Next morning Keith McBain was out at daybreak rounding up his gang and getting them ready for the day's work. He found nearly half of them unable to report for duty, but the others responded readily, and were soon at work hauling timbers and clearing spaces for the erection of the corrals. When they were well under way McBain went to Hurley's office, where he found King Howden, and bringing him out, put him in charge of the men.
Until noon the work went along quite smoothly, and Keith McBain watched King with approval growing in his heart. Noon, however, brought the discovery to McCartney, and to those who had not responded to McBain's call, that the work was apparently proceeding successfully without them. For an hour or so there were petty councils here and there, in MacMurray's and Cheney's places particularly, and one by one the men stepped away and went to work, though many of them took their directions from King with ill enough grace. Keith McBain and Hugh Hurley watched the process from the latter's office, and smiled to themselves at what they saw. Before night a scant half dozen were all that remained aloof from the operations—these and Bill McCartney, who had stayed discreetly apart all day.
Nightfall found Cheney's place crowded to the door. There was a feeling of expectancy in the air and the men gathered quickly and fell to discussing the events of the day. But discussion led nowhere. There seemed to be general disagreement on almost every point that was raised. McCartney stood back from the crowd with a smile fixed on his face, apparently enjoying the discomfiture and allowing the men to develop their differences as they wished. What he wanted just now was disorganization and confusion—the more of it the better. Any organization must of necessity centre round Keith McBain, who was the sole embodiment of authority of any kind in the place. When disorder had broken McBain's control McCartney's moment would arrive. And he was confident that the card he would play was sufficiently high to win the game.
The men were not altogether blind to the strangely quiescent attitude that McCartney had so suddenly assumed. Late that night, when the discussion was at its highest, someone suddenly turned upon him.
"Ain't you in on this, Bill McCartney?" asked one of the men who had been a participant in more than one heated argument during the evening.
"Sure, I'm in on it," he replied, "but I'm not talkin' just now."
"Not talkin' just now? Hell, when are you goin' to do your talkin'?"
By this time the men had turned their attention to McCartney, and stood waiting for his reply.
"Well, boys," he said, with a sneer, "I'll begin talkin' when I'm good and ready to talk."
There was a moment's silence and then, almost in an instant, the confusion of voices was as great as ever.