In the days that followed Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton were more
continuously and seriously busy than they had ever been before in their
lives.
Sometimes it happens that engineers come upon a quicksand that
apparently has no bottom. It will be filled and apparently the earth
on top is solid. After a few days there will follow either a gradual
shifting away or a sudden cave in, and the quicksand must once more be
attacked.
This condition had been experienced more than a dozen times with the
Man-killer before Tom and Harry had been called to solve the problem.
There is no definite way of attacking a quicksand. Much must depend
upon the local conditions. Where it is a small one, yet of seemingly
considerable depth, it is sometimes quickest and cheapest to cross
it with a suspension bridge, the terminal pillars resting on sure
foundations. Some quicksands are overcome by merely filling in new sand
or loam, patiently, until at last the trap is blocked and a permanently
solid foundation is laid. There are many other ways of overcoming the
difficulty.
The method hit upon by Tom and Harry, after looking over the situation,
was one that was largely original with them.
It consisted of laying logs, of different lengths, from twelve to
eighteen feet, in a transverse net work filling in earth on this and
allowing the structure gradually to sink where the quicksand shifted or
caved. The sideway drift, at some points, was overcome by hollow steel
piles, driven in as firmly as might be, and then filled with cement from
the top. A line of such piles when imbedded in the ground, helps to make
an effective block to side drift.
At the outset a few feet of these steel piles were left exposed above
the surface, their gradual settling serving as a reliable index to the
evasive movements of the extensive quicksand underneath. At other points
wooden piles were driven in for the same purpose.
General Manager Ellsworth did not spend all his time in camp. He could
not do so, in fact, for he had many other pressing duties. However, he
ran over frequently, and always appeared satisfied.
“Of course it's too early to talk confidently, Reade,” said Mr.
Ellsworth, one day when the work had been going on steadily for some
weeks, “but I believe you have the only right method. I have so reported
to our directors. You'll have disappointments, of course, but I hope
you'll encounter none that you can't overcome.”
“I shan't crow until I've seen the test applied to the roadbed over
the Man-killer,” Tom replied thoughtfully. “After I've seen that test
applied a couple of times then I'm ready to go before any board and
swear that the Man-killer has been tamed for all time.”
“Speed the day!” replied Mr. Ellsworth, as he climbed into his private
car to return. “By the way, you haven't heard anything lately from Jim
Duff & Company?”
“Not a word,” Reade replied. “I don't believe we're yet through with
Rough-house camp, however. They're waiting only until our suspicions are
allayed. Once in a while we lose one of our workmen to the enemy, and
then we have to discharge the poor fellow. Some of our former men have
gone away, but there are about thirty of them left in Paloma, and I
imagine that they're ready to be ugly when the chance comes. The agent
of the Colthwaite Company is still in Paloma. He has been here ever
since we came.”
“Agent of the Colthwaite Company?” repeated the general manager, opening
his eyes. “What's his name?”
“Fred Ransom,” Tom replied half carelessly.
“Ransom? Fred Ransom? I never heard of any Colthwaite agent of that
name.”
“He's one of the Colthwaite people's troublemakers,” Tom went on,
opening his own eyes rather wide.
“If you were sure of this why didn't you report it to me earlier?”
“Why, I supposed your railroad detectives knew all about it. And that
you had heard of it long ago,” Reade declared.
“I haven't heard a word of it,” continued Mr. Ellsworth, coming down the
steps of his car and standing on the ground once more. “What proof have
you of Ransom's business here?”
“None whatever,” Tom answered cheerfully, “but I had him spotted the
first time I heard him talking. He was too entirely positive that we'd
fail.”
“That was no proof against him.”
“No; but Ransom was also certain that the Colthwaite plan was the only
one that could bring the Man-killer to time.”
“Have you any other reason to suspect this main?” queried Mr. Ellsworth.
“Only the fact that Ransom and Jim Duff have been close friends.”
“Where does Ransom stop?”
“At the Mansion House. He has a suite of rooms there, and entertains
some kinds of people, including Duff, very lavishly.”
“Keep your eyes on that crowd as much as possible, Reade,” directed the
general manager thoughtfully, as he once more climbed to the platform of
his car.
“I will, sir; and it might not be a bad idea to have your detectives do
something of the sort, also.”
The general manager did not answer, except by a vague nod as his train
pulled out from the outskirts of the railway camp.
Tom went back, called for his horse and rode to the westward for another
look at the Man-killer. He found Harry, also in saddle, beneath the
scanty shade of a struggling tree. Hazelton's quick eyes were taking
in every detail of the work being done by the several large gangs of
workmen.
“Tom, if we're away from here by Christmas, there's one present you
needn't make me,” smiled Hazelton wanly, as he caught sight of the
camera hanging in its leather field case at his chum's side.
“What present is that?” Tom inquired.
“Don't make me a present of a photograph of this awful place. It's
photographed on my brain now, and burned in and baked there. If we ever
get through with the Man-killer, and get our money, I never want to see
this spot again.”
“I'm not thinking at all of the money,” Reade retorted lightly yet
seriously. “I don't care about the money at present. Nothing will ever
satisfy me in life again until I've beaten the Man-killer fairly and
squarely. It's the one thing I think about by day and dream of at
night.”
“I know it,” sighed Harry half pityingly.
“Well, what else should we think about?” Tom demanded in a low voice.
“Harry, we have the very job, the identical problem, that has thrown
down nearly a dozen engineers of fine reputation. Why, boy, this
place may be out on the blazing desert, and there may be a dozen
discouragements every hour, but we've the finest chance, the biggest
unsolved problem in engineering that we could possibly have. It's
glorious.”
Tom's eyes glowed.
“Go away,” grinned Hazelton mischievously, “or I'll catch some of your
enthusiasm.”
“You don't need any of it,” Reade retorted laughingly. “You've tons of
enthusiasm stowed away for future use. You know you have.”
“I suppose I have enough enthusiasm,” Harry admitted, “but I should
like to do some actual work. I ride out on the sands every day and sit
looking on while the real work is being done. This problem of conquering
the Man-killer is growing monotonous. I'm tired of pegging away at the
same old task day in and day out.”
“Not quite as bad as that,” Tom declared. “There's always something
a bit new. If you want work to do right now, ride over and show those
teamsters where you want them to put the logs that they're bringing up.”
This was far too little to satisfy Harry's longing for “doing things,”
but with a grunt he turned his horse's head and jogged away at a trot.
Tom moved in under the shade of the tree.
“Harry doesn't know enough to appreciate a good thing when he has it,”
softly laughed Tom, grateful for the scant bit of shade. “Neither does
he yet know that often times the brain works best when the body is at
rest.”
Just then Tom heard a sudden shout from the distance, followed by a
chorus of excited voices.
Instantly the young engineer's gaze turned toward the lately filled-in
edge of the big sink.
A hundred feet beyond the light platform where some laborers had been
working Reade beheld only the head and shoulders of one of the workmen.
“The foolish fellow--to go out so far beyond where the men are allowed
to go!” gasped the young chief engineer, setting spurs to his horse.
In a few moments Tom had reached the edge of the sink.
“A rope!” he shouted, and seized the thirty-foot lariat that was handed
him. With this, Tom, now on foot, ran within casting distance of the
unfortunate, who was being rapidly enveloped by the quicksand.
“Come back, Mr. Reade!” bellowed Foreman Payson. “The drift is setting
in on this side of you. Back, like lightning, or you're a doomed man!
You'll be swallowed up by the Man-killer yourself!”
But Tom, intent only on saving the unfortunate laborer beyond, was
wholly heedless of the fact that his own life was in as great danger.