THE FINAL APPEAL
Sinclair's discharge was a matter of comment for the whole country,
from the ranch-houses to the ranges. For a time Sinclair himself
refused utterly to believe that McCloud could keep him off the
division. His determination to get back led him to carry his appeal to
the highest quarters, to Glover and to Bucks himself. But Sinclair,
able as he was, had passed the limit of endurance and had long been
marked for an accounting. He had been a railroad man to whom the West
spelled license, and, while a valuable man, had long been a source of
demoralization to the forces of the division. In the railroad life
clearly defined plans are often too deeply laid to fathom, and it was
impossible for even so acute a man as Sinclair to realize that he was
not the victim of an accident, but that he must look to his own record
for the real explanation of his undoing. He was not the only man to
suffer in the shake-out that took place under the new superintendent;
but he seemed the only one unable to realize that Bucks, patient and
long-suffering, had put McCloud into the mountain saddle expressly to
deal with cases such as his. In the West sympathy is quick but not
always discerning. Medicine Bend took Sinclair's grievance as its own.
No other man in the service had Sinclair's following, and within a
week petitions were being circulated through the town not asking
merely but calling for his reinstatement. The sporting element of the
community to a man were behind Sinclair because he was a sport; the
range men were with him because his growing ranch on the Frenchman
made him one of them; his own men were with him because he was a
far-seeing pirate and divided liberally. Among the railroad men, too,
he had much sympathy. Sinclair had always been lavish with presents;
brides were remembered by Sinclair, and babies were not forgotten. He
could sit up all night with a railroad man that had been hurt, and he
could play poker all night with one that was not afraid of getting
hurt. In his way, he was a division autocrat, whose vices were
varnished by virtues such as these. His hold on the people was so
strong that they could not believe the company would not reinstate
him. In spite of the appointment of his successor, Phil Hailey, a
mountain boy and the son of an old-time bridge foreman, rumor assigned
again and again definite dates for Sinclair's return to work; but the
dates never materialized. The bridge machinery of the big division
moved on in even rhythm. A final and determined appeal from the
deposed autocrat for a hearing at last brought Glover and Morris
Blood, the general manager, to Medicine Bend for a final conference.
Callahan too was there with his pipe, and they talked quietly with
Sinclair--reminded him of how often he had been warned, showed him how
complete a record they had of his plundering, and Glover gave to him
Bucks's final word that he could never again work on the mountain
division.
A pride grown monstrous with prestige long undisputed broke under the
final blow. The big fellow put his face in his hands and burst into
tears, and the men before him sat confused and uncomfortable at his
outburst of feeling. It was only for a moment. Sinclair raised his
hand, shook his long hair, and swore an oath against the company and
the men that curled the very smoke in Callahan's pipe, Callahan,
outraged at the insolence, sprang to his feet, resenting Sinclair's
fury. Choking with anger he warned him not to go too far. The two were
ready to spring at each other's throat when Farrell Kennedy stepped
between them. Sinclair, drunk with rage, called for McCloud; but he
submitted quietly to Kennedy's reproof, and with a semblance of
self-control begged that McCloud be sent for. Kennedy, without
complying, gradually pushed Sinclair out of the room and, without
seeming officious, walked with him down the hall and quite out of the
building.