Appleton found his employer with one foot in a tub of hot water and his lap full of blueprints. O'Neil explained briefly the condition of affairs down the river.
"I want some one to make that crossing," he said.
"A volunteer?" asked Dan, with quickened pulses.
"Yes."
"Will I do?"
"I sent for you to give you the first chance—you've been chafing so at your idleness. We must have steel laid to this point before snow flies. Every hour counts. I daren't risk Mellen or McKay, for they might be disabled. I intended to take charge myself, but I won't be able to walk now for some time." He swore a little, and Dan nodded sympathetically. "I wouldn't send anybody where I'd refuse to go myself. You understand?"
"Of course."
"If either McKay or Mellen were hurt I couldn't build the bridge, and the bridge must be built."
"If Gordon stands pat somebody may be—hurt."
"I don't look for anything worse than a few broken heads, but of course I can't tell. I'll stand behind you with my last dollar, no matter what happens."
Dan laughed. "As I understand the situation you won't have a dollar unless we make the crossing."
"Right!" O'Neil smiled cheerfully. "The life of the S. R. & N. depends upon it. I'd give ten thousand dollars for your right ankle."
"You can have it for nothing, Chief. I'd amputate the whole leg and present it to you," Dan declared earnestly.
Murray took his hand in a hearty grip. "Perhaps I'll be able to serve you some time," he said, simply. "Anyhow, I'll look out for the chance. Now spend the evening with the girls, and leave in the morning. I'll be down as soon as I can travel, to watch the fight from the side-lines." O'Neil's voice was level, but his teeth were shut and his fingers were clenched with rage at his disability.
Dan hurried away highly elated, but when he told Eliza of the part he had undertaken she stormed indignantly.
"Why, the brute! He has no right to send you into danger. This isn't war."
"Sis, dear, it's my chance. He can't stand, and he daren't risk his right-hand men."
"So he sacrifices you! I won't permit it. Your life and safety are worth more than all his dollars. Let his old railroad go to smash!"
"Wait! More than my safety depends on this. He said he'd wait for a chance to pay me back. If I do this he'll owe me more than any man on the job, and when he learns that I love Natalie—"
"Dan!" exclaimed his sister.
"Oh, he'll make good!"
"Why, you're worse than he! The idea of suggesting such a thing!"
"Don't preach! I've had nothing to do lately but think of her; she's always in my mind. The loneliness up here has made me feel more than ever that I can't exist without her. The river whispers her name; her face looks at me from the campfire; the wind brings me her messages—"
"Fiddlesticks! She saves her messages for him. When a man reaches the poetical stage he's positively sickening. You'll be writing verses next."
"I've written 'em," Dan confessed, sheepishly; "oceans of mush."
"Fancy! Thank Heaven one of us is sane."
"Our dispositions were mixed when we were born, Eliza. You're unsentimental and hard-headed: I'm romantic. You'll never know what love means."
"If you are a sample, I hope not." Eliza's nose assumed an even higher tilt than usual.
"Well, if I knew I had no chance with Natalie I'd let Gordon's men put an end to me—that's how serious it is. But I have a chance—I know I have."
"Bosh! You've lived in railroad camps too long. I know a dozen girls prettier than she." Eying him with more concern, she asked, seriously, "You wouldn't really take advantage of a service to Murray O'Neil to—to tell him the nature of your insanity?"
"I might not actually tell him, but I'd manage it so he'd find out."
"Don't you think Natalie has something to say? Don't you think she is more than a piece of baggage waiting to be claimed by the first man who comes along?" sputtered Miss Appleton in fine disgust at this attitude. "She has more sense and determination than any girl, any pretty girl, I ever saw. That's one reason why I hate her so. There's no use trying to select a husband for her. When the time comes she'll do the selecting herself. She'll knock over all our plans and walk blushingly up to the altar with O'Neil, leaving us out on the sidewalk to cheer. I'm sorry I ever tried to help you! I'm going to quit and get back my self-respect."
"You'll do no such thing. You'll continue to help your poor red-headed brother to the finish. Say! When I'm alone I'm just bursting with optimism; when I'm with you I wither with despair; when I'm with Natalie I become as heavy and stupid as a frog full of buckshot—I just sit and blink and bask and revel in a sort of speechless bliss. If she ever saw how really bright and engaging I am—"
"You!" Eliza sniffed. "You're as uninteresting as I am."
"Now that you've pledged your undying support, here goes for some basking," said Dan; and he made off hastily in search of Miss Gerard.
Eliza had really made up her mind to wash her hands of the affair, but she wavered, and, as usual, she gave in. She did go to O'Neil to protest at Dan's selection for the post of danger, but after talking with him she began to see the matter in a new light, and her opposition weakened. He showed her that the S. R. & N. had an individuality of its own—an individuality greater than Murray O'Neil's, or Dan Appleton's, or that of any man connected with it. She began to understand that it was a living thing, and that O'Neil was merely a small part of it—a person driven by a power outside himself, the head servant of a great undertaking, upon whom rested a heavy responsibility. She saw for the first time that the millions invested in the project imposed upon those concerned with its management a sacred duty, and that failure to defend the company's rights would be the worst sort of treachery. She began to appreciate also how men may be willing to lay down their lives, if necessary, to pave the way for the march of commerce.
"I never looked at it in this way," she told him, when he had finished. "I—don't like to take that view of it, even now, but I suppose I must."
"Try not to worry about Dan," he said, sympathetically. "We'll start back as soon as I'm able to move around, and I'll do my best to see that he isn't hurt. It's—tough to be laid up this way."
"There's another sick man in camp, by the way."
"Who?"
"The Indian boy who helps the cook. He was hunting and shot himself in the arm."
"They told me he was doing well."
"Oh, he is, but the pain has kept the poor fellow awake until he's nearly out of his head. There are no drugs here."
"None this side of the end of the track."
"Can't we do something?"
"We can give Dan a note to 'Happy Tom' in the morning and have whatever you want sent up. Tom will be there, and perhaps if you ask him he'll despatch a man on foot at once."
Seizing pen and paper from the table, Eliza wrote a note, which she read aloud:
"DEAR UNCLE TOM,—There is a sick Indian here. Won't you please send up an opiate by special messenger, and receive the blessing of, Your affectionate, ELIZA."
"Better change the word 'opiate,'" O'Neil advised. "I don't think Tom is equal to that; he might send overalls!" So Eliza substituted "something to put him to sleep." This message Dan promised faithfully to deliver.
Murray had expected to begin the return journey within twenty-four hours after his arrival; but his injury mended slowly, and when the time came he was still unable to stand. This interval the girls spent in watching the glaciers, of which they never seemed to tire, and in spoiling many films.
It was late on the second day when a tired and sodden messenger bearing the marks of heavy travel appeared at O'Neil's tent and inquired for Miss Appleton. To her he handed a three-foot bundle and a note from Tom Slater which read:
DEAR MADAM,—Here is the best thing I know of to put an Indian to sleep. THOS. SLATER.
"There's some mistake, surely," said the girl, as she unrolled the odd-looking package; then she cried out angrily, and O'Neil burst into laughter. For inside the many wrappings was a pick-handle.
Eliza's resentment at "Happy Tom's" unsympathetic sense of humor was tempered in a measure by the fact that the patient had taken a turn for the better and really needed no further medical attention. But she was not accustomed to practical jokes, and she vowed to make Tom's life miserable if ever the occasion offered.
As the days wore on and Murray remained helpless his impatience became acute, and on the fourth morning he determined to leave, at whatever cost in pain or danger to the injury. He gave orders, therefore, to have a boat prepared, and allowed himself to be carried to it. The foreman of the bridge crew he delegated to guide the girls down across the moraine, where he promised to pick them up. The men who had come with him he sent on to the cataract where Dan had been.
"Aren't you coming with us?" asked Natalie, when they found him seated in the skiff with an oarsman.
"It's rough going. I'd have to be carried, so I prefer this," he told them.
"Then we'll go with you," Eliza promptly declared.
Natalie paled and shook her dark head. "Is it safe?" she ventured.
"No, it isn't! Run along now! I'll be down there waiting, when you arrive."
"If it's safe enough for you, it's safe enough for us," said Eliza. Climbing into the boat, she plumped herself down with a look which seemed to defy any power to remove her. Her blue eyes met O'Neil's gray ones with an expression he had never seen in them until this moment.
"Nonsense, child!" he said. "Don't be silly."
"Don't you try to put me out. I'll hang on and—kick. Don't you say 'please,' either," she warned him.
"I must," he protested. "Please don't insist."
She scowled like an angry boy, and seized the gunwales firmly. Her expression made him smile despite his annoyance, and this provoked her the more.
"I'm going!" she asserted, darkly.
This outing had done wonders for both girls. The wind and the sunshine had tanned them, the coarse fare had lent them a hearty vigor, and they made charming pictures in their trim short skirts and sweaters and leather-banded hats.
"Very well! If you're going, take off your boots," commanded O'Neil.
"What for?"
"We may be swamped and have to swim for it. You see the man has taken his off." Murray pointed to the raw-boned Norwegian oarsman, who had stripped down as if for a foot-race.
Eliza obeyed.
"Now your sweater."
Natalie had watched this scene with evident concern. She now seated herself upon a boulder and began to tug at her rubber boots.
"Here! Here! You're not going, too!" O'Neil exclaimed.
"Yes, I am. I'm frightened to death, but I won't be a coward." Her shaking hands and strained voice left no doubt of her seriousness.
"She can't swim," said Eliza; and O'Neil put an end to this display of heroism with a firm refusal.
"You'll think I'm afraid," Natalie expostulated.
"Bless you, of course we will, because you are! So am I, and so is Eliza, for that matter. If you can't swim you'd only be taking a foolish risk and adding to our danger. Besides, Eliza doesn't know the feel of cold water as we do."
Natalie smiled a little tremulously at recollection of the shipwreck.
"I'd much rather walk, of course," she said; and then to Eliza, "It—it will be a lovely ramble for us."
But Eliza shook her head. "This is material for my book, and I'll make enough out of it to—to—"
"Buy another orchard," Murray suggested.
Feeling more resigned now that the adventure had taken on a purely financial color, Natalie at length allowed herself to be dissuaded, and Eliza settled herself in her seat with the disturbing consciousness that she had made herself appear selfish and rude in O'Neil's eyes. Nevertheless, she had no notion of changing her mind.
When the other girl had gone the oarsman completed his preparations by lashing fast the contents of the skiff—a proceeding which Eliza watched with some uneasiness. O'Neil showed his resentment by a pointed silence, which nettled her, and she resolved to hold her seat though the boat turned somersaults.
Word was finally given, and they swung out into the flood. O'Neil stood as best he could on his firm leg, and steered by means of a sculling-oar, while the Norwegian rowed lustily.
Bits of drift, patches of froth, fragments of ice accompanied them, bobbing alongside so persistently that Eliza fancied the boat must be stationary until, glancing at the river-banks, she saw them racing past like the panoramic scenery in a melodrama. The same glance showed her that they were rushing directly toward the upper ramparts of Jackson Glacier, as if for an assault. Out here in the current there were waves, and these increased in size as the bed of the Salmon grew steeper, until the poling-boat began to rear and leap like a frightened horse. The gleaming wall ahead rose higher with every instant: it overhung, a giant, crumbling cliff, imposing, treacherous. Then the stream turned at right angles; they were swept along parallel with the ice face, and ahead of them for three miles stretched the gauntlet. The tottering wall seemed almost within reaching distance; its breath was cold and damp and clammy. O'Neil stood erect and powerful in the stern, swaying to the antics of the craft, his weight upon the sweep, his eyes fixed upon the Thing overhead. The Norwegian strained at his oars while the sweat ran down into his open shirt. The boat lunged and wallowed desperately, rising on end, falling with prodigious slaps, drenching the occupants with spray. It was splendid, terrifying! Eliza clung to her seat and felt her heartbeats smothering her. Occasionally the oarsman turned, staring past her with round, frightened eyes, and affording her a glimpse of a face working with mingled fear and exultation.
Thus far the glacier had not disputed their passage; it maintained the silence and the immobility of marble; nothing but the snarl of the surging flood re-echoed from its face. But with the suddenness of a rifle-shot there came a detonation, louder, sharper than any blast of powder. The Norwegian cursed; the helmsman dropped his eyes to the white face in the bow and smiled.
Half a mile ahead of them a mass of ice came rumbling down, and the whole valley rocked with the sound. Onward the little craft fled, a dancing speck beneath the majesty of that frozen giant, an atom threatened by the weight of mountains. At last through the opening of the gorge below came a glimpse of the flats that led to the sea. A moment later the boat swung into an eddy and came to rest, bumping against the boulders.
O'Neil sat down, wiping his wet face.
"Well, was it worth your trouble, Miss Kick-over the-traces?" he asked.
"Oh, it was glorious! I'll never forget it."
Eliza's cheeks were burning now, her aching hands relaxed their hold, and she drew a deep breath—the first of which she had been conscious since the start, fifteen minutes before.
"Now, on with your boots and your sweater. We'll have an hour's wait for Natalie."
She gave a cry of surprise and offered him a glimpse of a trim ankle and a dripping foot.
"See! They're wet, and I wriggled my toes right through my stockings. I NEVER was so excited."
The boatman fastened the painter and resumed his outer clothing. O'Neil lit a cigar and asked:
"Tell me, why did you insist on coming?"
"I was afraid something might happen to you."
He raised his brows, and she flushed. "Don't you understand? Dan would never have forgiven me, and—and—I just HAD to come, that's all. It's corking material for me—I thought you might upset, and I—I don't know why I insisted." She bent over her stubborn boots, hiding her face. She was flaming to the ears, for suddenly she knew the reason that had prompted her. It rushed upon her like a sense of great shame. She recalled the desperate grip at her heart when she had seen him ready to leave, the wildness of her longing to share his danger, the black fear that he might meet disaster alone. It had all come without warning, and there had been no time for self-consciousness, but now she realized the truth. The poignant pain of it made her fingers clumsy and sent that flood of scarlet to her neck and ears.
When Natalie arrived they cast off, and the remaining miles were made in a few hours.
Appleton joined them for lunch in the tent they remembered so well, and professed to be shocked at the report of his sister's foolhardiness. But whatever may have been Natalie's fear of ridicule, it promptly disappeared under his complete indorsement of her wisdom in refraining from such a mad adventure. As if to put her even more at ease, O'Neil was especially attentive to her; and Eliza reflected gloomily that men, after all, dislike bravado in women, that a trapeze artist or a lady balloonist inspires only a qualified admiration.
During O'Neil's absence work had progressed steadily. On his return he found the grade completed to within a few yards of Gordon's right-of-way. Although he was still unable to walk, he insisted upon going to the front, whither he was helped by Appleton and "Happy Tom."
Into the narrow space between the end of his embankment and that of his rival's a gravel-train was spilling its burden, and a hundred pick-and-shovel men were busy. The opposing forces also seemed hard at work, but their activity was largely a pretense, and they showed plainly that they were waiting for the clash. They were a hard-looking crew, and their employer had neglected no precaution. He had erected barricades for their protection until his grade looked like a military work.
"They haven't showed any guns yet, but I'm sure they're armed," Appleton told his chief.
"How is the place lighted by night?" O'Neil inquired.
"Oil torches," Slater answered. "Ah! We've been recognized. That comes from being fat, I s'pose."
As he spoke a donkey-engine at the right of the proposed crossing set up a noisy rattling, a thin steel cable whipped into view between the rails, and from the left there appeared a contrivance which O'Neil eyed curiously. It was a sort of drag, and rode back and forth upon the rails.
"Humph! They'd better not put much trust in that," Murray grunted, grimly.
"Don't fool yourself; it's no rubber-tired baby-carriage," said Slater. "Our men are afraid of it."
After watching the device scuttle back and forth for a few moments O'Neil said shortly:
"Post a notice at once, offering a thousand dollars for any man who cuts that cable."
"A thousand—" Appleton gasped. "Why, I'll do it. Let me—"
"No, you won't," Slater broke in. "I'll take that on myself."
"I spoke first. It's my first chance," Dan cried.
"It's my job! I'm going—"
"Wait a minute!" O'Neil silenced the two, who were glaring at each other angrily. "Don't let's have any fighting; there will be enough of that later."
"I spoke first," Dan repeated, stubbornly.
"I had my mouth puckered to spit, that's why," the fat man explained. "A fellow has to spit—"
"I'd rather you wouldn't volunteer, Dan," said O'Neil.
"Why?"
"You might get hurt."
"Happy Tom" nodded his agreement. "Certainly! Never send a boy on a man's errand."
"And I don't want you to do it either, Tom, for the same reason."
Slater mumbled some sort of sour acquiescence, but Dan would not be denied.
"You made the offer, and I took it up," he told O'Neil. "Somebody has to make the first move, and I have a particular need for exactly one thousand dollars. If they start a rumpus, it will give us the excuse we're looking for. I've been studying that 'go-devil' through field-glasses for two days now, and I'll guarantee to put it out of commission before Gordon's men know what I'm about. Just forget the reward, if you like, and give me a chance."
"What's your plan?" Slater inquired, eagerly; but Appleton shook his head.
"No you don't, Tommy!" he said. "I'm wise to you."
Murray hesitated briefly, then gave his permission. "I'd rather you'd let one of the rough-necks take the chance, but if you insist—"
"I do."
"Then get your sister's consent—"
Slater swore mournfully, as if from a heart filled with black despair.
"Ain't that my luck? One cud of gum cost me a thousand dollars! Hell! It would take a millionaire to afford a habit like that." He expelled the gum violently and went grumbling off up the track.
"Sis won't object," said Dan, lightly. "She'd offer to do the trick herself, for she's getting the spirit of the work."
When O'Neil had managed to regain the camp he began preparations for an attack that very night, using the telephone busily. News of the coming affray quickly spread, and both the day and night shifts discussed it excitedly at supper-time.
Nor was the excitement lessened when a loaded gravel-train rolled in and Dr. Gray descended from it with his emergency kit and two helpers from the hospital at Omar.
Up to this point both Eliza and Natalie had hoped that the affair might not, after all, turn out to be very serious, but the presence of the grim-faced surgeon and the significant preparations he set about making boded otherwise. Eliza undertook to reason with her brother, but her words refused to come. As a matter of fact, deep down in her heart was a great rebellion at the fate which had made her a woman and thus debarred her from an active part in the struggle. Natalie, on the other hand, was filled with dread, and she made a much more vigorous attempt to dissuade Dan from his purpose than did his sister. But he refused to heed even her, and soon hurried away to finish his preparations.
After supper the camp settled itself to wait for darkness. Night was slow in coming, and long before Appleton signified his readiness speculation was rife. With the approach of twilight the torches along Gordon's grade began to glow brightly. Then Dan set his watch with "Happy Tom's," kissed Eliza, and made off across the tundra. He left the S. R. & N. at right angles and continued in that direction for a mile or more before swinging about in a wide circle which brought him well to the rear of Gordon's encampment. The gloom now covered his movements, and by taking advantage of an alder thicket he managed to approach very closely to the enemy's position. But the footing was treacherous, the darkness betrayed him into many a fall, and he was wet, muddy, and perspiring when he finally paused not more than two hundred feet from the scene of the proposed crossing.
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