CHAPTER XXV.

That Last Weird Battle in the West.

There was still some remnant of daylight left when we stepped from a

closed carriage at the State Street crossing and walked to the train

prepared for us. The rain had all but ceased, and what there was came

out of some northern quarter of the heavens mingled with stinging

pellets of sleet, driven by a fierce gale. The turn of the storm had

come, and I was wise enough in weather-lore to see that its rearguard

was sweeping down upon us in all the bitterness of a winter's tempest.

Beyond the tracks I could see the murky water of Brushy Creek racing

toward the river under the State Street bridge.

"I believe," said I, "that the surface-water from above is showing the

flow from the flume."

"Yes," said Jim absently, "it must be about ready to break up. I hope we

can get out of the valley before dark."

The engine stood ready, the superabundant power popping off in a

deafening hiss. The fireman threw open the furnace-door and stoked the

fire as we approached. Engineer Schwartz, the same who had pulled us

over the road that first trip, was standing by his engine, talking with

our old conductor, Corcoran.

"Here's a message for you, Mr. Elkins," said Corcoran, handing Jim a

yellow paper, "from Agnew."

We read it by Corcoran's lantern, for it was getting dusky for the

reading of telegraph operator's script.

"Water out over bottoms from Hinckley to the Hills," so went the

message. "Flood coming down valley. Snow and drifting wind reported from

Elkins Junction and Josephine. Look out for washouts, and culverts and

bridges damaged by running ice and water. Pendleton special fully up to

running schedule, at Willow Springs."

"Who've you got up there, Schwartz? Oh, is that you, Ole?" said Mr.

Elkins. "Good! Boys, to-night our work has got to be done in time, or we

might as well go to bed. It's a case of four aces or a four-flush, and

no intermediate stations. Mr. Pendleton's special will pass the Junction

right around nine--not ten minutes either way. Get us there before that.

If you can do it safely, all right; but get us there. And remember that

the regular rule in railroading is reversed to-night, and we are ready

to take any chance rather than miss--_any_ chances, mind!"

"We're ready and waiting, Mr. Elkins," said Schwartz, "but you'll have

to get on, you know. Looks like there was time enough if we keep the

wheels turning, but this snow and flood business may cut some figure.

_Any_ chances, I believe you said, sir. All right! Ready when you are,

Jack."

"All aboard!" sang out Corcoran, and with a commonplace ding-dong of

the bell, and an every-day hiss of steam, which seemed, somehow, out of

keeping with the fearful and unprecedented exigency now upon us, we

moved out through the yards, jolting over the frogs, out upon the main

line; and soon began to feel a cheering acceleration in the recurrent

sounds and shocks of our flight, as Schwartz began rolling back the

miles under his flying wheels.

We sat in silence on the oil-cloth cushions of the seats which ran along

the sides of the caboose. Corcoran, the only person who shared the car

with us, seemed to have some psychical consciousness of the peril which

weighed down upon us, and moved quietly about the car, or sat in the

cupola, as mute as we.

There was no need for speech between my friend and me. Our minds,

strenuously awake, found a common conclusion in the very nature of the

case. Both doubtless had considered and rejected the idea of

telegraphing Pendleton to wait for us at the Junction. No king upon his

throne was more absolute than Avery Pendleton, and to ask him to waste a

single quarter-hour of his time might give great offense to him whom we

desired to find serene and complaisant. Again, any apparent anxiety for

haste, any symptom of an attempt to rush his line of defenses, would

surely defeat its object. No, we must quietly and casually board his

train, and secure the signing of the contract before we reached Chicago,

if possible.

"You brought that paper, Al?" said Jim, as if my thoughts had been

audible to him.

"Yes," said I, "it's here."

"I think we'd better be on our way to St. Louis," said he. "He can

hardly refuse to oblige us by going through the form of signing, so as

to let us turn south at the river."

"Very well," said I, "St. Louis--yes."

Out past the old Trescott farm, now covered with factories, cottages,

and railway tracks, leaving Lynhurst Park off to our left, curving with

the turnings of Brushy Creek Valley, through which our engineers had

found such easy grades, dropping the straggling suburbs of the city

behind us, we flew along the rails in the waning twilight of this

grewsome day. On the windward windows and the roof rattled fierce

flights of sleet and showers of cinders from the engine. Occasionally we

felt the car sway in the howling gusts of wind, as we passed some

opening in the hills and neared the more level prairie. Stories of cars

blown from the rails flitted through my mind; and in contemplating such

an accident my thoughts busied themselves with the details of plans for

getting free from the wrecked car, and pushing on with the engine, the

derailing of which somehow never occurred to me.

"We're slowing down!" cried Jim, after a half-hour's run. "I wonder

what's the matter!"

"For God's sake, look ahead!" yelled Corcoran, leaping down from the

cupola and springing to the door. We followed him to the platform, and

each of us ran down on the step and, swinging out by the hand-rail,

peered ahead into the dusk, the sleet stinging our cheeks like shot.

We were running along the right bank of the stream, at a point where the

valley narrowed down to perhaps sixty rods of bottom. At the first dim

look before us we could see nothing unusual, except that the background

of the scene looked somehow as if lifted by a mirage. Then I noticed

that up the valley, instead of the ghostly suggestions of trees and

hills which bounded the vista in other directions, there was an

appearance like that seen on looking out to sea.

"The flood!" said Jim. "He's not going to stop, is he Corcoran?"

At this moment came at once the explanation of Schwartz's hesitation and

the answer to Jim's question. We saw, reaching clear across the narrow

bottom, a great wave of water, coming down the valley like a liquid

wall, stretching across the track and seeming to forbid our further

progress, while it advanced deliberately upon us, as if to drown engine

and crew. Driven on by the terrific gale, it boiled at its base, and

curled forward at its foamy and wind-whipped crest, as if the upper

waters were impatient of the slow speed of those below. Beyond the wave,

the valley, from bluff to bluff, was a sea, rolling white-capped waves.

Logs, planks, and the other flotsam of a freshet moved on in the van of

the flood.

It looked like the end of our run. What engineer would dare to dash on

at such speed over a submerged track--possibly floated from its bed,

possibly barricaded by driftwood? Was not the wave high enough to put

out the fires and kill the engine? As we met the roaring eagre we felt

the engine leap, as Schwartz's hesitation left him and he opened the

throttle. Like knight tilting against knight, wave and engine met. There

was a hissing as of the plunging of a great red-hot bar into a vat. A

roaring sheet of water, thrown into the air by our momentum, washed cab

and tender and car, as a billow pours over a laboring ship; and we stood

on the steps, drenched to the skin, the water swirling about our ankles

as we rushed forward. Then we heard the scream of triumph from the

whistle, with which Schwartz cheered us as the dripping train ran on

through shallower and shallower water, and turning, after a mile or so,

began climbing, dry-shod, the grade which led from the flooded valley

and out upon the uplands.

"Come in, Mr. Elkins," said Corcoran. "You'll both freeze out there, wet

as you are."

Not until I heard this did I realize that we were still standing on the

steps, our clothes congealing about us, peering through the now dense

gloom ahead, as if for the apparition of some other grisly foe to daunt

or drive us back.

We went in, and sat down by the roaring fire, in spite of which a chill

pervaded the car. We were now running over the divide between the valley

we had just left and that of Elk Fork. Up here on the highlands the wind

more than ever roared and clutched at the corners of the car, and

sometimes, as with the palm of a great hand, pressed us over, as if a

giant were striving to overturn us. We could hear the engine struggling

with the savage norther, like a runner breathing hard, as he nears

exhaustion. Presently I noticed fine particles of snow, driven into the

car at the crevices, falling on my hands and face, and striking the hot

stove with little hissing explosions of steam.

"We're running into a blizzard up here," said Corcoran. "It's a terror

outside."

"A terror; yes," said Jim. "What sort of time are we making?"

"Just about holding our own," said Corcoran. "Not much to spare. Got to

stop at Barslow for water. But there won't be any bad track from there

on. This snow won't cut any figure for three hours yet, and mebbe not at

all, there's so little of it."

"Kittrick has been asking for an appropriation to rebuild the Elk Fork

trestle," said Jim. "Will it stand this flood?"

"Well," said Corcoran, "if the water ain't too high, and the ice don't

run too swift in the Fork, it'll be all right. But if there's any such

mixture of downpour and thaw as there was along the Creek back there, we

may have to jump across a gap. It'll probably be all right."

I remembered the Elk Fork, and the trestle just on the hither side of

the Junction. I remembered the valley, green with trees, and populous

with herds, winding down to the lake, and the pretty little town of

Josephine. I remembered that gala day when we christened it. I groaned

in spirit, as I thought of finding the trestle gone, after our

hundred-and-fifty-mile dash through storm and flood. Yet I believed it

would be gone. The blows showered upon us had beaten down my courage. I

felt no shrinking from either struggle or danger; but this was merely

the impulse which impels the soldier to fight on in despair, and sell

his life dearly. I believed that ruin fronted us all; that our great

system of enterprises was going down; that, East and West, where we had

been so much courted and admired, we should become a by-word and a

hissing. The elements were struggling against us. That vengeful flood

had snatched at us, and barely missed; the ruthless hurricane was

holding us back; and somehow fate would yet find means to lay us low. I

had all day kept thinking of the lines:

"Nor ever yet had Arthur fought a fight

Like this last dim, weird battle of the west.

A death-white mist slept over land and sea:

Whereof the chill, to him who breathed it, drew

Down to his blood, till all his heat was cold

With formless fear: and even on Arthur fell

Confusion, since he saw not whom he fought."

And this, thought I, was the end of the undertaking upon which we had

entered so lightly, with frolic jests of piracy and Spanish galleons and

pieces-of-eight, and with all that mock-seriousness with which we

discussed hypnotic suggestion and psychic force! The bitterness grew

sickening, as Corcoran, hearing the long whistle of the engine, said

that we were coming into Barslow. The tragic foolery of giving that name

to any place!

Out upon the platform here, in the blinding whirl of snow. The night

operator came out and talked to us of the news of the line, while the

engine ran on to the tank for water. There was another telegram from

Agnew, saying that the Pendleton special was on time, and that Mr.

Kittrick was following us with another train "in case of need."

The operator was full of wild stories of the Brushy Creek flood, caused

by the thaw and the cloudburst. We cut him short in this narration, and

asked him of the conditions along the Elk Fork.

"She's up and boomin'," said he. "The trestle was most all under water

an hour ago, and they say the ice was runnin' in blocks. You may find

the track left without any underpinnin'. Look out for yourselves."

"Al," said Jim slowly, "can you fire an engine?"

"I guess so," said I, seeing his meaning dimly. "Why?"

"Al," said he, as if stating the conclusion of a complicated

calculation, "we must run this train in alone!"

I saw his intent fully, and knew why he walked so resolutely up to the

engine, now backed down to take us on again. Schwartz leaned out of his

cab, a man of snow and ice. Ole stood with his shovel in his hand white

and icy like his brother worker. Both had been drenched, as we had; but

they had had no red-hot stove by which to sit; and buffeted by the

blizzard and powdered by the snow, they had endured the benumbing cold

of the hurricane-swept cab.

"Get down here, boys," said Jim. "I want to talk with you."

Ole leaped lightly down, followed by Schwartz, who hobbled laboriously,

stiffened with cold. Youth and violent labor had kept the fireman warm.

"Schwartz," said Jim, "there is a chance that we'll find the trestle

weakened and dangerous. We'll stop and examine it if we have time, but

if it is as close a thing as I think it will be, we propose to make a

run for it and take chances. Barslow and I are the ones, and the only

ones, who ought to do this, because we must make this connection. We can

run the engine. You and Ole and Corcoran stay here. Mr. Kittrick will be

along with another train in a few hours. Uncouple the caboose and we'll

run on."

Schwartz blew his nose with great deliberation.

"Ole," said he, "what d'ye think of the old man's scheme?"

"Ay tank," said Ole, "dat bane hellufa notion!"

"Come," said Mr. Elkins, "we're losing time! Uncouple at once!"

We started to mount the engine; but Schwartz and Ole were before us,

barring the way.

"Wait," said Schwartz. "Jest look at it, now. It's quite a run yet; and

the chances are you'd have the cylinder-heads knocked out before you'd

got half way; and then where'd you be with your connections?"

"Do you mean to say," said Jim, "that there's any likelihood of the

engine's dying on us between here and the Junction?"

"It's a cinch!" said Schwartz.

"For God's sake, then, let's get on!" said Jim. "I believe you're lying

to me, Schwartz. But do this: As you come to the trestle, stop. From

the approach we can see down the other track for ten miles. If

Pendleton's train is far enough off so as to give us time, we'll see how

the bridge is before we cross. If we're pressed for time too much for

this, promise me that you'll stop and let us run the engine across

alone."

"I'll think about it," said Schwartz; "and if I conclude to, I will.

It's got to clear up, if we can see even the headlight on the other road

very far. Ready, Jack?"

We wrung their hard and icy hands, leaped upon the train, and were away

again, spinning down the grade toward the Elk Fork, and comforted by our

speed. Jim and I climbed into the cupola and watched the track ahead,

and the two homely heroes in the cab, as the light from the furnace

blazed out upon them from time to time. Now we could see Schwartz

stoking, to warm himself; now we could see him looking at his watch and

peering anxiously out before him.

It was wearing on toward nine, and still our goal was miles away.

Overhead the sky was clearing, and we could see the stars; but down on

the ground the light, new snow still glided whitely along before the

lessening wind. Once or twice we saw, or thought we saw, far ahead,

lights, like those of a little prairie town. Was it the Junction? Yes,

said Corcoran, when we called him to look; and now we saw that we were

rising on the long approach to the trestle.

Would Schwartz stop, or would he run desperately across, as he had

dashed through the flood? That was with him. His hand was on the lever,

and we were helpless; but, if there was time, it would be mere

foolhardiness to go upon the trestle at any but the slowest speed, and

without giving all but one an opportunity to walk across. One, surely,

was enough to go down with the engine, if it, indeed, went down.

"Don't stay up there," shouted Corcoran, "go out on the steps so you can

jump for it if you have to!"

Out upon the platform we went in the biting wind, which still came

fiercely on, sweeping over the waste of waters which covered the fields

like a great lake. There was no sign of slowing down: right on, as if

the road were rock-ballasted, and thrice secure, the engine drove toward

the trestle.

"She's there, anyhow, I b'lieve," said Corcoran, swinging out and

looking ahead; "but I wouldn't bet on how solid she is!"

"Can't you stop him?" said Jim.

"Stop nothing!" said Corcoran. "Look over there!"

We looked, and saw a light gleaming mistily, but distinct and

unmistakable, across the water on the other track. It was the Pendleton

special! Not much further from the station than were we, the train of

moving palaces to which we were fighting our way was gliding to the

point beyond which it must not pass without us. There was now no more

thought of stopping; rather our desires yearned forward over the course,

agonizing for greater speed. I did not see that we were actually upon

the trestle until for some rods we had been running with the inky water

only a few feet below us; but when I saw it my hopes leaped up, as I

calculated the proportion of the peril which was passed. A moment more,

and the solid approach would be under our spinning wheels.

But the moment more was not to be given us! For, even as this joy rose

in my breast, I felt a shock; I heard a confused sound of men's cries,

and the shattering of timbers; the caboose whirled over cornerwise,

throwing up into the air the step on which I stood; the sounds of the

train went out in sudden silence as engine and car plunged off into the

stream; and I felt the cold water close over me as I fell into the

rushing flood. I arose and struck out for the shore; then I thought of

Jim. A few feet above me in the stream I saw something like a hand or

foot flung up out of the water, and sucked down again. I turned as well

as I could toward the spot, and collided with some object under the

surface. I caught at it, felt the skirt of a garment in my hand, and

knew it for a man. Then, I remember helping myself with a plank from

some washed-out bridge, and soon felt the ground under my feet, all the

time clinging to my man. I tried to lift him out, but could not; and I

locked my hands under his arm-pits and, slowly stepping backwards, I

half carried, half dragged him, seeking a place where I could lay him

down. I saw the dark line of the railroad grade, and made wearily toward

it. I walked blindly into the water of the ditch beside the track, and

had scarcely strength to pull myself and my burden out upon the bank.

Then I stopped and peered into his face, and saw uncertainly that it

was Jim--with a dark spot in the edge of the hair on his forehead, from

which black streaks kept stealing down as I wiped them off; and with one

arm which twisted unnaturally, and with a grating sound as I moved it;

and from whom there came no other sound or movement whatever.

And over across the stream gleamed the lights of the Pendleton special

as it sped away toward Chicago.