In the Shadow of the Hills. George C. Shedd
propose to keep it range; they don’t want any more people coming here––farmers, store-keepers, and white people generally.”
“That’s always the case in a range country before it’s opened up,” Weir said. “But they have to swallow the pill.”
“Let me tell you something; they don’t intend to swallow it here. They figure on keeping this county just as it is, for only themselves and their cattle and woolies, and everybody else keep out. The few big sheep and cattle men, white and Mex, have their minds made up to that, and they’re the only ones who count; all the rest are poor Mexicans with nothing but fleas, children, goats and votes to keep Sorenson and his gang in control. They’ve set out to bust this company, or tire it out till it throws up the sponge. They’ve spiked Magney, and they’ll try to spike you next, and every manager who comes. That’s plain talk I’m giving you, Mr. Weir, but it’s fact; and if it doesn’t sound nice to your ears, you can have my resignation any minute.”
“I’ve been hoping to hear it. From now on drive this 16 crowd of coffee-colored loafers. Put the lash on their backs.”
A gleam of unholy joy shone in Atkinson’s eyes as he heard Weir’s words.
“All right; that goes,” he said. “But I’m warning you that they’ll quit. You’ll see ’em stringing out of camp for home to-night, and those who hang out till to-morrow will leave then for sure. By to-morrow night the dam will be as quiet as a church week-days. They’ll not show up again, either, until you send word for them to come back––and then they’ll know you’ve surrendered. Magney tried it once, just once. And that’s why you found me chewing tobacco so lamb-like and saying nothing.”
“Turn your gat loose,” Weir said. And turning on his heel, he went back to headquarters.
Before Atkinson fired a volley at the unsuspecting workmen he crossed the canyon to where a cub engineer was peering through a transit. The superintendent had overheard a scrap of gossip among the staff one evening before Weir’s arrival when they were discussing the advent of the new chief.
“What was that name you fellows were saying Weir was called by?” he asked.
The boy straightened up.
“ ‘Cold Steel’––‘Cold Steel’ Weir. Anyway that’s what Fergueson says,” was the answer. “I never heard it before myself. His first name’s Steele, you know, and he looks cold enough to be ice when he’s asking questions about things, boring into a fellow with his eyes. But he’s up against a hard game here.”
“Maybe. But a man doesn’t get a name like that for just parting his hair nice,” Atkinson remarked. “He told me to stretch ’em”––a horny thumb jerked 17 towards the workmen––“and you’ll see some real work hereabouts for the rest of the afternoon.”
“And to-morrow will be Sunday three days ahead of time.”
“Sure.”
“What then?”
“You know as much about that as I do. Make your own guess.” With which the speaker started off.
The morrow was “Sunday” with a vengeance. The majority of the laborers demanded their pay checks the minute work ceased at the end of the afternoon; Atkinson tightened orders, and by noon next day the last of the Mexicans had quit. The fires in the stationary engines were banked; the concrete mixers did not revolve; the conveyers were still; the dam site wore an air of abandonment. In headquarters the engineers worked over tracings or notes; and in the commissary store the half-dozen white foremen gathered to smoke and yarn. That was the extent of the activity.
Two days passed. After dinner Weir held a terse long-distance telephone conversation, the only incident of the second day; and it was overheard by no one. On the fourth day this was repeated. At dawn of the fifth he despatched all of the foremen, enginemen and engineers with wagons to Bowenville; and about the middle of the afternoon, accompanied by his assistant, Meyers, and Atkinson, he sped in the manager’s car down the river for San Mateo, two miles below the camp.
Of the town Steele Weir had had but a glimpse as he flashed through on his way to the dam the morning of his arrival twelve days earlier. It had but a single main street, from which littered side streets and alleys ran off between mud walls of houses. The county court house sat among cottonwood trees in an open space. A 18 few pretentious dwellings, homes of white men and the well-to-do Mexicans, arose among long low adobe structures that were as brown and characterless as the sun-dried bricks of which they were built. That was San Mateo.
Before doors and everywhere along the street workmen from the dam were idling. As Meyers brought the automobile to a stop before the court house, news of Weir’s visit spread miraculously and Mexicans began to saunter forward to hear the engineer’s words of surrender, couched in the form of a suave invitation to return to work. While the crowd gathered the three Americans sat quietly in the car. Then Steele Weir stood up.
“Who can speak for these men?” he demanded.
A lean Mexican with a long shiny black mustache and a thin neck protruding from a soiled linen collar elbowed a way to the front.
“I’m authorized to speak for them,” he announced, disclosing his white teeth in an engaging smile.
“Are you one of the workmen?”
“No. I’m a lawyer and represent them in this controversy. By your favor therefore let us proceed. You’ve come to persuade them to resume work, and that is well. But there are conditions to be agreed upon before they return, which with your permission I shall state––first, no harsh driving of the workmen by foremen; second, full wages for the days they have been idle; third, no Sunday work.”
The engineer regarded the speaker without change of countenance.
“Have you finished?” he asked.
“Yes. There are minor matters, but they can be adjusted later. These are the important points.”
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“Very well, this is my reply: I, not the workmen, make the terms for work on this job––I, not these men, name the conditions on which they may return. And they are as follows: no pay for the idle days; if the workmen return they agree to work as ordered by superintendent and foremen; and last, they must start for the dam within an hour or not at all.”
Incredulity, amazement rested on the Mexican spokesman’s face as he listened to this curt rejoinder.
“Preposterous, impossible, absurd!” he exclaimed. Then revolving on his heels so as to face the crowd he swiftly repeated in Spanish what Weir had said.
An angry stir followed, murmurs, sullen looks, a number of oaths and jeers. The lawyer turned again to the engineer, spreading his hands in a wide gesture and lifting his brows with exaggerated significance.
“You see, Mr. Weir, your position is hopeless,” he remarked.
“Ask them if they definitely refuse.”
The lawyer put the question to the crowd. A chorus of shouts vehemently gave affirmation––a refusal immediate, disdainful, unanimous.
“We’ll now discuss the men’s terms,” the lawyer remarked politely and with an air of satisfaction.
“There’s nothing more to discuss. The matter is settled. They have refused; they need not seek work at the dam again. Start the car, Meyers.”
The roar of the machine drowned the indignant lawyer’s protest, the crowd hastened to give an opening and the conference was at an end.
“Drive to Vorse’s saloon; I want a look at Vorse,” said Weir. “I see the place a short way ahead.”
When they entered the long low adobe building an anemic-appearing Mexican standing at the far end of 20 the bar languidly started forward to serve them, but a bald-headed, hawk-nosed man seated at a desk behind the