by Zane Grey
Fresno appeared at fault for speech. “Benton’s a beehive,” he replied presently. “An’ when the bees come home with their honey, why the red ants an’ scorpions an’ centipedes an’ rattlesnakes get busy. I’ve seen some places in my time, but Benton beats ’em all . . . Say, I’ll sneak you out at night to see what’s goin’ on. An’ I’ll treat you handsome. I’m sorta . . .”
The entrance of Durade cut short Fresno’s further speech.
“What are you saying to her?” demanded Durade in anger.
“I was jest tellin’ her about what a place Benton is,” replied Fresno.
“Allie, is that true?” queried Durade sharply.
“Yes,” she replied.
“Fresno, I did not like your looks.”
“Boss, if you don’t like ’em, you know what you can do,” rejoined Fresno impudently, and he lounged out of the room.
“Allie, these men are all bad,” said Durade. “You must avoid them when my back’s turned. I cannot run my place without them, so I am compelled to endure much.”
Allie’s attendant came in then with her supper and she went to her room.
Thus began Allie Lee’s life as an unwilling and innocent accomplice of Durade in his retrogression from a gambler to a criminal. In California he had played the game, diamond cut diamond. But he had broken. His hope, spirit, luck, nerve were gone. The bottle and Benton had magnifying and terrible influence upon his passion for gambling.
The days passed swiftly. Every afternoon Durade introduced a new company to his private den. Few ever came twice. Yet Allie knew that all who entered to gaze at her had heard of her. This was sickening, although it had a grain of hope, for if all the men in Benton or out on the road could only pass through Durade’s hall, the time would come when she would meet Neale or Reddy. She lived for that. She was constantly on the look-out for a man she could trust with her story. Honest-faced laborers were not wanting in that stream of visitors Durade ushered into her presence, but either they were drunk or obsessed by gambling, or no opportunity afforded to give a hint to one that might bring him back again. Durade did not want any visitors of this kind to return. Many who had been there tried, but failed, to gain admittance. Durade and his dealers worked deliberately.
These afternoons grew to be hideous for Allie. She had been subjected to every possible attention, annoyance, indignity, and insult, except direct violence. She could only shut her eyes and ears and lips. Fresno found many opportunities to approach her, sometimes with Durade there, blind to all but the cards and gold. At such times Allie wished she were sightless and deaf and feelingless. But after she was safely in her room again, she told herself nothing had happened. She was still the same as she had always been. And sleep obliterated what she had suffered. Every day was one nearer to that fateful and approaching moment. And when that moment did come, what would all this horror amount to? It would fade—be as nothing. She would not let words and eyes harm her. They were not tangible—they had no substance for her. They made her sick with rage and revolt at the moment, but they had no power, no taint, no endurance. They were evil passing winds.
As she saw Durade’s retrogression, so she saw the changes in all about him. His winnings were large and his strong passion for play increased with them. The free gold that enriched Fresno and Mull and Andy augmented the wildness that claimed them. There were Durade’s other helpers—Black, his swarthy doorkeeper, and a pallid fellow called Dayos, who always glanced behind him, and Grist, a short, lame, bullet-headed, silent man—all of them subtly changed till the change was great. Their usefulness to Durade was not in gambling among themselves, but they would do it. He could not control them. Violence threatened many times to be enacted in the private den, yet always held off, until the second visit of the gambler, Jones. With Durade’s success had come the craze for bigger stakes, and these could only be played for with other gamblers. So the black-frocked cold-faced sharps became frequent visitors at Durade’s. Jones won on that second visit—a fatal winning for him. Allie saw the giant Fresno suddenly fling himself upon Jones and bear him to the floor. Then Allie fled to her room. But she heard curses—a shot—a groan—Durade’s loud voice proclaiming that the gambler had cheated—and then the scraping of a heavy body being dragged out.
This murder horrified Allie, yet sharpened her senses. She had seen the light of the days. Providence had protected her. Durade had grown rich—wild—vain—mad to pit himself against the coolest and more skillful gamblers in Benton—and therefore his end was imminent. Allie lay in the dark, listening to Benton’s strange wailing roar, sad yet hideous, and out of what she had seen and heard, and from the mournful message on the night wind, she realized how closely associated were gold and evil and men, and inevitably they must lead to wildness and to blood and to death.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Following Ruby’s death and Larry Red King’s wildness, Neale resumed his work with the railroad. He kept alive his hope of finding Allie Lee. More and more, as the work progressed, Neale was entrusted with important inspections.
Long since he had discovered his talent for difficult problems, and with experience had come new confidence in his powers. He had been sent from place to place, in each case with favorable results. General Lodge consulted him, Baxter relied upon him, the young engineers learned from him. And when Baxter and his assistants were sent on ahead into the Rockies, Neale had an enormous amount of work on his hands. Still he usually managed to get back to Benton at night.
Whereupon at once he became a seeker, a searcher, and he believed there was not a tent or a hut or a store or a hall in the town that he had not visited. But he found no clue of Allie; he never encountered the well-remembered face of the bandit, Fresno. He saw more than one Spaniard and many Mexicans, not one of whom could have been the gambler Durade. But Benton was too full, too changeful, too secret to be thoroughly searched in little time. Neale bore his burden, although it grew heavier each day. And his growing work on the railroad was his salvation.
One morning he went to the telegraph station expecting orders from General Lodge. He found the chief’s special train at the station headed east.
“Neale, I’m off for Omaha,” said Lodge. “Big pow-wow. The directors roaring again.”
“What about?” queried Neale, always alive to interest of that nature.
“Cost of the construction. What else? Neale, there are two kinds of men building the U.P.R. . . . Men who see the meaning of the great work . . . and men who see only the gold in it.”
“And they conflict . . . That’s what you mean?”
“Exactly. We’ve been years on the job now . . . and the nearer the meeting of rails from west to east . . . the harder our problems. Kenney played out . . . Boone is ill . . . and Baxter won’t last much longer. If I was not an old soldier I would be done up now.”
“Chief, I can see only success,” replied Neale, with spirit.
“Assuredly. We see with the same eyes,” said General Lodge, smiling. “Neale, I’ve a job for you that will make you gray-headed.”
“Hardly that,” returned Neale, laughing.
“Do you remember the survey we made out there in the Black Hills for Number Ten bridge? Made over two years ago.”
“I’m not likely to forget it.”
“Well, the rails are within twenty miles of Number Ten. There’ll be there presently . . . and no piers to cross on.”
“How’s that?”
“I don’t know. The report came in only last night. It’s a queer document. Here it is. Study it at your leisure . . . It seems a big force of men have been working there for months. Piers have been put in . . . only to sink!”
“Sink!” ejaculated Neale. “Whew! That’s a stumper . . . Chief, the survey is mine . . . I’ll never forget how I worked on it.”
“Could you have made a mistake?”
“Of course,” replied Neale readily. “But I’d never believe that unless I saw it. A tough job it was . . . but just th
e kind of work I eat up.”
“Well, you can go out and eat it up some more.”
“That means I’ll have to camp out there. I can’t get back to Benton.”
“No, you can’t. And isn’t that just as well?” queried the chief, with his keen dark glance on Neale. “Son, I’ve heard your name coupled with gamblers . . . and that Stanton woman.”
“No doubt. I know them. I’ve been . . . seeking some trace of . . . Allie.”
“You still hope to find her? You still imagine some of this riff-raff Benton gang made off with her?”
“Yes.
“Son . . . it’s scarcely possible,” said Lodge earnestly. “Anderson claims the Sioux got to her. We’re all inclined to that . . . Oh, it’s hard, Neale . . . Love and life are only atoms under the iron heel of the U.P.R. . . . It’s too late now. You can’t forget . . . no . . . but you must not risk your life . . . your opportunities . . . your reputation.”
Neale turned away his face a moment and was silent. An engine whistled; a bell began to ring; some train official called to General Lodge.
The chief held up his hand for a little more delay. “I’m off,” he said rapidly. “Neale, you’ll go out to Number Ten and take charge.”
That surprised and thrilled Neale into eagerness. “Who are the engineers?”
“Blake and Coffee. I don’t know them. Henney sent them out from Omaha. They’re well recommended. But that’s no matter. Something is wrong. You’re to have full charge of engineers, bosses, masons. In fact I’ve sent word out to that effect.”
“Who’s the contractor?” asked Neale.
“I don’t know. But whoever he is, he has made a pile of money out of this job . . . And the job’s not done. That’s what galls me.”
“Well, chief, it will be done,” said Neale, sharp with determination.
“Good! Neale, I’ll start east with another load off my shoulders . . . And, son . . . if you throw up a bridge so there’ll be no delay, something temporary for the rails and the work train . . . and then plan piers right for Number Ten . . . well . . . you’ll hear from it, that’s all.”
They shook hands.
“I may be gone a week or a month, I can’t tell,” went on the chief. “But when I do come, I’ll probably have a train load of directors, commissioners, stockholders.”
“Bring them on,” said Neale. “Maybe if they saw more of what we’re up against, they wouldn’t holler so.”
“Right . . . Remember, you’ve full charge and that I trust you implicitly. Good bye and good luck!”
The chief boarded his train as it began to move. Neale watched it leave the station and with a swelling heart he realized that he had been placed high, that his promotion of advancement had not been without warrant.
The work train was backing into the station, and would depart westward in short order. Neale hurried to his lodgings to pack his few belongings. King was lying on his cot, fully dressed and asleep. Neale shook him.
“Wake up, you lazy son-of-a-gun!” shouted Neale.
King opened his eyes.
“Wal, what’s wrong? Is it last night or tomorrow?”
“Red, I’m off. Got charge of a big job.”
“Is thet all?” drawled King sleepily. “Why, shore I always knowed you’d be chief engineer someday.”
“Pard . . . sit up,” said Neale unsteadily. “Will you stay sober . . . and watch . . . and listen for some news of Allie . . . Till I come back to Benton?”
“Neale, air you still dreamin’?” asked King incredulously.
“No . . . Will you do that much for me?”
“Shore.”
“Thank you, old friend. Good bye now . . . I’ve got to rustle.”
He left King sitting on his cot, staring at nothing. Neale had to run to catch the work train.
A brawny Irishman extended a red-sleeved arm to help him up. “Up wid yez . . . Thar!”
Neale found himself with bag and rifle and blanket sprawling on the gravel-covered floor of a flat car. Casey, the old lineman, grinned at him over the familiar short, black pipe.
“B’gorra, it’s me ould friend Neale!”
“It sure is. How’re you, Casey?”
“Pretty good for an ould soldier . . . An’ it’s news I hear of yez, me boy!”
“What news?”
“Shure yez hed a boost. General Lodge hisself was tellin’ Grady, the boss, that yez had been given charge of Number Ten.”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“I’m domn’ glad to hear ut,” declared the Irishman. “But yez hev a hell of a job in that Number Ten.”
“So I’ve been told. What do you know about it, Casey?”
“Shure, ut ain’t much. A friend of mine was mixin’ mortar over there. An’ he sez when the crick was dry ut hed a bottom, but whin wet ut shure hed none.”
“Then I have got a job on my hands,” replied Neale grimly.
* * * * *
These days, it took the work train several hours to reach the end of the rails. Neale rode by some places with a profound satisfaction in the certainty that, but for him, the track would not yet have been spiked there. Construction was climbing fast into the Black Hills. He wondered when and where would be the long looked-for meeting of the rails connecting East with West. Word had drifted over the mountains that the Pacific division of the construction was already in Utah.
At the camp Colonel Dillon offered Neale an escort of troopers out to Number Ten, but Neale decided he could make better time alone. There had been no late sign of the Indians in that locality and he knew both the road and the trail.
Early next morning, mounted on a fast horse, he set out. It was a melancholy ride. For several times he had been over that ground, once traveling west with King, full of ardor and joy at the prospect of soon seeing Allie Lee, and again on the return, in despair at loss of her.
He rode the twenty miles in three hours. The camp of dirty tents was clustered in a hot dusty valley surrounded by hills sparsely fringed with trees. Neale noted the timber as a lucky augury to his enterprise. It was an idle camp, full of lolling laborers.
As Neale dismounted a Mexican came forward.
“Look after the horse,” said Neale, and, taking his luggage, he made for a big tent with a fly extended in front. Several men sat on camp chairs around a table. One of them got up, and stepped out.
“Where’s Blake and Coffee?” inquired Neale.
“I’m Blake,” was the reply. “And there’s Coffee. Are you Mister Neale?”
“Yes.”
“Coffee, here’s our new boss!” called Blake, as he took part of Neale’s baggage.
Coffee appeared to be a sunburned, middle-aged man, rather bluff and hearty in his greeting. The younger engineer, Blake, was a tanned, thin-faced individual, with a shifty gaze and constrained manner. The third fellow they introduced as a lineman named Somers. Neale had not anticipated a cordial reception and felt disposed to be generous.
“Have you got quarters for me here?” he inquired.
“Sure. There’s lots of room and a cot,” replied Coffee.
They carried Neale’s effects inside the tent. It was large and spare, containing table and lamp, boxes for seats, several cots and bags.
“It’s hot. Got any drinking water?” asked Neale, taking off his coat. Next he opened his bag to take things out, then drank thirstily of the water offered him. He did not care much for this part of his new task. These engineers might be sincere and competent, but he had been sent on to judge of their work, and the situation was not pleasant. Neale had observed many engineers come and go during his experience on the road, and that fact, with the authority given him and his loyalty to the chief, gave him cause for worry. He hoped, and he was ready to believe, these engineers had done their best on an extremely knotty problem.
“We got Lodge’s telegram last night,” said Coffee. “Kinda sudden. It jarred me.”
“No doubt. I’m sorry. What was the message?”
“Lodge never wastes words,” replied the engineer shortly. But he did not vouchsafe the information Neale asked.
Then Neale threw his notebook upon the dusty table, and, sitting down on a box, he looked up at the men. Both engineers were studying him intently, almost eagerly, Neale imagined.
“Number Ten’s a tough nut to crack, eh?” he inquired.
“We’ve been here three months,” replied Blake.
“Wait till you see that quicksand hole,” added Coffee.
“Quicksand! It was a dry solid streambed when I ran the line through here and drew the plans for Number Ten,” declared Neale.
Coffee and Blake stared blankly at him. So did the lineman, Somers.
“You! Did you draw the plans we . . . we’ve been working on?” asked Coffee.
“Yes, I did,” answered Neale slowly. It struck him that Blake had paled slightly. Neale sustained a slight shock of surprise and antagonism. He bent over his notebook, opening it to a clean page. Fighting his first impressions, he decided they had arisen from the manifest dismay of the engineers and their consciousness of a blunder.
“Let’s get down to notes,” Neale went on, taking up his pencil. “You’ve been here three months?”
“Yes.”
“With what force?”
“Two hundred men on and off.”
“Who’s the gang boss?”
“Colohan. He’s had some of the biggest contracts along the line.”
Neale was about to inquire the name of the contractor, but he refrained, governed by one of his peculiar impulses.
“Anybody working when you got here?” he supplemented.
“Yes. Masons had been cutting stone for six weeks.”
“What’s been done?”
Coffee laughed harshly. “We got the three piers in . . . good and solid on dry bottom. Then along comes the rain . . . and our work melts into the quicksand. Since then we’ve been trying to do it over.”
“But why did this happen in the first place?”
Coffee spread wide his arms. “Ask me something easy. Why was the bottom dry and solid? Why did it rain? Why did solid earth turn into quicksand?”
