CHAPTER XI A MIDNIGHT INTRUDER

When the boys turned out at seven o’clock in the morning they found Sam Skinner already on the observation platform, his black pipe glowing and his eyes busy with the landscape.

“We just passed Calais,” said Sam, “where the old Sioux reservation used to begin. ’Tain’t like the old days though. They ain’t many of the old braves about now—too many clothes, store beef and wagons,” he explained. “But for about seventy-five miles—as far as Whately—ten years ago, you could a seen plenty o’ the old blanket boys hangin’ around these stations.”

“Where are they?” asked Frank.

“Most of ’em dead, I reckon,” answered Sam sucking on his pipe. “Them ’at ain’t have houses and some of ’em plows and wheat binders. But here’s some!” exclaimed the hunter springing suddenly to his feet.

At that moment, through the cloud of dust following the swiftly moving train, could be seen moving along on a near-by road, a party of Indians. Two men, their blankets drawn closely around them, walked stoutly ahead of an unpainted wagon drawn by two ponies. In the wagon a squaw, her blanket about her hips, held the reins and, clinging to the sideboards and yelling as lustily at the passing train as white urchins, three children were jumping about excitedly in the wagon bed behind.

Old Sam jerked his pipe from his mouth and, his hands to his face, emitted a cry that startled the boys. At the sound of it the two braves paused and then—as Sam repeated the call—with astounded looks they raised their right hands above their heads. “Injun for ‘howdy,’” explained Sam with a laugh as the train left the Indians far behind.

“Where are they goin’, do you suppose?” asked Phil. “Huntin’?”

“Probably to the nearest town to attend the ten-cent picture show,” said Sam. “Their huntin’ days are over. Them Injuns can buy beef.”

It was Frank’s and Phil’s first sight of Indian land.

“This is too flat and treeless for huntin’ along here, isn’t it?” was Frank’s next question.

“The kind o’ huntin’ we do now ain’t the kind we used to do,” answered Sam recharging his pipe. “This is old buffalo ground and the best in the west in its day. My folks was English,” went on Skinner reminiscently, “and they came out to the Assinniboine River Valley in Canada when I was a baby. But from the time I was old enough to help in camp I can remember the buffalo hunts each fall. All them settlers—maybe several hundred—would trail for weeks to get down here near the Missouri River. But it wasn’t huntin’—it was the kind o’ work they do now in slaughter houses. We’d line up and march against them buffaloes like soldiers; and we had officers, too, to see that every one done his work. When the bugle blew, killin’ stopped for the day and all hands turned in to take care o’ the meat and the hides. And that went on sometimes for a month—the settlers followin’ the buffaloes till our wagons were full.”

“Full of what?” asked Phil innocently.

“My boy,” went on Sam, “them buffaloes was our winter’s provisions. Part of the meat was smoked or ‘jerked’ as we called it; the rest of it was ground up with the fat to make pemmican—that’s the way we used most of it—and the hides had to be cured. They was our profit, for even then we shipped ’em by the thousand to England. When the hunt was over we made the long march back to the Assinniboine. There’s buffalo yet,” he continued thoughtfully, “but not around here. Up on the Mackenzie River, nearer the Arctic Ocean than these prairies, there’s a few hundred animals that you might call buffaloes, but they ain’t the old prairie bull with a hump higher’n a man and wicked little eyes snappin’ out from a head hangin’ most on the ground. But,” continued Mr. Skinner, “buffaloes is buffaloes and I ain’t never goin’ to be satisfied till I’ve taken Mr. Mackworth up there on the Mackenzie. Huntin’ sheep with a spyglass may be sport all right but, for me, give me a good pony and the trail of a buffalo and I’ll be ready to quit.”

And this was only a sample of Sam Skinner’s talk all day. At breakfast and later as the train passed out of the Fort Peck reservation, he reeled off tales of the wonders of the Bear Paw Mountains to the south; the Sweet Grass big game country to the north. Lord Pelton and Captain Ludington were as curious about this as the inexperienced boys. But, at seven o’clock that evening, hunting and Indian tales came to a temporary end; the train, as if approaching a stone wall, thundered up to Midvale—the town at the foot of the main range of the Rocky Mountains.

There were no gradually ascending foothills. From the almost flat but flower-spotted grassy prairie—for the sage brush is almost unknown here—the dusty travelers were whirled like the flash of a moving picture into the wonders of the mountain world. Midvale marks the southern boundary of the Glacier National Park—the old Lewis and Clark reservation that extends into the heart of the mountains, and 135 miles north to the Canadian boundary.

There was no thought of dinner. From seven o’clock until darkness finally blotted out the view of peak and range; of chasm and precipice; of matted and tangled forest; mountain streams and veil-like falls, the entire party sat on the observation platform. It was “Ah” and “Oh,” “Here, quick,” and “Look there,” until necks were stiff and eyes ached.

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Captain Ludington.

“Them trees?” queried Sam Skinner. “You bet they are; all o’ that. You couldn’t make five mile a day in ’em. And we got a good deal o’ that down timber in the Elk River Valley. It’s easier to look at than to cut a trail through.”

Then came dinner after one of the longest and fullest days the boys had ever known. The branch line, on which the Teton was to be hauled to Michel and across the Canadian border into Canada, left the main line at Rexford—well up in the mountains. The limited was due there at a little after midnight. There the special car would be sidetracked to await the leaving of the branch road train at four o’clock the next day.

Mr. Mackworth suggested that every one turn in as there would be plenty of time later for sight-seeing. But the boys, visiting the rear platform after the evening meal, were so entranced with the scene that they hastened to summon the others of the party. The laboring train had crawled well up into the ruggeder mountain heights. And now, on a higher level, it was whirling along on the shoulder of the mountains; swinging around great cliffs on a roadbed cut in their face; now and then shooting through a tunnel or over a spidery trestle, and then getting new impetus on a tangent following the bed of some foaming stream.

The moon had risen and all the world in sight was either the black of the chasms or the silvery glisten of moonlit pines. But what interested Frank and Phil was not so much this glory of nature’s panorama as the song of the train as it sped in and out of narrow places; panted under new grades or breathed full and deep under restful downward grades, and then vied with the echo of its own engine noises as they were caught up and hurled back by unseen precipices.

“There,” exclaimed Frank, grasping Captain Ludington’s arm, “you can tell we’re goin’ up again even when you can’t see anything. Listen!”

“Chuc-a-chung, chuc-a-chung-chuc-a-chung,” rolled back from the engine.

Then the “chuc-a-chung” stopped for an instant, only to be heard off to the left as if miles away.

“That means,” explained Frank, “we’re rounding a curve and gettin’ the echo. It’s just as if the engine were talkin’. There, we’re behind the engine again,” cried the enthusiastic boy as the “chuc-a-chung” rang out again.

The dust of the prairie had now disappeared and as Nelse had swept and wiped up the platform, the sleepiest of the delighted travelers could not resist lingering to enjoy the mountain ride. The June-time heat of the plains had also changed to a cool night breeze that suggested sweaters. When, at last, a new and faster “chuc-a-chuck” of the big mountain engine told of the rapidly increasing grades, and a sudden curve of the train brought into view a distant summit glistening silvery white in the moonlight, Mr. Mackworth exclaimed:

“There it is, gentlemen! That’s the snow that we’ll have in sight for three weeks. Having saluted it, let’s go to bed.”

All arose, but Sam Skinner seemed a bit embarrassed.

“Colonel,” he said at last, addressing Mr. Mackworth, “you know I ain’t much for these sleepin’ cars. I slept on a shelf last night. If you don’t mind I’d like to draw these curtains and bring my blankets out here to-night.”

“Why there’s a couch in the dining room, Sam,” replied Mr. Mackworth, smiling. “Try that.”

“’Tain’t that, Colonel, exactly. But this air tastes good to me after four years down Winnipeg way. And you know I like to light a pipe now and then when I turn over.”

“We’ll stay with you,” exclaimed Phil at once.

“You’ll go to bed,” ordered Mr. Mackworth, “there’s plenty of outdoor sleepin’ coming to you boys.”

Retiring to their stateroom, the two boys sat for some time observing the beauties of the night scenery through the screens of the window.

“We’ll be at Rexford in an hour,” Frank urged, “and I want to be up and see the limited cut us off and leave us. I like to see what’s doin’ when we get to places.”

“By rights,” added Phil, “we ought to be awake and walk up to the engine and give old Bill—all engineers are named Bill so far as I’ve read—and give ‘Old Bill’ $20.”

“You’re right,” exclaimed Frank. “That’s regulations. We’ll take one of your $20 bills.”

Phil, carried away by the new idea, examined his dwindling roll of money, picked out a clean bill and put it in his vest pocket. Then, for an hour’s sleep, the boys threw themselves on their bunks. Sometime later Frank roused himself, lay for a few moments as if trying to figure out where he was and then sprang up excitedly. All was quiet. The Teton stood as still as a rock. Snapping on the light the lad glanced at his watch. Then he caught Phil by the shoulder.

“Hey there, wake up!” he called in a low voice. As Phil opened his eyes Frank added: “You’ve saved that $20. It’s now two o’clock and ‘Old Bill’ has left us.”

“Huh?” grunted Phil.

“Get up,” whispered Frank. “We’re at Rexford. Let’s get out and have a look at things.”

“Not me,” drawled Phil. “Everything will be there in the morning.” In another moment he was asleep again.

“All right,” thought Frank, “maybe I won’t ever be in a mountain town again at two o’clock on a June mornin’ with the moon shinin’ all over everything. So here goes for a little sight-seein’ of my own.”

Reaching the observation platform Frank found Sam Skinner apparently asleep. But the boy had no sooner touched the drawn curtains than the hunter spoke.

“I’m just goin’ out to look about,” explained Frank.

Without comment Sam threw off his blankets, filled his pipe and followed the boy to the ground.

“Was you awake when we got here?” asked Frank.

“Yes,” answered Sam, “Mr. Mackworth was up. I got out with him. He saw the conductor. And say,” added Sam, “he went up to the engine and gave the engineer some money. He’s always generous with folks he likes.”

Frank was thinking hard. At last he said to himself:

“Well, anyway, it wasn’t any business of mine. It would have been foolish for us to have done it. I’m glad we didn’t wake up.”

The moon, now behind a mountain range, left Rexford buried in the shadows of the valley. There was not a light in sight except a feeble glow in the near-by station and a few switch signals. Frank could form no estimate of the size of the place, and as the gloom was not inviting and the air was frostlike and snappy the boy gave up his plan for a night excursion. He had just suggested a return to Sam when the old hunter caught him by the arm, made a motion signifying silence and then disappeared around the end of the car.

Frank kept at his heels. At first there was nothing to be seen or heard and then the boy, catching his breath, pointed to the forward end of the car where a faint glow seemed to come from the side door of the baggage compartment. The boy darted forward ahead of Skinner. A glance showed one section of the double doors shoved back and a light in the car. On the ground beneath the door was an empty box.

As Frank came opposite the open door and caught sight of the interior of the car his heart leaped. Crouched over an object of some kind was a man on his knees. By his side was a spluttering candle. Surrounding the intruder on all sides were dozens of cans of gasoline. The knowledge that at any instant the Teton might be blown to pieces was the only thought in the boy’s mind. There was no time to think of the peril of encountering the intruder unarmed.

“Put that light out!” yelled Frank. “Put it out. You’ll blow up the car,” he shouted as he leaped on the box beneath the door. Instantly the light went out; there was a rush in the car and then the boy, already half through the door, was thrust backwards as if by a kick, and a form hurled itself over his head.

The intruder and Frank rolled down the slight embankment almost together and both against Sam Skinner.

“Stop!” yelled Sam as the man scrambled to his feet and stumbled away in the darkness. But the intruder did not stop and, with one quick look to make sure that it was Frank at his feet, Sam’s revolver spit a streak of fire toward the fugitive. Without waiting to ask questions the old hunter, his fighting blood aroused, disappeared after the man. Frank, now alarmed for the first time over the chance he had taken, got to his feet. As he did so he felt an ache in his shoulder. It was not enough to stop him, however, and he sprang on to the box again and into the dark compartment of the car.

There were roof electric lights in the car with a switch at the rear door. Stumbling toward it, the boy finally turned on the lights. A glance showed that a thief had been at work.

“And we got him just in time,” chuckled Frank to himself. Standing by the open door were all the gun cases of the party. In the middle of the car was Mr. Mackworth’s English sole leather gun trunk. A sharp knife had been passed completely around the top and still stuck in the cut leather, which in another moment could have been lifted out like a loose panel. The car door had been pried open with a railroad spike bar.

Frank had hardly made this examination before there was a knock at the compartment door and a call to open it. It was Mr. Mackworth, breathless. Frank stuttered out the facts. Almost before he had finished, his uncle in slippers and pajamas was out of the door and off in the darkness in the direction Sam and the fugitive had taken. The door lock was broken but, pulling the section in place, Frank turned off the lights, hurried back through the car and—without arousing its other occupants—started after the would-be thief and his pursuers.