Kitabı oku: «The Road Builders», sayfa 7
Dimond was above a retort. “I can tell you,” he said. “Mr. Scribner give me the facts.” (In justice to Harry Scribner it should be mentioned that he had told Dimond nothing whatever concerning the personal 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 with the boys. He shot a waiter in the Harper restaurant at Flemington, shot ’im right down. And then he went out into the mountains and worked for a year without ever coming near a town. And they say” – Dimond’s voice lowered – “they say he shot a camp boss on the Northern, a man he used to knock around with, friendly. They say he shot him.” Dimond paused, in order that his words might sink into the consciousness of each listener. “He never goes North any more. He’ll never even stay at a place like Sherman for more than a day or two, and not that when he can help it.”
The men were silent for a little while. Then Charlie got slowly to his feet and shook out his big frame preparatory to making his rounds. “I guess that’s why Mr. Carhart told me to take my orders from his brother,” he said slowly. “I was wondering.” Then he stepped off in the direction of the corral.
It was three o’clock in the morning when Charlie finally stretched out for three winks. The laborers had long before rolled themselves up in their blankets. The men on guard, weary of peering into the darkness and the silence, had made themselves as nearly comfortable as they could. And it was half-past three, or near it, when a rope was cut by a stealthy hand and half a dozen sleepy, obedient mules were led out and away. Where so many animals were stirring; and where, too, lids were perhaps drooping over hitherto watchful eyes, the slight disturbance passed unobserved. At four the guards were changed, and the new day began to make itself known. At five the camp was astir; and a boy, searching in vain for his team, came upon the cut, trailing ends of rope at the outer edge of the corral.
They told Charlie, whom they found bending, red-eyed, over a steaming kettle. And the cook, with a straightforward sort of moral courage, went at once to announce his failure at guarding the camp. As luck would have it, he found the brothers Vandervelt together, at the wash basin behind their tent.
“May I speak to you, sir?” addressing the younger.
“Certainly, Charlie – What luck?” was the reply. And then, for a moment, they waited, – Young Van half glancing at his brother, Charlie summoning every ounce of this wonderful new sense of responsibility for the ordeal which he saw was to come, Old Van meaning unmistakably to take a hand in the discussion.
“We lost six mules last night, Mr. Vandervelt,” said Charlie, at length, plainly addressing Young Van.
“We lost six mules, did we?” mimicked the veteran, breaking in before his brother could reply. “What do you mean by coming here with such a story, you – ?” The tirade was on. Old Van applied to the cook such epithets as men did not employ at that time to any great extent on the plains. All the depression of the day before, which he had not succeeded in sleeping off, came out in a series of red-hot phrases, which, to Young Van’s, and to his own still greater surprise, Charlie took. Young Van, looking every second for a blow or even for a shot, could not see that he so much as twitched a muscle. Finally Old Van paused, not because he was in any danger of running out of epithets, but because something in the attitude of both Charlie and his brother tended to clarify the situation in his mind. Gus was standing almost as squarely as Charlie, and there were signs of tension about his mouth. It was no time for the engineers to develop a conflict of authority.
When his brother had stopped talking, Young Van said shortly, “How did you come to let them get away, Charlie?”
“I fell asleep, Mr. Vandervelt, – it must have been after three this morning, and I didn’t wake up until four.”
“But what was the matter with your men?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out, sir. They must have been asleep, too.”
“Who was on guard at that point?”
“A man named Foulk – one of the iron squad.”
“Yes, I know him. He is trustworthy, I think.”
“Oh, yes, sir, you can trust him, as far as having anything to do with those thieves is concerned.”
“But that won’t help us much if he can’t keep awake a few hours. Where is he now?”
Charlie hesitated. “I – I tied him up.”
“Bring him here.”
Charlie went off to obey. And Old Van returned to his ablutions. A moment more and the unfortunate sentinel was being marched across to headquarters, under the guidance and the momentum of a huge red hand.
“Here he is, Mr. Vandervelt.”
Young Van looked at the two. Foulk appeared honestly crestfallen. Then, “Let him go, Charlie,” he said. And turning to Foulk, he merely added, “You’ll get your night’s sleep after this, my friend. We want no men on guard who can’t be relied on – and it’s evident that you can’t. Now go and eat your breakfast, and get to work. See that this doesn’t happen again, Charlie.”
Foulk hurried off in one direction, Charlie walked away in another; Old Van disappeared within the tent in order to complete his very simple toilet; Young Van stood alone, looking after one and another of the retreating figures with an expression of something like dismay. He had spoken with more vigor and authority than he could suppose; but even such as it was, his momentary grip on the situation relaxed while he stood there. The work was not going to stop, he knew that, yet this complicated mechanism, the job, seemed to be running on without any mainspring. Speaking for himself, there was no one of the many tasks Carhart had left in his hands which he was not competent to perform, yet, viewing them in mass, they bewildered him. There would be bickerings, sliding on from bad to worse. The work would be undertaken each day in a dogged spirit, and it would have an ugly side which had not before shown itself. Earlier in the course of the undertaking there had been moments when he had thought, looking out from his own mountain range of details, that Carhart’s work was not so trying as it seemed; that he had time to ride up and down the line, chatting with engineers and foremen; that he could relax almost as he chose, – run down to Sherman now and then, or even slip off for a day’s shooting. Now he saw it differently. And his forebodings were realized. Everybody in authority felt the unfortunate drift of the work, and everybody felt helpless to check this drift. Attempts made now and then by individuals were worse – because they merely succeeded in drawing attention to it – than the general failure. That evening, when Scribner came back and they all tried to be jolly, was the gloomiest time in a gloomy week. Men took to deserting their work. On one occasion thirty-odd of them left in a body to join an outfit which halted overnight near the main camp – that was when they were living on “mile forty-five.” Fights grew more frequent. Accidents seemed to be almost a part of the week’s routine.
One day, Young Van, chancing to pass near the track-laying work, heard his brother swearing at the rider of the snap-mule that drew the rail-truck back and forth between the material train and the work. The rider was a boy of twelve. Young Van recalled, as he listened, a scene of a fortnight earlier (it seemed a year), when the boy, then new to it, had been found by Carhart, quietly sobbing on his horse. “What’s the trouble, son?” the chief had inquired good-humoredly. “I’m afraid,” was the lad’s reply. Whereupon the chief had lifted him down, swung himself into the saddle, and, with a twinkle in his eye, had ridden a few trips in order to show the boy how to manage it safely.
At length a man was killed, one of pile-driver crew No. 1, on Old Van’s division. Other men had been killed earlier in the work, but this death struck the workmen as bearing greater significance. In the other cases Carhart himself had done all that man could do; the last time he had driven the body twenty miles to a priest and decent burial. But Old Van sent out a few nerve-shaken laborers to dig a grave, and told them to waste no time about it, beyond seeing that it was well filled after – afterward.
For several nights after the trouble with Foulk Charlie did not sleep at all. But even a frontiersman is subject to Nature’s laws, and the time came when he was overcome, shortly after midnight, while sitting on a box before his tent, and he rolled over and slept like a child.
They woke him at daybreak, and, without a word, handed him this rough placard: —
Tell Mr. Carhart he’d better be carrying 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 under his tan, stood before his half-dressed acting-chief. Again the two brothers were together.
“So this is how you watch things, is it?” said Old Van. “What did you lose for us last night?”
“The drivers are counting up now, sir. I only know of a mule and a horse so far.”
“That’s all you know of, is it? I’ll tell you what to do. You go back to your quarters and see that you do no more meddling in this business. No, not a word. Go back and get your breakfast. That’s all I expect from you after this.”
Charlie looked inquiringly at Young Van, who merely said: “I want to know more about this, Charlie. Run it down, and then come to me.”
When the cook had gone, Young Van picked up the placard and read it over. He was struck by the bravado of the thing. And he wondered how much of a substratum of determination Jack Flagg’s bravado might have. This primitive animal sort of man was still new to him. He had neither Paul Carhart’s unerring instinct, nor his experience in handling men. To him the incident seemed grave. There would be chances in plenty before they reached Red Hills for even a coward to get in a shot, and a coward’s shot would be enough to bring the career of their chief to an abrupt end. He folded the dirty paper and put it into his pocket.
Later, with the best of intentions, he said to his brother: “You are altogether too hard on Charlie. I happen to know that he has been doing everything any man could do without a troop of regulars behind him.”
To his surprise, Old Van replied with an angry outburst: “You keep out of this, Gus! When I need your advice in running this division, I’ll ask you for it.”
Twenty minutes later, when they were rising from breakfast, Charlie appeared, leading with an iron grip a dissolute-looking plainsman, and carrying a 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 was hiding out there behind a pile of bones. I reckon he was trying to get away when his horse went lame and the daylight caught him.”
“What has he to say for himself?”
“It’s a – lie!” growled the stranger. “I was riding in to ask for a job, an’ I hadn’t more’n set down to rest – ”
“You ride by night, eh?”
“Well – ” the stranger hesitated – “not gen’ally. But I was so near – ”
“Here, here!” cried Old Van. “What’s all this talk about? I guess you know what to do with him. Get about it.”
“What do you mean by that?” cried Young Van, flushing.
“What do I mean by it? What is generally done 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 him off, and make a clean job of it.”
[Pg 209][Pg 210]
“Charlie,” cried Young Van, “stay where you are!” He turned hotly on his brother. “The worst we have any reason to believe about this man is that he put up that placard.”
“Well, doesn’t that prove him one of the gang?”
“We have no proof of anything.”
“You keep out of this, Gus! Charlie, do as I tell you.”
Charlie hesitated, and looked inquiringly at the younger engineer. This drove Old Van beyond reason. He suddenly snatched the revolver from the cook, shouting angrily: “If you won’t obey orders, I’ll see to it myself!”
But Young Van, with a quick movement, gripped the weapon, bent it back out of his brother’s grasp, snapped it open, ejected the cartridges, and silently returned it. Old Van held it in his hand and looked at it, then at the five cartridges, where they had fallen on the ground. Then, with an expression his brother had never before seen on his face, he let the weapon fall on the ground among the cartridges, and 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 prisoner, and Young Van’s eyes sought the ground. He had almost come to blows with his brother, and that before the men, about the worst thing that could have taken place. The incident seemed the natural culmination of these days of depression and pulling at odds.
“It looks like the sheriff coming in now, sir.”
Young Van started and looked up. Charlie, still grasping the stranger, was pointing down the track, where a troop of horsemen could be seen approaching. They drew rapidly nearer, and soon the two leaders could be distinguished. One was unmistakably Bowlegged Bill Lane. The other was a slender man, hatless, with rumpled hair, and a white handkerchief bound around his forehead. Young Van walked out to meet them, and saw, with astonishment, that the hatless rider was Paul Carhart; and never had face of man or woman been more welcome to his eyes.
The troop reined up, dismounted, and mopped their sweating faces. Their horses stood damp and trembling with exhaustion. All together, the little band bore witness of desperate riding, and to judge from certain signs, of fighting.
“Well, Gus,” said Carhart, cheerily, “how is 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, we should have got him.”
“But how in – ”
The chief smiled. “How did I get here?” he said, completing the question. “The train was stalled last night only a dozen or fifteen miles back. The tender of that model of 1865 locomotive they gave us went off the track, and the engine got in the same fix trying to put it on again. When I left, they were waiting for the other train behind to come up and help. They ought to be along any time this morning. Where’s your brother?”
Young Van had turned to look at a group of three or four prisoners, whom two of the posse were guarding.
“Where’s your brother?” Carhart asked again.
“My brother! Oh, back at the tent, I guess.”
The chief gave him a curious glance, for the young engineer was flushing oddly. “Tell him to wait a minute for me, will you? I want to see you both before the work starts.”
Young Van walked over to the headquarters tent and stood a moment at the entrance. His brother, seated at the table, heard him, but did not look up.
“Mr. Carhart is back,” said the young man, finally. “He asked me to tell you to wait for him.”
Old Van gave not the slightest indication that he had heard, but he waited. When the chief entered, motioning Young Van to join him, he went briskly at what he had to say. He sat erect and energetic, apparently unconscious of the red stain on his bandage, ignoring the fact that he had as yet eaten no breakfast; and at his first words the blood began to flow again through the arteries of this complicated organization that men called the Red Hills extension of the S. & W.
“Now, boys,” he began, “it was rather a slow ride back from Sherman, and I had time for a little arithmetic. Through our friend Peet – ”
“D – n him!” interrupted Old Van.
The chief paused at this for another of his questioning glances, then went quietly on. “Through our friend Peet, we have lost so much time that it isn’t very cheerful business figuring it up. But we aren’t going to lose any more.”
“Oh! you saw Peet!” said Young Van.
“Yes, I saw him. We won’t bother over this lost time. What we are interested in now is carrying through our schedule. And I needn’t tell you that from this moment we must work together as prettily as a well-oiled engine.” He said this significantly, and paused. Of the two men before him, the younger flushed again and lowered his eyes, the elder looked away and muttered something which could not be understood. “I’m bringing up a hundred-odd more men on this train. When they get in, put them right at work. Is Dimond in camp now?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll send him up to take charge of the well business. He can do it, now that it is so well started. We need Scribner.”
“How much must we do a day now, to make it?” asked Young Van.
“We shall average as near as possible to two miles.”
Young Van whistled, then recovered himself. “All right, Mr. Carhart,” he said. “Two miles is good. Beginning to-day, I suppose?”
“Beginning to-day.”
The chief spent very little time on himself. He was soon out and riding along the grade, showing no nervousness, yet making it plain to every man on the job that he meant to give an exhibition of “the fanciest track-laying ever seen in these United States.” That was the way Young Van, in the exuberance of his new-found spirits, expressed it to the foreman of the iron squad.
But even Young Van’s enthusiasm was not equal to the facts. When the night whistle blew, and the dripping workmen dropped their picks and sledges, and rails, and ties, and reins, and sat down to breathe before washing up for supper, – there was water for washing now, – the conductor of the material train called to Young Van, and waved toward a stake beside the track. “See that stick,” he shouted.
“Yes, I see it.”
“Well, sir,” – the conductor was excited too, – “I’ve been setting up one of those things for every time we moved ahead a train length. My train’s a little over a thousand foot long, and – and how many of those 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!” The young man stood a moment, then turned and walked soberly away.
It was early the next morning that Young Van recalled Jack Flagg’s communication, which he still had in his pocket. He saw that the chief was about starting off for his breakfast, and called him back and gave him the paper. Carhart read it, smiled rather contemptuously, and handed it back.
“That man,” he said, “was just about big enough to stir up a little trouble in the camp. I’m glad we’re through with him.”
“I wish I was sure we were,” replied Young Van.
“Hello! you’re right, Gus. Here he is again.”
Charlie was approaching with another dirty paper in his hand. “I didn’t think anybody could get in last night, Mr. Carhart,” he said ruefully, “but – here is what they left.”
The chief took this second paper and read it aloud: —
MY DEAR MR. CARHART: My shooting’s getting bum. Better luck next time.
JACK FLAGG.
“Flagg ought to be on the stage,” he said when he had tossed the paper away. “He is the sort of man that can’t get along without an audience.”
CHAPTER VIII
SHOTS – AND A SCOUTING PARTY
It was early evening. Gus Vandervelt, nervous, exultant, leaving a trail 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 wagons and clustering tents. Off there, in each mile of the many they had travelled, lay a witness of some battle won. They had fought like soldiers; and the small successes had come rapidly until the men were beginning to take victory as a matter of course. The most stupid of them understood now just what sort of thing the reserved, magnetic Paul Carhart stood for, and they were finding it a very good sort of thing indeed.
As Young Van walked, his imagination leaping forward from battles fought to the battles to come, he heard a step, and saw the stocky figure of his brother approaching through the dusk. He stiffened up and paused, but Old Van marched by without the twitch of a muscle. The young man watched him until he had faded out of sight, then lighted another cigarette, and continued his beat.
A little later, smiling in a nervous way he had of late, Young Van turned toward the headquarters tent. He knew that his brother had gone to make up the material train and would not return for some time.
He found Paul Carhart sitting alone, sewing a button on the yellow linen 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 unusual good feeling among the laborers.
“We’re a little too near this Palos settlement to suit me,” said the chief. “Keeping your men in the desert rather spoils one for the advantages 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 a rumor about that you had 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’s face grew sober. The track, this double line of rusty steel, had so absorbed the energy of all of them that it seemed now, to his inexperience, the complete outward expression of their lives. He could think of little else. When not engrossed by the actual work, his thoughts were ranging beyond, far into the deeper significance of it. Crowding on the heels of the constructors would come settlers. Already mushroom towns were pushing up along the line behind them. With settlers would come well-boring, irrigation, farming, and ranching. Timber, bricks, stone would be rushed into these new lands, to be converted into hotels, shops, banks, dwellings. The marvellously intricate interrelations of civilization would suddenly be found existing and at work. There would be rude, hard struggles, much drinking and gambling, and some shooting. The license of the plains would be found strangely mingled with law and with what we call right. The church and the saloon would march on, side by side. And, finally, out of the uproar and the fighting would rise, for better or worse, a new phase of life. Thinking these things, Young Van could not forget that they five – Paul Carhart, John Flint, Old Van, Harry Scribner, and himself – were bringing it about. They were breaking the way, pioneers of the expansion of a restless, mighty people.
“No,” – Carhart was speaking, – “that letter was from Peet. You might enjoy reading it.”
Young Van started from his revery, took the letter, and spread it open. “My dear Mr. Carhart,” it ran, “I am very sorry, indeed, about the delay of that lot of spikes. I have arranged with Mr. Tiffany to buy 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. You will understand, I am sure, that we mean to stop at nothing to keep you from the slightest annoyance and delay in these matters. Very faithfully yours, L. W. Peet.”
“But we have spikes enough,” said the assistant, looking up. “What does he mean?”
Carhart smiled. “Just what he says; that he wouldn’t delay us for worlds.”
“‘Very faithfully yours,’ too. What is all this, Mr. Carhart? What have you done to him – hypnotized him?”
Carhart smiled. “Hardly,” he replied; adding, “Reach me that spool of thread, will you?” But instead of continuing his needlework, Carhart, when he received the spool, laid it down beside him and sat, deep in thought, 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, I think. 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 engines going 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 the sleepy 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, then lowered his needle. “And all for the want of a horseshoe nail,” he hummed softly.
Young Van, more puzzled than before, looked up from a heap of papers which 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 toward the shelter that covered the telegraph instruments.
“There he goes now. I’m a little bothered, Gus. It would be a humorous sort of a joke on me if I should be held up now for a little firewood.”
“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 be able 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 moment he 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. That leaves 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 felt queer all day. Tiffany writes that Bourke, who is in charge of the H. D. & W. construction, was in Sherman the other day. And Commodore Durfee was expected at Red Hills a week ago. Well, – ” He shrugged his shoulders and went out and over to join the operator.
“We’ll try to get the man on the next division,” said Carhart. “Ask him if the line is clear all the way.”
The operator extended his hand to send the message, but checked it in midair. “Why,” he exclaimed, “he is calling us!” He looked up prepared to see surprise equal to his own on Carhart’s face. But what he did see there mystified him. The chief was slowly nodding. He could not say that he had expected this call, – the thing was a coincidence, – and yet he was not at all surprised.
“‘Trouble on Barker Hills division – ’” The operator was repeating as the instrument clicked.
“That’s a hundred miles or so back – ”
“Hundred and thirty-eight. ‘Operator on middle division,’ he says, ‘wires fifty men trying to seize station – has notified Sherman – assistance promised. Big armed force Barker Hills led by large man with red mustache – ’”
“That’s Bourke himself,” muttered Carhart.
The operator’s hand shook a little. His eyes were shining. “Here’s some more, Mr. Carhart, – ‘Have tried to hold my station, but – ’”
“Wait,” cried the chief, sharply. “Quick – say this: ‘Has supply train passed west to-day?’”
“‘Has – supply – train – ’” the operator repeated after a moment – “‘passed – west-to-day?’”
“Now what does he answer?”
“Just a moment – Here he is! – ‘Not – not – ’ Hold on there, what’s the matter?”
“Has he stopped?”
“Stopped short. That’s queer.”
“Do you think so?” said Carhart, looking down into the white face of the operator. The effect of the young man’s excitement was hardly lessened by the shock of rumpled hair about his forehead and by the white collar of a nightgown which appeared above his hastily buttoned coat.
“You mean – ?”
“Wait a little longer.” For several minutes they were silent, the operator 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 empty cracker box and sat down. Twenty minutes passed.
“Click – clickety – click – click,” said the instrument. The operator, in a husky voice, translated the message as it came in: “‘P. Carhart, chief west’n ext. S. & W.: On receipt of this you will stop all construction 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 frowning slightly, 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 fingers transmitted 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 “mile 109.” But twenty hours after the trouble at Barker Hills – just before supper time of the following day – a party of plainsmen came galloping into camp. One of these, a wizened little man with a kindly smile and shrewd eyes, dismounted before the headquarters tent and peered in between 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 a letter, and dropped into the chair which Young Van had brought forward. “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 the Frisco Hotel in Red Hills. They say he came out over the ‘Wobbly’ on a construction train and rode through. Pretty spry yet, the Old Commodore. He’s hired a bad man named Flagg – Jack Flagg – and sent him out with a hundred or so men to seize your bridge at La Paz. Sorry I couldn’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 to Sherman. If I can’t do that, I’ll strike off south for Pierrepont, and get through that way.”
