Hard Money (23 page)

“I do not!” Sharon protested passionately.

Seay's face fell into its usual reserve. “All right then, you don't.”

“What right have you to judge me for something I can't help?” Sharon went on. “How do you know I'm satisfied with what I have, or the way I live? How do you?”

“Maybe I don't,” Seay admitted.

“No, you don't,” Sharon said more quietly. “The only times I get out of the stupid squirrel cage are times like these,” she added.

Seay swung around, and they walked on. Sharon felt that if she could pour out all her discontent to him he would understand, but how was she to hide the fact that it was he, Phil Seay, who had bred this discontent in her? How could she dodge it? And if he ever guessed it she would die of shame. She held her head proudly and did not speak of it again.

When he left her at the door of the suite Sharon saw he was puzzled and felt the questions that lay unanswered behind the reserve in his eyes. His good-by was almost formal, and then he smiled oddly and said, “Maybe I've got to pick up my blocks and arrange them all over again—about you.”

Sharon nodded gravely. “If it matters, yes.”

He was about to ask a question, but his mouth closed, and he nodded and left her.

Chapter Sixteen

Seay listened to Craig, thinking that it was something he did not like, and he took a firmer grasp on his attention, following Craig's words, and his pencil as he pointed occasionally to the unfolded plans laid on the desk. Sills, lintels, yardage and concrete mix, form lumber, apprentice masons, the tensile strength of pine compared to oak and the probable inaccuracy of trying to calculate the shrinkage of half-seasoned timbers. He was glad when Tober stepped in the door, waiting. Craig, irritated now, knowing Tober would take Seay off with him, finally gave up and looked over at Tober.

“Take a look outside,” Tober said.

Seay went out with him. The ditch which cut down from the tunnel mouth and continued past the new mill foundations to the dry river bed was running water, more water than usual.

“When did that start?” Seay asked.

“I dunno. I just noticed it. They've had to quit work on the trench.”

Seay glanced up at the tunnel mouth. “Maybe they hit a water pocket at the Dry Sierras.”

“Maybe,” Reed said.

“Call me if it doesn't slack off,” Seay said. “Lay off the crew for the afternoon.” He returned to his business with Craig. Half an hour later Tober reported that, far from slacking off, the volume of water was increasing. Seay ordered a horse saddled, and when it was brought up he left Craig and headed out of camp for the pass.

At the Dry Sierras Consolidated he left his horse at the tie rail of the office and tramped up the slope to the shaft house. Its doors were opened wide, and he could hear the laboring of the hoist engine as the cages of ore were raised and dumped. It was a hum of activity inside. Of a workman at the door, he asked for Sales, the superintendent, and the man led him around the building. In its shade Sales was squatted, drawing a crude map on the ground for five workmen.

Seay waited until he was finished, and then Sales, a middle-aged man with sparse gray hair and deeply sunburned face, came over to him. They exchanged small talk a few minutes, and then Seay asked, “Hit a water pocket today?”

Sales shook his head. “Nobody said anything to me about it. Why?”

“Where's all the extra water coming from?”

Sales said, “Oh,” and gestured across the slope to a huge building perhaps a half-mile off. It was where the shaft for four mines—the Southern Union, Bismarck, Petersburg and Pacific Shares—went down into the Pinewaters. It was a huge affair, housing the main pump. The single shaft was used by all four mines and was on the common corner of all four claims. “Pump shaft broke,” he said laconically. “The water backed up to gallery H level and now it's coming through to us. Do you mind?”

Seay shook his head. “I've had to lay off a crew. It's quite a head of water. They got a crew on repairs now?”

“They came over to me and said they were putting one on. That was early this morning.”

Seay chatted a moment longer and then left. In Tronah he picked up some light freight at the office and rode back to the tunnel.

But by midafternoon the water had nearly doubled its flow out of the mouth of the tunnel, and Tober reported that it had been increasing hourly. Still, Seay worked through the afternoon, giving it little attention. He did not intend to raise any objection, for obviously the four mines had run into a little hard luck with their pumps. A little tolerance on his part would help correct the trouble. But when, at four o'clock, the flow was still increasing in volume, he saddled a horse and rode across to the Big Four, which was the more usable name for the four mines.

He hunted out Pedro Sais, the works superintendent, who was working on the pump. Sais was a big, good-looking Mexican employed by all four mines to oversee all the work aboveground, and his honesty, of course, had never been in doubt. It was his work to keep track of which ore raised in the common shaft belonged to which outfit, besides superintending the machinery.

He walked out to Seay, wiping his hands with cotton waste.

“What's the trouble, Pedro?” Seay asked him.

“She busted casting,” Pedro said grimly. “Plenty busted.
Por dios,
I start her, and the shaft, she's bust too.”

“Casting,” Seay murmured, watching Sais carefully. “That means freighting from San Francisco, doesn't it?”

“Si, señor.
It is true.”

“Six days, then, before you can use it again?”

“Seven,
señor,
is safer.”

Seay left then. Obviously Sais was not the man to argue with. It was Hugh Mathias who was allowing water from the Big Four to be diverted to his shaft. But, riding down the freight road that turned off to the Dry Sierras, something warned Seay to play cautious. At Tronah he stabled his horse and went straight to the Union House. Bonal was in his office, and Seay took a chair and told him what had happened. Bonal listened to it, frowning, and when he had heard Seay out he said, “You're worried, Phil. Why?”

“I haven't said I was.”

“I know, but you look it. What does it mean, except that the Big Four expects the Dry Sierras to be a good neighbor, and Hugh expects to be one in turn?”

“Did Mathias say that?”

“I don't think he knows about it,” Bonal said. “He's up in the mountains hunting with a couple of Dry Sierras directors. I'll tell him tomorrow when he gets back.” He shrugged. “What harm does it do?”

“None—except that trench crew can't work till it slacks off.”

“All right. I'll talk with Hugh tomorrow.”

It was left that way. Seay went back to the tunnel and spent an uneasy evening playing poker with Tober and Craig and Lueter.

In the morning the tunnel was running more water than ever. It was a torrent now, waist deep to a man and pouring out of the tunnel trench in a great cascade that more than filled the mill run. As Seay regarded it his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. There was more than just the overflow from the Big Four coming out. Mentally he calculated. The trench they were digging to carry the water under the tracks had been designed to accommodate all the water from most of the mines in this field. And this flow now was more than filling the short stretch of trench already dug.

He saddled a horse. It was early, and the camp was still in shadow. His destination, of course, was Bonal, but he planned to make a detour before going to Tronah, and he turned off and rode up the mountain to the Big Four shaft.

Round the corner of the office he headed up to the shaft house. As he rode, he saw men gathering in its door, and he smiled thinly.

Reaching them, he pulled up his horse, but did not dismount. Pedro Sais, smiling affably, stood in the door. He was holding a wrench now, and his crew around him were alert, their faces shaped for trouble. They had been expecting him, Seay knew instantly.

“Not fixed yet, Pedro?” Seay asked easily.

“Not yet,
señor
,” Pedro answered.

“Did all the other pumps in all the other shafts break, too, Pedro?” Seay drawled.

“I don't understand,
señor,”
Pedro replied easily.

“You liar,” Seay said quietly, his voice steel under velvet. “We're getting water from every mine on this field. It's coming into your shaft and running out into the Dry Sierras.”

Sais shrugged, still politely. “That is your business,
señor
,” he answered affably. “If they want to divert their water to us it does not matter. Our shaft is filling anyway.”

Seay nodded curtly and swung his horse around. He began to understand it now, understand what Vannie had been trying to tell him. He cursed himself for his blindness. But swiftly his thoughts turned to the crux of the trouble. It was the Dry Sierras. Bonal would handle that.

At the hotel Bonal was breakfasting with Sharon. The table had been laid in Bonal's office. At sight of Seay, Bonal motioned him to a chair, saying, “Up early, Phil.”

Seay nodded to Sharon and did not answer. He did not sit down, either.

“Well, Bonal,” he drawled calmly, “your friends have hatched an egg that'll take a lot of breaking.”

Bonal knew what Seay was thinking when he used that voice. He looked up swiftly. “What?”

“All the water in the Tronah field—with the exception of Vannie Shore's Golgotha—is being dumped into your tunnel.”

Bonal said slowly, “How?”

“Through the Dry Sierras shaft. The broken-pump story of the Big Four was a lie. All they wanted was time to get the water from the other mines flowing into their shaft and then into the Dry Sierras.”

“Ah,” Bonal said softly. “Did they do it?”

“The tunnel is carrying all the water in the Tronah field right now.”

Bonal called sharply: “Sarita!” When the maid appeared Bonal said, “Go bring Hugh Mathias up here. He'll be in the dining room.”

Sharon wanted to say something, but she saw it was not the time. A tension was mounting in her as she cleared off the table of breakfast things. When she finished she returned to the room, and Bonal looked up at her.

“You leave us alone a while, Sharon,” he said gruffly.

“I don't intend to,” Sharon answered quietly, firmly. “I have a right to hear this.”

Bonal stared at her and then turned away. A few minutes later Hugh appeared. He was fresh shaven, dressed in a neat dark suit, and he smiled at Sharon as he greeted her. Seay, leaning against the wall, arms folded across his chest, returned Hugh's greeting with a nod. Bonal did not return it at all.

Bonal said shortly, “Hugh, has anyone told you that all the mines in this Tronah field are draining their water through your gallery into our tunnel?”

Hugh nodded, his face gradually losing its affability. “Sales said the Big Four was draining through our gallery. Their pump broke.”

“That was yesterday. Today, every pump in the Tronah field has stopped. All their water is coming through the Big Four shaft to us.”

“What do you want me to do?” Hugh asked slowly.

“Stop it! Block up the gallery!”

Hugh said carefully, “I'm sorry but I'm powerless to make a move without consulting the directors.”

Bonal's eyes narrowed. “Directors, huh? Weren't you hunting with a couple of them yesterday?”

“Maybe this is why he was,” Seay drawled gently.

Bonal ignored this, but Hugh did not. His wicked glance touched Seay and returned to Bonal.

“Are they here in the hotel?” Bonal demanded, and when Hugh said they were, he added curtly, “Get them!”

Seay packed his pipe while Hugh was gone. Bonal lighted one of his black cigars and puffed furiously on it. He was behind his desk, staring intently at its top, as if he were regarding something upon it. Sharon sat motionless in a corner and watched these two men. They were both trying not to look at her, she knew, and she felt a hot shame. But stubbornly, doggedly, she told herself she was going to hear this out.

Hugh came in with Freehold, the lawyer Bonal had met, and a heavier, squatter man named Barton McCauley. As soon as the introductions were made, Bonal did not bother to ask them to be seated.

His voice was hard, driving, belligerent as he spoke. He told them the bare facts of the happenings and concluded with, “Mathias tells me he can't act without your consent. Is that right?”

Freehold nodded. He was obviously enjoying his after-breakfast cigar.

“Then I want you to give it,” Bonal said abruptly. “This is a conspiracy to evade a legal obligation.”

“In other words, you think it's illegal, Mr. Bonal?” Freehold asked.

“I do.”

Freehold smiled meagerly. “Its legality allows no doubt, Bonal. I made sure of that before I planned it, Mathias”—he gestured to Hugh with his cigar—“of course being completely in the dark. The act is entirely legal. Do you remember the gist of the contract signed between Mathias and yourself?”

“Certainly,” Bonal snapped. “I was to put in a tunnel of the specified height and width, which would drain all water from the Dry Sierras Consolidated shaft at a depth of—”

“That's far enough,” Freehold said. He turned and smiled at McCauley. “All water, I think you said, Bonal. I can't recall the contract specifying that water from other mines couldn't be diverted to our shafts.”

Bonal started to speak and then checked himself, the light dawning in his eye. “So that's it, eh?” he said grimly.

Freehold nodded. “That's it. You're legally bound to drain all from the Dry Sierras Consolidated shaft at the depth mentioned. In return, the Dry Sierras pays you the specified amount per ton
of all ore drained by your tunnel that is taken from within our boundaries
.” He paused and raised his cigar slowly to his mouth. “It's in black and white, Bonal, signed and sealed and every court in the country will uphold it.”