loomed large, and the salary of an assistant to the president—­who was in fact little more than a glorified chief of construction—­shrank in proportion.  He was free of obligation and foot-loose.  His twenty thousand dollars invested in P. S-W. stock at twenty-nine and a half had grown with the rising market to sixty-odd.  What did it matter to any one if he chose to put ten thousand of the sixty-odd on a turn of the Little Alicia card?

While it was gambling, pure and simple, he did not bet with his eyes shut.  Inquiry at the Bank of Copah established Grigsby’s reputation for truth-telling.  The specimens and the assay certificates were beyond doubt genuine.  More than this, Grigsby had made a number of ore shipments by freighters’ wagon and jack train over the range, and the returns had enabled him to keep a small force of men at work in the mine.

Ford made his bet through the bank.  The cashier was willing to take a P. S-W. official’s note of hand, to be canceled when Ford could deposit to the bank’s credit in Denver, and to give Grigsby an open account for his immediate needs.  Grigsby accepted joyfully, and the thing was done.  Ford’s mess of pottage was a deed of half-ownership in the Little Alicia, executed and recorded in the afternoon of the day of stop-overs, and he was far enough from suspecting that he had exchanged for it all that a man of honor holds dearest.  But, as a matter of fact, the birthright had not yet been handed over:  that came later.

XIV

THE DRAW-BAR PULL

Attorney Kenneth had many more object-lessons in the study of “open camps” on the three-day return ride to Saint’s Rest.  The day of stop-over in Copah chanced to be the MacMorrogh Brothers’ monthly pay-day, and until the men’s money was spent pandemonium reigned along the line of the extension.

Some of it they dodged, riding wide to pass the larger camps, and hearing from afar the noise of carousal, the fierce drinking songs of the Magyars, the fusillades of pistol-shots.  So far as they could see, all work appeared to be suspended; and Major Benson, whose camp of engineers they picked up in one of the detours around a gulch head, confirmed that conclusion.

“It was the same way last month,” raged the major, twisting his fierce white mustaches and looking as if he would like to blot the name of MacMorrogh from the roster of humanity.  “It’ll take a full week to get them into the swing again, and MacMorrogh will be up with his estimates just the same as if he had been working full time.  I’ll cut ’em; by the gods, I’ll cut ’em!  And you must stand by me, Mr. Ford.”

There was the same story to be listened to at Brissac’s tie camp; and again at young Benson’s headquarters, which were on the mountain section.  This last was on the third day, however, when the madness was dying down.  Some of the rock men were back on the job, but many of the gangs were still grievously short-handed.  Ford said little to Kenneth.  The pandemonium spoke for itself.  But on the third night, when the long ride was ended, and Pietro, Ford’s cook and man-of-all-work, was serving supper in the caboose office-on-wheels, some of the bitterness in Ford’s heart slipped into speech.