CHAPTER III.
UP THE SAN FERNANDO ROAD.
Early next morning, Nash left the hotel and made for the Southern Pacific Station on Fifth Street. Before noon he had stepped off the train in the quaint and sleepy little town of San Fernando. This place marked the terminal of the proposed Los Angeles Aqueduct, and the huge reservoir in course of construction at the mouth of the San Francisquito Cañon was to hold in check and in readiness the millions of gallons of water which the citizens of Los Angeles might command at the turn of a faucet.
In the depot for supplies, the hurry and bustle at certain points interested Nash. The sight of the huge steam shovels, the towering derricks, the endless cars of cement, and the sections of steel piping all served to quicken his pulse and bring the color to his cheeks.
To find the location of Camp 47 was an easy task, and in an hour after the train had set him down, Nash was riding on a load of cement up the rock-hewn road, and behind eight sweating mules that apparently knew more about their business than did the driver, Joe Giogi, a swearing, black-eyed, bareheaded son of Italy.
“You want Forty-seven?” he questioned swiftly. “Sure t’ing! I take you there. You come with me. Long ride—maybe four hour.”
So Nash swung up to the high seat beside Joe, and they started amid a volley of imprecations from the latter, the creak of the straining harness, and the encouraging shouts of the laborers in the little yard.
“You come to look for a job, maybe?” inquired the driver, once they were riding smoothly, and the town was dropping away behind them.
“Maybe, yes,” answered Nash, evading a direct response.
The weather-scarred, sun-blackened fingers of the driver skillfully arranged the dozen or more reins, and Nash marveled at the ease and dexterity with which it was accomplished. Finally Joe spoke again, this time more seriously.
“All theese work and dig like the devil,” he announced. “Jus’ so Los Angeles she get a drink of water. One beeg job it is.”
“Yes,” Nash said, all the time critically examining the road up which they toiled, and realizing that every inch of it had been cut from living rock that the supplies might be brought quickly into the different camps along it. “It is one big job, Joe. And all for a drink of water.”
For two hours they rode on, now dipping into attractive green meadows, now skirting the naked and barren desert, now following the very rim of the Sierras. The mules jogged along in their own way; Joe nodded wearily in his seat; Nash, far too interested in the passing country, kept his eyes on the alert. The very road itself presented such a remarkable engineering problem that frequent and amazed exclamations fell from his lips. “I thought all the big jobs were in the East,” he told himself. “But here is where I think otherwise. Why, it must have cost a good many millions just to get this road through, before a shovelful of dirt was excavated on the actual aqueduct building.”
When another hour had slipped by—all too quickly for Nash—a stranger hailed them from a distant hillside, and as Joe drew in his reins, glad to give his animals a breathing spell, the man came sliding down to the road.
In faded and dirty khaki, rock-scuffed boots, soft shirt, and flapping sombrero, the newcomer advanced to the wagon and pulled himself to the top of the piled cement bags. Nash had already deserted the lofty seat in front for this broad and more comfortable resting place, and promptly made room on the blanket for the new arrival. Joe had paid little or no attention to this passenger, and no sooner had he gained the top of the load than Joe snapped his long whip and sent his mules forward amid a sudden, choking cloud of dust.
Nash coughed, for the alkali stung his throat and smarted in his eyes. When he recovered, he found the man eying him with evident curiosity.
“Stranger here, aren’t you?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Thought so. When you stay here a time you get used to this infernal alkali. Get so you eat it in your grub and drink it in your whisky. The saloon up at our camp makes a feature of aqueduct cocktails. And it’s nothing in the world but alcohol, Worcestershire sauce, and alkali. But beggars can’t be choosers.”
The speaker’s face, because of the constant exposure to the sun, was burned to a reddish-brown. There were pools of darker shadows beneath his eyes, and many hard lines around them and around his thin lips. Nash had an instant dislike for the fellow, and did not welcome the companionship.
The man rolled a cigarette and smoked for a minute, studying his dirty boots, which were crossed before him. Presently, with a sharp jerk of his head, he removed his cigarette and turned.
“What you doing in this district? Working on the job?”
“Not at present.”
“Any particular place you’re bound for?”
“Yes—Camp Forty-seven.”
The other’s eyes narrowed. “So? Where are you from?”
“I came from Los Angeles this morning,” Nash said quietly, annoyed by the direct questions, but unwilling to make trouble.
His companion’s interest deepened instantly.
“Newspaper man, eh?” He said this evidently because of Nash’s trim and clean appearance.
“Hardly that,” Nash answered, smiling at the mistake.
“Well, you seem blamed afraid of explaining,” the other broke out, snapping away his cigarette butt. “And let me tell you one thing, my friend,” he added, leaning nearer: “A man who doesn’t want his business known around these parts had better stay away. It isn’t at all healthy. Understand?”
“Possibly,” Nash answered. “But what business I have in this district is my own affair, and it isn’t at all necessary to discuss it with every man I meet on the road.”
“I guess you’ll discuss it with me,” snarled the other.
“Why?” Nash was anxious to know why his companion seemed to be so confident.
“Why? Well, didn’t you say you were bound for Camp Forty-seven?”
“I did. What has that to do with my explaining to you?”
“I won’t allow you inside the camp until you do,” was the instant retort.
“What right have you to stop me?”
“I happen to be foreman there—that’s why.”