Union Pacific

by Zane Grey

  Neale slapped the notebook shut and rose to his feet. “Gentlemen, that is not the talk of engineers,” he said deliberately.

  “The hell you say! What is it then?” burst out Coffee, his face blushing redder.

  “I’ll tell you later,” replied Neale, turning to the lineman. “Somers, tell this gang boss, Colohan, I want him.” Then Neale left the tent. He had started to walk away when he heard Blake speak in a fierce undertone.

  “Didn’t I tell you? We’re up against it!”

  And Coffee growled a reply Neale could not understand. But the tone of it was conclusive. These men had made a serious blunder and were blaming each other, hating each other for it. Neale was conscious of anger. This section of line came under his survey, and he had been proud to be given such important and difficult work. Incompetent or careless engineers had bungled Number Ten. Neale strode among the idle and sleeping laborers, between the tents, and then past the blacksmith’s shop and the feed corrals down to the river.

  A shallow stream of muddy water came murmuring down from the hills. It covered the wide bed that Neale remembered had been a dry, sand-and-gravel waste. On each side the abutment piers had been undermined and washed out. Not a stone remained in sight. The banks were hollowed inward, and shafts of heavy boards were sliding down. In the middle of the stream stood a coffer dam in course of building, and near it another that had collapsed. These frameworks almost hid the top of the middle pier, which had evidently slid over, and was sinking on its side. There was no telling what had been sunk in that hole. All the surroundings—the tons of stone, cut and uncut, the piles of moldy lumber, the platforms and rafts, the manifestations in the worn shores up and down both sides—all attested to the long weeks of fruitless labor, and to the engulfing mystery of that shallow, murmuring stream.

  Neale returned thoughtfully to camp. Blake and Coffee were sitting under the fly in company with a stalwart Irishman.

  “Fine sinkhole you picked out for Number Ten, don’t you think?” queried Blake.

  Neale eyed his interrogator with somewhat of a penetrating glance. Blake did not frankly meet that gaze. The young man seemed to be laboring with what Neale took to be a bitterness difficult to conceal.

  “Yes, it’s a sinkhole, all right, and no mistake,” replied Neale. “It’s just what I calculated when I run the plans . . . Did you follow those plans?”

  Blake appeared about to reply when Coffee cut him short. “Certainly we did,” he snapped.

  “Then where are the breakwaters?” asked Neale sharply.

  “Breakwaters?” ejaculated Coffee. His surprise was sincere.

  “Yes, breakwaters,” retorted Neale. “I drew plans for breakwaters to be built upstream, so that in high water the rapid current would be directed equally between the piers, and not against them.”

  “Oh, yes . . . why . . . we must have got . . . it mixed,” replied Coffee. “Thought they were to be built last. Wasn’t that it, Blake?”

  “Sure,” replied his colleague, but his tone lacked something.

  “Ah . . . I see,” said Neale slowly.

  Then the big Irishman got up to extend a huge hand. “I’m Colohan,” he boomed.

  Neale liked the bronzed, rough face, good-natured and intelligent. And he was aware of a shrewd pair of gray eyes taking his measure. Why these men seemed to want to look through Neale might have been natural enough, but began to be strange to him. He had come there to help them, not to discharge them. Colohan, however, did not rouse Neale’s antagonism as the others had begun to.

  “Colohan, are you sick of this job?” queried Neale, after greeting the boss.

  “Yes . . . an’ no,” replied Colohan.

  “You want to quit, then?” went on Neale bluntly.

  The Irishman evidently took this curt query as a foreword of the coming dismissal. He looked shamed, crestfallen, at a loss to reply.

  “Don’t misunderstand me,” continued Neale. “I’m not going to fire you. But if you are sick of the job, you can quit. I’ll boss the gang myself . . . The rails will be here in ten days. And I’m going to have a trestle over that hole so the rails can cross. No holding up the work at this stage of the game! There’s near five thousand men in the gangs back along the line . . . coming fast. They’ve all become imbued with one idea . . . success. The U.P.R. is going through. Soon out here the rails will meet! Colohan, make it a matter of your preference. Will you stick?”

  “You bet!” he replied heartily. A ruddy glow emanated from his face. Neale was quick to sense that this Irishman, like Casey, had an honest love for the railroad, whatever he might feel for the labor.

  “Get on the job then,” ordered Neale cheerily. “We’ll hustle while there’s daylight. We’ll have that trestle ready when the rails get here.”

  Coffee laughed scornfully. “Neale, that sounds fine, but it’s impossible, until the trains get here with piles and timbers, iron, etcetera. We meant to run up a trestle then.”

  “I daresay,” replied Neale. “But the U.P.R. did not start that way, and never would finish that way.”

  “Well, you’ll have your troubles,” declared Coffee.

  “Troubles! Do you imagine I’m going to think of myself?” retorted Neale. These fellows were beginning to get on his nerves. Coffee grew sullen, Blake shifted uneasily from foot to foot, Colohan beamed upon Neale.

  “Come on with them orders,” Colohan said.

  “Right! Send men up on the hills to cut and trim trees for piles and beams . . . Find a way or make one for horses to snake down these timbers. Haul that pile driver down to the river and set it up . . . Have the engineer start up steam and try out . . . Look the blacksmith shop over to see if there’s iron enough. If not, telegraph Benton for more . . . for whatever you want . . . and send wagons back to the end of the rails . . . That’s all for this time, Colohan.”

  “All right, chief,” replied the boss, and he saluted. Then he turned sneeringly to Blake and Coffee. “Did you hear them orders? I’m not takin’ none from you again. They’re from the chief.”

  Colohan’s manner or tone or the word “chief” annoyed Coffee. He looked nasty. “Go on and work, then, you big Irish paddy,” he said violently. “Your chief blarney doesn’t fool us. You’re only working to get on the right side of your new boss . . . Let me tell you . . . you’re in this Number Ten deal as deep as we are.”

  It had developed that there was hatred between these men. Colohan’s face turned fiery red, and, looming over Coffee, he looked the quick-tempered and dangerous nature of his class.

  “Coffee, I’m sayin’ this to your face . . . right now. I ain’t deep in this Number Ten deal . . . I obeyed orders . . . an’ darn’ strange ones, some of them.”

  Neale intervened and perhaps prevented a clash. “Don’t quarrel, men. Sure there’s bound to be a little friction for a day or so. But we’ll soon get to working smooth.”

  Colohan strode away without another word. His brawny shoulders were expressive of a doubt.

  “Get me my plans for Number Ten construction,” said Neale pleasantly. The situation appeared disagreeable, but he meant to do his share at making the best of it.

  Blake brought the plans and spread them out on the table.

  “Will you both go over them with me?” queried Neale.

  “What’s the use?” returned Coffee disgustedly. “Neale, you’re thick-headed.”

  “Yes, I guess so,” rejoined Neale constrainedly. “That’s why General Lodge sent me up here . . . over your clear heads.”

  No retort was forthcoming from the two disgruntled engineers. Neale went into the tent and drew a seat up to the table in there. He wanted to be alone—to study his plans—to think about the whole matter. He found his old figures and drawings as absorbing as a good story; still there came breaks in his attention. Blake walked into the tent several times, as if to speak, and each time he retired silently. Again some messenger brought a telegram to one of the engineers outside, and it must have caused th
e whispered colloquy that followed. Finally they went away, and Neale, getting to work in earnest, was not disturbed until called for supper.

  Neale ate at a mess table with the laborers, and enjoyed his meal. The paddies always took to him. One thing he gathered early was the fact that Number Ten bridge was a joke with the men. This sobered Neale and he left the cheery bantering company for a quiet walk alone.

  It was twilight down in the valley, while still daylight up on the hilltops. A faint glow remained from the sunset, but it faded as Neale looked. He walked a goodly distance from camp, so as to be out of earshot. The cool night air was pleasant after the hot day. It fanned his face. And the silence, the darkness, the stars calmed him. A lonely wolf mourned from the heights, and the long wail brought to mind Slingerland’s cabin. Then it was only a quick stop to memory of Allie Lee, and Neale drifted from the perplexities and problems of his new responsibility to haunting memories, hopes, doubts, fears.

  When he returned to the tent, he espied a folded paper on the table in the yellow lamp light. It was a telegram addressed to him. It said that back salaries and retention of engineers were at his discretion, and was signed by Lodge. This message nonplussed Neale. What was there that he had not found out? The chief meant that Blake and Coffee would not be paid for past work nor kept for future work unless Neale decided otherwise. While he was puzzling over this message, the engineers came in.

  “Say, what do you make of this?” demanded Neale, and he shoved the telegram across the table toward them.

  Both men read it. Coffee threw his coat over on his cot, and then lit his pipe. “What I make of that is . . . I lose three months back pay. Nine hundred dollars,” he replied, puffing a cloud of smoke.

  “And I lose six hundred,” supplemented Blake.

  Neale leaned back and gazed up at his subordinates. He felt a subtle change in them. Something had been decided for them.

  “But this message reads at my discretion,” said Neale. “It’s a plain surprise to me. I’ve no intention of making you lose your back pay, or of firing you, either.”

  “You’ll probably do both . . . unless we can get together,” assented Coffee.

  “That remains to be seen,” was the enigmatic reply. “I’ll need you both,” went on Neale thoughtfully. “We’ve a big job. We’ve got to put a force of men on the piers while we’re building the trestle . . . Maybe I’ll fall down myself . . . Heavens, I’ve made blunders. I can’t condemn you fellows. I’m willing to call off all talk about past performances and begin over again.”

  Neale felt that this proposition should have put another light on the question and should have been received appreciatively if not enthusiastically. But he was somewhat taken aback by the fact that it was not.

  “Ahem! Well, we can talk it over tomorrow.” Coffee yawned.

  Neale made no more overtures, busied himself with his notes for an hour, and then sought his cot.

  * * * * *

  Next morning, bright and early, Neale went down to the river to make his close inspection of what had been done toward building Number Ten. From Colohan he ascertained the number of shafts and coffer dams sunk; from the masons he learned the amount of stone cut to patterns. And he was not only amazed and astounded, but overwhelmed, and incensed beyond expression. The labor had been prodigious. Hundreds of tons of material had been sunk there, and that meant that hundreds of thousands of dollars also had been sunk.

  Upon investigation Neale found that as often as cribbings had been sunk for the piers, they had never been sunk deep enough. Coffer dams that did not dam at all had been useless, senseless wastes of time and material, not to say wages. His plans called for fifty thirty-foot piles driven to bedrock, which, according to the excavations he had had made at the time of survey, was forty feet below the surface. Not a pile had been driven! There had been no solid base for any of the cribbings! No foundations for the piers!

  At the discovery a bursting gush of blood burned hotly in Neale’s face and neck. “No blunder. No incompetence. No misreading of my plans. But a rotten deliberate deal. Work done over and over again! Oh, I see it all now. General Lodge knew it without ever coming here. The same old story. That black stain . . . that dishonor on the great work! Graft! Graft!”

  He clambered out of the wet and muddy hole and up the bank. Then he saw Blake sauntering across the flat toward him. Neale sat down abruptly to hide his face and fury, giving himself the task of scraping mud from his boots. When Blake got there, Neale had himself fairly well in hand as to exterior appearances.

  “Hello, Neale,” said Blake suavely. “Collected some mud, I see. It’s sure a dirty job.”

  “Yes, it’s been dirty in more ways than mud, I guess,” replied Neale. The instant his voice sounded in his ears it unleashed his temper.

  “Sure has been a pile of money . . . dirty government money . . . sunk in there,” rejoined Blake. He had assurance that surprised Neale into a desire to see how far he would go.

  “Blake, it’s an ill wind that blows nobody good.”

  A moment of silence passed before Blake spoke again. “Sure. And it’ll blow you good, too,” he said, breathing hard.

  “Every man has his price,” replied Neale lightly. Then he felt a big soft roll of bills stuffed into his hand. He took it, trembling all over. He wanted to spring erect—to fling that bribe in its giver’s face. But he could control himself a moment longer. “Blake, who’s the contractor on this job?” he queried rapidly.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, we supposed you knew. It’s Lee.”

  Neale started as if he had received a stab; the name hurt him in one way and was a shock in another. “Allison Lee . . . the commissioner?” he asked thickly.

  “Sure. Oh, we’re in right, Neale,” replied Blake, with a laugh of relief.

  Swift as an Indian, and as savagely, Neale sprang up. He threw the roll of bills into Blake’s face. “You try to bribe me! Me!” burst out Neale passionately. “You think I’ll take your dirty money . . . cover up your crooked job? Why, you sneak! You thief! You dog!” He knocked Blake down.

  “Hold . . . on . . . Neale!” gasped Blake. He raised himself on his elbow, half stunned.

  “Pick up that money,” ordered Neale, and he threatened Blake again. “Hurry! Now march for camp!”

  Neale dragged the young engineer into the presence of his superior. Coffee sat at his table under the fly, with Somers and another man. Colohan appeared on the moment, and there were excited comments from others approaching. Coffee stood up. His face turned yellow. His lips snarled.

  “Coffee, here’s your side partner!” called Neale, and his voice was biting. “I’ve got you both dead to rights, you liars! You never even tried to work on my plans for Number Ten.”

  “Neale, what in the hell do you suppose we’re out here for?” demanded Coffee harshly. “They’re all getting a slice of this money. There’s barrels of it. The directors of the road are crooked. They play both ends against the middle. They borrow the money from the government and they pay it out to themselves. You’re one of these dreamers. You’re Lodge’s pet. But you can’t scare me.”

  “Coffee, if there was any law out here for stealing, you’d go to jail,” declared Neale. “You’re a thief, same as this pup who tried to bribe me. You’re worse. You’ve held up the line. You’ve ordered your rotten work done over and over again. This is treachery to General Lodge . . . to Henney, who sent you out here. And to me it’s . . . it’s . . . there’s no name low enough. I surveyed the line through here. I drew the plans for Number Ten. And I’m going to prove you both cheats. You and your contractor!”

  “Neale, there’s more than us in the deal,” said Coffee sullenly.

  Colohan strode close, big and formidable. “If you mean me, you’re a liar,” he declared. “An’ don’t you say it.” Coffee was intimidated, and then Colohan turned to Neale. “Boss, I swear I wasn’t in on this deal. Lately I guessed it was all
wrong. But all I could do was obey orders.”

  “Neale, you can’t prove anything,” Coffee sneered. “If you have any sense, you’ll shut up. I tell you this is only a little deal. I’m on the inside. I know financiers, commissioners, Congressmen and Senators . . . and I told you before the directors . . . all in on this U.P.R. pickings . . . you’re a fool!”

  “Maybe. But I’m no thief,” retorted Neale.

  “Shut up, will you?” shouted Coffee, who plainly did not take kindly to that epithet before the gathering crowd. “I’m no thief . . . Men get shot at for saying less than that.”

  Neale laughed. He read Coffee’s mind. That worthy, responding to the wildness of the time and place, meant to cover his tracks one way or another. And Neale had not lived long with Larry Red King for nothing. “Coffee, you are a thief,” declared Neale, striding forward. “The worst kind! Because you stole without risk. You can’t be punished . . . But I’ll carry this deal higher than you.” And quick as a flash Neale snatched some telegrams from Coffee’s vest pocket. The act infuriated Coffee. His face went purple.

  “Hand ’em back!” he yelled, his arm swinging back to his hip.

  “I’ll bet there’s a telegram here from Lee and I’m entitled to keep them,” responded Neale, cool and slow.

  Then as Coffee furiously jammed his hand back for his gun, Neale struck him. Coffee fell with the overturned table out in the sand. His gun dropped as he dropped. Neale was there light and quick. He snatched up the gun.

  “Coffee . . . you and Blake are to understand you’re fired,” said Neale. “Fired off the job and out of camp, just as you are!”

  * * * * *

  Fifteen days later the work train crossed Number Ten on a trestle, and the construction progressed with new impetus.

  Not many days later a train of different character crept slowly foot by foot over that temporary bridge. It carried passenger coaches, a private car containing the directors of the railroad, and General Lodge’s special car. The engine was decorated with flags and the engineer whistled a piercing blast as he rolled out upon the structure. Number Ten had been the last big obstacle.