← catalogue

The Young Engineers in Arizona; or, Laying Tracks on the Man-killer Quicksand

by H. Irving Hancock · English · Gutenberg #8153 · 286,587 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Young Engineers in Arizona; or, Laying Tracks on the Man-killer Quicksand
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: The Young Engineers in Arizona; or, Laying Tracks on the Man-killer Quicksand

Author: H. Irving Hancock


        
Release date: May 1, 2005 [eBook #8153]
                Most recently updated: March 15, 2018

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8153

Credits: Produced by Sean Pobuda, and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA; OR, LAYING TRACKS ON THE MAN-KILLER QUICKSAND ***




Produced by Sean Pobuda








THE YOUNG ENGINEERS IN ARIZONA

or

LAYING TRACKS ON THE MAN-KILLER QUICKSAND



By H. Irving Handcock





CHAPTER I. THE MAN OF “CARD HONOR”


“I'll wager you ten dollars that my fly gets off the mirror before yours
does.”

“I'll take that bet, friend.”

The dozen or so of waiting customers lounging in Abe Morris's barber
shop looked up with signs of renewed life.

“I'll make it twenty,” continued the first speaker.

“I follow you,” assented the second speaker.

*Truly, if men must do so trivial a thing as squander their money on
idle bets, here was a novel enough contest.

Each of the bettors sat in a chair, tucked up in white to the chin. Each
was having his hair cut.

At the same moment a fly had lighted on each of the mirrors before the
two customers.

The man who had offered the bet was a well known local character--Jim
Duff by name, by occupation one of the meanest and most dishonorable
gamblers who had ever disgraced Arizona by his presence.

There is an old tradition about “honest gamblers” and “players of
square games.” The man who has been much about the world soon learns to
understand that the really honest and “square” gambler is a creature of
the imagination. The gambler makes his living by his wits, and he who
lives by anything so intangible speedily finds the road to cheating and
trickery.

Jim Duff had been no exception. His reputation was such that he could
find few men among the residents of this part of Arizona who would meet
him at the gaming table. He plied his trade mostly among simple-minded
tourists from the east--the class of men who are known in Arizona as
“tenderfeet.”

Rumor had it that Jim Duff, in addition to his many years of unblushing
cheating for a living, had also shot and killed three men in the past on
as many different occasions.

Yet he was a sleek, well-groomed fellow, tall and slim, and, in
the matter of years, somewhere in his forties. Duff always dressed
well--with a foundation of the late styles of the east, with something
of the swagger of the plains added to his raiment.

“Stranger, you might as well hand me your money now,” drawled Duff,
after a few moments had passed. “It'll save time.”

“Your fly hasn't hopped yet,” retorted the second man, with the air and
tone of one who could afford to lose thousands on such stupid bets.

The second man was of the kind on which Jim Duff fattened his purse.
Clarence Farnsworth, about twenty-five years of age, was as verdant a
“tenderfoot” as had lately graced Paloma, Arizona, with his presence.

Even the name of Clarence had moved so many men to laughter in this
sweltering little desert town that Farnsworth had lately chopped his
name to “Clare.” Yet this latter had proved even worse; it sounded too
nearly like a girl's name.

So far as his financial condition went, Clarence had the look of one
who possessed money to spend. He was well-dressed, lived at the Mansion
House, often hired automobiles, entertained his friends lavishly, and
was voted a good enough fellow, though a simpleton.

“My fly's growing skittish, stranger,” smiled Jim Duff. “He's on the
point of moving. You'd better whisper to your fly.”

“I believe, friend,” rejoined Clarence, “that my fly is taking nap. He
appears to be sound asleep. You certainly picked the more healthy fly.”

Jim Duff gave his barber an all but imperceptible nudge in one elbow.
Though he gave no sign in return, that barber understood, and shifted
his shears in a way that, even at distance, alarmed the fly on the
mirror before Duff.

“Buzz-zz!” The fly in front of the gambler took wing and vanished toward
the rear of the store.

Some of the Arizona men looking on smiled knowingly. They had realized
from the start that young Farnsworth had stood no show of winning the
stupid wager.

“You win,” stated young Clarence, in a tone that betrayed no annoyance.

Drawing a roll of bills from his pocket, he fumbled until he found a
twenty. This he passed to Duff, sitting in the next chair.

“You're not playing in luck to-day,” smiled Duff gently, as he tucked
away the money in one of his coat pockets. “You're a good sportsman,
Farnsworth, at any rate.”

“I flatter myself that I am,” replied Clarence, blushing slightly.

Jim Duff continued calmly puffing at the cigar that rested between his
teeth. They were handsome teeth, though, in some way, they made one
think of the teeth of a vicious dog.

“Coming over to the hotel this afternoon?” continued Duff.

“I--I--” hesitated Clarence.

“Coming, did you say?” persisted Duff gently.

“I shall have to see my mail first. There may be letters--”

“Oh,” nodded Duff, with just a trace of irony as the younger man again
hesitated.

“Life is not all playtime for me, you know,” Farnsworth continued,
looking rather shame-faced. “I--er--have some business affairs
attention at times.”

“Oh, don't try to join me at the hotel this if you have more interesting
matters in prospect,” smiled the gambler.

Again Clarence flushed. He looked up to Jim Duff as a thorough “man
of the world,” and wanted to stand well in the gambler's good opinion.
Clarence Farnsworth was, as yet, too green to know that, too often, the
man who has seen much of the world has seen only its seamy and worthless
side. Possibly Farnsworth was destined to learn this later on--after the
gambler had coolly fleeced him.

“Before long,” Farnsworth went on, changing the subject, “I must get out
on the desert and take a look at the quicksand that the railroad folks
are trying to cross.”

“The railroad people will probably never cross that quicksand,” remarked
Jim Duff, the lids closing over his eyes for a moment.

“Oh, I don't know about that,” continued Farnsworth argumentatively.

“I think I do,” declared Jim Duff easily. “My belief, Farnsworth, is
that the railroad people might dig up the whole of New Mexico, transport
the dirt here and dump it on top of that quicksand, and still the
quicksand would settle lower and lower and the tracks would still break
up and disappear. There's no bottom to that quicksand.”

“Of course you ought to know all about it, Duff,” Clarence made haste
to answer. “You've lived here for years, and you know all about this
section of the country.”

That didn't quite suit the gambler. What he sought to do was to raise an
argument with the young man--who still had some money left.

“What makes you think, Farnsworth, that the railroad can win out with
the desert and lay tracks across the quicksand? That's a bad quicksand,
you know. It has been called the 'Man-killer.' Many a prospector or
cow-puncher has lost his life in trying to get over that sand.”

“The real Man-killer quicksand is a mile to the south of where the
tracks go, isn't it?” asked Farnsworth.

“Yes; and the first party of railway surveyors who went over the line
for their track thought they had dodged the Man-killer. Yet what they'll
find, in the end, is that the Man-killer is a bad affair, and that it
extends, under the earth, in many directions and for long distances. I
am certain that railway tracks will never be laid over any part of the
Man-killer.”

“Perhaps not,” assented Clarence meekly.

“What makes you think that the railroad can ever get across the
Man-killer?” persisted Duff.

“Why, for one thing, the very hopeful report of the new engineers who
have taken charge.”

“Humph!” retorted Duff, as though that one word of contempt disposed of
the matter.

“Reade and Hazelton are very good engineers, are they not?” inquired
young Farnsworth.

“Humph! A pair of mere boys,” sneered Jim Duff.

“Young fellows of about my age, you mean?” asked Farnsworth.

“Of your age?” repeated Duff, in a tone of wonder. “No! You're a man.
Reade and Hazelton, as I've told you, are mere boys. They're not of age.
They've never voted.”

“Oh, I had no idea that they were as young as that,” replied Clarence,
much pleased at hearing himself styled a man. “But these young engineers
come from one of the Colorado, railroads, don't they!”

“I wouldn't be surprised,” nodded the gambler. “However, the Man-killer
is no task for boys. It is a job for giants to put through, if the job
ever can be finished.”

“Then, if it's so difficult, why doesn't the road shift the track by two
or three miles?” inquired Clarence.

“You certainly are a newcomer here,” laughed Duff easily. “Why, my son,
the railroad was chartered on condition that it run through certain
towns. Paloma, here, is one of the towns. So the road has to come here.”

“But couldn't the road shift, just after it leaves here?” insisted
Clarence.

“Oh, certainly. Yet, if the road shifted enough to avoid any possibility
of resting on the big Man-killer, then it would have to go through the
range beyond here--would have to tunnel under the hills for a distance
of three miles. That would cost millions of dollars. No, sir; the
railroad will have to lay tracks across the Man-killer, or else it will
have to stand a loss so great as to cripple the road.”

“Excuse me, sir,” interrupted a keen, brisk, breezy-looking man, who had
entered the shop only a moment or two before. “There's a way that the
railroad can get over the Man-killer.”

“What is that?” asked Duff, eyeing the newcomer's reflected image in the
mirror.

“The first thing to do,” replied the stranger, “is to drop these boy
engineers out of the game. These youngsters came down here four days
ago, looked over the scene, and promised that they could get the tracks
laid-safely--for about two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

“Pooh!” jeered Duff, with a sidelong glance at young Farnsworth.

“Of course it is pooh!” laughed the stranger. “The thing can it be
done for any such amount as that, and it is a crazy idea, to take the
opinions of boys, anyway, on any such subject as that. Now, there's a
Chicago firm of contractors, the Colthwaite Construction Company, which
has proposed to take over the whole contract for laying tracks across
the Man-killer. These boys figure on using dirt and then more dirt,
and still more, until they've satisfied the appetite of the Man-killer,
filled up the quicksand and laid a bed of solid earth on which the
tracks will run safely for the next hundred years. The Colthwaite people
have looked over the whole proposition. They know that it can't be done.
The two hundred and fifty thousand dollars will be wasted, and then the
Colthwaite Company will have to come in, after all, drive its pillars of
steel and concrete, lay well-founded beds and get a basis that will hold
the new earth above it. Then the track will be safe, and the people of
this part of Arizona will have a railroad of which they can be proud.
But these boys--these kids in railroad building--humph!”

“Humph!” agreed Jim Duff dryly.

The gambler using the mirror before him, continued to study keenly this
stranger, even after the latter had ceased talking and had gone to one
of the chairs to wait his turn.

“You're through, sir,” announced the barber who had been trying to
improve the gambler's appearance. “Thank you, sir. Next.”

Clarence, wholly crushed by the weight of opinion, was not yet through
with his barber. Duff, after lighting a fresh cigar, stepped over to
where the newcomer was seated.

“Are you stopping at the Mansion House?” inquired the gambler.

“Yes,” answered the stranger, looking up.

“So am I,” nodded the gambler. “So I shall probably have the pleasure of
meeting you again.”

“Why, yes; I trust so,” replied the stranger, after a quick, keen look
at Duff. Undoubtedly this newcomer was accustomed to judging men quickly
after seeing them.

“These boy engineers!” chucked Duff. “Humph!”

“Humph!” agreed the stranger.

At this moment two bronzed-looking, erect young men came tramping down
the sidewalk together. Each looked the picture of health, of courage,
of decision. Both wore the serviceable khaki now so common in surveying
camps in warm climates. Below the knee the trousers were confined by
leggings. Above the belt blue flannel shirts showed, yet these were of
excellent fabric and looked trim indeed. To protect their heads and to
shade their eyes as much as possible from the glare of Arizona desert
sand, these young men wore sombreros of the type common in the Army.

“This looks like a good place, Harry,” said the taller of the two young
men. “Suppose we go inside.”

They stepped into the barber shop together, nodding pleasantly to all
inside. Then, hanging up their sombreros, they passed on to unoccupied
chairs.

Just in the act of passing out, Jim Duff had stepped back to admit them.

“They're Reade and Hazelton, the very young engineers that the railroad
has just put in charge of the Man-killer job,” whispered one knowing
citizen of Paloma. The news quickly spread about the barber shop.

Jim Duff already knew the boys by sight, since they were stopping at the
Mansion House. He uttered an almost inaudible “humph!” then passed on
outside.

Neither Tom Reade nor Harry Hazelton heard this exclamation, nor would
they have paid any heed to it if they had.

Yes; the two young men were our friends of old, the young engineers.
Our readers are wholly familiar with Tom and Harry as far back as their
grammar school days in the good old town of Gridley. Tom and Harry were
members of that famous sextet of schoolboy athletes known at home as
Dick & Co. The exploits of Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton, as of Dick
Prescott, Dave Darrin, Greg Holmes and Dan Dalzell, have been fully
told, first in the “Grammar School Boys Series,” and then in the “High
School Boys Series.”

After the close of the “High School Boys Series” the further adventures
of Dick Prescott and Greg Holmes are told in the “West Point Series,”
 while all that befell Dave Darrin and Dan Dalzell has already been found
in the pages of the “Annapolis Series.”

In the preceding volume of this series, “The Young Engineers in
Colorado,” our readers were made familiar with the real start in working
life made by Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton. Back in the old High School
days Reade and Hazelton had been fitting themselves to become civil
engineers. They began their real work in the east, and had made good in
sterner work in the mountains in Colorado.

Our readers all know how Tom and Harry opened their careers in Colorado
by becoming “cub engineers” with one of the field camps of the S. B. &
L. railroad. Taken only on trial, they had rapidly made good, and had
earned the confidence of the chief engineer in charge of the work. When,
owing to the sudden illness of both the chief engineer and his principal
assistant the road's work had been crippled, Tom and Harry had had the
courage as well as the opportunity to take hold, assume the direction,
and complete the building of the S. B. & L. within the time required by
the road's charter.

Had the young engineers failed, the S. B. & L., under the terms granted
by the state, might have been seized and sold at public auction. In that
case, the larger, and rival road, the W. C. & A., stood ready to buy out
the S. B. & L. and reap the profits that the latter road had planned
to earn. Not only had the young engineers succeeded in overcoming all
natural obstacles, but, in a series of wonderful adventures, they had
defeated the plots of agents of the W. C. & A. From that time on Tom and
Harry had been famous in Colorado railroad circles.

After the S. B. & L. had been finished and put in operation, Tom Reade
had remained with the railroad for several months, still serving as
chief engineer, with Harry Hazelton as his trusted and dependable
assistant.

Now, at last, they had been lured away from the S. B. & L. by the offer
of a new chance to overcome difficulties of the sort that all
fighting engineers love to encounter. The Arizona, Gulf & New Mexico
Railroad--more commonly known as the A., G. & N. M.--while laying its
tracks in an attempt at record-beating, had come afoul of the problem
of the quicksand, as already outlined. Three different sets of engineers
had attempted the feat of filling up the quicksand, only to abandon it.

There was little doubt that the Colthwaite Construction Company, a
contracting firm with years of successful experience, could have,
“stopped” the quicksand, but this Chicago firm wanted far more money for
the job than the railroad people felt they could afford to spend.

So, in a moment of doubt, and harassed by troubles, one of the directors
of the A., G. & N. M. had remembered the names and the performances
of Tom and Harry. This director of the Arizona road, being a friend
of President Newnham, of the S. B. & L. road, had written the latter,
asking whether the services of Tom and Harry could be secured. The reply
had been in the affirmative, and Tom and Harry had speedily traveled
down into Arizona. In the few days they had been at this little town of
Paloma, they had gone thoroughly over the ground, they had studied
the problem, and had expressed their opinion that the job could be
put through creditably at a cost not exceeding a quarter of a million
dollars.

“Go to it, then!” General Manager Curtis had replied. “You have our
road's credit at your command, and we look to you to make good. You are
both very young, but Newnham's word is quite good enough for us.”

The day before this story opens this general manager had boarded one of
the rough-looking construction trains and had gone back to the road's
headquarters.

As they sat in the barber shop now Tom and Harry were quite unaware of
the interested notice they were receiving. This was not surprising, for
both were good, sane, wholesome American boys, with no more than the
average share of conceit, and neither believed himself to be as much of
a wonder as some experienced railroad men credited them with being.

“Stranger, excuse me, but you're Reade, aren't you?” inquired one of the
men of Paloma who was present.

“Yes, sir,” nodded Tom, looking up pleasantly from the weekly paper that
he had been scanning.

“You're head of the new job on the Man-killer, aren't you?” questioned
the same man. By this time every man in the barber shop was secretly
watching the young engineers, a fact that was plain to Harry Hazelton,
as he glanced up from a magazine.

“Yee, sir,” Tom answered again. “In a way I'm at the head of it, but
my friend, Hazelton, is really as much at the head as I am. We are
partners, and we work together in everything.”

“Do you think, Reade, that you're going to win out on the job?” inquired
another man.

“Yes, sir,” nodded Tom.

“You seem very confident about it,” smiled another.

“It's just a way we have,” Tom assented good-naturedly. “We always try
to keep our nerve and our confidence with us.”

“Yet you are really sure?”

“Oh! yes,” Reade answered. “We have looked the quicksand over, and we
feel sure that we see a way of stopping the Man-killer, and forcing it
to sustain railroad ties and steel rails.”

“How are you going; to go about it?” questioned still another interested
citizen. These men of Paloma had good reason for being interested. When
the iron road was finished, Paloma would be an intimate part of the
now outside world. It was certain that Paloma real estate would rise to
three or four times its present value.

“I know you'll excuse us,” replied Tom, still speaking pleasantly, “if
we don't go into precise details.”

“Then you are going to make a secret of your plans?” inquired another
barber-shop idler. His tone expressed merely curiosity; Arizona men are
proverbially as polite as they are frank.

“We're somewhat secretive--yes, sir,” Tom replied. “That is only because
we regard the method we are going to use as being mainly the concern of
the A., G. & N. M. No offense meant, sir, either.”

“No offense taken,” replied the late questioner.

Tom had already, within a few minutes, made an excellent impression on
the majority of these Arizona men present.

As to the other newcomer, who had lately spoken so warmly of the
Colthwaite Company, he was now silent, apparently greatly absorbed in a
three-days-old newspaper that he had picked up. Yet he managed to cast
more than one covert glance at the boys.

“I have heard both of you young men spoken of most warmly, as real
engineers who are going to solve the problem of the Man-killer,”
 declared Clarence Farnsworth, as, alighting from the barber's chair, he
strolled past the pair.

“Thank you,” nodded Tom, with all his usual simple good nature.

“If you make a successful job of it is will be a splendid thing for you
in your professional careers,” continued Farnsworth, rather aimlessly.

“Undoubtedly,” nodded Harry.

The stranger who had held so much converse with Jim Duff was through
with the barber at last. Though the day was scorchingly hot in this
desert town, the stranger stepped along briskly until he had reached the
hotel.

The Mansion House would scarcely have measured up to the hotel standards
of large cities. Yet it was a very good hotel, indeed, for this part of
Arizona, and the proprietor did all in his power for the comfort of his
guests.

As the stranger ascended the steps to the broad porch he caught sight of
Jim Duff, approaching the doorway from the inside.

“Oh, how do you do?” was Duff's greeting. “Hot, isn't it?”

“Very,” nodded the stranger.

“I usually have my luncheon in my room, which is large and airy,”
 continued Duff. “As I dislike to eat alone, I have ordered the table
spread for two. I shall be very glad of your company, stranger, if you
care to honor me.”

“That is kind of you,” nodded the other. “I shall accept with much
pleasure, for I, too, like to eat in good company.”

After a little more conversation the two ascended to Duff's room on the
next floor. Certainly it was the largest and most comfortable guest room
in the hotel, and was furnished in good taste. The main apartment was
set as a gentlemen's lounging room, Duff's bedroom furniture being in a
little room at the rear.

Hardly had Duff pressed the bell button before there came a tap at the
door. One waiter brought in a table for two, with the napery. This he
quickly arranged. As he turned toward the door two other waiters entered
with dishes containing a dainty meal for a hot day.

“You may arrange everything and then leave us, John,” directed Duff.
Soon the two new acquaintances were alone together, the gambler serving
the light meal with considerable grace.

“How long have you been with the Colthwaite Company?” asked Jim Duff
presently.

“I didn't say that I had ever been with the Colthwaite Company,” smiled
the stranger.

“No,” admitted the gambler; “but I took that much for granted.”

Again the eyes of the two men met in an exchange of keen looks, Then the
stranger laughed.

“Mr. Duff, I realize that it is a waste of time to try to conceal rather
evident facts from you. I am Frederick Ransom, a special agent for the
Colthwaite Company.”

“You are down here to get the contract for filling up the Man-killer
quicksand?” Duff continued, with an air of polite curiosity.

“The contract is not to be awarded,” Ransom answered. “The A., G. & N.
M. has decided to do the work itself, with the assistance of two young
engineers who have been retained.”

“Reade and Hazelton,” nodded Jim Duff.

“Yes.”

“They may fail--are almost sure to do so. Then, of course, Mr. Ransom,
you will have a very excellent chance of securing the contract for the
Colthwaite Company.”

“Why, yes; if the young men do fail.”

“Will you pardon a stranger's curiosity, Mr. Ransom? Have you laid your
plans yet for the way in which the young men are to fail?”

From most strangers this direct questioning would have been offensive.
Jim Duff, however, from long experience in fleecing greenhorns, had
acquired a manner and way, of speaking that stood him in good stead.

After a moment's half-embarrassed silence Fred Ransom burst into a laugh
that was wholly good-natured.

“Mr. Duff, You are unusually clever at reading other's motives,” he
replied.

“I went to school as a youngster, and learned how to read the pages of
open books,” the gambler confessed modestly. “So you have, as yet,
no plan for compelling the young engineers to fail and quit at the
Man-killer?”

This was such a direct, comprehensive question that Fred Ransom remained
silent for some moments before he admitted:

“No; as yet I haven't been able to form a plan.”

“Then engage me to help you,” spoke Jim Duff slowly, coolly. “I know the
country here, and the people. I know where to lay my finger on men who
can be trusted to do unusual things. I shall come high, Mr. Ransom, but
I am really worth the money. Talk it over with me, and convince me that
your company will be sufficiently liberal in return for large favors.”

“Oh, the Colthwaite Company would be liberal enough,” protested Ransom,
“and quick to hand out the cash, at that.”

“I took that for granted,” smiled Duff, showing his white teeth. “Your
people, the Colthwaites, have always been accustomed to paying
for favors that require unusual talent, some courage-and perhaps a
persistency of the shooting kind.”

Then the two rascals, who now thoroughly understood each other, fell to
plotting. An hour later the outlook was dark, indeed, for the success of
Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton.




CHAPTER II. DUFF ASSERTS HIS “RIGHTS”


“We've a hard afternoon ahead of us, Harry,” remarked Tom Reade, as the
engineer chums finished the noonday meal in the public dining room of
the Mansion House.

“Pshaw! We'll have more real work to do after our material arrives,”
 rejoined young Hazelton. “We're promised the material in four days. If
we get it in a fortnight we will be lucky.”

“That might be true on some railroads,” smiled Tom. “But Mr. Ellsworth,
the general manager of the A., G. & N. M., is a hustler, if I ever met
one. When we wired to him what we needed, he wired back that enough of
the material would be here within four days to keep us busy for some
time. I believe Mr. Ellsworth never talks until he knows what he's
talking about.”

“Well, I hope you can find some work for the men to do this afternoon,”
 murmured Harry, as the two young engineers rose from table. “Hawkins,
our superintendent of construction, has about five hundred mechanics and
laborers who will soon need work.”

“Yes,” agreed Tom. “The men took the jobs with the understanding that
their pay would run on.”

“The day's wages for five hundred workmen is a big item of loss when
we're delayed,” mused Hazelton.

“There's another consideration that's even worse than the loss,” Tom
went on in a low voice. “The pay train will be here this afternoon and
the men will have a lot of money by evening. This town of Paloma is
going to be wide open to-night in the effort to get the money away from
our five hundred men.”

“We can't stop that,” sighed Harry. “We have no control over the way in
which the workmen choose to spend their money.”

“Want me to tell you a secret?” whispered Tom mysteriously.

“Yes, if it's an interesting one,” smiled Harry.

“Very good, then. I know I can't actually interfere with the way the men
spend their money. But I'm going to give them some earnest advice about
avoiding fellows who would fleece them out of their wages.”

“Go slowly, Tom!” warned Hazelton, opening his eyes rather wide. “Don't
put yourself in bad with the men, or they may quit you in a body.”

“Let them,” retorted Tom, with one of his easy smiles. “If these men
throw up their work General Manager Ellsworth will know where to
find others for us. Few of our men are skilled workers. We can find
substitutes for most of them anywhere that laborers can be found.”

“But you've no right--”

“Of one thing you may be very sure, Harry. I'll take pains not to step
over the line of my own rights, and not to step on the rights of the
men who are working for us. What I mean to do is to offer them some
very straight talk. I shall also warn them that we are quite ready to
discharge any foolish fellows who may happen to go on sprees and unfit
themselves for our work. I've one surprise to show you, Harry. Wait
until Johnson, the paymaster, gets in. Then you'll see who else is with
him.”

“Are you gentlemen ready for your horses?” asked a stable boy, coming
around to the front of the hotel.

“Yes,” nodded Tom.

Two tough, lean, wiry desert ponies were brought around. Tom and Harry
mounted, riding away at a slow trot at first.

From an upper window Fred Ransom looked down upon them, then called Duff
to his side.

“There is your game, Duff,” hinted the agent.

“They'll be easy to a man of my experience,” laughed the gambler. “I've
a clever scheme for starting trouble with them.”

He whispered a few words in his companion's ears, at which Ransom
laughed with apparent enjoyment.

“You're a keen one, Duff,” grinned the agent from Chicago.

“I've seen enough of life,” boasted the gambler quietly, “to be able
to judge most people at first sight. You shall soon see whether I don't
succeed in starting some hard feeling with Reade and Hazelton.”

The nearer edge of the treacherous Man-killer was something more than
two miles west of the town of Paloma. In the course of a quarter of an
hour Tom and Harry drew rein near a portable wooden building that served
as an office in the field.

Mr. Hawkins, a solid-looking, bearded man of fifty, with snapping eyes
that contrasted with his drawling speech, stepped from the building.

“Hawkins,” called Tom, as a Mexican boy led the horses away to the shade
of a stable tent, “I see you have some men idle.”

“Nine-tenths of 'em are idle,” replied the superintendent of
construction. “I warned you, Mr. Reade, that our gangs would soon eat up
the little work that you left us. Out there, by the last cave-in you'll
see that Foreman Payson, has about fifty men going. They'll be through
within an hour.”

“And the material, even if delivered within the promised time, is still
two days away,” remarked Reade. “I'll confess that I don't like to see
the railroad lose so much through paying men for idle time.”

“It can't be helped, sir,” replied the superintendent. “Of course, if
you like, you can set the laborers at work shoveling in more dirt at
the points where the last slide of the quicksand occurred. But, then,
shoveling dirt in, without the timbers and the hollow steel piles will
do no good,” continued Hawkins, with a shake of his head. “It would be
worse than wasted work.”

“I know all that,” Tom admitted. “To tell you the truth, Mr. Hawkins,
I wouldn't mind the men's idleness quite so much if it weren't that the
pay train comes in this afternoon. An idle man, not over-nice about his
habits, and with a lot of money in his pockets, is a source of danger.
We're going to have five hundred such danger spots as soon as the men
are paid off.”

“Don't know that, sir!” demanded Superintendent Hawkins. “The town of
Paloma is just dancing on sand-paper, it's so uneasy about getting its
hand into the pile of more than thirty-eight thousand dollars that the
pay train is going to bring in this afternoon.”

“I know,” nodded Tom rather gloomily. “I hate to see the men fleeced as
they're likely to be fleeced to-night. Some of our men will be so badly
done up that it will be a week before they get back to work--unless
there is some way that we can stop the fleecing.”

“There isn't any such way,” declared Superintendent Hawkins, with an air
of conviction.

“You've surely been around rough railroading camps enough to know that,
Mr. Reade.”

“I've seen a good deal of the life, Hawkins,” Tom answered, “but of
course I don't know it all.”

“Yet you know that you can't hope to stop railroad jacks from spending
their money in their own way. The saloons in Paloma will take in
thousands of dollars from our lads to-night and all day to-morrow. The
gamblers will swindle them out of a whole lot more. Day after to-morrow,
Mr. Reade, you wouldn't be able to borrow twenty dollars from our whole
force.”

“It's a shame,” burst from Tom indignantly, as the three turned to gaze
westward across the desert. “These men work as hard as any toilers in
the world. They receive good wages. Yet where do you find a railroad
jack who, after years and years of toil on these burning deserts, has
two or three hundred dollars of his own saved?”

Hawkins shrugged his shoulders.

“I know all about it,” he responded, “and I grow angry every time I
think about it. Yet how is one going to protect these, men against
themselves?”

“I believe there's a way,” spoke Tom confidently.

“I hope you can find it, then, Mr. Reade,” retorted Hawkins skeptically.

“At any rate, I'm going to try.”

“What are you going to do, Mr. Reade?” demanded the superintendent
curiously.

“You'll be with me, won't you?” coaxed Tom.

“You'll stand with us, shoulder to shoulder.”

“I certainly will, Mr. Reade!”

“And the foremen? You can depend upon them?”

“On every one of them,” declared Hawkins promptly. “Even to the Mexican
foreman, Mendoza. He's a greaser, but he's a brick, and a white man all
the way through!”

“Call the foremen in, then--all except Payson, who is with his gang.”

Tom and Harry stepped inside the office. Mr. Hawkins strolled away, but
within ten minutes he was back again, followed by Foremen Bell, Rivers
and Mendoza.

“Two wagons have driven up, east of here,” announced Mr. Hawkins, as he
entered the office building. “They've stopped a quarter of a mile below
here and have dumped two tents. I think they're about to raise them.”

Tom stepped hastily outside, glancing eastward, where they saw what the
superintendent had described. One of the tents had just been raised,
though the pitching of it had not yet been thoroughly done.

“What crowd is that?” Reade asked. “Who is at the head of it?”

“I see one man there--the only man in good clothes--who looks like Jim
Duff,” replied the superintendent, using his field glasses.

“The gambler?” asked Tom sharply.

“The same.”

“He's pitching his tent on the railroad's dirt, isn't he!”

“Yes, sir.”

“Come along. We'll have a look at that place.”

A few minutes of brisk walking brought the young engineers, the
superintendent and the three foremen to the spot.

Tent number one had been pitched. It was a circular tent, some forty
feet in diameter. The second tent, only a little smaller, was now being
hoisted.

“Who's in charge of this work?” asked Tom in his usual pleasant tone.

“My manager, Mr. Bemis--Dock Bemis,” answered Jim Duff suavely, as he
moved forward to meet the party. “Dock, come here. I want you to know
Mr. Reade, the engineer in charge of this job.”

Duff's manners were impudently easy and assured. The fellow known as
Dock Bemis, an unprepossessing, shabbily dressed man of thirty-five,
with a mean face and an ugly-looking eye, came forward.

“I'll take Mr. Bemis's acquaintance for granted,” Tom continued, with an
easy smile. “You own this outfit, don't you, Mr. Duff?”

“I've rented it, if you mean the tents, tables and chairs,” assented the
gambler. “I've a stock of liquors coming over as soon as I send one of
the wagons back.”

“What do you propose to do with all this?” Tom inquired.

“Why, of course, you see,” smiled Duff, with all the suavity in the
world, “as your boys are going to be paid off this afternoon they'll
want to go somewhere to enjoy themselves. As the day is very hot I
thought it would be showing good intentions if I brought an outfit over
here. I'll have everything ready within an hour.”

“So that you can get our men intoxicated and fleece them more easily?”
 asked Tom, with his best smile. “Is that the idea?”

Jim buff flushed angrily. Then his face became pale.

“It's a crude way you have of expressing it, Mr. Reade, if you Ill allow
me to say so,” the gambler answered, in a voice choked with anger. “I
am going to offer your men a little amusement. It's what they need, and
what they'll insist upon. Do you see? There's a small mob coming this
way now.”

Tom turned, discovering about a hundred railroad laborers coming down
the road.

“Mr. Duff,” asked the young chief engineer, “can you show any proof of
your authority to erect tents on the railroad's land?”

“What other place around here, Mr. Reade, would be as convenient?”
 demanded the gambler.

“I repeat my question, sir! Have you any authority or warrant for
erecting tents here?”

“Do you mean, have I a permit from the railroad company?”

“You know very well what I mean, Duff.”

Though Reade's tone was somewhat sharper, his smile was as genial as
ever.

“I didn't imagine you'd have any objection to my coming here,” the
gambler replied evasively.

“Have you any authority to be on the railroad's land's?” persisted Tom
Reade. “Yes or no?”

“No-o-o-o, I haven't, unless I can persuade you to see how reasonable
it is that your men should be provided with enjoyment right at their own
camp.”

“Take the tents down, then, as quickly as you can accomplish it,”
 directed Tom, though in a quiet voice.

“And--if I don't?” asked Duff, smiling dangerously and displaying his
white, dog-like teeth.

“Then I shall direct one of the foremen to call a sufficient force, Mr.
Duff, to take down your tents and remove them from railroad property. I
am not seeking trouble with you, sir; I don't want trouble. But, as long
as I remain in charge here no gambling or drinking places are going to
be opened on the railroad's land.”

“Mr. Reade,” inquired the gambler, his smile fading, “do you object to
giving me a word in private?”

“Not at all,” Tom declared. “But it won't help your plans.”

“I'd like just a word with you alone,” coaxed the gambler.

Nodding, Reade stepped away with the gambler to a distance of a hundred
feet or so from the rapidly increasing crowd.

“I expect to make a little money out of this tent outfit, of course,”
 explained Jim Duff.

“I expect that you won't make a dollar out of it--on railway property,”
 returned Reade steadily.

“I'm going to make a little money--not much,” Duff went on. “Now, if
I can make the whole deal with you, and if no one else is allowed to
bother me, I can afford to pass you one hundred dollars a day for the
tent privilege.”

Before even expectant Tom realized what was happening, Duff had pressed
a wad of paper money into his hand.

“What is this?” demanded Reade.

“Don't let everyone see it,” warned the gambler. “You'll find two
hundred dollars there, in bills. That's for the first two days of our
tent privilege here.”

“You contemptible hound!” exclaimed Tom angrily.

Whish! The tightly folded wad of bank notes left Tom's hand, landing
squarely in Jim Duff Is face.

In an instant the gambler's face turned white. His hand flew back to a
pocket in which he carried a pistol.




CHAPTER III. TOM MAKES A SPEECH ON GAMBLING


“Cut out the gun-play! That doesn't go here!” Tom uttered warningly.

One swift step forward, and one hand caught Jim Duff by the throat.
With the other hand Tom caught Duff's right wrist and wrenched away the
pistol that instantly appeared in the gambler's hand.

The weapon Tom threw on the ground, some feet away. Then, with eyes
blazing with contempt, Tom Reade struck the gambler heavily across
the face with the flat of his hand. Hard work had added to the young
engineer's muscle of earlier days, and the gambler was staggered.

Another instant, and Superintendent Hawkins who, with Hazelton and the
foremen, had run up to them, seized Duff roughly from behind, holding
his arms pinioned.

Harry Hazelton picked up the revolver. Quickly opening it, he drew out
the cartridges.

“Mr. Bell!” called Harry, and the foreman of that name hastened to him.

“Take this thing back to the office and break it up with a hammer,”
 directed young Hazelton, as he passed the revolver to the foreman. The
latter sped away on his errand.

“Let Duff go, Mr. Hawkins,” directed Tom. “I'm not afraid of him. Duff,
I wish to apologize to you for striking you in the face. I wouldn't
allow any man to do that to me. But your action in reaching for a pistol
was so childish--or cowardly, whichever you prefer to call it--that I
admit I forgot myself for a moment. Now, you are not going to erect
any tents for gambling or other unworthy purposes on the railroad's
property. It's bad business to let you do anything of the sort. I trust
that there will be no hard feeling between us.”

“Hard feeling?” hissed Jim Duff, his wicked-looking face paler than
ever. “Boy, you needn't try to crawl back into my good graces after the
way you acted toward me!”

“I'm not trying to crawl into your esteem, or to get there by any
other means,” Tom answered quietly, though with a firmness that caused
superintendent and foremen to feel a new respect for their young chief
engineer. “At the same time, Duff, I don't believe in stirring up bad
blood with anyone. You and I haven't the same way of regarding your line
of business. That's the main difficulty. As I can't see your point of
view, it would be hardly fair to expect you to understand my way of
regarding what you wished to do here. Your tents will have to come down
and be moved, but I have no personal feeling in the matter. How soon can
you get your tents down?”

“They are not coming down, I tell you!” snarled the gambler.

“That's where you and I fail once more to agree,” replied Tom steadily,
looking the other straight in the eyes. “It's merely a question of
whether you will take them down, or whether I shall set our own men to
doing it.”

Jim Duff had brought with him about a dozen men of his own. They were
a somewhat picturesque-looking crowd, though not necessarily dangerous
men. They were mostly men who had been hired to run the gaming tables
under the canvas. A judge of men would have immediately classified them
as inferior specimens of manhood.

So far these men had not offered to take any part in the dispute. Now
Duff moved over to them quickly, muttering the words:

“Stand by me!”

As for Tom Reade, he was backed by five men, including his chum. Though
none of Reade's force was armed, the young engineer knew that he could
depend upon them.

Followed by his adherents, Duff took a few quick strides forward. This
brought him face to face with Reade's labors, of whom now more than two
hundred were present.

“Are you men or squaws?” called, Duff loudly. “I have brought the stuff
over here for a merry night of it. This boy says you can't have your
enjoyment. Are you going to let him rule you in that fashion, or are you
going to throw him out of here?”

There came from the crowd a gradually increasing murmur of rage.

“Throw this boy out, if you're men!” Duff jeered. “Throw him out, I say,
and send word to your railroad people to put a man here in his place.”

The murmurs increased, especially from the Mexicans, for the Mexican
peon, or laborer, is often a furious gambler who will stake even the
shirt on his back.

Foreman Mendoza, who understood his own people, started forward, but
Tom, with a signal, caused him to halt.

“Throw him out, I say!” yelled Duff shrilly. “Duff, I'm afraid you're
making a fool of yourself,” remarked Tom, stepping forward, smiling
cheerfully.

Yet another murmur, now growing to a yell, rose from some of the men--a
few of the men, too, who were not Mexicans, and a half-hearted rush was
made in the young engineer's direction.

“Throw him out! Hustle the boy out!” Duff urged.

“Stop! Stop right in your tracks!” thundered Tom Reade, taking still
another step toward the now angrier crowd. “Men, listen to me, and
you'll get a proper understanding of this affair. Jim Duff wants me
thrown out of here--”

“Yes! And out you'll go!” roared a voice from the rear of the crowd.

“That's a question that the next few minutes will settle,” Tom rejoined,
with a smile. “If Jim Duff wants me thrown out of here, why don't you
men tell him to do it himself?”

The force of this suggestion, with the memory of what they had recently
seen, struck home with many of the men. A shout of laughter went up,
followed by yells of:

“That's right--dead right!”

“Sail in, Jim!”

“Throw him out, Jim! We'll see fair play!”

Tom made an ironical bow in the direction of the gambler.

“Have you men gone crazy!” yelled Jim Duff hoarsely.

“Have you lost your nerve, Jim?” bawled a lusty American laborer. “You
want this boy, as you call him, thrown out, and we're waiting to see you
do it. It you haven't the nerve to tackle the job, then you're not a man
to give us orders!”

Tom's smiling good humor and his fair proposition had swung the balance
of feeling against the gambler. Duff saw that he had lost ground.

“Boy,” called a few voices, “if Duff won't throw you out, then you turn
the tables and throw him out.”

“It isn't necessary,” laughed Tom. “After the tents are gone Duff won't
have any desire to remain around here. Mr. Duff, I ask you for the last
time, will you have your men take down the tents and remove them?”

“I won't!” snarled the gambler.

“Mr. Rivers!” called Tom.

“Yes, sir,” replied the foreman, stepping forward.

“Mr. Rivers, take twenty-five laborers and bring the tents down at once.
Be careful to see that no damage is done. As soon as they are down you
will load them on the wagons.”

“Yes, sir.”

“On second thought, you had better take fifty men. See that the work is
done as promptly as possible.”

The Mexicans, who were in the majority, and nearly all of whom were
wildly eager to gamble as soon as their money arrived, stirred
uneasily. They might have interfered, but Foreman Mendoza ran among his
countrymen, calling out to them vigorously in Spanish, and with so much
emphasis that the men sullenly withdrew.

Foreman Rivers speedily had his fifty men, together, none of whom were
Mexicans.

“Touch a single guy-rope at your peril!” warned Jim Duff menacingly, but
big Superintendent Hawkins seized the gambler by the shoulders, gently,
though, firmly, removing him from the vicinity of the tents.

All in a flash the work was done. Canvas and poles were loaded on to the
wagons. Mr. Rivers's men had entered so thoroughly into the spirit of
the thing that, they forced the drivers to start off, and the gambler's
men to follow.

Goaded to the last ditch of desperation, Jim Duff now strode over to
where Tom stood. No one opposed him, nor did Reade's smile fail.

“Boy, you've had your laugh, just now,” announced the gambler, in his
most threatening, tone. “It will be your last laugh.”

“Oh, I hope not,” drawled Tom.

“You will know more within twenty-four hours. You have treated me, with
your own crowd about you, like a dog.”

“You're wrong again,” laughed Tom.. “Jim is fond of dogs. They are fine
fellows.”

“You may laugh as much as you want, just now,” jeered Jim Duff. “You've
made an enemy, and one of the worst in Arizona! I won't waste any more
talk on you--except to warn you.”

“Warn me? About what?” asked Tom curiously.

Instead of answering, Jim Duff turned on his heel, stalking off with a
majesty that, somehow, looked sadly damaged.

“He has warned you,” murmured Superintendent Hawkins in an undertone.
“That is your hint that Duff will fight you to the death at the first
opportunity.”

“May it be long in coming!” uttered Tom devoutly.

Then, as he turned about and saw scores of laborers coming in his
direction, Reade remembered what he wished to do.

“Mr. Hawkins,” he continued, turning toward the superintendent, “I see
that Mr. Payson's gang is coming in from work. As all our men are now
idle, I wish you would direct the foremen to see that all hands assemble
here. I have something to say to them.”

Within ten minutes the five hundred laborers and mechanics had been
gathered in a compact crowd. Now that the excitement of hustling the
gambler off the scene had died away, many of the men were sorry that
they had not made their disapproval plainer. Though Tom Reade plainly
understood the mood of the men, he mounted a barrel, holding up both
hands as a sign for silence.

“Now, men,” he began, “you all know that the pay train is due here
this afternoon. You are all eager to get your money--for what? It is a
strange fact that gold is the carrion that draws all of the vultures. A
few minutes ago you saw one of the vultures here, preparing to get his
supposed share of your money away from you. Does Jim Duff care a hang
about any of you? Do any of you care anything whatever for Jim Duff?
Then why should you be so eager to get into one of his tents and let him
take your money away from you?

“It is true that, once in a while, a solitary player gets a few dollars
away from a gambler. Yet, in the end, the gambler has every dollar of
the crowd that patronizes him. You men have been out in the hot sun for
weeks, working hard to earn the money that the pay train is bringing
you. Has Jim Duff done any work in the last few weeks? While you men
have been toiling and sweating, what has Duff been doing? Hasn't he been
going around wearing the clothes and the air of a gentleman, while you
men have been giving all but your lives for your dollars, while you have
been denied most of the comforts of living. Hasn't Duff been up at the
Mansion House, living on the fat of the land and smiling to himself
every time he thought of you men, who would be ready to hand him all of
your money as soon as it came to you? Is the gambler, who grows fat on
the toil of others, but never toils himself, any better than the vulture
that feeds upon the animals killed by others? Isn't the gambler a
parasite, pure and simple? On whose lifeblood does the gambler feed,
unless it's on yours?”

Tom continued his harangue, becoming more and more intense, yet carrying
his talk along in all simplicity, and with a directness that made scores
of the workmen look sheepish.

“Whenever you find a man anywhere who professes to be working for your
good, or for your amusement, and who gets all the benefit in the end,
why don't you open your eyes to him?” Tom inquired presently. “Over
in Paloma there are saloon keepers who are cleaning up their dives and
opening new lots of liquor that they feel sure they're going to sell you
to-night. These dive keepers are ready to welcome you with open arms,
and they'll try to make you feel that you're royal good fellows and that
they are the best friends you have in the world. Yet, to-morrow morning,
how will the property be divided? The keepers of these saloons and Jim
Duff will have all your money and what will you have?”

Tom paused, whipping out a white handkerchief that he deftly bound
around his head, meanwhile looking miserable.

“That's what you men will have--and that's all that you'll have left,”
 croaked the young chief engineer dismally. “Now, friends, is the game
worth a candle of that sort? How many of you have money in the bank? Let
every man here who has put up his hand. Not one of you? Who's keeping
your money in bank for you? Jim Duff and the sellers of poisons? Will
they ever hand your money back to you? Some of you men have dear ones
at home. If one of these dear ones sends a hurried, frenzied appeal for
money in time of sickness or death what will your answer have to be?
Just this: 'I have been working like a slave for a year, but I can send
you only my love. Jim Duff, who hasn't worked in all his life, won't let
me send you any money.' Friends, is that what you're burning yourselves
black on the desert for?”

While Tom Reade spoke Foreman Mendoza had marshaled his Mexicans and was
translating the young engineer's words into Spanish.

Nor was it long ere Tom's fine presentation of the matter caught the men
in the nobler part of their feelings.

“Don't blame Duff so much,” Tom finally went on. “He may be a parasite,
a vulture, a feeder on blood, but you and men just like you have helped
to make the Duffs. You're not going to do so after this, are you, my
friends? You're not going to keep the breath of life in monsters who
drain you dry of life and manhood?”

“No!” came a thunderous shout, even though all of Reade's hearers did
not join in it.

Even the Mexicans, listening to Mendoza's translation, became
interested, despite their lesser degree of intelligence.

Tom continued to talk against time, though he wasted few words. All that
he said went home to many of the laborers. While he was still talking
the whistle of the pay train was heard.

Reade quickly sent his foremen and a few trusted workmen to head off any
“runners” who might attempt to come in from Paloma while the men were
being paid off.

As the train came to a stop Tom leaped upon a flat car behind the engine
and introduced one of the newcomers--the vice president of a savings
bank over in Tucson. This man, who knew the common people, talked for
fifteen minutes, after which a clerk appeared from the pay car with a
book in which to register the signatures of those who wished to open
bank accounts. Then the paymaster and his assistants worked rapidly in
paying off.

That railroad pay day proved a time of gloom to many in the town
of Paloma. The returning pay train carried the bank officials and
twenty-four thousand dollars that had been deposited as new accounts
from the men. Of the money that remained in camp much of it was carried
in the pockets of men who meant to keep it there until they received
something worth while it exchange.

True, this did not trouble the majority of people in Paloma, who were
sober, decent American citizens engaged in the proper walks of life.

But Jim Duff and a few others held an indignation meeting that night.

“We've been robbed!” complained one indignant saloon keeper.

“Gentlemen,” observed Jim Duff, in his oiliest tones, though his face
was ghastly white, “you have a new enemy, who threatens your success in
business. How are you going to deal with him?”

“We'll run him off the desert, or bury him there!” came the snarling
response.

“I can't believe that boy, Reade, will ever succeed in laying the
railroad tracks across the Man-killer,” smiled Jim Duff darkly within
himself.




CHAPTER IV. SOMEBODY STIRS THE MUD


The next morning only a few of the men, some of those who had refused to
open bank accounts, failed to show up at the railroad camp.

“There is really nothing to do this morning,” Tom remarked to
Superintendent Hawkins. “However, I think you had better dock the
missing men for time off. If you find that any missing man has been gone
on a proper errand of rest or enjoyment, and has not been making a beast
of himself, you can restore his docked pay on the lists.”

“That's a very good idea,” nodded Hawkins. “It always angers me to see
these poor, hardworking fellows go away and make fools of themselves
just as soon as they get a bit of pay in their pockets. Still, you can't
change the whole face of human nature, Mr. Reade.”

“I don't expect to do so,” smiled Tom. “Yet, if we can get a hundred or
two in this outfit to take a sensible view of pay day, and can drill
it into them so that it will stick, there will be just that number of
happier men in the world. How long have you been in this work on the
frontier, Mr. Hawkins?”

“About twenty years, sir.”

“Then it must have angered you, many a time, to see the vultures and the
parasites fattening on the men who do the real work in life.”

“It has,” nodded the superintendent. “However, I haven't your gift with
the tongue, Mr. Reade, and I've never been able to lead men into the
right path as you did yesterday.”

Over in the little village of tents where the idle workmen sat through
the forenoon there was some restlessness. These men knew that there was
nothing for them to do until the construction material arrived, and that
they were required only to report in order to keep themselves on the
time sheets. Having reported to their foremen and the checkers, they
were quite at liberty to go over into Paloma or elsewhere. A few of them
had gone. Some others had an uneasy feeling that they wouldn't like to
face the contempt in the eyes of the young chief engineer if he happened
to see them going away from camp.

“It's none of the business of that chap Reade,” growled one of the
workmen.

“Of course it isn't,” spoke up another. “He talked to us straight
yesterday, however, and showed us that it was our own business to keep
out of the tough places in Paloma. I've worked under these engineers
for years, and I never before knew one of them to care whether I had a
hundred dollars or an empty stomach. Boys, I tell you, Reade, has the
right stuff in him, if he is only a youngster. He knows the enemies he
has made over in Paloma, and he understands the risks be has been taking
in making such enemies. He proved to us that he can stand that sort of
thing and be our friend. Look at this thing, will you?”

With something of a look of wonder the speaker drew out the bankbook
that he had acquired the afternoon before.

“I've got forty dollars in bank,” he continued, in something of a tone
of awe. “Forty friends of mine that I've put away to work and do good
things for me! If I don't touch this money for some years then I'll find
that this money has grown to be a lot more than forty dollars!”

“Or else you'll find that some bank clerk is up in Canada spending it,”
 jeered a companion.

“I don't care what the clerk does. The bank will be still good for the
money. Joe, you read the papers as often as any come into camp.”

“Yes.”

“All right. The next time you find anything about a savings bank that
has failed and left the people in the lurch for their money, you show it
to me. Savings banks don't fail nowadays! No, Sir!”

Other men through the camp were taking sly peeps at their bankbooks,
as though they were half ashamed at having such possessions. Yet many
a hard toiler in camp felt a new sense of importance that morning. He
began to look upon himself as a part of the moneyed world as, indeed, he
was!

“Telegram for Mr. Reade,” called one of the two camp operators, coming
forward.

Tom tore the envelope open, then stared at the following message:

“Reade, Chief Engineer.

“Have complaint from merchants of Paloma that you have effectually
stopped the men from spending any money in the town. Not our policy to
make enemies of the towns along our line. Explain immediately.

“(Signed) ELLSWORTH,

“General Manager.”

“Hmmm!” smiled Tom, then passed the message over to Superintendent
Hawkins.

“Your newly made enemies have gotten after you quickly, Sir,” commented
the superintendent grimly.

“Yes,” nodded Tom. “And, of course, I can't follow any course that isn't
approved by the general manager. I'll wire him the truth and see what he
has to say. Operator!”

“Yes, Sir,” replied the young man, turning and coming back.

“Wait for a message,” directed Tom; then seated himself and wrote the
following reply:

“Ellsworth, General Manager.

“Have not interfered in any way with honest merchants of Paloma. Men are
at liberty to spend their money any way they choose. I did give the men
a talk about the foolishness of spending their wages in buying liquor
or in gambling. Result was that men banked about two thirds of the total
pay roll with the bank people you sent on pay train yesterday at my
request. Also drove off a gambler who tried to erect two tents on
railroad property in order to fleece the men more speedily.

“(Signed) READE,

“Chief Engineer.”

“That will tell the general manager about the kind of merchants
that I've been injuring,” smiled Tom, first showing the sheet to
Superintendent Hawkins and then handing it to the waiting messenger.

“I hope Ellsworth, will be satisfied,” nodded Hawkins. “Good will is an
asset for a railway, and your enemies in Paloma may be able to stir up a
good deal of trouble for you. Mr. Reade, I stood with you yesterday,
and I'm still with you. If Ellsworth is so cranky that you feel like
throwing the job here, then I'll walk out with you.”

“Oh, I'm not going to give up the work here,” predicted Reade
cheerfully. “I'm too much interested in it. Neither am I going to
have my hands tied by any clique of gamblers and dive keepers. If Mr.
Ellsworth isn't satisfied, then I'll run up to headquarters and talk to
him in person. I'm not going to quit; neither am I going to be prevented
from winning and deserving the friendship of the men who are here
working for us.”

“Telegram for Mr. Reade,” grinned the operator, again looking in at the
doorway.

After reading it, Tom passed over to Hawkins this message from General
Manager Ellsworth:

“Unable to judge merits of case at this distance. Will be with you
soon.”

“That's all right,” Reade declared.

“It looks all right,” muttered Hawkins, who knew something about the
ways of railroads.

Up the track the whistle on a stationary engine blew the noon signal.

“Feel like eating, Harry?” Tom called to his chum, who had been mildly
dozing in a chair in one corner of the room.

“Always,” declared Hazelton, sitting up and yawning.

“Are you going to eat in town this noon, or in camp?” Tom inquired of
the superintendent of construction.

Hawkins was about to answer that he'd eat in camp, when he suddenly
reconsidered.

“I guess I'll ride along with you, Mr. Reade,” he said dryly.

Horses were brought, and the three mounted and rode away. In such
sizzling heat as beat down from the noonday sun Tom had not the heart to
urge his mount to speed. The trio were soon at the edge of Paloma, which
they had to enter through one of the streets occupied by the rougher
characters.

Just as they rode down by the first buildings a low whistle sounded on
the heavy, dead air.

“Signal that the locomotive is headed this way,” announced Hawkins
grimly. “Look out for the crossing, Mr. Reade!”

Hardly had the superintendent finished speaking when a sharp hiss
sounded from an open window. Then another and more hisses, from
different buildings.

“A few snakes left in the grass,” Tom remarked jokingly.

“Oh, you've stirred up a nest of 'em, Mr. Reade,” rejoined the
superintendent.

Tom laughed as Harry added:

“Let's hope that there are no poisonous reptiles among them. It would be
rough on poisonous snakes to have Tom find them.”

Then the three horsemen turned the corner near the Mansion House.
Superintendent Hawkins looked grave as he noted a crowd before the
hotel.

“Mr. Reade, I believe those men are there waiting to see you. I'm
certain they've not gathered just to talk about the weather.”

There was a movement in the crowd, and a suppressed, surly murmur, as
the engineer party was sighted.

Tom Reade, however, rode forward at the head of his party, alighting
close to the crowd, which numbered fifty or sixty men. The young chief
engineer signed to one of the stable boys, who came forward, half
reluctantly, and took the bridles of the three horses to lead them away.

Jim Duff, backed by three other men, stepped forward. There was a world
of menace in the gambler's wicked eyes as he began, in a soft, almost
purring tone:

“Mr. Reade,” announced Jim Duff, “we are a committee, appointed by
citizens, to express our belief that the air of Paloma is not going to
be good for you. At the same time we wish to ask you concerning your
plans for leaving the town.”

There could be no question as to the meaning of the speaker. Tom Reade
was being ordered out of town.




CHAPTER V. TOM HAS NO PLANS FOR LEAVING TOWN


“My plans for leaving town?” repeated Tom pleasantly. “Why, gentlemen,
I'll meet your question frankly by saying that I haven't made any such
plans.”

“You're going to do so, aren't?” inquired Duff casually.

“By the time that my partner and I have finished our work for the road,
Mr. Duff, I imagine that we shall be making definite plans to go away,
unless the railroad officials decide to keep us here with Paloma as
headquarters for other work.”

“We believe that it would be much better for your health if you went
away at once,” Duff insisted, with a mildness that did not disguise his
meaning in the least.

Tom deemed it not worth while to pretend any longer that he did not
understand.

“Oh, then it's a case of 'Here's your hat. What's your hurry?'” asked
Reade smilingly.

“Something in that line,” assented Jim Duff. “I venture to assure
you that we are quite in earnest in our anxiety for your welfare, Mr.
Reade.”

“Whom do you men represent?” asked Tom.

“The citizens of Paloma,” returned Duff.

“All of them?” Reade insisted.

“All of them--with few exceptions.”

“I understand you, of course,” Tom nodded.

“Now, Mr. Duff, I'll tell you what I propose. I'm curious to know just
how many there are on your side of the fence. Pardon me, but I really
can't quite believe that the better citizens of this town are behind
you. I know too many Arizona men, and I have too good an opinion of
them. Your kind of crowd makes a lot of noise at times, and the other
kind of Arizona crowd rarely makes any noise. I know, of course, the
element in the town that your committee represents, but I don't believe
that your element is by any means in the majority here.”

“I assure you that we represent the sentiment of the town,” Duff
retorted steadily.

“Much as I regret the necessity for seeming to slight your opinion,” Tom
went on with as pleasant a smile as at first, “I call for a showing of
hands or a count of noses. I'll tell you what we'll do, Mr. Duff, if it
meets with your approval. We'll hire a hall, sharing the expense. We'll
state the question fairly in the local newspaper, and we'll invite
all good citizens to turn out, meet in the hall, hear the case on both
sides, and then decide for themselves whether they want the railroad
engineers to leave the town or--”

“They do want you to leave town!” the gambler insisted.

“Or whether they want Jim Duff and some of his friends to leave town,”
 Tom Reade continued good-humoredly.

Jim Duff turned, gazing back at the men with him. They represented the
roughest element in the town.

“No use arguing with a mule, Jim!” growled a red-faced man at the rear
of the crowd. “Get a rail, boys, and we'll start the procession right
now.”

“Bring a rope along, too!” called another man hoarsely.

“Get two rails and one rope!” proposed a third bad character. “The other
kid doesn't seem to be sassy enough to need a rope.”

“Gentlemen,” broke in Harry Hazelton gravely, “if anyone of you imagines
that I'm holding my tongue because I disapprove of my partner's course,
let me assure you that I back every word he says.”

“Make it two ropes, then!” jeered another voice.

“Reade,” continued Jim Duff, “we all try to be decent men here, and the
friends with me are a good and sensible lot of men. You have carried
matters just a little too far. Think over what you've heard and noticed
here, and then tell me again about your plans, for quitting Paloma.”

As he spoke Jim made a gesture that kept some of the men near him from
rushing forward. Tom did not appear to notice the demonstration at all.
Certainly he did not flinch.

“I haven't any such plans,” Tom laughed. “I'm hungry and I'm going
inside to eat.”

With that, he turned his back on the crowd, with Harry behind him, both
making for the steps of the hotel. Superintendent Hawkins stepped in
after the boys.

“Gentlemen, I can't do anything more,” spoke up Jim Duff, with an air of
resignation.

“But we can!” roared some of the roughs in the crowd. A dozen of them
surged forward. The first of them swung a lariat to slip it over Tom
Reade's neck.

Bump! Hawkins's sledge-hammer right hand shot out, landing on that
fellow's face. With a moan the fellow collapsed on the sidewalk, his jaw
broken.

Then Tom and Harry wheeled like a flash, eyeing the idlers and roughs
sternly.

“Don't go any further,” proposed Tom, his eyes growing steely, “unless
you mean it.”

Something in the attitude of the trio of athletic figures standing ready
before them disquieted the crowd of roughs. There were armed men in that
crowd, but all felt that they had been put in the wrong, so far, and
none of them dared draw the first weapon or fire the first shot.

“Take that injured man to a surgeon and have his jaw set,” spoke Tom
quietly. “Let the surgeon send me the bill. I'm sorry for the fellow,
for I'm indirectly the cause of his being hurt. The main cause of his
misfortune was due to his being in bad company.”

“Come out of that hotel,” ordered Jim Duff, his eyes blazing as he
stepped forward, though with Hawkins's cold, hard eyes on him the
gambler was careful to keep his hands at his sides. “You can't get
anything to eat in there!”

“Do you own the hotel?” Tom inquired coolly.

“No; but you can't eat there.”

“Join us at lunch, Mr. Hawkins!” Tom invited, turning away from the
gambler. The superintendent nodded, for he had no intention of leaving
the young engineers for the present.

All three entered the hotel, while the small mob outside hooted and
jeered. Tom led the way to a table in the dining room, signing to one of
the waiters.

Hardly had the waiter reached them when Jim Duff and the proprietor of
the Mansion House came in. Jim, after saying a few words in a low tone,
halted, while the proprietor came forward.

“Good morning, Mr. Ashby,” nodded Tom, when he saw the proprietor headed
their way. The latter looked rather embarrassed, but he moved a hand to
signal the waiter to withdraw.

“I'm sorry, Mr. Reade, but I can't have you any longer at this hotel,”
 began Ashby.

“Any particular reason?” Tom inquired, looking the man straight in the
eye.

“Yes; some of my other guests object to your presence here.”

“Meaning Jim Duff?” questioned Reade coolly.

“I don't care to discuss the matter with you, Mr. Reade, but I can't
entertain you here any longer.”

“Does that apply even to this meal, Mr. Ashby?”

“It does.”

“Very good,” nodded Tom, rising. Harry and Hawkins shoved their chairs
back, too, and stood up.

“Say, but I don't like the looks of that!” announced a voice
from another table. There were five men seated there, all of them
well-dressed and prosperous-looking traveling salesmen, who had arrived
that morning.

“This is a very regrettable necessity on my part, gentlemen,” began
Proprietor Ashby hurriedly, and plainly ill at ease. “Some of my regular
guests object to the presence of these young men, and so--”

“These young gentlemen have gotten in bad by objecting to having their
men fleeced here in town, haven't they?” inquired the boldest of the
drummers. “I heard something about it this morning.”

“Perhaps you haven't heard all the circumstances,” suggested Ashby in
growing embarrassment.

“We've heard enough, anyway,” replied the same drummer briskly. “So
these young men, who are a credit to their profession and to their home
towns, are ordered to leave here? Boys, I guess we leave, too, don't
we?”

The other traveling salesmen assented emphatically.

Now Proprietor Ashby felt dismal, indeed. These five men were occupying
the best quarters in his hotel, outside of those occupied by Jim Duff.
It was not the loss of patronage from these men alone that troubled
Ashby. Traveling salesmen have their own ways of “passing around the
word” and downing any hotel that depends largely on their patronage.

“You can have all our rooms, then, Mr. Ashby,” proposed the same
drummer. “We'll have our things out and be ready for our bills within
twenty minutes.”

“But, gentlemen, be calm about this,” begged Ashby. “Finish your meals
first. There may be some way of arranging--”

“There is,” returned the drummer, with a smile that was a fine
duplicate of Tom's own. “We know just where to arrange for the kind of
accommodations that we want. Mr. Reade,” turning to Tom and Harry, “will
you allow me to introduce ourselves. We are aching to shake hands with
you, for we've heard all about you.”

Proprietor Ashby fidgeted at the side, while the eight departing guests
paused long enough to make their names known to each other.

Jim Duff had vanished early, leaving the hotel man to his own
humiliation.

The introductions concluded, Hawkins followed the young engineers to
their room while the drummers went to their own more costly quarters and
hastily packed their belongings.

Fifteen minutes later the party stood in the office and porters were
bringing down trunks. Tom and Harry, keeping most of their belongings at
camp, had only suit cases to carry.

“Gentlemen, I think you are making a mistake,” began Mr. Ashby, as he
met the salesmen in the lobby near the clerk's desk.

“We made a mistake in coming here,” retorted the leader of the salesmen,
pleasantly as to tone, “but we're rectifying it now. Are our bills
ready?”

The proprietor went behind the desk to make change, while the clerk
receipted seven bills. Ashby's hands shook as he manipulated the money.

“Dobson,” he said, in a low tone to one of the drummers, “I had intended
ordering a ton of hams from you. Now, of course, I can't--”

“Quite right,” nodded Mr. Dobson cheerfully. “You couldn't get them from
our house at four times the market price. We wouldn't want our brand
served here.”

The last bill was paid. Proprietor Ashby stiffened, his backbone, trying
to look game.

“Gentlemen,” he inquired, “where are you going from here? Won't you let
me call the 'bus to take you?”

“Never mind the 'bus, Ash,” smilingly replied the leader of the
drummers, a man named Pritchard. “If you'll send the 'bus over to the
Cactus House with our trunks we'll be greatly obliged.”

“Certainly, gentlemen, it's a pleasure to oblige you,” murmured Ashby,
with a ghastly effort to look pleasant. He watched the eight men step
outside. Duff and his crowd had vanished. It would never do to try
any mob tricks on so many strangers who had done nothing. The most
easy-going citizens of an Arizona town would turn out to punish such a
mob.

The three railroad men had their horses brought around, but they rode
slowly, chatting with the salesmen on the sidewalk.

In this order they reached the Cactus House, which, thirty years ago,
had been famous in and around the old Paloma of the frontier days. The
proprietor, a young man named Carter, had succeeded his father in the
ownership of the property. It was a neat hotel, but a small one. The
elder Carter had lost a good deal of money before his death, and the son
was now trying to build up the property with hardly any reserve capital.

At the Cactus there was a great flurry when five such important guests
arrived and the young railroad engineers were also most heartily
welcomed.

“Our meal time is nearly over, but I'll have something special cooked
for you right away, gentlemen,” cried young Carter, bustling about, his
eyes aglow.

“Before you get that meal ready,” said Pritchard, drawing young Carter
aside, “I want to ask you whether any man can ever be driven from this
hotel, just for being decent?”

“He certainly cannot,” replied Proprietor Carter with emphasis.

“Live up to that, son,” advised the drummer, “and I half suspect that
you'll prosper.”

The meal finished, the three men from the railroad camp took leave of
their new salesmen friends, mounted and rode back to camp.

“The snakes are not all dead yet,” mused Tom quizzically, as, in riding
through the “tough” street again they heard hisses from open windows at
which no heads appeared.

“There's a letter here for you, Mr. Reade,” announced Foreman Payson,
who was sitting alone in the office.

“Who brought it?”

“I don't know his name. Never saw him before. He rode out here on
horseback.”

The envelope, though a good one as to quality, was dirty on the outside.
Tom Reade hastily broke the seal and read:

“If you don't get away from Paloma pretty soon your presence will hold
the railroad up for a longtime to come! Get out, if you're wise, or the
railroad will suffer with you!”

“I reckon the fellow who wrote that was sincere enough,” said Tom, as he
passed the letter over to his chum. “However, I don't like to feel that
I can be seared by any man who's too cowardly to sign his name to a
letter.”




CHAPTER VI. THE GENERAL MANAGER “LOOKS IN”


Neither Tom nor Harry was stupid enough to be wholly unafraid over
the threats of the day. Both realized that Jim Duff and the latter's
associates were ugly and treacherous men who would fight sooner than
be deprived of their chance to fleece the railway workmen. Yet neither
young engineer had any intention of being scared into flight.

“They'll put up a lot of trouble for us,” said Tom that afternoon, as
the two chums talked the matter over. “They may even go to extremities,
and--”

“Shoot us?” smiled Hazelton, though there was a serious look under his
smile.

“Yes; they may even try that,” I nodded Tom. “Though they won't make an
open attempt. They may try to get us from ambush at night. They will
be desperate, though not over brave. Recollect, Harry, that the better
element in Paloma won't stand much nonsense. There are no braver men in
the world than are found right in Arizona, and no men more decent.”

“Barring Duff and his gang,” laughed Hazelton.

“They're not real Arizona men. They're the kind of human vultures who
flock after large pay rolls in any place where men work without having
their families in near-by homes. If Duff had enough men of his own way
of thinking, they might try to ride out here to camp and clean us out.
If they did, then all the decent men in this part of Arizona would
take to the saddle and drive Duff and his crew into hiding. After what
happened to-day you won't find Duff daring to do anything too open.”

“Excuse me, Sir, but there's a train coming,” reported Foreman Rivers,
thrusting his head in at the doorway of the little office building.

“Not a construction train?” Reade asked.

“Can't make it out yet, sir. The whistle was reported a minute ago.”

Tom and Harry, chafing a good deal under their enforced idleness while
waiting for materials, hastened outdoors. Soon the train was close
enough to be made out. It consisted of an engine, baggage car and one
private car.

“It's one or more of the road's officials,” murmured Harry.

“I hope it's Mr. Ellsworth,” replied Reade, as the chums walked briskly
down to the spot where the train would have to halt.

It turned out to be the general manager, a big and capable-looking man
of fifty, with a belt-line just a trifle too large for comfort, who
swung himself to the ground the instant that the train stopped.

“I'm glad you're here, Reade,” nodded the general manager, as he caught
sight of his two young engineers. “Come back into my car. We can talk
better there.”

Tom and Harry mounted to the platform of the car, following Mr.
Ellsworth down the carpeted aisle of a very comfortable private Pullman
car. The general manager pointed to seats, threw himself into another,
and then said:

“Now, tell me all about the row that you've started with the town.”

Harry's lips closed tightly, but Tom launched at once into a plain,
truthful account of the affair, bringing it down to the noonday meal of
the present day.

“It's not clear to me just why you should feel called upon to interfere
so forcefully,” said the general manager, a little fretfully. “The
workmen are all twenty-one years of age and upwards. Couldn't they
protect themselves if they wanted protection?”

“Yes, sir, certainly,” Tom admitted. “However, letting that fellow Duff
put up his tents right on the railroad property would almost make it
look as though the road shared, or at least approved, his enterprise.”

“Oh, doubtless you were right to order the fellow off the railroad
property,” assented Mr. Ellsworth. “But why did you go to such trouble
to get the men to start new bank accounts and thus send most of their
money out of town?”

“May I answer that question, sir, by asking another?” asked Reade
respectfully. “Did you wish the men to spend it in Paloma?”

“I don't care a hang what they do with it,” retorted the general manager
half peevishly. “It's their own money.”

“It was you, Mr. Ellsworth, whom I wired yesterday morning, asking that
you send down a representative of a savings bank who could open accounts
with such of the men as desired.”

“Yes, and I sent you a couple of bank men. I didn't have any idea,
however, that you'd get the whole town of Paloma by the ears.”

“I haven't, sir. I assure you of that. I've hurt only a few parasites--a
flock of human vultures. The decent people of the town don't side with
them.”

“I wish I could be sure that we haven't offended the town as a whole,”
 mused Mr. Ellsworth, “The good will of the people along our line is a
great asset.”

“You're acquainted with a lot of the real people in Paloma, aren't you,
Mr. Ellsworth?”

“With some of them, yes.”

“Then, while you're here, sir, I'd be glad if you'd look up some of
these acquaintances in town and find out for yourself just how the
sentiment stands. We don't wish you to feel that we're a pair of
trouble-makers who are doing our best to ruin the road with its future
customers.”

“I believe I will go into town,” mused Mr. Ellsworth. “Is there an
automobile anywhere about here?”

“No, sir; but our telegraph operator can wire into town for one. It will
take but a few minutes to have a car here.”

“Send for it, then.”

“Would you like to see Mr. Hawkins while you're waiting, sir?” Tom
suggested, rising. “You know Hawkins, and probably you'll be satisfied
with his judgment.”

“Send Hawkins along.”

“Yes, sir; and we won't return for the present, unless you send for us,”
 Reade replied, going toward the forward end of the car.

Superintendent Hawkins was closeted with the general manager until the
arrival of the automobile. There was a frown on Mr. Ellsworth's face as
they started townward.

“Well,” asked Harry Hazelton, with a grin on his face, as he watched the
departing car, “are we going to be fired or praised?”

“We're going to lay the track across the Man-killer,” returned Reade
resolutely.

“How about the gambler and his bad crowd? Are we going to beat them?”

“We're going to do whatever the general manager orders, just as long as
we remain here,” replied Tom. “He's our only source of authority. If he
tells me to let Jim Duff bring a cityful of tents out here and run night
or day--then that's all there will be to it.”

“I'd sooner quit,” growled Hazelton, “than knuckle to such a crew of
rascals.”

“So would I,” nodded Tom good-humoredly, “if it were my quit. But, if
Mr. Ellsworth gives such orders it will be his quit, not ours.”

Harry walked restlessly up and down the little office, but Tom threw
himself down at full length on a cot in the corner. Within two minutes
he was sound asleep.

“Humph!” growled Hazelton, as soon as he saw his chum's unconcern. Then
he went outside to finish his tramp.

It was toward the close of the afternoon when Mr. Ellsworth returned.
Harry was out of sight as the general manager stepped directly into the
office.

“Reade,” he began. Deep breathing from the corner greeted him. General
Manager Ellsworth gazed down at the sleeping form, and a new light of
admiration dawned in his eyes.

“So that's the young man whom they're talking of shooting, poisoning
or blowing into the next world with dynamite?” he thought. “A lot this
young man appears to think about his enemies! There's real courage in
this young man. Reade, wake up--if you can spare the time.”

Tom opened his eyes, rubbed them, then sat up, next springing to his
feet.

“Not having any real work to do makes me sleepy,” laughed Tom
good-naturedly. “I trust you didn't have to call me many times, Mr.
Ellsworth?”

The general manager held out his hand.

“Reade, I've just learned in town what a plucky thing you did, and
how coolly you went through it all. A young man with your courage and
purpose simply can't be fool enough to be very far wrong.”

“Then you learned that the real Arizona people over in Paloma don't find
any fault with what I did?” queried Tom.

“Reade, what I discovered is that you have a lot of the finest manhood
in Arizona just wild with respect for you,” declared Mr. Ellsworth. Then
the general manager lowered his voice before he resumed:

“At the same time, Reade, I've also learned that you've stirred up such
an evil nest of rattlers that you'll be fortunate if you escape with
your life. Candidly, if you feel that you'd like to leave here--”

“Do you want me to quit, sir?” demanded Tom, looking steadily into his
chief's eyes.

“I don't,” declared Mr. Ellsworth promptly. “If you and Hazelton were to
quit me now I don't know where I could get another pair of men who could
put into the work all the skill and energy that you two employ.”

“Did you have dinner in town, sir?” Tom asked.

“No, for I came out to take you two young men in. Hawkins will also be
with us at dinner this evening. He has told me about the Mansion House
affair, so the Cactus House shall be the railway house hereafter. That
fellow Ashby is uneasy; I think he will be more than uneasy after a
while.”

The dinner party motored back to town. Dinner was more like a reception
that evening, for the news of Tom's plucky fight against the
rough element had spread through the town. Nearly two score of men
representing the better part of the population of Paloma called at the
hotel to shake hands with the young engineers.

“They don't seem to care a hang about me, these men, do they, Hawkins?”
 laughed the general manager, as he and the superintendent stood in the
background of the picture.

“That's because they're Arizona men, sir,” replied Hawkins. “Their
interest is in the man who has done the thing, not in the boss.”

“I can understand why President Newnham, of the S. B. & L., recommended
these young men so extravagantly. They're full of force and absolutely
free from self-conceit.”

Finally the party motored back towards the camp. As it was after dark
now, some of the citizens who had visited them escorted the slow moving
car as far as the edge of the town, but none of Jim Duff's followers
appeared on the streets through which they passed.

“Why are we going back to camp, anyway?” demanded Mr. Ellsworth. “Why
not sleep at the hotel to-night?”

“Why, I think it may be better for you to go back to the hotel, sir,”
 Tom proposed. “As for Harry and myself, after what has happened in town
to-day, it may be as well if we are on hand at the camp to-night. There
may be some attempt to stampede our men. The crowd in Paloma are capable
of offering our men free drink, just to do us mischief. We've a lot of
strong men in our force, but there are some weak vessels who would be
caught by a free offer, and some of our work gangs would be demoralized
to-morrow.”

Mr. Ellsworth thereupon decided to return to the camp also, and,
arriving there, dismissed the car. A tent was pitched for him close to
the office, and a cot rigged up in it.

Then the party sat up, chatting, after most of the workmen had turned in
for the night.

“I'll be thankful when the material gets here,” sighed Tom. “I'm tired
of loafing.”

“It seems to me that you have been doing anything but loafing,” smiled
the general manager.

“I want to get to work on the Man-killer. Besides, idleness is costing
the road a lot of money in wages for these men.”

“I wired this afternoon,” stated Mr. Ellsworth, “to have the material
trains rushed forward on express schedule as soon as the stuff strikes
our lines.”

“Then--” began Hawkins slowly.

His next words were drowned out by a booming explosion to the westward
of the camp.

“The scoundrels!” gasped Tom Reade, leaping up. “This is more of our
friends' work! They have dynamited the most ticklish part of the work on
the Man-killer!”




CHAPTER VII. A DYNAMITE PUZZLE


“The scoundrels!” cried General Manager Ellsworth.

He was a man who believed in working along easy lines when possible.
His career as a railroad man had taught him the value of meeting other
people half way. Now the general manager's white face and flashing eyes
revealed the fighter in him.

From off to the south, beyond the quicksand, came a chorus of sharp,
shrill, gleeful whoops.

“There go the curs!” flared Harry.

Another volley of jeers reached the camp officials.

“They are mounted on horses,” spoke Tom judicially. “They couldn't
travel as fast on foot and yell at the same time.”

A third taunting chorus traveled over the desert. But Tom and his
friends, in the darkness of the night, could not make out the horsemen
nor judge how many there were of them.

“You'd better turn out the camp, Mr. Hawkins,” directed Tom in a calmer
voice.

The superintendent ran over to where a night engineer almost dozed at
his post beside a stationary engine.

Half a minute later a series of shrill blasts rang out over the camp.
Laborers came tumbling out of the tents. Many of them had slept so
soundly that even the noise of dynamiting they had regarded only as a
part of their dreams. But the whistle meant business.

“Get the torches out, Mr. Rivers,” called Tom, as one of the foremen
reported on a run.

To Foreman Payson, Harry gave the order to marshal a hundred of the men
to remain in and around the camp, alertly watchful.

“That's a good idea,” nodded Mr. Ellsworth. “The explosion may be only a
trick to, empty the camp, as a prelude to further mischief.”

Scores of torches flared in the darkness as the workmen hurried
westward. At the head of all went Tom Reade and the general manager.

Less than half a mile away they came upon the scene of mischief.

“It's just what I expected,” nodded Tom, as the leading party halted
under the flare of the torches. “You see, sir, here was the point
of greatest cave and drift in the quicksand. It's where your former
engineers found such a morass of the shifty stuff that they declared the
Man-killer never could have its appetite satisfied with dirt. There was
a good log and concrete foundation laid down there, and for thirty-six
hours the sand had not shifted a particle as far as the eye could
discover. Now, look at it!”

Before them the top layer of desert sand had sunk away, revealing a well
or sink, one hundred and fifty feet across and the bottom at least forty
feet below the general level.

“I always wondered why a suspension bridge wouldn't solve the problem
more easily and cheaply than any other construction,” muttered Mr.
Ellsworth, after he had gotten over his first indignation.

“To avoid every possibility of lurking quicksand the suspension bridge
would have to be more than a mile long,” Reade answered. “Beyond, there
are other treacherous little patches of quicksand. It would cost the
road millions to put up a suspension bridge that would hold.

“A short bridge would look all right and doubtless serve all right, for
a while. Then, some fine day, part of the structure would give, and a
trainload of passengers would be sucked down and out of sight by the
shifting sands of the Man-killer.”

Mr. Ellsworth turned aside with a shudder.

“I'm glad I'm not an engineer,” he said earnestly. “The responsibility
for safety of life at this point is all yours, Reade.”

“And I'm willing enough to take it, sir, if you don't run trains over
the Man-killer until the new roadbed has stood tests that I'll put upon
it.”

“It'll cost at least ten thousand dollars to repair the mischief that
the scoundrels have done to-night,” figured Harry Hazelton thoughtfully.

“Then, if we can find out the guilty wretches for certain, we'll see
that they earn more than that amount by enforced labor in prison,”'
retorted the general manager grimly.

“Mr. Bell!” called Tom briskly.

“Here, sir,” reported the foreman, coming forward..

“Mr. Bell, I wish you'd pick out twenty-one good men. Make the brightest
of the lot head of the new force of night watchmen. Place the other
twenty under his orders. Your gangs will come into play here later
than the others, so I'll let your shift of men have the first chance at
night-watchman duty.”

“All right, sir,” nodded Foreman Bell. “Any further orders?”

“None, except that your watchmen will do their best to guard both the
line of roadbed and the camp. Further, tell the night engineer to be
sure to have steam up so that he can blow a lot of signals at anytime in
the night.”

“Very good, sir,” and the foreman hurried away.

“I'm disgusted with myself for having been caught in this fashion,” Tom
admitted to Mr. Ellsworth. “But I hadn't an idea that Paloma held any
dynamite. I can't imagine how a frontier town on the alkali desert needs
dynamite.”

“It will probably be found that someone shipped it in a hurry,”
 suggested Mr. Ellsworth.

“But how? Any fellow would be detected who had it brought in on our
trains. There has been no time to I stage I it from any other point
since the row with Duff started.”

“It's a puzzle,” admitted Mr. Ellsworth.

“It is, but it won't be for long,” Reade declared confidently. “There
are ways of finding out how that dynamite got into Paloma, there must be
ways of finding out who caused it to be brought in.”

Then, suddenly, Tom's eyes grew wider open and brighter.

“Mr. Ellsworth, I believe that dynamite was brought in before the
trouble opened.”

“But who would have wished to bring dynamite here until the trouble
started?”

“Anyone might be interested in doing it who wanted to see trouble
start.”

“I'm afraid I don't follow you, Reade,” observed the general manager,
frowning slightly.

“There were others who wanted the job of blocking the Man-killer,” Tom
went on earnestly. “They wanted a lot more money for the job than we
thought was necessary. I don't want to accuse anyone, but I am just a
trifle suspicious that the concern of Chicago contractors--”

“The Colthwaite people!” broke in Mr. Ellsworth.

“Yes; if they were bad people, and ugly business rivals--”

“How would the Colthwaite people be able to foresee that you were going
to have a fight with Jim Duff?” interposed Mr. Ellsworth.

“I'm going after the answer, if there is one. I hope to be able to tell
you the answer one of these days.”

Tom and Harry made two trips each, in different directions, to make sure
that the watch men were awake and alert. It was nearly eleven o'clock
when the general manager and his engineers turned in for a night's
rest--“subject to the approval of Jim Duff,” as Tom dryly stated it.

No more interruptions followed during the night, however. At daylight
the watchmen sought their tents and the day force began to stir soon
after.

After the steam whistle bad blown the breakfast call, Reade slipped away
from his friends to inspect the laborers at the meal.

“There are some of your men absent, Mr. Mendoza,” Tom murmured to the
Mexican foreman.

“Yes, Senor. Some of my men slipped away in the night.”

“Went off to Paloma, eh?”

Mendoza shrugged his shoulders.

“Gambling, drinking--both,” nodded Tom.

“Undoubtedly, Senor.”

“Get the names of your absent Mexicans, and report to me with them.”

Reade then went to the other foremen, with the same orders.

Before Tom had seated himself at his own meal, with Harry and Mr.
Ellsworth, the foremen appeared, lists in their hands. Tom rapidly ran
his finger down the lists.

“Twenty-eight Mexicans and fourteen Americans absent from camp,” he
muttered. “Foremen, when these men come back you may tell them that they
are no longer needed.”

All four of the gang bosses looked somewhat astonished.

“Merely for leaving camp in the night time?” Mendoza inquired.

“Yes, under the circumstances,” nodded Tom. “If any of these men declare
that they were properly absent, and did not visit the gambling and
the drinking dives, then such men may be reinstated after they have
satisfied Mr. Hazelton, Mr. Hawkins or myself of the truth of their
statements.”

“Some of these men will be very ugly when they find that they are
discharged, Senor,” suggested Mendoza.

“But you are loyal to us?”

“Can you doubt it, Senor?” asked Mendoza proudly.

“Then you will know how to handle your own fellow-countrymen. The
other foremen will be able to handle the rest of the disgruntled ones.
However, as I have told you, if any man claims that he is unjustly
treated, send him to headquarters for a chance at reinstatement.”

General Manager Ellsworth had heard the conversation, but had not
interfered. As soon as the young engineers were alone he joined them at
table, saying:

“Aren't you afraid, Reade, that these discharged men will hasten to join
our enemies?”

“That is very likely, sir,” Tom answered. “These missing men, however,
have shown their willingness to become our enemies by leaving camp and
seeking their pleasures in the strongholds of the scoundrels who are
fighting to break us up.”

“That's another way of looking at the matter,” assented the general
manager.

“I'd much rather have our enemies outside of camp than inside,” Reade
continued. “If we took these absentees back after they've been in the
company of rascals, then we wouldn't have any means of knowing how many
of the absentees had agreed to do treacherous things within the camp.
It would hardly be a wise plan to encourage the breeding of rattlesnakes
within the camp limits.”

It was nearly noon when the first batch of laborers, some American and
some Mexican, returned to camp. These men started to go by the checker's
hut at a distance, but keen-eyed Superintendent Hawkins saw them and
ordered them around to the hut.

“You'll have to wait here until your foremen are called,” declared the
checker.

“Say, what's the trouble here!” demanded one American belligerently.




CHAPTER VIII. READE MEETS A “KICKER” HALF WAY


“Who's your foreman?” asked the checker, a young fellow named Royal

“Payson--if it's any of your business.” replied the workman roughly.

The others, seeing him take this attitude, were willing to let him talk
for all. Superintendent Hawkins had rounded up the foremen, and now sent
them to the checker's hut to deal with the men.

“Some of you are my men,” said Payson, looking the lot over. “You're
discharged.”

“What's that?” roared the same indignant spokesman, a big, bull-necked,
red-faced fellow.

“Discharged,” said Payson briefly. “All of you who belong to my gang.
Checker, I'll call their names off to you.”

While Payson, and then the other foremen, were calling the names, the
workmen stood by in sullen silence. When the last name had been entered
the same bull-necked spokesman flared up again.

“Have we no rights?” he demanded. “Is there no such thing as the right
of appeal in this camp, or are we under a lot of domineering, petty
tyrants like you?”

“I'm a poor specimen of tyrant,”' laughed Payson good-naturedly. “All
I'm doing, Bellas, is following orders. Any man who feels that he was
justified in being away, and that he ought to be kept on the pay rolls
here, may make his appeal to Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Hazelton or Mr. Reade.”

“I'll see Reade!” announced Bellas stiffly. “That youngster is doing all
the dirty work here. I'll go to him straight.”

“I'll take you over to his office,” nodded Foreman Payson.

“I'm going, too,” announced another workman.

“So'm I,” added another.

“One at a time, men,” advised Payson. “I think Bellas feels that he's
capable of talking for all of you.”

The other foremen restrained the crowd, while Mr. Payson led Bellas over
to the headquarters shack.

Tom looked up from a handful of old letters as the two men entered.

“See here, you!” was Bellas's form of greeting.

“Try it again,” smiled Tom pleasantly.

“You're the man I want to talk to,” Bellas snarled. “What do you mean
by--”

“What's your name?” asked Reade quickly.

“None of your--”

“We can never do business on that kind of courtesy,” smiled Reade. “Mr.
Payson, show the man out and let him come back when he's cooler.”

“There isn't anyone here who can show me out!” blustered Bellas,
swinging his big arms and causing the heavy muscles to stand out.

“If you don't care to behave in a businesslike way, and talk like a man,
we'll do our best to show you out,” Tom retorted, still with a pleasant
smile. “What are you here for, anyway?”

“Why have I been fired?” roared Bellas.

“Can't you guess?” queried Tom.

“Was it for going to town and being away all night?”

“Yes, and also for not being on hand this morning.”

“There wasn't any work to do,” growled Bellas.

“You expected to be paid for your time, and you should have been in
camp, as your time belonged to the railroad by, right of purchase.
Bellas, you have been drinking over in town, haven't you?”

“If I have, it's my own business. I'm no slave.”

“Ben gambling, too?”

“None of your--”

“You're in error,” Tom answered pleasantly, though firmly. “The gamblers
over in Paloma are leagued with the dive keepers against us, Bellas. You
know what they did out at the big sink of the Man-killer last night. Any
man who goes away from camp and 'enjoys' himself for hours among those
who are trying to put us out of business shows himself to be a friend to
the enemies of this camp. Therefore the man who does that shows himself
to be one of our enemies, in sympathy if not in fact.”

“I'm no lawyer,” growled Bellas sullenly, “and I can't follow your flow
of gab.”

“You know well enough what I'm saying to you, Bellas, and you know that
I'm right. Since you've been away and joined our enemies we don't want
you here. More, we don't intend to have you here. Mr. Payson has dropped
you from the rolls, and that cuts you off from this camp. Now, I think
you will understand that it is some of our business whether you have
been over in town emptying your pockets, into Jim Duff's hat. If that
is what you have been doing, then we don't want you here, and won't have
you. If you haven't been hob-nobbing with our enemies, and paying all
you had for the privilege, then we'll look into any claims of better
conduct that you may make, and, if satisfied that you've been telling
the truth, we'll reinstate you.”

“Oh, you make me tired--you kid!” burst from Bellas's lips.

“This isn't an experience meeting,” Tom replied, not losing his smile,
“and I'm not interested in your impressions of me. Do you wish to make
any statement advocating your right to be taken on the pay roll again?”

“No, I don't!” roared the angry fellow. “All I want to do is to show you
my opinion of you, Tommy! I can do that best by rubbing your nose in the
dirt outside.”

Foreman Payson flung himself between the big, angry human bull and the
young chief engineer.

“Don't waste any time or heat on him, Mr. Payson,” Tom advised, slipping
his handful of letters into his coat and tossing that garment to the
back of the room. “If Bellas has any grudge against me, I don't want to
stop him from making his last kick.”

Tom took a step forward, his open hands hanging at his sides. He didn't
look by any means alarmed, though Bellas appeared to be about twice the
young chief engineer's size.

So prompt had been Reade's action that, for a moment, Bellas looked
astounded. Then, with a roar, he leaped forward, swinging both arms and
closing in.

Tom Reade had had his best physical training on the football gridiron.
He dropped, instantly, as he leaped forward, making a low tackle and
rising with both arms wrapped around Bellas's knees. Tom took two swift
steps forward, then heaved his man, head first, out through the open
doorway.

Bellas landed about eight feet away. He was not hurt, beyond a jolting,
and leaped to his feet, shaking both fists.

“Not unless you really insist upon it,” smiled Tom, shaking his head.
“It's too warm for exercise to-day.”

“You tricky little whipper-snapper!” roared Bellas, making an angry
bound for the doorway.

Tom met his angry rush. Both went down, rolling over and over on the
ground. Bellas wound his powerful arms about the boy, and would have
crushed him. Though Tom hated to do it, there was no alternative but to
choke the powerful bully. Bellas soon let go, dazed and gasping. Ere the
big fellow came to his senses sufficiently to know what he was about,
Reade had hoisted Bellas to one shoulder.

Down by the checker's hut the crowd of curious workmen gasped as they
saw Tom Reade jogging along with this great load over one shoulder.
Reaching the line, Tom gave another heave. Bellas rolled on the ground.
He was conscious and could have gotten up, but he chose to lay where he
had fallen and think matters over.

“Don't think I'm peevish, men,” Tom called pleasantly. “I wouldn't have
done that if Bellas hadn't attacked me. I had to defend myself. Now,
while I'm here, does any man wish to make a claim for justice? Does any
man feel that he has been discharged unfairly?”

Three or four men answered, though none of the Mexicans was among the
number. When questioned as to whether they had spent the night among Jim
Duff's friends all the speakers admitted that they had. Tom then made
them the same explanation he had offered Bellas.

“That's about all that can be said, isn't it, men?” Tom asked in
conclusion. “I am sorry for those of you who feel hurt, but while there
is bad blood in the air every man must choose between one camp or the
other. You men chose Jim Duff, and you'll have to abide by your choice.”

“But we haven't any money,” declared one of the men sullenly.

“Now you're just beginning to understand that Jim Duff won't be a very
good friend to a penniless man. Didn't you know that when you shook all
your change into his hat?”

“Are you going to let us starve?” growled the man.

“You won't starve, nor need you be out of work long,” Tom retorted. “Any
man who can do the work of a railway laborer in this country doesn't
have to remain out of a job. Now, I'll ask you to get off the railroad's
ground.”

Tom turned and went back to the office, while Payson and the other
foremen saw to it that the discharged men left the railroad's property.
In less than half an hour the disgruntled ones were back in the worst
haunts of Paloma, spreading the news of Tom Reade's latest outrage.

When Tom reached the office he found Mr. Ellsworth inside.

“I saw what you did, Reade, though you didn't know I was about. You
handled it splendidly. You made it plain enough, too, to the men that
they had joined the enemy and thereby declared against us.”

“Message, Mr. Reade,” called the operator from the doorway.

“The construction material train, the first one, will be here within two
hours,” cried Tom, looking up from the paper, his eyes dancing. “Now we
can do some of the real work that we've been waiting to do!”




CHAPTER IX. THE MAN-KILLER CLAIMS A SACRIFICE


In the days that followed Tom Reade and Harry Hazelton were more
continuously and seriously busy than they had ever been before in their
lives.

Sometimes it happens that engineers come upon a quicksand that
apparently has no bottom. It will be filled and apparently the earth
on top is solid. After a few days there will follow either a gradual
shifting away or a sudden cave in, and the quicksand must once more be
attacked.

This condition had been experienced more than a dozen times with the
Man-killer before Tom and Harry had been called to solve the problem.

There is no definite way of attacking a quicksand. Much must depend
upon the local conditions. Where it is a small one, yet of seemingly
considerable depth, it is sometimes quickest and cheapest to cross
it with a suspension bridge, the terminal pillars resting on sure
foundations. Some quicksands are overcome by merely filling in new sand
or loam, patiently, until at last the trap is blocked and a permanently
solid foundation is laid. There are many other ways of overcoming the
difficulty.

The method hit upon by Tom and Harry, after looking over the situation,
was one that was largely original with them.

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 seemingly 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 with 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.

“I knew you'd be,” returned Tom calmly, “if there were any way of doing
it.”

Harry pulled himself together and floundered still closer.

Nor was there a moment to be lost. Tom was already reduced to the choice
between silence and having his mouth filled with sand.

Harry's hands worked with lightning speed. Feverishly he dug out the
sand, until he had scooped away enough to bare Tom's shoulders and a few
inches beneath.

Swoop! Down went the extra noose over Tom's lifted arms, and then down
to a snug noose under his armpits.

From the platform a cheer went up, for the unconscious laborer had just
been hauled to safety.

It was with a thrill of horror that Hazelton found his own legs firmly
embedded in the sand well up to his thighs.

“Get Reade started first!” shouted the young assistant engineer. “Don't
bother with me until I give the word.”

How the line fastened to Tom tightened and strained! At times it seemed
as though it must give way.

Presently Tom's shoulder and a part of his torso were free.

In the meantime Harry Hazelton had sunk in up to the waist line.

“We'll haul on you, too, now, Mr. Hazelton!” sounded the voice of
Foreman Payson.

“Don't you dare do it until I give the word,” thundered back the voice
of the assistant engineer.

With a line securely about him, Harry felt that he could afford to take
the slight chance of waiting his turn.

He saw Tom's knees coming up out of the sand before he called:

“Now, Payson, you can give me a little boost if you like. Don't pull me
in ahead of Tom Reade, however.”

Presently deafening cheers went up. Both young engineers were being
slowly, surely hauled to safe ground.

Then Tom and Harry reached a spot where they could rise to their own
feet and floundered. Tom started, then swayed dizzily.

“Steady, there, old Gridley boy!” mumbled Hazelton, slipping an arm
around his recovered chum.

Then the two young engineers reached the platform and a fresh tumult of
joyful cheering burst forth.

“Payson,” exclaimed Harry, going up to the foreman, and holding out his
hand, “will you accept my apologies for all I said to you? I had to use
strong language, or you'd have held me back from Reade.”

“I didn't believe he could be saved,” returned the foreman, with a
sickly smile, as he grasped Hazelton's outstretched hand.

Tom, too weak at first to stand, had dropped to his knees at the side of
the unconscious laborer, over whom some of the bystanders were working
in stupid fashion.

“This man must have medical attention at once!” Tom declared. “Some
of you men lift him to your shoulders. Be careful not to jolt him, but
travel at a jog all the way to the office building. Harry, can you sit
on your horse?”

“Surely,” said the young assistant.

“Lucky boy, then,” smiled Reade. “I won't be able to sit in saddle for
some minutes. Ride into camp and tell the operator to wire swiftly for a
physician to come out and attend to that man.”

“But you--”

“I'm here, am I not!” smiled Reade.

“I should say you are, Mr. Reade!” came a hoarse, friendly roar from one
of the laborers.

Hazelton did not delay. He was soon speeding back over the desert.

As for Tom, there were many offers of assistance, but he explained that
all he needed was to keep quiet and have a chance to get his breath
back.

Payson, in the meantime, had started the work going again, though most
of his men toiled with far less spirit than before the accident.

Ten minutes later Tom mounted his horse and rode slowly back toward
camp. By the time he reached there he made out the automobile of a
Paloma physician coming in haste.

Tom was still weak enough to tremble as Harry stepped outside and helped
him to the ground.

“Harry,” Reade remarked dryly, “I'm not going to bother to thank you for
such a simple little thing as saving my life out yonder. I am well aware
that you had the time of your life in doing it.”

“I might have had the time of my life,” returned Harry, with an
imitation of his chum's calmness, “if there had been more excitement
about it. It was all rather dull, wasn't it, old chap?”

Smiling, both stepped inside. Then Tom's face became grave when he saw
that the rescued laborer had not yet recovered consciousness.

“Somewhere in the world,” murmured Reade, as he dropped to one knee and
rested a finger-tip on the laborer's pulse, “there's someone--a woman,
or a child, or a white-haired old man--who wouldn't wish us to let this
man die. What have you men been doing for him?”

Before the answer could be given a honk sounded at the door. Then a
young doctor clad in white duck and carrying a three-fold medicine case,
stepped inside.

“Sucked down by the sand and hauled out again, Doc,” Tom explained.

The physician looked closely at his patient and Harry drove out the men
who had no especial business there.

“A little pin-head of glonoin on his tongue for a beginning,” decided
the physician, opening his case. From one of the vials he took a small
pellet, forcing it between the lips of the unconscious man. Then, with
his stethoscope, he listened for the heart beats.

“Another glonoin, and then we'll start in to wake up our friend,” said
the young doctor in white duck, after a pause.

Two or three minutes later the laborer opened his eyes.

“You've been trying not to hear the whistle,” laughed the doctor gently.
“A big fellow like you must be up and doing.”

Ten minutes later the doctor found Tom outside.

“The man will be all right now, with a little stuff that I'll leave for
him,” smiled the visitor. “Of course there's some man in camp who can
look after a comrade to-night?”

“Doc, couldn't you do a better job if you had the man in Paloma under
your own eyes tonight?” Tom questioned.

“Yes; undoubtedly.”

“Can you take him?”

“Yes.”

“Then do so. Give him all the attention he needs. Make out your bill
to the A. G. & N. M. Hand it to me, and I'll O.K. it and send it in to
headquarters for payment. If you think an automobile ride after dark
will do the poor chap good, give him one and put that in your bill,
too.”

“Reade, I want to shake hands with you,” said the physician earnestly.
“I've looked after railroad hands before, but this is the first time I
was ever asked to be humane to one. Have no fear but I'll send this man
back to you strong and grateful. What's his name?”

“I don't know,” returned Reade. “I don't even know to whose gang he
belongs, though I think he's one of Payson's men.”

Late the following afternoon the laborer was brought back to camp. The
following morning he returned to his work as usual.

During the next two weeks Tom and Harry directed all their energies, as
well as the labor of all of their men, to bridging over that bad spot in
the Man-killer that had so nearly claimed two lives. One after another
six different layers of log network were put down. The open box cars
brought up thousands of tons of good soil, which was dumped down into
the layers of interlaced logs.

“The old Man-killer must feel tremendously flattered at finding himself
so persistently manicured,” laughed Tom as he sat in saddle watching the
men putting down the sixth layer.

Steel piles, hollow and filled with cement, were being driven here, the
cement not going in until the top of the pile was but four feet above
the level of the desert.

“Look out yonder,” nodded Harry, handing his field glass to his chum.
“You can just make out a glint on the sand. That's one of our steel
piles being sucked under.”

“The explorer of a few centuries hence may find a lot of these piles,”
 laughed Tom. “If he does, he'll most likely attribute them to the Pueblo
Indians or the Aztecs, and he'll write a learned volume about the high
state of civilization that existed among the savages here before the
white man came.”

“I'm mighty glad, Tom, that General Manager Ellsworth isn't out here
to see how many dozens of steel piles we're feeding hopelessly to the
Man-killer.”

“Not one of those piles is going down hopelessly,” Tom retorted. “Some
of the piles may disappear, and never be seen again, but each one
will help hold the drift at some point, near the surface, or perhaps a
thousand feet below the surface.”

“Only a thousand feet below the surface!” Harry grunted. “Tom, I often
feel certain that the Man-killer extends away down to the center of the
earth and up again on the other side. Before I'm a very old man I expect
to hear that several of our steel piles have shot up above the surface
in China or India.”

Hearing the noise of horse's hoofs behind him, Tom turned. He beheld
Fred Ransom riding out to the spot on a mottled “calico” horse.

“Look who's here,” Reade murmured to his chum.

“What are you going to do with him?” asked Hazelton, after a quick look.
“Run him off the line?”

“I don't know,” Tom answered slowly. “Ransom is trying hard to earn a
living, you know.”

Harry snorted. That sort of estimation of Ransom, even as a joke, was a
little too much for him.

“Mighty hot day, Reade,” called Ransom, as he reined in near the young
engineers.

“Yes,” said Tom slowly. “If I were enjoying myself beside a bottle of
cold soda on the Mansion House porch I don't believe I'd have the energy
to call for a horse and ride all the way out here in the heat.”

“Am I intruding?” demanded Ransom, with a swift, keen glance at the
young chief engineer.

“Oh, no, indeed!” came Tom's response. “You're as welcome as the flowers
in spring.”

“Thank you. It's a fine job you're doing out here.”

“Now it's my turn to extend my thanks to you,” Tom drawled. “Your praise
is all the more appreciated as coming from a competitor.”

“A competitor!” asked Ransom quickly, and with a half scowl. “I'm not an
engineer.”

“Your people are ranked as pretty fair engineers,” Reade rejoined.

“My people? What do you mean, Reade? There isn't an engineer in our
family.”

“No; but the Colthwaite Company employs a good many engineers,” Tom
suggested.

“Colthwaite?” repeated Ransom, now on his guard. “I have nothing to do
with that concern.”

“No?” asked Tom, as though greatly astonished. “Why, that's strange.”

“Why is it strange?”

“Why,” Tom Reade rejoined amiably, “everyone connected with the A. G.
& N. M. who knows anything at all about you credits you with being a
member of the Colthwaite Company's gloom department.”

“Gloom department?” gasped Ransom, with a wholly innocent-looking face.
“Oh, all right. I'll bite. What is a gloom department, anyway?”

“It's a comparatively recent piece of business apparatus,” smiled Tom.
“It is employed by big corporations as a club with which to hit smaller
crowds that want some of the business of life. The gloom department
might be called the bureau of knocking, or the hit-in-the-neck shift.”

“Is that what you accuse me of doing for the Colthwaite Company?” asked
Fred Ransom, his scowl deepening.

“Oh, the accusation isn't all mine,” Tom assured him unconcernedly.
“Some of it belongs elsewhere.”

“Your suspicions are utterly unwarranted,” retorted Ransom, choking
slightly.

“It's a lot of comfort to hear you say so,” Tom rejoined, as smilingly
as ever.

“You're on the wrong track this time, anyway,” Ransom asserted boldly.
“Still, I don't suppose you want me out here.”

“On the contrary, I greatly enjoy seeing you here,” Tom declared. “I'm
very grateful for the praise you offered me a moment ago.”

“You're welcome,” returned the Colthwaite agent, trying hard to smile.
“However, I won't take up your time. Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon, then,” nodded Tom. “Drop in again, won't you? Any time
within working hours.”

“Confound that fellow Reade!” muttered Ransom angrily as he rode back to
Paloma. “He knows altogether too much--or suspects it. I shall have to
call Jim Duff's attention to him!”

“Why did you string the fellow so?” asked Harry when the chums were
alone once more.

“I didn't,” Reade retorted. “I came very close to giving him straight
information.”

“Now he'll be more on his guard.”

“That won't do him any good,” Tom yawned. “He has been on his guard
all along, yet we found him out. For that matter, any man who lives
regularly at the Mansion House these days is open to our suspicion.”

For the Mansion House, ever since Tom's having been ordered away, had
been a losing proposition. Now and then a traveling salesman stopped
there, though not many.

“By the way, Harry,” predicted Tom, as the chums were riding back to
Paloma at the close of the afternoon, “look out, in about three of four
days, for a new and permanent guest at the Cactus House.”

“Who's coming?” inquired Hazelton.

“Whatever man the Colthwaite Company decides to send to the Cactus House
as soon as headquarters in Chicago receives Ransom's report. I think
we'll know that new chap, too, when he shows up. Also, you'll find that
the new man is either an avowed enemy of Ransom, after a little, or else
he won't choose to know Ransom at all.”

“That's pretty wild guessing,” scoffed Harry Hazelton.

“Wait three or four days, and see whether it's guessing or one of the
fine fruits of logic,” proposed Reade. “Incidentally, the Colthwaite
people will wonder why it didn't occur to them before to send one of
their gloom men to live at the Cactus. Fact is, I've been looking for
the chap for more than a fort-night.”




CHAPTER XII. HOW THE TRAP WAS BAITED


It was the evening of the day after Harry, who had insisted on trudging
up and down the line all day, instead of using his horse, had a touch of
heat headache.

He was not in a serious condition, but he needed rest. He dropped into
one of the chairs on the Cactus House porch and prepared to doze.

“Is there anything I can get for you, or do for you, old chap?” inquired
Tom, coming out on the porch after supper and looking remarkably
comfortable and contented.

“No; just let me doze,” begged Harry. “I feel a trifle drowsy.”

“Then, if you're going to give a concert through your nose,” smiled Tom,
“I may as well protect myself by going some distance away.”

“Go along.”

“I believe I'll take a walk. Probably, too, the ice cream man will be
richer when I get back.”

Tom went down into the street and sauntered along. He had walked but a
few blocks when he met another young man in white ducks.

“Doc, I'm looking for the place where the ice cream flows,” Reade
hinted. “Can I tempt you?”

“Without half trying,” laughed Dr. Furniss the young physician who had
gone out to camp to attend the Man-killer victim.

As they were seated together over their ice cream, Dr. Furniss inquired:

“By the way, do you ever see my one-time patient nowadays?”

“The fellow we exhumed from the Man-killer?”

“The same.”

“I see him every morning,” laughed Tom. “Really, I can't help seeing
him, for the man puts himself in my way daily to say good morning. And
as yet I haven't learned his name.”

“His name is Tim Griggs,” replied Dr. Furniss. “He's a fine fellow, too,
in his rough, manly way. He's wonderfully grateful to you, Reade. Do you
know why?”

“Haven't an idea.”

“Well, Tim's sheet anchor in life is a little girl.”

“Sweetheart?”

“After a fashion,” laughed the young doctor. “The girl is his daughter,
eight years old. She's everything to Tim, for his wife is dead. The
child lives with somewhat distant relatives, in a New England town.
Tim sends all his spare money to her, and so the child is probably well
looked after. Tim told me, with a big choke in his voice, that, if the
Man-killer had swallowed him up, it would have been all up with the
little girl, too. When money stopped coming the relatives would probably
have set the child to being household drudge for the family. Tim has a
round dozen of different photos of the child taken at various times.”

“Then I'm extra glad we got him out of the Man-killer,” said Tom rather
huskily.

“I knew you'd be glad, Reade. You're that kind of fellow.”

“Tim Griggs, then, is probably one of our steady men,” Tom remarked,
after a while.

“Steady! Why the man generally sends all of his month's pay, except
about eight dollars, to his daughter. From what he tells me she is
a sharp, thrifty little thing. She pays her own board bill with her
relatives, chooses and pays for her own clothes, and puts the balance of
the money in bank for herself and her father.”

“Does Tim ever go to see her?”

“Once in two years, regularly. He'd go east oftener, but it costs too
much money. He'd live near her, but he says he can earn more money down
here on the desert. Tim even talks about a college education for that
idolized girl. She looks out just as sharply for her daddy. Whenever Tim
is ready to make a trip east, she sends him the money for his fare. The
two have a great old time together.”

“Tim may marry again one of these days, and then the young lady may not
have as happy a time,” remarked Tom thoughtfully.

“I hinted as much to Griggs,” replied Dr. Furniss, “but he told me,
pretty strongly, that there'll be no new wife for him until he has
helped the daughter to find her own place in life.”

“Say!” muttered Tom, with a queer little choke in his voice. “The heroes
in life generally aren't found on the high spots, are they?”

“They're not,” retorted the doctor solemnly.

Half an hour later, after having eaten their fill of ice cream, Dr.
Furniss and Engineer Reade parted, Tom strolling on alone in the
darkness.

“I can It get that fellow Griggs out of my mind,” muttered Tom. “To
think that a splendid fellow like him is working as a laborer! I wonder
if he isn't fitted for something better--something that pays better?
Look out, Tom Reade, you old softy, or you'll be doing something
foolish, all on account of a primary school girl in New England whom
you've never seen, and never will! I wonder--hello!”

As Tom had walked along his head had sunk lower and lower in thought.
His sudden exclamation had been brought forth by the fact that he had
bumped violently into another human being.

“Cantch er look out where you're going?” demanded an ugly voice.

“I should have been looking out, my friend,” Tom replied amiably. “It
was very careless of me. I trust, that I haven't done you serious harm.”

“Quit yer sass!” ordered the other, who was a tall, broad-shouldered and
very surly looking fellow of thirty.

“I don't much blame you for being peevish,” Reade went on. “Still, I
think there has been no serious harm done. Good night, friend.”

“No, ye don't!” snarled the other. “Nothing of the slip-away-easy style,
like that!”

“Why, what do you want?” I asked Tom, opening his eyes in genuine
surprise.

“Ye thick-headed idiot!” rasped the surly stranger. “Ye--”

From that the stranger launched into a strain of abuse that staggered
the young engineer.

“Say no more,” begged Reade generously. “I accept your apology, just as
you've phrased it.”

“Apology, ye fool!” growled the stranger.

“That won't do. Put up your hands!”

“Why?”

“So ye can fight, ye--”

“Fight?” echoed Tom, with a shake of his bead. “On a hot night like
this? No, sir! I refuse.”

Tom would have passed peaceably on his way, but the stranger suddenly
let go a terrific right-hander. Had Tom Reade received the blow he would
have gone to the ground. But the young engineer's athletic training
stood by him. He slid out, easily and gracefully, but was compelled to
wheel and face his assailant.

“Don't,” urged Tom. “It's too hot.”

“I'm hot myself,” leered the stranger, dancing nearer.

“You look it,” Tom admitted. “If you don't stop dancing, you'll soon be
hotter. It makes me warm to look at you.”

“Stop this one, ye tin-horn!” snarled the stranger.

“Certainly,” agreed Tom, blocking the blow. “However, I wish you
wouldn't be so strenuous. One of us may get hurt.”

This last escaped Reade as he blocked the blow, and again displayed a
neat little bit of footwork.

“Let's see you stop this one!” taunted the bully.

“Certainly,” agreed Tom, and did so.

“And this one. And this! Here's another!”

By this time the blows were raining in fast and thick. Tom's agile
footwork kept him out of reach of the hard, hammer-like fists of the
stranger.

Tom had been bred in athletics. He was comparative master of boxing,
but before this interchange of blows had gone far the young engineer
realized that he had met a doughty opponent.

What Tom didn't know was that his present foe was an ex-prizefighter,
who had sunk low in the scale of life.

What the lad didn't even suspect was that the man had been hired to pick
a fight with him, and that the fight was for desperate stakes.

“Have you pounded me all you think necessary?” asked Tom coolly, after
more than a minute's hard interchange of blows in which neither man had
gained any notable advantage.

“No, ye slant-eared boob!” roared the assailant. “Ye--”

Here he launched into another stream of abuse.

“You said all that before,” remarked Tom, with a new flash in his eyes.
Then fully aroused, he went to work in earnest, intending to drive his
opponent back and down him.

The fighting became terrific. There was little effort now to parry, for
each fighter had become intent on bringing the other to earth.

Tom was soon panting as he fought, for his opponent was heavier, taller
and altogether out of the youth's fistic class.

“If I can only reach his wind once, and topple him over!” thought Reade.

A blow aimed at his jaw he failed to block. The impact sent the young
engineer half staggering. Another blow, and Tom dropped, knocked out.

At that very instant a street door near by opened noiselessly.

“I've got him,” leered the bully, bending over the senseless form of Tom
Reade.

“Bring him in!” ordered a voice behind the open doorway.




CHAPTER XIII. TOM HEARS THE PROGRAM


Throwing his arms around Tom, the bully lifted him and bore him inside,
dropping him on the floor in the dark.

“He's some tough fighter,” muttered Tom's assailant. “I didn't know but
he'd get me.”

“No; he couldn't,” replied the other voice. “I was just opening the door
so I could slip out and give him a clip in the dark.”

“He's coming to,” muttered the bully. “Ye'll have to tell me what you
want done with him.”

The speaker had knelt by Tom, with a hand roughly laid against the young
engineer's pulse. Neither plotter could see the boy, for no light had
been struck in the room.

“Pick him up,” ordered the one who appeared to be directing affairs. “If
he comes to while you're carrying him you can handle him easily enough,
can't you?”

“Of course. Even after he knows pie from dirt he'll be dazed for a few
minutes.”

“Come along with him.”

“Strike a light.”

For answer the director of this brutal affair flashed a little glow from
a pocket electric lamp.

The way led down a hallway, through to the back of the house, and thence
down a steep flight of stairs into a cellar.

The man who appeared to be in charge of this undertaking had brought a
lantern, holding it ahead of the man who carried Tom's unconscious form.

“Dump him there,” ordered the man with the lantern.

“He's stirring,” reported the fighter, after having dropped young Reade
to the hard earthen floor.

“Take this then,” replied the other, who, having hung the lantern on
a hook overhead, had stepped off beyond the fringe of darkness. He now
returned with a shotgun, which he handed to the fighter who had attacked
the young chief engineer in the street.

“Do you want me to shoot him?” whispered the other huskily.

“If you have to, but I don't believe it will be necessary. The cub
will soon understand that his safety depends entirely on doing as he is
told.”

“Say,” muttered Tom thickly. He stirred, opened his eyes, then sat up,
looking dazed.

“Don't move or talk too much,” advised the man with the shotgun. As he
spoke, he moved the muzzle close to Reade's face.

“Hello!” muttered Tom, blinking rather hard.

“Hello yourself. That's talking enough for you to do,” snapped the
bully.

“Was that the thing you hit me over the head with at the finish?”
 inquired the young engineer curiously.

“Careful! You're expected to think--not talk,” leered his captor. “If
ye want something to think about ye can remember that I have fingers on
both triggers of this gun.”

“I can see that much,” Tom assented. “Why do you think that it's
necessary to keep that thing pointed at me? Have you got me in a place
where you feel that facilities for escaping are too great?”

The word “facilities” appeared too big for the mind of the bully to
grasp.

“I don't know what ye're talkin' about,” he grumbled.

“Neither do I,” Tom admitted cheerily. “My friend, I'm not going to
irritate you by pretending that I know more than you do. In fact, I know
less, for I have no idea what is about to happen to me here, and that's
something that you do know.”

“No; I don't,” glared his captor, “and I don't care what is going to
happen to you.”

Back of the fringe between light and darkness steps were heard on the
cellar stairs. Then someone moved steadily forward until he came into
the light.

“Hello, Jim!” Tom called good-humoredly.

“Don't try to be too familiar with your betters, young man!” came the
stern reply.

“Oh, a thousand pardons, Mr. Duff,” Tom amended hastily. “I didn't
intend to insult your dignity. Indeed, I am only too glad to find you
resolved to be dignified.”

“If you try to get fresh with me,” growled the gambler, “I'll knock your
head off.”

“Call it a slap on the wrist, and let it go at that,” urged Tom. “I'm
very nervous to-night, and a blow on the head might make me worse.”

“Nothing could make you worse,” growled, Duff, turning on his heel, “and
only death could improve you.”

“Then I'm distinctly opposed to the up-lift,” grinned Tom, but Duff
had disappeared into a darker part of the cellar and the young engineer
could not tell whether or not his shaft had reached its mark.

“Ye wouldn't be so fresh if ye had a good idea of what ye're up against
to-night,” warned the bully with the gun.

“I fancy a good many of us would tone down if we could look ahead for
three whole days,” Tom suggested.

Other steps were now heard on the stairs. The newcomers remained outside
the illuminated part of the cellar until still others arrived.

“Now, gentlemen,” proposed the voice of Jim Duff, “suppose we have a
look at the troublemaker.”

“They can't mean me,” Tom hinted to his immediate captor.

“Shut up!” came the surly answer.

Fully a dozen men now moved forward. With the single exception of Duff,
each had a cloth, with eye-holes, tied in place over his face.

“My, but this looks delightfully mysterious!” chuckled Tom.

“You be still, boy, except when you answer something that calls for a
reply,” ordered Jim Duff, who had dropped all of the surface polish of
manner that he usually employed. “This meeting need not last long, and
I'll do most of the talking.”

“Won't these other gentlemen present be allowed to do some of the
talking?” the young engineer inquired.

“They don't want to,” Duff explained gruffly. “That might lead to their
being recognized.”

“Oh, that's the game?” mused Tom Reade aloud. “Why, I thought they had
the handkerchiefs over their faces because--”

“Shut up and listen!” warned Jim Duff.

“...because,” finished Tom, “they wanted me to feel that everything was
being done regularly and in good dime-novel form. My, but they do look
like some of the fellows that Hen Dutcher used to tell us about. Hen
used to waste more time on dime novels than--”

“Shut up!” again commanded Duff. “These gentlemen feel that there is no
need of their being recognized.”

“Then why didn't Fred Ransom, of the Colthwaite Company, cover up the
scar on his chin?” retorted Reade. “Why didn't Ashby, of the Mansion
House, invent a new style of walking for the occasion?”

Both men named drew hastily back into the shadow. Tom chuckled quietly.

“I could name a few others,” Tom continued carelessly. “In fact--I think
I know you all. Gentlemen, you might as well remove your masks.”

“Club him with the butt of the gun, if he talks too much,” Duff directed
the bully, who had stepped back a few paces as the men formed a circle
around the young engineer.

“Did you ever try to stop water from running down hill, Duff,” Tom
inquired good-humoredly.

“What has that to do with--” began the gambler angrily.

“Nothing very much,” Tom admitted. “Only it's a waste of time to try to
bind my tongue. The only thing you can do is to gag me; but, from some
things you've let drop, I judge that you want me to do some of the
talking presently.”

“We do,” nodded Duff, seeking to regain his temper. “However, it won't
do you any good to attempt to do your talking before you've heard me.”

“If I've been interfering with your rights, then I certainly owe you an
apology,” Tom answered, with mock gravity. “May I beg you to begin your
speech?”

“I will if you'll keep quiet long enough, boy,” Jim Duff retorted.

“I'll try,” sighed Reade. “Let's hear you.”

“This committee of gentlemen--” began the gambler.

“All gentlemen?” Tom inquired gravely.

“This committee,” Duff started again, “have concerned themselves with
the fact that you have done much to make business bad here in Paloma.
You have prevented hundreds of workmen from coming into Paloma to spend
their wages as they otherwise would have done.”

“Some mistake there,” Reade urged. “I can't control the actions of my
men after working hours.”

“You've persuaded them against coming into town,” retorted Duff sternly.
“None of the A. G. & N. M. workmen come into Paloma with their wages.”

“I'm glad to hear that,” Tom nodded. “It's the effect of taking good
advice, not the result of orders.”

Some of the masked listeners stirred impatiently.

“It's all the same,” Jim growled. “Your men don't come into town, and
Paloma suffers from the loss of that much business.”

“I'm sorry to hear it.”

“So this committee,” the gambler went on, “has instructed me to inform
you that your immediate departure from Paloma will be necessary if you
care to go on living.”

“I can't go just yet,” Tom declared, with a shake of his bead. “My work
here at Paloma isn't finished.”

“Your work will be finished before the night is over, if you don't
accept our orders to leave town,” growled Duff.

“Dear me! Is it as bad as that?” queried Reade.

“Worse, as you'll find! What's your answer, Reade?”

“All I can say then,” Tom replied innocently, “is that it is too bad.”

Clip! Jim Duff bent forward, administering a smart cuff against the
right side of the sitting engineer's face.

“Don't do that!” warned Tom, leaping lithely to his feet. He faced the
gambler coolly, but the lad's muscles were working under the sleeves of
his shirt.

Duff drew back three steps, after which he faced the boy, eyeing him
steadily.

“Reade, you've heard what we have to say to you. That you can't go on
living in Paloma. Are you ready to give us your word to leave Paloma
before daylight, and never come back?”

“No,” Tom replied flatly.

“Then,” sneered the gambler, fixing the gaze of his snake-like eyes on
the young chief engineer, “I'll tell you what we have provided for you.
We shall take you to the edge of the town, at once, and there hang you
by the neck to a tree. After you've ceased squirming we'll fasten this
card to you.”

From another man present Jim snatched a printed card, bearing this
legend:

“Gone, for the good of the community!”




CHAPTER XIV. THE COUNCIL OF THE CURB


“How soon are you going to carry out your plans?” Reade demanded.

“Then you won't leave Paloma?”

“I certainly won't--as far as my own decision goes,” Reade replied
firmly. “Furthermore, I should feel the utmost contempt for myself if I
allowed you to drive me away from here before my work is completed.”

“You're a fool!” hissed Duff.

“And you're a gambler,” Tom shot back. “If you won't change your trade,
why should you expect me to change mine?”

“I reckon, gentlemen,” said Duff, turning to the others present, “that
there's no use in wasting any more time with this fellow. He'd rather
be hanged to a tree than take good advice. If the rest of you agree with
me, I propose that we take the cub to his tree at once.”

Several spoke in favor of this plan. Tom, seeing this, felt his heart
sink somewhat within him, though he was no more inclined than before to
accede to the demands of the rascals.

“Grab him! Throw him down; tie and gag him,” were the gambler's orders.

Two men nearest the young engineer sprang at him.

“We'll play this game right through to the finish, then!” burst from
Tom's lips, and there was something like fury in his voice.

Biff! Thump!

Two of the townsmen of Paloma, wholly unprepared for resistance, went
down before the engineer's telling blows.

“Your turn, Duff!” rumbled Reade's voice, as he sprang forward and
launched a terrific blow at the gambler.

Duff went down, almost doubling up as he struck. He had been hit
squarely on the jaw with a force that made even Tom Reade's hardened
knuckles ache.

“Shoot him!” rose a snarl, as others moved toward the boy.

“All right!” assented Tom, his voice ringing cheerily despite his anger.
“Be cowards, as comes natural to you. Yet, if you have the courage of
real men I'll agree to fight my way out of this place, meeting you one
at a time.”

“What's that noise up in the street?” suddenly demanded Ashby, in a tone
of sudden fear.

“Run up and find out, if you want to know,” proposed Tom, who stood
poised, ready for another assailant to come within reach of his fists.

Stealthily, on tip-toe, the bully who had first engaged Reade in the
street fight, was now trying to get up behind the young engineer. The
bully held the shotgun ready to bring down on the lad's head.

“There's some row up there,” continued Ashby. “There, I heard shots!”

“Brave, aren't you?” jeered Tom.

Three or four of the masked cowards started for the steep stairway.

Even the bully with the clubbed shotgun must have been seized with fear;
for, though in position to strike, he quickly lowered the weapon and
listened.

Bump! smash! sounded, though not directly overhead.

Then from the hallway above came the noise of the treading of many feet,
while a voice roared hoarsely:

“Spread through the house, boys! If they've done anything to Mr. Reade,
then break the necks of every white-livered rascal you can find!”

“Fine!” chuckled Tom, while the masked faces in the cellar turned even
whiter than the cloths covering them. “That voice sounds familiar to me,
too.”

Over the hubbub of voices above sounded some remonstrating tones, as
though others were urging a less violent course.

“It's the workmen from the camp!” guessed Hotelman Ashby, in a voice
that shook as though from ague.

“Sounds like it,” chuckled Tom. “Cheer up, Ashby. If it's our railroad
crew I'll try to see to it that they don't do more than half kill you!”

Then, raising his voice, Tom called gleefully:

“Hello, there! You'll find us in the cellar.”

“Why don't you kill that fool!” muttered Jim Duff, who, still dazed,
struggled to sit up.

“Hush, man, for goodness sake!” implored the badly frightened Ashby.

Duff, with rapidly returning consciousness, now leaped to his feet,
drawing his pistol and springing at Reade.

“Hold on!” Tom proposed coolly. “You're too late!”

The sudden flooding of light into the place and the rush of hobnailed
shoes on the stairs recalled even the gambler's scattered senses.

“There they are!” yelled a voice. “Grab 'em! Be careful you don't hit
Mr. Reade.”

In another instant the cellar was the center of a wild scene. Railway
laborers flooded the little place. While some held dark lanterns that
threw a bright glow over the scene, others leaped upon the masked ones,
tearing the cloths from their faces.

“Serve 'em hot!” roared the same rough voice.

“Stop!” commanded Tom Reade, leaping forward where the light was
brightest and into the thick of the struggling mass of humanity.

“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 counsel 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.

By this time, however, the whole of Paloma appeared to be lighted up
with the brisk blaze. Tongues of flame shot skyward from the burning
hotel, while small blazing embers dropped freely into the street.

“Is everyone out? Everyone safe? Anyone missing?” panted Carter, the
young proprietor of the Cactus House.

The disturbed guests ranged themselves about Carter, who looked them
over swiftly.

“Where are Mrs. Gerry and her two babies?” demanded the hotel man, his
cheeks blanching.

None answered, for no one had seen the woman and her children.

“They must be in the house,” cried Carter.

At that instant a woman's face appeared, briefly, at a window on the
third floor. Her piercing cry rang out, then her face vanished, a cloud
of smoke driving her from the open window.

“Hustle the ladders along!” begged the hotel man hoarsely. “We must
rescue that woman and her children. Her husband will be here in morning.
What can we say to him if we allow his wife and children to perish in
the flames?”

In a few moments a long ladder had been hauled off the track and brave
men rushed it to the wall, two men starting to ascend the moment it was
in place.

In another moment they came sliding down, balked. Flames had enveloped
the upper end of the ladder. It had to be hauled down, buckets of water
being dashed over the blazing sides.

“You can't get a ladder up on any part of that wall to the third floor,”
 called the chief of the fire department hoarsely, as he broke through a
thick veil of smoke. “You'll have to try the rear.”

“Where are Reade and Hazelton?” called a voice.

“Reade!”

“Hazelton!”

There was no answer. A hundred men turned, looking blankly at their
nearest fellows.

“They've gone down in the flames!” called another voice.

“Reade and Hazelton have lost their lives!”

“That'll make their enemies happy!” groaned one man, and other voices
took it up.

“Carter,” shouted one big man, running to the proprietor, “if this blaze
is the work of a fire-bug, then look for Reade and Hazelton's enemies.
They have the most to gain by the death of those young fellows!”

A hoarse yell went up from the crowd. All of a sudden it seemed plain to
every man present that the hatred for Tom and Harry in certain quarters
fully accounted for the fire.

“Get a rope! Lynch somebody!” shouted one voice after another.

“First of all, let's find a way to get that woman and her babies out!”
 Carter appealed, frantically.

Scores of voices took up this cry, and numbers of men hastened around to
the rear of the little hotel in the wake of the laddermen.

“We must find Reade and Hazelton, too,” shouted others.

“Then we'll lynch someone for this night's business!”

The cry was taken up hoarsely.

Two ladders were quickly hoisted at the rear. Almost before they had
begun to hoist, the laddermen and spectators felt that it was a useless
attempt.

Nor did the doors and passages seem to offer any better avenue of
escape.

Chug, chug, chug! sounded a touring car close at hand. An automobile
stopped, Dr. Furniss jumping out.

“Anyone in danger!” shouted the young doctor.

“Yes; a woman and her children. Also Reade and Hazelton!”

“It's all right, then,” nodded Furniss, looking relieved. “Tom Reade and
Harry Hazelton have gone to the aid of the woman.”

“If I could only believe that!” gasped Proprietor Carter. “We've tried
the ladders, and we've tried the corridors of the house. It's a raging
furnace in there.”

Dr. Furniss looked on rather calmly.

“I'm merely wondering on which side of the house those two engineers
will appear with the woman and her children,” he declared.

For the fourth time a ladder was being vainly raised at the rear.
Suddenly a shout rang out. In the basement a window was unexpectedly
knocked out from the inside.

Through the way thus cleared leaped a young man so blackened with smoke
as to be unrecognizable, though it was Hazelton.

Before those who first espied the young man recovered from their
surprise, a pair of arms from the inside handed out the body of a child
to Hazelton.

Then came another child. Next the senseless body of a woman was handed
out.

Dr. Furniss was the first to recover, from delighted amazement. In a
bound he was on the spot, taking care of one of the children himself and
bawling to others to bring the rest of the family.

Tom Reade, looking more like a burnt-cork minstrel in hard luck than
like his usual self, sprang through the window way and followed.

“Here, you people--stand back!” roared Tom, elbowing his way along. “Dr.
Furniss and his patients want room and air. Stand back!”

“It's Reade!” yelled a dozen men in delight.

“Well, what of it?” asked Tom coolly, as he followed Furniss. “Was there
anyone here who expected that I'd be lost?”

“Hurrah! Where's Hazelton?”

“Who wants me?” demanded the other unrecognizable, smoke-blackened
figure.

“They're both safe!”

“Oh--cut it out,” begged Tom good-humoredly. “You can't lose an engineer
or even kill him. Doc, what's the report?”

“All three are alive,” replied Dr. Furniss, “but they'll need care and
nursing. Here, help me place them in my car. Someone get in and ride
with me--I'll need help. You, Reade!”

“No,” responded Tom with emphasis, as he looked down at his discolored
self. “If the lady saw me when she opened her eyes, she'd faint again.
I'd scare the kiddies into convulsions. A bath for me!”

A man from the crowd quickly stepped into the tonneau of the car, ready
to care for the woman and her children while the physician drove his car
home.

“Hello, Reade! My congratulations on your getting out. 'Twas a brave
deed, too, to save that poor woman and her children.”

Frank Danes pressed through the crowd about the car, reaching out to
seize Reade's hand.

Into Tom's face flashed a sudden look that few had ever seen there.

It was a look full of contempt that the young chief engineer bent on the
man who had greeted him.

“Your hand!” cried Danes, in a voice ringing with admiration.

“Don't you touch me!” warned Reade, his voice vibrating with anger.

“Why--what--” began Danes, then reached his own right hand for Tom's.

“Make way for this 'gentleman' to fall!” roared Reade, then swung a
crushing blow that landed squarely in Danes's face.

The latter went down in a heap.

There had been no explanation of the seemingly unprovoked blow, but
the crowd surged forward, snatching Danes's body up as though he were
something of which these men were anxious to be rid.

“Did he set the hotel afire?” demanded one man in husky tones.

“Did he?” chorused the crowd.

“Lemme through! Here's a rope!”

Then followed wild sounds that could not be distinguished as words.
These men of Paloma seemed bent upon fighting for the possession of
Frank Danes, who, having now recovered his senses, emitted shrill
appeals for mercy.

“Here's the fire-bug! Here's the human match!”

“To the nearest tree!”

“I've got the rope ready!”

In another thirty seconds Frank Danes would have been dangling from a
limb of the nearest tree. Again Reade and Hazelton sprang into action.

“Stand back, men--please do!” begged Tom, fighting his way through the
thinnest side of the crowd. “Don't kill any man without a trial.”

“You know that this tenderfoot fired the hotel, don't you?” asked one
man hoarsely.

“I've reason to suspect that he did--”

“That's enough for us!” roared a hundred voices.

“But I've no positive proof of Danes' guilt,” Tom insisted.

“To the tree with him!”

“Not while I've breath left in my body!” Tom blazed forth desperately.
“Come, Harry!”

Hazelton sprang to his chum's side, the two fighting desperately to
drive away the men who held Frank Danes captive.

“Wait a few hours at least, men!” Tom appealed earnestly. “Don't do
anything now that you'll be sorry for to-morrow.”

Other men of calm judgment began to see the force of Reade's remarks.

Tom and Harry were swiftly backed by such reinforcements that the
trembling wretch was torn from his would-be destroyers.

“Reade,” sobbed Frank Danes, “as long as I live I'll never forget your
splendid conduct.”

“Shut up!” retorted Tom roughly. “I don't want to have to knock you down
again. It might start a riot that no man could quell.”

“Pass the skulking tenderfoot out to us!” implored some of the men on
the edge of the crowd, among whom was the man with the spare rope.

“No! We won't disgrace the town with a lynching,” Tom shot back. “Wait
until cool judgment has had time to do its work.”

“Bear a hand there!” roared Harry. “Help the firemen to save the next
building. Follow me!”

Thus led, the fickle crowd started to the aid of the firemen.

“Come with me, Danes,” whispered Tom hoarsely, sternly. “Keep your
distance, however, or I shall lay violent hands on you.”

Once out of the glare of light cast by the burning of the hotel, Tom
Reade pointed down a dark side street.

“There's your way, Danes,” whispered Reade. “Skip! Be far from Paloma by
daylight--or nothing will save you.”

“Do you consider me responsible for that fire?” faltered Danes.

“Hazelton and I went through that fire,” Tom retorted sternly. “We had
a hard fight to save that woman and her babies, and were nearly choked
with the fumes of the coal oil with which the fire was kindled. I
couldn't swear, in court, Danes, that you started the blaze, but your
coat and your hands have the odor of coal oil.”

Dane's face turned pale, his legs shaking under him.

“So, you see,” continued Tom savagely, “you'll do well to escape before
anyone else notices the smell of coal oil on you.”

“You've been mighty good to me--and I--” chattered Danes.

“Shut up, as I advised you before!” rasped Tom Reade. “I've been as good
to you as I'd be to a rattlesnake. Get out of Arizona before the men of
this town suspect--understand--you?”

“I will,” Frank Danes agreed, his teeth chattering.

“Don't ever show your face again in this part of the world.”

“I won't, Reade. Again, my thanks--”

“Shut up!” Tom insisted. “Thanks from you would make me feel like a
traitor to the community. Skip! Carry word to the Colthwaite Company,
however, that their latest scheme against us has failed like the
others!”

At mention of the Colthwaits, Danes turned and fled in earnest.

“That was their second attempt,” muttered Tom grimly, as he turned back
to where the flames still held dominion. “I wonder if I shall be as
lucky when the third attempt against me is made?”




CHAPTER XVII. TIM GRIGGS “GETS HIS”


In another hour the spot where the hotel had stood was marked only by a
shapeless mass of smoking embers.

The citizens of the town went back to their beds. Mrs. Gerry and her
children had recovered consciousness and had found a friendly lodging
for the night.

The rescue performed by Tom and Harry had been a simple enough
achievement.

Shut off from every other means of escape, they remembered the
dumbwaiter that ran from the kitchen up to the floors above.

The two little children were sent down on the dumb-waiter, Harry riding
on the top of the wooden frame. Mrs. Gerry's rescue was delayed until
Harry could send the dumb-waiter up to the third floor, where she and
Tom awaited its return. Aided by Tom, she descended to the kitchen
without accident; then Tom followed, sliding down the rope. It was but
the work of a moment to break through the basement window and pass the
woman and her children out to safety.

Morning found Proprietor Carter somewhat resigned to his loss. True,
the hotel had been destroyed and the embers must be removed, but both
building and contents had been fairly well insured.

“I'm a few thousand out,” said the hotel man philosophically, “but I
have my ground yet, and, the insurance money will allow me to rebuild.,
and put up a more modern hotel. Of course I'll be a few thousand dollars
in debt, to start with, but after a short while I'll have earned the
money that I've lost.”

“Why did you smile when poor Carter was talking about his loss?”
 demanded Harry, as the chums strolled away in search of breakfast.

“Did I?” asked Tom, looking suddenly very, sober.

“There was a broad grin on your face?”

“Carter didn't see it, did he?”

“I don't know; but why, the grin, Tom?”

“I'll tell you after I see what answer I receive to a telegram that I've
sent.”

“Tom Reade, you always were provoking!”

“Now I'm doubly so, eh?”

“Oh, well, I don't care,” muttered Harry. “I can wait; I'm not very
nosey.”

By noon General Manager Ellsworth arrived on the scene of the labors of
the young engineers, out at the site of the big quicksand.

“You can run the work here this afternoon, Harry,” Tom declared. “I
shall want to put in my time with Mr. Ellsworth.”

“Was he the answer to your telegram?”

Tom offered no further information, but hurried away to meet the general
manager, who had come out to camp in an automobile hired at Paloma.
Manager and chief engineer now toured slowly toward town, Harry watching
them as long as they were in sight.

“Tom has something big in the wind,” muttered Hazelton. “It must be
something about the hotel fire. What can it be? At any rate, I'll wager
it's something that pleases my chum wonderfully.”

Nor did Tom return until late in the afternoon. He came back alone.

“Well?” demanded Harry.

“Yes,” nodded Tom. “It's well.”

“What is?”

“The game.”

“What is the game?”

“When you hear about it--” Reade began.

“Yes, yes--”

“Then you'll know.”

“Tom Reade, do you know, I believe I'm quite ready and willing to thrash
you?” cried Harry in exasperation.

“Please don't,” Tom begged.

“Then tell me what you've been so mightily mysterious about.”

“I will,” returned Reade. “I'd have told you hours ago, Harry, only I'm
afraid you would have been demoralized with disappointment if the thing
had failed to go through. Harry, to-day I've been meddling in other
people's business. Congratulate me! I put it through without getting
myself thumped or even disliked, by anyone. Both sides to the deal are
'tickled to death,' as the saying runs.”

“You said you were going to tell me,” remarked Hazelton, trying hard to
restrain his curiosity for a minute or two longer.

“Sit down and listen,” Tom urged his chum, handing him a chair in their
little shack of an office.

Then, indeed, Tom did pour forth the whole story. As Harry listened a
broad grin of contentment appeared on his face, for one of Hazelton's
lovable weaknesses was his desire to see other people get ahead.

Just as Tom finished, a figure darkened the doorway.

“I'm ready to go, sir,” announced Tim Griggs.

“Go where?” inquired Harry.

“I've fired Griggs,” observed Tom Reade.

“What! After all that he did for you the other night?” demanded
Hazelton, aghast. “After the man saved your--”

“Oh, I'm quite satisfied to be fired, Mr. Hazelton,” Tim Griggs broke
in. “In fact, I'm very grateful to Mr. Reade. He has certainly given me
a big boost forward in the world.”

“What are you going to do now, Griggs?” Harry asked.

“You'd better address him as 'Mr. Griggs,' Harry,” Tom hinted. “He is a
foreman now, at six dollars a day, and entitled to his Mister.”

“Foreman?” Harry repeated, while Gregg's grin broadened.

“Yes,” Tom continued. “Mr. Griggs is to be foreman on the new job that
I've just been telling you about in town. After this, if Mr. Griggs is
careful to behave himself, he's likely always to be a foreman on some
job or other for the A., G. & N. M.”

Harry sprang forward, seizing the hand of Tim Griggs and shaking it with
enthusiasm.

“Bully old Griggs! Lucky old Griggs!” Hazelton bubbled forth. “Mr.
Griggs, you'll believe from now on what I've always believed--that it's
a great piece of luck in itself to be one of Tom Reade's friends.”

“It surely has been great luck for me, sir,” Griggs answered. “The best
part of all,” he added, with a husky note in his voice, “is what it
means to that little girl of mine. When I get into town to-night I in
going to sit down and write that little daughter a long letter all about
the grand news. She'll be proud of her dad's good luck! She's only eight
years old, but she's a great little reader, and she writes me letters
longer than my own.”

“If you'll wait a minute, Mr. Griggs,” proposed Tom, “we'll be able to
give you a ride into town. The general manager gave me authority to rent
and use an automobile after this. It's out there waiting now.”

The new foreman gratefully accepted the invitation. Within five minutes
the chauffeur had stopped the car in Paloma and Tim Griggs got out to go
to his new boarding place in the town.

“God bless you, Mr. Reade!” he said huskily, holding out his band.
“You've done a lot for me--and my little girl!”

“No more than you've done for me,” smiled Tom. “Anyway, you haven't
received more than you deserve, and you never will in this little old
world of ours.”

“I don't know about that,” replied the new foreman, a sudden flush
rising to his weather-beaten face. “It all seems too good to be true.”

“You'll find it to be true enough when you draw your next pay, Griggs,”
 laughed Tom. “Then you'll realize that you aren't dreaming. In the
meantime your dinner is getting cold at your boarding place. Don't let
your new job spoil your appetite.”

When Tom and Harry rode into town at noon the following day they beheld
a scene of great activity at the site of the destroyed Cactus House. All
the blackened debris had been carted away during the morning by a
large force of men. Now, derricks lay in place, to be erected in
the afternoon. A steam shovel had been all but installed and a large
stationary engine rested on nearly completed foundations.

George Ashby, proprietor of the Mansion House, who had dared, during the
last two days, to show himself a little more openly on the streets of
Paloma, halted just as Tom and Harry stepped out of the automobile to
look over the scene of Foreman Griggs's morning labors.

“Looks as if the Cactus House might be rebuilt,” remarked Ashby, burning
with curiosity.

“No,” said Tom briefly.

“Carter is going to change the name?” inquired Ashby.

“No. Carter doesn't own this land any more.”

“He doesn't own the land?” Ashby asked. “What's going to be put up here,
then? A business block?”

For a moment Ashby thrilled with joy. Of late the Cactus House had
seriously cut in on the profits of the Mansion House. Ashby had,
in fact, been running behind. Now, if the Mansion House were to be
henceforth the only hotel in town, Ashby saw a chance to prosper on a
more than comfortable scale.

“Ashby,” Tom went on, rather frigidly, “I won't waste many words, for
I'm afraid I don't like you well enough to talk very much to you. The
A., G. & N. M. has bought this land from Mr. Carter. The railroad is
going to erect here one of the finest hotels in this part of Arizona. It
will have every modern convenience, and will make your hotel look like a
mill boarding house by contrast. When the new hotel is completed it will
be leased to Mr. Carter. With his insurance money, and the price of
the land in bank, Carter will have capital for embarking in the hotel
business on a scale that will make this end of Arizona sit up and do
some hard looking.”

As he listened Proprietor Ashby's jaw dropped. His color came and went.
He swallowed hard, while his hands worked convulsively. With the fine
new hotel that was coming to Paloma the owner of the Mansion House saw
himself driven hopelessly into the background. “Reade, this new hotel
game is some of your doings,” growled the hotel man.

“I'm proud to say that it is partly my doing,” Tom admitted, with a
smile. “Harry, let's go along to the restaurant. I'm hungry.”

As the two young engineers stepped into the car and were driven away,
Ashby dug his fingernails into the palms of his hands.

“So I'm to be beaten out of the hotel game here, am I!” the hotel man
asked himself, gritting his teeth. “I'm to be driven out by Reade, the
fellow whom I once kicked out of my hotel! Oh--well, all right!”




CHAPTER XVIII. TRAGEDY CAPS THE TEST


“Pass the signal!” directed Tom.

A railroad man with a flag made several swift moves. Down the track an
engineman, in his cab, answered with a short blast of, the whistle. Then
he threw over the lever, and a train of ten flat cars started along in
the engine's wake.

It was the first test--the “small test,” Tom called it--of the track
that now extended across the surface of the Man-killer.

On each flat car were piled ten tons of 

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/8153