The Devil has three great allies, natural depravity, aimless activity, and ennui, and this last is his most trusted, subtle, and reliable agent, especially when coupled with depression.
CHAPTER VII
For three days it had been raining in camp, and the roads were mired with brownish red ’dobe mud. In the tents the little stoves failed to dry the reeking air. The ponies looked miserable, human beings hopeless. Men tracked into the office, wet and disgusted, their dirty “slickers” dripping little pools of water wherever they stood. The rain fell with a dull rattle on the galvanized iron roofing, steady, relentless. Even the “shots” from the workings sounded dull and dejected in the heavy atmosphere. Every one was irritable and in an unpleasant frame of mind.
Rain in Arizona is rare; but when it does come it is the coldest, wettest, slimiest rain in the world. It rains from above, from below, from the side. It dissolves rubber; it takes the heat from fire. Water-tight buildings are mere sport for it. It rains in big drops that splash, in fine drizzle that penetrates, in sheets that drench. The soft rock melts and becomes mud. The dirt dissolves and becomes quicksand. Empty gulches become torrents; small streams become rivers. Even the “Gila monsters,” those slimy, mottled, bottle-eyed, lizard-shaped reptiles, give up in despair, while mere man has no chance at all for happiness and comfort.
Stephen came back from his work at the hoist, soaked to the skin, and sick. To add to his discouragement he found orders to work a double shift waiting for him in his tent—the engineer of the eleven o’clock, or “graveyard,” shift being incapacitated. He threw himself down on his cot, cursing the squeak of the rusty springs. His feet felt like moist lumps of clay. The dampness of his shirt sent a numb feeling through his stomach. Lynn, his tent-mate, was on shift, so there was nothing to do but stare at the one ornament of the tent, a battered tin alarm clock, which, ticking with exasperating monotony, hung from the ridge-pole of the tent. The sole reading matter at hand was an old copy of the Denver Post. Stephen knew this almost by heart; but he picked it up and began to reread it.
“Be a Booster! Get the convention for your city! Don’t go to sleep!”
The words, in flaming red and black headlines, irritated him. Throwing the paper aside, he amused himself by drawing his fingernail along the wet canvas of the tent, and watching the water ooze through the weave. Occasionally from outside he could hear the cursing of the coke wagon drivers, and the merciless crack of their whips. In his mind he could see almost as well as if he had been outside, the six quivering, straining horses, their haunches worn raw by the traces, the creaking wagon, up to its hubs in mud, and the slipping of the rusty brake shoes.