Episode 52

Breaks in the Line

The line had gone dead. He could feel it in the tips of his fingers.

Red Ferguson had worked as a telegrapher for more than a decade now and had a knowledge of the key earned over thousands of messages sent and received over the singing wires. He’d worked remote mining camps, water stops and tank towns like Mercury Wells. He could tell by the signature rhythm who was on the other end of the line, read the familiar touch of other wire men he knew. He could tell by the cadence who was on the other end of the line, read the accustomed trace of wire men he knew. And he knew when the line he was sending on was dead.

He was in the middle of an inquiry from the local cattleman’s association when he felt the key under his fingers go dull. The message was being sent up the line to Barrow where it would be sent on to Abilene in search of the latest per-pound quote for beef on the hoof.

To confirm the break he keyed “stop message” and began a new stream of code requesting a reply from the telegrapher at Barrow. He waited ten minutes and received no answer. Red sent a new message down the line to the rail camp near the ford at Little Deer Creek. No answer.

Red felt a chill grow up his spine to cause his thinning hair to stand on his scalp.

One break in the line could be blamed on wind or some other force of nature. Two breaks, one east and one west of Mercury Wells, could only be the hand of man. There’d been no Comanche raids through the nearby counties since he was a boy in school. Not to say that some of those bastards might not have jumped the reservation to raise a little hell.

He ran from the Texas and New Orleans office into the night-dark street. Red Ferguson was midway to the jailhouse when he heard a rhythmic percussion from somewhere beyond the lights of the town.

The thunder of hooves.