For four days the bitter cold and fierce wind held the camps in
thrall, then the latter blew itself out. The cold, however, still
endured though the sun shone. When one looked forth from camp, all
that could be seen was a snowbound earth; mesa and mountains were as
white and silent as some polar region; nothing moved; nothing seemed
to live out yonder. It was like a dazzling, frigid, extinct world.
The main mesa road was blocked and telephone wires were down. What
went on outside the limits of the camp's snow-drifted horizon its
dwellers knew not--nor for the moment cared. Work was the only
thought. With hastily constructed snow-plows roads had been broken
among the tents and shacks as soon as the weather allowed, and
afterward broad paths made to the working ground. The section of undug
canal was now scraped bare. There, sheltered by tents and warmed by
sagebrush fires, men bored in the iron-like earth powder-holes in rows
that exactly aligned the canal. On the morning of the fifth day a
first stretch of fifty yards was blown out, whereupon teams and
scrapers were rushed into the ragged cavity to deepen and clear the
ditch before the soil froze anew. This was at the north end. In the
afternoon one hundred yards at the south end went up in a blast and
crews from the main camp fell upon this area.
That night the sky clouded over again. All the next day snow came down
steadily. The workmen played cards in the mess tents and waited.
Carrigan busied himself at accounts and waited. Bryant waited, with
impatience and anxiety gnawing at his heart. There were six hundred
yards and more unexcavated, and but three days of his time remained.
The snow ceased at nightfall and work was instantly resumed by aid of
the torches; again the desperate scraping of snow, bundled men at
fires and sheltered by windbreaks, the drilling of holes in the frozen
ground, the reliefs every two hours, the thawing of nipped fingers and
toes and noses. All night hot food and boiling coffee were served at
intervals to the cold and hungry labourers. At nine o'clock next
morning two hundred yards of dirt went spraying into the air, with the
subsequent struggle in the long hole: fresnos bearing forth what earth
was loose and what the plows broke out; the horses, blinded by the
glare of snow, staggering forward under curse and lash; the men
toiling in a sort of grim fury. A maximum of effort finished one
hundred and fifty yards more by eleven o'clock. Carrigan ordered all
work to stop until nine next morning.
"The men are 'all in'," he told Lee. "We'll crack this last nut
to-morrow."
"But what if it sets in to snow? More than two hundred and fifty yards
left to do, and only to-morrow and the day after to work."
"We'll have to risk it."
"Will your powder hold out?"
"Yes." He regarded Bryant keenly. "Say, what you need isn't
information but sleep. You worked all day yesterday, and all last
night, and to-day again, and here it is going on midnight. I'm going
to tell you the schedule for to-morrow to calm your mind, then you
roll into your blankets. At nine o'clock in the morning all hands
except the cooks go at the drills and stay by them till the stretch is
holed. Whenever that's done, which should be about evening, we shoot
the chunk. And after that we hit the bottom with every scraper and
fresno and horse and man, with the cooks fighting the coffee-boilers,
and never come out of the ditch till the last lump of dirt is moved.
That's the programme. I figure it will be about midnight when the last
card's turned, maybe an hour or so after. I promised the men double
wages and a box of cigars apiece out of the store and a few other
things perhaps--I don't remember. So you get your sleep, for there's a
big day ahead to-morrow. That dirt all goes out before you'll have
another chance to hit the hay."
Bryant arose next morning at seven. The sky was overcast and the
thermometer was sixteen below zero when he examined it. Across the
snow he could see the north camp stirring to life, awakening in the
frosty, pallid light of dawn. Stretching thither ran uneven snowy
ridges, save at one place where they lay bare and brown--the banks of
the canal. When the small interval still undug was moved, the ditch
would be finished from river to ranch, from the Pinas down to Perro.
And this was to be the last day of toil! To-day the camps were to hurl
themselves at that short remaining strip of earth and tear it out; the
furrow so long pressed ahead through the iron ground was to be brought
to an end; the enemy, frost, was to be conquered at last. When he
thought of the inexorable labour done under heart-breaking conditions,
in spite of cold and wind and snow, and with sufferings and
deprivations little considered. Bryant felt for the workmen, rough
though they were, a strong affection. They had done the bitter work.
"Out goes the chunk to-day," was Pat's greeting that morning.
A spirit of eagerness, almost of enthusiasm, pervaded the crews that
first went forth in the cold to work at the drills. It was the final
attack, and they went from their steaming breakfast with jests and
laughter that rang back over the snow. Sixteen below zero, and they
laughed! Bryant had a sudden conviction that nothing could stop such
men--neither weather, nor elements, nor fate itself. They were heroes
not to be daunted. They swung the hammer of Thor against the earth and
were worthy of an epic.
Toward the middle of the afternoon of that day Carrigan said to the
engineer:
"We're making better time than I calculated. The holes will all be
drilled by five o'clock; we're loading them as they're done and we'll
shoot at five-thirty."
"What about supper?"
"Supper at five. Then the men will be back and ready to jump in the
ditch when the shot's fired."
"And be done twenty-four hours before the hour set by the Land and
Water Board," said Lee.
"That's cutting it fine enough as it is. Who's that waving yonder
toward camp?" And Carrigan pointed a mittened hand at a figure
swinging an arm and shouting Bryant's name.
The engineer stared for a time.
"Charlie Menocal," he said, finally. "Morgan--Morgan, come here!" he
called. And as Morgan came to join him, Lee addressed Pat, "I'll just
run over to Bartolo with this young scoundrel. The road's open and
I'll be back by dark. Want Morgan to come along to look after him and
Alvarez, the man you caught."
"Better start back in plenty of time. The sky's thickening again. More
snow in sight, Lee."
"I shall."
"You might invite old man Menocal to return with you," Pat remarked,
with a grin, "and see us put the kibosh on his dream of owning the
Pinas River. What are you going to do with this boy of his? Send him
over the road?"
"I haven't decided yet."
"That's where he ought to go, after trying to burn us out the night of
the blizzard." He turned away to the work.
"You're not to let this fellow over there waiting for us get away,
Morgan," Lee stated.
"I'll freeze on to him."
They went along the snowy path toward camp, coming up with Menocal,
who waited until they arrived and then accompanied them toward
Bryant's office.
"Have a letter for you from Ruth," he said. "Had a terrible time
getting up from Kennard. Road isn't half opened, but I found a man to
drive me home. Promised Ruth to deliver this to you."
He drew the letter from an inner pocket and handed it to the
engineer, who glanced at the writing on the envelope, his own name,
and shoved the epistle into his glove. When they gained camp, Lee
said:
"Morgan and I are going to Bartolo with you, and also a friend of
yours called Alvarez. We nabbed him as he was trying to burn our camp
about two hours before the blizzard. Take this man to headquarters,
Morgan, and keep him till I come over."
Menocal's face became livid with anger and alarm.
"Let me go, damn you!" he shouted, shrilly.
Bryant waved a hand towards the engineers' shack and thither Charlie
was propelled, cursing and struggling, in Morgan's firm grasp.
Entering his office, Lee closed the door, walked to the stove, and
standing there produced the letter. It was the first and only missive
he had ever received from Ruth. He gazed at the envelope and the
scrawled writing on it with an impression of strangeness, but this
gave way to a curiosity as to the contents. He had a strong suspicion
of the letter's purport. Ruth would have reviewed her conduct that
night at Sarita Creek, and, with her instinctive cunning, perceived it
would alienate Lee. The message doubtless carried an adroit
explanation and excuse, ending up with numerous declarations of her
affection and hypocritical assertions of her anxiety on his account.
Disgust overwhelmed him. He was minded to cast the thing into the
stove unread. At last, however, muttering to himself, he thrust a
forefinger under the flap and ripped the envelope open. A newspaper
clipping that had been enclosed in the letter dropped to the floor. He
read:
DEAR LEE:
After thinking the matter over very carefully, I've decided to
release you from our engagement. If this pains you, as I fear
it will, I'm extremely sorry, but I've discovered that we're
not temperamentally suited to each other. You've failed,
besides, so I understand, which further convinces me of that.
And in addition, I've learned of late that I love another, who
loves me. Therefore it's much better that I take this step,
much better and much wiser--don't you think so? However, Lee,
I shall always be your friend.
It may interest you to know that this evening Mr. Gretzinger
and I are to be married. Privately, with only a few close
friends. We depart immediately after the ceremony for New
York. Mr. Menocal is to pack my things at Sarita Creek, so you
need not bother about them. I understand Imogene is visiting
at the Graham ranch; I'm dropping her a note there telling her
the news.
With best wishes,
RUTH.
Bryant lifted from the floor and read the clipping. It was a short
announcement, evidently from a Kennard paper, of the prospective
wedding that night of Miss Ruth Gardner, of Sarita Creek, and Mr. J.
Senton Gretzinger, of New York.
When he had read this, Lee gently tilted and shook the envelope. But
no diamond solitaire dropped out.