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It was mid-August when the two men reached the Makon country. They arranged with a rancher to take them and their outfit up to the river. There was no road, scarcely even a trail up to the canyon.
He was considerably older than Jim, who introduced the stranger as Mr. Jack Henderson. "Henderson will take Iron Skull's place," explained Jim. "You must remember how I wrote home of him and how he helped me save my reputation as a road-builder on the Makon. He's been down on the diversion dam." Penelope held out her hand.
Jim was torn between pleasure at his promotion and displeasure over Freet's obvious purpose of getting him away from the Makon.
Jim's steel jaw set. "There's not to be a drop of liquor on this dam except in the hospital. I expect you to back me in this, Jack. You know what trouble I had on the Makon because I never came down hard." "Sure, I'll back you," said Henderson gently. "But I just wanted you to realize that it's going to be hell round a half mile track to enforce it.
It was not a complicated engineering feat. But it was Jim's first responsible job. It was his first experience in handling men and a camp. Moses, showing the children of Israel the way across the desert, could have felt no more pride or responsibility than did Jim breaking the trail to the Makon. The crevice road was blasted from the granite.
These farmers felt that the canals ought to come to them first. As soon as it had become known that the Reclamation Service was to undertake the Makon project, real estate sharks had gotten control of much land and by misinforming advertisements had induced eastern people to buy farms in the valley.
The water was touching the brown hand which now twitched and writhed, when Jim said: "Now, boys, catch the cable hook to the boom and give the signal." The derrick swung up into the air. Jim and a Makon man seized the Indian, Iron Skull and another man the hombre. Both of them were alive but helpless.
The green of the ranches was encircled by a greasewood-covered plain that, toward the river, became rock covered and rough so that a wagon was out of the question and the sturdy pack horses themselves could move but slowly. Jim's first view of the Makon Canyon was of a black rift in a rough brown sea of sand, with a blue gray sky above.
It was the cry of the hunted and the hunter. It was the night cry of forests. It was war with naked hands, death under lonely skies. Jim called: "Some one is bound to get killed if you boys don't clear out. I'm not armed but a number of you are and the Indians are. If there are any of my Makon boys here, I want them to come over here and help me." "Coming, Boss!" called a voice.
And if you don't let the flume in this whole place'll wash out like flour. It'll take an hour to get them out." Jim's lips tightened. "You weren't up on the Makon, Fritz. My rule is, fight to save a life at any cost. Keep those fellows digging like the devil." He hurried back up onto the section, thence up to the flume edge. Then he gave an exclamation.
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