In the Shadow of the Hills by George C. Shedd (the best ebook reader for android txt) 📕

he looks cold enough to be ice when he's asking questions about things, boring into a fellow with his eyes. But he's up against a hard game here."

"Maybe. But a man doesn't get a name like that for just parting his hair nice," Atkinson remarked. "He told me to stretch 'em"--a horny thumb jerked towards the workmen--"and you'll see some real work hereabouts for the rest of the afternoon."

"And to-morrow will be Sunday three days ahead of time."

"Sure."

"What then?"

"You know as much about that as I do. Make your own guess." With which the speaker started off.

The morrow was "Sunday" with a vengeance. The majority of the laborers demanded their pay checks the minute work ceased at the end of the afternoon; Atkinson tightened orders, and by noon next day the last of the Mexicans had quit. The fires in the stationary engines were banked; the concrete mixers did not revolve; the conveyers were still; the dam site wore an air of abandonment. In headquarters the engineers worked over tracings or notes; and in the commissary store the half-dozen white foremen gathered to smoke and yarn. That was the extent of the activity.

Two days passed. After dinner Weir held a terse long-distance telephone conversation, the only incident of the second day; and it was overheard by no one. On the fourth day this was repeated. At dawn of the fifth he despatched all of the foremen, enginemen and engineers with wagons to Bowenville; and about the middle of the afternoon, accompanied by his assistant, Meyers, and Atkinson, he sped in the manager's car down the river for San Mateo, two miles below the camp.

Of the town Steele Weir had had but a glimpse as he flashed through on his way to the dam the morning of his arrival twelve days earlier. It had but a single main street, from which littered side streets and alleys ran off between mud walls of houses. The county court house sat among cottonwood trees in an open space. A few pretentious dwellings, homes of white men and the well-to-do Mexicans, arose among long low adobe structures that were as brown and characterless as the sun-dried bricks of which they were built. That was San Mateo.

Before doors and everywhere along the street workmen from the dam were idling. As Meyers brought the automobile to a stop before the court house, news of Weir's visit spread miraculously and Mexicans began to saunter forward to hear the engineer's words of surrender, couched in the form of a suave invitation to return to work. While the crowd gathered the three Americans sat quietly in the car. Then Steele Weir stood up.

"Who can speak for these men?" he demanded.

A lean Mexican with a long shiny black mustache and a thin neck protruding from a soiled linen collar elbowed a way to the front.

"I'm authorized to speak for them," he announced, disclosing his white teeth in an engaging smile.

"Are you one of the workmen?"

"No. I'm a lawyer and represent them in this controversy. By your favor therefore let us proceed. You've come to persuade them to resume work, and that is well. But there are conditions to be agreed upon before they return, which with your permission I shall state--first, no harsh driving of the workmen by foremen; second, full wages for the days they have been idle; third, no Sunday work."

The engineer regarded the speaker without change of countenance.

"Have you finished?" he asked.

"Yes. There are minor matters, but they can be adjusted later. These are the important points."

"Very well, this is my reply: I, not the workmen, make the terms for work on this job--I, not these men, name the conditions on which they may return. And they are as follows: no pay for the idle days; if the workmen return they agree to work as ordered by superintendent and foremen; and last, they must start for the dam within an hour or not at all."

Incredulity, amazement rested on the Mexican spokesman's face as he listened to this curt rejoinder.

"Preposterous, impossible, absurd!" he exclaimed. Then revolving on his heels so as to face the crowd he swiftly repeated in Spanish what Weir had said.

An angry stir followed, murmurs, sullen looks, a number of oaths and jeers. The lawyer turned again to the engineer, spreading his hands in a wide gesture and lifting his brows with exaggerated significance.

"You see, Mr. Weir, your position is hopeless," he remarked.

"Ask them if they definitely refuse."

The lawyer put the question to the crowd. A chorus of shouts vehemently gave affirmation--a refusal immediate, disdainful, unanimous.

"We'll now discuss the men's terms," the lawyer remarked politely and with an air of satisfaction.

"There's nothing more to discuss. The matter is settled. They have refused; they need not seek work at the dam again. Start the car, Meyers."

The roar of the machine drowned the indignant lawyer's protest, the crowd hastened to give an opening and the conference was at an end.

"Drive to Vorse's saloon; I want a look at Vorse," said Weir. "I see the place a short way ahead."

When they entered the long low adobe building an anemic-appearing Mexican standing at the far end of the bar languidly started forward to serve them, but a bald-headed, hawk-nosed man seated at a desk behind the cigar-case laid aside his newspaper, arose and checked the other by a sidewise jerk of his head.

He received their orders for beer and lifted three dripping bottles from a tub of water at his feet. His eyes passed casually over Steele Weir's face, glanced away, then came back for a swift unblinking scrutiny. The eyes his own met were as hard, stony and inscrutable as his own. Finally Vorse, the saloon-keeper, turned his gaze towards the window and extracting a quill tooth-pick from a vest pocket began thoughtfully to pick his teeth.

"You're the new manager at the dam?" he asked presently, still considering the street through the window.

"I am."

"And your name is Weir?"

"You've got it right."

The questions ended there. The three men from camp slowly consumed their beer and exchanged indifferent remarks. At the end of five minutes the Mexican lawyer, clutching the arm of an elderly, gray-mustached man, entered the saloon.

They lined up at the bar nearby the others. The older of the pair regarded the trio shrewdly, laid a calf-bound book that he carried under his arm upon the counter and ordered "a little bourbon." When he had swallowed this, he addressed the men from the engineering camp.

"Which of you is Mr. Weir?"

"I am he," Steele replied.

"Mr. Martinez here has solicited me, Mr. Weir, to use my offices in explaining to you the workmen's point of view in the controversy that exists relative to the work. I'm Senator Gordon, a member of the state legislature, and I have no interest in the matter beyond seeing an amicable and just arrangement effected."

Steele Weir fixed his eyes on the speaker with an intentness, a cold penetration, that seemed to bore to the very recesses of his mind. In that look there was something questioning and something menacing.

"There's no controversy and hence no need of your services. The men stopped work, refused to return, and now the case is closed."

"My dear sir, let us talk it over," said the Senator, bringing forth a pair of spectacles and setting the bow upon his nose.

The engineer's visage failed to relax at this pacific proposal.

"I gave them their chance and they declined; they'll have no other," he stated. "Those men have browbeaten the company long enough. They refused, and as I anticipated that refusal I made preparations accordingly; a hundred and fifty white workmen arrived at Bowenville from Denver this morning and a hundred and fifty more will come to-morrow. They will do the work."

The Senator's lips quivered and the upper one lifted in a movement like a snarl, showing tobacco-stained teeth.

"The matter isn't closed, understand that," he snapped out. "We have the directors' promise no outside labor shall be brought in here for this job, and the promise shall be kept."

"The new men go to work in the morning," Weir said.

"You'll repent of this action, young man, you'll repent of it." The Senator seized the whisky bottle and angrily poured himself a second drink. "You'll repent of it as sure as your name is--is--whatever it is."

The engineer took a step nearer the older man. His face now was as hard as granite.

"Weir is my name," he said. "Did you ever hear it before?"

"Weir--Weir?" came in a questioning mutter.

"Yes, Weir."

The speaker's eyes held the Senator's in savage leash, and a slight tremble presently began to shake the old man. Atkinson and Meyers and even the volatile Mexican lawyer, Martinez, remained unstirring, for in the situation they suddenly sensed something beyond their ken, some current of deep unknown forces, some play of fierce, obscure and fateful passion.

A shadow of gray stole over Gordon's lineaments.

"You are--are the son of----" came gasping forth.

"I am. His son."

"And--and----"

"And I know what happened thirty years ago in this selfsame room!"

The whisky that the Senator had poured into his glass suddenly slopped over his fingers; his figure all at once appeared more aged, hollow, bent. Without further word, with his hand still shaking, he set the glass on the bar, mechanically picked up the law book and walked feebly towards the door.

Steele Weir turned his gaze on the saloon-keeper, Vorse. The man's right hand was under the bar and he seemed to be awaiting the engineer's next move, taut, tight-lipped, malignant.

"That was for you too, Vorse," was flung at him. "One Weir went out of here, but another has returned."

And he led his companions away.


CHAPTER II

A COMEDY--AND SOMETHING ELSE

Towards noon one day a week later Steele Weir, headed for Bowenville in his car, had gained Chico Creek, half way between camp and San Mateo, when he perceived that another machine blocked the ford. About the wheels of the stalled car the shallow water rippled briskly, four or five inches deep; entirely deep enough, by all appearances, to keep marooned in the runabout the girl sitting disconsolately at the wheel.

She was a very attractive-looking girl, Steele noted casually as he brought his own car to a halt and sprang out to join her, wading the water with his laced boots. As he approached he perceived that she had a slender well-rounded figure, fine-spun brown hair under her hat brim, clear brown eyes and the pink of peach blossoms in her soft smooth cheeks.

But her look of relief vanished when she distinguished his face and her shoulders squared themselves.

"Has your engine stopped?" he inquired.

"Yes."

"I'll look into the hood."

"I prefer that you would not."

For an instant surprise marked his countenance.

"You mean that you desire to remain here?" he asked.

"I don't wish to remain here, but I choose that in preference to your aid."

The man, who had bent forward to lift one cover of the engine, straightened up at that. He considered her intently and in silence for a time, marking her heightened color, the haughty poise of her head, the firm set of her lips.

"To my knowledge, I never saw you before in