JEFFERSON WORTH GOES FOR HELP.
The winter following the birth of Republic witnessed the greatest
activities that had been seen in the new country. The freighters'
wagons that had once seemed so pitifully inadequate, as they crept
feebly away into the mysterious silences, were replaced now by long
trains, heavily loaded with building material and goods of every kind
and drawn by laboring engines that puffed and roared and clanged and
screamed their stirring answer to the challenge of the silent, age-old,
desolate land. And still the work that had been done was small in
comparison with that which was yet to do before the reclamation of
Barbara's Desert would be complete. The acres of land untouched by
grader's Fresno or rancher's plow were many more than the acres that
were producing crops. The miles of canals and ditches that were to be
built were many more than the miles already carrying water. The tent
houses and shacks of the pioneers were yet to be replaced by more
comfortable homes. The frontier towns--big in that new country--were
yet to grow into cities. From the top of any building in any one of the
four towns one could look into the barren desert.
Tourists on the main line that skirted the rim of the Basin, from the
car windows saw only the mighty reaches of the dun plain, with its
thirsty vegetation, stretching away to the distant purple mountain
wall. Curiously the overland passengers looked at the crowds of
settlers waiting for the Basin train at the Junction, wondering at
their hardihood. Curiously they followed with their eyes the thin line
of rails and telegraph poles leading southward until it was lost in the
mystic depths of color. To the tourists it was a fantastic dream that
out there, somewhere in the barren waste, people were building towns,
cultivating fields, transacting business and engaging in all the Good
Business activities of the race. It was as impossible to them as it had
been to Willard Holmes when Barbara first introduced him to her Desert
and tried to make him see, as she saw, the greatness of the work of
which he was to become a part.
The latter part of that winter found Jefferson Worth again with his
back to the wall. James Greenfield, in his attempt to hold up his rival
in the matter of the King's Basin Central junction, had wrought better
than he knew. While Worth's enterprises were barely as yet paying their
way, the railroad, which he was forced to build in order to protect his
own interests in the town of Barba and in the South Central District,
would require practically all he had realized on the sale of the other
line that had so nearly exhausted his resources. The Company president,
in forcing him to build the town of Republic in addition to his heavy
outlay on his new railroad, forced him to take another desperate
chance. For the first time he was unable to pay the men, and in thirty
days large obligations for material would be due; while certain rumors,
carefully started by Greenfield, made it almost impossible for him to
raise the funds he must have.
"I'm sorry, Jeff," said his friend the railroad man. "But with present
unsafe conditions we can't load up with any more property in The King's
Basin. You know as well as I that if the river comes in we will have to
get in there to protect our interests, for if those ranchers were wiped
out our road wouldn't sell for scrap iron. You couldn't do it and the
Greenfield crowd wouldn't. Why, that New York bunch, outside of
Greenfield, don't know whether the Colorado is a trout stream or a mill
pond. Their actual investment doesn't amount to half what you have put
into your work, for the sale of water rights to the settlers is paying
all the expense of their extensions and they won't put up a cent to
rebuild their shaky old structures. And look where we stand! We have
put more money into that country now than the Company and you together,
and we won't pay operating expenses until the land is developed. And
still the public is roaring about our rates. We don't want another
desert line on our hands."
Quietly Jefferson Worth sold his interest in the banks in Frontera,
Barba and Republic; and as quietly Greenfield, who was watching, set
about gaining control of these institutions. His South Central District
water stock was already sold and most of his property in Barba. Even
his little home in Republic was mortgaged.
Thus Worth held on for a while longer. He dared not stop his work, for
such a move would not only ruin his chances of negotiating the loans he
needed, but by bringing upon him a swarm of creditors, would make it
impossible for him ever to recover his standing in the financial world.
Another pay day passed without the men receiving their pay and the
third was drawing near. Already there was grumbling and complaining
among the men over the delayed pay checks. It would take but little
more to start serious trouble.
There were many in the crowd at the depot that day when Jefferson Worth
waited for the train to the city, who looked with envy upon the builder
of towns and railroads. Horace P. Blanton proudly pointed out to a
stranger "his friend, the Wizard of the Desert," with the information
that Mr. Worth had cleaned up a cool million in the new country.
Several went out of their way for a closer look at him or for a
possible greeting. Others cursed him roundly under their breath for a
hated member of the class of parasites that live on the industry of the
laborer, a financier who robbed the people, a capitalist who produced
nothing.
The train pulled in, and Mr. Worth, with a good-by to Barbara and Abe,
who had come to see him off, stepped aboard. No one save Abe Lee, not
even Barbara, knew that her father must raise fifty thousand dollars
before the first of the month or suffer financial ruin. And no one--not
even Jefferson Worth himself--knew where he could find the money.
Barbara, when her father was gone, though she knew nothing of the
danger that threatened him, was restless and ill at ease, beset by
vague and nameless doubts and fears. The little desert town with its
bustling activity, its clamorous, rushing disorder, its naked newness
and glaring bareness, offended her. Nothing was completed. The streets,
the buildings, the very people, seemed so unsettled, so temporary. She
could not shake off the feeling that it would all vanish soon, as she
had often seen the phantom cities of the desert plain melt and
disappear.
The morning after her father left, as she rode El Capitan slowly along
the little village streets that lay so dusty and flat and that ended so
quickly in the open country, she caught herself wondering how long the
dream would endure. The farms, too, with their new green fields and
their primitive, pioneer shacks, tent houses and shelters and their
acres of still unimproved land, all lying under the white blaze of the
semi-tropical sun, were they more than a mirage weirdly painted in the
air by the spirit of the dreadful land to lure foolish men to their
ruin?
Near the crossing of a canal she saw a zanjero turning the water
through a new delivery gate into a new ditch, and checking El Capitan,
she watched the brown flood rolling down the channel prepared for it
and heard the dry earth hiss and purr as it sucked up the moisture with
the thirst of a thousand years. She wanted to cry out a protest. The
effort was so pitifully foolish. This awful, awful land would never
yield to the men who sought to subdue it with such feeble means. From
the little stream of water, no deeper than would reach to El Capitan's
knees and no wider than his stride, she looked away and around over the
seemingly endless miles of barren waste.
The man at the delivery gate recorded the number of inches in his book
and, with a greeting to the young woman, mounted his horse and rode
away along the canal. Barbara, moving on, left the farms behind and
rode into the barren waste. This at least was real. This in its very
desolation, its dreadful silence, its still menace, was satisfying. But
as on that morning when she first rode El Capitan into the desert from
Kingston, she grew afraid. The dreadful spirit of the land so pressed
upon her that she turned her horse and fled as one might fly from an
approaching storm.
Another restless, unsatisfying day and a lonely evening dragged by.
Texas and Pat she had not seen for a week. Even Abe had not been near
her since her father left. To-morrow, she told herself, she would find
them at their work and demand a reason for their neglect.
The next morning she set out on El Capitan to follow the line of her
father's railroad until she should find her neglectful men-folk. As she
rode along the right-of-way she watched the hundreds of Mexican and
Indian laborers at their work on the grade and thought of the men who
had built the South Central Canal. Those men too had labored for her
father, but they worked also for themselves. The canal they built was
to reclaim their own land and to make for them farms and homes. These
poor fellows on the railroad, she reflected, had no share in that which
they were doing. There was in their toil nothing but the day's wage.
She could not feel, as she had felt in the South Central District, that
she had a part with them in their work. Here and there she recognized a
Mexican from Rubio City, and these returned her greeting pleasantly,
for they remembered the young woman's kindness to the poor. But by far
the greater number gave her only sullen glances. She was to them only
the daughter of the man for whom they toiled and who had not paid.
Passing from gang to gang and camp to camp, watching the dark faces of
the laborers, listening to their sullen undertone, the young woman felt
the restless, threatening spirit of the little army as one may feel
sometimes the heavily charged atmosphere before an electric storm. But
she did not understand. She had never before ridden over the railroad
work alone as she had so often done in the South Central District.
She grew a little frightened at last at the scowling looks and muttered
remarks that followed her as she went, and she was wishing that she had
not come when she saw just ahead Abe Lee and Pat. The surveyor was
giving some instructions to the Irish boss and both were so intent that
they did not see Barbara approaching. As the young woman drew quite
near, a low-browed Mexican who, in watching her approach, either forgot
the presence of his superiors or, in sheer ruffianly bravado, ignored
them, uttered a coarse remark to his companions about his employer's
daughter.
The young woman heard and turned pale as death. Pat heard and, turning
quickly around, caught sight of Barbara and saw the ruffian who had
spoken looking at her. With a roar the Irishman leaped forward, and
with a blow of his huge, hairy fist dropped the Mexican a senseless
heap in the dirt.
With cries of rage the fellow's countrymen ran toward the white man,
drawing their knives as they came. Barbara sat leaning forward in her
saddle breathless. Abe Lee was quietly rolling a cigarette. Pat stood
motionless, his battle-scarred features set and his eyes shining like
points of light.
Within ten steps of their boss the little mob stopped. Then the
Irishman spoke in a voice that rumbled and shook with menacing rage.
"Ye, Manuel an' Pedro--drag that carrion off the right-av-way, an' tell
him when he wakes up av he values his life to shtay out av rache av me
two hands. The rest av ye hombres git the hell out av here!"
The two whom he called by name did his bidding and the rest scattered
like sheep. Pat turned to Barbara. "'Tis sorry I am that ye should see
ut, me girl, but ut had to be done."
"Oh, Pat! Did you--Is he--" She could not speak the word, but followed
with frightened eyes the still form of the unconscious man as his
companions half-dragged, half-carried him to the shade of a mesquite
tree.
"There, there, don't worry," said her big friend soothingly. "He's not
as much hurted as he should be. He'll have a bit av a bump on his
noodle that'll maybe make him a bit careful wid his foul tongue for a
while, that's all."
Barbara looked down into the face of the old gladiator whose eyes, as
they looked up at her, were soft as a childs. "Oh, Pat! Are you sure?
He--he crumpled up so! It was awful!" She shuddered.
"There, there; av course I'm sure. Don't I know? Look at him; he's
sittin' up now. He'll be on his fate in a minute."
Sure enough, as Barbara looked again she saw the Mexican rising to a
sitting posture and with his hand to his head look around in a dazed
manner as though awakening out of a deep sleep. The young woman drew a
long breath of relief and, with a faint smile, said to the surveyor,
who had drawn nearer: "I'm sorry I came, Abe. I'm afraid you'll think
that I'm only in the way to make trouble. But I was so lonesome all
alone at home."
"Why, Barbara, you know how glad we always are to see you. You must not
mind this little incident. It's all in the day's work with Pat, you
see. That fellow there has had this coming to him for some time."
The Irishman grinned and the young woman on the horse, with a little
laugh, said: "All the same I don't think I would like you for a boss,
Uncle Pat. You're too--too emphatic."
And the big Irishman with twinkling eyes retorted: "Sure av ye was boss
av a gang ye wud break more hearts wid yer swate face than I could
heads wid me two hands." Which retort effectually closed the incident.
When the three had chatted a while and Barbara had scolded them for not
coming to see her, Abe said: "I think you had better go back now,
Barbara. But don't follow the line. Strike west over the desert until
you come to the road and go in that way. We can't leave now to go with
you, and some of these greasers might get gay again. I'll see you this
evening."
It was after nine o'clock that night when the surveyor finally reached
the Worth cottage. Somewhat awkwardly he entered and seated himself in
the nearest chair, while Barbara, returning to her favorite rocker by
the table, said: "It's time you came. I was so lonely I don't believe I
could have stood it another hour. Really you and Pat and Tex have
neglected me shamefully. You haven't been near since the day father
left. Even Pablo has forgotten me."
"Pablo is at the power house at Dry River," Abe said slowly. "We've all
had our hands full for the last three days. I reckon you know we have
not stayed away because we wanted to."
Something in the man's tone and manner caused Barbara to look at him
closely. Was it a fancy in keeping with her gloomy spirit of the last
few days, or did the surveyor's tall form droop as if with
discouragement? He was not looking at her with his usual
straightforward manner. He seemed to be studying the pattern of the
Navajo rug that lay between them, and certainly his lean, bronzed face
wore a careworn look that was new. She noticed too that he wore belt
and revolver, which was very unusual for Abe.
"Of course; I know!" she exclaimed. "It was childish of me to complain.
Forgive me."
Abe, without answering, looked at her--a straight, questioning,
challenging look that for some reason brought another flush to her
cheek. Then the surveyor turned his gaze again upon the Navajo rug.
"I know you are tired," said the young woman again. "You have so much
to think about with all those men to look after and daddy away. Come
now; you sit right over here in this easy chair and shut your eyes and
smoke and forget all about the work and everything, while I make a
little music for you."
Barbara did not realize how she tried this man of the desert with a
glimpse of a heaven that Abe knew could never be for him. For a moment
he sat motionless without answering, his eyes still fixed upon the
floor. Then with a quick, resolute movement he threw up his head and
straightened himself. "I'm sorry, Barbara, but I can't stay this
evening."
"Can't stay?" she cried. "Why, Abe, you just came!"
"Yes, I know. I--I just ran in to ask you--to see if you"--he hesitated
and stammered, then finished desperately--"to ask you to let me send
Texas to stay here to-night."
She looked at him in bewildered amazement. "Why, what in the world do
you mean? Why should Texas stay here to-night?"
Then as a sudden possible explanation came to her mind--"Abe, has Uncle
Tex--Is he in trouble?"
The surveyor smiled at her words. "It's nothing like that, Barbara. Tex
is all right. But I don't think that you should be left alone here with
only Ynez just now. Pat is at the power house and I must be at the ice
plant, and Tex--" He checked himself in alarm.
Barbara's face was white and her eyes, fixed upon his, were big with
sudden fear as, rising slowly to her feet, she went towards him. With
an exclamation he sprang from his seat but she regained control of
herself and, quietly taking another chair nearer him, said: "I think
you had better tell me, Abe, just exactly what the trouble is. I know
something is wrong or you would not want to send Texas here to me. You
know that I have always stayed with Ynez. Why are you afraid for me?
Why is Pat at the power house, and why are you going to stay at the ice
plant? And why do you wear that?" She pointed to the heavy Colt's
revolver.
Little by little she forced from the reluctant superintendent an
explanation of the whole situation: how her father had been driven by
the Company to build the new town of Republic in addition to the
construction of his railroad to Barba and how conditions in the Basin
had made it impossible to sell this line to the S. & C. as he had sold
before. He told her as gently as he could that the men had not been
paid for nearly two months, and that if her father did not succeed in
raising the necessary funds quickly he would lose everything. The men
had been put off from day to day with explanations that their employer
was away and that they would receive their pay when he returned. But
ugly rumors were afloat among them and their angry uneasiness and
discontent were increasing. Threats against their employer and his
property were being made by the hot-headed leaders, who always appear
under such conditions, and the surveyor feared that serious trouble
might start at any hour.
To Barbara the situation was almost incredible. Again and again she
exclaimed with pity for her father, and demanded to know why they had
all kept her in ignorance of the truth; and as she realized how
lovingly she had been shielded from every worry that she might feel
nothing of the burden that weighed so heavily upon them, her woman
heart cried out that she had not been permitted to bear her share.
"But I know now," she said at last, brushing aside the tears that,
against her will, filled the brown eyes. "I know now and you men shall
see that I can do something to help." She stood before him--her strong
beautiful figure bravely erect, her face glowing with the light of a
determined purpose.
The surveyor smiled his appreciation as he said: "It's almost as good
as money in the bank to hear you talk like that, Barbara. But you'll
let me send Tex over to-night, won't you?"
"You must do whatever you think best, Abe. But you must promise me
this. From now on you will tell me everything, just as you have always
told me about the work."
Abe drew a long breath. "I don't know what your father will say but
I'll do it. I've felt all along that it was hardly square to keep you
in the dark."
"Of course it wasn't," she agreed. "And now listen! You and Pat come
here for breakfast with Texas Joe and me. Come as early as you like."
He began to protest, saying that they would need to eat at daybreak in
order to get back to the work by seven o'clock, but she silenced him
with--"And do you think that I cannot even get up at sun-rise? You
shall not lose a minute's time and it will do you good to start out
with one of Ynez's good breakfasts."
So the surveyor was forced to promise this also. Then with a soft
"Buenos noches, Senorita," he left her.
Later Texas Joe came to sleep in Mr. Worth's room. The night passed
without incident, and when the first trace of silver gray light shone
above the eastern mesa beyond the rim of the Basin Abe Lee returned
with Pat to find the meal ready and Barbara waiting to pour the
fragrant coffee. While the sky was still aflame with the colors of the
morning and the desert lay under a curtain of fantastic figures and
grotesque patterns woven by the light, the three men mounted their
horses and set out for the field of the day's labors. And Barbara at
the gate watched them go until, in the distance, their forms too were
caught in the magic of the desert's loom and woven into the airy design.
Before noon Abe came back. The men had struck. The surveyor had already
sent a telegram to Mr. Worth and in the afternoon they had his answer
that he was going to San Felipe. But there was no word of hope in the
message.
All that day the men from the railroad were gathering in the little
town, and in the early evening the laborers from the power canal at
Barba joined the throng on the streets. This dark-faced, scowling crowd
of Mexicans and Indians was very different from the company of pioneers
that met in Kingston to receive Jefferson Worth a few months before. On
every hand they were heard cursing the man who owed them their wages
and threatening to take revenge if they were not soon paid.
That night Texas Joe again slept at the Worth cottage, for Barbara
stoutly refused to leave her home, and Abe and Pat, with the little
handful of white men from the office force, stood guard at the power
house, the ice plant and the other buildings that were grouped near the
railroad on the edge of town.