Railroad Stories #11: Danger Signals

By John Johns

A story of railroading in the "link and pin days" of 1887. It is the story of two men, brakemen on the N. S. & W., and a friendship that suffers when they love the same girl. It is also the story of a young woman, Muriel Chalmers, the daughter of the storekeeper in Middleburg, their home town.
Jim was approved by everyone, but as for Sam—well, his father, Ike McGowan, had left him and disappeared when Sam was still a small lad. Jim and Sam were brakemen on the same crew. Constantly they had to help each other out of some peril or danger. Nevertheless, their mutual love for Murial would eventually come between them.
This is a story of a friendship torn asunder, but it is also a story of differences put aside when danger beckons.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bold Venture Press
• Release date: Dec 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781005227203

John Johns

John Patrick Johns was a New York Central conductor. He turned to writing in the early 1930s and became a regular contributor to Railroad Stories, with lapses in his career.His first published fiction work, “The Night Peddler,” appeared in Railroad Man’s Magazine in May 1930. He contributed fourteen stories between 1930 and 1934, including the round-robin “Hot Shot” with nine other authors. He was absent from Railroad Stories for six years, returning in 1940 with “Orders at Canyon.” He was a steady until “Night Run” was published in the January 1945 issue.John Johns byline would remain absent from the magazine for nearly three decades, until two final stories — “On a Fogbound Night” and “The Thousand-Miler” — were published in 1974.

Book preview

Danger Signals was originally serialized in five issues of Railroad Stories Magazine, from May 1932 through September 1932. This is the story’s first appearance in paperback and eBook.

Copyright © 1932 The Frank A. Munsey Company.

Copyright renewed 1960 and assigned to White River Productions.

All rights reserved.

Rich Harvey, Editor & Designer

Cover illustration: Emmett Watson

Story Illustrations: Emmett Watson

RAILROAD STORIES TM & © 2021 White River Productions, Inc. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without express permission of the publisher and copyright holder. All persons, places and events in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to any actual persons, places or events is purely coincidental.

Contents

Copyright

Contents

Intro

Danger Signals

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

About the author

The Lure of Railroad Stories

More books in the Railroad Stories series

This is a story …

THIS is a story of railroading forty-five years ago — 1887. It is the story of two men, brakemen on the N. S. & W., and a friendship that suffers when they love the same girl. It is also the story of a young woman, Muriel Chalmers, the daughter of the storekeeper in Middleburg, their home town.

Jim was approved by everyone, but as for Sam—well, his father, Ike McGowan, had left him and disappeared when Sam was still a small lad. Jim and Sam were brakemen on the same crew. Constantly they had to help each other out of some peril or danger. Nevertheless, their mutual love for Murial would eventually come between them.

This is a story of a friendship torn asunder, but it is also a story of differences put aside when danger beckons.

Danger Signals

Chapter I

Increasing Speed

BECAUSE of the speed, increasing with each turn of the wheels, the caboose bounced and rocked. Sam McGowan, the flagman, leaned over the cupola arm rest and called down to Lem Tyler, the conductor, seated before his desk:

Fast run or no fast run, this is a crazy thing to do. We're only two miles down the hill and already we're making better than thirty miles an hour.

Lem Tyler looked up from his desk.

It's Brennan's idea. He should know what he's doing.

All right, replied Sam, settling hack in the cupola seat. Brennan is depending on that engine—if it fails him, goodbye to everything.

For a moment Tyler stared at the cupola. Then, reaching into his pocket for a plug of tobacco, he bit off a chew and went back to work on the reports.

But even as Sam spoke, the crew on the engine was already gravely concerned with the speed of the train.

Riding the fireman's seat box, Ned Sparks, the head end brakeman, looked out the window, then across the cab at Dan Brennan, the engineer.

Hey! Ain’t you goin’ kind of fast? he shouted in a tone of anxiety. How do you figure on taking Rock Hook curve?

Brennan sensed the danger even before Sparks mentioned it. Just ahead lay Rock Hill, with four miles of descending grade much steeper than the track they were now on. And at Middleburg was a reverse curve over which the safety rules restricted trains to thirty-five miles an hour.

It was back in the unforgettable link-and-pin, hand-braking days of 1885.

Brennan had taken a chance in coming down Rock Hill without using the hand brakes.

Determined to get over the road in a hurry he had thought he could control the speed. Time would be saved by not having to wait for the brakes to be released when off the hill. Once over the reverse curve he'd have been able to let 'er out and make a run that would go down in history. Now all that was changed.

One of the best engineers on the N. S. & W. Railroad, Brennan had placed too much trust in his eight-wheeled engine, the 872.

Leaping to his feet, he reversed the engine, gave it steam and set the brakes.

Sparks, observing him, white-faced and tense, stirred uneasily.

"You're making about fifty miles an hour,'' he began.

We're running away! Brennan cried, seizing the whistle rope. Get out and tie the cars down!

With that he whistled sharply. Sparks, springing to action, grabbed his brake club, scrambled over the coal and climbed onto the leading box car. Then he fought his way along the narrow, dangerous footboard, balancing himself against the wind and sway of the car, and reached the first brake staff.

Taking up the slack by twisting the brake wheel with his hands, Sparks inserted his club between the spokes to tighten it still further. Removing the club, he went to the next car and repeated the act.

Meanwhile, Tyler and Sam, riding the caboose, heard the whistle sounding its frantic call for help. The conductor Avas at his desk; the flagman in the cupola.

The train's got away from Brennan! cried Lem, throwing down his pencil. I knew damn well this train was too heavy to try runnin’ down here without brakes.

Saying this, he dashed to the other end of the caboose for his club, with difficulty keeping his balance.

Sam made no reply, but grabbed his stick and hastily wiggled his way through the cupola window. With one leap he was on the roof of the box car ahead.

Footing was precarious. The cars swayed and pounded on their trucks. But Sam was young, strong and agile. He could set two brakes to the conductor's or Sparks’ one. Tyler had run ahead to handle the middle of the train, leaving the rear to Sam.

The whistle continued to blow shrilly—a terrible call for brakes and a warning for whatever was ahead to get out of the way. Out of the way of a runaway train!

Even with the locomotive in reverse and some of the brakes gripping the car wheels, the speed seemed to increase instead of diminishing. The twenty-five cars of grain behind the little eight wheeled engine were too much for it. A terrific force seemed to be pushing the train to destruction!

The crew could jump and save themselves. By remaining with the train and making every effort to stop it they were risking almost certain injury or death. There was no way for fellows on the rear end to learn why an engineer suddenly needed brakes. Maybe there was an obstruction on the track, a bridge open, or a train ahead—any of which would mean disaster if the train were not stopped in time.

Sam glanced up ahead. Their fireman was out on the running board of the engine, striking the sand dome and the pipe that led from it down between the driving wheels. It was through that pipe that sand carried in the dome got to the track. Evidently Brennan wasn't getting enough under the driving wheels.

The speed had diminished a little, but not enough to do much good.

As he ran to another brake, Sam observed that Sparks was back about seven cars from the engine.

Sam tightened two more brakes. When he again looked in the direction of the engine, Sparks was nowhere in sight.

For a moment he thought that the head end brakeman had deserted it by leaping to the ground. A quitter! Sam cursed him volubly. Suddenly he was all but thrown off as the car lurched to one side.

Then the awful truth dawned on him. Sparks had stepped backward, lost his balance and rolled from the train!

There was no time for pity; the train had to be stopped. The whistle was still blowing ominously, while the fireman continued to hammer away at the sand pipe. They were within a mile of the reverse curve at Middleburg with the speed still over fifty miles an hour.

Middleburg was Sam's home town. He had already seen two big freight trains pile up on that fatal curve. He knew it well.

A mile to go! Less than a minute, and then—

Sam worked desperately, cold sweat pouring from his brow. A few mad twists of a brake wheel, a mighty final pull on the hickory club, and then off to the next car.

Suddenly slack ran through the train; the cars hunched with a jar that almost threw him off his feet. He looked toward the engine. The fireman was no longer hammering away on the sand pipe. Apparently, sand was now flowing onto the rails beneath the driving wheels, racing in reverse motion.

With the engine no longer sliding, the much-needed braking power was added to the brakes on the cars. Gradually the train slowed down and jolted to a stop before the Middleburg station.

Sam sat down on a car roof. The terrible experience caused his head to throb. Weak and exhausted, he wanted, above all things, a moment's rest and quiet.

But back along the track over which they had just traveled Sparks was probably lying injured and in need of help. Besides, the brakes would have to be let off. They were occupying the main line; the sooner they got moving the easier it would be to hush up the affair so that the superintendent's office wouldn't know.

Sam pulled himself together and descended the car ladder. Just as he reached the ground the conductor met him.

Sam, we lost Sparks. Tyler, the conductor, was panting after his run back from the engine. He fell off; I seen it happen, continued the skipper. You go back with the flag, and while you're there look for him. Brennan is going to stall for time by giving the engine a drink. I’ll let off the brakes so we'll be ready to go.

What if Sparks is badly hurt?

If he is we'll send for a doctor and leave him here, replied Tyler without trace of emotion.

I’ll stay back there until I find him, said Sam resolutely. Jobs or no jobs, we can't let a man die like a dog.

All right. If you don't find him by the time I get the brakes off I'll help you. Look! Tyler pointed to the rear of the caboose. Walkin' down the track!

Sam saw a familiar figure coming towards them, half walking, half running.

Sam picked up his club.

I'm going back. If it's Sparks and he's all right, I'll give you a signal so that you can get moving.

Hurrying to the rear, Sam stopped to get the red flag out of the caboose, then continued back. The figure on the track approached. Even from a distance Sam recognized Ned Sparks.

Are you hurt? he hailed him.

Hurt, hell! Sparks answered sullenly, dropping from a trot to a walk. A nice tumble I got, all right, all right.

Sam was so relieved he wanted to shout with joy. Turning around he signaled the conductor.

Fine railroading, I'll say, growled the man, drawing close to Sam. Just because a crazy hoghead wants to make a name for himself is no reason why we gotta do all the dirty work. Them enginemen think they're great stuff because they can start a train. But what about stopping it? That's up to us fellows. And do we ever get a break? Like hell we do!

Sam started to protest, but realizing the futility of it went on back with the flag, while Sparks continued his journey to the engine.

Five minutes later the whistle screamed for Sam to return to the train. Racing in, he reached the caboose and swung a highball signal.

Sam was standing on the rear platform of the caboose as they were pulling out of town, when Tyler stepped aboard and announced:

Sparks left us flat.

He quit? Sam asked.

That's what I said, replied Tyler impatiently. He's goin' back home to Canada. There was no use of arguin' with him, so I let him go. Pausing to bite off a chew of tobacco from his plug, he continued: We got a new head man. A fellow hangin' around the depot. Overhearin' the fuss between me and Sparks, he put his bid in for the job. He never railroaded before, but knows a helluva lot about it, if talk means anything.

Sam was interested, although there was nothing unusual about conductors employing brakemen.

What's his name?

Daly! The conductor reached in his hip pocket for the train book. Jim Daly. I better put it down while I think about it.

Sam was overjoyed. Jim Daly and he had been friends since childhood. They had grown up together in Middleburg and had been close pals until Sam hired out on the N. S. & W. a year before.

Tyler, you've got the right man, he declared. Jim's wanted to go railroading ever since I did, but they wouldn't take him because of that new order about using only experienced men. Jim will make a fine railroader.

We'll see, the conductor responded without enthusiasm. I've come across a lot of men who thought like that, but they failed in the first real test. Sparks was one of ’em. He spat a stream of tobacco juice.

Let me tell you something, Sam McGowan. You figure everybody is like yourself. You got nerve. You take the bitter with the sweet, and you don't complain. Your old man was the same way. I ain't that kind. In my forty-one years of life, I've seen where the fellow who tries to act decent gets a dirty deal in the end. If this guy Daly is all you say he is, all right; he'll have a job brakin’ for me as long as I run a train. But if he ain't, out he goes!

That's fair enough, agreed Sam.

Talking about your dad, Tyler I went on, reminds me of something I've wanted to ask for a long time. Do you ever hear from him, Sam?

No. Not since I was twelve years old. I'm twenty-two now.

Well, I wouldn't be surprised if old man McGowan turns up one of these days. Your dad was as tough as nails — a hard-hittin', hell-raisin' boomer. Why I remember the time—

Sam looked up eagerly, but Tyler apparently decided there were things a man shouldn't know about his own father, so he changed the subject abruptly.

Chapter II

The Call of the Rails

SIX years after the close of the Civil War, when Ike McGowan quit his position as a passenger conductor on the N. S. & W., Sam was just eight years old. Placing his son in the care of Mrs. Mary Heeney, an old friend, in Middleburg, McGowan left town without explanation.

From Chicago he mailed the widow a check for three thousand dollars with a letter which said:

DEAR MARY:

This is all the money I have. I want Sammy brought up a good boy. Be kind to him. Someday I'll come back and tell you all about it. You're a great pal, Mary, and I know I can count on you.

Affectionately yours,

IKE.

A few days before Christmas two years later another letter came. It had been posted in Mexico and addressed to Sam. With a money order for five hundred dollars there was a brief note:

DEAR SON:

Forgive me for being away, but it is better under the circumstances. I miss