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    THE ROAD-BUILDERS

    [Illustration: The M M Co]

    [Illustration: "'there,' he cried,... 'there, boys! that means
    red hills or bust.'" _Frontispiece_]




    The Road-Builders

    BY

    SAMUEL MERWIN


    AUTHOR OF "THE MERRY ANNE," JOINT AUTHOR OF
    "CALUMET 'K,'" "THE SHORT LINE WAR," ETC.

    WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
    F. B. MASTERS

    TORONTO
    THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
    1910


    COPYRIGHT, 1905,
    BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.

    Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1905. Reprinted
    April, 1906.

    Norwood Press
    J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
    Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.


    _TO MY LITTLE SON_


NOTE


A part of this story was printed serially in _The Saturday
Evening Post_ under the title, "A Link in the Girdle."




CONTENTS


CHAPTER            PAGE

       I. YOUNG VAN ENGAGES A COOK                1
      II. WHERE THE MONEY CAME FROM              22
     III. AT MR. CARHART'S CAMP                  37
      IV. JACK FLAGG SEES STARS                  66
       V. WHAT THEY FOUND AT THE WATER-HOLE      97
      VI. THE ROAD TO TOTAL WRECK               138
     VII. THE SPIRIT OF THE JOB                 185
    VIII. SHOTS--AND A SCOUTING PARTY           219
      IX. A SHOW-DOWN                           246
       X. WHAT TOOK PLACE AT RED HILLS          293




    ILLUSTRATIONS


    "'There,' he cried,... 'there, boys! That means Red Hills
        or bust'"                                         _Frontispiece_

                                                             FACING PAGE

    "'It's all I have a right to give anybody'"                       74

    "'Eighty cents,' he muttered, 'and for how much work?'"           80

    "'Well,' began the boss, looking him over, 'what kind of a
        cook are you?'"                                               98

    "Wonderfully they held the pace"                                 114

    "They went on in this way for nearly an hour"                    120

    "'Look here, Tiffany,' Carhart began,'something's going to
        happen to this man Peet'"                                    142

    "'You go back to your quarters'"                                 208

    "... this trestle structure which was slowly crawling, like
        some monster centipede, across the sands of the La Paz"      240

    "The cigarette dropped from Antonio's unnerved fingers"          244

    "Charlie had not raised his revolver,--the muzzle still
        rested easily on the sill,--but it was pointing straight
        at Jack Flagg's heart"                                       310




THE ROAD-BUILDERS




CHAPTER I

YOUNG VAN ENGAGES A COOK


The S. & W. was hoping some day to build a large station with a steel
and glass trainshed at Sherman. Indeed, a side elevation of the
structure, drawn to scale and framed in black walnut, had hung for a
number of years in the private office, away down east, of President
Daniel De Reamer. But that was to come in the day when Sherman should
be a metropolis; at present the steel of which it was to be
constructed still lay deep in the earth, unblasted, unsmelted, and
unconverted; and the long, very dirty train which, at the time this
narrative opens, was waiting to begin its westward journey, lay
exposed to the rays of what promised to be, by noon, the hottest sun
the spring had so far known. The cars were of an old, ill-ventilated
sort, and the laborers, who were packed within them like cattle in a
box-car, had shed coats and even shirts, and now sat back, and gasped
and grumbled and fanned themselves with their caps, and steadily lost
interest in life.

Apparently there was some uncertainty back in the office of the
superintendent. A red-faced man, with a handkerchief around his neck,
ran out with an order; whereupon an engine backed in, coupled up to
the first car, and whistled impatiently. But they did not go. Half an
hour passed, and the red-faced man ran out again, and the engine
uncoupled, snorted, rang its bell, and disappeared whence it had come.

At length two men--Peet, the superintendent, and Tiffany, chief
engineer of the railroad--walked down the platform together, and
addressed a stocky man with a close-cut gray mustache and a fixed
frown, who stood beside the rear car.

"Peet says he can't wait any longer, Mr. Vandervelt," said Tiffany.

"Can't help that," replied Vandervelt.

"But you've got to help it!" cried Peet. "What are you waiting for,
anyway?"

"If you think we're starting without Paul Carhart, you're mistaken."

"Carhart! Who is Carhart?"

"That's all right," Tiffany put in. "He's in charge of the
construction."

"I don't care what he is! This train--"

He was interrupted by a sudden uproar in the car just ahead. A number
of Italians had chosen to enliven the occasion by attacking the
Mexicans, some of whom had unavoidably been assigned to this car.

Vandervelt left the railroad men without a word, bounded up the car
steps, and plunged through the door. The confusion continued for a
moment, then died down. Another moment, and Vandervelt reappeared on
the platform.

Meanwhile Tiffany was talking to the superintendent.

"You've simply got to wait, Peet," said he. "The old man says that
Carhart must have a free hand. If he's late, there's a reason for
it."

"The old man didn't say that to me," growled Peet; but he waited.

       *       *       *       *       *

It would perhaps be difficult to find, in the history of American
enterprise, an undertaking which demanded greater promptness in
execution than the present one; yet, absurdly enough, the cause of the
delay was a person so insignificant that, even for the purposes of
this narrative, his name hardly matters. The name happened to be,
however, Purple Finn, and he had been engaged for chief cook to the
first division.

There was but one real hotel in the "city," which is to be known here
as Sherman, the half-dozen other places that bore the title of hotel
being rather in the nature of a side line to the saloon and gambling
industry. At this one, which was indicated by a projecting sign and
the words "Eagle, House," Carhart and his engineers were stopping.
"The Comma House," as the instrument men and stake men had promptly
dubbed it, was not very large and not very clean, and the "razor back"
hogs and their progeny had a way of sleeping in rows on and about the
low piazza. But it was, nevertheless, the best hotel in that
particular part of the Southwest.

Finn, on the other hand, made his headquarters at one of the half
dozen, that one which was known to the submerged seven-eighths as
"Murphy's." That Finn should be an enthusiastic patron of the poor
man's club was not surprising, considering that he was an Irish
plainsman of a culinary turn, and considering, too, that he was now
winding up one of those periods between jobs, which begin in spacious
hilarity and conclude with a taste of ashes in the mouth.

It was late afternoon. The chief was sitting in his room, before a
table which was piled high with maps, blue-prints, invoices, and
letters. All day long he had been sitting at this table, going over
the details of the work in hand. Old Vandervelt had reported that the
rails and bolts and ties and other necessaries were on the cars;
Flint and Scribner had reported for their divisions; the statements of
the various railroad officials had been examined, to make sure that no
details were overlooked, for these would, sooner or later, bob up in
the form of misunderstandings; the thousand and one things which must
be considered before the expedition should take the plunge into the
desert had apparently been disposed of. And finally, when the large
clock down in the office was announcing, with a preliminary rattle and
click, that it intended very shortly to strike the half-hour between
five and six, the chief pushed back his chair and looked up at his
engineers, who were seated about him--Old Van before him on a trunk;
Scribner and Young Van beside him on the bed; John Flint, a thin,
sallow man, astride the other chair, and Haddon on the floor with his
back against the wall.

"All accounted for, Paul, I guess," said Flint.

Carhart replied with a question, "How about those iron rods, John?"

"All checked off and packed on the train."

"Did you accept Doble and Dean's estimate for your oats?"

"Not much. Cut it down a third. It was altogether too much to carry.
You see, I shall be only thirty-odd miles from Red Hills, once I get
out there, and I don't look for any trouble keeping in touch."

"It's just as well," said Carhart. "The less you carry, the more room
for us."

"Did those pots and kettles come, Gus?" Carhart asked, turning to the
younger Vandervelt, who was to act as his secretary and general
assistant.

"Yes; just before noon. They had been carried on to Paradise by
mistake. I got them right aboard."

"And you were going to keep an eye on that cook. Where is he?"

Young Van hesitated, and an expression of chagrin came into his face.

"I'll look him up. He promised me last night that he wouldn't touch
another drop."

"Well--get your hands on him, and don't let go again."

Young Van left the room, and as he drew the door to after him he could
hear the chief saying: "Haddon, I wish you would find Tiffany and
remind him that I'm counting on his getting around early to-night. I'm
not altogether satisfied with their scheme for supplying us." And
hearing this, he was more than ever conscious of his own small part in
this undertaking, and more than ever chagrined that he should prove
unequal to the very small matter of keeping an eye on the cook. At
least, it seemed a small matter, in view of the hundreds of problems
concerning men and things which Paul Carhart was solving on this day.

The barkeeper at Murphy's, who served also in the capacity of night
clerk, proved secretive on the subject of Purple Finn--hadn't seen him
all day--didn't know when he would be in. The young engineer thought
he had better sit down to digest the situation. This suggested supper,
and he ordered the best of Murphy's fare, and ate slowly and
pondered. Seven o'clock came, but brought no hint of the cook's
whereabouts. Young Van gathered from the barroom talk that a big
outfit had come into town from Paradise within the past hour or so,
and incidentally that one of the outfit, Jack Flagg, was on the
warpath--whoever Jack Flagg might be. As he sat in a rear corner,
watching, with an assumption of carelessness, the loafers and
plainsmen and gamblers who were passing in and out, or were, like
himself, sitting at the round tables, it occurred to him to go up to
Finn's room. He knew, from former calls, where it was. But he learned
nothing more than that the cook's door was ajar, and that a
half-packed valise lay open on the bed.

At half-past ten, after a tour of the most likely haunts, Young Van
returned to Murphy's and resumed his seat in the rear corner. He had
no notion of returning to the Eagle House without the cook. It was now
close on the hour when Sherman was used to rouse itself for the
revelry of the night, and that Finn would take some part in this
revelry, and that he would, sooner or later, reappear at his favorite
hostelry, seemed probable.

The lamps in this room were suspended from the ceiling at such a
height that their light entered the eye at the hypnotic angle; and so
it was not long before Young Van, weary from the strain of the week,
began to nod. The bar with its line of booted figures, and the
quartets of card-players, and the one waiter moving about in his
spotted white apron, were beginning to blur and run together. The
clink of glasses and the laughter came to his ears as if from a great
distance. Once he nearly recovered his faculties. A group of new
arrivals were looking toward his corner. "Waiting for Purple Finn,
eh?" said one. "Well, I guess he's got a nice long wait in front of
him, poor fool!" Then they all laughed. And Young Van himself, with
half-open eyes, had to smile over the poor fool in the corner who was
waiting for Purple Finn.

"I hear Jack Flagg's in town," said the barkeeper. "I wonder if he
is!" replied the first speaker. "I wonder if Jack Flagg is in town!"
Again they laughed. And again Young Van smiled. How odd that Jack
Flagg should be in town!

He was awakened by a sound of hammering. There was little change in
the room: the card games were going steadily on; the bar still had its
line of thirsty plainsmen; two men were wrangling in a corner. Then he
made out a group of newcomers who were tacking a placard to the wall,
and chuckling as they did so.

And now, for the first time, Young Van became conscious that he was no
longer alone at his table. Opposite him, smiling genially, and
returning his gaze with benevolent watery eyes, sat a big Texan. This
individual wore his cowboy hat on the back of his head, and made no
effort to conceal the two revolvers and the knife at his belt.

"D'ye know," said the Texan, "I like you. What's your name?"

"Vandervelt. What is yours?"

"