“All theese work and dig like the devil,” he announced. “Jus’ so Los Angeles she get a drink of water. One beeg job it is.”
“Yes,” Nash said, all the time critically examining the road up which they toiled, and realizing that every inch of it had been cut from living rock that the supplies might be brought quickly into the different camps along it. “It is one big job, Joe. And all for a drink of water.”
For two hours they rode on, now dipping into attractive green meadows, now skirting the naked and barren desert, now following the very rim of the Sierras. The mules jogged along in their own way; Joe nodded wearily in his seat; Nash, far too interested in the passing country, kept his eyes on the alert. The very road itself presented such a remarkable engineering problem that frequent and amazed exclamations fell from his lips. “I thought all the big jobs were in the East,” he told himself. “But here is where I think otherwise. Why, it must have cost a good many millions just to get this road through, before a shovelful of dirt was excavated on the actual aqueduct building.”
When another hour had slipped by—all too quickly for Nash—a stranger hailed them from a distant hillside, and as Joe drew in his reins, glad to give his animals a breathing spell, the man came sliding down to the road.
In faded and dirty khaki, rock-scuffed boots, soft shirt, and flapping sombrero, the newcomer advanced to the wagon and pulled himself to the top of the piled cement bags. Nash had already deserted the lofty seat in front for this broad and more comfortable resting place, and promptly made room on the blanket for the new arrival. Joe had paid little or no attention to this passenger, and no sooner had he gained the top of the load than Joe snapped his long whip and sent his mules forward amid a sudden, choking cloud of dust.
Nash coughed, for the alkali stung his throat and smarted in his eyes. When he recovered, he found the man eying him with evident curiosity.
“Stranger here, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Thought so. When you stay here a time you get used to this infernal alkali. Get so you eat it in your grub and drink it in your whisky. The saloon up at our camp makes a feature of aqueduct cocktails. And it’s nothing in the world but alcohol, Worcestershire sauce, and alkali. But beggars can’t be choosers.”
The speaker’s face, because of the constant exposure to the sun, was burned to a reddish-brown. There were pools of darker shadows beneath his eyes, and many hard lines around them and around his thin lips. Nash had an instant dislike for the fellow, and did not welcome the companionship.