"Even so," drawled the man; "but you didn't give me no time at all. I don't mind a fair handicap; but I ain't no jay."

"Will you give me a blank?"

"Oh, now you're talking U. S. all right. I savvy that." Without rising, he pushed a packet of blanks toward the window with his foot.

Hartwell wrote hurriedly for a moment, and shoved the message toward the operator. Taking his feet from the desk, he leaned slowly forward, picked up a pencil and began checking off the words.

John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado.

Do not send the men I asked for. Will explain by letter.

Arthur Hartwell.

"Things quieting down at the mine?" The operator paused, looking up at Hartwell.

Hartwell could not restrain his impatience.

"I'm Mr. Hartwell, general manager of the Rainbow Company. Will you attend to your business and leave my affairs alone?"

"Pleased to meet you, Mr. Hartwell. My name is Jake Studley, agent for R. G. S. I get fifty dollars a month, and don't give a d.a.m.n for no one."

He began clearing the papers from before his instrument and drumming out his call.

The call was answered and the message sent. The operator picked up the paper and thrust it on a file.

Hartwell's face showed conflicting emotions. He wanted to force the exasperating man to action; but his own case was urgent. He drew from his pocket a roll of bills. Selecting a ten-dollar note, he pushed it toward the operator, who was refilling his pipe.

"I want that message to get to Haskins immediately, and I want an answer."

The operator shoved the bill into his pocket with one hand, with the other he began another call. There was a pause, then a series of clicks which were cut off and another message sent. The man closed his instrument and winked knowingly at Hartwell.

"I squirted a little electricity down the line on my own account. Told them the G. M. was in and ordered that message humped. 'Tain't up to me to explain what G. M. is here."

Hartwell went out on the platform and paced restlessly up and down. In about an hour he again approached the window.

"How long before I can expect an answer?"

"I can't tell. It depends on their finding your man. They'll get a wiggle on 'em, all right. I'll stir them up again before long.

Jehosaphat! There's my call now!" He hurriedly answered, then read, word by word, the message as it was clicked off.

Arthur Hartwell, Rainbow, Colorado.

Message received. Too late. Men left on special last night.

John Haskins.

Hartwell caught up another blank.

John Haskins, Leadville, Colorado.

Recall the men without fail. I'll make it worth your while.

Arthur Hartwell.

There was another weary wait. Finally the operator came from his office.

"Sorry, Mr. Hartwell, but Leadville says Haskins left on train after sending first despatch. Says he had a ticket for Salt Lake."

"When will that special be here?" Hartwell's voice was husky in spite of himself.

"Ought to be here about six. It's three now."

"Is there no way to stop it?"

"Not now. Haskins chartered it. He's the only one that can call it off, and he's gone."

Hartwell's face was pale and haggard. He again began pacing up and down, trying in vain to find a way of doing the impossible. The fact that he had temporised, resolutely set his face against the manly thing to do, only to find the same alternative facing him at every turn, more ominous and harder than ever, taught him nothing. The operator watched him as he repeatedly pa.s.sed. His self-a.s.serting independence had gone, in its place was growing a homely sympathy for the troubled man. As Hartwell pa.s.sed him again he called out:

"Say, governor, I know something about that business at the mine, and 'tain't up to you to worry. Your old man up there is a corker. They're on to him all right. He'll just take one fall out of that crowd that'll do them for keeps."

Hartwell paused, looking distantly at the speaker. He was not actively conscious of him, hardly of his words. The operator, not understanding, went on with more a.s.surance.

"I know Jack Haskins. This ain't the first time he's been called on to help out in this kind of a racket, you bet! He's shipped you a gang that 'ud rather fight than eat. All you've got to do is to say 'sick 'em' and then lay back and see the fur fly."

Hartwell turned away without a word and went to his rig. He got in and drove straight for the mill. His mind was again made up. This time it was made up aright. Only--circ.u.mstances did not allow it to avail.

As he drove away he did not notice a man in miner's garb who looked at him sharply and resumed his way. The operator was still on the platform as the man came to a halt. He was deriving great satisfaction from the crackling new bill which he was caressing in his pocket. The new bill would soon have had a companion, had he kept quiet, but this he could not know.

Glancing at the miner, he remarked, benevolently:

"Smelling trouble, and pulling out, eh?"

"What do you mean?" The new-comer looked up stupidly.

"Just this. I reckon you've run up against Jack Haskins's gang before, and ain't hankering for a second round."

"Jack Haskins's gang comin'?" There was an eagerness in the man's manner which the operator misunderstood.

"That's what, and a hundred strong."

The man turned.

"Thanks, pard. Guess I'll go back and tell the boys. Perhaps they'd like a chance to git, too; then again they mightn't." Tipping a knowing wink at the open-mouthed operator, he turned on his heel and walked briskly away. He too was headed for the mill.

The operator's jaw worked spasmodically for a moment.

"Hen's feathers and skunk oil! If he ain't a spy, I'll eat him. Oh, Lord! Old Firmstone and Jack Haskins's gang lined up against the Blue Goose crowd! Jake, my boy, listen to me. You can get another job if you lose this; but to-morrow you are going to see the sight of your life."