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“How? Useful the way the good Senator Bulfert was useful to my father?” he challenged.
“One of them might have the influence to help you regain title to that land your father thinks is so important.” She knew he was still sensitive about that, and she used it to win her argument. Tara saw the indecision warring in his expression and let her own soften. “Look, Ty,” she began, again in a reasoning tone. “I can’t rope cows or brand calves. I can’t do bookwork. So let me help in the way that I can. I know a lot of important people. Please, when the Stevens party comes, spend more time with them.”
“You can be as beguiling as a witch,” he muttered.
“A beautiful one, I hope.” She laughed softly and linked her arms around his neck. He was drawn down by the shiny invitation of her lips.
The rumbling roar of the huge, diesel-powered earth mover vibrated through the air as it peeled away the grass and soil to expose the seam of coal. Elsewhere, power shovels were scooping up chunks of coal, broken up earlier by explosions of dynamite charges, and loading them into large coal trucks for transport to preparation plants. The ebb and flow of men and machines was as constant as the deafening noise.
The land had the gouged and desolated look of a battlefield. The plant life that still survived at the edges of the pits was coated with layers of dust.
As Dyson and Stricklin emerged from the temporary offices on site, there was a slowdown of activity. The line of empty coal trucks returning for new loads growled to a stop.
Dyson turned to the mine director, Art Grinnell. “What’s the problem?”
His glance flickered briefly at Dyson, a frown gathering. “I don’t know,” he murmured, but his tone lacked something. “I’ll see.” He excused himself and went to check out the cause of the backup. “Hey, Rhodes!” he called to the man in coveralls walking back from the line of trucks.
As Dyson watched the two men conferring, he said to his partner, “Let’s see what it is.” Something didn’t smell right to him. When a man had made a living relying on his instinct as much as he had, he didn’t ignore a funny odor when he caught the scent of one. They crossed the stretch of hard-baked ground to where the two men were talking. “What is it?”
“Just a mechanical problem with one of the trucks, Mr. Dyson.” Grinnell assured him it was nothing he needed to be troubled about, but he didn’t meet his eyes when he said it, sliding a short glance to the driver named Rhodes instead.
“As I recall”—Stricklin spoke up—“there’s been a rash of mechanical breakdowns of late. That’s why the productivity was down this month, you said.” The tacked-on phrase was faintly accusing.
There was a smile in Dyson’s eyes when he glanced at his partner. It was always reassuring when Stricklin reached the same conclusion through reasoning that Dyson had come to through instinct. Both suspected something in this situation, but each came at it from a different angle. That was what made them such a potent combination.
“That’s true. There have been,” Grinnell admitted, and Dyson sensed the man’s reluctance to discuss the subject.
“What seems to be the problem with the stalled truck up ahead?” Stricklin put the question to the driver.
There was a moment when the driver, Rhodes, looked to his boss for directions; then he pressed his lips tightly together. “The oil line’s been cut.”
“Cut?” A sudden frown crossed Stricklin’s usually expressionless face. “How can you be sure?”
“I’m not for certain—not until the mechanic gets a look at it. But it’s for sure the oil line’s broken, and if it’s like all the others, it’s been cut.”
“You’re saying it was deliberately cut?” Dyson wanted the implication verified.
“Yeah, and if the guy doing it hasn’t got time to cut the oil line, he dumps sugar in the gas tank.” Frustration and anger vibrated in his half-muttered answer. The driver glanced again at Grinnell, aware that he’d spoken out of turn but also determined to get this out in the open.
“That’s all, Rhodes,” the manager dismissed him. “Go see what you can do about getting that truck towed to the garage.” He watched the driver walk away, then hesitantly swung his attention back to the owners of the company.
“How long has this sabotage been going on?” Stricklin demanded.
“A little over a month.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I’ve already doubled the security at night.”
“Then triple it,” Dyson ordered.
“Do you have any idea who’s doing it or why?” It was Stricklin, who rarely took part in cross-examinations of reports, that was doing most of the questioning.
“I have a pretty good idea who I think is behind it and why,” Grinnell responded grimly. “It’s obvious he wants to slow us down and create as many problems and delays for us as he can. When a machine breaks down, it’s not only costly to repair, but it also means time lost. He probably figures if the mine gets too costly to operate, we’ll shut it down. And he probably figures if he can’t stop us one way, he’ll do it another.”
“Who exactly do you believe is behind it?” Stricklin removed his glasses and began cleaning them with a handkerchief from his pocket.
There was a pregnant silence as Grinnell looked uneasily at Dyson, then shifted his weight to another foot. “No disrespect to your daughter, Mr. Dyson, butt.. it has to be Calder.” And he quickly rushed to defend his reasoning before either man could comment on his conclusion. “He’s been giving you grief ever since he learned about your coal operation here. Some of the other ranchers in the area have supported him, but none have come down as hard as he has. He’s tried every legal means he could. And from what I’ve heard from the locals around here, the Calders aren’t above making their own laws and carrying out their own kind of vigilante action.”
“Impossible!” was Dyson’s reaction. “There is no way Chase Calder could have engineered this sabotage from his hospital bed.” Stricklin replaced his glasses, pushing them onto his nose. “Besides, I’ve seen him and talked to others who’ve been around him. There’s no fight left in him. And as for my son-in-law, he has never been as stridently opposed to this as his father, and he wouldn’t stoop to this kind of tactic.”
“Maybe you’re right,” Grinnell conceded, but he wasn’t convinced. “It’s for sure you know your son-in-law better than I do. Except I remember seeing him get into a fight once at Sally’s Place in town. He went after one of our guys with a broken beer bottle, which tells me he’ll fight dirty if he has to.”
