Young Van whistled, then recovered himself. "All right, Mr. Carhart,"

he said. "Two miles is good. Beginning to-day, I suppose?"

"Beginning to-day."

The chief spent very little time on himself. He was soon out and riding along the grade, showing no nervousness, yet making it plain to every man on the job that he meant to give an exhibition of "the fanciest track-laying ever seen in these United States." That was the way Young Van, in the exuberance of his new-found spirits, expressed it to the foreman of the iron squad.

But even Young Van's enthusiasm was not equal to the facts. When the night whistle blew, and the dripping workmen dropped their picks and sledges, and rails, and ties, and reins, and sat down to breathe before washing up for supper,--there was water for washing now,--the conductor of the material train called to Young Van, and waved toward a stake beside the track. "See that stick," he shouted.

"Yes, I see it."

"Well, sir,"--the conductor was excited too,--"I've been setting up one of those things for every time we moved ahead a train length. My train's a little over a thousand foot long, and--and how many of those sticks do you suppose I've set up since morning? Give a guess now!"

"I should say eight or ten. We've been getting over the ground pretty rapidly."

"No, sir! No, sir! Fifteen there were, fifteen of 'em!"

"Fifteen thousand feet--three miles!" The young man stood a moment, then turned and walked soberly away.

It was early the next morning that Young Van recalled Jack Flagg's communication, which he still had in his pocket. He saw that the chief was about starting off for his breakfast, and called him back and gave him the paper. Carhart read it, smiled rather contemptuously, and handed it back.

"That man," he said, "was just about big enough to stir up a little trouble in the camp. I'm glad we're through with him."

"I wish I was sure we were," replied Young Van.

"h.e.l.lo! you're right, Gus. Here he is again."

Charlie was approaching with another dirty paper in his hand. "I didn't think anybody could get in last night, Mr. Carhart," he said ruefully, "but--here is what they left."

The chief took this second paper and read it aloud:--

MY DEAR MR. CARHART: My shooting's getting b.u.m. Better luck next time.

JACK FLAGG.

"Flagg ought to be on the stage," he said when he had tossed the paper away. "He is the sort of man that can't get along without an audience."

CHAPTER VIII

SHOTS--AND A SCOUTING PARTY

It was early evening. Gus Vandervelt, nervous, exultant, leaving a trail of cigarette stubs behind him, was pacing up and down the track.

When he faced the east, his eyes saw far beyond the cars and wagons and cl.u.s.tering tents. Off there, in each mile of the many they had travelled, lay a witness of some battle won. They had fought like soldiers; and the small successes had come rapidly until the men were beginning to take victory as a matter of course. The most stupid of them understood now just what sort of thing the reserved, magnetic Paul Carhart stood for, and they were finding it a very good sort of thing indeed.

As Young Van walked, his imagination leaping forward from battles fought to the battles to come, he heard a step, and saw the stocky figure of his brother approaching through the dusk. He stiffened up and paused, but Old Van marched by without the twitch of a muscle. The young man watched him until he had faded out of sight, then lighted another cigarette, and continued his beat.

A little later, smiling in a nervous way he had of late, Young Van turned toward the headquarters tent. He knew that his brother had gone to make up the material train and would not return for some time.

He found Paul Carhart sitting alone, sewing a b.u.t.ton on the yellow linen trousers.

"Did you see any more drunks?" Carhart asked, pausing, needle in air.

Young Van, now that he thought of it, had observed signs of unusual good feeling among the laborers.

"We're a little too near this Palos settlement to suit me," said the chief. "Keeping your men in the desert rather spoils one for the advantages of civilization. I never had an easier time with laborers.

But these men are a bad lot to bring within five miles of a saloon.

They will be fighting before morning."

"I suppose they will. I hadn't thought of it. By the way, there's a rumor about that you had a letter from Mr. Flint to-day."

Carhart shook his head. "No," said he, "that's the thing I want most just now."

For a while they were silent. Young Van's face grew sober. The track, this double line of rusty steel, had so absorbed the energy of all of them that it seemed now, to his inexperience, the complete outward expression of their lives. He could think of little else. When not engrossed by the actual work, his thoughts were ranging beyond, far into the deeper significance of it. Crowding on the heels of the constructors would come settlers. Already mushroom towns were pushing up along the line behind them. With settlers would come well-boring, irrigation, farming, and ranching. Timber, bricks, stone would be rushed into these new lands, to be converted into hotels, shops, banks, dwellings. The marvellously intricate interrelations of civilization would suddenly be found existing and at work. There would be rude, hard struggles, much drinking and gambling, and some shooting. The license of the plains would be found strangely mingled with law and with what we call right. The church and the saloon would march on, side by side. And, finally, out of the uproar and the fighting would rise, for better or worse, a new phase of life.

Thinking these things, Young Van could not forget that they five--Paul Carhart, John Flint, Old Van, Harry Scribner, and himself--were bringing it about. They were breaking the way, pioneers of the expansion of a restless, mighty people.

"No,"--Carhart was speaking,--"that letter was from Peet. You might enjoy reading it."

Young Van started from his revery, took the letter, and spread it open. "My dear Mr. Carhart," it ran, "I am very sorry, indeed, about the delay of that lot of spikes. I have arranged with Mr. Tiffany to buy up all we can find here in Sherman and hurry them on to you.

Please keep me informed by wire of any delays and inconveniences. You will understand, I am sure, that we mean to stop at nothing to keep you from the slightest annoyance and delay in these matters. Very faithfully yours, L. W. Peet."

"But we have spikes enough," said the a.s.sistant, looking up. "What does he mean?"

Carhart smiled. "Just what he says; that he wouldn't delay us for worlds."

"'Very faithfully yours,' too. What is all this, Mr. Carhart? What have you done to him--hypnotized him?"

Carhart smiled. "Hardly," he replied; adding, "Reach me that spool of thread, will you?" But instead of continuing his needlework, Carhart, when he received the spool, laid it down beside him and sat, deep in thought, gazing out through the tent-opening into the night.

"Gus," he asked abruptly, "where did the operator go?"

Young Van glanced up at his chief, then answered quietly: "To bed, I think. I heard him say he was going to turn in early to-night."

"Would you mind stirring him out?"

"Certainly not."

"Wait a minute. We have enough firewood on hand to keep the engines going six or perhaps eight days. That won't do."

Young Van was slightly puzzled.

"Go ahead, Gus. Tell him to meet me at his instrument in ten minutes."

Young Van left the tent at once. When he returned, after rousing the sleepy operator, he observed that the chief was still deep in thought.

"All right," said Young Van; "he's getting up."