At noon Mr. Crawford told the men gathered at the long tables that in
the future they were to look to Conniston for all orders, that he was
empowered to act as he saw fit in any crisis, that he would have
absolute command over every part of the reclamation work, here or
elsewhere. And then he gripped Conniston's hand warmly, gave him an
address in Denver where a telegram would find him, and drove away
toward Crawfordsville, promising to telephone to Brayley to report to
the Valley immediately.
Before he was out of sight the new superintendent called his four
overseers aside.
"What wages are you fellows drawing down?" he asked, bluntly.
"Three bones," the Lark told him.
"Now, look here. Do you fellows know that we have got to get this
whole job done by the first of October? That's a lot of work, and
maybe you boys know it. It is up to you four fellows as much as it is
up to anybody to see that the work is done. You've got to get every
inch done every day that you can. You've got to drive your men all
they'll stand for. You know what will happen if you make a mistake and
try to get too much out of them?"
"Dead easy, Mr. Conniston," grinned the Lark. "They'll quit. They say
there is lots of easy graft up in the mountains with a guy named
Swinnerton."
"Then," went on Conniston, quietly, "you've got to be careful not to
drive them too hard. Keep your men good-natured. If you see any signs
of balking let me know. I haven't any kick to make about the way you
have been working, but I want you to work harder! Get me? And I am
going to pay you four dollars a day instead of three. Wait. I am going
to make you another proposition: over and above your wages I'll pay
each man of you for every day between the day we get water on the land
and the first of October. And for that time I'll pay each man of you
at the rate of twenty dollars a day!"
"Gee!" exclaimed the Lark. "You ain't stringing us, are you?"
"No. Understand what I mean: in case we get the work done five days
before the first each man of you draws down one hundred dollars above
his wages. Drive your men as hard as you can; but don't forget what
will happen if you try to do too much. What wages are your men
getting?"
"Two dollars and a half."
"Go back and offer them two-seventy-five. And tell them that for every
day between the first of October and the day we get water on the land
each and every man of them will draw down an extra five dollars. Now
get to work. I want to see what you can get done by quitting-time."
That afternoon Conniston left everything in the hands of his foremen.
He did not once go to the ditch to see what they were doing. Instead
he took Truxton's note-book from the table in the tent--Truxton was
still in a deep stupor--and from one o'clock until dark worked over
it, seeking desperately to grasp every detail which he must know
later and to plan for the morrow and the morrows to come.
When he heard the men coming in from work he got his horse and saddled
it, and then waited for the foremen with their daily reports.
"I beat my record by twenty feet to-day," the Lark told him, with a
cheerful grin, as he handed Conniston a soiled bit of paper. "I'm hot
on the trail of my bonus, take it from me."
That evening Conniston spent with Tommy Garton. He did not even take
the time to call on Argyl. He told the little fellow what had
happened, received a hearty grip of the hand which meant more to him
than a wordy congratulation, laid what few plans he had had time to
outline before him, and asked his advice upon them.
"I want the plans and specifications for Dam Number One, Tommy."
Garton took them from a drawer and passed them across the table.
"I will look over them on the job to-morrow. And I want to know how
long you think it will take to get that dam built when once we get to
work on it?"
"I don't see how it can be done and done right," Garton answered,
promptly, "in much less than thirty days. You might be able to do a
temporary job of it--put in a bulwark that would do until we could get
water down here and live up to our contract--and then build the real
dam after the first of October. That might be done in less time."
"How big a shift of men were you planning on putting to work up
there?"
"Two hundred. You couldn't use more than that. There isn't room.
They'd get in one another's way."
Conniston sat frowning moodily, his fingers tapping the roll of
blue-prints in his hands.
"Isn't there any way," he asked suddenly, swinging upon Garton, "of
making a go of this without building that dam?"
"No, Greek, there isn't. You see, there isn't any too much water up in
the mountains at best. We have to get every drop that the law allows
us."
"Figure on it, Tommy. I want your chief work for the next few days to
be just figuring out where we can cut down, where we can save not only
money but men. It's men we need." He broke off suddenly and leaned
forward, putting his hand on Garton's arm. "Damn it, Tommy," he said,
huskily, "I want you to know that I don't enjoy giving you orders. I
want you to know that _I_ know you ought to be doing what I am doing
to-day. You are a better man than I am every day in the week, and I
know it. If it were not--"
"Oh, shut up, Greek!" laughed Garton, frankly. "You're an old liar,
and that's what I know! And," and his voice softened as he put out his
hand for a second time that night, "I love you for it. Now let's cut
out the slush and get to work."
"Then, since it's up to me, here goes: I want your advice at every
jump. I need it, Tommy, need it bad now, and the Lord knows how I'll
need it before the time is up! In about three or four days I'll come
to you or send for you. I don't know which it'll be. To-morrow morning
I am going up into the mountains. Brayley will be in camp some time
to-night. He'll take my place for a few days. No, he doesn't know a
thing about the work, but my foremen do, and Brayley knows men as you
know your multiplication-tables. And I will take a gang of fifty men
with me. I don't like to remove them from the ditch, but I've got to
get that dam started. I won't be able to sleep until I see that
country and get my hands on it. And, Tommy, one thing more: Mr.
Crawford tells me that there will be a telephone line into Valley City
from Crawfordsville within the week. He is to get five hundred men to
me as soon as he can rush them through. When they are within twelve
hours of us I want you to let Brayley know. That is, of course, in
case I am not back here. Brayley will then double his men's pay and
keep them at work all night. Then I'll send half of the new men--half
of five hundred, I hope--to Brayley, and he'll put on a day shift and
a night shift--with all the work they can stand up under. And I'll
have a day shift and a night shift slinging that dam across Deep
Creek. It's up there, Tommy, that I expect you'll have to help me
out."
"Anything I can do, Conniston. And I'll get busy first thing in the
morning along the line you suggest. And," he hesitated a moment, and
then finished, gravely, "I'm glad to see the way you're tying into
this. And, do you know, I'd bet a man every cent I've got that we put
the thing across!"
Conniston stood up, thrusting his papers into his pocket.
"If Truxton--" he began.
"Forget Truxton. He was all right and a mighty good man. One of the
best men I ever worked with. But," and his rare smile worked about the
corners of his sensitive mouth and lighted up his eyes warmly--"but I
have an idea that the man who made that end run for Yale back in the
old days is going to score a touchdown such as Bat Truxton would
never have thought of. Go to it, Conniston--only let me get into the
interference!"
Conniston's plans for the next day had been founded upon his assurance
that Brayley would arrive before morning. But Brayley did not come.
And even had he arrived on time Conniston would not have dared leave.
At first he had thought to remain overnight with Tommy Garton. Then,
remembering that he alone was responsible for the camp, he told Garton
good night and rode out into the desert. It was late when at last he
came to the tent and found his roll of blankets behind it. And ten
minutes later cares and responsibilities alike succumbed to bodily
fatigue, and he slept soundly.
It was long after midnight, perhaps three o'clock, and still very
dark, when he awoke. Two men off in the distance were talking. He paid
little attention to them, but rolled over and went to sleep again. And
even as consciousness slipped away from him he was vaguely aware that
more voices had joined the two which had awakened him. But he thought
only that some of the men were calling to one another from their
sleeping-places, and attached no further importance to the matter.
It was an hour or two later when he again awoke. There were already
faint streaks of dawn lying low, close to the face of the desert. His
first connected impression was that he had overslept and that the men
were already going to work. For he saw a long line, fifty men at the
least count, filing out toward the spot where the water-barrels stood
in the long-bodied wagons, while other crowds of men were grouped
about one of the wagons. And then suddenly he sat bolt upright,
strangely uneasy. It was still long before day--and something was
wrong.
He pulled on his boots and, without stopping to lace them, hurried
toward the wagons. And before he had gone twenty paces he knew what it
was that had happened. The men had been talking in hushed voices, so
as not to wake him; but, now that two or three made out who he was, a
shout rose sharply into the morning stillness, a shout at once of
warning and of derision. And it was clearly the shout of drunkenness.
It was taken up by fifty throats, a hundred throats, clamorous,
exultant, jeering.
As the men moved back and forth, many of them staggered perceptibly.
Conniston saw one of them pitch forward and lie helpless. A man passed
by him, swaying and lurching, and in the pale light there was
something fiendish in the fellow's leering face, his open mouth, his
wide, staring eyes. Off yonder he heard two men quarreling, their
voices raised in windy gusts of snapping oaths; saw one of them lift
his hand and strike, not as a man strikes with his bare fist, but as a
man strikes with a knife; saw the other man fling out his arms, heard
his gurgling, choking cry above the sudden clamorous tumult; saw him
settle quietly to the ground as though every bone in his body had
jellied. His eyes accustomed to the half-light, his ears free of the
wax of sleep, it seemed to Conniston that he was peering into a scene
which could be no part of earth, but which must be some frenzied
corner of hell.
As he ran forward, brushing past tottering forms which cursed him
thickly, he saw yet another group of men beyond the wagons; saw that
there, too, the spirit of alcohol was rampant; heard a man's voice,
high-raised and raspingly shrill, in a monotonous song. And as he ran
men did not fall back, but glared at him belligerently, many a
coarse-featured countenance distorted hideously, while the men about
the wagon bunched up close together threateningly.
He stopped suddenly, trying to think. A mighty laugh greeted his
hesitation. He saw a big fellow thrust a tin cup down into one of the
barrels, the head of which had been knocked in, lift his cup high
above his head, laughing, and then put it to his lips. Then he
understood while he did not understand: one of the barrels which
should have contained water was nearly full of raw whisky!
Conniston did not believe that there were a dozen sober men in camp.
He had recognized the big man standing at the barrel. It was Ben the
Englishman. Mundy and Peters, obviously drunk, stood close to him. The
little San-Franciscan was standing in the body of the wagon, trying to
put his two short arms about the barrel. He had the grotesque look of
a dwarf embracing a fat wife.
He could look to no one for help. These two hundred men--men whose
hard, brutish natures had known nothing of the excitation of alcohol
for weeks, perhaps months, whose brains were now inflamed with it,
whose reckless spirits were unchained by it--would listen to words
from him, from any man in the world, as much as they would listen to
the sighing of the breeze which was beginning to stir the scanty
desert vegetation. And above all other considerations, above even the
half-formed wonder, "How came it there?" rose the knowledge which
would not down, _he and he alone was responsible for what these men
did_.
He turned away with white, wretched face, and strode back toward the
tent. He must get away from them for a little, he must try to think,
he must find something to do. And as he turned a yell of derisive
triumph from two hundred throats went booming and thundering out
across the desert.
Until now he had been merely grief-stricken that such chaos should
have sprung into being under his hand where there should be only order
and efficiency. Now there surged into his heart a flaming, scorching
rage. The whiteness left his face, and it went a dull, burning red. He
prayed dumbly for the might of a Nero that he might wreck the
vengeance of a Nero. No words came, but he cursed them in his heart.
He saw their blackened fingers choking the life out of the last hope
of success of the Great Work, and he longed with an infinite longing
to have those yelling throats in the grip of his own two hands that he
might tear at them.
He stalked on blindly, his back turned upon them, his ears filled with
laughter and shouting, cursing and discordant singing, his brain so
teeming with a score of broken thoughts that no single thought
remained clear. He told himself that this thing was a nightmare, that
it could not be, that it was impossible, ludicrously impossible! He
tried to ask himself what it would mean. He tried to answer--and could
not. It would mean that there could be no work done to-day! And
to-morrow? Would the men be fit to work to-morrow? And the next day?
How long would the stuff last?--how long the effects of it when it was
gone?
He thought suddenly of the revolver which Lonesome Pete had given him,
and which struck against his hip as he walked; and he stopped dead in
his tracks at the thought of it. And then he laughed at himself for a
fool and strode on. Half of the men were armed. True, they were drunk,
but what of that? They were two hundred against one, and they were
not cowards. And in the end he would not have helped the Great Work;
he would only have done a fool's part and lost his own life. No, there
was no chance--
One thought suggests another. He had not gone on a dozen steps before
he stopped again, a light of hope and of determination creeping slowly
into his eyes. A moment he hesitated. And then, flinging all
hesitation from him, seeing clearly his one desperate hope, crying
aloud, "I'll do it!" he broke into a run toward the tent. Yesterday
they had taken Bat Truxton to Valley City. But they had forgotten Bat
Truxton's rifle.