Mystery Rides the Rails. Gilbert A. Lathrop
were on the depot platform. Among them was a large man who stood almost a head taller than the balance. He was dressed in a heavy overcoat with a wide fur collar. His snap brimmed hat was worn well down over his forehead and he puffed rapidly at a long, black cigar. The man seemed to draw attention. Now that the coach was halted close to him he took up a small valise and strode toward the rear end. He pulled himself on and disappeared.
The conductor came up to the engine with the running orders. Joe took them, then:
“Who is the large man who just boarded our coach?” he asked.
“Oh, that feller, huh? Name’s Buckel. He owns the Sunnyside Smelter an’ has got more millions of dollars than we’ll ever have dimes.” The conductor turned and strolled back along the train, leaving Joe looking after him with mixed emotions.
Mr. Buckel, millionaire, owner of the Sunnyside Smelter, riding on the train he pulled! The thought caused him a little feeling of uneasiness. Suppose they were to have a derailment today? Suppose any one of a thousand unforeseen things which crop up in everyday railroading were to happen? What would Mr. Buckel think about it?
“A-bo-o-oard!” The conductor’s call brought Joe from his thoughts and he hastily jerked a couple of short blasts on his whistle. He started his engine gently so there would be no jerk back in the coach. The draw bars rattled, grew taut, and the train started as easily as a steamship starts from its pier.
Joe concentrated on running his engine. He worked her up to a lively twenty-five miles an hour, held her there to the bottom of the hill. They slowed while going up this, chugging rhythmically around the sharp curves. He kept one hand on the sand lever in case the wheels lost their traction. At the top he quickly whipped up speed again and when he pulled into Silver Town it was with the knowledge of a job well done. He made a nice stop with the coach spotted before the depot.
Leaning out his window, he watched several passengers unload. Then Mr. Buckel, carrying his valise, leaped to the platform, hesitated a few seconds and headed straight toward the engine! Wondering what the large man could want, Joe waited with a thumping heart. Mr. Buckel walked rapidly, little clouds of cigar smoke trailing over his right shoulder. Below the cab he halted, looked up directly into Joe’s eyes.
“Humph!” grunted the man. He removed his cigar. Using it as a pointer he directed the glowing end toward Joe. “New man on this engine, aren’t you?” he demanded.
“Yes, sir. I’ve worked here less than two weeks,” admitted Joe.
“Figured something was wrong. Last time I rode up here the engineer almost jerked my head off my shoulders when he started his train in Midvale. He stalled twice coming up the hill, had to double his train in three times. About the roughest handling of railroad cars I ever experienced. What’s your name?”
“My name is Joe Jutton, sir.”
“I’m glad to know you, Joe. For a fellow who looks as young as you, you do a mighty fine job of handling a train.”
“Thank you,” grinned Joe.
Mr. Buckel turned on his heel and strode back toward the depot. Joe watched him. He saw Mr. Orest meet him, shake hands warmly, and walk toward town with him. Joe pulled off his cap and looked across at Tubby.
“No wonder Mr. Orest sent us that message today,” he said. “They’re good friends!”
“Friendth ith thomething to have,” said Tubby.
That evening while Joe and Tubby were sitting in the lobby of their rooming house, Mr. Orest entered. His eyes shone with happiness and his face was wreathed in a wide smile. He greeted them warmly, then with a nod toward the stairway leading to Joe’s room, said,
“I’d like to talk to you both in private.”
Joe led the way. He opened the door to his room, stepped inside, and turned on a light. Mr. Orest and Tubby followed, Tubby closing the door at his back.
“I’ve got some great news for both of you,” began Mr. Orest excitedly.
Both gazed at him questioningly.
He looked directly at Joe. “Since you’ve already had occasion to meet him, I’ll not need to tell you about him,” began Mr. Orest. “Mr. Buckel, owner of the Sunnyside Smelter, rode up with you today. He told me how he complimented you on the wonderful run you gave him. He was very lavish in his expressions of appreciation toward the Silver Town Northern, its owner, and its engine crew. But that is not the best.” Mr. Orest paused.
“Nothing could be much better,” said Joe.
“You’re wrong there,” smiled Mr. Orest. He lowered his voice. “I’ve worried a great deal since coming to open enmity with Anson Weird and Mr. Flint. You see, the slightest mishap on our parts might cause a foreclosure of that mortgage on the line. So it has caused me much uneasiness. Today all of my fears were laid to rest. Mr. Buckel agreed to advance me the funds necessary to pay the mortgage off in full. He will carry it until such time as I am able to pay him. He will also advance me enough additional to purchase two new engines and some very much needed rolling stock, such as coal and box cars. I will be able to improve our road bed, probably lay heavier rails, replace rotting crossties—”
Joe was on his feet, eyes shining. Tubby began doing a clumsy dance around the room.
Outside, in the dark hallway, a crouched figure who had stood with ear pressed against the keyhole straightened and faded on silent feet into the darkness.
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