ery
stern.

Conniston watched them as their horses leaped forward in the slack
traces, saw Mr. Crawford jump down, enter the tent, saw him come out
again and spring back into the buckboard.

"Now, Joe," as he got down beside Conniston, "you can unhook your
horses. I am going to be here this morning."

Joe drove away to where the camp horses had been picketed. And Mr.
Crawford turned to Conniston.

"This is going to make it hard, Conniston," he said, slowly, his face
and voice alike very grave. "It is the one thing which I had hoped
would not happen. But we've got to make the most of it." He paused
suddenly, and his keen eyes ran thoughtfully from one to another of
the four gangs of men. "They're working all right," he ended, his eyes
coming back to Conniston's.

"Yes. They're good men. The four foremen are as capable as a man could
ask for."

"Were they working this way when you got here?"

"No. They were waiting for orders."

Mr. Crawford nodded, making no reply.

"I don't know," Conniston offered after a moment, "that there is any
immediate call for worry. I think that I can handle them until Truxton
gets around--"

"Truxton won't get around!"

"You mean--"

"That the moment he is sober enough to know anything he will know that
he is discharged!"

"But we can't get along without him. He is the one man--"

"We shall have to get along without him. I have told him that if he
touched whisky again on this job he could go."

"But would it not be better to wait a few days--to give him a chance
to sober up?"

"Conniston, I have never found it necessary to break my word. I am
through with Truxton. And if my last hope of success goes with him he
must go just the same. I am sorry for the man--the poor fellow can't
help these periodic drunks of his. But I am through with him."

Conniston frowned into the eyes which were fixed intently upon him.

"You know best. I am ready to do what I can to help out. I think I can
promise you to keep the work going until you can get a man to take his
place."

Mr. Crawford bent a long, searching regard upon him. And when he spoke
it was slowly, sternly.

"What am I paying you, Conniston?"

"Forty-five dollars a month."

"All right. I'll give you seventy-five dollars a week to take Bat
Truxton's place for me--not for a few days, but until the first day
of October. Will you do it?"

A hot flush spread over Conniston's face, and surged away, leaving it
white.

"Do