THE ENEMY
The night wore on slowly. Midnight struck, and the cold of the
mountain night had reached its maximum chill. To the ears of the weary
patrols there came no sound save the continuous complaint of the
waters, a note rising and falling, increasing and decreasing in volume,
after the strange fashion of waters carried by the chance vagaries of
the air. At times the sound of the river rose to great volume, again
it died down to a low murmur, the voice of a beaten giant protesting
against his shackles. Came two o'clock in the morning, and the guards
walked their beats with the weariness of men who have fought off sleep
for hours. Sim Gage, sleepless so long, was very weary, but he kept
about his work.
At intervals of half an hour he crunched down the gravel-faced slope of
the bank which ran from the bench level to the foot of the dam. Here
he walked along the level of the great eddy, along the rocky shore,
examining the face of the vast concrete wall itself, gazing also as he
always did, with no special purpose, at the face of the wide and long
apron where the waters foamed over, a few inches deep, white as milk,
day and night.
Any attempt at the use of dynamite by any enemy naturally would be made
on this lower side of the dam. There were different places which might
naturally be used by a criminal who had opportunity. One of these,
concealed from the chance glance of any officer, was back under the
apron, behind the half-completed side columns of the spill gate, where
a great buttress came out to flank the apron. A charge exploded here
would get at the very heart of the dam, for it would open the turbine
wells and the spillway passage which had been provided for the
controlled outlet.
Ragged heaps of native rock lay along the foot of the dam, flanking the
edge of the great eddy eastward of the apron. Here often the laborers
stood and cast their lines for the leaping trout, which, wearied by
their fruitless fight at the apron, that carried them only up to the
insurmountable obstacle which reached a hundred feet above them,
sometimes were swept back to seek relief in the gentler waters of the
deep eddy, that swung inshore from the lower end of the apron.
Sim Gage saw all these scenes, so familiar by this time, as they lay
half revealed under the blaze of the great searchlight. It all seemed
safe now, as it always had before.
But when at length he turned back to ascend to the upper level, he saw
something which caused him to stop for just an instant, and then to
spring into action.
The power plant proper of the dam was not yet wholly installed, only
the dam and turbine-ways being completed. In the power house itself, a
sturdy building of rock which caught hold of the immemorial mountain
foot beneath it, only a single unit of the dynamos had been installed.
This unit had been hooked on, as the engineers phrased it, in order to
furnish electric light to the camp itself, for the telephone service of
the valley and for the minor machinery which was operated by this or
that machine shop along the side of the mountain. A cable from the
power house ran up to another house known as the lighting plant, which
stood in the angle between the street level and the dam itself. Here
was installed a giant searchlight which could be played at will along
the face of the dam, to make its examination the more easy and exact by
night. The steady stream of this light was a fixed factor, being held
at such a position as would cover the greatest amount of the dam face.
Now, as Sim Gage topped the grade, gravel crunching under his feet, a
trifle out of breath with his climb, since the incline itself was a
thing of magnificent distances, he saw the searchlight of the power dam
begin a performance altogether new in his own experience.
The great shaft of light rose up abruptly to a position vertical, a
beam of light reaching up into the sky. An instant, and it began to
swing from side to side. It swung sharply clear against the bald face
of the mountain at the farther end of the dam. It swept down the
canyon itself, or to its first great bend. It rose again and swept
across the dark-fringed summit of the mountains on the hither side of
the stream. Not once, but twice, this was done.
It was a splendid and magnificent thing itself, this giant eye,
illuminating and revealing, fit factor in a wild and imposing panorama
of the night. But why? No one ever had known the searchlight to be
used in this way. What orders had been given? What did these zig-zag
beams up and down the surface of the sky indicate? Was it a signal, or
was some one playing with the property of the Company, there in the
cupola of the light station?
Sim Gage reached the side of the plant just as the light came down to
its original duty of watching the face of the dam. At first there was
not any sound.
"Who's there?" he called out. No answer came. It seemed to him that
he heard some sort of movement in the little rock house.
"Halt! Who goes there?" he called out in a formula he had learned.
He got no answer, but he heard a thud as of a body dropping out of the
window of the further side of the house, against the slope of the dam
which lay above it.
He ran around the corner of the little building, rifle at the ready,
only to see a scrambling figure, bent over, endeavoring to reach the
top of the dam, where the smooth roadway ran from side to side of the
great gorge. That way lay no escape. The sentry was across yonder,
and would soon return. This way, toward the east, a fugitive must go
if he would seek any point of emergence from these surroundings.
"Halt! Halt there! Halt, or I'll fire!" cried Gage. "Halt!" He
called it out again, once, twice, three times. But the figure, whoever
or whatever it was, ran on. It now had reached the top of the dam, and
could be seen with more or less distinctness, sky-lined against the
starlight and the gray sky behind it.
Sim Gage, old-time hunter, used all his life to firearms, was used also
to firing at running game. He drew down now deep into the rear sight
of his Springfield, allowing for the faint light, and held at the front
edge of the running figure as nearly as he could tell. He fired once,
twice and three times--rap!--rap!--rap!--the echo came from the
concrete--at the figure as it crouched and stumbled on. Then it
stopped. There came a scrambling and a sliding of the object, which
fell at the top of the dam. It slipped off the dam top and rolled and
slid almost at his feet. He dragged it down into the edge of the beams
of the searchlight itself.
Up to this time he had not known or suspected who the man might be. At
first he now thought it was a woman. In reality it was a Chinaman, the
cook and body-servant of Waldhorn, engineer at the power operations!
He was dead.
Sim stood looking down at what he had done, trying in his slow fashion
of mind to puzzle out what this man had been doing here, and why he had
come. He heard the sound of running feet above him, heard challenges,
shouts, every way. Others had heard the shot. "This way, fellers----
Come along!" he heard Wid Gardner call out, high and clear; for that
night Wid also was of the upper guard.
But they were not running in his direction. They seemed to be back on
the street. All at once Sim Gage solved his little problem. This
Chinaman had been sent to do this work--sent by the owner of that house
yonder, the engineer, Waldhorn. That prisoner must not escape now. He
knew! It was he who had given the searchlight signal! Waldhorn--and
Dorenwald! He coupled both names now again.
Sim Gage himself, having a shorter distance to go than his comrades,
left his dead Chinaman, and started after the man higher up. He
reached the Waldhorn quarters slightly before the others.
He heard the screen door of the log house slam, saw a stout and burly
man step out, satchel in hand. The man walked hurriedly toward a car
which Sim Gage had not noticed, since there was so much unused
machinery about, wheel scrapers, wagons, plows and the like. Now he
saw that it was Waldhorn and Waldhorn's car. He was taking advantage
of this confusion to make his own escape.
This hurrying figure halted for a half instant in the dim light, for he
heard footsteps on each side of him. He knew the guard was coming.
Sim Gage's summons rang high and clear. Yonder was the man--he was
going to escape. He must not escape. All these things came to Sim
Gage's mind as he half raised his weapon to his shoulder, challenging
again, "Halt! Who goes there? Halt!" The bolt of his Springfield
clinked home once more.
The man turned away, toward the sound of the greater number of his
enemies, weapon in hand. The patrol was closing in. But before he
turned he both gave and received death in the last act he might offer
in treachery to this country, which had been generous and kind to him.
Sim Gage fired with close, sure aim, and cut his man through with the
blow of the Spitzer bullet of the Springfield piece. But even as he
did so Waldhorn himself had fired with the heavy automatic pistol which
he carried. The bullet caught Sim Gage high in the chest, and passed
through, missing the spine by but little. He sprawled forward.
Waldhorn's body was no better than a sieve, for he received the fire of
the entire squad of riflemen who had approached from the other side,
and so many bullets struck him, again and again, that they actually
held him up from falling for an instant.
Now the entire street filled. Foreign or half-foreign laboring folk
came out, soldiers and sailor boys came, jabbering in a score of
tongues. None knew the plot of the drama which had been finished now.
All they knew was that the chief engineer had been killed by the guard.
Very well, but who had shot Scout Gage?
Sim Gage, looking up at the sky, felt the great arm of Flaherty, the
foreman, under his head.
"Easy now, lad," said the big man. "Easy. Lay down a bit, till I have
a look. Where's the Docther, boys?--Get him quick."
"What's the matter?" said Sim Gage. "Lemme up. I fell down--Who hit
me?"
He felt something at his chest, raised a hand, and in turn passed it
before his face in wonderment.
"Well, look at that!" said he. "Did that feller shoot me? Say, did I
get him?"
"Sure, boy!" said Flaherty. "You got him. And so did a dozen more of
the fellies. He's deader'n hell this minute, so don't you worry none
over that. Don't worry over nothing," he added gently, folding his
coat to put under Sim's head. He had seen gun shot wounds before in
his life on the rough jobs, and he knew.
"Get a board, or something, boys," he said. So presently they brought
a plank, and eased Sim Gage gently to it, men at each end lifting him,
others steadying him as he was carried. They took him into the house
which Waldhorn had just now left.
[Illustration: "Get a board, or something, boys"]
It was the turn of dawn now. The soft light of day was filtering
through the air from somewhere up above, somewhere beyond the edge of
the canyon.
"Better tell those women to stay away," said Flaherty to the young
lieutenant. The latter met Annie Squires at the door of her house,
ejaculating, demanding, questioning, weeping, all at once. It was with
difficulty that she was induced to obey the general orders of getting
inside and keeping quiet.
Other men came now, telling of the discovery of the dead Chinaman near
the lighting station. The bits of information were pieced together
hurriedly, this and that to the other.
Doctor Barnes had seen the light's play on the sky, had heard echoes in
the mountains. He now reached the scene, coming at top speed up the
canyon trail in his car. He met answers already formed for his
questions.
"They got Sim," said Wid Gardner. "Waldhorn----"
He hurried into the room where they had carried the wounded man. "Why,
of course," said Sim Gage dully, "I'll be all right. After breakfast
I'll be out again all right. I've got to go over and see--I've got to
go over to her house and see----" But he never told what he planned.
Doctor Barnes shook his head to Flaherty after a time, when the latter
turned to him in the outer room. The big foreman compressed his lips.
"He's done good work, the lad!" said Flaherty; and Wid Gardner, still
standing by, nodded his head.
"Mighty good. It was him got the Chink all right--hit him twict out of
three, and creased him onct; and like enough this Dutchman first, too.
Tell me, Doc, ain't he got a chanct to come through? Can't you make it
out that way for pore old Sim?"
"I'm afraid not," said Doctor Barnes. "The shot's close to an artery,
and like enough he's bleeding internally, because he's coughing. His
pulse is jumpy. It's too bad--too damn bad. He was--a good man, Sim
Gage!"
"What was it, Annie?" asked Mary Gage, over in their house. "There was
shooting. Was anybody hurt?"
"Some of the hands got to mixing it, like enough," said Annie, herself
pale and shaking. "I don't know."
"Was anybody hurt?"
"I haven't had time to find out. Oh, my God! Sis, I wish't we'd never
come out here to this country at all. I want my mother, that's what I
want! I'm sick with all this." She began to cry, sobbing openly.
Mary Gage, now the stronger, drew the girl's head down into her own
arms.
"You mustn't cry," said she. "Annie, we've got to pull together."
"I guess so," said Annie, sobbing, "both of us. But I'm so
lonesome--I'm so awful scared."
The morning came slowly, at length fully, cool and softly luminous.
The friends of Sim Gage, all men, stood near his bedside. His eyes
opened sometimes, looking with curious languor around him, as though
some problem were troubling him. At length he turned toward Wid, who
stood close to him.
"Hit!" said he.--"I know, now."
No one said anything to this. After a time he reached out a hand and
touched almost timidly the arm of his friend. His voice was laboring
and not strong.
"Where's--where's my hat?" he whispered at length.
"Your hat?" said Wid. "Your hat?--Now, why--I reckon it's hanging
around somewheres here. What makes you want it?"
But some one had heard the request and came through the little hallway
with Sim Gage's hat, brave green cord and all.
The wounded man looked at it and smiled, as sweet a smile as may come
to a man's face--the smile of a boy. Indeed, he had lived a life that
had left him scarce more than a boy, all these years alone on outskirts
of the world.
He motioned to them to put the hat on the bed side him. "I want it
here," he said after a time, moving restlessly when they undertook to
take it from him.
He touched it with his hand. At length he reached out and dropped it
on the chair at the head of his bed, now and again turning and looking
at it the best he might, laboring as he did with his torn lungs;
looking at it with some strange sort of reverence in his gaze, some
tremendous significance.
"Ain't she _fine_?" he asked of his friend, again with his
astonishingly winsome smile; a smile they found hard to look upon.
A half hour later some man down the road said to another that the
sagebrusher had croaked too.
That is to say, Sim Gage, gentleman, soldier and patriot, had passed on
to the place where men find reward for doing the very best they know
with what God has seen fit to give them as their own.