Part 22 (1/2)
Ford glanced aside at his companion; her expressive face was a study in delighted animation and he decided that he had again misjudged the president's niece. She was beating time softly with her gloved hands and singing the song of the locomotive:
”'With a michnai--ghignai--shtingal! Yah! Yah! Yah!
Ein--zwei--drei--Mutter! Yah! Yah! Yah!
She climb upon der shteeple, Und she frighten all der people, Singin' michnai--ghignai--shtingal! Yah! Yah!'”
she quoted; and Ford's heart went out to her in new and comradely outreachings.
”You read _Naught-naught-seven_?” he said: ”you are one woman in a thousand.”
”_Merci!_” she countered. ”Small favors thankfully received. Brother thinks there is only one person writing, nowadays, and the name of that person is Kipling. I get a little of it by mere attrition.”
The brakes of the big engine were still gripping the wheels when a small man with wicked mustaches and goatee dropped from the gangway. His khaki suit was weather-faded to a dirty green, and he was grimy and perspiring and altogether unpresentable; but he pulled himself together and tried to look pleasant when he saw that his chief had a companion, and that the companion was a lady.
”I'm sorry if I have kept you waiting,” he began. ”Gallagher was s.h.i.+fting steel for the track-layers when your wire found me, and the engine couldn't be spared,”--this, of course, to Ford. Then, with an apologetic side glance for the lady: ”Riley's in hot water again--up to his chin.”
”What's the matter now?” gritted Ford; and Alicia marked the instant change to masterful command.
”Same old score. The Italians are kicking again at the MacMorrogh Brothers' commissary--because they have to pay two prices and get chuck that a self-respecting dog wouldn't eat; and, besides, they say they are quarrying rock--which is true--and getting paid by the MacMorroghs for moving earth. They struck at noon to-day.”
The chief frowned gloomily, and the president's niece felt intuitively that her presence was a bar to free speech.
”It's straight enough about the rotten commissary and the graft on the pay-rolls,” said Ford wrathfully. ”Is the trouble likely to spread to the camps farther down?”
”I hope not; I don't think it will--without whisky to help it along,”
said Frisbie, with another apologetic side glance for Miss Adair.
”Yes; but the whisky isn't lacking--there's Pete Garcia and his stock of battle, murder and sudden death at Paint Rock, a short half-mile from Riley's,” Ford broke in.
Frisbie's smile, helped out by the grime and the coal dust, was triumphantly demoniacal.
”Not now there isn't,” he amended; adding: ”Any fire-water at Paint Rock, I mean. When Riley told me what was doing, I made a bee line for Garcia's wickiup and notified him officially that he'd have to go out of business for the present.”
”Oh, you did?” said Ford. ”Of course he was quite willing to oblige you?
How much time did he give you to get out of pistol range?”
[Ill.u.s.tration: ”Miss Adair, you must let me introduce my friend, Mr.
Richard Frisbie”]
Frisbie actually blushed--in deference to the lady.
”Why--er--it was the other way round. He double-quicked a little side-trip down the gulch while I knocked in the heads of his whisky barrels and wrecked his bar with a striking hammer I had brought along.”
For the first time in the interview the chief's frown melted and he laughed approvingly.
”Miss Adair, you must let me introduce my friend and first a.s.sistant, Mr. Richard Frisbie. He is vastly more picturesque than anything else we have to show you at this end of the Pacific Southwestern. d.i.c.k--Miss Alicia Adair, President Colbrith's niece.”
Frisbie took off his hat, and Miss Alicia gave him her most gracious smile.
”Please go on,” she said. ”I'm immensely interested. What became of Mr.