Stories for the Christmas Season

[samfp1943]

Several years back,a gentleman who posted around here shared the following story about a man, and his loyal dog:  "The Story of Shep" ... A true story. from Ft. Benton, Montana.. A station on the Great Northern Rwy.

See full story linked @  http://montanakids.com/cool_stories/Famous_Montanans/shep.htm

Over time, several other Forum posters have shared some railroad-related stories of this Season; of people and events surounding this special time of the year.

If you have one of these stories, and would like to share it here, Please Do!

[edblysard]

A Real Christmas Gift...

 

Got a good reality check today.

Everyone has a bad day once in a while, you know, those days where you could care less about any and everything, catch a good case of the blues, and end up feeling really sorry for yourself?

Had one of those yesterday, and it looked like a repeat for today.

The yard is jammed to the gills with cars, no place to switch them to, more work than we could ever get done, knee deep in gators...that along with some personal issues keeping me down in the dumps, having a real good pity party for myself....

There is a young man, 16 now, who shows up just about every day it isn't raining...he sits across from our yard entrance watching the action on the old SP line, and watching us switch.

The thing is, he sits in a wheelchair.

His Dad brings him up there in the afternoon, around noonish, and they sit, him in his chair, Dad in the van he has, watching, taking the occasional photo, waving at the crews as they go by.

I have never really talked to either one of them, other than giving them a few cans of water during a scorching summer day, and sneaking a gimmie cap out to the kid once...didn't really know his story, other than he shows up all the time, and a few of the other regular fans seem to enjoy sitting with him.

Well, we were sitting there on the lead, blocked by another inbound, while we were trying to go grab another switch cut from the receiving yard...just piddling away time really, when I noticed the van drive up.

Dad unloads the kid; they have one of those hydraulic lifts in the side door.

He gets the boy all covered up with a blanket, and they are taking in all the sights.

The boy keeps looking over at us, we are literally just across the street from them, when I get one of those ideas that usually end up with me having to try to explain to someone higher up why and what I was thinking and doing.

I talk with my helper a minute, and he thinks it is a great idea also, so we get down, trot across the street, and ask the kid if he wants to see the locomotive up close....Don't think I would have gotten a better response if I had given him the lottery numbers for tonight!

We roll him across the street, Dad grabs the handles, and my helper and I get the wheels, and we carry the chair over the ballast to the side of our motor.

This young man is just ecstatic, starts asking a million questions, we are kinda tickled, too...so my helper and engineer begin to answer his questions, when they can get a word in edgewise.

I was busy watching Dad...the look on his face was worth any trouble we might get into...I led him away from the locomotive, far enough where normal conversation can be had lower than at a shout.

I ask a few questions of my own, and it turns out the kid was riding his brand-new bike on his 12^{th birthday when a drunk driver clipped him...destroyed the spinal cord in his lower back; he is paralyzed from the waist down.}

His Dad is beginning to cry a little now, seems the boy wanted to grow up and be an engineer, has always been a train nut, since childhood...Dad swears the kid can hear the trains miles away, you get the idea.

Dad and son have a model railroad and do the railfan bit together every chance they get.

Dad had tried to buy tickets for the UP 844, but just couldn't afford to get the tickets or the time to drive out to where it was.

He is really getting carried away thanking me for letting his son this close to a real locomotive, when my engineer, Booger, comes around the end of the motor, and points over to the dirt access road.

Great! Our daylight trainmaster is standing there, looking at me with that look which usually means I have to think faster than I normally do.

So I wander over, he gives me the third degree, then the speech about liability, injury, getting sued, blah blah blah...the whole time, I am thinking what a Scrooge he is, all the kid is doing is asking questions, and touching the lower handrail and steps....

Suddenly, I realize the trainmaster has quit talking, maybe a long while ago in fact, because he is looking at me like I am supposed to be giving him either an answer to a question or a load of BS, or both.

Now, my mouth and my brain sometimes run at different speeds, the mouth is usually faster of the two, and I usually regret that...today has been a crap day, my feet hurt, its really cold outside....

Before I even think it through, I just looked at him and said, "Dude, what a Scrooge you are!　 That kid will never get a chance like this again, ever...all he wants to do is look and ask questions...he should be glad he isn't one of your kids!"...

I didn't wait for a reply, but just went back to Dad, walked him over to the kid, and was about to tell them the party was over when the trainmaster came walking up to us.

I was sure I had managed to get myself and my crew pulled out of service, just sure of it...and right before Christmas, to boot.

The young man, who had no idea who this guy was, or what he was going to do, stuck out his hand and introduced himself, grinning from ear to ear...the trainmaster had no real choice but to shake with the kid...he then tapped me on the arm, and motioned for me to follow him...we go about 10 or 15 feet away, when the trainmaster turned around, and had the oddest look on his face I had ever seen.

By now the inbound had cleared us up, so the noise level had dropped a lot, and I swear, the guy sounded like he was about to cry...he pointed towards the receiving yard, and said "You can get to your switch cut now....of course, you might want to run your helper down an empty track to the other end to check for brakes and see if there is a Fred on the end."

Now this make little sense, as the car department bleeds off these cuts, and removes the EOTs before we ever get a list on the stuff...I look at him, he nods towards the kid, then cuts his eyes up to the locomotive cab...no way...he is telling me to take the kid for a ride, just no way..."I will be downtown for a while, maybe an hour or so, if you need anything" he says, then looks at the kid again, and looks me straight in the eyes, "Be careful, Ok?"...spins around, walks over to his truck and leaves.

So when he is out of sight, I walk back, grab my engineer, clue him in and check to make sure he is good with it...he thinks it is a great idea...we ask Dad if they wouldn't mind going for a ride...I swear the kid looked like he was about to faint...Dad was a little stunned...said he didn't know how we would get the boy up there...

Booger is not the brightest light in the harbor, but he is one big son of a gun, he just reached down, grabbed the kid, flipped him over his shoulder, and walked up the steps, problem solved.

Now, I thought we would just give them a ride, but when we got into the cab, Booger had the kid in the engineer's seat, explaining what the controls did...I told him let's get over there before anyone notices...he runs standing up behind the kid, who is wild-eyed at all of this.

We get in the track, pretty much hidden from the yard by the cut of cars, and Booger stops the motor....steps away from behind the kid, and tells him which handle to move, to press down on the independent, move the throttle over here....and we take off, with the kid running the motor.

We have close to 120 cars' worth of running room, so the kid gets to run back and forth a pretty good distance...we get down and start to give him hand signals, while Booger stand behind him, telling him what to do...pretty much we screw off for a good 30 minutes, but time well spent...we run Dad back to his van, tell him to meet us at the other end of the yard, let the kid notch it out a few more times, and end up at the north end, where there is a whole lot of nothing but trees and the access road...Dad shows up with the van, we get the wheelchair off the front porch, Booger does his human bench press routine again, and we gotta get back to work before the yardmaster figures out we are doing not a whole lot...

The young man looks like he is about to explode he is so happy, Dad is crying a little, my helper is suddenly real interested in the rocks around his feet, I am getting a little leaky too...the kid shakes hands all the way around, they get loaded up, and as they are pulling away, the kid yells out the window, "Thanks again, and you guys have a great Christmas"...

So we skipped beans to make up the time, and when we tied up, I ran up to the tower to talk to the yardmaster, as I was kinda curious as to why the trainmaster did what he did...turns out that, yup, you can guess, his 8-year-old son was killed by a drunk driver.

Boy, do I owe someone an apology or what...

So I am driving home, feeling more like an idiot than usual, half of me thinking what I need to say to the trainmaster next time I see him, and half of me feeling pretty good about what we did for the kid, when it hits me...this kid will never get to do the things I take for granted every day...he most likely will never see the inside of a locomotive again, never line a switch, or tie a hand brake...never get to dance with his girlfriend, go surfing or ride a horse...and our trainmaster will never get to go watch trains or build a model with his son, or show him how to run a locomotive.

It smacked me so hard I had to pull over and sit a minute, smoke a smoke and think about it all.

So you know what?

Maybe nothing in my life is really wrong after all, I mean all my kids are healthy, my wife loves me, I am all in one piece, mostly, and in comparison...

Hey, ya know what?...I ain't got no problems, none at all...

I received a gift from the young man also...doing this for him taught me something else...

I had forgotten how to "play"...it was as much fun for us as anything we have done in a while.

And I thought about something late last night...what his Dad does for a living that allows him to spend as much time with his son as he does?

Whatever it is, it must be worth the sacrifice, because it allows him to do something a lot of us never do...spend a lot of time with his kid, and watch--really watch--him grow up.

Now, how cool is that?

I know the Dad works with his hands, you could see the callus, and every time I see him, he is always dressed in khakis or jeans and work shoes.

His watch is a Timex, his van is an old 70-something Dodge...but his kid was dressed in the "latest" cool clothes, the Nikes on his feet were the real deal, the kid's camera was a Canon Rebel, so I could see where Dad spends his money...

Anyway, when I got home last night, and after I typed all that...I took my kids and we went and played...we walked down to the BN main and watched a few trains, took a stroll through the woods near here, chased a wild rabbit, (rabbits win every time) then sat out in the front yard and watched stars, talking about all kind of stuff.

See, I realized that maybe the young boy's Dad is the real hero here...after all, it can't be easy.

But he is the one getting the reward; so to speak...the looks between him and his son made me realize how much I wish I had taken the time to really talk to my Dad, and how much I miss him.

It also made me realize how much the boy and his Dad love each other...you could see that no matter what happens, they will always be there for each other, you could see the boy trusted him completely.

I get it now...buying the new plasma TV for the house, or getting the next Playstation hasn't made me a "good" parent anywhere near as much as chasing a rabbit with a 7 and 13 year old did....Now I know things about my kids, and how they think, what they really want, what scares them and what doesn't.

Things I thought I knew didn't really matter, what I thought they wanted, and what they really wanted turned out to be different things after all.

Ya know what, there is a meteor shower due here on the 12th...think a road trip to the beach with the kids sounds like a great idea.

So the kid got a cab ride and a quick locomotive lesson, but I think I am the one who got the real gift...

　

Turns out there are a lot of closet modelers on the railroads, and the young man and his Dad are currently being asked to join a local club, which has as one of its founding members the former president of the local chapter of the NHRS...the boy should be in hog heaven...they are the folks who provide the car attendants and such when UP runs the specials down here.

As an addendum to the story, I went to apologize to the TM...he wouldn't let me...said I didn't know, so no apology needed,

He told me about his getting the kid in touch with the club, then handed me an envelope.

Said the young man had asked him to give it to me.

Inside was a simple plain paper hand written note, thanking my crew for the "fantastic afternoon" he and his Dad had.

Imagine that, some new school kids still have old school　manners!

Even better, I have an artifact to show my kids when they get all down and blue.

　

　

I don't normally preach, and I lost my soap box a long time ago, but just this once...

Do yourself, and your family a big favor this Christmas, and New Year's Eve...if you go out to party, and you drink...take a designated driver, or call a cab if you have even just a little more than normal...'cause trust me, you really don't have any problems, none at all.

[Uncle Jake]

Thanks for posting this story again Ed, I always enjoy reading it.

[blhanel]

I never get tired of reading that one, Ed.

[CShaveRR]

I'll pile on with the thanks, too, Ed.  

[samfp1943]

CShaveRR

I'll pile on with the thanks, too, Ed.  

 

 

Terrific Story, Ed !     Thanks for Sharing it !

 I hope we can get some more Seasonal stories, shared here, as well.   

To all A merry Christmas ! and a Happy New Year !

I hope everyone has a safe and enjoyable Holiday Season. 

 

[wanswheel]

That story is simply unforgettable. Probably remember the protagonist forever as well. Great writing, Ed.

[tree68]

It's not Christmas season on the forum without Ed's two contributions - this one, and his classic "Night Before Christmas" (available elsewhere on the forum).

 

[wanswheel]

Railroad Magazine, January 1943

Christmas Comes to the Prairie Central

Banker management had nearly wrecked the system; a blizzard threatened to finish the job.

By Harry Bedwell

The gray bowl of the sky had shut down over the Oberlin yard. Snow fell in big flakes, sliding in quietly to make a clean carpet over rails and gaunt ties and the dark ballast between.  It washed the sprawling roof of the big station, with division headquarters above stairs. It made the lines of rolling stock along the sidings look like the huge links of long white chains in the growing afternoon gloom.

The night air was tight as a drum. You could feel the sullen pressure of the storm climb.  The wind gathered out there somewhere under the dull arch.

Eddie Sand, slim and light-stepping, came up the station platform heading for the dispatcher's office.  A boomer telegraph operator from every place but here, he'd be sure to drift on once more when his feet again became restless.  Right now the swarming flakes and the crisp air trickling in about the high collar of his overcoat stirred a random element inside him.  They shifted his thoughts beyond the lowering sky and the curtain of snow to far reaches of sun and desert. 

Eddie felt good.  He was ticking like a watch.  Beside him loped Hi Wheeler, fiddle-footed trainman and comrade on many unseemly pranks.  Hi's sheepskin coat was belted tight about his gaunt middle.  A shrewd glint of oafish eyes showed from the nest of turned-up collar and low visor of his heavy cap.

The thick shutter of snow muffled and blanketed the restless area of the fanned-out sidings.  A yard goat stamped by, sluggishly dragging a string of open-top equipment.  Her exhaust shook the dead air, bouncing back from the low sky.

Eddie and his friend paused before separating at the foot of the outside stairs under the shelter of the wide eaves.  His face cracked in an impish grin.

"I'll bet you got me something nice for Christmas, Eddie," he insinuated blandly. "You wouldn't neglect an old pal."

Eddie gestured with his hands inside his overcoat pockets.  Yeah, it was Christmas Eve, he admitted.  So what?  To a railroader it merely meant more grief handling people and packages which were on the move at holiday time.  And on the Prairie Central it'd be a wearisome time, considering she was likely in the clutches of the Big Six Line which would probably kick her into the ashcan.  Anyhow, railroaders didn't celebrate.  They just fixed it so that everybody else could enjoy themselves.

"Also," Eddie admitted, "I forgot to buy you that stick of candy I promised.  I'll try to skirmish one for you in the morning."

Hi tucked his thin nose inside the collar of his coat as the wind whipped snowflakes into his face.

"Mebby," he conjectured, "you're jealous 'cause I got me a date to take Sally to the dance and Christmas tree at the Elk's Hall tonight, which I can make, while you work."

The trainman was feeling very well about that setup.  He and Eddie had been feuding over a buxom blonde who worked in the millinery department of the Bon Ton. Eddie's working hours didn't permit him to step Sally out except on his days off, while Hi was mostly on the road or at the other end of the division, so their rivalry had been sporadic.

Now Hi had maneuvered himself into a spot where he believed he had all the advantage on this festal night.  He'd worked it so he had been called to flag a light engine down to Hugo and help Thirty-three back up the hump, and he'd act as swing man coming back.  Thirty-three was a hotshot, due at Oberlin in the middle of the evening, usually on time; and this gave Hi the break he wanted.

"Sally told me she was going to wear all her pretties, just for me," he gloated.  "That gal is sure a hot sketch!  And can she dance!"  Hi whistled with satisfaction.

Eddie Sand glinted a brief, derisive smile.  His slim height matched Hi's ramshackle longitude.  His hands were adept and sure, built to whip out clear Morse on the telegraph key.  Eddie and Hi were as incorrigible a pair as drifted the iron highway.  Firm friends on numberless escapades, they'd sympathetically cut each other's throat over a girl, and think it fun. The wind was rising and its edge had been whetted.  A switch engine shoved Eighteen's train of day coaches under the long sheds.  George Nelson, her brakeman, came out of the station and stood beside them as he buttoned his overcoat.

"Mr. Nickerson's special is headed back this way," he said gloomily, "but there ain't no word that he's taken over the Prairie Central."  He looked at them as if he hoped they'd deny this.  "Guess the old boy didn't want us enough to buy," he muttered.  "Well, if the Big Six gets us___"   He ran an index finger around his throat from ear to ear and then walked dejectedly over to his train.

Most of the men of the Prairie Central would be feeling that way tonight.  They'd not be celebrating Christmas very much with prospects so grim.

The caller trumpeted monotonously inside the waiting-room where a bulging stove glowed red in the afternoon dusk.  They'd put two extra coaches on Eighteen.  Passengers streamed from the swinging doors and across the platform through the curtain of sliding flakes—city folk going to the country for the holidays, shoppers returning home, commuters.  Most of them carried bundles; all had the bright expectancy that comes at Yuletide.  They greeted George Nelson as he stood by the step helping the women with their packages.  Some paused an instant to bestow a gift.  George was gray and smiling.  He'd been on that local run for ten years, and everybody liked him.

Dan Cadagan, the conductor, came from the trainman's room as Eighteen's engine backed down from the roundhouse and tied on.  Big Dan was as blustering as a spring storm.  A ring of white hair showed around the edge of his cap.  Gold braid and buttons gleamed on his uniform.  He was proud of that uniform and the gold stripes of service, won in honest performance of duty.  Tonight his broad, pink face wore a worried expression, the same look that haunted the PC these days, but it opened in a lengthwise grin as he saw Eddie and Hi.

"You two look like you'd lost your way in the storm," he said. "Haven't you got any place to hang up your stockings?"

"Mister," Hi declared, "I got all my socks on; and believe you me, I'll likely need more before the evening gets late."

"If you boys have the time," Big Dan suggested, "and no better place to go, stop by and see my old lady.  She'd be tickled to death and she'd be sure to have a bite and a drop of something to warm the insides of you. 'Tis the luck of the draw that takes me away from home on the eve of Christmas."

It was a sincere invitation.  Despite the gloomy look of the future, Mr. and Mrs. Cadagan would like to share their bright home with all their friends on this Christmas Eve.  Eddie's mind snapped a quick picture of the big old house and Maggie Cadagan, both ample and cheery.  Like many railroaders, Big Dan would not be at his own fireside.  He'd spend the evening on the road and most of Christmas day at the other end of the division.

Shadows of worry came back to Big Dan's jovial face as he crossed the platform and paused under the gangway of Eighteen's engine to read the orders over with his engineer.  Spirits here on the Prairie Central were as lowering as the sky tonight.

"That's how it is on the railroad," said Eddie. "Turns you out of your own home even on the holidays."

"As I recall it," Hi remarked, "we all asked for work when we come here."

Eddie gave him a bitter look.  "You're feeling cockey.  Better take it easy, else something's liable to happen to you before daylight."

Belated passengers hurried across the platform.  Expressmen tossed the last of the huge truck loads of U.S. mail and baggage and express into the baggage cars, now stacked to the roof.

“Board!”

Big Dan's bellow ran under the train sheds in deadened echoes.  The engine bell sounded as if it had been wrapped in cotton wool.  The exhaust blew off in subdued coughs.  Eighteen moved out like a shadow through the flickering white flakes.  Wind sang along the eves and snow scurried before it in panicky flurries.  The storm was moving in.  Eighteen's whistle came back in faint streamers as she sounded a crossing warning.

Eddie Sand was "on the sheet" up there above the stairs—second trick, four o'clock till midnight.  The surge of high iron traffic pulled and tugged at something deep inside him.  A storm is always a challenge to operating men.  Those sliding white particles throw the delicate timecard of minutes off balance.  You fight the elements to keep trains rolling.  With the added holiday traffic, you have to put all your skill and cunning into maneuvering them safely through the incipient blizzard that blinds and obstructs the cruising schedules.

"It's too bad," Hi said gleefully, "that you got to work for a living.  I'll pretty soon be back on Thirty-three, and then me and Sally'll do the conga. Pretty soft!"

"You can never tell what'll happen in a blizzard," Eddie warned. "Trains get delayed and the dispatcher has to handle motive power to best advantage."

Hi studied him, suddenly suspicious.   "You wouldn't double-cross a pal at Christmas time, would you?  Not try to figure ways and means to keep me out there on the line till it's too late for the party?"

"If I do," the boomer assured, "I'll either go myself, or see that some other real man takes Sally."

"You do it."  High threatened, "and I'll write that General Manager down in Chattanooga and tell him who stole them dressed chickens out of the pantry of his private varnish."

"Which would involve you in that transaction," Eddie pointed out.

"Well," said the trainman, "if you encounter Santa Claus anywhere, tell him I've been a good boy."

With that he drifted into the whirling flakes, his cap canted at a rakish angle.  A swell guy he was and a smart railroader.  It wasn't his fault if blondes occasionally ran him ragged.  That was an inherent infirmity in an otherwise sound structure.

Eddie grinned and turned up the stairs.  He'd come down early to relieve the first trick man who had sent him an urgent plea to sit in an hour ahead of time so he could do his neglected holiday shopping.  The chatter of telegraph instruments broke over him in a brisk rush of metallic sound as he opened the door to the dispatcher's room.  Smells of the glowing coal stove, tobacco smoke and wet batteries breezed against his face.

Lights funneled a dim yellow glow over ancient typewriters where operators sat with a sounder in its resonator close to an ear, while their fingers tripped in swift spurts and the yellow messages dripped from machines.  Some sat at their keys sending from stacks of telegrams, their eyes picking up the words they flashed over the wires, words that seldom registered in the mind.  Two trick dispatchers sat facing each other through the glass partition of a side table.

Carter, the chief, had his feet on his table; and Walker, the night chief, also down early, leaned over a file of correspondence, turning the sheets with quick fingers.  Carter was as large as a master maniac and as deliberate as time.  He nodded lazily at Eddie.

"Here's one rail that don't believe in Santa Claus," he said cryptically.

Donby, the division superintendent, stormed in.  He glared at Carter's graceless posture at ease and overflowing his chair, his big feet on the table obscuring half the room.  That relaxed attitude infuriated the superintendent, and always had, but he'd never quite raised the courage to voice his resentment.  Carter wasn't a man to be abused.

Donby snapped:  "You'd better be sure the special don't get tangled up with that extra east and with Eight, and that coal train bunched up over there on the east end.  Remember, I don't want that special held up one damn minute."

"It won't be the traffic that lays her out," Carter drawled.  "It'll be them Smoky Hill cuts—if this snowstorm gets all wound up."

Donby gave the bottoms of Carter's flatboat shoes another repulsive look.  The brass hat apparently couldn't think well unless he was on his feet and ready to go.  He resented Carter's slacking off from high tension.  Donby snorted and prowled impatiently through the shadows of the long room.  He was stubby and hair-triggered, and was thinking furiously.  He came back through the spotted light and stared at the chief in blind abstraction.

"It occurred to me," he brooded, "that perhaps Mr. Nickerson hasn't decided yet whether or not he will take over the PC.  It might influence him to make the purchase if we handled his special promptly and efficiently, even in this weather."

Carter grunted.  When an official got above the grade of trainmaster he sure could think of the blamedest things.  Donby turned abruptly and slammed out the door.

"He's sure gonna bust a blood vessel before he gets old Salt-and-Molasses over his division," Carter decided with a yawn.

The chief dispatcher had seen everything happen on the iron pike that possibly could.  Nothing remained to raise his blood pressure.  He looked at the boomer skeptically.  Eddie had worked for him over on the Burlington three years before and they understood each other.

"Old S.A.M. Nickerson kind of sneaked up on us," Carter remarked.  "Donby didn't have time to anticipate it with his usual anxiety and preparation.  Now he'd be offended about that if he wasn't so excited."  His grin tightened.  "He's been in and out of this office nineteen times since he heard—Oh, Lord!"

The door blew open again and Donby stamped in.  He strode to the table, put his hands on the flat top and bowed up his back like a cat.

"Where do you figure the special will catch up with Thirty-three?" he began.

Just then the west-end trick dispatcher waved an arm from behind his low glass partition.  Walker, the night chief, reached across the table and thumbed a switch.  The chief's sounder fluttered into life.  It chattered dispassionately of disaster.  Walker leaned over a pad of clip and wrote down the message for Donby, who didn't know Morse.  Carter listened comfortably without lowering his feet.

Eddie caught the crisp phrases that flickered from the brass tongue.  A freight train had four cars on the ground and several rail-lengths of track torn up at Milepost 142 west of Elgin.  The conductor gave his reckonings of the derailment from the Elgin telegraph station.  An empty gon had climbed off.  It had chewed up a lot of ties before it turned over and took three cars of merchandise down an embankment on top of it.

A sweet mess, the skipper reported; the big hook would have to handle it.

Superintendent Donby reached for a telephone as the night chief's pen looped the story.  He got the roundhouse and within ten seconds the shop whistle was blasting above the howl of the storm.  Carter squared himself at his table and called the yard office on the other phone.  Donby was switched to the division engineer's office.  Carter told the wire chief to break out a portable telegraph set and send an operator along to cut in at the wreck.

Donby was trying to do a number of things at the same time, his mind jumping ahead trying to clear up the situation with his imagination.  He looked at Eddie over the top of the telephone transmitter while he waited for a call to be put through.  His eyes sparkled with his running plans.

"Look here, Eddie," he said, biting off his words, "this is going to be a pretty tough session tonight.  We've got this snowstorm and the holiday traffic and Mr. Nickerson's special to get over the division without delay or accident."

He listened on the phone and took another look at the boomer's slim length.

“You're pretty young," he estimated rapidly, "and you haven't been here long.  I wonder if we hadn't better hold the first trick man over till things clear up?”

Donby lacked the experience that would have seasoned him to all the crises that operating men continually encounter.  He hadn't been trained in that department.  He'd come out of the chief engineer's office when the best officials began deserting the Prairie Central as it went through its inevitable phase of deterioration under banker management.

Eddie almost told him to take the second trick and go to hell with it.  But Carter gave him a sly wink, which reminded the boomer that Donby likely wasn't really a bad sort if he'd learn to keep his shirt on.  Besides, Crawford, the first trick man, would be in a jam at home if he got stuck for overtime with his Christmas shopping and his wife's errands still to care for.

"That's up to you," Eddie nodded placidly.  "But you've got just so many trains and so much track to operate 'em on.  All the trick man has to do is keep 'em out of the way of one another.  The crews do the work."

Donby snapped at Carter:  "Don't you think we'd better hold Crawford on for a while till we see how things develop?  If anything should happen to that special—" He wagged his loose shoulders fretfully.

"Eddie can handle it," Carter said glumly, as if the admission hurt him.

Donby checked his resource in immediate manpower.  One trainmaster was over on the west end, out of range, and the other was in the hospital threatened with pneumonia.  The super swore fluently.  He tried to think fast.  In that confusion Crawford transferred the east end to Eddie and then sneaked downstairs.

"I'll have to go out there to the wreck myself," Donby told the chief, "and I guess you'd better go along as acting trainmaster.  I want to get back here by the time the special gets in from the east, and you'll have to stay out there and start the trains rolling when the wreck is cleaned up and some track laid."

Carter said "Okay" cheerlessly, and got up and waved the night chief into his chair.

"My wife," he gloomed, "is giving a Christmas tree for the neighborhood and I was to be Santa Claus.  You," he instructed Walker, "call her up and tell her what's happened to me. I ain't got the heart."

The chief dug out his overcoat and overshoes from a closet.  He squeezed into the coat and struggled with the galoshes.  Slamming up the receiver, Donby took a hurried look about the room.  He spied Eddie at the east-end dispatcher's table.

"Where's Crawford?" he demanded. "Shopping," said Eddie.

Donby looked as if he were going to jump down Eddie's throat. He focused his bright eyes on Walker at the chief's table.  He didn't like it, leaving these two here to watch over the east end and the special.  Everything was going wrong tonight; disaster had swooped on him out of the storm when he'd wanted his division to operate smoothly at least till Mr. Nickerson was over it.  But he couldn't be in several different places at the same time, and that wreck must be cleaned up so as not to delay the special.

"I'll be in touch with you on the wire all the time," he promised ominously, "so don't go out on a limb without consulting me.  You be very, very careful."

He thrust his hands into his pockets, shook his loose shoulders, and made for the door.

"Put the rotary on the 4-Spot to clean out the Smoky Hill cuts," he ordered. "Then send the rotary right back to the west end where we'll be needing her by that time.  Her up and back though the cuts ought to clear the way for the special."

Donby was trying to outguess the storm.  He plunged out the doorway and headed for his own office.

"I shoulda said a coupla blood vessels and a artery," Carter growled. "He's really got some brains—if he'd stand still long enough to use 'em."

"Yeah," Eddie admitted.  "He ought to put his feet up on the table once in a while and relax."

A faint bitter smile puckered Carter's round face, like he'd tasted a bad pickle.

"It does enrage him to observe me with my peddles up and at ease," he reflected.  "But, mister, it's surprisin' how much better you can think when you're more or less horizontal."

The chief leaned heavily on the table and confided privately in Walker's ear.

"I guess you know it," he muttered, "that Eddie usually does all right when he's left alone.  Trouble with him, you tell him to do something and he does it without expostulating—even when he knows it's wrong."

"Yeah," Walker agreed, "I've noticed that."

Carter lumbered to the door, headed for the station restaurant to fortify himself with food and coffee against the weather he'd encounter out there at the wreck.

They were mostly old home guards on the Prairie Central. They had known the road in the happy days when it was a going concern, fine to work for. Then a slick outfit had taken it.  There were too many bonds, too much water, and nobody knew where he stood.  They'd lost a lot of business.  Lately, the Big Six Lines that paralleled the PC had been trying to take over and make a branch out of it.  There wouldn't be many jobs left if they did.  Likely just some local freight runs and a couple of local passengers.  All through business would be diverted to the Big Six.  It wasn't a bright holiday outlook for the men. 

And then came rumors that S.A.M. Nickerson, who'd made a railroad of the Anaconda Short Line out there in the mountains, was bidding for the PC against the Big Six.  He wanted it for a connecting link with his ASL.  If he got it, there ought to be good times again.  There'd be real business once more.

Mr. Nickerson had inspected the property from his special on his way to Chicago for negotiations, and now he was returning west.  But there had been no official statement as to the outcome of the meeting.  The newspapers were speculating, but they couldn't state with authority the results of that Chicago conference.  The belief was that the deal had fallen through.  Nevertheless, five would get you ten from Eddie that old Salt-and-Molasses would take over the PC if he wanted it.

Because Eddie had worked for him out there on the ASL when Mr. Nickerson was making it over, and he knew the old man was hard to head off.  They called him a pirate in certain quarters.  But he'd made good railroads out of junk piles.  He didn't care much for big brains.  He said he could buy them by the gross.  He liked the men who could stand firm when the pressure was on.

Eddie slid out of his coat, put on his eyeshade, and settled in the old swivel chair before the dispatcher's table.  The crisp chatter of the racing sounders always stepped up your pulse.  They babbled now of all the struggling traffic out there on the iron highway in the swirling snow, kept it flowing through the stubborn resistance of the storm.  Schedules moved out into the turmoil.

The long, dusky room faded away and he was absorbed in the inked characters on the train sheet that kept the flickering picture of the east end under his hand.  The blasting trains out there along the way in the driven snow moved in black lines of figures on the sheet.  Snug and warm under the cone of light, he directed them through the harsh elements, ranging his district like a flitting ghost.

The wrecker pulled out of the west end of the yard, and shortly thereafter the work train followed.  Blair operator flipped the dispatcher's call, and Eddie answered.

"31 - No. 69 to C&E ex 3838 E Sig Wilmar," the operator droned the signature to a "31" order.

The boomer's eye raked the sheet as he sent a crisp, "Comp 3.32 P.M.," which put the order into effect.  And then he asked, "Did Conductor Wilmar ride his engine over?"

"Yes," Blair snapped back.

"Tell him," Eddie sent, "that I hope Santa Claus fills his socks with everything he's asked for."

Wilmar was a good head.  The skipper of a long drag, he'd had a hunch that the dispatcher would have to change a meet here, and he'd ridden his engine over from Norman so as to be able to drop off at the station at Blair and save time picking up the order.  There were a lot of good old heads on the PC.  It'd be a shame to bust up that kind of organization.

Wind shook the old station in sullen shudders.  The storm was eating into the schedules.  Thirty-four had to double Smoky Hill in the face of first Nineteen, stabbing the passenger train twelve minutes.  Even as Eddie Sand rearranged those threading lines of traffic, the image ran through his mind of Thirty-four's brakeman out there in the lonely white gale, flagging.

The west-end trick man facing him on the other side of the glass partition couldn't do much till the wreck was cleared.  Just get the big hook and the work train there as fast as they'd turn the wheels, then mostly sit and wait till the jam broke and started the rush.

Eddie called the operators on his end in rapid succession all along the line for another weather report.  The storm was stepping up its power over Smoky Hill.  Farther east it seemed to fade.  He crossed to the night chief's table with the report.  Walker studied it.

"Them brass hats always pick the worst time to clutter up the paying schedules with their specials," he grumbled.

Walker was short and wire-strung, a little stooped from endless hours over train sheets.  He was waspish and cranky but he knew his job and could keep his feet on the ground.

The skipper of Thirty-seven reported from Quincy, where he'd been switching, that an empty gon had ridden a choked switch and got a pair of trucks on the ground.  It'd likely take forty minutes to get it back on the iron again with a rerailer.  There was a lull.

Funny how you kept running into men and officials you'd worked with before, Eddie reflected.  Maybe, at that, it wasn't so strange, considering how much territory you covered and recovered on the boomer trail.  You couldn't miss bumping into former associates once in a while.  They were spread all over the country.

Now, here was Mr. Nickerson slamming across the Prairie Central increasing the melancholy prospects by his sudden flight from Chicago, causing considerable nervous shock.

There'd been that time out there on the ASL when three New York bankers, inspecting the property with a view of further financial investment in the line, had been snowbound on the jaw bone of the continent.  That had nearly ruined Mr. Nickerson's chances for a badly needed loan.  Entirely cut off from the world those tycoons had become irked and irksome.  Eddie, in charge of the situation, had tried to modify their discontent and keep them reasonably reassured while Mr. Nickerson put the resources of his railroad to work rescuing them.  Eddie had evidently made a job of it, for Mr. Nickerson had written him to that effect.

A blade plow that had been working Smoky Hill reported from Virgil that the cuts were drifting badly in the high wind, that he'd had to back up twice and take a header into them to break through and clear the way for Seventy-two.  They were getting a little more than he could manage.  Seventy-two had kept right behind him else she'd likely have stalled in there.

Eddie asked the conductor whether or not he could get through if he, Eddie, turned him around and sent him right back.

The skipper was dubious.  Those drifts in the cuts had given him a scare.  The wind was getting ugly.  Eddie urged him, and the skipper said he'd try.  But you had a hunch he wouldn't be aggressive about it.  He whipped his running orders together while the blade turned on the wye.  The he called across to Walker.

"We'd better send the rotary out now," he suggested, "instead of waiting to tie her onto the head end of the 4-Spot.  Those Smoky Hill cuts are getting too much for the blade, and anyhow they ought to be flanged out."

Walker puckered his brow.  "Mr. Donby said to put her on the 4-Spot," he objected.

"Okay," Eddie said.

"Hey wait!" the night chief protested.  He had remembered Carter's warning that Eddie propositioned only once.  He shuffled irritably over to the trick dispatcher's table and stared down at the sheet.  "Aw, hell!" he grumbled.  "Do it any way you think."

He went back to his table and snatched the telephone irritably.  An assistant division engineer came in on the night chief's call.  He checked the situation over with them and gave his sanction to sending the rotary up at once.

"Also," the assistant engineer added, "I've instructed all section foremen to stay close to their nearest telegraph stations with their crews till they're called or released.  If you need any of them before I do, help yourself."

It was like stringing beads to slip the rotary into the opposing streams of traffic, fitting her into the eastbound flow, protecting her against the counter current.

Here in the warm room with his long fingers on the quick pulse of the east end, Eddie could feel the tension grow out there on the winding ribbon of steel under the blanket of the rising storm.  Everybody had been working long hours at top speed during the holiday rush; and now they were all tightened up to battle the elements that were trying to swamp them.

The rotary came up out of the yard and paused beside the station to get her orders from the telegraph office below.  She looked dogged and sullen, the long, sleek body and the blunt nose of the hood showing its teeth in a nine-foot cutting wheel, the big Mallet behind and a coach and caboose trailing out into a diminishing tail.  She pushed ruthlessly into the storm, tossing plumes of snow which the wheel picked up from the light drifts across the rails.

Thirty-seven had the derailed gon back on the iron and was ready to move again.  Eddie gave her time on Eighteen to get to Milan.  The sounder lapsed into silence.

His mind slipped back an instant along the careless road he'd come to Christmas times in far places . . . down along the Missouri River and the little towns crouched under the bluffs, with the swift traffic storming out of the sharp starry night to Kansas City and St. Joe and Omaha . . . The rolling Pennsylvania countryside that looked like a big frosted cake, where the trains threaded thickly on the double track.

You felt kind of edified this time of year if there wasn't a dark outlook ahead.  When you stayed in one place too long things accumulated, including your troubles.

The 4-Spot, the Limited, clanged in from the west.  They'd take her off and divert all connecting traffic to the Big Six if old Salt-and-Molasses hadn't made a dicker for the PC.  There was a brisk bustle of changing crews and engines.  Passengers flitted across the wind-swept platform.  She rolled on, the line of dim lights fading into a curtain of whirling snow, vague faces showing from the blurred Pullman windows.

Hi Wheeler reported from Hugo that the wye there was drifted so he couldn't turn his engine.

"What I mean, Eddie," he said through the lightning slinger, "is that there's a drift as high as the stack, and that wye iron ain't heavy at all.  Should I go for to ramming around with this old Malley, the track's likely to come apart."

Eddie told the trainman that he'd have the rotary plow it out for him.  Later, Bruce, in the Smoky Hill, snapped his call and reported that the blade plow couldn't make it any farther through the cuts.

"One of them drifts just west of here stopped him dead," the brass pounder rattled.  "So he backed right out before he got stuck, and he came back.  He says they're too big for the blade to handle."

That skipper was a little too cautious.  Conductor Blake was a dark, sarcastic bender with a wandering eye.  He'd been in trouble over on the Katy before he came here.  He figured the PC was on the rocks, and to hell with 'um.  He'd back out of a tough spot.  Yet you couldn't go out on a limb and order him into the drifts.  He'd get his train stalled then just to be contrary.

"Tell him to get in the clear there and wait," Eddie ordered.

The special was keeping close to her schedule.  The storm out there on the east end hadn't yet slowed her to speak of, and he'd kept her clear of traffic.  The Smoky Hill cuts would be the tight place to get her through.

Donby had arrived at the wreck.  He was pestering Walker and the west-end dispatcher with a ceaseless stream of queries and instructions.  He seemed to be rapidly coming apart.  Walker wasn't offering him much information.

The storm kept moving in.  The operator at Cutter broke in on Eddie to report that Eighteen was stuck in a drift two miles east of his station.  The brakeman had walked back to town to pass the word.  He said that a ridge angling off from the right-of-way had caught the shifting wind just right to funnel the snow into a deep ridge across the main line.

Eighteen's hogger, anticipating a wind-cleared track here, had been going at a high rate of speed and had been unable to distinguish the drift through the storm.  He'd driven into it and had been stalled before he was fully aware of what was happening to him.  Now he couldn't move either way.  He was trapped.

Every second the snow was piling in on the stalled trainload of holiday passengers, increasing its stubborn grip.  You had to move fast to extricate her before she was hopelessly buried, blocking the line.  The brakeman said the track up to the rear end of the train was comparatively clear for the moment.

He snapped Hugo's call and asked, "Is Hi Wheeler there in the office?"

"And how," the brass pounder droned.  "He's all wound up about a blonde named..."

"Tell him," Eddie interrupted, "to bust down to Cutter with his engine.  Eighteen is stuck in the snow a mile east of the station.  It's up to him to pull her out.  Tell him to move fast.  Here's his order."

He got Cutter and Milan and sent it in a quick patter of Morse.

Later, Hugo reported Hi out, and added"  "That guy is sure harassed about his date with a gal named Sally, and he's got a suspicion in his mind that you're juggling him around so's he'll miss out on the party.  In fact, he seems pretty sure of it."

Walker looked up from his sounder that had been babbling Donby's worst fears, and called to Eddie.

"The super wants to know shouldn't we have waited and let the rotary dig Eighteen out?  He says the helper engine will likely get stuck in there too, and that would sure tie things up."

"Tell him," the boomer answered, "that it's a freak drift and that Eighteen's hind end isn't in it, but the whole train will be covered if we leave her there long.  The rotary wouldn't do her any good from this end."  He took another quick glance at the sheet.  "And tell him we'd better hold the rotary at Virgil till the special gets close up to her."

Walker sent and listened and shook his head.

"He says, Hell no!"  Walker repeated.  "The rotary's got her work cut out for her plowing out the west end ahead of the special, and he wants her turned around at Virgil and sent right back on the run."

"Okay," Eddie agreed, "if that's the way he wants it."

Walker looked at him dubiously, "That won't be so good."

Eddie thought of Hi Wheeler, and grinned.  That long, limber goon was a railroader.  He'd not get himself trapped.  Hi clowned a lot, but not at his work.  There he was quick and his judgment was seasoned.  He'd always handle any difficulty with a kind of bold caution.

The boomer's mind swung back to another Christmas they'd spent down in Texas, in a construction camp.  The boss wouldn't let his men have an engine and coach to take them to town on that Christmas Eve after weeks in grimy outfit cars.  That boss had been a regular old Simon Legree.  Eddie, who'd been doing the telegraphing for the work trains, and Hi, who'd been braking on them, had stolen an old maintenance of way coach, loaded it with gandy dancers, and let it roll down the grade to a town they could celebrate in.  Next morning they'd notified the boss that if he wanted his crew back he'd have to send an engine for them.  Eddie chuckled at the recollection. 

Then the storm played another trick.  Both the wye at Hugo and the long passing track were under the windy side of the graded main line, and snow had drifted high over both.  The rotary, on orders, paused here and cleared both tracks and then pushed on, leaving howls of grief and distress.  For in plowing out the passing track the rotary had covered up Forty-eight, a mixed freight waiting on the team track to follow the 4-Spot out.

"Mister," the brass pounder at Hugo lamented, "Forty-eight is sure bogged down.  The mechanic on the hood of the rotary musta' been asleep or else he couldn't see the freight train over on the other side of the main line, 'cause he turned the spout that way to throw the snow with the wind and he covered her up complete from end to end.  And I mean covered.  She'll have to be dug out, or else left there in refrigeration till springtime."

"Okay," Eddie sent imperturbably.  "We'll dig her out."

The section crews, he found, were still on tap at Cutter and Milan and Quincy, awaiting call.  He instructed them to be ready with their tools.

Hugo reported the 4-Spot by.  Cutter said there seemed to be something moving out there in the snow to the east, and then that it was Hi's Mallet dragging Eighteen into town by the tail, with possibly some help from the passenger train's own engine.  Hi snaked her into a siding and reported.

"We blamed near blew the stack off this old Malley," he declared through the operator. "But we brung her in.  Now what do I do?  Wait for Thirty-three and help her in from here?"

Eddie told him at length.

"Eighteen'll wait there and follow the rotary and the 4-Spot out.  You follow the Eighteen to Quincy and pick up the section crew there.  Then return to Hugo, picking up the section gangs at Milan and Cutter.  The rotary covered Forty-eight at Hugo and the section men'll have to dig her out.  I'll fix you up with running orders."

"He says,” the brass pounder shot back, "how come you're makin’ a messenger boy outa him and his Malley?  You ain't got it in your mind to hold him out here and step his gal Sally out to the party yourse'f, has you?" he says.

"Tell him," Eddie reminded him glibly, "that he asked for work when he came here," and sent the order.

The traffic was bunching up ahead of the special.  There'd be too much of it around Smoky Hill by the time she arrived there.  And you couldn't estimate with much certainty what time any of those trains would make.  It was not easy to outguess that storm.

In the next lull his mind swung back again along the way he'd come.  Suddenly he thought of Wallace Sterling, his all time pal and mentor.  Last year they'd spent Christmas on telegraph jobs down in Memphis.  And that night Walley had engaged a Negro quartet and they'd gone out serenading. 

He'd hired a guitar player, too, and before the night was over Walley was strumming the thing like a troubadour.

Eddie let Second Nineteen out of Latimer.  Donby was still bearing down on Walker and the cranky night chief was getting his back up.

He wondered where Walley was tonight.  The last he'd heard of him, in midsummer, he'd crossed over into Canada and was holding down a night OS job up toward Prince Rupert on the Canadian National, and was practicing up on that old guitar he'd bought from the colored boy.  The big lunk was likely now down on the Seaboard Air Line in the Sunny South lazing it on white beaches and charming the girls with his music.  Christmas sure brought up memories of the darnedest things.

The wind howled and harried the snow in flapping sheets.  Night had shut down.  Two of the operators signed off and went home.  The west-end dispatcher sat and sweated.  Walker talked with the yard office.  The procession of trains moved east out of Cutter.  You could feel the sharp edge of the cold moving in across the countryside.

Clark reported the special by.  Behind him, Norman OS'd the 5-Spot twenty minutes late.

Quincy reported the rotary, the 4-Spot and Eighteen by, and Hi's light engine in and turned and headed back with the section crew.  Eddie followed him back through Milan and Cutter to Hugo.  He sent the blade plow down to Quincy.  He'd bring him back through the cuts to clear them just ahead of the special.

Hi reported from Hugo:  "You got anything more you want a boy on a fast horse to do?" he inquired.  "I just unbent them section crews from around the boilerhead and put 'em to work minin' out Forty-eight.  This night is gettin' mighty cold."

The boomer checked the sheet as his mind dug into the impending developments.  Those Smoky Hill cuts would be pretty well filled again by the time he'd send the blade up through them to meet the special.  He hadn't much confidence in Conductor Blake in charge of the plow.  Blake would stay out of trouble but he wouldn't accomplish much.  Hi Wheeler was the man to handle any tough situation that might hit them in the cuts.

Eddie sent: "Tell Hi to turn around and go back to Quincy and to report to me there the minute he hits the telegraph office."

The brass pounder came back with a fair imitation of Hi's laments.

"Wheeler wants to know what the heck for?" he rattled.  "He says the way things are going he'll miss out helping Thirty-three in, and it looks to him like just plain sharpshootin' on your part.  Seems like it's got something to do with a blonde but he's kind of scrambled in his speech."

"Tell him," Eddie sent back, "that Sally'll probably wait for him, if she don't find another good partner.  Anyhow, if he doesn't get back by the time I'm off duty I'll go in his place to protect his interests."

"That's what he's afraid of," the operator pounded back.  "He says he'd as leave have a big gray timber wolf protecting his interests as you.  It seems to me he's tryin' to warn you to stay away from his girl.  As I get it, he don't trust you."

"Just tell him to proceed with speed and caution," Eddie sent blithely.  "I'll keep everything under control here."

Later, when the brass pounder reported Hi out, he added a note: "He ain't a bit happy about the whole thing, and he's sure makin' some dire threats ag'in' you."

That Christmas Eve in Yuma, down there on the Colorado River in the grim desert, it hadn't seemed like holiday time with a platinum sun glittering in a sliver sky.  That was where Bill Knapke claimed he'd seen the thermometer top out to 140-degrees above in his caboose.  Or was it 150?  Anyhow, Bill had told that one defiantly, as if he dared you to dispute it.  And you wouldn't challenge his statement, not after you'd spent summer days in that heat.

The hogger who was pulling Bill that night had been in a hurry to get home to the festivities and coming in to town he'd started to take off his overalls so he could light right out as soon as he hit the yard.  His fireman was even going to take the engine over to the roundhouse.  The eagle-eye was down on the deck with his pants draped about his feet, ready to kick them off, just drifting into town, when the fireman yelled at him.  The hobbled hogger leaned over his seat and thrust his head out the window.

What the fireman had seen was a burro standing between the rails, stubbornly refusing to move out of the way of the locomotive.  They hit him at the moment the hogger stuck his head out.  He was fettered by his hanging overalls and couldn't duck fast enough, and most of that desert jack came into the cab from the right hand side.  That eagle-eye was a mess going home to celebrate . . . Yeah, Christmas reminded you of the darnedest things.

The rotary was hurrying back through the cuts to answer Donby's call to the west end.  First Nineteen followed immediately behind her, and then they both showed up through Quincy in good time.  Thirty-three came down the cuts next but she was a long time reaching Bruce, where the skipper dropped a butterfly to report the snow piling up again.  It might be worse between Bruce and Quincy.  It was going to be a tight one to get that special through.

Hi made it to Quincy for First Nineteen and immediately queried Eddie: "Do I turn the Malley and tie onto Thirty-three when she shows here?"

"You get in the clear as you are," Eddie instructed him.  "And don't move till I tell you."

"Outa a couple dozen trainmen," Hi wailed, "and on this very night you got to pick on me."

Time lagged then while they waited for Thirty-three to fight her way out of the cuts.  The hands of the big clock slid slowly in their inevitable arc.  It was one of those times when a dispatcher sits helpless and sweats and spraddles his fingers over the train sheet like dividers, seeking a hole he might have overlooked.

But that never got you any place.  The boomer leaned back and let his mind drift.  It did you no good to get overstrained and in an uproar when Mr. Nickerson was out on the line.  Fact was, Salt-and-Molasses didn't like to see you flustered.  Just figure them close and safe.  The old man knew operations from all the angles.  He knew what was sound.  And he was hard to fool.  He expected a lot of you but he didn't want you to try the impossible.  A shrewd old brass collar!

Donby had Walker on the wire again, and it sounded from his tone as if he were really coming untied.

"The super wants to know why you didn't hold Thirty-three at Bruce instead of sending him on through the cuts ahead of the special," the night chief bawled as he held his hand at rest on the key.

"Yeah," Eddie nodded, "I guess he does."

"I gotta tell him something," Walker shouted.  "What'll it be?"

"Ask him one right back," the boomer snickered.  "Ask him is it better to get Thirty-three stuck in there, or the special?"

Walker grunted and worked his key. 

Since that September day in 1851 when Superintendent Minot of the Erie issued the first telegraphic train order, many dispatchers had wished they could hold back time by stopping the clock.  But it couldn't be done.  Those inexorable black hands measured off the brisk seconds that you had to work with and you couldn't delay them or store them up.  Eddie waited till the last one he could afford had fled into history and then put out an order at Virgil holding the special there till the line cleared up ahead of her.

Walker listened to that order and turned slightly pale.

"This is sure getting tighter every minute," he complained. "Donby's all frayed at the edges as it is.  Now he'll come all unraveled."

The night chief's own cranky disposition wasn't improving.  You could feel him wind up tight with each tick of the clock as they waited for Thirty-three to show.

And the clock kept walking away with the minutes while the hotshot remained an item out there in the white hell somewhere between Bruce and Quincy fighting the smothering drifts.  You had to lean back and keep your mind suspended waiting for the next move to come out of the storm.

Virgil reported the special in and standing by.  That was going to be a terrible shock to Donby.  It would leave him a broken man.  And Mr. Nickerson would certainly dig into the delay if he were at all interested in the PC.  There'd sure be a lot of chills and fever on the Oberlin Division caused by this check in his schedule.  Eddie could hear the half-frozen operator at the wreck trying to impart Donby's shredded feelings to Walker as he ranted about it.

"He wants to know," Walker snarled, "why you didn't send the special on down to Bruce while you waited for Thirty-three to show up at Quincy."

Eddie said patiently that he'd send the special any place Donby told him to.  "But," he added, "we'd likely stick Mr. Nickerson in the cuts if we sent him in there now, which wouldn't be good at all."  He grinned at the night chief's contorted expression.  "The hotshot'll get something through, if it's only a brakeman," he argued.  "Bill Spunk is the skipper, and he usually knows the score."

He listened to Walker's modified explanation.  Then the congealed brass pounder in the boxcar under a dim lantern put in a rejoinder while he paused to collect more of Donby's protests.

"I'm glad Christmas comes only once a year," he chattered.

The west-end dispatcher brooded over his sheet.  The big hook had cleared away the wreckage and the extra gang and what section crews they'd gathered were working at top speed in the blinding snow laying new track in the gap that had been torn out of the main line.  They were nearly set to begin operations again.

"Donby's taking a light engine and coming in," Walker reported bitterly.  "Everything sure happens to us."

The rotary clanged in under the sheds from the east.  A flickering blue flare of the arc lights danced on the grinning teeth of the cutting wheel through the whirling snow.  The west-end dispatcher looked at Walker as the skipper of the rotary asked for orders from the ticket office below.

The night chief turned on Eddie.  "Look," he pleaded, "you've made all the guesses that've been made so far tonight, so suppose you keep on.  Do you want to turn the rotary back and dig out Thirty-three and clear the cuts for the special, or just let her ramble on down the west end as Donby says to do?  Donby is out of reach now, so we can use our own ideas.  He'll be sore whatever we do."

Eddie's eyes slid back to the clock.  Maybe you'd call it a hunch.  More likely it was a decision that'd been forming in the back of his brain from the facts he'd been storing up there:  a feeling for the situation and the men involved.  A picture of what was happening in the wind-whipped snow of Smoky Hill flitted through his mind.  Bill Spunk, who skippered Thirty-three that night, was a hard-bitten veteran of the iron pike.  He'd experienced all the mischances you met in keeping the traffic rolling, and he knew how to handle any assignment with skill and energy.  His answer to every dilemma was, "Let's go!"

You could add that to the fact that Hi Wheeler was set there at Quincy with his Mallet; and Hi would turn in a good job and not fool around about it.

"Better send the rotary on west," he recommended.  "It'll make Donby happier."

"Okay," Walker grumbled.  "But you can't make him happy that easy."  He nodded to the west-end trick man.

The rotary snarled back at the snarling storm as he pushed on into the west.  Meanwhile, in the dispatchers' office, the sounder went to sleep in the resonator and the wind whooped under the eaves.  You could stare at it, try to make the little brass tongue break into a flutter of signals that announced the arrival of the hotshot at Quincy.  But that didn't get you anything except strung nerves.

Virgil's operator wasn't saying anything about the special he had tied up there.  Eddie wondered what Mr. Nickerson was doing while he was being delayed at that bleak little station.  He was likely congratulating himself that he hadn't taken over the PC.  Otherwise he would be prowling about, trying to find out what made the Oberlin Division tick at all.  He might look like a professor of ancient languages from a fresh-water college, but he was hard to fool.

The night chief looked up again as his sounder chattered.  His face contorted.

"Donby's stopped his light engine at Charles," he called as he listened, "and now he's raving because we didn't send the rotary back from here."

"Yeah," Eddie nodded, "I expected it."

"You ain't a lot of help furnishing alibis," Walker complained.

He worked his key and listened.  Then he got up and shuffled across to the dispatcher's table and peered down at the sheet.

"Eddie," he moaned, "that man's going to blast us all right out of this office the minute he arrives.  He's sure in a top notch temper."  The night chief screwed up his brow.  "And Thirty-three ain't showed at Quincy yet.  Looks to me like you run out of the right guesses about an hour ago."

The wind raised a derisive howl.  Hard snow scratched at the windows.

"Bill Spunk'll be showing any time now," the boomer commented.

Walker turned back to his table morosely.  Then he stopped and stiffened as the dispatcher's sounder came unlatched and spat at them viciously.

"DS Q 33 CMG," it snapped.  Quincy was reporting the hotshot coming into his yard.

"And sir," the operator continued, "she's plenty hard to distinguish from the landscape.  She looks like a phantom train.  Even her bell is choked up."

Walker swore with satisfaction down the back of Eddie's neck.

Eddie Sand flipped the key open and pounced:  "Tell Hi Wheeler to couple his engine in behind the blade plow's locomotive.  Tell Hi that he is in charge of that train in place of Blake till he's cleared the cuts.  Tell Blake that, too.  I'm sending the blade to Virgil where he'll turn around and come back ahead of the special.  Nineteen copy three."

Eddie snapped the running orders at the brass pounder in a brief ripple of crisp Morse.  The operator shot the repeat and caught Eddie's complete.  Then he came back:  "Blake says he won't turn his train over to Wheeler."

"I knowd he'd do that," said Walker.

Eddie snapped back:  "Tell Wheeler to move fast."

"He's movin'," the lightning slinger returned.

"Tell Blake he's out of luck," Eddie went on.  "He can stay there at your station till his train gets back and then I'll turn it over to him again."

"Blake says you've got no authority to pull him off his train.  He acts like he might make a scrap of it."

"He ought to have done his fighting with the drifts," Eddie replied crisply.  "Just remind him that I've got authority to sign the division superintendent's name to any orders I see fit; and if he wants to make something of it he'll have his chance to go higher in the morning."

The operator made some I's and sent:  "I guess that's got him stopped.  He's gone into a corner and seems like he's thinking it over . . . but I don't know what with . . . Wheeler's ready to move."

"Let him out," Eddie rapped.

Bill Spunk reported then.  He'd had a time with those drifts.  It'd taken him forty minutes on a half mile of upgrade.  Now, what about his helper engine?

"He'll have to do the best he can without her," Eddie told him, "till I can get Wheeler back from clearing the cuts.  Tell Spunk to go as far as his engine will take him, then clear and wait for the helper."

"He says okay," Virgil rattled.

Walker strode to the end of the dusky room and back.

"You can't take a skipper's train away from him out on the line without a blamed good reason," he blew off.  "Seems to me you're just lookin' around to see how much grief you can have on hand when Donby gets in."

Quincy came back to report the blade plow out with two engines.

"That boy Wheeler," the brass pounder added a foot note, "certainly moves when he's in a hurry.  He said to tell you he'd remember to put cyanide in your coffee at the very first opportunity.  That had something to do with a blonde."

Eddie grinned and crossed to the telephone.  He called a number and talked amiably.  He was still smiling when he sat back in the old swivel chair.

Walker came with another worry. "It's a wonder we ain't heard any complaints from Mr. Nickerson," he fretted.  "Think we'd better call Virgil and see what's happening?"

"I don't think so," Eddie decided.  "Better not stir up any more trouble than we've got."

"It ain't natural for a big brass hat to say nothing when his special varnish is hung up on him," Walker persisted.  "Do you suppose he's in bed and sleepin' through it all?"

"I doubt it," Eddie said, “He doesn't sleep much."

"Mister," mourned the night chief, "we sure gave him enough to remember us by on this lovely evening.  Between everything, we ain't likely to spend a very happy Christmas on the old PC.

The dispatcher's office quieted at the faint chattering of a few instruments.  The wind lost its banshee howl.  It moaned disconsolately.  Cold tightened its grip on the white world.

The blade plow slammed through Bruce half covering the station and breaking out a bow window.  That let winter air and a quantity of snow in on the night operator who complained of it bitterly.  Hi had inspired those two hoggers to put some sock into their drive on the drifts.  They were sure tearing up the scenery.

Eddie went back to maneuvering the rest of the traffic.  Donby stopped his light engine at each telegraph station to plague Walker with queries and unusable advice.  He seemed reluctant to return to headquarters and at the same time was drawn to it by an irresistible pull.

"He keeps remindin' me that we ought to have turned the rotary back from here," Walker complained.  "And the devil of it is that he may be right.  Hi Wheeler's quite considerable overdue at Virgil right now."

"The cuts at the upper end were pretty well filled again," Eddie reasoned.  "It'll take a time to swab 'em out."

From his old swivel chair he visioned the bob-tailed train, two engines and a caboose, heading into the drifts, throwing snow from the blade high over the stack.  He could feel the shock and shudder as the snow checked and halted them, smothered the power of the huge engines in a feathery mass.  They'd pull out and back up and then take a header, the engines blasting, putting all their weight and power into the battering ram.

The boomer didn't have to glance at the clock to know the time.  When you dealt almost exclusively in fleeting minutes you developed a sense that ticked off the seconds somewhere inside you.  He felt them sliding away while the special stood at Virgil, hung up there with the man who could decide the fate of the Prairie Central, and Hi Wheeler in a desperate drive with the blade plow to clear the way for him.

Walker shuffled back and stared pessimistically down at the sounder.  As if his morose eye had stung it, the brass tongue began abruptly to chatter.  Virgil was on the wire.  The blade plow was in and heading through the wye.  Hi had dropped off at the station and he reported that the wind was down and it would be easier going back.  He'd be turned in five minutes and ready to go down ahead of the special.

"Good work!"  Eddie flashed at him, and made up his orders.

Virgil reported him headed west at once, and then ten minutes later that the special had followed him.

The brass pounder added:  "There was a little old thin man with big glasses come into the office off that special," he narrated.  "Seemed like a very nice gent.  Gave me a cigar as big as a corncob and, mister, didn't it smoke like a million dollars!  Then he sat right down at the table beside me and talked just like home folks.  He sure knew how to ask about the PC and the way traffic was rollin'.  I guess I told him everything you and me both know.  I hope he's part of the outfit they're talkin' about takin' us over.  He's a nice guy."

"He's that all right," Eddie agreed.  "That was Mr. Nickerson himself."

"Oh, no it wasn't," the operator contradicted.  "Big brass hats don't sit and chin with lightning slingers."

"Some do," Eddie assured him.

Salt-and-Molasses had been gathering information in the most likely places.  You'd be surprised at how many important items he could get from a casual conversation with an op or a section hand.

The blade plow swarmed down through the cuts without delay.  She pulled into the clear at Quincy to let the special by.  Eddie ordered Hi to cut his engine out, turn the blade plow back to Conductor Blake, and go in behind the special with his light engine.  Thirty-three would only make it to Duncan, and Hi could help him in from there.

The operator reported Hi's glum reaction to those instructions:  "He says now that you've ruined his Christmas Eve party, you order him in.  He don't seem to think his Sally gal is ever goin' to speak to him from here out, and he hopes Santa Claus puts rocks in your socks."

They heard the funereal clanging of Donby's light engine coming down the siding behind the station at the same time the special hooted from the lower end of the Oberlin yard.

Walker sat down at his table and snatched a file of correspondence and pretended to study it.  Eddie turned to the window.  That wind had laid and it was no longer snowing.  The special came down the main line under an easy throttle.  Flickering blue arcs glinted on the churning rods.

Donby's impatient feet pattered on the stairs and he erupted into the room.

"What about Mr. Nickerson?" he demanded breathlessly.  "Did he have any complaints because you delayed him so long at Virgil?"  The super snatched off his overcoat and hat and threw them on a chair.  He thrust his hands in his pockets and shook his loose shoulders.

"No sir," said Walker somberly.  "He didn't say a word."

"He's bound to make a kick," Donby fretted, "and then somebody is going to get hurt."  He canted on one side and straddled his legs.  "You'll remember I told Carter he oughtn't leave Mr. Sand on second trick with things popping the way they were, but Carter put him on anyhow."

Eddie said from the window:  "It won't be necessary for anybody to remember anything except that I was on the sheet in my regular turn and that I did all the maneuvering.  You can generally get out of a jam by naming a goat and firing him.  It's sound practice."

A man dropped off the observation platform of the private car and skipped across the platform.

"It may be necessary to fire more than one in this case," Donby complained and glanced at Walker.  "If Mr. Nickerson hasn't taken over the PC, the Big Six will, and that means a housecleaning either way.  Any new officials will hop on a thing like this . . . and dynamite."

"In case it's Mr. Nickerson," Eddie drawled, "I'd say from previous experience it'd be best not to try to put anything over on him, 'cause it's hard to do, and he don't like it when he finds out.  Anyhow," he nodded, "you'll likely have a chance to learn about him in the immediate future, because he's coming up to call on us right now."

"You mean," Donby gasped, "that he's coming up here from his private car at this time of night?"

"Yeah," Eddie admitted.  "In fact, he's present among us now."

The door opened gently, almost reluctantly.  A thin little old man in derby hat and big spectacles slipped into the room and closed the door quietly behind him.

"Good evening, gentlemen," he said amiably.  "My name is Nickerson." His round glasses searched the dim spaces of the room owlishly.  "I was looking for a telegraph operator, one of your dispatchers, by the name of . . .  Ah!" he broke off as his glasses focused on Eddie and glinted.  "There you are," he nodded genially, "and it is a pleasure to see you here, Mr. Eddie Sand.  The night operator at Virgil told me you were on this trick tonight," he went on pleasantly, "so I came in a moment to wish you a Merry Christmas."

It was pleasant to see the old gentleman again, fine to feel the intense power in the quiet grip of his accurate fingers, to be reminded of the hard benevolence in the spark of his quick eyes.  He had picked the Virgil operator's mind clean of any facts about the PC it contained.  That was a good sign.

Walker had come to his feet like a released spring and he stood rooted by his table not missing anything.  Donby stood on a bias and stared.

"That's mighty kind of you," Eddie acknowledged.  "And the same to you.  I never did properly thank you for commending me to Mr. Welby over on the Penn Eastern that time."

Mr. Nickerson's thin, dry face puckered in myriad wrinkles.

"Mr. Welby wrote me," he nodded, "that you merely wanted a recommendation from me to strengthen your position with him so you could save the job of a young fellow who'd just had a baby."

"At that," Eddie grinned, "it was a little dubious which was having the baby at the time, Cy Frim or his wife.  But everything came out all right'"

"I'm sure it did," Nickerson beamed.

The men of the Prairie Central would give a lot to know right now who had won the fight for control of their railroad.  It would be a prize Christmas gift for them all if they could be assured that this thin dynamo had out-maneuvered the Big Six.  It'd be a real holiday if they were certain the PC wouldn't be junked.

The newspapers hadn't been able to get any information at all on the outcome of the Chicago session.  Perhaps Mr. Nickerson had the figures but hadn't yet reached his decision.  That wouldn't take him long.  He seldom dallied.  Maybe he had reached his decision on his way out.  Eddie studied him sharply and then probed him with a casual remark.

"All of us on the Prairie Central have been highly gratified that you're interested in the company.  We extend you full co-operation and wish you the best of luck."

Mr. Nickerson gave him a quick, shrewd glint.  Salt-and-Molasses knew he was being reconnoitered.  He smiled slightly.  Then he glanced at the dark window.  It seemed as if his eyes were searching all the miles of that ribbon of steel winding through the snowy landscape, and all the personnel thereon, evaluating them with swift precision.

A choked silence crept into the room, broken a little by the sleepy cluck of a lone sounder.  The world of the PC stood still and braced itself for the verdict.  You knew that this thin, gray man held the fate of the men and miles of iron highway in his lean, competent hands.  He turned his head at last and his big spectacles glowed.

"Interested in the Prairie Central?" he inquired softly.  He shook his head.  "Involved is the word."  He nodded.  "I think we can make a railroad out of this property.  And I'm sure I will become interested as we develop it."  He smiled at the boomer.  "Is that what you wanted to know?" he asked slyly.

Chief Walker let go a long, whistling sigh.  Superintendent Donby rocked on his feet.

"Yes," said Eddie, "it is what we all hoped to hear.  And in that case," he suggested, "you had better meet these two gentlemen."

Mr. Nickerson was suddenly brisk.

"Mr. Donby," he said, "I want to recommend Mr. Sand to you, and I will tell you why."  He glanced at Eddie with a distant twinkle in his eye.  "Mr. Sand had to keep three bankers pacified for two nights and a day while they were snowbound in one of our trains on top of a mountain.  It was a very trying situation.  But he was ingenious and patient and alert . . . and he didn't get excited about it."  The railroad magnate seemed to underline that last heavily.  "He never lost his head; and that was something of a chore when three bankers were after it."

Donby began to pace, and then suddenly held his restless feet to the floor.  He stared at Mr. Nickerson.

"Why yes," he said at last.  "I've noticed that about him.  Equanimity is a good trait in an operations man."

Mr. Nickerson looked at his division superintendent keenly.

"It is essential, Mr. Donby," he said, and there was a buzz-saw edge to his voice.  "The higher one goes, the more he must exercise his self-control."

He shook hands with Eddie again and turned toward the door.

"I wish you could find it convenient to remain with the Prairie Central, Mr. Sand," he suggested.  "I fancy we could use your talents to good advantage . . . in the higher places."  He opened the door.  "A very merry Christmas to you all," the new president called cheerfully, and closed the door behind him.

Donby stared after him somberly for sixty deliberate seconds.

"I wonder now just what he meant by that?" he inquired uneasily.

Eddie went back to his table.

"From what I know, I'd say he meant exactly what he said."

The harried, impatient look drained slowly out of Donby's face.  You could feel his scattered thoughts focus.  Slowly he paced to an arm chair and then sat down deliberately.  He put his feet on the chief's table.  He relaxed, brooding.

"Look at that!" Walker muttered in Eddie's ear.  "What'd you reckon Carter would say if he saw Donby with his feet up?.

From the top landing of the stair, above the trainsheds and the dim arc lights of the town, Eddie could see sharp stars blinking through the rifting clouds.  There ought to be a moon somewhere behind that rolling black mass.  The sharp, still air snapped with frost.  He snuggled inside his overcoat as he went down the stairs to the platform.  He was ticking like a watch.

Thirty-three, with Hi's helper engine tied on as pusher, stamped into the yard, the bellow of the two locomotives booming under the eves of the station in solemn rhythm.  From far out on the prairies to the east the 5-Spot sent her clear challenge sliding through the stinging air, her keen whistle shouting exultantly.  A switch engine slammed down the ladder, the pinner and the fielder, muffled to the eyes, draped over the pilot beam.

Across the continent trains moved out over the vast web of steel, the clanking freights and swift, smooth-rolling passengers, threading the glinting lines of rails.

Alert men in cab and caboose, luxurious Pullman and grimy caboose; operators in towers and lonely station watches, in busy yard and relay office and the quiet tension of the dispatcher's room; switchmen riding the cuts in the restless yard.

The iron ribbons slipped through the dark green of upland timber and skirted the bluffs above the roll of the bleak, cold seas; spanned long reaches of desert solitude and climbed the hard grades of the high Rockies.  You could almost hear now the scream of the big jacks in deep gorges and the steady bark of the narrow gauge engines as they climbed the four percent in twisting curves over the roof of the world.

Church bells clamored suddenly, their clear tones ringing out merrily in the crisp air.  It was midnight.

Hi Wheeler was coming up through the yard under the flicker of the arcs.  Long and limber and swivel-jointed, his cap canted at that you-be-damned angle, his feet lifting clean and quick.

"Christmas is sure hell on railroaders," he stated as they moved across the platform.

They turned up a dim street, the snow squealing under their feet.  A big old-fashioned house glowing with light from top to bottom, came out of the thin darkness.  Eddie turned at the gate.

"Hey!" Hi protested, "Where'd you think you're goin' this time of night."

"To make a Christmas call."

"Look," Hi pleaded.  "I ain't dressed for Yuletide visits."

"Come on!" Eddie urged, and banged on a huge knocker.

The door swung wide, and Mrs. Cadagan greeted them with a spate of words and arms thrown wide to engulf them both in a welcome.

"And why do you have to knock to enter this house?" she chided, pulling them inside.

A fiddle scraped in the big room beyond, and feet stepped to the lively tune.  A blonde head came up over Mrs. Cadagan's shoulder.  Sally waved both arms invitingly.

Hi Wheeler seemed to come all apart in a sudden explosion as he tossed his cap to the ceiling and shrugged out of his sheepskin coat with the same gesture.  He yipped once and seized the girl and they danced away to join with the dancing couples in the living room.

"Eddie," said Mrs. Cadagan, beaming like a headlight, "I do love to see folks have their fun, and that Hi does have the best time when he puts his mind to it."  Her eyes were slightly moist and she dabbed them with her handkerchief.  "It didn't seem as if Christmas would be so cheery this year, what with Dan away and the future so uncertain for us all.  But a little while ago a feeling came over me that things will be bright for us this coming year of grace."

"You can bet on that," Eddie assured her.  "And take my word for it, too.  It was told to me this night by a man who really has the authority."