Dimond hesitated, then swung the canteen over his shoulder and disappeared without a word. “Gus,” said Paul Carhart, quietly. “Oh! I didn’t see you there.” “Wasn’t that something of a gallery play?” “No, I don’t think it was. It will show them that we are dealing squarely with them. I had a deuce of a time on the ride, and Dimond really tried, I think, to keep the men within bounds. They are children, you know,--children with whiskey throats added,--and they can’t stand it as we can.” “Gus,” said the chief, taking the boy’s arm and drawing him toward the tent, “it’s time you got to sleep. I shall need you to-morrow.” The other engineers were still sitting about the table, talking in low tones. Carhart rejoined them. Young Van dropped on a cot in the rear and fell asleep with his boots on. “Old Van is telling how the pay-slips came in to-day,” said Scribner. Carhart nodded. “Go ahead.” He had found the laborers, headed by the Mexicans, so impossibly deliberate in their work that he had planned out a system of paying by the piece. When the locomotive whistle blew at night, each man was handed a slip stating the amount due him. At the end of the week the slips were to be cashed, and to-day the first payment had been made. “Go ahead,” he repeated. “How much did it cost us?” [Illustration: “‘It’s all I have a right to give anybody.’”] “About seventy-five dollars more than last week,” replied Old Van. “So that, on the whole, we got a little more work out of them. But here’s what happened. When the whistle blew and I got out my satchel, nobody came. I called to a couple of them to hurry up if they wanted their pay, but they shook their heads. Finally, just two men came up and handed in all the slips.” “Two men!” exclaimed Carhart. “Yes. One was the cook, Jack Flagg. He had fully two-thirds of the slips. The other was his assistant, the one they call Charlie. He had the rest. I called some of the laborers up and asked what it meant, but they said it was all right that way.” “So you gave them the whole pay-roll?” “Every cent.” Carhart frowned. “That won’t do,” he said. “A man who can clean out the camp in less than a week will breed more trouble than a water famine.” There was little more to be said, and soon the council came to a close. Scribner went promptly to sleep. Young Van awoke, and with a mumbled “good night” staggered across after Scribner, to his sleeping tent. And then, for an hour, Paul Carhart sat alone, his elbows on the table, a profile of the line spread out before him. Outside, in the night, something stirred. He extinguished his lamp and listened. Cautious steps were approaching behind the cluster of tents. A moment more and he heard a man stumble over a peg and swear aloud.