“I’ve been hoping to hear it. From now on drive this 16 crowd of coffee-colored loafers. Put the lash on their backs.”
A gleam of unholy joy shone in Atkinson’s eyes as he heard Weir’s words.
“All right; that goes,” he said. “But I’m warning you that they’ll quit. You’ll see ’em stringing out of camp for home to-night, and those who hang out till to-morrow will leave then for sure. By to-morrow night the dam will be as quiet as a church week-days. They’ll not show up again, either, until you send word for them to come back––and then they’ll know you’ve surrendered. Magney tried it once, just once. And that’s why you found me chewing tobacco so lamb-like and saying nothing.”
“Turn your gat loose,” Weir said. And turning on his heel, he went back to headquarters.
Before Atkinson fired a volley at the unsuspecting workmen he crossed the canyon to where a cub engineer was peering through a transit. The superintendent had overheard a scrap of gossip among the staff one evening before Weir’s arrival when they were discussing the advent of the new chief.
“What was that name you fellows were saying Weir was called by?” he asked.
The boy straightened up.
“‘Cold Steel’––‘Cold Steel’ Weir. Anyway that’s what Fergueson says,” was the answer. “I never heard it before myself. His first name’s Steele, you know, and he looks cold enough to be ice when he’s asking questions about things, boring into a fellow with his eyes. But he’s up against a hard game here.”
“Maybe. But a man doesn’t get a name like that for just parting his hair nice,” Atkinson remarked. “He told me to stretch ’em”––a horny thumb jerked 17 towards the workmen––“and you’ll see some real work hereabouts for the rest of the afternoon.”
“And to-morrow will be Sunday three days ahead of time.”