Jim Crill was sitting in a corner of the hotel office when Rogeen came down; and he motioned to Bob to take the chair beside him.
"Notice a cotton gin being built across the line?" the old gentleman asked, crossing his legs and thrusting his hands into his trousers pockets.
"Yes," Bob nodded. "I wondered if you had."
"Reckon I have," remarked Crill, dryly. "I'm puttin' up the money for it."
"You are?" Bob was surprised. This upset his suspicions in regard to that gin.
"Yes; don't you think it's a good investment?" The old gentleman's keen blue eyes looked searchingly from under the shaggy brows at Rogeen.
"Lots of cotton raised over there," Bob answered, noncommittally. "And the Mexicans really ought to have a gin on their side of the line."
The old gentleman cleared his throat as though about to say something else; and then changed his mind and sat frowning in silence so long Bob wondered why he had sent for him.
"Lots of cotton raisers 'll go broke this fall." Crill broke the silence abruptly.
"Already are," replied Bob.
"Know what it means." The old gentleman jerked his head up and down. "Hauled my last bale of five-cent cotton to the store many a time, and begged 'em to let the rest of my bill run another year. That was before I ran the store myself; and then struck oil on a patch of Texas land. Haven't got as much money as folks think but too much to let lie around idle. Think this valley is a good place to invest, don't you?" Again the searching blue eyes peered at the young man.
"I certainly do," answered Bob with conviction. "The soil is bottomless; it will grow anything and grow it all the year."
"If it gets water," added the old gentleman.
"Of course—but we had plenty of water this year. And," went on Bob, "this war is not going to smash the cotton market forever. It's going to smash most of us who have no money to hold on with. But next spring or next summer or a year after, sooner or later, prices will begin to climb. The war will decrease production more than it will consumption. The war demands will send the price of wool up, and when wool goes up it pulls cotton along with it. Cotton will go to twenty cents, maybe more."
"That sounds like sense." The old gentleman nodded slowly. "And it is the fellow that is a year ahead that gets rich on the rise; and the fellow a year behind that gets busted on the drop in prices."
"There are going to be some fortunes made in raising cotton over there," Bob nodded toward the Mexican line, "in the next four years that will sound like an Arabian Nights' tale of farming.
"I figured it out this summer. That land is all for lease; it is level, it is rich. They get water cheaper than we do on this side; and I can get Chinese help, which is the best field labour in the world, for sixty-five cents to a dollar a day. I was planning before this smash came to plant six hundred acres of cotton next year."
"That's what I wanted to see you about," said Crill. "Want to lend some money over there, and you are the fellow to do it. Want to lend it to fellows you can trust on their honour without any mortgages. Guess mortgages over there aren't much account anyway.
"Want to keep the cotton industry up here in the valley. May want to start a cotton mill myself. Anyway," he added, belligerently, "a lot of 'em are about to lose their cotton crops; and this is a good time to stick 'em for a stiff rate of interest. Charge 'em 10 per cent—and half the cotton seed. I'm no philanthropist."
Bob smiled discreetly at the fierceness. That was the usual rate for loans on the Mexican side. And it was very reasonable considering the risk.
"Want to hire you," said the old man, "to lend money on cotton—and collect it. What you want a month?"
"I'll do it for $150 a month," answered Bob, "if it does not interfere with my own cotton growing next spring."
"We can fix that," agreed the old man.
"I think," replied Bob, "the best loans and the greatest help would be just now on the cotton already baled and at the compress. Most of the growers have debts for leases and water and supplies and borrowed money against their cotton, and cannot sell it at any price. Unless they do sell or can borrow on it by January first, these debts will take the cotton. If you would lend them six cents a pound on their compress receipts that would put most of them in the clear, and enable them to hold on a few months for a possible rise in price."
"That's your business." The old gentleman got up briskly. "I'll put $25,000 to your credit in the morning at the International Bank. It's your job to lend it. When it's gone, let me know."
"Oh, by the way," Bob's heart had been beating excitedly through all this arrangement, but he had hesitated to ask what was on his mind. "Do you mind if—if I lend myself five cents a pound on 180 bales?"
The old man turned and glared at him fiercely.
"Do you reckon I'd trust you to lend to others if I didn't trust you myself? Make the loans, then explain the paper afterward."
Next morning Bob bought a second-hand automobile for two hundred and fifty dollars and gave his note for it. It was not much of an automobile, but it was of the sort that always comes home.
Rogeen headed straight south, and in less than an hour stopped at the Chandler ranch.
Imogene was under the shade of the arrow-weed roof, reading a magazine. Rogeen felt a quick thrill as he saw her flush slightly as she came out to meet him.
"What means the gasolene chariot?" she asked. "Prosperity or mere recklessness?"
"Merely hopefulness," he answered. "I brought a paper for you. Sign on the dotted line." He handed her a promissory note, due in six months, for $4,500.
"What is this?" She had been living so long on a few dollars at a time that the figures sounded startling.
"I've got a loan on your cotton," replied Bob with huge satisfaction. "And you can have it as soon as you and your father have signed the note."
"Good heavens!" The blood had left her face. "You are not joking, are you? Why, man alive, that means that we live! It will give us $1,400 above the debts."
Bob felt a choking in his throat. The pluckiness of the girl! And that he could bring her relief! "Yes, and I'm going to take you back to town, where you can pay off the debts and get your money."
The exuberant gayety that broke over the girl's spirits as they returned to town moved Bob deeply. What a long, hard pull she and her father had had; no wonder the unexpected relief sent her spirits on the rebound.
"Thank the Lord," he said, fervently, to himself, "for that sharp old man with bushy eyebrows!"
As they drove up to the International Bank where Bob had asked the compress company to send all the bills against the Chandler cotton, another machine was just driving away and a woman was entering the bank.
"By the great horn spoon," Bob exclaimed aloud, "that is Mrs. Barnett."
"Who is Mrs. Barnett?" Imogene Chandler asked archly. "Some special friend of yours?"
"Hardly," Bob replied, remembering that Miss Chandler knew neither Jim Crill nor his niece.
"And the man who was driving away," said Imogene, "was Reedy Jenkins."
"It was?" Bob turned quickly. "Are you sure? I was watching the woman and did not notice the machine."
A mutual discovery--they both cared.A mutual discovery—they both cared.
A mutual discovery--they both cared.A mutual discovery—they both cared.
As they entered the bank Mrs. Barnett, dressed in a very girlish travelling suit, was standing by the check counter as though waiting. At sight of Bob she nodded and smiled reservedly.
"Oh, Mr. Rogeen," she arched her brows and called to him as he started to the cashier's window with Imogene Chandler.
Bob excused himself and approached her, a little uneasy and decidedly annoyed. Her mouth was simpering, but her eyes had that sharp, predatory look he had seen before.
"Mr. Rogeen," she began in a cool, ladylike voice, "my uncle told me of the arrangement he had made with you and asked me to O. K. all the loans before you make them."
"Is that so?" Bob felt a mingling of wrath and despair. "He did not say anything to me about it."
"N-o?"—questioningly—"we talked it over last night, and he felt sure this would be the better plan."
Bob hesitated for a moment. Imogene had gone to the other note counter, and was trying idly not to be aware of the conversation. It would be utterly too cruel to disappoint her now. It went against the grain, but Rogeen swallowed his resentment and distaste.
"All right," he nodded brightly. "I've got one loan already for you." He drew the papers from his pocket. "It is six cents on 150 bales of cotton now in the yards. Here are the compress receipts."
"Whom is this for?" Her eyes looked at him challengingly; her lips shaped the words accusingly.
"To Miss Chandler and her father." Bob felt himself idiotically blushing.
Mrs. Barnett's face took on the frozen look of a thousand generations of damning disapprobation.
"No! Not one cent to that woman. Uncle and I don't care to encourage that sort."
For a moment Bob stood looking straight into the frigid face of Mrs. Barnett. It was the first time in his life he would have willingly sacrificed his personal pride for money. He would have done almost anything to get that money for Imogene Chandler. But it was useless to try to persuade the widow that she was wrong. Back of her own narrowness was Reedy Jenkins. This was Reedy's move; he was using the widow's vanity and personal greed for his own ends; and his ends were the destruction of Rogeen and the capitulation of Miss Chandler.
Mrs. Barnett's eyes met his defiantly, but her mouth quivered a little nervously. A doubt flashed through his mind. Was she authorized to do this? Surely she would not dare take such authority without her uncle's consent. He might telephone, anyway, then a more direct resolution followed swiftly. He turned away from Mrs. Barnett and went to the cashier's window.
"Did Jim Crill deposit $25,000 here subject to my check?" he asked.
"He did," replied the cashier.
"Are there any strings to it?"
"None," responded the cashier promptly.
Without so much as glancing toward the widow, who had watched this move with a venomous suspicion, Bob went to Miss Chandler by the desk and took the papers from his pocket, and laid them before her.
"Indorse the compress receipts over to Mr. Crill."
Then he wrote two checks—one to the bank for $3,123 to pay off all the claims against the Chandler cotton and one to Imogene for $1,377.
"You don't know, Mr. Rogeen," she started to say in a low, tense voice as she took the check, "how much——"
"I don't need to," he smilingly interrupted her gratitude, "for it isn't my money. I'll see you at lunch; and then take you back home in my car." He lifted his hat and turned back to the counter where Mrs. Barnett stood loftily, disdainfully, yet furiously angry.
"Well," said Bob, casually, "I've made one loan, anyway."
"It will be your last." Mrs. Barnett clutched her hands vindictively. "You'll be discharged as quick as I get to Uncle Jim."
Bob really expected he would, but not for three jobs would he have recalled that loan and the light of relief in Imogene Chandler's eyes.
Mrs. Barnett went direct from the bank to Reedy Jenkins' office. As she climbed the outside stairway she was so angry she forgot to watch to see that her skirts did not lift above her shoe tops. As she entered the door her head was held as high and stiff as though she had been insulted by a disobedient cook. White showed around her mouth and the base of her nose, and her nostrils were dilated.
"Why, Mrs. Barnett!" Reedy arose with an oratorical gesture. "What a pleasant surprise. Have a chair."
She took the chair he placed for her without a word and her right hand clutched the wrist of the left. She was breathing audibly.
"Did you see Rogeen?" Jenkins suggested suavely.
"Yes." The tone indicated that total annihilation should be the end of that unworthy creature. But her revenge, like Reedy's expectations, was in the future. She hated to confess this. She breathed hard twice. "And I'll show him whose word counts."
"You don't mean," Reedy swiped his left hand roughly at the wisp of hair on his forehead, "that he disregarded your wishes?"
"He certainly did." Indignation was getting the better of her voice. "The low-lived—the contemptible—common person. And he insulted me with that—that creature."
"Well, of all the gall!" Reedy was quite as indignant as Mrs. Barnett, for very different if more substantial reasons. He had seen more and more that a fight with Rogeen was ahead, a fight to the finish; and the further he went the larger that fight looked. The easiest way to smash a man, Reedy had found, was to deprive him of money. A man can't carry out many schemes unless he can get hold of money. Jenkins had kept a close eye on Jim Crill, and had grown continually more uneasy lest the old chap become too favourably impressed with Rogeen. He had early sensed the old man's weak spot—one of them—Crill hated to be pestered. That was the vulnerable side at which Evelyn Barnett, the niece, could jab. And Reedy had planned all her attacks. This last move of Crill's—hiring Rogeen to lend money for him, had alarmed Reedy more than anything that had happened. For it would give Rogeen a big influence on the Mexican side. Most of the ranchers needed to borrow money, and it would put the man on whose word the loans would be made in mighty high favour. To offset this, Reedy had engineered an attack by Mrs. Barnett on the old gentleman's leisure. She had worried him and nagged him with the argument that he ought not to bother with a lot of business details, but should turn them over to her. She would see to the little things for him. He had reluctantly granted some sort of consent to this, a consent which Evelyn had construed meant blanket authority.
"He flatly refused," Mrs. Barnett was still thinking blisteringly of Bob Rogeen, "to obey my wishes in the matter. I told him plainly," she bit her lips again, "that neither Uncle nor I would consent to money being furnished women like that."
"I should say not." Reedy agreed with unctuous righteousness in his plump face. "And to think of that scalawag, making a loan right in your face, after you had vetoed it."
"He'll never make another." Mrs. Barnett's lips would have almost bit a thread in two. "Just wait until I get to Uncle Jim!"
"I'll drive you up," said Reedy. He reached to the top of the desk for his hat.
"Of course," remarked Reedy on the way, "your uncle is very generous to want to help these fellows across the line that are broke. But they are riff-raff. He will lose every dollar of it. I know them. Good Lord! haven't I befriended them, and helped them fifty ways? And do they appreciate it? Well, I should say not!"
"The more you do for people the less they appreciate it," said Mrs. Barnett still in a bitter mood.
"Some people," corrected Reedy. "There are a few, a very few, who never forget a favour."
"Yes, that is true," assented the widow, and began to relent in her mind, seeing how kind was Mr. Jenkins.
"I'm very sorry," continued Reedy, frowning, "that your uncle has taken up this fellow. I've been looking up Rogeen's past—and he is no good, absolutely no good. Been a drifter all his life. Never had a hundred dollars of his own.
"By the way," Reedy suddenly remembered a coincidence in regard to that undertaker's receipt, "where was it your husband lost the sale of that mine?"
"At Blindon, Colorado."
"By George!" Reedy released the wheel with the right hand and slapped his leg. "I thought so. Do you know who that young man with the fiddle was who ruined your fortune?"
"No." Evelyn Barnett came around sharply.
"Bob Rogeen—that fellow who insulted you this morning."
"No? Not really?" Angry incredulity.
Reedy nodded. "As I told you, I've been looking up his past. And I got the story straight."
"The vile scoundrel!" Mrs. Barnett said, bitterly. "And to think Uncle would trust him with his money."
"We must stop it," said Reedy. "It isn't right that your uncle should be fleeced by this rascal."
"He shan't be!" declared Mrs. Barnett, gritting her teeth.
"There are too many really worthy investments," added Reedy.
"I'll see that this is the last money that man gets," Mrs. Barnett asseverated.
"Your uncle is a little bull headed, isn't he?" suggested Reedy, cautiously. "Better be careful how you approach him."
"Oh, I'll manage him, never fear," she said positively.
Jenkins set Mrs. Barnett down at the entrance to the bungalow court. He preferred that Jim Crill should not see him with her. It might lead him to think Reedy was trying to influence her.
As Mrs. Barnett stalked up the steps, Jim Crill was sitting on the porch in his shirt sleeves, smoking.
"How are you feeling, dear?" she asked, solicitously.
"Ain't feelin'," Crill grunted—"I'm comfortable."
Evelyn sank into a chair, held her hands, and sighed.
"Oh, dear, it is so lonely since poor Tom Barnett died."
Uncle Jim puffed on—he had some faint knowledge of the poor deceased Tom.
"Do you know, Uncle Jim, I made a discovery to-day. The man who kept my poor husband from making a fortune was that person."
"What person?" growled the old chap looking straight ahead.
"That Rogeen person you are trusting your money to."
Jim Crill bit his pipe stem to hide a dry grin. He had often heard the story of the bursted mine sale. He had some suspicions, knowing Barnett, of what the mine really was.
"And, Uncle Jim, of course you won't keep him. Besides, he insulted me this morning."
"How?" It was another grunt.
Evelyn went into the painful details of her humiliation at the bank. "When she got through Uncle Jim turned sharply in his chair.
"Did you do that?"
"Do what?" gasped Evelyn.
"Try to interfere with his loans?"
"Why, why, yes." She was aghast at the tone, ready to shed protective tears. "Didn't you tell me—wasn't I to have charge of the little things?"
"Oh, hell!" Uncle Jim burst out. "Little things, yes—about the house I meant. Not my business. Dry up that sobbing now—and don't monkey any more with my business."
Uncle Jim got up and stalked off downtown.
Early one morning in March Bob picked Noah Ezekiel Foster up at a lunch counter where the hill billy was just finishing his fourth waffle.
"Want you to go out and look at two or three leases with me," said Rogeen as they got into the small car.
Bob had not lost his job with Crill over the Chandler loan. He was still lending the old gentleman's money and doing it without Mrs. Barnett's approval. But the widow had, he felt sure, done the moist, self-sacrificing, nagging stunt so persistently that her uncle had compromised by advancing much more money to Reedy Jenkins than safety justified. Crill had never mentioned the matter, but Bob knew Jenkins had got money from somewhere, and there certainly was no one else in the valley that would have lent it to him. For Reedy had managed to pick his cotton and gin it at the new gin on the Mexican side, where the bales were still stacked in the yards.
"Why do you suppose," asked Bob as they drove south past the Mexican gin, "Jenkins has left his cotton over on this side all winter?" Bob had formulated his own suspicions but wanted to learn what Noah Ezekiel thought, for Noah picked up a lot of shrewd information.
"Shucks," said Noah, "it's so plain that a way-farin' man though a cotton grower can see. He's kept it over there because he owes about three hundred thousand dollars on the American side, and as quick as he takes it across the line there'll be about as many fellows pullin' at every bale as there are ahold of them overall pants you see advertised."
"But cotton is selling now; it was six cents yesterday," remarked Bob. "At that he ought to have enough to pay his debts."
Noah Ezekiel snorted: "Reedy isn't livin' to pay his debts. He ain't hankerin' for receipts; what he wants is currency. His creditors on the American side are layin' low, because they can't do anything else. Reedy put one over on 'em when he built this gin. He can hold his cotton over here for high prices, and let them that he owes on the American side go somewhere and whistle in a rain barrel to keep from gettin' dry.
"As my dad used to say, 'The children of this world can give the children of light four aces and still take the jack pot with a pair of deuces.'"
Bob knew Noah was right. He had watched Jenkins pretty closely all winter. Reedy had endeavoured to convince all his creditors, and succeeded in convincing some, that he had not brought the cotton across the line because there was no market yet for it. "It is costing us nothing to leave it over there, so why bring it across and have to pay storage and also lose the interest on the $25,000 Mexican export duty which we must pay when it is removed?"
"Noah," remarked Bob, as the little car bumped across the bridge over the irrigation ditch, "I'm taking you out to see a Chinaman's lease. He has three hundred acres ready to plant and wants to borrow money to raise the crop. If you like the field and I like the Chinaman, I'm going to make the loan."
"Accordin' to my observation," remarked Noah, "a heathen Chinese has about all the virtues that a Christian ought to have, but ain't regularly got.
"The other mornin' after I'd been to the Red Owl the night before, I felt like I needed a cup of coffee. I went round to a Chink that I'd never met but two or three times, and says, 'John, I'm broke, will you lend me a hundred dollars?'
"That blasted Chink never batted an eye, never asked me if I owned any personal property subject to mortgage, nor if I could get three good men to go on my note. He just says, 'Surlee, Misty Foster,' and dived down in a greasy old drawer and began to count out greenbacks. 'Here,' I says, 'if you are that much of a Christian, I ain't an all-fired heathen myself. Give me a dime and keep the change.'"
Bob smiled appreciatively. "I've seen things like that happen more than once. And it is not because they are simple and ignorant either."
"You know," pursued Noah Ezekiel, "if I's Karniggy, I'd send a lot of 'em out as missionaries."
They were at Ah Sing's ranch. The three-hundred-acre field was level as a table, broken deep, thoroughly disked, and listed ready to water. The Chinaman, without any money or the slightest assurance he could get any for his planting, had worked all winter preparing the fields.
Ah Sing stood in front of his weed-and-pole shack waiting with that stoical anxiety which never betrays itself by hurry or nervousness. If the man of money came and saw fit to lend, "vellee well—if not, doee best I can."
"You go out and take a look at the field," Bob directed Noah, "see if there is any marsh grass or alfalfa roots, and look over his water ditches while I talk to the Chinaman."
"Good morning, Ah Sing," he said, extending his hand.
"Good morning, Misty Rogee." The Chinaman smiled and gave the visitor a friendly handshake. He was of medium height, had a well-shaped head and dignified bearing, and eyes that met yours straight. He looked about forty, but one never knows the age of a Chinaman.
"Nice farm, Ah Sing," Bob nodded approvingly at the well-plowed fields.
"He do vellee well." The Chinaman was pleased.
"And you have no money to make a crop?" Bob asked.
"No money," Ah Sing said, stoically.
"I heard last fall you had made a good deal of money raising cotton over here," suggested Bob.
"Me make some," admitted Ah Sing. "Workee vellee hard many year—make maybe eighteen—twentee thousan'."
"What became of it, Ah Sing? Don't gamble, do you?"
The Chinaman shook his head emphatically, "Me no gamble. Gamble—nobody trust. Me pick cotton for Misty Jenkins."
Bob was interested in that. He knew that after raising Jenkins' crop Ah Sing had taken the contract to pick it. Bob had heard other things but not from the Chinaman. "Didn't you make some money on that, too?"
"No money."
"Why not?" Bob spoke quickly. "Tell me about it, Ah Sing."
The Chinaman sighed again and the long, long look came into his patient oriental eyes.
"Ah work in America ever since leetle boy—so high. After while I save leetle money. Want go back China visit. I have cer-tificate. When I come back, say it's no good. Put me in jail. Don't know why. Stay long time. Send me back China. Then I come Mexico. Can't cross line; say damn Mexican Chinaman. I raise cotton—I raise lettuce—make leetle money. Maybee twent' thousan'.
"Misty Jenkins say 'Ah Sing, want pick my cotton?' I say, 'Maybee.' He say, 'Give you ten dollar bale. You do all work—feed Chinamen.' I say, 'Vellee well.' Lots Chinaboys need work. I hire seven hund'—eight hund'—maybee thousan.' I feed 'em. I pick cotton. Pick eight thousan' bale. Take all my money feed 'em. I owe Chinaboys fifty thousan' dollar.
"No pay. No see Misty Jenkins. No cross line. Misty Jenkins pay sometime maybee—maybee not." The old Chinaman shook his head fatalistically.
"And you spent all you had earned and saved in forty years, and then went in debt fifty thousand to other Chinamen to pick that cotton, and he hasn't paid you a dollar?"
"No pay yet; maybee some time," he replied, stoically.
"What a damn shame!" Bob seldom swore, but he felt justified for this once. "Can't you collect it under the Mexican laws?"
Ah Sing slowly, futilely, turned his hands palms outward.
"Mexican say Misty Jenkins big man. Damn Chinaman no good no way."
Noah Ezekiel came in from the field.
"As my dad says," remarked the hill billy, "this Chink has held on to the handle of the plow without ever looking back. The field is O. K."
"How much will you need, Ah Sing?" Bob turned to the Chinaman.
"Maybee get along with thousan' dollars—fifteen hund' maybee."
"All right," said Bob, "I'm going to let you have it. You can get the money three hundred at a time as you need it."
Bob stood thinking for a moment.
"Ah Sing," he said, decisively, "how would you like to have a partner? Suppose I go in with you; furnish the money and look after the buying and selling, tend to the business end; you raise the cotton. Me pay all the expenses, including wages, for you; and then divide the profits?"
The Chinaman's face lost its stoic endurance and lighted with relief.
"I likee him vellee much!" He put out his hand. "Me and you partners, heh?"
"Yes," Bob gripped the hand, "we are partners."
Nothing Bob Rogeen had overheard about Reedy Jenkins and his schemes had so intensified his anger as this treatment of the patient, defenceless Ah Sing.
"A Chinaman has the system," remarked Noah Ezekiel as they drove away. "He'll lease a ranch, then take in half a dozen partners and put a partner in charge of each section of the field. Raisin' cotton is all-fired particular work, especially with borrowed water—there are as many ways to ruin it as there are to spoil a pancake. And a partner isn't so apt to go to sleep at the ditch."
"That is why I went into partnership with Ah Sing," said Bob. "I have never seen much money made in farming anywhere unless a man who had an interest in the crop was on the job."
"You bet you haven't," agreed Noah Ezekiel. "Absent treatment may remove warts and bad dispositions, but it sure won't work on cockleburs and Bermuda grass."
For several miles Bob's mind was busy.
"Noah," he asked, abruptly, "how would you like to go into partnership with me and take over the management of that hundred and sixty acres we cultivated last year?"
"As my dad used to say," replied Noah Ezekiel, skeptically, "'Faith is the substance of things hoped for'; and as I never hope for any substance, I ain't got no faith—especially in profits. Whenever I come round, profits hide out like a bunch of quails on a rainy day. I prefer wages."
Bob laughed. "Suppose we make it both. I'll pay you wages, and besides give you one fifth of the net profits."
"I reckon that'll be satisfactory," agreed Noah. "But any Saturday night you find yourself a little short on net profits, you can buy my share for about twenty dollars in real money."
As they crossed the line Noah Ezekiel inquired:
"But if me and the Chinaman raise your cotton, what are you goin' to do?"
"Raise more cotton," Bob answered. "You know," he spoke what had been in his mind all the time, "I never saw anything I wanted as much as that Red Butte Ranch. It is on that Dillenbeck System and its water costs about twice as much as on the regular canals, but it is rich enough to make up the difference."
"Well, why don't you get it?" asked Noah. "Reedy Jenkins is goin' to lose all his leases inside of a month if he doesn't sell 'em; and with cotton at six cents, they ain't shovin' each other off of Reedy's stairway tryin' to get to him first. It's my idea that a fellow could buy out the Red Butte for a song, and hire a parrot to sing it for a cracker."
"But that is the smallest part of it," said Bob. "To farm that five thousand acres in cotton this season would take round a hundred thousand dollars, and," he laughed, "I lack considerable over ninety-nine thousand of having that much."
"Lend it to yourself out of money you are lending for old Crill," suggested Noah.
After Bob dropped Noah at the Greek restaurant—"Open Day and Night—Waffles"—he drove down the street, stopped in front of an office building, and went up to see a lawyer that he knew.
"T. J.," he began at once, "I want you to see what is the lowest dollar that will buy the Red Butte Ranch and its equipment. Reedy Jenkins can't farm it, and he can't afford to pay $15,000 rent and let it lie idle. You ought to be able to get it cheap. Get a rock-bottom offer, but don't by any means let him know who wants it."
As Bob went down the stairs his head was fairly whizzing with plans. This thing had taken strong hold of him. He had longed for many months to get possession of that ranch but had never seriously thought of it as a possibility. But if Jim Crill would risk the money, it would be the great opportunity. Five thousand acres of cotton might make a big fortune in one year.
"Of course"—doubt had its inning as he drove north toward El Centro—"if he failed it would mean, instead of a fortune, a lifetime debt." Yet he was so feverishly hopeful he let out the little machine a few notches beyond the speed limit. At El Centro he went direct to the Crill bungalow.
Mrs. Barnett opened the door when he knocked, opened it about fourteen inches, and stood looking at him as though he were a leper and had eaten onions besides.
"Is Mr. Crill in?" Bob asked.
"Mr. Crill is not in." She bit off each word with the finality of a closed argument and shut the door with a whack so decisive it was almost a slam.
Bob found Jim Crill in the lobby of the hotel, smoking; he sat down by him, and concentrated for a moment on the line of argument he had thought out.
"Mr. Crill, cotton is selling at six cents now. It won't go any lower."
"It doesn't need to as far as I'm concerned." The old gentleman puffed his pipe vigorously.
"It will be at least ten cents this fall." Bob was figuring on the back of an old envelope. "Much more next year."
Then he opened up on the Red Butte Ranch. Bob never did such talking in his life. He knew every step of his plan, for he had thought out fifty times just what he would do with that ranch if he had it. He outlined this plan clearly and definitely to Jim Crill. He carefully estimated every expense, and allowed liberally for incidentals. He figured the lowest probable price for cotton, and in addition discussed the possibilities of failure.
"I feel sure," he concluded, definitely, "that I can put it through, that I can make from fifty to a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in profits on one crop. If you want to risk it and stake me, I'll go fifty-fifty on the profits."
"No partnership for me," Crill shook his head vigorously. He had made some figures on an envelope and sat scowling at them. He had a good deal of idle money. It this crop paid out—and he felt reasonably sure Bob would make it go—it would give him $10,000 interest on the $100,000; and his half of the cotton seed would be worth at least $10,000 more. Twenty thousand returns against nothing was worth some risk.
"Besides," added Bob, "the lease itself, if cotton goes up, will be worth fifty thousand next year."
"That's what Reedy Jenkins said," remarked the old gentleman, dryly. "Just left here an hour ago—wanted to borrow money to pay the rent this year and let the land lie idle."
Bob's heart beat uneasily. "Did you lend it to him?"
"No!" The old man almost spat the word out. "He owes me too much already."
For two minutes, three, four, Jim Crill smoked and Bob waited, counting the thump of his heartbeats in his temple.
"I'll let you have the hundred thousand," he said directly. "I've watched you; I know an honest man when I see one."
Bob's spirits went up like a rocket; but his mind quickly veered round to Reedy Jenkins.
"This will make Reedy Jenkins about the maddest man in America," he remarked. He knew now that Reedy would fight him to the bitterest end.
Jim Crill grinned. "So'll Evy be mad. You fight Reedy, and I'll—run."
Imogene Chandler was washing the breakfast dishes out under the canopy of arrow-weed roof, where they ate summer and winter. The job was quickly done, for the breakfast service was very abbreviated. She took a broad-brimmed straw hat from a nail on the corner post, and swinging it in her hand, for the sun was yet scarcely over the rim of the Red Buttes far to the east, went out across the field to where her father was already at work.
March is the middle of spring in the Imperial Valley and already the grass grew thick beside the water ditches, and leaves were full grown on the cottonwood trees. The sunlight, soft through the dewy early morning, filled the whole valley with a yellow radiance. And out along the water course a meadowlark sang.
The girl threw up her arm swinging the hat over her head. She wanted to shout. She felt the sweeping surge of spring, the call of the wind, the glow of the sunlight, the boundless freedom of the desert. She had never felt so abounding in exuberant hope. It had been hard work to hold on to this lease, a fight for bread at times. But wealth was here in this soil and in this sun. And more than wealth. There was health and liberty in it. No heckling social restrictions, no vapid idle piffle at dull teas; no lugubrious pretence of burdensome duties. Here one slept and ate and worked and watched the changing light, and breathed the desert air and lived. It was a good world.
The girl stopped and crumbled some of the newly plowed earth under the toe of a trim shoe. How queer that after all these hundreds and thousands of years the stored chemicals of this land should be released, and turned by those streams of water into streams of wealth—fleecy cotton, luscious fruit and melons, food and clothes. And what nice people lived out here. The Chinamen who worked in the field, quaint and friendly and faithful. Even the Mexicans with their less industrious and more tricky habits were warm hearted and courteous. That serenading Madrigal was very interesting—and handsome. He had fire in him; perhaps dangerous fire, but what a contrast to the vapid white-collared clerks or professors in the prim little eastern town she had known.
Of course Bob Rogeen did not like him. Imogene instinctively put up her hand and brushed the wind-blown hair from her forehead, and smiled.
Bob was jealous.
But what a man Rogeen was! She had believed there were such men so unobtrusively generous and chivalrous. But no one she had ever known before was quite like Bob Rogeen. She remembered the black hair that clustered thickly over his temples, and the whimsical twist of his mouth, and the reticent but unafraid brown eyes.
She had thought many, many times of Rogeen, and always it seemed that he filled in just what was wanting in this desert—warmth of human fellowship. Always she thought of him just north over there—out of sight but very near. True he came very rarely. She wrinkled her forehead and rubbed the end of her nose with a forefinger. Why was that? Why didn't he come oftener? Wasn't she interesting? Didn't he approve of her?
A reassuring warmth came up to her face and neck. Yes, she believed he did. His eyes looked it when he thought she was not noticing.
Holy Joe shanghaies Imogene's ranchmen and discovers Percy--a willing ally.Holy Joe shanghaies Imogene's ranchmen and discovers Percy—a willing ally.
Holy Joe shanghaies Imogene's ranchmen and discovers Percy--a willing ally.Holy Joe shanghaies Imogene's ranchmen and discovers Percy—a willing ally.
She reached down and picked up a stick and threw it with a quick, impulsive gesture into the water and watched it float on down the ditch. Yes, she was pretty sure Rogeen liked her—but how much? Oh, well—she took a dozen girlish skips along the path, her hair flying about her face, and her heart dancing with the early sun on the green fields before her and the brown desert beyond—oh, well, time would tell.
"Daddy," she had come up to where the little bald-headed man was plowing—throwing up the ridges, "don't you like spring?"
The ex-professor stopped the team, looked at her through his glasses, then glanced around the field at the grass and weeds and early plants that were up.
"I believe," he said, mildly, "that we are approaching the vernal equinox. But I had not observed before the gradual unfoldment of vegetation which we have come to associate in our minds with spring."
"Oh, daddy, daddy," she laughed deliciously, and leaned over the handle of the plow and pulled his ear. "You funny, funny man. Why, it's spring, it's spring! Don't you feel it in your bones? Don't you love the whole world and everybody?"
Professor Chandler seriously contemplated the skyline, where the sunlight showed red on the distant buttes. "I should say, daughter, that it does give one a feeling of kinship with nature. I fancy the early Greeks felt it."
"I fancy they did," said Imogene, "especially if they were in love."
"In love?" The professor brought his spectacles around to his daughter questioningly.
"With everything," she said, laughing. "Daddy, I'm awfully glad we are back to the soil—instead of back to the Greeks."
"I am not discontent with our environment." And the little professor plowed on. She smiled maternally at his back. And then two swift tears sprang to her eyes. Tender tears.
"Dear old daddy. It has been good for him. He would have dried up and blown away in that little old college."
Returning to the shack she was still bareheaded. She loved the feel of the sun, and the few freckles it brought only added a piquancy to her face.
"I wonder if he"—she meant Rogeen—"will make it go this year. I hope he has a good crop. It makes one feel that maybe after all things are as they ought to be when a man like he succeeds. Wonder what his plans are?"
Then as she sat down in the shade and began a little very necessary mending:
"I do wish he'd come over—and tell me some more about cotton crops—and himself."