Ironheart

Betty rose at daybreak and got Justin Merrick on the telephone. After preliminary greetings she asked a question.

“Would it be convenient for you to come down this morning? There’s something I want to talk over with you if you have time.”

“I’ll make it convenient,” came the answer. “Anything serious happened?”

“That tramp Cig came back last night to fire the wheat. He shot Father. No, he’s not badly hurt, but—”

“I’ll be right down.”

It was like Merrick that he did not wait for breakfast. He was at the Diamond Bar K as soon as his car could bring him.

Betty set out a breakfast for him in the dining-room and waited on him herself with the aid of Ruth, who trotted back and forth with honey, syrup, and butter for his hot cakes. Miss Ruth was not exactly fond of Merrick. He did not give himself out enough. But she appreciated him. He had some good ideas about bringing her candy, teddy bears, and dolls.

When Betty had reassured her fiancé about Mr. Reed and answered such questions as he put about the fire and the man-hunt, she came to the real reason for asking him to call.

“It’s about that young man who was with the tramps,” she explained. “You offered to give him work. I wish you would, Justin. You’re so reliable. It might be a great thing for him to be under you—the very thing he needs.”

Merrick was not especially pleased at being chosen as the agent to reform a vagrant. He was a very busy man. Also, he had a theory that every man must stand on his own feet. But he had made a promise. He did not make many, but he always kept those he made.

“Let’s get this right, Beth,” he answered, smiling. “I said I’d put him to work and see what he had in him. I’m willing to do that. It’ll be up to him to make good. No special favors or sympathy or anything of that sort.”

Betty met his smile. “I don’t think you’d find it very easy to waste any sympathy on this young man. He’s not that kind. If you’ll give him work, that’s all you can do for him. Good of you, Justin. I’ll not forget it. I’ve got him on my conscience, you know.”

“Did he ask for work? Will he take it?”

“I don’t know. He didn’t ask us for it. He’s got his foolish pride. But he doesn’t know who you are. I mean—that I’m friendly with you or anything. Mr. Daniels wants him to stay in the neighborhood for a few days. I think he’d be glad to get a job with you if he felt you really needed him.”

“Then he’ll get a chance of one,” Justin said. “Probably I can’t put him on specialized work. Did he mention what his trade is?”

“No. He doesn’t look as though he’d had a trade. Maybe he was studying for some profession.”

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know. At the bunkhouse, maybe, or wandering about the place. Shall I send for him?”

“No; I’d better meet him by chance and bring the thing up casually, don’t you think?”

“Yes, that would be better,” she agreed.

Having finished breakfast, Merrick went out to run down his man. He found presently a ragged young fellow sitting on the tongue of an old wagon puffing nervously at a cigarette.

The engineer nodded a good-morning at him and stopped. “Not so hot as yesterday,” he said by way of introduction.

“No,” assented the ragged one gloomily.

“I’ve learned that Sheriff Daniels wants you to stay around a few days. I’m in charge of the Sweetwater Dam irrigation project. We need men. Want a job?”

“If it’s one that suits me,” answered the tramp, eyeing Merrick ungraciously. He recognized the man’s strength and force. Every line of him, every glance, every inflection of the voice helped to bear out the impression of success he radiated. Clearly he was masterful and dominant, but the younger man did not like him less for that.

“What can you do? What’s your line?”

“I’m an engineer.”

“What kind?”

“I’ve done more bridge-building than anything else.”

Merrick looked him over more carefully. “College man?”

“Massachusetts Tech.”

“My name’s Merrick.”

The stranger hesitated a fraction of a second. “You can call me Jones.”

“One of my men quit yesterday. Would you care to take a try at it? It’s cement work.”

The man who had given his name as Jones was suffering the tortures of the damned. He wanted a shot in the arm to lift him out of himself, and he had thrown away his supply of the drug. Just now everything else in the world was unimportant beside this ravenous craving that filled his whole being.

“I’d just as soon,” he said without enthusiasm.

Ten minutes later he sat beside Merrick in the runabout. The car was taking the stiff grade of the road which climbed the Flat Tops to the hills.