The Young Engineers in Arizona

by Hancock, H Irving

  It consisted of laying logs, of different lengths, from twelve to eighteen feet, in a transverse net work filling in earth on this and allowing the structure gradually to sink where the quicksand shifted or caved. The sideway drift, at some points, was overcome by hollow steel piles, driven in as firmly as might be, and then filled with cement from the top. A line of such piles when imbedded in the ground, helps to make an effective block to side drift.

  At the outset a few feet of these steel piles were left exposed above the surface, their gradual settling serving as a reliable index to the evasive movements of the extensive quicksand underneath. At other points wooden piles were driven in for the same purpose.

  General Manager Ellsworth did not spend all his time in camp. He could not do so, in fact, for he had many other pressing duties. However, he ran over frequently, and always appeared satisfied.

  "Of course it's too early to talk confidently, Reade," said Mr. Ellsworth, one day when the work had been going on steadily for some weeks, "but I believe you have the only right method. I have so reported to our directors. You'll have disappointments, of course, but I hope you'll encounter none that you can't overcome."

  "I shan't crow until I've seen the test applied to the roadbed over the Man-killer," Tom replied thoughtfully. "After I've seen that test applied a couple of times then I'm ready to go before any board and swear that the Man-killer has been tamed for all time."

  "Speed the day!" replied Mr. Ellsworth, as he climbed into his private car to return. "By the way, you haven't heard anything lately from Jim Duff & Company?"

  "Not a word," Reade replied. "I don't believe we're yet through with Rough-house camp, however. They're waiting only until our suspicions are allayed. Once in a while we lose one of our workmen to the enemy, and then we have to discharge the poor fellow. Some of our former men have gone away, but there are about thirty of them left in Paloma, and I imagine that they're ready to be ugly when the chance comes. The agent of the Colthwaite Company is still in Paloma. He has been here ever since we came."

  "Agent of the Colthwaite Company?" repeated the general manager, opening his eyes. "What's his name?"

  "Fred Ransom," Tom replied half carelessly.

  "Ransom? Fred Ransom? I never heard of any Colthwaite agent of that name."

  "He's one of the Colthwaite people's troublemakers," Tom went on, opening his own eyes rather wide.

  "If you were sure of this why didn't you report it to me earlier?"

  "Why, I supposed your railroad detectives knew all about it. And that you had heard of it long ago," Reade declared.

  "I haven't heard a word of it," continued Mr. Ellsworth, coming down the steps of his car and standing on the ground once more. "What proof have you of Ransom's business here?"

  "None whatever," Tom answered cheerfully, "but I had him spotted the first time I heard him talking. He was too entirely positive that we'd fail."

  "That was no proof against him."

  "No; but Ransom was also certain that the Colthwaite plan was the only one that could bring the Man-killer to time."

  "Have you any other reason to suspect this main?" queried Mr. Ellsworth.

  "Only the fact that Ransom and Jim Duff have been close friends."

  "Where does Ransom stop?"

  "At the Mansion House. He has a suite of rooms there, and entertains some kinds of people, including Duff, very lavishly."

  "Keep your eyes on that crowd as much as possible, Reade," directed the general manager thoughtfully, as he once more climbed to the platform of his car.

  "I will, sir; and it might not be a bad idea to have your detectives do something of the sort, also."

  The general manager did not answer, except by a vague nod as his train pulled out from the outskirts of the railway camp.

  Tom went back, called for his horse and rode to the westward for another look at the Man-killer. He found Harry, also in saddle, beneath the scanty shade of a struggling tree. Hazelton's quick eyes were taking in every detail of the work being done by the several large gangs of workmen.

  "Tom, if we're away from here by Christmas, there's one present you needn't make me," smiled Hazelton wanly, as he caught sight of the camera hanging in its leather field case at his chum's side.

  "What present is that?" Tom inquired.

  "Don't make me a present of a photograph of this awful place. It's photographed on my brain now, and burned in and baked there. If we ever get through with the Man-killer, and get our money, I never want to see this spot again."

  "I'm not thinking at all of the money," Reade retorted lightly yet seriously. "I don't care about the money at present. Nothing will ever satisfy me in life again until I've beaten the Man-killer fairly and squarely. It's the one thing I think about by day and dream of at night."

  "I know it," sighed Harry half pityingly.

  "Well, what else should we think about?" Tom demanded in a low voice. "Harry, we have the very job, the identical problem, that has thrown down nearly a dozen engineers of fine reputation. Why, boy, this place may be out on the blazing desert, and there may be a dozen discouragements every hour, but we've the finest chance, the biggest unsolved problem in engineering that we could possibly have. It's glorious."

  Tom's eyes glowed.

  "Go away," grinned Hazelton mischievously, "or I'll catch some of your enthusiasm."

  "You don't need any of it," Reade retorted laughingly. "You've tons of enthusiasm stowed away for future use. You know you have."

  "I suppose I have enough enthusiasm," Harry admitted, "but I should like to do some actual work. I ride out on the sands every day and sit looking on while the real work is being done. This problem of conquering the Man-killer is growing monotonous. I'm tired of pegging away at the same old task day in and day out."

  "Not quite as bad as that," Tom declared. "There's always something a bit new. If you want work to do right now, ride over and show those teamsters where you want them to put the logs that they're bringing up."

  This was far too little to satisfy Harry's longing for "doing things," but with a grunt he turned his horse's head and jogged away at a trot.

  Tom moved in under the shade of the tree.

  "Harry doesn't know enough to appreciate a good thing when he has it," softly laughed Tom, grateful for the scant bit of shade. "Neither does he yet know that often times the brain works best when the body is at rest."

  Just then Tom heard a sudden shout from the distance, followed by a chorus of excited voices.

  Instantly the young engineer's gaze turned toward the lately filled-in edge of the big sink.

  A hundred feet beyond the light platform where some laborers had been working Reade beheld only the head and shoulders of one of the workmen.

  "The foolish fellow—to go out so far beyond where the men are allowed to go!" gasped the young chief engineer, setting spurs to his horse.

  In a few moments Tom had reached the edge of the sink.

  "A rope!" he shouted, and seized the thirty-foot lariat that was handed him. With this, Tom, now on foot, ran within casting distance of the unfortunate, who was being rapidly enveloped by the quicksand.

  "Come back, Mr. Reade!" bellowed Foreman Payson. "The drift is setting in on this side of you. Back, like lightning, or you're a doomed man! You'll be swallowed up by the Man-killer yourself!"

  But Tom, intent only on saving the unfortunate laborer beyond, was wholly heedless of the fact that his own life was in as great danger.

  CHAPTER X. HARRY FIGHTS FOR COMMAND

  "Come back, Mr. Reade!" implored Foreman Payson.

  For Tom, who had made two casts with the lariat and failed, was knee-deep in shifting sand himself.

  "Keep cool!" the young chief engineer called over his shoulder. "I'll be back—both of us in a minute or two."

  The hapless laborer was now engulfed to his neck in the quicksand.

  "Save me! In Heaven's name get me out of this!" begged the poor fellow, frenzied by dread of his seeming
ly sure fate.

  "I'm doing the best I can, friend!" Tom called, as he made a fresh cast.

  This time the noose of the raw-hide lariat dropped over the laborer's head.

  "Fight your hands free, man!" Tom called encouragingly. "Fight your hands and chest free, so that you can slip the noose down under your armpits. Keep cool and work fast, and we'll have you out. Don't let yourself get excited."

  In the meantime Tom was wholly unaware that the engulfing quicksand was reaching up gradually toward his hips.

  Foreman Payson had ceased to try to attract Tom's attention. Whatever was to be done to save the chief engineer must be done swiftly. There was not another lariat, or any kind of rope at hand.

  Behind was a cloud of alkali dust. Harry Hazelton was riding as fast as he could urge a spirited horse.

  In another moment Hazelton had reined up at the edge of the group, dismounting and tossing the reins to one of the workmen.

  "My man, you get on that horse and fly for a rope!" ordered Harry.

  This last Hazelton shot back over his shoulder, for he was pushing his way through the rapidly forming crowd to Payson's side. Another foreman had just come up.

  "Mr. Bell," shouted Harry, "drive the men back who are not needed. We don't want to put a lot of weight on the soil here and cause a further cave-in."

  By this time Harry was at the edge of the platform. In a twinkling he was out on the sand.

  Grip! Mr. Payson had a strong hold on the collar of the assistant engineer.

  "Let go of me!" commanded Harry.

  "You can't go out there, Mr. Hazelton. No more lives are to be wasted."

  "Let go of me, I tell you!"

  "No, sir!" insisted Foreman Payson firmly.

  "Let go of me, or I'll fight you!"

  "You'll have to fight, then," retorted Payson doggedly, maintaining his grip on the lad's coat collar. "Comeback here!"

  Aided by another man, the foreman dragged Hazelton back to the platform.

  "Payson, I'll discharge you, if you interfere with me!" stormed Hazelton.

  "Don't be a fool, sir. You can't help Mr. Reade. Be cool, sir. Keep your head and direct us like a man of sense."

  "Be a man of sense, and see my chum going under the sands of the Man-killer?" flared Hazelton.

  He made a bound, doubling his fists threateningly. Then three or four men, at a sign from Payson, seized the young assistant engineer and threw him to the ground.

  "Tom," called Harry, "order these fools to let me go."

  Reade, however, who had just pulled in all the slack of the rawhide lariat, and had made it fast about his own left arm, seemed wholly unaware of his own great peril.

  Tom Reade was now submerged to his waistline in the engulfing sand.

  Unless rescued within five minutes the young chief engineer was plainly doomed to be swallowed up in the treacherous sands of the Man-killer. Only a few seconds below the shifting level of the sand would be enough to smother the life out of him. Scores of strong men, powerless to help, watched hopelessly within a few yards of the two whose lives were being slowly but surely snuffed out.

  The laborer, whose carelessness or ignorance had caused all the trouble, was now in the sand up to his mouth. The agonized watchers could see him gradually sinking further.

  "Keep up your nerve, friend!" called Tom, in cool encouragement. "We'll soon have you out of that."

  Gripping the lariat with both bands, Tom gave a strong, sudden wrench and succeeded in drawing the imperiled man out of the sand a few inches.

  Then the poor fellow began to settle again moaning piteously as he saw a hideous death staring him in the face.

  Tom Reade's own face was deathly white from a realization of the other's peril. Of his own danger the young chief engineer had not once stopped to think.

  Harry Hazelton was again on his feet. That much Foreman Payson had permitted, but strong-armed laborers stood on either side of the boy, and their detaining grips were on his arm.

  Out yonder the doomed man saw the engulfing sand creeping up on a level with his eyes. He tried to scream, but the sand shifted into his mouth. In pitiable terror the poor fellow closed his mouth in order to delay death for another moment. Even to call for help would now be swiftly fatal!

  Behind came the thunder of hoofs.

  "Ropes!" shouted the horseman on Harry's mount.

  He rode past the groups of men, close to the platform. Then, leaping from the saddle, the rider tossed a small bundle of ropes at Harry's feet. All were ropes and lines—not a raw-hide among them.

  "There he goes! He's gone!" roared a score of frantic voices, as the engulfed laborer sank out of sight in the sand.

  Harry Hazelton feverishly uncoiled one of the ropes, gathering a few folds in his right hand.

  "Catch, Tom!" Harry shouted, making a cast.

  The line swirled through the air, then settled on the sands.

  "O-o-o-oh!" groaned Hazelton, for the rope had fallen four feet to one side of Reade, and the latter, hemmed in as he was, could not reach it.

  "Take your time and make a sure throw, Harry!" Tom called cheerily.

  Again Hazelton made a throw—and failed.

  "Let me, have that! My head's cooler," called Foreman Payson.

  He made two quick, steady throws, but each shot wide of the mark.

  "Let me have that!" screamed Harry, snatching the line away.

  "There are lines enough. Two men might be making throws," spoke a quiet voice behind them.

  Payson nodded, and bent over for another line.

  All trace of the doomed laborer had now disappeared. As for Tom, the sand was reaching up under his arm-pits. The young chief engineer had had the presence of mind to keep his arms free, but soon they too must be swallowed up.

  "Good throw—whoever sent it!" cheered Tom Reade, as a final cast—Harry's—sent a line within six inches of his face.

  Tom could not see those back at the platform, for his back was turned to the eastward, and he could no longer swing his body about.

  "Get it under your arms-quick, Tom, or you're done for, too!" screamed Harry.

  "Keep cool, old chap!" came back the unconcerned answer. "It isn't half bad out here. The sand feels really cool about one's body."

  "This is no time for nonsense!" ordered Hazelton hoarsely. "Have you the line fast?"

  "Yes!" nodded Reade. "Haul away! Careful, but strong and steady!"

  Under Foreman Payson's direction a score of men seized the other end of the line and then began to haul.

  Harry danced up and down in a frenzy.

  "Tom, you idiot," he gasped. "You haven't made the line fast about yourself."

  "Not yet," came the cheery answer. "That wouldn't be fair play. Haul away on our friend out yonder."

  Tom Reade had knotted the line fast to his end of the rawhide lariat that was tied under the shoulders of the engulfed laborer. It was magnificent, though seemingly a useless sacrifice of his own life for one who must already be dead.

  From some of the workmen a faint cheer went up as the slowly incoming line hauled the head of the unconscious laborer above the sand. A foot at a time the body came toward them over the sand.

  Harry, however, scarcely noted the rescue. He was frantically working with another line, knotting it in a sort of harness under his own shoulders.

  "Come here, some of you men!" he called. "Bear a hand here! Lively!"

  Foreman Payson was instantly at the side of the young assistant engineer.

  "What are you trying to do, Mr. Hazelton?" he demanded.

  "I'm going out on the sands," retorted Harry. "I'm going to reach Tom Reade. If I go under the men can aid me."

  "But that isn't a rawhide line; it's hemp," objected Foreman Payson.

  "It's strong enough," retorted Hazelton impatiently.

  "I don't know about that."

  "It will have to do," insisted Hazelton. "You men get a good hold. Also, one of you play out this other line that I'm taking w
ith me for Tom Reade."

  "Don't risk anything foolish, Harry!" called the voice of Tom Reade, who now felt the sand under his chin.

  "I'm coming to you," Tom, shouted Harry.

  "It's too dangerous. Don't!"

  "I've got to come to you!"

  "I tell you don't! Maybe I can get myself out."

  "Yes, you can," jeered Hazelton. "Tom, if you went under, do you think I could ever go back to our native town?"

  "Payson!" shouted Tom.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Don't let Mr. Hazelton come—yet. Seize him!"

  "I've got him, sir!"

  Harry felt himself seized by the strong arms of the foreman.

  "You don't go, sir," Payson insisted. "It's a criminal waste of life."

  "Man, unhand me. Let me go, I tell you."

  "I won't, sir. I've Mr. Reade's orders."

  "He's helpless and no longer in command," Harry retorted.

  "He's in command enough for me, sir."

  "Payson!" Harry Hazelton's fierce gaze burned into the eyes of the foreman. "If Tom Reade dies out yonder, and you've hindered me from saving him—I'll have your life for forfeit!"

  Before that burning look even Payson shrank back. Harry Hazelton, ordinarily the best natured of boys, was now in terrible earnest.

  "That's right," muttered Hazelton. "Men, I take command here. You needn't heed any words from Reade. Now, you men on the lines watch close and listen keenly for my orders."

  With that Hazelton darted out on the deadly, treacherous sands!

  CHAPTER XI. CHEATING THE MAN-KILLER

  For the first few yards the assistant engineer ran almost as well as though on a cinder track. Then his feet sank in. Soon he stumbled.

  Then there came a time, within ten feet of Tom, when Harry felt his feet settling in the sand despite his efforts to pull himself out.

  In the meantime the haulers on the other line had forgotten to pull the laborer nearer to safety.

  "You men get your eyes on the job!" sternly commanded Payson, who seemed capable of having eyes everywhere.

  Harry got out, somehow. He made a bound, landing within arm's length of Tom Reade.

  "I'm here, old chum!" gasped Hazelton.