Daylight found Jim Duff and some of his cronies of the night before
either absent from Paloma, or else securely hidden.
Fred Ransom, the Colthwaite Company's representative, had also vanished.
Proprietor Ashby, of the Mansion House, was reported to be skulking in
his hotel, as he did not show his face on the streets.
Morning also brought calmer counsel to the real men of Paloma. They were
now glad that they had not sullied themselves by acts of violence.
No one, when daylight came, entertained the belief that Tom Reade would
suffer from any further attempts at violence, for now the little coterie
of so-called “bad men” in the town were thoroughly frightened.
Tom had not been hit by the rifle shot. He had fallen as a matter of
precaution, fearing that a second shot would speed on the heels of the
first.
The fellow who had fired that shot at Tom had not lingered long enough
to place himself in risk of Arizona vengeance. Even before some of
the men in the crowd had had time to discover that Reade, unhurt, was
laughing over his escape, a score or more had darted down the street,
only to find that the unknown whom they sought was safely out of the
way.
“We'll search the town from one end to the other,” one excited citizen
had proposed.
“We'll make a night of it.”
“Don't do anything of the sort,” Tom had urged. “You'll terrorize
hundreds of women and children, who have no knowledge of this affair.
Jim Duff's little evening of celebration is ended and now the wisest
thing for you to do is to return to your homes. Mr. Hawkins!”
“Here, sir,” answered the superintendent of construction.
“Get our men together and return to camp. They'll need sleep against the
toil of to-morrow. Let every man who wants to do so sleep an hour or
two later in the morning. Men of the A., G. & N. M., accept my heartiest
thanks for the splendid manner in which you turned out to help me,
though as yet I'm ignorant of how it all came about.”
Nor was it until the next day that Tom Reade learned from Hazelton just
what had caused the laborers to tumble out of their beds and rush into
town to serve him.
That night Tim Griggs had been prowling about the streets of Paloma,
suspicious of Reade's enemies, and watching for the safety of the
young chief engineer who had saved him from the savage appetite of the
Man-killer quicksand.
It had chanced that Tim had caught a glimpse of the finish of the fight
on the street, and was just in time to see the young chief engineer
lifted and carried into that unoccupied house, the property of the hotel
man, Ashby.
Tim's first instinct had been to seek help in town--in that very
neighborhood. Tim was suspicious, and afraid that he might by mistake
appeal to some of Tom's enemies.
So, while running through the streets searching for Hazelton, Tim had
espied an automobile standing idle in front of a house. Having some
acquaintance with automobiles, Tim had cranked up and leaped into
the vehicle, speeding straight to camp, where he gave the alarm. Men
answered by hundreds, Mendoza keeping his Mexicans in camp to watch the
property there.
Harry was aroused by the tumult, for he had just gone to his room,
intending to turn in.
Having roused the camp, Tim ran the car back to town at the head of the
swarming little army and returned to the spot where he had seized the
automobile.
“It's all over now, old fellow,” Tom declared to his chum cheerily,
rising from his office chair as one of the whistles blew and the men
knocked off for their noonday meal. “What happened last night won't
happen again.”
“Just the same, Tom, I almost wish you'd carry a pistol after this,”
Harry remarked, as the two engineers went to their horses, mounted and
started toward town for their own meal.
“Bosh!” almost snapped Tom. “You know my opinion of pistols. They are
for policemen, soldiers and others who have real need to go armed. Only
a coward would pack a pistol day by day without needing it.”
So the matter was dropped for the time being.
At the hotel Tom and Harry went to their accustomed seats in the dining
room. Their food was brought and the two young engineers fell to work
cheerfully. Just then a well-dressed man of perhaps thirty years entered
the dining, room, spoke to one of the waiters, and came over to the
engineers' table.
“Messrs. Reade and Hazelton?” he inquired pleasantly.
“Yes,” Harry nodded.
“May I make myself known?” asked the stranger. “My name is Danes--Frank
Danes.”
Harry in turn gave his own name and that of Tom.
“I wonder if you would think it intruding if I invited myself to join
you at this table?” the stranger went on.
“By no means,” Tom responded cordially. “We'll be glad of your company.
It will stop Hazelton and myself from talking too much shop.”
“Oh, by all means talk shop,” begged Danes, as he slipped into a chair
at one side of the table. “I shall enjoy it, for I am interested in
you both. In fact, I took the liberty of asking the waiter to point you
gentlemen out to me.”
“So?” Tom inquired.
Danes had the appearance of being a well-to-do easterner, and announced
himself as a resident of Baltimore.
For some minutes the three chatted pleasantly, Harry, however, doing
most of the talking for the engineers. When Tom spoke it was generally
to put some question.
“Do you ever permit visitors to go out to the Man-killer?” Danes
inquired toward the end of the meal.
“Sometimes,” Tom answered.
“I shall be very grateful if you will accord me that privilege.”
“We shall be very glad to invite you out there some time,” Tom answered
pleasantly.
“To-day?” pressed the stranger. “I have nothing to do this afternoon.”
“Some other day would suit better, if you can arrange it conveniently,”
Reade suggested, as he rose.
Then they left Danes, securing their horses and riding back over the
scorching desert.
“How do you like Danes?” Harry asked, after they had ridden some
distance. “He seems a very pleasant fellow.”
“Very pleasant,” Tom nodded.
“Why didn't you let him come along?”
“Because I don't like Danes' employers.”
“His employers?” Harry repeated, puzzled.
“Yes; he is employed by the Colthwaite Company.”
“What?” Hazelton started in astonishment. “How do you know that, Tom?”
“I don't know it, but I'm sure of it, just the same,” was Reade's
answer.
“It maybe so,” Harry agreed. “What makes you suspect him?”
“Well, in the first place, Danes, if that's his name--said he hailed
from Baltimore. Yet he had none of that soft, delightful southern accent
that you and I have noticed in the voices of real southern men. Danes
uses two or three words, at times, that are distinctly Chicago slang.
Moreover, I'm certain that the man knows a good deal about engineering
work, though he won't admit it.”
“We'll have to watch him, then,” muttered Harry.
“We don't need to tell him anything, nor do we need to bring him out
here to see how we are filling in the Man-killer. If we don't tell Danes
much he may not last long. The Colthwaite people ought soon to grow
tired of keeping agents here who don't succeed in hindering our work.”
“Whew! I shall be glad of a sleep to-night, after all the excitement of
last night,” declared Hazelton, as the young engineers rode into Paloma
at the close of the day's work.
On the porch, lolling in a reclining chair with his feet elevated to the
railing, sat Frank Danes.
“Back from toil, gentlemen?” was his pleasant greeting.
“Long enough to get sufficient sleep to carry us through to-morrow,” was
Tom Reade's unruffled response.
“You do look tired,” assented Danes, rising and coming toward them. “Yet
I hear that, personally, you don't have hard work to do.”
“We don't work at all, if you take that view of it,” Harry retorted.
“Yet there's a thing called responsibility, and many wise men have
declared that it takes more out of a man than hours of toiling with pick
and shovel.”
“Oh, I can believe that's so,” agreed Danes. “Going into dinner now?”
“After a bath and a change of clothing,” Tom replied.
“Then, if you really don't mind, I'll wait and dine at the same table
with you.”
“If you can wait that long we shall be charmed to have your company,”
Tom assured him as the young engineers stepped inside.
Frank Danes half started as they left him.
“Reade's tone sounded a bit peculiar,” muttered the newcomer to himself.
“I wonder why? Perhaps I have forced myself a little too much upon him
and Reade has taken a dislike to me.”
If Tom had taken a dislike to the newcomer, Danes could not be sure of
it from the young chief engineer's manner at table. Harry Hazelton, too,
was almost gracious during the meal.
“They're a pair of half-smart, half-simple boobs,” decided Danes, as he
smoked a cigar alone after dinner.
“Tom, I think your great intellect has gone astray for once,” remarked
Hazelton, in the privacy of their room upstairs.
“I never knew that I had any great intellect,” Reade laughed. “However,
I was born to be suspicious once in a while. I suppose you were
referring to Frank Danes.”
“Yes; and he appears to be a mighty decent fellow.”
“I'm sure I hope he is,” yawned Tom. “I'm willing to give him the
benefit of the doubt. I'm going to bed, Harry. What do you say?”
Hazelton was agreeable. Within twenty minutes both young engineers were
sound asleep.
It was after midnight when cries of “fire!” from the street aroused
them.
Tom Reade threw open the door to be greeted by a cloud of stifling
smoke.
“Hustle, Harry!” he gasped, making a rush to get into his clothing. “We
can get out, I think, but we haven't any time to spare. This old trap is
ablaze. It won't last many minutes!”
Trained in the alarms and the hurries of camp life, the young engineers
all but sprang into their clothes.
“Come on, Harry!” urged Tom, throwing open the door. “We can make it.”
They started, when, from the floor above, a woman's frantic appeals for
help reached them. Children's cries were added to hers.
“Get to the street, Harry!” shouted Tom. “I'm going upstairs. There'd be
no satisfaction for me in reaching the street if I abandoned that woman
and her babies to their fate. One of us can do the job as well as two!”