"Company, 'ten_tion_!" The soldiers straightened themselves in a second.
"With ball cartridge, _load_!" It was done with the precision of a machine. Then the lieutenant spoke, in the same clear, crisp tones that the troops had heard in more than one fierce battle.
"Men," said he, "in a few minutes the Perry gang, which you will remember, are going to try to run this train off the track, wound and kill the passengers, and rob the cars and the United States mail. It is our business to prevent them. Sergeant Wilson" (a gray-bearded non-commissioned officer stood up and saluted), "I am going on the engine. See that my orders are repeated. Now, men, aim low, and don't waste any shots." He and Sinclair climbed over the tender and spoke to the engine-driver.
"How are the air-brakes working?" asked Sinclair.
"First-rate."
"Then, if you slow down now, you could stop the train in a third of her length, couldn't you?"
"Easy, if you don't mind being shaken up a bit."
"That is good. How is the country about the--xth mile-post?"
"Dead level, and smooth."
"Good again. Now, Lieutenant Halsey, this is a splendid head-light, and we can see a long way with my night glass, I will have a--"
"--2d mile-post just passed," interrupted the engine-driver.
"Only one more to pass, then, before we ought to strike them. Now, lieutenant, I undertake to stop the train within a very short distance of the gang. They will be on both sides of the track no doubt; and the ground, as you hear, is quite level You will best know what to do."
The officer stepped back. "Sergeant," called he, "do you hear me plainly?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have the men fix bayonets. When the train stops, and I wave my sword, let half jump off each side, run up quickly, and form line _abreast of the engine_--not ahead."
"Jack," said Sinclair to the engine-driver, "is your hand steady?" The man held it up with a smile. "Good. Now, stand by your throttle and your air-brake. Lieutenant, better warn the men to hold on tight, and tell the sergeant to pass the word to the boys on the platforms, or they will be knocked off by the sudden stop. Now for a look ahead!" and he brought the binocular to his eyes.
The great parabolic head-light illuminated the track a long way in advance, all behind it being of course in darkness. Suddenly Sinclair cried out:
"The fools have a light there, as I am a living man; and there is a little red one near us. What can that be? All ready. Jack! By heavens!
they have taken up two rails. Now, _hold on, all_! STOP HER!!"
The engine-driver shut his throttle-valve with a jerk. Then, holding hard by it, he sharply turned a brass handle. There was a fearful jolt--a grating--and the train's way was checked. The lieutenant, standing sidewise, had drawn his sword. He waved it, and almost before he could get off the engine, the soldiers were up and forming, still in shadow, while the bright light was thrown on a body of men ahead.
"Surrender, or you are dead men!" roared the officer. Curses and several shots were the reply. Then came the orders, quick and sharp:
"_Forward! Close rip! Double-quick! Halt_! FIRE!"
It was speedily over. Left on the car with the men, the old sergeant had said:
"Boys, you hear. It's that ---- Perry gang. Now, don't forget Larry and Charley that they murdered last year," and there had come from the soldiers a sort of fierce, subdued _growl_. The volley was followed by a bayonet charge, and it required all the officer's authority to save the lives even of those who "threw up their hands." Large as the gang was (outnumbering the troops), well armed and desperate as they were, every one was dead, wounded, or a prisoner when the men who guarded the train platforms ran up. The surgeon, with professional coolness, walked up to the robbers, his instrument case under his arm.
"Not much for me to do here, Lieutenant," said he. "That practice for Creedmoor is telling on the shooting. Good thing for the gang, too.
Bullets are better than rope, and a Colorado jury will give them plenty of that."
Sinclair had sent a man to tell his wife that all was over. Then he ordered a fire lighted, and the rails relaid. The flames lit a strange scene as the passengers flocked up. The lieutenant posted men to keep them back.
"Is there a telegraph station not far ahead Sinclair?" asked he. "Yes?
All right." He drew a small pad from his pocket, and wrote a despatch to the post commander.
"Be good enough to send that for me," said he "and leave orders at Barker's for the night express eastward to stop for us, and to bring a posse to take care of the wounded and prisoners. And now, my dear Sinclair, I suggest that you get the passengers into the cars, and go on as soon as those rails are spiked. When they realize the situation, some of them will feel precious ugly, and you know we can't have any lynching."
Sinclair glanced at the rails and gave the word at once to the conductor and brakemen, who began vociferating, "All aboard!" Just then Foster appeared, an expression of intense satisfaction showing clearly on his face, in the firelight.
"Major," said he, "I didn't use to take much stock in special Providence, or things being ordered; but I'm darned if I don't believe in them from this day. I was bound to stay where you put me, but I was uneasy, and wild to be in the scrimmage; and, if I had been there, I wouldn't have taken notice of a little red light that wasn't much behind the rear platform when we stopped. When I saw there was no danger there, I ran back, and what do you think I found? There was a woman, in a dead faint, and just clutching a lantern that she had tied up in a red scarf, poor little thing! And, Major, it was Sally! It was the little girl that loved me out at Barker's, and has loved me and waited for me ever since! And when she came to, and knew me, she was so glad she 'most fainted away again; and she let on as it was her that gave away the job.
And I took her into the sleeper, and the madam, God bless her!--she knew Sally before and was good to her--she took care of her, and is cheering her up. And now, Major, I'm going to take her straight to Denver, and send for a parson and get her married to me, and she'll brace up, sure pop."
The whistle sounded, and the train started. From the window of the "sleeper" Sinclair and his wife took their last look at the weird scene.
The lieutenant, standing at the side of the track, wrapped in his cloak, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Sinclair's pretty face, and returned her bow.
Then, as the car passed out of sight, he tugged at his mustache and hummed:
"Why, boys, why, Should we be melancholy, boys, Whose business 'tis to die?"
In less than an hour, telegrams having in the mean time been sent in both directions, the train ran alongside the platform at Barker's; and; Watkins, inperturbable as usual, met Sinclair, and gave him his letters.
"Perry gang wiped out, I hear, Major," said he "Good thing for the country. That's a lesson the 'toughs' in these parts won't forget for a long time. Plucky girl that give 'em away, wasn't she. Hope she's all right."
"She is all right," said Sinclair, with a smile.
"Glad of that. By-the-way, that father of her'n passed in his checks to-night. He'd got one warning from the Vigilantes, and yesterday they found out he was in with this gang, and they was a-going for him; but when the telegram come, he put a pistol to his head and saved them all trouble. Good riddance to everybody, I say. The sheriff's here now, and is going east on the next train to get them fellows. He's got a big posse together, and I wouldn't wonder if they was hard to hold in, after the 'boys in blue' is gone."
In a few minutes the train was off, with its living freight--the just and the unjust, the reformed and the rescued, the happy and the anxious.
With many of the passengers the episode of the night was already a thing of the past. Sinclair sat by the side of his wife, to whose cheeks the color had all come back; and Sally Johnson lay in her berth, faint still, but able to give an occasional smile to Foster. In the station on the Missouri the reporters were gathered about the happy superintendent, smoking his cigars, and filling their note-books with items. In Denver, their brethren would gladly have done the same, but Watkins failed to gratify them. He was a man of few words. When the train had gone, and a friend remarked:
"Hope they'll get through all right, now," he simply said:
"Yes, likely. Two shots don't 'most always go in the same hole." Then he went to the telegraph instrument. In a few minutes he could have told a story as wild as a Norse _saga_, but what he said, when Denver had responded, was only--
_"No. 17, fifty-five minutes late."_
THE MISFORTUNES OF BRO' THOMAS WHEATLEY.
By LINA REDWOOD FAIRFAX.
He is our office-boy and messenger, and, my senior tells me, has been employed by the firm in this capacity for about thirty years. He is a negro, about sixty years old, rather short and stout, with a mincing, noiseless gait, broad African features, beautiful teeth, and small, round, twinkling eyes, the movements of which are accompanied by little abrupt, sidewise turns of the head, like a bird. His manner is a curious mixture of deference and self-importance, his voice a soft, sibilant whisper, and as he was born and bred in Alexandria, Virginia, it seems almost superfluous to add that he and the letter "r" are not on speaking terms.
He has a prominent characteristic, which always attracts attention at first sight. This is the shape of his head, which is immensely large in proportion, very bald, and so abundant in various queer, knobby excrescences about the forehead and sides, and so unnaturally long and level on top, that for some time after I made his acquaintance I could never see him without finding myself forming absurd conjectures as to whether his cranium and the hydrostatic press could ever have become acquainted at some early period of his life; and so strong is this association of ideas that, even now, his sudden appearance invariably suggests to me the study of natural philosophy. Poor fellow! his chagrin was great when this peculiar conformation of his skull was first brought to his notice. He had been telling me for some time past of the "splendid piccha" he had had "took," and I had been promised a sight of it just as soon as it arrived from the photographer's. I confess I had not been sanguine as to the result, although I knew a handsome portrait was confidently expected by the sitter. One morning he deposited the photograph before me.
"Hello!" I cried, taking it in my hand; "here you are, hit off to the life."
"Do' say _that_, Mist' Dunkin, _do_' say hit, seh," he replied, in a tone of deep mortification. Then, catching a glimpse of the picture, his ire broke forth: "Nevvah wuz like _me_ in de wueld," he cried, in an elevated key; "nevvah _wuz_ ha'f so ugly ez that. I'm--I'm a bettah-lookin' man, Mist' Dunkin. Why, look at de color of de thing,"