XI
GUN PLAY
Three days after the wreck in the Lava Hills, Ballard was again makingthe round of the outpost camps in the western end of the valley,verifying grade lines, re-establishing data stakes lost, or destroyed bythe Craigmiles range riders, hustling the ditch diggers, and,incidentally, playing host to young Lucius Bigelow, the Forestry Servicemember of Miss Elsa's house-party.
Bigelow's inclusion as a guest on the inspection gallop had beenplanned, not by his temporary host, but by Miss Elsa herself. Mr.Bigelow's time was his own, she had explained in her note to Ballard,but he was sufficiently an enthusiast in his chosen profession to wishto combine a field study of the Arcadian watersheds with the pleasuresof a summer outing. If Mr. Ballard would be so kind ... and all theother fitting phrases in which my lady begs the boon she may strictlyrequire at the hands of the man who has said the talismanic words, "Ilove you."
As he was constrained to be, Ballard was punctiliously hospitable to thequiet, self-contained young man who rode an entire day at hispace-setter's side without uttering a dozen words on his own initiative.The hospitality was purely dutiful at first; but later Bigelow earned itfairly. Making no advances on his own part, the guest respondedgenerously when Ballard drew him out; and behind the mask of thoughtfulreticence the Kentuckian discovered a man of stature, gentle of speech,simple of heart, and a past-master of the wood- and plains-craft that aconstructing engineer, however broad-minded, can acquire only as hiswork demands it.
"You gentlemen of the tree bureau can certainly give us points onordinary common sense, Mr. Bigelow," Ballard admitted on this, the thirdday out, when the student of natural conditions had called attention tothe recklessness of the contractors in cutting down an entire forest ofslope-protecting young pines to make trestle-bents for a gulch flume. "Iam afraid I should have done precisely what Richards has done here:taken the first and most convenient timber I could lay hands on."
"That is the point of view the Forestry Service is trying to modify,"rejoined Bigelow, mildly. "To the average American, educated orignorant, wood seems the cheapest material in a world of plenty. Yet Iventure to say that in this present instance your company could betterhave afforded almost any other material for those trestle-bents. Thatslope will make you pay high for its stripping before you can growanother forest to check the flood wash."
"Of course it will; that says itself, now that you have pointed it out,"Ballard agreed. "Luckily, the present plans of the company don't callfor much flume timber; I say 'luckily,' because I don't like to doviolence to my convictions, when I'm happy enough to have any."
Bigelow's grave smile came and went like the momentary glow from someinner light of prescience.
"Unless I am greatly mistaken, you are a man of very strong convictions,Mr. Ballard," he ventured to say.
"Think so? I don't know. A fair knowledge of my trade, a few opinions,and a certain pig-headed stubbornness that doesn't know when it isbeaten: shake these up together and you have the compound which hasmisled you. I'm afraid I don't often wait for convincement--of thepurely philosophical brand."
They were riding together down the line of the northern lateral canal,with Bourke Fitzpatrick's new headquarters in the field for theprospective night's bivouac. The contractor's camp, a disorderly blot ofshanties and well-weathered tents on the fair grass-land landscape, camein sight just as the sun was sinking below the Elks, and Ballardquickened the pace.
"You'll be ready to quit for the day when we get in, won't you?" he saidto Bigelow, when the broncos came neck and neck in the scurry for thehay racks.
"Oh, I'm fit enough, by now," was the ready rejoinder. "It was only thefirst day that got on my nerves."
There was a rough-and-ready welcome awaiting the chief engineer and hisguest when they drew rein before Fitzpatrick's commissary; and a supperof the void-filling sort was quickly set before them in the back room ofthe contractor's quarters. But there was trouble in the air. Ballard sawthat Fitzpatrick was cruelly hampered by the presence of Bigelow; andwhen the meal was finished he gave the contractor his chance in theprivacy of the little cramped pay-office.
"What is it, Bourke?" he asked, when the closed door cut them off fromthe Forest Service man.
Fitzpatrick was shaking his head. "It's a blood feud now, Mr. Ballard.Gallagher's gang--all Irishmen--went up against four of the colonel'smen early this morning. The b'ys took shelter in the ditch, and thecow-punchers tried to run 'em out. Some of our teamsters were armed, andone of the Craigmiles men was killed or wounded--we don't know which:the others picked him up and carried him off."
Ballard's eyes narrowed under his thoughtful frown.
"I've been afraid it would come to that, sooner or later," he saidslowly. Then he added: "We ought to be able to stop it. The colonelseems to deprecate the scrapping part of it as much as we do."
Fitzpatrick's exclamation was of impatient disbelief. "Any time he'llhold up his little finger, Mr. Ballard, this monkey-business will go outlike a squib fuse in a wet hole! He isn't wanting to stop it."
Ballard became reflective again, and hazarded another guess.
"Perhaps the object-lesson of this morning will have a good effect. Achance shot has figured as a peacemaker before this."
"Don't you believe it's going to work that way this time!" was theearnest protest. "If the Craigmiles outfit doesn't whirl in and shoot upthis camp before to-morrow morning, I'm missing my guess."
Ballard rapped the ashes from his briar, and refilled and lighted it.When the tobacco was glowing in the bowl, he said, quite decisively: "Inthat case, we'll try to give them what they are needing. Are youpicketed?"
"No."
"See to it at once. Make a corral of the wagons and scrapers and get thestock inside of it. Then put out a line of sentries, with relays torelieve the men every two hours. We needn't be taken by surprise,whatever happens."
Fitzpatrick jerked a thumb toward the outer room where Bigelow wassmoking his after-supper pipe.
"How about your friend?" he asked.
At the query Ballard realised that the presence of the Forest Serviceman was rather unfortunate. Constructively his own guest, Bigelow wasreally the guest of Colonel Craigmiles; and the position of a neutral inany war is always a difficult one.
"Mr. Bigelow is a member of the house-party at Castle 'Cadia," he said,in reply to the contractor's doubtful question. "But I can answer forhis discretion. I'll tell him what he ought to know, and he may do as hepleases."
Following out the pointing of his own suggestion, Ballard gave Bigelow abrief outline of the Arcadian conflict while Fitzpatrick was posting thesentries. The Government man made no comment, save to say that it was amost unhappy situation; but when Ballard offered to show him to hisquarters for the night, he protested at once.
"No, indeed, Mr. Ballard," he said, quite heartily, for him; "youmustn't leave me out that way. At the worst, you may be sure that Istand for law and order. I have heard something of this fight betweenyour company and the colonel, and while I can't pretend to pass upon themerits of it, I don't propose to go to bed and let you stand guard overme."
"All right, and thank you," laughed Ballard; and together they went outto help Fitzpatrick with his preliminaries for the camp defence.
This was between eight and nine o'clock; and by ten the stock wascorralled within the line of shacks and tents, a cordon of watchers hadbeen stretched around the camp, and the greater number of Fitzpatrick'smen were asleep in the bunk tents and shanties.
The first change of sentries was made at midnight, and Ballard andBigelow both walked the rounds with Fitzpatrick. Peace and quietnessreigned supreme. The stillness of the beautiful summer night wasundisturbed, and the roundsmen found a good half of the sentinels asleepat their posts. Ballard was disposed to make light of Fitzpatrick'sfears, and the contractor took it rather hard.
"I know 'tis all hearsay with you, yet, Mr. Ballard; you haven't been upagainst it," he protested, when the three of them were back at
thecamp-fire which was burning in front of the commissary. "But if you hadbeen scrapping with these devils for the better part of two years, as wehave----"
The interruption was a sudden quaking tremor of earth and atmospherefollowed by a succession of shocks like the quick firing of a battleshipsquadron. A sucking draught of wind swept through the camp, and the fireleaped up as from the blast of an underground bellows. Instantly theopen spaces of the headquarters were alive with men tumbling from theirbunks; and into the thick of the confusion rushed the lately postedsentries.
For a few minutes the turmoil threatened to become a panic, butFitzpatrick and a handful of the cooler-headed gang bosses got it under,the more easily since there was no attack to follow the explosions. Thencame a cautious reconnaissance in force down the line of the canal inthe direction of the earthquake, and a short quarter of a mile below thecamp the scouting detachment reached the scene of destruction.
The raiders had chosen their ground carefully. At a point where thecanal cutting passed through the shoulder of a hill they had plantedcharges of dynamite deep in the clay of the upper hillside. Theexplosions had started a land-slide, and the patient digging work ofweeks had been obliterated in a moment.
Ballard said little. Fitzpatrick was on the ground to do the swearing,and the money loss was his, if Mr. Pelham's company chose to make himstand it. What Celtic rage could compass in the matter of cursings wasnot lacking; and at the finish of the outburst there was an appeal,vigorous and forceful.
"You're the boss, Mr. Ballard, and 'tis for you to say whether we throwup this job and quit, or give these blank, blank imps iv hell what'scomin' to 'em!" was the form the appeal took; and the new chief acceptedthe challenge promptly.
"What are your means of communication with the towns in the Gunnisonvalley?" he asked abruptly.
Fitzpatrick pulled himself down from the rage heights and made shift toanswer as a man.
"There's a bridle trail down the canyon to Jack's Cabin; and from thaton you hit the railroad."
"And the distance to Jack's Cabin?"
"Twenty-five miles, good and strong, by the canyon crookings; but onlyabout half of it is bad going."
"Is there anybody in your camp who knows the trail?"
"Yes. Dick Carson, the water-boy."
"Good. We'll go back with you, and you'll let me have the boy and two ofyour freshest horses."
"You'll not be riding that trail in the dark, Mr. Ballard! It's afright, even in daylight."
"That's my affair," said the engineer, curtly. "If your boy can find thetrail, I'll ride it."
That settled it for the moment, and the scouting party made its way upto the headquarters to carry the news of the land-slide. Bigelow walkedin silence beside his temporary host, saying nothing until after theyhad reached camp, and Fitzpatrick had gone to assemble the horses andthe guide. Then he said, quite as if it were a matter of course:
"I'm going with you, Mr. Ballard, if you don't object."
Ballard did object, pointedly and emphatically, making the most of thenight ride and the hazardous trail. When these failed to discourage theyoung man from Washington, the greater objection came out baldly.
"You owe it to your earlier host to ride back to Castle 'Cadia fromhere, Mr. Bigelow. I'm going to declare war, and you can't afford toidentify yourself with me," was the way Ballard put it; but Bigelow onlysmiled and shook his head.
"I'm not to be shunted quite so easily," he said. "Unless you'll sayoutright that I'll be a butt-in, I'm going with you."
"All right; if it's the thing you want to do," Ballard yielded. "Ofcourse, I shall be delighted to have you along." And when Fitzpatrickcame with two horses he sent him back to the corral for a third.
The preparations for the night ride were soon made, and it was not untilBallard and Bigelow were making ready to mount at the door of thecommissary that Fitzpatrick reappeared with the guide, a grave-faced ladwho looked as if he might be years older than any guess his diminutivestature warranted. Ballard's glance was an eye-sweep of shrewdappraisal.
"You're not much bigger than a pint of cider, Dickie boy," he commented."Why don't you take a start and grow some?"
"I'm layin' off to; when I get time. Pap allows I got to'r he won't ownto me," said the boy soberly.
"Who is your father?" The query was a mere fill-in, bridging themomentary pause while Ballard was inspecting the saddle cinchings of thehorse he was to ride; and evidently the boy so regarded it.
"He's a man," he answered briefly, adding nothing to the supposablefact.
Bigelow was up, and Ballard was putting a leg over his wiry little mountwhen Fitzpatrick emerged from the dimly lighted interior of thecommissary bearing arms--a pair of short-barrelled repeating rifles insaddle-holsters.
"Better be slinging these under the stirrup-leathers--you and yourfriend, Mr. Ballard," he suggested. "All sorts of things are liable toget up in the tall hills when a man hasn't got a gun."
This was so patently said for the benefit of the little circle ofonlooking workmen that Ballard bent to the saddle-horn while Fitzpatrickwas buckling the rifle-holster in place.
"What is it, Bourke?" he asked quietly.
"More of the same," returned the contractor, matching the low tone ofthe inquiry. "Craigmiles has got his spies in every camp, and you'reprobably spotted, same as old man Macpherson used to be when he rode thework. If that cussed Mexican foreman does be getting wind of this, andshy a guess at why you're heading for Jack's Cabin and the railroad inthe dead o' night----"
Ballard's exclamation was impatient.
"This thing has got on your digestion, Bourke," he said, rallying thebig contractor. "Up at the Elbow Canyon camp it's a hoodoo bogey, anddown here it's the Craigmiles cow-boys. Keep your shirt on, and we'llstop it--stop it short." Then, lowering his voice again: "Is the boytrustworthy?"
Fitzpatrick's shrug was more French than Irish.
"He can show you the trail; and he hates the Craigmiles outfit as thedevil hates holy water. His father was a 'rustler,' and the colonel gothim sent over the road for cattle-stealing. Dick comes of pretty toughstock, but I guess he'll do you right."
Ballard nodded, found his seat in the saddle, and gave the word.
"Pitch out, Dick," he commanded; and the small cavalcade of threeskirted the circle of tents and shacks to take the westward trail insingle file, the water-boy riding in advance and the Forestry manbringing up the rear.
In this order the three passed the scene of the assisted land-slide,where the acrid fumes of the dynamite were still hanging in the air, andcame upon ground new to Bigelow and practically so to Ballard. For amile or more the canal line hugged the shoulders of the foothills,doubling and reversing until only the steadily rising sky-line of theElks gave evidence of its progress westward.
As in its earlier half, the night was still and cloudless, and the starsburned with the white lustre of the high altitudes, swinging slowly tothe winding course in their huge inverted bowl of velvety blackness.From camp to camp on the canal grade there was desertion absolute; andeven Bigelow, with ears attuned to the alarm sounds of the wilds, hadheard nothing when the cavalcade came abruptly upon Riley's camp, theoutpost of the ditch-diggers.
At Riley's they found only the horse-watchers awake. From these theylearned that the distant booming of the explosions had aroused only afew of the lightest sleepers. Ballard made inquiry pointing to theCraigmiles riders. Had any of them been seen in the vicinity of theoutpost camp?
"Not since sundown," was the horse-watcher's answer. "About an hourbefore candle-lightin', two of 'em went ridin' along up-river, drivin' alittle bunch o' cattle."
The engineer gathered rein and was about to pull his horse once moreinto the westward trail, when the boy guide put in his word.
"Somebody's taggin' us, all right, if that's what you're aimin' to findout," he said, quite coolly.
Ballard started. "What's that?" he demanded. "How do you know?"
"Been listenin'--when you-all di
dn't make so much noise that Icouldn't," was the calm rejoinder. "There's two of 'em, and they struckin just after we passed the dynamite heave-down."
Ballard bent his head and listened. "I don't hear anything," heobjected.
"Nachelly," said the boy. "They-all ain't sech tenderfoots as to keep oncomin' when we've stopped. Want to dodge 'em?"
"There's no question about that," was the mandatory reply.
The sober-faced lad took a leaf out of the book of the past--his own orhis cattle-stealing father's.
"We got to stampede your stock a few lines, Pete," he said, shortly, tothe horse-watcher who had answered Ballard's inquiry. "Get up and pullyour picket-pins."
"Is that right, Mr. Ballard?" asked the man.
"It is if Dick says so. I'll back his orders."
The boy gave the orders tersely after the horse-guard had risen andkicked his two companions awake. The night herdsmen were to pick andsaddle their own mounts, and to pull the picket-pins for the grazingmule drove. While this was doing, the small plotter vouchsafed thenecessary word of explanation to Ballard and Bigelow.
"We ride into the bunch and stampede it, headin' it along the trail theway we're goin'. After we've done made noise enough and tracks enough,and gone far enough to make them fellers lose the sound of us thatthey've been follerin', we cut out of the crowd and make our little_pasear_ down canyon, and the herd-riders can chase out and round uptheir stock again: see?"
Ballard made the sign of acquiescence; and presently the thing was donesubstantially as the boy had planned. The grazing mules, startled by thesudden dash of the three mounted broncos among them, and helped along bya few judicious quirt blows, broke and ran in frightened panic, carryingthe three riders in the thick of the rout.
Young Carson, skilful as the son of the convict stock-lifter had beentrained to be, deftly herded the thundering stampede in the desireddirection; and at the end of a galloping mile abruptly gave the shrillyell of command to the two men whom he was piloting. There was a swerveaside out of the pounding melee, a dash for an opening between theswelling foothills, and the ruck of snorting mules swept on in a broadcircle that would later make recapture by the night herders a simplematter of gathering up the trailing picket-ropes.
The three riders drew rein in the shelter of the arroyo gulch to breathetheir horses, and Ballard gave the boy due credit.
"That was very neatly done, Dick," he said, when the thunder of thepounding hoofs had died away in the up-river distances. "Is it going tobump those fellows off of our trail?"
The water-boy was humped over the horn of his saddle as if he had founda stomach-ache in the breathless gallop. But he was merely listening.
"I ain't reskin' any money on it," he qualified. "If them cow-punch's've caught on to where you're goin', and what you're goin' _fer_----"
Out of the stillness filling the hill-gorge like a black sea of silencecame a measured thudding of hoofs and an unmistakable squeaking ofsaddle leather. Like a flash the boy was afoot and reaching under hisbronco's belly for a tripping hold on the horse's forefoot. "Down! andpitch the cayuses!" he quavered stridently; and as the three horsesrolled in the dry sand of the arroyo bed with their late ridersflattened upon their heads, the inner darkness of the gorge spat fireand there was a fine singing whine of bullets overhead.
The King of Arcadia Page 11