Mystery Rides the Rails. Gilbert A. Lathrop

      SILVER TOWN NORTHERN RAILROAD

      MR. L. D. OREST, sole owner of the Silver Town Northern Railroad, had just finished reading a scathing letter which had been written at a meeting of the town council the night before. It was the last straw. Angrily shaking his fist in the direction of the town hall, he was on the verge of making a present of his railroad to the members of the council and taking himself away from there on snowshoes, when the door of his office opened to admit a freckled red face, a thatch of red hair, and a pair of twinkling blue eyes. These were followed by a muscular body, and a youth stood before him with a slouch hat clasped in his large hands.

      Mr. Orest regarded him with disfavor. He was in no mood to be interrupted.

      “Well?” he demanded in a sour voice.

      “You don’t know me, Mr. Orest——” began the young fellow.

      “No, of course not!” barked the man savagely. “How would I know you? Who are you? How did you get in here? What do you want?”

      There was no chance to answer all of these questions at once and the newcomer did not try.

      “I am Joe Jutton. I came here looking for work.”

      That was decidedly a sore spot with the owner of the Silver Town. “Looking for work!” he fairly yelled—and grew purple in the face. Wages had been ruining him for the past six weeks. Hadn’t he hired every available man to try to shovel out his railroad? Wasn’t his account at the bank drawn down to bed rock? He leaped to his feet. “I don’t need any more workers,” he shouted.

      Joe Jutton, quite undismayed by the rebuff, raised his hand for attention and resumed: “Possibly not any ordinary workers, but I’m a ‘trouble doctor.’ I know your railroad is snowed in, that not a wheel has turned for six weeks, but I believe I could open up your lines in three days—and do it practically alone.”

      This lad was audacious! Mr. Orest looked at him steadily for a moment, debating whether to order him out of his office or listen to his proposition. Finally he sat down in his desk chair. Like a gale-tossed ship, he was at that extremity which welcomes “any old port in a storm.”

      His railroad, the Silver Town Northern, controlled only fifty-five miles of track, including sidings and loading spurs. Three narrow-gauge engines, four combination coaches, and thirty-five assorted freight cars were its entire rolling stock.

      There were times when Mr. Orest was very optimistic over his property—particularly during the summer months when everything was going smoothly; but at other times, he would gladly have given the railroad away. That was the way he was feeling at present. For the past six weeks, Silver Town had been completely isolated from the outside world. The entire length of the Animas Canyon had filled with massive snowslides, and his railroad had been idle, while he had tried to dig out with man power. It was slow work!

      Long since, Silver Town had completely run out of fresh meats, butter, eggs, and other perishable commodities. The Sunnyside Smelter had filled their bins with ore concentrates and now was on the verge of closing down until the railroad opened again. On the street-corners of the town they were accusing Mr. Orest of aiding and abetting in the slackening of work. Those miners who had been laid off because of the fullness of the bins used strong language in denouncing him, and yet he was powerless to do a thing!

      No wonder the railroad owner frowned, and in spite of his better judgment found himself interested in what this young Joe Jutton had to say.

      “I worked for the Continental Divide Railroad all last winter,” resumed Joe. “I was one of the men who opened their lines when every other railroad was closed down.”

      “Why didn’t you stay with them?” snapped Mr. Orest.

      “Because all the excitement died down as soon as the railroad was open. I crave adventure. I love the thrill of excitement; and when there is none to be had in one place, I make it a point to move. I can open up your railroad in three days or less. And I’m willing to make you a proposition! If I don’t open up your line in a specified time, you don’t owe me a cent. If I do open it up, I want a regular job as engineer on one of your engines! That’s fair, isn’t it?”

      Mr. Orest slowly sank into his chair. He was not going to commit himself until he knew more about this young fellow.

      “Go ahead,” he said.

      “I have been here for two days,” continued Joe Jutton. “And I’ve looked into everything before coming up to see you. I came through Animas Canyon on snowshoes and noted that only about a mile of track remains, which is still blocked with snowslides. After I got here, I looked over your motive power, and I found that you have an excellent wedge plow attached to one of your engines. With a gang of twenty men to face the slides for me before I hit them, and with the engine and the wedge plow, I can guarantee to break them out within three days.” The lad grew silent while he waited for the decision of Mr. Orest.

      “How do I know that you can even run an engine?” demanded Mr. Orest, finally.

      The lad fumbled around in his inside coat pocket, then he drew out a letter which he extended to Mr. Orest. It was a service letter from the Continental Divide Railroad, and stated that Joe Jutton had fired a locomotive on their railroad for seven months, and that he had been promoted to engineer at the end of that time, holding the job for a month, after which he had been put back as a fireman, owing to the slackening up of business.

      Mr. Orest nodded as he handed the letter back.

      “Have you stopped to consider the risk connected with trying to buck out those slides?”

      “The risk is what I want. It means excitement and adventure. Indeed I have looked into the risk!” said Joe, with sparkling eyes.

      “Do you know that every man working for me has refused to try to put one of my engines into those slides?” demanded Mr. Orest.

      “I have heard it.”

      “Did you look over the territory covered by the slides?”

      Joe nodded.

      “So you know what it means if an engine happens to leave the rails down there?” demanded Mr. Orest.

      “Yes, sir, I do; but I figure we can get off before she catches us underneath,” said Joe with a smile.

      “We? Who do you mean by we?”

      “My partner and I. My partner didn’t come up here with me, but he’s waiting down below. He will go through with me, if you’ll give him a job as my fireman.”

      “Call him up,” commanded Mr. Orest, growing more and more interested.

      Joe stepped to the door and poked his head out into the hallway.

      “Come on up, Tubby,” he called, at the top of his voice.

      An answering shout came to him from below, and soon a round faced, fat young fellow with dimpled cheeks stood in the room beside his buddy. Joe introduced him:

      “This is Tubby. His right name is Ham Corbutt, but everyone calls him Tubby.”

      “Yeth, thir,” agreed the fat youth, with a decided lisp and a broad grin, which showed even white teeth.

      “Does he know anything about firing an engine?” asked Mr. Orest.

      “He has