Being close to the pay-department quarters, he heard considerable straight talk; and this time he was not mistaken. Mr. Sidney Dillon, of the board of directors, had come out from New York. He and General Dodge and General Casement and other officials had a meeting; President Oliver Ames and Vice-President Thomas Durant had made a big protest to Washington and Congress was going to investigate the claims of the Central Pacific; the word was: “Forward, march, to Humboldt Wells,” and, as said Pat: “Niver mind the rice-’atin’ Mongolians. We’ll tach ’em how the Irish handle the pick.”
“We’re getting out of money, but don’t you tell,” George confided, to Terry, on the quiet. “It took over $10,000,000 extra, for the work last winter. Gosh! I tell you we fellows in the pay-car have to figure mighty close.”
But the race was on again, just the same—only worse. General Dodge and General Casement met the Central Pacific deal by sending a large gang of Paddy’s track-layers ahead 200 miles across country, to begin a track into Humboldt Wells. And out of Ogden the main track was shoved toward Promontory Point, with the graders working ahead, on the U. P. survey.
Track-laying had slackened. It was a long, long haul, now, from Omaha, more than 1000 miles, across the plains where the Sioux were still fighting the iron horse, and across the mountains where the storms of spring raged and the snow-slides ran. And the track-layers and graders both had threatened to strike, because of lack of pay.
But the Central likewise was having trouble. The Central, too, was far from its iron—ships bringing the rails and spikes and fastenings around Cape Horn or up from the Isthmus of Panama were sunk, becalmed, delayed; the Nevada desert was bare of forage for the horses; and for days at a time the Central work-gangs sat idle and discontented.
The two railroads resembled two staggering long-distance runners, almost exhausted as each struggled on, from opposite directions, to breast the tape.
The Central grade came eastward by its own survey, which was not at all the Union Pacific survey; and that was a funny thing—the two roads working as hard as they could, to meet, and yet not meeting.
The C. P. grade had swung around the north end of the Salt Lake, and down over Promontory Point—which was the high point that jutted into the lake. The U. P. grade had been launched northward from Ogden, along the lake shore, as if to drive the C. P. grade back. And slow work the grading was, because the country was cut by streams and rocky ridges, running into the boggy marge of the lake itself.
On some stretches the surveys were a mile separated—on others they approached close to each other. The grades would do the same.
“As long as the two gangs are a mile apart, ’twill be a paceful country yon,” quoth Pat; “for a high fince makes good neighbors, ye understand. But,” he added, kindly, to Terry, “when they’re a-workin’ side by side like, I’d advise ye to ride wid an eye open an’ an umbrelly up. Some o’ them blastin’ crews are liable to lay a ‘grave,’ an’ I wouldn’t want ye hurt.”