Trouble Shooter (Musaicum Vintage Western). Ernest Haycox

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      Phil Morgan broke a long silence. "Last year Tom Durant got enough cash to keep construction going. But the Boston investors furnishing the money don't like his methods, so they told Oakes Ames to take charge and remove Durant from the vice-president's job on the road. Durant's been fighting back. He sent his consulting engineer, Seymour, out here and changed some locations Dodge had made. Then he came out himself. He's at Laramie now, promising the folks there that Laramie will get the division point over Cheyenne. That's why Dodge is on his way west. There'll be a hell of a blowup when those two meet. Durant knew very well, two years ago, he had to get Dodge as chief engineer if he expected government support—because Dodge has got the full confidence of Grant and Sherman, and they're pretty powerful. But now Durant figures he can do without Dodge and wants to get rid of him. The line-up is entirely clear to me. Dodge is building a straight road. Durant is more of a plunger and speculator. He wants personal power and all the subsidy he can get for the road from the government. It's going to be a battle when those two meet. He'd fire Dodge in a minute, but Ames won't stand for it. Ames is only one of the directors, but he's got the stockholders back of him, and he's thoroughly honest. It was Lincoln who asked him to come in and put his own fortune behind the road. We're going to have a showdown some day."

      "I wonder," said Peace, "what her name is."

      "Nan Normandy," put in Overmile promptly.

      "Why is she here?"

      "Don't know."

      Phil Morgan opened his sleepy eyes. "What are you talking about?"

      Peace's glance strayed down the aisle. She sat gently relaxed, her head resting on the back of the car seat and her eyes closed; a well-made girl, strong in a way that he could not clearly define, her presence in this car setting up an actual disturbance.

      "A beauty," murmured Overmile.

      "You know what happens to beauties up here," drawled Phil Morgan.

      Peace said irritably: "Premature judgement, Phil."

      "Then why is she with Campeaux?" Morgan was always like that, caustic and bitter in his estimates of women. All Phil's friends knew some old memory burned deeply in him. They had seen it occasionally squeeze him like a vise and press his lips thin.

      "We might go find out," suggested Overmile, smiling in a soft, rash manner. Peace noticed then that the long Texan's attention could not leave the girl.

      "And we might not," grunted Peace.

      They ran on through the summit cuts. Construction fires played livid, wind-raveled splashes of light across the condensed black, shining on the dripping sides of the cut, shining on men crouched there. The engines were easing off now, checking a sudden downgrade speed. All this was fresh road, laid in a thawed uneasy mud. They circled away from the summit, crawled tentatively over the high, spider-legged Dale Creek trestle and swung northward into the Laramie plains. Wind ripped at them with a gustier temper; rain laid ragged silver splinters on the car windows.

      Ed Tarrant said: "Sam Reed's been a white man to me, or I wouldn't be such a sucker. I took contract to make a two-mile cut near Medicine Bow River. I'm going to lose my shirt on it, even at the maximum three-fifty per yard. Nobody else would take it, not even Ben Latimer."

      Overmile said: "She came all the way from Omaha with him, Frank?"

      "Yes."

      The train brakes were squalling against the grade. Construction shanties and long rows of piled ties and dumped steel rose out of the misty sleeze of the night. They paralleled a siding, running slowly by Casement's boarding train where a thousand men slept; they crawled beside Casement's enormous portable warehouse, clanging for right of way with a steady bell. This was the end of track—this dismal, disheveled clutter of men and material lying under the full blast of that high wind beating across Laramie Plain.

      Overmile, always a restless man, was ready to rise but Peace held his place, watching the scene at the far end of the car with a downbearing interest. She sat erect now, the blue military coat buttoned to her chin; and she had covered her pale yellow hair with a man's broad-brimmed hat. At this moment she had her hands folded together in her lap and her head was thoughtfully tipped down. Campeaux waggled a finger at Mitch Dollarhide, who went down the aisle with the girl's bags. Campeaux rose then and spoke to her. She came to her feet, the sway of the train making her reach out for Campeaux for support. And then her glance touched Peace. It was like a faint far call that held some meaning he could not understand, turning all his impulses powerful and impatient. A moment afterward she passed on to the platform. The train had stopped.

      "A beauty," murmured Overmile.

      Peace reared out of the seat and left the car by the other door, stepping into a yellow clay soup two feet deep. Wind howled up from the south and the lights of the surrounding shanties sparkled through a thick, hard-driven rain. He stood there indifferently, watching the girl crawl along the edge of the train, Campeaux walked beside her and Mitch Dollarhide sloshed behind.

      Overmile said: "Stand still and you'll sink out of sight. Come on."

      They found a walk cutting across the mud and took to it single file. "I got the horses over there in that shed," Overmile grunted.

      Peace stopped so suddenly that they all banged together; Phil Morgan fell off the walk, the mud reaching up to his knees. He said, "Good God, Frank!" But Peace didn't hear. The girl stood now on the track in front of the engine, its headlight playing on her. Campeaux and Dollarhide had gone.

      Peace said: "Bring the horses over there, Leach," and wallowed deliberately through the mud toward her. The wind was a strong rush in his ears; he had to lift his voice.

      "Listen—"

      The glare of the engine's light made her drop her head. She had her hands tucked into the pockets of the military coat, and water dripped steadily off her hat.

      She said: "How far is it to Laramie?"

      "Four miles." He thought about that for a minute. "I'm going to Fort Sanders—that's only two miles. You can put up there."

      "Mr. Campeaux has a rig waiting for us here."

      He said; "All right."

      Her head rose quickly. "I wouldn't judge too soon, if I were you."

      He kept his tone civil; he kept his temper down. "My mistake."

      "You've been trying to make up your mind about me all the way from Omaha, Is it necessary?"

      Two horses struggled across the mire, pulling Campeaux and Mitch Dollarhide in a covered rig. Mitch Dollarhide jumped down and slumped forward, his feet catching and throwing up the semi-liquid. His shoulders were thrust forward, he swung his fists as he ran. Peace turned to keep a strict eye on this man. He said to the girl: "Good luck."

      But she touched rhis arm. "Did you ever hear of a Jim Normandy out here?"

      "No."

      Dollarhide reached the track's gravel. He stopped two yards from Peace, expelling a heavy breathing. "We had enough trouble from you, Bully. Get the hell away from us."

      "Shut up, Mitch."

      Mitch Dollarhide swayed, a savage and СКАЧАТЬ