The Road Builders Page 8

  CHAPTER VIII

  SHOTS--AND A SCOUTING PARTY

  It was early evening. Gus Vandervelt, nervous, exultant, leaving atrail of cigarette stubs behind him, was pacing up and down the track.When he faced the east, his eyes saw far beyond the cars and wagonsand clustering tents. Off there, in each mile of the many they hadtravelled, lay a witness of some battle won. They had fought likesoldiers; and the small successes had come rapidly until the men werebeginning to take victory as a matter of course. The most stupid ofthem understood now just what sort of thing the reserved, magneticPaul Carhart stood for, and they were finding it a very good sort ofthing indeed.

  As Young Van walked, his imagination leaping forward from battlesfought to the battles to come, he heard a step, and saw the stockyfigure of his brother approaching through the dusk. He stiffened upand paused, but Old Van marched by without the twitch of a muscle. Theyoung man watched him until he had faded out of sight, then lightedanother cigarette, and continued his beat.

  A little later, smiling in a nervous way he had of late, Young Vanturned toward the headquarters tent. He knew that his brother had goneto make up the material train and would not return for some time.

  He found Paul Carhart sitting alone, sewing a button on the yellowlinen trousers.

  "Did you see any more drunks?" Carhart asked, pausing, needle in air.

  Young Van, now that he thought of it, had observed signs of unusualgood feeling among the laborers.

  "We're a little too near this Palos settlement to suit me," said thechief. "Keeping your men in the desert rather spoils one for theadvantages of civilization. I never had an easier time with laborers.But these men are a bad lot to bring within five miles of a saloon.They will be fighting before morning."

  "I suppose they will. I hadn't thought of it. By the way, there's arumor about that you had a letter from Mr. Flint to-day."

  Carhart shook his head. "No," said he, "that's the thing I want mostjust now."

  For a while they were silent. Young Van's face grew sober. The track,this double line of rusty steel, had so absorbed the energy of all ofthem that it seemed now, to his inexperience, the complete outwardexpression of their lives. He could think of little else. When notengrossed by the actual work, his thoughts were ranging beyond, farinto the deeper significance of it. Crowding on the heels of theconstructors would come settlers. Already mushroom towns were pushingup along the line behind them. With settlers would come well-boring,irrigation, farming, and ranching. Timber, bricks, stone would berushed into these new lands, to be converted into hotels, shops,banks, dwellings. The marvellously intricate interrelations ofcivilization would suddenly be found existing and at work. There wouldbe rude, hard struggles, much drinking and gambling, and someshooting. The license of the plains would be found strangely mingledwith law and with what we call right. The church and the saloon wouldmarch on, side by side. And, finally, out of the uproar and thefighting would rise, for better or worse, a new phase of life.Thinking these things, Young Van could not forget that they five--PaulCarhart, John Flint, Old Van, Harry Scribner, and himself--werebringing it about. They were breaking the way, pioneers of theexpansion of a restless, mighty people.

  "No,"--Carhart was speaking,--"that letter was from Peet. You mightenjoy reading it."

  Young Van started from his revery, took the letter, and spread itopen. "My dear Mr. Carhart," it ran, "I am very sorry, indeed, aboutthe delay of that lot of spikes. I have arranged with Mr. Tiffany tobuy up all we can find here in Sherman and hurry them on to you.Please keep me informed by wire of any delays and inconveniences. Youwill understand, I am sure, that we mean to stop at nothing to keepyou from the slightest annoyance and delay in these matters. Veryfaithfully yours, L. W. Peet."

  "But we have spikes enough," said the assistant, looking up. "Whatdoes he mean?"

  Carhart smiled. "Just what he says; that he wouldn't delay us forworlds."

  "'Very faithfully yours,' too. What is all this, Mr. Carhart? Whathave you done to him--hypnotized him?"

  Carhart smiled. "Hardly," he replied; adding, "Reach me that spool ofthread, will you?" But instead of continuing his needlework, Carhart,when he received the spool, laid it down beside him and sat, deep inthought, gazing out through the tent-opening into the night.

  "Gus," he asked abruptly, "where did the operator go?"

  Young Van glanced up at his chief, then answered quietly: "To bed, Ithink. I heard him say he was going to turn in early to-night."

  "Would you mind stirring him out?"

  "Certainly not."

  "Wait a minute. We have enough firewood on hand to keep the enginesgoing six or perhaps eight days. That won't do."

  Young Van was slightly puzzled.

  "Go ahead, Gus. Tell him to meet me at his instrument in ten minutes."

  Young Van left the tent at once. When he returned, after rousing thesleepy operator, he observed that the chief was still deep in thought."All right," said Young Van; "he's getting up."

  "Much obliged, Gus." Carhart started to resume his mending, thenlowered his needle. "And all for the want of a horseshoe nail," hehummed softly.

  Young Van, more puzzled than before, looked up from a heap of paperswhich had drawn his attention. Carhart smiled a little.

  "You remember?" he said,--

  "For the want of a nail the shoe was lost; 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 towardthe shelter that covered the telegraph instruments.

  "There he goes now. I'm a little bothered, Gus. It would be a humoroussort of a joke on me if I should be held up now for a littlefirewood."

  "I suppose we couldn't cut up ties?" suggested Young Van.

  "Can't spare 'em. I've ordered wood from Red Hills, but we shan't beable to pick up enough there. And if we don't get some pretty soon,the engines will have to stop."

  Young Van took down a letter file and glanced through it. In a momenthe had drawn out a recent message from Peet. "Here," he said, "Mr.Peet promised to have a big lot of wood on the way by to-day. Thatleaves some margin for delays."

  Carhart rose, and nodded. "Yes," he replied, "but not margin enough."

  "You expect something to happen right off?"

  "Couldn't say to that. But my bones feel queer to-night--have feltqueer all day. Tiffany writes that Bourke, who is in charge of the H.D. & W. construction, was in Sherman the other day. And CommodoreDurfee was expected at Red Hills a week ago. Well,--" He shrugged hisshoulders and went out and over to join the operator.

  "We'll try to get the man on the next division," said Carhart. "Askhim if the line is clear all the way."

  The operator extended his hand to send the message, but checked it inmidair. "Why," he exclaimed, "he is calling us!" He looked up preparedto see surprise equal to his own on Carhart's face. But what he didsee there mystified him. The chief was slowly nodding. He could notsay that he had expected this call,--the thing was a coincidence,--andyet he was not at all surprised.

  "'Trouble on Barker Hills division--'" The operator was repeating asthe instrument clicked.

  "That's a hundred miles or so back--"

  "Hundred and thirty-eight. 'Operator on middle division,' hesays, 'wires fifty men trying to seize station--has notifiedSherman--assistance promised. Big armed force Barker Hills led bylarge man with red mustache--'"

  "That's Bourke himself," muttered Carhart.

  The operator's hand shook a little. His eyes were shining. "Here'ssome more, Mr. Carhart,--'Have tried to hold my station, but--'"

  "Wait," cried the chief, sharply. "Quick--say this: 'Has supply trainpassed west to-day?'"

  "'Has--supply--train--'" the operator repeated after amoment--"'passed--west-to-day?'"

  "Now what does he answer?"

  "Just a moment--Here he is!--'Not--not--' Hold on there, what's thematter?"

/>   "Has he stopped?"

  "Stopped short. That's queer."

  "Do you think so?" said Carhart, looking down into the white face ofthe operator. The effect of the young man's excitement was hardlylessened by the shock of rumpled hair about his forehead and by thewhite collar of a nightgown which appeared above his hastily buttonedcoat.

  "You mean--?"

  "Wait a little longer." For several minutes they were silent, theoperator leaning his elbows on the table, Carhart bending over him.Then, "Try him again," said Carhart.

  The operator obeyed. There was no response. Carhart drew up an emptycracker box and sat down. Twenty minutes passed.

  "Click--clickety--click--click," said the instrument. The operator, ina husky voice, translated the message as it came in: "'P. Carhart,chief west'n ext. S. & W.: On receipt of this you will stop allconstruction work until further instructions, by order of Vice-Pres.Chambers--H. L. Tiffany.'"

  "That's funny!" said the operator.

  Carhart did not seem to hear the exclamation. He was frowningslightly, and his lips were moving. At length he said, "Take this:--

  "To C. O'F. BOURKE,

  Barker Hills Station:--

  "Have another try, old chap. You haven't quite caught Hen Tiffany's style yet.

  "P. CARHART."

  The operator laughed softly and nervously as his deft fingerstransmitted this personal communication.

  "Got it all through?" asked the chief.

  "Yes, sir; all through."

  "All right, then, go back to bed. Good night."

  "Good night, Mr. Carhart."

  * * * * *

  For several days now no word had come through from Flint, on "mile109." But twenty hours after the trouble at Barker Hills--just beforesupper time of the following day--a party of plainsmen came gallopinginto camp. One of these, a wizened little man with a kindly smile andshrewd eyes, dismounted before the headquarters tent and peered inbetween the flaps. "Mr. Carhart here?"

  "He will be in two minutes," replied Young Van, rising from the table."Come in, sir!"

  "Your Mr. Flint asked me to hand him this." The wizened one produced aletter, and dropped into the chair which Young Van had broughtforward. "Having quite a time up there, isn't he?"

  "How so?" asked Young Van. It was well to speak guardedly.

  "Oh, he's in it, deep," was the reply. "Commodore Durfee's at theFrisco Hotel in Red Hills. They say he came out over the 'Wobbly' on aconstruction train and rode through. Pretty spry yet, the OldCommodore. He's hired a bad man named Flagg--Jack Flagg--and sent himout with a hundred or so men to seize your bridge at La Paz. Sorry Icouldn't stay there to see the excitement, but I'm hurrying east. Mr.Flint thought maybe I could pick up one of your trains running back toSherman. If I can't do that, I'll strike off south for Pierrepont, andget through that way."

  Young Van hesitated, and was about to reply, when he heard the chiefapproaching.

  Carhart came in from the rear, nodded to the stranger, and picked upthe envelope. "You brought this, sir?" he asked.

  "Yes; Mr. Flint asked me to."

  Very deliberately Carhart read the letter, and, without the slightestchange of expression, tossed it on the table. "You must have supperwith us," he said. "If you stopped with John Flint you perhaps knowhow little an engineer's hospitality amounts to, but such as we havewe shall be very glad to share with you."

  "Thank you," replied the stranger.

  "You are a ranchman, I presume?" Carhart went on.

  "Yes--in northwest of Red Hills. I go to Sherman every year."

  Young Van spoke, "He thought of taking one of our trains through."

  Carhart smiled dryly. "I should be greatly obliged to you, sir, if youcould take a train through," he said. "That's something we don't seemable to do."

  The wizened one glanced up with a keen expression about his eyes."Having trouble back along the line?" he asked.

  "You might call it trouble. My old friend Bourke, of the H. D. & W.,has cut in behind us with a small army." He gave a little shrug. "Ican't get through. I can't get either way now that they've got inbetween Flint and Red Hills."

  "Then I'd better ride down to Pierrepont, hadn't I?"

  "I'm afraid that's the best that I can suggest, sir."

  "You people certainly seem to be playing in hard luck, Mr. Carhart."As the wizened one ventured this observation he crossed his legs andthrust his hands into his pockets. The action caused his coat to fallback, and disclosed a small gold pendant hanging from his watch guard.Young Van observed it, and glanced at Carhart, but he could not tellwhether the chief had taken it in.

  "It's worse than hard luck," Carhart replied; "it begins to look likedefeat. We have been dependent on the Sherman people for material,food, water,--everything. Now Bourke has shut us off."

  "But you seem to have plenty of material here, Mr. Carhart."

  "Rails--yes. But it takes more than rails."

  "And you surely have a large enough force."

  "Yes, but moving several hundred men back a hundred and forty miles,fighting it out with Bourke, clearing the track, and getting trainsthrough from Sherman, will take time. Long before we can make anyheadway, 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 wire Sherman without sending a mantwo hundred miles through the desert. The most important thing to myemployers is to maintain possession of the line."

  "Of course--I see. I don't know much about these things myself."

  After supper the wizened one announced that he must ride on with hisparty.

  "You won't stop with us to-night?" asked Carhart.

  "No, thanks. It'll be light an hour or two yet. I've got to move fast.I'll lose a good deal, you see, going around by way of Pierrepont."

  "That's so, of course. Well, good-by, sir."

  "Good-by."

  The riders swung into their saddles and cantered off eastward. Carhartturned to Young Van and slowly winked. "Come up to headquarters, Gus,"he said. "I've got some work for you."

  "I rather guess you have, if we're going after Bourke."

  "After Bourke?" Carhart smiled. "You didn't take that in, Gus?"

  "Well--of course, I suspected."

  "You saw his badge?"

  "Yes."

  "Bourke always has a lot of men about him from his own college."

  "You really think it, then?"

  "It would be hard to say what I think. But I've been going on theassumption that he is one of Bourke's engineers."

  They were approaching the headquarters tent. Young Van looked up andsaw that "Arizona," Carhart's new saddle-horse, was hitched beforeit. They entered the tent, and the first thing the chief did was toget out two long blue-nosed revolvers and slip them into his holsters.A moment later, and Dimond, fitted out for a long ride, appeared atthe entrance, saying, "All ready, Mr. Carhart!"

  "Now, Gus," said the chief, "I'm off for 'mile 109.' I want you to getabout two hundred men together and send them after me to-night orto-morrow morning. I'll tell Scribner, as I pass him, to have fiftymore for you. Every man must have a rifle and plenty of ballcartridges. Send Byers"--this was the instrument man of the longnose--"and two or three others whom you think capable of commandingforty or fifty men each."

  "And Bourke?"

  "We'll leave him to Mr. Chambers. Give Charlie instructions tostrengthen his night guard. Some men will be sent back to guard thesecond and third wells."

  Young Van involuntarily passed his hand across his eyes.

  "I'm afraid I'm not much good," he said slowly. "I didn't grasp thissituation very well. It's rather a new phase of engineering for me. Weseem to be plunging all of a sudden into tactics and strategy."

  "That's about the size of it, Gus," the chief responded. He hadexchanged his old straw hat for a sombrero. His spurs jingled as hemoved. There was a sparkle in his ey
e and a new sort of militaryalertness about his figure. He paused at the tent entrance, and lookedback. "That's about the size of it, Gus," he repeated with a halfsmile. "And I'm afraid I rather like it."

  "Well, good-by. I'll start the men right along after you."

  Carhart mounted his horse, Dimond followed his example, and the tworode away in the direction of the La Paz bridge. And ten hours later,at five in the morning, a line of armed horsemen--a long-nosed youngman with the light of a pirate soul in his eyes riding at the head, anathletic pile-inspector and a college-bred rodman bringing up therear--rode westward after him.

  * * * * *

  Troubles had been coming other than singly on "mile 109." Jack Flagg,with a force which, while smaller than Flint's, was made up ofwell-armed and well-paid desperadoes, had seized the ridge which shutin the La Paz Valley on the west, had pitched camp, erected rudeintrenchments of loose stone, and stopped for the moment all work onthe mile-long trestle. So much John Flint had set down in the notewhich the wizened one had delivered to Carhart. The next adventurebefell on the night after the departure of the wizened one; and itbrought out the ugly strain in the opera bouffe business of these wildrailroading days.

  Antonio, the watchman, sat on the edge of the eastern abutment anddangled his feet. He was so drowsy that he even stopped rollingcigarettes. He had chosen a comfortable seat, where a pile of timbersafforded a rest for his back. To be sure, there was the possibilityof rolling off into the water and sand if he should really fallasleep; but elsewhere he would be exposed to the searching eyes of theengineer in charge, and those eyes were very searching indeed. He wasthinking, in a dreamy way, of what he would do on the Sunday, with hisweek's pay in his pocket and the village of La Paz but twelve milesaway.

  Now and again his complacent eyes roved out across the river, whichslipped by with such a gentle, swishing murmur. He could look over thetops of the four unfinished piers and the western abutment and see thetrestle where it was continued on the farther side. These Americanos,what driving devils they were! And when they had built their railroad,what were they going to do with it? To go fast--Antonio shrugged hisshoulders and resumed the cigarettes--it is very well, but to whatpurpose? When they have rushed madly across the continent, what willthey find there? Perhaps they will then rush back again. TheseAmericanos!

  He let his eyes rest upon the row of piers--one, two, three, four ofthem. What labor they had caused--how the men had sweat, and muttered,and toiled--how the foremen had cursed! Four piers of masonry risingout of the ghostly river. Very strong they must be, for the La Paz wasnot always gentle. In the spring and fall it was savage; and then ithad an ugly way of undermining bridges, as those other foolishAmericanos had learned to their cost when they built the wagon bridgeat La Paz. He smiled lazily. But suddenly he sat up straight. A longthin figure of a man was moving about among the piles of timber. Itwas the senor Flint--and such a prowler as he was, day and night,night and day. He lived this bridge, did the senor; he thought it, heate it, he drank it, he talked it, he slept it,--and for why? It couldnot be that he believed it living to think and breathe bridge and onlybridge. It could not be that man was made for this--to become a slaveto this trestle structure which was slowly crawling, like somemonster centipede, across the sands of the La Paz. It was very goodfor the trestle perhaps, and the bridge, but was it so good for thesenor?

  "... this trestle structure which was slowly crawling,like some monster centipede, across the sands of the La Paz."]

  Antonio smiled again, and settled back; the senor was passing on. Hewas getting into a boat. He was poling across the languid, dimplingriver. He was getting out on the farther bank; he was walking up thelong slope, keeping out of the moonlight in the shadow of thetrestle-thing; he was peering up toward the embattled ridge beyond,where lay the redoubtable Flagg.

  ... The cigarette dropped from Antonio's unnerved fingers, and fellwith a sizzling splash into the water below. He drew an involuntaryquick breath, and the smoke in his nostrils went unexpectedly into histhroat and made him cough. Then trembling a little, he got slowly tohis feet and stood staring out there over the serene surface of theriver. He rubbed his eyes and stared again. A shot,--two shots,--whichwas right? Two--no, one! And that insignificant little dark heapyonder in the moonlight--was that the senor? What a trouble!--and hehad been so comfortable there on the abutment!

  Antonio was frightened. He thought of running away from thesefate-tempting Americans; but in that case he would lose his pay andthose Sundays at La Paz. He waited a while. Perhaps he was dreamingand would make himself ridiculous. He walked about, and trieddifferent points of view. And at last he went to rouse his foreman.

  They got Flint in--Haddon, in night-shirt, bare legs, and shoes withflapping strings to them; the foreman of the pile-driver crew innight-shirt and hat, and two big-shouldered bridgemen. There was aball somewhere in Flint, and there were certain complications alongthe line of his chronic ailment, so that his usefulness was, so tospeak, impaired. And Haddon, during what was left of the night andduring all of the following day, had distinctly a bad time of it.

  While these things were going on, Paul Carhart was riding westward ata hot gallop with Dimond close behind. It was shortly after sunsetthat he reined up on the crest of the eastern ridge and looked outover the La Paz. The barren valley was flooded with light. The yellowslopes were delicately tinted rose and violet, the rock pillars stoodout black and sharply defined, the western hills formed a royal purplebarrier to the streams of color; and through this glowing sceneextended the square-jointed trestle, unmistakably the work of manwhere all else was from another hand. Never in the progress of thisundertaking which we have been following across the plains had thecontrast been so marked between the patient beauty of the old land andthe uncompromising ugliness of the structure which Paul Carhart wascarrying into and through it. And yet the chief,--an intelligent,educated man, not wanting in feeling for the finer side oflife,--though he took in the wonders of the sunset, looked last andlongest at the trestle and the uncompleted bridge. Then he rode down,glancing, in his quizzical way, at the camp, which had been moved backbehind a knoll, at the piles of stone and timber, at the corral, andat the groups of idle, gloomy workmen.

  Fortunately the chief was prepared for surprises. News that thetrestle had been burned to the ground would have drawn no more than aglance and a nod from him. His mind had not been idle during the ride.He knew that the strongest defence partakes of an offensive character,and he had no notion of sitting back to await developments. Of severalsets of plans which he had been considering, one was so plainly thesimplest and best that he was determined to try it. It involved asingle daring act, a sort of raid, which it would be necessary tocarry through without a vestige of legal authority. But this featureof it disturbed him very much less than a mere casual acquaintancewith this quiet gentleman might have led one to suppose. Perhaps hehad, like the red-blooded Tiffany, a vein of "Scotch-Irish" down inthe depths of his nature which could on occasion be opened up.

  "The cigarette dropped from Antonio's unnervedfingers."]

  After looking out for the comfort of John Flint, and after conferringwith Haddon and going thoroughly over the ground, Carhart sent forDimond.

  "How much more are you good for?" he asked.

  Dimond grinned. "For everything that's going," he replied.

  "Good. Do you know where the H. D. & W. is building down, a dozen orfifteen miles north of here?"

  "I guess I can find it," said Dimond.

  And with a fresh horse and a man or two, and with certain specificinstructions, Dimond rode north shortly after nightfall of that sameday. At eight in the morning he was back, hollow-eyed but happy. AndPaul Carhart, when Dimond had reported, was seen to smile quietly tohimself.