CHAPTER XXII THE TREASURE CHEST

Coalville was a hamlet worthy of its name, for its people not only mined coal, they breathed it, ate it, slept in it, and absorbed it at every pore. The town was divided into two parts, one on the hillside, the other in the valley. That portion on the hillside was popularly known as “Stringtown,” and consisted of row upon row of houses, all built upon the same plan, and arranged upon the slope which mounted gently upward from the mouth of the mine which gave the town its only reason for existence. These houses consisted invariably of three rooms and an attic, and into them were crowded the miners, for the most part Slavs or Poles. They had been brought direct from Europe, the immigration laws to the contrary notwithstanding, shipped out to the mine in car-load lots, assigned to the houses which were to be their homes, supplied with the tools necessary to mining, and put to work. By incessant labour, they were able to earn enough to provide themselves and their ever-increasing families with food enough to keep body ? 249 ? and soul together, and clothing enough to cover their nakedness. More they did not ask. They were not compelled to serve in the army, they were not under police surveillance, they paid no taxes. So they were happy and contented, imagining themselves free.

Down in the valley, a quarter of a mile away, was the town proper—that is to say, about a hundred houses, larger, cleaner, and more pretentious than the hovels on the hillside. Here the superintendents lived, the bosses, the office force, and most of the Americans employed about the mine. Here, too, were the bakery, the two stores, supposed to be run upon a competitive basis, but really under one management, and the fifteen saloons into which no small portion of the miners’ wages went, and which yielded an annual profit of about a thousand per cent. on the investment.

The company which owned the mine owned the town,—not the residences only, but the stores, the barber-shop, the bakery, the boarding-house, and even the saloons. The money which it paid out in wages flowed back to it, practically undiminished, through one of these channels; and these minor industries contributed in no small degree to the handsome dividends, issued quarterly, which the mine paid. Perhaps if the stockholders had known just how these dividends were earned, they might not have received them so complacently; but none of them thought it worth while to inquire—or perhaps ? 250 ? they feared to investigate too closely the sources of so satisfactory an income.

The town was not upon the railroad, which passed about half a mile to the east of it. Two spurs of track connected the mine with the main line, but these spurs were used solely for the company’s business, and no passengers were carried over them. Hence it was necessary for every one wishing to leave the town to tramp half a mile along a road muddy or dusty, according to the weather, to the little frame shack on the main line, which served as a station for the town. It may be that the exertion needed to leave the town was one reason why so many persons, once they had arrived there, remained, and never thereafter emancipated themselves from bondage to coal-dust, nor saw the sky except through the black clouds arising ceaselessly from the dumps. To only one class of person did the town turn a cold shoulder, and that was to the labour organizer. The company was most anxious to keep its men free from the “union” microbe, which was working such disastrous results upon the dividends of other mining enterprises; it believed that it was the best and most proper judge of the wages which its men should receive. Therefore, whenever a union man struck the town he found himself unable to secure a place to sleep or food to eat—he had to get out or starve; when he asked for employment, he found all the places taken and no prospect of a job anywhere. The company, ? 251 ? however, was generous; if the applicant happened to be out of money, he could always secure the funds necessary to take him away from Coalville.

The train pulled up before the little Coalville station on time; and Allan reported at once for duty and relieved the day man, who lived at Athens, and who hurried out to catch the accommodation, which would take him home.

For twenty minutes, Allan devoted himself to looking over the orders on the hook and getting acquainted with the position of trains; then his attention was attracted by a heavy bumping on the floor of the little waiting-room. It sounded as though a heavy trunk was being brought in, but when he looked through the ticket-window, he saw two men rolling a heavy chest end over end across the room.

The Coalville station contained three rooms. At one end was the waiting-room, with a row of benches along the wall; in the centre was the office, about six feet wide, in which the operator worked; and beyond it was another room where freight for Coalville was stored until it could be hauled away. There was a door from the office into both waiting-room and freight-shed as shown in the diagram.

It will be seen that the station had been constructed just as cheaply as possible. The passenger traffic to and from Coalville was not such as to require elaborate accommodations, and the freight for the town was allowed to take care of itself the best it could.

? 252 ?
The Station at Coalville

? 253 ?

The men who were bringing in the chest stopped where they had it in the middle of the waiting-room, and one of them, looking up, caught Allan’s eye as he looked at them through the ticket-window.

“We’d like to put this box in the freight-shed for awhile,” said the stranger. “The door’s locked, and we thought maybe you’d let us take it through your office.”

“Why, certainly,” answered Allan, who suspected at once that this was the chest containing the money for the miners, and he opened the door and helped them through with it. It was certainly heavy, but its weight, Allan decided, was more from its massive, iron-bound construction than from its contents.

The men went on into the freight-shed with it, and Allan heard them talking together, but he was called back to his instrument to take an order and for the moment forgot them. Presently one of them came out again, passed through the office, jumped down the steps of the waiting-room, and hastened away into the darkness.

It happened that there were two coal-trains to be started westward to Cincinnati just then, so perhaps half an hour passed before Allan looked up again. When he did so, he found the other custodian of the box standing at his elbow. He was a tall, slim man of middle age, with a black mustache ? 254 ? and dare-devil expression, which somehow made Allan think that he had been a cowboy. The slouch hat which he wore pulled down over his eyes added to this effect, as did the repeating rifle whose butt rested on the floor beside him. When the boy looked up, he nodded sociably, and sat down on the end of the table, one leg swinging in the air.

“It allers did beat me,” he began, “how a feller could learn t’ understand one o’ them little machines,” motioning toward the sounder.

“All it takes is practice,” answered Allan, leaning back in his chair. “It’s like everything else. Now I couldn’t hit a barn door with that rifle of yours, but I dare say you could hit a much smaller object.”

“Why, yes,” drawled the other, patting the gun affectionately. “I hev picked off my man at six hundred yards.”

“Your man?”

“I used t’ be depitty sheriff of Chloride County, Arizony,” explained the stranger. “Hopkins is my name—Jed Hopkins. Mebbe you’ve heerd o’ me?”

But Allan was forced to confess that he never had.

“Well, I’ve seen some excitin’ times,” Hopkins went on. “But life out thar ain’t what it was twenty year ago. I got disgusted an’ come back east an’ got this job.”

“Which job?” asked Allan.

? 255 ?

“Oh, I’m special constable an’ guardeen o’ th’ company’s property. Not much doin’ now; but last year we had a strike, and I tell you, sir, things was fast an’ furious fer a couple o’ weeks. But them dagoes never saves no money—so we soon starved ’em out. I reckon that’s one reason th’ company pays in cash—a dago with cash in his pocket can’t pass a gin-shop—an’ they’s fifteen in Coalville, one right arter th’ other. About th’ only thing I’ve got t’ do now is to guard th’ company’s cash. That’s what’s in that big box in yonder,” he added, easily.

“Isn’t there some danger?” asked the boy.

“Danger?” repeated Hopkins, scornfully. “I should say not. Them vermin know me too well!”

Again his instrument called, and again Allan turned to answer it. Hopkins arose, went to the door of the waiting-room, and looked up and down the track.

“They’s usually a wagon waitin’ fer us,” he went on, coming back after a moment and resuming his seat. “Th’ company’s got an office, over at th’ mine, lined with steel an’ with steel shutters to th’ winders, with little loopholes in ’em. They had it fixed up last year when they was gittin’ ready fer th’ strike. And it was mighty useful.”

“Getting ready for the strike?”

“Sure. They knowed there’d be one as soon as they cut the men’s wages,” answered Hopkins, coolly. "Th’ fact is, th’ dumps was full o’ coal, ? 256 ? business was slack, an’ they wanted t’ shet down awhile."

It took Allan some moments to digest this answer.

“The miners don’t seem to have any show at all,” he remarked, at last.

“Well, sir, not much,” agreed Hopkins. “You see, they ain’t organized—they don’t belong to no union—and th’ company takes mighty good care they sha’n’t. My, th’ organizers I’ve bounced out o’ this town—it was right interestin’ till th’ company got wise an’ found a better way.”

“A better way?”

“Sure. You see, as soon as an organizer was fired out, he’d go around th’ country hollerin’ about th’ company, an’ callin’ it bad names. Sometimes this got into th’ papers an’ made things onpleasant, specially since th’ company couldn’t say it wasn’t so. So now, th’ organizer fer this district is on th’ pay-roll. He gits a hundred dollars a month, an’ when he gits up at th’ convention t’ report, he tells how he’s doin’ his best t’ organize our dagoes, but finds ’em so ign’rant an’ cantankerous that they don’t want no union. However, he hopes, before another year rolls around, t’ be able t’ convince ’em—an’ so on. It’s a smooth game—an’ has worked first rate, so far.”

Allan glanced up at Jed to see if he was in earnest, but he appeared entirely so.

“And what happened during the strike?”

“Oh, they tried t’ rush us an’ set fire t’ th’ mine—an’ ? 257 ? us in that steel-lined office, armed with Winchesters! They didn’t have no chance.”

“Were any of them hurt?”

“Th’ newspapers said that ten was slightly injured—which was true as fur as it went,” and Jed grinned. “Eight went t’ sleep an’ never woke up, but that was kept quiet. No use makin’ a stir about a few dagoes; besides, th’ law was on our side. Only,” added Jed, “I’d ’a’ liked it better if we’d fought out in th’ open. But th’ manager wouldn’t hear of it.”

Allan shivered slightly. Of course, the law was on the company’s side; the men were trying to destroy its property; and yet that scarcely seemed to justify shooting them down from behind a wall of steel.

“We ain’t had no trouble since,” Jed added. “They’ve l’arnt their lesson. But it wouldn’t surprise me t’ wake up ’most any night with a dago knife in my belly.”

He stretched himself and yawned dismally.

“Ten o’clock,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Looks like I’d have t’ stay here all night. What’s yer name, sonny?”

“Allan West.”

“You ain’t th’ reg’lar night man here?”

“No; the regular night man was hurt this afternoon, and I’m taking his place.”

Hopkins nodded; then suddenly he sat erect and listened.

? 258 ?

“There they come,” he said; “it’s time,” and he started for the door.

Allan had heard no sound, and Hopkins came back, after having gone to the door of the waiting-room and looked up and down the track again.

“False alarm,” he said. “I thought I heerd three or four men walkin’. Say, I’m goin’ in an’ lay down an’ take a nap. I’m most dead fer sleep.”

“Do you think it’s safe?”

“Safe? Sho! I should say so! Besides, I’ll show you a trick. Come along.”

Allan followed him into the dark freight-shed.

Hopkins struck a match and by its light gathered together a pile of burlap from the pieces lying in the corners. He threw this down before the door.

“There,” he said. “Anybody who comes in that door ’ll hev t’ step over Jed Hopkins. I reckon nobody ’ll try that more ’n once. Now I’m goin’ t’ shet th’ door. You ’d better tell anybody who comes t’ give me fair warnin’ afore they opens it.”

“All right,” laughed Allan. “Good night.”

“Night,” answered Hopkins, brusquely, and closed the door.

Allan heard him arranging himself on the other side. Then all was still. The boy went back to his desk at the front of the office and sat down. There was no sound to break the stillness, and the sudden sense of fatigue which stole over him reminded him that he had already done a hard day’s work before starting for Coalville. Luckily, he was to be ? 259 ? relieved at midnight—an hour and a half more, and he would be free to go to sleep. He would sleep all the way back to Wadsworth. He must be sure to tell the conductor to call him and not let him be carried past his station. The conductor would understand—he would know, himself, what it was to work overtime.

He dropped his head on his hand, and sat staring out of the great window which formed the front of the office. The rays of light from the lamp on the wall beside him reached as far as the track which ran before the station, but beyond that was utter darkness. The rain had ceased, but the light was reflected in the puddles of muddy water which stood before the station, and the eaves were drip-dripping like the ticking of a clock. Once Allan thought he heard steps; and a moment later he fancied the floor creaked—it was no doubt Hopkins, moving in his sleep. A man must have nerves of iron to be able to sleep like that with a treasure-chest to guard; but then—

Some indescribable influence caused him to turn his head, and he found himself looking straight down the barrel of a revolver.