Merwin Samuel - The Road Builders

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Builders, by Samuel Merwin

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Title: The Road Builders

Author: Samuel Merwin

Illustrator: F. B. Masters

Release Date: January 12, 2013 [EBook

#41825]

Language: English

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THE ROAD BUILDERS ***

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THE ROAD BUILDERS

samuel merwin



THE ROAD-BUILDERS

The M M Co





“‘There,’ he cried, ... ‘there, boys! That

means Red Hills or bust.’”



The Road-Builders

BY

SAMUEL MERWIN

AUTHOR OF “THE MERRY ANNE,”

JOINT AUTHOR OF “CALUMET

‘K,’” “THE SHORT LINE WAR,”



ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

F. B. MASTERS

TORONTO

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF

CANADA, Ltd.

1910

Copyright, 1905,

By THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.



Set up and electrotyped. Published October

1905.

Reprinted April, 1906.

Norwood Press

J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.

TO MY LITTLE SON



NOTE

A part of this story was printed serially in

The Saturday Evening Post under thitle, “A Link in the Girdle.”



CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I.Young Van engages

a Cook

1

II.Where the Money

came From22

III.At Mr. Carhart’s

Camp 37

IV.Jack Flagg sees

Stars66

V.What They foundat the Water-hole

97

VI.The Road to Total

Wreck

138



VII. The Spirit of the

Job185

VIII.

Shots—and a

Scouting Party 219

IX. A Show-down 246

X.What took Place at

Red Hills293



ILLUSTRATIONS

‘There,’ he cried, ...

‘there, boys! That

means Red Hills orbust’

Frontispiece

FACING

PAGE

‘It’s all I have a right togive anybody’

74

‘Eighty cents,’ he

muttered, ‘and for how

much work?’

80

‘Well,’ began the boss,

looking him over, ‘what

kind of a cook are 98



you?’

Wonderfully they held

the pace114

They went on in this

way for nearly an hour120

‘Look here, Tiffany,’

Carhart began,‘something’s going to

happen to this man

Peet’

142

‘You go back to your

quarters’208

... this trestle structure

which was slowlycrawling, like some

monster centipede,

across the sands of the

240



La Paz

The cigarette dropped

from Antonio’s

unnerved fingers

244

Charlie had not raised

his revolver,—the

muzzle still restedeasily on the sill,—but it

was pointing straight at

Jack Flagg’s heart

310



THE ROAD-

BUILDERS



CHAPTER IYOUNG VAN ENGAGES A

COOK

The S. & W. was hoping some day tobuild a large station with a steel and glasrainshed at Sherman. Indeed, a sid

elevation of the structure, drawn to scal

and framed in black walnut, had hung for number of years in the private officeaway down east, of President Daniel DReamer. But that was to come in the dawhen Sherman should be a metropolis; apresent the steel of which it was to bconstructed still lay deep in the earth

unblasted, unsmelted, and unconverted



and the long, very dirty train which, at thime this narrative opens, was waiting t

begin its westward journey, lay exposed

o the rays of what promised to be, bnoon, the hottest sun the spring had so faknown. The cars were of an old, illventilated sort, and the laborers, wh

were packed within them like cattle in box-car, had shed coats and even shirtsand now sat back, and gasped angrumbled and fanned themselves witheir caps, and steadily lost interest in life

Apparently there was some uncertaintback in the office of the superintendent. A

red-faced man, with a handkerchiearound his neck, ran out with an orderwhereupon an engine backed in, coupleup to the first car, and whistled



mpatiently. But they did not go. Half anhour passed, and the red-faced man raout again, and the engine uncoupled

snorted, rang its bell, and disappearewhence it had come.

At length two men—Peet, th

superintendent, and Tiffany, chief engineeof the railroad—walked down thplatform together, and addressed a stockman with a close-cut gray mustache and

fixed frown, who stood beside the reacar.

“Peet says he can’t wait any longer, Mr

Vandervelt,” said Tiffany.

“Can’t help that,” replied Vandervelt.

“But you’ve got to help it!” cried Peet



“What are you waiting for, anyway?”

“If you think we’re starting without Pau

Carhart, you’re mistaken.”“Carhart! Who is Carhart?”

“That’s all right,” Tiffany put in. “He’s in

charge of the construction.”

“I don’t care what he is! This train—”

He was interrupted by a sudden uproar ihe car just ahead. A number of Italianhad chosen to enliven the occasion battacking the Mexicans, some of who

had unavoidably been assigned to this car

Vandervelt left the railroad men without aword, bounded up the car steps, an

plunged through the door. The confusio



continued for a moment, then died downAnother moment, and Vandervelreappeared on the platform.

Meanwhile Tiffany was talking to thsuperintendent.

“You’ve simply got to wait, Peet,” saidhe. “The old man says that Carhart mushave a free hand. If he’s late, there’s areason for it.”

“The old man didn’t say that to me,growled Peet; but he waited.

t would perhaps be difficult to find, in thhistory of American enterprise, a



undertaking which demanded greatepromptness in execution than the presenone; yet, absurdly enough, the cause of th

delay was a person so insignificant thateven for the purposes of this narrative, hiname hardly matters. The name happeneo be, however, Purple Finn, and he had

been engaged for chief cook to the firsdivision.

There was but one real hotel in the “city,

which is to be known here as Sherman, thhalf-dozen other places that bore the titlof hotel being rather in the nature of a sidine to the saloon and gambling industry

At this one, which was indicated by projecting sign and the words “EagleHouse,” Carhart and his engineers werstopping. “The Comma House,” as th



nstrument men and stake men hapromptly dubbed it, was not very largand not very clean, and the “razor back

hogs and their progeny had a way osleeping in rows on and about the lowpiazza. But it was, nevertheless, the beshotel in that particular part of th

Southwest.

Finn, on the other hand, made hiheadquarters at one of the half dozen, tha

one which was known to the submergeseven-eighths as “Murphy’s.” That Finshould be an enthusiastic patron of thpoor man’s club was not surprising

considering that he was an Irish plainsmaof a culinary turn, and considering, toohat he was now winding up one of thos

periods between jobs, which begin i



spacious hilarity and conclude with a tastof ashes in the mouth.

t was late afternoon. The chief was sittinn his room, before a table which wapiled high with maps, blue-printsnvoices, and letters. All day long he had

been sitting at this table, going over thdetails of the work in hand. OlVandervelt had reported that the rails andbolts and ties and other necessaries wer

on the cars; Flint and Scribner hareported for their divisions; the statementof the various railroad officials had beeexamined, to make sure that no detail

were overlooked, for these would, sooneor later, bob up in the form omisunderstandings; the thousand and onhings which must be considered befor



he expedition should take the plunge inthe desert had apparently been dispose

of. And finally, when the large clock

down in the office was announcing, with preliminary rattle and click, that intended very shortly to strike the half

hour between five and six, the chie

pushed back his chair and looked up at hiengineers, who were seated about him—Old Van before him on a trunk; Scribneand Young Van beside him on the bedJohn Flint, a thin, sallow man, astride thother chair, and Haddon on the floor withis back against the wall.

“All accounted for, Paul, I guess,” saidFlint.

Carhart replied with a question, “How

about those iron rods, John?”



“All checked off and packed on the train.”

“Did you accept Doble and Dean’

estimate for your oats?”“Not much. Cut it down a third. It waaltogether too much to carry. You see, shall be only thirty-odd miles from ReHills, once I get out there, and I don’t loofor any trouble keeping in touch.”

“It’s just as well,” said Carhart. “The les

you carry, the more room for us.”

“Did those pots and kettles come, Gus?Carhart asked, turning to the younge

Vandervelt, who was to act as hisecretary and general assistant.

“Yes; just before noon. They had been

carried on to Paradise by mistake. I go



hem right aboard.”

“And you were going to keep an eye o

hat cook. Where is he?”Young Van hesitated, and an expression ochagrin came into his face.

“I’ll look him up. He promised me lasnight that he wouldn’t touch another drop.

“Well—get your hands on him, and don’

et go again.”

Young Van left the room, and as he drewhe door to after him he could hear th

chief saying: “Haddon, I wish you woulfind Tiffany and remind him that I’counting on his getting around early tonight. I’m not altogether satisfied wit

heir scheme for supplying us.” And



hearing this, he was more than eveconscious of his own small part in thiundertaking, and more than ever chagrine

hat he should prove unequal to the versmall matter of keeping an eye on thcook. At least, it seemed a small matter, inview of the hundreds of problem

concerning men and things which PauCarhart was solving on this day.

The barkeeper at Murphy’s, who served

also in the capacity of night clerk, provesecretive on the subject of Purple Finn—hadn’t seen him all day—didn’t knowwhen he would be in. The young enginee

hought he had better sit down to digest thsituation. This suggested supper, and hordered the best of Murphy’s fare, and atslowly and pondered. Seven o’cloc



came, but brought no hint of the cook’whereabouts. Young Van gathered fromhe barroom talk that a big outfit had com

nto town from Paradise within the pashour or so, and incidentally that one of thoutfit, Jack Flagg, was on the warpath—whoever Jack Flagg might be. As he sat in

a rear corner, watching, with aassumption of carelessness, the loaferand plainsmen and gamblers who werpassing in and out, or were, like himselfsitting at the round tables, it occurred thim to go up to Finn’s room. He knewfrom former calls, where it was. But h

earned nothing more than that the cook’door was ajar, and that a half-packedvalise lay open on the bed.

At half-past ten, after a tour of the mos



ikely haunts, Young Van returned toMurphy’s and resumed his seat in the reacorner. He had no notion of returning to

he Eagle House without the cook. It wanow close on the hour when Sherman waused to rouse itself for the revelry of thnight, and that Finn would take some par

n this revelry, and that he would, sooneor later, reappear at his favorite hostelryseemed probable.

The lamps in this room were suspendefrom the ceiling at such a height that theiight entered the eye at the hypnotic angle

and so it was not long before Young Van

weary from the strain of the week, begao nod. The bar with its line of boote

figures, and the quartets of card-playersand the one waiter moving about in hi



spotted white apron, were beginning tblur and run together. The clink of glasseand the laughter came to his ears as i

from a great distance. Once he nearlrecovered his faculties. A group of newarrivals were looking toward his corner“Waiting for Purple Finn, eh?” said one

“Well, I guess he’s got a nice long wait infront of him, poor fool!” Then they alaughed. And Young Van himself, with

half-open eyes, had to smile over the poofool in the corner who was waiting foPurple Finn.

“I hear Jack Flagg’s in town,” said th

barkeeper. “I wonder if he is!” replied thfirst speaker. “I wonder if Jack Flagg is iown!” Again they laughed. And again

Young Van smiled. How odd that Jack



Flagg should be in town!

He was awakened by a sound o

hammering. There was little change in throom: the card games were going steadilon; the bar still had its line of thirstplainsmen; two men were wrangling in

corner. Then he made out a group onewcomers who were tacking a placard the wall, and chuckling as they did so.

And now, for the first time, Young Vanbecame conscious that he was no longealone at his table. Opposite him, smilingenially, and returning his gaze wit

benevolent watery eyes, sat a big TexanThis individual wore his cowboy hat ohe back of his head, and made no effort t

conceal the two revolvers and the knife a

his belt.



“D’ye know,” said the Texan, “I like youWhat’s your name?”

“Vandervelt. What is yours?”“Charlie—that’s my name.” Then hismile faded, and he shook his head. “Buyou won’t find Purple Finn here.”

“Why not?”

“Ain’t that funny! You don’t know ’bou

Purple Finn. It’s b’cause Jack Flagg’s inown. They ain’t friendly—I know Jac

Flagg. I’ve been workin’ with ’im—downParadise way.”

Young Van was nearly awake. “You don’thappen to be a cook, do you?” said he.

“Yes,” Charlie replied dreamily. “I’m a



cook. But I’m nothin’ to Jack Flagg. He’swon’erful—won’erful!”

The engineer got up to stretch his legs, anncidentally took occasion to read thplacard. It ran as follows:—

Purple Finn: I heard you was lookingfor me. Well, I’ll be around toMurphy’s to-morrow because I wantto tell you you’re talking too much.

Jack Flagg.

He returned to his table, and amuse

himself listening to Charlie’s talk. Then hooked at his watch and found that it wanearly two hours after midnight. Withisix or seven hours the train would b

starting. He wondered what his friend



would say if they could see him. He waafraid that if he should drop off again, hmight sleep too late, and so he determine

o keep awake. He communicated this plao Charlie, who nodded approval. But h

was not equal to it. Within a very shorime his chin was reposing on his breast

and Charlie was looking at him anchuckling. “Awful good joke,” murmuredCharlie.

Young Van fell to dreaming. He thoughhat the doors suddenly swung in, and tha

Purple Finn himself entered the room. Thnoise seemed, at the instant, to die down

he barkeeper paused and gazed; the cardplayers turned and sat motionless in theichairs. Finn, thought Young Van, noddedn a general way, and laughed, and hi



augh had no humor in it. He walkeoward the bar, but halfway his roving ey

rested on the placard, and he stoo

motionless. The blue tobacco haze curlearound him and dimmed the outlines of hifigure. In the dream he seemed to grow ittle smaller while he stood there. The

he walked across and read the placardaking a long time about it, as if he found i

difficult to grasp the meaning. When hfinally turned and faced the crowd, hiexpression was weak and uncertain. Hseemed about to say something buwhatever it was he wished to say, th

words did not come. Instead, he walked the bar, ordered a drink, put it down wita shaking hand, and left the room as he haentered it, silently. The door swung shut

and somebody laughed; then all returne



o their cards.

When Young Van awoke, the room was

flooded with sunlight from the sidwindows. He straightened up in his chaiand looked around. Charlie was still at thable. Here and there along the side benc

men were sleeping. The card-playerswith seamed faces and cold eyes, werstill at their business. A new set of playerhad come in, one of them a giant of a man

dressed like a cowboy, with a hard eye, heavy mustache, and a tuft of hair belowhis under lip.

The engineer was almost afraid to look ahis watch. It was half-past eight. Hurned to the still smiling Charlie. “Se

here,” he said, “did Finn come in here las

night?”



Charlie nodded. “You didn’t wake up.”

Young Van almost groaned aloud. “Where

s he? Where did he go?”“Listen to ’im!” Charlie was indicating ank stranger who was leaning on the bar

and talking to a dozen men who hagathered about him.

“... And when I got off the train,” the lanman was saying, “there was Purple Fin

a-standin’ on the platform. I thought heooked sort o’ caved in. ‘Hello, Purple,

says I, ‘what you doin’ up so early in themornin’?’ But he never answers a wordust climbs on the train and sits down ihe smoker and looks out the window as i

he thought somebody was after ’im.”



A laugh went up at this, and all the groupurned and looked at the big man with th

mustache. But this individual went o

fingering his cards without the twitch of aeyelid.

“So Finn has left town,” said Young Van

addressing his vis-a-vis.

“Yes,” Charlie replied humorously. “Hehad to see a man down to Paradise.”

“Who is that big man over there?”

“Him?” Charlie’s voice dropped. “Whyhat’s him—Jack Flagg.”

“Did you tell me last night that he was cook?”

Charlie nodded. “He’s won’erful—



won’erful! I know ’im. I’ve beeworkin’—”

Young Van pushed back his chair and goup. For a moment he stood looking at thforbidding face and mighty frame of thman who was now the central figure in th

room; then he crossed over and touchehim on the shoulder. “How are you?” saidhe, painfully conscious, as every wakineye in the room was turned on him, that h

did not know how to talk to these men.

Flagg looked up.

“They tell me you can cook,” said thengineer.

“What’s that to you?” said Flagg.

“Do you want a job?”



“This is Mr. Van’ervelt,” put in Charliewho had followed; “Mr. Van’ervelt, of therailroad.”

“What’ll you pay?” asked Flagg.

Young Van named the amount.

“When do you want to start?”

“Now.”

“Charlie,”—Flagg was sweeping in heap of chips,—“go down to Jim’s and gemy things and fetch ’em here.” And withis he turned back to the game.

Young Van looked uncertainly at Charliewhose condition was hardly such that hcould be trusted to make the trip without

series of stops in the numerous havens o



refuge along the way. The thing to do waperhaps to go with him; at any rate, that iwhat Young Van did.

“Won’erful man!” murmured Charliewhen they reached the sidewalk. Then“Say, Mr. Van’ervelt, come over here a

minute—jus’ over to Bill White’s. Wannasee a man,—jus’ minute.”

But Young Van was not in a toleran

mood. “Stiffen up, Charlie,” he saisharply. “No more of this sort of thing—not if you’re going with us.”

Charlie was meekly obedient, and everied to hurry; but at the best it too

considerable time to get together thclothing of the cook and his assistant, pa

heir bill, and return to Murphy’s. Thi



much accomplished, it became necessaro use some tact with Flagg, who was ben

on winning a little more before stopping

And as Flagg could easily have tossed thengineer out of the window, and hadbesides, the strategical advantage, YoungVan was unable to see much choice fo

himself in the matter. And standing therewaiting on the pleasure of his cook, hpassed the time in wondering where hhad made his mistake. Paul Carhart, oJohn Flint, he thought, would never havfound it necessary to take the undignifiemeasures to which he had been reduced

But what was the difference? What woulhey have done? In trying to answer thesquestions he hit on every reason but thright one. He forgot that he was a youn

man.



Carhart and Flint, after waiting a long tim

at the “Eagle, House,” went down to thstation, arriving there some time after thoutburst of Peet, which was noted at thbeginning of the chapter. Tiffany saw them

coming, and communicated the news to thsuperintendent. The engine reappearedand again coupled up to the forward car.

“Everything all right?” called Tiffany.

“No,” replied Carhart; “don’t start yet.”

The three walked on and joined Old Vanby the steps of the rear car.

“Well,” growled the veteran, “how muchonger are we going to wait, Paul?”



“Until Gus comes.”

“Gus? I thought he was aboard here.”

“No,” said John Flint, with a wink; “hwent out last night to see the wheels ground. Here he comes now. But what i—”

They all gazed without a word. Three mewere walking abreast down the platformGus Vandervelt, with a white face and

ringed eyes, in the middle. The youngesengineer of the outfit was not a small manbut between the two cooks he looked lika child.

“Would you look at that!” said Flint, aength. “Neither of those two Jess

Jameses will ever see six-foot-thre



again. Makes Gus look like a nick in wall.”

Young Van met Carhart’s questioning gazealmost defiantly. “The cook,” he saidndicating Flagg.

“All right. Get aboard.”

“Rear car,” cried Old Van, who hadcharge of the arrangements on the train.

This time the bell did not ring in vain. Thrain moved slowly out toward th

unpeopled West, and the engineers threwoff coats and collars, and mad

hemselves as nearly comfortable as thecould under the circumstances.

A few minutes after the start Paul Carhart

who was writing a letter in pencil, looke



up and saw Young Van beside him, andried not to smile at his sorry appearance.

“I think I owe you an explanation, MrCarhart,” began the young man, iembarrassment which took the form ostiffness.

But the chief shook his head. “I’m noasking any questions, Gus,” he repliedThen the smile escaped him, and he turne

t off by adding, “I’m writing to MrsCarhart.” He held up the letter anglanced over the first few lines with winkle in his eyes. “I was just tellin

her,” he went on, “that the cook problen Chicago is in its infancy.”





CHAPTER IIWHERE THE MONEY

CAME FROM

Doubtless there were official persons tbe found at the time of this narrative—which is a matter of some thirty yearback—who would have insisted that th

etters “S. & W.” meant “Sherman andWestern.” But every one who lived withinwo days’ ride of the track knew that the

real name of the road was the “Shaky anWindy.”

Shaky the “S. & W.” certainly was—physically, and, if newspaper gossip and



apparent facts were to be trustedfinancially. The rails weighed thirty-fivpounds to the yard, and had been laid i

scallops, with high centres and low joints—“sight along the rails and it looks like washboard,” said John Flint, describing itFor ballast the clay and sand of the regio

were used. And, as for the financial parteverybody knew that old De Reamer habeen forced to abandon the constructiowork on the Red Hills extension, aftebuilding fully five-sixths of the distanceThe hard times had, of course, somethino do with that,—roads were going unde

all through the West; receiverships werequite the common thing,—but De Reameand the S. & W. did not seem to revive soquickly as certain other lines. This wa

he more singular in that the S. & W.



extending as it did from the Sabine countro the Staked Plains, really justified th

popular remark that “the Shaky and Wind

began in a swamp and ended in a desert.On the face of things, without the ReHills connection with the bigger C. & SC., and without an eastern connection wit

one of the New Orleans or St. Louis lineshe road was an absurdity.

Then, only a few months before the time o

our narrative, the railroad world began twake up. Commodore Durfee, one of “thbig fellows,” surprised the Southwest bbuying in the H. D. & W. (which meant

and will always mean, the High, Dry, andWobbly). The surprise was greater whehe Commodore began buildin

southwestward, in the general direction o



Red Hills. As usual when the big men arplaying for position, the public and thwise-acres, even Wall Street, were

mystified. For the S. & W. was soobviously the best and shortest easterconnection for the C. & S. C.,—the H. D& W. would so plainly be a differentia

ine,—that it was hard to see what thCommodore was about. He had nothing tsay to the reporters. Old GeneraCarrington, of the C. & S. C., the biggesand shrewdest of them all, was also silentAnd Daniel De Reamer couldn’t be seeat all.

And finally, by way of a wind-up to thfirst skirmish of the picturesque war iwhich our engineers were soon to finhemselves taking part, there was



western breeze and a flurry of dust iWall Street. Somebody was fighting. S. &W. shares ran up in a day from twenty-two

o forty-six, and, which was morastonishing, sold at that figure for anotheday before dropping. Other mysteriouhings were going on. Suddenly D

Reamer reappeared in the Southwest, anhat most welcome sign of vitality, money

—red gold corpuscles,—began to flowhrough the arteries of the S. & W

“system.” The construction work starteup, on rush orders. Paul Carhart waspecially engaged to take out a force an

complete the track—any sort of a track—o Red Hills. And as he preferred not toake this rush work through very difficul

country on any other terms, De Reame

gave him something near a free hand,—



ordered Chief Engineer Tiffany to let hialone, beyond giving every assistance igetting material to the front, and acceptin

he track for the company as fast as it waaid.

And as Tiffany was not at all a bad

fellow, and had admired Carhart’s part inhe Rio Grande fight (though he woul

have managed some things differently, noo say better, himself), the two engineer

seemed likely to get on very well.

Carhart’s three trains would hardly geover the five hundred miles which la

between Sherman and the end of the tracn less than twenty-seven or twenty-eigh

hours. “The private car,” as the boycalled it, was of an old type even for thos

days, and was very uncomfortable



Everybody, from the chief down, had shedcoat and waistcoat before the raggeskyline of Sherman slipped out of view

behind the yellow pine trees. The caswayed and lurched so violently that iwas impossible to stand in the aislwithout support. As the hours dragged by

several of the party curled up on the harseats and tried to sleep. The instrumenand rod and stake men and the pilnspectors, mostly young fellows recentl

out of college or technical institute, googether at one end of the car and san

college songs.

Carhart was sitting back, his feet up on thopposite seat, watching for the pines thin out, and thinking of the endless gra

chaparral and sage-brush which the



would find about them in the morning,—ihe train didn’t break down,—when h

saw Tiffany’s big person balancing dow

he aisle toward him. Tiffany had beequiet a long time; now he had a story ihis eye.

“Well,” he said, as he slid down besideCarhart, “I knew the old gentleman woulpull it off in time, but I never supposed hcould make the Commodore pay the bills.

Carhart glanced up inquiringly.

“Didn’t you hear about it? Well, say! happen to know that a month ago Mr. DReamer actually didn’t have the money tcarry this work through. Even wheCommodore Durfee started building fo

Red Hills, he didn’t know which way t



urn. The Commodore, you know, hadn’any notion of stopping with the H.D.&W.”

“No,” said Carhart, “I didn’t suppose hhad.”

“He was after us, too—wanted to do thsame as he did with the High and Drycorner the stock.” Tiffany chuckled. “Buhe knew he’d have to corner Daniel D

Reamer first. If he didn’t, the olgentleman would manufacture shares bhe hundred thousand and pump ’em righnto him. There’s the Paradise Southern,—

hat’s been a regular fountain of stockYou knew about that.”

Carhart shook his head.



“We passed through Paradise this noon.”

“Yes, I know the line. It runs down from

Paradise to Total Wreck. But I didn’know it had anything to do with S. & Wcapital stock.”

“Didn’t, eh?” chuckled Tiffany. “Mr. DeReamer and Mr. Chambers own it, yoknow, and they’re directors in both linesThe old game was for them, as P. S

directors, to lease the short line themselves as S. & W. directors. Then theS.& W. directors pay the P. S. directors—only they’re it both ways—in S. & W

stock. Don’t you see? And it’s only one oa dozen schemes. The old gentleman’always ready for S. & W. buyers.”

Carhart smiled. The car lurched an



shivered. Such air as came in through thopen door and windows was tainted withe gases of the locomotive, and with th

mingled odors of the densely packeaborers in the cars ahead.

“That’s really the only reason they’ve kep

up the Paradise Southern—for there isnany business on the line. Well, as I wasaying, the Commodore knew that the firshing he had to do was corner Mr. D

Reamer, and keep him from creating stockSo he came down on him all at once, wita heap of injunctions and court orders. Hdid it thorough: restrained the S. & W

board from issuing any more stock, ofrom completing any of the transactions ohand, and temporarily suspended the olgentleman and Mr. Chambers, pending a



nvestigation of their accounts, anordered ’em to return to the treasury of thcompany the seventy thousand shares the

created last year. There was a lot morebut that’s the gist of it. He did it througWaring and his other minority directors onhe board. And right at the start, you see

when he began to buy, he made S. & Wstock so scarce that the price shot up.”

“Seems as if he had sewed up the S. & W

pretty tight,” observed Carhart.

“Didn’t it, though? But the Commodordidn’t know the old gentleman as well a

he thought. Mr. De Reamer and MrChambers got another judge to issuorders for them to do everything thCommodore’s judge forbid—tangled it al

up so that everything they did or didn’t do



hey’d be disobeying somebody, andeaving it for the judges to settle amonhemselves. Then they issued ten millio

dollars in convertible bonds to a dummyrepresenting themselves, turned ’em righnto stock,—and tangled that transactio

up so nobody in earth or heaven will eve

know just exactly what was done,—ansold ‘most seventy thousand shares of it tCommodore Durfee before he had glimmer of where it was coming fromAnd then it was too late for him to stobuying, so he had to take in the wholhundred thousand shares. I heard Mr

Chambers say that when the Commodorfound ’em out, he was so mad he couldn’alk,—stormed stormed around his officrying to curse Daniel De Reamer, but h

couldn’t even swear intelligent.”



“So Mr. De Reamer beat him,” saidCarhart.

“Beat him?—I wonder—”“But that’s not all, surely. CommodoreDurfee isn’t the man to swallow that.”

“He had to swallow it.—Oh, he did kicup some fuss, but it didn’t do him angood. His judge tried to jerk up oupeople for contempt, but they wer

warned and got out of Mr. De Reamer’Broad Street office, and over into NewJersey with all the documents and money.Tiffany’s good-humored eyes lighted up ahis mind dwelt on the fight. Never wahere a more loyal railroad man than thi

one. Daniel De Reamer was his king, an

his king could do no wrong. “Not that the



didn’t have some excitement gettinaway,” he continued. “They say,—mind, don’t know this, but they say that Mr. D

Reamer’s secretary, young Crittendencrossed the ferry in a cab with foumillion five hundred thousand dollars i

bills —just tied up rough in bundles s

hey could be thrown around. And theryou are,—Commodore Durfee is payinfor this extension that’s going to cut hiout of the C. & S. C. through business. Thmoney and papers are out of his reachThe judges are fighting among themselvesand will be doing well if they ever com

o a settlement. And now if that ain’t prettslick business, I’d like to know what thword ‘slick’ means.”

Carhart almost laughed aloud. He turne



and looked out the window for a fewmoments. Finally he said, “If you have thastraight, Tiffany, it’s undoubtedly the

worst defeat Commodore Durfee evehad. But don’t make the mistake ohinking that the S. & W. is through with

him.”

“Maybe not,” Tiffany replied, “but I’ll beproper on the old gentleman.”

Carhart’s position as the engineer icharge of a thousand and more men woulbe not unlike that of a military commandewho finds himself dependent fo

subsistence on five hundred miles of whaScribner called “very sketchy” singlrack. It would be more serious; for no

only must food, and in the desert, water

be brought out over the line, but also th



vast quantity of material needed in thwork. It would be the business of Peet, ahe working head of the operatin

department, to deliver the material froday to day, and week to week, at the endof the last completed section, where thworking train would be made up eac

night for the construction work of thfollowing day.

f the existing track was sketchy, the new

rack would be worse. Everything was tbe sacrificed to speed. The few bridgewere to be thrown up hastily in the form oprimitive wooden trestles. There woul

be no masonry, excepting the abutments ohe La Paz bridge,—which masonry, o

rather the stone for it, was about the onlmaterial they would find at hand. All th



imber, even to the cross ties, would havo be shipped forward from the long-leaf

pine forests of eastern Texas and western

Louisiana.

Ordinarily, Carhart would not havrelished undertaking such a hasty job; bu

n this case there were compensationsWhen he had first looked over the locatiomaps, in Daniel De Reamer’s New Yorkoffice, his quiet eyes had danced behin

heir spectacles; for it promised to bpretty work, in which a man could use himagination. There was the bridge ovehe La Paz River, for instance. He should

have to send a man out there with a lonwagon train of materials, and with ordero have the bridge ready when the trac

should reach the river. He knew just th



man—John B. Flint, who built thDesplaines bridge for the three I’s. He hanot heard from John since the doctors ha

condemned his lungs, and ordered him to sanatorium in the Adirondacks, and Johhad compromised by going West, andhanging that very difficult bridge betwee

he walls of Brilliant Gorge in the SierrasCarhart was not sure that he was stilamong the living; but a few searchinelegrams brought out a characteristi

message from John himself, to the effechat he was very much alive, and wa

ready to bridge the Grand Cañon of th

Colorado at a word from Paul Carhart.Then there was always to be considerehe broad outline of the situation as it wa

generally understood in the railwa



world. Details apart, it was known thaCommodore Durfee and Daniel DReamer were fighting for that throug

connection, and that old GeneraCarrington,—czar of the C. & S. Cholder of one and owner of several otheseats in the Senate of these United States

chairman of the National Committee of hiparty,—that General Carrington wasitting on the piazza of his country housn California, smoking good cigars analking horse and waiting to see whethe

he should gobble Durfee or De Reamer, oboth of them. For the general, too, wa

represented on the directorate of thSherman and Western; and it was an openquestion whether his minority directorwould continue to support the De Reame

nterests or would be ordered to all



hemselves with the Durfee men. Eitheway, there would be no sentiment wastedBut it seemed to Carhart that so long as D

Reamer should be able to hold up his hean the fight General Carrington woul

probably stand behind him. CommodorDurfee was too big in the East to b

encouraged in the West. And yet—therewas no telling.

t was very pretty indeed. Carhart was

quiet man, given more to study than tspeech; but he liked pretty things.



CHAPTER IIIAT MR. CARHART’S CAMP

“It takes an Irishman, a nigger, and a mul

o build a railroad,” said Tiffany.

With Young Van, he was standing in frontof the headquarters tent, which, togethe

with the office tent for the first divisionwhere Old Van would hold forth, and theiving and mess tents for the engineers

was pitched on a knoll at a little distanc

from the track.

“The mule,” he continued, “will do thwork, the nigger will drive the mule, an

he Irishman’ll boss ’em both.”



Young Van, keyed up by this suddenplunge into frontier work, was only halistening to the flow of good-nature

comment and reminiscence from the chieengineer at his elbow. He was looking ahe steam-shrouded locomotive, and at thong line of cars stringing off i

perspective behind it. Wagons werebacked in against this and the few otherains which had come in during the day

other wagons were crawling about thrack almost as far as he could see throughe steam and the dust. Men on horsebac

—picturesque figures in wide-brimme

hats and blue shirts and snug-fitting bootaced to the knee—were riding in and ouamong the teams. The old track ended ihe immediate foreground, and here ol

Van was at work with his young



surveyors, looking up the old stakes andriving new ones to a line set by a solemyoungster with skinny hands and a lon

nose. Everywhere was noise—a babel ot—and toil and a hearty sort of chaos

One line of wagons—laden with scrapers“slips” and “wheelers,” tents and camp

equipage, the timbers and machinery of pile-driver, and a thousand and one othehings—was little by little extricatintself from the tangle, winding slowly pas

head-quarters, and on toward the lowying, blood-red sun. This was the outfit ohe second division, and Harry Scribner

riding a wiry black pony, was leading into corral on “mile two,” preparatory to start in the early morning.

From the headquarters cook tent, behin



he “office,” came savory odors. Farthedown the knoll, near the big “boardinhouse” tents, the giant Flagg and th

equally sturdy Charlie could be seemoving about a row of iron kettles whicwere swinging over an open fire. Thchaos about the trains was straightenin

out, and the men were corralling thwagons, and unharnessing the mules anhorses. The sun slipped down behind thow western hills, leaving a luminou

memory in the far sky. In groups, andsingly, the laborers—Mexicans, ItaliansLouisiana French, broken plainsmen fro

everywhere, and negroes—camstraggling by, their faces streaked witdust and sweat, the negroes laughing ansinging as they lounged and shuffled along



Carhart, who had been dividing hiattention between the unloading of thrains and the preparations of his divisio

engineers, came riding up the knoll o“Texas,” his compact little roan, a horsehe had ridden and boasted about in a quieway for nearly four years. John Flint, thi

and stooping of body, with a scrawny redmustache and high-pitched voice, soorode in over the grade from the fartheside of the right of way, where he wapacking up his outfit for the long haul the La Paz River. The instrument men andheir assistants followed, one by one, an

fell in line at the tin wash-basin, alexuberant with banter and laughter anhigh-spirited play. And at last theheadquarters cook, a stout negro, came ou

n front of the mess tent and beat his gon



with mighty strokes; and Harry Scribnerwho was jogging back to camp from hicorral, heard it, dug in his spurs, and cam

up the long knoll on the gallop.

There was no escaping the joviality of thifirst evening meal in camp. In the mornin

he party would break up. Scribner woulride ahead a dozen miles to make division camp of his own; John Flinwould be pushing out there into the sunse

for the better part of a week, across thdesert, through the gray hills, and down the yellow La Paz. The youngsters wer

shy at first; but after Tiffany had winked

and said, “It’ll never do to start this dryboys,” and had produced a bottle frosome mysterious corner, they felt easierEven Carhart, for the time, laid aside th



burden which, like Christian, he muscarry for many days. A good many storiewere told, most of them by Tiffany, who

had run the gamut of railroading, northsouth, east, and west.

“That was a great time we had up a

Pittsburgh,” said he, “when I stole thgondola cars,”—he placed the accent ohe do,—“best thing I ever did. That wa

when I was on the Almighty and Grea

Windy that used to run from Pittsburg upo the New York State line. I was acting

as a sort of traffic superintendent, amonother things,—we had to do all sorts o

work then; no picking and choosing and nwatching the clock for us.” He turned ohe long-nosed instrument man. “That wa

when you were just about a promisin



candidate for long pants, my friend.”

“We had a new general manager—named

MacBayne. He didn’t know anything abourailroading,—had been a telegrapoperator and Durfee’s nephew,—yes, thesame old Commodore, it was,—and

getting boosted up quick, that way, he gonto that frame of mind where he wouldn’

ever have contradicted you if you’d saih e was the Almighty and Great Windy

First thing he did was to put in a system obells to call us to his office,—but I didncare such a heap. He enjoyed it so. He’ean back and pull a little handle, and the

be too busy to talk when one of us camrunning in—loved to make us stand arouna spell. Hadn’t but one eye, MacBaynhadn’t, and you never could tell fo



downright certain who he was swearinat.

“The company had bought a little railroadhe P. G.—Pittsburg and Gulf,—for fouhundred and fifty thousand. Just about suca line as our Paradise spur, only instead o

he directors buying it personal, they’bought it for the company.

“One day my little bell tinkled, and I go

up and went into the old man’s office. Hwas smoking a cigar and trying to loohrough a two-foot wall into Herb

Williams’s pickle factory. Pretty soon he

swung his one good eye around on me anooked at me sharp. ‘Hen,’ he said, ‘we’ren a fix. We haven’t paid but two hundredhousand on the P.G.—and what’s more

hat’s all we can pay.’



“‘Well, sir,’ said I, ‘what’s the trouble?’t’s funny—he’s always called me Hen

and I’ve always called him sir and Miste

MacBayne. He ain’t anybody to-day, but iwent back to Pittsburg to-morrow an

met him in Morrison’s place, he’d sayWell, Hen, how’re you making it?’ and

’d say, ‘Pretty well, MisteMacBayne.’—Ain’t it funny? Can’t breaaway from it.

“I’ve just had a wire from Black,’ saidhe,—Black was our attorney up aBuffalo,—‘saying that the sheriff of EriCounty,’ over the line in New York State,

has attached all our gondola cars uhere, and won’t release ’em until we pa

up. What’ll we do?’

“‘Hum!’ said I. ‘We’ve got just a hundred



and twenty gondolas in Buffalo to-day.’ Ahundred and twenty cars was a lot to usyou understand—just like it would be t

he S. & W. Imagine what would happeno you fellows out here if Peet had tha

many cars taken away from him. So hought a minute, and then I said, ‘Has th

sheriff chained ’em to the track, MisteMacBayne?’

“‘I don’t know about that,’ said he.

“‘Well,’ said I, ‘don’t you think it wouldbe a good plan to find that out first thing?’

“He looked at me sharp, then he sort ogrinned. ‘What’re you thinking abouHen?’ he asked.

“I didn’t answer direct. ‘You find tha



out,’ I told him, ‘and let me know what hesays.’

“About an hour later the bell tinklewinkled again. ‘No,’ he said, when I wenn his office, ‘they ain’t chained down—

not yet, anyway. Now, what’ll we do?’

“‘Why don’t you go up there?’ said IHook your car on to No. 5’—that was ou

night express for Buffalo, a long string o

oil and coal cars with a baggage carcoach, and sleeper on the end of it. It raover our line and into Buffalo over thSoutheastern.

“‘All right, Hen,’ said he. ‘Will you goalong?’

“‘Sure,’ I told him.



“On our way out we picked up CharliGreenman too. He was superintendent ohe State Line Division—tall, thin man

very nervous, Charlie was.

“Next morning, when we were sitting oveour breakfast in the Swift House, the ol

man turned his good eye on me and saidWell, Hen, what next?’ I’d brought him

up there, you see, and now he was lookinfor results.

“‘Well,’ said I, speaking slow and sort ohinking it over, ‘look here, Miste

MacBayne, why don’t you get a horse an

buggy and look around the city? They sat’s a pretty place. Or you could pick up

boat, you and Charlie, and go sailing oLake Erie. Or you might run over and se

he falls—Ever been there?’



“The old man was looking on both sideof me with those two eyes of his. ‘Whaare you up to, Hen?’ he said.

“‘Nothing,’ I answered, ‘not a thing. Busay, Mister MacBayne, I forgot to brinany money. Let me have a little, will you

—about a hundred and fifty?’

“When I said that, the old man gulped, anooked almost scared. I saw then, jus

what I’d suspected, that he wouldn’t bhe least use to me. I’d ‘a’ done better tohave left him behind. ‘Why, yes, Hen,said he, ‘I can let you have that!’ He wen

out, and pretty soon he came back with thmoney in a big roll of small bills.

“‘Well, good morning, gentlemen,’ said I

I’ll see you at five o’clock thi



afternoon.’

“I went right out to the Erie yards, wher

hey were unloading twenty-two of oucoal cars. Jim Harvey was standing neaby, and he gave me a queer look, andasked me what I was doing in Buffalo.

“‘Doing?’ said I, ‘I’m looking after mycars. What did you suppose? And sehere, Jim, while you were about it, don

you think you might have put ’em togetherHere you’ve got twenty-two of ’em, anhere’s forty over at the Lake Shore, and ot more in Chaplin’s yards? There ain’

but one of me—however do you suppos’m going to watch ’em all, even see thahe boys keep oil in the boxes?’ ‘I don’

know anything about that,’ said he.



“‘Well now, look here, Jim,’ said I, ‘howmany more of these cars have you got tunload?’ ‘Twelve,’ said he. ‘How soon

can you get it done—that’s my question?Oh, I’ll finish it up to-morrow morning.Well, now, Jim,’ said I, ‘I want you to

put on a couple of extra wagons and ge

hese cars emptied by five o’clock thiafternoon. Then I want you to get all oucars together over there in Chaplin’yards, where I can keep an eye on ’em!Oh, see here,’ said he, ‘I can’t do that

Hen. The sheriff—’

“‘Damn the sheriff,’ said I. ‘I ain’t going

o hurt the sheriff. What I want is to get mcars together where I can know what’being done to ’em.’

“Well, he didn’t want to do it, but some o



he long green passed and then he thoughmaybe he could fix me up. There was a loof other things I had to do that day—and

ot of other men to see. The despatcher fohe Buffalo and Southwestern was one oem. Then at five o’clock, or a littl

before, I floated into the Swift Hous

office and there were MacBayne anCharlie Greenman sitting around waitinfor me. The old man had his watch in hihand. Charlie was walking up and downvery nervous. I came up sort of offhanand said:—

“‘Charlie, I want two of your biggest an

strongest engines, and I want ’em up iChaplin’s yard as soon as you can get ’ehere.’

“‘What,’ said he, ‘on a foreign road?



Yes,’ said I, offhand like. Then I turnedo the old man. ‘Now, Mister MacBayne,

said I, ‘I want you to tell Charlie here tha

when those engines pass out of hidivision, they come absolutely under mcontrol.’

“‘Oh, that’s all right, Hen,’ said Charliespeaking up breathless.

“‘Yes, I know it is,’ said I, ‘but I want you

o hear Mister MacBayne say iRemember, when those engines leave youdivision, they belong to me until I see fio bring ’em back.’

“The old man was looking queerer thaever. ‘See here, Hen,’ said he, ‘whadevilment are you up to, anyway?’



“‘Nothing at all,’ said I. ‘I just want twoengines. You can’t run a railroad withouengines, Mister MacBayne.’

“‘Well,’ said he, then, ‘how about me—what do you want of me?’

“‘Why, I’ll tell you,’ said I. ‘Why don’you hook your car on to No. 6 and go baco Pittsburg to-night?’ You should have

seen his good eye light up at that. Gettin

out of the state suited him about as well aanything just then, and he didn’t lose anime about it. When he had gone, Charli

said:—

“‘Now, Hen, for heaven’s sake, tell mewhat you’re up to?’

“‘Not a bit of it,’ said I. ‘I don’t see wha



business it is of yours. You belong backon your division.’

“‘Well, I ain’t going,’ said he. ‘I’m goingwherever you go to-night.’

“‘All right,’ said I; ‘I’m going to Shelby’svaudeville.’

“That surprised him. But he didn’t saanything more. You remember oldShelby’s show there. I always used to go

when I was in Buffalo of an evening.

“But about 11:30, when the show waover, Charlie began to get nervous again

Well, Hen,’ he said, ‘where next?’

“‘I don’t know about you,’ said I, ‘but I’mgoing to stroll out to Chaplin’s yard

before I turn in, and take a look at ou



cars. You’d better go to bed.’

“‘Not a bit of it,’ he broke out. ‘I’m going

with you.’“‘All right,’ said I, ‘come along. It’s a finnight.’

“Well, gentlemen, when we got out to theyards, there were our cars in two lonines on parallel tracks, seventy on onrack and fifty on another—one thin

bothered me, they were broken in fouplaces at street crossings—and on the twnext tracks beside them were Charlie’wo engines, steam up and headlightighted. And, say, you never saw anything

quite like it! The boys they’d sent with thengines weren’t anybody’s fools, and the

had on about three hundred pounds o



steam apiece—blowing off there with noise you could hear for a mile, but thboys themselves weren’t saying a word

hey were sitting around smoking theipipes, quiet as seven Sabbaths.

“When Charlie saw this laid out righ

before his eyes, he took frightened all of sudden—his knees were going like thaHe grabbed my arm and pulled me bacnto the shadow.

“‘Hen, for heaven’s sake, let’s get out ohere quick. This means the penitentiary.’

“‘You can go,’ said I. ‘I didn’t invite youo the party.’

“Right beside the tracks there was watch-box, shut up as if there wasn



anybody in it, but I could see the lighcoming out at the top. It was going to bicklish business, I knew that. We had to

haul out over a drawbridge, for one thingo get out of the yards, and then whistle fohe switch over to the southwestern tracks

Had to use the signals of the other roads

oo. But I was in for it.

“‘Well, Hen,’ said Charlie, ‘if you’regoing to do it, what in —— are yo

standing around for now?’

“‘Got to wait for the Lake Shore Expreso go through,’ said I.

“Charlie sort of groaned at this and for ahour we sat there and waited. I tried talk about the oil explosion down b

Titusville, but Charlie, somehow, wasn’



nterested. All the while those enginewere blowing off tremendous, and thcrews were sitting around just smokin

steady.

“Finally, at one o’clock, I went over to thengineer of the first engine. ‘How man

men have you got?’ said I.

“‘Four brakemen,’ he said, ‘each of us.’

“‘All right,’ said I. ‘I guess I don’t need to

ell you what to do.’

“They all heard me, and say, you ought tohave seen them jump up. The engineer wa

up and on his engine before I got througalking; and he just went a-flying down th

yard, whistling for the switch. The foubrakemen ran back along the fifty-ca



string. You see they had to couple up ahose four crossings and that was the part

didn’t like a bit. But I couldn’t help it. Th

engineer came a-backing down very rapidand bumped that front car as if he wanteo telescope it.

“Well, sir, they did it—coupled up, linkand pin. The engineer was leaning ‘waout the window, and he didn’t wait verong after getting the signal, before he wa

a-hiking it down the yard, tooting hiwhistle for the draw. Heaven only knowwhat might have happened, but nothindid. He got over the draw all right wit

his fifty cars going clickety—clickety—clickety behind him, and then I could sehis rear lights and hear him whistling fohe switch over to the southwestern tracks



Then I gave the signal for the other engineCharlie, all this time, was getting worsand worse. He was leaning up against m

now, just naturally hanging on to meooking like a somnambulist. You could

hear his knees batting each other. And theengineer of that second engine turned ou

o be in the same fix. He was so excited hnever waited for the signal that the carwere all coupled up, and he started upwith a terrific toot of his whistle and yank on the couplings, leaving thirty carand one brakeman behind. But I knew iwould never do to call him back.

“Well, now, here is where it happenedThat whistle was enough to wake thsleeping saints. And just as the train gofairly going for the draw, tooting all th



way, the door of that watch-box bursopen and three policemen men camrunning out, hard as they could run. O

course there was only one thing to do, anhat’s just the thing that Charlie Greenma

didn’t do. He turned and ran in the generadirection of the Swift House as fast a

hose long legs of his could carry himTwo of the officers ran after him and theother came for me. I yelled to Charlie tstop, but he’d got to a point where hcouldn’t hear anything. The other officecame running with his night-stick in thair, but my Scotch-Irish was rising, and

hrew up my guard.“‘Don’t you touch me,’ I yelled; ‘don’you touch me!’

“‘Well, come along, then,’ said he.



“‘Not a bit of it,’ said I. ‘I’ve nothing todo with you.’

“‘Well, you ran,’ he yelled; ‘you ran!’“I just looked at him. ‘Do you call thirunning?’ said I.

“‘Well,’ said he, ‘the other fellow ran.’

“‘All right,’ said I, ‘we’ll run after him.So we did. Pretty soon they caugh

Charlie. And I was a bit nervous, for didn’t know what he might say. But hwas too scared to say anything. So I turneo the officer.

“‘Now,’ said I, ‘suppose you tell us what is you want?’

“‘We want you,’ said one of them.



“‘No, you don’t,’ said I.

“‘Yes, we do,’ said he.

“It seemed to be getting time for sombluffing, so I hit right out. ‘Where’s youheadquarters?’ said I.

“‘Right over here,’ said he.

“‘All right,’ said I, ‘that’s where we’regoing, right now. We’ll see if two railroa

men can’t walk through Chaplin’s yardwhenever they feel like it.’

“And all the while we were talking

could hear that second train a-whooping iup for the state line—clickety—clickety—whoo-oo-oo! —clickety—clickety—getting fainter and fainter.



“There was a big captain dozing on bench in the station house. When he sawus come in, he climbed up behind his des

so he could look down on us—they like took down at you, you know.

“‘Well, Captain,’ said the officer, ‘we’ve

got ’em.’

“‘Yes,’ the captain answered, lookingdown with a grin, ‘I think you have.’

“‘Well now,’ said I, to the captain, ‘whohave you got?’

“‘That’ll be all right,’ said he, with

another grin.



“It was pretty plain that he wasn’t going tsay anything. There was something abouhe way he looked at us and especiall

about that grin that started me thinking. decided on bluff number two. I took oumy pass case, opened it, and spread ouannual passes on the Great Windy, the

Erie, the South-eastern, and the LakShore. My name was written on all ohem, H. L. Tiffany, Pittsburg. The minutehe captain saw them he looked queer, andturned to Charlie and told him to get ou

his passes, which he did. For a minute thcaptain couldn’t say anything; then h

urned on those three officers, and yoought to have heard what he said to the—gave ’em the whole forty-two degreeright there, concentrated.



“‘Well, gentlemen,’ he said to us, whenhe’d told the officer all that was on himind, ‘this is pretty stupid business. I’

very sorry we’ve put you to this troubleand I can tell you that if there is anything can do to make it right, I’ll be more thaglad to do it.’

“Well, there wasn’t anything in particulahat I wanted just then except to get out o

Buffalo quick. But I did stop to gratify m

curiosity.

“‘Would you mind telling me, Captain,said I, ‘who you took us for?’

“The captain looked queer again, then hsaid, solemn, ‘We took you for bodysnatchers.’



“‘Body snatchers!’ I looked at Charlieand Charlie, who was beginning trecover, looked at me.

“‘You see,’ the captain went on, ‘there’san old building out there by the yard, ansome young surgeons and medical student

have been using it nights to cut up peopln, and when the boys saw two well

dressed young fellows hanging arounhere in the middle of the night, they didn

stop to think twice. I’m very sorry, indeed’ll send two of these men over to escor

you to your hotel, with your permission.’

“That didn’t please me very much, but couldn’t decline. So we started outCharlie and I and the two coppers. Bunstead of going to the Swift House

steered them into the Mansion House, an



dampened things up a bit. Then I got threboxes of cigars, Havana imported. I gavone to each of the officers, and on th

bottom of the third I wrote, in pencil, ‘Tohe Captain, with the compliments of H. L

Tiffany, of the A. & G. W., Pittsburg, Pa.’thought he might have reason to b

nterested when he got his next morning’paper in knowing just who we were. Thcoppers went back, tickled to death, anCharlie and I got out into the street.

“‘Well, Hen,’ said he, very quiet, ‘whaare you going to do next?’

“‘You can do what you like, Charlie,’ said, ‘but I’m going to take the morninhree o’clock on the Michigan Central fo

Toronto.’ And Charlie, he thought maybe

he’d go with me.”



Tiffany leaned back in a glow oreminiscence, and chuckled softly. Of thothers, some had pushed back their chairs

some were leaning forward on the tableAll had been, for half an hour, in thremote state of New York with this geniarailroading pirate of the old school. Now

outside, a horse whinnied. Through thdesert stillness came the clanking ancoughing of a distant train. They werback in the gray Southwest, perhaps facinadventures of their own.

Carhart rose, for he had work to do at thheadquarters tent. Young Van took the

hint, and followed his example. But thong-nosed instrument man, the fire of

pirate soul shining out through hicountenance, leaned eagerly forward



“What happened then?” he asked.

“Oh, nothing much,” Tiffany responded

“What could happen? Charlie and I camback from Toronto a few days later byway of Detroit.” Then his eye lighted uagain. “But I like to think,” he added, “tha

next morning when that captain read abouhe theft of ninety gondola cars right ou

from under the sheriff’s nose by H. LTiffany, of Pittsburg, Pa., he was smoking

one of said H. L. Tiffany’s cigars.”

The sun was up, hot and bright. Thaborers and the men of the tie squad anhe iron squad were straggling back t

work. The wagons were backing i



alongside the cars. And halfway down thknoll stood Carhart and Flint, both in easwestern costume, Flint booted an

spurred, stroking the neck of his well-keppony.

“Well, so long, Paul,” said the bridge

builder.

“Good-by,” said Carhart.

t rested with these two lean men whethe

an S. & W. train should enter Red Hillbefore October. They both felt it, standinhere at the track-end, their backs t

civilization, their faces to the desert.

“All right, sir.” Flint got into his saddle“All right, sir.” He turned toward thwaiting wagon train. “Start along, boys!



he shouted in his thin voice.

Haddon galloped ahead with the order

The drivers took up their reins, and settlehemselves for the long journey. LikCarhart’s men, they were a mixed lot—Mexicans, half-breeds, native American

of a curiously military stamp, annondescripts—but good-natured enoughand Flint, believing with Carhart in thvalue of good cooks, meant to keep the

good-natured. One by one the whipcracked; a confusion of English, Spanishand French cries went up; the muleplunged; the heavy wagons, laden wit

derricks, timber, tools, camp supplies, anhe inevitable pile-driver, groaned

forward; and the La Paz Bridge outfit waoff.



There was about the scene a sense oenterprise, of buoyant freedom, of deedo be done. Flint felt it, as he rode at th

head of his motley cavalcade; for he waan imaginative man. Young Van, standingby the headquarters tent, felt it, for he wayoung. Tiffany, still at breakfast, felt it so

strongly that he swore most unreasoninglat the cook. Down on the job, the humblesstake man stood motionless until Old Vanwho showed no signs of feeling anythingasked him if he hadn’t had about enough oa sy-esta. As for Carhart, he was stirredbut his fancy did not roam far afield. Fro

now on those things which would have in their power to give him the deepespleasure were the sight of gang after ganifting cross-ties, carrying them to th

grade, and dropping them into place; th



sight of that growing line of stubby yellowimbers, and the sound of the rail

clanking down upon them and of the rapid

fire sledges driving home the spikes.

Young Van poked his head in through theflaps.

“Well?” said the chief, looking up.“Won’t you come down, Mr. Carhart? Theboys want you to drive the first spike.”

Carhart smiled, then pushed back hichair, and strode out and down the slopo the grade.

“Stand back there, boys!” crie



somebody.

Carhart caught up a sledge, swung it easil

over his shoulder, and brought it dowwith a swing.

“There,” he cried, entering into the spiriof the thing, “there, boys! That means ReHills or bust.”

The cheer that followed was led by thnstrument man. Then Carhart, stil

smiling, walked back to his office. Nowhe work was begun.

But Old Van, the division engineer, wa

scowling. He wished the chief would quistirring up these skylarking notions—ohis division, anyway. It took just that muconger to take it out of the men—brea



hem so you could drive them better.



CHAPTER IVJACK FLAGG SEES STARS

t was a month later, on a Tuesday night

and the engineers were sitting about thable in the office tent. Scribner, the last toarrive, had ridden in after dusk from milfourteen.

For two weeks the work had draggedPeet, back at Sherman, had been moriberal of excuses than of materials. It wa

always the mills back in Pennsylvania, oslow business on connecting lines, or thcar famine. And it was not unnatural thahe name of the superintendent should hav

come to stand at the front for certain ver



unpopular qualities. Carhart had faith iTiffany, but the railroad’s chief engineewas one man in a discordant organization

Railroad systems are not made in a dayand the S. & W. was new, showing squarcorners where all should be polisheround; developing friction betwee

departments, and bad blood betweeoverworked men. Thus it had been finallbrought home to Paul Carhart that in ordeo carry his work through he must fight, no

only time and the elements, but also thcompany in whose interest he waworking.

Lately the office had received a fewunmistakably vigorous messages froCarhart. Tiffany, too, had taken a handand had opened his mind to the Vice



president. The Vice-president had in turnalked with Peet, who explained that th

materials were always sent forward a

rapidly as possible, and added that certaidelays had arisen from the extremeldangerous condition of Carhart’s roadbed. Meantime, not only rails and ties, bu

also food and water, were running shorout there at the end of the track.

“What does he say now, Paul?” asked Old

Van, after a long silence, during whichhese bronzed, dusty men sat looking at th

flickering lamp or at the heaps of papersbooks, and maps which covered the table

Carhart drew a crumpled slip of papefrom his pocket and tossed it across thable. Old Van spread it out, and read a

follows:—



Mr. Paul Carhart: Small delay due toshortage of equipment. Supply trainstarted this morning, however. Regret

inconvenience, as by order of Vice- president every effort is being madeto supply you regularly.

L. W. Peet,

Division Superintendent .

“Interesting, isn’t it!” said Carhart. “Younotice he doesn’t say how long the traihas been on the way. It may not get herfor thirty-six hours yet.”

“Suppose it doesn’t,” put in Scribner“what are we going to do with the men?”

“Keep them all grading,” said Carhart.



“But—”

“Well, what is it? This is a council of wa

—speak out.”“Just this. Scraping and digging is thirstwork in this sun, and we haven’t wateenough for another half day.”

“Young Van is due with water.”

“Yes, he is due, Mr. Carhart, but you told

him not to come back without it, and hwon’t.”

“Listen!” Outside, in the night, voice

sounded, and the creaking of wagons.

“Here he is now,” said Carhart.

nto the dim light before the open ten



stepped a gray figure. His face was thiand drawn; his hair, of the same dust coloas his clothing, straggled down over hi

forehead below his broad hat. He noddeat the waiting group, threw off his hatunslung his army canteen, and sank dowexhausted on the first cot.

Old Van, himself seasoned timber andunable to recognize the limitations of thhuman frame, spoke impatiently, “Well

Gus, how much did you get?”

“Fourteen barrels.”

“Fourteen barrels!” The other meexchanged glances.

“Why—why—” sputtered the eldebrother, “that’s not enough for the



engines!”

“It’s all we can get.”

“Why didn’t you look farther?”

“You’d better look at the mules,” YoungVan replied simply enough. “I had to driv

hem”—he fumbled at his watch—“aeven eighteen hours to get back to-night.And he added in a whimsical manner thawas strange to him, “I paid two dollars

barrel, too.”

Carhart was watching him closely. “Didyou have any trouble with your men

Gus?” he asked.

Young Van nodded. “A little.”

After a moment, during which his eye



were closed and his muscles relaxed, hgathered his faculties, lighted a cigaretteand rose.

“Hold on, Gus,” said Carhart. “What aryou going to do?”

“Bring the barrels up by our tent here. Isn’t safe to leave them on the wagons

The men—some of them—aren’t standint well. Some are ‘most crazy.” H

nterrupted himself with a short laugh“Hanged if I blame them!”

“You’d better go to bed, Gus,” said thechief. “I’ll look after the water.”

But Young Van broke away from therestraining hand and went out.

Half a hundred laborers were groupe



around the water wagons in oppressivsilence. Vandervelt hardly gave them aglance.

“Dimond,” he called, “where are you?”

A man came sullenly out of the shadows.

“Take a hand here—roll these barrels inby Mr. Carhart’s tent.” A murmur spreadhrough the group. More men wer

crowding up behind. But the engineer gav

his orders incisively, in a voice thaoffered no encouragement tnsubordination. “You two, there, go oveo the train and fetch some skids. I want

dozen men to help Dimond—you—you—Rapidly he told them off. “The rest of yoget away from here—quick.”



“What you goin’ to do with that water?”The voice rose from the thick of thcrowd. It drew neither explanation no

reproof from Young Van; but his manneras he turned his back and, pausing only tight another cigarette, went rapidly t

work, discouraged the laborers, and i

groups of two and three they drifted off their quarters.

The men worked rapidly, for Mr

Carhart’s assistant had a way of takinhold himself, lending a hand here or shoulder there, and giving low, sharporders which the stupidest me

understood. As they rolled the barrelalong the sides of the tent and stood theon end between the guy ropes Paul Carharstood by, a rolled-up map in his hand, and



watched his assistant. He took it all in—he cowed, angry silence of the men, th

unfailing authority of the young engineer

o one felt the situation more keenly thaCarhart, but he had set his worries asidfor the moment to observe the methods ohe younger man. Once he caught himsel

nodding with approval. And then, when hwas about to turn away and resume histudy at the table beneath the lantern, aodd scene took place. The work wadone. Vandervelt stood wiping hiforehead with a handkerchief which hadarkened from white to rich gray. Th

aborers had gone; but Dimond remained.“That’s all, Dimond,” said Vandervelt.

But the man lingered.



“Well, what do you want?”

“It’s about this water. The boys want to

know if they ain’t to have a drink.”“No; no more to-night,” replied YoungVan.

“But—but—” Dimond hesitated.

“Wait a minute,” said Van abruptly. Heentered the tent, found his canteen wher

he had dropped it, brought it out, anhanded it to Dimond.

“This is my canteen. It’s all I have a righ

o give anybody. Now, shut up and geout.”

Dimond hesitated, then swung the cantee

over his shoulder and disappeared withou



a word.

“Gus,” said Paul Carhart, quietly.

“Oh! I didn’t see you there.”

“Wasn’t that something of a gallery play?”

“No, I don’t think it was. It will showhem that we are dealing squarely withem. I had a deuce of a time on the ride

and Dimond really tried, I think, to keep

he men within bounds. They are childrenyou know,—children with whiskey throatadded,—and they can’t stand it as wcan.”

“Gus,” said the chief, taking the boy’s ar and drawing him toward the tent, “it’ime you got to sleep. I shall need you to

morrow.”



The other engineers were still sittinabout the table, talking in low tonesCarhart rejoined them. Young Van

dropped on a cot in the rear and felasleep with his boots on.

“Old Van is telling how the pay-slip

came in to-day,” said Scribner.

Carhart nodded. “Go ahead.” He hafound the laborers, headed by th

Mexicans, so impossibly deliberate iheir work that he had planned out system of paying by the piece. When thocomotive whistle blew at night, eac

man was handed a slip stating the amoundue him. At the end of the week the slipwere to be cashed, and to-day the firspayment had been made. “Go ahead,” h

repeated. “How much did it cost us?”





“‘It’s all I have a right to give anybody.’”



“About seventy-five dollars more than las

week,” replied Old Van. “So that, on thewhole, we got a little more work out ohem. But here’s what happened. When th

whistle blew and I got out my satche

nobody came. I called to a couple of theo hurry up if they wanted their pay, buhey shook their heads. Finally, just two

men came up and handed in all the slips.”

“Two men!” exclaimed Carhart.

“Yes. One was the cook, Jack Flagg. He

had fully two-thirds of the slips. The othewas his assistant, the one they calCharlie. He had the rest. I called some ohe laborers up and asked what it mean

but they said it was all right that way.”



“So you gave them the whole pay-roll?”

“Every cent.”

Carhart frowned. “That won’t do,” hsaid. “A man who can clean out the campn less than a week will breed morrouble than a water famine.”

There was little more to be said, and soohe council came to a close. Scribner wen

promptly to sleep. Young Van awoke, and

with a mumbled “good night” staggereacross after Scribner, to his sleeping tentAnd then, for an hour, Paul Carhart saalone, his elbows on the table, a profile ohe line spread out before him. Outside, ihe night, something stirred. H

extinguished his lamp and listened

Cautious steps were approaching behin



he cluster of tents. A moment more and heheard a man stumble over a peg and sweaaloud.

Carhart stepped out at the rear of the tenand stood waiting. Four or five shadowfigures slipped into view, caught sight o

him, and paused. While they stoohuddled together he made out a pair obroad shoulders towering above thgroup. There was only one such pair in th

camp, and they belonged to the cook, JacFlagg.

The silence lasted only a moment. Then

without speaking, the men broke and raback into the darkness.

Carhart waited until the camp was silent

hen he too, went in and to sleep.



But Young Van, dozing lightly andrestlessly, was awakened by the noisbehind the tents. For a few moments he la

still, then he got up and looked out. Dowhe knoll he could see a dim light, an

after a little he made it out as coming frohe mess tent of the laborers. Now an

hen a low murmur of voices floated uphrough the desert stillness.

Young Van folded up the legs of his cot

carried it out, laid it across two of thwater barrels, and went to sleep there ihe open air.

An hour later the mess tent was stilighted. Within, seated on blocks of timbe

around a cracker-box, four men werplaying poker; and pressing about the

was a score of laborers—all, in fact, wh



could crowd into the tent. The air was fouwith cheap tobacco and with the hundreodors that cling to working clothes. Th

eyes of the twenty or more men were fixefeverishly on the greasy cards, and on thheaps of the day’s pay-slips. By a simplprocess of elimination the ownership o

hese slips had been narrowed down to thpresent players—Jack Flagg, his assistanCharlie, Dimond, and a Mexican. Thsilence carried a sense of strain. Thoccasional coarse jokes and boisterouaughter died down with strang

suddenness.

“It’s no use,” said Flagg, finally, tossinghe cards on the box; “they’re against us.”

The Mexican rose at this, and sullenly lef

he tent. Dimond, with a conscious laugh



gathered in two-thirds of the slips anpocketed them. It was an achievement tclean out Jack Flagg. The remaining thir

went to Charlie.

Flagg leaned back, clasped his greaknotted hands about one knee, and looke

across at Dimond. Six feet and a third taln his socks, hard as steel rails, he coul

have lifted any two of the laborers abouhim clear of the ground, one in each hand

The lower part of his face was halcovered with his long, ill-kept mustachand the tuft of hair beneath his under lipThe blue shirt he wore had unmistakabl

come from a military source, but not a mahere, not even Charlie—himself nearly

match for his chief in height and breadth—would have dared ask when he had bee



n the army, nor why or how he had como leave it.

“Dimond,” said Flagg, “let me have one ohose slips a minute.”

The nervous light left Dimond’s eyes. Hhrew a suspicious glance across the boxhen, after a moment, he complied.

Flagg held the slip near the lantern anexamined it.

“Eighty cents,” he muttered, “eighty cent—and for how much work?”

“Half a day,” a laborer replied.

“Half a day’s work, and the poor devigets eighty cents for it!”



“He gets eighty cents! He gets nothingyou’d better say. Dimond, there, is thman that gets it.”

“That’s no matter. He lost it in fair playBut look at it—look at it!” The giant coocontemptuously turned the slip over in hi

hand. “That devil hounds you like niggerfor five hours in the hot sun—he driveyou near crazy with thirst—and then hhands you out this pretty piece of pape

with ‘eighty cents’ wrote on it.”

“That’s a dollar-sixty a day. We was onlygetting one-fifty the old way—on time.”

“You was only getting one-fifty, wasyou?” There was infinite scorn in Flagg’voice; his masterly eye swept the group

“You was getting one-fifty, and now



you’re thankful to get ten cents more. Dyou know what you are? You’re a pack ofools—that’s what you are!”





“‘Eighty cents,’ he muttered, ‘and for

how much work?’”

“But look here, Jack, what can we do?”

“What can you do?” Flagg pausedglanced at his vis-à-vis. From thexpression of dawning intelligence oDimond’s face it was plain that he wawaking to the suggestion. The slips that hhad won to-night were worth four hundredollars to Dimond. Why should not thessame bits of paper fetch five hundred o

six hundred?

“What can you do?” Flagg repeated. “Ohbut you boys make me weary. It ain’t an

of my business. I ain’t a laborer, and wha



do gets well paid for. But when I looaround at you poor fools, I can’t sit stilhere and let you go on like this. You ask

me what you can do? Well, now, supposewe think it over a little. Here you are, fouhundred of you. This man Carhart offeryou one-fifty a day to come out here int

he desert and dig your own graves. Whdid he set that price on your livesBecause he knew you for the fools yoare. Do you think for a minute he could geaborers up there in Chicago, where h

comes from, for one-fifty? Not a bit of itDo you think he could get men i

Pennsylvania, in New York State, for onefifty? Not a bit of it! If he was buildinhis line in New York State, he’d be

paying you two dollars, two-fifty, mayb

hree. And he’d be glad to get you at th



price. And he’d meet your representativike a gentleman, and step around livel

and walk Spanish for you, if you so muc

as winked.”

Dimond’s eyes were flashing witexcitement, though he kept them lowere

o the cards. His face was flushed. Flagsaw that the seed he had planted wagrowing, and he swept on, working up thsituation with considerable art.

“Think it over, boys, think it over. Thiman Carhart finds he can’t drive you fasenough at one-fifty, so what does he do

He gets up his pay-slip scheme so’s youwill kill yourselves for the chance omaking ten cents more. And you standaround and let him do it—never a peep

from you! Now, what’s the situation



Here’s this man, five hundred miles fronowhere; he’s got to rush the job. Weknow that, don’t we?”

“Yes,” muttered Dimond, with a quickbreath, “we know that, all right.”

“Well, now, what about it?” Flagg lookeddeliberately about the eager group. “Whaabout it? There’s the situation. Here he isand here you are. He’s in a hurry. If he

was to find out, all of a sudden, that hcouldn’t drive you poor devils any fartherf he was to find out that you had just lai

down and said you wouldn’t do anothe

stroke of work on these terms, what about? What could he do?” Flagg pause

again, to let the suggestion find its mark.

“But he ain’t worrying any. He knows yo



for the low-spirited lot you are. So whadoes he do? He sends out a bunch of yoand makes you ride three days to ge

water, and then he stacks the barrelaround his tent, where he and his gang caget all they want, and tells you to go ofand suck your thumbs. Much he care

about you.”

Dimond raised his eyes. “Talk plainJack,” he said in a low voice. “What is it

What’s the game?”

Flagg gave him a pitying glance. “You’restill asking what’s the game,” he replied

and went on half absently, “Let’s seeHow much is he paying the iron squad—how much was that, now?”

“Two dollars,” cried a voice.



“Two dollars—yes, that was it; that wat. He is paying them two dollars a day

and he has set them to digging and gradin

along with you boys that only gets onesixty. I happened to notice that to-daywhen I was a-walking up that way. Thosron-squad boys was out with picks an

shovels, a-doing the same work as the resof you, only they was doing it for fortcents more. They ain’t common laborersyou see. There’s a difference. Youcouldn’t expect them to swing a pick foone-sixty a day. It would be beneath ’emThey’re sort o’ swells, you see—”

He paused. There was a long silence.

“Boys,”—it was Dimond speaking—“boys, Jack Flagg is right. If it cost

Carhart two per for the iron squad, it’s go



o cost him the same for us!”

Carhart was turning the delay to somaccount by shutting himself up with hi

maps and plans and reports and figures. Aen o’clock on the following morning h

heard a step without the tent, and, lookinup, saw Young Vandervelt before him.

“There’s trouble up ahead, Mr. Carhart.”

“What is it?”

“The laborers have quit. They demand ancrease of ten per cent in their pay.”

“All right, let them have it.”



“I’ll tell my brother. He said no, wshouldn’t give in an inch.”

“You tell him I say to let them have whahey ask.”

Young Van hurried back with the orderCarhart quietly resumed the problembefore him.

Old Van, when he received the chief’message, swore roundly.

“What’s Paul thinking of!” he growled“He ought to know that this is only the tipof the wedge. They’ll come up another te

per cent before the week’s out.”

But Old Van failed to do justice to thepromptness of Jack Flagg. At three in th

afternoon the demand came; and for th



second time that day the scrapers lay idleand the mules wagged their ears in lazcomfort.

“Well!” cried Old Van, sharply. “Well!t’s what I told you, isn’t it! Now,

suppose you still believe in running t

Paul with the story.”

“Yes,” replied the younger brother, firmly“of course. He’s the boss.”

“All right, sir! All right, sir!” The veteraengineer turned away in disgust as hibrother started rapidly back to the campThe laborers, meanwhile, covered witsweat and dust, tantalized by thnfrequent sips of water doled out to themay panting in a long, irregular line on th

newly turned earth.



“Well, Gus,” said Carhart, with a wrysmile, at sight of the dusty figure beforhe tent, “are they at it again?”

“They certainly are.”

“They don’t mean to lose any time, dhey? How much is it now?”

“Ten per cent more. What shall we do?”

“Give it to them.”

“All right.”

“Wait a minute, Gus. Who’s theispokesman?

“Dimond.”

“Dimond?” Carhart frowned. “Nobod

else?”



“No; but the cook has been hanging arouna good deal and talking with him.”

“Oh—I see. Well, that’s all. Go aheadgive them what they ask.”

Again the mules were driven at the workAgain—and throughout the day—thsullen men toiled on under the keen eye oOld Vandervelt. If he had been a drivebefore, he was a czar now. If he could no

control the rate of pay, he could at leascontrol the rate of work. To himself, to theyounger engineers, to the men, to thmules, he was merciless. And foot by foo

rod by rod, the embankment that was tbear the track crept on into the desert. Thsun beat down; the wind, when there waa wind, was scorching hot; but Old Van

gave no heed. Now and again he glance



back to where the material train lay silenand useless, hoping against hope that far ihe distance he might see the smoke of tha

other train from Sherman. Peet had saidyesterday, that it was on the way; and OldVan muttered, over and over, “D—nPeet!”

ight came finally, but not the trainAching in body, ugly in spirit, the laborercrept under their blankets. Morning came

but no train. Carhart spent an hour on thgrade, and saw with some satisfaction thahe time was not wholly lost; then he wen

back to the operator’s tent and opene

communications with Sherman. Shermaexpressed surprise that the train had noarrived; it had been long on the way, saidhe despatcher.



At this message, repeated to him by thoperator, word for word, Carhart stoodhoughtful. Then, “Shut off the despatcher

Wait—tell him Mr. Carhart is muchobliged. Shut him off. Now call ParadiseSay to him—can’t you get him?”

“Yes—all right now.”

“Say—‘When did the supply train pasyou on Tuesday?’—got that?”

“Yes—one minute. ‘When—did supply—rain pass—you—Tuesday?’”

“Now what does he say?”

“‘Supply—train’—he says—‘passed—here Wednesday—two—P.M.—westbound.’ There, you see, it didn’t leave on

Tuesday at all. It’s only a few hours to



Paradise from Sherman.”

Carhart had Peet’s message still crumpled

n his pocket. He straightened it out anread it again. “All right,” he said to thoperator, “that will do.” And as hewalked slowly and thoughtfully out int

he blazing sunlight he added to himself“So, Mr. Peet, that’s the sort you are, is it

think we begin to understand each other.

“Paul!” It was the gruff voice of OlVandervelt, low and charged with anger.

“Yes—what?”

“What is it you mean to do with thesaborers?”

“Build the line.”



“Well, I’ve done what I could. They’vewalked out again.”

“Another ten per cent?”“Another ten per cent.”

“Let’s see—we’ve raised them twenty pe

cent since yesterday morning, havenwe?”

“You have—yes.”

“And that ought to be about enough, don’you think?”

“If you want my opinion,—yes.”

“Now look here, Van. You go back andbring them all up here by the train. Telhem Mr. Carhart wants to talk to them.”



Vandervelt stared at his chief in downrighbewilderment. Then he turned to obey thorder; and as he walked away Carhar

caught the muttered words, “Organize debating society, eh? Well, that’s the onefool thing left to do!”

But the men did not take it in just this wayn fact, they did not know how to take it

They hesitated, and looked about focounsel. Even Dimond was disturbed. Th

boss had a quiet, highly effective way osaying and doing precisely what he meano say and do. Dimond was not certain o

his own ability to stand directly betwee

he men and Paul Carhart. There wasomething about the cool way in whichey were ordered before him that was—

well, businesslike. He turned and glance



at Flagg. The cook scowled and motionehim forward, and so the dirty, thirstregiment moved uncertainly back towar

he train, and formed a wide semicirclbefore the boss.

Carhart had taken his position by a pile o

odds and ends of lumber that lay besidhe track. He awaited them quietly, th

only man among the hundreds there whappeared unconscious of the excitement i

he air. The elder Vandervelt stood apartscowling at the performance. The youngescented danger, and, climbing up on thrain, walked back over the empty flat

cars to a position directly behind hichief. There he sat down, his legswinging over the side of the car.

Carhart reached up for his spectacles



deliberately breathed on them, wipehem, and replaced them. Then he gave th

regiment a slow, inquiring look.

“Have you men authorized somebody tspeak for you?” he said in a voice whichhough it was not loud, was hear

distinctly by every man there.

There was a moment’s hesitation; then thaborers, or those who were not studyin

he ground, looked at Dimond.The telegraph operator stepped out of hiittle tent, and stood looking at the scen

with startled eyes. Up ahead, the irosquad, uncertain whether to continue theiwork, had paused, and now they wergazing back. As the seconds slipped awa

heir exclamations of astonishment die



out. All eyes were fixed on the group ihe centre of the semicircle.

For at this critical moment, there was, iseemed, a hitch. Dimond’s broad hat wapulled down until it half concealed hieyes. He stood motionless. At his elbow

was Jack Flagg, muttering orders that thnominal leader did not seem to hear.

“Flagg, step out here!”

t was Carhart speaking, in the same quietdistinct manner. The sound of his voicbroke the tension. The men all looked upeven the nerveless Dimond. To YoungVan they were oddly like a room full oschoolboys as they stood silently waitinfor Flagg to obey. The giant cook himsel

was very like a schoolboy, as he glanced



uneasily around, caught no sign of fight ihe obedient eyes about him, sough

counsel in the ground, the sky, the engine

standing on the track, then finally sloucheforward.

Young Van caught himself on the verge o

aughing out. He saw Flagg advance a waand pause. Carhart waited. Flagg took few more steps, then paused again, withe look of a man who feels that he ha

been bullied into a false position, yecannot hit upon the way out.

“Well,” he said, glowering down on the

figure of the engineer in charge—and verhin and short Carhart looked before hi

—“well, what do you want of me?”

For reply Carhart coolly looked him over



Then he snatched up a piece of scantlingwhirled it once around his head, ancaught Jack Flagg squarely on his deep

well-muscled chest. The cook staggereback, swung his arms wildly to recovehis balance, failed, and fell flat, strikinon the back of his head.

But he was up in an instant, and he starteforward, swearing copiously and reachinfor his hip pocket.

Young Van saw the motion. He knew thaPaul Carhart seldom carried a weaponand he felt that the safety of them all la

with himself. Accordingly he leaped to thground, ran to the side of his chiefwhipped out a revolver, and levelled it aJack Flagg.



“Hands up!” he cried. “Hands up!”

“Gus,” cried Carhart, in a disgusted voice

“put that thing up!”Young Van, crestfallen, hesitated; thendropped his arm.

“Now, Flagg,” said the chief, tossing thscantling to one side, “you clear ouYou’d better do it fast, or the men’ll finishwhere I left off.”

The cook glanced behind him, and hieyes flitted about the semicircle from faco face. He was keen enough to take in th

situation, and in a moment he had duckeunder the couplers between two cars andisappeared.

“Well,” exclaimed Young Van, pocketing



his revolver, “it didn’t take you long towind that up, Mr. Carhart.”

“To wind it up?” Carhart repeated, turningwith a queer expression toward his younassistant. “To begin it, you’d better say.”Then he composed his features and face

he laborers. “Get back to your work,” hsaid.



CHAPTER VWHAT THEY FOUND AT

THE WATER-HOLE

Half an hour later Scribner, who wafrequently back on the first division durinhese dragging days, was informed tha

Mr. Carhart wished to see him at once

Walking back to the engineers’ tent hefound the chief at his table.

“You wanted me, Mr. Carhart?”

“Oh,”—the chief looked up—“YesHarry, we’ve got to get away from thiabsolute dependence on that man Peet.

want you to ride up ahead and bore fo



water. You can probably start inside of anhour. I’m putting it in your hands. Takewhat men, tools, and wagons you need—

but find water.”

With a brief “All right, Mr. Carhart,”Scribner left the tent and set about th

necessary arrangements. Carhart, thimatter disposed of, called a passinaborer, and asked him to tell Charlie tha

he was wanted at headquarters.

The assistant cook—huge, raw-bonedwith a good-natured and not unintelligenface—lounged before the tent for som

moments before he was observed. Thenn the crisp way he had with the men

Carhart told him to step in.

“Well,” began the boss, looking him over



“what kind of a cook are you?”

A slow blush spread over the broad

features.“Speak up. What were you doing when sent for you?”

“I—I—you see, sir, Jack Flagg was goneand there wasn’t anything being donabout dinner, and I—”

“And you took charge of things, eh?”

“Well—sort of, sir. You see—”

“That’s the way to do business. Go bacand stick at it. Wait a minute, though. HaFlagg been hanging around any?”







“‘Well,’ began the boss, looking him

over, ‘what kind of a cook are you?’”

“I guess he has. All his things was toooff, and some of mine.”

“Take any money?”

“All I had.”

“I’m not surprised. Money was what hwas here for. He would have cleaned yoout, anyway, before long.”

“I’m not so sure of that, sir. We cleanedhim out last time.”

“And you weren’t smart enough to see int

hat?”



“Well—no, I—”

“Take my advice and quit gambling. I

sn’t what you were built for. What didyou say your name was?”

“Charlie.”

“Well, Charlie, you go back and get upyour dinner. See that it is a good one.”

Charlie backed out of the tent and returne

o his kettles and pans and his boassistants. He was won, completely.

Late on Thursday evening that mythica

rain really rolled in, and half the nighwas spent in preparations for the next dayFriday morning tracklaying began again. Ihe afternoon a second train arrived, an

he air of movement and accomplishmen



became as keen as on the first day of thwork. Paul Carhart, in a flannel shirtwhich, whatever color it may once hav

been, was now as near green as anythinga wide straw hat, airy yellow linerousers, and laced boots, appeared an

reappeared on both divisions—alert

good-natured, radiating health and energyThe sun blazed endlessly down, but whaaborer could complain with the exampl

of the boss before him! The mules toileand plunged, and balked and sulked, anoiled again, as mules will. The drivers—

boys, for the most part—carried pails o

water on their wagons, and from time time wet the sponges which many of thmen wore in their hats. And over thgrunts and heaves of the tie squad, ove

he rattling and groaning of the wagon



over the exhausts of the locomotivessounded the ringing clang of steel, as thrails were shifted from flat-car to truck

from truck to ties. It was music to Carhart—deep, significant, nineteenth-centurmusic. The line was creeping on again—on, on through the desert.

“What do you think of this!” had beeYoung Van’s exclamation when thesecond train appeared.

“It’s too good to be true,” was the reply ohis grizzled brother.

Old Vandervelt was right: it was too goodo be true. Soon the days were gettin

away from them again; provisions anwater were running short, and Peet wa

sending on the most skilful lot of excuse





an account of himself. “I first drove small bore down about three hundred feeand got this.” He produced a tin pail fro

his tent, which contained a dark, odorouiquid. Carhart sniffed, and said:—

“Sulphur water, eh!”

“Yes, and very bad. It wouldn’t do at allBut before moving on, I thought I’d betteook around a little. That hill over there i

sandstone, and a superficial examinatioed me to think that the sandstone dipunder this spot.”

“That might mean a very fair quality owater.”

“That’s what I think. So I inserted a largecasing, to shut out this sulphur water, and



went on down.”

“How far?”

“A thousand feet. I’m expecting to strike iany moment now.”

“Your men seem to think they have struck

something. They’re calling you.”

The engineers returned to the well in timo see the water gushing to the surface.

“There’s enough of it,” muttered Scribner

The chief bent over it and shook his head“Smell it, Harry,” he said.

Scribner threw himself on the ground andrank up a mouthful from the stream. Buhe promptly spit it out.



“It’s worse than the other!” he cried.

They were silent a moment. Then Carhar

said, “Well—keep at it, Harry. I may lookyou up again after a little.”

He walked over to his horse, mountednodded a good-by, and cantered bacoward the camp. Scribner watched hi

ride off, then soberly turned and prepareo pack up and move on westward. H

was thinking, as he gave the necessarorders, how much this little visit meantThe chief would have come only witmatters at a bad pass.

Over a range of low waste hills, through



village of prairie-dogs,—and he firehumorously at them with his revolver ahey sat on their mounds, and chuckle

when they popped down out of sight,—across a plain studded from horizon thorizon with the bleached bones anskulls of thousands of buffaloes, past th

camp and the grade where the men of thfirst division were at work, Paul Carharrode, until, finally, the main camp and thrains and wagons came into view.

t was supper-time. The red, spent suhung low in the west; the parched eartwas awaiting the night breeze. Canterin

easily on, Carhart soon reached the gradeand turned in toward the tents. The endlesquiet of the desert gave place to an oddense quiet in the camp. The groups o



aborers, standing or lying motionlessceasing their low, excited talk as hpassed; the lowered eyes, the circle o

Mexicans standing about the mules, thwant of the relaxation and animal goodnature that should follow the night whistlehese signs were plain as print to his eye

and his senses.

He dismounted, walked rapidly to thheadquarters tent, and found the tw

Vandervelts in anxious conversation. Hehad never observed so sharply the contrasbetween the brothers. The younger wasmooth shaven, slender, with brown hair

and frank blue eyes that were dreamy aimes; he would have looked the poe

were it not for a square forehead, straight, incisive mouth, and a chin a



uncompromising as the forehead. Therwas in his face the promise of greacapacity for work, dominated by

sympathetic imagination. The face of hibrother was another story; some of thstronger qualities were there, but thewere not tempered with the gentler. Hi

stocky frame, his strong neck, the deeines about his mouth, even the set of hi

cropped gray mustache, spoke of doggedunimaginative persistence.

Evidently they were not in agreemenBoth started at the sight of their chief—thyounger brother with a frank expression o

relief.

Carhart threw off his hat and gauntlegloves, took his seat at the table, an

ooked from one to the other.



The elder brother nodded curtly. “Goahead, Gus,” he said. “Give Paul youview of it.”

Thus granted the floor, Young Van brieflyaid out the situation. “We put your ordernto effect this morning, Mr. Carhart, and

shortened the allowance of drinkinwater. In an hour the men began to gesurly—just as they did the other time. Buwe kept them under until an hour or s

ago. Then the sheriff of Clark County—man named Lane, Bow-legged BilLane,”—Young Van smiled slightly as hepronounced the name,—“rode in with

arge posse. It seems he is on the trail of gang of thieves, greasers, army desertersand renegades generally. He had onbrush with them some miles below here



—I think I had better tell you about thibefore I go on,—but they broke up intsmall parties and got away from him. H

had some reason to think that they woulwork up this way, and try to stampede ouhorses and mules some night. He advisearming our men, and keeping up more of

guard at night. Another thing; he says that good many Apaches are hanging aroundus,—he has seen signs of them over thern the hills,—and while they would neve

bother such a large party as this of oursBow-legged Bill”—he smiled agai—“thinks it would be best to arm an

small parties we may send out. If thndians thought Harry Scribner, fonstance, had anything worth stealing the

might give him some trouble.”



“Send half-a-dozen wagons forward thim to-morrow, under Dimond,” saidCarhart, briefly. “See that they carry rifle

and cartridges enough for Scribner’whole party. And wire Tiffany to send onhree hundred more rifles.”

“All right; I will attend to it. I told thsheriff we came down here as peacefurailroad builders, not as border fightersbut he said what we came for hasn’t muc

o do with it,—I couldn’t repeat hianguage if I tried,—it’s how we’re goin

back that counts; whether it’s to be on red plush seat, or up in the baggage ca

on ice.’ But so much for that. It seems thahis men, mixing in with ours, found ouhat we are short of water. They promptl

said that there is a first-rate pool, with al



he water we could use, only about thirtyfive miles southwest of here.” He wacoming now, having purposely brought up

he minor matters first, to the reabusiness. Carhart heard him out. “It didnake long to see that something was th

matter with the men. Before the poss

rode off the sheriff spoke to me about iand offered to let us have a man to guidus to the pool if we wanted him. I am ifavor of accepting. The men are tremblinon the edge of an outbreak. If there was Jack Flagg here to organize them, thewould have taken the mules and starte

before you got back; and if they once gostarted, I’m not sure that even shootinwould stop them. They are beyond alreason. It’s nothing but luck that has kep

hem quiet up to now,—nobody ha



happened to say the word that would sehem off. I think we ought to reassurhem,—tell the sheriff we’ll take th

guide, and let the men know that a wagorain will start the first thing in th

morning.”

“That’s it! That’s it!” Old Van broke ouangrily. “Always give in to those d—rascals! There’s just one thing to do, I telyou. Order them to their quarters and stan

a guard over them from the iron squad.”

“But you forget,” Young Van repliedhotly, “that they are not to blame.”

“Not to blame! What the—!”

“Wait a minute!—They are actuallysuffering now. We are not dealing with



malicious men—they are not even ostrike for more pay. We’re on the edge oa panic, that’s what’s the matter. And the

question is, What is the best way tcontrol that panic?”

“Wait, boys,” said Carhart. “Gus is right

This trouble has its roots away down ihuman nature. If water is to be had, thosmen have a right to it. If we should puhem under guard, and they should g

crazy and make a break for it, what thenWhat if they call our bluff? We must eitheet them go—or shoot.”

“Then I say shoot,” cried Old Vandervelt

“No, Van,” Carhart replied, “you’rewrong. As Gus says, we ar

uncomfortably close to a panic. Well, le



hem have their panic. Put them on thwagons and let them run off their heatOrganize this panic with ourselves at th

head of it.” His voice took on a crispequality. “Van, you stay here in charge ohe camp. Pick out a dozen of the iro

squad, give them rifles, and keep three at

ime on extra watch all night.”

“Hold on,” said the veteran, bewildered“when are you going to start on this—?”

“Now.”

“Now? To-night?”

“To-night. Gus, you find your sheriff. Hecan’t be far off.”

“No; half a mile down the line.”



“You find him, explain the situation, andell him we want that man in half an hour.”

The conference broke up sharply. GuVandervelt hurried out, saddled his horseand rode off into the thickening dusk. OlVan went to select his guards. Carhart saw

hem go; then, pausing to note witsatisfaction the prospect of only moderatdarkness, he set about organizing hiforce. All the empty casks and barrel

were loaded on wagons. Mules werhitched four and six in hand. Waterbeyond a canteen for each man, could nobe spared; but Charlie packed provision

enough—so he thought—for twenty-fouhours.

The tremulous, brilliant afterglow fade

away. The stars peeped out, one by one



and twinkled faintly. The dead plain—alive only with scorpions, horned frogsarantulas, striped lizards, centipedes, an

he stunted sage-brush—stretched silentlaway to the dim mountains on the horizonThe bleaching bones—ghostly white ouhere in the sand—began to slip off int

he distance and the dark. All about warest, patience, eternity. Here in camp werfeverish laborers with shattered nervesmen who started at the swish of a mule’ail—and swore, no matter what thei

native tongue, in English, that famouvehicle for profane thoughts. The mules

full of life after their enforced rest, tooadvantage of the dark and confusion tangle their harness wofully. Leader

swung around and mingled fraternall

with wheelers, whereupon boy driver



swore horrible oaths in voices thawavered between treble and bassLanterns waved and bobbed about. Me

shouted aimlessly.

Suddenly the babel quieted—the laborerwere bolting a belated supper. Then, afte

a moment of confusion, three men rode ouof the circle of lanterns, put their horses ahe grade, stood out for a vivid moment ihe path of light thrown by the neares

engine,—Paul Carhart, Young Vanderveltand the easy-riding guide,—plunged dowhe farther side of the grade, and blendento the night. One after another the lon

ine of wagons followed after, whipcracking, mules balking and breaking, meugging at the spokes of the wheels. Then

at last, they were all over; the shouts ha



softened into silence. And Old Van stoodalone on the grade and looked after thewith eyes that were dogged and gloomy.

Paul Carhart had organized the panic; nowhe was resolved to “work it out of them,as he explained aside to Young Van. Heestimated that they should reach the poo

before eight o’clock in the morning. Thawould mean continuous driving, but thendurance of mules is a wonderfullelastic thing; and as for the men, th

sooner they were tired, the less dangewould there be of a panic. Accordinglyhe three leaders set off at a canter. Th

drivers caught the pace, lashing out wit



heir whips and shouting in a frenziewaste of strength. The mules gallopeangrily; the wagons rattled and bumpe

and leaped the mounds, for there was nohe semblance of road or trail. Now an

again a barrel was jolted off, and it lahere unheeded by the madmen who cam

swaying and cursing by. Here and therone calmer than his fellows climbed bacfrom a seat by his driver and kept the kegand barrels in place.

Wonderfully they held the pace, over mileafter mile of rough plain. Then, after ime, came the hills,—low at first, bu

rising steadily higher.

n the faint light the sage-brush slipped bike the ghosts of dead vegetation. Th

rocks and the heaps of bones gave th



wheels many a wrench. The steady climwas telling on the mules. They hung backslowed to a walk all along the line, an

under the whip merely plunged or kickedUp and up they climbed, winding throughe low range by a pass known only to th

guide. One mule, a leader in a team of six

stumbled among the rocks, fell to hiknees, and was dragged and pushed alonn a tangle of harness before his fellow

came to a stop. In a moment a score omen were crowding around. Up ahead thwagons were winding on out of sightbehind, the line was blocked.



“Wonderfully they held the pace.”

“Vat you waiting for?” cried a NewOrleans man, feverishly. He had beedrinking, and had lost his way among th

anguages. “ Laissez passer! Laisseasser!”

The boys were cooler than the men—no

knowing so well what it all meant. “H



here, Oui-Oui, gimme a knife!” cried thyouthful driver, shrilly.

He slashed at the harness, cut the muloose, and drove on. And one by one thwagons circled by the struggling beast anpushed ahead to close up the gap in th

ine.

Eight hours were got through. It was foun the morning. The hills lay behind, a

alkaline waste before. The mules werugging heavily and dejectedly through thsand. Certain of the drivers sat uprighwith lined faces and ringed eyes, other

ay sleeping on the seats with the reinied. All were subdued. The penetratin

dust aggravated their thirst.

Carhart pricked forward beside the guide



“How much farther?” he asked.

“Well, it ain’t easy to say. We might be

halfway there.”“Halfway! Do you mean to say we’vdone only fifteen or eighteen miles in eighhours?”

“No, I didn’t say that.”

“Look here. How far is it to this pool!”

“Well, it’s hard to say.”

Carhart frowned and gave it up. Th“thirty or thirty-five miles” had apparentlbeen the roughest sort of an estimate.

Then the sun came up and beat upon themand the sand began to radiate heat by wa



of an earnest of the day to follow; and thehe wheels sank so deeply that the chie

and Young Van tossed their reins to the

guide and walked by the wagons to lend hand now and then at the spokes. All thcrazy energy of the evening was gone; meand mules were alike sullen an

dispirited. Of the latter, many gave out anfell, and these were cut out and left thero die. So it went all through that blazin

forenoon. They halted at twelve for lunchbut the dry bread and salt pork werhardly stimulating.

Carhart again sought the guide. “Do yo

know yourself where the pool is?”

The guide shaded his eyes and searchehe horizon. “It was in a spot that looke

something like this here,” he said in



weak, confidential sort of way.

Carhart answered sharply, “Why don’

you say you are lost, and be done with it!”“Well, I ain’t lost exactly. I wouldn’t likeo say that.”

“But you haven’t the least idea where thpool is.”

“Well, now, you see—”

“Is there any other water on ahead?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Where?”

“The Palos River can’t be more than dozen miles beyond the place where w

found the pool.”



He had unconsciously raised his voice. Aaborer overheard the remark, whippe

out his knife, hacked at the harness of th

nearest mule,—it would have beesimpler to loosen the braces, but he wapast all thinking,—threw himself on thanimal’s back, and rode off, lashin

behind him with the end of the reins. Thpanic broke loose again. Man after manhe guide among them, followed after

until only the wagons and about half thanimals remained.

“Come, Gus,” called the chief, “let thego.”

Young Van turned wearily, mounted hispanting horse, and the two followed thmen. But Carhart turned in his saddle t

ook back at the property abandoned ther



n the sand.

Half an hour later, Young Van’s horse

stumbled and fell, barely giving his rideime to spring clear.

“Is he done for?” asked Carhart, reininup.

“It looks like it.”

“What’s the matter—done up yourself?”

“A little. I’ll sit here a minute. You goahead. I’ll follow on foot.”

“Not a bit of it. Here—can you swing upbehind me?”

“That won’t do. Texas can’t carry doubleGo ahead; I’m all right.”



But Carhart dismounted, lifted hiassistant, protesting, into the saddle, anpushed on, himself on foot, leading th

horse.

They went on in this way for nearly ahour. Young Van found it all he could do

o hold himself in the saddle. Then thhorse took to staggering, and finally camo his knees.

Carhart helped his assistant to the groundpulled his hat brim down to shade hieyes, and looked ahead. A cloud of duson the horizon, a beaten trail through th

sand, here and there a gray-brown heawhere a mule had fallen,—these markehe flight of his drivers and laborers.

His eyes came back to the fainting man a



his feet. Young Van had lost all sense ofhe world about him. Carhart saw that hiips were moving, and knelt beside him

Then he smiled, a curious, unhumorousmile; for the young engineer wamuttering those words which had of latbeen his brother’s favorites among all th

words in our rich language: “D—n Peet!”

The chief stood up again to think. And ahe gazed off eastward in the genera

direction of Sherman, toward the placwhere the arch enemy of the Sherman anWestern sat in his office, perhaps devisingnew excuses to send to the front, thos

same two expressive words might havbeen used to sum up his own thoughtsWhat could the man be thinking of, whhad brought the work practically to a stop



who was now in the coolest imaginablfashion leaving a thousand men to minglheir bones with the bones of the buffalo—

hat grim, broadcast expression of thspirit of the desert.

“They went on in this way for nearly an

hour.”



But these were unsafe thoughts. His ow

head was none too clear. It was reelinwith heat and thirst and with the monotonof this desolate land. He drew a flasfrom his pocket,—an almost empty flask

—and placed it against Young Van’s handWith their two hats propped together hshaded his face. Then, a canteen slunover each shoulder, he pushed ahead, onfoot.

“The Palos River can’t be more than dozen miles—” had said the guide

pointing southward. That was all



Somewhere off there in the desert it layflowing yellow and aimless. Perhaps iwas a lie. Perhaps the guide wa

mistaken, as he had been in the search fohe pool. But the last feeble tie that bounhese outcasts to reason had snapped at th

sight of that unsteady, pointing finger, and

only the original sin in them was left. Thwords of the guide had been heard by onman, and he was off at the instant, his onlremark a curse as he knocked a boy out ohis way. But others had seen the pointinfinger. And still others were moved by thempulse which spurs men, in franti

moments, to any sort of action.n the rush for mounts two men, a half

breed from the Territory and a Mexicanplunged at the same animal. The half



breed was hacking at the nigh trace anhe Mexican at the off rein when their eye

met. The mule both had chosen was th

nigh leader in a double team. But insteaof turning to one of the other three, thmen, each with a knife in his hand, fell tfighting; and while they struggled and fel

and rolled over and over in the sand, hird man mounted their prize an

galloped away.

But it was the boys who suffered mostone but hardy youngsters had bee

chosen for the drive, but their younendurance could not help them in persona

combat with these grown men; anpersonal combat was what it came twherever a boy stood or sat near desirable mule. The odd thing was tha



every man and boy succeeded in gettinaway. Hats were lost. Shirts were torn toshreds, exposing skins, white and brown

o the merciless sun. Even the half-breeand the Mexican, dropping their quarrel aunreasonably as they had begun it, eacbleeding from half-a-dozen small wounds

finally galloped off after the others. Andwhen these last were gone, and the duswas billowing up behind them, somethiness than two minutes had passed since th

guide had pointed southward.

The Palos River is probably the mosuninviting stream in the Southwest. It wa

at this time sluggish and shallow. Thwater was so rich with silt that a pailful ot, after standing an hour, would deposihree inches of mud. The banks were low



and of the same gray sand as the deserexcepting that a narrow fringe of greeannounced the river to the eye. It was int

and through this fringe that the first rideplunged. It had been a long two-hour rideand the line straggled out for more than mile behind him. But he was not intereste

n his companions. His eyes were fixed ohe broad yellow river-bed with th

narrow yellow current winding through iDrinking could not satisfy him. He wanteo get into the water, and feel his we

clothes clinging about him, and duck hiface and head under, and splash it abou

with his hands. His mount needed no laso slip and scramble down the bank anspurt over the sand. The animal was scrazily eager that he stumbled in the sof

footing and went to his knees. But th



rider sailed on over his head, and with great shout, arms and legs spread wide, hfell with a splash and a gurgle into th

water. The mule regained his feet andstaggered after him, and then the two ohem, man and beast, rolled and wallowe

and splashed, and drank copiously.

The second man reached the bank on foofor his mule had fallen within sight of thpromised land. He paused there

apparently bewildered, watching hifortunate comrade in the water. Then, witdazed deliberation, he removed hiclothes, piled them neatly under a bush

and walked out naked, stepping gingerlon the heated sand. But halfway to thchannel a glimmer of intelligence sparklen his eyes, and he suddenly dashe



forward and threw himself into the water.

One by one the others came crashin

hrough the bushes, and rode or ran dowhe bank, swearing, laughing, shoutingsobbing. And not one of them could havold afterward whether he drank on th

upstream or the downstream side of thmules.

When Paul Carhart, a long while later

parted the bushes and stood out in relieon the bank, leaning on a shrub fosupport, he saw a strange spectacle. For quarter of a mile, up and down th

channel, were mules, some drinking, somrolling and kicking some lying out flat anmotionless. Near at hand, hanging froevery bush, were shirts and trousers an

stockings; at the edge of the bank was



ong, irregular line of boots and shoesAnd below, on the broad reach of sandaughing, and bantering, and screamin

ike schoolboys, half a hundred naked mestood in a row, stooping with hands oknees, while a dozen others went dancinand high-stepping and vaulting over them.

They were playing leap-frog.

Carhart walked across to the upstrea

side of the mules and drank. Then, aftefilling two canteens, he returned to thbank and sat down in such small shade ahe could find. It was at this moment tha

he men caught sight of him. The gamstopped abruptly, and for a moment thplayers stood awkwardly about, aschoolboys would at the appearance of th

eacher. Then, first one, and another, and a



group of two or three more, and finallyall of them, resumed their simple clothingand sat down along the bank to awai

orders. The panic was over.

ow the chief roused himself. “Here, yowo!” he cried. “Take these canteens and

he freshest mules you can find, and gback to Mr. Vandervelt. Ride hard.”

And almost at the word, eager

responsive, the men he had addressewere off.

As soon as the worst of the shakinespassed out of his legs, Carhart rose. Hi

next task was to get the mules back to th



wagons, and bring them on to the river iorder to fill the barrels, and this promisea greater expenditure of time and strengt

han he liked to face. But there was nalternative, it seemed, so he caught mule, mounted it, and rode back. And thmen trailed after him, riding and walking

n a line half a mile long.

Carhart found Young Van sitting up, tooweak to talk, supported by the two me

whom he had sent back.

“How is he?” asked the chief.

“It’s hard to say, Mr. Carhart,” repliedone of the men. “He don’t seem quithimself.”

Carhart dismounted, felt the pulse of th



young man, and then bathed his templewith the warmish water. “Carry him ovento the shade of that wagon, boys,” h

said. “Here, I’ll give you a hand.”

The earth, even beneath the wagon, wawarm, and Carhart and the two laborer

spread out their coats before they laid hidown. The chief poured a little water ohis handkerchief, and laid it on YoungVan’s forehead.

And then, when Carhart had got to his feeand was looking about, holding down hihat-brim to shade his eyes, an expressio

of inquiry, which had come into his facsome little time before, slowly deepened.

“Boys,” he said, “what’s become of th

mules that were left here?”



The men looked up. “Don’t know, MrCarhart,” replied the more talkative one“I ain’t seen ’em.”

Carhart turned away, and again his eyeroved about over the beaten ground. Veryslowly and thoughtfully he began walkin

around the deserted wagons in widenincircles. Those of the men who were bacfrom the river watched him curiouslyAfter a time he stopped and looked a

some tracks in the sand, and then, stilwalking slowly, followed them off to thright. A few of the men, the moreobservant ones, fell in behind him, but h

did not glance around.

The foremost laborer stopped a momenand waited for the man next behind.



“The boss is done up,” he said in a lowvoice.

The other man nodded. “Unsteady in thegs,” he replied. “And he’s gone white. see it when we was at the river.”

The tracks were distinct enough, buCarhart did not quicken his pace. He waalking to himself, half aloud: “It’ll go o

until it’s settled,—those things have to, ou

here. He’s a coward, but he’ll drink idown every day until the idea gets trunning loose in his head.”—He staggerea little, then pulled himself up short.

“What’s the matter with me, anyway!” hmuttered. “This is a pretty spectacle!And he walked deliberately on.



The trail led him, and the quiet little filof men behind him, over and around a lowridge and a chain of knolls. “This hea

keeps a dead rein on you,” he said, agaispeaking half aloud. “Let’s see, what wa

thinking,—oh, the boys at the camp, theneeded water too; I was going to load up

and hurry back to help them out.”

And then, as he walked on with a solemprecision not unlike that of a drunken man

he scene shifted, and another scene—onwhich had long ago slipped out of hiwaking thoughts,—took its place. He wafishing a trout stream in the Adirondacks

He had found a series of pools in narrow gorge where the brook cameaping merrily down from one low ledgo another. The underbrush on the steep



banks was dark and impenetrable. Thpine and hemlock and beech and mapland chestnut trees grew thick on eithe

hand, and so matted their brancheoverhead that only a little checkered lighcould sift through. The rocks were darwith moss; the stream was choked a

certain points with the debris of the lasflood. He was tired after the day’s fishingA storm came up. It grew very black andugly in that little ravine. And then, for noreason, a thing happened which had nohappened in his steady mind before osince. He fell into a curious horror, in

which the tangled wilderness and thgloom and the rushing rain and thcreaking trees and the noise of the fallinwater and that of the thunder all playe

some part. He recalled that he had found



hollow in the bank, where a large tree habeen uprooted, and had taken shiverinrefuge there.

The wilderness had always before seememan’s playground. It suddenly became savage living and breathing thing to whic

a man was nothing.

And now the desert was showing its teethand Carhart knew that he was tremblin

again on the brink of the horrors. Hunderstood the sort of thing very well. Hhad seen men grow crafty and cowardly ougly and murderous out there on th

frontier. He had been in Death ValleyAnd as he had seen the symptoms in othemen’s faces, so he now felt them cominnto his own. He knew how a man’s sens

of proportion can go awry,—how a mer



railroad, with its very important bankerofficials in top hats and its very elaboratand impressive organization, could seem

child’s toy here in the desert where thwonderful spaces and the unearthlatmosphere and the morning and evenincolors lie very close to the borders o

another realm, and where the eye of Goblazes forever down on the just and thunjust.

one of the little devices of sophisticated world pass current in thdesert. Carhart knew all this, as I havsaid, very well. He knew that a man’

mind is searched to the bottom out herehat the morbid tone and the yellow strea

are inevitably dragged to the surface andisplayed to the gaze of all men. But h



also knew that where the mind is soundhe trouble may arise from physica

exhaustion, and this knowledge saved him

He deliberately recalled the fact that fohirty-six hours he had not slept and thahe work he had done and the strain he ha

been under would have sent many men t

he nearest hospital, or, in the desert, tohe nearest shallow excavation in th

ground. And he walked slowly andsteadily on, in that same shaky, determinemanner.

On the summit of a knoll he stopped shortand looked down at something on th

farther side. The men came up, one bone, and joined him; and they, toostopped short and looked. And theCarhart raised his eyes and watched thei



faces steadily, eagerly wondering if thesaw what he saw,—a water-hole, fringedwith green, and a mule lying at the water’

edge and a number of other mules quietlgrazing. It was his test of himself. For full half minute he gazed into thossweaty, drink-bleared faces. And then, a

what he saw there, his own tensexpression gave way to one ooverwhelming relief. The men ran pellmell down the slope, shouting witdelight. And Carhart sat down there on thknoll, and his head fell a little forwarover his knees.

“Will you have a little of this, MrCarhart?”

A big renegade with the face of a crimina

was holding out a flask. The chief took it



and gulped down a few swallows. “Thanyou,” he said quietly.

“One of the boys found this here, dowamong them tin cans, Mr. Carhart.”

t was the crumpled first page of thierrepont Enterprise. Carhart stiffene

up, spread it out on his knees, and read thdate line. The paper was only two dayold.

“Where’s Pierrepont?” he asked.

“About a day’s journey down the riversir.”

Again the chief’s eyes ran over the sheetSuddenly they lighted up. Here is what hsaw:—



GOSSIP OF THE RAILROADS

Commodore Durfee Gets the

“Shaky & Windy”

Mr. De Reamer and Mr.

Chambers in contempt of

Court—Durfee and Carrington

directors allied at



last against De Reamer—It

is said that Durfee already

has a majority—Meeting

to be held nex

will be decid

De Rea

The rest of it was torn off, but he reahese headings three times. Then howered his knees, with the paper stilying across them, and looked over it ahe little group of men and mules about th

water-hole. “Can that be true, or can’t it?

he asked himself. “And what am I going tdo about it? I don’t believe it; it’s anothewar of injunctions, that’s what it is, and isn’t likely to be settled short of th

Supreme Court. We can start back in an



hour or so, and as soon as we reach cam’ll take the five-spot”—Carhart’s two

engines happened to bear the numbers fiv

and six—“the five-spot and the private caand see if Bill Cunningham can’t make record run toward Sherman. It’s a littlpuzzling, but I’m inclined to think it’s

mighty good thing that I found this paper.”

He tossed it away, and then, catching sighfor the first time of the other side, he too

t up again. The second page was nearlcovered with crude designs, made with blue pencil. There were long rows oscallops, and others of those aimles

markings a man will make when penciand paper are before him. And in thmiddle, surrounded by a sort of decorativborder, was printed out “MR



CARHART,” then a blank space and thename “JACK FLAGG.”

Carhart rose to his feet, folded the paperput it in his hip pocket, and lookecheerfully around. “So, Mr. Flagg, it’s you’m indebted to for this information. I’

sure I’m greatly obliged.” Then he waveo the men. “Come on, boys,” he shouted

“Bring those animals back to the wagonsWe’ll fill the barrels here.”

Slowly and not without difficulty hwalked back. But the unsteadiness in hiegs no longer disturbed him. The pani

was over,—and something else was oveoo.





CHAPTER VITHE ROAD TO TOTAL

WRECK

“How’s my pony?” said Young Van. “Youhaven’t told me.”

“I shot him.”

“Not yours too? Didn’t I see you ridinTexas this morning? I—I’m a little hazyabout what I have and haven’t seen thes

days.”

“Yes; Texas pulled through. He’s hitchedon just behind us.”



The wagon train, with every barrel fulwas drawing slowly toward Mr. Carhart’camp. Young Van and Carhart were riding

on the leading wagon, and the former wagazing off dejectedly to the horizon, wherhe could see a few moving black speckand the gray-yellow line of the grade. “

don’t know what you’ll think of me, MrCarhart,” he said, after a time. “I don’seem to be good for much when it comeo real work.”

“Better forget about it, Gus,” the chiereplied. “I’m going to. This isn’t railroabuilding.”

The long line of wagons wound into campand Carhart made it his first business tget his assistant undressed an

comfortably settled on his cot. It would b



a day or so before the young man woulbe able to resume his work. Then Carharstepped out, walked part way down th

knoll, and looked about him, and becamconscious of an unusual stir about the jobPeering out through dusty spectacles, hsaw that a party of strangers were comin

up the slope toward him.

At the head walked Old Van, in boiledshirt and city clothes, with a tall man i

frock coat and top hat whom Carharrecognized as Vice-president ChambersAfter them came a party of ladies and onor two young men to whom Tiffany wa

explaining the methods of construction. Iseemed that Mr. Chambers had thought iworth while to adopt Tiffany’s suggestionhat the vast quantities of dry bones in th



desert be gathered up and shippeeastward to be ground up into fertilizer.

Carhart was presented to Mrs. Chamberand to the two Misses Chambers and thother young women. He took them in wita glance, then looked down over his ow

outrageously attired person and restrainea smile. Tiffany was the one he wished tosee, and he told him so with a barelperceptible motion of the head.

Tiffany caught the signal, made hiexcuses, and walked off with this dustynconspicuous man on whose shoulder

rested the welfare of the whole Shermaand Western system. He had observed thahe young women drew instinctively awa

from the dingy figure, and his smile wa

not restrained. He was thinking of his firs



meeting with Paul Carhart, in Chicago,—iwas at the farewell dinner to the Dutcengineers,—and of his distinguishe

appearance as he rose to speak, and of hidelightfully humorous enumeration of thqualities required in an Americaengineer. Thinking of these things h

almost spoke aloud: “And they neveknew the difference,—not a blessed onof ’em! Even Mrs. Chambers don’t know gentleman without he’s tagged. Ain’t ifunny!” And the chief engineer of the S. &W., being a blunt, and not at all a subtleman, wisely gave up the eternal question.

“Look here, Tiffany,” Carhart began“something’s going to happen to this maPeet.”

Tiffany plucked a straw from a convenien



bale, and began meditatively to chew it. “haven’t got a word to say, CarhartYou’ve got a clear case against us, and

guess I can’t object if you take it out ome.”

“No; I understand the thing pretty wel

Tiffany. You’re doing what you can, buPeet isn’t.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Perfectly.”

“He’s having the devil’s own timehimself, Carhart. The mills are going bac

on us steady with the rails. They jusnaturally don’t ship ’em. I’m beginning think they don’t want to ship ’em.”

Carhart stopped short, plunged in though



“Maybe you’re right,” he said after moment. “I hadn’t thought of that before.”

“No, you oughtn’t to have to think of iThat’s our business, but it’s beenworrying us considerable. Then there’he connections, too. The rails have t

come into Sherman by way of the Queeand Cumberland,—a long way ‘round—”

“And the Queen and Cumberland ha

Commodore Durfee’ written all over it.”“Yes, I guess it has.”

“And knowing that, you fellows have bee

sitting around waiting for the Commodoro deliver your material. No, Tiffany

don’t tell me that; I hate to think it of you.”

“I know we’re a pack of fools, Carhart



but—” the sentence died out. “But whacan we do, man? We can’t draw a newmap of the United States, can we? We’ve

got our orders from the old man—!”







“‘Look here, Tiffany,’ Carhart began,

‘something’s going to happen to this man

Peet.’”

“Could you have the stuff sent around b

he Coast and Crescent, and transferreover to Sherman by wagon?”

“Wait a minute; who owns the Coast andCrescent? Who’s got it all buttoned up ihis pants pocket?”

“Oh,” said Carhart. They stood for a littlwhile, then sat down on a pile of cull

which had been brought up by the tisquad for supporting tent floors. “It begino occur to me,” Carhart went on, “that w

are working under the nerviest presiden



hat ever—But perhaps he can’t help iHe’s fixed pretty much as Washington wan the New Jersey campaign; he’

surrounded by the enemy and he’s got tofight out.”

“That’s it, exactly,” cried Tiffany. “He’s

got to cut his way out. He ain’t a practicarailroad man, and he’s just ordered us todo it for him. Don’t you see our fix?”

“Yes,” Carhart mused, “I see well enoughLook here, Tiffany; how far can I go ihis business,—extra expenses, and tha

sort of things?”

Tiffany’s face became very expressive“Well,” he said, “I guess if you can beahe H. D. & W. to Red Hills there won’

be any questions asked. If you can’t bea



em, we’ll all catch hell. Why, what aryou thinking of doing?”

“Not a thing. My mind’s a blank.”From Tiffany’s expression it was plainhat he was uncertain whether to believhis or not.

“It comes to about this,” Carhart went on“It all rests on me, and if I’m willing trun chances, I might as well run ’em.”

Tiffany’s eyes were searching the leanspectacled face. “I guess it’s for you todecide,” he replied. “I don’t know wha

else Mr. Chambers was thinking of whehe the same as told me to leave you be.”

“By the way, Tiffany,”—Carhart wa

going through his pockets,—“how long i



t since you people left Sherman?”

“More than a week. Mr. Chambers wanted

some shooting on the way out.”“Do you suppose he knows about this?And Carhart produced the torn sheet of th

ierrepont Enterprise.

Tiffany read the headlines, and slowlshook his head. “I’m sure he don’t. Therwas no such story around Sherman whe

we left. But we found a message waitinhere to-day, asking Mr. Chambers to hurryback; very likely it’s about this.”

“If it were true, if Commodore Durfedoes own the line, what effect would ihave on my work here?”

“Not a bit! Not a d—n bit!” Tiffany’s big



hand came down on his knee with a bang“This line belongs to Daniel De Reamerand Old Durfee’s thievery and low trick

and kept judges don’t go at Sherman, ohere neither. It’s jugglery, the wholebusiness; there ain’t anything honest about.” Carhart looked away, and agai

restrained a smile; he was thinking owhere the money came from. “And I’ll telyou this,” Tiffany concluded, “if anybodcomes into my office and tries to takpossession for Old Durfee, I’ll say, ‘Holdon, my friend, who signed that papeyou’ve got there?’ And if I find it ain’

signed by five judges— five, mind!—of thSupreme Court of the United States sittinn Washington, I’ll say, ‘Get out of here!

And if they won’t get out, I’ll kick ’e

out. And there’s five hundred men in



Sherman, a thousand men, who’ll help mo do it. If it’s court business, I guess ouudges are as good as theirs. And if i

comes to shooting, by God we’ll shoot!”

“I agree with you, on the whole,” saiCarhart. “Mr. De Reamer and Mr

Chambers have put me here to beat the HD. & W. to Red Hills, and I’m going to dot. But—”

“That’s the talk, man!”“But let’s get back to Peet. He could helpus a little if he felt like it. You told me lasmonth, Tiffany, that Peet had given you aist of the numbers of all my supply cars

with an understanding that they wouldnbe used for anything else. Have you go

hat list with you?”



“No; it’s in my desk, at Sherman.”

“All right. I’ll call for it day after to

morrow.”“At Sherman?”

“Yes. Peet isn’t sending those cars ou

here, and I’m going to find out where he isending them.”

“There’s one thing, Carhart,” said Tiffany

as they rose, “I’m sure Peet don’t knowhow bad off you were for water. He waholding up the trains for material.”

“He ought to understand, Tiffany. I wiredhim to send the water anyway.”

“I know. But that would be wholesal

murder. He didn’t realize—”



“I’m going to undertake the job of makinhim realize, Tiffany.”

The whistle of the vice-president’special engine was tooting as they starteback. On the one hand, as far as humabeings could be distinguished with th

naked eye, the groups and the long lines oaborers were shuffling to and from thei

work on the grade; the picked men of thron squad, muscular, deep chested, wer

working side by side with the Mexicanand the negroes, as also were the spikerand strappers and the men of the tie squadOn the other hand, the ladies of the vice

president’s party were picking their wadaintily back toward Mr. Chambers’private car, where savory odors and white-clad chef awaited them.



Carhart had time only to wash his face anhands before rejoining the party at the casteps. His clothing was downrigh

disreputable, and he wanted the physiquehe height and breadth and muscle display

which alone can give distinction to rouggarments. Even his clean-cut face an

reserved, studious expression were nopositive features, and could hardlriumph over the obvious facts of hi

dress. Mrs. Chambers and the younwomen again glanced toward him, anagain they had nothing to say to him. Tohe truth that this ugly, noisy scene was

resolving dissonance in the harmony ohings, that this rough person in spectaclewas heroically forging a link in thworld’s girdle, these women were blind

They had been curious to come; and now



hat they were here and were conscious ohe dirtiness and meanness of the hundred

of men about them, now that the gra

hopelessness of the desert was getting oheir nerves, they were eager to go back

And so the bell rang, the driving-wheelspun around, slipping under the coughin

engine, the car began to rumble forwardhe ladies bowed, the vice-presidentaking a last look at things from the rea

platform, nodded a good-by, and thncident was closed.

There were a number of things for Carharo attend to after he had eaten supper an

dressed, and before he could get away,—



some of which will have to find a place ia later chapter,—and it was eleveo’clock at night when he finally put asid

his maps and reports. He then wrote a noto Scribner, telling the engineer of th

second division that the last report of hipile inspector was not satisfactory,—th

hird bent in the trestle over TiffanHollow on “mile fifty-two” showensufficient resistance. He left for Young

Van’s attention a pile of letters withmemoranda for the replies. He sent foOld Van, and went over with him thecondition of the work on the first division

And finally he wrote the following letteo John Flint:—

Dear John: I’m sending forward to-

morrow the extra cable and the



wheelers you asked for. I have to run back to Sherman to-night, possiblyfor a week or so, but there’ll be time

enough to look over your plans for cutting and filling on the west bank when I get back. I haven’t figured itout yet, but I’m inclined to agree with

you that we can make more of a fillthere. But I’ll write you again aboutit.

Thanks to our friend Peet I nearlykilled Texas on a ride for water. Gotto have another riding horse sent outhere. My assistant’s pony had to be

shot—that little brown beauty I pointed out to you the morning youstarted, with the white star.

Yours,



P. C.

P. S. By the way, that Wall-street

fight was only the opening skirmish.The Commodore is raiding S. & W.for business. I guess you know howhe does these things. The Pierrepont

Enterprise says he has already gotcontrol of the board, so it will

probably be our turn next. If youhaven’t plenty of weapons, you’d

better order what you need at RedHills right away. And don’t forgetthat you’re working for Daniel DeReamer.

P. C.

He folded the letter, slipped it into an

envelope, addressed it, and then tippe



back and ran his long fingers through hihair. He was surprised to find that hiforehead was beaded with sweat. “Lovel

climate, this,” he said to himself; addinafter a moment, “Now what have forgotten?” For several minutes hbalanced there, supporting himself b

resting the fingers of one hand against all case labelled, “A B C Spool Cotton,n the flat, glass-fronted drawers of whic

he kept his maps and papers. Finally hmuttered, “Well, if I have forgottenanything, I’ve forgotten it for good,” anhe front legs of his chair came down, an

he reached across the table for his hat.But instead of rising, he lingeredfingering the wide hat-brim. The yellowamplight fell gently on his face, now



eaner than ever. “I wonder what thehink a man is made of,” thought he

“Nothing very valuable, I guess, fro

what an engineer gets paid. I’m in thwrong business. It’s my sort of man whodoes the work, and it’s the speculators anhat sort who get the money,—God help

em!” Again he made as if to rise, andagain he paused. “Oh!” he said, “ocourse, that was it.” He clapped his hat ohe back of his head, reached out for etter which he had that evening written t

Mrs. Carhart, opened the envelope, anadded these words:—

“Have Thomas Nelson plant thenasturtiums along the back fence.There isn’t enough sunshine out in

front for anything but the honeysuckle



and the Dutchman’s pipe. And he’d better screen the fence with goldenglow, set out pretty thick the whole

way, between the nasturtiums and thefence. The crab-apple tree will be inthe way, but it’s so near dead thathe’d better cut it down. I like your

other arrangements first rate.”

This, and a few other east-bound lettershe put in his handbag. Then he looked a

his watch. “Hello!” said he, “it’s tomorrow morning.” He pulled his haforward, took up the lamp, and steppeout through the tent opening, holding thamp high and looking down, through th

night, toward the track.

The silence, in spite of a throbbin



ocomotive, or perhaps because of it, waalmost overwhelming. There was not cloud in the sky; the stars were twinklin

down.

“How horribly patient it is,” he though“We’re slap bang up against the

Almighty.”

“Toot! Too-oo-oot!” came from thehrobbing locomotive.

“All right, sir!” he muttered. “Be with yon a minute.”

He went back into the tent, put down th

amp, picked up his handbag, took a lasook around, and then blew out the lam

and set off down the slope to the track.

The engineer was hanging out of his cab



“All ready, Mr. Carhart?”

“All ready, Bill.” The chief caught th

hand-rail of his private car, tossed his bao the platform, and swung himself up aftet.

“You was in something of a hurry, MrCarhart?”

“In a little of a hurry, yes, Bill.”

They started off, rocking and bumpinover the new track, and Carhart begastripping off his clothes. “It isn’t exactlike Mr. Chambers’s,” he said, “but

guess I’ll be able to get in a little sleephat is, if Bill doesn’t smash me up, or jol

me to death.”



Three days later, at five o’clock in th

afternoon, Carhart was writing a letter ihe office of the “Eagle House,” a

Sherman. Sitting in rows along three sideof the room was perhaps a score of men

and in a corner by herself sat one younwoman. The men were a mixeassortment,—locomotive engineersphotographers, travelling salesmen o

obacco, jewellery, shoes, clothing, andsmall cutlery, not to speak of an itinerandentist and a team of “champion banjo anvocal artists.” As for the young woman, iyou could have taken a peep into thsample case at her feet, you would havearned that she was prepared t

disseminate a collection of literatur



which ranged from standard sets oDickens and Thackeray to a fat volumdevoted to the songs and scenes of Ol

reland, an illustrated life of the Pope, ana work on the character and the splendicareer of Porfirio Diaz. Outside, at thwindow, stood or sat another score o

men, each of whom bore the unmistakabldress and manner of the day laborer. Andevery pair of eyes, within and without thsmoky room, was fixed on the back of thman who was writing a letter at the tabln the corner.

But Carhart’s mind was wholly occupied

with the work before him. He was travelstained,—it was not yet an hour since hhad come in from Crockett, the nearesdivision town on the H. D. & W.,—bu



here were few signs of weariness on hiface, and none at all in his eyes. “Howmuch had I better tell him?” he was askin

himself. “I wonder what he is up toanyway? Possibly he has an interest in thumber company, or maybe Durfee’s men

have bought him up.” For several minute

his pen occupied itself with dotting out design on the blotter; then suddenly winkle came into his eyes, and he wrot

rapidly as follows:—

Dear Mr. Peet: I beg to encloseherewith a list of the cars whichwere assigned to me at the beginningof the construction work. I am sureyou will agree with me that I canspare none of these cars, least of all

to supply a rival line. And in



consideration of your future heartycooperation with me in advancingthis construction work, I will gladly

take pains to see that my presentknowledge of the use that has beenmade of these cars shall not interferein any way with your continued

enjoyment of your position with theSherman and Western.

Yours very truly,

P. Carhart.

He folded the letter, then opened it and

read it over. “Yes,” he told himself, “it’sbetter to write it. Seeing the thing beforhim in black and white may have stimulating effect.” He found in his pocke

he worn and thumbed list of cars



enclosed it in his letter, addressed aenvelope, and looked around. At once hwas beset by the agents and the applicant

for work, but he shoved through to thpiazza, and called a boy.

“Here, son,” he said, “do you know Mr

Peet, of the railroad?”

The boy nodded.

“Take this letter to him. If he isn’t in hi

office, go to his house, but don’t comback until you have found him.”

“Will there be any answer?”

“No—no answer. Don’t give the letter toanybody but Mr. Peet himself. When yohave done that, come to me and get

quarter.”



The boy started off, and Carhart reënterehe building, slipped past the office door

and walked up two flights of stairs to hi

room.

“And now,” thought he, “I guess a batwill feel about as good as anything.”

The Eagle House did not boast bathroom, and so he set about the businesn the primitive fashion to which he ha

earned to adapt himself. He dragged ifrom the hall a tin, high-backed tub, calledown the stairway to the proprietor’s wiffor hot water, and, undressing, piled hi

clothes on the one wooden chair in throom, taking care that they touched neithefloor nor wall. The hostess knocked, aneft a steaming pitcher outside the door

And soon the chief engineer of the Re



Hills extension of the Shaky and Windwas splashing merrily.

The water proved so refreshing that hingered in it, leaning comfortably bacand hanging his legs over the edge of thub. And as was always the case, when h

had a respite from details, his mind begaroving over the broader problems of thwork. “I’ve done a part of it,” he said thimself, “but not enough. It won’t do an

good to have the cars if we haven’t thmaterials to put in ’em.” He had beeabsently pursuing the soap around thbottom of the tub, had caught it, and wa

now sloping his hands into the water, andetting the cake slide back into its element

There was a knock at the door. Carhar

ooked up with half a start.



“Well, what is it?”

“It’s me, sir,” came from the hall.

“Who’s me?”

“The boy that took your letter.”

“Well, what about it? There was noanswer.”

“But there is an answer, Mr. Carhart. Mr

Peet came back with me.”“What’s that?”

“He’s here—he came back with me. He’

waiting downstairs.”

Carhart hesitated. “Well—tell him tha’m very sorry, but I can’t see him. I’

aking a bath.”



“All right,” said the boy; and Carharheard him go off down the stairs.

For some little time longer he sat in thub. His mind slipped again into thaccustomed channel. “If it does come twarfare,” he was thinking, “the first thin

hey’ll do will be to cut me off from mbase. They’d know that I shall be neaenough to Red Hills to get food througfrom there by wagon,—that’s what

should have to do,—but there won’t bany rails coming from Red Hills. I’afraid—very much afraid—that Durfehas got us, cold. That’s the whole trick. I

he’s going to seize the S. & W., he’ll cume off first thing. There’s five to sihundred miles of track between the joband Sherman. It would take an army t



guard it. And that much done, he’d be in position to take his time about completinhe H. D. & W. to Red Hills.”

And then suddenly he got out of the tubsnatched up a towel, and, half dry, begahurriedly to draw on his clothes. A

moment later a thin, spectacled, collarlesman darted out of a room on the third flooof the Eagle House, looked quickly up andown the hall, ran halfway down th

stairs, and leaned over the balustrade.

“Boy,” he said.

“Yes, sir.”

“You didn’t get your quarter.” But it was half dollar that he tossed into the waitinhands. “Run after Mr. Peet and bring hi



back here. Mind you catch him.”

The boy started to obey, but in a momen

he was back and knocking at Carhart’door. “He’s down in the office now, MrCarhart. He didn’t go at all.”

“He didn’t, eh?” The engineer wastanding before the cracked mirrorbrushing his hair. “All right, I’ll be down a minute. Hold on there!” He stepped t

he door. The first coin his fingerencountered in his pocket was another haldollar. He took it out without glancing at iand handed it to the now bewildered boy

Then he returned to the mirror and brushehis hair again, and put on his collar anie. “I’ll have to thank Tiffany,” ran hihoughts. “It’s odd how that car-stealin

story has stuck in my head. I’m glad h



old it.”

Peet’s expression was not what might b

ermed complacent. He was standing ohe piazza when he heard Carhart’s quicstep on the stairs. His teeth were closeightly on a cigar, but he was not smoking

“How are you, Mr. Peet?” said thengineer. Peet looked nervously about andbehind him, and then faced around. “Loo

here, Mr. Carhart, I want to tell you thayou haven’t got that straight—”

“Where’s Tiffany?” said Carhart.

At this interruption Peet turned, ianything, a shade redder. “He’s gonehome.”

“Let’s find him. Would you mind walking



over there?”

“Certainly not,” Peet replied; and for

moment they walked in silence. Then thsuperintendent broke out again. “Youdidn’t understand about those cars, MrCarhart. I know—the boys have told me—

hat you’ve thought some hard things aboume—” He paused: perhaps he had bettekeep his mouth shut.

As for Carhart, he was striding easilalong, the hint of a smile playing about thcorners of his mouth. “I think I understanhe situation pretty well, Peet,” he said. “

was a little stirred up when my men begao go thirsty, but that’s all past, and I’m

going to drop it. I guess we botunderstand that this construction is th

most important thing Mr. De Reamer ha



on hand these days. And if we’re going tocarry him through, we’ll have to pulogether.”

They found Tiffany, coat thrown aside, haipped back, weeding his garden.

“Come in—glad to see you,” he said, onlhalf concealing his curiosity over thspectacle of Carhart and Peet walkinogether in amity. “Didn’t succeed i

getting back, eh, Carhart?”“Not yet, Tiffany. I had to run up toCrockett.” He said this in an offhanmanner, and he did not look at Peet; but hknew from the expression on Tiffany’face that the superintendent was turninred again.





questions, but he wondered. Once hhought that Peet threw him an inquirin

glance, but he could not be certain. Afte

supper, as he reached for the toothpickand pushed back his chair, he was temptedo come out with the question which wa

on his mind, “What in the devil are you up

o, Carhart?” But what he really said was“Help yourselves to the cigars, boysThey’re in that jar, there.”

And then, for a moment, both Peet anTiffany sat back and watched Carharwhile he lighted his cigar, turned it ovehoughtfully, shook the match, and droppe

t with a little sputter into his coffee cupThen the man who was building the ReHills extension got, with somdeliberation, to his feet, and turned towar



Tiffany. “Would it spoil your smoke toake it while we walk?” he asked.

“Not at all,” replied the host. “Where arwe going?”

“To the yards.”

Peet, for no reason whatever, went redagain; and Tiffany, tipped back in hichair and slowly puffing at his cigarooked at him. Then he too got up, and th

hree men left the house together. Andduring all the walk out to the freight depoCarhart talked about the new saddle-horshe had bought at Crockett.

The freight yard at Sherman extendenearly a mile, beginning with the siding bhe depot and expanding farther on to th



width of a dozen tracks. Carhart came to halt at the point where the tangle oswitches began, and looked about him

Everywhere he saw cars, some ladensome empty. A fussy little engine wascoughing down the track, whistling angrilat a sow and her litter of spotted, muddy

yellow pigs which had been sleeping in row between the rails. From throundhouse, off to the left, arose thsmoke of five or six resting locomotives

earer at hand, seated in a row on thhandle of the turn-table, were as manblack negroes, laughing and showing thei

eeth and eyeballs, and discussing witmuch gesticulation and some amiable heahe question of the day. Carhart’

sweeping glance took in the scene, the

his interest centred on the cars.



Peet fidgeted. “There ain’t any of youcars here, Mr. Carhart,” he said uneasily.

Already Carhart knew better, but he wanot here to squabble with Peet. “Howmany have you here all together?” hasked; and after a moment of rapi

counting he answered his own question“Something more than a hundred, eh?”

“Yes, but—”

“Well, what?”

“Look here, Carhart, I don’t know whayou’ve got in mind, but I can’t let you hav

any of these cars.”

“You can’t?”

“Not possibly. Half of ’em are foreign a



t is. I’m so short now I don’t know wha’m going to do. Honest, I don’t.”

Carhart turned this answer over in himind. After a moment he looked up, firsat Peet, then at Tiffany, as if he hadsomething to say; but whatever it ma

have been, he turned away without sayint.

“What is it, old man?” cried Tiffany, a

ast. “What can we do for you, anyway?”Still Carhart did not speak. His eyes agaisought the long lines of cars. Finallyresting one foot on a projecting cross-tiehe turned to the superintendent. “Supposyou do this, Peet,” he said, speakinslowly; “suppose you tell your yard

master that I am to be absolute boss her



until midnight. Then you go home aneave me here. Tiffany could stay and help

me out—this isn’t his department.”

This brought Peet close to the outer limiof bewilderment. “What in—” he beganbut Carhart, observing the effect of hi

request, interrupted.

“I don’t believe Mr. Peet understands thsituation very well, Tiffany. Tell him

where we stand—where Mr. De Reamestands.” And with this he walked off ittle way.

Tiffany came to the point. To Peet’squestion, “What is he talking abouTiffany?” the veteran replied: “He knowand I know, Lou, that the only thing tha

will save the old man is a track to Re



Hills. I haven’t the slightest idea whaCarhart’s up to, but I’ll tell you this, I’vseen him in one or two tight places, and

never saw him look like this before. He’got something he wants to do, and he’decided that it’s necessary, and it ain’t foyou and me to stand in his way. When you

come to know Paul Carhart, you’ll learhat he don’t do things careless. What d

you suppose the Old Man meant when hold you to back him up to the limit wit

cars and engines, and told me to keep ouof his way?”

Peet did not reply for a moment. He too

off his hat and brushed back the hair froa forehead that was moist with sweat. Hooked from one man to the other, and

from both to the roundhouse, and th



depot, and the waiting cars. Finally hwalked over toward Carhart. “Go ahead,he said queerly, “I’ll stay with you.”

“Good enough.” And with these twowords Carhart wheeled around ansurveyed the nearest line of cars—box

flat, and gondola. “Most of those arempty, aren’t they?” he asked.

“About half of them. But here’

Dougherty, the yard-master. Doughertyhis is Mr. Carhart. You can take yourorders from him to-night.”

Carhart extended his hand. “Glad to meeyou, Mr. Dougherty. I’m afraid we’ll alhave to make a night of it. I want you tkeep steam up in three engines. And pic

up all the men you can find and start the



unloading every car in the yard. Keep ’eumping. I want to have three empty train

at Paradise by midnight.”

“By mid—” Dougherty’s mouth opened very little, and his eyes, after taking iPaul Carhart’s face and figure, settled o

he superintendent.

But Peet, with an expressive movement ohis hands, turned away; and Tiffany, afte

a glance about the little group, went aftehim.

“Brace up, Lou,” said Tiffany, in a lowvoice; “brace up.”

Peet’s hands were deep in his pocketsHis eyes were fixed on the rails beforhim. “Dump all that freight on the ground!



he moaned. “Look here, Tiffany, I supposehe knows what he’s doing, but—buwhat’ll the traffic men say!”

“Never you mind the traffic men.”

“But—dump all that freight out here o

he ground !”

Tiffany passed an unsteady hand acroshis eyes. If Peet had looked at him, hwould not have felt reassured; but he di

not look up.

Dougherty, with a gulp, obeyed CarhartAnd half an hour later the chanc

observers and the yard loafers werrubbing their eyes. Laborers were busfrom one end of the yard to the otherhrowing out boxes and bales and crates



and piling them haphazard between thracks. The tired, wheezy switch engine

enveloped in a cloud of its own steam

was laboriously making up the first trainAnd moving quietly about, issuing orderand giving a hand here and there, followeby the disturbed eyes of the genera

superintendent and the chief engineer ohe Shaky and Windy, Paul Carhart wa

bossing the work. Once he stepped over the two men of the disturbed eyes, houghtful expression on his own face

“Say, Tiffany,” he asked, “how muchbusiness does the Paradise Southern do?”

Tiffany started, and looked keenly aCarhart. There was a faint glimmer in hieyes, but this was followed immediatelby uncertainty. “None,” he replied; “tha



s, none to speak of. They run combination car each way every day—wo cars when business is brisk. The Ol

Man would have abandoned it years ago it hadn’t been for the stock scheme I tol

you about.”

“Yes,” mused Carhart, “that’s what understood. But if it’s such a mistake, whwas it built in the first place?”

“Oh, they were going to run it through tBonavita on the Emerald River, but the B& G. got all there was of that businesfirst, and so the P. S. never got beyond

Total Wreck. Mr. De Reamer never built. The old Shipleigh crowd did tha

before Mr. De Reamer bought up thiproperty.” The faint glimmer had returned

o Tiffany’s eyes; he was searching





“Nearly two miles each.”

“How long is the line?”

“Forty-five miles.”

“Good Lord!” The exclamation waTiffany’s. He was staring at Carhart with

an expression of such mingleastonishment, incredulity, and expansivdelight, that Peet’s curiosity broke itbounds. “For God’s sake, Tiffany,” he

cried, “what is it? What’s he going todo?”

But Tiffany did not hear. He was gazing a

Paul Carhart, saying incoherent things thim, and bringing down a heavy hand ohis shoulder. He was somewhat frightened—never before, even in his own emphati



ife, had his routine notions received suca wrench—but his eyes were shining“Lord! Lord!” he was saying, “but there’l

be swearing in Sherman to-morrow.”

“The time has come when I ought to knowwhat”—this from the purple Peet.

“Don’t ask him, Lou,” cried Tiffany“don’t ask him. If we smash, it won’t byour fault. Ain’t that right, Paul?”

“Yes,” replied Carhart, “it is just rightDon’t ask any questions, Peet, and don’give me away. I don’t want any swearinn Sherman to-morrow. I don’t want

whisper of this to get out for a week—nofor a month if we can keep it under.”

Tiffany quieted down; grew thoughtful. “I



will take a lot of men, Paul. How can yoprevent a leak?”

“I’m going to take them all West with meafterward.”

“I see. That’s right—that’s right! And thestation agents and train crews answitchmen—yes, I see. You’ll take ’emall.”

“Every man,” replied Carhart, quietly.

“If necessary, you’ll take ’em undeguard.”

Carhart smiled a very little. “Inecessary,” he replied.

“You’ll want some good men,” mused

Tiffany. “I’ll tell you,—suppose you leave



hat part of it to me. It’s now,—let’s see—seven-forty. It won’t be any use startinyour first train until you’ve got the men t

do the work. I’ll need a little time, but iyou’ll give me an hour and half to twhours, say until nine-thirty, I’ll have yououtfit ready. I’ll send some of m

assistants along with you, and a bunch oour brakemen and switchmen. There’ll bhe commissariat to look out for too,—yo

see to all that, Lou, will you?”

Peet inclined his head. “For how manmen?” he asked.

“Oh, five hundred, anyway, before we gehrough with it.” Nothing could surprishe superintendent now. He merel

nodded.



“And rifles,” Tiffany added. “You’ll wana case of ’em.”

“No,” said Carhart, “I shan’t need anrifles for the P. S., but I want five hundredmore at the end of the track, and, say tehousand rounds of ball cartridges. Wil

you see to that, Peet?”

The superintendent grunted out, “Who’paying for all this?” and then as neither o

he others took the trouble to reply, hsubsided.

“All right, then,” said Tiffany. “I’ll haveyour crew here—enough for the first trainanyhow. You can trust to picking up fiftyor a hundred laborers in the neighborhooof Paradise. See you later.” And with this

he chief engineer took his big perso



away at a rapid walk.

Carhart turned to Peet and extended hi

hand. Dusk was falling. The headlights ohe locomotives threw their yellow beamup the yard. Switch lights were shininred and white, and lanterns, in the hand

of shadowy figures, were bobbing herand there. There was a great racket abouhem of bumping cars and squeakin

brakes, and of shouting and the blowin

off of locomotives. “I don’t blame you fohinking that everything’s going to th

devil, Peet,” said Carhart. “But I don’believe they’ve let you in on the situation

f I’m running risks, it’s because we’vgot to run risks.”

Peet hesitated, then accepted the proffere

hand. “I suppose it’s all right,” he replied



“Tiffany seems to agree with you, and hgenerally knows what he’s about. But—he paused. They were standing by a heap

of merchandise. The heap was capped ba dozen crates of chickens whichawakened from their sleep, were flutterinabout within their narrow coop an

clucking angrily. He waved his hand“Think of what this means to oubusiness,” he said.

Carhart listened for a moment, then lookeback to Peet. “If I were sure it woulcome to nothing worse than a slighdisarrangement of your business, I’d slee

easy to-night.”

“It’s as bad as that, is it?”

“Yes,” Carhart replied, “it’s as bad as



hat. If I lose, no matter how the fight ihe board turns out, you know what it wil

mean—no more De Reamer and Chamber

men on the S. & W. Every De Reamefireman and brakeman will go. It’ll be ong vacation for the bunch of you.”

Peet was silent. And then, standing therwhere he had so often and so heedlesslstood before, his sordid, moderatelcapable mind was torn unexpectedly loos

from its well-worn grooves and throwout to drift on a tossing sea of emotion anof romantic adventure. The breathlessnesof the scene was borne in on hi

consciousness on a wave that almost tooaway his breath. Carhart was the sort oman whom he could not understand at alHe knew this now, or something nea



enough to it, clear down to the bottom ohis subconscious self. And when he turnedand looked at the thin man of the masterfu

hand, it was with a change of manner. “Alright,” he said, “go ahead. Just say whayou want me to do.”

At five minutes to ten that night ocomotive lay, the steam roaring i

clouds through her safety valve, on thsiding by the freight depot; and stretchin

off behind her was a long string oempties. Carhart, Tiffany, and Peetwalking up alongside the train, couldistinguish, through the dark, men sittin

on brake wheels, or swinging their legout of box-car doors or standing in groupn the gondola cars. Once, during a brieull in the noise of the yard, they heard



gentle snore which was issuing from thdark recesses of one of the box-cars. Thhree men halted beside the locomotive.

“You’d better go, Paul,” said Tiffany.

Carhart looked at Peet. “I’ll rely on you tkeep things coming,” he said.

“Go ahead,” replied the superintenden“I’ll have the three trains and all the meat Paradise before morning.”

“And we’ll look out for the commissariaoo, Paul,” added Tiffany.

“All right,” said Carhart. “But there’another thing, Peet. I haven’t cars enougyet. As soon as enough come in to make upanother train, send it out to me.”



“That’ll be sometime to-morrowafternoon, likely,” Peet replied soberly.

Carhart nodded, shook hands with the twmen, and mounted to the engine.

“Go ahead,” said Peet. “You’ve got aclear track.”

The whistle blew. Somewhere back in thnight a speck of light swung up in quarter circle. The engineer opened hi

hrottle.

“Bong Voyage to the Paradise Unlimited!”said Tiffany.

Carhart was not surprised, when the thir



rain rolled into Paradise on thafollowing morning, to see Tiffandescending from the caboose. Betwee

hem they lost no time in completing thpreparations for the journey down to TotaWreck. Of the two regular trains on thine, No. 3, southbound, was held a

Paradise, and the lone passenger wacarried down on Carhart’s train; thnorthbound train, No. 4, was stopped aDusty Bend.

Then for a time a series of remarkablscenes took place along the right of way ohe Paradise Southern. Men by th

hundred, all seemingly bent odestruction, swarmed over the line anore it to pieces. Trains ran north and wesaden with rusty old rails, switches



ancient cross-ties of questionabldurability, with everything, as Carhart hadordered, excepting the sand and cla

ballast.

“Some poor devils lost their little fortunen the old P. S.” said Tiffany, on the firs

morning, as the two engineers stooooking at the work of ruin. “I sort of hato see it go.”

Carhart himself went West on the firsrain, leaving Tiffany to carry the worhrough. He was satisfied that everythin

would from now on work smoothly a

Paradise and Sherman, and he knew thanot a man of those on the work would slihrough Tiffany’s fingers to bear tale

back to civilization of the wild doings o

he frontier. At Sherman they said tha



owing to insufficient business the P. Srains would be discontinued for a time

and no one was surprised at the news. Fa

off in New York, in the Broad Streeoffice of Daniel De Reamer, it was somime before they knew anything about i

The little world was rolling on. Men wer

clasping hands, buying and selling, knifinand shooting. Durfee’s plans wermarching forward, as his plans had a waof doing. De Reamer’s mind was coilinand uncoiling in its subterranean depthsGeneral Carrington was talking about hunting trip into the mountains with pack

animals and good company and manymany bottles.

Yes, the world was rolling on about ausual; but the Paradise Southern was n



more. Forty-five miles of grade, trampledie-marked; a few dismantled sheds whic

had once been known as stations; a lonel

row of telegraph poles stretching from onbleak horizon to another; a ricketroundhouse or two: this was all that waeft of a railroad: this, and a long memor

of disaster, and an excited ranchman aTotal Wreck who was telegraphing hotlyo his lawyer.



CHAPTER VIITHE SPIRIT OF THE JOB

n order to make plain what was takin

place at the main camp during Carhart’absence, we must go back to that eveninduring which so many things had come uo be disposed of before the chief coul

eave for Sherman and Crockett anParadise. To begin with, Dimond cameriding in at dusk with a canteen of cleawater which he laid on the table abou

which the engineers were sitting. ToCarhart, when he had unscrewed the caand taken a deep draught, it tasted likApollinaris. “First rate!” he exclaimed



“first rate!” Then he passed it to Old Vanwho smacked his lips over it.

“Where did he find this?” Carhart asked.“Eighteen or twenty miles ahead.”

“Plenty of it?”

“He thinks so,” he says, “but he’s gone oo find more.”

“Are the Apaches bothering him?”“We’ve had a pop at ’em now and thenHe says he hopes to have some beadworfor you when he sees you again. Therwas one fellow came too near one nightand Mr. Scribner hit him, but the othercarried him off before we could get th

beads. He sent me back to guide th



wagons to the well if you want to senem.”

“Well,” said Carhart, when Dimond hadgone, “we have water now, anyway. Thenext question is about these thieves. Yousay that five animals were stolen while

was away. When the first roads wenhrough, they had regular troops to guarhe work, and I don’t know that we camprove on the plan. I’ll look the matte

up when I get to Sherman.”

But an hour later, when he left his divisioengineer and stepped outside for a las

ook at “Texas,” he found Charlie hangingabout near the stable tent. The cooapproached him, and made it awkwardlbut firmly plain that he had heard a rumo

o the effect that Mr. Carhart was going to



Sherman for regular troops, and that, if thrumor were true, he, Charlie, wouleave.

o questions were necessary, for Carharhad never thought Jack Flagg the onldeserter in camp. He mused a moment

hen he looked up thoughtfully at the taloose-jointed, but well-set-up figure of th

cook. “Do you know anything aboumilitary drill and sentry duties?” he aske

abruptly.

Charlie, taken aback, hesitated.

“Never mind answering. We’ll say thayou do. Now, if I were to put you incharge of the business, give you all thmen and rifles you need, could yo

guarantee to guard this camp?”



Charlie’s face wore a curious mixture oexpressions.

“Well, speak up.”“I rather guess I could.”

“I can depend on you, can I?”

“You won’t get the regulars, then?”

“No, I won’t get them.”

“Then you can depend on me.”

“I want you to get about it this morningMr. Gus Vandervelt will give you

everything you need. Make the watcheshort and distribute them among a goomany of the men, so that nobody will bworked too hard.”



Carhart passed on, and let himself into thcovered enclosure where his horse lasick. It was a quarter of an hour before h

returned to the headquarters tent, to finVandervelt standing in silence at the tableApparently he had risen to leave, and hapaused at the sound of a step outside

Standing for a moment at the tent entranceCarhart’s eyes took on the curiouexpression which the sight of the elder ohe oddly assorted brothers frequentl

aroused there. The lamplight threwupward shadows on Old Van’s face anddeepened the gloom about his eyes. A

moment and Carhart, sobering, steppenside. Certain memories of Old Van’strange career came floating through hihoughts. It was probably the last time the

would be thrown together. Considerin



everything, he would not again feel likchoosing him for an assistant. Yet headmired Old Van’s strong qualities, and—

he was sorry, very sorry.

“Van,” he said, “I’ve changed my mindabout the troops. I’ve told Charlie, th

cook, to organize an effective system oguards at night, and I’ve told him, too, thahe will take his orders from Gus.”

Vandervelt stood motionless, looking ahis man who had risen to be his chief, anhis color slowly turned from bronze tred.

“From Gus, eh?” he said with a slighhuskiness.

“Yes,” replied Carhart, steadily, “from



Gus. He will represent me while I agone. It will be only a day or so beforhe’ll be around.”

Old Van might have answered roughlynstead he dropped his eyes. But Carhart’

unpleasant duty was not yet done.

“One thing more, Van,” he said, lookingquietly at the older man, but unable tconceal a certain tension in his speech

“are you carrying a gun?”There was a long silence. Every one of thfaint evening camp sounds fell loud oheir ears. A puff of wind shook the ten

flaps and stirred the papers on the tableThe lamp flickered. Very slowly, withouooking up, Old Van reached back to hi

hip pocket, drew out a revolver, laid it o



he table,—laid it, oddly enough, on copy of the Book of Common Prayewhich was acting as a paperweight, an

eft the tent and went off down the gradeAnd for some time after his footfalls hadied away Carhart sat with elbows oable, chin on hands, looking at th

weapon.

Paul Carhart was gone. It would probablbe a week to ten days before he would bable to get back to the track-end. And with

him had gone the spirit of the work, thvitality and dash which had worked out amoments through the assistants and thmen in a stirring sense of achievement



which had given to each young engineeand engineer’s assistant a touch of thglow of creating something, which ha

made this ugly scene almost beautifuThat steam-leaking locomotive and tharattle-trap of a “private car,” bearing thchief away into the dawn, left a sense o

depression behind it. By noon of thfollowing day, Old Van was growingnoticeably morose. By mid-afternooevery man of the thousand felt thdifference. Before supper time the heahe gloom, the loneliness of the desert, th

sense of a dead pull on the work, th

queer thought that there was no such placas Red Hills anywhere on the map, anhat even if there were, the wester

extension of the Shaky and Windy would

never reach it, these thoughts were preyin



on them, particularly on Young Van, whowas up and at work soon after noon.

Through the second day it was worseYoung Van made stout efforts to throwmore energy into his work, and then, iooking back on these efforts, recognize

n them a confession of weakness. PauCarhart never seemed to drive as he habeen driving,—his work was always thsame. In this frame of mind the young man

at evening, mounted a hummock to survewhat had been accomplished during thday. But to his altered eyes the track wano longer a link in the world’s girdle; i

was only a thin line of dirt and wood ansteel, on which a thousand dispirited mehad been toiling.

Later he saw Charlie bringing the wagon



nto corral. He heard his brother orderinhe cook sharply about, and he noted how

doggedly the orders were obeyed. Then

finally, having laid out the details of thmorrow’s work and smoked aunresponsive cigarette or two, he went tsleep.

Old Van sat up later. And Charlie sat upater still, nearly all night in fact. He foun

a comfortable lounging place nea

Dimond’s post, in the shadow of the emptrain. The grade was here slightl

elevated, and, lying on one elbow, hcould survey the camp. Now and then h

made the rounds, looking after the halfdozen sentries whom he had posted oknolls outside the wide circle of tents anwagons, making sure that there was n



drinking and that his men were advised ao their duties and responsibilities

Between trips he lay back, surrounded b

a number of wide-awake laborers, anistened while Dimond recited th

prowess of their chief. It was vercomfortable there, stretched out upon th

newly turned earth. The camp was verquiet. Only a few lights twinkled here anhere, and it was not very late when thes

went out, one by one.

“I heard Mr. Scribner telling, the otheday,” said Dimond, “how the boss run upagainst a farmer with a shotgun when h

was running the line for the M. T. S. MrScribner was a boy then, carrying stakefor him. There was quite a bunch of ’embut nobody had a gun. They come out of



piece of woods on to the road, and therhey see the farmer standing just inside hi

stump fence with the two barrels of hi

shotgun resting on the top of one of thstumps. Mr. Scribner says the old fellowwas that excited he hollered so they coula’ heard ’im half a mile off. ‘Don’t you

dare cross the line of my property!’ heyells. ‘The first man that crosses the linof my property’s a dead man!’ They alstopped, Mr. Scribner says, for they didn’any of ’em feel particularly like taking in barrel or so of buckshot. But Mr. Carharwasn’t ever very easy to stop. He jus

ooked at the fellow a minute, and then hwent right for him. ‘Look out!’ the manyells. ‘You cross the line of my propertyand you’re a dead man!’ But Mr. Carhar

went right on over the fence. ‘That’s al



right,’ says he, ‘but you can’t get awaywith more’n one or two of us, and there’lbe enough left to hang you up to that tre

over there.’ And the next thing they knewMr. Scribner says, Mr. Carhart had tookhe shotgun right out of the farmer’

hands.”

Dimond had other stories. “I guess therain’t nobody ever found it easy to gearound him. Once when he was a ki

surveyor, before he went North, they senhim over into southern Texas to look up anold piece of property. There was a fellowclaimed a lot of land that really run ove

on to this property. Mr. Carhart figured iout that the fellow was lying, but he knewt was going to be hard to prove it. Th

old marks of the corners were all gone—



here wasn’t a soul living who had eveseen ’em. It was an old Spanish grant, MrScribner says, and the Spanish surveyor

had just blazed trees to mark the linesWell, sir, would you believe it, MrCarhart worked out the place where thicorner ought ‘o be, cut down an old ceda

ree that stood there, sawed it up intengths before witnesses, found the blaz

mark all grown over with bark, and toohe piece of log right into court an

proved it. No, I guess it wouldn’t be snfernal easy to get ahead o’ Mr. Carhart.”

“That’s all right,” observed one of th

aborers, “if you’re working for MrCarhart. But s’pose you ain’t—s’posyou’re workin’ for Mr. Vandervelt?”

“Oh, well, of course,” Dimond replied



“Mr. Vandervelt’s different. He ain’nowhere near the man Mr. Carhart is.”

Charlie took in this comment quietly, buwith less than the usual good nature in hiblue eyes.

“I don’t care how decent the boss is,continued the laborer, “if I have to have mean old he-devil cussin’ at me from sixo six, and half the night besides

sometimes.”Dimond grew reflective. “I know abouMr. Vandervelt,” he said meditatively“You see, boys, it was sort o’ lonely upahead there boring for water, and MrScribner and me we got pretty welacquainted.” Dimond was endeavoring t

conceal the slight superiority over thes



men of which he could not but bconscious. “It’s a queer case,” he went on“Mr. Vandervelt’s case. I know about it

t’s his temper, you see. That’s what’skep’ ’im back,—that’s why he’s only adivision engineer to-day.”

“Keep quiet, boys,” broke in the laborerwith a sneer. “Dimond knows about itHe’s tellin’ us the news. Mr. Vandervelt’sgot a temper, he says.”

Dimond was above a retort. “I can telyou,” he said. “Mr. Scribner give me thfacts.” (In justice to Harry Scribner i

should be mentioned that he had tolDimond nothing whatever concerning thpersonal attributes of his colleague.“When Mr. Vandervelt gets mad, he

shoots. He don’t have to be drunk, neither



or in a fight, or frolicking careless withe boys. He shot a waiter in the Harpe

restaurant at Flemington, shot ’im righ

down. And then he went out into thmountains and worked for a year withouever coming near a town. And they say”—Dimond’s voice lowered—“they say h

shot a camp boss on the Northern, a mahe used to knock around with, friendlyThey say he shot him.” Dimond paused, iorder that his words might sink into thconsciousness of each listener. “He nevegoes North any more. He’ll never evestay at a place like Sherman for more tha

a day or two, and not that when he cahelp it.”

The men were silent for a little whileThen Charlie got slowly to his feet an



shook out his big frame preparatory tmaking his rounds. “I guess that’s why MrCarhart told me to take my orders from hi

brother,” he said slowly. “I wawondering.” Then he stepped off in thdirection of the corral.

t was three o’clock in the morning wheCharlie finally stretched out for threwinks. The laborers had long beforrolled themselves up in their blankets. Th

men on guard, weary of peering into thdarkness and the silence, had madhemselves as nearly comfortable as the

could. And it was half-past three, or nea

t, when a rope was cut by a stealthy hanand half a dozen sleepy, obedient mulewere led out and away. Where so mananimals were stirring; and where, too, lid



were perhaps drooping over hithertwatchful eyes, the slight disturbancpassed unobserved. At four the guard

were changed, and the new day began tmake itself known. At five the camp waastir; and a boy, searching in vain for hieam, came upon the cut, trailing ends o

rope at the outer edge of the corral.

They told Charlie, whom they founbending, red-eyed, over a steaming kettle

And the cook, with a straightforward sorof moral courage, went at once tannounce his failure at guarding the campAs luck would have it, he found th

brothers Vandervelt together, at the washbasin behind their tent.

“May I speak to you, sir?” addressing th

younger.



“Certainly, Charlie—What luck?” was threply. And then, for a moment, theywaited,—Young Van half glancing at his

brother, Charlie summoning every ouncof this wonderful new sense oresponsibility for the ordeal which he sawwas to come, Old Van meaning

unmistakably to take a hand in thdiscussion.

“We lost six mules last night, Mr

Vandervelt,” said Charlie, at lengthplainly addressing Young Van.

“We lost six mules, did we?” mimicked

he veteran, breaking in before his brothecould reply. “What do you mean bycoming here with such a story, you—?The tirade was on. Old Van applied to the

cook such epithets as men did not emplo



at that time to any great extent on thplains. All the depression of the dabefore, which he had not succeeded i

sleeping off, came out in a series of redhot phrases, which, to Young Van’s, ando his own still greater surprise, Charliook. Young Van, looking every second

for a blow or even for a shot, could nosee that he so much as twitched a muscleFinally Old Van paused, not because hewas in any danger of running out oepithets, but because something in thattitude of both Charlie and his brotheended to clarify the situation in his mind

Gus was standing almost as squarely aCharlie, and there were signs of tensioabout his mouth. It was no time for thengineers to develop a conflict o

authority.



When his brother had stopped talkingYoung Van said shortly, “How did youcome to let them get away, Charlie?”

“I fell asleep, Mr. Vandervelt,—it mushave been after three this morning, and didn’t wake up until four.”

“But what was the matter with your men?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out, sirThey must have been asleep, too.”

“Who was on guard at that point?”

“A man named Foulk—one of the iro

squad.”

“Yes, I know him. He is trustworthy, hink.”



“Oh, yes, sir, you can trust him, as far ahaving anything to do with those thieves iconcerned.”

“But that won’t help us much if he can’keep awake a few hours. Where is hnow?”

Charlie hesitated. “I—I tied him up.”

“Bring him here.”

Charlie went off to obey. And Old Vanreturned to his ablutions. A moment moreand the unfortunate sentinel was beinmarched across to headquarters, under th

guidance and the momentum of a huge rehand.

“Here he is, Mr. Vandervelt.”



Young Van looked at the two. Foulkappeared honestly crestfallen. Then, “Lehim go, Charlie,” he said. And turning to

Foulk, he merely added, “You’ll get younight’s sleep after this, my friend. Wewant no men on guard who can’t be relieon—and it’s evident that you can’t. Now

go and eat your breakfast, and get to workSee that this doesn’t happen againCharlie.”

Foulk hurried off in one direction, Charliwalked away in another; Old Vandisappeared within the tent in order tcomplete his very simple toilet; Young

Van stood alone, looking after one ananother of the retreating figures with aexpression of something like dismay. Hhad spoken with more vigor and authorit



han he could suppose; but even such as iwas, his momentary grip on the situatiorelaxed while he stood there. The wor

was not going to stop, he knew that, yehis complicated mechanism, the job

seemed to be running on without anmainspring. Speaking for himself, ther

was no one of the many tasks Carhart haeft in his hands which he was no

competent to perform, yet, viewing then mass, they bewildered him. Ther

would be bickerings, sliding on from bao worse. The work would be undertake

each day in a dogged spirit, and it woul

have an ugly side which had not beforshown itself. Earlier in the course of thundertaking there had been moments whehe had thought, looking out from his ow

mountain range of details, that Carhart’



work was not so trying as it seemed; thahe had time to ride up and down the linechatting with engineers and foremen; tha

he could relax almost as he chose,—rudown to Sherman now and then, or eveslip off for a day’s shooting. Now he sawt differently. And his forebodings were

realized. Everybody in authority felt thunfortunate drift of the work, aneverybody felt helpless to check this driftAttempts made now and then bndividuals were worse—because the

merely succeeded in drawing attention tt—than the general failure. That evening

when Scribner came back and they alried to be jolly, was the gloomiest time ia gloomy week. Men took to desertinheir work. On one occasion thirty-odd o

hem left in a body to join an outfit whic



halted overnight near the main camp—thawas when they were living on “mile fortyfive.” Fights grew more frequent

Accidents seemed to be almost a part ohe week’s routine.

One day, Young Van, chancing to pass

near the track-laying work, heard hibrother swearing at the rider of the snapmule that drew the rail-truck back anforth between the material train and th

work. The rider was a boy of twelveYoung Van recalled, as he listened, ascene of a fortnight earlier (it seemed year), when the boy, then new to it, had

been found by Carhart, quietly sobbing ohis horse. “What’s the trouble, son?” thchief had inquired good-humoredly. “I’afraid,” was the lad’s reply. Whereupon



he chief had lifted him down, swunhimself into the saddle, and, with winkle in his eye, had ridden a few trip

n order to show the boy how to manage isafely.

At length a man was killed, one of pile

driver crew No. 1, on Old Van’s divisionOther men had been killed earlier in thwork, but this death struck the workmen abearing greater significance. In the othe

cases Carhart himself had done all thaman could do; the last time he had drivehe body twenty miles to a priest an

decent burial. But Old Van sent out a few

nerve-shaken laborers to dig a grave, anold them to waste no time about i

beyond seeing that it was well filled afte—afterward.



For several nights after the trouble wit

Foulk Charlie did not sleep at all. Bueven a frontiersman is subject to Nature’aws, and the time came when he wa

overcome, shortly after midnight, whil

sitting on a box before his tent, and hrolled over and slept like a child.

They woke him at daybreak, and, withou

a word, handed him this rough placard:—

Tell Mr. Carhart he’d better becarrying a gun after this. He’ll need

it.

Jack Flagg.

“It was stuck up on the telegraph pole,



explained a sleepy-eyed sentinel.

“Where?”

“Here in camp.”

A few moments later the cook, pale undehis tan, stood before his half-dresse

acting-chief. Again the two brothers werogether.

“So this is how you watch things, is it?

said Old Van. “What did you lose for uast night?”

“The drivers are counting up now, sir.

only know of a mule and a horse so far.”

“That’s all you know of, is it? I’ll tell yowhat to do. You go back to your quarter

and see that you do no more meddling i



his business. No, not a word. Go bacand get your breakfast. That’s all I expecfrom you after this.”

Charlie looked inquiringly at Young Vanwho merely said: “I want to know morabout this, Charlie. Run it down, and the

come to me.”



When the cook had gone, Young Vanpicked up the placard and read it over. Hwas struck by the bravado of the thing

And he wondered how much of substratum of determination Jack Flagg’bravado might have. This primitive animasort of man was still new to him. He ha

neither Paul Carhart’s unerring instinctnor his experience in handling men. Tohim the incident seemed grave. Therwould be chances in plenty before thereached Red Hills for even a coward tget in a shot, and a coward’s shot wouldbe enough to bring the career of their chie

o an abrupt end. He folded the dirty papeand put it into his pocket.

Later, with the best of intentions, he saido his brother: “You are altogether too



hard on Charlie. I happen to know that hhas been doing everything any man couldo without a troop of regulars behin

him.”

To his surprise, Old Van replied with anangry outburst: “You keep out of this, Gus

When I need your advice in running thidivision, I’ll ask you for it.”

Twenty minutes later, when they were

rising from breakfast, Charlie appearedeading with an iron grip a dissoluteooking plainsman, and carrying

revolver in his other hand.

“Hello!” cried Young Van. “What’s this?What are you doing with that gun?”

“I took it away from this man. He wa



hiding out there behind a pile of bones. reckon he was trying to get away when hihorse went lame and the daylight caugh

him.”



“‘You go back to your quarters.’”



“What has he to say for himself?”

“It’s a —— lie!” growled the stranger. “

was riding in to ask for a job, an’ I hadn’more’n set down to rest—”

“You ride by night, eh?”

“Well—” the stranger hesitated—“nogen’ally. But I was so near—”

“Here, here!” cried Old Van. “What’s al

his talk about? I guess you know what tdo with him. Get about it.”

“What do you mean by that?” cried Young

Van, flushing.

“What do I mean by it? What is generalldone with horse thieves?”



The stranger blanched. “You call me a—”

But Young Van checked him. “We don’t

know that he is a horse thief.”“I do, and that’s enough. Charlie, take hioff, and make a clean job of it.”

“Charlie,” cried Young Van, “stay whereyou are!” He turned hotly on his brother“The worst we have any reason to believabout this man is that he put up tha

placard.”

“Well, doesn’t that prove him one of thegang?”

“We have no proof of anything.”

“You keep out of this, Gus! Charlie, do a

tell you.”



Charlie hesitated, and looked inquiringlat the younger engineer. This drove OldVan beyond reason. He suddenly snatched

he revolver from the cook, shoutinangrily: “If you won’t obey orders, I’ll seo it myself!”

But Young Van, with a quick movementgripped the weapon, bent it back out of hibrother’s grasp, snapped it open, ejectehe cartridges, and silently returned it. Ol

Van held it in his hand and looked at ithen at the five cartridges, where they ha

fallen on the ground. Then, with aexpression his brother had never befor

seen on his face, he let the weapon fall ohe ground among the cartridges, an

walked away to the headquarters tent.

“Charlie,” said Young Van, “keep this



man safe until the sheriff comes back.”

“All right, sir,” Charlie replied.

The cook turned away with his prisonerand Young Van’s eyes sought the groundHe had almost come to blows with hibrother, and that before the men, about thworst thing that could have taken placeThe incident seemed the naturaculmination of these days of depressio

and pulling at odds.“It looks like the sheriff coming in nowsir.”

Young Van started and looked up. Charliestill grasping the stranger, was pointindown the track, where a troop ohorsemen could be seen approaching



They drew rapidly nearer, and soon thwo leaders could be distinguished. On

was unmistakably Bowlegged Bill Lane

The other was a slender man, hatless, witrumpled hair, and a white handkerchiebound around his forehead. Young Vanwalked out to meet them, and saw, wit

astonishment, that the hatless rider waPaul Carhart; and never had face of maor woman been more welcome to his eyes

The troop reined up, dismounted, anmopped their sweating faces. Their horsestood damp and trembling witexhaustion. All together, the little band

bore witness of desperate riding, and tudge from certain signs, of fighting.

“Well, Gus,” said Carhart, cheerily, “how

s everything?”



But Young Van was staring at the bandage“Where have you been?” he cried.

“Chasing Jack Flagg.”“But they hit you!”

“Only grazed. If it hadn’t been dark, w

should have got him.”

“But how in—”

The chief smiled. “How did I get here?he said, completing the question. “Thrain was stalled last night only a dozen o

fifteen miles back. The tender of tha

model of 1865 locomotive they gave uwent off the track, and the engine got in thsame fix trying to put it on again. When eft, they were waiting for the other trai

behind to come up and help. They ought t



be along any time this morning. Where’your brother?”

Young Van had turned to look at a groupof three or four prisoners, whom two ohe posse were guarding.

“Where’s your brother?” Carhart askedagain.

“My brother! Oh, back at the tent, I guess.

The chief gave him a curious glance, fohe young engineer was flushing oddly

“Tell him to wait a minute for me, wilyou? I want to see you both before th

work starts.”

Young Van walked over to theheadquarters tent and stood a moment a

he entrance. His brother, seated at th



able, heard him, but did not look up.

“Mr. Carhart is back,” said the young man

finally. “He asked me to tell you to waifor him.”

Old Van gave not the slightest indicationhat he had heard, but he waited. When th

chief entered, motioning Young Van tooin him, he went briskly at what he had t

say. He sat erect and energetic, apparentl

unconscious of the red stain on hibandage, ignoring the fact that he had ayet eaten no breakfast; and at his firswords the blood began to flow agai

hrough the arteries of this complicateorganization that men called the Red Hillextension of the S. & W.

“Now, boys,” he began, “it was rather



slow ride back from Sherman, and I haime for a little arithmetic. Through ou

friend Peet—”

“D—n him!” interrupted Old Van.

The chief paused at this for another of hiquestioning glances, then went quietly on“Through our friend Peet, we have lost smuch time that it isn’t very cheerfubusiness figuring it up. But we aren

going to lose any more.”“Oh! you saw Peet!” said Young Van.

“Yes, I saw him. We won’t bother over

his lost time. What we are interested inow is carrying through our schedule. And

needn’t tell you that from this moment wmust work together as prettily as a well



oiled engine.” He said this significantlyand paused. Of the two men before himhe younger flushed again and lowered hi

eyes, the elder looked away and mutteresomething which could not be understood“I’m bringing up a hundred-odd more meon this train. When they get in, put the

right at work. Is Dimond in camp now?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll send him up to take charge of thewell business. He can do it, now that it iso well started. We need Scribner.”

“How much must we do a day now, tomake it?” asked Young Van.

“We shall average as near as possible towo miles.”



Young Van whistled, then recoveredhimself. “All right, Mr. Carhart,” he said“Two miles is good. Beginning to-day,

suppose?”

“Beginning to-day.”

The chief spent very little time on himselfHe was soon out and riding along thgrade, showing no nervousness, yemaking it plain to every man on the job

hat he meant to give an exhibition of “thfanciest track-laying ever seen in thesUnited States.” That was the way YoungVan, in the exuberance of his new-found

spirits, expressed it to the foreman of thron squad.

But even Young Van’s enthusiasm was not

equal to the facts. When the night whistl



blew, and the dripping workmen droppedheir picks and sledges, and rails, and ties

and reins, and sat down to breathe befor

washing up for supper,—there was watefor washing now,—the conductor of thmaterial train called to Young Van, andwaved toward a stake beside the track

“See that stick,” he shouted.

“Yes, I see it.”

“Well, sir,”—the conductor was excitedoo,—“I’ve been setting up one of thoshings for every time we moved ahead rain length. My train’s a little over

housand foot long, and—and how many ohose sticks do you suppose I’ve set up

since morning? Give a guess now!”

“I should say eight or ten. We’ve been



getting over the ground pretty rapidly.”

“No, sir! No, sir! Fifteen there were

fifteen of ’em!”“Fifteen thousand feet—three miles!” Thyoung man stood a moment, then turneand walked soberly away.

t was early the next morning that YoungVan recalled Jack Flagg’s communicationwhich he still had in his pocket. He saw

hat the chief was about starting off for hibreakfast, and called him back and gavhim the paper. Carhart read it, smiledrather contemptuously, and handed it back

“That man,” he said, “was just about bienough to stir up a little trouble in thcamp. I’m glad we’re through with him.”



“I wish I was sure we were,” replieYoung Van.

“Hello! you’re right, Gus. Here he iagain.”

Charlie was approaching with anothedirty paper in his hand. “I didn’t thinanybody could get in last night, MrCarhart,” he said ruefully, “but—here iwhat they left.”

The chief took this second paper and reat aloud:—

My dear Mr. Carhart: My shooting’sgetting bum. Better luck next time.

Jack Flagg.

“Flagg ought to be on the stage,” he sai



when he had tossed the paper away. “Hs the sort of man that can’t get alon

without an audience.”



CHAPTER VIIISHOTS—AND A SCOUTING

PARTY

t was early evening. Gus Vanderveltnervous, exultant, leaving a trail ocigarette stubs behind him, was pacing upand down the track. When he faced th

east, his eyes saw far beyond the cars anwagons and clustering tents. Off there, ieach mile of the many they had travelleday a witness of some battle won. The

had fought like soldiers; and the smalsuccesses had come rapidly until the mewere beginning to take victory as a matte

of course. The most stupid of the



understood now just what sort of thing threserved, magnetic Paul Carhart stood forand they were finding it a very good sor

of thing indeed.

As Young Van walked, his imaginationeaping forward from battles fought to th

battles to come, he heard a step, and sawhe stocky figure of his brothe

approaching through the dusk. He stiffeneup and paused, but Old Van marched by

without the twitch of a muscle. The younman watched him until he had faded out osight, then lighted another cigarette, ancontinued his beat.

A little later, smiling in a nervous way hehad of late, Young Van turned toward theheadquarters tent. He knew that hi

brother had gone to make up the materia



rain and would not return for some time.

He found Paul Carhart sitting alone

sewing a button on the yellow linerousers.

“Did you see any more drunks?” Carharasked, pausing, needle in air.

Young Van, now that he thought of it, hadobserved signs of unusual good feelinamong the laborers.

“We’re a little too near this Palosettlement to suit me,” said the chief“Keeping your men in the desert rathe

spoils one for the advantages ocivilization. I never had an easier timwith laborers. But these men are a bad loo bring within five miles of a saloon



They will be fighting before morning.”

“I suppose they will. I hadn’t thought of i

By the way, there’s a rumor about that youhad a letter from Mr. Flint to-day.”

Carhart shook his head. “No,” said he“that’s the thing I want most just now.”

For a while they were silent. Young Van’sface grew sober. The track, this doubline of rusty steel, had so absorbed th

energy of all of them that it seemed nowo his inexperience, the complete outwar

expression of their lives. He could thinof little else. When not engrossed by thactual work, his thoughts were ranginbeyond, far into the deeper significance ot. Crowding on the heels of th

constructors would come settlers. Alread



mushroom towns were pushing up alonhe line behind them. With settlers would

come well-boring, irrigation, farming, an

ranching. Timber, bricks, stone would berushed into these new lands, to bconverted into hotels, shops, banksdwellings. The marvellously intricat

nterrelations of civilization woulsuddenly be found existing and at workThere would be rude, hard struggles, mucdrinking and gambling, and some shootingThe license of the plains would be founstrangely mingled with law and with whawe call right. The church and the saloo

would march on, side by side. Andfinally, out of the uproar and the fightinwould rise, for better or worse, a newphase of life. Thinking these things, Young

Van could not forget that they five—Pau



Carhart, John Flint, Old Van, HarryScribner, and himself—were bringing iabout. They were breaking the way

pioneers of the expansion of a restlessmighty people.

“No,”—Carhart was speaking,—“tha

etter was from Peet. You might enjoyreading it.”

Young Van started from his revery, took

he letter, and spread it open. “My deaMr. Carhart,” it ran, “I am very sorryndeed, about the delay of that lot o

spikes. I have arranged with Mr. Tiffany

o buy up all we can find here in Shermaand hurry them on to you. Please keep mnformed by wire of any delays annconveniences. You will understand, I a

sure, that we mean to stop at nothing t



keep you from the slightest annoyance andelay in these matters. Very faithfullyyours, L. W. Peet.”

“But we have spikes enough,” said thassistant, looking up. “What does hmean?”

Carhart smiled. “Just what he says; that hwouldn’t delay us for worlds.”

“‘Very faithfully yours,’ too. What is al

his, Mr. Carhart? What have you done tohim—hypnotized him?”

Carhart smiled. “Hardly,” he replied

adding, “Reach me that spool of threadwill you?” But instead of continuing hineedlework, Carhart, when he receivehe spool, laid it down beside him and sat



deep in thought, gazing out through thent-opening into the night.

“Gus,” he asked abruptly, “where did thoperator go?”

Young Van glanced up at his chief, thenanswered quietly: “To bed, I think. I heardhim say he was going to turn in early tonight.”

“Would you mind stirring him out?”

“Certainly not.”

“Wait a minute. We have enough firewood

on hand to keep the engines going six operhaps eight days. That won’t do.”

Young Van was slightly puzzled.



“Go ahead, Gus. Tell him to meet me ahis instrument in ten minutes.”

Young Van left the tent at once. When hereturned, after rousing the sleepy operatorhe observed that the chief was still deepn thought. “All right,” said Young Van

“he’s getting up.”

“Much obliged, Gus.” Carhart started tresume his mending, then lowered hi

needle. “And all for the want of horseshoe nail,” he hummed softly.

Young Van, more puzzled than beforeooked up from a heap of papers whic

had drawn his attention. Carhart smiled ittle.

“You remember?” he said,—



“For the want of a nail the shoe waslost;

For the want of the shoe the horse

was lost;For the want of the horse the rider

was lost;For the want of the rider the battle

was lost;And all—”

He stopped and looked out. A partly clad

figure was hurrying by toward the sheltehat covered the telegraph instruments.

“There he goes now. I’m a little bothered

Gus. It would be a humorous sort of a jokon me if I should be held up now for ittle firewood.”

“I suppose we couldn’t cut up ties?



suggested Young Van.

“Can’t spare ’em. I’ve ordered wood fro

Red Hills, but we shan’t be able to picup enough there. And if we don’t get sompretty soon, the engines will have to stop.

Young Van took down a letter file andglanced through it. In a moment he hadrawn out a recent message from Pee“Here,” he said, “Mr. Peet promised to

have a big lot of wood on the way by today. That leaves some margin for delays.”

Carhart rose, and nodded. “Yes,” hereplied, “but not margin enough.”

“You expect something to happen righoff?”

“Couldn’t say to that. But my bones fee



queer to-night—have felt queer all dayTiffany writes that Bourke, who is icharge of the H. D. & W. construction

was in Sherman the other day. AndCommodore Durfee was expected at ReHills a week ago. Well,—” He shruggedhis shoulders and went out and over t

oin the operator.

“We’ll try to get the man on the nexdivision,” said Carhart. “Ask him if th

ine is clear all the way.”

The operator extended his hand to send thmessage, but checked it in midair. “Why,”

he exclaimed, “he is calling us!” Hooked up prepared to see surprise equao his own on Carhart’s face. But what h

did see there mystified him. The chief wa

slowly nodding. He could not say that h



had expected this call,—the thing was coincidence,—and yet he was not at alsurprised.

“‘Trouble on Barker Hills division—’The operator was repeating as thnstrument clicked.

“That’s a hundred miles or so back—”

“Hundred and thirty-eight. ‘Operator omiddle division,’ he says, ‘wires fifty men

rying to seize station—has notifieSherman—assistance promised. Biarmed force Barker Hills led by large mawith red mustache—’”

“That’s Bourke himself,” mutteredCarhart.

The operator’s hand shook a little. Hi



eyes were shining. “Here’s some moreMr. Carhart,—‘Have tried to hold mstation, but—’”

“Wait,” cried the chief, sharply. “Quick—say this: ‘Has supply train passed west today?’”

“‘Has—supply—train—’” the operatorepeated after a moment—“‘passed—west-to-day?’”

“Now what does he answer?”

“Just a moment—Here he is!—‘Not—no—’ Hold on there, what’s the matter?”

“Has he stopped?”

“Stopped short. That’s queer.”



“Do you think so?” said Carhart, lookindown into the white face of the operatorThe effect of the young man’s excitemen

was hardly lessened by the shock orumpled hair about his forehead and by thwhite collar of a nightgown whicappeared above his hastily buttoned coat.

“You mean—?”

“Wait a little longer.” For several minute

hey were silent, the operator leaning hielbows on the table, Carhart bending ovehim. Then, “Try him again,” said Carhart.

The operator obeyed. There was nresponse. Carhart drew up an emptcracker box and sat down. Twenty minutepassed.



“Click—clickety—click—click,” said thnstrument. The operator, in a husky voiceranslated the message as it came in: “‘P

Carhart, chief west’n ext. S. & W.: Onreceipt of this you will stop alconstruction work until furthenstructions, by order of Vice-Pres

Chambers—H. L. Tiffany.’”

“That’s funny!” said the operator.

Carhart did not seem to hear thexclamation. He was frowning slightlyand his lips were moving. At length hsaid, “Take this:—

“To C. O’F. Bourke,

Barker Hills Station:—



“Have another try, old chap. Youhaven’t quite caught Hen Tiffany’sstyle yet.

“P. Carhart.”

The operator laughed softly and nervousl

as his deft fingers transmitted thipersonal communication.

“Got it all through?” asked the chief.

“Yes, sir; all through.”

“All right, then, go back to bed. Goonight.”

“Good night, Mr. Carhart.”



For several days now no word had comhrough from Flint, on “mile 109.” Buwenty hours after the trouble at Barke

Hills—just before supper time of thfollowing day—a party of plainsmen camgalloping into camp. One of these, wizened little man with a kindly smile an

shrewd eyes, dismounted before thheadquarters tent and peered in betweehe flaps. “Mr. Carhart here?”

“He will be in two minutes,” replieYoung Van, rising from the table. “Comen, sir!”

“Your Mr. Flint asked me to hand himhis.” The wizened one produced a letter

and dropped into the chair which YoungVan had brought forward. “Having quite a

ime up there, isn’t he?”



“How so?” asked Young Van. It was wello speak guardedly.

“Oh, he’s in it, deep,” was the reply“Commodore Durfee’s at the Frisco Hoten Red Hills. They say he came out ovehe ‘Wobbly’ on a construction train and

rode through. Pretty spry yet, the OlCommodore. He’s hired a bad man namedFlagg—Jack Flagg—and sent him out wita hundred or so men to seize your bridg

at La Paz. Sorry I couldn’t stay there tsee the excitement, but I’m hurrying easMr. Flint thought maybe I could pick upone of your trains running back t

Sherman. If I can’t do that, I’ll strike ofsouth for Pierrepont, and get through thaway.”

Young Van hesitated, and was about to



reply, when he heard the chieapproaching.

Carhart came in from the rear, nodded tohe stranger, and picked up the envelope“You brought this, sir?” he asked.

“Yes; Mr. Flint asked me to.”

Very deliberately Carhart read the letterand, without the slightest change oexpression, tossed it on the table. “You

must have supper with us,” he said. “Iyou stopped with John Flint you perhapknow how little an engineer’s hospitalitamounts to, but such as we have we shalbe very glad to share with you.”

“Thank you,” replied the stranger.

“You are a ranchman, I presume?” Carhar



went on.

“Yes—in northwest of Red Hills. I go to

Sherman every year.”Young Van spoke, “He thought of takingone of our trains through.”

Carhart smiled dryly. “I should be greatlyobliged to you, sir, if you could take rain through,” he said. “That’s somethin

we don’t seem able to do.”

The wizened one glanced up with a keeexpression about his eyes. “Havinrouble back along the line?” he asked.

“You might call it trouble. My old friendBourke, of the H. D. & W., has cut inbehind us with a small army.” He gave

ittle shrug. “I can’t get through. I can’t ge



either way now that they’ve got ibetween Flint and Red Hills.”

“Then I’d better ride down to Pierreponthadn’t I?”

“I’m afraid that’s the best that I casuggest, sir.”

“You people certainly seem to be playingn hard luck, Mr. Carhart.” As the wizene

one ventured this observation he crosse

his legs and thrust his hands into hipockets. The action caused his coat to falback, and disclosed a small gold pendanhanging from his watch guard. Young Vanobserved it, and glanced at Carhart, but hcould not tell whether the chief had taket in.



“It’s worse than hard luck,” Carharreplied; “it begins to look like defeat. Wehave been dependent on the Sherma

people for material, food, water,—everything. Now Bourke has shut us off.”

“But you seem to have plenty of materia

here, Mr. Carhart.”

“Rails—yes. But it takes more than rails.”

“And you surely have a large enoug

force.”

“Yes, but moving several hundred menback a hundred and forty miles, fighting i

out with Bourke, clearing the track, angetting trains through from Sherman, wilake time. Long before we can make an

headway, the H. D. & W. will have beaten



us into Red Hills.”

“Ah—I see,” nodded the wizened one

“You’re going back after Bourke.”“What else can I do! I can’t even wirSherman without sending a man twhundred miles through the desert. Thmost important thing to my employers is tmaintain possession of the line.”

“Of course—I see. I don’t know muc

about these things myself.”

After supper the wizened one announcehat he must ride on with his party.

“You won’t stop with us to-night?” askedCarhart.

“No, thanks. It’ll be light an hour or tw



yet. I’ve got to move fast. I’ll lose a goodeal, you see, going around by way oPierrepont.”

“That’s so, of course. Well, good-by, sir.”

“Good-by.”

The riders swung into their saddles ancantered off eastward. Carhart turned tYoung Van and slowly winked. “Come upo headquarters, Gus,” he said. “I’ve go

some work for you.”

“I rather guess you have, if we’re goinafter Bourke.”

“After Bourke?” Carhart smiled. “Youdidn’t take that in, Gus?”

“Well—of course, I suspected.”



“You saw his badge?”

“Yes.”

“Bourke always has a lot of men abouhim from his own college.”

“You really think it, then?”

“It would be hard to say what I think. Bu’ve been going on the assumption that hs one of Bourke’s engineers.”

They were approaching the headquarterent. Young Van looked up and saw tha

“Arizona,” Carhart’s new saddle-horse

was hitched before it. They entered thent, and the first thing the chief did was t

get out two long blue-nosed revolvers anslip them into his holsters. A momen

ater, and Dimond, fitted out for a lon



ride, appeared at the entrance, saying“All ready, Mr. Carhart!”

“Now, Gus,” said the chief, “I’m off fomile 109.’ I want you to get about twohundred men together and send them afteme to-night or to-morrow morning. I’ll tel

Scribner, as I pass him, to have fifty morfor you. Every man must have a rifle anplenty of ball cartridges. Send Byers”—his was the instrument man of the lon

nose—“and two or three others whom yohink capable of commanding forty or fift

men each.”

“And Bourke?”

“We’ll leave him to Mr. Chambers. GiveCharlie instructions to strengthen his nigh

guard. Some men will be sent back t



guard the second and third wells.”

Young Van involuntarily passed his hand

across his eyes.“I’m afraid I’m not much good,” he saislowly. “I didn’t grasp this situation verywell. It’s rather a new phase oengineering for me. We seem to beplunging all of a sudden into tactics anstrategy.”

“That’s about the size of it, Gus,” the chieresponded. He had exchanged his olstraw hat for a sombrero. His spuringled as he moved. There was a sparkln his eye and a new sort of militar

alertness about his figure. He paused ahe tent entrance, and looked back. “That’

about the size of it, Gus,” he repeated wit



a half smile. “And I’m afraid I rather likt.”

“Well, good-by. I’ll start the men righalong after you.”

Carhart mounted his horse, Dimonfollowed his example, and the two rodaway in the direction of the La Paz bridgeAnd ten hours later, at five in the morninga line of armed horsemen—a long-nose

young man with the light of a pirate soul ihis eyes riding at the head, an athletipile-inspector and a college-bred rodmabringing up the rear—rode westward afte

him.



Troubles had been coming other thasingly on “mile 109.” Jack Flagg, with force which, while smaller than Flint’s

was made up of well-armed and wellpaid desperadoes, had seized the ridgwhich shut in the La Paz Valley on thewest, had pitched camp, erected rud

ntrenchments of loose stone, and stoppefor the moment all work on the mile-lonrestle. So much John Flint had set down the note which the wizened one ha

delivered to Carhart. The next adventurbefell on the night after the departure ohe wizened one; and it brought out th

ugly strain in the opera bouffe business ohese wild railroading days.

Antonio, the watchman, sat on the edge ohe eastern abutment and dangled his feet



He was so drowsy that he even stopperolling cigarettes. He had chosen comfortable seat, where a pile of timber

afforded a rest for his back. To be surehere was the possibility of rolling off inthe water and sand if he should really fal

asleep; but elsewhere he would b

exposed to the searching eyes of thengineer in charge, and those eyes wervery searching indeed. He was thinking, ia dreamy way, of what he would do on thSunday, with his week’s pay in his pockeand the village of La Paz but twelve mileaway.

ow and again his complacent eyes roveout across the river, which slipped bwith such a gentle, swishing murmur. Hcould look over the tops of the fou



unfinished piers and the western abutmenand see the trestle where it was continueon the farther side. These Americanos

what driving devils they were! And whenhey had built their railroad, what werhey going to do with it? To go fast—

Antonio shrugged his shoulders an

resumed the cigarettes—it is very welbut to what purpose? When they havrushed madly across the continent, whawill they find there? Perhaps they wilhen rush back again. These Americanos!

He let his eyes rest upon the row of pier—one, two, three, four of them. Wha

abor they had caused—how the men hasweat, and muttered, and toiled—how thforemen had cursed! Four piers omasonry rising out of the ghostly river



Very strong they must be, for the La Pawas not always gentle. In the spring anfall it was savage; and then it had an ugl

way of undermining bridges, as thosother foolish Americanos had learned toheir cost when they built the wago

bridge at La Paz. He smiled lazily. Bu

suddenly he sat up straight. A long thinfigure of a man was moving about amonhe piles of timber. It was the señor Flin

—and such a prowler as he was, day annight, night and day. He lived this bridgedid the señor; he thought it, he ate it, hdrank it, he talked it, he slept it,—and fo

why? It could not be that he believed iiving to think and breathe bridge and onlbridge. It could not be that man was madfor this—to become a slave to this trestl

structure which was slowly crawling, lik



some monster centipede, across the sandof the La Paz. It was very good for threstle perhaps, and the bridge, but was i

so good for the señor?



“... this trestle structure which was

slowly crawling, like some monster

centipede, across the sands of the La



Paz.”

Antonio smiled again, and settled backhe señor was passing on. He was gettinnto a boat. He was poling across th

anguid, dimpling river. He was gettinout on the farther bank; he was walking uphe long slope, keeping out of th

moonlight in the shadow of the trestle

hing; he was peering up toward thembattled ridge beyond, where lay thredoubtable Flagg.

.. The cigarette dropped from Antonio’unnerved fingers, and fell with a sizzlinsplash into the water below. He drew annvoluntary quick breath, and the smoke i

his nostrils went unexpectedly into hi



hroat and made him cough. Therembling a little, he got slowly to his fee

and stood staring out there over the seren

surface of the river. He rubbed his eyeand stared again. A shot,—two shots,—which was right? Two—no, one! And thansignificant little dark heap yonder in th

moonlight—was that the señor? What rouble!—and he had been so comfortablhere on the abutment!

Antonio was frightened. He thought orunning away from these fate-temptinAmericans; but in that case he would loshis pay and those Sundays at La Paz. H

waited a while. Perhaps he was dreaminand would make himself ridiculous. Hwalked about, and tried different points oview. And at last he went to rouse hi



foreman.

They got Flint in—Haddon, in night-shirt

bare legs, and shoes with flapping stringo them; the foreman of the pile-drivecrew in night-shirt and hat, and two bigshouldered bridgemen. There was a bal

somewhere in Flint, and there wercertain complications along the line of hichronic ailment, so that his usefulneswas, so to speak, impaired. And Haddon

during what was left of the night anduring all of the following day, haddistinctly a bad time of it.

While these things were going on, PauCarhart was riding westward at a hogallop with Dimond close behind. It washortly after sunset that he reined up on th

crest of the eastern ridge and looked ou



over the La Paz. The barren valley waflooded with light. The yellow slopewere delicately tinted rose and violet, th

rock pillars stood out black and sharpldefined, the western hills formed a royapurple barrier to the streams of color; anhrough this glowing scene extended th

square-jointed trestle, unmistakably thwork of man where all else was froanother hand. Never in the progress of thiundertaking which we have beefollowing across the plains had thcontrast been so marked between thpatient beauty of the old land and th

uncompromising ugliness of the structurwhich Paul Carhart was carrying into anhrough it. And yet the chief,—antelligent, educated man, not wanting i

feeling for the finer side of life,—thoug



he took in the wonders of the sunseooked last and longest at the trestle anhe uncompleted bridge. Then he rod

down, glancing, in his quizzical way, ahe camp, which had been moved bac

behind a knoll, at the piles of stone animber, at the corral, and at the groups o

dle, gloomy workmen.

Fortunately the chief was prepared fosurprises. News that the trestle had bee

burned to the ground would have drawno more than a glance and a nod from himHis mind had not been idle during thride. He knew that the strongest defenc

partakes of an offensive character, and hhad no notion of sitting back to awaidevelopments. Of several sets of planwhich he had been considering, one wa



so plainly the simplest and best that hwas determined to try it. It involved single daring act, a sort of raid, which i

would be necessary to carry througwithout a vestige of legal authority. Buhis feature of it disturbed him very mucess than a mere casual acquaintance wit

his quiet gentleman might have led one tsuppose. Perhaps he had, like the redblooded Tiffany, a vein of “Scotch-Irish”down in the depths of his nature whiccould on occasion be opened up.





“The cigarette dropped from Antonio’s

unnerved fingers.”

After looking out for the comfort of JohFlint, and after conferring with Haddo

and going thoroughly over the groundCarhart sent for Dimond.

“How much more are you good for?” hasked.

Dimond grinned. “For everything that’going,” he replied.

“Good. Do you know where the H. D. &W. is building down, a dozen or fifteenmiles north of here?”

“I guess I can find it,” said Dimond.



And with a fresh horse and a man or twoand with certain specific instructionsDimond rode north shortly after nightfal

of that same day. At eight in the morninghe was back, hollow-eyed but happy. AndPaul Carhart, when Dimond had reportedwas seen to smile quietly to himself.



CHAPTER IXA SHOW-DOWN

All was quiet at the main camp. Exceptin

hat the division engineers were shorthanded, and that Paul Carhart was awayhings were going on with some regularity

Scribner rode in late on the secon

afternoon, and toward the end of thevening, when the office work was donehe and Young Van played a few rubbers ocribbage. The camp went to sleep a

usual.

At some time between eleven o’clock anmidnight the two young engineers tacitl

put up the cards and settled back for



smoke.

“Do you know,” said Young Van, after a

silence, “I don’t believe this stuff at all.”Scribner tipped back, put his feet on thable, puffed a moment, and slowl

nodded. “Same here, Gus,” he replied“Fairy tales, all of it.”

“You can’t settle the ownership of arailroad by civil war.”

“No; but if you can get possession by five-barrelled bluff, you can give the othefellow a devil of a time getting it back.”

“That’s true, of course.” They were silenagain.

.. “What’s that!” said Scribner. Both



dropped their feet and sat up.

“Horse,” said Young Van.

“Devil of a way off.”

“Must be. Lost it now.”

“No—there it is again. Now, what do yosuppose?”

“Don’t know. Let’s step out and look

around.”Standing on the sloping ground in front ohe tent, they could at first distinguis

nothing.

“Gives you a queer feeling,” saiScribner, “horse galloping—this time onight—”



”—just now,” Young Van completed“when things are going on.”

“Coming from the east, too,—wherBourke is. Know him?”

“No—never met him. Heard of him, ocourse.”

“He’s a good one. Wish he was on ouside.”

“I guess Mr. Carhart can match him.”

Scribner nodded. “This sort of a fight’ikely to settle down into the plai

question of who’s got the cards. There’lcome a time when both sides’ll have tay down their hands, and the cards’l

make the difference one way or the other

Just a show-down, after all.”



“I think myself Mr. Carhart’s got thecards. He didn’t look like a loser when hwent off the other night.”

“If he has,” said Scribner, “you can behe’ll ‘see’ Durfee and Bourke everyime.”

.. “Here’s that horse, Harry.”

“Big man—looks like—”

“It’s Tiffany.—Good evening, MrTiffany.”

“How are you, boys? Paul here?”

“Why, no, Mr. Tiffany. He’s up on ‘mile109.’”

“‘Mile 109!’” Tiffany whistled. “What th



devil! You don’t mean that those—” hepaused.

“Commodore Durfee’s at Red Hills, yoknow,” said Young Van.

“The —— he is!”

“And he’s sent a force to hold the wesbank of the La Paz.”

By this time the chief engineer of the S. &

W. had got his big frame to the ground. Hebore unmistakable evidences of long anhard riding. Even in that dim light thecould see that his face was seamed wit

he marks of exhaustion.

“Haven’t got a wee bit drappie, havyou?” he asked.



“I certainly have,” Young Van replied“Come right in.”

Tiffany tossed his hat on the table, reacheout for the flask and tumbler, and tosseddown a drink which would have doncredit to the hardiest Highlander of the

all. “Now show me the stable,” he said“Want to fix my horse for the night. I’vehalf killed him.”

A quarter of an hour later the three mewere back in the headquarters tent.

“How did you get through, Mr. Tiffany?”asked Young Van.

“Came out on the first train to BarkeHills. Bourke’s holding the station thereHe had a couple of our engines, and wa



working east, but we stopped that. Peet’here now with Sheriff McGraw and

bundle of warrants and a hundred and fift

men—more, I guess, by this time. Jusanother thimbleful o’ that— ThanksWe’ve got Bourke blocked at BarkeHills, all right. Before the week’s ou

we’ll have the track opened proper foyou. Mr. De Reamer’s taken hold himselfyou know. He’s at Sherman, with somebig lawyers—and maybe he ain’t mad alhrough!”

“Then Commodore Durfee hasn’t got thboard of directors?”

“Not by a good deal! I doubt if eveGeneral Carrington’s votes would swint for him now. But then, I don’t know suc

a heap about that part of it. I was tellin



you—I’ll take a nip o’ that. Thanks!—was telling you. We come along theMiddle Division, running slow,—w

were afraid of obstructions on the track—”

“Did you find any?”

“Did we find any?—Well I guess.” Heheld out a pair of big hands, palms up. “got those splinters handling cross-ties i

he dark. And about the middle of thBarker Hills division—at the foot oCrump’s Hill,—we found some railmissing.

“Well, sir, I left ’em there to fix it up—wehad a repair car in the train—and got mhorse off and rode around south of th

station. Had some sandwiches in m



pocket, but didn’t get a drop of water till struck your first well, last night. You ain’using that now?”

“No, we’ve moved up to two and three—his way.”

“There was a blamed fool tried to stopme, a mile south of Barker Hills Station—yelled at me; and fired when I didn’answer.”— Tiffany paused with this, and

ooked grimly from one to the other of thyoung men. Then he drew a big revolvefrom his belt, opened it, and exhibited thcylinder. One chamber was empty. They

were silent for a time.

“You’ll find Mr. Carhart’s cot all readyfor you, Mr. Tiffany,” said Young Van, at

ength.



“All right. Can I get a breakfast at five’m going on to find Paul. That’s wherhe fun’ll be—where you find Pau

Carhart. I wonder if you boys know what means to have the opportunity to wor

with that man—eh? He had us all guessinabout the old Paradise. And he was righ

—oh, he was right. There hasn’t a raicome through since.”

Scribner and Young Van were looking a

each other. “Then those rails didn’t comfrom Pennsylvania?” said the former.

“He didn’t tell you, eh?” Tiffany grinned

“Well, I guess it ain’t a secret now. MrChambers never even grunted when I tolhim, but he looked queer. And Mr. DeReamer ain’t said anything yet. Why, Paul

he see first off that we weren’t ever goin



o get the rest o’ those rails. He see, toohat Bourke was going to cut him off if h

could. And what does he do? Why h

comes down and walks off with the olParadise Southern—rails, ties, everythingHe never even tells Peet and me. It’s up tohim, he thinks, and if he makes good

nobody can kick.” Tiffany was grinninagain. “Yes, sir,” he continued, “PauCarhart just naturally confiscated thParadise Southern, and it was the prettiesob anybody ever see. And it’s funny—he

says to me, while we were out there aTotal Wreck pulling up the freight yard by

he roots, ‘Tiffany,’ he says, ‘if you hadn’old about how you stole those Almightand Great Windy cars from the sheriff oErie County, I’d never ‘a’ thought of it.

Well, I’ll turn in, boys; good night.”



“Good night,” said Young Van.

“Good night,” said Scribner; “I’ll ride o

with you as far as my division to-morrowMr. Tiffany. I can give you a fresh horsehere.”

The chief engineer of the S. & Wdisappeared between the flaps oCarhart’s tent. They could hear hihrowing off his clothes and getting int

bed. Another moment and they heard hisnoring. They stood gazing off down thgrade.

“Well, what do you think of that?” saidScribner. Young Van looked at hiscompanion. “I think this,” he replied: “wouldn’t miss this work and this figh

under Paul Carhart for five years’ pay.”



Scribner nodded. “The loss of aengineer’s pay, Gus, wouldn’t make mucdifference one way or the other,” h

replied, and his face lighted up witenthusiasm. “But it’s a great game!”

And so it was that something like twdays after Carhart’s arrival on “mil

109,” Tiffany, a little the worse for wearbut still able to ride and eat and sleep answear, came slowly down the slope intohe camp, where Flint was hoverin

midway between the present and thhereafter. He found the chief oconstruction deep in a somewhacomplicated problem, and after a bite t



eat he climbed up the ridge behind thcamp to the tent which Carhart waoccupying.

“Well, Paul, how goes it?” said he.

“First-rate. How much do you know?”

“Precious little.”

Carhart mused a moment, then pulled oufrom a heap of papers one on which h

had sketched a map. “Here we are,” saihe. “The trestle is fifty to a hundred anfifty feet high, from ridge to ridge. Flaghas strung out his men along the wes

ridge, about a mile from here, and acroshe end of the trestle.”

“Yes, yes,” broke in Tiffany, “I see. I’ve

been all over this ground.”



“Well, now, you see these two knolls onhe west ridge, a little back of Flagg’

position? The one to the north is a hundre

and twenty feet higher than Flagg’s menhe one to the south is eighty feet highe

and only a quarter of a mile away frohim. His line of retreat lies through th

hollow between the two knolls, where thrack is to run. Now if I put fifty or

hundred men on each knoll, I cacommand his position, and even shut ofhis retreat. His choice then would libetween moving north or south along thcrest of the ridge, which is als

commanded by the two knolls, or comindown the slope toward us.”

“Flagg hasn’t occupied the knolls, eh?”

“I believe he hasn’t. I’ve been watchin



hem with the glasses.”

“I wonder why the Commodore put such

man in charge.”“Oh, Flagg has some reputation as a baman. He’s the sort General Carringtoemployed in the Colorado fights.”

They talked on for a time, then Carhart puup his map and they walked out. It waevening. Across the valley, at the poin

where the trestle met the rising groundhey could see lights, some of the

moving about. Tiffany walked with hihands deep in his trousers pockets. Finallhe said thoughtfully:—

“The more I think of it, Paul, the more I’mpressed by what Commodore Durfe



has done. He has got possession of ougrade over there—we can’t deny thaWe’ve either got to give up, or else take

he offensive and fight. And that wouldook rotten, now, wouldn’t it?”

“Yes,” Carhart replied, “it would. He ha

made a pretty play. And as a play—as abluff—it comes pretty near beineffective.”

“D—n near!” Tiffany muttered.“But now suppose we take those knolls—quietly, in the night—and close in acrosFlagg’s rear, hold a line from knoll toknoll, what then? Wouldn’t he have toshoot first?”

“Well, perhaps. But it would put both



sides in a mean light. Oh, why didn’t Johstand him off in the first place! Then hcould have shot from our property, and

been right in shooting.”

They had been pacing slowly up andown. Now Carhart stopped, and sa

down on a convenient stick of timberTiffany followed his example. The moowas rising behind them, and the valley anhe trestle and the rude intrenchments o

imber and rock on the opposite ridge anhe knolls outlined against the sky grew

more distinct.

“Yes,” Carhart said slowly, “it’s a verygood bluff. Commodore Durfee knowwell enough that this sort of business canever settle the real question. But th

question of who gets to Red Hills first i



another thing altogether. The spectacle oJack Flagg and a well-armed regiment odesperadoes in front of them, and th

knowledge that the Commodore himselhad organized the regiment and sent it outwould stop some engineers.”

Tiffany leaned forward, rested his elbowon his knees, and gazed moodily ouacross the valley. He had been riding hardfor four days, with not enough food an

water and scarcely any sleep. Only onnight of the four had found him on a cot—he other nights had been passed on th

ground. In the resulting physica

depression his mind had taken to dwellinon the empty chamber in his revolver—hwished he knew more of what that leadeball had accomplished. And now here wa



John Flint shot down by a hidden enemy. Iwas the ugliest work he had been engagen for years. When he finally spoke, h

could not conceal his discouragement.

“How about this engineer here, Paul?” hsaid, still looking out there over th

valley. “Will the regiment andCommodore Durfee stop you?”

“I hope not,” said Carhart.

“You’re going to fight, then—until thegovernor calls out the state troops, anhrows us all out, and there’s hell to pay?”

“I don’t think so. I’m going to get ready tfight.”

“By putting your men on those tw

knolls?”



“Yes.”

“And then what?”

“Then I’m going to Red Hills.”

“To Red Hills!” Tiffany sat up. There wamore life in his voice.

“Yes.” Carhart laughed a little. “Whynot?”

Tiffany half turned and looked earnestlnto the face of this unusual man. Thspectacles threw back the moonlight anconcealed the eyes behind them. Th

ower part of the face was perhaps a trifleaner than formerly. The mouth wa

composed. Tiffany found no answer thero the question in his own eyes. So he pu

t in words: “What are you going to d



here, Paul?”

“See Commodore Durfee.”

“See—! Look here, do you know how mahe is? Do you think he came clear dowhere from New York, and shoved his oldrailroad harder than anybody but you eveshoved one before and hired the rascalhat shot John Flint,—him playing for th

biggest stakes on the railroad table to-day

—do you think he’ll feel like talking to thman who’s put him to all this trouble?”

“Well,” Carhart hesitated,—“I hope hewill.”

“But it’s foolhardy, Paul. You won’t gainanything. Just the sight of you walking inthe Frisco House office may mean gu



play. If it was Bourke, it would bdifferent; but these Durfee men are madThe Commodore was never treated thi

way in his life before. And you’re a littlnervous yourself, Paul. Be careful whayou do. He’ll have lawyers around him—and he’s redhot, remember that.”

“I can’t quite agree with you, Tiffany. hink he’ll talk to me. But there’s one thin’ve got to do first, and you can help m

here.”

“For God’s sake, then, let me get into thgame. I can’t stand this looking on—

fretting myself to death.”

“I want you to take charge here for a dawhile I go after my firewood. I cam

pretty near being held up altogether fo



want of it. Bourke cut me off before Peecould get it through.”

“Where can you get it?”“There’s a lot waiting for me off north ohere.”

Tiffany grunted. “North of here, eh?”

Carhart nodded.

“And you have to work so delicate gettint that you can’t trust anybody else to dt?”

Carhart smiled. “Better not ask meTiffany. I can’t talk to Commodore Durfeeuntil I’ve got all the cards in my hand, anhis is the last one. As to going myself, i

happens to be the sort of thing I won’t as



anybody to do for me, that’s all.”

“That’s how you like it,” said Tiffany

gruffly, rising. “Want to talk abouanything else to-night?”

“No—I shan’t be leaving before tomorrow noon. I’ll see you in the morning.While he spoke, he was watching Tiffanyand he was amused to see that the veterahad recovered his equilibrium and wa

angry with himself.“When will you want to begin youmilitary monkey-shines?”

Carhart drove back a smile, and got up“Not until I get back here with the wood,he replied. “Good night.”

Tiffany merely grunted, and marched off t



he cot which had been assigned him.

At noon of the following day Carhart wa

ready to lead his expedition northward. Iwas made up of all Flint’s wagons, witwo men on the seat and two rifles undehe seat of each. And scattered along o

both sides of the train were men pickefrom Flint’s bridge-builders and from OldVan’s and Scribner’s iron and tie squadsThese men were mounted on fresh ponies

and they carried big holsters on theisaddles and stubby, second-hand armcarbines behind them. Dimond was thereoo, and the long-nosed instrument man

The two or three besides the chief whknew what was soon to be doing kept theiown counsel. The others knew nothing, buhere was a sort of tingling electricity i



he air which had got into every man of thot. This much they knew; Mr. Carhart wa

very quiet and considerate an

businesslike, but he had a streak of blue ihim. And it is the streak of blue in youquiet, considerate leader which makes hia leader indeed in the eyes and hearts o

hose who are to follow him. Not thahere were any heroics in evidence, rathe

a certain grim quiet, from one end of thwagon train to the other, which meanbusiness. Carhart took it all in, as hcantered out toward the head of the linedropping a nod here and there, and wavin

Byers, who was leaning on his pony’rump and looking impatiently back, to staroff. He had picked his men with care—hknew that he could trust them. And so, on

reaching the leading wagon and pulling t



a walk, he settled himself comfortably ihis saddle and began to plan thconversation with Commodore Durfe

which was to come next and which was tmean everything or nothing to PauCarhart.

Once Byers, not observing his abstractionspoke, “That was hard luck, Mr. Carhartgetting cut off from Sherman this way.”

“Think so?” the chief replied, and felback into his study.

Byers looked puzzled, but he offerenothing further. Carhart was for a momendiverted along the line suggested by hiof the long nose. “Hard luck, eh?” he wahinking. “It’s the first time in my life

was ever let alone. I only hope they won’



clean Bourke out and repair the wirebefore I get through.”

The white spot on Bourke’s long blueprin

of the High, Dry, and Wobbly, to whichwas attached the name of “Durfee,” mighhave seemed, to the unknowing, a town osettlement. It was not. It was a station i

he form of an unpainted shed, a few hutsand a water tank. Besides these, therwere heaps of rails and ties and bridgimbers and all the many materials used i

building a railroad. “The end of thrack,” or rather “Mr. Bourke’s camp,”

which marked the beginning of the end, lasome dozen miles farther west. Out there



men swarmed by the hundred, for worhad by no means been discontinued on thH. D. & W. But here at “Durfee” there

were only an operator, a train crew or soa few section men, and a night watchmanAnd on that late evening when a train owagons rolled along on well-grease

wheels beside the track and stopped at thong piles of firewood which were storehere within easy reach of passinocomotives, all these worthy person

were asleep.

What few words passed among thnvaders were low and guarded

Everything seemed to be understood. Ohe two men on each wagon, one droppe

his reins and stood up in the wagon-boxhe other leaped to the ground and rapidl



passed up armfuls of wood. Of thhorsemen, three out of every foudismounted and ran off in a wide circl

and took shelter in shadowed spots behinumber piles, or dropped silently to th

ground and lay there watching. Out on thrack a deep-chested, hard-faced man

who might perhaps have answered to thname of “Dimond,” took up a post oobservation. On that side of the circlnearest the station and the huts, two mewho had the manner of some authoritmoved cautiously about. Both worspectacles and one had a long nose

Through the still air came the champing obits and the pawing and snorting of horsesThe man with the spectacles and the lesstriking nose seemed to dislike thes

noises. He drew out a watch now an



hen, and held it up in the moonlight. Thwork was going on rapidly, yet howslowly! Once somebody dropped a

armful of wood, and every man started ahe sound.

The watchman upon whom devolved th

responsibility of seeing that no prowlinstrangers walked off by night with thown of “Durfee” was meanwhil

dreaming troublous dreams. From pastora

serenity these night enjoyments of his hapassed through various disquieting stagento positive discord. They finally awok

him, and even assumed an air of wakin

reality. The queer, faint sounds whichwere floating through the night suggestehe painful thought that somebody wa

walking off with the town of “Durfee.” H



would investigate.

Slowly tiptoeing down an alleywa

between two long heaps of material, thwatchman settled his fingers around hiheavy stick. Then he paused. The soundwere very queer indeed. He decided t

drop his stick and draw his revolver. Buhis action, which he immediatel

undertook, was interrupted by a pair ostrong arms which gripped him fro

behind. And a pair of hands at the end owo other strong arms abruptly stuffed

handkerchief into his mouth and held it iplace by means of another which was tie

at the back of his neck.

“Bring him along, boys,” said a lowvoice.



“All right, Mr. Carhart,” replied thowner of the first-mentioned arms,—anhen could have bitten his tongue out, fo

he speaking eyes of the incapacitatewatchman were fixed on the halfshadowed, spectacled face before him.

Ten minutes more and the wagon trainnow heavily laden, was starting off. Thhorsemen lingered until it was fairly undeway, then ran back to their mounts, and

hovered in a crowd about the last dozewagons until all danger of an attack wapast. And later on, when they wersomething more than halfway back to Mr

Flint’s camp, they released the nighwatchman, and started him back on foofor “Durfee,” and hurled pleasantries aftehim for as long as he was within earshot.





t was necessary to drop another dabefore occupying the knolls, and Carharspent most of it in sleep. He was not

man of iron, and the exertions of the weehad been of an exhausting nature. BuTiffany, who had slept the sleep of therighteous throughout the night of th

raiding expedition, took hold of thpreparations with skill and energy. Andafter supper he and Carhart stood togetheon the high ground at the eastern end of threstle and talked it over.

“Young Haddon seems to be a pretty goodman to command one knoll,” said Tiffany

“but how about the other?”

“Byers could do it, possibly, but not sowell as Dimond. The men like him, an

while he’s a little rough-handed, he’



evel-headed and experienced. I’ll takByers to Red Hills with me. We can starout at nine, say. Each party will have to

make a wide circuit around the hills ancross the stream a mile or two from heret will be two or three hours before we ge

around to the knolls.”

“Would you use boats to ferry the boyover?”

“No. They saw too much of the start of mwagons yesterday. They would make ouany movement on the river. You take thedown party, Tiffany, with Haddon; I’ll go

up with Dimond. Then you can leavHaddon in charge when you have hiplaced, and move about where yoplease.”



ot a man of either party knew where hwas to go, but as was the case at thbeginning of the movement on “Durfee,

voices were subdued and nerves werstrung up. As soon as it was dark, mencarrying rifles and with light rationstuffed into all available pockets—littl

men, middle-sized men, and big men, buall active and well-muscled—appearehere and there by ones and twos anhrees, dodged out of the camp, an

slipped through the hollow behind threstle-end. There was little champing an

pawing of horses to-night, for Carhart an

Byers were the only ones to ride. The meay or sat on the rocks and on the grounhere behind the brow of the ridge, analked soberly. Before long an inquisitiv

bridgeman counted a hundred and twent



of them, and still they were cominsilently through the hollow. After a timeDimond appeared, then Haddon and Byer

walking together, and, after a long waitTiffany and Carhart themselves. Then thfive leaders grouped for a consultationThose near by could see that Carhart wa

aying down the code that was to goverheir conduct for a day or two. Somethin

was said before the group broke up whicdrew an affirmative oath from Tiffany andstarted Haddon and Dimond examininheir weapons, and stirred Byers to a

excited question. Then Tiffany drew off

rod or so with Haddon at his heelssaying, “My boys, this way.” And as theword passed along man after man, to morhan a hundred, sprang up and fell i

behind him. Carhart beckoned to thos



who were left, fully an equal number ohem, and these gathered together behinheir chief.

“Good night, Tiffany,” said Carhart, then.

But Tiffany’s gruffness suddenly gaveway. With a “wait a minute, boys,” hecame striding over and took Carhart’hand in a rough grip. “Good luck, Paul,he said something huskily. And then he

cleared his throat. “Good luck!” he saiagain, and went back to his men. And thwo parties moved off over the broke

ground and the rocks, Carhart and Byer

eading their horses.

Carhart led his men nearly two milenorth, then forded the stream at a poin

where it ran wide and shallow. H



climbed the west ridge, and turned soutalong the farther slope. After twentminutes of advancing cautiously he sen

Dimond to follow the crest of the ridgand keep their bearings. Another twentminutes and Dimond came down the slopand motioned them to stop.

“Is this the knoll ahead here?” asked thchief.

Dimond nodded.“Quietly, then. Byers, you wait here withe horses.”

The same individual spirit which makeour little American army what it is, was inhese workingmen. Every one understoo

perfectly that he must get to the top of tha



knoll as silently as the thing could bdone, and acted accordingly. Orders wernot needed. There were slopes of shelvin

rock to be ascended, there were bits oreal climbing to be managed. But thdistance was not very great, and it toobut a quarter of an hour or so. Then the

found themselves on the summit, and madhemselves comfortable among the rocks

spreading out so that they could commanevery approach. Carhart took Dimond the top of the southeasterly slope an

pointed out to him the knoll opposite, thhollow between, the camp a third of

mile away of Flagg and his cheerful crewhe trestle, the river, and their own dicamp on the farther slope. He repeated hinstructions for the last time. “Lie quie

until noon of the day after to-morrow—no



a sound, understand; not so much as thop of a hat to show. It will be a hard pull

but you’ve got to do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At that time, if you hear nothing furthefrom me, take your men down there alonhe slope, give Flagg one chance t

withdraw, and if he refuses, close inacross the hollow behind the rocks. Mr

Haddon will do the same. After that if thery to rush you, shoot. The men from campwill be working out across the trestle anup the hill at the same time.—Here it is

written down. Put it in your pocket. Andmind, not a shot, not so much as a stonhrown, before noon of day after to

morrow, excepting in self-defence

Understand?”



“Yes, sir.”

“Now come down the slope here, on th

other side—where we can’t be seen froFlagg’s camp. You have your lantern?”

“Here.”

“Light it, and flash it once.”

Dimond obeyed. Both men peered acroshe hollow, but no response came from th

other knoll.

“Flash it again.”

This time there came an answering flashCarhart nodded, then took the lantern froDimond, extinguished it, and handed iback. “Don’t light this again for an

purpose,” he said. “Now see that you d



exactly as I have told you. Keep your men hand.”

“All right, sir.”“Good night, then.”

Carhart groped his way along the hillside

slowly descending. After a time hwhistled softly.

“Here—this way!” came in Byers’s voice

They had to lead their horses nearly a milover the plateau before they found thbeaten track to Red Hills. Byers wa

ubilant. He was a young man who hadreamed for years of this moment. He haknown not what form it would take, buhat he should at some time be riding

booted and spurred, with a weight o



responsibility on his shoulders, a finatmosphere of daring about him, and thfeeling within of a king’s messenger, thi

he had always known. And now here hwas! And buoyant as an April day, theblood dancing in his veins, sitting hihorse with the ease of an Indian, Byer

called over to his chief: “Fine night thisMr. Carhart!”

They were riding side by side. At hi

remark the chief seemed unconsciously tbe pulling in. He fell behind. Byerswondering a little, slowed down anooked around. Apparently his remark had

not been heard. He called again: “Finnight, Mr. Carhart!” ... And then, in themoonlight, he caught a full view of thface of his leader. It was not the face h



was accustomed to see abouheadquarters; he found in it no suggestioof the resourceful, energetic chief o

whom he had come to rely as older merely on blind forces. This was the face oa nervous, dispirited man of the name oCarhart, a man riding a small horse, who

after accomplishing relentlessly all thaman could accomplish, had reached thpoint where he could do nothing furtherwhere he must lay down his hand anaccept the inevitable, whether for better ofor worse. Byers could not, perhapsunderstand what this endless night mean

o Paul Carhart, but the sight of that facsobered him. And it was a very gravyoung man who turned in his saddle anpeered out ahead and let his eyes rov

along the dreary, moonlit trail.



A moment later he started a little, andhardly conscious of what he was doingurned his head partly around and listened

“Oh, my God,” Carhart was saying, as ihe did not hear his own voice, “what night!”

They pulled up before the Frisco Hotel aRed Hills. The time had come to throw thcards face up on the table.

“See to the animals yourself, will youByers?” said Carhart. He dismountedpatted the quivering shoulder of his littlhorse, and then handed the reins to hi

companion. “I don’t want to wear ou



Arizona too.”

Byers nodded, and Carhart walked up t

he hotel steps. His eyes swept thveranda, and finally rested on two mewho were talking together earnestly, andalmost, it might seem, angrily, at one end

He had never seen either before; but onehe nearer, with the florid countenance anhe side whiskers, he knew at once fo

Commodore Durfee. He paused on th

steps, and tried to make out the other—big, fat man with the trimmed, gray chinbeard, the hard mouth, and the shaveupper lip which we associate wit

pioneering days. It was—no—yes, it wa—it must be—General Carrington.

Carhart had intended to take a room an

make himself presentable. He changed hi



mind. Hot and dusty as he was, dressealmost like a cowboy, he walked rapidldown the piazza.

“Mr. Durfee?”

The magnate turned slowly and looked up

“Well?” he inquired.

Carhart found his card-case and drew ouone slip of cardboard. Mr. Durfee took it

read it, turned it over, read it againhesitated, then handed it to the Generasaying, in a voice the intent of whiccould hardly be misread, “What do yo

hink of that?”

General Carrington read the name witsome interest, and looked up. He sai

nothing, however; merely returned th



card.

“You want to talk to me?” asked Durfee.

“If you please.”

“Well—talk ahead.”

Carhart glanced at General Carrington. Hknew that the opportunity to have it ouwith Durfee in the presence of the biggesman of them all, the man who was the x i

his very equation with which he wastruggling, was a very great opportunityJust why, he could hardly have said; andhe had no time to figure it out in detail. S

he leaped without looking. He drew uanother of the worn porch chairs and madhimself comfortable.

“A rascal named Jack Flagg,” he said



speaking with cool deliberation, “with hundred or two hundred armed men, hahrown up what I suppose he would cal

ntrenchments across our right of way ahe La Paz River. Another party ha

attacked our line back at Barker HillsThis second party is commanded by Mr

Bourke, who is in charge of thconstruction work on your H. D. & W. care nothing about Bourke, because MrDe Reamer, who is at Sherman, is amplable to dispose of him. I have come hero ask you if you will consider orderin

Flagg to get out of our way at the La Paz.”

He settled back in his chair, lookinsteadily into the florid countenance of thredoubtable Commodore Durfee. The twrailway presidents were looking, in turn



at him, but with something of a differencbetween their expressions. Whether thGeneral was amused or merely intereste

t would have been difficult for any buone who was accustomed to his manner tsay. But there could be little doubt that thworldly experience of the Commodor

was barely equal to the task of keepindown his astonishment and anger.

“This has nothing to do with me,” h

replied shortly. “I know nothing of thiFlagg.”

Carhart leaned a little forward. His eye

never left Durfee’s face. “Then,” he saidn that same measured voice, “if you know

nothing of this Flagg, you don’t care whahappens to him.”



“Certainly not,” replied the Commodore—a little too shortly, this time, for hadded, “I guess two hundred armed me

behind intrenchments can take care ohemselves.”

Carhart settled back again, and th

shadow of a smile crossed his face. Botmen were watching him, but he sainothing. And then General Carringtounexpectedly took a hand. “See here,” h

said with the air of a man who sweeps alobstructions out of his way, “what did yocome here for? What do you want?”

Carhart’s answer was deliberate, and wauttered with studied force. “I have riddehirty miles to talk with Mr. Durfee and h

sees fit to treat me like a d—n fool. I cam

here to see if we couldn’t avoi



bloodshed. Evidently we can’t.”

“What do you mean by that?” aske

Carrington.nstead of replying, Carhart, after

moment’s thought, turned inquiringly toDurfee.

“Out with it,” cried that gentleman. “Whado you want?”

“I want you to call off Jack Flagg.”

“Evidently you are a d—n fool,” saiDurfee.

But Carrington saw deeper. “You’ve gosomething up your sleeve, Mr. Carhart,he said. “What is it?”



Again Carhart turned to Durfee. AndDurfee said, “What is it?”

“It’s this.” Carhart drew from a pocket hisketch-map of the region about the trestle“Here is Flagg—along this ridge, at thfoot of these two knolls. His line lies, yo

see, across our right of way. Of courseeverybody knows that he was sent therfor a huge bluff, everybody thinks that wouldn’t dare make real war of it. Flag

opened up the ball by shooting Flint, mengineer in charge at the La Paz. Thshooting was done at night, when Flinwas out in the valley looking things over

unarmed and alone.”

“What Flint is that?” asked Carringtonsharply.



“John B.”

“Hurt him much?”

“There is a chance that he will live.”

Carrington pursed his lips.

“We foresaw Bourke’s move,” Carharpursued, “some time ago. And as it waplain that the mills in Pennsylvania—” hsmiled a little here, straight into Durfee’

eyes—“and the Queen and CumberlanRailroad were planning to find impossible to deliver our materials, wook up the rails and ties of the Paradis

Southern and brought them out to the enof the track. In fact, we have our materialand supplies so well in hand that even iBourke could hold Barker Hills, we are i



a position to work right ahead. Trackaying is going on this minute. But w

can’t cross the La Paz if Flagg doesn’

move.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Durfee.

“So it is necessary to make him move.”

“It is, eh?”

“Yes, and—” Carhart’s eyes were firing

up; his right fist was resting in the palm ohis left hand—“and we’re going to do itunless you should think it worth while tforestall us. Possibly you thought I woul

send a force back to Barker Hills. But didn’t—I brought it up this way instead. have three times as many men as your MrFlagg has, and a third of them are on th



knolls behind Flagg.”

“And the fighting comes next, eh?” sai

Carrington.“Either Mr. Durfee will call Flagg off aonce, or there will be a battle of the LPaz. I think you see what I am getting aMr. Durfee. Whatever the courts madecide, however the real balance ocontrol lies now, is something that doesn’

concern me at all. That issue lies betweeyou and my employer, Mr. De ReamerBut since you have chosen to attack at point where I am in authority, I shan’

hesitate to strike back. It isn’t for me tsay which side would profit by making inecessary for the governor and his militio take hold, but I will say that if th

governor does seize the road, he will fin



Mr. De Reamer in possession froSherman to Red Hills. I am prepared tose a hundred—two hundred—men i

making that good. I have left orders for thshooting to begin at noon to-morrow. Iyou choose to give any orders, the newmust reach Mr. Tiffany by that time. I shal

start back at midnight, as my horse iired, and I wish to allow plenty of time

You can find me here, then, at any time upo twelve o’clock to-night.” He rose

“That, Mr. Durfee, is what I came here tosay.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Carhart,” said

General Carrington. “Did I understand yoo say that you have enough materials ohe ground to finish the line?”

“Practically. Certainly enough for th



present.”

“That’s interesting. Even to firewood,

suppose.”Carhart bowed slightly. “Even tofirewood,” he replied,—and walkeaway.

Byers was asleep in a chair, tipped bacagainst the office wall. Carhart woke himand engaged a room, where, after eatin

he meal which Byers had ordered, thecould sleep all day.

That evening, as Carhart and Byers wer

walking around from the stable, they founGeneral Carrington standing on the piazza

“Oh, Mr. Carhart!” said he.



“Good evening, sir,” said Carhart.

The General produced a letter. “Would

you be willing to get this through tFlagg?”

“Certainly.”

“Rather nice evening.”

“Very.”

“Suppose we sample their liquid here—’m sorry I can’t say much for it. Whawill you gentlemen have?”

t was ten o’clock in the morning. Carhart

Byers, Dimond, and Tiffany stood on th



north knoll.

“I’ll take it down,” said Byers, his eye

glowing through his spectacles on eitheside of his long nose.

“Go ahead,” said Carhart. “And good luco you!”

The instrument man took the message anstarted down the hill. Halfway there was puff of smoke from Flagg’s camp, and h

fell. It was so peaceful there on thhillside, so quiet and so bright witsunshine, the men could hardly believheir eyes. Then they roused. One lost hi

head and fired. But Dimond, his eyeblazing, swearing under his breath, handehis rifle to Carhart and went running an

eaping down the hillside. When h



reached the fallen man, he bent over hiand took the letter from his hand andstanding erect, waved it. Still holding i

above his head, he went on down the hiland disappeared among the rocks thasurrounded the camp.

Late that afternoon Flagg’s men straggled

out through the hollow, bound for RedHills. And every large rock on eithehillside concealed a man and a rifle. Herand there certain rocks failed in their duty

and Flagg’s men caught glimpses of bluesteel muzzles. So they did not linger.



For a number of reasons, after an attempo communicate by wire with a little New

Hampshire town, and after an unavailin

search for representatives of the clergy aLa Paz and at Red Hills, it was decided tbury the instrument man where he hafallen. “Near the track,” Young Van

suggested. “He would like it that way, hink.”

At six in the morning a long processio

filed out of the camp. At the head went thrude coffin on the shoulders of sisurveyors and foremen. Paul Carhart anTiffany followed, the chief with a praye

book in his hand; and after them came thmen. The grave was ready. The laborerand the skilled workmen stood shoulder tshoulder in a wide circle, baring thei



heads to the sun. Carhart opened the booand slowly turned the pages in a quiet sntense that the rustle of the leaves coul

be heard by every man there. For thungoverned emotions of these brokeoutcasts were now swayed to thoughts odeath and of what may come after.

“I am the resurrection and the life ...Carhart read the immortal wordsplendidly, in his even, finely modulated

voice. “... I know that my Redeemeiveth.... Yet in my flesh shall I see God...

We brought nothing into this world and is certain we can carry nothing out.... Fo

man walketh in a vain shadow, anddisquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth uriches, and cannot tell who shall gathehem.”



Gus Vandervelt raised his eyenvoluntarily and glanced from one t

another of the lustful, weak, wicked face

hat made up the greater part of the circle.

“It is sown in corruption, it is raised incorruption; it is sown in dishonor, it i

raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, is raised in power.”

Could it be that these wretches were to b

raised in incorruption? Was theresomething hidden behind each of thesanimal faces, something deeper than thmotives which lead such men to wor

with their hands only that they may eat andrink and die?

“... for the trumpet shall sound, and th

dead shall be raised incorruptible, and w



shall be changed. For ... this mortal musput on immortality.”

At the conclusion of the service YoungVan, deeply moved, looked about for hibrother. But it seemed that the sammpulse had come to them both, for h

heard a gruff, familiar voice behind him—

“Look here, Gus, don’t you think you’v

been sort of a d—n fool about thibusiness?”

The young fellow wheeled around with glad look in his eyes. He saw that hibrother was scowling, was not eveextending his hand, and yet he knew howmuch those rough words meant. “Yes,” he

replied frankly, “I think I have.”



Old Van nodded, and they walked back tobreakfast, side by side. Only once was thsilence broken, when Gus said, with som

slight hesitation: “What are you going tdo next?—Coming back to Sherman witus?”

And Old Van turned his face away andooked off down the river and walke

along for a few moments without replyingThen, “No,” he finally got out, “guess I’l

ake a little vacation.” He paused, stilooking away, and they strode on down th

slope. “Going over into Arizona with aoutfit,” he added huskily.





CHAPTER XWHAT TOOK PLACE AT

RED HILLS

The last spike in the western extension ohe Sherman and Western was driven by

no less a personage than President DReamer himself. In the circle of well

dressed men about him stood GeneraCarrington and a score of departmenheads of the two lines. The thirty miles orack between the La Paz and Red Hill

was laid, without unusual incident, iwenty days—a brilliant finish to what ha

been a record-breaking performance.



There was to be a dinner at the FriscHotel. Everybody knew now that GeneraCarrington had promised to be there an

o speak a felicitous word or twwelcoming the new C. & S. C. connectionAfter the spike-driving, Mr. De Reamer, ahin, saturnine figure, could be see

moving about through the little crowdOnce, it was observed, he and GeneraCarrington drew aside and talked in lowearnest tones. The reporters were there, ocourse, and to these the president waurbane. They had gathered at first abouhe General, but he had waved them of

with a smiling “Talk with my friend DeReamer there. He deserves whatevecredit there may be in this thing.” And nexhese keen-eyed, beardless men of th

press bore down in a little group o



Carhart, Tiffany, and Young Van, whowere standing apart. Tiffany was the firso see them approaching.

“Not a word, boys,” he said in a lowvoice.

“Why not?” asked Young Van. “I don’know of anybody who deserves morcredit than you two.”

“Not a word,” Tiffany repeated. “It would

cost me my job. Mr. De Reamer’s crazmad now because so much has been saiabout Paul here. I don’t care to get into i—just excuse me.”

The reporters were upon them. “Is thaMr. Tiffany?” asked one, indicating theretreating figure.



Carhart nodded.

“Is it true, Mr. Carhart,” asked another

“that he came out and fought under you ahe La Paz?”

Carhart smiled. President De Reamer wapassing with Mr. Chambers and hadpaused only a few feet away. “Therwasn’t any fighting at the La Paz,” hreplied.

“There is a grave there,” the questionepersisted.

“How do you know?”

“I rode out and saw it.”

“Then you should have ridden back th

ength of the line and you would hav



found a few other graves.” The chiesobered. “You can’t keep a thousand towo thousand men at work in the desert fo

months without losing a few of them. I’sorry that this is so, but it is.”

“Mr. Carhart,” came another abrup

question, this time from the keenestappearing reporter of them all, “What diyou say to General Carrington anCommodore Durfee when you saw them a

he Frisco?”

Young Van looked at his chief and sawhat the faintest of twinkles was in hi

eyes. He glanced over his shoulder anmade out that De Reamer had paused ihis conversation with Mr. Chambers, andwas listening to catch Carhart’s reply. Fo

himself, Young Van was blazing with



anger that this man, who had in his eyefairly dragged De Reamer through to successful termination of the fight, shoul

be robbed of what seemed to him the reareward. He had still something to learn ohe way of the world, and everything tearn of the way of Wall Street. Then he

heard Carhart replying:—

“You must ask Mr. De Reamer about thatHe directs the policy of the Sherman an

Western.”

And at this the president of the melancholvisage, and with him his vice-president

passed on out of earshot.

“Mr. Carhart,”—the reporters were still at,—“one of your assistants, J. B. Flin

was carried on a cot the other day to th



C. & S. C. station and put on a train. Whawas the matter with him?”

Carhart hesitated. Personally he cared noat all whether the facts were or were nogiven to the public. He felt little pleasurn lying about them. Engineers as a clas

do not lie very well. But he was doing thwork of the Sherman and Western, and theSherman and Western, for a mixture oreasons, wished the facts covered. And

hen, somewhat to his relief, the youngesreporter in the group blundered out thquestion which let him off with half a lie.

“Is it true, Mr. Carhart,” asked thireporter, “that Mr. Flint has been really annvalid for years?”

“Yes,” Carhart replied cheerfully, “it is



rue.”

The party seemed to be breaking up

Tiffany caught Young Van’s eye, andbeckoned. “Come on!” he called—“thDinner!”

“They are starting, Mr. Carhart,” saidYoung Van.

“Are they? All right.—That’s all, boysYou can say, with perfect truth, that the

Sherman and Western has been completedo Red Hills.”

“And that the H. D. & W. hasn’t,” cried

he youngest reporter.

Carhart laughed. “The H. D. & W. wilhave to do its own talking,” he replied.



“But they aren’t doing any.”

“Can’t help that,” said Carhart. “No mor

—no more!” And with Young Van hewalked off toward the Frisco.

After the dinner the party broke up. Flinand Haddon went West with the Chicago

and Southern California officials. Thothers, who were to start eastward in thate evening, rode off for a shoot on th

plains. And it fell out that Carhart and

Young Van, who had, from differenmotives, declined the ride, were lefogether at the hotel.

“What are you going to do now, Gus?



asked the chief.

Young Van hesitated, then gave way to a

nervous smile. Carhart glanced keenly ahim, and observed that he had lost coloand that the pupils of his eyes werdilated. Now that the strain was over h

was himself conscious of a severphysical let-down, and he was nosurprised to learn that his assistant wacompletely unstrung.

either was he surprised to hear thihesitating yet perfectly honest reply: “I’vbeen thinking I’d start at the first saloo

and drink to the other end of town. Want tcome along?”

“No,” Carhart replied, “I don’t believe

will, thanks. I meant to ask what work yo



plan to take up next?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Nothing!—why so?”

“That is easy to answer.” Young Vanaughed bitterly. “I have no offers.”

“I’m surprised at that.”

“You don’t really mean that, Mr

Carhart?”“Certainly I do.”

“Well, it’s more than I can say. If a man

came along and offered me a gooposition, I should feel that I ought tdecline it.”

“Why?” Carhart was genuinely interested



“Why?” Young Van rose and stoodooking gloomily down at his chief

“That’s a funny question for you to ask

You’ve been watching my work for thesemonths, and you’ve seen me developinnew limitations in every possibldirection. All together, I’ve discovered

about the choicest crop any man eveopened up. When I started out, I thought might some day become an engineer. Buf this job has taught me anything, it haaught me that I’m the emptiest ass tha

ever tried to lay two rails, end to end, in reasonably straight line.” The tremulou

quality of his voice told Carhart howdeeply the boy had taken his duties theart.

“I’ve been thinking to-day that the bes



hing I can do will be to rent a few acresomewhere out on Long Island and set upo raise chickens for the New York

market: broilers, and maybe squabs—thesay there is money in squabs. I’d probablfind I couldn’t even do that, but it woulbe exciting for a while.”

“Let’s get out and tramp around a littleGus,” was Carhart’s reply. “That will doyou as much good as a drunk.”

Young Van flushed at this, but followedhe chief out to the long street along whic

straggled the buildings that made up th

settlement. These buildings were mostlsaloons, each with its harvest oplainsmen, cowboys, laborers, anoutcasts standing, sitting, or sprawlin

before the door. The day was hot with th



dry heat of September, from which evehe memory of moisture had long ago bee

sucked out. The dust rose at every ste

and settled on skin and clothing. Now anhen a lounging figure rose and moveanguidly in through a saloon door. Almoshe only other movement to be seen wa

he heat vibration in the atmosphere. Thonly sound, beyond a drawled remark nowand then, and the clink of glasses, was thinkle of a crazy piano down the street

But the bronzed, sinewy engineers, whhad for months known no otheatmosphere, stepped off in a swingin

stride, and soon were past the end of thstreet and out in the open. Carhart himselwas not above a sense of elation, and hfell into reminiscence.



“There is only one thing I have regrettedGus,” he said. “If I could have got hold oa big Italian I know of, with about

hundred of his men, this dinner woulhave taken place some days ago.”

“I didn’t suppose that the work could hav

gone much faster,” replied the youngeman, moodily.

“Yes, we might have saved that much time

easily in the cuts.”“Working by hand?”

“Yes. My experience with this chap wa

up in New Jersey. The firm I was workinfor at the time was developing a big icbusiness up in the lakes in the northerpart of the state. It was necessary to lay



few short lines of track to connect thdifferent ice-houses with the main lineand I was given charge of it. I got m

aborers—several hundred of them—froan Italian padrone in New York City

either myself nor my assistants spokheir language, of course, and, as it turne

out, we didn’t think in their languageither, for after two or three days they alwalked out—to a man. I could do nothinwith them. So I rang up the padrone anold him he would have to furnish a betteot than that. ‘But,’ said he, ‘I can’t let you

have any more men.’ I asked him why not

Because you don’t know how to handlhem.’ That was a surprising sort of ananswer, but I needed the laborers and kept at him. Finally he said, ‘I’ll tell yo

what I will do. I will send you the men



but you must let me send a foreman withem, and you must agree to give all younstructions through that foreman.’ ‘Al

right,’ I replied, ‘send them along. If theydo the work, I won’t bother them.’

“The next day, when I was at the office i

ewark, one of my assistants called me uand told me it would be worth my while tcome right out on the work. When reached there, he met me and took m

down the track to a deep cut where thforce was at work. The laborers werplaced just as I have placed our meately, packed close together on terraces

and after I had watched for a moment idawned on me that I had never seetalians work so fast as those wer

working. ‘How did you do it?’ I asked



The assistant grinned, and advised me twatch the man at the top, and then I sawhat a giant of an Italian was standing o

he hill above the top terrace, where hcould look down at the rows of laborersHe wore a long ulster, and kept his handn his pockets.

“Pretty soon a laborer down on the loweserrace rested his pick against his knee

and stood up to stretch. ‘Watch now!

whispered my assistant. I looked up at thbig man just in time to see him draw stone out of his pocket—no pebble, minyou, but a jagged piece of road ballast—

and throw it right at that laborer’s headThe fellow simply dodged it, seized hipick, and went to work harder than everand not another man stopped, even lon



enough to draw a good breath during thwenty minutes I stood there. Then th

whistle blew, and as I was curious to se

what would happen I waited.”

“What did happen?” asked Young Van.

“Nothing whatever, except that thaborers crowded around this foreman an

seemed proud to get a word from him.”

“But I don’t understand. What gave hi

such a hold over them?”

“I don’t understand it myself. But I knowhat if I strained things to the breakin

point, I could never get the work out oany laborers that he got out of thostalians. With him, and them, we migh

have saved a good many days in thi



work.”

“We might have tried the plan ourselves,”

said the young man, with a chuckle. “Onlfancy a little something would havhappened if we had tried it.”

Young Van’s dangerous mood had passedCarhart abruptly changed the subject“How would you like to go up intCanada with me, Gus?” he said.

“With you? There isn’t much doubt whao answer to that.”

“There will be some interesting thing

about the work—and time enough to dhem well, the way it looks now. I can’

promise you any remarkable inducementsbut you will get a little more than you hav



been paid here—I won’t say more thayou have earned here, for you have nobeen paid what you are worth.”

A moment passed before these wordcould get into the consciousness of thyoung man. Then—they were just enterin

he village on their return—he stoppeshort and looked into Paul Carhart’s face“Do you mean that you really want me?he asked.

Carhart tried not to smile as he said: “Thchoice of assistants is in my hands, Gusand I should find it difficult to justif

myself for taking an assistant whom I dinot want—and especially for aundertaking that is likely to last severayears.”



Young Van was standing stock-still“‘Several years,’” he repeated. Then“This seems to amount pretty nearly to

permanent offer?”

“Pretty nearly,” said Carhart, smilinnow.

At this they resumed their pace anentered the town. Both were absorbed—Young Van in his astonishment that he had

found favor in the eyes of his chiefCarhart in his amusement over the uttenaïveté of the boy; and neither had an eyfor the groups of desperate characters tha

ined the street, least of all for thparticular group before the “Acme HotelJ. Peters, Prop.”

t could not be supposed that the coming o



fifteen hundred men to Red Hills, theipockets lined with the earnings of thosast irresistible weeks, should pas

without a great effort on the part of thocal population to empty these pocket

promptly and thoroughly. If the twoengineers had looked about more sharpl

n the course of their walk, they woulhave seen more than one familiar face. Iwas, indeed, a day to be remembered iRed Hills; there had been no sucwholesale contribution to local needsince the first ramshackle frame buildinrose from the dust. Bartenders were busy

and deft-fingered, impassive gentlemefrom Chicago, and New Orleans, anDenver, and San Francisco were hard awork behind green tables. All was quie

so far. The laborers were so skilfull



distributed that no green table was withouts professional gambler; and swelterinn the heat, gulping down the ever read

fluids, they went gayly, gloomily, angrilydefiantly on, thumbing the dirty cards anrelinquishing their earnings. All was stilquiet, for the business of the day wa

carried on in back rooms and on uppefloors. The uproar would not begin for few hours yet, and would hardly reach itfull strength before dark.

Among those to whom music and feminincharms, such as they were, outweighed thdelights of the green table was Charlie th

cook. He sat at an open window, upstairswhere he could look down at the sleepstreet and at the front of the Acme Hotelopposite. At first he had been content to



make out what he could of the scenhrough the cheesecloth sash curtains, bu

under the mellowing influence of a rapi

succession of bottles, he had drawn thcurtains, and now sat with his kneeagainst the sill, smiling down in a ruddybenevolent fashion on everybody an

everything below. The parlor at his bacwas filled with workmen and theicompanions. He had seen the engineerwalk down the street, and had smiled igenial fashion, though aware that they hanot observed him. Now he saw thereturning, and he was ready, undaunted, to

greet them again.Then something happened. The dooeading to the bar of the Acme Hote

suddenly opened, and a hulking figure of



man appeared on the broad step. He wahalf drunk, and he carried a revolver ihis hand. Behind him, crowding out to se

he fun, came a dozen men. Charlie sawhis, and, without in the slightest relaxin

his genial smile, he drew out one of hiown revolvers and held it carelessl

before him with the muzzle resting on thwindow sill. Never for an instant did hake his good-natured, bloodshot eye

from the man across the street.

The engineers were drawing rapidlnearer. Young Van was the first to take inhe situation, and he spoke in a low, quic

voice, hardly moving his lips:—

“Don’t look up or start, Mr. Carhart—buJack Flagg is standing in front of that hote

on the left, and he looks as if he meant t



shoot. What do you think we had bettedo? I am not armed.”

“Neither am I,” Carhart replied. “Donpay any attention to him.”







“Charlie had not raised his revolver,—

the muzzle still rested easily on the sill,

—but it was pointing straight at Jack

Flagg’s heart.”

That was all that was said. The twengineers swung along without a sign ofaltering. Jack Flagg slowly raised hiweapon and took deliberate aim at Pau

Carhart. Still the two came on, not whollable to conceal their sense of the situationbut, rather, regardless of it. On Carhart’face there was an expression of ster

contempt; Young Van was pale and hiseyes were fixed straight before him.

At this point it seemed as if the strain mus

break one way or the other. The men wer



not ten yards apart—in another moment iwould be less than two. A little gasp oadmiration came from the watchin

groups. Flagg heard this, and his hanwavered, but he recovered and took short step forward.

Suddenly the silence was broken by a lowwhistle. Flagg started, and looked around

Again came the low whistle. This tim

Flagg looked up, and caught his first sighof Charlie in the window, and hesitatedCharlie had not raised his revolver,—thmuzzle still rested easily on the sill,—bu

t was pointing straight at Jack Flagg’heart. Flagg lowered his weapon a littlway, then looked as if he wished to raist again, but on second thoughts thi

seemed hardly wise, for Charlie wa



shaking his head in gentle disapprovaThen this incident, which had shaveclose to tragedy, suddenly ran off into

farce. Flagg pocketed his revolvermuttered something that nobodunderstood, and disappeared through thbar-room door; and after a long breath o

mingled relief and disappointmensomebody laughed aloud.

As for Charlie, he turned, still playin

with his revolver, and looked about throom. “Why!” he exclaimed. “WhyWhere’s the ladies?”

The engineers walked steadily up th

street and turned into the hotel. The



Young Van weakened, staggered to achair, and sat limp and white. “I told you,he said breathlessly, “I told you I was—

no good.”

Carhart, before replying, looked at hiwatch, and his hand shook as he did so

“Brace up, Gus,” he said. “Brace up. start East in an hour or so, and you arcoming with me, you know.”

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