Over the Wire
Date: 2022-02-25T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Short stories; Ghost stories; Telegraphers -- Fiction; Railroad stories

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Title: Over the Wire

Author: Eugene Jones

Release date: February 25, 2022 [eBook #67496]
Most recently updated: October 18, 2024

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Frank A. Munsey Company, 1920

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/67496

Credits: Roger Frank and Sue Clark. This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive.

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Over the Wire

By Eugene Jones

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was Ben excited? Not one little bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I allowed I hadn’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I did.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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