16 - Young Railroaders by Francis Lovell Coombs

Teen telegraphers battle bandits, derail disasters, and outsmart thieves in Young Railroaders, a thrilling ride through America’s emerging West. Grit, brains, and bravery light the tracks.

Episode Transcript

Speaker 1 (00:00):
The Young Railroaders by F. Lovell Coombs, chapter fifteen. The
dude operator Alex Ward, like most vigorous, manly boys of
his type, had a fixed dislike for anything approaching foppishness,
especially in other boys. Consequently, when on reporting at the
Exeter office one evening he was introduced to Wilson Jennings,

(00:24):
Alex treated him with but little more than the necessary
courtesy for the newcomer. An operator, but little older than himself,
was distinctly a dued, from his patent leather shoes and
polka dotted stockings to his red and yellow banded white
straw hat. His carefully pressed suit was the very latest

(00:45):
thing in light checked gray. He wore a collar which
threatened to envelop his ears, and his white tie was
of huge dimensions. Also, he possessed the fair, pink and
white complexion of a girl. Alex was not alone in
his derice of attitude toward the stranger. Shortly following the
appearance of the night Chief, mister Jennings nodded everyone a

(01:06):
good evening and departed, And immediately there was a general
roar of laughter in the operating room. Where did he fall? From?
Whose complexion? Powder is he advertising, did you get onto
his picture? Socks? Were some of the remarks bandied about.
When the Chief announced that the new operator was from

(01:26):
the east and was being sent to the Little Foothills
tank station of bone Pile, there was a fresh outburst
of hilarity. Why that cowboy outfit near there will string
him up to the tank spout, declared the operator, on
whose wire bone Pile was located. It's the toughest proposition
on the wire on the quiet. That is just why

(01:49):
Jordan is sending him. The night chief said, not to
have him strung up, that is, but to put him
in the way of finding himself, so to speak. Certainly
find himself there then if there's anything left to find
when the ranch crew get through, laughed the operator. I'd
give five real dollars to see that show and walk

(02:11):
back at that. You might have to walk back if
you wagered your money on the outcome, responded the Chief,
more gravely, turning to his desk. Clothes don't make a man,
neither do they unmake one. The dude may surprise us, yet,
Whether the outcome of his appointment to the little watering

(02:31):
station was to be a surprise or no, there was
no doubt of Wilson Jennings's surprise when the following morning
he alighted from the train at Bonepile, and as the
train sped on, awoke to the realization that he was
entirely alone. Blankly, he gazed at the little red brown
dry goods box depot, the water tank, the hills to

(02:52):
the west, and to north, south and east, the limitless
stretching prairie. He had never imagined anything like this when
he had decided on giving up a good position in
the East to taste some adventure in the Great West. However,
here he was, and picking up his two suitcases, the
boy made his way into the tiny operating room and

(03:14):
on into the bunk kitchen living room behind. For here,
one hundred miles from anywhere, the operator's board and lodging
was provided by the railroad. Early that evening, Wilson was
sitting somewhat disconsolately at the telegraph room window when he
was startled by a loud whoop. There was a second,
then a rush of hoofs, and a party of cowboys

(03:36):
came into view. It was the Welcoming Committee of the
bar O Ranch, the outfit referred to by the operator
at Exeter. With a final whoop, the cowman thundered up
to the station platform and dismounted. Muskoka. Jones, a huge,
heavily mustache ranchman over six feet in height, was first

(03:57):
to reach the open window. Diving within to the waist,
he brought a bottle down on the instrument table with
a crash pada. Welcome to our city, he shouted. The
response should have been instantaneous and hearty. Instead there was
a strange quiet. The following barrows faltered and exchanged glances.

(04:19):
Surely the Western had not at last fallen down on
its first obligation at bone Pile. For since the coming
of the rails, they had regarded the station operator as
a sort of social adjunct to the ranch, the keeper
of an open house of hospitality, their daily paper, the
final learned authority on all matters of politics and sport.

(04:41):
And if this latest change of operators had brought them
Muskoca spoke again, and the worst was realized. Well, you
gal face, little dude. The cowman crowded forward, and, peering
over Muskoka's broad shoulders, studied Wilson from head to foot
with speechless scorn. Muskoka settled forward on his elbows. Ah

(05:04):
you a real operator, he inquired, in a voice that
sounded foolish even to himself. Wilson responded in the affirmative, actual,
real male operator. The cluster of Broun's faces gaffawed loudly.
But you don't play cards, do you, Muskoka asked incredulously.

(05:27):
Now I'll bet you don't or smoke, or chew or
any of them. Wicked. Here are some cigarettes, the other
man laughed hopefully. The boy extended the package to have
it snatched from his hand. Scramblingly emptied, and the box
flipped ceilingward. In falling, the box brought further trouble. It

(05:48):
struck something on the wall, which emitted a hollow thud,
and glancing up, the cowman aspied Wilson's new brilliantly bended hat.
In a trice, Muskoka's long arm had secured it. With
the common inspiration, the cluster of faces withdrew the hat
sailed high in the air. There was an ear splitting
rattle of shots, and the shattered remnet was returned to

(06:10):
Wilson with ceremony. There all proper millinaried de la bone
Pile said Muskoka, and don't mention it. Now give me
that whitewashed fence you have around your ears. The boy
shrank further back in his chair, then suddenly turned and
reached for the telegraph key. In a moment, the big

(06:32):
cowman's pistol was out. Back in your chair, give me
that white fence, he commanded, trembling, Wilson removed his collar
and handed it over. The cowman stepped back and calmly
proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it. There,
he announced, returning it much better, that's bone pile fashion.

(06:54):
Put it on meekly. Wilson obeyed, and the circle of
cowman roared at the result. Now proceeded, Muskoka. That coat
of yoles is nice, fairly nice, but I think it'd
look better inside out. Try it. Wilson again turned desperately
toward the key. The cowman banged on the table with

(07:15):
his pistol, and slowly the boy complied, and a few
minutes after, on a further command, he emerged from the
doorway in shattered hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and
with trousers rolled to his knees, a spectacle that set
the cowboys staggering and shouting about the platform in convulsions
of laughter. In fact, the result was so pleasing that,

(07:39):
after enjoying it to the full, the ranchman decided to
carry the hazing no further, and only requested of Wilson
that he wave his hat and give three cheers for
the citizens of Bone Pile. They mounted their ponies and
scampered away, hastening in to the telegraph instruments. Wilson began
frantically calling Exeter. Before x had responded, however, the boy

(08:03):
paused and sat back in his chair, a new light
coming into his eyes. Yes, sir, I'll wager they sent
them down here to do this, he said aloud. Suddenly
he arose and began removing the turned coat. I'll stick
it out here for two weeks if they lynch me,
declared the dude grimly. It was early Wednesday evening of

(08:28):
a week later that the monthly gold shipment came down
from the Red Valley Mines. The consignment was an unusually
large one, and in view of the youth of the
new operator, the superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith,
the driver of the mines express, remained at the station
until the treasure was safely aboard train. On reading the message, however,

(08:51):
big Bill flatly refused. Why it's the night of Dan
Haggerty's dance, he pointed out indignantly, dozen the superdu tenant
know that the superintendent didn't and didn't care. Was the
response to the wired protests. The driver was supposed to
remain at all times. It was an old understanding. Understanding

(09:15):
or not, big Bill declined to remain and stormed out
the door, announcing that he would get someone down from
the Barrow Ranch. Half an hour later, Muskoka Jones appeared.
Good evening. I'm sorry it was necessary to trouble you, sir,
apologized Wilson. Good evening, Willie, don't mention it was the

(09:36):
big cowman's scornful response. Then, having momentarily paused to cast
a contemptuous eye over the lad's neat attire, he threw
himself on the floor in the farthermost corner of the
room and promptly fell fast asleep. Some time after darkness
had fallen, the young telegrapher, dozing in his chair at
the instrument table, was startled into consciousness by the sound

(09:59):
of approaching hoof beats, with visions of Indians or robbers.
He sprang to the window to discover a dim, tall
figure dismounting on the platform. In alarm, he turned to
call the sleeping guard, but momentarily, hesitating, looked again. The
figure came into the light of the window, and with
relief he recognized Iowa Burns, another of the barrow cowmen. Hello, kid,

(10:24):
said the newcomer, entering, where's old Muskokie good evening over
there asleep? Sir? I suppose you knew he was taking
mister Smith's place, guarding the gold until the train came in. Sure, yes,
I was there when Bill come up. He crossed to
the side of the snoring Jones and kicked him sharply
on the sole of his boots. Muskokie, get up, he shouted,

(10:49):
here's something to help keep out the chills. Again, and
more sharply, he kicked the sleeping man while the boy
looked on, smiling. Suddenly, the smile disappeared and the lamp's
heart leaped into his throat. He was gazing into the black,
round muzzle of a pistol, and beyond it was a
face set with a deadly purpose. Instinctively, his staring eyes

(11:10):
flickered toward the box of bullion. Yep, that's it, but
wink an eye again. An yo, git, it said, burns coldly, advancing.
Now get back there, up again the corner of the
table and stand so if anyone comes along, you'll appear
to be leanin there. Conversin' go on quick. Dazed cold

(11:31):
with fear, the boy obeyed, and Iowa, producing a sheaf
of hide thongs, proceeded to bind his arms to his
side as the renegade titaned a knot, securing the boy's
left leg to the leg of the table. Muskoka's snoring
abruptly ceased, and the sleeper moved uneasily. In a flash,
Iowa was over him, pistol in hand, but the snoring

(11:54):
presently resumed, and after watching him sharply for a moment,
Iowa returned to the boy. Now move, remember, and I shoot,
he repeated, warningly, to make sure I'm going to fix
up that snoring idiot over there before I finish you.
And don't you as much as shuffle your hoof. Recovering

(12:14):
the bundle of thongs, he strode back to the sleeper.
As previously the man's back had been turned. Wilson had
shot a frantic glance about him. In their sweep, his
eyes had fallen on the partly open drawer in the
end of the table immediately below his left hand, and
in the drawer had noted the bowl of a pipe.
At the moment, nothing had resulted. But as the renegade's

(12:36):
back was again turned, his eyes again dropped to the drawer,
and a sudden, wild possibility occurred to him. His heart
seemed literally to stand still at the audacity the danger
of it. But might it not be possible? The light
from the single lamp on the wall opposite was poor,
and his left side thus in deep shadow, and his

(12:58):
left hand he tried yes. Though tightly bound at the wrist,
the hand itself was free. His first day at the station,
the visit of the men from the ranch, Muskoka's contemptuous
greeting recurred to him, here was his opportunity of vindication.
With a desperate clenching of the teeth, the boy decided

(13:19):
and at once began cautiously straining at the thongs about
his wrist to obtain the reach necessary. Finally they slipped slightly,
but enough carefully. He leaned sideways, his fingers extended. He
reached the pipe, fumbled a moment, and secured it. Burns
was on his knees beside the unconscious guard, splicing a

(13:41):
thong an instant. Wilson hesitated, then springing erect pointed the
pipe stem, and, in a voice he scarcely knew, a
voice sharp as the crack of a whip, cried, hands up, Burns,
I got ya quick, I'll shoot. The renegade cowman, taken
completely by surprise, leaped to his feet with a cry,

(14:02):
without turning. His hands instinctively half raised. Quick up, up,
cried the boy a breathlessly critical instant. The hands wavered,
then slowly, reluctantly, they ascended. For a moment. The young
operator stood, panting but half believing the witness of his
own eyes to the success of the stratagem. Then, at

(14:23):
the top of his voice, he cried, mister Jones, Muskoka,
wake up, wake up. Iowa, muttering beneath his breath, paused
anxiously to watch results. Muskoka, Muskoka, shouted the lad. The
snoring continued evenly unbrokenly. Iowa indulged in a dry laugh.

(14:44):
Save your wind, kid, he said, I fixed a drink.
He took before he came down. At this news, the
boy's heart sank. But look here, kid, Iowa turned carefully,
hands still in the air. Look here, can't we square
this thing up? You got the drop on me? Okay,
and with a blame little pea shooter, he added, catching

(15:06):
a glimpse as he thought of the end of a
small black barrel, but nevertheless continuing his attitude of surrender.
You got the drop, and you're a smart kid, you are.
But can't we fix this thing up? You take half say,
I'll be glad to let you in, honest, and no
one ever think you was in the game? Come what

(15:27):
he say? Though apparently listening, the young operator was in
reality urgently casting about in his mind for other expedients. Obviously,
it would be too dangerous to attempt to reach with
the fingers of one of his bound hands the thongs
holding his left leg to the leg of the table.
He might reveal the pipe or drop it. And neither

(15:48):
could he reach the telegraph key to get in touch
with someone on the wire, And in any case, how
could that help him? For the next train was not
due for two hours, and it did not seem possible
he could carry on his bluff that length of time,
but think as he would. The wire seemed the only hope.
Could he not reach the key in some way? The

(16:09):
solution came as Iowa ventured a short step nearer and
repeated his suggestion. At first sight, it seemed as ridiculously
impossible as the bluff with a pipe, But quickly the
boy weighed the chances and determined to take the risk. Now,
mister Iowa, he said, you are to do just exactly
what I tell you, step by step, so much, and

(16:32):
no more if you make any other move. If I
only think you are going to, I shall shoot. My
finger is pressing the trigger constantly, and I guess you
can see that at this range, though my hold on
the gun is a bit cramped, I could not miss
you if I wanted to listen. Now, you will come
forward until you can reach the chair here by sticking

(16:53):
out your foot. Then you will push it back along
the table to the wall and turn it face to me.
Then you will sit down in it. After that I'll
tell you some more. Go ahead, and remember my finger
always pressing the trigger. As Burns came forward, infinitely puzzled,

(17:14):
the boy turned slowly so that the muzzle of the
pipe continued to cover the would be bullion thief. Gingerly,
Iowa reached out with his foot and shoved the chair
back to the wall, and turning backed into it and
sat down. With the shadow of a grin on his face,
he demanded, what next. Now, slowly, let your left arm

(17:38):
down at full length on the table. There, hand is
on the key, isn't it, now, continued Wilson, who never
for an instant allowed his eyes to wander from the
man's face. Now feel with your fingers at the back
of the key and find a screw head standing up?
Which what there are two? If you are three, said

(18:01):
Iowa craftily. No, there are not. There's just one, and
I give you three to find it, said the young
operator sharply. One. Two. Oh go on, I got it,
exclaimed Iowa angrily. Below the screw head is a binding nut.
Loosen it and turn it leftwise. Found it. Now take

(18:25):
hold of the screw head again and turn it to
the left. It turns free, doesn't it. Sure? Turn it
about four times completely around. Now the binding nut again
down the other way till it's tight. Got it. Now
hold your fingertips over the black button at the inner

(18:46):
end of the key and hit down on it smartly.
There was a click. That's it. It is plenty of play,
hasn't It works up and down about an inch if
that's what you mean. Rowled Iowa, still puzzled. But what
I'm going to give you a lesson in telegraphy, and
you are going to Iowa saw and exploded. Well of

(19:10):
all the say what do you think? All right? Sharply, bravely,
though inwardly stealing himself for catastrophe, the lad counted one
two again He won? Oh go on, spluttered Iowa through
gritting teeth, and the boy resumed. Hit the key a

(19:31):
sharp rap pretty good. Now, two wraps, one right after
the other. Good. Now those are what we call dots.
Remember now press the key down, hold it for just
a moment, and let it come up again. Very good.
You could learn telegraphy quickly, mister Burns. That is what

(19:54):
we call a dash. With a situation apparently so well
in hand, Wilson was beginning almost to enjoy it. Now
I have you do what I've been aiming at. And
remember always my finger is constantly pressing the trigger. Now,
then feel just this side of the key button below

(20:15):
the little button of a lever, got it, press it
from you. There was a single, sharp, upward click of
relay and sounder. The key was open, ready for operation.
Now listen, I want you to make the letter X
a dot, a dash, then two more dots, write together,

(20:35):
and keep repeating till I stop. You. Still under the
spell of the fancied revolver and the boy's unfaltering gaze,
the renegade cowman obeyed, and the telegraph instruments clicked out
a painfully deliberate, but fairly readable X. It was an
idle half hour, and when the Dispatcherate Exeter, heard his call,

(20:57):
he glanced up from a magazine, listened to a more
moment and impatiently remarking some idiot student returned to his reading,
but steadily insistently. The repetition of x's continued, and at
length he reached forward, struck open the key, and demanded
who sign Clumsily came the answer, B bone pile. Now

(21:22):
what's happening down there? It doesn't sound like the new
operator either. The wire again clicked open, and slowly in
the same heavy hand. The mystified and then amazed dispatcher
read help held up after gold tied to table got

(21:43):
drop on him, making him send b The dispatcher grasped
his key. Good boy, good boy, he hurled back, keep
it up for twenty five minutes and we'll get help
to you. There's an extra engine at h wait eading
for ninety two. I'll start her right down and therewith.

(22:03):
He whirled off into an urgent succession of hs. But
through young Jennings's strange feet in telegraphy, help was nearer
even than the unexpected sucker from hillside. Despite the sleeping
draft Burns had administered to Muskoka Jones, the unaccustomed clicking
of the telegraph instruments had begun to arouse the big cowman.

(22:25):
When finally, in climax came the lightning whirr of the
dispatcher's excited response. He gasped into consciousness, blinked, and suddenly
found himself sitting upright, staring open mouthed at the spectacle
before him. The next moment, with a shout, he was
on his feet in the middle of the floor, and
the nerve strung boy had fainted. As the lad sank forward,

(22:48):
his pistol fell from his hand and rolled into the
light from burns came an inarticulate cry. His jaw dropped,
his eyes started in his head. Muskoka halted in his stride,
wet his lips, and muttered incredulous words of admiration and amazement.
Then in a moment he had cut Wilson free and

(23:08):
stretched him on the floor. It was Iowa, broke the silence.
Rising with compressed lips, he held toward Muskoka the butt
of his pistol. Here, shoot me with my own gun,
he said, hoarsely, I deserve it. Muskoka considered gnaw. He
decided at length leave your gun as a present for

(23:30):
the kid, and turning and indicating the door git. Thus
was it. The young dude operator proved himself and came
into possession of a handsome pearl handled Colt's revolver, and
early the following morning, from a committee of the barrow
Kalman headed by Muskoka Jones, a fine, high crowned, silver

(23:51):
spangled Mexican sombrero to take the place of the hat
they had destroyed, and as a mark of esteem for
the pluckiest little operator ever, sent the bone pile. More
important still, however, the incident won Wilson immediate esteem at
division headquarters, where one of the first of the operators
to congratulate him was Alex Ward. End of chapter