Jimmy the Wind | Page 5

they knew it they were through the gateway, out into the
desert country, up along the crested buttes, and then, sudden as eternity,
the wheelbase of the 1012 struck a tight curve, a pent-down rail sprang
out like a knitting-needle, and the Yellow Mail shot staggering off the
track into a gray borrow-pit.
There was a crunching of truck and frame, a crashing splinter of
varnished cars, a scream from the wounded engine, a cloud of gray ash
in the burning sun, and a ruin of human effort in the ditch. In the
twinkle of an eye the mail train lay spilled on the alkali; for a minute it
looked desperately bad for the general manager's test.
It was hardly more than a minute, though; then like ants from out a
trampled hill men began crawling from the yellow wreck. There was
more -- there was groaning and worse, yet little for so frightful a shock.
And first on his feet, with no more than scratches, and quickest back
under the cab after his engineer, was Jimmie Bradshaw, the fireman.
Sollers, barely conscious, lay wedged between the tank and the
footboard. Jimmie, all by himself, eased him away from the boiler. The
conductor stood with a broken arm directing his brakeman how to chop
a crew out of the head mail car, and the hind crews were getting out
themselves. There was a quick calling back and forth, and the cry,
"Nobody killed!" But the engineer and the conductor were put out of
action. There was, in fact, but one West End man unhurt; yet that was
enough -- for it was Jimmie Bradshaw.
The first wreck of the fast mail -- there have been worse since -- took
place just east of Crockett's siding. A west-bound freight lay at that
moment on the passing track waiting for the mail. Jimmie Bradshaw
cast up the possibilities of the situation the minute he righted himself.
Before the freight crew had reached the wreck, Jimmie was hustling
ahead to tell them what he wanted. The freight conductor demurred;
and when they discussed it with the freight engineer, Kingsley, he
objected. "My engine won't never stand it; it'll pound her to pieces," he
argued. "I reckon the safest thing to do is to get orders."

"Get orders!" stormed Jimmie Bradshaw, pointing at the wreck. "Get
orders! Are you running an engine on this line and don't know the
orders for those mail bags? The orders is to move 'em! That's engine on
this line and don't know the orders for those empty box-cars and hustle
'em back. By the Great United States! any man that interferes with the
moving of this mail will get his time -- that's what he'll get. That's
Doubleday, and don't you forget it. The thing is to move the mail -- not
stand here chewing about it!"
"Bucks wants the stuff hustled," put in the freight conductor,
weakening before Jimmie's eloquence. "Everybody knows that."
"Uncouple there!" cried Jimmie, climbing into the Mogul cab. "I'll pull
the bags, Kingsley; you needn't take any chances. Come back there,
every mother's son of you, and help on the transfer."
He carried his points with a gale. He was conductor and engineer and
general manager all in one. He backed the boxes to the curve below the
spill, and set every man at work piling the mail from the wrecked train
to the freight cars. The wounded cared for the wounded, and the dead
might have buried the dead; Jimmie moved the mail. Only one thing
turned his hair gray; the transfer was so slow, it looked as if it would
defeat his plan. As he stood fermenting, a stray party of Sioux bucks on
a vagrant hunt rose out of the desert passes, and halted to survey the
confusion. It was Jimmie Bradshaw's opportunity. He had the blanket
men in council in a trice. They talked for one minute, in two he had
them regularly sworn in and carrying second-class. The registered stuff
was jealously guarded by those of the mail clerks who could still
hobble -- and who, head for head, leg for leg, and arm for arm, can
stand the wrecking that a mail clerk can stand? The mail crews took the
registered matter; the freight crews and Jimmie, dripping sweat and
anxiety, handled the letter bags; but second and third class were
temporarily hustled for the Great White Father by his irreverent
children of the Rockies.
Before the disabled men could credit their senses the business was done,
themselves made as comfortable as possible, and with the promise of
speedy aid back to the injured, the Yellow Mail, somewhat disfigured,

was again heading westward in the box-cars This time Jimmie
Bradshaw, like a dog with a bone, had the throttle.