by Grey, Zane
"Neale, back there in Omaha you got sore; you quit us," went on Warburton, reprovingly. "That was bad business. I cottoned to you; and I might have; But no matter. You're with us again."
"Mr. Warburton, I'm ashamed of that," replied Neale, hastily. "But I was hot-headed ... am so still, I fear."
"So am I. So is Lodge. So is any man worth a damn," replied the director.
"Mr. Neale, you look cool enough now," observed Rogers, smiling. "Wish I was as wet and cool as you are. It's hot; in this desert."
Warburton took off his frock-coat. "You gentlemen aren't going to have any the best of me ... And now, Neale, tell us things."
Neale looked at his papers and then at his chief. "For instance," said Lodge,
"tell us about Blake and Coffee."
"Haven't you seen them; heard from them?" inquired Neale.
"No. Henney has not, either. And they were his men."
"Gentlemen, I'm afraid I lost my head in regard to them."
"Explain, please," said Warburton. "We will judge your conduct."
It was a rather difficult moment for Neale, because his actions regarding the two engineers now appeared to have been the result of violent temper, rather than a dignified exercise of authority. But then as he remembered Blake's offer and Coffee's threat the heat thrilled along his nerves; and that stirred him to forceful expression.
"I drove them both out of this camp."
"Why?" queried Warburton, sharply.
"Blake tried to bribe me, and Coffee; "
"One at a time," interrupted Warburton, and he thrust a strong hand through his hair, ruffling it. He began to scent battle. "What did Blake try to bribe you to do?"
"He didn't say. But he meant me to cover their tracks."
"So! ... And what did Coffee do?"
"He tried to pull a gun on me."
"Why? Be explicit, please."
"Well, he threatened me. And I laughed at him; called him names."
"What names?"
"Quite a lot, if I remember. The one he objected to was thief ... I repeated that, and snatched some telegrams from his pocket. He tried to draw his gun on me; and then I drove them both out of camp. They got through safely, for they were seen in Benton."
"Sir, it appears to me you lost your head to good purpose," said Warburton. "Now just what were the tracks they wanted you to cover?"
"I drew the original plans for Number Ten. They had not followed them. To be exact, they did not drive piles to hold the cribbings for the piers. They did not go deep enough. They sank shafts, they built coffer-dams, they put in piers over and over again. There was forty feet of quicksand under all their work and of course it slipped and sank."
Warburton slowly got up. He was growing purple in the face. His hair seemed rising. He doubled a huge fist. "Over and over again!" he roared, furiously.
"Over and over again! Lodge, do you hear that?"
"Yes. Sounds kind of familiar to me," replied the chief, with one of his rare smiles. He was beyond rage now. He saw the end. He alone, perhaps, had realized the nature of that great work. And that smile had been sad as well as triumphant.
Warburton stamped up and down the car aisle. Manifestly he wanted to smash something or to take out his anger upon his comrades. That was not the quick rage of a moment; it seemed the bursting into flame of a smoldering fire. He used language more suited to one of Benton's dance-halls than the private car of the directors of the Union Pacific Railroad. Once he stooped over Lodge, pounded the table.
"Three hundred thousand dollars sunk in that quicksand hole!" he thundered.
"Over and over again! That's what galls me. Work done over and over; unnecessary; worse than useless; all for dirty gold! Not for the railroad, but for gold! ... God! what a band of robbers we've dealt with! ... Lodge, why in hell didn't you send Neale out here at the start?"
A shadow lay dark in the chiefs lined face. Why had he not done a million other things? Why, indeed! He did not answer the irate director.
"Three hundred thousand dollars sunk in that hole; for nothing!" shouted
Warburton, in a final explosion.
The other two directors laughed. "Pooh!" exclaimed Rogers, softly. "What is that? A drop in the bucket! Consult your note-book, Warburton."
And that speech cooled the fighting director. It contained volumes. It evidently struck home. Warburton growled, he mopped his red face, he fell into a seat.
"Lodge, excuse me," he said, apologetically. "What our fine young friend here told me was like some one stepping on my gouty foot. I've been maybe a little too zealous; too exacting. Then I'm old and testy ... What does it matter? How could it have been prevented? Alas! it's black like that hideous Benton ... But we're coming out into the light. Lodge, didn't you tell me this Number Ten bridge was the last obstacle?"
"I did. The rails will go down now fast and straight till they meet out there in
Utah! Soon!"
Warburton became composed. The red died out of his face. He looked at Neale.
"Young man, can YOU put permanent piers in that sink-hole?"
"Yes. They are started, on bed-rock," replied Neale.
"Bed-rock!" he repeated, and remained gazing at Neale fixedly. Then he turned to
Lodge. "Do you remember that wild red-head cowboy; Neale's friend; when he said,
'I reckon thet's aboot all?' ... I'll never forget him ... Lodge, say we have
Lee and his friend Senator Dunn come in, and get it over. An' thet'll be aboot all!"
"Thank Heaven!" replied the chief, fervently. He called to his porter, but as no one replied, General Lodge rose and went into the next car.
Neale had experienced a disturbing sensation in his breast. Lee! Allison Lee!
The mere name made him shake. He could not understand, but he felt there was more reason for its effect on him than his relation to Allison Lee as a contractor. Somewhere there was a man named Lee who was Allie's father, and
Neale knew he would meet him some day.
Then when the chief walked back into the car with several frock- coated individuals, Neale did recognize in the pale face of one a resemblance to the girl he loved.
There were no greetings. This situation had no formalities. Warburton faced them and he seemed neither cold nor hot.
"Mr. Lee, as a director of the road I have to inform you that, following the reports of our engineer here, your present contracts are void and you will not get any more."
A white radiance of rage swiftly transformed Allison Lee. His eyes seemed to blaze purple out of his white face.
And Neale knew him to be Allie's father; saw the beauty and fire of her eyes in his.
"Warburton! You'll reconsider. I have great influence; "
"To hell with your influence!" retorted Warburton, the lion in him rising. "The builders; the directors; the owners of the U. P. R. are right here in this car. Do you understand that? Do you demand that I call a spade a spade?"
"I have been appointed by Congress. I will; "
"Congress or no Congress, you will never rebuild a foot of this railroad," thundered Warburton. He stood there glaring, final, assured. "For the sake of your; your government connections, let us say; let well enough alone."
"This upstart boy of an engineer!" burst out Lee, in furious resentment. "Who is he? How dare he accuse or report against me?"
"Mr. Lee, your name has never been mentioned by him," replied the director.
Lee struggled for self-control. "But, Warburton, it's preposterous!" he protested. "This wild boy; the associate of desperadoes; his report, whatever it is; absurd! Absurd as opposed to my position! A cub surveyor; slick with tongue and figures; to be thrown in my face! It's outrageous! I'll have him; "
Warburton held up a hand and impelled Lee to silence. In that gesture Neale read what stirred him to his soul. It was coming. He saw it again in General Lodge's fleeting, rare smile. He held his breath. The old pang throbbed in his breast.
"Lee, pray let me e
nlighten you and Senator Dunn," said Warburton, sonorously,
"and terminate his awkward interview ... When the last spike is driven out here; presently; Mr. Neale will be chief engineer of maintenance of way of the
Union Pacific Railroad."
Chapter 24
So for Neale the wonderful dream had come to pass, and but for the memory that made all hours of life bitter his cup of joy would have been full.
He made his headquarters in Benton and spent his days riding east or west over the line, taking up the great responsibility he had long trained for; the maintaining of the perfect condition of the railroad.
Toward the end of that month Neale was summoned to Omaha.
The message had been signed Warburton. Upon arriving at the terminus of the road
Neale found a marvelous change even in the short time since he had been there.
Omaha had become a city. It developed that Warburton had been called back to New
York, leaving word for Neale to wait for orders.
Neale availed himself of this period to acquaint himself with the men whom he would deal with in the future. Among them, and in the roar of the railroad shops and the bustle of the city, he lost, perhaps temporarily, that haunting sense of pain and gloom. Despite himself the deference shown him was flattering, and his old habit of making friends reasserted itself. His place was assured now. There were rumors in the air of branch lines for the Union Pacific. He was consulted for advice, importuned for positions, invited here and there. So that the days in Omaha were both profitable and pleasurable.
Then came a telegram from Warburton calling him to Washington, D. C.
It took more than two days to get there, and the time dragged slowly for Neale.
It seemed to him that his importance grew as he traveled, a fact which was amusing to him. All this resembled a dream.
When he reached the hotel designated in the telegram it was to receive a warm greeting from Warburton.
"It's a long trip to make for nothing," said the director. "And that's what it amounts to now. I thought I'd need you to answer a few questions for me. But you'll not be questioned officially, and so you'd better keep a close mouth ...
We've raised the money. The completion of the U. P. R. is assured."
Neale could only conjecture what those questions might have been, for the director offered no explanation. And this circumstance recalled to mind his former impression of the complexity of the financial and political end of the construction. Warburton took him to dinner and later to a club, and introduced him to many men.
For this alone Neale was glad that he had been summoned to the capital. He met
Senators, Congressmen, and other government officials, and many politicians and prominent men, all of whom, he was surprised to note, were well informed regarding the Union Pacific. He talked with them, but answered questions guardedly. And he listened to discussions and talks covering every phase of the work, from the Credit Mobilier to the Chinese coolies that were advancing from the west to meet the Paddies of his own division.
How strange to realize that the great railroad had its nucleus, its impetus, and its completion in such a center as this! Here were the frock-coated, soft-voiced, cigar-smoking gentlemen among whom Warburton and his directors had swung the colossal enterprise. What a vast difference between these men and the builders! With the handsome white-haired Warburton, and his associates, as they smoked their rich cigars and drank their wine, Neale contrasted Casey and
McDermott and many another burly spiker or teamster out on the line. Each class was necessary to this task. These Easterners talked of money, of gold, as a grade foreman might have talked of gravel. They smoked and conversed at ease, laughing at sallies, gossiping over what was a tragedy west of North Platte; and about them was an air of luxury, of power, of importance, and a singular grace that Neale felt rather than saw.
Strangest of all to him was the glimpse he got into the labyrinthine plot built around the stock, the finance, the gold that was constructing the road. He was an engineer, with a deductive habit of mind, but he would never be able to trace the intricacy of this monumental aggregation of deals. Yet he was hugely, interested. Much of the scorn and disgust he had felt out on the line for the mercenaries connected with the work he forgot here among these frock-coated gentlemen.
An hour later Neale accompanied Warburton to the station where the director was to board a train for his return to New York.
"You'll start back to-morrow," said Warburton. "I'll see you soon, I hope; out there in Utah where the last spike is to be driven. That will be THE day; THE hour! ... It will be celebrated all over the United States."
Neale returned to his hotel, trying to make out the vital thing that had come to him on this hurried and apparently useless journey. His mind seemed in a whirl.
Yet as he pondered, there gradually loomed up the reflection that in the eastern, or constructive, end of the great plan there were the same spirits of evil and mystery as existed in the western, or building, end. Here big men were interested, involved; out there bigger men sweat and burned and aged and died.
The difference was that these toilers gave all for an ideal while the directors and their partners thought only of money, of profits.
Neale restrained what might have been contempt, but he thought that if these financiers could have seen the life of the diggers and spikers as he knew it they might be actuated by a nobler motive. Before he dropped to sleep that night he concluded that his trip to Washington, and the recognition accorded him by
Warburton's circle, had fixed a new desire in his heart to heave some more rails and drive some more spikes for the railroad he loved so well. To him the work had been something for which he had striven with all his might and for which he had risked his life. Not only had his brain been given to the creation, but his muscles had ached from the actual physical toil attendant upon this biggest of big jobs.
When Neale at last reached Benton it was night. Benton and night! And he had forgotten. A mob of men surged down and up on the train. Neale had extreme difficulty in getting off at all. But the excitement, the hurry, the discordant and hoarse medley of many voices, were unusual at that hour around the station, even for strenuous Benton. All these men were carrying baggage. Neale shouted questions into passing ears, until at length some fellow heard and yelled a reply.
The last night of Benton!
He understood then. The great and vile construction camp had reached the end of its career. It was being torn down; moved away; depopulated. There was an exodus.
In another forty-eight hours all that had been Benton, with its accumulated life and gold and toil, would be incorporated in another and a greater and a last camp; Roaring City.
The contrast to the beautiful Washington, the check to his half- dreaming memory of what he had experienced there, the sudden plunge into this dim; lighted, sordid, and roaring hell, all brought about in Neale a revulsion of feeling.
And with the sinking of his spirit there returned the old haunting pangs; the memory of Allie Lee, the despairing doubts of life or death for her. Beyond the camp loomed the dim hills, mystical, secretive, and unchangeable. If she were out there among them, dead or alive, to know it would be a blessed relief. It was this horror of Benton that he feared.
He walked the street, up and down, up and down, until the hour was late and he was tired. All the halls and saloons were blazing in full blast. Once he heard low, hoarse cries and pistol-shots; and then again quick, dull, booming guns. How strange they should make him shiver! But all seemed strange. From these sounds he turned away, not knowing what to do or where to go, since sleep or rest was impossible. Finally he went into a gambling-den and found a welcome among players whose faces he knew.
It was Benton's last night, and there was something in the air, menacing, terrible.
Neale gave himself up to the spirit of the hour and the game. He had almost forgotten himself when a white, jeweled hand flashed over hi
s shoulder, to touch it softly. He heard his name whispered. Looking up, he saw the flushed and singularly radiant face of Beauty Stanton.
Chapter 25
The afternoon and night of pay-day in Benton, during which Allie Lee was barred in her room, were hideous, sleepless, dreadful hours. Her ears were filled with
Benton's roar; whispers and wails and laughs; thick shouts of drunken men; the cold voices of gamblers; clink of gold and clink of glasses; a ceaseless tramp and shuffle of boots; pistol-shots muffled and far away, pistol-shots ringing and near at hand; the angry hum of brawling men; and strangest of all this dreadful roar were the high-pitched, piercing voices of women, in songs without soul, in laughter without mirth, in cries wild and terrible and mournful.
Allie lay in the dark, praying for the dawn, shuddering at this strife of sound, fearful that any moment the violence of Benton would burst through the flimsy walls of her room to destroy her. But the roar swelled and subsided and died away; the darkness gave place to gray light and then dawn; the sun arose, the wind began to blow. Now Benton slept, the sleep of sheer exhaustion.
Her mirror told Allie the horror of that night. Her face was white; her eyes were haunted by terrors, with great dark shadows beneath. She could not hold her hands steady.
Late that afternoon there were stirrings and sounds in Durade's hall. The place had awakened. Presently Durade himself brought her food and drink. He looked haggard, worn, yet radiant. He did not seem to note Allie's condition or appearance.
"That deaf and dumb fool who waited on you is gone," said Durade. "Yesterday was pay-day in Benton ... Many are gone ... Allie, I won fifty thousand dollars in gold!" "Isn't that enough?" she asked.
He did not hear her, but went on talking of his winnings, of gold, of games, and of big stakes coming. His lips trembled, his eyes glittered, his fingers clawed at the air.
For Allie it was a relief when Durade left her. He had almost reached the apex of his fortunes and the inevitable end. Allie realized that if she were ever to lift a hand to save herself she must do so at once.
This was a fixed and desperate thought in her mind when Durade called her to her work.
