Bromley was on hand to meet his new chief when Ballard dropped from the step of the halted engine.  A few years older, and browned to a tender mahogany by the sun of the altitudes and the winds of the desert, he was still the Bromley of Ballard’s college memories:  compact, alert, boyishly smiling, neat, and well-groomed.  With Anglo-Saxon ancestry on both sides, the meeting could not be demonstrative.

“Same little old ‘Beau Bromley,’” was Ballard’s greeting to go with the hearty hand-grip; and Bromley’s reply was in keeping.  After which they climbed the slope to the mesa and the headquarters office in comradely silence, not because there was nothing to be said, but because the greater part of it would keep.

Having picked up the engine “special” with his field-glass as it came down the final zigzag in the descent from the pass, Bromley had supper waiting in the adobe-walled shack which served as the engineers’ quarters; and until the pipes were lighted after the meal there was little talk save of the golden past.  But when the camp cook had cleared the table, Ballard reluctantly closed the book of reminiscence and gave the business affair its due.

“How are you coming on with the work, Loudon?” he asked.  “Don’t need a chief, do you?”

“Don’t you believe it!” said the substitute, with such heartfelt emphasis that Ballard smiled.  “I’m telling you right now, Breckenridge, I never was so glad to shift a responsibility since I was born.  Another month of it alone would have turned me gray.”

“And yet, in my hearing, people are always saying that you are nothing less than a genius when it comes to handling workingmen.  Isn’t it so?”

“Oh, that part of it is all right.  It’s the hoodoo that is making an old man of me before my time.”

“The what?”

Bromley moved uneasily in his chair, and Ballard could have sworn that he gave a quick glance into the dark corners of the room before he said:  “I’m giving you the men’s name for it.  But with or without a name, it hangs over this job like the shadow of a devil-bat’s wings.  The men sit around and smoke and talk about it till bedtime, and the next day some fellow makes a bad hitch on a stone, or a team runs away, or a blast hangs fire in the quarry, and we have a dead man for supper.  Breckenridge, it is simply hell!”

Ballard shook his head incredulously.

“You’ve let a few ill-natured coincidences rattle you,” was his comment.  “What is it?  Or, rather, what is at the bottom of it?”

“I don’t know; nobody knows.  The ‘coincidences,’ as you call them, were here when I came; handed down from Braithwaite’s drowning, I suppose.  Then Sanderson got tangled up with Manuel’s woman ­as clear a case of superinduced insanity as ever existed ­and in less than two months he and Manuel jumped in with Winchesters, and poor Billy passed out.  That got on everybody’s nerves, of course; and then Macpherson came.  You know what he was ­a hard-headed, sarcastic old Scotchman, with the bitterest tongue that was ever hung in the middle and adjusted to wag both ways.  He tried ridicule; and when that didn’t stop the crazy happenings, he took to bullyragging.  The day the derrick fell on him he was swearing horribly at the hoister engineer; and he died with an oath in his mouth.”

The Kentuckian sat back in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head.

“Let me get one thing straight before you go on.  Mr. Pelham told me of a scrap between the company and an old fellow up here who claims everything in sight.  Has this emotional insanity you are talking about anything to do with the old cattle king’s objection to being syndicated out of existence?”

“No; only incidentally in Sanderson’s affair ­which, after all, was a purely personal quarrel between two men over a woman.  And I wouldn’t care to say that Manuel was wholly to blame in that.”

“Who is this Manuel?” queried Ballard.

“Oh, I thought you knew.  He is the colonel’s manager and ranch foreman.  He is a Mexican and an all-round scoundrel, with one lonesome good quality ­absolute and unimpeachable loyalty to his master.  The colonel turns the entire business of the cattle raising and selling over to him; doesn’t go near the ranch once a month himself.”

“‘The colonel,’” repeated Ballard.  “You call him ‘the colonel,’ and Mr. Pelham calls him the ‘King of Arcadia.’  I assume that he has a name, like other men?”

“Sure!” said Bromley.  “Hadn’t you heard it?  It’s Craigmiles.”

“What!” exclaimed Ballard, holding the match with which he was about to relight his pipe until the flame crept up and scorched his fingers.

“That’s it ­Craigmiles; Colonel Adam Craigmiles ­the King of Arcadia.  Didn’t Mr. Pelham tell you ­”

“Hold on a minute,” Ballard cut in; and he got out of his chair to pace back and forth on his side of the table while he was gathering up the pieces scattered broadcast by this explosive petard of a name.

At first he saw only the clearing up of the little mysteries shrouding Miss Elsa’s suddenly changed plans for the summer; how they were instantly resolved into the commonplace and the obvious.  She had merely decided to come home and play hostess to her father’s guests.  And since she knew about the war for the possession of Arcadia, and would quite naturally be sorry to have her friend pitted against her father, it seemed unnecessary to look further for the origin of Lassley’s curiously worded telegram.  “Lassley’s,” Ballard called it; but if Lassley had signed it, it was fairly certain now that Miss Craigmiles had dictated it.

Ballard thought her use of the fatalities as an argument in the warning message was a purely feminine touch.  None the less he held her as far above the influences of the superstitions as he held himself, and it was a deeper and more reflective second thought that turned a fresh leaf in the book of mysteries.

Was it possible that the three violent deaths were not mere coincidences, after all?  And, admitting design, could it be remotely conceivable that Adam Craigmiles’s daughter was implicated, even to the guiltless degree of suspecting it?  Ballard stopped short in his pacing sentry beat and began to investigate, not without certain misgivings.

“Loudon, what manner of man is this Colonel Craigmiles?”

Bromley’s reply was characteristic.  “The finest ever ­type of the American country gentleman; suave, courteous, a little inclined to be grandiloquent; does the paternal with you till you catch yourself on the edge of saying ‘sir’ to him; and has the biggest, deepest, sweetest voice that ever drawled the Southern ‘r.’”

“Humph!  That isn’t exactly the portrait of a fire-eater.”

“Don’t you make any mistake.  I’ve described the man you’ll meet socially.  On the other side, he’s a fighter from away back; the kind of man who makes no account of the odds against him, and who doesn’t know when he is licked.  He has told us openly and repeatedly that he will do us up if we swamp his house and mine; that he will make it pinch us for the entire value of our investment in the dam.  I believe he’ll do it, too; but President Pelham won’t back down an inch.  So there you are ­irresistible moving body; immovable fixed body:  the collision imminent; and we poor devils in between.”

Ballard drew back his chair and sat down again.  “You are miles beyond my depth now,” he asserted.  “I had less than an hour with Mr. Pelham in Denver, and what he didn’t tell me would make a good-sized library.  Begin at the front, and let me have the story of this feud between the company and Colonel Craigmiles.”

Again Bromley said:  “I supposed, of course, that you knew all about it” ­after which he supplied the missing details.

“It was Braithwaite who was primarily to blame.  When the company’s plans were made public, the colonel did not oppose them, though he knew that the irrigation scheme spelled death to the cattle industry.  The fight began when Braithwaite located the dam here at Elbow Canyon in the foothill hogback.  There is a better site farther down the river; a second depression where an earthwork dike might have taken the place of all this costly rockwork.”

“I saw it as we came up this evening.”

“Yes.  Well, the colonel argued for the lower site; offered to donate three or four homesteads in it which he had taken up through his employees; offered further to take stock in the company; but Braithwaite was pig-headed about it.  He had been a Government man, and was a crank on permanent structures and things monumental; wherefore he was determined on building masonry.  He ignored the colonel, reported on the present site, and the work was begun.”

“Go on,” said Ballard.

“Naturally, the colonel took this as a flat declaration of war.  He has a magnificent country house in the upper valley, which must have cost him, at this distance from a base of supplies, a round half-million or more.  When we fill our reservoir, this house will stand on an island of less than a half-dozen acres in extent, with its orchards, lawns, and ornamental grounds all under water.  Which the same is tough.”

Ballard was Elsa Craigmiles’s lover, and he agreed in a single forcible expletive.  Bromley acquiesced in the expletive, and went on.

“The colonel refused to sell his country-house holding, as a matter of course; and the company decided to take chances on the suit for damages which will naturally follow the flooding of the property.  Meanwhile, Braithwaite had organised his camp, and the foundations were going in.  A month or so later, he and the colonel had a personal collision, and, although Craigmiles was old enough to be his father, Braithwaite struck him.  There was blood on the moon, right there and then, as you’d imagine.  The colonel was unarmed, and he went home to get a gun.  Braithwaite, who was always a cold-blooded brute, got out his fishing-tackle and sauntered off down the river to catch a mess of trout.  He never came back alive.”

“Good heavens!  But the colonel couldn’t have had any hand in Braithwaite’s drowning!” Ballard burst out, thinking altogether of Colonel Craigmiles’s daughter.

“Oh, no.  At the time of the accident, the colonel was back here at the camp, looking high and low for Braithwaite with fire in his eye.  They say he went crazy mad with disappointment when he found that the river had robbed him of his right to kill the man who had struck him.”

Ballard was silent for a time.  Then he said:  “You spoke of a mine that would also be flooded by our reservoir.  What about that?”

“That came in after Braithwaite’s death and Sanderson’s appointment as chief engineer.  When Braithwaite made his location here, there was an old prospect tunnel in the hill across the canyon.  It was boarded up and apparently abandoned, and no one seemed to know who owned it.  Later on it transpired that the colonel was the owner, and that the mining claim, which was properly patented and secured, actually covers the ground upon which our dam stands.  While Sanderson was busy brewing trouble for himself with Manuel, the colonel put three Mexicans at work in the tunnel; and they have been digging away there ever since.”

“Gold?” asked Ballard.

Bromley laughed quietly.

“Maybe you can find out ­nobody else has been able to.  But it isn’t gold; it must be something infinitely more valuable.  The tunnel is fortified like a fortress, and one or another of the Mexicans is on guard day and night.  The mouth of the tunnel is lower than the proposed level of the dam, and the colonel threatens all kinds of things, telling us frankly that it will break the Arcadia Company financially when we flood that mine.  I have heard him tell Mr. Pelham to his face that the water should never flow over any dam the company might build here; that he would stick at nothing to defend his property.  Mr. Pelham says all this is only bluff; that the mine is worthless.  But the fact remains that the colonel is immensely rich ­and is apparently growing richer.”

“Has nobody ever seen the inside of this Golconda of a mine?” queried Ballard.

“Nobody from our side of the fence.  As I’ve said, it is guarded like the sultan’s seraglio; and the Mexicans might as well be deaf and dumb for all you can get out of them.  Macpherson, who was loyal to the company, first, last, and all the time, had an assay made from some of the stuff spilled out on the dump; but there was nothing doing, so far as the best analytical chemist in Denver could find out.”

For the first time since the strenuous day of plan-changing in Boston, Ballard was almost sorry he had given up the Cuban undertaking.

“It’s a beautiful tangle!” he snapped, thinking, one would say, of the breach that must be opened between the company’s chief engineer and the daughter of the militant old cattle king.  Then he changed the subject abruptly.

“What do you know about the colonel’s house-hold, Loudon?”

“All there is to know, I guess.  He lives in state in his big country mansion that looks like a World’s Fair Forest Products Exhibit on the outside, and is fitted and furnished regardless of expense in its interiors.  He is a widower with one daughter ­who comes and goes as she pleases ­and a sister-in-law who is the dearest, finest piece of fragile old china you ever read about.”

“You’ve been in the country house, then?”

“Oh, yes.  The colonel hasn’t made it a personal fight on the working force since Braithwaite’s time.”

“Perhaps you have met Miss ­er ­the daughter who comes and goes?”

“Sure I have!  If you’ll promise not to discipline me for hobnobbing with the enemy, I’ll confess that I’ve even played duets with her.  She discovered my weakness for music when she was home last summer.”

“Do you happen to know where she is now?”

“On her way to Europe, I believe.  At least, that is what Miss Cauffrey ­she’s the fragile-china aunt ­was telling me.”

“I think not,” said Ballard, after a pause.  “I think she changed her mind and decided to spend the summer at home.  When we stopped at Ackerman’s to take water this evening, I saw three loaded buckboards driving in this direction.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” asserted Bromley.  “The old colonel has a house-party every little while.  He’s no anchorite, if he does live in the desert.”

Ballard was musing again.  “Adam Craigmiles,” he said, thoughtfully.  “I wonder what there is in that name to set some sort of bee buzzing in my head.  If I believed in transmigration, I should say that I had known that name, and known it well, in some other existence.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Bromley.  “It’s not such an unusual name.”

“No; if it were, I might trace it.  How long did you say the colonel had lived in Arcadia?”

“I didn’t say.  But it must be something over twenty years.  Miss Elsa was born here.”

“And the family is Southern ­from what section?”

“I don’t know that ­Virginia, perhaps, measuring by the colonel’s accent, pride, hot-headedness, and reckless hospitality.”

The clue, if any there were, appeared to be lost; and again Ballard smoked on in silence.  When the pipe burned out he refilled it, and at the match-striking instant a sing-song cry of “Fire in the rock!” floated down from the hill crags above the adobe, and the jar of a near-by explosion shook the air and rattled the windows.

“What was that?” he queried.

“It’s our quarry gang getting out stone,” was Bromley’s reply.  “We were running short of headers for the tie courses, and I put on a night-shift.”

“Whereabouts is your quarry?”

“Just around the shoulder of the hill, and a hundred feet, or such a matter, above us.  It is far enough to be out of range.”

A second explosion punctuated the explanation.  Then there was a third and still heavier shock, a rattling of pebbles on the sheet-iron roof of the adobe, and a scant half-second later a fragment of stone the size of a man’s head crashed through roof and ceiling and made kindling-wood of the light pine table at which the two men were sitting.  Ballard sprang to his feet, and said something under his breath; but Bromley sat still, with a faint yellow tint discolouring the sunburn on his face.

“Which brings us back to our starting-point ­the hoodoo,” he said quietly.  “To-morrow morning, when you go around the hill and see where that stone came from, you’ll say that it was a sheer impossibility.  Yet the impossible thing has happened.  It is reaching for you now, Breckenridge; and a foot or two farther that way would have ­” He stopped, swallowed hard, and rose unsteadily.  “For God’s sake, old man, throw up this cursed job and get out of here, while you can do it alive!”

“Not much!” said the new chief contemptuously.  And then he asked which of the two bunks in the adjoining sleeping-room was his.