AT THE CABLE TOWER
Jerry did not come home that night and consequently Bob was not forced
to decide whether or not his room-mate was to be trusted. The next
morning Mr. Whitney mentioned that he had sent Mr. Rutherford and his
corps up the river to check up some topographical figures. They were to
be gone several days.
This would delay for a time the necessity of taking action in regard to
Jerry, and Bob was grateful for the leeway it gave him. Anything and
everything might happen in the spare time he was given. Perhaps all the
trouble would blow over. He certainly hoped so.
Ted Hoyt evidently had wasted no time in carrying out Bob’s plan, for
he did not show up at breakfast. His chances of success worried Bob all
morning and once or twice Mr. Whitney had to call him down for some
inattention to the business at hand. But when the day passed and Ted
had not returned, Bob was reasonably certain that the cattleman had not
refused to take in his son. That was a help.
Since becoming an aide to the Chief, Bob had not entirely given up his
unofficial inspection trips. The dam and all the operations that were
the building of it still fascinated him and his spare time was given to
roaming over the job. So good an observer was he, that time after time
he surprised Mr. Whitney with his knowledge of some obscure detail of
the work.
“How the dickens do you happen to know _that_?” he would exclaim.
“Happened to be over there the other night and used my eyes,” was the
usual reply of the boy.
There was a full moon the night following the day Ted had gone home
and Bob had taken advantage of it to go up to the west cableway tower,
from the foot of which he could see the whole work lying bathed in the
intense silver light. He wanted to think and he was always able to do
that better out of doors.
He did not feel he was doing his share towards clearing up the trouble
which threatened to break. Cudgel his brains as he would, there seemed
nothing for him to do. It had been his idea to send Ted off, but since
then he might just as well have been in Alaska for all the good he’d
been. For a long time he lay there, without finding a way out of his
difficulty.
At last he was about to get up and go home when he saw a figure dodging
from shadow to shadow and making up the hill in the general direction
of his position.
Glancing about him, Bob saw no way to get away from the tower without
being seen by the furtive newcomer. The moon was high and the ground at
the tower’s foot was clear of any cover. Something told him he wanted
to know what the approaching figure was up to and he would spoil any
chance of that if he disclosed his whereabouts. Happening to glance up
he saw that one side of the tower was in shadow. He crawled around to
it. Then he had an idea.
“Crazy lummox, why didn’t I think of this before,” he muttered to
himself as he began to climb up the tower. It was built of steel and
an iron ladder had been provided to make the oiling of the pulley wheel
at the top a simple task.
Hardly had he reached a height he felt was safe, when the figure glided
swiftly across the clearing and sat down almost in the spot he had just
quitted.
Bob was surprised when he saw the man roll a cigarette and coolly light
it. This display of unconcern as to whether or not he was observed, did
not fit in with the dodging tactics he had employed when coming up the
hill. Then the explanation came in a flash. Surely the spot had been
chosen on account of the clear space around it and the impossibility of
anyone’s coming upon it unobserved. The man had dodged on his way up
because he did not want to be recognized by a prowling night watchman.
Once he had arrived, no one could get near enough to be dangerous.
In the flare of the match Bob had recognized the newcomer. It was a
Mexican, Miguel Philipe, who was an underforeman at the trap rock
quarry.
But before Bob’s mind had accepted the fact that a Greaser was sitting
up here in the moonlight, instead of gambling or watching a cock fight
down in the Townsite, a crackling in the underbrush to the right caught
his attention. A moment later a figure stepped out into the clearing.
To his dismay, he recognized the approaching man.
Jerry King!
Jerry King, who was supposed to be up country on a map-making
expedition, was back and meeting a Mexican in a place that must have
been agreed upon before.
All the suspicions of Jerry’s attitude that he had fought down, came
back in a rush and were not lessened when he saw by the signs of
greeting displayed by Miguel, that Jerry was the person he expected to
see.
Bob’s perch on the tower was far from comfortable, so he hoped the
conference going on below him would last no great length of time. The
thin iron rungs of the ladder cut into his legs and his arms had begun
to ache from the strain of holding himself in place without making
any noise that would give him away. To add to his discomfort, he soon
realized that although he could overhear clearly every word that
passed between the figures on the ground it would do him no good, as
they were talking in Spanish, a language in which Bob remembered Jerry
could at least make himself understood. Since his arrival at the dam,
the Eastern boy had made some attempt to pick up a working knowledge
of it, but his time had been so short that he had not got very far.
Therefore, only a word here and there meant anything to him and as
these were simple words, they gave no clue to what was being discussed.
About all he could gather was from their actions. Jerry seemed to be
instructing the Mexican and emphasizing that certain things must be
done. Miguel at times grew excited and waved his hands frantically as a
torrent of words came from his lips. Finally, just as Bob was sure his
cramped muscles would force him to move his position, thereby giving
away his presence, they seemed to come to an agreement.
A moment later Jerry had slipped out of the open space into the
underbrush directly behind the side of the tower to which Bob was
clinging. For a long moment Bob held his breath, fearing that Jerry
might turn and see his dark form making an unaccustomed blot against
the iron work. But as the cracklings of the bushes died away, he
realized that Jerry’s one desire was to get as far away as possible in
the shortest space of time.
“He’ll have to hike some,” thought Bob, “if he’s going to get back to
Rutherford to-night.” Then he turned his attention to the Greaser, who
had not moved out of the sprawling position he was in. The ache in
Bob’s muscles became almost unbearable. When the Mexican rolled and lit
another cigarette as if he expected to stay where he was all night, he
was almost tempted to drop off the ladder and let the worst happen.
But this would not do except as a last resort, when all his will power
and determination had fled. With infinite care Bob shifted his position
a little and so gave his tortured muscles a slight rest. A few moments
later he was glad he had not given up to his fatigue, for Miguel arose
leisurely and sauntered down the hill, evidently not at all bothered
about being seen.
When he thought it was safe, Bob dropped off the ladder and for a
moment or so sat quietly, fully occupied in nursing his cramped limbs
back to some degree of usefulness. Then, having given the Mexican
plenty of time to reach the bottom of the hill, Bob followed, his mind
busy with the new angle of the situation chance had laid before him.
One thing was sure. After what he had seen he could no longer pretend
even to himself that Jerry was not mixed up somehow in what certainly
seemed to be a disgraceful business. He could put no other explanation
on it. Although it was hard to think that the boy who had shared the
adventure of the Labyrinth with him could be guilty of anything really
wrong, he realized the time had come when he could not let anything
but facts sway him. Jerry was on the other side without a doubt. Most
probably he was the connecting link between the cattlemen who wished to
stir up trouble for the dam by means of the Mexicans, and the leaders
of the Mexicans themselves.
But it puzzled him to know why Jerry could be a traitor to Mr. Whitney
and the Service. What was the inducement the cattlemen had offered him,
and what had happened on the job that had made him unhappy enough to
be unfaithful to it? There was no answer to these questions. He gave it
up as a bad job.
The next thing to decide was whether the time had come to tell Mr.
Whitney what he had learned. This was easy. He did not have a complete
case yet and would not until Ted came back with some sort of report.
The best thing for him to do was to learn as much as possible regarding
Miguel and to find out if he had been at all active in stirring up
discontent among his countrymen. Acting on this resolve, he made
guarded inquiries the next day of some of the men on the job who came
in contact with the gang of which Miguel was a sort of deputy foreman.
“He’s a bad egg,” was the comment of Tim Flannigan, the engineer of the
dinky that pulled the rock cars from the quarry to the crusher. “He’s
all the time startin’ somethin’ down to the Townsite. He’s got a game
cock that nobody kin lick, and the marshal has had him up several times
for gambling. Tried to run him out of camp a bit back but such a gang
of Greasers threatened to leave with him that Boss Adams, who was here
before Boss Whitney came, told the marshal to keep a close eye on him
and let it go at that.”
This information was valuable to Bob, especially the part about the
other Mexicans leaving if Miguel went. From this it was clear to see
that the man had influence among his countrymen and probably was just
the person to start trouble, if trouble was coming.
That night, in accordance with his plan to try to get as much as he
could of the general atmosphere of the situation, Bob decided to go
down to the lower camp. On the highest ground were the mechanics’
houses, and from them, sloping to the river bank, were the bunk houses
and shacks of the Mexican laborers. At one side, a little apart, was
the camp of the Indians who, aside from the Mexicans, were practically
the only laborers to be had in that section of the country. Of course,
they were far less in number than the Mexicans. The street on which the
motion picture theatre and the stores were located, was well lighted by
the power plant and had been dubbed “Broadway.”
Bob mingled with the crowd and finally drifted into the moving picture
show. His mind was busy with his problem and he did not pay as much
attention as usual to the scenes that were flashed before him on the
screen. He became aware, however, even in the dim light, that directly
in front of him sat an Indian, seemingly alone. A little to the left
were a crowd of Mexicans, who, from their boisterous behavior, seemed
to have been able to smuggle some whiskey into the camp, which, of
course, was absolutely forbidden on a Government job.
By some chance the next picture was a lurid western romance in which
Indians and cowboys were all jumbled together with furious riding and
rescues of the beautiful heroine. Of course, the Indians in the picture
were the villains. As the film unfolded the Mexicans grew more excited
over the story and Bob noticed that they began to throw slighting
remarks towards the Indian sitting directly in front of him.
Finally something was said which was more than the redman could stand.
He got up and in a dignified manner moved to the spot where his
tormentors were sitting. He spoke to them in Spanish.
A moment later the place was in an uproar. Fired by bad whiskey and the
knowledge that numbers were with them, the bunch of Mexicans had jumped
for the solitary figure.
Bob was on his feet in an instant and sprang for a Mexican who had
slipped into the aisle and was coming upon the Indian from behind. In
the dim light everything was confused, but Bob’s fist found its mark
and the man fell. The Indian was holding his own valiantly but Bob’s
help had come at the right moment. Together they backed towards the
door, fighting as they went. Then the lights went up and the Mexicans,
fearing the consequences of their action, slipped into the nearest
seats, hoping to escape notice.
When the fight ended in this fashion, the Indian drew himself up to his
full height and with a scornful look on his face turned and walked out
of the theatre. Bob followed and on the street found the man he had
helped waiting for him.
As he came up the Indian held out his hand and said gravely,
“Feather-in-the-Wind thanks you.” Without further word he marched off.
As he made his way back to the upper camp, Bob realized that in all
probability he had done a foolish thing to mix in on a quarrel between
the Mexicans and the Indians. That probably would mark him out among
the Mexicans as someone unfriendly to them and it might have been
better if he had stayed in the background. But the sight of the crowd
jumping on the solitary Indian had been too much for him.
When he reached his room he found the light on and Jerry about to slip
into his bunk.
“Hello, Bob,” was his greeting. “Just got back from up river.
Rutherford had me measuring the elevation of all the anthills from here
to Canada.”
Bob answered him rather curtly, amazed that Jerry could seem so
carefree when he must be concealing some terrible secret. It was
surprising that Jerry should be in such a good humor. He was much more
communicative than he had been for weeks.
“What’s your grouch?” Jerry asked, seemingly puzzled by Bob’s manner.
“Aren’t you going to welcome me home any better than that?”
“Oh, I’m tired,” returned Bob, “that’s all. I got into a sort of jam
in the lower camp to-night.” He decided it would be better not to
let Jerry know that he was at all suspicious, so in order to appear
natural, when the other boy wanted to know the details, he told him of
his share in the brawl at the theatre.
“Must have been fun,” was Jerry’s comment. “And if you’ve made a friend
of Feather-in-the-Wind, you ought to be proud. He’ll be useful, too, as
he’s the chief of that bunch of Apaches. Once an Indian is a friend,
you know, he’s a friend for good.”
As Bob tried to go to sleep his amazement that Jerry could be so
two-faced, grew more and more pronounced. Jerry did not exhibit any of
the symptoms of a person who was engaged in a treacherous plot, rather
he seemed happy and buoyant over the accomplishment of something well
worth while. Could he have been mistaken?