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The Young Engineers in Arizona, a novel by H. Irving Hancock |
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Chapter 10. Harry Fights For Command |
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_ CHAPTER X. HARRY FIGHTS FOR COMMAND "Come back, Mr. Reade!" implored Foreman Payson. For Tom, who had made two casts with the lariat and failed, was knee-deep in shifting sand himself. "Keep cool!" the young chief engineer called over his shoulder. "I'll be back--both of us in a minute or two." The hapless laborer was now engulfed to his neck in the quicksand. "Save me! In Heaven's name get me out of this!" begged the poor fellow, frenzied by dread of his seemingly sure fate. "I'm doing the best I can, friend!" Tom called, as he made a fresh cast. This time the noose of the raw-hide lariat dropped over the laborer's head. "Fight your hands free, man!" Tom called encouragingly. "Fight your hands and chest free, so that you can slip the noose down under your armpits. Keep cool and work fast, and we'll have you out. Don't let yourself get excited." In the meantime Tom was wholly unaware that the engulfing quicksand was reaching up gradually toward his hips. Foreman Payson had ceased to try to attract Tom's attention. Whatever was to be done to save the chief engineer must be done swiftly. There was not another lariat, or any kind of rope at hand. Behind was a cloud of alkali dust. Harry Hazelton was riding as fast as he could urge a spirited horse. In another moment Hazelton had reined up at the edge of the group, dismounting and tossing the reins to one of the workmen. "My man, you get on that horse and fly for a rope!" ordered Harry. This last Hazelton shot back over his shoulder, for he was pushing his way through the rapidly forming crowd to Payson's side. Another foreman had just come up. "Mr. Bell," shouted Harry, "drive the men back who are not needed. We don't want to put a lot of weight on the soil here and cause a further cave-in." By this time Harry was at the edge of the platform. In a twinkling he was out on the sand. Grip! Mr. Payson had a strong hold on the collar of the assistant engineer. "Let go of me!" commanded Harry. "You can't go out there, Mr. Hazelton. No more lives are to be wasted." "Let go of me, I tell you!" "No, sir!" insisted Foreman Payson firmly. "Let go of me, or I'll fight you!" "You'll have to fight, then," retorted Payson doggedly, maintaining his grip on the lad's coat collar. "Comeback here!" Aided by another man, the foreman dragged Hazelton back to the platform. "Payson, I'll discharge you, if you interfere with me!" stormed Hazelton. "Don't be a fool, sir. You can't help Mr. Reade. Be cool, sir. Keep your head and direct us like a man of sense." "Be a man of sense, and see my chum going under the sands of the Man-killer?" flared Hazelton. He made a bound, doubling his fists threateningly. Then three or four men, at a sign from Payson, seized the young assistant engineer and threw him to the ground. "Tom," called Harry, "order these fools to let me go." Reade, however, who had just pulled in all the slack of the rawhide lariat, and had made it fast about his own left arm, seemed wholly unaware of his own great peril. Tom Reade was now submerged to his waistline in the engulfing sand. Unless rescued within five minutes the young chief engineer was plainly doomed to be swallowed up in the treacherous sands of the Man-killer. Only a few seconds below the shifting level of the sand would be enough to smother the life out of him. Scores of strong men, powerless to help, watched hopelessly within a few yards of the two whose lives were being slowly but surely snuffed out. The laborer, whose carelessness or ignorance had caused all the trouble, was now in the sand up to his mouth. The agonized watchers could see him gradually sinking further. "Keep up your nerve, friend!" called Tom, in cool encouragement. "We'll soon have you out of that." Gripping the lariat with both bands, Tom gave a strong, sudden wrench and succeeded in drawing the imperiled man out of the sand a few inches. Then the poor fellow began to settle again moaning piteously as he saw a hideous death staring him in the face. Tom Reade's own face was deathly white from a realization of the other's peril. Of his own danger the young chief engineer had not once stopped to think. Harry Hazelton was again on his feet. That much Foreman Payson had permitted, but strong-armed laborers stood on either side of the boy, and their detaining grips were on his arm. Out yonder the doomed man saw the engulfing sand creeping up on a level with his eyes. He tried to scream, but the sand shifted into his mouth. In pitiable terror the poor fellow closed his mouth in order to delay death for another moment. Even to call for help would now be swiftly fatal! Behind came the thunder of hoofs. "Ropes!" shouted the horseman on Harry's mount. He rode past the groups of men, close to the platform. Then, leaping from the saddle, the rider tossed a small bundle of ropes at Harry's feet. All were ropes and lines--not a raw-hide among them. "There he goes! He's gone!" roared a score of frantic voices, as the engulfed laborer sank out of sight in the sand. Harry Hazelton feverishly uncoiled one of the ropes, gathering a few folds in his right hand. "Catch, Tom!" Harry shouted, making a cast. The line swirled through the air, then settled on the sands. "O-o-o-oh!" groaned Hazelton, for the rope had fallen four feet to one side of Reade, and the latter, hemmed in as he was, could not reach it. "Take your time and make a sure throw, Harry!" Tom called cheerily. Again Hazelton made a throw--and failed. "Let me, have that! My head's cooler," called Foreman Payson. He made two quick, steady throws, but each shot wide of the mark. "Let me have that!" screamed Harry, snatching the line away. "There are lines enough. Two men might be making throws," spoke a quiet voice behind them. Payson nodded, and bent over for another line. All trace of the doomed laborer had now disappeared. As for Tom, the sand was reaching up under his arm-pits. The young chief engineer had had the presence of mind to keep his arms free, but soon they too must be swallowed up. "Good throw--whoever sent it!" cheered Tom Reade, as a final cast--Harry's--sent a line within six inches of his face. Tom could not see those back at the platform, for his back was turned to the eastward, and he could no longer swing his body about. "Get it under your arms-quick, Tom, or you're done for, too!" screamed Harry. "Keep cool, old chap!" came back the unconcerned answer. "It isn't half bad out here. The sand feels really cool about one's body." "This is no time for nonsense!" ordered Hazelton hoarsely. "Have you the line fast?" "Yes!" nodded Reade. "Haul away! Careful, but strong and steady!" Under Foreman Payson's direction a score of men seized the other end of the line and then began to haul. Harry danced up and down in a frenzy. "Tom, you idiot," he gasped. "You haven't made the line fast about yourself." "Not yet," came the cheery answer. "That wouldn't be fair play. Haul away on our friend out yonder." Tom Reade had knotted the line fast to his end of the rawhide lariat that was tied under the shoulders of the engulfed laborer. It was magnificent, though seemingly a useless sacrifice of his own life for one who must already be dead. From some of the workmen a faint cheer went up as the slowly incoming line hauled the head of the unconscious laborer above the sand. A foot at a time the body came toward them over the sand. Harry, however, scarcely noted the rescue. He was frantically working with another line, knotting it in a sort of harness under his own shoulders. "Come here, some of you men!" he called. "Bear a hand here! Lively!" Foreman Payson was instantly at the side of the young assistant engineer. "What are you trying to do, Mr. Hazelton?" he demanded. "I'm going out on the sands," retorted Harry. "I'm going to reach Tom Reade. If I go under the men can aid me." "But that isn't a rawhide line; it's hemp," objected Foreman Payson. "It's strong enough," retorted Hazelton impatiently. "I don't know about that." "It will have to do," insisted Hazelton. "You men get a good hold. Also, one of you play out this other line that I'm taking with me for Tom Reade." "Don't risk anything foolish, Harry!" called the voice of Tom Reade, who now felt the sand under his chin. "I'm coming to you," Tom, shouted Harry. "It's too dangerous. Don't!" "I've got to come to you!" "I tell you don't! Maybe I can get myself out." "Yes, you can," jeered Hazelton. "Tom, if you went under, do you think I could ever go back to our native town?" "Payson!" shouted Tom. "Yes, sir!" "Don't let Mr. Hazelton come--yet. Seize him!" "I've got him, sir!" Harry felt himself seized by the strong arms of the foreman. "You don't go, sir," Payson insisted. "It's a criminal waste of life." "Man, unhand me. Let me go, I tell you." "I won't, sir. I've Mr. Reade's orders." "He's helpless and no longer in command," Harry retorted. "He's in command enough for me, sir." "Payson!" Harry Hazelton's fierce gaze burned into the eyes of the foreman. "If Tom Reade dies out yonder, and you've hindered me from saving him--I'll have your life for forfeit!" Before that burning look even Payson shrank back. Harry Hazelton, ordinarily the best natured of boys, was now in terrible earnest. "That's right," muttered Hazelton. "Men, I take command here. You needn't heed any words from Reade. Now, you men on the lines watch close and listen keenly for my orders." With that Hazelton darted out on the deadly, treacherous sands! _ |
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