Tommy Garton spoke swiftly, clearly, concisely, explaining those
essentials of the work in hand which Conniston must grasp at the
beginning. Filled with an ardor no whit less than Mr. Crawford's,
there seemed to be no single detail which he did not have at his
fingers' ends.
Taking from the drawer of his table a map which bore his own name in
the corner, he pointed out just where their source of water was, and
just how it was to be brought down from the mountains into the
"valley." He indicated where the work was being pushed now. He showed
where the big dam had already been thrown across a steep-walled, rocky
cañon; how, when the time came, a second dam (this purely a diversion
weir) was to be constructed across a neighboring cañon, higher up in
the mountains, deflecting the waters which poured down through it into
the lower dam, and from it turning them into the main canal at the
upper end of Rattlesnake Valley. He pointed out, five miles to the
north of these two big dams, the place where a third was to be flung
across yet another cañon, imprisoning a smaller creek and turning it
toward the southwest to join the overflow of the others in the main
canal. He ran over blue-print after blue-print, to show the type of
construction work being done. He explained where there was leveling
called for, where the canal must be turned aside.
"We'd bring her straight through, and d--n the little knolls," he
cried, banging his fist down upon his table in sudden vehemence, "but
there is a time-limit on this thing, Conniston. And we've got to get
water here, right here in Valley City, when the last day is up. Not
twenty-four hours late, either. No, not twenty-four minutes!"
He ran the back of his hand across his moist forehead, and sat staring
out of the window as though he had forgotten Conniston's presence.
"What sort of a time-limit? I thought that Mr. Crawford was alone in
this thing, that he had the rest of his lifetime to finish it in if he
wanted to take that long."
Garton snorted.
"He's got until just exactly twelve o'clock, noon, on the first day of
October. If he is five minutes late--yes, five minutes!--there'll be
men right here holding stop-watches on the thing like it was a
blooming foot-race!--he'll be busted, ruined, smashed, and the whole
project a miserable abortion!" He paused a moment, biting the end of
his pencil. And before he went on he had turned his eyes steadily upon
Conniston's face, studying him. "If you're going to work with us, to
get into it with your sleeves rolled up like Bat Truxton and Billy
there and me and a few others of us, you might as well know in the
beginning what's what in this scrap. For it is a scrap--the biggest
scrap you ever saw, a fight to the finish, with one man lined up
against--do you have any idea what John Crawford is bucking?"
Conniston shook his head. "I know virtually nothing of this thing,
Garton."
"Well, I'll tell you. Single-handed that man is fighting the desert!
And he'd beat it back, too, and conquer it and muzzle it and make it
eat out of his hand if they'd only let him alone. But they won't, the
cold-blooded highway robbers! He's got them to fight with his left
hand while he hammers away at the face of the desert with his right!
Who are 'they'? 'They' are a syndicate; organized capital. 'They'
spell many millions of dollars ready to be spent to defeat John
Crawford."
He stopped suddenly, frowning and gnawing at his pencil. Conniston was
about to ask a question when Garton went on rapidly, such hot
indignation in his tones that Billy Jordan dropped his hands from the
keys of his machine to listen to what he had heard many a time before.
"You know already how Mr. Crawford built the town which is named after
him? He made that town just as a man takes clay into his hands and
makes a modeled figure out of it. And when the job was done he went to
the Pacific Central & Western and showed them why it would pay them to
build a narrow-gage railroad from Bolton, on the other side of the
ridge, thirty miles through mountainous country. He had that planned
out long before the first shack was put up in Crawfordsville. And he
knew what he was doing. The P. C. & W. built the road and have run an
accommodation train back and forth daily ever since. And they have
made money at it hauling freight, merchandise from the main line,
building-material, farming implements--everything which had to go into
Crawfordsville; hauling farm produce from the new settlement back into
Bolton.
"Because he had shown the P. C. & W. that the thing could be done on a
paying basis, because it _was_ done and did pay, the P. C. & W.
listened to him when he made a second proposition to them. He went
straight to Colton Gray, and Colton Gray listened to him. What Gray
advises, the P. C. & W. does. In the end, after many interviews and
much investigation and discussion, Crawford made Gray see the matter
the way he saw it. The P. C. &. W. contracted to begin work on a line
from Crawfordsville to Valley City and on across the desert to the
main transcontinental railroad at Indian Creek the day that sufficient
water to irrigate fifty square miles of land had been brought into
this part of the 'valley.' It was agreed by both contracting parties
that the water was to be brought to this spot by noon of October
first, or all contracts became null and void.
"The day that Gray agreed for the P. C. & W. Mr. Crawford put men to
work on the first preliminary survey. He had already the necessary
water concessions. He had studied his ground, made his plans with a
carefulness which overlooked nothing which a man could foresee, and
had every reason to believe, to be positive, that he could have all
the water he wanted in the valley a whole month before the first of
October.
"And I tell you he could have done it if they had just let him alone!
But they wouldn't. Within thirty days after the first shovelful of
earth was turned there was a strong organization perfected to defeat
him. Why? In the first place there is a certain bloated toad in our
local puddle named Oliver Swinnerton who has his hatchet out on
general principles for the Old Man. In the town of Bolton he's the
mayor and the chief of police and the board of city fathers and the
municipal janitor all rolled into one pompous, pot-bellied little
body. He's got money and he's got brains. No sooner does word get
about of the Old Man's contract with the P. C. & W. than Oliver
Swinnerton gets busy. He went straight to Colton Gray, and at first he
could do nothing with him. Gray had taken time for his investigations
of Mr. Crawford's scheme, had been convinced that it was feasible, and
now stood pat. But Swinnerton with his counter-scheme interested a lot
of other capital, and through some of the men he got in with him he
got the ear of some of the higher-ups on the P. C. & W. He even got
his scheme into the private office of the president, and from the
president word ran down to Gray. I think even Gray began then to get
shaky in the knees. I tell you, Conniston, the Old Man's project is so
big that until it is consummated there will always be a doubt in other
men's minds whether the thing ever can be done. If it can't, if it
proves impracticable to irrigate this country, to build first Valley
City and then a string of settlements across the desert, why then of
course there would be nothing in it for the P. C. & W. to run a spur
across to Indian Creek.
"And Oliver Swinnerton made it his business to show the management of
the railroad that the thing was impossible, that it was a mad fool's
dream, that when the first day of October came there would be nothing
accomplished because there never could be anything accomplished. He
scored his point, and then he played his trump card. He showed that
the same money which the railroad would have to spend in stringing
rails across the sand here could be spent more advantageously in
another direction.
"On the other side of Bolton there are grassy foothills, well watered--a
big stretch of country very much like that about Crawfordsville.
Already there are orchards there, considerable small farming,
grain-raising and hay. Swinnerton planned to build a town out there in
the heart of that fertile country where there are now a number of
settlements and to have the P. C. & W. run a seventy-five-mile spur out
that way. The management naturally will not stand for the expense of
both roads at the same time, since both would be very largely in the
nature of experiments. Swinnerton's scheme looked more promising than
the Old Man's. Swinnerton got his contract with the railroad. And that
contract says that if on the first day of October Mr. Crawford has not
made good he will be given not a day's grace, but work will be begun on
the other road into Swinnerton's country. Do you see now what I mean by
opposition? Do you see what will happen if we don't come up to time on
our end of the game? Swinnerton is so confident that he holds the
winning hand that he has already founded his town, already sunk a pile
of money in it. Somebody is going to go to the wall when the first day
of October comes."
"But," demurred Conniston, "Swinnerton and his corporation are doing
nothing actively to retard our work--can do nothing. If--"
"He isn't?" snorted Garton. "That's all you know about it! How do we
get all of our implements, our supplies, all of our men? They come to
us by rail, don't they? And that means they come to us over the P. C.
& W., doesn't it? And the P. C. & W. is scared out of its life,
praying every day to its little gods for Crawford's failure. What
happens? We get delayed shipments, we wait for our stuff, and it lies
sidetracked somewhere; we get our men stolen from us before they ever
get to Bolton, and shunted off to work for the opposition! There are
a hundred ways in which Swinnerton and the bigger men in with him can
slip their knife into us every day of the week. And they are not
missing very many bets, either. Oh, Gray's all right; he's square
enough and willing enough to stand by his word. But he can't do
everything. It takes time to get matters up to him, and it takes time
for him to adjust them. And right now he's in San Francisco attending
a railroad conference, and he'll be there fifteen days, I suppose.
What sort of service do you suppose we get in the mean time? You get
that idea out of your head that Swinnerton isn't doing anything
actively to retard us. He's doing everything he can think of, and I
told you at the jump that the man has brains."
As well as a man could understand it without actually going over the
ground, Conniston learned that afternoon all that Bat Truxton's
assistant could tell him. He learned, roughly, of course, how much had
been done already, what remained to be done first, what could be
allowed to wait until more men came to swell the forces now at work,
what chief natural difficulties and obstacles lay across the path of
the great venture.
Little Tommy Garton's enthusiasm was so keen a thing, so spontaneous,
so whole-souled, that long before time came for the noon meal
Conniston felt his own blood pounding and clamoring for action.
Swiftly he was granted the first true glimpse which had ever come to
him of the real nature of work. Such work as he was now about to
engage in was so infused with the elements of hazard, of risk, of
uncertainty, of opposition, that it was shot through with a deep,
stern fascination. It was not drudgery, and almost until now he had
looked upon all work as that. It was a great game, the greatest game
in the world. He already began to look forward to to-morrow, when he
was to leave the office and go out upon the field of action with Bat
Truxton with an eagerness such as he had felt in the old college days
on the eve of the big Thanksgiving football game. Something of the
spirit which had made old William Conniston the dynamic, forceful man
of business which he had always been, and which had never before
manifested itself in old Conniston's son, suddenly awoke and shook
itself, active, eager, the fighting spirit of a fighting man.
At noon Billy Jordan pushed back his chair and got to his feet,
stretching his arms high over his head.
"Time to eat," he said, picking up his hat. "Coming, Mr. Conniston?"
"And you?" Conniston asked of Garton.
"Oh, me!" laughed Garton. "I don't travel that far. Not until my new
legs come. I had trouble with 'em," he explained. "Had to send 'em
back to Chicago. I'm hoping," with a whimsical smile, "that they don't
get sidetracked with the rest of our stuff on the P. C. & W. Go with
Billy, Conniston. He'll show you where to eat."
He whirled about on his stool, squirmed suddenly over on his stomach,
and lowered himself to the floor. Swinging the leathern-capped stumps
of his legs between his hands, which he placed palm down on the floor,
as a man may swing his body between crutches, he moved with short,
quick jerks into the room where the two cots were. Conniston turned
away abruptly.
With Billy Jordan he went nearly to the end of the short street before
they came to a rude lunch-counter, set under a canvas awning, where a
thin, nervous little man and his fat, stolid wife set canned goods and
coffee before them. Billy produced a yellow ticket to be punched,
Conniston paid his two bits, and they strolled back to the office.
When Conniston suggested that they take something to Garton, Billy
told him that a boy took him his meals.
There was so much to be got over that day, Conniston was so eager to
learn what details he could, Tommy Garton so eager to impart them,
that it was scarcely half-past twelve when the two men were back at
the long table going over maps and blue-prints. There were no
interruptions. An imprisoned house-fly buzzed monotonously and
sullenly against a pane of glass, his drone fitting into the heavy
silence on the face of the hot desert so that it became a part of it.
At four o'clock a handful of ragged children, barefooted, bronzed of
legs and hands and faces, scampered by on their noisy way home from
school. A pretty young woman in neat walking-habit and big white straw
hat followed the children, smiling in through the open door at Garton,
noting Conniston with a flash of big brown eyes and quickly dropping
lids. Billy, in seeming carelessness, had wandered to the door when
the children passed, and stepped outside, chatting with her for five
or ten minutes.
"Miss Jocelyn," Garton told him. "Bat Truxton's daughter, and the
village schoolmistress. Billy thinks he's rather hard hit, I fancy."
"I've heard of her," Conniston replied, frowning at the map he was
holding flat on the table. "Dam Number Two is the one which is
completed, isn't it? And Number Three is the smaller auxiliary dam?
How about Number One, which seems to be the most important of the
lot? When do we go to work on that?"
Garton chuckled. "You're going to be as bad as I am, Conniston! Can't
even stop to look at a pretty girl? The Lord knows they're scarce
enough out here, too. Yes, Dam Number One is the important one of the
lot. It will be the biggest, the hardest, and most expensive to build,
and it will control the water-supply which is going to save our
bacon."
Whereupon he, too, forgot Miss Jocelyn and Billy, and launched into
further explanation. At six o'clock Billy Jordan covered his
typewriter and put on his coat and hat. He came over to the table and
leaned his elbow on it, waiting for Garton to finish something that he
was saying.
"I'm going around to Truxton's a little while this evening," he said,
trying to speak as a man of the world should, but flushing up under
Garton's twinkling eyes. "If you find time dragging on your hands you
might come along, Mr. Conniston. Miss Jocelyn"--he hesitated a
moment--"Miss Jocelyn said I might bring you around."
Conniston thanked him and asked him to thank Miss Jocelyn, but assured
him that instead of having time lagging for him he had more to do than
he could manage. So Billy went on his way alone. Nor did he seem
disappointed at Conniston's refusal to accompany him. It was only when
it began to grow dusk and the boy brought Garton's supper that
Conniston got up and went down the street to his own solitary evening
meal at the lunch-counter.
It was after nine o'clock, and Conniston was lying on his cot in the
little rear room of the office-building listening to Tommy Garton talk
about reclamation--it seemed the only thing in the world he cared to
talk about during working-hours or after--when the outside door was
flung open and a man's heavy tread came through the office and to
their sleeping-room.
"That'll be Truxton," Garton said. "Wants to see you, I guess."
The heavy tread came on through the office, and the door to Garton's
room was flung open with as little ceremony as the front door had
been. In the light of a kerosene-lamp upon the chair near his cot
Conniston saw a short, squat, heavy-set man of perhaps forty-five,
very broad across the forehead, very salient-jawed, his mustache
short-cropped and grizzled, his mouth large and firm-lipped, his eyes
steady and keen as they turned swiftly upon Conniston from under
shaggy, tangled, iron-gray brows. The man had nodded curtly toward
Tommy Garton, and then stood still in the doorway regarding young
Conniston intently.
"You're Conniston."
It was a positive statement rather than a question, but Conniston
answered as he sat up on the edge of his cot:
"Yes. I'm Conniston."
"All right." Truxton removed the lamp from the one chair in the room,
placed it upon the window-sill, and sat down, pulling the chair around
so that he faced Conniston. "You're goin' to work with me in the
mornin'. Now, what do you know?"
His manner was abrupt, his voice curt. Conniston felt a trifle ill at
ease under the man's piercing gaze, which seemed to be measuring him.
"Not a great deal, I'm afraid. You see, I--"
"I thought you were an engineer?"
"I am--after a fashion. Graduate of Yale--"
"Ever had any actual, practical experience?"
"Only field work in college."
"Ever had any experience handlin' men? Ever bossed a gang of men?"
"No."
"Ever do any kind of construction work?"
"In college--"
"Forget what you did with a four-eyed professor standin' over you!
Ever build a bridge or a grade or a dam or a railroad?"
"No." Conniston answered shortly, half angrily.
"Then," grunted Truxton, plainly disgusted, "I'd like to know what the
Old Man meant by sendin' you over here! I can't be bothered teachin'
college boys how to do things. What I need an' need bad is an engineer
that can do his part of the day's work."
"Look here!" cried Conniston, hotly. "We all have to begin some time,
don't we? You had your first job, didn't you? And I'll bet you didn't
fall down on it, either! It's up to you. If you think I'm no good, all
right. If you give me my work to do I'll do it."
"It _ain't_ up to me. The Old Man sent you over. You go to work in the
mornin'. If I was doin' it I wouldn't put you on. I don't say you
won't make good--I'm just sayin' I wouldn't take the chance. I'll stop
here for you at four o'clock in the mornin'." He swung about from
Conniston and toward Garton. "How're they comin', Tommy?"
All of the curt brusqueness was gone from his tone, the keen, cold,
measuring calculation from his eye. With the compelling force of the
man's blunt nature the whole atmosphere of the room was altered.
"First rate, Bat," Tommy answered, cheerfully. "How's the work
going?"
"Good! The best day I've had in two weeks. We get to work on those
seven knolls to-morrow. You remember--Miss Argyl calls 'em Little
Rome."
"What have you decided? Going to make a detour, or--"
"Detour nothin'. I'm goin' right straight through 'em. It'll take
time, all right. But in the end we'll save. I'll cut through 'em in
four days or four an' a half."
"And then--it's Dam Number One?"
Truxton swore softly. "If I can get the men, it is! Swinnerton stole
my last gang--seventy-five of 'em. The blamed little porcupine offered
'em two bits more than we're payin' an' grabbed every one of 'em. The
Old Man has wired Denver for a hundred more muckers. Swinnerton can't
keep takin' men on all year. He's got more now than he knows what to
do with. I guess this gang 'll come on through. As soon as they come,
Tommy, I'll have that big dam growin' faster'n you ever saw a dam grow
before."
For half an hour the two men talked, and Conniston lay back listening.
In spite of Bat Truxton's sour acceptance of him, Conniston began to
feel a decided liking for the old engineer. After all, he told
himself, were he in Truxton's place he would have small liking for
putting a green man on the job. He realized that there was nothing
personal in Truxton's attitude toward him. Truxton was not looking for
a man, but for an efficient, reliable machine, one that had already
been tested and found to be strong, trustworthy, infallible.
Again the question had been put to him, "What have you done?" And it
was nobody's fault but his that he had done nothing.
"I wish you had two legs, Tommy," Truxton said, when at last he got up
and went to the door. "You an' me workin' together out there--well,
we'd make things jump, that's all."
Tommy laughed, but his sensitive mouth twitched as though with a sharp
physical pain.
"Oh, I'm doing all right inside," he answered, quietly. "Somebody's
got to attend to this end of the game. And Conniston will be on to the
ropes in a few days. He'll help you make things jump."
Truxton made no answer. For a moment he stood frowning at the floor.
Then he turned once more to Conniston for a short, intent scrutiny.
"You have your blankets ready, Conniston," he said, shortly. "You'll
sleep on a sand-pile to-morrow night."
And he went out, slamming the door behind him.