by Frank H. Spearman
I see a good deal of stuff in print about the engineer, said
Callahan, dejectedly. What's the matter with the dispatcher? What's
the matter with the man who tells the engineer what to doand just
what to do? How to do itand exactly how to do it? With the man who
sits shut in brick walls and hung in Chinese puzzles, his ear glued to
a receiver, and his finger fast to a key, and his eye riveted on a
train chart? The man who orders and annuls and stops and starts
everything within five hundred miles of him, and holds under his thumb
more lives every minute than a brigadier does in a lifetime? For
instance, asked Callahan, in his tired way, what's the matter with
* * * * *
Now, I myself never knew Bucks. He left the West End before I went
on. Bucks is second vice-presidentwhich means the bossof a
transcontinental line now, and a very great swell. But no man from the
West End who calls on Bucks has to wait for an audience, though bigger
men do. They talk of him out there yet. Not of General Superintendent
Bucks, which he came to be, nor of General Manager Bucks. On the West
End he is just plain Bucks; but Bucks on the West End means a whole
He saved the company $300,000 that night the Ogalalla train ran
away, mused Callahan. Callahan himself is assistant superintendent
Three hundred thousand dollars is a good deal of money, Callahan,
Figure it out yourself. To begin with, fifty passengers'
livesthat's $5000 apiece, isn't it? Callahan had a cold-blooded way
of figuring a passenger's life from the company standpoint. It would
have killed over fifty passengers if the runaway had ever struck 59.
There wouldn't have been enough left of 59 to make a decent funeral.
Then the equipment, at least $50,000. But there was a whole lot more
than $300,000 in it for Bucks.
He told me once that if he hadn't saved 59 that night he would
never have signed another order anywhere on any road.
Why? Because, after it was all over, he found out that his own
mother was aboard 59. Didn't you ever hear that? Well, sir, it was
Christmas Eve, and the year was 1884.
* * * * *
Christmas Eve everywhere; but on the West End it was just plain
High winds will prevail for ensuing twenty-four hours. Station
agents will use extra care to secure cars on sidings; brakemen must use
care to avoid being blown from moving trains.
That is about all Bucks said in his bulletins that evening; not a
word about Christmas or Merry Christmas. In fact, if Christmas had come
to McCloud that night they couldn't have held it twenty-four minutes,
much less twenty-four hours; the wind was too high. All the week, all
the day, all the night it had blowna December wind; dry as an August
noon, bitter as powdered ice. It was in the early days of our Western
railroading, when we had only one fast train on the schedulethe St.
Louis-California Express; and only one fast engine on the divisionthe
101; and only one man on the whole West EndBucks.
Bucks was assistant superintendent and master-mechanic and
train-master and chief dispatcher and storekeeperand a bully good
fellow. There were some boys in the service; among them, Callahan.
Callahan was seventeen, with hair like a sunset, and a mind quick as an
air-brake. It was his first year at the key, and he had a night trick
Callahan claims it blew so hard that night that it blew most of the
color out of his hair. Sod houses had sprung up like dog-towns in the
buffalo grass during the fall. But that day homesteaders crept into
dugouts and smothered over buffalo chip fires. Horses and cattle
huddled into friendly pockets a little out of the worst of it, or froze
mutely in pitiless fence corners on the divides. Sand drove gritting
down from the Cheyenne hills like a storm of snow. Streets of the raw
prairie towns stared deserted at the sky. Even cowboys kept their
ranches, and through the gloom of noon the sun cast a coward shadow. It
was a wretched day, and the sun went down with the wind tuning into a
gale, and all the boys in bad humorexcept Bucks. Not that Bucks
couldn't get mad; but it took more than a cyclone to start him.
No. 59, the California Express, was late that night. All the way up
the valley the wind caught her quartering. Really the marvel is that
out there on the plains such storms didn't blow our toy engines clear
off the rails; for that matter they might as well have taken the rails,
too, for none of them went over sixty pounds. 59 was due at eleven
o'clock; it was half-past twelve when she pulled in and on Callahan's
trick. But Bucks hung around the office until she staggered up under
the streaked moonlight, as frowsy a looking train as ever choked on
There was always a crowd down at the station to meet 59; she was the
big arrival of the day at McCloud, even if she didn't get in until
eleven o'clock at night. She brought the mail and the express and the
landseekers and the travelling men and the strangers generally; so the
McCloud livery men and hotel runners and prominent citizens and
prominent loafers and the city marshal usually came down to meet her.
But it was not so that night. The platform was bare. Not even the hardy
chief of police, who was town watch and city marshal all combined,
The engineer swung out of his cab with the silence of an abused man.
His eyes were full of soda, his ears full of sand, his mustache full of
burrs, and his whiskers full of tumble-weeds. The conductor and the
brakemen climbed sullenly down, and the baggage-man shoved open his
door and slammed a trunk out on the platform without a pretence of
sympathy. Then the outgoing crew climbed aboard, and in a hurry. The
conductor-elect ran down-stairs from the register, and pulled his cap
down hard before he pushed ahead against the wind to give the engineer
his copy of the orders as the new engine was coupled up. The fireman
pulled the canvas jealously around the cab end. The brakeman ran
hurriedly back to examine the air connections, and gave his signal to
the conductor; the conductor gave his to the engineer. There were two
short, choppy snorts from the 101, and 59 moved out stealthily, evenly,
resistlessly into the teeth of the night. In another minute, only her
red lamps gleamed up the yard. One man still on the platform watched
them recede; it was Bucks.
He came up to the dispatcher's office and sat down. Callahan
wondered why he didn't go home and to bed; but Callahan was too good a
railroad man to ask questions of a superior. Bucks might have stood on
his head on the stove, and it red-hot, without being pursued with
inquiries from Callahan. If Bucks chose to sit up out there on the
frozen prairies, in a flimsy barn of a station, and with the wind
howling murder at twelve o'clock past, and that on Chrithe
twenty-fourth of December, it was Bucks's own business.
I kind of looked for my mother to-night, said he, after Callahan
got his orders out of the way for a minute. Wrote she was coming out
pretty soon for a little visit.
Where does your mother live?
Chicago. I sent her transportation two weeks ago. Reckon she
thought she'd better stay home for Christmas. Back in God's country
they have Christmas just about this time of year. Watch out to-night,
Jim. I'm going home. It's a wind for your life.
Callahan was making a meeting-point for two freights when the door
closed behind Bucks; he didn't even sing out Good-night. And as for
Merry Chriwell, that had no place on the West End anyhow.
D-i, D-i, D-i, D-i, came clicking into the room. Callahan wasn't
asleep. Once he did sleep over the key. When he told Bucks, he made
sure of his time; only he thought Bucks ought to know.
Bucks shook his head pretty hard that time. It's awful business,
Jim. It's murder, you know. It's the penitentiary, if they should
convict you. But it's worse than that. If anything happened because you
went to sleep over the key, you'd have them on your mind all your life,
don't you knowforever. Menandand children. That's what I always
think aboutthe children. Maimed and scalded and burned. Jim, if it
ever happens again, quit dispatching; get into commercial work;
mistakes don't cost life there; don't try to handle trains. If it ever
happens with you, you'll kill yourself.
That was all he said; it was enough. And no wonder Callahan loved
The wind tore frantically around the station; but everything else
was so still. It was one o'clock now, and not a soul about but
Callahan. D-i, D-i, J, clicked sharp and fast. Twelve or fourteen cars
passed herejustnow eastrunning a-a-a- Callahan sprang up like a
flashlistened. What? R-u-n-n-i-n-g a-w-a-y?
It was the Jackson operator calling; Callahan jumped to the key.
What's that? he asked, quick as lightning could dash it.
Twelve or fourteen cars coal passed here, fully forty miles an
hour, headed east, driven by the wi
That was all J could send, for Ogalalla broke in. Ogalalla is the
station just west of Jackson. And with Callahan's copper hair raising
higher at every letter, this came from Ogalalla: Heavy gust caught
twelve coal cars on side track, sent them out on main line off down the
They were already past Jackson, eight miles away, headed east, and
running down hill. Callahan's eyes turned like hares to the train
sheet. 59, going west, was due that minute to leave Callendar.
From Callendar to Griffin is a twenty-miles' run. There is a station
between, but in those days no night operator. The runaway coal-train
was then less than thirty miles west of Griffin, coming down a
forty-mile grade like a cannon ball. If 59 could be stopped at
Callendar, she could be laid by in five minutes, out of the way of the
certain destruction ahead of her on the main line. Callahan seized the
key, and began calling Cn. He pounded until the call burned into his
fingers. It was an age before Callendar answered; then Callahan's order
Hold 59. Answer quick.
And Callendar answered: 59 just pulling out of upper yard. Too late
to stop her. What's the matter?
Callahan struck the table with his clinched fist, looked wildly
about him, then sprang from the chair, ran to the window, and threw up
the sash. The moon shone a bit through the storm of sand, but there was
not a soul in sight. There were lights in the round-house a hundred
yards across the track. He pulled a revolverevery railroad man out
there carried one those daysand, covering one of the round-house
windows, began firing. It was a risk. There was one chance, maybe, to a
thousand of his killing a night man. But there were a thousand chances
to one that a whole train-load of men and women would be killed inside
of thirty minutes if he couldn't get help. He chose a window in the
machinists' section, where he knew no one usually went at night. He
poured bullets into the unlucky casement as fast as powder could carry
them. Reloading rapidly, he watched the round-house door; and, sure
enough, almost at once, it was cautiously opened. Then he fired into
the airone, two, three, four, five, sixand he saw a man start for
the station on the dead run. He knew, too, by the tremendous sweep of
his legs that it was Ole Anderson, the night foreman, the man of all
others he wanted.
Ole, cried the dispatcher, waving his arms frantically as the
giant Swede leaped across the track and looked up from the platform
below, go get Bucks. I've got a runaway train going against 59. For
your life, Ole, run!
The big fellow was into the wind with the word. Bucks boarded four
blocks away. Callahan, slamming down the window, took the key, and
began calling Rowe. Rowe is the first station east of Jackson; it was
now the first point at which the runaway coal-train could be headed.
R-o R-o, he rattled. The operator must have been sitting on the
wire, for he answered at once. As fast as Callahan's fingers could
talk, he told Rowe the story and gave him orders to get the night
agent, who, he knew, must be down to sell tickets for 59, and pile all
the ties they could gather across the track to derail the runaway
train. Then he began thumping for Kolar, the next station east of Rowe,
and the second ahead of the runaways. He pounded and he pounded, and
when the man at Kolar answered, Callahan could have sworn he had been
asleepjust from the way he talked. Does it seem strange? There are
many strange things about a dispatcher's senses. Send your night man
to west switch house-track, and open for runaway train. Set brakes hard
on your empties on siding, to spill runaways if possible. Do anything
and everything to keep them from getting by you. Work quick.
Behind Kolar's O.K. came a frantic call from Rowe. Runaways passed
here like a streak. Knocked the ties into toothpicks. Couldn't head
Callahan didn't wait to hear any more. He only wiped the sweat from
his face. It seemed forever before Kolar spoke again. Then it was only
to say: Runaways went by here before night man could get to switch and
Would Bucks never come? And if he did come, what on earth could stop
the runaway train now? They were heading into the worst grade on the
West End. It averages one per cent. from Kolar to Griffin, and there we
get down off the Cheyenne Hills with a long reverse curve, and drop
into the canon of the Blackwood with a three per cent. grade. Callahan,
almost beside himself, threw open a north window to look for Bucks. Two
men were flying down Main Street towards the station. He knew them; it
was Ole and Bucks.
But Bucks! Never before or since was seen on a street of McCloud
such a figure as Bucks, in his trousers and slippers, with his
night-shirt free as he sailed down the wind. In another instant he was
bounding up the stairs. Callahan told him.
What have you done? he panted, throwing himself into the chair.
Callahan told him. Bucks held his head in his hands while the boy
talked. He turned to the sheetasked quick for 59.
She's out of Callendar. I tried hard to stop her. I didn't lose a
second; she was gone.
Barely an instant Bucks studied the sheet. Routed out of a sound
sleep after an eight-hour trick, and on such a night, by such a
messagethe marvel was he could think at all, much less set a trap
which should save 59. In twenty minutes from the time Bucks took the
key the two trains would be togethercould he save the passenger?
Callahan didn't believe it.
A sharp, quick call brought Griffin. We had one of the brightest
lads on the whole division at Griffin. Callahan, listening, heard
Griffin answer. Bucks rattled a question. How the heart hangs on the
faint, uncertain tick of a sounder when human lives hang on it!
Where are your section men? asked Bucks.
In bed at the section house.
Who's with you?
Night agent. Sheriff with two cowboy prisoners waiting to take 59.
Before the last word came, Bucks was back at him:
Ask Sheriff release his prisoners to save passenger-train. Go
together to west switch house-track, open, and set it. Smash
section tool-house, get tools. Go to point of house-track
curve, cut the rails, and point them to send runaway train
Ogalalla over the bluff into the river.
The words flew off his fingers like sparks, and another message
crowded the wire behind it:
Go to east switch, open, and set for passing-track. Flag 59,
and run her on siding. If can't get 59 into the clear, ditch
They look old now. The ink is faded, and the paper is smoked with
the fire of fifteen winters and bleached with the sun of fifteen
summers. But to this day they hang there in their walnut frames, the
original orders, just as Bucks scratched them off. They hang there in
the dispatchers' offices in the new depot. But in their present swell
surroundings Bucks wouldn't know them. It was Harvey Reynolds who took
them off the other end of the wirea boy in a thousand for that night
and that minute. The instant the words flashed into the room he
instructed the agent, grabbed an axe, and dashed out into the
waiting-room, where the sheriff, Ed Banks, sat with his prisoners, the
Ed, cried Harvey, there's a runaway train from Ogalalla coming
down the line in the wind. If we can't trap it here, it'll knock 59
into kindling-wood. Turn the boys loose, Ed, and save the
passenger-train. Boys, show the man and square yourselves right now. I
don't know what you're here for; but I believe it's to save 59. Will
The three men sprang to their feet; Ed
Banks slipped the handcuffs off in a trice. Never mind the rest of
it. Save the passenger-train first, he roared. Everybody from Ogalalla
to Omaha knew Ed Banks.
Which way? How? cried the cowboys, in a lather of excitement.
Harvey Reynolds, beckoning as he ran, rushed out the door and up the
track, his posse at his heels, stumbling into the gale like lunatics.
Smash in the tool-house door, panted Harvey as they neared it.
Ed Banks seized the axe from his hands and took command as naturally
Pick up that tie and ram her, he cried, pointing to the door. All
Harvey and the cowboys splintered the panel in a twinkling, and
Banks, with a few clean strokes, cut an opening. The cowboys, jumping
together, ran in and began fishing for tools in the dark. One got hold
of a wrench; the other, a pick. Harvey caught up a clawbar, and Banks
grabbed a spike-maul. In a bunch they ran for the point of the curve on
the house-track. It lies there close to the verge of a limestone bluff
that looms up fifty feet above the river.
But it is one thing to order a contact opened, and another and very
different thing to open it, at two in the morning on December
twenty-fifth, by men who know no more about track-cutting than about
logarithms. Side by side and shoulder to shoulder the man of the law
and the men out of the law, the rough-riders and the railroad boy,
pried and wrenched and clawed and struggled with the steel. While
Harvey and Banks clawed at the spikes the cowboys wrestled with the
nuts on the bolts of the fish-plates. It was a baffle. The nuts
wouldn't twist, the spikes stuck like piles, sweat covered the
assailants, Harvey went into a frenzy. Boys, we must work faster, he
cried, tugging at the frosty spikes; but flesh and blood could do no
There they comethere's the runaway traindo you hear it? I'm
going to open the switch, anyhow, Harvey shouted, starting up the
track. Save yourselves.
Heedless of the warning, Banks struggled with the plate-bolts in a
silent fury. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. Give me the maul! he
Raising the heavy tool like a tack-hammer he landed heavily on the
bolt nuts; once, and again; and they flew in a stream like bullets over
the bluff. The taller cowboy, bending close on his knees, raised a
yell. The plates had given. Springing to the other rail, Banks stripped
the bolts even after the mad train had shot into the gorge above them.
They drove the pick under the loosened steel, and with a pry that bent
the clawbar and a yell that reached Harvey, trembling at the switch,
they tore away the stubborn contact, and pointed the rails over the
The shriek of a locomotive whistle cut the wind. Looking east,
Harvey had been watching 59's headlight. She was pulling in on the
siding. He still held the switch open to send the runaways into the
trap Bucks had set, if the passenger-train failed to get into the
clear; but there was a minute yeta bare sixty secondsand Harvey had
no idea of dumping ten thousand dollars' worth of equipment into the
river unless he had to.
Suddenly, up went the safety signals from the east end. The 101 was
coughing noisily up the passing-trackthe line was clear. Banks and
the cowboys, waiting breathless, saw Harvey with a determined lurch
close the main-line contact.
In the next breath the coalers, with the sweep of the gale in their
frightful velocity, smashed over the switch and on. A rattling whirl of
ballast and a dizzy clatter of noise, and before the frightened crew of
59 could see what was against them, the runaway train was passedgone!
I wasn't going to stop here to-night, muttered the engineer, as he
stood with the conductor over Harvey's shoulder at the operator's desk
a minute later and wiped the chill from his forehead with a piece of
waste. We'd have met them in the canon.
Harvey was reporting to Bucks. Callahan heard it coming: Rails cut,
but 59 safe. Runaways went by here fully seventy miles an hour.
It was easy after that. Griffin is the foot of the grade; from there
on, the runaway train had a hill to climb. Bucks had held 250, the
local passenger, side-tracked at Davis, thirty miles farther east. Sped
by the wind, the runaways passed Davis, though not at half their
highest speed. An instant later, 250's engine was cut loose, and
started after them like a scared collie. Three miles east of Davis they
were overhauled by the light engine. The fireman, Donahue, crawled out
of the cab window, along the foot-rail, and down on the pilot, caught
the ladder of the first car, and, running up, crept along to the leader
and began setting brakes. Ten minutes later they were brought back in
triumph to Davis.
When the multitude of orders was out of the way, Bucks wired Ed
Banks to bring his cowboys down to McCloud on 60. 60 was the east-bound
passenger due at McCloud at 5.30 A.M. It turned out that the cowboys
had been arrested for lassoing a Norwegian homesteader who had cut
their wire. It was not a heinous offence, and after it was straightened
out by the intervention of Buckswho was the whole thing thenthey
were given jobs lassoing sugar barrels in the train service. One of
them, the tall fellow, is a passenger conductor on the high line yet.
It was three o'clock that morningthe twenty-fifth of December in
small letters, on the West Endbefore they got things decently
straightened out: there was so much to doorders to make and reports
to take. Bucks, still on the key in his flowing robes and tumbling
hair, sent and took them all. Then he turned the seat over to Callahan,
and getting up for the first time in two hours, dropped into another
The very first thing Callahan received was a personal from Pat
Francis, at Ogalalla, conductor of 59. It was for Bucks:
Your mother is aboard 59. She was carried by McCloud in the
Denver sleeper. Sending her back to you on 60. Merry
It came off the wire fast. Callahan, taking it, didn't think Bucks
heard; though it's probable he did hear. Anyway, Callahan threw the
clip over towards him with a laugh.
Look there, old man. There's your mother coming, after all your
kickingcarried by on 59.
As the boy turned he saw the big dispatcher's head sink between his
arms on the table. Callahan sprang to his side; but Bucks had fainted.