XIV The Draw-Bar Pull
Attorney Kenneth had many more object-lessons in the study of “open camps” on the three-day return ride to Saint’s Rest. The day of stop-over in Copah chanced to be the MacMorrogh Brothers’ monthly pay-day, and until the men’s money was spent pandemonium reigned along the line of the extension.
Some of it they dodged, riding wide to pass the larger camps, and hearing from afar the noise of carousal, the fierce drinking songs of the Magyars, the fusillades of pistol-shots. So far as they could see, all work appeared to be suspended; and Major Benson, whose camp of engineers they picked up in one of the detours around a gulch head, confirmed that conclusion.
“It was the same way last month,” raged the major, twisting his fierce white mustaches and looking as if he would like to blot the name of MacMorrogh from the roster of humanity. “It’ll take a full week to get them into the swing again, and MacMorrogh will be up with his estimates just the same as if he had been working full time. I’ll cut ’em; by the gods, I’ll cut ’em! And you must stand by me, Mr. Ford.”
There was the same story to be listened to at Brissac’s tie camp; and again at young Benson’s headquarters, which were on the mountain section. This last was on the third day, however, when the madness was dying down. Some of the rock men were back on the job, but many of the gangs were still grievously short-handed. Ford said little to Kenneth. The pandemonium spoke for itself. But on the third night, when the long ride was ended, and Pietro, Ford’s cook and man-of-all-work, was serving supper in the caboose office-on-wheels, some of the bitterness in Ford’s heart slipped into speech.
“Can you see now how it takes the very marrow out of a man’s bones, Kenneth? You may think of an engineer as a man of purely bull-headed purposes, merely trying, in a crass, materialistic way, to get a material thing done. I want to do a big thing, and I’d like to do it in a big way. It is a big thing—the building of this extension. If it doesn’t add another star to the flag, it will at least make one state twice as populous, twice as prosperous. It will add its quota to the habitable surfaces; and it’s a good quota—a land that some future generation will love, and swear by, and fight for, if need be. And to think that for one man’s narrow-mindedness and another’s greed we’ve got to christen it in blood and muck and filth and dishonesty—it makes me sore, Kenneth; sore and disheartened.”
“I don’t blame you,” said the lawyer, reveling, though he would never have admitted it, in the comfort of the caboose headquarters journey’s end. “But you’ll pull through; you’ll build your railroad, and the mistakes that are made won’t be your mistakes. It’s a horrible state of affairs, that in the MacMorrogh camps; a blot on our boasted civilization. But you can’t help it. Or rather you will help it if, and when, you can.”
Ford was shaking his head dejectedly.
“I don’t know, Kenneth. It’s getting next to me, even at this early stage of the game. Have you ever stood on the front car platform of a train nearest to the engine and watched the jiggling draw-bar? It is apparently loose; its hold on the engine seems to be no more than that of the touch of clasped hands in a gipsy dance. Yet it never lets go, and the drag of it is always there. By and by, when the coal is all burned, and the fire is out, and the water is drained from the tank, those gentle little multiplied jerks will pull the big engine down—kill it—make it a mere mass of inert metal blocking the way of progress.”
“Well?” said the attorney.
“It’s an allegory. I’m beginning to feel the draw-bar pull. Sooner or later, North and his clique will drag me down. I can’t fight as the under dog—I never learned how; and they’ve fixed it so that I can’t fight any other way.”
Kenneth had lighted his cigar and was lying back against the cushion of the car-seat. After a little, he said: “Just after we saw the Italian killed last week I told you I had a notion, Ford. I’ve got it yet, and I’ve been turning it over in my mind and wondering if I’d better explode it on you. On the whole, I think I’d better not. It’s a case of surgery. If the patient lives, you’ll know about it. If the patient dies, you’ll be no worse off than you are now. Shall we let it rest at that?”
Ford acquiesced. He was too utterly disheartened to be curious. But if he could have foreseen the results of Kenneth’s notion it is conceivable that he would have been aroused to some effort of protest, as even in deep waters one prays sometimes to be delivered from his friends.
It was a week after this farewell supper in the caboose hotel at Saint’s Rest when Ford went down to Denver to borrow, on his P. S-W. stock, the ten thousand dollars to be deposited to the credit of the Bank of Copah. Following him, and only one train behind, came Frisbie, new from a confirmatory survey of the extension beyond the Copah district.
On his return from the Green Butte end of the proposed line, the little man with the diabolical fashion of beard trimming had spent a week in and around Copah, picking up yard rights-of-way, surveying approaches, and setting grade stakes for the outlying MacMorrogh gangs. During that week he had made a discovery, and since he believed it to be all his own, he journeyed eastward to share it quickly with his chief.
Ford was dining alone at the Brown Palace when Frisbie, coming straight from the Plug Mountain train, found him. There was an entire western desert to be talked over during the courses, and Frisbie held his discovery in reserve until they had gone to smoke in a quiet corner of the great rotunda. Even then he approached it indirectly.
“In taking up the line down the Pannikin we have followed the old S.L. & W. survey pretty closely all the way from start to finish. What were your reasons, Stuart?” he asked.
“There didn’t seem to be any good reason for not following it. Brandreth made the S.L. & W. preliminary, and there isn’t a better locating engineer in this country.”
“I know,” said Frisbie. “But the best of us make mistakes, now and then. Brandreth made a pretty sizable one, I think.”
“How is that?”
“You know where the big rock-cutting is to be made in the lower canyon, about ten miles this side of the point where we begin to swing south for the run to Copah—a mile and a half of heavy work that will cost away up into the pictures?”
“Yes; I’ve estimated that rock work at not a cent less than two hundred thousand dollars.”
“You’re shy, rather than over, at that. And two hundred thousand would build a number of miles of ordinary railroad, wouldn’t it? But that isn’t all. The cliffs along that canyon are shale-topped and shale-undermined, the shale alternating with loose rock about fifty feet above our line of grade in quarter-mile stretches all along. That means incessant track-walking day and night through the mile and a half of cutting, and afterward—for all time afterward—a construction train kept handy under steam to clear away débris that will never quit sliding down on the embankment.”
“I’m afraid you are right,” said Ford. “It’s the worst bit on the entire extension; the most costly to build, as it will be the most expensive to maintain. But I guess Brandreth knew what he was about when he surveyed it.”
“Brandreth is a short-line man. He wouldn’t lengthen his line ten miles to dodge an earthquake. Ford, we can save a hundred thousand dollars on that piece of track in first cost—to say nothing of the future.”
“How? I’m always open to conviction.”
“By leaving the S.L. & W. survey at Horse Creek, following up to the low divide at Emory’s Mine, and crossing to enter Copah from the southeast instead of from the northeast. I came out that way from Copah five days ago. It’s perfectly feasible; straight-away, easy earth work for the greater part, and the only objection is that it adds about twelve running miles to the length of the extension. It’s for you to say whether or not the added distance will be warranted by the lessened cost and the assurance of safety in operating. If we cut through that lower canyon cliff it will be only a question of time until we bury somebody, no matter how closely it is watched.”
Ford took time to consider the proposal. There were objections, and he named one of them.
“The MacMorroghs have based their bid on the present survey: they will not want to let that piece of rock work drop out of sight.”
“They’ll have to, if you say so. And you can afford to be pretty liberal with them on the substituted twelve miles.”
“I’ll have to think about it over night,” was Ford’s final answer. “Arrange to give me an hour to-morrow morning and we’ll go over the maps and your notes together.”
Frisbie slept soundly on the gained inch, hoping to make it the coveted ell in the morning. He knew the chief objection, which was that Ford, too, was a “short-line” engineer; a man who would lay down his railroad as the Czar of Russia did the St. Petersburg-Moscow line—by placing a ruler on the map and drawing a straight mark beside it between the two cities—if that were an American possibility. But he knew, too, that the safety clause would weigh heavily with Ford, and there was no minimizing the danger to future traffic if the canyon route should be retained.
It turned out finally as the first assistant had hoped and believed it would. Ford spent a thoughtful hour at his office in the Guaranty Building before Frisbie came down—the little man being trail-weary enough to sleep late in the comfortable room at the Brown Palace. The slight change of route was hardly a matter to be carried up to the executive committee, and Ford’s decision turned upon quite another pivot—the addition of twelve miles of distance. As against this, safety and economy won the day; and when Frisbie came in the talk was merely of ways and means.
“Fix up the change with the MacMorroghs the best way you can,” was Ford’s concluding instruction to his lieutenant. “They will kick, of course; merely to be kicking at anything I suggest. But you can bring them to terms, I guess.”
“By my lonesome?” said Frisbie. “Aren’t you going over to see the new route with your own eyes?”
“No. I’m perfectly willing to trust your judgment, Dick. Besides, I’ve got other fish to fry. I’m going east to-night to have one more tussle with the steel mills. We must have quicker deliveries and more of them. When I get back, we’ll organize the track-layers and begin to make us a railroad.”
“Good,” said Frisbie, gathering up his maps and sketches of the detour country; and so, in the wording of a brief sentence or two it came to pass that Ford delivered himself bound and unarmed into the hands of his enemies.
A little light was thrown upon this dark passage that night in the office of the general manager, after Ford’s train had gone eastward, and Frisbie was on his way back to the MacMorrogh headquarters on the lower Pannikin. North was waiting when Eckstein came in, flushed as from a rapid walk.
“It’s all settled?” asked the general manager, with a slow lift of the eyebrow to betray his anxiety.
“To the queen’s taste, I should say,” was the secretary’s not too deferential reply. “Ford’s out of the way, to be gone ten days or a fortnight, and Frisbie has gone back to dicker with MacMorrogh, and to survey the new route up Horse Creek. Ford doesn’t know; I doubt if he will ever know until we spring the trap on him. The one thing I was most afraid of was that he would insist upon going over the new line himself. Then, of course, he would have found out—he couldn’t help finding out.”
The general manager squared his huge shoulders against the back of the chair.
“You think he would call it off if he knew?” he queried. “You give him credit for too much virtue, Eckstein. But I think we have him now. By the time he returns it will be too late for him to hedge. MacMorrogh will see to that.”
Eckstein nodded. “I made a point of that with Brian,” he said. “The minute the word is given he is to throw a little army of graders upon the new roundabout. But Ford won’t find out. He’ll be too busy on this end of the line with the track-layers. I’m a little nervous about Merriam, though.”
“He’s the man who talked Frisbie into championing the new route?”
“Yes. He did it pretty skilfully: made Frisbie think he was finding it out himself, and never let the little man out of his sight while they were in Copah. But I am afraid Merriam himself knows too much.”
“Get him out of the country—before Ford gets back,” was the crisp order. “If he isn’t here when the gun goes off, he can’t tell anybody how it was loaded.”
“An appointment—” Eckstein began.
“That is what I mean,” said the general manager, turning back to his desk. “We need a traffic agency up in the Oregon country. See Merriam—to-night. Find out if he’d like to have the general agency at, say, twenty-five hundred a year; and if he agrees, get out the circular appointing him.”
“He’ll agree, fast enough,” laughed the secretary. “But I’ll nail him—to-night.”
Ford spent rather more than two weeks in his round-up of the eastern steel mills, and there was a terrific accumulation of correspondence awaiting him when he reached Denver. At the top of the pile was an official circular appointing one George Z. Merriam, a man whom Ford remembered, or seemed vaguely to remember, as one of the MacMorrogh bookkeepers, general agent of the P. S-W., with headquarters at Portland, Oregon. And at the bottom of the accumulation was a second official printing, bearing the approval of the president, this; and Ford’s eyes gloomed angrily when he read it.
PACIFIC SOUTHWESTERN RAILWAY CO.
Office of the President.
New York, August 24.
To All Officials and Employees:
At a called meeting of the stock-holders of this company, held in New York, August 23, Mr. John C. North was elected First Vice-President and General Manager of all lines of this company, operative and under construction. All officers and employees will govern themselves accordingly.
By Order of the Executive Committee.
Approved:
Sidney J. Colbrith, President.