"All right."

"Wait a minute, Gus. Who's their spokesman?

"Dimond."

"Dimond?" Carhart frowned. "n.o.body else?"

"No; but the cook has been hanging around a good deal and talking with him."

"Oh--I see. Well, that's all. Go ahead; give them what they ask."

Again the mules were driven at the work. Again--and throughout the day--the sullen men toiled on under the keen eye of Old Vandervelt. If he had been a driver before, he was a czar now. If he could not control the rate of pay, he could at least control the rate of work.

To himself, to the younger engineers, to the men, to the mules, he was merciless. And foot by foot, rod by rod, the embankment that was to bear the track crept on into the desert. The sun beat down; the wind, when there was a wind, was scorching hot; but Old Van gave no heed.

Now and again he glanced back to where the material train lay silent and useless, hoping against hope that far in the distance he might see the smoke of that other train from Sherman. Peet had said, yesterday, that it was on the way; and Old Van muttered, over and over, "D--n Peet!"

Night came finally, but not the train. Aching in body, ugly in spirit, the laborers crept under their blankets. Morning came, but no train.

Carhart spent an hour on the grade, and saw with some satisfaction that the time was not wholly lost; then he went back to the operator's tent and opened communications with Sherman. Sherman expressed surprise that the train had not arrived; it had been long on the way, said the despatcher.

At this message, repeated to him by the operator, word for word, Carhart stood thoughtful. Then, "Shut off the despatcher. Wait--tell him Mr. Carhart is much obliged. Shut him off. Now call Paradise. Say to him--can't you get him?"

"Yes--all right now."

"Say--'When did the supply train pa.s.s you on Tuesday?'--got that?"

"Yes--one minute. 'When--did supply--train pa.s.s--you--Tuesday?'"

"Now what does he say?"

"'Supply--train'--he says--'pa.s.sed--here Wednesday--two--P.M.--west-bound.' There, you see, it didn't leave on Tuesday at all. It's only a few hours to Paradise from Sherman."

Carhart had Peet's message still crumpled in his pocket. He straightened it out and read it again. "All right," he said to the operator, "that will do." And as he walked slowly and thoughtfully out into the blazing sunlight he added to himself: "So, Mr. Peet, that's the sort you are, is it? I think we begin to understand each other."

"Paul!" It was the gruff voice of Old Vandervelt, low and charged with anger.

"Yes--what?"

"What is it you mean to do with these laborers?"

"Build the line."

"Well, I've done what I could. They've walked out again."

"Another ten per cent?"

"Another ten per cent."

"Let's see--we've raised them twenty per cent since yesterday morning, haven't we?"

"You have--yes."

"And that ought to be about enough, don't you think?"

"If you want my opinion,--yes."

"Now look here, Van. You go back and bring them all up here by the train. Tell them Mr. Carhart wants to talk to them."

Vandervelt stared at his chief in downright bewilderment. Then he turned to obey the order; and as he walked away Carhart caught the muttered words, "Organize a debating society, eh? Well, that's the one fool thing left to do!"

But the men did not take it in just this way; in fact, they did not know how to take it. They hesitated, and looked about for counsel.

Even Dimond was disturbed. The boss had a quiet, highly effective way of saying and doing precisely what he meant to say and do. Dimond was not certain of his own ability to stand directly between the men and Paul Carhart. There was something about the cool way in which they were ordered before him that was--well, businesslike. He turned and glanced at Flagg. The cook scowled and motioned him forward, and so the dirty, thirsty regiment moved uncertainly back toward the train, and formed a wide semicircle before the boss.

Carhart had taken his position by a pile of odds and ends of lumber that lay beside the track. He awaited them quietly, the only man among the hundreds there who appeared unconscious of the excitement in the air. The elder Vandervelt stood apart, scowling at the performance.

The younger scented danger, and, climbing up on the train, walked back over the empty flat-cars to a position directly behind his chief.

There he sat down, his legs swinging over the side of the car.

Carhart reached up for his spectacles, deliberately breathed on them, wiped them, and replaced them. Then he gave the regiment a slow, inquiring look.

"Have you men authorized somebody to speak for you?" he said in a voice which, though it was not loud, was heard distinctly by every man there.

There was a moment's hesitation; then the laborers, or those who were not studying the ground, looked at Dimond.

The telegraph operator stepped out of his little tent, and stood looking at the scene with startled eyes. Up ahead, the iron squad, uncertain whether to continue their work, had paused, and now they were gazing back. As the seconds slipped away their exclamations of astonishment died out. All eyes were fixed on the group in the centre of the semicircle.

For at this critical moment, there was, it seemed, a hitch. Dimond's broad hat was pulled down until it half concealed his eyes. He stood motionless. At his elbow was Jack Flagg, muttering orders that the nominal leader did not seem to hear.

"Flagg, step out here!"

It was Carhart speaking, in the same quiet, distinct manner. The sound of his voice broke the tension. The men all looked up, even the nerveless Dimond. To Young Van they were oddly like a room full of schoolboys as they stood silently waiting for Flagg to obey. The giant cook himself was very like a schoolboy, as he glanced uneasily around, caught no sign of fight in the obedient eyes about him, sought counsel in the ground, the sky, the engines standing on the track, then finally slouched forward.

Young Van caught himself on the verge of laughing out. He saw Flagg advance a way and pause. Carhart waited. Flagg took a few more steps, then paused again, with the look of a man who feels that he has been bullied into a false position, yet cannot hit upon the way out.

"Well," he said, glowering down on the figure of the engineer in charge--and very thin and short Carhart looked before him--"well, what do you want of me?"

For reply Carhart coolly looked him over. Then he s.n.a.t.c.hed up a piece of scantling, whirled it once around his head, and caught Jack Flagg squarely on his deep, well-muscled chest. The cook staggered back, swung his arms wildly to recover his balance, failed, and fell flat, striking on the back of his head.

But he was up in an instant, and he started forward, swearing copiously and reaching for his hip pocket.

Young Van saw the motion. He knew that Paul Carhart seldom carried a weapon, and he felt that the safety of them all lay with himself.

Accordingly he leaped to the ground, ran to the side of his chief, whipped out a revolver, and levelled it at Jack Flagg.

"Hands up!" he cried. "Hands up!"

"Gus," cried Carhart, in a disgusted voice, "put that thing up!"

Young Van, crestfallen, hesitated; then dropped his arm.

"Now, Flagg," said the chief, tossing the scantling to one side, "you clear out. You'd better do it fast, or the men'll finish where I left off."