Gunsight Showdown: A Walt Slade Western. Bradford Scott

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      “Mr. Butler, is it not?” El Halcón asked, as the big man turned questioningly.

      “That’s right,” the other rumbled. Slade supplied his own name and they shook hands, Butler looking even more questioning. He had a grip and evidently liked to use it, but when their hands fell apart there were white circles around his fingers. He shot Slade a look of grudging respect but did not comment. Doubtless desiring to change the subject, he gestured to the work.

      “Well, cowboy, what do you think of it?” he asked.

      “I think,” Slade replied quietly, “that some changes will have to be made.” Butler stared.

      “What!” he exclaimed.

      “Mr. Butler,” Slade said, “are you acquainted with the vagaries of this river?”

      “Never laid eyes on the blasted thing till I came down here to take charge,” Butler replied. “Why? And what do you mean about changes being made?”

      “I mean,” Slade said, “that the approach must be placed above the bend in the river, not below it. Here you will very likely, sooner or later, find your approach under ten feet of water that will gnaw out the foundations of your pier.”

      The big fellow bristled. “Say!” he demanded truculently, “who the devil are you to come here and try to tell me my business?”

      In answer, Slade slipped the folded paper from his pocket and handed it to him. The astounded engineer read, in a handwriting like a barbed wire railing and over the indubitable signature of General Manager James G. Dunn—“To all officers and employees of the C. &. P. Railroad System: orders issued by the bearer, Walter J. Slade, are to be obeyed at once, without question, and to the letter.”

      Butler looked dazed. “Does this mean the Old Man is firing me?” he asked.

      “Certainly not,” Slade assured him. “Mr. Dunn has every confidence in your ability as a construction man, but I understand you are not a bridge engineer.”

      “That’s right,” Butler admitted, “but Mr. Quigley, who laid out the survey for this approach, is a good one.”

      “Perhaps,” Slade conceded, “but not a good geologist. Otherwise he would have seen that the river has been here before. You said you are not conversant with the vagaries of the Rio Grande. It is a most unpredictable stream and changes its bed without warning. A man living in Texas today may find himself living in Mexico tomorrow morning. Something that must be taken into consideration when a bridge is contemplated. I presume that Mr. Quigley was also not familiar with the river, although his branch of the profession entails a certain geologic knowledge. Somehow he slipped there. The survey of the approach is excellent; he evidently knows that branch of his business. But the angle of crossing is wrong. It must be a thirty-degree angle from downstream to the Mexican shore. And I want the piers anchored to bedrock.”

      “Mr. Quigley felt the parent clay would be sufficient,” Butler interpolated.

      “It wouldn’t be,” Slade differed shortly. “Anchor on bedrock. Now I’ll show you where to plan your Texas approach. Come along.”

      With Shadow pacing sedately behind, they walked upstream until they were not far from the outskirts of the town. Slade paused and gazed across the now placid stream.

      “Here is where you will begin your survey,” he said. “The pier a hundred feet from the low water mark. How does Quigley’s survey compare with that?”

      “He estimated fifty feet,” Butler replied. “Said the closer to the water the less steel required, and steel costs money.”

      “Too much to risk a bridge full of it resting on the bottom of the Rio Grande,” Slade said. “A hundred feet from the low water mark. Got that clear?”

      Butler drew forth a notebook and jotted down figures. “All set, sir,” he said. “Now what?”

      “You feel you are competent to make the survey? I presume you are. If not, I will take care of it.”

      “Yes, I can make the survey,” Butler replied. For the first time a smile brightened his bad-tempered countenance.

      “Nice to have somebody take over some of the responsibility,” he said. “And now?”

      “Now,” Slade repeated, “I’d like to have you get the men together; I have a few words to say to them.”

      They walked back to the scene of operations. Butler let out a few shouts and soon had the workers assembled before them, looking expectant.

      “Men,” said Butler, “this is Mr. Slade, the new Big Boss; he has something to say to you.”

      Slade swept the group with his cold eyes; he sensed a certain resentment, a touch of apprehension. Suddenly he smiled, the flashing white smile of El Halcón which men, and women, find irresistible. In a moment there were answering grins, a change of attitude. His deep musical voice rang out—

      “Fellows, I understood from Mr. Dunn that a date has been set for the completion of this project, and that Mr. Dunn is very anxious that it be completed by that date. Okay. For every day less than the number of days specified, there will be a bonus of a full day’s pay at overtime rates. So if you’re looking forward to a really big bust when the chore is finished, go to it!”

      For a moment there was a surprised silence, then a voice shouted—

      “Hurrah for the Old Man!” The cheer was given with a will.

      “Knock off for the day,” Slade said, smiling broadly. He knew that the title “Old Man,” no matter what the recipient’s years, was the highest accolade these rough and ready workers could accord a boss. Another cheer followed and the workers headed for Presidio and a mite of celebration.

      “You’ve got ’em, sir,” chuckled Butler. “They’ll spit in the Devil’s eyes for you from now on.”

      “No sense in them wasting their time here,” Slade said. “It will take you a day at least to complete your survey and line up the project, so let them take it easy till you’re ready for them. Now supposed you and I amble up to Presidio and have a snort and something to eat.”

      “Suits me,” agreed Butler. “I know a place where they put out good chuck. Likker ain’t bad, either, and the games are straight and the girls—accommodating.”

      “Sounds interesting,” Slade answered.

      “Called the Churn Head, from a horse, I reckon,” said Butler. “Feller named Pickle Simon runs it. Where he got his moniker I don’t know. Sort of reminds me of a Mother Goose rhyme.”

      “And speaking of horses,” Slade observed, “I’ll need a place where my cayuse can put on the nosebag and sleep comfortable.”

      “I’ll show you to Amado’s stable, I keep my horse there,” Butler offered. “He’s a Mexican and a good amigo.”

      “Fine,” Slade replied. “Mexicans usually run good stables. The majority of them have a way with horses and horses take to them.”

      “That’s been my СКАЧАТЬ