The American: A Middle Western Legend by Howard Fast Read Free Book Online

dropped like tenpins from the heat. There had to be replacements. Men wore out. At the spot of dawn, you picked up your pick, hammer, shovel, or spike-brace; when it became too dark to work, you dropped it. The railroads were pacing across the continent, and men had to walk fast.
    Pete Altgeld was young and strong; he prided himself on his strength. When the Irishmen on either hand warned him, ‘Take it easy, youngster, or they’ll lay you out under this dirty Kansas sod,” he laughed and snowed them what he could do. As everyone knew, the Irishmen were shipped over like cattle, sent by the carload to work the roads, and they didn’t have the fire inside them that he did, the certainty of sitting on the top. And he could work! The muscles were laced over his broad back like piled-up leather, and his lean hands had clasped some tool for as long as he could remember. And, anyway, it was only natural that when a man became old and couldn’t keep up, he should be thrown aside. If you had imagination, you saw the iron rails going through, hell-bound for glory; it needed a man to put them down. These Irishmen were skinny and underfed, and after twelve hours’ work, they’d take out what was left with drink. If a man held onto his three dollars a day, he’d soon be rich! Pete Altgeld would hold onto it; day after day, under the broiling sun, he told himself that.
    And then, one day, he began to burn, and his legs turned into rubber. They carried him into a tool shack, and by then he was trembling with cold. The Irishmen shook their heads over the damfool kid, and he lay there under a load of sacking until a harried doctor came and suggested that he be admitted to a hospital at three dollars a day.
    Pete refused. He said he would die first.
    â€œYou’ll die all right,” the doctor agreed. “There’s nobody going to bring you grub here. You’ll die sure as hell.”
    â€œThree dollars a day! For three dollars I work all day.”
    â€œThat’s right,” the doctor agreed.
    The fever loosened his tongue, and Pete Altgeld raved about the money. He needed the money; it was going to ride him right up to the top of the world. He was going to study law; he wasn’t going to swing a pick and shovel for the rest of his life. Hadn’t he put his money away, dollar by dollar, and now they wanted it back, three dollars a day. He’d die first.
    â€œAll right,” the doctor agreed. “But you can’t die here. This is company property.”
    He struggled to his feet, and then collapsed. The doctor called the two litter-bearers, who were waiting outside. They took him to the hospital, a long clapboard and canvas lean-to, where they undressed him. The money was in a belt around his belly. The company stood for no nonsense when it came to diggers’ savings, and all the money was delivered over to the staff accountant. There were sixty dollars in all, and this was entered against twenty days of service. But when, on the fifth day, it seemed that Pete Altgeld was dying, seventeen dollars was allocated for a pine coffin and a grave, certified to be at least three feet deep. However, he took a turn for the better and lasted the full time. By then he was able to walk, if uncertainly; he had lost twenty pounds, and he had severe and chronic headaches, and he was penniless. Since his gang had moved twenty miles along the line, he asked the hospital superintendent for a pass to ride free.
    â€œRide where?” the superintendent wanted to know.
    â€œTo the job.”
    â€œYou got no job,” he was told. “You’re not fit to work, and we’re not paying three dollars a day to corpses.”
    He pleaded. He reminded the superintendent that he had outworked the Irishmen. Hadn’t the foreman said that he was one of the best men on the job?
    â€œI can’t give you a pass,” the superintendent said stolidly. “You want to join your