always do something for my men out of a wreck when I can; that's
the way I get the work out of them," Sinclair was saying. "A little
stuff like this," he added, nodding toward the wagon, "comes handy for
presents, and the company wouldn't get any salvage out of it, anyway.
I get the value a dozen times over in quick work. Look there!"
Sinclair pointed to where the naked men heaved and wrenched in the
sun. "Where could you get white men to work like that if you didn't
jolly them along once in a while? What? You haven't been here long,
McCloud," smiled Sinclair, laying a hand with heavy affection on the
young man's shoulder. "Ask any man on the division who gets the work
out of his men--who gets the wrecks cleaned up and the track cleared.
Ain't that what you want?"

"Certainly, Sinclair; no man that ever saw you handle a wreck would
undertake to do it better."

"Then what's all this fuss about?"

"We've been over all this matter before, as you know. The claim
department won't stand for this looting; that's the whole story. Here
are ten or twelve cases of champagne on your wagon--soiled a little,
but worth a lot of money."

"That was a mistake loading that up; I admit it; it was Karg's
carelessness."

"Here is one whole case of cigars and part of another," continued
McCloud, climbing from one wheel to another of the wagon. "There is a
thousand dollars in this load! I know you've got good men, Sinclair.
If they are not getting paid as they should be, give them time and a
half or double time, but put it in the pay checks. The freight loss
and damage account increased two hundred per cent. last year. No
railroad company can keep that rate up and last, Sinclair."

"Hang the company! The claim agents are a pack of thieves," cried
Sinclair. "Look here, McCloud, what's a pay check to a man that's
sick, compared with a bottle of good wine?"

"When one of your men is sick and needs wine, let me know," returned
McCloud; "I'll see that he gets it. Your men don't wear silk dresses,
do they?" he asked, pointing to another case of goods under the
driver's seat. "Have that stuff all hauled back and loaded into a box
car on track."

"Not by a damned sight!" exclaimed Sinclair. He turned to his ranch
driver, Barney Rebstock. "You haul that stuff where you were told to
haul it, Barney." Then, "you and I may as well have an understanding
right here," he said, as McCloud walked to the head of the mules.

"By all means, and I'll b