Jimmy the Wind | Page 7

they came hot.
"What the blazes do you mean by bringing in an engine in that condition?" yelled Doubleday, pointing to the blown machine.
"I thought you wanted the mail," winked Jimmie.
"How the devil are we to get the mail with you blocking the track for two hours?" demanded Calahan insanely.
"Why, the mail's here -- in these box-cars," responded Jimmie Bradshaw, pointing to his bobtail train. "Now don't look daffy like that; every sack is right here. I thought the best way to get the mail here was to bring it. Hm! We're forty minutes late, ain't we?"
Doubleday waited to hear no more. Orders flew like curlews from the superintendent and the master mechanic. They saw there was a life for it yet. A string of new mail cars was backed down beside the train before the fire brigade had done with the trucks. The relieving mail crews waiting at the Bend took hold like cats at a pudding, and a dozen extra men helped them sling the pouches. The 1014, blowing porpoisewise, was backed up just as Benedict Morgan's train pulled down for Crockett's siding, and the Yellow Mail, rehabilitated, rejuvenated, and exultant, started up the gorge for Bear Dance, only fifty-three minutes late, with Hanksworth in the cab.
"And if you can't make that up, Frank, you're no good on earth," spluttered Doubleday at the engineer he had put in for that especial endeavor. And Frank Hanksworth did make it up, and the Yellow Mail went on and off the West End on the test, and into the Sierras for the coast, on time.
"There's a butt of plug tobacco and transportation to Crockett's coming to these bucks, Mr. Doubleday," winked Jimmie Bradshaw uncertainly, for with the wearing off of the strain came the idea to Jimmie that he might have to pay for it himself. "I promised them that," he added, "for helping with the transfer. If it hadn't been for the blankets we wouldn't have got off for another hour. They chew Tomahawk -- rough and ready preferred -- Mr. Doubleday. Hm!"
Doubleday was looking off into the mountains.
"You've been on a freight run some time, Jimmie," said he tentatively after a while.
The Indian detachment was crowding in pretty close on the red-headed engineer. He blushed. "If you'll take care of my tobacco contract, Doubleday, we'll call the other matter square. I'm not looking for a fast run as much as I was."
"If we get the mail contract," resumed Doubleday reflectively, "and it won't be your fault if we don't -- hm! -- we may need you on one of the runs. Looks to me like you ought to have one."
Jimmie shook his head. "I don't want one -- don't mind me; just fix these gentlemen out with some tobacco before they scalp me, will you?"
The Indians got their leaf, and Bucks got his contract, and Jimmie Bradshaw got the pick of the runs on the Yellow Mail, and ever since he's been kicking to get back on a freight. But they don't call him Bradshaw any more. No man in the mountains can pace him on a dare-devil run. And when the head brave of the hunting party received the butt of tobacco on behalf of his company, he looked at Doubleday with dignity, pointed to the sandy engineer, and spoke freckled words in the Sioux.
That's the way it came about. Bradshaw holds the belt for the run from Bad Axe to Medicine Bend; but he never goes by the name of Bradshaw any more. West of McCloud, everywhere up and down the mountains, they give him the name that the Sioux gave him that day -- Jimmie the Wind.

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