XXIVThe Midnight Visitor
XXIVThe Midnight Visitor
Toy raised his head sharply from his little flat pillow where he lay in his tent, pitched for convenience beside the kitchen, and listened. A sound like the cautious scraping of the sagging storehouse door on the other side of the kitchen had awakened him. He was not sure that he had not dreamed it or that it was not merely renewed activities on the part of his enemies, the pack-rats, between whom and himself there waged constant war. There was a possibility that some prowling animal might push in the door, but, as the month was now November and the nights were as cold as winter, he was not too anxious to crawl from his warm nest and investigate until he was sure.
Hearing nothing more he dropped back on his pillow sleepily, vowing fresh vengeance on the pack-rats who at that moment no doubt were carrying off rice and rolled oats. Suddenly there came a fresh sound, very distinct in the stillness, somewhat like the side of a big tin bulging where it had been dented. To ease his mind rather than because he expected to find anything Toy slipped his feet into his thick-soled Chinese slippers and shuffled out into the night.
The faintest gleam of light was coming through the opening in the storehouse door, which Toy himself had carefully closed. It was all of eleven o’clock and the men, Toy knew, had been in bed for hours. He stepped noiselessly inside and stared with all his eyes at Smaltz. Smaltz was about to extinguish the candle which he had been shielding with his coat.
“What you do? What you gittee?”
Smaltz whirled swiftly at the shrill demand with a startled look on his impudent face.
“Oh—hello,” he said uncertainly.
“Why you come? What you want?”
“Why—er—I wanted to see if they was any more of them eight-penny nails left. I’ll need some to-morrow and bein’ awake frettin’ and stewin’ over my work I thought I’d come up and take a look. Besides,” with his mocking grin, “the evenin’s reely too lovely to stay in bed.”
“You lie, I think.” Toy’s teeth were chattering with cold and excitement. “Why you come? What you want?”
“You oughtn’t to say those rude, harsh things. They’re apt to hurt the feelin’s of a sensitive feller like me.”
“What you steal?” Toy pointed a trembling finger at the inside pocket of Smaltz’s coat where it bulged.
“You wrong me,” said Smaltz sorrowfully in mock reproach. “That’s my Bible, Chink.”
After Smaltz had gone Toy lighted a candle and poked among the boxes, cans, and sacks. He knew almost to a pound how much sugar, flour, rice, coffee, beans, and other provisions he had, but nothing, that he could discover, had been disturbed. The nail kegs and reserve tools in the corner, wedges, axe-handles and blades, files and extra shovels all were there. It was a riddle Toy could not solve yet he knew that Smaltz had not told the truth.
A white man who was as loyal to Bruce as Toy would have told him immediately of Smaltz’s mysterious midnight visit to the storehouse, but that wasnot the yellow man’s way. Instead he watched Smaltz like a hawk, eying him furtively, appearing unexpectedly at his elbow while he worked. From that night on, instead of one shadow Smaltz found himself with two.
Toy never had liked Smaltz from the day he came. Those who knew the Chinaman could tell it by the scrupulous politeness with which he treated him. He was elaborately exact and fair but he never spoke to him unless it was necessary. Toy yelled at and bullied those he liked but a mandarin could not have surpassed him in dignity when he addressed Smaltz.
Bruce surmised that the Chinaman must share his own instinctive distrust, yet Smaltz, with his versatility, had proved himself more and more valuable as the work progressed.
Banule’s sanguine prophecy that they would be “throwin’ dirt” within two weeks had failed of fulfilment because the pump motors had sparked when tried out. So small a matter had not disturbed the cheerful optimism of the genius, who declared he could remedy it with a little further work. Days, weeks, a month went by and still he tinkered, while Bruce, watching the sky anxiously, wondered how much longer the bad weather would hold off. As a convincing evidence of the nearness of winter, Porcupine Jim, who considered himself something of a naturalist, declared that the grasshoppers had lost their hind-legs.
While the time sped, Bruce realized that he must abandon his dream of taking out enough gold to begin to repay the stockholders. The most he could hope for now was a few days’ run.
“If only I could get into the pay-streak! If I can just get enough out of the clean-up to show them thatit’s here; that it’s no wild-cat; that I’ve told them the truth!” Over and over he said these things monotonously to himself until they became a refrain to every other thought.
In the middle of the summer he had been forced to ask for more money. He was days nerving himself to make the call; but there was no alternative—it was either that or shut down. He had written the stockholders that it would surely be the last, and his relief and gratitude had been great at their good-natured response.
Now the sparking of the motors which unexpectedly prolonged the work had once more exhausted his funds. It took all Bruce’s courage to write again. It seemed to him that it was the hardest thing he had ever done but he accomplished it as best he could. He was peremptorily refused.
His sensations when he read the letter are not easy to describe. There was more than mere business curtness in the denial. There was actual unfriendliness. Furthermore, it contained an ultimatum to the effect that if the season’s work was unsuccessful they would accept an offer which they had had for their stock.
With Helen’s warning still fresh in his mind, Bruce understood the situation in one illuminating flash. Under the circumstances, no one but Sprudell would want to buy the stock. Obviously Sprudell had gotten in touch with the stockholders and managed somehow to poison their minds. This was the way, then, that he intended taking his revenge!
Harrah’s secretary had written Bruce in response to his last appeal that Harrah had been badly hurt in an aeroplane accident in France and that it wouldnot be possible to communicate with him for months perhaps. This was a blow, for Bruce counted him his only friend.
Bruce had neither the time nor money to go East and try to undo the harm Sprudell had done, and, furthermore, little heart for the task of setting himself right with people so ready to believe.
There was just one thing that remained for Bruce to do. He could use the amount he had saved from his small salary as general manager and continue the work as long as the money lasted. When this was gone he was done. In any event it meant that he must face the winter there alone. If the machinery was still not in working order when he came to the end of his resources it meant that he was stranded, flat broke, unable even to go outside and struggle.
In his desperation he sometimes thought of appealing to his father. The amount he required was insignificant compared to what he knew his father’s yearly income must be. He doubted if even Harrah’s fortune was larger than the one represented by his father’s land and herds; but just as often as he thought of this way out just so often he realized that there were some things he could not do—not even for Helen Dunbar—not even to put his proposition through.
Thathumiliation would be too much. To go backbeggingafter all these years—no, no, he could not do it to save his life! He would meet the pay-roll with his own checks so long as he had a cent, and hope for the best until he knew there was no best.
The end of his rope was painfully close the day Banule announced, after frequent testings, that they might start.
During short intervals of pumping, Bruce had been able by ground-sluicing to work off a considerable area of top soil and now that the machinery was declared to be ready for a steady run he could set the scrapers at once in the red gravel streak that contained the “pay.”
The final preparation before starting was to pour the mercury behind the riffles in the sluice-boxes. When it lay quivering and shining behind each block and bar Bruce felt that his gargantuan bread-crumb had been dragged almost to the goal. It was well, too, he told himself with indescribable relief, for, not only his money, but his courage, his nerves, were well-nigh gone.
Bruce would trust no one but himself to pour the mercury in the boxes.
“That looks like good lively ‘quick’,” Smaltz commented as he watched him at the task.
“It should be; it was guaranteed never to have been used.” He added with a smile: “Let’s hope when we see it again it won’t be quite so lively.”
“Looks like it orter be as thick as mush if you can run a few thousand yards of that there pay-streak over it.” There was a mocking look in Smaltz’s yellow-brown eyes which Bruce, stooping over, did not see. He only heard the hopeful words.
“Oh, Smaltz—Smaltz—if it only is! Success means so much to me!” Unaccountably, such a tide of feeling rose within him that Bruce bared his heart to the man he did not like.
Smaltz looked at him with a curious soberness.
“Does it?” he responded after a pause.
“And I’ve tried so hard.”
“You’ve sure worked like a horse.” There wasa look that was half pity, half grudging admiration on Smaltz’s impudent face.
Banule was to run the power-house for the day and complete some work inside, so when Bruce had finished with the mercury he told Smaltz to telephone Banule from the pump-house that they were ready to start. Therefore while Bruce took his place at the lever on the donkey-engine enclosed in a temporary shed to protect the motor from rain and dust, Smaltz went to the pump-house as he was bid.
When Banule answered his ring he shouted:
“Let her go in about two minutes—two minutes—d’ye hear?” The telephone receiver was shaking in Smaltz’s hand and he was breathing hard.
“Yes,” Banule answered irritably, “but don’t yell so in my ear.”
Smaltz already had slammed the receiver back on the hook. With a swift movement he threw in the switch and jumped for the outside. He dropped from the high platform and fell among the rocks some ten feet below. Instantly he scrambled to his feet and crouching, dodging among the boulders that strewed the river bank, he ran at top speed until he reached the sluice-boxes. The carpenter came out from his shop to take a leisurely survey of the world and Smaltz threw himself flat until he had turned inside again.
Then, still crouching, looking this way and that, watching the trail, he took a bottle from his pocket and pulling the cork with his teeth poured the contents over the mercury almost to the upper end of the first box. He went as far as he dared without being seen by Bruce inside the shed.
The pumps had already started and the big headof water was coming with a rush down the steep grade, but Smaltz had done his evil work thoroughly for wherever the mercury laid thickest it glittered with iridescent drops of kerosene.
He was thrusting the bottle back in his pocket, his tense expression relaxed, when he turned his head sharply at the sound of a crashing in the brush.
“Toy!” Smaltz looked startled—scared.
It was Toy, his skin a waxy yellow and his oblique eyes blazing with excitement and rage.
“I savvy you, Smaltz! I savvy you!” His voice was a shrill squawk. “I savvy you!” His fingers with their long, sharp nails were opening and shutting like claws.
Smaltz knew that he had seen him from the hill and, watching, had understood. It was too late to run, useless to evade, so he stood waiting while shrieking, screeching at every step, the Chinaman came on.
He flew at Smaltz’s face like a wild-cat, clawing, scratching, digging in his nails and screaming with every breath: “I savvy you! I savvy you!”
Smaltz warded him off without striking, trying to get his hand over his mouth; but in vain, and the Chinaman kept up his shrill accusing cry, “I savvy you, Smaltz! I savvy you!” There was little chance, however, of his being heard above the rush of the water through the sluice-boxes and the bumping and grinding together of the rocks and boulders that it carried down.
Then Smaltz struck him. Toy fell among the rocks, sprawling backwards. He got to his feet and came back. Once more he clawed and clung and once more Smaltz knocked him down. A third time he returned.
“You’re harder to kill nor a cat,” Smaltz grinned without malice, but he threw him violently against the sluice-box.
Toy lost his balance, toppled, and went over backward, reaching out wildly to save himself as he fell. The water turned him over but he caught the edge of the box. His loose purple “jumper” of cotton and silk ballooned at the back as he swung by one hand in the on-rushing water, thick and yellow with sand, filled with the grinding boulders that came down as, though shot from a catapult, drowning completely his, agonized cry of “Bluce! Bluce!”
It was only a second that he hung with his wild beseeching eyes on Smaltz’s scared face while his frail, old body acted as a wedge for the racing water and the rocks. Then he let go and turned over and over tumbling grotesquely in the wide sluice-box while the rocks pounded and ground him, beat him into insensibility. He shot over the tail-race into the river limp and unresisting, like a dead fish.
XXVThe Clean-Up
XXVThe Clean-Up
Toy’s disappearance was mysterious and complete. There was not a single clue to show which way he had gone, or how, or why. Only one thing seemed certain and that was that his departure was unpremeditated.
His potatoes were in a bucket of water, peeled and ready for dinner; the bread he had set to raise was waiting to be kneaded; his pipe laid on the window sill while his hoarded trinkets for the little Sun Loon were still hidden under the pad of the bed in his tent. His fish-pole in its usual place disposed of the theory that he had fallen in the river, and although trained eyes followed every trail there was not a single telltale track. He had vanished as though he had gone straight up.
His disappearance sobered the men. There was something uncanny about it; they lowered their voices When they speculated and all their latent superstition arose. Porcupine Jim declared that the place was “hoodooed” and as evidence enumerated the many accidents and delays. Bruce himself wondered if the malignant spirit of Slim was lingering on the river to harry him as he had in life.
Smaltz was now in the power-house doing at last the specific work for which he had been hired. To all Bruce’s questions, he replied that the machinery there was “doing fine.” Down below, the pump-house motors were far from satisfactory, sparking and heating in a way that Bruce, who did not know the a,b, c’s of electricity, could see was not right. While the pumps and scrapers were working Banule dared not leave the motors alone.
Then, after a couple of days’ unsatisfactory work, the water dropped so low in Big Squaw creek that there was only sufficient pressure to use one scraper. Bruce discharged all the crew save Smaltz, Banule, and Porcupine Jim, who labored in the kitchen—a living insult to the Brotherhood of Cooks. While Bruce, by running back and forth between the donkey-engine and the top sluice-box where the scraper dumped, managed to do the work of two men ten hours a day.
His nerves were at a tension, for along with the strain of his responsibilities was the constant fear of a serious break-down. Banule made light of the sparking motors but the bearings were heating badly, daily necessitating more frequent stops. When a grounded wire sent the leaking current through the cable that pulled the scraper, and knocked Bruce flat, he was not convinced by Banule’s assurance that it “didn’t amount to much.” It was all evidence to Bruce that fundamentally something was wrong.
But in spite of the time lost the cut was deepening and the side walls stood up so that every scraper that emptied into the sluice-boxes was from the pay-streak. Bruce fairly gloated over each cubic yard that he succeeded in getting in, for the sample pans showed that it was all he had hoped for, and more.
If only the riffles were saving it and the tables catching the fine gold!
This he could not know until the clean-up and he did not mean to stop until he had brought in the last load he dared before a freeze. So far the weather had been phenomenal, the exceptional open fall hadbeen his one good piece of luck. Under usual weather conditions, to avoid cleaning up through the ice he would have been obliged to have shut down at least a month before.
So the work kept on intermittently until an incredibly late date in November. The leaves of the poison oak had turned crimson, the tall tamaracks in the high mountains were gold, frost crystals glittered each morning on the planks and boards, but Big Squaw creek kept running steadily and the sunshine soon melted the skim ice that formed over night.
By this time Bruce had a fresh worry. It kept him awake hour after hour at night. The mercury was not looking right where it showed behind the riffles. It was too lively. There was something in it, of course, but not enough to thicken it as he had hoped. He could see the flakes of gold sticking to it as though it had been sprinkled with Nepaul pepper but the activity of it where it showed in quantity alarmed him more than he would confess to himself.
The change of weather came in the night. That day he started to clean-up. A chill wind was blowing from the east and the sky was dark with drab, low-hanging clouds when Bruce put on his hip-boots and began to take up riffles. A thin sheet of water flowed through the boxes, just sufficient to keep the sand and gravel moving down as he took up the riffles one at a time and recovered the mercury each had contained.
Bruce’s feet and fingers grew numb working in the icy water with a scrubbing brush and a small scoop but they were no colder than the cold hand of Premonition that lay heavy upon him.
Behind the riffles at the top of the first box the mercury was amalgam—all that he could have wishedfor—beyond that point it suddenly stopped and all that he recovered as he worked down looked to be as active as when he had poured it from the flask.
What was wrong? He asked himself every conceivable question as he worked with aching hands and feet. Had he given the boxes too much grade? Had he washed too fast—crowded the dirt so that it had not had time to settle? Was it possible that after all the gold was too light and fine to save in paying quantities?
Hope died hard and he tried to make himself believe that the lower boxes and the tables had caught it—that there was more in the mercury than there looked. But the tension as he took up riffle after rime with the one result was like watching a long-drawn-out race with all one’s possessions staked on the losing horse.
He took up riffles until it was a physical impossibility to work longer in the numbing water, his fingers could not hold the scoop. Then he went to the pump-house and told Banule to telephone Smaltz to shut down.
“He wants to know if you’ll be pumpin’ again?”
“Yes, after awhile. Tell him to stay there. I’m going to squeeze out the ‘quick’ I’ve taken up, but I want to get as near finished to-day as I can. You come and help me.”
As Bruce walked back to the sluice-boxes with bowed head he was thinking that the day was well suited to the ending of his roseate dreams. Failure is dull, drab, colorless, and in his heart he had little doubt that for some reason still to be explained, he had failed. Just how badly remained to be seen.
Bruce had scooped the mercury into a clean granitekettle and now, while he held the four corners of a square of chamois skin, Banule poured mercury from the kettle into the centre of the skin until told to stop.
“Looks like you ought to get several hundred dollars out of that,” Banule said hopefully as Bruce gathered the four corners, twisted them and began to squeeze.
“Yes, looks like I ought to,” Bruce replied ironically.
The quicksilver came through the pores of the skin in a shower of shining globules.
Banule’s expression of lively interest in the process was gradually replaced by one of bewilderment as with every twist the contents kept squeezing through until it looked as though there would be no residue left. It was a shock even to Bruce, who was prepared for it, when he spread the chamois skin on a rock and looked at the ball of amalgam which it contained.
Banule stared at it, open-mouthed.
“What’s the matter? Where’s it gone? And out of all that dirt!”
Bruce shook his head; his voice was barely audible:
“I don’t know.” The sagging clouds were not heavier than his heart—“I wish I did.”
Banule stood a moment in silent sympathy.
“Guess you won’t work any more to-day,” he suggested.
“Yes; tell Smaltz to start,” Bruce answered dully.
“I’ve got to save the mercury anyhow.”
Banule lingered.
“Say,” he hesitated—obviously he found the confession embarrassing or else he hated to lay the finalstraw upon the camel’s back—“just before you told me to shut down, the motor on the small pump started sparkin’ pretty bad.”
“Yes?” Bruce knew that if Banule admitted it was “pretty bad” it was bad indeed.
“I’ll look it over if we can stop awhile.”
Bruce shook his head.
“There’s not an hour to lose. It’s going to storm; I must get done.”
“I ’spose we can start.” Banule looked dubious. “I’ll try it, but I think we’ll have to quit.”
Wasthere anything more that could happen? Bruce asked himself in dumb misery as he picked up his scoop and brush and mechanically went to work when the pumps started and the water came.
His feet and hands were soon like ice but he was scarcely conscious of the pain for his heart-ache was so much greater. As he pursued the elusive quicksilver and worked the sand and gravel to the end of the box all he could see was the stack of receipted bills which the work and plant had cost, in shocking contrast to that tiny ball of amalgam lying in the chamois-skin on the rock. He had spent all of $40,000 and he doubted if he would take $20 from the entire clean-up as it now looked.
How could he break the news to Helen Dunbar? Where would he find the courage to tell the unfriendly stockholders the exact truth? It was a foregone conclusion that they would consider him a fakir and a crook.
It had to be done. As, in his imagination, he faced the ordeal he unconsciously straightened up.
“Burt! Burt! come quick!” Banule was waving his arms frantically from the platform of the pump-house.There was desperation in his cry for help. He dashed back inside as soon as he saw Bruce jump out of the sluice-box. Before Bruce reached the pump-house he heard Banule ringing the telephone violently, and his frenzied shout:
“Shut down, Smaltz! Shut down! Where are you? Can’t you hear? For God’s sake shut down, everything’s burnin’ up!”
He was ringing as though he would have torn the box loose from the wall when Bruce reached the pump-house door. Bruce turned sick when he heard the crackling of the burning motors and saw the electric flames.
“Somethin’s happened in the power-house! I can’t ring him! He must have got a shock! Until I know what’s wrong, I don’t dare shut down for fear I’ll burn everything out up there!”
“Keep her going!” Bruce bounded through the door and dropped from the platform. Then he threw off his hat as he always did when excited, and ran. And how he ran! With his fists clenched and his arms tight against his sides he ran as though the hip-boots were the seven-league boots of fable.
In the stretch of deep sand he had to cross the weight was killing. The drag of the heavy boots seemed to pull his legs from their sockets but he did not slacken his pace. His breath was coming in gasps when he started up the steep trail which led from the sand over a high promontory. He clutched at bushes, rocks, anything to pull himself up and the pounding of his heart sounded to him like the chug of a steamboat, before he reached the top.
The veins and arteries in his forehead and neck seemed bursting, as did his over-taxed lungs, when hestarted stumbling and sliding down the other side. It was not the distance he had covered which had so winded him, nor even the terrific pace, but the dragging weight of the hip-boots. They felt as though they were soled with lead.
He imagined that he had crawled but as a matter of fact the distance would never be covered in the same space of time again.
The perspiration was trickling from his hair and through his thick eyebrows when he reached the boat landing where ordinarily they crossed. He brushed it out of his eyes with the back of his sleeve and stared at the place where usually the boat rode. It was gone! Smaltz had taken it instead of the overhead tram in which he always crossed.
There was no time to speculate as to Smaltz’s reason. He kept on running along the river until he came to the steps of the platform where the heavy iron cage, suspended from a cable, was tied to a tree. Bruce bounded up the steps two at a time and loosened the rope. It was not until then that he saw that the chain and sprocket, which made the crossing easy, were missing. This, too, was strange. There was no time for speculation. Could he cross in it hand over hand? For answer he put his knee on the edge and kicked off.
The impetus sent it well over the river. Then it struck the slack in the cable and slowed up. Bruce set his teeth and went at it hand over hand. The test came when it started up grade. No ordinary man could have budged it and Bruce pulled to the very last ounce of his strength. He moved it only an inch at a time—slipping back two inches frequently when he changed hands.
If he lost the grip of both hands for a single second and slid back to the middle of the slack he realized that he was too near exhausted to pull up again, so, somehow, he hung on, making inarticulate sounds as he exerted superhuman strength, groaning like an animal loaded beyond its limit. If only he could last!
When he reached the platform on the other side he was just able to throw an arm around the tree and crawl out while the ponderous iron cage squeaking on the rusty cable rolled back to the middle of the river, where it swung to and fro.
Bruce gathered himself and tried to run. His legs refused to obey his will and he had to fall back to a walk. He hung over from the waist like a bent old man, his arms swinging limply at his sides.
He knew from the small amount of water going over the spillway that the machinery was still running and as he drew nearer to the power-house he could hear the hiss of the 200-feet head as it hit the wheel.
He dreaded entering for fear of what he should see. He had little doubt but that Smaltz was dead—electrocuted—roasted. He expected the sickening odor of burning flesh. He had been so long in getting there—but he had done his best—the power must be shut off first—he must get to the lever—if only he could run. His thoughts were incoherent—disconnected, but all of Smaltz. Smaltz had been loyal; Smaltz never had shirked; but he never had shown Smaltz the slightest evidence of friendship because of his unconquerable dislike.
Bruce was reproaching himself as he stepped up on the wooden casing which covered the pipes and nozzles inside the power-house. There he stopped and stood quite motionless, looking at Smaltz. Smaltz’s facewore a look of keenest interest, as with one shoulder braced against the side of the building, his hands in his pockets, he watched the plant burn up.
Down below, Banule had thrown out the switch and the machinery was running away. A rim of fire encircled the commutators. The cold, blue flame of electrical energy was shooting its jagged flashes from every piece of magnetic metal it could reach, while the crackling of the short-circuited wires was like the continuous, rattling reports of a rapid-fire gun.
There was something terrifying in the sight of the racing machinery, something awe-inspiring in the spectacle of a great power gone mad. The wind from the round blur that represented the fly-wheel was a gale and in the semi-dusk,—Smaltz had closed the double-doors—the leaping flames and the screech of the red-hot bearings made the place an Inferno.
For a moment the amazing, unexpected sight deprived Bruce of the power to move. Then he jumped for the lever and shut down. It was not until the machinery responded that Smaltz turned. His yellow-brown eyes widened until they looked round. He had not counted on anyone’s being able to cross the river for fully half an hour.
If Smaltz had been the villain of fiction, he would have been a coward as well. But Smaltz was not a coward. It is true he was startled—so startled that his skin turned a curious yellow-green like a half-ripe pear—but he was not afraid. He knew that he was “in for it.” He knew that something was going to happen, and quick. That Bruce was sitting on the wooden casing quietly pulling off his heavy boots did not deceive him in the least.
It was as still as the tomb in the power-housewhen Bruce stood up and walked toward Smaltz. Grimy streaks of perspiration showed on his colorless face, from which every drop of blood seemed to have fled, and his black eyes, that shone always with the soft brilliancy of a warm, impulsive nature and an imaginative mind, were glittering and purposeful.
Smaltz stood his ground as Bruce advanced.
“Why didn’t you answer that telephone, Smaltz?”
In feigned surprise Smaltz glanced at the box.
“I declare—the receiver’s dropped off the hook!”
Bruce ignored the answer; he did not even look, but stepped closer.
“Why didn’t you shut down?”
Smaltz summoned his impudent grin, but it wavered and faded under Bruce’s burning eyes even while he replied in a tone of injured innocence—
“How should I know? The bell didn’t ring—Banule hadn’t told me to.”
Bruce paid no attention to the foolish excuse. He demanded again:
“Why didn’t you shut down, Smaltz?”
“I’ve told you once,” was the sullen answer.
Bruce turned to the telephone and rang the bell hard.
“Hello—hello—hello!” came the frantic reply.
“Can you swim, Banule?”
“Yes.”
“Then take it where the cable crosses the river. Come quick.” He put the receiver back on its hook and stepped to the lever. Smaltz’s eyes opened wide as Bruce shoved it hard. He stared as though he thought Bruce had gone out of his mind. Then the dynamos began to pick up.
“What you goin’ to do?” he shouted above the screech of the belting and the hot bearings.
“You’re going to tell the truth!” The last vestige of Bruce’s self-control vanished. His voice, which had been nearly a whisper, was like the sudden roar of a deep-hurt bear. His dark face was distorted to ugliness with rage. He rushed Smaltz—with his head down—and Smaltz staggered with the shock. Then they grappled and went down. Once more it was pandemonium in the power-house with the screeching of the red hot bearings and the glare of the crackling blue flames that meant the final and complete destruction of the plant. Over and over the grimy, grease-soaked floor of the power-house they rolled and fought. Brutally, in utter savagery, Bruce ground Smaltz’s face into the rough planks littered with nails and sharp-copper filings, whenever he could—dragging him, shoving him, working him each second a little closer to the machinery with the frenzy of haste. He had not yet recovered from his run but Smaltz was no match for his great strength.
A glimmer of Bruce’s purpose came to Smaltz at last.
“What—you tryin’—to do?” he panted.
Bruce panted back:
“I’m going to kill you! Do you hear?” His eyes were bloodshot, more than ever he looked like some battle-crazed grizzly seeing his victim through a blur or rage and pain. “If I can—throw you—across those commutators—before the fireworks stop—I’m goin’ to give you fifteen hundred volts!”
A wild fright came in Smaltz’s eyes.
“Let me up!” he begged.
For answer Bruce shoved him closer to the dynamo. He fought with fresh desperation.
“Don’t do that, Burt! My God—Don’t do that!”
“Then talk—talk! She’s going fast. You’ve got to tell the truth before she stops!Whydid you burn out this plant?”
Smaltz would not answer. Bruce lifted him bodily from the floor. In the struggle he threw out a hand to save himself and his finger touched the spring that held the carbons. He screamed with the shock, but the blue flashes were close to his face blinding him before he suddenly relaxed:
“I’m all in. I’ll tell.”
Bruce let him drop back hard upon the floor and thrust a knee into his chest.
“Goon, then—talk!”
The words came with an effort; he seemed afraid of their effect upon Bruce, then, uncertainly:
“I—was paid.”
For the fraction of a second Bruce stared into Smaltz’s scared face. “You were paid,” he repeated slowly. “Who—” and then the word came rapier-like as had the thought—“Sprudell!”
“He told me to see that you didn’t start. He left the rest to me.” With sullen satisfaction: “And it’s cost him plenty—you bet—”
Inexplicable things suddenly grew clear to Bruce.
“You turned the boat loose in Meadows—”
“Yes.”
“You wrecked it on that rock—”
“Yes.”
“You fouled the mercury in the boxes?”
“Yes.”
“And Toy!” The look of murder came back intoBruce’s face, his hand crept toward Smaltz’s throat. “Don’t lie! What did you do to Toy?”
Smaltz whispered—he could barely speak—“I’m tellin’ the truth—it was an accident. He jumped me—I threw him off and he fell in the sluice-box—backward—I tried to save him—I did—that’s straight.” Smaltz kept rolling his head back and forth in an oil-soaked spot where a grease cup leaked. Bruce’s knee was grinding into his ribs and chest and his fingers were tightening on his throat.
Bruce raised himself a little and looked down at Smaltz. As he stared at the smudged, bleeding face and into the yellow-brown eyes with their dilated pupils, the rage in his own gave place to a kind of intense curiosity, the scrutiny one gives to a repulsive and venomous insect or reptile he has captured. He was trying to impress upon his own mind the incredible fact that this human being, lying helpless beneath him, watching him with questioning fear, had ruined him without the least personal malice—had robbed him of all he had strained, and worked, and fought for, for pay! It seemed like a preposterous, illogical dream; yet there he lay, alive, real, his face less than two feet from his own.
Finally, Bruce took his knee from his chest and got up. Smaltz pulled himself to his feet and stood uncertainly.
“Well—I suppose it’s jail.” There was sullen resignation in his voice.
Bruce stopped the machinery without answering. Then he folded his arms and leaned his broad shoulders against the rough boards of the power-house while, eying Smaltz, he considered. A year ago he would have killed him—he would have killed him begging onhis knees, but taking a human life either makes a man callous or sobers him and the remorse which had followed the tragedy in the cabin was a sensation Bruce never wanted to experience again.
Penitentiaries were made for men like Smaltz—but in a country of long and difficult distances, with the lax courts and laws indifferently enforced, to put Smaltz where he belonged was not so simple as it might sound. It required time and money; Bruce had neither to spare.
It was so still in the power-house that the ticking of the dollar watch hanging on a nail sounded like a clock. Smaltz shifted feet nervously. At last Bruce walked to the work-bench and took a carpenter’s pencil from a box and sharpened it. He smoothed out some wrapping paper then motioned Smaltz to sit down.
“I want you to write what you told me—exactly—word for word. Write it in duplicate and sign your name.”
Consternation overspread Smaltz’s face. A verbal confession to save himself from being electrocuted was one thing, to put it in black and white was quite another. He hesitated. Bruce saw the mutiny in his face; also the quick, involuntary glance he gave toward a monkey-wrench which lay on the end of the work-bench within his reach.
Rage burned up in Bruce again.
“Don’t you know when you’ve got enough?” He stepped forward and removed the heavy wrench from Smaltz’s reach. “I’ll give you just one minute by the watch there to make up your mind. You’d better write, for you won’t be able when I’m through!”
They measured each other, eye to eye again. Eachcould hear the breathing of the other in the silence while the watch ticked off the seconds. An over-sanguine pack-rat tried to scramble up the tar-paper covering on the outside and squeaked as he fell back with a thud, but the face of neither man relaxed. Smaltz took the full limit of the time. He saw Bruce’s fingers work, then clinch. Suddenly he grinned—a sheepish, unresentful grin.
“I guess you’re the best man,” He slouched to the bench and sat down.
He was still writing when Banule came, breathing hard and still dripping from his frigid swim. He stopped short and his jaw dropped at seeing Smaltz. He was obviously disappointed at finding him alive.
Smaltz handed Bruce the paper when he had finished and signed his name. Neither the writing or composition was that of an illiterate man. Bruce read it carefully and handed it to Banule:
“Read this and witness it.”
Banule did as he was told, for once, apparently, too dumfounded for comment.
“Now copy it,” said Bruce, and Smaltz obeyed.
When this was done, signed and witnessed Smaltz looked up inquiringly—his expression said—“What next?”
Bruce stepped to the double doors and slid the bolt.
“There’s your trail—nowhitit!” He motioned into the wilderness as he threw the doors wide.
Incredulity, amazement, appeared on Smaltz’s face.
In the instant that he stood staring a vein swelled on Bruce’s temple and in a spasm of fury he cried:
“Go, I tell you! Go while I can keep my hands off you—you—” he finished with an oath.
Smaltz went. He snatched his coat from its nail as he passed but did not stop for his hat. It was not until he reached the slab which served as a bridge over the water from the spillway that he recovered anything of his impudent nonchalance. He was in the centre of it when he heard Banule say:
“If it ud be me I’d a put a lash rope round his neck and drug him up that hill to jail.”
Smaltz wheeled and came back a step.
“Oh, you would, would you? Say, you fakir, I’m glad you spoke. I almost forgot you.” There was sneering, utter contempt in Smaltz’s voice. “Fakir,” he reiterated, “you get that, do you, for I’m pickin’ my words and not callin’ names by chance. You’re the worst that ever come off the Pacific coast—and that’s goin’some.”
He turned sharply to Bruce.
“You know even a liar sometimes tells the truth and I’m goin’ to give it to you straight now. I’ve nothin’ to win or lose.This machinery never will run.The plant was a failure before it was put up. And,” he nodded contemptuously at Banule, “nobody knew it better than that dub.”
“Jennings,” he went on “advised this old-fashioned type of machinery because it was the only kind he understood and he wanted the job of putting it up, honestly believin’ at the time that he could. When he realized that he couldn’t, he sent for Banule to pull him through.
“Jennings failed because of his ignorance but this fellerknows, and whatever he’s done he has done knowin’ that his work couldn’t by any chance last. Allhe’s thought of was gettin’ the plant up somehow so it would run temporarily—any old way to get through—get his money, and get out. He’s experimented continually at your expense; he’s bungled the job from beginning to end with his carelessness—his ‘good enough’ work.
“You were queered from the start with them armatures he wound back there on the Coast. He and Jennings took an old fifty horse-power motor and tried to wind it for seventy-five. There wasn’t room for the copper so they hammered in the coils. They ruptured the insulation in the armature and that’s why it’s always short-circuited and sparked. He rated it at seventy-five and it’s never registered but fifty at its best. He rated the small motor at fifty and it developed thirty—no more. The blue print calls for 1500 revolutions on the big pump and the speed indicator shows 900. Even if the motors were all right, the vibration from that bum foundation that he told you was ‘good enough’ would throw them out, in time.
“All through he’s lied and bluffed, and faked. He has yet to put up his first successful plant. Look up his record if you think it ain’t the truth. What’s happened here is only a repetition of what’s happened everywhere he’s ever been. It would be a fortune if ’twas figured what his carelessness has cost the men for whom he’s worked.
“In the eyes of the law I’m guilty of wreckin’ this plant but in fact I only put on the finishin’ touches. I’ve shortened your misery, Burt, I’ve saved you money, for otherwise you’d have gone tryin’ to tinker it up. Don’t do it. Take it from me it isn’t worth it. From start to finish you’ve been stung.”
He turned mockingly to Banule:
“As we know, Alphy, generally there’s a kind of honor among crooks that keeps us from squeakin’ on each other, but that little speech of yourn about takin’ a turn of a las’ rope round my neck kind of put me on the prod. That virtuous pose of yours sort of set my teeth on edge, knowin’ what I do, and I ain’t told half of what I could if I had the time. However, Alphy,” he shot a look at Bruce’s face, “if you’ll take the advice of a gent what feels as though a log had rolled over him, you’ll sift along without puttin’ up any holler about your pay.”