Munford came to the work before the gangs were deep enough into the
hills to lose daily, or rather nightly, touch with Big Cloud. And the
way of his coming was this: The town, springing up in a night, had its
beginning in the wooden shanty the engineers built as headquarters
for the Hill Division that was to be. Then, with mushroom growth, came
shacks innumerable; and these shacks, for the most part, were gambling
hells and dives and saloons, and the population was Indian, Chinese and
bad American. To these places of lurid entertainment flocked the toilers
at night, loading down the construction empties as they backed their
way to the spurs and sidings that soon spread out like a cobweb around
headquarters.
Naturally, rows were of pretty frequent occurrence between the company’s
men and the leeches who bleed them with crooked games and stacked decks
over the roulette, faro and stud-poker tables. But of them all in the
delectable pursuit of separating the men and their pay-checks, Pete
McGonigle’s “Golden Luck” saloon was in the van, both as to size and
crookedness. And that high station of eminence it maintained until the
night a stranger wrecked it by no more delicate a method than that of
kicking over the roulette table, sending it and the attendant, who was
presiding over the little whirling ball in Pete’s interest, crashing to
the floor. That stranger was Munford. And that was how Munford came to
join the army of the Rockies.
A number of the company men were present and they sided in with
Munford. Before this amalgamation, Pete and his hangers-on went down to
ignominious defeat, and the “Golden Luck,” to utter demolishment and
ruin. News of the fracas spread rapidly to the other “joints.” The
dive-keepers joined forces, the company men did likewise, and that night
became the wildest in the history of Big Cloud.
Munford took command of his new-found friends from the start. In the
street fight that followed he did wondrous things--and did them with
zest, delight and effectiveness. With his great bulk he towered above
his companions, and the sweep of his long arms as they rose and fell,
the play of his massive shoulders as he lunged forward to give impetus
to his blows, was a marvelous sight to see. But the details of that
fight have no place here. Its result, however, was that Munford,
previously unknown and unheard of, became thereafter, a marked man in
Big Cloud.
When the fight was over the company men, elated with victory though
somewhat the worse for wear, retired to the yard to wait for the
construction trains to take them up to their work. And while they waited
they spent the time gazing in admiration at Munford who sat on the edge
of a flat-car, his legs dangling over, blowing softly on his knuckles, a
smile of divine contentment on his face.
What was Munford going to do? demanded McGuire and the cronies of his
particular gang who had had the honor of being present at Pete’s when
the evening’s proceedings were instituted, and who therefore felt they
had a prior claim to the hero’s consideration over and above that of
the men from other sections of the work who had taken part in the fight.
Munford did not know. Would he go up the line with them and take a job
with their gang if they promised to get him one? Munford would. So he
kept his seat when the construction train pulled out just as the dawn
was breaking, and twenty miles up the road at Twin Bear Creek they
tumbled him off and introduced him to Alan Burton, foreman of Bridge
Gang No. 3.
At the sight of his battered and jaded crew, who in no wise appeared
fit for the day’s work before them, Burton swore savagely and with great
bitterness of tongue bade them get to their work. Then he turned in his
ill-humor to Munford, who was still standing beside him.
“Who the devil are you? What you doin’ here? Where d’ye come from?”
The questions came quick and sharp like a volley of small arms.
Munford eyed the wiry little chunk of a man, scarcely up to his own
shoulders, in silence, taking him in from head to foot.
“Well,” snapped Burton, “speak up!”
“Munford’s my name,” said Munford, coolly. “I’m here for a job. Where I
come from ain’t none of your blamed business, is it?”
“Ain’t it?” said Burton. “Well, then, you can walk back there, my
bucko!” and he turned on his heel and followed the men to their work.
Munford sat down on the doorsill of the camp shanty and with a laugh
pulled out his pipe and began to smoke. He was still sitting there a
half-hour later when the foreman came back.
“If you’ve got far to go,” grinned Burton, “you’d better get started.”
“No hurry,” replied Munford, imperturbably.
“You’re a queer card,” said Burton, after a moment. “What’s this about
the trouble down at Big Cloud last night the boys are so full of they
can’t do anything besides talk?”
Munford chuckled quietly. “Nothin’ much,” said he.
“Nothing much, eh? They say you put the ‘Golden Luck’ and Pete McGonigle
to the bad, and then cleaned out every dive in town. You’re quite a
reformer, ain’t you? I’ll tell you this, though, it won’t be healthy for
you around these parts from now on.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Munford. “Say, how about that job?”
Burton laughed. “You’ve got a sweet nerve to ask for a job, and you
responsible for a gang that won’t be able to do a day’s work among the
lot of them between now and night. Did up McGonigle’s, eh? Well, I don’t
know, I reckon in the long run that’ll be worth more to the company than
the day’s work. All right, sport, you can go to work--until Pete and
his crowd scare you out, which I predict won’t be long. And while you’re
here, if you get itchy for trouble don’t look for it among the men, come
to _me._”
“Well, I’ll--” gasped Munford. “Why, I could twist you like--” Then he
laughed in pure delight at Burton’s spunk “Oh, sure! _Sure_, I will.”
It took Munford no longer than a day to get the hang of the work. He was
already more than a demigod in the eyes of Bridge Gang No. 3, and that
counted for much. They were eager and ready to show him what they knew
themselves, whereas the ignorance and rawness of any other newcomer
would have been turned to good account in the shape of gibes and jests
at his expense. In two days, from a natural adaptability coupled with
his great strength, that was the strength of two men, Munford had fitted
into place with the same nicety that one part of a well designed machine
fits into another.
To the crews of the construction trains bringing up the bridge material
he was pointed out with pride by his mates--though, indeed, that action
was superfluous--as “the boy who did the trick at Pete’s.” And from
these in turn Munford learned that down at Big Cloud, Pete and others of
his ilk had sworn that, sooner or later, they would fix him for it. At
this he only laughed and, doubling his great arm bared to the shoulders,
intimated that there could be no greater pleasure in life for him than
to have them try it. And that night sitting outside the camp after
supper, McGuire, as spokesman, alluding to the threat, proposed that
under Munford’s leadership they should make another raid on Big Cloud.
Burton, passing by, caught the gist of the conversation. “I want to see
you a minute, Munford,” he called, shortly.
Munford got up and followed to the foreman’s little shanty that stood a
few yards away from the main camp. Once inside, Burton shoved him into a
chair and shook his fist under Munford’s nose.
“Didn’t I tell you yesterday morning,” he spluttered angrily, “that if
you were looking for trouble to come to me and leave the gang alone? And
here you’re at it again, what? Go down to Big Cloud and raise hell,
eh? You great, big overgrown calf!” Munford blinked at the foreman,
speechless. It was a long time since he had taken words like these from
any man, much less a little spitfire like Burton.
“Trouble!” continued the irate Burton, hardly pausing for breath. “You
live on it, don’t you? Eat it, eh? Well, you’ll get a fill of it before
long that’ll give you the damnest indigestion you ever heard of. I
promise you that! But you keep your hands off my crew! Now you listen to
what I’m saying!”
“Aw, go hang!” said Munford, contemptuously. “I can’t help it, can I,
if they want to go down to Big Cloud? If you’re so blamed anxious about
them, it’s a wonder you don’t go around every night and tuck ‘em into
their bunks!”
For a moment Burton looked as though he were going to jump into Munford
and mix it then and there; but instead, with a short laugh, he turned
and walked to the other side of the room, sat down on the edge of his
bunk and pulled out his pipe. He cut some tobacco from his plug, rolled
it between his palms, packed his pipe slowly and lighted it. It was
five minutes before he broke the silence; Munford was beginning to feel
uncomfortable.
“I don’t suppose throwing a few timbers across Twin Bear Creek means
much of anything to you, Munford, eh?” he asked quietly.
“Not so much,” replied Munford carelessly, a little puzzled at the
question.
“No? Well, it means a lot to me, a whole lot! Until that trestle is up,
we can’t shove material over to the other side, ties and rails and heavy
stuff. Progress on the Hill Division depends just at this minute on
Bridge Gang No. 3, and concretely on me. I don’t propose to have it
interfered with by the men going down to Big Cloud and getting their
heads broke, understand?”
“Oh, I guess we can take care of _our_ heads, if that’s all that bothers
you,” drawled Munford. “And I furthermore guess your bloomin’ little
bridge you seem so stuck on won’t take any hurt by lettin’ the boys
have their fling. Anyway, whether it will or not, what’s the use of
you shootin’ off all your talk? You can’t stop ‘em! If they want to go,
they’ll go. And say, Burton”--an inspiration coming to Munford--“come on
down with us. I’ll promise you the time of your life.”
“I ought to have put it up to you differently, I guess, and saved my
breath,” said Burton in disgust. “You’re just a hulk of bone and muscle
and your head’s wood. You can lift a timber and swing a pick or axe
because you’ve got the strength. But that’s all you know, or all you’re
good for!”
The cool contempt in Burton’s voice stung Mun-ford more than the words
themselves.
“Is that so!” he snarled, resorting to his favorite habit of blowing on
his knuckles. “I’d show you fast enough what I’m good for, you runt, if
you was a little bigger!”
“Maybe you’ll find I’m big enough one of these days,” said Burton,
sharply. “Now I’ll put it to you straight so that you’ll understand.
I’ll show you whether I can stop the gang going to Big Cloud or not. No
man rides on the construction trains after to-day without a pass signed
by me. That’s orders! If the men don’t like it, you can tell them it’s
your fault. The next row in Big Cloud wouldn’t stop at fists. And as for
you, you wouldn’t come out of it alive.”
“You needn’t worry about me,” sneered Munford. “I’m----”
“You’re a fool! The thickest-headed, trouble-hunting fool it’s ever been
my cursed luck to run against!” exclaimed Burton angrily.
Munford brushed his great shock of hair out of his eyes with a nervous
sweep of his hand. “I ain’t ever before taken the back talk from any man
that I’ve taken from you--without hurtin’ him,” he said thickly, rising
from his chair. “And I’m goin’ to get out of here before I hurt _you!_”
He walked quickly across the shanty and swung around in the doorway. “By
God, I wish you was bigger!” he flung out.
Munford walked back to the men’s camp and listened to their conversation
awhile in sullen silence. They were still on the same topic and were
waxing more enthusiastic each minute.
“Aw, dry up!” said Munford, cutting in at last. “It’ll be a long time
before any of you see Big Cloud again.”
“Who says so?” demanded McGuire, aggressively.
Munford jerked his thumb in the direction of the foreman’s shanty.
“Him,” he said laconically.
“How’s he goin’ to stop it? What for? What’s the matter with him,
anyway? It’s none of his business!” the men were talking in chorus.
“He’s fussy about gettin’ his dinky little bridge through,” sneered
Munford. “He says he ain’t goin’ to have broken heads interferin’
with it, either. From now on you’ve got to get a pass to ride on the
construction train. Likewise, he said if you didn’t like it I was to
tell you”--here Munford paused to glance around the circle--“that it’s
my fault and I’m the cause of all the trouble.”
“What did you tell him?” demanded the crew.
“I told him to go hang. What else would I tell him?”
“Bully for you!” shouted McGuire, slapping his leg in delight. “Did he
fire you?”
This was something Munford had not thought of.
“Fire me?” he repeated. Then slowly, pondering the idea: “No, he didn’t.
It’s funny he didn’t, though; I gave him back talk ‘enough.”
“Aw,” said McGuire, with a sneer, “that’s easy. He’d have fired you
quick enough if he dared.”
“Why,” said Munford innocently. “I wouldn’t have touched him if he had.
He’s too small to touch--I told him that, too.”
“‘Tain’t that,” McGuire returned. “He ain’t afraid of any man, big or
little. I’ll give him credit for that. It’s his bridge, and that means
his job, that he’s afraid of.”
“What’s my gettin’ fired got to do with the bridge?” demanded Munford,
in amazement.
“Aw, go on; you know what I mean. If Burton has trouble with us the
bridge work stops, don’t it? And the company’ll be askin’ Burton the
reason why, won’t they? Well, Burton knows there’s some things we won’t
stand for, and firin’ you after we brought you up here is one of them.
And that’s right, too, eh, mates?”
There was emphatic assent from the men.
Munford, a little flustered at this wholesale exhibition of homage,
fidgeted nervously. “Much obliged,” said he, clumsily. “Don’t put
yourselves out on my account. I----”
“That’s all right,” broke in McGuire. “Burton won’t try it; he knows
better. As for gettin’ a pass to get out of camp, I dunno about _that_.”
He got up, stretched himself and yawned. “The way I look at it, it’s
more up to Munford here than it is to Burton. I’m goin’ to turn in, but
I’ll say first that the night Munford says Big Cloud, then Big Cloud it
is for Bridge Gang No. 3. That’s the way we talked it before we knew
about Burton mixin’ in, and I reckon it stands just the same now.”
And the camp retired to their bunks and to sleep, voicing McGuire’s
sentiments and swearing a unanimous and enthusiastic allegiance to
Munford; all but Munford himself who did not sleep but lay awake tossing
restlessly though, withal, in a very self-satisfied frame of mind.
This outburst of popularity pleased Munford exceedingly. The more
so that it was directly traceable to his great strength and physical
courage of which he was inordinately vain. He began to regard Burton
with contempt. Burton was a man whose backbone wobbled when it came to a
showdown! As Munford turned the situation over in his mind his contempt
grew stronger until he came to decide that he despised the little
foreman heartily. Would he, he demanded of himself with a snort, have
fired a man that had talked to him as he had talked to Burton, had
he been in Burton’s place? He would! And the gang, bridge, job and
everything else could go to blazes! Munford sat up to emphasize his
feelings on this point with a crash of his fist on the side of the bunk.
He thrilled with the fierce joy of enacting just such a rôle as his
imagination depicted, despising Burton accordingly for lacking in what
were, to him, the essentials of a man. He decided, as he fell asleep, to
make the foreman’s life a burden to him--and he did.
No flagrant violation or disobedience of orders was there, instead the
inauguration of a petty little system of nagging that embraced every
indignity Munford could think of. And the range of his attack was from
profound and exaggerated attention and politeness to the utter and
complete ignoring of the very existence of such a person as Alan Burton,
foreman of Bridge Gang No. 3. While the gang, taking their cue from
Munford, would shift from one extreme to the other with a precision and
significance that cut deeper into a man of Burton’s high-strung, nervous
temperament than any other form of torture they could have devised.
Three times during three days Burton, who was afraid of no man or
aggregation of men, took the bull by the horns and struck Munford a
violent blow in an effort to bring matters to a head. On the first
occasion the gang watched the action with a gasp of mixed pity and
admiration--looking for Burton’s instant annihilation. But Munford, with
a bit of a laugh, only reached out and grasping Burton’s neck held him
wriggling, helplessly, impotently, at arm’s length. “You got to grow,
boy; just keep quiet now, I ain’t going to hurt you,” he taunted. And
the gang promptly lost their faint appreciation of Burton’s nerve in
their relish of the ridiculous figure cut by the white-faced, raging
foreman.
It was dirty work, and deep down in his heart Munford knew it. But his
better nature no sooner manifested itself by sundry pricks of conscience
than it was smothered beneath the new sense of authority and command
that was now his for the first time in his experience; and which,
catering as it did to his peacock vanity, was paramount to all things
else. The work lagged sadly and fell behind. The daily reports Burton
signed and sent down to headquarters became worse and worse.
Each day, too, the feud between the dives at Big Cloud and Bridge Gang
No. 3, fanned by the crews of the construction trains, who taunted
McGuire and the men with cowardice, grew stronger. For the trainmen,
having no idea of disregarding Burton’s orders and allowing the bridge
men to ride down on the empties, rubbed it in until the gang writhed
under their gibes.
Munford did not come in for much of this personally. The trainmen, none
of them, seemed to display any particular hankering for discussing the
question in his presence; but he got it second-hand from McGuire and
the gang. The outcome of it all was a decision one night after supper
to board the construction train the following evening, Burton, the train
crew and the company to the contrary, and go down to Big Cloud if they
had to run the train themselves. Munford concurred in the decision by
blowing very gently on his knuckles. It looked bad for the peace and
quiet of Big Cloud; and it looked bad for Burton’s standing with the
company.
Munford, as commander-in-chief, and McGuire, as chief of staff, withdrew
from the circle and strolled off by themselves to perfect their plans
for the next day’s campaign, taking the trail in the direction of Big
Cloud--a trail still called, but now a passable road due to the traffic
incident to the building of the Hill Division, whose right of way it
paralleled from Big Cloud to the ford at Twin Bear Creek. At the end of
a quarter of a mile the two men sat down on a felled tree by the side
of the trail to talk. Some ten minutes had passed when McGuire, in the
midst of a graphic description of what they would do to Pete McGonigle
and the rest, suddenly stopped and gripped Munford tightly by the
shoulder.
“Keep mum,” he cautioned. “There’s someone comin’!”
In the bright moonlight they could make out the figure of a man about a
hundred yards down the road coming toward them from the camp.
“He walks like Burton,” whispered McGuire. “What the devil is he
followin’ us for? Get back into the trees and let him pass.”
They moved noiselessly a little deeper into the wood that fringed the
road, and lying flat, watched the man who was approaching.
“It’s Burton,” McGuire announced at last.
Munford grunted assent.
“He’s been followin’ us all right, and now he’s goin’ to wait for us to
come back,” continued McGuire, as Burton halted within a few yards of
them and sat down to smoke. “Well, we’ll give him a run for his money.
He can wait a while, I’m thinkin’.”
Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. McGuire began to tire of his
self-selected game of hide and seek, “Come on,” said he, “let’s go out
and see what he wants.”
“Wait,” Munford answered. “There’s someone comin’ from Big Cloud way.
It’s not us Burton’s after. Listen!”
There was the faint beat of horse’s hoofs gradually drawing nearer. Then
presently rider and horse loomed out of the shadows and Burton, getting
up, stepped out into the middle of the road.
The horseman drew up beside him. “That you, Burton?” he called softly.
“Yes,” said Burton, shortly.
“You got Pete’s letter, then,” the man went on, dismounting from his
horse. “I suppose it’s all right to talk here. No one around, eh?”
“As well here as anywhere. Only cut it short.”
“Oh, there ain’t any hurry,” returned the man, with a laugh. “Wait till
I tie my horse, then we can sit down and chew it over comfortable.”
“Now,” he went on, that task performed, “what I came to see you about
was this fellow Munford.”
“Well,” demanded Burton, “what about him?”
“It looks to us down to Big Cloud, from the way the fellows on the
construction trains are talkin’, you ain’t got any cause to love him,
eh? So Pete figured you and him could deal. You want to get rid of him,
don’t you?”
“I wish to God I’d never seen his face!” exclaimed Burton, with great
bitterness.
“Sure! That’s the idea. You don’t want him; we do want him--bad! There’s
nothin’ against the rest of the men; we’ll forget all about that. It’s
just Munford we’re after.”
“Why don’t you get him, then?” said Burton curtly.
“We’re goin’ to,” the man replied, with a nasty laugh. “We’re goin’ to,
all right. It’s a fair deal. You’re on, eh? Pete said you’d jump at the
chance to sit in. We want you to fire him.”
“That all I’m to do?” asked Burton, quietly.
“Sure, that’s all there is to it--except this.”
Munford’s hand closed on his companion’s arm in a tight, spasmodic grip
as Pete’s emissary produced a wad of bills and began to peel off the
outer ones.
“Three hundred plunks,” said the man, extending the money he had
abstracted from the roll to Burton. “Pretty good for just firin’ a man
we’ve been lookin’ for you to fire for the last week, anyway. Besides,
there’s been some talk down at headquarters about you not bein’ able to
handle your men, and about them gettin’ someone that can. Pete says not
to bother about that, he’ll fix it for you. Here, take the money.”
“Suppose I fired him,” said Burton, slowly, “where’d he go?”
“What do you care where he goes, so long as you get rid of him?”
“He couldn’t go West,” went on Burton, paying no attention to the
other’s remark; “so he’d have to go East--that’s Big Cloud--and
_murder!_” He turned fiercely, savagely on the man. “You dirty,
low-lived hound!” he flashed. “You offer me three hundred dollars to
murder a man, do you? You wonder why I’ve stood for what I did, do you,
you scrimp! Fire him, eh, to get a cowardly knife or shot in his back!
You think I didn’t know what would happen if I let him out, eh? Get
out of here, you cur! And get out now--while you _can!_” Burton’s voice
rasped, hoarse with passion. He turned abruptly away and strode quickly
in the direction of the camp.
“Hold on, wait a minute, Burton,” cried the other, following him. “Don’t
get batty.”
Unconsciously Munford had tightened his grip on McGuire’s arm until the
latter whimpered with the pain, and now Munford lifted him bodily to his
feet making cautiously for the spot where the horse was standing. The
two figures were still discernible, and Burton’s angry voice continued
to reach the listeners, though the words were now indistinguishable.
Munford’s face in the moonlight was colorless, the muscles around his
mouth twitched convulsively. “D’ye hear what they said? D’ye hear what
they said? _My God!_ d’ye hear it all?” he was mumbling incoherently in
McGuire’s ear, his eyes strained up the road.
“Yes, I heard it. Let go of my arm, you’re breakin’ it!”
“He’s comin’ back,” said Munford, hoarsely.
Burton had disappeared around a turn in the road and the man, after
hesitating a moment, began to retrace his steps to his horse, muttering
fiercely to himself as he came along. As he reached for the bridle,
Munford leaped out and grasped him by the throat, choking back the man’s
cry of terror.
“You make a noise,” snarled Munford, “and I’ll finish you! Oh, it’s you,
eh? Look here, Mac, it’s the cuss that ran the roulette wheel that
night at Pete’s. So my price is three hundred, eh? Well, hand it out.
_Quick!_”
Slowly the fellow put his hand in his pocket and for the second time
that night pulled out his roll.
Munford’s anger seemed to have vanished. He laughed softly as he took
the money.
“What are you going to do with me?” whined the gambler.
Munford made no answer. In the imperfect light, he was laboriously
counting the bills. McGuire watched the operation, at the same time
keeping an eye on their prisoner.
“Two sixty--eighty--three hundred,” said Munford at last, cramming that
amount into his pocket and handing back by far the larger part of the
roll to the man. “What am I goin’ to do with you? Nothin’! You get on
that horse and ride back to Pete. I want him to know this. Tell him all
about it. Tell him Munford told you to tell him. That’s worth more than
breakin’ your neck--and that’s all that saves you from gettin’ it broke,
savvy? You tell him _I’ve_ got the three hundred, and I’ll give him
his chance at me for it one of these days.. And when I do--My God, _you
ride_ before I begin with you!”
The fellow glanced fearfully from Munford to McGuire and back again
to Munford to assure himself that he was free to go. Then he clambered
frantically into the saddle and lashing his beast in a frenzy of terror
disappeared down the trail.
Munford, with swift revulsion of mood, threw himself down on the grass,
burying his face in his hands. Not a word from McGuire; he walked
awkwardly up and down, whistling under his breath. After a minute
Munford looked up.
“I got to square this with Burton,” he said brokenly.
McGuire nodded.
“He’s a better man than you and me and the whole gang put
together”--Munford’s tones were fiercely assertive.
“He is that,” assented McGuire, with conviction.
There was silence for a moment between them; then McGuire spoke: “Why
didn’t you take it all?” he asked.
“Take it all!” flared Munford. “I’m no thief, am I? Well, then, what’s
the matter with you? That’s my price, ain’t it? Three hundred. That’s
what Pete offered for a chance to get his paws on me. Well, _I’ll_ give
him his chance, you heard me promise, didn’t you? That’s right, eh?
That’s Pete’s proposition, and the money’s mine, ain’t it?”
“It is,” said McGuire.
“It is, and it ain’t,” said Munford. “Burton _could_ have had it if
he’d sold me out, couldn’t he? Well, then, I’m goin’ to see he gets it
anyway.”
“He wouldn’t take it, not by any means, he wouldn’t,” objected McGuire.
“Not outright, he wouldn’t,” agreed Munford. “I know that well enough.
We got to fix it so he won’t know where it come from, and so it will
square me with him, and you fellows, too.”
“How you goin’ to do that?” demanded McGuire. “I dunno,” said Munford.
“We’ll talk it over with the boys. Come on back to camp.”
The next day and the day after, the gang worked like Trojans, and the
lack of any sneer or incivility on their part, coupled with a subdued,
expectant excitement that the men tried fruitlessly to hide, made Burton
more anxious and ill at ease than during the days that had gone before.
It looked like the lull before the storm; and he wondered bitterly what
culminating piece of deviltry they were hatching.
To the taunts of the train crews the gang grinned and said nothing.
On the second day a package, addressed to Munford, came up from the
East, and at noon hour the men handed it around from one to another in
awestruck wonder at the magnificence of the solid gold repeater that
chimed the quarters, halves and hours, and split the seconds into
fractions. It was indeed a beauty. Maybe the chain was a little massive,
but the men opined that it was therefore strong. They pried open the
case to read the inscription over whose wording they had wrestled most
of a night.
“Nifty, ain’t it?” cried McGuire, admiringly; and he read it aloud:
“‘This is to certify that Alan Burton is as square as they make them,
and Munford and the gang are sorry. So help us!’” They delivered it
solemnly to Munford, who was to make the presentation, and started in a
body for Burton’s shanty. Burton met them at the door, his face hard and
set.
“So it’s a showdown at last, eh, boys?” he laughed grimly. “Well, what
is it?”
The men shoved Munford bodily forward and he stood balancing himself
sheepishly, first on one foot and then on the other, as he faced Burton.
He cleared his throat painfully once or twice, then he found his
voice. From a point of oratory or rhetoric it was perhaps the lamest
presentation speech on record, for Munford suddenly thrust the watch and
chain into the astounded Burton’s hands.
“Here, take it,” he sputtered. “It’s all written out on the inside.” And
breaking through the men, he turned and fled incontinently.