the U P Trail (1940)

by Grey, Zane

  Above the roar of wheels sounded spatting reports of rifles. Casey forgot to dodge into his gravel shelter. He was living a strange, dragging moment; an age.

  Out shot the car into the light. Likewise Casey's dark blankness of mind ended.

  His heart lifted with a mighty throb. There shone the gray endless slope, stretching out and down to the black hills in the distance. Shrill wild yells made Casey wheel. The hillside above the cut was colorful and spotted with moving objects. Indians! Puffs of white smoke arose. Casey felt the light impact of lead. Glancing bright streaks darted down. They were arrows. Two thudded into the gravel, one into the wood. Then something tugged at his shoulder. Another arrow! Suddenly the shaft was there in his sight, quivering in his flesh. It bit deep. With one wrench he tore it out and shook it aloft at the Sioux. "Oh bate yez dom' Sooz!" he yelled, in fierce defiance. The long screeching clamor of baffled rage and the scattering volley of rifle-shots kept up until the car passed out of range.

  Casey faced ahead. The Sioux were behind him. He had a free track. Far down the gray valley, where the rails disappeared, were low streaks of black smoke from a locomotive. The general's train was coming.

  The burden of worry and dread that had been Casey's was now no more- -vanished as if by magic. His job had not yet been completed, but he had won. He never glanced back at the Sioux. They had failed in their first effort at ambushing the cut, and Casey knew the troops would prevent a second attempt. Casey faced ahead. The whistle of wind filled his ears, the dry, sweet odor of the desert filled his nostrils. His car was on a straight track, rolling along down-grade, half a mile a minute. And Casey, believing he might do well to slow up gradually, lightly put on the brake. But it did not hold. He tried again. The brake had broken.

  He stood at the wheel, his eyes clear now, watching ahead. The train down in the valley was miles away, not yet even a black dot in the gray. The smoke, however, began to lift.

  Casey was suddenly struck by a vague sense that something was wrong with him.

  "Phwat the hell!" he muttered. Then his mind, strangely absorbed, located the trouble. His pipe had gone out! Casey stooped in the hole he had made in the gravel, and there, knocking his pipe in his palm, he found the ashes cold. When had that ever happened before? Casey wagged his head. For his pipe to go cold and he not to know! Things were happening on the U. P. R. these days. Casey refilled his pipe, and, with the wind whistling over him, he relit it. He drew deep and long, stood up, grasped the wheel, and felt all his blood change.

  "Me poipe goin' cold; that wor funny!" soliloquized Casey.

  The phenomenon appeared remarkable to him. Indeed, it stood alone. He measured the nature of this job by that forgetfulness. And memories thrilled him. With his eye clear on the track that split the gray expanse, with his whole being permeated by the soothing influence of smoke, with his task almost done, Casey experienced an unprecedented thing for him; he lived over past performances and found them vivid, thrilling, somehow sweet. Battles of the Civil War; the day he saved a flag; and, better, the night he saved Pat Shane, who had lived only to stop a damned Sioux bullet; many and many an adventure with McDermott, who, just a few minutes past, had watched him with round, shining eyes; and the fights he had seen and shared; all these things passed swiftly through Casey's mind and filled him with a lofty and serene pride.

  He was pleased with himself; more pleased with what McDermott would think.

  Casey's boyhood did not return to him, but his mounting exhilaration and satisfaction were boyish. It was great to ride this way! ... There! he saw a long, black dot down in the gray. The train! ... General Lodge had once shaken hands with Casey.

  Somebody had to do these things, since the U. P. R. must reach across to the

  Pacific. A day would come when a splendid passenger- train would glide smoothly down this easy grade where Casey jolted along on his gravel-car. The fact loomed large in the simplicity of the Irishman's mind. He began to hum his favorite song. Facing westward, he saw the black dot grow into a long train. Likewise he saw the beauty of the red-gold sunset behind the hills. Casey gloried in the wildness of the scene; in the meaning of his ride; particularly in his loneliness. He seemed strangely alone there on that vast gray slope; a man and somehow accountable for all these things. He felt more than he understood. His long-tried nerves and courage and strength had never yielded this wonderful buoyancy and sense of loftiness. He was Casey; Casey who had let all the gang run for shelter from the Sioux while he had remained for one last and final drive at a railroad spike. But the cool, devil-may-care indifference, common to all his comrades as well as to himself, was not the strongest factor in the Casey of to-day. Up out of the rugged and dormant soul had burst the spirit of a race embodied in one man. Casey was his own audience, and the light upon him was the glory of the setting sun. A nightingale sang hi his heart, and he realized that this was his hour. Here the bloody, hard years found their reward. Not that he had ever wanted one or thought of one, but it had come; out of the toil, the pain, the weariness. So his nerves tingled, his pulses beat, his veins glowed, his heart throbbed; and all the new, sweet, young sensations of a boy wildly reveling in the success of his first great venture, all the vague, strange, deep, complex emotions of a man who has become conscious of what he is giving to the world; these shook Casey by storm, and life had no more to give. He knew that, whatever he was, whatever this incomprehensible driving spirit in him, whatever his unknown relation to man and to duty, there had been given him in the peril just passed, in this wonderful ride, a gift splendid and divine.

  Casey rolled on, and the train grew plain in his sight. When perhaps several miles of track lay between him and the approaching engine, he concluded it was time to get ready. Lifting one of the heavy ties, he laid it in front where he could quickly shove it off with his foot.

  Then he stood up. It was certain that he looked backward, but at no particular thing; just an instinctive glance. With his foot on the tie he steadied himself so that he could push it off and leap instantly after.

  And at that moment he remembered the little book he had found on Beauty

  Stanton's breast, and which contained the letter to his friend Neale. Casey deliberated in spite of the necessity for haste. Then he took the book from his pocket.

  "B'gorra, yez niver can tell, an' thim U. P. R. throopers hev been known to bury a mon widout searchin' his pockets," he said.

  And he put the little book between the teeth that held his pipe. Then he shoved off the tie and leaped.

  Chapter 30

  Neale, aghast and full of bitter amaze and shame at himself, fled from the gambling-hall where he had struck Beauty Stanton. How beside himself with rage and torture he had been! That woman to utter Allie Lee's name! Inconceivable!

  Could she know his story?

  He tramped the dark streets, and the exercise and the cool wind calmed him. Then the whistle of an engine made him decide to leave Benton at once, on the first train out. Hurriedly he got his baggage and joined the throng which even at that late hour was making for the station.

  A regret that was pain burned deep in him; somehow inexplicable. He, like other men, had done things that must be forgotten. What fatality in the utterance of a single name; what power to flay!

  From a window of an old coach he looked out upon the dim lights and pale tent shapes.

  "The last; of Benton! ... Thank God!" he murmured, brokenly. Well he realized how

  Providence had watched over him there. And slowly the train moved out upon the dark, windy desert.

  It took Neale nearly forty-eight hours to reach the new camp; Roaring City. A bigger town than Benton had arisen, and more was going up; tents and clapboard houses, sheds and cabins; the same motley jumble set under beetling red Utah bluffs.

  Neale found lodgings. Being without food or bed or wash for two days and nights was not helpful to the task he must accomplish; the conquering of his depression.

  He ate and slept long, and the foll
owing day he took tune to make himself comfortable and presentable before he sallied forth to find the offices of the engineer corps. Then he walked on as directed, and heard men talking of Indian ambushes and troops.

  When at length he reached the headquarters of the engineer corps he was greeted with restraint by his old officers and associates; was surprised and at a loss to understand their attitude.

  Even in General Lodge there was a difference. Neale gathered at once that something had happened to put out of his chief's mind the interest that officer surely must have in Neale's trip to Washington. And after greeting him, the first thing General Lodge said gave warrant to the rumors of trouble with

  Indians.

  "My train was to have been ambushed at Deep Cut," he explained. "Big force of

  Sioux. We were amazed to find them so far west. It would have been a massacre; but for Casey.... We have no particulars yet, for the wire is cut. But we know what Casey did. He ran the gantlet of the Indians through that cut....

  He was on a gravel-car running wild down-hill. You know the grade, Neale.... Of course his intention was to hold up my train; block us before we reached the ambushed cut. There must have been a broken brake, for he derailed the car not half a mile ahead of us. My engineer saw the runaway flat-car and feared a collision.... Casey threw a railroad tie; on the track; in front of him.... We found him under the car; crushed; dying; "

  General Lodge's voice thickened and slowed a little. He looked down. His face appeared quite pale.

  Neale began to quiver in the full presaging sense of a revelation.

  "My engineer, Tom Daley, reached Casey's side just the instant before he died," said General Lodge, resuming his story. "In fact, Daley was the only one of us who did see Casey alive.... Casey's last words were 'ambush; Sooz; ' Deep Cut,' and then 'me fri'nd Neale!' ... We were at a loss to understand what he meant; that is, at first. We found Casey with this little note-book and his pipe tight between his teeth."

  The chief gave the note-book to Neale, who received it with a trembling hand.

  "You can see the marks of Casey's teeth in the leather. It was difficult to extract the book. He held on like grim death. Oh! Casey was grim death.... We could not pull his black pipe out at all. We left it between his set jaws, where it always had been; where it belonged.... I ordered him interred that way.... So they buried him out there along the track." The chief's low voice ceased, and he stood motionless a moment, his brow knotted, his eyes haunted, yet bright with a glory of tribute to a hero.

  Neale heard the ticking of a watch and the murmur of the street outside. He felt the soft little note-book in his hand. And the strangest sensation shuddered over him. He drew his breath sharply.

  When General Lodge turned again to face him, Neale saw him differently; aloof, somehow removed, indistinct.

  "Casey meant that note-book for you," said the general, "It belonged to the woman, Beauty Stanton. It contained a letter, evidently written while she was dying.... This developed when Daley began to read aloud. We all heard. The instant I understood it was a letter intended for you I took the book. No more was read. We were all crowded round Daley; curious, you know. There were visitors on my train; and your enemy Lee. I'm sorry; but, no matter. You see it couldn't be helped.... That's all...."

  Neale was conscious of calamity. It lay in his hand. "Poor old Casey!" he murmured. Then he remembered. Stanton dying! What had happened? He could not trust himself to read that message before Lodge, and, bowing, he left the room.

  But he had to grope his way through the lobby, so dim had become his sight. By the time he reached the street he had lost his self-control. Something burnt his hand. It was the little leather note-book. He had not the nerve to open it. What had been the implication in General Lodge's strange words?

  He gazed with awe at the tooth-marks on the little book. How had Casey come by anything of Beauty Stanton's? Could it be true that she was dead?

  Then again he was accosted in the street. A heavy hand, a deep voice arrested his progress. His eyes, sweeping up from the path, saw fringed and beaded buckskin, a stalwart form, a bronzed and bearded face, and keen, gray eyes warm with the light of gladness. He was gripped in hands of iron.

  "Son! hyar you air; an' it's the savin' of me!" exclaimed a deep, familiar voice.

  "Slingerland!" cried Neale, and he grasped his old friend as a drowning man at an anchor-rope. "My God! What will happen next? ... Oh, I'm glad to find you!

  ... All these years! Slingerland, I'm in trouble!"

  "Son, I reckon I know," replied the other.

  Neale shivered. Why did men look at him so? This old trapper had too much simplicity, too big a heart, to hide his pity.

  "Come! Somewhere; out of the crowd!" cried Neale, dragging at Slingerland. "Don't talk. Don't tell me anything. Wait! ... I've a letter here; that's going to be hell!"

  Neale stumbled along out of the crowded street, he did not know where, and with death in his soul he opened Beauty Stanton's book. And he read:

  You called me that horrible name. You struck me. You've killed me. I lie here dying. Oh, Neale! I'm dying; and I loved you. I came to you to prove it. If you had not been so blind; so stupid! My prayer is that some one will see this I'm writing; and take it to you.

  Ancliffe brought your sweetheart, Allie Lee, to me; to hide her from Durade. He told me to find you and then he died. He had been stabbed in saving her from

  Durade's gang. And Hough, too, was killed.

  Neale, I looked at Allie Lee, and then I understood your ruin. You fool! She was not dead, but alive. Innocent and sweet like an angel! Ah, the wonder of it in

  Benton! Neale, she did not know; did not feel the kind of a woman I am. She changed me; crucified me. She put her face on my breast. And I have that touch with me now, blessed, softening.

  I locked her in a room and hurried out to find you. For the first time in years

  I had a happy moment. I understood why you had never cared for me. I respected you. Then I would have gone to hell for you. It was my joy that you must owe your happiness to me; that I would be the one to give you back Allie Lee and hope, and the old, ambitious life. Oh, I gloried in my power. It was sweet. You would owe every kiss of hers, every moment of pride, to the woman you had repulsed. That was to be my revenge.

  And I found you, and in the best hour of my bitter life; when I had risen above the woman of shame, above thought of self; then you, with hellish stupidity, imagined I was seeking you; YOU for myself! Your annoyance, your scorn, robbed me of my wits. I could not tell you. I could only speak her name and bid you come.

  You branded me before that grinning crowd, you struck me! And the fires of hell; MY hell; burst in my heart. I ran out of there; mad to kill your soul; to cause you everlasting torment. I swore I would give that key of Allie Lee's room to the first man who entered my house.

  The first man was Larry Red King. He was drunk. He looked wild. I welcomed him.

  I sent him to her room.

  But Larry King was your friend. I had forgotten that. He came out with her. He was sober and terrible. Like the mad woman that I was I rushed at him to tear her away. He shot me. I see his eyes now. But oh, thank God, he shot me! It was a deliverance.

  I fell on the stairs, but I saw that flaming-faced devil kill four of Durade's men. He got Allie Lee out. Later I heard he had been killed and that Durade had caught the girl.

  Neale, hurry to find her. Kill that Spaniard. No man could tell why he has spared her, but I tell you he will not spare her long.

  Don't ever forget Hough or Ancliffe or that terrible cowboy. Ancliffe's death was beautiful. I am cold. It's hard to write. All is darkening. I hear the moan of wind. Forgive me! Neale, the difference between me and Allie Lee; is a good man's love. Men are blind to woman's agony. She laid her cheek here; on my breast. I; who always wanted a child. I shall die alone. No; I think God is here.

  There is some one! After all, I was a woman. Neale forgive;

  Chapter
31

  "Wor I there?" echoed McDermott, as he wiped the clammy sweat from his face.

  "B'gosh, I wor!"

  It was half-past five. There appeared to be an unusual number of men on the street, not so hurried and business-like and merry as generally, and given to collecting in groups, low-voiced and excited.

  General Lodge drew McDermott inside. "Come. You need a bracer. Man, you look sick," he said.

  At the bar McDermott's brown and knotty hand shook as he lifted a glass and gulped a drink of whisky.

  "Gineral, I ain't the mon I wuz," complained McDermott. "Casey's gone! An' we had hell wid the Injuns gittin' here. An' thin jest afther I stepped off the train; it happened."

  "What happened? I've heard conflicting reports. My men are out trying to get news. Tell me, Sandy," replied the general, eagerly.

  "Afther hearin' of Casey's finish I was shure needin' stimulants," began the

  Irishman. "An' prisintly I drhopped into that Durade's Palace. I had my drink, an' thin went into the big room where the moosic wuz. It shure wuz a palace. A lot of thim swells with frock- coats wuz there. B'gorra they ain't above buckin' the tiger. Some of thim I knew. That Misther Lee, wot wuz once a commissioner of the U. P., he wor there with a party of friends.

  "An' I happened to be close by thim whin a gurl come out. She was shure purty.

  But thot sad! Her eyes wor turrible hauntin', an' roight off I wanted to start a foight. She wor lookin' fer Durade, as I seen afterwards.

  "Wal, the minnit that Lee seen the gurl he acted strange. I wuz standin' close an' I went closer. 'Most exthraordinary rezemblance,' he kept sayin'. An' thin he dug into his vest fer a pocket-book, an' out of that he took a locket. He looked at it; thin at the little gurl who looked so sad. Roight off he turned the color of a sheet. 'Gintlemen, look!' he sez. They all looked, an' shure wuz sthruck with somethin'.

  "'Gintlemen,' sez Lee, 'me wife left me years ago; ran off West wid a gambler. If she iver hed a child; thot gurl is thot child. Fer she's the livin' image of me wife nineteen years ago!'