XXIII The Deadlock
“No, Mr. Ford; there is no explanation that will explain away the incriminating fact. This is a matter which involves the good name of the Pacific Southwestern company, through its officials, and I must insist upon your resignation.”
The battle was on, with the two combatants facing each other in the privacy of the president’s room in the Copah hotel. Since Alicia had made him exchange the sword of extermination for the olive branch, Ford was fighting on the defensive, striving good-naturedly and persistently to keep his official head on his shoulders.
“I’ve admitted that it looks pretty bad, Mr. Colbrith; but you will concede the one chance in a hundred that no wrong was intended. I merely did, on the ground, what thousands of investors in mining chances do the world over—bought an interest in a mine without knowing or caring greatly into what particular mountain the mine tunnel was driven.”
Mr. Colbrith frowned. He was of that elder generation of masters which looked with cold disapproval upon any side ventures on the part of the subordinate.
“The company has paid you liberally for your time and your undivided attention, Mr. Ford. No man can serve two masters. Your appointment as assistant to the president did not contemplate your engaging in other business.”
Ford carefully suppressed the smile which the bit of industrial martinetry provoked.
“As to that,” he said placably, “I can assure you that the gold-digging has been purely an investment on my part.”
“But an investment which you should not have made,” insisted the president judicially. “If it had not tempted you to the breach of trust, it was still inexpedient—most undeniably inexpedient. An official high in the counsels of a great corporation should be like Cæsar’s wife—above suspicion.”
This time Ford’s smile could not be wholly repressed. “I grant you it was foolhardy, in the economic point of view,” he confessed. “I took a long chance of going ten thousand dollars to the bad. But mine-buying is a disease—as contagious as the measles. Everybody in a mining country takes a flyer, at least once. The experienced ones will tell you that nobody is immune. Take your own case, now: if you don’t keep a pretty tight hold on your check-book, Mr. Colbrith, Cow Mountain will—”
The president frowned again; more portentously, this time.
“This levity is most reprehensible, Mr. Ford,” he said stiffly. “I trust I know my duty as the head of a great railway company too well to be carried away on every baseless wave of excitement that fires the imagination of the mining-camp I chance to be visiting.” Mr. Colbrith was not above mixing metaphor when the provocation was sufficiently great.
“Baseless?” echoed Ford. “Surely you don’t doubt... Why, Mr. Colbrith, this strike is the biggest thing that has happened in the mining world since the discovery of the wedge-veins in Cripple Creek!”
The president shrugged his thin shoulders as one whose mission in life is to be sturdily conservative after all the remainder of mankind has struck hands with frenzied optimism.
“Nonsense!” he rasped contemptuously. “What happens? Two men come to town with certain rich specimens which they claim to have taken out of their prospect hole on Cow Mountain. That was at seven o’clock last night, less than twenty-four hours ago, and some two or three thousand lunatics have already rushed here in the belief—founded upon a mere boast, it may be—that a great gold reef underlies Cow Mountain. By this time to-morrow—”
Ford took him up promptly. “Yes; and by this time to-morrow the Denver Mining Exchange will be howling itself hoarse over Copah mining shares, like those curb-stone fellows down-stairs; the hunt will be up, and every feeder the Pacific Southwestern system has will be sending its quota of gold-seekers to the new field. That isn’t what you were going to say, I know; but it is what is going to happen. Mr. Colbrith, it’s the chance of a century for the Pacific Southwestern company, and you are deliberately trying to fire the one man who can make the most of it.”
The president’s lack of sense of humor made it hard for him at times. He was sitting very erect in the straight-backed hotel chair when he said: “Mr. Ford, there are occasions when your conceit is insufferable. Do you imagine for a moment that you are the only engineer in the United States who can build railroads, Sir?”
“Oh, no.”
“Then perhaps you will be good enough to explain your meaning?”
“It was a poor attempt at a jest,” said the young man, rather lamely. “Yet it had the truth behind it, in a way. I predict that this is the beginning of one of the biggest mining rushes the world ever saw. We are within one hundred and forty miles of Copah with a practicable railroad; we are within twelve miles with a track which must be made practicable while the band plays. If you discharge your entire engineering corps at this crisis—”
“I beg your pardon,” interrupted the president crustily. “I have not asked your force to resign.”
“Not meaning to, perhaps,” countered the young man, maliciously rejoicing in the hope that he had found one vulnerable link in the president’s coat of mail. “But if I go, the entire department will go. Every man in it is my friend, as well as my subordinate; and they know very well that if they shouldn’t go, your new chief would fire them and put in his own men.”
“Ha!” said the president, straightening up again. “Am I to understand that you are threatening me, Mr. Ford.”
“No, indeed; I am only stating a fact. But it is a pretty serious fact. Let us suppose, for the sake of the argument, that my prediction comes true; that within thirty-six or forty-eight hours Saint’s Rest is packed with people trying to get to Copah. Your new chief, if you shall have found him, will hardly be in the saddle. When he comes he will have to reorganize the department, break in new men, learn by hard knocks what I have been learning in detail—”
Mr. Colbrith thrust out a thin lip of obstinate determination.
“And if he does, your hypothetical rush will simply have to wait, Mr. Ford. We have the key to the Copah door.”
“Don’t you fool yourself!” snapped Ford, forgetting his rôle of the humble one for the moment. “The Transcontinental is only forty miles away at Jack’s Canyon, with a pretty decent stage road. Long before you can get the extension in shape to carry passengers, or even freight, the other line will be known from Maine to California as the keyholder to this district!”
That shot told. The president was not yet convinced that the Copah boom was real; but there was the chance that it might be—always the chance. And to the over-cautious the taking of chances, however remote, is like the handling of a snake: a thing to inspire creeping horrors.
“If you could convince me, Mr. Ford, that your interest in that mine did not influence you in changing the route of the extension,” he began; but Ford took him up sharply. “I can’t; and I can say no more than I have said.”
Mr. Colbrith got up and went to the window to look down upon the excited throng in the street. It did look real.
“Perhaps we might leave matters as they are, pending a future investigation, Mr. Ford,” he said, turning back to his victim, who was methodically clipping the end from a cigar.
“No,” was the brittle rejoinder.
Again the president took time to look down into the crowded street. His next attack was from the rear.
“But I have understood that you do not wish to resign. Let us be magnanimous, Mr. Ford, and agree to hang this matter up until this supposed crisis is past.”
“No,” was the curt reply. “I have changed my mind. I don’t think I want to work for you any longer, Mr. Colbrith.”
“Not if I withdrew my—ah—objections?”
“No.”
Silence again. The packed lobby of the hotel had overflowed upon the plank sidewalk, and the din of the buyers and sellers rose like the noise of a frantic street fight. Ford’s half jesting remark about the possibility of the microbe finding its way into the blood of the president was not so pointless as the old man’s retort sought to make it appear. It was the wheat pit which had given Mr. Colbrith his first half-million; and as he listened to the hoarse cries, the thing which he hoped was safely caution-killed began to stir within him. Suddenly he picked a word of two out of the sidewalk clamor that made him turn swiftly upon the silent young man.
“They are selling ‘Little Alicia’—your stock—down there!” he gasped. “Have you—have you—”
“No; I haven’t put mine on the market. It’s some of my partner’s, Grigsby’s, stock. I suppose he couldn’t stand the push.”
Once more the president listened. Only an ex-wrestler in the wheat pit could have picked intelligence out of the Babel of puts and calls.
“It’s up to a hundred and fifty!” he exploded. “What did you pay for your shares, Mr. Ford?”
“Twenty,” said Ford coolly.
“Good Heavens! I—I hope you hold a safe majority?”
“No; we broke even, Grigsby and I. I have fifty per cent.”
The president groaned.
“I—I’ll excuse you, Mr. Ford. Get down there at once and buy that other necessary share!”
Ford shook his head with predetermined gloom. “No, Mr. Colbrith, I’m not buying any more mining stock. What I did buy seems to have cost me my job.”
“But, my dear young man! This is a crisis. You are likely to lose control of your property! Or, at least, it is soaring to a point at which you will never be able to secure the control.”
Ford came up smiling. “You forget that this is mere mad excitement, Mr. Colbrith,” he said, handing back the President’s own phrase. “To-morrow, I dare say, I shall be able to buy at twenty again.”
The president came away from the window and sat down. His face was twitching and the thin white hands were tremulous.
“There may be more in this gold discovery than I have been willing to admit,” he said abstractedly, “and in that case... Mr. Ford, upon what terms will you consent to go on and whip this line of ours into shape?”
Ford came out of the fog of discouragement with a bound.
“A complete change in the management of the Pacific Southwestern, Mr. Colbrith. North and his grafters must go.”
The President did not fly into wrathful shards, as Ford fully expected. On the contrary, he was fingering the white goat’s-beard with one nervous hand, and apparently listening half-absently to the clamor in the street.
“Don’t be unreasonable, Mr. Ford,” he said quite mildly. “You know we can’t consider anything like that at the present moment.”
“It must be considered,” Ford persisted. “Ever since I quit being a division superintendent, North has obstructed, lied about me, fought me. The time has come when, if I stay, I must have a free hand. I can’t have it while he is out of jail.”
“That is strong language to apply to our first vice-president, Mr. Ford. And I can only believe that you are prejudiced—unduly prejudiced. But all this may be taken up later. As you suggest, we may be losing very precious time.”
Ford got to his feet.
“Promise me that you will give the Denver management as thorough an investigation as you have given me, Mr. Colbrith; do that, and give me absolute authority over the MacMorroghs and their men for one week; and before the week’s end we’ll be hauling passengers and freight into Copah over our own rails.”
For a moment the president seemed to be on the point of yielding. Then his habitual caution thrust out its foot and tripped him.
“I can’t be pushed, Mr. Ford,” he complained, with a return of the irritated tone. “Let the matter rest for the present. And—and you may consider yourself relieved from duty until I have gone a little deeper into these charges against you. Mr. North accuses you, and you accuse Mr. North. I must have time to approach those matters deliberately. I don’t know which of you to trust.”
It was a deadlock. Ford bowed and laid his hand on the door.
“You are still the president of the Pacific Southwestern, Mr. Colbrith, and while you remain president—”
The old man’s pride of office took fire like tow in a furnace.
“What do you mean by that, Mr. Ford? Make yourself clear, sir!” he quavered.
“I mean just this: if your niece, Miss Alicia Adair, hadn’t been good enough to say that she will be my wife, I’d carry this thing up to the board of directors and do my level best to have you put where you could do the least harm.”
“You? Alicia?” the old man shrilled. And then, in an access of senile rage that shook him like a leaf in the wind: “I said you were suspended—you are discharged, sir—here and now! If you give another order as an official of the Pacific Southwestern company, I’ll—I’ll put you through the courts for it!”
Ford opened the door and went out, leaving the president clutching his chair with one hand and balling the other into a shaking fist. The die was cast, and he had thrown a blank at the very moment when the game seemed to be turning his way. What would Alicia say?
As if the unspoken query had evoked her, the door of her room opened silently and she stood before him in the corridor.
“Tell me,” she commanded.
“We have fought it out, and I’ve had my beating,” he said soberly. “When I thought I had him fairly down,—he was actually begging me to stay on with the company,—we got tangled up again over North, and he fired me bodily.”
“Did you—did you tell him about our—”
“Yes; and that was what set off the final fireworks.”
She put her hands on his shoulders and made him face her squarely.
“Stuart, did you lose your temper?”
“I—I’m afraid I did—just at the last, you know. It’s simply an unspeakable state of affairs, Alicia, dear! At a moment when we should be setting the whole world afire in a superhuman effort to flog this piece of construction track into shape, your uncle paralyzes everything!”
The constraining touch of her hands became almost a caress. “What shall you do, Stuart? Is there nothing to be done?”
He took his resolution on the spur of the moment.
“Yes, thank heaven! Your uncle has got to find a printing press, or at least a telegraph wire, before he can make my discharge effective. Before he can do that, or until he does it, I’m going to pull the throttle wide open and race that discharge circular, if I go to jail for it, afterward! Who knows but I shall have time to save the day for the company after all? Good-by, dearest. In twenty minutes I shall be riding for the MacMorroghs’ camp, and when I get there—”
“You are going to ride back?—alone? Oh, no, no!” she protested; and the clinging arms held him.
“Why, Alicia, girl—see here: what do you imagine could happen to me? Why, bless your loving heart, I’ve been tramping and riding this desert more or less for two years! What has come over you?”
“I don’t know; but—but—oh, me! you will think I am miserably weak and foolish: but just as you said that, I seemed to see you lying in the road with your horse standing over you—and you were—dead!”
“Nonsense!” he comforted. “I’ll be back here to-morrow, alive and well; but I mustn’t lose a minute now. It’s up to me to reach Horse Creek before the news of the gold strike gets there. There’ll be a stampede, with every laborer on the line hoofing it for Copah. Good-by, sweetheart, and—may I?” He took her face between his hands and did it anyhow.
Five minutes later he was bargaining for a saddle horse at the one livery stable in the camp, offering and paying the selling price of the animal for the two days’ hire. It was a rather sorry mount at that, and when he was dragging it out into the street, Jack Benson, the youngest member of his staff, rode up, that moment in from the tie-camp above Cow Mountain.
“Don’t dismount, Jack,” he ordered curtly. “You’re just in time to save me eight or ten miles, when the inches are worth dollars. Ride for the end-of-track and Frisbie on a dead run. Tell Dick to hold his men, if he has to do it at the muzzle of a gun, and to come on with the track, night and day. He’ll have to raise the pay, and keep on raising it—but that’s all right. It’s an order. Rush it!”
Benson nodded, set his horse at the path leading up to the railroad grade, and spurred up the hill. Ford gave a final tug at his saddle cinches, put up a leg and began to pick his way down the thronged street in the opposite direction.
Thirty seconds afterward a man wearing the laced trousers and broad bullion-corded sombrero of a Mexican dandy came out of his hiding-place behind the door of the livery stable office, thoughtfully twirling the cylinder of a drawn revolver.
“I take-a da mustang,” he said to the boy who had held Ford’s horse during the short interview with Benson. And when the bronco was brought out, the Mexican, like Ford, looked to the cinches, mounted, and rode down the street leading to the lower mesa and the river.