LITTLE did we realise the magnitude of the task we were undertaking, when, having first written home to explain our reasons for this sudden change of plan, we betook ourselves to the railroad station and started, with fairly clear consciences, on our westward course. In due time we descended from the train at a little station which appeared to have been set down in the midst of nowhere, whence, with all the confidence of youth and ignorance, we set forth upon our tremendous tramp across the plains.

For a whole month thereafter we marched steadily and perseveringly along the endless railroad track; and never, I firmly believe, were two boys so utterly and completely tired as were we by the end of that time.

If our sea-voyage had been monotonous, this voyage across the solid sea of the rolling plains was even more so. Day after day the same green circle of hills surrounded us; every little town we passed was as like the last as one pea is like another; such a perpetual sameness in the landscape was there that we might have thought we were walking in a circle, but for the sun, which every morning rose behind us, and every evening shone in our faces.

The only break in the monotony of our wearisome task was an incident which occurred perhaps half-a-dozen times; an incident with which we could very well have dispensed, for the reason that by no means could we make head or tail to it.

Every now and then, as we came plodding along the track, each with a stick in his hand and a rolled-up blanket over his shoulder, we would, on passing through a station, find the agent standing on the platform, watching our approach, and grinning as though he saw something in our appearance that was irresistibly amusing. Sometimes he would merely eye us as we went by; at other times he would greet us in some such fashion as this:

“Well, boys; glad to see you. Had a longish walk, haven’t you? Getting pretty tired? Well, don’t let me detain you; you’ve got a tidy bit to walk yet. Good-bye.”

Then, laughing to himself, he would go back to his clicking telegraph instrument, while we walked on, wondering how he came to make so good a guess concerning us and our affairs. It really seemed as though these men must have been expecting us, had such a thing been possible. It was very puzzling; we were quite at a loss to account for their extraordinary behaviour.

On one of these occasions I caught a glimpse through the window of the waiting-room of a face which somehow seemed familiar. For a moment I thought it was the man whom we had seen in the Captain’s cabin at New Orleans, but as such a thing appeared to be out of the question I dismissed the idea without a second thought.

In the early part of our walk we were fortunate in the matter of finding a lodging for the night. Our practice was, when the sun began to get low, to look out for a farmhouse of decent appearance, and having first washed off the dust of travel and made ourselves as presentable as possible, to apply for leave to sleep in the barn; a permission which was nearly always accorded.

But by the time we had come somewhere towards the middle of Nebraska this condition of affairs had changed. It is true that we were still kindly received at the farmhouses, but the farmhouses were more widely scattered, and the farther we advanced the less frequent they became. In consequence, we had now and then been benighted on the prairie; on which occasions, especially if it happened to be a windy or a rainy night, we found that the pleasure of camping out lay more in the imagination than the reality.

The farther we went, too, the more tired we grew. It seemed almost impossible sometimes to summon up energy enough to go on when the rising sun warned us that it was time to start on another day’s tramp. In fact, we were beginning to entertain uncomfortable suspicions that we had undertaken more than we could accomplish, when there occurred an incident which relieved us of all further anxiety on that score.

We had been toiling all day against a strong west wind, the sun had gone down an hour ago, we were out on the wide, open plain, with never a house in sight, and, thoroughly weary, we had decided to camp in the first sheltered spot we could find, when we came upon a small trestle-bridge spanning a narrow, but deep, gully. Across this bridge we had walked in order to get under the lee of the creek-bank, when, looking back, we saw on the side we had just left a little tumble-down cabin. We at once retraced our steps, and scrambling down the side of the gully, we approached the building. It was evidently very old. The door was gone; the mud chinking had all fallen out; while, of two bunks built against the end wall, one above the other, the upper one only was sound.

Poor as this shelter was, it was better than none, and we at once decided to take up our quarters there for the night. We were too tired to go and hunt for fire-wood in the dark, so, unwrapping from a greasy newspaper some slices of cooked ham which we had purchased that morning, we made a chilly and comfortless meal, and then, having re-wrapped and re-pocketed the remnants of the ham, we climbed into the crazy upper bunk, rolled ourselves in our blankets, and were soon sound asleep, in spite of the insinuating draughts, and the trembling of the rickety old structure before the assaults of the blustering wind.

How long we had slept we did not know, when we were awakened by the sudden entrance into the cabin of several men, who, unconscious that there were any listeners, began talking together in loud, rough voices. With an instinctive feeling that it would be better for us to remain undiscovered, Percy and I lay silent; wondering what could have brought these men here at this time of night, and why they should carry on their conversation in the dark. We very soon found out.

“What time does she come along?” asked one of the men.

“She’s due at the water-tank in an hour. That’ll give us plenty of time. Now, which are we going to do—signal her, and go through the mail and express cars and the passengers, or pull up a rail and let her take a header through the trestle?”

“Pull up a rail,” growled a third voice—and a very remarkable voice it was too. The man began his remarks in the deepest bass, but after two or three words his voice broke and went off into a thin, treble pipe. It was a voice, once heard, never to be forgotten.

“Pull up a rail,” said the man. “That’s the surest way, by long odds. We’ll pull out the spikes and take off the fish-plates and tilt the rail a bit, and she’ll jump the track sure. Then two of us’ll go through the express car while the other two goes through the passengers—them as isn’t killed.”

At the disclosure of this villainous scheme Percy and I quaked with fear. Our bunk was not so high but that a tall man could overlook it, and should one of them strike a match for any purpose he could hardly fail to discover us, and discovery, we had little doubt, would mean death; for that they should feel any compunction at putting two witnesses out of the way was not to be expected of these ineffable rascals, who, for the sake of a few dollars, were planning in cold blood the murder of an unknown number of innocent people.

“That’s the way we’ll fix it,” continued he of the squeaky voice, clapping his hand upon the edge of the bunk close to my face, and making me start so that my heart seemed to go off like an alarm-clock. “And, see here, boys; after we’ve tilted one rail, we may’s well put in the rest of the time pulling out the spikes all along the lower side of the trestle, so’s to make a sure job of it. While three of us is doing that, one can keep watch on the hill for the headlight, ’cause we won’t be able to hear her coming up against this wind, and when he gives the word we’ll hustle back to this old shanty.”

“That’s a good scheme. Come on. Who’s got them tools?”

“Me.”

“Bring ’em along, then, and let’s get to work.”

To our infinite relief the four villains filed out of the cabin, and the sound of their retreating footsteps was quickly lost in the whistling of the wind. After lying quite still for a moment I ventured to move enough to enable me to peep through one of the chinks in the wall. In the dim light—for, though there was a full moon, the sky was obscured by a thin layer of cloud—I could see the men walking one behind the other down towards the bridge. As soon as they disappeared from sight I whispered to Percy to turn out, and the next moment we were through the doorway and hurrying off up-stream.

“Tom,” Percy hastily exclaimed, after we had gone a hundred yards, “we must climb over the hill and get back to the track below the bridge and signal that train.”

“Yes,” I responded. “But first we have to find a place where we can climb up this cliff; it is too steep here.”

We consumed ten or fifteen minutes of precious time searching for an available spot, but at last we found a place where the bluff had broken away, and clambering quickly to the top, we hurried over the hill and down to the railroad, where we set off down-wind as fast as we could walk—being afraid to run in the dark lest we should break our legs by tumbling through a cattle-guard.

We had gone about half a mile, perhaps, when, looking back, we saw, dimly outlined against the luminous grey sky, the figure of the watcher on the hill. Though it was unlikely that he should be able to see us, we were afraid to risk it, and we therefore stepped from the track and lay down on the lower side of the embankment, whence we could keep a lookout down the line, and also maintain a watch upon the watcher.

“How are we going to signal the train, Tom?” asked Percy. “We have no lantern, and we haven’t time to collect material to build a fire on the track; and if we did so that fellow back there would see it, of course, and the whole rascally gang would be after us directly. And besides that the train might be late and our fire might burn out before it got here.”

“The only way I see,” I replied, “is to use the newspaper that the ham is wrapped up in. We must wait till the train is pretty near and then light the paper, trusting to its being seen before it burns out.”

“That’s a good idea,” Percy responded, “but I think I know a better way still. I will crawl down the bank here and cut a willow stick; we will split the end of it and insert the newspaper, ham and all, into the cleft, and then we shall have a torch which will last five or ten minutes.”

In accordance with Percy’s idea we soon had our torch prepared, and again we lay still, waiting. Some forty slow minutes dragged along, when we thought we could detect a tremor in the rails close to our heads. We were right, for directly afterwards the headlight of the engine appeared coming round the bend. I glanced back at the watchman; he was still at his post, having not yet seen the light on account of the curve in the road. A moment later, however, the increase in the size of the headlight showed that the train had turned the corner, and at the same instant I saw the man on the hill turn and run. As he disappeared from view I called to Percy to light up, and Percy, who was holding six matches in readiness, struck them all at once, and sheltering the flame from the wind as best he could, applied it to the paper. The greasy material flared up in an instant, and seizing the stick I sprang into the middle of the track and waved the light to and fro in front of me.

Thanks to the frying ham—and never was a slice of ham put to a better use—our improvised torch made a very large blaze, and presently, to our great satisfaction, we heard faintly against the wind the toot-toot of the whistle, showing that our signal was observed. We at once walked quickly towards the train, and just as our torch fell to pieces we saw two men coming up the track,—the conductor and one of the brakemen.

“Well, boys,” said the former, as he held up his lantern to look at us, “what did you signal us for? Bridge gone?”

“Train-wreckers,” said Percy. “They’ve pulled up a rail on the trestle.”

The conductor whistled. “How did you come to know of it?” he asked.

“We heard them laying their plans about an hour ago, and so we hurried down the track to stop you.”

“How many of them?” asked the brakeman.

“Four. They are waiting for you in a little cabin near the bridge.”

The two men nodded to each other; they evidently knew the place; and then the conductor, telling us to follow him, led the way back to the train. At the engine he stopped, and addressing the engineer, said:

“George, these boys report a gang of train-wreckers. They’ve pulled up a rail on the trestle. They are waiting in that old cabin up the gully, and I’m going into the smoker to see if I can’t arrange a little surprise-party for them. When I give the signal, you go ahead slowly.”

“All right,” replied the engineer. “And, say, Barclay, see if you can borrow a gun for me; I’d like to take a hand in this little expedition of yours myself.”

The smoking-car was pretty full of passengers, most of them big, brown-faced fellows, miners and stockmen on their way to the mountains. They were lying about on the seats in all sorts of contorted positions, trying to get a little sleep, but no sooner had the conductor in a loud voice reported our story than the scene changed as if by magic. Each one of these peaceful citizens appeared to have a big revolver concealed somewhere within easy reach, and about twenty of them instantly volunteered to take a share in the proposed surprise-party. The signal, therefore, being given, the train moved on towards the bridge. In about five minutes it stopped again, and the conductor, with an extra revolver in his hand, stepped from the car, followed by his volunteer posse; we boys wisely remaining behind.

For half an hour the trainmen and all the other occupants of the car stood around the panting engine whispering together and waiting for a shot. No shot came, however, and presently we saw the party coming clambering up again from the gully. We looked in vain for prisoners. They were returning empty-handed. Without doubt the robbers had taken alarm and fled, for the posse had found no sign of them about the cabin save the marks of their boots in the dust, and an odour of bad tobacco.

The next thing to be done was to examine the bridge, where a brief inspection showed that the would-be wreckers had performed their task with much thoroughness; so, as the train carried none of the tools and materials necessary for making repairs, the conductor, accompanied by six of the armed passengers, set off to bring assistance from the nearest section-house two miles farther up the line.

During the interval of waiting that ensued, Percy and I were the objects of general interest. We were made to tell our story with every detail; eliciting great applause when we described how we had sacrificed our next morning’s breakfast in order to make a torch. All the passengers who were awake, and all the train-crew besides, came up to shake hands with us and thank us, and to say all sorts of complimentary things; in fact it was quite an ovation, which lasted until the conductor had returned with the section-hands and the damaged bridge had been made safe again.

The train was ready to proceed. Before it did so, however, we asked the conductor if he would not allow us to ride with him for an hour or so, explaining that we were afraid the wreckers might come back, in which case it might go hard with us; for though it was unlikely that they were aware of our existence, it was still possible that they might have seen our signal, and if they should guess that it was we who had frustrated their plan——

At this point of our explanation the conductor broke in:

“Let you ride!” he exclaimed. “You bet I’ll let you ride. I’ve telegraphed the Superintendent from the section-station, and you shall ride until I get word from him what I’m to do with you.”

Accordingly, when the train moved on, we moved on too, and finding two unoccupied seats we coiled ourselves up in them, and were soon sound asleep.

We had no reason to regret the sacrifice of our slices of ham, for when the train stopped at the eating-station next morning we received from the occupants of the smoking-car alone sixteen invitations to breakfast, and if we could have eaten them I believe we might have had sixty, for by this time the passengers in the other cars, most of whom had been unaware that anything unusual had happened during the night, had been told the story, and once more we were overwhelmed with thanks and questions and handshakings.

We were still at breakfast when the conductor came in with a telegram in his hand; it was a message from the Superintendent instructing him to carry us on our journey as far as we wished to go, and to see that we were well fed all the way at the expense of the company; adding, also, his personal thanks for our service.

This assurance of a free ride to Ogden, together with the frequently expressed gratitude and the complimentary remarks of the passengers was a very acceptable outcome of the night’s adventure. There was one other consequence of the episode, however, which was less gratifying: the newspaper interviewers sought us out. They wanted to know all about us; our names, where we came from, whither we were going, what we intended to do when we arrived there, and the why and the wherefore of everything. Though we avoided as much as possible making any explicit reply to these questions, we nevertheless found ourselves once more figuring in the newspapers, with a full description of our personal appearance and as many details of our private history as these gentlemen could gather or guess at,—much to our discomfort; for we were apprehensive lest somebody, seeing this report, might connect it with the paragraph in the Philadelphia paper, with the result that we might find a policeman waiting for us at one of the stopping-places.

This harassing idea deprived us of much of the pleasure we should otherwise have taken in our ride; even our delight at the first sight of the mountains—and what a glorious sight that is!—was marred by it. Seemingly, however, our fears were groundless; at any rate, no policeman had as yet put in an appearance when, by examining a railroad map, we saw that our journey was nearly ended.

“We shall be in Ogden in an hour,” said Percy, folding up the map.

But Percy was wrong. Instead of an hour it was a large part of a year before we arrived at Ogden; and the course we took to get there led us over more than a thousand miles of mountainous country, and through scenes such as do not often fall within the experience of a schoolboy.