At their first breathing stop, half-way up the mountain, Larry said: “I wonder what can be keeping Ned Blaisdell out so long? I saw him when he started, and they weren’t carrying chuck enough to feed the two of them for more than a day or so.”
“You can search me,” Dick returned. “Maybe he’s been getting into trouble with some of the O. C. bullies.”
Larry thought not. “No,” he said; “his work wouldn’t have taken him very near the O. C. at any point. They’re held up in that big rock cutting half a mile above us, just the same as we are at the Nose. They are not over in Yellow Dog Park yet; and that is where Blaisdell was to do most of his verifying.”
“You can’t tell where those O. C. scrappers are, or what they’re going to do next,” said Dick soberly. “This fight is getting hotter every day. Last Wednesday, when I went over to Red Butte after some blue-prints for the bridge builders, Mr. Briscoe, our right-of-way agent, was in the Red Butte office. I heard him tell Mr. Ackerman that the mine owners at Little Ophir had got out a bond issue to help the railroad that gets there first with its tracks.”
Larry nodded. “I heard about that bond issue. It doesn’t seem just fair. It was promised to our company early this spring if we’d agree to build a line in from Red Butte. And now they say they’ll give it to either company that gets there first.”
“That’s what they’re saying now,” Dick asserted. “And there’s another kick coming to the under dog, besides. Mr. Briscoe said that the merchants and big ore shippers were offering, as another hurry punch, to sign contracts agreeing to give the winner all of their business for the first six months. So the losing company will have a dead railroad on its hands for a whole half year.”
The square Donovan jaw set itself firmly.
“We’ve got to win, Dick. It isn’t only the money; it’s partly the way these O. C. folks have acted. It was our right-of-way in the beginning and this is Short Line territory. Besides, they haven’t fought fair; they would have stolen the whole canyon if they’d got into it first, as they were planning to. I say we’ve got to win.”
“Right you are,” said the general manager’s son. And then: “Got your wind again?—all right; let’s go.”
From the top of the spur, which they reached after another stiff climb, there was an extended view to the eastward; a view backgrounded by the mighty bulk of the farther Timanyonis. Somewhere in one of the many upland gulches of the great range lay the gold camp toward which the two railroads were racing. At their feet and far below, the foaming torrent of the Tourmaline gashed its path through the mountains, its narrow, crooking canyon opening out a few miles away in a sort of park-like valley.