Under Handicap

by Jackson Gregory

  CHAPTER XX

  A certain old football phrase rang day and night in Conniston's brain,"_It is anybody's game!_" Anybody's game! For there was a chance forsuccess in the Great Work, and he saw that chance clearly, and foughthard for it. If everything went smoothly now, if Mr. Crawford gave himfive hundred more men, if there were no unforeseen obstacles set inhis way, no smashing accidents, he would see the ditches inRattlesnake Valley filled with water by the last day of September. Hehad figured on everything, he had sat late into many a night after thegrind of a twelve or fifteen hour day, frowning over details,calculating to the cubic yard what he must do each and every day,going over his calculations with a care which missed no detail. And heknew that he could play this game safely and win--if they would onlylet him alone! And still he knew that it was anybody's game. CouldSwinnerton block him in some way which he could not foresee, couldSwinnerton make him lose a single day's work, could Swinnerton stealhis five hundred men as he had stolen men in the past, it wasSwinnerton's game.

  Brayley was driving the work in the Valley now. Tommy Garton had hisnew legs from Chicago, and from the seat of a buckboard, sometimesfrom the ground where his crutches sank into the soft sand, he advisedBrayley and watched the work. Conniston was in the mountains, and theLark with fifty men was with him.

  Once in Deep Creek, with the site of Dam Number One before him,Conniston studied long before he gave the order to the Lark to beginwork. Here were the stakes of Truxton's survey, here were thefoundations already laid, here was a nature-made dam-site. He had notneeded the stakes to show him the spot. And still he hesitated.

  Here, where plans had been made for the chief dam, Deep Creek beliedits name. It ran clear and untroubled over a gentle slope, wideningout until from edge to edge of the water it measured close upon fortyfeet. Still farther back upon either hand the sides of the canon stoodin perpendicular walls thirty feet high. Above the site the wallswidened gradually until they formed a pocket, flat-bottomed, half amile wide. Still farther up the creek's course these natural wallsgrew steadily closer together until perhaps three-eighths of a miledeeper in the canon they drew so close together that there wasscarcely more than the width of an ordinary room between them.

  It was this point--the Lark had been here with Bat Truxton when thesurvey was made and called it the "Jaws"--that inspired Conniston'shesitation. Here was a second dam-site, and not until he had studiedboth long and carefully, with a keen eye to advantage anddisadvantage, did he give the word to begin work.

  If it were only a question of a site, with time not an element tosuccess, he would have chosen as Truxton had done and without asecond's doubt. Had he had only to consider the building of a damacross Deep Creek in the shortest possible time, he would have chosenthe site at the Jaws. But the thing which he wanted now was thelargest possible dam in the shortest possible time. There was a pocketabove the Jaws, but it was shorter, narrower. And above it thecreek-bed plunged downward, at times broken into perpendicularwaterfalls, until, yonder at a sharp bend, the water as it now frothedthrough its narrow, rocky canon was on a level with the top of theJaws. He needed to take out water in vast quantities, countlessmillions of gallons of it, to turn into the ditches thirty miles awayacross the dry desert.

  "The one question," he told himself, as he stood upon a boulder whencehe could overlook the two sites, "is, can I get the dam finished whereBat Truxton planned it--get it done in time?"

  And in the end he told himself that if the five hundred men came hecould have his dam completed in time; and that if the five hundred mendid not come the whole task before him was hopeless. Then he waved hishand to the Lark, and the Lark shouted a command which set fifty idlemen to work before the echoes of his voice had died away between therocky walls of the canon.

  The materials he should require--the lumber for the great flume whichwas to turn the water from the weir into the cut which was to be madeacross the spine of the ridge separating Deep Creek from the widercanon through which Indian Creek shot down upon the uplands of theHalf Moon, the kegs of giant powder, the horses and implements--he hadbrought with him or had conveyed hither yesterday from Crawfordsville.He knew that in a very few days now the main canal would be completed,stretching like a mammoth serpent over the five miles of rollinghills through which it twisted intricately to avoid rocky ridges andknolls to follow natural hollows; that when at last Dam Number Oneshould be an actuality of stone and mortar, with the water rising highabove the flood-gates through which he could send it hissing andboiling into the flume, the way was open to shake his victorious fistin the face of nature itself, to drive water across thirty miles ofdesert and into the heart of Rattlesnake Valley.

  Upon one thing Conniston had set his heart before he had beentwenty-four hours in Bat Truxton's shoes. He would forget the datewhich had been marked in red numerals since his first talk with TommyGarton; he would not think once of the first day of October. He wouldhave everything in readiness upon the twenty-fifth day of September.

  He knew that the water would at first run slowly through the drycanals, that the thirsty soil would drink up the first of the preciousgallons, that he must allow himself those five days in order that heplay safe. And now that he had seen the scope of the work to be done,now that he felt that he could manage without the auxiliary dam untilafter the first of October, that the two dams here on Deep Creek andIndian Creek would give him enough water to keep to the terms of thecontract, he believed that he would have everything in readiness bythe twenty-fifth of September.

  For this he had hoped, at first half heartedly; for this he was nowworking. Besides the inducements he had offered his men he nowpromised them a wage of once and a half for overtime. That meant thatfrom the first light of morning until dark, with often less than anhour off at noon, they worked day after day. They fought with theuneven bed of the stream, they fought with great boulders, until theirarms ached in their sockets and their scanty clothing was drenchedwith sweat. Conniston, while he urged them on to do all that was inthem, marveled that they did not break down under the strain.

  Nor did he spare himself. Many a night during the swift weeks whichfollowed he had no more than three or four hours' sleep.

  Until the Lark yelled to his men to "knock" off at night, Connistonlabored with them. Then, when they had rolled heavily into theirblankets, he more than once had saddled his horse and ridden downalong the foothills across the stretch of sand and to Valley City toadvise with Garton, to learn how the work was going there, to plan andorder for the days to follow. He grew gaunt and nervous andhollow-eyed. Heavier and heavier the load of his responsibility restedupon his shoulders. Nearer and nearer came the end of the timeallotted to him, and always the things still to do loomed ahead of himlike mountains of rock. He went for two weeks without shaving, andscarcely realized it. His hands grew to be like the hands of his men,torn and cut and blackened with dirt ground into the skin. His bootswere in strips before he thought of another pair; his clothes wereragged. He thought only of the Great Work.

  In the Present, which came to him with tight-clenched, iron fingersgripping the promise which he must rend from them with the strength ofbrain and brawn, there was only the Great Work. The Past extended backonly to the day when Bat Truxton had fallen and he had been called totake the place of command; and since then there had been only theGreat Work. And the Future, mocking him now, smiling upon him the nextday, then hiding her face in her misty veil, held high above his headthe success or the failure of the Great Work.

  And as he grew haggard and tense-nerved and unkempt, little linesformed about the corners of his mouth which would have told WilliamConniston, Senior, that there had been wrought in his son a changewhich was not of the body, not of the mind alone, but even of thesecret soul.

  He thought that he should have heard from Mr. Crawford by now, and yetno word had reached him. When the day's work had been done upon thedam he rode the ten miles into Crawfordsville and inquired at theWestern Union office for a telegram. No, nothing had c
ome. The nextday he was as short-spoken as Bat Truxton had been the day beforeHapgood had tempted him, as irritable. He saw half a dozen menstruggling with a great rugged mass of rock, and cursed them for theirslowness. And then he turned away from the Lark's curious eyes, bitinghis lips. For he knew that they were doing all that six bigiron-bodied men could do, and that he was not fit.

  Again that night he rode to Crawfordsville. He thought that thetelegraph agent grinned maliciously as he tossed a yellow envelopeupon the counter.

  "Sign here, Mr. Conniston," he said.

  Conniston signed and, stepping outside, read the words which drove agroan to his lips:

  "WILLIAM CONNISTON, Jr.,

  "General Supt., Crawford Reclamation, Crawfordsville.

  "No success yet. May have to go to St. Louis for the money. Hope to have men in four or five days.

  "JOHN W. CRAWFORD."

  He did not see Jocelyn Truxton in front of the post-office as he rodepast, did not see Hapgood come out of the two-story building and joinher. He saw only the days which were rushing down upon him, offeringhim a broken, blunt weapon to fight a giant.

  Never once had Conniston doubted as he doubted now. Never before hadall glint of hope been lost in rayless blackness. If he had the fivehundred men, _if he had them now_, there was a fighting chance. But ifhe must wait another week before they came--

  To-day the telephone line had been completed to Valley City. All dayhe had looked forward to a talk with Argyl. Now he swept by the littleoffice without lifting his head. He could not talk with her; he couldnot talk with Tommy Garton even. They would know soon enough, and theywould know from other lips than his.

  That night he slept little, but sat staring at the stars, searchingstubbornly to find his lost hope, struggling over and over to see theway. And all that he could see was a long, dry, ugly cut in thedesert, a vain, foolish, stupid thing; Mr. Crawford a ruined, brokenman; Argyl smitten with sorrow and disappointment; himself thevanquished leader of a mad campaign; Oliver Swinnerton and hisservitors flushed with victory. Still he fought to find the way, andshut his lips tight together, and strove to shut from his mind thepictures which his insistent fancy painted there. And when morningcame and he walked to the dam which was taking form, pale, worn withthe fatigue of the night after the fatigue of the day, he snapped outhis orders half viciously, and watched with a hard smile while hishandful of men resumed their mammoth task.

  "Take it from me"--the Lark was regarding him curiously--"you bettergo git some sleep, or it's goin' to be a redwood box for yours."

  The sun had just pushed a shining edge of its burning disk over themountain-tops when Conniston suddenly cried out like a man awakingfrom the clutch of a frightful nightmare, and pointed with shakingfinger to the road winding up the canon.

  "What's up, 'bo?" asked the Lark, swinging upon him.

  "I don't know," Conniston said, harshly. "I--guess I'm just seeingthings. Look!"

  A wagon had crept around a turn in the road, and its long bed wasclose packed with the forms of men standing upright, their hands uponthe back of the high seat or upon one another's shoulders to steadythemselves as the wagon pitched and lurched over the ill-defined road.Around the bend another wagon, similarly loaded with a human freightwhich taxed the strength of four puffing horses, came into view. Andbehind that another and another--

  "Am I seeing things?" snapped Conniston, his hand biting into theLark's shoulder. "What is that?"

  "Them," grunted the Lark, wriggling like an eel in Conniston's grip,"is your five hundred new guys, or I'm a liar! An' fergit you're thestrong man in a sideshow doin' stunts with a rag doll--"

  But Conniston did not hear him. Already he was running toward thewagons. And there was a light in his eyes which had not been there formany days. A little, youngish man, sandy of hair, with bird-likebrightness of eye and the grin of a sanctified cherub, swung down fromthe seat of the foremost wagon, lifted his hand, thereby stopping thelaboring procession, and came forward to meet Conniston.

  "I want to talk with the superintendent," he said, as the two men met."Where is he?"

  "I'm the superintendent. I'm Conniston. You want me?"

  "All right, Mr. Conniston. I'm Jimmie Kent."

  He put out his hand, which was painfully small, but which grippedConniston's larger hand like a vise. "There are your five hundred men.Or, to be exact, five hundred and five. I started with five hundredand seven. Lost two on the road."

  "But," interrupted Conniston, staring half incredulously at him, "Mr.Crawford's telegram--"

  Jimmie Kent laughed.

  "Mr. Crawford kicked like a bay steer over that telegram. And in theend, when he wouldn't put his name to a lie, I did the trick for him."

  "But why?"

  "Simply, sir, because I am under contract to deliver five hundred meninto your hands. Simply because the telegraph agent in Crawfordsvillebelongs body and soul, bread and butter, to our esteemed friend Mr.Oliver Swinnerton. Know Oliver personally? Capable man, charming host,but the very devil to buck when he has his back aloft! And they tellme that he is playing high this trip. It was just as well, don't youthink, that I sent that wire? Had Oliver known that this consignmentof hands was coming, and when they were coming--well, I don't know howhe would have managed it, but one way or another he would have comemighty close to taking them off my hands. And now," whipping a big,fat note-book from his pocket, "will you sign right there?"

  Kent removed the cap from a gold-filigreed fountain-pen, handed itwith a bit of paper and the note-book to Conniston, and pointed outwhere the signature was wanted. And Conniston set his name down undera statement acknowledging the receipt from James Kent of five hundredand five men, "in good and satisfactory shape."

  "Thank you, Mr. Conniston," as he blotted and returned the document tohis breast pocket. "Perhaps, however, you would have preferred to havecounted before signing?"

  "That's all right. I'll take your word for it. If there aren't fivehundred, there are as good as five hundred. And thank God, and you,Jimmie Kent, that they are here!"

  "Need 'em pretty bad? Well, I'm glad I got 'em to you in time. And youmight as well know how I did it. I unloaded my men at Littleton, twohundred miles east of here. And then I chartered a freight and sneaked'em into Bolton at night. Got into Bolton last night, and came rightout. I don't believe," with a genial grin, "that our friend Oliverknows a thing about it yet. I do believe that that wire to you atCrawfordsville has got him sidetracked."

  Conniston called the Lark to him.

  "I am going to put two hundred more men to work right here and rightnow," he said, swiftly. "You get double salary to act as generalforeman over the two hundred and fifty. Divide your old gang of fiftyinto five parts, ten each. Break up the new gang of two hundred intofive sections, forty men to a section. Then put ten of our old men towork with each section of forty, making, when that is done, fivegangs, fifty men to the gang. Understand?"

  The Lark nodded, his eyes bright.

  "Then pick out from your old gang the five best men you have. Nofavoritism--understand me? The five best men! You know them betterthan I do. I want them to do the sort of thing you have been doing,each of them to act as section boss, under you, over fifty men. Sendthem to me. And get a move on!"

  The Lark shot away, losing no time in question or answer. A momentlater five big, strapping fellows stood before Conniston, eying himcuriously.

  "You fellows," Conniston told them, bluntly, "are to act as sectionbosses. You are to get the wages the Lark here has been getting. Youare to get the same money I offered him for every day between thefirst of October and the day we get water into the Valley. You are totake orders from him and no questions asked. You can hold your jobsjust as long as you do the work. If you can't do the work you'll getfired and another man put in your place. Come along with me. And you,"to the Lark, "come too."

  He swung off toward the wagons, the five men and Jimmie Kent followinghim. At the first wagon he called to the
men to "climb out." As theyclambered down the men in the other wagons got to the ground and cameforward.

  "I want forty men," Conniston called. "Walk by me single file so I cancount."

  When the fortieth had passed him he raised his hand.

  "You," he said to the one of the new foremen nearest him, "take theseforty men, add ten of the old section to them, and go to work on thedam. Wait a minute. Have you boys had any breakfast?"

  They had not.

  "Go to the cook, then," he ordered. "Tell him to give you the best hecan sling out at quick notice. Tell him that there will be one hundredand sixty more to feed. I'll send for more grub right away."

  The men passed on to the cook's tent, and one after another Connistoncounted off the other sections of forty and sent them to be fed.

  "The rest of you," he called to the three hundred men who had watchedtheir fellows move away, "go to the Valley. You can loaf until wescare up something to eat for you and until the horses rest a bit.I'll send right away to Crawfordsville--"

  "Mr. Conniston," interrupted Jimmie Kent, "in those two wagons backthere is a lot of grub. And tools," he added. "Mr. Crawford had mepick them up in Littleton."