In a short time he reached the line of newly laid rails that marked one
more stride of civilization into this far western country. He scrambled
up the steep embankment, and was not long in locating a telegraph pole.
He climbed this quickly and once securely seated in the crossbars made
ready to send the message that meant life or death to himself and the
little party back there by the over-turned stage coach, dependent on him
for their very lives.
He drew from a pocket a pair of cutting pliers that he had secured from
the coach's toolbox, and donned a pair of thick leather gloves that he
had borrowed from the driver. With the pliers he severed the single
telegraph wire, and grasped the two ends in his gloved fingers.
"Now," he thought, "if there's no current in the wire everything will
have gone for nothing. But if there is----"
He brought the severed ends together, and was overjoyed to see a snapping
little blue spark play about them.
"Great!" he shouted aloud, and then set himself to send the message. He
was an expert telegrapher and knew the Morse code as well as he knew his
own name.
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