“I am.”
“And your name is Weir?”
“You’ve got it right.”
The questions ended there. The three men from camp slowly consumed their beer and exchanged indifferent remarks. At the end of five minutes the Mexican lawyer, clutching the arm of an elderly, gray-mustached man, entered the saloon.
They lined up at the bar nearby the others. The older of the pair regarded the trio shrewdly, laid a calf-bound book that he carried under his arm upon the counter and ordered “a little bourbon.” When he had swallowed this, he addressed the men from the engineering camp.
“Which of you is Mr. Weir?”
“I am he,” Steele replied.
“Mr. Martinez here has solicited me, Mr. Weir, to use my offices in explaining to you the workmen’s point of 21 view in the controversy that exists relative to the work. I’m Senator Gordon, a member of the state legislature, and I have no interest in the matter beyond seeing an amicable and just arrangement effected.”
Steele Weir fixed his eyes on the speaker with an intentness, a cold penetration, that seemed to bore to the very recesses of his mind. In that look there was something questioning and something menacing.
“There’s no controversy and hence no need of your services. The men stopped work, refused to return, and now the case is closed.”