_The Sword that Turns_
As Zephyr and Bennie left the office Hartwell turned to Firmstone. There
was no outward yielding, within only the determination not to recognise
defeat.
"The cards are yours; but we'll finish the game."
The words were not spoken, but they were in evidence.
Firmstone was silent for a long time. He was thinking neither of
Hartwell nor of himself.
"Well," he finally asked; "this little incident is happily closed. What
next?"
Hartwell's manner had not changed. "You are superintendent here. Don't
ask me. It's up to you."
Firmstone restrained himself with an effort. "Is it?"
The question carried its own answer with it. It was plainly negative,
only Hartwell refused to accept it.
"What else are you out here for?"
Firmstone's face flushed hotly. "Why can't you talk sense?" he burst
out.
"I am not aware that I have talked anything else." Hartwell only grew
more rigid with Firmstone's visible anger.
"If that's your opinion the sooner I get out the better." Firmstone rose
and started to the door.
"Wait a moment." Firmstone's decision was, by Hartwell, twisted into
weakening. On this narrow pivot he turned his preparation for retreat.
"The loss of the gold brought me out here. It has been recovered and no
questions asked. That ends my work. Now yours begins. When I have your
assurance that you will remain with the company in accordance with your
contract, I am ready to go. What do you say?"
Firmstone thought rapidly and to the point. His mind was soon made up.
"I decline to commit myself." The door closed behind him, shutting off
further discussion.
The abrupt termination of the interview was more than disappointing to
Hartwell. It carried with it an element of fear. He had played his game
obstinately, with obvious defiance in the presence of Zephyr and Bennie;
with their departure he had counted on a quiet discussion with
Firmstone. He had no settled policy further than to draw Firmstone out,
get him to commit himself definitely while he, with no outward sign of
yielding, could retreat with flying colours. He now recognised the fact
that the knives with which he had been juggling were sharper and more
dangerous than he had thought, but he also felt that, by keeping them in
the air as long as possible, when they fell he could at least turn their
points from himself. Firmstone's departure brought them tumbling about
his ears in a very inconsiderate manner. He must make another move, and
in a hurry. Events were no longer even apparently under his control;
they were controlling him and pushing him into a course of action not at
all to his liking.
The element of fear, before passive, was now quivering with intense
activity. He closed his mind to all else and bent it toward the
forestalling of an action that he could not but feel was immediate and
pressing.
Partly from Firmstone, partly from Pierre, he had gathered a clear idea
that a union was being organised, and this knowledge had impelled him to
a course that he would now have given worlds to recall.
This act was none else than the engaging of a hundred or more non-union
men. On their arrival, he had intended the immediate discharge of the
disaffected and the installing of the new men in their places. He had
chuckled to himself over the dismay which the arrival of the men would
create, but even more over the thought of the bitter rage of Morrison
and Pierre when they realised the fact that they had been outwitted and
forestalled. The idea that he was forcing upon Firmstone a set of
conditions for which he would refuse to stand sponsor had occurred to
him only as a possibility so remote that it was not even considered. He
was now taking earnest counsel with himself. If Firmstone had
contemplated resignation under circumstances of far less moment than the
vital one of which he was still ignorant--Hartwell drew his hand slowly
across his moistening forehead, then sprang to his feet. Why had he not
thought of it before? He caught up his hat and hurried to the door of
the outer office. There was not a moment to lose. Before he laid his
hand on the door he forced himself to deliberate movement.
"Tell the stable boss to hitch up the light rig and bring it to the
office."
As the man left the room, Hartwell seated himself and lighted a cigar.
In a few moments the rig was at the door and Hartwell appeared,
leisurely drawing on a pair of driving-gloves. Adjusting the dust-robe
over his knees, as he took the lines from the man, he said:
"If Mr. Firmstone inquires for me tell him I have gone for a drive."
Down past the mill, along the trail by the slide, he drove with no
appearance of haste. Around a bend which hid the mill from sight, the
horses had a rude awakening. The cigar was thrown aside, the reins
tightened, and the whip was cracked in a manner that left no doubt in
the horses' minds as to the desires of their driver.
In an hour, foaming and panting, they were pulled up at the station.
Hitching was really an unnecessary precaution, for a rest was a thing to
be desired; but hitched they were, and Hartwell hurried into the dingy
office.
The operator was leaning back in his chair, his feet beside his clicking
instrument, a soothing pipe perfuming the atmosphere of placid dreams.
"I want to get off a message at once." Hartwell was standing before the
window.
The operator's placid dreams assumed an added charm by comparison with
the perturbed Hartwell.
"You're too late, governor." He slowly raised his eyes, letting them
rest on Hartwell.
"Too late!" Hartwell repeated, dazedly.
"Yep. At once ain't scheduled to make no stops." The operator resumed
his pipe and his dreams.
"I've no time to waste," Hartwell snapped, impatiently.
"Even so," drawled the man; "but you didn't give me no time at all. I
don't mind a fair handicap; but I ain't no jay."
"Will you give me a blank?"
"Oh, now you're talking U. S. all right. I savvy that." Without rising,
he pushed a packet of blanks toward the window with his foot.
Hartwell wrote hurriedly for a moment, and shoved the message toward the
operator. Taking his feet from the desk, he leaned slowly forward,
picked up a pencil and began checking off the words.
John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado.
Do not send the men I asked for. Will explain by letter.
Arthur Hartwell.
"Things quieting down at the mine?" The operator paused, looking up at
Hartwell.
Hartwell could not restrain his impatience.
"I'm Mr. Hartwell, general manager of the Rainbow Company. Will you
attend to your business and leave my affairs alone?"
"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hartwell. My name is Jake Studley, agent for
R. G. S. I get fifty dollars a month, and don't give a damn for no one."
He began clearing the papers from before his instrument and drumming out
his call.
The call was answered and the message sent. The operator picked up the
paper and thrust it on a file.
Hartwell's face showed conflicting emotions. He wanted to force the
exasperating man to action; but his own case was urgent. He drew from
his pocket a roll of bills. Selecting a ten-dollar note, he pushed it
toward the operator, who was refilling his pipe.
"I want that message to get to Haskins immediately, and I want an
answer."
The operator shoved the bill into his pocket with one hand, with the
other he began another call. There was a pause, then a series of clicks
which were cut off and another message sent. The man closed his
instrument and winked knowingly at Hartwell.
"I squirted a little electricity down the line on my own account. Told
them the G. M. was in and ordered that message humped. 'Tain't up to me
to explain what G. M. is here."
Hartwell went out on the platform and paced restlessly up and down. In
about an hour he again approached the window.
"How long before I can expect an answer?"
"I can't tell. It depends on their finding your man. They'll get a
wiggle on 'em, all right. I'll stir them up again before long.
Jehosaphat! There's my call now!" He hurriedly answered, then read, word
by word, the message as it was clicked off.
Arthur Hartwell, Rainbow, Colorado.
Message received. Too late. Men left on special last night.
John Haskins.
Hartwell caught up another blank.
John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado.
Recall the men without fail. I'll make it worth your while.
Arthur Hartwell.
There was another weary wait. Finally the operator came from his office.
"Sorry, Mr. Hartwell, but Leadville says Haskins left on train after
sending first despatch. Says he had a ticket for Salt Lake."
"When will that special be here?" Hartwell's voice was husky in spite of
himself.
"Ought to be here about six. It's three now."
"Is there no way to stop it?"
"Not now. Haskins chartered it. He's the only one that can call it off,
and he's gone."
Hartwell's face was pale and haggard. He again began pacing up and down,
trying in vain to find a way of doing the impossible. The fact that he
had temporised, resolutely set his face against the manly thing to do,
only to find the same alternative facing him at every turn, more ominous
and harder than ever, taught him nothing. The operator watched him as he
repeatedly passed. His self-asserting independence had gone, in its
place was growing a homely sympathy for the troubled man. As Hartwell
passed him again he called out:
"Say, governor, I know something about that business at the mine, and
'tain't up to you to worry. Your old man up there is a corker. They're
on to him all right. He'll just take one fall out of that crowd that'll
do them for keeps."
Hartwell paused, looking distantly at the speaker. He was not actively
conscious of him, hardly of his words. The operator, not understanding,
went on with more assurance.
"I know Jack Haskins. This ain't the first time he's been called on to
help out in this kind of a racket, you bet! He's shipped you a gang that
'ud rather fight than eat. All you've got to do is to say 'sick 'em' and
then lay back and see the fur fly."
Hartwell turned away without a word and went to his rig. He got in and
drove straight for the mill. His mind was again made up. This time it
was made up aright. Only--circumstances did not allow it to avail.
As he drove away he did not notice a man in miner's garb who looked at
him sharply and resumed his way. The operator was still on the platform
as the man came to a halt. He was deriving great satisfaction from the
crackling new bill which he was caressing in his pocket. The new bill
would soon have had a companion, had he kept quiet, but this he could
not know.
Glancing at the miner, he remarked, benevolently:
"Smelling trouble, and pulling out, eh?"
"What do you mean?" The new-comer looked up stupidly.
"Just this. I reckon you've run up against Jack Haskins's gang before,
and ain't hankering for a second round."
"Jack Haskins's gang comin'?" There was an eagerness in the man's manner
which the operator misunderstood.
"That's what, and a hundred strong."
The man turned.
"Thanks, pard. Guess I'll go back and tell the boys. Perhaps they'd like
a chance to git, too; then again they mightn't." Tipping a knowing wink
at the open-mouthed operator, he turned on his heel and walked briskly
away. He too was headed for the mill.
The operator's jaw worked spasmodically for a moment.
"Hen's feathers and skunk oil! If he ain't a spy, I'll eat him. Oh,
Lord! Old Firmstone and Jack Haskins's gang lined up against the Blue
Goose crowd! Jake, my boy, listen to me. You can get another job if you
lose this; but to-morrow you are going to see the sight of your life."