Ironheart

Merrick sat at a table in the log cabin that served him as field headquarters. A cheap lamp pinned down one corner of the map in front of him, a jar of tobacco the opposite one. Tug Hollister looked over his shoulder. He was here to get instructions for his new assignment.

Piñon knots crackled cheerfully in the fireplace, emphasizing the comfort within the cabin as compared with the weather outside. It was raining heavily and had been for forty-eight hours.

“Here’s where the engineers of the Reclamation Service ran their lines,” Merrick said, following with the point of a pencil a crooked course from Sweetwater Dam to the upper mouth of Elk Creek Cañon. “They made a mistake, probably because they were short of time. It was clear that the water from the dam had to get down to the Flat Tops by way of Elk Creek if at all. As soon as they learned that the upper entrance to the cañon is higher than the site of the dam by eighty feet they admitted the project would not do. All the reports are based on that. Water won’t flow uphill. Therefore no feasible connecting canal could be built.”

Hollister walked round and took the chair at the other side of the table. “Irrefutable logic,” he said.

“Absolutely. But I wasn’t sure of the facts upon which it was based.”

“You mean you weren’t sure the canal had to run to the upper mouth of the cañon.”

The chief of construction looked at his assistant quickly. This young fellow had more than once surprised Merrick by the clearness of his deductions.

“Exactly that. So I proceeded to find out for myself.”

“And you learned that you could carry it over the hills and down the draw where Prowers stampeded the cattle.”

“How do you know that?” demanded Merrick.

“More irrefutable logic.” Hollister tilted back his chair and smiled. “There’s only one break in the walls of the cañon in the whole five miles. That’s at the draw near the lower mouth. Since the ditch must get into the foothills from the gorge and can’t reach them any other way, and since it can’t enter the cañon at the upper end on account of the law of gravity, I’m driven to the alternative—and that’s the draw.”

“You use your brains,” admitted the older man dryly. “Of course, you’re right. We’re going down the draw.”

“Then the survey you had me make of the upper part of the cañon was camouflage.”

“Yes.” A smile of grim amusement broke the lines of his firm mouth. “Black’s homestead claim doesn’t reach as far down as the draw. Prowers thought it would be enough to close the upper mouth of the gorge to us. So we don’t touch his land at all—don’t come within miles of it in point of fact. To make sure Prowers won’t jump in later, I’ve had a dummy file on the draw.”

Hollister looked at his chief with admiration. The man had all the qualities that make for success—technical skill, audacity, confidence in himself, steadiness, force, restrained imagination, and a certain capacity for indomitable perseverance. He would go a long way, in spite of the fact that he was not quite the ideal leader, or perhaps because of the lack of the fire that inspires subordinates. For he was not one to let a generous enthusiasm sweep him from the moorings of common sense.

“You’ve made the canal survey to the draw?” the younger man asked.

“Yes. A hogback below Jake’s Fork bars the way.”

“You’re going round it?”

“Can’t. Through it. You’re to begin running the tunnel to-morrow.”

They discussed plans, details, equipment necessary to attack the hogback.

Hollister moved camp next day in a pelting rain and set up his tents on the soggy hillside close to the ridge. For a week the rain kept up almost steadily. The whole country was sloshing with moisture. During a visit to the main camp for a consultation with Merrick, he went down to the dam and observed that a heavy flow of water was pouring into the reservoir. With an ordinary winter’s snowfall in the mountains, Sweetwater would be full to the brim long before the spring freshets had ended.

Day by day the drills bored deeper into the hogback and the tunnel grew longer. By means of a chance rider of the hills, word reached Prowers of it. He and Don Black, who was out on bond signed by Jake, rode over to see what this new development meant.

“What do you fellows think you’re doing?” asked the cattleman in his high, crackling voice.

“Mining,” answered Hollister.

“What for? What’s the idea?”

“We’re driving a tunnel.”

“I got eyes, young fellow. What for?”

“Mr. Merrick didn’t tell me what he wanted it for. He told me to get busy. Mine not to reason why, Mr. Prowers.”

“Smart, ain’t you, by jiminy by jinks?”

A foreman came up and propounded a difficulty to Hollister. That young man walked briskly away to look the matter over and did not return. The two riders hung around for a time, then disappeared over the brow of a hill.

“The old man’s got something to think about,” the foreman said to Hollister, chuckling.

“Yes, and his thinking will bring him straight to one conclusion; that we’re not going to run through Black’s homestead claim. When he figures out where we are going, he’ll start something.”

“I don’t quite see what he can do.”

“Nor I, but we didn’t foresee what he would do last time. He killed poor Coyle, and he didn’t leave enough evidence to prove in a law court that he did it.”

“He’d ought to be behind the bars right now—him an’ that Black too,” the foreman said bitterly.

“But they’re not—and they won’t be. That’s his reputation, to do all sorts of deviltry and get away with it. That’s why men won’t cross him, why they’re so afraid of him. He’s got no scruples and he’s as cunning as the devil.”

“I’ve heard he’s a tough nut, too. He don’t look it, with them skim-milk eyes of his and that little squeaky voice.”

“No. Size him up beside Merrick, say, and he doesn’t look effective,” admitted Hollister. “But he’s one of these quiet sure killers, according to the stories they tell. Not a fighting man, unless he’s got his back to the wall. You’ve heard of dry-gulching. It means shooting an enemy from ambush when he doesn’t know you’re within fifty miles. That’s Prowers’s style. He gives me a creepy feeling.”

“Here, too. You know that fool cackling laugh of his. Well, the other day when he was pulling off the ha-ha I got a look from him that jolted me. Lord, it dried my blood up. I’d hate to meet him in one o’ them dry gulches if he had any reason for wantin’ me outa the way.”

“Yes.” Hollister came back to business. “Believe I’d increase the size of the shots, Tom. We’re in pretty hard rock right now.”

They were running the tunnel at the narrowest point of the hogback, which rose at a sharp angle. The snows began before it was more than half finished. Not willing to risk being cut off from supplies, Hollister had enough staples hauled in to last him till he would be through. What needs might come up unexpectedly could be met by packers coming in over the drifts from the dam.

Still Prowers had not shown his hand. Hollister began to think him less dangerous than he had supposed. The big bore grew longer every day. In a few weeks it would be finished. Surely the cattleman would not wait to strike until after the job was done.