How the Run Was Stopped

by Ralph Henry Barbour

How the Run Was Stopped.

By RICHARD STILLMAM POWELL.

THE Honorable Ogden propped the telegram against his wine glass, and re-read it between mouthfuls of frozen pudding. The Honorable Ogden's full title was Ogden Lapwell Kendall, President; and thus it appeared on the paper of three banks situated in as many cities of Colorado and Utah,—three banks which, in this month of July of the Year of Panic, One Thousand Eight Hundred and Ninety-three, were the means of keeping the Honorable Ogden awake o' nights, and of introducing gray hairs into that gentleman's dark, albeit scanty, locks. The telegram before him ran thus:—

“Copper Dip, Col., July 15. Ogden Kendall, The Albany, Denver. Run coming to-morrow. Must have eighteen thousand coin or currency by noon. Gordon reaches you midnight. Arrange special train. Wheeler.”

The Honorable Ogden refolded the yellow sheet and placed it in his pocket. Then he sipped his coffee reflectively, dipped his fingers carefully into the cut-glass howl, Selected a cigar from his case, accepted the lightced match proffered by the attentive waiter, and arose at length, with his course of action decided upon.

At the hotel office he ordered a messenger sent to his room, and when that youth arrived, three notes were lying ready for him on the desk. At their side lay also a bright silver dollar.

“Now, my son,” said the Honorable Ogden, “this is not an all-night job. I want answers to those three messages here in just one hour. It is now twelve minutes after eight; at twelve minutes after nine I want to see you back here. Can you see that dollar?” The boy nodded with a grin. “Well, at twelve minutes after nine that dollar is yours; at thirteen minutes after it is mine. Now git!”

Three hours later a ball boy tapped at the door and brought in a card.

“'Mr. Stephen Gordon?' Show him up,” said the Honorable Ogden.

In a moment the cashier of the First National Bank of Copper Dip entered. He was rather a small man, whose twinkling eyes swept comprehensively around the room as he shook hands with the host and took the proffered chair. The Honorable Ogden drew a small table bearing bottles and glasses toward the cashier, and then took a seat within comfortable distance. “Now,” he said, “how did it happen?”

Gordon lighted a cigar. “Lippenstein,” ho answered succinctly.

The Honorable Ogden nodded. I was afraid of him. I told Wheeler it was bad policy to push him last spring.,”

It was Gordon's turn to nod. Then he continued:—

“He started the rumor this morning that we were going to close the doors. Luckily the rumor didn't get around till after two o'clock. If it had, we should be broke now. Down at the Yard they took to it at once. It isn't necessary to remind you that our depositors are three fifths railway men. The ranchers cut a small figure. The town deposits represent about a fifth. To-morrow morning they'll be waiting at the door when we open up. We've got enough to keep agoing until noon. The ranchers can't hear the rumor until morning; they'll begin to flock in at noon. We've got to have the cash there by twelve o'clock, or it will be all up.”

“Did Wheeler try Gillam?”

“Yes; Gillam refused. If we go, it will be nuts for them. Half the deposits withdrawn to-morrow will go to them the next day.”

“The Hill County at Salida closed this moon,” said the Honorable Ogden musingly.

“And the Second National at Carrollton won't last through to-morrow,” replied Gordon. “I got it from Smith; he came down on the train with me.”

The other sighed audibly.

“I tell you, Gordon, there won't be six banks standing in Denver a month from now; I know it! And whether the Farmers' and Traders will weather it, I can't tell; but I'll make a fight for it. I'm all right in Salt Lake; over there they don't know that there in a panic. But here—” he stopped and smoked awhile in silence. “Well, we can pull through at Copper Dip.”

“Thank God!” said the cashier fervently.

“I don't like your coming over. It will look bad to-morrow not to see you there. Why didn't Wheeler send some one else?”

“There was no one else.”

“What was the matter with Upham?”

The cashier grunted.

“Pshaw, Gordon, you don't do him credit,” the other continued. “He's a bit wild, but he's wide awake. He'd have done this job all right. Never mind. I'll tell you what I've done. Beecham, of the Mountain National, will have ten thousand in coin for me at nine o'clock. I'll take the rest from the Farmers'. Whipple will have a special ready at Burnham at 9.30. It would make too much talk if it left from the Union Depot. You will have right of way, and ought to get to Copper Dip at 12.15 without trouble. Two men will go with you armed. I will telegraph Wheeler when you start. You had better wire him from Elkhorn, and again from Creswell. Now let me have the figures and go to bed. I'll give orders to have you called at 7.30. Good night.”

The rain was falling in torrents the next day when a hack, drawn by steaming horses, dashed up to the station platform at Burnham, and Gordon, accompanied by the Honorable Ogden and two liquor-scented deputy sheriffs, alighted. On the outward track a locomotive attached to two baggage cars stood hissing and snorting. Quickly the bags of coin were transferred from the hack to the second car; the Honorable Ogden gave his parting instructions in a low voice to Gordon; and with one loud jingle of its bell, the locomotive sprang away. Gordon seated himself on the one chair in the car and looked at his watch. It was just 9.30. The two guards found seats on inverted boxes, and swapped plugs. The wheels pounded the rails, and the wild screech of the locomotive seemed incessant. Against the windows the rain beat violently, until the landscape without looked only a blur of gray.

At a little station on the top of the foot-hills they stopped while a second locomotive ran down and was coupled ahead of the first. Then they were off again. But now the speed was less; ahead the two engines thumped and hammered at the incline together, and their breathing reminded Gordon of some asthmatic old woman struggling upstairs. At a little after ten Elkhorn was reached, and here, while the helper engine was being uncoupled, Gordon ran to the telegrapher's room and sent his first despatch to Copper Dip. On the pass the rain seemed rather to increase than diminish, and the occasional stunted cedars bent their sturdy bodies before the blasts that swept over the mountains. It was down grade now, and the car rocked and swayed around the curves until standing was an impossibility. On the car front the cinders beat like hail-stones, and conversation resolved into a series of signs and facial contortions expressive of satisfaction at the speed or disgust at the weather. Presently, a long whistle announced the approach to Creswell. Gordon consulted his watch; it showed three minutes after eleven. He held it up that the sheriffs might see. They nodded their heads in approval.

“Seventy-eight miles in ninety-five minutes!” one shouted above the din.

“Slippery tracks—good time!” Gordon returned; and the train slowed up with a series of jerks before a water tank. Here, as at Elkhorn, a despatch was sent off to Copper Dip. As Gordon came out of the station he saw a track walker in conversation with the engineer, who, leaning out of the cab window, appeared to be examining the road ahead. Gordon thought there was something of anxiety in the half-averted face, and for the first time since leaving Denver he looked at the road-bed. His gaze traveled up the track ahead until it was last in the cut beyond the bridge, and a look of apprehension crept into his eyes. He looked upward. In the east, over the peaks, a lighter space in the monotonous gray presaged a break in the clouds, but the rain still fell. A short shriek from the engine hurried him to the car, and as he closed the door behind him, he heard above the noise of the train the roar of the swollen stream as it dashed under the little bridge.

At the teller's window in the First National Hank at Copper Dip, the Vice-President imperturbably smoked, and closed depositors' accounts in smiling good nature. From the window in front of him, back to the door, down the marble steps and far into the street stretched the unbroken, whispering, shuffling line of depositors. It was drizzling outside, and greatcoats and umbrellas lined the pavement and overflowed onto the car tracks, seriously interfering with the progress of the one-horsed cars, and calling into requisition the services of the greater part of Copper Dip's police force. At ten o'clock, when the heavy oaken doors of the bank had been thrown open, the line was formed and waiting. Ever since it had grown in length and restlessness, until now, at twelve, any lingering doubt as to the fate of the First National was dispelled. The bank was going. Every one said so; and saying it, all guarded their places in the line, jealously, and prayed that the assets would hold out until their turn at the brass-framed window. There were all sorts there; widows seeking their mites—some of which were of very respectable proportions; storekeepers, blue-coated railway men, ranchers, and stock men. Of the latter there were few, and what were there held places in the far end of the line. The railway men were in the majority, and seemed to fear less for the safety of their money than the others, possibly because they held fortunate positions in the van. As each depositor reached the window his book was received by the Vice-President with a polite word of greeting, or a smiling remark on the weather. Somehow, no mention of a “run” was made. Comparisons were made with unusual care. The two book-keepers busied themselves over the great ledgers, as though runs were of daily occurrence. “How will you have it?” the Vice-President invariably asked. When the depositor requested bills, the Vice-President rejoiced; when coin was wanted, the Vice-President stifled a sigh. Bills require to be counted with great care; from the top, from the bottom, twice, sometimes. All this devours time, and time was what the Vice-President strove to lose. To pay in coin is but the work of a moment; hence the Vice-President's rejoicing and despair.

In the open drawer beside him, the Vice-President's gold watch lay face upwards; on the counter lay pad and pencil; and as each deposit was withdrawn, a few lightning strokes of the pencil told the Vice-President the amount remaining in the bank. As yet there was no need for uneasiness; the figures still showed large, and the time was but a quarter after ten. At half-past ten the first telegram from Gordon was thrust through the window, and the Vice-President stopped and, slitting the envelope neatly with his knife, took out the despatch, read it unconcernedly, and handed it to Dick Upham, the assistant book-keeper, who posted it at the door. Those who could do so without losing their places, read it eagerly and passed its message down the line.

“Elkhorn, Col., July 16, 10.15. Special arrived Elkhorn 10.12 with eighteen thousand coin. Reach Copper Dip 12.15. Gordon.”

Despite the interest the telegram aroused, its result was not all that the Vice-President had hoped for. A handful left the line; some seemed to regret their action immediately afterwards, and fell in again at the end; others went home. The general opinion was that the train would arrive too late to save the bank.

One occurrence brought a smile to the anxious faces of those inside the bank. A tall stockman, wearing “chaps” and carrying his quirt, reached the head of the line, and his unaccustomed gaze fell on the piles of gold and silver coin heaped up at the Vice-President's elbow. Without a moment of hesitation he dropped out of his place, and pocketing his book turned disgustedly away. “Bust be damned!” he was heard to murmur. “This bank's all right.”

At a few minutes after eleven the second telegram arrived and was posted beside the other. It only announced the arrival of the special at Creswell, and was received by the crowd without enthusiasm. This time no one yielded his place. At twelve the Vice-President nibbled a chicken sandwich and drank a glass of milk brought in from a neighboring restaurant, and then lighted a fresh cigar. He glanced at his watch for the thousandth time and, turning, nodded to Upham, who laid down his pen and, stepping into a back room, donned mackintosh and soft hat and left the building by the side door. A walk of a block took him to a stable where an express wagon, ready harnessed to a pair of restless bays, stood awaiting his arrival. Into this he clambered and the driver, touching the pair with the whip, guided the galloping horses down the long, mud-covered street, through the drizzling rain, to the station.

In the despatcher's room Upham dropped into a chair and looked inquiringly at the only occupant. The latter shook his head.

“Haven't heard from it since it left Creswell,” he said.

Upham selected a promising-looking cigar from his case and handed it to the despatcher, who accepted it with his right hand while motioning to Deland to keep off the line with his other. Then Upham lighted a second cigar for himself and stowed his feet on a convenient desk. Outside a light engine dashed recklessly by and its ascending steam-cloud shut out the landscape. The instruments inside the room ticked monotonously on and Upham stared impatiently at the clock. It said 12.13. He listened, straining his ears to catch the sound of the long whistle of the special as it crossed the bridge a mile outside of town. All was silence save for an engine that puffed on the side track under the window.

Suddenly the despatcher gave an exclamation, and thudded the inoffensive instrument for a second, then paused. The “repeat” came.

“Dick,” called the de8patcher, reading the words as they fell from the sounder, “Oxford's talking; listen: 'Special stalled by washout two miles east of here; wrecking train on the way from Creswell; Gordon will bring money by wagon; track will be clear at four; notify First National!'”

“Wagon!” cried Upham; “Oxford's twenty-eight miles from here, and all the wagons in Colorado can't get the money here before dark!”

“The bank's gone, that's sure,” replied the despatcher. Upham smoked savagely and made no answer. Then suddenly his face lightened, and, hurling his cigar to the door, he shot from the room, slamming the door to behind him, and reached the platform.

“Where's the train?” asked the driver anxiously.

“In a ditch thirty miles up the road!”

Upham jumped to the seat and seized the reins. “Now hold on, or you'll be spilled out!” he shouted, and bringing the whip down across the steaming flanks of the horses, he braced his feet, and the wagons lurched and swung away up the street.

•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•⁠•

At the teller's window the Vice-President glanced despairingly at the watch. It was a quarter after twelve. The end of the line was nowhere in sight, but the end of the bank's resources stared him in the face. The last figures on the pad at his side represented the balance, and those figures were terribly few. He listened between each tick of his watch for the long whistle of the expected train. Only the murmuring of the crowd and the clang of a passing car bell came to his earn. But although the suspense was fast becoming unbearable, he let no sign of his anxiety appear on his countenance. They had agreed early in the forenoon to keep the doors open until all creditors were satisfied. Now how he regretted that ill-judged decision! Already he saw himself close the wicket and announce suspension of payment. A few more large accounts and the end would come!

There was a stir in the line, heads were laid together, and a suppressed buzz of excited whispering arose. Hope leaped up in the Vice-President's breast only to fall before a fearful despair, as his ear caught the words being passed up the line. “Special's met a washout at Oxford! Can't get through till night!”

The Vice-President's hand moved swiftly toward the window, paused, was drawn back. Perhaps, after all, it was but a rumor with no truth in it. And there still remained enough to meet another depositor or two. The depositor at the window saw the man's white, drawn face, and for an instant hesitated, then self-preservation overcame sympathy, and the Vice-President had his book.

“Hope you'll pull through all right,” he ventured awkwardly. The Vice-President counted out twelve tens and some silver; he no longer asked how the creditor would have his money; there was no choice. He pushed the money through the window.

“No doubt about it!” he answered cheerfully.

Three hundred and eighty dollars and sixty-two cents was the amount of the next withdrawal. The Vice-President consoled himself for the size of it by reflecting that the sooner it was over and the doors closed, the sooner would the suspense and strain cease. His watch showed the time to be a few minutes before the half hour. He had given up listening for the train whistle now; even if the train came in, the money could not reach them in time.

He counted out the money; four fifties—there seemed to be a stir in the line on the steps—five twenties—he could hear a noise down the street like the galloping of horses—four twenties in gold—there was a sound of shouting outside—fifty, sixty-two in silver; three hundred and eighty dollars and sixty-two cents; he pushed the money through the window—The man was gone! The line had dissolved! A tumult of cries came through the open door! He leaned against the ledge, breathless, exhausted, hoping against hope!

The galloping feet came near and stopped; a great shout of triumph dinned in his ears, and as the throng at the doorway parted to let pass Dick Upham weighted with two bulky canvas bags, the Vice-President fell noiselessly and unnoticed across the desk!

Following Upham came the expressman, similarly burdened. Three trips were made between the wagon and the vaults, and when the seven bags had been stowed away, with never a tell-tale jingle, behind the steel doors, another cry arose from the fickle crowd, and it turned away, and by ones, and twos, and half dozens went home to its dinner.

“But the special's stalled at Oxford by the washout!” objected a little fireman.

“Washout be blowed!” answered his engineer, as he took the suspicious mate by the arm. “There's the money; what more do you want?” And the little fireman didn't know, and so went home to dinner.

In the directors' room the Vice-President lay on the lounge and mopped his brow with his white silk handkerchief. Dick Upham sat on the big table and swung his legs and smoked. He had closed the bank doors and sent the remaining clerk off for his lunch, and now peace reigned again in the First National.

“Where's Gordon?” asked the Vice-President at last.

“Can't say,” replied Upham.

“Well, what was that I heard about the train being stalled at Oxford?”

“Correct, as far as I can learn.”

The Vice-President sat up and stared.

“Correct? Then how in thunder did he get the money here?”

“He didn't.”

There was silence for a minute, while the Vice-President gazed helplessly at the youth on the table. Then he sank back on the couch.

“Dick,” he asked huskily, “what's in those bags?”

Upham blew a cloud of smoke into the air, and smiled through it gaily at the Vice-President.

“Roulette chips,” said he, “from the Alhambra!”