“I’ve seen the abutments only once,” replied The Falcon, “but it strikes me that you have grounds for what you say, Mr. Canby. I’m afraid such a bottom as this sandy country will give is not going to be——”
“Right there’s the idea. They ain’t goin’ deep enough, and them abutments are too light. But o’ course they know more about it than I do.”
The ghost of a smile was playing over Hunt Mangan’s lips. While he was not vitally concerned with the bridge contract or its outcome, he knew that Foster & Bean, who were doing the quarry work, were unsurpassed in their line, and he had perfect confidence in their judgment.
Canby continued to explain the treachery of the sand-bottom rivers of the West as he knew them, speaking to his supporter. Mangan said nothing, but watched and wondered about Falcon the Flunky.
That he should voice any opinion at all about railroad work surprised him, but that he should have tried to display a knowledge of a part of such work altogether foreign to that of the Mangan-Hatton Company, evidently his first experience, was more puzzling still. And he was not a fool! Then the young man began to talk, and Mangan listened. His sentences displayed a technical knowledge of railroad building which was not at Mangan’s command. Mangan knew his own end of the work and nothing more. He was not an engineer, merely a good rock man and a dirt mover. But Falcon the Flunky talked like a man who had studied every phase of railroad construction, from the preliminary survey of a proposed route to the laying of the steel. He talked not from a contractor’s viewpoint, but from that of a high-salaried man employed by the company whose money was being invested, and who demanded that all phases of the work tend toward one ultimate idea, the excellence of their railroad.
Was this young man a spy in the employ of the Gold Belt Cut-off? Was he, at his age, a technical expert come to pose as a common laborer and report the progress of the work? If so, why had he chosen the Mangan-Hatton outfit as his headquarters? There was nothing wrong with the Mangan-Hatton work, Mangan could have sworn. No, he was no spy. He would not have exposed his knowledge of railroad building if he were that. Unless he had thrown overboard all his plans, and was doing this solely to convince Canby that he was as good as the best of them. And Manzanita could be the only excuse for such a foolish play at that.
It was not until after dinner—supper as it invariably was called at Squawtooth—that Canby and Mangan found themselves alone, Manzanita having taken The Falcon away to show him that ever interesting marvel on a ranch, “the cutest little calf, born only last night.” The cattleman and the contractor were left on the broad Spanish veranda, smoking cigars. Mangan’s host cleared his throat apologetically.
“I expect I hadn’t oughta ask it, Mr. Mangan,” he began; “but, d’ye know, I never heard tell o’ Mr. Falcon until to-night! He got here just before you did, and I didn’t know he was comin’ until he was openin’ the gate. Little Apple didn’t tell me anything about ’im, and I didn’t ask. Oughtn’t to be askin’ you, I reckon, but it seems funny I never heard you mention ’im. Am I impolite? Who is he? Smart as a cricket, ain’t he?”
“I must confess,” replied Hunt Mangan slowly, “that I know very little about him myself.” The contractor spoke abstractedly. He was thinking of “Little Apple,” of which “Manzanita” is the Spanish equivalent. He never before had heard the girl called that.
“Been with you long?”