Part 18 (1/2)

Charlie took in this comment quietly, but with less than the usual good nature in his blue eyes.

”I don't care how decent the boss is,” continued the laborer, ”if I have to have a mean old he-devil cussin' at me from six to six, and half the night besides, sometimes.”

Dimond grew reflective. ”I know about Mr. Vandervelt,” he said meditatively. ”You see, boys, it was sort o' lonely up ahead there boring for water, and Mr. Scribner and me we got pretty well acquainted.” Dimond was endeavoring to conceal the slight superiority over these men of which he could not but be conscious. ”It's a queer case,” he went on, ”Mr. Vandervelt's case. I know about it. It's his temper, you see. That's what's kep' 'im back,--that's why he's only a division engineer to-day.”

”Keep quiet, boys,” broke in the laborer, with a sneer. ”Dimond knows about it. He's tellin' us the news. Mr. Vandervelt's got a temper, he says.”

Dimond was above a retort. ”I can tell you,” he said. ”Mr. Scribner give me the facts.” (In justice to Harry Scribner it should be mentioned that he had told Dimond nothing whatever concerning the personal attributes of his colleague.) ”When Mr. Vandervelt gets mad, he shoots. He don't have to be drunk, neither, or in a fight, or frolicking careless with the boys. He shot a waiter in the Harper restaurant at Flemington, shot 'im right down. And then he went out into the mountains and worked for a year without ever coming near a town. And they say”--Dimond's voice lowered--”they say he shot a camp boss on the Northern, a man he used to knock around with, friendly.

They say he shot him.” Dimond paused, in order that his words might sink into the consciousness of each listener. ”He never goes North any more. He'll never even stay at a place like Sherman for more than a day or two, and not that when he can help it.”

The men were silent for a little while. Then Charlie got slowly to his feet and shook out his big frame preparatory to making his rounds. ”I guess that's why Mr. Carhart told me to take my orders from his brother,” he said slowly. ”I was wondering.” Then he stepped off in the direction of the corral.

It was three o'clock in the morning when Charlie finally stretched out for three winks. The laborers had long before rolled themselves up in their blankets. The men on guard, weary of peering into the darkness and the silence, had made themselves as nearly comfortable as they could. And it was half-past three, or near it, when a rope was cut by a stealthy hand and half a dozen sleepy, obedient mules were led out and away. Where so many animals were stirring; and where, too, lids were perhaps drooping over hitherto watchful eyes, the slight disturbance pa.s.sed un.o.bserved. At four the guards were changed, and the new day began to make itself known. At five the camp was astir; and a boy, searching in vain for his team, came upon the cut, trailing ends of rope at the outer edge of the corral.

They told Charlie, whom they found bending, red-eyed, over a steaming kettle. And the cook, with a straightforward sort of moral courage, went at once to announce his failure at guarding the camp. As luck would have it, he found the brothers Vandervelt together, at the wash basin behind their tent.

”May I speak to you, sir?” addressing the younger.

”Certainly, Charlie--What luck?” was the reply. And then, for a moment, they waited,--Young Van half glancing at his brother, Charlie summoning every ounce of this wonderful new sense of responsibility for the ordeal which he saw was to come, Old Van meaning unmistakably to take a hand in the discussion.

”We lost six mules last night, Mr. Vandervelt,” said Charlie, at length, plainly addressing Young Van.

”We lost six mules, did we?” mimicked the veteran, breaking in before his brother could reply. ”What do you mean by coming here with such a story, you--?” The tirade was on. Old Van applied to the cook such epithets as men did not employ at that time to any great extent on the plains. All the depression of the day before, which he had not succeeded in sleeping off, came out in a series of red-hot phrases, which, to Young Van's, and to his own still greater surprise, Charlie took. Young Van, looking every second for a blow or even for a shot, could not see that he so much as twitched a muscle. Finally Old Van paused, not because he was in any danger of running out of epithets, but because something in the att.i.tude of both Charlie and his brother tended to clarify the situation in his mind. Gus was standing almost as squarely as Charlie, and there were signs of tension about his mouth. It was no time for the engineers to develop a conflict of authority.

When his brother had stopped talking, Young Van said shortly, ”How did you come to let them get away, Charlie?”

”I fell asleep, Mr. Vandervelt,--it must have been after three this morning, and I didn't wake up until four.”

”But what was the matter with your men?”

”That's what I'm trying to find out, sir. They must have been asleep, too.”

”Who was on guard at that point?”

”A man named Foulk--one of the iron squad.”

”Yes, I know him. He is trustworthy, I think.”

”Oh, yes, sir, you can trust him, as far as having anything to do with those thieves is concerned.”

”But that won't help us much if he can't keep awake a few hours. Where is he now?”

Charlie hesitated. ”I--I tied him up.”

”Bring him here.”

Charlie went off to obey. And Old Van returned to his ablutions. A moment more and the unfortunate sentinel was being marched across to headquarters, under the guidance and the momentum of a huge red hand.

”Here he is, Mr. Vandervelt.”

Young Van looked at the two. Foulk appeared honestly crestfallen.