Francis Lynde - Empire Builders

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EMPIRE BUILDERS

by

FRANCIS LYNDE

Author of
The Quickening, The Grafters
A Fool for Love, etc.

With Illustrations by Jay Hambidge

Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers
Press of
Braunworth & Co.
Bookbinders and Printers
Brooklyn, N.Y.

1907

[Illustration: "I won't attempt to apologize--it's beyond all that"]

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I A MASTER OF MEN 1

II A SPIKED SWITCH 13

III LOSS AND DAMAGE 30

IV COLD STORAGE 38

V WANTED: THIRTY-FIVE MILLIONS 47

VI THE AWAKENING OF CHARLES EDWARD 59

VII HAMMER AND TONGS 66

VIII THE AUTOMATIC AIR 75

IX THE RACE TO THE SLOW 90

X THE SINEWS OF WAR 100

XI HURRY ORDERS 120

XII THE ENTERING WEDGE 141

XIII THE BARBARIANS 155

XIV THE DRAW-BAR PULL 166

XV AN UNWILLING HOST 177

XVI THE TRUTHFUL ALTITUDES 186

XVII A NIGHT OF ALARMS 198

XVIII THE MORNING AFTER 217

XIX THE RELUCTANT WHEELS 238

XX THE CONSPIRATORS 254

XXI THE MILLS OF THE GODS 271

XXII THE MAN ON HORSEBACK 285

XXIII THE DEADLOCK 311

XXIV RUIZ GREGORIO 325

XXV THE SIEGE OF THE NADIA 336

XXVI THE STAR OF EMPIRE 362

EMPIRE BUILDERS

I

A MASTER OF MEN

Engine Number 206, narrow gauge, was pushing, or rather failing to push,
the old-fashioned box-plow through the crusted drifts on the uptilted
shoulder of Plug Mountain, at altitude ten thousand feet, with the
mercury at twelve below zero. There was a wind--the winter day above
timber-line without its wind is as rare as a thawing Christmas--and it
cut like knives through any garmenting lighter than fur or leather. The
cab of the 206 was old and weather-shaken, and Ford pulled the collar of
his buffalo coat about his ears when the grunting of the exhaust and the
shrilling of the wheels on the snow-shod rails stopped abruptly.

"Gar-r-r!" snarled Gallagher, the red-headed Irish engineer, shutting
off the steam in impotent rage. "The power is not in this dommed ould
camp-kittle sewin' machine! 'Tis heaven's pity they wouldn't be givin'
us wan man-sized, fightin' lokimotive on this ind of the line, Misther
Foord."

Ford, superintendent and general autocrat of the Plug Mountain branch of
the Pacific Southwestern, climbed down from his cramped seat on the
fireman's box and stood scowling at the retracting index of the
steam-gauge. When he was on his feet beside the little Irishman, you saw
that he was a young man, well-built, square-shouldered and athletic
under the muffling of the shapeless fur greatcoat; also, that in spite
of the scowl, his clean-shaven face was strong and manly and good to
look upon.

"Power!" he retorted. "That's only one of the hundred things they don't
give us, Mike. Look at that steam-gauge--freezing right where she
stands!"

"'Tis so," assented Gallagher. "She'd be dead and shtiff in tin minutes
be the clock if we'd lave her be in this drift."

Ford motioned the engineer aside and took the throttle himself. It was
the third day out from Cherubusco, the station at the foot of the
mountain; and in the eight-and-forty hours the engine, plow and crew of
twenty shovelers had, by labor of the cruelest, opened eleven of the
thirteen blockaded miles isolating Saint's Rest, the mining-camp
end-of-track in the high basin at the head of the pass.

The throttle opened with a jerk under the superintendent's hand. There
was a snow-choked drumming of the exhaust, and the driving-wheels spun
wildly in the flurry beneath. But there was no inch of forward motion,
and Ford gave it up.

"We're against it," he admitted. "Back her down and we'll put the
shovelers at it again while you're nursing her up and getting more
steam. We're going to make it to Saint's Rest to-day if the Two-six has
to go in on three legs."

Gallagher pulled the reversing lever into the back gear and sent the
failing steam whistling into the chilled cylinders with cautious little
jerks at the throttle. The box-plow came out of the clutch of its snow
vise with shrillings as of a soul in torment, and the bucking outfit
screeched coldly down over the snowy rails to the "let-up," where the
shovelers' box-car had been uncoupled.

Ford swung off to turn out the shoveling squad; and presently the
laborers, muffled to the eyes, were filing past the 206 to break a path
for the plow. Gallagher was on the running-board with his flare torch,
thawing out an injector. He marked the cheerful swing of the men and
gave credit where it was due.

"'Tis a full-grown man, that," he commented, meaning Ford. "Manny's the
wan would be huggin' the warm boiler-head these times, and shtickin' his
head out of the windy to holler, 'G'wan, boys; pitch it out lively now,
and be dommed to yez!' But Misther Foord ain't built the like o' that.
He'll be as deep in that freezin' purgatory up yander in th' drift as
the foremist wan of thim."

The Irishman's praise was not unmerited. Whatever his failings,
and he groaned under his fair human share of them, Stuart Ford had
the gift of leadership. Before he had been a month on the branch
as its "old man" and autocrat, he had won the good-will and loyalty
of the rank and file, from the office men in the headquarters to the
pick-and-shovel contingent on the sections. Even the blockade-breaking
laborers--temporary helpers as they were--stood by him manfully in the
sustained battle with the snow. Ford spared them when he could, and they
knew it.

"Warm it up, boys!" he called cheerily, climbing to the top of the
frozen drift to direct the attack. "It's been a long fight, but we're in
sight of home now. Come up here with your shovels, Olsen, and break it
down from the top. It's the crust that plugs Mike's wedge."

He looked the fighting leader, standing at the top of the wind-swept
drift and crying on his shovelers. It was the part he had chosen for
himself in the game of life, and he quarreled only when the stake was
small, as in this present man-killing struggle with the snowdrifts. The
Plug Mountain branch was the sore spot in the Pacific Southwestern
system; the bad investment at which the directors shook their heads, and
upon which the management turned the coldest of shoulders. It barely
paid its own operating expenses in summer, and the costly snow blockades
in winter went to the wrong side of the profit and loss account.

This was why Ford had been scheming and planning for a year and more to
find a way of escape; not for himself, but for the discredited Plug
Mountain line. It was proving a knotty problem, not to say an insoluble
one. Ford had attacked it with his eyes open, as he did most things; and
he was not without a suspicion that President Colbrith, of the Pacific
Southwestern, had known to the full the hopelessness of the mountain
line when he dictated the letter which had cost one of the great Granger
roads its assistant engineer in charge of construction, transferring an
energetic young man with ambitions from the bald plains of the Dakotas
to the snow-capped shoulders of the Rockies.

Originally the narrow gauge had been projected and partly built by a
syndicate of Denver capitalists, who were under the hallucination, then
prevalent, that any railroad penetrating the mountains in any direction,
and having Denver for its starting point, must necessarily become at
once a dividend-paying carrier for the mines, actual or to be
discovered.

Failing to tap their bonanza freight-producer on the route up Blue
Canyon, the projectors--small fish in the great money-pool--had talked
vaguely of future extensions to Salt Lake, to San Francisco, to Puget
Sound, or to some other of the far-beyonds, and had even gone the length
of surveying a line over Plug Pass and down the valley of the Pannikin,
on the Pacific slope of the range. But they had prudently stopped
building; and the pause continued until the day of the great silver
strike at Saint's Rest.

The new carbonate beds chanced to lie within easy rifle-shot of the
summit of Plug Pass; in other words, they were precisely on the line of
the extension survey of the narrow gauge. The discovery was a piece of
sheer luck for the amateur railroad builders. For a time, as all the
world knows, Saint's Rest headed the mining news column in all the
dailies, and the rush for the new camp fairly swamped the meager
carrying facilities of the incomplete line and the stages connecting its
track-end with the high-mountain Mecca of the treasure-seekers.

Then, indeed, the Denver syndicate saw its long deferred opportunity and
grasped it. Long purses might be lacking, but not shrewd heads. The
unfinished Plug Mountain was immediately bonded for more than it ever
promised to be worth, and in the hottest heat of the forwarding strife
it was extended at the rate of a mile a day until the welcome screech of
its locomotive whistles was added to the perfervid clamor of the new
camp in the Plug Pass basin.

The goal reached, the Denver folk took a fresh leaf out of the book of
shrewdness. Holding the completed line only long enough to skim the
cream of the rush earnings, they sold their stock at a sound premium to
the Pacific Southwestern, pocketed their winnings cannily, and escaped a
short half-year before the slump in silver, and the consequent collapse
of Saint's Rest, came to establish the future Waterloo for Napoleonic
young superintendents in the Southwestern's service.

This was all ancient history when Ford left the Granger road to climb,
at President Colbrith's behest, into the Plug Mountain saddle; and a
round half-dozen of the young Napoleons had been broken before he put
foot in stirrup for the mounting. While his attacking of the problem had
been open-eyed, he had not stopped to specialize in the ancient history
of the Plug Mountain branch. When he did specialize, his point of view
was pretty clearly defined in a letter to Mr. Richard Frisbie, of St.
Paul, written after he had been for six months the master of the Plug
Mountain destinies.

"I'm up against it, good and solid," was the way he phrased it to
Frisbie. "My hundred and fifty miles of 'two streaks of rust and a
right-of-way' has never paid a net dollar since the boom broke at
Saint's Rest, and under present conditions it never will. If I had known
the history of the road when President Colbrith went fishing for me--as
I didn't--I wouldn't have touched the job with a ten-foot pole.

"But now I'm here, I'm going to do something with my two streaks of rust
to make them pay--make a spoon or spoil a horn. Just what shall be done
I haven't decided fully, but I have a notion in the back part of my
head, and if it works out, I shall need you first of all. Will you come?

"Have I told you in any of my earlier letters that I have personally
earned the ill-will of General Manager North? I have, and it is distinct
from and in addition to his hostility for the unearning branch for which
I am responsible. I'm sorry for it, because I may need his good word for
my inchoate scheme later on. It came up over some maintenance-of-way
charges. He is as shrewd as he is unscrupulous, and he knows well how to
pile the sins of the congregation on the back of the poor scapegoat. To
make a better showing for the main line, and at the same time to show
what a swilling pig the Plug Mountain is, he had the branch charged up
with a lot of material we didn't get. Naturally, I protested--and was
curtly told to mind my own business, which had no ramifications reaching
into the accounting department. Then I threatened to carry it over his
head to President Colbrith; whereupon I gained my point temporarily, and
lost a possible stepping-stone to success.

"None the less, I am going to win out if it costs me the best year of
my life. I'm going to swing to this thing till I make something out of
it, if I have to put in some more winters like the one I have just come
through--which was Sheol, with ice and snow in the place of the
traditional fire and brimstone. If I have one good quality--as I
sometimes doubt--it's the inability to know when I am satisfactorily and
permanently licked."

Stuart Ford was shivering through the second of the winters on the gray,
needle-winded day when he stood on the crusted drift, heartening his men
who were breaking the way for further rammings of the scrap-heap 206 and
her box-plow. During the summer which lay behind the pitiless storms and
the blockading snows he had explored and planned, studied and schemed;
and now a month of good weather would put the finishing touches
preparatory upon the "notion" hinted at in the letter to Frisbie.

"That'll do, boys; we'll let Gallagher hit it a few times now," he sang
out, when he saw that the weaker ones among the shovelers were stumbling
numbly and throwing wild. "Get back to the car and thaw yourselves out."

The safety-valve of the 206 was stuttering under a gratifying increase
of steam pressure when the superintendent climbed to the canvas-shrouded
cab.

"Ha! two hundred and fifty pounds! That looks a little more like it,
Michael. Now get all the run you can and hit her straight from the
shoulder," he ordered, mounting to his seat on the fireman's box, and
bracing himself for what should come.

Gallagher released the driver-brakes and let the 206 and the plow drift
down the grade until his tender drawhead touched the laborers' car. Then
the reversing lever went forward with a clang, and the steam squealed
shrilly in the dry-pipe. For a thunderous second or two the
driving-wheels slipped and whirled futilely on the snowy rails.
Gallagher pounced upon the sand lever, whereat the tires suddenly bit
and held and a long-drawn, fire-tearing exhaust sobbed from the stack.

"You've got her!" shouted Ford. "Now hit it--hit it hard!"

Swiftly the huge mass of engine and plow gathered headway, the pounding
exhausts quickening until they blended in a continuous roar. The little
Irishman stayed himself with a foot against the boiler brace; the
fireman ducked under the canvas curtain and clung to the coal bulkhead;
and Ford held on as he could.

The shock came like the crashing blow of a collision. The box-plow
buckled and groaned with fine cracklings as of hard-strained timbers,
and an avalanche of snow thrown up from its inclined plane buried engine
and cab and tender in a smothering drift. Ford slid his window and
looked out.

"Good work, Michael; good work! You gained a full car-length that time.
Try it again."

Gallagher backed the plow carefully out of the cutting, and the fireman
opened the blower and nursed his fire. Again and again the wheeled
projectile was hurled into the obstruction, and Ford watched the
steadily retrograding finger of the steam-gauge anxiously. Would the
pressure suffice for the final dash which should clear the cutting? Or
would they have to stop and turn out the wretched shovelmen again?

The answer came with the fourth drive into the stubborn barrier. There
was the same nerve-racking shock of impact; but now the recoil was
followed by a second forward plunge, and Gallagher yelled his triumph
when the 206 burst through the remaining lesser drifts and shot away on
the clear track beyond.

Ford drew a long breath of relief, and the engineer checked the speed of
the runaway, stopped, and started back to couple on the car-load of
laborers.

Ford swung around and put his back to the open window.

"Let's hope that is the worst of it and the last of it for this winter,
Mike," he said, speaking as man to man. "I believe the weather will
break before we have any more snow; and next year--"

The pause was so long that Gallagher took his chance of filling it.

"Don't be tellin' me the big boss has promised us a rotary for next
winter, Misther Foord. That'd be too good to be thrue, I'm thinking."

"No; but next winter you'll be doing one of two things, Michael. You
will be pulling your train through steel snow-sheds on Plug Mountain--or
you'll be working for another boss. Break her loose, and let's get to
camp as soon as we can. Those poor devils back in the box-car are about
dead for sleep and a square meal."

II

A SPIKED SWITCH

Ford's hopeful prophecy that the snow battles were over for the season
proved true. A few weeks later a warm wind blew up from the west, the
mountain foot-trails became first packed ice-paths and then slippery
ridges to trap the unwary; the great drifts began to settle and melt,
and the spring music of the swollen mountain torrents was abroad in the
land.

At the blowing of the warm wind Ford aimed the opening gun in his
campaign against fate--the fate which seemed to be bent upon adding his
name to the list of failures on the Plug Mountain branch. The gun-aiming
was a summons to Frisbie, at the moment a draftsman in the engineering
office of the Great Northern at St. Paul, and pining, like the Plug
Mountain superintendent, for something bigger.

"I have been waiting until I could offer you something with a
bread-and-meat attachment in the way of day pay," wrote Ford, "and the
chance has come. Kennedy, my track supervisor, has quit, and the place
is yours if you will take it. If you are willing to tie up to the most
harebrained scheme you ever heard of, with about one chance in a
thousand of coming out on top and of growing up with a brand new country
of unlimited possibilities, just gather up your dunnage and come."

This letter was written on a Friday. Frisbie got it out of the carriers'
delivery on the Sunday morning; and Sunday night saw him racing
westward, with the high mountains of Colorado as his goal. Not that the
destination made any difference, for Frisbie would have gone quite as
willingly to the ends of the earth at the crooking of Ford's finger.

It was the brightest of May days when the new supervisor of track
debarked from the mountain-climbing train at Saint's Rest, stretched his
legs gratefully on _terra firma_, had his first deep lungful of the
ozonic air of the high peaks, and found his welcome awaiting him. Ford
would have no talk of business until he had taken Frisbie across to the
little shack "hotel," and had filled him up on a dinner fresh from the
tin; nor, indeed, afterward, until they were smoking comfortably in the
boxed-off den in the station building which served as the
superintendent's office.

"I've been counting on you, Dick, as you know, ever since this thing
threatened to take shape in my head," Ford began. "First, let me ask
you: do you happen to know where you could lay hands on three or four
good constructing engineers--men you could turn loose absolutely and
trust implicitly? I'm putting this up to you because the Plug Mountain
exile has taken me a bit out of touch."

"Why--yes," said Frisbie, taking time to call the mental roll. "There
are Major Benson and his son Jack--you know 'em both--just in off their
job in the Selkirks. Then there is Roy Brissac; he'd be a pretty good
man in the field; and Chauncey Leckhard, of my class,--he's got a job in
Winnipeg, but he'll come if I ask him to, and he is the best office man
I know. But what on top of earth are you driving at, Stuart?"

Ford cleared his pipe of the ash and refilled it.

"I'll go into the details with you a little later. We shall have plenty
of time during the next month or six weeks, and, incidentally, a good
bit more privacy. The thing I'm trying to figure out will burst like a
bubble if it gets itself made public too soon, and"--lowering his
voice--"I can't trust my office force here. _Savez?_"

"I _savez_ nothing as yet," laughed the new supervisor, "but perhaps I
shall if you'll tell me what is going to happen in the next month or six
weeks."

"I'm coming to that, right now. How would you like to take a hunting
trip over on the wilderness side of the range? There are big woods and
big game."

Frisbie grinned. He was a little man, with sharp black eyes shaded by
the heaviest of black brows, and it was his notion to trim his mustaches
and beard after the fashion set by the third Napoleon and imitated
faithfully by those who sing the part of Mephistopheles in _Faust_.
Hence, his grin was handsomely diabolic.

"You needn't ask me what I'd like; you just tell me what you want me to
do," he rejoined, with clansman loyalty.

"So I will," said Ford, taking the reins of authority. "We leave here
to-morrow morning for a trip over the Pass and down the Pannikin on the
other side, and if anybody asks you why, you can say that we expect to
kill a deer or two, and possibly a bear. Your part of the outsetting,
however, is to pack your surveying instruments on the burro saddles so
they'll pass for grub-boxes, tent-poles, and the like."

"Call it done," said Frisbie. "But why all this stage play? Can't you
anticipate that much without endangering your bubble?"

Ford lowered his voice again.

"I gave you the hint. Penfield, my chief clerk--his desk is just on the
other side of that partition--is an ex-main-line man, shoved upon me
when I didn't want him. He was General Manager North's stenographer.
For reasons which will be apparent to you a little later on, I want to
blow my bubble in my own way; or, to change the figure, I'd like to fire
the first volley myself."

Frisbie's grin was rather more than less diabolic.

"Then I'd begin by firing Mr. Penfield, himself," he remarked.

"No, you wouldn't," said Ford. "There are going to be obstacles enough
in the way without slapping Mr. North in the face as a preliminary.
Under the circumstances, he'd take it that way; Penfield would make sure
that he took it that way."

It was at this point in the low-toned conference that the ingenious
young man in the outer office put down the desk telephone ear-piece long
enough to smite with his fist at some air-drawn antagonist. Curiosity
was this young man's capital weakness, and he had tinkered the wires of
the private telephone system so that the flicking of a switch made him
an auditor at any conversation carried on in the private office. He was
listening intently and eagerly again when Ford said, still in the same
guarded tone:

"No, I can't fire Penfield, and I don't particularly want to. He is a
good office man, and loyal to his salt: it's my misfortune that it is
Mr. North's salt-cellar, and not mine, that he dips into. Besides, I'd
have trouble in replacing him. Saint's Rest isn't exactly the paradise
its name implies--for a clean-cut, well-mannered young fellow with
social leanings."

"Now, what in the mischief does all that mean?" mused the chief clerk,
when Ford and his new track man had gone out. "A month's hunting trip
over the range, with the surveying instruments taken along. And last
summer Mr. Ford spent a good part of his time over there--also hunting,
so he said. Confound it all! I wish I could get into that private drawer
of his in the safe. That would tell the story. I wonder if Pacheco
couldn't make himself an errand over the Pass in the morning? By
George!" slapping his thigh and apostrophizing the superintendent, "I'll
just go you once, Mr. Ford, if I lose!"

Now the fruit, of which this little soliloquy was the opening blossom,
matured on the second day after Ford and Frisbie had started out on the
mysterious hunting trip across the range. Pacheco, the half-breed
Mexican who freighted provisions by jack train to the mining-camps on
the head waters of the Pannikin, came in to report to the chief clerk.

"Well, 'Checo, what did you find out?" was the curt inquiry.

The half-breed spread his palms.

"W'at I see, I know. Dey'll not gone for hunt much. One day out, dey'll
make-a da camp and go for squint t'rough spy-glass, so"--making an
imaginary transit telescope of his hands. "Den dey'll measure h-on da
groun' and squint some more, so."

Penfield nodded and a gold piece changed hands silently.

"That's all, 'Checo; much obliged. Don't say anything about this over in
the camp. Mr. Ford said he was going hunting, and that's what we'll say,
if anybody asks us."

That night the chief clerk sent a brief cipher telegram to the general
manager at Denver.

Ford and his new track supervisor, who is really a high-priced
constructing engineer, gone over the range for a month's absence.
Gave it out here that they were going after big game, but they took
a transit and are picking up the line of the old S. L. & W.
extension in the upper Pannikin.

It was late in the month of June when Ford and Frisbie, tanned,
weathered and as gaunt as pioneers, returned to Saint's Rest; and for
those who were curious enough to be interested, there were a couple of
bear-skins and one of a mountain lion to make good the ostensible object
of the absence.

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