The week slipped by. Welton seemed to be completely immersed in the
business of cutting lumber. In due time Orde senior had replied by wire,
giving assurance that he would see to the matter of the crossing
permits.
"So _that's_ settled," quoth Welton. "You bet-you Jack Orde will make
the red tape fly. It'll take a couple of weeks, I suppose--time for
the mail to get there and back. Meantime, we'll get a cut ahead."
But at the end of ten days came a letter from the congressman.
"Don't know just what is the hitch," wrote Jack Orde. "It ought to be
the simplest matter in the world, and so I told Russell in the Land
Office to-day. They seem inclined to fall back on their technicalities,
which is all rot, of course. The man wants to be annoying for some
reason, but I'll take it higher at once. Have an appointment with the
Chief this afternoon...."
The next letter came by the following mail.
"This seems to be a bad mess. I can't understand it, nor get to the
bottom of it. On the face of the showing here we've just bulled ahead
without any regard whatever for law or regulations. Of course, I showed
your letter stating your agreement and talks with Plant, but the
department has his specific denial that you ever approached him. They
stand pat on that, and while they're very polite, they insist on a
detailed investigation. I'm going to see the Secretary this morning."
Close on the heels of this came a wire:
"Plant submits reports of alleged sheep trespass committed this spring
by your orders. Wire denial."
"My Lord!" said Welton, as he took this. "That's why we never heard from
that! Bobby, that was a fool move, certainly; but I couldn't turn
Leejune down after I'd agreed to graze him."
"How about these lumber contracts?" suggested Bob.
"We've got to straighten this matter out," said Welton soberly.
He returned a long telegram to Congressman Orde in Washington, and
himself interviewed Plant. He made no headway whatever with the fat man,
who refused to emerge beyond the hard technicalities of the situation.
Welton made a journey to White Oaks, where he interviewed the
Superintendent of the Forest Reserves. The latter proved to be a
well-meaning, kindly, white-whiskered gentleman, named Smith, who
listened sympathetically, agreed absolutely with the equities of the
situation, promised to attend to the matter, and expressed himself as
delighted always to have these things brought to his personal attention.
On reaching the street, however, Welton made a bee-line for the bank
through which he did most of his business.
"Mr. Lee," he asked the president, "I want you to be frank with me. I am
having certain dealings with the Forest Reserve, and I want to know how
much I can depend on this man Smith."
Lee crossed his white hands on his round stomach, and looked at Welton
over his eyeglasses.
"In what way?" he asked.
"I've had a little trouble with one of his subordinates. I've just been
around to state my case to Smith, and he agrees with my side of the
affair and promises to call down his man. Can I rely on him? Does he
mean what he says?"
"He means what he says," replied the bank president, slowly, "and you
can rely on him--until his subordinate gets a chance to talk to him."
"H'm," ruminated Welton. "Chinless, eh? I wondered why he wore long
white whiskers."
As he walked up the street toward the hotel, where he would spend the
night before undertaking the long drive back, somebody hailed him. He
looked around to see a pair of beautiful driving horses, shying
playfully against each other, coming to a stop at the curb. Their
harness was the lightest that could be devised--no blinders, no
breeching, slender, well-oiled straps; the rig they drew shone and
twinkled with bright varnish, and seemed as delicate and light as
thistledown. On the narrow seat sat a young man of thirty, covered with
an old-fashioned linen duster, wearing the wide, gray felt hat of the
country. He was a keen-faced, brown young man, with snapping black eyes.
"Hullo, Welton," said he as he brought the team to a stand; "when did
you get out of the hills?"
"How are you, Mr. Harding?" Welton returned his greeting. "Just down for
the day?"
"How are things going up your way?"
"First rate," replied Welton. "We're going ahead three bells and a
jingle. Started to saw last week."
"That's good," said Harding. "I haven't heard of one of your teams on
the road, and I began to wonder. We've got to begin deliveries on our
Los Angeles and San Pedro contracts by the first of August, and we're
depending on you."
"We'll be there," replied Welton with a laugh.
The young man laughed back.
"You'd better be, if you don't want us to come up and take your scalp,"
said he, gathering his reins.
"Guess I lay in some hair tonic so's to have a good one ready for you,"
returned Welton, as Harding nodded his farewell.