The Young Engineers in Arizona

by Hancock, H Irving

  "Stop, I tell you!"

  His commands fell upon deaf ears. It was impossible to restrain these men.

  Here and there the lately masked men drew pistols, though not one of them had a chance to use his weapon ere it was wrested from him.

  Pound! slam! bang! A medley of falling blows filled the air, nor was it many seconds later when cries of pain and fear, and appeals for mercy were heard on all sides.

  Tom had recognized his own railroad workers, and was throwing himself among them, doing his utmost with hands and voice to stop the brief but wild orgy of revenge on the part of the workmen who idolized him. In their present rage, however, Tom could not at once restrain them. Time and again he was swept back from reaching Tim Griggs, who was easily the center of this volcanic outburst of human passion.

  "Boys!" roared Tim. "We'll want to know these coyotes to-morrow. Black the left eye of each rascal. I'll black both of Jim Duff's."

  Two heavy, sodden impacts sounded during a brief pause in the noise, attesting to the fact that the gambler had been decorated.

  "Stop all this! Stop!" roared Tom Reade. "Men, we're not savages, just because these other fellows happen to be! Stop it, I tell you. Are there no foremen here?"

  "I'm trying to reach you, Mr. Reade," called the voice of Superintendent Hawkins. "But this is a heavy crush to get through."

  In truth it was. There were more than a hundred laborers in the cellar, while the stairs were blocked by a mob of enraged workmen.

  "Stop it all, men!" Tom again urged, and this time there was silence, save for his own strong voice. "We don't want to prove ourselves to be as despicable as the enemy are. Bring 'em up to the street, but don't be brutal about it. We'll look the scoundrels over so that we'll know them to-morrow. Come along. Clear the stairs, if you please, men!"

  Tom was now once more in control, as fully as though he had his force of toilers out on the desert at the Man-killer quicksand.

  So, after a few minutes, all were in the street. Here fully two hundred more of the railroad men, many of them armed with stakes and other crude weapons, held back a crowd of Paloma residents who swarmed curiously about.

  "Let me through, men. Let me through, I tell you!" insisted the voice of Harry Hazelton, as that young assistant engineer struggled with the crowd.

  Then, on being recognized, Harry was allowed to reach the side of his chum.

  "Mr. Reade!" called a husky-toned voice, "won't you order your men to let me through to see you? I want to talk with you about tonight's outrage."

  Tom recognized the speaker as a man named Beasley, one of Paloma's most upright and courageous citizens.

  "Let Mr. Beasley through," Tom called. "Don't block the streets, men. Remember, we've no right to do that."

  A resounding cheer ascended at the sound of Tom's voice. In the light of the lanterns Tom was seen to be signaling with his hands for quiet, and the din soon died down.

  "Mr. Reade," spoke Beasley, in a voice that shook with indignation, "the real men of this town would like an account of what has been going on here to-night. If Duff and his cronies have been up to anything that hurts the good name of the town we'd like the full particulars. You men there—don't let one of the rascals get away. Jim Duff and his gang will have to answer to the town of Paloma."

  "Men," ordered Reade, "bring along the crew you caught in the cellar. Don't hurt them—remember how cowardly violence would be when we have everything in our own hands."

  "The men of Paloma will do all the hurting," Mr. Beasley announced grimly.

  Tom's own deliberate manner, and his manifest intention of not abusing his advantage impressed itself upon the decent men of Paloma, who now swarmed about the frightened captives from the cellar.

  "I know 'em all," muttered Beasley. "I'll know 'em in the morning, too. So will you, friends!" he added, turning to the pressing crowds.

  "Start Jim Duff on his travels now!" demanded one angry voice.

  "By the Tree & Rope Short Line!" proposed another voice.

  Jim was caught and held, despite his straggles. Active hands swarmed over his clothing, seeking for weapons.

  "Gentlemen! Gentlemen!" appealed Tom sturdily, making his resonant voice travel far over the heads of the throng. "Will you honor me with your attention for three or four minutes?"

  "Yep!" shouted back one voice.

  "You bet!" came another voice.

  "Go ahead and spout, Reade. We'll have the hanging, right after!"

  There was nothing jovial in these responses. Tom Reade knew men well enough to recognize this fact. Moreover, Tom knew the plain, unvarnished, honest and deadly-in-earnest men of these south-western plains well enough to know the genuine fury of the crowd.

  Arizona and New Mexico have long been held up as states where violence and lynch law prevail. The truth is that Arizona and New Mexico have no more lynchings than do many of the older states. An Arizona lynching can only follow an upheaval of public sentiment, when honest men are angered at having their fair fame sullied by the acts of blackguards.

  "Friends," Tom went on, as soon as he could secure silence, "I am a newcomer among you. I have no right to tell you how to conduct your affairs, and I am not going to make that mistake. What you may do with Jim Duff, what you may do with others who damage the fair name of your town, is none of my business. For myself I want no revenge on these rascals. They have already been handled with much more roughness than they had time to show to me. I am satisfied to call the matter even."

  "But we're not!" shouted an Arizona voice from the crowd.

  "That's your own affair, gentlemen," Reade went on. "I wish to suggest—in fact, I beg of you—that you let these fellows go to-night. In the morning, when the sun is up, and after you have thought over the matter, you will be in a better position to give these fellows fair-minded justice—if you then still feel that something must be done to them. That is all I have to say, gentlemen. Now, Mr. Beasley, won't you follow with further remarks in this same line?"

  Mr. Beasley looked more or less reluctant, but he presently complied with Reade's request. Then Tom called upon another prominent citizen of Paloma in the crowd for a speech.

  "Let the coyotes go—until daylight," was the final verdict of the crowd, though there was an ominous note in the expressed decision.

  In stony silence the crowd now parted to let Jim Duff and his fellows go away.

  Within sixty seconds the last of them had run the gauntlet of contempt and vanished.

  "Someone told me," scoffed Beasley, "that a gambler is a man of courage, polish, brains and good manners. I reckon Jim Duff isn't a real gambler, then."

  "Yes, he is!" shouted another. "He's one of the real kind—sometimes smooth, but always bound to fatten on the money that belongs to other men."

  "Jim can leave town, I reckon," grimly declared another old settler. "We have savings banks these days, and we don't need gamblers to carry our money for us."

  "Speech, Reade! Speech!" insisted Mr. Beasley good-humoredly.

  From some mysterious place a barrel was passed along from hand to hand. It was set down before the young chief engineer, and ready hands hoisted him to the upturned end of the barrel.

  "Speech!" roared a thousand voices.

  Tom, grinning good-humoredly, then waved his arms as though to still the tumult of voices. Gradually the cheering died down, then ceased.

  Bang! sounded further down the Street, and the flash of a rifle was seen.

  Tom Reade, his speech unmade, fell from the barrel into the arms of those crowded about him.

  CHAPTER XV. MR. DANES INTRODUCES HIMSELF

  Daylight found Jim Duff and some of his cronies of the night before either absent from Paloma, or else securely hidden.

  Fred Ransom, the Colthwaite Company's representative, had also vanished.

  Proprietor Ashby, of the Mansion House, was reported to be skulking in his hotel, as he did not show his face on the streets.

  Morning also brought calmer c
ounsel to the real men of Paloma. They were now glad that they had not sullied themselves by acts of violence.

  No one, when daylight came, entertained the belief that Tom Reade would suffer from any further attempts at violence, for now the little coterie of so-called "bad men" in the town were thoroughly frightened.

  Tom had not been hit by the rifle shot. He had fallen as a matter of precaution, fearing that a second shot would speed on the heels of the first.

  The fellow who had fired that shot at Tom had not lingered long enough to place himself in risk of Arizona vengeance. Even before some of the men in the crowd had had time to discover that Reade, unhurt, was laughing over his escape, a score or more had darted down the street, only to find that the unknown whom they sought was safely out of the way.

  "We'll search the town from one end to the other," one excited citizen had proposed.

  "We'll make a night of it."

  "Don't do anything of the sort," Tom had urged. "You'll terrorize hundreds of women and children, who have no knowledge of this affair. Jim Duff's little evening of celebration is ended and now the wisest thing for you to do is to return to your homes. Mr. Hawkins!"

  "Here, sir," answered the superintendent of construction.

  "Get our men together and return to camp. They'll need sleep against the toil of to-morrow. Let every man who wants to do so sleep an hour or two later in the morning. Men of the A., G. & N. M., accept my heartiest thanks for the splendid manner in which you turned out to help me, though as yet I'm ignorant of how it all came about."

  Nor was it until the next day that Tom Reade learned from Hazelton just what had caused the laborers to tumble out of their beds and rush into town to serve him.

  That night Tim Griggs had been prowling about the streets of Paloma, suspicious of Reade's enemies, and watching for the safety of the young chief engineer who had saved him from the savage appetite of the Man-killer quicksand.

  It had chanced that Tim had caught a glimpse of the finish of the fight on the street, and was just in time to see the young chief engineer lifted and carried into that unoccupied house, the property of the hotel man, Ashby.

  Tim's first instinct had been to seek help in town—in that very neighborhood. Tim was suspicious, and afraid that he might by mistake appeal to some of Tom's enemies.

  So, while running through the streets searching for Hazelton, Tim had espied an automobile standing idle in front of a house. Having some acquaintance with automobiles, Tim had cranked up and leaped into the vehicle, speeding straight to camp, where he gave the alarm. Men answered by hundreds, Mendoza keeping his Mexicans in camp to watch the property there.

  Harry was aroused by the tumult, for he had just gone to his room, intending to turn in.

  Having roused the camp, Tim ran the car back to town at the head of the swarming little army and returned to the spot where he had seized the automobile.

  "It's all over now, old fellow," Tom declared to his chum cheerily, rising from his office chair as one of the whistles blew and the men knocked off for their noonday meal. "What happened last night won't happen again."

  "Just the same, Tom, I almost wish you'd carry a pistol after this," Harry remarked, as the two engineers went to their horses, mounted and started toward town for their own meal.

  "Bosh!" almost snapped Tom. "You know my opinion of pistols. They are for policemen, soldiers and others who have real need to go armed. Only a coward would pack a pistol day by day without needing it."

  So the matter was dropped for the time being.

  At the hotel Tom and Harry went to their accustomed seats in the dining room. Their food was brought and the two young engineers fell to work cheerfully. Just then a well-dressed man of perhaps thirty years entered the dining, room, spoke to one of the waiters, and came over to the engineers' table.

  "Messrs. Reade and Hazelton?" he inquired pleasantly.

  "Yes," Harry nodded.

  "May I make myself known?" asked the stranger. "My name is Danes—Frank Danes."

  Harry in turn gave his own name and that of Tom.

  "I wonder if you would think it intruding if I invited myself to join you at this table?" the stranger went on.

  "By no means," Tom responded cordially. "We'll be glad of your company. It will stop Hazelton and myself from talking too much shop."

  "Oh, by all means talk shop," begged Danes, as he slipped into a chair at one side of the table. "I shall enjoy it, for I am interested in you both. In fact, I took the liberty of asking the waiter to point you gentlemen out to me."

  "So?" Tom inquired.

  Danes had the appearance of being a well-to-do easterner, and announced himself as a resident of Baltimore.

  For some minutes the three chatted pleasantly, Harry, however, doing most of the talking for the engineers. When Tom spoke it was generally to put some question.

  "Do you ever permit visitors to go out to the Man-killer?" Danes inquired toward the end of the meal.

  "Sometimes," Tom answered.

  "I shall be very grateful if you will accord me that privilege."

  "We shall be very glad to invite you out there some time," Tom answered pleasantly.

  "To-day?" pressed the stranger. "I have nothing to do this afternoon."

  "Some other day would suit better, if you can arrange it conveniently," Reade suggested, as he rose.

  Then they left Danes, securing their horses and riding back over the scorching desert.

  "How do you like Danes?" Harry asked, after they had ridden some distance. "He seems a very pleasant fellow."

  "Very pleasant," Tom nodded.

  "Why didn't you let him come along?"

  "Because I don't like Danes' employers."

  "His employers?" Harry repeated, puzzled.

  "Yes; he is employed by the Colthwaite Company."

  "What?" Hazelton started in astonishment. "How do you know that, Tom?"

  "I don't know it, but I'm sure of it, just the same," was Reade's answer.

  "It maybe so," Harry agreed. "What makes you suspect him?"

  "Well, in the first place, Danes, if that's his name—said he hailed from Baltimore. Yet he had none of that soft, delightful southern accent that you and I have noticed in the voices of real southern men. Danes uses two or three words, at times, that are distinctly Chicago slang. Moreover, I'm certain that the man knows a good deal about engineering work, though he won't admit it."

  "We'll have to watch him, then," muttered Harry.

  "We don't need to tell him anything, nor do we need to bring him out here to see how we are filling in the Man-killer. If we don't tell Danes much he may not last long. The Colthwaite people ought soon to grow tired of keeping agents here who don't succeed in hindering our work."

  "Whew! I shall be glad of a sleep to-night, after all the excitement of last night," declared Hazelton, as the young engineers rode into Paloma at the close of the day's work.

  On the porch, lolling in a reclining chair with his feet elevated to the railing, sat Frank Danes.

  "Back from toil, gentlemen?" was his pleasant greeting.

  "Long enough to get sufficient sleep to carry us through to-morrow," was Tom Reade's unruffled response.

  "You do look tired," assented Danes, rising and coming toward them. "Yet I hear that, personally, you don't have hard work to do."

  "We don't work at all, if you take that view of it," Harry retorted. "Yet there's a thing called responsibility, and many wise men have declared that it takes more out of a man than hours of toiling with pick and shovel."

  "Oh, I can believe that's so," agreed Danes. "Going into dinner now?"

  "After a bath and a change of clothing," Tom replied.

  "Then, if you really don't mind, I'll wait and dine at the same table with you."

  "If you can wait that long we shall be charmed to have your company," Tom assured him as the young engineers stepped inside.

  Frank Danes half started as they left him.

  "Reade's
tone sounded a bit peculiar," muttered the newcomer to himself. "I wonder why? Perhaps I have forced myself a little too much upon him and Reade has taken a dislike to me."

  If Tom had taken a dislike to the newcomer, Danes could not be sure of it from the young chief engineer's manner at table. Harry Hazelton, too, was almost gracious during the meal.

  "They're a pair of half-smart, half-simple boobs," decided Danes, as he smoked a cigar alone after dinner.

  "Tom, I think your great intellect has gone astray for once," remarked Hazelton, in the privacy of their room upstairs.

  "I never knew that I had any great intellect," Reade laughed. "However, I was born to be suspicious once in a while. I suppose you were referring to Frank Danes."

  "Yes; and he appears to be a mighty decent fellow."

  "I'm sure I hope he is," yawned Tom. "I'm willing to give him the benefit of the doubt. I'm going to bed, Harry. What do you say?"

  Hazelton was agreeable. Within twenty minutes both young engineers were sound asleep.

  It was after midnight when cries of "fire!" from the street aroused them.

  Tom Reade threw open the door to be greeted by a cloud of stifling smoke.

  "Hustle, Harry!" he gasped, making a rush to get into his clothing. "We can get out, I think, but we haven't any time to spare. This old trap is ablaze. It won't last many minutes!"

  Trained in the alarms and the hurries of camp life, the young engineers all but sprang into their clothes.

  "Come on, Harry!" urged Tom, throwing open the door. "We can make it."

  They started, when, from the floor above, a woman's frantic appeals for help reached them. Children's cries were added to hers.

  "Get to the street, Harry!" shouted Tom. "I'm going upstairs. There'd be no satisfaction for me in reaching the street if I abandoned that woman and her babies to their fate. One of us can do the job as well as two!"

  CHAPTER XVI. DANES SHIVERS ON A HOT NIGHT

  Almost immediately after the cries of "fire" the bell at the fire station pealed out.

  Paloma's volunteer fire department turned out quickly, running to the scene with a hand engine, two hose reels and a ladder truck.