# Ralph on the Overland Express/13

CHAPTER XIII
THE "BLACK HAND"
Lemuel Fogg's opponents scrambled to their feet and sneaked off immediately. The fireman turned his back upon them, and strode down the sidewalk in the direction of the Fairbanks' home with a stormy and disturbed expression on his face.
"Trouble, Mr. Fogg?" intimated the young railroader, as the fireman approached him.
"No," dissented Fogg vigorously, "the end of trouble. "I'm sorry to lose my temper, lad, but those ruffians were the limit. They know my sentiments now."
"They were Hall and Wilson, I noticed," suggested Ralph.
"Yes," returned the fireman, "and two worse unhung rascals never walked. They came about you. Say, Mr. Fairbanks," continued Fogg excitedly, "It wasn't so bad tackling me as a sort of comrade, considering that I had been foolish enough to train with them once, but when they mentioned ​you—I went wild. You—after what you've done for me and mine! Say——"
"Hold on—close the brakes," ordered Ralph, as his companion seemed inclined to run after his recent adversaries and seek them out for a further castigation. "You've made the brake with them—forget them."
"They had a new plot to get a black mark against you," went on the fireman. "I heard them half through their plans. Then I sailed into them."
"Well, breakfast is ready," said Ralph, "and after that, work, so we'd better get down to schedule."
The run to which No. 999 had been apportioned covered the Muddy Creek branch of the Great Northern to Riverton. The train was an accommodation and ran sixty miles. It was to leave Stanley Junction at 9:15 A. M., arrive at terminus at about noon, and start back for the Junction at two o'clock.
Ralph left the house about eight o'clock, after arranging to meet his fireman at the roundhouse. He went to the hotel to see Archie Graham, and found that youthful genius in his room figuring out some mathematical problem at a table.
"Well, how are you this morning?" inquired Ralph cheerily.
​"First-rate, except that I'm a trifle sleepy," replied the young inventor. "Say, I was riding under the coaches all night long. It was dream after dream. I believe it tired me out more than the real thing."
"You haven't got your new clothes yet, I see," observed Ralph, with a glance at the tattered attire of his new acquaintance.
"They are ordered," explained Archie, "but they won't be here until late this afternoon."
"When they do," said Ralph, taking a card from his pocket and writing a few lines on it, "if you don't want to wait till I have some leisure, take this to Mr. Forgan, down at the roundhouse."
"Thank you," said Archie.
"He'll extend all the civilities to you. I hope you may discover something of advantage."
"I'll try," promised Archie.
Seeing the young inventor, reminded Ralph of Bridgeport, and naturally he thought of the boy he had known as Marvin Clark.
"He telegraphed that he would see me," ruminated Ralph. "I shall miss him if he comes to Stanley Junction to-day, but he will probably wait around for me—that is, if he comes at all. If he doesn't, in a day or two I shall start some kind of an investigation as to this strange case of double identity."
​When Ralph got to the roundhouse he found Fogg in the dog-house chatting with his friends. He had to tell the story of the fire over and over again, it seemed, at each new arrival of an interested comrade, and Ralph's heroic share in the incident was fully exploited. The young railroader was overwhelmed by his loyal admirers with congratulations. Ralph felt glad to compare the anticipated trip with the starting out on the first record run of No. 999, when he had a half-mad sullen fireman for a helper.
As the wiper finished his work on the locomotive, engineer and fireman got into the cab.
"Hello!" exclaimed Fogg sharply.
"Hello!" echoed his cabmate.
A little square strip of paper was revealed to both, as they opened their bunkers. It was patent that some one had sneaked into the roundhouse and had pasted the papers there. Each slip bore a crude outline of a human hand, drawn in pencil.
"Bah!" spoke Fogg, with a brush of a chisel scraping the portraiture on his own box out of all semblance, and then doing the same with the picture on the reverse cover of Ralph's bunker.
"What is it, Fogg?" inquired the young railroader, to whom the ominous sketches were a new wrinkle.
"Black Hand," explained Fogg.
​"Whose—why?" inquired Ralph.
"The outcast gang. It's one of their scare tricks. Humph! I'd like to get sight of the fellow who thought he was doing a smart trick. The Black Hands are supposed to warn us that we're doomed by the gang, see? It's a notification that the trouncing I gave those fellows Hall and Wilson is a declaration of war to the knife."
"Well, let it come. Aren't we equal to it, Mr. Fogg?"
"You are, for they can't hit you hard. You've made your mark," said the fireman, somewhat gloomily. "I'm not in the same class. I've had my weak spots. Besides, it's me they'll be after. Dunno, Fairbanks, maybe I'd better not be the cause of getting you into any more trouble. Perhaps I'd better slide for a bit into some switchyard job."
"What—scared?" cried Ralph.
"No, not scared," responded Fogg soberly, "only worried about you."
"Well," said Ralph, "the master mechanic said we were a strong team?"
"Ye-es."
"Let's prove to him that we are. Good-by to the Black Hands, Mr. Fogg, they aren't worth thinking about."
So the young railroader rallied and cheered his ​comrade, and they had got beyond the turn table and had quite forgotten the incident of the pasters, when John Griscom mounted the cab step. He nodded genially to both Ralph and the fireman. Griscom knew pretty much what was going on most of the time, and the master mechanic was a close friend of his.
"Just a word, Fairbanks," he began in a confidential tone, and the young engineer bent over towards him. "I don't want to be croaking all the time, but railroading isn't all fun and frolic."
"What's the matter now, Mr. Griscom?" inquired Ralph.
"The old strike gang is the trouble, and will be until they're laid out, ragtail and bobtail, dead told. I have a friend in a certain department of the service here. He isn't giving away official business any, but he isn't in sympathy with Hall or Wilson. One of them sent a wire to Riverton an hour since. It was to some one the operator never heard of before, evidently a friend of theirs. It mentioned 999, your name, and Fogg. The rest of it was in cipher."
"We've just had a Black Hand warning, here in the cab," said Ralph.
"Oh, you have?" muttered Griscom. "Then there's new mischief afoot. Look out for snags at Riverton."
​Ralph realized that it wasn't very pleasant working under the continual menace of enemies plotting in the dark and in a mean, desperate way. There was nothing for it, however, but to exercise patience, vigilance and courage.
"They shall never drive me from my post of duty," firmly decided the young railroader. "I shall neither tire out nor scare out."
Riverton was made on time and with no unpleasant incident to mar a schedule trip. No. 999 was run to a siding, and Ralph and Fogg had over two hours on their hands to spend as they chose. They had brought their lunch, and they dispatched the best part of it in the cab. Mrs. Fairbanks had put it up in a basket, and a two-quart fruit jar held the cold coffee. After the repast Fogg fixed the fire and they strolled down to the depot.
The station agent was an old acquaintance of Ralph. He knew Van Sherwin, Limpy Joe and the people up at the Short Line railroad, kept posted on their progress pretty closely, and he had a good deal of interesting railroad gossip to retail to Ralph.
"Oh, by the way," he observed incidentally, after they had conversed for some time, "there was a spruce young fellow here this morning asking very particularly about 999 and her movements. He mentioned your name, too."
​"Who was he?" inquired Ralph.
"I never saw him before. He was curious all about your run, hung around a while and then disappeared. I haven't seen him since."
"Describe him, won't you?" and the station agent did so. Ralph was sure that the stranger was the youth he had known as Marvin Clark. From that time on until the train got ready for the return trip, the young railroader kept his eyes open for a glimpse of his acquaintance with the double identity. The latter, however, up to the time No. 999 steamed out from Riverton, did not put in an appearance.
"Well, nobody tackled us at Riverton," observed Ralph, as he and Fogg settled down comfortably to their respective tasks.
"Better not," retorted the fireman keenly. "I just made a little purchase this morning, and I'm going to stand no fooling," and he touched his hip pocket meaningly. "Have a swig?" he inquired additionally, as he reached for the jar of coffee and took a drink.
"Oh, I could feast on my mother's coffee all day," observed Ralph as the jar was passed to him. "Now, then, you finish it up and hand me one of those doughnuts."
The little refection seemed to add to the satisfaction of the moment. Their run was a slow ​one, and there was little to do besides keeping the machinery in motion. The day was warm, but the air was balmy. The landscape was interesting, and they seemed gliding along as in a pleasing dream.
Later, when he analyzed his sensations, the young railroader, recalling just these impressions, knew that they were caused by artificial conditions. Ralph relapsed into a dream—indeed, he was amazed, he was startled to find himself opening his eyes with difficulty, and of discovering his fireman doubled up in his seat, fast asleep. He tried to shout to Fogg, realizing that something was wrong. He conld not utter a word, his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth. Ralph barely managed to slip to his feet in an effort to arouse his cab mate.
"Something wrong!" ran through his mind. A vague thrill crossed his frame as, whirling by a landmark, a white-painted cattle guard, he realized that he must have gone five miles without noting distance.
The bridge was his next thought. Muddy Creek was less than a mile ahead. If the draw should be open! Wildly reaching towards the lever, the young engineer sank to the floor a senseless heap, while No. 999, without a guide, dashed down the shining rails!