The Mexicans always looked at him and fell silent when he passed since he had shown who was master at the dam. In the eyes of some was merely stupid curiosity, in some a shrinking, and in many a half-veiled hostility. That did not trouble Weir. In Mexico he had dealt with recalcitrant workmen of more lawless nature than these. He usually ignored them altogether now as they no longer were in his employ. But this man seized his attention.
It was not yet too dark to mark his face as he lounged past, slowly turning his head about as he progressed until his chin was on his shoulder, staring back. His look the while remained riveted on Weir––a steady, contemplative, evil regard. In Chihuahua the engineer had once seen a notorious local “killer” who had that same gaze.
Martinez had also glanced at the fellow.
“Who is that man? One of the discharged workmen?” Weir asked him, when moving forward they in turn had passed the Mexican.
“No, I imagine not. At any rate, he doesn’t belong in San Mateo or anywhere hereabouts. I know everybody for fifty miles, for I’ve been active in social and political affairs. He’s unknown to me. A stranger.” Then a little farther along: “Here is my office, Mr. Weir. I’ll have a light in an instant. Ah, now. Be so good as to have a chair and we’ll expedite your business.”
As Martinez filled out the acknowledgment blanks on the papers, his eyes furtively skipped over the vital portions of the documents. The latter were connected 55 with company business. He had hoped they would be personal so that he might learn something more of this manager’s affairs, possibly more of his secret antagonism for Sorenson and his friends. Any intrigue appealed to the thin, slippery lawyer’s soul, but most of all some one’s else intrigue into which he might profitably put a finger. However, from these papers he was to learn nothing.
He had considered all possibilities of the affair, all possible solutions of what long ago might have occurred between Joseph Weir, undoubtedly the father of the man sitting across the table from him, and the four men now conferring in Sorenson’s office. This was no petty squabble, he divined. There was something going on under the surface that was big––big! And very dangerous too, for the spirit of that moment in Vorse’s bar was not to be mistaken; it had been tense, electric. Utmost caution on Martinez’s part would therefore be necessary.
As between the two parties, his sympathies at present inclined towards Weir. The refusal on the latter’s part to reëmploy the Mexican workmen on their own terms was purely a matter of policy, and the lawyer’s first gusty anger had long been forgotten. But not so Sorenson’s sneering words of that afternoon. They struck to the heart of his vanity, breeding an animosity that would last. Had not the banker stated that the lawyer should hold no political office whatever? After all his services? Had he not definitely shown that Martinez might never expect anything there? Well, the lawyer wasn’t one tamely to yield his rights; he did not propose always to remain a scrimping, pettifogging attorney, existing on crumbs.
When with a flourish he had appended his name to 56 the acknowledgments and affixed his seal, he sat back thoughtfully studying the engineer, who was carefully examining the paragraphs for errors. He knew his business, did Martinez; the man would find no mistakes. Then the lawyer’s eyes suddenly glistened. He arose and closed the door as Weir thrust the documents into a stout linen envelope, addressed and stamped.
“I’ll be pleased to see your letter goes in the mail in the morning,” he said, returning to his place. “The stage leaves at eight-thirty.”