The days ran on, each twenty-four hours seeming shorter, swifter than
the preceding twenty-four. Although everywhere in the Valley there was
a glad confidence that the reclamation project was an assured thing,
although feverish anxiety had been beaten back and driven out, there
was no slightest slackening of unremitting toil. Upward of seven
hundred men worked as they had never worked before. As the end of the
time drew nearer, as success became ever more assured, they worked
longer hours, they accomplished swifter results. For each man of them,
from Brayley to the ditch-diggers, was laboring not only for the
company, but for himself. Each and every man had been promised a bonus
for every day between the time when water was poured down into the
sunken Valley and the coming of high noon upon October the first. And
Conniston still held to his determination to have everything in
readiness by the twenty-fifth of September.
Upon the evening of the twenty-fourth of September Conniston called
upon Mr. Crawford at his cottage in Valley City. He found his employer
smoking upon the little porch alone.
When he was seated and had accepted a cigar, Conniston began abruptly
what he had to say.
"If you have time, Mr. Crawford, I want to make a partial report to
you to-night. Thank you. To begin with, I have completed the big dam,
Dam Number One. It is all ready for business. The flume is finished,
the cut made across the ridge to Dam Number Two across Indian Creek.
Dam Number Two is ready. From these two dams the main canal runs,
completed entirely, thirty miles and into Valley City. Dam Number
Three, Miss Crawford's Dam, is finished, and the branch canal from it
to the main canal will be completed in two days. I do not believe that
this dam is going to be an absolute necessity to us now. I think that
we are going to have all the water from Deep Creek and Indian Creek
that we need. But Dam Number Three makes us more than confident. And
when later you want to extend your area of irrigated acreage you will
want it.
"I have examined the country about the spring which Miss Crawford
discovered, and have men working there now boring wells. There is
water there--how much I do not yet know. I have a hope, which Tommy
Garton thinks foolish, that we may strike artesian water out there in
the sand. At any rate, we'll get enough out of it eventually to aid in
the irrigation of that location, to be useful when you get ready to
found your second desert town. About Valley City itself I have all the
cross-ditches required by your contract with Colton Gray of the P. C.
& W."
He paused, and Mr. Crawford after a moment's thoughtful silence said,
quietly:
"In other words, Mr. Conniston, you have completed all of the work
which the contract calls for?"
"Except one thing." Conniston smiled. "I have not put the water on the
land yet. A rather important matter, isn't it?"
"But you are ready to do that?"
"I shall be ready to do that to-morrow at noon. And I want you to help
me. Will it be possible for you and Miss Crawford to come out to Dam
Number One in the morning?"
"You are kind to ask it," Mr. Crawford said, inclining his head. "We
shall be glad to come, Mr. Conniston. Is that the extent of your
report?"
"Yes. I have something else I want to say to you--but it is not about
reclamation."
"Shall I make my report to you first? For I feel that after all you
have done for me I should like to report, too. Every one of my
cattle-ranges is mortgaged to the hilt. I do not believe that I could
raise another thousand dollars on the combined ranges. I have been
driven so close to the wall that I could not go another step. I have
been forced to sell during the last two weeks over a thousand of my
young cattle--to sell them at a sacrifice in order to obtain ready
money. I have enough money in the bank to conclude the financing of
our reclamation project. After the first day of October, when the P.
C. & W. begins its road out to us, I can raise whatever more funds I
want, and raise them easily.
"You have succeeded, Mr. Conniston, and thereby you have saved me from
being absolutely, unqualifiedly ruined. Within six months I shall have
doubled my fortune. And I shall have lived to see the most cherished
dream of my older manhood materialize. I owe very much to you, I am
very grateful to you, and I am very proud to have been associated in
business with a man of your caliber. And there is my hand on it!"
"I am glad to have been of service," Conniston replied, as the two
men gripped hands. "And I appreciate your confidence. Besides," with a
quick, half-serious smile, "I think that I have profited as greatly as
any one else could possibly do."
"I know what you mean. And I agree with you. Now, you said that there
was another matter--"
"Yes. I have had a cable from my father in Paris. Because I could not
agree to do a certain thing which he requested he has seen fit to
disinherit me."
"I know. Tommy Garton told me about it. And I know what the thing was
which he required of you. I did not thank you for your answer to him,
Conniston, for we both know that you did only your duty. But I know
what it meant, I know what your stand cost you, and I am prouder to
have known you, to feel that outside of our business relations I can
say that William Conniston, Junior, is my friend, than I have ever
been in my life to have known any other man!"
His voice was deep with sincerity, alive with an intensity of feeling
which drove a warm flush into Conniston's tanned face.
"As you say, I did only what a man must do were he not a scoundrel.
But, too, as you say, it means a great deal. It means that when you
will have paid me my wages I shall have not another cent in the world.
And being virtually penniless, still my chief purpose in coming to you
this evening has been to tell you that I love Argyl, and that I want
your consent to ask her to marry me."
For a moment the older man made no reply. For a little he drew
thoughtfully at his cigar, and as in its glow his grave face was
thrown into relief Conniston saw that there was a sad droop at the
corners of the firm mouth.
"You have told Argyl?" he finally said.
"Yes. I told her that day in the desert. I had meant to wait until the
work was done, until she could have seen that I was honestly trying to
live down my utter uselessness. But--I told her then."
"And she?"
"She said that I might speak to you."
"I am selfish, Conniston--selfish. Argyl has been daughter to me and
son, and the best friend I have ever had. I shall miss her. But if she
loves you--Well," with a gentle smile, "she is too true a woman to
hold back from your side, no matter what I might say. And since she
must leave me some day, I am very glad that you came into her life. I
congratulate you, my boy."
While the two men were talking and waiting for Argyl to come in, Tommy
Garton, his new legs discarded for the day, was lying on his cot in
the back room of the general office, blowing idle puffs of
cigarette-smoke at the lamp-chimney, watching the smoke as the hot
draft from the flame sent it ceilingward. He was thinking of the talk
he had had with Conniston, how Conniston had gone to Argyl's father.
"After all," he grunted to himself, as he pinched out his cigarette
and lighted another, "they were made for each other. And I lose my one
chief bet this incarnation. Hello! Come in!" For there had come a
sudden sharp knocking at the outer door.
The door was pushed open and a big man, dusty from riding, came slowly
into the front room, cast a quick glance about him, and came on into
Garton's room. Garton started as he saw who the man was.
"Hello, Wallace!" he said, sitting up and putting out his hand. "What
in the world brings you here?"
Wallace laughed, returned the greeting, and sat down upon the cot
across the room. And as he came into the circle of light thrown out by
the lamp a nickeled star shone for a moment from under his coat, which
was carelessly flung back.
"Jest rampsin' around, Tommy," he answered, quietly, making himself a
cigarette. "Jest seein' what I could see. You fellers keepin' pretty
busy, ain't you?"
"Yes. Too busy to get into trouble, Bill." He lay back and sent a new
cloud of smoke to soar aloft over the lamp-chimney. "We haven't had a
visit from a sheriff for six months."
"Oh, I know you been bein' good, all right. If everybody was like you
fellers I'd have one lovely, smooth job. Goin' to make a go of this
thing, ain't you, Tommy?"
"You bet we are!" cried Garton, enthusiastically. "There's nothing can
stop us now. I expect," with a sharp look at the sheriff, "Swinnerton
is feeling a bit shaky of late?"
"Couldn't say," replied Wallace, slowly. "Ain't seen Oliver for a
coon's age."
They talked casually of many things, and Tommy Garton, to whom the
sheriff's explanation of the reason for his visit to the Valley was no
explanation whatever, sat back against the wall, his head lost in the
shadow cast by a coat hanging at the side of the window and between
him and the lamp, a frown in his eyes.
"Any time big Bill Wallace drifts this far from his stamping-ground
just to look at a ditch I'm dreaming the whole thing," he told
himself, as his eyes never left the sheriff's face. "And as for not
having seen Swinnerton, that's a lie."
Tommy Garton was already scenting something very near the actual truth
when the telephone in the front room jangled noisily.
"Want me to answer it?" Wallace was already on his feet.
"Thanks," Garton told him. "But I've got it fixed so that I can handle
it from here."
He picked up the telephone which was attached to the office instrument
and which he kept on the floor at his bedside. And as he caught the
first word he pressed the receiver close to his ear so that no sound
from it might escape and reach his alert visitor.
It was the Lark's voice, tense, earnest, trembling with the import of
the Lark's message.
"That you, Con? Garton? Conniston there? No? Tell him for me to keep
under cover. Lonesome Pete has jest rode into camp, an' he's seen that
canary of his, an' she's been blowin' off to him. Hapgood's thicker'n
thieves with Swinnerton. He's put him up to this. Swinnerton has sent
the sheriff after Con. He's to jug him for killin' that Chink! Get me?
Jest to hold him in the can so's he can't work until after October
first. Get me, 'bo? You'll put Con wise? Wallace ought to be there any
minute--"
Garton answered as quietly as he could:
"All right. I'll attend to everything. Good-by." And then, setting the
telephone back upon the floor, he took a fresh cigarette from his
case, lighted it over the lamp, his face showing calm and unconcerned,
and, leaning back, began to think swiftly.
Conniston was now with the Crawfords. Presently he would leave them
and return to the office to spend the night with Garton. Bill Wallace
evidently knew this, and was content to wait quietly until his man
came. Lonesome Pete had done his part, had ridden with all possible
speed to Deep Creek, where he had supposed Conniston was. The Lark had
done his part. The rest was up to Tommy Garton. For he knew that with
Conniston left to continue his work the work would be done. He knew
that Conniston had every detail now at his fingers' ends. He knew that
if Swinnerton could succeed in this coup he might be able to put some
further unexpected, some fatal obstacle in the way of the Great Work.
And that then, with Conniston out of it, it again would be "anybody's
game."
Wallace was talking again about unimportant nothings, Garton was
answering him in monosyllables and striving to see the way, to find
out the thing which he must do. It was plain that Conniston must be
prevented from coming to the office to-night. And when he saw the way
before him he asked, carelessly:
"You'll stay with me to-night, Bill?"
"If you got the room, Tommy." He glanced about the little room. "This
bed ain't workin'?"
"Conniston, our superintendent, will sleep there to-night. He'll be in
in an hour or so. But I've got blankets, and if you care to make a bed
on the floor, there's lots of room."
"I'll do it," laughed the sheriff, stretching his great legs far out
in front of him. "It'll do me good. I been sleepin' in a bed so many
nights runnin' lately I'll be gettin' soft."
"All right. And if you'll pardon me a minute I want to telephone my
assistant. I've just got word of some work which must be ready by
morning. Not much rest on this job, Bill."
He picked up the telephone again and called Billy Jordan.
"I wish you'd run around for a minute, Billy," he said, his tone
evincing none of the tremor which he felt in his heart. "Bring the
fifth and seventh sheets of those computations you took home with you.
Yes, the figures for the work we are to do at the spring. Yes, you'd
better hurry with them, as I want to look 'em over before morning.
There's a ball-up somewhere. So long, Billy."
He had seen that Bill Wallace, whose business it was to be suspicious
at all times and of all men, had regarded him with narrowed, shrewd
eyes.
When Billy Jordan came in, ten minutes later, in no way surprised at
the summons, since he had been called on similar errands many times,
he found Bill Wallace telling a story and Tommy Garton chuckling
appreciatively.
"You know each other?" Garton asked. "Wallace says he's just over here
to look around at the beauties of nature, Billy. I've an idea," with a
wink at Wallace, "that he's looking for somebody. You haven't been
passing any bad money, have you, Billy? Much obliged for the papers."
He glanced at them and pushed them under the pillows of his cot.
"That's all now, Billy. Except that on your way home I want you to
drop in and see Mr. Crawford. Tell him that if he sees Conniston I
want him to tell him to be sure and come right around. There's a
ball-up in the work out at the spring. Wait a second." He scribbled a
note upon the leaf of the note-book which lay upon the window-sill.
"Give that to Mr. Crawford. It's an order to Mundy to cut the main
ditch out there down to four feet, and to stop work on the well that
is causing trouble, until further orders. Mundy will be going out
again to-night, and will stop at Crawford's first. Good night, Billy.
And come in early in the morning."
Mundy's name did not appear in the note. Mundy was at the time twenty
miles from Valley City. But Mr. Crawford's name was there, and after
it was "_Urgent_," underlined. The note itself ran:
"_Wallace is here to arrest Conniston for murder of Chinaman
shot in whisky rebellion! A put-up game with Swinnerton to
stop his work. Tell Conniston to go back to Deep Creek
to-night. Send Brayley to me immediately. Let no one else
come. I'll entertain the sheriff to-night._
"GARTON."
Billy loitered a minute, yawned two or three times, and finally said
good night and strolled leisurely away.
"I think," said Wallace, rising as the door closed behind Billy
Jordan, "I'll go out an' unsaddle my cayuse. Got a handful of hay in
the shed, Tommy?"
"Sure thing, Bill. Help yourself."
Wallace picked up his hat and turned to the door. Garton rolled over
suddenly, thrust his hand again under his pillow, and sat up.
"Say, Bill!" he called, softly.
Wallace turned, and as he did so he looked square into the muzzle of a
heavy-caliber Colt revolver upon which the lamplight shone dully.
"Stop that!" cried Garton, sternly, as the sheriff's hand started
automatically to his hip. "I've got the drop on you, Bill. And,
sheriff or no sheriff, I'll drop you if you make a move. Put 'em up,
Bill."
Snarling, his face going a sudden angry red, the sheriff lifted his
two big hands high above his head.
"What do you mean by this?" he snapped.
"I mean business! Now you do what I tell you. Walk this way, and walk
slowly."
"D----n you, you little sawed-off--" roared the big man, only to be
cut short with an incisive:
"Never mind about calling names. And remember that no matter if only
half a man is behind this gun it 'll shoot just the same. Keep those
hands up, Bill! Now turn around. Back up to me. And let me tell you
something: you can whirl about and bring your hands down on my head,
but that won't stop a bullet in your belly. The same place," he said,
coolly, "that Conniston shot the Chinaman!"
Bill Wallace had got his position as sheriff for two very good
reasons. For one thing, he belonged to Oliver Swinnerton. For another,
he was a brave man. But he was not a fool, and he did what Garton
commanded him to do. And Tommy Garton, with the muzzle of his revolver
jammed tight against the small of Wallace's back, reached out with his
left hand and drew the sheriff's two revolvers from their holsters,
dropping them to the floor behind his cot.
"And now, Bill, you can go and sit down. And you can take your hands
down, too."
"I'd like to know," sputtered Wallace, as he sat glaring across the
little room at the strange half-figure propped up against the wall and
covering him unwaveringly with a revolver, "what all this means!"
"Would you? Then I'll tell you. It means that no little man like
Oliver Swinnerton, and no smooth tool belonging to Oliver Swinnerton,
is going to keep us from living up to our contract with the P. C. &
W. Not if they resort to all of the dirty work their maggot-infested
brains can concoct!"
When Brayley came in he found two men smoking cigarettes and sitting
in watchful silence. And when Brayley understood conditions fully he
took a chair in the doorway, moved his revolver so that it hung from
his belt across his lap, and joined them in quiet smoking.
* * * * *
"To-morrow," Conniston was saying to Argyl, just as Tommy Garton
called to Wallace to put his hands up, "we are going to open the gates
at Dam Number One, and the water will run down into the main canal and
find its way to Valley City. I think we have won, Argyl!"