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Updated: May 9, 2025
Only McCloskey's protest and his own anxiety for the safety of the Nadia's company, kept Lidgerwood from leading the little relief column of loyal trainmen and head-quarters clerks in person. The lust of battle was in his blood, and for the time the shrinking palsy of physical fear held aloof.
"That's Williams with the special," he announced, when the whistle gave him leave. "Is your flag out?" "Sure. It's up around the hill, with a safe man to waggle it." Lidgerwood cast an anxious glance toward Dawson's huge derrick-car, which was still blocking the main line. The hoist tackle was swinging free, and the jack-beams and outriggers were taken in.
Lester, the roundhouse foreman, himself a man-queller of no mean repute, thought differently. Lidgerwood would, most likely, take to the high grass and the tall timber. The alternative was to "pack a gun" for Rufford an alternative quite inconceivable to Lester when it was predicated of the superintendent.
Lidgerwood?... All right; fire away." "Who is it?" came the inquiry, in the grating voice which fitted, and yet did not fit, the man whom Judson had followed from his boarding of the train at Angels to Silver Switch, and from the gulch of the old spur to his disappearance on the wooded slope of Little Butte ridge. The listener heard the click of the telephone ear-piece replacement.
The early dawn of the summer morning was graying over the desert when the special drew into the Angels yard. Lidgerwood had the yard crew place the service-car on the same siding with the Nadia, and near enough so that his guests, upon rising, could pass across the platforms.
When they have cleared the danger limit, they can split up and take the proper time intervals ten minutes apart." "Call it done," said the trainmaster, and he went to carry out the order. Two minutes later Bogard, the night-relief operator off duty, darted out of the despatcher's room with the clearance-cards for the three sections. Lidgerwood stopped him in mid-flight.
The contortions of the trainmaster's homely features indicated an inward struggle of the last-resort nature. When he had reached a conclusion he spat it out. "You haven't asked my advice, Mr. Lidgerwood, but here it is anyway. Flemister, the owner of the Wire-Silver mine over in Timanyoni Park, was the president of that building and loan outfit.
Lidgerwood made the guess without offering to shake hands, the high, box-like desk forbidding the attempt. "Yes." The answer was neither antagonistic nor placatory; it was merely colorless. "My name is Lidgerwood. You have heard of my appointment?" Again the colorless "Yes." Lidgerwood saw no good end to be subserved by postponing the inevitable. "Mr. Ford spoke to me about you last night.
Tryon came down a few minutes ago, considerably more than half-seas over, and said he was ready to take his engine and the first section of the east-bound midnight which would have been his regular run. But he went back uptown peaceably when Benson told him he was down and out." Lidgerwood did not extend his round to include Benson's post at the yard office, which was below the coal chutes.
Who are the others, Benson?" "I have no more guesses coming, and I am too tired to invent any. Suppose we drop it until to-morrow. I'm afraid it means a fight or a funeral, and I am not quite equal to either to-night." For a long time after Benson had gone, Lidgerwood sat staring out of his office window at the masthead electrics in the railroad yard.
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