The Girl at Loup Garou – Three Stories by E.S. Dellinger
The Girl at Loup Garou – High in the Canadian Rockies they were trapped on a bridge – To front and rear there was no escape. This was wolf country and the wolves were drawing ever closer.
The Girl at Loup Garou – Three Stories – a collection of three classic Pulp Railroad stories from E.S. Dellinger (1886-1962).
The Girl at Loup Garou (1934) – High in the Canadian Rockies they were trapped on a bridge – To front and rear there was no escape. This was wolf country and the wolves were drawing ever closer.
II The Little Blond Lightning Slinger
III Back into the Loup!
IV “Blond Chickens”
V “It Is the Loup Garou!”
VI Thirteen Years to a Day!
Damnhobo (1935) – To Old Bill Danforth, Skipper on the Gulf Lines, Every Hobo was a Damnhobo. What would happen when his life depended on one when a train, loaded with dynamite, was sabotaged?
The Silver Cross (1935) – It Was a Good Luck Charm—But It Was as Lucky as a Sentence of Death! How lucky could it be when murder followed it everywhere?
II The Man With the Scar
III The Coroner’s Inquest
IV Jack’s Magnificent Gesture
V At the End of the Trail
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.
The Girl At Loup Garou has 23 illustrations.
Excerpt: The Girl at Loup Garou
THE long freight wound up Rattlesnake Mountain, high in the Canadian Rockies, and went in the siding at Silver Cliff to meet No. 8 and let No. 1 by. Having inspected their train as good brakemen should, “Gyp” Scott and Terry O’Brien went over the top, entered the cupola through the side window, fished paper bags from leather grips, and began a midnight lunch.
Red-headed, freckle-faced, still in his early twenties, Terry had been born in the Province of Manitoba and reared in the State of Arkansas. Gypsy Scott, black-haired, dark-complexioned, meticulously dressed, was a native of the Ozark Hills. Ever since the night four years ago when he had pulled Terry out of the burning wreck of an oil drag, down below Muskogee, they had been booming together. This fall Terry had persuaded Gyp to come north and help run the trains of the Dominion while her sons were gone to war.
They were making their first trip.
While they ate Conductor Graham entered from the rear, made notes on a delay sheet and came to join them. Swinging into the seat opposite Gyp, he handed over a single sheet of tissue with its clearance.
“We’re following Number One down the hill,” he told Terry. “She’ll be by in forty minutes.”
“O.K., Cap,” breezed Terry. “We’ll feed the face an’ be over at the head, ready to open the gate.”
Gyp, who worked the rear, unfolded and read the order:
Extra 5206 East has right over Number 43, Eng. 5374, Devil’s Gateway to Loup Garou.
“Loup Garou!” mused Gyp. “Werewolf, huh? Helluva name for a railroad station.”
“Is rawther queer.” Old Bill Graham did not look up. He tamped a load in the short stemmed pipe and lighted it. “The tunnel ahead of us comes into a canyon of the same name.” He made no further comment.
Terry finished his lunch and went to the head end. Shortly before midnight No. 1 passed; and No. 43 followed her out.
As soon as they emerged from the tunnel, Gyp and Terry hit the tops, setting air retaining valves so the engineer could hold the heavy train on the twenty-five mile grade into Devil’s Gateway. By the time they met a half mile of the canyon was behind them. In the soft light of the waning moon, they peered about.
The Loup Garou was a box canyon. The level floor, a scant quarter mile in width, was covered with gigantic spruce trees. Walls of gray granite rose sheer for a thousand feet. The canyon ended abruptly at the east, as if some giant had cut through the mountain with a scroll saw, and lifted bodily from its setting the irregular chunk of granite which the waters of ages had worn away.
“The Loup Garou, huh?” Gyp said again.
“Sure would be a spooky spot to go flaggin’ at One a.m.,” Terry said with a laugh.
A mile rolled backward under scorching wheels. Brakes groaned and muttered. Box cars bucked and jostled. The two buddies stood side by side watching the gash of the Loup Garou unwind.
While they watched the whistle sounded. It was two short blasts, the answer to a signal. They listened. The echoes bounded back and forth like the echoes of a gunshot in a lonely vacant cabin. Before these echoes died away the whistle sounded again. This time a long blast was followed by three short ones—the signal to Gyp to go back into the canyon and protect the rear end of the train.
Gyp was not perturbed. He trotted back over the train to get his lantern and fusees, and a moment later disappeared around the curve.
Terry went to the engine. When he slid into the cab a uniformed passenger flagman from No. 1 was talking to the engineer.
“What’s the matter, pard?” Terry asked.
“I don’t know, buddy,” the flagman answered. “The hoghead kicked on the air an’ we stopped just around the curve.”
Engineer Mike Mulcahey pulled No. 43 down against the rear of No. 1. Terry and Mike went with the flagman to the last coach of the passenger train. While they waited No. 1’s conductor came back.
“What’s up, Squiers?” queried Mike.
“Gaston keeled over,” the conductor spoke softly.
“Gaston!” cried the flagman. “You don’t mean he’s—”
“Dead as a door nail,” finished the conductor.
Fireman said he looked at him once, said he was sittin’ up straight as a string. A minute later the air went on. He went over to see what was wrong, and Bert Gaston was stone dead.”
“Well, if that don’t beat hell!” muttered Mike. “Reckon they’ll call this heart disease.”
“This damned ghost walk’s sure got it in for that Gaston family,” Squiers said slowly.
“Three of ’em!” muttered Mike.
Terry, Old Bill Graham, and Mike Mulcahey went with the two passenger men over to the head of No. 1. They were there a long while.
Questioning the flagman, Terry heard briefly the story of the canyon.
WHEN white men came, the place had been the haunt of a pack of timber wolves. Trappers had come into it—and had not gone out. Other trappers built up legends. The pack of wolves was led by a “werewolf”—a “Loup Garou.” The trappers had named the canyon—and had shunned it.
Excerpt From: E.S. Dellinger. “The Girl at Loup Garou.”
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