"Well?" he demanded tersely.
"Nothing," Casey replied. "They stand their hand."
"I was afraid of it," said McCrae. "And they outhold us, Casey."
"Yes. Too much money."
"Will they buy us?"
"No. York offered to buy me. I was to be a decoy for the rest, I think. I refused. Now he will freeze us out."
"Will he?" said McCrae heavily. "Will he? Maybe so. And maybe——" He did not complete the sentence, but stood at the door, scowling at the fair fields. "Twenty years back, Casey—yes, ten, even—if a man jumped my staking I'd have known what to do. We own this water. What's the difference? Can't the law help us? Do we have to help ourselves?"
"It may come to that," Casey replied. "Yes, it's pretty nearly come to that, McCrae. I saw a lawyer—one of the best in the business. He says the odds are against us. They will appeal and appeal—carry it up to the highest court. Meanwhile our land will be dry likely. We're out on a limb. If we hang on they shoot, and if we drop off they skin us."
"I guess that's so," said McCrae. "It's a bad fix any way you look at it. There's the ranch. That ain't so much, far's I'm concerned. I've been broke before, and I can rustle for myself for years yet. But there's my wife and Sheila and Alec. It's theirs. I worked for them. It's all I've got to leave them. You see, Casey, I can't stand to lose it."
"I know," said Casey sympathetically. "It's a hard position. Look here, Donald, if you wish it I'll vote for breaking our pool, and each man doing the best he can for himself."
"No, I didn't mean that," said McCrae. "The railway wouldn't give us a fair price, and nobody else would buy with this hanging over. I'll stick. But you, now, it's some different with you. You're young, you ain't married. It's your stake, of course, but then you've got time left you to get another. They offered to buy you out. I don't know but you'd best take their offer. That'll give you something to start on. None of us will think the less of you for it."
"The agreement was that we were to fight this to a finish. If we sold out the railway was to buy all or none. If you can stay with that I can."
"But then, you see, Casey——"
"I see, Donald. You know me better than that."
McCrae slapped him on the shoulder with a huge hand, and his voice took on the Gaelic accent of his childhood learned from his father, that McCrae who had in his time ruled a thousand miles of wilderness for the great fur company.
"I do know ye, boy, and it is proud I will be of it. There's Sheila at the door, callin' us. A toss of liquor and a bite—it will put the heart in us again. We must cheer up for the women, lad."
But in spite of this resolution supper was not a merry meal. Talk was spasmodic, interrupted by long silences. Mrs. McCrae—slight, gentle, motherly, with wavy silver hair—was plainly worried. Her husband brooded unconsciously over his plate. Sheila and Casey, conversing on topics which neither was thinking about, blundered ridiculously. And the son of the house, Alec McCrae, a wiry, hawk-faced young man of twenty-two, strongly resembling his sister, was almost silent.
Soon after supper the ranchers who had banded together for mutual protection began to arrive by saddle and buckboard. Men of all ages, they comprised a dozen descents and nationalities, the Celtic and Anglo-Saxon strains predominating.
There was Oscar Swanson, heavy, slow-moving, blond as Harold Haarfagar, a veritable Scandinavian colossus; Wyndham, clean-bred, clean-built, an English gentleman to his fingers' tips; old Ike James, whose tongue carried the idiom and soft-slurring drawl of his native South; Eugéne Brulé, three parts Quebec French and one part Cree; Carter, O'Gara, Bullen, Westwick, and half a dozen others.
One and all they were wind-and-sun tanned, steady of eye, mostly quiet and brief of speech. Life was a serious business with them just then. Their ranches were their all. They had given hostages to competence. Up to a year ago they had believed themselves lucky, independent, on the way to modest fortune. Then came alarming rumours; next, construction of works confirming the rumours. Now they were come to hear the worst or best from the lips of their envoy, Casey Dunne.
They listened as he gave details of his interviews with York and Wade, lips grimly wrapped around cigars and pipe stems, troubled eyes straining through the blue smoke at the speaker.
"And you couldn't get an injunction?" said Wyndham.
"No. The judge said that the mere fact of building a dam did not show an intention to interfere with anybody's rights."
"Didn't—eh?" snapped Carter, at high tension. "Then I'd like to know what would show it!"
"So would I," said Dunne. "Anyway, what the judge said went. The long and short of it is that we can't go to law till they actually take our water. Wade advises us to sell out if we can get a fair price. And that's all I have to report, gentlemen."
"A fair price!" exclaimed Carter. "That's all right to talk about—but who'll give us one? The railway won't buy—it's cheaper to freeze us out. Nobody else will. And, if it comes to that, what is a fair price? Land is boosting everywhere. If we sold now we'd just be robbing ourselves."
"S'pose they starts to rustle our water and we go to law," said old James, "does this here lawsuit tangle up things so's't we get plenty of water till the case is tried?"
"I'm afraid not," Casey replied. "That's the worst of it. Wade seemed to think that once they got the water they could keep it until the case was settled by the last court of appeal. And that would put us out of business."
"It's sure a mean jack pot," said James. "It looks like they have it on us every way. The prospects for our emergin' winners ain't cheerin' none, but, gents, speakin' for myself alone, I wouldn't sell at no price. I'm aimin' to live where I be till you-alls beds me down for keeps. I reckon I'll stay with the game while I got a chaw and a ca'tridge left. I may be froze out, but dog-gone my ol' hide if I'll be bluffed out. This here ain't none different from claim jumpin'. I own my water, and I'm goin' to keep on havin' it. And the man that shets it off will be mighty apt to see how they irrigate them green fields 'way over yander 'cross the River Jordan."
His words were like fire in dry straw.
"That's right, Uncle Ike!" cried Carter.
"By George I'm with you myself!" cried Wyndham.
"Moi aussi!" exclaimed Brulé. "By damn, yes!"
"Yes, let 'em try it!" cried young Alec McCrae, his eyes gleaming like those of a fierce young hawk that sights its first quarry. "Let 'em try it!" he repeated ominously, nodding to himself.
But on the excitement of the others Donald McCrae's words fell like an icy douche: "Men, this is plain foolishness. Alec, let me hear no more of it from you. James, you should know better. We can't enforce claim law here. The old days are gone."
"I ain't gone yet, nor you ain't," old James replied, his eyes gleaming balefully through slitted lids. "I give it out now that I don't set quiet and see my ditches go dry. Long's the law won't help us—and the law never gave no action in the West nohow—I'm goin' to help myself. I ain't raisin' the long yell for partners, neither!"
"You can't bring back the old days," McCrae repeated. "I stand to lose as much as any man here, but shooting one or two men who are doing what they are paid to do won't help us. You all know that."
"That's so," Casey admitted. "That's the last thing we can afford to do."
"Well, maybe you boys are right," said the old man reluctantly. "Maybe I ain't up to date. But what you goin' to do? You got to do somethin'."
"Yes," said Wyndham. "They are getting ahead with their work. It won't be long till that dam is finished. Then they'll take the water from us, that's certain."
But here Big Oscar received an inspiration. He had been listening carefully, casting mildly inquiring blue eyes on the speakers. He was a good listener, was Oscar, and he seldom spoke. His mental engine, so far as could be judged by its verbal expression, turned over stiffly. Apparently it had never been run enough to be smoothed down—at least in English. But his contribution to the debate at this juncture was noteworthy. Said he:
"Say, Ay tenk Ay blow dat dam, easy!"
They stared at him for a moment, while the suggestion took root. It was obvious that if the dam were destroyed the water would remain theirs until it was rebuilt. True, its destruction would be a lawless act, amounting to a declaration of war; but war on them had already been declared. They would be merely striking the first blow, and here was the logical spot to strike.
"Good boy, Oscar," said Carter. "I believe that's the answer."
"What do you think, McCrae?" asked Wyndham.
"I'm against violence in any form," said McCrae slowly. "But they are forcing it on us. They want to steal our ranches. It amounts to that. This is the only thing we can do, and when we do it we'll do it right."
A round of applause greeted his concluding words. Old Ike James whispered to his neighbour:
"This here Highland Scotch stock is sure a funny proposition. What they start with a pra'ar they're mighty apt to end with a gun. Ol' Donald's a sure-'nough wolf when he gets goin'."
"And you, Dunne?" asked Wyndham.
"I'm in. I guess it's a case. Oscar, you have a great head. When shall we start the fireworks, and who's to start 'em?"
Oscar, flattered by the compliment and the unusual attention, picked up his hat. "Ay ban good powder man. Ay tenk Ay start him now when Ay gat some powder," said he. He smiled at them serenely. "Mebbe if t'ree, four you faller come by me you svear Ay ban home all night?" he suggested ingenuously.
But there was an objection to the immediate execution of the plan. They were just then getting all the water they needed. The farther ahead they could set the date of the destruction of the dam while retaining the water, the farther off would be the date when it could be rebuilt, as they had no doubt it would be. Thus they might tide through the hot, dry summer. Whereas, if it were blown up now it might be repaired and their water taken when they needed it most.
Just then it seemed wise to pursue a policy of masterly inactivity. But the mere fact of having settled on a course of action cleared the air, cheered them. In place of a despondent lethargy there was a nervous tension, as before a battle. They laughed and joked amid the bobbing stable lanterns as they harnessed and saddled; and they rode away from Talapus Ranch one and all in better spirits than they had come.
CHAPTER V
No one has ever satisfactorily explained the rapidity with which news travels in sparsely settled communities. But the fact remains undisputed. Also the further fact that its accuracy is in inverse ratio to its rapidity, which does not need so much explanation. The men who had been at Talapus said nothing of the meeting, nothing of the purpose of it. And yet the gathering was speedily known from one end of the country to the other in conjunction with startling rumours, none of them authentic or traceable, but all disquieting. The report gained currency that the ranchers contemplated nothing less than an armed attack on the ditch and dam construction camps, for the purpose of running the workmen out of the country.
This came to the ears of Sleeman, who was the local sales agent of the railway's land department; and Sleeman passed it on to his chief, who thought it of sufficient importance to put up to York, seeing that that gentleman was responsible for the conception of the department's policy in this instance.
York, while not attaching much importance to the story, thought of the remarks of Casey Dunne. It was just possible that the ranchers might perpetrate some hostile act. It happened, too, that at this time the engineer in charge of the Coldstream irrigation project took sick, necessitating the appointment of a new man. And it further happened that another engineer in the railway's employ, named Farwell, had got through with a difficult piece of tunnelling, and was ready for fresh work.
"I'll send Farwell down there," said York, speaking to Carrol, who was the head of his land department.
Now, Farwell was altogether too good a man to waste on a little, puttering job like this. He had seen service in half a dozen countries, always with credit to himself, and he was in line for big promotion. But against his undoubted ability and the fact that he was a tremendous driver, who spared no one, not even himself, was the further fact that he was harsh, domineering, impatient, lacking tact or diplomacy. He was a fighter by instinct. He preferred to break through than to go around. He antagonized rather than conciliated. But in the event of real trouble he was there with the genuine, hall-marked goods, as he had shown on several occasions when a hard man had been needed. The land department, however, had it's own staff, and Carrol did not like the importation of an outsider.
"No need to send Farwell," said he. "We can look after it ourselves."
"Farwell's the best man we can have there if anything goes wrong," said York positively. "He'll bring these ranchers to time. I'll send him."
Farwell descended on the Coldstream country in a bitter temper, for the job was far beneath his professional dignity as he looked at it, and he knew that in the meantime others would get better work to which he considered himself entitled. Indeed, he had come within an ace of resigning, and had insisted, as a condition, on a definite promise of something very good in the immediate future.
When he stepped off the train at the little Coldstream station he was already prejudiced against the country, its inhabitants, and its future; and what he saw as the train rumbled away into the distance did not tend to improve his temper.
Coldstream itself for years had amounted to little more than a post-office address. From the time of its building in the days of a boom which had no foundation, and therefore no permanence, it had retrogressed steadily. Now it was picking up. But although times were beginning to improve, it still bore many of the earmarks of an abandoned camp. The struggle for life during the lean years was more apparent in outward sign than was the present convalescence. Most of the houses were now occupied, but almost all were unpainted, stained gray and brown by wind and sun and snow, forlorn and hideous things of loosened boards and flapping ends of tarred sheeting.
Although it was only spring, the road which wound from nowhere between the unsightly shacks was ankle deep in dust. The day was unseasonably warm, the air still. The dust lay on the young leaves of the occasional clumps of cottonwoods, and seemed to impregnate the air so that it was perceptible to the nostrils—a warm, dry, midsummer smell, elusive, but pervasive. The whole land swam and shimmered in hot sunshine. The unpainted buildings danced in it, blurring with the heat waves. Save for the occasional green of cottonwoods, the land lay in the brown nakedness of a dry spring, wearying the eye with its sameness.
Farwell swore to himself at the prospect, feeling his grievance against his employers and the world at large become more acute. He considered himself ill-used, slighted, and he registered a mental vow to rush his work and be quit of the accursed place at the earliest possible moment.
The individual who seemed to combine the functions of station agent and baggage hustler approached, wheeling a truck. He was a small man, gray-headed, with a wrinkled, wizened face, and eyes of faded blue. To him the engineer addressed himself.
"I'm Farwell," said he.
The agent halted the truck, smiled in friendly fashion, swung around, and presented his left ear cupped in his left hand. At the same time a strange, pungent odour assailed Farwell's nostrils.
"What did yez say?" he asked. "Onforch'nately me right a-cowstick organ is temp'rar'ly to the bad from shootin' a po-o-olecat. The gun busted on me, and I massacreed the marauder wid an ax. Did iver ye disthroy a skunk wid an ax? Then don't. Avoid mixin' it wid the od'riferous animals. Faix, I've buried me clothes—it was a new nightshirt, a flannel wan that I had on—and scrubbed meself wid kerosene and whale-oil soap that I keep f'r the dog, and I'm no bed of vi'lets yet. I can see ye wrinkle yer nose, and I don't blame yez. I'll move to the down-wind side of yez. Ye see, it was like this: The t'ief iv the wurruld was in me chicken house——"
"I said I was Farwell," that gentleman interrupted.
"Farrel, is ut?" said the station agent. "I knowed a Farrel thirty years gone. W'u'd he be yer father, now? His people come from Munster, if I mind right. Ye do not favour him, but maybe ye take after yer mother. Still, I'm thinkin' ye can't be his son, on account of yer age; though he turned Mormon, and I heerd——"
"I said Farwell, not Farrel," the engineer interpolated. "Richard K. Farwell." He thought it all the introduction necessary.
The station agent extended a welcoming hand. "Me own name is C. P. Quilty," said he, "the initials indicatin' Cornelius Patrick, and I'm glad to know ye. There's mighty few drummers stops off here now, but trade's bound to pick up, wid the land boom an' all." A sidelong glance at the perfecto clenched between Farwell's teeth. "W'u'd seegyars be yer line, now? I'm a judge of a seegyar meself, though the bum smokes they do be makin' nowadays has dhruv me to the pipe. No offense to you, Mr. Farrel, for no doubt ye carry a better line nor most. If ye like I'll introduce ye to Bob Shiller, that keeps the hotel——"
"Look here," snapped Farwell, at the end of his patience, "I'm Farwell, the engineer come down to take charge of this irrigation job. I want to know if there are any telegrams for me, and where the devil the camp is, and how I get to it. And that's about all I want to know, except whether I can get a bath at this hotel of Shiller's."
And Cornelius Patrick Quilty shook hands with him again.
"To think iv me takin' ye fur a drummer, now!" he exclaimed in self-reproach. "Sure, I've often heard of yez. I live over beyant, in the shack wid the picket fince on wan side iv ut. The other sides blowed down in a dust storm a year gone, and I will erect them some day when I have time. But ye can't miss me place, more be token half the front iv the house was painted wanst. They say the paint was stole, but no matter. Bein' both officials iv the comp'ny, Mr. Farrel, we will have much to talk over. No doubt ye have been referred to me for details iv the disturbin' rumours. Well, it's this wa-ay: I am in the service iv the comp'ny, and I dhraw me pay wid regularity, praise be, so that I w'u'd not for a moment think of questionin' the wisdom iv the policy iv me superiors——"
"That's right—don't!" snapped Farwell. "Now, get me those telegrams, if there are any, and tell me what I want to know."
A hurt look crept into Mr. Quilty's eyes of faded blue.
"I regret that I have no messages for ye,sor," said he. "The comp'ny's land agent, Mr. Sleeman, will take ye wherever ye want to go in his autymobile. Ye will see his sign as ye go uptown. But, speakin' as man to man, Mr. Farwell, and havin' the interests of thim that pays me to heart, I w'u'd venture on a little advice."
"Well, what is it?" asked Farwell.
"It's this," said Quilty. "The men hereabouts—the ranchers—is sore. Don't make them sorer. Duty is duty, and must be done, iv coorse. But do ut as aisy as ye can." He broke off, eying two riders who were approaching the station.
"Who are those people?" asked Farwell.
"The man is Misther Casey Dunne, and the young leddy is Miss Sheila McCrae," Quilty informed him.
"I've heard of Dunne," said Farwell, who had done so from York. "Who's the McCrae girl? Is she one of the same bunch?"
"MissMcCrae is aleddy," said Quilty, with quiet dignity. "And Casey Dunne is—is a dom good friend of mine."
The riders drew up at the platform, and Casey Dunne hailed the agent. "Hallo, Corney! Any freight for Talapus or Chakchak?" The last was the name of his own ranch, and in the Chinook jargon signified an eagle.
"Freight for both iv yez," Quilty replied. "But sure ye won't be takin' it on the cayuses. Howdy, Miss Sheila! Will ye 'light and try the comp'ny's ice wather wid a shot iv a limon, or shall I bring ye a pitcher?"
"I'll 'light, Mr. Quilty, thank you," said Sheila. She swung down from Beaver Boy, letting the lines trail, and Dunne dropped off Shiner.
Quilty introduced the engineer punctiliously. Farwell raised his hat, and bowed to the girl, but did not offer his hand to Casey Dunne.
"I've heard of you—from York," he said meaningly.
"I've heard that Mr. York has a wonderful memory for faces and names," said Casey. "Quite flattering to be remembered by him. I've only met him once."
"He remembers you very well," Farwell returned dryly.
Sheila McCrae stood by, watching them, hearing the rasp of steel beneath the apparently casual words. And unconsciously she measured the men, one against the other.
Farwell was slightly the taller and much the heavier. He created the impression of force, of dominance. The heavy, square chin, the wide, firm mouth, the black, truculent eyes beneath heavy brows, all marked the master, if not the tyrant. His body was thick and muscular, and he stood solidly, confident of himself, of his position, a man to command.
Casey Dunne was lighter, leaner, more finely drawn. Lacking the impression of pure force, of sheer power, he seemed to express the capacity for larger endurance, of better staying qualities, of greater tensile strength. He was cast in another mould, a weapon of a different pattern. Farwell might be compared to a battle-axe; Dunne to a rapier.
And being of the battle-axe type Farwell saw no reason to mince matters with Dunne, whom he looked upon as a leader of the alleged trouble makers, and therefore directly responsible for his, Farwell's, presence in that confounded desert.
"No," he said, "York doesn't forget much. And he hears quite a lot, too. I've come down to finish this dam, and complete the irrigation ditches, and I'm going to rush the job."
"It's pretty well along, I hear," Dunne commented. "You'll be putting the finishing touches to it pretty soon. Quite a nice piece of work, that. You want to be careful of the sidehill ditches, though. They wash, sometimes."
Farwell was taken aback. There was no hint of insincerity in the other's tone. It was impersonal, as if he were not at all concerned.
"I'll be careful enough," he returned. He would have liked to tell Dunne that he was also prepared to take care of any trouble that might arise, but on second thought he decided to wait for a better opening. "I'll be plenty careful of a good many things," he added significantly.
"Nothing like it," Dunne rejoined. "Water finds the weak spots every time. Well, good morning, Mr. Farwell. Glad to see you at my ranch any time. Ask anybody where it is."
Farwell stared after him for a moment, a little puzzled and by no means satisfied with himself. He had come openly contemptuous of the ranchers, thinking of them as rough, unlettered farmers who must necessarily stand in awe of him. But here was a different type. "Pretty smooth proposition, that Dunne," he growled to himself. "'Water finds the weak spots,' hey! Now, I wonder what he meant by that?"
He picked up his grip, and walked up into the town, finding the company's office without difficulty, and introduced himself to Sleeman, the sales agent, whom he had never met.
Mr. Sleeman possessed a shrewd eye, and a face indicative of an ability to play a very good game. He was in his shirt sleeves for greater comfort, and he smoked particularly strong plug tobacco in a brier pipe.
"What's in these yarns, anyhow?" Farwell asked, when they had got down to business.
"Ask me something easier," Sleeman replied. "I gave headquarters all I heard. If I were you I'd keep my eyes open."
"I'll do that," said Farwell. "These fellows always do a lot of talking, and let it go at that."
"Not here," said Sleeman. "The men who will be affected aren't doing any talking at all. That looks bad to me. They are just standing pat and saying nothing. But you can bet they are doing some thinking. Mighty bad lot to run up against if they start anything—old-timers, ex-punchers, prospectors, freighters, and fur men, with a sprinkling of straight farmers. The worst of it is that these rumours are hurting us already, and they'll hurt us worse."
"How?"
"Landlookers hear them, and shy off. No man wants to buy into a feud with his neighbours—to buy land with water that somebody else thinks he ought to have. Before I can make a showing in actual sales this thing has got to be settled."
"Huh!" said Farwell. "Well, I'll finish the job, and turn the water down the ditches, and that's all I have to do. I met one of these fellows at the station—Dunne, his name is."
"Oh, you met Casey Dunne. And what do you think of him?"
"Don't like him; he's too smooth. Looked me square in the eye, and told me to be careful with sidehill ditches, and so on, just as if it didn't affect him at all. Too innocent for me. I had a notion to tell him he wasn't fooling me a little bit."
"H'm!" said Sleeman. "Well, I give Casey credit for being a good man. He has a big stake here—owns a lot of land besides his ranch. It's make or break with him."
"Then I'm sorry for him. He had a girl with him—McCrae her name is. Who's she?"
"Her father owns Talapus Ranch. It's the biggest and best here. Good people, the McCraes."
"And I suppose Dunne's going to marry her? Is that it?"
"I never heard so. But if he is I don't blame him; she's all right, that girl."
Farwell grunted. He had rather liked Sheila's looks, but, being a man of violent prejudices, and disliking Dunne instinctively, he found it easy to dislike his friends. "I'll tell you what I'm going to do," he announced. "I'm going to put it up to these fellows straight the first chance I get that we don't care a hang for anything they may do. If they want trouble they can come a-running."
"Well," Sleeman commented, "of course, I'm here to sell land. The company is my boss, and naturally I back its play. But my personal opinion is that it would have been better to have bought those fellows out, even at fancy prices, than to ride over them roughshod. They're sore now, and you can't wonder at it. If I were you I'd go easy—just as easy as I could."
"Nonsense!" snorted Farwell. "That's what that old fool of a mick down at the station told me. How the devil does the company happen to have such an old fossil on the job?"
"Quilty's a left-over from construction days. He's been here ever since steel was laid. They say he averted a bad smash once by sheer nerve or pure Irish luck. Anyway, he has a sort of guarantee of his job for life. Not a bad old boy when you get to know him."
"He ought to be fired, and a younger man put in his place," said Farwell. "He talks too much. Good Lord! He's like an endless record!"
"Pshaw! What do you care?" said Sleeman. "He's better than a talking machine in this place. Well, come over to the hotel, and afterward I'll run you out to the camp."
CHAPTER VI
Sheila McCrae and Beaver Boy and Casey Dunne and Shiner drifted through the golden afternoon just ahead of a dust cloud of their own making. Sheila rode astride, in the manner of a country where side saddles are almost unknown. Her stiff-brimmed pony hat was pushed back because of the heat. Sometimes she rode with it in her hand, careless of the dust which powdered her masses of dark, neatly coiled hair. The action revealed her keen, cleanly cut features, so strongly resembling her brother's. But the resemblance was softened by femininity; for young McCrae's visage was masculine and hawklike, and under excitement fierce, even predatory; while his sister's, apart from sex, was more refined, more thoughtful, with a grave sweetness underlying the firmness.
The two were unusually silent as the horses kicked off mile after mile. Sheila roused herself first, and looked at her companion. Because his hat was pulled low she could see but little of his face save the mouth and chin; but the former was compressed and the latter thrust out at a decidedly aggressive angle.
"A penny for them, Casey!"
"Take 'em free," he returned. "I was wondering whether we had any chance to beat this game, and I can't see it. The bank roll against us is too big. It will get our little pile in the end, just as sure as fate."
"Well, you can't help that, can you?" she commented sharply. "What do you want to do—lie down and quit? You wouldn't do that. Brace up!"
"That's the talk," he acknowledged. "That's what I need now and then. Perhaps I get a pessimistic view when I'm trying for an impartial one."
"What do you think of this Farwell person?"
"Farwell represents the railway in more ways than one. He takes what he wants—if he's strong enough. He's some bully—and so is the railway. But he isn't a bluff—and neither is the railway. He's had experience—plenty of it—and, on a guess, I should say that he is sent down here to take care of any trouble that may start. He is hostile already. You can see it."
"Yes." And after a moment's silence she asked: "What is going to start, Casey?"
"I don't know exactly."
"Of course you know. Dad won't say a word, and Sandy makes wise remarks about girls who try to butt into men's affairs. I'm left out, and it's the first timethathas ever happened to me. Nice, isn't it?"
"No, it's confoundedly annoying. All the same, Sheila, they're quite right."
"But why? I'm no silly kid—no chattering, gossipy young lady. I have as much interest in the ranch as Sandy. I know as much about it and the work of it as he does, and I do my share of it. Even Mr. Dunne has occasionally honoured me by asking for my opinion. And now I'm left out like a child. It isn't fair."
"From that angle it looks rather raw," he acknowledged. "Still, it's better that you shouldn't know. In that case you can't be forced to give evidence against your own people and your friends."
She glanced at him, a little startled. "What rot, Casey!"
"Not a bit of it. Anything we can do must be against the law. Suspicion will be directed at us from the outset. You must see that."
"Yes, I see it," she assented thoughtfully. "Very well, I'll be good to the extent of not asking questions. But you can't expect me to be deaf and blind."
"Of course not," he assented and began to talk of the ranch work. She listened, making occasional shrewd comments, offering suggestions which showed that she understood such matters thoroughly.
"Why shouldn't we ride around by Chakchak?" she asked. "I haven't seen it for a month, and there's plenty of day left. And then I can go on to Talapus by myself."
"Trying to shake me?"
"No. But why should you trail along with me? I've ridden all over the country alone. I do it every day."
"Hush, Sheila! Let me tell you a secret. I ride with you because I like to."
"Oh, blarney! That's what it is to have a mick ancestry. I suppose I'll have to own up that if I didn't like you to ride with me I wouldn't let you do it."
Casey grinned. Their mutual liking was genuine and so far unsentimental. They were of the same breed—the breed of the pioneer—and their hearts held the same seldom-voiced but deeply rooted love for the same things; the great, sun-washed spaces winnowed by the clean winds, the rosy dawns, violet dusks and nights when the earth scents hung heavy, almost palpable, clinging to the nostrils, the living things of fur and feather bright of eye and wary of habit. But most of all unconsciously they loved and cherished the feeling of room, of space in which to live and breathe and turn freely.
"The present time being inopportune, and Shiner's temper too uncertain for a further avowal of my sentiments," he said, "I suggest that we turn off here and hit a few high spots for Chakchak. Stir up that slothful cayuse of yours. Maybe there's a lope left in him somewhere. See if you can comb it out with a quirt."
"I like your nerve!" she exclaimed. "Beaver Boy can run the heart out of that old buzzard-head of yours and come in dry-haired. Come on, or take my dust!"
The hoofbeats drummed dull thunder from the brown earth, and the dust cloud behind drew out and lengthened with the speed of their going. Side by side they swept through the silent land, breasting small rises, swooping down slopes, breathing their horses whenever they came to heavier ascents.
Sometimes as they rode knee touched knee. It gave Casey Dunne a strange but comfortable feeling of comradeship. He looked at the woman beside him, appreciating her firm, easy seat in the stock saddle, her management of Beaver Boy, now eager to prove his prowess against the buckskin's. He noted the rich colour lying beneath the tan of the smooth cheeks, the rounded brown throat, the poise of the lithe, pliant body and the watchful tension of the strong arms and shoulders as the big bay fought hard for his head and a brief freedom to use his full strength and speed in one mad heartbreaking burst. But most of all he noted and was attracted by the level, direct, fearless stare beneath the slightly drawn brows into the distances.
A brown girl in a brown land! It came to Casey Dunne, who was imaginative within the strict seclusion of his inner self, that she typified their land, the West, in youth, in fearlessness, in potentialities yet lying fallow, unawakened, in fruitfulness to come. What of the vagrant touch of the woman, the gold of the day, the clean, dry air and the glory of motion, the chord of romance within him vibrated and began to sing.
It invested her momentarily with a new quality, a new personality. She was no longer the Sheila McCrae he had known so well. She was the Spirit of the Land, a part of it—she was Sheila of the West; and her heritage was plain and mountain, gleaming lake and rushing river, its miles numbered by thousands, its acres by millions—a land for a new nation.
How many Sheilas, he wondered—young, strong, clean of blood, straight of limb—had ridden since the beginning of time into the new lands, and borne their part in peopling them. Fifty years before, her prototypes had ridden beside the line of crawling, creaking prairie schooners across the great plains toward the setting sun; little more than fifty years before that they had ridden down through the notches of the blue Alleghenies into the promised land of Kain-tuck-ee, the Dark and Bloody Ground, beside buckskin-clad, deckard-armed frontiersmen. Perhaps, centuries before that, her ancestresses had ridden with burly, skin-clad warriors out of the great forests of northern Europe down to the pleasant weaker south. But surely she was the peer of any of them—this woman riding knee to knee with him, the sloping sun in her clear, brown eyes, and the warm, sweet winds kissing her cheeks!
And so Casey Dunne dreamed as he rode—dreamed as he had not dreamed waking since the days when, a little boy, he had lain on warm sands beside a blue inland sea on summer's afternoons and watched the patched sails of the stone hookers, and the wheeling, gray lake gulls, and heard the water hiss and ripple to the long, white beaches. And, as he dreamed, a part of boyhood's joy in mere life awoke in him again.
Chakchak Ranch came into view. Its cultivated area smaller than that of Talapus, it was nevertheless as scrupulously cared for. The one might have served as model for the other. Here, also, were the straight lines of the ditches, the squares of grain fields beginning to show green, the young orchards, the sleek, contented stock, the corrals, and outbuildings.
But, as became the residence of a bachelor, the ranch-house itself was less pretentious. It was a small bungalow, with wide verandas which increased its apparent size. There Casey lived with Tom McHale, his right-hand man and foreman. The hired men, varying in number constantly, occupied other quarters.
Casey would have helped Sheila to alight, but she swung down, stretching her limbs frankly after the hard ride.
"That'sgoing," she said. "Beaver Boy was a brute to hold; he wanted to race Shiner. He nearly got away from me once. My wrists are actually lame." She drew off her long buckskin gauntlets, flexing her wrists cautiously, straightening her fingers, prolonging the luxury of relaxing the cramped sinews.
"Let us now eat, drink, and be merry," said Casey, "for to-morrow—well, never mind that. But what would you like? Coffee, tea, claret lemonade? Tell me what you want."
"Too hot for tea. I'd like a dust eraser—a cold drink about a yard long."
"Hey, you, Feng!" Casey cried, to a white-aproned, grinning Chinaman, "you catch two ice drink quick—hiyuice, you savvy! Catch claret wine, catch cracker, catch cake. Missyhiyudry,hiyuhungry. Get a hustle on you, now!"
Feng, understanding perfectly the curious mixture of pidgin and Chinook, vanished soft-footed. They entered the living room of the bungalow.
"Stretch out and be comfy while he's rustling it," said Casey, indicating a couch. He himself fell into a huge wicker chair, flung his hat carelessly at the table, and reached for a cigar box.
Sheila dropped on the couch with a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms above her head, her hands clasped, every muscle of her relaxing. The comparative coolness, the quiet, the soft cushions were good after a day in the saddle. Down there on the Coldstream the strict proprieties did not trouble them. If any one had suggested to Sheila McCrae that she was imprudent in visiting a bachelor's ranch unchaperoned, she would have been both amazed and indignant. And it would have been unsafe to hint at such a thing to Casey Dunne. Indeed, the desirability of a chaperon never occurred to either of them; which was, after all, the best guarantee of the superfluity of that mark of an advanced civilization.
But in a moment Sheila was on her feet, arranging, straightening. "You're awfully untidy, Casey!" she said.
Indeed her comment was justified. The long table in the centre of the room was a litter of newspapers, magazines, old letters, pipes, and tobacco. Odd tools—a hammer, a file, a wrench, and a brad awl—mingled with them. On top of the medley lay a heavy revolver, with the cylinder swung out and empty, a box of cartridges, a dirty rag, and an oil can. In one corner stood half a dozen rifles and shotguns. From a set of antlers on the wall depended a case of binoculars, a lariat, and a pair of muddy boots. The last roused Sheila's indignation.
"Whatever do you hang up boots in your sitting room for?" she demanded.
"Why, you see," he explained, "they were wet, and I hung 'em up to dry. I guess I forgot 'em. It's not the right place, that's a fact." He rose, took down the offending footgear, and tossed them through the open door into the next room. They thumped on the floor, and Sheila was not placated.
"That's just as bad. Why, they were covered with dried mud, and now it's all over the floor. You're shockingly careless. Don't you know that that makes work?"
"For Feng, you mean. That's what I pay him for—only he doesn't do it."
But she shook her head, brushing the excuse aside as trifling, unsatisfactory. "It's a bad habit. I pity your wife, Casey."
"Poor thing!"
"When you get one, I mean."
"Time enough to sympathize then. Now, Sheila, if it's all the same to you, don't muss that table up. I know where to find everything the way it is."
"Muss it up! I like that!" she responded. "Why, of all the oldjunk! Haven't you got a tool house? And it's an inch deep in dust." She extended her fingers in proof. "That dirty rag! And a gun and cartridges there for any one to pick up! You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don't you know better than that? Don't you know you shouldn't leave firearms and ammunition together? It's as bad as leaving them loaded, almost."
"That's Tom's gun. Sail into him."
"You shouldn't allow it."
"Allow it! I never touch another man's gun. Nobody comes in here but Feng, and he doesn't matter. What's a Chink more or less?"
"But it's theprinciple. And what's this—down here? Why, Casey, it's—it's ahen!"
It was a hen. In a space between two piles of newspapers, flanked by a cigar box, squatted a white fowl, very intent upon her own affairs.
"Shoo!" said Sheila. But the bird merely cocked a bright eye at her, and uttered a little warning, throaty sound. Casey laughed.
"That's Fluffy, and she's a lady friend of mine. Poor old Fluff, poor old girl! Don't scare her, Sheila. Can't you see she's busy?"
"Casey Dunne, do you mean to tell me that you allow a hen to lay in your sitting room, on yourtable?"
"Of course—when she's a nice little chicken like Fluffy. Why not? She doesn't do any harm."
"I never heard of such a thing. The place for hens is in the chicken run. Casey, you're simplyawful!Your wife—oh, heavens, what a life she'll have!"
"Nobody could help liking Fluff," he replied. "She's really good company. I wish I could talk her talk. She has a fine line of conversation if I could only savvy it."
Sheila sat down with a hopeless gesture. Fond of all living things as she was, she could not understand the tolerance that allowed a hen the run of the house. To her a hen was a hen, nothing more. She could name and pet a horse or a dog or any quadruped. But a hen! She could not understand.
But Feng entered with the two "ice drink"—a tray containing long glasses, tinkling ice, claret, lemons, cake, and biscuits. He set the tray upon the table. As he did so his hand came in contact with Fluffy. With a rasping cry of indignation she pecked him.
"Hyah!" cried Feng, startled, and reached for her impulsively.
Fluffy bounded from her nest, and fled shrieking for the door. Her fluttering wings brushed the contents of the tray. The long glasses and bottle capsized, rolled to the floor, and smashed, the crash of glass mingling with her clamour.
"What foh?" yelled Feng, in a fury. "Jim Kli, dam chickum spoiley icey dlink.Hiyuno good—all same son of a gun! S'pose me catch him, ling him neck!" And he darted after the hen, on vengeance bent.
But Casey caught him by the collar. "Never mind, Feng. That chicken all same mytillikum, you savvy.Hiyugood chicken; layhiyuegg. You catch more ice drink!"
And when the angry Celestial had gone he lay back in his chair, and laughed till he was weak. Sheila laughed, too, at first half-heartedly, then more heartily, and finally, as she reconstructed Feng's expression, in sheer abandonment of merriment, until she wiped her eyes and gasped for breath.
"Oh—oh!" she protested weakly; "my side hurts. I haven't had such a laugh for ages. Oh, Casey, that chicken all same my friend now, too. It's coming to her. That Chink—how mad he was! But what a mess! And claret stains so. Your rug——"
She rose, impelled by her housewifely instincts to do what she could, and, glancing through the door, she saw a man standing by the veranda steps.
This was Tom McHale, Casey's friend and foreman. He was lean with the flat-bellied leanness that comes of years of hard riding, and a but partially subdued devil of recklessness lurked in his steady hazel eyes. He was a wizard with animals, and he derived a large part of his nourishment from Virginia leaf. He and Sheila were the best of friends.
"Howdy, Miss Sheila!" he greeted her. "I sure thought there was hostiles in the house. What you doin' to that there Chink? He's cussin' scand'lous. Casey been up to some of his devilment?"
"Come in and join us, Tom," said Casey. "Feng had a run-in with Fluff. Result, one bottle of claret and two glasses gone to glory."
"Also one Chink on the warpath," McHale added. "If I was in the insurance business I wouldn't write no policy on that there hen. She's surely due to be soup flavourin'. She ain't got no more show than if the Oriental was a coon. He's talkin' now 'bout goin' back to China."
"He always does when he gets a grouch. I wish I could get a white man."
"A white man thatcancook hates to stay sober long enough to build a bannock," said McHale. "Chink grub has one flavour, but it comes reg'lar, there's that about it."
Feng entered with fresh supplies, and they drank luxuriously, tinkling the ice in the glasses, prolonging the satisfaction of thirst. McHale went about his business. Sheila picked up her hat and gloves, declaring that she must be going. Casey insisted on accompanying her. He shifted his saddle to Dolly, a pet little gray mare; not because Shiner was tired, but because there was a hard ride in store for him on the morrow.
They rode into Talapus in time for supper. Afterward Casey and McCrae discussed the coming of Farwell, and its significance.
"I pumped Corney Quilty a little," said Casey. "This Farwell is a slap-up man, and they'd never waste him on this little job without some good reason. I'm told he's bad medicine. Unpleasant devil, he seems. I wonder if they've got wise at all? If they have it will be mighty interesting for us."
"I'll chance it," said McCrae. "Anyway, we'll all be in it."
"That's a comforting thought," said Dunne. As he rode home that night he went over the ranchers one by one; and he was quite sure that each was trustworthy.
CHAPTER VII
Farwell took charge of his construction camps, and immediately began to infuse some of his own energy into his subordinates.
But as a beginning he rode over the works, blue prints in hand, thus getting to know the contour of the country, and the actual location and run of the main canal and branch ditches, constructed and projected. With this knowledge safely filed away in his head, he proceeded to verify the calculations of others; for he had once had the bitter experience of endeavouring to complete work which had been based on the erroneous calculations of another man. He had been blamed for that, because it had been necessary to find a scapegoat for the fruitless expenditure of many thousands. So, having had his lesson, he was ever after extremely careful to check all calculations, regardless of the labour involved.
These things occupied him closely for some weeks. He saw scarcely anybody but his own men, nor did he wish to see anybody else. He intended to finish the job, and get out at something better. Therefore he plugged away day and night, and, so far as he could, forced others to do the same.
But the current of his routine was changed by so small a thing as a wire nail. He was returning from an inspection of his ditches, when his horse pulled up dead lame. Farwell, dismounting, found the nail imbedded to the head in the animal's hoof; and he could not withdraw it, though he broke his knife blade in repeated attempts. He swore angrily, not because it meant temporary inconvenience to himself, but because he sympathized with his horse; and, looping the reins over his arm, began to walk, the animal limping after him.
Half an hour of this slow progress brought him in sight of Talapus Ranch. It had been pointed out to him before; but it was with considerable reluctance that he decided, for his mount's sake, to turn into the trail to the house.
Sheila was on the veranda, and Farwell raised his hat.
"Miss McCrae, I think. You may remember me—Farwell. I'm sorry to trouble you, but my horse has picked up a nail. If I could borrow a pair of pliers or shoeing pincers——"
"Of course. Father is at the stable. I'll show you."
Donald McCrae, just in from a day of irrigating, shook hands, and took the horse's hoof between his knees with the certainty of a farrier.
"Right bang to the head," he observed, as he tried for a grip. "I'll have it in a minute. Hold him, now! Steady, boy! There you are!"
With a twist and an outward wrench he held up the nail between the tips of the pincers. He released the hoof, but the horse held it clear of the ground.
"Sore," said McCrae. "A nasty brute of a piece of wire, too. That's a mighty lame cayuse. You won't ride him for a week—maybe two."
"He'll have to take me to camp, or I'll have to take him."
"And that might lame him for two months. Leave him here. I'll poultice the foot if it needs it. You stay and have supper. Afterward we'll drive you over."
Farwell demurred, surprised. He considered all the ranchers to be leagued against the railway, and in that he was not far wrong. In his mind it followed as a corollary that they were also hostile to him, as he was hostile to them.
"Thanks! It's very good of you, but, under the circumstances—you understand what I mean."
"You needn't feel that way," McCrae returned. "When this country was just country, and no more, a white man was always welcome to my fire, my blankets, and my grub, when I had it. It's no different now, at Talapus. You're welcome to what we have—while we have it. There's no quarrel between us that I know of."
"No, of course not," said Farwell, not quite at his ease. If McCrae chose to put it on that footing he could not reasonably object. "Well, thanks very much. I'll be glad to accept your offer."
An excellent meal put him in better humour. By nature he was a hard man, who took life seriously, engrossed in his profession. He led a nomadic existence, moved continually from one piece of work to another, his temporary habitations ranging from modern hotels to dog tents and shacks. In all the world there was no spot that he could call home; and there was no one who cared a button whether he came or went. His glimpses of other men's homes were rare and fleeting, and he was apt to thank Heaven that he was not thus tied down.
But the atmosphere of the ranch appealed to him. Its people were not silly folk, babbling of trivial things which he neither understood nor cared to understand. Mrs. McCrae, as he mentally appraised her, was a sensible woman. In her husband—big, quiet, self-contained—he recognized a man as hard as himself. Young McCrae, silent, too grim of mouth for his years, was the makings of another hard man. But it was at Sheila that he looked the most, and at her if not to her his conversation was directed.
So much for the simple magic of a white dress. When he had seen her with Dunne, in a dusty riding costume, he had not been especially attracted. He had not thought of her since. Now, she seemed a different person. He liked her level, direct glance, her low, clear voice, the quiet certainty of each movement of her brown hands. Farwell, though his acquaintance with the species was slight, recognized the hall mark. Unmistakably the girl was a lady.
Sheila, listening, felt that her estimate of Farwell needed revision. He was a bigger man than she had thought, stronger, and therefore a more formidable opponent. It seemed to her monstrous, incongruous, that he should be sitting there as a guest and yet be carrying out a project which would ruin them. But since he was a guest he had the rights of a guest.
Afterward she found herself alone with him on the veranda. Her father and brother had gone to the stables, and her mother was indoors planning the next day's housework.
"You smoke, Mr. Farwell?" she said. "I'll get you some cigars."
"I have some in my pocket, thanks."
"No. Talapus cigars at Talapus. That's the rule."
"If you insist on it." He lit a cigar, finding to his relief that it was very good indeed. "Well, Miss McCrae, I must say your hospitality goes the full limit. I'm rather overwhelmed by it."
"What nonsense! Supper, a cigar—that's not very burdensome surely."
"It's the way things are, of course," he explained. "I'm not blind. I know what you were thinking about—what you are thinking now."
"I doubt it, Mr. Farwell."
"Yes, I do. You are wondering how I have the nerve to eat your food and smoke your tobacco when I'm here on this irrigation job."
It was her thought stripped naked. She made a little gesture, scarcely deprecatory. Why protest when he had guessed so exactly?
"I'm glad you don't feel called on to lie politely," said Farwell. "I'm pretty outspoken myself. I don't blame you at all. I merely want to point out that if I weren't on this job some one else would be. You see that. I'm just earning my living."
She was silent. He went on:
"I'm not apologizing, you understand, and I'm not saying anything about the rights of the ranchers or of my employers, one or the other. I don't care about either. I'm just concerned with my own business."
"That is to say, the railway's," Sheila commented.
"I'm trying to point out that I'm a hired man, with no personal interest. But of course I'll do what I'm paid to do—and more. I never saw the time I didn't give full value for every dollar of my pay."
"I don't question it," said Sheila.
"You think I'm talking too much about myself," he said quickly. "That's so. I'm sorry. You people have treated me well, no matter what you thought, and I appreciate it. I've enjoyed the evening very much. I wonder"—he hesitated for a moment—"I wonder if you'd mind my riding over here once in a while?"
"Of course not—if you care to come," Sheila replied. Intuitively she divined that she had interested him, and she guessed by his manner that it was not his custom to be interested in young women. Apart from the ranchers' grievance against the corporation he represented, she had no reason for refusal. She rather liked his downrightness. Casey Dunne had said that he was a bit of a bully, but not a bluff. His extreme frankness, while it amused her, seemed genuine.
"Thank you!" he said. "I don't flatter myself that you want me particularly, and I'm quite satisfied with the bare permission. I'm not entertaining or pleasant, and I know it. I've been busy all my life. No time for—for—well, no time for anything but work. But this little job isn't going to keep me more than half busy. I've done all the hard work of it now."
"I didn't know it was so nearly finished."
"I mean I've been over the ground and over the figures, and I know all that is to be done. Now it's merely a question of bossing a gang. A foreman could do that."
Sheila could find no fault with the last statement. Obviously it was a fact. But the tone more than the words was self-assertive, even arrogant. She was unreasonably annoyed.
"Naturally you consider yourself above foreman's work," she commented, with faint sarcasm.
"I don't consider myself above any work when it's up to me to do it or see it left undone," he replied. "I've held a riveter and driven spikes and shimmed up ties before now. But a concern that pays a first-class man to do third-class work is robbing itself. This is the last time I'll do it. That's how I feel about it."
Sheila was not accustomed to hear a man blow his own horn so frankly. The best men of her acquaintance—her father, Casey Dunne, Tom McHale, and others—seldom talked of themselves, never bragged, never mentioned their proficiency in anything. She had been brought up to regard a boaster and a bluff as synonymous. To her an egotist was also a bluff. His bad taste repelled her. And yet he did not seem to stress the announcement.
"A first-class man should not waste his time," she observed, but to save her life she could not keep her tone free from sarcasm. He took up her meaning with extraordinary quickness.
"You think I might have let somebody else say that? Pshaw! I'm not mock-modest. Iama good man, and I'm paid accordingly. I want you to know it. I don't want you to take me for a poor devil of a line runner."
"What on earth does it matter what I take you for?" said Sheila. "I don't care whether you have a hundred or a thousand a month. What difference does it make to me?"
"None—but it makes a whole lot to me," said Farwell. "I'm interested in my profession. I want to get to the top of it. I'm halfway up, and time counts. And then to be sent down here on this rotten job! Pah! it makes me sick."
"I'm glad to hear you admit that it's rotten," said Sheila. "It's outrageous—a straight steal."
He stared at her a moment, laughed, and shook his head.
"You don't understand me. It's rotten from my standpoint—too trivial to waste time on."
"It's rotten from our standpoint. Can't you get away from your supreme self for a moment? Can't you appreciate what it means to us?"
"I know exactly what it means, but I can't help it. You know—but you can't help it. What are you going to do, anyway?"
"I don't know," she admitted, thinking of her conversation with Casey Dunne.
"You're sure you don't? We heard rumours—I may as well tell you—that the ranchers were prepared to make trouble for us."
"Then you've heard more than I have."
He eyed her a moment in silence. She returned his glance unwaveringly.
"I'm glad to know it," he said at length. "I don't want a row. Now, you people here—on this ranch—why don't you sell and get out?"
She thought it brutally put. "In the first place, we don't want to sell out. And in the next place who would buy?"
"That's so," he said. "I guess you wouldn't find many buyers. Still, if you got the chance——"
Whatever he was about to say was lost in a clamour of wheels and hoofs. Donald McCrae appeared in a buckboard drawn by a light team which he was holding with difficulty. He pulled them to a momentary halt.
"Now, if you're ready, Mr. Farwell. Jump in quick. These little devils won't stand. They haven't had any work for a week. All set? G'lang, boys!"
They started with a rear and a furious rush that flung Farwell back against the seat. In two hundred yards McCrae had them steadied, hitting a gait that fairly ate up the miles.
Farwell sat silent, chewing an unlighted cigar, turning a new idea over and over in his mind. This idea was to arrange for the purchase of Talapus Ranch by the railway's land department. None knew better than he that the taking of their water would mean absolute ruin to the McCraes, as it did to others. For the others he cared nothing. But he told himself that he owed something to the McCraes. They had treated him decently, like a white man. He was under a certain obligation, and here was a chance to return it many thousandfold. Also it would show the McCrae girl that he was no common employee, but a man of influence. He thought he had pull enough. Yes, when he came to think about it, it was a shame that people like the McCraes should lose everything. Nobody but the railway would buy their ranch, under the circumstances. But the railway could do so, and likely make a profit. That would be fair to everybody.
Once Farwell came to a conclusion he was prompt to act. He said, without preliminary:
"McCrae, what do you want for that ranch of yours?"
"It's not for sale now," McCrae replied.
"Everything's for sale at some price," Farwell commented. "What's a fair figure for it? I don't mean what you'll take—but what's it worth?"
McCrae considered.
"There's a thousand acres, and all good. There's no better land in the world. Then there's the buildings and fencing and stock and implements. Hard to say, nowadays. Why, raw land in little patches is selling at fancy figures. I should say as it stands—stocked and all—it's worth a hundred and fifty thousand of any man's money."
"If I can find a buyer at that figure will you take it?"
"No I'm not selling."
"Now, look here," said Farwell, "you say your place is worth one hundred and fifty thousand. That's with plenty of water for irrigation. Say it is. But what's it worth without water?"
"Without water," said McCrae slowly, "the land itself is worth about one dollar an acre. Twenty-five thousand would be an outside price for a crazy man to pay for Talapus."
"Exactly," said Farwell. "McCrae, you'd better let me try to find you a purchaser. For, if you hang on, just as sure as God made little red apples you'll be praying to Him to send you a crazy man."
McCrae was silent for a long minute, his eyes fixed on his horses' ears. "This is the first time," he said, "that it's been put up to me straight. I knew, of course—we all knew—but nobody had the nerve to come here and tell us so."
"Well, I have the nerve," said Farwell. "But I'm not saying it the way you think I am. I'm not talking as an official; I'm talking as a friend—as I'd like a man to talk to me if I were in your fix. I'm trying to get you to stand from under. Here's the situation, as plainly as I can put it: If you can't get water you will be forced to sell, and the best you can get is grazing-land prices. You know that. On the other hand, if you will sell now I think I can get you the price you named. Understand, I'm not doing this for a commission. I don't want one, and I wouldn't take one. I think the railway would buy on my recommendation if I put it strongly enough; and I'd do that for you people because—oh, well, just because I would. Now, there it is, McCrae, and it's up to you."
McCrae eased his team. His big shoulders seemed to droop, as if a heavy weight had been laid upon them. He fought his temptation in the darkness.
"No," he said at last, "I won't sell. But I'm obliged to you all the same. If the railway would buy us all out——"
"No!" snapped Farwell. "So that's why you won't sell. You think your friends will hold out, too. You've got a sort of a pool. It won't do you any good. The rest of them haven't the sand. I'll bet there isn't another man who would turn down such an offer as I've made to you. It will be each man for himself pretty soon."
"You're wrong," said McCrae. "We'll stay with each other. Casey Dunne had an offer from York. He didn't take it."
"Dunne is a fool!" rasped Farwell. Never guarded in speech, his instinctive hostility flared into hot words. "He won't get the chance again. He's one man wewon'tbuy."
"I'm another," McCrae retorted swiftly. "Look here, Mr. Farwell, I was in this country when its only crop was buffalo hides and bad Indians. Land!—you couldn't give it away. I can show you a town with hotels and banks and paved streets and electric lights—a fine little town. Twenty-odd years ago I was offered the section that town now stands on, for a team and a two weeks' grubstake for a man and his wife. They wanted to get out, and they couldn't. I gave 'em the grub, and told 'em it was worth the price of it to me not to own the land. Yes, sir—and I meant it. I was that shortsighted. So were others. We thought the country would never fill up, just as we thought the buffalo would never be killed out, and we kept on drifting. When I woke up, the cheap lands were about gone. And then, ten years late, I made my grab for a piece of what was left. I hiked for this country that I knew ahead of everybody, and I picked out the best bunch of stuff there was in it, and I sat down to wait for the rush to catch up to me. Now it's caught me and the rest of us who came in early. And now you people tell me I've got to move off my reservation, and go away somewhere and begin again. I won't do it—I tell you I won't! And, what's more, don't you crowd me too hard—me and the rest of the boys—or there'll be hell a-popping right here. Now, you mind what I'm telling you."
He spoke deliberately, evenly, without raising his voice. His manner, even more than his words, expressed fixed determination. Farwell lifted his eyebrows, and puckered his lips in a silent whistle. His diplomacy was turning out badly, and he repressed an inclination to retort.
"Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I hoped we could fix this up. Think it over, anyway."
"I've done my thinking."
"But, man, you're on the wrong side of the fence, and you know it. The railway is too strong for you. What's the sense of bucking it?"
"Not much, maybe. I guess you mean well, and I take it friendly, but this ain't a question of sense."
"Of what, then?"
"Of a man's right to keep what he's worked for, and to live on the land he owns." McCrae replied. "That's the way I look at it."
It was the old question once more—older than the country, older than theMayflower, older than the Great Charter wrested from John the King——the eternal battle between the common man and class or privilege. Here, in the new country, in place of the divine right of kings and the hereditary power of nobles, was substituted the might of money, the power of the corporate body, itself a creation of law, overriding the power which created it.
"Well, it's your funeral," said Farwell. "I can't help my job, just remember that. And of course I've got to earn my pay."
"Sure," said McCrae; "sure, I understand."
They were at the camp. Farwell jumped out inviting McCrae to put his team up and come to his quarters. McCrae refused. It was late; he must be getting back.
"Just as you say," said Farwell. "I'm coming over to your ranch now and then, if you don't mind."
"Come along," said McCrae. "Latchstring's always out. You, Jeff; you, Dinny! G'lang, boys!"
The buckboard leaped to the sudden plunge of the little road team. Farwell stood for a moment listening to the diminishing drum roll of hoofs, whir of spokes, and clank of axles in their boxes.
"The blamed fool!" he thought. "Well, I gave him his chance. But it's going to be hard on his folks." He shook his head. "Yes, it will be pretty hard on his wife and the girl—what do they call her? Sheila. Nice name that—odd! Sheila!" He repeated the name aloud.
"Hello, did you speak to me?" said the voice of his assistant, Keeler, in the darkness.
"No!" snapped Farwell, with unnecessary curtness; "I didn't."
CHAPTER VIII
At the end of a week Farwell told Keeler that he was going to ride over to Talapus. He added unnecessarily that he wanted to see how his horse was getting on. Whereat his assistant, who had very good ears, grinned internally, though outwardly he kept a decorous face. He did not expect his chief back till late.
But Farwell returned early, and spent a busy half hour in blowing up everybody from Keeler down. On this occasion he had not seen Sheila at all. She and Casey Dunne, so Mrs. McCrae informed him, were at the latter's ranch. Mr. Dunne, it appeared, was buying some house furnishings, and wanted Sheila's advice. Farwell took an abrupt departure, declining a hospitable invitation. He barely looked at the lame horse.
For another week he sulked in a poisonous temper. He was done with Talapus. He thought that McCrae girl had some sense, but if she was going traipsing all over the country with Dunne, why, that let him out. Maybe she was going to marry Dunne. It looked like it. Anyway, it was none of his business. But the end of it was that he went to Talapus again.
This time he found Sheila alone. The elder McCraes were gone to Coldstream in the buckboard. Young Alec was somewhere on the ditch. Sheila, flanked by clothesbasket and workbasket, sat on the veranda mending his shirts. The occupation was thoroughly unromantic, little calculated to appeal to the imagination. Nevertheless, it appealed to Farwell.