Weston explained that the old man was known in the camp only as Utah Banning. For years he had been too old for any active work. No one knew how he managed to exist. On the edge of the town, furthest from the river, he lived alone in an adobe hut. Roy was disturbed by what had happened, but when Weston told him this was the old man’s nightly experience, the boy tried to dismiss the incident.
On the way to their boarding house, Weston pointed out the office of the Utah Mining and Development Company. It was a one-story building, covered with tin pressed in imitation of stone, with a large enclosed yard in the rear. As they passed the dark structure, it was almost like meeting an old friend to read on the big, plate-glass window the words, “R. C. Cook, Manager,” in brilliant gold letters.
“Them fellers,” remarked Weston, in passing, “don’t make no great splurge, but they’re the Rothchilds er the Stan’ard Oil Company er the Pierpont Morgans o’ this land. An’ when ye speak o’ the firm yer goin’ to work fur, ye don’t have to say nothin’ but ‘Company’—ever’body knows.”
Weston and Roy were just finishing a hot breakfast of tortillas and chili-con-carne about eight o’clock the next morning—the boarding house was an adobe structure with an interior court and conducted in Mexican style—when there was a clutter of pony hoofs on the sandy street without and an energetic, middle-aged man, much better dressed than those Roy had seen the night before, came striding into the court where the new arrivals were dining.
“Well, Sink,” he exclaimed in a quick, pleasant voice, “thought you’d surprise me, eh? Howdy?”
He reached out his hand, and looked inquiringly at Roy.
“Had to come on business,” answered Weston, with a chuckle. “Brung my friend hyar. I kind o’ thought I’d stay awhile lessen ye’ve changed yur mind.”
“Job’s open. Glad to have you,” added the newcomer. “Heard you blew in last night—from one o’ the boys.”
“Shake hands with Mr. Osborne,” interrupted Weston, by way of introducing Roy and the stranger. “Roy, this is Mr. Cook, o’ the ‘Company.’”
The boy sprang forward and clasped Mr. Cook’s hand vigorously.
“I see you don’t know who I am,” he exclaimed with a smile. “I reckon they didn’t send you word. I’ve been sent out here by Mr. Atkinson, of the American Aeroplane Company, to work for you.”
Mr. Cook almost dropped his hat. Stuffing it under his arm, he clasped Roy’s hand in both his and then patted him on the back.
“Well, sir, my boy, those are about the welcomest words I’ve heard in a long time. I’m sure glad to see you. And you’ve got your machine with you?”
Weston smiled and answered for Roy:
“That’s what brung me, Colonel. Old Doolin’s got her down to the corral.”
“You don’t say so,” exclaimed Manager Cook. “The whole danged shebang?”
“Everything,” said Roy, laughing. “And I’m glad to meet you. I’m ready to get busy, too. I’ve been a long time gettin’ here.”
“The whole business?” went on Mr. Cook, as if the news was too good to be true.
“If it isn’t,” said Roy, with another smile, “I’ll be pretty well disappointed.”
“Well, sir,” went on Mr. Cook, looking at Roy again and patting him on the back, almost affectionately, “you’re about ten or fifteen years younger than I thought you’d be.” Then he sobered, suddenly. “They told you what the work was, did they?”
“I understand, perfectly,” answered Roy. “I can do it.”
“That’s the talk,” snapped Mr. Cook. “Come,” he added, glancing around at the rather squalid courtyard. “Let’s go over to the office and talk it over. Where’s your baggage?” he added, turning to Roy.
“Down at the corral.”
“Well, don’t send it here. You’ll bunk with me. Sink,” he went on, “what d’you mean by steerin’ the boy up against this?” He pointed to the Mexican food.
“I enjoyed it,” exclaimed Roy, smiling.
Mr. Cook sniffed.
“You think you did, youngster. But you’ll find out later that it ain’t fit for white men. Sink’s been here so long he ain’t really white any more,” continued Mr. Cook, with a dig at Weston’s ribs; “but that’s no reason why he should poison you. Keep them things out o’ your system as long as you can. Let’s vamose!”
There was only a short stop at the company’s office, and then all went at once to the corral. But the stay in the company headquarters was long enough to show Roy that he had become connected with no small company. Roy presented his letter of introduction and another from Mr. Atkinson, the president of the aeroplane company, in reference to Roy’s expenses and compensation.
“No trouble about that,” exclaimed Mr. Cook impulsively. “But we won’t stop to thresh over figures this morning. When you get time,” he said to Roy, “make out a statement of all your expenses, and I’ll include the amount in our check to the company. The salary is all right. You won’t find much use for money down here. But, whenever you need any, let me know.”
Roy assured him he had plenty of cash on hand.
“You’re goin’ to stop with us awhile, aren’t you, Sink?” inquired Mr. Cook as they left the office.
“Might as well, I reckon. What’s up?”
Mr. Cook paused, looked first at Weston and then at Roy.
“Plenty adoin’,” he answered. “Glad to see both of you. I can use you right away. You recollect Lang Rury? Well, he’s been up on Montezuma Creek east of the Blue Mountains just this side of Abaja Peak ’bout two months. He’s got some copper ’at’s runnin’ fair an’ he’s got a patch o’ pine timber ’at’s worth more I reckon. But when Rury gets goin’ after copper, you can’t depend much on his judgment ’bout timber. If the timber’s all right, I want to buy it and run it down to the San Juan. You go and find out.”
Copper or cattle, timber or trailing were all alike to Weston. He was to start the next day, using a company horse and pack mule. Doolin was to return to Dolores with the two ponies and the wagon as soon as a load of freight accumulated. This meant cattle hides.
“Well,” said Roy, at last, as he and his companions came upon old Dan, who reclined comfortably in the shade of the wagon drawing on his pipe, “there it is. Shall we unload here?”
“Not much,” answered Mr. Cook, as he eyed the laden wagon with interest. “I’ve been gettin’ ready for you. Your headquarters are back of the office—that’s the Aeroplane Express depot.”
Doolin and Weston soon had the horses harnessed and before nine o’clock the creaking wagon was in position in the corral back of the Company office. In a shed at one side was stored grain and feed, for the Company issued supplies of this sort direct from headquarters. Mr. Cook had made a side excursion on the way back and secured Bluff’s only metal-worker—the camp horseshoer.
“Now,” said Roy, shaking hands with Chris. Hagerman, the mechanic, “I guess Chris. and Dan and I can begin work.”
“Trying to get rid of us,” laughed Mr. Cook. “Don’t you believe it. I’m going to see that airship unpacked and put together, if the whole works have to stop.”
“What’d ye suppose I come fur?” added Weston. “Fur a dollar a mile? And more,” he added for Mr. Cook’s apparent benefit, “I ain’t startin’ fur no timber patch till she’s flew, neither.”
“Good,” shouted Roy. “We’ll all get to work.”
By noon the corral looked like a cross between a hardware store and a sail loft. There was a high mesquite fence around the lot, but that by no means shut out visitors. The news of Roy’s advent had spread over town, and, since a man only visits Bluff to loaf, the quickly assembled audience soon lined the fence.
After examining the enclosure, Roy explained to Mr. Cook that it was by no means large enough to make a start from or a landing in. The manager at once put a squad of men at work removing the mesquite posts forming the fence at the far end of the corral. At first, the boy thought it would be well to erect a shed to shelter the aeroplane. Then he changed his mind about this. In the summer it seldom rained, and it was not improbable that the airship would be employed in the field quite as much as it would be resting in the corral.
The precious gasoline was stored in the feed shed. The precaution in bringing such a quantity of this was a wise one. And yet, before Doolin set out on his return trip to Dolores, Mr. Cook gave him an order to be telegraphed to Denver for a duplicate supply which Doolin was to bring out later in the summer, if needed.
The unloading of the aeroplane was a joy to Roy. As each box and crate was eased from the wagon by twice as many hands as were necessary, it was checked off in the little red book. Nor was a single box opened until every item was accounted for. Then the precise and careful young manager went to the further extreme of arranging each lot in proper numerical order.
All the crates and boxes were fastened with screws. There was no knocking and banging of nailed boards. The spruce section posts, struts and connecting strips came first. As these aluminum-covered, exactly finished parts came out of their protecting canvas covers, it was no longer possible to restrain the curious plainsmen. With a tinkle of sounding spurs, there was a concerted rush, and Roy had to appease the crowd by holding up a couple of long, slender strips.
“That’s it, gentlemen,” he said, laughing. “That’s part of the airship. This afternoon we’ll join ’em. Now, let’s all go and eat.”
“Would you believe it?” asked Mr. Cook, as the crowd good-naturedly took its leave and Roy and his friends made ready for the noonday meal. “But the boys are sort o’ hungry for something besides faro and whisky. I’m glad it amuses ’em.”
“That’s nothing,” remarked Roy. “If you’d open up that outfit in the streets of New York or Chicago, the people’d tramp each other to death to get a sight of it. Everybody’s crazy about airships. And I’ve got it bad,” he concluded, laughing.
Mr. Cook took the entire “aeroplane crew” to his own house, having previously sent word to his cook. He was a bachelor, but he was not “roughing it” in his home life. A Jap cook gave them a meal without a single Mexican dish—native beef and excellent bread and a pie made with “canned” peaches.
Then came the real work on the aeroplane. By sundown the two sections across which the planes extended, one behind the other, had been put together, bolted, and wired. Beneath these, the long and delicate but stout landing and starting skids had been attached. In a moment of rest Roy explained to Mr. Cook a detail that Mr. Atkinson and his father had taken the liberty to add to the ordinary aeroplane such as the Development Company had bought.
Model No. 1 was planned to start, practically, from the ground without track or wheels. But this presupposed ideal conditions—a smooth surface and the assistance of attendants. Realizing that the aeroplane would often face far from ideal conditions in both starting and landing and that it would be mainly where there would be no one to assist in either starting or landing, Roy’s father had sent with the airship a set of starting wheels. Four of these, small pneumatic-tired rubber wheels, were arranged for automatic attachment to the ends of each skid. They were light and, when not needed, could be easily detached.
“I’ll take ’em with me,” said Roy, “but I’ll not need ’em in starting from this place. These boys,” and he looked toward the still patiently waiting and curious spectators, “could pitch me over the San Juan.”
To the rear of the sections, the big white semi-circular rudder had also been attached—although the taut stretching of the silk cover of this had been a tedious job—and the rudder control wires were in place. When work concluded that evening, the aeroplane was far from assembled.
Mr. Cook laughed.
“I thought the company advertised that this airship could be taken apart in two hours,” he said.
“It does,” answered Roy, “and it can. But you can’t put it together in two hours. However, it wouldn’t take so long if we hadn’t taken everything apart. Usually the long planes are left in wide sections. I wanted to be sure, so I took everything apart.”
“Good for you,” exclaimed Mr. Cook; “but I’m glad you’re here to get it together again. How long will it take to finish the job to-morrow?”
“All day. The silk plane covers fit like a woman’s dress, and they’ve got to be ‘just so’. Then the planes must be leveled and braced like a yacht’s rigging—only more so. And then comes the engine, the shafts and truing ’em up and last the propellers, to say nothin’ of the cooling coils, the fuel tank, the operator’s seat and the control stirrup—”
“Come on,” interrupted Mr. Cook, with a pretended groan. “Let’s go home and rest.”
After supper, Weston and Doolin disappeared on programs of their own, but Roy had had a thing on his mind all day that prevented him from settling down to rest at once. Mr. Cook’s one luxury on the plains was a good cigar. He had hardly lit his after supper smoke before Roy broached the matter about which he had been bothering. What had happened to old Utah Banning the night before he could not help but feel was partly due to him.
He related the details of the episode to Mr. Cook. He had wanted to do it all day, but Weston had almost persuaded him that it was no affair of his and that the old “bum” had probably experienced the same thing scores of times. But Mr. Cook was vastly more sympathetic. He entered at once into a full discussion of the matter.
“He probably wanted whisky for the full amount,” suggested Mr. Cook. “Anyway, it was likely an unprovoked assault. If you like, we’ll go and find out.”
It was just what Roy did want, and with Mr. Cook drawing slowly on his fragrant weed, he and the boy set out for Saloon Row.