CHAPTER IV
JACK FLAGG SEES STARS
It was a month later, on a Tuesday night, and the engineers weresitting about the table in the office tent. Scribner, the last toarrive, had ridden in after dusk from mile fourteen.
For two weeks the work had dragged. Peet, back at Sherman, had beenmore liberal of excuses than of materials. It was always the millsback in Pennsylvania, or slow business on connecting lines, or the carfamine. And it was not unnatural that the name of the superintendentshould have come to stand at the front for certain very unpopularqualities. Carhart had faith in Tiffany, but the railroad's chiefengineer was one man in a discordant organization. Railroad systemsare not made in a day, and the S. & W. was new, showing squarecorners where all should be polished round; developing frictionbetween departments, and bad blood between overworked men. Thus it hadbeen finally brought home to Paul Carhart that in order to carry hiswork through he must fight, not only time and the elements, but alsothe company in whose interest he was working.
Lately the office had received a few unmistakably vigorous messagesfrom Carhart. Tiffany, too, had taken a hand, and had opened his mindto the Vice-president. The Vice-president had in turn talked withPeet, who explained that the materials were always sent forward asrapidly as possible, and added that certain delays had arisen from theextremely dangerous condition of Carhart's road-bed. Meantime, notonly rails and ties, but also food and water, were running short outthere at the end of the track.
"What does he say now, Paul?" asked Old Van, after a long silence,during which these bronzed, dusty men sat looking at the flickeringlamp or at the heaps of papers, books, and maps which covered thetable.
Carhart drew a crumpled slip of paper from his pocket and tossed itacross the table. Old Van spread it out, and read as follows:--
MR. PAUL CARHART: Small delay due to shortage of equipment. Supply train started this morning, however. Regret inconvenience, as by order of Vice-president every effort is being made to supply you regularly.
L. W. PEET, _Division Superintendent_.
"Interesting, isn't it!" said Carhart. "You notice he doesn't say howlong the train has been on the way. It may not get here for thirty-sixhours yet."
"Suppose it doesn't," put in Scribner, "what are we going to do withthe men?"
"Keep them all grading," said Carhart.
"But--"
"Well, what is it? This is a council of war--speak out."
"Just this. Scraping and digging is thirsty work in this sun, and wehaven't water enough for another half day."
"Young Van is due with water."
"Yes, he is due, Mr. Carhart, but you told him not to come backwithout it, and he won't."
"Listen!" Outside, in the night, voices sounded, and the creaking ofwagons.
"Here he is now," said Carhart.
Into the dim light before the open tent stepped a gray figure. Hisface was thin and drawn; his hair, of the same dust color as hisclothing, straggled down over his forehead below his broad hat. Henodded at the waiting group, threw off his hat, unslung his armycanteen, and sank down exhausted on the first cot.
Old Van, himself seasoned timber and unable to recognize thelimitations of the human frame, spoke impatiently, "Well, Gus, howmuch did you get?"
"Fourteen barrels."
"Fourteen barrels!" The other men exchanged glances.
"Why--why--" sputtered the elder brother, "that's not enough for theengines!"
"It's all we can get."
"Why didn't you look farther?"
"You'd better look at the mules," Young Van replied simply enough. "Ihad to drive them"--he fumbled at his watch--"an even eighteen hoursto get back to-night." And he added in a whimsical manner that wasstrange to him, "I paid two dollars a barrel, too."
Carhart was watching him closely. "Did you have any trouble with yourmen, Gus?" he asked.
Young Van nodded. "A little."
After a moment, during which his eyes were closed and his musclesrelaxed, he gathered his faculties, lighted a cigarette, and rose.
"Hold on, Gus," said Carhart. "What are you going to do?"
"Bring the barrels up by our tent here. It isn't safe to leave them onthe wagons. The men--some of them--aren't standing it well. Some are'most crazy." He interrupted himself with a short laugh. "Hanged if Iblame them!"
"You'd better go to bed, Gus," said the chief. "I'll look after thewater."
But Young Van broke away from the restraining hand and went out.
Half a hundred laborers were grouped around the water wagons inoppressive silence. Vandervelt hardly gave them a glance.
"Dimond," he called, "where are you?"
A man came sullenly out of the shadows.
"Take a hand here--roll these barrels in by Mr. Carhart's tent." Amurmur spread through the group. More men were crowding up behind. Butthe engineer gave his orders incisively, in a voice that offered noencouragement to insubordination. "You two, there, go over tothe train and fetch some skids. I want a dozen men to helpDimond--you--you--" Rapidly he told them off. "The rest of you getaway from here--quick."
"What you goin' to do with that water?" The voice rose from the thickof the crowd. It drew neither explanation nor reproof from Young Van;but his manner, as he turned his back and, pausing only to lightanother cigarette, went rapidly to work, discouraged the laborers, andin groups of two and three they drifted off to their quarters.
The men worked rapidly, for Mr. Carhart's assistant had a way oftaking hold himself, lending a hand here or a shoulder there, andgiving low, sharp orders which the stupidest men understood. As theyrolled the barrels along the sides of the tent and stood them on endbetween the guy ropes Paul Carhart stood by, a rolled-up map in hishand, and watched his assistant. He took it all in--the cowed, angrysilence of the men, the unfailing authority of the young engineer. Noone felt the situation more keenly than Carhart, but he had set hisworries aside for the moment to observe the methods of the youngerman. Once he caught himself nodding with approval. And then, when hewas about to turn away and resume his study at the table beneath thelantern, an odd scene took place. The work was done. Vandervelt stoodwiping his forehead with a handkerchief which had darkened from whiteto rich gray. The laborers had gone; but Dimond remained.
"That's all, Dimond," said Vandervelt.
But the man lingered.
"Well, what do you want?"
"It's about this water. The boys want to know if they ain't to have adrink."
"No; no more to-night," replied Young Van.
"But--but--" Dimond hesitated.
"Wait a minute," said Van abruptly. He entered the tent, found hiscanteen where he had dropped it, brought it out, and handed it toDimond.
"This is my canteen. It's all I have a right to give anybody. Now,shut up and get out."
Dimond hesitated, then swung the canteen over his shoulder anddisappeared without a word.
"Gus," said Paul Carhart, quietly.
"Oh! I didn't see you there."
"Wasn't that something of a gallery play?"
"No, I don't think it was. It will show them that we are dealingsquarely with them. I had a deuce of a time on the ride, and Dimondreally tried, I think, to keep the men within bounds. They arechildren, you know,--children with whiskey throats added,--and theycan't stand it as we can."
"Gus," said the chief, taking the boy's arm and drawing him toward thetent, "it's time you got to sleep. I shall need you to-morrow."
The other engineers were still sitting about the table, talking in lowtones. Carhart rejoined them. Young Van dropped on a cot in the rearand fell asleep with his boots on.
"Old Van is telling how the pay-slips came in to-day," said Scribner.
Carhart nodded. "Go ahead." He had found the laborers, headed by theMexicans, so impossibly deliberate in their work that he hadplanned out a system of paying by the piece. When the locomotivewhistle blew at night, each man was handed a slip stating the amountdue him. At the end of t
he week the slips were to be cashed, andto-day the first payment had been made. "Go ahead," he repeated. "Howmuch did it cost us?"
"'It's all I have a right to give anybody.'"]
"About seventy-five dollars more than last week," replied Old Van. "Sothat, on the whole, we got a little more work out of them. But here'swhat happened. When the whistle blew and I got out my satchel, nobodycame. I called to a couple of them to hurry up if they wanted theirpay, but they shook their heads. Finally, just two men came up andhanded in all the slips."
"Two men!" exclaimed Carhart.
"Yes. One was the cook, Jack Flagg. He had fully two-thirds of theslips. The other was his assistant, the one they call Charlie. He hadthe rest. I called some of the laborers up and asked what it meant,but they said it was all right that way."
"So you gave them the whole pay-roll?"
"Every cent."
Carhart frowned. "That won't do," he said. "A man who can clean outthe camp in less than a week will breed more trouble than a waterfamine."
There was little more to be said, and soon the council came to aclose. Scribner went promptly to sleep. Young Van awoke, and with amumbled "good night" staggered across after Scribner, to his sleepingtent. And then, for an hour, Paul Carhart sat alone, his elbows on thetable, a profile of the line spread out before him. Outside, in thenight, something stirred. He extinguished his lamp and listened.Cautious steps were approaching behind the cluster of tents. A momentmore and he heard a man stumble over a peg and swear aloud.
Carhart stepped out at the rear of the tent and stood waiting. Four orfive shadowy figures slipped into view, caught sight of him, andpaused. While they stood huddled together he made out a pair of broadshoulders towering above the group. There was only one such pair inthe camp, and they belonged to the cook, Jack Flagg.
The silence lasted only a moment. Then, without speaking, the menbroke and ran back into the darkness.
Carhart waited until the camp was silent, then he too, went in and tosleep.
But Young Van, dozing lightly and restlessly, was awakened by thenoise behind the tents. For a few moments he lay still, then he got upand looked out. Down the knoll he could see a dim light, and after alittle he made it out as coming from the mess tent of the laborers.Now and then a low murmur of voices floated up through the desertstillness.
Young Van folded up the legs of his cot, carried it out, laid itacross two of the water barrels, and went to sleep there in the openair.
An hour later the mess tent was still lighted. Within, seated onblocks of timber around a cracker-box, four men were playing poker;and pressing about them was a score of laborers--all, in fact, whocould crowd into the tent. The air was foul with cheap tobacco andwith the hundred odors that cling to working clothes. The eyes of thetwenty or more men were fixed feverishly on the greasy cards, and onthe heaps of the day's pay-slips. By a simple process of eliminationthe ownership of these slips had been narrowed down to the presentplayers--Jack Flagg, his assistant Charlie, Dimond, and a Mexican. Thesilence carried a sense of strain. The occasional coarse jokes andboisterous laughter died down with strange suddenness.
"It's no use," said Flagg, finally, tossing the cards on the box;"they're against us."
The Mexican rose at this, and sullenly left the tent. Dimond, with aconscious laugh, gathered in two-thirds of the slips and pocketedthem. It was an achievement to clean out Jack Flagg. The remainingthird went to Charlie.
Flagg leaned back, clasped his great knotted hands about one knee, andlooked across at Dimond. Six feet and a third tall in his socks, hardas steel rails, he could have lifted any two of the laborers about himclear of the ground, one in each hand. The lower part of his face washalf covered with his long, ill-kept mustache and the tuft of hairbeneath his under lip. The blue shirt he wore had unmistakably comefrom a military source, but not a man there, not even Charlie--himselfnearly a match for his chief in height and breadth--would have daredask when he had been in the army, nor why or how he had come to leaveit.
"Dimond," said Flagg, "let me have one of those slips a minute."
The nervous light left Dimond's eyes. He threw a suspicious glanceacross the box; then, after a moment, he complied.
Flagg held the slip near the lantern and examined it.
"Eighty cents," he muttered, "eighty cents--and for how much work?"
"Half a day," a laborer replied.
"Half a day's work, and the poor devil gets eighty cents for it!"
"He gets eighty cents! He gets nothing, you'd better say. Dimond,there, is the man that gets it."
"That's no matter. He lost it in fair play. But look at it--look atit!" The giant cook contemptuously turned the slip over in his hand."That devil hounds you like niggers for five hours in the hot sun--hedrives you near crazy with thirst--and then he hands you out thispretty piece of paper with 'eighty cents' wrote on it."
"That's a dollar-sixty a day. We was only getting one-fifty the oldway--on time."
"You was only getting one-fifty, was you?" There was infinite scorn inFlagg's voice; his masterly eye swept the group. "You was gettingone-fifty, and now you're thankful to get ten cents more. Do you knowwhat you are? You're a pack of fools--that's what you are!"
"'Eighty cents,' he muttered, 'and for how muchwork?'"]
"But look here, Jack, what can we do?"
"What can you do?" Flagg paused, glanced at his vis-a-vis. From theexpression of dawning intelligence on Dimond's face it was plain thathe was waking to the suggestion. The slips that he had won to-nightwere worth four hundred dollars to Dimond. Why should not these samebits of paper fetch five hundred or six hundred?
"What can you do?" Flagg repeated. "Oh, but you boys make me weary. Itain't any of my business. I ain't a laborer, and what I do gets wellpaid for. But when I look around at you poor fools, I can't sit stillhere and let you go on like this. You ask me what you can do? Well,now, suppose we think it over a little. Here you are, four hundred ofyou. This man Carhart offers you one-fifty a day to come out here intothe desert and dig your own graves. Why did he set that price on yourlives? Because he knew you for the fools you are. Do you think for aminute he could get laborers up there in Chicago, where he comes from,for one-fifty? Not a bit of it! Do you think he could get men inPennsylvania, in New York State, for one-fifty? Not a bit of it! If hewas building this line in New York State, he'd be paying you twodollars, two-fifty, maybe three. And he'd be glad to get you at theprice. And he'd meet your representative like a gentleman, and steparound lively and walk Spanish for you, if you so much as winked."
Dimond's eyes were flashing with excitement, though he kept themlowered to the cards. His face was flushed. Flagg saw that the seed hehad planted was growing, and he swept on, working up the situationwith considerable art.
"Think it over, boys, think it over. This man Carhart finds he can'tdrive you fast enough at one-fifty, so what does he do? He gets up hispay-slip scheme so's you will kill yourselves for the chance of makingten cents more. And you stand around and let him do it--never a peepfrom you! Now, what's the situation? Here's this man, five hundredmiles from nowhere; he's got to rush the job. We know that, don't we?"
"Yes," muttered Dimond, with a quick breath, "we know that, allright."
"Well, now, what about it?" Flagg looked deliberately about the eagergroup. "What about it? There's the situation. Here he is, and here youare. He's in a hurry. If he was to find out, all of a sudden, that hecouldn't drive you poor devils any farther; if he was to find out thatyou had just laid down and said you wouldn't do another stroke of workon these terms, what about it? What could he do?" Flagg paused again,to let the suggestion find its mark.
"But he ain't worrying any. He knows you for the low-spirited lot youare. So what does he do? He sends out a bunch of you and makes youride three days to get water, and then he stacks the barrels aroundhis tent, where he and his gang can get all they want, and tells youto go off and suck your thumbs. Much he cares about you."
Dimond raised his
eyes. "Talk plain, Jack," he said in a low voice."What is it? What's the game?"
Flagg gave him a pitying glance. "You're still asking what's thegame," he replied, and went on half absently, "Let's see. How much ishe paying the iron squad--how much was that, now?"
"Two dollars," cried a voice.
"Two dollars--yes, that was it; that was it. He is paying them twodollars a day, and he has set them to digging and grading along withyou boys that only gets one-sixty. I happened to notice that to-day,when I was a-walking up that way. Those iron-squad boys was out withpicks and shovels, a-doing the same work as the rest of you, only theywas doing it for forty cents more. They ain't common laborers, yousee. There's a difference. You couldn't expect them to swing a pickfor one-sixty a day. It would be beneath 'em. They're sort o' swells,you see--"
He paused. There was a long silence.
"Boys,"--it was Dimond speaking,--"boys, Jack Flagg is right. If itcosts Carhart two per for the iron squad, it's got to cost him thesame for us!"
* * * * *
Carhart was turning the delay to some account by shutting himself upwith his maps and plans and reports and figures. At ten o'clock on thefollowing morning he heard a step without the tent, and, looking up,saw Young Vandervelt before him.
"There's trouble up ahead, Mr. Carhart."
"What is it?"
"The laborers have quit. They demand an increase of ten per cent intheir pay."
"All right, let them have it."
"I'll tell my brother. He said no, we shouldn't give in an inch."
"You tell him I say to let them have what they ask."
Young Van hurried back with the order. Carhart quietly resumed theproblems before him.
Old Van, when he received the chief's message, swore roundly.
"What's Paul thinking of!" he growled. "He ought to know that this isonly the tip of the wedge. They'll come up another ten per cent beforethe week's out."
But Old Van failed to do justice to the promptness of Jack Flagg. Atthree in the afternoon the demand came; and for the second time thatday the scrapers lay idle, and the mules wagged their ears in lazycomfort.
"Well!" cried Old Van, sharply. "Well! It's what I told you, isn't it!Now, I suppose you still believe in running to Paul with the story."
"Yes," replied the younger brother, firmly, "of course. He's theboss."
"All right, sir! All right, sir!" The veteran engineer turned away indisgust as his brother started rapidly back to the camp. Thelaborers, meanwhile, covered with sweat and dust, tantalized by theinfrequent sips of water doled out to them, lay panting in a long,irregular line on the newly turned earth.
"Well, Gus," said Carhart, with a wry smile, at sight of the dustyfigure before the tent, "are they at it again?"
"They certainly are."
"They don't mean to lose any time, do they? How much is it now?"
"Ten per cent more. What shall we do?"
"Give it to them."
"All right."
"Wait a minute, Gus. Who's their spokesman?
"Dimond."
"Dimond?" Carhart frowned. "Nobody else?"
"No; but the cook has been hanging around a good deal and talking withhim."
"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 theday--the sullen men toiled on under the keen eye of Old Vandervelt. Ifhe had been a driver before, he was a czar now. If he could notcontrol 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 wasmerciless. And foot by foot, rod by rod, the embankment that was tobear 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 silentand useless, hoping against hope that far in the distance he might seethe 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--nPeet!"
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 satisfactionthat the time was not wholly lost; then he went back to the operator'stent and opened communications with Sherman. Sherman expressedsurprise 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--tellhim Mr. Carhart is much obliged. Shut him off. Now call Paradise. Sayto him--can't you get him?"
"Yes--all right now."
"Say--'When did the supply train pass you on Tuesday?'--got that?"
"Yes--one minute. 'When--did supply--train pass--you--Tuesday?'"
"Now what does he say?"
"'Supply--train'--he says--'passed--hereWednesday--two--P.M.--west-bound.' There, you see, it didn't leave onTuesday at all. It's only a few hours to Paradise from Sherman."
Carhart had Peet's message still crumpled in his pocket. Hestraightened it out and read it again. "All right," he said to theoperator, "that will do." And as he walked slowly and thoughtfully outinto the blazing sunlight he added to himself: "So, Mr. Peet, that'sthe 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 withanger.
"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 thetrain. Tell them Mr. Carhart wants to talk to them."
Vandervelt stared at his chief in downright bewilderment. Then heturned to obey the order; and as he walked away Carhart caught themuttered words, "Organize a debating society, eh? Well, that's the onefool thing left to do!"
But the men did not take it in just this way; in fact, they did notknow how to take it. They hesitated, and looked about for counsel.Even Dimond was disturbed. The boss had a quiet, highly effective wayof saying and doing precisely what he meant to say and do. Dimond wasnot certain of his own ability to stand directly between the men andPaul Carhart. There was something about the cool way in which theywere ordered before him that was--well, businesslike. He turned andglanced at Flagg. The cook scowled and motioned him forward, and sothe 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 lumberthat lay beside the track. He awaited them quietly, the only man amongthe hundreds there who appeared unconscious of the excitement in theair. The elder Vandervelt stood apart, scowling at the performance.The younger scented danger, and, climbing up on the train, walked backover 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 avoice which, though it was not loud, was heard distinctly by every manthere.
There was a moment's hesitation; then the laborers, or those who werenot studying the ground, looked at Dimond.
The telegraph operator stepped out of his little tent, and stoodlooking at the scene with startled eyes. Up ahead, the iron squad,uncertain whether to continue their work, had paused, and now theywere gazing back. As the seconds slipped away their exclamations ofas
tonishment died out. All eyes were fixed on the group in the centreof the semicircle.
For at this critical moment, there was, it seemed, a hitch. Dimond'sbroad hat was pulled down until it half concealed his eyes. He stoodmotionless. At his elbow was Jack Flagg, muttering orders that thenominal leader did not seem to hear.
"Flagg, step out here!"
It was Carhart speaking, in the same quiet, distinct manner. The soundof his voice broke the tension. The men all looked up, even thenerveless Dimond. To Young Van they were oddly like a room full ofschoolboys as they stood silently waiting for Flagg to obey. Thegiant cook himself was very like a schoolboy, as he glanced uneasilyaround, caught no sign of fight in the obedient eyes about him, soughtcounsel 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 Flaggadvance 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 beenbullied into a false position, yet cannot hit upon the way out.
"Well," he said, glowering down on the figure of the engineer incharge--and very thin and short Carhart looked before him--"well, whatdo you want of me?"
For reply Carhart coolly looked him over. Then he snatched up a pieceof scantling, whirled it once around his head, and caught Jack Flaggsquarely 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, swearingcopiously and reaching for his hip pocket.
Young Van saw the motion. He knew that Paul Carhart seldom carried aweapon, 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, "youclear out. You'd better do it fast, or the men'll finish where I leftoff."
The cook glanced behind him, and his eyes flitted about the semicirclefrom face to face. He was keen enough to take in the situation, andin a moment he had ducked under the couplers between two cars anddisappeared.
"Well," exclaimed Young Van, pocketing his revolver, "it didn't takeyou long to wind that up, Mr. Carhart."
"To wind it up?" Carhart repeated, turning with a queer expressiontoward his young assistant. "To begin it, you'd better say." Then hecomposed his features and faced the laborers. "Get back to your work,"he said.