The Road Builders

Carhart led his men nearly two miles north, then forded the stream at a point where it ran wide and shallow. He climbed the west ridge, and turned south along the farther slope. After twenty minutes of advancing cautiously he sent Dimond to follow the crest of the ridge and keep their bearings. Another twenty minutes and Dimond came down the slope and motioned them to stop.

“Is this the knoll ahead here?” asked the chief.

Dimond nodded.

“Quietly, then. Byers, you wait here with the horses.”

The same individual spirit which makes our little American army what it is, was in these workingmen. Every one understood perfectly that he must get to the top of that knoll as silently as the thing could be done, and acted accordingly. Orders were not needed. There were slopes of shelving rock to be ascended, there were bits of real climbing to be managed. But the distance was not very great, and it took but a quarter of an hour or so. Then they found themselves on the summit, and made themselves comfortable among the rocks, spreading out so that they could command every approach. Carhart took Dimond to the top of the southeasterly slope and pointed out to him the knoll opposite, the hollow between, the camp a third of a mile away of Flagg and his cheerful crew, the trestle, the river, and their own dim camp on the farther slope. He repeated his instructions for the last time. “Lie quiet until noon of the day after to-morrow – not a sound, understand; not so much as the top of a hat to show. It will be a hard pull, but you’ve got to do it.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At that time, if you hear nothing further from me, take your men down there along the slope, give Flagg one chance to withdraw, and if he refuses, close in across the hollow behind the rocks. Mr. Haddon will do the same. After that if they try to rush you, shoot. The men from camp will be working out across the trestle and up the hill at the same time. – Here it is, written down. Put it in your pocket. And mind, not a shot, not so much as a stone thrown, before noon of day after to-morrow, excepting in self-defence. Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now come down the slope here, on the other side – where we can’t be seen from Flagg’s camp. You have your lantern?”

“Here.”

“Light it, and flash it once.”

Dimond obeyed. Both men peered across the hollow, but no response came from the other knoll.

“Flash it again.”

This time there came an answering flash. Carhart nodded, then took the lantern from Dimond, extinguished it, and handed it back. “Don’t light this again for any purpose,” he said. “Now see that you do exactly as I have told you. Keep your men in hand.”

“All right, sir.”

“Good night, then.”

Carhart groped his way along the hillside, slowly descending. After a time he whistled softly.

“Here – this way!” came in Byers’s voice.

They had to lead their horses nearly a mile over the plateau before they found the beaten track to Red Hills. Byers was jubilant. He was a young man who had dreamed for years of this moment. He had known not what form it would take, but that he should at some time be riding, booted and spurred, with a weight of responsibility on his shoulders, a fine atmosphere of daring about him, and the feeling within of a king’s messenger, this he had always known. And now here he was! And buoyant as an April day, the blood dancing in his veins, sitting his horse with the ease of an Indian, Byers called over to his chief: “Fine night this, Mr. Carhart!”

They were riding side by side. At his remark the chief seemed unconsciously to be pulling in. He fell behind. Byers, wondering a little, slowed down and looked around. Apparently his remark had not been heard. He called again: “Fine night, Mr. Carhart!” … And then, in the moonlight, he caught a full view of the face of his leader. It was not the face he was accustomed to see about headquarters; he found in it no suggestion of the resourceful, energetic chief on whom he had come to rely as older men rely on blind forces. This was the face of a nervous, dispirited man of the name of Carhart, a man riding a small horse, who, after accomplishing relentlessly all that man could accomplish, had reached the point where he could do nothing further, where he must lay down his hand and accept the inevitable, whether for better or for worse. Byers could not, perhaps, understand what this endless night meant to Paul Carhart, but the sight of that face sobered him. And it was a very grave young man who turned in his saddle and peered out ahead and let his eyes rove along the dreary, moonlit trail.

A moment later he started a little, and hardly conscious of what he was doing, turned his head partly around and listened.

“Oh, my God,” Carhart was saying, as if he did not hear his own voice, “what a night!”

They pulled up before the Frisco Hotel at Red Hills. The time had come to throw the cards face up on the table.

“See to the animals yourself, will you, Byers?” said Carhart. He dismounted, patted the quivering shoulder of his little horse, and then handed the reins to his companion. “I don’t want to wear out Arizona too.”

Byers nodded, and Carhart walked up to the hotel steps. His eyes swept the veranda, and finally rested on two men who were talking together earnestly, and almost, it might seem, angrily, at one end. He had never seen either before; but one, the nearer, with the florid countenance and the side whiskers, he knew at once for Commodore Durfee. He paused on the steps, and tried to make out the other – a big, fat man with the trimmed, gray chin-beard, the hard mouth, and the shaven upper lip which we associate with pioneering days. It was – no – yes, it was – it must be – General Carrington.

Carhart had intended to take a room and make himself presentable. He changed his mind. Hot and dusty as he was, dressed almost like a cowboy, he walked rapidly down the piazza.

“Mr. Durfee?”

The magnate turned slowly and looked up.

“Well?” he inquired.

Carhart found his card-case and drew out one slip of cardboard. Mr. Durfee took it, read it, turned it over, read it again, hesitated, then handed it to the General, saying, in a voice the intent of which could hardly be misread, “What do you think of that?”

General Carrington read the name with some interest, and looked up. He said nothing, however; merely returned the card.

“You want to talk to me?” asked Durfee.

“If you please.”

“Well – talk ahead.”

Carhart glanced at General Carrington. He knew that the opportunity to have it out with Durfee in the presence of the biggest man of them all, the man who was the x in this very equation with which he was struggling, was a very great opportunity. Just why, he could hardly have said; and he had no time to figure it out in detail. So he leaped without looking. He drew up another of the worn porch chairs and made himself comfortable.

“A rascal named Jack Flagg,” he said, speaking with cool deliberation, “with a hundred or two hundred armed men, has thrown up what I suppose he would call intrenchments across our right of way at the La Paz River. Another party has attacked our line back at Barker Hills. This second party is commanded by Mr. Bourke, who is in charge of the construction work on your H. D. & W. I care nothing about Bourke, because Mr. De Reamer, who is at Sherman, is amply able to dispose of him. I have come here to ask you if you will consider ordering Flagg to get out of our way at the La Paz.”

He settled back in his chair, looking steadily into the florid countenance of the redoubtable Commodore Durfee. The two railway presidents were looking, in turn, at him, but with something of a difference between their expressions. Whether the General was amused or merely interested it would have been difficult for any but one who was accustomed to his manner to say. But there could be little doubt that the worldly experience of the Commodore was barely equal to the task of keeping down his astonishment and anger.

“This has nothing to do with me,” he replied shortly. “I know nothing of this Flagg.”

Carhart leaned a little forward. His eyes never left Durfee’s face. “Then,” he said, in that same measured voice, “if you know nothing of this Flagg, you don’t care what happens to him.”

“Certainly not,” replied the Commodore, – a little too shortly, this time, for he added, “I guess two hundred armed men behind intrenchments can take care of themselves.”

Carhart settled back again, and the shadow of a smile crossed his face. Both men were watching him, but he said nothing. And then General Carrington unexpectedly took a hand. “See here,” he said with the air of a man who sweeps all obstructions out of his way, “what did you come here for? What do you want?”

Carhart’s answer was deliberate, and was uttered with studied force. “I have ridden thirty miles to talk with Mr. Durfee and he sees fit to treat me like a d – n fool. I came here to see if we couldn’t avoid bloodshed. Evidently we can’t.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Carrington.

Instead of replying, Carhart, after a moment’s thought, turned inquiringly to Durfee.

“Out with it,” cried that gentleman. “What do you want?”

“I want you to call off Jack Flagg.”

“Evidently you are a d – n fool,” said Durfee.

But Carrington saw deeper. “You’ve got something up your sleeve, Mr. Carhart,” he said. “What is it?”

Again Carhart turned to Durfee. And Durfee said, “What is it?”

“It’s this.” Carhart drew from a pocket his sketch-map of the region about the trestle. “Here is Flagg – along this ridge, at the foot of these two knolls. His line lies, you see, across our right of way. Of course, everybody knows that he was sent there for a huge bluff, everybody thinks that I wouldn’t dare make real war of it. Flagg opened up the ball by shooting Flint, my engineer in charge at the La Paz. The shooting was done at night, when Flint was out in the valley looking things over, unarmed and alone.”

“What Flint is that?” asked Carrington, sharply.

“John B.”

“Hurt him much?”

“There is a chance that he will live.”

Carrington pursed his lips.

“We foresaw Bourke’s move,” Carhart pursued, “some time ago. And as it was plain that the mills in Pennsylvania – ” he smiled a little here, straight into Durfee’s eyes – “and the Queen and Cumberland Railroad were planning to find it impossible to deliver our materials, we took up the rails and ties of the Paradise Southern and brought them out to the end of the track. In fact, we have our materials and supplies so well in hand that even if Bourke could hold Barker Hills, we are in a position to work right ahead. Track-laying is going on this minute. But we can’t cross the La Paz if Flagg doesn’t move.”

“No, I suppose not,” said Durfee.

“So it is necessary to make him move.”

“It is, eh?”

“Yes, and – ” Carhart’s eyes were firing up; his right fist was resting in the palm of his left hand – “and we’re going to do it, unless you should think it worth while to forestall us. Possibly you thought I would send a force back to Barker Hills. But I didn’t – I brought it up this way instead. I have three times as many men as your Mr. Flagg has, and a third of them are on the knolls behind Flagg.”

“And the fighting comes next, eh?” said Carrington.

“Either Mr. Durfee will call Flagg off at once, or there will be a battle of the La Paz. I think you see what I am getting at, Mr. Durfee. Whatever the courts may decide, however the real balance of control lies now, is something that doesn’t concern me at all. That issue lies between you and my employer, Mr. De Reamer. But since you have chosen to attack at a point where I am in authority, I shan’t hesitate to strike back. It isn’t for me to say which side would profit by making it necessary for the governor and his militia to take hold, but I will say that if the governor does seize the road, he will find Mr. De Reamer in possession from Sherman to Red Hills. I am prepared to lose a hundred – two hundred – men in making that good. I have left orders for the shooting to begin at noon to-morrow. If you choose to give any orders, the news must reach Mr. Tiffany by that time. I shall start back at midnight, as my horse is tired, and I wish to allow plenty of time. You can find me here, then, at any time up to twelve o’clock to-night.” He rose. “That, Mr. Durfee, is what I came here to say.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. Carhart,” said General Carrington. “Did I understand you to say that you have enough materials on the ground to finish the line?”

“Practically. Certainly enough for the present.”

“That’s interesting. Even to firewood, I suppose.”

Carhart bowed slightly. “Even to firewood,” he replied, – and walked away.

Byers was asleep in a chair, tipped back against the office wall. Carhart woke him, and engaged a room, where, after eating the meal which Byers had ordered, they could sleep all day.

That evening, as Carhart and Byers were walking around from the stable, they found General Carrington standing on the piazza.

“Oh, Mr. Carhart!” said he.

“Good evening, sir,” said Carhart.

The General produced a letter. “Would you be willing to get this through to Flagg?”

“Certainly.”

“Rather nice evening.”

“Very.”

“Suppose we sample their liquid here – I’m sorry I can’t say much for it. What will you gentlemen have?”

It was ten o’clock in the morning. Carhart, Byers, Dimond, and Tiffany stood on the north knoll.

“I’ll take it down,” said Byers, his eyes glowing through his spectacles on either side of his long nose.

“Go ahead,” said Carhart. “And good luck to you!”

The instrument man took the message and started down the hill. Halfway there was a puff of smoke from Flagg’s camp, and he fell. It was so peaceful there on the hillside, so quiet and so bright with sunshine, the men could hardly believe their eyes. Then they roused. One lost his head and fired. But Dimond, his eyes blazing, swearing under his breath, handed his rifle to Carhart and went running and leaping down the hillside. When he reached the fallen man, he bent over him and took the letter from his hand and, standing erect, waved it. Still holding it above his head, he went on down the hill and disappeared among the rocks that surrounded the camp.

Late that afternoon Flagg’s men straggled out through the hollow, bound for Red Hills. And every large rock on either hillside concealed a man and a rifle. Here and there certain rocks failed in their duty, and Flagg’s men caught glimpses of blue-steel muzzles. So they did not linger.

For a number of reasons, after an attempt to communicate by wire with a little New Hampshire town, and after an unavailing search for representatives of the clergy at La Paz and at Red Hills, it was decided to bury the instrument man where he had fallen. “Near the track,” Young Van suggested. “He would like it that way, I think.”

At six in the morning a long procession filed out of the camp. At the head went the rude coffin on the shoulders of six surveyors and foremen. Paul Carhart and Tiffany followed, the chief with a prayer book in his hand; and after them came the men. The grave was ready. The laborers and the skilled workmen stood shoulder to shoulder in a wide circle, baring their heads to the sun. Carhart opened the book and slowly turned the pages in a quiet so intense that the rustle of the leaves could be heard by every man there. For the ungoverned emotions of these broken outcasts were now swayed to thoughts of death and of what may come after.

“I am the resurrection and the life …” Carhart read the immortal words splendidly, in his even, finely modulated voice. “… I know that my Redeemer liveth… Yet in my flesh shall I see God… We brought nothing into this world and it is certain we can carry nothing out… For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them.”

Gus Vandervelt raised his eyes involuntarily and glanced from one to another of the lustful, weak, wicked faces that made up the greater part of the circle.

“It is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonor, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power.”

Could it be that these wretches were to be raised in incorruption? Was there something hidden behind each of these animal faces, something deeper than the motives which lead such men to work with their hands only that they may eat and drink and die?

“… for the trumpet shall sound, and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed. For … this mortal must put on immortality.”

At the conclusion of the service Young Van, deeply moved, looked about for his brother. But it seemed that the same impulse had come to them both, for he heard a gruff, familiar voice behind him: —

“Look here, Gus, don’t you think you’ve been sort of a d – n fool about this business?”

The young fellow wheeled around with a glad look in his eyes. He saw that his brother was scowling, was not even extending his hand, and yet he knew how much those rough words meant. “Yes,” he replied frankly, “I think I have.”

Old Van nodded, and they walked back to breakfast, side by side. Only once was the silence broken, when Gus said, with some slight hesitation: “What are you going to do next? – Coming back to Sherman with us?”

And Old Van turned his face away and looked off down the river and walked along for a few moments without replying. Then, “No,” he finally got out, “guess I’ll take a little vacation.” He paused, still looking away, and they strode on down the slope. “Going over into Arizona with an outfit,” he added huskily.

CHAPTER X

WHAT TOOK PLACE AT RED HILLS

The last spike in the western extension of the Sherman and Western was driven by no less a personage than President De Reamer himself. In the circle of well-dressed men about him stood General Carrington and a score of department heads of the two lines. The thirty miles of track between the La Paz and Red Hills was laid, without unusual incident, in twenty days – a brilliant finish to what had been a record-breaking performance.

There was to be a dinner at the Frisco Hotel. Everybody knew now that General Carrington had promised to be there and to speak a felicitous word or two welcoming the new C. & S. C. connection. After the spike-driving, Mr. De Reamer, a thin, saturnine figure, could be seen moving about through the little crowd. Once, it was observed, he and General Carrington drew aside and talked in low, earnest tones. The reporters were there, of course, and to these the president was urbane. They had gathered at first about the General, but he had waved them off with a smiling “Talk with my friend De Reamer there. He deserves whatever credit there may be in this thing.” And next these keen-eyed, beardless men of the press bore down in a little group on Carhart, Tiffany, and Young Van, who were standing apart. Tiffany was the first to see them approaching.

“Not a word, boys,” he said in a low voice.

“Why not?” asked Young Van. “I don’t know of anybody who deserves more credit than you two.”

“Not a word,” Tiffany repeated. “It would cost me my job. Mr. De Reamer’s crazy mad now because so much has been said about Paul here. I don’t care to get into it, – just excuse me.”

The reporters were upon them. “Is that Mr. Tiffany?” asked one, indicating the retreating figure.

Carhart nodded.

“Is it true, Mr. Carhart,” asked another, “that he came out and fought under you at the La Paz?”

Carhart smiled. President De Reamer was passing with Mr. Chambers and had paused only a few feet away. “There wasn’t any fighting at the La Paz,” he replied.

“There is a grave there,” the questioner persisted.

“How do you know?”

“I rode out and saw it.”

“Then you should have ridden back the length of the line and you would have found a few other graves.” The chief sobered. “You can’t keep a thousand to two thousand men at work in the desert for months without losing a few of them. I’m sorry that this is so, but it is.”

“Mr. Carhart,” came another abrupt question, this time from the keenest-appearing reporter of them all, “What did you say to General Carrington and Commodore Durfee when you saw them at the Frisco?”

Young Van looked at his chief and saw that the faintest of twinkles was in his eyes. He glanced over his shoulder and made out that De Reamer had paused in his conversation with Mr. Chambers, and was listening to catch Carhart’s reply. For himself, Young Van was blazing with anger that this man, who had in his eyes fairly dragged De Reamer through to a successful termination of the fight, should be robbed of what seemed to him the real reward. He had still something to learn of the way of the world, and everything to learn of the way of Wall Street. Then he heard Carhart replying: —

“You must ask Mr. De Reamer about that. He directs the policy of the Sherman and Western.”

And at this the president of the melancholy visage, and with him his vice-president, passed on out of earshot.

“Mr. Carhart,” – the reporters were still at it, – “one of your assistants, J. B. Flint, was carried on a cot the other day to the C. & S. C. station and put on a train. What was the matter with him?”

Carhart hesitated. Personally he cared not at all whether the facts were or were not given to the public. He felt little pleasure in lying about them. Engineers as a class do not lie very well. But he was doing the work of the Sherman and Western, and the Sherman and Western, for a mixture of reasons, wished the facts covered. And then, somewhat to his relief, the youngest reporter in the group blundered out the question which let him off with half a lie.

“Is it true, Mr. Carhart,” asked this reporter, “that Mr. Flint has been really an invalid for years?”

“Yes,” Carhart replied cheerfully, “it is true.”

The party seemed to be breaking up. Tiffany caught Young Van’s eye, and beckoned. “Come on!” he called – “the Dinner!”

“They are starting, Mr. Carhart,” said Young Van.

“Are they? All right. – That’s all, boys. You can say, with perfect truth, that the Sherman and Western has been completed to Red Hills.”

“And that the H. D. & W. hasn’t,” cried the youngest reporter.

Carhart laughed. “The H. D. & W. will have to do its own talking,” he replied.

“But they aren’t doing any.”

“Can’t help that,” said Carhart. “No more – no more!” And with Young Van he walked off toward the Frisco.

After the dinner the party broke up. Flint and Haddon went West with the Chicago and Southern California officials. The others, who were to start eastward in the late evening, rode off for a shoot on the plains. And it fell out that Carhart and Young Van, who had, from different motives, declined the ride, were left together at the hotel.

“What are you going to do now, Gus?” asked the chief.

Young Van hesitated, then gave way to a nervous smile. Carhart glanced keenly at him, and observed that he had lost color and that the pupils of his eyes were dilated. Now that the strain was over he was himself conscious of a severe physical let-down, and he was not surprised to learn that his assistant was completely unstrung.

Neither was he surprised to hear this hesitating yet perfectly honest reply: “I’ve been thinking I’d start at the first saloon and drink to the other end of town. Want to come along?”

“No,” Carhart replied, “I don’t believe I will, thanks. I meant to ask what work you plan to take up next?”

“Nothing at all.”

“Nothing! – why so?”

“That is easy to answer.” Young Van laughed bitterly. “I have no offers.”

“I’m surprised at that.”

“You don’t really mean that, Mr. Carhart?”

“Certainly I do.”

“Well, it’s more than I can say. If a man came along and offered me a good position, I should feel that I ought to decline it.”

“Why?” Carhart was genuinely interested.

“Why?” Young Van rose and stood looking gloomily down at his chief. “That’s a funny question for you to ask. You’ve been watching my work for these months, and you’ve seen me developing new limitations in every possible direction. All together, I’ve discovered about the choicest crop any man ever opened up. When I started out, I thought I might some day become an engineer. But if this job has taught me anything, it has taught me that I’m the emptiest ass that ever tried to lay two rails, end to end, in a reasonably straight line.” The tremulous quality of his voice told Carhart how deeply the boy had taken his duties to heart.