AT SMOKY CREEK
Karg, Sinclair's crew foreman, came running over to him from a pile of
merchandise that had been set off the right of way on the wagon-road
for loot. "That's the superintendent's car coming, ain't it, Murray?"
he cried, looking across the creek at the approaching train.
"What of it?" returned Sinclair.
"Why, we're just loading the team."
The incoming train, an engine with a way car, two flats, and the Bear
Dance derrick, slowed up at one end of the wreck while Sinclair and
his foreman talked. Three men could be seen getting out of the way
car--McCloud and Reed Young, the Scotch roadmaster, and Bill Dancing.
A gang of trackmen filed slowly out after them.
The leaders of the party made their way down the curve, and Sinclair,
with Karg, met them at the point. McCloud asked questions about the
wreck and the chances of getting the track clear, and while they
talked Sinclair sent Karg to get the new derrick into action. Sinclair
then asked McCloud to walk with him up the track to see where the
cars had left the rail. The two men showed in contrast as they stepped
along the ties. McCloud was not alone younger and below Sinclair's
height: his broad Stetson hat flattened him somewhat. His movement was
deliberate beside Sinclair's litheness, and his face, though burned by
sun and wind, was boyish, while Sinclair's was strongly lined.
"Just a moment," suggested McCloud mildly, as Sinclair hastened past
the goods piled in the wagon-road. "Whose team is that, Sinclair?" The
road followed the right of way where they stood, and a four-horse team
of heavy mules was pulling a loaded ranch-wagon up the grade when
McCloud spoke.
Sinclair answered cordially. "That's my team from over on the
Frenchman. I picked them up at Denver. Nice mules, McCloud, ain't
they? Give me mules every time for heavy work. If I had just a hundred
more of 'em the company could have my job--what?"
"Yes. What's that stuff they are hauling?"
"That's a little stuff mashed up in the merchandise car; there's some
tobacco there and a little wine, I guess. The cases are all smashed."
"Let's look at it."
"Oh, there's nothing there that's any good, McCloud."
"Let's look at it."
As Bill Dancing and Young walked behind the two men toward the wagon,
Dancing made extraordinary efforts to wink at the roadmaster. "That's
a good story about the mules coming from Denver, ain't it?" he
muttered. Young, unwilling to commit himself, stopped to light his
pipe. When he and Dancing joined Sinclair and McCloud the talk between
the superintendent and the wrecking boss had become animated.
"I always do something for my men out of a wreck when I can; that's
the way I get the work out of them," Sinclair was saying. "A little
stuff like this," he added, nodding toward the wagon, "comes handy for
presents, and the company wouldn't get any salvage out of it, anyway.
I get the value a dozen times over in quick work. Look there!"
Sinclair pointed to where the naked men heaved and wrenched in the
sun. "Where could you get white men to work like that if you didn't
jolly them along once in a while? What? You haven't been here long,
McCloud," smiled Sinclair, laying a hand with heavy affection on the
young man's shoulder. "Ask any man on the division who gets the work
out of his men--who gets the wrecks cleaned up and the track cleared.
Ain't that what you want?"
"Certainly, Sinclair; no man that ever saw you handle a wreck would
undertake to do it better."
"Then what's all this fuss about?"
"We've been over all this matter before, as you know. The claim
department won't stand for this looting; that's the whole story. Here
are ten or twelve cases of champagne on your wagon--soiled a little,
but worth a lot of money."
"That was a mistake loading that up; I admit it; it was Karg's
carelessness."
"Here is one whole case of cigars and part of another," continued
McCloud, climbing from one wheel to another of the wagon. "There is a
thousand dollars in this load! I know you've got good men, Sinclair.
If they are not getting paid as they should be, give them time and a
half or double time, but put it in the pay checks. The freight loss
and damage account increased two hundred per cent. last year. No
railroad company can keep that rate up and last, Sinclair."
"Hang the company! The claim agents are a pack of thieves," cried
Sinclair. "Look here, McCloud, what's a pay check to a man that's
sick, compared with a bottle of good wine?"
"When one of your men is sick and needs wine, let me know," returned
McCloud; "I'll see that he gets it. Your men don't wear silk dresses,
do they?" he asked, pointing to another case of goods under the
driver's seat. "Have that stuff all hauled back and loaded into a box
car on track."
"Not by a damned sight!" exclaimed Sinclair. He turned to his ranch
driver, Barney Rebstock. "You haul that stuff where you were told to
haul it, Barney." Then, "you and I may as well have an understanding
right here," he said, as McCloud walked to the head of the mules.
"By all means, and I'll begin by countermanding that order right now.
Take your load straight back to that car," directed McCloud, pointing
up the track. Barney, a ranch hand with a cigarette face looked
surlily at McCloud.
Sinclair raised a finger at the boy. "You drive straight ahead where I
told you to drive. I don't propose to have my affairs interfered with
by you or anybody else, Mr. McCloud. You and I can settle this thing
ourselves," he added, walking straight toward the superintendent.
"Get away from those mules!" yelled Barney at the same moment,
cracking his whip.
McCloud's dull eyes hardly lightened as he looked at the driver.
"Don't swing your whip this way, my boy," he said, laying hold quietly
of the near bridle.
"Drop that bridle!" roared Sinclair.
"I'll drop your mules in their tracks if they move one foot forward.
Dancing, unhook those traces," said McCloud peremptorily. "Dump the
wine out of that wagon-box, Young." Then he turned to Sinclair and
pointed to the wreck. "Get back to your work."
The sun marked the five men rooted for an instant on the hillside.
Dancing jumped at the traces, Reed Young clambered over the wheel, and
Sinclair, livid, faced McCloud. With a bitter denunciation of
interlopers, claim agents, and "fresh" railroad men generally,
Sinclair swore he would not go back to work, and a case of wine
crashing to the ground infuriated him. He turned on his heel and
started for the wreck. "Call off the men!" he yelled to Karg at the
derrick. The foreman passed the word. The derrickmen, dropping their
hooks and chains in some surprise, moved out of the wreckage. The
axemen and laborers gathered around the foreman and followed him
toward Sinclair.
"Boys," cried Sinclair, "we've got a new superintendent, a college
guy. You know what they are; the company has tried 'em before. They
draw the salaries and we do the work. This one down here now is making
his little kick about the few pickings we get out of our jobs. You can
go back to your work or you can stand right here with me till we get
our rights. What?"
Half a dozen men began talking at once. The derrickman from below, a
hatchet-faced wiper, with the visor of a greasy cap cocked over his
ear, stuck his head between the uprights and called out shrilly,
"What's er matter, Murray?" and a few men laughed. Barney had deserted
the mules. Dancing and Young, with small regard for loss or damage,
were emptying the wagon like deckhands, for in a fight such as now
appeared imminent, possession of the goods even on the ground seemed
vital to prestige. McCloud waited only long enough to assure the
emptying of the wagon, and then followed Sinclair to where he had
assembled his men. "Sinclair, put your men back to work."
"Not till we know just how we stand," Sinclair answered insolently. He
continued to speak, but McCloud turned to the men. "Boys, go back to
your work. Your boss and I can settle our own differences. I'll see
that you lose nothing by working hard."
"And you'll see we make nothing, won't you?" suggested Karg.
"I'll see that every man in the crew gets twice what is coming to
him--all except you, Karg. I discharge you now. Sinclair, will you go
back to work?"
"No!"
"Then take your time. Any men that want to go back to work may step
over to the switch," added McCloud.
Not a man moved. Sinclair and Karg smiled at each other, and with no
apparent embarrassment McCloud himself smiled. "I like to see men
loyal to their bosses," he said good-naturedly. "I wouldn't give much
for a man that wouldn't stick to his boss if he thought him right. But
a question has come up here, boys, that must be settled once for all.
This wreck-looting on the mountain division is going to stop--right
here--at this particular wreck. On that point there is no room for
discussion. Now, any man that agrees with me on that matter may step
over here and I'll discuss with him any other grievance. If what I say
about looting is a grievance, it can't be discussed. Is there any man
that wants to come over?" No man stirred.
"Sinclair, you've got good men," continued McCloud, unmoved. "You are
leading them into pretty deep water. There's a chance yet for you to
get them out of serious trouble if you think as much of them as they
do of you. Will you advise them to go back to work--all except Karg?"
Sinclair glared in high humor. "Oh, I couldn't do that! I'm
discharged!" he protested, bowing low.
"I don't want to be over-hasty," returned McCloud. "This is a serious
business, as you know better than they do, and there will never be as
good a time to fix it up as now. There is a chance for you, I say,
Sinclair, to take hold if you want to now."
"Why, I'll take hold if you'll take your nose out of my business and
agree to keep it out."
"Is there _any_ man here that wants to go back to work for the
company?" continued McCloud evenly. It was one man against thirty;
McCloud saw there was not the shadow of a chance to win the strikers
over. "This lets all of you out, you understand, boys," he added; "and
you can never work again for the company on this division if you don't
take hold now."
"Boys," exclaimed Sinclair, better-humored every moment, "I'll
guarantee you work on this division when all the fresh superintendents
are run out of the country, and I'll lay this matter before Bucks
himself, and don't you forget it!"
"You will have a chilly job of it," interposed McCloud.
"So will you, my hearty, before you get trains running past here,"
retorted the wrecking boss. "Come on, boys."
The disaffected men drew off. The emptied wagon, its load scattered on
the ground, stood deserted on the hillside, and the mules drooped in
the heat. Bill Dancing, a giant and a dangerous one, stood lone guard
over the loot, and Young had been called over by McCloud. "How many
men have you got with you, Reed?"
"Eleven."
"How long will it take them to clean up this mess with what help we
can run in this afternoon?"
Young studied the prospect before replying. "They're green at this
sort of thing, of course; they might be fussing here till to-morrow
noon, I'm afraid; perhaps till to-morrow night, Mr. McCloud."
"That won't do!" The two men stood for a moment in a study. "The
merchandise is all unloaded, isn't it?" said McCloud reflectively.
"Get your men here and bring a water-bucket with you."
McCloud walked down to the engine of the wrecking train and gave
orders to the train and engine crews. The best of the refrigerator
cars had been rerailed, and they were pulled to a safe distance from
the wreck. Young brought the bucket, and McCloud pointed to the
caskful of brandy. "Throw that brandy over the wreckage, Reed."
The roadmaster started. "Burn the whole thing up, eh?"
"Everything on the track."
"Bully! It's a shame to waste the liquor, but it's Sinclair's fault.
Here, boys, scatter this stuff where it will catch good, and touch her
off. Everything goes--the whole pile. Burn up everything; that's
orders. If you can get a few rails here, now, I'll give you a track by
sundown, Mr. McCloud, in spite of Sinclair and the devil."
The remains of many cars lay in heaps along the curve, and the
trackmen like firebugs ran in and out of them. A tongue of flame
leaped from the middle of a pile of stock cars. In five minutes the
wreck was burning; in ten minutes the flames were crackling fiercely;
then in another instant the wreck burst into a conflagration that rose
hissing and seething a hundred feet straight up in the air.
From where they stood, Sinclair's men looked on. They were nonplussed,
but their boss had not lost his nerve. He walked back to McCloud.
"You're going to send us back to Medicine Bend with the car, I
suppose?"
McCloud spoke amiably. "Not on your life. Take your personal stuff out
of the car and tell your men to take theirs; then get off the train
and off the right of way."
"Going to turn us loose on Red Desert, are you?" asked Sinclair
steadily.
"You've turned yourselves loose."
"Wouldn't give a man a tie-pass, would you?"
"Come to my office in Medicine Bend and I'll talk to you about it,"
returned McCloud impassively.
"Well, boys," roared Sinclair, going back to his followers, "we can't
ride on this road now! But I want to tell you there's something to eat
for every one of you over at my place on the Crawling Stone, and a
place to sleep--and something to drink," he added, cursing McCloud
once more.
The superintendent eyed him, but made no response. Sinclair led his
men to the wagon, and they piled into it till the box was filled.
Barney Rebstock had the reins again, and the mules groaned as the whip
cracked. Those that could not climb into the wagon as it moved off
straggled along behind, and the air was filled with cheers and
curses.
The wreck burned furiously, and the column of black smoke shot
straight up. Sinclair, as his cavalcade moved over the hill, followed
on foot, grimly. He was the last to cross the divide that shut the
scene on the track away from the striking wreckers, and as he reached
the crest he paused and looked back, standing for a moment like a
statue outlined in the vivid sunshine. For all his bravado, something
told him he should never handle another wreck on the mountain
division--that he stood a king dethroned. Uninviting enough to many
men, this had been his kingdom, and he loved the power it gave him. He
had run it like many a reckless potentate, but no one could say he had
not been royal in his work as well as in his looting. It was
impossible not to admire the man, his tremendous capacity, his
extraordinary power as a leader; and no one liked his better traits
more than McCloud himself. But Sinclair never loved McCloud. Long
afterward he told Whispering Smith that he made his first mistake in a
long and desperate game in not killing McCloud when he laid his hand
that morning on the bridle of the mules; it would have been easy then.
Sinclair might have been thinking of it even as he stood looking back.
But he stood only for a moment, then turned and passed over the hill.