The Mountain Divide Part 24

Bucks, steadying himself under the kindly common-sense of his older friend, followed each suggestion promptly. Scott, who ordinarily would himself have been running around on the job, made no move to leave the room, thinking he could be of more service in remaining with the unfortunate despatcher. The yard became a scene of instant activity.

And although no organization to meet emergencies of this kind had been as yet effected on the new division, the men responded intelligently and promptly with the necessary arrangements.

Everyone summoned tried to get into the dispatchers' room to hear the story repeated. Scott took it upon himself to prevent this, and standing in the anteroom made all explanations himself. He rejoined Bucks after getting rid of the crowd, and the moment the relief train reported ready the despatcher sent it out, that help might reach the scene of disaster at the earliest possible moment. Bucks, calmed somewhat but suffering intensely, paced the floor or threw himself into his chair, while Scott picked up the despatcher's old copy of "The Last of the Mohicans," and smoking silently sat immovable, waiting with his customary stoicism for the call that should announce the dreaded wreck.

The moments loaded with anxiety went with leaden feet while the two men sat. It seemed as if the first hour never would pa.s.s. Then the long silence of the little receiver was broken by a call for the dispatcher. Bucks sprang to answer it.

Scott watched his face as he sent his "Ay, ay." Without understanding what the instruments clicked, he read the expressions that followed one after the other across Bucks's countenance, as he would have read a desert trail. He noted the perplexity on the despatcher's face when the latter tried to get the sender of the call.

"Some one is cutting in on the line," exclaimed Bucks, mystified, as the sounder clicked. "Bob, it is Bill Dancing."

A pause followed. "What can it mean, his sending a message to me? He is between Bitter Creek and Castle Springs. Wait a moment!"

The receiver clicked sharp and fast. Scarcely able to control his voice in his anxiety, Bucks turned to the now excited scout: "The trains met between Bitter Creek and Castle Springs. There was no collision!"

Almost collapsing with the pa.s.sing of the strain, Bucks faltered in his taking. Asking Dancing again for the story, Bucks took it more coolly and repeated it to his eager listener, as it came.

"Dancing was out with two men on the line to-day, repairing between Bitter Creek and Castle Springs. He didn't get done and camped beside the track for the night, to finish in the morning."

"Go on," exclaimed Scott.

"They shot a jack-rabbit----"

"Hang the jack-rabbit," cried Scott. "What about the trains?"

"You can't hurry Bill Dancing, Bob," pleaded Bucks. "You know that.

Faster, Bill, faster," he telegraphed urgently.

"You will get it faster," returned the distant lineman far out in the mountains under the stars, as he talked calmly with the despatcher, "if you will go slower."

Bucks strangled his impatience. Dancing resumed, and the despatcher again translated for Scott.

"They cooked the jack-rabbit for supper----"

Scott flung his book violently across the room. "It tasted good,"

continued Dancing exasperatingly. "But the night was awfully cold, so they built a big camp-fire near the curve. The freight engineer saw the fire and thought it was a locomotive head-light. Then he remembered he had run past his meeting point. He stopped his train to find out what the fire was. When he told Bill what had happened they grabbed up the burning logs, carried them down the track, and built a signal fire for No. 2. And it came along inside five minutes----"

"And there they are!" concluded Bucks, wiping the dampness from his forehead.

The receiver continued to click. "Bill thought I would be worried and he cut in on the line right away to tell me what had happened."

"Now give your orders to No. 2 to back up to Castle Springs and let the rail train get by. Recall your relief train," added Scott. "And bring that freight engineer in here in the morning and let Stanley talk to him for just about five minutes." The key rattled for a moment. Scott, going to the farthest corner of the room, picked up "The Last of the Mohicans." "Bucks," he murmured insinuatingly, as he sat down to look into the book again, "I want to ask you now, once for all, whether this is a true story?"

"Bob, put that book where it belongs and stop talking about it."

Scott hitched one shoulder a bit and returned to the fire, but he was not silenced.

"That reminds me, Bucks," he resumed after a pause, "there is another friend of yours here at the door, waiting to congratulate you. Shall I let him in?"

"I don't want any congratulations, Bob."

"I'll promise he doesn't say a single word, Bucks." As he spoke, Scott opened the hall door and whistled into the darkness. For an instant there was no response. Then a small and vague object outlined itself in the gloom, but halted questioningly on the threshold. Wagging his abbreviated tail very gently and carrying his drooping ears very low, Scuffy at length walked slowly into the room. Bucks hailed him with delight, and Scuffy bounding forward crouched at his feet.

"I can't do a thing with him over at the ranch," complained Scott, eying the dog with a secret admiration. "He is eating the hounds up; doesn't give them a chance to pick a bone even after he's done with it."

"I'm afraid there is nothing to do with Scuffy, but to make a despatcher of him," returned Bucks, picking him up by the forepaws. "I can see very plainly it's going to be a dog's life most of the time."