XXVIII The Strike
As aforesaid, it was the unexpected that opposed Carter with a visage of stony calm when he came from Winnipeg out to the “Ragged Lands” a week or so later. For whereas he had left the camp convulsed in throes of constructive labor, the whistle of his engine raised piercing echoes; no other sounds disturbed the sleeping forest. In the cut south of the camp he passed the big digger, at rest from the roar, rattle, and clank of chains, hiss of escaping steam. The pile-driver loomed idly on a distant trestle. When engine and caboose stopped opposite the cook-house, he saw that the camp—which ought to have been empty—teemed with men.
He shrugged when Hart, who was with him, exclaimed in wonder: “Can’t prove it by me. But we’ll soon know. There’s Bender—coming from the office.”
“Strike,” the giant replied to their questioning. “Teamsters, graders, bridge and track men, all went out at noon. What for? God knows; but I allow that Buckle could tell. He wasn’t hanging round the Winnipeg camp for nothing. I’m sorry now—” His bunched fists, big as mauls, fully explained his regret, and indicating a group which was arranging its progress so as to make the office door with Carter, he finished: “But if you’re hankering for reasons, consult them gentlemen. It’s a depytation—by its scowl. An’ it’s loaded to the muzzle with statistics to fire at you.”
Following his finger, Carter noted that Michigan Red was of the deputation, but when it ranged up at the tent door in sheepish yet defiant array, that worthy hung modestly in the rear, permitting a big teamster from the Silver Creek settlements to act as spokesman. Blunt, honest, tenacious as a bull-dog in holding to an idea, the man was an ideal tool for unscrupulous hands; but though he instantly divined the reasons behind his leadership, Carter listened quietly to his tale—the old tale—overwork, poor food, underpay.
His answer was equally quiet. “You are certainly to be pitied, Bill; breaks me all up just to think of your wrongs. I’ve always admired your thrift, and I sympathize with your desire to raise the mortgage off your farm. Took you five years to put it on, didn’t it, Bill? And you are calculating to pay it off in the next two months. Well, perhaps—but you’ll have to screw it out of some one else than me.”
Shuffling uneasily, the teamster glanced at his backers, who, equally nonplussed, gazed at one another. For where an angry, or even a plain answer would have merely incited them to dogged opposition, this quiet ridicule sapped conceit in their cause, besides conveying an alarming suggestion of strength in reserve.
“Then you don’t allow to fall in with our notions?” The spokesman returned after a whispered conference.
“Meaning—an hour less and a dollar more? You’re sure a psychic, Bill; plumb wasted on railroading. Open an office in town and go to fortune-telling and you’d pull that plaster off your homestead inside a month.”
Assured that there was no hurry, that he could take a week to consider the matter, he gravely added: “Obliged to you, Bill; but I don’t allow to require it. The world, you’ll remember, was made in six days, and this isn’t near such a big job. No time like the present, and here’s my answer—same hours, same grub, same pay. It’s fortune-telling or present rates for yours, Bill.”
Through all he entirely ignored the delegation, and now he leaned in the door, idly watching as it made its way across the camp and was swallowed in the crowd of strikers about the bunk-house. But his face fell as he stepped inside beyond eye and ear shot. “Serious?” he repeated Hart’s question. “Couldn’t be worse. Not one of those fellows could make a quarter of the wages or live half as well on the farm, but they’d hog it all if I died in the ditch. But there’s more behind this than their spite and greed. You see, we have just about pulled old Murray in for funds to make a clean finish, and if he gets wind of this he’ll crawfish like a one-legged crow. I must go back at once. And you, Bender—you, also, Hart—see to it that not even a dog crawls out of this camp until I return.”
“To keep these chaps guessing,” he added, after a moment’s dark reflection, “I’d better slip out after dusk. You go over, Hart, and whisper the engineer to back out and wait for me at the other side of the cut. Mystery is good as aces up in any old game, and we can’t fog them too much.”
Pulling out at dark, he made the run back to town—fifty miles—in an hour and a quarter, reckless running on unballasted road. Murray must be fully committed before the news leaked out. We must get him, must get him, must, must, must! The wheels clicked it, the steam hissed it, the fire roared it, the wind shrieked the imperative refrain. But though Bender lived in the strict letter of his instructions so that a mosquito could scarce have escaped from the camp; though a man could not have made the distance in two days on foot, or a wild goose have passed the throbbing engine as it bounded along that raw track, newsboys were yet crying the strike as he came out on Main Street.
Feeling certain that the office would be closed at that hour, he intended to go straight to Greer’s house, but seeing a light in the partners’ room as he came opposite the building, he went in and found Smythe there, alone. With lean legs thrust out before him, hands deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched to his ears, his attitude incarnated deep dejection; gloom resided in his nod.
“Greer?” he said. “At home—sick. You see, we were to have closed the deal with Murray this very evening, and the disappointment just knocked the old man out. He’s been running altogether on his nerve lately; something had to give. Why couldn’t this have happened a day later?”
Answering Carter’s question, he went on: “We heard it at noon. Papers got out an extra. Presses must have been running it off before you left.”
“Noon?” Carter whistled. “Why the men didn’t quit till two!” Then as the significance flashed upon him, he exclaimed: “Brass Bowels for a million! It was all cut, dried, and laid away for us, and they served it hot to the minute. Don’t—it—beat—hell!”
His comical disgust caused Smythe a wintry grin, but, sobering, he said: “I wouldn’t mind so much for myself. I’m young enough to do it again. But the old gentleman—with that nice family! You know he was just about ready to retire; only took up this business from a strong sense of public duty. And now, in his extremity, every rat financier in this city runs to his hole in fear of the cat. The poor old man!”
Carter nodded his sympathy. On the occasions that he visited their house, Greer’s wife, a silver-haired old lady, had vied with her two daughters in pleasant attentions. But it did not require that thought to stir him to action.
“Oh, here!” he laughed. “We are not dead yet. To-morrow I’ll go the round of the employment offices and—”
Smythe threw up his hands, a gesture eloquent of despair. “Went round myself—this afternoon. Harvest is on and men scarcer than diamonds. Besides, Brass Bowels has left an order with every agency in town to ship every man they can get west to the mountains.”
“Um-m!” Carter thought a while. “Then we’ll have to play the last card.”
“The last card?” Smythe raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, biggest trump in the pack. How long before—”
“Oh, they can’t touch us for two months.”
“Good! Now listen.” Glancing around as though distrustful of the very walls, he whispered in Smythe’s ear for a minute that saw the latter’s dejection dissolve in new-born hope. “You must go with me,” he finished, aloud. “While you pack your grip, I’ll drop round and see Greer. He must be here to-morrow to carry out the bluff. And hurry—for we must make it down and back before we are missed.”