Читать книгу Gunsight Showdown: A Walt Slade Western - Bradford Scott - Страница 7

IN THE PRIVATE CAR the General Manager scratched away busily with a pen for a few minutes. He read over what he had written, affixed his signature, and handed the paper to Slade, who glanced at it, folded it and stowed it in a pocket.

“That should hold you,” Dunn said cheerfully.

“Yes,” Slade smiled, “even to cleaning out the office safe if I take a notion to.”

“Go to it!” Dunn replied blithely. “If you do, I’ve a notion you will have earned it. Now what?”

“Now,” Slade said, “I think I’ll ride down to Presidio to see what you’re trying to put over on ‘Ol’ Debbil River.’ Never bridged the Rio Grande, have you?”

“No,” Dunn admitted, “but with your help I bridged the Pecos, if you’ll recall.”

“Yes,” Slade nodded. “But compared to the Rio Grande when it takes a notion to really go on a rampage, the Pecos is like a purry kitten to a catamount.”

“Okay,” said Dunn. “You have authority to change the course of the river if you decide it expedient to do so.”

“The Rio Grande takes care of that angle without any outside help,” Slade answered. “That’s one of the problems with which you’ll have to contend. One slip in planning those approaches and you’ll find yourself without a bridge.”

“I have had such a notion,” Dunn admitted. “However, Quigley seemed to be a capable man and doubtless you’ll find everything okay. Anyhow, with you on the job I figure my troubles there are over. Be seeing you when you get back.”

Jaggers Dunn was right when he observed that Walt Slade was an engineer and a good one. Shortly before the death of his father, which followed financial reverses that entailed the loss of the elder Slade’s ranch, young Walt had graduated from a famous college of engineering. His intention had been to take a post-graduate course in special subjects to round out his education and better fit him for the profession he had determined to make his life work. That, however, became impossible for the time being and Slade was undecided as to just what to do. He had about made up his mind to accept a position with an engineering firm when he happened to drop in on Captain Jim McNelty, the famous Commander of the Border Battalion of the Texas Rangers. Captain Jim had a suggestion to make.

“Walt,” he said, “why don’t you come into the Rangers for a while? You liked the chore when you worked with me some during summer vacations. It would give you plenty of spare time for study and keep you going comfortably at the same time.”

After due consideration, Slade concluded the notion was a good one. He signed up with the Rangers. Long since he had obtained more from private study than he could have hoped for from the post-grad and was eminently fitted to take up the profession of engineering.

Meanwhile, however, Ranger work had gotten a strong hold on him, providing as it did so many opportunities for helping his fellow men and making the world a better place for decent people to live. So he hesitated to sever connections with the illustrious body of law enforcement officers. Plenty of time to be an engineer—he was young. Eventually he would become one, but not just yet. He would stick with the Rangers for a while.

After leaving Jaggers Dunn, Slade got the rig on Shadow and rode south at a fair pace. Gradually the desert became less austere and the going more comfortable. Eventually, without incident, he sighted Presidio, an old town of sunbaked houses squatting in the shade of giant cottonwoods. It had a leisurely look, but he knew it could be plenty rambunctious at times, and was. The same went for Ojinaga, the Mexican town across the river. Presidio was and still is a minor port of entry into Mexico. It was here that the Chihuahua Trail, one of the main freight routes into Mexico, crossed the Rio Grande, The miners and ranchers of the surrounding mountains obtain supplies at Presidio and would welcome the railroad shipping facilities. They also found diversion in the saloons and cantinas of Presidio and Ojinaga and livened things by their presence. Now the railroad construction workers were adding their bit to the general hilarity.

Several hundred yards beyond the outskirts of the town, a large crew of workmen were busily preparing the northern approach to the contemplated bridge. Slade rode to the scene of operations and studied the site. His lips pursed in a soundless whistle.

Directing the activities of the workers was a big, burly man with a bad-tempered face. Slade dismounted and approached him.

“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 experience,” Butler nodded. “Some folks don’t like Mexicans, but I’ve found ’em just the same as other people—mostly good, with now and then a bad one, like everywhere and everybody.”

“You’re right, there,” Slade agreed. He was beginning to like John Butler who, truculent and apt to fly off the handle, nevertheless impressed him as being honest and with good principles. He decided to have a little confidential chat with the engineer, later.