Читать книгу Banzai! by Parabellum - Ferdinand Heinrich Grautoff - Страница 9

Ding-ding-ding-ding—Ding-ding-ding-ding—went the bell of the railway telegraph—Ding-ding-ding-ding——

Tom Gardner looked up from his work and leaned his ax against the wall of the low tin-roofed shanty which represented both his home and the station Swallowtown on the Oregon Railway. "Nine o'clock already," he mumbled, and refilling his pipe from a greasy paper-bag, he lighted it and puffed out clouds of bluish smoke into the clear air of the hot May morning. Then he looked at the position of the sun and verified the fact that his nickel watch had stopped again. The shaky little house hung like a chance knot in an endless wire in the middle of the glittering double row of rails that stretched from east to west across the flowery prairie. It looked like a ridiculous freak in the midst of the wide desert, for nowhere, so far as the eye could reach, was it possible to discover a plausible excuse for the washed-out inscription "Swallowtown" on the old box-lid which was nailed up over the door. Only a broad band of golden-yellow flowers crossing the tracks not far from the shanty and disappearing in the distance in both directions showed where heavy cart-wheels and horses' hoofs had torn up the ground.

By following this curious yellow track, which testified to the existence of human intercourse even in the great lonely prairie, in a southerly direction, one could notice about a mile from the station a slight rising of the ground covered with low shrubs and a tangled mass of thistles and creepers: This was Swallowtown No. 1, the spot where once upon a time a dozen people or more, thrown together by chance, had founded a homestead, but whose traces had been utterly obliterated since. The little waves of the great national migration to this virgin soil had after a few years washed everything away and had carried the inhabitants of the huts with them on their backs several miles farther south, where by another mere chance they had located on the banks of the river. The only permanent sign of this ebb and flow was the tin-roofed shanty near the tracks of the Oregon Railway, and the proud name of Swallowtown, fast disappearing under the ravages of storm and rain, on the box-lid over Tom Gardner's door.

Tom Gardner regarded his morning's work complacently. With the aid of his ax he had transformed the tree-stump that had lain behind the station for years into a hitching-post, which he was going to set up for the farmers, so that they could tie their horses to it when they came to the station. Tom had had enough of fastening the iron ring into the outer wall of his shanty, for it had been torn out four times by the shying of the wild horses harnessed to the vehicles sent from Swallowtown to meet passengers. And the day before yesterday Bob Cratchit's horses had added insult to injury by running off with a board out of the back wall. Tom was sick and tired of it; the day before he had temporarily stopped up the hole with a tin advertisement, which notified the inhabitants of Swallowtown who wanted to take the train that Millner's pills were the best remedy for indigestion. Tom decided to set up his post at midday.

He stopped work for the present in order to be ready for station-duty when the express from Pendleton passed through in half an hour. From force of habit and half unconsciously, he glanced along the yellow road running south, wondering whether in spite of its being Sunday there might not be some traveler from Swallowtown coming to catch the local train which stopped at the station an hour later. He shaded his eyes with his right hand and after a careful search did discover a cart with two persons in it approaching slowly over the waving expanse of the flower-bedecked prairie. Tom muttered something to himself and traipsed through the station house, being joined as usual by his dog, who had been sleeping outside in the sun. Then he walked a little way along the tracks and finally turned back to his dwelling, the trampled-down flowers and grass before the entrance being the only signs that the foot of man ever disturbed its solitary peace. The dog now seemed suddenly to become aware of the rapidly approaching cart and barked in that direction. Tom sent him into the house and shut the door behind him, whereupon the dog grew frantic. The cart approached almost noiselessly over the flowery carpet, but soon the creaking and squeaking of the leather harness and the snorting of the horses became clearly audible.

"Halloo, Tom!" called out one of the men.

"Halloo, Winston!" was the answer; "where are you off to?"

"Going over to Pendleton."

"You're early; the express hasn't passed yet," answered Tom.

Winston jumped down from the cart, swung a sack over his shoulder, and stepped toward the shanty.

"Who's that with you?" asked Tom, pointing with his thumb over his right shoulder.

"Nelly's brother-in-law, Bill Parker," said the other shortly.

Nelly's brother-in-law was in the act of turning the cart round to drive back to Swallowtown when Tom, making a megaphone of his hands, shouted across: "Won't the gentleman do me the honor of having a drink on me?"

"All right," rang out the answer, and Nelly's brother-in-law drove the horses to the rear of the station.

"Yes, the ring's gone," said Tom. "Bob Cratchit's horses walked off with it yesterday. You can hunt for it out there somewhere if you want to."

Bill jumped down and fastened the horses with a rope which he tied to Tom's old tree-stump.

"Come on, fellows!" said Tom, going toward the house. Scarcely had he opened the door when his dog rushed madly past him out into the open, barking with all his might at something about a hundred yards behind the station.

"I guess he's found a gopher," said Tom, and then the three entered the hut, and Tom, taking a half-empty whisky bottle out of a cupboard, poured some into a cup without a handle, a shaving-cup, and an old tin cup.

"The express ought to pass in about ten minutes," said Tom, and then began the usual chat about the commonplaces of farm life, about the crops, and the price of cattle, while hunting anecdotes followed. Now and then Tom listened through the open door for sounds of the express, which was long overdue, till suddenly the back door was slammed shut by the wind.

It was Bill Parker's turn to treat, and he then told of how he had sold his foals at a good profit, and Bob launched out into all sorts of vague hints as to a big deal that he expected to pull off at Pendleton the next day. Bill kept an eye on his two horses, which he could just see through the window in the rear wall of the shanty.

"Don't let them run away from you," warned Tom; "horses as fresh as those generally skip off when the express passes by."

"Nothing like that!" said Bill Parker, glancing again through the open window, "but they are unusually restless just the same."

… "He was willing to give twenty dollars, was he?" asked Tom, resuming the former conversation.

But Bill gave no answer and continued to stare out of the window.

"Here's how, gentlemen!" cried Tom encouragingly, touching Bill's tin cup with his shaving-cup.

"Excuse me a minute," answered the latter; "I want to look after my—" He had got up and was moving toward the door, but stopped halfway, staring fixedly at the open window with a glassy expression in his eyes. The other two regarded him with unfeigned astonishment, but when they followed the direction of his glance, they also started with fright as they looked through the window.

Yes, it was the same window as before, and beyond it stood the same team of stamping, snorting horses before the same cart; but on the ledge of the window there rested two objects like black, bristling hedgehogs, and under their prickly skins glistened two pairs of hostile eyes, and slowly and cautiously two gun-barrels were pushed over the ledge of the window into the room. At the same moment the door-knob moved, the door was pushed open, and in the blinding sunlight which suddenly poured into the room appeared two more men in khaki clothes and also armed with guns. "Hands up, gentlemen!" cried one of them threateningly.

The three obeyed the order mechanically, Tom unconsciously holding up his shaving-cup as well, so that the good whisky flowed down his arm into his coat. He looked utterly foolish. Bill was the first to recover, and inquired with apparent nonchalance: "What are you gentlemen after?" In the meantime he had noticed that the two men at the door wore soldiers' caps with broad peaks, and he construed this as a new holdup trick.

The men outside were conversing in an unintelligible lingo, and their leader, who was armed only with a Browning pistol, looked into the hut and asked: "Which of you gentlemen is the station-master?" Tom lowered his shaving-cup and took a step forward, whereupon he was at once halted by the sharp command: "Hands up!"

But this one step toward the door had enabled Tom to see that there were at least a dozen of these brown fellows standing behind the wall of his shanty. At the same time he saw his dog slinking about outside with his tail between his legs and choking over something. He called the dog, and the poor creature crept along the ground toward him, evidently making vain attempts to bark.

"The damned gang," growled Tom to himself; "they have evidently given the poor beast something to eat which prevents his barking."

The man with the Browning pistol now turned to Tom and said: "Has the express passed yet?"

"No."

"No? I thought it was due at 9.30." The highwayman looked at his watch. "Past ten already," he said to himself. "And when is the local train from Umatilla expected?"

"It ought to be here at 10.30."

"The express goes through without stopping, doesn't it?" began the other again. "Good! Now you go out as if nothing had happened and let the express pass! The other two will remain here in the meantime and my men will see that they don't stir. One move and you can arrange your funeral for to-morrow."

The two bristly-headed chaps at the window remained motionless, and followed the proceedings with a broad grin. The two men from Swallowtown were compelled to stand with uplifted hands against the wall opposite the window, so that the gun-barrels on the window-sill were pointing straight at them. Winston had had sufficient time to study the two highwaymen at the window and it gradually dawned upon him what sort of robbers they were; in a low tone of voice he said to Tom: "They're Japs."

The man with the Browning overheard the remark; he turned around quickly and repeated in a determined voice: "If you move you'll die on the spot."

Then he allowed Tom to leave the station, and showed him how two of his men opened the shutters of the windows that looked out on the tracks and cut two oblong holes in them down on the side, through which they stuck the barrels of their guns. Then Bill's cart was pushed forward, so that only the horses were hidden by the station. One of the men held the horses to prevent their running away when the train came, and two armed men climbed into the cart and kneeled ready to shoot, concealing themselves from the railroad side behind two large bags of corn. Thereupon the leader told Tom once more that he was to stand in front of the station as usual when the train approached. If he attempted to make any sign which might cause the train to stop, or if he merely opened his mouth, not only he, but also the occupants of the train, would have to pay for it with their lives.

Ding—ding—ding—ding went the railway telegraph, ding—ding—ding—ding. The man with the Browning consulted his note-book and asked Tom: "What signal is that? Where is the express now?"

Tom did not answer.

"Go out on the platform!" commanded the other. With a hasty glance along the tracks, Tom assured himself that the spot back there, where the two tracks, which glittered like silver in the sun, crossed, was still empty. So there was still a little more time to think. Then he began to stroll slowly up and down. Fifteen steps forward, fifteen back, eighteen forward, twenty back. Suppose he ran to meet the train——

"Halloo! Where are you going?" shouted the leader to him. "Don't you dare go five steps beyond the station house!"

Fifteen steps forward, fifteen back. And suppose now that he did jump across and run along the tracks? What would it matter—he, one among millions, without wife or child? Yes, he would warn the engineer; and if they shot at him, perhaps the people on the train also had revolvers. The express must come soon—it must be nearly half past ten. Mechanically, he read the name Swallowtown on the old box-lid.

Not a sound from the interior of the station. Would they hit him or miss him when the train came? He examined the rickety old shutters. Yes, there was a white incision in the wood near the bottom, and above it the tin was bent back almost imperceptibly, while below it there was a small, blackish-brown ring. On the other side there was another little hole, and here the tin was bent back rather more, showing a second small, blackish-brown ring. And suppose he did call out as the train rushed by? He would call out!—A burst of flame from the two blackish-brown rings—If he could only first explain everything to the engineer—then they could shoot all they wanted to.

Horrid to be wounded in the back! Long ago at school there had often been talk about wounds in the back and in the chest—the former were disgraceful, because they were a sign of running away. But this was not running away—this was an effort to save others.

Were the rails vibrating? Four steps more, then a quiet turn, one look into the air, one far away over the prairie. He knew that the eyes behind the dark-brown rings were following his every movement. Now along the tracks—is there anything coming way back there? No, not yet. He walked past the station, then along the tracks again, and looked to the left across the prairie.

Now his glance rested on the cart. It stood perfectly still. Sure enough, there, between the sacks, was another one of those bristly heads! Where on earth had the fellows come from, and what in the world did they want? Winston had said they were Japs.

Could this be war? Nonsense! How could the fellows have come so far across country? A short time ago some one had said that a troop of Japs had been seen far away, down in Nevada, but that they had all disappeared in the mountains. That was two months ago. Could these be the same?

But it couldn't be a war. War begins at the borders of a country, not right in the middle. It is true that the Japanese immigrants were all said to be drilled soldiers. Had they brought arms along? These certainly had!

Now the turn again. Ah! there was the train at last. Far away along the tracks a black square rose and quite slowly became wider and higher. Good God! if the next ten minutes were only over—if one could only wipe such a span as this out of one's life! Only ten minutes older! If one could only look back on those ten minutes from the other side! But no; one must go through the horror, second by second, taste every moment of it. What would happen to the two inside? This didn't matter much after all—they couldn't, in any case, overpower the others without weapons. A thousand yards more perhaps and then the train would be there! And then a thousand yards more, and he would either be nothing but an unconscious mass of flesh and bones, or——

Now the rails were reverberating—from far away he heard the rumble of the approaching mass of iron and steel. And now, very low but distinct, the ringing of the bell could be distinguished—gang, gang, gang, gang, gang, gang—He threw a hasty glance at the two blackish-brown rings; four steps further and he could again see the cart. The next time——

"Stand straight in front of the station and let the train pass!" sounded close behind him. He obeyed mechanically.

"Nearer to the house—right against the wall!" He obeyed.

All his muscles tightened. If he could now take a leap forward and manage to get hold of something—a railing or something—as the train rushed by, then they could shoot as much as they liked. A rumbling and roaring noise reached his ears, and he could hear the increasing thunder of the wheels on the rails, the noise of the bell—gang, gang, gang—growing more and more distinct. The engine, with its long row of clattering cars behind, assumed gigantic dimensions before his wide-open eyes.

Not a sound came from the house; now the rails trembled; now he heard the hissing of the steam and the rattle of the rods; he saw the little curls of steam playing above the dome of the boiler. Like a black wall, the express came nearer, rushing, rumbling, hammering along the tracks. Yes, he would jump now—now that the engine was almost in front of him! The rush of air almost took his breath away. Now!

The engineer popped his head out of the little cab-window. Now! Tom bent double, and, with one tremendous leap he was across the narrow platform in front of his shanty, and flew like a ball against the line of rushing cars, of railings and steps and wheels. He felt his hand touching something—nothing but flat, smooth surfaces. At last! He had caught hold of something! With a tremendous swing, Tom's body was torn to the left, and his back banged against something. Something in his body seemed to give way. As in a dream, he heard two shots ring out above the fearful noise of the roaring train.

Too late! Tom was clinging to a railing between two cars and being dragged relentlessly along. He was almost unconscious, but could hear the wheels squeaking under the pressure of the brakes as he was hurled to and fro. But his hand held fast as in a vise. The wheels scraped, squeaked, and groaned. The train began to slow down! He had won! The train stood still.

Tom's body fell on the rail between two cars, almost lifeless; he heard a lot of steps all about him; people spoke to him and asked him questions. But his jaws were shut as if paralyzed; he couldn't speak a word. He felt the neck of a bottle being pushed between his lips, and the liquid running down his throat. It was something strong and invigorating, and he drank greedily. And then he suddenly shouted out loud, so that all the people stepped back horrified: "The station has been attacked by Japs."

Excited questions poured in from all sides. "Where from? What for?" Tom only cried: "Save the two others; they're shut up in the station!" More people collected round him. "Quick, quick!" he cried. "Run the train back and try to save them!"

Tom was lifted into a car and stretched out on a soft end-seat. Some of the passengers stood round him with their revolvers: "Tell us where it is! Tell us where they are!" Slowly the train moved back, slowly the telegraph poles slipped past the windows in the opposite direction.

Now they were there, and Tom heard wild cries on the platform. Then a door was pulled open and some one asked: "Where are the robbers?" Tom was lifted out, for his right shin-bone had been smashed and he couldn't stand. A stretcher was improvised, and he was carried out. Dozens of people were standing round the station. The wagon was gone, and so were the horses. Where to? The wide, deserted prairie gave no answer. A great many footprints in the sand showed at least that Tom had spoken the truth. He pointed out the holes made in the shutters by the bandits, and told the whole story a dozen times, until at last he fainted away again. When he came to half an hour later it all seemed like a horrible dream—like a scene from a robber's tale. He found himself in a comfortable Pullman car on the way to Umatilla, where he had to tell his story all over again, in order that the fairly hopeless pursuit of the highwaymen might be begun from there.