Part 3

"You're young, Pete--which is a polite way of saying you're a fool. Pride, being top dog, paying off a grudge, these things are a waste of energy unless there's money involved. Maybe you'll learn that some day." Mr. Jay faced the window again, looking across the patch of woods toward Vickers' camp. "If you live long enough."

* * * * *

Tesno found Ben Vickers at the tunnel. Ben had heard about his jailing the marshal and was in a jubilant mood. After he had slapped Tesno's back innumerable times, they entered the portal and he enthusiastically explained his method of tunneling.

There were a lot of niceties to it, but the basis was the digging of an eight-foot heading in advance of the lower part of the bore. Shoring was put in behind the heading crew, then replaced by another set of timbers as the bench was removed.

"Most expensive procedure ever devised for tunneling through rock," Ben said, grinning. "But damn it, it's the fastest, too. At least in theory. In practice--well, we have to get those Ingersoll drills working, that's all."

When they emerged from the dim, dust-filled chamber, the world had taken on a strange new vividness, Tesno thought. The panorama of men and horses at work on the side cuts seemed a distant creation. The sunlight itself and the nagging mountain wind had a foreign quality. It was as if he had strayed onto some unsuspected reality that he could observe but never be a part of.

He noticed that the slashing was in progress in the timber high above, and he remembered hearing that the railroad would use a switchback over the mountain till the tunnel was completed. He asked Ben who was building it.

"Three different contractors," Ben said. "I have a piece on this side. Mr. Jay has one of the far sections."

It seemed a cumbersome, impatient bit of railroading. And in that curious moment of detachment, Tesno felt that he was watching a race of madmen at play. Obsessed with money and mechanics, they wouldn't rest till they had driven steel toys over this ragged sea of mountains to a remote corner of the land. And why? Was it really an accomplishment to bring the thing called civilization to Puget Sound? "All this to reach a little bay tucked away between the fingers of land on the West Coast." The thought amused him and he laughed aloud.

"What's funny?" Ben demanded.

Tesno grinned uncomfortably. "Sort of a private joke."

Ben shot him an impatient look and went to consult with a pair of engineers who were studying a diagram, holding it between them with their backs to the wind. Hearing a chuckle behind him, Tesno turned and found himself confronting a tall, hawk-faced man leaning on a shovel.

"A gun tough who's a philosopher," the workman said. "Now that is something."

"And a shovel bum with educated diction. That's something, too."

The man hesitated, then extended his hand. He was bone thin, a little stooped, and his smile was sad. "Name's Dave Coons. Itinerant actor, confidence man, peddlar, phrenologist, and what have you. Currently a shovel bum, doing a bit of soul-saving on the side."

Tesno shook hands without heartiness. "A preacher?"

"Somebody has to carry the word to these poor bastards." Coons waved a hand to indicate the workmen around him.

"And take up a collection?"

"No. I sweat for my pay like everybody else. Mostly I just sit in a corner of the bunkhouse and talk about God. Those who want to listen join me. There are damn few, of course."

"You don't talk like a preacher."

"I make it a point not to. I've been known to get a snootful, too, and last week, I had a fist fight with a heckler. He thumped the daylights out of me. You here to boss Tunneltown?"

"Depends," Tesno said.

"The booze is rotten and the games crooked. The town brings Vickers' payroll right back to him."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He and the Parker girl are in together, aren't they?"

"Then why would he hire me?"

"How do I know? He's a cagey man."

"You're badly informed," Tesno said. "Tunneltown is a thorn in his side. It's slowing down his operation and he wants it cleaned up."

Coons' hollow-set black eyes were skeptical. "I'll believe it when I see it," he muttered.

"Believe what you please," Tesno growled.

He started to turn away, but Coons drew himself up with mock solemnity, placed a hand against his chest and recited:

"'Oh, it is excellent To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous To use it like a giant."

He smiled and said, "Nice to meet you, Mr. Tesno. I have a feeling I'll be seeing you later." He wandered off, shovel on his shoulder, and joined a crew working on a small fill.

Ben came up, his eyes following Coons.

"What did that crackpot want?"

"I don't know," Tesno said.

"He usually has complaints about the food or working conditions. He considers himself a spokesman for the men. That kind can make trouble."

"I liked the man," Tesno muttered.

He rode back to camp alone, letting the company mule pick its way down a steep trail that clung to the gulch wall. Ben was a slave-driver, he thought. What successful contractor wasn't? Somewhere in the process of clawing and gambling his way up from the ranks, he had lost the capacity to understand a man who sat around the bunkhouse and talked about God. We were all crackpots, Tesno thought, each man in his own way.

He left the mule at the company corral, lunched at the cookhouse, and made the short walk to town. He found the saloons already busy with cooks, freighters, and a few night-shift men having a midday drink or a try at the games. He counted fifteen faro tables in town, not all of them operating at this hour. He spotted one game that was definitely crooked and he suspected there were more.

He visited the Pink Lady last, finding Madrid at the bar in conversation with Pinky Bronklin. They drew apart as he approached, and customers turned to watch.

Tesno stepped a few feet away, glad of a chance to face the marshal before witnesses. Madrid was freshly shaved and had put on a clean shirt. This one had broad green stripes. Its sleeves were encircled by red garters.

"My god," Tesno said. "You look like a Christmas tree."

"What's the matter with a little style?" Madrid said defensively. His tone was not that of a man looking for a showdown.

"Black is for corpses," Pinky muttered. His eyes raked Tesno. "It will look nice on you."

"Hobson sang, Pinky," Tesno said, stepping up to the bar.

"What's that to me?"

"You know what it is, but I'll say it. You paid him to pick a fight."

"He said that? He's a liar," Pinky said.

"I'll bring him in here. You can say it to his face."

"No chance of that," Madrid put in. "Hobson left town. Took the Ellensburg stage." The marshal swung away and idled over to a faro game.

Tesno eyed Pinky silently.

"Hobson lied," Pinky said desperately. "He must be covering for somebody else."

"You protest too much," Tesno said.

He caught Pinky by the hair, pulled him forward, and slapped him resoundingly on one cheek and then the other. He suddenly shoved him away and Pinky staggered into the back bar.

The customers watched in silence. Madrid made no move; he scarcely looked up from the faro game. Pinky glared, his face flushed. There would be a gun behind the bar somewhere, Tesno thought. But the saloonkeeper made no attempt to go for it. Tesno spun on his heel and walked out of the saloon. As he pushed through the swinging doors, there was a tide of low talk and uneasy laughter. A muffled comment met his ears:

"Damned high-handed troublebuster! Due for a takedown."

Loneliness stung him like a mountain wind as his bootheels drummed the boardwalk. Pinky had got off easy. Didn't the crowd understand that? The words Dave Coons had quoted rang in his memory:

_Oh, it is excellent_ _To have a giant's strength; but it is tyrannous_ _To use it like a giant._

_Tyrant_, he called himself. _Damned high-hander! And Ben Vickers is a slave-driver. And Coons a crackpot. And we are all working hard at it._

As he reached the hotel, someone called his name from across the street. It was Whisky Willie Silverknife, who fell into a dog-trot and arrived waving a folded paper.

"M-m-message for you. From M-Miss Persia."

Tesno had the note unfolded by the time Willie got the words out.

Dear Mr. Tesno:

The council meeting is at seven. Will you join me for dinner afterward?

Persia Parker

"S-she s-said to t-tell me yes or n-no," Willie said.

"How come you're running her errands?"

"I hit her for a j-job, like you s-said." Willie blushed under his freckles. "She d-didn't have one, not right away, b-but she s-said maybe she'd think of s-something. She s-said if I was b-broke, which I am, to come around to the k-kitchen for m-meals. After l-lunch she g-gave me that n-note."

Willie slid the flask from his hip pocket and took a short drink. Tesno re-read the note, searching for the sound of Persia's voice in every word.

"Tell her yes."

Willie nodded, taking a deep breath to chase the whisky. "She's r-right interested in you. When she found out I rode up here with you, she asked all about you. I told her when I first s-seen you, you was laying in the grass naked as a p-pup p-possum."

Tesno gave him a murderous look. Willie grinned.

"She l-laughed like hell," he said.

VI

The council meeting took place in a large, unpainted room in the townhouse. Persia presided, just as if she were the legitimate mayor. She sat at one end of a table, wearing a dark serge suit and looking both businesslike and beautiful. Sam Lester sat at the other end, inscrutable behind the crystal mask of his spectacles. The four council members sat in between. Tesno drew up a chair to one side of Persia.

He listened impatiently while the members quibbled over the location of a town watering trough. A rasp-voiced man named Parris, who operated the hotel, did most of the talking. The three saloonkeeping councilmen kept glancing at Persia as if she would make the decision and the debate was a mere formality. Pinky Bronklin sat with his talonlike hand on the table where all could see it and said hardly a word.

Persia introduced Tesno with some little formality. He stated his demands as concisely as possible. He tried to avoid a dictatorial tone, yet he made it clear that one way or another he intended to see a drastic change in the town. When he had finished, the saloonkeepers sat sullenly quiet. It was Mr. Parris who spoke up, and he was angry.

"I agree that we could stand some improvement around here," he said. "But to request co-operation is one thing, to tell us what to do, another. Begging your pardon, Persia, I move that we tell Mr. Tesno to go to hell and then face our problems in our own way."

"That'll suit me fine, if you _will_ face them," Tesno said. "But you'll clean up or I will. Take your choice."

"You'll clean up! Have you forgotten there's law in the land--and in this town. And it's on our side!" Mr. Parris slapped the table and glared.

"Law?" Tesno said icily. "You were elected by the drifting labor that built this town. You run a town full of thugs and card sharks. And you talk about law! Bring it on, Mr. Parris. While you're doing it, I'll close your town down tight. And I'll guarantee you you'll wind up with your charter pulled out from under you!"

"This won't do," Persia said. "You two agree that we ought to do something. Mr. Tesno is willing to let us do it in our own way--provided we do get results. Right, Mr. Tesno?"

"Right," he said.

"Then I don't see what you are arguing about. Mr. Tesno, now that you've told us what you want, would you mind leaving us and letting us thrash this out?"

"Fair enough," he said.

She had spoken crisply, almost hostilely. Now she said with a smile and in an entirely different tone, "Wait in my parlor."

He followed a long hall that led to the other part of the house. He entered the parlor and sat down to wait, musing about his abrupt dismissal. He had the impression that Tunneltown council meetings were little more than a mockery, that the members gathered to receive instructions rather than to make their own decisions. Even Mr. Parris had seemed to be arguing out of mere cantankerousness and not with any real hope of seeing his views prevail if Persia was against them.

Probably Persia was now telling them exactly how far they would go in co-operating with him. Or would it be Sam Lester who was doing the telling? That Lester was a power behind the throne seemed a real possibility. In any case, the council was a convenient device to avoid the pinpointing of responsibility on an individual.

Annoyed, he strolled into the dining room and poured himself a glass of brandy from a bottle on the sideboard. He could hear voices in the kitchen--Stella's and a stammering tenor that could belong only to Willie Silverknife. Returning to the parlor, he lighted a cigar and sat sipping the strong and fragrant liquor.

Persia appeared sooner than he expected. She was alone, and he wondered if Sam Lester would join them later. She insisted on getting him another brandy, and she poured herself a glass of wine, which she scarcely touched.

"You're going to get your blue-nosed town," she said gayly. "All I ask from you, Mr. Tesno, is a small amount of patience."

He frowned, but before he could reply she went on.

"We passed a couple of ordinances. Midnight closing. No liquor sold to drunks. We also agreed that a one-man police force isn't adequate, so we're going to hire a deputy. Satisfied?"

"How about the gambling?"

"That's where the patience comes in."

He shook his head. "The gambling has to go, Persia."

She smiled at him very slightly, as she might at a stubborn child. "I suppose you'll have your way, but, I shouldn't tell you this, Jack, but I will." She used his first name so naturally that he didn't notice for an instant. "Duke had to borrow heavily to build Tunneltown. He left me broke and in debt. The town brings in quite a little money now--though maybe not as much as most people think. But when I've made a monthly payment on the debts, there's very little left. If the town didn't give me my living expenses, I could scarcely get by. Now if the gambling goes, at least two saloons will have to close. If I lose the money from those leases, I'm ruined. There won't even be enough even to make the payments to my creditors."

He made a small gesture of helplessness. "The last thing I want to do is hurt _you_. But the gambling...."

"If we could just have a little time, we might find other kinds of business that would lease those buildings."

"It isn't my time to give away," he said. "It's Ben's. And he hasn't got much of it. How much do you need?"

"I've no idea."

"The crooked gamblers have to go right now along with the rest of the riffraff. There can be no delay about that."

She nodded to this. "If I'd had my way, they'd have gone long ago."

"Don't you always have your way, Persia?"

She seemed mildly startled. She gave a little shrug. "How do you tell which are crooked?"

"I can spot them for you."

"Jack, please. Keep out of it entirely. I ... I can't have Vickers' man butting in. You can understand that."

"Yes." It stung him to have her call him somebody else's man, though it wouldn't have bothered him if another person had said it.

She seemed to sense that he was hurt, and she gave him a long, sympathetic, almost maternal look. She didn't speak, and it pleased him to feel a communication between them that needed no words. They would put aside their differences now and speak of other things.

"I'll tell Stella we're ready for dinner," she said.

As she passed his chair, she laid her hand on his shoulder as she had the night before. Now he laid his over it. She stopped beside him, and her eyes were gold-flecked as they caught the lamplight, and she squeezed his fingers and moved away.

Hours later when she had gone to the door with him, he touched her arms and drew her to him. She came against him willingly, her arms slid around him, but she turned her head to avoid his kiss. She buried her face against his shoulder, and he laid his cheek against her hair.

"Persia," he said, "I've known little in life except roughness. You represent something that I didn't know could exist for me."

She pushed firmly away. "I've been a widow less than three months, Jack. I've no right to listen to such talk. Not now."

Her face was faintly flushed, her eyes dancing. Her smile carried a reprimand and a promise that was as old as womankind.

"You leave right now, _Mr._ Tesno," she said.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he said.

"Yes!" she whispered. "Yes!"

She closed the door the instant he was over the threshold. He stood there a long moment, sure that she, too, was waiting only inches away. His fingers touched the doorknob, then fell to his side. He drew the restless night air deeply into his lungs and walked into the darkness.

Off to the west, lightning shattered the sky, and the town leaped fleetingly into being. Thunder pulsed distantly, and, swelling, rolled into the gulch.

VII

Tesno circled the buckboard in the wide street and pulled it up parallel to the hitchrail in front of the Pink Lady. Not liking his errand, he swung slowly out of the seat and fussed over the tying of the team.

As always, Tunneltown depressed him. Midnight closing was observed now, but rather loosely. As far as he knew, only one gambler had been invited to leave, and he, Tesno suspected, had been cheating the house. Aside from a sarcastic quip or two about the council's half-hearted progress in doing what it had agreed to do, Ben Vickers had said nothing. But there were signs that his patience was nearing its end.

Tesno vaulted the hitchrail and moved toward the open doorway, the hum and stench of the saloon setting his nerves on edge. A voice called his name, and he found himself gaping at the figure approaching along the boardwalk.

"Howdy," Whisky Willie Silverknife said. He was wearing a black vest with a star pinned on it. He was grinning from ear to ear. The star flashed mirror-bright in the afternoon sun.

"Howdy," Tesno said.

"I got me a d-d-deputy m-marshal job."

"I see. When did you start?"

"L-last night. Not that I arrested anyb-body yet."

"Madrid hire you?"

"Yes. Miss P-Persia had it all fixed." Willie frowned. "I d-don't know how I'm going to get along with Madrid. I mean, he d-don't give me instruction or anything. He says, 'Sit on your d-duff, d-draw your p-pay, k-keep your mouth shut and your nose c-clean.' Mr. Tesno, c-could I have a t-talk with you?"

"About what?"

"I want to l-learn this b-business of b-being a p-p-peace officer."

"I've got a chore to do right now," Tesno said. "How about tomorrow?"

"F-fine. I'm off d-duty in the morning."

Willie's hand slid around to his hip and came up with the flask he carried there. It was filled with a colorless liquid, of which he took a long swig.

"Lemon soda," he said, licking his lips. "Miss Persia says st-stammer or not, a deputy can't go around nipping whisky all day."

He seemed to be completely serious, and Tesno suppressed a laugh. "Does it work as well?"

"Miss Persia says it will. She says the important thing is to w-wet my wh-wh-whistle."

_Persia hand-picked this kid for the job_, Tesno thought. _Why?_ He said, "See you tomorrow," and pushed on into the saloon. He stood blinking after the bright sunlight of the street, searching the big, dim room till he spotted Vickers' general superintendant, Keef O'Hara, who was seated alone at a back table behind a bottle and glass.

O'Hara was a tall, muscular man with wild gray hair and wild blue eyes. When he was sober, he had an air of competence and of bouyant energy that commanded respect. Now he sat slumped forward on one elbow, slack-faced and limp.

"And what'll the trouble-man be wanting?" he said when Tesno approached. "Surely it'll not be whisky with the dew still on the grass and the sun scarce clear of the ridgetops. Only the Irish drink at this hour."

"It's three in the afternoon, Keef," Tesno said. He pulled out a chair and sat down across the table.

O'Hara sighed alcoholically and poured himself a fresh drink. "And ye've come to sober me up for the night shift, eh, laddy-buck? I might've expected it. What Ben Vickers can't do himself, he sets his man to."

"Ben didn't send me, Keef. Far as he knows, you're asleep in your cabin." Tesno extended a hand to restrain O'Hara from lifting his glass. "Time to break it off now, get some coffee."

"I can stand another nip or two, lad." O'Hara slyly transferred his drink to his other hand and sloughed it down. "Don't ye know I've been working all night?"

"I know. You and a bottle. You're due back on the job in three hours, and you've had no sleep."

O'Hara stared belligerently and reached for the bottle. Tesno beat him to it and kept it out of his reach. The superintendant seemed about to leap for Tesno's throat, then he was suddenly meek.

"Keef O'Hara a slave to the demon rum! 'Tis a sad end for a man."

"Keef, you've bossed tricky construction jobs all over the world. If your skill was ever needed, it's here and now. You know what Ben's up against. Now let's get out of here and sober up."

"Lad, why do you think I signed on with Ben Vickers?... For the same reason half the terriers came up here. We're a breed apart, lad--superintendant or shovel bum. We can't live with civilization. We're boozers or fighters or skirt-chasers or wife-beaters or all of those. Try to live in a town and we wind up in jail or sick or dead. So we seek out a camp where there's work and good air and no temptation, where a man can sweat off the blubber and save his pay and be at peace with himself. And what did they do to us here amidst the wildest mountains in the land? They built a town! A fine manner of town with all the temptations...."

Tesno stood up impatiently. "We've finished with the preliminaries, Keef. Now we're going back to camp."

O'Hara got to his feet, drawing himself up straight. His big frame teetered and he almost fell. "I'll fight ye another day, Bucko," he said. "When the spirits are better and I've not been the night on the job."

He allowed himself to be led away.

At the far end of the bar a nattily dressed little man drained his glass of buttermilk and dabbed at his beard with a silk handkerchief. Pinky Bronklin removed the empty glass.

"J. Keef O'Hara," Mr. Jay said, tucking the handkerchief into his breast pocket. "He's still the best engineer in the Northwest. I'll wager he's the only man here who's had experience with compressed air drills."

"Except you, Mr. Jay," Pinky said.

"Except me," Mr. Jay said.

* * * * *

That evening Tesno had dinner with Persia, as he often did now. Sam Lester was there, too, and he spent the whole time with them instead of returning to his office when the meal was finished. He sat, sipped brandy, read a newspaper; once in a while he even entered the conversation. When they had moved into the parlor and were sipping brandy, Persia mentioned that they had put on a new deputy.

"I know," Tesno said. "I'm wondering why you picked Willie."

"The council thought him suitable."

"He said you recommended him."

Persia shrugged. "He's a nice boy. He seems qualified."

"A breed kid who stutters?"

"What do you mean?"

"He's part Indian."

"He's not a reservation Indian. He's a citizen, and--"

"Then you did know," Tesno said.

"He doesn't look Indian," Sam put in. "He'll be all right if he keeps his mouth shut."

"If you know him at all, you know he won't," Tesno said. "And that bottle of lemon pop! Seems to me you went out of your way to pick a man nobody will listen to."

"You wanted a deputy," Sam grumbled. "The town will be better patrolled. Aren't you ever satisfied?"

"Never!" Persia said, laughing. "That's one of the things I like about him." Her eyes sought his, and they were amused and affectionate and possessive. "How about a game of three-handed euchre?" she said.