CHAPTER IX.
THE MASTER PASSION--"GOOD BUSINESS."
When Jefferson Worth left headquarters camp that morning, his purposewas to ride over a part of the territory lying southeast of the old SanFelipe trail between the sand hills and the old beach-line. He hadcovered practically all of the land on the western side of the ancientsea-bed, from the delta dam at the southern end north to the lowestpoint in the Basin, and southward again on the eastern side as far asthe old trail. There remained for him to see only this section in thesoutheast.
It was nearly noon when the banker, from a slight elevation thatafforded him a view of the surrounding country, recognized the group ofsand hills and, by the general course of Dry River, distinguished thespot where the San Felipe trail crosses the deep arroyo. Occupied withhis thoughts, he had ridden farther from camp than he had realized. Heshould turn back. But the distant scene of the desert tragedy calledhim. He became possessed of a desire to visit once more the spot thatwas so closely associated with the child, who had so strangely comeinto his life and whom he loved as his own daughter.
An hour later he dismounted to stand beside the water hole where, withhis companions, he had found the dead woman with the empty canteen byher side. The incidents of that hour were as vivid in the banker'smemory as if it had all happened only the day before. He remembered howTexas Joe had lifted the canteen and, inverting it, had held out tothem his finger moistened with the last drop of water in thecloth-covered vessel; and how he and his companions, standing by thedead body of the woman, had turned to each other in startled awe at thecoyotes' ghostly call in the dusk. He heard again with thrillingclearness the baby's plaintive voice: "Mamma, mamma! Barba wants drink.Please bring drink, mamma. Barba's 'fraid!"
Going a short way up the wash, he stood with uncovered head on the veryspot where he had knelt with out-stretched hands before the big-eyed,brown-haired baby girl, who, crouching under the high bank, shrank backfrom him in fear. He saw the frightened look in her eyes and heard thesweet voice cry: "Go 'way! Go 'way! Go 'way!" Then he saw theexpression on the little face change as Pat and Tex and the boy triedto reassure her; saw her hold up her baby hands in full confidence tothe big engineer; and felt again the pain and humiliation in his heart.
Why had the baby instinctively feared him? Why had she turned from himto the Seer? Why, he asked himself bitterly, had she always feared him?Why did she still shrink from him? For Barbara did shrink from him,unconsciously--unintentionally--but, to Jefferson Worth, none the lessplainly now than when he knelt before her that night in the desert. Andit hurt him now as it had hurt him then; hurt the more, perhaps,because Barbara did not know--because her attitude was instinctive.
Still living over again the incidents and emotions of that hour in thedesert night, he walked back to the crossing and, leading his horse,climbed the little hill out of the wash to the spot where, with Texasand Pat, he had rendered the last possible service to the unknownwoman, who had given her life for the life of the child--the child thatwas his but not his. Long ago he had marked the grave with a simpleheadstone bearing the only name possible--the one word: "Mother"--andthe date of her death.
Then mounting again, he rode swiftly along the old trail toward thesand hills in the near distance. The great drifts, in the years thathad passed, had been moved on by the wind until the wagon and all thatremained of the half-buried outfit were now hidden somewhere deep inits heart. But the general form of the sand hill was still the same.
Dismounting, Mr. Worth tied his horse to a scraggly, half-buriedmesquite and, taking his canteen from the saddle, climbed laboriouslyup the steep, sandy slope. He would look over the country from thatpoint and then make straight for camp, for it was getting well on inthe afternoon. From the top of the hill he could see the wide reachesof The King's Basin Desert sweeping away on every side. At his feet thebare sand hills themselves lay like huge, rolling, wind-piled drifts oftawny snow glistening in the sunlight with a blinding glare. Beyondthese were the gray and green of salt-bush, mesquite and greasewood,with the dun earth showing here and there in ragged patches. Stillfarther away the detail of hill and hummock and bush and patch was lostin the immensity of the scene, while the dull tones of gray and greenand brown were over-laid with the ever-changing tints of the distance,until, to the eyes, the nearer plain became an island surrounded onevery side by a mighty, many-colored sea that broke only at the foot ofthe purple mountain wall.
The work of the expedition was nearly finished. The banker knew nowfrom the results of the survey and from his own careful observationsand estimates that the Seer's dream was not only possible from anengineering point of view, but from the careful capitalist'sstandpoint, would justify a large investment. Lying within the lines ofthe ancient beach and thus below the level of the great river, werehundreds of thousands of acres equal in richness of the soil to thefamous delta lands of the Nile. The bringing of the water from theriver and its distribution through a system of canals and ditches,while a work of great magnitude requiring the expenditure of large sumsof money, was, as an engineering problem, comparatively simple.
As Jefferson Worth gazed at the wonderful scene, a vision of thechanges that were to come to that land passed before him. He saw first,following the nearly finished work of the engineers, an army of menbeginning at the river and pushing out into the desert with theircanals, bringing with them the life-giving water. Soon, with the comingof the water, would begin the coming of the settlers. Hummocks would beleveled, washes and arroyos filled, ditches would be made to thecompany canals, and in place of the thin growth of gray-green desertvegetation with the ragged patches of dun earth would come great fieldsof luxuriant alfalfa, billowing acres of grain, with miles upon milesof orchards, vineyards and groves. The fierce desert life would giveway to the herds and flocks and the home life of the farmer. Therailroad would stretch its steel strength into this new world; townsand cities would come to be where now was only solitude and desolation;and out from this world-old treasure house vast wealth would pour toenrich the peoples of the earth. The wealth of an empire lay in thatland under the banker's eye, and Capital held the key.
But while the work of the engineers was simple, it would be a greatwork; and it was the magnitude of the enterprise and the consequentrequirement of large sums of money that gave Capital its opportunity.Without water the desert was worthless. With water the productivepossibilities of that great territory were enormous. Without Capitalthe water could not be had. Therefore Capital was master of thesituation and, by controlling the water, could exact royal tribute fromthe wealth of the land.
Knowing James Greenfield and his business associates as he knew them,familiar with their operations as he was and knowing that theyrepresented the power of almost unlimited capital, Jefferson Worthrealized that they would plan to share in every dollar of wealth thatThe King's Basin lands could be made to produce. Already, his trainedmind saw how easily, with the vast power in their hands, this could bebrought about. And these men, recognizing his peculiar value in such anenterprise as this, wanted him to join them.
It was a triumphant moment in the life and business career of thewestern banker, the culmination of long, hard years of unceasing toil,of unfaltering devotion to business, of struggle and disappointments,of small victories and steady advance gained at the cost of sacrificeand hard fighting. This proposed alliance with the great easterncapitalists opened the door and invited him into the company of thereal leaders of the financial world. As one of the powerful corporationthat would literally hold the life of the future King's Basin in itshand, the multitudes of toilers who would come to reclaim the desertwould be forced to toil not only for themselves but for him. A part ofevery dollar of the millions that would be taken from that treasury bythe labor of the people would go to enrich him.
The financier's thoughts were interrupted by a sound. He turned to seehis horse tugging at the bridle reins, snorting in fear. The manstarted quickly down the hill, but before he could cover half thedistance that
separated him from his mount the frightened animal brokethe reins and, wheeling about, disappeared down the trail on a wildrun. At the same instant a coyote trotted leisurely out from under thelee of the sand drift and, with a side glance over his shoulder at thebanker, slipped around the point of the next low ridge.
The man knew that to catch his horse would be impossible. The animalwould not stop until he reached his companions at the feed-rack incamp. He knew also that to attempt to find his way to headquarters sucha distance and on foot, with night so near at hand, would be worse thanfolly. He would only exhaust his strength and make it harder for hisfriends to find him before his water, which could not last another day,should give out. Someone, he knew, would take his trail in the morning.The only thing he could do was to wait--to wait alone in the heart ofthis silent, age-old, waiting land.
Somewhere in those forgotten ages that went into the making of TheKing's Basin Desert, a company of free-born citizens of the land, movedby that master passion--Good Business, found their way to the banks ofthe Colorado. In time Good Business led them to build their pueblos andto cultivate their fields by irrigation with water from the river anderect their rude altars to their now long-forgotten gods. Driven by thesame passion that drove the Indians, the emigrant wagons moved towardthe new gold country, and some financial genius saw Good Business atthe river-crossing near the site of the ancient city. At first it wasno more than a ferry, but soon others with eyes for profit establisheda trading point where the overland voyagers could replenish their stockof supplies, sure to be low after the hundreds of miles across the wideplains. Then also, in obedience to Good Business, pleasures heard thecall, saloons, gambling houses and dance halls appeared, and for profitthe joys of civilization arrived in the savage land. Good Business sentthe prospectors who found the mines, the capital that developed themand the laborers who dug the ore. Good Business sent the cattle baronsand their cowboys, sent the speculators and the pioneer merchants. GoodBusiness sent also, in the fulness of time, Jefferson Worth.
Of old New England Puritan stock, Worth had come through the hard lifeof a poor farm boy with two dominant elements in his character: analmost super-human instinct for Good Business, inherited no doubt, andan instinct, also inherited, for religion. The instinct for trade, frommuch cultivation, had waxed strong and stronger with the years. Thereligion that he had from his forefathers was become little more than asuperstition. It was his genius for business that led him, in his youngmanhood, to leave the farm, and it was inevitable that from makingmoney he should come to making money make more money. It was the otherdominant element in his character that kept him scrupulously honest,scrupulously moral. Besides this, honesty and morality were also "goodbusiness."
Seeking always larger opportunities for the employment of his small,steadily-increasing financial strength, Mr. Worth established thePioneer Bank. Later, as he had foreseen, the same master passionbrought the great railroad with still larger opportunities for hismoney to make more money. And now the same master passion that haddriven the Indian, the emigrant, the miner, the cowman, the banker andthe railroad was driving the eastern capitalists to spend their moneyedstrength in the reclamation of The King's Basin Desert. It was GoodBusiness that led Greenfield and his friends to seek the co-operationof the western financier. It was Good Business that called to JeffersonWorth now as he saw the immense possibilities of the land.
As truly as the ages had made the barren desert with its hard, thirstylife, the ages had produced Jefferson Worth, a carefully perfected,money making machine, as silent, hard and lonely as the desert itself.With apparently no vices, no passions, no mistakes, no failures, hisonly relation to his fellow-men was a business relation. With hisalmost supernatural ability to foresee, to measure, to weigh and judge,with his cold, mask-like face and his manner of considering carefullyevery word and of placing a value upon every trivial incident, he wasrespected, feared, trusted, even admired--and that was all. No; notall. By those who were forced, through circumstances--businesscircumstances--to contribute to his prosperity and financial success,he was hated. Such is the unreasonableness of human kind.
Business, to this man as to many of his kind, was not the mean, sordidgrasping and hoarding of money. It was his profession, but it was evenmore than a profession; it was the expression of his genius. Still moreit was, through him, the expression of the age in which he lived, theexpression of the master passion that in all ages had wrought in themaking of the race. He looked upon a successful deal as a good surgeonlooks upon a successful operation, as an architect upon the completionof a building or an artist upon his finished picture. But to a greaterdegree than to artist or surgeon, the success of his work was measuredby the accumulation of dollars. Apart from his work he valued the moneyreceived from his operations no more than the surgeon his fee, theartist his price. The work itself was his passion. Because dollars werethe tools of his craft he was careful of them. The more he succeeded,the more power he gained for greater success.
But extremely simple in his tastes, lacking, with his lack ofeducation, knowledge of the more costly luxuries of life, with thehabits of an ascetic, Jefferson Worth could not evidence his success;and success hidden and unknown loses its power to reward. It is notenough for the engineer to run his locomotive; he must have train loadsof goods and passengers to carry to some objective point. It is notenough for the captain to have command of his ship; he must have aport. Self to Jefferson Worth meant little; his nature demanded solittle. Nor could Mrs. Worth in this fill the need in her husband'slife, for her nature was as simple as his own. But a child, whose lifecould be part of his life, filling out, supplementing and complementinghis own nature; a child who, dependent upon him, should have all thetraining that he lacked, who should share his success and for whom hecould plan to succeed--a child, an heir, would fill the blank in hisempty career. For a brief time he had looked forward to a child of hisown blood. Then the death of the baby and the ill health of his wifehad left him hopeless. He continued his work because he knew no lifeapart from his work.
Then came the little girl so strangely the gift of the desert. Thebanker's mind, trained to act quickly, had grasped the possibilities ofthe situation instantly as he ran with his companions to answer thecall of that childish voice. From the moment when he knelt withoutstretched hands and pleading words before little Barbara, he hadnever ceased trying to win her. Mrs. Worth, knowing that she could notbe with him many years, had said: "You need her, Jeff," and he did needher.
But Jefferson Worth knew that Barbara was not his. She shrank from himas instinctively and unconsciously as she had drawn back that night ofher mother's death when he knelt before her in the desert. As she hadturned to the Seer then, she turned from the banker now. And now, farmore than then, his lonely heart hungered for her; for with the yearshis need of her had grown. Envied of foolish men as men so foolishlyenvy his class, the banker knew himself to be destitute, an object oftheir pity. The poorest Mexican in his adobe hut, with his half-naked,laughing children, was more wealthy than he.
Jefferson Worth, that afternoon on the very scene of the tragedy thathad given Barbara to him, realized that in the land before him he facedthe greatest opportunity of his business career. He realized also thathe was as much alone in his life as he was alone in the silent, barrenwaste that surrounded him. Would La Palma de la Mano de Dios, which hadgiven him the child that was not his child, give him wealth that stillnever could be his?
At last, from his place on the sand drift that held the secret ofBarbara's life, he saw the sun as it appeared to rest for a moment onthe western wall before plunging down into the world on the other side.Watching, he saw the purple of the hills deepen and deepen and thewondrous light on the wide sea of colors fade slowly out as the colorsthemselves paled and grew dim in the misty dusk of the coming night.Slowly the twilight sky grew dark, and into the velvet plain above camethe heavenly flocks until their number was past counting save by Himwho leadeth them in their fields. Against the last lingerin
g light inthe west that marked where the day had gone, the mountains lifted theirvast bulk in solemn grandeur as if to bar forever the coming of anotherday. Closing about him on every hand, coming dreadfully nearer andnearer, the black walls of darkness shut him in. In the cool,mysterious breath of the desert, in the grotesque, fantastic, nearbyshapes and monstrous forms of the sand dunes, in the mysterious phantomvoices that whispered in the dark, Jefferson Worth felt the closeapproach of the spirit of the land; the calling of the age-old, waitingland--the silent menace, the voiceless threat, the whispered promise.
And there, alone--held close in The Hollow of God's Hand as the longhours of the night passed--the spirit of the man's Puritan fathersstirred within him. In the silent, naked heart of the Desert that,knowing no hand but the hand of its Creator, seemed to hold in itshushed mysteriousness the ages of a past eternity, he felt his life tobe but a little thing. Beside the awful forces that made themselvesfelt in the spirit of Barbara's Desert, the might of Capital becamesmall and trivial. Sensing the dreadful power that had wrought to makethat land, he shrank within himself--he was afraid. He marveled that hehad dared dream of forcing La Palma de la Mano de Dios to contribute tohis gains. And so at last it was given him to know why Barbarainstinctively shrank from him in fear.
With the coming of the day the banker went a little way back on thetrail where the vegetation was not entirely covered by the driftingsand, and there gathered materials for a fire. Later, when he judgedhis friends would be in sight, he fired the pile and, watching thetall, thick column of smoke ascend, awaited the answer. In a littlewhile it came, faint and far away, the report of Texas Joe'sforty-five. Soon he heard the sound of voices calling loudly and,following his answer, the swift hoof-beats of galloping horses; and Texand Abe, leading another horse appeared.
But the Jefferson Worth who rode back to camp with his friends, thereto be greeted and congratulated by the party, was not the sameJefferson Worth who had left camp the morning before, though no onecongratulated him because of that.
It was three weeks later when a portly, well-fed gentleman entered thePioneer Bank in Rubio City and asked of the teller: "Is Mr. Worth in?"
The man on the other side of the counter looked through his gratedwindow at the speaker with unusual interest. And in the teller's voicethere was a shade of unusual deference as he replied, "Yes, sir."
"Tell him that Mr. Greenfield is here."
At the magic of that name every man in the bank within sound of thespeaker's voice lifted his head and turned toward the face at thewindow.
"Yes, sir. Come this way, sir."
A door in the partition opened and the visitor was admitted to thesacred precincts behind the gratings, the bars and the plate glass. Ashe moved down the room past counters and desks, every eye followed himand there was an electrical hush in the atmosphere like the hush thatmarks the massing of the forces in Nature before a conflict of theelements.
Jefferson Worth looked up as the imposing figure of the great financierappeared on the threshold of his room, and at the name of JamesGreenfield carefully pushed back the papers he had been considering androse. The movement, slight as it was, was as though he cleared hisdecks for action. The clerk, withdrawing, carefully, closed the door.
The two men shook hands with much the air of two wrestlers meeting fora bout. For a moment neither spoke. Each knew that in the silence hewas being measured, estimated, searched for his weakness and hisstrength, and each gave to the other this opportunity as his right. Notime was wasted in idle preliminaries. These men knew the value oftime. No formal words expressing pleasure at the meeting were spoken.They tacitly accepted the fact that pleasure had not called themtogether.
James Greenfield was a fair representative of his class. His full,well-colored face with carefully clipped gray mustache, bright blueeyes and gray hair, was the calmly alert, well-controlled, thoughtfulface of power: not the face of one who does things, but of one whocauses things to be done; not the face of one who is himself powerful,but of one who controls and directs power; such a face as you may seeleaning from the cab of a great locomotive that pulls the overlandlimited, or looking down at you from the bridge of the ocean liner. Itwas courageous, but with a courage not personal--a courage born ratherof an exact knowledge of the strength and duty of every bolt, rivet andlever of the machine under his hand. It was confident, not in its ownstrength, but in the strength that it ruled and directed.
Jefferson Worth motioned toward a chair at the end of his desk andseated himself. The man from the East found himself forced to make theopening.
"Mr. Worth," he said, "we find it very difficult to understand yourattitude toward our company. We do not see why you decline ourproposition. Your own report gives every reason in the world why youshould accept and you suggest no reason at all for declining. Frankly,it looks strange to us and I have come out to have a little talk withyou over the matter and to see if we could not persuade you toreconsider your decision, or at least to learn your reasons forrefusing to go in with us. Your report and your answer to ourproposition are so conflicting that we feel we have a right to somedefinite reason for your unexpected decision."
As he spoke, the president of The King's Basin Land and IrrigationCompany tried in vain to see behind the mask-like face of the man inthe revolving chair. His failure only excited his admiration andrespect. Instinctively he recognized the genius before him, and hisdesire to add this strength to his forces increased.
"My report was satisfactory?" The words were absolutely colorless.
"Very. It was exactly what we wanted. With your opinion, confirming ourengineer's statements, we felt safe to go ahead with the organizationof the Company and have already set the wheels moving toward actualwork. It is because you so unhesitatingly and so strongly commend theproject as warranting our investment that we cannot understand yourrefusal to share the profits of our enterprise."
He paused for an answer, but was forced to continue. "Let me explainmore fully than I could outline in my letter just what we proposedoing. The King's Basin Land and Irrigation Company, Mr. Worth, willnot confine its operations simply to furnishing water for thereclamation and development of these lands. That is no more than thebeginning--the basis of our operations. With the settlement andimprovement of the country will come many other openings for profitableinvestments--townsites, transportation lines, telephones, electricpower, banking and all that, you understand. Our connections andresources make it possible for us to finance any industry or operationthat promises attractive returns, while our position as the originatorsof the whole King's Basin movement and the owners of the irrigationsystem will give us tremendous advantage over any outside capital thatmay attempt to come in later, and will make competition practicallyimpossible."
"I figured that was the way you would do it," was the unemotional reply.
More than ever James Greenfield wanted this man. He consideredcarefully a few minutes, with no help from Jefferson Worth, then triedagain. "If you feel that our proposition to you is not liberal enough,Mr. Worth, I am prepared to double our offer."
If the financier from New York thought to startle this little westernbanker with a proposal that was more than princely he failed. His wordsseemed to have no effect. It was as though he talked to a marble figureof a man.
"I appreciate your proposition, but must decline it."
"May I ask your reason, sir?"
"I must decline to give any."
The other arose, the light of battle in his eyes, for to JamesGreenfield's mind there could be only one possible meaning in theanswer. "That is, of course, your privilege, Mr. Worth," he saidcoldly. And then with the weight of conscious power he added: "But I'lltell you this, sir: if you think you can enter The King's Basin inopposition to our Company you're making the mistake of your life. We'llsmash you, with your limited resources, so flat that you'll be glad fora chance to make the price of a meal. Good day, sir!"
"Good day."
Before the great capitalist was o
ut of the building, Jefferson Worthwas bending over the papers on his desk again as though declining toaccept flattering offers from gigantic corporations was an hourlyoccurrence.
The Winning of Barbara Worth Page 11