Part 21

No flagrant violation or disobedience of orders was there, instead the inauguration of a petty little system of nagging that embraced every indignity Munford could think of. And the range of his attack was from profound and exaggerated attention and politeness to the utter and complete ignoring of the very existence of such a person as Alan Burton, foreman of Bridge Gang No. 3. While the gang, taking their cue from Munford, would shift from one extreme to the other with a precision and significance that cut deeper into a man of Burton’s high-strung, nervous temperament than any other form of torture they could have devised.

Three times during three days Burton, who was afraid of no man or aggregation of men, took the bull by the horns and struck Munford a violent blow in an effort to bring matters to a head. On the first occasion the gang watched the action with a gasp of mixed pity and admiration--looking for Burton’s instant annihilation. But Munford, with a bit of a laugh, only reached out and grasping Burton’s neck held him wriggling, helplessly, impotently, at arm’s length. “You got to grow, boy; just keep quiet now, I ain’t going to hurt you,” he taunted. And the gang promptly lost their faint appreciation of Burton’s nerve in their relish of the ridiculous figure cut by the white-faced, raging foreman.

It was dirty work, and deep down in his heart Munford knew it. But his better nature no sooner manifested itself by sundry pricks of conscience than it was smothered beneath the new sense of authority and command that was now his for the first time in his experience; and which, catering as it did to his peacock vanity, was paramount to all things else. The work lagged sadly and fell behind. The daily reports Burton signed and sent down to headquarters became worse and worse.

Each day, too, the feud between the dives at Big Cloud and Bridge Gang No. 3, fanned by the crews of the construction trains, who taunted McGuire and the men with cowardice, grew stronger. For the trainmen, having no idea of disregarding Burton’s orders and allowing the bridge men to ride down on the empties, rubbed it in until the gang writhed under their gibes.

Munford did not come in for much of this personally. The trainmen, none of them, seemed to display any particular hankering for discussing the question in his presence; but he got it second-hand from McGuire and the gang. The outcome of it all was a decision one night after supper to board the construction train the following evening, Burton, the train crew and the company to the contrary, and go down to Big Cloud if they had to run the train themselves. Munford concurred in the decision by blowing very gently on his knuckles. It looked bad for the peace and quiet of Big Cloud; and it looked bad for Burton’s standing with the company.

Munford, as commander-in-chief, and McGuire, as chief of staff, withdrew from the circle and strolled off by themselves to perfect their plans for the next day’s campaign, taking the trail in the direction of Big Cloud--a trail still called, but now a passable road due to the traffic incident to the building of the Hill Division, whose right of way it paralleled from Big Cloud to the ford at Twin Bear Creek. At the end of a quarter of a mile the two men sat down on a felled tree by the side of the trail to talk. Some ten minutes had passed when McGuire, in the midst of a graphic description of what they would do to Pete McGonigle and the rest, suddenly stopped and gripped Munford tightly by the shoulder.

“Keep mum,” he cautioned. “There’s someone comin’!”

In the bright moonlight they could make out the figure of a man about a hundred yards down the road coming toward them from the camp.

“He walks like Burton,” whispered McGuire. “What the devil is he followin’ us for? Get back into the trees and let him pass.”

They moved noiselessly a little deeper into the wood that fringed the road, and lying flat, watched the man who was approaching.

“It’s Burton,” McGuire announced at last.

Munford grunted assent.

“He’s been followin’ us all right, and now he’s goin’ to wait for us to come back,” continued McGuire, as Burton halted within a few yards of them and sat down to smoke. “Well, we’ll give him a run for his money. He can wait a while, I’m thinkin’.”

Five, ten, fifteen minutes passed. McGuire began to tire of his self-selected game of hide and seek, “Come on,” said he, “let’s go out and see what he wants.”

“Wait,” Munford answered. “There’s someone comin’ from Big Cloud way. It’s not us Burton’s after. Listen!”

There was the faint beat of horse’s hoofs gradually drawing nearer. Then presently rider and horse loomed out of the shadows and Burton, getting up, stepped out into the middle of the road.

The horseman drew up beside him. “That you, Burton?” he called softly.

“Yes,” said Burton, shortly.

“You got Pete’s letter, then,” the man went on, dismounting from his horse. “I suppose it’s all right to talk here. No one around, eh?”

“As well here as anywhere. Only cut it short.”

“Oh, there ain’t any hurry,” returned the man, with a laugh. “Wait till I tie my horse, then we can sit down and chew it over comfortable.”

“Now,” he went on, that task performed, “what I came to see you about was this fellow Munford.”

“Well,” demanded Burton, “what about him?”

“It looks to us down to Big Cloud, from the way the fellows on the construction trains are talkin’, you ain’t got any cause to love him, eh? So Pete figured you and him could deal. You want to get rid of him, don’t you?”

“I wish to God I’d never seen his face!” exclaimed Burton, with great bitterness.

“Sure! That’s the idea. You don’t want him; we do want him--bad! There’s nothin’ against the rest of the men; we’ll forget all about that. It’s just Munford we’re after.”

“Why don’t you get him, then?” said Burton curtly.

“We’re goin’ to,” the man replied, with a nasty laugh. “We’re goin’ to, all right. It’s a fair deal. You’re on, eh? Pete said you’d jump at the chance to sit in. We want you to fire him.”

“That all I’m to do?” asked Burton, quietly.

“Sure, that’s all there is to it--except this.”

Munford’s hand closed on his companion’s arm in a tight, spasmodic grip as Pete’s emissary produced a wad of bills and began to peel off the outer ones.

“Three hundred plunks,” said the man, extending the money he had abstracted from the roll to Burton. “Pretty good for just firin’ a man we’ve been lookin’ for you to fire for the last week, anyway. Besides, there’s been some talk down at headquarters about you not bein’ able to handle your men, and about them gettin’ someone that can. Pete says not to bother about that, he’ll fix it for you. Here, take the money.”

“Suppose I fired him,” said Burton, slowly, “where’d he go?”

“What do you care where he goes, so long as you get rid of him?”

“He couldn’t go West,” went on Burton, paying no attention to the other’s remark; “so he’d have to go East--that’s Big Cloud--and _murder!_” He turned fiercely, savagely on the man. “You dirty, low-lived hound!” he flashed. “You offer me three hundred dollars to murder a man, do you? You wonder why I’ve stood for what I did, do you, you scrimp! Fire him, eh, to get a cowardly knife or shot in his back! You think I didn’t know what would happen if I let him out, eh? Get out of here, you cur! And get out now--while you _can!_” Burton’s voice rasped, hoarse with passion. He turned abruptly away and strode quickly in the direction of the camp.

“Hold on, wait a minute, Burton,” cried the other, following him. “Don’t get batty.”

Unconsciously Munford had tightened his grip on McGuire’s arm until the latter whimpered with the pain, and now Munford lifted him bodily to his feet making cautiously for the spot where the horse was standing. The two figures were still discernible, and Burton’s angry voice continued to reach the listeners, though the words were now indistinguishable.

Munford’s face in the moonlight was colorless, the muscles around his mouth twitched convulsively. “D’ye hear what they said? D’ye hear what they said? _My God!_ d’ye hear it all?” he was mumbling incoherently in McGuire’s ear, his eyes strained up the road.

“Yes, I heard it. Let go of my arm, you’re breakin’ it!”

“He’s comin’ back,” said Munford, hoarsely.

Burton had disappeared around a turn in the road and the man, after hesitating a moment, began to retrace his steps to his horse, muttering fiercely to himself as he came along. As he reached for the bridle, Munford leaped out and grasped him by the throat, choking back the man’s cry of terror.

“You make a noise,” snarled Munford, “and I’ll finish you! Oh, it’s you, eh? Look here, Mac, it’s the cuss that ran the roulette wheel that night at Pete’s. So my price is three hundred, eh? Well, hand it out. _Quick!_”

Slowly the fellow put his hand in his pocket and for the second time that night pulled out his roll.

Munford’s anger seemed to have vanished. He laughed softly as he took the money.

“What are you going to do with me?” whined the gambler.

Munford made no answer. In the imperfect light, he was laboriously counting the bills. McGuire watched the operation, at the same time keeping an eye on their prisoner.

“Two sixty--eighty--three hundred,” said Munford at last, cramming that amount into his pocket and handing back by far the larger part of the roll to the man. “What am I goin’ to do with you? Nothin’! You get on that horse and ride back to Pete. I want him to know this. Tell him all about it. Tell him Munford told you to tell him. That’s worth more than breakin’ your neck--and that’s all that saves you from gettin’ it broke, savvy? You tell him _I’ve_ got the three hundred, and I’ll give him his chance at me for it one of these days.. And when I do--My God, _you ride_ before I begin with you!”

The fellow glanced fearfully from Munford to McGuire and back again to Munford to assure himself that he was free to go. Then he clambered frantically into the saddle and lashing his beast in a frenzy of terror disappeared down the trail.

Munford, with swift revulsion of mood, threw himself down on the grass, burying his face in his hands. Not a word from McGuire; he walked awkwardly up and down, whistling under his breath. After a minute Munford looked up.

“I got to square this with Burton,” he said brokenly.

McGuire nodded.

“He’s a better man than you and me and the whole gang put together”--Munford’s tones were fiercely assertive.

“He is that,” assented McGuire, with conviction.

There was silence for a moment between them; then McGuire spoke: “Why didn’t you take it all?” he asked.

“Take it all!” flared Munford. “I’m no thief, am I? Well, then, what’s the matter with you? That’s my price, ain’t it? Three hundred. That’s what Pete offered for a chance to get his paws on me. Well, _I’ll_ give him his chance, you heard me promise, didn’t you? That’s right, eh? That’s Pete’s proposition, and the money’s mine, ain’t it?”

“It is,” said McGuire.

“It is, and it ain’t,” said Munford. “Burton _could_ have had it if he’d sold me out, couldn’t he? Well, then, I’m goin’ to see he gets it anyway.”

“He wouldn’t take it, not by any means, he wouldn’t,” objected McGuire.

“Not outright, he wouldn’t,” agreed Munford. “I know that well enough. We got to fix it so he won’t know where it come from, and so it will square me with him, and you fellows, too.”

“How you goin’ to do that?” demanded McGuire. “I dunno,” said Munford. “We’ll talk it over with the boys. Come on back to camp.”

The next day and the day after, the gang worked like Trojans, and the lack of any sneer or incivility on their part, coupled with a subdued, expectant excitement that the men tried fruitlessly to hide, made Burton more anxious and ill at ease than during the days that had gone before. It looked like the lull before the storm; and he wondered bitterly what culminating piece of deviltry they were hatching.

To the taunts of the train crews the gang grinned and said nothing.

On the second day a package, addressed to Munford, came up from the East, and at noon hour the men handed it around from one to another in awestruck wonder at the magnificence of the solid gold repeater that chimed the quarters, halves and hours, and split the seconds into fractions. It was indeed a beauty. Maybe the chain was a little massive, but the men opined that it was therefore strong. They pried open the case to read the inscription over whose wording they had wrestled most of a night.

“Nifty, ain’t it?” cried McGuire, admiringly; and he read it aloud: “‘This is to certify that Alan Burton is as square as they make them, and Munford and the gang are sorry. So help us!’” They delivered it solemnly to Munford, who was to make the presentation, and started in a body for Burton’s shanty. Burton met them at the door, his face hard and set.

“So it’s a showdown at last, eh, boys?” he laughed grimly. “Well, what is it?”

The men shoved Munford bodily forward and he stood balancing himself sheepishly, first on one foot and then on the other, as he faced Burton. He cleared his throat painfully once or twice, then he found his voice. From a point of oratory or rhetoric it was perhaps the lamest presentation speech on record, for Munford suddenly thrust the watch and chain into the astounded Burton’s hands.

“Here, take it,” he sputtered. “It’s all written out on the inside.” And breaking through the men, he turned and fled incontinently.

End of Project Gutenberg's On The Iron At Big Cloud, by Frank L. Packard