At dusk that evening he saw Holmes and Worth dining
together. When the meal was over he sat in the
lobby, ostensibly chatting with friends, but covertly
watching the two who seemed to be awaiting someone.
Suddenly he saw them rise quickly and start toward
the main entrance. A dusty, khaki-clad man of
the desert was entering the hotel. Tall, lean,
bronzed, his face haggard and strained with anxiety,
his eyes blood-shot through loss of sleep, his figure
expressing in every line and movement deadly weariness
and aching muscles, he strode forward into the hotel
lobby, his spurs clinking on the white tile floor.
Greenfield recognized Abe Lee and grasped the situation
instantly. The president of The King’s
Basin Land and Irrigation Company knew why the surveyor
had come to San Felipe and he knew what he would carry
back. If the money to pay the strikers reached
its destination, Jefferson Worth would win; if not—
At half past nine o’clock that evening the thoughtful
Manager of The King’s Basin Land and Irrigation
Company received a cipher message from his superior
that drew a long, low whistle from his lips. For
almost an hour he considered with an occasional quiet
curse. Then, because he was a good Company man,
he put on his hat and strolled leisurely down the
street of Kingston, apparently enjoying his evening
cigar. Once he stopped to greet a belated rancher.
Again he paused to chat a moment with a citizen.
Once more he halted to exchange a word with a group
of Company men, and later stopped to greet three Mexicans
who were in from the Company’s camps.
The Manager asked of the work—if all was
well.
“Si, Senor.”
Then naturally Mr. Burk inquired for news of their
countrymen, the strikers of Republic.
The Mexicans, coming from the distant camp, could
tell him nothing.
They had heard little. Could Senor Burk tell
them of the situation?
The Manager was quite sure that everything would be
all right with the men on Jefferson Worth’s
railroad day after to-morrow.
That was “bueno.”
Yes, Mr. Worth’s superintendent was starting
from San Felipe that very evening with money—thousands
of dollars, American gold—to pay the men.
He was coming alone through the mountains on horseback.
Without doubt the men would receive their pay.
The Manager was glad!
“Si, Senor.”
“Gracias, Senor!”
“Buenos noches!”
“Good night.”
TELL BARBARA I’M ALL RIGHT.
When Abe Lee, after twenty-six hard hours in the saddle,
dismounted in front of the San Felipe hotel and entered
the lobby his usually perfect nerves were strained
almost to the breaking point. For weeks the surveyor
had carried the burden of Jefferson Worth’s financial
condition as if it were his own. With the prospect
of seeing the work he loved better than his life wrecked
and taken over by the Company, he had for days faced
the critical situation of the strike. Then, in
the very hour of relief, the situation had become seemingly
hopeless. Abe Lee, better than anyone, knew the
temper of the Mexican and Indian strikers. He
realized fully how great the chances were that at
the very moment when he finished his ride for relief
the town of Republic was the scene of tragic violence.
