Three days passed, four, a week, and still no word came of the men for
whom the "Old Man" had wired to Denver. Conniston had nearly forgotten
them. His day was from daylight until dark, often until long after
dark. Upon more than one evening, after the men had had their suppers
and crawled into their blankets, he and Truxton had sat in the tent at
the cook's rude table, a lantern between them, figuring and planning
upon the next day.
He began to notice a vague change in the older engineer as the days
went by. At first he was hardly conscious of it, at a loss to
catalogue it. But before the middle of the week he realized that each
evening found Truxton more irritable, more prone to explode into quick
rage over some trifle. The man's eyes began to show the restless fever
within him, and some sort of an unsleeping, nervous anxiety.
Throughout the days the men stood clear of him. His flaming wrath
burst out at a blundering mistake or at a man's failure to follow to
the last letter some short-spoken instructions. It was only one night
when Conniston made careless mention of Oliver Swinnerton, and Truxton
flew into a towering, cursing rage, that he began to believe that he
saw the real reason for Truxton's growing ill temper.
"The thievin', mangy, pot-bellied porcupine!" Truxton had shouted,
banging his fist down upon the cook's table so hard that the lantern
jumped two inches in the air. "I'll just naturally rid the earth of
him one of these days. Those men ought to have arrived from Denver
three days ago. How am I ever goin' to get anything done, an' no men
to work for me? With Colton Gray gone an' the rest of the P. C. & W.
thieves playin' into that scoundrel Swinnerton's hands, where do we
get off? We send for a hundred men, an' it saves Swinnerton the
trouble an' expense of a wire. By now every man jack of them is makin'
fences an' buildin' houses for him, or I'm the worst-fooled man in the
country." And he swung off into a string of curses which would not
have been unworthy of Ben the Englishman.
One afternoon when they had run the ditch through the Seven Knolls and
were cutting rapidly through a level stretch with a double line of
smaller hills a mile ahead of the foremost team, Truxton came striding
along the ditch to where Conniston was standing.
"Think you can handle all four gangs without me for the rest of the
afternoon?" he asked, as he came to Conniston's side.
"Yes," answered Conniston. "I can handle them."
Truxton laughed softly.
"You're comin' ahead, youngster. Wouldn't have wanted the job a week
ago, would you? I believe you could handle 'em, too. But I'll do it
this trip. I want you to go to the office for me. See Tommy and run
over these figures with him. I told you last night that I was sure of
'em. To-day I'm gettin' balled up. Tell him that I'm puttin' a gang on
that double line of hills first thing in the mornin'. Run over the
thing with him and verify our figures. If there's anything left of the
afternoon when you get through you can take it off an' see the sights
in Valley City. Find out how they're fixed for water an' grub an'
wood. Tommy's got all that dope at the tip of his tongue. An' be back
here the first thing in the mornin'."
He went back to his work, and Conniston hurried away, decidedly glad
for the change of work. Just to grip his horse between his knees, to
swing out alone across the rolling fields, to drink deep of the
untroubled stillness of the wide places, to be an independent, swiftly
moving figure with nothing to break the silent harmony of the still,
hot sky above and the still, hot sands beneath--a harmony which the
soul leaped out to meet--brought a quiet, peaceful content. The day
was serene and perfect, like yesterday and to-morrow in this land of
dreary barrenness and of infinite possibility; the faint blue of the
cloudless sky met the gray monotone of the earth between two mounds in
front of him; and as his horse's hoofs fell noiselessly, as though
upon padded felt, his sensation was that of drifting across the wide
sweep of a gently swelling ocean toward a landlocked sea of pale
turquoise.
It was shortly after four o'clock when he rode into Valley City. He
passed the one-room school-house, with its distinctive little belfry
and flag-pole, and a glance in at the open windows told him that the
children had been dismissed. At the corner of the building he came
suddenly upon a saddled horse biting and stamping at the flies which
defied swishing tail and savage teeth. Half smiling, he stopped. He
had recognized the horse as a Half Moon animal, one he had ridden
several times, and thought that he could guess who was inside paying
his respects to the schoolmistress. Even as he paused Jocelyn Truxton
came out, opening her white parasol. And in all the holiday regalia of
shaggy black chaps, bright-blue neck-handkerchief, and new Stetson
hat, Lonesome Pete followed her.
Pete, as he emerged from behind the parasol, saw Conniston and called
a hearty "Hello, Con!" to him. And Conniston turned his horse and rode
back to the front steps.
"Miss Jocelyn says as how she ain't been interdooced," Lonesome Pete
was saying, his hat turning nervously in his hands, his face flushing
as he met Conniston's eyes. "Shake han's with Mr. Conniston, Miss
Jocelyn."
Miss Jocelyn lifted her dropped eyelids with a quick flutter, favored
Conniston with a flashing smile, banished her smile to replace it with
a pouting of pursed lips, and said, archly:
"I have half a mind _not_ to shake hands with Mr. Conniston! If he had
wanted to meet me he would have come with Billy Jordan the other
night."
But, none the less, she finished by putting out a small, gloved hand,
and Conniston, leaning from the saddle, took it in his.
"I was sorry, Miss Truxton," he said, lightly. "Didn't Jordan tell
you? Garton and I had a lot to do that night, and worked late. It was
very kind of you to say that I might come."
"If you had wanted to come _very_ much--" she said, shaking her head
saucily. "_You_ would have found time to come, wouldn't you, Pete?"
Lonesome Pete, his spurred boots shifting uneasily, put on his hat,
noticed immediately that Conniston still held his in his hand,
snatched it off again, spun it about upon a big forefinger, and
grinned redly.
"I sure would, Miss Jocelyn," he declared with great emphasis.
Miss Jocelyn turned back to lock the school-house door, and then came
down the steps and into the road.
"I'll go git my hoss an' walk along," Lonesome Pete said, and hurried
around to the back of the house.
"Are you going my way, Mr. Conniston?"
Conniston said that he was, and swung down, walking at her side and
leading his horse.
"If you really _do_ care to come to see me," Jocelyn said, quickly,
before the cowboy had rejoined them, "you may call this evening."
Conniston thanked her, and, not to seem rude, said that he would drop
in after he and Tommy Garton had finished their work. Jocelyn smiled
at him brightly.
"You may come early, if you like. I am sure that you will have a whole
lot of things to tell me about the progress you and papa are making
with the ditch. I'm _so_ interested in the work, Mr. Conniston."
Pete had taken up his horse's dragging reins and led him into the
street. Jocelyn, her chin a trifle lifted, her air more than a trifle
coquettish as she smiled at Conniston, pretended not to see her
red-headed adorer. Walking between the two men, she even tilted her
parasol so that it did no slightest good in the world in the matter of
protecting her from the sun, but served very effectively in shutting
out Lonesome Pete. Conniston laughed and talked lightly with her,
vastly amused at the situation and the discomfiture upon her ardent
lover's expressive face. And so, with Pete trudging along in silence,
unnoticed, they came to the office and stopped, Jocelyn and Conniston
still talking to each other, Lonesome Pete tying and untying knots in
his bridle-reins.
"Can't you give up enough of your precious time to walk on home with
me? I have some icy cold lemonade waiting for me," she tempted.
"I'm sorry. I'd like to, but I've got a lot of work to get over with
Garton--"
Only three or four doors from the office was the little cottage which
he had helped Argyl to prepare for her father. Even while he was
making his excuses he saw the door open, and Argyl herself, lithe and
trim in her gray riding-habit, step out upon the tiny porch.
"I beg pardon," he broke off, suddenly. "I--Will you excuse me?"
And, jerking his horse's reins so that the animal started up after him
at a trot, he strode down the street, his hat off, his face lifted
eagerly to Argyl's. A moment later he was holding her hand in his,
oblivious of Jocelyn, Pete, Valley City, everything in the world
except the girl with the big gray eyes, the girl whom he had seen
through his shifting day-dreams.
When the cowboy and the schoolmistress passed him Lonesome Pete was
talking once more and she was being very gracious to him, but
Conniston had no eye for such trifles. Jocelyn nodded a bit stiffly to
Argyl, and, smiling at Conniston, cried gaily, "You won't forget, Mr.
Conniston!"
But he had already forgotten. He had not hoped to see Argyl for many
days yet, perhaps many weeks, and the unexpected sight of her thrilled
through him, driving all thoughts of Jocelyn out of his mind. And when
in a few minutes he was forced to remember that he had business with
Garton he left reluctantly and with a promise to have dinner at six
o'clock with her and her father.
Tommy Garton he found as cheerful as a cricket and heartily glad to
see him. Billy Jordan had looked out as Jocelyn and her two escorts
came by, and now was back at his typewriter, pounding the keys for
dear life, the ticking and clicking of his machine keeping time to
"Yankee Doodle," which he was whistling softly. He, too, shook hands,
but his cheerfulness was of a grade noticeably inferior to Garton's.
And immediately he went back to his machine and his rhythmical
pounding.
Conniston was of a mind to get the business of the day done with
before six. The first part of his errand took up the greater part of
an hour. Then Garton reported upon the other matter which Truxton had
wanted ascertained. There was water enough to last four days.
Provisions were holding out well, but soon there would be a need for
fresh supplies of sugar, flour, and jerked beef. There was enough of
canned goods at the general store to last for a month, a fresh
shipment having been recently received--two big wagon-loads from
Crawfordsville.
"I expect Mr. Crawford to drop in on us some time before dark," Garton
said, as he put away carefully into a drawer the papers he had taken
from it during the consultation. "Miss Argyl is already here. Stopped
in a minute to let us know that the Old Man is coming."
"Yes, I know. I saw her a minute just before I came in."
They chatted for a while longer, until Conniston saw by his watch that
it was six o'clock. Then he got up and reached for his hat.
"You'll spend the night with me, Conniston," Tommy Garton offered.
"I've got plenty of bedding; a man doesn't suffer for covers these
nights. Drop in as soon as you and Billy get through supper. I think
that I can beat you a game of crib."
"Much obliged, Garton. But I may not run in for an hour or so. Miss
Crawford has asked me to eat with them to-night."
"Oh." There was a great lack of expression in Garton's monosyllable,
but as he swung about upon his stool, bending over the box of
cigarettes which he swept up, Conniston thought that he saw a little
twitch as of pain about the sensitive lips. Not understanding, feeling
at once that he would like to say something and not knowing what to
say, he went slowly to the door. As he was going out Garton called to
him, his voice and face alike as cheerful as they had been throughout
the afternoon.
"I say, Conniston. Remember me to Miss Argyl, will you? She's a
glorious girl. I never saw her match. She's got the same capability
for doing big things that her father has. I said the other day that he
was the whole brain and brawn of this war for reclamation. I ought to
have been kicked. Do you know that the whole project, from its
inception, has been as much hers as his? Why, that girl has ridden
over every foot of this valley, knows it like a book. Dam Number
Three, that auxiliary dam, is her idea. And a rattling good idea, too.
The men call it 'Miss Argyl's Dam.' Better brush up on your
engineering before you talk reclamation with her, old man. She's read
all the books I've got. A glorious girl, Conniston."
Conniston came back into the room.
"See here, Garton," he said, gently. "Why don't you come along. She
told me that she wanted you, that she had asked you and--"
Garton waved an interrupting hand, smiling quickly. But Conniston saw
that his face looked tired.