The Donovan Chance by Francis Lynde

"Oh, gee! " said Dickie Maxwell, plaintively, sitting on the edge of his tent bunk and tugging at a water-stiffened lace-boot to get it on, "only a few more days of the bully old railroad fight and then we'll be back again in civilization, wondering if we really lived this big, free life here in the mountains for three solid months, or only dreamed it."

Larry Donovan, struggling into his working corduroys, was staring out through the open tent flap at a scene which was so soon to be a thing of the past for Dick and himself.

For background there were the high, forested steeps of the Eastern Timanyonis; in the middle distance the brawling Tourmaline, at this point in its course little more than a noisy creek, split the wide valley in halves. Between their sleeping-tent and the river, and farther down the slope were the shacks and tents of a railroad construction camp, with great piles of cross-ties and rails strung beside a newly laid track. And across the river ran the line of another railroad, over which busy material trains were shifting and pushing forward to the front.

"I've been thinking about the wind-up, too," Larry said soberly. "It's been a great summer for me, and I owe it to you, Dick. If you hadn't persuaded your father to let me come along――――"

"Owe nothing! " scoffed Dick; "cut it out, old scout――cut it all out. I wouldn't have been one, two, three on this ‘cubbing' job if you hadn't been along. Besides, you've paid your way; you've been batting a fine, large average in this game with the O. C., Larry Donovan, and you know it――you, with your ‘I was just thinking'."

"The race game, yes; it's about over now," Larry put in thoughtfully. "Only three miles to go to reach the gold camp, and we're neck and neck with 'em on the final lap. But we're going to beat 'em. They've got that big rock-cutting to finish two miles this side of Ophir; and our grade's just about ready for the steel."

"Wait a minute: don't you be too sure! " Dick warned. "There's one more hurdle for us to jump――up yonder at the mouth of Blind Mule Gulch."

"That mining claim, you mean?"

Dick nodded.

"Yep. I heard Mr. Ackerman and Jones talking about it last night. It seems that those two men who were here yesterday own a placer claim right where we've got to cross. By mining law every placer claim has its right to drainage――unobstructed drainage――to the nearest watercourse; that's the Tourmaline, in this case. These men say that we can't put our railroad across their drainage gulch."

"Shucks! " said Larry; "a railroad trestle won't interfere with the drainage!"

"Of course it won't. But that doesn't make any difference; these men say it will, and they've gone into court about it; sued for an injunction, or something, to stop us."

Larry looked up suddenly.

"Dick, do you know I don't believe there's any real placer claim there? You remember, when we were up here clearing the timber from our right-of-way three weeks ago after the crossing fight, there wasn't a sign of anything doing in that gulch. I believe it's another O. C. trick to delay us. If they could tie us up for just one single day, they'd stand a chance of beating us yet."

"That is exactly what Mr. Ackerman said," Dick threw in. "But we can't prove that there isn't any gold in that dry creek bed. Anybody can take up a mining claim anywhere in these mountains and go to work on it. The chief told Jones that our lawyers had looked it up, and there really is a claim on record, filed in the names of these two men, Shaw and Bolton. Of course we wouldn't hurt anything running our track across it, just as you say. We're planning to bridge it from bank to bank with a trestle, and the timbers are already cut and fitted and on the ground. Besides, Mr. Ackerman says we've offered to pay them any reasonable damages. But they won't even talk about it."

"Well, what are we going to do? " Larry asked.

"From what was talked last night I sort of suspect we'll go right on building our railroad――and fight it out in the courts afterward. Our right-of-way was surveyed across that gulch mouth years ago, and if it comes down to the straight right and wrong of it, those miners are the real trespassers."

Larry glanced at his wrist watch. It was eight o'clock; a tardy hour for them to be turning out. But they had been up late the night before, helping to hurry material to the front, and the chief had given orders to let them sleep.

"We'd better be getting breakfast and showing up on the job," he said; and together they sought the mess tent.

Over the breakfast of bacon and fried potatoes the talk swung back to the rapidly nearing end of their summer outing.