Part 12 (2/2)
”I never allowed to, before this, Mr. Ballard.”
”Yet you have often thought of Braithwaite's drowning, when you have been rounding that particular curve? I remember you pointed out the place to me.”
Hoskins nodded. ”I reckon I never have run by there since without thinking of it.”
Ballard sat down again and tilted his chair to the reflective angle.
”One more question, John, and then you may go. You had a two-hour lay-over in Alta Vista yesterday while the D. & U. P. people were transferring your freight. How many drinks did you take in those two hours?”
”Before G.o.d, Mr. Ballard, I never touched a drop! I don't say I'm too good to do it: I ain't. But any man that'd go crookin' his elbow when he had that mountain run ahead of him would be _all_ fool!”
”That's so,” said Ballard. And then: ”That will do. Go and turn in again and sleep the clock around. I'll tell you what is going to happen to you when you're better fit to hear it.”
”Well?” queried Bromley, when Hoskins was gone.
”Say your say, and then I'll say mine,” was Ballard's rejoinder.
”I should call it a pretty harsh joke on Hoskins, played by somebody with more spite than common sense. There has been some little ill blood between Fitzpatrick's men and the railroad gangs; more particularly between the stone-cutters here at the dam and the train crews. It grew out of Fitzpatrick's order putting his men on the water-wagon. When the camp canteen was closed, the stone 'buckies' tried to open up a jug-line from Alta Vista. The trainmen wouldn't stand for it against Macpherson's promise to fire the first 'boot-legger' he caught.”
”And you think one of the stone-cutters went down from the camp to give Hoskins a jolt?”
”That is my guess.”
Ballard laughed.
”Mine isn't quite as practical, I'll admit; but I believe it is the right one. I've been probing Hoskins's record quietly, and his long suit is superst.i.tion. Half the 'hoodoo' talk of the camp can be traced back to him if you'll take the trouble. He confessed just now that he never pa.s.sed that point in the road without thinking of Braithwaite and his taking-off. From that to seeing things isn't a very long step.”
Bromley made the sign of acquiescence.
”I'd rather accept your hypothesis than mine, Breckenridge. I'd hate to believe that we have the other kind of a fool on the job; a man who would deliberately make scare medicine to add to that which is already made. What will you do with Hoskins?”
”Let him work in the repair shop for a while, till he gets the fever out of his blood. I don't want to discharge him.”
”Good. Now that is settled, will you take a little walk with me? I want to show you something.”
Ballard found his pipe and filled it, and they went out together. It was a perfect summer afternoon, still and cloudless, and with the peculiar high-mountain resonance in the air that made the clink of the stone hammers ring like a musical chorus beaten out upon steel anvils.
Peaceful, orderly industry struck the key-note, and for the moment there were no discords. Out on the great ramparts of the dam the masons were swinging block after block of the face wall into place, and the _burr-r_ and cog-chatter of the huge derrick hoisting gear were incessant. Back of the masonry the concrete mixers poured their viscous charges into the forms, and the puddlers walked back and forth on their stagings, tamping the plastic material into the network of metal bars binding the ma.s.s with the added strength of steel.
Bromley led the way through the stone-yard activities and around the quarry hill to the path notched in the steep slope of the canyon side.
The second turn brought them to the gap made by the land-slide. It was a curious breach, abrupt and clean-cut; its shape and depth suggesting the effect of a mighty hammer blow scoring its groove from the path level to the river's edge. The material was a compact yellow shale, showing no signs of disintegration elsewhere.
”What's your notion, Loudon?” said Ballard, when they were standing on the edge of the newly made gash.
Bromley wagged his head doubtfully.
”I'm not so sure of it now as I thought I was when I came up here this morning. Do you see that black streak out there on the shale, just about at the path level? A few hours ago I could have sworn it was a powder burn; the streak left by a burning fuse. It doesn't look so much like it now, I'll confess.”
”You've 'got 'em' about as bad as Hoskins has,” laughed Ballard. ”A dynamite charge that would account for this would advertise itself pretty loudly in a live camp five hundred yards away. Besides, it would have had to be drilled before it could be shot, and the drill-holes would show up--as they don't.”
<script>