Over the Wire

                           By Eugene Jones


Snow and ice on that mountain. Nothing but snow. The wind drove it
with a howl against the windows, where it stuck on the warm panes.
Sometimes I could just make out the blur of the semaphore lights and
sometimes I couldn’t. All day the blizzard had dumped its swirling
load about us, and now, when night closed down, the storm took the
tower in its teeth, shaking it like you’ve seen a dog shake a rat.

Oh, we were warm and cozy enough with our stove red hot. Which was
more than Donaldson, the agent at Hastings, could say. His wire talk
was rotten, chattery, and he told us he’d run out of coal. Looked like
he’d freeze to death, according to him. But Big Ben prophesied grimly
that Donaldson could take care of himself, so we might as well save
our worries.

I don’t suppose you ever heard of Big Ben, but that is your loss.
Every soul on the Mountain Division knew him. His Morse snapped out
like a track torpedo, fast, too, but accurate, staccato, with a smooth
flow as if a machine had hold of the key. Dots and dashes were part of
him, for, after years of it, he could express himself better that way.

Sort of feeling for the language, I suppose. I’ve seen the same gift
since, but never to the extent Ben possessed it. Why, he could come
mighty close to telling the color of your eyes over a telegraph-wire.

He and I had worked tower BB-17 on the Mountain Division for three
years, and during that time I never saw him flurried. Once a freight,
running extra, got by us—dispatcher tangled up his train-sheet. Forty
minutes later a relay came into stop her or she’d meet 87 on the big
grade.

It takes just forty minutes to run from our tower to Hastings, further
down the line. Hastings is the last station with a siding before the
grade. In other words, the freight ought to have been getting her O.
K. from Hastings right then.

Was Ben excited? Not one little bit.

Donaldson caught his first call. Clear as a bell it was. And Donaldson
had time to flag the freight.

But the particular night I’m speaking of, my side partner appeared a
bit uneasy, which was enough to set my think-tank working. He’d drop
down alongside the key for a moment; then he’d wander over to the
windows, trying to pierce the blizzard.

He was a big man with a hearty laugh and a mouth full of teeth and a
whiskered chin full of determination. His red hair, as brilliant as
the glow in his corn-cob pipe, usually stood on end. But his eyes were
gray and pleasant; that is, generally they were. Yet I’ve noticed ’em
hard as rocks, drilling into you with a gleam in ’em like you see
jumping across a spark-gap. Right now they were anxious.

Perhaps that wasn’t so strange, either, for all day long, from the
length of the division, had come bunches of trouble. A snowshed out
here; a freight ditched there; hell to pay everywhere.

Wires were down, too. Not a word could we get below Hastings or north
of the junction. Toward night every siding was overflowing with
deadheaded rolling stock. You see, the big grade—it’s four and a half
per cent in places—handicaps us because even our best oil-burners
won’t haul much tonnage on it in a blizzard. They can’t make steam.

And this particular frolic of the elements promised to beat anything
that had struck us in twenty years. At 10 P.M. the chief dispatcher
ordered the line cleared for the night, barring No. 77 southbound,
which was to make her run as usual. I reckon you’ve heard of that
train—the Cumberland Limited, all steel and solid Pullman? She was to
follow a snow-plow, and headquarters gossip filtering to us hinted she
might find the blizzard a bit of a teaser.

Suddenly Big Ben turned on me. “Jim,” said he, “I don’t like it.
What’s the old man thinking of to let 77 through? Have you heard what
she’s carrying to-night?”

I allowed I hadn’t.

“Well, there’s something like one hundred thousand in gold in her
express-car. Government consignment. I got it straight. What a chance
for a hold-up! Remember that cut below Hastings?” He shook his massive
head dubiously. “It’s been done before.”

As if to emphasize his words, the storm swooped down with renewed
energy until the tower swayed like a lighthouse. Great guns! how the
wind shrieked at us. How the snow thudded against the windows. And
when you _hear_ snow, you know there’s a double-headed gale behind it.

About that time our call came over the wire: “N-H, N-H, N-H.”

As Ben jumped in, I put down my paper to listen. I find it’s a good
thing to pay pretty strict attention to anything on a night like that.
It keeps you from seeing shadows that aren’t there, and hearing sounds
which your common sense tells you must be the wind.

Presently came the professional dot and dash of Donaldson down at
Hastings. Now Donaldson, next to Big Ben, was a star operator, and the
two of ’em could talk better and with more satisfaction over a stretch
of singing wire than if they were sitting together in a parlor.

Even _I_ knew Donaldson’s style, although I wasn’t more than middling
expert. There were tricks in his stuff such as shortening his o’s, but
his Morse ran mighty smooth. I read off the message to myself.

“Freezing cold down here, Ben. Lonely, too. Damn lonely. What do you
get on 77?”

The big man at the table cut in: “Brace up; 77 on time. Nothing to
bother her to-night except the storm. All freight deadheaded.”

That seemed to satisfy Donaldson, for there was a long silence broken
only by the whine of the wind and the _thud_, _thud_ of driven snow. I
had just picked up the paper again when “N-H, N-H, N-H,” snapped at
us.

The crispness of dots and dashes suggested excitement. Ben
acknowledged deliberately, but when he closed the wire I saw a
narrowing of his eyes.

Donaldson was in a hurry. “Going to quit to-morrow,” he began. “Can’t
stand this joint. Say, there’s two of you up there. You’re lucky. Old
man will have to come across with an assistant or I quit. Do you know
you’re the nearest white man to me? Just me alone here. No night for a
man to be alone. Hold on, I think I hear somebody in the waiting-room.
Maybe I’ll have company.”

But he opened up again the next moment with: “Good Lord, must be going
off my nut. Nobody in the waiting-room. It’s the wind. I tell you this
place is like the north pole. If I could only hear a fire crackling.
Say, there it goes again. No, I’m way off; that’s a fact. I’ll have to
look around. Do you notice anything funny in the wind? I seem to. Why
the devil didn’t they put shades on these windows? What’s the matter
with me anyhow?”

Ben went back at him, calm as a summer’s day. “Hold on, old man; take
some whisky. It’s your nerves. Get a grip on yourself.”

“All right,” answered Donaldson, his wire-talk becoming calmer. “Yes,
I’ll take the whisky. Let me know about 77.”

That was all for a while, but Ben eyed me through the fumes of his
pipe. “I don’t like it,” he muttered. “Not a bit. Never knew Donaldson
to wildcat before. Wonder if there _is_ anything wrong?”

I didn’t say what was on my mind, for the shriek of the storm
interrupted. So we just sat still and looked at each other and
wondered what it would be like if either of _us_ weren’t there.

Somehow I couldn’t get rid of the picture of Hastings station—a little
frame building backed up against a cliff, with a siding cutting in
behind it and the banked curve of the main line stretching away before
it. A few farmers used the station, but a water-tank was its real
excuse for existence.

I could see how the snow had half-buried it, and how Donaldson,
veteran that he was, might hear strange sounds in the gale. I could
see a great many things right then, but the sight wasn’t pleasant.

Snow, snow and more snow, and icy rails and low, hurrying clouds you
felt were brushing against the tower. “Listen!” I snapped.

Ben jumped to his feet. “This won’t do. Here, you quit listening or
you’ll be as bad as Donaldson.” Then he came over to me. “I guess it’s
just as well there’re two of us,” he said very quietly. “Try the
junction for a report on 77.”

I took the key with a sense of awe—only a couple of slim wires between
us and the world, and a thousand chances for the storm to tear ’em
down. But if we felt it, what about Donaldson? What about Donaldson,
anyway?

The junction answered after a bit, though there was no life in the
sending. “McFlin,” nodded Ben. “I know his style. Ask him whether the
orders for 77 stand.”

I did.

“Sure,” clicked McFlin; “77 on time. Pass her through. Rotten night,
isn’t it? They got a plow leading the limited like a blind baby.
So-long.”

That was at eleven two. Twenty minutes later Donaldson started after
us again, but it was a chattering, wild Donaldson; a new Donaldson who
tumbled his letters over each other.

“N-H, N-H, N-H,” he stuttered, even after I had opened the wire. “N-H,
N-H.”

I sent him a string of Rs a mile long before he acknowledged. Then:

“What’s the matter with you up there?” he clicked. “Gone to sleep? But
you can’t sleep now; you’ve got to talk to me or I’ll be ready for the
queer house. Something is walking up and down outside my window. I’ve
seen it twice. It can’t be a man, and animals don’t prowl about in a
storm like this. Listen to that wind. I tell you it’s walking around
the station. What am I saying? Do you believe in ghosts? It was in the
waiting-room a while back, but it got out before I had a shot at it.
What would you do if you were down here alone, snowed in like a damned
Eskimo? What would you do if it started to walk—”

Big Ben strode across the room. “Give me the key,” he thundered. His
eyes were hard gray now, like rock, with little points of fire in
them, and it seemed he would smash the instrument as he crashed down
with Donaldson’s call.

“Stop that!” went the dots and dashes, clear cut, fast, but Lordy,
they had a punch behind ’em. “Pull yourself together. Take some more
whisky. Wake up. Remember you’re an operator. You’ve got to handle the
Limited to-night. No more of that. You know damn well nothing is
walking around down there except you. Rub some snow in your face. Wake
up, I say. I’ll talk to you as much as you like, but no more spook
stuff.”

“You’re right,” came the slower response. “I won’t bother you any
more. Nevertheless, it’s walking around here. Maybe I’ll get a shot at
it. I’ll let you know if I do.”

That was all, and Ben and I looked across the table into each other’s
eyes. “Well?” I questioned.

He shook himself as if trying to get rid of something clinging. “Oh,
Donaldson is getting old,” he muttered. “It’s lonely down there, and
his fire’s out. That’s what I make of it.

“When the wind howls, and you’re on a night shift in a God-forsaken
spot like Hastings, you’re mighty apt to hear and see a little more
’an you’ve any business to.”

The next word that came flashing over the wire left no doubt in our
minds. Either Donaldson was clean crazy or—well, he _must_ be crazy!

“Ever see a face half black and half white?” stuttered our instrument.
“I had a shot at it. It’s still walking.”

Ben waited an instant then sent “J-J,” Donaldson’s call, steady for
three minutes. But he might as well have opened the window and yelled
out into the storm. The wire was either dead or Hastings wouldn’t
answer.

Presently McFlin at the junction got busy. “Just O. K.’d 77,” he said.
“Devilish night. The Limited looked like a hunk of the mountain on
wheels. Bet the snow on the car-roofs gets scraped off on the top of
the tunnels. Happy dreams.”

But we weren’t to indulge in any happy dreams for some time to come.
Hardly had McFlin shut up when “N-H, N-H, N-H” called Ben back.
“Lord,” he groaned, “hear that style? It’s Donaldson, but what’s
happened to him? I hate to listen to it.”

Dull, lifeless, flat, came the dots and dashes from Hastings. “No
use,” clicked Donaldson. “This hide-and-seek is beyond me. Its face is
half black and half white, and bullets don’t worry it. I’m a gone
duck. Never mind me. Anyhow, hell is warm and not as lonesome as this.
I’m freezing, and that’s no ghost story.”

“For God’s sake,” Ben’s reply flew forth, “can that stuff. Pull
yourself together, old man. Forget the face or whatever it is; 77’s on
time. Hold hard.”

“Sure,” agreed Donaldson wearily, “I’ll handle the Limited. How’s the
storm up there?”

“Quitting,” lied Ben, and went to the window.

Then followed an hour of silence, with only the shriek of the wind and
the thud of snow. I reckon the two of us smoked considerable tobacco
during that hour, and we played a few games of checkers, too, but our
minds wandered.

When at last we heard the shrill squeal of 77’s whistle above the
noise of the blizzard, we felt happy. Just to know there were other
people near us—believe me, that was some relief!

Far off up the line we could make out the headlight of the Limited
like a blinking, misty moon creeping toward us. Ben glanced at his
semaphore levers. Down she bore on us, the din of her drivers muffled
by snow.

There was the thunder of moving tons, a blast of cinders against the
tower windows, and a snaky line of black as the Pullmans flashed past
under their white-caps. We watched her red tail-lights around the
curve.

“J-J, J-J, J-J,” clicked Ben, back at the table. And directly Hastings
answered in the same lifeless style.

“Limited just passed O. K.,” went on my side partner. “How are you
feeling?”

Donaldson’s wire-talk was worse than ever. “Fine,” he stuttered.
“Maybe I can hold out. The damn thing’s always near me. It’s cold
here. I’ve got my feet on the stove. Say, this stove is a joke. It’s
so empty it’s going to cave in pretty soon. Wait a minute, let me try
another shot.”

Nothing more. Not another word, though we took turns at the key. And
when Ben relighted his pipe I didn’t like the look on his face. “Jim,”
he began, “there’s things in this world none of us can understand. I
reckon after all that maybe, I misjudged Donaldson; perhaps he’s up
against one of ’em.”

“Quit!” I bellowed. “You watch yourself or you’ll be splitting a
switch, too. As you said a while back, Donaldson’s nervous and cold.
That’s what’s the matter with him; nothing else.”

Ben, mumbling a reply, turned again to the window. If possible the
storm was worse.

I don’t exactly remember how it happened; I must have dozed off about
then, being pretty tuckered out. Anyhow, the first thing I knew Ben
was shaking the life out of me. I’ll never forget the expression of
his face as I opened my eyes.

His eyes were all red, his hands were working, his jaw set. “Wake up,
Jim,” he hissed. “I heard it, too.

“No,” he went on as I instinctively looked toward the window. “Not
there; over the wire. Listen!”

I listened, but for a long time nothing broke the vibrating stillness
of the tower. And I got to thinking it was another case of nerves.
Then, Father above us! may I never again hear such a sound!

Our instrument started to whisper. You laugh, do you? But if you’d
been there you wouldn’t have laughed. We went over to the table on
tiptoe, hardly daring to breathe. The little steel bar trembled; moved
down; snapped back, barely closing the contact.

It was like a dying man framing words he couldn’t utter. I followed in
my mind the course of the single, drumming wire over the trestles,
through the ravines, under the mountains. What manner of thing was
pressing the key at the other end?

Ben dropped forward with an oath and pillowed his elbows on the table
as if his nearness might aid him. “Listen!” he begged. “Oh, Jim,
_listen_!”

Presently the instrument quivered again, but this time the impulse was
stronger. Horribly flaccid, monotonously regular, like the labored
effort of an amateur, came the message which shall forever sear my
memory with unspeakable horror.

“God—in—heaven—help me. I—can’t—stand—this. They—chained—cross—
ties—to—the—rails. They—will—ditch—the—Limited. I’m—done—for.
Hell—is—nearer—now. Help. Dear—God—help—me—”

That was all. Ben tore at the key, sending out into the night, “J-J,
J-J, J-J,” until my head swam.

But no response came; not the least flutter. Only agonizing, storm
shrieking silence.

Then he gave it up and staggered to his feet. His face was as gray as
slate. “Jim,” he gasped, “Donaldson is dead! I know it. It was a dying
man who sent that message.”

I grabbed him by the shoulders. “You fool!” I yelled. “He can’t be
dead—he sent it. Don’t you understand? They’re going to wreck the
Limited. Donaldson was telling us. He _may_ be wounded. We’ve got to
get to him.”

Slowly, as if his body was awakening from sleep, the muscles in his
shoulders under my hand tightened. “Sure, I get you,” he whispered.
And before I knew what he was doing, he shook me off, rushing blindly
for the stairs. “Come on, Jim. For God’s sake, hurry!” he called.
“Bring my gun and some torpedoes. It’s only five miles by the road;
thirty down the mountain by the track. Let’s try the car—”

I stopped long enough to be sure the revolver we kept in a drawer was
loaded, stuffed some torpedoes in my pocket, and followed him. Out
into the gale he sped to where he kept his little second-hand,
mud-spattered gas-wagon. I had always kidded him about it, laughed at
it; but now I prayed.

Yes, funny when you think of it, me praying! But I did—prayed it would
run; prayed there was gas and oil in it.

Once away from the lee of the building, the storm wrapped around us,
flinging the snow in our faces, making us gasp for breath. We were
taking desperate chances and breaking all rules—this leaving a tower
vacant, but what could we do? What in God’s name could we do?

When I caught up with Ben he was cranking the engine desperately. I
propped the shanty door open, though the blast of wind threatened to
fairly tear it from its hinges.

Fortunately the radiator of the car had antifreezing mixture in it.
After an agonizing moment, the engine gave a couple of disgusted
coughs and died. But Ben went right on. He spun that thing till I was
dizzy as I sat with my hand on the throttle, feeding it raw gas.

When there seemed no chance left, and I could see the Limited a
burning, blackened mass, and hear the cries of the injured, the engine
started, missing like thunder, to be sure. Ben leaped in beside me and
let in his clutch.

Once beyond the shanty our headlights ended in a whirling bank of
snow, and the cold stabbed like a driven nail. But the engine was
running better now.

How my side partner found the road, or how he kept that rickety piece
of junk from chucking us down a ravine I’ll never know. But he did.
Yes, by the grace of the Lord, he did.

Pitching like a ship in a storm, sinking now and then up to our hubs,
we jounced on down that mountain. What everlasting miles of emptiness!
What biting pain as our ears and hands and noses turned red, then
white.

Once we heard the shriek of the Limited below us on the grade; once we
saw the flash of her furnace door. Seconds turned into minutes;
minutes into hours. Would we be in time? I set my teeth and prayed
some more.

Ah, we had hit the last stretch and through the smother we could see
the semaphore lights of Hastings station. Also the light in the
building itself. Our car snorted and groaned as Ben fed it the gas,
skidding to the edge of a precipice or flinging us half out of our
seats, but we never thought of that.

And now came the wail of the Limited’s whistle, this time above us.
Her headlight flickered across the cut, touching the station with
uncertain fingers. The semaphore was set green.

I shivered, but not from cold. If only we had half a chance, but the
everlasting snow—how it clung to our wheels! And under it our
tire-chains spun gratingly in red clay which flecked the white of the
road like blood.

Bearing down on Hastings station, gathering speed with each pound of
her drivers, thundered the Limited. We were playing the passage of a
minute against a pile of cross-ties—and the forfeit was death!

Now we reached the nearest point to the right-of-way, and as we jerked
to a halt, a black figure appeared on the depot platform against the
light. I saw the flash of a gun and heard a bullet sing past.

But Ben paid no heed. Throwing himself from the car, he floundered
over to the track. I ran toward the station, firing as I went. Once I
looked back. Ben was kneeling down, adjusting torpedoes under the very
pilot of the plow.

Now there isn’t any use of my explaining how the Limited roared by,
her engineer satisfied with the green of the semaphore; nor how he
gave her the air when the torpedoes warned him.

Nor, for that matter, of the futile pursuit of the bandits who had
intended to ditch her. All that came out in the morning paper. If I
remember, there was even a picture of the pile of cross-ties chained
to the track.

The fact that will interest you is what we discovered in Hastings
station. Without bothering to explain to 77’s wondering crew, we
dashed into the waiting-room and threw open the door of the ticket
office.

At the table sat Donaldson. He was stiff and rigid, and from an ugly
blotched hole in his neck there crept a frozen stream of blood. His
right hand still rested on the telegraph-key.

“Good God!” I muttered. “Dead! He never moved after he was shot.”

And then, somehow feeling Ben’s eyes upon me, I looked at him. His
smile was ghastly.

“Sure?” he said. “I told you so back in the tower. He never moved
after he was shot? Then what about that message? How did he know about
the cross-ties?”

“Shut up!” I shrieked. “Here, let’s get him out of this. We’ll go down
on 77. I’m through!”


[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the January 31, 1920 issue
of All-Story Weekly magazine.]