by Luke Short
Sam shrugged. “How will you find out about him?”
“I don’t know either, but I’ll find a way.”
Sam said slyly, “They say love always does.”
The color mounted into Sarah’s face and she glared angrily at Sam, not knowing that her feelings had been so close to the surface that Sam had read them. At last she said, “All right, Sam, that’s another thing, too.”
Sam rose and Sarah turned back toward the shop. She had reached the composing room door when Sam said with an odd gentleness, “Don’t go off half cocked. Once you do, the pie has hit the fan.”
Sarah halted and turned to look at him. “That’s a strange thing to say.”
Sam only shook his head. “Well, it’s a strange situation, isn’t it?”
For a moment Sarah was tempted to give a bitter retort in answer, and then she checked herself and went on toward the door.
The camp Tully had set up on the Vicksburg Claims was at shaft Number One. In two days Alec had pioneered the road with the bulldozer as far as the last pitch with a trailerful of lumber, pipe, grub, bedding and tools.
Leaving the grade stakes at the last pitch, they had bushwhacked their way around to the back of the ridge to Number One shaft and unloaded the trailer. Already the floored cookshack and wall tent were up, and a chainsaw crew was clearing timber for the road and cutting timbers for the ore bin.
In midafternoon Tully, who was laying pipe through the timber from the creek to the camp, lifted his head to listen. Dimly he heard the deep-throated thrashing of the distant cat, and he said to Bill Ligon, his helper, “Here’s Alec with the compressor.” Tully rose and moved over to pick up a length of pipe which the cat had spotted as its first chore.
He was shirtless and the sun felt suddenly warm on his back as he tramped through a patch of sunlight. These three days since Alec had returned with repairs had been driving daylight-to-dark sessions, with little time out for rest or food. His road survey had been easy and swift and Alec had experienced no great difficulties on the pioneer trip. Except for water, the camp was habitable and Tully meant to spend little time in improving it. With the coming of the compressor he could put his miners to work tomorrow, leaving the rest of the crew to finish the ore bin and to cut the cribbing logs for the road.
By the time he had tightened the joint of the next pipe, the sound of the cat had become a sustained chatter out on the timber to the east. Rising, Tully listened to the beat of the motor. The compressor was a heavy load for the twisting bushwhack trail that Alec was forced to use until the road could be completed. He heard the sudden gunning of the motor and the deeper roar of the dozer, and knew that Alec was on the last grade approaching camp. Picking up his shirt, he said to Bill, “Let’s knock off with this, and unload the compressor.”
They tramped back through the big and scattered spruces toward camp, arriving just as Alec cut the motor. The camp itself lay at the edge of the timber, the two tents almost touching the spruce. The cleared space between them and the shack was littered with lumber, wire cable, oil drums, air hose and tools. The new headframe rose starkly above the shaft. The tugger, the miner’s term for the small and powerful air-driven hoist, lay black and silent under the raw lumber of its three-sided shelter, waiting for the compressor.
As Tully and Bill stepped into the clearing, Tully whistled shrilly and waved to Alec who sat in the cat seat, a cold cigar in his mouth, letting the silence and the stillness flow over him. He waved lazily, then heaved himself to his feet and swung down. The orange-painted compressor lashed with chains to the bed of the trailer behind him was the last of the heavy machinery to be hauled.
Approaching, Tully asked, “How’s the big city, boy?”
Alec grinned in reply, settled down on his heels in the shade of the cat and said, “I had to leave. The, night life was killing me.” He touched a match to his dead cigar. “I saw Kevin from seven to seven-thirty last night and staggered off to bed.”
Standing by the compressor, Tully shrugged into his shirt, looking approvingly at the way Alec had lashed down this piece of equipment for its rough ride. He hunkered down beside Alec while Bill Ligon, unbidden, began lugging up the heavy planks on which they would manhandle the compressor to the ground.
Tully lighted a cigarette and asked, “Kevin all right?”
“Sure. He wants to come out.”
“Tell him to wait until we get squared around,” Tully said. “Tomorrow we’ll hook up the tugger and get to work underground. You spot the places on the grade that need shooting and when you’re ready we’ll pull the compressor off.”
“Man, that compressor won’t be cool for a whole year,” Alec said.
“That’s the idea.” Tully flipped his cigarette away. “Well, let’s unload it.” He came to his feet and then Alec rose wearily. They unlashed the chains, then Tully swung up into the trailer along with Bill and Alec. They maneuvered the heavy machine onto the planks, and then with Tully heaving and the other two braking the heavy machine, they eased it down the planks to the ground.
Finished, they leaned on a machine, catching their wind, and now Tully examined the compressor. It was a type familiar to him, rugged and almost new. When the five barrels of gas had been unloaded from the trailer and hoisted to timber trestles in the shade of the spruce, Tully tramped back to the compressor. Bill Ligon set off into the timber to finish laying pipe while Alec trailed after Tully.
“Let’s wind her up and see what parts shook loose,” Tully said. “How’s the gas?”
“Didn’t check.”
Tully reached over and removed the cap; stuck his finger in the tank and felt the cool gasoline almost even with the cap rim. At the same time, he noticed fine white crystals scattered thinly in the oil smudge around the tank’s opening. For a puzzled moment he wondered what sort of anti-knock compound the owner, had been mixing with his gasoline. On impulse then he licked his finger and touched it to the crystals, then put his finger to his mouth. He was expecting to taste and identify some chemical. The taste of the crystals, however, were sweet.
Baffled, he repeated the act, and then it came to him with a crashing abruptness that this was sugar.
“Alec!” he called angrily. “Come here!”
When Alec came over, Tully pointed to the crystals, and said, “Taste that.” Alec, like Tully, wet his finger, tasted the crystals and then raised his glance to Tully.
“That’s sugar.”
“Catch on?” Tully asked grimly.
Suddenly, Alec began to swear furiously. They both knew that if the compressor, with its fuel containing sugar, were started, it would only be a matter of moments before the engine was hopelessly fouled. As soon as the gas achieved combustion, the sugar would burn and freeze the pistons to the cylinder walls. A total engine overhaul would be necessary to put the compressor again in operation.
Tully knew also that this was not accidental. Whoever had smashed the fuel pump had poured sugar into the gasoline. He knew that Alec knew this too.
There was real misery in Alec’s dark eyes now. “I swear I don’t know how it could have happened, Tully. I picked up the compressor as soon as I got in and parked the trailer right by my window last night.”
“Did you run it?”
Alec shook his head. “I never even tried to turn it over.”
For a bleak minute Tully regarded the compressor. At that moment he hated it, knowing that this was unreasonable, yet it stood as a symbol of their frustration and helplessness. If he had not been curious about the crystals and tasted them, they would have started the motor and again been delayed for a week.
He was aware that Alec was looking at him, waiting for him to speak. He sighed, and then swore softly.
“Forget it, boy. You can’t sleep on every piece of equipment we pick up. It’s just that we’ve got to watch every piece of machinery from now on to see if it’s been tampered with.”
Again he looked at the compressor, calculating what would have to be done
. The tank must be removed, drained and carefully cleaned of the syrup it contained. To do the job really well, a section of the tank would have to be cut out with an acetylene torch, the interior, thoroughly scrubbed, and the section welded back.
Grimly he said, “Well, let’s take the tank off, Alec.”
“They’re a hell of a job to clean,” Alec said gloomily. Tully told him then that he would take it back to Azurite this afternoon.
“You want me to take it in?”
Tully thought a moment. “No, I want you on the road tomorrow. I’ll take it in tonight and be back by tomorrow morning, I hope.”
As the sun heeled over further, Tully and Alec got the tank off the compressor and loaded it in the back of Alec’s jeep. Tully left instructions on tomorrow’s work for the crew, then shrugged into a greasy denim jacket, climbed into the jeep and set off down Alec’s bushwhack trail for Azurite. The first two miles of road through pushed over timber, rock face, bog and crushed windfalls were unbelievably rough and almost succeeded in stalling the jeep. Afterwards, when he had picked up the grade stakes on Alec’s pioneer road, the going was easier and Tully relaxed a little.
He had not realized how tired he was and what a strain these three driving days of getting started had been. He reviewed them now in his own mind. For one thing, the weather had been on his side. All the heavy equipment which rain could have stalled was at the mine location. Secondly, he had a hard-working, experienced crew who did not need to be driven. Third, the crew and machinery were under shelter and they could begin mining as soon as the compressor was repaired. The long, costly job of building the road did not bother him so long as they were getting ore out of the ground.
But memory of sabotage to the compressor, coupled with the damaging of the cat, galled him. It had already accounted for two full days’ delay, and there was no anticipating where trouble would crop up again, since someone (and without any proof, he suspected Ben Hodes) was sharpshooting for them.
Dusk began to steal into the timber, and the fresh smell of raw earth on the newly bulldozed road was pleasant to Tully. But it held a reminder that when bad weather broke this road would be a bog until freeze-up.
When the lights of town became visible, Tully felt a faint pleasure stirring within. The reason for it was simple enough: there was an evening with Sarah ahead of him. It was too late to get into a machine shop, so he would head for the hotel, call Sarah, clean up and have dinner in the evening with her.
As he turned into the business section of town he observed the unaccustomed traffic, and for an amazed moment he wondered what had happened. Jeeps and pickup trucks stood parked rank upon rank along the main street. It was only when he caught sight of a pair of men coming out of the hotel dressed in red caps and jackets that he remembered hunting season would open day after tomorrow. Remembering Kevin’s admonition to hire only men who would stick during hunting season, he wondered if his crew would be full strength tomorrow. As he pulled up in front of the hotel, he made a mental note to buy some red shirts for his men in the morning, since to some hunters anything that moved or made a sound in the timber was fair game.
He remembered another thing now too; all unguarded Sarah Moffit property and machinery was liable to tampering, and he took the keys out of the jeep, lifted out the tank and shouldered his way into a lobby crowded with hunters. The clerk was not to be seen and Tully labored through the lobby and up the stairs with his burden, deposited them in his room and then came down to the lobby phone booth. Calling the Moffit apartment, he was answered by Mrs. Moffit.
“This is Tully, Mrs. Moffit. How are you?”
“When did you get back, Tully? I thought you were there until you ran out of grub.”
“I got hungry for a look at a pretty girl,” Tully said. “Have you got one around?”
Mrs. Moffit laughed. “Not at the moment. Sarah’s having dinner with Beth Hodes at the Kellys’. I think they’re coming over here afterwards. Sarah’s got some new records.”
Tully felt a sharp disappointment, but he said, “Mind if I listen to them too?”
“Don’t be silly. Come when you’re ready.”
Tully hung up and stepped into the lobby, heading for the stairs. The clerk behind the desk now called to him. “Say, you ever get that call?”
Tully halted. “What call?”
“From San Diego.” The clerk reached over to a pad, consulted it and said, “You’re to call San Diego, operator 209. She’s tried five times to get you today.”
“Thanks,” Tully said. Climbing the stairs, he wondered who would be calling him from San Diego, and he smiled at his own curiosity. He knew a hundred men in the Naval hospital there, and perhaps twenty of them plus several of the staff who were his friends knew he’d been planning to spend some time here in the mountains. Probably it was some sort of celebration like a promotion, a discharge or an affirmative verdict on a total disability examination. He would shower and dress and put in his call from the restaurant downstreet.
Twenty minutes later, shaven, bathed, and with a solid belt of bourbon in him, Tully stepped into the restaurant. Most of the late-dinner hunters had cleared out, but some still sat on the counter stools. Tully, on his way to the phone booth in the rear, left his order, asked for and received a handful of change and went to the phone booth.
He had a minute’s Wait before San Diego answered and in another half minute he heard a voice that was instantly familiar and welcome. It was Doc Byrnes—Lieutenant Commander Eugene P. Byrnes—and his booming voice, ear-shattering over a thousand miles of telephone wire, was warm and raucous.
“Tully, you son of a gun. I’ve been trying to get you ever since I heard the news.”
“Hi, Doc,” Tully said. “What’s with you and your butcher shop?”
“Never better, son. How about that big news, huh?”
Tully frowned into the mouth piece. “What news is this, Doc?”
“Don’t go coy on me, boy. You damn well know what it is. Your new job, what else?”
“Oh!” For a moment Tully was bewildered. “Oh, yeah, I do have a new one. How did you know about it though?”
“It’s a long story, and a crazy coincidence. This noon I was eating at the Commissary with your favorite redhead from Records. Remember her name?”
“Dottie Humphreys? How could I forget her?”
Byrnes’s raucous laughter almost rang through the restaurant. Then he continued. “Well, she got a call today from the secretary of your employer.”
“Just a minute,” Tully cut in. “Who is my new employer?”
“It’s me you’re asking?” Byrnes demanded. “Don’t you know who you’re working for?”
“No. You tell me.”
“Dottie said it was the Sarah Moffit Mine, Incorporated.”
“That’s right, go on,” Tully said gently.
“Go on where? I only wanted to congratulate you.”
“Thanks. But get back to Dottie Humphreys. The secretary of the Sarah Moffit Mine called her. What for?”
“Oh, the usual personnel check-up, I suppose. This dame told Dottie they wanted to clear you quickly so they could put you to work. They wanted a short medical history and a short fill-in on your military service. She even wanted confirmation that you’d received the Navy Cross. What are they hiring out there—only certified heroes?”
Tully’s bewilderment was now complete. There was no president of the Sarah Moffit Mine, nor did the nonexistent president have a secretary, yet a call had been made.
“Hello, hello, you still on?” Byrnes roared.
“Sure, Doc, I’m just a little confused is all.”
“Well, it’s a job, isn’t it? What kind of a job by the way?”
Tully saw no reason for not stringing along with his friend, so he said, “It’s a good one, Doc. I’ll be a guaranteed millionaire in three months and five days.”
“You lucky hound,” Byrnes roared. “Here I am in this uniform while half the babies in Cincinnati
are being born without me.”
“You’ve got all the stuff there for a self-inflicted wound,” Tully said. “Why don’t you use it?”
“It’s against our union rule,” Byrnes said, and laughed. Then his voice suddenly became serious. “How’s it going, kid—the legs, I mean? Any recurrences?”
“Some,” Tully said. “It doesn’t bother me any.”
“Great. Well, the whole gang said to give you their congratulations. They also asked if you’d lay aside a block of stock for them.”
“I’ll air-mail it tomorrow,” Tully said.
There was another minute of talk about mutual friends, and then Doc Byrnes rang off. Slowly Tully hung up the receiver and tramped back to the booth where his dinner was waiting. He sat down and stared absently at his food, and his appetite was gone. It was plain that Sarah, lying like a cunning child, was checking up on him.
Does she know? he thought glumly. Had Sarah stumbled onto his swindle? For a bitter moment Tully considered this carefully. Reviewing what he had done that might have given him away, he could think of nothing.
Then maybe Sarah’s call was a routine character check. The more Tully thought about this, the more reasonable it seemed—and galling. But after all, neither Kevin nor Sarah knew any more about him than was told in the forged letters from Jimmy. It was only natural that they check on him—Kevin because Tully was his partner, and Sarah because she was protecting Kevin.
Still, it was bitter to think that Sarah had done this behind his back. She had lied shamelessly in order to get the information, so she must consider it important. His doubts returned, and he stared glumly at his food and then listlessly began to push it around his plate.
He wondered dismally what his safest move was now, or even if he should move at all. Sarah would never know that Doc Byrnes had given him this information. Whatever facts she had learned about Tully merely confirmed what he had told her about himself. Instead of confronting her with evidence of her deceit and suspicion, maybe he should ignore the whole affair. He suddenly decided not to mention it to Sarah, but deep within him a warning voice told him, Just be careful—be damn careful.
