Chapter 14

0737 1/9 - 1222 1/9: Decatur and Overland Snowplow Extra 3217
Lordston Northern Extra 451

It was nearing dawn when the phone rang in the office of the Lordston Northern. Diane Lee looked up from her bookkeeping and answered it.

The caller proved to be Spike Hottel, out in the engine shed. "We got lucky, Miss Lee," he said. "The blade balanced right up. We're ready to go whenever you get someone over here to run your Alco."

"It'll only be a few minutes," she said.

Sure enough, within a few minutes, the Alco's air horn sounded outside the door of the engine shed. Hottel opened the door, and Pickering motioned it slowly forward, until its coupler closed on that of the plow. The diesel's engineer backed the snowplow out into the storm, and the two D&O mechanics closed the door, turned out the lights, and walked the few yards up the track to where the engine and plow sat waiting. As soon as they had climbed onto the engine, it began to back up toward the switch to the main line, lost a couple of hundred yards away in the blowing snow. The two mechanics listened to the lightweight, six-cylinder sound of the old switch engine, then went into the cab.

The Alco only had to back up a short distance across the frogs of the North Central tracks before it had to stop at the first of two switches. Now, the engineer spoke for the first time: "Well, are you going to throw the switch, or am I going to have to?"

Hottel would have been less shocked if there had been no engineer at all. "Miss Lee!" he exclaimed, "I didn't know you was running this thing."

"Who else?" she said. "After all, this is my engine. Why shouldn't I run it?"

In the dim light of the cab, Hottel could see that the wool skirt she had worn earlier had been exchanged for a snowmobile suit. "You sure you know how to run this thing?" he asked.

"Look, Mr. Hottel," she replied icily, "Not only do I run this engine every day, I did a big share of the work rebuilding it. Dad hardly ever runs it. He's too mixed up with the steamer, so I make the freight runs. I even painted it the color I wanted to."

Hottel reflected that the deep orange engine matched the color of her hair. "I suppose you run the steamer, too," he replied with a sense of awe.

"I can run it, and I can fire it. I'm not that good at it, but I've had to do it. This is a family operation, and that means just Dad and me a lot of the time. Now, is somebody going to throw that switch, or are we going to have to sit here all day?"

Hottel shouldn't have been that surprised. There are getting to be more women railroad workers around in operating departments, although they're still rare. As in everything else, though, the Lordston Northern was something special.

In reality, Bill Lee hadn't expected that Diane would claim the diesel for her own when he bought it, but he should have been prepared for it after the example he had set with his love affair with the old Baldwin.

He hadn't had the time to spend years rebuilding the diesel, as he had with the old 2-6-0, but they hadn't needed to as badly. The diesel was shopworn but runnable when they had first acquired it, but in the subsequent years they had gone through the engine the best they could. Their best had proven to be pretty good.

Diane was a shy, demure girl, but the Alco had brought out a hitherto secret talent for things mechanical, and her delight in working on the engine developed into a positive passion for running it. In the early days, it had to often be used on tourist trips. While Bill had often had to spend the days trying to revive the old steamer, his daughter would take the excursion trips with the rust-colored engine. Somehow, it hadn't seemed inappropriate to the passenger to have the quiet little girl running the diesel -- nowhere near as inappropriate as it seemed on the odd occasions that she took a coal shovel to the steamer.

Knowing that Diane knew how to run the Alco and depending on it were two different things to Hottel, but there wasn't much he could do but like it. "Dean," he asked, "Are you going to throw that switch, or do I have to?"

"I'll do it," Pickering replied. "I guess I'd better ride up in the plow. If there's any snow accumulated on the tracks, we'll have to run it."

The going was easy for the first several miles, and Pickering didn't have to start the plow. The Alco took them right up to thirty, which was a comfortable speed on the decaying old North Central branch. "Comfortable" was relative; the engine rocked and rolled, while Spike and Diane held on. "I didn't realize the track over this way had gotten this bad," she remarked after a particularly bad bounce.

Pickering started up the plow a few miles out. Even with it running, Diane was able to keep her speed up. The Alco roared through the black of the snowblown night. Eventually, they pulled into the outskirts of Coldwater.

"I wonder how far ahead they are?" Diane asked.

"Hard to say," Hottel replied. "There's no way they're going to be able to go fast on the Rochester line."

"There's one way to find out," she said, slowing the engine for a switch while Hottel went out onto the running board to check it. She reached for the microphone and called, "SX-3217, this is Extra 451."

Five miles to the north, Cziller had put the section gang to digging at the hopeless mess that buried the two D&O engines. While this took a large bite out of the poker game, it hadn't stopped it completely: there were more men on SX-3217 than there were shovels. Cziller was in the way car when the call from Extra 451 came in. The sweet feminine voice on the radio shocked him, but he had a chance to hide it. He turned to Anson and asked, "Is that what you meant about the Alco engineer being something else?"

The engineer nodded. "It doesn't seem like you'd ever expect a cute little tyke like her to even set foot in a railroad yard, but she runs their Alco, and I've even seen her running their steamer."

"I will be damned," Cziller said, and reached for the way car's radio to return her call, "Extra 451, this is SX-3217. Where you at?"

"We're at Coldwater. Just cleared the switch for the Rochester branch."

"We're about five north," Cziller replied. "We're in trouble. We're going to need a tug."

Diane replied that she only had 660 horsepower in the little switcher. "I don't know how much help that's going to be," she said.

Cziller looked at Anson, who shook his head. "I don't know myself," the road foreman said. We're not getting either Geep to bite. Leave the plow there in Coldwater, since it doesn't have a coupler in front, then ease your way up here."

As Cziller hung up the microphone, Anson asked, "Steve, you don't really think that little switcher is going to yank this rig out of the mess we're in, do you?"

"Don't know," the road foreman responded. "It might be just what's needed. She'll have a clear pull from behind on bare tracks. I don't know that the Geeps are on the ground, or what, but a good yank from behind might make the difference."

A few miles north of Coldwater, Diane slowed the Alco to a crawl, then radioed ahead, "I don't know exactly where you are, and I can't see very far ahead. Could you have someone go out a few hundred yards and set out a couple of fusees so I'll know when I'm coming up on you?

Already done," Cziller replied. "I sent someone out right after you called the last time. Where are you now?

"About four north of Coldwater. I ought to be coming up to you shortly."

Within another couple minutes, she could see the red glare of the burning flares in the blowing snow ahead. She slowed the engine, and a shivering Bruce Page got on board.

"Man, it's colder than the ass end of a polar bear," he said. "I never though I'd be so happy to see this puddle-jumper."

"What happened?" Hottel asked.

"Don't know. Apparently the plow rode up, and enough snow got under the engines to pick up the wheels. I was in back, but Bartenslager was really jamming those old pigs along. Everybody wound up on their ass."

Hottel leaned over and whispered, "Watch your language."

Page looked around in the half-light and saw who the engineer of the little Alco was. "Oh, hi, Miss Lee. Sorry."

"That's all right," she snapped, more aggrieved about the insult to her engine than she was about the language, which she could tolerate. "How far ahead is the train."

"About three hundred yards, I guess," Page replied. "I wasn't exactly pacing off the distance."

"Diane, I don't want to insult you," Cziller said, "But if you want one of our guys to run your engine, they're available."

"Thanks, Steve," she told him. "But I guess I'd better do it, anyway. I've got a better idea of what it'll do than one of your people."

"If you can handle it, that's good enough by me," he said. The Alco was already coupled up to the second way car. "It's just as well. That way, I can have someone on each engine, so maybe the second one can pull when it gets some bite."

"How much longer?"

"Another couple minutes," he told the redhead. "We've still got to get the m.u. lines off. Now, we'll want to get a nice, easy pull. Shoot sand to it, and don't let it slip."

As Cziller had promised, in a couple minutes all was ready. "All right, everybody," he ordered. "Back 'em all down easy."

Outside the open door of the way car, the Alco's unsupercharged engine barked. The angle was wrong to see, but inside the way car Cziller knew that the Alco had to be blasting black smoke out of its stack almost as thickly as if it were a steam engine. "Harder," he called.

The way car lurched.

SX-3217 came loose. It was a series of bumps and sudden stops, progress picking up as more wheels reached solid track. Cziller wasn't concerned about the elegance of the maneuver; the important thing was that the rescue train was out of the snowdrift.

"We're clear," Bartenslager reported from the 3217.

"Idle 'em down," Cziller ordered. "Second shift stays on duty. First shift, back to the poker game. Section gang, ah, Jim, they've got to be up around you somewhere. I want them to stay here and inspect the track for any damage. If there is, have them try to have it fixed by the time we get back. Have them leave fusees for us to pick them up. Diane, good job."

"Thanks, Steve," came a feminine voice over the radio.

"I meant it," he said. "I thought a little power in the right place might help. We'll uncouple you. You go back to Coldwater and get back on the siding where you left the rotary. We'll follow and back past you, so we can switch plows."

"Give me plenty of lead," she told him. "You can't see very far in this stuff, and I don't want you backing into me."

"Get going, then. It'll take a few minutes to get everything organized here." He motioned Page to the coupler; the young brakeman went out the back door of the way car and pulled the uncoupling lever. "You're off," Cziller reported.

"See you later," she replied. The little engine barked, and its headlight began to back off into the night. About that time, the section gang burst into the way car and started to gather up flares and tools.

"You understand," the foreman told Cziller, "That we're not going to be able to get a lot done in a half hour or so if there's anything screwed up."

"Right. This way, you've got that much head start, if there is. We'll just have to sit here until it's fixed, anyway.

"Jesus," the foreman replied. "Just when I had a hot streak going."

A few minutes later, Cziller radioed to Bartenslager in the 3217. "All right, let's get going. Keep it slow. Bigelow and I will be back here spotting, but visibility isn't going to be very good. Keep an ear on the engine; I want to know if we screwed anything up on it back there."

As soon as SX-3217 was moving, Cziller radioed, "Extra 451, how you doing?"

"I've gone about four miles, I think," came the immediate reply.

"Good enough. Let us know if you slow down or stop."

"Full house," Anson told the diminished group of poker players. "Jacks and threes."

"Harry, you may be the luckiest engineer I've seen tonight," DeTar mumbled. "But you sure as hell ain't the prettiest. Now, that's something I'd like to conduct."

"Like to see you try it," Anson replied, raking in the money on the table. "She'd brain you with a coal scoop. But, I'll admit, she's got one of the nicest cabooses I've ever seen."

A few minutes later, Diane's voice came again over the radio. "SX-3217, Extra 451. I've got to throw the switch. Better take it real easy. This may take a few minutes."

"Make it so," Bigelow told the engineer over the radio. The train continued southward at a speed of no more than five miles per for what seemed like forever, until the girl's breathless voice came over the radio once again.

"I'm clear of the branch," she reported. "I've left the switch thrown for you."

"Took her long enough," Cziller snorted. "Her brakeman must have terminal arthritis."

Hottel looked up from his poker game. "Unless she took someone from here, she hasn't got a brakeman. She must have got out and thrown the switch herself."

"She didn't bring anybody from Lordston with her?"

"Just Dean and me," the mechanic replied.

The road foreman shook his head. "You'd think she would have said something."

"Not likely," Hottel snorted. "She's not about to ask for help with something she can do for herself."

SX-3217 backed past the switch where the Alco was waiting. Anson stopped the lead Geep just short of the other engine, and the head-end brakeman uncoupled the LN's plow. Then, they backed on past, and the brakeman threw the switch so that Diane and the 451 could back out onto the main line and pull forward to pick up their own plow.

While the LN engine was getting hooked up, SX-3217 crept forward and picked up the now repaired rotary, then backed onto the main once again. Once they were clear, Diane re-entered the siding, and SX-3217 was clear to pass.

While all this shuffling was going on, Cziller told Bigelow, "I'm going to have a talk with our redheaded friend. I'll be back in a minute." He raised his voice. "Bruce," he called to the junior brakeman, "Bring your stuff and come with me."

The two of them walked over to the orange Alco. "How's this thing running?" he asked Daine.

"Just fine."

"Spike tells me that you're alone, that you didn't bring anyone with you."

"Spike?" Diane replied questioningly. "Oh, one of the mechanics," she answered herself. "Well, there was no one to bring at that hour of the night. I'm used to doing my own switching. We never have long consists."

Cziller smiled. "Our union people scream enough about two-man crews, but Diane, you set a new target." His attitude changed to one more serious. "Look, it's no time for anyone to be out alone, in this weather. If something should go wrong, it's just not safe. So, here's what I'm going to do. I'll send Bruce, here, back to Lordston with you. Once you get there, find him a hotel room or something. Bruce, when the storm's over, grab a bus back to Putnam."

"No thanks," Diane replied harshly. "I don't need any help."

"Diane," Cziller said gently, "It's just not that safe out there in this weather."

"We made it up here with no problems."

"And you'll make it back without any, probably. But, I'd feel a whole lot better if something did go wrong if I don't have to explain to your father why I let you go back alone."

"Oh, all right," she snapped. "It's a total waste, but all right."

"Good enough," he said, and turned to the young brakeman. "Bruce, you take it easy. Diane, thanks to you and your dad and your engine here."

"Good luck, Mr. Cziller," the brakeman replied. "Hope you make it through all right."

Once the switching was completed, the orange Alco drove hard up the track to the eastward, with a seething Diane Lee running it and Bruce Page along for the ride.

Page spent the ride silently looking out one side of the cab while the redhead's resentment at Cziller's overprotectiveness burned at her.

"Long night," the brakeman said in a shy effort to break the silence. "When we get to Lordston, can I take you somewhere for breakfast?

"No thanks," she said sharply. "I've been up all night. I've got to get to bed, and ALONE, thank you."

There wasn't much that Page could say to reply. The rest of the trip back to Lordston was in an icy silence.

Up in the 3217's cab, Cziller picked up the radio microphone and called, "Who's in the plow?"

"Me. Pickering."

"How's it running?"

"Running fine. We ran it on the way over here. We didn't get into any deep snow with it, but I ran the speed up and it ran real smooth."

"Good enough. Let's hope it keeps running. Bigelow, is everybody buttoned up back there?"

"Sure enough," the conductor reported. "Except for DeTar. He just dropped fifteen bucks on a pair of eights."

"He'd better get that out of his system before we pick the section gang up," Cziller replied. "Let's get this show on the road. We've wasted enough time."

Bartenslager brought the power up on the Geeps and, SX-3217 began to move. It took them only a few minutes to get to the burning fusees that marked where they had been stuck earlier. The train stopped, and Cziller swung down from the cab and walked through the blowing snow to where the section gang was struggling. "What's the problem?" he asked.

"You derailed her," one of the section men said. "Broken fishplate, and the rail ends came apart. You were just damn lucky that you were able to pull back up onto the tracks."

"How much longer to fix it?" Cziller asked.

"Another couple minutes. Just got one more bolt to take up, if you're in a hurry. We should drill some holes and put in a few spikes, but if we mark the spot and take it real easy, we could sort of sneak over it."

"How long will that take?" the perturbed Cziller asked.

"Twenty minutes, maybe less."

"Better do it," the road foreman said. "We've messed around here long enough, but if we mark it, the marks might get blown away. If someone comes up here with a heavy train, they could be in a world of shit." He turned back to the way car, hoping that someone had given up poker long enough to make a fresh pot of coffee.

It was closer to half an hour before Bartenslager gingerly eased the 3217 over the newly-repaired section of track. The track wasn't very smooth here, and up in the cab, the engine rolled altogether too much for Cziller's liking. "How does it feel to you?" Cziller asked the engineer.

"Half-assed job from the word go," Bartenslager replied. "But it feels like they've got ballast problems, here, and they couldn't do anything about that, anyway. Sure wouldn't want to go over it at any speed."

"We'll warn Putnam to put a slow order on it," Cziller replied. "They've really let this branch go to pot since I was up here last. This used to be a pretty good stretch."

"You haven't lived until you've come down from Big Pit down to Rochester with maybe five thousand tons of aggregate," the engineer replied. "That'll give you the trots for a week."

"You and Harry know this track better than I do," Cziller said as the engine noise from the plow began to make itself heard in the cab. The plow bit into the snowdrift that SX-3217 had been stalled in just a little while before. "You guys just make sure you take it easy on stuff like that. I don't want to lose any more time if I can help it."

Shortly, the speed of the train stablized. The plow was throwing snow downwind, and the northeasterly wind carried the flying powder past the left side of the cab. SX-3217 crawled northward steadily for the next hour. There were places where Bartenslager could speed up a little, and places where progress slowed even more. Eventually, an increased number of inhabited places told the trainmen that they were nearing Rochester.

The last mile into Rochester was a dilly. The tracks had been following along a fairly level plain, but here they dove through a deep cut, down a steepish grade, through another deep cut and around a sharp bend before they crossed a low trestle and got into Rochester proper.

The first cut was deep; it had filled to more than ten feet since the storm started. The plow burrowed through it, the snowblast from the rotary blasting the roof off of the tunnel that the blade was digging. "Man, I don't believe that," Cziller told Bartenslager. "I think I begin to see why they braced hell out of that dumb thing."

The grade into town was somewhat easier, since the wind had blown most of the snowfall away, and only a foot or two covered the tracks. It was well that Bartenslager descended the grade slowly, however, for when they reached the lower cut, they found it packed even deeper than the first one. "What do you think, Dean?" Cziller asked over the radio.

"Might make it," the mechanic replied. "But, let's go real slow."

The train crept forward until the front of the plow was buried in the snowdrift, the blast of the plow knocking a fissure through the huge pile, leaving a narrow alley for the cupola of the plow to sneak through. The nose of the 3217 itself plowed away the remains of the rotary-dug tunnel. An immense time later, SX-3217 crept out onto the clear tracks of the trestle, and Bartenslager was able to pick up speed again.

"We'd better stop and have the section gang clear the snow off the running boards," Bartenslager advised.

"OK, we'll stop in town," Cziller said, and made a call back to the way car to break up the poker game, then resumed his conversation. "I hope we don't have to see much more like that."

"The real work is just beginning," the engineer replied. "There's been nobody north of here all winter. We'll probably see a lot more like that."

Cziller had Bartenslager stop at the state road crossing, where a gas station sat next to the tracks, and radioed the way car, "Tom, I'll call Putnam this time. I need to talk to them, anyway."

"We've been wondering what happened to you," the roadmaster replied to Cziller's call. "I just had another call from Marks wondering where in hell you are."

"We're at Rochester," the road foreman replied, and went on to explain about the problems with the plow and to warn about the bad trackage. "It's a long story, but we're moving good, now. If we can keep going, we should be able to get there about dark tonight. Are we cleared onto the Kremmling branch, yet?"

"Yeah," the roadmaster said. "The only thing is, it's their branch now, not ours. That was the other thing Marks called me about. I won't go into the politics of the thing, but the C&SL just agreed to purchase the branch from us. They want you that bad, Steve."

"Must be."

"OK, your orders are to proceed on past Kremmling, but consider yourself under C&SL orders after that point. From Kremmling on, try to contact the C&SL on our yard frequency. Do not proceed past Warsaw on the C&SL main without contacting them. Steve, I'd be real careful the last couple miles going into Warsaw if they don't know you're there. You'd best buckle down, unless you want to get there after the fire is out."

"It all depends on whether this stupid plow keeps running or not," Cziller replied, somewhat heatedly. "Where you guys got the idea of coming up with that collection of junk is beyond me. Tell Desmond that sending us out with it was no favor."

With Cziller back aboard, SX-3217 headed on to the northeast of Rochester. For the first few miles, the going wasn't that bad. Before the storm the snow on the tracks had accumulated to perhaps three feet on the average, but the storm had dumped another three or four feet onto them. The plow was working near its capacity in the older, thicker snow and the somewhat lighter new snow, hard-packed by the wind. The wind was now out of the northeast, and it blew the snow back toward the eastbound train. The left side of the train was soon packed with it.