David Vallory

by Francis Lynde

“The sheriff’s writs don’t run this far from the nearest court-house. What is everybody’s business is nobody’s business. Besides, the man-traps and the construction camps have gone hand-in-hand ever since the beginning of time.”

“There is no reason why they should continue to do so to the end of time,” David cut in. “If the Powder Can lawlessness is holding us back, we must clean it up.”

Plegg shook his head. “That’s easier said than done. The town is on its own, and it gets its revenue chiefly from our pay-rolls. The mines, with the single exception of the Murtrie, don’t amount to anything.”

“Maybe the railroad people would help us out,” suggested Altman, the smooth-faced, young-looking mining engineer who was directing the granite boring in the east-end tunnel heading. “Somebody told me once that nearly all of the town is built on land leased from the railroad company.”

“I’ll look into this Powder Can business, myself,” said David, as the conference broke up. “The thing that’s biting us just now is the need to show Mr. Grillage a clean slate when he comes. He knows good work when he sees it, and I don’t want to have to begin making excuses the minute he lights down in Powder Gap. Go to it and key things up to concert pitch.”

With the great machine grinding merrily under this new impetus, David Vallory did look cursorily into the Powder Can situation, stealing time from the strenuous activities to make inquiries as to what might be done. Up to this time, when the doing of something began to urge itself baldly as an industrial necessity, he had been postponing action in this particular field, excusing himself upon what seemed to be the perfectly justifiable plea that the mining-camp man-traps and their curbing or abolition were matters outside of the line of his duties; a view which he knew to be in strict accordance with that of the president of his company. It was not that he meant to adopt the policy of the blind eye in principle. His promise to Virginia Grillage forbade that. But the excuses had opened the door to postponement.

Such were the surface indications of the vein of reluctance; but deeper down there was another reason for the postponement. Not at any time since his arrival had David forgotten that Judith Fallon was most probably still living in Powder Can. If he should chance to meet her—which was not at all unlikely—the entire question of his responsibilities—a question which the lapse of time, and the growing hope that he might one day win the love of Virginia Grillage, had pushed into the background—would be reopened.

As a result of his inquiries he soon found that there would be little use in making an appeal to the law. As Plegg had pointed out, the Powder Gap region was far enough distant from civilization to be a law unto itself. But there was the hope that he might be able to make such representations to the railroad people, who were the lessors of the land upon which the town was built, as might induce them to intervene on the side of law and order. Being thus brought face to face with the thorny duty, he enlisted Plegg; and after the mess-tent supper they crossed the basin together to make such a survey of the conditions as would enable them to present the demoralizing facts in their reality to the railroad company.

With one of the fortnightly pay-days less than thirty-six hours in the past there was ample evidence of the malignance of the social and industrial ulcer. The wide-open resorts were packed with throngs of the Grillage workmen, and the harvesting of the hard-earned dollars was in full swing.

“We’ll see it all while we’re about it,” said David; and with Plegg at his elbow he pushed his way through one of the crowded bar-rooms to a den at the rear where a faro-game was running, with the circle of sitters backed by eager gamblers who reached over the shoulders of the chair circle to place their bets. Outside in the bar there was noise enough, but here the strained silence was broken only by the clicking of the counters, the heavy breathing of the men, and the silken whisper of the cards as the dealer ran them from his box. David let his gaze sweep the table circle and come to rest upon the forbidding features of the man who was running the cards; a swarthy, heavy-faced giant with Indian-like hair, drooping mustaches that only half veiled a mouth of utter ruthlessness, and eyes that were at the moment as dead as the pallor showing beneath the Mexican-darkness of his skin.