Glover’s train pulled into Medicine Bend, in the rain, at half-past two o’clock. The face in the Lalla Rookh had put an end to thoughts of sleep, and he walked up to his office in the Wickiup to work until morning on his report. He lighted a lamp, opened his desk with a clang that echoed to the last dark corner of the zigzag hall, and, spreading out his papers, resumed the figuring he had begun at Wind River station. But the combinations which at eleven o’clock had gone fast refused now to work. The Lalla Rookh curtains intruded continually into his problems and his calculations dissolved helplessly into an idle stare at a jumble of figures.

He got up at last, restless, walked through the trainmaster’s room, into the despatcher’s office, and stumbled on the tragedy of the night.

It came about through an ambition in itself honorable the ambition of Bud Cawkins to become a train-despatcher.

Bud began railroading on the Wind River. In three months he was made an agent, in six months he had become an expert in station work, an operator after a despatcher’s own heart, and the life of the line; then he began looking for trouble. His quest resulted first in the conviction that the main line business was not handled nearly as well as it ought to be. Had Bud confided this to an agent of experience there would have been no difficulty. He would have been told that every agent on every branch in the world, sooner or later, has the same conviction; that he need only to let it alone, eat sparingly of brain food, and the clot would be sure to pass unnoticed.

Unfortunately, Bud concealed his conviction, and asked Morris Blood to give him a chance at the Wickiup. The first time, Morris Blood only growled; the second time he looked at the handsome boy disapprovingly.

“Want to be a despatcher, do you? What’s the matter with you? Been reading railroad stories? I’ll fire any man on my division that reads railroad stories. Don’t be a chump. You’re in line now for the best station on the division.”

But compliments only fanned Bud’s flame, and Morris Blood, after reasonable effort to save the boy’s life, turned him over to Martin Duffy.

Now, of all severe men on the West End, Duffy is most biting. His smile is sickly, his hair dry, and his laugh soft.

“Despatcher, eh? Ha, ha, ha; I see, Bud. Coming down to show us how to do business. Oh, no. I understand; that is all right. It is what brought me here, Bud, when I was about your age and good for something. Well, it is a snap. There is nothing in the railroad life equal to a despatcher’s trick. If you should make a mistake and get two trains together they will only fire you. If you happen to kill a few people they can’t make anything more than manslaughter out of it I know that because I’ve seen them try to hang a despatcher for a passenger wreck they can’t do it, Bud, don’t ever believe it. In this state ten years is the extreme limit for manslaughter, and the only complication is that if your train should happen to burn up they might soak you an extra ten years for arson; but a despatcher is usually handy around a penitentiary and can get light work in the office, so that he’s thrown more with wife poisoners and embezzlers than with cutthroats and hold-up men. Then, too, you can earn nearly as much in State’s prison as you can at your trick. A despatcher’s salary is high, you know seventy-five, eighty, and even a hundred dollars a month.

“Of course, there’s an unpleasant side of it. I don’t want to seem to draw it too rosy. I imagine you’ve heard Blackburn’s story, haven’t you the lap-order at Rosebud? I helped carry Blackburn out of that room” Duffy pointed very coldly toward Morris Blood’s door “the morning we put him in his coffin. But, hang it, Bud, a death like that is better than going to the insane asylum, isn’t it, eh? A short trick and a merry one, my boy, for a despatcher, say I; no insane asylum for me.”

It calmed Budwiser, as the boys began to call him, for a time only. He renewed his application and was at length relieved of his comfortable station and ordered into the Wickiup as despatcher’s assistant.

For a time every dream was realized the work was put on him by degrees, things ran smoothly, and his despatcher, Garry O’Neill, soon reported him all right. A month later Bud was notified that a despatcher’s trick would shortly be assigned to him, and to the boys from the branch who asked after him he sent word that in a few days he would be showing them how to do business on the main line.

The chance came even sooner. O’Neill went hunting the following day, overslept, came down without supper and could not get a quiet minute till long after midnight. Heavy stock trains crowded down over the short line. The main line, in addition to the regular traffic, had been pounded all night with government stores and ammunition, westbound. From the coast a passenger special, looked for in the afternoon, had just come into the division at Bear Dance. Garry laid out his sheet with the precision of a campaigner, provided for everything, and at three o’clock he gave Bud a transfer and ran down to get a cup of coffee. Bud sat into the chair for the first time with the responsibility of a full-fledged despatcher.

For five minutes no business confronted him, then from the extreme end of his territory Cambridge station called for orders for an extra, fast freight, west, Engine 81, and Bud wrote his first train order. He ordered Extra 81 to meet Number 50, a local and accommodation, at Sumter, and signed Morris Blood’s initials with a flourish. When the trains had gone he looked over his sheet calmly until he noticed, with fainting horror, that he had forgotten Special 833, east, making a very fast run and headed for Cambridge, with no orders about Extra 81. Special 833 was the passenger train from the coast.

The sheet swam and the yellow lamp at his elbow turned green and black. The door of the operator’s room opened with a bang. Bud, trembling, hoped it might be O’Neill, and staggered to the archway. It was only Glover, but Glover saw the boy’s face. “What’s the matter?”

Bud looked back into the room he was leaving. Glover stepped through the railing gate and caught the boy by the shoulder. “What’s the matter, my lad?”

He shook and questioned, but from the dazed operator he could get only one word, “O’Neill,” and stepping to the hall door Glover called out “O’Neill!”

It has been said that Glover’s voice would carry in a mountain storm from side to side of the Medicine Bend yard. That night the very last rafter in the Wickiup gables rang with his cry. He called only once, for O’Neill came bounding up the long stairs three steps at a time.

“Look to your train sheet, Garry,” said Glover, peremptorily. “This boy is scared to death. There’s trouble somewhere.”

He supported the operator to a chair, and O’Neill ran to the inner room. The moment his eye covered the order book he saw what had happened. “Extra 81 is against a passenger special,” exclaimed O’Neill, huskily, seizing the key. “There’s the order Extra 81 from Cambridge to meet Number 50 at Sumter and Special 833 has orders to Cambridge, and nothing against Extra 81. If I can’t catch the freight at Red Desert we’re in for it wake up Morris Blood, quick, he’s in there asleep.”

Blood, working late in his office, had rolled himself in a blanket on the lounge in Callahan’s old room, and unfortunately Morris Blood was the soundest sleeper on the division. Glover called him, shook him, caught him by the arm, lifted him to a sitting position, talked hurriedly to him he knew what resource and power lay under the thick curling hair if he could only rouse the tired man from his dreamless sleep. Even Blood’s own efforts to rouse himself were almost at once apparent. His eyes opened, glared helplessly, sank back and closed in stupor. Glover grew desperate, and lifting Morris to his feet, dragged him half way across the dark room.

O’Neill, rattling the key, was looking on from the table like a drowning man. “Leave your key and steady him here against the door-jamb, Garry,” cried Glover; “by the Eternal, I’ll wake him.” He sprang to the big water-cooler, cast away the top, seized the tank like a bucket, and dashed a full stream of ice-water into Morris Blood’s face.

“Great God, what’s the matter? Who is this? Glover? What? Give me a towel, somebody.”

The spell was broken. Glover explained, O’Neill ran back to the key, and Blood in another moment bent dripping over the nervous despatcher.

The superintendent’s mind working faster now than the magic current before him, listened, cast up, recollected, considered, decided for and against every chance. At that moment Red Desert answered. No breath interrupted the faint clicks that reported on Extra 81. O’Neill looked up in agony as the sounder spelled the words: “Extra 81 went by at 3.05.” The superintendent and the despatcher looked at the clock; it read 3.09.

O’Neill clutched the order book, but Glover looked at Morris Blood. With the water trickling from his hair down his wrinkled face, beading his mustache, and dripping from his chin he stood, haggard with sleep, leaning over O’Neill’s shoulder. A towel stuffed into his left hand was clasped forgotten at his waist. From the east room, operators, their instruments silenced, were tiptoeing into the archway. Above the little group at the table the clock ticked. O’Neill, in a frenzy, half rose out of his chair, but Morris Blood, putting his hand on the despatcher’s shoulder, forced him back.

“They’re gone,” cried the frantic man; “let me out of here.”

“No, Garry.”

“They’re gone.”

“Not yet, Garry. Try Fort Rucker for the Special.”

“There’s no night man at Fort Rucker.”

“But Burling, the day man, sleeps upstairs

“He goes up to Bear Dance to lodge.”

“This isn’t lodge night,” said Blood.

“For God’s sake, how can you get him upstairs, anyway?” trembled O’Neill.

“On cold nights he sleeps downstairs by the ticket-office stove. I spent a night with him once and slept on his cot. If he is in the ticket-office you may be able to wake him he may be awake. The Special can’t pass there for ten minutes yet. Don’t stare at me. Call Rucker, hard.”

O’Neill seized the key and tried to sound the Rucker call. Again and again he attempted it and sent wild. The man that could hold a hundred trains in his head without a slip for eight hours at a stretch sat distracted.

“Let me help you, Garry,” suggested Blood, in an undertone. The despatcher turned shaking from his chair and his superintendent slipped behind him into it. His crippled right hand glided instantly over the key, and the Rucker call, even, sharp, and compelling, followed by the quick, clear nineteen the call that gags and binds the whole division the despatchers’ call clicked from his fingers.

Persistently, and with unfailing patience, the men hovering at his back, Blood drummed at the key for the slender chance that remained of stopping the passenger train. The trial became one of endurance. Like an incantation, the call rang through the silence of the room until it wracked the listeners, but the man at the key, quietly wiping his face and head, and with the towel in his left hand mopping out his collar, never faltered, never broke, minute after minute, until after a score of fruitless waits an answer broke his sending with the “I, I, Ru!”

As the reply flew from his fingers Morris Blood’s eyes darted to the clock; it was 3.17. “Stop Special 833, east, quick.”

“You’ve got them?” asked Glover, from the counter.

“If they’re not by,” muttered Blood.

“Red light out,” reported Rucker; then three dreadful minutes and it came, “Special 833 taking water; O’Brien wants orders.”

And the order went, “Siding, quick, and meet Extra 81, west, at Rucker,” and the superintendent rose from the chair.

“It’s all over, boys,” said he, turning to the operators. “Remember, no man ever got to a railroad presidency by talking; but many men have by keeping their mouths shut. Lay Cawkins on the lounge in my room. Duffy said that boy would never do.”

“What was Burling doing, Morris,” asked Glover, sitting down by the stove.

“Ask him, Garry,” suggested Blood. They waited for the answer.

“Were you asleep on your cot?” asked the despatcher, getting Rucker again.

“If that fellow woke on my call, I’ll make a despatcher of him,” declared Morris Blood, with a thrill of fine pride.

“No,” answered Rucker, “I slept upstairs tonight.”

The two men at the stove stared at one another. “How did you hear your call?” asked the despatcher. Again their ears were on edge.

And Rucker answered, “I always come down once in the night to put coal on the fire.”

“Another illusion destroyed,” smiled Morris Blood. “Hang him, I’ll promote him, anyway, for attending to his fire.”

“But you couldn’t do that again in a thousand years, Mr. Blood,” ventured a young and enthusiastic operator who had helped to lay out poor Bud Cawkins.

The mountain man looked at him coldly. “I sha’n’t want to do that again in a thousand years. In the railroad life it always comes different, every time. Go to your key.”

“I’m glad we got that particular train out of trouble,” he added, turning to Glover when they were alone.

“What train?”

“That Special 833 is the Brock special. You didn’t know it? We’ve been looking for them from the coast for two days.”