III.
When Swift boarded the Western express he walked through, starting fromthe last car, to see if any rival reporters happened to be there for thesame purpose. He scanned the backs of the heads of the passengers first,and then looked keenly into each man's face as he passed. He had, incommon with all newspaper men, the detective instinct. Who knew whateminent defaulter or renowned cracksman was fleeing the city in darkdisguise? However, he observed no familiar or suspicious character untilhe entered the smoking car.
He did not go through, for, although a great smoker, he took no pleasurein indulging in his favorite vice in the air of a democratic smokingcar. What fastidious smoker does? He was content to let his eyes wanderup and down the aisle. He was about to turn, when his gaze fell upon theback of a dingy linen duster, which was surmounted by a large, faded,black sombrero. The man under these garments had the upper part of hisface hidden beneath the broad flap of his hat, while the under part ofhis face was entirely submerged in a large pamphlet. The man had the airof extreme retirement. Something about the dinginess of the felt hatseemed familiar to Swift. But, no; it could not be. To make sure, thenew editor of the _Planet_ approached, and bent behind the man. Thegentleman was ignorant of the attention he attracted, and did not stir.He seemed to be engrossed in one of Mr. Atkinson's incomprehensiblefinancial reports. Swift caught sight of the travellers face, startedback in amazement, and said:
"Excuse me, sir: is this seat engaged?" and without further ceremony satdown beside the recondite stranger, who dropped his paper and stared atSwift in return.
"Great Caesar!" blurted out Swift. "How the D--epartment did you comehere?"
"On the five fifty-eight elevated," replied the man, imperturbably.
"I--I didn't know you were sent, too." Swift's heart burned within himat the fancied slight.
"I wasn't," answered Mr. Statis Ticks, laconically and wearily.
"Where the dickens are you going, then?" asked Swift, warmly.
"To Russell, of course."
"How on earth did you get off?"
"I didn't, young man. I skipped." This exceptional occasion doubtlessaccounted for the only bit of slang that was ever heard to fall fromthose dry lips. "You see," proceeded Mr. Ticks drearily, "thecircumstance is a little unusual. I have read of nothing similar in thecasualty reports. I thought it best for my reputation to make my ownpersonal observations and figures on the spot."
"But your position?" asked Swift in surprise.
Mr. Statis Ticks raised his head proudly.
"If the _Planet_ can get on without me, let it!"
"But your family?" continued Swift, somewhat dazed. Who had suspectedthis animated reference library of such enterprise?
"I sent messenger number thirty-seven to them," he answered with a sigh,as if he were bored by such trifles.
Then considering this topic exhausted, Mr. Ticks took out his notebookand looked absently out of the window; now and then he jotted down a fewabstruse figures. He was engrossed in calculating the farm acreageadjacent to the railroad track between New York and Albany.
When they drew nearer to the region of the catastrophe the papers gavemore lurid accounts of it. These were purchased and read with avidity bythose on board the flying express. Groups centred in the cars talkedonly of one thing. Reporters now joined the train at each prominentcity.
As the train approached the stricken territory it became crammed tosuffocation. It crept at a funeral pace. People fought at each stationfor seats. The train split into sections on account of the added cars,filled with mourners, with rescuers, with sight-seers, with villains.
Swift now took to himself a certain measure of authority. Was he not theexperienced representative of the greatest daily in America? But no onenoticed Mr. Statis Ticks, who silently blinked at the excited crowds andthen jotted down his estimates of them.
On the afternoon of the fourth day Swift bounded from the front platformof the baggage car, the first to leave the train, and looked with aprofessional eye about him. The scene that met his quick gaze wasunprecedented. Clamoring, gesticulating, shrieking, crying men and womenwere rushing here and there in frenzy. Here was a group of women wailingfor their husbands, imprisoned or dead--and who knew which?--within thatawful circle. There a man looked, vacantly, with trembling lips, fromgroup to group, hunting for the wife snatched from him. Here was a rudefellow peddling half a bushel of potatoes from a rickety farm wagon.There a woman, hungry and desperate, was aimlessly dragging an orphanchild about. Yonder a confidence man was set upon and beaten byinfuriated victims. In the midst of a jostling, eager, credulous mob wasa man who fancied he had some real news to tell.
Now and then, as if by mutual consent, these people lifted up theirheads towards the Great Buzzard mountains, toward Russell, the city oftheir despair, and clenched their fists and uttered an exasperatedgroan. Agents of the Red Cross Society and of the Law and Order Leaguehad already erected their tents, and were doing all they could torestrain the lawlessness and relieve the discomforts of the mob. Swiftcritically watched these seething thousands, who had come upon the spotfrom motives of sorrow, curiosity, gain, and plunder, all miserable,poorly housed and scantily fed. The reporter's inquisitiveness was wellahead of his human sympathy up to this point.
Within these few days the border line about the afflicted city hadbecome an improvised camp, that extended for miles and miles. It wasenforced here by a railroad track, there by a village, until, havingcompleted the gigantic circle, it met again. Thousands were flowing ineach hour. They came from all points of the compass, like flocks ofangels and of devils. As yet the military was not at hand, and thelittle law that existed was not of the gospel, but of brute force andadroitness.
Swift, having sent off his dispatch at the improvised office, and havingforgotten his companion, whom he expected to be a nuisance on his hands,retraced his steps and hurried to the dead line, where it impinged onthe railroad track. Here was the centre of the maddest rush. Here mengroaned and cursed and wept aloud. Swift pushed his way through until hereached that portion of the track that defied further passage. A cordhad been stretched there to keep the crowds back. Upon showing his badgehe was received with respect.
"Take keer, boss," said the huge policeman, whose sole duty up to thistime had been to drive the spikes into the sleepers. "I tried ityesterday. They just pulled me out. I got the d--d shakes yet." With agrave smile Swift ducked under the rope and looked before him. Thesolitary, motionless, blasted prairie stretched out, relieved only bythe outlines of the Buzzard mountains. Where once the tops of towers,grain elevators and steeples were to be seen on the horizon, there was acloud. A dense, strange, ominous mist overhung the stricken city.
This cloud was of a yellowish color that recalled to Swift the dreadfulyellow day of '72. It reached nearly to the summit of the great Buzzardmountain. Within five miles of the spot on which he stood thisphenomenon became more and more attenuated until it disappeared in dulltransparency. What did that cloud contain? What horrors did it hide? Ofwhat was its nature? What was the secret of its deadly influence? NoAmerican catastrophe had impressed the reporter so much as the sight ofthis veil, hiding the unattainable city. Curse this maledict, deadlyvapor! It paralyzed his inventiveness. It baffled his imagination. Forthe first time in his reportorial career Swift was stunned and withoutresource.
Now it was said that not a breath of air had stirred over the pollutedarea since the morning of the loss of Russell.
As the news editor looked down the tracks he saw that the tracks, whichwere torn up and twisted beneath him, within a hundred feet, disappearedutterly from view. The wooden ties were blackened into charcoal in theirplaces, but the iron rails had evaporated. It was the same with thetelegraph wires. At a certain point they stopped and were gone. Thepoles, tottering and scorched and bare, looked like a procession ofnaked ghosts, undressed for livelier mockery. Before him the trees, theshrubs, the grain, the grasses--in fine, all vegetation had been smittenunto death.
The face of the earth was black and crumbling. It looked as if the rootsof this unconscious vegetable life had been suddenly touched by volcanicfires and had died from the ground up. There was not a vestige of lifeas far as the eye could see. Had a fire swept the land? But no! No smokehad been hitherto visible, unless this inexplicable cloud were smoke.And yet, to Swift's practiced eye, there were evidences of a violent, asudden, a consuming heat. The men in line behind Swift stoodrespectfully back while he observed this unique scene. He noticed awhite mile-post close at hand. It was inscribed, "Russell, 20 m."
"Only twenty miles to Russell! and no one there yet! What a field forthe news editor of the greatest paper in the land! The competitors werekeen. The chances were even, the honor great, and no favors asked. As hestood for a moment, lost in thought over the apparent hopelessness ofthe undertaking, and almost wishing he had not sent so confident atelegram to his chief, he felt a hand upon his arm.
"I have found one," said a slow voice.
"Have you? What?" asked Swift, with careless interest. He recognized theaspirated tones of Mr. Ticks.
"I have calculated this thing over. There are between six and seventhousand on the spot. Five hundred reporters are here, and more expectedby every train. There is no food, no bed, no roof for us here. Thisplace has been completely done up. It is exhausted. To get facts we mustmove on."
"Jove, you're right, old man!"
Mr. Ticks acknowledged the compliment with a slight motion of his hand.
"Yes, I have just purchased the only team to be had, for four hundreddollars."
Swift glanced enviously at his autumnal colleague, who had alreadyoutdone him in enterprise.
"Cyclones and tornadoes in this part of the country," proceeded Mr.Ticks sententiously, "travel to the northeast. We will go to the north.If there are any remains they are to be found there," Mr. Ticks had, itwould seem, embraced the tornado theory.
"We will go immediately!" exclaimed Swift.
"Hold!" cried the man of figures quietly, "I wish to test thisphenomenon. Wait for me here!"
Before Swift could utter a protest or arrest his colleague's arm, thephilosopher started up the vacant track. No one dared to follow him. Thecrowd were too much stunned at his audacity. Had they not dragged adozen adventurers back from the same mad enterprise? Men shudderedbefore this unknown fate that stretched out its relentless arms so farand no further. A cocked pistol would have been more comfortable.
But Mr. Ticks walked on slowly, unconsciously, as if in a revery. He puthis hands out as if to feel the air. He put his tongue out as if totaste it. He had not gone forty feet when he was observed to trembleviolently. Those on the dead line united with Swift in shrieking "Comeback!" The experimenting member of the _Planet_ staff only shook hishead. He was not twenty yards away when he stopped abruptly. He put hishands to his head and heart, and struggled against the unseen force. Itbeat upon him: but he steadied his legs the firmer and met the shock. Itsmote at him, but he wearily smiled in return. He even made a motion asif for his notebook. But such temerity was too much for the occultfluid to suffer. It breathed upon him and felled him to the ground. Ashe dropped he rested for a moment spasmodically upon one knee, andpeered into the air as if he were penetrating the secret of this balefulagent. Then he fell back insensible.
Half an hour afterwards the newspaper man came to. Swift was bendingover him.
"We rushed you out. You'll pull through all right, old man," said hiscolleague cheerily.
"Did you note the symptoms?" asked Mr. Ticks feebly.
"Yes."
"Did you wire them?"
"No; I hadn't time. I----"
"Then do so!" He sank back exhausted.
"But how did you feel? How _do_ you feel?" asked Swift anxiously.
"As mortal never felt before," replied Mr. Ticks solemnly. With thesewords upon his lips he lapsed away again into unconsciousness.
That evening at a late hour Swift made his way to thefour-hundred-dollar team under whose protecting shelter he had ensconcedhis patient with such poor comfort as was possible.
Mr. Ticks raised himself from the cushions upon one arm.
"Are you ready?" he said restlessly.
"For what?" asked Swift in astonishment.
"To start."
"Not to-night surely?"
"Yes--immediately. Harness up! We must be at the extreme north of thisunclassified belt by to-morrow morning."