Willard Holmes, who in spite of his splendid strength
had not the desert man’s powers of endurance,
clung grimly to one thought—the money must
go to Republic. The steady rhythm of his horse’s
feet seemed to beat out the word: “Barbara!
Barbara! Barbara!”
The trying scene with Greenfield, the long hard hours
in the saddle, the excitement of the fight in the
canyon, with his anxiety for his wounded companion
left alone in the desert, were almost too much.
Could he hold out? Could he make it? He must.
The engineer held his seat with the strength of desperation.
He must! The money must go to Republic that
night—to Barbara! Barbara! Barbara!
The horse’s feet seemed to have beaten out the
word for ages. For ages he had been riding—riding—riding
towards some point out there ahead in the desert night.
The engineer knew now what it was that called him
back.
MANANA! MANANA! TO-MORROW! TO-MORROW!
The night when Abe Lee started on his ride from Republic
to San Felipe passed quietly in the little desert
town. Texas and Pat with a few faithful white
men guarded the Worth property lest, in some way,
the news that Worth would be unable to pay as his
superintendent had promised should get out and precipitate
a crisis. But the strikers continued to enjoy
peacefully their holiday, looking forward to the morrow
when they would be enriched with nearly two months’
pay. When the morrow came the laborers, their
dark faces beaming with childish happiness, gathered
early in front of Jefferson Worth’s office.
Texas and Pat, with the men of the office force who
had been up all night, were sleeping, for another
night of guard duty was before them.
When it was ten o’clock and no one had arrived
at the office, the crowd of laborers began to show
signs of growing impatience. Then someone recalled
seeing Abe riding on the buckskin horse toward the
south and suspicion grew. At last a few of the
more intelligent went in a body to the bank.
“We come to see you about money. You sabe
about money?”
“What money is that?” asked the man behind
the window shortly.
“Our money for work on railroad. Senor
Worth was to pay. El Superintendente say pay
to-day sure. He no come. You sabe?”
“I sabe that Worth won’t pay.”
“No?”
“No. He has no money here.”
The Mexicans exchanged glances. “No money?
You are quite sure, Senor?”
“Sure.”
“Gracias, Senor. Adios!”
It was a dangerous crowd that filled the streets of
Republic that afternoon and evening, and all through
the night that followed the friends of Jefferson Worth
expected every hour the fulfillment of the strikers’
threats. Soon after breakfast, which Pat and Tex
shared with Barbara, the message came from Mr. Worth
telling them that Abe was on his way home with the
money.
