Sinclair's discharge was a matter of comment for the whole country,from the ranch-houses to the ranges. For a time Sinclair himselfrefused utterly to believe that McCloud could keep him off thedivision. His determination to get back led him to carry his appeal tothe highest quarters, to Glover and to Bucks himself. But Sinclair,able as he was, had passed the limit of endurance and had long beenmarked for an accounting. He had been a railroad man to whom the Westspelled license, and, while a valuable man, had long been a source ofdemoralization to the forces of the division. In the railroad lifeclearly defined plans are often too deeply laid to fathom, and it wasimpossible for even so acute a man as Sinclair to realize that he wasnot the victim of an accident, but that he must look to his own recordfor the real explanation of his undoing. He was not the only man tosuffer in the shake-out that took place under the new superintendent;but he seemed the only one unable to realize that Bucks, patient andlong-suffering, had put McCloud into the mountain saddle expressly todeal with cases such as his. In the West sympathy is quick but notalways discerning. Medicine Bend took Sinclair's grievance as its own.No other man in the service had Sinclair's following, and within aweek petitions were being circulated through the town not askingmerely but calling for his reinstatement. The sporting element of thecommunity to a man were behind Sinclair because he was a sport; therange men were with him because his growing ranch on the Frenchmanmade him one of them; his own men were with him because he was afar-seeing pirate and divided liberally. Among the railroad men, too,he had much sympathy. Sinclair had always been lavish with presents;brides were remembered by Sinclair, and babies were not forgotten. Hecould sit up all night with a railroad man that had been hurt, and hecould play poker all night with one that was not afraid of gettinghurt. In his way, he was a division autocrat, whose vices werevarnished by virtues such as these. His hold on the people was sostrong that they could not believe the company would not reinstatehim. In spite of the appointment of his successor, Phil Hailey, amountain boy and the son of an old-time bridge foreman, rumor assignedagain and again definite dates for Sinclair's return to work; but thedates never materialized. The bridge machinery of the big divisionmoved on in even rhythm. A final and determined appeal from thedeposed autocrat for a hearing at last brought Glover and MorrisBlood, the general manager, to Medicine Bend for a final conference.Callahan too was there with his pipe, and they talked quietly withSinclair--reminded him of how often he had been warned, showed him howcomplete a record they had of his plundering, and Glover gave to himBucks's final word that he could never again work on the mountaindivision.
A pride grown monstrous with prestige long undisputed broke under thefinal blow. The big fellow put his face in his hands and burst intotears, and the men before him sat confused and uncomfortable at hisoutburst of feeling. It was only for a moment. Sinclair raised hishand, shook his long hair, and swore an oath against the company andthe men that curled the very smoke in Callahan's pipe, Callahan,outraged at the insolence, sprang to his feet, resenting Sinclair'sfury. Choking with anger he warned him not to go too far. The two wereready to spring at each other's throat when Farrell Kennedy steppedbetween them. Sinclair, drunk with rage, called for McCloud; but hesubmitted quietly to Kennedy's reproof, and with a semblance ofself-control begged that McCloud be sent for. Kennedy, withoutcomplying, gradually pushed Sinclair out of the room and, withoutseeming officious, walked with him down the hall and quite out of thebuilding.