quite equal to the schedule. It was a new eight-driver, and had come out of the Baldwin works keyed up to seventy miles an hour on a level track. Of course, it was not expected that any engineer could hold the Midnight Flyer to that speed for the entire length of the run; but even the concessions made because of the heavy freight traffic over the division at night were not sufficient to make the run an easy one.
Byron Marks, one of the grizzled engineers on the Great Northern list, was in line for the new locomotive and the new run. If the railroads had proper pension lists, the old man should have been weeding his garden and drawing pension money for the rest of his life.
However, he was vigorous, keen-sighted, and a thoroughly active man. He stood well in the Brotherhood and with the officials of the Great Northern. When the choice came for engineer of the swift express, Marks’ name headed the list. He stepped into the job.
But Ralph had helped to make over the night schedule, necessary to squeeze in the varnished train. There were stretches of twenty and thirty miles that called for perfect running, and at a mile a minute, for the Midnight Flyer. A stop signal, even for half a minute, might make the train fall behind. Any little accident was likely to put her off her speed.
As a matter of fact, since Byron Marks had wheeled her out of the Rockton station a week and more before, not once had the Midnight Flyer made Hammerfest on time. There was a connection to be made there with the Boise City & Western that called for the flyer’s being on time. If the Great Northern express could not keep to its schedule, the train might as well be taken off altogether.
“After what you say, Zeph,” Ralph said soberly, as the two friends came out of the Owl Lunch wagon, “I am afraid there will not be any hoghead envious of By Marks’ run.”
“You said something,” agreed Zeph. “This McCarrey fellow——”
“Sh! Speak easy of him. Don’t know who may be listening.”
“Just as I thought. He’s the Big Noise around here?”
“He is with the men who are anxious to strike. He has no standing with the Brotherhoods, of course. But you know the general feeling among railroaders just now. If the corporations get the dirty end of the stick there are not many employees going to weep about it.”
“You said something,” repeated Zeph Dallas. “Well, has this man whose name we will not mention really got all the influence that I thought he had?”
“Among the disgruntled, I am afraid he has,” admitted Ralph.
“Then he’d better be reckoned up—and watched.”
“You might suggest that to Mr. Adair,” said Ralph, in a low voice.
“That is what I was thinking of doing. But you see,” said the eager Zeph, “I wanted to be sure that I really had something on the man. Even what I heard down the line is mighty little evidence.”
“We’ll admit that. But taken with what I know——”
Ralph proceeded to give his friend a full account of the incidents of this very day, when Whitey Malone had attacked both the supervisor’s daughter and Ralph himself.
“That fellow is egged on by McCarrey. I know that to be a fact. Mac is addressing meetings in Beeman’s Hall, and circulating a lot of literature that ought to be suppressed, and getting ready to deal the road a dirty blow through the dissatisfied element. But what can be proved against him?”
“He ought to be run out of the place.”
“You are suggesting fighting fire with fire,” Ralph rejoined, shaking his head. “But I know what Mr. Adair will say. He will declare for peace at any price until the enemy makes the first move.”
“Hey!” muttered Zeph in Ralph’s ear. “Do you know that fellow?”
They had been walking along the dark street, arm in arm. There were few pedestrians in sight. This was a busy part of the town in daylight, but there was little activity now.
Ralph stared after the long, shadowy figure crossing the cobbled street. There was a pale glow of lamplight just where the stranger stepped upon the curb. For an instant his flaxen hair and red neck were visible.
“By gracious! I believe that is the fellow I told you about,” Ralph exclaimed.
“Not Mac——?”
“No! Malone! And I believe he’s drunk. He had been drinking this afternoon.”
“Where could he get liquor around here?”
“I’m sure I don’t know. But I’d say he got it, law or no law.”
“So that fellow is a friend of the Big Noise?”
“A tool, anyway, of McCarrey’s.”
“Wonder where he’s going?” ruminated Zeph. “Drunk or sober, he acts as though he had something on his mind.”
“There is another gate in the yard fence in that direction,” whispered Ralph.
“Come on!” urged Zeph Dallas. “I’ve another idea, Ralph.”
“Aren’t you the little wonder?” chuckled the dispatcher. “What now?”
“A drunken man often tells the truth when a sober man won’t. He likewise is not to be trusted with a secret. Alcohol loosens the tongue. Let’s get after this Whitey Malone and see if we can’t make him tell something about McCarrey and his plans.”
“Go to it, boy,” said Ralph doubtfully. “I’ll stay in the background. Whitey has it in for me.”
“Keep in sight just the same,” commanded Zeph, taking the lead with promptness.
He darted across the street and was soon close on the heels of the shadowy Malone. Ralph looked searchingly about the block before he ventured to follow the two. It seemed that Malone was quite alone. And he staggered on without looking back. He did not fear being followed.
The young dispatcher allowed Zeph and Malone to get well ahead of him. As long as he could keep Dallas in sight he was satisfied. The trail led directly past the gateway in the yard fence. They went up into the town, crossing the railroad at Hammerby Street where Ralph had had his adventure with Cherry Hopkins that afternoon.
Beyond the warehouse that stood here was a dark and narrow lane. Under the dim radiance of a single street lamp Ralph saw Zeph turn into this alley. Of course, Whitey Malone must be in advance.
Ralph looked around for some weapon before he ventured into the lane. Drunk as Whitey Malone was, the fellow might have apprehended that he was being followed, and might be prepared for an attack.
“Zeph is as reckless as he can be,” thought the young dispatcher. “I’ve seen him get into some messes before this. Ah! What’s this?”
It was a spoke of a wheel lying in the gutter—a tough piece of ash as effective in a strong hand as a policeman’s nightstick. Ralph weighted it, spat on his palm to tighten his grip on the club, and then ventured into the dark alley.
He had not gone ten steps when he heard the creak of hinges. A door was being opened somewhere ahead of him. But he came to a sharp corner in the dark alleyway before he spied the opening. A faint radiance shone into the lane.
Between him and this open door was a dark figure—a stooping figure. He made sure it was Zeph. He heard the latter “hist!” in a low tone. He crept forward.
Somebody stumbled inside the hall to which the open door gave entrance. A harsh voice called:
“That you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” grumbled another voice, which Ralph recognized as belonging to Malone.
“What are you trying to do—knock the house down?” snarled the first speaker.
“Why don’t you have some more light? ’Most broke my shins down here. Ouch!”
“Shut up!” commanded the other person, evidently standing at the head of a flight of stairs. “Come up here.”
Zeph had crept forward. Ralph saw the outlines of his figure at the edge of the doorframe. Ralph had to take his tip from Zeph.
“Hey!” exclaimed the fault-finding voice again. “You’ve left that door open, Malone.”
Malone’s stumbling footsteps returned down the few treads of the stairs he had already mounted. The lamplight faded. Ralph realized that the man at the top of the stairs was retreating with the lamp in his hand.
The next moment he realized, too, that Zeph had inaugurated one of his perfectly crazy ventures. Instead of cowering back out of sight as Whitey Malone came to the open door, Zeph huddled close to the opening. When the door began to be pushed into place, the young fellow leaped to his feet, darted forward, and encircled the half-drunken Malone with his arms just below the knees!
“Squawk!” vented the surprised Malone. He crashed down the low, outside steps and landed on the flagstones with sufficient force to drive the breath from his body.
“Grab him, Ralph!” hissed Zeph, springing to his feet again, and seeing his friend at his back. “I’m going up there in his place. If a row starts, call the cops.”
The next instant Zeph was inside the building and had softly closed the door.