Steel Across the Desert by E.S. Dellinger

Book Details

Steel Across the Desert – Three stories of life on the railroads, from sabotage during the building out of a new rail line, to the desperation of delivering much needed medicines through a flood.

When Destiny Calls (1935) – No man of woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny
Chapter I
Chapter II – “The Damned Wrecker Whistle!”
Chapter III – Old Man River
Chapter IV – The Shadow of Death

Hog in a Mudhole (1938) – True Tales of the Rails

Steel Across the Desert (1934) –  “This Job’s Goin’ to Take a Guy with a Silver Spoon in His Mouth an’ a Rabbit’s Foot in Both Pockets!”
I
II – “Goofy” Ellers
III – “Too Damn Bad for the Train”
IV – Built—but Not Operated
V – “Nothing Left—Alive or Dead!”
VI – “Marijuana” Joe
VII – At Four O’clock—

Everett Samuel Dellinger (1886-1962) was a railroad man, an educator, and a famous author of numerous railroad stories published in pulp fiction magazines such as Railroad Magazine and Railroad Stories from the late 1920s, to the 1950s. He broke freight on the MOP line for a number of years and described himself in his bylines as a former brakeman.

Steel Across the Desert has 26 illustrations.

Files:

1. SteelAcrossTheDesert.epub

Excerpt: When Destiny Calls

Chapter I

THE roundhouse whistle at Wellfield was the terminal telegraph for the old Southwestern. Five times each day its screaming blast proclaimed the hour. Sometimes, in between, it told of grim disaster and called the wrecking crew together.

Molly Weatherby always listened with a shudder. Molly was the daughter of the traveling engineer. Her boy friend, Gyp Travis, had gone into the wreck at Vengeance Hole, two years before, and not come out. Because of that, Molly had vowed she’d never marry a railroad man. The work was too dangerous.

But as times went on the girl’s wounded heart was healed. And now a new spring had come—the spring of 1895—teeming with life of bird and blossom. Gay tulips lining the little walk that led up to the Weatherby home nodded in the breeze and seemed to mock the shrill roundhouse whistle.

Rud Randall, the lover of her school days, renewed his courtship of years ago. The big engineer had even reached the point of asking her to be his wife. Molly wanted a day or two to think it over. Then, on an April noon, he sauntered up the road to Jim Weatherby’s cottage for his answer.

Molly’s father opened the door, extended a heavy hand. Rud was surprised. Usually the traveling engineer did not come home until later.

Mr. Weatherby noticed Rud’s surprise. “I’m early today, boy,” he explained. “You and I are going east at one o’clock.”

“Going east?”

“Yes,” said the traveling grunt. “You’re taking Number 153—”

“That pile of scrap!” Rud cut in.

No. 153 was one of the first engines the Southwestern had owned. Men had been urging officials for months to take her out of service “before she blows up and kills somebody.” Rud had heard that she was to be back-shopped as soon as business fell off.

“You’re taking tonnage east with her today,” Weatherby went on. “I’m going out to check on her and see what she needs.”

“I’ve told you what she needs,” Rud bantered. “She needs to be set out in the weeds for birds to build nests in.”

Weatherby was patient. “This, my boy, is a railroad. We’ve got to keep our old hogs patched up and running. It’s up to men like you and me to find out where to put the patches.”

Each man understood that below the jesting comment was a serious undercurrent. Weatherby said he had a hunch, every time he saw the old mill, that something was going to happen to her. Rud grunted. The other man nodded toward a closed door.”

“Molly’s in the kitchen, getting dinner. You’d better go in and help her while I pack my grip and get ready to go.”

Rud eased through the kitchen door. Molly turned a flushed face toward him, gave a nervous little laugh, wiped flour from capable hands with a gingham apron and said:

“Oh! You frightened me.”

With a smile Rud strode across the room and captured the floured hands. “Well?” he asked searchingly.

Molly looked away. Her eyes were swimming. “There’s no use, Rud,” she said at last. “It isn’t that I don’t love you. But you’ll never quit the railroad, and I could never marry a man who works on it.”

“But why?” the big fellow persisted. “Doesn’t an engineer earn a decent living?”

“Sure you do, Rud,” the girl said quickly. “We’ve gone over all that before. Life in a railroad family is a nightmare. I know; I was reared in one. The father always away—children strangers to him—wife sitting at home waiting, fearing, listening—”

As if to clinch her argument, the fierce scream of roundhouse whistle broke the noonday stillness. Rud felt Molly’s hands grow tense in his. Her lips parted. The whistle sounded one long blast and died. She relaxed and said:

“Oh, my goodness! Twelve o’clock already. I’d no idea it was so late.” Rud released her hands and helped to set the table. They chatted through the meal. The hogger went home for his grip and returned by Weatherby’s. Molly’s father kissed her good-by.

Molly walked between them to the wooden gate. Gaily she swung a hand of each. Her gaiety left when the latch clicked behind them.

“Be careful, daddy!” she warned.

“I’m always careful, dear,” he called back. “There’s no need to worry.” Molly leaned on the gate. The two men turned the corner. Rud stopped to fling her a kiss from finger tips. The last he saw of the girl, she was holding the gate, with a warm April breeze whipping the curls back from a face lined with anxiety.

“She sure got it in for the railroad,” Rud mused.

Weatherby snorted good-naturedly. “She’ll get over it. A woman’s like an engine. She has to get rid of surplus steam, and Molly’s way is to pop off at the mouth.”

They changed clothes in the crew room. No. 153 was on the outbound track. The men set their grips in the cab. Rud opened the firebox door and both looked in. With the fire down, they could see the entire exposed surface.

Although it was scarred and pitted from many a fire and many a mile, there was no outward sign of unusual weakness. But under the skin —that’s where the danger lurks in a locomotive boiler— were weaknesses that the keenest eye could not detect!”

Excerpt From: E.S. Dellinger. “Steel Across the Desert.”