The Iron Trail

by Rex Beach

  XXII

  HOW THE HAZARD WAS PLAYED

  Eliza's greeting to the runaways was as warm as their hearts couldwish. She divined the truth before they could speak, and took Nataliein her arms with a glad cry of welcome. The two girls kissed eachother, wept, laughed, wept a little more, kissed again, and then thestory came out.

  Dan was plainly swollen with pride.

  "I walloped him, Sis!" he told her. "I got even for the whole family,and I believe his eyes are closed even to the beauties of nature. Hewon't be able to read the wedding-notice."

  Eliza hugged his arm and looked at him adoringly.

  "It must have been perfectly splendid!"

  Natalie nodded. "I was asleep," she said, "but Dan shocked me wideawake. Can you imagine it? I didn't know my own feelings until he wentfor--that brute. Then I knew all at once that I had loved him all thetime. Isn't it funny? It came over me--so suddenly! I--I can't realizethat he's mine." She turned her eyes upon him with an expression thatmade his chest swell proudly.

  "Gee!" he exclaimed. "If I'd known how she felt I'd have pitched intothe first fellow I met. A man's an awful fool till he gets married."

  There followed a recital of the day's incidents, zestful, full of happydigressions, endless; for the couple, after the manner of lovers, tookit for granted that Eliza was caught up into the seventh heaven alongwith them. Dan was drunk with delight, and his bride seemed dizzied bythe change which had overtaken her. She looked upon it as miraculous,almost unbelievable, and under the spell of her happiness her real selfasserted itself. Those cares and humiliations which had reacted to makeher cold and self-contained disappeared, giving place to an impetuousgirlishness that distracted her newly made husband and delighted Eliza.The last lingering doubts that Dan's sister had cherished were clearedaway.

  It was not until the bride had been banished to prepare for dinner thatEliza thought to ask her brother:

  "Have you told Mr. O'Neil?"

  The triumph faded suddenly out of his face.

  "Gee, no! I haven't told anybody."

  They stared at each other, reading the thoughts they had no need tovoice. "Well, I've done it! It's too late now," said Dan, defiantly.

  "Maybe he'll fire us again. I would if I were he. You must tell himthis very minute."

  "I--suppose so," he agreed, reluctantly, and picked up his hat. "Andyet--I--I wonder if I'd better, after all. Don't you think it wouldsound nicer coming from some one else?"

  "Why?"

  "Wouldn't it seem like crowing for me to--to--For instance, now, ifyou--"

  "Coward!" exclaimed the girl.

  He nodded. "But, Sis, you DO have a nicer way of putting things than Ihave."

  "Why, I wouldn't tell him for worlds. I couldn't. Poor man! We'vebrought him nothing but sorrow and bad luck."

  "It's fierce!"

  "Well, don't hesitate. That's what Gordon did, and he got licked."

  Dan scowled and set his features in a brave show of moral courage."She's mine, and he can't take her away," he vowed, "so-- I don't carewhat happens. But I'd just as soon slap a baby in the face." He leftthe house like a man under sentence.

  When he returned, a half-hour later, Eliza was awaiting him on theporch. She had been standing there with chattering teeth and limbsshaking from the cold while the minutes dragged.

  "What did he say?" she asked, breathlessly.

  "It went off finely. Thank Heaven, he was out at the front, so I couldbreak it to him over the 'phone!"

  "Did he--curse you?"

  "No; I opened right up by saying I had bad news for him--"

  "Oh, Dan!"

  "Yes! I dare say I wasn't very tactful, now that I think it over, but,you see, I was rattled. I spilled out the whole story at once. 'Badnews?' said he. 'My dear boy, I'm delighted. God bless you both.' Thenhe made me tell him how it all happened, and listened without a word. Ithought I'd faint. He pulled some gag about Daniel and the lion; thenhis voice got far away and the blamed wire began to buzz, so I hung upand beat it back here. I'm glad it's over."

  "He'll probably send you a solid-silver dinner-set or raise your pay.That's the kind of man he is." Eliza's voice broke. "Oh, Danny," shecried, "he's the dearest, sweetest thing--" She turned away, and hekissed her sympathetically before going inside to the waiting Natalie.

  Instead of following, Eliza remained on the porch, gazing down at thelights of the little city. An engine with its row of empty flats rolledinto the yard, panting from its exertions; the notes of a piano came toher faintly from the street below. The lights of an incoming steamershowed far down the sound. O'Neil had made all this, she reflected: thebusy town, the hopeful thousands who came and went daily owed theirprosperity to him. He had made the wilderness fruitful, but what of hisown life? She suspected that it was as bleak and barren as the mountainslopes above Omar. He, too, looked down upon this thriving intimatelittle community, but from a distance. Beneath his unfailingcheerfulness she felt sure there lurked a hunger which the mereaffection of his 'boys' could never satisfy. And now the thought thatDan had come between him and his heart's desire filled her with pity.He seemed suddenly a very lonely figure of a man, despite his materialsuccess. When his enemies were doing, had already done, so much todefeat him, it seemed unfair that his trusted friend should stepbetween him and the fulfilment of his dearest ambition--that ambitioncommon to all men, failure in which brings a sense of failure to aman's whole life, no matter what other ends are achieved. Of course, hewould smile and swallow his bitterness--that was his nature--but shewould know the truth.

  "Poor Omar Khayyam," she thought, wistfully, "I wish there were loveenough in the world for you. I wish there were two Natalies, or that--"Then she shook the dream from her mind and went into the house, for thenight was cold and she was shaking wretchedly.

  O'Neil behaved more handsomely even than Eliza had anticipated. Hehurried into town on the following morning, and his congratulationswere so sincere, his manner so hearty that Dan forgot his embarrassmentand took a shameless delight in advertising his happiness. Nor didMurray stop with mere words: he summoned all his lieutenants, and Omarrang that night with a celebration such as it had never before known.The company chef had been busy all day, the commissary had beenransacked, and the wedding-supper was of a nature to interfere withoffice duties for many days thereafter. Tom Slater made acongratulatory speech--in reality, a mournful adjuration to avoid thepitfalls of matrimonial inharmony--and openly confessed that hisdigestion was now impaired beyond relief. Others followed him; therewas music, laughter, a riotous popping of corks; and over it all O'Neilpresided with grace and mellowness. Then, after the two young peoplehad been made thoroughly to feel his good will, he went back to thefront, and Omar saw him but seldom in the weeks that followed.

  To romantic Eliza, this self-sought seclusion had but one meaning--theman was broken-hearted. She did not consider that there might be otherreasons for his constant presence at the glaciers.

  Of course, since the unwelcome publication of the North Pass & Yukonstory O'Neil had been in close touch with Illis, and by dint of strongargument had convinced the Englishman of his own innocence in theaffair. A vigorous investigation might have proved disastrous, but,fortunately, Curtis Gordon lacked leisure in which to follow the matterup. The truth was that after his public exposure at Eliza's hands hewas far too busy mending his own fences to spare time for attempts uponhis rival. Consequently, the story was allowed to die out, and O'Neilwas finally relieved to learn that its effect had been killed.Precisely how Illis had effected this he did not know, nor did he careto inquire. Illis had been forced into an iniquitous bargain; and,since he had taken the first chance to free himself from it, thequestion of abstract right or wrong was not a subject for squeamishconsideration.

  It was at about this time that the sanguinary affray at Beaver Canonbegan to bear fruit. One day a keen-faced, quiet stranger presented acard at Murray's office, with the name:

  HENRY T. BLAINE.

  Beneath w
as the address of the Heidlemann building in New York, butotherwise the card told nothing. Something in Mr. Blaine's bearing,however, led Murray to treat him with more than ordinary consideration.

  "I should like to go over your work," the stranger announced; andO'Neil himself acted as guide. Together they inspected the hugeconcrete abutments, then were lowered into the heart of the giantcaissons which protruded from the frozen stream. The Salmon lay lockedin its winter slumber now, the glaciers stood as silent and inactive asthe snow-mantled mountains that hemmed them in. Down into the verybowels of the river the men descended, while O'Neil described thenature of the bottom, the depth and character of his foundations, andthe measure of his progress. He explained the character of that barwhich lay above the bridge site, and pointed out the heavy layers ofrailroad iron with which his cement work was reinforced.

  "I spent nearly two seasons studying this spot before I began thebridge," he continued. "I had men here, night and day, observing thecurrents and the action of the ice. Then I laid my piers accordingly.They are armored and reinforced to withstand any shock."

  "The river is subject to quick rises, I believe?" suggested Blaine.

  "Twenty feet in a few hours."

  "The volley of ice must be almost irresistible."

  "Almost," Murray smiled. "Not quite. Our ice-breakers were especiallydesigned by Parker to withstand any weight. There's nothing like themanywhere. In fact, there will be nothing like this bridge when it'scompleted." Blaine offered no comment, but his questions searched tothe depths of the builder's knowledge. When they were back in camp hesaid:

  "Of course you know why I'm here?"

  "Your card told me that, but I don't need the Heidlemanns now."

  "We are prepared to reopen negotiations."

  "Why?"

  "My people are human; they have feelings. You read Gordon's lies aboutus and about that fight at Beaver Canon? Well, we're used to abuse, andopposition of a kind we respect; but that man stirred public opinion tosuch a point that there's no further use of heeding it. We're ready toproceed with our plans now, and the public can go to the devil till itunderstands us better. We have several men in jail at Cortez, chargedwith murder: it will cost us a fortune to free the poor fellows. Firstthe Heidlemanns were thieves and grafters and looters of the publicdomain; now they have become assassins! If this route to the interiorproves feasible, well and good; if not, we'll resume work at Corteznext spring. Kyak, of course, is out of the question."

  "This route depends upon the bridge."

  "Exactly."

  "It's a two years' job."

  "You offered to complete it this winter, when you talked with Mr.Herman Heidlemann."

  "And--I can."

  "Then we'll consider a reasonable price. But we must know definitelywhere we stand by next spring. We have a great deal of capital tied upin the interior; we can't wait."

  "This delay will cost you something."

  Mr. Blaine shrugged. "You made that point plain when you were in NewYork. We're accustomed to pay for our mistakes."

  "Will you cover this in the shape of an option?"

  "That's what I'm here for. If you finish your bridge and it stands thespring break-up, we'll be satisfied. I shall expect to stay here andwatch the work."

  O'Neil agreed heartily. "You're very welcome, Mr. Blaine. I like yourbrand of conversation. I build railroads; I don't run them. Now let'sget down to figures."

  The closing of the option required several weeks, of course, but theoutcome was that even before mid-winter arrived O'Neil found himself inthe position he had longed to occupy. In effect the sale was made, andon terms which netted him and his backers one hundred per cent. profit.There was but one proviso--namely, that the bridge should be built byspring. The Heidlemanns were impatient, their investment up to date hadbeen heavy, and they frankly declared that failure to bridge the chasmon time would convince them that the task was hopeless. In a way thiswas unreasonable, but O'Neil was well aware that they could not permitdelay--or a third failure: unless his route was proved feasible withoutloss of time they would abandon it for one they knew to be certain,even though more expensive. He did not argue that the task was ofunprecedented difficulty, for he had made his promise and was ready tostand or fall by it. It is doubtful, however, if any other contractorwould have undertaken the work on such time; in fact, had it been apublic bridge it would have required four years in the building. YetO'Neil cheerfully staked his fortune on completing it in eight months.

  With his option signed and the task squarely confronting him, herealized with fresh force its bigness and the weight of responsibilitythat rested upon his shoulders. He began the most dramatic struggle ofhis career, a fight against untried conditions, a desperate raceagainst the seasons, with ruin as the penalty of defeat.

  The channel of the Salmon at this point is fifteen hundred feet wideand thirty feet deep. Through it boils a ten-mile current; in otherwords, the waters race by with the speed of a running man. Over thisO'Neil expected to suspend a structure capable of withstanding themightiest strains to which any bridge had ever been subjected. Parker'splans called for seventeen thousand yards of cement work and ninemillion pounds of steel, every part of which must be fabricated to acareful pattern. It was a man-sized job, and O'Neil was thankful thathe had prepared so systematically for the work; that he had gatheredhis materials with such extraordinary care. Supplies were arriving nowin car-loads, in train-loads, in ship-loads: from Seattle, fromVancouver, from far Pittsburg they came in a thin continuous stream,any interruption of which meant confusion and serious loss of time. Themovement of this vast tonnage required the ceaseless attention of acorps of skilled men.

  He had personally directed affairs up to this point, but he nowobliterated himself, and the leadership devolved upon twoothers--Parker, small, smiling, gentle-mannered; Mellen, tall, angular,saturnine. Upon them, engineer and bridge-builder, O'Neil rested hisconfidence, serene in the knowledge that of all men they were theablest in their lines. As for himself, he had all he could do to bringmaterials to them and to keep the long supply-trail open. Long it was,indeed; for the shortest haul was from Seattle, twelve hundred milesaway, and the steel bridge members came from Pennsylvania.

  The piers at Omar groaned beneath the cargoes that were belched fromthe big freighters--incidentally, "Happy Tom" Slater likewise groanedbeneath his burdens as superintendent of transportation. At theglaciers a city as large as Omar sprang up, a city with electriclights, power-houses, machine shops, freight yards, and long rows ofwinter quarters. It lay behind ramparts of coal, of grillage timbersand piling, of shedded cement barrels, and tons of steel. Over it thewinter snows sifted, the north winds howled, and the arctic colddeepened.

  Here, locked in a mountain fastness more than a thousand miles from hisbase of supplies, O'Neil began the decisive struggle of his life. Here,at the focusing point of his enterprise, in the white heat of thebattle, he spent his time, heedless of every other interest orconsideration. The shifts were lengthened, wages were increased, asystem of bonuses was adopted. Only picked men were given places, butof these there were hundreds: over them the grim-faced Mellen brooded,with the fevered eye of a fanatic and a tongue of flame. Whereverpossible the men were sheltered, and steam-pipes were run to guardagainst the cold; but most of the labor was, of necessity, performed inthe open and under trying conditions. At times the wind blew ahurricane; always there was the bitter cold. Men toiled until theirflesh froze and their tools slipped from their fingers, then draggedthemselves stiffly into huts and warmed themselves for further effort.They worked amid a boiling snow-smother that hid them from view, whilegravel and fine ice cut their faces like knives; or again, on still,sharp days, when the touch of metal was like the bite of fangs andechoes filled the valley to the brim with an empty clanging. But theywere no ordinary fellows--no chaff, to drift with the wind: they weremen toughened by exposure to the breath of the north, men winnowed outfrom many thousands of their kind. Nor were they driven: they were le
d.Mellen was among them constantly; so was the soft-voiced smilingParker, not to mention O'Neil with his cheery laugh and his words ofpraise. Yet often it was hard to keep the work moving at all; for steamcondensed in the cylinders, valves froze unless constantly operated,pipes were kept open only by the use of hot cloths: then, too, the snowcrept upward steadily, stealthily, until it lay in heavy drifts whichnearly hid the little town and changed the streets to miniature canons.

  Out of this snow-smothered, frost-bound valley there was but one trail.The army lay encamped in a cul de sac; all that connected it with theoutside world were two slender threads of steel. To keep them clear ofsnow was in itself a giant's task; for as yet there were no snow-sheds,and in many places the construction-trains passed through deep cutsbetween solid walls of white. Every wind filled these level andthreatened to seal the place fast; but furiously the "rotaries"attacked the choking mass, slowly it was whirled aside, and onwardflowed that steady stream of supplies. No army of investment was everin such constant peril of being cut off. For every man engaged in theattack there was another behind him fighting back the allied forceswhich swept down from either hand.

  Only those who know that far land in her sterner moods can form anyconception of the stupefying effect of continuous, unbroken cold. Thereis a point beyond which the power of reaction ceases: where the humanmind and body recoils uncontrollably from exposure, and where the mostrobust effort results in a spiritless inactivity. It is then thatefficiency is cut in half, then cut again. And of all the terrors ofthe Arctic there is none so compelling as the wind. It is a monstrous,deathly thing, a creature that has life and preys upon the agony ofmen. There are regions sheltered from it, of course; but in the gutterswhich penetrate the mountain ranges it lurks with constant menace, andof all the coast from Sitka westward the valley of the Salmon is themost evil.

  In the throat of this mighty-mouthed funnel, joining the still, abysmalcold of the interior with the widely varying temperatures of the opensea, O'Neil's band was camped, and there the great hazard was played.Under such conditions it was fortunate indeed that he hadfield-marshals like Parker and Mellen, for no single man could havetriumphed. Parker was cautious, brilliant, far-sighted; he reduced thebattle to paper, he blue-printed it; with sliding-rule he analyzed itinto inches and pounds and stresses and strains: Mellen was like a grimHannibal, tireless, cunning, cold, and he wove steel in his fingers asa woman weaves her thread.

  It was a remarkable alliance, a triumvirate of its kind unsurpassed. Asthe weeks crept into months it worked an engineering marvel.