The Man from the Bitter Roots

by Caroline Lockhart

  XVII

  A PRACTICAL MAN

  Bruce's thoughts were a jumble of dynamos and motors, direct andalternating currents, volts and amperes, when James J. Jennings'papier-mache suitcase hit him in the shins in the lobby of a hotel whichwas headquarters for mining men in the somnolent city on the Pacificcoast.

  Jennings promptly dropped the suitcase and thrust out a hand whichstill had ground into the knuckles oil and smudge acquired while helpingput up a power-plant in Alaska.

  "Where did you come from--what are you doing here?" Bruce had seen himlast in Alberta.

  "Been up in the North Country, but"--James lifted a remarkable upper lipin a shy grin of ecstasy--"I aims to git married and stay in theStates."

  "Shoo--you don't say so!" Bruce exclaimed, properly surprised andcongratulatory.

  "Yep," he beamed, then dropped, as he added mournfully, "So fur I've hadawful bad luck with my wives; they allus die or quit me."

  Bruce ventured the hope that his luck might change with this, hislast--and as Jennings explained--fifth venture.

  "I kinda think it will," the prospective bridegroom declared hopefully."Bertha looks--er--lasty. But what about you?--I never knew you'd evensaw a city."

  "I'm a sure enough Sourdough," Bruce admitted, "but I did stray out ofthe timber. Register, and I'll tell you all about it--maybe you canhelp me."

  Jennings, Bruce commented mentally as he watched him walk to the desk,was not exactly the person he would have singled out as the hero of fiveserious romances. Even five years before, in the Kootnai country,Jennings had been no matinee idol and Time had not been lenient.

  He had bent knees, protuberant, that seemed to wobble. A horseman wouldhave called him knee-sprung and declared he stumbled. His back wasstooped so his outline was the letter S, and _CARE_ was written incapitals on his corrugated brow. No railroad president with a strike onever wore a heavier air of responsibility, though the suitcase whichgave out an empty rattle contained James's earthly all. His teeth wereyellow fangs and his complexion suggested a bad case of San Jose scale,but his distinctive feature was a long elastic upper lip which he had ahabit of puffing out like a bear pouting in a trap. Yet James's physicalimperfections had been no handicap, as was proved by the fact that hewas paying alimony into two households and the bride on the horizon wascontemplating matrimony with an enthusiasm equal to his own.

  While Jennings breakfasted Bruce told him the purpose of his visit tothe Pacific coast, hoping that out of the wide experience with machinerywhich Jennings claimed he might make some useful suggestions; besidesBruce found it a relief to talk the situation over with someone he hadknown.

  "I don't pretend to know the first thing about electrical machinery," hesaid frankly, "I only know the results I want--that I must have. I'vegot to rely on the judgment and honesty of others and there's such adiversity of opinion that I tell you, Jennings, I'm scared to death lestI make a mistake. And I can't afford to make a mistake. I've left myselfno margin for mistakes, every dollar has got to count."

  "There's one thing you want to remember when you're workin' in anisolated country, and that's the need of strength--strength andsimplicity. These new-fangled--"

  Bruce interrupted eagerly--

  "My idea exactly--durability. If anything breaks down there that can'the repaired on the place it means laying off the crew from a month tosix weeks while the parts are going in and out to the factory."

  Jennings nodded.

  "That's it--that's why I say strength above everything." Nearly half acentury of frying-pan bread had given Jennings indigestion and now as hesipped his hot water he pondered, bursting out finally--"If I was you,Burt, I'll tell you what I'd do, I'd install the old type Edisonmachines for that very reason. You can't break 'em with a trip hammer.They're so simple a kid can run 'em. There's nothin' about 'em to gitout of repair onct they're up. If you aim to work that ground withscrapers, I'll tell you now it's goin' to be a big drag on the motors.Of course they're a little bit heavier than these new-fangled--"

  "But the agents tell me these newer and lighter machines will stand it."

  Jennings blew out his elastic upper lip and shrugged a shoulder:

  "Maybe they know more than I do--maybe they do, but it's to theirinterest to talk 'em up, ain't it? I'm no college electrician--I'm apractical man and I been around machinery nigh to fifty years, so Iknow them old-fashioned motors. They'll stand an overload, and take myword for it they'll git it on them scrapers. These new-fangled machineswill stand jest about what they're rated at and you can't tell meanything differenter. _I_ say them old type Edison machines is the thingfor rough work in that kind of a country. Ain't I seen what they can doon drudgers? Besides, you can pick 'em up for half the price and as goodas new with a little repairin'."

  "I wonder if they _would_ do the work," Bruce murmured to himselfthoughtfully.

  "What interest would I have in tellin' you if they wouldn't?" Jenningsdemanded.

  "I didn't mean that the way it sounded," Bruce assured him quickly. "Iwas thinking that if they would do the work and I could save somethingon the price of machinery I'd sure breathe easier."

  "Do the work!" scornfully. "You can pull off a chunk of mountain with agood donkey-engine and them motors. Why, on the drudgers up here inAlasky--"

  "Do you know where you can get hold of any of these machines?"

  "I think I do," Jennings reflected. "Before I went down North I knowedwhere they was a couple if they ain't been sold."

  "Suppose you look them up and find out their condition--will you do thisfor me?"

  "Bet I will, old man, I'd like to see you make a go of it. I gotta showup at Bertha's, then I'll run right out and look 'em over and reportthis evenin'."

  Jennings kept his word and when Bruce saw him cross the office with aspray of lilies-of-the-valley in his buttonhole and stepping like anEnglish cob he guessed that he either had been successful or his callupon Bertha had been eminently satisfactory. He was correct, it proved,in both surmises.

  "They're there yet" he announced with elation, "in good shape, too. Themotors need re-winding and there's some other little tinkerin', butaside from that--say, my boy, you're lucky--nearly as lucky as I am. Itell you I'm goin' to git a great little woman!"

  "Glad to hear it, Jennings. But about this machinery, what's it going toweigh? I don't know that I told you but I mean to take it down theriver."

  "Bad water?"

  "It's no mill-pond," Bruce answered dryly, "full of rapids." Jenningslooked a little startled, and Bruce added:

  "The weight is a mighty important feature."

  Jennings hesitated.

  "The dynamos will weigh close to 22,000 pounds, and the whole 55,000pounds approximately."

  "They weigh a-plenty," Bruce looked thoughtful, "but I reckon I canbring them if I must. And there's no doubt about the must, as a wagonroad in there would cost $20,000."

  As the outcome of the chance meeting Bruce bought the machines uponJennings's recommendation with a saving of much money and Jenningsfurthermore was engaged to make the necessary repairs and install theplant on the river. It was a load off Bruce's mind to feel that thispart of the work was safe in the hands of a practical, experienced manaccustomed to coping with the emergencies which arise when working farfrom transportation facilities.

  Once this was settled there was nothing more for Bruce to do in thecity and a great deal to be done upon the river, so he bade good-bye toJennings and left immediately.

  On the journey from the Pacific coast to Spokane the gritting of thecar-wheels was a song of success, of achievement. Bruce felt himselfalive to the finger-tips with the joy of at last being busy at somethingworth while. He looked back upon the times when he had thought himselfhappy with profound pity for his ignorance.

  When he had stretched himself at night on his mattress of pine-boughswith his head on the bear-grass pillow watching through the cabin windowthe moon rise out of the "draw" where Big Squaw creek headed, he hadthought that he was
happy. When he had found a bit of float that"panned," a ledge that held possibilities, or the yellow flakes hadshown up thicker than usual in the day's clean-up he had called thissatisfaction, the momentary exhilaration, happiness. When he had landeda battling "red-side" after a struggle and later thrust his fork throughthe crisp, brown skin into its steaming pink flesh he had characterizedthat animal contentment such as any clod might have, as happiness. Poorfool, he told himself now, he had not known the meaning of the word.

  His day dreams had taken on a different color. His goal was alwaysbefore him and this goal was represented by the hour when the machineryin the power and pump houses was running smoothly, when a head of waterwas flowing through the flume and sluice-boxes and the scrapers werehandling 1000 cubic yards a day. As he stared through the window at theflying landscape he saw, not the orchards and wheat fields of the greatstate of Washington, but quicksilver lying thick with amalgam behindthe riffles and the scales sagging with precious, yellow, honey-combedchunks of gold still hot from the retort.

  Sometimes he found himself anticipating the moment when he should betelegraphing the amount of the clean-up to Helen Dunbar, to Harrah, andto Harrah's good-naturedly pessimistic friends. Bruce ransacked hisbrain for somebody in the world to envy, but there was no one.

  He had gone directly to the river from the East, taking a surveyor withhim, and as soon as his application for the water-right in Big Squawcreek had been granted he got a crew together composed chiefly of themagnates from Ore City who, owing to Dill's failure to take up theoptions, found themselves still at leisure and the financial depressionunrelieved.

  Ore City nursed a grievance against Dill that was some sorer than acarbuncle and it relieved its feelings by inventing punishments shouldhe ever return to the camp which in ingenuity rivalled the tortures ofthe Inquisition. Bruce, too, often speculated concerning Dill, for itlooked as though he had purposely betrayed Sprudell's interest.Certainly a man of his mining experience knew better than to makelocations in the snow and to pass assessment work which was obviouslyinadequate. From Sprudell, Bruce had heard nothing and engrossed in hisnew activities all but forgot him and his treachery, his insults andmysterious threats of vengeance.

  Before leaving for the Pacific coast to buy machinery, Bruce had mappedout for the crew the work to be done in his absence and now, upon hisreturn, he found great changes had come to the quiet bar on the river.There was a kitchen where Toy reigned, an arbitrary monarch, and a longbunk-house built of lumber sawed by an old-fashioned water-wheel whichitself had been laboriously whip-sawed from heavy logs. Across the riverthe men were straining and lifting and tugging on the green timbers forthe 500 feet of trestle which the survey demanded in order to get the200-feet head that was necessary to develop the 250 horse-power neededfor the pumps and scrapers.

  Bruce was not long in exchanging the clothes of civilization for therecognized uniform of the miner, and in flannel shirt and overalls hetoiled side by side with Porcupine Jim, Lannigan and the other localcelebrities on his pay-roll, who by heroic exertions were pushing thetrestle foot by foot across Big Squaw creek.

  The position of General Manager as Bruce interpreted it was no sinecure.A General Manager who worked was an anomaly, something unheard of in thedistrict where the title carried with it the time-honored prerogative ofsitting in the shade issuing orders, sustained and soothed by anunfailing supply of liquid refreshment.

  And while the crew wondered, they criticised--not through any lack ofregard for Bruce but merely from habit and the secret belief thatwhatever he did they could have done better. In their hours ofrelaxation it was their wont to go over his plans for working theground, so far as they knew them, and explain to each other carefullyand in detail how it was impossible for Bruce with the kind of a "rig"he was putting in, to handle enough dirt to wash out a breast-pin. Yetthey toiled none the less faithfully for these dispiritingconversations, doing the work of horses, often to the point ofexhaustion.

  When the trestle was well along Bruce commenced sawing lumber for thehalf mile of flume which was to bring the water from the head-gateacross the trestle to the pressure-box above the power-house. He sawedin such frenzy of haste--for there was so much to do and so little timeto do it in--and with such concentration that when he raised his eyesthe air seemed full of two by fours, and bottoms. When he closed them atnight he saw "inch stuff," and bottoms. When he dreamed, it was ofsaw-logs, battens and bottoms.

  Spring came unmistakably and Bruce waited anxiously for word fromJennings that the repairs had been made and the machinery was on its wayto Meadows--the mountain town one hundred and fifty miles above wherethe barges would be built and loaded for their hazardous journey.

  As the sun grew stronger daily Bruce began to watch the river withincreasing anxiety. He wondered if he had made it clear to Jennings thatdelay, the difference of a week, might mean a year's postponement. Theperiod nearest approaching safety was when the river was at the middlestage of the spring rise--about eight feet above low water. After it hadpassed this point only the utterly foolhardy would have attempted it.

  Bruce's nerves were at a tension as the days went by and he saw thegreat green snake swelling with the coming of warmer weather. Inch byinch the water crept up the sides of "Old Turtle-back," the huge glazedrock that rose defiantly, splitting the current in the middle. A few hotsuns would melt the snowbanks in the mountains to send the riverthundering between its banks until the very earth trembled, and itsnavigation was unthinkable.

  The telegram came finally, and Bruce's relief was so great that, aslittle as he liked him, he could almost have embraced Smaltz, the manwho brought the news that the machinery was boxed and on its way toMeadows.

  "Thank God, _that_ worry's over!" Bruce ejaculated as he read it, andSmaltz lingered. "I may get a night's sleep now instead of lying awakelistening to the river."

  "Oh, the machinery's started?"

  Bruce had an impression that he already knew the contents of thetelegram in spite of his air of innocence and his question.

  "Yes," he nodded briefly.

  "Say,--me and Porcupine Jim been talkin' it over and wonderin' if we'dpay our own way around so it wouldn't cost the Company nothin', if you'dlet us come down with a boat from Meadows?"

  "Can you handle a sweep?"

  "Can I?" Smaltz sniggered. "Try me!"

  Bruce looked at him a moment before he answered. He was wondering whythe very sight of Smaltz irritated him. He was the only man of the crewthat he disliked thoroughly. His boastful speech, his swaggering walk, aveiled insolence in his eyes and manner made Bruce itch to send him upthe hill for good, but since Smaltz was unquestionably the bestall-round man he had, he would not allow himself to be influenced by hispersonal prejudices. While he boasted he had yet to fail to make goodhis boastings and the tattered credentials he had displayed when he hadasked for work were of the best. When he asserted now that he couldhandle a sweep it was fairly certain that he could not only handle onebut handle it well. Porcupine Jim, Bruce knew, had had some experience,so there was no good reason why he should not let them go since theywere anxious.

  "I've engaged the front sweepman for the other two boats," Bruce saidfinally, "but if you and Jim want to take a hind sweep each and willpromise to obey orders I guess there's no objection."

  "Surest thing you know," Smaltz answered in the fresh tone that raspedBruce. "An' much obliged. Anything to git a chanst to shoot them rapids.I'd do it if I wasn't gittin' nothin' out of it just for the fun of it."

  "It won't look like fun to me with all I'll have at stake," said Brucesoberly.

  "Aw--don't worry--we kin cut her." Smaltz tossed the assurance backairily as he walked away, looking sharply to the right and left over hisshoulder. It was a habit he had, Bruce often had noticed it, along witha fashion of stepping quickly around corners, peering and craning hisneck as if perpetually on the alert for something or somebody. "You actlike some feller that's 'done time'--or orter. I'll bet a hundred to oneyou know how to m
ake horsehair bridles," Woods, the carpenter, had oncetold him pointedly, and the criticism had voiced Bruce's own thoughts.

  In the mail which Smaltz had brought down from Ore City was a letterfrom Helen Dunbar. It was the second he had had and he told himself ashe tore it open eagerly that it had come none too soon, for the firstone was well nigh worn out. He could not get over the surprise ofdiscovering how many readings three or four pages of scragglyhandwriting will stand without loss of interest.

  Now, as he tried to grasp it all in a glance, the friendliness of it,the confidence and encouragement it contained made him glow. But at theend there was a paragraph which startled him--always the fly in theointment--that gave rise to a vague uneasiness he could not immediatelyshake off.

  "I ran up to the city one day last week," the paragraph read, "and whodo you suppose I saw with Winfield Harrah in the lobby of the HotelStrathmore? You would never guess. None other than our versatile friendT. Victor Sprudell!"

  How did they meet? For what purpose had Sprudell sought Harrah'sacquaintance? It troubled as well as puzzled Bruce for he could notthink the meeting an accident because even he could see that Harrah andSprudell moved in widely different stratas of society.