Largely because it is the perverse nature of man to believe that the Fates have set him in the wrong groove, Farwell, like many others whose lives have been spent in exclusively masculine surroundings, believed his tastes to be domestic. Not that he had ever pushed this belief beyond the theoretical stage; nor would he have exchanged places with any of his confrères who had taken wives. But he railed inwardly at the intense masculinity of his life, for the same reason that the sailorman curses the sea and the plainsman the plains. Just as the tragedian is certain in his inmost soul that his proper rôle is light comedy, while the popular comedian is equally positive that he should be starring in the legitimate; so Farwell, harsh, dominant, impatient, brutal on occasion, a typical lone male of his species, knowing little of and caring less for the softer side of life, cherished a firm belief that his proper place was the exact centre of a family circle.
Although he had never seen a home that he cared beans about—including the one of his childhood—the singing of "Home, Sweet Home" invariably left him pensive for half an hour. Theoretically—heretofore always strictly theoretically—he possessed a strongdulce domumimpulse. And so the spectacle of Sheila mending her brother's shirts was one of which he thoroughly approved. It gave him a feeling of intimacy, as though he had been admitted to the performance of a domestic rite.
Sheila picked up a second shirt, inspected it critically, and frowned. "Now, isn't that a wreck?" she observed. "Sandy's awfully hard on his shirts." She nipped a thread recklessly between her teeth, shot the end deftly through the needle's eye, and sighed. "Oh, well, I suppose I must just do the best I can with the thing."
"Your brother is lucky," said Farwell. "My things get thrown away. No one to look after them when they begin to go."
"That's very wasteful," she reproved him. "Why don't you send them somewhere?"
"Where, for instance?"
"Oh, anywhere. I don't know. There must be women in every town who would like to earn a little money."
"Well, I haven't time to hunt for them. If you know any one around here who would undertake the job, I could give her quite a bit of work. So could the others."
"You don't mean me, do you?" laughed Sheila. "Sandy gives me all I can handle."
"Of course I never thought of such a thing," said Farwell seriously. "Did it sound like that?"
"No, I am joking. I think you take things seriously, Mr. Farwell."
"I suppose so," he admitted. "Yes, I guess I do. I can't help it. I'm no joker; no time for that. Jokers don't get anywhere. Never saw one that did. It's the fellow who keeps thinking about his job and banging away at it who gets there."
"The inference being that I won't get anywhere."
Farwell, puzzled momentarily, endeavoured to remember what he had said.
"I guess I made another break. I wasn't thinking of you. Women don't have to get anywhere. Men do—that is, men who count. I've seen a lot of fellows in my own profession—smart, clever chaps—but, instead of buckling down to work, they were eternally running about having a good time. And what did any of them ever amount to? Not that!" He snapped his fingers contemptuously.
"But wasn't that the fault of the men themselves? I mean that, apart from their liking for a good time, perhaps they hadn't the other qualities to make them successful."
"Yes, they had," said Farwell positively. "Didn't I say they were clever? It wasn't lack of that—it was their confounded fooling around. Almost every man gets one chance to make good. If he's ready for it when it comes, he's made. If he isn't—well, he isn't. That was the way with these fellows. When they should have been digging into the ground-work of their profession they weren't. And so, when good things were given them, they fell down hard. They lost money for other people, and that doesn't do. Now they're down and out—lucky to get a job with a level and one rodman to boss. There's no sympathy coming to them. It was their own fault."
He spoke positively, with finality, beating the heel of his clenched fist against his knee to emphasize his words. Evidently he spoke out of the faith that was in him. Not a line of his face suggested humour or whimsicality. Not a twinkle of the eye relieved its hardness. He was grave, dour, purposeful, matter-of-fact. He took himself, his life, and the things of life with exceeding seriousness.
Sheila regarded him thoughtfully. Somehow she was reminded of her father. There was the same gravity, marching hand in hand with tenacity of purpose, fixity of ideas; the same grim scorn of the tonic wine of jest and laughter. But in the elder man these were mellowed and softened. In Farwell, in the strength of his prime, they were in full tide, accentuated.
"Every man should have a good chance, and be ready for it," she replied; "but some men never get it."
"Yes, they do; yes, they do," he asseverated. "They get it, all right. Only some of them don't know it when it comes; and others are ashamed to own up that they've missed it. We all get it, I tell you, sooner or later."
"It may come too late to some."
"No, no, it comes in time if a man is wide awake. It's about the only square deal creation gives him. And it's about all creation owes him. It's right up to them then. If he's asleep, it's his own fault. I don't say it doesn't happen more than once; but it does happen once."
Plainly he was in deep earnest. He had no tolerance of failure, no excuse for it. According to his theory, every man at some time was master of his fate.
"Have you had your chance?" she asked.
"Not the big chance that I want. I've done some good work, here and there. But the big thing is coming to me. I feel it. And I'm in shape to handle it, too. When I do that, I'll quit working for other people. I'll work for myself. Yes, by George! they can come to me."
Sheila laughed at him. His absolute cocksureness was too ridiculous. But in spite of herself she was impressed by the sincerity of his belief in himself. And she realized that opportunity was apt to knock at the door of a man who believed in his own capacity for success and let others know it.
"I probably make you tired," said Farwell. "You asked me, and I told you. I'm not worrying aboutmyfuture. Now, let's talk about yours. You were away when I was here last week."
"Yes, I was over at Chakchak."
"That's Dunne's ranch. Your mother said you were helping him choose some things from a mail-order catalogue."
"Furniture, linen, dishes, and a lot of other things." There was no embarrassment in her tone.
"Oh!" said Farwell; and as he uttered the word it resembled a growl. "Well, when is it to be?"
"When is what to be?"
"Why, the wedding, of course."
"What wedding?" She laid down her work and stared at him. Then she laughed, though the colour surged to her cheeks. "Oh, I see. You think I was choosing these things for Mr. Dunne's prospective bride?"
"Of course."
"Not a bit of course—unless Casey has deceived me shamefully. Can't a man furnish his house better without having a wedding in view?"
"He can, but usually he doesn't. That's my experience."
"I wasn't aware that you were married."
"Married?" cried Farwell. "Me? I'm not. I'm glad of it. I have enough to worry me now. I——" He came to an abrupt stop. "Oh, well, laugh away," he added. "I'll tell you what I thought. I thought you were going to marry Dunne."
Sheila's laughter closed suddenly. "You haven't the least right to think that or say it," she said coldly. "It's strange if I can't help a friend choose a few house furnishings without impertinent comment."
"Oh, come!" said Farwell. "I didn't mean to be impertinent, Miss McCrae. I know I'm too outspoken. I'm always putting my foot in it."
"Very well," said Sheila. "I think you said you wanted to speak to me of my future?"
"Yes. I spoke to your father about selling the ranch. He refused point-blank. What can we do about it?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "'We?' If he told you he won't sell, he won't. I didn't know you had spoken to him."
"Couldn't you persuade him?"
"I wouldn't try. I don't want Talapus sold. What right have you to hold us up? That's what it amounts to."
"There's a woman for you!" cried Farwell to the world at large. "Hold you up? Great Scott, that's just what I'm not doing! I offered him the value he put on the ranch himself, not a holdup price. I mean I offered to get it for him. I want you to put it up to him, and get your mother to help you. You ought to have some say in this. He ought to think of you a little."
"It's his ranch," Sheila returned loyally. "He knows what he's doing. When a man has made up his mind, women shouldn't make things harder for him by whining."
"That's right enough, too," said Farwell, whose masculinity was in thorough accord with the last sentiment. "But he is just the same as throwing away a hundred thousand dollars. I don't want to see it. I know what he's up against. I want him to get out while he can break even."
"What about the rest of the ranchers?"
"I don't care a hang for the rest of the ranchers."
"And why do you make a distinction in our favour?"
Farwell was not prepared with an answer, even to himself. Her bluntness was disconcerting. "I don't know," he replied. "It doesn't matter. The main thing is to make your father get out of the way of the tree, for it's going to fall right where he's standing. He can't dodge once it starts. And what hits him hits you."
"Then I won't dodge, either," she declared bravely. "He's right not to sell. I wouldn't if I were in his place."
Farwell slid back in his chair and bit his cigar savagely.
"I never saw such a family!" he exclaimed. "You've got nerve a-plenty, but mighty poor judgment. Get it clear now, what's going to happen. You'll have enough water for domestic purposes and stock, but none for the ranch. Then it won't be worth a dollar an acre. Same way with the rest. And now let me tell you another thing: Just as soon as the water is turned off, every rancher will fall all over himself to sell. That's what your father doesn't believe. He'll see when it's too late. It's rank folly."
"It's our own folly, Mr. Farwell!"
"You mean it's none of my business. Well, I make it my business. I butt in on this. I'll put it right up to him. I'll shove the money right under his nose. If he turns it down I'm done. I'll quit. And if you don't do your best to make him take it, you won't be dealing fairly with him, your mother, or yourself."
Sheila stared at him, quite unused to such a tone. He, an utter stranger, was arrogating to himself the position of friend to the family, presuming to criticise her father's wisdom, to tell her what she should do and should not do. But withal she was impressed by his earnestness. His advice, she could not believe, was entirely disinterested. At the same time, inconsistently, she was angry.
"Well," she said. "I must say youare'butting in.' You—you—oh, you don't lack nerve, Mr. Farwell!"
"Don't worry about my nerve," he retorted grimly. "You'll have other troubles. For Heaven's sake have some sense. Will you do as I tell you, or won't you?" He leaned forward, tapping the arm of her chair with tense fingers.
"No," she answered positively, "I won't."
Young McCrae came around the corner of the house. He was hatless, coatless, muddy from his work in the ditches. A pair of faded blue overalls were belted to his lean middle by a buckskin thong, and his feet were incased in wet moccasins. He came noiselessly but swiftly, not of purpose, but from habit, with a soft, springy step; and he was level with them before they were aware of him. He came to an abrupt halt, his eyes on Farwell, every muscle tensing. For an instant he resembled a young tiger about to spring.
"Oh, Sandy," cried his sister, "what a mess! For goodness sake don't come up here with those muddy moccasins."
"Just as you say," drawled young McCrae. "I thought you might want me. Anything I can do for you, sis? Want anything carried in—orthrown out?" He accented the last words.
Farwell, who had read danger signals in men's eyes before, saw the flare of enmity in the young man's, and raised his shoulders in a faint shrug. He smiled to himself in amusement.
"No, there's nothing, thanks," said Sheila, quite unconscious of the hidden meaning of his words. "Better get cleaned up for supper."
McCrae swung on silently, with his rapid, noiseless step. Farwell turned to Sheila.
"Do this for me, Miss McCrae," he pleaded. "Give me a fair chance with your father if you won't help me with him. Don't tell your brother of what I'm trying to do. If you do that, his influence will be the other way."
"If my father has made up his mind, none of us can change it," said Sheila. "But I'll give you a fair field. I won't tell Sandy."
Farwell, in spite of previous virtuous resolutions, remained for supper. The elder McCraes had not returned. The young people had the meal to themselves; and Sheila and Farwell had the conversation to themselves, for Sandy paid strict and confined attention to his food, and did not utter half a dozen words. Immediately afterward he vanished; but, when Farwell went to the stable for his horse, he found the young man saddling a rangy, speedy-looking black.
"Guess I'll ride with you a piece," he announced.
"All right," Farwell replied carelessly. He did not desire company; but if it was forced on him he could not help it.
The light was failing as they rode from the ranch house. The green fields lay sombre in the creeping dusk. Nighthawks in search of food darted in erratic flight, uttering their peculiar booming notes. Running water murmured coolly in the ditch that flanked the road. Cattle, full of repletion, stood in contented lethargy by the watering place, ruminating, switching listlessly at the evening flies which scarcely annoyed them. The vivid opalescent lights of the western sky grew fainter, faded. Simultaneously the zenith shaded from turquoise to sapphire. In the northeast, low over the plains, gleaming silver against the dark velvet background of the heavens, lay the first star.
But Farwell paid no attention to these things. Instead, he was thinking of Sheila McCrae—reconstructing her pose as she bade him good-bye, the direct, level gaze of her dark eyes, the contour of her face, the cloudy masses of her brown hair. He was unconsciously engaged in the perilous, artistic work of drawing for his sole and exclusive use a mental "portrait of a lady"; and, after the manner of man attracted by woman, he idealized the picture of his creation. By virtue of this absorbing occupation, he quite forgot the presence of the brother of the woman. But a mile beyond the ranch young McCrae pulled up.
"I turn off here," he said.
"That so? Good night," said Farwell.
"There's something I came to tell you," McCrae pursued. "I'm not making any grand-stand play about it; but you'd better be a lot more careful when you're talking to my sister. Understand?"
"No, I don't," said Farwell. "I never said anything to Miss McCrae that her father and mother mightn't hear."
"Oh,that!" said young Sandy, and spat in disgust. "No, I guess you didn't—and you hadn't better. But you told her to do something—fairly ordered her. I heard you, and I heard her tell you she wouldn't. Perhaps you'll tell me what it was?"
"Perhaps I won't."
"Why not?"
"Because I don't want to, mostly," said Farwell impatiently. "Also because it's none of your business. Your sister and I understand each other. Our conversation didn't concern you—directly, anyway."
"I'll let it go at that on your say-so," Sandy returned, with surprising calmness. "I'm not crowding trouble with you, but get this clear: You know why you're hanging around the ranch, and I don't. All the same, if you are up to any monkey business, you'll settle it with me."
Farwell's temper, never reliable, rose at once.
"Quite a Wild West kid, aren't you?" he observed, with sarcasm. "You make me tired. It's a good thing for you your people are decent." He crowded his horse close to the other. "Now, look here, young fellow, I won't stand for any fool boy's talk. You're old enough to know better. Cut it out with me after this, do you hear?"
"Where are you coming with that cayuse?" demanded young McCrae, and suddenly raked a rowelled heel behind the animal's shoulder.
Ensued five strenuous minutes for Farwell, wherein he sought to soothe his mount's wounded feelings. When at last the quadruped condescended to allow his four hoofs to remain on the ground simultaneously for more than a fraction of a second, young McCrae was gone; and Farwell, somewhat shaken, and profane with what breath was left him, had nothing for it but to resume his homeward way.
CHAPTER IX
The astute Mr. Sleeman's prediction to Farwell—namely, that the attitude of the ranchers would affect land sales—proved correct. Naturally, owing to a perfect advertising machinery, a number of sales were made to people at distant points, who bought for speculation merely. But these, though well enough in their way, were not entirely satisfactory. The company needed actual settlers—men who would go upon the lands and improve them—to furnish object lessons from the ground itself to personally conducted, prospective buyers, who in turn should do the same, and ultimately provide the Prairie Southern branch of Western Airline with a paying traffic in freight and humanity.
But prospective buyers proved annoyingly inquisitive. After looking at the company's holdings, they naturally wished to see for themselves what the country was good for; and the obvious way to find out was to visit the established ranches.
Sleeman could not prevent it—nor appear to wish to prevent it. In fact, he had to acquiesce cheerfully and take them himself. That was better than letting them go alone. But the very air seemed to carry rumours. In vain he assured them that there was no fear of trouble, that in any event the company would protect them; in vain he showed them the big canal and beautiful system of ditches, and pointed with much enthusiasm to the armour-belted, double-riveted clause in the sale contracts, guaranteeing to the lucky buyer the delivery of so many miner's inches or cubic feet of water every day in the year.
"It's like this," said one prospective buyer: "They ain't enough water for the whole country, and you're certainly aimin' to cinch some of the men that's here already so tight they can't breathe. If I buy water they're gettin' now, they're mighty apt to be sore on me. Dunno's I blame them, either. I like to stand well with my neighbours. Your land's all right, but I can't see where we deal."
And the attitude of this individual was fairly representative. Landlookers came, saw; but, instead of remaining to conquer the soil, the majority of them went elsewhere.
This was hard on Sleeman. He was a good salesman, and he had a good proposition; but he was handicapped by conditions not of his creating and beyond his control. And he knew quite well that, while a corporation may not give an employee any credit whatever for satisfactory results, it invariably saddles him with the discredit of unsatisfactory ones.
He foresaw that sooner or later—and very probably sooner—he would be asked to explain why he was not making sales. And he came to the conclusion that, as something was sure to start, he might as well start it himself.
His cogitations crystallized in the form of a letter to his chief, the head of the land department, wherein he told the bald and shining truth without even a mental reservation. And he intimated tactfully that if the department had another man whom they considered better fitted to deal with the unfortunate local conditions, he, Sleeman, would be charmed to assist him, or to go elsewhere in their service, if that seemed best to their aggregate wisdom. He worded his part of this letter very carefully, for he had seen as good men as himself incontinently fired merely because they could not deny themselves the luxury of a petulant phrase.
His letter bore fruit; for Carrol, the mighty head of the land department, came down to see things for himself.
Carrol, however, suffered from a species of myopia not uncommon among gentlemen who have for a long time represented large interests. He had so come to look upon Western Airline as an irresistible force, that the concept of an immovable body was quite beyond him. He had nothing but contempt for any person or set of persons—corporations with equal capital always excepted—rash enough to oppose any of its plans.
"Now, see here," he said at a conference with Sleeman and Farwell. "We can't afford to have our sales blocked this way. Our ditches will carry water now, and the dam itself is nearly completed. Open up the ditches and take all the water you can. Then we'll see whether there is anything in these yarns."
"But if we take water before we need it, we simply stiffen their hand," Sleeman objected. "We give them legitimate grounds to kick."
"They'll kick, anyway," said Carrol. "We need water to grow grass—if anybody should ask you. The sooner we take it the sooner we shall be able to acquire these ranches. Once the men see what they're up against they'll ask us to buy, which we'll do on our own terms. That's the programme. What do you think, Farwell?"
"You're the doctor," Farwell replied.
"You don't anticipate any trouble?"
"Not a bit," said Farwell contemptuously. "They'll howl, of course. Let 'em. In a month they'll eat out of your hand."
"Quite so," said Carrol; "that's how I look at it."
"There's one man, though," said Farwell, "whom I'd like to see get a fair price. That's McCrae, who owns Talapus Ranch. It's the biggest and best in the country."
"Will he sell now?"
"He might."
"What has he got, and what does he want for it?"
Farwell told him.
"What is it worth, Sleeman?" And at his agent's appraisal, Carrol looked shocked and grieved. "Why, good Lord! Farwell," he said, "he wants almost what his ranch is worth."
"Funny that he should, isn't it?" sneered Farwell, who stood in no awe of Carrol. "Well, and that's what I want him to get."
"Can't do it," said Carrol decisively. "No money in it. Show me how I could make a profit."
"Cut it up into little chunks and sell it to those marks back East," Farwell replied. "I don't have to tell you your business. Make another Sentinel of it if you like."
The reference was to the town site of Sentinel, a half section of prairie which had been bought for three thousand dollars and sold as town lots on paper at a couple of hundred thousand to confiding, distant investors. It was still prairie, and apt to remain so. Carrol had engineered the deal, and he would have blushed if he had not forgotten how. As it was, he smiled sourly.
"I wish I could. Is this McCrae a friend of yours?"
"Put it that way," Farwell replied, frowning at the quizzical expression of Sleeman's eye. "He doesn't want to sell, but I want him to have the chance of refusing real money. He may take it, or he may not. Anyway, I make it as a personal request."
Carrol eyed him for a moment. He knew Farwell's reputation for uncompromising hostility to any one who thwarted his plans, accidentally or otherwise. Also Farwell was a good man. He was bound to rise. Some day, he, Carrol, might require his help and he kept a sharp eye on possibilities of that nature. So he said:
"It isn't business, but to obligeyou, Farwell—all right, I'll take the chance that he won't accept. But it's sudden death, mind. No dickering. He accepts, or he doesn't. If not, he'll get just dry-belt prices with the rest when they surrender."
And so a few days afterward Farwell, armed with a check representing one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of lawful money, procured because he considered it likely to have a good moral effect, sought Talapus Ranch and Donald McCrae. And McCrae, as he feared, turned the offer down.
Farwell had calculated on producing the check at the proper psychological moment, in practically stampeding him. The trouble was that the psychological moment failed to arrive. McCrae showed no symptoms of vacillation. The issue was never in doubt.
"I told you before," he said, "I don't want to sell, and I won't sell."
"It's a hundred and fifty thousand cold cash—your own value," urged Farwell. "At 6 per cent. it's nine thousand a year from now to eternity for you and your wife and children. If you refuse, the best you can hope for is dry-land prices. It's your only salvation, I tell you."
"My word is passed," said McCrae. "Even if it wasn't, I wouldn't be harried off the little bit of earth that's mine. It's good of you to take this trouble—I judge you had trouble—but it's not a bit of use."
"Look here," said Farwell. "Will you talk it over with your family—your wife and daughter particularly? It's due to them."
"I will not," McCrae refused, with patriarchal scorn. "Iam the family. I speak for all."
"The old mule!" thought Farwell. Aloud he said: "I want to tell you that in a few days you'll lose half your water. The rest will go when the dam is finished. This is final—the last offer, your last chance. I've done every blessed thing I could for you. Right now is when you make or break yourself and your wife and children."
"That's my affair," said McCrae. "I tell you no, and no." He plucked the oblong paper from Farwell's unresisting fingers. "A lot of money, aren't you?" he apostrophized it. "More than I've ever seen before, or will see again, like enough." Suddenly he tore the check in half, and again and again, cast the fragments in the air, and blew through them. "And there goes your check, Mr. Farwell!"
"And there goes your ranch with it," Farwell commented bitterly. "One is worth just about as much as the other now."
"I'm not so sure about that," said McCrae.
"I'm sure enough for both of us," Farwell responded.
With a perfunctory good-bye, he swung into the saddle, leaving McCrae, a sombre figure, leaning against the slip bars of the corral. He had anticipated this outcome; but, nevertheless, he was disappointed, vaguely apprehensive. In vain he told himself that it was nothing to him. The sense of failure persisted. Once he half turned in his saddle, looking backward, and he caught, or fancied he caught, the flutter of white against the shade of the veranda of the distant ranch house. That must be Sheila McCrae.
For the first time he realized that his concern was for her alone, that he did not care a hoot for the rest of the family. All this bother he had been to, all his efforts with old McCrae, his practical holdup of Carrol, even—he owned it to himself frankly—his failure to push the construction work as fast as he might had been for her and because of her. And what was the answer?
"Surely," said Farwell, straightening himself in the saddle, "surely to blazes I'm not getting fond of the girl!"
As became a decent, respectable, contented bachelor, he shied from the idea. It was absolutely ridiculous, unheard-of. The girl was all right, sensible, good-looking. She suited him as well as any woman he had ever met; but that, after all, was not saying much. He liked her—he made that concession candidly—but as for anything more—nothing to it!
But the idea, once born, refused to be disposed of thus summarily; it persisted. He found himself recalling trivial things, all pertaining to Sheila—tricks of manner, of speech, intonations, movements of the hands, body, and lips—these avalanched themselves upon him, swamping connected, reasonable thought.
"What cursed nonsense!" said Farwell angrily to himself. "I don't care a hang about her, of course. I'm dead sure she doesn't care for me. Anyway, I don't want to get married—yet. I'm not in shape to marry. Why, what the devil wouldIdo with a wife? Where'd I put her?"
A wife! Huh! Instantly he was a prey to misgivings. He recalled shudderingly brother engineers whose wives dragged about with them, living on the edge of construction camps under canvas in summer, in rough-boarded, tar-papered shacks in the winter; or perhaps in half-furnished cottages in some nearby jerk-water town.
He had pitied the men, fought shy of the women. Most of them had put the best face upon their lives, rejoicing in the occasional streaks of fat, eating the lean uncomplainingly. They led a migratory existence, moved arbitrarily, like pawns, at the will of eminent and elderly gentlemen a thousand or so miles away, whom they did not know and who did not know them. Continually, as their temporary habitations began to take on the semblance of homes, they were transferred, from mountains to plains, from the far north to the tropics. Their few household goods bore the scars of many movings—by rail, by steamer, by freight wagon, and even by pack train.
And there were those whose responsibilities forced them to abandon life at the front. These set up establishments in the new, cheap residential districts of cities. There the wives kept camp; thither, at long intervals, the husbands took journeys ranging from hundreds of miles to thousands. True, there were those who had attained eminence. These lived properly in well-appointed houses in eligible localities; and their subordinates kept the work in hand during their frequent home-goings. But the ruck—the rank and file—had to take such marital happiness as came their way on the quick-lunch system.
Now Farwell was a bachelor, rooted and confirmed. He had always shunned married men's quarters. When his day's work was done, he foregathered with other lone males, talking shop half the night in a blue haze of tobacco around a red-hot stove or stretched in comfortable undress in front of a tent. This was his life as he had lived it for years; as he had hoped to live it until he attained fame and became a consulting engineer, a man who passed on the work of other men.
His theory of his own capacity for domesticity, though sincere, was strictly academic. He had no more idea of putting it into practice than he had of proving in his own person, before his proper time, the doctrine of eternal life.
Now, into the familiar sum of existence, which he knew from divisor to quotient, was suddenly shot a new factor—a woman. He experienced a new sensation, vague, unaccountable, restless, like the first uneasy throbs that precede a toothache. He lit a cigar; but, though he drew in the smoke hungrily, it did not satisfy. He felt a vacancy, a want, a longing.
He became aware of a dust cloud approaching. Ahead of it loped a big, clean-limbed buckskin. In the straight, wiry figure in the saddle he recognized Casey Dunne. Dunne pulled up and nodded.
"Fine day, Mr. Farwell."
"Yes," said Farwell briefly.
"Work coming on all right?"
"Yes."
"That's good," Dunne commented, with every appearance of lively satisfaction. "Been to Talapus? See anything of Miss McCrae there?"
"She's at home, I believe," said Farwell stiffly.
"Thanks. Come around and see me some time. Morning." He lifted the buckskin into a lope again.
Farwell looking after him, experienced a second new sensation—jealousy.
CHAPTER X
Casey Dunne, busily engaged in strengthening a working harness with rivets, looked up as a shadow fell across the morning sunlight. The shadow belonged to Tom McHale.
McHale, like Dunne himself, had seen rough times. Older than his employer, he had wandered up and down the West in the good old days of cheap land and no barbed wire, engaged in the congenial, youthful occupation of seeing as much country as he could. In the process, he had turned his hand to almost everything which had fresh air as a collateral, from riding for a cattle outfit to killing meat for railway camps. He and Dunne had come into the Coldstream country at nearly the same time; but Dunne had some money and McHale none at all. Dunne bought land and hired McHale. They worked side by side to make the ranch. McHale bought forty acres from Dunne and worked out the price, bought more, and was still working it out. But apart from financial matters they were fast friends, and either would have trusted the other with anything he possessed.
"Say," said McHale, "there's something wrong. Our ditches ain't runnin' more'n half full."
Casey put down the hammer. "Maybe the ditch is plugged somewhere."
"She may be, but it ain't likely. I've followed her quite a piece. So I come to get me a cayuse to go the rest of the way."
"I'll go with you," said Casey, throwing the harness on a peg.
In five minutes they were loping easily along the ditch, with sharp eyes for possible obstructions. As McHale had said, it was running not half full, and seemed to be falling. The strong, deep, gurgling note of a full head of water was gone. Instead was a mere babble.
So far as they could see, the flow was unhindered by obstacles; there was no break in the banks. Even around the treacherous sidehill there was no more than the usual seepage. And so at last they rode down to the Coldstream itself, to the intake of the ditch, a rude wing dam of logs, brush, and sand bags, which, nevertheless, had served them excellently heretofore.
"I'm an Injun," McHale, ejaculated, "if the whole durn creek ain't lowered!" Because he came from a land of real rivers, he invariably referred to the Coldstream thus slightingly.
But unmistakably it had fallen. Half the dam appeared above the surface, slimy, weed-grown, darkly water-soaked. Naturally, with the falling of the water, the ditch had partially failed.
The two men looked at each other. The same thought was present in the mind of each. It was barely possible that a land or rock slide somewhere high upstream had dammed or diverted the current; but it was most improbable. The cause was nearer to seek, the agency extremely human.
McHale bit into fresh consolation and spat in the direction of the inadequate dam.
"I reckon they've started in on us," he observed.
"Looks like it," Casey agreed.
"We need water now the worst way. I was figurin' on shootin' a big head on to the clover, and after that on to the oats. They sure need it. What's runnin' now ain't no use to us. We got to have more."
"No doubt about that, Tom," said Casey. "We'll ride up to their infernal dam and see just what's doing."
"Good enough!" cried McHale, his eyes lighting up. "But say, Casey, them ditch-and-dam boys ain't no meek-and-lowly outfit. Some of 'em is plumb hard-faced. How'd it be if I scattered back to the ranch first. I ain't packed a gun steady since I got to be a hayseed, but——"
"What do you want of a gun? We're just going to look at things and have a talk with Farwell."
"You never know when you'll need a gun," McHale asserted, as an incontrovertible general proposition.
"You won't need it this time. Come along."
It was almost midday when they came in sight of the construction camp beside the dam. To their surprise, a barbed wire fence had been thrown around it, enclosing an area of some twenty acres. On the trail, a space had been left for a gate, but it had not yet been hung. Beside it stood a post bearing a notice board, and, sitting with his back against the post, a man rested, smoking. As they came up, he rose and sauntered into the trail between the gate-posts.
"Hey you, hold on there!" he said.
Dunne and McHale pulled up.
"Look a-here, friend," said the latter, "do you think you're one of them never-sag gates, or a mountain, or what? You want to see a doctor about them delusions. They'll sure get you into trouble some day."
"That'll be all right about me," the big guardian of the gate returned. "Just read that notice. This is private property."
They read it. It was of the "no-admittance" variety, and forbade entrance to all individuals not in the company's employ.
"We've got business here, and we're going in," said Casey, and began to walk his horse forward.
The man caught the bridle with one hand. The other he thrust into his pocket.
"You get back now," he ordered, "or you'll walk home."
Dunne stopped instantly. His companion's hand made one lightninglike motion, and perforce came up empty.
"And this," said Mr. McHale mournfully—"this was the time I didn't need a gun!"
"Well, you don't need it, do you?" said Casey. "Observe, the gentleman still keeps his sawed-off yeggman's delight in his pocket. Pull it, friend, pull it! Don't scorch the cloth by pressing the trigger where it is. Steady, Shiner, while the gentleman shoots you!"
The guardian smiled sardonically. "Amuse yourselves, boys, but don't crowd in on me."
"Just as you say," replied Casey. "By the way, you needn't tire your arm holding my horse. He'll stand. Besides, I don't like it."
The man released the bridle and stepped back. "Make this easy for me, boys, I don't want trouble, but I got my instructions."
"Now, you listen here," said McHale. "Lemme tell you something: It's just hell's tender mercy on you I ain't got a gun. If I'd 'a' had it, you'd been beef by the trail right now."
"There's always two chances to be the beef," the other returned, unmoved. "Go fill your hand before you talk to me."
McHale grinned at him. "I like you better than I did, partner. Next time you won't have no kick on what I hold."
"We want to see Farwell," said Casey.
"Why couldn't you say that before?" the guardian returned. "I'll take a chance on you. Go in."
They found Farwell at his quarters before a table covered with prints and tracings.
"What can I do for you?" he asked curtly.
"My ditch has gone half dry," Casey replied. "I observe, too, that the river is lower than usual; which, of course, accounts for the ditch. It occurred to me that perhaps you might account for the river."
"We have begun to take water for our lands," Farwell told him. "Possibly that has something to do with it."
"I shouldn't wonder," Casey agreed dryly. "Why are you taking water now?"
"That," said Farwell deliberately, "is entirely our own affair."
"It affects us. You can't possibly use the water, because your lands are not cultivated."
"The water benefits the land," Farwell rejoined coldly. "It shows intending purchasers that we are actually delivering a sufficient quantity of water. Our use of it is legitimate."
"It's a low-down,cultustrick, if you ask me!" McHale interjected forcefully.
"I didn't ask you," snapped Farwell; "but I'll tell you what I'll do. You make another remark like that, and I'll fire you out through that door."
McHale ignored Casey's significant glance.
"That door there?" he asked innocently. "That big, wide door leadin' right outside into all that fresh air? You don't mean that one?"
"That's the one," Farwell returned angrily.
"Well, well, well!" said McHale, in mock wonder. "You don't say? And it looks just like a common, ordinary door, too. Do you reckon you got time right now to show me how it works?"
"Quit it, Tom," said Casey. "Farwell, I want to get right down to case cards. This is a raw deal. I ask you not to take water that you can't use."
"Not to mince matters with you, Dunne," Farwell returned, "I may as well say that we intend to take as much as we like and when we like. There's plenty of water left in the river. It's merely a question of building your dams to catch it."
"Will you say that there will be plenty when your big dam is finished?"
Farwell lifted his big shoulders in a shrug which coupled utter indifference with an implication that the future was in the hands of Providence.
"Good Lord, Dunne, there's no use talking about that!" said he. "We will take what water we want. You get what is left. Is that plain?"
"Yes," said Casey quietly. "I won't bother you any more."
"But I will," said McHale. "I'll just bother you to make good that bluff of yours about firin' me out of here. Why, you durn, low-flung——"
"Quit it!" Casey interrupted. "Stay where you are, Farwell, I'm not going to have a scrap. Tom, you come with me."
"Oh, well, just as you say, Casey," grumbled McHale. "I ain't hostile, special. Only I don't want him to run no blazers on me. He——"
But Casey got him outside and administered a vitriolic lecture that had some effect.
"I'm sorry, Casey," McHale acknowledged, contritely. "I s'pose I ought to known better. But that gent with the gun and Farwell between them got me goin'. Honest, I never hunted trouble in my life. It just naturally tracks up on me when I'm lyin' all quiet in camp. Course, it has to be took care of when it comes."
"There'll be enough to keep you busy," said Casey grimly. And apparently in instant fulfilment of the prophecy came the short, decisive bark of a six-shooter. By the sound, the shot had been fired outside the camp, in the direction of the gate.
"It's that cuss that held us up!" snarled McHale, and swore viciously.
Both men went up into their saddles as if catapulted from the earth. McHale yelled as he hit the leather—a wild, ear-splitting screech, the old trouble cry of his kind in days gone by—and both horses leaped frantically into motion, accomplishing the feat peculiar to cow and polo ponies of attaining their maximum speed in three jumps. They surged around the medley of tents and shacks, and came into the open neck and neck, running like singed cats.
A few hundred yards away, where the new sign-board stood beside the trail a horse struggled to rise, heaved its fore quarters up, and crashed down again, kicking in agony, raising a cloud of dust. Facing it, bending slightly forward, stood a man, holding a gun in his right hand.
Suddenly out of the dust cloud staggered a second, who rushed at the first, head down, extended fingers wildly clutching, and as he came he bellowed hoarsely the wild-bull cry of the fighting male, crazed with pain or anger. The gun in the hand of the first man flashed up and cut down; and, as it hung for an instant at the level, the report rapped through the still air. But the other, apparently unhurt, charged into him, and both went down together.