Dimond had other stories. “I guess there ain’t nobody ever found it easy to get around him. Once when he was a kid surveyor, before he went North, they sent him over into southern Texas to look up an old piece of property. There was a fellow claimed a lot of land that really run over on to this property. Mr. Carhart figured it out that the fellow was lying, but he knew it was going to be hard to prove it. The old marks of the corners were all gone—there wasn’t a soul living who had ever seen ’em. It was an old Spanish grant, Mr. Scribner says, and the Spanish surveyors had just blazed trees to mark the lines. Well, sir, would you believe it, Mr. Carhart worked out the place where this corner ought ‘o be, cut down an old cedar tree that stood there, sawed it up into lengths before witnesses, found the blaze mark all grown over with bark, and took the piece of log right into court and proved it. No, I guess it wouldn’t be so infernal easy to get ahead o’ Mr. Carhart.”
“That’s all right,” observed one of the laborers, “if you’re working for Mr. Carhart. But s’pose you ain’t—s’pose you’re workin’ for Mr. Vandervelt?”
“Oh, well, of course,” Dimond replied, “Mr. Vandervelt’s different. He ain’t nowhere near the man Mr. Carhart is.”
Charlie took in this comment quietly, but with less than the usual good nature in his blue eyes.
“I don’t care how decent the boss is,” continued the laborer, “if I have to have a mean old he-devil cussin’ at me from six to six, and half the night besides, sometimes.”
Dimond grew reflective. “I know about Mr. Vandervelt,” he said meditatively. “You see, boys, it was sort o’ lonely up ahead there boring for water, and Mr. Scribner and me we got pretty well acquainted.” Dimond was endeavoring to conceal the slight superiority over these men of which he could not but be conscious. “It’s a queer case,” he went on, “Mr. Vandervelt’s case. I know about it. It’s his temper, you see. That’s what’s kep’ ’im back,—that’s why he’s only a division engineer to-day.”
“Keep quiet, boys,” broke in the laborer, with a sneer. “Dimond knows about it. He’s tellin’ us the news. Mr. Vandervelt’s got a temper, he says.”
Dimond was above a retort. “I can tell you,” he said. “Mr. Scribner give me the facts.” (In justice to Harry Scribner it should be mentioned that he had told Dimond nothing whatever concerning the personal attributes of his colleague.) “When Mr. Vandervelt gets mad, he shoots. He don’t have to be drunk, neither, or in a fight, or frolicking careless with the boys. He shot a waiter in the Harper restaurant at Flemington, shot ’im right down. And then he went out into the mountains and worked for a year without ever coming near a town. And they say”—Dimond’s voice lowered—“they say he shot a camp boss on the Northern, a man he used to knock around with, friendly. They say he shot him.” Dimond paused, in order that his words might sink into the consciousness of each listener. “He never goes North any more. He’ll never even stay at a place like Sherman for more than a day or two, and not that when he can help it.”
The men were silent for a little while. Then Charlie got slowly to his feet and shook out his big frame preparatory to making his rounds. “I guess that’s why Mr. Carhart told me to take my orders from his brother,” he said slowly. “I was wondering.” Then he stepped off in the direction of the corral.
It was three o’clock in the morning when Charlie finally stretched out for three winks. The laborers had long before rolled themselves up in their blankets. The men on guard, weary of peering into the darkness and the silence, had made themselves as nearly comfortable as they could. And it was half-past three, or near it, when a rope was cut by a stealthy hand and half a dozen sleepy, obedient mules were led out and away. Where so many animals were stirring; and where, too, lids were perhaps drooping over hitherto watchful eyes, the slight disturbance passed unobserved. At four the guards were changed, and the new day began to make itself known. At five the camp was astir; and a boy, searching in vain for his team, came upon the cut, trailing ends of rope at the outer edge of the corral.