It is the law in Pennsylvania that when a railroad company locates its route for a railroad by making its survey and setting its stakes, and that route is duly approved by its board of directors, it can hold the location as against any other company making a subsequent survey.

At the time of the events here recorded, two rival railroad corporations had become suddenly aware of the value of Pickett’s Gap as an outlet from the anthracite coal fields easterly to the Delaware river and to tidewater. Not that the project of building a railroad across that section of country was by any means a new one. On the contrary, it had been talked of for years. Indeed, a survey had once been made to within a mile of the mouth of the gap, but the stakes had rotted away or been destroyed long before. It was due to a combination of certain great railroad and coal interests that the subject had been now revived. And the engineers, looking over the ground, became suddenly impressed with the importance of securing the Pickett’s Gap route. From that moment it was a race between the Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad Company and the Tidewater and Western Railroad Company to secure the right of way through Pickett’s Gap. This gorge, the only opening for fifteen miles through the ridge that flanked the westerly shore of the Delaware, became thenceforth the objective point toward which the engineers of both railroad companies bent all their energies. The D. V. & E. worked up toward it from the Delaware and the east; while the T. & W. came down the country from the west, adopting, unknown to its rival, the old survey of former years. From information received at the office of the T. & W. it was known that Nicholson, the D. V. & E. engineer, was, on a certain day in September, working up from the shore of the Delaware toward the mouth of the gorge, and that, in all probability, he would set his stakes in that coveted glen on the following day. There was only one way to outwit him and gain precedence, and that was by connecting with the terminal point of the old survey, and making a night location through the gap. This scheme originated in the fertile mind of the chief engineer of the T. & W., and he sent his most trusted lieutenant, Charlie Pickett, to carry out the plan. No better selection could have been made, for Charlie Pickett was familiar with every foot of the ground. By his own unaided effort through thirteen years he had risen through the various positions of axeman, chainman, flagman, rodman, and leveller, until now, as transitman, he was intrusted with the most careful and critical work of one of the youngest and most vigorous of the railroad corporations of Pennsylvania.

But both Pickett and his chief had miscalculated Nicholson’s energy. Instead of stopping for the night on the easterly slope of the ridge that overlooked the Delaware, that wiry and energetic custodian of the fortunes of the D. V. & E. had, as we have already seen, pushed his survey vigorously through Pickett’s Gap, and was the first to occupy the route. That Charlie Pickett did not know this when, in the moonlight, he set his stakes between the walls of the glen, was not his fault. There was nothing on the ground to indicate that any engineer had preceded him. Nor did Nicholson know, when he led his men up through the gap on the following morning, that the stakes at which he glanced as he hurried on had not been set by him. The mist hung about him like a thick cloud when he set up his instrument near the big rock in the potato field and continued his survey, and it was no wonder that the change in the line of stakes did not attract his attention. Indeed, the true state of things was not known that day nor the next by any person save one,—poor, unfortunate Dannie Pickett. And the longer he held his secret locked in his breast, the more fearful he became of a final disclosure. How long his reckless, not to say criminal, deed could remain unknown to others he did not know; he did not dare to think.

A few days later Abner Pickett was sitting on his porch enjoying an after-dinner smoke. Dannie was at school, and Gabriel was in the back lot. A very trimly dressed young man descended from a wagon at the front gate and walked up the path. It was with fear and trembling that he approached Abner Pickett. He had heard many stories of the old man’s peculiarities, of his opposition to railroads in general, and of his bitter resentment against the D. V. & E. in particular. He had been led to believe that it would be almost safer to beard a lion in its den, than to face this irrepressible old man in his own home on such an errand as this.

It was the duty of his company, however, under the law, to make at least an attempt to settle, and it was his mission to-day, however fruitless it might be, to use all of his skill and strategy in the effort to purchase a right of way through Pickett’s Gap. He put on a most courteous demeanor.

“This is Mr. Pickett, I believe?”

“Pickett’s my name,” replied the old man, calmly. “Will you come up on the stoop an’ take a chair?”

“Thank you very much. My name is Safford, Mr. Pickett. I represent the Delaware Valley and Eastern Railroad Company.”

“Yes?”

“You are doubtless aware that this company has laid out a route for a railroad through your land?”

“Yes, I know it.”

Here the agent launched out into a eulogy of the company, and dwelt eloquently upon the advantages which would accrue to the country in general, and to the owner of the Pickett farm in particular, by reason of the building of the railroad as surveyed. Abner Pickett did not appear to be impressed in the slightest degree. The agent began to feel that his worst fears were about to be realized.

“We need the right to pass through your property, Mr. Pickett, and we are willing to pay you for it, I may say liberally. Have you—a—considered what compensation would be satisfactory to you?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, if I am correctly informed, we run through your land a distance of about seven thousand feet. In no place do we need or take more than fifty feet in width. That would make, as you see, about eight acres. Now, I really don’t know what your land is worth per acre.”

The rising inflection at the end of this last sentence called for an answer; but none was vouchsafed by Abner Pickett. He continued to puff slowly at his pipe and gaze out toward the distant hills.

“As I said, Mr. Pickett, we are willing to pay you liberally. We consider that the right of passage through the gap is of considerable importance and much value to us. How—for instance—how would eight hundred dollars strike you?”

The agent waited, in breathless suspense, for a reply. The old man shifted his gaze from the distant landscape to the agent’s face. He removed his pipe slowly from his mouth, leaned back in his chair, and answered:—

“Young man, it ain’t worth it.”

The representative of the company was stricken dumb with astonishment. He had never before had an experience like this. Men usually considered their property worth twice what he offered to pay them for it. Indeed, he had been prepared to double his offer to the owner of Pickett’s Gap, rather than have the slightest difficulty or delay in procuring a right of way. When he had partially recovered from his surprise, he found voice to say:—

“Well, Mr. Pickett, that gap, you know, is a most favorable outlet for us. We really need it, and are willing to pay you for it what it is worth.”

“Just so. But you can’t pay me any such price as that. I say it ain’t worth it.”

The agent was still wondering whether or not he was dreaming. But his sense of a good bargain was beginning to reassert itself, and he inquired hesitatingly:—

“What, for instance, would you consider right, Mr. Pickett? What, in short, may I ask is your figure?”

“Let me see. How many acres do you say you take?”

“About eight acres all together.”

“So! Well, my land is worth twenty dollars an acre, take it on an average.”

“But, Mr. Pickett, that would only come to a hundred and sixty dollars. That is—pardon me—but that is really inadequate. Why, we only take an acre and a half of John Davis, just above you here, and we pay him a hundred and fifty dollars, and do it cheerfully.”

“Young man, I ain’t runnin’ John Davis’s business, an’ he ain’t runnin’ mine. If you want that land at twenty dollars an acre, you can have it. If you don’t, you can let it alone. I shan’t take a cent more nor less.”

Continuing to protest, the agent drew from his pocket a blank contract of purchase and began to fill it up, drawing his chair to the little three-cornered porch stand. Poising his pen in his hand, he looked up at the old man appealingly:—

“Let’s make it two hundred dollars, Mr. Pickett. Really, I—”

But Abner Pickett interrupted him impatiently:—

“I’ve told you what’s what. If you want the property at my figure, get your paper ready an’ I’ll sign it; if you don’t want it, say so an’ don’t waste any more o’ my time.”

That settled it. The contract was completed, and duly signed and sealed by Abner Pickett. When he had done this, he turned slowly to the agent:—

“Now, I want to tell you just one thing, young man,” he said; “your company sent their engineers here an’ laid out their railroad in a scientific an’ gentlemanly way. They had consideration for me an’ for my property. An’ above all else—far an’ away above all else—they had respect an’ reverence for the dead. When they came to my graveyard they turned aside an’ ran around it, didn’t they?”

“Really, Mr. Pickett, I am not familiar with the details of the location. But you have seen the stakes set by the engineers, haven’t you? Well, those stakes mark the centre line of the right of way you are selling to us.”

“Very good. But if your engineers had staked a line through my graveyard, regardless of the rights o’ the livin’, or the reverence due the dead, they couldn’t ’a’ bought a square inch o’ my land for all the money they could ’a’ piled on my farm. An’ what’s more, I’d ’a’ lawed ’em, an’ jawed ’em, an’ fought ’em from now till the crack o’ doom. That’s all. Good day!”

He thrust his hat on his head, shook hands with his visitor, and strode away in the direction of the barn. The right-of-way agent watched him as he disappeared, then he put his papers carefully into his pocket, adjusted his hat at the proper angle on his head, and remarking to himself that this was certainly the most astonishing man it had ever been his good fortune to discover, he walked down the path, resumed his seat in the carriage, and drove smartly up the road. It was already beginning to rain. The heavy mist of the preceding morning had been the forerunner of a September storm. By the time night came, the rain was pouring down, the wind was blowing furiously, and it required a blazing wood fire in the sitting room of the Pickett house to maintain the comfort of the inmates. Before this fire Abner Pickett and Dannie were seated, while Aunt Martha was still busy with her household duties. Every hour that had passed since the night of his adventure had left Dannie more perplexed, more distressed, more conscience stricken, more fearful of the final result of his rash and, what seemed to him now, incomprehensible conduct. He sat looking at the blazing logs, saying nothing, but torturing his brain to find some way out of the dreadful dilemma into which he had thrust himself with such foolhardy bravery. He did not know that he had not yet reached the depth of his anxiety and misery; but he was soon to learn it. His grandfather broke the silence.

“Right-o’-way agent was here to-day, Dannie.”

“The—the what?”

“Right-o’-way agent. The man that buys the right o’ way for the new railroad.”

“Which new railroad.”

“There’s only one that I’ve heard anything about. They call it the D. V. & E., don’t they?”

“I believe so. An’ what did he want, Gran’pap?”

“Wanted to buy the right o’ way for his railroad through my property, of course. And I sold it to him, of course. Strip fifty feet wide, right through. Sold it for a hundred an’ sixty dollars. What do you think o’ that bargain, Dan?”

“Why, Gran’pap, I’ve heard you say you wouldn’t take five thousand dollars an’ give a railroad the right to run through the gap an’ through your farm.”

“That depends on how I’m treated. These people acted the gentleman with me. They run their railroad around my graveyard at an expense to them, in the way o’ buildin’, of at least a thousan’ dollars. If they’d a-run it straight through, they couldn’t ’a’ got my land at any price.”

“But—but, how do you know they didn’t run it straight through, Gran’pap?”

“Why, haven’t you an’ me seen the stakes as plain as day, a-runnin’ across the brook an’ a-curvin’ around agin to the mouth o’ the gap? I sold ’em fifty feet wide along the line o’ their stakes—nowhere else.”

“But suppose it was some other company that set those stakes around the graveyard. Suppose the D. V. & E. had run their line right across it, an’ their stakes had got pulled out some way, an’ what you sold ’em was really through the graveyard, an’ suppose—suppose—”

“Well, what on earth are you cunjurin’ up? What’s the use o’ supposin’ things that never happened and ain’t likely to happen? You act just as though you’d gone daft on the subject o’ this railroad. What’s the matter, Dan? What ails you, anyhow?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Gran’pap. I’ve worried so about this railroad runnin’ through your—potato field.”

“I guess we can raise as many potatoes.”

“An’ your meadow.”

“We can grow as much grass.”

“An’ your gap.”

“There’s room for it there.”

Dannie made a supreme effort. He feared that his grandfather had been deceived into selling a right of way through the graveyard, and he felt that if he spoke now, and told what he knew, regardless of consequences, there might yet be time to save the old man from utter humiliation and loss.

“But they did run through your graveyard, Gran’pap. They did set their line o’ stakes right across it. I know it. I saw ’em do it.”

“So you said before. But they thought better of it afterward, an’ went around on the other side o’ the brook, didn’t they?”

“Let me tell you, Gran’pap. Let me explain. Let me—”

What Dannie would have said, how he would have explained, what confession, if any, he would have made had he not been interrupted, is one of those things that will never be known. The emergency was sudden, and he intended to meet it at any cost. But a simple interruption altered the entire current of his thought. The outer door of the kitchen was opened and Gabriel came in. It seemed as though he was blown in by the gust of wind that followed him. Something in the kitchen fell with a clatter, and the old man and the boy both started up to see what it was. The clothes-horse with the week’s washing on it, drying and airing by the fire, had blown over; but Aunt Martha picked it up before it had fairly touched the floor.

“You always did beat the world for carelessness!” growled Abner Pickett at the unfortunate hired man. “Come in here and tell me what David Brown said about the thrashin’ machine.”

Gabriel hung up his wet hat and coat, muttering to himself:—

“Ef lightnin’ struck ’im dead he’d jump up an’ lay it onto me.” Then he added aloud:—

“Says ye can have it, Mr. Pickett. Says he al’ays did like to ’commodate his neighbors.”

“Well,” responded the old man, “on the whole, David Brown ain’t a bad neighbor. You might go further an’ fare worse.”

Gabriel shuffled along into the sitting room and drew a chair up to the fire.

“Queer thing David was a-tellin’ me about the railroad,” he said.

Dannie’s heart began to thump in his breast. He knew, intuitively, that the story of the night survey was coming. And with that story would come also—what? He glanced fearfully up at his grandfather, who had settled back again in his big chair, and was puffing slowly at his pipe.

“Well, give it to us,” said the old man.

“W’y,” responded Gabriel, “seems ’at along in the night sometime, after them first fellers had set their stakes, ’nother lot o’ surveyors come down the crick, an’ run another line through the gap by moonlight, or lamplight, or suthin’. The talk is ’at they made their survey for the Tidewater an’ Western. Tell ye what! ef them two railroads git to fightin’ each other, the fur’s got to fly. ‘The bigger the barrel, the bigger the battle,’ ez ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say.”

Abner Pickett straightened up in his chair, took his pipe from his mouth and looked at the hired man incredulously.

“Fact, Mr. Pickett,” continued Gabriel. “Queer thing about it, too. The fellers that made the night survey run aroun’ the graveyard stiddy crossin’ it. I couldn’t make out, before, what them stakes was a-doin’ t’other side o’ the crick.”

The old man was already beginning to lose his temper, as he foresaw the possible consequences to him if the story told by Gabriel should prove to be true.

“Why, you fool!” he ejaculated, “there’s only one line o’ stakes. I’ve seen ’em all myself. I’ve been over the whole line.”

The hired man was not in the least disturbed at being called a fool by Abner Pickett. He had gotten over being sensitive on that point years before. Seeing that his story had aroused the keenest interest of his listener, he went on, with the most apparent enjoyment.

“That’s the queerest part of it. Both railroads claim the stakes. Fellers ’at done the night work says they wan’t a stick ner a stake to be seen ner found from the big rock in the potater field to the land line t’other side o’ the gap when they made their survey. Fellers ’at done the afternoon work swears ’at their stakes was set ev’ry fifty feet from end to end o’ the line, an’ was all in place at six o’clock in the evenin’ w’en they knocked off work.”

Both the old man and Dannie were listening now with intense earnestness. Gabriel recrossed his legs, smacked his lips in keen enjoyment of the sensation he felt he was creating, and kept on.

“Fact, Mr. Pickett! Queerest thing of all; I’d swear them fellers in the afternoon run their line straight acrost the graveyard. Seen ’em drive stakes there with my own eyes. Didn’t you, Dannie?”

“Yes, I did, Gabriel.”

“Yes; well, where was them stakes next mornin’? I hunted high an’ low fer ’em; couldn’t find hide ner hair of ary one. Stiddy that there was them stakes acrost the crick. What do you think o’ that, anyhow, Mr. Pickett?”

Mr. Pickett turned in his chair till he was squarely face to face with his informant.

“Did David Brown tell you all that?” he asked slowly.

“Ev’ry word of it, Mr. Pickett, an’ more.”

“Then either David Brown lies, or else you lie, or else I’m the biggest fool in Meredith County.”

Still Gabriel was not in the least disconcerted.

“Yes,” he went on, “jes so. David was a-tellin’ me ’at the right-o’-way agent told him ’at you’d sold the right to build their railroad through your propity to the D. V. & E. Comp’ny fer a hundred an’ sixty dollars. Says you might jest as well ’a’ got a thousand ef you’d ’a’ stuck fer it.”

“It’s none of David Brown’s business what I got for the right o’ way, nor yours, either.”

“No; that’s right. But David, he says that ain’t the wust of it. He says ye’ve sold ’em the right to build the railroad where they run the line, straight plunk through the graveyard. An’ David says he don’t believe ye sensed it when ye done it.”

This was the last straw. If Abner Pickett was angry before, he was furious now. He rose from his chair and straightened himself to his full height, while the hot blood reddened his neck and face as it always did in his moments of passion. It was bad enough, in all conscience, to have committed the unpardonable error of signing away his dearest rights in ignorance or through deception, but that his neighbors should know of and comment on his unspeakable folly, this was more than he could bear.

“Tell David Brown,” he shouted, “to mind his own business.” After a moment he continued, “An’ you can take your ram’s horn an’ go up an’ down the road to-morrow mornin’ proclaimin’ that Abner Pickett has been suddenly bereft of all the common sense he ever had, and invitin’ the public to come down here an’ gaze upon a full-fledged fool—an’ that’s me, if there’s any truth in your lyin’ and ridiculous story. Who saw these men that made the night survey, anyhow? Who knows that somebody didn’t dream it? What proof is there? What proof, I say?”

“I saw them, Gran’pap.”

In his deep distress and anxiety the words escaped from Dannie’s lips involuntarily. His grandfather turned on him in an instant.

“You! You! An’ where did you see ’em, I’d like to know?”

“Why—why, I saw a company of engineers go up the road the morning we went down to look at the stakes.”

“Humph! So did I. D. V. & E. engineers. Begun where they left off the night before. That’s as much as you know about it. Look here, Gabriel! I don’t believe a word of your yarn. And if any engineer went over that route in the night an’ says he didn’t see the stakes set in the afternoon, he lies!”

“Oh, Gran’pap! No—no; he wouldn’t lie! He couldn’t lie! He didn’t lie! I know he didn’t lie!”

The charge of falsehood, unjust as it was, against his friend, the engineer, to whom he had been so mysteriously attracted, was more than Dannie could bear. But the old man galloped on roughshod.

“I say he does lie! Or else he sent a man on ahead to pull ’em all out before he set his own. Like as not he’s the biggest rascal the railroad company could hire!”

“Oh, Gran’pap! Oh, no, no!”

Every bitter, biting word flung from his grandfather’s lips cut Dannie to the heart. It was almost as though his own father was being insulted and assailed. It drew from him denial and protest as strong almost as the old man’s denunciation.

“You don’t know ’im!” he exclaimed. “You didn’t see ’im! He’s a gentleman. He wouldn’t do a mean thing to save ’is life! Why, Gran’pap, he’s the one who was big hearted enough to run around your graveyard.”

“Sure! sure! I forgot that. You’re right, Dannie. He’s a gentleman.”

With the remembrance of that gracious act the old man’s anger suddenly cooled. In the momentary silence that followed, Gabriel found another opportunity to take up the broken thread of his disclosure.

“Yes,” he went on, as unconcernedly as though the subject had proved to be the most commonplace in the world to both his listeners, “as ol’ Isra’l Pidgin use to say, ‘Possession is ten p’ints o’ the law when it’s a railroad that’s got it.’ An’ them D. V. & E. fellers ain’t a-goin’ to let t’other company git the start of ’em on ary one o’ them ten p’ints.”

“What do you mean by that, Gabriel? Speak!”

The old man was getting excited again.

“W’y, David Brown says ’at they’re a-comin’ on next Monday mornin’ to begin buildin’ their railroad. To-day’s Saturday. David says that’s straight. He says the fust thing they’re a-goin’ to do is to cut a grade through the graveyard, an’ make sure o’ that ’fore you back out, or ’fore you law ’em out. David says ’at it’ll go about three foot deep through the knoll in the middle, an’ make a bank about three foot high to’rd the wall on the east. David says ’at fifty feet wide’ll take in the monument an’ half a dozen more graves an’ gravestones, an’ likely they’ll rip ’em all out o’ the way ’fore they’ve ben to work there two hours.”

Gabriel had saved his heavy gun till the last, and now that he had fired it successfully, he leaned forward in his chair, placed his chin in his hands, and gazed into the wasting fire with a calmness born of joyful expectancy. But there was no response to his statement. Dannie was gazing in silent and dreadful apprehension at his grandfather, yet the anticipated outburst of passion from the old man’s lips did not come. Instead, he walked slowly out into the kitchen, and reaching up to the west wall above the mantel, he took down from its hooks the old but trustworthy double-barrelled shot-gun that had served him for thirty years and more, and examined lock, trigger, breech, and muzzle as carefully as though he were about to defend his own life.