Chapter XIII: On the High Trail

The installation of the new foreman at Camp Forty-seven provoked no little discussion, not alone in the camp concerned, but all along the busy line of aqueduct construction. It was the abruptness of the affair which probably affected the majority of the workers, and a dozen different stories were in circulation as to the real cause of the change.

Doubtlessly the men arrived at as satisfactory a conclusion as did Nash himself. While he had no great respect for the Los Angeles politician--Sigsbee--still Nash admired him for the apparent determination he had expressed in their interview that day--a determination to rid Camp Forty-seven of graft.

Whether this was Sigsbee’s object or not, or his main reason, for changing foremen, Nash speedily took matters into his own hands and put his ideas into execution. He studied out a system, held weekly consultations with his subforemen, and saw to it that they followed the lines he had drawn. There was considerable grumbling at first, principally because each man had been in the habit of doing what he pleased.

“That’s why you don’t accomplish more,” Nash told them. “You don’t pull together. Teamwork is the thing that counts.”

Gradually he gained his ends, and as gradually the work on the aqueduct allotted to his camp showed improvement. Never before had Nash worked so earnestly and with so much confidence. He felt as if on his shoulders alone rested the success or the failure of this wonderful waterway. He instilled the same fervor, the same enthusiasm, into the work of those under him, and soon the complaining wore away, and every man of them entered into the struggle with that supreme, indomitable spirit that recognizes no such word as failure.

One blistering hot afternoon, when he was riding slowly over the high trail that led from the main road to the camp, Nash heard the wild gallop of hoofs behind him. Before he could turn, a frightened horse dashed past, careening madly down the path, threatening each second to topple into the ravine below.

Nash drew rein. “That horse was saddled,” he said aloud. “I wonder if there’s been an accident?”

He struck his pony sharply, and descended the trail. Half a mile on he stopped, uttered an exclamation, leaped from his saddle, and knelt beside the quiet form of a woman. She was lying in a matted clump of scrub oak, where the horse had probably thrown her.

Carefully he drew an arm away from her face. There was a cut above her closed eyes, and the crimson had run down over her cheek, staining the lace on her collar. She seemed so quiet, so very white, that for the instant Nash believed she was dead. It was only when he took his handkerchief and wiped her forehead that she sighed and allowed her eyes to flutter open.

“Just in time,” he said encouragingly. “Not hurt much, I hope?”

She seemed conscious suddenly of where she was, and of what had happened. She sat up and passed a limp hand across her eyes.

“I--I guess not,” she faltered unsteadily. “My horse threw me. I--I remember falling, and then----”

“Your forehead’s cut,” Nash said; “not very deep, though. You’ve this brush here to thank for your escape. If you had fallen to these rocks, there would have been real damage.”

He helped her up. She was a trifle dizzy at first, but it soon wore away. She allowed him to bind his handkerchief about her head.

“There!” he said, finishing with the improvised bandage. “That will keep the dust out. Do you live near here?”

She nodded. “Over at the Elkhorn Ranch.”

“I should advise you to get back as quickly as you can,” he told her. “Have the wound washed and dressed. I don’t think there’s a drop of water this side of the camp.”

“Oh,” she said, turning quickly to face him, “you’re from the construction camp, then?”

“Yes, from Forty-seven, about two miles down the trail. I was just going back when your horse dashed past me.”

Her eyes were shining now, and a quick color had rushed to her cheeks. Nash told himself that it had been a long time since he had seen a prettier girl. He reasoned quickly, by the hue of her skin, that she was a stranger to this part of southern California.

“You haven’t been here long, have you?” he said.

She shook her head. “No. This is my first day at the ranch. I’m visiting friends there.” She hesitated a moment, and looked frankly into his bronzed face. “How did you guess?”

He laughed. “Why, this sun will leave its mark on you. It’s the champion long-distance artist. You’ll soon change that New York white for California copper.”

She stared at him bewilderedly. “How did you know I was from New York?” she asked.

“Well,” he admitted. “I haven’t been away from there long myself. I thought you were from the East by your accent.”

“You’re a regular fortune teller,” she replied, smiling; and he laughed.

“Now, you take my pony and ride along to the ranch,” he said. “It’s only a short walk for me--by cutting across the hill yonder. You can return the mount to-morrow, or any time convenient. Meanwhile, I’ll keep an eye out for your horse.”

She demurred at first, but Nash insisted; so it ended by the girl being helped into the saddle.

“I’m so interested in this--this aqueduct,” she said, after he had finished looking over the saddle straps.

“Then you must come over to the camp--any day--and I’ll show you around,” he said. “I am always glad to interest myself in others who are interested in what I’m doing.”

“Are you--the--boss?” she asked.

“I’m the foreman,” he answered. “Naturally I take a great deal of pride in the work of construction.”

For the instant, as he looked at her, he fancied he detected a new light--a cold, different light--come into her eyes; and he could have sworn her hands were trembling as they rested on the pony’s neck.

“Then--then you are Mr. Nash?” she said presently.

He nodded. “That’s an excellent guess.”

Her fingers found and gripped the reins, and, as if composing herself, she straightened in the saddle.

“I--I will return your pony promptly, Mr. Nash,” she said, in a voice that seemed to issue from strange lips. “And thank you very much for what you have done.”

With a puzzled frown, Nash watched her as she galloped up the trail and disappeared from view behind a shoulder of rock, riding her mount with the ease of an experienced horsewoman.

“She’s no beginner when it comes to the saddle,” Nash muttered. “Elkhorn Ranch, eh?” he said, a moment later. “Odd I never heard of it before.”

Then he turned on his heel and wended his way down the rough slope, deserting the trail for the cut-off in the direction of the camp.