Vis Major: Railroad Men, an ‘Act of God’—White Death at Wellington

Other books by Martin Burwash

Cascade Division, 1995, Fox Publication

The Great Adventure, 1998, Fox Publications

Vis Major

Railroad Men, an Act of God—White Death at Wellington

By

Martin Burwash

An Historical Novel

iUniverse, Inc.

New York   Bloomington

Vis Major

Railroad Men, an Act of God—White Death at Wellington

Copyright © 2009 by Martin Burwash

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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ISBN: 978-1-4401-6177-3 (pbk)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6179-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4401-6178-0 (ebk)

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Printed in the United States of America

iUniverse rev. date: 8/24/2009

Contents

A Note to the Reader

Part One

Wellington … the end of the earth. – Basil Sherlock

September 6, 1909

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

November 13, 1909

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

November 13, 1909

Anthony John Dougherty, Brakeman

November 23, 1909

John Robert Meath, Engineer

December 20, 1909

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

December 21, 1909

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Part Two

We got no sleep. –John Robert Meath

Tuesday, February 22, 1910, 6:00 a.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Tuesday, February 22, 1910, 2nd Trick, Wellington

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Tuesday, February 22, 1910, 7:00 p.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

Wednesday, February 23, 1910, 2:30 a.m.

Anthony John Dougherty, Brakeman

Wednesday, February 23, 1910, 3:15 a.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Wednesday, February 23, 1910, 8:00 a.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

Wednesday, February 23, 1910, 3:30 p.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

Wednesday, February 23, 1910, 6:00 p.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Wednesday, February 23, 1910, 2nd Trick Wellington

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Thursday, February 24, 1910, 3:30 a.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Thursday, February 24, 1910, 10:30 a.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Thursday, February 24, 1910, 2:00 p.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Thursday, February 24, 1910, 4:30 p.m.

Anthony John Dougherty, Brakeman

Thursday, February 24, 1910, 6:30 p.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

Thursday, February 24, 1910, 2nd Trick Wellington

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Thursday, February 24, 1910, 10:30 p.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Friday, February 25, 1910, 3:30 a.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

Friday, February 25, 1910,11:30 a.m.

Anthony John Dougherty

Friday, February 25, 1910, 1:30 p.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Friday, February 25, 1910, 4:30 p.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

Friday, February 25, 1910, 2nd Trick Wellington

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Friday, February 25, 1910, 7:30 p.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 3:00 a.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 6:00 a.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 6:30 a.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 2:30 p.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 3:00 p.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 7:30 p.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 2nd Trick Wellington

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Saturday, February 26, 1910, 9:00 p.m.

Anthony John Dougherty, Brakeman

Sunday, February 27, 1910, 5:30 a.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Sunday, February 27, 1910, 10:30 a.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

Sunday, February 27, 1910, 2nd Trick Wellington

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Monday, February 28, 1910, 11:00 a.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

Monday, February 28, 1910, 6:00 p.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Monday, February 28, 1910, 9:00 p.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Monday, February 28, 1910, 10:00 p.m.

Anthony John Dougherty, Brakeman

Tuesday March 1, 1910 1:42 a.m.

Arthur Reed Blackburn, Trainmaster

Tuesday, March 1, 1910, 1:43 a.m.

Anthony John Dougherty, Brakeman

Tuesday, March 1, 1910, 1:44 a.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

Tuesday, March 1, 1910, 2:15 a.m.

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Tuesday, March 1, 1910, 3:00 a.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

Tuesday, March 1, 1910, 8:30 a.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

Part Three

I considered the location we had the train in as absolutely safe,—James Henry O’Neill

March 2, 1910, 8:00 a.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

March 3, 1910, 12:30 p.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

March 4, 1910, 4:00 a.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

March 5, 1910, 11:00 a.m.

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

March 6, 1910, 8:00 p.m.

James Henry O’Neill, Superintendent

March 7, 1910, 1:30 p.m.

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

March 8, 1910, 5:30 p.m.

John Robert Meath, Engineer

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

To all the people of Wellington, both spirit and flesh, this book is dedicated.

Great Northern Rotary X-800 at Wellington, circa 1910. Engineer John Robert Meath standing lower left. Photo courtesy, Mrs. James Meath.

It is plain from the evidence in the case and from the undisputed facts, that this avalanche was what is known in law as vis major, or an act of God … Chief Justice Judge Herman D. Crow, speaking for the Washington State Supreme Court in the case of Topping v. The Great Northern Railway, August, 1914.

A Note to the Reader

This text began in 1961, when, as an eight-year-old boy, I was sprawled across our living room floor, absorbed in the December issue of Trains Magazine. Contained within its pages was a three-paragraph reference to a tragic snow slide that occurred in the Cascade Mountains, just east of our house in Tacoma, Washington. A spark was ignited by that article, and a fire of interest in that event has burned inside of me ever since.

Although other accounts of the 1910 Wellington Avalanche have been published, none have been written strictly from the point of view of those who knew best what actually happened—the railroad men who battled the week-long storm that triggered the disaster. This book is an attempt to present the story from their perspective, and give the reader an appreciation for what those men experienced.

What was it like to operate a steam-driven snow plow day after day without food or rest? What effect did hours of exposure to blinding snow and bone-chilling wind have on the minds and bodies of the men? How did men, charged with the responsibility of keeping the railroad open, deal with the frustration, fatigue, loss of will, and spirit?

No facts have been consciously altered. All events described carry with them historical documentation. The dialogue is purely fictitious, but is based on actual spoken testimony and what is known to be true about the lives and backgrounds of the characters. If, in the process of bringing these men back to life, I have taken certain liberties in their speech and thoughts, I hope I will be forgiven. It was done in an effort to finally give voice to men long silenced by litigation and the dark void of eternity.

Martin Burwash

Part One

Wellington … the end of the earth. – Basil Sherlock

September 6, 1909

William Harrington, Assistant Trainmaster

Harrington knew before he entered Superintendent O’Neill’s office that afternoon why he had been summoned. He was there to tell the superintendent whether or not he was willing to assume the duties of the Snow King this coming winter. The offer would come, that he knew. The pride he took in being a good freight train conductor and his performance had landed him the position the previous two winters.

What do I tell him? Can’t make up my mind, Harrington thought.

Harrington’s battle with his own inability to decide began when he received the written notice from O’Neill that he was once again to be promoted to the Assistant Trainmaster in charge of snow removal.

Couldn’t wait for the snow to fall last year. Can’t shake the notion this one’s gonna be a bad one. Lil wants me off the plows. Should never said I’d tell O’Neill No. Need the money. Kids ain’t cheap. Never good to thumb your nose at a job offered by the Super. Quick way to get on his shit list. Living with Lil, not O’Neill. Lil. Wants the money. Doesn’t want me away earning it. Can’t win with women.

It was hot and sticky outside, but Harrington’s nerves caused him to perspire more than the weather.

Sweating like a pig. Jumpier than a frog with a lit match pinned to his ass. Got the door open waiting for me. Here goes.

Seeing Harrington, O’Neill motioned him to enter and sit in a chair placed at the left-front corner of the desk. The superintendent leaned back in his chair and stretched. Immediately a cigar went to his lips followed by a lit match. Harrington sat, said nothing, and watched O’Neill fold one arm across his chest, the other holding his cigar. The uncomfortable Harrington attempted to look casual as well.

Damned chair. Built for a backache.

Harrington crossed his legs, but could not find a natural position for his arms or hands. He knew O’Neill was eying him closely, all the while titled back slightly in his chair, calmly smoking.

Damn you, O’Neill. Know I’m on pins and needles.

Care for a smoke, Mr. Harrington? O’Neill offered. He took his cigar from his mouth and tipped the ashes into a full ashtray.

No thanks, sir. Never took up the habit. My wife wouldn’t have it if I did, I guess, Harrington admitted.

Just off a run, eh? O’Neill once again leaned back in his chair enjoying his smoke.

Christ, kill the chitchat. Harrington squirmed in the rigid wood chair, trying to clam his nerves. Yes sir, had the 451 time freight. Heavy with wheat it was.

O’Neill nodded in silent agreement, blowing the smoke casually between his lips. And the roadbed, the boys getting it ready for winter? I need to get up there and inspect it. O’Neill continued to make idle conversation.

Mr. Harley is about done at Shed 3.3, sir. The track is in as good a shape as I’ve ever seen, and that’s a damned fact.

If you don’t get to it I will. Harrington was beginning to fume under the stress of his own anxiety.

Sometimes I envy you boys out there on the road, O’Neill lamented. Try staying cooped up in here shuffling papers for a couple of weeks straight.

There was another awkward silence. Letting out a slight sigh, O’Neill, grabbed a file from his desk. He rose from his chair, walked behind Harrington, and closed the office door before returning to his desk.

I need you up there as the Snow King, Bill.

The almost pleading tone to O’Neill’s voice and sudden informality caught Harrington totally off guard. Jesus Christ, putting the squeeze on.

Well, I’ve given it a lot of thought, sir, no doubt about that. And I… well sir, you know I thank you for giving me first crack and all. Just hoping you’re not overlooking a few of the other boys that might do a better job. I know Ira Clary sure can pilot a plow train.

It was a speech Harrington practiced any number of times over the past few weeks.

A slight sense of relief came across his body.

Spit it out. See how he takes it. Might let me off the hook.

For a moment it appeared that O’Neill was seriously considering what Harrington had just said. Ira Clary is indeed a very capable conductor and knows the mountain, O’Neill allowed. Still, he needs more time to learn to hold that Irish temper of his. No, it’s you I need to take charge this winter. I need your experience. I don’t want to break in a new man this winter.

O’Neill stood, file still in hand and walked around to the front of his desk. He pulled from it a letter from General Manager Gruber and handed it to Harrington.

I’m sure you know about our contract with the Postal Service. We’re going to be adding two new trains just to handle the mail. O’Neill paused to judge Harrington’s reaction.

Harrington gazed at the letter not really reading it, all the while stroking his thick, black moustache. Damn the luck. Brass putting the screws to O’Neill, he’s puttin’ the screws to me. Gotta keep the line open for the mail.

Been hearing talk of these mail trains, Harrington replied.

The UP is coming on strong, O’Neill continued. They’re offering to haul for slightly less, but we still have a shorter route to Seattle.

O’Neill was now perched on the edge of his desk, just inches from Harrington. He finally got down to the point.

Gruber is on my ass about this. The postal service is going to be watching our on-time performance real close this winter. Those sneaky bastards over at the UP … they’ve got the post office scared that we can’t consistently deliver on time in the winter because of our route. UP is saying just because our route is shorter, doesn’t mean it’s faster.

O’Neill paused and took another couple of quick puffs from his cigar, exhaling the smoke while Harrington digested this information.

Wished to hell he’d blow that smoke out the window. Getting a headache. Got O’Neill, Lil, and now the goddamned UP ganged up against me.

What it comes down to, Bill, we’ve got to keep the pass open this winter, O’Neill continued. You see what I’m driving at here? Not the winter to be breaking in a new Snow King. I need your experience up there.

So if we lose any mail to the UP this winter, I take the fall. Well, I got to hand it to you, Jim, that’s one hell of a way to convince a man to take a job that’s already a pain in the ass, Harrington said, shaking his head.

Yeah, I know, but you need to know what we’re up against. Besides, you won’t be the only scapegoat. The three of us will be in the stew pot together. You, me, and Blackburn.

Jim— Harrington paused briefly, gauging his sudden informality, —me and Blackburn don’t get along so good. You know that. He’s good at going against my calls and decisions. I mean, I understand I’m just a temporary assistant trainmaster, but as I see it, we need to know going into this who’s doing what.

Returning to his chair, O’Neill leaned on the right armrest. It was Harrington’s turn to eye his boss. He watched O’Neill attempt to rub the fatigue out of his eyes, then squeeze the bridge of his nose.

Blackburn’s a very good trainmaster, Bill. Wouldn’t have him up there if he wasn’t. He’ll probably end up as a superintendent. He just needs some time to learn how to handle the men. I’ll have a talk with him and see if we can’t come to a clear understanding of duties.

Another silence found its way into the room.

What are you gonna do, sack him? Blackburn ain’t gonna change.

I know you don’t want the job. Hell, I had that figured when you stalled off responding to my letter, O’Neill said, interrupting Harrington’s thoughts. But damn it, you’re the only man on this division I can trust with this responsibility, Bill. Truth be known, if you were to say yes, well, I’d be personally grateful.

O’Neill spoke in a tone so gentle it reminded Harrington of a man courting a beautiful woman. The impulse to say no was still strong. He was torn between his sense of duty toward the railroad, towards O’Neill, and the promise to his wife that he would turn the position down.

Need to get up. Walk around. Take a leak. Can’t think clear.

Harrington again stroked his moustache, a habit he had when he was trying to make up his mind. He took a deep breath, just to calm down.

It was that voice. A man of O’Neill’s strength and authority, talking to him as if he was in dire need of a personal favor, that tone of voice was enough to convince Harrington to again take charge of snow removal across the pass.

That son of a bitch. Probably never uses that tone on his own family, Harrington surmised. Worked on me. Can’t say no. He dropped his chin to his chest and let out a long sigh. With the image of Lillian’s stern look searing through his head, he made his decision.

Okay, I’ll do it. I’m your man for another winter.

Well, I’m a little overwhelmed with your enthusiasm there, Bill, but I’m grateful. Really, I am. It takes a load off my mind knowing you will be up there when the snow starts flying.

Maybe for you. My troubles are just starting.

Harrington picked up his hat and stood up. O’Neill met him, stepping around from behind his desk extending his hand. Harrington grasped it and felt the power of O’Neill’s grip. He countered by squeezing the superintendent’s hand as tightly as he could. Releasing their near-death grip, they walked to the office door, O’Neill opening it and gesturing for Harrington to exit first.

Getting the royal treatment. Give the boss what he wants, you’re the best damned guy on the block. Soon as something goes wrong on my watch, be the first one on my ass.

Mr. Longcoy, Conductor Harrington has agreed to assume the duties of the Assistant Trainmaster again this winter, O’Neill announced. Make sure the proper papers are drawn up and ready. Mr. Harrington, I will see you later this year, I’m sure.

I’m sure we will meet up again soon enough, sir, Harrington replied, making certain the formality had returned now that they were speaking in front of O’Neill’s clerk, Earl Longcoy. He watched O’Neill return to his office, closing the door behind him.

Well, congratulations, Mr. Harrington, Longcoy said in a cheery voice.

Harrington just nodded at him, turned, and left.

Christ, kid. Haven’t got a goddamned idea what this means. Just agreed to another winter of no sleep. Living in a damned snowbound hell. Get to go home and tell Lil I just broke my promise. Gonna have hell to pay.

November 13, 1909

Basil Sherlock, Telegrapher

Concentrating on the dots and dashes coming across the telegraph wire, Sherlock didn’t even notice the stooped little man entering the Wellington station office. His headset on, the earpiece glued to his left ear, Sherlock was bent over the tabletop desk that filled the bay window of the depot. His pencil moved across the pad of thin paper used to transcribe train orders as the well-trained partnership of his ear, mind, and hand were translating tiny electric pulses coming from the dispatcher in Everett into the words that ran the railroad.

With snow falling all week from Scenic eastward, nearly to Merritt, Conductor Harrington assumed his duties as the Snow King. In as much as the day-to-day business of calling snow plow crews and communications was centered at Wellington, the workload of the operator on duty increased significantly.

Harder the snow falls, harder the key rattles, Sherlock muttered. A plow train had been clearing the day’s accumulation of snow along the line. Sherlock was engrossed in the task of issuing clearances so the plow and pusher locomotive could depart Cascade Tunnel Station and come west to Wellington where they would be serviced and spotted for the night.

Hate to bother you, sir. Mind if I stand by your stove and warm up a bit?

Sherlock’s head bolted upright, his eyes wide.

Good Lord, man!

Quickly regaining his composure, Sherlock gave the man the once-over. The intruder was small, weighing barely 100 pounds. A heavy backpack and rifle were strapped to his back, causing him to stand slightly bent at the waist. A couple of days’ sparse growth speckled his hollowed, red cheeks. The man wore a dirty coat and from under a drooping, wet hat he stared back at Sherlock.

Hunter. Too broke to stay in the hotel. Too wet to stay outside.

No harm, I guess. Just keep to yourself and keep quiet, Sherlock snapped. I’m busy here with railroad business.

The intruder said nothing, but lowered his rifle and pack to the floor. Facing away from Sherlock, he commenced to warm his hands over the top of the coal-fired pot-bellied stove in the back corner of the room.

Sherlock silently fumed, all the while tapping a confirmation of an order back to the dispatcher on his telegraph. Busy? More like overwhelmed, Never dreamed the workload would be this heavy. Middle of nowhere. Snowbound hell. Telegraphers should band together. Demand a higher pay scale.

Sherlock and his wife, Althea, came to Wellington in the late summer. A man with higher seniority bumped him from his previous position at the Great Northern station at New Westminster, British Columbia, just across the Washington boarder. Positions were often open at Wellington, where the turn-over of personnel was high. Will Flannery, the senior operator at the station held the day shift, 1st Trick. Sherlock was assigned 2nd Trick, 4 p.m.-to-midnight. The isolation was wearing on Sherlock. In three months time, he had made few friends. His serious nature, often pouting attitude and lack of humor quickly alienated him from the other railroaders working at Wellington.

Althea thinks this is some kind of grand outing. More like a career breaker. Agent at New West had it in for me from the beginning. Might be young, but know more about running a station than him.

Although only 22 years old, Sherlock was an experienced telegraph operator. Even so, the complexities of the duties required at Wellington came as a surprise. It seemed to him that Wellington and Cascade Tunnel Station were like the opposite bulbs of an hourglass. The Cascade Tunnel was its narrow neck. Unlike the sands flowing naturally through the neck, however, with the constant pressure of the dispatchers and Trainmaster Arthur Blackburn, Sherlock felt he was required to wade into the sand-filled chamber and push as many grains through the narrow passage as he possibly could. Snow just compounded the problem, adding to the flow the snow plow trains now operating across the pass.

Three quick strokes of a bell broke the silence of the room. The little man, still hovered over the stove, jumped and spun around.

What was that? came his anxious inquiry.

Just never mind, Sherlock said, rising from his chair. It’s a signal telling me a train is ready to come through the tunnel.

From the corner of his eye, Sherlock could see that the hunter accepted the explanation, but kept watching, intrigued to see what would happen next.

Up and down. Inside one minute, outside the next. Don’t see why they even bother giving us a chair. Never sit in it more than five minutes.

Sherlock walked over to the staff machine, a strange-looking mechanism mounted on the outside wall of the room. These machines hung in each station and were used to control the movements of trains across the pass. With the lock released by the station operator in Cascade Tunnel Station, Sherlock pulled a staff baton from the machine and prepared to hand it to the crew of the approaching train. Possession of the staff gave the train permission to proceed to the next station. It was a relay of sorts; a staff would be dropped off and reinserted into the machine at the same time the new staff was picked up as the train passed each station. Since only one staff could be removed from the machine at a time, this prevented two trains from occupying the same section of track at once.

Yet another bell rang. Sherlock, back at his desk, put on a single earphone and pulled a telephone mouthpiece mounted on an accordion frame towards his face.

Stepping on a foot treadle under his desk, he spoke into the mouthpiece, Wellington. Sherlock strained to hear the crackling voice on the other end.

This is Cascade Tunnel. Harrington’s outfit is just leaving. He says he’ll keep the staff until he’s done servicing and tied down in the upper yard.

I copy that Cascade Tunnel. I have his clearances ready.

Sherlock rolled up the orders he just received over the telegraph and tied together copies for both the engineer and the conductor. He took a bamboo hoop on a long handle from a rack on the wall and secured one set of orders to its frame. Still grumbling over the workload, Sherlock donned his heavy winter coat, stuffed the other set of orders in his pocket, and grabbed a lantern. It took a moment of searching, but he finally found a match from an inner vest pocket, and lit the lamp. Although it was barely 5:30, darkness was fast setting into the mountains.

Once outside, he leaned the order hoop against the wall. He carefully picked his way across the wood station platform and down the ramp to ground level.

Slick as snot out here. Shouldn’t have cleaned off all the snow.

He approached the runaway switch then set lantern down in the snow next to the stand. Digging into his pants pocket he pulled out a set of keys. The cold mountain air numbed Sherlock’s fingers. Twice he dropped the keys in the snow before he was able to release the lock on the runaway track switch-stand. Grabbing the hinged lever, Sherlock tugged on its handle as hard as he could, swinging his body clockwise at the same moment.

Going to break my back throwing this switch ten times a night.

Twice more he jerked on the lever before the switch points yielded to his strength and moved into position, aligning the runaway track. A light from the east and the shrill sound of a steam whistle echoing announced the plow train’s arrival.

The size and width of the snow plow bearing down on him intimidated Sherlock. Instinctively he stepped back, away from the switch-stand. Slipping, he nearly fell over a small pile of snow mounded next to the track.

Easy there, Sherlock, Harrington hollered, climbing down from the cab of the plow. Might as well wait ‘til the snow gets good and deep before you start falling on your ass.

Sherlock ignored the jab. I have your clearances here, Mr. Harrington. He pulled the orders from his coat pocket.

Hey Sherlock! You got the coffee pot drained already?

Sherlock winced upon hearing the voice of Engineer Bob Meath calling out from the plow.

I haven’t had any, but there’s a hunter in there warming up. He might have had a cup or two, Sherlock replied. Just what I need, Meath in town. Should get double pay just for putting up with him.

A hunter you say. Well, well. Sherlock obviously caught Meath’s attention with the announcement that a stranger was in the station.

Be right back, Boss. I’m gonna get me a jolt of ol’ Basil’s special brew. With the agility of a cat, Meath sprang from the plow, landing on both feet on the station platform.

Wished he would’ve slipped and fallen on his ass.

Make it quick, Meath, we need to get serviced and clear, Harrington warned.

Feel free to water those tea pots without me. I can hold down the fort here, Meath replied over his shoulder.

Just get your coffee and get your ass back out to the plow, Harrington snarled. His words fell on deaf ears, as Meath had already disappeared into the station. Turning to Sherlock, Harrington grabbed his orders. You can head back in, Sherlock. Coal and water aren’t bad off, so we should be clear in half an hour or so.

As you wish, Mr. Harrington.

Sherlock picked up his lantern and had almost returned to the order hoop when Meath came bursting back outside, a steaming cup of coffee in his hand.

Good God, man, watch where you’re going, Sherlock scolded. Can’t imagine them trusting this man with something as important as a snow plow.

Easy, Basil, no harm done. Say, did you know that poor drowned rat in there only has a buck-fifty to his name? Kind of a sinister look about him, too. Might have to call in the sheriff to investigate.

Goddamnit, Meath, get back on that plow! We’re leaving! Harrington roared.

How does Harrington put up with him? Beyond me. Sherlock shook his head in disgust. Meath. Absolute imbecile.

Yes sir, Sherlock, Meath calmly continued, ignoring Harrington. Might have to bring the court into session this evening to take care of this matter. So you be ready.

Meath, careful not to spill his coffee, made his way back to the snow plow.

Hey Al, he called into the plow, grab this coffee. I gotta climb on before the Snow King leaves me behind … and, looking right at Harrington, continued,  …and wouldn’t that be a shame.

Brakeman Al Dougherty appeared at the cab door and cradled Meath’s coffee cup, taking a sip while Meath scampered up the ladder. Raising the battered tin cup in a toast, Dougherty looked at Sherlock, Good cup of mud, Sherlock.

Sherlock pretended he was busy with the order hoop, ignoring Dougherty.

Harrington climbed on below Meath. Swinging his lantern, he gave the engineer of the pusher locomotive the go-ahead. Two short blasts from the locomotive’s whistle acknowledged Harrington’s signal, and the outfit slowly moved past the depot.

As the locomotive clanked past, Sherlock held the hoop upright, which allowed the engineer to snag the orders and staff with his outstretched arm. Bob Ford leaned out the cab window, and as he grabbed his orders he shouted out to Sherlock to make sure Meath didn’t take all the coffee. Could be a long night, he said with a grin.

What does O’Neill see in that Harrington? Absolutely no control over those men. Going to be up to mischief all night.

Back in the office, Sherlock took off his coat, still agitated over the exchange with Meath. As he hung it on the rack he again eyed the hunter.

You realize, sir, you can’t stay here unless you have a ticket on one of the trains. Do you have a ticket, or are you planning to purchase one?

All’s I got is a buck-fifty on me. That get me back to Seattle?

Hardly, sir. Well, if you’re not going to be boarding a train tonight, it’s best you leave and find accommodations elsewhere.

Just let me stay a mite longer, the man pleaded. Another hour or so and I’ll head out and leave ya alone. I don’t suppose you’d tell me when the next freight train is due through.

Indeed I will not, sir. And if you’re smart, you’ll keep those thoughts to yourself. We don’t take to hobos hopping our freight trains.

Got to get him out of here. Stay here too long they’ll catch him and set-up that damnable court. Best to send him packing right now. Can’t let anyone know I tipped him off.

Sir, I must ask you to leave. You can go over to the hotel. $1.50 should get you a room or at least a hot meal to tide you over. But you can’t stay here. Sherlock was trying his best to be firm with his words and display an air of authority.

Well, alright, but I don’t see what harm I’m causin’ staying right here, the little man whined. He picked his pack up off the floor, and with what appeared to be his last ounce of strength, hoisted it over his shoulder.

Good night to you, sir. And with that he stepped out the door.

Thank God he’s gone.

Grabbing the line-up sheet, Sherlock studied the list of trains.

Quiet shift. I get that snow plow in the clear, be able to do a little housekeeping. Mr. O’Neill will be here more often now that it’s snowing …

The station door flew open, interrupting Sherlock’s thoughts. The little hunter came bolting through the doorway with brakeman James Curly Kerlee and Wellington Town Sheriff, conductor Ed Lindsay close behind.

Mr. Sherlock, as the duly appointed Sheriff of Wellington, I am placing this man under arrest. I need you to lock him in the back room until we can have a trial, Lindsay demanded.

I ain’t done nuthin! You ain’t no sheriff! The little hunter’s eyes were wide with anger and fear.

If I ain’t no sheriff, why have I got this?

Lindsay opened the lapel of his work coat. Pinned to the interior was a shiny, well-worn police badge.

I’m tellin’ ya sheriff, that’s the guy, Kerlee interjected, pointing to the hunter. Me and my friends heard him talking about puttin’ a rail across the tracks and sending a train into the canyon. He said he was gonna collect all the loot off the dead people.

He’s lyin’! the hunter shouted back. I’ve never seen him before!

Oh really, this is just too much. Why you’re no more a sheriff … Lindsay spun around and glared, cutting Sherlock off mid-sentence.

You need to find your friends to backup your story, Lindsay instructed Kerlee. Find them and report back here.

Kerlee nodded, winked at Sherlock, and disappeared into the night. Lindsay approached the hunter, grabbing the frightened man firmly by the upper arm.

I have no choice but to arrest you for plotting a willful act of sabotage against the Great Northern Railway. Sherlock! Open up the back room.

You can’t do this! Dammit, man, I ain’t done nuthin’! I came up here alone!

Sherlock begrudgingly rose from his desk and walked across the room.

Have to go along with it. Life’ll be a living hell around here if I don’t.

Once again, Sherlock pulled his keys from his pocket. He unlocked the storage room and Lindsay ushered the little man inside.

You can tell it all to the judge, Lindsay snarled and closed the door. We’re holding your pack and rifle for evidence.

Better lock it, Sherlock, he hollered, making sure his prisoner heard. Don’t want him trying to escape. Might have to shoot him with his own gun if he does that.

What the hell you blokes doing? You can’t keep me here!

Lindsay put a fist to the storeroom door. Quiet! We can keep you there as long as we want. The judge is in town. We’ll have the trial as soon as he gets here, so just settle down!

The hunter fell quiet. Lindsay strolled across the room and rejoined Sherlock back at the desk, placing the prisoner’s pack and rifle underneath.

Really, Mr. Lindsay, that poor little beggar only has a buck-fifty on him, Sherlock scolded.

Yeah, but that’ll buy a round, won’t it?

November 13, 1909

Anthony John Dougherty, Brakeman

The heavy logging chain on his shoulder caused Dougherty to stumble slightly as he made his way to the front of the snow plow. Stopping next to the wheels, he let the chain slide into the snow.

Like back on the farm. Getting the plow stuck. Hauling that damned chain through the mud. Unhitch the team. Pull the whole mess out backwards. God, glad I’m railroading.

Six years had passed since Dougherty left his childhood home in Waverly, Minnesota. Being the middle son in a houseful of brothers and sisters, and not wanting to farm, there was nothing to keep him on the land. He hired out with the Great Northern, eventually becoming a brakeman. Given the nick name Al, Dougherty worked his way west, and for the past three years was holding down regular runs between Everett and Leavenworth.

Dougherty took to the mountains right off, despite advice to the contrary from others. There was camaraderie amongst the men on the mountain like none other he ever experienced, especially during the winter plow runs. For the first time in his life he felt he belonged, his presence was important, that he was an equal.

Once spotted for the night on a spur track in the upper yard, Dougherty’s job was to chain the front wheels of the rotary to the rail. This ensured that the plow and its pusher engine would not accidentally wander down the track and out onto the adjacent main line if their brakes failed.

Hey, Bobby, get your ass out here with a lantern so I can see what the hell I’m doing, Dougherty called out in the darkness.

Within seconds the area around the front of the snow plow was aglow with light. Their tattered grips sitting in the snow, Meath and Harrington stood over Dougherty with their lanterns. The young brakeman was on his hands and knees, using a short metal rod to dig out the snow between two wood ties. With the rock ballast exposed, Dougherty burrowed the rod underneath the rail, clearing a space between the bottom of the rail and the ties to each side.

Here, hold my lantern, Bill and I’ll give poor old Al a hand.

Free of his lamp, Meath joined Dougherty down in the snow, digging out a pathway for the chain. With each link rattling, Meath pulled the chain through the plow’s wheel assembly and fed it down the back side. Dougherty reached under the rail, grabbed the hook and wormed it out through the pathway he had just dug in the ballast and snow. A grunt escaped his lips as he looped the chain around the frame surrounding the front wheels. Working together they completed the task by securing the hook onto the thick links.

Let me make sure she’s good and tight, Al, Meath offered, lying on his stomach. Shine a light under the plow here.

Dougherty grabbed one of the lanterns from Harrington. As he leaned forward to shine the light under the plow, Meath spun around on his back and pelted the unsuspecting brakeman in the face with two loose-packed snowballs.

Goddamnit, Meath! Dougherty hollered. Meath scrambled to his feet and immediately took refuge next to Harrington, avoiding Dougherty’s sure retaliation.

You can’t hide behind Bill all winter, Bobby. Just remember that.

Oh for Christ’s sake, Harrington moaned. Let’s call it a day.

Bobby. Best friend a fella could ever want to have. More like my big brother, Dougherty thought.

The two men made a good pair. Both were tall with a youthful look, although Dougherty’s habitual smile contrasted with Meath’s dead-pan expression and darting eyes. It was their sense of humor and talent for instigating elaborate practical jokes that made the two popular with the men working the mountain.

We gonna have a trial for that hunter tonight, Bobby? Dougherty asked, his voice obviously filled with excitement.

Be a good night for it. Blackburn’s down at Skykomish so he won’t be around to bugger things up. That new assistant trainmaster will be around, but I hear he’s a pushover.

Up your ass with it, Meath, came Harrington’s over-the-shoulder reply.

Passing the sectionmens’ house adjoining the depot, Meath tapped his bag. I’m headed in there so’s I can become Judge Grogan. Get the courtroom ready, will ya, Al?

As you wish, Your Honor. What’s gonna be the charge? Have you decided?

Yeah, Lindsay talked to me while we were watering the outfit. He arrested the poor little beggar on the old wreck-the-train scam.

Alright. I like prosecuting that one. Who are my witnesses?

Lindsay’s got Curly and Fred Allen in on it. Maybe we can get Bat to be a witness too. You get things going, I’ll catch up with Bat and clue him in.

You got it, Bobby.

Dougherty walked past the depot, extinguishing his lantern and leaving it on the platform. Harrington headed inside.

Hey Bill, could you sign me and Bobby out? He’s over in the sectionmens’ house, and I’m headed straight up to Bailets on court business. You gonna stick around for the trial?

Yeah, I’ll sign you two out. That way I’m not responsible for your antics after that, Harrington replied, his voice thick with sarcasm. I got a few things to take care of this evening. I’ll be in the side office. Be nice if you assholes keep your court proceedings down to a small riot.

Dougherty headed up the hill towards the Bailets Hotel. Spining through his head was all that needed to be done. Happy, excited to be a central part of the goings on, his hands were in the pockets of his wet, dirty coat. He whistled a jovial nondescript tune as he crunched through the snow on the well-worn path leading to the saloon.

Need a jury. Find Flannery. He’ll be the clerk. Bobby’ll probably make Sherlock defend the guy. That’ll put ol’ Basil in a fit.

The stuffy heat and smoke of the saloon nearly bowled Dougherty over when he strode through the door. Standing inside the doorway for an instant, he sized up who was in the room.

Close the damned door, Al. Hasn’t anybody explained to ya’all it’s winter out thar? Archie Dupy said in his southern drawl.

Boys, we’ve got a big trial tonight. A very serious matter needs to come before the Honorable Judge Grogan. As the prosecutor, it’s my civic duty to gather up a jury of upstanding citizens, Dougherty announced to the group.

Hell, the only time we’re upstanding is when we have to go out back and write our names in the snow, came the slightly slurred voice of electric motor conductor, John Scott. The room erupted in laughter.

Boys, boys. We’ve got a trial to tend to. Will, can we count on you being Court Clerk? Dougherty called out, seeing the first trick telegrapher at a back table. Flannery raised a glass of beer and nodded in the affirmative. Okay then. Well, I count eight heads here, looks like I’m gonna have to swear all of you in for the jury. Mr. Scott, any objection to being the Jury Foreman?

Never let it be said the men of the Great Northern Railway shy away from their civic duties, came Scott’s drunken reply. Duty calls, boys! Drink up and pay up!

Dougherty was about to leave, but paused. Hey, anyone seen Lindsay? He’s got the badge, don’t he?

Eddie went down to the motor house, Al. Was a sayin’ he needed to get Campbell and Strohmier in on this. Ain’t no trains moving tonight, so them electric boys ain’t got a thang to do. Hell, by now I’d say them two boys probably got ol’ Lindsay about cleaned out in a game of whist, came Dupy’s reply amid more laughter.

Okay, head for the depot and get things set up. I’ll go bail Ed out of trouble.

Back in the cold night air, Dougherty breathed deep, relishing the moment. He bounded down the trail and followed the tracks away from the station, then jogged up the runaway track to a large structure perched on the hill above the main line. The building housed the electric locomotives used to pull the steam-powered trains through the tunnel. Ed Campbell was the conductor in charge of the electric engines assigned to the 7 p.m.- to-7 a.m. shift, just as John Scott was the day-shift conductor. Andy Strohmier was the night-shift engineer and Dougherty was guessing another engineman, Charlie Andrews, was probably hanging around as well.

Get the motor boys in on this. Be about a dozen on the jury. Not bad. God, this is fun. Betcha there ain’t another spot on the whole GN where they’re havin’ the kinda of fun we’re havin’ up here.

Dougherty burst through the door of the barn-like motor shed. Inside standing side-by-side on adjacent tracks were the shiny electric locomotives. In one corner, a couple of electric bulbs dimly lit a table next to a stove, where four men were gathered, cards in hand. The nose of one of the engines was parked so close to the card players it looked as though it had been dealt into the game as well.

"Lindsay, we need you