Jimmy the Wind | Page 7

warriors climbed
hastily down the fire escapes, a force of bruised and bareheaded mail

clerks shoved back the box-car doors, the car tinks tackled the
conflagration, and Jimmie Bradshaw, dropping from the cab with the
swing of a man who has done it, waited at the gangway for the
questions to come to him, and for a minute 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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